He quietly lifted the hood of the long, sleek, black Mark III. The bomb was taken from a brown cardboard box and put in place. His fingers, still damp-sticky-from hot pussy, were deft in making the connection. If they were good enough to separate cuntlips from hair and find a shrinking clit and bring it to stand-up life, they were good enough to attach the ignition wires to the detonating device.
There was only the sound of rapid breathing in the garage, as the hood was lowered, and the click of metal on metal as the catch was engaged. He left the key in the ignition where it was expected. His footsteps across the cement floor grated on sand spilled from the garden supplies ranged against the wall. He went out the rear door into the kitchen garden. He passed through a depression in the grass, hidden by the overhanging branch of a weeping willow tree. Clinging to it; another branch of honeysuckle, with its sickly sweet, old-fashioned scent, trailed flowers that absorbed the scent of cum from the stretched-out rubber lying white in the grass.
Was it only yesterday, when he cased the garage, that he came across the mailman fucking the yellow-haired girl? The temptation was strong to chop down on the fat, red neck humping almost at his feet, and take his place in the pliant arms of the agreeable female under the mailman. She had her eyes closed, while her brain followed her own dream, and she would never have known the swap. Wouldn't have cared.
"Maybe I ain't got the biggest prick in the world," the mailman was panting, but it's big enough to fuck your cunt, baby!"
He was taking her from behind, pulling her up on her knees and making her bend over, while his roughened hands mauled her small tits and his cock socked into her cunt. His hands came back and grabbed her hips, to hold her steady. The small, tight cunt positively sizzled with a bubbling delight at the feel of the silk-smooth glans.
He started to fuck in long, even strokes. "Can you take it this way?" he groaned hoarsely. He had no concern about her answer. He was in, fucking her to the hilt, while her arms buckled at the elbows under his weight, so if she had said no, it would have made no difference.
But she only groaned back at him, and settled back almost on her haunches, so that her whole ass was riding on his thighs, and his whole cock was rubbing her whole cunt into a flame of ecstasy.
He could see the blood rushing to the mailman's face as he began working her with short, hard strokes. Then he was lifting, coming up on his feet while he dragged her ass up with him, so that her head almost imbedded in the turf and her knees were up on his hips and her feet were flaying out wildly in the empty air.
The mailman drove his cock swiftly up the juicy walls of the young snatch, while the naked girl twisted and writhed in a secret bliss.
The watcher backed silently away. He was sure they hadn't seen him, and if they had, his image never registered in their brains.
Now, in the dead of night, only the smell of honeysuckle and a dried-out rubber remained. He passed quickly through a row of shrubs and gained the street.
CHAPTER TWO
Don pulled off the rain-soaked highway at a roadside booth and made the call. The call to Binghamton, New York.
"Mrs. Howard? My name's Franklin. Don Franklin."
"Yes?" A warm voice. The kind of voice that sounded as if a hard cock was imbedded in her throat while she talked around it.
He forced himself to sound impersonal, business-like, believable? "Mrs. Howard, it's important that I get in touch with the tenant who's been staying in your cottage here, near Willkes-Barre, Pennsylvania? She left quite suddenly and I haven't her address. I wonder if you could-"
"What tenant?" The voice of the woman in Binghamton was sharpened now, as if she had spit out that cock and forgotten that she had ever held one in her mouth. "Who is it you want to get in touch with?"
"Dolores-uh-that's the trouble, I don't know her last name."
He had, of course, gotten a last name from her, but he was dead sure it wasn't the right one-White. Dolores White.
"Dolores?" Mrs. Howard's hesitancy in pronouncing the name, as though testing it, trying to match it to someone she knew, told him the first name was also wrong. "I don't know anyone named Dolores. You're wasting your time, Mr. Franklin, and mine."
She hung up.
Mrs. Howard, of course, knew nothing of the urgency of the request she had just turned down. Had she known, she might have slammed the phone down even earlier.
Now she turned to the young man stretched out naked beside her. For another moment her mind played with other names, tried to recall who might have gone down to the cottage. She had a lot of friends, and the cottage was a convenient place at a convenient distance for swapping husbands and wives without anyone being the wiser.
She used to do it herself, but now she didn't give a damn anymore. Now she invited them right into the house and told Bennett to roll over or get out. Only this one, next to her, was nobody's husband. He was still young enough to just be somebody's son. She snuggled against him, and let her hand trail into his crotch. His cock was long and limber. She worked on it to get it hard.
"You smell good," she informed him. "Of soap and cunt."
"Your soap," he said in her ear. "And your cunt."
She thrilled at the boyish eagerness of his voice, his willingness to repeat all the words she gave him to say, all the things she gave him to do.
His hand rested on her thigh; but then it began crawling up to her hairy pussy, and, as it did, the cock she held in her hand began to stiffen, again.
He imbedded one finger in the moist crease of her thighs and used his wrist to nudge her legs open. His breathing was heavy in her ear as his stiff tongue sucked into it.
The billiard-smooth globe of his glans pulsed under her fingertips.
It wasn't hard enough yet to put into her cunt; she could stuff it in, maybe, but it wasn't hard enough to slice in, jab in, whop in, the way she wanted it to. So she held it at the base with thumb and forefinger and wiggled it, watched it flip-flop from left to right; from front to back; from down on his thighs to up on his belly. Slap. Slap-slap. She cuffed it, squeezed it, pulled it; drawing a soft "ooohhh" and "aaahhh!" from him; then she pushed and pulled several times, fast, whipping it; watched it grow until it stuck straight up in the air like a mast on a toy schooner. It looked beautiful, streaked white and flushed red.
A prick like her husband, Bennett, didn't have anymore. Maybe never did have. There are guys like that. If they fuck once a month they're fucking a lot. Believe it or not. Every guy thinks every other guy is fucking like crazy whenever he can get it. Well, he's only fucking crazy like that in his mind when he isn't getting it. After he's got it, he lets it lay there. So kids like this kid can come along. They don't let it lay there. They kiss it, suck it, eat it, fuck it.
The boy sells used cars on the corner lot at the end of town, the lot Mrs. Howard owns and collects rent from every month. She had had her eye on this one. She had her whole mouth on him now. She pushed the tender foreskin all the way down to his balls and opened her mouth as wide as she could and just swallowed him.
He was going out of his tree with what she was doing to him. He wiggled his ass and bucked his hips, and watched her use her mouth like a hairless pussy as she went down on him.
She stopped long enough to say, "Do me."
She didn't have to say it twice. He had sucked inside a hot, wet cunt before. He knew the smell. He knew the taste. He knew the ecstasy.
"Lover! Lover!" she gasped.
He wrapped her quivering body all around him. He rained hot kisses all over her soft flesh, teasing her, tormenting her, savoring her ... while she sucked his cock to a tree trunk in her hands ... while she tongue-tipped his anus and he felt flameless fire shoot up his ass ... while he came in her mouth, and she swallowed the thick drops like white honey ... while she orgasmed again and again against his lips ... her mind reflecting on that name, Dolores, and her cunt reacting to the sound of that voice in her ear from a telephone call from somewhere near Willkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.
CHAPTER THREE
Don ducked through the rain, after whipping open the door of the telephone booth, and ran bent against the wind to the dry safety of his car. His teeth were set tight so the muscles worked in his jaw. Before the whole thing seemed stupid. Now it was scary. He started the car and pointed it back on the highway. How do you find a woman whose name you don't know? A woman who, evidently, didn't want to be found.
And if he ran her to the ground, wherever she lived, would that be a new beginning? Or the end? He should have checked her wallet for a driver's license. Or the glove compartment of her car, for the registration. But he had no reason to believe she was anything but what she said she was.
Besides it didn't matter then. Then she was just a beautiful girl he had lucked out in finding. Had lucked out in fucking. Just the memory of the feel of his cock worming its way into her puffy pussy brought on the greatest agony of all.
She had straight, dark blonde hair that hung to her shoulders. Her breasts stood out straight and hard and rounded as pineapples. Eating them made the juices run down the corners of his mouth.
Her cunt.
Oh, god, what a cunt! Light sprinkled with fine, brown hair. The lips swollen and juicy. The inner flesh succulent. Like a peach. The clit like his little finger, hot on his tongue. He shivered with the memory. Angry now thit is was only a memory.
He stopped at a gas station.
"What's the best route from here up to Binghamton in New York?" he asked while the tank was being filled.
"Get a map," the stringy attendant said. "In there." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, and Don plowed through the rain to the office that was a leanto against an aging barn. But it was dry in here, and warm. He opened his rain coat and found a map. He traced the route with his finger and found he could keep going north to highway 17; then turn right, east, and it would take him into Binghamton. The route Dolores would take it her name was Dolores, and if she was going straight back to Binghamton.
He watched the attendant wipe the windshield in the rain and check his tires. Then he lifted the hood to check the oil. The kind of service you don't get anymore, not in the chrome and glass service stations anyway. With all their cleanliness and their high-powered advertising. That's where it all was, in the advertising. But here, tucked away in a narrow winding road, in the rain, where nothing ever happened, he was getting the complete treatment. The guy happy, probably, because he was getting something to do, an activity that shortened he day.
He walked to the end of the office and peeked around the corner into the barn, to see if there was a men's John. Any John.
There was a dog, and she was standing there, too, this girl about seventeen. Her feet was buried in the straw to about her knees. The rest of her was naked. The dog had his front paws hooked on her small hips, and she was using her hands to hold his paws up there, to keep him from slipping off. His slobbering mouth was sucking her tits. She was holding him up there so he could suck her tits.
His head, a sleek, narrow, Doberman's head, kept pointing down to the softness of her lower belly, but she kept pulling up his snoot with one elbow. He went back to licking the tits with a long, red tongue until the girl was ready to let him slide down to her cunt.
She was about ready. Her cunt was shadowy with black, pubic hair. But the lips had already distended and a line showed pink in the blackness of hair. The Doberman could hardly wait.
The girl looked up and saw Don watching her.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
"Going south?"
"North."
She shrugged. Just a tiny shrug with her shoulders so the Doberman wouldn't slip off. She released one paw and cupped his drooling jaw with one hand and held it up against one nipple that was almost as long now as a finger. "Too bad." The bog's red pecker dropped strings of cum.
"I'd like to," Don said, "but I have to go north."
"Shows you how fucking dumb you are," she said.
"I know. But I'm late now, and-"
"I'll give you all the pussy you want if you just drive me south."
"I'm sure someone will be along."
She laughed in a funny way. "I ain't waiting. I'll get that guy out there to lock up and take me. See if I don't."
By this time the dog had struggled out of her hands and had his nose between her legs. The straw rustled as she spread her stance. The big licked fast, like from a pail of water, between her legs. Her cunt opened like a flower.
He heard the hood drop on the car, and the attendant was coming in. Don moved back into the office.
"Five-sixty-five," the stringy guy said, his face wet with rain, his voice nasal.
He took his time in making change from a ten-dollar bill. As if he had all day. As if there weren't a seventeen-year-old girl in the barn in the back, being sucked off by a Doberman Pinscher, waiting to be fucked by him in exchange for a ride south.
He slowly counted out the thirty-five cents change and the four single dollar bills. "Thank you," he said.
"Thank you" Don answered.
"Wet," the guy said.
"Yeah. Well-"
Don hit the rain at a trot and ducked for the door of his car.
The stringy guy watched the car pull away, watched Don gun it onto the macadam and hiss down the road and disappear around a bend. He pulled the electric switch on the pumps, and turned the key in the door. He wiped his hands on an oil rag, and moved back into the barn.
"Did your Prince hold ya till I got back?"
"He's a real prince," the girl said, hands on hips, pelvis bucking, eyes rolling back to gaze unseeing at the loft of the barn. The Doberman kept jumping up, trying to get his stiff, red pecker up to her cunt. She kept slapping him down so he want back to sucking, until she wasn't hitting him on the snoot anymore, and then he'd try to mount her again, standing up.
"You got yourself a real dog there," the attendant informed her.
"I wish he had a car," the girl said.
"Oh, I'll take ya, but we fuck first. I've had all kinds of ladies in here, but they always cop out after they get what they want."
"I just want a ride south."
"Looks like you're getting a pretty good ride now."
"Well?" the girl said. Her voice was low and breathy now. Her thighs were trembling as the dog sucked fast, and she must have been coming a mile a minute.
"Move the dog away and let me in."
"No," she said. "After you take me south."
"How far south?"
"Just south ... I'll tell you when."
She squealed as she said it, as the dog caught his tongue up her twat and hung there, on his tongue; while she felt the curl of it squeeze her clit. She just bent her head and stood there shivering.
The attendant had his own fleshy organ out of his jeans, finding it hard to get it through the small, tight opening; but then holding the fly apart and having his cock in one hand, pulsating in his palm. He wanted the girl to see it.
"Whoooeeee!" she commented through slitted eyes. "OOOhhhh, now that's what I do call a prick!"
"Will you get the goddamned dog out of there!"
"You get him," she giggled. "You get him out!"
He waited for the dog to get done, massaging the fat organ in his hand, flexing the muscles of his ass to make his prick squirm and roll in his grease-caked hand.
"No fuck, no trip south," he said.
He circled his broad hand around the squirming snake of meat and worked it up and down a few times. He paused for dramatic effect, to see the girl leave the dog and come crawling to him. He made a couple more fast pulls and took his hand away.
The girl gasped. Such a little, stringy guy, and such a big, hard, fat, red, thick, muscular cock!
The attendant's lips pulled back in a satisfied smile. "A dog's okay when you ain't gettin' it from a man, baby. But with a cock like this, what're ya waitin' for?"
"Feel it, Lester," he told himself. "Think what it will be like with that soft pussy stretched around it!"
The thought was almost too much to keep to himself. He'd been fucking the old ladies who came in for gas in their nineteen-thirty-three Fords. They sure knew where to go to get filled up! Good business too. But not young cunt like this. There was no young cunt like this around here anymore. But she had to come along with that goddamned dog. A mean one too. A fucking Doberman Pinscher. A mean dog. A cocksuckin' dog. A real cunt-lapper.
He watched the girl's eyes cling to his cock with a fascination that only made the denial worse. She wasn't about to let go that dog and she wasn't about to fuck him before he took her south. Then she'd sic that fuckin' dog on him, and give him nothing.
In his mind he felt her cunt squeezing off the head of his cock. The pole of flesh jerked in his palm. Easy, easy! But the fat head pulsed. Then spit, as the small slit gaped open like a toothless mouth and belched drops of thick semen, white against the black oil of his fingers.
"Hey!" the girl gurgled. "You came right with me!" Then she let the Doberman loose and headed for the cash register. The cum was still swirling out of the attendant's balls, but he started after her, until the Doberman jumped between him and the girl. He stood still, cum oozing from his cock as it still oozed from the dog's pecker. They stared at each other, immobile, while the girl lifted Don's ten-dollar bill from the cash register and stuffed her tight little ass into a pair of blue jeans. Her cunt came up round and full in the tight crotch. And it wasn't until she had on her red blouse, knotted below and between her two tits, that the dog backed away from the attendant and loped to the door with the girl.
"You can call the sheriff, if you want," she called over her shoulder, "or you can still give me a ride south. Which is it gonna be?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Don gunned the engine on the wet pavement and felt the rear wheels slide. His anger was double now. He wouldn't catch up with Dolores on the road anyway, probably, and he could have taken the girl a little way south; just far enough south to have her in the car away from that station and away from the Doberman. Instead he handed her over to that stringy-assed attendant! He tried to wipe her from his mind and concentrate on Dolores.
When he woke up this morning, Dolores was already out of the room. Probably had packed the night before and he hadn't noticed. Why the hell should he have! All he saw was her cunt and her tits and her mouth. The feel of her legs locked across his back. The feel of her breasts mashing against his chest. The feel of her pubic hairs sliding up and down his belly.
He pulled on his undershorts and slacks, grabbed up the plaid shirt he had left over the back of a chair. He hardly was aware of dressing. All he was thinking of was Dolores. He felt an urgent need to look at her again, touch her again. Now. Kiss her again. Now. Fuck her again. Now. Hot prick in hot cunt. Fuck her again. Dolores, where are you!
But the kitchen was empty, the row of copper pots and pans neat and clean and untouched along one wall. The stove cold. He nearly panicked.
Not that he hadn't found and lost girls before. But he had learned to always get that one, last fuck. Then they could go, if they wanted-But he had that one, last fuck under his belt, and it was always the best one of any.
The one that was the last one, when you knew you wouldn't get any more. When you listened for that murmur of appreciation as she held your handful of cock. When you gazed at her hollowed cheeks, and the stretched lips about your thickened, semen-spitting shaft.
Wlien she's naked, rolling herself into a ball on the bed, her hands going to her vulva and caressing herself in anticipation of you. Her frenzy, as you tuck the head of your cock just between the lips of her cunt. Your cock swollen and shiny, before stabbing it home. Her cry, and her fingernails digging into your back. Later, sucking your prick with hot lips and burning tongue; swallowing it completely, sucking and slurping like one demented.
Kneeling between her legs and kissing her wet and deep. Sticking your tongue up her cunt and feeling the clit dancing on your teeth. Sucking her up while she sucks you up, and knowing that no matter where the shit she goes after this or who she goes with, you're here, now, and you've got it; nobody else.
Lingering and nibbling and sucking on the pears of her breasts. Tightening your lips on the strutting nipples, while she twists and squirms and groans and whimpers and keens and gasps and pleads and begs and demands ... and sucks and fucks ... That instant when you're in, and poised to allow her tight cunt to become accustomed to the stretch of your cock; and then the easy, smooth, oily, greasy feeling as you slide down ... your cock shoving its way inward, spreading her tissues until you're engulfed in the slick orifice.....She sighs and laces her legs around you, wraps her arms around your shoulders; holds tight as you begin your ramming; steady, full, in and out stroking ... her pelvis meeting your every thrust ... your bodies joined in a compulsive drive of lust.
He remembered her fuck-lunges, in counterpoint to his own; her lips slobbering around his neck and down on his chest and across his shoulders and back to his lips, as she kissed him with the word love in her mouth.
Her hands were on his thighs, helping, then smoothing and clutching his sides. Then sliding back to cup his flexing buttocks. Then up and under to hold his balls. Then knuckling into his asshole while her choked words begged for his thumb in the same place. Her cunt worked like a thing apart on the slick, thick rod that he kept thrusting deeply and fully into her. Fucking her up that tiny channel that was all his, then. The inside of her cunt a hot, liquid cave that clutched at his broad glans and caressed it moistly and thoroughly as it entered and retreated.
She murmured and laughed and gurgled and giggled. Her breasts bounced against his belly as his balls bounced against her ass. Her heels drummed on his buttocks, and she clutched him and shuddered, her body feathing her orgasm so that when the full come reached its climax she cried and whimpered, and then relaxed soft and pliant.
His cock tingled in answer. His lips and legs felt heavy as mercury. His breath began to rasp, and she helped him along, feeling the sudden swelling and growing of his cock, even beyond the swell that had erupted before.
She moaned with pleasure and began a slow, clutching slide up and down on the thick shaft, milking every drop of cum, sucking it up into her belly ... the moist lips of her cunt spread and quivering; and then squeezing in on him. He dug his face into a hollow of her neck and groaned. His hips arched and then thrust forward once more, driving deep, deep, deeper ... until the dam burst and his seed splattered along the walls of her cunt ... and she cried softly and screamed quietly; and came with him again. And now she's gone.
No! There! Outside, he saw her standing by her car-but she was talking to someone, a stranger, a man in a hat and a business suit standing next to a second car. Someone asking directions? It didn't matter. He was so weak with relief and gratitude he leaned against the table to keep himself from falling.
He finally took a deep, shuddering breath, and went back to the bedroom for his socks and shoes. That one, last time was yet to come, but there was no reason why that should be the last time either.
He came back to the kitchen, fired up one burner, put on a pot of water, and found a half-canister of coffee on a shelf. He had the breakfast coffee started before he looked out the window again.
The man was gone. His car was gone-But so was Dolores's car. And so was Dolores.
Both cars had vanished.
CHAPTER FIVE
He cased the bedroom, opened dresser drawers. Empty. He yanked open the door to her closet, setting the bare wire hangers into a tuneless jangle. She wouldn't be back. He knew that. From everything she had said to him in these few days, he knew she was tied to the life she refused to tell him about.
She must have gotten up in the middle of the night to pack. She must have packed and then came back to bed, because at dawn, they'd both been there, in the bed, awake.
He reached over and patted her leg. She liked that. She kicked off the single sheet that covered their naked bodies, and spread her legs so his hand could move up along the warmth of her thigh, to the rim of her pubes. For just moments, he rubbed the crisp hairs that feathered from her cunt; then slipped in one finger to probe the moist haven that he had fucked so fully, that he had eaten of deliriously.
He let the finger run up and down along the crease of her vulva; then dipped between the folds. She rewarded him with an instant flow of cuntjuice to wet his searching hand.
"Oh, darling, I need you so badly! I need so to be loved," she whispered.
She lifted her head to his shoulders and nestled close, not interfering with his hand in her cunt; just reciprocating with her own fingers sliding tentatively up and down his shaft. She turned up her face so he could kiss her mouth. She gave herself fully to his kiss, opening her lips to his prodding tongue; lightly flashing her own tongue between his teeth and then giggling at the rock-hard reaction it brought to the cock in her hand.
He held her cunt with his right hand, the middle finger deep in the twat, slowly swirling, while he brought his left hand under her buttocks and let her ass suck up that middle finger so he could probe in harmony, with both fingers pumping.
He lay on his head on her full breasts and sucked one titty and then the other, suctioning up the nipples with a furrowed tongue, while she ran her mouth in and out of his ear. "Oh, I love to fuck," she breathed. "I love to fuck. Yes, I do love to fuck. Oh, I must fuck. Yes, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck! Cocksuck, fuck! Prick fuck! Tongue fuck! Ass fuck! Fuck me, lover! Please fuck! I love to fuck! I've got to fuck! Oh, fuck me, sweetheart! Put your prick in my cunt and fuck me! Never stop fucking me, lover! Let's fuck forever, lover! Fuck me, baby! Fuck me, doll! Fuck me, honey! Fuck my cunt, mister! Suck my cunt, mister! Oh, fuck! Yes, fuck! Do, fuck! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck ... fuck ... fuck ... fuckfuckfuckfuckmeeeeee!"
"You're really wet, baby," he said between her tits, both hands squoosh-squwashing between her slapping thighs; her ass as juicy as her cunt; her cunt as swollen round as her ass.
"Fuck me, please."
"I've got to eat a little pussy first."
"Uhmmmrn ... yes ... eat pussy ... suck my cunt...."
"You stay here. Right here"
"Oh, yes."
She lay unmoving as she was told, while he crawled down between her spread legs. He inserted the fingers of both hands in the slime of her cunt and pulled the lips wide. They were slick and glisteny, the interior like leaves of a cauliflower. He reached them with a long tongue and licked each one slowly and lovingly. Then he found the trigger of her clit and coaxed it to a reerection, and then closed his lips about it, closed his eyes at the same time, and sucked hungrily.
He felt her spasm. He went beyond the clit, his whole face digging into the pit of her cunt, his cheekbones spreading the vagina open like a cantaloupe.
Her mouth found his cock while he sucked back, pulling and tugging on it insistently with her lips. Her jaws gripped the solid shaft and began to pump it, forcing the foreskin over the bulging head; then quickly pushing it back to his balls; then drawing it down again, like a silk curtain over the surging head.
"I'm going off," he wheezed into her cunt.
She wriggled her hips into his puckered mouth. He felt the semen sucked from his prick like from a giant straw. The ejaculation shot into her throat and her cunt spasmed against his lips as she climaxed with him.
The second sleep came with the sucking out of his gut. Almost instantly.
* * *
It was when he picked up his jacket from the living room couch where he had thrown it the night before, that he discovered his car keys were gone.
He left the cottage, closing the door without a backward glance, and took the path through the pine woods to his own place-the snug, brown stained cabin on the other side of the point.
His convertible stood where he had left it, be side the wooden steps at the rear. He opened the car door. The ignition was empty of the keys.
What if he didn't catch up with her? What if he never found her, never saw her again? The thought clawed at him. At least if he'd known last night-!
Well, at least he had his boat, as she knew. And, as she probably knew, he only had to row across the lake to the town landing and get help from the one garage in town.
He was just heading for the slip, when Mr. Jenning's blue station wagon pulled into the drive. Mr. Jenning's whisky-red face leered out at him from the driver's window. Mr. Jennings was always up here, year around. He rented the boats, ran the general store, took care of the mail, and made special deliveries. If anybody knew about the cottage and Dolores, it would be him.
"Expect you'll be needing these." He held out Don's set of keys in a sweating, fleshy hand. After he dropped them in Don's outstretched palm, he said, "And there's this." He handed over an envelope addressed simply to Mr. Don Franklin.
"The lady said you'd left the keys at her place, and she was sorry if you were inconvenienced. And she said to give you the note anytime this morning."
"Well, thanks. You don't happen to know the lady's name, do you, Mr. Jennings? Or where she's from?"
"No, don't know who she is at all. Don't you? Thought you must be-uh-acquainted, if you know what I mean." The gleam of speculation in the pale blue eyes was a silent snicker.
"She probably told me her name, but I don't remember," Don fenced. "But I do need to get in touch with her. Tell me, who owns the cottage where she's been staying?"
Mrs. Howard, Jennings said. Yes, he knew her. Bitch lady. And, you know, wild. Used to have a lot of parties. But lately, the last couple three years, she just let her friends use it. Probably friends of her friends too. Didn't come down much anymore, living all the way up there in Binghamton, New York. He chuckled. You know how times have changed, you can have those kind of parties almost anywhere now. You don't have to come out to the boondocks to sow your oats. Although she's a little long in the tooth for sowing anyway. He chuckled again. A real sophisticated fella.
He kept backing the station wagon while he spoke so that Don never really got close to the door-"Have to lock it up for her. She sure seemed in a hurry to leave. Something came up real fast, I guess, huh?" He looked over his shoulder to back into the single lane road. "Anyway, she paid me, and I do what I'm paid for."
He gunned the wagon, while Don watched it out of sight.
"Hey, Marzie," Mr. Jennings called into the back of the wagon. "Come on up here now. Ain't anybody going to see you."
While he cuddled Marzie between his knees, his fly open, her hands searching, the station wagon bumped across the rutted road and slid into Mrs. Howard's drive.
"Looks like it's gonna rain, Marzie," Mr. Jennings speculated, looking out of the station wagon window and up at the grey sky so that the fine mist of the morning settled like dew on his red face.
Marzie didn't seem to be concerned about the weather. She busied herself nibbling on the fat cock between her lips so Mr. Jennings just sighed, lifted his right leg up on the seat so that Marzie had a little sucking room down there between his left leg and the gear shift, and gave himself up to enjoying the finer things of life.
"Where did you learn about suckin', Marzie?"
She lifted her brunette head, spittle looping in shiny strings from her lips to Mr. Jenning's shaft. She wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, while she kept the other one locked in a fist around the soft cock that she'd have to work on all morning to get hard.
"I dunno."
"Before you began suckin' me off, I mean."
"I dunno."
"Seen anybody doing it?"
"Guess so."
"Who?"
"I dunno."
"Aw, come on, Marzie. You can tell me."
She didn't answer, just bent her head for the short cock again. The position was awkward, and her back was beginning to ache and a bolt in the floorboard was scraping her thigh and making it hurt. She sure hated to be hurt. When Mr. Jennings didn't get sucked the way he wanted, he sure knew how to hurt a person. But when she did it right and was nice to him, he sure was handsome with her. She thrilled with the secret knowledge of her bottom dresser drawer all filled with those pantyhose and high-heeled shoes and miniskirts and even a pair of real alligator boots in the closet. True, Mr. Jennings had picked them up in one of the cottages closed for the summer, but they were just like new.
"Found them tucked under a bunk," he said. "Probably served their purpose of getting some poor stud hot and horny so she'll never miss 'em, whoever the cunt is."
She knew who the cunt was. She was Norma Healy, but she wouldn't let on to Mr. Jennings that she knew. She had watched Norma Healy suck off Mr. Jennings and that's how she had learned how. But she wasn't telling that to Mr.
Jennings now. That was something to be saved for when she needed something really bad. Either from him or from Norma Healy.
She looked up at Mr. Jennings. "You ready to come? Or let's go into the house, because my ass is killing me."
"Good idea, Marzie," Mr. Jennings said. "We got time this morning for a good long fuck, too. Can't let just the city people have all the fun."
CHAPTER SIX
The wind had come up suddenly, that day they met, out there on the lake. Don was absorbed in his daily game of fishing, because if he could sit with a rod and reel in his hand, his fingers didn't look for his prick.
Thirty-five, and jacking-off! Shit! But it was getting harder and harder to remember the techniques and employ the finesse to get a gal to spread her legs for a fuck.
Every woman was doing it now, he heard. Thought nothing of it. Fucked as casually as eating breakfast. Sucked cock like downing orange juice in the morning.
But he didn't know the rules of the game.
When he used the rules that existed when he was an eligible young man, as they used to say, he was immediately identified as a square and they went uptight as a drum.
Water, water all around, and not a drop to drink.
So he jacked off.
But fishing cooled his pants and steadied his hand and kept it away from his cock; except when he took a leak, and then, maybe, just a little pull.
Whitecaps showed on the dirty gray of the water farther out so he pulled up anchor and set about starting the motor. He had just turned for home, when he spotted her. She was trying to fight the sudden wind and the heavy swells in a canoe. Unless she was an expert boatman, she was in big trouble. He changed course, nosing out again toward the center of the lake so that his path would intersect hers, just in case.
Later he thought that fucking was the farthest thing from his mind then. He was concerned with saving a life.
But isn't that what fucking is anyway?
She was paddling furiously, but each time she lifted the blade, the wind swung the canoe sideways into the trough of the waves. He got close and signalled her to make for his dock straight ahead of her, instead of continuing to try to make it back to her dock, wherever that was.
So she just trailed him; and using his motor in shorts bursts, he was able to adjust to the waves and the wind and keep her in line.
Safe on shore, she stood beside him, breathing hard. "I'm bushed." She smiled, with very white, even teeth. If she wore makeup, it had long ago washed away. About thirty, Don decided. Very attractive in shorts; especially wet shorts; shorts that had climbed up her thighs and clung to her crotch. She wore no underpants and the outlined V of her pubes made him breathe hard as if he had been rowing too. He tried lifting his eyes from her long, well-shaped legs, but he couldn't get past the bush so he dropped them again. "You're good,' 'he said. "I'd have thought anyone trying to manage a canoe in that would capsize."
It was taken for granted his hospitality would be accepted, especially when the rain began lashing in from the lake. They dashed up the slope to Don's cabin and ducked into the shelter of the screened porch. Rain poured around them in a wonderful sound, its drumming loud on the roof above their heads.
The soak of the water had dragged the top of her shorts down to her soft, rounded hips so it looked as if she were wearing a narrow-banded bikini. And even this was limp and heavy with water in the middle, and now was sagging below her cunt. Her bra was now transparent, and the medium sized balls of her breasts were creamy rolls under the fabric.
"Will he be sending a searching party out for you?"
"You mean my husband?" She gave a short laugh. "No. I'm down here alone." She fingered her ring and said nothing.
He didn't ask any questions, but opened the door of the cabin and said, "Come in, get dry."
As she crossed the threshold, she was already taking off her bra. He took it from her and draped it over the hanger on back of the door. She was pulling off the shorts, her beautiful upper lip curling from the cold cling of the material.
He helped her.
His face was inches from the tawny puff of her pubic hair, and the smell was of the lake, clean and sharp. He handed her a heavy-corded turkish towel and she rubbed herself down. He didn't know what to do so he did nothing, but watch. He was tempted to rub her himself and then pull her to him, and if she gave in to a kiss, without a struggle or a putdown, to take the fuck she was obviously offering.
But she wasn't offering. Naked or not.
She took the towel from him and patted herself first; then she rubbed. All the time she made comments about his cabin and about the lake and about the rain and about how there isn't much to do around here on days like this.
"I try reading," Don said.
"It doesn't do much for me."
"Crossword puzzles?"
"That doesn't work either."
"What would you like to do?" Finally. "Stop festering."
Like that they were up to fuck talk; and, like that, she was talking about something else. "That's why I came down here. To think. Just think."
It was her message that that was all she wanted to do right now. Telling him that maybe she wanted to think about him too, before she made any commitments.
That was his trouble. Always going into the minds of other people and thinking for them and rejecting himself, because that's what he would do if he were they, under the circumstances.
He loaned her a pair of his pants and a shirt, and drove her to her cottage on the other side of the lake, around the bend. "Yours?"
"No, someone's letting me use it."
The weather stayed foul, no fishing and no swimming so the next day he hiked back to her cottage to tell her her canoe was still okay and could be left there indefinitely; that, if she wanted, when the weather cleared, he would paddle it back for her.
He knocked, and her voice from the other end of the rooms called for him to come in.
He trooped through the kitchen and the back hall and then heard her voice, almost in his ear, from a bedroom on his right. He stepped in, and there she was. Naked on top of the crisp, white sheets. Her legs spread to each side of the bed, not huddled up and clinging to shield her womanhood. Her arms were spread wide too. And there was a velour pillow under her lovely ass. All ready.
She told him how grateful she was that he didn't take advantage of her yesterday. That he could have taken her, sure; what could she do about it? After all-. But this was better, his giving her time to think. His not being greedy. His sophisticated and adult approach to the circumstance so that she owed him no less, if he wanted her, that is.
He tried to show the same sophistication by taking his clothes off slowly. Unbuckling his belt as if he had all day. Shrugging out of his shirt, and checking one button as if it were coming loose and would have to be sewn. Not kicking off his shoes, but sitting down in a rocker in the far corner of the room, and slipping them off one at a time and tucking his socks in each toe and carefully placing the shoes together between the rockers of the chair. Then lifting off his pants and folding them on a hanger. Then coming to the side of her bed, still wearing his white, boxer shorts so she couldn't make across-the-room judgments about his dong; its size or lack of it.
Only he didn't have to worry about size when it was hard. And it was hard now.
She didn't wait any longer, but reached out and unhooked the three snap-buttons at the waist and started the shorts on their slide down his legs.
While they lowered, falling with each shift of his nervous feet, she ran her palm over the small of his belly, below the belly-button, and into the crinkly hair that matted above his cock. When the shorts finally fell to his ankes, the cock was in her hand and she was stroking it and thanking him for waiting and telling him she couldn't wait an instant longer.
He took her tits, one in each hand, and began to work them. Then his body was down on hers, his belly and crotch rubbing up and down, sliding into the crack of her cunt and lifting her legs and sliding up into the crack of her ass. He teased her with the wet tip of his tumescent penis so that it furrowed along her flesh and made her gasp with longing.
Her breath began to quicken. Her hair fell over her face and made a thin screen through which she viewed his undulations above her. Then her eyes seemed to blur and go out of focus so he ducked his body and came up low enough to catch her vagina with his cock. The fat, wet head slipped back and forth across her clit and made her gurgle with pleasure. Her head was thrashing dizzily with pleasure. She bit her lips and moaned. He squeezed her breasts, a basket full of lovely titties, and pinched the nipples between his fingers. They were as hard as little stones and growing between his fingers like rocks. When they finally jutted out, full-blown, the answering flow of her cuntjuice filled her crotch.
Then he felt the heat and the beauty of her cunt wrapped around his prick, and he lost himself in it. He was hardly aware of her squeals and her cries, the quickening of her body and the intermittent relaxations that clocked her orgasms, though he wasn't stopping; enjoying himself fully as he pounded his own needs and desires powerfully into her cunt.
She lifted each time to his thrust, arching her back and wriggling her pubes into his fucking prick. Now her body was stiffening oftener and holding rigid longer, and the air hissed between her clenched teeth. Then she whipped up and down in a series of convulsive jerks that erased the last moment of his control. He felt the cum sing through his balls and spurt out of the barrel of his prick and fly up into the hot cauldron of her cunt, and that brought another convulsive shudder; and then they were both quiet.
He lay panting, spent, on her belly, and she rubbed a friendly hand across the sweat of his back, even patting him tenderly, and that feeling of her acceptance of him was almost as good as coming. Almost, but not quite. Almost, but in a different way.
She brushed the hair back from his forehead, and smiled into his brown eyes. Her own were big and blue and shining like mirrors. He could see himself in them.
"Maybe it's the country air," she said, and smiled at him.
"Maybe it's you," he said. "And me. Maybe this can happen anywhere, with us."
He told her about his marriage and divorce.
"Your idea or hers?"
"Ours," I guess. Like Vietnam. We both want out, but want the pleasure of hearing the other guy say so first. After it's over, it won't matter who said it. We'll both be glad it's over."
"And now you're looking to try again."
"Oh, no," he said. "No, baby. I miss the regular fucking, I admit. But I'll tell you, I got more pussy from her before we were married than I ever got afterward. I'd rather freelance this way, and luck out with a girl like you."
"I might take offense at that."
"I didn't mean it that way."
"I know, because I'm making the same decision too."
"You're separated from your husband?"
"No, just thinking about it."
"While you're thinking about it-"
He slowly slid down her still perspiring body. She opened her legs in anticipation; bucked up her hips so he could circle her cunt with his mouth. He felt the tension bolt through her and the extra-hard pressure on his face as her cunt strained in eagerness for his sucking lips.
She told him more later, about her husband, but when women talked about their husbands, he didn't listen very well.
Now he wished he had listened better. Dolores wasn't, as he had told her, just another girl he had lucked out with. But that's something you don't know until afterward.
And now afterward seemed too late.
He was out of Pennsylvania and in New York. Still a long way to go. He kept watching for her yellow Pinto along the way-in case she had had to stop somewhere. No luck.
Who had the man been, the one she'd been talking to in the drive? Not her husband. Her husband was tall, she said. "Impressive. Looking at him, you'd know at once he was cut out for greater things-a man with a destiny."
He had felt envy at her description. Impressive. Great. Destiny. What the fuck did a guy have to look like to get a feeling like that from a girl? And why was she fucking him instead?
It was true, each day he met her after that, it was like having to seduce her all over again. That bugged him, a little. Once a girl fucked you, or let you fuck her, that should be it. You shouldn't have to climb that same mountain over and over again. He could understand if when you screwed a girl when she was drunk, or high, or down, or forced, she made you go through the same act each time. That was part of her getting fucked, that was her kick. But when she laid down in front of you and opened her cunt for you and volunteered to suck your prick for you, there was an irritation in feeling her hold back each time you kissed her again.
Yet she let him understand the holding back wasn't because of him. She was a married woman, and her husband had no inkling of her doubt about him in her mind.
"He's an ambitious man," she said. "Maybe I resent his taking me for granted, but he isn't really. I mean, he's just busy with really big things, and he can't conceive that I'm not as thrilled about them as he is."
Big? How big? Well, he had a city that he was running from behind the scenes. And he had enemies. Was one of those enemies now hunting her down in hopes of using her in some way? Scandal? A very handy weapon to use against anyone in a prominent position. Or had she joined the ranks of the enemy in her husband's eyes, and she didn't know it?
Or did she know it, and was that what she was thinking so hard about?
CHAPTER SEVEN
She had, of course, lied about her name. Her name was Susan Davis.
She drove steadily after leaving the lake, herded by Jeets in the car several lengths behind her. Without warning, on a curvy section of the road, the engine of her Pinto started missing again-The car faltered, slowed. Jeets almost slammed into her.
She pulled off at the side of the highway and he swerved in ahead of her, stopped, walked back through the drizzle, and she lowered her steamed up side window.
"You're going to kill us both tailgating like that," she said. She explained about the engine.
"Better get it fixed."
"But it's a new car."
He surveyed the Pinto and sneered. It increased her exasperation. "Must you chaperone me all the way?" She let all the dislike in her soul bleed into her voice.
He leaned down to talk to her through the car window. He smiled. He had short white teeth. He had a very wet tongue. He had a long tongue, wide and thick and heavy.
"I promised your husband I'd see you safely back. Can't have you slipping off again."
"If I gave you my word?"
He shrugged. "Safer if I stick with you."
"Really loyal to your boss, huh?"
There was a long wait before he answered. Then he didn't answer at all. He waited until her engine started again, missing but running; then he went back to his own car and followed again.
On the runway she pulled off for a drive-in sandwich. Jeets stood behind her in the window. "Long drive," he remarked.
"I don't mind it." Her eyes raked him. "You must be very tired. Drove all night to get there, did you?"
"Nearly. Just don't do that again-disappear."
"I'll do as I like."
"Oh?" The intonation, the lift of the brows, expressed his doubt that she would. "You don't believe me."
"If you want to do what you like, you'd take a motel and rest for an hour or two."
"And you?"
"I'd have to rest there with you."
She took a hamburger and coke back to the car. She watched Jeets munch a hotdog and gulp down a bottle of beer. She despised him. She started the Pinto and circled the drive-in. She continued slowly, the engine missing, to the motel blinking a wet neon light at the end of the off-ramp. Jeets was following right behind.
She registered for a single, and paid for it with her American Express card. Then she drove around to the room that matched the numbered key in her hand. By the time Jeets knocked, she had the door double-bolted. "I'm going to rest for that hour or two," she told him through the door. Then she looked through the rain-smeared window and watched him dive back into the dryness of his car. The door slammed. Beally slammed.
"Cunt!" Jeets muttered, and picked at a bit of hotdog bun stuck in a gap of his front teeth. Then he looked up in the rearview mirror to see if he could dislodge the offending bit of food. He wasn't sure of what he saw staring over his shoulder in the mirror. But he could smell it now. Dog-Doberman Pinscher dog.
He turned in his seat, not moving fast, turning slowly, the steering wheel grinding into his left ribs.
"Prince!"
The voice was just a little louder than a whisper, but it was enough to drop the Doberman to the floor. The girl came up from where she had hidden herself. One of the road chicks. But not the dirt-encrusted, shit-smelling road chicks. Neat jeans. Clean blouse. Shiny face. Clean from the rain. Or like licked clean by the Doberman.
"You going south from here?" she asked Jeets without any preamble.
"East. Straight east."
"I sure could use a ride south."
He reached out a tentative hand to touch her. He didn't know if he wanted to touch her to see if she was real or if he couldn't resist the lure of her flesh so young and vibrant and so near.
The Doberman came up with a low growl.
"Down, Prince."
Jeets withdrew his hand.
The steering wheel was cutting into his side, and he had to turn forward. The girl took it as an invitation to clamber over the back of the front seat. She plopped down next to him with a grunt. "I'm really having it rough," she gasped.
A little pool of rainwater was forming at her feet. She wore no shoes or stockings. Naked feet. Jeets moved his hand to her thigh and up her leg, across her hip. She wore nothing underneath the jeans either. He let his hand continue across the bare flesh between the jeans and her knot-tied blouse; into and under the blouse to the budding tits with the almost razor-sharp nipples that pricked his thumb.
"I sure could use a ride south," the girl said. "Wait here"
He got out of the car, huddled against the drizzly rain, and hurried to the Pinto. He lifted the hood and yanked the distributor cap. He fiddled for a moment, and then replaced the cap and lowered the hood. Mrs. Davis knew she had to get the car fixed anyway; and if she intended leading before two hours, it wouldn't be with the Pinto. If she was leaving home, the way she was leaving, she needed wheels. And she'd wait.
He opened and clicked shut his car door without a slam this time. "I'll give you forty-five minutes worth of ride south," he told the girl. "How's that?"
"Better than a sharp stick in the cunt," the girl said.
"What part of the south you from?" And he backed up and headed for the on-ramp.
* * *
The mayor's office in Binghamton was on the second floor, a suite of gloomy, high-ceiling rooms consisting of an anteroom and two offices, one for the mayor and one for his assistant, Jeets Smith. Only Calvin Davis was holding forth now, and the mayor sat on the edge of his own desk and stared gloomily out the window.
"Understand, I'm not telling you what to do, Calvin," the mayor said, but at these functions you've just got to have your wife there."
Calvin Davis knew that. The President was helicopting down and Pat would be with him. If the mayor and his wife were there, and he was alone, without Susan, he'd be coming on like an assistant to the mayor, a local hanger-on. But if he and Susan were first in line, and he introduced the mayor to the Pres, and Susan introduced the mayor's wife to Pat Nixon-well, all of it, shit! Even if it wasn't necessary, it was necessary for him, to keep his mind together.
To everybody who inquired, he said, "Susan? Oh, just took off a few days. Visiting. Wants a rest, you know? Before the winter grind begins."
But her note frightened him. Well, at least she left a note. Wives who cut out today don't even bother doing that. They just split. Sometimes don't even take a toothbrush. Sometimes it takes days before you realize she's really gone. After the hospital calls. And the highway patrol. And the morgue. About four o'clock in the morning, you realize she stayed out with someone else. Was being fucked by someone else. Picked up in a bar. Or at a party. Wherever. And getting fucked. By somebody. By anybody. She didn't have time for a note. A note to whom? You? She didn't even remember you.
At least Susan had left a note.
Don't look for me. I'm sure you don't want to let people in on your domestic problems. My problem, I guess. But it might not help your public ego. Anyway, I will be back after I've thought over what I have to think over. I'm sure you can cover for my absence.
Susan
If she had signed it Sue, he might still have felt some kind of thread there to make, him exercise patience. But Susan, the full name she had used only on her marriage license and maybe her original bank account and the income tax forms, had a finality he couldn't accept. A finality that maybe she didn't yet realize. He couldn't give her time to realize it.
He was madder than hell at Ivy Howard. Why couldn't she have told him that Susan was using her cottage! Acted like she didn't know a damned thing about it, her and her high school studs! For a moment he wondered if Ivy had supplied Susan with one of her castoffs, but that was too galling to even speculate on. But it was Jeets who had suggested Ivy's cottage, remembering that he was the keeper of the key for the mayor when swap games first got popular in Binghamton. Now swap freaks were out. People were doing their individual fucking in their individual way.
Evidently this was Susan's way.
But Jeets had called to say he was bringing her in. Calvin didn't ask him if she was with any guy, or if she was alone. He couldn't bring himself to ask. But if Jeets didn't volunteer, maybe there was nobody. Maybe. He just wanted her back.
The mayor kept talking as his secretary brought in sheaf after sheaf of papers for him to sign, and Calvin okayed which papers the mayor was to sign and which he was to reject.
"You're going up to the state house," the mayor said woefully. "Things won't be the same around here."
"You'll get by."
If Susan came back, and the President liked the picture, he'd get up to the state house. It was well known that the President liked influence on the state level before he opened national doors. He had learned that after those two croppers that resulted from his Supreme Court decisions.
Each time the lovely little secretary Came in, she patted the mayor's belly or rubbed his head. Once she slipped her arm around him and gave him her tits for him to nuzzle, but she was always self-conscious in front of Calvin, even though the mayor told her not to pay any mind.
She liked her job and she liked the money. She liked the prestige and all the little advantages being the mayor's secretary brought her. So she kept her hand in, even though she didn't linger too long when Calvin, or anyone else, was around.
Of course when Jeets was in, she had to give him some pussy on the line, without games. He wanted to be ignored the rest of the time, and he treated her the same way. It was a good working arrangement. And the mayor didn't mind. Because he didn't know.
But she came in, now, one time too many; and patted the mayor's cock one time too much. "Let's fuck," he whispered in her ear as she brushed back shoulder-length hair from her neck and bent over to kiss him on top of his bald dome.
Some secretaries bring coffee or a thermos of water.
"But-"
He began to strip her clothes, tearing them off with buttons popping and zippers snagging, without listening for any excuse. She looked over his bobbing shoulders at Calvin, and Calvin indicated he was just leaving.
She sighed and melted into the mayor's arms, letting him peel every shred of cloth from her flesh, and offered up her tits to his mouth. His hands were down in her cunt, racing through the crackle of her bush, hunting for the open wetness of her slit, separating her vagina for his face, while she nibbled on his neck and sucked his ear.
Then the mayor was on his knees in front of her, his face sunk deep now in the sweet smell of her cunt. She held his sweaty head and rocked him gently until his tug on her thighs signalled to her that he was ready ;and she sank down to the floor with him and reached for the cock that he managed to get hard through his sucking.
"Ummm, beautiful," she murmured for his benefit, and kissed the little prick lingeringly so that he would know she really loved it. She supported it in her hands like a fragile butterfly, running her tongue skillfully around the tip and parting the tiny opening at the head and bowing into it so that he would know she was there.
Then she opened her mouth wide and carefully placed the cock into the valley of her tongue. She used her lips to wet every speck of skin she could find on the prick, to make him feel his prick was larger than it really was. Her hands found his balls and fondled them. She was a good secretary. The best.
She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the mouth in her cunt. It could be anybody's mouth down there. President Nixon's. Rocky's. Ronald Reagan's. Ted Kennedy's.
Her asshole thrilled.
She gave herself up to the wet, sucking noises in her ears, chewed eagerly on the cock in her mouth. Begged Ted to suck her harder. Told Rocky to leave his balls to her. Squealed for Ronnie to lick her ass. Begged Dick to dick her. That was funny. "Dick me! Dick me, Dick!"
But it was Calvin Davis, who hadn't left, who came up behind her and shoved his dick up her ass. She was wet and juicy now and wide open and the cock went up her anal canal as easily as up her vagina. A little tighter, a little squeezier, but up her ass nevertheless. So she had the President in her mouth and a Governor in her ass and a Senator up her cunt so she wasn't worrying about the welfare of the country.
And her welfare never felt better.
She only felt sorry for all the unpolitical people, who didn't know what they were missing.
She didn't know when they had squeezed together, with her in the middle, but she was lying on the mayor's belly, his cock stuffing her cunt; and with him on the bottom, she was pounding into it, lifting herself at the knees to drop down hard on the shaft that was a bone of sheer ecstasy up her cunt; and dropping down harder than she knew, and that made it so good, because there was a weight on her back; Calvin lying on her. back, with his cock still riding up her ass so that it was like one prick running from him through her and attached to the mayor under her. Like it was a single tube they were running through her, from cunt to asshole, and back again, that lifted her skull and blew her brain out and made her thrill all over again with the career she had chosen.
* * *
To Calvin, it was a way of getting rid of his anger and disappointment with Susan; so when he saw her again, when he was back to his own building and she walked into his office wearing those country clothes-suede skirt with shirt open at the neck, over it a short windbreaker-or her hair, with which she had done nothing so that it hung loose to her shoulders, and with her expression somehow different, as if she had beaten him at a game of pool or ping-pong or tennis-which she sometimes did and looked at him just like that-he knew that she had already fucked herself free, even if Jeets did bring her back; and he was already clicking off the lucky sonofabitch in his mind, with the intention of cutting off his balls just as soon as he took care of this bitch strutting up to him.
"So you're back," he sad flatly.
"Just to get my things," she said evenly, coldly.
"Found yourself a new prick, right?" He had wanted to play it cool, but the pulsing veins in his neck spewed the words out of his mouth.
"That isn't why I left."
He jumped up from his desk. "Well, you're not leaving me. You can't."
He rushed around the desk to show her she wasn't going anywhere, no matter who she fucked, no matter how many times.
It was a nightmare. Inside, she was all loose and eager for Don Franklin. She thought of him and her cunt had the hots and ran like water. He could demand anything, do anything, take any thing. Whatever he wanted. However he wanted it. In a million ways. A million times.
But this was her husband, Calvin Davis. And he, too, had had her every way desired. And she had wanted him to. And he hadn't changed. He was still the same man. What he was now, he was then. And he, and only he, had a right to her, to her body. All of it. Any of it. Only seeing him now, her belly was a bowl of ice, and the thought of his prick, that familiar round, long, weenie-like, foreskinned prick pumping into her cunt closed her up like a zipper.
She could smell his sweat pouring from under the armpits of his suit and rolling from his crotch. That strong, acrid stench that used to tell her he was ready, and which turned her on like a faucet. Then. Now, nothing. Just fear.
Even Jeets-should she tell him about Jeets?
"Strip!"
Anger, because he knew when she was away she was fucking someone else. She never had before. Never thought of it. This time it had just happened. But Calvin believed what he wanted to believe, because it gave him justification for whatever he did that he knew she wouldn't approve of.
She didn't know how to tell him she didn't care what he did. Not now anymore. Don Franklin, by some penis osmosis, had taken care of that.
"Strip! I said! Let me see the bruises!"
Only because he had left her bruised. But she bruised easily, and Calvin knew that. She frantically combed her mind for the memory of a bruise.
With shaking hands, she peeled her clothes. The bruises were blue-yellow over the spread of her soft stomach, coming up on the swell of her underbelly, two heavy ones spotted on her left thigh. She was naked, completely naked, wearing nothing but the bruises. The pit of her stomach crawled with shame, sickening, nauseating humiliation.
The bruises were from the battering in the canoe on the lake. Soft bruises from hitting herself with the oar and banging against the side of the boat. But Calvin wouldn't believe that. If she told him that, he would see right past it into the other truth she was shielding. The truth of Don Franklin and his delicious love.
Calvin's face was livid. "You're not my wife," he hissed. You're just another piece of ass!"
It took all of her strength to shake her head. She fucked, yes; but she wasn't just another piece of ass. But how do you explain that to a male? How do you explain it to your own husband? And she had to remember that he was her husband, not Don Franklin. She docilely spread her legs and waited for him. Quiet him. Soothe him.
He was tearing off his clothes, his hair and eyes wild, spit slobbering from his lower lip; the image of the cool, cold, composed man-of-the-world utterly destroyed in the frustration of her infidelity.
He dropped down at her feet, grabbed her ankles, locked his fists tightly and crushed the bones as if to tear them from her legs. "Was he black?" (Terence Hall, the maintenance man) "Phillipino?" He spat the word. (Carmen Ottan, the butcher) "Yellow? Red? A spick? A Dago? A kike, a sheeny, a hebe!" The blood vessels in his thick neck threatened to burst.
His voice was a half-scream in his vicious litany: "Did you suck his cock? Come on, tell me! Did you swallow his cum? Did he eat your cunt? How many times? Come on, tell me, how many times did he fuck you!"
He pulled down on her legs so the bottom of her thighs, the pulsating meat of her thighs, rested on his agitated knees. He pounded his big arms in underhand sweeps against the outer meat of her vagina. With his fists. Hitting her in the cunt with his fists, as a retribution for the violations he had conjured up in his mind.
She tried to pull her legs together to shut off the pain, but his head was already in there, between her legs, his face buried in the soft blonde matte of curls between her thighs.
For the moment he forgot his hate, his anger, his frustration, his importance. All the pictures in his mind of her, and whoever he could dream-up fucking her, didn't awaken his cock and bring it up swinging like the sledgehammer it was known for. Soft. Like butter. Dried-up balls and wet hair. Wet between the cheeks of his ass, too. Shit-wet. Scared wet, because he couldn't get it up; and he couldn't get it up with the fright that she was getting it from somebody who had no trouble getting it up. None at all.
And she hadn't even seemed to notice.
So he nuzzled into the smell of the open cuntlips, let the perfume of her womanly oils dampen his troubled mind, and reacted to the need which now tingled inside him from head to toe.
Eating pussy did that for him.
Anybody's pussy. Any kind of pussy. The feel of the coarse hairs scratching on his cheeks. The feel of the hot dampness against his lips. The slick grease of the inner tissues against his tongue.
His cock came up hard as a rock, and he sighed in relief. He exhaled in gratitude. The warm air from his mouth fanning the cunthairs and making Susan twitch and squirm under his face.
Squirm, you bitch, he never ate you out like this!
He buried his sharp nose in the curly hair and rutted across her pubes. She smelled good. Cosmetic good. He felt the anger again that he had been denied this for the past week. But not denied to whom?
He let his nose press between the clinging lips. He felt her body stiffen. She wasn't fighting him, but she was trying to drive all feeling out of her mind; was trying to lie here like a board so when he was through she could tell herself it didn't mean a thing. So she could tell her new lover she was true to him, and her husband hadn't touched her at all.
But he found her clit and hung his lower lip on it. He used the upper to wet it down like a horse in a pail of oats. He knew her weakness, and he used it. He felt her starting to tremble. Still taut, but trembling.
And the sweet taste of her cunt meat was getting to him, getting to him so he didn't care what she felt or didn't feel, what she thought or didn't think, what she would say or wouldn't say, what she would do or wouldn't do. Afterward.
Now he poked the end of his tongue into the tight little hole of her vaginal canal. The soft meat trembled. He pressed forward, and felt the gentle folds of flesh close around his tongue, hug his tongue, hang on for dear life to his tongue.
He stiffened the tongue and pushed.
Susan moaned above him. Faking it or feeling it? He let his tongue stroke the whole inner length of her cunt. Ecstasy grabbed at his belly as he mouthed up and down the slit and felt, and tasted, the juices begin, and noted that her little pussy started reaching up for him Now he was flat on his stomach between her uplifted legs. She adjusted her legs on his shoulders; willingly, gladly. He brought his mouth back and out, and slowly parted the golden angel hair from the opening of her cunt and enjoyed the view of its pucker and pulsation.
"Please," she was whispering above him. "Please ... suck...."
He splayed open "the lips and observed the veined membrane through the folds of flesh. Beneath that veil of tissue was the little ball he was all ready to suck again. Another surge of excitement hammered through his stretched-out frame. He loved to look at the nub's roundness, its firmness, know that Susan was going to buck in orgasm when he teased that marble with his tongue.
How often, when he fucked her, he had so carefully made sure that his prick teased that cherry lump every time he stroked. And how she had keened with pleasure, and gurgled through her constricted throat that nobody, nobody, could fuck like he fucked!
He poked with his finger to find it and hold it. Then he spread the swollen outer lips with his thumbs, and lowered his head again, and let his tongue swipe up the full length of her open crotch.
She was helping him keep it open now, spreading her legs like doors to either end of her body in appreciation of the caress of his whole face.
Her cunt had become warmer to the touch. Hot now. The smaller, inner lips beginning to puff and darken with a fresh surge of blood.
She was enjoying it in spite of her lack of de sire. She was enjoying it! Enjoying him! He swiped her length. Again. And again. He could see the tiny crystal droplets ooze through the inner membrane of her cunt and fill the already wet cavity with the gelatin of her silent coming.
Now the whole inner tube was dotted with minute, shiny pearls of lubrication. It smeared his mouth, filled his mouth, covered his face. And he began spitting back into her cunt, his salivary glands going wild with the fantastic excitement of his sucking.
And as he sucked and licked and ate, and watched and smelled and tasted the increasing flow of her juices, as he swiped up one side and down the other, then deep into the middle of her, trying to hammer and force his skull up the whole cunt of her, he felt the napped surface of the carpeting caress the underside of his cock; and he thrilled to the new length of his cock as it stretched out under him, stretching farther and farther, as his mouth strained to reach the terminus of Susan's cunt.
He tightened the muscles at the base of his newfound penis, and felt it twitch and stutter against the curved valley of Susan's slick ass.
He raised his hips and steadied his cock. He began to lace his tongue faster and faster. Susan whimpered and moaned, tossed her head and jerked her knees and entreated him to fuck her.
Victory!
He let his tongue flick up the hole and flutter there. She moaned louder and thrust her hips in a vain effort to swallow up his tongue with her cunt or better still, to find his prick with her searching lips and vacuum it up into her.
His eyes were closed now and his chest ached for breath. All his fingers, with his thumbs gouging dimples on the outer rim, were pressed into her cunt now, pulling apart the lips so his face could be hard inside her body. Now he couldn't breathe at all. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was this cherry ball swollen like a plum in his mouth, while his tongue fluttered and quivered and trembled and shook and jabbed and stabbed ... stab ... stab ... stab ... stab....
And then it took only an instant to slide forward, with hardly a break of a space between his tongue and his cock. And he was in. Prick in her all the way up her cunt. Pelvis to pelvis. Her legs wrapped around him in love. Her arms hugging his neck in love. Her mouth pressed to his cunt sucked-out mouth in love. Their tongues dueling and rubbing and sucking together in love.
He rammed his pile driving cock in and out. Eight ... ten ... twenty times in and out ... hurled his cock into her well-used flesh as she bleated in ecstasy ... squirmed in ecstasy ... squealed in ecstasy....
The throbbing spike of his flesh rammed her hole again and again ... plunged out of sight into the hot depths of her ... and whistled back to the surface ... and plunged again....
When he came, he tore her apart.
And when he stood up, she didn't move.
He picked her up, with a strength he didn't know he still possessed, and carried her to the couch. Memory served him, and he knew she'd be asleep for hours.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Binghamton. Don reached it at dusk. One of those old New York State towns made ugly by the industries that support it. It was married to another town, Endicott, that was the typical factory town you see in history books; although new cars filled the streets and there were elegant sections with hundred-thousand dollar homes.
With a hundred-thousand dollars, he mused, why would anyone live here? But Dolores White did, and that's why he was here.
He registered at a motel, and while still in the tiny lobby, looked up Ivy Howard's address in the telephone book. He found it on Vickers Road, and asked the woman behind the desk for directions.
She sucked on her tongue, and looked at him from under wet eyes. She had mileage on her, was at least fifty; but her face, though puffy and soft, mirrored what was considered beautiful in her youth, and you could see that in her brain she still fucked every guy who smiled at her and said hello.
She watched the new guest, Don Franklin, the registry card showed, go out the door and climb into a battered convertible and drive it around in front of #208. She had given him #208, because it was always right in front of her when she looked up. And with this broad-shouldered, sun-tanned male housed there, she'd look up often.
Now she looked down, past the swell of her bust, to the crease between her thighs. He hadn't noticed. His eyes had flicked over her as if she weren't there. Brown eyes. Deep, mirror-finished brown eyes. She wanted brown eyes just like that looking into her pussy.
She would part her legs, like this. See, Mr. Brown-eyes-Mr. Don Franklin-this is a cunt. Would you like to kiss this cunt? Wait, let my fingers do the walking through the yellow pages of my cunt. Like this, Mr. Franklin. See? That's a cunt. It's hot and steamy and ready for a fuck. Would you like to put your prick in my cunt, Mr. Franklin-uh, Don-would you? Yes, there; now your prick is in my cunt. No, that isn't my thumb, Don, that's your cock. Yes, it is. We are fucking, Don. You are fucking me, Mr. Brown-eyes. You are fucking in my cunt, Mr. Franklin. Oh, yes, you are! Oh, good! Yes, good! Real good, Don! Honest, Don! Fuck, Don! More! Oh, yes, baby.
That's it. OOohhhhh ... yes ... more ... oh, god ... fuck, Don ... oh, boy ... oh boy ... ohboyohboyohboy ... yes ... Wait I'll bend my knees ... tliere ... How's that, baby? ... Better, baby? ... You bet, baby ... Now my whole hand's up there, honey ... I mean your prick, Don ... your cock ... oh, your balls ... these are your balls here in my other hand ... oh, yes ... I'm rubbing your balls on my ass ... oh, in my ass, Don ... IN ... Oh, yes, that's it ... Ooohhhh! ... Wait till you come back here, Mr. Franklin, you won't be able to tell that I fucked you with my hand ... How? ... Easy, Don ... Easy.
* * *
The uniformed maid who answered his ring told him Mrs. Howard wasn't at home.
"Will she be in later?"
"Not this evening."
Her face was like granite.
It was a beautiful face. A Scandinavian face; a face that had been picked out of a catalog of faces by an agency in New York that supplied domestic help to the American families who could still afford domestic help.
And it wasn't to get help in the kitchen.
It was to get help in the bedroom.
Yet she didn't look lez; except for that granite face.
He dug a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her reluctant fingers. They were long, slim, white fingers; reluctant to take his card, but certainly not reluctant to delve into a cunt here and there; Mrs. Howard's, or even her own.
He was about to leave, when a second maid stepped into the foyer. A double of the first. Only her face wasn't granite. It was soft and merry. Her eyes sparkled. Her little ass jumped. Her tits were mellow.
When Don went back down the steps and the heavy door closed, the first maid's words were grim "Where have you been?"
The second maid flushed. Her cheeks grew rosy red, and her forehead pink.
"Peeking," she whispered.
"Mrs. Howard demands privacy."
The girl was flustered. "But he's so big! I just had to see!"
"Come with me!" She gripped the eager girl's wrist in a hand of iron and led her to the back kitchen, to the room behind the kitchen, to the velvet-covered room behind the kitchen that Mrs. Howard had installed just for them.
"How wonderful it must be," the second maid breathed, "to see and touch the body of a naked man, and to experience his full ejaculation when his penis is inserted into my body, into that delicious place between my smooth, hairless thighs!"
"Oh, god, Gretchen!" the older maid said. "You're horny. Just plain horny!"
"Oh, yes," she whimpered from the bite of the steel fingers around her wrist. "Oh, yes, horny!"
"Take off that stupid uniform and sit in my lap. Now."
Gretchen began to untie her uniform. The other maid couldn't wait. They fought for who would untie what first.
The granite face had melted now. They were two kewpie dolls kissing each other. At Gretchen's plea, the other began undressing too. The scars on each wrist flushed red with her pulsing, hard up blood.
"You're horny too," Gretchen said.
She slapped Gretchen's face. Then they kissed each other contritely. Mouth against mouth. Hand against pubis. Thumb up each other's wriggling behind. They giggled. Then they lay on the carpeted floor, head to toe, and began to kiss each other again, from ankle to cunt.
Psychiatric evaluation indicated deep inner conflicts and concealed guilt feelings. Psychotherapy was recommended and administered. It is believed patient has fully overcome the depressive syndrome that was responsible for her single attempt to take her own life by slashing her wrists. Travel abroad is recommended with a companion who can supply stability and help erase the trauma of youthful experience.
Karen Petersen reported that she had stopped playing with dolls when she became more interested in dressing up pretty and being attractive to boys. Her sisters were older than she, and they were always dating, and even when she was eleven and twelve, they would recite their escapades to her and leave her envious and angry, the envy was obvious, the anger more subtle.
She began wearing makeup and bras at that age and solicited the attention of older boys. Her mother and father, liberal Scandinavian nationals were both very pleased to see that Karen, too, was becoming a little lady, and encouraged her to go to dances and date young men And one of these dates, at thirteen, she met Hansel, seventeen; and upon learning her sisters were out on dates and her parents were away on a skiing weekend, he asked her to take him home, because he was from the country and he had nowhere to stay that night.
She offered to give him a kroner for a hostel, but he laughed. She wanted to know what else he needed. He said this, and kissed her. It was the first time she had been kissed this way, with a scrape of his tongue across her tongue. Soul kissing, they called it in America; and when their tongues touched she felt the same thrill her sisters had tried to explain to her. It was very exciting. And when Hansel put his hand inside her dress and played with her breasts, she was sorry she had worn the bra, and loosened it for him.
He took that as an indication of her experience and kissed her breasts with his tongue until the nipples were so swollen and sensitive, Gretchen felt they were ready to burst.
She didn't want him to touch her between the legs, but when he said he couldn't help himself, and she couldn't help herself either, she let him. That was her first orgasm, with his hand pumping in her vagina and exciting her clitoris, and she cried out with joy and fright.
Then she played with his organ, because he asked her to, and found that very exciting also; even for her as well as it obviously was for him. He ejaculated in her little lace handkerchief and promised he would buy her another one. Then after she had him wiped off very daintily and had stuffed the handkerchief into her purse so she could moon over it later in the quiet of her own room, he suddenly told her he had other things to do.
When she protested, he told her she was too young for him. That anyway he had to finish high school before he dated seriously, and his suggestion that she take him home was totally unnecessary now.
They went back into the dance, and he signalled to another boy who cut in on Hansel and she didn't see him the rest of the evening.
This other boy was Johann and he had beautiful blue eyes like a girl, and it was because of that she felt she could trust him. It was late now, and she asked Johann if he would walk her home. He agreed immediately, and she was very pleased. She could do without Hansel very well.
Walking home, they kidded around, but when Johann attempted to kiss her, she told him she wasn't in the mood. That made her feel very grown up, like her sisters; and it made her feel very superior when she saw the way it quieted Johann, a boy who was at least nineteen.
But he stayed with her, like a very nice gentleman, until they got to her house. So she felt it safe to invite him in and set some tea to boil and play American music on the record machine.
They danced, and he held her very gently. Not at all as Hansel did. He seemed very considerate and kind, instead of just looking for a good time, and when he held her closely finally, once, and kissed her, she couldn't resist kissing back. She expected her sisters home soon anyway. And besides, she was very glad that Johann had gotten around to kissing her, finally. She was frightened that he had been offended. Perhaps she had acted too much like a child.
Between the first kiss and the second, he told her she was the most beautiful girl in the world and that he loved her from the first moment he saw her with Hansel. He was extremely jealous in fact. And he thanked the miracle that made her turn from Hansel to him.
It was such a wonderful revelation that Karen knew she was in love, too. And told him so. They kissed again, and began to pet in earnest. Johann began to feel her, her breasts and her buttocks and the warm slot between her legs; so she let him undress her in order to keep her clothes neat; and he undressed too so he wouldn't spoil his suit.
They wrestled around a bit on the floor, and for a moment it looked as if Johann had a nasty intention. He was actually trying to put his organ between her legs, telling her all boys and girls did that, but she wouldn't believe him. She finally solved the problem, temporarily, by taking the youthful cock in her hand and masturbating it lovingly, while Johann kissed her breasts and all over her belly. He wanted to go down between her legs with his mouth, but before he could convince her, he ejaculated in her hands, and she had to find another handkerchief for him, because the other one was all used up and hard and dry.
Johann accused her of "really knowing how to do it," and when she denied this, he called her a liar. She slapped him. The physical release from the slap was so satisfying that she did it a second time. Furious, and feeling helpless against this thirteen-year-old girl, Johann began dressing, but Karen flew into his arms and begged him not to.
The feeling of slapping him was so good she told him that if he let her slap him, she would let him do other things.
He said all right just kiss me. No, not that way, although he liked the feel of her tongue probing his mouth and the excitement of his own tongue exploring her teeth and gums; liked it, because she was panting deep into his mouth, with her throat open and her tongue working.
He showed her how to work her tongue on his organ. "That way you will keep your virginity," he assured her. "Also there is no danger of pregnancy, and I'm sure you're too young to have been taking pills."
What she liked about it especially was that she was able to keep slapping his ass; first one cheek; then the other; then both together as the ecstasy fired him and he stopped complaining about the stings. The feel of her hands beating on his flesh was a delirium all its own.
She looked up at his face, and seeing it flushed and red, his eyes rolling in his head, it made her run wet between her legs and she almost reached the same kind of feeling she got from Hansel's fingers.
In fact, she was almost there, when Johann ejaculated in her throat, the semen thick and warm washing through her mouth; when the door opened, and there were her mother and father.
She rushed to the bathroom-one to spit out the fluid that was choking her, that she couldn't open her throat to swallow, and two-to grab a razor blade and slash her wrists.
She next remembers the sanitarium, where the cook, Flora Koonig, treated her as she was never treated at home. She got special permission to bring Karen her breakfast in bed and helped her with her bath, and took a special pleasure in letting Karen strike her and kick her and bite her, until they wound up wrestling on the bathroom floor, with Miss Koonig giving her an excellent massage and letting her kiss her between her legs the same way Johann had instructed her.
The last time, before Karen was caught again, Miss Koonig came into her room to say she was leaving, that the authorities had found her cooking capabilities to be less than desirable. She sat on the end of the bed and cried, and Karen cried with her. Then Miss Koonig began to play with hre breasts, and then, for the first time, she got between Karen's legs and kissed her there, a tender kiss. The first time Karen had been kissed on her cunt that she knew about.
Miss Koonig told her she had done a great deal of such kissing in France, and Karen could feel why she, and even Johann had enjoyed it so much. She felt her face go flushed and sweaty, the way Johann's did, and she let her eyes roll around in her head, hoping this would bring up the same kind of ejaculation that Johann had had. She didn't know whether she came that same way or not, but she knew her whole body inside tightened like a spring and then snapped with the most wondreful sensation she had ever experienced. She found if she kept slapping Miss Koonig, and Miss Koonig kept on sucking, the sensation stayed right there, all the time; it didn't end like Johann's did.
And then it seemed all the machinery of the state went to work to get her overseas employment when she was cured. From whatever she was being cured of.
And as fate would have it, she was indentured, if that was the word, with Gretchen; and working together wtih her and Mrs. Howard in America was a delight.
Only she resented all the young men who balled Mrs. Howard so she was very careful to see that Gretchen was kept busy elsewhere when these men visited. Yet when she was sick that day, it was Gretchen who answered the door for Calvin Davis. She wasn't too worried, though, because Mr. Davis was an older man, and Gretchen seemed to be priming herself only for the young studs with the big, hard cocks.
Karen balled Gretchen a couple of extra times that night, just to emphasize the pleasures they had together and to keep Gretchen away from preeking in on Mr. Davis with Mrs. Howard. She peeked and eavesdropped herself, though, and was gratified with the fact that the tete-e-tete was strictly business. Mrs. Howard had her boys and Mr. Davis, evidently, had what was known as the cuntiest female in Binghamton. Karen looked forward to meeting Mrs. Davis even though she learned she was out of town at the moment. It seemed that Mr. Davis wanted to know where she was from Mrs. Howard, but about that time Gretchen was running her hands through her legs, and her tongue between them, so she could care less about Susan Davis at the moment.
She was deep in her own coma-because Gretchen knew how to send her into one-when Mr. Davis left, and Gretchen had to show him out. Then Gretchen came back and crawled between her legs and really ate her as she had never seemed to eat her before.
It was a good night.
* * *
Leaving Mrs. Howard's, Don drove back to the motel and picked up a paper from the outdoor display rack. He went directly to his room, unconscious of the hot stare at him through the double glass doors. He read it through all ten pages, wondering if this one or that one was Dolores White's husband. There seemed to be entirely too many prominent people in this town. For a city so small. And yet, he had to remember, this is where the power really was, throughout the United States. Not in New York, Washington, San Francisco, Philadelphia; but in the Kalamazoos, the Grand Rapids, the Peorias, the Junction Corners, the Bingham tons.
There were six Whites in town, and he called them all. Five sounded blank when he asked for Dolores. The sixth sounded southern, Negro maybe.
And Negro it was.
"Thank you, Dolores, I really was looking for someone else."
She giggled. "I can give as good as she's got."
"Maybe better," Don said. "But you're not the one."
"Try me," she said.
He started to say thanks and goodby, but then he asked directions. It could be a long weekend. "You white?" she asked. "Yeah."
"Man, you don't want to come here. Tell me where you're staying. I'll be by" He hesitated.
"I need the bread, man." She was no longer a coquette. She was no longer a party girl. She was pleading. Good things happened by accident, and this was the best accident she'd had in a long time.
"You'll like me," she added. "I'm cute. I ain't too black and I don't do this for a living. I ain't no whore, you understand?"
"I understand," Don said.
"Just that a girl's gotta make it, one way or another."
"I agree," Don said.
"Man, sometimes I even give it away when somebody needs it real bad, you know."
"I know," Don said.
"What I mean is, it's going to cost you some money to take a girl out, isn't it? You don't have to take me out or nothing. Hard to go out with a black girl in this town anyway. So I'd just be sitting home and watching TV or something, right?"
"Right," Don said.
"This way, like maybe I know I'm living. Maybe we can split a bottle-that can't cost you more than five."
"Thanks," Don said, "But-"
"Listen, I can bring over a couple of sticks. Just charge you what they cost me. We can have a nice time."
"I'm sure we can, Dolores."
"Shit, my name ain't Dolores. I just said that so I can talk to you."
"I'm sorry, Dolores-or-"
"You a real nigger-hater, man!"
Her voice had started soft-southern, had gone to high school-white, and now it dropped to ghet to-black. She had perfect control of it every syllable of the way.
He reluctantly hung up. He might be sorry later. But then he might call her back later.
He had just turned off the TV and was lying propped up by the pillows on his bed and the two he had yanked from the twin next to him. He was just about to snap off the reading light on the scarred end table between, when he saw the doorknob turn and the door tried. He hadn't attached the chain, but the catch was double-locked. That didn't matter to a passkey from the desk.
She put one leg inside the door, a hot-pants leg so that the naked flesh up to the high shorts looked creamy in the dim light. Then one well-manicured hand tugged at the arty cuff of the hot pants, pulling it up into the crotch, like a coy hitch-hiker lifting her skirt for a ride. Only there wasn't too much left to disclose. Only brown whisps of pubic hair, a strand of which was curled around one of those well-manicured fingers. She was like one of the commercials where the model admits to fifty but is proud of having young hands like her daughter's. These hands had held more pricks than her daughter.
And then the rest of her came into the room.
"Is everything all right?" she asked huskily, because she didn't know what else to ask. Obviously she had expected the chain; but the fact that the passkey was sufficient found her with the opportunity she had sought but didn't dare believe would really happen.
"Everything's fine," Don said.
"It could be better."
"Yes, it could."
It was the answer she wanted to hear. She closed the door behind her, double-locked it, and attached the chain. She turned back to him in the bed with a look of triumph on her aging face.
Diddling herself behind the reception desk, every time a male registered, was one thing. Climbing into bed with a naked stranger was something else. It hadn't happened for weeks and weeks, months even, and her breathing was so tight she thought she would choke to death before she had the shorts off, and the sweater, and let her big tits and big belly cuddle on #208, Mr. Don Franklin, and feel his cock nestle into the hot bush of her cunt.
Her hands rubbed up and down his thighs, and he made no move to stop her; not that she really thought he would stop her; but sometimes when they felt all that beef settle on them, when they felt the waterfall juices of her cunt leak on them, when they smelled the rich aroma of her frustrated vagina waft up to them, they squirmed away and told her to kiss them off, and then gave her a couple of bucks and told her to get the hell out because they had been on the road all day and had to get some sleep.
But this was a very nice man. An understanding man. A hard-pricked man, who, even if he didn't come here to fuck, was ready to fuck anyway.
The kind of man she really appreciated.
Although there wasn't any man she didn't really appreciate.
She picked up his hand and stroked her pussy with it. The ecstasy of stroking her cunt with a hand that wasn't hers, but stroking it in the same way and knowing it belonged to someone else, sent her out of her tree.
"Do you like my cunt?" she said into his mouth.
"It's beautiful. So soft."
She struggled up into a squatting position, found his cock with thumb and forefinger, turned it back from its forty-five degree" angle, and sat down on it.
She sighed as she lowered herself. Then she was sitting on it, with the whole cock, all the way to the balls, swallowed up inside her cunt.
He didn't make a move to help her. But he didn't stop her either. He let her do her own thing. And this was her own thing. Sitting here on his stretched-out thighs, with his prick straight up her cunt; and her rocking, like in a chair, softly, up and back, like a Jew at that wailing wall in Palestine, almost sobbing in her joy; and rocking her torso back and forth so that the hard, ruby-red glans of his cock rolled up and back and over the ball of her clit, and she could look up at the pretty ceiling then down at the man's beautiful face and then up at the ceiling and then down at his face. A man's face. Hers.
She couldn't resist dropping forward to hug him cheek to cheek. Tits flat to his chest. Knees tight to his hips. Cock tight in her cunt. Her tongue made swirls in his neck and in back of his ear and in his ear. To his mouth. In his mouth.
Now he began bucking a little too. He couldn't resist the fucking, and she sashayed her ass so that she felt his prick jump another inch up her.
First his hands had been behind his head. Then they were around the heavy curves of her ass when she settled herself. Then they were rubbing straining between them to grasp the bulges of her tits. He rubbed the nipples between his fingers as their tongues circled between their mouths as his cock circled between her cuntlips as his breath quickened and her own breathing sounded like a bellows in the small motel room.
She was warm and silky and smelled of perfume. Cunt perfume. He felt the hard nipples press their way out between his fingers. She wanted them in his mouth so he put them in his mouth, one at a time. Her eyes were dark pools of fire above him; and in the half-light that ecstatic face could be anybody's face. Susan Davis. Yes. Raquel Welch. Yes. Connie Stevens. Yes. Jacqueline Onassis. Yes. Tuesday Weld. Yes. Mary Tyler Moore. Yes. Susan Davis. Yes. Susan Davis. Susan. Susan. Susan. Yes. Yes. Yes.
He drained her tits with his mouth and she was breathing hard into his ear. Her cunt sopped up his prick. He slammed it into her when she slammed down. Still tried to slam it up her when she lifted up. When she came down he was still up and he heard her gasp, a choked, half-screamed gasp that told him his cock had gone where she wanted it. And now the inner folds of her wet flesh had locked it tight up her; somewhere where the sheath was thin and narrow, where she could hold its head with two inner muscles; so that when he pulled back, the glans stayed locked there and only his shaft elongated, and then was like an accordian as he socked in and out, as she pounded up and down, as they fucked in strangling lurches. She was wet, hot, hugging, bucking, banging. Her vulva opening and closing and sucking up more of his cock with each push.
His hands gripping her hips now, into her hips, into the rolls of fat that covered her hips, so he could hold the small, round bones under it and lift her up and down. Actually thrusting her up off him, locked to him only by the head of the cock she had corkscrewed into her groin and then slamming her down on him, her coming down on him with all her weight so that his cock almost buffeted through into her ass; and then doing it again. And again.
She moved her heavy legs apart, wide apart, so they stuck out like wings as she slid up and down; for an instant towering above him; then pasted to him; going flat; and then going big and round and full again as she sailed up off him, like a balloon, and then unravelled back down the string of his prick like a yo-yo.
Each time she came down, they kissed. Her mouth was a wet fire, her tongue stabbing into his mouth each time so that when she was lifted, it was sucked back between his lips to fuse her belly with its searing heat.
He was all she dreamed of. And more. Each time he pounded his cock home, he convinced her all over again. His eyes were half-closed, mere slits to watch her sliding up and down. But then when he gasped for breath, suddenly when he restiffened, all over, his eyes shot open wide. And the eye of his cock shot open wide. And the lips of her cunt shot open wide. Only the tiny hole deep in her sheath that grasped his prickhead closed down tight.
The hot semen shot from him and filled that hole. The burning bee-bees unlatched the grasp. She opened up all the way to her ass, and the semen lurched on, drop tumbling over drop, drop flying over drop; and each spasm of their built-in energy shuddered Don's frame and he felt his skull lift and his skin peel from his bones. Felt it peel from his cock. He felt his cock blow apart inside her. He felt her cunt suck up the pieces. The juices poured out with no control and no direction. They went all over. And she went with him. Coming all over him with him; and still riding him, arching her hips and shoving her cunt between his legs and soaking him up to his eyebrows.
When she left, he was asleep; so she put his room rent on the end table, including tax. And later she scratched the date of his registration, and gave him the first night on the house.
CHAPTER NINE
In the morning he drove back to the Howard place. And he lucked out-or it seemed so at first. As he drew up behind the El Dorado parked by the front entrance, a stately woman wearing hat, gloves, and a gold-lame maxi with a mink collar and hem came out; and seeing him on the step, hesitated.
He admired the blue-rinse of her grey-flecked hair, and said, "Mrs. Howard?"
A young man followed her out, surveyed him, and then went on down the stairs and got into the El Dorado.
"Yes," the woman said. Her voice was as he remembered it from yesterday.
"I called you yesterday, from near Wilkes-Barre."
For a moment she seemed completely at a loss. Not because she didn't make the connection with his phone call, but because she did. She sketched a gesture of dismissal. "And you left your name last evening, Mr. Franklin."
"Yes."
The young man in the El Dorado tapped the horn. Don could see Mrs. Howard's face go pale with fright. Probably ten minutes ago she was sucking his prick, going up and down the bedroom on her knees, promising him the world and all its gold if he would only eat her back so now he thought he had a right to tap the horn.
And maybe he did.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I'm late for an appointment. It's my appointment," she added, to dispell the idea that she was at this young man's beck and call. "I can be of no help to you. I don't know how you got my name or-"
"Mr. Jennings gave me your name. He told me you own the cottage at the lake-the big one set up on the rocks?"
"I own it," she said flatly, starting down the stairs. But I never go there anymore. It was really my late husband's place."
"Well surely if there was someone staying there you would know who it was."
"No one that I-"
"She said her name was Dolores White."
"I know no person by such a name. And if anyone was there, young man, he must have broken in." She looked back once and almost started to speak. But her mind was elsewhere.
The young man in the El Dorado started the engine, and Mrs. Howard got in beside him. She was still closing the door, when the car pulled away in a squeal of rubber.
Don climbed into his convertible and followed.
"Someone's letting me use it," Dolores had said of the cottage. And the only one who could let her use it would be a friend. If that friend wasn't Mrs. Howard, it had to be a friend of a friend of Mrs. Howard. In any case, normal curiosity should prompt Mrs. Howard to go straight to that friend to see what was going on.
The El Dorado stopped in front of a cheap YMCA. The young man got out, slamming the car door behind him. He didn't look back. Mrs. Howard must have been properly chastised, because the car didn't move for awhile. Then it slowly rolled from the curb, reluctantly; then picked up speed and went around the first corner.
If it had screamed away from the curb immediately, then she, Mrs. Howard, would have been the one angered, dumping the boy as soon as she could, and then getting the hell away from him. But obviously he was putting the screws to her.
Being real bad ass until she came begging on her knees again for him to fuck her, for him to let her suck him off, for him to shit on her upturned face while she ate it like chocolate candy. It pays to be rich and get respect.
His conclusion was verified, as he waited and watched the Cadillac circle the block. It lingered in front of the YMCA again, but when it moved away this time and turned left, he followed.
Mrs. Howard pulled into the parking lot of the Brigantine Restaurant. Inside, Don heard her say she was waiting for a friend. Of course! She'd had time to call Dolores, and was probably meeting her here. He watched her seated at a table in the dining room, behind a partition separated from the bar. He sat at the bar where he could watch the door, and ordered a Black Label Johnny Walker with soda on the side.
He was down to sucking the ice cubes, when Mrs. Howard's companion showed. It was the young man again, wearing a smirk a mile wide as he came in the door. Don turned away, keeping his back to the door, until he heard the young man greeted by Mrs. Howard.
He sighed and pulled out his wallet to pay for his drink. , "I'm sorry, it will never happen again," he heard Mrs. Howard say.
"Hold it," the young man said back. "Just hold your hand on it and squeeze it."
He got up and left the restaurant. Obviously Mrs. Howard couldn't care less about who frequented her cottage. The chance of locating Dolores White seemed a hopeless search. His whole life seemed hopeless now.
He was going to drive back to the motel. There seemed nothing else to do now, but check out and go back where he came from. He idly cased the street. Yellow Pintos moved up and down like shiny new pennies. Each one made his heart lurch, but he realized the stupidity of chasing three-hundred-and-eighty-five-thousand yellow Pintos.
Then a truck stopped in front of a newsstand and dropped off a bundle of papers. He sifted a dime from his pocket, while the attendant broke the bundle and arranged them on his counter. He didn't look up from reading the front page himself, when Don laid down the dime and picked up a copy.
The headline almost made him shit in his pants.
WIFE OF PROMINENT POLITICIAN SLAIN
His throat tightened with climbing vomit, and even before he read the paragraph under the headline, the double-column full-faced photo solved the identity of Dolores White.
Mrs. Calvin Davis, known locally as Sue-Sue died in a bomb blast that exploded at six a.m. this morning.
The former Susan Dolores White, daughter of the late Mr. and Mrs. James White of Hempstead, New York, was killed instantly when she attempted to start a Lincoln Continental Mark III, which was parked in the garage of the family farm on the outskirts of Binghamton. Her husband, Calvin Davis, prominent industrialist, lobbyist, and local political power, was uninjured.
It was all an illusion. It had never happened. He had never stayed in the cabin. No girl calling herself Dolores White had been caught out on the lake in a rainstorm. He had never crawled into bed with her. He had never sucked her cunt or kissed her ass or felt her mouth swallow his prick. It was all up there in his head, a dream sequence left from Korea. A wet-nightmare.
But here he was in Binghamton, New York. He had never in his life been in Binghamton, New York before. He had no reason for being here now. Except to find Dolores White. And there was a Dolores White, married as Susan Davis. This was her picture in the paper. The picture of Calvin Davis was her husband. She lived here. Had lived here. Was dead now.
He found his way back to the convertible with out remembering where it was parked. He climbed numbly behind the wheel and just sat there. Eventually he picked up the paper again and spread it across the steering wheel. He tore his eyes from her photo image, and forced himself to read the jumping words.
It said she was leaving in her husband's car, because her own was being repaired. Her husband had spent the night in an apartment suite connected to his office in the city.
The bomb had been placed under the hood and hooked up to the ignition. The police assumed it was an assassination plot aimed against her husband, Calvin Davis, who had garnered a host of enemies ever since he was District Attorney and battled organized crime. Also he has figured extremely prominent in the administration of Mayor Julius Jackson. The state house and Washington were considered his next step on his meteoric rise in power politics, elected or otherwise.
Don tried to remember where he was when she died. Right inside a fifty-year-old-cunt. Fucking an aging cow with half his brain, where if he had used the other half, if he had waited on Mrs. Howard's doorstep, he might have gotten to Dolores-Susan-and saved her from this tragedy.
But maybe if he hadn't fucked her, she wouldn't be dead now. Maybe she wouldn't have been starting the Mark III at six o'clock in the morning, going where? Certainly not to her husband's office, not at that hour. Driving back to Willkes-Barre maybe, back to him. His fault?
And it cost her her life.
He read the final paragraph:
In a statement to police, Mr. Davis said that his wife had been unwell for some weeks and had returned only yesterday from a private sanitarium under the care of a physician.
Why had Davis lied? A murder had been committed, and you don't lie to the police when a murder's involved. But instead of going to the police, Don drove back to the motel. Like Dolores-Susan-he had to think first.
Only he didn't want to think. He wanted to lose himself. He dialed the number. It rang and rang and kept ringing. He hung up, waited, dialed again. The busy signal this time. He waited. Dialed. The receiver was lifted almost instantly this time.
"Dolores?"
Silence.
"Dolores White?"
"This you, white boy?"
She came as he had asked. She didn't make him ask twice. She had recognized the despair, the urgency. It was a world she lived in all her life, and she knew it when she heard it. She made only one condition.
"A hundred dollars?"
"If that's what you want, Dolores."
"I told you my name isn't really Dolores."
"I know. But will you let me call you Dolores? Dolores White?"
"You can call me anything you want, white boy. Just have the hundred."
"I've got it."
"I'll be there."
"How soon?"
"There ain't any place in Binghamton you can't be in fifteen minutes."
She knew where the motel was. She didn't like #208, because it could be seen from the office doors, but she said she'd be there anyway. For a hundred dollars she was prepared to drive even into the White House. Past the guards and the CIA and the FBI and the Treasury Men.
When he let her in she went right and sat on the edge of the bed, clasping a green purse in her brown fingers, watching him from under plucked brows. She was a soft brown color. Her nose surprisingly small and sharp. But her lips were thick. And her front teeth had gaps. She was dressed in a white pants suit. Thin. The brown showed under it. No pants. No bra. Just shadowy cunt and tits.
"I've never had a colored girl before," Don said.
"You ain't gonna have one now," she said evenly, "unless you show me that hundred dollars we talked about."
He gave her the hundred, a single bill from the zippered slot in his wallet, and watched her open the green purse. From this she took another green purse. She unclasped it and extracted a black change purse. She unsnapped that and tucked in the hundred-dollar bill. Then she carefully closed the coin purse and took her time finding the right spot for it inside the smaller green purse. Then she put the smaller green purse inside the pocket of the larger green purse and zipped the lining. Then she snapped the big green purse closed and put it on the endtable. Then she looked up at him. "What you waiting for?"
He was still wearing his suit. He hadn't thought of getting ready for her at all. Now he started to undress. She got up and came to his side, with her chest thrust out. They were small tits, but he could see the nipples poking against the cloth. Hard. As if she had massaged them and frozen them hard for him. They pressed against the thin material. He bent his head and sucked on one through the white cloth of her tunic. She put her fingers back of his neck and massaged the knotted chords.
"You sure uptight," she said.
"Not really," he said into the wet cloth, the words muffled by her tit.
"I didn't say hard-up. I said uptight."
He worked his hands under the tunic and came up with two handfuls of the hot, turgid flesh. Her red tongue flicked out and wet her black lips.
"I didn't put on any lipstick," she said, "because sometimes guys complain if it messes up their dicks."
"I just want to fuck," he told her. "Whatever turns you on."
She lifted her arms and waited for him. He tugged up the tunic, drew it off over her head. He watched the stretch jersey pull easily over the breasts. He buried his face in them. She put her hands behind his head again and ground her pubes into his crotch.
"Anytime," she said.
But it was she who was beginning to breathe fast. She reached for his hands and placed them on her rump, each hand palming a cheek so he could pull her up close to him. Her mouth was against his face, sliding around to his lips.
"Maybe you don't want to kiss me," she said, " 'cause I'm black."
He kissed her, his tongue forcing entry into the steaming cavity of her mouth and fusing with hers. They held in a tight embrace, draining each other through the kiss. Her hip action didn't quit.
Into her mouth he said, "I thought there was some kind of unwritten rule-"
"That's with whores, honey. I told you I ain't a whore."
They parted and began unpeeling the remaining garments. She flipped back the covers on the bed and stretched out on the white sheets. There was something especially erotic for him to see that coffee-colored body against the white sheets. Her cunt hair was blonde-red. He marveled at the blonde-red cunt.
"I henna it," she said. "I thought I'd like to be a whore, but just fucking for money don't make you one."
"What makes a whore?" he said, and climbed on top of her.
"Did you call me here for conversation or fucking?
"Whatever turns you on," he said.
They laughed politely together, and then wordlessly began to work each other over. She had his cock in both hands; still soft but growing long. She helped it along. She tugged it out from his belly and then played with his balls while he ran his hands over her tits and up and down her thighs and fingered her cunt to see if she was wet yet.
The cunt was sharp and tiny. Like her nose. Not big and wet like that bushel basket last night.
But that had been a good fuck last night. Only now he wanted someone named Dolores White. Or someone who passed for the name Dolores White.
He climbed aboard, and she was wet, hot, and hugging. She cupped his prick to her cunt so he got started right; then she lay back and schrooch ed herself down so that the prick plugged up her cunt. Belatedly she realized she hadn't gasped or grunted or made a sound. So now she gasped and grunted and made little, mewling sounds.
"You don't have to do that," Don said. "If you don't feel it, don't worry. Just fuck it."
"Oh, I feel it," she said. "But there's no use putting you on, is there? I mean, you're already in there, man. You're fucking. What more do you need?"
"I'm trying to find out," Don said. "Go ahead and find out," she answered. "I'm all yours."
"Dolores-!"
He crushed her to him while her hands rubbed on his back and the insides of her thighs slipped up and back on his hips.
And he was really fucking Dolores White. Again.
Only the Dolores White in his arms, the Dolores White writhing under his belly, the Dolores White suffocating his prick up her cunt, the Dolores White who was putting his hands under her buttocks so that the fingers were grinding into her anal cavity and who was entreating him to spread her-"Spread my ass, honey ... when you spread my ass, baby, I sure enjoy fucking...."-wasn't Dolores White. Obviously she wasn't Susan Davis, but she wasn't Dolores White either.
Her name was just plain Emily Smith. But she had been living with a man named White and she just kept the name when he died. Too bad he died before they got married, but then he was married to some woman up in Oswego so all that social security stuff and all that government insurance from his time in the army, why it went to his legal wife.
But she hung on to the name White, because it gave her some kind of special identification. After all, the world was full of Smiths. That was the name of the man her daddy worked for. A white man. Naturally. It isn't that black men don't like to work for black men. There just aren't many black men to work for. Unless you went to Haiti or some place like that.
"You're good fucking," she said.
He held her mouth in a hot kiss; then lowered his lips to her tits again. Even small, the tits were really something. They stood up firm, in half-shells. Even lying on her back this way, when most women's breasts go flat, or if they're really big, they sag on the sides and roll down the ribs like melting ice cream, hers were resilient cones.
She cradled him, keeping him from fucking too fast, holding him to make it last a long time, legs wrapped over the back of his thighs so she could pull him into her cunt when she wanted it deeper, or nudge him back and hold him away until the hot throbbing subsided in his cock and he could start fucking all over again....
I was born in the Bronx-you know where the old Polo Grounds used to be? Near those shitty projects? I lived there till I was five. Me and six sisters and two brothers, my parents and my grand folks-both sides-all in one apartment. Whoooeeee! For us kids it was fun; maybe for the old folks, too. They didn't know who was fucking who, I betcha! I knew who I was fucking, but that's telling! But I was only five so, shit, that don't matter.
But then suddenly we weren't together anymore. I don't know why. But me and my two brothers were shipped down south, where we stayed with an aunt. Man, what an auntie that was! Taught me lots. Fucked for her groceries and the meats. And for the rent in one of those shacks. Didn't have to worry about utilities-telephone and electric light and all that stuff-hard to fuck Con Edison and Ma Bell-they're so impersonal, know what I mean? But we got along pretty good and my aunt had high standing in the community. She held herself no different than smart-assed secretaries who fuck their boss for their job or fuck their bosses' clients so they do good business and she gets a raise; or like those movie stars or anybody else. They all fucks to where they are, and people don't call them whores. People are whores who ain't got nothing going on the side. I mean, that's what they are, and that's it. Fucking when you want to or have to, and fucking as a career, that's two different things.
He sucked the sweet tasting tit then slid down to the small, palpitating belly. He turned to mouth the rolling flesh fully. Almost before his cock slipped out, she was around to pop it, swollen and eager, into her mouth. He continued down to her thighs, licking the chocolate skin on each side while she lipped his prick before he settled for the middle of her legs, and came up into her cunt.
His whole body sighed and he relaxed and spread his legs so she could hold his balls while she sucked him; and he squeezed open her cunt with his fingers, like a cumquat, and began to eat the dripping, wet pussy. She wrapped her legs around his neck, and he wrapped his arms fully around her hips and sucked her up so his whole head was almost into her, lost into her.
She snapped her pelvis back and forth and squirted quickly along his tongue so it could slip and slide through all the little folds of her vagina.
Then my father came down south for us, and got his whole family together, and brought us back north, up to Poug-like-epsie, New York. And there we were in a big, private house. Our own house. Where he had worked and how he had saved the money to do this for us, I don't know. But there we were, living just like white people, and I don't care what anybody says, it was beautiful!
Only my mother started drinking, and I don't know why. My father would give her money to put in the bank to pay the mortgage and the taxes and for the table, so much every week, and my mother would drink it up. Maybe that good living was too much for her, I don't know. Maybe what my father had to do to get that money bothered her, I don't know.
Only I know my father got mighty upset. But instead of beating the shit out of her and sitting on her ass, he said, "I thought, honey, that we would be finished paying for the house in five years and we'd have a good nest egg in the bank and the kids would be wearing decent clothes and going to school. What's wrong, honey?"
And then she started drinking more.
So he must up and left. I cried when he took off. My sisters and brothers too. We sure hated to see him go. But my mother, she just opened another bottle.
So then right after he left, there went our lights. And they cut the heat. Ever live in Poug-like-epsie in the winter time with no heat? And the water. The telephone was no never mind, but they shut that off too. My mother said that was the Jew man did that.
But my mother was staying there as long as she could. No lights, no water, no heat; but she was staying as long as she could. Until they came and put us out.
I don't know who went where. Ain't never seen my brothers and but one sister since. I stayed with an aunt back in the Bronx, in New York.
I kind of grew up there-you know, under the Third Avenue El? That's where I met Hank, right there where the steps come down from the El. I used to play there, used that broken glass for drawing pictures in the dirt. Not regular pictures, just lines and squares and circles. Making believe a square was my house, a big ranch with dogs and a cat and horses. The straight lines were roads and trails. Then I'd stand up with a stick and hold it like an airplane and fly across my property, landing near the house, and being picked up with a Jeep or a Scout and riding up to the barn where a horse would be saddled for me. I didn't have to explain the game to Hank. He dug it right away so we became friends.
And then one day we were sitting on the front steps of his house, and he asked me back into the hall. In there, in the greasy dark, he didn't do anything. He just asked me to go with him. I said I didn't know. He said he wanted me to be his woman. I was about sixteen or seventeen. Him too. I said I didn't know so he wanted to know how long it would take me to make up my mind. I said I still didn't know so he told me to wait and went and got his sister-He stood around out side while she came in and told me Hank likes me a lot and he wants me to be his woman. I didn't know what that meant, really, because we were playing together all the time anyway. And his sister said well he wanted to fuck me too. But he wouldn't fuck me unless I was his girl and wouldn't fuck nobody else too.
I told her I didn't know so she went and told Hank and he came back in. I told him I had to think about it and he wanted to know what there was to think about, I liked him, didn't I? I told him I sure did. He knew how to land that airplane without tracking up my picture or anything, but I sure didn't know. He wanted to know what I didn't know and I told him I didn't know about fucking.
Se he went back and got his sister and she told me all about it blah, blah, blah. And I said, "Shee-itt! Nobody does that!" So she just bent over and lifted her dress and ole Hank he took out this long black cock that I seen him pissing with, only it was standing straight out hard now, not flopping between his fingers like it did when he took a leak, and his sister helped him get it in her cunt, bent over that way.
Now I must have seen a lot of that kind of going on in my house with my brothers and sisters and parents and everybody, because somehow, way down in my mind, I really wasn't surprised at what he was doing. And then he told his sister he was coming and she yelled at me to watch him when he comes because that's what it's all about. And he just pissed right inside her, pissed white, and it dribbled down her legs and it smelled junky. So I wanted him to do me, but he said only if I'm his girl. So I said okay, but I had to wait around about two hours before he was ready again. And I guess that's what I've been doing all my life-waiting around for guys to get ready-ready?
CHAPTER TEN
Calvin Davis, Don learned, was at the City Hall working with the mayor; not at home grieving over the death of his wife. A uniformed policeman guarded the door.
"I'd like to see Mr. Calvin on a personal matter."
"Not today. The Mayor's seeing nobody."
"Not the mayor-Mr.-"
"That's the same as the mayor, buddy. No one but police today."
"But it's about his wife."
"Then you better see the police."
"I told you this is personal."
"If it's anything to do with Mrs. Davis being killed, you'd better see Lieutenant-"
"I'll see him only if Mr. Davis says I should."
He held a twenty-dollar bill in his palm and grasped the guard's hand. "I'm sure he'll want to see me."
"Okay." Without batting an eye or changing expression, the cop merely changed the result. He pointed over his shoulder to a man sitting behind a desk in the inner room. "He'll let you know whether you can get in."
The man said, "Mr. Davis knows you personally, does he?" He scratched his balls idly, and watched the mayor's secretary pop in and out between cubicles. Hems may have gone to midi and maxi, but this girl knew to stop when she was ahead. The hem of the dress fluttered just below the pussy line, and when she bent over a filing cabinet, the long, white sweep of her thighs ended in the two loveliest globes of ass it was his pleasure to observe. The small tuft of hair just peeking between the hugging thighs was just that much more bonus to be enjoyed. He sighed loudly, and almost missed Don's answer.
"No, I've never met Mr. Davis, only Mrs. Davis."
"Mrs. Davis? And you say it's personal?"
Don didn't like the intimation of the question. Doubly didn't like it because it was true.
But it was enough to get the man off his ass and into the other office. "Franklin, you say?" When he came back, he said, "He'll see you," and motioned toward the office branded with the mayor's name.
"Mr. Franklin, is that right?" Calvin Davis came around the side of the desk. Don recognized him from his picture in the paper. The other man standing and staring out the window must be the mayor.
In person, Calvin Davis looked every inch the imposing personality that Dolores-Susan-had indicated.
"I'm sorry about your wife," Don said, and realized he was referring to her as someone he had never met. It seemed unreal, now, that he ever had. Met her. Climbed between her legs. Felt the meaty calves wrapped around his neck. Tasted her tongue inside his mouth. Felt with his prick inside her cunt. A dream.
Davis turned away, only to sit down at the mayor's desk again. "I appreciate your condolences, but tell me what you wanted to see me about-you know something, I believe?"
"Yes. A couple of things about the newspaper account disturbs me."
Davis just nodded, and the mayor turned around to listen. Just then his secretary bobbed in, and scurried around in the in-and-out basket; then threw a hasty glance at Don's crotch before leaving. Obviously, he might be someone important, and she didn't have to look at his face to tell.
"I should explain," Don said, "that I met Mrs. Davis only a week or so ago. Near Willkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, where I had gone for some fishing."
Davis nodded for him to go on. His expression didn't change, but a tight crust seemed to have formed across his face.
"What bothered me first of all, besides the shock of learning that she had been killed, was the blithe assumption by the police that she was not the intended victim of the bomb."
Davis's eyes flowed wet. "You think they meant to kill Susan, not me?"
"Some of the things she said to me-well, they make me wonder."
"What kind of things?"
Things like: Oh, fuck me, Don! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Give me your prick! Give me your hot prick in my mouth! There ... oooohhh ... so hard, so' good, such a sweet cock!
Don shook his head. "She hinted at what was bothering her-some situation or maybe events, here in Binghamton. She referred several times to corruption, I remember."
"Oh, that." Susan's husband relaxed and smiled. A crooked smile, only going up one side of his mouth. He was as handsome as Dolores-Susan-had said, but these odd little mannerisms detracted from the net sum of his facade. Don could see how they could grow hateful after awhile; not because they made the man less good looking, but because they exposed little rotten spots that, in time, would stink out loud.
Davis even summoned up a laugh. "She had sort of a fixation about that. But you," he said suddenly, "sound as if you knew my wife quite well."
"I saw her quite a bit at the lake-yes."
"Then you know she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown."
"I don't know how anyone can be classified as on the verge of something like that. Anyway, she showed no signs of mental upset, which would involve hysteria, disorientation, or anything like that."
"Well, Mr. Franklin, you're not the doctor. I hardly want to go into a clinical discussion on that subject with you."
"No, I'm not the doctor-but I am a doctor. A psychiatrist in fact."
Davis and the mayor looked at each other; then Davis said, "You introduced yourself as Mr. Franklin."
"Yes. I've not been practicing for some time, but that's beside the point. What bothers me is that it was your car that was rigged while you weren't home. That Do-Susan drove your car home alone, and anyone casing you, to get you, would have known that you weren't there to drive the car."
Davis didn't change expression. "What else 'bothered' you about the news account?"
"Your statement, Mr. Davis. That your wife has been ill and confined to a sanitarium. We both know that isn't true. And anything that isn't true is bound to hamper the police investigation."
Davis tented his fingertips and looked down at his crotch. The secretary bobbed in again, and looked down at his crotch with him. Then she measured him against the mayor and Don. When she left the office, her eyes were on Don.
"Dr. Franklin-"
"Mr., please."
"-if your wife blew the coop periodically, to shack up with some pickup each time, to get her nuts off with a stranger, wouldn't you lie about it? To save embarrassment certainly. To protect your career, at least. And if you loved her, you'd be certain to lie about it, wouldn't you? You're a psychiatrist, you say, so you must accept that." He leaned forward, his face white. "And this time I didn't even know where she'd been. And I didn't know who was the lucky fella!" He glared at Don, but Don scarcely noticed.
Not Dolores. He wasn't talking about Dolores.
Davis went on: "Very discreet about it, she was. Out of consideration of my career, or for her own protection? Do you know? Didn't give you her right name, did she, Franklin? That should tell you something, shouldn't it?"
But if she were ill, why would Davis let her go home alone, especially since she had not seen him for a week?
Don nodded. He didn't know why he nodded, but he nodded, feeling just like when he had picked up the paper and read about Dolores and couldn't believe it.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I guess there's no point in our talking."
On the way out, a youngish blonde man, square-jawed, with short, extremely even white teeth, was talking to the secretary in a corner. One hand was on her shoulder and the other was going round and round on her rump. He kept one knee bent to part her thighs while he talked to her earnestly. The man was the One he had seen talking to Dolores at the lake.
"In the closet," Jeets was telling her.
"I can't. There are too many people here."
"Fuck the people. I need a fuck. Now."
"If the mayor-"
"Fuck the mayor, too, baby."
"No, Jeets, I-"
His knee was hard in her crotch, pinning her cunt to her asshole making her gasp, whether in pain or anticipation, she didn't know.
Funny, when she was made to feel like this, by someone, anyone, insisting she feel like this, she began to really feel like that. All they had to do was demand. Play coy and cute, and she was as cold as ice. Like to that detective at the desk. He wanted her pussy so bad, he was leaking all over the floor. And she wouldn't give him a second glance. But if he just slapped her ... if he just grabbed her wrist and bent her arm back and shoved his cock into her cunt ... oh, god ... the knee ... the hand on her ass ... up her ass....
She went into the closet with Jeets. The storage room, really, for stationery supplies and things like that. He had his pants zipped open and his cock out before she had her dress lifted, and she didn't have much dress to lift.
"Hold it," he said. "Get it hard first."
"If it isn't hard yet why do you want it so bad?"
"It's because I want it so bad that it won't get hard. Goddam it, hold it or I'll come while it's soft!"
"I didn't know you could come when it was soft."
"Well, I can. Now just take it easy and fondle it a little bit. Not too fast, not too hard. Easy. So it knows it's going to get fucked and is willing to wait until it gets hard."
While she held his organ and rolled it softly between her palms, he pulled her to him and began kissing her lips. Then her nose. Then her eyes. Then into her ears. Then her neck.
All the time she kept her eyes closed, her head tilted back, her mouth open, her long hair fluttering down across her shoulders, against his face, in his mouth.
He nuzzled into her tits, between her tits. She had young, vibrant tits. But big. Not like that kid with the dog. Small tits. Hard as a rock. But almost flat. Except for the nipples. Those nipples came out like nails. Must be from what the dog did to them. Sure as hell fucked her in spite of the dog. Man, wasn't she surprised. Little hot ass thought she was getting something for nothing. Oh, she was willing to suck his cock all right, but she only wanted to let the dog fuck her. Laid right down there on the back seat and called the damned dog up into her. The bastard straddled her like a pro. Knew just how to get his red pecker to her cunt. He seemed almost ready to talk to her, just before he fucked.
Only he never got a chance to fuck.
When Jeets took out his .32 and put it to the back of the Doberman's head and pulled the trigger, the bastard must have thought that was a new way to come.
The girl was pissed off, though. Son of a bitch, she was mad. Hate those southern gals anyway. Fuck like niggers but trying to act like they're even better than white. Something special. They're from the south. Kiss their ass. Fuck 'em.
And he fucked her. You better believe it!
Now he turned the little secretary around and told her to bend over. His cock was up hard, red and raw, and ready. And when she slipped off her clinging nylon stepins, it passed her wet-haired pussy and creased the cheeks of her ass.
"Oh, god, you want it in there!" she said, and raised her rump and parted the moons with long, typist's fingers and showed him the tiny puckered anus.
He pushed the tip of his cock against it and let the fluid leaking from the head loosen the tight muscle. Then he began to push in slowly. The girl's head bumped against the wall of the closet. She put up her arms to shield her scalp, but didn't complain. Bumps felt good. Pain felt good.
"Hurt me! Really hurt me this time!" she pleaded.
She knew how to relax her ass to make his job easier. He supported her at the hips with his two hands as he made the final entry into the tight canal."
Oh, baby, is that good! So tight and dry! Jeez, what a fuck hole!
At first he moved gently; not to keep from hurting her, because who gave a shit, but to keep from flopping out. But she stayed relaxed until the base of his shaft was locked between her asscheeks .Then the rectum tightened and his whole cock was squeezed in there, the cheeks of her ass sliding deliciously up and down along the front of his thighs. That prick wouldn't come out until he deliberately pulled it out, like a cork from a bottle.
She was hot and humping now. Her ass was upturned into his belly. What a feeling! She was good fucking, no doubt about it. His cock swelled and he felt it erupting inside her.
Her head was banging into the wall.
And she loved every bruising second of it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The policeman was Lieutenant Barnes. He was short, but looked quick and very capable. Prematurely white hair made his tan face look even darker and made his brown eyes look almost black. Dolores White-uh-Emily White-uh-Smith-had told him to ask for Lieutenant Barnes.
Don filled him in on his fuck-fest with Susan Davis. Emily had told him that the cop was a regular guy. He might bust you for your sweet smell of marijuana or nail you for murder-if he needed someone to nail for murder-if you were the pigeon caught parking for two hours in a one-hour zone. But for pussy, never.
Like, you know, sixty-nining is illegal. Even between husband and wife, man, it's illegal. How the hell they prove it, unless one of the parties complains, like she was forced to suck-or better yet forced to let herself be sucked, I don't know. But the law's there. I mean, if he fucked ya, all they like to hear is was it a good fuck? But when it comes to sucking, all you got to do is make the claim. So watch out for a gal who's willing to blow you, but won't fuck. She's getting something on you. Yet Lieutenant Barnes was the best cuntlapper in town. Emily ought to know.
"You have something to tell us, Mr. Franklin?" asked Barnes.
"Yes, I understand you're working on the Davis case."
And then he told him all he knew about Susan Davis, what little of her he did know, leaving out, for personal reasons, her squeals and moans, her keens of pleasure, the ecstasy she communicated when she felt herself coming-instead of keeping it a big, dark secret-and getting him with it so he could pace his come to hers so there was no question about whether it was a good one or a bad one. For them, together, at the same itme, and time and time again, they didn't have to compare it with anything. That was it. There was nowhere else to go. There was nowhere else they wanted to go. That had to be love, right? Only he didn't talk about that to Lieutenant Barnes.
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed, and Don realized he had said something maybe he shouldn't have.
"Mrs. Davis seems to have told you a great deal about Mr. Davis."
"Well, we were ... quite personal, obviously."
"But why did you follow her here? You knew the score: a hot-pants housewife over her head in her husband's ambitions, maybe set aside by him in his busy activities, so she gets her jollies with a quick romance here and there. This time it was you-you've been around so you took it-and goodbye, farewell, good luck."
His head began to ache. It always did, when he had to listen to words he didn't want to hear. That's why he wasn't practicing his profession any more. "I couldn't let it go at that ... for personal reasons I'd rather not say."
"You have to say, Mr. Franklin. Look at it. By your own admission you became acquainted with Mrs. Davis while you say she was at a cottage here-where was it, Wilkes-Barre?-and you followed her to Binghamton and found out she gave you a phony name. And you found out who her husband was. And when you accosted her, did you find yourself unwelcomed? The door slammed in your face?
"And when you insisted on seeing Calvin Davis, you told him-as you just told me-that maybe his wife was the intended victim, not him. Any two-bit psychiatrist would find that sort of a subliminal-unconscious, I guess-confession, wouldn't he, Mr. Franklin? But let's forget confessions. Let's look at the fact that you followed her, were here in town when she was killed. Now tell me, where were you at six o'clock yesterday morning?"
He knew the feeling of cold fright. A prosecuting attorney could make this an airtight case. He'd have the help of the mayor and of Calvin Davis himself, especially Davis, if Davis had killed Susan and now had himself a practically self-confessed patsy. But through all the thoughts tumbling in his head, Don found himself reflecting on what he would have done had he found Susan and confronted her. And what if she had slammed the door in his face? Maybe he was the murderer and didn't even know it. Maybe he would have been the murderer, if someone hadn't done it so neatly before him.
And it was on the record that he had gone to Mrs. Howard and inquired about Susan, by her maiden name. He felt himself choking.
"I was in bed," he said, "at my motel, with the desk clerk." He didn't know her name, he mumbled, but he could find out.
"Nicole Demet."
"Who?"
"Nicole Demet. She was angry because I didn't show up the night before so she's already told me she made out okay. Thanks for filling in." But there was no smile on the lieutenant's face. He went on: "But that had nothing to do with the time the bomb was placed in the car, does it?"
"Lieutenant, for god's sake," Don exploded. "Where would I get dynamite in this town? How could I put such a bomb together from the time I got here to when the bomb went off?"
"Maybe you brought it with you. Maybe that's what you do down there in your cabin on the lake."
Don was surprised to find himself thinking about the conjecture. "No." He shook his head slowly. "Then I would have planned it, and you just built up a case for an impulsive act."
"I just want you to see what a plausible suspect you are," Lieutenant Barnes said. "But that's only because you make yourself one by insisting it was Mrs. Davis who was the intended victim. Now our theory that it was Davis-because he's had threats before-moves you off that position."
Don shook his head. "No, that doesn't either. "What if the only way I could get her was to get rid of him-like she didn't want to leave her husband, or something, for reasons other than personal, so I did it for her?"
"Where did you get the dynamite and make a bomb so fast?"
"I brought it with me, like you said."
Lieutenant Barnes actually smiled. "Then you wouldn't have put it in the car she was using. You'd have taken care of Davis where he was staying."
"Possibly. But I'm not too bright."
"If you were bright enough to make that bomb and plant it, were all that careful with the way you did it, you wouldn't have overlooked such obvious details. If you wanted Davis, you'd have gone after him, not the woman you wanted to take from him."
"That's what's funny, lieutenant," Don said slowly, "I didn't want to take her from him. In her mind and her body she had left him, and I just wanted to pick up the pieces."
"That man you say that she left with-that description fits Jeets Baxter, the mayor's assistant. But he hasn't even been out of town."
Don promised Lieutenant Barnes that he wouldn't leave town. "It isn't that the case against you so far is only circumstantial. That's all it has to be. But you supplied most of the circumstance so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt right now until our own investigation doesn't pan out. Then with the newspaper yelling and Mr. Davis up in arms and the Mayor threatening to fire me, I'll lay it on your doorstep. But in the meantime, I'd rather have you out from underfoot so the department doesn't sit back on its ass and figure the case is solved."
* * *
What baffled her, besides knowing she wasn't too bright-although she certainly handled the office efficiently and even had a gold-pin award from The Secretarial Council of Better Secretaries of the United States-was her ability to evaluate the rewards from her sexual participation with the political and business figures who counted. Not in a hard, uptight, crass, and ruthless way, of course, because that wasn't her style; but with a sort of fumbling, innocent and bewildered acceptance that made everybody like her. Yet with Jeets there were no rewards and no possibility of any. And she didn't want to be liked by him. She would have been embarrassed if others knew what she was doing with him. Yet she would do thingsany things-with others, singly or together, in a private party or a group festival, without the slightest feeling of secrecy or embarrassment.
With Jeets it was a compulsion. A hateful thing that he made her do; but the fact that he made her do it was its own reward. Maybe it would be worthwhile going to a shrink to find out why; but after she found out why, what would it solve for her? True, it might allow her to reject him, but the thought that she might reject him and not have him force her anymore was too scary even to contemplate.
That's why when he came in late, she was nearly out of her tree with desire for him. But there was his cock, looking untouched in the pants-roll between his leg, the way it bulged against his left thigh (the mayor dressed right and so did Mr.
Davis and most cunt hounds she knew; did the fact that Jeets dressed left have anything to do with it? If she ever went to that shrink) and she knew he still had it for her when he bumped against her and told her he wanted then, now, in the closet.
"Where were you yesterday?" she hissed back at him. "And the day before?" She jerked her head toward the mayor's office door, where he was with Mr. Davis and that young man who insisted to the police guard that he wanted to see Mr. Davis. "They used me like a football, and you weren't even here to care!" That young man-Don Franklin-dressed cock-left.
It always got him angry when she told him about being fucked by the mayor. When it was Mr. Davis alone, he didn't seem too upset. Upset, but not too upset. But when it was the mayor, he couldn't even speak. That's how she wanted him, not speaking, just fucking. So she was very careful to delineate every touch from the mayor. The way his hands wiped over her ass when she walked by. The way, when she would be standing next to him at the desk, as he was signing papers, he would let one hand come up under her miniskirt and pat her asscheeks; then massage them; then knead them; then let the fingers crawl between the globes and fondle her anus; then their drift southward, between her thighs, making her open her thighs, as she bent over the desktop with him, next to him; so the fingers could curl through her pubic hair, while one finger, the middle finger, traced her slit; from her asshole all the way around to her belly, almost up to her navel; then back again to the slit, and dipping in; and pushing in; and plunging in; and fucking in; and out. Until he had a hard-on, which might take a dozen signatures on city papers before he was ready; but, eventually, he was ready. And so was she, by now. And then she would describe, inch by inch, the delicacy of his fuck.
Sometimes on the floor.
Sometimes standing up against the wall, one leg lifted on a stool.
Sometimes on top of the desk, where his drops of cum could harden on the glass and remain there for days sometimes, he insisted, as a memory of his capability.
Sometimes on his couch; that narrow, backless, leather bench, really, which he'd lie back on, with his legs falling on either side, for her to straddle him and sit down on him; and stand up and sit down on him; sometimes facing him, sometimes facing away from him.
Looking at him, the first way, watching his fat belly quiver and jerk; just looking at a blank wall, the second way, but watching their shadows from the lamp he had carefully placed behind the couch so it was like watching a movie where the actors didn't want to be identified.
Sometimes she was startled by the activities of the shadows; looked on in amazement and wonder and excitement as she watched the movements those shadows did and could hardly realize that the one sitting up, the one with the long, swinging hair and bobbing head and lifting ass and thrusting legs was her ... her ... and the feeling was so good she could hardly contain herself.
That's what got Jeets really angry.
And then he gave it to her. Good, and hard, and mean. Really mean. Right up the ass sometimes. Sometimes sinking his short, even, sharp teeth into the tender skin around her cunt and trying to bite off the whole vulva. Once she swore he had completely decapitated her; but there were only deep teeth marks left, making her look as if she had three lines of cunt for a week afterward.
But she could never bring herself to bite back on his cock. Why if she just scraped the sensitive head slightly with her teeth, just by accident, Jeets nearly screamed down the walls.
And that upset her, because it didn't make him angry; it made him almost pathetic; and she didn't want to see him that way. He didn't do her any good that way.
And she sure wanted him to do her good.
But she just couldn't figure out what good he was doing her; like the good the Mayor and Mr. Davis and others of that ilk were doing her.
Jeets just gave her a certain feeling in the fucking.
And that was the sweet mystery of her life.
The rest of her life wasn't very mysterious.
At age 19, Bella Cass is a basically immature girl with childish responses indicative of a primary psychopathy. She is sensitive in some areas, but there is a loss of sensitivity through a narcissistic absorption in herself and denial of close relationships to others. She has no real attachments and is generally a loner. She displays a large element of hostility in close attachments, which she tends to go out of her way to avoid. She attaches herself only to those she can seduce to supply her needs. There is an underlying hostility to those who help her. There is a degree of ambivalence due to dominant concern with purely selfish, immediate interests that are generally shallow and base.
Bella Cass reveals little accumulation of tension, but tension arises quickly and cannot be tolerated since she seeks immediate release often by going into a violent fit of temper accompanied by shrieking fits. All of which take place inside her and do not reach the surface.
Her concern with herself conceals a basic feeling of inferiority. She feels inadequate in respect to social demands, and abandons any attempts to fulfill social obligations-feeling adequate only in predatory activities. Actually, her hostility crowds out anxiety and depression, and though hostility is the dominant background emotion, she is incapable of recognizing it for what it is. She has no feelings of incompleteness since her self-love is too strong.
Prognosis is negative. She resists learning and reacts by emotional explosions and screaming outbursts when frustrated. The fact that her business activities, her career, and her day-by-day emotions are under public scrutiny and prohibit such violent release, she employs a form of release that is acceptable to those with whom she associates. By flagrant sexual participation, she is able to give vent to her emotional outbursts, which are accepted by her companions as an indication of their stimulation and prowess.
Yet, because this frustrates her even further and outrages her because her expressions for help are misunderstood, she punishes herself by demanding sexual attacks from those whom she does not wish to influence so that her agony can be identified for what it is, and satisfied.
But since she is out of touch with reality and handles the every day details of her occupation as if she were in a dream or a participant in a play, or is an actress in a movie that she is watching from the safety of the audience, it is doubtful she will ever be realistic enough to accept help.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Since he couldn't leave Binghamton until he got permission, or the killer of Mrs. Susan Davis was identified and, hopefully, captured, Don sat in his motel room and tried to make sense out of his behavior.
The fact that he was acting nonsensical, had done so from the first moment his eyes had feasted on Susan's bare skin, even back there in the cabin, in the rain, the afternoon when he still hadn't touched her, but had the idea planted to touch her, (Touch her? Fuck her! Suck her! Be fucked and sucked by her!), from that moment on his brain had felt wrapped in a rag.
You're an intelligent man. You're an educated man. An M.D. A Ph.D. Be rational!
But being rational told him that when one is conducting a sexual intercourse only one-fifth of his brain is employed. Just one-fifth! My god, you could be Aristotle and you'd still blither like an idiot! That's why after the orgasm, after that come that hauled out all the ashes of your brain, you looked at the naked hunk of meat next to you, or under you, or on top of you, and wondered what you were doing here and how the hell you could get out of here.
The fact that he didn't feel that way with Susan, the fact that he couldn't orgasm enough, the fact that after coming he was as wrapped up with her as he was before coming, told him that his brain was still working at one-fifth its power; as if he were still in the throes of a fuck without having come at all.
If he were a drinking man, he'd hit the bottle now and get stoned. Pot was better, but he didn't know how to get it. Emily White did, but thinking of her gave him a better idea. Eating that small, dark, hard, sharp, black pussy was the best way to lose himself. Having-what was her name, Nicole?-sucking out his ass at the same time would ensure his loss of contact with where he was and what he was doing. There was a definite appeal in conjuring up Nicole's face in his ass. Because the mountain of her gave him nothing erotic to contemplate; but the beauty of her face, the beauty that was there even at her age, and enhanced because she was stout and her face was full and her lips anxious, started the juices working. Otherwise, picturing her singly, and Emily White singly, would never get this soft bone out of his belly; not unless he concentrated on the image of Susan.
And he didn't want to remember Susan anymore.
But even that would still leave his cock free.
And then he thought of her, the third one, and his cock started up all by itself, just thinking about her; because he hadn't had her. And he could have her just by asking her. He had smelled her agreement the way she had looked at his crotch from under her brows. The exquisite shapeliness of her, the comparative youth of her-almost as young as that yellow-haired girl down in Pennsylvania-was enough all by herself to forget Susan.
But in tandem with Emily and Nicole forgetfulness was assured.
He dialed 9 for an outside line; then held his finger on the telephone number of city hall. He was connected, and he asked for the mayor's office. A man answered. Damn. Either that detective or the mayor's assistant, Jeets Baxter. He didn't know who to ask for. "The mayor's secretary, please. Miss-uh-"
"Miss Cass?"
"Miss Cass, that's right."
"Hello?" She was on the line.
"Listen carefully," he began. "I was in your office yesterday with the mayor and Mr. Davis. I'd appreciate it if you didn't repeat my name-Don Franklin?"
There was silence at the other end. Except for her breathing. He could picture her breathing. He could picture her mouth open, the tiny, pointed, wet, red tongue showing. The long hair flowing. The short skirt undulating. Even could picture Jeets' hand as it went round and round on her ass. As his knee rubbed inside her thighs. As he pleaded something with her. Or her with him.
"If you remember me-and I hope you do-I'm waiting for you. Now. I need you now. I want you now. I have the biggest hard-on in town for you. Now."
Still silence. The line still open, because he could still hear the breathing. He heard the catch in the throat. Almost heard the indecision and the trauma in her mind. But it wasn't just an obscene phone call for him to play with himself for her benefit; nor for her to fingerfuck herself when she had him waiting for her. He had identified himself. Now he had to tell her where he was waiting.
He told her.
And he hung up without waiting to hear her say anything.
Fifteen years of experience told him there was no problem there. The only problem lay in whether she felt she could believe the phone call. In whether she could trust the phone call.
Her decision was up to the sum total of her own experience.
Over that he had no control.
It had all happened before he had gotten there.
Like the advantage of wearing his prick in his left side that he couldn't control either.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jeets Baxter played it cool. Even when he had turned back for Susan Davis, because Calvin had insisted he bring her back hand in hand, and he had nearly lost her, there at the motel, because of that yellow-haired cunt, he had squeezed out all feeling. Felt nothing when she sneered at him. Felt nothing when she cut him down to size. Felt nothing all those times when he knew she was fucking everybody who come along-had to be fucking everybody, because she wasn't fucking Calvin and certainly wasn't fucking him-and she warned him that she wouldn't waste time telling Calvin, that she'd cut off his balls herself.
The hood of the yellow Pinto was raised and a local service station attendant was fiddling with wires and tapping the battery cables. Evidently she had come right out, when she saw Jeets' car missing. But the Pinto wouldn't start. She had had that trouble with it so she accused him of nothing, just shot him that cold look and peered with the attendant under the hood.
He came up close to her, behind her, sort of leaned in, and was careful to lean down on her. He felt the round, hard curves of her ass and the valley in the middle. Felt the heat from that valley and the movement of her thighs as she turned aside, without looking back at him, angry or otherwise; not giving him the benefit of her reaction, but just pretending that she was making room for him.
As if she'd ever make room for him, the cunt.
The kid in the gas station uniform scratched his head and told her it wasn't any trouble that could be fixed with an AAA service call. He could tow her in without charge, but the service manager would have to fix it, whatever it was, however long he would take.
"Did you check the distributor?" Jeets asked.
"Yeah, the rotor seemed loose. I reseated it, but it isn't making contact."
"You want to ride back with me?" Jeets asked Susan.
"No."
A simple word. Unequivocal. Flat. No.
"Well, the boss wants you home, like today. So why don't you sign for the service call and I'll see if I can't get you started."
"I've checked whatever can be checked without taking the engine apart," the kid said defensively. "Hell, there isn't too much to these motors. There's got to be something inside."
"Don't worry about it, kid. I'll play with it, okay?"
The boy acted as if his whole reputation as a mechanic in this jerkwater town was going to go down the drain if Jeets started the car. So Jeets waited until Susan dug out her AAA card and went back to the tow truck with the boy to sign the form.
He unclipped the distributor cap, lifted the rotor, took the seal from his pocket, screwed it onto the rotor, and seated it back in the plug-in slot. His fingers worked quickly without getting a spot of grease. Again, they were still damp-sticky-from hot pussy, but deft in making the connection. He knew engines; how to connect them and disconnect them, and hook all kinds of devices to them.
The exhaust blew out a puff of black smoke, and the engine chugged and limped; rougher than hell, but it turned over, and stayed running.
"I'll be right behind you," Jeets told her. "But if you keep it over fifty, where you can, you should not have much trouble. It's when you first start or when you're going slow that the gas is choked off. It could be in the carburetor or in the line. I'll take it to the garage for you when we get back to Binghamton."
"Thanks a lot," she answered dryly, and climbed behind the wheel.
"Mr. Davis wants you at the apartment, not at home. So drive straight to the office."
She was going to rebut his directions, but she'd have to get the car back downtown for servicing anyway. She should have taken the Mark III. Calvin rarely drove it, because he said it was too ostentatious for his constituency around town. Only when they drove down to New York or for a weekend in Philadelphia did he get behind the wheel. And she hated to drive it because it was so hard to park. But she should have taken it on this trip, especially after Jeets told her the Pinto wasn't working right. But she got uptight in his concern about her welfare. It was almost like he wanted her to take the Mark III. But he didn't know where she was going so thinking like that was absolutely paranoid.
Now she agreed she'd stay over fifty, if she could. She didn't want the Pinto conking out again and having to ride in the same car with Jeets.
They wouldn't ride far. She knew that.
Once she had been alone in a car with him, and without saying anything, he unzipped his pants and put her hand on his cock before she realized what was happening.
"Pull it," he grunted. "Pull it!"
And although the threat that she would tell Calvin was always there, the one time Jeets had caught her with Ivy Howard and the three swimming instructors, and Mrs. Howard's Danish maid, Karen, and her girlfriend, Gretchen, the second maid; that one time when she had tried pot and mixed it with booze and somebody had passed pills around and she thought it was headache capsules, well, the threat was defused.
So she pulled his cock until the globs of sperm spurted thickly in her hand. She could understand why she had to do it; although she was filled with revulsion, she could understand why she had to go through with it. What she couldn't understand was why she kept jacking it even after he started coming, until every last drop had spit out the head and the tight squeals in his throat had silenced and his legs had relaxed and his cock had gone limp.
Even then she had milked it until it was empty. Then she had dried it with her own handkerchief and folded the big prick back in his pants and even tried to help him zip up the fly.
For that she couldn't forgive herself.
So she hated him.
And Jeets seemed to just be biding his time. For what, she didn't know.
But at least if she was going to meet Calvin at the apartment in the office, Jeets wouldn't be around. He'd be with the mayor. And she'd have a chance to talk to Calvin alone. They had a lot to talk about. And she'd tell him, too, about the party with Ivy Howard and get Jeets off her back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bella Cass was the first one to his room. He held off calling the others until he knew she was coming. Without her, he'd have dropped them. He could jack-off just as well. There was no personal involvement with them, and he needed personal involvement more than anything. Of course he could get that from this new, young, sweet, tender girl, and he didn't need Nicole nor Emily. But then the involvement-with the emotional depths he was plumbing now-would be too much. Like him and Susan all over again. And he didn't want that again. Not with a nympho like Miss Cass. With Susan it was different. With Susan it was the chance to start the dream in his head again, the dream he had the first time around on the marriage-go-round. Bella Cass didn't fit that dream.
Bella Cass filled a different one.
For the moment, the best of both worlds.
But he'd keep from getting involved by adding the company of Nicole and Cindy.
He was naked when he let Bella into the shadows of the room, and it took her only an instant to shed the minidress and show him she wore nothing underneath.
They said nothing.
Their bodies merged eagerly, where they stood between the door and the window, the curtains billowing against them from the late afternoon breeze. He heard a horn honk and the slam of car doors; the sigh of the pneumatic glass as wayfarers entered the motel lobby; the singing of tires on the thruway behind the motel.
Their lips met and the world narrowed down to just the two of them, sealed together, pore to pore, feeling the joy of appeased happiness coursing in their veins.
Feeling the hard-on of his cock.
Feeling the trembling warmth of her luscious young curves pressed tight against his trembling frame.
He kept moving his hands up and down her small back, around and on and over the smooth, quivering cheeks of her ass; as their thighs pushed together in a straining closeness. His tongue drove between her lips and the lovely girl moaned with arms urgently around his shoulders and crushing the fullness of her breasts against his drum-tight chest.
"Fuck," she said into his mouth. "Oh, fuck."
It wasn't an order. It wasn't a plea. She wasn't asking him to do anything, or to stop from doing anything. She was just saying, "Fuck. Oh, fuck." Because in her mind she was already fucking. She was in the right place at the right time to fuck and be fucked, and so she was merely identifying it for herself to remind herself to enjoy every sweet second of it, to extract every drop of juice from it while it was there to be extracted. Because later, too soon later, it would be gone, and she would try to remember it and live it again, and she would mouth again, "Fuck. Oh, fuck." And she'd remember.
And to him, there was nothing like a young girl. When you're older and fucking is more than just the come; that is, it's the come, but it's the come with the whole brain and the whole psyche as well as the important physical spurt of semen. For younger men, even boys, older women are better. And better for the older women, too. As Mrs. Howard and her young friends were no doubt finding out. And although an older man will turn down no fuck; will look at an aging, sagging woman, and in minutes will have a fresh, youthful image transmitted to his brain; still if he starts with the fresh, youthful image in person, he can devote all his energies to the reality of the flesh and have himself a very good time.
He set about with Bella Cass to have a very good time.
Susan Davis didn't exist. So be it.
* * *
When Gretchen showed Mr. Davis to the door, because Karen was almost rigid with the majesty of the excitement Gretchen had sucked into her, he voiced surprise that he had never been greeted by her before.
She giggled and blushed and felt self-conscious, because she knew Karen's smell was still all over her, and Mr. Davis was smelling Karen and thinking it was her.
It was her a little, too; but mostly Karen, because it was Karen who went out of her mind with their love games, while she only indulged Karen, because Karen had been so good to her.
But the indulgence that she had so far denied herself, that so far had been denied to her by the interference of Karen, was the ecstasy of a stiff penis to be looked at. To be held. To be felt. In her mouth, instead of Karen's mushy vagina. In her own vagina, instead of Karen's short, sharp tongue. She had seen what Mrs. Howard did with them, and she wanted to do it too.
She thrilled at the friendliness of Mr. Davis, and when she opened the door for him and he put his hand on her flank and then he cupped one titty and bounced it and she giggled and creamed and batted her eyes, she couldn't even say yes, but could only nod at his invitation.
She watched him go out to his waiting cab, and through the crack in the still-not-shut door saw him talking to the cab driver through the window and pointing back to the house. Then he hurried back up the stairs, and she opened the door again, a little. She kept one knee between the jamb and the door edge, and while Mr. Davis told her that the cab would be back at two o'clock in the morning, that she should be waiting for it on the steps, his hands kept stroking that knee and she could feel the fingers clear into her vagina, even though he never stroked beyond the end of the hem. It was like having four cocks rolling on her blonde knee, while his thumb pressed and caressed in harmony.
* * *
Dan told Bella they were going to have a party. He told her they were going to have a real ball. Black and white and young and old and thin and fat.
All at the same time and all together. But he wanted her alone now, first. And that was A-okay with her.
His lips were a delight-teasing, touching, tasting. But best of all was his cock. Not that it was big. She wasn't a size queen. But that he dressed left. That it came up from the dark patch between his legs like a knife and angled to the left side. Some day she'd find out the significance of that, but right now it was enough to know that it was made for her. It would slide into her and out of her and into her again, right along the way her sheath bent and twisted and dripped and drooled, and the fucking would be a delight to feel.
Yet the prick was long and heavy, dark-red from the blood pumping into the glans. He not only promised a lot, he could deliver too. Just the knowledge of that tightened her cunt in anticipation of a sweet come. Then it loosened, suddenly, and she felt the hot juices running down the inside of her thighs.
"Now!" And now she pleaded. "Fuck! Oh, fuck!"
His balls looked puckered and old, and she wanted to fondle them, caress them, make them young again, for her. She reached between his legs and took the cock in one hand, watched and felt it twitch and bump. With her other hand she manipulated the balls and raised them from his nest of hair.
They lay on the bed and rolled into each other.
He turned his mouth for another kiss, and she gave it to him. Kissing like young lovers on a high school date. Her hand still worked his prick and balls, like some young lovers on some high school dates. His tongue went between her lips and searched her throat.
She kept up a regular beat on his rigid cock, slow and measured; to keep it where it was and give it pleasure where it was going. She pulled the skin up so it covered the bulbous head; then skimmed it back to the base, leaving the globe round and full and firm and taut; shiny taut. She kept massaging the balls too, until they were hard and full and youthful in their weight.
Her cunt was a tight knot now. The secretions were sticky on her upper thighs and trickling all the way down to her trembling calves. She hooked her ankles with his and rolled herself on top of him.
She waited an instant, feeling his cock pushing into her navel, and watched him close his eyes in anticipation. She quickly and suddenly scooted down and popped his shaft into her mouth first.
"Oh, baby, that's good," he said, not disappointed, and pressed the back of her head harder into his towering penis. And forgot Susan.
Her tongue roamed every crease of the fantastic, left-bending, prick in her mouth. Her teeth nibbled gently on the smooth, velvety skin. Her tongue flicked the tiny opening and lapped up the tiny bead of pre-seminal fluid that bubbled to the top. The alkaline warmth excited her even more, and she began to pound the hard flesh against the roof of her mouth. Until it swelled big enough to choke her.
Then she came up on him, sliding her mounds of hard titty back and forth across his bare belly. He cupped them in his hands, tweaking the nipples until they popped out like tiny cherries. She brought up the white froth of her fallatio on her lips and spread it across his mouth.
And now he said, "Fuck. Oh, fuck."
She straddled him. She raised up on her knees and positioned herself over his strutting cock. She hovered there as she guided the bulging prickhead to the open, moist, soft lips of her nineteen-year-old cunt and pressured it on her clitoris until she felt the buildup choke her cunt like his cock choked her cunt a moment before. Then she let her weight come down fully in her ass, and she sat flat on his prick.
She watched his eyes roll with delight. But his delight could be no greater than hers. She felt the thick organ spread wide, and it spread her wide, as it forced its way up her vaginal canal, making a straight, greased tunnel out of all the twists and turns of her tubes. Getting straight, she thought, and giggled. And began to fuck.
It was a delight to know the prick was hers, all hers; and later she held it up her cunt by keeping her palms flat on his humped ass and tugging him into her, while Nicole Demet, the woman from the motel desk, with an angelic face that any woman would cream for, reamed his ass, her nose and lips and tongue and teeth fighting to enter that tiny, brown hole; and Emily White, the coffee-colored Negress, sat on his face and let him eat her pussy while she ate a big red apple from the fruit bowl supplied by the motel; and Bella Cass felt very friendly with all three; in love with all three; for the first time at peace and in harmony with what she was doing, really; and knowing that even after Don Franklin left, she would have two friends she could depend on. For parties and things.
Like her mother said, it takes people to meet people. Mama sure was right.
They were like that, rearranged differently, maybe, but like that-Don's face peering out between someone's thighs, the fat humps of her split ass on his forehead. Bella's pussy going round and round on his prick, while her own mouth delved into Nicole's fat ass-Emily's thin one?-Emily's mouth in somewhere, on somebody. When the knock came at the door.
First tentatively; then louder.
The bed stopped squeaking, and they all lay still. Just breathing hard. Those coming, breathing a little harder than the others. But all breathing hard. In a come, or just after a come, or just before coming. It took minutes to get their heads together.
Don opened his mouth, brushed away the pubic hairs, but at first his voice was only a whisper. Then it scratched into sound, and he called out the obvious: "Who is it?"
The answer wasn't the obvious.
The answer was the most unexpected answer he could expect, even if he had been all together to expect it.
"Susan," was the tremulous answer through the door. Susan Davis."
And there was just the sound of the multiple breathing again, while Don tried to remember who Susan Davis was.
"Dolores White," she called out again, with a short, embarrassed laugh. "Remember me?"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
See? You can have as many definitions of love as there are philosophers in the world. But love to Don was the love Susan showed when she walked into the room and into his arms and didn't care if he had all the girls in Las Vegas in his bed. Black, white, brown, yellow, rose. Thick, thin, short, tall, or fat. Like Nicole. Like Bella.
At first they thought Susan was another member of the group; except Bella. Bella Cass knew who she was. And she knew Bella. Bella was stunned.
Susan explained that she had come back to Davis, confronted him in his office, only to have him accuse her of not loving him, of shacking up with a lover, of contemplating divorce from him.
It was all true, and the truth of it even shocked her. So he bedded her down when she fainted, and left. For help perhaps, or for advice. What Mrs. Howard told him, she didn't know; but he came back to the office only to be assured she was sleeping. Then he went home, he said, to get her things and have her brought to a hospital, a sanitarium, really, without anyone knowing her condition, and their circumstance.
The Pinto didn't work, and he had to use cabs. And he found himself a Scandinavian maid to spend some hours with at the house. It seems, before dawn, her friend, another maid-both Mrs. Howard's maids, in fact-found her missing, but knew somehow where she had gone. She called hysterically to Susan's house and warned Gretchen to come home immediately.
A cab was impossible to get, right then; but there was Susan's Mark III. And the key was in the ignition. Carefully placed in the ignition.
Maybe Calvin Davis wouldn't have filled in the story so thoroughly, and truthfully, if there had not been a witness.
There was a yellow-haired southern girl who had followed Jeets. She saw him do something under the hood of the Mark III. And she would have waited in the back of the car if she thought he was driving it. But instead she waited in the side vestibule for Susan, because Jeets had said things about her that she was sure would be worth something to her to hear for a ride south.
But a financial reason wasn't the only one. Jeets had shot and killed her Doberman Pinscher. The only friend she had.
It was all on the radio and in the papers, and it certainly was surprising that not one of the three in the motel room knew anything about it.
It wasn't surprising at all.
* * *
The lake was blue below them as the convertible came around the bend. Don turned off the macadam and followed the rutted dirt road that led to his cabin. Mr. Jennings was coming the opposite way, and they waved.
A schoolgirl next to him waved too.
"I'm afraid we brought sin to this idyllic spot," Susan said.
Don chuckled. "If you're talking about sex, that's one thing. But if you're talking about sin, that was all back there in Binghamton. Murder is sin."
He hesitated, screwed up his face as if he were thinking hard. "What's the opposite of sin?"
His convertible rolled to a stop next to the cabin.
"Fucking," I guess, Susan Franklin said finally. "Right," Don Franklin said.