I am tempted to say that I found this in a bottle on the seashore, or in the belly of a fish, or that "while diving off Skin Rock for lobsters one day, I found a small chest made of an unknown metal wedged in a niche in the coral," etc. However, to tell the truth and at the same time avoid a lot of irrelevant and tedious details as to how I actually did come into possession of the following manuscript, I say only that "it has come into my hands," a convenient phrase.
Were it not for one single, bizarre and unexplained incident which my wife and I both witnessed along with several dozen other persons last year in the park near the steps of the Sago Beach Memorial Library, I would be inclined to laugh the whole thing off as a flight of erotic fantasy and wish-fulfillment, inspired probably by the then recent rash of indecent exposure cases in Rodriguez. This happened four months before I was given the manuscript.
May and I were sitting on a bench not far from the public library, feeding the pigeons and watching the girls go by. It was a bright sunny day, the birds were singing, the breeze was blowing, the horns were honking, and the old men in the pavilion across the walkway were alternately playing checkers and looking up my wife's skirt. The library door opened, and an extremely luscious-looking blonde came out and started down the steps, tits all abounce. She was young and chesty, and she was wearing a see-through minidress over flesh colored underwear. The dress buttoned up the front and was belted at the waist, accentuating her full flaring hips. It was apparent that her bra was very small and unboned; her spherical breasts rose and fell with a delightful fluidity and resilience in rhythm with her rapid skips down the stairs.
I nudged my wife and said, "Look at that!"
"Nice," she said.
"How would you like to stick your tongue in that?"
"Before or after you stuck your cock in it? Hiding her hand behind the bag of bread crumbs, she felt for my erection and found it.
I spread my legs and settled back, smiling at the approaching girl and thinking lazily, "Why don't you take off your clothes and give us a good look, baby?" At that moment she stopped dead as though someone had grabbed her from behind. A strange look came over her face. She had stopped beside a stone bench at the edge of one of the large fishponds. She set her books and her handbag down on the bench and casually began to unbutton her dress.
I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. When I looked back, she was still there, unbuckling her belt. "Will you look at that!" said my wife.
"I certainly will!" I replied. But beyond that, we were speechless. The blonde slipped the little dress off her arms, draped it over the bench, and kicked off her sandals. From time to time her pretty white teeth flashed in a broad smile, as though she had-just though! of something funny. As I had thought, her bra was extremely brief and flimsy; its lacy upper edge just barely covered her nipples, and I could see their rosy glow through the flesh-toned cups. Her cleavage was deeply creased, and the upper swells,, of her tits shone like moons below the golden tan of her chest and shoulders. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her pink half-slip and stepped out of it. Her bikini panties were almost invisible; the tawny patch of cunt hair inside the crotch was not even blurred.
By now a crowd was gathering, but the girl seemed oblivious to everything except that private joke which continued to bring occasional bursts of musical laughter from her peach-colored lips and lusty sparkles from her pale blue eyes. The old men had left their checkers and were hobbling over for a closer look. Two men in business suits were standing about twenty paces from the fishpond, little brown lunch bags clutched in their hands and expressions of astonishment on their faces. Two young lovers came out of the bushes behind us, adjusting their clothing. Two elderly women who happened to be strolling by had stopped in their tracks. One of them said, "Why, someone ought to call a policeman!" A red-faced mother hurried past us with her young son in tow. The kid kept looking back and trying to make his mother stop. "Why is that lady taking off her clothes, Mommy?" he yelled. "Shh!" hissed his mother, "Don't look at her! She's just showing off!" By the time the girl unhooked her bra, there were several dozen onlookers gathered around-of both sexes and all ages. May and I got up, and the press of the crowd carried us to within a few yards of the pond.
The girl was bare-chested now. Her tits were big, high, round and perfect, the nipples small and rosy. She shook her long blonde hair in the breeze and stepped out of her panties. She spread her lovely golden legs and fluffed up her bush with both hands. A murmuring gasp rose from the crowd. As we watched, dumfounded, she turned her back to us and stepped into the fishpond. It was just a little over knee deep. The goldfish scattered in alarm. The crowd surrounded the pond, and the girl began to paddle around on her back, her tits floating up like luminous waterwings, her pussy jerking skyward almost at every stroke. It was a thing to behold! Nobody knew what to do. Around and around she went, slithering through the lily pads, her graceful naked body gleaming in the sunlight. Besides wishing I had the nerve to pull her ashore and fuck her then and there, I remember having two thoughts: one, Did I cause this by wishing it? and two, I hope the cops don't come! As for May, nothing but an occasional "goddamn," tense and breathy, escaped her lips.
The blonde didn't stay in the water long. She stood up in the middle of the pond, stretched her limbs as though there were no one within a hundred miles and slowly waded back to the edge.
I am by nature a nonbeliever, and this much alone, weird though it was, would not have led me to consider Emmet Kline's story in the least credulous; even now I don't say I swallow it whole, but the memory of what happened next gives me cause to wonder.
The girl stepped out of the pond and spread herself out on the grass beside the stone bench. Her feet were close to mine. We were looking right up her hairy little crack! (Did I feel something brush my ankle? Or did I imagine it?) She bent her knees and spread her legs wide. What a sight!
"Look at that!" whispered my wife.
"What?" My eyes had been fixed on that sparkling slit.
"Her tits! Look!"
I looked.
The girl's breasts were moving.
If she did it with her muscles, she had the spookiest set of muscles anybody ever heard of! At first, her tits seemed to flatten at the nipples and pulsate like living jellyfish. Then one began to move in a circular pattern while the other jostled up and down. Then one nipple at a time distended itself upward toward the sky, and both breasts began to shudder and shake in a very mouthwatering but most unlikely way. Weird! That's what was.
But then my eyes returned to her snatch, and I saw the strangest thing yet. The damp curls parted from the slit, all by themselves, and the lips began to ripple and ooze! "Look," said May, "her pussy's opening up!" It was true. The outer labia were folded back like an opening flower, and now the inner lips also spread their fleshy petals, and by God we were looking right up the hole! I mean, right up he hole: you could actually see the pulsating vaginal walls behind the fringed frame of the hymen, not to mention the little pink knob of her clitoris, which was twitching away in plain sight near the upper seam of her open slit; in brief, it was all hanging out.
She was holding it open with her hands, you say? Not so, I reply; her hands were behind her head the whole time. I admit, however, that the view described above was a brief one, and that I might be mistaken in some of the details, because only a few seconds elapsed from the time she spread her legs until her hips began to pump. It was for all the world like she was getting fucked! Her pelvis jerked so rapidly that her cunt was only a pink-and-blonde blur, and her tits rose and fell and swelled and flattened and jiggled and twisted as though they were being mauled. Her face was the very picture of ecstasy. Her mouth was open, and her tongue lolled out at one side; her sky-blue eyes peered sightlessly from under fluttering lids, and her nostrils flared wide.
When she came-and there is no doubt in our minds that she did-I damn near shot in my pants. (A few drops, in fact, did squirt down my leg, but I managed to hold back a full orgasm.) She doubled up, her legs and shoulders rose off the ground as if in response to some unseen force, and saliva sprayed from her lips. Her soft white-gold belly undulated with powerful contractions, wave after wave, her feet shuddered and trembled in the air like leaves in a hurricane, and something-something, I say!-spurted from her vibrating cunt and ran out on the grass in translucent dollops. We counted seven bursts in all.
It wasn't until the sound of the siren penetrated my consciousness that I realized I was standing behind May, watching the spectacle over her shoulder, with her tits clutched tightly in my hands. Needless to say, no one seemed to notice this. The cops shouldered their way to the edge of the pond, and the stunned crowd rapidly dispersed, May and I included. They wrapped the girl in a blanket, scooped up her clothes and hauled her away.
"What do you make of that?" asked my wife.
"I don't know," I said in a shaky voice, "but what do you say we go somewhere and fuck."
Which we did.
The next day, July 20, a small headline on the second page of the Sago Beach Sun read: COED SWIMS NUDE IN FISHPOND. The story added little to that. Nothing more ever appeared; as far as the newspapers were concerned, the incident was forgotten. By November, I had almost forgotten it myself. It was then that I first read Emmet Kline's manuscript, which brought it all back to me in the most vivid detail.
The chapter divisions are mine, and I have taken the liberty of smoothing out the author's rather awkward prose into something hopefully halfway readable; otherwise, I present it just as I found it. Make of it what you will.
CHAPTER ONE - GLASS IN THE ASS
Emmet Kline was a little rat-faced man who taught chemistry at Hill High School in Rodriguez, Florida. The girls liked to tease him because he was shy. They said he was crazy because he was working in his laboratory on some secret formula. Once he overheard two students talking in the hall: "Who's the little rat-faced man?" said one. "That's old Mr. Kline," said the other. (Old! In fact, he was only thirty-eight.) "At night he locks himself in there and tries to turn lead slugs into gold." (Both these statements were lies.) "Poor old bastard, he's crazy as a loon." They said these and many other malicious things about Mr. Kline. Some of those who said them are now sorry they did so. I, he who writes this, was Emmet Kline. I emphasize the verb was.
The night before it all began Mr. Kline was in his lab, preparing to test his formula. "This time I may have it!" he said to himself. This formula had been years in the making. Countless failures and constant derision had not daunted Mr. Kline's determination. With trembling fingers he opened the lead casing and drew a small, tightly sealed test tube from the radium packs, placed it in the centrifuge, and reclosed the casing. He checked the radiation level with his Geiger counter and switched on the centrifuge. Mr. Kline was accustomed to using the centrifuge many times a day, but this time, as he watched it whirling about, it reminded him of the roulette wheel he had played one time-and one time only-while passing through Las Vegas. "Be there, baby!" he said to himself. He lost miserably, by the way, that time in Vegas. Mr. Kline was a loser; he admits it freely, though at the time he might not have. "Be there for the rat-faced man!" He must have said it aloud.
"What did you say, Mr. Kline?"
The voice startled him, for he had thought himself alone in the building. In turning around, he inadvertently knocked some things off a table-a rack of test tubes, some glass rods, and several other things which broke when they hit the floor. If there was anything Mr. Kline could not stand, it was for people to sneak up behind him. People knew this, and they did it on purpose, just to startle him. It makes his blood boil just to think of it! By Jesus, they don't sneak up on him any more! Ha!
Over the crash of breaking glass he could have sworn he heard a giggle. He peered into the gloom in the direction from which the voice had come, but he saw nothing. Ah! he should explain that when working in his lab at night, he seldom illuminated the entire room, only that area in which he worked. The door to the main hall was located in the unlighted part of the room. "Who's there?" he shouted.
A moment later someone cleared her throat-for it had been a female voice-and stepped out of the shadows. It was Kathy Ryan, a sexy senior who enjoyed teasing Mr. Kline. The little slut was wearing a low-cut, mini-skirted jumper which was supposed to be worn over a blouse, but wasn't. Just the sight of her irritated Mr. Kline and made him nervous; that is to say, the fact that she made him nervous irritated him. Girls per se made Mr. Kline nervous, he admits it, and the prettier, the sexier, the more daring their attire, the more nervous he became. In a word, he was shy and backward around cunt. He can say it now quite without embarrassment since it is no longer the case. The writer, I find, imagines a reader, reading what he writes; he now imagines this reader snickering at the shyness of Mr. Kline. Perhaps if this reader were small and rat-faced, he too would be shy and backward, eh? Does he persist in his scorn? Then look out for me, motherfucker. For I, he, Kline the Terrible, may be watching even as you read.
"Kathy! What are you doing here? No students are allowed in the building after dark!"
"But Mr. Kline," she said, batting her eyelashes, "It's Friday. We're having a dance down in the gym. Haven't you heard the music?"
Mr. Kline said he had not, that he had more important things to do than listen to music, and that "dance or no dance, you kids are not allowed to come upstairs after school hours. Now, please leave the lab, Kathy, because I'm very busy."
As Mr. Kline spoke, the girl advanced into the light, and Mr. Kline squinted before the glare of all that exposed girlflesh. He was unprepared, caught just at the crucial moment of his experiment. He stammered, he recoiled, he retreated in reverse until he was brought to bay against the table to which the centrifuge was clamped. Suddenly remembering the formula, he checked "his watch and switched off the centrifuge. The lab was silent.
"The water fountain downstairs isn't working, so I came up to get a drink," said the girl. "Do you mind if I look at the exhibit? I didn't get to see the molecular models this afternoon before the bell rang."
"Well, I'm glad you're interested in the exhibit, Kathy, but I'm really very busy tonight. I'm sure you'll get a chance to see it tomorrow."
"Tomorrow's Saturday, Mr. Kline."
"Ah, yes. Well then, Monday. There will be plenty of time Monday to-"
"Well, anyway, let me clean up this mess for you. It was my fault."
Ignoring Mr. Kline's protests, she took the brush and dustpan from its hook, knelt at his feet and began to sweep up the broken glass.
This was terribly disconcerting. Mr. Kline found himself looking right down the front of the creature's dress. It has been mentioned that the dress, or jumper, had an indecently low neckline and was not intended to be worn without an underblouse. To make matters worse, she didn't even have a slip on. Nothing but a skimpy black lace bra, which, when seen against the brilliant yellow of the dress, looked absolutely obscene. From where he stood, Mr. Kline could see not only the plump, pale, bulging swells of her young bosom, bare to the nipples, the blue veins glowing under the maddeningly beautiful translucent skin below her tan line; he could also see the bare skin below her bust all the way to the plush fold at her waist and a little bit of her belly, for the dress was straight and unbelted at the waist. This shows the extent to which the neckline hung open. The writer now knows that she did this on purpose, just to embarrass Mr. Kline.
Nor was this all. For the position in which she chose to squat-with the knee of one leg on the floor and the foot of the other beside it-gave Mr. Kline an unimpeded view of her ill-clad crotch: Oh! that sweet little bundle of dark straw, cleft in the center, contained in its snug covering of black lace-trimmed tricot, spilling out at the edges in fine furry tufts, framed between those perfect thighs so delicately shaded from white to gold-Ah!
These sights brought Mr. Kline's thoughts rushing back to his formula. Ah, if only it worked! No longer would he be forced see such displays and remain powerless to react. The form formula would solve all his problems. Even now, he thought as he watched the undulating movements of those half-naked breasts, I may at last have hit upon the proper balance of X-rays and radium exposure! If only this torture would cease until I could make the test!
Then another thought struck him. But what if I have succeeded? What better chance than this to put it to use? Who, of all those girls who delight in teasing me with their beauty, is more deserving of being paid for their cruelty than this shameless creature at my feet? With a great deal of effort, Mr. Kline tore his gaze from the girl and fixed it upon the test tube hanging in the clamp of the centrifuge; it was almost a spasm of the neck muscles, like the hammer of a gun being cocked. The dark sediment lay compact and opaque in the bottom of the tube; the clear luminous fluid glowed above. It seemed to pulsate before his eyes. He thought: It looks good! He extended his hand toward it...
"Oh!"
The girl's cry caused Mr. Kline to jerk his hand away from the centrifuge and look down at her. He had heard no thud, no sound of her fall, yet she was now sitting on the floor, her lovely bare legs splayed out, her short skirt bunched up "around her hips, her panties and what they contained in plain view.
"What's the matter?" stammered Mr. Kline with annoyance and alarm.
The girl lifted one knee and rolled over on her right hip, putting a hand to her left buttock and twisting her neck in an attempt to look at it. A strand of soft auburn hair fell over one eye, and the crease between her breasts was lengthened by the pressure of her arm.
"I fell," she said, "and I think I've cut myself!"
Oh, a pox! A plague! Why tonight? Why all this torture and delay? Just when he may be onto it!
"Would you help me up, please, Mr. Kline?"
Mr. Kline took her extended hand and helped her up. Her palm was white-hot. His was cold and clammy. She twisted around, lifted the hem of her skirt, (the brazen slut!) and studied with pursed lips the left cheek of her plump round behind. Lurid spectacle!
"Kathy, please-!"
"But, Mr. Kline, I-"
"No buts now, young lady! You will have to-"
"But that's what's hurt, Mr. Kline."
"-What?"
"My butt."
Mr. Kline's mouth dropped open. At that moment he thought he heard something in the hall. Red-faced and speechless, he ran to the door and threw it open...
The hall was dark. He saw no one. He turned to the girl, who was still displaying her left buttock all the way up to the elastic hipband of her transparent panties.
"Kathy, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that. You know the penalty for obscene language in school."
"Oh, Mr. Kline, don't be such a prude. There's nobody here but us, and besides, it's after school."
"That makes no difference. You are on the school premises, and I am a teacher. I'd be a little more careful if I were you! Why, just last week you were sent home because your skirt was too short. Do you want to be expelled?"
She hung her head, but did not drop the skirt.
"Now, don't misunderstand me, Kathy. I don't want to be the one to get you in trouble. If you'll just please lower your Skirt and go back to the dance, I won't say a word."
"But, Mr. Kline, look!"
She thrust a finger under Kline's nose. There was a tiny spot of blood on it. So what? He looked at her, blankly no doubt; he was at his wit's end.
"Won't you put something on it for me? I might get an infection!"
"Kathy, really-"
"Bat the dance won't be over for hours, and I can't go down there bleeding, can I? What would people think? And besides, I might get tetanus or something!"
"Oh, all right, Kathy," said Mr. Kline, utterly exasperated. Good God! You would have thought she was hemorrhaging. The writer knows now that it was all a malicious scheme. "Wait here. I'll go get a Band-aid."
"And some peroxide."
When he returned with the peroxide and Band-aid, he found to his dismay that the girl was lying full length upon one of the tables, propped up on her elbows, her skirt thrown up, the full expanse of her black-veiled hindquarters boldly exposed, her legs slightly-but sufficiently-parted.
"Kathy, for goodness sake-!"
"I thought you could get to it better this way. Anyway, I felt like was going to faint. It's better if you lie down when you feel like that."
"For heaven's sake, Kathy, it's only a tiny scratch!"
"Well, it hurts."
Mr. Kline leaned over the table, his knees shaking, and examined, as objectively as possible, the left cheek of Kathy's ass, fighting to keep his eyes off the deep shadowy crack which could be seen clearly through the bikini panties and which even extended a half-inch above them.
"I don't even see it, Kathy."
"Oh, it's right here, Mr. Kline... " And the vulgar girl reached back and jerked up the lace-edged leghole, exposing more than half of that succulent milk-white buttock! Mr. Kline will admit that he nearly passed out. The glare of skin blinded him. He staggered backward.
"Can you see it? No? Shall I take my pants off? "
"NO!"
This cry of panic echoed and reverberated through the empty rooms. The girl's stifled giggle did not escape Mr. Kline's notice. She's taking advantage of me, he thought, but what can I do?
"Well, here, this will be better. Ill just pull them down a little... " Mr. Kline would have cried out again, but he had lost his voice.
Kathy inserted a thumb under the elastic and drew it down. Now the hipband ran in a diagonal line from her right hip to a point below her left cheek, exposing that cheek in its entirety, half the other one, and a good five inches of the crack between them!
"There," she said, pointing out a tiny red spot, all but microscopic, square in the center of her buttock. "See it? I think there's a piece of glass in it."
Mr. Kline gripped the edge of the table to support himself, his eyes glued to those swells of naked flesh, that forbidden crease, thinking, Oh, you lewd little bitch. What I would do to you if I only had the formula!
The formula!
The word clicked in his mind. It made his head spin. He shot a glance at the centrifuge. The tube. The luminous fluid. Hanging there. Waiting for him. Mr. Kline felt his penis surge with life and press against the edge of the table. He felt his loins smile with lust, and his inner eye flashed with anticipation.
"Why, yes," he said in a voice suddenly calm. "I believe you may have a sliver in there at that, Kathy. Just put your head down and lie still; I'll get something to extract it."
He darted around the table and snatched the test tube from the centrifuge. He unstopped it, tore a syringe from its packet, inserted the needle and quickly drew off 20 cubic centimeters of the clear liquid. Without a pause-for to pause would have been to kill the momentum of his courage-he tied off his forearm with a length of rubber tubing, pumped up a vein, and thrust home!
It was the moment of truth. He had gone in over the horn, as the bullfighters say.
Kathy had seen none of this, of course. She just lay there with her cheek on her folded forearms, her feet toward Mr. Kline, waiting for him to return for further taunting. But Mr. Kline was now looking at the little tramp in a new light. His eyes now bored into the secret recesses of her body without fear. His hands still shook, it is true-not from fear, though, but from hunger.
He noticed that Kathy was gradually, subtly, spreading her legs further and further apart. The entire fuzzy slit in her crotch was now exposed. The lace-fringed panties only made it more enticing; they were like a setting for a precious jewel. Mr. Kline could almost feel it on his fingertips, taste it on his tongue! At first her slit met the crack of her rump in a single unbroken line, but as her thighs opened wider he could make out her anus (Oh! delicate pore) and the hairless fold of flesh where her honeylips began. She had allowed, or caused, one strap of her jumper to slip from her shoulder, showing the thin black line of her bra strap- Ah! but he was getting carried away. The formula! Was it working? He held his hands up before his eyes. He stared at them...
They looked the same.
He wiggled his fingers.
Normal.
"Shit!" He must have said it aloud.
"What did you say, Mr. Kline?" asked Kathy, looking back at him over her bare shoulder, grinning mischievously.
"N-nothing," he replied, all his old timidity and self-consciousness returning, magnified by this most recent in a long line of failures, "I-Ill be right there."
Plunged in despair, Mr. Kline returned to the girl and as rapidly and as steadily as possible treated her "wound"-or rather, made a pretense of treating it. The feel of her hot flesh on his hands was like a prolonged electric shock, painful and nerve-racking, but somehow he retained his composure.
"There. Now you must leave, Kathy."
"Yes, but what about that blood on my panties?"
"Kathy! I must insist that you cover yourself! Have you no modesty whatsoever?"
"Why, Mr. Kline, don't tell me an old man like you- Oh!" She sat up and put her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that you-"
"That's all right, Kathy. Just pull up your- Pull down your- Just leave, young lady! Right now!"
"All right, Mr. Kline. Gosh, don't get mad, for Pete's sake." She hopped off the table, but instead of smoothing down her skirt, she hoisted it all the way up to her waist!
"But I can't stand to wear bloody pants. I'm going to take them off."
Mr. Kline looked on in horror as she pulled down her panties-giving him a brief but head-on and unblemished view of her auburn-haired vulva before her skirt covered it (barely!)-and stepped out of them.
Again Mr. Kline was speechless.
"Hold these for a minute, please, Mr. Kline," she said, handing him the tiny garment, "I have to fix my hair."
At that moment there was a commotion in the hall.
A deep voice said, "All right, what are you kids doing up here?"
Several voices-some girls', some boys'-answered together; apparently they were just outside Mr. Kline's door. "We were just getting a drink of water, Mr. Jaway!"
Jaway! The name made Emmet Kline's blood run cold!
"Get your water downstairs. And if I catch you up here again," etc., etc. There was a shuffle of feet as the students retreated down the hall, and the next moment Jaway burst into the lab like the dried-out bull hippo he was.
Kathy was just pulling up the shoulder strap of her jumper as he came in.
Mr. Kline, panic stricken, was standing there like a figure carved from ice, the panties still dangling from his hand.
Mr. Jaway was the principal. Behind him, peering over his shoulder, was Mr. Clagheart, the football coach. Behind him was Mrs. Pierce, the dean of girls. None of them said a word. There was a painful hush-painful to Mr. Kline, at least.
Finally, Mr. Kline remembered the panties and stuffed them awkwardly into his pocket. Only then, as though he had been waiting for the garment to be removed from his sight, did Mr. Jaway clear his throat and speak.
"Miss Ryan, I'll see you in my office Monday morning at nine o'clock sharp. You may go."
Kathy ducked out the door, and Jaway didn't speak again until her footfalls had faded away down the stairwell.
"And I'll see you at eight, Mr. Kline."
Mr. Kline tried to chuckle but failed. He said, "Of course I can explain-" But they were gone. He heard them muttering as they descended the stairs. Mr. Kline felt sick. I have been tried and condemned, he thought, all that remains is the sentencing.
Further on, Mr. Kline will afford an explanation of the preceding events. At this time he chooses only to say that, after pouring the remainder of his unsuccessful formula down the drain, he turned out the lights, locked up the lab and left the school.
CHAPTER TWO - MR. KLINE'S MAGNIFICENT HARD-ON
Mr. Kline went straight home. He lived alone in a small but adequate apartment- But why say that now? For years he described it that way; when people asked about his dwelling, he would say, "I have a room at Smith Apartments; it's small but quite adequate." This was a lie. Now that the world is his apartment, and he is alone only when he chooses to be, he can tell the truth: "I lived in a rat's hole!"
Into this rat's hole, then, limped Mr. Kline that night, weary, defeated, miserable, depressed, sick at heart and groin-sore. It does not seem to him that he slept at all that light, but no doubt he dozed off now and again.
At dawn he found he had an erection. "That's odd," he said to himself, for he remembered having (he admits it) masturbated before going to bed. Perhaps it was a urinary erection. He arose and emptied his bladder, but the erection persisted. "Singular," he said to himself.
This erection rather pleased Mr. Kline. Also, it was Saturday, and that pleased him, too, because on Saturdays he always went over to the beach and watched the girls. These things helped him get his mind off the ordeal awaiting him Monday morning. Eight o'clock sharp. Brr! He trembled at the thought of it. If he didn't lose his job, which he probably would, he would certainly be forced to discontinue, his night work on the formula- The formula!
Of course! The injection must have caused the erection! At the time this thought struck him, Mr. Kline was sitting in the greasy little cafe on the ground floor of Smith Apartments eating a greasy egg and a greasy stick of bacon, washing it down with a cup of greasy coffee to kill the taste. He looked around to see if anyone, was watching, then slipped one hand under the table and felt between his legs...
"How about that!" he said to himself, delighted.
"What say, Emmet? More coffee?" (For he must have said it aloud.) "No, no, Sam, I'm fine, just fine."
The erection was still there.
Mr. Kline, parked his old car in the shady lane a mile or so north of the Rodriguez public beach. This lane winds through the underbrush along the landward side of the beach ridge and is hidden from the highway by the dense Australian pines. Mr. Kline liked this place because here one could watch without being seen, thus approximating (very inadequately, it is true) the hoped-for effect of his long-sought formula. Perhaps it was here, or in a place like this, where he had first conceived the idea. It seems to him, however, that the dream had been with him since the earliest stages of his unsuccessful puberty.
He got out of his car, tucked his beach blanket under his arm, hung his binoculars around his neck, and climbed the path through the palmettos to the top of the ridge. Along the top of the ridge was another path, or rather a tunnel, by which one could reach several small openings in the vegetation facing the ocean. From these obscure holes one could command a panoramic view of the beach with little chance of being observed by those below. Such are the places, though varying no doubt in details according to circumstances, to which small rat-faced men of little income must relegate themselves the world over. Here they dream of sudden changes in fortune, of being attacked by wandering nymphomaniacs, of what they would like to have done when Miss So-and-so bent over the other day and showed off her belly button, or when Miss Thus-and-such crossed her legs in class to display a new pair of net panties sans crotch linings, of windfalls, and of formulas.
Today Mr. Kline chose the third of these "crow's nests," one that opened out at the base of a tall Australian pine, affording the voyeur (for that is what he was, why not admit it?) both shade and a backrest.
He scanned the sand. No one in sight. It was early yet; soon they would be arriving. Some would stroll up from the public beach to find a more secluded spot; some would come from the high-rise apartments to the north; others would park in the woods behind the ridge as he had, and he would hear them talking arid laughing as they came up the path a hundred yards to his left and descended to the beach.
Mr. Kline removed his clothes, as was his custom on these Saturday outings, hung them over a low limb, spread his blanket, and sat down on it. Beside him was a large root extending outward over the slope of the bluff and forming a sort of armrest for whoever sat there. Beneath this root and extending into a rotted portion of the tree trunk was an eroded hollow in the sand, half full of pine needles. Mr. Kline had previously covered the mouth of this hollow with palmetto fans to protect it from the rain. Why? Because he had a cache there.
He now uncovered the hollow, put his hand in, and came out with a plastic bag. From the bag he drew a book and placed it on the blanket beside him. He spread his legs and examined his member. It stood straight up, stiff as a board. In the almost horizontal rays of the morning sun it cast a long shadow upon his bony thorax, reaching all the way to his breastbone.
"Extraordinary," he said to himself.
Had it grown larger? Or was he imagining it?
He wrapped his fingers around it and opened the book at random with the other hand. He read:... John now had his face close between Joanne's lush open thighs, blowing gently on her flower-studded cunt, drying the damp curls with his hot breath. He was on his knees beside her, so that his twitching prick kept nudging her shoulder, and when John lowered his lips to her slit and kissed it tenderly, she turned her head, almost automatically, it seemed, and kissed the leaking cock-head.
Sue lifted her face from Nancy's crotch to watch the unfolding of this topsy-turvy sex-play. John heard Nancy say, "Haven't you ever seen a sixty-nine before? Come on." But he didn't see what we saw, because as soon as he swung his leg over Joanne's face and plunged his tongue deep into her hotbox and felt his dick sucked into her passionate mouth, the other two cuties assumed the same pose. I got the feeling this was not the blonde's first time with another girl, the way she helped the heavier girl to mount her face and position her twat. First time or not, she was not in the least hesitant about opening Sue's hairy slot and giving it a nice sloppy French kiss...
And then John's cum started spurting into her mouth as his pleasure-twisted face Wallowed helplessly in her marshy crotch. She could not begin to take it all; it filled her mouth and dripped heavily from her lips. I think she swallowed some of it, but not enough. It kept coming, burst after burst, filling and refilling her cheeks, until she gasped and sputtered for breath, trying to push him away-but not really trying, it seemed. She lay there as if she were dying, head lolling from side to side, cum flooding over her cheeks and into her eyes and running out her nostrils in thick runlets. Her mouth was wide open now, and John's cock was immersed in his own cum, and with every new burst it would overflow her gaping lips in thick gooey waves that gushed over her cheeks and poured onto the blanket until her hair was full of it and her neck and shoulders were slick...
Mr. Kline's seminal volleys arched out over the palmettos, whirling and flashing like giant amoebas and describing the most magnificent trajectory he could ever remember having launched. When the emission had ceased, he dried his penis on a corner of the blanket and settled back against the tree, strangely relaxed, at a temporary truce with the world.
Ordinarily, Mr. Kline would not have "wasted" an orgasm this early, for fear of taking the edge off his pleasure when the girls came. But this morning-what with that fantastically persistent erection and a certain undefinable sensuality in the air, like erotic vapors rising from the sea-he did not choose to wait.
He lay for some time in this relaxed posture, legs spread, arm draped over the root. With his head back against the tree he could see neither the condominiums to the north nor the cabanas of the public beach to the south. There was not a ship on the sea nor an airplane in the sky. He thought, It is as though I have slipped into another dimension, beyond the vision of humanity. If only I could somehow preserve this bubble of emptiness, draw it in around me like a cloak, and go forth into the forbidden chambers of the world, unseen and invulnerable; into all those strongholds of femininity: baths, bedrooms, solariums, nunneries, ah! I would come like a cloud of ions, a magnetic storm, a whirlwind of gamma quanta, a vortex of ether unleashed beneath the skirt of whatever woman I chose!-at once substantial and imperceptible, sensual and incorporeal, solid and phantomic! I will proceed with the formula-!
The formula.
Mr. Kline lowered his eyes from the empty horizon to his genitals.
"By God, it's hard again!" he exclaimed aloud.
Again, or still? He could not be sure. Whichever it might be, it was for Mr. Kline's phallus (never an impressive one, he admits) "a completely unprecedented achievement. Moreover, it seemed larger than ever, both in girth and length. "Who would have thought the formula would have this effect?" he marveled, cursing himself at the same time for having poured it out.
"But perhaps the effect is permanent, who knows?"
The thought that followed, however, somewhat dampened his spirits: Bah! What good will it do me? When one is small and rat-faced, though his yard hangeth to his knees, it will avail him nothing.
He sighed, and felt himself slipping into depression, but all at once he heard something which snapped him out of it.
Voices on the path to his left.
CHAPTER THREE - THE GIRLS OF PUBIC BEACH
A girl and a boy. They both looked about eighteen or nineteen; both had skin bronzed by the sun; both had shoulder-length blonde hair-the boy's sandy colored, the girl's white-gold, and both wore bikinis. Here the similarity stopped, for a boy is a boy, and a girl is a girl.
The boy was tall and well-built. He had the lithe, muscular body of a panther, and apparently he enjoyed showing it off, for his suit was little better than a jock strap. Mr. Kline hated him on sight. He hated him for his youth, for his health, for his good looks, for his hair, his hearty laugh, his ease and boldness with the girl; for Mr. Kline had none of these.
Mr. Kline hated the girl, too, but only because he could not have her, only because he would not have had the nerve to approach her even had she been alone, only because he had never received anything but scornful taunts and lascivious teasing from such girls, only because he had to be content with viewing her from a distance, never to touch that honey-soft skin, that gold-and-silver hair, those swelling breasts, that bulging mound, those half-bare buttocks, that shadowy navel, those golden legs, that flickering tongue, those full lips... No longer, however, the Marauder who was Mr. Kline cannot help reminding the reader, are these delights denied him. Quite the contrary!
The girl, to return, was slim but full busted, and this full bust was very inadequately contained in the tiny black top of her bikini. It had straps, but they were untied and hung down before her, swinging from side to side as she walked. The upper corners of the little triangles, which were designed to cover smaller breasts than hers, were folded over by the weight of the straps to within a hair's breadth of her nipples, and the flimsy thing was held in place by a single thin black string which tied in a bow at the middle of her sleek back. In front (O, enchanted valley of flesh!) her breasts almost, but not quite, came together, their steep inner slopes springing separately and abruptly from the golden horizon of her chest, displaying their wonderful volume and impressive firmness at the same time, and their side swells rose plump and defiant out of her mouthwatering armpits. The lower piece of the suit gave her entire subtly rounded belly to the sun, as well as the upper slope of her mound which was connected to her navel by an line of silver down, thin at the top, wider below giving promise of a dense growth further down. It was only an inch wide at the hips, this garment, and in back it cut across the lower extremity of the vee-shaped hollow formed by the outward swell of her buttocks and hinting at a strong tight crack which was just visible when she bent over. This hollow vee was filled with platinum down, each tiny hair pointing downward into that alluring cavity into which Mr. Kline now inserted the forefinger of his mind.
They spread their blanket on the sand, halfway between the surf and the vegetation line, almost directly ahead of Mr. Kline's spiny peep-hole high on the brow of the ridge. They were, to be sure, some two hundred feet distant, but Mr. Kline's binoculars, for which he had paid dearly, brought them within arm's reach. No detail escaped him. If there were two organs in Mr. Kline's body of which he could not complain and which served him always with unflagging dependability and precision, one was his right eye and the other was his left.
The girl laughed, kissed the boy on the cheek, stretched her arms, shook her hair in the breeze, stood up, looked around, reached behind her with one hand, pulled on one of the loose ends of the bow at the center of her back, and dropped her bra into the boy's lap. Mr. Kline's elbows rattled against his kneecaps. He struggled to steady the binoculars. The girl ran down to the water's edge and back again, the picture of animal grace and agility. Her white teeth flashed in the sun and her full, round breasts leapt and bounded like wild animals, suddenly freed from their cages. The aureoles of her nipples were about the size of quarters and were only slightly darker than the rest of her bosom-which in color was a clean, even, unbroken, unblemished sweep of gold-but the knobs at the centers were mahogany brown, like little nuts.
When she trotted back to the blanket and stopped before the boy like a frisky deer, he held the little bra up to his bronzed chest and struck an effeminate pose. The girl threw her head back and laughed, and while she was laughing, her companion reached up (he was sitting cross-legged on the blanket), hooked his fingers into the front of her bikini bottom and jerked it down.
Mr. Kline had a brief but vivid view of her maidenbush before she slapped the boy's hand away and pulled up the suit. God! she was even shaggier down there than he had expected. If there was anything Mr. Kline delighted in it was a shaggy mound! A hairy crotch! A woolly wound!
The boy pulled her suit off again, and again he got his hand slapped. These slaps were playful and accompanied by giggles. Mr. Kline heard the girl say "Naughty!" The boy answered with a sentence containing the word "bashful." Then the breeze picked up and carried the words up the slope.
"I am not," said the girl, "It's just that I know about all those old men that sit up in that co-op with binoculars."
"Fuck the old men!" was the reply.
"And there's a cop there, too."
"Fuck the cop!"
He said more, but the updraft had subsided and Mr. Kline heard only the last word, which was "shit!" and then the boy fell back on the blanket and covered his eyes with his forearms, as though going to sleep in disgust. Mr. Kline hated him more than ever. Such composure in the face of such raw beauty!
The girl tossed her head, pouted, folded her arms over her naked breasts, and turned her back on him. After gazing out to sea for several minutes, she looked down at the boy again. He lay as before. She faced him, put her hands on her sleek bare hips, looked up and down the beach again, hesitated, hooked her thumbs in her bikini bottoms, pulled them down, and stepped out of them.
"There!" she said, standing at the edge of the blanket, facing him, feet well apart, one hip cocked.
The boy rolled over on his side and propped his head up on his hand, looking up at her. "That's better," Mr. Kline thought the boy said, and there was more said but Mr. Kline missed it because of the blood rushing in his ears as his penis erupted without warning in a stream of gelatinous projectiles which (it seemed to Mr. Kline) rattled like a hailstorm into the dry palmettos at the top of the bluff.
This was indeed a surprise! True, he had been manipulating himself after a fashion, but purely in a preliminary way. As near as he could tell, one look at the tangle of pale gold surmounting that solid, high-arched hump, glowing against the bronze ground of her belly and thighs-for she was evenly tanned from head to toe-was what had done it.
He ducked fearfully behind his shield of foliage and squirted the rest of his semen onto the sand. Still panting and dripping, Mr. Kline raised up and peered cautiously through his slot, ready to run for it if need be.
But he was safe. Apparently they had not heard the rain of sperm.
Expecting the usual depression to set in-the horrible feeling of shame and guilt that always came over him after an orgasm, that grotesque sensation of emptiness where desire had been-Mr. Kline fell back on his blanket and stared up at the sky.
How long did he lay thus? He cannot say. He only knows that all at once he realized that the emptiness was not there; that the cavity where it should have been was filled to the brim with visions of nut-nippled teats and golden-haired vulvas!
He looked down at his member.
Stiff as a post!
Now this was something. The reader should be told that the state of listless suspension described above occupied (possibly because of a hormone deficiency) some eighty percent of Mr. Kline's waking hours, and that for Mr. Kline erotic stimulation was (and is) what food and drink are for others. From these two facts it follows that except for a scant one-fifth of his life up until this time, Mr. Kline, through no fault of his own, had suffered from chronic malnutrition. Was this deplorable condition now at an end? Could he now enjoy pleasure after pleasure, ejaculation after ejaculation, remain constantly at the flood, an eternal spring tide of the endocrine and exocrine, was he to live henceforth in a state of perpetual arousal?
(The answer to these questions which raced through Mr. Kline's brain like the wind was yes, though he did not know it yet of course.) Still and all, he mused, settling back against the tree, even if I have inadvertently rejuvenated myself to that extent, which is not likely, and even if my penis is able somehow to retain its present proportions, which is doubtful, I am no less small and no less rat faced than before. True, I may have stumbled upon a fantastic elixir, which in the hands of a man less gargoylish than myself would mean a great deal indeed, but the long-sought success of the formula, the true Magnum Opus, the triumph over light itself, still lies as far beyond my reach as the golden streets of Eldorado or the harem chambers of Solomon.
Thus he reflected until the sound of distant laughter brought him to attention.
Peering once more through his leafy window, he saw a second couple approaching from the south, splashing in the upwash of the surf. Several hundred yards behind them came two others, both girls About a quarter of a mile to the north a single masculine figure plunged into a blue-green roller.
"Aha!" he said to himself, "They're starting to gather."
Then he looked down at the first couple.
He caught his breath.
They were both naked, sitting with their backs to Mr. Kline, gazing out to sea, smoking cigarettes. The girl had her head on the boy's shoulder. They seemed unconcerned with each other's nudity. This irritated Mr. Kline. It also irritated him that he could see only their backs and buttocks. "If only I had the formula," he thought, "then I could see them from whatever angle I chose, and from as close as I chose; I could even touch, feel, taste, with perfect immunity!"
The next time the second couple laughed, the two nudes looked down the beach and saw them. Would they get dressed now that people were arriving? No. They seemed unconcerned. They smoked, they talked, they hugged their knees, they laughed, they seemed a part of the sea and the sky, they flaunted their health and beauty in the face of Mr. Kline and hid their frontsides from his view.
But when the second couple ascended the beach less than a hundred yards away and spread their towels above the high water line, the naked boy flipped his cigarette over his shoulder, shook his tawny mane over his ears, and lay back on the blanket, hands folded behind his head. The girl-to Mr. Kline's delight!-followed suit, legs well spread, crotch bared to the breeze, her left ankle crossed over the boy's right. The thick soft fluttering mass of sunbleached curls glinted and sparkled upon her arched mound, and her stiff little brown nipples pointed straight at the zenith. But in spite of that luscious morsel, those delectable tidbits, bared to the world, lying spread out before him, a feast at his fingertips, the boy did not even have a full erection, and this annoyed Mr. Kline. His member (the boy's) hung out over his sandy-haired testicles in a half-limp arc, dry as a bone.
Mr. Kline's, on the other hand, was as stiff and fat as a cucumber and oozing like the sea slug a student had brought to class that week. It oozed even more when he swung his binoculars onto the second couple.
They were looking at the first couple.
Mr. Kline liked that. Just as he liked to see those things which society denied one the right to see, he also liked to see other people seeing them, especially if those fellow viewers happened to be easily shocked females, and if they were in the company of males, so much the better. Does the reader follow the writer? He hopes so, for the formula the latter so tenaciously sought would have given him the power to produce these conditions at will, whenever and wherever he chose. But enough of this formula, for it obsesses him no longer. (By "him" the writer means the Phantom, the grateful possessor of that which no formula, however successful, could ever have given him.) These other two were also a handsome couple. As the first two were both blondes, these were both brunettes-the girl having long wavy auburn hair, the boy s being short and black. They were a little older, Mr. Kline thought, and though the boy had a good tan, the girl was pale by comparison to the naked blonde. Her plump breasts and broad hips were stuffed into a bright yellow bikini. Her soft-looking, deep-naveled, nicely rounded belly was the sort which invites, nay, begs one's face to bury itself therein; and her large breasts, slightly flattened and squeezed together by the yellow bra, had a deep crease between them which inspired a similar desire. But, alas, the realization of these wishes was denied the rat-faced man.
Her companion wore trunks.
After several dozen side glances and several prolonged stares at the two nudes a stone's throw away, they sat down on their towels, and the girl removed the bra straps from her shoulders. Again Mr. Kline was getting the back view. Come on, he urged, take it off! But she didn't. Bah! thought Mr. Kline, raising his glasses to the two girls who were rapidly approaching.
These girls looked younger than the blonde-fifteen or sixteen, he guessed by their faces, though their bodies were well developed. One had red hair, the other black. They were not wearing bathing suits: the redhead wore a minidress, the brunette a long-tailed shirt and jeans. As Mr. Kline watched, one of them nudged the other and nodded toward the second couple, of whom they had just come abreast. Mr. Kline rapidly swung his binoculars and focused in on the object of the girls' stares.
"Aha!" he exclaimed, "That's better."
For the black-haired boy was now lying between his girl friend's open legs, passionately kissing the upper swells of her milk-white breasts. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her face buried in his hair. Then Mr. Kline saw the young man's hand go to the girl's crotch, and, though he could not see the hand, he had a good idea what it was doing, because the girl's head suddenly dropped back on the towel and her knees rose up off the ground, spreading wider than ever. Her mouth was open and her lips were wet. Her hands slid down the boy's back and into his trunks.
Mr. Kline checked to see if the two girls were still watching. They were. Very intently. One of them rolled her eyes in a dreamy expression, and the other one giggled. When he saw the lips of the redhead form the words, "Oh, God," he looked back at the couple. The boy had now torn the yellow bra from those lush breasts-which were as plump as two fat white geese and had bright pink buttonlike nipples-and was actually dry humping her, his buttocks thrusting fiercely, his lips clamped on a nipple, her hands still in his suit!
While this went on, the girls strolled on up the beach and spotted the other couple. The view must have been spectacular, for their legs were still spread toward the ocean and the girls were looking right up their hairy forks! What made it even better, the boy's penis had straightened out and lengthened considerably since Mr. Kline had last looked at it. What had brought this about he could not say, but he considered it a good sign, a portent, as it were, and he was not deceived.
For at that moment the boy turned his head and placed the flat of his hand on the girl's tummy, the tips of his fingers just brushing the upper curls of her nest, and she turned her face to his and smiled, and then he smiled, and his hand slid further down, cupping her hump, and the young girls down by the water put their fingers over their lips and their bubbling giggles mingled with the hiss and bubble of the morning surf, and the man who had been swimming up by the condominiums was coming this way, and the brunette in the yellow bikini had pushed the waistband of her boy friend's trunks down off his buttocks which were hairy and white, and the blonde girl rolled toward the blonde boy and fastened her lips to his, pinning his hand between her fuzzy mound and his muscular thigh and wrapping her legs about his, and the two girls moved up the beach to a low dune about two hundred feet north of the blonde couple, and behind this dune, which partially hid them from the sea but from nothing else-certainly not from the lovers, nor from Mr. Kline, nor from the man approaching from the north-stripped to their skimpy underwear and lay down on their clothes, face up, and the man left the water's edge and started up the beach on a diagonal course, straight toward them, and then the blonde girl twisted around and mounted the boy, head to foot, her face toward the ocean and her rump toward Mr. Kline, whose gaze bored into the dainty little hole between her spread buttocks, and the boy's fingers parted the snarl of golden fur and his tongue caressed the open slit from top to bottom, and her head began to bob between his open thighs, and Mr. Kline knew that his member was in her mouth and that the two girls and the man who now squatted beside them could see the blonde's lips sliding up and down that bronze shank, and then the brunette stretched out her legs and her lover pulled the bottom piece of her bikini from her ankles, and the little patch of hair below her creamy belly looked like a small blackbird with its wings spread, and she arched her back and guided the boy's eager penis into her slit, and the beach was alive with agitated rhythms, and, in the course of this paragraph alone, Mr. Kline had no less than three orgasms!
Between the rapid discharges Mr. Kline detected only a slight, barely perceptible softening of his member. Each time it seemed larger. Formerly, Mr. Kline, with his fist, could entirely conceal his erect penis from view; now he could not. With the heel of his hand against his pelvis, a good inch of meat extended beyond his thumb. During the first hour at the beach, this inch had doubled; during the second, it had tripled. And the brief interejaculatory phases were completely devoid of guilt, shame or depression.
"By God," he said to himself, "I am certainly getting my money's worth today!"
Mr. Kline returned his attention to the blonde couple just in time to see them reach their climax. The boy's entire mouth was buried inside the shaggy jaws of the girl's vulva, his nose boring into her anus, and her head was bouncing up and down furiously between his legs. Suddenly her body seemed to stiffen, her muscles tighten. Her buttocks ceased their rhythmic rise and fall and began to shudder and vibrate, and Mr. Kline saw the frothy syrup flow from that jerking mouth and flow over the boy's cheeks, drenching his sideburns and entering his ears.
At the same time his shoulders came up off the blanket, and the muscles along his sides rippled and bunched as his hips began to lurch, and the girl's head was thrown backward as though from a hammer blow, and there was a confused splatter of flying semen before she could get her mouth onto the spurting muzzle again, but after that she held on, burst after burst, spasm after spasm, until they were both spent.
Through all this, the fluid was streaming from Mr. Kline's body in copious dollops, and no sooner had it subsided than the girl turned around, resting her cheek on the boy's chest so that Mr. Kline could see the semen oozing from her smiling lips, and he started shooting all over again.
The same thing happened when he trained his binoculars on the two girls and found that they were wrestling playfully with the man and that the redhead's bra had come off, and again when the man and the brunette started playing keep-away with it, the little white garment flying through the air, the squealing redhead running back and forth trying to catch it, her freckled breasts bouncing violently, their little crimson nipples blazing in the sunlight, her red bush bulging inside the crotch of her translucent bikini panties.
In watching this, however. Mr. Kline missed the second couple's climax. By the time he got back to them, they had uncoupled and were lying on their backs, spreadeagled and obviously exhausted. The girl's bare white breasts rose and fell with her panting, and she held her boyfriend's drooping, cream-smeared member loosely in one hand. "Ha!" said Mr. Kline, "The weakling is spent!" and with that, he pumped another load into the palmettos.
He looked back to the left just in time to see the redhead make a flying leap at the man, who barely managed to flip the bra to the other girl before he was tackled around the neck and knocked off his feet. "That's the end of that game," Mr. Kline said to himself. And he was right. The man lay on his back with the girl on top of him. He held her in a bear hug, nuzzling and kissing her freckled bosom. She kicked and squealed and beat on his head with her little fists, but he hung on. Then he said something to the other girl, who, after a good bit of giggling and several glances at the naked lovers to the south, stepped up and tugged the redhead's panties from her kicking legs.
After that, the struggling didn't last long. They rolled over so that the man was on top, the naked girl on the bottom. When the brunette bent over again and pulled off the man's trunks, Mr. Kline ejaculated. When the redhead opened her legs and accepted the man's penis into the flame-haired gates of her body, he (Mr. Kline) did it again.
When the other girl, who was watching, reached back and unhooked her bra, giving her pointed teats a vigorous shaking right in Mr. Kline's face, as it were, he did it yet again.
And again.
And again.
In fact, he had so many emissions that morning that he lost count of them and cannot at this time give a reliable report as to the actual number. But at last, not because he was drained, for he was not, but only because he was winded, Mr. Kline fell back against the tree to catch his breath and rest his eyes for a moment.
CHAPTER FOUR - ZAMA
When he opened his eyes, the sun was gone from the sky and the lovers were gone from the beach. It was twilight.
Strange. He did not remember having slept. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. There was a clammy wetness between his legs, and the blanket was sticky.
"Well, well," he said, rather pleased with himself (he does not mind confessing, for he had had an emission in his sleep, a first for Mr. Kline). (Moreover, this verifies the statement he made a moment ago about his not being drained, lest the hostile reader consider it an idle boast.) The sky, though it was stark white, was the darkest sky Mr. Kline believes he has ever seen. It was featureless from horizon to horizon. Even the sea looked as though its face had been peeled away; it was black and opaque, like a huge sheet of felt, and weirdly motionless except for the ghostly forms of phosphorescent foam slithering along its rim. The beach was a dull greenish shadow.
There was no wind, no dew, no evening chill, and no sound but the faint hiss and rattle of the waves on the shell-strewn shore below. He does not even remember there being any sound of traffic on the highway behind him, which was odd.
He said, "Perhaps a storm is coming up." This was during the hurricane season. "I wish there was. I wish it would come in and blow me away. Whoosh! Then I wouldn't have to see that son of a bitch Jaway Monday morning."
He had said this aloud. He paused and contemplated his words. The term "son of a bitch" was not one he was accustomed to using. He thought it had a nice ring to it. He repeated it and then added to it: "That motherfucking son of a bitch Jaway." He smiled. He raised his middle finger high in the air, held his erect penis in his other hand, looked up at the sky, and cried in a loud voice, "Fuck you, Jaway, you motherfucking son of a bitch of a cocksucker!"
The attentive reader may have noticed (it was the writer's intent that he should have noticed) that Mr. Kline has not heretofore used bad language, that indeed he was shocked to hear one of the mildest off-color words issue from the mouth of a girl student, and that, moreover, in his erotic passages he has deliberately refrained from the "earthier" terms. The reason for this is not that the Phantom does not use such words-for he says whatever he pleases, wherever and whenever he fucking pleases-but rather to convey the timid manner of Mr. Kline's speech and even his thought prior to this moment. Imagine his delight, then, to hear such phrases spout boldly from his lips and ring through the eerie stillness of that strange twilight.
"Suck my ass, Jaway! You fat bastard!
But then the sinking feeling he had been struggling all day to stave off came upon him. "Call him what you will, Emmet," he told himself mournfully, "you will still have to see him Monday morning. He's got you in a vise. You're between that black sea and that white sky, and on Monday morning, eight o'clock sharp, he's going to tighten the screws and crush you like a roach!"
Then he saw a light on the sea, just beyond the surf. It resembled a spotlight being shone upon the surface from beneath. It was moving, apparently, but it was impossible to determine in which direction. Mr. Kline rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he was imagining it, seeing spots. He was, after all, under considerable stress and had probably overexerted himself that morning. When he looked again, the spot was gone.
A lone figure stood at the edge of the sea. A female figure with long silvery hair. Her body, apparently taking on the color of the beach, was a pale dim greenish silhouette against the black ocean.
Aha! thought Mr. Kline, grabbing his binoculars with one hand and his cock with the other, A moonlight bather! Then he thought: "But there is no moon. And where did she come from? I didn't see her approach, though I have been looking at the beach the whole time. Besides, there should be someone with her -a companion, a lover, a girl friend. No one swims alone here at night. It is dangerous."
But as soon as he got her in focus, all such thoughts evaporated. Her beauty flooded his brain, saturated his consciousness, fired his blood. She was facing the land, stark naked, feet well apart, arms at her sides but not touching her body, palms up-a living colossus at the gateway to the sea! The phosphorescent vapors of the upwash writhed about her ankles like smoke, and her perfectly sculptured legs came together in a broad, thick bush of silver flame which licked about her thighs and belly as though fanned from below by some unseen draft out of the earth. Her hips flared out with a kind of heavy lightness, as one might say, at once trim and voluptuous, and her waist resembled the waists of those sensual stone maidens and courtesans which swarm over the walls of the sun temple of Konarak in India, of which Mr. Kline had seen reproductions. And those breasts, those tits, ah!-no words could do them justice. Like her hips, they were massive and sleek at the same time, soft yet obviously self-supporting; their upper swells parted high on her chest in a graceful V, and their undersides were deeply convex, yet they seemed to stand straight out from her body as though carved from moonstone, simultaneously solid and liquid. The greenish shades of her smooth, taut skin rippled and swam as though seen through several feet of clear water, illuminated by a dozen full moons. It was as if the entire ocean had gathered itself together in this one place, coalesced and crystallized its waters into this shining jewel of erotic flesh, leaving only that yawning pit of darkness which fell away beneath the raw white sky behind her.
All at once, Mr. Kline was jolted out of these superheated contemplations. For the first time he had lifted the glasses and trained them on the woman's face. He dropped the binoculars to the sand and shrank back against the tree.
"Good God!" he gasped. "I must run! Back to the car!"
But he could not move. He was rooted to the spot. His heart was in his throat. He shook with panic-and yet, looking back on it, he realizes he did not really want to flee; he was torn between desire and fear; did his desire overwhelm his fear? If so, it was the first time; for Mr. Kline, that rat-faced underdog, had all his life been the very thrall of fear. Yet one piece of evidence for this theory is the fact that, panic-stricken as he was, his prick did not go soft, but rather remained as stiff as his arm, vibrating like a tuning fork.
What had frightened him so?
Eyes.
The one thing in this world which Mr. Kline abhorred above all else was to be seen by others. It was against this, after all, that he had struggled so long. He loathed being seen at any time, as he has indicated, but to be seen while in hiding! to be apprehended-Oh! even now it makes his blood run cold just to think of it. But this is what had happened.
Her eyes were green, glowing like a cat's, and they were staring straight up the barrels of Mr. Kline's binoculars. It was like looking into a keyhole and seeing another eye, only worse. How could she have seen him, nestled as he was in the dark foliage, only his eyes showing above the palmettos, while she, standing in the open, was scarcely visible to him? Mr. Kline did not ask himself this question. She had seen him, that was the plain fact. Terror clutched at his throat.
He did not want to look at the beach again, but he had to; his gaze was drawn to the figure as a flame is drawn to a gas jet, and immediately, she was no longer a dim silhouette against the black pit. She was a pale luminous blue with violet nipples, and her cunt curls glowed like incandescent filaments. It was as though she had ignited somehow, like a neon tube!
And she was approaching. Walking straight up the beach toward Mr. Kline's perch on the ridge. He tore his eyes from this hypnotic apparition and flattened his back against the tree, hardly daring to breathe. It was too late to run now, even if he were able; he would never have been able to gather his clothes in time. Her rate of approach had not seemed hurried; her step was steady and even, the roll of her hips slow and lazy; yet already Mr. Kline heard her footfalls in the dry grass at the foot of the bluff.
A sort of pleasant, heady music filled his head. It seemed to come not from without but from within. It was a waltz, a rag, a chorale, a march, a fugue, a chant. For the first time in his life, Emmet Kline was singing inside. He felt his muscles relax as of their own accord, and the blood rushed hot and full in his veins. The crackling footfalls were ascending the steep slope. He heard the swish and rattle of the palmetto fans being pushed aside and released.
Why, I'm not afraid! he thought with profound amazement.
And then she was looming over him, glowing blue and warm against the white sky. She looked down at him and smiled, her long hair spilling over one smooth bare shoulder like molten moonlight. Her lips parted, and her beautiful even teeth seemed to fluoresce as though under a black light.
"Isn't it a beautiful evening?" she said. Her voice was like a windbell, tinkling in a tropical breeze.
"Yes, it is," said Mr. Kline.
"It is an evening for love."
"Yes."
"It has been so long."
"Yes. So long!"
"My name is Zama. Yours is Emmet, yes?"
"Yes."
"There is a thing I need, Emmet. You can give it to me."
"Oh, Zama! How long I have waited for you!"
These replies did not originate in Mr. Kline's brain, but in his larynx; he heard himself utter them, but he did not premeditate them. It seems to him now as though they were all prerecorded several million years before, timed to be played back that night at the beach.
"Shall we then, Emmet?"
"Yes, Zama! Yes!"
In one voluptuous sliding movement, she was standing astraddle Mr. Kline's hips. Thrusting her shaggy cunt out before her, she ran her slender fingers through the silver curls and parted the lips. Mr. Kline looked up into that glowing hole, and his cock strained at its roots as if it were being drawn upward. Zama bent her knees and spread her thighs, her pelvis rolling up and back in a swiveling spiral as it descended toward the straining member. In a sort of trance he watched those blue fingers slip down her legs and close around his throbbing flesh, guiding it toward that fiery orifice which swooped and soared above his loins like the maw of a bird of prey. The music which had filled Mr. Kline's head now seemed to flow directly from that hairy mouth, bathing his body in a swirling, seething warmth which penetrated the skin, the bones, the glands, the nerves, the mind; it was tangible music, music you could hold in your hand and taste on your tongue. She threw back her head, tossed her wild hair against the sky, shook her fantastic violet-tipped tits, and with a sudden downward whip of her spine, she unhinged her twat and, by God, he was in!
The writer wishes he could describe in detail the fuck that followed, but his memory plays tricks on him. He knows only that he was caught up in a driving, lurching, lunging, grunting, boiling, surging vortex of blue fire; he remembers an initial hiss as from a white-hot iron being plunged into a barrel of oil, and then a sort of electric shock surged through his body, sucking him up into a blinding kaleidoscopic cosmos where entire oceans sputtered and burst like drops of ink and the earth was a tiny white cube which dissolved in the mouth like a sugar lump; and the hub and axle of this universe was Emmet Kline's cock. An immense feeling of power came over him as that seething mass of erotic female energy slid up and down his shaft. The reader is familiar with the expression of having the world in one's hand? Mr. Kline had it shishkabobbed on his pecker.
It is quite true, Mr. Kline being small and rat faced, that this was the first piece of ass he had had in a very long time, and that to say he was an expert in matters pertaining to the sex act would be to stretch the truth. However, in his voyeuristic exploits he had, he believed, seen every conceivable copulatory position which might be employed by a man and a woman-every position, that is, and this is his point, but the one in which he now found himself engaged. Not that he had never seen it done with the woman on top, far from it. Why, just the previous week, after a trying evening at the lab, he had happened to find himself standing in the alley behind Smith Apartments, not far from a lighted window with the shade only partially drawn, so that one could scarcely avoid noticing what was going on inside the room. On a bed were two naked young people, a girl and a boy, just in the process of mounting up-that is to say, the girl was mounting the boy. This took place in the usual way. The girl, her knees planted on either side of the boy's waist, leans forward, elevates her ass a bit, reaches between her legs, dangles her tits in his face, grabs his prick, rubs its head several times up and down her slit, giving particular attention to her clitoris, guides it into the hole and lowers her butt, skewering herself with a sigh of ecstasy. The strokes are then accomplished either by the male jabbing his cock in and out of a more or less, stationary cunt, by the female bouncing up and down on a more or less stationary cock, or, as was the case with the boy and girl observed by Mr. Kline, by a combination of the two, neither the cock nor the cunt remaining stationary. This action results from simple pelvic thrusts on the part of both partners, but the girl must also use her thighs as levers to get the proper up-and-down motion. The girl's trunk, except for a few dramatic backward leans during which she shook her nipples at the ceiling, remained tilted slightly forward of the vertical in order to give the boy's eyes, hands and mouth easy access to her tits; this is usually the case. But when orgasm occurs, it is almost the rule that the female falls forward in a series of spasmic lurches until her bust is flattened against the male's chest, for the abdominal contractions of her release make it difficult for her to maintain her upright attitude. This, then, is the usual way, and it is a method frequently employed by the Phantom, he who writes; but never-never-has he known any woman who could do it in a way even vaguely approaching the way Zama did it that evening over Mr. Kline.
His mind, as he has said, was in a spin, but this is the way he remembers it: When Zama guided his enlarged cock into the flaming furnace of her cunt, she had not settled to her knees as described above. She was still on her feet, squatting, as in the lower position of that callisthenic exercise called deep-knee-bends. Anyone familiar with this form of torture-as was Mr. Kline, who had once spent two terrifying weeks in the armed forces-will appreciate the feat which this lovely creature accomplished, and she accomplished it with all the apparent ease of one doing isometric finger exercises!
To be more specific, Zama was in direct contact with the ground, or with Mr. Kline's blanket actually, at only two points-namely, the balls of her feet, and indirectly, through Mr. Kline, who was supine of course, at only one, viz., his cock. It will be appreciated, the writer hopes, that one's balance in such a position would be rather precarious and difficult to maintain for any duration-especially since this tripodal base of support did not describe a triangle, but a straight line; that is, if one wished to draw a line of minimum length across Mr. Kline's body from the ball of Zama's right foot to that of her left, he would find that the line of necessity must run up one side of Mr. Kline's cock and down the other; yet not only did Zama keep her balance in this precarious squat, but simultaneously did a number of other things calculated to drive Mr. Kline out of his rat-faced mind!
Her entire body rose and fell with the violence of a cork upon a storm-tossed sea, buoyant, light as a feather and yet with the power of a pile-driver, her wild hair flying about her head like the corona of an exploding sun, full of flares and magnetic storms, the great blue spheres of her tits leaping and plunging like wild horses, streams of incandescent milk streaming from the violet nipples, bathing Mr. Kline's face and body, flooding his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth, his throat, turning his blood to boiling mercury! He put his hands up to those discharging globes, pressed his palms against the bounding nipples and tried to hold on; it was like trying to hold an electric eel; the white hot milk surged against his palms with the force of a fire hose and squirted out between his grasping fingers in great white liquid sunbursts which almost blinded him with their brilliance! Mr. Kline saw and felt his own pelvis plunging and bucking with a fury of which he had never dreamed himself capable, watched his own cock driving in and out of the hair and fire of that seething wound between those blazing thighs-it was as though he were watching someone else's pelvis, someone else's cock and not his own. Such energy! he might have thought, such exertion! Why, I am not capable of it! How is this possible? This is what he might have thought, I say, were his brains not being fucked out, which they were.
How long this continued, he cannot truthfully say; time itself seemed to have come unhinged. He knows only that all at once he felt himself in the throes of an orgasm so powerful, so enduring, so wonderful that it defies his feeble command of the written word. He felt that his very substance was escaping through his urethra-his blood his flesh, his viscera, the very marrow of his bones, the bones themselves, everything, even the spark of life, draining away into that stormy blue sea of a woman who seemed determined to pump him dry before she was done. He was like a man caught in a maelstrom from which there is no escape. What awaited him? Certain death in the black pit where the ocean once rolled.
Did he hesitate then, hold back, cling to life? No. What had he to cling to? Monday morning, a greasy egg, a dingy room, an open window, a pair of binoculars; that was all. After a fuck from Zama, even the most fortunate of men, let alone the small rat-faced ones, would gladly die and die happily. He matched her, lunge for jab and squirt for squeeze.
He was still spurting, though reduced to little more than a wineskin, limp and nearly empty, when she began to come.
The reader has been reminded of the normal female's reaction during her climax when she is in the upper position. Zama was no normal female. She did not hunch forward like the girl inside the window, but remained upright, her bouncing squats becoming even more violent than ever, and the thin radiant jets of milk shooting out of her nipples flew and splattered around the leafy cell with double their original pressure until the foliage was all aglow and dripping. Her orgasmic spasms rushed down her body like a swarm of demons sliding down a pole, and something like magma, like living lava, began to pour from her lurching cunt and flow over Mr. Kline's straining loins in hot smoking waves that singed his skin and sent electric thrills up his spine, and he has one last recollection of that shining goddess, that naked amazon, coming down on him out of the sky, her arms high over her head, her hair a blaze of living light, her heavy bursts of breath igniting like fireballs, her face framed between those massive out-thrust tits-and then there was a vast soundless detonation in his brain and everything went black.
Mr. Kline opened his eyes to find himself not up on the ridge, but down on the beach. The stars were out. He could hear the waves swishing and bubbling peacefully along the shore. A small airplane was passing silently through Hercules, its red and green lights flashing merrily. Mr. Kline sat up.
"Well! You are awake." It was Zama.
"I was afraid you would be gone," said Mr. Kline.
"I must go soon. You have very pleasant nights here."
Mr. Kline almost said thank you. He wondered why. He was still in a kind of trance. His body felt utterly relaxed, and his head was clear; yet his mind was apparently not quite back on the track.
Zama reclined beside him on the blanket, propped up on one elbow. She no longer glowed. In the starlight she looked like a dark-skinned blonde. Her platinum hair shone only by what light it could reflect from the brightly lit windows of the condominiums up the beach. Nevertheless, her pale white-gold bush gleamed vividly against the dark skin of her thighs and belly, and her large nipples stood out black and prominent at the summits of her naked breasts. Mr. Kline put out his hand and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. He thought: How at ease I am with her!
He said: "Did it really happen, Zama?"
"Yes, Emmet, it really happened.' "I don't want you to go, Zama. I want you to stay with me, always. If you go back," he wondered at the word back even as he uttered it, "things will be the same as before."
Zama smiled. It was like the moon breaking through a cloud.
"I can give you anything, Emmet, anything but that."
"I see." And he did; somehow he understood. He remembers he understood, but he does not remember what he understood.
"What you gave me, Emmet, I needed very badly. I would have died without it. I feel there is a thing you want very badly, Emmet, one thing you desire above everything else. What is it?"
Mr. Kline hesitated. He had never told anyone before.
"Will you promise not to laugh at me?"
"Laugh at you? I do not understand."
"Never mind. I'll tell you. What I want... " Mr. Kline looked up at the sky as he said it. "What I've always wanted, as far back as I can remember, is to... to be invisible."
He kept his eyes on the stars. He is not sure whether he said that last phrase rather loudly or whether he whispered it. But that he had said it emphatically, of that he is certain. He waited-a full minute perhaps-for the laugh, the snicker, the "pardon me?" or whatever. He heard nothing.
When he lowered his gaze, he saw that Zama was now sitting up on the blanket, one closed hand extended toward him, wrist up. Her fingers opened. In her open palm lay a small object. It glittered in the starlight.
Mr. Kline peered at it.
Then he reached for it.
"Wait!"
Mr. Kline froze.
"Be certain. It will make your wish a reality, but it will do more. Brought in contact with the living tissue of a conscious entity, its influence will temporarily harmonize the will of that entity with yours. During the period of influence, you need only suggest what you would have done; the affected entity will carry it out willingly. But there is a price, one which few in my own time are willing to pay."
"Price."
"Yes. Once in place, the instrument must of necessity make certain metabolic links with the host, connections which cannot thereafter be broken until the host's death. I only want you to understand, Emmet, that once invisible, you must remain invisible."
Mr. Kline said nothing. His hand was still poised, extended toward Zama's.
"If you want it, take it." Mr. Kline took it.
It was a ring. A plain gold ring. One has seen a hundred exactly like it. Yet he remembers no doubt, no disappointment, no suspicion; neither does he recall any feeling of jubilation. The only thing he can say with certainty about those two or three minutes in which he held the ring in his palm, is that his cock, which, had apparently hung flaccid since its detonation in Zama's firehole, now lifted its head and became erect.
"Which finger?"
His voice was steady and resolute.
"It does not matter," Zama answered.
Mr. Kline put the ring on the middle finger of his right hand. It was a perfect fit. There was a silent flash of white, like heat lightning, accompanied by something vaguely resembling pain. It was all over in less than a second. Mr. Kline looked down at his hand.
He saw nothing.
He looked at his crotch.
He saw only the blanket.
From afar he heard laughter. Wild, joyous, demonic laughter. He thought: So! I am laughing! How long it has been since I have laughed! How strange it sounds!
He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from him. he sprang to his feet, thrust the middle finger of his right hand straight up at the sky, threw back his head and cried in a loud voice- "FUCK YOU, JAWAY! FUCK YOU IN THE ASS, JAWAY!"
He did some more shouting, but he does not remember the words. Then he remembered Zama. He looked down. She was not on the blanket. A kind of panic seized him.
"Zama!"
"Good-bye, Emmet! Thank you!"
He strained his eyes. Zama was a shadowy shape at the edge of the surf. The white foam swirled about her ankles. Her silver mane was a faint luminosity against the black horizon.
"Zama! Wait-" She turned her back on him and walked calmly into the sea. He has never seen her since.
CHAPTER FIVE - A FREE SHOW-RATED TRIPLE X
If you happened to be sitting in your car near the north end of the parking lot at the Rodriguez public beach around ten o'clock that Saturday night, loving up your date, which is most likely, or simply conversing with a friend, enjoying the warm night, looking at the ocean, which is possible, you may have noticed a pretty young woman sitting on the low wall that separates the boardwalk from the beach.. It was no doubt her intention that you should have noticed her, as evidenced by the amount of leg she was displaying, by the sexy poses which she struck from time to time, and by the fact she was sitting in the light of a street lamp. If you had just arrived, you might have taken her for a whore on the job, but if you had been there a while you would have realized that her boyfriend had just gone across the street for a Coke, and that the sexy poses and the pantie show were apparently just her normal manner.
She looked about seventeen or eighteen. She had long brown hair, parted in the middle and flowing down her back. She wore a crocheted dress; it was sleeveless and belted around her hips by a thin black sash with a little gold buckle. A line of black buttons ran up the front from belt to collar, but the top five of these were undone, baring a vee-shaped portion of her bosom from neck to bustline. U you had been close enough, you would have seen, near the bottom of this vee, the little flower of pink cloth at the front of her black lace bra, but you would not have had to be very close to see the tantalizing crease of flesh between her fully developed tits.
Oh, Mr. Kline knew this type well! A prick-teaser if he had ever seen one. Once, in the city park, he had mustered all his courage and actually approached such a girl. He had only wanted a few words with her. For an hour she had flaunted herself at him, bending over to show him her tits, spreading her legs to show him her cunt, making a pretense of feeding the pigeons. What did he get for his courage? "Flake off, creep." That was what he got. And he never forgot it.
The skirt of the crocheted dress was little better than a ruffle below the black belt around her hips; it hit her well above mid-thigh. If you didn't happen to be in a position to see up this skirt, you would have at least been able to see through it, because the entire dress was nothing but a network of holes. Her black net bikini panties, as well as her black bra, shone through in stark definition.
If you had been watching closely, you might have seen her suddenly sit up straight and turn her head toward the south. From your car-say thirty or forty feet away-you probably would not have heard her, but you might have seen her pink-painted lips form the word "What?" These things you might have noticed; what she did next, however, you would almost certainly not have missed, unless you were asleep or humping in the prone position, and even then you would probably have been alerted by exclamations from the occupants of adjacent cars.
If you were there, you will know, but if you weren't it should be told, that this part of the boardwalk that night was well lined with parked cars, occupied for the most part by young couples doing those things which young couples do on Saturday nights after the movie. It was not a place usually chosen for serious lovemaking, being fairly well lighted and lying along a main thoroughfare; the "hard stuff," so to speak, was to be found mostly in the lovers' lanes with which the outskirts of Rodriguez abounds. Here at the public beach petting was the usual activity-with a few exceptions, to be sure. Some of the cars were empty, their occupants having gotten out to stroll along the boardwalk or the beach or to visit the Coke machine across the street. One of these empty cars was an old jalopy with rust spots around the windows. It was parked in a fairly dark corner of the lot, but if you had happened to be looking at it about fifteen or twenty minutes before, you might have scratched your head upon seeing its left front door open and close as if of its own accord. But you would have only shrugged, no doubt, and thought, hmmmm, lying down on the front seat, eh?
But what did this girl do, this prick-teasing wall sitter, to make you break off your diddling to peek out the window, you ask?
Well, first-she had been sitting, it should be explained, at various angles to the boardwalk, looking down the wall or out at the ocean or up at the sky, sometimes lifting one foot to the wall in order to show her ass, or arching her back to show the profile of her tits, and so forth-first, I say, she swung her knees around, squarely facing the parked cars, threw back her shoulders, and spread her thighs, giving you and everyone else a stunning head-on view of her black-netted crotch. Her skirt was too short to even cast a shadow on it. It would have been the wows and the Jesus Christs which would have made you lift your head.
A strange expression of pleasure came over her face, and you would have been shocked and delighted to see her cup her beautiful round tits with her hands and squeeze them lovingly, opening her legs even further. You would have seen the skin of her inner thighs ripple and undulate before your eyes, and you would have seen her mouth open and grow round as though something were being inserted into it, and then you would have seen her tongue come out and roll around and around her lips in a most obscene way. This went on for some time and would have had a sort of hypnotic effect on you and your date, who would of course have been totally unprepared for this unique form of entertainment.
At length it would probably have seemed to you that she tired of this and began to prepare herself for the next round. Her eyes going from one staring face to the other, her lips curled up slightly in a seductive smile on which the lipstick was slightly smeared, she proceeded to complete what had already been started, namely, the unbuttoning of her dress.
A few cries of "Take it off!," in which you could hear overtones of embarrassment, came from the boys, a few pseudo-horrified squeals from the girls, but for the most part a kind of tense hush fell over the onlookers.
She worked slowly, obviously taking great delight in exposing her body in this way, an inch at a time. The dress was open from throat to belly by the time her boyfriend returned with the Cokes.
Everyone looked at him. He had frozen at the edge of the boardwalk, mouth agape. He was about her age, the same age as the students of the chemistry classes who took such pleasure in heckling their instructor. Yes, just about that age. He was good-looking, too-sickeningly so in the eyes of a rat-faced man, of which, however, there were none in sight at this time.
There sat the girl, her legs spread, the dark hairs of her pussy bristling at the edges of her crotch, sticking out through the net here and there, sparkling in the garish light of the street lamp, her dress open down the front, the bright full swells of her breasts rising bare and bold out of the black lace cups of her bra.
And there stood the boy, clutching the Coke bottles, his knuckles white, his eyes bulging, his jaw hanging.
Your gaze would have been darting back and forth from the girl to the boy. "What happens now?" you would have asked yourself, or your date.
Suddenly the boy started moving again. Fast. There was fire in his eye, astonishment, outrage. He said, "Sandra! "-his voice was half a shout, half a whisper-"What in the hell are you-?"
That was as far as he got.
Halfway across the boardwalk he had come to a sudden halt, as though he had struck an obstacle. If you had been in one of the closer cars, you might have heard him say, "Oh!" and then, in a normal tone, "All right."
He walked on across the boardwalk and set the Cokes down on the wall beside Sandra. During what followed, your date would either have become so aroused that you would have had to devise a way to resume your copulation in such a manner that you would both be able to watch the show, or else she would have shit her pants, and you would have had to take her home.
Sandra took a swallow of her coke and then stood up. Her dress was now unbuttoned all the way. Standing behind her-she still faced the audience-the boy opened her dress wide and held it for her while she slipped her arms from the armholes. Together, they pulled it down over the flare of her hips, and he held it while she stepped out. Something was said, which you would not have heard, and the boy tossed the dress over the wall to the beach.
Sandra stretched in the lamplight, her white skin blazing stark and bare against the black of her skimpy underwear. With her arms high overhead and her chest thrust forward, she said, "Unhook me, willya, Teddy?"
Teddy said, "Sure," and unhooked her bra.
Sandra lowered her arms, and the little garment slid to the boardwalk.
"Oh, Jesus," you would have gasped, "look at those tits!"
They were so white! so firm! so naked! You could have seen how aroused she was by the way her little pink nipples were all puffed up and sticking out like tiny fingers, stiff as sticks. You might have noticed these nipples suddenly become moist and slick as she held them up one at a time, as though to be sucked.
Teddy embraced her from behind, his pelvis jerking obscenely against her ass, and after caressing her tits, his hands slid down her smooth white belly and slipped into her panties. You could have seen them moving down into her crotch, scratching in the hair, cupping her little mound, parting her slit; the black net concealed nothing. As he thus probed her cunt, she put her hands to her hips, pulled down the panties and stepped out of them.
She was magnificent! Such beauty! Bared to the public! Ah!
Ted stepped back to admire her naked body. Sandra turned slowly to show him-and you-all angles of her nudity. Her lips were parted, and her tits heaved with passion. Her cunt was jerking, and her ass was twitching.
All at once she turned to the wall and emptied one of the Coke bottles. At the same time you would have heard a girl in one of the cars cry, "Eek!"-possibly because just then Teddy had unzipped his fly, hauled out his cock and begun to stroke it with his hand.
Meanwhile, Sandra spread her legs, bent her knees in a half-squat, and, holding the empty bottle in both hands, inserted its mouth into that wet fuzzy crack between her thighs. When she had about four inches of it into her, she began pumping. She went slow at first, gradually increasing the tempo, going a little deeper with each stroke. Her tits began to bounce furiously, and her head lolled back on her shoulders, mouth open, eyes rolling behind half-closed lids.
Ted stood before her, slightly to the side so that your date could have seen his cock, his knees bent, his body bent forward a bit, jacking off shamelessly. From time to time he would let go to spit into his hand and go at it again, his wide eyes glued to the naked girl fucking herself with the bottle.
Soon Sandra's lurching, jabbing gyrations became so violent that her knees began to tremble. She staggered backwards and would probably have fallen over the wall if Teddy had not jumped to the rescue. He darted around behind her, his red-headed prick flashing in the lamplight, slipped his wrists under her arms, cupped her tits in his hands and lowered her gently to the smooth, sun-bleached planks of the boardwalk.
You would now have had a better view than ever, for you would have been looking right up the hairy barrel! Ted dropped to his knees, and she supported her shoulders on his thighs, his cock brushing her ear. She stretched her legs straight out toward the cars, spread wide, and fucked herself for all she was worth! It wasn't long until the foam began to bubble up around the dilated lips of her cunt, and the cloudy molasses poured copiously into the bottle.
While she pumped away under the leering gaze of her boy friend and the audience, Teddy continued to beat off at full speed with one hand while mauling Sandra's tits with the other.
"It won't be long now," you would have said, "they're going to come any minute now!"
But just when this moment seemed at hand, you would have seen the boy suddenly release his cock, grab the girl firmly by both shoulders and flip her over. The bottle fell out of her cunt and rolled across the boardwalk. There was a violent agitation of her prostrate body, and in what might have seemed to you a powerful spasm of some sort, her knees were gathered beneath her and her ass shot up toward the sky, spread out before your face and the faces of all those present! Ah! how her little asshole puckered, how her luscious cheeks twitched and jiggled, tightened and relaxed, opened and closed! How her furry little pink-lipped hole oozed and leaked and bubbled and foamed! Had the blood not been pounding too loudly in your ears you might have heard a voice say, "Suck it!" and then you would have seen the girl do just that.
With Sandra now on her hands and knees, Teddy assumed her former pose-his ass flat on the planks, legs stretched out on both sides of the girl, shoulders slightly elevated. Lowering her face to his crotch, Sandra slurped his cock into her mouth and began to pump it passionately, little moans of ecstasy coming from her throat, her head bobbing rapidly, her hair flying in the sea breeze! And something-you would not have known what-was whipping her cunt into a sloshing lather!
Teddy's first burst of semen knocked her head off the muzzle; the second shot high into the air; the third squirted up her nose. She paid it no mind, for she was having an orgasm herself, as you would have known from the way her ass was bucking, but you would not have known how or why this was so. Perhaps you would have heard that voice again: "Swallow it, you little slut!"
And immediately-eagerly!-Sandra clamped her lips over the spurting head and started gulping it down. Not a single burst, nor one drop escaped her; she got it all, down to the last wiggler.
One who was present-one who had fucked his way through this entire show and had spent himself during Sandra and Teddy's climax-now withdrew to catch his breath and reflect for a moment. He thought of all those millions of spermatozoa swimming around frantically in the girl's stomach as she lay there, sprawled limp on the boardwalk, drooling on the boy's pants leg. Searching, searching, he mused, searching futilely, as I searched, for that golden egg, or the goose that lays it, gasping, dying, rotting in that acrid bath... These thoughts made him laugh. You might have heard that laugh as it faded away down the boardwalk.
If you had stayed on after this lewd open-air performance to see what happened next, you would have known more than the writer, who did not.
CHAPTER SIX - THE PHANTOM
No doubt the reader has guessed that responsibility for the foregoing incident lies with that individual once known as Mr. Kline, the rat-faced chemistry teacher.
The very incomprehensibility of that spectral female who had called herself Zama-her arrival, her fiery carnality, her gift, her departure-had prevented Emmet Kline from any lengthy pondering. There are some chasms from which the mind instinctively draws back, clinging to the edge for fear of falling into the abyss.
True, there were certain things his mind touched on briefly, like a flat stone skipping across the water. He wondered, for instance, what she meant by the phrase "in my own time," and what he meant by the words "if you go back." He had the vague feeling that, at the time these things were being said, he understood them. Now he understood only that he was actually, at long last, invisible! It was fantastic, but it was true. Perhaps there had been no Zama at all. Perhaps he had dreamed the whole thing and his formula had worked after all. But, at the moment this possibility occurred to him, he noticed a light on the sea, that same glowing disk he had seen just before Zama had appeared on the beach; this time it was moving out to sea. He watched it until it disappeared in the distance.
"No," he decided, "Zama was no hallucination."
To confirm this, he looked at his right hand. He saw nothing of course. "This is going to take some getting used to," he said to himself. With his other hand he felt for his right forefinger. Sure enough, the ring was still there.
"Well," he pondered, "the ring does actually exist. And it has apparently made me invisible. The next question is: Can it really do what Zama said it could?"
You need only suggest what you would have done.
The words rang in his ears.
The affected entity will carry it out willingly.
Willingly, yet! It boggled the mind! "Oh, the entities I would affect!" he exclaimed aloud. The possibilities were staggering. He reached down and felt for his cock. It was pointing straight at the horizon and felt as hard as a piece of ironwood.
Once he tried to take the ring off. A sharp pain gripped his spine. The ring could not be removed. He remembered what Zama had said about the "price," and after a moment he said, "Bah! That suits me just fine, I am satisfied."
And with that, he mounted the ridge, went to his car, and drove straight to the parking lot along the boardwalk, not realizing how strange this must have looked to anyone who had happened to glance into the car as he sped along.
The first thing his eye fell on when he got out was the sexy young thing on the retaining wall. "Now there's an 'entity'," he said to himself, "if I ever saw one!" He looked down at himself closely to make sure he was still invisible. Since the slightest shred of clothing would have given him away, it was necessary from here on out that he remain naked when in the presence of others. This would have made it doubly embarrassing had he suddenly become visible! Hence, he checked himself, saw nothing, and headed for the girl, his erect cock hobbling before him.
He waved his hand back and forth before her eyes. No response. He rubbed his palms together with anticipation, thinking, What shall I have the little bitch do? He got down on his knees beside the wall and looked under her dress. It was a thing he had wanted to do ever since he was a little rat-faced boy in short pants.
Then he stood up, took a deep breath, and touched the ring to her arm.
"Open your legs," he whispered in her ear, "let them see your pussy," and he added boldly, "you little whore!"
The reader already knows that Sandra followed these instructions to the letter. Thrilled with this success, he went further. "Unbutton your dress!" While she was doing this, her unseen master covered her lips with his and thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. When she began to suck it passionately, he knew she was completely in his power. It was a heady, intoxicating feeling!
He did nothing, or very little, which would have betrayed his presence; he wanted it to look as if the girl were doing it all of her own accord.
At first, the approach of her boy friend had scared him; it brought back to him that horrible moment when Jaway had burst into his lab and found him with Kathy Ryan's panties in his hand. Immediately, however, he realized he was safe and sprang into action, stopping the boy with a stiff arm and an open hand against the chest. It was the hand which bore the ring.
"Help her undress!"
The reader knows what followed. He may or may not have guessed, however, while Sandra was sucking Teddy's dick, Emmet the Obscure was throwing it to her from behind, dog style, and giving it everything he had!
Afterward, lost in thought, this winded ghost, this spent shadow, this shadow of a ghost or ghost of a shadow, wandered from the scene he had created, leaving Mr. Kline's jalopy behind, and headed in the general direction of nowhere, thinking, So. The Phantom has made his first strike. He repeated this, if his memory serves him, over and over again as he walked along, trying to sum up in his mind all that had happened to him that day, but finding it utterly impossible.
He must have walked for hours. A little before dawn he began to sing. He remembers that very well.
CHAPTER SEVEN - A MIDNIGHT SNACK
"Oh, man, you should have seen it!" said Mark.
"What?" asked Steve. He had just arrived at the party.
"Kathy tried to put the make on Kline Friday night."
"No shit?" said Steve with a smile of delight.
"I was stoned, Steve," said Kathy, "I didn't know what I was doing."
"Bullshit," said Joan. "She was straight as a judge, Steve."
Kathy giggled. "Well, they dared me to do it."
"Did you actually lay the little bastard?"
"No!"
"But she would have," said Mark, "if it hadn't been for Jaway."
"I would not have!"
"Jaway?" said Steve. "Hey, man, tell me what happened!"
The other four-Mark, Sam, Joan and Kathy, all talking and laughing at the same time-tried to give Steve an account of what had happened. At the dance that night it seemed someone had made a wisecrack about the chemistry teacher-something in reference to how nervous he became around girls, and Kathy had dropped the boastful remark that she could get in his pants if she wanted to. And someone had said, "All right, let's see you do it. He's up in his lab right now, all alone," and someone else had said, "Go ahead, Kathy, I dare you!" So Kathy took the dare, and four of them-Kathy, Joan, Mark and Sam-left the dance and crept upstairs to the lab.
"What did you guys do when he ran out in the hall?" asked Kathy, "I thought sure he'd see you!"
"We ducked behind the lockers," said Sam.
"Just made it, too!" said Mark.
"But Kathy had just taken off her pants when-"
"Oh, yeah?" said Steve, shooting a glance at Kathy s lap, which her miniskirt barely covered. She giggled and pressed her thighs together.
"Yeah," Sam went on, "pulled 'em right off, man! Mm! So fine!"
"Tell the story, Sam," said Joan with a smirk.
"So, anyway, she'd just pulled 'em off, when up the stairs comes Jaway and Clagheart and Mrs. Pierce. Took us completely by surprise, man!"
Jaway, it seems, had decided to make one of his unannounced checks on the Friday night dance, hoping to find some excuse to shut it down. Disappointed in this, he went upstairs, for some reason, with Coach Clagheart and Mrs. Pierce, who were chaperoning the dance. There, he had seen the three students crouched at the partly opened door of the lab, peeking in. Inside the lab he had seen Kathy Ryan, known to him as one of the "easy girls," standing there in a most inappropriate dress, her bra showing, and her panties in Mr. Kline's hand.
"Man, is he gonna give me hell in the morning!" said Kathy, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah," said Sam, "but think of what he's gonna give Kline!"
At this everyone roared with laughter.
Steve snuggled close to Kathy and put his arm around her shoulders, letting his hand drop lightly onto her left tit, the nipple of which protruded boldly through both bra and T-shirt.
He said: "Hey, come on, baby, show me what you did up there."
"I would, honey," Kathy replied, rubbing noses with him, "but my parents should be coming home any minute now."
"Later, then."
"Maybe... "
"Show him now, Kathy," said the Phantom.
"Oh," she said, sitting up straight on the sofa, "all right, then."
"Hey, groovy!" said Sam, "Keep an eye out for her folks, Mark."
"Never mind that, Mark," said the Phantom.
Mark shrugged.
This took place on the large screened-in patio at the back of Kathy's house. On this patio was a large rattan table where the Ryans usually had their meals. The Phantom suggested they use this table for the demonstration.
"Groovy," said Steve, "Let's clear it off."
They removed the clutter of records and pop bottles from the table, and Joan said, "See, Steven, when Mr. Kline saw Kathy standing there in his lab, it fucked up his mind so bad he knocked a whole rack of test tubes on the floor-glass all over the place!"
Everyone laughed, even the Phantom.
"Kathy bent down to clean it up, and-"
"Show them how she did that, Joan," said the Phantom.
"Yeah, show us, Joanny," Steve added.
"Well, she knelt down like this... " Joan was a cute little blonde with tits that had blown up like balloons during that school year. She, too, took chemistry from Mr. Kline. Tonight she was wearing a zebra-striped minidress with a low-cut neckline. It was one of those dresses with the bodice contoured to fit the bust, eliminating the necessity of a bra, so that though a goodly span of upper bosom was on display above Joan's neckline, one could see no more when she bent over than when she stood straight-due to the snug fit. To remedy this, the Phantom reached down and unzipped the back of the dress.
This did the trick.
"Yeah," said Kathy, "that's more like it!"
With the tension thus released, the neckline sagged outward, revealing both of Joan's bare titties, nipples and all, to those standing around her. No one seemed to find it odd that the dress had come unzipped all by itself. Joan went on: "So she's sweeping up the glass, see? And when Mr. Kline turned around to keep from looking down her dress-"
"Well, I wasn't showing him that much, Joan. I did have a bra on!"
"Not much of one, though," said Sam.
"Well, anyway, Steve," Joan continued, "when he turned around, Kathy grabbed one of the needles that had fallen on the floor and jabbed herself in the ass with it."
"A stroke of genius!" said Mark.
"It hurt though," said Kathy, rubbing her butt.
"Then she sat down and told Kline she had fallen and cut herself-"
"Kline was about to shit his pants, man!" laughed Sam. "You should have seen his face when Kathy jerked up her skirt and pulled down her pants. It was too much!"
"That's when we cracked up!" said Joan.
They went on with the disgusting details, during which time the Phantom got down on his knees behind Joan, reached up under her skirt, rolled her panties down below the cheeks of her ass and tickled her crack with his tongue. No one noticed this except Joan, who said nothing about it. When Kathy climbed onto the table, the Phantom kissed Joan's ass good-bye for the time being and stood up. He left her panties at half-mast, however.
"... And while he was gone I pulled my skirt up, like this-"
"And when he got back," said Mark, "she pulled her pants down, like this."
Kathy was wearing sheer pink bikinis tonight; you could see everything she had even before Mark hooked his finger in the low hipband and pulled it down off her buttocks.
Steve, who was standing beside the Phantom at Kathy's feet, said, "Oh, Jesus!"
"And I spread my legs, like this, so he could see my puss."
Her auburn-haired slit was perfectly visible through the taut crotch of the rolled-down panties. (Later the Phantom would go through Kathy's drawers and find that she didn't own a pair of pants that you couldn't see through, the little whore!) The Phantom whispered in Steve's ear: "Go ahead and pull 'em off. Let's have a good look."
Steve leaned forward, gripped the panties at the hips, and drew them down. She closed her legs to facilitate the maneuver, but opened them again as soon as the nylon cleared her ankles. Joan was standing beside Steve; both of them said: "Wow!"
The Phantom whispered, "Go ahead, kids, grab a handful."
Steve and Joan both reached out and lay their hands on Kathy's naked ass, Steve taking the right cheek, Joan the left.
"Oh," sighed Kathy, her buttocks rising up against the caressing hand, "that feels good... " Mark stood on one side of the table, Sam on the other. As if by mutual agreement, they leaned forward and pulled Kathy's T-shirt up to her armpits. She lifted her arms over her head, and the two boys relieved her of the garment. Mark unhooked her little pink bra. Kathy rolled over, and they slid the bra from her arms. Almost feverishly, it seemed, Joan unzipped Kathy's skirt and dragged it off. Kathy now lay spreadeagled on the table, face-up, stark naked, her little pink nipples fat and erect, her curly brown bush bared to the eyes of all. The Phantom ran his fingers through it, and the others watched the hairs move as though they were alive.
Mark and Sam each took a tit in their hands and began sucking the nipple while Kathy writhed in delight. Her left hand groped in Mark's crotch and her right in Sam's. A moment later, their flies sprang open and Kathy had a cock in each hand. When she started stroking them, both boys drooled copiously over her chest and sucked her tits more passionately and noisily than ever.
Meanwhile, Joan and Steve both had their fingers in Kathy's pussy. Their breathing was growing heavier and heavier. If the power of the Phantom had started this, nature was carrying it along; a tremendous crest of young lust and passion was rising rapidly and would soon overflow its banks. The Phantom rode this crest like a skillful surfer. He was everywhere at once-behind Joan, squeezing her tits, fingering her cunt (he had already removed her pants), biting the smooth white cheeks of her ass, hunched over Kathy, sucking her tongue, swabbing out her navel, rubbing her clit-he was a swarm of hands, a flock of tongues!
Suddenly, Joan straightened up and said, in a voice choked with sexual hunger, "Oh, fuck it! Let's get undressed!"
The three boys grunted in approval, and everybody stripped to the skin. If it had been a race, Joan would have won by a lap, since her underwear was already gone and her dress already unzipped, thanks to the Phantom.
As soon as Joan's dress hit the floor, the Phantom grabbed her from behind, cupping her fuzzy crotch with one hand and one of her swelling tits with the other. He put his lips to her ear and whispered, "Ask her if you can eat her! I want to hear you say it! And then I want to watch you do it! And while you're doing it, I'm going to fuck you in the ass!"
She groaned breathlessly and arched her back, pressing her butt against the Phantom's throbbing cock. He let her go, and she put her hands on Kathy's open thighs- "Kathy! I wanta eat you, honey! I wanta suck your cunt! Can I?"
"Oh, do it, Joanny!" Kathy moaned, "Do it, baby!"
Mark and Sam, who were sucking Kathy's tits again, both had their fingers in her juicy slit. Joan frantically pushed their hands away and plunged "her face into that hairy crotch!
Kathy squealed in ecstasy as the blonde's tongue whipped her cunt into a twitching, splattering cauldron of boiling syrup! Mark suddenly pulled his mouth from Kathy's nipple and sprang onto the table. He straddled her face and shoved his cock into her mouth. She took it willingly, hungrily, and you could hear the sloshing, sucking noises as the boy's bare ass rose and fell. Looking over the shaggy hump of Kathy's cunt as she lapped the slit, Joan could see Mark's balls swinging from side to side and the glistening shank of his prick plunging in and out of Kathy s lips.
Steve had been trying to get his own tongue in the pot, lifting Kathy's left leg and burrowing in under Joan's vibrating chin, but without much success, until Joan lifted her head and let out a slobbering gasp of alarm.
What had happened? Nothing she hadn't been warned of.
The Phantom had just rammed his cock up her asshole. True, he had sunk it to the balls on the first thrust, rather brutally perhaps, but things were nice and slippery after a few strokes, and Joan's gasps of pain turned into moans of pleasure. She plunged her face back into Kathy's crotch and her tongue vied with Steve's for access to the crack. The Phantom gripped the blonde's beautiful slim hips and poured it on.
About this time, Mr. and Mrs. Ryan opened the door and stepped into the patio.
"Hello!" said the Phantom, slowing his stroke a bit, "You're just in time! We were just sitting down to eat. We're having cunt pie, stewed in its own juices."
The balding, pot-bellied, middle-aged executive and his tightly corseted, bottle-blonde wife staggered back against the wall as though they were facing a firing squad. So great were the combined powers of nature and the Phantom, that the young orgiasts scarcely glanced at the intruders. They were riding high on a wave of sexual fire. The Pope himself could not have stopped it. The Phantom shook Kathy's ankle and said: "Kathy, where are your manners? Say hello to your mother and father."
Kathy pushed against Mark's hips until his cock slipped out of her mouth and said, in a breathless gurgling voice, "Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad." The thick blue-veined prick was back down her throat almost before the last word left her lips.
Mom's eyes bulged; Dads mouth hung open.
Feeling his juices rising, the Phantom said, "All right, everybody, let's come!"
Almost immediately Kathy's cunt began to jerk upward against Joan's flying tongue, and the Phantom's heavy load went surging into the blonde's lurching rectum. By this time, Sam was on his knees at the edge of the table, hunched over Kathy's midriff, drooling on her belly, fucking his fist at full speed. Steve, who was still standing beside Joan, was masturbating too; he was the first of the boys to ejaculate; he turned to the side and blasted it all over Joan's side from hip to armpit. A few rounds ricocheted off her body and went whirling across the room toward Mom and Dad; one of these blobs landed squarely on the highly polished toe of Dad's right shoe. Even in the spasms of his release, the Phantom could not restrain a laugh when he saw the man's expression of shock change to one of horror upon looking down at his shoe. It was as if he said to himself, "Well, that's the last straw!"
He seemed on the brink of springing into action, but Mark was on the brink too, and just then his cock exploded in Kathy's mouth, and the semen splattered in all directions, and Mr. Ryan fell against her husband in a dead faint, so that all he could do was to stand there and hold her up.
As Mark's load filled Kathy's cheeks and overflowed her lips, Sam aimed his cock at her navel and fired away. Some of it flowed down her undulating belly and into her drenched cunt hair where it was lapped up by Joan's ravenous tongue.
Temporarily spent, the Phantom disengaged his member from Joan's twitching asshole and surveyed the scene. The spurting and lurching had ceased; a kind of tense breathy hush fell over the room. The three boys and the two girls seemed immobilized in the attitude of their final spasm, suspended there like nude mummies in formaldehyde. The unseen force which had driven them mad with lust was ebbing away; they were painfully awakening from the living dream. The Phantom knew what they were experiencing; the guilt, the shame, the self-disgust. Mr. Kline had gone through this after every orgasm. The Phantom knew because he remembered, but he felt none of it now, not a bit. In fact, he was ready to go again.
When he had caught his breath, ha went over to Mr. Ryan and placed his right hand upon the man's bald dome. Mrs. Ryan still hung limp in his arms. The Phantom whispered in his ear: "Don't be too hard on Kathy, Fatso. Just send her up to her room. Girls will be girls, you know."
Mr. Ryan blinked his eyes and mumbled, "Yes, I guess that's true," and in a louder voice, "Kathy, go up to your room. I think we've all had enough partying for one night." And with that, he picked up his wife and carried her into the house.
The Phantom followed, found the stairs, and went up to Kathy's room. Out the window he saw Joan and the three boys, half-dressed, run from the house, jump into their cars and roar off into the night. The Phantom laughed and stretched out on Kathy's bed. A moment later Kathy burst into the room, still naked, locked the door and leaped into bed beside her invisible guest, covering up her head with a pillow.
The Phantom lay there for a while, listening to the girl's muffled weeping. Then he reached out and gave her a pat on the behind with his right hand...
CHAPTER EIGHT - MONDAY MORNING
The Phantom awoke early, though it had been a night full of strenuous fucking. He leaned over and nibbled on Kathy's nipples. No response. He tickled her twat with his tongue. Nothing. She was dead to the world.
"By God, I've worn the little slut out," he said to himself.
He got up, unlocked the door, went down the hall to the bathroom and took a good healthy piss. The smell of urine for some reason reminded him of Jaway. "Ho, ho!" he said, shaking off his cock, "I can hardly wait!" And if he remembers correctly, he laughed out loud. Perhaps that was what awakened Mr. Ryan, who came stumbling down the hall just as the Phantom stepped out of the bathroom.
Inadvertently, the Phantom had left Kathy's door ajar. As her father passed by it he glanced in, did a double-take, and stopped. The Phantom crept up behind him and looked over his shoulder. No wonder he had stopped.
Kathy lay spreadeagled on the bed, her feet toward door. She was, of course, stark naked. She lay, as a matter of fact, in the exact position she had been in when the Phantom climbed off her several hours ago. The writer lost track, but he believes that was about the seventh or eighth time he had balled her since she came to bed, and she had been so fatigued by then that she went right to sleep without even wiping her cunt. She was fucked out in other words. The Phantom is proud to add that she fell asleep with a smile on her face, and it was still there that morning. But he rambles; the point is that, since she had not wiped herself, a blob of cum which had leaked out was still there, clinging to the shag at the bottom of her slit. Mr. Ryan stood there agape, muttering to himself. The Phantom made out this much: "Oh my God! She's had someone up here with her! She's let someone come up here in the night and have sex with her! After what happened last night-! My God, what kind of girl have I raised?"
There was more, but that was the general drift of it. Something about these outraged ravings angered the Phantom. He had a sudden inspiration. Touching his ring lightly to the man's head, he whispered: "Why, a whore, Mr. Ryan. You've raised a whore. She'll lay down for anybody at the drop of a hat. What do you do with whores, Mr. Ryan?"
"You fuck 'em, that's what!" muttered Mr. Ryan, still staring at his daughter's cummy cunt and her big naked tits rising and falling gently. The Phantom noticed with satisfaction that something was holding the man's pajamas out in front like a tent.
"Exactly," replied the Phantom, giving him a little shove into the room. "Go ahead, have some. She's a great piece of ass, I can tell you that."
A strange smile crept over Mr. Ryan's face, and he began fumbling with the drawstring of his pajamas. A moment later, he was crawling into the saddle.
He had his cock all the way in and both Kathy's tits gripped tightly in his hands before the girl woke up. She stared up for a moment or two at that great heap of flapping blubber pounding against her up-turned ass, a kind of pleasant blankness on her face. And then her mouth and her eyes opened wide in shocked recognition. She even stopped pumping her pelvis for a moment.
But only for a moment...
At eight o'clock sharp the Phantom, standing in for Mr. Kline, strolled into Mr. Jaway's office, buck naked, and took a seat. No one seemed to notice the depression in the chair cushion. At exactly one minute past eight, Jaway's voice boomed forth from the inner office: "Is Mr. Kline out there?"
"No, sir."
"Well, go get him!"
"Yes, sir."
A runner was sent to the lab on the double. A few minutes later he returned-without Mr. Kline, needless to say. Jaway loomed in the doorway to the inner office, his stubby little mustache bristling like a sea urchin.
"Well," he growled, "where is he?"
"Mr. Kline isn't in the lab, sir," said the boy, holding out a sealed envelope, "but this was on his desk. It's addressed to you-"
"I can see who it is addressed to, young man," snorted Jaway, snatching the envelope from the boy's hand and tearing it open, "That will be all for the present."
Jaway unfolded the sheet of stationery and blinked his beady eyes at it. His jowls shuddered, his nose flattened, his lips puffed up, and his hands trembled. It seemed to the Phantom that the principal stared at the little piece of paper for a much longer time than should have been required to read the five words which he, the Phantom, happened to know were written there.
What were those five words, you say? These: "Fuck you, Jaway."
And it was signed "Emmet Kline."
After studying this document for some time, turning it this way and that, holding it up to the light, and comparing it with some of Mr. Kline's previous dispatches, he said to himself in an incredulous voice, "Why, it's in Kline's handwriting!"
"What was that, Mr. Jaway?" asked the secretary in the front office.
"Nothing, nothing," muttered Jaway, slamming his door and immediately reopening it, "As soon as the bell rings have Katherine Ryan paged," he snarled.
Twenty minutes later, Kathy stepped nervously into the office. She was wearing the clothes selected for her by the Phantom; an orange vee-necked shell, so thin and clinging that you could see at a glance she wore no bra under it tucked into a wide-belted, hip-hugger mini-skirt so short that, when the Phantom had first come upon it in the girl's dresser drawer, he had taken it for a headband. Under the skirt she wore a pair of bikini panties almost as invisible as the Phantom himself.
The secretary gave her the once-over, gasped, coughed, cleared her throat, and said, "Mr. Jaway is waiting for you, Kathy. Go right in."
As Kathy passed by, the Phantom slipped his right hand under her skirt and gave her a little pat on the thigh. Then he got up and followed her into the inner office.
There sat Jaway behind his enormous glass-topped desk, his mustache pinched tightly between his fat upper lip and his little beak of a nose, his pig eyes darting coldly up and down the body of the delectable thing standing before his desk. The Phantom whispered in Kathy's ear: "Give him one of your 'fuck me' smiles, baby." Which she did.
Jaway's only visible reaction to this was to draw his chin subtly into his jowls, as a turtle draws its head into its shell. "Sit down, Catherine," he said.
"And give him a good look when you do it," whispered the Phantom.
Kathy sat down in the chair in front of Jaway's desk and crossed her knees, giving him such a brilliant shot of her tricot-sheathed pussy that his beady eyes blinked from the glare. It seemed to the Phantom that the flabby dewlap which hung under Jaway's chin began to puff up and perhaps tremble a bit. He looked like a bullfrog preparing to sing. He cleared his throat and spoke.
"Katherine, had you come to school in that attire last week, we would have sent you home, and you would have gotten a zero for the day. But after what happened last Friday night, we are strongly considering expulsion." Kathy only cocked her head and batted her long eyelashes at him. "Really, Katherine," he continued, shaking his jowls at her, "we are surprised at you!"
Kathy changed knees, once more flashing her cunt at him. The movement made her unharnessed tits swing slightly from side to side. The rosy circles of her nipples were quite visible through the thin knit of the shell. Jaway again cleared his throat.
"Right now, Katherine, I want to know exactly what you and Mr. Kline were doing in the lab Friday night."
The Phantom reached over and opened the P.A. microphone on Mr. Jaway's desk. Then put his lips to Kathy's ear and said, "Tell him the truth."
"Well, you see, Mr. Jaway," said Kathy, "some kids dared me to try to make Mr. Kline."
There was a chilly pause. Then Jaway said, "Make him what, Katherine?"
"You know, Mr. Jaway, make him, lay him, screw him, fuck him, don't you dig?"
Mr. Jaway inhaled too quickly and started to cough. He coughed and he coughed, and the sound of his coughing boomed throughout the classrooms on all three floors of the school and echoed up and down the corridors. It sounded like a tubercular epidemic. After several minutes, he clutched his throat and strangled the attack into submission.
He rose to his feet and glared down at the girl, his face changing rapidly from green to red and back again like a traffic light gone awry. The Phantom wished that the P.A. system had a video component so that the students and teachers could see this as well as hear it!
Jaway's voice shook with outrage: "Katherine Ryan, you-!"
Here the Phantom touched his ring lightly to one of Jaway's white-knuckled hands, whispered something in his ear, and stepped back.
Jaway stood there for a minute with his mouth open, swaying like a tree in the wind. Then he looked down at Kathy again. Her cunt was in plain sight, a sexy smirk on her face. His gaze had turned from ice to fire, and you could see the blood beating in his neck. He went on with his speech: "-you lascivious little slut! You're driving me crazy! I've wanted a piece of your ass ever since the first day you walked into this school! The sight of you makes my balls ache! Some evenings I can hardly walk down the stairs! It's been torture, I tell you! Do you think because I'm the principal I don't have blood in my veins? Do you think I don't have anything between my legs?" He began to blubber pitifully. "And now there you sit, flaunting that thing in my face! That beautiful hairy thing! And that top!-I can see your nipples right through it! Oh! I can't stand it! (Sob, sob!) I tell you I can't stand it!"
Near the beginning of this speech, Miss Clink, the secretary, had opened the door to the inner office and peered in, an incredulous expression on her face. Shortly thereafter the runner had joined her, and now other students were coming from all parts of the building, filling the outer office, fighting for a look at the action.
Now, the inner office was separated from the outer not by a solid wall, but by a partition, the bottom half of which was wood, the upper half, glass panels. The glass was unfrosted, but covered by opaque curtains. If anyone thought it odd that these curtains were all at once thrown back by an unseen hand, the resulting view of the office must have obliterated any concern they might have had over it.
Kathy had risen from her chair. She said, "Oh, Mr. Jaway, you poor thing!" and tugged the tail of her shell out of her skirt.
"Would you call me... Charlie?" sobbed Jaway.
The Phantom almost keeled over.
"Poor Charlie," said Kathy, her sex-hungry voice full of pity and compassion, "you should have told me, baby!"
Jaway-or "Charlie", (Charlie! Even now, a year later, the Phantom, he, I, Kline the Terrible, can scarcely hold my pen steady for laughing)-wiped his tears with his tie and peered at her through bloodshot eyes as she crossed her arms beneath her bosom, gripped the tail of her shell and pulled it off over her head. An audible thrill passed through the crowd of students, the front ranks of which had their faces plastered against the glass partition. The secretary, Miss Clink, looked on the verge of fainting.
Charlie Jaway stared at those naked tits like a child with a wonderful new toy he had never dreamed would be given him. "Oh, Kathy!" he gasped.
She cupped her tits in her hands and turned her shoulders this way and that, saying, "Do you like them, Charlie? "
"Oh, they're... magnificent, Kathy! I knew they would be!"
As Kathy unbuckled her belt, the Phantom rubbed up her nipples until they glowed brightly and stood out fat and stiff with arousal. When her skirt slid from her hips to the floor and she stood there wearing nothing but those wonderfully transparent party panties that had less than an inch of tricot at the hips and were slung so low that a row of auburn curls bristled over the hipband in front and the crack of her ass stuck out in the back-Miss Clink sprang into action.
"Mr. Jaway!" she shrieked, "I cannot stand by and watch this! Young lady! Put your clothes on this instant-!"
The Phantom stopped her headlong rush into the room with a hand-the right one of course-to the chest. It temporarily knocked the wind out of her. She stood there rocking. The Phantom steadied her, and whispered in her ear: "Take it easy, baby. Nothing to get excited about... " The Phantom, to tell the truth, had not noticed until this moment-or rather, until the moment he put his hand on her chest-that Miss Clink, beneath those conservative clothes and those horn-rimmed glasses, was not a bad-looking chick. She couldn't have been over twenty-five, and her breasts, though flattened and distorted by a monstrous engine of a brassiere built by some diabolical woman-hater, had a nice feel to them. Her hips, too. showed promise, if her concrete girdle could be chipped away. After a brief survey of her body with hand and eye, the Phantom asked her where she lived.
"At my parent's house on Windtree Road, number 354."
"Good," replied the Phantom, "I'll sleep with you tonight. Meanwhile, why don't you take off your clothes and mingle with the crowd?"
She smiled eagerly, as if that were exactly what she had wanted to do all along, and immediately began unbuttoning the jacket of her suit. Kathy was rotating slowly before Jaway, running her hands up and down her body, giving him the view from all angles. Jaway was leaning forward over the desk, practically drooling. The Phantom sprinted over to them and whispered, "Wait a minute, you two! Watch this!" They both looked at Miss Clink as she threw off her jacket like an exotic dancer.
Next came the skirt, then the blouse, then the slip. She threw each garment into the crowd as it came off. Kathy came over, grinning from ear to ear, and unhooked that horrible bra. Whish! Off it came! Wow! What a set of tits! Who would have thought? The kids applauded and cheered.
Her tits were as big as footballs. The writer had to applaud that diabolical bra maker; it took a genius to design anything that could have kept those things a secret from the world! The Phantom could not resist giving them a few little squeezes.
"Tonight," he told her, "I'm going to suck these monsters dry!"
She laughed and shook them in his face. The whole building must have shuddered on its foundation.
"Off with that girdle, Miss Clink," cried Jaway, getting into the spirit of things.
"Sure thing, Mr.-er, Charlie. And you can call me Rose."
A shout rose from the throng-girls and boys alike joining in: "Take it off, Rose!"
She laughed wildly, unclipped her garters, and with the Phantom's and Kathy's help, took it off.
The crowd went wild. She had a bush that would have choked a horse-two horses! It was black as a crow and broad and thick enough to cover the head of most girls. And she had a cunt that bulged out almost as far as her tits; if it weighed an ounce, it would have gone five pounds.
Suddenly the Phantom remembered something. He grabbed the arm of the nearest student with his right hand and said in his ear, "Quick! Go get Mrs. Pierce." The boy shoved his way through the mob and was gone.
Rose kicked off her shoes, peeled off her hose, and walked straight into the outer office, tits all abounce. A first the ranks parted to make way for her, a kind of awe on their faces. She turned to a couple of football players am said: "Well, shit, you guys, don't just stand there!"
The Phantom saw a pair of hands close over her boobs from behind, another hand clutch the big hump of he shaggy cunt, and that was about all. The crowd closed in around her, and there was only an agitated blur of naked flesh on the floor. A girl squealed, a boy grunted passionately, and Miss Clink was down and done for. The Phantom learned later that she took on at least twenty boys and one lesbian in rapid rotation that morning. At least that was the scuttlebutt around the school. When he asked her about it that night in bed, she swore that nothing of the sort had ever happened; she had apparently forgotten the whole thing. This was due, the writer now knows, to a certain amnesia-producing property of the ring-a thing which has proved quite useful in some cases, but very annoying in others.
Now Jaway and Kathy once more faced each other. They were standing in the center of the office, in front of the desk. The Phantom murmured in Jaway's ear, "Tell how much you want her, Jaway, you lecherous bastard." At the same time he turned up the volume on the P.A.
"Oh, Kathy," said Jaway, "I want to fuck you so bad I can taste it! I am a lecherous bastard, and I'm going to fuck you until your teeth rattle! I'm going to fuck you until you can't stand up!"
"Well, then," said Kathy, stepping out of her panties, "you'd better take your clothes off, Charlie-and hurry!" The clothes flew and the jowls flapped, and in less time than it takes to tell it, Charlie Jaway was bare to the bum. It was a sight to behold! His cock was probably as hard and as big as it had ever been in his life, but the writer would be surprised if it had measured five inches. If he was going to fuck her until she couldn't stand, it looked to the Phantom as though he was going to need help.
To Kathy, however, in her present state of arousal, a cock apparently was a cock, and the way she looked at it with those famished eyes made the old fart swell with pride. He resembled a giant puffer fish.
She embraced him, ramming her tongue into his mouth and thrusting her cunt under the hairless overhang of his great belly, clamping his prick between her thighs and rinding her tits against his. (They were almost as big as hers.) His fat hands fastened onto the cheeks of her jerking ass like suction cups and crushed her pelvis against his. He bent his knees and started dry-fucking her on his feet. It was like three hundred pounds of pure blubber strapped to a vibrator, but it drove Kathy (as well as the crowd!) wild!
Finally Jaway lost his balance and toppled backward with Kathy still wrapped tightly around him. The sound of the crash, amplified through the fifty-five speakers of the P.A. system, boomed through the school like thunder.
Jaway? It didn't even faze him. He bounced once and continued his pumping as before. He put the Phantom in mind of a beached whale with palsy.
Kathy had just rolled back on the hill of his gut, gathered her knees under her and guided his cock into her hole, when Mrs. Pierce came bellowing through the rabble. The Phantom heard her and looked around just in time to see her trip over an unexpected obstacle on the floor about halfway between the outer and inner doors. This obstacle was the posterior of a young man which at the time was rising and falling rapidly between the open thighs of the naked Miss Clink. Though Mrs. Pierce had been traveling at a rather high rate of speed, and though the impact was great enough to send her skidding all the way into the inner office on her nose, the boy's stroke remained as steady as a metronome, thus demonstrating the single-mindedness of the two-backed beast. This quality was demonstrated second time when Mrs. Pierce struggled to her feet an began screaming hysterically at Charlie and Kathy, who seemed not to hear a word and, if anything, went at it more vigorously than ever. Charlie had Kathy's tits in his meaty hands and his belly was flopping like a hooked whale beneath Kathy's rolling, swiveling, driving, pumping hips.
Mrs. Pierce covered her eyes with her hands an staggered backward, saying, "Oh! Oh! Oh!" The Phantom, (he admits it) chuckled with glee. Mrs. Pierce backed into the wall and just stood there, her chin trembling, peeking through her fingers. For the Phantom, half the fun was watching that prudish old bitch watching them fuck. How he wished he knew what was going through her mind!
Suddenly there came a new sound from the floor; wheezing grunting noise such as an asthmatic walrus might make upon being harpooned while floundering down to the sea. Jaway was getting his gun.
This was all right for Jaway, but too swift for Kathy This was just as the Phantom had foreseen it, and perhaps now the reader begins to see the phantomical method in the night's madness, eh? For the writer has indicated that during the past ten hours Kathy had had at least as many sexual encounters, each accompanied by an orgasm. Moreover, it had not been two hours since her father had dismounted her. Thus it is logical to assume, is it not, that the sensitivity of those orgasm-producing parts of her cunt i.e., the nerve clusters in her clitoris, the mouth and body of her vagina and the neck of her uterus (which latter however, could not in any case have been stimulated by the four-inch dork of Charlie Jaway), would have been diminished to the point that it should have taken a good deal more time to bring her off on Monday morning than it had on Sunday evening? This was, in fact, the case.
Couple the above fact with this: that in all probability not only had Jaway not had any pussy during the last ten hours but in the last ten years as well, or if so, certainly nothing like this pussy, and you will see that this was an ill-matched fuck destined for a bad end.
Was it the Phantom's purpose, after all, to give Mr. Kline's old antagonists, who had dealt so mercilessly with him in the past, a free ride, a good time, an escape from inhibition, without making them pay for it? Indeed it was not.
Kathy at first did not realize what was happening, since they had only been fucking for about two minutes; if she had, no doubt she would have slowed down a bit, but when Jaway's first gob of cum squirted up her hole, she cried- "Wait! Wait, you son of a bitch! I'm not ready! I'm not ready! Oh, goddamn you! Goddamn you! I'm just getting started-!" And so forth, all of which was broadcast at full volume all over the school and could be heard, as the Phantom learned later, all the way across the street in the soda shop and no doubt in all the houses that surrounded the campus, for Hill High is situated in the middle of a residential area.
But scream and curse though she might, Jaway could not turn it off. Mrs. Pierce, her thick make-up cracking and falling from her face in heavy chips like an ice thaw, watched helplessly as Jaway flapped and flopped through his release, his saliva-smeared jowls jumping like spastic jellyfish, and listened with equal impotence to Kathy's obscene harangue, her-Mrs. Pierce's-perfectly manicured hands going first to her eyes, then to her ears, then to her mouth. She looked like the three famous monkeys combined into one horrified bitch of an orangutan.
Kathy got as firm a grip as she could on that huge shuddering belly and threw her ass into high gear, driving away at him as fast as she could, her tits a blur of motion, in a desperate attempt to get her cookies before his erection fell. A futile attempt.
Finally she stood up, semen dripping from her cunt and falling in sloppy splats onto Jaway's belly. She stood there, straddling that hill of flesh, hands on her hips, glaring down at him in utter scorn and disgust.
"Look at that!" she cried, pointing at his drooping pecker, "You call that a cock? Jesus Christ! I thought you were gonna fuck me, you son of a bitch! You're not a man, you're just a big sack o' shit! You think that's all a girl needs?-just a few jabs? I mean, when your goddamn prick isn't any bigger than your motherfucking finger, you gotta do more than just jab it in a few times! Don't you know anything, you fat fart! Fuck! If I could piss, I'd piss on you... ! Yeah, I'd hide it too, if I didn't have any more than that between my legs!" For Jaway had just rolled over on his face, weeping like a baby, the flabby cheeks of his ass trembling pitifully, just like Mrs. Pierce's chin. Kathy spit on him and stuck her big toe up his asshole. Jaway bellowed like a punctured pig and floundered away into a corner of the office, curling up there like some huge, grotesque foetus pleading for abortion.
Kathy gripped the desk for support and started to masturbate with her other hand, but the Phantom said, "Hey, no need for that, slut. Look at all those drooling studs!"
Until then, Kathy had seemed oblivious to the audience. Now she looked up as though seeing them for the first time, and a hungry smile spread over her face. In a flash she was inundated by a wave of hot, eager youths. The Phantom saw her rise up once out of the mob, her naked body, borne aloft on several dozen hands, and then plunge floorward, disappearing among a flurry of erect penises somewhere near, or perhaps atop, Miss Clink.
For a minute or two Mrs. Pierce continued to stare at the heap of blubbering protoplasm that was Mr. Jaway. Then she turned, and with glazed eyes and death-white cheeks showing through her shattered make-up (which must have been put on in several coats with a spray gun) entered the crush of the crowd and made her way toward the outer door. She had the look of a zombie which had just crawled out of its grave. The Phantom followed in her wake.
She passed down the crowded hall, seemingly as unnoticed as her invisible companion, looking neither to the left nor the right. When she came to the girls' restroom, she turned and went in.
Hmm, thought the Phantom, who was right behind her.
The place was empty. Mrs. Pierce shuffled straight toward the nearest toilet stall, opened the door and went in. The Phantom barely squeezed through before she shut the door and locked it. She stood there for a moment, the backs of her legs against the toilet, staring straight ahead without seeming to see anything-though in actuality she was gazing right into the Phantom's eyes, or rather, he was gazing into hers. Strange. What did he see in that face? Was there a spark of life?-incredible though it seemed? Or was she going to puke?
All at once, she jerked up her skirt and slip, doused her drawers and plopped her ass down on the pot. Her legs opened so wide that her knobby knees touched the sides of the stall. The Phantom felt an odd tremor in his stomach. The view put him in mind of certain, of the more scatological paintings of Hieronymus Bosch and his disciple Breughel the Elder-such as that one by the latter which depicts the devil shoveling decomposed money out of his asshole...
Oh! Those bony thighs, that slack flesh, those bulging veins, green with bile! That bomb crater with its beard of iron shavings, rusty, full of holes, like the abandoned nest of an impoverished rat! Ak! The gateway to the garbage dump! If only Dante could have seen this, thought the Phantom, before he wrote the Inferno.
She reminded the Phantom of Mr. Kline's mother.
He began to jerk off.
So did Mrs. Pierce.
It was a thing to see. She peeled back the ragged lips of that gruesome gash with her manicured talons, and, lo and behold, a clitoris the size of a stunted stringbean and the color of an inflamed appendix wriggled out of its wrinkled foreskin like a terrified grubworm. One half expected it to turn into a beetle before one's eyes-or a horned toad.
She stuck two fingers in her mouth to lubricate them-apparently her bulbo-urethral glands had atrophied, for that grim cavity was as dry as a salt flat-and went at it with a frantic vigor that absolutely astounded the Phantom. Her eyes rolled back and her head started bouncing heavily against the back wall like a rapidly dribbled basketball, her knees vibrating noisily against the metal walls of the stall, but she seemed heedless of the racket.
It was her left hand that worked in the pit; with her right, she tore open the front of her dress, jerked her straps off her gaunt shoulders and hauled her tits from their padded pouches.
The reader is familiar with the ears of a basset hound? Shave off most, but not all of the hair, singe the tips with a blowtorch, and you will have a fair representation of Mrs. Pierce's dugs. They flapped up and down like leather flags, and she rubbed those corrugated nipples with the same agitated violence with which she jacked her clit.
The Phantom pumped away with a kind of calm amazement and wonder. He must admit, he had not expected this. He tried to sound the depths of those glazed eyes as they rattled in their sockets, hoping to get some inkling of the mental images behind them. What was she thinking of? As she neared her climax, the question was answered; she began to speak in a gasping, rasping, breathless croak: "Thought you were gonna fuck me... fuck me... fuck me... you call that a cock... shit... son of a bitch... prick isn't any bigger than your motherfucking finger... fuck... fuck me... you fat fart... piss on you... shit you... oh, Charlie, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, f-f... f-f-" and then a lot of strange slobbery noises as she started to come.
The Phantom laughed out loud and shot his load square in her face. He also squirted a goodly quantity on those flapjack teats, and on her dress, and between her legs, and in her hair. But this last was already so stiff with plastic cement that a little cum was hardly noticeable.
CHAPTER NINE - MONDAY AFTERNOON
Incredible though it seems, by lunch time the faculty and what was left of the administration of Hill High had apparently regrouped their forces and brought the student body under some degree of control. By two o'clock, when the Phantom came back from lunch at Maxim's, there was almost a semblance of normality to the campus. This, however, did not disturb the Phantom.
On his way from the main building to the shower rooms, he overheard several conversations which brought him up to date on what had been happening during his several hour's absence. First, Kathy Ryan and a small but determined band of "admirers," as you might call them, made up of boys who had been eagerly waiting for, but had not yet had a crack at her, were at length subdued and permanently expelled. Second, Miss Rosalind Clink was fired. Third-though this is not necessarily the order in which these things were carried out-Mr. Jaway was spirited away to the sanitarium at Point Head, possibly by helicopter, and was reported to be alive but straitjacketed. Fourth, during a run on the toilets sometime around eleven, several girls, who had been standing in line for an unreasonably long time at the first stall and unable to get any response from its occupant, forced the door and found the Dean of Girls draped across the John like a limp sausage, her clothes ripped open and befouled with an unidentified substance, her skirts around her waist and her drawers around her ankles, apparently the victim of rape; an ambulance was called, and she was rushed to the hospital. A later rumor had it that, after an hour in the emergency ward, she joined Mr. Jaway at Point Head. Fifth, the National Guard was called out and order was restored.*
* [This fifth statement is idle boasting on Kline's part; there is no record of such a thing. If there is any truth to the rest of it, the facts are shrouded in secrecy; no one at Hill High School will even discuss it. The only thing certain is that once there was a principal named Jaway and a dean of girls named Pierce, and now there are not. RJ.S.]
When He-Who-Walks-Naked-Among-You reached the gym, the girls of the sixth period P.E. class were just filing into the dressing room. The Phantom paused at the door and looked over his shoulder at the windows of the lab. He remembered how Mr. Kline had crept over to those windows when no one was looking to watch these same young cunts strutting up the walk, daydreaming of the things he would do if only he had the formula. Now he could do any of those things, and a hundred more. These girls filing past him, talking and giggling about what they had seen in the principal's office, these saucy little prick-teasers in their mini-skirts and tight sweaters-any one of them could be his for the taking. He lifted his eyes from the lab windows to the sky. It was clear, not a cloud in sight. It was a beautiful blue blind sky, Jaway was in a padded cell, and all was well in the world. The Phantom breathed deeply and let the skirt of one of the passing girls brush his cock, thinking: The whole of womankind is my seraglio!
But a harsh dog-like barking coming from the boy's shower room made him think of Clagheart and reminded him of his immediate purpose. He turned and entered the dressing room.
The Phantom took a seat on the end of a bench and watched the girls undress. He looked them over with a discriminating eye, sifting out the homely ones, then the merely attractive ones, and deciding at last on three of the very sexiest and best developed of the lot-a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette. Their names, respectively, were Sylvia, Denise, and Tanya.
This decision made, the Phantom got up and strolled about the room as the girls got into their shorts and T-shirts and headed for the gym. From time to time he would squeeze a tit-lightly, to be sure-or pinch an ass or tickle a pussy or blow in an ear. There were some accusing looks, some hands slapped, some titters, some suggestive smiles, but no suspicion of a naked ghost. Soon the dressing room was empty, and the Phantom stretched out for a little siesta.
When the girls returned from the gym, the Phantom was waiting for them outside the dressing room. There was plenty of time for the implementation of his plan, because the girls were always sent to their showers a few minutes before the boys. It took only thirty second to walk from the girls' showers to the boys'; the Phantom had timed it.
Tanya was one of the first to approach the dressing room door. She was a little apart from the group. The Phantom touched her on the arm as she passed him, whispering, "Hold it a minute, Tanya, wait for Sylvia and Denise."
She stopped and looked back for the two girls, standing close beside the Naked Unseen. As he looked her over his erection grew to its full, invisible magnificence. He took her hand and placed it gently on his penis. Her soft, sweaty fingers curled around it instinctively.
"What do you think of that?" whispered the Phantom.
"Wow!" replied Tanya.
"What did you say, Tanya?" asked a passing girl.
"Nothing," said Tanya with a smile.
Tanya was about the same height as the Phantom; that is, short. She had crow-black hair with bangs that fell over her gracefully curved eyebrows; it reached her shoulder blades in back. She had big beautiful brown eyes and full soft lips which seemed to have been designed for sucking cocks. Her tits were well separated and not unusually large but, as the Phantom had observed when she removed her blouse, perfectly formed, halfway between round and pointed and just soft enough to bounce slightly when she walked. Her waist was narrow, accentuating the flare of her hips, which probably would have measured an inch or so more than her bust, and her legs tapered wonderfully from slightly heavy thighs. The Phantom ran his finger up and down the crack of her ass, and a thrill of pleasure raced through her body. Tanya, like Sylvia and Denise, was seventeen years old-ripe fruit in the Phantom's garden.
The other two girls came down the walk together; they were friends. They both had big tits-perhaps that drew them together, eh?-but Sylvia, the redhead, had the larger set, even though in other respects she was slimmer than Denise. They were slightly pendulous-pleasantly so-and with every step they jostled each other inside the tight T-shirt with such fluid resilience that the Phantom had to momentarily remove Tanya's hand from his prick to keep from coming. Her almost-skinny waist, slim hips and legs only accentuated the size of these bouncing boobs. Her face and body were slightly freckled, and her thick red hair was cropped short at the nape of her neck, falling over her forehead and ears in soft loose ringlets.
Denise's hair was straw blonde, and it hung wild and straight all the way to her waist like a beautiful golden wing. Her pale blue eyes seemed to glow because of her deep tan; her face and body were like burnished bronze. It was this type of girl Mr. Kline had spent so many hours watching on the beach, baring their brazen bosoms to the sun, inviting the stares and paws of the beach boys. He could bring them so close with his binoculars that he could count the pimples on their nipples or the hairs on their cunts, but an immense unbridgeable chasm separated him from them-an abyss he could cross only in his dreams. For the Phantom, no such abyss existed. He watched those golden legs coming toward him, those full hips swaying, those loosely harnessed tits jutting out before her, the lacy black bra that held them showing through the white T-shirt, and when she drew abreast, he slipped his right hand between her thighs and poked her cunt with his thumb.
She stopped, puzzled.
The Phantom was similarly bold with Sylvia, and drawing the three girls together, he said in a low voice, "Listen, girls, why don't you take your showers with the boys today?"
"Yeah, why don't we!" said Denise.
"Groovy!" said Sylvia.
"Let's go!" said Tanya.
And off they went, running across the lawn toward the boys' showers. The other girls stared after them in wonder. The Phantom chuckled to himself and trotted off behind the eager trio.
When he entered the locker room, he found the girls already half undressed, but the herd of boys was now thundering across the football field; they would be there in a second.
"Hurry up, kids! Get in the shower before they get here! Here, let me help you with that bra, Sylvia." He unhooked it. "Off with those pants, Tanya!"
They just made it into the shower room before the first boy burst through the door. Five of the early ones jumped out of their shorts at the same time and made a dash for the showers, peckers flapping.
"Yipe!" they yelled in one voice, skidding across the tiles, "Girls!"
The Phantom, who was standing with the girls at the far end of the oblong room, was afraid for a moment that this advance guard was going to retreat; they looked as though they thought perhaps they had made a mistake and gotten into the girls' showers. But they had hardly begun to back up when the avalanche of naked bodies came pouring through the doors. Made bold by their numbers and by the invitations of the girls, the whole mob advanced, and everyone tried to get under the three showers occupied by the girls. It was a grand melee, a battle of slippery hands, a riot of stiff cocks. It was root, hog, or die! Survival of the fittest. Only the strongest boys made it to the forefront of the action. Squeals, giggles, shouts, curses and threats filled the room. The Phantom, himself the recipient of several elbows to the ribs and knees dangerously close to the groin, desired more organization.
He put out his right hand and zapped as many boys as he could reach without plunging into the throng.
"Easy now," he said softly, "back up a little, make a circle!" The hoys did as he ordered, holding back the crowd. Then he whispered something to Tanya, and she said: "Yeah!"
"Yeah, what, Tanya?" said one of the boys.
She stepped up to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her little wet rosy nipples against his chest, and said, "Yeah, I'm hungry. You got anything for me to eat, Billy?"
"Got just the thing, baby!" said Billy, jabbing his cock between her slippery thighs.
In an instant she was on her knees at his feet with those beautiful blow-job lips of hers wrapped around his prick. He took her head in his hands and began to pump his hips, Denise was already in the arms of a boy, her golden buttocks moving rhythmically against his pelvis, her big tits flattened against his chest, his tongue down her throat. The Phantom whispered a suggestion to them, but it probably would not have been necessary; the caresses she already received had, under the influence of the ring, gotten the blonde as hot as a firecracker. The redhead, Sylvia, was leaning against the tile wall, her big freckled tits rising and falling with passion, her eyes going from cock to cock, her tongue flickering over her lips. The Phantom slipped a finger into the juicy slit beneath her red-fuzzed mound and murmured in her ear.
This done, the Phantom slipped out of the circle and made his way to the door. There he put his hand on the back of the nearest boy and said, "Go get Clagheart."
The boy took off, yelling: "Coach! Coach!"
Clagheart, it should be mentioned, was one of Mr. Kline's old adversaries. He never had anything but trouble from the thick-headed bastard. Always ridiculing Mr. Kline in the presence of his students, the Phantom had an idea that it was Clagheart who had first applied the term "rat-faced" to the former chemistry teacher. In his present position, that of convict, the coach no doubt has plenty of time to think up names.
Clagheart came bellowing out of his office like a mad rhino. "What's all that racket in there? What's goin' on there? What do you people think-?"
He had stormed into the shower room and plowed his way to the edge of the circle before anyone knew what was happening.
His mouth dropped open.
"Good God," he muttered.
Tanya was just as the reader saw her four paragraphs ago, viz., on her knees sucking a lollypop cock.
To her left was Denise, on her back in a pool of water (for her ass was plugging up the drain), her curvy brown legs wrapped around the stark white buttocks of a wiry athletic type who was going at it like a pile-driver, apparently heedless of the hard tile floor against which his knees were knocking.
The redhead was on her hands and knees very close to Denise and her mount. She, Sylvia, was getting it from behind, dog-style-and loving it. Her partner had her big dark-nippled freckle-faced tits clutched tightly in his hands, and the wet slaps of his belly against her speckled butt suddenly seemed very loud in the hush which had fallen over the room.
After a few moments of stuttering-which delighted the Phantom who had never heard Clagheart stutter before-the coach erupted into shaky but loud coherence: "Out! Everybody outa here! On the double-!"
A string of such phrases, which relied on volume for effect and in the midst of which Clagheart's voice broke several times, sufficed to cleat all the "unzapped" youths from the shower room. The others, torn between the power of the ring and their fear of Clagheart, hesitated, looking from the man to the girls. Some of them Clagheart heaved out the door bodily, and the rest eventually followed. A word from the Phantom, of course, would have sent them swarming over the coach like a pack of wolves, but that was not what the Phantom had in mind.
Now only the three couples remained, oblivious to everything but the sex act in which they were locked. Clagheart clapped a hammerlock on Tanya's partner, and the boy's cock made a slurping pop as it was jerked from the girl's mouth. A similar hold served to disengage the second boy from the blonde's lurching scissor-grip, and a rabbit punch incapacitated Sylvia's rider, who happened to be right in the middle of his orgasm.
When the shower room was empty except for the panting girls and the wheezing coach, the latter, leaning in the doorway, barked, "I want everybody (gasp!) dressed and outa here (cough! wheeze!) in thirty seconds! (Pant! gasp!) Thirty seconds! You got that? And don't think (puff! groan!), don't think you're gettin' away with this, cause (whew!) you ain't-I mean you're not!"' Then he turned and looked at the girls, his bulldog face red as an apple. They were still on the floor, pouting and eyeing the coach with hungry eyes. He tried to keep his gaze on their faces, but had a great deal of difficulty with it. He said: "All right, girls, now I want to know who's responsible for this. If you think because of what happened this morning, everybody can just, bla bla bla, bark bark bark, yappity, yappity yap... " During this tirade, the Phantom murmured to the girls: "Don't let that nasty son of a bitch get near you! Don't have anything to do with him. He's a psychopath, a killer, a rapist, an ex-Marine!" Hearing this, they edged backward and stood up, flattening themselves against the wall with terrified expressions on their faces.
"... and I mean to find out... Now, what's the matter with you kids? What kind o' act is-? Eh!"
The Phantom had just clamped his right hand around the back of Clagheart's bull neck.
"Clagheart," said the Phantom, "this is Emmet Kline speaking. You are a lecherous bully and a slimy rapist. Isn't that right?"
"Y-yes, Mr. Kline!"
"I thought so," replied the Phantom, "you See that blonde with the tan? Her name is Denise. Nice, isn't she? You like big tits like that, Clagheart?-and blonde cunt hair?"
"Yeah!"
"All right then, you rotten son of a bitch, I want you to fuck her. She'll probably run from you, you're so ugly-Oh, God, you're ugly, Clagheart! Wow! You have a face like a toad, don't you, Clagheart?"
"Yeah, I do, Mr. Kline."
"Anyway, Clagheart, I want you to chase her down and rape her! Fuck her till her head rattles! Understand?"
"I gotcha, Mr. Kline!" whispered Clagheart, dropping into a crouch and advancing on Denise, who cringed with loathing just looking at him. About four feet from the girls, he stopped and said, "Hey, Denise, I got somethin' for that little blonde cunt o'yours, honey. Wanta see it?"
"No!" she hissed with fear and disgust; and the Phantom was again reminded of the time Mr. Kline had approached the girl in the park and was spurned. "Get away from me, you creep!"
"I'm gonna show it to ya anyway, baby," said Clagheart, gulling off his trunks. The three girls shrieked with horror when he removed his jockstrap and rose up before them, his cock throbbing and his crew cut bristling. He looked like a bear in track shoes.
He made a lunge for Denise, but she screamed and dodged past him, huddling in a corner with Sylvia and Tanya. Clagheart gathered himself and sprang again, but this time he slipped on the wet tiles and fell flat on his face at the girls' feet.
"Run for it!" said the Phantom.
They leapt over the floundering Clagheart and dashed through the door into the locker room. Needless to say, the boys were still there. They parted for the girls as the Red Sea parted for the Jews, and the Pharaoh followed close behind, thundering and, puffing like a freight train. It was just as this desperate chase burst through the outer doors of the locker room that the last bell rang, and school was let out.
The locker rooms are about a hundred yards from the main building of the school and separated from it by a broad lawn without trees, hedges or shrubs. This lawn is traversed-or was the last time the writer was there, which happens to have been this very day he is describing-by a concrete walkway, one branch of which leads to the locker rooms and on beyond to the parking lot beside the football field, another of which leads to the parking lot beside the gym. Every day, seconds after the final bell rings, both branches of this walk are choked with fleeing students racing for their cars. This Monday (which will long be remembered by students and faculty alike) was no exception.
The rushing column had already reached the fork-about halfway across the lawn-and split in twain, when Clagheart, charging up from the opposite direction, wearing only his T-shirt and track shoes, lance at the ready, made a flying leap for Denise's knees and brought her down in the crotch of this split path.
It would not be proper, then, to say that this rape scene drew a crowd, for the crowd was already there waiting as it began. The Phantom was delighted; he couldn't have planned it any better.
There was a lot of commotion, but the only sounds louder than Denise's screams, as her assailant bullied her into position, were those of Sylvia and Tanya as they plunged into the thick of the crowd, yelling, "Help! Help! He's after us!" These two were then swallowed up, and the Phantom lost sight of them.
Almost instantly-upon pinning Denise's arms and forcing her legs open-Clagheart had his shaft up her straw-bearded hole, a feat which some, it is said, wondered about later. Lest credit be given to one who does not deserve it, namely, Clagheart, the writer must inform the reader (whom he hopes was present that day) that without the Phantom's help Coach Clumsy would never have gotten it in.
Another surprise for the viewers was that once Clagheart got his ass going, Denise ceased her struggles and made it a joint effort, so to speak. This, too, was due to a word from the Phantom. At the same time some of the bolder fellows had overcome their fear of Clagheart and rushed in to lay hands on him, but when Denise protested this intrusion, they stopped and looked at each other with confusion, not knowing what to do.
"No! Oh, don't!" she cried, wrapping her arms around Clagheart's neck, "Please! Leave us alone, go away, mm, ah, ah, ah, ah... " This only served to keep her rescuers at bay for a few minutes, or less, but it was time enough.
Clagheart fastened his lips to one of those mahogany nipples, gripped the cheeks of her golden ass in his powerful hands, lifting it off the grass, gathered his knees under him and drove his fat cock into her drooling cunt with such fury that the very ground shook.
They came at the same time, and Clagheart's grunts were as loud as Denise's squeals, but it was then that the students came to their senses and rushed in. Clagheart was dragged off the girl at the height of his climax, and the semen flew: one burst filled the narrow hollow between Denises heaving suntanned tits, another hit a nearby girl in the face, and, in general, few escaped unspotted.
Someone stepped on the Phantom's toe, and he missed the actual subduing of the coach.
The crowd had become a mob, and the Phantom lost his bearings. The next thing he knew there were sirens, and then the police came clubbing their way through the throng.
The naked girls were wrapped in blankets and escorted to the infirmary. Clagheart, similarly shrouded, was clapped in irons and dragged away to jail. The Phantom could hear his frantic protests fading away in the distance: "Wait! It wasn't my fault! Mr. Kline told me to do it! Mr. Kline told me to do it! Mr. Kline told me... " The Phantom fell down on the grass and laughed himself sick.
CHAPTER TEN - HOW HE LIVED AND A PIECE IN THE PARK
During these first days of his "phantomhood", as he might call it, Emmet the Obscure found his life wonderfully free of such problems as food and drink, shelter, transportation, and all those simple necessities which bind men hand and foot, enslave them body and soul-the reader, no doubt, included. Was the Phantom hungry? He had but to enter a restaurant, tap a waiter on the shoulder with his ring finger, order a duck a l'orange or a goose stuffed with chestnuts, or whatever he might be in the mood for, and ask him to leave it behind the building. The Phantom would then take this repast to an isolated spot and devour it at his leisure. Did he wish to go some place? He had but to hop into a car, "zap" the driver and name his destination. Sleepy? A bed was never far away, and since none were denied him, he chose only those with the softest mattresses and the prettiest girls. He never slept alone. The first night, for instance, as the reader knows, he slept with his ex-student Kathy Ryan; the second night, as he promised, he slept with Rosy Clink at her parents' house; Tuesday night he sought out the suntanned blonde (Clagheart's "victim"), Denise Floyd, and slept with her, and so on. Moreover, he never chose "small but adequate" rooms for his temporary quarters; only the most spacious and luxurious would satisfy him. If there was a time which Mr. Kline had disliked above all others, it was the morning. (The reader may remember that he always started his day with a greasy egg.) For the Phantom, on the other hand, mornings were grand times, begun usually with a piece of ass and topped off with strawberry crepes or jam croissants. As for clothes, the one luxury he was forced to forego on penalty of being discovered, he found them quite unnecessary in the warm Florida climate and has never yet quite taken for granted the pleasant thrill of walking through a busy shopping center or along a crowded sidewalk bare-ass naked. This, then, was, and is, how he, the Phantom, I, Kline the Naked, lived, and lives; then as now.
One day, a typical one, the Phantom woke up in a fancy motel over on the beach. He woke up there, of course, for the simple reason that he had gone to sleep there; he only put it in that way to convey something of the freshness of each day in his new life. For upon waking, he was never quite sure for a moment where he was. This was due to the fact that he seldom slept in the same place twice. He would then orient himself by first looking at the girl beside him, then at the room around him. That is what he did on the morning of this particular day, which, while typical as he has said, was to see a certain shift in the Phantom's thinking-a subtle shift perhaps, but one which was to turn him in the direction of the ultimate in erotic pleasure, a pleasure the horizon of which may be, even as he writes this, about to heave into his view. What is this pleasure? Dare he, pen the word? Ah! but the Phantom dares all, does he not? The word then?
Omniscience.
Ah.
He threw back the sheet and rubbed his eyes. Ah, yes, the blonde. She was sprawled out on her back, one knee bent, one arm over her head. The early sunlight filtering through the thin curtains gave a lovely luster to the deep brown pile of her bush, which cast a soft shadow onto the pale, gentle curve of her lower belly. Her navel was a deep shaded well, undulating with her breathing, and her large mauve nipples moved like buoys on a gentle sea with the peaceful swell and fall of her melon-shaped breasts. Around her head, her disheveled platinum hair made a kind of tangled halo full of trapped sunlight. On her beautiful calm face was the smile of satisfaction to which the Phantom had become accustomed. This same smile-each time on a different face-greeted him every morning.
"I wonder what they dream about?" he said to himself. He put his hand between her legs. Her slit was still moist enough to give easy passage to his finger as it slithered up the hole...
Her smile broadened, and she stretched luxuriously without opening her eyes. The Phantom licked her lips, and when her tongue came out, he licked that, too. Then he slipped his finger from her cunt and put it into her mouth, and she sucked it. What was her name?...
"Emily," she murmured sleepily, her hand going for the Phantom's cock.
"Ah," said the Phantom, "Go and open the drapes, Emily."
It had been with the middle finger of his right hand, of course, that the Phantom had probed her body; after several hours, a booster was necessary.
Emily got out of bed and threw open the curtains. Her naked body was a blaze of snow-white flesh in the wave of yellow light which flooded the room. That whole wall-the east one-was nothing but a great glass sliding door; this was all that separated the motel room from the open court contained by the U-shaped building. The court was taken up largely by the usual swimming pool surrounded by umbrella tables and lounge chairs. A few early rising guest were already stretched out on these chairs; some were in the pool; others were coming out of their rooms. All the women wore bikinis, and .most of the men were pot-bellied. It was a typical Florida motel.
"Open the door, Emily," said the Phantom.
The sound of the curtains opening had not attracted any attention on the patio, and the Phantom noticed that no one saw the voluptuous naked girl standing there in the bright sunlight, staring out over the blue sea beyond the open end of the court; but the noise of the nylon rollers in their aluminum tracks as the door slid back caused several people to glance in that direction. They all did double-takes.
A sort of groan behind him reminded the Phantom of the girl's husband. There he was, still curled up in the corner where the Phantom had sent him late the previous evening. He was waking up.
The Phantom hopped off the bed and went over to him, but before he got there, the man had opened his eyes and looked up (through the Phantom) to see his wife, stark naked, leaning there in the open doorway, legs spread a little, one hand on her hip, facing the admiring stares of the men and women on the patio.
His mouth fell open, and he drew breath for a shout, but the Phantom patted him on top of the head and said, "Relax, kid. Give me a few more minutes with her, and she's all yours. Go back to sleep, I'll wake you when we're through."
"Oh," said the man, yawning and stretching out on the rug, "Okay. Have fun." And he went back to sleep.
The Phantom chuckled and returned to the bed. "Come, on, Emily," he said, "let's fuck. Better close that, we're losing the air conditioning."
She turned, all smiles, shut the door and joined him.
What does she see? the Phantom wondered. Rather, what does she think she sees? Not me, not a rat-faced man; but what? And then- he looked at the sunbathers outside, shifting their positions so they could watch the naked blonde climbing into bed- what do they think?
At this time these were only passing thoughts, scraps of thoughts.
The bed paralleled the glass wall and stood only four or five feet from it, and since the curtains were open all the way and the room was full of sunlight, everyone on the patio had a ringside seat as Emily, following the Phantom's instructions, propped her ass up on two fat pillows, so that the lustrous shag on her hump gleamed at the summit of her body, and spread her legs for him.
He looked from face to face as his cock drove in and out of her cunt. Some looked shocked, some embarrassed, some delighted, some aroused; some of the faces were a blank; all held secrets.
What did they think when they saw the bed bouncing up and down, that jumping cunt, those twitching thighs, those moving tits, that expression of erotic ecstasy on her face? Perhaps they thought it was a sexual trance of some kind, masturbation with no hands, or something of that sort. The Phantom was amused but at the same time vaguely annoyed by these speculations.
He brought the girl rapidly into her orgasm, pumped his morning load into her, and dismounted, leaving her draped over the pillows, panting with satisfaction. Wiping his cock on the sheet-discreetly, for he never sought to give clues to his invisible presence where the "unzapped" were concerned-the Phantom again approached the husband and tapped him on the head.
"All right, kid," he said, "go get it."
The young man got to his feet and went straight for the curtains.
"No, no," said the Phantom, "leave them open. Hurry up, off with those pants!" (For the boy had been just about to drop his trousers and hop in bed when the Phantom had arrived on the scene.) "Emily is waiting for you."
He looked at her, his eyes lighting up, and said, "Yeah! She sure is, isn't she?" He leaped out of his pants and bounded into bed. It seemed to the Phantom that all the people on the patio gasped as one when they saw that stiff prick drive into that hairy hole. But this at least they understood, eh?
The Phantom left, chuckling to himself. The first thing he saw as he went out was the hand-painted banner taped to the bumper of the car parked in front of the door. JUST MARRIED, it read. The Phantom almost laughed out loud.
After a leisurely breakfast of Roquefort cheese, Maraschino cheeries, black bread and white wine the Contented Unseen set out in the general direction of West Rodriguez.
Crossing the bridge he met two teenaged girls on their way to the beach. He gave them each a pat on their bare tummies and said, "Take off your tops, girls! Get some sun on those tits!"
"Yeah, let's," said one.
"Why not?" said the other.
And the one untied the other, and the other unhooked the one, and off they went down the bridge, wearing only their bikini bottoms, their bare little titties jiggling as they walked. The Phantom delighted in such pranks. Upon reaching the west shore, he noted that his erection was fully restored to its usual splendor.
Around mid-morning the Phantom went into a coffee shop and had a cup of coffee in the kitchen. The waitress was a cute little brunette with oversize tits. The Phantom made her take off her uniform-a short-skirted dress of translucent material-remove her underwear, put the dress back on, and return to the counter with everything showing. It created quite a stir among the customers. Her nipples, her black bush, her belly button, the crack of her plump little butt, everything was in plain sight, only slightly blurred by the pink dress. When he had finished his coffee, the Phantom fucked her in the kitchen-with the door open.
Later, walking along the sidewalk, he spied a sexy-looking wench wearing hip-hugger bellbottoms and an off-the-shoulder, bare midriff titty-skirt, if the reader knows what the writer means: one of those free-hanging things which make rat-faced men pray for an updraft. She had long black hair tied in two pigtails. The Phantom noticed the faint smile on her face every time a man stared at her. Well, he thought, since you enjoy being looked at so much, why not give us something to look at? And coming up behind her, he reached under the chopped-off blouse and unhooked her bra, which of course, being strapless, fell to the sidewalk. The Phantom kicked it into the gutter. The girl whirled around to see who had done this dastardly deed, but the Phantom slid his right hand up between her free swinging tits and said, "Don't worry about it, bitch, you look better without it." The reader should have seen how those heavy boobs swung and bounced as she walked on down the street. After a while, he pulled the elastic top of the garment down her arms until it was stretched across her bosom at mid-nipple, the upper disks of her tan aureoles peeking over the edge. It wasn't long before she caused a traffic jam. The Phantom could stand it no longer; he took her into a department store restroom and fucked her. Several women came in while this fuck was in progress; they left in a hurry.
After lunch, the Phantom look a snooze in the park, as was his custom. He dreamed of Zama. She was standing at the edge of the sea, rolling her silver-bushed cunt, her shining hair blowing about her face, her huge tits all aglow against the night sky. She beckoned to the Phantom, but before he could reach the spot, she had turned and disappeared into the gloomy surf. A noise made him open his eyes, and he found a pussy staring him in the face.
A girl was sitting on the bench opposite his, her legs spread a little, her arms stretched out along the tack of the bench. She seemed deep in thought. She wore a mini-skirt and a crocheted shell. Through the nylon crotch of her panties the Phantom could see the slit of her cunt, and the shadow of her nipples inside her white lace bra was only slightly obscured by the thin shell. Her breasts were full and rounded, and there were little dimples in her knees when she straightened them out. There was something familiar about her, but the Phantom could not, so to speak, put his finger on it.
This was in a rather out-of-the-way corner, screened from the road by a hedge and partially set off from the rest of the park by a scattering of shrubs and coconut palms. It was obvious that the girl considered herself quite alone and out of sight.
As the Phantom propped up his head to look at her vertically, she moved her hands from the back of the bench to her knees; her upper arms squeezing her tits together in a delightful way. Her face was still tilted slightly upward, and there was a strange light in her sea blue eyes-as though she were looking for something in the sky, perhaps-a yearning, nostalgic, unmistakably erotic light. She pushed her knees wider apart and drew her hands slowly up the insides of her thighs, forcing her skirt up to her crotch. Her fingers pressed against the soft cheeks of her cunt and continued up over her belly and the front of her shell, stopping when they reached her bust. She clutched her tits tightly and said: "Oh, come back to me, spirit! I don't care if you're a devil or an angel, just come back to me! Please! Come back and enter my body again... " This passionate plea or prayer or whatever it was gave the Phantom something of a jolt. The girl blushed, apparently at the sound of her own voice, at hearing her thoughts voiced aloud, and the blush made her absolutely radiant from, head to toe.
The Phantom realized that for him the day had ceased to be a typical one.
The girl glanced around nervously to see if anyone had seen or heard her. She released her breasts and ran her fingers through her thick blonde hair-but her legs remained open. She straightened and stretched them, digging her toes into the grass. Her sandals lay on the bench beside her.
The Phantom reached out with his right hand to touch her cunt with his ring finger. He hesitated. Something was different here; he felt he was missing something. He had the feeling that if he zapped her as usual, had his fun and fucked her, he would have blown some chance, some new pleasure. He drew back his hand and said: "I am here."
"Oh!" The girl sat bolt upright and looked right at him-right into the Phantom's eyes.
It gave him the creeps, he admits it.
He said, "Can you see me?" He was actually unsure for the first time since he had put the ring on his finger.
"Oh, yes!" she said, her voice scarcely more than a breath, "Perfectly! Oh, you've come back to me! You heard my call?"
"Yes."
"But why have you waited so long? Every day I've called you, many times a day. Why did you keep me waiting so long?"
The Phantom, unable to think of anything else to say, said, "There are others."
The girl hung her head for a minute and thought that over. Then she said, "I don't care! I don't care how many there are, as long as I'm one of them... Please, tell me your name."
The Phantom thought for a minute and said, "Dionysus."
"Dionysus! My beautiful Dionysus!"
"Tell me," said the Phantom, "what do you see? How do I appear to you? "
"You have fine delicate features. A straight-nose, dark eyes, long black hair... " The Phantom put a hand to the back of his neck and thought, By God, it is getting long. He had not cut it since his disappearance. It is conceivable that out of politeness she does not mention my bald dome. But my nose is not straight, and my eyes are not dark. They are no darker-or were no darker-than they were light. Nor is my hair black. She is only giving a mental impression after all. The Phantom was relieved.
"... and your skin is like alabaster, and your- Oh, but how can a girl like me describe a god? "
"So you really can see me. What about my cock?"
"Oh, that's your best... Oh!" she blinked her eyes and put her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, this can't be real. Can it? It was a dream before-wasn't it? But this is no dream. I'm awake. Something is... different... Are you... really there?"
"Yes, I'm here. What is your name?"
"Julie."
"Tell me about our first meeting, Julie. Tell me as if I didn't remember."
"But... I'm confused now. Sometimes it seems like something that really happened, and sometimes it seems like a dream." She pressed her knees together and hugged her breasts. "I'm frightened." The Phantom saw a shiver pass through her body.
"Don't be frightened. Tell me about your dream. And-" The Phantom hesitated; there was something disturbing about this; he was half inclined to go ahead and put the zap on her; she seemed so innocent, somehow; it was annoying... "And don't close your legs like that. I can't see your pussy."
She blushed and spread her legs again. A few blonde curls sprang out at the edges of the narrow nylon crotch. The resumption of this attitude, rather than increasing her embarrassment, seemed to restore her boldness. She smiled, stretched her arms once more along the back of the bench, stretching the front of her shell tightly across her prominent tits, closed her eyes, and said: "One Sunday, about two months ago, I was at a church picnic with my parents and a lot of other people over at Croton Park-" Ah! It was coming back to him: the blonde in the red bikini!
"-I was swimming in the little lake with the other kids when they called us. The preacher was going to give a sunset service. I was out farther than the others, and so I was the last to come in. I didn't want to come in; it was so nice out there on the raft, watching the sky change colors. I felt sort of... spiritual, like I was in love with everything-the lake, the sky, the clouds, the trees, my body, everything. That was when you came to me. Ever since then, I've tried to bring back that same feeling, hoping it would bring you back. Is that what attracted you to me-that spiritual frame of mind I was in?"
"Yes," said the Phantom, adding in a lower tone, "partly that." This was a lie, of course; what had attracted him to her was the size of her tits and the brevity of her bathing suit, each of which exceeded by far those of the other girls. "But tell me more-exactly how it happened. Pretend it was someone else and not I."
"All right. I had just come out of the water when you-when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Oh, such a feeling! It made my spine tingle. I looked but saw no one. The hand was still on my shoulder, but I couldn't see it... I should tell you that after you went away that night I didn't remember anything. They came and found me and asked me what happened-who did it? What did he look like? Oh, a thousand questions! They thought I had been raped, you see. But I could tell them nothing, my mind was a blank. For a week or more it was like that. Then I began to dream about it, about... him. Each time it was the same, the same feelings, the same wonderful sensations, and each time a few more details would be added. That was how I was able to finally remember it-by remembering the dreams. So you see, I was never really sure until now that it had really happened. Oh, but I never lost faith that you-that he-would come back to me! And now you've come!"
So that's how it works, thought the Phantom. At least that's how it worked with this one. "Go on," he said, "exactly how did this hand affect you?"
"Well, the feeling it gave me-it was like... Well, I won't hold anything back from you. Probably you know anyway. Before that night, I had a boyfriend. I liked him a lot, and I used to let him make love to me. He wasn't very experienced-kind of clumsy, too-and so I always had to help him... " The blush again.
"Find the hole?" prompted the Phantom, "You can speak freely, Julie."
"Yes, I had to put it in for him, and always before I did it, I would give myself a little rub with it, you know? "
"Yes, yes-"
"Well, that's the way it felt."
"What?"
"The Hand-your hand."
"Ah! Then it felt like a rub on the clit?"
"Only better. But that's the nearest I can come to describing it."
Well, I'll be damned, thought the Phantom, No wonder they melt to my touch. "You're doing fine," he said, "Please continue."
"For a long time-at least it seemed like a long time-I just stood there, looking at the sunset. Later, some of the girls told my parents that they looked back and saw me standing there like a statue, and that they called me, but I didn't seem to hear them. I must not have. I don't remember any of that. The service was beginning, so they went on without me. All I remember is the way your-the way his hands moved over my body.
"I was wearing a red bikini, and the bra straps were tied in a bow behind my neck. The first thing the hand did was slip under my hair and untie the bow. Then both his hands were on my sides, sliding up under my arms. Oh, they were so warm and smooth, those hands! I can't describe how they felt as they moved across my skin. It was so-oh!-" The Phantom had reached out and caressed the inside of her thigh with his left hand. "Like that?
"Yes... Oh, don't stop, please!"
The Phantom withdrew his hand. "Later," he said, "First you must tell me of your experience. Tell me everything. What did the hands do next?"
"They began to stroke my breasts. It was so strange and wonderful. If anyone-I mean a stranger-came up behind me and started playing with my tits like that, naturally I would have stopped him. But I had no will whatsoever to put up a fight. In fact, I could only think how good it felt. When all this came back to me, I could hardly believe the way I acted. I mean, here was something, something I couldn't even see, something invisible, a spirit, a devil, a ghost-I mean, it could have been anything. But none of those thoughts entered my head. It seemed somehow perfectly right and natural-a wonderful, beautiful experience of physical and spiritual love... Can you... will you make it that way again?"
"I can and I will. Later. Go on."
"... While his hands were on my breasts I could feel him between my buttocks, pressing, twitching, rubbing up and down the crack of my ass, and those hands squeezing my tits, going inside my bra and pinching my nipples, and then they slid down my body, over my stomach, my waist, my hips-"
"Show me."
"Like this," she said, running her hands slowly down her body to her crotch and pressing her fingers against her cunt as before. Her eyes were getting smoky and dreamy. "And they went inside my bikini, like this-" She raised her cute little butt momentarily off the bench and jerked her miniskirt up to her waist, almost in the same motion plunging both hands into the front of her panties. Her outer fingers came out at the lacy edges of the crotch, and the Phantom could see her two middle and forefingers playing up and down her fuzzy slit. The nylon panties concealed nothing.
"-and put his fingers into my pussy... like this... Oh, and he knew just how to do it! How could I ever go back to Jerry's clumsy paws after that?"
"You mean to say you haven't been fucked for two months? A pretty girl like you?"
"I've been waiting for you, Dionysus. I knew you'd come back."
"You shouldn't have done that. I haven't waited for you, you know. I can't count the pieces of ass I've had in the last two months."
"I don't care," she said stubbornly, "and anyway, it wasn't anything I forced on myself. I just don't want anybody but you, that's all."
This kind of talk-to which her narrative kept returning like a yo-yo-was beginning to give the Phantom an irritating itch in the vicinity of his sphincter. This role of Dionysus, so soon begun, was already becoming something of a price to pay for getting the inside scoop. But again he urged her to continue.
"He untied my bra and threw it into the lake. There were some tables under the trees. He turned me in that direction and said, 'Come'. It was getting dark. I guess the others couldn't see me from the amphitheater, but I wouldn't have cared if they could. I had a strange feeling of actually wanting someone to see me, walking along in the open like that with my tits bare. I remember wishing there were some picnickers at the tables, or that a car would come down the road and shine its lights on me."
These feelings were reflections of the Phantom's, through the power of the ring. Ordinarily, he would have seen to it that an audience of some kind would be on hand, but on this particular occasion he had only wanted a quiet piece of pussy before dinner, nothing elaborate.
"When we reached the tables, he put his hand inside the seat of my suit and said, 'Take it off.' I was only too willing. We-"
"Are you willing now?"
"Oh, yes! Can I?"
"Just remove your underwear."
"I'd remove my skin if you asked me to!"
"That won't be necessary."
The Phantom didn't want the story interrupted by an indecent exposure arrest; at the same time he was ready for a little fun. He compromised.
Julie hoisted her shell up over her tits and slipped her arms from the armholes. With the blouse hanging from her neck she reached back and unhooked her bra. It slid from her arms and she tucked it into her purse. Pulling the shell down over her bosom again, she stood up and stepped out of her panties. In the few seconds before she smoothed her skirt down over her hips the Phantom got his first unobstructed view of her cunt in full daylight. Truly, it was a delightful thing to see. Her maidenhair-though it did not cover very much area, forming an almost perfect egg-shaped oval with its lower edge halfway down her slit, its upper edge just below the rise of her mound and its outer limits scarcely reaching to the creases where the cheeks of her vulva met the insides of her petal-soft thighs-was nonetheless quite dense, its depth being almost as great as its width, which again put one in mind of an egg, an egg of hair with its bottom half-split open. Its color was that slightly brownish buff common among many natural blondes, always a shade darker than the hair on their heads unless bleached or given a lot of sun, like the beach girls whom Mr. Kline used to watch from his crow's nest. But the thing that the Phantom found especially appealing was the fact that the strands of hair were not as curly as average cunt hair; some, mostly those along the "keel" of the egg and along the upper lips of her pussy, were perfectly straight, and their tufts were like those of a goat's beard. Altogether, it was an intriguing twat.
The crocheted shell was now nothing more than an airy latticework over the bare skin of her perfect tits. Her nipples were like rosy little flowers, and the knobs protruded through the holes in the mesh. She looked down at the front of her body and smiled, touching her exposed nipples with the tips of her fingers. The Phantom watched them swell and grow stiff to her touch. His cock had begun to leak. He smeared the oil secretions over the shank and said: "Come, Julie, sit on my lap."
"I thought you'd never ask!"
He took her hand and guided her in, sitting on his right hand to keep it out of the way. A "zap", he felt certain, would erase the precarious memory of her first encounter with the Phantom. As soon as she was on her knees on the bench, astraddle the Phantom's hips, she reached for his cock and started to put it in her already juicy hole, but the Phantom deflected his lance and said: "Wait. You'll never finish the story that way."
"But... you know what happened. Can't we make love now, Dionysus? "
"I know what happened, yes, but I want to hear it from your side; I want to know what was happening in your mind."
"In my mind? There was nothing in my mind. It was my heart that was full."
The Phantom almost zapped her then and there! This was revolting! It disgusted him to hear such drivel. He had a momentary impulse to ** and be done with this.
** [This entire sentence is scratched out in the ms.; only the beginning and end of it can be made out. No doubt the "impulse" was to run for it, to get out of reach of this new emotion which threatened to put the screw's on Kline's personal brand of eroticism, which sought to dominate the mind and the body, but on which the heart had the effect of a cold douche. The passage was deleted, as I see it, because Kline did not wish to admit of this fear, this Achilles' heel, to his readers. One thing is certain from his re-encounter with Julie: In the "Phantom's" brave new world of unfettered sex, whether real-or imagined, love was anathema. RJ.S.]
He got her back on the track by rubbing her clit with the head of his cock. Her mouth came open, and a little drool of ecstasy appeared at the corner of her lips. He bit one of her nipples through the shell until tears came to her eyes, and then said: "Now, what happened after you took your suit off?"
"I stretched out on a table, face up, and he spread my legs and started licking my pussy. Oh, such pleasure! It was like an electric current going through me! The sound of his tongue was like music to my ears. When I came, it was like the whole world had been sucked into a whirlpool, everything spinning around and around...
"The next thing I remember is when he got on me and put his cock in my pussy. I had never had one that big-never had anything that big in me! And it went so deep! Oh, and the way it throbbed and-and-oh, I can't describe it! I was caught in a ball of fire! I just wanted to fuck and fuck and fuck and nothing else. That was all there was to the world, just that wonderful, wonderful fuck you were giving me, and when you came, it was like I was flooded by an ocean of love-!"
The Phantom had heard enough. He jerked his right hand from under his ass and jabbed his ringfinger up her cunt to the knuckle.
He could see her mind melting as he probed her juicy hole. She was all cunt now, and that was the way he liked it. To look at her now, and to remember how she was that night at the other park was to see clearly that all that sentimental shit had been added after the fact-or after the fuck, as one might say. It was nothing more than a romantic rationalization of a haunting memory so strange and bizarre that to remember it as it really happened would no doubt have threatened her sanity. Yes, that had to be it. It was no good, then, to probe memories; they were unreliable. What the Phantom really desired was to be in the cunt and in the mind at the same time...
For the present, however, he contented himself with the former.
He pushed his cock down along the drooling lips of her cunt until it slipped into the hole, and then pulled her ass down hard on his lap, skewering her on his ghostly pole. She whimpered with pleasure and began to bounce as though she had springs in her butt.
"How do you like that, you little slut?" he grunted.
"Oh! I love it!" she gasped in reply.
"Take off your blouse so I can suck your tits."
"Yes, yes!"
She almost tore it off. The Phantom let her flying tits batter him in the face as she drove at him like a wildcat. She was a beautiful bundle of naked lust, frantic and insatiable. He caught a tit with his hand, clamped his lips over the swollen nipple and held on until her violent lurches broke the suction and tore it free.
He laughed aloud and leaned back to watch that hairy egg rolling and thrusting and bubbling and foaming as though it were generating its own motion, as though no cock were there, as though she were engaged in some furious psycholunetic masturbation, all by herself on a park bench in broad daylight, thoroughly carried away by some insane passion. All the Phantom's former irritation was swept away, and he was his old self again.
When he felt the first spasm of her release, he clutched her pounding buttocks and filled her cunt with a load of semen so copious the overflow spurted out around his prick and dripped onto the bench, so that to anyone who had been watching it would have looked as though the girl were having an ejaculation.
As the Phantom was leaving the park, a movie theater marquee down a side street happened to catch his eye. He stopped and looked back at the girl. She was just visible between two hibiscus bushes, sprawled luxuriously on the grass, happily oblivious to where she was, stark naked except for the miniskirt, which was still wadded up around her waist. After a moment's thought the Phantom reentered the park.
"Put on your blouse, Julie," he said, tickling her slit with his toe, "we're going to the movie."
CHAPTER ELEVEN - A GANGBANG AT THE FIREBIRD
"LUST FOR RENT" That was what was playing at the Firebird Theater that afternoon. To write the name of that theater inspires in the writer something vaguely resembling nostalgia-or perhaps it is nausea. In any case, he, I, the said writer, remembers well how Mr. Kline used to leave his spy hole around noon on Saturdays, treat himself to a greasy hot dog and take in the matinee at the Firebird.
It was his idea of a good time-or at the very least a respite.
It was his custom to sit on the back row where, he could manipulate himself as it were without being seen. He loved the darkness of a theater, the cool, obscuring, neutralizing darkness. Next to the concealment of his perch at the beach, he loved the anonymity of darkness. They showed only sex movies at the Firebird, and Mr. Kline usually sat through them twice. It was during the second go-around as a rule that he treated himself to an orgasm. In those days he was good for one in the morning and one in the afternoon: that would do him in until late evening, at which time, if he felt up to it, he would prowl the alleys in the vicinity of Smith Apartments. If he were lucky enough to- Ah, but he rambles.
One day, during the second show at the Firebird, a young couple groped their way up the aisle toward the rear of the theater. They entered the second row from the top, one down from Mr. Kline, who quickly shoved his cock back into his fly. But he needn't have bothered; he was in the very corner of the house, the darkest corner to boot, and the couple, who had just come in out of the daylight, could not even see the seats, let alone Mr. Kline.
Mr. Kline, however, could see them quite well. The sight of the girl and the knowledge of what she would see on the screen greatly increased his arousal and hence his erection. She was wearing a tight-fitting knit mini-shift, sleeveless with a very low, scoop neckline. Her tits filled up the front of this sexy dress to its maximum capacity and overflowed at the top in great shadowy swells deeply creased in the middle. Even in the gloom Mr. Kline was fairly certain she wore no bra. The hem of the skirt gripped her legs well above mid-thigh.
He held his breath as they felt their way along the row. They went all the way over to the wall before they sat down.
Right in front of Mr. Kline.
The theater was not crowded yet, and there was hardly anyone at all in this corner-except the man and the girl and Mr. Kline.
Well, thought Mr. Kline, they haven't come all the way back here for nothing!
Careful not to make any sound that would give away his presence, Mr. Kline settled back to see what would happen. He wanted to lean forward in order to look down the front of the girl's dress, but he was afraid his seat would squeak.
On the screen, an orgy was just getting underway. A girl was dancing, peeling off her party dress. She danced around the room, shaking her naked tits in the faces of the other couples, who were busily undressing each other. You could see her cunt hair through her panties. The girl in front of Mr. Kline whispered something to the man who laughed softly. When one of the men sitting on the floor reached up and pulled down the panties of the girl who had been dancing, the camera zoomed in on her hairy hump, and the girl in the knit shift giggled. Her boy friend slid his hand along the back of her seat and inside her neckline, easing it off her shoulder.
Aha, thought Mr. Kline, no strap.
Meanwhile, the girl who had just had her pants pulled off had reciprocated by pulling off the pants of the man who had done it, and they were both on the floor, naked, simulating a fuck-although in these cases Mr. Kline liked to think they were actually doing it. Around the room, all the other girls were bare chested and some of them were bare assed. There was a lot of hair and tit.
As the couple watched all this, their hands began to wander, and it was obvious that they hadn't an inkling of Mr. Kline's presence behind them. Cautiously, he reopened his fly and hauled-if one can be said to "haul" a thing scarcely four inches long-hauled out his prick and began to stroke it slowly.
By the time all the couples on the screen were stripped and linked up in some fashion-one couple was fucking dog-style, another in the "normal" position, another with the girl on top, and two girls were eating each other's box-by this time, the writer recalls, the girl in the knit shift was well on her way out of it. The knit shift, that is. Mr. Kline could see nothing over the back of the seat but blonde hair and bare shoulders. He was just about to edge forward for a peek, when all of a sudden the girl made a passionate noise in her throat and swung a leg across her date, mounting his lap. This put her not only face to face (or tit to face, as one might say) with her boyfriend, but also with Mr. Kline, who tried his best to become a part of the seat in which he was huddled.
The little dress had become nothing but a belt, and either her panties had just been removed, or else she had worn none to begin with, because Mr. Kline could now see the whole smooth clean naked sweep of her hip from waist to thigh. Her big bare tits were firm and lovely, and the dark circles of her nipples bore into Mr. Kline's inflamed eyeballs. At first she kept her head down, watching the man suck at her breasts or holding them in her hands and ramming the nipples into his eyes and such like; but when she rose up and reached between her legs to put him in, she looked up to see Mr. Kline crammed into the corner, clutching his member in his bony hand.
The girl paused in mid-insertion, her mouth open, glaring down at the dirty little spy.
Mr. Kline was frozen. He wanted very badly to tuck his pecker back into his pants, but to move would be to admit that he was a living thing and not some sort of statue, a gargoyle placed there as part of the decor.
But then, to his surprise, a sly smile came over the girl's face, and she settled down on the waiting probe without saying a word to her lover about the presence of Mr. Kline, and her bare ass went into a slow rhythmic rolling undulation which left no doubt as to what was going on.
It was a slow fuck, well laced with kissing, licking, pinching, sucking and whatnot. Every so often, the girl would shoot a glance at Mr. Kline-apparently to make sure he was watching. As if he could have torn his eyes away! After several minutes, when her cunt had become nice and sloppy and the strokes rather noisy, she straightened up on her partner's lap, threw back her shoulders, held her spit-slick tits up for Mr. Kline's benefit and grinned down at him in a .most lascivious way, her cunt slipping and sliding up and down the man's cock all the while.
Mr. Kline did not realize he had started masturbating again until the girl looked straight at his crotch, nodded her head, and winked at him.
So! he said to himself, She wants me to jack off! She wants to watch me!
The reader, unless he or she happens to be small and rat faced, can hardly imagine what a boost this was to the ego of Emmet Kline. That he should inspire anything but disgust and ridicule in the eyes of such a beautiful girl was an unheard-of delight. It was soon to be terminated.
With her boy friend's face buried in her left tit, the girl cupped her right one with her hand and pointed the nipple dead at Mr. Kline. Was this not an invitation? Had the tit itself said, "Touch me," it could not have been plainer, could it?
Mr. Kline put out his hand, thinking, "The moment I touch that nipple I will ejaculate." That moment never came.
It was the girl's idea of a joke; he should have known.
His fingers were only inches from the stiff little knob, when all at once she drew it back, and in its place thrust her middle finger in an obscene gesture, her face twisted in an expression of utter contempt and loathing. That grimace delivered its devastating message with more clarity than the crudest words could have expressed; it said: "Don't you dare touch me, you rat-faced creep!"
Mr. Kline's cock was suddenly a wet fish in his hand-cold, limp and clammy. He zipped up his fly and fled from the theater in shame and humiliation.
Why does the writer recount this agonizing experience of his former life? Because it was the memory of this very experience which flashed through the Phantom's mind when he caught sight of the Firebird's marquee after leaving Julie in the park that afternoon. It occurred to him that there was a striking resemblance between the girl who had so cruelly scorned him and this moony-eyed nymph he had just fucked into a stupor. In fact, it may very well have been the same girl. When he went back and looked at her again, he thought, "Yes, there is hardly any doubt of it. Look at that smile on her face! I have paid her for mockery with ecstasy, the little slut. Perhaps a bit more ecstasy will balance the scales." Whereupon he toed her in the twat and spoke those lines which the reader has already read.
Julie had made quite a spectacle, walking down the street in her fishnet of a shell and her ultra mini-skirt, her bra and panties tucked safely away in her purse. The Phantom would dance ahead up the sidewalk and stop to watch her approach. The jiggling circles of her bright prominent nipples could not have been more in evidence had she been topless. Almost every motorist and pedestrian she passed stopped, or at least slowed down, for a look.
At the theater the ticket girl gave Julie an incredulous once-over and stammered, "I'm sorry, miss, no unaccompanied ladies admitted."
The Phantom touched the ticket girl on the arm with his right hand and whispered something in Julie's ear, whereupon she smiled and said, "Shit! I'm not a lady; I'm a whore."
"Well," replied the ticket girl, "in that case, go right in." They went right in.
The Phantom led Julie to an aisle seat not far from the entrance ramp. He had her cross her legs so that anyone coming up the aisle would have a spectacular view of her ass, and he made sure the hem of her skirt was in her lap, so that her legs were bare to the hip. This done, he put his mouth to her ear and said, "Now, Julie, some men are going to be approaching you in a minute with just one thing on their minds. I want you to be nice to them, give them what they want, only you mustn't leave the theater-understand? "
"Yes, Dionysus," she said sweetly- lovingly!
The Phantom shivered with nausea. What was this? How had that name penetrated the trance? He cursed himself for ever having uttered it. For all her beauty and sexuality, this bitch was getting him down!
He was standing in the aisle, looking down at her. ***
*** [This is followed by the scratched out but faintly legible phrase, "his fists clenched." R.J.S.]
After a moment he bent over, lifted her left knee from her right and hooked it over the left arm of the seat so that her leg dangled in the aisle. This gave her thighs a spread of about thirty degrees, and her hairy egg an obscene and total exposure, crack and all. There was enough filtered light from the nearby entrance to leave no doubt about what she was wearing under her skirt. The Phantom clutched her cunt as one might clutch a cabbage which he was about to cull from the patch, and again he put his lips to her ear: "Your Dionysus, whom you love so dearly, is about to give you away, body and soul, not only to the first comer, but to the second and the third and the fourth and the fifth-as many as want a piece of you! You are going to put on such a lewd and shameless show here in this public place that you will be arrested and taken to jail. There the lesbians will rape you and twist your mind. When you get out, you will not be able to return to your home. Your parents will have disowned you. They think you were raped at Croton Park, but when they learn of your behavior today, they will change their minds; they will think you simply gave it to someone who happened to be there when you wanted to fuck. You will be ostracized from polite society, driven into the streets, you will be a whore, your beauty will fade quickly, you will become rat faced, you will be an old whore, an old rat-faced whore!... It is I, your invisible lover Dionysus, who will do this to you. What do you think of me now? " She said nothing, only looked up at- Me... Oh, God, those eyes! Those hateful moonstruck slut eyes! Why, why do they haunt me so? He turned and moved away from her, brushing the cunt hair from his palm. He leaned against the wall near an exit door and looked at the screen.
It was just like old times. A busty redhead was on her back on a bed, getting her tits sucked by a slim brunette. Soon she would get her cunt sucked, but there would be no good shots of it; you would hear the slurping noises and see the back of the brunette's head going up and down and the redhead's face as she pretended to have an orgasm, but that would be all. Grossly inadequate, thought the Phantom, the rat-faced men should be given their money's worth once in a while.
An idea, you see, was beginning to form in the back of the Phantom's phantomical mind.
Ah, he laughed to himself as he looked about the theater at the huddled isolated faceless forms and remembered how Mr. Kline had crept in like a fugitive, holed up in a dark corner for three or four hours, then had crept out again and stolen away under the cover of night. Ha! His creeping days were over. "The creeping creep has become the striding spook," he said to himself as he launched himself from the wall and strode down the aisle.
There were two couples in the smoking section; he wanted to have a look-see.
It was a foursome, apparently-young marrieds. One look told the Phantom that they were upper middles slumming it at the local skin flick, flaunting their finery in the faces of the rat-men. The row behind them was unoccupied. The Phantom strode up that row and looked down their dresses. Not bad, proper-looking bitches though they were. Nice legs, too. As for their husbands, they wore crewcuts and sportcoats, and the Phantom had a strong urge to piss on their heads. He abstained, however, and after briefly tickling one of the wives at the back of the neck with he head of his cock, he returned to where he had left Julie.
As he had expected, a group had already gathered.
Like flies around a turd, thought the Phantom, perching on the back of a seat, close enough yet out of the way.
A few of the men had gravitated from other parts of the theater, but most of them had followed Julie in from the street They were all around her-it looked like Stonehenge-yet none had spoken or taken the empty seat beside her. What chickenshits they are, thought the Phantom, I suppose I'll have to start the ball rolling.
Down a few rows, and on the other side of the aisle from where Julie was displaying her cunt, sat a rather timid-looking fellow with a dome nearly as bald as the late Mr. Kline's, who, for all his timidity, nevertheless could hardly keep his eyes on the screen, but kept swiveling his head around to gape at that hairy thing. He was not one of those who had followed Julie in from the street, nor had he changed seats to get closer to her; he was obviously much too shy for either of these; he simply happened to be sitting there. It was upon the back of the seat just behind the man that the Phantom was perched. He leaned forward, zapped the skinhead in mid-swivel, and said: "What are you waiting for, old man? Go ahead; don't you know an invitation when you see one? Can't you see that thing winking at you? And look at those nipples popping out! What do you want her to do, get down on her knees and beg for it?"
A lecherous grin spread over his pinched features, and he said, "So! It's me she wants, is it?"
"Now you've got it," whispered the Phantom, "and listen, she's just as anxious as you are; don't wait, give it to her right here."
"Right here?"
"Of course! Don't worry, she'll show you how."
He got to her just in time, for the man behind her was just about to get to his feet and close in for the kill, when Skinhead, to give him a name,, entered the row and sat down beside her, Julie turned to him and smiled. Skinhead smiled back and put his hand on her leg. Julie unhooked her knee from the arm of the seat and leaned against him, pressing his hand between her thighs and letting her elbow slip down into his lap, her hand resting on his knee. The power of the ring notwithstanding, Skinhead trembled all over from these hot contacts. The Phantom knelt on the seat in front of Julie's to watch the fun.
After a few minutes of running her elbow up and down the stiff bulge in his pants, she put her other hand over his-the one between her legs-and parted her thighs, urging his hand up toward her naked crotch, at the same time raising her lips to his ear: "Would you like to fuck me?" she whispered.
His nod was almost imperceptible. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. He slipped his left arm around her shoulders, and their tongues met in the demi-light of the flickering theater. His right hand clutched her hairy mound, and his left dropped down over a tit. As he pawed her and fingered her and sucked her tongue, she groped in his lap with both hands until she got his fly open and his dick out...
The Phantom looked around. Everyone was watching; waiting. The Phantom chuckled to himself and glanced over his shoulder at the screen. The brunette and the redhead had finished eating each other and were walking naked along a wooded stream. A man was fishing on the other bank. "Hey, look," said the brunette, "it's old Albert! Let's have some fun with him." The Phantom then remembered that he-or rather Mr. Kline-had seen this one. The girls would parade their naked bodies up and down until the old man threw his pole aside and charged into the water. They would make him chase them through the woods for a while and then jump him, tie him up, and torture him by rubbing their boobs in his face and playing with his cock and so forth-with no intention of giving him any pussy. "Just the way they used to treat Mr. Kline," mused the Phantom, "but they are paying for it now, the prick-teasers!"
When he looked back at the live action, he was delighted to see that Julie had already mounted Skinhead's lap. Her shell was rolled up to her armpits, her skirt up to her waist, and the fuck was on.
Just like the other time, thought the Phantom, except that the rat-faced man has changed his skin and is no longer in the corner, cowering like a fugitive. He had a sudden impulse to ejaculate on her bare back, in her flowing hair, on her bouncing buttocks...
He quelled this urge-for it would have disrupted things-and consoled himself with ramming a finger up her asshole; whereupon she came. It was a very strong orgasm, and she made no attempt to muffle her grunts of pleasure. Skinhead was nearly smothered between her tits before it subsided.
As the Phantom had hoped, it was not necessary to zap any of the other "suitors." No sooner had he sent Skinhead on his way than the man behind Julie had hopped into position.
"Want some more, baby?" he said, easing his hand between her legs.
"Yeah," she said as she mounted his lap, "a lot more!" As he was inviting her to his place, she plugged a nipple in his mouth and guided his prick into her hole.
This match was juicier than the last, the next even more so, and the fourth was downright sloppy, but still they kept coming-to make a pun. They didn't fight over her, but seemed to take turns as though by some prearrangement; one would shoot his wad, zip up, leave the theater, and the next would take his place. Not once did the Phantom observe the slightest bit of conversation between any of them. It was similar to a line at the door of a cafeteria or at the ticket window of a railroad station. .
This was well and good; the only trouble was that it was all going unnoticed. The Phantom had purposely set the scene near the entrance ramp so that the usher or manager would catch sight of the action as soon as they came in. Only they didn't come in, and it was too dark for anyone in the lower part of the auditorium or on the other side of the ramp to see what was going on. The Phantom rubbed his chin and thought: Hmm... I've given a good show for a few, but nothing for the many. How did I err? It is obvious: one does not perform in the auditorium but on the stage!
He glanced at the screen. Lust for Rent was almost over. Julie, meanwhile, was rapidly thinning out her platoon of admirers. Only two were left, including the one she was sucking off at the moment. The plan that had been forming at the back of the Phantom's mind now began to coagulate at the front of it.
Had the reader been seated in the auditorium of the Firebird late that afternoon, about six-as he might well have been-this, to his surprise and delight, is what he would have seen...
The first show is over, the second about to begin. Let us assume that he, the said reader, is not on this particular afternoon crouched up in the corner but rather huddled somewhere in the central part of the theater. He waits for the movie to begin, but the screen remains a blank. He becomes impatient and perhaps deals the projectionist a silent curse. Suddenly he catches a movement out of the corner of his left eye. He turns his head for a look. Others around him have done the same, and a kind of vast mumbled "Wow!" rises in the gloom.
He has seen, or he thinks he has seen, a beautiful young, full-busted blonde walking down the aisle toward the stage. Even in the half-light, it is obvious that she is stark naked. She mounts the stage.
A voice says, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the management is proud to present, for your entertainment and fulfillment, live on our stage, Julie and her Fabulous Pussy!"
A spotlight falls full on the naked girl and follows her as she walks to center stage, hips swinging, ass winking, tits bouncing.
"Give her a big hand, folks!"
There is a sort of embarrassed pause and then a veritable thunderclap of applause, dying out only when the girl smiles and raises her hands for silence.
"Thanks, boys and girls. That's very reassuring, and I hope you really like me that much, because I'm going to need your help."
The reader gapes and listens spellbound as the blonde goes on to say that this is to be an audience-participation act and that she will be calling for volunteers. He trembles in his seat!
"... A pussy, after all, is not meant just to be looked at, but to be used, and believe me, I know how to use mine."
At this point she spreads her legs and rolls her pelvis up, giving the reader a spectacular view of the full length of her fuzzy crack. She fluffs up the hair and parts the lips just a bit.
"Like it?" she asks with a grin.
Another roar of applause with whistles and shouts.
She laughs and slides her hands up under her big round, bright-nippled breasts.
"How about my tits?"
More applause, the reader joining in.
Now she turns her back on the audience and bends over, spreading her smooth white cheeks to display her dainty little asshole. During the ensuing tumult of cheering, the reader may or may not have noticed two well-dressed young women rise from their seats in the smoking section and start up the aisle, husbands in tow. On their faces are expressions of shock and dismay; on their tongues, exclamations of disbelief. Seeing this, the girl says: "Hey, don't go, girls! There's enough cock here for all of us! Come on up!"
The reader, unless he is fairly close, does not catch the sudden change of expression on the faces of the two young wives as an unseen hand insinuates itself beneath their respective skirts and puts the squeeze on their cunts.
They pause, turn, and approach the stage.
Their husbands? Startled at first, then settling into a strange quiescence. They sit down to watch the show.
"Good girls," says Julie, "come on up!" She helps them up the steps, and the three of them have a few words which the reader can not hear. He does not miss, however, the exploratory caresses which the naked girl gives to the clothed ones during this huddle, nor the suggestive giggles which arise therefrom.
Now the trio moves to center stage, and the spot floods them with white light. In that garish light, standing between those two stylishly dressed beauties, facing an audience of sex-hungry men, Julie looks more naked than ever; she is the very embodiment of the word "naked" in its most obscene and pornographic sense. She puts an arm around the shoulders of the girl on her left-the one with black hair-and with her other hands starts unbuttoning her dress down the front, saying: "Boys, this is Donna. How do you like her?"
They like her.
Julie works quickly, and in a moment Donna's dress sails out into the auditorium. Perhaps the reader catches if. Donna's skin is whiter than Julie's, and in contrast to her black lace slip, it is almost blinding. Standing behind the brunette, Julie lifts the straps of the slip from her shoulders, one at a time, and tugs the snug-fitting garment down off her breasts and hips. Donna kicks it off the stage, and unhooks her bra...
The voice of the "announcer" again comes over the speakers: "Let's hear it for Donna's tits!"
Donna seems delighted with the applause. Indeed she deserves it; her tits are like big white moons, capped with large flat olive nipples. Flat at first, that is, but after Julie has rubbed them for a moment the aureoles begin to swell nicely.
Ho! How stimulating the reader finds it to see that proper young lady standing up there before all those lecherous devils, her husband among them, shedding her inhibitions along with her clothing! Whoosh! There go her panties! She's down to high heels, nylons and garter belt, and she's ready for anything!
Her jet-black bush is bristling like a sea urchin, and it seems to send out a shower of black sparks over this sea of wobbling eyeballs! She does a bump and a grind, and the audience whips itself into a frothing chop, a gale of cheers.
The two nudes now surround the other girl.
"And this is Celeste," announces Julie, as Donna unzips her dress and peels it from her body like a banana skin. Aha! exclaims the reader; for there was nothing under the dress but a skimpy pink half-bra and the tiniest, sheerest pair of pink bikini panties on the market. Celeste's body has had more sun than Donna's, and it is slimmer, firmer, and more solid. Her tits are well separated and slightly pointed, and her nipples are larger than those of both the other girls put together. They bulge pink and fat out of the top of the bra cups, and the length of the knobs-which the reader notes as soon as Julie unhooks the bra-reveals her already high degree of arousal. And her cunt! A wooly-bully if the reader has ever seen one! Chocolate brown and shaggy as a buffalo's hump! In other words, if Celeste is not quite as fully fleshed as Julie and Donna, the size of her nipples and. the abundance of her cunt hair more than makes up for it.
As the applause dies down, there is another brief conference interlaced with seductive giggles and bold caresses. A kind of hush falls over the theater, and the reader can almost hear the girls panting in anticipation of what is to follow.
Suddenly Donna is on her knees at the brink of the procenium, her bare ass to the audience, her face nuzzling the tawny egg of hair between Julie's open thighs, her tongue lapping away at that juicy cunt as though it were a cream tart! Julie's breathless voice fills the silence and echoes in the vaults of the high ceiling: "Oh! Mm! Oh, that feels... so good!"
Her knees bend, and it looks as though she will fall backwards, but Celeste supports her from behind, her suntanned fingers kneading the blonde's pale tits, her shaggy mound thrusting rhythmically against those trembling buttocks...
At the very moment Julie turns her head and lets Celeste's tongue slide into her mouth, she begins to come. The grunting drowns out the slurping, and the very air seems to beat and pulsate and hammer against the walls as if the building itself is having an orgasm!
Through it all, Julie manages to stay on her feet. At last she gets her breath and says, "Ah! That was good. Now I think we're ready for some men-I know I am!"
"Me too!" says Donna, wiping her mouth and stretching her legs out toward the audience.
"Come on, you guys," says Celeste in a throaty voice, fluffing up her thick bush, "what are you waiting for?"
Now: does the reader bound from his seat? Does a line form in the aisle? Is there a stampede for the stage?
No.
The audience is frozen solid. The auditorium-formerly rocking with cheers, shouts, dirty remarks and the like-is filled with manikins, the reader among them.
"So," says the Phantom to himself-with some satisfaction, he admits, "they are all rat-faced men; they really are!"
Chuckling to himself, he zaps the entire first and second rows and sends them up to the waiting girls. All of them, that is, but one; to this one he whispers, "I want you to go out in the street and hail the first policeman you see, understand? Tell him what's going on here. We've got to put a stop to this dirty business!"
"You're damn right!" says the little man as he rushes off to do his duty.
The Phantom left the theater in disgust.
CHAPTER TWELVE - BACK TO ZAMA
The writer has given here only a handful of the many incidents and exploits enjoyed by Kline the Naked during the first phase of his phantomhood. To list them in their entirety would be to fill not a tome, but a shelf of tomes. It was never his purpose to fill such a shelf, but only to leave some small record, however fragmentary, of these wonderful things before setting out in quest of for greater delights. Not that he does not expect to survive this quest-indeed he has the greatest hope of success. But it may be that on the next pleasure-plain one will not be inclined to waste his time scribbling; in fact, the normal avenues of communication, writing included, may well be closed to him-or rather, they may seem so ludicrous from that vantage point that one would scorn to employ them. For these reasons, then, Emmet Erectus, he-who-haunts-you-with-a-hard-on, has set down these random confessions. He is anxious now to pinch them off and get on with his plan.
One Saturday about a month ago, the Phantom found himself, as of old, on the ridge north of the Rodriguez public beach. As usual, several couples were on the sand for a day of sun and sex. Finding Mr. Kline's rathole, he saw that the remains of his clothes were still there, just where he had left them, rotting away, half covered with sand and leaves. The binoculars, however, had been taken, and a pair of torn panties flapped from a twig. The Phantom reached into the hole under the tree root and pulled out Mr. Kline's fuck books. They were stiff as boards and the pages could not be turned. He laughed when he remembered how those crumbling pages had stimulated Mr. Kline. He tossed them into the trees behind him, thinking: Perhaps some day I will toss away the delights of the past year like this. My appetite has only been whetted. From the dimension of omniscience all that I have done would seem no more than this handful of rotten paper fluttering away in the wind. Already my life is growing stagnant. One must push on...
Someday, yes, but when? These thoughts and others bubbled through the Phantom's mind as he descended the ridge and approached the blonde who lay with her boyfriend on a nearby blanket. She had a body which would have sent Mr. Kline into an agony of longing; to the Phantom, she was just another cunt. Dropping to his knees at her feet, he gripped her ankles and spread her legs wide. Then he tickled her pussy through her bikini until her pelvis began to twitch. Her boyfriend took notice and propped up on an elbow to watch, puzzled. But it was not so much his mind the Phantom wished to enter-he knew more or less what was going on there-and not even so much the mind of the girl herself. He had had quite enough of that during his re-encounter with that slut Julie; another bout with a lovesick cunt would have made him puke. No, what he desired was to enter the minds of the unmapped watchers, the innocent bystanders. He looked at the couple on the next blanket to the south; they, too, had noticed the blonde's jerking pussy. What were they thinking?
The Phantom placed his right hand on the boy's foot and said, "Take her suit off," and to the girl, "Stand up."
The blonde stood up and faced the ocean. As the boy stripped her and ran his fingers through her bush, the Phantom wandered about among the other sunbathers, studying their faces, listening to their conversation, squeezing a tit here, fingering a cunt there, feeling that vague sense of unfulfillment all the while. After half-heartedly fucking a plump little sixteen year old in the ass, he went down to the edge of the surf to take a piss. Something-perhaps the seafoam hissing about his ankles-reminded him of how he had watched an antacid tablet dissolve in a glass of water the night before...
"Yes," he said to himself, gazing into the depths of the ocean, "that's it: to dissolve into the psychic stratum and yet retain the physical sensations; to become a vast, all-seeing nothingness; to shed all objectiveness; to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time!"
He raced back through the nude lovers and reascended the ridge to Mr. Kline's peephole. He flattened his back against the big pine and strained his memory...
"Yes, that is where she came out," he said with great excitement, "and that is where she went in! Why wait? Someday! Bah! Someday may never come! Zama would have given me anything I asked; it was only that I didn't ask enough. I wanted invisibility, and I got it; had I wanted omniscience, I would have gotten that, too! And I will!"
In short, he resolved then and there to find Zama. It was that very night that he holed up in a vacant estate not far from the beach to scratch off these memoirs. It has taken an arduous month to complete them; never again will the Phantom make such a laborious sacrifice for posterity! What a crude and absurd form of communication, writing!
However, it had to be done. It remains now but to get these papers into the hands of a certain pornographer living in Lake Leethy, a town some forty miles up the coast. The Phantom has been indirectly assured that this disreputable fellow will send straight off to his publisher any manuscript, letter, diary or what have you, at his own profit, provided it is libelous and scandalous enough to meet his exacting standards-which condition I believe the present document will adequately fulfill.
After that, the Phantom will be ready for his grand leap into the dark. He will return to the ridge at twilight and attempt to summon Zama. If she does not appear, he will seek her out. He knows the route; he is not afraid. Faith and the power of the ring will protect him. The sea, after all, is but the great womb of the world, the mother of us all.
When Kline the Terrible returns, he will return not as a phantom but as a comet. A well-known astronomer, whose name nonetheless eludes the writer, once said, "A comet is the nearest thing to nothing that something can be and still be something." Yes, in essence that is very close to what he said.
So good-bye for now, O rat-faced readers! Don't lose hope! Keep your eyes peeled! Hang loose! Keep those fists pumping! And above all, keep to the shadows!