It was a hell of a night. Black, windy with rain lashing like a sadist. I was waiting in the tunnel for a subway and he walked right up to me and smiled. I knew immediately that he was the Devil. Nobody else walks around with a red tail and horns. Not even in New York.
"Hello Don," he said. His voice sounded exactly like Richard Burton's.
"You know me?" I asked. "Of course."
"I hope you haven't been waiting for me."
"Oh no. I'm waiting to catch a train. You needn't worry."
I smiled wanly. "How's everything going?"
"Badly, thank you," he said and laughed.
"That's nice," I said. "Ah, anything special you'd like me to call you. I'd hate to offend you."
"Lucifer, Satan, The Devil. It doesn't really matter. One cannot be judged by a name. Especially one like me, who has been prejudged. And quite wrongly, I might add."
An express roared through just then, in a turmoil of banging and clatter. The Devil flinched, despite himself. "Hell hath nothing like this," he said, reverting to an older form of speech in his nervousness.
* * *
"I'm not really a bad sort, you know," he said.
"People have had the wrong idea about me for years. I think that it's the tail, personally. But after all, such things as tails and horns and cloven hooves are small details, and to be intolerant of them is a stupidity that dates back to the middle ages, when men were not enlightened and when any small difference was taken as fault or as a reason for hatred. It seems that by this age there should have been some growth of tolerance in the world."
I agreed with him, and said so.
"Well, it really doesn't matter," he told me. "I seldom visit the overworld anymore. It's too hard to get around up here. Like these subways. And we have all the modern conveniences down below anyway. The air conditioning has done wonders to rid us of that abominable sulphur and brimstone odor. And I recently had an intercom system installed which has been a great help, although we do get considerable static from heaven."
I had been inspecting him carefully while he talked. I had to admire the cut of his clothes and his rakish air, which was nicely enhanced by the fact that his tail was sticking gaily out behind him.
"Are you here to collect some souls?" I asked.
"Oh no. Just visiting a friend. Where are you bound for, Don?"
"Well, there's this girl..." I knew that there was no sense in lying to him. And besides, he didn't seem at all like someone who would mind. I had always thought he would be like a priest during confession.
"Oh, yes, I remember now. I was looking at your record just the other day. She's a very attractive girl, by
the way. Very attractive."
"Yes, she's that. When she is undressed she has these huge breasts that seem to loom out at..." I stopped short, remembering whom it was that I was talking to. I asked, "But what about my record? Can you tell me?"
He shrugged. That made me feel like a very insignificant sinner, which may or may not be bad. It deflates one's ego at the very best, and I determined to renew my efforts when I saw the girl with the gigantic bosom.
"Yes, Don, I seldom come up nowadays. Stories like 'The Devil and Daniel Webster' are so misleading. We have Dan Webster, by the way ... but that's another story. But let me explain things to you . . .
"I'm not really working to lead people to fall from grace, or any of that nonsense. Why, the more people that we get, the more trouble it is for me. The housing problem is really terrific, for one thing. I'd like to get Nellie Rockefeller down there to start housing projects and slum clearance, that's what we really need. Well, in time...
"But as I was saying, people create their own lives and their own downfalls. It's all caused by the desires and evils within them. I just wait and bide my time. There would be no sense in making a pact with a person for his soul, since the type of person who will sell his soul will eventually lose it anyway. So, we get him anyway, without having to fulfill promises and keep bargains.
"I'm just an overseer, in fact. It's the angels that try to interfere with a man's life. It's disgusting, the way they butt in where they're not wanted. You know how it is with busybodies and reformers. They never do
any good and usually do harm. A man should have a right to lead his own life. Why, would you believe it, there is even an angels' auxiliary to the John Birch Society?
"Anyway, you can see how misjudged I am. I'm really the best that one could expect. Imagine if control of Hell were turned over to the police? My goodness, it would be unbearable for the poor souls down there. We do get most of the policemen, by the way. Especially the detectives. It seems that anyone who wants to become a policeman is more evil by nature than other people. I suppose it is some desire for power that rules their lives. I haven't really thought of it, I'm much too busy to form philosophies and generalities. But any time you see a detective, it's a good bet that we'll get him. The private ones, too. As well as those cloddish amateurs like Michael Hammer who seems to be so popular in your current fiction."
"Michael Hammer?"
"Mike," the Devil said, wincing slightly at the informality.
"Oh yes," I said.
"Stripping women and shooting them in the stomach," the Devil said with disgust. "Really. There seems to be no depths to bad taste up here any more. In the old days, we had some imaginative brutality. The rack, the Iron Maiden, those ingenious water tortures, rats, red ants, pits and pendulums . . .Ah, well," he sighed nostalgically. "Times change and I suppose I must change with them. But now we get people like that Eichmann fellow . . ."
"Got him, eh?" I said.
"Oh yes. He arrived just recently. Not a bad chap, really, just intolerant. Like angels. We had a very pleasant discussion. Most of his old friends were there to greet him and I let him have the first day off to talk over old times ... But someone like him wouldn't make a good overseer at all. I could tell that just by the improvements he suggested. No idea of equality in death at all."
"No doubt," I said innocently, and we chuckled together like conspirators. It's a good thing to be intimate and have a laugh or two with the Devil, once in a while. Do a man a world of good...
Another train roared past. We waited patiently. After a while I said, "It must be an interesting place, Hell. I imagine that one also meets some of the best people there. The ones who drink the light refreshments, read Playboy and Rogue magazines, delight in a good joke now and then..."
"Would you like to come down?" he asked, rather satanically.
"No, thanks. I don't think...."
"I just meant for a visit. Quite a few of your old friends are down there, too."
"I've suspected as much."
"A great many of your readers, too."
I shook my head sadly. "I've tried to point the way for them. God - uh, you know I've tried. But there are certain types who will read but will not understand."
"You have quite a following down there," the Devil said. "In fact, you might even be called one of our best recruiting sergeants."
I colored modestly. "Well, now, I really wouldn't
go that far..."
"Oh yes," the Devil persisted. "Why I've had some poor souls come up to me and quote long passages from your books. 'That's where I first got the idea,' they proclaim loudly. 'It's all his fault, not mine. What did I know about rape, incest, perversion...'"
"Oh now," I said, hanging my head. "That's a little unfair. I'm just an ordinary little story teller in the fine old tradition of Homer, Balzac, Henry Miller, Farrell, Caldwell..."
"You're saying, you really wouldn't want to visit us then?" the Devil grinned.
"I'd just as soon not. I mean, no offense meant-"
"But offenses are meant. And if we're to get you, then we shall and there's nothing that you or I have to say about the situation,"
"I suppose."
"Would you like to hear a little about the place?"
"Yes, that might while away some time, until one of our trains arrives."
"What division are you most interested in?"
"Well..."
"I can give you the crimes of anger, passion, lust ... the murderers, the sadists..."
"Lust," I said. "That sounds like a pretty interesting topic."
"Yes. The sex criminals, the perverts," he smiled. "The sodomists and nymphomaniacs and adulterers..."
"Yes," I said. "Those are the ones. I've always written about them without really having too much firsthand knowledge."
"I know," he said. And chuckled.
I didn't join in this time. I didn't really see what
was so funny, although I suppose that all things are funny with enough distance in time or space or indifference. Still, it is disconcerting to talk to someone who has such a complete knowledge of your life. Rather like a psychiatrist, I thought, and decided to keep quiet for a while.
"Let me think now," the Devil mused. "I believe I'll try to give you a good cross section of cases. The overall picture so to speak, in that category. Some really aren't as interesting as some of the other sinners, confidence men and genocidists, for instance. But I think I could come up with a few stories that will hold your attention."
"Well, we really don't have that much time," I said.
"Oh, we have plenty of time," the Devil said in a way I didn't like. "Eternities of time."
I decided to keep my mouth closed until I was asked a question.
"I'll try to think of some recent ones," he continued, "cases you might have read about in the papers. I think that nearness in time makes something so much more real, don't you?"
I nodded. I wished he'd get on. Like most performers with a captive audience, he seemed to have the tendency to be a bit of a bore.
"Now, let's see ... Ah, yes, I've got a good one for you. Oh yes," he chuckled warmly and rubbed his hands together. "Marshall Troy ... "
I settled back against the subway pillar and listened as he spoke....
CHAPTER ONE
Marshall Troy was a wealthy architect living in the fashionable suburbs of Chicago. A big, ruddy fellow who seemed to have received a far greater number of what are known as the "breaks" in life, having made his fortune with little effort and not a great deal of talent, and always managing td get what he wanted most at the moment.
There was only one thing that might possibly have been considered a bad stroke of luck in his life, but, as a matter of fact, he didn't consider it bad at all He was rather proud of it, if the truth be known, and talked about it whenever the opportunity and an appreciative audience presented themselves. He spoke of it as one does of their diseases or illnesses, although he fooled no one into believing that he thought of it as a disability. It was simply the easiest way to get the subject into the conversation.
He was, you see, a satyr.
That's the male counterpart of a nymphomaniac. It could be much worse for a man than a woman in most cases. A woman can almost always find someone to give it to her, but a man has more trouble as a rule. If a man was ugly or otherwise unattractive it could be a very sorry thing indeed to be suffering from satyriasis. But Marshall Troy was neither. He had found that women invariably liked him. Not all women, but the ones that he particularly wanted did. This may have been because he was not too particular, but it did great things for his ego and his confidence.
He liked the big, buxom, blonde type. The type that was the most popular several decades ago but was no longer so much in demand, in these days of slender girls with dark eyes who drank the light refreshment. It made it easier for Marshall, since the competition was not too heavy anymore, and he probably did many wonderful things for many big blonde egos while he was satisfying his own.
He also preferred married women. He wouldn't hesitate to make love with an unmarried woman, but it was with considerably less enthusiasm that he pursued them. When seducing an unmarried girl he felt no stronger urges than the average man feels toward sex, and if he
were to fail he was able to shrug it off and forget about it. This was not so in his dealings with the wives of other men.
His unusual needs seemed to be restricted to married women, and the fact that they belonged to another man played an integral part in forming his needs. This made his life a bit more dangerous, and was the closest his satyriasis came to being a burden to him. But the element of danger added its own fascination, and he thought of himself as a Casanova of the old school, risking all for love, even life itself.
When he had reached a certain point in his relations with one of these married women he had to carry on to a climax. He had the feeling that he would explode if he did not, the slightest hesitation on the woman's part brought a flush to his face and a burning rage to his stomach. Upon occasion he had resorted to force when the woman tried to stop him at the last moment, beating her and raping her. This, of course, was carrying the danger element a bit too far, and it even lost its charm since he couldn't associate rape with the romance of being an old school lover.
But he had never suffered any consequences from his use of force. Partly because he was a wealthy and influential man and more so because to reach the point where Troy would resort to rape, the woman would have had to go much further than she would want known. That was one of the easier parts of dealing with married women.
Troy had once gone to a psychiatrist. Not because he felt any need to be analyzed or to change in any way, but because it was the fashionable thing to do.
And he thought that it might be interesting.
It had been. He had been amused to search for the reasons behind his insatiable appetites with a removed curiosity. It is not necessary to want to change one's habits in order to look for the causes behind them.
He hadn't really understood it all. Something about his early life. He had walked into his mother's bedroom once and found her in the act of love with another man. The reaction that he had undergone had not been usual, instead of being repelled and never wanting to commit the same sin, he had tried, subconsciously, to wipe the sins of his mother out by committing greater sins of his own in the same vein. He had succeeded, too, for he never thought of his mother any more. But the results of his efforts had become too deeply engrained in his nature to be stopped when the subconscious need was ended, and he had continued his life of adultery.
It was something like this. Much more complex and complicated, of course, but he only understood it in the vaguest terms. There was no need to understand more, for his curiosity was satisfied and he didn't want to learn enough to risk a possible change in his desires, and especially in his capabilities of which he was most proud.
He was really a remarkable man when it came to the aforementioned capabilties. His prowess in bed was almost legendary among those who knew, and it wasnt just the natural hyperbole of love talk. He had never met a woman whom he wasn't able to outlast in bed, to make her beg him to stop finally. He was perpetually ready for more, and when he left a woman's arms he was no more satisfied, physically, than when he had
entered her embrace. This wasn't quite as frustrating as it sounds, however, for it was his mental and emotional sides that had been satisfied. The physical urge was, after all, just a tense stirring that could be ignored and nearly forgotten by thinking of other things. It was the other part that had to be satisfied frequently to keep him happy ... to keep him from going mad, even, for two days without a woman would leave Marshall Troy in a near frantic state.
He had never gone three.
And so he was satisfied, in the way that mattered most, and quite happy with his life. The thought of being otherwise was ridiculous to him, and he was more proud of his ever-ready body than he was of all the structures that he had built in his career. This was probably justified, too, for his own natural structure was certainly more remarkable than the commonplace buildings that he charged too much to design. And he was more famous in that respect also, and probably more in demand. At least the first time. Often for many times, although the thrill was never quite the same after the initial conquest. This, too, had to do with the fact that it was his mind and not his body that was climaxing satisfactorially.
He was forty-seven years old, looked considerably younger, and had gained in prowess, if anything. He was also ready to embark on the seduction of his new secretary, a particularly well-padded piece of womanhood. And it was at this time that the disaster struck...
It was Sunday afternoon. The day was grey and wet, and rain tapped at the windows of his fashionable apartment. It was a pleasant thing to hear rain at the
windows when one was snug in bed with a woman.
Troy looked at the window for a while, then turned and faced the woman beside him.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Again?"
"Of course."
She sighed, but it wasn't a sigh of resignation. It was more a sigh of amazement, if such a thing is possible. It was her first time with Marshall Troy, and he had certainly lived up to expectations.
They had been there for hours, and she was tired and very satisfied. But she was also a proud girl, proud of her sensuality and determined to last as long as Troy wanted to. Or could. After all, no man could go forever, she reasoned.
As stated, it was her first time with Troy.
Her name was Helen and she had met Troy at a party the night before. Her husband had been there, but they had managed to get away for a while, just to chat and get acquainted. She had heard so much about Troy, and the fact that he seemed to be interested in her made her feel very womanly and very desirable and a little naughty.
Helen was thirty-five years old. She had once been considered beautiful, in a bountiful way. She had put on little weight and a few wrinkles however, and it made her sad to think of her beauty fading. When Troy had seemed to be charmed by her she had been overjoyed. She, in turn, was charmed by him with his worldly ways and debonair manner of speaking, his subtle but definite references to potential sex between them. She had never cheated on her husband before, but then again there
had never been an opportunity with a man like Troy, and she had no qualms about it, Before she had married she had been almost promiscuous, in fact, and it didn't bother her morally to think of slipping Into an affair now. She could hardly wait. Of course, she planned on a rather permanent situation, thinking of herself as Troy's mistress and not as a one night (afternoon, as it turned out) fling in bed.
She was proud of her own ability as a partner in the sex act, and the chance to use this ability on someone other than her husband was as thrilling as the thought of the pleasure that she would receive in turn. Perhaps more so. If Troy had liked her so much before, think of the compliments that he would bestow on her after she had used her long neglected talents on him.
That had been hours before, and many times she had used those talents. And he had complimented her, too, but it wasn't like she had expected. And she didn't feel that she was as good as she had been, either. This was distressing. She determined to make up for it by quantity, figuring that if she gave him enough it would make up for the quality that the years had stolen from her.
He pulled the sheets down again and lay facing her, looking at her body. She smiled as coyly as she could manage and pulled her stomach in a bit, thrusting her breasts outward with the opposite motion. It's still a good body, she reasoned Men have always liked my body. And it's almost as good as it ever was. I'll make him love me.
But she wasn't quite sure. And he didn't seem to be too appreciative What she didn't know was that it was the perfect body to suit Troy, the type of body
that he liked, but that he was thinking of his new secretary and finding it hard to concentrate on the woman beside him. But then, as she moved slightly and opened her arms to him, he looked with more interest and the stirrings of need in his loins and in his libido began to get control.
Her body was mature, almost overripe, in fact, but the skin was creamy and smooth. Her flesh was firm and her breasts heavy, sagging a little but not too much, looking rather remarkably like watermelons of pink flesh. Her waist was not small, but the width of her hips made it seem more narrow than it was. And her thighs were heavier yet, two columns of solid meat that looked as though they could envelope and crush the man who dared to venture between them.
Troy moved into her arms and they faced each other, lying on their sides, while he kissed her. It wasn't a passionate kiss, it was more perfunctory, a necessary preliminary habit. But he let his tongue slide into her mouth and moved one hand along her thigh, caressing gently and getting her as excited as was possible considering the number of times that he had performed the same act before.
She had both arms around him, holding tightly and closing her eyes, pretending that she was more ready than she really was. She forced her breath to come more pantingly and moved her thighs together on his hand.
Troy moved from her lips to her breasts, caressing each in turn, running his tongue around the base and then moving up to the hard brown tips which he took into his mouth and gently nippled. His hand continued to work its way upward between the grinding legs, until
he reached the point where they met. He caressed her with his palm and with his fingers, working in a rhythm that built genuine passion finally and her pants became real and her breasts heaved under his touch. She was amazed at herself and at the fact that he could still get her aroused. And rather proud, too. She was going to last as long as he...
Helen rolled to her back, her arms still around Troy, and pulled him to her. He moved between the widespread thighs and positioned himself. His hands slid under her and gripped the ample flesh of her buttocks, fingers digging in and lifting her to meet his thrust. Her thighs arched, her back strained, she heaved upward to accept him ... to meet him with her lush, full body, to give herself completely to him and satisfy him with all her abundance.
Troy slid to her, then back, moving faster as he felt the sensations of love grow in him. She responded with the opposite motions, back as he retreated, forward as he thrust, up as he came down, down as he rose, drawing his passion out with all the tightness and contact that she could possibly work on him, wanting it to be good for him. Her thighs were crushing his ribs and her arms held him tightly as they moved.
It was good, as it always was, for him. He felt the nearness of completion and increased his tempo. She followed the rhythm. It was very near, now, and Troy thought of his secretary and imagined that it was she who was squirming under him. It would soon be her. And he would soon be fulfilled, any moment, faster and....
It seemed to be an explosion of redness behind his eyes, as though blood vessels were breaking in his head. He had never felt it this way before. For a moment he hung suspended above her ripe body, thinking that he had just experienced a very unusual climax... And then he blacked out.
He wasn't unconscious for more than a few seconds, really. But he was thoroughly scared. After his senses returned he remained quite still for a while, still balanced atop the woman, while his mind became very active. What had caused it? he wondered. Could he have actually engaged in too much sex, even for him? No, he had often gone more times in shorter periods. But was it possible that age was catching up with him, that he was no longer as potent as he had always been? The thought frightened him. It would be terrible to have women expect him to be as great as ever and to fail, to let them know that he was no longer the man that had so amazed them. And it would be worse with women that he had never known before. They would think that the legend of his prowess had been exaggerated from the start.
"What's the matter, honey?" Helen asked. He didn't answer, but rolled off and looked up at the ceiling, breathing heavily. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," he said, at length. "But I just remembered an important meeting that I must attend. You'll have to leave, now. I'll call you soon."
Helen dressed while Troy remained on the bed. She thought that he certainly seemed to be in no hurry to get ready for the meeting. Maybe it was another woman,
and he was going to stay in bed and wait for her. The thought distressed her a bit, but she wasn't really jealous. At least she had lasted as long as he had. That was considered an accomplishment by the various women who had slept with him. She was sure that he would call her again.
When she had finished dressing he finally got up and escorted her to the door.
"I'll telephone you," he said. "And thank you very much for today."
This last sentence bothered her. It was as though she had merely done him a favor, not at all the thing that a lover should say after spending an afternoon in the arms of the one whom he loved. Perhaps he had decided, suddenly, that he didn't care for her and that was the reason for the abruptness of their parting. Well, the hell with him, she thought. He wasn't really so almighty good after all.
When Helen had left, Troy sat in a soft chair by the window and looked out at the rain. His initial fright was gone, and he figured that it would be senseless to worry until he knew what he was worrying about. He would make an appointment with the doctor and find out what had caused him to black out. It might be nothing at all serious. Probably not. He'd never been sick a day in his life, and there was no reason to start worrying now. It was only because of his first thoughts that his prowess was going. But he was certain that it wasn't so, for even now he could feel the eternal urgency for sex in his body, and for once he welcomed it without wondering where his next gratification was going to come from. He knew, in fact. His secretary, whom he wanted more than he had wanted anyone in a long while. Not like this woman today, this one time affair on a rainy Sunday.
Tomorrow he would go to the doctor. In the afternoon, or even the morning. He had plans for the night
* * *
The doctor was a small man with a white, pinched face and thin hair. But he was a very good doctor. Troy kept his appointment just after dinner and the examination was very complete.
"Well?" he asked.
The doctor stroked his chin. Troy was sitting on the examination table in his slacks, his shirt folded neatly across the back of a chair. His body was hard and strong, very well preserved.
"Any headaches? Do you cough?"
"No, no. Although my head has been feeling... well, heavy I guess you'd say. It doesn't really hurt, though. Just feels heavy in the mornings, sometimes. And, by the way, I haven't been sleeping well."
"Un huh. Any nose bleeds?"
"Why yes, as a matter of fact I have had several recently. But I didn't think them anything to worry about."
"Have you been taking part in any strenuous activity? Sports, perhaps?"
"No," Troy said. Then he grinned and said, "The most strenuous thing that I do is making love."
The doctor didn't seem to think this very funny.
"Have you been tired lately? More tired than usual, I mean?"
"I ... really haven't noticed," Troy said. "I'm still in pretty good shape, as you can see."
"Yes. Let me listen to your chest again, Mr. Troy. Spread your arms out wide and breath deep ... more evenly."
Troy did as he was told, looking at the thinning hair on top of the doctor's head and trying not to breath on him as he exhaled.
After a moment the doctor took the stethoscope away and perched on the edge of his desk, looking almost harshly at Troy. After a moment of reflection be spoke, looking at the book shelves behind him instead of directly at his patient.
"Well, I shouldn't say that you have anything to worry about, Mr. Troy. Those palpitations of the heart can be taken as warning signs, but it's nothing serious. What I would say, however, is that you should avoid strong coffee, tea, alcohol, any stimulants."
"All right, doctor. I'm sure that I can manage that with no trouble," Troy told him. He was not a heavy drinker and one cup of coffee in the morning was all that he usually took. It wasn't really important, either, and he imagined that he wouldn't miss it if he cut it out entirely.
"And, of course, other things ... I must recommend moderation there, too."
"Other things?"
"Your sex life. You understand. Are you married, Mr. Troy?" The doctor seemed to be rather nervous as he asked this. Perhaps he felt embarrassed. Or perhaps he hated to limit a man's pleasures. Or possibly he had heard of Marshall Troy, by reputation.
"No, I'm not married."
"Ah, that makes that easier. It won't be necessary to abstain, of course. Just plan a sensible regularity, don't over-exert yourself. That certainly shouldn't be hard for a single man."
Troy had never been ashamed of his sex life and he wasn't now. But there was something about being told to be moderate that made his past experiences seem obscene. He wanted to question the doctor further, to find out how much sex he could have without risking himself, but he couldn't seem to formulate the questions that he wanted to ask.
He nodded silently, pursing his lips and wondering how much effect this warning was going to have on his life. It would be hard to cut his sex down, he knew. But if it was a question of risking his health, or his life... well, other men subsisted on one or two experiences a week, even fewer in many cases. He would just have to learn to satisfy himself with less volume.
The worst thing would be that his reputation was going to suffer. But that too had to take second place to his health. There was no sense in being infamous if one were dead. And he consoled himself with the thought that he had already had more sex than any other man in Chicago. Possibly in the United States. This was a pleasant thought.
He dressed and left the doctor's office. It was only a few blocks from his own and he walked back, slowly, thinking about the changes that he would have to make in his life.
It was another gray day, although the rain had stopped during the night. A sad day, the kind of day
an which one expected to receive bad news. The buildings, the passersby, the sky itself all seemed forlorn and sad.
Troy wanted a drink. He seldom felt like drinking but right then he wanted a drink badly. Perhaps it was because the doctor had warned him not to. Would it be the same way with women? No, it wouldn't be possible for his desires to increase, they had been at the utmost peak throughout his adult life. That was one thing, he wouldn't have to worry about increased desires at least.
And he wouldn't have that drink. It was a good test of his will power and made him feel more confident. It wasn't really so bad, anyway. He didn't have to avoid sex, just be a bit more moderate about it He could still have a woman whenever he wanted, every day even, so long as he didn't overdo it with her. And the first time was always the best, so he wouldn't be losing the best of it ... only the after pleasures, which were largely superfluous anyway. Thinking about the situation in this light he felt better about everything and the day seemed less gloomy.
He returned to his office and went up on the elevator to his floor. He was no longer so depressed and even managed to whistle as he entered the reception room.
His new secretary was there, and smiled as he entered. Troy felt his blood leap with desire, and was sorry that he would have to limit his affair with her to only once or twice a day. But perhaps it would be better that way, she was good enough to keep as a steady thing and this way he would not wear out the novelty
so soon. Perhaps he might even be able to stick to her exclusively. Almost, anyway. That would be a new variation in his life.
Her name was Sandra. She wasn't a very efficient worker, but that was not why he had hired her. She knew this too, he could tell by the way she smiled at him, with hidden meaning behind her eyes. And she didn't seem to mind, either. She was probably wondering when her real duties were going to begin. And if she had heard about Troy's abilities, as she surely had, then she was probably anxious for the time. Any woman willing to work for him, knowing how he was, would be the type who wanted the same things that he did.
Perhaps not as much...
But then, that was before the necessary change in his routine. And that change might make him even more desirable, as he thought about it. He would be as good as ever, just not as enduring, and the only complaints that he had ever received were that he wanted it too damn much. Yes, his new style might not hurt his reputation at all.
"Good afternoon," she said. She had that knowing look in her eyes again, and that inviting smile.
"Any calls?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Not a very busy day."
"As a matter of fact, Mr. Troy, I was wondering why you needed a secretary at all."
"Were you?"
"Yes."
"I rather thought that you knew."
"Oh?"
"Don't you?"
"Well, I thought about it, of course. But such things were not up to me to mention. After all, if I were wrong it would make me seem a fool. But you have nothing at all to lose, even if I were to refuse."
"I suppose not. But you won't refuse?"
"No," she said, and stopped smiling, which was a very intimate gesture.
"Let's go into my private room," he suggested.
She stood up without hesitation. Troy's eyes roved up and down her body and his tongue flicked lightly across his lips, which had become very dry, suddenly. She stood in front of the desk and let him look at her as long as he pleased, confident and proud of her appearance.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm glad you like me, Mr. Troy," Sandra said, running one hand through her hair and letting her ample hips move with the slightest circular rotation.
Sandra was a statuesque brunette who carried herself very well indeed. Her posture suggested some time spent, not idly, in a charm school or perhaps a modeling studio. Her handsome head with its thick, glossy, black hair was held proudly erect. Her full lips which were colored a crimson shade that matched her sweater, were curved in a sensuous smile, a smile that was reflected in her snapping dark eyes. With the exception of her eyes and lips, Sandra's face bore no other trace of makeup, and her skin was milky white down to the metallic chain which she wore about her neck. The chain was looped several times around her throat and two gold tassels hung down in the valley between her
breasts. The sweater which she wore was moderately tight and revealed the fact that her brassiere was likewise a little tight. It was obvious that her ample breasts completely filled it, because the outline of the supporting fabric was visible and the firm flesh curved sensually over the top.
Sandra's waist was proportionally very slim, and her well padded hips rounded out the light gray skirt she was wearing to excellent advantage. Her smoothly curved calves tapered down to finely formed ankles, and she stood very sure in her high heels in front of Mr. Troy.
"I like it very much, Sandra," he said touching his tongue to his upper Up, "And I think I'm going to like it even better."
They went into the other room. The main piece of furniture was a large desk, but there was also a red leather couch, wide and comfortable, along one wall.
"I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Troy," Sandra said as he closed the door behind them.
"Such as?"
"Oh, I've heard that you can ... well ... make love, shall we say?...all day long without stopping." He smiled.
"And that you are equally good each time."
"You needn't worry," he told her. "I think that one or two times will be enough."
"Oh, I wasn't worried," she said. "In fact, I was rather looking forward to the rest of the afternoon. I'm anxious to discover if those rumors are true."
"They are. But..." There was, he realized, no way to tell her that he could no longer engage in marathon bouts of love. Not without making it seem as though the rumors had been false, or worse that he was getting too old to be an adequate lover any more.
"That's what I want to find out, she said. She stepped nearer and spoke in a low, intimate voice. "I've never yet met the man who was man enough for me," she told him. "It's always good while it lasts, but it never lasts long enough. They don't seem to be able to love me more than two or three times before they're exhausted and want to sleep. And that's never enough for me."
"It's usually enough for most women," he remarked, feeling very sorry that he hadn't known her a few months, even a few weeks ago ... even the day before, for that matter. It was a shame to have wasted his last marathon on faded, average Helen.
"Yes, but I've always seemed different, somehow. With me, instead of getting satisfied, it gets better each time. Each time I make it the thrill increases. I suppose that's not normal, but I can't help it." She shrugged prettily and smiled at her confession.
"I know that it will be different with you," she continued. "And I can imagine how wonderful it will be by the fourth or fifth time. That's what I've been waiting for. Why, I even contemplated getting myself gang banged by half a dozen guys or so, but that didn't seem to be what I really needed. What I need is one man who is a real man." She looked very deliberately naughty at her confession. It made Troy think that it wouldn't be surprising if she really had tried several men at a time in her efforts to reach the ultimate thrill. The thought didn't bother him, for he had no moral qualms about it. And he knew that he was better than a crowd anyway.
At least he had been.
"Are we going to do it on the couch?" she asked. She could hardly stand still now, and her hands were rubbing along her hips.
"The first time, at least," he told her. It certainly wouldn't hurt to go twice...
Marshall Troy seated himself on the red leather couch and loosened his tie. He felt very warm, and the warmth diffused itself throughout his entire body as he watched Sandra go over to the Venetian blinds and reach upward to pull the cords that closed them. Her breasts were taut beneath the sweater as she raised her arms, and Troy could hardly wait to see them exposed. Her buttocks rolled as she moved over to draw the drapes. "Just to make it a little more intimate," she drawled, with a sideways glance at Troy.
"Fine," he agreed. "The more intimate, the better." His breathing was becoming heavy in anticipation.
Sandra came over closer to him, undulating her hips, her hands stroking her body upward toward her heavy breasts. She removed the necklace and dropped it with a clank on the desk. Then she took the bottom of the sweater and pulled it up and over her head. Troy could see the red nylon brassiere straining to the bursting point as she tossed the sweater over a chair. She started to reach behind her back to unfasten the brassiere, but Troy interrupted her. "Come here, Sandra. Let me help you," he said through dry lips. She stood where she was for a moment, legs apart, her hips moving in a circular motion enticing him, her hands cupped under her breasts, holding them up. The red nylon only covered half of them and Troy was aching to see them free and unconfined.
Sandra swayed slowly toward him, eyes half closed. She held out one foot, then the other while he removed her shoes. With her leg upraised he could see her creamy thighs above her stockings. He reached over and undid the zipper at the side of her skirt and slowly slid it down over her hips and thighs. She wriggled a little to aid him in removing it, and when he had it to the floor, she stepped out and tossed the skirt with the sweater. She was standing before him then in her red see-through panties and bra, with legs spread apart and eyes closed, swaying slightly and breathing heavily. "Undress me all the way," she said, her mouth remaining open after the last word. Troy could see her tongue moving between her parted lips, wet and pink, and it excited him.
She bent over so that he could unfasten her bra and as he removed the gauzy nylon, her breasts swelled outward. The bursting globes of flesh seemed to expand before his very eyes, the large nipples jutting out at the tips. They stiffened in anticipation under his gaze. He reached up and took them in his hands, gently squeezing them together, massaging the tips. "Ooooh," she breathed, "I like that." And she bent lower and held his head to her. He felt her delicious softness beneath his mouth, and he covered her warm flesh with kisses.
She reached out and undid the buttons of his shirt, moving her hands downward to unfasten his belt and loosen his slacks. He stood up and slid out of his clothes. Then his hands coursed down her sides and removed the nylon panties.
And they were both naked.
Together they sank down on the leather couch. They caressed each other with hands and mouths, building up to the height of mutual readiness. When they had attained it, and she raised her thighs and opened them to him, pulling him to her and locking her feet behind him.
It didn't take long, the first time. Built to the very threshold of release by their preliminary sex play they pounded together for seconds, in a frenzy of need, and then the waves of pleasure came crashing in ripples across their loins and they flooded each other with the dark waters of fulfillment and lust and thrill.
But not satiation.
Sandra was one of the best that Troy had ever known. Her body seemed to be tailored to him, to fit perfectly beneath him, a complete union of two people in the act of love. Her heavy thighs would not release him, nor did he want release. They remained together for a long moment and then the rhythm began again, both starting to move at the same time, as if by some secret knowledge, some shared passion.
It took a little longer this time. Not much. A little. Troy worked with every bit of his great ability, wanting this time to be the best that Sandra had ever known. For a while, at least. How long he would be able to abstain from her body was something that he couldn't predict, but he knew that it would not be long.
The climax was crashing, wild, lunging and bucking against each other. Sandra screamed, softly, as it came, and then her teeth sunk into his shoulder. It hurt somewhat, but of course he didn't mind.
"That was better, better than the first time. It was the best that I've ever known."
"I'm glad," he said, pulling away to stretch out beside her on the couch. He felt very good, not breathing too hard, no reason to worry despite the tremendous efforts that he had just put forth. "It was the best that I have ever known, too. And I've known many."
"If only my husband was half as good as you," she said, reaching over to caress his still rigid manhood with one delicate hand. Her eyes were half closed and she was almost purring in contentment.
At the mention of her husband, Troy could feel his desires well up again. Not the desires that tingled always at his loins, but the ones that hung like shadows somewhere in some dark portion of his mind.
Thinking of her not as a separate person, a separate body, but rather as the property of another man, another man's wife, increased Troy's need. It had always been that way. He needed her more now than he had before, even.
But did he dare to risk it? He would have to wait for a while...
But her hand was warm against him, and she was close, stroking him and breathing at his ear. She whispered, "It gets better every time. The next time will be so good, so unbelievably good..."
And Troy felt good. It couldn't be dangerous, he felt too good, too ready. Once more couldn't hurt him, surely. He was used to so much more than that.
He turned to her and touched her, finding her ready once more, warm and damp and pulsating. He started to move on top of her once more.
"No. No, let's do it another way this time. Let's do it every way that we can think of, the more the better. Let's do it all day and all night."
He didn't argue. Somehow they were off the couch, kneeling together, probing. And then they were standing, and he had her wrapped in his arms and lifted her from the floor. Her legs entwined around his own and she clung to his neck as they came together. Then they were lost in desire. He tossed her up and down as they staggered across the room, almost falling, abandoned to complete lust.
He fell against the wall as it reached the peak, and she screamed again, not softly at all this time...
They were side by side on the floor. Troy was breathing heavily now, but this was normal. After all, it was his sex drives that were invincible. His wind was only normal, and the exertion had been great.
Her body was near, the smell of sweat and love and pure animal lust came to his nostrils as she moved. She moved to him, her mouth caressing him and her hands stroking. Her mouth moved down, her fingers up, and need screamed through his never satisfied veins.
"Let's do it this way," she said, her eyes shining, her voice gay. This was a woman created for love in all its various forms and positions.
She knelt on hands and knees and awaited him. Troy hesitated, but not for long. The round, firm globes of her buttocks loomed before him, drawing him to her. One more time wouldn't hurt ... he would take it slow this time, that was all, slow and easy.
Slow and easy, he thought. But then it was faster, they were in rhythm together and he couldn't help it, faster and faster. The mating of two insatiable people, the irresistible force and the immovable object. The object, however, moved.
Delightfully and deliciously she moved beneath him, yielding to his thrust and then welling back as he withdrew. Panting, his chest heaving, the veins at his temples pounding, Troy drove her savagely and relentlessly until they poised once more on those dizzy heights.
And crashed down, together, at the instant that their bodies collapsed together on the rug.
"Oooooh," she sighed. "Oh, I could hardly stand it. It was like ... like I was going to catch fire at that last moment, like we were going to burst into flames. Oh, God, it was so good with you."
"We'd better rest a while now," Troy said.
"Oh, no. Not yet. If we stop we'll lose it. Ill lose the sequence and then I'll have to start all over again. The next time will be so wonderful, I'll die the next time, I know I will."
Troy didn't answer.
"One more time," she whispered, rolling over to look at him, and to let him see her.
He didn't know what to say. He wanted so badly to satisfy this girl, to have her know that he was the one man on earth to satisfy her. And he wanted to for himself, too, for it had been so good with her. But he was frightened Probably no reason to worry, but...
"Come here," she whispered "Prove that what I've heard about you is true. Just one more time, that's all it will take. One more time with you and I'll reach the ultimate peak. I must reach it, I know that it's there, just waiting for you to stroke me to it."
One more time.
Troy took her in the conventional position, held fast in the grip of her thighs once more. She moaned and heaved and panted and squirmed. Her buttocks raised completely from the floor and her nails ripped at him. He drove at her with all the fury that he could muster, moving them across the rug in the intensity, until she was pressed to the wall. Neither of them noticed, neither of them stopped.
Once more Sandra screamed as the fires of fulfillment coursed through her. Uncontrolled, a forest fire raging in her body, threatening to devour her. And then quenched by Troy's completion.
Sandra lay on her back, her eyes closed, her chest heaving uncontrollably. She had reached a peak that she would never attain again.
And Troy rolled off. He wasn't frightened now, but he knew that he had carried it too far. One time too many, the time that provided her ultimate release. The room seemed quite dark, and almost foggy. He didn't attempt to stand but stretched out and gripped his chest, fighting to gulp down the mouthfuls of air.
All thoughts of fulfillment had gone. He was filled with anxiety. And it didn't stop, it increased, for the room seemed to be growing darker. He wanted to cry out for more light, it seemed that he would be all right if only someone would bring more light. But no one did.
Troy felt a great weakness creep over him, and then a nausea, a dizziness. All the lights were gone, now, and in the total darkness his breathing tore at his ears and his chest seemed to be full, like a balloon that has been pumped full of air.
Then he was dead.
It was all quite simple. Everything was dark and then everything was over.
Sandra did not know for several minutes. When she looked at him, and realized, she turned very white and bit her lip and trembled.
She also screamed, once more, and with a different sound.
"Well," the Devil said, "What did you think of that little tale?"
"All right," I said. The truth was that I had been thoroughly engrossed but there is a certain professional jealousy that exists between all story-tellers. "It seemed to lack a bit for plot, though," I said.
"It happens to be a true story," the Devil said, bridling slighdy. "Not your contrived type of commercial fiction."
"A story is a story," I said profoundly. "It's main purpose is to entertain so please don't feel you have to limit yourself to the facts. Embellish if you have to... if that will make your tales more entertaining."
"I don't have to," he said petulantly. "I can entertain quite well by sticking to the facts."
"As you like," I said and felt I had regained a little of my former stature.
"I have one that will hold your interest," the Devil said. "Yes, indeed. I daresay that I have one which will keep you spellbound."
I knew he didn't need any encouragement. Storytellers never do. So I shifted position to make myself more comfortable and he began to talk again...
CHAPTER TWO
Perhaps he glanced a bit too long in the window of the lingerie shop as he walked by. But that is hard to say. He certainly didn't indicate in any other way the strange obsession which tormented him. And, after all, he did have to pass the shop on his way to work.
His name was William Kuhnz, a smallish man of forty with colorless hair and white skin. His lips were small and thin and he kept them pressed tightly together. His eyes were shifty, but not with the shiftiness that one associates with a dangerous person. It was more the wary look of the timid person, looking for possible trouble so as to be able to avoid it. He never knew what to do with his hands, and he was very self-conscious when he walked, to the point that he stumbled frequently if anyone happened to be looking his way.
He was a bachelor and lived with his mother, a woman twice his size who cooked spaghetti four times a week. He had a modest job as a clerk, at which he was very diligent and careful not to make mistakes. He didn't think about a promotion, and would never receive one.
And this is about all that can be said of such a man, unless one knows his background more thoroughly, or perhaps if one were able to delve into his mind. The part of the mind that he would bury most deeply, especially.
Kuhnz had slept with one woman during his life. One time. He had not enjoyed it at all. She had been a woman who looked remarkably like his mother, and who had, in fact, been introduced to him by his mother. She too cooked spaghetti four times a week. This is remarkable in that neither of the women were Italians. Once might have been coincidence, but with two such women there must have been some deeper meaning to this habit. Or perhaps they just liked spaghetti. It's hard to judge such things.
She had desperately wanted a husband, someone for whom she could cook. Spaghetti. Kuhnz had been her last hope and she had tried with all her charms, dubious as they were. Finally, on one bleak and rainy November night she had succeeded in getting him alone in her room and seducing him. It turned out to be a great disappointment to her and a great shock to him, and was the last time that they saw one another.
Only at one instant had William felt any thrill. That, strangely, had been when she was undressing. As she pulled the nylon panties shyly down he had felt a tingle. But then she had tossed the panties aside and the thrill went with them. The rest of the act was meaningless.
He didn't really worry much about the negative state of his love life. He didn't think about it at all. Except at strange times, and he was more disturbed when he did think of sex than when he did not. It would have been much simpler to be completely devoid of such feelings, especially since they always came at the wrong time and the wrong situations. Such as when he passed the lingerie shop each morning, and felt compelled to look in.
The first time he had noticed any sexual desires (not really desires - he had no ideas at all about fulfilling them - it was really more of an arousal) was on a subway. There had been a girl sitting across from him, a pretty little thing about his own age. He was in his late teens at the time, and people were already beginning to notice that he didn't care at all for women. It distressed his mother but didn't bother him at all. He was quite content the way things were.
But on this occasion the girl had crossed her legs, casually enough, but a little too far up. Looking at her without realizing that he was staring, William had been able to see the juncture of her panties. It had aroused him very much, so much so that he had been ashamed, later, when he had to get up and walk out of the train.
Girls hadn't affected him that way before, and at first he thought that at last his sex drives were beginning to occur. But then, contemplating the occurance, he realized that it had had nothing to do with the girl herself, that he hadn't been the least bit interested in what was in the panties. It had been the panties themselves.
This seemed perverted in some way, and made him feel ashamed. He dismissed the thought from his mind and soon forgot about it. But then it happened again. If he strolled past the lingerie counter in the ten cent store he felt aroused. Even, once, when his mother had hung her panties in the bathroom to dry, it had happened. That was the most humiliating time. But the smell of cooking spaghetti had come up from the kitchen and saved him from God knows what embarrassment.
It was only panties. Brassieres and corsets did nothing. Nylon stockings and garter belts gave him only the slightest, almost imperceptible tingle. But with panties it began to happen every time, even if he saw an advertisement with a picture of them. He took to avoiding all sources of panty-contact, not frequenting the dime stores any longer and not sitting opposite girls with their legs crossed.
The only contact that he did have was for the split second that it took him to walk by the lingerie window on his way to work. He could have avoided this temptation, too, by taking a short detour. But it seemed like a harmless enough thing, the only concession that he ever made to his feelings in regard to panties. Nothing wrong could happen right on the street, in broad daylight, while he was walking. He never seemed to get really aroused while walking.
So William made every effort to avoid sin. And it was really circumstance that provided his downfall, although if he had been just a little stronger at the end...
One day, while standing at the water cooler in his office, he had received an unexpected shock. One of the secretaries, walking past, had slipped and fallen. William moved to assist her in rising, and his eyes fastened directly on her panties, for her dress had slid up.
He was held there as though by glue. The girl sat in that undignified position, waiting for him to pull her to her feet. But he was fascinated, spellbound, forgetting where he was and what the circumstances were.
Finally she had pulled her skirt down and got up by herself. As she walked away she had pierced him with a fierce look, a look that filled him with mortification. But he couldn't get the thought of those smooth nylon panties out of his mind, try as he would. For the rest of the day the image remained in his mind, and it followed him home. He was trying hard, and even avoided the lingerie store, but it did no good. Even after two helpings of spaghetti he could think of nothing but panties, not even to think about the heartburn that plagued him regularly, four times a week, in some unexplained correlation with the spaghetti.
Finally it had bested him. It was a Friday night, and the stores were open. He would stroll downtown to the dime store, spend a few minutes regarding panties of all sizes and color, and then return home, satiated. He knew that he would never be able to sleep, otherwise, and despite his feelings of shame he had to do it.
He was firm on one point. He would not buy a pair. There could be little harm in looking.
The streets were crowded. Every woman's dress seemed to be tight enough to show the outline of her panties. He was already aroused by the time he reached the department store, and was walking with his hands jammed into his pockets.
He avoided the counter for a while, sure that someone was observing his wanderings. He bought a tube of toothpaste and a ball-point pen to disguise the meaninglessness of his path from counter to counter. And then, surely and inevitably, he gravitated to the lingerie counter.
Never had he seen so many panties. There was even a sale on panties. All colors, all styles. The bikinis were by far the best, and he particularly loved the red ones. In fact, he fell in love with them. It was the nearest thing to heaven to be surrounded by panties. If only there was no one else around ... but he fought that thought off.
Kuhnz tried to act as nonchalant as possible, as though he was simply making a purchase for his wife. He left the counter several times, once intending to go home, but each time he returned.
It was near closing time. The lingerie was near the back of the store, and there was no one else around now. The sales-girl had moved down the counter and was preparing to leave for the night.
Kuhnz glanced around, saw that no one was watching, and reached out and carefully touched the red panties. It seemed to send a thrill trembling up his arm. He lifted them and felt the sheer material and the weightlessness. He was wondering if it would really do any harm if he were to buy this pair and take them home with him...
He didn't really notice that the store was closing. Or, at least, not with his conscious mind. The back of the store was dimly lit and no one seemed to notice him there, anxious to get home after a long day. When the lights finally went out it surprised him, although not too much, for some part of his mind must have known.
Nevertheless, the sudden darkness frightened him. He felt panic seize him, and throwing the panties back on the silken pile he rushed to the front of the store. There was no one around, which seemed strange, since someone should have been there for at least a few minutes after the store closed. He tried the front door and found it locked. He even shook it, a little, but it wouldn't budge.
How will I get out? he wondered. I'm afraid to make a commotion. Someone is liable to think that I'm a burglar. But I can't stay here all night. Mother would be worried to death. Perhaps there's another entrance in the back, one that I can open from the inside.
He went to the back of the store. He had actually forgotten about the lingerie counter in his nervousness, but now he saw it again and strange sensations filled him. It looked different, a pile of silk and nylon before him in the dark. He couldn't see them so well ... but now, if he chose, he could touch them. All of them. As long as he cared to, with no one around to watch.
No, I mustn't, he said, an unknown and unexplained dread filling him. He sensed that something frightful would happen if he yielded to the temptation.
He forced himself to move on. But the door at the back of the store would not open either. Kuhnz was much too timid to break out or to shout for help, and he didn't know what he could do.
Perhaps I'll just have to stay the night, he thought. It would be worse, perhaps, when he was discovered in the morning. But that was hours away, and he didn't think much about that, putting more immediate fears foremost in his mind, as many timid and meek people do.
Spend the night ... in the same store as all those panties, he said. The open expression of the thought shocked him, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to resist the temptation throughout the night.
Kuhnz lit a match and looked at his watch. It came as a surprise that it was midnight. The store had been closed for three hours, but he had only been aware of a few minutes. Was that why everyone had left? Had he been in a trance of some sort and lost track of the hours? Had he even, perhaps, hidden when the store closed? Was that why he hadn't been seen? The dread filled him more and more. If must have been that way, he thought, but why? Why would I hide?
You know why, came the answer, from the other part of his mind, although it seemed to come from the air around him, a soundless accusation.
Well, he wouldn't yield. He hurried past the lingerie counter and tried to find something to amuse himself with at the front of the store. Perhaps at the children's toy counter, anything to get his mind off what he dreaded. He found several mechanical toys and wound them up, but it was too dark to be amused by them, even if he would have been. The only amusement he would find that night was in that pile of smooth, silk undergarments.
And, after all, what harm could it do, he thought. I'm making so much more out of this than it deserves. It certainly can't hurt me to touch them It's not half as dangerous as going with girls...
He wandered back.
Kuhnz stood before the counter for a long while. His breathing grew heavy and labored. He reached out and stroked the panties with his fingertips. Finally he picked one pair up and held it to his chest. Eventually he kissed them...
There was no danger. There was nothing wrong with this, he could see that now. The warnings that he had felt had been silly and false.
He picked up a second pair and a third. It might have been better if they had not been new. If they had been used, had come directly from some woman, with no washing machine along the way But it didn't really matter, there were so many of them, so smooth and cool to the touch. It made him want to touch them with his whole body. And why not?
He stripped his clothes off in hurried desperation, once the idea struck him, once the decision had been made, and threw them away from him Then, standing naked, he picked up the panties again and began to rub them against himself, touching his whole body, everywhere. They were cool and smooth and silky but where they touched him they made his flesh hot and tingling with sensation.
He stood, legs wide spread, caressing himself with the garments. He built to a steady peak of ecstasy. And finally, unable to stand it, he crawled onto the counter and wallowed amidst the pile.
He kissed them, held them to his face, rolled in them and slobbered on them. The pile became wet with sweat and passion.
Eventually he found the red bikinis. It was dark but he was able to recognize them by the feel. They seemed smoother and cooler. He put them on, pulling them lightly up his slender flanks, feeling them caress him and hold him, seeming to move on him. Perhaps he was moving them himself, he didn't know. The thrill became greater than ever now, and he couldn't stand it for one long moment...
Then he relaxed in the first real peace of his life. And soon he slept.
When the manager opened the store in the morning he found Kuhnz sleeping blissfully on the counter, naked except for the red panties which were pulled high on his hips. There was another pair on his head, like a hat. And he was smiling in complete contentment.
For a while the manager was too stunned to move. Then he snapped out of it and tiptoed away to his office, from where he called the police.
He remained in his office until they came. The little man didn't look dangerous, but one could never tell with maniacs, and there was no sense taking chances.
The police were a bit stunned too. But they bravely hauled Kuhnz from the pile and slapped him until he awoke. He didn't seem to mind, and continued to smile. Of course, when they got him to the station they
would wipe that grin off his face, because that's how police are. But that is simply their nature, and there's nothing to say for that.
Only once did Kuhnz resist. That was when they tried to get his clothes on. He hung onto the panties and screamed and finally they said that he could take the panties with him if he went quietly.
He did so, then, holding the panties to his face and smiling as they led him out to the car.
"Any comment?" the Devil asked me.
"Better," I said. "I'll admit that I was fairly absorbed. But it was still a trifle thin in the story-line, don't you think?"
"No, I do not," he said angrily, his tail twitching. "I think it's a fine little story from start to finish. If I were to tell it over again, I would not change a single word."
"Well, of course, amateurs can't stand to revise," I said. "It's one of the major distinctions between the true professional and -"
"Silence," the Devil commanded. Oh, he was angry now. "You want a story with some punch to it. I have just the one for you."
"I hope it has a woman in it," I said wearily. "Empty panties are not really to my taste,"
"It's about a woman," he said stiffly.
"In that case," I said, "please go on." I smiled winningly.
"Thank you." He cleared his throat and began once more...
CHAPTER THREE
Corkie Van Kleeck was a Vassar girl. There was absolutely no doubt about it. She wore her blonde hair in the currently accepted style, medium length, parted on the side and falling straight down to turned up ends. Her face had the perpetual supercilious expression that one associates with children of people with money lots of it. This expression was not misleading in the least, for Corkie's parents were, and always had been, wealthy.
Corkie's progenitors owned several homes. Their town house had 25 rooms, if you counted the pool room in the basement. Their garage housed seven cars and a station wagon. Corkie's car was a red Porsche. Her father had also given her a speed boat because he was tired of paying traffic fines. He told her that she could go as fast as she wanted to on the lake and that there was no need of speeding around town the way she did. She, of course, paid him no heed.
Corkie was not what one would call a ring leader, but she was outstanding in the fast crowd she traveled with. When things were dull, Corkie could always be depended upon to think of something. Most of the things she thought of, the crowd was careful to conceal from parents and school authorities.
She had made her debut into society in 1961 and her parents fondly hoped that after a few years at an expensive college she would settle down and join the Junior League like all the other nice girls they knew. But Corkie had other ideas. She was a bit of a nonconformist, and although she dressed, talked, and to all outward appearances acted like the other girls of her class, Corkie was thrill-hungry.
It wasn't difficult for her to find male companions for her escapades, because Corkie was a very good looking young girl, and her body was mature beyond her seventeen years. Despite the fact that she had had countless admirers, some of them very persistent, she had remained a virgin. The thought of changing this, however, was very appealing and sometimes she daydreamed about how it would be the first rime. It would have to be someone I love, though, she thought, for her parents had managed to instill in their reckless daughter some
sort of morality. It was not, however, the type of morality that is apparent to everyone. And she made no attempts to appear what she actually was, that is a virgin. Even the boys who dated her refused to believe this, although not allowed to sample her favors themselves. She appeared too knowledgable and too fast to have remained this long without more sexual experience than they were permitted with her.
She was, in fact, what was known as a tease. One of the greatest thrills in her thrill-seeking, young life consisted of arousing men, leading them on, letting them believe that they were going to go all the way with her. Then, at the last moment, she would suddenly change and it would be over, except for her laughter and the rasping, panting breath of her escort as he tried to discover what had happened, what he had done to wrought this change in her. She thought that all this was quite funny.
At the time she was dating a young college man named Ronald Hall. She had been with him several times, each time leading him on a bit more, each time a little more sensual in her expressions and in the kisses that she allowed him in the darkness of the automobile. He was sure that she was going to be his very soon.
Hall was thin, crew cut, ivy. He played tennis and was in a fraternity. This is a stereotype, and so he was. But he was a decent escort, which according to Corkie's standards meant that he let her make all the decisions as to where they would go and what they would do. He also spent considerable amounts of his father's money Corkie seemed like the most perfect woman in the world to him, and he had plans stretching far into the future.
Corkie knew this, and laughed about it. Sometimes she discussed him with her friends when they were alone, and then they all laughed at him. However, it was true that he was not really that bad nor undesirable and that several of the other girls wouldn't have minded at all if he were to date them instead of Corkie. Perhaps after she turned him loose they would have their chance. And then, of course, they would have to discuss him with their friends and laugh. In that circle it was frowned upon to show any true emotion, especially toward a man. Except, possibly, a rather deeper interest in some young poet who badly needed a haircut. And even then it was more for kicks and perversity than it was out of any genuine affection.
But he was a good escort, and so it was that Corkie let him take her to the fraternity dance. He was very proud to show up with the most popular girl in then-mutual crowd, and she was very pretty and blase about everything.
She danced with everyone, charmed everyone, and generally ignored Ronald. He didn't seem to notice, or to mind, and smiled perpetually at her. After all, there was nothing wrong with having a popular girl. The belle of the ball, as it were, he thought wryly. And in conversation with his friends, when she wasn't near, he never referred to her by name but called her, "my girl," with a nonchalant air that implied long familiarity and confidence.
When the dance had ended and everyone was crowding outside in a swirl of dinner jackets and pastel gowns it was Corkie who came up with the suggestion that they ought to go slumming for the rest of the evening.
"Let's go down by the waterfront," she said.
"It's pretty rough down there," Ronald said. Then, as she looked at him with a combination of amusement and scorn and worse, attempted tolerance, he added, "I mean, you might not enjoy yourself."
"Ronnie, dear," she answered, "I've been there a good many more times than you."
He shrugged. The issue was resolved.
Four couples went, each in their own cars. Ronald professed to an intimate knowledge of the waterfront nightspots as he drove through the progressively darker streets.
"Where shall we go, then?" Corkie asked. "Well, there's the Jack of Diamonds and The Port," he said, thinking about it. She laughed.
"Those are tourist traps. I thought you said that you knew the slums?"
"Well ... they're not so bad. That's where we always go," he said. "We" apparently referred to his fraternity brothers and their occasional excursions to the seamier side of town where they made fools of themselves and returned with the proper air of worldliness, tempered by the knowledge that they were of the upper class.
"I want to go to The Downbeat," Corkie said.
"That's an awful place."
"Afraid?"
"No, not for myself."
"Don't worry about me."
"I don't want to take you anywhere where there might be trouble. I have to watch out for you."
"If you can't take care of me in the place that I want to go, then maybe I'd better get another date, Ronnie," she said, casually, as though it didn't really matter one way or the other.
"Joe Hicks got beat up there last year," he said, making one last attempt
"Well, that's where I'm going. You can come with me or not, as you like."
He went, of course.
He was very apprehensive about it. He had never been there, aiid that made it worse. Walking in for the first time was always the worse. Even in a respectable bar it was hard for him to go in the first time, especially if he didn't know anyone inside to wave at, to talk to, to provide some variation to his entrance. And in a bar like The Downbeat he had no idea what would happen. Would one of the customers make remarks as they entered? Would someone insult Corkier" Any thing could happen in a bar like that, and he was responsible for her. He would have far rather visited a college bar, or even taken her home early.
But he went.
The street was bumpy and dark. He could see the river at the end; and then wooden dock that was sagging toward the water, unused now. The water looked very black and very cold and forbidding. But not nearly as forbidding as the front of The Downbeat.
There were two windows, but they were so covered with grime that nothing but shadows could be seen inside. Music came floating, or rather crashing, out. It
was fast, wild music, not at all the kind that he played
on his stereo and not the same artists for whom he voted in the Playboy Jazz Poll. Music like that usually irritated him, but here it seemed to only add to his sense of dread. It was hard to resent it in this area where it seemed to belong so well, to be such an integral part of the life.
Corkie got out and went into the bar, not bothering to wait for Ronald or the others. He hurried in behind her and the other couples followed.
The interior was smoke filled and noisy. The bar was along one wall, several tables along the other. The floor was wood, covered with sawdust. The patrons were a singularly rough looking group, mostly men with a few heavily painted women scattered among them. Everyone turned to look at the newcomers, the men looking especially at Corkie.
She went to a table and sat down, pretending that she wasn't aware of the stir that she had caused. Self-consciously, Ronald joined her. The others joined them, taking two tables that were together. They were looking around, the girls delighted with the place, the boys rather skeptical. Leave it to Corkie, was their mutual thought. Leave it to Corkie to find the place to go.
The bartender came over after a while, apparently resenting the fact that they hadn't ordered at the bar. He was a large man with a towel slung over his shoulder.
"What'll you have?" he asked, classicially.
They ordered a strange assortment of drinks, ranging from martinis to daiquiris. The bartender looked disdainfully at them, as was only fitting, and lumbered back to mix the first cocktails he had made in a long
time. It was strictly a beer and shot bar.
"Isn't this a charming place?" Corkie asked.
Ronald didn't answer. He thought it nothing of the sort, and wanted to leave as soon as possible. But Corkie was enjoying the thrills of slumming, the attention that she was getting from the other patrons, the whispers. She was very confident of her charm and never thought it possible that she could get into a situation which she wasn't able to handle.
Among the patrons standing at the bar she noticed two large and dirty men in work clothes who were paying her a great deal of attention. They rather disgusted her, and she ignored their glances, although still managing to get a small thrill from imagining their thoughts and the whispered conversation which they were making over their beer, half of which they drank and half of which spilled down the front of their already filthy, blue shirts.
There was another man noticing her, and she found him quite the opposite from the first two. He was tall and well built and looked reasonably clean. His hair was long and swept back in a duckwave which curled over his collar at the bottom. His face was handsome, or at least interesting, and he looked at her insolently, his lip curled and one eyebrow arched slightly. She imagined that it was the look that a proud and arrogant peasant would bestow on the beautiful princess who rode her horse across his fields and ruined his crops. It's muck the same thing, she thought. I come here as a princess from the better part of town, amused and entertained by the squallor that forms the basic part of their everyday lives. It's no wonder that I am resented. But I'm looked
tip to also, the beautiful lady who is too far above them to be touched and must be admired from a distance. Either in the way that those two are looking at me, worshipping me, or in the way that the other man looks arrogantly, although he would love to possess me as much as they. But he is the proud peasant. It would be to easy to fashion a complete romantic tale around this place. An allegory, perhaps.
The jukebox banged out fast numbers for a while, and the occupants of the two tables sipped their fancy drinks and took in the atmosphere. When the first round was gone, Ronald asked if they were ready to leave, but Corkie looked at him in surprise, wrinkling her nose prettily.
"Why, no. I'm having a good time." He shrugged.
"What's wrong, Ronnie dear?"
"Nothing. This place is too dirty. I'd rather go somewhere else. I'd like to be alone with you."
"There'll be time for that. Get me another drink, will you? You know, I get much more passionate and much more willing after I'm a little tipsy."
With that inspiration he went to the bar and asked for another round.
"What were those drinks again?" the bartender wanted to know, scowling.
Ronald told him. Timidly.
"Okay."
He returned to the table and sat while the drinks were being made. He wondered if he was a kill-joy. The other men in the party seemed to be enjoying themselves. But, then, he didn't think any of the rest of the party too sensible. They were the kind who might start singing college songs at any moment. That would be all that they needed. Then they would be in for it! He could imagine the roars of incredibility with which these rough members of the lower element would greet the chanting of fraternity songs. They'd be liable to get their throats cut.
A slow song started then.
The man at the bar, the insolent peasant, smiled at Corkie. He seemed quite confident, for a peasant, to be taking such liberties.
She smiled back, nonetheless, for she admired his daring and boldness.
After a moment he came over to the table.
He walks nicely, she thought, watching him as he came across the room. A bit clumsy, but the way that a lion is clumsy when they walk slowly. As though he could be very graceful when it came time for speed.
He held out his hand and raised his eyebrows, without speaking.
"She doesn't care to dance, thank you," Ronald said. But his voice broke in the middle, and that ruined the effect of his attempt at manliness and competence.
"I'd love to," Corkie said, and took the man's hand.
Ronald looked at her with sick eyes, shocked and hurt, but said nothing more.
The man led her away from the table. There was no dance floor to speak of, and he took her down the bar a few yards, then turned and took her in his arms, when they stood directly under the no-dancing sign.
Corkie was delighted. What a fine impression this will make on the others, she thought. Corkie Van Kleeck,
woman of the world. Seeker of thrills in all walks of life. Afraid of no man.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Corkie."
"I'm Chino."
They danced. He wasn't a very good dancer, but she could feel the muscles in his back ripple as he moved. She could also feel the dampness of perspiration under the material of his shirt.
"Do you live near here?" she asked.
"Yes. What are you doing down here?"
"Having a drink What else?"
It was the right answer. He laughed and held her a bit tighter, and seemed at the same time to be more relaxed and danced better.
When the dance ended he brought her back to the table. He waited while she sat down, then thanked her for the dance. He looked at Ronald blankly.
Corkie smiled sweetly at him. It could have been taken for an invitation Ronald turned white with rage or embarrassment or possibly shame.
When Chino returned to his seat at the bar, Ronald asked, "Why in hell did you want to dance with that animal, Corkie. For God's sake!"
But she ignored him She was telling the other girls about him, as much as she could know from the brief meeting She concluded with, "I raally think that he's rather charming, in a primitive way."
Everyone laughed Even Ronald, after a while, because he couldn't very well do otherwise without appearing to be worried or angry and that would never do with this crowd. One had to be gay.
When the drinks were gone this time, one of the others ordered a round. The bartender was not so surly now. The drinks were trouble to make, sure, but they did cost more money. Since they were the first he had ever sold in this bar he could, in fact, set his own prices. And the fact that these kids didn't just order one round, look the place over with giggles and wrinkled noses, then leave, made him feel better about them being there. Perhaps he might even encourage a college crowd to drop in. He might be able to make some decent money if the place were filled with cocktail drinkers.
Had this man ever been in a college bar he wouldn't have entertained such thoughts, realizing how obnoxious drinking college people are when they are en mass. But he never had, and besides it was just a passing fancy which was never liable to enter his mind again.
He brought the drinks to the table and returned to the bar and the college people sipped the drinks and imagined that they must seem quite worldly and sophisticated to the rough beer drinkers who were observing them. The very true fact that no one is quite as worldly as a beer drinker had never occurred to them. But, then, neither had it occurred to the beer drinkers, which may be more cause than effect. It is hard to say when one makes such judgments.
"Here he comes again," Ronald observed. "I hope you'll refuse him this time."
"Dance?" Chino asked.
"Thank you," Corkie said. She stood up and they went out to the floor.
"Careful, old man, you'll lose your girl," one of the others said.
Ronald had to laugh, of course. Anyway he knew that there was no danger of actually losing her to this animal. It had to be one of the meaningless little flirtations that she perpetually engaged in. She would lead this fellow on for a few dances, then laugh at him when he suggested that they meet again sometime. But suppose the guy got ugly after being turned down? There was no telling what a person who frequented bars like this might do if he were angry and drunk and felt that he had been played for the fool. Corkie had no sense about such things, she couldn't see the possible results.
And then too it was embarrassing to have this girl dance with another man, especially dancing very close as they were doing and smiling so provocatively at him. But there was nothing that Ronald could do but smile and pretend that he was part of the game.
He should have hit her. Or someone should have. But no one ever had, which was rather a shame for all concerned, and especially Corkie Van Kleeck.
"Who's the toad you're with?" Chino asked.
Corkie laughed. She said, "You're so descriptive. He's just a friend."
"Want to be my friend?"
"Why, yes, Chino. I'd love to be your friend."
"Ditch the toad and we'll make it somewhere."
"Oh, I can't do that. Perhaps some other time, though. I could see you some other time."
He shrugged.
"Are you angry?"
"Why should I be? You're with him, not me."
"Yes," she said. She had no intention of ever seeing Chino again, of course, but she rather wished that he
would make more of an effort now. It would be more fun if he really tried to convince her to leave Ronald and go with him. She'd have to give him a little more hope, she decided.
"Maybe I can get rid of him. Ill see," she said.
"Ill be here." He didn't sound too thrilled. Corkie was disappointed. When she returned to the table she had fallen into a bad mood, because this stranger hadn't fallen completely for her from the start.
Ronald, too, was glum. He had watched them dancing and laughing and it made him feel hurt. He sat with a long face and didn't say anything to her when she sat down.
"What's the matter with you?" she snapped. "Must you always be a kill-joy?" He shrugged.
"Don't tell me you're jealous?"
"Of course not"
That was the wrong thing to say.
"Well, maybe you should be," she snapped, looking very angry at him.
Only one of the others laughed this time, and the laugh didn't last long and sounded more nervous than humorous. Corkie was obviously angry over something.
They sat in silence for a while, as they finished the rest of their drinks. Then one of the others suggested that they leave.
"Well all leave," Ronald said.
"I'm not ready to leave," Corkie said.
"Well, we're leaving."
"Go ahead."
"You can't stay here alone!"
"I won't be alone."
"Corkie, for crissake!"
"You can go. I really wish you would, in fact. You're beginning to bore me."
The others waited nervously.
Corkie hadn't really intended to stay. She didn't really want to, in fact. But she was angry. And Ronald did bore her. And after all, she was Corkie Van Kleeck and she did exactly as she pleased, with no one to tell her differently.
"Will you please..."
"Oh, go away," she said, cutting him off. "All right, goddamnit!"
She was surprised that he really did. But he got up and stormed out alone.
"Can we take you home?" one of the other girls asked her, looking worried.
She almost said yes. But then she realized that that would ruin the effect.
"No, I'll be all right," she said. Then she smiled sweetly and discreetly, and the other couples left.
She sat alone for a minute, fingering her drink and thinking about what a fine impression she would have made on them. A true woman of impulse. When she saw them next she would not refer to the night and if they asked she would simply smile and not tell them a thing. Of course, there would be nothing to tell. Or not much. But it might be fun at that. Chino looked like the sort who would get very aroused and angry and hurt and think that she wouldn't let him do as he pleased because he wasn't good enough for her. The arrogant peasant. She hoped that he wouldn't get angry enough to hit her,
or anything. But even that might be thrilling. A real soul searching and passionate scene.
He came over after a minute and sat down.
"The toad leave?"
"Yes."
"You with me?"
"If you like."
"Want a drink?"
"Sure."
"What?"
She shrugged. "I think that I'd like a beer, for a change," she told him.
"Have what you like."
"I always do. I'd like a beer."
He nodded. He went to the bar and returned with two draughts.
"Rather go someplace else?"
"Let's stay for a while."
"Okay."
They drank the beers. Conversation was light, because there wasn't much to say. She didn't want to appear to think herself above him, not yet at least, but she was afraid she would if she talked about the usual subjects. And he seemed content to play the strong and silent type. And noticing the bulge of his bicep, just below his rolled up sleeve, she decided that he was strong, at that.
"What do you do?" she asked, after a while, thinking that that was a safe topic of conversation in the present company. Everyone did something, even the people who frequented the waterfront bars.
"I make love."
She smiled. It was a rather interesting answer. "I mean, do you have a job or anything?"
"Naw. I've never worked a day in my life."
"How do you live?"
"Well."
"Then you must have some income."
He grinned and shrugged. It was an answer typical of a guy who lived with his mother and never had any cash but wanted to appear to be a ganster or hustler or pimp or some such dubiously glamorous occupation. And yet he didn't seem like the completely phony type.
"You must go to college."
"How did you know?" she asked, although she knew that it was pretty obvious. "You look it."
"Is that a compliment?"
"No. Almost an insult."
"Why is that?" She was getting more interested in this man. Perhaps he would have something to say. That would make it better, later, when she excited him. It was not much fun exciting a pure animal type with no imagination and nothing to say about it.
Chino thought for a while. He said, "Well, look at the guy you were with. He may be a college guy, maybe he's smart and know about what people learn from books ... but what good does it do him? He's still a toad. He couldn't keep his girl. I could. He drinks some silly drink in a funny glass and everyone laughs at him for it but he doesn't even realize it. He doesn't see how silly he is. And he wears those silly skinny clothes and thinks they make him look sharp but he really looks like a faggot. And he probably hasn't got a muscle in his whole body."
Chino paused to drain his beer. Then he said, "If a guy like that were put on a desert island he'd starve to death. But a guy like me wouldn't. I know how to make out, because I haven't wasted half my life with my nose stuck in a book. Why, you know what I'd do if you were with me in some bar and you wouldn't leave with me? I'd slap the hell out of you. And if you flirted with some guy like you did with me, I'd kick him all over the room. And I can do it too. But your friend didn't, and couldn't. And that's the difference between us, and between all college boys and real men."
"There are some college men who can take care of themselves and their women," Corkie said, feeling that she should uphold her class in some way.
"Not against me," he said.
She didn't doubt it.
Chino went to the bar and brought them another round. He exchanged a few words with some friends and then they laughed. This didn't bother Corkie. She knew that he was commenting on her because he was proud to be with her, and wanted to make sure that all his friends knew about it. And also because when someone like Chino was feeling successful it was necessary to talk about it, even to strangers if need be. What he was actually saying didn't matter to her, it was the fact that he was mentioning her that made Corkie feel good. Perhaps he was telling the others lies about what had been said, telling them that this strange girl had already agreed to sleep with him or something of the sort. That was all right. And the next day when he had to lie again and claim that he had seduced her with no trouble would be all right too. She didn't care what his friends thought, and it would make him happier about being turned down if he was able to deceive them. It would save his pride. That way no one would get hurt.
He returned with two more draughts.
"Do your friends resent you coming over to sit with me?" Corkie asked, not because she wanted to know the answer to that but because she wanted to bring the subject around to why they might, her being from a better class, obviously slumming, and the like. Did his friends think he was being made a fool of by some thrill seeker? Did they resent the intrusion upon their tightly knit society by another type of person, a higher and better type?
"Why should they?"
Damnit! This guy was hard to talk to. Didn't he realize what the situation was? Or didn't he care? Perhaps he was carrying the arrogant peasant bit too far. She wanted him to talk about how happy he was that she realized that he was good enough for her and how he was really intelligent but just denied the appearance and all the typical things that guys from the slums with average IQs always talked about. Sometimes they even got around to talking about the problems of marriage out of one's class and always decided that love conquered all obstructions and adversity. But Chino was treating her as he might any other girl that he picked up in this waterfront dive. That was a bit thrilling, too, in a different way, and she began to see herself not as the princess visiting the slums of her domain but rather as the high class woman who, for reasons of her own, perhaps an unhappy love affair, has sunk to the depths, denied her former life and lives a life of sin and degradation in the slums of some large city. That might be fun to pretend for a while, but she didn't think that it would last long. She was really not the type to let herself be dragged down by circumstance or by some lack or deficiency in her own character. Corkie Van Kleeck was too strong for that.
But for a while she could pretend that she was the heroine in some Italian art film. Perhaps she should go to the ladies room and darken the circles under her eyes to enhance the effect of being wasted.
She laughed at her thoughts and drank the beer.
"I thought that perhaps they didn't like college people to come around here."
"They don't. But good looking women are never a hassle. And besides, you're with me, so that means you aren't just sitting here and looking down your pretty nose at them. They just resent toads like the guy you came in with."
"I see."
"What is it with you, baby? A one night fling? Gonna' shake loose for just the night or would you like to see me again?"
Corkie paused just long enough, then she said, "I think that you're very interesting. I'd like to see you again, I guess. We'll see."
He shrugged. "It's up to you. But don't get serious about anything, okay. I don't like to see people get hurt, but I'm not the type that you can make plans about. I'm footloose and I like my freedom too much to get tied down to a woman for very long. So watch out and everything can be fine for a while."
Corkie blinked. This was too much! This gutter boy cautioning her not to fall in love with him! Was he really serious, or was this the line that he used with the slum girls that he wanted to impress? Perhaps he thought that he was Marlon Brando come to town! Well, that would fit in with the art film concept for a while, anyway. But she was going to teach him a lesson, when she left him he would be begging her to see him again. She could almost hear the laugh of scorn with which she would put him down at the end. And see him balanced between rage and heartbreak. That would be very funny and very satisfying and perhaps quite thrilling as well, she knew. She was glad that she had decided to stay here with him.
"Ill watch my heart," she told him, sweetly and wide-eyed, fingering the glass in front of her thoughtfully, as though really making an effort not to fall for him.
"Do that." And he gave her a look that must have been his most Brandoish, and reflected long hours of practice before some cracked mirror in the shabby tenement in which he must live, probably with his mother. It was, she had to admit, a very adequately sensual stare, he had probably really managed to seduce a few girls in his day. And that made it better, the ones who had succeeded a few times always took failure so much harder, and gave her so much more pleasure. There was nothing worse than a man who simply gave up when she offered the first resistance.
Corkie went to the ladies room and inspected her makeup carefully, adding some eye shadow. When she returned, Chino was at the bar talking to friends. He shrugged as she went by and she heard him say, "I don't care. Hell, you know me better than that. But I just don't think so." When he saw her he returned to the table.
"Let's get out of here," he said.
"Where shall we go?"
"Let's go somewhere where we can be alone. I'd like to talk to you and get to know you better."
"Just talk?" She raised her eyebrows. He shrugged.
"Where can we be alone?" Her eyebrows were stifl up, and her voice was a little mocking.
"Look, Corkie ... if you want to do more than talk, I'm your boy. But I'm not the type to crawl over you in the car and look for a cheap feel. I mean that, and don't you think otherwise."
She believed him. She didn't know why, but his voice was very sincere. It probably went along with his arrogant peasant nature not to press a girl for anything when it might mean losing a little pride. However, she wasn't going to let him get off that easy. He was too damn insolent, and she'd have him begging her to let him have her before the night was finished.
"All right," she said.
They got up and went out. His car was in front, a '51 Ford that had been dechromed. He opened the door for her, probably the first time that he had ever done so for a girl, she thought, with some satisfaction. She slid gracefully in and sat looking out while he crossed in front of the car and got in his own side. She was wondering how she could subtly mention the fact that she owned a new Porsche, then decided not to. It wasn't her money that mattered now, it was her body and her charm and the way that she used them to bring Chino to his knees.
When he started the car the glass pack mufflers rumbled and she smiled. He even left rubber and a cloud of dust as he let the clutch out. A typical car for this guy, she thought. I'll bet he really hates to let anyone in a new Pontiac pass him, too.
He drove to the end of the street and turned down an even darker street. Corkie looked out the window, wondering where he would take her, and hoped that it would be dark and romantic and lonely.
It was.
It was a typical parking place for lovers, a few miles out of the city. Chino parked beneath the twisted limbs of a dead tree, facing an open field with mountains showing jagged and black in the distance. The moon was full, very white, low in the sky. He pulled on the hand brake, turned off the ignition, and sat back.
"Cigarette?"
"Thank you."
It was a Lucky Strike. Corkie, who smoked Benson & Hedges, took it and held it to her lips while Chino found a match and lit it. She inhaled deeply and blew the smoke straight out, where it curled and billowed against the windshield. Chino lit his own cigarette and watched her profile, lit very white by the moon. He was squinting at her.
"I wanted to get you out of there," he said, after a while. "Some of my friends were getting ideas."
"Such as?"
"Well ... usually when one of our group picks up a strange girl we agree to give her to everyone after we've
made her, if she seems the type. Understand?"
"You mean a gang bang?" she sweetly asked. "Yeah."
"And do I look the type?"
He shrugged. "Some of my friends thought so. You know, coming to that place and staying after your friends left. Lots of girls get their kicks out of that kind of stuff."
"What do you think?"
I told them no. That I didn't think that you'd want to go for the crowd."
"That was nice of you. I suppose you think that I'd go for you, though?"
"I don't know. I don't really care. If you meet a girl that you like it doesn't matter whether she goes down right away or not. Those things are sometimes better if you've waited a while before doing it."
"And do you like me?"
"Sure."
"Why don't you kiss me?" If he wasn't going to make an effort, then she guessed that it was up to her to start the ball rolling.
Chino looked at her for a while, then slid across the seat and put his arm around her. Corkie tipped her face up to him and closed her eyes. He kissed very nicely, not at all in the rough manner that she had imagined. Not the least bit like Marlon Brando.
"Mmmmm, nice," she said.
He kissed her again.
The moon shone directly through the windshield, lighting her upturned throat. He kissed her there, his fingers fondling her shoulder.
"How far do you want to go?" he asked.
That was too cut and dried, too mathematical. She wouldn't have any fun at all that way. She put her hands behind his head, fingers twisting in the thick hair, and looked at him carefully, soulfully, she imagined.
"Why don't we just see how far it goes?" she asked.
He frowned. Then he grinned. "I didn't think that you really would, to tell you the truth. I really didn't. And I wouldn't have tried to do it if you didn't want me to. But I'm very glad that you do."
He kissed her again, and this time his fingers fumbled with the front of her dress, sliding under the material. It felt nice to have his palms caress her breasts, slowly at first, circularly. He worked around and toward the tips, while his lips ground on hers.
She continued to caress the back of his head, tangling his hair. Then he moved his head forward. He unfastened the back of her dress and bra and pulled both away while his face covered her breasts. He kissed her, caressed her with his lips and tongue, pulled the nipples gently with his teeth. One hand moved to her thigh.
"No ... don't rush it. Let's just pet for a while," Corkie said, moving his hand from her leg.
"All right," he said, but he put his hand back on her thigh and began rubbing the soft flesh. "We can pet as long as you like, but that means touching you."
She let his hand stroke up until it was pressed against her panties. He cupped her and squeezed, released, squeezed again. His mouth returned to her breasts.
Corkie leaned back against the seat and let him touch her. He was moving too fast, it would be over too soon at this rate. She liked to have them take a long while, so that there could be more pleasure of touch along the way, and so that they would be more aroused at the end, when she stopped them from going further.
Chino's fingers slipped inside her panties and touched against the soft warmth. Corkie shivered for a second, and her thighs tightened on his hand so that he could not move freely against her. It had already progressed as far as she had ever let a man go before, it was going to have to end too soon. And she was feeling excited herself, too excited. She reached down and tried to pull his hand away but he held it there firmly and continued to caress her.
"Stop, Chino," she said.
"Don't worry," he told her, his mouth pressed against the curve of her breast. "I won't do it till you're ready. I just want to touch you there."
"Wait..."
He didn't answer. He pulled her skirt up, shoving her back into a flat position. "I want to make you ready," he said. "Let me make you ready."
Corkie tried to get up, to push him off, but he wouldn't budge. Her skirt was up around her waist and he was tugging at her panties. She grabbed his hand but he took it away and placed her own hand against himself, held it there for a moment, and then returned to the panties. She felt them slip from under her buttocks and slid down her thighs.
"Stop it! Right now!"
"What's the matter?"
"I want to go!"
"What?"
"You heard me."
"What the hell is this?"
"I want to go."
"You said..."
"I said let it go as far as it would. And this is it. Now will you please let me up?"
Chino hesitated, then got off her. Corkie sat up and reached down to pull her panties back up her legs.
"Leave them down!" he said sharply. She looked at him, the panties still stretched across the tightness of her thighs, her dress still up. He was looking down at her legs and stomach and the darker mound, all lit by the moon, seeming like alabaster.
"Now you tell me what's the matter? Did I hurt you or what?"
"No. Nothing. I just want to go before we get too excited and go too far."
"Too far? Baby, we're going all the way."
"No!"
"Oh yes we are."
"I can't. I'm a virgin."
"A virgin? You're a damn liar!"
"Really. I am."
"Then why did you lead me on, for crissake? I was honest with you. I told you I wouldn't try anything if you didn't want it. But you started it." He paused, and then, in a more angry voice said, "And by God I'm going to finish it now! I'm all shook up and I'm getting what I want!"
She said, "No," but he had already pressed her back to the seat and was on her. He ripped the panties down the rest of the way and pulled them from her feet. She thrashed her legs about and tried to get free but he
held her with one arm around her waist and the other hand on her legs. "Let me go!"
"Now, listen! I'm gonna' ball you one way or the other. You can relax and enjoy it or you can fight and not enjoy it, but it's gonna' happen!"
That was the last thing he said. She fought for a while as he forced her legs, and pleaded. But the only answer was his heavy breathing. He pulled her legs wide apart and pressed himself against her.
As she felt him, taut and hard against her, ready to break through, she tried to scratch his eyes. He hit her then, once across the mouth and back, a heavy handed blow that stunned her and she didn't move after that. She was very frightened and very confused.
When he lunged forward it hurt, but not as badly as she expected it would. And after that it didn't seem to feel like very much at all. But maybe she was too shocked to realize. He pounded against her for a while, his hands digging into her buttocks, and then he seemed to freeze for an instant and drive deeper than before.
Then he got off. He was breathing heavily and sweat glistened on his forehead.
After a while he spoke. "Were you really a virgin?"
She nodded.
"You shouldn't ought to fool around when you've got somethin' to lose, baby."
"I hate you!" she said. There was no reason to be frightened any more.
"Yeah. And I hate you. You lousy bitches think you can let a man get all worked up then turn him off like a friggin' faucet. You deserved that, bitch! Just be-
cause I'm not one of your goddamn toad college men!"
Corkie sat up. She thought that she might cry.
"Get your pants on," he said, turning away and sliding behind the wheel.
Then the other car drove up. The headlights were very bright, shining through the windows. Corkie was looking on the floor for her panties when she heard the doors open and someone came over to their car.
"What's happenin'?"
"You know," Chino said, casually.
"Get her?"
"Sure."
"What about the rest of us?"
Chino didn't answer. Corkie, suddenly, realized what the newcomer meant. She looked up and saw a face grinning in the window on her side of the car. It was one of the men from the bar, the dirty one in work clothes. Behind him she saw another shadow move.
"I don't know," Chino said.
"C'mon. Don't hold out."
Chino looked at Corkie. She looked back at him, soundlessly pleading.
"You know we won't force it, Chino. But you sure as hell oughta' let us cop."
"I suppose I should. The bitch is a tease, tried to get me all worked up and then put me down."
"Then she deserves it."
"Christ yes," another voice said, from somewhere outside the car.
"We'll make up for all the guys she's made go home with sore cubes, hey?"
Chino looked at her again.
"How many are there?" he asked. "Five."
"Want five men, baby?"
"Oh my God. Please..
"How many times have guys said please to you, sweety?" the guy outside Chino's window asked.
Corkie was very white. Not from the moon.
"Go ahead," Chino said, and got out of his door.
"No no no! God, you'll kill me! Please, for the love of God!"
But her screams only made it worse. Had she been rational they might not have done it. But a screaming woman grates at the nerves and infuriates men. They got in from both sides and threw her into the back. She continued to scream until someone pulled her skirt over her head and held it against her mouth. Someone else was biting her nipples, too hard, it hurt. He was twisting them and laughing.
And then the first man was between her legs. Others were holding her thighs apart, wide apart, hurting her because they were spread too wide.
Then the first man took her. It hurt more than Chino, he was rougher and faster and harder. And it hurt more each time after that.
There were five of them.
After a while she stopped fight and lay very still and tried to imagine that she was dead.
"She was soon after," the Devil added as an afterthought. "She ran her Porsche off the road the very next day. That's how we came to have her."
"You should have put that in the story," I said.
"It had nothing to do with the story. We were talking about crimes of lust and passion and death is often quite incidental to them."
"It would have made it a better story," I said critically.
"It would have ruined it," he said starchily. "It would have turned it into one of the trashy tales that you write."
"Oh, come now," I said.
"Oh, yes. You seem to have the compulsion to kill off most of your characters right after they've completed their sexual dalliances. And often, in the most incredible, unbelievable ways."
I ignored him. Professional jealousy was all it was. I was above such pettiness.
"Moralist," he goaded. "Puritan!"
That was too much. "Now, listen-"
He chuckled grandly. "Hit home, I see. Tsk, tsk. The truth is really our most potent weapon. Perhaps now you'll admit that my stories are not really so bad."
I grumbled something incoherent.
"Care for another one?" he asked.
"Nothing better to do," I said. "I don't know what's holding up those goddamn trains tonight."
"They'll be here presently," he said with authority. "But in the meantime, let me tell you one which should be just to your taste. You go to the movies a lot, don't you?"
"Well, I wouldn't say a lot. I go occasionally. The sex films down at Forty Second Street, that kind of thing. Just as research, you understand."
"If anyone understands, I do," he said. "But this tale involves a motion picture star quite above the station of your sex film performers. It's rather a short one and I hope it won't bore you."
I hoped so too, and nestled my shoulder against the platform column and gave him my attention...
CHAPTER FOUR
She attended all the body beautiful contests and was frequently seen on Muscle Beach. She also went to boxing matches and baseball games. It might be said that she was fascinated by muscular young men and athletes.
Her name was Rosy Day. Twenty five years before she had been the belle of Hollywood, the sex idol of a whole generation. She was still a good looking woman, well preserved by the best of care. She stubbornly refused to admit that she was in the least bit less desirable than she had been in her youth. And she loved publicity even more, having some great need to be perpetually in the news. What would have been ideal would be for some handsome young man to meet her and fall in love with her and they could have a big society wedding. But she had already gone through five husbands and no one seemed to want to be sixth. She knew that this was no reflection on her desirability, but rather due to the fact that the young men all held her in awe and didn't think that they would have a chance to capture her heart.
She was no longer rich. It was easier to admit this than to admit that she had aged. Once she had been fabulously wealthy but she had lived up to every penny of it and now the money was no longer there. She had enough to live comfortably for the rest of her days, but not lavishly. And she loved to be lavish. After all, what else for the Sex Idol of the Western World?
Still, she could afford what she wanted. And that included a great many of the aforementioned athletes and muscular young men. Not that she would have to pay them, of course. She laughed at such a ridiculous notion. It was just that she believed in giving them little gifts, little tokens of her affection, in exchange for the great love that they all felt for her. That was how it was.
It was nice to have a young man at her call, to do whatever she wanted. And no more. That was important, it always had to be what she wanted, and his feelings and desires would have to be stifled. She didn't think it right for a sex queen to be forced to accept any man's lust except in the manner that she herself chose.
Rosy drank too much and too frequently. That was the only change from her past life, except for the more
moderate amounts of money available to her. And drinking didn't worry her, it wasn't an escape or a necessity. She just liked to drink, she explained to herself. And she never thought about the fact that she felt younger and more beautiful than ever when she had a few belts in her. After all, how beautiful could a woman be? She had charmed a world...
She was wearing a red bathing suit. Her body really was quite remarkable for her age, and it showed well in the two piece suit. She was lying under a large umbrella, feeling the warmth of the dry sand under her back and the heat from the sun reflecting up from the beach.
She was alone, as was her custom on sunny days when she drove to the beach. It was crowded and she looked out from her smoked glasses and admired the men who looked the hardest and the leanest and the strongest. She especially liked the strongest.
She had a bucket of ice and a bottle of Scotch, and was drinking with an established regularity. She liked to be a little drunk when she was in the sun. It made everything seem so dazzling. Of course, she wouldn't drink much, she knew. How the bottle ever got that low she couldn't imagine. Perhaps she had brought a half empty bottle by mistake.
It's amazing how people don't recognize a person, out of context, she was thinking. Why, everyone in America would know me if they saw my picture in a movie magazine, but here on the beach they don't recognize me. It's funny. But it's better that way, otherwise I'd be plagued by autograph seekers and celebrity hounds.
She poured another Scotch and shifted her position to regard the other half of the beach. Shifting that way reminded her of the scene in The Sinful Summer when she had been on the beach and the guy was watching her ... who had it been? She forgot for the moment. Perhaps Clark Gable. Yes, she thought that it might have been him ... and he was watching her and he wanted her. And just by shifting her hips that way she let him know that it was all right and he came over and they were under the umbrella while the cameras moved away and showed just the beach and the water and the top of the umbrella. That had been one of her best movies.
She shifted again, but it wasn't quite right the second time. She drank the Scotch.
"Aren't you Rosy Day?"
An admirer. She rolled languidly over to see who it might be, smiling in a bored manner.
He stood just outside the shade from her umbrella, a tall and handsome man with his arms folded across his chest. His teeth dazzled in the sun. His hair was wet from swimming. He wore sun glasses.
"Yes, I am," she said, happy that she was still able to affect a throaty voice.
"I've admired you for years."
"Won't you sit down?"
He hesitated. Oh, how timid these young men were nowadays. When she had been young...
He sat. She noticed the muscles of his thighs bulge as he bent them, and his stomach was washboard hard when he leaned over. A very attractive young man. And he had admired her for years. Rosy thought about how thrilled he must be to be allowed next to her. And how thrilled he would be if she were to show some interest in him. He was nice looking, it wouldn't be hard to give him that little thrill. Perhaps even a bit more. It was a week since she had had a man to do as she directed. A man to marvel at her body and fall madly in love with her.
"What's your name, honey?" she asked. "Gordon. Gordon Mitchell."
She held out her hand, and he kissed it. Perhaps he was not too timid. It would have been so awful if he had merely shaken her hand, as though this were just another meeting in his life instead of one that he could remember as long as he lived and boast to his grandchildren about. Although she didn't suppose that all of the potential grandchildren of the world would have heard of her. Well, that was the way of fame, it didn't endure. One had to face up to the fact. There was no true immortality. At least she had come as close to it as any one else in her field. Sex.
And she was still building her fame, too, over the broken hearts of a multitude of lovers. Leaving them only small gifts in exchange for her slightest pleasure, but leaving them also with eternal gratitude to her for having condescended to let them be close to her at one moment of bliss. Yes, she was still building her fame. She might even do another picture some day soon, when the right offer came. The role of some mature and lovely woman who controlled the hearts of many younger men because of her undiminished beauty and her wide and noble soul.
Imagine the nerve of David offering me the part of grandmother! she thought, off on a tangent, while Gordon squatted beside her, holding her still extended hand. Why, did he do it as a joke, or was he really expecting me to play Tab Hunter's grandmother? He must have been joking...
"You're as beautiful as ever," Gordon told her, breaking into her thoughts.
"Thank you. You're a good looking young man yourself." That should make his heart sing, she thought. A compliment from the Goddess.
"I'm trying to break into the movies," he said.
"Oh?"
"Yes. I didn't say that because I wanted help or anything, I just wanted you to know. And I've seen all your films that are available. You are a great actress, you know. It's more than just your beauty. You would have been great even if you'd not been so beautiful."
"Thank you. Would you care for some Scotch?"
"A little."
"I have only one glass here. We can share it."
"Ah, to think that I'll be drinking from the same glass as the woman whom I admire more than anyone else on earth," he said, not sounding as dramatic as it might easily have. It sounded quite sincere and gallant to Rosy.
They drank Scotch and talked of their careers for a while. Presently the sun had shifted enough to peek in under the umbrella.
"Shall we move?" Gordon asked, afraid that the sun might bother her.
"Yes. I have an idea. Let's go up to my room where we can have a little coolness. It's really too hot out here at this time of day. We can have a few drinks and talk about your career."
"Fine. I didn't know that you were staying here."
"I always keep the suite, just in case I happen to decide to spend a few days here."
"I'm staying here too," he said.
He gathered her things together and they walked up the beach, the sand burning their bare feet.
"Say ... would you care to stop by my room for a moment?" he asked. "I have a scrapbook with pictures of you. Just pictures of you. I'd like to show it to you."
"That's flattering. I'd love to see it," Rosy said. This young man was very nice-
His room was small, but cozy. He had a bottle of Scotch there, her brand (he had read somewhere, once, that that was what she drank, and had drunk it himself ever since) and some ice. He made drinks while she sat by the window, and then he brought the scrapbook out.
Rosy looked through it. It was very complete. It was also very clean and the pictures looked as though they had just recently been pasted in, but she thought that this must be due to the extraordinary care that he took of the book.
When she had finished looking at it he took it and put it carefully away and made them another drink. He sat on the floor by the chair in which she was sitting and looked up at her with reverence.
"Can I tell you something?"
"Of course, Gordon."
"You know what I've always wanted to do? More than anything else at all?"
"What's that?"
"To kiss you."
She laughed. The same throaty laugh that had thrilled audiences in Girl of the City. "I don't suppose...?"
"Yes, you may kiss me, Gordon," she told him. She was smiling down at his boyish face.
He got up from the floor and bent over her. She raised her face to him, the lips that had enchanted a thousand lovers, on the screen and off. It was such a good feeling to be truly and completely admired. The other men she had had lately all worshipped her, of course, but they were too shy and uncertain to tell her. Gordon was more truthful.
He didn't kiss, however, as one would who was spellbound and enchanted. He kissed more like a passionate lover. His lips were hard against hers and his tongue slid between her lips and flicked within her mouth. She responded with the experience of years and they were blended together in a long and sensual union.
His hand moved along her naked side, up to the top piece of her bathing suit, the fingers running along the edge. She didn't stop him. After all, it would cost her nothing to give this man a few moments of the bliss that he had always dreamed of. To be close to Rosy Day! He wanted nothing in return, he probably wouldn't accept even a small gift. He wanted nothing beyond the body that trembled now beneath his probing fingers and searching tongue.
"Let me take my suit off," she said, when their lips had parted at last.
"Oh, yes," he panted.
Rosy stood and undid her top, letting it fall slowly away, exposing her heavy, round breasts with the half dollar sized nipples. Gordon gasped.
She let him admire her that way for a while, and then she slid the bottoms down and stood completely naked. He said, "You're even more magnificent that I imagined. I love you, Rose..."
He pulled his own trunks off. He was well built all over. He stood a few feet in front of her and they both looked and admired each other. Then he came to her.
"Let's get on the bed," he panted, holding her tightly to his chest.
"No. No ... first I want you to do something for me," she told him, running her fingers through his hair.
"Anything."
She pulled gently from his arms and sat in the chair once more. He stood over her. She raised her knees a little, and let her thighs part. Her legs were trembling now. She raised both arms to him and motioned.
"You understand?" she asked.
He did.
"You don't mind?"
"Oh God no! No, I want to so very much! To be that close to you, to have my mouth on you there..."
He fell to his knees before her, between her legs. He looked up at her face for a moment, and he was smiling with a smile of pure contentment. And then he moved forward and she raised her hips to meet him, her thighs arched and straining, her stomach taut.
He touched her with his hand, then with his tongue, running the roughness along the most tender part of her body. Then he caressed her with his lips, with his mouth, with his whole face, burying himself to her. She closed her eyes and leaned back and loved it...
This was how it should be. This was where she wanted all the young men of the world, held tight between her thighs, worshipping at the altar of her sex. It was not as good when they were on you, taking the same pleasure that they gave, possessing you. That was not fitting for the sex idol of the world. All men belonged where this man was, doing her bidding, taking pleasure only from the fact that they were giving pleasure to the woman that they loved. They should do this and mumble how much they loved her with their lips pressed against her so that the sound was muffled...
It began to come. She panted and heaved and strained, and moaned as the ripples of pleasure came crawling through her stomach, through her body. Oh, she would give this man a nice present. But she already had, she was giving him the pleasure of doing this, of making this sensation grow and move and Ohhhhhh, she thought, her mind a moan as it happened and shattered all thought...
And as the closet door opened, the man who had been watching from there took the pictures...
She didn't realize, for a long while, just what had happened. She was sprawled in the chair, half in a stupor from the extent of her sensation. Gordon was talking to someone, somewhere ... across the room. His voice came to her and she understood, after a while.
"Why in hell," he said, "did you wait so damn long before you took the pictures? Man, the old dame got her rocks before you popped out!"
The other man laughed. He said, I was enjoying it, Gordy. Hell, you lost the toss, didn't you. You'd have done the same thing to me if I had been the one that had to do the deed."
Gordon saw the humor. He laughed, but not long. He said, "When I saw what the hell she wanted me to do I almost said the hell with the whole thing."
Rosy was up, trying to wiggle into her bathing suit. They came over to her and she attempted to hide her nakedness, but it was evident that they didn't give a damn about her body and didn't even look.
"You understand what happened?" the other man said.
She didn't answer.
"You know that it's gonna' cost you plenty to get the negatives of the pictures that I took?"
"I ... I don't ... Why? Why, Gordon? Why would you do this to me? You said that you wanted to do whatever ... I just don't understand." But she really did, by now. It was her habit of never admitting the things that she didn't want to believe that made her voice falter.
"These old whores are all alike," he said.
"Get yourself together, lady. We got some business to talk over," the other man said.
"I ... call my room later," she said. She went to the door, fastening her bathing suit at last, and went out. they made no effort to stop her. Things would be easier later, anyway, when she was out of shock and when they had the finished pictures to show her.
Rosy went to her room and locked the door. She got out a bottle of Scotch and drank half a water glass before she had any thoughts at all. She was still, at the top level of her mind, confused and bewildered.
But she knew that she could not let the public see those pictures. She had never realized how ridiculous she must look, legs spread, head back, eyes shut, gasping with an open mouth, holding a man's head against her.
She had to pay them. How much would they want? She wasn't rich anymore, she couldn't afford it ... but they wouldn't care about that. And she had to save her public image, at all cost, if it meant everything that she owned, she couldn't be made a fool, a ridiculous, old... She stopped at the word, and her thoughts would go no further. Old.
Yes, she thought, after a while. Even if it took all her money she would have to pay them. And it didn't matter so much, after today. What would she need money for now? Who could she give gifts to without wondering if the gift was the only reason that he was with her? Who could she ever trust to worship her in that way again?
Who would she want to?
She poured another drink and took it to the window. The sun was going down. It was very, very red out over the ocean. But it was going down, and day was ending.
* * *
"It was short anyway," I said. "But you didn't like it?" he inquired. "It was all right ... for a vignette. But pretty sketchy for a story, you'll have to admit."
"I said it was brief."
"Just a 'quickie,' eh?" I smiled. "Vulgarian!"
"Well, you certainly aren't. I mean, for a person
who claims to be the Devil, your stories are pretty goddamn tame. I've had hotter dreams than your little saga of Rosy Day."
"Not spicy enough for you, eh? All right. I can do better. Does the notion of Lesbianism interest you?"
"In a clinical, scientific way," I said.
"I'm sure. Most men are only interested in it for it's profundity. Sex plays no part, of course." His tone was acid. "But you will listen, won't you? Strictly in the interests of science."
"Since you put it that way," I said.
"Naturally," he smiled, cleared his throat once again and began speaking in his heavy, reportorial manner...
CHAPTER FIVE
Victoria Grant had wondered about herself at certain times. She didn't seem to care as much for men as the other girls that she knew. It wasn't that she had not become used to them, she had had two affairs in college, both of which left her feeling nothing at all and ended shortly after they had begun. There just didn't seem to be any thrill attached to the male body.
The female body, on the other hand, interested her a great deal. She wondered about this too, without really being concerned. She had never had any inclination or desire to make love with another woman, and she never thought of herself as being a potential lesbian. The farthest it had ever gone was to feel a slight thrill when she saw a naked woman, such as in the showers after gym class. But that was more than she felt for men. She told herself that she was just undersexed or possibly frigid and shrugged it off as not being awfully important. Someday she would meet a man, marry, and settle down and have kids and make love in the same bored way that many married women do.
She was a slender, athletic girl with freckles and short hair, quite cute. Several men at school were anxious to take her out, but she refused politely on the pretense that she was too busy with her studies. Two affairs had been enough, there would be time for such things after graduation.
She had many friends among the girls in her class. One of the best was a china doll type with long black hair and a very white skin. Her name was Jennifer. Jennifer was very popular with boys and tried to get Victoria interested, but with no success. However, their different habits had no effect on their friendship.
Jennifer, it was rumored, was quite promiscuous. That may or may not have played a part in her popularity, but she was pretty enough to be in demand anyway. Not the sort of beauty that once associates with sex, a more fragile, delicate, hands-off type beauty. If one were to look at both girls without knowing them they probably would have thought Victoria much more likely a prospect for an "easy mark," and Jennifer as the girl who would make the better wife. In that time of their lives it most certainly would have been the other way around. But that was before...
It was the Christmas vacation of their senior year. Victoria was at home with her parents, on Long Island, quite bored as was usual when one was at home with one's parents on Long Island. Jennifer was at home in Boston, not quite as bored but nearly so. The result of this mutual boredom was a phone call and after a few minutes conversation it was decided that Jennifer would visit Victoria for a few days.
On the day that she arrived the two girls visited a few of the local bars. Jennifer was set on meeting some new men, but Victoria really didn't know anyone worthwhile in her home town. Perhaps there wasn't anyone. Anyway, they got slightly tipsy on vodka martinis and walked home together, bemoaning the evils of boredom. Jennifer also bemoaned the evils of an inadequate sex life, at which Victoria smiled tolerantly and thought little about it.
The size of the house necessitated that the two sleep together in Victoria's room. They went directly up, so as to keep their slight drunkenness from being discovered by Victoria's parents (Baptists) and sat in the bedroom talking for a while about college and plans for the future and assorted related subjects. After a while the conversation turned to sex, guided by Jennifer who was feeling very disappointed that she had met no young men that evening.
"You don't date anyone, do you, Vicky?" Jennifer asked her. They were sitting facing each other, and Jennifer had drawn one knee up and was holding it with her arms and resting her chin on it. That position afforded a view of much of her thigh, from where Victoria sat, and the slight thrill that she usually felt when regarding another woman's body was unusually strong just then. It may have been the vodka. Or perhaps the exceptional whiteness of the other girl's skin, and the darkness of her hair.
"No, not now. I'm just not interested in anyone in particular, and to just date a guy because he asks you, without caring one way or the other, seems sort of a waste of time. A sort of hoax on him, too."
"Maybe," Jennifer said, "But you can have fun without really liking a man. I wish you would date more, I'd like to be able to double date with you. You're really my best friend, you know."
The last sentence was added as an explanation for the first, without any real thought or feeling behind it, but it made Victoria feel rather good. She liked the thought of being Jennifer's best friend.
"Oh, I could I suppose," she said. "If we went together it might not be too boring."
"Sure. Let the guys shoot darts and we can talk and drink free beer on them."
"That wouldn't be so bad. I just hate to have to make stupid conversation with someone for a whole evening. And then they always feel as though they have some claim on you. Even if you don't so much as kiss them good-night."
"That's how men are. Hey, Vicky, can I ask you something? Just out of curiosity?"
"Sure."
"Are you a virgin?" Jeff asked the question in such a straightforward manner that Victoria felt no embarrassment about it.
"No," she said, dragging the word out a bit as though it took a while to remember.
"I just wondered. Because I've never seen you with a guy, or at least no more than once or twice. Anybody that I might know?"
Both men were, but Victoria shook her head. She didn't want Jennifer to know the details and the men involved, for some reason. She wondered why Jennifer was so preoccupied with sex, and whether the rumors about her sleeping with everyone she dated were anywhere near the truth. She could have asked, she supposed. Jennifer was not the modest type about such things. But Victoria didn't want to ask. She even found herself hoping that it wasn't true, although it was no concern of hers. It was almost a feeling of jealousy. Not sexually, she just didn't like the thought of a man's body touching the pure white flesh of her friend. She also found herself staring more intensely along the line of Jennifer's thigh, and found that she could see the white vee of her panties.
"You're too shy," Jennifer said. "I'll bet it was someone at school. But it doesn't matter. I'm just glad that you're not a virgin, virgins are ridiculous. At least I know that you know what you're passing up, now."
It seemed very incongruous to hear a china doll talking about sex in that way.
"It never moved me very much."
Jennifer shrugged. "To each her own, I guess. I can't do without it. If I go a week without loving I can't even sit still. I'm squirming all over my seat and crossing my legs and looking at every man's pants in the room." She laughed when she had finished speaking.
"Not so loud. My mother might hear," Victoria
said. Now that she knew for sure that the rumors about Jennifer were true she didn't feel jealous. It made her feel excited, in fact, to think of Jennifer being hot and squirming on her seat. The part about looking at men's pants wasn't so thrilling...
Jennifer stood up. She said, "Well, now that confessions are over, what say we turn in? I'm tired from the trip, and bored because I'm sleeping alone."
"You're sleeping with me," Victoria said.
"Yes, that's right," Jennifer answered, with absolutely no inflection in her voice.
Jennifer began undressing. She slid her dress over her head and began rolling her stockings down. Her body was so very white, all over, and her black hair fell nearly to her waist. Victoria didn't get up from her chair, but sat watching the other girl. It was the first time that she had ever seen her undressed. She hoped that Jennifer didn't notice the interest that she was showing.
Jennifer was wearing only bra and panties now. She was slender but well proportioned, and so very smooth. She must have spent hours rubbing lotion into her skin. Her undergarments were silk and there was a small monogram on the corner of the panties. Probably her best ones, in anticipation of the men that she hadn't met after all.
Her hair fell loose around her oval face, an ebony frame to classic features, and she tossed her head slightly as she said, "I didn't bring any pajamas. Mainly he-cause I don't own any."
"I can let you take a pair," Victoria said.
"Well, if you don't mind, I'd rather not. I always sleep nude, myself. I just can't seem to get comfortable with any thing on."
"That's all right. In fact, I generally sleep with nothing on myself," said Victoria, who always wore pajamas to bed. It was an inspired statement.
"Fine, no trouble about that, then," Jennifer said, and unfastened her bra.
Victoria began to feel self-conscious and got up and began to undress herself. She pretended not to watch as Jennifer slid her panties down, but a feeling of warmth passed over her as she saw the other girl's complete nakedness.
Jennifer got in bed and pulled the sheet over her. She lay on her back and watched Victoria. She seemed to have no qualms about it. But it made Victoria self-conscious and she fumbled for a while with her buttons. It became apparent that Jennifer was not going to look away, however, and she finished undressing as far as her panties. Then she went over and crawled in next to the other girl.
"I thought that you slept nude?" Jennifer asked.
"Well, I thought..."
"Don't let me stop you. I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable because I'm here."
After a moment Victoria slid the panties off, without getting out of bed, and dropped them on the floor. She reached over and snapped off the light and lay still in the darkness. But she didn't feel the least bit sleepy. She still felt excited about looking at Jennifer's body, and about having Jennifer look at hers and even more so about being in bed with the other girl, without clothes on.
"I'm not sleepy," Jennifer said.
"Neither am I."
There was a pause.
"You must be feeling frustrated, if what you told me about needing men is true," Victoria said.
"That sounds like a proposition," Jennifer said. Victoria laughed nervously.
"It's not so bad when I'm with someone. In bed, I mean. Even another girl, it's a secure feeling to have someone next to you. When I have to sleep alone is when I really feel horny, and start squirming."
Victoria became aware, suddenly, that Jennifer had moved closer and that their bodies were touching in the warmth of the bed. Lightly, just at the shoulder, but touching just the same. She liked it, but she lay very still, scarcely daring to breath or move at all.
Jennifer put her arm around Victoria's waist and rolled to her side.
"You don't mind, do you?" she asked.
"Mind what?"
"If I sleep close to you?"
"Oh. No, I hadn't even noticed."
"Good. I like to sleep in someone's arms."
"Would you like me to put my arm around you?" Victoria asked. It sounded like a stranger's voice, coming from a great distance, and she hardly believed that she had said it. She knew that she had never thought it.
"Ummmm, yes. If you don't mind."
Victoria rolled over. Both girls were on their sides now, with their arms around each other. The length of their bodies were touching and Victoria could feel Jennifer's breath come very warm on her neck.
"It's a good thing that no one can see us right now," Jennifer said, and giggled. "They'd think that we were lovers for sure."
Victoria didn't answer. She was feeling very strange, hardly believing that this was happening to her, and wondering if this was all that was going to happen. It seemed as though it must be, and yet everything had developed so surely toward something, something beyond sleeping in each other's arms. It was a feeling of anxious-ness, anxiety, timidness, fright, longing, disbelief, all at once. She stayed very still except for her heart, which was pounding. She knew that Jennifer must be able to feel her heart beat. As her breasts rose with her breathing they brushed against Jennifer's and the nipples grew very stiff with the contact. Jennifer's felt stiff also. I wonder if all girls do this, and feel this way? Victoria thought.
Jennifer kissed her on the mouth, lightly, and when Victoria didn't pull away she kissed her again, harder this time.
"You don't mind?"
Victoria didn't speak. .
"I love to be close to you," Jennifer said.
"It feels ... nice," Victoria answered.
"Would you like anything?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know ..." Jennifer's hand began to stroke her back, moving down to her buttocks. "What are you doing?"
"Just holding you. Touching you. Tell me if you want me to stop."
Her hand moved along the roundness of Victoria's cheeks, then slowly down between them and between her legs. Victoria winced at the first contact, and then Jennifer's hand was rubbing her softly and it felt very soothing. She didn't say anything.
"Is that nice?"
"I guess so."
"You don't want me to stop?"
"No, you don't have to stop."
"Vicky ... don't get me wrong. I'm not a lesbian or anything like that. This is just better than sleeping alone. As long as you don't mind."
"I don't mind."
"Could I ... move a little closer ... like this?" Jennifer said. "This way it will be nice for me, too."
She pressed herself to Victoria. Their loins were together, and Jennifer was rotating her hips gently. Victoria remained still for a few moments, and then it was too much and she began to work her own hips against the other girl.
"Ooooh, you like it, don't you?" Jennifer asked her, holding her tighter.
"I ... yes, I like it," Victoria said. Then, letting herself go, she said, "Oh, it's good! I love it!"
Their mouths came together, as if by some mutual signal, and their tongues began to lash out, back and forth, in the same rhythm as their hips. They did this for a long time, without a sound, the frenzy growing greater.
"Oh, I love you," Jennifer said.
"And I love you," Victoria said. She did. It was so wonderful to do it this way with this girl.
Jennifer pulled away, suddenly, and Victoria moaned and reached out for her. But Jennifer had shifted around in the bed, throwing the covers off, facing the other way.
"Let me show you," she gasped, and Victoria stiffened as she felt Jennifer's long hair brush along her belly and then she felt Jennifer's mouth run wetly down to the vee of her thighs and lose itself there. She gripped the sheets and tightened her thighs and arched her back...
Jennifer's leg came up and over her, and Victoria sensed the nearness of the other girl's sex. She didn't mind, she wanted to. She gripped Jennifer's soft buttocks and pulled her down, raising her face, joining in this strange love with all her frenzy.
Together they rose, bringing each other to the peak of love and then, together, crashing down in the flood of release. It seemed so natural to do this with the woman she loved, and Victoria knew that it couldn't be wrong.
They made love that way all night.
In the morning, with the daylight streaming in the window, they lay amidst the tangled sheets in each other's arms. It seemed different, in the light of day.
It was Jennifer who seemed to be ashamed. Victoria felt only happiness and the bliss of being completely drained of the tensions of need.
"Let's do it again," Victoria said, looking sleepily at her friend who had become her lover.
"No. I can't do it in the light"
"I'll pull the shade."
"No. Let's get up."
Jennifer pulled away and got up, began dressing. "What's the matter?" Victoria asked. "Nothing. Now, anyway. We ... I guess we got a little carried away last night."
"It was good."
"Yes. But, well, that's not for me. I just ... got carried away. We mustn't make a big thing out of it."
"But I want to."
"No!" She said it sharply.
"Have you ever done anything like that before?" Victoria asked her.
"Sure. A few times. There's nothing wrong with it, I guess. But I don't want to carry the thing too far. It's just a harmless little amusement for nights when there's nothing better to do."
"That's not how I think of it."
"That's why I want to forget it. I really shouldn't have started that stuff with you."
"Oh. I thought.. " her voice trailed off. After a while she got up and dressed. Jennifer didn't watch this time, but sat looking out the window.
"Can't we ever do it again? Sometime?" Victoria asked, when she was dressed.
"I don't think that we'd better."
"It was better than men."
"Not for me. Let's forget about it."
But Victoria had no intention of forgetting about him. She let it go for a while, but later she started talking about it again. She wasn't at all modest now that they had done it, and Jennifer seemed to be.
Finally Jennifer said, "Vicky ... I want to let you see something. It wfll show you why we can't take something like that serious, what can happen if we were to let it get too far. All right?"
Victoria nodded.
"Well have to go into the city."
"I can get Dad's car."
"Okay. And if I'm going to sleep here, tonight, you'll hare to promise me that we won't do anything like that. Will you promise?"
"Yes. But I'll want to."
"Not after what I'm going to show you," Jennifer told her.
Victoria wasn't convinced.
They drove into New York after it was dark. It was a snowy, wet night, and the roads were slippery. It took quite a while to arrive at their destination, which was a bar that Jennifer knew about, and had been to it at one time, with some guy whom she dated a few times. He had thought that it was great fun to go there and observe the customers in their "natural habitat," much like going slumming. The fellow was one of the sort who goes slumming and invariably makes a fool of himself and the people with him. Jennifer had been terribly embarrassed, but more than that, she had been completely disgusted by what she had seen. She imagined that Victoria would be disgusted as well.
The flickering sign outside said " ... lu ... Heav..." but as the girls came nearer, Victoria could see that it spelled out "My Blue Heaven" when all the neon was working properly. The bar was small and dirty looking and the plate glass across the front was smudged and smeared as if it had never been washed. It was impossible to see into the bar through the windows, although shadows were visible, couples dancing, figures walking around.
Jennifer pushed the door open and followed Vicky in. It was dark and smelled of fuel oil, stale beer and smoke in the bar. The only light came from the bulbs which were suspended over the row of bottles behind the bar. A few of the tables had candles and it looked like a lover's hideaway to Vicky. By the dull glow of the candles, the girls could see couples making love, sitting with their arms around each other, some were holding intimate conversations between themselves.
Many of the men wore suits or sport jackets, while the girls were dressed in slacks or dresses, the dresses a little too frilly to be in good taste. And all the men, so far as Vicky could tell, needed haircuts.
The girls sat down at a table close to the wall, one that did not have a candle. Across the room someone giggled loudly enough to be heard over the music, and peering through the gloom, Jennifer could see that it came from a table where two couples were sitting. For some reason they looked very out of place and were drawing annoyed looks from some of the other customers.
A woman, incongruously dressed in shorts and a jersey, came over to take their orders. The woman was fat and arrogant and had a tattoo on her bicep and the name Penelope tattooed around her wrist like a bracelet. Her short mannish hair was greased back. "What'll it be for you, sweetie?" she asked abruptly.
"Bring me a Coke, and ... what would you like Vicky?"
Vicky didn't answer. She was staring at a couple on the tiny dance floor. They seemed to be moving, but their feet were stationary. Jennifer nudged her and asked again what she wanted to drink. "Oh, orange soda, I guess," she mumbled, feeling very uncomfortable and wanting to leave. She wasn't sure what made her feel so uneasy until the swaying couple returned to their seats and the man took off his suit coat. Vicky gaped at the "man's" huge breasts that were now visible beneath the white shirt.
"I want to leave, Jennifer. I don't like this place," Vicky said, looking searchingly at her friend.
"I don't like it either, but I want you to sit here and learn something, Vicky." Jennifer was talking very earnestly to her friend, and to the rest of the room they looked like lovers having an argument. When the woman brought the drinks back to their table, Vicky noticed that she had a dagger tattooed on her thigh, the handle hidden by her shorts. When she left to go back to the bar, Jennifer continued. "You see? These are lesbians. This is what real homosexuals are like. Disgusting! It makes me sick!" She spat the words out while Vicky just sat there, wide-eyed. "Why I'd rather be dead than have one of those butches touch me." And she shivered as if the thought were making her flesh crawl.
"What we did," she continued, "wasn't really homosexual. I mean, we both like men and everything. It was just a way to relieve ourselves, just harmless experimenting. But you got carried away and seemed to want to make a thing of it."
"Wait a minute, Jennifer," Vicky interrupted, "sure I liked it, I won't deny that, but I never thought ... I mean ... that you would think ... Oh, Jennifer, I feel so awful. Please let's go, okay?" She looked pleadingly at the other girl.
"Okay," Jennifer said, "I just wanted you to see what these people were like. An object lesson, so to speak. Do you understand now?"
Vicky nodded. They got up, leaving the unfinished
sodas on the table, and started out. Several of the butches watched the two feminine looking girls with amused and knowing expressions on their hard faces. They were wondering if the two were tourists who had seen more than they expected and been shocked, or lovers themselves having a personal quarrel.
Neither Vicky nor Jennifer talked any more about what they had seen and what they had done the night before. It seemed that Vicky had been cured of any desires to have a love affair with another woman. They spent the evening in New York and drove back later.
When they were ready for bed it was a rather touchy situation. Jennifer finally undressed first, trying to appear unconcerned, as though the night before had been forgotten. Vicky didn't watch her, but concerned herself with taking her own clothes off.
Both girls got in bed with nothing on again. It seemed that it had to be that way. If they had decided to sleep in pajamas or even underwear it would have been as though they admitted that they couldn't resist the temptation of making love. It would have been an admission that it had either been more than just a silly and intoxicated mistake which meant nothing more than a physical release or else that she didn't trust Vicky not to touch her. And for Vicky it would have been admitting that the lesson which she had learned in the lesbian bar hadn't really convinced her.
Both girls had good intentions, but once they were between the warm sheets it didn't seem so bad, and they made no effort to keep far apart. They were touching, in fact, at the shoulders, both lying on their backs and looking up at the ceiling, staring at the ceiling, in fact.
Vicky was the first to speak. "I'm glad that you took me to that awful place, today," she said.
"It can show a person how awful that kind of life can really be."
"It wasn't like that with us."
"Not at all. I explained that to you, before."
"What we did wasn't wrong, was it?"
"It wasn't like that."
"But was it wrong? I don't think it was wrong. It was just two good friends helping themselves to feel good."
"That's right."
"And there's no danger of us becoming anything like we saw today."
"No."
There was a long pause. Both girls were still staring at the ceiling. "Jenny..."
"What, Vicky?"
"You didn't have a man today."
"No."
"Are you frustrated?"
"Yes."
"Would you like me to ... help you feel better? Just because we're friends."
Jennifer didn't answer for a while. Then she said, "We could make each other feel better. I wouldn't mind, as long as that's all we're doing."
"That would be all."
Then they went into each other's arms and kissed and told each other that whatever they did would be all right and that they didn't have to be afraid....
After they returned to school the girls remained good friends, but there was something between them, some wall that kept them from ever being close again. It was Jennifer who erected that wall. She didn't like the way things had happened and she felt that they had to be stopped short. And the easiest way was to never be alone with Vicky. A friendship on the basis of never being alone can never be too close, of course, and the two drifted apart.
Jennifer seemed to launch herself even more into the promiscuous life, as though trying to drown something in the depths of heterosexual love. Whether or not it drowned can never be known for sure, but it became so deeply submerged that it would take strange circumstances to ever let it rise to the surface again. And Jennifer made a point of never letting those circumstances occur.
Victoria made no attempts to further the relationship. She didn't date any men, but that was the same as it had been, and she made no effort to get close to any other woman. She didn't really know what she wanted, except once in a while when she lay awake in bed and felt herself twisting and squirming and remembering.
Then she knew.
When she was graduated and returned to her home for the summer she found herself wanting to go back to the bar where Jennifer had taken her. That was strange, because she had been disgusted by what she had seen there. But the idea persisted that she should go there and see what it was and find out for sure whether she was like them. She knew, of course, that she wasn't like the women who dressed like men and seemed to be proud of their perversion. But the other girls, the feminine ones ... there was the idea that she would like to meet one of them, one who looked like Jennifer, perhaps, and see if there was anything there. Perhaps even make love with the girl, once, to see if it was the same as with Jennifer or whether she had just been infatuated with her friend. It seemed that this was a thing that she had to do before she made any plans for the future. She had to know what type of life she was going to lead. And it couldn't do any harm, really, if she let a lesbian give her a little pleasure once in a while, as long as she wasn't one of them.
It took a month to get her courage up. Eventually she did. Alone and dressed in her most feminine skirt and blouse she ventured to New York City to find out whether there were any thrills for her. She would have to steel herself to the stares of the butches, but it would be worth it to know for sure where she stood in the sexual scale.
She remembered exactly where the bar was, and went directly there, hurrying now that she had finally decided to take the step. She wasn't really sure what exactly she was anxious to find out, or what she wanted the answer to be. It would just have to turn out the way fate decreed. If she could only enjoy sex with another woman, then that was how she would take it. It was just a shame that there were some women who made a mockery of it by trying to assume the appearance of men. That was the thing that disgusted her, the thing that she couldn't understand.
* * *
Jennifer was married six months later, to the latest in her long line of lovers. Needless to say, he didn't know about the long line that preceded him. Neither did he anticipate the long line yet to come, but that's another story altogether....
They had planned on driving down to Florida on their honeymoon, visiting the larger cities en route. They were just beginning their trip with an excursion through Greenwich Village.
Jennifer and her brand new husband had been walking through the Village most of the day, stopping now and then to watch the many sidewalk artists at work, pausing to listen to groups of folk singers and poets who were holding forth in Washington Park, and poking around in the numerous little shops which offered hand made jewelry for sale. Jennifer was feeling very satisfied with her new found station in life. Her new leather shoulder bag was filled with trinkets from little out of the way shops and she pranced along beside her husband in her new hand-made sandals, which, although they were nothing but leather thongs attached to a sole, were frightfully expensive.
Jennifer was a bit fatigued after the day's activities, and she was relieved when her husband suggested that they stop at a restaurant and get a bite to eat.
"There's a cute little place across the street," Jennifer pointed out. "Look, Gerald, it has wrought iron tables, and we can eat and watch the people go by." Gerald thought that it was a little too public, but he consented, and the two crossed the narrow street and sat down at one of the white iron tables.
The waiter came out to them and presented the menus. Gerald ordered them each a glass of sauterne with ice, and when the waiter brought the drinks, Gerald ordered dinner for both of them and the waiter hurried away.
Gerald took Jennifer's slender hand and smiled at her. "Having a good time, Honey?" he asked.
"A marvelous time," she replied sincerely. "Today has been such fun. A perfect day." And she sighed happily, giving Gerald's hand a gentle squeeze.
They raised their glasses in a wordless toast and Jennifer was just about to drink when suddenly she stopped with her glass poised in mid-air. There was something familiar about the sandy-haired young man sauntering along the sidewalk. The young man came closer and as he drew abreast of Jennifer, he stopped to light a cigarette.
He was of slender build, and rather short. His blond hair was swept back on the sides with a small wave in front, reminding one of a newly scrubbed and brushed little boy on his first day of school. His face had a fresh quality about it and the light blue sport shirt that he wore open at the neck matched the blue of his widely set eyes. His continental slacks were nicely pressed. Looking at him, Jennifer had the feeling that this was someone she knew well, but she couldn't remember where she had seen him before. I know that face, she told herself, but who...
The young man looked up from lighting his cigarette. He looked directly into Jennifer's puzzled face. As their gazes met, the man started to smile, a flickering, uncertain smile. Then he moved away and down the street and did not look back.
Jennifer watched him go, stiff and manly in his sport clothes and suddenly she remembered...
"Did you know that guy?" Gerald asked.
"What?" she asked, vaguely, lost in the remembrance and the realization.
"I said, did you know him?" Gerald repeated. "That guy that just walked past."
"Oh. Yes."
"Well? Who is he?"
"Just someone I went to college with."
"What's his name? Why all the secrecy?"
"Victor. His name is Victor."
"You act as though there might have been something between you at one time," Gerald said. He sounded more amused than anything else. It would have been hard for him to conceive of that cute little fellow as a serious competitor.
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. She was still looking after the figure as it vanished into the crowd. And a strange feeling crept over her, a cold feeling.
It was a feeling of shame, almost a responsible shame, tinged with an insight into the strange and unexpected workings of fate and time and the twisted paths which a human life may follow, and the muscles of her left cheek twitched, imperceptibly.
* * *
"I will admit I rather like that one," I said. "It had a certain subtlety to it that the others lacked. But, of course, I could see the ending coming from a mile away."
"Of course," the Devil said. "But then I wasn't trying to deceive you, you know. These are case histories, not mystery stories."
"Oh, I realize that," I said. "But from a writer's
point of view-"
"I suppose you would have had Vicky hit by a train."
"Now, look here. If we're going to discuss storytelling. .
"We are not," he said severely. "I do not like to take advantage of a handicapped opponent."
"Handicapped?" I said. "Why I'll have you know that I've read almost every great book ever written."
"And I have spoken to most of the authors," he said.
He had a small point there. I turned partially from him and fumbled for a cigarette.
"No smoking in the subway," he said. "There are signs concerning that for those who can read."
I put the cigarette away and stood with my back to him, arms crossed.
"As long as we still have some time before our trains arrive," he said. "Perhaps it won't disturb you if I relate another case."
I didn't turn and I didn't answer. Showoff, I thought. Literary exhibitionist. But I kept my ears open as he began to talk...
CHAPTER SIX
The news that Rosy Day had committed suicide had just came over the radio.
Marda was lying in bed at the time. Bed seemed to be the one place that was perfectly suited to her. She shook her head sadly as she listened to the announcer tell about the overdose of sleeping pills that had ended the life of the love goddess of the Thirties. Marda couldn't understand what could possibly drive a woman to commit suicide. Women had so much to live for. Like men, for instance. Especially men . . .
Marda was beautiful. She seemed especially beautiful when she was in bed, it was the perfect compliment to her beauty and charm. Also to her desires. She would, in fact, be quite happy to spend the rest of her life in bed ... provided she could have the necessary companionship. That was something that she needed. It would also keep her from atrophying, because all the exercise that anyone could possibly need, she would be able to get between the sheets. It was amazing the positions in which she often found herself at times. She would have been an expert at yoga. It was not, however, yoga that was practiced in her bed...
Marda was a brunette, but not a true black haired type such as one sees and associates with Italian films. Marda's hair was a strange mixture of red-gold in the sunlight with little platinum streaks. In the cool of her bedroom it changed to a sleek sable brown with overtones of red. It was striped hair and fell in long loose waves to the middle of her back. Sometimes, when she was lying in bed, she spread it out over the satin pillow to form a sunburst around her perfect features. At such times it looked as if it were alive and ready to caress if the right person were to come near. The right person, of course, being a man.
Marda's face was as changeable as her hair. Her eyes were usually hazel, but in the sunlight, when they were half closed against the glare, they became almost a burnt orange with little flecks of gold that danced and sparked. In times of extreme anger they became a dark brown, almost black and smouldered with some inner fire. They were a bright and vibrant green in times of passion, the color of new leaves in early spring. Sometimes they were shrouded in misty grey, expressing some untold sorrow or tenderness.
But Marda's eyes were not the only remarkable thing about her features. Her mouth was likewise changeable and could, with the slightest curve, express such contempt as would cow the most stalwart soul. It was a generous mouth, sensuous and full-lipped, and needed no artificial coloring to make it appear blushingly provocative. When she smiled, her even, white teeth dazzled against its rosey contours. When Marda pursed her lips in a quizzical manner, or when she was waiting to receive an imminent kiss, her mouth seemed so lush as to reach out to the one who kissed.
When in repose, her entire face took on the aspect of a perfectly formed work of art. It was a classic face with a straight, almost Grecian, nose, and her features were spaced so as to suggest a commercial artists's conception of the perfect female visage, the epitomy of womanhood.
Marda's body was no less perfect than her face. It was lithe and supple and took on a feline grace when she moved. Her legs were long and slender and her feet remarkably delicate, with none of the callouses, lines or ingrown toenails that are usually present. Her feet were as smooth as a baby's and seemed to twinkle when she danced along the street. In bed, they were just silky skinned with toes that curled sensuously when certain conditions were present.
Her back was a fluid line of curved beauty with no flaws or imperfections to mar the whiteness of her skin. Her breasts were large and heavy and wide-spread. They drooped slightly with the weight of them, but the
tips stood up firm and taut. The cleavage between them was deep and inviting, inviting a man to fall in, dive, plunge, cascade in, head first into love with this woman. She was a woman who seemed to have been made for the sole purpose of love. And that, in fact, was the only thing that she did do. It was the only thing that she wanted to do.
Marda was twenty-six years old. She had never worked a day in her life, and she had never sold her body. Anything that she gave of herself was given because she wanted to give it, and she had an abundance to give, enough passion and love and desire and flesh so as to never run short, so as to be able to give forever, to whomsoever she chose; enough to receive all the passion that every man could give her, welcome it and desire more.
She never sold herself. Gifts were, of course, a different thing. The apartment in which she now lived was paid for by one of her lovers, the current sponsor of this magnificent woman, and therefore her major interest. Not her only interest, but her major one. That was the most attention that any one man could expect from her.
She had been the mistress of many men, but she had never deceived them into thinking that she was their property exclusively, never led them to believe that she was faithful to them. When they were present, then she was theirs, and no more devoted lover could have been imagined. Her whole being belonged to the man she was with, while she was with him. When he was not there, then there were no strings attached to her freedom or to her body. These were the conditions under which she would become a man's mistress, and he could take them or
leave them; there were many others who would leap at the chance and be glad. Having Marda whenever they chose was enough. To demand faithfulness of her was like asking the fields to only be green for themselves, the sun to only shine when they were looking at the sky. Perhaps it took sophistication to think of things this way. But when a man was in her arms there were never any thoughts as to sophistication, logic, reason . . .there was only the thought of animal love, with human refinements and the variations that only the thinking animal is able to create and enjoy.
Marda enjoyed her life. It was the only life that she would want to lead. Her greatest pleasure was in making love. And that was what she did best. Eating, drinking, sleeping, they were all just necessary pauses between love, required to keep her body ready for more love. There was no pleasure involved with them. Nor was there pleasure in expensive clothes, fine jewels, luxurious automobiles ... they were nice, and better to have than to have not, but if they were taken away it would have no real importance, make no sadness mar the pattern of her life.
She never thought of growing old. She never thought that someday it might end, that she would no longer be desired, could no longer live on love. That was too far in the future, she couldn't be bothered with such thoughts. And besides, a body and soul which knew only love should last so much longer than one that knew work and an happiness and striving to make a place in society and worry and all the other evils of the world in this day and age.
Marda could have been happy with one man ... one
man who never grew tired, who could make love at any time, at all times, incessantly. But she knew no one who could. She had known good lovers, perhaps one great lover, but never one to match her needs. And so she required many men, and what she required, she took.
She had never really loved, in the romantic sense. Love was nothing more than what happened in bed. She was, in fact, emotionally incapable of love. She did not feel the lack. Love is a highly overrated emotion, one that brings as much sorrow as it does happiness. One who never loves is never broken hearted, one who never loves is never in agony over another, over a situation. The only agony that Marda could know was the absence of a man when she needed one, and that was something which she was always able to change. Finding a lover was no problem at all to a woman of her charms.
And yet, while incapable of love, she was a humanitarian, who could love the whole human race. This is, of course, quite different from loving an individual, spread thin by its breadth of scope so that it can not give sharp pain or sorrow, but is only a sort of background to the rest of the person's individual life and needs and affairs and the events that direct and effect this life. At least this is so of a person like Marda. There may be people who can suffer deeply for mankind and for the world. Some claim to. Perhaps Henry Miller could, if he were a sufferer, which he is not, going beyond that and realizing that sorrow is only a first-stage emotion of true insight and love. But be that as it may, Marda did not suffer beyond the few moments of sadness that she felt, for instance, upon hearing that Rosy Day was dead. And that was soon forgotten, as she returned to her own life.
Marda was completely amoral. The thought that perhaps it was wrong to sleep with every man whom she wanted to sleep with was ridiculous. She never even bothered to consider it. The thought that perhaps it might be wrong to sleep with another woman's husband was a bit less silly, but it could be justified in many ways ... not that she tried. Justification was not necessary in a life so completely schemed and with such perfect unity as hers. Many things, in fact, were not necessary in her life. She had never told a lie, for instance, nor had she ever felt the need to impress anyone or ever disliked anyone. It was a completely honest life, and there is a lot to be said for that, regardless of what one may think of the sexual side of her existance.
Perhaps she could be called a nymphomaniac. But that is such an ugly word, and really not true of her. Aesthetically it was not true because it is wrong to apply such a word to the beauty that she put in sex. She was simply dedicated to love, as Gandhi was dedicated to peace, and Rockefeller is dedicated to bombshelters ... no, that is not true, she was not a fanatic at all. It could better be said that she was dedicated to love as DaVinci was to knowledge, but without wondering how love functions, as Van Gogh was dedicated to art, as an honest anarchist is to freedom. Dedication is not mania, especially when it is a dedication to an individual form of art, or of beauty. And this is how she thought of sex, with no introspection to ruin the unity. It was a singularly naive and therefore beautiful attitude, and who is to say that this is not the only true outlook?
And technically she was not a nymphomaniac either. She was driven by no motives beyond the obvious physical gratification, there was no incident buried in the past, no twist of her mind, no need that was not completely physical. She was a hedonist, true, but not a nymphomaniac.
Marda was still in bed when Mark arrived. He let himself in with his own key and came directly into the bedroom, for he knew her habits well by now.
"Darling," she said, "I'm so glad that you could come this evening." She was one of the few people in the world who can use the world "Darling" as it really is, with no sarcasm and no falsification.
He came over and sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand, and she sat up so that the sheet dropped to her lap and exposed her heavy breasts under the sheer material of her nightgown.
"I can't stay, honey," Mark said. "I'd love to, of course, but my wife is sick again."
She was disappointed. But she smiled, "I understand. It's all right."
"I know I promised.. "
"Your family comes first. That's the way it should be, don't worry. I'm glad that I can see you for a few minutes, at least"
"I can stay for an hour or so."
"Good. Well have time to make love." She said this as if saying that they would have time to drink a cup of coffee. This made it seem that sex was not important to her, but it was only because she felt no embarrassment when talking of it. There was no need to use a special tone of voice for something as natural as sex. And when she was making love it was apparent just how important it was.
Mark smiled and kissed her. He said, "You're so nice, Marda. I love you."
She smiled too.
"I wish I could marry you."
"You don't have to. I'll always be here as long as you want me."
"I know ... but I wish that you belonged to me, just me. I get jealous when I'm not here."
"I'd never have another man here, darling. Not in our bed."
"It's not the bed, for God's sake. It's you that I don't want others to touch," he said. Then the humor of her complete honesty and naivete struck him, and he grinned, and pulled her close.
When their lips parted, he said, "My wife is starting to suspect that I have someone, Marda. I'm afraid that I won't be able to see you as often from now on."
"I'm sorry."
"God, so am I! You're the most perfect woman that I have ever known. I wish that I could just spend the rest of my life right here in bed with you."
"Then why don't you?" she asked. It was all so simple to her. Mark had enough money to last for the rest of their lives. He could do it if he wanted to. Why did people always say that they wanted to do things, things which they could do, and then not do them? What were these silly things called society and tradition and standards? Why didn't people always do what they wanted, and be happy. No lies, no wars, no sin, no hate, that would be a better world. But people didn't seem to understand this, the way that she did.
And Mark, who was intelligent enough to know this, even if he wasn't courageous enough to do it, smiled sadly at Marda and shook his head from side to side, slowly, as if being spun about in the whirlpool of the age of knowledge without wisdom in which we live.
He kissed her again, letting his lips slide down the curve of her neck to the incredible softness of her shoulder and breast. She clung to him and sighed, wanting him to love her, fast or slow didn't matter, it didn't matter what stage of love they were in, just so they were making love and enjoying one another's bodies.
Mark lifted her shortie negligee very carefully and slid it over her head. And Marda swept the covers aside and raised her breasts to him, cupping the large hemispheres at the bottom and lifting the nipples. He bent forward and caressed them with his hands and with his mouth, taking the nipples between his teeth and letting his tongue run over them.
Marda unfastened his clothes, anxious for him to be naked too, anxious to touch him and return the pleasure that he was giving to her. Expertly she unfastened buttons and zippers and he pulled and kicked at the various items until they were clinging together with no clothing to hamper the contact of their bodies.
He returned to her breasts again, and she touched him gently with her fingers, stroking him softly, while she urged him on with whispers in his ear, with the warmth of her breath on his neck.
He moved next to her on the bed, holding her close.
"Marda," he said, softly, "Will you...?" His hand touched her head, with just enough motion to show her what he wanted.
"I don't mind, darling," she said. She bent over him. Her lips caressed his stomach, his thigh. His hand tangled in her hair and held her to him, while his whole body seemed to leap with anticipation. Then she was where he wanted her to be, and then the fire was quelled by the smooth suffocation of her mouth, engulfing him, moving in the rhythm of love.
He held her head in one hand, and his other hand stroked between her thighs, in the same rhythm that she was using on him. His head fell back against the mattress and his eyes shut tightly as he felt himself swirling upward into the fairyland of love where there are no problems and no worries and just the eternal bliss of fulfillment ... the world where he could live forever with Marda ... the world to which she was carrying him now, closer and closer with every stroke of her lips, closer until they hovered in the air above this wonderland, and he could hear the beating of gigantic wings holding them aloft.
And then they crashed down, down into this world of wonder and delight.
But after they landed, he saw that it was only earth.
Mark left after an hour. He was sorry that he had to go, genuinely sorry. He wasn't the type of man who will deceive a woman about that. But he loved his wife, with a much different type of love than that he felt toward Marda, and she was ill and wanted him with her, and so that was that and there was no decision to make.
Marda walked him to the door, told him not to worry and that it was all right, and kissed him goodbye. It
was all right, too, because she never wanted to force anyone to do something that they didn't want to or thought that they shouldn't. She believed in the ultimate personal freedom of choice for herself and for every other person in the world, and she lived in accordance with that belief.
But, while it was all right for Mark to leave, she was unsatisfied. A brief hour was not enough to satisfy her desires, once they had started to boil.
She went back to bed, but grew more restless with every minute. She knew that she would not sleep, and only by sleeping could she escape from her need. (Even then it would be there, in dreams, but dreams offered fulfillment and a strange and novel form of satiation.) She refused to take sleeping pills, and considered such things as unnatural and therefore not to be done. (Not bad, she had no concept of that classification, just unnatural, which served the same purpose for her, and much more accurately than the phony ideals of right and wrong can ever do.) She remained in bed for a few minutes, then got up and began to dress. She felt rather tired, and would much rather have remained at home, but the needs of her body could not be denied.
She dressed in a tight, black dress which revealed enough of her charms and concealed enough of her charms, which is the necessary proportion to be at one's best. She took no pride in her expensive clothing, but used it to serve her ends, the same way that she used her charms. The same way she used the perfume and the makeup and the other feminine touches that enhanced her beauty. It didn't really take much.
There was a hotel nearby, with a rather exclusive
bar on the street floor. It was near enough to walk to, and she decided to go there for convenience. The place itself didn't matter, it was just as good as any bar, and just as poor. The fact that the patrons would be more wealthy there than at a small neighborhood bar had absolutely no bearing on her decision. Whomever she had that night would probably never see her again, and never have the chance to reward her for her favors anyway. He was just to be used, the same way that an alcoholic uses his first shot of the day to stop the shakes. That wasn't a very glamorous way for them to look at it, but with a woman like Marda it wouldn't affect the issue at all. Better to be used by her than not to have her. And besides, she was so honest about it that it couldn't very well be resented.
Once she arrived there, however, she still felt restless and nervous. There were quite a few prospects there, all well dressed and suave looking, drinking Scotch or brandy and admiring Marda as she slid gracefully onto a bar stool and let just the proper amount of leg show. But none of them appealed to her at all. They would do, of course, any one of them would do, but it wasn't quite what she wanted.
She drank a Canadian Club and soda and wondered what it was that she wanted. She would have to realize fast, she knew, or she would take the first man to speak to her. The ache in her loins was getting worse.
Then suddenly she knew. She was tired of suave and rich men who had perfected love with many mistresses and in many countries. She wanted a big, rugged truck driver, an animal of a man, dirty even, and ragged, but with muscles and with cave man masculinity. A carnival worker, a ditch digger, a prize fighter.
Like the first time. Thirteen years old, she had been, and the man had been twenty-five, unshaven and rough and cruel and he had hurt her, driving her into the ground beneath him amidst the broken bottles and cans and debris of the vacant lot only two blocks from her home. He had pounded at her and ripped at her and she had clung to him and cried and told him not to stop because she loved it. Yes, even the first time she had loved it, with a man twice her age. And she had been loving it ever since. There had not been a single time in her life when she had not enjoyed making love, and that included many, many times and many, many men in many, many places and many, many positions.
And she wanted to recapture that type of love now. That was what she needed. She finished the drink and left, knowing that every man's eyes were glued to the swing of her hips and the swell of her buttocks and smiling to herself because she was going to have a real man before the night was over, and be a real woman to him.
She caught a cab outside the hotel. At the same moment that she was stepping into the cab, the phone in her apartment rang for the last time. If she had been there to answer it, Mark would have told her that his wife had gone out and that he would be able to come over for the rest of the night. But she wasn't there, and he hung up after twelve rings and felt very sad about it and wondered where Marda had gone and who she was with. He wasn't angry. Only deceit in such affairs can cause anger. But sadness is something else, and he was sad all night, alone in his home. His wife didn't come home, either.
"Where to, lady?" the cab driver asked Marda, turning around to look at his beautiful passenger.
"Well, I'm not sure. Drive down this street a ways and I'll tell you where to turn. I'm looking for a special kind of place, a bar . . ." and she told him of the type of place she had in mind.
"Okay, lady," he said doubtfully, shrugging his shoulders. "There's a place I go when I get off work, if you'd want to go there. A lotta nice people go there and play darts and..."
His voice trailed off without ending the sentence. He was a little embarrassed to have talked about something directly involved with his pattern of living. It was different when he talked to his passengers about the headlines in the Daily Mirror, but to talk about his favorite bar, his home away from home, to this beautiful woman made him feel a little silly.
Marda realized this and said, "That would be a nice place to go, I'm sure. You're very nice to suggest it. I don't know many places outside my own neighborhood and if nice men like you go there. I'm sure I'll have a good time." She was looking at the bredth of his shoulders and thinking that she might have a good time with him if he weren't working, driving his cab.
"Yeah," the cab driver began again, no longer embarrassed, and feeling elated because of Marda's mild compliments. "A lot of truck drivers go there and me and my friends always have a good time. You know, a lotta people think truck drivers are a bunch of bums, but that ain't so at all. When they got a buck in their pockets they like to spend it. They'll treat a lady like a lady, too. And I never seen a truck driver to welch out on anything neither."
Marda thought, the man thinks I'm a prostitute, I'll bet. But it didn't matter and she smiled because he was trying to be helpful and because he was loyal to his friends. That was important. She smiled also in anticipation of truck drivers and her eyes flashed green in the passing street lights.
The bar where the cab took her was a place down in the lower part of the city, by the docks and produce warehouses. The streets were dark in this section and the red neon sign was visible for blocks spelling out "Marty's." It's almost like my name, Marda thought, must mean good luck for sure and certain.
The bar itself was not unlike any other small bar in any warehouse district in any city. It was shabby and smoke filled, and from what Marda could see from the cab, crowded.
She paid the cab driver and thanked him.
"Uh, lady," he said, hesitantly, "I get off in two hours. Maybe I'll see you." It was more of a question than statement of possibility.
Marda smiled and said, "Maybe you will, if I don't need a cab before then." The man beamed at her and said to ask for Big Mike the next time she called, and he drove away as Marda entered the doorway. She stood there for a moment, sizing the place up and trying to spot an empty stool where she could sit. There were no empty stools, most of them occupied by men in work clothes drinking beer. It was clearly a beer drinker's bar with empty glasses standing in rows along the bar and tables. The bartender was too busy drawing more draughts to wash the already emptied glasses.
Marda walked slowly toward the bar and a path cleared before her. Men elbowed each other out of the way, and after standing for a few moments at the bar, the bartender came and asked, "What's yours, lady?"
"Oh, give me a draught," she answered with a slight shrug of her shoulders.
The man next to her said, "Have it on me," and he gave her a big friendly grin. Marda thanked him, but he didn't hear her over the music which was emanating from the jukebox in the corner of the room. The bartender brought her drink and he had just set it in front of her when a large man in shirt sleeves rolled up to expose his bulging muscles came over and asked her to dance.
The dance was slow and sensual and the big man held her close around the waist and rolled his hips in time to the music. He was a surprisingly good dancer considering his gigantic size, and Marda was getting excited, partly because of the rhythm of the music and mostly because of the physical motion of her partner.
After the record stopped, he asked her, "What's your name, doll? I never seen you in here before. You come alone?"
"Yes, I came alone. My name is Marda. And yours is...?"
"Jack," he answered. His voice has a gravely quality to it as if he needed to clear his throat. "My friends call me Black Jack." And he laughed low in his throat as he said it. "Where are you sitting?"
"I'm not, I'm standing," she said.
"Well, allow me. Don't want to see a pretty woman tire herself all out now," he said with a rakish tilt to his eyebrows. He pulled out a stool, obviously his, and Marda slid onto it, exposing half of her smooth, white thigh as she did so. The people on either side of her squelched over to make room.
"What's a woman like you doing here all alone?" Black Jack asked her, his eyebrow still tilted.
"Oh, I was told by a steady patron of this bar that this b a good place to come to have a good time," said Marda, smiling naively.
Jack looked at her a moment, his mouth hanging slack and sensuous. "Depends on what kind of a good time you're looking for, baby. I can give you a damn good time if you're in the mind for it."
"Well, maybe I'd like that. I bet you can give a woman a real fine time," Marda said knowingly.
Jack moved closer to her, standing at her back. She could feel the warmth of him behind her, his breath on her neck. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, moving on the stool, situating herself. He was very close behind her now. He had his hand on her waist. "Careful now, I wouldn't want you to fall, baby. These stools tip easy," he said softly into her ear.
His hand was moving slowly up her side and Marda felt her own warmth increasing. His hand moved up to her breast and rubbed the bulge of it on her side under her arm.
"Oh baby, you're beautiful," he breathed in his gravely voice. "Too good for this place that's for sure."
"Shall we go somewhere else?" Marda asked.
"Nothing I'd like better," he replied. "Got any suggestions?"
"Well," she said, drawing out the word, "have you got a home around here?"
"No, but I can get one in a hurry." He smiled at her. Marda noticed his strong white teeth and sensuous lips, heavy brows and the fire smouldering in his eyes.
"Okay," she said. "Let's do it, then."
She slid off the stool, leaving her drink untouched. Jack paid the bartender for the last round and he and Marda walked out together, his arm around her waist. How good it feels, Marda thought as they went out the door, to have a big man's arm around me, and how good it's going to feel later . . ..
Marda and Jack walked out of the glare of Marty's bar and continued down the dark street for a block and turned at the corner. After another block they came to the Avon Hotel, a fleabag type of place with a bar on the ground floor and rooms for transients above.
They entered by a side door and Marda waited in the entranceway while Jack went into the bar and gave the bartender a story and a large bill. Smiling, he came back to Marda and led her up the stairs to the first floor. It smelled like disinfectant and dirty sheets and Marda liked the smell. Halfway to the room Jack stopped and turned her to face him. She seemed to melt under his touch and looked up at him with mouth parted and eyes at half mast.
It was a warm, passionate kiss, and when they parted they were both breathing hard. Marda said, "Oh, let's go Jack O'Diamonds," and pressed herself against him. She could feel him warm and hard beneath his clothes, and she thought, this is what I want, what I've needed for a long time. This time it's going to be good, so good.
Jack unlocked the door and went into the room taking Marda by the hand. The room was barren except for a big double bed with a pink spread on it, a straight-backed chair and a sink in one corner. There was a shag rug on the floor, pink to match the bedspread, but slightly dirty and walked upon. The walls were once green, but were now discolored to a faded yellowish-grey and there was no window. The door locked automatically from the inside as she closed it. Just like prisoners, she thought. Prisoners on our island of love. And she kicked off her shoes.
Marda stood in the middle of the room, waiting. She would have taken her clothes off right away but she thought that maybe Jack would like the pleasure of undressing her. Not that he needed any stimulation, but Marda knew that all men took pleasure in different ways, and some men enjoyed undressing women, seeing her in various stages of undress, especially the first time. Jack was one of these people. He liked to see a woman in just a brassiere and panties, to see her lying on a bed, imagining what she would be like without them.
He clumsily unfastened the row of small velvet buttons down the side of her dress and slid his hand in the opening, caressing her stomach, her overflowing breasts, inside the dress. Marda's breath was heavy. "Oh, Jack, help me get it off," she said urgently. He raised the hem and she wriggled sensuously out of it and tossed it on the chair. She slid the black lace slip off over her head, tousling her hair in the process.
Jack stood back and looked at her standing in her panties and bra. He could see everything through the sheer material, and Marda's willowy body undulated before his eyes.
"Do you like me, Jack?" she asked. "Am I good to look at?" She held up her breasts in the brassiere and they welled over the top in swelling mounds of flesh. Jack wet his mouth and breathed outward in a long sigh.
"Do you want me? Do you want to make love to me?" she asked, her eyes closed now, her hips moving in a circular motion, straining the sheer nylon of her underclothing at every point.
"Oh, babee," he breathed. "Let me touch you and see if you're real."
He eased her onto the bed and stood up over her, his legs apart, his arms spread wide in an imaginary embrace.
"I'm real, my Jack, and I'm oh, so ready," she said from her position on the bed.
"Baby, I've never seen such a woman. You look so good to me. I've been hungry for a long time, Baby, and you're the answer to all my dreams."
"Love me, Jack, take me, and if you fall asleep, I'll give you some dreams you'll never forget," she said from between ovaled lips.
Jack started to undo the buttons on his work shirt, exposing a vast expanse of hairy chest beneath it. Marda sat up on the bed and, reaching over to him, unfastened his other clothes and slid them down over his hips. He kicked his pants into a corner and Marda saw that he was wearing no shorts or briefs beneath the lavis. He's perfect, she thought. What a fool I've been for waiting this long for a man like him when all the time he was waiting for me. She slid her panties down and pushed them off with her feet.
"Let me take that other thing off," Jack said. He put his arms around her and unhooked her brassiere, his head resting on her shoulder. When he had unhooked it he reached around in front and removed it, holding the cups in his hands. Marda snatched the flimsy garment from his hands and tossed it to the floor.
Marda took his hands and placed them on her breasts. "Do they feel nice, Jack?" she whispered, pressing his hands to her silken body. "It feels nice when you hold me that way," and she moved his hands in a circular motion on her breasts. The nipples stood out against his palms, hard and stiff, and he squeezed them between his fingers. Marda lay back and guided his head to her heavy, straining breasts. Jack enclosed her nipple in his mouth, drawing it in, his hand fondling the other. Marda sighed, and he moved his head to the other. She could feel him, tense and trying to hold back, under the gentle pressure of her fingers. She guided him to her, her fingers loving, caressing, in the motion of love.
And then he burst upon her, his weight crushing her, forcing the breath from her. And she was his. She knew it and she knew what was her destiny ... to love and love forever, the body of this man. The body that could satiate the ever-burning flame within her. Together they rose and soared, the scathing wings of passion beating them, searing them like the wings of the phoenix raising them together in a sheet of unearthly fire. Until they were consumed by it and melted together in the alloy of completion.
They remained together, each feeling the beating wings fading away within the other, until they slept.
Marda lay in Jack's arms, smelling the sweat of his body, dreaming of him as she dreamed of a nameless, faceless man between the satin sheets of her own bed.
When she awoke, Jack was still asleep, snoring faintly with each intake of breath. She wanted him again, but could not wake him. She kissed his mouth, but he did not move nor open his eyes. Her lips traveled down his body, but the flaming of her mouth met no response. She enclosed his spent manhood but the fire had gone out and not a spark remained.
Marda lingered for a while, touching, caressing, willing him to life, but Jack was sleeping soundly, dreaming a dream of peace and an open road and a motor humming.
Marda quietly got up and put on her clothes. Gathering her pocketbook and gloves, she looked at the sleeping figure and kissed him tenderly. She covered him over with the pink bedspread and soundlessly left the room.
Down in the bar, she dialed a number. A rough voice answered.
"Would you send Big Mike to the Avon Hotel, please?" she asked.
"Sure," said the man on the other end of the line, in a sleepy voice. He didn't seem surprised to have Mike requested by name, and Marda wondered if the big cab driver was much in demand ... for the type of service which she had in mind, which had nothing to do with transportation. She hoped that he was. A man in demand was usually better that one who was not, although she wasn't sure which was cause and which was effect. She felt good about this, and a little impatient, wondering if Big Mike would be as good as Black Jack.
She didn't want to wait in the hotel. The place was depressing, now that it had served her purpose, and she would go elsewhere with Mike. She left the phone booth and strolled through the lobby and out the front door. The street was dark and deserted. She hoped that Mike would be there soon, it wasn't good to wait for love on a lonely street.
A car was parked at the curb. She noticed it vaguely, not really paying attention. Then the car door opened and a woman got out. Marda glanced at her, then, and the car seemed to be familiar. It took a second to place it, and then she realized that it was Mark's car. The woman walked directly over to her and faced her, not speaking for a moment. She was an attractive woman, but there was something unhealthy looking about her. Perhaps it was the way that her eyes seemed to burn. She had one hand in her purse, the other was at her side, the fist clenched.
"Do you know who I am?" the woman asked.
Marda shrugged. She had a pretty good idea, but she hated scenes and decided that it would be better not to say anything until she realized what was going to happen. She wasn't afraid, just a bit annoyed that she should be faced by an impending hassle.
"I've been following you," Mark's wife said.
Marda still didn't answer. She was hoping that there would be no screaming and no hysterics.
"Well, say something I I know all about you and Mark, you slut!"
"Please, let's not..."
"You whore!"
Marda turned to walk away, but the woman grabbed her arm and pulled her around. Marda took the woman's hand from her with a bored, annoyed motion. She saw that the eyes were burning more now and there was a look of frenzy and hatred on the woman's face. Her mouth opened to speak, but worked soundlessly. Marda turned once more, and at the end of the block she saw the headlights turn into the street and hoped that it would be Big Mike and that she could get into his cab and drive off and leave this woman before there was any trouble.
"You think that you're so beautiful!" Mark's wife said, "You think you can take anyone's husband just because you've got no morals. You're a slut, but you'll never steal another man again!"
She had moved in front of Marda again. Marda could see the cab drawing near, over the woman's shoulder, and looking at that she failed to notice that the other's hand had emerged from the purse and was holding a small object, a glass tube. Then the woman's hand moved at her, and Marda thought that she was going to be slapped, and flinched backward. It was not a slap, however. The acid splashed against her face, feeling wet for a moment, and then feeling like fire.
Mark's wife stood, stunned at what she had done, what she had planned to do but hadn't really thought that she would find the nerve. And Marda staggered back and clutched at her face and eyes, and then screamed.
Mark's wife was running. Marda fell against the wall of the hotel, screaming. Big Mike's cab pulled up, and he jumped out and ran across the sidewalk to Marda.
"What the..." his voice broke off. In the background came the sound of Mark's car starting, but neither paid any attention to that. Mike pulled her hands away from her face to see what had happened to her.
"Oh my God!" he said. He let her hands go and stood for a second, stunned. Then he pulled her to the cab and got her in and roared off.
At first Marda could think of nothing but the pain. Halfway to the hospital, however, a strange thought flashed for a second through her mind. It was just before she fainted. She thought, I understand about Rosy Day.
"Ahemm," the Devil said in his throat. "I noticed you've turned around and your mouth appears to be slightly ajar. Am I to interpret that as a sign of some interest?"
I closed my mouth, self-consciously.
"No comments, criticisms, dewdrops of wisdom?" he asked.
"Wasn't a bad story," I muttered.
"Mmmmm. I'm flattered. No corrections at all?"
"Well, there might be one or two small points," I said. "First of all, too many of the characters have similar names. Marda. Mark. Marty's place. Big Mike. That sort of thing is very bad; it confuses the reader."
"Were you confused?"
"No, but then I'm hardly the average reader."
"Oh hardly," he said. "You're much more intelligent."
I nodded. "And discerning." I nodded. "And niggling."
I looked up and regarded him coldly. "Inability to accept criticism is the mark of the minor talent," I said.
"But you, on the other hand, were exulted when I pointed out the implausibilities in your stories."
"Well," I reddened.
"But no matter," he said. "I have the patience of a saint. If you'll permit me, I'll try again."
There didn't seem to be much I could do to stop him. So I struck a casual pose and listened attentively.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I've never minded pain," the man said. "All my life, even as a kid, I was never bothered by it. Other kids would fall and scrape a knee or something and they'd cry. But it never bothered me at all."
His name was Walter Glass. At the moment, which was halfway through the lunch hour, he was sitting in a small air-conditioned bar with two friends, drinking a martini and telling them about this strange aspect to bis personality, rather proudly and giving it great importance.
"Maybe your nerve endings don't function properly or something like that," one friend said. This man's name was William.
"No, it's not like that. It's not that I don't feel pain, it's just that it doesn't bother me. When people say that something hurts, I just can't imagine how they can be bothered by it. With me it almost feels good, almost the same feeling as making love."
William shrugged. The other man, Thomas, said, "You'd make a good martyr, Walt."
"I might at that," he said.
He finished his martini and looked at his watch. There wasn't time for another, and besides he didn't want to get drunk. He had plans for the afternoon, and didn't want his senses dulled by alcohol. Any of his senses, especially sense of pain. That was important.
His cigarette had burned short. He looked at the tip, then said, "Let me demonstrate." He pressed the lit end against the tip of his index finger and ground it slowly out. The faint smell of burning flesh arose. William winced and Thomas looked surprised. "Doesn't that hurt?"
Walter shrugged. "If you mean don't my nerves carry the sensation to my brain, et cetera, yes. But it's not an unpleasant feeling. It's just a sensation."
"You're sick."
Walter smiled.
They walked back to the office building together and left each other at the elevator. Walter went up to his office, on the seventh floor. It was a nice office, well furnished. Walter was a fairly successful broker. He entered the front office and grinned at the girl behind the
desk, and she looked up and said, "Back already, Mr. Glass?"
"Yes," he said, continuing to look at her for a few minutes, and then going into his private office in the second room. There was also a third room, but that door was locked.
Walter sat and thought about his secretary. He thought that she was almost ready for the final approach. It had taken a long while, months of subtle hints and suggestions, but he knew that it would be worth it. And once they had done it the first time it would be all right. He was sure that after she did it once she wouldn't mind doing it for him again. Every day, even, if he could stand it ... It was always the first time that was the hardest, especially with a gentle girl like Jeanne. She would be shocked, of course, but after it was over and she saw what pleasure she had given him. . .and after he rewarded her with a nice raise in pay ... yes, he felt sure that things would work out all right.
Jeanne had worked for him for nearly a year. He found that every day he was imagining how it would be with her, more and more. He had to have her soon. He had been working on it for a while and she was nearly ready ... perhaps that very day, if he played it right.
Jeanne was almost the perfect stereotype of the ideal office secretary. She wore the glasses that are expected of a secretary, and the neat, tidy little suits with boxy jackets to hide that fact that her breasts were a little too large and her waist too small for the role she was fulfilling. Much of the time her face wore the blank expression that is associated with efficiency, although she had a warm kind of smile that sort of radiated whenever something pleased her particularly. There was nothing extraordinary about Jeanne's face. It was, in fact, almost plain, though not unpleasant to look at. Her mouth was too thin to be pretty, or maybe it just seemed that way because she always held it in a manner which expressed just the slightest hint of exasperation. Her nose was also too thin and a bit pointed at the end. The result was that most people who knew her, at some time or other, had said, "Jeanne could be pretty if she tried."
Most of Jeanne's clothes were gray or brown and very simply styled. She complained that it was impossible to get anything that was not a neutral shade to go with her hair. "Every other color makes me look so garish," she had explained to the same well-meaning friends who had told her she should do more about her appearance.
Jeanne's hair was a strange color. It was the color of all the redheads' in Terry and the Pirates in the Sunday comic section. She always wore it in one of two ways, either in a bun high up on the back of her head, or in a French roll, but it could have been very shockingly red if she were to wear it in a less sedate style.
It was this general impression of sedateness that made Glass want her more than any other reason. The thought of this prim and proper woman doing what he wanted sent chills along his spinal cord. More and more he found himself picturing the scene in his mind, thinking it all out in detail, what they would say, what they would do, and best of all how it would feel ... The fact that she would think it wrong and feel ashamed of doing it would make it so much better.
He pictured the scene now, sitting behind his desk, and grew very excited. After a while he opened the desk drawer and took out a small book which he opened and began to look carefully at, slowly turning the pages. He was sweating slightly, although it wasn't warm, and his tongue flicked slowly along his lips a few times.
The pictures at which he was looking were of war atrocities ,and showed prisoners who had been tortured by the Japanese during World War II. It was one of the typical propaganda publications, designed to make the reader hate the enemy and feel more righteous and hateful. (And break the windows of Japanese laundries? Or is it Chinese who have laundries? No matter, both are yellow and that should be reason enough to hate in time of war. Or if it shouldn't be, it at least often is, which may not amount to the same thing but has the same effect.)
But Glass felt no hatred. As he looked from picture to picture the chill at his back grew greater, more mobile. He had spent many hours over every page before, but that didn't make the thrill any the less. If only the Japanese soldiers could have been replaced with a beautiful woman ... a naked woman...
Jeanne.
Glass ran one hand along the inner part of his thigh, up to squeeze himself. He was surprised at the extent of his arousal, and kept his hand there and rubbed while he imagined that the soldiers were Jeanne. The propaganda was certainly useless against a man like Walter Glass. But the war was over, anyway, so it didn't matter. There would be time for patriotism at another time, and perhaps he could hate Russians.
Right then he hated nothing.
And he knew that it was time to make the final
pitch, the big effort, the very, very important effort.
He put the book away and stood up. He waited for a while, until he was slightly less aroused. He didn't want his passion to be too obvious. When he had calmed and relaxed a bit he went out into the outer room.
Jeanne was typing. Glass went over and sat casually on the edge of her desk.
"Are you going to be busy this evening?" he asked.
"Not if you need me, sir," she said. This must have sounded a bit too unfamiliar, even to his efficient and impersonal secretary, and she added, "Mr. Glass."
"Please ... call me Walter. Or Walt, that's even better. After all, we should be friends by now."
"Thank you, Walter."
"Tell me, Jeanne ... are you happy working for me?"
"Very much so. It's a very pleasant job. And easy, too. I almost feel that it's too easy for the salary that you pay me. Not that I mind that ... " She smiled slightly, which was about as much as she ever smiled.
"Oh? I was just thinking that it was time to give you a raise."
"Why ... I don't know what to say. I'll admit that I could use more money ... but then, one always can, I guess. It's very good of you, Walter."
"I was thinking of perhaps fifty dollars more a week," he said, still sitting on the desk and leaning toward her a bit more now.
"Why ... that's so much. I ... don't know what to tell you. I'm really not worth it."
"Of course it would mean that you would have a few more duties to perform."
"I don't mind working. Not at an."
"This would be a bit different ... than you are used to doing. But it shouldn't be unpleasant. In fact, I think that it should be rather fun for you. Once you get used to the idea, and the act..."
"Perhaps you'd better explain more fully."
"Well, I could demonstrate better than I could tell you, if you didn't mind."
"I think that I know what you have in mind, Walter. You want me to sleep with you."
"No," he said.
She raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Not that I wouldn't like to sleep with you. But what I want is something different"
"Such as...?"
"You won't mind?"
"I don't know. You're being rather vague about it. But let me speak frankly..."
"Do that."
"If you are offering me fifty dollars a week to have sex with you, or some related thing..." she paused, and Glass wondered what her answer would be. He had no idea, and her expression gave no clue. He leaned still closer and his breath was heavy in his chest.
"I really don't know..." she finished. And he still didn't know, but it was better than a refusal. Much better. If a woman didn't know then the chances were that she could be persuaded, wanted to be persuaded.
"I've never thought about it. I'm not really very passionate, and I don't take much pleasure in sex. But on the other hand I don't think that it's wrong ... and I could use the money. I really don't know what to say."
"Think about it for a while. But not too long. I'm quite impatient."
"There'd be no strings attached?"
"Such as...?"
"I mean, we'd just do what you wanted here at the office. It wouldn't have any effect on my private life? And I could stop the relationship if I wanted without you being angry with me? I don't want to spoil things or to get your hopes up if I decide that I can't go through with it"
"Don't worry about that. And it will always be right here at the office. In the back room."
"I've never even been back there. I suppose that it has a bed or couch or something."
"Well, something..."
She looked down at the papers on the desk in front of her. When she looked up again she said, "I think that I'll be willing to do what you want."
"I'm glad. I'm very, very glad, Jeanne."
"When does the relationship start?"
"Today?"
She paused. Then she said, "All right. I guess that I can get used to the idea by the time that the office closes, Walter. I'D need a few hours. I've never done anything like this before, of course."
"I'm sure of that," he said. "Yes, I'm quite sure that you've done nothing like it"
"Walter ... how long have you planned on ... propositioning me this way?"
"Right from the start. The first day that you worked here I wanted to. But such things take time."
She grinned, and it was the first time that he had ever seen that. She said, "I could have used the money before this, Walter. You shouldn't have waited."
And Walter thought the same thing, and reached out and stroked her shoulder softly and knew that he was going to have a very good time. So much better than with the girls that he hired for one night only, because it was going to be a personal thing, a woman he knew, and they would have time to perfect the act together and know just what felt best and when to do it and what part of the body to do it to...
And how hard.
The rest of the afternoon dragged by for Walter Glass. He wanted to close the office and go into the back room right away. But Jeanne wanted to wait, to have time to get used to the idea, and he didn't want to rush her. She didn't know quite what to expect as it was. And he couldn't stand to have her change her mind at the last moment, when she saw what it was that he wanted her to do.
He spent the rest of the time in his own office, thinking about the next few hours and looking at his collection of pictures, alternately. And also growing very excited.
When four thirty came he went back out and smiled at Jeanne. She smiled back. "Ready?" he asked.
"I guess. I hope that I won't disappoint you, Walter. I'm not really very good at making love. Of course, I haven't had much practice."
"You'll learn."
"Ill try."
He locked the outer door. "Let's go into the back room now."
She nodded, stood up, and followed him from the room. He went to the door to the back room and unlocked it with a key which he carried in his pocket. He opened the door and stepped aside while Jeanne entered.
The room was dark. He shut the door behind them and took her into his arms, kissing her on the slope of her neck. She stood against him, but didn't respond. After a while he let her go and stepped back.
"I'm sorry ... I'm afraid that it will take a while to get me aroused."
"Take as long as you like. It's better that way, Jeanne. And we have all night."
Then he turned away and went to the corner of the room. She waited by the door as he lit a match and then lit a candle. The flickering light didn't show the room very well, but he lit several more candles in each corner of the room until they were bathed in the eerier glow. Jeanne looked around and her brow wrinkled in a frown.
The room was small. There was a cot along one wall, but not the usual type of cot. It was more like an operating table. And there were four leather straps fastened to the sides of the table, as though to strap someone down. It reminded Jeanne of the mad scientists' laboratories in all the class B horror movies, especially in the flickering light. (The mad scientists are invariably the only characters in the whole movie with any intelligence or any social consciousness, the only ones with any desire to do anything for the world, by the way. Which is why they are mad, and why they are eventually destroyed by the handsome hero who is not intelligent and who, if it were pertinent, would also be patriotic. But that is the way that those things are in the world.) Jeanne didn't think about this as she looked at the table.
There were other things in the room. Along one wall was a row of chains and steel neck clamps to chain a person to the wall. And neatly hung on the opposite wall were a collection of whips and knives and pronged instruments that looked like sharpened rakes.
The total effect was that of a dungeon. Or perhaps of a torture chamber. As she looked at this she felt very afraid, suddenly, and turned to the door.
It was locked.
"Don't be afraid," Glass told her, seeing that she was trying to get out.
"W- what are you going to do?"
"I won't hurt you."
"I ... don't like this room. I don't want to stay here. Why can't we do it in the other room, or even go to your apartment or something? This scares me."
"But it's necessary."
"I don't understand."
"I want you to perform certain acts on me ... on my body. No pain will be inflicted on you, you have nothing to worry about."
"I don't want to do anything like that."
"Please, Jeanne. You can't back out now. All you have to do is try it ... if you don't like it, if it bothers you, you can stop and we'll never do anything like it again. And you can still have the extra money. But you'll find that it isn't bad, I know that you won't mind once you've done it. It's just the idea that startles you."
"But what pleasure can you get from having me do things to hurt you?"
"A great deal of pleasure. Believe me. It's what I want more than anything."
She didn't know what to say, and stood very stiff and still. Glass came over and kissed her again, running his tongue down her neck. "Please...?"
"I -I don't know."
"You're still frightened?"
"A little."
"There's no need to be."
"You're sure that you won't hurt me in any way?"
"Of course not."
"What will I have to do?"
"I'll get on the table and you can strap me down. It's better to be strapped down, and then you'll know that I'm not going to be able to harm you even if I wanted to ... which I never would. The straps will keep me from rolling around too much, or getting twisted into a position where you won't be able to do it the way that I like it best."
"What will I do?"
"The whip. I'll undress and you will use the whip on my body. Every part of it."
"That's all?"
"Yes. That's all for this time. Later, other times, we can use the other instruments. The whip will be enough for now, I'm sure."
"But how hard must I hit you? I don't think that I'll be able to."
"Of course you will. I'll tell you when you've worked up to the right tempo and when you're striking me just right. It'll be easy."
"I don't know..."
"Please. Try it."
"Well. ..all right. Ill try it this once. But don't make me hurt you too much."
"Just hurt me right," he said, and smiled.
He began to undress. She waited for a while, and then he said, "I want you to take your clothes off first."
"All right, I guess. I'm a little nervous about this, but I'll try it."
She stripped her clothing off. When the trim suit and blouse were off her body looked much different, no longer like a prim secretary but like a beautiful woman, ready for love. She paused when she was down to her panties and bra, then she removed them too and stood naked.
"Beautiful," Glass whispered. He was naked too. He got on the table, lying on his back, and it was evident that he was very aroused sexually.
"Put the straps on me now."
She stepped close and buckled the leather straps around his arms and legs. After he was fastened securely she stepped back and breathed deeply. She didn't seem to be as worried or nervous now. Probably because Glass was helpless.
"Now get the whip from the wall," he said. "The one with the three lashes."
She brought the whip over and stood beside the table. He was breathing hard and looking at her body, and she, strangely enough, was breathing hard too.
"Start at my chest. Just easy at first"
She raised the whip and brought it easily down on his bare chest The knotted ends slapped against his flesh and left a red mark. "Harder."
She brought the whip down again. This time the tip cut through the skin and left a thin trail of blood.
"Harder..." His voice was raspy.
"Are you sure...?"
"Yes. God yes! Do it harder!"
Once more the whip fell. His chest streaked with blood and he closed his eyes and moaned. Jeanne struck him again, and then again.
"Now my shoulders," he whispered.
She struck his shoulders.
"My legs! Whip my legs!"
The lash fell across his thighs, harder with each stroke. He was crisscrossed in red, and his head rolled and he squirmed on the table.
"Now do it there!" he cried. He heaved his loins upward to show where he meant, and then the lash fell across him and he writhed in delight.
"Do it there! Harder! Ohhhhhh ... that's nice."
He opened his eyes to watch as she struck, and then he noticed the change that had come over her. Her hair had come down from the neat roll and was falling wildly about her face, looking very red, like blood. It tossed as she heaved her breasts back and then brought the whip down savagely. Her mouth no longer looked thin, it was open and she was panting. Her eyes seemed to have caught fire, and they were fastened on his body, at the point where the whip was falling.
Glass knew that it was going to be so good, that they were going to do this every day, all the while. Jeanne no longer minded, she was enchanted ... it was better than he had hoped for, far better.
"Don't stop..." he moaned, but it was obvious that she had no intention of stopping.
His loins heaved upward, his whole body was shaking and trembling. He shut his eyes again and the whip fell, carrying him into bliss on its leather thongs. It carried him to the heights and then, with one savage stroke it cut him free and his release leaped simultaneously with the flow of his blood, merging together on his belly and thighs.
Jeanne watched in fascination until it was over. But the whip continued to fall.
"Easier now," he breathed. "Do it easier. Let me down slowly, darling."
But she didn't hear. The whip fell again, harder than ever. Too hard.
"Easy now, baby. Be gentle..."
The whip lashed, tearing through the tenderest part of his body, tearing the flesh away, cutting too deep and leaving ribbons of ripped and bloody flesh in its wake. He was no longer tense with passion, and it didn't feel good now, but she didn't stop. Wildly she threw herself into the effort, harder and harder until her arm ached with the effort and her breasts heaved in near exhaustion. And she aimed every stroke at the same spot, almost obscured by the blood...
"Stop!" he screamed. "It's all over!"
The whip fell.
He looked up at her face, pleading with her to stop, but she didn't hear him. And the only thing she saw was where the whip struck. He fought to break free, but the leather straps would not budge at all.
"My God! Stop!"
Then her body was racked by a spasm, and her loins worked in the same rhythm as the whiplashes, humping forward and then back. She cupped herself with her free hand and a low moan, almost a growl, trembled in her throat. The rhythm grew faster as she approached her climax. Her body was drenched with sweat and her hair flew madly. And suddenly she froze on the edge of completion, froze for one split second...
And as she attained fulfillment the whip fell the hardest of all...
* * *
"I suppose you saw that one coming, too?" the Devil asked.
"It had some elements of surprise," I admitted grudgingly.
"You're too kind. And the flaws in it?"
"I'd rather not discuss it," I said. I leaned over the platform and peered into the darkness of the tunnel. "I believe the subways are on strike again," I said. "I think I'd better take a cab. There is this girl waiting for me - she's really got a pair of, oh - I already mentioned that to you, didn't I?"
"You described her quite vividly," he said. "I have her image firmly in mind."
"Yes, well. I'd better be running along then. She's all alone and -well, you know, New York. Hardly the safest place for a young girl."
"You're quite right. In fact, the next story I was about to relate makes precisely the same point."
"A story with a moral?" I asked dryly.
"I wouldn't call it that. But it has a point or an edge, you might say. A razor-sharp edge. Sound intriguing?"
"Well, I guess I could wait around for a few more minutes. Maybe the train will be here by then."
"Perhaps," said the Devil. "But I think you'll agree that this story is even worth missing a train to hear."
"The old introductory hook," I said. "Well, let's get on with it then."
He chuckled. "This little tale has it's own introductory hook," he said.
"I'll stop you if I've heard it before," I warned.
"You haven't," he said. "All set?"
"Whenever you are."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The woman's body was horribly mutilated. It took quite a while to establish positive identification. When the woman's husband saw the remains he broke down and sobbed uncontrollably, and had to be let out. All the cops felt sorry for the man, and vowed that the murderer would pay for his crime.
The husband's name was Howard Cluette and he was a gentle appearing fellow who certainly didn't deserve such suffering. His wife had been a pretty woman who didn't deserve to be murdered, either. There was no apparent motive, and everyone decided that it was the work of a maniac.
The first murder was unsolved, and there hadn't -even been any clues turned up when the second victim was discovered. She had been killed in the same way as the first, and in very nearly the same spot. Her body was found floating in the lake, face down, and when the man who discovered it turned her over he backed away and vomited. It hadn't been a pretty thing to look at.
Both murders had been committed in the park. Both had been committed with a razor. And both women had been sexually assaulted first. It was obviously the work of the same madman, and the police tried to tie the two crimes together in some way so as to get the operating pattern of the killer and be able to anticipate where he would strike next.
The two women were very different, however. Both were young and pretty, but whereas Mrs. Cluette was a married woman who lived in a respectable section of the city, the second victim turned out to be a known prostitute, the kind of woman who might have been killed for a reason, or in anger, or possibly in passion.
The number of policemen patrolling the park was doubled, and several policewomen were put on duty, strolling throughout the area and trying to draw an attack upon themselves. But the maniac wasn't fooled. It wasn't until two weeks later that he struck again, this time in an alley close to where the first two women had been killed. And this time he murdered not only the woman but the man who had been with her. Her fiance, it was, and they had been taking a stroll together and making plans for their wedding, when the madman had struck.
This girl had been nice, the police found out, bat
she had dressed rather in poor taste ... too much makeup and too tight skirts. But they still were unable to establish a definite pattern. Someone even suggested the Jack the Ripper cycle, but was laughed at, of course.
The city, however, was scared. So were the police officials, and the mayor. It was an election year. But they weren't as scared as the young women who lived in the neighborhood, because lives are more valuable than positions that make graft and corruption possible. The killer had to be found before he struck again, that had to be. It was the horrible mutilation of the victims that made it worse and so much more frightening.
The last woman had been raped, then her throat had been cut ... or possibly it had been the other way around, or even simultaneous. But there had been more than that. Her nipples had been slashed off, her face carved, cigarette burns were on her belly and thighs. And the man's genitals had been cut off and stuffed in the woman's mouth. It had been a very gory murder.
And he would strike again.
Howard Cluette had led a life filled with heartbreak and disaster. The murder of his wife seemed to be the final stroke in the succession of pain and tragedy. But it had also been a strange life, and he was rather a strange person.
His first acquaintance with sex had been a shock. He had been playing behind the couch in his living room, a small and harmless boy of twelve, when his sister and her boy friend had come in. They hadn't known that he was there, and had sat on the couch and begun to kiss. Howard hadn't made any noise, and pretty soon the
sounds from the couch had become strange and he wondered what was going on. Timidly he had moved out from his hiding place and looked at his sister.
They had been making love. Her legs were wrapped about his waist, her hands had been digging into his back, and they had been heaving and tossing in passion. Howard had watched, fascinated, until they were finished. And then they had seen him, and his sister had slapped him and then her boy friend had hit him very hard. They had both been naked while they hit him, and he had been frightened and shocked. And later on he had cried for a long while, alone in his room, and thought about what he had seen and wondered why his sister had let such a thing be done to her body.
She had been fifteen.
That was his first knowledge of sex. His second brush with the strange world of lust was also involved with his sister. But the next time he was directly involved, and in a more shocking way.
He was fourteen. She was seventeen. It had been a hot summer night, and both were dressed in shorts. They had been alone in the house for the evening and Howard's sister began to act strangely. She kept rubbing against him, touching him, kissing him playfully but not too playfully. And it had made him feel strangely, too. It had made him think about that first time, when he had watched her make love with her boy friend on the couch. He wondered whether she still did such things, and if she had done it recently.
And then they had been lying together on the floor and he didn't know exactly how it happened but his shorts had suddenly been open, and his sister had been
kissing him on the stomach and giggling and touching him with her fingers. Howard had trembled and waited, not knowing whether he wanted her to do this thing to him or not, but not able to resist. And then it had been done, and he had watched and felt passion and disgust mingle and then he had felt something else, a pulsation, a throbbing, waves of thrill running through his loins. And release.
And then only disgust.
And she had giggled and asked him whether it had felt good, and if he had ever had it done before and if he would like to do the same thing to her.
But Howard had ran into his own room, the same way that he had after the first time that he had watched her in the throes of passion. And he had been very sick and decided that all women must be no good at all.
He didn't really hate women then. He was simply disgusted with them. After a while the memory faded from his mind and he no longer thought much about it. But a scar had been cut into his mind and it was to remain there.
And then it was to be increased, in a similar and even more shocking manner.
He was eighteen. A timid, small kid with pimples. The only sex relations that he had ever had had been the time that his sister had loved him on the floor. And he didn't care much, sex didn't thrill him greatly.
He had returned from a movie and entered the house. There was laughter and talk from the living room, and he had gone over and looked in.
And stood stunned.
His mother was dead drunk. She was sprawled out on the couch, half on the floor, breathing heavily. A bottle of cheap whiskey had spilled at her feet.
She was stark naked.
There had been three men in the room, all drunk, in various stages of undress. While Howard watched, one of the men walked crookedly over to where his mother was sprawled, undoing his pants as he went. He said, "Let's see if I can manage to get the old whore one more time," and laughed. Both of his companions laughed too. It was a great joke.
The man took a long time. Howard's mother moaned in her sleep, but didn't wake up. The other two men went over and watched, giggling. One said, "I'll bet she's havin' sweet dreams."
"Sweet and wet," said the other.
They laughed more.
Howard was spellbound. It was his mother! Just like his sister, worse even. He couldn't tear his eyes from the grotesque scene. Even when the first man stopped and the second started to work on her.
Then one of the men spotted him. The man said, "Hey! Reinforcements. C'mon in, kid, give us some help with this old bag!"
Then Howard had run out. And the scar this time was much deeper.
Not deep enough, yet, for him to hate women. And when he was twenty-five he met a girl with whom he fell in love. She was pretty and innocent, and she was a virgin when they were married a year later. Their wedding night was a big disappoointment. Howard had still had no experience but for his sister. And what is more important, that had been a negative experience. It had left him timid and shy about sex, and with the feeling that something was wrong with it; dirty, disgusting. And the girl had been inexperienced and waited for Howard to show her the way, to make her enjoy it. But he did it mechanically, and found it very hard to complete the act. For her there was no completion. It left her feeling empty and very disappointed about married life.
She was a passionate girl at heart, and it had been a task for her to keep her virginity. And now that it had been lost she didn't understand why. She knew that sex could be good. She knew that by her very nature. But it hadn't been good, and it left her with a longing in her body, a need for completion which her husband couldn't give her.
She remained faithful to Howard for three years, despite her yearnings. And he was quite happy with married life, all except the nights. Then he felt the old disgust again, and relived his early experiences in his mind. He would have been quite content never to have any sex again and it was only when his wife showed unmistakable desire that he would go through the motions. He very seldom achieved a climax at all, and she never did, although she tried her best. It wasn't really much of a marriage.
And then, after three years, she met another man. He was handsome and polite and liked her very much. It wasn't really hard to seduce her, although he took his time about it, and they both felt a bit of guilt about it later. But not enough guilt to stop the affair.
It lasted for a few months before Howard found out.
And by some tragic stroke of fate he found out in the same manner in which he had found out about his sister and later about his mother. That was what made it worse.
He had returned from work early one day. He felt good, he had the rest of the day off, it was a lovely spring day. He had entered the house and, for some reason, he did not call out as was his habit. His wife did not seem to be around, and he went through the living room and into the bedroom to change his shoes. He never knew why he walked quietly that afternoon. Perhaps it was another twist of the fate that had affected his whole life.
She was in bed with her lover. Or rather on the bed, for there were no covers on them. She was on the bottom, her thighs spread, her buttocks pumping in rhythm with the man. As Howard stood in the doorway a convulsion shook the two lovers and they reached the climax of their love in a heaving, moaning turmoil.
Howard turned and left.
With his sister, even with his mother, it hadn't affected him this much. This opened the old scar and cut it much deeper into his being. This was his wife, his possession. And she had been so pure, unlike his sister and mother. She had been a virgin, he had thought that they were very much in love with one another. And now to find out that she was sleeping with another man.
The cut was too deep this time, working on the same space that fate had struck each time, one of the terrible coincidences that can so easily ruin lives.
Or snap minds.
Howard didn't let his wife know that he had seen. He went out and stayed out until the hour at which he usually returned from work. Then he went in and called out hello from the door as usual.
His wife was smiling and happy. It occurred to him that she had been much happier in recent days. Because of her lover, no doubt. She was like all women, governed by lust and carnal desires. He hated her. He hated all women. And the hatred grew as she smiled and chatted and made his dinner and talked about the events of the day. But not of the event that he had witnessed.
When he asked her to take a stroll in the park she was surprised. He didn't usually care to go out after he got home from work. But she was pleased. She put on a light summer dress and he finally got around to changing his shoes and they went out.
It was light when they started, but by the time they had arrived at the park it was dark. He led her down by the water, to a favorite spot of his. He liked it because it seemed so pure there, so removed from dirt and lust. And the thought of a woman being there filled him with a sense of injustice and outrage.
He was old fashioned enough to use a straight razor. He had carried it on this night, and he took it from his pocket then, as they stood looking out over the calm water. They were holding hands.
"Why did you bring your razor?" she asked, when she saw it in his hand.
"To cut the evil out of you," he said.
She laughed.
"Get down on the ground," he told her. She did so, looking quizzically up at him and wondering at such untypical behavior from Howard. "Raise your dress," he said.
"What?"
"Raise your dress."
"Why, Howard..."
"Do as I say."
She did. She was half smiling. What change had come over him, she wondered.
He got on his knees, between her legs, and began to open his pants.
"Howard! Someone is liable to see us, honey. If you want to do it let's go back to our bed. Ill let you do it all night, if you want. But not here."
"You'd like to do it all night, wouldn't you? You enjoy doing it very much."
She smiled.
"At least put the razor away. You'll cut one of us," she said, as he moved closer.
Then he had forced her back to the ground and was against her. He was better than he had ever been before. He did it for a long while, and he did it well, leaving her panting and empty and happy. That was the way that she loved it, if only it could always be that way she would never be unfaithful to Howard again.
She started to get up, but he pushed her back. "Again, honey?" she asked, ready to do it as long as he wanted to, as long as he was this good.
"I saw you with your lover today," he said, calmly. She didn't speak. She didn't know what to say But the thought that if seeing her being unfaithful had turned him into the man he had just been it was worth it flashed through her mind.
"Is he good?" Howard asked. "I - I don't know..." she faltered.
"Move your legs again."
She did. He moved between them again, but he wasn't ready for love. And then she saw that he had opened the razor and was reaching for her. "Howard, what are you...?"
"I'm going to cut the lust from your body," he said, very calmly.
She opened her mouth and looked at his eyes. Then she saw the look that flashed there, and knew for the first time that he meant it. She wanted to scream, but her throat wouldn't work right.
And then the razor flashed out and she felt it cutting deeply between her thighs, and she was able to scream then. There was no pain, but there was terror...
And after a moment there was pain.
But Howard didn't stop, even after she fainted, until he had finished. And then he got up slowly, leaving the body where it was, the body from which had been carved the organs of lust and sex. He looked down at her and felt no emotion toward her as an individual.
It was just one less woman to commit the sins of passion, that was all. The body that lay very still in the pool of blood meant nothing to him. After a while he reached down and pulled her skirt back so that she was decent, then turned and walked home.
He dressed in black when he went out to seek his second victim. It seemed to be the appropriate color to wear when one was an avenger. And it made It easier to move through the trees without being seen.
The girl was pretty, but painted. Obviously a woman who sinned, and from whom the sin had to be cut.
And that was his duty, his mission. To save the world from the carnal sins of women.
He walked behind her for a while, and pretty soon she turned and smiled at him. He fell in step with her, his hand clutching the razor in his pocket.
"Looking for some fun?" she asked.
"Perhaps."
"You look like you'd be fun."
"Yes. Where can we go?"
"Well, we can go to my place if you'd like. Or we could go in the bushes down by the lake."
"The lake, I think."
"Okay. It's not going to cost you less than ten, though. All right?"
"That'll be fine."
They strolled down to the water. She took his arm and didn't notice that he flinched at the contact. When they were securely out of sight in the bushes she began to undress and he watched carefully. He unfastened his clothing but didn't take it off.
"Wanta' give me the money first?" she asked.
He slapped her across the face, hard. The razor came out and he held it against her throat. "Don't make a sound," he said. "Daughter of sin! Harlot!"
"Jesus," she said, "Don't cut me!"
"Quiet!"
"Whaddaya want with me?"
"I must purify your body."
"Look, mister ... you can have my body okay. I won't say a thing. You can have me for free. But for God's sake don't cut me!"
Howard moved onto her, pressing her to the ground.
She trembled beneath him. He reached down with one hand and made a path for his plunge. His other hand held the razor to her neck.
And then he was moving on her. She was terrified, but after a while she moved back in the same rhythm, working with him, building him up to the finish. It came fast, and he exploded violently as it did. And then he slumped off and lay next to her naked body.
She wasn't as frightened now, and reached over and touched him, managing a smile.
"Say, anyone as good as you were doesn't have to pay me. I'd sleep with you any day. Just fold up that razor, huh?"
"Slut!" he snarled.
He cut her throat.
And as she lay dying he cut at her naked body, carving her and destroying the female beauty that enabled her to lead men into sin.
When she was quite dead he lifted the body and pulled it to the lake, where he dumped her in. The water turned red as she sank into it, and her hair floated like seaweed on the surface.
And the avenger, avenged again, went home.
The third time he had to kill a man. He would have passed the two up if they had been decent people. But they were walking with their arms about one another, holding each other in public. It was quite obviously a woman who had to be destroyed.
He followed them from the park to a nearby street. It was dark. He was wearing his black clothes. His working clothes. His purifying clothes. He walked closer and closer, and as they passed an alley he struck.
The man died first, without ever realizing. Howard hit his neck with a swift and vicious stroke and the man fell like a tree. The woman turned, starting a scream, but he blocked her mouth and pulled her into the alley.
He threw her to the ground and pulled her skirt over her head, holding it there and kneeling on her stomach. She screamed but the sound was muffled and faint from under her skirt and no one heard.
Howard held her down and slowly and competently removed her sex. She twisted and jerked and screamed louder and fought against him, but he had the strength of the mad and she was helpless.
And very soon she was dead.
Then he dragged the man's body into the alley and removed his pants. He also removed his manhood, holding it up with one hand and cutting with several swift slashes.
And then he pulled the skirt from her face. Looking at her, her mouth open in agony, he was reminded of the time that his sister had put her mouth on him. It enraged him. He slashed her lips apart so that there was room and stuffed his grisly burden into her mouth. That gave him a strange satisfaction, a release.
He felt very good about this.
It was time to avenge again.
Howard Cluette ate a light dinner of scrambled eggs and took a shower. Then he dressed in his black clothes. They consisted of slacks and a shirt and a topcoat that looked almost like a cape when it was worn open in front. He also wore black gloves and a black hat.
He admired himself in the mirror and thought that he looked very good for the task at hand. He wondered if people appreciated the job that he was doing, the single-handed effort to stamp out sins of lust. He had read all the papers, and none of them seemed to realize that he was merely fighting sin. But then newspapers seldom realized anything. Someday he would announce his reasons to the world, he thought. Someday soon, perhaps.
But first he had work to do...
Howard Cluette didn't go to the park again. He had seen the police officers walking in twos along the black-topped walks under the nighttime glare of the lamps. He had seen the policemen stupidly dressed as decoys, as if they could fool him. He knew they were evil but their time would have to come later. He knew also that if they saw him, they would try and stop him and that would ruin everything. Yes, he knew better than to go again to the park.
He walked instead along some dirty dark streets toward the most heavily populated section of the city. He wasn't quite sure whether he was heading in the right direction, but the sounds of the city seemed to grow louder as he walked and something told him that this was the right way. He was glad he hadn't come across any people along the way, and he hoped that this maze of alleys wouldn't take him right out onto a bright, busy street. If it did, it would be impossible to do what he had to do. And he had to do it. It was important. The need was too obvious to ignore.
That very afternoon he had gone to the poultry market to buy a dozen eggs. He returned home by a different route from the one he usually took, one that
took him past a row of several neighborhood bars.
Howard Cluette disliked bars of any sort, but these dingy little holes-in-the-wall started in him a loathing that was almost akin to physical illness. The very smell that wafted out from their open doors was nauseating.
As he was hurrying to get past them and away from their animal-like noises and smells, he collided with a woman who was lurching out onto the street from one of the doorways. She was gross, obese, with filth lining the folds of her skin. Her face was the picture of depravity, with little pig eyes squinted against the glare of the sun, huge freckles, and blotches on her face, absurdly painted lips and a beauty mark, of all things, on her lip. She also had red plastic flowers pinned in her grimy hair over her ears. When she had recovered her balance, she had shown the black stumps of her rotted teeth in an evil grimace and had staggered and swayed homeward.
Howard Cluette followed at a safe distance and saw her turn in at a large and ramshackle tenement house. One of the railings was missing from the stoop and the bottom step was gone. He had seen her mount the steps to the front door and then continue on upward to the second or third floor. It wouldn't be hard to find her again.
Now, walking along this dark alley, Howard wondered whether he should try to get her to come with him somewhere, if so, where, or whether he should try and find her room and wait for her there. It happened that the alley came to an end just before the first of the neighborhood bars he had passed in the afternoon. He was very pleased with his innate sense of direction and crossed the street to the other side where it was darker
and where trash cans and large cardboard cartons made it difficult to see anyone walking behind them distinctly. Howard took his time, going slowly, looking into each of the bars as he passed it. In the fourth one he found what he was looking for. There she was, her slatternly hips enveloping a barstool. "Sister of Satan," he hissed, "Daughter of Hell, embodiment of Evil, I shall rid the world of you." He took great pleasure in saying these words. It was like a religious chant, like preparing the offering for the altar, so to speak. And he said it again as he walked quickly to the tenement where the woman lived.
He went up the steps quietly in the dark and thanked the unknown boys who had shot out the streetlight in front of the building. The front door was propped open by a large rock and he entered and stood listening for a moment. He could hear a television going in one of the apartments, and a baby was crying somewhere near. He went to the space under the stairwell, past which anyone who entered would have to walk, and stood in the dark and waited.
He didn't mind waiting. He felt very calm as he crouched in the corner. Sooner or later the sinner would have to return home. And then...
She arrived after Howard had been waiting for little more than an hour. He heard her wheeze up the front steps and then her bulky form was visible at the door. Howard's heart began to thump with the rage of the righteous, and the razor felt cold in his hand.
It was still quite early, and many people would be awake, but he didn't think of this, concentrating on the task at hand. The woman was drunk, and she staggered
as she approached the stairs. That was why she had arrived home early, completely drunk by this time. She deserved to die.
As she drew abreast of him Howard stepped out beside her and threw one arm around her neck. He pulled her back into the shadows. But she was amazingly strong, and tore his arm away with a grunt, trying to get free. Howard brought the razor to her throat, but she seized his arm and held it from her. And she suddenly realized, and a piercing scream arose from her, echoing through the hall.
Howard desperately tore his arm free and tried to strike her. She grabbed again, but this time her pudgy fingers closed on the naked blade. She held it as Howard forced it toward her, cutting through her hand and trying to reach her throat. She kept screaming and struggling and from somewhere up the dark stairs a voice asked what the hell was going on and footsteps came to the stairs.
Then the blade was free, and at her throat. She made another attempt to seize it with her mangled hand but it was too late. Howard forced it into her flesh, holding her hair with his other hand. The last scream ended in a bubbling gurgle.
As the massive body slumped in his grip, Howard heard the man coming. He pushed her away and turned to run, but someone else was at the front door. The woman's screams had roused the neighborhood.
"It's the maniac!" the man on the stairs shouted suddenly, peering into the gloom. "He's killed Marion Wilson! Don't let him get away!"
Howard bolted for the door. But the man there was big, a brute of a man in a flannel shirt. He set his feet and waited, and when Howard slashed out with the razor the man parried the stroke and hit Howard at the temple. Howard staggered back, and the other man grabbed him from behind. His razor was ripped from his hand. Everything seemed very unreal to him then. These people hated him, he knew. They didn't realize that he was only ridding the world of sin. He opened his mouth to explain, but a huge fist crashed against it and he felt his teeth yield under the blow. Another blow hit him in the stomach, and he was dimly aware of the sounds of many people running toward him. "Get the cops!"
"The hell with the cops! We know what to do with this butcher!"
"Kill the louse!"
"Here's his razor! Use the razor on him!"
Howard was on his knees, dizzy, injured. He was clutching his stomach and spitting out teeth. Someone kicked him in the ear and someone else kicked him in the kidneys. Then the razor burned across his eyes, blinding him. They were going to kill him, why didn't they understand? What was wrong with them?
"He murdered Marion!"
"Cut him!"
Someone was pulling his pants down. He was held to the floor, helpless. The mob kicked at him and ripped at him, tearing him limb from limb. Whoever had the razor waited until his pants were down, and then slashed at him, cutting him apart. Howard screamed in agony through his bloody lips and his sightless eyes tried to open wide. And the mob surged about, cursing and screaming and striking.
They literally tore Howard Cluette apart. The police, arriving minutes later, had to remove the body in pieces.
But no charges were pressed against the men who had killed him.
* * *
He looked at me with a self-satisfied smile. "Well?"
"It had it's points," I said.
"Which one did you like best?"
"Walter Glass, I think. You don't really get to hear very many good sadist stories any more."
"I agree. Perhaps you'd like to use that one in one of your books."
"Oh, I don't think so," I said. "Thanks anyway but I've got almost more stories than I can use right now."
"As you like. But it's yours if you care to have it. Any time."
"No plagiarism nonsense or anything like that connected with it?" I asked warily.
"No. I haven't even copyrighted my tales."
"That's good. Publishing is a tricky business and - well I don't suppose I have to tell you."
"No, indeed," he said. "We have our share of publishers down there, too."
"All as it should be," I said.
He smiled. The subway tunnel seemed to have grown very damp and morbid. I looked around and saw that we were still the only people around. I peered down the darkness of the track again. Nothing.
"Well," I said, a trifle nervously, "guess I'll be running along. It doesn't look like there's a train coming."
"No, I wouldn't think so," he said. "They've closed this section of the track tonight. For repairs."
"I didn't see any sign," I said.
"Oh, I removed that, just before you entered," he said.
"But I thought you said you were waiting for a train, too?"
"Oh, I am," he said. "And here it comes now."
An express screamed by and squealed to a stop in a splatter of steel and trembling metal. The doors snapped open.
"I wouldn't get on this one if I were you," the Devil said with a smile. "It's not going your way just yet."
I looked at the train. At the window I saw white faces with dark sightless eyes staring back at me.
"See you again soon," the Devil said and moved toward the door.
"Yeah, sure." I waved feebly.
"And if you want to use my stories, go right ahead. You might call the book Lust Feast." He laughed as the doors closed and the train tore away into the blackness trailing a faint odor of sulphur.
I turned up the collar of my raincoat and trudged up the stairs to the street. At the entrance, I had to climb over a chain from which hung a sign reading CLOSED.
Lust Feast, I thought walking off into the rain. Really! The biggest sin of Satan was that he was a lousy practical joker.
And I hailed a cab to take me to the girl with the large breasts.
