Melissa Kent dabbed at her brow with a silk handkerchief. The metal roof of the airport made the heat unbearable beneath. Or was it the heat that bothered her? She had lived in Hawaii for nearly twelve years; surely she should be accustomed to it by now. Besides, the terminal was open on all sides to catch the trade winds.
No, she decided. It was not the heat, not the heat of the weather at any rate. She was just damned nervous about meeting her sister's son. She didn't want him here! She had her own life to live. He would only cramp her style. Why should she care if she was his only living relative, the only person he could turn to after his mother's death. When Harry, her husband, had died two years ago, she had faced up to it alone-alone, if you considered her string of service johns as unsympathetic outsiders, which is exactly what she considered them.
Shifting the leis she had bought for her nephew from hand to hand, she moved away from the railing and slid into an empty place on the bench. She was crowded on one side by a tearful native woman who was apparently leaving her family for the first time, and on the other by four young tourists. Melissa hated the airport; normally when she was expecting visitors she would send the car for them and wait comfortably at home. She had not dared do that to her nephew. Guilt had brought her out to meet him in person. In the past two years she had all but abandoned her sister and nephew, being too busy with snatching all she could out of her last few years of youth.
Hawaii was the best place in the world for a woman who wanted a good time. There were thousands of men, navy, air force, army, marines, and even tourists trying to cap their vacations with a strange piece of ass before going back to the drab role of husband and father in some small mainland town. Only last night she had lured a handsome-looking stud away from his wife long enough to make a date for later in the evening. Her car had picked him up outside his hotel and delivered him to her home on the cliffs.
Just remembering his naked body stretched out across her bed, muscular and deeply tanned against the shimmering white of her satin sheets filled her with a desire for a repeat performance. God, what a lay he had been! She could almost still feel the thickness of his shaft stretching the walls of her tight vagina. In the last moments of passion she had cried for him to tear her apart and he had thrust himself into her like a bull. Jesus! The joy when they had exploded at the same time. And he had not been contented to stop there. He had spun around and buried his face between her legs, lapping the fruit of their passion like a cat taking milk.
She shifted her position and tried to keep from thinking about last night. Searching for something to take her mind off sex, she let the young people beside her drawn her attention, but only a few seconds had past before her gaze was focused on the lump in the trousers of one of the young men. He was leaning back on the bench with his pelvis thrust forward, the bulge of his enormous shaft stretching halfway down his upper leg, its shape and thickness visible through the tight, thin material. He caught her stare and smiled when their eyes met. She quickly looked away.
Jesus, she thought, he couldn't be over eighteen! She wasn't that hot! Or was she?
She turned back to look at the boy boldly. After all, her limousine was sitting in the parking lot. It had black shades and a soft leather seat. The boy had slid even further down in his seat and had turned his hips slightly in her direction. He was teasing her, aware that she wanted, needed him. Casually, he let his hand slide down his leg and linger momentarily over the bulge. When he withdrew it she was certain she had seen it quiver.
Damn you!
She wiped her brow again and nervously tucked her handkerchief into the top of her purse. The boy was blonde, as tan as the man she had had last night. His skin was smooth and there was a bleach down on his face instead of a beard. The sleeves of his thin summer shirt had been rolled up about his biceps. They were thick and well developed. He was probably a surfer, one of the millions of schoolboys from California who filled the beaches during their vacation. She had heard that they were a wild lot, but she had never met any of them.
She would like to, she decided. Especially this one! Now!
She gave him a sign with a toss of her head to meet her outside the terminal. Then, after lingering long enough to be sure he had understood, she got up and walked casually toward the exit, emphasizing the sway of her hips she moved away from him. At the exit, she turned and saw him stand. He was talking to his friends, another boy and two girls, obviously making excuses to leave them for a few moments.
She moved a few yards away from the terminal and stood waiting, watching him as he approached. He was cocksure of himself, walking with a typical male swagger, a grin about his lips. His hands were shoved into his pockets.
"It'll have to be quick," he said as he came up to her. "I'm seeing off one of the chicks inside."
Without speaking, she turned and walked toward the limousine. She was aware of the hardened nipples of her breasts pressing against the silky material of her dress. At thirty, she wore no bra; she didn't need them. She was damned proud of that. And her hips hadn't spread the way some of her friends had. She had no doubt that she could have turned on this young man as much as he had her. She could hear his heavy breathing from behind her shoulder.
Entering a line of parked cars she spotted her limousine, Santos, the driver, sitting behind the wheel with an open newspaper. He looked up as she approached, tossed the paper onto the seat behind him and got out to open the door.
"The plane is late," she told him. "I'll wait in the car."
His expression had registered surprise. He had obviously taken the young man tagging behind her to be her nephew.
"Let me know when they announce the arrival," she told him; and waited until he had closed the door behind them and moved off toward the terminal before she lowered the shades.
"You could see you had class," the boy said, "even without the limousine." He reached forward and cupped her full breasts in his hands, drawing himself closer and attempting to press his lips against hers in an awkward kiss. She turned away, at the same time reaching behind her neck and unfastening the snap of her dress, pushing it forward off her shoulders until the full moons of her breasts stood out, milky white where the straps of her bathing suit had hidden them from the Hawaiian sun. The nipples were hard, pointed, the crescents the size of a silver dollar. Placing her hands behind his neck, she pulled the boy forward until his lips had opened and fastened themselves over her right nipple. She let her hand travel down his stomach and into his crotch. She squeezed the hardened bulge in his trouser leg gently, feeling it stiffen even more beneath her touch.
The boy's blonde head had moved from her nipple, his tongue making a trail of saliva around her breast and into the cleavage. His tongue was hot, but not as hot as her flesh. She squeezed again and again until his mushroom-shaped phallus seemed ready to tear through his trousers. She could feel a spot of moisture on the material near its head. Her eyes closed to pleasure, she found the zipper of his pants and brought it downward. He wore no underclothes. His inflamed penis leaped free. It was stiff and hot in her hand.
The boy pulled himself away from her breasts, and reaching under her skirt, fumbled under the edge of her panties to reach the pulsating opening of her mound of Venus. His finger plunged forward, entering her with such roughness that she cried out.
"You want it now?" he moaned.
In answer, she slid down in the seat and allowed him to pull her skirt to her waist. He tore away her panties like a starving man after food and left her naked buttocks sticking to the heated leather seat. He hovered above her, his hands resting on either side of her head, looking down at her naked body with the silk dress wrapped around her middle.
"Now!" she told him. "Enter me now!"
But he was in no hurry. Spinning around on the seat, he buried his face in the triangle of her legs, forcing his rod into her face. "French me!" he demanded.
Her eyes widened at the size of his inflated shaft. The inflamed head was deep red, the shaft widening to an enormous size at the base.
He began to move his hips, searching for her open lips. "Take me!" he demanded again; and opening her lips, she closed them about the head only to have him thrust himself into her mouth and down her throat. She tried to tear herself free, but his thighs had locked her head into place. She could not move; only submit to passion. He had spread the flesh between her legs and was driving his tongue in and out with masterful precision. Almost instantly she could feel the explosive force within her cry out for release.
The boy, too, was sensing the approach of his climax. He drove himself even deeper, so deep that she thought she would faint from lack of air. His fingers separated her flesh enough to allow a deeper passage for his tongue.
The leather beneath her buttocks was pulling at her naked flesh. Their movements were so rough, so fast that she felt pain, pain as intense as the thrust of needles into her soft thighs. Her eyes had filled with tears, the perspiration was pouring from her forehead and wrecking the hairdresser's efforts of that morning, but she did not care. Nothing mattered, not her nephew, her appearance, the fact that she knew people outside were staring curiously at the jostling car; nothing mattered except the consuming experience of the moment with this young boy she had picked up in the terminal.
The boy thrust himself deep and froze. Her own body stiffened. Her senses seemed to whirl; she was lost to the explosion of completion only seconds before she tasted the sweet juice of the boy's climax fill her mouth and throat.
Both of their bodies seemed to be shaken with spasms. The boy moaned, deep and contented, and rolled off her onto the floor of the car. She rolled onto her side and looked down at him. His pulsating shaft was jerking slowly up his leg, leaving a trail of moisture on his tanned thighs. The interior of the car smelled strongly of sexual completion. It made her more dizzy than alcohol. She extended her hand, clamped her fingers over the dissolving erection.
"No!" he said, coldly. "I've got to see that chick off! She's suppose to be my steady." He pulled up his trousers, forcing his organ into the trouser leg and wrestling to shut the zipper. He brushed his hair back with his hands, and then sat staring at her with a smile playing about his lips. "You're okay, lady." he said. "Really okay!" He opened the door of the limousine and got out before she could even cover her nakedness. Outlined against the strong noon sun, he stared in at her and laughed. "See you around, I hope," he said; and laughed again before slamming the door.
Melissa was shaken. Something about the boy's attitude had completely shattered her composure, had even destroyed the sense of satisfaction she had received from their act. As she attempted to put herself back in order she was aware that her entire body was trembling.
Goddamn him! she kept repeating to herself.
She pulled the flimsy material of her dress over her breasts and managed after several attempts to fasten the catch. She combed her hair and was putting on fresh makeup when she heard Santos knocking gently on the roof of the limousine.
"The flight is coming in, Mrs. Martin."
"All right, goddamn it!" she screamed. "Give me a minute! I'll meet the little bastard!"
After a few moments Melissa climbed out of the back seat of the limousine with what little dignity she retained and stood looking about self-consciously, half expecting an audience to have gathered around the jostling automobile. Santos alone, however, stood with his hand on the door handle, his dark eyes fixed on some distant object so he would not have to look at her directly. His jaw was firmly set, his stare cold. He obviously disapproved of her. Well, screw him, She would just have to replace him.
"Your nephew's flight has just landed," he said without expression. "The passengers are unloading at gate three."
"Thank you," she said, coldly. "You can come for the luggage."
Without speaking, he locked the limousine doors, and walked a few paces behind her as she returned to the terminal. The crunch of his heels on the gravel annoyed her. Too bad she would have to dismiss him, but she had two rules where her employees were concerned: she never meddled in their private lives, and they were never to interfere or to display any opinion toward hers. It was always best to keep your employees in their place. Besides she had enough to annoy her. She was goddamned sore at herself for allowing herself to play mother to a seventeen-year-old brat. What ever had possessed her?
The terminal was crowded with the new arrivals; people laughing, kissing, throwing leis about the tourist's necks. Melissa stood to one side and waited. She had not seen her nephew since he was eight years old. She would not be able to pick him out in a crowd, but he, he had assured her in his letter, he would know her anywhere. Santos stood behind her, his arms folded across his chest, his shoulder leaning against the wall. She could see him in the mirror of the cigarette machine. He was a handsome devil, tall and lithe, with black, curly hair and an olive complexion. A stud in her own stable, she thought. But remember your own rules.
The blond boy she had lead away to the car was standing by the gate, kissing his girl goodbye. His steady, he had called her. He turned, met her gaze, and smiled. His smile seemed to mock her. She looked away toward the cigarette machine. Santos, unaware of his reflection, was smiling too.
She was about to turn to him when a voice calling her name stopped her.
"Aunt Melissa!"
She could only stare. Crossing through the maze of people, his face alight with excitement, strode the most handsome youth she had ever seen. His beauty was enough to cause her to gasp for breath. This gorgeous creature simply couldn't be her sister's child. It was unbelievable.
He pushed his way past the last obstacle and wrapped his arms about her. "Aunt Melissa," he repeated. "You're as beautiful as ever." He hugged her and she was aware that her head came up to his chin.
"David," she said sweetly. She pulled back and stared at him. He was as tall as Santos, perhaps an inch taller, and he had inherited his father's Italian good looks. There was nothing of her sister in his appearance.
"How handsome you are," she said. "Come kiss your aunt."
His lips brushed her cheek and she felt a tingle begin at her toes and work its way up to her throat.
"Flowers!" she suddenly cried. "Santos, get flowers! A dozen leis. What is a Hawaiian greeting without flowers?" she took his arm. "David, my dear," she cooed. "I'm so happy to have you here with me. It's been so lonely since your uncle died."
CHAPTER TWO
He was only seventeen. He was her nephew, and he obviously trusted her implicitly. Why in God's name did she have to think of him in a sexual way? Why indeed?
Melissa turned away from her vanity mirror. A few more nights of this and she would be a total wreck. She had not slept last night. Her eyes were puffy, and the tiny lines which had begun to edge outward from the corners seemed to have deepened. Her nerves were on the verge of snapping.
Pacing the thickly carpeted floor of her bedroom, she kept repeating: "He's your sister's son. Get a hold on yourself, you insatiable bitch."
But her pacing, as always, seemed to come to an abrupt halt in front of the door that separated them. She would stand, her ear pressed against the smooth surface of the wood, listening for movements inside.
He slept soundly. She could hear his heavy breathing. Despite herself, she kept wondering if he slept in the nude. It was a warm morning. Even though the sun was just rising above the mountains the heat was already abominable. Perhaps the sheets had slipped away from his body. If she opened the door, she might find herself gazing at his nakedness.
She wrapped her hand around the knob and turned it ever so quietly. The door was locked from the other side. She released the handle so quickly that it clicked back into place noisily.
Why had he locked the door? Had he had some childish premonition that she desired him? Impossible! She crossed the room and dropped onto her bed. She had never found herself in such need of release. Her thoughts and the mere brushing of her gown over her breasts had caused them to harden. She touched them with her hands, squeezing the tips until they ached. God, perhaps she should marry again. At least she would then have a man around on these occasions when she needed one and didn't want to drive into Honolulu or the beach area for a pickup. She could call someone, but that might prove messy. How would she explain a john coming out of her bedroom to her nephew?
She got up again and continued pacing. Marriage! Her first marriage had been a disaster. She had had to slip around, taking tricks in doorways, in the back seat of cars, on the sand, anywhere that her husband might not catch her. He had been so naive; had even believed that she took her nightly rides because she had had insomnia. The poor impotent slob. If he could lay her once a week he had felt like a real man. Then he had had to work her up with his finger before he climbed on because he was such a rabbit. The finger rapist, that's what she had called him. When he had died she had felt free for the first time in years. She had even celebrated by having a dozen sailors up to the house and laying everyone of them one after the other. Twelve in a row-that had been great!
But it wasn't helping her now.
She opened the French doors and ambled out onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette. Beyond the expanse of lawn she saw the two servants' cottages, the lights on in both. Santos lived in one and Monica, the cook, in the other. She hadn't been aware that Santos rose so early. Why should he? She never called for him before twelve. She remembered watching his reflection in the cigarette machine mirror the day before, remembered thinking that there was a proper stud in her own stable.
"Rules," she said, aloud; and then she shrugged. "Rules were made for breaking."
She tossed her cigarette over the balcony and had started for the stairs when she saw Santos emerge from his cottage in a scant pair of bathing trunks, a towel thrown over his shoulder. She had never seen him in a state near undress. He was magnificent. Trim waist, narrow buttocks, and a bulge in the front of his trunks that she was sure could more than satisfy her need. She started to call his name, but he had hurried to the stone steps leading down to the cove and had vanished before she could speak.
"Damn."
She started to return to her bedroom, but decided against it. Why not follow him down to the beach? It did, after all, belong to her. If she felt like an early morning dip in the raw and Santos just happened to be there, well... ! She came down the stairs, crossed to the stone steps, and looked down at the narrow strip of sand.
Santos was already in the water, swimming out toward the reef, his black head bobbing above the surface and then disappearing again as he swam underwater. He moved with strong strokes, an excellent swimmer. No wonder he had all those rippling muscles, she thought. But it was not the muscles of his arms and legs that were on her mind. Judging by the bulge in his suit the other muscle was equally developed.
She came down the stairs and onto the sand, leaving her flimsy robe against the stone wall. She walked to the water's edge, waded along the lap of the waves and then came back to the middle of the cove and stretched out in the sand. The sand. The sun felt soothing against her naked flesh. It caressed her milk-white breasts. She spread her legs to allow the sun where it had never before touched her and she enjoyed the heat of it. She closed her eyes, hoping Santos would return quickly.
Then a shadow covered her and she looked up. There was a man standing above her. He was in a pair of cut-off cotton pants with threads hanging about his thighs. He wore no shirt; there was a gold chain about his neck with a charm dangling in the mass of hair on his chest. His hands were on hips. He was smiling.
"You look like you need some company," he said in a deep throaty voice.
She did not speak; just drew her legs together and continued to stare at him.
"Don't do that," he said. "How am I going to get between them? You want me between them, don't you?" He placed his hand on his crotch. "All nine inches of it pounding at your snatch, stretching the skin, reaching home." He pulled at the catch of his cut-off pants, brought the zipper down and pushed them over his hips. They fell about his ankles and he kicked them aside and was standing, towering above her with his hardened shaft stretching away from his loins, the bulbous knob throbbing in the bright sun. "Do you want it?" he demanded; and he took it in his hand, his fist fastened about its base. "You might as well want it, because you're going to get it anyway." He dropped to his knees and spread her legs apart roughly.
Melissa was still speechless. She could hardly believe her luck. This male creature could hardly be considered handsome. He was too over-developed for that, but he was damned desirable, convenient; and he had not been boasting about his equipment's length. It was a good nine inches and thick.
He was on his knees between her legs, leaning forward, grasping her breasts in each of his hands. "If you're tight it's going to be hell," he said. And he proceeded without mercy. Aiming himself, he thrust forward and drove himself into her. The walls of her slit gave to receive him, all but sucked him home until she felt the pressure of his balls between them. He retraced himself and drove it home again swiftly. Again. Each time he seemed to pierce her more deeply. He lowered the weight of his upper body onto her and she felt the hair from his chest scratch her breasts. Then he arched his buttocks until he had completely withdrawn himself and stabbed into her with such force she felt she would scream with the pain.
But she did not. It was a delicious pain-pain mixed with an extra helping of pleasure.
"You like it," he moaned. "You're a hungry bitch. You like it rough, huh?" He bent his head and covered her right nipple with his mouth. He began sucking, chewing, biting. But the rhythm he had set with his tool never faltered. The nine inches kept assaulting her, the thickness stretching the walls of her vagina until she began to squirm beneath him, to give him a ride for his trouble.
"That's it, bitch! Make me ride it!" He laughed, dirty and low. "Tony likes it rough too! Tony likes it real rough!"
His next thrust was with such force that it winded her. She lay gasping for air beneath him, gulping oxygen between clashes of their bodies. Then he hesitated. He pulled himself off her, supporting his body above her, and reeled out his tool until only the head was inside her.
"For added fun," he said.
And before she could protest, he scooped up a handful of sand and packed it about his dong. It clung to the moisture and the excess fell into her pubic hair.
"Sweet Jesus-no!" she screamed.
But he thrust forward and it was as if a thousand needles had pricked her. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she must have screamed, for he clamped his hand over her mouth.
He began to pump again, driving his granite-hard shaft in and out, forcing the sand deeper, tearing at her sensitive flesh. There was a pounding in her head. She thought she was going to faint, but she wanted to remain conscious to the end, to the glorious, explosive end that was not far away. He was breathing heavily, and the sweat was pouring from his body. His movements were quicker.
"Are you ready, slut?" he moaned.
She brought her head forward, fastened her lips about his neck, and bit. "Now!" she cried; and he drove himself home. She could feel the swelling of his organ inside of her and the hot liquid gushed free. Her vagina contracted, squeezed him dry and at the same time released her own completion.
They lay for several moments before he pulled himself off her and rolled over in the sand. She managed to pull herself to a sitting position, brought up her knees and rested her head on them. He was covered with sand. It had clung to his body sweat; his chest, his legs, his loins. He could have been anything, man or animal, with this new skin.
"You could easily have been the best piece I've ever had," he suddenly said. "You're something else!"
She suddenly wanted to be rid of him. He had served his purpose. She had been satisfied for the moment. "You'd better go," she told him. "My husband's out there swimming." She motioned toward the ocean. "He'll be back soon and I wouldn't want him to catch us."
He pulled himself up to a crouching position. "You mean with a woman like you he doesn't go in for three ways?" He shook his head. "It's a damned shame. You'd be great in the middle with two dicks rubbing together inside you. You'd like that." His limp tool hung down between his legs, the head almost reaching the sand. "Have you ever had it dog fashion?"
"I've had it every way I could get it," she said sharply. "But I don't want him to know. Now be a sport and get the hell out of here before you get me in trouble."
He looked out toward the reef, shielding his eyes with his massive hand. "I don't see anyone," he said in disbelief.
"He's there," she said. "And he'll be coming in any minute. So beat it!"
"Okay," he said. "But if you want a return match, I'll be here the same time tomorrow."
"I'll remember that," she said.
He rose, retrieved his cut-off dungarees, and pulled them on over his hairy legs. He snapped the catch and left his enormous tool gapping through the opening. "Junior here gets mighty hungry in the mornings," he said. He took it in his hand and squeezed it gently before stuffing it into his pants and adjusting it down his leg. "And you're quite a meal."
"Careful it doesn't give you heartburn," she said, dryly.
He gave a short, coarse laugh and moved off down the beach. She watched him until he had waded out into the water and around the jutting side of the cliff that concealed her section of the beach from her neighbors. Then she tried to rise. Her entire body ached.
"Junior was a cannibal," she said aloud. She tried to laugh at her own joke, but laughter made the pain even more severe. Staggering to the edge of the water, she lay down, let the clean waves caress her, wash over her and drive away the dirtiness she felt.
Then she sat up and saw Santos' head coming toward her. He was on his way in, still swimming with long, strong strokes. She was sure he had not seen her yet. She sprang out of the surf and, forgetting her pain, made a dash for her robe. She wrapped it about her bruised body and brushed her hair back the best she could with her hands. When she turned, the young chauffeur was walking onto the beach.
He paused when he saw her. Then he continued to shore, running his hands through his hair to wipe the curls away from his eyes. The water had made the material of his suit trunks cling to the bulge between his legs. The outline, the rim of his organ's head was clearly visible. He pulled at it as if aware of her thoughts and the definite form was destroyed.
He could have been a Greek god rising from the sea, she thought.
But enough of men for the moment. She had come to the beach to seduce him, but it had not been necessary. A stranger had taken her, satisfied her, and made it possible for her not to have broken her own rule of becoming involved with her servants.
Santos stopped before her, waiting for her to speak. When she did not, he looked uncomfortable beneath her steady gaze. "Did you need me?" he asked.
She smiled. "I did, but I don't now. Bring the car around at noon. I want to show my nephew some of the sights."
He nodded. And she moved up the stone steps toward the house with the carriage of a queen out for an innocent morning stroll.
CHAPTER THREE
Melissa, very prim and very proper, sat in the back seat of her limousine beside David and watched the passing parade of tourists along Waikiki's streets. She, of course, was bored beyond expression, but she pretended for her nephew's benefit, or for her own, since she allowed herself to casually brush his arm or touch his leg whenever she pointed out a point of interest.
He was wearing khaki trousers, very tight. They had worked their way up into his crotch and she was sure she could see the bulge of his manhood among the wrinkles. If she was correct in judging the proper fold, he was endowed extremely well-and she was an expert in judging what fold in a man's pants was a wrinkle and what his jewel.
There was something about her nephew that turned her on. The mere sight of him filled her with desire; even, she had to confess, make her tingle like a school girl. It was not just his good looks. He had that magic quality possessed by some men that made women obey their slightest whims. Most of the bastards who had that quality ended up pimps or goddamned egomaniacs. But David was too young to have been spoiled. Maybe that was what she wanted to do-to spoil him, to get her own back on all the pricks that had given her a bad time.
The long, black car moved slowly. It was the peak of the summer tourist season. The streets were jammed with automobiles, jeeps with pink and white striped canopies, motor bikes, bicycles, every known manner of modern transportation.
"This is actually the worst time of the year," Melissa explained to David. "I almost hate it until the end of August. Then the tourists thin out and things become normal until the October celebrations."
David, she could tell, liked it as it was. His eyes were wide with excitement. He liked the crowds, the hordes of tourists bedecked in brightly colored clothes and lais about their necks.
"There are so few women," he suddenly observed.
She looked at him curiously, surprised that he had noticed. She would liked to have said: "Isn't it heavenly!"; but she smiled and explained: "It's all the armed forces bases. Every branch must have a station here. In the winter it's even worse, hardly any women except for the few locals and the service wives who live with their husbands in government projects. The locals object to their daughters going out with the service men, so the few women there are live the lives of royalty." She glanced through the window without interest.
"You'll get used to the way of life here," she said. "Mostly it's aloha, always someone you meet coming or going. Sometimes I feel like the only stable member in a tribe of gypsies."
He turned and looked at her, his expression one of sympathy. "It must have been lonely for you since your husband died."
"Extremely," she lied. "But now you're here and I won't be lonely any longer." She lay her hand affectionately on his knee and felt a surge of excitement from the contact. God, if I could only lay you, she thought. "We'll be good for each other."
The car came to a halt in traffic. Santos, looking irked, glanced back at them as if to say, "Can't we call this tour to an end?" She caught his glance and looked away. She had not been able to face him since this morning. She was sure he had not seen her on the beach with that hairy ape. How could he have? She must have been ground down into the sand from the pressure of his screwing her.
David also caught the driver's expression. He leaned forward in his seat. "It's getting late," he said. "If we could make a quick stop somewhere before we start back...?"
Santos pulled the limousine over to the curb and stopped.
They were near an area of the street without buildings. The ground sloped away to the beach. The water was already filled with bathers and further out the surfers were riding the crest of a wave. There were two public restrooms at one corner of the small park.
David started to climb out of the car, but Melissa detained him. She leaned forward to Santos. "Are you sure this is... is safe?" she asked.
"It is during the day," Santos replied.
David looked puzzled, but when she sat back in her seat, he climbed out and walked across the grass to the men's room.
Melissa rolled down her window and sat smoking a cigarette. She had heard about this park. It was called the traps and was where the servicemen came in desperation when they couldn't find a woman. The fairies were suppose to hang about the toilets and the beaches beyond, stalking the butch numbers, lurking in the shadows to offer a quick release. One of her tricks had told her that if it wasn't for the dong-hungry fruits on the island the entire service would go sex mad. There aren't enough of your kind here, he had said. She smiled. There weren't enough of her kind, but he had really been put out when he had run into her with one of his buddies on the other side of the island. A rare commodity should be shared. Hell, why did he have to be selfish? She had crossed him off her list. Maybe he was hanging around the traps now himself. Too bad! He had certainly known the proper way to use his equipment.
Santos removed his cap and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. It was late afternoon and the sky looked like a tropical storm.
Melissa was watching him. He was an odd one. So quiet and composed. His arms were extended to the steering wheel, his sleeves rolled back over the hard muscles of his biceps. His hands were long and slender with thin black hairs reaching from beneath his elbows to his knuckles. He had told her he was from Spain, but she thought Mexico was a better bet. He still had a slight accent and stumbled over certain words. She became of his stare in the rearview mirror and looked away.
Her gaze focused on two young men in bathing suits who were loitering near the end of the park. There was something familiar about the blond, but she couldn't quite place him. She generally remembered her men by their bodies, not then- faces. This one was certainly exposing most of his body for recognition with only a thin string of a bikini bulging about his loins, but she still couldn't remember when or how she had had him.
He laughed suddenly and pointed toward the limousine. Then leaving his companion, he started toward her. He was only a few feet away when she remembered the airport terminal, the escapade in the back of the car.
"Is this going to be my day for repeat performances?" he asked, as he squatted down beside her window and rested his arms against the door.
"I hardly think so," she said. "I'm not alone today."
"I don't mind if you don't."
"I do." There was no use pretending-even to herself-that she wouldn't have liked a repeat performance. But what could she do with David to be gone only a few minutes?
'Too bad," he said, smartly. "I've got a hot dick here that's looking for a home."
"No sale," she snapped. "I choose my own time and place for adoptions."
He looked hungry, almost drooling. "You name the time and the place and I'll have him there. He's always ready for action."
The boy made her uncomfortable. Santos was listening. How could he help it? She glanced past the blond and saw two skinny fags lingering about near the door of the men's room. She immediately saw an opportunity of sending Santos on an errand, getting rid of him and at the same protecting David from a possible experience while she made a date with the boy and his ever-ready tool. "Santos," she said, sharply. "Perhaps you had better see about my nephew."
Santos got out of the driver's seat without answering and ambled across the lawn. The queers saw him coming and struck ridiculous poses, hoping he would find them alluring enough to let them in his pants. He must have said something to them, for they turned suddenly and hurried away toward the beach.
Melissa turned her attention back to the blonde. "Now, sweetheart," she said, dryly, "if we're going to make the scene again there's one thing you've got to understand. I don't like quickies. Wham and bam and thank you-you were a hell-of-a-good lay. Next time we take it nice and slow and that log of yours goes in the proper place. We'll do it my way, or not at all. You can get your kicks here at the traps. There's a lot of dicks looking for a home and we both know there aren't that many homes, baby."
His smile had faded. He was watching her with a quizzical expression.
"No," she said. "I'm no damned lady." She took a piece of paper from her purse, scribbled an address on it and shoved it into his hand. "Meet me there tonight at eleven."
"Aye! Aye!" he said, and gave her a mock salute. "It'll be hard waiting for you."
"Just so it's hard after I get there," she said. "Now run along and play with your buddy before my nephew comes out and wonders what the hell I'm up to."
"See you at eleven," he said.
When he stood up to leave his crotch was on a level with the window. Melissa glanced both ways, became daring, and reaching out, squeezed a handful of soft tool. It responded immediately, and he leaned back into the window.
"You sure it has to be eleven?"
"I'm sure," she said.
He walked away and she sat smiling to herself. It served him right for upsetting her yesterday. The address she had written was no good. She had no intention of seeing him. It was merely her manner of getting even. She had had him once. That was enough. Now let him stew.
Santos was glad to get out of the car. There were times when he was almost consumed by a desire to slap the hell out of his employer. Being a sex-hungry bitch was one thing, but giving her ass out to any individual male was another. She was trouble, real trouble. One of these days she was going to pick up the wrong kind and get her goddamned throat cut. Not that he would be sorry. She would have deserved it the way she led them on for one or two flings and then discarded them as if they were a piece of shit and she the Almighty. He wondered if there was a man alive she wouldn't screw. He had seen her take them from fifteen to sixty, good-looking and ugly as hell. It all depended on their approach. If they came on strong they could have her.
Yesterday he had seen her with that guy on the beach. Tony Pacia. He was known for making the beach rounds of the wealthy area, meeting the wives on the sand and screwing the hell out of them. The first time was always for free. After that he had to be paid. And his price was high. He would deliver himself or whatever sexual pleasure took your fancy for the right number of greenbacks. He was smart, a whoremaster without a whore house; he had an entire string of studs, lesbians and queens in his employ. He'd send around whatever you wanted for from twenty to one hundred dollars. He was an ape of a man himself and had been known to tear off as many as twelve pieces of ass in a morning stroll along the beach. When he had seen them together, going at it in the sand, he had enjoyed the thought that at last the two of them had met their match.
Two fairies were lounging outside the men's room. Santos saw them giving him the eye. "Push off!" he said; and they scattered, mincing away toward the beach with their egos crushed.
Melissa Kent was also hot for her own nephew. Any fool could see it by the way she kept staring at his basket, touching him, flirting with him as if she were no more than a teenager herself. It sickened him, but what could he do? Everyone had his own hang-up. Didn't he? The nephew probably did too. He was well-developed for his age, looked at least twenty or twenty-four. But the kid seemed so damned innocent. He had probably been sheltered by his late mother. Wouldn't she turn in her grave if she knew she had sheltered him, kept him pure so her own sister could claim his virginity?
Santos tried the door of the men's room and found it jammed. He put his shoulder against it, pushed it open, and went inside.
There were no windows and the light was out. The only illumination was coming from the open door. It took a moment for Santos' eyes to become accustomed to the change in lighting. When they did he could only stare.
Standing with his back against the wall, David had his pants down about his ankles. An old fairy was on his knees in front of him, his head beating back and forth into his crotch. They had been so involved they had not even heard him force the door and enter.
The naive, the innocent nephew did have his own hang-up!
David looked up and saw him then. He froze and the fairy, aware for the first time that he was being watched, let go of his object of enjoyment and turned around, expecting, Santos thought, to find himself facing a beach policeman.
Santos stepped forward, grabbed the old man by the neck and pulled him to his feet. "Beat it!" he cussed, "or I'll ram your face into a toilet bowl until I drown you!"
The old queen ran out of the john, her heels clicking across the concrete and onto the sand.
David's face was pale. He stared at his aunt's driver with a mixture of fear and anger. He had not bothered to reach for his trousers and cover his nakedness. His erected shaft stood straight out from his loins, the enormous inflamed head throbbing near explosion. "You had no right!" he cried. "No damned right to interfere!"
Santos, silent, continued to stand and stare at him.
"Every guy... every guy gets a blow job once in a while," David mumbled; his attitude changing before the intensity of the other man's gaze.
"You're right," Santos admitted after a moment, "but you could have done better if that's what you wanted. You didn't have to give in to an old nell with half his teeth missing."
"I needed it," David mumbled. "I needed it bad."
"But not him," Santos said, slowly.
Stepping forward, he dropped to his knees where the old queen had been. He put his lips around the pulsating shaft and drew it into his throat to the base.
Maybe Melissa Kent was going to get her nephew, but he was going to have him first. Everyone had their own hang-ups. He might as well start enjoying his. He had been running away from it, from himself, for too goddamned long.
Melissa leaned forward in her seat when David and Santos approached. She was watching them with interest. "I saw that creature run out of there," she said when they pulled away from the curb. "It's disgusting. Why don't the police clean up all these perverts? A decent person just isn't safe anymore. It's horrible." She turned to David, took his hand and pressed it. "It's a good thing I had the foresight to send Santos to see about you."
David returned the pressure of her grasp. "Yes," he said. "I'm glad you did." He was watching Santos' reflection in the rearview mirror, not even aware that he was sending her into trembling pleasure by returning her display of affection.
"You poor dear," she sighed. "You have probably never known people who live only for sex. How could you at seventeen? You couldn't even know that such creatures exist. I know your mother. She would have kept such things hidden from you." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I feel I have failed her."
"You haven't," he assured her.
"Thank you," she cooed. She put her arm about his neck and kissed him again on the corner of the lips. This time she had to apply great restraint to withhold her passion.
Santos, still watching in the mirror, didn't look too happy.
CHAPTER FOUR
David closed the door of his bedroom and sank onto the edge of the bed. His aunt had had dinner guests, an elderly man named Smitt and his wife Christina, a sexy-looking blonde with too big knockers and too small hips. They had seemed nice enough, but he had felt the restraint in their conversation. His presence must have kept them from discussing subjects they felt he was too young to hear.
But it was the scene he had overheard in the dining room between his aunt and Christina that had upset him. The two women had thought they were alone. Smitt had gone off to the john and he, David, had gone back to the dining room to see what was keeping the two women. He had heard Christina's voice before he had opened the door and he had hesitated, listening.
"You're a whore bitch!" Christina had cried. "You can't go on bleeding me like this! He's getting suspicious. He knows goddamned well I'm not spending three hundred dollars a week on groceries!"
"Keep your voice down," Melissa had warned. There had been a short silence, and then she had said: "Darling, you got yourself into this mess. I didn't do it for you. Can I help it if you're being blackmailed? I'm just acting as the liaison, collecting and delivering the money."
"I wonder," Christina had said suspiciously. "I haven't seen any of the notes from that bastard! And another thing! I saw you with Smitt the other night in front of the Royal Hawaiian. What the hell were you meeting him for? What the hell's going on behind my back?"
"He called," Melissa informed her calmly. "Said he had just come over from the Windward side and wanted to have a cocktail. That's all, darling."
"I know you, Melissa. I know there's no man who didn't loose his balls in the service that you wouldn't screw! If you think you're going to screw around with Smitt, you'd better think again! I'm paying this filthy pig two hundred a week just so I can hang onto Smitt and I'll be goddamned if I'm going to end up loosing him to my best friend. Best friend," she repeated, and laughed sharply.
David had knocked then. He had opened the door, concealing his shock and puzzlement. "We were wondering what was keeping you," he had said.
The two women, all smiles, had followed him back into the living room where Smitt was just lighting up a foul-smelling cigar.
"Oh, Smitt! Must you?" Christina had asked, sweetly. "They smell so horrible."
And Melissa had assured her that the smell didn't matter in the least. She had lead David to the sofa and had sat down beside him with her hand affectionately placed over his. There had not been the slightest hint that anything had happened between the two women in the dining room. They treated each other like two loving sisters.
David shrugged. Better, he thought, if he didn't trouble himself with something that did not concern him. If his aunt wanted him to know anything about her relationship with Christina she would tell him. But the word "blackmail" kept echoing through his mind. Poor Christina; she must be having a bad time over some past mistake. He shrugged again, and slipped off his shoes.
He was tired. It had been a hell of a day. There had been the sightseeing and, of course, his experience in the men's room at the traps. Memory of Santos on his knees before him with his tool in his mouth still shocked him. They guy was so completely masculine. Who would have thought that he would do such a thing? But it was nice to know that he was only a few yards away in the event he ever again felt a driving need to drop his load. At seventeen, it was the only sexual experience he had known, and that had only happened three times. The first had been his mother's doctor, a thin, sallow-looking man who visited her regularly on Mondays and Thursdays and gave her her shots. She had become suspicious of him and had changed doctors. The second had been his girl in high school. Anna had wanted to please him in other ways, but she was so damned afraid of getting pregnant that she had frenched him instead. They used to sit in the back row of the Rango Theatre and neck through a double bill. By the time the feature was over he had managed to slip his hand up her dress, beneath the rim of her panties and finger her clit. Sometimes she would undo his zipper and move her hand gently up and down on his tool. Once he had released his load all over the front of his clothes. The balcony had immediately been filled by the pungent odor and the two of them had beat a retreat with such haste that he had forgotten to bring up his zipper. A man in the lobby had pointed at his crotch and had enjoyed a good laugh as he had struggled to close the gapping slit over his manhood. That night he had taken Anna behind a billboard just off the main street and he had tried to force her to allow him to screw her. "We can't go on like this," he had told her. And she had undone his zipper for a second time and taken his soft shaft into her mouth. She had worked away the softness with greater precision than the doctor had used and then she had taken him like a professional frencher.
David was beginning to fear that he would die without ever knowing what normal sex was like. He always seemed to be in a position where he was kept away from girls his own age. First his mother had watched him like a hawk and had only let him go out with Anna because she was a friend of her mother's and thought the girl was too religious to go beyond necking. Now, his mother dead and Anna married to one of the basketball slobs from their senior year, he had his aunt as a watch dog. Until he had heard the conversation in the dining room, he had considered her a model of respectability and chastity. Now he wondered. He would have to test her to find out how far she would let him go. He would start by slipping away from her tomorrow and searching the beach for a girl to bring home. If she put her foot down there was always Santos to satisfy him until he learned the ropes of establishing his independence.
He was hot now, hotter even than he had been this afternoon. Perhaps it had been the wine. Or had sex this afternoon started him on a rampage of craving that would cause him to masturbate twice a day as he had several years before?
Forget it! he told himself. Take a nice cold bath and go to sleep.
He could hear his aunt moving about in her room. She didn't sleep much. He had heard her pacing the night before until long after midnight.
He undressed and went into the bathroom. The walls were covered in squares of antique mirror. He stood for a moment examining his naked body, but even that caused him to feel the first twinge of an erection.
Damn, he moaned. You're likely to end up a blooming Narcissus!
He turned on the cold water and sat in the cold tub waiting for relief to cover him.
Melissa had decided that tonight would be the night. There was no use putting it off any longer. She wanted her nephew in the worst way. Her desire for him had become an obsession. She couldn't think clearly any more. He was all that was on her mind. When they were together she was aware of every move he made, his expressions, the way his smile began at the corner of his mouth and spread across his face like a light being turned on in a dark room. He was the most appealing male she had ever seen. So what if he was only seventeen? So what if he was her nephew? She wanted him and she was going to have him.
She could hear the water running in his bathroom and could imagine him naked, rubbing his olive-skinned body with soap.
Slipping quickly out of her dress, she threw a thin robe over her shoulders and started for his door. She stopped. No, he was too young for such a forceful attack. She couldn't just walk in with the robe over her shoulders, drop it and shove her naked body at him with a "take me" expression. She put the robe on properly, took time to comb her hair, to calm down. Then she tried the door of his bedroom. It was unlocked. She opened it and went in.
The bathroom door was open. She could hear him moving about in the tub of water. His clothes were spread carelessly about the room. His pants and shirt were half on and half off the bed. His undershorts and socks were on the chair. She picked up the undershorts, held them for a moment, and then pressed the crotch into her face. She breathed deeply. The mingling of the scent of sweat and sex filled her nostrils. She thought it would drive her crazy with desire.
She walked directly to the door of the bathroom and stood for a moment trying to see his reflection in the antique mirror. She could not. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.
"David," she said, casually, "I must talk to you." And stood looking down at him lying naked in the tub.
He stared at her in shocked dismay. His head was resting on the back of the tub, the water leaving his body exposed from the tiny nipples of his chest upward. But it was not his head or chest she wanted to see. She let her gaze drift downward. His enormous shaft bobbed on top of the water like an elongated island. He was huge! She knew she had not been wrong in thinking he would be built like a young stallion. And the young stallion, it seemed, was in a partially erected state of excitement. Had he been thinking of her? The black pubic hair at its base was waving about under the surface of the filled tub like grass on the floor of the sea. It was so thick it almost entirely covered the shape of his testicles. His chest was covered by a diamond shape of hair, a kite with a thin string of black hair joining it to the area beneath his navel.
He did not speak. It was as if he'd been waiting for her and there was no need for words. He only continued to stare up at her, the shock gone from his face. He made no attempt to cover his tool with the washcloth or his hands.
"I want you!" she said in a whisper. "I want you like I've never wanted any man."
She untied her robe and let it slip to the floor. Exposed to him, she began to run her hands gently up her body as if caressing herself. Pausing beneath each of her firm youthful breasts, cupping them, squeezing them together and releasing them so they sprang back, firm and full, the hardened nipples stood out from the center of her rosettes proclaiming her state of excitement.
"Do you want me?" she begged.
He pulled himself up and started to climb out of the tub.
"No," she told him. "Take me there where I found you. Take me in the water."
And she stepped into the tub with him, wrapping her arms about his neck and pressing her body against his. The coldness sent a shiver through her. Wouldn't you know the young stud would bathe in ice water?
His hands hung limply at his sides, not quite daring to come forward and circle her body. His shyness seemed to have taken charge of his desires. But shyness had not prevented his equipment from becoming ramrod straight. It poked into her stomach. She rotated her upper body causing her breasts to rub against the patch of hair on his chest.
"Oh, David!" she moaned. "My David!"
She brought her hands down his back, cupped his buttocks roughly and pulled his pelvis tightly against her. Then she forced him down into the ice-cold water. "As you were," she said. "On your back."
She straddled him with her knees. Reaching beneath her, she took his pulsating shaft in her hand. "You're big!" she cooed. "So goddamned big! I'm going to teach you what to do with this. I'm going to drive you to the depths of passion. I'm going to take you. I'm going to take all of this and beg for more."
She pointed his prick upward, feeling the force of its hardness pulling against her to reach up his abdomen to his navel. Then she lowered herself until the opening of her slit touched its head. She teased him by letting herself down enough to start to claim the head and then pulling away.
"You could tear me to pieces," she said. "You're big enough to rip me apart. But I want you. I want it to tear at me."
She lowered herself more, feeling the stress against the sides of her pussy as the bulbous head was swallowed. He groaned. Sweat stood out on his forehead despite the coldness of the water.
She released the support of her knees and allowed her body to fall downward, impaling herself to the hilt of one of the most delicious pieces of male anatomy to have driven itself into her between the legs. Moaning with pleasure, she began to bounce up and down, feeling with each downward plunge that her guts were being driven upward.
The water splashed over the rim of the tub and made a stream across the bathroom floor and onto the edge of the carpet. It splashed into David's face, momentarily blinding him. It splashed onto Melissa's breasts, but she was no longer aware of its coldness. Indeed, with the heat of her body, it could have hissed and boiled. She had wanted David more than any other man, but now that she had him beneath her he could have been any man. She was completely lost to the sensation of sex. She forgot that she was going to have been gentle with him.
"Screw me!" she moaned.
She dropped onto him, rolled over until he was on top of her, pounding himself into her like a horse ramming a mare. His teeth fastened over her left nipple. He bit. He chewed. He clawed at her with his nails. He, too, no longer knew or cared who was beneath him. He was so rough she suddenly became aware of a pending danger. She was sliding down in the tub with each thrust of his body against her. The water was up to her chin, splashing into her mouth and nostrils.
"Pull the plug!" she screamed, but the water filled her mouth and she only gurgled. She struck at him, smashed him against the side of the head with her fist, but he did not even hesitate with the rhythm of his body. She searched for the plug's chain with her toe, but it was no good. She couldn't hold it firm enough to pull it.
"Dav...!"
Then the familiar ecstasy of approaching climax became evident within her. Who could stop now? She let herself savor ever thrust of his shaft, every retraction, even more sensational due to the suction of the water. Each time his body slammed downward she held her breath. Let him drown her. She wouldn't stop him. If this was drowning, she wouldn't want to die any other way.
She hunched herself, reached behind him and clutched at the small of his back. At the same time she wrapped her legs about his hips. Each time he started to retract his shaft she drove her heels hard into his buttocks.
She screamed when she felt the love fluid break within her. Her tight little pussy sucked in against his dong and waves of shocks passed through her body. She bit his neck. She tightened the grasp of her hands on his back and her heels against his buttocks, but she could not force him to pause. He continued slamming into her until a great gasp escaped his lips and she knew she had accepted the squirting load of his release. Then he became limp, a great weight crushing her, forcing her down in the tub to be claimed by the water. Her eyes widened in terror as her mouth and nose slipped beneath the surface. She could see the fragments of their completion floating on the surface of the water like jelly fish torn apart in a storm.
She struck him again.
This time he half raised himself off her and saw what near fate he had inflicted on her. Still in somewhat of a daze, he slipped to one side, freeing her.
Melissa got quickly to her feet. She stepped out of the tub, grabbed up her robe and threw it over her shoulders. It was drenched, the feather trim flattened by the water from the tub.
She stood looking down at him. She was leaving him as she had found him, his head resting against the back of the tub, his now used dong bobbing at the surface of water.
He was staring at her, his eyes searching for the answer to some unspoken question. Some of the sperm had settled on his chin. She didn't know why, but it made him look even younger.
"Get out of there," she ordered him. She tossed him a towel.
He caught it, rose and wrapped it about his middle, suddenly feeling the need to cover his nakedness.
Melissa felt a sudden surge of shame. He looked so goddamned young with is hair flattened against his face and his eyes searching her face with that strange look.
"We'll forget this ever happened," she said. "We won't ever think about it again."
That seemed to crush him. "But... "
"No buts about it,', she warned. "It should never have happened in the first place. It's just that I had no man handy. And I need them. I need them regularly. You're just a brat. A well-hung brat, but still a brat. And my sister's child. Jesus!" she slapped her forehead with her hand. "Wouldn't the old girl split a gut if she had lived long enough to see her sister screwing her son? So forget it, kid. We'll be friends. Okay?" She reached out her hand to him like a prizefighter shaking with his opponent after a round.
He only stood and stared at her. If he had not been drenched she would have seen that there were tears in his eyes.
Raising the hem of her robe about her ankles Melissa turned and exited the bathroom. He heard her slam the door to her bedroom and he heard her laugh. He thought she was laughing at him, at his clumsiness in taking her. How could he possibly have understood that she was laughing at herself with gallows humor?
CHAPTER FIVE
Sunrise found Melissa on the beach of her little private cove. Today she wore a bikini, a blue and white striped ribbon across the nipples of her breasts and a wider ribbon which continually bunched up in the crease of her slit. Melissa was the type who looked forward to the day when all people could go to the beaches in the nude. Confinement of bathing suits was ridiculous, even the skimpy ones in fashion today. She remembered some comedian's comment about bathing attire becoming a zipper and a bottle of suntan oil, and she laughed.
She had slept last night after leaving David. It wasn't that she was pleased or released from her desire for him, but the first time of taking him had relieved some of the pressure which had been building up in her. She was like that when she met a man and wanted him. If she wanted him, she had to have him. And she would do anything to see that she did. Still, it had filled her with guilt. This morning when she had awakened she had wanted him again, but she had decided that next time he would have to come to her. She couldn't continue to be the aggressor. He would have to learn to take what he wanted.
And she had remembered Tony. He had told her he would be on the beach the following morning. She had not, of course, planned on meeting him there, but it would be a convenient way of satisfying her. He had, after all, been a damned good lay even if he had almost wrecked her with the sand bit. She would have to see that he refrained from that today.
The sun was warm, but a cool breeze was blowing in from the ocean. The sky was pale blue. She lay searching it for a sign of clouds, but there was none.
Then she turned and saw the hairy man approaching around the rocks of the cliff. He had been true to his word. He still wore the same cut-off trousers and no shirt. He waved to her like a lover rushing to a rendezvous. But when he turned and motioned someone else forward, Melissa sat up, concerned.
What the hell was he pulling off?
Another man came into view. He was shorter than Tony. And he was younger, lithe and dark skinned. When they came closer she saw that he was a Hawaiian. He was smiling, his teeth stark white against his dark complexion.
Tony dropped to his knees on the sand beside her. "I knew you'd be here," he said.
She purposely ignored him. Her gaze was fixed on the Hawaiian. "Is this your baby sitter?" she asked with sarcasm.
The Hawaiian sat down beside her and looked out toward the sea as if he had not heard her. He was perhaps twenty, she estimated, an athlete judging by his build. He was wearing a lavalava, the island version of a male sarong.
"This is Hilo," Tony introduced him. "One of my boys."
Melissa gave him a quizzical glance. "One of your boys for what?"
Tony winked at her. "What do you think?"
"You mean he's your stand-in?" she laughed.
Tony looked disturbed. "You mean you haven't heard of Tony Pacia?" he asked. "I thought I was island-famous by now. Should be among rich bitches."
"I'm afraid your fame hasn't reached me," Melissa scoffed. "But then I don't have anything to do with any of these proper tea and crumpets ladies on the cliffs." She adjusted the halter of her bikini, causing one nipple to peek its way over the upper edge.
Tony was watching, literally licking his lips. "They call me the whoremaster," he told her.
"Nice title, but what does it represent?"
"It simply means that I run a club which gives all you sluts what you want. You name your poison and I see that you get it... for a price, of course."
"Of course."
"That's why I brought Hilo today," Tony said with a smile. "I sort of felt Hilo was your type. He's got a zorch like a third leg and an appetite to match your own." He gave the Hawaiian a commanding look. "He digs it all, baby."
The Hawaiian stood up and undid the strings of his lavalava. The square of material fell away from his body and was blown down the beach by the wind. He stood naked, towering above her, his equipment dangling halfway down his leg to his knee, the large sack of his testicles pushing it out from his loins in a limp arch. There wasn't a hair on his body. His skin was smooth and stretched over the firm areas of bulging muscle.
She looked at him for a long time, savoring his beauty like an art collector considering a painting. The sight of him immediately increased her craving for a man. Her hungry little pussy wanted action, a lot of action-now! But she decided to play it cool.
"How much?" she asked, flatly.
"A hundred bucks," Tony answered without hesitating. "And it's worth it."
"Don't hard-sell me," she told him. "And no pun intended. I've never paid for a piece of ass in my life. I've never had a need to in the islands. Things like that run cheap." She reached up and flicked the Hawaiian's tool with her finger.
It immediately responded by throbbing forward a full half an inch.
"You want it," Tony said. "And it's here. It's all part of supply and demand. One hundred and not a cent less."
"What are you going to do? Watch?"
"Not unless you want it that way." He reached for her, took both sides of her bikini in his hairy hands and pulled it down off her hips, exposing the small triangle of her hair to the sun. "You can consider me a fringe benefit," he said.
"The only fringes today are on dresses," she said, "and they're not much of a benefit." She allowed the young Hawaiian to run his hands behind her back and unfasten the catch of her halter.
He pulled it off and her breasts sprang forward, full and smooth, the nipples already hardening, anticipating the caress of his lips.
She had fully expected him to bend down over her and take a breast in his mouth. But instead, he suddenly straddled her, his bare ass shoved into her face. His hands seized her breasts, parted them; and she felt the hot touch of his tool laid in the cleavage. Her breasts were forced inward to cradle it tightly and he began rotating his lower body, to screw her breasts, to squeeze them roughly.
Her legs were spread apart and she felt Tony's tongue begin to explore the crevices of her thighs. A trail of saliva traveled from her navel to meet the shaft plunging between her breasts and back again to the navel; then downward to outline the forest of hair. Then it was in the forest lapping deep into her and causing her to moan with pleasure. The Hawaiian's shaft had grown to such a length that each time he retracted it she could see the light between his legs, the full sack and the base of his prick. His buttocks came down suddenly and she felt the warm cradle of his rectum pressed about her nose. It withdrew and returned to find her tongue searching for entry.
"I told you she was a hot slut," she heard Tony say to the Hawaiian. "Don't come that way. We'll sandwich the bitch."
She was gasping for air. Sandwich her. She didn't give a good goddamn. Whatever they did she would love it. She had never been able to get enough. She never would.
"Screw me!" she cried. "Give it to me!"
She felt Tony's knees forcing her legs apart. She knew he was positioning himself for the plunge. Then she felt it like a ripping blade. He had pile-driven his nine-inch prick into the tunnel of her vagina, driven it to the hilt and was trying, it seemed, to force his balls in behind it. She forced the tunnel to suck in against it, to cling to it like blood-sucking squid.
The Hawaiian spun around, stationing his buttocks on top of her breasts, and shoved his mushroom-shaped organ at her lips. 'Take!" he commanded in broken English. "Take all!"
It was a big order, but she did her best. She opened her lips and took the head of his organ, kissing it, letting her teeth stab gently beneath the head. She brought her hands up; one she used to massage his balls, feeling them become tighter and fill with sperm; the other side forced between her breasts and his buttocks and sought the sensitive opening of his rectum. When she located it, she shot her three middle fingers forward without mercy. He screamed and threw his body forward driving his shaft down her moist throat.
Tony suddenly retracted himself. She felt the emptiness left by his fat prick. "Let's sandwich her," he said, and he grabbed the Hawaiian by the shoulders and forced him to his feet. She relinquished her hold on his tool, knowing that better things were to come.
Tony reached down and took her beneath the arms, lifting her to her feet. "I told you about this yesterday," he reminded her. "Now, no more talk. We'll do it."
The Hawaiian had moved around behind her. He had his hands on her waist. She could feel the touch of his hot tool against the small of her back. Tony was facing her, his shaft almost reaching the distance between them and touching her stomach.
"Okay, Hilo," he said; and the Hawaiian suddenly lifted her up from the sand. Tony stepped forward. He took his enormous piece of equipment by the base and aimed it between her legs. She was being held slightly above his range. "Lower her," he said. "Sit her down on it."
Melissa felt herself being lowered. She felt the bulbous head of Tony's shaft driving itself home until she was flat against his body. Then he held her firmly while the Hawaiian ran his hands along the crack of her behind. He found what he was searching for-the soft opening of her rectum. Wham! Her body cried out with agony as he entered.
The two males began to pump, to thrust themselves into her at the same time. She could feel the thin tissue which divided their shafts giving, stretching. She had never felt such delight. They were taking her to the heights of sexual ecstasy. She was being sandwiched-a roll between two pieces of meat. "Faster!" she cried. "Deeper! Harder!" She knew that they too must feel each other's shafts inside her. How could they help but not feel it? Each thrust and they drove into each other, pressing each other on either side of the thin dividing wall.
The Hawaiian reached Mecca first. His tool throbbed, expanded until she thought she could not stretch enough to hold him. And then she felt the hot stream of sperm hosing inside her, gushing against her again and again.
Tony groaned like a man who had been suddenly stabbed. He drove himself to the hilt and exploded just as the dam broke within her.
The tautness immediately went out of her body. She hung between them limply, until they stepped away from her and let her fall onto the sand. She closed her eyes against the bright sun while she savored the release she had just felt. She gasped mouthful after mouthful of the clean morning air. She let the breeze caress her nakedness, cool her satisfied body. "I never thought anything could feel so fantastic," she finally moaned. She opened her eyes and looked up at Tony's hairy body. "You must be the devil of pleasure," she said.
"An angel," he said with a laugh. "An angel with an expensive thirst."
She pulled herself up to her elbows. "Oh, yes," she said. "The hundred dollars." The Hawaiian had retrieved his lavalava and was busy wrapping it around his middle. He seemed to be in a daze. He struggled with the material's strings like a man who had lost his equilibrium.
"Is he high?" she asked. "Pot?"
"Sex," Tony said. "He's like that after every piece." He shook his head. "Poor guy's only good for one trip per day. You can't make a fortune that way."
Melissa rose and began slipping back into her bikini After she had fastened the halter, she gave them both a wide smile and started for the stone steps.
"The hundred dollars," Tony said. "Are you going to bring it down, or do you want me to come up?"
She climbed several steps before turning to look down at them. "I never agreed to any hundred dollars," she said. "You stated your price, but you were so sure you had a buyer you didn't wait for an answer. That's bad business. Didn't any of the other ladies ever tell you?"
Tony rushed up to the base of the steps. "I want one hundred dollars, you rotten creep bitch! And I want it now! This minute!"
"You may want it," Melissa mocked, "but you sure as hell aren't going to get it from me. Chalk it up to experience. Or, call it a handout on your tax return." She turned and fled up the steps.
Tony, red with rage, stood shaking his fist after her. "I'll get you for this, you rich whore! No one gave Tony Pacia the shaft! You'll pay!"
She disappeared from the top of the steps, but her laugh continued to reach them even above the sound of the waves crashing against the beach.
The Hawaiian turned to look at Tony. He stood for a moment watching the rage build in his employer's face. He had never seen him so angry. He knew he would be true to his words. No one gave Tony Pacia the shaft. "Pow," he said, using the Hawaiian word for finished, done with; and he walked away down the beach knowing that the sexy broad was going to be in for it.
David rose early that same morning. His first instinct was to go to his aunt's room, to demand another chance at proving his masculinity. He felt sex was like a rollercoaster ride. If you didn't go around the second time you might have trouble getting on again. But when he had managed to work up enough nerve, he found the room empty.
He checked the house, but did not find her. Monica, the housekeeper and cook, was in the kitchen busily preparing juices for breakfast. The plump Hawaiian had taken an immediate liking to him. Whenever she caught his eye she always smiled, something he never saw her do in his aunt's presence; and when she served the meals his plate was always heaped with an extra portion.
"Aloha," she said cheerfully. "You're up early this morning."
"Have you seen my aunt?" He was in no mood for idle chatter.
Monica turned to face him, a serious expression on her homely face. "You don't want to find her," she said. "Not where she is and doing what she's doing."
"What do you mean? Where is she? What is she doing?"
"You too young," Monica mumbled. "Better you go back to bed."
He gave her an irritated glance. If she had known what had happened last night in his bathroom she wouldn't consider him too young for anything.
"You a nice boy," Monica continued, ignoring his glance of reproach. "You should go away. Back to where you came from maybe. Maybe somewhere else. But not here. This is no house for young polite boys. You grow up too fast here. See too much not meant for young people to see. Maybe you get hurt here. Go away." Her voice was tinged with urgency.
He leaned impatiently against the side of the kitchen cabinets, his arms folded across his chest. "What are you trying to say, Monica?"
"You get hurt here," she said. "I have boy of my own. Good boy once. But bad now. Got mixed up with bad people. People who should be kept away from young.. They suck the good out of them. They suck out their youth and leave nothing but a bad, empty shell. You go away," she repeated; and turning her fat buttocks toward him went on with her morning chores.
David stood watching her for a moment, puzzling the mystery of her statements. What was she warning him about? Who? Then he shrugged his shoulders, turned away and left the kitchen to continue his search for Melissa.
He checked the pool. It was empty, the blue water reflecting a shimmering pattern of sunlight along the side of the house. The gazebo was also empty as was the garage. Santos had pulled the car around to the side of the home and was washing it with a hose and sponge. He wore only a skimpy bathing suit revealing the well-trained muscles of his lithe body. He was whistling, too busy to be aware that he was being watched.
David ambled on to the stone steps leading down to the beach. He sat on the wall. Why had she laughed at him? Was he so clumsy, so awkward as a male that she could not contain herself? He felt his stomach tie in knots remembering the echoing laugh that had so crushed his ego.
Turning, he glanced out to the sea, to the boats moving like snails along the horizon. Then he saw her below on the narrow strip of sand. She was with two men; two men that held her between them and slammed into her body from the front and rear as if they were trying to crush her between them. He rose to run to her rescue, but at that moment the realization of what he saw struck him. They were not crushing her. They were screwing her! One was driving his rod into her slit and the other pounding into her buttocks. He could imagine her cries of pleasure, cries that he had heard only last night when she had first stepped into the tub with him.
His stomach turned. He felt he was going to be sick. But he could not stop watching; his gaze was frozen on the sight below.
Then Santos was there, standing behind him, watching. His face was set in a cruel expression. The hate literally sprang from his eyes.
"The bitch just can't get enough!" he sneered. He took David roughly by the arm and attempted to pull him away from the wall. "Beat it!" he demanded. "Don't just stand there and watch. She'd probably get a big kick out of that, too."
David pulled himself free. "You hate her, don't you? I've seen it when you look at her. You hate her guts."
Santos didn't speak. He attempted to grab David again to pull him away.
"You hate her because you're jealous of her," the boy accused.
Santos stopped short. "Jealous of her? For God's sake why would I be jealous of her?"
David felt his sickness turned to cruelty. He had to strike out at someone, something. "She gets all the boys," he said. "She even got me. You're jealous!"
Santos uttered a mocking laugh. "You are naive," he said. "Do you think that what happened yesterday makes me one way? A queer? You've got a hell of a lot to learn," he said. "I like it all ways. I've got no limitations. And anyone who has deserves sympathy. Yeah, you've got a lot to learn. But I'm sure she'll teach you. Go on-watch! Maybe you deserve each other. Blood is thicker than water." He turned on his heels and marched back toward the house. He entered the kitchen door, slammed it without looking back.
David turned away from the sight of his aunt and the two men below. His sickness had tinned to cruelty and the cruelty to a nagging guilt. He had screwed his mother's sister. And his mother's sister was a goddamned sex-hungry bitch who would take on any man available. She had probably taken on Santos. Maybe that's why the driver was so furious. He suddenly felt he had to get away from the house to think. He had to go somewhere by himself to decide what he should do.
He walked around to the side of the house. The limousine sat in a puddle of wash water. The keys were inside. He got in and drove away.
CHAPTER SIX
Sister Charles Dawes was the toughest detective on the homicide squad. She had been a private dick, or dickess, for seven years before coming onto the force, and she knew everything about Hawaii that needed to be known. It was her territory. She had been born here of a German father and a Spanish mother, and had never even been to the mainland. Her cases were generally confined to the social set, a fact that always irritated her. But she was a woman in a man's world and she took her assignments without complaining.
She had just finished one case, had caught the killer in a wife-swapping affair on the Windward side, and was about to sign out for the night when she got the emergency call.
"Woman found dead at 1369 Howlie Drive," the dispatcher said tonelessly into the phone. "The chief says it's a society caper and to give the assignment to you and Farley."
"Farley!" she moaned. "Do I have to put up with him on another case?"
"The chief says... "
"Yeah. Okay. I heard you the first time. Any facts on the dead woman?"
"Name is Melissa Kent, widow of the late Andrew Kent from Los Angeles. Age thirty-four. Wealthy. Inherited over a million when her husband died. That's cash. A couple more million in stocks and bonds. Not much else to go on, Charles. The call was turned in by her housekeeper."
"You're a big help," Charles mumbled. She hung up the receiver, wrote down the address, and then dialed Farley Masters. "All right, Farley. Here we go again. But only because I couldn't get out of it. Meet me at the patrol car in ten minutes. A murder on the hill."
"Sure thing, love. I've been hoping we'd have another go at it," Farley said.
Sister Charles' forehead creased into a frown. "Now listen, you homey bastard! The only thing we're going to have a go at is solving a murder. You start in with me again and I'll blow your balls off with a revolver."
"You sure give a guy confidence, Charles. When are you going to take that chastity belt off and start acting like a female?"
"You're not going to prove that case," George sneered into the receiver.
"Maybe not," Farley agreed. "But the only thing you can do with a cherry is pick it, baby. Unless, of course, you're just going to let it rot on the tree." He snickered to himself.
Charles suspected that there were other men in the office and Farley was playing her for their benefit. They all had a big bet going as to who was going to get Sister Charles in the sack first.
"Farley," she said sharply, "If you'd get your mind above your belt you might end up becoming a good detective."
"Ouch! You strike low, baby."
"You are low, Farley. Ten minutes."
She set the phone in the cradle and gathered up her paraphernalia from her desk. When she took up the mirror she pulled it out of its case and held it up to her face. The reflection that stared back at her was not unpleasing. Smooth complexion without lines... wide brown eyes with long lashes... brunette hair, natural (she had found a gray hair that morning)... full lips. She had the look of a woman who knew what she was about. And, she thought, she was also sexy. Enough of the guys on the squad were after her. She rejected all of them. She had her own stud tucked away on the other side of the island. Why get involved with these creeps and possibly lose her job? The chief was always watching her. She smiled. Maybe he had a bet, too, a piece of the action. It would be just like the bastard.
She dropped the mirror into her purse beside her revolver, switched off the light, and went out to meet Farley.
Farley was already behind the wheel, his hairy hand wrapped around the gear shift as if he were holding his tool in his hand. He was all smiles. "Hi, Charlie, baby. God, you look good enough to eat!"
"You missed lunch today maybe?" Charlie said, haughtily.
"Didn't have time for dessert."
"I bet you could always make room for dessert, Farley. Now cut the shit! The address is 1369 Howlie Drive. Can the sirens. We don't want to upset the tourist."
"Anything you say, baby." Farley slipped the patrol car into gear and sped out of the garage.
The door at 1369 Howlie Drive was opened by a heavy-set Hawaiian woman. Her eyes were red and swollen. A young man was standing behind her, his jaw firmly set as if he were trying to prove his strength under the stress of the situation.
"I'm Sister Charles," Charles told the woman. "Are you the housekeeper?"
The Hawaiian nodded.
"Where's the body?"
The boy stepped forward. "Upstairs," he said. "In her bedroom. It's awful, miss. I don't think you'd better look at her."
"I've seen 'em all," Charlie said. "Someone show me the way. I'd probably get lost in this tomb."
The boy started forward. He paused at the foot of the stairs to wait for her.
Charlie had turned to the housekeeper. "My partner will be in shortly. Send him up." She followed the boy up the stairs.
At the door of the room he hesitated. "I can't look again," he admitted. "It turns my stomach." She patted him on the shoulder. "I understand," she said. "Was it your mother?"
"My aunt."
"Okay. You have everyone in the household get together downstairs. I'll want to talk to them before I leave."
She watched as the boy returned down the stairs. Just as he vanished Farley came rushing up.
"In these big houses they have plumbing," she said curtly. "You don't have to water the trees."
She stepped forward and threw open the door of the bedroom.
"Jesus!" Farley mumbled.
Sister Charles stepped inside. She hoped Farley hadn't seen the sudden white shade of her pallor. "A sex crime!" she said, flatly.
The body of Melissa Kent was lying at the foot of the bed, her legs spread and dangling to the floor. She was naked, the fragments of a robe scattered about the room. Her eyes were opened, staring blankly at the ornate ceiling. There were bruises on her breasts and a large round white metal object visible at the opening of her vagina.
"Looks like the bottom of some kind of can," Farley observed. "A damned big can at that."
"Well, don't get all hot and bothered," she warned him. Advancing, she peered down at the body. "She's been strangled," she said, pointing to the red marks across the throat.
"I wonder if it was before or after the can," Farley mused.
"That's just what you would wonder, Farley. Get the station on the phone and see what's keeping the ambulance. Then go over this room with a fine-tooth comb while I talk to those people downstairs." She crossed to the door, hesitated. "I suppose I can trust you alone in the room with a naked woman, a dead one." Before he could answer, she went out and slammed the door.
Downstairs, Sister Charles found three people waiting for her in the library. Aside from the housekeeper and the youth there was a handsome hunk of masculinity that was introduced to her as Santos, Mrs. Kent's driver and handyman.
"Suppose we start by you telling me about Mrs. Kent," Charlie began. "What was she like?"
"She was a saint!" the fat housekeeper cried. "She was a real lady!"
Charlie picked up the shocked expression of the driver. She addressed her remarks to him. "Do you agree with this statement?" she asked. "Was she a saint?"
God, Charlie thought, if they had men like this at the stationhouse the men would have lost their bet a long time ago. She would have laid this one without blinking an eye, or without giving a damn if the chief suspended her. He was built like a brick shit house, muscles bulging in all the right places, particularly at the crotch of his tight khaki trousers. That's what really mattered. Get a hold on yourself, girl, she thought. You've got a murder to solve here. Keep the mind alert. Damn. She wondered if he had an erection.
"Was she a saint?" she repeated.
The driver was watching the boy. Charlie got the impression he wanted to talk, but was holding back for some reason.
"She was... she was a normal woman," he finally blurted.
"That's better," Charlie said. "I didn't want to call in the church. Where were you when the body was discovered?"
"In my cottage." He looked uncomfortable, hiding something. "In the back of the house. I heard Monica scream and I came running."
That probably explained it, Charlie thought. He had been naked when the housekeeper had screamed and had slipped into his pants without shorts. Damned, what a bulge! She could feel it pressing in between her legs, driving deep into her love tunnel. She crossed her legs. Better watch it, girl.
"Where were you?" She had turned to the boy.
He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head down. He looked up at her and she saw that his face was twisted with anguish. "I was out driving," he told her. "I wasn't here."
"That's true," Monica said, hurriedly. "He came home after we found the body. He wasn't even here."
"You lived here with your aunt long?" she continued.
He shook his head. "Just a few days. She sent for me when my mother died."
"What did your mother die of?"
"Heart attack," he said.
Sister Charles made a few quick marks on her note pad. A double tragedy for the boy. She always checked out people who seemed prone to tragedies. Sometimes they went off their nuts, killed a whole string of people before anyone even got suspicious to them. They were generally such a good mark for sympathy that no one considered they could be the cause of any crime.
God, she wished the driver would sit somewhere instead of just stand there with his shoulder leaning against the fireplace. It caused his torso to thrust forward. She just couldn't think with that thing bulging there to distract her whenever she looked in his direction. And she seemed to be looking in his direction most of the time. She could feel beads of perspiration standing out on her forehead.
"That'll be all for now," she announced. "But I'll probably have more questions for you tomorrow. Make yourselves available." She rose and faced the driver. "Now," she said, "if you would show me this cottage in back."
He shoved himself away from the fireplace and moved past her toward the door of the library. The boy got to his feet. She was aware as she followed the slim hips of Mrs. Kent's chauffeur that the nephew was concerned. Was he afraid the driver had been the guilty party?
"This is it," Santos said, pushing the door open and standing aside for her to enter.
Charlie stepped inside.
It was a small cottage, a single room with a double bed, two chairs and a bureau. There was a bathroom off to the left. The door was open and she could hear a steady drip from the faucet. The bed was rumpled. There was a pair of swim trunks slung over the back of one of the chairs.
"Were you sleeping when you heard the scream?" she inquired.
"I wasn't asleep," he answered. "I was reading."
She turned to face him. He was standing only inches away from her. She could feel his hot breath. "Pornography?" she asked. "You look like the type who would enjoy a good sex book."
"I'd rather be involved in the act instead of reading about it," he said, curtly.
"So would I," she whispered. And stepping against him, she pressed her breast into his chest. She let her hand slip down to his crotch. She just had to know if that thing was for real.
It was. It responded instantly. She felt it throb against her hand.
"Perhaps we could dive into an involvement right now," she suggested. "I've got a few free minutes on my hands until that kook upstairs comes looking for me."
"I'll exchange one favor for another," he said, boldly. "Well screw ourselves silly, but I want you to go easy on that boy. He's been through a lot in the past couple of days."
"Because of that saint?" she asked.
"Because of that slut," he said.
"Forget her. It's my coffee break time," she moaned.
He was obedient. He reached for the buttons on her blouse, unfastened them slowly, and then pushed it back off her shoulders. She turned so that he might undo the catch of her bra. She pushed it off her arms and her small but sharply pointed breasts leaped forward. He bend and covered a nipple with his mouth, scorching her skin with the hot saliva. At the same time he fumbled with her skirt until it dropped about her ankles and was joined by her half-slip and panties. Her entire stripping had taken him less than a minute. If such sport had been an Olympic competition, he would have been a cinch to win the ribbons.
While he continued to suck her breast, his big hands explored lower regions. He had found her mound of Venus and was tickling it with his index finger. She was tingling all over, becoming hotter than hell, aware of the hardening of the little knob at the mouth of her slit. It opened to allow his finger to enter; then clamped about it and drew it inward.
She squeezed his enormous tool from softness to a ramrod-straight hardness that pressed against her belly. Then she caressed his balls, pulled and pinched at the sack until she felt it tighten with its load.
"Honey," she moaned, "I'm convinced you're innocent! Don't torture me any longer! Put it in!" He picked her up and carried her to the bed. "Get on your knees," he demanded; and she thought: "Oh, Jesus, no! Not a dog-fashioned nut!"
But it wasn't what he had in mind. He spread her legs, positioned himself, and stabbed upward at her hot little tunnel from the rear. Her eyes widened with wonder that her slit could open to take such a big meal. From the way she felt he could have rammed a leg up her.
He reached around her, taking a breast in each hand and began to work them together. He pinched the already hardened nipples. He retraced his magnificent shaft to the tip of the head; then thrust home again. Again and again and again in quick succession.
She began to writhe and squirm beneath him. Even a Japanese wrestler couldn't have thought of a better position. If she hunched downward she impaled herself even deeper on his shaft; if she pulled upward his body sent her crashing back down to meet his upward thrust.
Sister Charles was not one who moaned at pain, but pleasure was another story. If anyone could have heard her they would have sworn she had suffered the loss of an arm or at the very least a leg. She moaned, sighed, cried and screamed; most of her verbiage an expression of her delight.
Then she screamed: "Now!"
And Santos, deep within his throat, repeated the word: "Now!"
He exploded, sending a burning force deep within her to meet her oncoming flood. Again and again the walls of her vagina closed about his shaft, sucking each of the five spasms of sperm from his expanded tool. He continued to thrust, pulling against the suction that held him when he retraced his shaft and driving it open to admit him again and again. He refused to stop despite her sudden protest to be free of the rod tearing at her moist pussy. She had asked for it and he was obviously going to drive it into her until he had his fill.
Then he exploded again with a force equal to the first and slid off her onto his side. He lay panting as she staggered to her feet and sought the pile of her clothes. Dressed, she stood looking down at him. The wet cylindrical organ was still erected, as hard as when he had begun. It stretched well above his navel. Looking at its size she had difficulty believing that such a tool had actually been inside her. But it had. Her body still panted with the pleasure of it.
His eyes were closed. He was breathing heavily. Perhaps he still pretended to be screwing her.
"You're a regular satyr," she said.
Watching him made her hot again. She was considering shedding the rumpled clothes and going in for a return match, but at that moment she heard Farley calling her name from the back door of the house.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she told Santos. "I know there's a lot you three are not telling me. A lot I ought to know. And I'm going to know, it."
The driver didn't even bother to open his eyes and answer her. She left him, walked across the yard and nodded to Farley.
"It was a can of shaving cream," her partner told her. "The large economy size."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Charlie demanded.
"That round white thing gaping from the victim's... from her."
"Yeah?"
"It was a can of shaving cream."
Sister Charles looked concerned. It was for sure that the housekeeper didn't shave. That left the nephew and the stud she had just bedded. The nephew didn't look like he was old enough to have a beard worthy of a large economy-size shaving cream. She looked back toward the cottage. Hell! If he was guilty it was a shameful waste of a good piece of male.
"Come on, Farley," she said. "When there's a sex crime there's only one place to go on this island to pick up the information."
"You mean Mamma Lulu's?"
"I mean Mamma Lulu's. And don't act like you haven't been there before. Every sex-hungry male on the squad spends his pay check there."
Farley followed her around the house to the car. "This will be the first time I've been there on an expense account," he said with delight.
"You mean the first time you've been there on an honest one," she snapped. "You fuzz are all alike."
She climbed into the patrol car and slammed the door. Glancing back at the house she saw the nephew staring out of the library window. He was a good-looking boy. She wondered why the driver had tried to protect him after only a couple of days.
"People are all kooks," she told Farley.
The detective reached over and pinched her thigh.
"But you're the worst," she said. "Now, keep you paws to yourself."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mama Lulu flipped a red moth-eaten boa about her thick neck and stood smiling down at them.
"Mama Lulu," Farley said. "This is Sister Charlie."
"Pleasure," Mama Lulu smiled. "It's always nice to meet Farley's sisters."
Charlie cringed.
"Sit down," Farley invited the heavy-set woman. "We want to talk to you."
"Business, huh?" Mama Lulu said seriously. "Well, there ain't been nothing going on here at my place. I'm clean, man." She pulled out a chair and sank onto the edge, folding her hands on the table in front of her like an innocent schoolgirl. "You take your sister around when you're working, Farley?"
"Charlie's a cop," Farley explained. "She's on a case and wants to ask you a few questions." He turned back to Charlie. "Mama Lulu's got the swingingest joint in Honolulu."
"I've heard about it," Charlie said.
Farley was ecstatic with the charm of the place. He nodded toward the girls dancing on the small stage. "That Rosalie is a real pro. The best stripper east of Hong Kong. When she gets down to the nitty-gritty she can pick up a dime from the floor. She just swoops down, does the splits and comes up a dime richer."
"I'm glad talent like that is appreciated," Charlie told him.
Mama Lulu began to relax. "The publicity says it's a dime," she confessed. "Actually it's a quarter. Rosalie's snatch wouldn't even recognize a dime let alone be able to close tight enough to pick it up," She laughed at her own joke, revealing her uneven, nicotine-stained teeth.
The bartender sent drinks to the group, and Charlie, pushing hers aside, leaned forward and stared coldly into Mama Lulu's eyes.
"You ever heard of a broad named Melissa Kent?" she asked.
Mama Lulu rolled her eyes around as if she were trying to remember the name. "Can't say as I have," she finally said, "It may sound sort of familiar, but then I hear the names of lots of girls. We've got more girls looking for work in Honolulu than you might think. Is this Melissa Kent a stripper?"
"She's society," Farley offered. "Lives up on Howlie Drive."
Mama Lulu whistled. "Rich society, you mean. I don't have much of a call to be meeting them ladies. Except during the war, maybe. Then we put our butts together and did relief work, USO entertainment. That sort of bunk."
"What work you put your butt to during the war is a matter of record," Farley teased. Turning to Charlie, he said: "Mama Lulu was known for turning fifty tricks a day."
"I didn't manage to buy this place by packing parachutes," she laughed.
"What about any new john in town?" Charlie asked. "One that hasn't been checked out yet by the locals? One that might tear off a piece and then give the sweet lady a trip out of this world?"
"None I've heard of," Mama Lulu said. "Say, Farley, this chick says what she's thinking. I like that. You're okay, cop." Mama Lulu downed her gin and tonic and set the empty glass back on the table. "Melissa Kent, you say? Well, I don't know any Melissa Kent, but I once knew a Melissa Marston. From somewhere in California. She worked here for a couple of weeks to pick up some dough. Then she vanished. We never saw her again. At least I didn't, but one of the customers says he saw her riding down Kalimoana in a black limousine." She laughed. "But he's a good for nothing drunk, so don't pay any attention to what he says."
"What did she look like?" Charlie asked.
"Good-looking broad. About twenty-nine or thirty, I'd say. But I doubt if that was her. If it had been she would have dropped around to visit her friend Christina Schwartz; Christina was here for almost six months before she found a rich john and blew the place."
Charlie felt she was onto something. It was just one of her hunches, but some cases were solved by following a hunch. "Are any of the girls still here who worked here when this Melissa and Christina did?"
"A couple," Mama Lulu told her. "Rosalie was here. Maybe she can pick up a quarter, but with a face like hers you can't work any elegant joint on Waikiki."
"I'd like to talk to Rosalie," Charlie said to Farley. "Or, if you've already met the lady, why don't you give it a try? She might confide in an old trick."
Mama Lulu slapped her thick thigh. "She's got your number, Farley baby. Go give Rosalie a good interrogation. She's been needin' it for days."
Farley, looking like a caught criminal, got up and headed toward the entrance to the stage. Rosalie was just finishing her infamous number and was running off the side of the stage. They would just about collide behind the stained curtain.
"Farley's a good guy," Mama Lulu said. "He's always played square with me. And that's all I ask from any cop. You included, Charlie, baby."
"As long as I know you're not holding out with me," Charlie said, "we'll both play the game square."
Mama Lulu got up. She pushed the sequined dress down over her hips and adjusted her boa. "I don't know why the fuzz always comes to me when there's some sex crime," she said. "When there's a pig like Tony Pacia running a string of call whores. I'd think he'd be a better picking." She looked down at Charlie and winked before ambling away to meet two arriving sailors.
Charlie had understood. She had winked back.
She gave Farley exactly ten minutes alone with the quarter picking stripper; then she got up and slipped through the tables to the stage entrance.
The rear of the stage smelled even worse than the customer's area. The floors were filthy as were the yards of drapery materials along the walls. A couple of girls were standing near the stage entrance, waiting for their cues. Both wore thin, scant pieces of tulle that could easily be plucked from their costumes and flung into the first row of screaming servicemen. Charlie asked which room was Rosalie's, and one of the girls pointed to the door at the top of some metal stairs.
"She's got a john in there, so don't just bust in," the girl warned.
"It's okay," Charlie assured her. "He's my husband."
She turned and started toward the stairs as the drums announced the girls' entrance. They both stood in confusion, not knowing if they should try to save Rosalie or get on with their work.
"Oh, screw her!" the girl who had pointed out the room finally said. "She's been asking for a beating, the miserable bitch!"
And they bounced onto the stage with their hips and tits bouncing to the music.
Charlie climbed the stairs and quietly pushed open the door to Rosalie's dressing room. She didn't have to step inside to see the action. It was a tiny room with a table, a standing mirror and a cot. Farley, naturally, was on the cot, hovering over a giggling Rosalie. The girl's behind was turned toward the door. It had been stripped and was now being poked by one of Farley's long, hairy fingers. Rosalie's view was obstructed by Farley's body and Farley was too busy poking and sucking on her breast to have been aware of an intruder.
"Farley, lover," Rosalie cooed. "My little hole's been dying to see you again. Why you been neglecting little Rosalie?"
"... been busy," Farley mumbled.
Charlie walked into the room. "I thought your mother taught you not to talk with your mouth full," she said with heavy sarcasm.
Farley's head shot up and his finger out. "Charlie! That's damned dirty! You shouldn't have done that!"
Rosalie was too shocked to speak. "Hey, honey," she finally managed. "This your little woman?"
Farley covered her naked buttocks and slit with a piece of the bedspread.
"We don't have time for that now," Charlie told him. "Make a date for later tonight." She went out the door and stood waiting for him.
He came out quickly. He was damned upset with her.
"Sorry, Farley," she said by way of apology. "Did you get any information about this Melissa and Christina?"
"Some." He went ahead of her down the stairs. He was so pissed with her he wasn't going to give out with anything he had learned without being coached. "That was damned mean of you, Charlie. Another minute and I'd have been in full action. You wouldn't have stopped me then."
"I said I'm sorry. Now give! What did the broad have to say?"
"She doesn't remember much about Melissa Marston. Said she wasn't here long enough for any of the girls to get to know her. But she knows Christina. Says she married a rich sugar grower who lives on the Windward side. His name's Smitt, or Snit, something like that."
"All right. Here's what I want you to do first. Call in a pickup on a Tony Pacia. Have them hold him at headquarters until I can get to him. Then see what you can find on this Christina."
Farley nodded moodily.
"You shouldn't feel too badly," Charlie told him. "Didn't you know that most strippers are whores and most whores are lesbians, so she was just having you on in the first place."
"You're a cold-blooded bitch, Charlie," Farley said with heavy emphasis on "bitch."
"Where will I meet you?"
"Make it here in an hour," Charlie instructed him. "I've got something to attend to."
Farley walked toward the exit, still grumbling to himself.
As soon as he had gone, Charlie climbed the metal stairs for a second time. She stopped before the same door, she knocked softly, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Rosalie was still on the bed. Her eyes were moist. The poor dear had been crying. "What do you want?" she demanded.
"I'm here to take up where Farley left off," Charlie said; and she slammed the door and locked it.
Rosalie immediately dried her tears. "I'd rather it would be you anyway, sweetie," she said, and she pushed the edge of the bedspread away from her loins. "I haven't had me a decent broad in months."
Charlie began to slip out of her clothes. "Can you really pick up a quarter with that thing?" she asked to satisfy her curiosity.
"That's a trade secret," Rosalie answered. "But if you run into a couple of quarters while you're up there, just spit 'em out. I'll need them in the act."
Charlie took up the same position she had found Farley in, with her mouth pressed over the stripper's breast and her index finger firmly planted to her knuckle. Her own twat still ached from the chauffeur's assault with his deadly organ. If she moved too quickly she felt a stabbing pain. The only thing to do for it was to give it more exercise. She spun around and clamped her thighs on either side of Rosalie's head. The stripper's tongue quickly found its mark. It darted into the sensitive opening and began to sooth the sore walls. Her hands had clamped about Charlie's buttocks. She was squeezing them and forcing her down more tightly against her head.
Charlie withdrew her finger. Then she parted the short growth of pubic hair to expose the stripper's mound of pleasure. For the first time in her life she found herself staring closely into the eye of the pink slit. She had had ordeals with lesbians before, but she had never been a participant. Her own tongue had always stayed in her head. She had merely lain back and enjoyed the tongue lapping at her, driving her into a frenzy and then claiming the juice of her passion.
This time, driven to the heights by that goddamned stud chauffeur earlier, she had not been able to get sex out of her mind. She wanted the dyke to take her, but she also wanted to take the dyke.
She drove her head between Rosalie's legs and tasted the sticky moisture of her glands. The stripper began to bounce around in a fit of pleasure near delirium. She wrapped her legs about Charlie's head, forced her tightly between her loins. They began to rock back and forth, their tongue darting rapidly in and out of each other's vaginas.
"If I had a whip I'd beat your ass," Rosalie cried. She hammered her fist into Charlie's buttocks. "Eat me, you bitch!"
Charlie knew she was approaching Mecca when she heard herself begin to moan and groan. With one loud screech, she bit into the stripper's pussy and felt her own release a stream of liquid. A sour taste on her own tongue told her that Rosalie, too, had made the scene at precisely the same moment.
"Geronimo!" she cried; and she was dizzy for the pleasure of it all.
"What did she say to you in your cottage?" David asked Santos. "Did she accuse you of killing my aunt?"
"She didn't accuse me of anything," Santos told him. "She just looked around and then... "
"And then?"
"And then I screwed the hell out of her, kid. What do you think she brought me out here for? To see if I'd rat on the real killer?"
David was silent for a moment. He sat in the rocker facing the bed with his head lowered. "I had thought maybe she felt you were guilty," he admitted. "I was afraid she was going to arrest you."
Santos, reclining with a book open on his lap, sat up with his legs over the edge of the bed. "Listen, David," he said. "Don't worry about me. Worry about yourself. Monica and I were taking a chance when we lied and backed you up in saying you were out driving. You had been back a good twenty minutes before Monica found the body. And you had a damned good reason for killing the slut. Not only did she have an affair with her own nephew, you are her only living heir."
David showed his alarm. "I... I hadn't even thought about that," he said.
"But to the police you're going to be the number one suspect. That's why Monica and I lied. Your aunt's death is going to leave you a mighty rich young man."
"We all had reasons," David reminded him. "You hated her guts. I saw that this morning. You could have killed her. You could have!"
"And you thought I had, didn't you? That's why you were afraid she was going to arrest me. You think I'm guilty."
"I don't know what I think," David cried. "I just know I didn't kill her. Maybe I wanted to. I'll admit that. But I didn't do it. I didn't!"
"Who said you did?" Santos asked flatly.
David rose and began to pace the floor. His face was drawn with worry. There was no sign of grief. "I saw her body," he finally said. "I saw the end of that can sticking out of her as if she had been screwing herself with it."
"So?"
"I checked. It's my can of shaving cream," he said. "I was going to tell that policewoman, but I couldn't. I just couldn't admit it unless I had to. I was waiting by the window. If she had arrested you and taken you away, I was going to stop her by telling her it was my can."
Santos smiled. "I don't think that would have stopped her if she had had it in her mind to arrest me," he said. "She's a mighty determined woman, that lady cop. She knows what she wants and she gets it. I knew in the library what she wanted. I lead her on by sticking my groin out and concentrating on something to give me a partial erection. I didn't have on any shorts, so the goddamned thing was sticking down my leg. She couldn't take her eyes off it. I think if I had refused to leave that room she would have taken it there in front of both you and Monica."
"You mean you think Sister Charles is as sex-hungry as my aunt?" David inquired.
"No one's that sex-hungry," the driver answered, "unless maybe it's a girl with Spanish fly in her."
"Was Melissa really that bad?"
"After seeing what you did on the beach, you can still ask that question?" Santos lay back in bed and brought the sheets up about his neck. "Now go on back to the house and get some sleep."
"I don't think I can sleep in that room next to where she was murdered. It gives me the creeps."
"Well, sleep in one of the other rooms. There sure as hell are enough of them to choose from."
David moved to the door. He turned. "I'm glad they didn't arrest you," he said. "Good night."
"Good night, David."
After the boy had gone Santos lay for several hours unable to sleep. He had not wanted the boy to go, but he had dared not ask him to stay. Things were in a big enough of a mess. He was already worried that that lady cop would somehow find out that he had done the boy in The Traps' men's room. What would she think then? Maybe that the aunt had discovered them in a deviate affair and had threatened to have him put away for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. It would be like Melissa Kent to have done such a thing... to have someone else arrested for her own crime. Still he had not really wanted David to go. Screwing that policewoman had turned him on enough to screw for days on end without stopping. It was always like that with him. When he didn't have any he could control himself, but once the passion within him had been unleashed he had a hell of a time calming himself down again. Screwing that female piece of fluff called Sister Charles had only been like feeding crumpets to a starving man. If the kid had stayed and he had not sent him away he would have plowed in between that virginal tight pair of buns. The pulsating erection that had been hidden by the sheets would have found momentary satisfaction.
The lady cop should have stayed for an instant replay. If she had thought the first round had been fulfilling, she would have been surprised at the second. The third. And even the fourth.
He got out of bed, rushed into the bathroom, and stepped beneath the cold shower. But even that did little to rid him of his need. The mere rubbing of the soap over his body made the stiffness more solid. And when he dried himself, ran the rough towel between his legs, his balls ached for relief of the built-up love juice. The skin of the sack had compressed and pulled his testicles tightly up beneath the wrist-thick base of his pleading organ.
He was about to take matters in his own hands when he heard the door of his cottage open quietly and then close as soundlessly. His immediate thought was that Sister Charles had indeed come back for an instant replay. He had judged her to be a woman who wouldn't content herself with a one-time screwing.
He stepped through the bathroom door, all smiles. The smile quickly faded.
David was standing in the middle of the room, a bathrobe loosely tied about his middle.
"I couldn't sleep in the house," he said- "I want to stay here with you." His eyes widened at the size of the huge gland jutting outward from the driver's loins.
"Ok, kid!" Santos said. "But you know what it's going to mean. This thing needs action and if you're here it's going to be you who gives it what it needs." He wrapped his fist about the base of the shaft and squeezed.
"I guess I owe you one anyway, don't I?" David said; and he slipped out of the robe and onto the bed with his naked buns exposed, waiting for his first experience in a new form of sexual release. A few more days in Hawaii and he wondered if there would be anything left for him to learn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Farley was surprised that Charlie had let him make a call on his own, especially since the call was on a female. His partner seemed determined to keep him from getting a piece of ass while they were on this assignment. He wondered if Charlie had known something she wasn't telling him about Christina Schwartz. Maybe one of the girls had told her that the ex-stripper was a real dog. It would have been like Charlie to send him to interrogate a dame as ugly as a bull dog. Just like that sexless bitch! One of these days he was going to win that hundred-dollar pot at the station by ramming his fat dong up her uncraving pussy. Of course, he'd have to bring back pictures of his success to prove he had really made it and wasn't just fabricating his wishful thinking. That would be as hard as seducing Sister Charles. How was he going to hide a photographer every second that they were together, so one would be there in case he succeeded?
Farley parked outside of the residence registered as belonging to Ambrose Smitt, the cane cropper. It was a gigantic white structure which reminded him of the photographs he had seen of Southern plantations during the Civil War, with tall white columns and a veranda meant for ladies in long dresses and gentlemen with mint juleps in hand. The fields of sugar cane pressed up against the narrow yard on two sides and the back.
When he rang the bell he heard chimes ringing out "Dixie" inside, and presently a Negro maid with her hair tied in a red handkerchief answered the door.
"Master Smitt ain't home," she said.
Farley gave her his most provocative smile. "It's Mrs. Smitt I came to see. Mrs. Christina Smitt."
"She don't receive no callers," the maid told him.
He took on a pained expression. "And after I've come all the way from the Mason-Dixon line to see her," he drawled. "It seems a cryin' shame that I'm goin' to be turned away after coming so far."
The maid giggled. "You've got the worst Southern accent I ever heard," she told him. "Besides, Mrs. Smitt's a Yankee. Yer acting's all for nothing." She started to close the door.
Farley stuck his foot in the frame. "But she is at home?" he asked.
"She is, but she ain't receiving. Now get your foot out of the door before I call the dogs!"
"I think she'll see me," Farley said. He took out his wallet and showed his badge.
"Well, why didn't you say so instead of puttin' on that phoney peddler act?" She held open the door. "Better stick to being fuzz," she said. "I don't think you'd get far at anything else."
Fresh bitch, Farley thought I'd like to show her what I'm best at.
She showed him into a large sitting room and left him, giggling to herself, her plump little rump swinging from side to side like a streetwalker out for her first daily trick.
Farley sank onto a down-filled sofa, only to spring up again as the door opened and a tall, attractive blonde in a pink dressing gown glided into the room like an illusion from an LSD trip. She wasn't what he could call young, but she was no old hag as he had expected. Her gown was thin, almost totally. He could see, or thought he could see, the dark area beneath her belly which told him the blonde hair wasn't natural. She was smiling, but the smile was forced. It told him that she had been expecting a call from the police.
"I'm Christina Smitt," she said, crossing the room with her hand extended. "I suppose you're here about the horrible thing that's happened to dear, sweet Melissa. It's dreadful. Absolutely the most dreadful thing I've ever experienced. The poor, dear creature! So sweet, so kind, so devoted to her quiet life."
He took her hand and felt the stickiness of a heavy perspiration. She smelled of jasmine. The scent was so strong it made him reel.
"I suppose her nephew told you that we were the best of friends," she probed.
"Not her nephew," Farley admitted. "Mama Lulu."
Her face fell. She looked as if she were about to break into tears.
"Perhaps you had best sit down," Farley suggested.
She did just that, dropping to the edge of the chair opposite him and covering her face with her hands. The front of her robe opened to reveal shapely legs. "Oh, dear!" she moaned. "It's finally caught up with me!"
"What's that?"
"My past, of course." She turned a pleading glance on him. "You won't tell anyone? If my husband comes in don't breath a word about Mama Lulu. He doesn't know. He mustn't know. The shock would kill him. He's not a strong man. Oh, Christ! What have I done to deserve this?"
"What I'm here to find out," Farley said flatly, "is what did Melissa Kent do to deserve her fate."
"I suppose hers is worse than mine. Poor Melissa. She had so damned much going for her too. She wasn't saddled with a dominating husband. I'm not saying I am, of course."
"Of course."
"Smitt is a real dear... all that money... and he's so sweet."
"What about Melissa Kent?" Farley interrupted. "Can you tell me everything you know about her? Something you might think is trivial could be just the thing to point out her murderer."
"I wouldn't know where to begin," Christina said. "I've known Melissa since we were in high school together. Santa Monica High! Those were the good old days. Sweet Melissa. She was the girl most likely."
"Most likely to what?"
Christina shrugged. "I don't know. They never said."
Her bare legs and the mystery area slightly above the part in her robe was upsetting Farley. And there was that damned jasmine fragrance filling the room and making him heady. He was aware of movement from his crotch. And the damned joint was being strangled by his shorts. If he didn't move and adjust it soon it was going to snap. "Why don't you sit over here beside me on the sofa," he suggested. "We can get down to the basics of your story."
She smiled coyly. Rising, her robe flapped open and for one brief flicker of a second, Farley got a glimpse of a brunette triangle of hair. She perched beside him, but discreetly placed a pillow between them as if suspecting that his intentions were less than honorable.
"Melissa and I were cheerleaders in high school," she told him. "Melissa was a popular girl, especially after... "
"After what?"
"After she gave favors to the basketball team. She was always starving for affection, Melissa was. I think it was because she was so deprived at home, a drunken father and a hooker for a mother. It wasn't easy for her. Melissa used to bitch a lot. Her mother was always trying to shove her overload onto Melissa. But Melissa picked her own men. I used to tell her that anyone who did it so often might as well make a buck out of it, but she didn't dig the scene. That wasn't discreet of me to tell you, was it? I mean I was Melissa's best friend and I shouldn't hurt her memory. She was such a dear. Horney as hell, but a dear."
"You came to Hawaii together?" Farley asked. He had slipped the pillow from between them and had edged a few inches closer.
"Years ago," Christina told him. "Melissa had decided to make a good marriage and she'd heard that women were as scarce here as they were in Alaska. We didn't have the wardrobe to work the snow and ice area, so we came here. We were both broke as hell. That's why Mama Lulu's. I had done a little dancing in the movies. Nothing big, you understand. Just hoofing it up in the background and begging the producers and directors to give me a line now and then." Her eyes became dazed, dreamy. "I could have been a big star, but they wouldn't give me a break. The bastards couldn't spot talent when it was under their noses. That's why movies are in the state they are in today. There's no glamour left. Oh, they'd promise you the moon, but after they'd laid you you were lucky to keep the bit part in the chorus line."
"Did Melissa have the screen bug too?"
"No. Not Melissa." Christina laughed. "She wanted two things out of life. Money and men of her own choice. She wasn't about to work for it when she figured she could marry it. Sweet Melissa. She hoofed it at Mama Lulu's for a couple of days and it almost killed her. But she was smart. She knew Mama Lulu only wanted us there because her own fat ass had run out of gas. She didn't care if we could dance or not. All she wanted was a percentage of the tricks we turned. She tried to hang onto Melissa. I guess she knew that a broad that hot could make her a fortune in a couple of years. But Melissa would have none of it. She got all dolled up in her best duds and began hanging around the rich tourist places. That's where she met Kent. He was entertaining some business associates from the mainland. He went nuts over her. Married her within a week. Then, of course, he died and left her all that beautiful money. Which is the only thing she wanted from him anyway. The sweetheart gave me enough to get started and hook.. I mean meet Smitt."
Farley tugged discreetly at the crotch of his trousers to relieve some of the pressure from his stiffening tool His eyes were fixed on the rise and fall of her full breasts. He could see the points of her nipples pressing against the sheer material.
"Did you know any of her men friends?" he managed to inquire. "Could you give me some names, or maybe descriptions?"
"Heavens, no! I didn't see Melissa that often after I married. Smitt keeps me cooped-satisfied here. Our lives are so busy with the sugar cane. I only saw her once a week when I delivered-" She stopped herself. "When we would meet for a few minutes in town."
"You didn't know any of the men she was seeing?"
"No, none."
"Then I guess you're not going to be much of a help," Farley mumbled. "We were hoping you'd give us a real line to work on. There's not much evidence. But there never is in these sex crimes."
Her eyes widened. "Sex crimes? You mean Melissa was done in by some deviate?"
Farley nodded.
Christina gasped and appeared about to faint. "Oh, darling Melissa," she sighed.
Farley was immediately at her rescue. He placed his arm about her shoulders and pulled her protectively into the curve of his body. Her head fell against his chest and her arm slid down his stomach and settled over his swollen masculinity.
"There, there," he said. "I should have known better than to upset you."
She moaned and started to pull herself away from him.
"It's just that I was picturing her lying there with a can of shaving cream sticking out."
She slumped back against him. This time it was her hand that settled in his crotch. "A small can?" she asked in a whisper.
"A large one. Economy size."
She squeezed her fingers together as if in pain at the thought of Melissa's suffering. They clamped about Farley's tool with such force that he flinched and uttered a deep-throated groan.
Christina straightened herself, but she failed to withdraw her hand. "It must be hard on you to have to witness such bestiality," she said.
"Extremely," Farley lied. "A sensitive soul like myself is torn apart every time I'm called in on such a case. It's enough to turn a man away from sex all together."
"It really doesn't seem to have affected you too much," Christina observed, and gave him another affectionate squeeze.
Farley couldn't contain himself any longer. He reached through the fold of her robe and wrapped one hand comfortably about a breast. "It's just that you turn me on so," he mumbled.
Christina let him fondle her breasts until he had reached a feverish pitch. His breath was coming in quick, familiar gasps and his touch was becoming rough, causing her ample breasts to ache, the nipples to harden. Then she pushed him away and got to her feet.
"I was a good dancer," she said with a reminiscent melancholy. "In fact, one of the best! Take that Rosalie at Mama Lulu's. I could out-dance her anyday. But the old girl would never let me. I think Rosalie had something on her. That's how she keeps top billing. That dime routine was a farce. She'd stand the quarter up on end by sticking it in a piece of bubble gum. I could have done it without the gum."
Suddenly as if to prove herself, Christina untied the belt of her robe and let it slip off her shoulders and settle about her ankles. She stood in the middle of the room completely naked, her breasts firm, the nipples pointing outward from the center of their rosettes. She ran her hand suggestively up her hips, waist and caressed a breast in each hand.
Farley loosened his tie. His eyes drank their fill of her nudity. She was definitely not a natural blonde; the mat of triangular hair about her loins was a reddish brown. Her legs were shapely but muscular; her buttocks were solid.
"You can see I still have a dancer's body," she said.
"Most definitely," he stumbled.
She leaped into the air and landed with her legs spread in a perfect split. The fuzzy covering of her slit kissing the beige shag of the carpet brought Farley to his feet. He crossed to her, bent down, and ran his hand palm up beneath the quivering lips of her femininity.
"It's a perfect split," he announced. "A ray of light couldn't get through there." He flexed his fingers, feeling the moist contact with the lips of her vagina. "Perfect," he repeated. "Absolutely perfect." His finger jabbed forward and buried itself to the knuckle.
Christina's eyes closed and her lips parted. "God!" she moaned. "That's heavenly! I'd almost forgotten what it was like to feel anything but Smitt's tongue!"
"There's more to come," Farley assured her.
"Then let it be now!" She groaned. "Now! Here on the floor."
She rolled over on her back and lay staring up at him while he removed his coat and shed his trousers. Her eyes widened at the sight of his shaft protruding from between his shirt tails.
"It's so thick," she whispered; being discreet enough not to mention its shortness. But what he lacked in length he made up for in circumference. The inflated head and base were the size of a beer bottle; a stubby, fat beer bottle.
He kneeled between her legs, directed the throbbing tool toward her hungry slit, and then fell forward, winding her as he pierced his mark.
"Ahh," she cooed. "Officer, you've driven the love of justice into me. Now make sure I don't forget it."
She began to squirm beneath him, to raise her hips to meet each of his forceful thrusts. Farley began to chew at her nipples. Each downward thrust drove her hunched buttocks against the floor with such force that the vibrations shook through his body. He could hear the crystal on the coffee table clatter and the floor boards creak. He hoped it didn't bring the maid, or that her tongue-crazy husband didn't stumble in from the cane fields before he had finished. He couldn't stand up under many more interruptions. If Charlie wasn't keeping him from getting his rocks off it was his frigid wife.
Christina certainly wasn't frigid. She was moaning and squirming and loving every second like a woman who had been deprived of the ultimate pleasure. "I'll never be the same," she groaned with delight. She continued to moan until a great gasp finally escaped her lips and her tight little pussy closed about Farley's shaft and he felt her hot love juice cover its head. He retracted himself and drove forward brutally to meet her explosion with his own. Their bodies were shaken with spasms.
Then Christina pushed him off her. He spilled over on the beige shag carpet with an expression of surprise. He had fully expected to repeat his performance after a moment of rest.
"You'd better go," she said firmly, "before Smitt comes in. He's got a temper like a bull moose. He'd tear you to ribbons."
"Because you'd tell him I raped you, of course?"
"Of course."
"Women!" Farley grumbled. He got to his feet and slipped into his trousers. "You give them what they want and they have to pretend they've done you a favor. Or that you've taken advantage of them." He pulled on his coat and straightened his tie. "Someone should come up with a substitute," he said.
Christina had slipped back into her flimsy robe. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa as dignified as she had been when she had first entered the room. If anyone had seen them they would have thought that they were merely having a pleasant and business like conversation.
"Don't be a sore head," she said. "You've got balls and that makes you a man. A woman's got to look out for her reputation. If you're known as a whoremonger, that's fine. But if a chick is known as a whore, she's done for."
"Is that why you were paying Melissa Kent blackmail?" he asked with sudden inspiration. Christina retained her outward cool, but he could tell that he had shaken her.
"Who told you about that?" she demanded. "The kid, huh? I was afraid he had overheard us." She lit a cigarette and puffed on it hatefully. "Well, Melissa was no blackmailer. She might have been a hell of a lot of things, but not that. She was the liaison. She collected the money for the rat who threatened me to keep Smitt from finding out. Melissa had enough money to buy the islands. At least, she carried on like she did."
"Who was putting the bite on you?" Farley asked.
Christina laughed. "A crud from Mama Lulu's. I'm surprised he hadn't tried something with Melissa, except maybe he only goes in for the telling your husband line."
Farley sat down on the sofa facing her. "I think there's more about your friend than you care to tell me," he said. "Why don't you level with me?"
She stared at him without speaking for some time. Then she crushed out her cigarette and pushed the ashtray aside. "I like you," she said. "And I'm grateful to have a piece of ass in the afternoon. I don't get much. Not with Smitt the way he is. Not only is he a muffdiver, he's a Southern prude."
"Does that mean you're going to level with me?" Farley persisted.
"That means nothing." Christina snapped. "This is a rotten life. Melissa was just trying to get her share of pleasure. She was a nympho, would screw anything in pants that happened to be there when she got worked up. I don't know who killed her. There must have been at least a dozen men who wanted to get even with her for jilting them. And twice as many wives. A woman like Melissa has too many enemies to count up on your fingers."
Farley smiled. "And her housekeeper kept insisting she was a saint."
"Monica might consider her a saint now that she's dead," Christina told him. "She's to inherit twenty thousand."
"And she knew this?"
"Hell, yes! Melissa used the inheritance to keep her around. Servants are hard to get nowadays. Take that simple broad that let you in here. Smitt had her flown in from the dear old South."
Farley rose to leave. He'd just as soon have laid back down on the rug and welcomed Christina with open arms, but her present mood told him that any such suggestion would be met with unbending resistance. "Well, I'm no further along then when I came," he said. "Happier, of course." He winked at her. "We've got a housekeeper who stands to inherit twenty thousand and a nephew who'll probably inherit twenty times more. A string of studs and jealous wives. And a dear friend who's paying blackmail to keep her husband from finding out she was a stripper with questionable morals!"
"Why not? you've got as much of a motive as any of the others," Farley informed her. "Maybe she threatened to tell Smitt all about you. Maybe she got tired of acting as a go-between with your blackmailer. Maybe she even turned hungry eyes on your own husband."
"Maybe you've got sand in that brain of yours, copper. All right, I admit we weren't the friends I pretended, but killing her was something else. And another thing. I don't shave! So shove that squatty little rod of yours down your throat! And get the hell out of here before I call my husband and...
"And tell him how beautifully you do the splits," Christina screamed.
"No... I wasn't ill." he mocked. "Now suppose you tell me where you were last night."
"Here, of course."
"Can your husband verify that?"
Christina looked concerned. She lit another cigarette, but stubbed it out after one puff. "No," she told him. "He was in Waikiki on business. But Priscilla was here. She can tell you I never left the house."
"Was she with you all night?" Farley asked. "Doesn't the girl ever go to her room to sleep?"
Christina looked uncomfortable. "She was up late," she said. "She was seeing to me."
"Were you ill?"
"I see," Farley mumbled. "Your husband's tongue isn't the only one you suffer from."
Christina got to her feet. She stared at him defiantly. "You'll never know," she said. "Now, I think this little visit has come to an end. If you're going to accuse me, do it. If not, leave my house immediately, or I'll call my lawyers."
"I'm going," Farley assured her. He gave a short, mocking bow and started for the door. "Thank you," he said over his shoulder. "For the information, I mean."
"Screw you, bastard!" she said from behind him.
He passed through the door, closed it, and found himself facing the Negro maid.
She had obviously been listening at the door. "Dirty fuzz!" she said in disgust; and turning on her heels, marched away down the hall without even seeing him to the door.
In the patrol car, Farley radioed the station. "Any word on Tony Pacia?" he asked.
The dispatcher checked through some records. "Not yet," he said. "Sister Charles is staking out his pad. When he comes home she'll have him."
Farley signed off, started the car, and headed for the highway. He was laughing at the dispatcher's remark, "When he comes home she'll have him." Pure old Charlie. If she ever had a man the shock would probably kill her.
CHAPTER NINE
Charlie left the stake-out at Tony Pacia's elegant Waikiki apartment and drove to the Kent mansion. She had had radio contact with Farley and he had told her about his interview with Christina Smitt.
Blackmail, he had told her. And she had mentioned something about the kid overhearing a conversation between Melissa Kent and herself.
Charlie intended to get a little rough with the nephew. She was miffed that he hadn't told her about the conversation the night before. He must have known how important it could have been. Why had he held out? He hadn't seemed too upset by his aunt's murder, so he couldn't use that as an excuse. There was something fishy about him anyway. She had felt it last night when she had seen him peering out from behind the curtains, spying on her. She was one for hunches, and she had a hunch the kid knew a hell of a lot more than he was telling. More than just about Christina Smitt's blackmail; she was sure he was holding out.
Aside from the nephew, she didn't have any objection to seeing the murdered woman's driver again. Santos, she thought his name had been. What a lay he had been. She had wished she had had more time to allow him full expression of his abilities, but Farley had been waiting in the house and she didn't dare let the slob know she wasn't the virgin she pretended. What would the guys at the station say if they found out they had been wrong about her all these years? It would crush the poor bastards. Each one was sure he was going to be the first to bed her, to break her alleged cherry. Men were nuts. If they thought a girl had her maidenhead they'd drive themselves crazy trying to get it. It was as if there was a masculine conspiracy, a contest to see which male could claim the greatest number of maidenhead burstings. Christ! She had lost hers when she had been fourteen and it couldn't have been much of a pleasure for the guy who got it. She remembered it as a bungling fit of agony. He hadn't known any more about what they were doing than she had. She wondered if there were a group of women who also rated themselves on how many male virgins they could seduce. Too bad the males of the species didn't have a tangible symbol of their purity. They were such lying bastards, always bragging about how many girls they had laid, it was hard to know if you were having them on their first time out except for their bungling. And some bungled it after experience.
Well, Santos, the driver, had not been on his first time out. She had his file on the seat beside her. He'd had one sweet sex life, that one. It was all down in black and white in the file. He'd screwed his way from Mexico to New York and across the United States, had been arrested in four states for rape and in two for assaulting minors. He'd been in jail seven times and had escaped six. On the seventh he had been released by a local female jailer. Her reasons were not difficult to understand.
Charlie objected to women in law enforcement even though she herself was first-rate detective. Most women, she felt, were too apt to let then- offenders free either because their heart strings were pulled by a sad story, or their own gratifications of love were due to the guilty party. It was the same in the services. Women and homosexuals were poor security risks.
She pulled into the Melissa Kent driveway and parked the car under a gigantic palm. The house looked deserted. The shades had been drawn against the sun and there was a mourning wreath on the cross of the front door. She rang the bell and waited.
The housekeeper opened the door. She was dressed the same as the night before, sloppy thongs and a loose-fitting Hawaiian dress. Her eyes were red and swollen.
"Remember me?" Charlie asked. "Officer Eaton? Sister Eaton?"
"Yes. Come in, Please."
"I've come to see Mrs. Kent's nephew," Charlie said as the housekeeper closed the door behind her.
"I don't know where he is." Monica told her. "He may be down at the beach. The poor little guy has just moped around all day. It's enough to tear your heart out."
"Was he very fond of his aunt?" Charlie inquired.
Monica looked shocked. "I guess so. She was his blood. People are always fond of their own blood."
"Of course," Charlie said impatiently. She walked through the house and out the back door. She peered over the stone wall but she saw no one on the beach. Turning, she crossed to Santos' cabin and knocked.
There was a shuffling sound from inside as if someone was trying to conceal a stack of papers before opening the door. When the door did open, the driver, wearing a yellow terrycloth robe, filled the frame. He looked as if he had gone without sleep.
"It's you," he said. He stepped back for her to enter. "I sort of expected you last night," he told her.
Charlie, inside, paced aimlessly about the main room, glancing at the contents of tables and book shelves. She picked up a magazine, flipped through the pages and threw it down again. "I didn't have your file last night," she said, pointedly. "I didn't know what a famous lover you were."
Santos ran his hands through his hair. He tried to smile, but he couldn't manage it. Crossing to a chair, he dropped into the seat and sat staring up at her. His robe had gaped open and she saw the heavy black hair on his upper leg. Only a few more inches along the part and she knew she would be looking at his joy tool, the great shaft that had so pleased her last night.
"Didn't you expect me to send for your files?" she asked. "Did you think a good lay would make me inefficient?"
"It would have for most of them," he said, frankly. "But I thought you were different. I knew you'd be back. I just wasn't sure if it would be for a repeat performance or to arrest me."
She was taken by his handsomeness. Just looking at him made her ache to make love to him. She wanted to caress his face, cover his lips with hot kisses, feel his hands explore her body, squeeze her breasts, rub her clit. She held up the file in her hand.
"This is yours," she told him. "It's a fat one. You've certainly wasted no time." She opened it at random. "Dallas. Raped a seventeen-year-old girl in a movie house." She gave him a disgusted look.
"I was seventeen at the time," he explained. "And it wasn't rape. We were caught by the usher. What could you expect her to do except scream rape?
She visibly relaxed. But she continued to turn the pages of the file. "San Francisco. Arrested while involved at an orgy. One of eleven men." She sank to the edge of the bed. I suppose you have an excuse for that one too."
He shrugged. "You know San Francisco. It's the gay capital of the United States. Why spend hours searching for a broad when the gay boys are so easy. Besides I don't believe in limiting yourself." He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at her. "Are you going to run me in?"
She ignored him. "Los Angeles. Last year. A fifty-year-old woman filed a complaint against you charging you with rape and the theft of a diamond ring."
"She found me in one of the uptown joints. Thought I was a gigolo and offered me fifty dollars to make the scene with her. I accepted. Only afterwards she refused to pay up. I took the ring and she screamed rape!" He got to his feet and crossed to sit beside her on the bed, placing his hand affectionately on her knee. 'I'm not as bad as that file may say I am," he told her.
She pushed his hand aside and turned a page in the file. "San Diego. Procuring."
"The girl couldn't make it on her own," he said. "I was only helping out. She had an old man and a kid to feed."
"You have excuses for everything, don't you? You're little boy blue." She turned another page.
"Come blow my horn," he said; and snatched the file from her, tossing it across the bed.
She started for it, but he stopped her by wrapping his arms around her and kissing her. His free hand roamed down her back, cupped her buttocks, and then sought the hem of her uniform. "You're an oversexed bastard!" she said. "You'd screw anyone! Anyone!"
The hand went up her skirt. It was pulling at the elastic around the leg of her panties. She began to struggle, but the sight of his naked body, completely exposed now except for the shoulders, caused her to hesitate. He was so goddamned handsome. What could a female do? She relaxed, enjoyed the feel of his fingers against her hot flesh as he pulled her panties down about her knees. His expert fingers began to massage, manipulate the sensitive area around her clit. She could feel the flesh stiffen to his touch.
She undid the buttons of her blouse, fumbled to rid herself of her bra straps, and exposed her breasts to his hungry mouth. As his lips closed about her nipple she knew she was lost. He began to suck, to knead her by pressing his face against the breast and slowly releasing the pressure while his teeth nibbled the area around his hot tongue.
She reached blindly for his shaft and caught its head between her fingers. She was angry; angry at herself for being reduced to a typical sexual female by his advances, and she was angry at him because he had shown no shame as she had recited the facts of his records. She grasped the head of his tool with her nails. She fully intended to drive them into the soft flesh until she drew blood, but at the same time his fingers dove into her vagina and his teeth fastened about her nipple more securely. If she hurt him, she knew he would not hesitate to hurt back. He might even bite her nipple off in his fury. She released the pressure of her nails and took his hot shaft fondly in her hand. She squeezed gently, working the skin up and down from the base. His fingers probed deeper. She began to pant.
"I can't ignore your files," she warned him. "Not because of this. I can't!"
"But you will," he said. "You don't want to see me in jail, do you? You don't want this to end. We're two of a kind," he mumbled. "We're alike. We're two of the hungry ones."
The hungry ones! The phrase echoed inside her head as he mounted her.
"Santos," she moaned. "You're a goddamned bastard! You're no goddamned good except for a... "
He covered her mouth with his own to silence her. She bit his lip as he pierced painfully into the heart of her sex. She had forgotten the pleasure of his entering her last night, the pain of his gigantic dong stretching her to the fullest possible expansion to receive him. He began to pump, to thrust himself against her, and her entire body gave itself up to the pleasure.
She began to curse beneath her breath. She really hated women in law enforcement. She knew she could never arrest him for the offenses listed in his file. She could never arrest him... unless she found he was guilty of the murder of Melissa Kent.
"Lover," she moaned. "You're certainly good for one thing!"
For the first time she noticed that the ceiling of the cottage had been covered in antique mirror. She was watching their reflection. His deeply tanned body sprawled between her white legs, his narrow buttocks rising and falling against her, the muscles of his back rippling with each savage thrust; all only made her hotter, more hungry.
She was, she admitted, truly one of the hungry ones. Maybe she should just retire from the force and spend the rest of her life enjoying the droves of men on the islands. Without the restrictions of her job, there was no telling how wild she would be. She might even prove as durable and hungry as Melissa Kent.
Santos was groaning. His body had tensed. He was prepared to release himself. "Charlie," he said, "you're one hell of a woman."
"And you're one hell of a stud," she moaned. "Now!"
And they were both lost in the passion of their climax.
They sat smoking a cigarette, passing it between them because it was the last in the pack.
Charlie had dressed herself except for her shoes and Santos had pulled his terry robe over his shoulders. His shoulders were drooped. He looked depressed.
"I'm not running you in," Charlie told him. "So get that sour look off your face."
"I didn't think you would," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "What would you gain by it? Nothing. Those past offences have nothing to do with your assignment. It's Melissa Kent's killer you're after." He looked up at her, his face deadly serious. "But if I had killed her, you'd have me booked before I could get my dick back in my pants!"
"You're right, I would," she said. "Did you kill her?"
He gave a half-hearted laugh. "I would have, but I didn't have the guts. She was a slut. She needed killing. My hat's off to the guy who did it."
"Are you so sure it was a guy?" she asked.
And he gave her his full attention. "You mean you think a woman could have done that?"
"Why not?"
He shrugged. "Why not indeed? It would be ironic. A man-crazy bitch killed by a jealous broad." He laughed.
"Who's your suspect? Monica?"
"Never mind," she said. "I've told you more than I should." She got to her feet, stood on one leg and then the other to put her shoes on. "Now where can I find that innocent-looking nephew you were trying to protect last night?"
"Leave him alone," he told her quickly. "He had nothing to do with it."
"Why are you protecting him? What's he to you? I just want to ask the brat a couple of questions."
"Why don't you ask some of the other studs? Those creeps on the beach? Or that blonde teenager she laid in the back seat of the car?"
"When was that?"
"The day her nephew arrived. She saw him again the other day in Waikiki. One of those surfing nuts."
"And who were the creeps on the beach?" She felt herself getting angry because he had held out on her earlier. Why hadn't he told her all this last night? Why now? To protect that kid again, she supposed.
He lay back on the bed and stared up at the mirrors. He certainly wasn't modest, but why should he be after they had already made the scene twice? The robe had fallen away.
She stood between his knees, staring down at him. She wanted to take his tool in her hand again, to rouse him from softness so he might again drive her into fits of pleasure.
But she had to get down to business.
"The creeps on the beach," she repeated. "Who were they?"
"Tony Pacia," he said, "and some Hawaiian."
Everything came back to Tony Pacia, she thought. "It was time to locate him and get down to bare facts of the case.
"Goodbye, Little Boy Blue," she said in leaving. "Perhaps next time I will blow your horn." As she closed the door she heard him laughing.
CHAPTER TEN
Tony Pacia had already been arrested by the time Charlie reached his apartment, the angular-looking patrolman on duty in the block told her Farley had taken him to the stationhouse less than an hour before.
"Boy, can that guy cuss," he told Charlie. "If there's a word with four letters he used it when they were putting him in the wagon." He whistled and blinked his eyes. "Not pretty for a cute thing like you to hear all that obscenity," he added.
Charlie looked bored. "It's part of the job," she said. "Four-letter words never hurt anyone." She drove away.
At the stationhouse she found Tony Pacia surrounded by Farley and two other detectives. The Italian was sweating heavily. His collar had been unfastened and his tie removed. The lights were blaring in his face. He had turned to one side and was looking in her direction when she entered.
"Now watch your tongue," Farley warned him. "There's a lady present."
"Is that what it is? Tony mocked. And one of the detectives shoved his face forward toward the lights.
"How's it going?" Charlie asked her partner. "Has he given out with anything yet?"
Farley showed his failure to crack the suspect. "He's given his name, age and the size of his... of his anatomy," he told her. "This nut's a hard one. I don't think he's going to confess to anything except being born."
"And the size of his anatomy," Charlie added. She slipped into a chair outside of the area of light. "What is the size of his anatomy?"
"Nine inches," Farley told her. "I guess a guy can brag about anything over six. That's suppose to be standard. Not that you'd know anything about such things."
"No," Charlie lied. "I guess I wouldn't." She listened to the boys pumping questions at the suspect for several minutes. Then she got up and went over to the group. "My name's Sister Charles," she said to Tony Pacia. "The boys are being a little hard on you. I've been listening and it doesn't sound pleasant."
Farley and the boys exchanged glances. They knew that their treatment of the suspect would be like a taffy pull in comparison to Charlie's when she got with it. She interrogated her suspects in private. They didn't know what method she used, but she always got results.
"Yeah," Pacia agreed with her. "And they've got no right. I'm only a law-abiding citizen who's been accused of something by some rotten goddamned jealous three-balled bastard."
"Who'd want to accuse you of anything?" Charlie asked in her deep-throated naive voice.
"Beats me. I always play square."
"What about Melissa Kent?" Farley interjected. "Did you play square with her?"
"I don't know any Melissa Kent, "Pacia cried. "I've told you the broad ain't familiar to me. Not by name anyway."
"Get him a picture of Mrs. Kent," Charlie instructed the boys. "And then leave me alone with him for a while." She leaned over the suspect. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Mr. Pacia? Just the two of us having a nice little chat without all these goons around?"
He got a whiff of her cologne and saw the way her breasts hung forward when she leaned over him. "Yeah, I guess so," Tony said. "But there's nothing I can tell you that I haven't told them," he insisted.
Charlie removed her jacket and set her purse aside. "Well, well just go over it again," she said quietly. "There may be something the boys missed about your answers." She picked up a pad one of the boys had been scribbling on. "Your name is Tony Pacia. You're thirty-two. And... what's this nine inches written here?"
Everyone was silent.
The detective who had gone after the photograph returned and passed it to Charlie.
"Okay, boys," she said. "Leave us alone for a few minutes. Mr. Pacia and I are going to have a quiet little chat about Melissa Kent."
They left obediently and closed the door. Charlie could tell by their expression that they were feeling sorry for the suspect. She smiled to herself. The bastards probably thought she beat them with a rubber hose.
"I said I ain't never heard of any Melissa Kent," Pacia repeated. "And I'm not going to say I have because you're a sexy-looking broad with big knockers."
Charlie thrust the photograph in front of him. "Take it!" she demanded. "Look at it and then tell me you've never seen Melissa Kent before."
He looked at the photograph and his color turned pale. "Yeah," he said. "I've met the lady. But only twice and it was strictly socially. At a beach party, I think."
"A private beach party," Charlie said. "You and one other questionable gentleman were seen with her on her own beach yesterday morning. I don't think the circumstances could be classified as strictly social."
"Well, she was a hot number," Tony confessed. "She dug the three-way scene. She dug it like crazy."
"And you saw that she got what she dug?" Charlie insisted.
"I don't have anything to say," Tony mumbled. "I've got my rights."
Charlie began to pace about within the circle of light. "We know all about your little business," she told him. "You run a call service for the rich. How many on your payroll? Ten? Twenty?"
Silence.
"Who was the stud with you yesterday morning?"
Silence.
"Okay," Charlie said. "I guess there's no other way. I tried, but you won't talk." He looked up at her quizzically, wondering what method she was going to use next. He was familiar with the scene. He had been through it everywhere he had opened up his particular trade. There was always some jealous bastard who wished he had thought up the business and he was out to run kind-hearted Tony Pacia out of town so he could take over.
"Take off your clothes," Charlie demanded.
He continued to look at her as if dumbfounded.
"Strip!" Charlie screamed. She took her revolver out of her purse and laid it threatening on the table near her elbow.
Tony rose and began removing his clothes. His brightly colored Hawaiian shirt came first. He threw it over the back of the chair and began to tackle his belt. The pants fell about his ankles. Instead of retrieving them, he kicked them to one side. Then standing before Charlie in only his shorts, he asked: "Now what?"
"The shorts!" Charlie demanded. "I don't do anything half assed."
He pushed the shorts down over his thighs and stepped out of them.
"Now I see what the nine inches meant," she said. "You can never believe a man's estimation of his own equipment. It's like asking a woman her age.
"You want to measure it maybe?" Tony asked smartly.
"Sit down!" Charlie cried. "And put your hands behind the chair." She took out a pair of handcuffs and fastened them about his wrists.
"This ain't legal," Tony told her. "A man's got his rights. I want them guys back."
"Too late," she said. "You should have cooperated with them before I arrived. Now we'll have to do it my way."
She stood in front of him looking down at his nakedness, the hard muscles of his abdomen, the solid thighs, the nine-inch tool of which he was so proud dangling over the edge of the chair.
"Why did you kill Melissa Kent?" she demanded.
"I didn't kill anybody," he snapped. "I'm a lover, not a killer. Ask anyone. They'll tell you Tony Pacia's a lover."
"Someone told me you were a killer," she lied.
"Then he's a rotten lying bastard and I'll tear his tongue out of his head if I ever get a hold of him." Tony's face had turned red with rage. "Just tell me who it is that said that," he insisted. "Tell me who the rat fink is and I'll bash his head in."
"You don't sound like a lover when you talk that way," Charlie said. "Is that the way you talked to Melissa Kent when you entered her bedroom and killer her? Did you scream at her and turn red?"
"No! No! No! I didn't kill anyone! I'm just an innocent bystander. Someone's put the finger on me because they're jealous."
"We'll see about that," Charlie said. She moved the light so it was falling on her instead of Tony. Then slowly with the ease of a stripper she began to disrobe. Her blouse came first. She removed it, passed it over his naked chest and knew that the touch of the silk was upsetting him. Then the skirt fell about her ankles. She scooped it up, folded it and lay it to one side. She moved closer to the chair, so close that his knees were touching her legs. She leaned down, unsnapped her bra and let her full breasts spring into his face.
He opened his mouth and snapped at them with open lips, but she withdrew just out of reach. His tool had begun to stretch from the edge of the chair toward the floor in jerking motions.
Charlie tucked her fingers in each side of her panties. A fraction of an inch at a time she began to slide them down off her hips. At the edge of the pubic hair, she paused, rotated her hips and thrust her pelvis forward toward his gaping mouth. Then she unveiled her love nest with one quick swooping away of the silk bikini. The triangle of hair was only inches out of Tony's reach. He strained at the chair to bring his face forward, but the chair had been bolted to the floor. He was at her mercy.
"This is worse than the rubber hose!" he cried. "This is inhuman."
"But we haven't begun yet," Charlie informed him. "Are you going to tell me about what happened on the beach yesterday with Melissa Kent? Who was the other stud? What was his name?"
Tony groaned, gritted his teeth, and was silent. His long shaft was standing straight out from the chair like a diving board over a pool. It was throbbing and twitching and screaming to stretch across the distance to claim her.
Charlie got down on her knees and reaching under his shaft, began to caress his balls, to tease him by pulling at the long, black hairs.
"Don't do that!" he cried.
She paid no attention to his screams. She cupped the heavy testicles in her hand and began to squeeze them, to feel them tighten to her touch and fill. Then she bent and covered the mushroom-shaped head with her moist, hot lips. She ran her tongue over the surface, felt him quiver with pleasure, and then withdrew herself.
"No, don't stop!" he pleaded. "Don't stop!"
"Who was the man with you on the beach?" Charlie insisted.
"Go to hell!" Tony spat.
She took his shaft in her hand and began to work it back and forth roughly. At precisely the proper moment, she released him before he exploded. She leaned back on her haunches and waited until the right time to begin again.
"You could have been with Hitler," Tony groaned. "I'm sure their methods weren't any worse than yours."
"You can stop me by talking," reminded him. "All I want is information. Wouldn't it be easier to give it to me?"
"I'm not a squealer!"
"We just want to question your friend," she said, quietly. "Maybe hell be more talkative than you."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Tony admitted. "I'll not talk."
"Have it your own way," Charlie told him. She rose and, stepping close, shoved her hot little pussy close to his face.
Tony stretched his neck, tongue extended, toward the sweet little clit. She let him find contact, felt the tip of his tongue pierce her, and then stepped back. She moved to his side, straddled his secured arm and began to rub herself up and down over the bulging muscles. It drove him crazy. He threw his head back and began to howl. She changed to the other arm.
"All right!" he cried. "His name is Hilo Kalani! He's one of my boys!"
"That's better, "Charlie said. "Did you bring him there at Mrs. Kent's request!"
"No! It was my own idea. She was a hot number. I'd made the scene with her the day before. I always do that. Give them a free sample so they know what they'll be paying for. I'd brought Hilo because he was new and I wanted to give him a regular client."
"Why Mrs. Kent?" Charlie inquired.
"Because he was young and had enough stamina to take care of her."
"You mean she was active sexually?"
"Active," Tony laughed. "If she'd been born a mink instead of woman mink coats would have cost less than a pair of shoes."
"Go on."
"There ain't nothing else to tell," Tony said, flatly. "Now let me... let me get to you before I blow my mind!"
Charlie turned away. "Not yet. There's more you're not telling. Why did you argue with her?"
"I didn't!"
Charlie returned to her position on her knees. She positioned herself so that the ramrod shaft almost touched her loins. She moved closer, capturing the head of his shaft just well enough to allow it to enter her vagina halfway.
Tony threw his head back in relief. The simple bastard really thought she was going to take him without getting her information. He thrust his buttocks forward and drove his shaft beyond the head. His lips parted and a sigh escaped.
Then Charlie moved back and the throbbing tool was withdrawn. "Talk!" she commanded.
"Bitch!" Tony screamed. "You're no better than she was! You're worse! Bitch! I'll get you for this!"
"Is that how you threatened Melissa Kent? Did you swear you'd get her too?"
"Yes! Yes!" Tony screamed.
"Why?"
"She wouldn't pay up when it was over. We'd both had the bitch sandwich style. She'd loved it, but she wouldn't pay the hundred bucks! I threatened her. But I didn't kill her! I swear it on all the pieces of all I've had in the last ten years! I didn't kill her!"
"Where can I find this Hilo Kalani?" Charlie asked.
"I don't know."
She returned to her knees. She edged closer, let him pierce her only slightly, and waited. It was her own method. She didn't know if anyone else used the sex routine to get their questions answered, but it was the greatest way of breaking a suspect she had found in her years on the force. It was a sure-fire method. She had stumbled on it by accident once while fondling a handsome German witness to a murder. He had driven her nuts and she had stripped him and herself and had forgotten her purpose of questioning him. They were deeply involved when the telephone had rung and she had left him to answer it. While she was talking to the chief on the phone she had noticed the way the German was sweating and cussing and trying to tear himself away from the chair to reach her. When she had hung up the telephone she had stood watching him suffer, and had asked him a question. He had snapped back his answer without even thinking. And she had used the method ever since. It had been the real reason she had become known as the woman who always got her man. Her sex method deserved all the credit.
"Where can I find this Hilo Kalani?" She repeated. "How do you reach him when you have a client for him?"
Tony tried to thrust his buttocks forward again, but she was prepared for him and kept him from entering her fully. He groaned and cussed. "I call his mother and she has him call me," he cried. "Now! Please!"
"Not yet," Charlie told him. "Did you go back to the Kent house that night to kill her?"
"No!"
"You climbed up the outside stairs, found her in her bedroom, and strangled her. Did you use the shaving cream before or after?"
"What shaving cream?" Tony was straining at the handcuffs. He began to groan like an animal in pain.
"You know what shaving cream. The can you... "
Charlie was caught off guard. She had moved in too close and the revolver was now out of reach. Tony's legs shot up and wrapped about her buttocks, forcing her roughly in between his legs and driving himself home, firmly planted for nine inches within her hot little tunnel. He laughed at his success. She fought to free herself, but he would let her go and then clutch at her with his muscular legs and pull her back again. She could feel the walls of her tight and also craving vagina sucking in against his shaft. Not only had she been working him up, but the method had also affected her. She wanted him, but she had questions that had not been answered. She would have to fight him. She grabbed at the mat of hair on his chest and pulled. A fistful came away in her hands, but aside from flinching, Tony continued assaulting her, steering her away from and back into his loins with his stout legs.
Zing!
She felt the approach of the volcanic eruption within. The hell with the questions, she thought. But no! She had to be strong. She represented every woman in law enforcement!
"What is his mother's name?" she demanded between thrusts of her body.
"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies!" Tony mumbled. The smart son-of-a-bitch had what he wanted. He would answer no further questions unless...
She reached down and managed to grab his balls. She twisted the sack until he cried out with pain. "How can I reach his mother?" she asked again. "Answer or I'll tear these off and give them to my pet squirrel to hide for the winter."
"Monica!" he screamed. "Melissa Kent's housekeeper!"
Charlie was taken back. She let go of her hold. It was all beginning to add up. The housekeeper had possibly seen her son and her employer on the beach that morning. She had waited, letting her anger build until that evening, and when everyone was occupied she had gone to her room and strangled Melissa.
But the crime was forgotten suddenly. The dam within Melissa opened its floodgates. She shook with spasms, her sight became dizzy. She felt the expansion of Tony Pacia's shaft within her, his convulsion of release. And then he released the grip of his legs and she fell backward onto the floor.
He laughed at her. "I guess your little method had boomeranged," he said. 'Tony got what he wanted. It would take a better woman than you to keep him off when he's worked up."
Charlie got to her feet. She sneered at him. "I got what I wanted too," she said, flatly. "It was worth the cost."
"What did you get besides a kid's name?" Tony insisted. "No! I was the victor!"
"No! You're wrong," Charlie said with heavy sarcasm. "You don't realize the things you say and do when you're so worked up. You signed a confession," she lied. "You begged me to write how you killed Melissa Dent and you signed it."
Tony screamed, and fainted.
Charlie enjoyed a good laugh. She had fixed that conceited bastard, scared the hell out of him. She dressed herself and then managed to pull Tony's clothes back on over his unconscious body. The shirt was not a problem, but she had more difficulty with his trousers. His inflamed tool had not lost consciousness when he had. It protruded from his loins with remarkable stiffness and prevented her from closing his zipper. She placed it up over his abdomen but the trousers were too tight to allow the zipper to close. She tried to force it down his leg, and finally succeeded. It bulged with a tell-tale lump. It wouldn't do to have the boys get a glance of it and suspect her methods. She took his coat from the peg and draped it casually over his lap. Satisfied, she put her revolver back into her purse, and unlocked the door.
The boys, hanging about in the corridor outside the office, entered quickly, Farley in the lead. They crowded around the unconscious Tony Pacia, checking his neck and face for signs of bruises.
"I didn't use a hose," Charlie said sharply. "He's not hurt. Not physically, anyway."
Farley's face was beaming with admiration. "I suppose you got what you were after."
"That and more," Charlie assured him. "Throw water in his face after I've gone. Lock him up for the limit of time we're allowed. The poor bastard thinks he confessed to the crime." She poked Farley in the ribs. "And don't tell him otherwise until you're ready to release him. A few hours of suffering may do his rotten soul some good."
"You're the boss," Farley said. "Where are you off to?"
Charlie smiled. "I need a few hours of relaxation after that ordeal," she told him. "I'm going to the beach and get some sun."
One of the boys removed the coat from the Italian's lap and pointed at the hard ridge running down his pant leg. "Hey, man! Look at this!"
Charlie glanced over her shoulder. "The bastard's probably having an erotic dream," she said. "Better get him to a cell before he messes up the office." She slung her purse over her shoulder and walked out of the room.
The boys followed her with admiring glances.
Charlie always got the man to talk even after they considered it impossible. Maybe there was something to having women in law enforcement, especially the type like Charlie who was so hard and uncaring about things like sex.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
David wanted more than anything else to be alone. He was tired of Monica moping about the house, always dabbing her swollen eyes with her handkerchief and watching him out of the corner of her eye as if to judge his grief-or his guilt. Santos was no better. The driver seemed to always be hanging about in the yard, watching, waiting.
They were both waiting, he decided, for that lady detective to come around and announce that she had discovered his aunt's murderer. Although what miracle clue they suspected she had stumbled on he did not imagine. If there was a finger of guilt pointing at anyone, he felt it was Santos. He had admitted his hate for his dead employer. Who else could it have been? Perhaps one of the men he had seen with her on the beach? It was unlikely. They seemed to have been getting what they wanted without any struggle. He wondered if Sister Charles suspected him. As Santos had mentioned, he would stand to gain the most by Melissa Kent's death. The entire affair was unnerving him.
He waited until he saw Santos go around to the back of the house and enter his cottage. Then he slipped out the front and climbed into the limousine. When he drove out of the driveway, he had no idea of where he was going. He just wanted to get away by himself and think. He had to decide what he was going to do. If he should stay in Hawaii, or go back to California. He drove up into the mountains and parked overlooking the sea. The water below was blue and green with white caps pushing their way toward the shore. The specks he saw below were people, several of them lying in the sand and others splashing about between the dark areas of coral and stones. He wished he were free of this tragedy, free to join them and forget that he had problems to face and decisions to make.
When he grew bored with watching the sea, he drove on over the crest of the mountain and down the other side. There were few houses here, mostly just fields of pineapple and sugar cane. There were some machines and natives working in the sun, their chests bare and dark, their women standing along the edges of the fields, their hair tied in colorful scarves and baskets balanced on their hips. It must have been lunch time and they were waiting to feed their men.
At the base of the mountain he came to the sea again and saw a large building up ahead with several cars in the parking lot. He slowed and stopped. The area was fenced and signed forbidding trespassing. A burly guard sat in a small hut and operated the opening and closing of the gate. Another sign read: Private Club. He started the car and drove on for several feet before parking behind a clump of palms. He got out of the car and walked over to the wire fence. It wasn't electrified, just wire mesh with a row of barbed wire at the top. The land within the fence was heavy with tropical vegetation. It looked cool and inviting. From beyond the barrier of vegetation he could hear a woman laughing and the splashing of water in a pool.
Without considering the warning signs, he climbed the fence and dropped to the ground inside. He stood for a moment waiting to be challenged, but when he was not, he stepped into the thicket of plants and pushed his way to the opening on the other side.
Peering out, he saw a group of people sitting around an Olympic-size swimming pool. Most of them had their backs to him so their lounges and chairs faced the sun. It wasn't until the girl who had been laughing climbed out of the water and stood dripping beside the pool that he realized that everyone was naked. He had climbed over the fence and was a trespasser in a nudist camp.
The girl, perhaps twenty, stood shaking out her hair and combing it forward with her fingers. It was blonde and long and covered the mounds of her breasts. A large brownish circle the size of a half-dollar piece was visible through the mat of hair on her left breast. Her stomach was flat, almost muscular in the manner of a male, and her waist was narrow and made her hips appear larger than they actually were. The narrow strip of hair between her legs was also blonde, the water from the pool glistening in the sunlight like dew on a spider web. A man's head suddenly bobbed up at the edge of the pool. He stretched his arm over the rim of concrete and grabbed for her ankle, but she slipped away, laughing. He made another lunge for her, but she dashed away toward the lounges and disappeared beneath an open green umbrella.
David let the foliage fall back into place. The club had held a fascination for him. It had offered him a challenge. He wanted to swim, to be around people who knew nothing about his problems, people who were fun and could laugh and enjoy themselves. He certainly couldn't just walk casually out of the shrubbery and stroll up to the edge of the pool. Not dressed, he couldn't.
He stripped, folded his clothes neatly and hid them beneath some ferns. Then, standing, he took several deep breaths to give himself confidence and stepped boldly out of his hiding place.
He waited for someone to make a commotion, to point him out and have him dragged to the gate and expelled into the highway in his nakedness by the burly guard. But no one, not even the waiter who passed him with a tray of drinks, paid him the slightest attention. Apparently none of the guests were accustomed to gate crashers. He was there and he was nude, so he must obviously be a member. He relaxed and looked around. Beyond the pool there was a large building with tinted windows which must have been a restaurant. Beside that was what looked like a hotel. Then there was a row of smaller buildings without roofs which he knew would be the showers. The pool area where he stood was built up on a platform of concrete so it overlooked the entire area. He had a clear view of the many nudists, some lying about on towels or in the sand, and other strolling about the grounds. He had never seen so many breasts and slits and dongs. The more he observed the more aware he was that the sight was having its affect on him. He began to feel movement from his own ample tool and that, he was sure, was taboo. There was no other male in sight in a state of arousal. Their dongs all swung freely between their legs, even those of the men who were walking about with their arms tucked about a female's waist. They either had remarkable control, were bored with nudity, or had been satiated with sex.
Unfortunately, he fit into none of those categories. One more throb from between his legs and the damned thing was going to stand up and give him away as a trespasser. He had to hide himself and he didn't want to step back into the shrubbery for fear he would not have the opportunity to come forward again. The only solution was the showers if he could make them in time.
He rushed to the edge of the platform and hurried down the stairs. At the bottom he spotted a door. It didn't look as if it was used often. He assumed that it opened into a small storage room where the pool equipment was kept. At this point it was safer than the showers, and closer. He opened it and stepped inside.
The door did not open into a storage room. It concealed a club within a club.
It was a large room, stretching the entire space of the upper platform. In the center there were pillars supporting the pool. The only light came from several cut-out type windows which were beneath the surface of the pool and looked like movie screens from beneath. The light flickered about the interior and cast rays of sunlight over the many people-filled chairs. All chairs faced the pool.
David slipped into an empty chair, glad for the darkness of the room. He watched the windows and hoped that no one would challenge his right to be there. He couldn't be expelled outside in his present erected state.
As he watched, a man, the one who had been grabbing at the girl's ankle, swam by the window, his powerful strokes causing air bubbles to be brought from the surface and rise up about his naked body.
"Isn't he magnificent?" a feminine voice suddenly asked at David's elbow.
He turned and stared into the darkness. He could make out the glow on the tip of a cigarette, but no more.
"Wait until he performs," the voice continued. "I've seen him twice today. It's beauty in motion."
David glanced back at the naked swimmer, half expecting him to suddenly start performing aquatic exercises before the window.
"His only fault is his rabbit quickness," the voice said with disappointment. "If there was some way of making him slow down... maybe capturing him in slow motion... Wow!"
David thought if he remained silent he would draw suspicion. He had to say something. "Is he the star of the show?" he asked.
The girl giggled. "He is to me, baby! I'm straight! If that's your scene... well!"
David was thankful for the darkness. The occasional shimmer of light that passed over the room was hidden from his lower body by the back of the chair in front of him. Once his shaft had grown ramrod straight there was no getting it down again until the urge took it. It was standing up against his stomach, throbbing and aching for action.
"How long have you been a member of the Voyeurs?" she asked.
"Not long," David managed quickly.
A sudden shaft of light filled the room from the windows of the pool. The sun must have come from behind a cloud. David started.
"Someone just dove in," the girl said. "I hope it's a fish! Someone has to get this show on the road."
The fish turned out to be the blonde David had been watching at pool side. She shot downward beyond the frame of the window and surfaced quickly. The bubbles rose up about her slit and breasts like silver beads. She began to tread water. Her side was to the window and each backward thrust of her leg revealed the glistening blondeness of her pubic hair.
"He digs this one," the girl said. "Watch!"
The man swam back into view. He stopped before the girl and began to grab at her nipples playfully. She squirmed and pushed his hands away, but he continued to come back for another assault. The member between his legs began to grow stiff. It was helped along when the girl suddenly reached down and wrapped her hand around it at the base. When she withdrew her hand it was standing upward, the bulbous red head appearing purple in the blue water of the pool.
"Look at that!" the girl at David's elbow said with excitement. "Dig the size of that thing. And she'll swallow it as if it were no bigger than a hot dog."
The man moved closer, braced his foot against the outside of the one-way mirror, and pulled the girl into him. His free hand came down and began to search the blonde muff between her legs. When he found the mark one finger shot forward and buried itself.
"God, if they knew someone was watching this, wouldn't their faces be red?" the girl groaned. "This is heaven! I haven't enjoyed myself this much since the man across the court from me stopped screwing his wife in the bedroom window."
David could only stare at the window.
The girl had again sought the shaft between the man's legs. She was squeezing it, pulling him forward, aiming his erected tool toward her vagina. He stabbed forward, drove himself home, and the two of them sank down with the impact of his entry. Their heads were in the middle of the window and their joined bodies near the bottom of the frame. Her face was twisted in pain or pleasure and her cheeks were puffed with air. She opened tier mouth and the air rushed out and rose through the seaweed of her blonde hair.
"I told you," the girl said. "She took it as if it were a hot dog. Her tunnel must be the size of Diamond Head." She shifted about in her chair. 'Television will never replace this," she cooed. "Not even when they get the dirty movies on the late show."
The submerged couple unaware of their spectators, continued to perform before the mirrored window. The girl wrapped her legs about the man's middle and guided him back and forth against her body. Their upper bodies spread apart and their heads from the surface of the pool must have merely given the impression of two frolicking swimmers enjoying an afternoon dip. But beneath the surface their arms were flaying wildly to keep their heads afloat and their loins, crashing together, created waves of ripples against the side of the glass.
David was so mesmerized by the sight that he was not aware that the girl beside him had perched herself on the arm of his chair until he felt a warm hand slide down his chest and cover his manhood. She began to stroke it gently.
"You're even better endowed than he is," she said with surprise. "That bitch certainly couldn't swallow you so easily." She leaned down and began to kiss his neck. "And you're mine! All mine!"
David's eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. He could distinguish the vague shape of the girl's body as she leaned over him. Her breasts were full, balloon size, with large dark crescents. Her skin was pale, apparently untouched by the sun since she spent most of her time in the dark caverns of The Voyeurs.
"I'm yours," he said; and he brought up his right hand and cupped one of her breasts.
Her kisses became more demanding. She began to suck on his neck, to nibble at his ears. Her hands were driving him crazy. He didn't know if he were expected to drop to the floor with her or if there were beds available to the club members in some dark corner of the room. He didn't want to reveal his ignorance, so he let her guide him. She rose from the chair arm suddenly, stepped in front of him and grabbing his knees, pulled him forward in his chair. His buttocks slid over the rough surface of the chair and settled on the edge. She straddled him and sank down onto his thighs. Her one hand had never left his shaft. She continued to massage it, more roughly now; the other hand she used to clasp his testicles. She began to squeeze them until the sack tightened against the base of his shaft. His hand came forward and explored the crease of her slit. It was barren, shaven and rough with stubble. The opening was moist and hot. He drove his finger forward as he had seen the man in the window do and she began to bounce about on his thighs and moan.
In the dim lighting he could see her head thrown back and her lips parted. "I'm so hot I could take anything," she groaned. "Anything."
Raising herself, she pulled his shaft painfully upward, positioned it, and then lowered herself slowly until she was impaled to the base. Then she began to bounce up and down, causing his stiff shaft to retract to the very tip and then plunge inward again to fill her love nest.
The performing couple in the pool window were forgotten. They continued their pleasure without two of their audience.
David grasped a breast in each hand and squeezed them, pinched the nipples. His eyes were closed. The pleasure was too great to watch. The feel of the girl straddling his loins and claiming his tool was almost like a dream. He did not feel inadequate as he had with Melissa. The girl's gasps of pleasure assured him of his masculinity. For the first time in any sexual relationship he felt like a man. The fact that he could not see the girl's face did not matter. Nothing mattered except the fulfillment of his passion and her obvious satisfaction. She was bringing him to a height of pleasure he had known existed. This was no frightened school girl or hungry male that was bouncing about with his tool inside them. This was a woman bent only on gratification. She rode him like a horse. She was a mare in heat and he her stallion, her stud. His balls were taking a beating from the crushing weight of her buttocks, but he did not object to the pain. It only increased his enjoyment and made the thrill even more intense. He was ready to explode. There was a ringing in his head. It filled his senses and wiped away all thoughts. His nerves transmitted only the shivers of joy from his loins to his brain. He was in a limbo where nothing existed except sexual pleasure.
The girl grasped the base of his shaft with her hand. She completely withdrew herself and then stabbed downward in one claiming swoop. His shaft swelled with a spasm and he felt the release of his love juice. Her tight little pussy clamped about his shaft and drew spasm after spasm of fulfillment. She, too, found release. Her entire body shook. He grabbed her breasts even more roughly and forced her down onto him until he screamed with the pain of his own action. She slumped forward over his chest, moaning and still. She remained against him, a dead weight, until his shaft began to soften and retract. Then she pulled herself up, laughed and got to her feet. She stood over him. He could see the outline of her shadowy form, her hands on her hips, her legs spread.
"You're the best!" she said emphatically. "The best piece of male I've had in months." She returned to the arm of his chair. "Most of the members aren't so active. They're too busy watching the action to get involved in it. But I always say a piece in hand is worth two in the window."
Her gaze must have focused on the window again, because she suddenly sat bolt upright.
The couple had completed their scene. Their bodies had separated at the loins and they were bobbing lifelessly in the water like two sea creatures that had been killed by a storm.
"Jesus!" the girl at David's elbow cried. "I need it again. Screw me again. Drive that big trunk of yours back where it was." She sprang to her feet, but instead of straddling him as she had the first time she leaned over the chair in front of him with her buttocks arched upward.
David rose, feeling the pressure of his hardening phallus between his legs. He slid his hand down the crease of her buns, past the rectum and felt contact with the moist and undrained lips of her cunnus. His fingers were instantly covered with the warm completion of their first pleasure. He felt her twitch and tighten at the touch of his fingers. He took his shaft in hand and stepped in between her widely spread legs, placing the knob of his organ carefully against the opening.
"Quickly!" she whispered. "Screw me fast."
He thrust forward and his total length buried itself in the molten tunnel. He drew back and pushed forward again until his stomach was jammed against her buttocks. While he held the penetration, she began to rotate her hips, to tighten and relax the pressure of her vagina as if she would take him without his making an effort of movement. He felt as if she were draining away his rights, so he began to withdraw himself and stab forward with rapid succession. She began to quiver and moan. He leaned against her back and ran a ribbon of saliva along her spine to the nape of her neck.
Then he saw that he alone was not taking her. The occupant of the chair whose back she leaned over had turned and, with their knees in the seat, had bent down and was sucking at one and then the other nipple of the girl's breasts. A sudden shaft of light from the pool windows revealed that his companion in seduction was a woman. Her hair was short and manly. Her skin was deeply tanned except in the areas across her breasts and loins where there was the obvious whiteness of where she had worn a bikini. She was apparently not a regular member of the nudist camp and could have been, he imagined, an intruder like himself. At first dazed by the fact that he was not alone with the girl in his lovemaking, he soon accepted the other woman's presence. Indeed, the idea seemed to give him an extra sensation. He tried to get a better look at the woman. Although the lighting prevented him from seeing her face, he observed her movements. She had one hand in her own crotch, the finger jammed into her own slit, and she was working it in and out rapidly.
He seemed overcome by his lust. The combination of his own inflamed phallus driving in and out of the girl's vagina and sight of the other woman making the scene with her finger almost overwhelmed him. Suddenly he felt the grip of the girl's cunnus and her juices began to seep onto his balls and legs like melting wax.
He felt his own orgasm begin. It was more intense than any he had ever known. It seemed to consume his entire body, to begin at the tips of his toes and shoot upward through his legs and loins and spray forth inside her like a fountain. Again and again the torrents shot through his shaft and cascaded inside her. Then he was drained and weak. He staggered backward and fell into his chair.
The girl remained standing, the top of her body leaning over the chair back, until he heard a gasp escape the lips of the other woman and the sucking sound ceased. Then she returned to her chair, moving as if she had felt no exertion.
"Were you pleased?" she asked out of the semidarkness.
"Yes."
"What's your name?"
"David."
"I'm Maria," she told him. "You're an expert with that equipment of yours. Are you young or old?"
"Medium," he lied.
He imagined she was smiling. "Your body doesn't feel middle aged. It's young and hard and virile."
"I'm well preserved," he said.
She was silent for a few moments, then she asked: "Will I see you again?"
"Do you want to?"
"I need to," she said. "I need someone like you around all the time. If I were richer I'd hire you as a gigolo. I'd never let you out of the bedroom. I'd chain you to the bed frame and I'd make you screw me a dozen times a day. Twice before breakfast."
He laughed. "Before or after coffee?"
"Before and after," she said. Then, she sighed. "Of course, I won't see you again," she said, "unless it is here. My husband is a bastard when it comes to extramarital activities. He's not modern, if you know what I mean. When I slip away to come here he thinks I'm at my bridge club."
"Maybe you should send him an anonymous pass to this place," David suggested. "He might decide he liked it."
"Honey, there's a waiting list to get into this place that you wouldn't believe. It's all hush-hush. If the members of the nudist camp found out what was going on here they'd tear the place to pieces, the members included." She slid forward in her chair and peered toward him. "You're not a member, are you?"
"No," he confessed. "I came in by accident. I thought it was a storage room."
"Pacia would have your throat cut if he found you here," she said in a whisper. "This little concession is a gold mine. He doesn't want any outsiders even knowing about it. That's why the membership is so restricted." She touched his arm. "If I were you, I'd get the hell out of here and forget you ever stumbled into this den. I won't forget it, but I strongly suggest you do."
David, who had before been hoping for the shafts of light so he might see his companion's face, suddenly shied away when the sunlight poured through the windows.
But the girl had seen him.
"You're just a kid," she said, startled. "I'll bet you're not even twenty."
David got to his feet. "I'll say goodbye," he said.
"That's a good idea. And do it quickly."
He walked away from her, but in his haste he turned the wrong way and found himself in the middle of a narrow aisle. Someone had lighted a candle. Its glow was a threat. But he dared not make a dash for the door. He would have to act casual, pretend he was a member on his way out after having his fill. He strode slowly up the aisle toward the door and was only a few feet away from safety when a man entered and stood just inside the frame waiting for his eyes to become slightly accustomed to the blackness. David perched on the arm of the nearest chair and stared without really seeing the pool windows.
The man in the water, alone now, was swimming back and forth rapidly; perhaps waiting for the next brave female to join him.
The newly arrived member moved carefully down the aisle, groping for a seat. He brushed David's leg, let his hand linger long enough to realize that the leg was covered in hair, and then moved on without speaking.
After taking a deep breath, David got to his feet again and reached the door without further difficulties. The girl's words kept ringing in his head. He'd have your throat cut! He opened the door and hurried out.
Outside, he stood blinking into the sun. It was late afternoon. There were fewer people lying about the grass or strolling around the grounds, fewer to challenge him. He climbed boldly up the steps of the pool platform and started for the clump of vegetation from which he had slipped into the camp. But on second thought, he turned, walked to the edge of the pool and dove in. He swam underwater, sticking close to the pool sides. He found himself staring back at his own reflections from a series of mirrors. He stopped at one, paused, and waved. If the girl was watching, he hoped she would realize it was him.
When he climbed out of the pool it was before an occupied lounge. A woman was reclining in the ebbing sun with a book open on her lap. Her eyes were hidden by sunglasses, but he still detected something familiar about the contours of her face. He had seen that chin before. It was so distinct, masculine, jutting out from beneath the mouth as if demanding to be struck. Her breasts were full and firm, the nipples pointed in the center of the rosettes, hardened from the warmth of the sun. The tangle of her pubic hair was a shallow, thin triangle. He could see the creases beneath the sparsely covered surface. He gave her a last questioning glance and then hurried toward the bushes from which he had emerged.
He had dressed, climbed the fence, and was speeding back up the side of the mountain before the identity of the reclining sunbather struck him.
It had been Detective Sister Charles.
He wondered if she had been following him. Or if it was only a coincidence that she happened to be a member of the nudist camp. He was sure she had not seen him. If she had why hadn't she spoken? No, he decided. She had been asleep behind the dark glasses.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Don't be an ungrateful bastard!" Monica cried. And she slapped her son across the cheek with her fat hand. 'Tell Sister Charles what she wants to know!"
Hilo covered the red mark on his cheek with his hand and glared at his mother.
But Monica would not be swayed. "I never thought a son of mine would end up a whore," she said bitterly. "And after all I've done for you."
Charlie sat quietly at the kitchen table waiting for the scene between mother and son to end. She had come to the Kent mansion early in order to question Monica before the household was awake and she had found Hilo in the kitchen with his mother. She had accused him of working for Tony Pacia and of meeting his mother's employer on the beach the morning of her death. The tone of her voice had also suggested that he could have been her murderer.
Hilo leaned up against the frame of the doorway and stared at Sister Charles with hate in his eyes. "I didn't kill her," he said unconvincingly.
"But you were here that night," Charlie accused. "You were seen coming this way along the beach just after sunset."
Monica was looking from her son to the female detective. The accusations had drained her of her strength. She felt weak and ashamed of her only son. He was handsome, tall and muscular, with a narrow waist and thin hips, and reminded her of her late husband. She had always been so proud of Hilo. But now! Now she felt only shame and concern.
The youth lowered his eyes. He could not meet the unfaltering stare of his mother. "I was here," he said in a whisper.
Charlie took a cigarette from her purse and lit it. She blew out a cloud of smoke and leaned back in her chair. 'Tell me about it," she told him.
Hilo remained silent.
"She wants to help you," Monica said from the kitchen sink. She had turned her back to them; her shoulders were drooped and her hands trembling. "You've got to tell her so she'll know you didn't kill Mrs. Kent."
Hilo gave Charlie a pleading look, and she, turning to Monica's back, said: "Perhaps you should leave us alone for a few minutes. I think it would be easier on both of us."
Without speaking, Monica left the kitchen. After the door had closed behind her, Hilo relaxed.
"I came back to see her that night," he began. "We'd had a swinging time of the beach that morning and I couldn't get her out of my mind. She was like a wild thing, starved for sex. She'd drained both of us and still looked like she could take more." He lowered his head. "And I wanted more. I wanted to... "
"I know what you wanted," Charlie told him. "Did she refuse you? Make you angry? Angry enough to kill her? To shove a can of shaving cream up her vagina?"
"No! I didn't even talk to her!" Hilo said. "I didn't get a chance. She wasn't alone when I got here." He sank into a chair across the table from Charlie and supported his head in his hands. "I slipped up the steps from the beach," he said. "I didn't want my mother to see me, so I kept to the shadows. I hid in a clump of ferns and waited for the lights to go on in her bedroom. When they did I was going to approach her. But when the lights did go on I could see that she was not alone. There was a man with her. They didn't bother to close the draperies. They couldn't have cared less if someone was watching. She stood pressed up against him, kissing his neck and at the same time unfastening the buttons of his shirt. He was rubbing her buttocks, pulling her up against him and rotating his loins over her belly. After she had removed his shirt she allowed him to take off her dress and fondle her breasts. Then he got down on his knees and buried his face between her legs."
Charlie shifted nervously in her chair. She crushed out her cigarette and lit another.
"She brought a footstool and climbed up on it and he screwed her standing up," Hilo continued. "I watched the entire scene. I was hotter than a firecracker and I wasn't about to leave without getting what I came for. I didn't mind taking seconds. As soon as the guy left I was going to claim my pound of flesh. I knew she'd still be ready to go. A woman like that never gets enough."
"Did you recognize the guy?" Charlie asked.
Hilo nodded. "I'd seen him at Waikiki. He's a young kid, blond and cocky. A surfer, I think. I began to think the kid was never going to get his fill. They made the scene three times and I was about to get my rocks off just watching. They came out on the balcony and were about to try for the fourth. I guess they needed the coolness of the trade winds. You could see the perspiration glistening on their bodies." He wiped the sweat off his own forehead. "She leaned against the railing and shoved her rear up in the air like a bitch in heat and the kid entered her from behind. He was pumping away and she was groaning with the pleasure of him inside her. Then she said something to the kid, and leaned further out over the railing. I thought maybe she had seen me in the moonlight and I hunched down in the ferns. But it wasn't me she had seen. Their was some other cat standing below her in the shadows of the house.
'"What the hell are you doing there?' she asked; and he answered in a deep, pissed-off voice: 'Melissa, you bitch! You were supposed to be mine tonight!' "She laughed at him. Her breasts were hanging down from her chest and were flopping around over his head. The kid hadn't even interrupted the rhythm of his thrusts. He moaned suddenly and drove himself into her to the base and it seemed I could feet his climax shake my body. She was groaning and laughing at the same time. I don't think I have ever heard anything as evil as the sound of her voice at that moment. She must have known the guy on the ground was eating his heart out and she was enjoying his agony as he watched her being screwed.
"'He's got the biggest rod in the world,' she told the guy in the shadows. 'He's tearing my guts out!' "'Melissa!' the guy cried hopelessly. 'You promised.' "And she continued to laugh at him. 'You can still eat me,' she laughed. 'You'll be eating him too by proxy.' "Then she shoved her hips out over the railing as the boy retracted his tool and she... "
"She what?" Charlie urged.
"She took the lips of her slit in her hand and she let the juices inside her drain over the edge of the balcony. I could hear it striking something solid below. The guy's face, I thought. Then... then she let go with a yellow spray. The guy below was cussing and screaming at her. I couldn't take anymore. It made me sick. I crept along the shadows of the wall and belched my guts out at the bottom of the steps."
Charlie sat quietly.
"That's all!" Hilo told her. "So help me! I didn't hang around to see anymore."
"I believe you," Charlie told him. "A liar wouldn't have come up with such graphic descriptions." His story had affected her. She felt a familiar tingling sensation in her loins. He was a good looking piece of stud. She couldn't mind opening herself to him. But Monica was in the other room. Now was not the time or the place. She took one of her cards from her purse and lay it on the table in front of him. "If you think of anything you've forgotten, give me a call," she said. "Give me a call anyway. A nice-looking boy like you doesn't have to creep around outside a woman's bedroom."
He gave her a knowing glance. The fact that he could use her now showed on his face. He wanted her and would have taken her right there on the kitchen table if his mother hadn't been only a room away. "I'll call," he assured her. "Soon!"
"Do that," she said as the door opened and Monica came back into the kitchen.
The housekeeper's face was drawn with concern and her forehead was covered in perspiration. "Did he tell you all he knows?" she asked, trying to determine what had transpired during her absence.
Charlie got to her feet. "He's leveled with me," she said. "And I'm convinced he's innocent." She gave Hilo an inviting glance, a glance that he understood and returned. "Now I've got a date at the beach," she said.
After Charlie had gone, Monica sat down wearily beside her son. "She's a saint," she said. "You can thank your lucky stars she believed you."
"My stars had nothing to do with it," Hilo said as he picked up Sister Charlie's cigarette butt and examined the bright red lipstick on the tip. "Nothing at all."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Charlie stretched out on a beach towel and glanced around at the crowded beach. The narrow strip of sand known as Waikiki Beach was packed with tourists, servicemen and local beach boys. As always, there was twenty men to each girl and they were busily figuring which bikini-clad piece of fluff would be most receptive to their demands. Their were at least fifteen studs crowded around one girl near the boardwalk. She was laughing and eating up all the attention, but from the looks of her Charlie doubted if she would know how to handle one piece of ass properly, much less fifteen. She would probably be a secretary from some mainland city on a two-week vacation, looking for romance, up tight, nothing more than a prick teaser. She'd more than likely end up getting raped and filing a complaint at the stationhouse. She had investigated more than thirty such complaints in the last three months. They were common during the summer months.
But she dismissed the girl from her mind. She was here in search of a blond surfer and she wasn't going to find him by watching the action on the beach. He would probably be straddling a surf board out from shore, waiting for the right wave, the big one that would bring him all the way in.
But she didn't even know his name. She knew that he was young, blond and apparently not shy around strangers. It wasn't much to go on.
A young girl next to Charlie was abandoned by her boyfriend, sent after refreshments, she supposed. As soon as he was out of sight the girl turned her attention on the other males. She let her glance sweep over the near-naked bodies with an expert eye.
"How's tricks?" Charlie asked.
The girl gave her a disdainful look and lay back on her towel with her eyes closed.
"I'm not being forward," Charlie explained, leaning toward her on her elbow. "It's just that I'm new in town. I need some advice on finding the action."
"If you haven't spotted the action already you're new everywhere," the girl said without opening her eyes. "Unless you're looking for the lesbian scene." She turned her glassed eyes toward Charlie. "And I can't help you there, sister." She raised the glasses to her forehead. "I'm strictly a meat and potatoes girl."
"Actually," Charlie told her, "I'm looking for a particular guy. A favorite of a friend of mine. She's recommended him highly. Deeply, if you prefer."
"Well, if he's good enough for a recommendation, I've probably met the young man," the girl bragged. "What's his name?"
Charlie explained she could not remember. "He's blond," she said. "A surfer."
"Does your friend live up on the hill and drive a groovy black limousine? A rich bitch?"
"That's her," Charlie said.
The girl looked disappointed. "That would be Rudolph," she said dryly. "And he's not worth the time. The only difference between him and the reindeer by the same name is that his nose is generally brown instead of red. It's not easy to get him to use his equipment in the normal way. He's a rimmer and a lousy sixty-niner. You and your friend are welcome to him."
"Have you seen him today?" Charlie pressed.
"Every day," the girl answered with heavy boredom. "You'll find him sitting out there on his board bragging to all the other guys about screwing your lady friend." She lay back down and turned her head away to rid herself of the conversation. "She should have more class with all her money," she said in closing.
Charlie rose and waded into the surf. There was no use wasting time. She might as well swim out and find her man. If she waited for him to catch the right wave, she might end up waiting all afternoon. It was a long distance out, but swimming at Waikiki Beach was like swimming in a bath tub. The water was tepid and fairly still until you neared the reef. She swam easily, stopping now and then to float on her back and rest.
When she neared the reef she turned on her stomach and examined the glistening bodies of men straddling their boards. Most of them were superbly built, their muscular bodies glistening from the spray of the water. Some wore skimpy swimsuits that merely concealed their equipment. Others had pressed their tools and testicles into tight-fitting elastic trunks. She examined the bulges with interest, still feeling the need that Hilo's story had created.
She was not the only mermaid swimming among the surf boards. There were two other girls, obviously not in search of any particular man. Any would do. One had removed her bra and her white breasts were exposed, the brownish nipples peeping above the surface. She swam up to one of the surfers, grasping his leg to support herself and rubbing her breasts invitingly against his thigh. He reached down and clasped her breasts in his hands, bent and covered a nipple with his mouth. The bulge inside his trunks grew suddenly upward and the knob of his joint stuck its head into the open, purple and swollen. She took it in her hand, pulled herself partially up on the board and covered it with her mouth. The man's head went back with his mouth open and his eyes closed. He didn't question his sudden sexual companion. He merely accepted her as his just reward, an offering up of her mouth as an ancient Greek might offer a sacrifice to her gods. Indeed, he looked like a god straddling his board with his gigantic shaft being consumed by a sea nymph.
Charlie couldn't watch any longer. Her own passion had built to a consuming desire. She would liked to have pushed the girl away and taken her place. But she had caught sight of a blond-headed Adonis riding a board on the gentle rise of a wave. He was occupied by watching his fellow surfer's shaft shooting in and out of the girl's hungry mouth. Charlie saw that the front of his briefs was bulging with his own excitement. She took a few powerful strokes, and touched the side of his board.
Before she could ask if he was Rudolph, he had slipped into the water beside her and was removing her halter and panties. He lay them on the board, stripped himself and lay his trunks over hers. Then, supporting himself by hanging onto the board with one hand, he drew her against his body and began biting at her neck and breasts.
Charlie could feel the pressure of his erected penis shoved into her stomach. She placed her arms about his neck and held on. Her senses swirled with anticipation of his stabbing into her.
But it wasn't what he had in mind.
"Get on the board," he suddenly demanded.
And before she could change her position, he was attempting to lift her onto the slippery surface. Panting, she got into position, lying on her back near the front of the board with her legs dangling on either side. The blond slipped onto the board from the back, sliding forward on his stomach until his face rested between her legs. His tongue found the lips of her cunnus and began to tease it into hardness with a circular motion. He had the most experienced tongue she had ever felt. It caressed her, kissed her and then drove itself into her vagina, sending ripples of electric currents through her loins. She clasped his head in her hands and pulled him into her more tightly, crying out with the pain of his nose pressing into the sensitive area above her slit. She pulled at his hair, thrust her pelvis upward, and felt his fingers grope for the small opening of her anus. Two fingers were forced inside to the knuckles. He began to twist them, drive them in and out as he would his shaft. The pain was delicious. She began to squirm around on the board, slipping dangerously near the edge. But he pulled her back, added another finger to the two inside her anus, and continued the assault of his tongue in and out of her slit. The fires built within her. She could feel the stirring of her climax. It seemed to begin at the tips of her toes. There was a tingling sensation as if some fish were nibbling at her flesh. The tingling moved steadily up her legs and gathered in the pit of her loins waiting for the final flick of the tongue to release the explosion.
She came in great gushes, the hot liquid pouring forth in waves of surging sensation. She lifted her head and saw his tongue darting about in an effort to claim every drop and let none be claimed by the sea. She felt the warmth run down her crease and settle about her buttocks and she shifted her position so he might devour even that.
When at last he had had her limit, she felt weak and totally drained. But he was not finished. He pulled himself up on his knees and she saw the gigantic phallus protruding from his groin. It was throbbing, the inflamed knob aching to be planted.
"Now I'm going to screw you," he said. "I'm going to screw you to death."
"Yes!" she moaned. "Screw me!"
He reached down, and balancing the board, pulled her to her feet in the center of the board. Their swim suits slipped over the edge and sank like dead fish, but neither noticed. She bowed her legs and he steeped closer, carefully touching the knob of his shaft to the lips of her slit. He stabbed forward and her moist vagina opened to receive his entire length in one hungry swoop. The surf board began to sway to one side and then the other threatening to spill them into the water. The other surfers were standing on their boards cheering them on with screams and cat-calls.
"Give it to her, Rudy! Screw that bitch!"
But their attention was short lived. A giant wave began to rise beyond the reef. To a surfer a wave was more important than watching a friend's balling. They began to prepare themselves, to push their boards into action to catch the crest. Charlie opened her eyes at the precise moment of impact. The second rumble of her climax shook her body and at the same time she felt the sudden expansion of the blond's heavy organ and the hot spray of his semen. She seemed to be lifted skyward, to be shot forward with the explosion from his shaft. Everything whirled around her; she was dizzy, near fainting.
"We've caught it!" the boy cried. "By Jesus, we're going to ride it all the way in!"
Then she returned to reality. She, still locked in the position of being screwed, was being thrust toward the shore on the crest of a mammoth wave. She turned her head and saw the bathers near the shore growing larger. Her eyes widened in terror. Naked as the day she was born, a man's tool inside her, she was going to be belched right up on the shore of Waikiki. She, Detective Sister Charles, the virgin of the squad, was about to gain infamy.
The blond had extended his arms to his sides and was using them and his feet to keep then- balance. "We're going to make it!" he cried. "There's no stopping us now!"
But Charlie had other ideas. She threw her weight onto one hip, at the same time pushing at the blond's chest. She screamed as the board shot out from beneath them and the rolling mountain of the wave crashed about their heads and drove them down into its depths. Arms and limbs and naked torsos were rolled over and over and then driven down toward the hard sand.
Charlie thought she had come to the end of her illustrious career. She was going to be killed without getting her man.
But fate willed it otherwise. The wave broke and cushioned her fall. She touched down against the sand and bobbed back to the surface, winded and gasping for air, but uninjured. The boy surfaced beside her. His face was twisted with anger.
"You deliberately made us wash out!" he cried.
'To save us embarrassment," she told him. "We were going to ride that wave right up among the bathers."
"So?"
"Naked!" she said, flatly. "A girl's got a right to protect her reputation."
He gave her a look of disgust, and started to swim away from her, but she caught up with him.
"I want to talk to you," she said.
"Talk? If that's all you wanted you sure went all the way for it. What do you want to talk about?"
"About Melissa Kent," she said.
"Oh!" he said. And started swimming with strong hurried strokes. His white buttocks glistened near the surface of the water.
Charlie dove and swam after him underwater. She was an excellent swimmer. He was no match for her. She shot along the sandy floor, rolled over on her back and stared up at the dangling organ between his legs. She grabbed it, held on firmly, and braced herself to force him to come to a halt.
He shot down beneath the surface, his mouth opened in a scream of pain. The blow she delivered to his stomach rendered him helpless. He began to struggle to reach the air, but she only let go of her choking hold when she was sure he would give her no more trouble.
"Now," she said when he was treading water weakly besides her. "I'm Sister Charles of Homicide. I've got a few questions to ask you and the answers had better be straight, Rudy old boy!"
"Okay! you win!" he gasped. "You didn't win fair, but you win." he held on to her shoulders to support himself, one hand clutching at her left breast. "Ask away."
"Were you with Melissa Kent two nights ago?"
"Yes."
"Did you strangle her and shove a can of shaving cream up her vagina? Economy size?"
He increased the pressure on her breasts, letting his fingers massage the nipples. "Who, me? You have to be kidding. Why would I want to do that?"
"Why would anyone?" Charlie mumbled. "But someone did. And I know you were one of the last people to see her alive. You've got some talking to do and it had better be good."
He let go of her breast. His face registered alarm. "You fuzz really play dirty," he said. "First you screw a guy silly until he can't think straight. Then you cause him to wash out on the best goddamned wave all day. You grab him by the balls, give him a judo in the gut and then expect him to defend himself. That's what I call brutality."
"That's only the beginning," Charlie warned.
"Well, I didn't kill anyone," Rudy confessed. "Why don't you ask the other guy? He had reason."
"What other guy?" Charlie asked, pretending she knew nothing of the man who had stood below the balcony while Rudy had been getting his rocks.
"The guy she let her guts loose on," Rudy told her. "If I'd have been him I might have killed her."
"Who was he?" Charlie urged.
Rudy shrugged. "I didn't see him. He was below in the shadows."
"I think you're holding out," Charlie said. "I should take you downtown and book you on suspicion."
"Now look!" Rudy protested. "What kind of a guy would shove a can up a lady's tunnel? Not someone like me. I've got better things for something like that. What you're looking for is some kind of a eunuch. You can testify that I've got all I'm supposed to have."
Charlie felt as if she had suddenly been given extra vision into the crime. All the pieces of the puzzle fit. She knew who the killer was. She knew exactly what sort of twisted man had stood below the balcony, had been splattered by Melissa's discharge, and then had waited in the shadows until the blonde had gone, to kill her. All she had to do was go and arrest him.
All!
"How the hell are we going to get out of here?" she asked Rudy. "We can't just walk up on the shore without a stitch on!"
Then you're going to let me off?" Rudy asked. "You believe I'm innocent?"
"Innocence has nothing to do with it," she said. "But I believe you. Now how are we goin to get swim suits?... "
"That's easy," he told her. "Well steal them."
"How?"
Rudy pointed back toward the reef. "There, of course. You're not the only broad who gets stripped," he said. "There's a whole cult of surfer worshippers. Most of them weight their suits down in the reef. After they've paid tribute to us they reclaim them and swim back in like summer virgins."
Charlie swam off behind him to steal some other girl's bikini. Better the lady in distress should be someone else and not her. She had work to do.
The surfers who had not managed to catch the big wave were lounging about on their boards... most of them. There were three in the water, locked in embraces with three of the young girls. The one who had been blowing the surfer earlier had now found another god to worship. She had her legs wrapped about his thighs and was helping him thrust home within her love nest.
Rudy disappeared beneath the surface. When he bobbed back up, he had a bright red suit in his hand. He passed it to her.
"What about you?" Charlie asked, struggling to slip into the stolen bikini.
"I'll stay here," Rudy said. "It's been a quiet day and I feel like a little action."
Charlie laughed. "See you around," she said, hopefully; and she turned and swam toward the shore. She would have to get hold of Farley. She might need help in arresting her man.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"I hoped to never see your face again," the maid said to Farley. "What you sellin' this time? White hoods?"
Charlie stepped around from behind Farley. "Cut the chatter," she told the maid. "Let us in."
The maid glared at her. She stepped against the frame of the door so that she could throw her body against it if necessary. "They're eatin'," the maid said. "They din't want to see nobody." And she started to close the door.
Charlie threw her weight against it and sent the maid sprawling backwards in the middle of the floor. As the two detectives entered she covered her face with her hands and began to scream.
"Don't rape me!" she cried. "I's too old fo' raping!" Charlie looked at her partner with narrowed eyes. "You must have made an impression on your last visit," she said. She bent and pulled the maid to her feet. "Can it!" she warned. "Or I'll have him rape you just to shut you up."
"I don't think I'm up to it," Farley said seriously.
The door at the end of the hall opened and a silver-haired man stood in the frame watching them. "What's all this about rape?" he asked quietly.
"She's safe," Charlie said, "unless you're planning to use a can of shaving cream on her."
The man lowered his head. "I've been expecting you," he said. "It's been hell waiting." He stepped back into the room, leaving the door open.
When Charlie entered he was sitting behind his desk scribbling on a pad of paper.
"I'm leaving a note for my wife," he said without looking up. "She's at her bridge club this afternoon.'"' Charlie saw the painting of a blonde over the fireplace mantel. The face was familiar. She had seen her, she thought, at the nudist camp.
The man finished his note, pushed it aside and leaned back in his chair. "How did you find me out?" he asked. "I didn't leave any fingerprints."
"It's partly due to a hunch," Charlie admitted. "All the pieces fit. They pointed directly at you." She showed him the file from her purse. "The can of shaving cream was a phallus equivalent. A man with all his equipment intact wouldn't have used it."
'"And you found out that all my... my equipment wasn't intact?" he mumbled.
"It was in your service file," Charlie said. "You were injured in the attack on Pearl Harbor. And you had a motive. Melissa Kent was blackmailing your wife. She was doing it for kicks. And you found out."
Smitt smiled. "I'd known for years," he confessed. "But if Christina thought it best that I didn't find out about her past life, I wasn't about to tell her I already knew. Melissa had told me. She was an evil woman. She didn't believe that I didn't care what my wife had been. What she is." He looked stricken, bad. "But what right did I have to demand her entire youth? I couldn't even screw her properly. And she is a woman who needs screwing frequently. She thinks I even believe she's at a bridge club. Poor Christina. She doesn't have the mind for bridge. But I love her.' "You love her so much you were having an affair with her best friend?" Charlie accused.
Smitt slapped the top of his desk with his hands and rose to his feet. "She was like a drug," he said. "Like a bitch in heat that attracts all the male dogs in the neighborhood. There was something animalistic about her sexual appeal. I couldn't help myself. Neither could most men."
Charlie felt sorry for him, but there was nothing she could do. "She was one of the hungry ones," she said, remembering what Santos had told her that night in his cabin.
"She had made a date for that night," Smitt explained. "When I arrived she was with some young beach boy. She was leaning out over the balcony with her buttocks hunched up in the air so he could screw her from behind. I was enraged, more with myself for having come than with her for so blatantly insulting me. I called her names. I should have just turned and gone, but I couldn't. I was fascinated by what she was forcing me to watch. After the boy had released his load, she shoved her pelvis over the railing and spread the lips of her cunnus. The next thing I knew I was being covered with the foul discharge." He shook himself as if trying to shed the memory. "I waited until the kid had gone. Then I crept into her bedroom. I knocked her unconscious and I took the can of shaving cream from her nephew's bedroom. It was the biggest thing I could find. She came to screaming and begging for mercy. That's when I killed her." He sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands. "The worst part is I'm not sorry," he moaned. "I'd do it again."
Charlie stood quietly looking down at him. She'd like to have walked away and forgotten that she had caught Melissa Kent's murderer. Arresting him made her sick. He should have been given another medal and a pension; more than he had received for his fatal injury during the war. But she was first and foremost a policewoman. She couldn't ignore his crime. She moved around the desk and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. "I'll have your wife informed at... at her bridge club," she said.
Smitt, white and suddenly old, rose. He took his hat from the rack and walked quietly out of the door ahead of Charlie. He climbed into the patrol car and as they drove away stared back at the Southern plantation rising in the grove of palms. Then he sighed and lit a cigarette. He looked like a man preparing himself for the ordeal of a trial. "The only thing I feel bad about is what I've done to her nephew," he said. "He couldn't have known what she was like so quickly. To him I probably killed a kind and loving aunt. Do you think he'll ever forgive me?"
"I think he already has." Charlie assured him.
The airport terminal was hot. The metal roofs caught the glare of the afternoon sun and the heat beneath was intolerable. The leis about David's neck gave off a pungent sweet odor. He would liked to have removed them and dropped them into a trash can, but it would have been an insult to the small party that was seeing him off.
Santos, Monica and Sister Charles were standing aimlessly about waiting for his plane to depart. He did not doubt their sincerity in wishing him good bye, but he hated farewells.
"I think you've made the proper decision," Sister Charles told him, taking his arm and leading him toward the gate. "UCLA is a good college and you'll have old friends there."
He nodded. Her touch sent a shiver of lust through his body. He had never told her that he had seen her in the altogether at the nudist camp. It would remain his secret. But now looking down at her he could imagine the tilt of her firm breasts, the large nipples and the patch of triangular hair between her legs, the thin forest with the slit clearly visible.
"Thank you for all you've done," he said awkwardly. "If I had stayed... I would have hoped to... repay you... to get to know you better perhaps."
Charlie laughed. "There's always summer vacations," she reminded him. And she stepped away so that the others could bid him farewell.
Monica had tears in her eyes. She wanted to thank him for keeping her on at the Kent mansion, now his. For increasing her salary and letting her son live with her in her cabin so she might keep an eye on him. But she only brushed his cheek with her wet lips and then withdrew.
Santos shook his hand. There was much in his eyes to be said, but he did not speak.
The passengers pushed David forward. He moved away from the little group, waved and then was aboard the plane, glad that he was leaving, excited about meeting his old school friends. He had learned a lot in Hawaii. The next time he came it would not be with wide, innocent eyes. He was determined that one day he was going to thank Sister Charles properly. He was going to drive his gratitude all the way up that balding slit.
He glanced out of the window for a last look at her, but she had turned away. Her arm was locked through that of her partner and they were moving off through the crowd.
How could he have known that she was whispering into Farley's ear: "Do they still have that bet at the station? Well, how about us winning some money for a hell of a swinging weekend?"
