It was time for the annual teacher's convention, attended by people whose professions dictated the damming up of their own emotions during the rest of the year, people whose needs and constricted desires demanded release in the strange town, a new area where no accusing fingers could be pointed-they thought. And while these pigeons hit the town hard, swallowed record quantities of booze and dragged one another off to the private confines of hotel rooms, Gordon Berry and Travis Nelson were readying their equipment for another season. Adventurous photographers that they were, the pair had recorded some of the most flagrantly shameful acts of bizarre abandon -it happened every year at the convention. And it made them rich men. In their book, The Swinging Set, William and Jerrye Breedlove write: "Approximately five million couples in the U.S. have at one time or another mutually agreed to exchange partners . . . Furthermore, one out of every ten married couples under age 35 will participate (or have participated) in spouse swapping." And the convention bore this out too well . . .
CHAPTER ONE
Shortly after 6:00 P.M. some of the fist conventioneers began to arrive at the Bentley Arms, Fort Duquesne's biggest and most popular convention hotel.
These early arrivals came from those cities closest to Fort Duquesne, from places like St. John, Rayburn, Kingston Croix Falls. All within a 60 to 70-mile radius, the teachers - eager beavers with varied reasons for bombing in a night early - most obviously having checked out of their respective schools at 4 p.m. sharp, having made a direct beeline for Convention City, with lustful thoughts.
As if, by arriving late, they might miss some vital, never-to-be-recaptured adventure.
Mostly they came in pairs, shared rooms to keep down expenses, males and females alike. Being of that subdued rabbit-like ilk, the companionship of another kindred soul gave them sense of security, lulled them. And for the women - sense of respectability, of token chaperonage. They came with glowing excited faces, the women with far more clothes than they'd need for a three-day convention; they came with anticipation, with a holiday aura, hanging heavily about them.
They came from as near as ten blocks away, from as far away as 300 miles. From the Fort Duquesne suburb of Crown Point. From the northern-most port city of Westmoreland. They came from Haverhill, from Princeton, from Salina. They came from prosaic sounding towns like Helen, Pringleville, Nobtown. They came from such exotic places as Portage Royale, Princess Ann, Presque Isle, Mad Anthony. They came from North, South, East and West.
They came 11,000 strong.
They came for the annual State Teacher's Convention, the one last professional blast before they sat down for the eight-week grind preceding the Christmas recess. It was a grueling interim, an unappetizing prospect. One that called for a definite kicking-up-of-heels, a gathering of resources, of pleasant (even slightly risque) memories for the long haul ahead, perhaps thoughts of warm thighs and wild abandon.
By 8:00 all the Wednesday night arrivals from a 200-mile radius had arrived.
By 10:00 teachers from as far north as Mount Holston, Cyrus and Bad Creek had checked in.
Already the lobby, the bar and coffee shop of the Bentley Arms was taking on a festive atmosphere.
Tonight was private showing, a preview of corning attractions. They had stolen a march on the more massive contingent of their educational colleagues who would clog all highways leading into Fort Duquesne from 7 a.m. on tomorrow, the uninspired laggards who would squeak in for the beginning of the general session at 9:00.
Such dedication, such diligence certainly shouldn't go unrewarded.
Thus, by 10:00 this Wednesday night - The cavernous, dimly lit cocktail lounge was a shrill babble of voices; the room was wreathed in choking cigarette smoke. The drinkers were lined three deep along the length of the hundred-foot bar.
The teachers. High school. Intermediate. Primary. Kindergarten. All renewing friendships, letting off steam, their eyes darting, men and women alike appraising, speculating, zeroing in on most likely victims, sex a dominating thought.
And here and there, intermixed with the still-shop-talking tribe - The salesmen, the operators, the free agents who were at the Bentley Arms on purpose, who made annual point of being in Fort Duquesne this first weekend in November.
The parasites, the opportunists, the vultures.
Winks were exchanged, smug, secret smiles sent across the room.
Smiles that said this convention was going to be a beaut. A darb. A swinging affair.
A blast.
Things were shaping up splendidly. Fine, just fine.
* * *
In room 322 of the 1000-room, ten-story hotel, two females were busily unpacking, hanging dresses, shaking folds from skirts and blouses, shoveling lingerie, hose, shoes into dresser drawers, arranging make-up, perfumes, ointments, cosmetics of every kind on dresser tops and vanities.
They were direct opposites, hardly the type one would have expected to share a room, attend a convention together. One an ing�nue, glowingly innocent, the other a woman in her mid-thirties, experienced, jaded by lust, afflicted of a singular malaise.
The fact was that they both taught at Fremont High, they were both in the English department of the Bay City school. They had that kinship, that rapport. When talk of convention had arisen early in September Shana hadn't hesitated a moment at Estee's suggestion that they take a room together, take in the doings as a team.
Shana Hanrahan was 23, was in her second year of teaching. She was a lovely brunette, her smile timid, her pixy face charmingly round, her fine hair hanging in artfully disheveled strands about her lovely face, complimenting the darkness of her eyes, the whiteness of her perfect teeth, her peaches-and-cream complexion.
And though she was a petite woman, there was still marked sign of that sexuality that draws men like flies, an eye-catching tightness at the bodice of the smocked dress she wore, a strain of provocative ebullience at hips and buttocks that filled out even the chemise-type gown. Her legs were exciting, thin at the ankle, flaring at the calves, lithe in the thighs, giving her, when she walked, a panther-like grace, a seductive lope and slide.
Yet, despite the seeming chrome-plating of innocence, something mysterious, a dark, awful secret glowed in those eyes at off guard moments. A mystery her friend Estee Courtnay decidedly wanted to fathom.
"Do you want to go down afterward?" Estee asked now, stuffing her suitcase into the closet. "Maybe a nightcap?"
"Tell you later," Shana smiled. "After I've showered. I'm pretty beat. I'm not used to driving all that distance. We pushed pretty hard. Though why, I don't know. Maybe I'll just turn in."
"Anything you say, Shana," Estee said. "It was just a thought. I'm tired too. We should be fresh for tomorrow."
The woman who smiled so stiffly at her roommate, whose eyes reflected sudden longing as she saw Shana unzip her dress, begin to peel it away, was 36, a smallish, smartly tailored specimen. Though as tall as Shana, her body gave illusion of stockiness. The wool suit she wore made her look boxy, slightly masculine. It was a fleeting observation, for Estee was epitome of fashionable, total female, from the top of her exquisitely coif fed head to the tips of her smart, wedge-toed, imported pumps.
Her hair was purposely grizzled, the streaks of white emphasizing her soft, understated beauty. Her mouth was generous, a sensuous tilt to it when she smiled. Her eyes were frank, penetrating, conferred a benign caress when they regarded a favored someone, as they were doing at this moment.
Her body was trim, sexy. This despite the fact that her breasts were small, her hips slightly on the flat side. But she had good legs, and she knew how to keynote her good points.
She was, so far as Shana was concerned, the best friend a newcomer to teaching could ever have.
Perhaps there was more than friendship here. Shana couldn't see it however. For her back was to Estee now. As she stepped out of her panties, kicked them gracefully into a pile with her slip, girdle, hosiery and brassiere. As she waggled innocently toward the bathroom.
Estee watched from an upholstered chair, her eyes gleaming, her face drawn into a pained grimace. Her fingers formed talons, clawed the chair's arm mercilessly.
* * *
In room 492 an almost similar scene was taking place. As a girl named Vernelle Sprague - Mrs. Keith Sprague - recently emerged from the shower, now robed herself before the admiring eyes of her roommate, a decided innocent named Dawn Riggs.
It was an adoration Vernelle vaguely enjoyed, and she posed and flexed her body boldly, took prolonged time with her dressing, tightened her stockings, dropped her breasts into her brassiere, slid her hands lovingly over her sex-cat body in near narcissist intent She was a tall blonde, very buxom, her hips wide and voluptuous, her waist narrowing in cunning taunt. Her sabre-toed pumps, black patent with skyliner heels, enhanced the taper and swell of her lovely legs.
In male parlance this was make-out material. This was boudoir-bait, a girl put on earth for but one purpose.
One had but to look into her blue eyes, see the lewd (and eternal) invitation there - a dare almost - and her true nature was revealed. This was stuff. With a capital S.
The face was beautiful, the lips lush. The nose was thin, aquiline, the brows flared in an exciting arch. But it was the mischief of those eyes the amoral twist of that mouth that was dead giveaway.
Vernelle Sprague was 29, and she was married; she taught school as a diversion rather than a vocation. By taking care of other peoples' kids she justified the fact that she wouldn't give her husband any of his own. Plus the fact that this gave her excuse to get away from abhorrent housekeeping chores, gave her operating room, constant ways to get away from home, from Keith's suffocating surveillance. Not to mention the fact that her $5500 salary allowed her the female paraphernalia her striving, accountant husband couldn't, as yet, afford to buy for her.
Pretties like the attention-drawing mink coat she'd worn to the convention. Like the sexy, French lingerie she modeled at that moment for her awestruck roomie. Which, besides being pretty, pumping up her ego, served other practical purposes besides. For if her lovely face, her body didn't serve to drive her male victims out of their minds, black lace never failed.
"Those are beautiful things," the green-as-grass Dawn Riggs sighed now. "I'd never dare wear lingerie like that. I'd feel evil."
Vernelle giggled. "Dummy. That's the way they're supposed to make you feel. You get a tingle so deep it makes you want to howl at the moon. And if it does that to you, imagine what it does to a man."
"Your husband, you mean? I should think he couldn't leave you alone for a minute."
"No, honey," Vernelle leered. "Not my husband. He never gets to see these things. I wear white for him. Very plain, very tattered. This is special." Her eyes locked with Dawn's, made the child blush.
"Then you were serious," Dawn faltered. "All that stuff you said ... as we drove in. You meant it. You really intend to ... "
"That's right, honey. I intend to swing. A different guy every night. Starting tonight. If I didn't have these conventions every year, if I couldn't let off steam..." She shuddered, let her hands slide down her belly, clutch herself. "I'd flip. Honest to God, I would. I'd go out of my cot ton-picking mind."
"Vernelle," Dawn cautioned, "you shouldn't talk like that. It's wrong to even think ..."
"Wrong? What'n hell's wrong about it? Kid, you've got lots and lots to learn. If men have got needs, if they like to spread the wealth around, what makes you think women haven't? Lord, sometimes I ache so bad I could claw the walls. And starting tonight..."
She posed herself more lasciviously, let her back bend in a mean arc, splayed her black-glossed legs in a sexy pose. "What say you come along, baby? We'll make a double date out of it. If you haven't tried the he-she bit yet, it's long past time. I'll teach you everything you need to know."
The tiny, somewhat pudgy redhead flushed even more furiously. The color did things for her, imbued her with a transient vivacity. Her eyes glistened with unbidden excitement, a sensation she couldn't identify swirled deep in her body. For that moment the plain, self-conscious girl came alive, looked actually pretty.
Dawn Riggs was 22, was a bedazzled, groping child, in her first year of teaching. Both of them employed in the primary department, Dawn teaching first, Vernelle third grade, it had been her misfortune (or good fortune, all things being relative) to become Vernelle Sprague's friend. And though the married woman shocked her at times with bawdy comments, she'd thought her leg was merely being pulled.
But tonight, living proof - Vernelle jiggled a knee impatiently. "C'mon, baby, say yes. We'll go cruising together. I'll teach you how to slap on the make-up; I'll tell you what to say. We'll gussy you up in one of your sexiest dresses..."
Dawn rubbed her face in a nervous mannerism, her color subsided slightly. "I couldn't, Vernelle. I'm not that kind of girl. I've never . . . with a man... I'd die."
"You cutting me down or something, honey? What's this that kind of girl junk? We're all that kind of girl. Only most of us are too chicken to admit it, to level with ourselves."
"Please, Vernelle, I wish you'd quit that kind of talk. If that's what you want, the way you want to act... "
"Stow it, Dawn. I don't buy it. What I want? The way I want to act? You know just as well as I do that you've got the hots right now. You're steaming your undies this very minute. You say you don't want it, but you do. I know you do. That's the trouble with the whole human race. We're all a bunch of hypocrites."
She turned abruptly, picked up a daring, black, sequined gown from the bed. Not bothering with a slip, she slithered it over her head, formed it to her hips. Shortly, after checking her hair and make-up a last time, the mink draped over her shoulders, she was ready to leave.
"Maybe next time, Dawn," she taunted at the door. "Think it over. I'll teach you the ropes from A to Z. You'll learn more from me in one night than you'll ever learn in a lifetime of trial and error." She waved insolently. "Night-night, baby. Don't wait up."
Her salacious giggle hung in the air long after Vernelle departed. And sitting on the bed wringing her hands, Dawn Riggs wondered at the strange impatience possessing her now, the alien heat that suffused her.
In room 712 another female exchange, a last minute primping was taking place. But this time there was a difference of sorts. In that both of the women were older, both more conservatively dressed, both seemingly stamped from the same mold. One female wore a robe, the other pulled on a wool knit suit, red, body hugging, buttock emphasizing.
The body the suit hugged was still in prime condition considering the mental attitudes, the resignations governing its owner. She was Faye Silver, 39, a principal at Kellerman Elementary School, one of Lock-haven's biggest plants. Kellerman located in an elite area, drawing upon children from that city's most influential families, hers was a prestige school, a prestige position. In direct commensuration to the importance of that principalship was Miss Silvers' $9,800 salary.
Which was, in essence, what was going through her mind at this very moment, warring with other drastically more elemental emotions. Fool, she lashed herself. Have you no principles, no decency? If you can't look at this from a moral viewpoint, look at it from a practical one. If word of this ever got out, how long would your precious job last? A scandal like this would ruin you!
Still her fingers tremblingly buttoned the front of that clinging, expensive suit, they secured zippers, touched at her dark (rinsed) hair. Still evaluated herself in the dresser mirror, thought how attractive she looked tonight. The devil has devious weapons, she castigated. Any other time she'd have looked tired, her hair would have been dry and brittle, her face would have showed the lines. But tonight, dark determination rampaging inside her brain - "I don't understand," her roommate reproved, "why you have to go out. You said you were tired. I should think you'd want to get to bed early."
"Please, Miriam. I'm a big girl now. I can take care of myself. I just have to get out, have a little drink. I haven't been sleeping well lately."
"Why don't you call down, have something sent up?"
"Stop fretting, will you, Miriam? It wouldn't be the same. Just seeing people, maybe bumping into somebody I know, will help. Really, I didn't ask you to come along because I needed a chaperone."
Which was a blatant lie. For this was exactly why Faye Silver had chosen Miriam. Perhaps the dour, prissy woman would have inhibiting influence, her mere presence might be enough to keep her under control.
"Well," Miriam Timm sniffed, "I just don't understand. If you were one of those young, flashy tramps, I could see. But you're not. You're a mature, responsible woman. A woman with a reputation to maintain. I swear these conventions get to be more scandalous every year. The way some of our new teachers act. Like chippies. I saw one as I came in. Hanging on a man's arm, going up in the elevator with him already. Hussies, all of them."
Faye smiled indulgently at Miriam, felt a warm glow of affection for the Puritanical old maid. She was sweet. And yet as much an innocent as some of the twenty-year-old girls she now knocked. She wondered how the maiden lady would act if a man ever once moved in, really applied pressure. "Surely," she said, "you don't compare me with them?"
"Of course not. Just an observation. The name those trollops are giving the profession."
Faye studied Miriam, took in the shroud like robe, a severe flannel thing that covered her from throat to ankles. She appraised that lined, leathery face, wondered that Miriam didn't take more pains with her grooming. She was 48, but looked more like 58. The tawny hair was unkempt, coarse, her brows in need of attention. A good cream would help her complexion.
And yet, she admitted, given time and attention, Miriam could be an attractive, chic woman. She could stand to lose ten pounds. She had good bones, her breasts were still firm and high beneath the baggy dresses she chose, her hips had a disconcertingly sassy bounce, her legs were attractive. She wished Miriam weren't so set in her ways, that she'd entrust herself to Toni, her favorite operator at the Lockhaven Beauty Salon. Toni could transform Miriam in an afternoon.
Then, she concluded, let's see just how prudish the old dear would be!
Once again Faye's eyes slid to the mirror; she appraised her reflection, marveled at her skin tone, at the tautness of her body, at the way the red suit flattered, made her look years younger. An erotic question formed in her head. Try to rout it as she did, she could not.
You were going to be strong this time; you weren't going to let yourself go, let things go out of control like last year. Talk about near escapes! And now, less than two hours in Fort Duquesne - Tart, she lashed. Unmitigated tramp.
But it was like shouting against the roar of the sea. The words disintegrated, slid off like so much oil.
And she was a creature without will, without conscience.
There was only that primordial drive.
She paused at the door, sucked in deep, rapid breaths in effort to slow her hammering heart. "Don't worry, Miriam," she said. "I won't be long. Just one drink maybe two. And I'll be back."
"Should I wait for you, dear?"
"That's not necessary. Like I said, I'm a big girl now. If anyone carries me off, it's my own fault."
Miriam Timm smiled a strange smile, rose, went into the bathroom. Faye Silver wasn't gone five minutes before the woman climbed into bed, turned out the bedside lamp. Two minutes later she was sleeping the sleep of the dead.
* * *
Room 820 wasn't really a room. It was a suite consisting of a kitchenette, large sitting room, ample bath and two bedrooms. By day it was a spacious, airy room, had large picture windows that looked across Fort Duquesne, gave a splendid view of the river and the lake in the distance. It rented at $40 a day, and the only thing more expensive were the penthouse apartments on the tenth floor. A rent which was negligible so far as its occupants were concerned; it could easily be deducted as business expense.
That is if Travis Nelson and Gordon Berry had ever bothered to file an income tax form during these past two years. Which, of course, they hadn't.
For their business was extremely amorphous, to say the least.
At this particular moment the two men, both in their early thirties, both handsome, rugged, in perfect physical shape, both exuding an irresistible male magnetism- more tools of their unsavory trade - were making last minute adjustments in their suite, were checking integral additions to its decor.
Things like the expensive, tripod-mounted camera they'd installed in one of the bedroom closets. Refinements like the fake photo murals they hung on the wall, murals back lighted by a light bulb at certain moments, back lighted by ultra-violet floodlights at other, even more crucial moments.
They checked their installation in the sitting room, in the closet to one side. Where a hole had been drilled in one of the doors for a camera lens to poke through. Which hole was cleverly concealed by a decorative cast metal coat of arms. A coat of arms that would tilt aside when there was need of peephole for either a daylight or infrared camera. Again two other photo murals were expertly positioned upon the sitting room walls.
"That should about do it, Trav," Gordon Berry said. He was the bigger of the men, stood perhaps six-two, was broad-shouldered, something of a fanatic when it came to the body-beautiful. His hair was cropped short, a silver blond patch that enhanced his bronzed complexion, made his crystalline blue eyes gleam with the fascination of a Siamese cat's. Small wonder he could number his female conquests in the hundreds.
"Good job," the man called Travis Nelson replied. "I always love this place. Everything's arranged so conveniently. When I think of some of those dogs we run into out west. Those architects. The way they skimp.
I'd sure's hell hate to be their wives."
"You wanna try the meter on those cameras?"
"I already did. This afternoon. While you were putting that divorcee in three-eighty through her paces. How'd it go? She softened up?"
"Tomorrow we make the kill. Got a lunch date with little Sonja. She'll never know what hit her? How about you? You gonna promote tonight? I'd just as soon lay low. So when I get Sonja on that bed she'll go right out of her mind.
"Going down in a minute," the man named Travis Nelson said. "Gotta get a pigeon fast. If we're going to con our quota this convention. God, talk about taking candy from babies. You confirm those reservations in Indianapolis for next weekend? What is it, anyway? One of those Women Service League go-go's?"
"Civic Clubs of America. That one'll be a real pushover. You'd think bags as old as that would know better. But they never do. They make a religion out of fooling themselves."
"How about our bookings? I think we've earned a vacation."
"We're booked a year ahead. Man, if you're going to crack these things, you've got to think ahead. I've already got us set for the Bentley Arms for next November. We hit the Ohio State Teachers Convention in October. Drag, drag."
The man speaking was a six-footer. But no bull, like his partner. Instead he was on the thin, gaunt side, his face tragic, his eyes dark, penetrating. He was a pretty boy type - something on the order of Geroge Chakiris - his black hair was worn long, with a wavy pompadour, medium length sideburns. Soulful sadness burned in his black eyes.
"What about a break?" Berry persisted. "When you have to make work out of sex..."
"Christmas we'll go south, scan the Miami Beach scene. Mix business with pleasure. There are always patsies in Miami Beach. God, how anything as dumb as women can wrap men around their fingers ..."
"If the men of America only knew what we know about their sweet, faithful wives. If they knew how wild they go when they latch onto strange stuff. Most of them don't put out once a month back home. But just let the tramps take things on the road. Saps, saps," he commiserated. "The American husband."
"Don't knock it. If they were any smarter we'd be out of business. Can't put the screws to a broad who doesn't care whether Daddy knows or not." Travis Nelson slipped on an expensive sport jacket. "You ready to go down? That bar's just crawling with pigeons. All of them begging to be taken."
They paused at the door, checked each other's appearance. "You got the signals straight? I wipe my forehead with my handkerchief, that means I'm gonna score. You make tracks, see what you can get."
"Check, Trav. Happy hunting." And as afterthought: "Try to think of it as pleasure, pal. Instead of work. That's the only consolation we have."
Berry chuckled sarcastically at his own joke.
Then they both started down to the hotel bar.
CHAPTER TWO
The Bentley Arms Hotel's Old English Room was jumping. And where one might expect the crowds to diminish as the night wore on and the staid teachers of America caved in, went beddy-bye, the direct opposite was the case. If anything the crowd was noisier, the smoke that much more suffocating, the din of chatter and juke box deafening.
The scene transpiring in the quaintly decorated cocktail lounge was something just this side of a bacchanal. The orange-glowing lanterns on the dark walls, the heavy beams overhead, the maple furniture, provided a cozy atmosphere, invited intimacies of all kinds, including sex. Whether they be conversational slips that 22 would prove embarrassing in days to come, or physical slips that could change the world for any and all participants.
Many of the younger teachers, male and female alike, persons only recently introduced to the joys (and pitfalls) of alcoholic consumption, were already making fools of themselves. At tables, in booths, at the bar itself. In many of the booths men and women who'd been strangers brief hours ago, were now wound up in shadowy tangle, kissing, caressing, initiating and allowing other intimacies beneath the table.
There were stealthy knee drills at the bar, with fingers sliding skirts against nylon, fingers invading the sanctuary of those skirts in the opaque gloom. Not to mention the more brazen pressures some of the steamy females conferred. Wherein the male's knee disappeared from sight, was camouflaged with carefully draped skirts, was given intimate embrace.
And everywhere, among those still in control, a studied preoccupation, a pretense of not noticing exactly what was going on in this warm-up room. But as more and more couples rose, pretended casuality as they skulked from the lounge, headed upstairs, pretense slipped badly.
All of which a man named Steve Novak, patiently biding his time, nursing a Rob Roy, took in with quiet glee. His time of day, he gloated. Any minute now and the right number would ankle through that door. And when he saw the girl he wanted he'd move in.
It was as simple as that. For Steve Novak was a supremely confident hunk of male animal; he hadn't the least doubt in the world that he could score with any female on God's green earth. Indeed, he had an enviable tally in his 25 years of raising dust on this crazy, lopsided squash of ours.
Steve Novak had conquered his first girl when he was fifteen; she was an eighteen-year-old cousin he'd caught in her bedroom one hot July afternoon. She'd fought at first, had protested mightily. But as he'd persisted, had worn down her resistance, had stolen her virginity- She'd never protested again, had made herself available from then on, had become an insatiable drag.
He'd been relieved when she'd gone off to college, had undoubtedly found herself a steady stud there, had never availed herself of his services again.
By the time he was twenty he had tumbled 25 different girls. A dozen virgins had been among them.
From the time of twenty on, the act of conquering new females losing its original importance, he lost count. There had been a girl named Gloria during his sophomore year at the university who he'd got hung up on; her interference had cut down what otherwise would have been a fantastic record. Had it not been for Gloria he most certainly would doubled the hundred-odd seductions he conservatively credited himself with.
Steve Novak was a supremely confident hunk of male animal.
And tonight, having arrived early at convention for exactly that purpose, having reserved a single room for himself since way last June, he was hurting. He wanted a woman.
But not really a woman. Many women. Like, maybe, a different woman every night.
The man who so arrogantly surveyed possibilities was not a large man as Lotharios go. He stood perhaps five-ten, was lean, somewhat on the willowy side. His face was not rugged, or especially handsome. If any word could be used to describe it, that word might be effete. His lips were almost feminine, his eyes oval, darkly lashed. His hair was sandy, worn in an affected cowlick over his forehead.
Yet he was hard as nails, a dedicated sportsman. This despite his sedentary calling as English instructor at Lakeland High, a large, modern school located in Covington, a city of some 10,000 inhabitants. A scarcity of population which badly cramped his amatory style. For a roving lover needs one facet of natural coloring more than any other: Anonymity.
And anonymity is hard to come by in small cities like Covington. Thus his weekly weekend jaunts to Tremayne, Lorin, Deerfield, all surrounding cities of 40,000 population or more. Thus his escape to New York during the summers, his impatience for teachers' convention time to roll around.
For if a man is to succeed in his chosen profession, if he is to avoid the strangling bonds of matrimony - He is obliged to be fleet of foot, run cool.
Which was what Steve was doing tonight.
Now he straightened. A faint, cocksure smile formed on his lips. As he saw the ripe-for-plucking blonde saunter into the bar. The blonde named Vernelle Sprague. She paused momentarily, let her eyes sweep the room, seek a place. He recognized her instinctively for what she was, saw that she was not looking so much for location as she was for interesting company.
He shrugged inwardly. No challenge really. Undoubtedly badly shopworn. An exercise. But for openers, to get his holiday off to a flying start - His eyes locked with Vernelle's, he pasted a thin, condescending smile on his lips, stared her down. And when her eyes came up again: He beckoned her indolently, indicated the empty stool beside him.
Like a woman suddenly mesmerized, her breasts suddenly rising and falling in uncontrollable excitement, Vernelle Sprague all but groped her way through the room, walked like a robot toward the fascinating man.
* * *
At the opposite end of the bar - worlds away in reality - Miss Faye Silver sat hunched over her brandy Manhattan, stared sullenly at her reflection in the mirror. Her mind was a turmoil as she attempted to rationalize the animal weakness gripping her. As she fought to keep her eyes from flitting speculatively around the lounge.
Her hand trembled, direct evidence of her mounting need, and she gripped her glass hard. What is it with you, Faye? she scolded. Why this fever, why this nagging, unquenchable need? Man. Dear God, I need a man! I thought this time I'd be strong, I'd be - Her thoughts skipped a cog, she found herself mentally transplanted to Lockhaven. Why then? she accused. Why don't you get a man? At home? Why don't you accept some of those invitations, why won't you date men like Clint Holliman, men like Bill Marker? Why can't you even consider marrying a man, legalizing your rotten lust?
The castigations became even more bitter. Why, damn you? God knows you've had a dozen chances to get married. Yet you've turned every offer down. You aren't getting any younger you know. One of these days even Clint and Bill will get tired of waiting. She seemingly curdled inside to recall the respectful, obsequious way these loyal swains treated her.
Again she cursed. If they only knew! They think I'm clean and pure; they think I'm a virgin. Oh! If they even suspected what kind of tramp I am!
Her thoughts veered anew. She thought of her parents. Of the rotten shambles they'd made of their lives. And of hers as well. She remembered stinking poverty; she remembered the eternal yearning for security, for stability. She recalled how, from her earliest beginning, she'd been determined to succeed, to climb above this hand-to-mouth living, above this eternal drunkenness, this animal existence.
The bartender brought her a second drink. She dug deeper into the hateful thoughts, reenvisioned that night her father had beaten her mother unconscious, had afterwards disappeared once and for all. She remembered how her mother had died two days later, not once coming out of her coma. She remembered her rootless life as a foster child.
There had been psychoanalysis. Her analyst had told her that her aversion to marriage was rooted in this grisly past, that it would take time, vast amounts of courage to conquer. Courage which she seemingly didn't possess. There was a bloc every time she considered marriage, every time she considered laying her hard-fought-for independence and security on the line for marriage's risky promise. Every time she thought of trusting her specious emotional stability to a man.
What if that man turned out to be like her father? What if he ruined her tidy, safe line the way her father had ruined her mother's?
Now Faye Silver rocked her head in helpless frustration. And yet, with all of this to guide and warn her- She needed a man. She needed a man's strength, his physical nearness and possession. She needed what a man could do for her. God! How she needed a man some of those madhouse nights in the solitude of her apartment! Those nights when nothing would help, when every artificial dodge failed her.
At least they'd served to keep her continent through that long year, had saved her from disaster. And she'd thought, little by little, that she was winning. That she'd risen above that drive. But no. For with each week that brought convention nearer, as she remembered the purgative excesses of past conventions - She'd fought to build a stony wall of resolve; she'd fought to preserve her decency, her very future. Knowing full well that all the time, beneath this temporal strength, a primitive fire simmered, would burst at first opportunity, consume her. Knowing full well that the first strange man, the first offer of anonymous, erotic liaison - She'd accept instantly, she'd flee with him to any dark corner. She'd exult, turn greedy, conscienceless. She'd wallow in that ecstasy, pursue it shamelessly, insatiably.
A stranger now appeared. In the person of the handsome, soulful-eyed Travis Nelson, who recognized a perfect patsy instantly. A patsy with much to lose if her peccadilloes should ever be exposed. "Hello there," he said softly, the proper amount of respect in his voice. "You look kind of lonesome sitting here by yourself. You mind if I talk to you? Perhaps I could buy you a drink."
Faye Silver started up from her reverie, stared at the handsome face, into those fathomless eyes. Instantly a tremor went down her spine. He was young, he was an opportunist looking for a cheap thrill. She clutched her hands in her lap to still their trembling. No matter. If he wanted her, even on those terms - "Yes," she said. "Talk ... of course. Thank you. I'd like another drink very much."
* * *
Vernelle Sprague stood shamelessly before Steve Novak, posed her semi-nude body for him even as she'd done for that dumb roomie of hers a short hour before. She felt a rising tide of excitement flood her as she saw the way his jaw tightened, as she saw the raw lust in his eyes. "You dig these undies?" she taunted.
His hands came out, he ran his fingers along her smooth, white waist, the contrast of cream and black silk hypoing his lust. He let his hand slither down the voluptuous swell of her hip, was glad she wore no girdle, only a matching black garter belt. "I dig," he sighed.
"Baby, I dig the most. You really know how to pop a man's skull."
"I aim to please," she slurred, coming even closer, letting him take in her perfume, the more heady fragrance of her warm, female body. She shivered at the way his hands slid on her hips, on her rear, down the back of her thighs, along her calves. In search of cool, she lifted her half tumbler of Scotch-on-the-rocks, drained another inch. "Is that all you aim to do, lover boy? Feel me up?"
Novak was slightly repulsed at her crudeness, hesitated briefly. Then: "Hardly, sugar-doll. I've got all kinds of wonderful plans for you."
"So? Like when? Time's a'wasting."
Now it was Novak's turn to slug down Scotch. Turning back to her, he began to calmly work the clasps at the back of her brassiere. "You asked for it, darling."
"Asked?" she hissed, arching her back in pagan enjoyment of his forthright approach. "I'm begging, lover."
The black wisp of silk drifted away, whispered its way down her arms, seemingly took a full minute to reach the floor. Her great, symmetrical breasts were bared in all their proud beauty, the nipples instantly hardened, stood like pink suns surrounded by coronas of hairline puckerings.
Vernelle shivered, brought her hands up, lazily, tauntingly caressed her breasts, massaged away the red lines, the itching.
But moved as he was, Steve Novak had a certain cool of his own to maintain. He stared at those glorious globes only a second. Then in an almost abstracted way, drew her to him, began to peel the spicy, lace-encrusted panties from her hips. He made a maddening rite out of working them down her legs, rubbing them along her nylons. He stole a quick kiss at that concavity of her knee, elicited a giggle from Vernelle.
Then, she standing in just the jet-black garter belt (a skimpy contraption of thin straps that cut into her flesh) in her black sheer hose, in the bewitching pumps, the tremors growing within her, goose-bumps splashing her body, he began kissing her in a deliberate, slow way. A way designed to make her moan with desire.
He half bent her to where he sat on the chair, he slithered his lips along the side of her breasts, let them careen downward, along her waist, to her hips. Along the flat terrain of her pelvis, down to her stocking tops. Now he started upward once more. But this time he stopped at that small bulge of her waist, let his lips skitter and slide and climb upon that plateau between hip and juncture of leg. A thing that made Vernelle sway and jitter, forced thick moans from her lips.
"Man," she gritted, "what kind of gig is that? You come on, cat. Like crazy. More, more. Ohhh ... I love that. I dig that, Dad."
He gave her only so much of the exotic kissing, refused to let the attention become commonplace. While his hands slid on her legs, came up to rumple that golden profusion, drew further hisses of delight from her.
Slowly he turned her before him, his hands playing her like a precision-tuned instrument, his arrogance growing by the second as the girl came completely unglued. "More goodies?" she asked as he began to caress the bouncing promontories of her buttocks. "Dear Lord, I never had a man go over me like this. Mostly it's with the looks. Then quick on the bed."
"You're complaining?" he said, moving his lips teasingly, ticklingly down her spine. Into that so sensitive concavity in the small of her back. His tongue darted at those dimples, his lips nipped softly, maddeningly.
And the wanton went completely to pieces, began to pant like an animal in heat. "Darling, darling," she chanted, even went so far as to bring his hands to that crisp delta herself, to guide him.
Then, as his kisses became more savage, his nippings mildly sadistic, triggering even greater lust and dark desires within her, she began to grind her hips, to yip softly. His hands were at her breasts now. Gentle one moment, cruel the next. His fingers tortured her nipples mercilessly, made them feel like hot cherries. Cherries being heated by a blow torch, on the verge of exploding.
Her voice was viscous. "God, baby," she husked. "What're you doing to me? I've never felt like this before. I... "
* * *
"What are you doing to me?" Faye Silver called in sibilant urgency. "Oh, Travis, I've never felt like this before. No man's ever been this good before. You are a lover, a complete lover..."
She was naked in the suite on the eighth floor, she was in the specially appointed bedroom. She was in the irresponsible throes of a scorching love. Shamelessly she twined her legs about Travis Nelson's hard, long body, she exulted in his minor brutality, at that dominance which is man's and man's alone. She gloried in the way his muscular body jutted and wrestled with hers, in the ease with which he moved her on the bed, arranged and adjusted her, placed pillows beneath her head. A unique sense of weakness, of helplessness pervaded.
A feeling she wouldn't have changed for the world. For at that moment she was helpless, cowering woman, dominated woman. Surrendering, all but pleading for more of the singular obedience.
Soon, oh soon! If he would only take her, force her, use her in that servile way she was meant to be used. If he would do those things to her that a man was supposed to do to a woman!
"Dearest, dearest," she sighed. "Oh, oh! I never ... never knew that could be so good. It's a thousand times better. Yes, more! All you want."
And she strained her body to accommodate him; she flung her head back on the pillow in a blissful swoon.
While in the closet, watching through the special lens, Gordon Berry all but chuckled aloud. Good, honey, he gloated. Throw the old head back. Give me a good shot of your face. And in a little while, when Trav really moves in on you - The camera clicked softly, its dooming trip unheard in the keening murmurs and rustlings, blotted out by the joyful singing in Faye's As Travis continued the novel adoration. Now his hands gathered her breasts even more compactly, his thumbs gently crowded her nipples even more closely together. Once again his mouth dropped, captured both nipples simultaneously, his tongue harried and tormented them nonstop. A torment that was not torment. But sheer delight.
Faye felt like someone was driving a long needle through her from skull to pelvis, was drawing a coarse thread back and forth through her body. It was a feeling she didn't want to have ended for the world.
In her extreme rapture, wanting to give something of herself in repayment she let her hand slither down his body. Gingerly and shyly at first. Then, as the delight became even greater, she forgot all remaining modesty; she searched for him, grasped him eagerly, caressed and manipulated him.
At which Nelson shifted his body, drew to one side, revealed to his assistant just what the sex-hungry wanton was doing now. In the closet Berry stifled another chuckle, clicked another picture. Women, he thought. If men really knew what they were like - And now Faye couldn't wait any longer. Her body throbbed, her legs jittered, fought to trap him to her. She felt she'd jump out of her skin if she had to wait any longer for his supreme gift. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, she raged. I've waited long enough. A whole year! A year in which I've thought of nothing else. Now, it has to be now!
With that she struggled, adjusted anew, caught Travis' head, drew it down to hers. She slammed her mouth to his, ground it savagely, actually tasted blood where her teeth had cut her inner lip. A low growl formed in her throat.
"Please," she gasped when she came up for air. "Now, my darling. Don't torment me any longer. I need you, I have to have you."
Travis Nelson fought to keep from laughing in the pathetic woman's face. He felt masterful, supreme. His male arrogance was a burning ball in the hollow of his chest. Judas, he thought to himself, these old bags are all the same. They've got a letch a yard wide; they come on like every one would be their last. The jerky kids who concentrate on young, pretty babes! They don't know what they're missing. When stuff like this is running around loose, just begging to be taken - He indulged himself in another conceit. One which he knew the women liked as well as he did. One that paid dividends both ways. "What do you need, precious?" he said. "What do you have to have?"
Faye was momentarily taken aback. Then she glimpsed what it was he wanted, knew a deranging lurch of lust deep in her bowels. "I want you, darling. I want that wonderful thing you can do for me."
"Tell me, Faye. Tell me exactly what you want. You know the words. You know you do. You don't have to act prissy with old Travis ..."
Her hands tightened, she fought to bring him to her, a gutteral cry grew in her throat. But he resisted her. "Damn you," she called. "Damn you. Don't tease me like this. I have to have you. Now! I can't wait."
"What do you have to have, honey?" he chuckled softly.
"I... have to have ..." She faltered. Then in a quick, pagan rush they tumbled out. She used the words. All of them. She launched into a wantons creed, embellished, improvised, chanted a lust-driven litany to his maleness.
And Travis came to her, savored the way her knees instantly steepled, the way her legs locked, the way her hands scrabbled to pilot him.
He drove himself to her with a slow, gentle thrust, let her assess and enjoy for what seemed an eternity. And as he was totally sheathed within her, as she felt that magnificent sense of ease, that completeness and comfort she'd sought so long, she began to sob. Soft, puppy like whines of gratitude and delight. "Oh," she called. "Oh, oh ... "
"Oh, oh... " Vernelle groaned at almost that selfsame moment. As, upon Steve Novak's bed, they wound up in that eternal male-female knot. She was drawing him to her, basking in that delicious presence. "You're a man, all man." Her nails dug into his back, her teeth nipped at his shoulder. As those degenerate people inside her began hacking her up with sharp knives, kept hooking her with needle sharp talons. "Yes, like that. Go, you devil, go!"
"Yes, darling," Faye choked. "Now, oh now! Take me, use me. Do what you want. Use me like the vile slut I am. Good, good. Hurt, oh hurt me. Travis, you monster! You magnificent monster!"
* * *
In room 322 Shana was having a hard time getting to sleep. It was now midnight, and though she'd retired at 11:00, she was still wide awake. She fervently wished she'd gone down for a drink after all. Perhaps that might have encouraged slumber.
She was thinking about Wayne again. But she didn't want to think about Wayne. Not tonight of all times. She couldn't help herself. She was a woman after all. And women, despite all the rotten things the world does to them, still have needs. Deep physical needs. They can't turn them off and on like a light bulb. They have the most damnable habit of taking over at the most inopportune of times.
But memory of Wayne, bittersweet and hurting as it might be, was better than that other sick thing. Even as she compared, the bestial thought struggled to break through, take charge. Shana knew that if that happened, she was lost; she'd never get to sleep tonight.
Thus she surrendered to her reverie of Wayne. And even though she knew she'd lost him forever, that he didn't love her any more, she at least had her memories. Now, as the other thing pressured to intrude again, reverberated like cat's claws against the drumhead of her mind, she forced herself to choose the most erotic, most dissolute of her love sessions; she imagined herself in bed with him again, doing all those mad, incredible things again.
All those things she'd done in the name of love. In the name of a love that had died months ago. But couldn't be forgotten.
"Wayne," she whispered to herself. "Why? I loved you so, I gave you all I had. Why, why ... ?"
She launched herself deeper into the sex fantasy, began to switch on the bed. Somewhere during that sad dream she finally dropped off.
Awake in the bed opposite Shana's, Estee Courtney heard the poor, haunted child finally drop off to sleep. And was vaguely relieved that she hadn't made a fool of herself, hadn't crept to Shana's bed, sought to comfort her. There was such a thing as discretion. And when the time was ripe she could make her move. But until then - Now Estee became agitated, began to tremble.
Please, she pleaded inwardly, if there is a God in heaven, make it happen soon. I don't know how much longer I can wait. I've loved this child; I've wanted her from the first day she came to Fremont. I've had no other, dreamed of no other. I could be good for Shana, I could make her happy.
If she'd only give me a chance, I'd take care of her, protect her. I'd devote my life to making her happy. The pain in her heart was excruciating. She wanted to sob aloud. Shana, my sweet baby. Someday, let me love you, let me keep you safe - Her thoughts revolved. Now she was envisioning Shana again. Naked, her beautiful pink body glowing, as she'd been when she'd run into the bathroom. She could see those pink, taut nipples again; she ached inside from the longing to touch them, to kiss them.
And Estee knew sleep wouldn't come tonight. Not when she was keyed up like this. Not unless she - She sighed in weak resignation. And began working her nightgown up on her body. She raised her knees, splayed her legs slightly. The lust overpowering now, she began to caress her own breasts, she fingered and twirled her nipples. Shortly her fingers fled southward, made wide circles on her tensed belly. The circles became smaller, smaller.
She hissed as that blissful wildness was triggered. Her fingers moved faster. Her legs clamped.
Estee Courtnay sank back into a self-indulgent trance. She forgot the world. There was only this most exquisite of all sensations.
There was only this dream.
A dream in which she was holding Shana, kissing her, caressing her. In which she was teaching Shana the true meaning of love.
Now she sighed, hissed more loudly. A pinched gasping began in her throat. Her body sagged gradually.
CHAPTER THREE
Generally speaking, a teacher's convention is a cut-and-dried affair. The procedures and purposes vary very little from state to state. Organized by the particular state's educational association, the convention is ordinarily held during the first three months of the new school year, serves as a rah-rah and idea session, enables educators to gather also to elect new state officers and board members. Officers who will, during the three day period, meet to formulate policy as regards teaching aims in that given state.
The conventions usually convene on a Thursday morning, close officially on Saturday at noon. The general sessions are the most highly attended, and are held 40 on Thursday, Friday and Saturday mornings. At these sessions speakers of national and international fame - educational, political, inspirational, what have you - appear, dole out their oratorical gems to a mostly restless and indifferent assemblage. The name speakers appear on Thursday morning, with lesser speakers taking the podium on succeeding mornings in accordance to a rapidly diminishing attendance rate.
For contrary to popular opinion, the average American school teacher is no more dedicated to teaching than the American parent is dedicated to parenthood. Indeed there are many teachers, who, in a lifetime of teaching, have never attended any of the state conventions, preferring instead to hit the "sectional" conventions. Then there are those who neglect conventions entirely, spend their "off" days catching up on sleep, fishing, or hunting, painting the garage before winter closes in.
Even of those who do make the conventions, there are varied reasons for attendance. Granted, there are the dedicated educators who arrive at convention determined to make every general session, squeeze in as many special sessions as possible. Teachers who will take in every educational exhibit and demonstration, will even spend their evenings in pre-planned educational activities. These drudges will stay until noon on Saturday, return home enlightened, inspired, chock full of new torments to inflict upon their youthful charges.
But these are, sad to say, the exception. Many of the pedagogical clan attend conventions to meet old friends, to drink, exchange gossip, generally have a ball.
Convention is to them a reunion more than anything else. Others come mainly for shopping in the big city, for the feeling of a holiday. Convention is a break, a time to "get away." While still other male and female educators (a very small percentage actually) arrived with the firm intention of raising hell, of seeking amatory adventure.
This latter group will maintain a prissy, respectable front in their home communities, no breath of scandal will besmirch their sacrosanct names during the interim between conventions. Once arriving at convention headquarters they will shy away from familiar faces, seek anonymity with a vengeance. They have been good little boys and girls throughout the year; they have earned this right to their naughty extra-curricular sex activities.
But that is neither here nor there. Teachers' conventions were the subject under discussion.
Following the morning sessions the teachers will have lunch, ready themselves for afternoon activities. Convention headquarters will feature exhibits by manufacturers, publishers, gadgeteers, all equipment designed to advance the cause of education. Blackboards, textbooks, chalk holders, flannel boards, athletic gear, paints and crayons, techniques of every sort will be gathered in a main hall for the teachers' inspection.
Otherwise there will be sectional meetings, seminars, workshops and demonstrations at the convention hall, at the hotel, in the convention city's nearby schools. The devoted instructor will scurry from place to place, will become a slave to his schedule. The not-so-devoted teachers will congregate at in bars and cocktail lounges, will take in movies, will make out as suits his (on her) particular penchant.
Even evenings are not the teacher's own. For the association will book a nationally known orchestra, chorus, ballet, or theatrical group for Thursday and Friday evenings. Performances the teachers, in meeting their association dues, have already paid for. Many take in these cultural offerings; many do not. For, after all, culture too is a relative thing.
Thus the days pass. Swiftly, gainfully, every golden moment crowded with opportunities to enhance professional standing, intellectual enlightenment. Only the dullard will not avail himself of these openings, adapt to them as his individual wont dictates.
This Thursday morning at 11:15, edgy, chafing her way through the morning's second speaker, a man named Barclay whose theme was "America's Youth in The Space Age," Shana was anxious for the first session to be over. Science was not her forte. And while she had enjoyed John Forester's talk (one of her favorite authors), this man was a dedicated bore. She longed to walk out, thought better of it, knew that Estee, sitting next to her, would disapprove.
Instead Shana contented herself with staring about the vast convention hall in which at least 9,000 of the anticipated 11,000 teachers had gathered today. It was her second convention, but ing�nue that she was she still couldn't get used to that vast sea of faces: she couldn't believe this many people had voluntarily entered education's dead end.
The long and the short and the tall - the refrain came as she surveyed the lines of faces and bodies in the upper tiers, as she ran the gamut of age, from the very young to the very old, as she assessed the variety of facial types, from the very handsome in men, the very beautiful in the women, to the very homely, to the downright repulsive in both genders. So many young women, blooming, hopeful, idealistic and beautiful. So many old women, dowdy, pudding-faced, all their dreams irrevocably extinguished.
As always, when thrown into an arena of humanity, she knew that sinking panic at her own insignificance, at the fact that she would never know the vast majority of these people. She would never be apprised of their dreams, their yearnings, their goals. And more important, she would never know what story each of those lives encompassed.
Placid, happy, hopeful? Fulfilling and success-crowned? Or empty, pointless, a mere marking of time? Violent, brutal, cruel? Had their disillusionment come as early as hers had? Or did it still lie ahead?
She wondered how many of the females she appraised now had a story as grisly as her own in their background? She wondered if their sacrifice to education had been as great as hers. She wondered how many of them were soured, was terrified of the blackboard-jungle education was truly becoming today. Had they received as ugly an indoctrination into the realities of life, of teaching as she had? That first year? At Clinton High?
She fought the thoughts away, tried to concentrate on the speaker, was glad he was beginning to summarize. The hall was stifling; she was dying to get out.
She looked up as Estee laid her hand over hers, pressed gently. Found her friend smiling warmly at her. "Bear up, honey," Estee said. "Just a few minutes more. We'll find some place nice to eat lunch." Estee thought of her pink body.
Shana felt a sudden tenderness toward Estee, transferred her thoughts to her life, wondered what kind of tragedy, what frustrations and unhappiness had formed her. It was ironic that she couldn't even begin to imagine Estee's most deadly problem, that she couldn't know it involved her.
She let her mind shift gears, studied a fat, unkempt woman to her right. She was just beginning to make up a story about the causes for her disheveled, indifferent condition when Estee nudged her.
Then they were rising, the applause cut short. They were beginning to elbow their way from the convention hall.
The first general session was officially over.
* * *
"But, Faye," Miriam Timm was protesting over lunch at a typically feminine tea shop called Polly's Kettle, "I thought you said we'd take in the library techniques' seminar at Jackson School. You know the library at Kellerman is in terrible shape, you could use the information. This Poitier woman is a top notcher."
Faye Silver fought to hide her irritation; she averted her eyes, hoped that Miriam wouldn't see her frantic expression. Her agitation definitely had nothing to do with an elementary principals' conference. "I'm sorry, Miriam," she said. "I know I promised. But I simply have to skip the other. I met Lila Belson this morning. She said this meeting's a must. You'll just have to go by yourself."
Miriam was disappointed. "I was counting on us going together." She shrugged. "Maybe I'll just forget my meeting, go along to yours."
"That's foolish, Miriam," Faye said, panic rising in her throat. "I'm meeting Lila at 1:30, she's driving me over. You take in your lecture, don't fret about me."
Miriam regarded her friend suspiciously. "I don't know about you, Faye. You're acting strangely. You got in so late last night. You act like you don't want me along."
"Well come along then," Faye snapped. "I certainly wouldn't want you thinking I was up to something unsavory."
"No, thank you, dear. If you and Lila have this already cooked up.. . You know I can't stand her. I'll go to my meeting, meet you back at the hotel. Around 3:30?"
"Make it four-thirty. Lila will probably want to stop for a drink."
Miriam rose, left her share of the tab on the table. "I'll go along then," she said. Jackson's farther out, I'll need more time. See you later."
Faye Silver looked after her roommate, breathed a deep sigh of relief as Miriam finally hove out of sight. Dear God, she thought, if that woman had bugged me one moment more! She caught herself, realized how close to disgrace she'd come. If Miriam ever found out about last night, about her continuing alliance with Travis Nelson - Even thinking of the man set her nerves on edge. But it was a good feeling. An evil tingling, a burning impatience. She simply had to see the masterful man again, she had to have him once more. Perhaps this afternoon's rendezvous would suffice. She'd get him out of her system. She'd be strong again.
After all, it was like medicine, wasn't it? And once she was cured, there was no need to keep on with medication, was there? She'd be satisfied. She'd be able to last another year without a man.
Or could she? Just thinking of him, recalling the magnificent things he'd done to her last night, the repeated ecstasies he'd conferred, made her feel weak inside.
Now as she rose, went to pay her check, she was surprised at the heat seemingly suffusing her, the way her legs felt rubbery. If she didn't get outside into the fresh air soon - On the sidewalk at last she turned, headed back toward the Bentley Arms. Her high heels tapped sharply on the pavement. She almost ran.
* * *
Steve Novak ran into Shana at 2:15 that same afternoon. Both of them attending a demonstration dealing with creative writing and self-correction of written assignments, they arrived at room 200, Convention Hall, at almost the same time. Both alone (Estee had chosen a different seminar,), they sat three chairs apart, both were conscious of the other from the start. For Shana was an extremely beautiful, desirable woman.
And in his own unique way, Steve was a fascinating, attractive man.
The seminar bit was decidedly out of Novak's line; usually his hunting grounds were the hotel cocktail lounge. Today was a switch. For two reasons. One, he was genuinely interested in the announced demonstration; any workable method that would help a student realize and correct his own mistakes in composition classes would help both Steve and his students. All other failings to the contrary, he did pride himself on the fact that he was a good teacher, that he inspired and helped his students to a greater degree than any other English teacher at Lakeland High. He genuinely desired to maintain, build on that reputation.
Secondly he was bored with bar pickups, with easy conquests. He thought of that Vernelle thing he'd latched onto last night and winced. One time out and she'd thought they should make a marathon of it. He'd set her straight in short order. Like this a.m. at 7:00, when they'd knocked off a last one, and she'd begun to whine. It had definitely been kiss-off time in the valley. He'd booted her but good.
He'd decided he'd needed a real challenge. Thus the English seminar. He'd found many and many a female treasure at shindigs like this. And as a case in point: That pretty doll to his right. Talk about shapes!
She'd be real mean in bed; he'd bet his last dollar on that. Those legs, the way her breasts filled out that blouse. This was prime merchandise, definitely worth promoting.
To this effect he spent quite a bit of time during the two-hour session staring at Shana, catching her eye, staring away in feigned shyness. It was a never-failing dodge. If the doll thought she had an admirer, and a toe-in-the-sand one at that, she got interested fast. An admirer who moved in grabbing handfuls of boob, forget it!
The seminar was interesting, the time passed swiftly; Steve was glad he'd come. For more reasons than one. The techniques, presented were valuable; he was sure he'd be able to use them in his teaching. And otherwise - The lovely dolly in Kelly green. The one with the sharp little headlights, the bouncy rear, the trim, exciting legs, the twinking, green pumps.
Afterward he advanced at her from an oblique angle, tendered joshing comment. "Well live and learn," he addressed Shana. "The first time in all the years I've been hitting these things I really learned something."
Shana had been equally impressed by the techniques demonstrated. She smiled warmly, "Yes, it was a good meeting, wasn't it? I don't know why I never thought of that. It's going to cut down on my paper work a hundred per cent."
"Not only that, those dimwit kids are going to actually learn by realizing their mistakes, having a plan of attack for correcting them." He stared casually at the identification badge Shana wore. "Shana, is it? Pretty name. May I? Steve Novak."
"Please, Mr. Novak."
He eased her out the door, they paused in the hall. "Steve, the card says," he teased. "Wasn't there a TV program? Shana the jungle girl?"
"Sheena." She wrinkled her nose charmingly, let down her guard, let herself enjoy his leisurely banter.
"That's it. Heaven knows you're no jungle girl. You staying at the Bentley Arms?"
"That's right. And you?"
"Room two-thirty. Got in last night." He shrugged deprecatingly. "Real eager beaver."
"You don't look like an eager beaver. You look like nothing ever ruffles your feathers."
"Now and then I get ruffled. You got a date. Shana? Maybe we could lift a few together. Or are you temperance?"
Shana giggled, was amused by the man's monumental confidence. She was also charmed by his low-pressure approach. A girl could trust a man like this. He wouldn't be trying to get her panties off in the first dark corner they got into. "No, I drink now and then. More than I should sometimes. But I'm meeting a friend. My roommate."
"So? Bring her along. I'll order some straws."
"No, thank you. I don't think she'd approve."
"Approve of what?"
"Of me letting myself get picked up that easily."
"Picked up? Since when? A drink the man said."
"Thanks just the same. But no. Estee's older, I don't think she'd fit in."
Steve deftly blocked Shana's way without her being conscious of the fact. "So how about tonight? Maybe we can catch a few together then. Maybe dance a little, talk over discipline problems. Something fascinating like that." He envisioned her naked.
Shana giggled. "You don't discourage easy, do you? Estee and I had planned on going to the concert."
"So skip the concert. I've got inside dope that this conductor's got the whole thing taped. All horn-sync stuff. You wouldn't want to get conned like that, would you?"
Shana laughed outright, sensed a light-heartedness she hadn't known in months. "You are the limit. Horn-sync. Of all things."
"How about it, Shana? Cancel the concert? Your friend can go alone. That's for old folks anyway. We deserve each other. Tell you what, I'll even throw in dinner. How can you turn down a bargain like that?"
Shana was amazed to hear herself blurting an acceptance. "You drive a hard bargain, sir. But you've got yourself a deal. Dinner, dancing and draggy shop talk."
"Wonderful, Shana. Eight o'clock?"
"Eight. Room three-twenty-two."
"Check. I'll be counting the days."
"Hours."
"It'll seem like days to me." He sent her a simian grin. "Pretty sharp line, huh? I'll have to sell that to somebody. Elmo Squash probably." Even as Estee appeared, started toward Shana, he wheeled. "See you tonight."
"Shana," Estee said as she came up, saw the bewilderment on her face, "what is it?"
"I've got a date," Shana marveled. "I don't even know how it happened. I was standing here minding my own business, and all of a sudden a guy comes up, starts talking to me. Next thing I know..."
Estee laughed musically. But it was a forced laugh. Suddenly she felt like someone had just dropped a bucket of lead into ;he pit of her stomach.
* * *
It gave Faye an evil, dissolute feeling to sit about in room 820 dressed in only her brassiere, girdle, panties, stockings and pumps. While the broody-eyed, intense Travis Nelson lounged in just his white boxer shorts. Shorts which, it must be admitted, concealed very little of his masculinity, emphasized his need, her effect upon him if anything.
The door was locked, the drapes were drawn. And yet it was a sunny day, the room, though partially muted, was relatively bright. Which helped add more titillating spice to their casual dishabille.
They drank martinis to loosen up. And Faye having skimped on lunch, nervous to start with, felt the gin cut in swiftly, make her very giddy indeed. And she thought this was the best of all possible preludes. This forestalling, this intimacy, this warm wooziness. The knowledge that very soon, in the bedroom - She shuddered, felt her skin prickle. This would be very good indeed this afternoon. Something to remember through all the frustrated days ahead.
"I don't understand," she said, glancing about the suite, "why you have so much room, Travis. Two bedrooms and all... "
The smile was somewhat mocking. "I'm a salesman. I work with another man. We'll be entertaining some customers this weekend, well be displaying our new line of textiles. I can assure you, we'll need all this room and more."
"And your friend... Gordy, did you say? He won't... interrupt at an inopportune moment?"
"No," Travis said, staring directly at the closet door adjacent to the couch, "Gordy won't barge in. He's busy." The mocking smile was back, a smile, and a stare at that paneled door Faye would never begin to interpret. "He's out taking care of last-minute details for the buyers."
He turned to Faye, drew her close. "What the hell are we talking business for? We've got better things to talk about... to do." He rose, flipped on the piped-in music the hotel provided. "You like?"
"I like," she slurred, feeling unbelievably libertine. "I like other things too. Like you, Travis, darling. Like what you did to me last night."
"Maybe an encore, Faye?" he teased.
"I didn't come here to discuss football scores. Soon, darling. Maybe... if we start now..." She flushed, dropped her eyes. "There might even be time for... "
"Seconds you mean, baby?"
"Seconds." She looked up. "Please, Travis?"
"Anything you say, Faye. Only I got a favor I want to ask of you. Something I've always wanted a woman to do for me... "
She tensed, grew grave. "Yes, Travis? What is it?"
"I was wondering," he fell back on an unfailing dodge, a thing that drove women wild, "if you'd... I mean ..."
"What, Travis? Say it."
"I... I'd like to watch you undress. I'd love it if you'd strip for me. Right there. If I could watch."
Faye felt a cruel hand jumble her entrails. A spate of lust and delight hit her. She smiled. "Why yes, Travis. If you'd enjoy that. If that's something you really want." She rose unsteadily, stood four feet away from him. "Just tell me what you'd like me to do."
The man feigned hesitancy at first. Then he told her just what he wanted. He got her into camera range, had her turn so that her face, her body were almost completely facing the closet door. "Your brassiere first, honey," he said. "It's a beautiful thing. Did you wear red just for me?"
She smiled. "I did, Travis. To.. . excite you. Does it excite you?"
"You don't need an answer to that. All you have to do is look at me. Do I look excited?"
Her smile was pained. "You look excited." She reached behind her, made a production out of peeling away the heavy silk brassiere. And when her beautiful breasts hung free: "Hold them," he said. "In your hands. Like you were offering them to me."
She swayed, delighted at the request. Then cupped her breasts, seemingly aimed them at him. The tips were stone hard, stood out like little red turrets.
"Your stockings now. Yes, like that. Put those sexy shoes back on. Wow, honey, you're getting to me."
The impromptu strip tease inflamed Faye even more than it did Nelson. It was an innovation, something she'd never done for a man before. And if it pleased and excited this handsome, irresistible male - "The girdle now, darling. There. In those sexy red panties. Grind it a little for me. Yeah, that's it."
She did an awkward little dance; she clutched herself low on her body, concealed that barely visible triangle; she did salacious things with her breasts.
"The panties now, Faye."
And at last, wearing only her Burgundy-toned pumps, she was totally naked before him. Strangely enough, instead of feeling awkward, she warmed to the task, flaunted and exposed herself shamelessly, thought nothing of it when Nelson asked her to assume very aberrant poses, hold herself in rather sick ways.
While in the closet Gordon Berry smirked, clicked picture after picture.
Finally Faye could wait no longer. Her sexuality piqued as it had never been piqued before, she needed Travis. And she froze before him, her face an anguished mask of desire. "Please, baby? No more? Take me now. I can't wait any more."
A cruel smirk on his face Nelson rose immediately, dropped his white shorts, revealed himself totally to her. Now Faye's expression was truly anguished. She'd never dreamed that just looking at a man could madden her like this. Now he advanced on her, ground his body to hers, pulled her head up, kissed her domineeringly. Almost immediately he drew her toward the davenport.
"Travis?" she quailed. "You think it's safe? Shouldn't we . . ." The bedroom, I mean."
"This'll be fine. Right here on the davenport. I can't wait, darling."
The prospect inflamed Faye all the more. That he should want her this badly- A handsome, masterful man like Travis- She melted in his grasp, let him spread her on the davenport; she was putty in his hands. And when his lips closed on her nipples, when his fingers dove and swirled at her belly, fled to regions even further south, tortured her - But their love was to be startlingly different today. For now his lips slid downward, he was kneeling on the floor before her in a worshipful pose. His lips were on her belly, searing tickling circles of fire there. His fingers were arranging her legs, preparing her. And when she felt his kiss - She caught his head, held him. "Travis. Do you think you should? I mean, is that what you really want? I'm not worthy. No man has ever done that for me before." An enfeebling shudder hit her, her voice cracked. "Oh, Travis, I feel so strange all at once."
"You are worthy," he grated. "It's about time a man did this for you. You deserve this and more." With that, shaking his head angrily from her grasp, he attacked her anew, drove his head down once more. First kisses, then nuzzlings. And finally, pepper-hot caresses.
Faye went completely out of her head. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever thought that a man - let alone a handsome, beautiful man like Travis -would do this for her. Never had she dreamed there could be mind-shriveling sensations like this.
She stood the hair-curling attention as long as she could. Then some last band of reserve and control snapped inside her brain. Suddenly she was pulling at Travis, trying to get him up on the couch with her. She was insane with the desire to reciprocate, to honor him as he was honoring her. He came up reluctantly. But he came up. And careful to arrange himself so that Faye's face, what she was doing for him, was plainly visible to the camera, he let her have her way.
"You should have this too," she chanted. And she drove herself to the task, found it incredibly delightful, savagely fulfilling. She became even more greedy, sank into a blissful swoon. She murmured her joy, her adoration unashamedly. And as the professional pervert attended her even more madly, she went quite out of her head, began to praise him flamboyantly; she attended him with pagan fervor.
While in the closet Gordon Berry began to sweat. His face contorted in a sneer, his breath wheezing, he snapped picture after picture.
CHAPTER FOUR
"No, Baby," Vernelle Sprague frowned at Dawn Riggs, "not that rag. Something with some pizzaz, something that'll make the guys look twice." She elbowed Dawn aside. "Here, let me pick something out for you."
Her smile turned lewd, victorious, as she held up a silver-grey sheath, conservative, yet possessing a low neckline. "This is more like it. I'll give you some clips, we can yank down that front a little, give the men a look at those cute bombs of yours."
It was 4:45 p.m., and the duo just having returned to the hotel from an elementary division workshop, they were preparing to go out. Unmistakably their target for tonight was men. But where Dawn had been persuaded after Vernelle's all afternoon snow job, she was now developing a bad case of cold feet.
"Vernelle," she murmured, "I'm not so sure I want to go through with this. I .. . I've changed my mind. You go by yourself. You don't need me. You did plenty all right all by yourself last night..."
Vernelle's' face became hard. "Honey. Don't be that way. Here I thought I had you all convinced. It'll be all right, I tell you. It's time you got your feet wet. It's like ammunition. Once you know the score no guy's gonna take advantage of you." Her voice became wheedling. "C'mon, let's fix this dress. Then we'll shower, climb into our sexiest undies, make tracks."
"No, Vernelle, I'm afraid. Maybe some other time."
Vernelle ignored her protests, continued to experiment with the dress. "I tell you it's no trick at all to pick up a guy. We'll hit the bar, have a few drinks. Within an hour we'll have a dozen invitations to dinner. And after that... You're on your own."
"Not that dress, Vernelle. It's on the tight side, it makes me look fat."
"Makes no never mind, Dawn. You'll look cute. Some guys dig their dollies on the plump side. More bounce to the ounce ..."
Dawn blushed. "Vernelle, I wish you wouldn't talk like that. You embarrass me something awful."
"Embarrass, schmarass. Once you get downstairs, put a few drinks down, you'll forget your silly fears. You'll be so curious, you'll want a man so bad you won't be able to stand it. But like I said, let me pick 'em. When I give you the high sign, that's it. We sure's hell don't want your first one to be with some clumsy amateur."
Dawn's color heightened, she found herself suddenly struck with a chill, a fuzzy sense of disorientation. She wanted this and she didn't want it. In her sexual Nirvana she was almost content to let Vernelle pressure her, she was willing to float with the tide, let whatever was destined to happen happen. And still a terrifying thought hacked her: "What about the guy?" she asked. "If I do go to his room with him? I mean ... let him go all the way. You know about me."
"What're you talking about?"
"I mean ... he'll hurt me, won't he? I've heard that the first time ... is awful."
Vernelle giggled. "That's your burnt sacrifice to humanity, baby. Forget it. Some gals don't feel anything at all. My wedding night was a breeze. I think that dumb Keith was actually disappointed because I didn't scream, make a big production out of it. Take my word, Dawn, it won't be as bad as you think. These guys who write about it... those old wives tales ... they make it worse than it really is."
"And what about... accidents? Lord, if I got caught the first time out..."
"You just insist that the guy takes care of things. Don't be shy. Put your foot down. I'm on the pill myself. But in your case ..."
"I just don't know, Vernelle." Dawn ducked her head. "I feel kind of cheap and unclean. To be thinking about it like this. To have sex with the first guy who comes along ..."
"That's the best way sometimes, honey. Wait'll you get married, got a millstone of your own. They lose interest after the first year. They're always too tired, they only come around once a week. If you're lucky. Take these hot-to-go guys when you can get 'em."
"That man you had last night... Steve ..."
"What about him?"
"Did he treat you badly afterward, like you were dirt or something? I don't think I could stand that..."
Vernelle's eyes narrowed. But she put on a good front nevertheless. "No, he didn't treat me badly afterward. No man treats me bad when I get through with him. Usually they're begging for encores; they want to make a steady thing of it. I'm the one who has to beat them off."
"And that's all there was to it last night? He brought you some drinks, you went up to his room, made out? And afterwards ..."
"That's all there is to it, sugar." A hot spasm at lust skewered Vernelle as she recalled the exquisite way that Novak creep had taken care of her, the heights of ecstasy to which he'd delivered her. "You should be so lucky as to have a guy like Steve your first time out. He'd send you to the stars. You'd be limp as a glove when he got through with you."
Vernelle saw the rising excitement in Dawn's eyes, knew she was ripe, excited beyond retreat now. "How about it. Dawn? You go shower, douse yourself in all kinds of pretty perfume. I'll lay out your things for you. You can wear some of my sexies if you don't have some of your own."
A shy smile lit Dawn's face. "In my drawer," she said. "Way at the back. I've got something nice there."
And as Vernelle opened the drawer, searched out the lingerie, held the black, daring, bikini panties, the skimpy, sheer brassiere up: "Honey," she slurred thickly. "You're ready all right. You came loaded for bear after all, didn't you? Just who's kidding who?"
The two women exchanged sultry, conniving smiles. Then Dawn began to strip, headed for the shower. Leaving Vernelle behind to pin Dawn's gown into even more daring decolletage. The wanton hummed as she worked, became jittery as that Venus fire built up deep within her body.
* * *
At that same moment Estee Court nay was in an alien room, room 266, with a woman named Martine Foxx. She had bumped into Martine at the poetry sectional that afternoon, they had arranged a tentative date. A date that Estee hadn't really intended to keep. But when Shana had so blithely announced her date with an absolute stranger for tonight - The acceptance of Martine's invitation had taken on form of holy vow, a means of taking vengeance upon an indifferent, callous world.
Martine Foxx was almost a stereotype of old-maid schoolteacher. A skillfully hennaed redhead, she was horsey, her body gaunt, her hair done in a mannish bob. She was 40, Estee had met her at Waycross High five years ago, before she'd come to Fremont High in Bay City; they had conducted a secret on-and-off liaison for a whole year before Estee had decided it was only so much mechanics, had broken it off. Eternally seeking emotional involvement, yearning for the deep-seated love that must accompany such an alliance, she hadn't found that mandatory - and elusive - rapport with the overbearing Martine.
Martine was pretty enough when she worked at it, her body was attractive in a boyish way. Her breasts were vestigial, but had certain charms. (Estee had discovered in intimate surrenders) that couldn't be discounted.
Obviously Martine had worked hard to make herself seductive this afternoon. Her lipstick was fresh; her face was prettily made up, and she wore a flattering royal blue dress. Her small feet were clad in cute, low-heeled pumps. She wore a very disturbing perfume. Now, as they sipped sherry together, talked of old times, Estee found some of her earlier misgivings sliding away.
She'd been furious and jealous upon returning to their room with Shana. As the idiotic child had babbled on heedlessly about her upcoming date, totally unaware of the grievous hurt she was inflicting. It was then she'd remembered her amorphous date with Martine, had determined to keep it. Anxious to get away from Shana, she'd swiftly showered, had dressed, had explained her cocktail date with an old friend. And had fled the room as if it was contaminated.
"I miss you, Estee," Martine said softly, sliding closer to her on the small divan, placing her hand gently on Estee's exposed knee. "It's seemed like a hundred years."
Estee felt a small lurch in her heart, was pleased at the wistful affection in her tone. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that, Martine. Surely you've found someone else."
"There have been some. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But they aren't Estee. I loved you then, dear. I love you still. I was a fool to ever let you go."
"Shouldn't we talk about something else, Martine? We're only making ourselves sad. How are things at Waycross? How about Penny Harper? Is she still there?"
"I felt a twinge of jealousy just then, Estee. It's a carryover, I'm afraid; a symptom of what broke us up. Will you ever forgive me? I was a high-handed, nagging shrew. I didn't know then that you can never really own another person."
"Please, Martine, let's forget it. That's water over the dam. It's over; we can never go back."
"Can't we, darling?" Martine pressed closer, her nearness became smothering. Estee sipped her wine faster. "Are you so sure? You haven't found anyone else yet. I can tell. Why can't you give me another chance? You could come back to Waycross, they'd greet you with open arms. Or I could apply at Bay City. We could try again. I'd be good to you." Her voice broke. "I swear I would. Estee, I do love you. I always will, I'm afraid."
Estee Courtnay felt her heart swell with sympathy; she knew an accompanying dart of physical need. As she compared Martine's blighted love with her own. And imagining Martine wanting her as badly as she wanted Shana, she understood, she could feel for her from the bottom of her heart.
She put her arm around Martine, pressed her face to hers, wanted to weep herself as her friend began to sob. "I know, dear," she said softly, "how it is. I want someone too. But I'm afraid it's never to be. For either of us. We're both cut out of the same cloth. Twilight women, with definite, driving needs. And yet not satisfied with transient affairs, with a halfway love. We have to give all or nothing."
Martine sobbed harder. "I'm sorry, darling," Estee said, her voice cracking. "I can't help it if I don't love you, if I love somebody else."
"Why did you come then?" Martine choked. "You knew what I was going to ask you. Did you come just to torture me, to glory in your powers over me?"
"No, Martine. That's not it at all. I came because we understand each other. Because I realize as well as you do that people like us need an outlet of some sort. Otherwise I think we'd go out of our minds. I came because I can trust you, you can trust me. I came because I need love, whether it be purely physical or not. I came for understanding from you." She paused, her voice became eerily hollow. "I came to bestow understanding as well..."
Gravely, as though they'd both simultaneously heard a far-off signal, they put their glasses down on the coffee table, they let their eyes lock and search, they sought mutual consent. And now, their sighs twining, they fell into each other's arms, they drove their mouths together, kissed abandonedly, passionately.
"Yes," Martine keened as they broke. "If we can't have the other ... at least we can have this. We can have each other in this way ..."
She rose as if in a trance, drew the drapes, plunged the room into even more murky shadow. She locked the door. And now, undoing snaps in the gloom, running zippers, she helped Estee to her feet. "Over here, baby," she intoned. "On the bed. Let me love you. You come love me ... "
They helped each other undress, they savored the clean fragrance of their freshly showered bodies, the slide of silk on soft, female flesh. They wallowed in the unique sensation of feminine fingers at their bodies, in the gentleness which only another woman can bring to the love act.
Then they were totally naked. They were sprawled on the hastily opened bed, embracing, sliding and grinding their bodies together, they were kissing each other desperately, their tongues darting, both determined to make this sham love take the place of the other love neither of them could ever have.
"Darling, darling," Martine sighed. "Oh you're so good, so warm, so smooth and soft. If you only knew how I've missed this ... how I've missed you."
"Please?" Estee whimpered. "Take this for what it is, don't hark back to that other. For me, dearest?"
"Yes, Estee. Yes. Ill try. Please . . . your breasts. I've dreamed of them, I've wanted them ..."
Then she was slithering slowly downward, she was letting her lips trail down Estee's throat, across her upper bosom. And now they found her turgid nipples. She let her tongue stab and swirl there. She drove Estee into a paroxysm of lust. Estee wound her fingers in Martine's hair. She moaned at the transporting, exquisite sensation.
"Yes, Martine. Like that. That beautiful, gentle way you do. I've had others, but they weren't as good as you." Her voice caught. "If only I could learn to compromise..."
"If only you could, precious. If I'm good, if I'm pleasing you, remember who it was who taught me to love like this. Until you entered my life I was nothing. When you left it I became nothing again."
"Martine..." she warned.
"Sorry, dearest. I try not to be bitter. But sometimes it's almost impossible. Here, let me love you again, let me make these beautiful buds flower and throb ..."
"Let me love you too, Martine. This is all so one-sided."
"No, not yet. You know how I like things. Afterward. When I've had my way with you..."
Estee sighed thickly, shuddered convulsively. Then fell limp, sank back, let Martine do as she wanted with her. She lay docile and submissive as Martine came up on her knees, crouched over her, let her lips sweep back and forth on her body. From breasts to navel to pelvis. And now, in further adjustment: From feet to knees to thighs. The adoration went on and on.
Until Estee's gasps came in stertorous, pantings. Until her hips jittered, writhed. And she found herself lifting her buttocks from the bed to actually meet that maddening dagger. "Martine, Martine ..." she wailed. "You're driving me crazy, crazy. Let me... love you now."
Martine became slightly cruel. "No! My treat. I want you this way, first. Be good. Lie still. I have to do this. I have to!"
Now her head bulldozed its way between Estee's thighs, her lips seared and maddened, her tongue stabbed expertly, conferred pain, then balm. Torture, then bliss. And now - Bliss, bliss. Continual rapture.
Estee's cries ruptured her throat in hoarse cadence. Her lingers wound in Martine's hair, the columns of her thighs closed, trapped and held her there.
Until that whistling, roaring tornado of sensation had swept over her, had swept beyond her. Then, even as Martine sought to reconfer that glory - She was strong. She fought Martine away, she pushed her back onto the bed, came over herself now. "My turn, sweet. My turn. You can't deny me any longer." Then she knew that sensuality of self-sacrifice. As she sucked in those beautiful, smooth, sloping caps of Martine's breasts, as she savored that unique difference, that trademark and treat that was Martine's own.
She worked expertly and within minutes Martine was panting like a wounded animal; she was squirming, pressing her thighs together, letting her hands rove Estee's body shamelessly.
And finally, at long last, Estee's body pivoting on the bed - "God!" Martine barked as that searing kiss was delivered. "Dear God!" And it was her turn to clamp her legs, gather up handfuls of hair.
Afterwards they rested, sipped more wine, waited for the Lesbian flames to be bellowed to uncontrollable fire again. They described sensations, praised each other's skill.
Then Martine came over Estee. And lip to lip, belly to belly, thigh to thigh- "Remember, angel?" she husked. "You taught me this. Before then I thought that . . . other . . . was all their was. The love we just finished. But this is the ultimate, the most divine."
Estee sighed viscously, let her hands slide downward, let them slither between their bodies. Her practiced fingers made certain small adjustments. Instantly the terrifying, all consuming flames shot up anew.
* * *
Shana awoke with a start, stared about wildly into the gloom, was surprised to find herself naked in her bed. Then she remembered. Just after Estee had left. After she'd emerged from the shower, had decided on a recuperative nap.
That dream! she raged. That nightmare! No, please! I don't want to think bout that now! Isn't it bad enough I've got that man - Steve Novak - on my mind? Isn't it enough that I'm worried about him, wondering what ever possessed me to accept a date with him in the first place? After Wayne, after that other thing- A man, a date is the last thing in the world I need.
She squirmed on the bed, thought to get up, get ready. Her bedside clock said 7:00. But suddenly she was rendered helpless, sank back as if she'd been clubbed. I can't! I don't want to remember that! Maybe Wayne - any of those heathenish things we did together. But not Clinton High, not those horrible boys!
It was almost as if Shana wasn't fully awake yet, as if she were still stumbling around, tripping and falling in that ugly nightmare of sexual morass. She sank back, became even weaker. And in that moment, was transported back to Clinton High on that fateful night during her first year of teaching.
Again she was in that classroom at 5:10 p.m., just finishing a sheaf of grammar worksheets. Working late was a thing she'd been warned against, had laughed off. For Clinton was a tough school, located in a tough neighborhood. Anything could happen and did. Again she was stretching, staring out at the December darkness, wondering where the time had fled.
A sudden snick brought her alert, and she stared at the door, saw the blur of faces there, saw the door slowly opening. In that last insane moment she recognized one of the faces. Ponce Delcorte - an enemy of long standing, a prime tormenter in English III since school's opening. The same Ponce Delcorte she'd sent to the principal's office this morning for wising off.
That was the last clear thing she saw. "The lights, stupid," Ponce hissed. Instantly the room was plunged into darkness. And Shana's voice froze in her throat. As she realized the entire building was empty, that nobody could hear her even if she screamed. That nobody could help her now!
She jumped up, heard her chair fall behind her. "No, please..." the shaggy whines broke from her. "Please..."
The four boys, overgrown brutes all, stalked her, trapped her in the corner. And when she didn't move, when her terrified babblings indicated total surrender, Ponce stepped forward, grabbed her by the hair. "Warned you, Teach," he gritted. "Not to monkey with Ponce. But you wouldn't listen, would you?" At close range, she could smell the wine on his breath realized they'd been drinking courage, were completely irresponsible now.
"Now you pay. You pay good." The other boys snickered piggishly, crowded closer. Her eyes accustoming themselves to the darkness, some small illumination carrying in from the street lights, she recognized the Negro boy everyone called Bingo. The other two were total strangers, dropouts so far as she knew.
"You won't get away with this, Ponce," she breathed, no conviction in her tone. "I'll tell the police, Mr. Toland. They'll put you away. I swear..."
"You won't tell anybody anything, honey," Ponce gritted. "Not if you want to go on living. Because I'll get you if you do." There was a sudden click, the seven-inch-long switchblade glittered in the dim light. "With this. I'll cut you up so you'll never be any use to another man as long as you live. And if I don't get you, somebody else will. I've got friends. They'll rip you to shreds."
She realized he meant every word. Human life meant little or nothing to animals like Ponce. A killing was one way of gaining stature in the primitive jungle he inhabited. She didn't want to die. She wanted to live. It was an inborn drive, divorced from all ration. "I won't tell, Ponce," she babbled. "I won't'..."
"You damned right you won't." He turned to the others, "Okay, you guys," he commanded. "On Teach's desk. Clear a place. I'll get her ready."
And as the others fled to her desk, as she heard her books and papers fall to the floor, Ponce gripped the front of her dress, ripped it savagely, bared her body in one motion. In the dim light he leered at her white body as contrasted to the black brassiere, panties and garter belt she wore. His eyes swept down her legs, upward again, came to rest at a very vital spot.
"Man, dig the sexy undies Teach wears. I thought teachers never got ideas like that. Man, oh, man, am I gonna love crawling over that frame of yours." His head darted. You guys. Come hold this witch for me."
Instantly her arms were jacked back, she felt the hot breathing on her back. As then and there, with no other preliminaries whatsoever, Ponce skillfully slid the knife down the cleft of her breasts, slashed her brassiere open with one stroke. Her breasts exploded, she fought to cover herself, but could not.
His fingers came up, pinched those suddenly hard, distended berries. "Mmm...an!" he snickered. "What a set of boobs on you, Teach. Who'd ever have believed ..."
He played only a moment, the humiliation a heart swelling thing. He casually handled her lower body, began hacking at her panties. And when the shreds tickled and whispered their way down her nyloned legs - His hands were back, were even more bold. His voice was a sick wheeze. "Get a load of that white body, guys. Ain't that choice? Oh, honey, I'm gonna rack you good."
She had turned to stone, her voice had failed her as she'd tried to cry out. Then the boys were half carrying, half dragging her toward the desk. "Leave her little belt, those sexy shoes and stockings on the tramp," Ponce giggled. "I always wanted to try a high-and-mighty broad that way too. On the desk."
Now she heard a hiss and click, looked over to see Ponce undoing his trousers. Now they slid down his dark legs, were kicked off. He started toward her. She closed her eyes, sucked in deep, terrorized breaths, was sure she'd die the moment he touched her. Her first man - a most gross way to lose her virginity!
She felt her legs being pulled part, she felt her heels slipping on the polished surface of the desk. And now she felt Ponce's warm body against hers, between her thighs. Then the ultimate indignity, the searing, tearing pain. As he lunged, made her brain explode with a dazzling light.
"Hold her down, dammit," Ponce rasped. "She keeps sliding all over the desk." Instantly Shana felt hard, eager hands pin her shoulders, her feet to the desk surface.
But at the end came the foulest indignity of all, the coup de grace conferred by her own body. Moved by the evil preliminaries, by the animal mechanics of the act, she felt lust burgeon, rise, fan to a flame. And though she fought, she could not stem the raging tide within her. Her outcry was muffled, almost aborted. She was appalled at the unique sensation that thundered down on her, turned her into a shrieking animal.
"Hey, gang," Ponce crowed jubilantly. "Did you get that? Teach got the message after all." And as his own release neared, he began to curse and groan in his throat.
He became fanatically brutal. And finally went still.
He drew away with a stomach-turning chuckle.
Seconds later new hands held Shana, a new tormentor climbed onto the desk.
It went on and on, became even more bestial, more cruel. All sensation, save abhorrence, died within her.
Until the last one. The boy named Bingo. He was the worst. She would die! The pain was unbearable. She screamed continually for him to stop.
But at the last there was mercy of sorts. The pain and humiliation cauterizing her brain, she finally fainted.
Now Shana broke from the bad dream, she found herself shaking convulsively. She writhed on the bed, buried her face in the pillow. She began to sob as if her heart would break. She hadn't wanted to remember; she'd wanted to forget Forever and ever. She never wanted to remember the rest of that year, how she'd sleepwalked her way through it, living in deadly fear of Ponce, keeping the ghastly secret to herself to the last No one else knew about it. Nobody would ever know. Only Ponce and those boys, whoever else they might have told about the defilement.
The memory was too much for Shana to bear. And how, once begun, the sobs were impossible to turn off. She dug her face deeper into her pillow, let them come in a hot flood. She choked and coughed and wailed her despair.
It was at this moment that Estee let herself into the room, was surprised to find it in darkness, to hear the sobs coming from Shana's bed. She flung herself to the child, gathered her into her arms, buried her lips in Shana's hair. "Baby, baby," she crooned, "what is it, what's happened? Tell Estee. Let her help you Baby ..."
But Shana wouldn't explain. "I had a bad dream," she refrained. "I'll be all right, just leave me alone."
"Tell me about it, darling. That'll help."
"No, no . . ." Shana choked. "I can't. I can't tell anybody." The sobs came again, and she clung to Estee, was amazed at the incredible warmth and tenderness she felt toward the woman, at the way she wanted to cling to her, to cuddle to her strength forever.
Estee held her close, felt like her heart would explode at the happiness she felt. Over what should normally have been an extremely tragic moment. She slid her lips on Shana's lovely face, she caressed her back, held her as tight as she dared. In the gloom there was a speculative, hopeful light in her eyes. Perhaps her quest wasn't as hopeless as she thought.
This smelled like man.
Perhaps she still had a chance after all.
She rocked Shana, comforted her in suffocating embrace.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Convention's first official workday was drawing to a close. Many of the teachers, observing only token attendance, had already left, were on their way home to salvage at least one day's duck hunting, or basement cleaning out of the weekend. But at the Bentley Arms a festive, antic mood prevailed. The teachers had done their duty by the convention for that day, now it was time to kick up their heels.
Ho, Ebenezer, Dick! No more work tonight! It's Christmas Eve!
For those interested there was the Minneapolis Symphony at 8:15. Ticket 2 would admit one. There was culture. There was Brahms and Vivaldi.
For the others: There was the Old English Room. Which had been bursting at the seams from 3:30 p.m. on. Again the bar was four-deep, the booths and tables were crowded, the smoke was thick enough to slice into wedges, the din was deafening. The Teachers' Hour.
Fully three-quarters of the drinkers were in their cups, were doing and saying the most irresponsible things. Flirtations begun the afternoon before - today even - were ruthlessly being nailed down, assignations, room numbers, invitations to room parties were being exchanged with an alcoholic, hedonistic will. Many of these pretty young things might end their days labeled as old maids; but one thing was certain: after tonight they would never be maidens again.
In the Presidential Suite the delegates to the convention were putting final touches on resolutions to be presented at the Friday general session, the caucus for election to the board, to an officer's slot went on relentlessly. Tempers began to flare as delegates chafed for dismissal, were anxious to repair to the bar, reinitiate acquaintanceship with that pretty Miss Adams from Jericho, or that handsome Mr. Lindsley from Valders. And otherwise - to get on the outside of at least three good stiff martinis before dinnertime.
While merchants, restaurateurs, parking lot operators, bar owners, Chamber of Commerce officials all over Fort Duquesne were happily rubbing their hands together, exulting over the prosperous first days' convention business, the cash-register symphony still ringing in their ears. All over the city they were congratulating themselves that they'd managed to woo the convention away from Clinton.
Especially was one Clarence Porth, president of that Chamber of Commerce gloating at the close of this most prosperous and historic day. His reelection assured, there was only one sour note to mar his felicitations. This the generous contribution to the association they'd had to authorize to undercut Clinton.
All of which he took in stride, wondered if they could have got by with a lesser contribution. Wondered if the secret weekend the Chamber had provided the outgoing association president wouldn't have turned the tide by itself? Those teachers, he mused. They act like tin gods. And yet, offer a bribe like an all-expense-paid weekend, clinch it with a sexy dish like Sherree Conte, the exotic dancer they'd hired to spend the night with that Dudley Cartwright leech - The boys show their true colors then.
Now Mr. Porth chuckled gleefully, wrote it all off. He picked up the phone, began to canvass the hotel owners for next year's convention fund. Hit 'em while they're still counting their money, he philosophized.
* * *
Shana and Steve were having pre-dinner cocktails at a relatively quiet supper club called The Buccaneer. Two Metaxa Manhattans down, they were feeling each other out conversationally, were outlining their backgrounds, the school systems in which they were employed. Now talk switched to literary preferences, additional rapport was established.
"This is my red-letter day," Steve enthused, looking directly into Shana's eyes, working his sincerity fine into the ground. "First I find you, then I find somebody who's read Dylan Thomas. If the truth was known most teachers don't get past the sports pages in the town paper."
"That or Ann Landers," Shana added. "I've read Child's Christmas in Wales, Adventures in The Skin Trade. I started Doctor and the Devils but couldn't get with it. I can't begin to crack his poems."
"You're just eating hors d'oeuvres, Shana. The banquet's still before you. That's the essence of Thomas, his real reason for being. Kid, you've got to sit at the old king's knee, take in those poems. It would be my pleasure..."
"Sounds wonderful." She wrinkled her nose at him. "How do you propose to conduct this symposium? Through the mails?"
"There are worse things, Shana. But maybe I can come up with something even better."
"Like what?"
"Let's let time take care of that, shall we?" He put his hand over Shana's lightly, was pleased when she accepted it naturally, made no big thing out of snatching it away. "Tell me. What do you dig most about Child's Christmas? Let's see if we've got any lines in common. I'll test you. How about: 'All but one of his fires burnt out?"
Shana laughed, knew a terrific sense of ease and oneness with this charming man. "Ha! I know that one."
Now they talked more animatedly. Novak's hand clutched hers, stroked it. But Shana thought nothing of it, took it as part of their communion of minds, as testament to his matching excitement and enthusiasm.
* * *
At the Old English Room's bar, Vernelle and Dawn were being moved in on for the fourth time. But this time the operators were experienced, smooth, they met with Vernelle's approval. She shot a glance at the already tipsy Dawn, winked, conferred her Good Housekeeping Seal. "Vernelle Sprague," she said, smiling sultrily at the taller of the men. "And this is my friend, Dawn Riggs."
"Jeff Rowland," the big, dark-haired man said, his eyes as intent on Vernelle as hers were on him. "And this is Roger Larsen, All-American, 1850. How's about it, girls? You let us blow a little of our money on you? What're you drinking?"
Vernelle slid over slightly, let Jeff Rowland squeeze in beside her. She flipped her glass forward. "Martini," she said, putting on a pouty look, staring deep into his eyes. The invitation was unmistakable, and before the drinks even arrived, Rowland let his hand drift downward, cup the lush swell of her left buttock. When the woman made no move to reject him, he grinned, was positive he knew the name of the game.
"Gin and sour," the cute, frowsled redhead giggled. "That's as close to a martini as I'll ever come." She lurched slightly as Roger Larsen emulated his friend, let his fingers slide on her generous fanny also. But then relaxed, said nothing. If this is the way things were supposed to go - Besides, didn't it feel good? Didn't she have the most delicious, hot tingle inside all at once? She laughed. "All-American, huh? I'll Ail-American you."
Larsen became more free with his hands. "Is that a promise?"
The muzzy-eyed girl leaned back, stroked his cheek. "That's a promise, honey."
Now it was the men's turn to wink at each other.
* * *
At The Buccaneer, the very excellent filet mignon was finished, some of the cottony impact of the Manhattans had faded. It was 9:30, and they lingered over their B and B's. Shana was sure the wooziness was gradually returning. She fought to be on guard. She wouldn't be a pushover tonight, she resolved, no matter how much she'd enjoyed the evening and Steve's charming company. She'd learned her lesson only too well.
She amended the observation. Wayne Kerrigan had taught her only too well. She wouldn't let Steve become another Wayne. Not even for a one-night stand, not even if such would be fitting capper for the most fun evening she'd had in months.
For actually there was little compunction in her heart as regards passing out free and casual sexual largesse. If she was a virgin, if she was inexperienced, she'd feel differently. Bitterness swarmed over her as she recalled her nightmare reverie earlier this evening. Brother, am I experienced! she snarled.
The resolve hardened.
Steve shook her out of her momentary funk. "How about taking a spin on the floor?" he asked. "Music's real cool."
She rose gracefully, offered her hand. "I'd love it." Then had second thoughts as her head seemingly wobbled on her neck, felt disconnected. Those drinks! she mused.
Steve was a polished dancer. No show-off, he handled her easily, had a strong lead. Shana loved to dance, and within moments forgot her chagrin, threw herself happily into the rhythm of Moonlight Gambler. He executed smooth turns and dips, had a natural rhythm that was irresistible. She melted further into his arms, let her body become one with his.
Steve played things cool, didn't pressure her at all, was, in fact, surprised at the way she danced closed, worked her firm, piquant breasts into his chest. He pressed his cheek to hers, let his head slide so his lips lightly brushed the crown of her forehead.
They danced now to Days of Wine and Roses. Shana felt excitement build within her. Small tendrils of desire felt their way into her breasts, into her tummy, into her loins. She felt weak, was amazed when she caught herself pressing her lower body unnecessarily close to his.
"Smooth, baby," he husked. "Real smooth."
* * *
In Room 492 Vernelle Sprague and Jeff Rowland were sprawled on the bed. Both still dressed, they were in a passionate, writhing, clawing embrace, Vernelle's skirt high, exposing her black girdle, her garter straps. Her voice hissed and growled; in a spate of unrestrained lust she actually raised one leg, clamped it over his, drew him still closer. She purposely drove the sharp, spiked heel of her slipper into his calf, exulted in the way he jerked, gasped, rammed himself to her all the harder.
"You wildcat," he muttered, breaking from her kiss, from her probing, bold tongue. "There's nothing halfway about you, is there?"
"You know it, stud," she gloated. "You ain't seen anything yet." She squirmed herself to him more paganly. "Oh, daddy! Mama's got an itch. A terrible one. You man enough to take care of it?"
"I'm sure's hell man enough to try."
She rose abruptly. "Call it, Jeff? In the dark? You want me to undress by myself? Or do you want to watch?"
His grin was strained. "What do you think, doll? When a man's got a gorgeous, sexy-bodied chick like you on hand? What man wouldn't give his right arm to watch?"
Instantly Vernelle staggered to her feet, began to yank the zipper at the back of her gown. "Okay, baby. Watch. This's gonna be good. Here's a look at all the goodies. Before the doors open."
The dress fell away. She stood in just the evil, black brassiere, girdle and stockings. Her hands fluttered at her breasts, did teasing, lewd things to them. A hot poker was stirred within her. She felt naughty, so naughty. She was determined to make this one last and last. She'd keep this young stallion at it all night if she had to.
"Watch, baby," she commanded, "watch closely."
At Music Hall the lulling refrains of Brahms' Second Symphony were mellowing the air. Faye Silver and Miriam Timm were seated in mid-center of the hall, listened to the music with rapt attention. At least Miriam was.
For Faye was only going through the motions. Granted, the music was beautiful, the orchestra was in top form. Music was not uppermost in her mind. She scanned the auditorium, noted that though there was almost a full house, there were still many empty seats, incriminating gaps in that sea of smug, self-satisfied faces.
The significance of same was unmistakable. And Faye felt a hot spurt of jealousy. She wished she were with these absentees instead of here. She wished that she was with an individual absentee especially.
Travis.
Just thought of him ignited sensual fires inside of her. Then, when she let her mind wander, when she recreated that exotic, fantastic afternoon they'd shared together, she really became jittery. A pained smile formed on her lips as she recalled that last thing they'd done together. Her heart hammered madly. Never had she known such ecstasy. Never before in her life had she so heedlessly flung herself into love. Never had she known such a feeling of wicked dissolution. And yet - a feeling of self-sacrifice as well.
She found herself squeezing her thighs together, a delicious heat grew in her loins. She wanted that sensation again. She wanted Travis to love her that way again. Even more important - she wanted that self-surrender, she wanted to wallow in it, to never stop wallowing.
What would she do without Travis? Without this insane brand of love? How could she spend a whole year, perhaps her entire life without more of the same? The thought was crushing, almost unbearable. She wanted to sob at the grim concept.
A monolithic loneliness slammed her, and she wondered if that miracle had finally happened. Had she at last found a man she could love, to whom she could entrust her life, her future? Was this what love was like?
She tried to concentrate on the music, to shut out the chaotic thoughts. But she could not. Where was Travis tonight? What was he doing? Could it be that he was with another woman? Cold fear gripped her. Please, God, no- Not my Travis.
She recalled the distant, almost cold way he'd acted as they'd parted this afternoon. His vague answer, a brush-off almost, when she'd asked about that evening. Couldn't they have dinner, spend the evening together? His business alibi had sounded flimsy.
The jittery feeling, unadulterated lust she admitted intensified. Travis, she wailed inwardly. I need you. I need you so badly. Why business? When we have such a short time?
Now her painful introspections were interrupted. As Miriam nudged her. "Faye," she whispered. "What is it? You look so strange. Don't you feel well?"
Faye forced a smile. "Nothing, Miriam. I feel fine. Just daydreaming. A discipline problem I can't get out of my mind."
Miriam was mollified. She turned back to the music with a small, self-satisfied smile. "Isn't the music glorious?"
"Yes," Faye replied. "Simply beautiful."
* * *
Dawn Riggs was in room 222 with Roger Larsen. Very drunk, her sexuality at fever pitch, she offered no resistance at all as he rolled and lifted her on the bed, worked to undress her. It had been decided before they'd left the dining room that Dawn should go to Jeff and Roger's room. And a last admonition: "I don' wanna see you until morning," Vernelle had slurred. "No matter what happens. Understan'?"
Dawn had understood. And unbelievably irresponsible, her lust drive incapacitating her, she'd done Vernelle one better. "Morning?" she'd jeered. "You'll be lucky if you'll see us even then." She'd fallen against Roger. "Ain't tha' right, Rog, baby?"
"You ain't just a woof in', doll," the pleased-as-punch man had replied. He marveled at his extreme good fortune. Before this night was over - All his wildest dreams would finally come true. With this bimbo as blotto as she was - Anything and everything he wanted. "Sugar," he said now, as he stripped away the dress, appraised the squirming, giggling female on the bed, took in the black, lacy lingerie, tease items from the word go, "that underwear! Wow, is that hot stuff!"
"Y' like it?" she purred thickly, feeling deliciously wicked, enjoying this open flaunting of her body.
"I bought it special. For my .. . first time."
Larsen's pulse hammered more madly. The revelation was stunning, a thing beyond his wildest dreams. This little tart a virgin? Man, man- "You mean that, Dawn? You've never had a man before? I thought..."
"Y' thought wrong, honey. I'm a virgin. C'n y' imagine? In this day 'n age? A virgin at twenty-two?" She giggled bawdily. "But not much longer, huh, Rog? Y'r gonna see to that, ain't you?"
"You bet I am honey. My pleasure. Here, let me at those goodies." Immediately he was upon her again, his hands, his fingers, his lips caressing, kissing, exploring, caressing shamelessly.
An adoration that thrilled Dawn to the depths of her being. And she squirmed, yipped small cries, wanted to scream aloud at the sensation, at the way millions of sharp, silver needles were seemingly being driven into her body, peppering every square inch of her, inside and out.
They kissed, rolled, clutched, pressed themselves to each other. She couldn't get enough of the kissing, of the hot, bold touches. And when his hand gathered that total delta of herself, squeezed - She moaned thickly in her throat, suddenly felt like she was suffocating. "My undies," she hissed. "Quick take them off. I want the real thing."
A request which Roger took his own good time doing. He undid her tight brassiere, instantly plucked at those crinkled nipples with teeth and lips and tongue, sent her into further fits of desire. The panties were skinned down. He caressed her tummy, kissed her there. An attention she couldn't get enough of. She wished he'd get even more bold.
He unsnapped her garter belt, made a painstaking process of peeling her stockings. He let his lips slide along her smooth legs. Now up again, pausing just short of that humid, coppery profusion. Which made Dawn pound her heels on the bed with helpless impatience, made her roll and lift her hips with frantic urgency.
"Oh, darling, darling..." she whined. "I never thought it would be like this. I feel all wild and crazy inside. Like I was being chopped up. I wan' you now. Whatever y' have to do now... Please, do it!"
Larsen chuckled arrogantly, took even greater advantage of her, performed gross liberties on her jittering body. "Anything you say, hotshot."
He rose, moved to extinguish the lamp. "No!" Dawn erupted from the bed. "Leave it on f'r a while. I wanna see you. I've never seen a man before. I mean ... in the flesh. Pictures only ... statues ..."
Larsen's smile became even more preening. "Sure baby. If that's what you want." He took his time undressing, made a tease show out of it, kept his back to her all the time. Until that crucial moment. And then, totally naked, his arousement prominent, he turned. He almost howled with glee at the dismay, the panic and fear that registered on the kid's face.
Briefly the alcoholic cloud was sundered. Dawn sensed real terror. Her fear of pain was reborn. "You mean..." She babbled. "I don't know ... Maybe we better not. I don' think I c'n ..
"You never know what you can do until you try, doll," he taunted. "You'll do just fine. I'll be real careful to you, I'll be real good to you." He chuckled anew. "Now? Do we douse the lights? Do we get down to business?"
"Yes," she quailed. "Yes ... now . .
The room was plunged into darkness. The bed squeaked, sagged as he came to her. Once more his lips latched to her breasts, his hands did those deranging things to her lower body, they drove away fear and reticence. They coaxed back that snarling tiger of lust.
Until Dawn cared nothing at all for pain. If that was the price she had to pay for this glorious completion, pay it she would. With a happy will.
Boldly, going wilder by the second, she let her hand search him out in the darkness. She moved in an awed coma, she assessed, wondered. She knew madhouse impatience.
"That's not so bad, is it?" Roger wheezed. "You won't mind that at all..."
At the last she wavered, fell back on a surge of dumb courage. "I won't mind... at all..."
Then he was there, that creaking, shrieking pain was stabbing upward in her body. She felt that insistent, brutal lurch.
Then she felt something else. She knew the true meaning of man. Of woman. Of physical love.
Intoxicated though she was she felt proud, somehow purified by her self-sacrifice. And she knew she'd never be the same after this night. She knew she'd never be able to do without this transfiguring sensation again.
Her voice small, tinged with childish wonder, she said, "I did it, darling. I did, I did. Oh, I feel so strange, so wonderful. Like I'm complete. Y'r good, Rog. I thought it would be so much worse. But it's wonderful. Oh!"
"Not as wonderful as it's gonna be," he muttered. "Not as wonderful as this."
Then he began to move.
* * *
"I hate to see the evening end," Shana was saying to Steve as they danced a last number together. It was Moon River, a favorite of hers, and she couldn't help it if she was sentimental, if she clung to Steve more dependently than she should have. "We've had so much fun."
"Does it have to end?" he said softly, his meaning unmistakable.
"It's midnight. We do have a full schedule tomorrow."
"Please, Shana," he whispered, his lips moving in her hair. "Not yet. What say we stop by my room? I've got some booze there. We can have a nightcap."
Novak was laying things on the line. He knew it, Shana knew it. For once she said yes, once she was in that room alone with him, she was committed. There was no turning back. She was silent for a moment; she savored the slide of his lips in her hair, the closeness of their bodies. She curried the sensual excitement building deep inside her.
A small shudder hit her. She stared up at Steve gravely, was embarrassed that she was misty-eyed. She marveled at how handsome, how gentle he looked at that moment. And she decided. If all those others could seize and wrench what they wanted from her, if Wayne could plunder her body under false colors- What harm? If she chose to openly and willingly give herself to this kind man?
"Yes, Steve," she whispered, unable to look at him. "I'd like that. A nightcap at your place would be just fine."
* * *
The woman's name was Corinne Monash. She was 32, a curriculum coordinator for the Johnsport Public Schools. Her job was an important, well-paid one. Corinne Monash was extremely vulnerable; she should have known better.
She was also a plain woman. A woman in the prime of her female sensuality. She was a woman starved for love. And when the devastatingly handsome Gordon Berry had approached her at the bar, had plied her with liquor, with that rare understanding all the other men she'd ever known were so stingy with - She'd thrown caution to the winds, had determined to seize what happiness she could. Scraps perhaps, a monumental self-delusion. But to a woman like Corinne - scraps were better than nothing.
And now, in room 820, in that specially rigged bedroom, naked on that bed, her legs steepled, glorying in a love the like she hadn't believed existed, was only a vehicle for sensationalist novels, she was beyond recall. She was adrift in the throes of a passion the like of which comes to few women in their lifetime. She was trapped.
"All things being equal," she gasped as she manually attended Berry, wanting in some small way to repay him for the incredible homage he was bestowing on her. She wished she were stronger, braver, that she could repay him in kind. But she couldn't, she simply couldn't. "And you are a tall man, darling. Tall in so many ways."
Berry paused in his labors, ceased the hot kissing, the animalistic attentions. "Please, Corinne, darling," he hissed. "You too. Help me. The way I'm helping you. It's not wrong. If two people love each other, if they want to know the heights of passion. Please, baby. I need you."
She shuddered, knew mild revulsion. And yet, marveled at the fact that it was less now than it had been. She knew she couldn't sink this low. And yet - If he could do this for her, an absolute stranger until two hours ago - Why did she entertain such false pride?
Her voice was sibilant. "I'm sorry, baby," she said. "I just can't. I'd like to, but I'm afraid."
"Please," Berry prodded deep emotion and pleading into his voice, his tone wrenching the woman's heart. "Just a little. You won't mind. It isn't as bad as you might think. If I'm willing to do this for you ..."
Again he dropped his head, he attacked her with devilish skill, drove Corinne completely out of her mind. The idea gained fascination. A dark dagger of evil was driven into her, twisted and ground. As his lips, his tongue ministered more aberratedly to her.
Suddenly his words assumed all the logic in the world. Yes, she raged, the depraved fever unhinging her. If he can do this for me, if he can so willingly love me - "Please," his husky voice carried up, the pleading tone causing her to fall apart. "Just a little."
She still delayed. "But you're so ..." she whined.
"Try," he groaned. "That's all I'm asking."
Corinne Monash tried. Moment later she did more than that. Straining and adjusting, sighing thickly, she became a convert. "Oh," she intoned. "Baby, baby... Yes, yes. This is good. It does make things better. I feel like an absolute wanton. You darling, you darling!"
In the closet Travis Nelson picked his shots selectively, made sure his camera was in focus, that he got Miss Monash's face framed perfectly. Man, he thought grimly as he watched the woman go totally ape over the variation, we ought to invest in some taping equipment. We'd just have to let the witches hear themselves.
They'd buy. They'd buy damned fast.
CHAPTER SIX
Shana was quite, uncertain as Steve turned from locking the door behind them. A faint panic suffused her, she wondered why, now that she was here, consented to come to his room with him. And yet she wouldn't be gauche, she wouldn't act the role of a hick kid.
A promise is a promise. Even an unstated one. One as grave as this.
She fought for savoir faire, she fought to regain her cool, to be tough again. After all, a tumble. So what? She'd been tumbled by past masters. And what was the big problem? There was no hang-up here. This was just something to be done, something to be gotten out of the way. Something of mutual benefit.
She alibied further, told herself the fling would serve as buffer between the unpleasantnesses in her past. The gang rape, Wayne's desertion - she mustn't let them permanently warp and embitter her. After all, it was the world. A world made up of men and women. And she, at 23, still had a lot of living to do before she shambled down that long side of the hill.
Now she looked up at Steve. Where he stood regarding her, a strange expression - one of regret almost - in his eyes. She shammed flippancy, smiled, tried to conceal the extent of her tipsiness. "Well? Here we are, Steve? How do you want things? You want me to pretend I'm shocked, fight and sob? Or should we play things cool, act like adults, take this for what it is? A brief encounter?"
Momentarily Novak was stunned. Hey, what have we got here anyway? he thought. What kind of sex-nut did I drag home this time? Then as he studied her closer, saw her real expression - the timid, frightened reality her blase words didn't really camouflage - he sensed an unfamiliar pity. He was moved by the brave pose, by the little girl who cowered behind it.
"Shana, please," he breathed. "You don't have to put on an act for me. Be yourself. If you've changed your mind, just say so. I won't hold you to anything, you should know that. Woman's prerogative, remember?"
"No," she said, averting her eyes. "I haven't changed my mind. I'll go through with it. I said I would, didn't P"
"Not in so many words."
"Maybe you don't need words for things like this"
"Maybe."
"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to be irritating. Some people's version of detachment, I guess. Just wanted to please, that's all."
"What do you say we play it by ear? I asked you up here for a drink. Let's start with that, see where things go from there. Okay?"
"Okay."
"What would you like? I've got some Scotch, some brandy, a little sherry. There's water; I can send down for ice."
"Never mind. Brandy'll be fine. Put some water in it."
"Ill have brandy too. But with no water."
As he passed the wall he stopped, flipped the speaker switch to a classical FM station. Then, as he handed Shana her glass, she said, "Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake. Funny, I'd never taken you for a classical buff."
His face went stern. "I just wonder what your real opinion of me is." He wondered if they really would make love.
"My opinion of you is a good one. So far you've been a perfect gentleman. Which is more than I can say for some men who've crossed my path. I simply didn't think you were the symphony type. I'd take you for a Brubeck fan."
"I dig both sides of the record. And folk too. On occasion I've even been known to sit through an entire side of Guy Lombardo. Once I even watched the Lawrence Welk show."
Shana laughed, felt more at ease now. As the brandy warmed her, added further insulating layer atop those previously constructed. As their conversation resumed its casual, bantering flow. She studied Steve's face, let her eyes linger on his soft, smooth lips, wondered what it would feel like when he kissed her.
She chided herself inwardly, decided she wasn't as cool as she thought. The lady's got a letch, she thought. And there certainly could be worse male specimens she could surrender herself to, that's for sure. Steve was a handsome man. A tremor hit her. Good God, girl! I think you're actually impatient!
They talked in desultory fashion, drank one, then two drinks. Gradually the pauses became longer, the feeling of self-consciousness grew. As that moment of truth drew closer. Now it was Steve's turn to be surprised, to chide himself. An experienced pro like himself, hesitating, uncertain of which approach to use? It was a unique switch indeed.
Another thing bothered him. This his reluctance to initiate the incendiary overtures. He made lame alibis, thought that Shana looked younger, more ingenue here than she had at the nightclub. Lord, he hadn't won himself a virgin, had he? For some unexplainable reason he didn't want to be the first to use her. He just wasn't up to that teary-eyed bit tonight. Not this kid - Abruptly he caught himself, fell back on his hard-boiled philosophy. The philosophy that had carried him successfully through countless bed-sheet battles. If they're big enough, they're old enough, he refrained. She had admitted to 23, hadn't she?
And why the sweat?
But his callous commentary to the contrary, he was decidedly off-stride. And now, in about as callow a repartee as anyone could use: "Your friend ... She won't worry about you? She won't wait up, have the cops out if you're not in by the witching hour?"
Shana's grin was mocking. "No, Estee won't worry. She's not the warden type. I'm a big girl now."
"Good deal," he said with typical Joe College finesse. "I... ah, would you care for another drink?"
"No thank you," she said primly. "This should do me just fine." Then fixing him with a teasing, mischievous stare: "I'd better quit now. If I'm going to be at all... operative ... later on. When you ..."
She let the unfinished statement hang on the air, an insufferable dig.
Which threw him into even further confusion. "Well," he stammered, "I suppose we'd better get with things."
The patronizing smile again. "Yes, I suppose we should. It's not getting any earlier."
He rose, cursed his continuing stupidity. "Would you like the lights out?"
"Anything you say, Steve."
He groped for the small divan in the darkness, gathered Shana into his arms with almost mechanical brusqueness. A small, fluttery sigh escaped her; she trembled slightly in his embrace. Thai his lips found hers, he reveled in their soft warmth, their moist smoothness. He reveled in her subtle scent, the untamable musk of her own femininity that intermingled with it.
And suddenly the uncertainty, the alien lack of finesse fell away. He was in charge again, he was cocksure, experienced man again. There was suddenly no time to ponder that momentary lapse. There was only this rampaging desire, there was this acquiescent, timid girl to take care of. A woman to be handled, to be inflamed, to be molded in that unfailing way he'd shaped and guided countless other females, had delivered them to threshold of ecstasy.
Had vaingloriously carried them into that magic kingdom, had shown them delights unending.
His kiss was gentle, dominating, with just a trace of sadism to it. He held her face tenderly between his hands, he pressed his mouth to hers firmly, yet respectfully, he worked his lips back and forth on hers, rolled and slid them. And now, as a quick, excited gasp escaped Shana, he let the tip of his tongue dart forth, used it for inflaming the valley of her lips.
Instinctively he knew Shana's erotic streak had been awakened; he knew she was ready and willing to follow wherever he might lead. That make pride, that delight in his masculinity, that the aggressor's role was his, flared up within him. Immediately he raised her, embraced her, drew her body, those hard-tipped breasts close. He purposely ground her to him.
His tongue was an avenging brand now, it invaded her mouth, parried with her own, elicited involuntary response from Shana. Now her arms came about him, her fingers skittered at his head, tousled his hair.
Moments later she sank back into a supine position, dragged him down with her. Until he was half laying over her, half on the divan, half on the floor, pouring kiss after kiss into her insatiable lips. One of his hands began sliding up and down her nyloned legs. From ankle to knee, from knee to ankle. She shivered, flung up one knee, the movement throwing up her skirt, revealing the luminous whiteness of her thighs in the gloom.
Now his hand, seizing upon the unmistakable invitation, climbed higher on her legs, rubbed her warm, soft thighs. Then he was cupping that most exotic promontory of her body, he was riling and rolling her there. An attention she abetted by throwing her one legs aside, granting further access.
They continued to kiss and roll their bodies together. Shana knew debilitating weakness, was wild at the masterful, confident way he attended her. She couldn't help but be reminded of some of those endless nights with Wayne, in his bed, when she'd allowed these same liberties.
But still there was a difference. For wonderful as Wayne had been, as much as she'd loved him, there had been a streak of greedy impatience in his overtures; he'd hurried things, hadn't given her time to open, to flower as this love master was doing.
The gentleness and skill with which Steve adored her was fantastic, something she'd never experienced before. And where she'd thought she'd known most of love's sensations - She realized she was still learning.
Steve's conjectures about Shana's virginity were shortly dispelled. As she suddenly clamped her throbbing legs on his hand, pulled her lips from his. "Please Steve? Can't we go to bed? Get undressed? We're just getting all mussed this way. You can have me, play aft you want..."
He made a beautiful ritual out of undressing her, he hovered over her, kissed and caressed her everywhere as each gauzy scrap of nylon was whisked away. Then when she was totally naked, when Steve left her to undress himself, when he returned, still kissed and caressed, held h"s lust in abeyance, she could contain her appreciation no longer.
"You certainly believe in going over a woman with a fine-tooth comb, don't you? Most men . . . some men... think only of themselves; they leave it up to the woman to make things happen for herself."
"Men?" he snorted, drawing his lips from her nipples with a delectable swirl. "Fools, you mean. They don't know the first thing about love. They don't realize how much more they get if they see to the woman's needs first."
There was no more time for talk then. Only for sighs and moans of delight, of impatience. Shana thought it the most beautiful thing in the world when he turned her on her stomach, when he crouched over her, let his lips slide up and down her spine. She felt like she was curling, shriveling up inside when his lips spiraled in the small of her back, when his tongue painted connecting laces between those ultra-sensitive dimples. When it flirted with that first depression of her buttocks.
"Oh, darling," she groaned. "No man's ever done that to me before."
"It's about time, beautiful," he gritted. "A gorgeous creature deserves all this. And more." He returned to the dizzying chore, seemingly delighted in her groans of enjoyment, her twitchings. Then, just before he turned her over again, he let his lips slide down the backs of her legs. Back and forth, back and forth. A rite that threatened to hopelessly knot and tangle her very entrails.
"Steve, Steve ..." she chanted. "I can't stand much more of that."
But she found she could. As the man rolled her onto her back, began kissing her breasts anew. Now, in a move that further thrilled Shana, he gathered both breasts, arranged them, took both nipples into his mouth simultaneously. His tongue immediately wove figure eights about her throbbing nibs, his mouth pressured and gathered. She wanted to scream at the sweet sensation. She felt her breasts were being compacted, torn and consumed in this most magnificent of ways.
Now his hands and fingers played elsewhere, tortured her on still another front. She felt like a boiler about to burst.
Again, in a ministration reminiscent of those she'd once received from Wayne, had wantonly reciprocated, Steve rearranged his body, let his lips sweep across the fluttering bowl of her belly, down along the firm lowlands of her hips, along the edges of her pelvis. Down onto the lust pastures of her thighs. Now they climbed anew.
And Shana wished that he would be even more experimental now. Even as Wayne had been liberal. So she could demonstrate an irresponsible side of her nature to Steve as well as she had to Wayne.
The thought as suddenly revolted her. What's happening to you, Shana? she railed. Have you no modesty, no scruples whatsoever? Is it that bad already? Have those other animals ruined you, blunted what few principles, what little conscience you ever had?
But still, the castigation to the contrary, she still wished for that magnificent excess. She forced herself to be content with his kissings at her tummy, at the dippings at her navel. There'll be other times, she rationalized foolishly. Steve and I will make love again. Tomorrow. The next day. Time. There's time for those other things.
For now, enjoy this. Oh, enjoy! She shuddered, caught his hand between her thighs again.
Now she was surprised to hear him muttering, seemingly to himself. And was further shocked, thrilled as she deciphered his words. "Let me, Shana. Let me do these things. I love you. I have to adore you like this."
"Please, Steve," she said. "Don't say things like that. You know you don't love me. It's just something to say, something you use with all your girls."
"How do you know?" he sighed. "Who knows where a thing like this can lead? Would you rather have me say I like you? That I admire you? Wouldn't that sound silly? When we're sharing the beautiful thing we are? I love you. That's what I should say.
That's what I will say."
At the moment Shana was in no condition to argue the point. If he wanted to say that it was all right with her. The endearment did enhance this love, it did erase some of the tawdry, fly-by-night circumstances in which they groveled. The words did thrill her.
Now he came over her. And lost in a passion the likes of which she'd never known, Shana opened her legs, steepled her knees, sent her hands as vanguard to greet and guide him.
"No," she husked when he attempted to force himself to her, "not yet, darling. Here, let me ... This will help."
There was no more room in her mind for shame, for hesitance. She wanted this magnificent lover, she wanted this sensation. She wanted it to be the most sublime of loves; she wanted to milk every possible rapture from their merging. And thus, as she honed him to her, as she heard him groan, as a blast-furnace gust of heat stunned her - "Now, darling," she whimpered. "I'm ready. We're both ready." She groaned thickly, scrambled to adjust, to wind her legs about him as he slowly, beautifully harbored himself within her. And she knew a sense of completion, a totality of self. She knew what ingredient had been missing in her hate-possessed life during these past months. She vowed that she wouldn't go without; she wouldn't shut men out ever again.
This must be an integral part of her days - and nights - from this moment on. A man - An idiotic thought struck her. Steve - Then she was distracted. As he began to move, as he sliced her with precise, metronomic stabs- That madhouse frenzy took over, an incredible panic and heat was born within her. She had missed this. Too long, too long, she raged.
And almost immediately, his preludes wrecking havoc upon her, she felt that torrid tide rise inside of her. She began to gasp. Her hands clawed his back; she used his flesh for handles. Handles with which to dictate cadence, to bang and hammer him to that furnace of her passion.
She screamed, buried her mouth in his shoulder, clung and rocked, sought to drain every last iota of sensation from the act. And in the process froze, waited for the man's deliverance, knew that if this had been Wayne - But this wasn't Wayne.. As Steve immediately proved. For he was just beginning, he paced himself, determined to bring her to repeated glories. "Go, baby," he gritted. "That's only the beginning. There's more. Go after them. They're yours, you earned 'em." His body jutted at hers with precise, singing skill. "I love you, baby, love you." He groaned. "Go, go!"
She decided. In her continuing glory she thought that if he could use the words, so could she. "I love you, Steve," she screeched.
As glory number three roared down on her, plucked her up, sent her into the heavens. Immediately she bucked anew, sought recreation of glory. His words rang in her ears. I earned this, all of it! she thought. I suffered, knew shame for this. I earned it, I deserve it. So take, take - And now it was here. For both of them.
And for Shana - like a wild, caged feeling, a primal drive, a desire to scream and scream, to arch, to achieve that ultimate pain and release. Shana was transformed, was held trapped in space. Waiting, waiting. For Steve. Then she descended into the gaping maw of the volcano, felt the thousand-degree heat inundate her. She saw the bubbling white-hot lava beneath her; she felt herself falling headlong into the molten heat.
She screamed. Once, twice, three times. She clawed and chewed at Steve's shoulder.
She definitively recognized her life's missing ingredient. An ingredient she must rediscover, pursue with dedication.
Love! Somehow there must be love again!
CHAPTER SEVEN
The crowd at the Friday morning general session was noticeably thinner than that of the previous day. Understandably so. For fully 25% of the teacher complement had left for home late Thursday afternoon. Another 10% was undoubtedly still in their hotel rooms, either nursing hangovers or recuperating from unaccustomed sexual exertions of the night before. Another 5% was playing hooky, lingering over breakfast, shopping, otherwise laying groundwork for further adventures during the convention's last night.
As it was both Estee and Shana had overslept. Both physically exhausted, but for distinctly different reasons, they'd nearly broken their necks to arrive at the morning session even a half hour late.
Which had been, so far as Shana was concerned anyway, so much wasted effort. For the speaker this morning - a U.S. Senator whose name she couldn't even remember - discussed the present status of the international power struggle, a subject Shana wasn't even faintly interested in. Politics definitely weren't her cup of tea. Her mind drifted continually throughout the talk.
Applause was tumultuous at the close of the Senator's speech. But Shana, thinking of her own lust, barely heard it, literally dragged Estee out of the arena.
Now they wandered in the basement display rooms, exhibiting only minimal interest, they killed time until lunch. They listlessly inspected new copying machines, textbooks, a "revolutionary" blackboard cleaner. They scanned coordinated English programs, flipped through guaranteed-result workbooks. Guaranteed to do everything but wake the pupil up, Shana thought acidly. She did become interested in a set of paperbacks, an interrelated grouping of modern American novels that could prove invaluable to her classes, and picked up literature on the plan.
But otherwise - Zombiville.
Twice she and Estee ran into other teachers from Bay City. But, both observing a seemingly unwritten code, their exchanges were pointedly brief, mere hail and farewell. Teachers came to convention to get away from their colleagues, from home base. They clung to that anonymity and sense of isolation with a deadly dedication.
The only value such a chance meeting served was that of certification that they'd attended the convention. A subtle accumulation of points.
Immediately afterward they were adrift, islands unto themselves.
Estee had lingered behind at one of the exhibits. And now Shana stood at a temporarily deserted stand, stared unseeingly at the pages of an America literature anthology. How long she stood thusly she had no way of knowing.
Her thoughts were eons away from American literature. As they continued to mentally envision last night's incredible happenings, as she pondered the swiftness, the almost trance-like ease with which she'd slid into passion with that stranger named Steve Novak. Could it truly be? That only 24 hours ago she hadn't even known such a man existed?
She felt no guilt, no remorse for her easy surrender. Hardened stoic that she'd become, such reactions were now beyond her ken. What mattered now was whether or not the sex had been satisfactory, whether or not her spirit had been further maimed. Deciding she had not suffered, feeling her pulse quicken at remembrance of the interlude, she sensed actual impatience for repetition of those bedroom acrobatics. She knew panic at the thought that perhaps Steve had had his fill, that he'd not call her again.
Amoral, hard-boiled? she accused. Hardly. If the world had made her this way, why fight it? Why not be realistic and practical about things? Things like her wild fandango in Steve's bed last night?
The drumming refrain: You're a big girl now.
Then irritation. Hadn't she been working that catchall justification into the ground of late?
But there was more to it than that. Granted, it was too soon to think of such, but she couldn't help wondering if there hadn't been more to Steve's declarations of love last night than she suspected. Undoubtedly he told all his girls he loved them, used the words to salve ingenue consciences after taking them for a bed romp.
But couldn't it just be that what started as cut-and-dried, routine lingo might become more than that? Couldn't the words be transmuted, changed to the gold of sincerity and truth by time, by a continuing relationship?
A sudden throb hit her, made her weak and yearning. God knew, she was willing to try. She was avid to try. Hoping, in the process to breathe some reviving flame into an arid, lifeless heart once more.
I could be happy with Steve, she thought. I know I could make him happy. Her thoughts raced ahead. I could make him a good wife.
She jerked slightly, caught herself, scolded bitterly at her presumption. Talk about crossing your bridges! she lashed.
Yet she couldn't shake the thought. She couldn't help but compare the love Steve had shown her to that she'd known during her six-month-long liaison with the selfish, immature Wayne Kerrigan.
Her thoughts drifted still further backward. And she realized now more clearly than ever before that her surrender, her clinging to him had been a perverse sort of rebound. After what Ponce and his cutthroat friends had done to her, she'd needed some place to turn, some sanctuary. And where she'd once thought Wayne a god among men, where her life had twined totally in his - She could now see him for the shallow, arrogant opportunist that he was.
In comparison to Steve- A slob.
And still, a slob to whom she'd stupidly delivered her soul, her body, her innermost dignity. Anything he'd asked she'd delivered. In the name of love. Wrapping each sick submission in a holy mantle, offering it at that altar of self-delusion.
She loved Wayne, he loved her. Beyond that nothing else mattered. With Wayne she was safe, she had worth. If she ever lost him - Now Shana felt slightly ill as she remembered some of the things Wayne had extorted from her. One picture, especially, was unfurled, emblazoned on that dark wall of her mind.
A picture in which, during a moment of drunk, total descent into depravity, he had, at his apartment, gone wild to grovel. She blushed faintly at that remembrance. Wherein, by candlelight, both of them naked, she'd lent herself to Wayne's every whim, had let him drape her topsy-turvy over the cushions of a high-backed chair. There, her legs splayed, her knees locked over the chair's back, Wayne partially upright, kneeling on its arms - He'd come to her, had kissed and adored her with fiery skill. And as her passion had rampaged, gone amok, had asked equal attention from her. The picture seemingly flared, took on painfully clear definition. Once again Wayne was above her, hanging, taunting her. Once again she was reaching for him, drawing him to her. Once again she was wallowing, welcoming him, she was toppling headlong into a seething pit of pagan excess.
Someone accidentally nudged her in passing, shook her from the trance. And Shana blinked, looked about in dismay, was stunned by the intensity of emotion she felt at that moment, was glad she'd been awakened in time.
Wayne had lasted only a short time though. They'd begun their affair in mid-January. By the end of July it was over. He had extorted every sexual experimentation possible from her. And tiring of her, had gone on to greener pastures, had sought fresh victim to his Satanic ego. And where Shana had thought she could endure another year at Clinton - so long as Wayne would stand by her - She broke her contract, found quick acceptance at Bay City. Where the wounds had festered, remained virulent, were only now beginning to heal.
Fresh hope filled her. Steve - the miracle drug of his love - he would heal her, cure her once and for all. And even though she realized she was clutching at straws - It was a hope, a dream well worth having.
Now her introspections were shattered. As Estee came up behind her, jostled her. "You've been staring at that book for five minutes," she chided lightly. "Certainly it can't be that interesting. What's wrong, honey?"
Shana started, breasts heaving. "Nothing, Estee. Nothing's wrong. Got to daydreaming, I guess. Hope nobody else saw."
"That thing still bothering you? I mean, last night. When I found you crying? You were pretty shook."
Shana fought to be flippant. "One of my crybaby moods. They pass."
"Seemed like more than cry-baby to me. That must have been some bad dream."
Shana sought to detour Estee. "What do you think of this anthology? Seems pretty comprehensive to me."
Estee took the book, firmly replaced it on the table. "You got in pretty late last night, didn't you, dear? After two as I recall. Pretty heavy date. I hope you didn't do anything you'll be sorry for later."
A small irritation hit Shana. And to purposely shock Estee: "No," she smiled mysteriously, "I didn't do anything I'm sorry about. I'd be more sorry if I'd missed that."
Estee knew clawing jealousy. "And how am I supposed to take that?"
"Take it anyway you like, Estee. You're a sophisticated, mature adult."
"You modern-day girls," Estee clucked. "You take these things so casually. You attach no more importance to sleeping with a man than you do to changing your stockings."
"Not all modern-day girls," Shana said. "This modern-day girl."
Estee sighed heavily. "Anyway, whatever happened ... I wish you wouldn't have."
"Don't fret, Estee. I'm all right, my entire life won't be warped by the experience. A man and a maid. It's no national catastrophe."
"Perhaps not. But as you grow older you'll see these things in a different light; you'll have regrets."
"I doubt it," Shana said, starting to move on. Her eyes drilled into Estee's with a hard, defiant glitter. "Besides, after you've seen the things I have, lived through the misfortunes I've known... You wouldn't give things like Steve a second thought."
Estee's heart tightened. She ignored the Steve reference. "Maybe someday you'll trust me enough, Shana, enough to confide in me, tell me about some of those grim misadventures of yours."
Shana winked. "I trust you now, Estee. But that's not the point. Nobody, but nobody's ever going to hear about those things."
She walked slightly ahead of Estee. Thus she didn't see the sad despair that formed on her friend's features. A despair that was somehow mixed with grave patience and resignation. A despair touched with scintilla of hope.
* * *
It was 2 p.m. And especially remaining in her room this afternoon, pleading an upset stomach to the ever-solicitous Miriam, Faye Silver was pacing the floor, on pins and needles, a deadly emptiness and panic pervading. Travis, she wailed to herself, what's happened? Why haven't you called? I thought surely by now- It's been almost 24 hours since I've seen you.
Just a word, a phone call - Bitterness grew. I thought you were different, Travis, a cut above the common herd. I thought you really cared for me, that it was more than my body that you wanted. She sighed ponderously. But no. You're just like all the rest. Once you get what you want, once you turn our heads, coax all sorts of liberties from us for lust satisfaction - You're gone again, seeking greener pastures. No Travis, say it's not so. Prove to me that you're different, that you do care. Show me. By calling me. By making that phone ring. Now, right now. Oh, please - She became even more angry and impatient. Now she fell into a chair, stared vengefully into space. She conjured up pictures of the many men she'd bedded down with in past moments of physical need. She cynically categorized them for what they were. Animals, greedy lechers, seeking nothing more than a quick conquest, a tidy relief from inner pressures. And that achieved - the woman no longer had value in their eyes. She was a vehicle, she'd been ridden from here to there, had done her work well.
But once destination is reached - A particularly vile remembrance, a definite example, came to mind at that moment. And she recalled a man named Jack Falcone. An arrogant, egotistical person who'd been principal in one of her first schools. A man whom she'd avoided, had denied every time he'd made a pass at her. And yet whom she'd desired with a blazing lust. Especially she remembered that mid-year promotion, the supervisor's slot that had led to her eventual principalship. A job she and Viola Kendricks had competed for.
She remembered that night Mr. Falcone had called her into his office, had very subtle put things on the line, had intimated that if she was good to him, he'd see that she got the coveted recommendation.
She remembered the primal fire that had exploded inside of her at that moment. A fire ignited not so much by the job incentive as by the cocky, dominant manner in which the man propositioned her. She remembered how she'd been weak, how she'd almost fallen into his arms.
And more debilitating- The picture of both of them naked behind that locked door, both of them sprawled on his carpeted floor, both of them moaning and screaming, Jack Falcone rasping out the most vile oaths as his deliverance approached.
Now again she was up, striding like a caged animal, her loins suddenly aching, her breath coming in quick pants. Please, Travis, she shrieked inwardly. I need you, I need you so terribly. Call, won't you? Summon me to your room. Or come to me. Anything you want, use me any way you like.
Treat me like a roundheels, like a transient slut. But don't ignore me, don't leave me hanging like this. Travis, you can't be that busy. Call me, please call me. I'll come running. In the middle of the hotel lobby if I have to. Travis, darling!
* * *
But Travis Nelson was that busy. He most assuredly wouldn't find time to call the passe schoolmarm. His hands were full this afternoon. And his mouth as well. With still another schoolmarm. An even wilder, more experienced wanton than Miss Faye Silver.
A torchy item named Vernelle Sprague. Who wasn't one bit cautious about maintaining her anonymity, about concealing the fact that she was a married woman. "Oooh, you devil!" she squealed as he spread her on the davenport, arranged her with one knee crooked over its back, the other leg touching the floor. As he stuffed cushions beneath her buttocks, seemingly put her on a dais, the better to attend her with hands, fingers and lips.
"That's wonderful! Ooh, if you just knew how bad I need this. My lucky day when I ran into you. I hope you've got lots of wild ideas like this. I dig variety. The more variety the better."
Travis's eyes narrowed; he let his lips slide faster on that upraised, golden tussock. "I think I'll be able to show you a few new twists. I'm a gold mine of ideas." While he thought: Talk about lambs being led to slaughter!
"Keith," Vernelle gurgled happily, "that's my husband- he's so unimaginative. A real dud. He never wants to try anything; he gets on his high horse every time I even suggest anything different." She lurched, shrilled a protest that wasn't a protest. "Naughty! But good naughty."
"Tell me more about your husband," Travis fished. "What does he do for a living? He located in Turnbull too?"
"He's an accountant. Good job, and gettin' better.
I don't really have to be a teacher. But anything to get away. He's so stodgy. Strictly a meat and potatoes man. Just wants to climb on and go. You know a woman needs more than that." She jerked, swirled her buttocks on the pillows. "Oooh, I guess you do know!"
Still Travis Nelson knelt before her, kissed her legs, her thighs, let his tongue pepper her nipples, her navel. He swirled it teasingly, made Vernelle gasp with agony. His hands slid all over her body, tweaked her nipples, cupped her aching breasts, made her spasm with ecstasy. The room in muted sunlight, he as naked as she, the work-up made quite a scene indeed.
Or so thought Gordon Berry, hidden in the closet, carefully snapping pictures, waiting for the moment when the truly damning business would commence. As he dispassionately worked, felt small twinges of envy, wished he could be on the receiving end of that blonde's way-out, animal style, he did some quick figuring.
They'd been in the business for two years now; they had amassed, in that time, roughly 120 clients. All clients of this same ilk, teachers, club women, all timid patsies, the kind of person who'd never come up against violence, against blackmailers - against anybody, for that matter - in all their lives. Types who'd never dream of fighting back.
He agreed at the wisdom of Trav's philosophy, knew they were playing their racket the best possible way. "When you've got mice," Trav insisted, "when you've got quivering rabbits at your mercy, why run the chance of turning them into tigers, blowing the whole scheme sky-high?" Using this guideline they'd been taking it easy on their clients. Fifty a month, one and all. It was money the victims would never miss, money that wouldn't push them to the wall, cause them to blow the whistle on them. It was the safest of ploys. For who was going to risk blowing their lives sky-high for a lousy $600 a year, invite a sex scandal?
And yet the money mounted up. Fifty a month times 120 meant a cool $6000 a month. Even split down the middle it was damned good money. Some paid by the year, by the half year, just like their insurance premiums. And the strategically located P.O. boxes in different key cities were always bulging with money-packed envelopes by the time they got around to collect them.
Two-hundred was cut-off point. Once they got that many customers, they were going to quit, live off residuals. It was this that bothered Gordon Berry. As avarice got to him in his old age. Why not up the ante? Especially with this Vernelle Sprague babe? There were two incomes there. She was good for $100 easy. And that Faye Silver. She could afford $100 a month. He'd have to talk to Trav.
Now he concentrated on his photography, marveled at the way Trav could make those women all but jump out of their skins. He was good, he knew. But Trav, he had a true gift. Just dig the way that Sprague twitch was gasping, the way her eyes were all but bulging out of her head. You'd think some of them would have a heart attack.
"Lover..." Vernelle slurred thickly now, trying to coax the man up onto the davenport. "Are you gonna get up here? Or can't two play at this game?"
Nelson straightened, looked down on her with a smug smile. "No, baby," he said. "I'm not coming up there. You're coming down here."
She shivered, hugged herself. "Sure, doll. Anything you say." And infected by a degenerate sickness, she jumped up. Moments later Travis was spread on the davenport, limply letting her arrange him as she desired. Now his leg was flung over the back of the davenport, the pillows were placed beneath his buttocks.
Then Vernelle knelt before him, clutched him, attended him in that most servile way, made a prolonged rite out of it, savoring and enjoying to her heart's content. And as she honored him, as his fingers pincered her nipples in cadence to her motions, as he brushed away her golden hair, turned her face just so, not to cheat the camera, she intoned thickly, "I wanted to do this for Keith. But he'd have none of it. And now, finally ... at a damned teachers' convention ..."
She glanced up. "Am I good, Travis? Am I doing you right? As good as your other girls?"
"Perfect, darling. It's like you've been practicing all your life."
"You ain't seen anything yet, handsome. This is only a start. I'll have you begging for mercy in a minute."
She returned to the pagan wars, attacked him with a vicious will. Travis Nelson began to groan and throb.
But definitely, Gordon Berry thought, methodically snapping pictures. She'll pay $100 without a whimper.
And if her girl friend wasn't attending any of the seminars and workshops this afternoon, neither was Dawn Riggs. For at that same moment, in room 222, in bed with Roger Larsen again - She was engaging in a seminar-workshop of her own. One comprising a very intimate group. She didn't have a name for the session, but thought that Modern Biology II sounded very good indeed.
And as she opened herself to Roger, exulted in his slamming thrust, in the absence of pain, she bawdily amended the thought. Modern Biology II felt very good also!
She wondered what bush she'd been born behind. That she'd been missing this glorious stuff all these years.
"Darling," she gloated muffledly, "it's even better than last night. No pain, no sweat. Just a yummy, wild, hot feeling. It's even better when you're not drunk. You don't miss a single thing then."
Larsen worked at her like a runaway bull, knew exactly of that which she spoke. An awesome meat-skewer was driven through him, threatened to murder him.
"You know it, sugar-babe. You're prime, prime. I never had a woman good as you. In mint condition like this, I mean. You hurt, but you hurt good. I'll never settle for anything but virgins from here on in."
She clamped her legs, thrust herself frantically at him. "This virgin, you mean, buster. I'm gonna haunt you."
The teachers' convention ground on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday night's convention ticket entitled its owner to attend a road show version of "The King and I." And Steve not calling her, Shana hadn't the slightest reason in the world not to accompany Estee to the play. Thus this evening at 10:30, the third and final act just getting underway: Shana Alexander and Estee Courtnay, row G, seats 33 and 34, Empire Theater.
A smug, self-satisfied Estee.
A disconsolate, embittered Shana.
And where she'd thought that perhaps the play would help distract her, make her forget the fickleness of men, such was not to be. Good as the musical was she couldn't get Steve Novak out of her mind, or his sexual prowess.
If anything she reviewed their session the more ceaselessly, she embroidered upon it, read into that chance encounter more than was really there. It was impossible for her to believe that it had been nothing more than a physical merging, a sublimation of identities for one ecstatic moment. Surely it had meant more than that for her. It was inconceivable - in that unique female philosophy that will not admit that males are different in temperament and needs - that a one-night-stand could be all he wanted of her.
For if she compared it with gilded, romantic trappings- How dare he be so callous as to regard it otherwise?
She blinked back tears, scolded herself for being so gullible and foolish. After all this time, after all the humiliations she'd faced in her short life, one would think she'd tough up, get wise to herself, to the ways of the world.
She fought to crystallize anger in her mind, whip it into hatred. He got what he wanted from you, didn't he? Without so much as a slap, or a scratch. What do you expect? You were an instant lay. Men don't have any respect for your type, they don't even care to come back for seconds. And as far as love's concerned - Forget it.
Her anger became stronger; she deliberately attempted to direct the brunt of it against herself. You got what you wanted, didn't you? You wanted a good tussle, you wanted to find out if you were still a woman. After all that other.
You found out, didn't you? That you've still got it, that you can function as well as any woman on two feet. Or off two feet, she corrected tartly. You went to the stars; you got back safe and sound. How many women can say that? How many women would have been petrified at going to bed with a stranger, wouldn't have felt a thing?
The taunt thundered in her head. You got what you went after, didn't you? What more do you want? The world in pink cellophane? You got what yon deserved.
But still she couldn't get vision of Steve's face out of her mind, she couldn't forget the catch in his voice when he'd told her he loved her. She couldn't desert the silly dreams she'd woven about those words.
Steve, she called to herself. Don't desert me. Not now of all times - Now she attended the play, found they'd arrived at the part where King Mongkut is on his deathbed. It was a moving scene, and she was caught up in its spell. She glanced at Estee, saw that her eyes glazed with tears, and she felt a special warmth and affection toward this loyal friend.
Thus, as the scene reached its most sentimental climax, she thought nothing of it when Estee's hand slipped into her lap, sought and gripped her hand. Guilelessly she took the move as effect of the emotion onstage, she wound her fingers in Estee's, enjoyed the tactile communication. She thought Utile of it when Estee continued to hold her hand long after the scene was past, pressing her thigh.
What had begun in the heat of second-hand empathy now became something else. And Estee knew an even more crushing emotion, a genuine, wistful one. For the moment she knew a bittersweet happiness, she was impaled by a longing that there could someday be more than this. If she could always be this close to Shana. If she could teach her the meaning of love.
The real meaning of love.
She wanted to sob when the play ended and Shana disengaged her hand.
* * *
Faye Silver was still in her room, still keeping vigil, positive that Travis would call, make love to her again. No matter how much she railed at herself for being a fool, her faith in Travis remained unshakable. He was busy, his business contacts were keeping him occupied. But sooner or later he would find time to call; he would find her waiting here for him.
It was 8:30 p.m. now, the play was just starting. Miriam wouldn't be back until 11:30 at the earliest. The theater was cross town; it would take that long at least. She would give Travis another hour. If he hadn't called by then - What? her mind raged. What would she do? Would she go pound on his door again? As she'd done at 7:30, only to find the room dark, to receive no answer. Would she go on ringing his room? As she'd been doing since 4:30 this afternoon, not having roused him once? Would she go downstairs and prowl the bar a third time, search through the thinned-out crowds, hope to find him?
What?
That was a good question. A very good question.
For she knew that if she didn't see Travis soon, if she didn't extinguish the banked fires that smoldered deep in her psyche soon- There was no telling what desperate thing she might do, what substitutes she might turn to. It was a thought that rankled, maddened her.
Slut, she raged against her uncontrollable sexuality. What is it with you? Have you really flipped? Have you become nymphomaniac?
* * *
"That telephone," the fat, over-dressed woman, a society matron who'd inadvertently wandered into the Bentley Arms' cocktail lounge, had been swiftly picked up by Gordon Berry, complained. "Can't you do something about it? It keeps ringing and ringing."
Gordon Berry went to the bedroom door, closed it, muffled the ringing. "That's about it, Margaret," he grinned. "I sure's hell don't want to answer it and interrupt what we've got going here. That'd be a shame."
"Mmm," Margaret Behling, fiftyish, wife of Nick Behling, the malt tycoon of Fort Duquesne, purred. "If there's anything I like in my young men, it's gallantry." She swayed tipsily toward him. "You will be good to me, won't you, darling? Mama needs her lovin' so bad. Even if she has to pay for it. Kiss me?"
Berry drew on unknown resources, kissed the wrinkle-faced hag. "Pay?" he smiled as he drew away. "What kind of talk is that?"
"I know I'm not the most beautiful woman in the world, I know you young men want something. Besides, I've got something very special I want you to do for me."
Berry's stomach curdled. What special thing could a witch like this hanker after? "Anything you say, sweet," he smiled, began to grope inside her dress, toy with her large, still surprisingly firm breasts. "What's on your mind? And forget the money. This is for kicks; you have to believe that."
The woman was just drunk enough to make herself believe. And as she clung to him, kissed him again, felt those roots of lust spread, grow new, groping tendrils, grope even deeper within her- "You'll see, baby. Just as soon as I get my clothes off."
Her secret desire a deranging thing, she undressed swiftly. She refused to let him turn out the lights. She watched Berry peel with a hungry, sick leer. And as he turned toward her, she seemed to melt into a puddle of shapeless fat on the floor, she shivered, rose on all fours.
"Your belt, darling," she said in a slobbery, pleading voice. "Bring your belt. I want you to whip me. I... like to be whipped. Please, please..."
Gordon Berry let out a sigh of relief. He'd run into kinkos like this before, this wasn't new to him at all. He'd expected a more aberrated request than this.
He went to the chair, pulled his belt from his trousers with a hissing sound. He cut it through the air over the woman's trembling body, got a big boot out of the way she twitched in happy expectation. Now she began to hum in her throat.
And as the first ringing splat sounded, as the red welt circumscribed the fat pillow of her buttocks, drew a gleeful yelp from her: "Yes, darling," she choked. "Like that. Cut me. Cut me good ..."
In the closet Travis Nelson smiled at the way his partner turned Mrs. Behling's' face toward the door before he brought down the belt again. And as the second report sounded, as the face formed into a sick, aberrated grimace of bliss, he began to trip the shutter.
No mistake, he thought. Gordy's idea of a $100 bite wasn't bad at all. Maybe starting with this week's entire batch.
The camera, its expensive wide-aperture lens able to take photographs in near darkness, loafed now, clicked slowly, captured only the most depraved of the duo's kinks.
* * *
Faye Silver was in the Old English Room. Dressed to the nines, wearing her sexiest gown, hose and pumps, she drank with a deadly dedication, sought in some vague way to avenge herself upon an unknowing, unfeeling Travis.
And three martinis down, her lids feeling heavy, she felt a tearing heat low in her body, knew that she had to exorcise this driving need one way or another. Her head bobbed slightly, she stared about the room with wild longing in her eyes, sought male quarry.
But such was unnecessary. For further along the bar an opportunistic retail drug man, purposely in Fort Duquesne for this convention, saw and interpreted he desperation in the over-the-hill broad's face. "See you, boys," he smirked to his similarly cruising buddies. And started down the bar toward Miss Silver.
His name was Kent Palmer, he was thirty, tending to baldness. And portliness as well. Of medium height, his face pudgy, mildly attractive, he had perfected his techniques, didn't doubt for a second that he'd score. And as he came up behind Faye: "Say, isn't your name Jane? Don't I know you from somewhere?"
Faye looked over her shoulder, appraised him swiftly, decided that he'd do. "No," she said firmly, surprised at her own boldness. "My name's Faye. But you c'n buy me a drink just the same."
* * *
Steve had seriously considered calling Shana. She had been one real torrid number. Muy simpatica. But at the last minute, adhering to an almost Spartan code, he'd decided against it. Don't get cozy with the trade, he'd cynically warned. Don't get involved.
Instead he'd cruised another English seminar that afternoon, had turned up a beautiful, blonde vixen named Heather Donovan. Who, though a vision of female voluptuousness, a virtual Satan on high heels, wasn't much in the upstairs department. As result he'd hurried things, had liquored Heather up faster than usual, was anxious to get things taken care of. Perhaps if he gave her short shrift he could still promote another more challenging tidbit before dawn reared its ugly head. Thus, now, at 10:15, in his hotel room - He was getting the surprise of his life. For where he'd expected Heather to put up at least token resistance, she was all eagerness; she tore her own clothes away as if they were made of hot tin-foil. Immediately she turned on him, helped him with his last garments. And, as quickly, dragged him toward the bed.
There were no kisses, no endearments. She was a tigress in heat, a wanton possessed of an aberrated, compulsive need. Instantly she twisted on the bed, she attacked him in a most deranged way. When he tried to fight her off, when he attempted to caress and explore her most intimate self, she squirmed, slapped his hands. She flung herself into the barbaric rite with a fanatic frenzy.
Until Steve was sure he could stand no more of the adoration. "Hey, baby," he husked now, "that's enough. If you don't stop now you'll ruin everything."
But Heather didn't stop, she didn't answer. Instead she went even more savage on him. Steve teetered on that fiery precipice, thought, at the last minute, to drag her away by force. But the resolve came too late; he'd already passed the point of no return. And now, suddenly, his groans breaking from him in agonized, hawking flow - "How come, Heather?" he asked afterward. "You don't dig things regular? Now you wrecked it for yourself."
She paused before she spoke. Now, her voice an eerie, thick singsong: "Didn't you like that, honey? Didn't I do you good? Maybe you'd like seconds. I will, you know."
She lurched, pulled away. "Don't, Steve! Don't get fresh with me. Don't touch my body."
His scalp prickled. "Hey, what'n hell is this? You some kind of nut or something?"
She giggled happily. "No, Steve. I'm no nut. This you can have. But the rest, no. You think I'm one of your stupid, pushover broads? No, thank you. I've got standards. When I get married I'm going to come to my husband a virgin." The coated giggle once more. "Now, how about it? An encore? I have to thank you somehow for the wonderful evening." Her fingers became cruel, hurting. "Here, let Heather take care of this for you. But I've got ways..."
Steve groaned, fell back. Found that the dizzy blonde did, indeed, have ways.
* * *
Kent Palmer's room very much occupied at that moment; they'd retreated to Faye's room. Where, Mir-lm not expected for an hour at least, she was sure they'd be safe, they'd have ample time to conclude this so necessary slaking of erotic needs. And on Faye's bed, both of them naked two minutes after they'd entered the room, in that cloaking darkness - "Ride, damn you!" Faye gloated, seeking that hysterical, mindless limbo with monadic determination, flinging herself at the man, exhorting him to give, give with all the slang in her repertoire. "Give me all you've got. In, you devil, in! Give Faye a ride she'll never forget."
The words, the clawing, groaning way the nymphomaniac ground herself at him, cut through Palmer's own alcoholic euphoria, triggered his male sexuality to peaks he'd hitherto believed impossible. He responded with brutal, sadistic slashes; he gathered her buttocks with his hands, used them for handles, slammed them up every time he slammed himself down.
A frenzy Faye delighted in, that drove her into a realm of excess, a realm where only endless sensation, endless coaxing of evil existed. And as her glories began to rock and spin her, as they exploded and became golden beads strung on an endless silken thread - She went even more pagan, she drew her lips back over her teeth, snarled and chewed at her lover's flesh. The descriptions of her delight, her encouragements came faster, became more graphic, more vile. She talked a dirty mile.
"More, more!" she seethed. "Don't stop, give me more of that. Oh, oh! Another, that was another! You stud, you bull! Number six. Don't stop, I can take this, I-can-take-you all night. You, you ... This wonderful thing all night. Baby, baby, baby . . . Here we go again. Number seven. Sweet lover, lover..."
The words changed, became even more vile, more explicit.
And Kent Palmer knew he'd never had a sex-happy pig as good as this before. He knew he'd never find another woman as batty about the bedroom. He went wild on her, began to groan in his throat as his own deliverance neared, threatened to split him from head to toe.
Thus it was that neither of them heard the click of the key in the lock. So wound up were they, so far in transport, beyond the earthly, beyond the mundane- Only when the shaft of light from the hall cut the darkness, when Miriam's mincing voice sounded: "Faye? Are you in? I left the theater early. I didn't like the play. All that silly music, that dancing. The sexual innuendo ... I . . ."
Then the lights flashed on. Miriam froze where she stood, her eyes staring, her jaw agape. "Ah, ah, ah..." she gulped. She couldn't tear her eyes away from those two, naked, writhing bodies on the bed.
"Don't stop!" Faye gritted, beyond conscience, beyond sham at that most crucial moment. "Keep going, darling! Let the prig watch if she wants to. She might learn something. Go, stud, go!"
Palmer might have been frightened out of his wits at the intrusion, he might have stopped. Except for one thing. And where, previously he'd believed the expression, "Not being able to stop if the world blew up around you" was a figure of speech, he now learned differently.
Momentarily Miriam lingered, shocked as she'd never been shocked before in her life. "Get out of here, damn you!" Faye grated. "Let the real people have some fun!" Now the old maid wheeled, extinguished the lights, fled the room. Even as she closed the door she heard the voices, the squeak of the bed crescendo and peak. "Go, baby!" Faye croaked. "Go, go ... Like this was your last one!"
Her eyes glazed, her mind a chaotic blur, Miriam scuttled down the hall.
Too confused to think straight, she found herself in the hotel lobby, wondered what her next move should be. Go, Faye had said. But where?
Then she saw the door leading into the cocktail lounge, knew she had to go somewhere so she wouldn't be conspicuous. And though her distaste was strong - Any port in a storm, she decided.
She found herself in a relatively quiet, deserted part of the barroom. Dazedly she took a stool, waited, sought to dispel the savage, strange, hitherto unknown feelings that were slashing at her heart, at her very entrails. What - ? she raged. Dear, that was terrible, terrible- I never want to see a thing like that again.
She reconsidered, flushed at the admitted sexual excitement she knew. Or did she? Hadn't she seen something she'd always been curious about? Hadn't a lifelong yearning been satisfied? To actually see a man and a woman. Like that. Having sex.
Just then the bartender approached. "Ma'am?" She thought to order her usual Seven-Up. But no. An occasion like this called for something special. A name rang in her mind. Wasn't there a drink called an Old Fashioned? She was an old-fashioned girl, wasn't she? There could be no harm. "An ... Old Fashioned," she faltered.
She watched the man bring the drink, thought it looked very pretty indeed. Even if there might be a small amount of liquor in it - What harm? She needed something to calm her down. After what she'd just been through. She was somewhat miffed when the man took a whole dollar out of her five. But then she shrugged, tasted her drink. Good. Much better than she'd expected.
She bent her head, sipped the drink more avidly. Just like strong lemonade, she thought. Those cherries, that slice of orange peel. Pretty - She was surprised when the drink was gone. And feeling reckless, a slight giddiness invading her, she beckoned the barman, ordered another.
While she waited she harked back to that primordial thing she'd just seen in her bedroom. And now, eroticism stronger than disgust, she let her mind dwell completely on the discovery. She recreated that scene in glowing, voluptuary detail in her mind. She thought of how Faye's face had looked; she remembered the contemptuous words.
She sipped her second drink too fast, was surprised to find her hand shaking. She wondered at the jittery, hot feeling in her stomach. No, she reassessed. Not in my stomach. Not really. Learn something, had Faye taunted? The hussy! The shameless hussy.
Her eyes narrowed, her breath quickened. Once more she visualized that groaning, writhing animality. Goodness! She thought. What is this? What's happening to me?
It was at that moment that her erotic reverie was interrupted. As she heard the soft, male voice at her elbow. "Pardon me, miss. But is this stool taken?"
CHAPTER NINE
Miriam Timm started, turned, struggled to focus her eyes. The man who came into view was older, in his early fifties. He was a portly man, his hair grizzled, his suit expensive, natty. His face was pleasant, kindly, his eyes somehow timid beneath those bushy brows. Miriam made instantaneous appraisal. The only appraisal that mattered in her eyes. He was respectable; he was no masher.
"I don't own it," she said severely, was instantly sorry for her rudeness. "No," she amended, "the place isn't taken. I'm ... by myself."
The man climbed onto the stool, slowly opened his wallet, dropped a twenty on the bar. "That's a pity," he said, smiling sincerely, staring into her face with an expression she couldn't put her finger on. Wistfulness, yearning perhaps. "An attractive woman like you should have an escort."
Any other time Miriam Timm would have taken the remark as brash impertinence. But now, influenced by her "Lemonade-and-whiskey," by other subconscious forces as well, she ducked her head, took the compliment as intended. Still she was unbending. "I was supposed to meet a... friend. But she'd been unavoidably detained."
"My good fortune," he said in a courtly, stilted way. "Perhaps ... since I can't act as your ... escort... I can be a temporary companion. May I introduce myself? I'm Edgar Schellinger. I'm from Burlingame. I teach mathematics."
"Pleased," Miriam said, finding herself warming to the gentleman despite her lifetime of reserve. "I'm Miriam Timm. From Lockhaven. I'm a librarian at Reynolds School."
"Lockhaven. I'm not familiar with the town. Or the system. Who's superintendent there?"
The conversation continued in this antiseptic tone for a few minutes more. Miriam wondered why she felt vague elation at the information that the man knew no one in Lockhaven.
Now the barman approached. "Yours, sir?"
"I'll have a beer. Bud, if you have it. And please, another of whatever Miss Timm is having."
"No, thank you," she objected. "This is my limit. I've had enough." The barman eyed her breasts.
"Please, Miss Timm. Miriam, if I may. It's the least I can do. I'd expected we'd have a nice, friendly chat. One drink ..."
She was amazed at the way she warmed to the dignified man, at how quickly she came to trust him. More amazing was the realization that she actually wanted to continue talking to Schellinger. She smiled. "Oh, all right. But just one."
Again their conversation entered educational channels, they discussed the convention, their reactions to the speakers, they inventoried and evaluated the sectional meetings they'd attended.
And now, as the third Old Fashioned snuggled into a stomach totally unused to liquor of any kind, as it did its deadly work, Miriam found herself talking more freely, more animatedly, laughing girlishly. She found herself pondering the excitement, the animal heat she felt. She wondered where this flirtatious streak of hers had come from. And: Wasn't Edgar (it was Edgar by now) a handsome man? The kind of man one could respect, look up to?
These same conjectures were spinning through Schellinger's mind also. As a second beer loosened him up, made him surprisingly loquacious. An old maid himself (still a virgin at 52 if the truth could be known), he was as unschooled in male-female gaiety as Miriam was. And while he had no designs, he did have to admit that Miriam was a charming companion, that he'd certainly like to know her better.
Which was an earth-shaking admission in itself. For the stodgy, hidebound man had never let romance intrude in his education-dedicated life. And now, suddenly - He stifled a rumbling chuckle, wondered what was getting into him. At his age - Now Edgar ordered still a third beer, wheedled Miriam into accepting a fourth Old Fashioned.
They both became coltish, irresponsible, let their talk stray from educational pastures. They sat closer now, laughed like confidantes of long standing, neither seemingly noticed when their hands brushed more and more often. Then, as Edgar grasped Miriam's hand, held it in a strong grip against his knee - She was mildly alarmed, puzzled over her euphoric state, over her excitement, the yearning that this happy, irresponsible state never end. That the charming man would never release her hand. Miriam, she chastised. You brazen thing! What ever are you thinking of?
In direct retaliation she used her free hand to bring up her drink, to pour down more of the inhibition-routing cocktail. And when it was finished, when she managed to clear her cloudy vision: "I do think I should be going up, Edgar. It's late. This has been very pleasant. But like all good things..." She sighed, tried to get off her stool, nearly fell.
Instantly Edgar was standing beside her. "Here, let me help you. You stumbled. Tell you what. IH see you to your room. If you'll permit me." His words were slow, studied, showed the influence of the beers on his teetotaler constitution.
Realizing Miriam was tipsy, taking the blame on himself, he sought to steady her as they came out of the bar, headed for the elevator. He knew genuine concern, wanted to spare her any possible embarrassment.
Miriam found this hilarious. To think she'd see the day when she'd depend upon a man, lean on him for support. And despite the cottony feeling in her head, the ridiculous way she couldn't track straight, she giggled, talked to herself, thought her fuzzy-headed-ness absolutely delicious.
"What room, Miriam?" he asked in the confines of the self-service elevator.
"Room seven-twelve," she said, cuddling close to him. "Edgar, I feel so silly. Do you think I'm silly?"
"Certainly not, Miriam. I think you're very. . . cute." He smiled at his use of the abomination. "Seven-twelve? You're on my floor then. I'm in seven-eighty."
And now, as the elevator stopped, threw her into his arms, he steadied her, led her out. "This way, my dear."
Again Miriam laughed for no reason at all. Then, as she emerged from the elevator, her heel caught in the carpeting, she nearly fell. Schellinger caught her, balanced her. Putting his arm about her waist, strong excitement shooting through him as he did so, he guided her down the corridor.
If he knew excitement it was matched by an equal disquiet on Miriam's part. As a result she leaned more heavily on Edgar, minded not at all when his arm tightened about her waist. She didn't think it at all ridiculous that they should go the whole length of the hall this way. Until they came to a dead end.
"How foolish of me," the bleary-voiced man said.
"I think I took you right past your door. Isn't that the limit?"
"That's funny, Edgar," she giggled. "Very funny."
"Here, Miriam. This way. I'll concentrate this time."
Then as they came to the door marked 780, the man was seized by an idiotic impulse. Reluctant to have what had now become a magic night for him end so quickly, thinking only to detain Miriam in conversation, no opportunistic designs at all in mind, he said, "Here's my room. Would you like to come in for a moment? Would you like to see my room? We could talk a little more. I don't have anything to drink, but we could ..."
Thinking he'd made a dreadful faux pas, he stopped in mid-sentence. "I mean ..."
"That's all right, Edgar," she agreed quickly. "I'd love to see your room."
It was an incredibly stupid approach. But to people who'd never had an adventure like this one before, who didn't know such things as approaches existed - He took a long time opening his door. Then, without bothering to turn on the light, they were both entering.
"Ooh," Miriam laughed, groping her way. "Dark, Edgar. Hang onto me. Don't let me get lost."
Her gay, madcap tone infected the man. He stiffened, pulled her close to him in the darkness. It seemed that someone was clutching his heart, twisting it He knew an aching, intolerable hunger. Then, as the door clicked behind them, as they were in total darkness, as Miriam trembled, sighed, "Hold me, Edgar. Hold me tightly..."
He was lost. And adrift in a reckless never-never land, he did as she said. Pulling her head up gently, finding her trembling lips inches from his, smelling the whiskey on her breath, he kissed her.
Timidly at first. Then as the woman offered no resistance, clumsily answered his kiss, more forcefully.
Again, of course, neither could know that the kisses were clumsy and awkward. For beyond relatives at Christmas and Thanksgivings and birthdays, sterile, sexless kisses - How were they to know what was clumsy and what was not?
He was immediately stricken, drew away in panic. "Oh, I'm sorry, Miriam. I didn't mean to do that; I didn't invite you here for anything like this ... Here, let me turn on the lights."
"No, Edgar," Miriam's voice came in an eerie, wooden plaint. "Leave the lights off. I don't mind, I don't think less of you for it. If you want to kiss me ... "
"I just don't want you to think I'm the kind of man who does things like that... who takes advantage of women. Forgive me, Miriam. I wouldn't insult you, hurt you for the world. I respect you, I.. . Forgive me."
It seemed a roaring, purifying fire arched up inside of her, a fire that stole the last of her will. She went limp in his arms, clung greedily to him. She wanted his kiss, she wanted his embrace. To think, she temporized maudlinly, that I ever regarded men as animals. As grasping, hard and gruel. Edgar, he's like a little boy, like a contrite puppy. He's sweet and gentle.
The roaring grew louder. "Please, Edgar, dear," she sighed. "Kiss me again."
And then as his lips closed on hers anew, as she tasted the bitter-but-pleasant beer on his lips, thought the intimacy divine, she was suddenly bathed in fire. All will, all desire save one, was gone. "Edgar?" she whispered. "Do you mind if I call you darling?"
There was no need of liquor now; a greater intoxicant had taken charge. And as Edgar led her to an overstuffed chair, drew her down onto his lap, commenced to tremblingly kiss and hug her again, Miriam forgot control, she forgot conscience. An unbidden master dominated now, one she thought time and prudishness had long ago exiled.
They kissed and embraced; they felt their breath go short. They felt other undeniable forces mount within them. She stiffened, held her breath, thought she'd die from suspense as Edgar's fingers slid upward on her stomach, headed for the underswell of her breasts.
Now the sweet clutch was there, the blissful ease and sting. As his hand cupped and lifted, as his fingers (instinct-tutored) tortured those throbbing nibs, made her gasp inwardly with unholy sense of evil. She gulped for breath, even went so far as to clasp his hand with her own, hold it to that sensitive, pleading station.
Female nature overpowering her, Miriam knew just what it was she wanted, she knew what must happen next. As they continued to kiss, as she drove her lips down to his, squirmed on his knees. As she rolled his hand with her own.
And now, pure innocent that she was - as Edgar painstakingly began unbuttoning the front of her dress - she said: "Darling. Will I have to undress? I mean ...do you want all my clothes off?"
He was at a loss for words. "I'm not sure my sweet. I think that would be nice. But if you'd rather not..."
She wriggled, found herself pinching her legs together as his hand touched her naked flesh. "It doesn't matter, dear. Anything you say. Anything to please you." A high-pitched gasp broke from her. "Oh, I never dreamed. I never knew..."
Her hand came over his again. "Here. Would you like me... to take that off?"
"Yes, Miriam. I'm not used to . .
"You mean ... you've never . .. with a woman?"
"No. That's the God's truth. There was never time somehow. Then, as I got older, I thought women wouldn't want anything to do with me . . ."
Miriam fought to stifle a giggle. "That's funny. The blind leading the blind. I've never let a man ... touch me... before tonight. Dear, this is going to be difficult. Dear..."
"Are you disappointed? If you'd rather not . . .
"No," she sighed. "Not disappointed. We'll have to trust to instinct. After all, facts are facts. We're both well read enough, I'm sure. To ..." She jerked. "Dear me, I'm talking too much."
The man kissed Miriam again. A prolonged, tender kiss, somehow reverent. "Thank you, darling," he husked. "I'm so grateful. After all these years..."
Now Miriam began to tremble convulsively; she seemingly couldn't regain control. "Please, Edgar. Check to see if the door's locked. I'll get undressed. The bed is over there, isn't it?"
If Miriam was trembling, Schellinger was similarly affected. His fingers felt like frozen clumps as he jerked at his buttons, tore at his clothes. Then when it was time to start toward the bed: His feet felt like they were encased in blocks of concrete.
"Darling," Miriam quaked as he slid under the covers, as she felt the soft warmth of his body. "Oh help me. Help me to help you. I'm afraid, so afraid. I know I shouldn't, I want to stop, but I can't. It's too late to turn back. I have to know. Do you feel that way too?"
"Yes, Miriam," he choked, hugging her, kissing her, reflexively raising one leg, gathering her to him in that way. He felt Miriam lurch as she knew him; he picked up her quick gasp even through the hot kiss.
Then instinct did take complete charge. It was not enough to kiss on the lips. And where once Miriam Timm had thought she'd die if a man ever dared touch her body, especially there, she now found the touch beautiful beyond description, she felt she'd shrivel and die if it was removed. She twisted on the bed, sighed in her throat as his gentle fingers went between her breasts and her thighs, as they paused, conferred blessed benediction there.
And now, as lips followed fingers - To her throat, to her shoulders, to those screaming, swollen buds. As lips captured, held them submissive to the will of his domineering tongue. As she was turned to so much molten emotion inside - "You're being . . . very good to me, Edgar. My darling. Do you mind ... do you think I'm awful? If I tell you "
"No, dearest. I feel proud, honored. Honored above all men. You're beautiful, you have a lovely body, lovely breasts and legs..."
"No, Edgar. I'm not beautiful. I'm old and fat and wrinkled. I'm ..."
He sealed her lips with a kiss. "In my eyes you're beautiful. More beautiful than a coot like me deserves."
"You're not a coot. You're a kind, wonderful man. You're being very gentle, very patient with me. You're helping me . .." She lurched, hissed, as his free hand found that most intimate flesh. "I'm sorry, Edgar."
"Don't be sorry. Behave as you like. I'm sure whatever you do will be fine."
"Please, Edgar. Whenever you're ready, whenever you want me. Don't think just because I ..."
"I know, Miriam. You are a generous, warm creature. Only let me love you a little more. Like this..."
She lurched, thrashed. "Darling, darling... You are wonderful. I feel so crazy, so wild ..."
She stood his worship at her breasts as long as she could. And then when it seemed she must either finish this or go raving mad: "Please, Edgar. I can't wait any more."
"I hope I won't hurt you ..." he breathed as he came over her.
"Hurt me, dear. If you must. I won't care. I'll be brave."
Their union was clumsy a thing of squirmings, adjusting? and mismatchings. But again, to total novices, with no criterion to go by - It was beautiful, magic.
Miriam moaned, bit her lips to keep from crying out. And still, beyond that initial pain - Dancing fountains of fire, fountains of the most incredible hue and intensities, the colors phosphorescent, blinding - She yearned, reached toward them. A woman possessed, a woman reborn, a woman resurrected - For long moments he remained motionless, held himself to her, groaned at that viscous, hot constriction. He savored that soothing containment, let her enjoy his penetration as well. "Did I hurt you, Miriam?"
"Just a little. At first. But now it's all right." She laughed self-consciously. "After all, I'm a mature woman, I'm not one of your teen-agers."
"Ready? Tell me when ..."
"I'm ready, darling. It's for you to decide." She felt glorious, she wanted to float in this delectable sense of self-sacrifice, of altruistic surrender forever.
He began.
Slowly at first. Now faster, more masterfully. Suddenly unable to get enough of the magnificent sensation, Miriam squirmed her legs tightly together, let his knees straddle her outer thighs. She pressed and ground at him.
They were silent for a time, each concentrating. Only their sighs and heavy breathings were heard. That and the rustle and creak of the bed.
And finally Miriam broke the silence. In touching innocence she asked, "Do we talk, Edgar? I mean, while we're ..."
His heart seemingly split. "Of course, angel. My precious baby. Talk. Say anything you want."
"I... like this, dear. I like this very much."
Which was totally inadequate. For as her initial deliverance approached, stretched her on a torture rack of exquisite, deranging ecstasy, as she groaned and twitched, made awkward reciprocal thrusts at him - Words were superficial indeed.
Miriam Timm became a woman.
"Darling, darling, darling..." she crooned as the transfiguring glory smashed down on her, sent her spinning into an infinity of star-dripping heavens.
The fountains splashed insanely before her, glittered and blinded. Now she screamed, wanted to sob with sense of loss. As their spray gradually diminished. As their rainbow colors slowly turned dark and dead.
CHAPTER TEN
In countless room all over the Bentley Arms Hotel this Saturday morning, similar scenes were taking place. As, the last general session ending at 11 a.m., the teachers packed, made last-minute preparations to leave.
Most of the packings were gleeful-if-weary, the majority of the departees glad the convention was at-long-last dismissed, the majority of them anxious to return home.
But in some of the rooms the packing was listless, the occupants deliberately dragged their feet.
As prime example was Shana in room 322. And Estee, her roommate, as well.
Then there was Faye in room 712. Unbelievably her strait-laced companion Miriam Timm was equally reluctant to check out.
Shana moped through the motions of packing, knew a nagging despair and sense of failure. And still wouldn't admit that she'd been taken, that Steve had written her off as a one-night-stand. She couldn't believe that her boudoir performance had been so lackluster as not to merit a return engagement.
There must be an explanation of some sort, she reasoned doggedly. There must have been extenuating circumstances. He has to care more than that.
Stubborn was the word for Shana.
Stupid, self-deluding, were others.
Estee watched Shana anxiously, wanted terribly to set the child down, have a long talk with her. She had a deadly sense of time passing, of failure, of chance that would never come again. Once they got back to Bay City, once they settled back into that old rut, there would be no further opportunity to further her tenuous cause. If she couldn't give Shana a hint of her love, if seeds couldn't be planted now - But how, how? she raged. How can I casually lay my cards on the table, expect Shana to pick them up, accept my proposition? Shana darling, she imagined herself saying. "I've got something to tell you. I'm a mixed-up kid. I'm a Lesbian. I love you, I've loved you from the first moment I saw you. I want to keep you, teach you. I want to see that the world never hurts you again. Shana, listen. I want you to move out of your apartment, I want you to move in with me. I want to become your lover.
Shana? Are you listening? Don't turn away, don't reject me. Please, I can't bear it. Won't you at least hear me out? Won't you at least consider my offer? Shana!
Estee turned her face away, stared out the window, saw the miniaturized traffic, the fly-speck people below. She fought to contain her tears. Hopeless, it was so utterly hopeless.
At that moment the telephone rang. She knew instant jealousy as she saw Shana nearly break her neck to get it.
"Steve?" Shana said, struggling to mask her delight. "I wondered what happened to you. Yes, yes, I understand. This afternoon? I don't know. We're supposed to check out. Just a minute, I'll check with Estee."
Her eyes were aglow. "It's Steve. He wants to see me this afternoon. Couldn't we stay another night? Please?"
"I'm not your warden," Estee said coldly. "If you want. I can find something to amuse myself with."
"Wonderful, darling!" She pursed her lips at Estee, turned back to the phone. "Steve? She says it's all right. At three? Your room? Of course. I'll be there."
Shana hung up, flung herself into Estee's arms. "He was sick," she bubbled. "He didn't forget me after all. Wonderful, isn't it? Estee, I think I'm in love with him!"
Estee swallowed hard. "Yes, baby. Wonderful."
And she garnered transient comfort in the realization that at least she'd spend one more night in the same room with Shana. She amended bitterly. Part of one night, at any rate.
Almost simultaneously the phone was ringing in Faye Silver's room. Instantly she was brought out of the depths of melancholy as she recognized Travis Nelson's voice. She too, feigned coolness. "Travis. How nice to hear your voice. I thought you'd checked out. The sales representatives? Oh, of course. I understand. Tonight? Sounds wonderful. Wait. I'll have to check."
She turned to Miriam, wondered at the cat-that-ate-the-canary smile the older woman wore. "It's Travis. He's having a party in his suite tonight. In honor of some businessmen he deals with. Wants me to come. Do you suppose we could possibly stay over?"
She was amazed at the eagerness with which Miriam seized on the suggestion. "I don't see why not," she shammed nonchalance. "I can take in a movie or something."
"It's all set, Travis," Faye said. "We can stay over. Nine o'clock? I'll be ready. Bye-bye."
Her face was radiant as she turned to Miriam. "I knew he hadn't forgotten me. It was business after all. You don't really mind staying over, do you?" Then she was going toward the door. "Call the desk for me, please? See about our room. I've got a million things to do. I'm going to see if I can sneak an appointment at the beauty salon. My hair's a mess."
Then Faye was out of the room, hurrying down the corridor. As she went she wondered about Miriam, tried to puzzle out the fact that the woman hadn't climbed all over her, hadn't been the wrathful finger of God this morning. After the way she'd acted last night, the dreadful things she'd said to Miriam. A speculative grin formed on her features. But on second thought, hadn't Miriam acted strange, preoccupied all morning? Hadn't she got in at God-knows-what-hour last night? Could it be?
Faye chuckled aloud as she waited for the elevator. Miriam? With a man? It was absurd. The most ridiculous thing she could imagine.
While back in room 712, even before she called the desk about room arrangements, a highly agitated Miriam was talking on the phone. "Edgar? Thank goodness I caught you in time. Listen, dear. There's been a change in our plans. We're going to stay over another night. Faye's going to a party tonight. I'll be all alone here. And I was wondering ..."
Her face lit up like a 1000-watt-beacon light. "You can, Edgar? Wonderful, how wonderful..."
* * *
Steve, looking gray-around-the-gills, hungover, his eyes dark-rimmed, paced his room nervously, stiff drink in hand, wondered if Shana would really show. After the way he'd ignored her it would serve him right if she'd just been putting him on, if she stood him up. It was 3:10; no sign of her yet. Joe was due at 3:30.
He scowled as he reviewed last night's disasters. First that dizzy Heather psycho. Who'd really torpedoed him, had left him totally useless for any other woman the rest of last night. He became even more bitter, blamed everything on her. God! She's the one who should get the call, not Shana.
But the grim truth was that Heather Donovan had checked out at 9:00.
Shana it was. She was the patsy, and that was that.
He recalled the poker game he'd stumbled on, the cursed streak of luck he'd had. How he'd ended up by throwing his car keys into the kitty. And now, if he didn't come up with $120 cash money by tonight - Which was where Shana came in handy.
It was admittedly a damned, dirty trick. But what was a guy to do when he was up against it? He had to roll with the punches. It was a tough old world. The sooner that dumb kitten learned that the better. Maybe, in the long run, he mused cynically, he was doing Shana a big favor.
His heart lurched, he froze in his tracks as he heard the soft tap on his door. He took a last look at himself in the mirror, pasted on a smile, went to greet Shana.
His heart shriveled with self-loathing when he saw her, saw the pains she'd taken with her hair and makeup. When he saw the radiant, loving expression on her face. The poor sap, he thought, as he saw the pretty dress, a dark blue sheath with a figure-hugging line, the bodice trimmed with cute ruffles to emphasize the straining, ripe mounds of her breasts. The poor baby.
"Honey," he beamed, "come on in. Man, but you're a sight for sore eyes. It's seemed like ages. Sorry I pooped out on you, ruined the party."
Her eyes were instantly searching, solicitous. "Oh, Steve, you have been sick. What was it? Flu?"
"That fortieth martini," he joshed. "I think the olive must have been rotten."
She stood hesitantly, yearningly. "You nut. The same old Steve ..."
Then he opened his arms, and Shana all but ran to him, let herself be gathered close. She knew quick bliss as his lips closed on hers, she snuggled herself to him.
The mean feeling compounded within Steve. This dumb bunny, he thought. She's actually got a case. She's hung up. Damn, of all the broads I had to choose - If Steve was jumpy, if he short-changed the kiss, avoided her eyes, Shana didn't notice. She felt happy and confident, safe once more. She'd been a fool to worry, to ever mistrust Steve. Their relationship was something special; she wasn't a casual pickup in his eyes.
And again, if he seemed to be pressing the brandy on her, working too hard at kissing and hugging her - If he seemed to be almost mechanical in his attempts to inflame her, bring her passion to raging boil - Shana was blissfully unaware. As the booze took quick effect and she thought that love in the afternoon would be very nice indeed. She and Wayne had often - She shut the thoughts down. She mustn't think of Wayne at a time like this. Not when she was with Steve, when they were building up to a beautiful love.
She was mildly ashamed at herself. To think that she was so anxious, so easy. Oooh, that wicked tingling!
Now, as she was half done with her second drink, as she and Steve sat on the tiny divan, all wrapped up in a hot embrace, as Steve began to finger her nipples, let one hand slide on her silken knee, creep up beneath her skirt - She wanted to scream in frustration at the staccato rapping on the door. She jerked up, smoothed her clothes. "Steve! Who..."
"Just a minute, honey. I'll check." This time Shana couldn't help but note the hard, determined cast to Steve's face, the way he looked everywhere but at her.
She was further astounded when Steve actually welcomed the stranger, admitted him to the room. Her mind boggled. What did this mean? Just when she and Steve were - The man was in his late thirties, was flint-eyed, something seedy about his clothes and grooming. A straight shock of ochre-colored hair hung over his forehead, his face was badly pitted. Shana was immediately repulsed by the hard, hungry way he looked at her.
"Shana," Steve forced a smile, "this is Joe. A friend of mine." He was suddenly ill at ease. "He thought he'd drop in for a little visit."
"Hi, Joe," she forced a smile. "Nice to meet you." She turned to her lover. "But, Steve... I thought we ... "
"I've got an even better idea. I was wondering if you'd do me a favor."
"Favor? What kind of favor, Steve?"
"I was thinking maybe you were getting tired of me." His jaw clenched, his voice took on a shabby edge. Cruelty, induced by necessity, by the determined drinking he'd been doing, shone in his eyes. "I thought maybe you'd like a change of pace. How would you like to take on Joe, here, give him a free sample?"
Shana's heart leaped, jammed hard in her throat. Terror and disbelief clawed at her brain. Her mouth gaped, her eyes widened. But even before she could choke out the words, her question was answered for her.
"Hey, Steve," the man named Joe said, "What kind of a gag you pulling? I thought you said you had a doll all lined up. I don't want no trouble. For thirty clams I don't expect to have to rape the gal besides."
A strange, brutal light exploded in Steve's eyes, as he turned on Shana. "She'll put out all right, Joe. Don't you worry about that. No sweat at all. Won't you, Shana?"
And with that he lunged at her, caught her, turned her before him, jacked her knees, bowed her body. Now, in effort to deliberately tease Joe, he reached around Shana, cupped her breasts, played with them before the man's eyes. "You mean you can say no to this, Joe?" His hands swept down, grabbed her skirt, pulled it up high, exposed her nyloned legs, the black-nyloned V of her lower body. "And to this? You like those sexie undies? She's got ideas... action to go with 'em. You can't wait for that?"
"Please, Steve," Shana moaned. "What is this? What do you think you're doing?" She struggled to pull down her skirt, to break Steve's grip. But he was a crazed animal now, committed, determined to see this through; he was too strong for her. She might as well have pushed against the hotel's cornerstone.
"I'm in a little jam, honey," he leered, playing with her lower body more outrageously, the heathenish peep-show making Joe's eyes bulge, working the desired effect upon him. "I need a little scratch. I've lined up a few customers for you. You won't mind that, will you? A little minx like you? If you love old Steve as much as you say you do ... "
She writhed, groaned. "Please, Steve, not this. Anything, but don't ask me to... "
His hand gripped and wrenched at that most sensitive area, made her nearly faint with pain. "I'm not asking you!" he growled. "I'm telling you! Four guys, that's all. You're going to do it, or I'll slap you silly."
He whirled her around, brought his palm smartly across her face, caused a star-shower to form behind her eyes. She groaned, nearly fell. But he grabbed her by her hair, wound his fingers in it, forced her to her feet, applied murderous pressure. Then, his face demonic, inches from hers, he gritted, "Don't give me no trouble, lady. You'll get it back in spades. You're gonna do as I say. Or else."
Shana wanted to sob, she wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, at this revisitation of horror and brutality. No, no, she raged, this can't be! I have to be dreaming this. Not again- Dear God, this isn't going to happen to me again! Oh, no - Steve became even more cruel, dragged her toward Joe. "Hold her, Joe," he rasped. "She isn't ready for a party yet, I guess." He filled Shana's glass half-full of straight brandy. "She needs some booze to get her in the proper mood."
"Don't, Steve," she wailed, fought him again, now fought the incensed Joe as well. "I'll let out a scream they'll hear all over the hotel."
"No you won't baby," he menaced, bringing the glass close to her lips. "You won't yell at all. You've got too much to lose. You can cry rape all you want. But just remember, if you do, who's gonna get hurt the worst. I might cop a sentence... mind you, might ... but you'll get the notoriety. I'll get the word to Bay City, everybody from kids on up'll know what happened to their precious Miss Hanrahan. Your rep won't be worth mud. That kind of talk you never outlive."
He brought the glass closer. "And I'm just mean enough, savvy enough to take care of that hatchet job. If you don't believe me, just try." He laughed. "Either way, you're gonna deliver whether you want to or not. Right, Joe?"
The man was caught up in the bestiality of the moment. He couldn't have retreated now if his life depended upon it. "You damn right she is," he wheezed. "I want some of that."
Now Steve pressed the glass to her lips. His tone vengeful, almost as if he was punishing her for something. "Drink this, you cheap, little ..."
"Please, Steve ... don't! Please, I beg you ..."
"Beg nothing!" He pinched her nose, held it. "Open up I said." Then she felt the brandy, cold, sharp, gagging in her mouth. "Swallow, damn you, Swallow. Get happy."
She had no choice. She would choke if she didn't. Shana swallowed. The brandy burned her throat, made her cough, she was sure she'd throw up. But no, she didn't. And now the brandy came faster. She swallowed and gulped.
"There," Steve gloated, dragging her across the room, to the bed, "that wasn't so bad, was it?" He hovered over her, began opening her clothes. She felt Joe's hands on her legs, sliding, pinching. She felt him taking off her shiny, patent pumps. Her stomach rebelled momentarily, settled down. She was grateful for the dizziness that rampaged through her. It would help her see this through, help her to forget the most bestial parts.
She closed her eyes, fell limp. She felt Steve throw back her skirt, begin unsnapping her stockings. Now they were being peeled down her legs. She heard Joe suck in his breath hoarsely.
"Hey, Steve," he said. "You hold her. Let me take care of that. Let me at those sexy legs ..."
"Okay, pal. Be my guest. Only don't bruise the goods."
"I'll be careful," the man gritted. "Just as careful as a tramp like this deserves." He snickered, drove his fingers deep into that valley, pinched her sadistically. Shana whimpered, strained. "Hot dog," Joe exulted thickly.
Together the men finished undressing her. And when she was naked on the bed, both of them staring down at her with piggish, lustful smiles- She felt cheap, cheaper than she'd ever felt before in her life.
Even Ponce and his apes hadn't made her feel like this. She began to sob helplessly.
They ignored her, the tears seemingly adding something to Joe's pleasure and anticipation. "Hey, Steve," he said now. "I hope you don't think you're gonna hang around and watch. I want a little privacy with dear little Shana here. Suppose you take a walk, step into the hall or something."
"Check, Joe. Can do. Keep the noise down, will you? Slap her if she starts to yell. And no rough stuff, see? You didn't pay for anything like that."
Pay, pay! The words tore at Shana's brain. Whore, she lashed herself, cursed her stupidity at falling into this trap. You're nothing but a whore now! A common whore!
Even as Steve picked up her clothes, arranged them temptingly across the back of the divan, Joe started to undress. "Remember," Steve cautioned just before he went out. A half hour's all you get. I'll be back at four-ten."
Then he was going out of the door.
Shana was alone with the ugly, leering man.
"Now, beautiful," he gloated, coming toward her, his body totally naked, a seeming patina of grayness to his quivery flesh, "we play. We have a ball. Man, if you aren't the most luscious package I've seen in months. I'm gonna love overhauling your engine."
Then he was on her, he was forcing his livery lips to Shana's, he was doing gross things to her body. She fought a last time, choked out muffled pleas for mercy. But Joe went into an almost lunatic frenzy, he cuffed and pinched her cruelly. And fearful that she might drive him to even more brutal lengths - She surrendered, she resigned herself. The brandy all but anesthetizing her mind, she sank into a terrified swoon. She barely felt Joe's hands on her body now; she ignored his kisses upon her breasts. But when he began to nip and pull - She fought to keep her stomach from voiding itself. And now his hands, his vile hands - She was grateful when his need became overpowering, when there was a stop to animal overtures. Seemingly looking through a grime-streaked, smudged window, she became conscious that he was lifting her legs, almost to perpendicular. Hazy panic flared up, then faded. Curiosity took over. What was he doing?
He put his shoulders behind her knees, began to push her legs back, hobbling himself forward on the bed at the same time. Now her buttocks were raised, she was supporting her weight on her back, on the nape of her neck.
"I dig my dolls this way," Joe snickered. "I can really deliver the mail this way, get to the heart of things."
She felt crawly, diseased as his hands fumbled with her. As she felt that final humiliation. She moaned as Joe took her; she wished she could die.
And then, as he really lifted her from the bed, really drove himself to her, the wish was multiplied a hundred-fold. The pain! The incredible pain!
She began to scream and claw him. But he only laughed, calmly slapped her face, made her brain shatter into a thousand fiery colors. He closed a fat hand over her mouth, muffled those first cries. Then as she became numb, as pain didn't register any more - "Good, honey?" he chortled. "You like Joe's style? Ain't this the limit?"
It was. The ultimate limits of degradation.
Shana was almost surprised when she came out of her trance, found Joe standing, dressing beside the bed. He left without a word. And now, through that haze, she discerned Steve's face again.
"C'mon, you tramp," he ordered. "Into that bathroom. Get cleaned up. You got another client in five minutes."
The next man arrived at 4:15. It was incredible to Shana that scarcely an hour had passed since she'd delivered herself to this den of depravity. The man's name was George. He was cleaner than Joe. Which was about all Shana could say in his favor.
At 4:45 the man named Perry appeared.
She was never able to remember the name of the man who showed at 5:15.
* * *
And now, back in her room, grateful that Estee was still out shopping, she stripped off her rumpled, torn clothing, she surveyed herself in the mirror. Moving like an automaton, she focused her eyes, tried to make her mind come alert. She wondered at the bruises on her body, at the dull ringing in her head.
It was 6 p.m. And having acquitted herself satisfactorily, having endured still more slaps from Steve, more warnings of what would happen if she called the police, she'd been dismissed. Kicked out was more to the point. Like yesterday's garbage.
Now Shana fought back the scalding tears that gathered behind the dam of her heart. Naked, she broke for the bathroom. Where, turning the water on as hot as she could stand it, she charged into the shower. Using soap lavishly, attacking her body with near fanaticism, she began to scrub her body as if her life depended upon it.
For fifteen minutes she stayed under that purifying stream, she soaped and scrubbed, soaped and scrubbed.
And even so, still felt crawly and filthy when she emerged from the shower. Thought, If only there was a way I could scrub out the inside of my brain.
She moved like a robot, toweled herself thoroughly. And thinking she still smelled the stench of those men in her nostrils, doused her body with cologne.
She'd hoped to get into her nightgown, climb into bed, plead sudden sickness before Estee returned. But the plan was shattered. For as she came out, saw her tattered lingerie on the floor, was once again reminded- The pent-up sobs broke through, searing her throat, they threatened to choke her. In the gloom she fell naked upon her bed, let the body-wrenching cries take her. She screamed and barked and cursed like some maddened animal. An animal who has just suffered one indignity too many.
It was at this moment that Estee broke in, instantly evaluated the situation.
And holding the pitiful child in her arms, her heart swollen to the breaking point, she kissed and caressed her, soothed and crooned to her. "Please, Shana, baby," she choked. "Tell me. Tell Estee what happened ..."
A final shattering convulsion ripped Shana. And she was possessed of an uncontrollable urge to unburden her soul. It was time, time- The entire ugly story must come out. Only that way could she be healed, made whole again. Only by purging herself, trusting in someone- By turning to this last of all possible refuges - "It all began last year," she gasped, the words stabbing in between hawking sobs. "Just before Christmas. I was checking papers in my room late one night..."
The too-long-buried secret, the reason, slowly began to emerge. To unravel.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The party in room 820, though plagued by a slow start, all the guests suspicious, wondering at the strange assemblage, began at roughly 9 p.m. Gordon Berry and Travis Nelson, acting the role of sales associates to the hilt, ignoring the hesitant questions of three female guests, saw to it that everyone constantly had a libation, fresh drink in his hand. Cocktails - Martinis, Manhattans, Rob Roys, Stingers - were the order of the day. Otherwise whiskey and Scotch neat or on-the-rocks. No weak mixes were allowed, even water was a hard-to-come-by commodity.
So that by 10:00 the first effects of the potent potables were making themselves known. From that moment on, the party moved of its own power, picked up a head of steam, roared down the tracks wide open.
And the guests forgot to wonder just what was up, they quit trying to pin down the other guests, figure where they fit in. They were content to get sozzled. A party. And let it go at that.
More important, as the hours slipped by, and the roof went off things, few of the guests wondered at the off-and-on disappearances of their hosts. The question: "Where'd you get to, Travis? (or Gordon). You were here one minute, gone the next," wasn't asked any more.
There were roughly a dozen people at the party. The female contingent was composed totally of the hosts' victims. People like Faye Silver, Vernelle Sprague, Corinne Monash, Sonja Tennier, Helen Carver, Beryl Davis. Sides were even in the male department also. For besides Nelson and Berry, there were other playboys in the person of Kurt Masters, Sam Archer, Jeff Rowland. And last but not least, none other than a very badly plastered Steve Novak. Who had been all hands almost from the party's inception.
A thing that had been greeted with distaste by some of the females, with joy by some of the others. By the slim, supple-bodied Sonja Tennier, the divorcee from 380, especially. They'd got thick almost immediately had been wound up in erotic clinch ever since 10:00.
"Who is that woman, Travis?" Faye had asked almost immediately as they'd danced to the over-loud portable phonograph set up in the long room's most murky intimate corner. "That Sprague chippy. The way she flaunts herself. She acts like she knows you. Like she's a friend of long standing."
Nelson was ready for the question. And judging Faye's snowballing intoxication, figuring that almost any explanation would sell about now, he said. "She's with that Kurt Masters. He's a big buyer from Chicago. He picked her up somewhere. I had to entertain them last night. Think nothing of it. Some women are just naturally forward."
"I wish she'd forward with her own man, instead of mine," Faye muttered. She clung to Travis. "Oh, darling, I've missed you. These two days have seemed an eternity."
He surreptitiously caressed her rear, tucked her tummy tight against his thighs, savored the quick twist and bunt Faye involuntarily conferred. "I know, baby. It's seemed that way to me too. Maybe we can sneak away later. Into the bedroom. I'll make things up to you."
"You must be kidding. Surely everybody'll know, everybody'll see."
"Not if we lock the door. Honey, this is a grownup party. Things are gonna go wild here in a bit. Nobody's going to care what the others are doing. So long's they get theirs. Haven't you ever been to an orgy before?"
The mere word excited Faye. The prospect of a group dedicated to pursuit of sexual delights inflamed her. She kissed Travis, ground her belly to him more boldly, felt a hot wickedness infect her. What a way to close out a convention, she thought.
It was a thought that Steve and Sonja echoed, at almost precisely that same moment. And though Faye missed their hasty retreat into one unlocked bedroom, Travis Nelson did not. He smiled smugly, his eyes narrowed, as he noted that Gordon Berry had disappeared, was not at his station.
Perhaps twenty minutes later, as all but the dimmest lights and candles were extinguished, as the drinking definitively tumbled all barriers of reserve and inhibition, Vernelle, dancing with Sam Archer, made a wanton show out of pulling down the front of her black, sequined gown, built-in brassiere and all.
With a happy squeal she whirled in place, centrifugal force making her mammoth breasts stand away from her body like great cannonballs. Then she fell upon Archer again, hugged him tightly, danced in clumsy, drunken fashion.
The party was irrevocably launched, sent into orbit.
Faye agreed, cuddling to Nelson again. And, the muzzy recklessness invading, she thought nothing of it when she fumbled with her lover's zipper, plunged her hand inside his trousers.
* * *
"Are you sure this is all right?" Shana was whispering to Estee in room 322. As, in that cloaking darkness, upon that same bed, Estee was struggling out of her clothes, was coming to gather the bewildered child into her arms again. "Isn't this wrong, perverted? For two women to.. . love each other like this?"
"Wrong?" Estee sighed, wanting to weep with happiness as she felt Shana's hard-nippled breasts touch, singe her own. "No, beloved, it's not wrong. Not when two individuals, whether they be male or female, truly love each other. Anything they do in the name of love, in the name of faithfulness to each other ... no matter how bizarre . .. isn't wrong. So long as the human soul isn't tarnished or humbled, so long as there is mutual respect..."
"Estee, I feel so strange. Frightened. But peaceful too. Like I've finally found the way. Like I'm finally coming out of a dark, empty cave. Is that the way I'm supposed to feel?"
"I can't tell you how you're supposed to feel," Estee replied softly, her voice breaking beneath the weight of compassion and love it carried. "I know you're frightened, unsure. It's always that way when you embark on something new, on an exciting journey. You'll have to feel your way, you mustn't expect everything to be clear, to be good all at once. Our relationship, like any relationship between two human beings, must build slowly, patiently, until there is trust and love and safety. And once you've found that you'll never have to look for anything else again."
"Estee .. . darling . . . you make it sound so beautiful."
"It is beautiful, Shana. The most beautiful gift life can bring. A restless heart tamed, brought to quiet shores. Can there be any greater happiness?"
"Darling," Shana sighed, moving her body to Estee's, glorying in her fragrance, in her incredible softness. In the smooth, delicious slide of their breasts, bellies and loins together. And she wondered why she'd never considered this sort of love, why she'd never sought this exquisite sanctuary before. "I like this. I do, I do."
"I'm glad. You've got so much to learn. I'll teach you, I'll be so tender and loving with you. If you'll let me."
"I will, Estee, oh, I will. I've heard about... read about things like this. But I never dreamed that you ... were like that. I never once considered it for myself. I always thought it was something wrong, dirty..."
"And now?"
"I know it's not dirty, it's not wrong. Only those who think it's wrong.. . they're the dirty-minded ones. There are women who are born like this, they can't help themselves." She paused, shivered hard, scrabbled to Estee's warmth. "There are women who are latent..."
"Say it," Estee insisted, "Lesbians."
"... Lesbians. There are other women who are ... driven from men ... to women."
"And how do you feel about it? About yourself?"
"It's hard to say. Perhaps I've always had a tendency toward it. I've always felt like men were . . . only using me. I don't know, Estee. I just know I trust you, I know I'll learn to love you. I want to live with you .. . have you teach me about love."
"That's all the understanding you need, angel. If you enter into this arrangement with this understanding, if you come with an open mind ... One day you'll know for sure, there'll be no question whatsoever in your mind. You'll be happy, complete..."
"Oh," Shana stifled a sob. "I want that so terribly. I've been looking for that all my life." She shuddered. "Oh, darling! When you kiss me, touch me like that.. ."
"I've longed to kiss you, baby, to touch you this way for so long. From the first day you came to Fremont High. I've loved you from that moment on."
"Oh, Estee," Shana said pityingly. "And you could never tell me. How I must have hurt you at times."
"You did. But I didn't mind. I kept hoping that someday something would happen, that I'd find a way to let you know. But before now... I couldn't. For fear of having you turn away from me. Even if I never could have had you ..." Estee's voice snagged. "I didn't want you to hate me. I wanted to be able to love you from afar if need be."
"Estee. You make me feel so humble, so unworthy."
"I don't want that, precious. You should feel proud, exalted, that someone loves you that much."
"T do, darling, I do."
"We'll be so happy, Shana. I want to cry when I think of us together." She buried her face in Shana's shoulder. "Oh, Shana, I've waited so long..."
Now it was Shana's turn to grant comfort. And she embraced Estee, stroked her smooth, firm back. She felt a delicious ease, a tickling urgency intermingled, deep inside.
Now Estee regained composure, she began to kiss Shana's lips hungrily, she slid her lips in maddening, gentle flow. Shana found herself relishing the kiss, she found it thrilling beyond compare. So different from the hard, grasping kiss of men. In intent, in commission.
Simultaneously she felt the slide of Estee's perfumed fingers on her nipples. She shivered in supreme joy and sense of rightness, she seemingly flowered beneath Estee's adoration. Her happiness seemed hot, molten, a thing of blinding radiance.
She actually wanted to scream her beatification from the rooftops. I am loved! For the first time in my life - truly loved! Lucky among women - The warmth grew even more suffocating. As now Estee let her lips slither down the line of her jaw, let them tumble down her throat. For long moments they nested and dipped there. Shana's sighs grew, the sense of rightness mounted within her, verged on explosion.
Now Estee's lips slowly, painstakingly moved lower, carved a breathtaking trail across her bosom. Shana's fingers twined in her short, soft hair, gently willed her to hurry. And when, at long last, those expectant buds were encompassed in that moist, velvet trap, when that smooth face burrowed into that opulent cushion, when that silky dagger darted forth, rasped and soothed at the same time.
Shana knew the truest totality and meaning of sensual love. Her throat strained, a sibilant mistral of delight spiraled up, formed a contrail of awed, inexpressible love above them. Her fingers caressed Estee's scalp, her hips began to grind and twitch almost imperceptibly. She marveled again and again at the silkiness of Estee's flesh, at the weightlessness of her frail body- "Darling," she choked, "that's unbelievably good. I feel so loved, so revered, almost."
"You are revered," Estee intoned. "I'll love you the longest day I live. I'll never let any one hurt you again."
"Please, Estee. More. Don't stop, not even for a second. That's beautiful; there aren't words to describe it. My darling! I love that! I love you!"
"No, Shana," Estee sighed. "Not yet. Don't say ' that. Not until you're sure."
"I'm sure, darling. I am. I love you..."
"Please? Wait, Shana? If I ask you to?"
Shana fell silent, concentrated on the way that Estee continued to adore her breasts, on the difference between her technique as compared to that of a man.
"Tell me, darling," Estee murmured. "If there's anything I do that's repugnant. I wouldn't want to offend for the world. There are certain things that have to be learned ..."
"You couldn't do anything to offend me, Estee."
"I might overstep myself. If I ever do, you must tell me. I love you so much that I might let myself get carried away." A quick shudder hit her. "Shana?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Have you ever been kissed ... has a man ever kissed you ..." She paused, let her velvety fingers flutter at the heart of Shana's body. "I... mean .. . here?"
Shana squirmed slightly, hesitated. "Yes," she said finally.
"And did you like it?"
"I don't know. I think I did. But it was so harsh, the man was so ... relentless ... Perhaps it was more torture than pleasure."
"And if I asked you if I could kiss you...?"
Shana froze. "Do you want to, Estee? Is that part of it too?"
"Yes, baby." Her tone was wistful, impatient. "That's part of it. There have to be substitutes, after all."
"And you really..."
"I want . . . this . . . with all my heart. Later there will be other things I'll teach you. But for now... It won't be like with a man, that I guarantee. I won't hurt you. You'll love it, it'll be wonderful."
"And what... do you want me to do? I can't just lie here... like some kind of parasite. I can't just take. . . and give nothing in return."
"Take, my darling. You deserve to take for once in your life. Everyone's taken from you. I'll do everything this time. This time's all mine, I've waited so long. Later on, darling. But for now..." Her voice was breathy. "Let me love you ..."
"You make it sound so beautiful," Shana repeated.
"It will be beautiful." Now Estee trembled savagely. She let her lips nip the underswell of Shana's breasts. Then, without another word, only a ragged sigh, she began revolving on the bed, she let her lips skip ticklingly across the quaking plain of Shana's stomach. Now to a rolling, soft mesa. And finally - To a rounded, smooth, and soft canyon.
Shana jerked, closed the walls of that canyon in an involuntary movement. Then, sorry, opened them again. "That's right, baby," Estee intoned. "Just relax, let yourself go totally limp. Enjoy, concentrate on sensation, on what I'm going to make happen for you. It's going to be a miracle, a thing that's never happened to you before. A thing you have to experience to believe."
Shana did as she was told. She fell back into her pillows, let her hands lay limply at her sides. She let Estee bring up her knees, arrange her legs just so. Now the tickling at that bowl of her belly began again, she felt Estee's hot breath. And now, a sibilant, happy sigh escaping Estee's throat: That first kiss, that first daggerlike movement.
And Shana groaned, felt herself seemingly go to pieces all at once. It was as if her corporeal self had floated off, had left only her brain, this touchstone of sensation behind. Estee had spoken truthfully when she'd promised the love would be different. And knowing instinctively what gentleness, what slow coaxings a woman needs most, she began to build that monumental gift. Unhurried, the whole night before them, she labored expertly, patiently, was determined that this one should be the best in her life. That this one would be her masterpiece.
Shana's breath caught in her throat, emerged in long, eerie wails. As the scalding passion built up. As pain was submerged in another, molten, totally new sensation. And she yearned, strained to reach it. "Yes, Estee," she called. "Oh, yes, yes..."
In the diabolically chaperoned bedroom in suite 820, Steve and Sonja had now reached that point of no return. A surfeit of liquor, of bad conscience inhibiting Steve, rendering him frustratingly useless to the supercharged wanton, he was prone on the bed, woodenly allowing Sonja to play degenerate skills upon him. With each evidence of success she gloated, encouraged, praised. She worked that much harder.
Until, a drunken gratitude steam-rollering him, he allowed himself a response he'd always shunned previously. He began to twist on the bed, he came to Sonja also. And when she became aware of just what it was he intended: "Oh, baby! How nice. Stevie wants to play too. Okay, honey. Okay by Sonja. Yes! Like that. You sweetheart! You're tearing me up inside."
Oblivious to their surroundings, to all decency, the couple attacked each other with frantic determination. For all they cared, the others could go hang.
In the closet Gordon Berry cursed, wished that Trav was in charge on that bed. These jerks let themselves get carried away. How was he to get any pictures if neither of them ever looked up. There, he gloated, clicking the camera with uncanny skill. That was a good one. When that Steve yo-yo came up for air just then - While in the outer rooms: Vernelle had stripped completely. Now she danced with an equally gone Kurt Masters, he dancing in just his shorts. Vernelle wore red satin party shoes. And a pair of sheer, red, bikini panties. Otherwise - A blissful, drunken smile.
On the davenport, Helen Carver, a long-tressed redhead possessed of a svelte, ivory-toned body, was down to her panties, girdle, stockings and shoes. Half upright, a naked Jeff Rowland kneeling and sprawling before her.
Dipping her nipples alternately into the near-brimming glass, she offered them to his noisy, slurping lips. The sensation maddening, she knew she'd have to take this greedy boy into one of those bedrooms soon. Her eyes narrowed in projection of the orgy. She'd taken her martini with her. There was more than one way to befriend a thirsty man. She'd play Good Samaritan with a vengeance.
Barely able to stand, slugging down a Manhattan with a manic determination, Faye watched Travis dancing with that Corinne slut, she knew violent jealousy as she saw him raise her skirt in the back, bare her plump bottom for all the world to see. Rage consumed her as he even went so far as to peel down her orange panties, fondled the real thing.
In reckless, drunken retaliation Faye began peeling off her own clothes. Finally, down to her lingerie, she went to where Sam Archer was standing. Grabbing him by the hand, she pulled him toward the still-occupied bedroom. ""How 'bout it, stud?" she stammered. "How's 'bout you'n me makin' things t'gether? I'll give y' a dandy."
Then, moments later, as Steve and Sonja barged out, both naked, both smiling lewdly, she and Sam charged in. Even before the door was locked, she was pulling at his trousers, dragging him to the bed. "Not ready, huh, baby?" she slurred. "Well ol' Faye's got ways t' take car'a that too." She fell onto her knees beside the bed. "Don' be afraid. Faye won' hurt you, honey. There, tha's a good boy."
Certainly there was nobody in the crowd who noticed the alternate disappearances of Travis and Gordon now. As the party truly went into high.
Even as Faye staggered from the bedroom, fixed Travis with a smug, vengeful glance, he saw Gordon Berry sidle from the bedroom, dash for the bar. The high sign flashed. Suddenly Nelson disappeared. But if Corinne was stricken, she made no fuss about it. She went after Gordon Berry.
In the meantime Helen Carver and Jeff Rowland took squatter's rights. And true to her word, she did bring her martini along with her. "Not so fast," she was giggling. "I got other ideas before we get t' the main event. Hurry, get my panties off...
* * *
While, in room 322 - Shana's breath broke in cascading, chittering gasps. Her hands clutched Estee's head. She moaned incoherently, fought with every last ounce of strength to keep from clamping her legs on Estee, suffocating her, holding her there forever.
It seemed great waves crashed upon a rockbound shore, it seemed a virtual aurora borealis of exotic color flickered on that stormy horizon. Now it came closer, closer. The lights blinded and burned her. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't move. It was like she was frozen, suspended in space. In time.
Then the storm crashed down on her; she was bathed in hot, liquid flame. Flame that coated and soothed, that plated her in an eternal purity. A balm that granted endless security.
At that moment - as Estee slithered up to her, as they kissed and clung - she realized her intrinsic nature, she accepted her true identity.
She knew she'd always been meant for this moment, for this proud acceptance. She knew she had never really, ever wanted a man!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sunday morning dawned cold, overcast, forbidding. The temperature had dropped during the night, a listless sprinkling of snowflakes presaged the bitter winter ahead. And if the outdoor climate was grim, ominous, it was no less foreboding than the climate indoors. Inside the Bentley Arms Hotel, for instance. In certain agony-occupied rooms.
Where physical and mental hangovers of all sizes and descriptions were being tried on for size.
As a case in point: Faye Silver's room. The room Corinne Monash occupied. Or in Sonja Tennier's cubicle, the one engaged by Helen Carver. And as extreme example even the room belonging to Steve.
Where pounding heads, coated tongues, rebellious stomachs were the rule rather than the exception.
But this sickness - whether it be spiritual or liquor induced - was nothing compared for the sickness that lay in wait for these debauchees. As, at roughly 9 a.m., emerging from suite 820, the professionally temperate team of blackmailers, Travis and Gordon, set off on a very deadly mission.
The party had ended at 3 a.m.; they'd labored another two hours in their improvised, portable laboratory in the bathroom, had developed the last of their film, had printed rough copies of their handiwork. And now, the "capper" shots gathered with any previous, damning photographs of their dozen-odd victims, neatly tucked into small, plain brown envelopes, secreted inside jacket pockets - D-Day.
They parted at the elevator. Each saw to his own itinerary, to his so-private clientele.
And while there were sobs and cursings and vomitings the length and breadth of that hotel - In still other rooms - There was happiness, there was peace and expectation of sorts.
Like in room 780. Where Miriam and Edgar sat on the edge of the unmade bed, both fully dressed, both awkward, both smiling at each other like a pair of moonsick teen-agers. "You promise, Edgar?" Miriam pleaded. "You'll drive down to Lockhaven next weekend? You have my address? You aren't just saying this, stringing me along..."
"No," he said, his eyes burning into hers, deep love shining in them, "I'm not stringing you along.
I'll be down, we'll make final plans. I want to marry you, Miriam. I want you to be my wife."
She clung to him, kissed his cheek kittenishly. "Oh, darling, it's not too late, is it? We're not too old?"
"Never." He thought himself quite daring to cup her breast in broad daylight. "I think we've proved that to each other. Last night was beautiful, wasn't it?"
"Oh, Edgar, it was. I feel so happy. Like a giddy child, like I could fly. I'm a woman reborn. Darling, will it always be like this?"
He kissed her. "We can try, sweetheart, we can try." He held her closer. "It's the craziest thing. I want you right now. Do you suppose ... ? This week will seem endless."
A spurt of passion ripped Miriam. The concept of love by day was vastly intriguing. "I ... I think so, Edgar. If you really want me. Faye's sick, she's having a hard time getting started. It'll be an hour before she's ready."
And as he slid his hand under her skirt: "Oh, Edgar. You naughty boy!" She held him to her with her own hands. "Oh, I feel so strange, so wonderfully strange. Imagine! A wanton at forty-eight..."
Then he was bending her back. Slowly, gently.
While in room 222, a highly agitated Dawn Riggs was staring with incredulous eyes. As Roger Larsen gravely removed his school ring, threaded it on the silver pendant chain she wore. "Roger, darling," she squeaked, "you mean it? You really mean it? After the way I acted, the way I was such a pushover for you?"
"It doesn't matter," Roger said softly. "You were a virgin, I know you were a virgin. That means the world to me. That's more than I can say about myself."
"Are you sure, Roger? Oh, I want to cry. You make me feel so happy. You really love me? You don't owe me anything. You know that. Not out of duty ..."
He hugged her close, used her buttocks for gripping places, worked her taut belly against his. "Baby," he growled, "does this feel like duty?" He kissed her fervently yet tenderly. "I love you. I've always wanted a woman like you, I never thought I'd find one. A woman who enjoys the bedroom, who doesn't think of it as a chore. And a virgin . . . my woman . . . besides. If you knew some of the dogs I've tried out in my time..."
"Please, Roger. Don't talk about that..."
"Anything you say. Honey, I'll come up to visit you next weekend. I want to meet your folks, declare my intentions. But until then ... this ring ..."
"I'll treasure it. It'll be my lucky charm. I'll wear it like a shield, like a banner." Dawn grimaced, said, "Oh, Roger, please don't think I'm awful, a forward hussy. But would you mind? If we. . . went to bed again? Vernelle's sick, she'll be an hour at least. Saturday seems a million years away..."
"Of course, Dawn. You make me so proud. I've always dreamed there would be a woman who would need me so bad that she wouldn't wait for me, that she'd ask me herself..."
Gently, respectfully, the man began to undress her.
"Wake up, sleepyhead," Estee whispered in room 322, looking down with adoration-painted eyes at the lovely, innocent-faced child who lay beside her. "It's time we should be packing, getting ready to go." She grazed Shana's smooth forehead with her lips, thought how beautiful she looked, even in the morning. "Wake up, darling."
Slowly Shana opened her eyes, stared about her, oriented herself in a charming, guileless way. Then, as she found herself in Estee's bed, Estee naked beside her - Small panic, puzzlement flared in her eyes.
It was the moment that Estee had dreaded for hours now. She had been awake since 7:00, she had been evaluating the incredible turn of events. How would Shana feel when she remembered, in the clear light of day, with the terror of the things that Steve had forced on her now faded? Would she be ashamed, would she be revolted?
Now, as Shana's eyes searched hers, as a dependent, loving smile formed on her lips, Estee's heart threatened to explode inside her chest.
"Estee, darling," Shana intoned in a whispery, awe-filled voice. "I was afraid you wouldn't be here. That I'd be alone again." Her arms came up. "Hold me, Estee," she choked. "Please hold me... "
* * *
Vernelle had been, needless to say, shocked when Travis barged into her room, spread the photographs on the bed with casual, businesslike indifference. Her head buzzing, she'd studied the vile shots wordlessly. At the end a lewd smile had formed on her lips as one of the photos had particularly intrigued her.
Then she'd shrugged. "A hundred dollars a month? That'll about wipe me out. I didn't have to work before, but I sure's hell do now." A defeated smile twisted her mouth as she rose, naked, went to get her purse.
Then, as she turned over the first payment: "You dance," she said sadly, "you gotta pay the piper."
One last commentary on her character: "Hey," she called Nelson back. "Don't I at least get to keep the pictures? You got the negatives. I need some kicks for my spare time. Maybe pictures're all I'll have from now on."
Where Travis had expected Steve to blow tough, it just never happened. Beneath that arrogant exterior there lived a coward and a bully. With women he was tough. But with a strapping six-footer like Nelson - He turned gray, made a dash for the bathroom. And when he returned, he resignedly tendered his address, took Nelson's card, listened to his terse, no-nonsense instructions. After all, those pictures were pretty good. The man had him cold. If his superintendent ever got a gander at those beauts - He was sorting through the pictures when Nelson left.
He barely looked up as the man said, "Your IOU's good for now. But just as soon as you get home... Don't try anything cute, kid. You'll be sorry if you do."
Sonja Tennier sobbed like a broken-hearted baby.
Beryl Davis cursed him with a cold, deadly intensity before she handed over her first $100.
And if Faye Silver thought she was at death's door as result of her demented drinking the night before, she knew an even more monolithic sickness when Travis Nelson finally strode out of the room, leaving his sheaf of depravity scattered atop her dresser.
A robotlike emptiness filled her. An end-of-the-road lethargy. She was numb, stunned, she was seemingly beyond emotion, beyond ever being hurt again.
Sitting in her chair, shuffling the sick photos in her fingers, she fought nausea again and again. A crushing feeling of defeat, of utter despair filled her. She wondered why she didn't scream, why she didn't sob. Why these mirthless, bitter chuckles stormed the bastions of her throat.
She admitted this was proof positive of the stupidity of the female. That she, a mature, intelligent woman, a woman who'd definitely lived long enough to know better, could be duped in such a manner. That she could dupe herself, let the heart, not the brain dictate policy. Small wonder men got away with the deadly hi jinks they did.
So long as there are women - It was incredible now to think that she'd almost convinced herself that she loved Travis, that she'd almost made herself believe that, age discrepancies to the contrary, he loved her. Or could learn to love her.
Fool, idiotic fool!
This was dead end, she concluded. What was the French word? Cul de sac? Whatever it was, it was the end of the road. She couldn't go on like this. Where was the point? How, after a lifetime of clawing to carve security and reputation and position for herself, how could she reconcile herself to this ghastly turn? How could she live with herself knowing she'd done things like this, that there were crystal-clear photographs to verify these heathenish wallowings? How could she live out the rest of her days beneath the shadow of blackmail? How could she live in constant fear and shame?
The answer was glaringly obvious. The fact was that she couldn't live like this. It was inconceivable that a woman of her stature and intellect could cringe, could crawl like some insect. Besides, what of the next time these same carnal desires that had destroyed her should strike again?
A stoic calm possessed the woman, there was an eerie mechanicalness in her movements, as she went into the bathroom, attended her toilette, as she dressed m fresh things from the inside out. Fearing that Miriam would return momentarily, she hurried.
The photographs were all burned, crushed to powder in an ashtray. And now, looking as smart and chic as her hungover state would permit, she strode rapidly across the room. A vacant, lunatic stare in her eyes, she unlocked the seventh floor window, flung it up.
She barely noticed the frigid blast of air that hit her as she climbed over the sill. She felt a sharp stab of irritation to realize she'd run one of her stockings.
There was no hesitation, no indecision as she climbed out of the window, crouched on the concrete ledge. She waited until the sidewalk below was clear of pedestrians, until the car nearest had rolled out of sight. Then, without a word, without a prayer, she pushed herself off.
She screamed all the way down.
In room 322 Shana and Estee heard the muffled wail, stared up in a chilled moment of wonder. But as immediately shrugged the noise off. "Some conventioneer," Estee sniffed, "with one of those tin horns. Just getting in, no doubt." They thought nothing of the loud voices, of the running in the corridor outside their door.
She turned back to Shana. "We should be getting up."
"Do we have to? I hate to get up, I hate to think of being apart from you ... like this ... even for a minute." She shuddered suddenly. "Hold me, Estee, never let me go. I love you .. . please, I must say it... I love you, Estee. I never knew what love meant before."
Estee's eyes filmed, she held Shana tight. Until Shana stirred. "Please, honey," she whispered. "Isn't there time? Once more? That wonderful love . .. before we check out..."
Estee threw back the covers, exposed that beautiful, trembling body. "Yes, precious. There's time. There's always time ..." She bent her head, let her lips ripple across Shana's creamy tummy.
Downstairs the lobby was crowded, bellboys were scurrying frantically with luggage. As a virtual locust plague of guests checked out before the noon deadline.
