When he first saw her, Bob McGill thought he had flown to Paradise. She was pushing her way through the writhing couples on the floor mats, stopping only to stare smilingly as one mannish looking girl peeled away the blouse of a femme, and then hungrily attacked the pink softness of the girl's breasts.
"Who is that?" gasped Bob, struggling on his floor mat, but the effects of the Scotch were too strong. His companion for the evening, a broad-shouldered foot-ball player was engrossed with the attentions of a slender blond youth with the desires of a female who kept whispering, "I'm better than a woman ... come up to my pad and you'll see."
The football player turned drink-bleary eyes to pierce the thick clouds in the cellar club in one of Greenwich Village's more infamous waterfront districts. "Who?" Then, "Oh-that's Mimi DuClos. Lookit them boobs-bet you'd have a feast on them. Hey, she's coming here." He giggled as the slender boy put his hands on his chest and started unbuttoning his shirt to steal inside. "Get a load of them hips. Say, she's wild about guys. No, not you," he said brusquely to the blond boy who had already opened the shirt and was kissing his nipples. "Want me to introduce you, Bob?"
"Maybe," Bob McGill said in a thick voice, feeling the effects of the cellar club, the drinks, and the soon-to-come-out weed. "Let me tackle this myself."
The cellar club had no name. It was a renovated speakeasy from the Prohibition days. It was not an official club with any license or anything. It was private-open only to those who participated. That meant you had to smoke weed, puff pot, and fly straight up to Paradise. And it meant you had to put out-for either sex.
At first, Bob McGill had been embarrassed when he made his way down the steep flight of spiral stairs. There were small alcoves, more like closets, with beaded chains for doors. In each, a separate "party" took place.
Several of them had girls making love to girls. One had a blue jeaned girl wearing a man's rough work-shirt, who was lifting the skirt of the trembling partner, then bending down to caress the sleek expanse of white thigh. Moments later, the bull dyke's head disappeared beneath the skirt. From the expression on the girl's face, she was in heavenly ecstasy and kept moaning, "More ... more...."
Now, Bob McGill stared around him. A few of the girls were wearing leather jackets, motorcycle boots and skin tight leather pants. Some were like men-with the sensuous appetites of men. Other girls were so feminine, you would never believe they were lesbians.
"Hi," Bob said thickly as the girl called Mimi DuClos, nearly tripped to get over to him. "Having a good time?" He did not know how else to start it off.
Mimi looked haughtily down on him; but when she took in Bob McGill's handsome looks, his youthful face, the short cropped blond hair, the sinewy strength beneath his T-shirt, and the way his blue jeans fitted his lean but hard muscled thighs, her attitude changed.
"Not especially." She searched the dank area for a place to squat. "That is ... not until now."
She had midnight black hair, worn loose in a swinging pony tail; she was not especially beautiful or considerably pretty, but in her black capri pants and pink sleeveless blouse, she was a symbol of raw passion. Her breasts were large and uptilted; the pointed nipples were like sharp needles against the blouse. Her hips were custom designed for lovemaking. They were round and gyrated even when she stood still.
Mimi's tummy was flat and hard. Glancing upward, Bob McGill saw her lips-they were thick and full and eager to be kissed. But her eyes, they were green-as green as a hungry tigress, thought Bob. He could feel his heart slamming up in his throat. He knew he had to have her.
"I haven't seen you here before," Mimi squatted. The black capri pants became skin tight around her soft hips, outlining her delicate panties. The tight elastic band must be biting into her thighs. "Are you an artist, writer or what?"
Everybody in the Village had to be creative. Most of them were artists who had not an ounce of ability but to label themselves as canvas dabblers, or no-talented sculptors, was a status symbol.
"I write," admitted Bob McGill thickly, but he had no interest in his typewriter antics. He was even for-getting the letter sent from his folks in Iowa, telling him that since his classroom attendance record was "deplorable" and his grades even worse, they were no longer footing the bill for his educational escapades at New York University. "Come home," the letter demanded. "A hundred dollar check for your expenses is enclosed." And Bob promptly tore up the letter, then cashed in the hundred, sold his textbooks, and decided to live it up. To hell with school and writing.
"I'll bet you can come up with some real weird ideas about kicks," Mimi was snuggling close to him. Her green eyes took in his masculine strength. Her hands strayed, running up and down his broad chest, then toying with his khaki web belt
"Are writers supposed to be sex machines?"
Her pink tongue darted out, ran over her thick, pouting lips. "Want me to wind you up?" With that, she moved closer, suddenly wound her arms around him.
It was sensational.
Her sharp pointed breasts pierced his hard chest; her lips sought his own and then the moist tongue licked at the roof of Bob's mouth. He started trembling when he felt her small, soft hands tracing lines on his broad back. Her hands went lower, then stole around to the hard flat of his stomach ... and strayed lower.
His heart was pounding.
The blood roared in his ears. A moment later, she was unbuckling his belt. Her soft hands reached inside.
Bob McGill almost reeled. The shock was like explosive dynamite. He pulled away. His face was flushed. The thick acrid odor of smoke was making him dizzy. "Hey," he gasped, "easy ... easy...."
"I thought you'd wake up," she smiled, but her hands were busy until, before he could even help it, she had pulled down his pants, exposing himself lewdly.
The football buddy unwound himself from his own love affair with the slender blond boy. "Say you're really built," he managed to say. A strong, hairy arm shot out and examined Bob who kicked him away. "Save it for your lover. I don't dig that queer bit!" Just then, from the swirling fog like mist, two girls appeared, arm in arm, they were exploring each other. One girl's sweater was unbuttoned in front, exposing the lush swell of her rich breasts. The other girl was colored, as dark as chocolate, and her glossy black hair had been straightened, so that it hung in smooth waves down her back. "Nothing like chocolate and vanilla," she said as she lifted up her blouse and let everyone see her ebony breasts, smooth as chocolate pudding, with the most red tips ever seen.
Both of the girls fell to the ground, oblivious to the bleary eyed stares of the others, and started making Sapphic love to each other.
The last that Bob McGill saw was a pair of bronzed buttocks flashing in the dim floodlight that was about the only illumination afforded in this cellar joint.
From somewhere, a blare of a trombone sounded the signal; following was a horn and then a bass player joined in a weird harmony that was like a deafening intoxication to their ears.
Mimi DuClos snuggled closer to her new discovery. "I like blond Vikings. That's you," she fingered his chin and pushed her breasts up higher so that he could be within reaching distance. "Guess you're the bashful type. Good. Makes it all the more exciting."
Then an intruder came in their midst. He was a thin fellow, wiry, looking like an overgrown college boy. "Mimi," he stared at both of them-letting his eyes go over Bob's strong frame-"where've you been?" He pulled at her wrists to get her on her feet. "Come on, let's you and me dig this crazy jazz...."
She resisted and pulled free. "No ... no ... Henry-I found someone I want to use in my mural."
So she was a painter. Bob McGill was learning more about her. With those enormous breasts, how could any male model keep from getting excited.
She made speedy introductions with a flick of the wrist. "Henry Weiner, this is ... oh, what's your name?"
He mumbled his name and in a few seconds, they were all on a first name basis.
Henry was annoyed. "You got the stuff?" he asked Mimi.
She smiled cat-like. "Believe it, baby. I got enough to make everyone turn on at least ten times."
Henry was feverish with excitement. "Are the rest of the cats ready? I can't hold out much longer. You know I never carry it on me. But I gotta have it."
"Sure, sure ... I can see it in your face. I know it's time to start the pot rolling." She turned to Bob who was at a loss for words. The thick smoke, the dank cellar air, the crag-slimed walls, the weird assortment of characters, all made him dizzy. He knew they were all on the junky habit. It was no surprise to him. But this petite girl-petite in the sense that she had a trim figure but it was full busted and full blown.
The music came to a crashing halt with a resounding echo of the cymbals. The snares faded and the murmuring stopped.
"Baby," she turned to Bob, "let's you and me get high?"
"I ... I don't know...." he swallowed thickly. He was not a big smoker, to begin with. He never took any drags on the weed. But the way she invited him.
"Henry," the girl looked wickedly at the now-kneeling slim, dark-haired young man in neat Ivy League shirt and form fitting continental trousers outlining his rounded buttocks. "If Bobby doesn't fly, we both don't fly."
A nervous twitch erupted in Henry's forehead. "Bobby, you better listen to the lady."
He felt irked. He did not like to be pushed into any-thing. But the way Mimi was fondling him and how she was bringing him alive, made him weak. "Well ... maybe just one."
"That's the music I like to hear," he felt relieved. "Come on, Mimi, you're holding!"
She laughed throatily. "I'm always holding-that is, when the mood hits me. We're no stupid junkies, you know."
Everyone was getting excited. They started moving closer together. Henry Weiner crouched down low. A few others came into the semi-circle.
Bob was seated right beside Mimi and became the center of attraction. It made him feel self-conscious. It was so hot in this creepy place. The noise was getting louder. One young man with a short cropped beard crouched into sight. He was bare-chested, wearing just a pair of hiking shorts. He had a gleaming body, with dark nipples. His arms were thick with muscles. Beside him was a girl-she wore a man's shirt that was open all the way down-exposing the shadows between her well rounded breasts. She had a dimpled (naked midriff and below ... all she wore was a G-string.
Bob felt his face flush at the sight of so much flesh. The half-naked bearded Beatnik smiled amiably. "Let's start ... I'm so charged up now I'm ready to explode!"
Bob McGill had heard that smoking marijuana was "the thing" just as having an occasional cocktail. While the weed was not as habitual as cigarettes, it was a refreshing kick.
"It's no sweat," remarked Mimi DuClos coolly, as if relishing the power she had over them. "Just wait until Bobby takes out the little joy stick. I've got it hidden, you all know where."
"Me? I don't know where it is?" He could feel his emotions becoming sensitive. He was conscious of a painful longing at the bottom of his flat stomach. Luckily, he had drawn up his pants. He was not an exhibitionist and disliked having others looking at his man-hood.
"Reach in ... it's snug in my panties." She shifted her body and extended her torso. "Go ahead, it won't bite."
With fumbling fingers, he reached in beneath her skin tight black capris. Her flesh was as smooth as silk and just as delicate. Then he found the elastic band of her panties. He could even see them as the capris were peeled down a half inch.
Coming in contact with the black mesh panties was like touching an electrical live wire. He felt the moisture of her body, the smooth slopes of her flat belly with just the slightest little rise. But Bob McGill was more fascinated with the feel of the warm, moist panties.
He had a sudden wild urge to rip them from her hips, to hug the panties, to kiss them, to wrap them around his own hips and fly straight to heaven.
It was his secret longing and none of them could possibly be aware of it. He had a fetishistic fascination for feminine lingerie. It was an aphrodisiac to his senses just to look upon a pair of worn undies. Silk stockings drove him wild.
Black leather boots made him a stallion. Not a powerful stallion since it humbled him into voluntary humiliation when a girl wore black leather boots. He willingly performed degrading acts if only to be given permission to love the boots.
He had come to this cellar club, hoping to find others with the same interests: it was a blind hope, but it was something to look for. But everyone was obsessed with their own pursuits and he lacked courage to reveal the slightest inkling of his secret desires.
He had another, more pronounced longing.
Bob McGill was a transvestite. He would wear feminine clothes, assume the personality of a female, and become a sexual stallion! Without this cross-dressing, he was shy, introverted, unhappy.
"They're all waiting," gasped Mimi DuClos as she flattened her curvaceous body and started sighing as she felt Bob's fingers stroke her intimate pride, then go down even lower to the crotch of her silky panties. "Ooooh," her eyes became glazed. "I love that. You have such ... s-t-r-o-n-g fingers." Gasps escaped her pouting lips as she wiggled her hips to accommodate his searching fingers. "I love it," she said huskily.
Bob was as nervous as a cat in a seafood store. He could feel his own condition. With his tight blue jeans, it was obvious the others knew he was aroused. "Hold still," he said. Then he felt it. A rounded object. He held it tight, withdrew it.
Impulsively, he brought his hand up to his face. The heady scent of the panties made him swoon with excitement. He was all choked up.
"Let's have it!" Henry Weiner snatched the round object from his fingers. He was feverish with anticipation. The others crowded around and watched Henry unroll the slender square of cellophane. He extracted a cigarette and held it up. Everyone was chattering at once.
A long haired girl called out, "A drag for each-just a drag." They were all so excited, they could hardly control themselves.
They gathered around in a closely-formed circle; this meant that the "joint" as the weed was called, could be passed from one to the other.
Henry Weiner lit a wooden house match with his fingernail. The glow was blinding. Then he lit the joint; he was, an expert as he took a deep drag, but keeping his hands cupped around the joint so the precious smoke would not escape. He inhaled deeply and held his breath with a gasp. He let the smoke bathe his lungs. Then, with some reluctance, he passed the joint to the person on his left-She repeated the process and turned dizzy with a glazed expression; she turned to the person on her left and that was how the process continued.
Soon, the joint has boiled down to a roach. This, Bob McGill learned, was a short little butt. No waste, though. Henry Weiner inserted a pin, held it, and then took a drag.
"Whammy!" he screeched.
The roach was the most powerful segment of the joint. Just one drag and you hit the ceiling or the cloud!
Henry was so wild and flying so high, he could not control himself. He ripped off his shirt, showing a thin muscled chest, then fumbled with his form fitting continental trousers. "I'm hot!" he yelled in delirium. "I'm hot."
A big lipped Negro swished right up and lisped, "I'll cool you off, darling." He then pulled Henry's trousers down around his knees. The Negro kneeled before him and in full view of the laughing and "high" entourage, made him feel as hot-and then as cool as he would ever feel.
"It's good," chirped Henry, dizzily swaying and not caring about the way he was being mauled by the Negro who was kissing his chest, going down around his hips and then kissing his inner thighs. "Oh ... it's REAL good!" was Henry's ecstatic exclamation.
Bob McGill, who had taken a deep drag of the joint, was exhilarated himself, but not enough to permit him-self to be made into such a spectacle.
Other couples were in various stages of nudity on the floor. Cushions were all askew. Chairs were over-turned. The air was so fetid with the burning grass odor of the marijuana, that Bob's eyes started to water.
He put his arm around Mimi DuClos who was laughingly disentangling herself from an anxious blonde girl who had peeled her silken sheath down around her waist and was cupping her breasts, shaking the soft bulgy beauties and saying huskily, "They're yours, Mimi-love them. Please."
From behind, a happy cry pierced the gloom and a husky man bounded forth. "Let me love them." He leaped onto the girl, flattened her down on the floor. The two of them writhed in the throes of ardor. The girl tried to fight him off, but he was already pulling her dress down lower, exposing her white tummy, then the forbidden triangle.
It was too much for Bob McGill. He had come here on the invitation of the football hero who was an old hand at such "tea" parties, as the weed smoking fetes were called. But Bob was still shy at such exposure of the raw passionate urges. He felt his heart pounding. The way Mimi was holding him, made him even more pained with desire. But he had to be alone. Completely alone with Mimi DuClos.
"Feel hot ... feel real hot, sweetie?" Mimi was snuggling closing, pushing his hands on her blouse, guiding his fingers until they encircled around the rounded globes, tweaking the needle sharp tips. The breasts were soft and mellow. "Take off my blouse," she begged.
Mimi could not control the fanning warmth as it spread up through her loins; nearly always, just one little whiff of pot, and she was real high. Her thighs became hungry for naked flesh to invade her. She wanted moist lips to kiss and love her-to make her burn into a blaze.
She stretched out both arms, wanting some flesh. It mattered little whether it was male or female. She wanted as much as she could get. As long as it quenched the gnawing fire, she wanted it.
A new girl now came into the picture. She, unlike Mimi, was like a pixie, small and rather olive skinned. She had a woolen skirt, black stockings, with a form fitting turtle neck sweater that was so pink, she appeared to be naked.
"Mimi," sighed the girl. "Mimi."
She recognized her, "Lisa! Love me, my dearest. Oooh, look at the nice boy I've got. Let's all three...." Then her open mouth was seized and Lisa bore down heavily, flogging the roof of her mouth with her tongue.
Lisa's hands strayed, molding and fingering. It was passion in an erotic sensation but it was so good. Mimi just closed her eyes. She felt, in a dream like trance, the way Lisa was pulling up her blouse, peeling it higher, then wrinkling it just above the arm pits.
Her naked breasts plunged forth. They were creamy soft, with tips as thin as needles, puncturing forth in hot ecstasy. Mimi loved the way Lisa's mouth was devouring her breasts. Mimi kept gasping, making moaning sounds, while her body undulated and trembled with desire.
Bob McGill fell under the spell. Already, the effects of the joint began to seize his senses. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot. Fire coursed through his veins. He felt a throbbing at the base of his temples. At the bottom of his hard, flat belly, there was an agonizing pain that could not be repressed much longer.
He fell upon Mimi, waiting for the girl called Lisa to kiss her down below ... and then Bob kissed Mimi's still-warm lips, warm from Lisa's mouth. Bob felt an aphrodisiac at the thought that he was kissing the lips that had just been kissed by a girl.
"Higher, baby, higher," he urged her to lift up her enormous bosom. The breasts were huge. The dim light was in a strange focus. This may have made them larger.
Bob did not know. He did not care. He loved the soft hollow of Mimi's throat. Then he kept kissing her down, tweaking the moist nipples until they were swollen with urgent desire.
"I love it," was Lisa's shrill cry as she seized Mimi's capris and peeled them down around her knees. Facing the panty covered torso, Lisa fondled her so intimately that Mimi began to twist and twitch. Her lips sought Bob's; her hands struggled with the buttons of his shirt, pulling them open, then stroking his broad, masculine chest.
From somewhere, hands unloosened his belt and pulled down his trousers. Man's hands. The same hands explored him, from behind, then stole beneath the upper region of his hips and seized him so intimately that he almost screamed.
Bleary eyed, he turned to see an older, white haired man with a flushed face. He, too, had been smoking pot and he was high-high as a cloud.
Bob felt repulsed. "Get away," he cried weakly as the man started kissing his hips, then forcing the part-her on his back and kissing him all the way down ... down ... down....
With a surge of strength, Bob kicked him away. "Get away ... get away!" It was the last thing he wanted. He may have had his own perversities, but he did not include the male angle into it.
Now he knew he would have to get out of here. Others saw the flash of his white buttocks as he hitched up his blue jeans. They would not let him alone. Some lesbians liked boys, too, and they were more trouble than other boys.
He turned to Mimi. She was being kissed on the inner thighs by Lisa. Now the clouds of smoke were so dense, they could scarcely see in front of each other.
Bob McGill wanted to get Mimi out of here. But where could they go? He was locked out of his own pad for non-payment of rent. She must have a place. "Where ... where do you live?" he asked stupidly.
When she murmured, it was time to put a stop to all this. She was losing her sense of reality.
Bob McGill pulled her free from the grasping Lisa, then helped her cover herself. He dragged the dreamy Mimi up to her feet and whisked her out of sight into the shadows before the other lesbian could even discover her whereabouts.
"I need it," Mimi was sobbing as she clung to him, pushing her hips against his, letting her hands arouse him.
"Please ... please ... You dig?"
"I dig-and I'll dig when we're alone-at your pad. Come on, let's flee."
CHAPTER TWO
It was late. Midnight and then some. They were struggling on the sidewalk in the dock area of the westernmost tip of Greenwich Village. Ghostly shadows of locked warehouses, yawning empty lots, boarded up buildings and the dull red and white neon lights of a bar or all-night cafeteria was all that they could see.
"Straighten up, willya?" Bob McGill was feeling the effects of the long night and the rising heady passion. He could not control himself. Dimly, he was aware that they were out on the street and there would be trouble if the police would come along.
Mimi DuClos was alternate between giggling and sobbing. She clung to him like a frightened child. Her breasts bobbed up and down wickedly. Her thighs opened and closed. Her hands strolled to explore him again. "I ... want to straighten up-and fly!"
"Pipe down!" he snapped as they struggled along the deserted streets. "Mimi, listen to me!" He stopped, glancing around the cool midnight waterfront. From somewhere, a lonely fog horn pierced the silence. An occasional cab cruised by. A shriek from a drunken girl followed by more masculine laughter told Bob McGill that others were celebrating.
"Make love to me!" Mimi was slurring her words. Her tapering claws were tearing at his shirt, ripping it open. "Or I'll show you how to make you feel like you're really burning up!" She was ripping her own blouse.
This was crazy!
How did he ever get wound up in this mess?
"Where do you live?" he snapped. "Come on, tell me or I'll slap it out of you!"
It had a sobering effect upon her. She mouthed the address and then pointed with a wavering arm. "See that house? That nice big loft-it's where I do my painting. Oooh, I'd like to paint you-so nice and big. I'll get you big. I'll make you explode...."
He shook her but it did little good. She was still giggling. She had a strange pallor. She would soon get sick. Bob knew the symptoms. Maybe she needed something else to calm her down. Pot had a way of so stimulating the passions that unless relief were given, it could create turbulent sickness.
Sometimes, smoking the weed-worse, the roach-made you a keg if ice. Guys were useless. Gals could be used! And how!
He steered her across the street. Suddenly, from somewhere, a pair of white uniformed sailors came into view. They were young, smooth faced, and obviously very drunk.
"Hey," yelled one, "now isn't this sweet. Hiya baby?" The smooth cheeked youth made a grab for Mimi.
She laughed but it was more of a shrill scream.
The other sailor jumped to the other side and laughed as he snatched for Mimi's breasts. "Are these for real?" His hands tightened around one milky globe.
Bob felt a surge of protective instinct He pulled Mimi behind him, wrenching her free from the sailor who looked both angered and disappointed. Careful, Bob McGill warned himself. They're drunk and dangerous.
"Think you're man enough?" parried Bob, keeping a watchful eye on both of them.
"Sure!" He tottered and looked very young and confused. "Don'tcha believe me?" Then he winked. "Wanta watch?"
"Yeah-but first show me you've got it! And your buddy, he has to prove it, too."
They both glanced at each other. The first sailor worked the buttons of his pants and the other stupidly did the same. In the hazy moonlight, in the deserted street where only a lone car would pass by, the two of them suddenly exhibited themselves.
"He's bigger than you," said Bob, nodding to one sailor who was lewdly exposing his manhood.
"No he's not!" The sailor defended his manhood. He nearly fell as he staggered to the curb and almost tripped to get to the buddy. In that moment, as they compared one another, Bob steered Mimi down an alley and vanished from sight. All that now could be heard were their lascivious cries about being duped. But these cries soon faded into the distance.
"Don't you ever try to make a play for anyone else!" As if to emphasize his words, Bob raised one palm and slapped it across Mimi's cheek.
The shocking sting made her straighten up a little bit She bit her thick lip. "Don't you like me?" She had absolutely no recollection of what was happening to her.
"Sure I do." Then he held her tight. There, in the dark alley where cats ran on top of refuse cans, amidst the discarded wooden crates and refuse, he ran his hands up and down the soft slopes of her back, stole downward and seized one pear shape buttock in each palm. He began a slow massaging movement. In pagan rhythm, Mimi's hips started undulating clockwise in a sensuous beat. She was answering the call of the wild. She was going to meet him-and to capture him!
But Bob was not yet ready. He had snatched her out of that cellar club, away from those drunken sailors-and one of them had been huge!-and now he had her in the alley. But this was not the way he wanted it.
"Let's get up to your pad," he said as his mouth brushed against her lips. He was torturing her and she was a rubbery slave in his arms. She followed him, willing to obey, if only he would give her the gratification she craved.
She was burning up.
Bob McGill was so enflamed with hard passions, he felt a sharp nagging pain at the bottom of his stomach. If he did not get relief, he'd go crazy!
"Is this the place?" He looked up over an antique store. The windows bore the words: Antiques For Sale. Various silver spoons, old-fashioned stools, vases, crockery, leathery paintings, with affixed price cards filled both bay windows. Some autos were parked which indicated there were living quarters in various pockets of this warehouse and factory district.
It was typical Greenwich Village. High rents forced would-be starving artists, sculptors, dramatic hopefuls and some writers, to seek whatever cheap quarters were available. Many of them were forced out of buildings condemned to make way for luxury apartment houses with the rents equally as luxurious. They had a choice: either double, triple or quadruple in decent apartments and sacrifice privacy for the sake of economy. Or they could drag their paints and equipment to the rapidly diminishing cold water flats or lofts where rents and accommodations were nearly zero.
Most of the would-be artists, eager to emulate the greats of the old days, sought to "suffer" in the lofts with the hopes that hardships and deprivations would bring out the best of their talents. The most that suffering did was to make them ill. Talents that did not exist could not be unearthed.
Mimi DuClos sought privacy and preferred living in a loft where the precious North Light would give her the proper perspective for oils. And now it fell to Bob McGill to half-carry the hysterical girl up the steep flight of creaky stairs in the dimly lit building.
"I love you," she kept whispering, moaning, and tearing at her blouse. Already, the soft globes were revealed. The sliver sharp tips were moist. Mimi, while high on the kick, still knew that she was sensuous. She heaved her breasts upward, tweaked her own nipples, then let her hands massage her lower tummy. "I love you," she looked dreamily at Bob.
He fought against her advances. Her moist mouth showered him with kisses. She tore his shirt into strips and the way she massaged his chest brought fire to his loins. "Easy, baby, easy," he muttered, feeling his manhood exerting itself. Damn it, his pants were tight as a second skin.
"This the place?" he asked as he peered through the gloom at a door. It bore no name. It was dank and musty in the house. They never did air such buildings out. One skinny light bulb suspended from a cord that vanished in the high peeling ceiling was the only illumination they had. Everything rattled and creaked. Each footstep echoed hollowly.
"Just push the door," she giggled, letting her soft body fall against his. "It'll open."
"Thank God," he sighed with relief. It was stupid to leave a door unlocked. But that was Mimi, as he would soon learn.
The door creaked open on rusty hinges. Inside, it was strangely still. The grimy windows facing the north gave some light so they did not have to stumble around.
He kicked the door closed with his foot. Wondering about a lock, he fumbled around until he felt it. He turned the knob. There was a click. At least they were safe inside.
He let Mimi go. She was wavering back and forth, her dimpled bottom making heady motions. She was giggling, saying all sorts of silly things and the way she twisted her hips, it was obvious that she needed relief.
She needed something-and had to have it real bad!
Bob felt himself grow slack. Now that they were out of the street, he could forget caution and turn to more sensuous instincts. Glancing around the loft, he made some hasty discoveries. There was a wall lantern that shed a rosy glow over a nook in which an enormous double bed loomed before him.
The loft was a typical artist's hangout. It had numerous easels bearing paintings in various stages of completion. All were of figures-nude figures-men and women. They were all excellent specimens of virility and judging from the painstaking detail made by Mimi's brush, it was apparent she loved to emphasize them where they were supposed to be emphasized.
Benches, overturned chairs, low tables, boxes were littered everywhere. Clothes were strewn over the floor. The walls were covered with abstract paintings that seemed out of harmony with the realistic, life-like style used by Mimi DuClos.
She was good.
Bob McGill could see that at once. Every portrait breathed raw life. There was one of a naked acrobat. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with exceptionally developed muscles and chest. His eyes had a glazed, sensuous appeal as he held onto the swing, about to mount; the way his hips were thrust forth and the power of his turgid manhood left no doubt of his superior powers. His hard muscled buttocks were clenched and the etched sinews were suggestive of the condition of man just before the supreme climax.
Bob felt his own ardor rising at the sight of this naked young acrobat with the athletic nudity so flagrantly exposed. He turned his attentions to another life-size portrait, almost six feet in height. The canvas was smooth. The oil was still wet. The brush strokes were vivid. The scene was that of a ballet dancer in a small wooded grove. She was on her toe tips-the only clue to her ballet calling because the girl was stark naked!
Her breasts were uptilted, pointed, with matching red gashes that were like splashes of blood. The precipice between the breasts was so narrow, it was exciting to contemplate loving the delicate cleavage.
She was holding both hands above her head; the wrists were together in ballet fashion. Her dark haired head was classic in structure.
Her expansive rib cage narrowed to the delicate wasp waist, then fanned out into dimpled buttocks and flaring hips; here, her navel was a shadowy dimple upon a tummy that would have been flat except for the slightest little rise. This made her softer and more delicate.
Bob was growing wild with desire as he now discovered the most precious womanhood of the naked ballet dancer. Just like the enviable pride of the nude athletic acrobat, the girl's femininity was emphasized. The forbidden triangle was a thorny thatch that adorned her as would a badge.
The slopes of her soft svelte body were shadowy and exquisite. Her feet were toys, poised in ballet duck style, and so delicate they invited being kissed. The heavenly curve of her arched instep was exciting and thrilling. If only one could kiss each little pink tipped toe!
"Want a drink?"
He was brought out of his reverie into the present. "Hey, put down that bottle!" He knew that gin and marijuana did not mix. Before he could seize the chalk white bottle, she had taken several lusty swallows.
"You're going to get sick," he said, but knew that he had to have her. She had teased him, set him on fire, brought him to this weird loft where everything oozed passion, including the statues of naked Greeks on pedestals which were everywhere. Now he was going to have her.
"I'll get good and sick," she flung herself at him, "and love it. Make me feel good, Bobby. Make me feel like I'm on a pink cloud."
The fire burned. He stripped away his own shirt, then worked his belt and trousers down over his hips. In a few moments, he stood nakedly before her. This time, unlike the few occasions in that ghastly cellar club, it was meant only for Mimi.
"Like it?"
He took her in his powerful arms, rubbed close, then forced her backward, bending her at the waist. Her thick pony tail hair swung lazily and her mouth opened. "Mmm," she said as her hands moved over the strong planes of his thickly corded back, then down to squeeze his hard, masculine buttocks. She stole around in front and drummed her fingertips all along his thighs, pushing him away just a bit so that her tortuous fingers could grip him where he almost screamed with suppressed urges.
"It's so good," she managed to say as his mouth closed down upon hers.
Their tongues collided. It was like a flash of fire searing their loins. While they were locked in the em-brace, while Bob's nakedly hard body squeezed against Mimi's still clothed soft body, he worked with the edge of her blouse.
Slowly, he pulled it apart, fondling the soft white flesh as he did so, letting his tongue lick the soft roof of her mouth at the same time. Her heart pounded. The blood surged. Her body became rigid, then soft, then rigid again. She clung to him.
Slowly, the blouse was pulled higher and higher until it reached her armpits. Now he would cast it away.
He pulled apart, then yanked the blouse over her head and flung it to the dark side of the cavernous room.
The sight of her milky white breasts, bared solely for him, nearly made him explode. He had to move backward so that the warmth of her body would not create embarrassing reactions.
He was shaken with passion.
Mimi's breasts bounced up and down with just the slightest movements. When she brought both shoulders together, the breasts moved up and down and became plump melons. They were moist and glazed with anxiety.
"Take off my pants," she breathed, her gin laden breath strong upon his nostrils.
Nakedly, he knelt and started peeling down the black capris.
The sight of her mesh panties, tight as a skin against her soft hips, made him go crazy.
He struggled to peel the capris all the way down, then kissed her dimpled knees while she leaned on his strong back. The capris became a puddle around her ankles when she kicked them away. Her leather thonged slippers came off and now she was an ivory goddess in nudity.
But Bob McGill did not get up off his knees. Pendulous, he remained at her feet while he put his face to her panties and kissed her hotly.
It was as if an electric shock tore through Mimi's body.
She reared, let loose with a shrill scream. "Please ... take me ... take me now...."
Bob seized her moist panties, ripped them from her torso, clutching the silky puddle in his palms and burying his face in them, inhaling the heady odor of the girl's body.
It was a love potion to him.
He got to his feet again. Arm in arm, they went nakedly to the double bed. The springs creaked under their combined weights.
They were both hot. Their bodies burned. They were breathing heavily. Every fibre was awake and alive with burning urgency.
The slightest touch was like fire to Bob. He arched his body, then lowered his hard masculine weight down upon her. All the while, he kept kissing her face, nibbling at her ear lobe, inserting his tongue in her delicate shell like ear.
She was whimpering now. She was sobbing and begging him to love her-all the way. She parted her marble smooth legs and the yawning chasm of her forbidden triangular patch now invited its conqueror.
Her nails raked his back. He arched his athletic musculature until every fibre of his being was taut and hard. His breathing was heavy. He was bathed in his own sensuous glow. His heart slammed in his throat. He felt himself surge with tremendous vitality.
Her soft legs became twin snakes as they wound around his hips; her soft heels dug into his masculine buttocks.
Mimi's breasts became twin cushions; the sharp stiletto tips pierced his broad chest.
Suddenly, there was a mighty roar. He felt himself pulled into a tight, moist cave. He dug deep-so deep that he nearly broke his back and squeezed-and she squeezed back until neither of them could hold it much longer.
The dam burst loose. The explosion rocked both of them. A shower of stars smashed into their senses. Everything became dazed and foggy. The sweet feeling surged through their loins and became a hot flow of lava.
The explosion was sweet. It was so sweet and so good that both of them screamed from the release of the exertion. Again and again the spasms tore into their muscles. Their bodies twitched with convulsions. They made harsh moaning sounds. They clung to one another, desperate as they sought more and more pleasure-pain.
Bob became a human dynamo as he surged forth and dug so deep that Mimi fought back a scream of pain. But it was not pain that she felt. It was the sweetest joy she had ever known.
Each molded to the other's figure and physique. The soft breasts were crushed by the hard masculine chest.
The strong arms with tufts of blond hair were tight while the soft arms were like silken bonds. The harsh, masculine pelvic bones were possessive while her sloping belly was soft and like a cushion. The forbidden triangle of Aphrodite was silky soft with satin strands and underbrush, while his enviable and turgid spear of Apollo was demanding and forceful.
Yet it was Aphrodite who yawned to greet Apollo-and capture him in a tight, moist and soft prison of sensuous pleasure. In this prison, Apollo lay snug and comfortable, wanting the sheer heavenly feeling to endure forever and ever....
Sometime during the night, Mimi had to get out of Bob's sleepy naked embrace. She became violently ill. It was true-gin and pot don't mix. When she returned to his still sleeping form, his manhood exposed, she blended herself into the hollow of his physique and lost herself to him.
CHAPTER THREE
Mimi DuClos stirred lazily beneath the blankets; her body thrilled to the sensuous feel of warmth and softness as the bed gave way to her pressures. In half-sleep, half-dream, she moved to back in the delicious warmth of the flesh of the man beside her. She came awake abruptly at the feel of his rigid manhood.
Mimi opened her dark eyes, pushed her silky soft black hair from her face to stare around her. With relief, she noted she was in her own bed. Then she turned to look at the sleeping figure beside her.
She was startled. Who was he? The blankets were pulled down below their waists so that Mimi's breasts hung heavily on her chest. The young man was good looking and certainly very virile, even in his deep sleep.
There was a smile on her lips as she reminded her-self that her first thoughts always centered around erotica. But now she sought to reconcile herself with the present. The blond haired young man was sleeping heavily, his good looking head half-buried in the pillows. His thick, broad shoulders showed smooth athletic power. The upper twin halves of his body were sharply etched with chiseled pectorals. Down below, to the hard flat of his stomach, could be seen the start of the blonde patch of his rigid manhood.
Then she began to remember. It had started at that awful "tea" party in that cellar on the waterfront just a few blocks down. It was Henry Weiner who urged her to go. She never did care for smoking reefers. In fact, she had hangovers if she went too far. But Henry talked her into it; he showed her a new world where she could feel the licking fires of passion and obtain the most exhilarating pleasures ever known to exist.
"Sex en masse," Henry would say. "It's like an orgy in a Sultan's palace back in the days of a thousand and one nights." When Hairy would describe what went on, he would fondle Mimi's knee, then steal between both knees and squeeze the soft flesh of her thigh. That was all that she needed to feel the sparks gnawing at her vitals. She would become a willing nymph and agree to anything just so that Henry would take her and give her relief.
"Can I have all the men I need?" she would ask in a small voice, conscious of her insatiable craving for lust. She knew it was an abnormal craving but she could not help herself.
"AO the men," Henry would caress her soft shoulder, then fondle her breasts, still covered by a blouse, "and all the women, too. Honey, we're two of a kind. We like them both, don't we?"
It may have been true about Henry-most of them in the Village were like that. And she had seen the bizarre way Henry Weiner would put on feminine clothes, wearing weird leather panties with drawstrings that squeezed his flesh tight, and then would don leather jerkins that were like bloomers, secured around his waist and knees. Henry would then put on a genuine leather skirt, a leather jacket with buttons around the wrists-often, the sleeves of the leather jacket ended in mittens that rendered his hands completely useless. To top it all off, Henry would don knee length leather boots.
Ah yes, the boots were the rage of those Village artists' parties. The boots were made of polished oil-skin; jet black, the leather was so smooth, it was like a mirror. The boots had the most delicately fashioned heels in creation. They were as thin as toothpicks, measuring a clear ten inches high. When Henry Weiner walked around the loft, cellar club or wherever the bizarre party took place, his whole body was tilted forward on the skyscraper heels.
He would hold out his mitten covered hands, looking every bit like a leather covered doll, and declare, "Who wants to love me first?"
A signal. That's what it was. A signal. Then a few robust men would come from the crowds and fall down on their knees, loving his boots, kissing them, becoming humbled in the presence of such leathery power.
But Henry would not let them love his leather clothes without prior punishment. He always carried a leather whip, braided and slicing; he let the whip sing in the air and then slashed it across the broad backs of the kneeling slaves.
It made everyone supercharged with excitement, turning some into sexual stallions; others into screaming nymphs. The barriers were let down. Inhibitions were dropped.
Never did Mimi fail to become startled at the secret longings of those present at the parties. It was astonishing how the most masculine writers, sculptors and television performers would turn into masochistic she-males, begging to be humbled, to be treated like slaves and ... shocking of all ... used like women!
Mimi roused herself. She had to deal with the present. Just where did this good looking young man come from? Feeling the rise of passion, she moved care-fully, permitting her soft breasts to fall just before his mouth. She let his steady breathing caress her breasts. The tips became hard. She felt the painful longing sweep through her loins.
Very carefully, she moved the blanket until it went lower and lower, uncovering his hips, then revealing the hard masculine curve of his naked buttocks; finally the blanket exposed his tapering thighs and his lower limbs. Now he was in naked sleep.
Mimi had a rising desire. She lowered herself so that she was lying adjacent to him. His head was still buried in the cushion; his arm was curved to form a pillow. His muscles were powerfully etched. It was a source of thrill to Mimi to see strength. She gloried in it. She especially gloried in seeing a powerful athlete in feminine clothes. In a way, it was semi-disappointing with Henry Weiner. He was not too athletic or well built and that made it less exciting. And he was a half-and-half type which lessened the thrill of it all even further.
Now she remembered! This blond fellow had seen her at that weed party last night and they had gone off together. Both of them smoked the weed and got high on it. They came here and ... after that, it had been a blank.
The fire in her loins hinted that she was not fully satisfied. That was the trouble with smoking pot. You never knew what was happening to you. Most of the fun was in later remembering how the man had kissed you, where he put his lips, then how he worked his body and how he....
"Mmmff...."
He was stirring sleepily; his outstretched arms and legs touched her and she moved closer. "Shh," she whispered. Her breasts brushed against the hard chest and the still sleepy warmth of his masculine strength was an aphrodisiac to her.
Then he opened his eyes. He stared around with a glazed expression. "Hey ... what...?"
Mimi had to do the impulsive. She could not control herself. She moved her curvaceous figure and pushed him over on his back. Then she climbed atop, thrilling to his hard masculine virility. "Love me," she ordered meekly. "Love me."
He was so confused that he could not distinguish between dream and reality. But the contact of her electrifying flesh sent a stirring fire through his hips. His arms closed tight around the soft bundle of warm curves. He felt his mouth being pried open; still weak from the heavy slumber, he let her insert her tongue, then responded as her lips seized his own and became very intimate.
Her breasts were soft as they crushed against his chest; he felt his heart pounding. Still dazed, he was clumsy with instinctive movements.
She parted to whisper, "Let me do it ... let me...." He sank back in the pillows. His head whirled as he felt her lips kissing the hollow of his throat, then going downward until she was loving his hard chest. The palms of her hands massaged his nipples, causing strange responses to erupt. He had never before been loved this way. He had always played the dominant, aggressive role. Even if he wore frilly dresses, he still had to play the male role.
Now she was straddling him. She buried her head in his masculine power. Shock tore through his body. He began to erupt with twitching and spasms. He could not control himself. His hips shot up and in that instant, he was seized by the girl.
The slippery moist intimacy bathed him until he felt his senses reeling. He knew he could not control himself. His strong hands gripped her shoulders and suddenly the shock ripped into him. He opened his mouth to let out a yell. Only a soft moan escaped. The shock ripped throughout his pelvis, erupted into a fire. Again and again the shock reverberated until he was gasping and sobbing with throbbing desire.
He squirmed and twisted. He fought to keep from collapsing into further unconsciousness. He did not even comprehend what was fully taking place. All he knew-rather, all he felt was the sweet thrill of the shameful way he was being used.
The rising waves subsided. The tide receded. His heart stopped slamming in his head. He fell back on the soft mattress and cushions and all that could be heard was his heavy breathing. He shut his eyes and just wanted to rest.
From somewhere, the sound of naked feet could be heard; a door opened and shut, the sound of rushing water. Then the door opened again and the naked feet came closer.
He opened his eyes and looked around. He was lying naked and spent on the bed-and looking at him was this equally naked pixie like creature with breasts as huge as moons, with splashes of red as vivid as blood, with a pair of legs that could have been the inspiration for a sculptor. Her soft, dimpled thighs and knees were slightly apart.
"Good morning," she smiled, not caring about their condition of exposure.
"Where ... where am I?" He wanted to cover him-self. He was not an exhibitionist and had a certain modesty about concealing himself-before men and women. He looked around again. The room was an enormous artist's loft with canvases, paints, pallets, pails, brushes and general disarray. Sunshine streamed through the huge ceiling to floor window.
"In my studio. Don't you remember? We came here last night, after the 'tea' party in the cellar." She turned and deliberately let her soft buttocks bounce in a rounded arc as she brought a smock from a rack on the wall. She covered herself with the smock. The deep V was shadowy and more exciting in concealment. Her hips were outlined against the smock.
"I think I remember something." He balanced him-self on his elbows, winced from the head pain and waited a moment for the throbbing to subside. His powerful muscles were brought into play. He became aware of her amused smile.
"Do we have any names?" she asked, letting her eyes travel up and down his body.
"Mine's Bob McGill." Strange, he did not even re-member her name. And all he did was puff the weed a few times.
"Mimi DuClos." She brought him a terry cloth robe. "Here, before you get horny again."
He flushed at the naked references and gratefully accepted the robe. "I remember coming down a dark street and...." Then it started coming back. Those two sailors who propositioned Mimi. Well, he was not going to tell her about that part of the evening if she did not remember. "Does marijuana do that to the user all the time?"
Mimi became pensive as she sat down on a hassock before the bed. "That's why it's so wonderful. It makes you forget what you want to forget. But it makes you do things you ordinarily wouldn't be doing."
"Was I that bad?" Bob scratched his head, feeling giddy. He wondered if his legs would buckle under him if he started walking across the huge room. He would try it in a few seconds.
"Bad?" Mimi shook her pretty head. "You were good, Bobby, real good." Did he know that they had just been together?
"I can't remember much of what happened after we came here." Bob was going to try to walk. He stood up. The whole floor swerved and everything was a blur. He staggered. She was helping him. Then every-thing became firm again.
"Never mind about the past. It's the present and future that counts."
Typical Village artist, he thought. After a few steps, his self-confidence and memory began to return. "Oh yes, now it comes back to me."
"What does?"
"Just how I came to that 'tea' party as you call it." He scratched his blond hair in thought. His handsome face was contemplative. "It was Charley, 'that foot-ball player. He's on the team at the school where I go ... oh, I remember something else. I'm not at the school any more." Then he started telling Mimi every-thing. How he spent more time in reading popular novels and cheesecake magazines to get an idea of the style than in studying required textbooks. "My marks zoomed down ... all the way down. My folks got the copy of the record from the dean and withdrew their support. They sent me a hundred bucks to come back home."
"Home?" Mimi was learning more about him and finding that she liked him. There were other ideas forming in her now-alert brain. "Where's home?"
"Out west. Yeh, I'm a real corn off the cob. A farm boy, wet behind the ears. I've only been in New York for a year. Like it real well-had fancy ideas about becoming a writer. In fact, I used to sell short stories to the high school magazine and some of the state journals, too."
A writer. At least he was creative and that meant a lot. They had something in common. "The Village is filled with those types of writers."
It irked him to hear such a remark. "You could be a little less sarcastic." He shoved his hands into die pockets of his terry cloth robe.
Mimi felt sorry. "I ... I didn't mean it that way, Bob. But you have to face up to reality. Selling stories to a school magazine doesn't cut you out for a professional career. You're competing with other high school kids and that's amateur stuff. You need more on the ball."
"That's exactly what I thought. So I started looking around me. Life was more than a corn field and rows of neatly planted crops. Life was hard, mean and cruel. But it was a lot of fun, too. The problem lay in being able to put it all down on paper. I wanted to live what I wrote about. Don't artists or actors put every-thing into their work? Some even live what they portray."
She knew what he was driving at. "You wanted to get a taste of life so you came to the big city."
He settled himself in a contour chair and regarded the debris of paint stained cloths and rags and cans of turpentine. "More than that. I enrolled in the college here. But it was too much book stuff for me. It was all conformity, regulation, style. You had to follow rules ... you had to fit a pattern. Maybe Hemingway or Maugham did it that way-but actually, they made up their own styles and didn't follow any set patterns."
"And you want to establish your own sphere." Mimi understood the creative incident. "But why didn't you stick to your education? You're not supposed to agree with all you're taught. At least it would help you broaden your perspective."
He shook his head. "I felt I was wasting time ... and my parents' money. I didn't intentionally fail subjects-but when our instructor gave a writing assignment, told us to describe the awakening of youth, I had to do it the way I felt it-not the way Balzac would have done it."
"What happened?"
"He told me that I should double for Henry Miller." Mimi burst out in laughter; the echo bounced back from the walls. She rocked on her heels, her breasts bouncing up and down. "Well, you deserve credit for writing the way you wanted to write ... the creative instinct works that way." She indicated her paintings. "See that mural?"
Now he was able to get a close up view of her work. The vivid splashes of color were exciting. It was a wooded scene in which a group of naked girls were bathing themselves in an idyllic pond; the sleek bosoms, the sharp pointed tips, the shadowy indentation of their tummies, the forbidden triangle of Aphrodite were all in sharp relief.
In the foreground of the wooded grove could be seen several splendidly muscled young men, equally nude, stretched out on the mossy bank. They were all exhausted and appeared to be asleep.
In the background was a new scene, not yet fully sketched in. It was obvious that this would be another group of merrymakers, both men and women, who were in various stages of undress. They, too, would soon be in the pond with the laughing, bathing girls. "It's stimulating, isn't it?"
He felt a bit embarrassed. Nearly all of the paintings were centered around themes or erotica. "Nudes-all nudes."
"Why not? The greatest masters painted the nude. The human form on canvas is as mysterious and exciting as the human form on paper."
There was a certain cleverness about the way she spoke.
Bob McGill now turned his attentions to another can-vas. It stood on an easel and was slightly tilted. Upon closer examination, the canvas looked tilted, itself. It was the clever way it was being painted. It featured a beautiful goddess like woman looking at her nude body in a mirror-and the reflection? It was barely sketched in, yet even in the initial tracing lines could be seen a masculine image.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She took a deep breath. "It's done on special assignment-most of the paintings here are already commissioned for sale. That will eventually be a painting of Hermaphrodite. You've heard the legend, I'm sure."
He felt a quickening of the pulse. Bob knew about the Greek mythological tale of Hermaphrodite-half-man and half-woman. Why did it mean something special to him? Was it because he was a fully developed male-who liked to dress as a female?
"Just a legend," he said weakly, not looking at Mimi. There was a moment of silence. "But there's more to it than that. I think it refers to guys who like guys and gals-and gals who like gals and guys."
"Well, I don't dig it that way," Bob said abruptly. "I'm all male." He smiled. "You know that, I'm sure."
She had to smile, now. "I found that out last night." Then she became pensive. "But the Village is filled with the type who like their own. Lesbians, homosexuals. Then there are the half-and-half kinds. Henry Weiner is that way...."
"Henry Weiner?" Slowly, this part of his memory came back. He had a blurred vision of a tall, rather nice looking Ivy League freshman boy-he had been at the smoke party last night. "Say, that Henry hasn't much modesty, has he?"
"Oh, you mean the way he let that Negro make love to him?" She shrugged her shoulders. "He's always a big show off. It's funny about Henry, if he's not on the habit...."
"Habit?"
"You know-a fix, the weed."
"Oh, yes, sure."
"Well, if he's not on the habit, he's as bashful as they come. Have to fight to get him to make a play. But just two or three whiffs of a reefer, and he's a Don Juan-with guys or gals. They can do what they want to him and he gets a kick out of it. I remember one time we went out to Fire Island for a beach party." Bob heard of this seaside resort. It was just a little village, an island surrounded by water with a ferry boat the only means of communication with the mainland. "That's quite a hangout for the gay crowd."
She nodded. "Lots of gay girls go there, too. Any-way, Henry smoked just one reefer on the beach at night, and he stripped right down and started begging one of the bongo drummers to whip him."
Bob felt his heart pounding. He always experienced strange excitement at the mention of sadomasochism. "Did ... did the drummer whip him?"
"I'll say. Henry even came prepared with a whip-he had it all set up. The whip was made of pure leather, sleek and shiny. It had a hard knobby handle. The drummer took it-then roped Henry down to some pegs on the beach and spread-eagled him in full view of the rest of us. Then he flogged him. It was ghastly. Each time the whip sang in the night air, then came slashing across Henry's broad back, going lower and lower. That bongo drummer was a weird one, too. An expert whip master. He striped Henry from shoulder right down across his rump. When he was finished
"What happened?" asked Bob in a low voice.
"The bongo drummer used Henry-you know, like a woman. And Henry reacted just like a woman who was being raped. But it was the way he wanted it."
"Yet when he's off the pot, Henry isn't that way?"
"He's that way all the time but the pot melts away his inhibitions. Maybe that's why he likes it."
There was still something Bob could not understand. "Just where do you fit into all this?"
"Henry's a pusher-makes a meager living out of it. He's just a small cog in the whole syndicate. He's afraid to carry it, though. So when he goes to a 'tea' party, he asks me to carry a reefer in my panties. I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's Henry."
"Does he force you?"
She shook her pony tail. "Nobody forces me into anything. But I get a kick out of Henry making love to me-knowing that he's so weird. Lots of girls like a queer guy; just as lots of guys marry lesbians because they're so charged up all the time. Haven't you ever heard the line that a good guy isn't any fun?" Everything was happening so quickly that Bob McGill could not properly piece it together. "So you carry reefers for Henry so he'll make love to you. Is that it?"
"You make it sound so wrong." She had such an indifferent attitude that it was irksome. "Anyway, we've had enough confession for this morning. Now that you've been kicked out of school, what next?"
He was faced with the prospect of being homeless and broke. "I owe a month's back rent on my room so my landlady's holding my worldly possessions."
"Anything important?"
"No-just some clothes and books. But that type-writer is valuable. It's an old one but good-I'd like to get that back from her. Maybe I'll get a job or something."
A thought formed in her mind. "Suppose I pay for your stuff, and you come to work for me."
"Work for you?" It was an incredulous idea.
"Sure. I need models. I can get lots of girls, but guys are shy about posing for me. And the guys who don't care really don't have anything worth painting." Her tongue flicked her lips. "You're a real man. I'd like to capture it on canvas."
It was a weird set up. But if she could get his type-writer and clothes returned to him...."Where do I live?"
She pointed to a small inside room. "Take a look. It's got a spare bed and a little table so you can do your typing right there. I'm a good cook-and I supply all the eats and booze."
"And pot, too?"
She winced. "That hurt, Bob. I'm not on the habit. Just do it once in a while when I want to break free from my shackles."
He would have time to write. Maybe he would turn out a solid novel-about life in the Village. It would be taken from real life because be would be living it. "Just where does the money come from?"
"It's honest." She started walking among some stacked canvases. A few were wrapped in heavy brown paper and bore tags. "See, some of these are bought and paid for. I charge anywhere from a hundred for a small oil or charcoal sketch up to a thousand or more for a wall painting. A mural, like that one, will bring five thousand." She rattled off the figures as easily as if they were dollar amounts.
"Whew! No wonder you don't worry about money. I wish I could sell stories or books that easily."
"Some of these people may want stories written for them. Private commission stuff. That won't get published, of course, but it's earn-while-you-learn money."
"Private writing? I don't understand."
She decided not to give him too much at one time. "Well, we'll go into that when the right time comes. How about it, Bob? Want to work as my model? I warn you, I can go for three, four or five hours at a time."
He had no choice. He was desperate, broke, kicked out of college, cut off from his folks' money. "Okay-I'm hired-I'm all yours."
CHAPTER FOUR
The proposed painting of Hermaphrodite was temporarily postponed. One of Mimi DuClos' customers who was furnishing a sumptuous Long Island home with the best of art erotica, wanted a painting of Prometheus. And when the society dowager set eyes on Bob McGill, she ran fingers through her carefully groomed white hair and declared, "He's so ... sensuous. I want him as the model."
Bob had been busy writing a scene in a pocket novel that had been commissioned by a publisher, and was feeling the effects of a December-May love affair in reverse. It involved a college boy's sexcapade with a fortyish faculty wife. "My price is high." After living with Mimi for over a month, he was sharp when it came to money. "I want at least a thousand to pose for the painting."
The middle-aged woman smoothed her silk dress and adjusted the mink stole across her shoulders. Her face creaked with shadowy wrinkles. "It's rather steep. Of course ... I don't know if you fit into my imagination. I envisioned Prometheus as a handsome, Tarzan-type of Grecian." She let her eyes travel up and down his body. He wore chinos and a white business shirt, rolled up at the sleeves to expose strong forearms.
"Take a look at some of the other paintings," invited Mimi. She pointed to one that was standard wall painting size, already framed. "It's a simple lifeguard scene-that's Bob standing with his arms across his chest, at the shore." It was a breathtaking painting of frolicking nudes in and out of the water. Bob had posed for it, and in the midst of pink and tanned male and female flesh, looked virile and aloof.
The woman peered closer. "Mmm, but the shadows...." She was discreet in referring to the clever way the shadows obscured Bob where he should have been more emphasized. The buyer of this painting wanted it that way for his own private reasons.
Bob felt a flush creep up his throat. He chafed at being exposed like that ... even if only in a painting. Fortunately, few of the customers ever saw or knew him. The paintings were purchased and picked up when he was not in the studio. It was the best arrangement and spared embarrassments.
"Bob is a good model." Mimi wiped a brush with a small rag and set up an assortment of paint tubes and brushes for a sketch she was doing. "He's very athletic."
"But a thousand dollars...."
Bob thought he asked too much; he could not lower the price once it was made. "Isn't it worth it for a genuine oil painting done according to your specifications?"
"Of course," the woman laughed hoarsely, showing a wrinkled crepe-like throat. "But ... the selection of a model is so important. Even if the artist is talented, as I know Miss DuClos is, the entire effect is ruined if the model is not especially suited for the subject."
Mimi had a lot of work to do and was getting annoyed at all the haggling. "Bob, why not show the lady how you look?"
The old shrew's face lit up with delight. "Oh, I don't think you should go to all that trouble just for me." Bob felt the back of his neck redden. She wanted him to strip right down in front of her. What was he? Some animal on display?
"You'll be paying a thousand dollars," mentioned Mimi nonchalantly while inspecting some sketch books, running her fingers across the grain of the paper, "so you don't want to buy a pig in a poke. Go ahead, Bob, show her and then we can get a down payment and begin work."
He hesitated, still feeling embarrassed. It was one thing to pose for Mimi and be alone with her-it was another to be stripped on inspection for this aging broad. "Well," he swallowed hard, feeling himself grow weak, "I ... I...."
"It's up to you." She was about to stand up. Apparently, she was not going to pay any money until she got her vicarious thrills by seeing a young man in the raw.
"Okay," he said after some hasty deliberation. "It'll only take a minute."
"Where are you going?"
He stopped turning on his heel. "I'm going to get out of these clothes behind that screen. Most of the models do it in the art schools."
"But there's only myself around ... except Miss DuClos and surely you're not ... modest about her." The old bat was tricky. She wanted to see him do a male strip tease right in front of her.
Mimi disappeared behind an enormous canvas that would later be cut up in sections so it would fit through the door after it was finished. "I want to sew some-thing here," she called from behind the canvas. "Go ahead, Bob-then we'll get started on the painting."
He bit his lip. This was a part of the whole business he did not like. But he had asked for a high price-and this thousand would be split between Mimi and himself. It was the way they worked. Either he or Mimi asked for a model's fee and this was divided up between them. And his share would be five hundred dollars-nothing to toss aside.
"Okay." He turned sideways, catching the lusty gleam in the middle aged woman's eye. He worked with fumbling fingers. He first kicked off his loafers, then stripped off his socks. Now he unbuttoned his shirt, slipped it up over his head and tossed it aside. His upper nude torso rippled with powerful muscular strength. Without looking at the peeper, he knew she was all excited.
Slowly, he fumbled with his belt, opened it up, then unbuttoned his chinos. He let the trousers fall down around his ankles, then he stepped out of the puddle.
His naked buttocks were highlighted by the bright sunshine streaming in through the windows. He was taut with a bizarre excitement. As he parted his strong, masculine thighs, he turned and let her look at him. He breathed deeply, permitting his chiseled pectorals to become smooth masses of muscular flesh. The rocky ridges of his abdomen just rippled with power.
"How handsome!" She was flushed, too. "A blond Viking."
Now Bob McGill felt the pangs of desire searing his loins. He was painfully conscious of the way the woman kept a fixed stare at his blond framed manhood in full power. He swore softly to himself. This would be the last time he would ever exhibit himself before any customer.
"Turn around, won't you?" There was a creaky sound in her voice.
Still muttering to himself, he turned around, flexing his buttocks, broadening his shoulders, He was sensitive about feeling her eyes caressing the strong planes of his back, then down across the slopes of his lower back, coming to the rise of his masculine buttocks, then down his strong thighs.
He turned to face her. "Do you like?" He fought to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.
Quickly, she stood up and before he could step back, her velvet gloved hands massages his biceps, then went down his smooth chest and explored him so intimately that he knew he could hardly control himself.
"You are exciting, aren't you?"
She dug into her beaded bag and extracted a small card.
Lowering her voice, darting anxious eyes toward the canvas behind which Mimi was busy stitching a tear, she whispered, "Here's my name and number. Call me some evening and we might have a bite to eat at my house. I'm a widow, living alone with a maid. It's so lonely."
He took the card and foolishly wondered where he could hide it. He was all the more sensitive about his nakedness. "Uh, thanks."
Just then, Mimi came out. "Oh, I see you're ready. Well, does he meet with your approval?"
"Sure does," she smiled. Her face was bathed with a glow. She looked grasping, eager, like an aging vulture determined to swoop down on a young victim and capture him. He'll do just fine. Now, let me write you a check." She took out a folded checkbook and small pen. Unscrewing the cap, she scratched some numbers and words on a check, affixed her signature, then tore off the slip. "Here it is, Miss DuClos." Her beady eyes drank in every part of the still nude muscle man in a turgid state of arousal. "I know, that this will work out fine."
When she was gone, Bob McGill was infuriated. "What am I supposed to be? A prize stud for sale? Look at this!" He shoved the card in Mimi's hand. "She wants me to pay her a little visit ... says she's lonely."
Mimi grinned. "That's nothing new. Lots of those types pay men for a night of service. You want to know something else?"
"What?"
"You're exciting when you're angry!" With that, she flung herself at him and guided his hands so that he would peel down her toreador pants. "Hug them, hug and squeeze them." She was breathing rapidly as she forced his mouth open. She writhed on top of him as they both became entwined with arms and legs on the short rug on the floor.
His hands gripped her buttocks, now made naked, and his strong young fingers did other things to make her a hellion of wild desire. Her mouth was hot and her tongue was as powerful as a licking flame.
When she was gloriously nude, her black hair spanning her ivory shoulders, her breasts riding high on her chest like twin pigeons, she straddled Bob and eased herself up until the pointed tips were above his lips.
"Kiss them-first one, then the other," she ordered.
He cupped a breast, squeezed the satin smooth flesh, let it come closer until he had it between his lips. He bit ... and bit down hard. It sent a shock of tremor through their bodies. He was vaguely aware of how her hands were gripping him, how her own fingers were causing severe pain that was transformed into sweet pleasure. The blood roared in his head. He felt a triphammer slamming at the base of his skull.
"Kiss me between my breasts," demanded Mimi between choked breaths. She was fire and fury.
When his tongue sent a wet trail up and down the narrow gorge between the milky white rocks, she began trembling. Then her body stiffened and she began to shake as if a live wire had been inserted between her thighs.
"Now ... now...."
The ceiling crashed down on them. Their hot and feverish bodies writhed in moist and sweaty ardor. His legs stiffened. His whole physique became rigid and tense. Suddenly, he felt his manhood being gripped. At the same time, an identical soft moisture went down over his mouth.
Mimi's lips closed down on his. Her hips began a savage dance as she flattened her body and molded herself to his rocky strength. Every fibre of Bob's emotions was taut and shivering. He nearly screamed as Mimi danced wilder and wilder.
The roar erupted into an explosion. The pounding of the surf slammed against his ears. At the same time, the surf erupted into a tidal wave and gushed forth. The tidal wave was boiling hot as it spurted and spewed forth its scorching liquids.
Both of them were sent slamming into a rock wall, then tossed on the sea of fire. They had never known it to be so wonderful ... it was agonizing but so very wonderful....
Bob McGill had finished a paperback novel and delivered it to the publisher. Sure, he would defend him-self when showing the check after it came in the mails a week later, it isn't great literature. But this dough is the best writing I ever read. And I never said I write classical stuff. I'll do something better-when I can afford it!
He had made this connection through one of the Village photographers he met at a reefer party. The guy had originally been a physique photographer-he was a champion weight lifter, too, with a body that would have made Atlas turn green with envy. And like most of the physique muscle boys, he had a narcissus complex: loved his own body. Would strip nude at the drop of a hat-before a party circle and then love his own image in a mirror. The things he did to him-self caused the boys to blush and look away from the girls who watched with glazed eyes and gasped in hushed tones, "So that's what boys do...."
Anyway, Bob McGill liked this fellow, name of Eric Norton because he, too, had a strange love for his own body. And Eric told him, when they first met, "Bobby, why don't you write some of this fetish and black leather stuff?"
"Is there a market for it?"
Eric had laughed. "More market than there is for apples and pears. I'll give you the number of a publisher who caters to this crowd. He pays fairly well; it's prompt, too. It's a good living and you'll sharpen your style while writing for him. Digs this transvestism stuff, too."
Bob stiffened. "Transvestism?" It was his own sec-ret longing. Living with Mimi, he had been compelled to repress his painful urge to love feminine clothes, to go dressed as a female, to wear the lingerie discarded by the girl. Now he knew he would eventually have to reveal this other side of his nature. If not ... he would go wild! "I guess I can write about guys who dress as girls."
And he did write well about transvestism and the masochists who became dynamic sex partners when forced to pay homage to leather. It worked out so well that he was seriously thinking of telling Mimi that he no longer wanted to model for her. He even dropped a few hints.
"What'll I do without you?" she started to sob. "They all like you-they don't want another model." He was so soft-hearted, he could not walk out on her, not after the way she took him in. Even though his writings made him financially independent, he remained with Mimi and posed for her and also acted as her stud.
Now, after having delivered the manuscript to the uptown publisher, Bob McGill hailed a cab back to Washington Square. It was early Summer and the sidewalks leading to Washington Square were in full blossom.
But these were blossoms in the form of colors on canvas. Twice yearly, the outdoor art exhibit was held. It brought a lot of tourists who bought rafts of paintings because they did not know any better.
During the twenties and the era of bathtub gin, the flapper, talking guns and silent movies, the sidewalk exhibits were a real boon to artists who were sincere and struggling. They would prop their canvases against walls and fences, settle down in folding chairs and watch the whole world pass by. They would be discovered in this way. Furthermore, no painter had to pay any commission or other fee to any commercial art gallery. It was for free-and Greenwich Village rallied to the cause.
But it did not take long before commercialism reared its ugly head. The exhibit was going to be exploited. No longer was quality the main theme. Instead, any-one who could affix splashes on canvas or wrapping paper, decided to make himself a killing.
During the outdoor art exhibit, tourists walked by and bought stuff that would have drawn a zero in a kindergarten art class. Occasionally, there were some good paintings. As Bob passed among the sidewalks, he saw something that had genuine talent. There were still life drawings that breathed real life.
But most of the exhibits were sentimental yachts in sentimental harbors; an occasional abstraction that took courage. It meant that the bearded, beret covered and dirty artist had erred in mixing colors and decided to make the best of his situation which also included an error in thinking he knew how to draw! So he splashed it all together until it looked like something the cat dragged in and flung on canvas, called it modern art and demanded a high price.
There were no bans or restrictions. Hence the low quality of display.
As Bob made his way through the crowds, smiling to some occasional friends, he kept wondering if some restrictions should be imposed-and others lifted. Yes, there was one restriction which no one ever even thought of. A restriction of nude paintings. And that meant nude the way a nude should be. No matter if it was male or female or a combination of both-what this art exhibit needed to be sparked up was a huge canvas-at least six by eight feet-in full color, showing a gloriously naked Eve with hot desires, taking care of an enviable naked Adam who was a man in every sense of the word. Now, there was a painting that would stop traffic and sell for a gold mine.
But ... the board of directors frowned on nudes while proclaiming freedom of expression as the theme of this year's exhibition. And silly splotches of over-turned cans of paint that were called modernistic art was called creativity!
Bob McGill headed East. There was going to be a late afternoon "tea" party at the home of the photographer Eric Norton. Actually, Bob did not like the way Mimi carried reefers in her panties. Neither did he like the way Henry Weiner kept her under his thumb. Maybe she was hooked but did not admit it. Surely, she did not need the money he slipped her for carrying reefers to these parties!
Then why did she do it?
For kicks?
Who was he to complain? He had no real hold on her? Besides, he usually went along with her and sniffed the weed himself. And did he get high! Real high!
He did things he wouldn't ordinarily do. There had been that last time when those two lesbians got him into a sandwich deal-zowie-it made him hot to think of how they put him in the middle and really went to work on him!
He felt like climbing the ceiling-and breathed in more weeds, after begging Mimi to let him have one all to himself.
It wasn't cheap. No sir. Everyone put ten dollars into the pot (what a joke that was!) and this was all given to Henry Weiner who split the take with the main pusher. He handed Mimi a ten or twenty for her "cooperation" and she was happy. What she smoked on her own was for free.
He once had it out with her. "Look, I'm no one to put chains on you, Mimi, and you live your life the way you want to. I live mine the way I want to.
But you're playing with dynamite. You're going to get caught by the cops...."
"Fuzz...." she arched her eyebrows and looked amused.
"Okay, so use the dead bohemian talk.
The fuzz gets hold of you and you're thrown in the clink."
"Do you really care?" She gazed at him soulfully.
It made him stop and think. "Yeh, yeh, I do care. I care an awful lot."
The situation was changed. Mimi still carried the reefers and was exhilarated when someone dug behind the elastic band of her pants to withdraw the little cellophane wrapped package, but she showed signs of weakness. On several occasions, she had even backed out when Henry called to tell her that she was invited to a party and to come "fully equipped."
There was more to it. There was also Lisa Lowery. Now there was a dynamic girl-a girl in name only. She had the passions of a man and the rough aggressive yearnings of a real bull dozer. She had none of the feminine modesties. She would strip herself down and do the same to a girl-and in full view, would show how to really make love!
Lisa loved Mimi.
And Bob McGill was in the way.
Lisa Lowery knew Bob was in the way and she was determined to do something about him.
Bob knew it, too and was scheming for a way to get rid of Lisa.
And Mimi-she loved Lisa ... and she loved Bob, too ... and did not know what to do.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first thing Bob McGill saw when he entered the floor through apartment in the dilapidated tenement off Bleaker Street, was the red light. It was a real junky habit. A drug addict's eyes eventually became overly delicate to light. At these "tea" parties, a red bulb eased the reaction. In the streets, junkies used dark glasses but that was no sign that the wearer was on the kick. Most Villagers liked the Hollywood style of wearing dark glasses in the daytime so you could not recognize a junky by just this sign.
It was a broken down tenement apartment; at one time, it had been a cold water flat with a toilet in the hallway. But with strengthening rent controls and restrictions, hot water pipes were added but the bathtub remained in the kitchen and the toilet was still in the hall.
It was a dive, with peeling plaster, broken floor boards, cracked windows and stains that were put there in the 1920's. It was dark inside. The windows were frosty and covered with burlap bags. This was a side of the Village not often (if ever) seen by tourists. This was the real Village where pot was smoked, where boy-girls loved each other on flat floor cushions.
"Come on in," nodded Lisa Lowery who had opened the wooden door. She was a dynamic figure in leather!
"Where's Mimi?" He looked through the thick, clouded gloom. There was no smell of burning grass so the reefers were not yet lit.
"Over there," Lisa Lowery pointed to the inside room that was dark, dank and anything but exciting.
Bob got a good look at Lisa Lowery and felt his heart thump right in his throat. She was a boyish looking creature with a willowy shape. She wore a pair of leather pants-alligator leather, the pants hugged her buttocks like a pair of hands. The pants were smooth, wrinkle free, fitting her like a second skin.
A matching leather blouse was buttoned up high around Lisa's throat; here, a huge, gleaming buckle was enclasped, clutching her throat like a cincher. She had to hold her head high and erect because the leather buckle was so tight, and so firm, she was completely submissive to its power.
"How do you like my boots?" Lisa had been following his curious stare.
Did she notice his flushed face? He always felt so helpless and in awe of leather! "They're ... real cute!"
"Cute?" She acted displeased. "Come now. A writer can think of a better word to describe polished leather boots with gleaming eyelets reaching from the vamp right up around my knees. See?" She extended one leg and dazzled Bob McGill. He started breathing heavily. His heart pounded.
"They're dynamic!" He stared fixedly at the flawless construction of the jet black leather boots. Patent leather. That's what they were. The toes were painfully narrow to a point, almost. The high arched instep forced Lisa to walk with a forward gait, with her small but well rounded breasts forced forward in a hanging position. They bobbed around like apples from a bough.
The black leather boots were tight around her limbs, secured with matching jet leather laces that must have caused broken fingernails and bruised fingertips before they were wound around the copper eyelets.
When Lisa walked, the leather boots made stab-stab-stab noises on the wooden floor.
Most astonishing of all were the heels. They were not heels as are ordinarily seen in average shoes. In-stead, they must have measured a full ten inches and were as slender as a baby's pinky while thrice as long. How did Lisa manage to walk around on such scintillating high heels? They were as high as a skyscraper!
"Dynamic-and powerful," breathed Bob McGill, nearly swooning from the strange power exuded by the flashing black patent leather boots. He looked upon Lisa with new respect and admiration, too, for squeezing her feet into such boots and then wearing them despite obvious difficulties.
"I'm glad you like them! Now, let's join the little party."
A series of stools, backless chairs, overturned orange crates and torn hassocks dominated the scene in the main middle room.
Couples were chatting together, seated on these pre-carious perches; others were on the floor, skirts hiked up to expose pink legs and smooth thighs. A few wore beards, looking unkempt-indeed, they were unkempt!
Their creative endeavors must have been equally un-kempt which only added to the frustration!
One younger artist who kept proclaiming that Picasso and Matisse were in conspiracy to destroy art, was at the same time fondling the breasts of a girl wearing ballet tights and nothing else! The young artist, good looking if he would take the time to keep himself clean, wore a pair of leather loden shorts. He was otherwise naked. He kept propping up his legs as he sat on the floor, bending the legs at the knees. This exposed his nudity since the shorts were pulled up high around his crotch.
At some interval when he moved his pelvis excitedly while endeavoring to explain Zen Buddhism, he became lewdly exposed; he hardly showed any concern for the exposure. In fact, he showed even less concern when the girl in ballet tights began to discover his manly possessions. Maybe it was all planned that way!
Already, Bob McGill was feeling the effects of the surroundings. Everything looked so free ... so pagan ... so wild!
"Hi, blondie!"
Bob turned and recognized a well muscled young fellow who occasionally modelled for Mimi when she needed his esthetic features for a certain pose. "Hi, Andy, did you see Mimi?"
"Right over there-between the girls!" Andy put his arm around Bob. "Why don't you ever come to see me, Bobby?" He ran his fingers through Bob's now grown longer hair. "A golden Viking ... that's what you're called." He pressed against Bob McGill making him feel nervous. Andy was such an exhibitionist. Even now, he was wearing a pair of ballet tights-as pink as his own skin, so that he looked naked at first glance. Andy always wore the same outfit so he evoked little surprise from those familiar with him. But he could have worn a supporter or something to make his manhood less pronounced....
"I've been busy," Bob extricated himself. "But I'll give you a call real soon."
"Just like a man," sighed Andy and then shrieked when he saw a long lost boy friend and ran to embrace him.
The floor through apartment was a maze of cubby holes and alcoves together with a few larger rooms. At one time, it must have consisted of a number of different tenement apartments with hall bedrooms and various broom closets; with the housing shortage, the walls were knocked down to make one large "suite" of rooms. "Suite" was a joke-the floor through was little better than a dingy loft and only in the Village could it be rented.
Eric Norton, the photographer, reserved the biggest and best room for his own sleeping quarters and his photographic equipment. This room was kept locked. The rest of the excuses for rooms were left open to partying and "tea" parties.
In one of these dark rooms with peeling wallpaper, Bob McGill found Mimi DuClos. "It's about time I saw you," he said sharply. He felt his temper rise to see that Mimi was flanked by two mannish looking girls. Both had short cropped hair, wore blue jeans intended for men; loose white shirts were floppy and obscured what might have been rounded globes of breasts.
"I'm having a real ball!" Mimi laughed happily as she was stretched out on a floor mat between both girls who were fondling her soft curves. Mimi was a distinct femme. She wore a soft silk skirt, a paisley printed blouse. Her well shaped hips were taut against the skirt and showed soft lines and delicate creases. "Come and join the fun, Bobby. I want you to meet two girl friends."
Bob shoved his fists into his blue jeans. He had fallen into the habit of wearing these work clothes so that he would not be labelled a "square" in the Village. "No thanks," he shook his head. "These boys might object." He detested the lesbians because they were a threat to his love.
One of them scowled. "We can show a girl a better time than you guys."
The other one smirked, looking positively devilish. "Men," she spat. "All they care about is their own brutal, animal pleasures. They know nothing about a woman's needs."
"But we men have better equipment." It was Eric Norton who came up behind Bob, completely happy because he was high on a sneak puff of a reefer. "Don't we, Bob?"
"Sure, sure." He was not in a joking mood. He wanted to get Mimi away from these dykes, try to straighten her out. "What do you say, Mimi?"
She was on the spot. Looking from one watchful girl to the other, Mimi was at a loss for words. She patted a cushion close by. "Sit down, Bobby, and let's talk it over."
Bob squatted, feeling uncomfortable with the lesbians; he already felt ill at ease when Mimi was about to smoke pot and depart in her weird twilight world.
It was then that she would unleash her dual sexual tendencies and get herself involved with women and men. He looked around for the photographer, hoping this would provide some moral support, but the friend had hurried off to greet some new arrivals.
"Now, what were we saying about a man's lack of power?" he prodded.
The lesbian closest to him was stiff lipped and spoke in a sultry, almost husky tone. Her face, devoid of makeup, was smooth and pale with pronounced cheek-bones. She had the heaviest breasts when she moved and brought her shirt tight against her upper torso.
There's a lesbian I'd like to get in a bed. thought Bob wildly. I'd show her what it's like to be loved by a man.
"We were saying that a man is primarily concerned with his own peak of pleasure. He uses woman as an instrument or device to bring about his climax. He hardly ever cares about her responses as long as he gets his own kicks."
"I don't think so-it's not true of all men, only those few who don't know the true art of love. A man gets his greatest pleasures when he's able to arouse the woman to his high peak and both of them climb to the top together. That's why a man works over a girl-in order to get her so excited...."
"...so she'll do anything to satisfy him," interjected the other mannish looking lesbian.
Bob McGill was at a loss for words. They were talking around in circles and twisting it all in their favor. "Mimi, what do you say?"
"I like both men and women," she laughed happily. There was a distinct scent of scotch or rye on her breath. She had been drinking already. "In fact," she winked her dark eyelash, "I like both of them at the same time." She fell back on the mat and the two lesbians embraced her, kissing her on the mouth, while their hands stole beneath Mimi's silken skirt and stroked the dimpled knee.
Even in the darkening light, it was obvious that she wore the skimpiest of panties that were more like webs around her crease-soft buttocks. Somewhere in those panties, close to the warmth of her womanhood, was a little cellophane packet containing the reefers. They were just getting high so they could go even higher when they started puffing the weed.
Well, Bob decided, he was going to join the party today. This time he was going to forget his problems, forget about Mimi and her bizarre leanings and have himself a real ball.
From somewhere, the hi fi started blaring. It was a mish mash of Stan Kenton, Greek flutes, African tribal drums and subway sounds. It was jazz, rock 'n' roll, the Beatles, all in a conglomeration. The entire floor through apartment became hushed when a peculiar record came on-it began with leather stomping boots, then the sound of rattling chains, the turning of what was obviously a torture rack, followed by whipping. Leather whips sliced into flesh and then screams rent the air-screams of men and women! Gasps, moans and some other peculiar sounds were last, indicating a savage fulfillment of a perverted urge. When this part of the record was over, the room was hushed ... then the hubbub of talking picked up again.
Bob McGill looked around. Squatted in the middle of the floor was a honey colored blonde; she had breasts that nearly spilled out from her too tight halter. Her white shorts were hiked up so tight around her upper white thighs, she might as well have been naked. In fact, Bob saw that she was naked underneath. She was being kissed by a lean, long legged brunette in dark slacks. The brunette was pushing her back down on the floor, while her hands explored the vast breast-work, loving them.
"Kiss me ... down there...." begged the blonde.
"Later, darling, later," promised the brunette in a voice that could have doubled for that of a man's. Meanwhile, she kept fondling the satin smooth breasts until the roseate tips became fire red and pressed against the white halter until they were clearly out-lined.
Bob McGill felt a painful stirring. The sight of all this free living made him experience the tight gnawing urgency. He had an impulsive urge to get up and leave-but he wanted to do it with Mimi.
She was already glaze-eyed and trembling. The buttons of her blouse had come loose, with the aid of the two girls who were making love to her, and her breasts nearly plunged free.
"You look all alone!"
Bob turned from his squatting position. It was Henry Weiner. They hardly saw one another these days be cause Bob was busy with his writing and Henry was busy with ... whatever it was he did!
"Yeh," Bob said bitterly, nodding toward Mimi who was fondling the mannish lesbian and kissing her square on the lips. "I guess I picked the wrong sex to love." He laughed shortly.
Henry was a nervous type, with dark eyes that darted in all directions at once. The way he looked at Bob made the latter nervous, too. "So you're finally coming around. Everyone in the Village does, at one time or another. Why don't you join me for a drink in the room down the hall...?"
Bob shook his head. "Unh, unh, I didn't mean it that way, Henry.
I'm all mixed up.
Nothing is straight around here and I don't know where I belong."
Henry was easy going about it; he had expected this reaction. "I was that way, too.
I don't go strictly for guys, you know. I like broads, too. See that one over there?"
Bob followed his glance. She was a buxom redhead as tall and straight as a tree, with enormous breasts against a cashmere sweater. She was kissing a tall, husky fellow who let his hands cup her buttocks and squeeze tightly to her delight.
"That's what I like-only, the way she's making up to that guy leaves me out in the cold. Look at her boots-pure leather, they reach right up to her hips, I'll bet."
It was the first time Bob noticed the boots. They, too, were skyscraper types, with heels as slender as matchsticks, clearly ten to twelve inches. The heels were so slender and high, they forced the redhead's body forward at an angle; her soft feet were fairly crushed at the narrow vamp and the excruciatingly delicate arch instep was dominant as it captured the entire limb.
"Look at the smooth texture of those boots," whispered Henry in a strange worshipful tone. "I'd love to run my hands up and down those boots. See how the laces are made of pure leather? They have to be inserted and withdrawn from each and every eyelet, going all the way up the girl's thighs, and then they're knotted tightly. I'd love to be able to do it for her!" Bob McGill felt himself grow giddy with the idea of kneeling before a dynamic redhead, forced to do her bidding, being transformed into a slave. At the same time, he felt a revival of his urge to love feminine panties and underwear. He had suppressed these urges too long and it was a constant source of pressure for him.
"Maybe you'll get your chance," Bob was saying. "Just a few whiffs of the weed and everyone flies up on the clouds ... no cares, no feelings, no troubles-only passion."
"You're right," Henry was saying quickly. "I have to get real high on pot before I let anyone work me over. Remember how that guy gave me a real jolt the last time?"
Bob did, indeed, remember the shameless exhibition that first night when he met Mimi DuClos. He wondered how Henry could even talk about it so casually ... almost with pride! The very idea! Letting another man strip him and then-in full view-it was too much!
By now, the party was in full swing. There were leggy blondes, muscle-bound heroes, non-descript and average looking people; it was ripe for the big blast.
"Now, let's all get in our own little circles!" Henry Weiner was so excited with anticipation that he could hardly get things organized. This time, they would do it differently. There would be separate groups of about a half dozen each. And each group would have one, two or more reefers, depending upon how much money they had kicked in, and depending upon their personal preferences.
The music was now a clash of cymbals and rattling chains; it was not music at all but a lot of deafening noise. Yet none of them cared because before long, they would be beyond external stimuli and bathed in the most sweetest pleasures ever imagined.
"Go to it, girls," declared Henry, "get out the weeds and have yourselves a real ball." This taken care of, Henry squatted beside Bob and prepared himself for his own deep drag.
"Someone take out my little cellophane treasure," giggled Mimi DuClos. She stretched out flat on the mat, her breasts pointing upward, nearly falling out of the blouse. A flash of peaches and pink flesh could be seen in the dimly lit room. Already, the red lights had been put on so that the more progressed junkies would not suffer from eye ache.
Bob and one of the lesbians got up on their haunches to reach into Mimi's panties ... and only because Bob's strong arms were longer, did he make it first. The lesbian looked angry at being bested but she went back down on her buttocks and sulked.
"I love your hands," gasped Mimi, shivering as she felt Bob's probing fingers.
He teased her deliberately. He was going to get her fire hot and then she would beg him for it ... she would beg and beg until she would confess that a man's love is worth all the torment because it was a normal and rightful love! His fingers stole beneath her skirt, stroked the satin smooth expanse of the milky white flesh between her thighs.
Mimi was twitching and making gasping sounds; her eyes were glazed. Her aureoles were enlarging and growing stiff and pinpointed against the blouse. Her hips did a weird pagan dance as Bob's hands now reached beneath and fondled the soft plump underside of her bottom.
"That's it," urged Henry, "get her all excited-man, this is driving me wild, too. I'm ready ... I'm ready-for a guy or gal or anything!"
The lesbians looked angrily at the way Bob was succeeding with Mimi. "Gonna take all night?" one snapped.
"The longer the better," he said hoarsely, never taking his eyes from Mimi. "I can hold it in better than you can!"
Mimi's hips were moist and warm. Bob had a strange urge. He wanted to peel down her web thin panties, then strip himself bare, and put her panties on his own masculinity. It would be the height of exotica! But how could he do that in front of everybody? Maybe he ought to take more than the rationed two puffs of the weed-so he would get real high and then not be responsible for what he did!
He would wait for the roach-the last bit of the reefer-it would be the most potent and concentrated and would act like dynamite in releasing his inhibitions.
"Hurry up," begged Henry. "I want the first puff. She's got only one weed-so give me the first puff, please!"
Bob disliked being hurried like this but he felt his own urgencies and wanted to get into the act, too. What act? He did not yet know. But something was going to happen!
He gripped the flimsy silken panties by the tight elastic band. He felt the way Mimi's lower tummy twitched and erupted into wild spasms as his fingers brushed against her dimpled navel. She was shivering and undulating. She was soon writhing like a passion-drenched animal.
The panties were peeled down her slightly raised buttocks. All the while, Bob fondled the smooth, moist flesh as silky as the panties. Then he had the panties peeled down the columnar thighs, over the knees and then down around her ankles.
Henry could no longer wait. He pushed forward, grabbed the almost invisible cellophane envelope and tore it open. The little cigarette was in the palm of his hand. "I'm first," he cried crazily. "Light me ... light me!"
A match flashed. A burning flame was proffered. Henry stuck the reefer between both lips. The acrid scent of burning grass swirled with wisps of cloud-white smoke. Henry took two deep drags. He filled his lungs. The lit end of the reefer glowed like blood red.
"Pass it on," urged a girl next to him, almost pulling the coveted reefer from his lips.
Henry shut both eyes. He held his breath. He wanted the full impact of the swirling smoke as it soaked into his lungs and would soon send him reeling. Then he exhaled slowly, very slowly. He was smiling. "Man, I feel good-real good!" He turned to Bob McGill who was next in line to inhale the precious lone reefer, already down to the center.
Bob was hesitant, for just a moment. He brought the reefer up to his lips with one shaking hand. In his other hand, still held on his lap, was the moist and damp panty that he had pulled down from Mimi's curvaceous, sleek hips.
Bob took two deep, d-e-e-p drags. He, too, followed Henry's technique by holding in his breath. The impact was slow for Bob McGill. At first, there was only a slow relaxation that swept over his limbs. This was followed by a lifting of pressures and a gradual re-placement with an emotion of being giddy, happy....
Happy....
Free....
No holds barred!
Now he began to join in the "tea" party. He was fondling a soft girl who was as warm and cuddly as a kitten. Her aureoles were the size of silver dollars as they were pressed against the satin bodice of her low-dipped sheath. "You're cute," she purred, while her hands began massaging his broad back. "And so strong, too."
The party was on....
CHAPTER SIX
The air became fetid and close. While the floor through pad was dingy, the clouds of reefer "per-fume" made it as thick as pea soup. But no one cared. In fact, the swirling fumes added to the sensuous thrill of the occasion. Each was lost in his own deviate pursuit and no one could pierce the thick gloom.
Bob McGill felt the effect of the roach as it was passed around. Whatever restrictions he heretofore experienced were miraculously lifted. He let the soft girl beside him, rub her hands all over his body and start unbuttoning his shirt.
"Lemme see what you got, too," Bob slurred his words, vaguely aware that he was under the influence of the pot. His connection with reality was slowly being severed. He pawed the soft and too willing girl, pulling her sweater up over her lovely head, then gasping when the cherry red nipples popped into view. "Hey-they're big!"
"And you're big, too," she shrieked as she started yanking open his thick leather belt. Her hands went inside his trousers and sent shock waves of tremoring passion into his soul. "Mmm, where have you been all along?"
The girl cupped her lovely breasts and lifted them up so high, she could have snuggled her own face in the milky softness.
"Give them here," demanded Bob and he got up on his knees, not caring that anxious hands were stripping away his shirt, pulling down his jeans. He saw the rocky ridges of the cherries on the girl's milky globes and he wanted to kiss and love them.
He seized both breasts, pulled the soft balloons up so high that the girl yelped. Bob was beyond concern for her feelings. His face was buried in the soft whipped cream. His tongue darted out, explored the sleek, warm flesh and then his mouth went down lower, nibbling and kissing every little bit of the sweet softness.
He felt the dynamic power surging through his blood. The familiar hammering at the base of his skull was driving him wild with reefer stimulated urges.
But Bob remembered something else. He dropped one hand, searched on the floor, then found the silky puddle. It was a pair of black lace panties. Just to touch them drove him wild with desire.
He lifted up the panties and turned his attention to them. The girl cheated and cried out, "Hey, what's with you?"
Her breasts fell out of his hands and bounced up and down as if on invisible springs; the cherry tips were hot with desire. The girl's skirt had been worked down so low that her dimpled navel was way up-and the promise of her forbidden triangular thatch al-ready a reality. Her soft hips were delicious with creases and mysterious shadows. She rubbed her own breasts, made a heavenly expression and begged, "Take me ... take me ... I'm burning up ... they're crawling all over me...."
She was writhing on the floor now, begging the half nude Bob McGill to fulfill his intentions. But Bob was lost in a world of his own-he fondled the silky soft panties, inhaled the heady scent of Mimi's hips....
Mimi....
Where was she?
He pushed away at hands that wanted to strip down his jeans; he fought against Henry Weiner who was trying to shove him onto the floor. Henry had already doffed his own clothes and was naked except for his skimpy bikini shorts. The pronounced bulge left no doubt as to his aroused condition. "Somebody-some-body...." Henry was moaning.
It was the weirdest thing that Bob McGill ever expected to see. Even though he, himself, was well under the influence of pot, he had enough self-composure to know the difference between reality and dream. Yet he did feel astonished at the way Henry was forced down on his chest.
From somewhere, a husky looking girl with a flat chest but with broad shoulders and bulging biceps, came into the murky picture. "I want that!" Her voice was as mannish as her haircut. "That's my cup of tea!"
Everyone gathered around in a circle to see what would now happen. The bull dyke dug into her pocket and brought out a weird looking contraption. She worked swiftly, pulling her skirt down until she was completely naked in the midriff. The contraption was strapped around her waist.
Everyone gasped. One bare chested youth who wore skimpy walking shorts that had been opened by two bare bottomed girls, remarked loudly, "Now that's what I call being like a REAL BIG man!"
The bull dyke was feverish with desire. "I like 'em where they're alike with a broad!" With that, the dyke heaved herself down on top of the writhing and moaning Henry Weiner. She gripped his firm buttocks, pulled apart.
What happened thereafter was a shocking sight. The bull dyke worked her hips just like a man-and underneath her, face down, Henry Weiner was making soft gasps and moans. He was in the throes of a bizarre passion. It was the most unbelievable ecstasy that could be imagined. And as the dyke shoved, she used Henry just as though he were a woman-and as though she were a man!
One last heave and both of them felt like exploding. Throughout it all, Henry kept exclaiming that it hurt, and making all the petty nuances familiar to women being violated by men. But he never once suggested a halt to these perverted activities.
It was too much for Bob McGill. While he, too, had his strange obsessions, this was just out of reasoning for him!
"Darling!"
Bob turned and pierced the cloudy fumes. There she was. Mimi-and she was naked-stark naked. Her body shone like peaches and cream. Her enormous globes danced on her chest. Her milky white skin was moist and slippery. There were hands and lips kissing her all over, turning her into a fiery hellcat.
"Mimi-Mimi!"
With an animal like cry, he flung himself at the soft bundle of curves and shadowy creases. She was warm and moist and their bare flesh collided. He pried open her mouth, inserted his tongue and laved the rocky ridges of her upper mouth. When their tongues collided, he was beginning to tremor.
Bob was only vaguely aware of someone unlacing his shoes, slipping them off, removing his stockings. He was less aware of hands pulling down his jeans. He was more aware of the warm contact as he brushed his manhood against her delicate cave.
His mouth kissed her chin, then the soft hollow of her throat. He arched his back. The shoulder muscles bulged to magnificent proportions. His biceps became inflated balls. The chiseled pectorals of his broad chest were as sharp as rocks. And he was bathed in a heady glow of feverish desire.
Mimi's breasts bounced and then rolled around on her chest. Her hips moved; she opened, then closed 'her soft, warm thighs.
Bob felt hands fondling him where no one should fondle a man except his beloved. He felt fingers probing. He did not care. He was beyond all that. He wanted to reach the summit-the very peak and the more warm flesh that could excite him, the more he wanted.
Suddenly, a new sound invaded and overcame the drumming in his ears. He heard a deadly stomp, stomp, stomp. It was so awesome, Bob had to pause in his lovemaking. He saw, at first, the needle sharp toes of the black boots.
It was Lisa Lowery! She was an amazon in black leather! When Bob tore himself away from Mimi's anxious kisses, he took in Lisa's full view. She wore alligator leather trousers that molded her figure as if it were a second skin; her rounded buttocks were firmly enclasped in the pants. Her matching leather blouse was tight; her ample bosom was kept imprisoned in the leathery confines.
"Strong, aren't you?" Her voice was a harsh snarl.
What did she mean? Bob McGill, in an aroused turgid condition, moved himself so that he was fully exposed. He twitched when probing hands explored him and then became a little too intimate.
"Let's see how strong you really are?" In Lisa Lowery's leather gloved hand was a short handled whip. But no, it was not an ordinary black leather whip-it was divided into nine distinct strips. A deadly cat o' nine tails! Deadly because it was being raised by a dynamic leather clad woman; deadly because she was going to flog the naked athlete at her feet-and humiliate him in front of his panting beloved.
"Get away from me!" he screamed.
It was too late! The deadly leather cat o' nine tails swished through the air with a sickening sound. When it landed across Bob's broad back, he nearly screamed. The slicing leather bit into his muscles; they twitched and were etched in magnificent bas relief.
"Do it again!" urged the sadistic crowds, anxious to participate in a new perversion.
Lisa needed no prompting. She was a dynamic Amazon in leather, with her breasts bouncing around even though the leather blouse sought to keep them captive; the whip hand was again raised and Bob flattened himself on the floor in a crazed effort to get away-but the slicing nine leather slashes cut across his back; this time, it went lower.
Lisa Lowery was a master craftsman at male domination; she humbled Bob, whipping him in deadly precision. By the time she was finished, she had completely humiliated him. His back was criss-crossed with red welts, from his broad shoulders down around his lower hips. His naked masculine buttocks were also flogged until he could no longer twitch and erupt in spasms.
He felt no pain. He felt no shock. Instead, under the influence of the pot, there was a dizzy exhilaration. A shooting power surged through his veins. He felt the magnificent strength of a stallion. The sadistic flogging had served to stimulate his libido until he could no longer control himself.
In that moment, he managed to pull himself toward Mimi who had been watching dazedly. She, too, was fascinated at the spectacle. But Mimi had not been left alone. A naked-to-the-waist girl, every bit as feminine as Mimi, was kissing her warm flesh, going all the way down, nibbling at the soft flesh between her thighs, sending the girl into a frenzy of wild desire.
It was time for Bob McGill to move in. Sparks tore through his broad back but they were transformed into pleasure at being humbled and dominated. He arched his body and then enfolded Mimi into his arms.
Every part of his body became taut with energizing. He fitted himself carefully, opened Mimi's mouth and their lips were fused together in a warm and slippery kiss.
Then he experienced the sweetest, most delicious sensation he had ever known. It began when his entire manhood was sized and then encircled with warm, moist flesh. The sensation spread throughout his pelvis, then through his whole body. He was glazed with moisture-but the center of hot moisture was elsewhere, enclasping him in rubbery walls, gripping, squeezing, demanding ... demanding ... demanding....
Suddenly, neither of them could control the rising storm. It erupted with the fury of a dynamic explosion. It exploded in their ears. The storm broke, sending forth a flaming hot torrential storm which was drained out of the heavens and received by the earth, which kept demanding more and more.
It smashed through Bob McGill's athletic body. It forced him to squeeze Mimi as she was squeezing him, as only a woman can squeeze a man!, and the two of them became fused into one.
Slowly, the slamming vibrations began to subside. It was tortuously slow. He had been transported into an isle of pure pleasure and he knew not that others had been urging him on and on ... he knew only that the soft bundle of warm flesh had caused him to erupt with the most sweetest pleasure he ever knew.
When they drew apart, both of them twitched with spasms. Bob wanted more ... but Mimi was in a trance and was pushing him away. Her breasts were still swollen. Her thick lips mouthed a plea for some-one to love them-someone else!
It could have been male or female!
Only Lisa Lowery was dissatisfied. "Think you're a brave man!" She pointed the handle of her slicing whip. "Pick up those panties-put them on?"
"W-what?" He was still trembling from the exertion. He was also vaguely aware of his pendulous condition and through a fog, could hear the ribald and giggling remarks made by those who enjoyed peeping. Some of them went into the most embarrassing detail about Bob McGill's anatomy that he welcomed any chance to cover himself.
"Like corn silk...." was one epithet.
He picked up the still damp panties that he, himself, had peeled from Mimi's hips. He stared at them numbly. They were so thin and transparent, how could they cover him?
"If you don't put them on," snarled Lisa Lowery, "I'll flog you-and then slice at your manhood!"
A shiver tore through his vitals. Lisa could do it, too! He was completely naked and vulnerable, still kneeling at her leather booted feet. As a slave, he was in no position to argue. With fumbling hands, he spread the panties apart, stared at the holes through which his legs would be inserted.
A group were swaying toward this bizarre scene. "Go ahead," they yelled. "Get into those panties. Let's dress him like a woman."
He was still reeling from the effects of what he had done. Bob was beyond comprehension now. All he knew was that he held a pair of panties that had been worn by Mimi.
He had gone to all limits with Mimi-now he wanted to wear her panties. Even though he was being ordered to cover his nakedness with panties, Bob thrilled to the occasion.
He managed to get into the panties with clumsy gestures; he felt the slippery smooth cloth as it kissed his masculine thighs and athletic hips. When the panties were high up around his manhood, he shivered at the intimate contact. It was almost as if he were....
The very thought sent a new stimulus surging through his vitals. Everyone laughed and lascivious comments were exchanged between fondling couples. Several even reached out and made Bob flush with embarrassment at the way they were touching him.
"Go on-put them right around your hips!"
Lisa Lowery's stern voice was as sharp as the whip she used.
Still trembling, Bob wiggled his hips, then lifted the scanties, pulled the elastic so that the feminine lingerie would fit properly. It was a very tight fit.
It was so tight, it was embarrassingly intimate!
The soft fragile web like silk kissed his hard, masculine buttocks. The delicate silk clung to the underside of his upper thighs and embraced him as softly as though he were being kissed.
The familiar trembling surged with more dominance now. Bob turned to see Mimi. In that instant, he could have had her again ... but she was now being mauled and fondled by Henry Weiner-that half-and-half Village product who could be used like a woman by a brutal bull dyke lesbian and a moment later, use a femme with such vigor that he was pronounced a real man in every sense of the word.
Right now, Henry was a reed man-a stud!
Still trembling, Bob McGill ran nervous fingers through his shock of blond hair. His body was a smooth moist sculpture of corded muscles. He was breathing heavily. He was in dire need!
"Put on Mimi's dress!" demanded Lisa.
From somewhere, the silk print dress was pushed into his wavering hand. The silk was soft and cool and had the heady scent of femininity.
Bob raised the dress, lowered it over his head, putting his strong arms through the sleeves. When the dress was tight on his body, he could feel the throbbing desire with greater prominence. The silk panties became painfully tight.
"Looks like a real girl-too bad he doesn't have longer blond hair. Hey, Blondie ... how about a date?"
Everyone laughed and started groping Bob's bosom and hips while he fought to keep away the searching hands. A pair of lips kissed his ear lobes, then the lips started kissing his mouth and throat.
It was so confusing that Bob did not even know what was happening. He was vaguely aware of Lisa's shrill laugh of triumph as die cried out, "Go ahead-rape the she male! Rape the she male!"
Someone tripped Bob. He went over on his back. The room was swirling. Everything was hot and then freezing cold. His heart pounded and slammed in his throat.
His dress was being lifted up and hiked so high that the exposure of his crotch made him feel shockingly naked. Hands palmed him, other hands tweaked his nipples; still more hands stole beneath his hips and inside the elastic of the panties and became humiliatingly intimate.
"Get away from me!" he shouted, but he was out-numbered.
Being garbed as a female had turned him into the personality of a female and he was numb and weak and completely passive! He could scarcely fight back.
Except for his enviable physique which stamped him as masculine, he was every bit a feminine individual.
Then he felt his panties being lowered. What happened afterward was both pleasure and pain. A pair of lips went from his mouth all the way down ... and seized him the way no man should ever be used. Dimly, Bob heard Lisa cursing that this was not the way it was to happen. But whoever his violator was, Lisa's words were completely unheeded.
The soft lips were like huge suction tubes and they drained him until he fairly screamed. He was a sensitive exposed electric wire. Just the slightest touch and he screamed with tension!
But when he climbed to the summit, he was writhing in heavenly bliss. It was sheer soft pleasure. It was very good.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I'm cutting out!"
"Mimi DuClos surveyed Bob McGill coolly; her eyes were misty behind the thick web mesh of her dark lashes. "You can't, Bob. I want to finish that mural painting of Hermaphrodite."
"What's to stop you?" He was searching around for his few belongings, feeling grateful that he did not have a large wardrobe, ft would make it easier to pack and move. All he needed was a place to plunk his portable typewriter and package of paper. "I've got some writing to do and I'm not getting involved in any of your schemes."
She watched him scurry around, tossing things into a battered suitcase. "Schemes? Such as what?" Her arms were crossed over her ample bosom. In her blue smock and beret, with brush in one hand, she looked every bit the Village artiste. "You and I agreed to help out each other. You live here-room and board free-in return for posing as my model."
He slammed the lid of the suitcase. "That doesn't include going to your weird reefer parties and letting that lesbian Amazon in black leather flog me, force me to dress as a girl and then watch while some gay boys have their fill of me."
"Nobody forced you to attend the party," she said soberly. "Besides, you know by now that someone under the influence of the weed does things he really wants to do but wouldn't have the nerve otherwise." There was sound sense in what she said. But Bob McGill was not going to openly admit favoring feminine attire. "Maybe so, maybe not."
"Oh, you forgot something!"
He turned-in her hand was a pink slip, with a carefully etched bodice of white trim. The sight of it made his blood run cold. He felt everything drain out With slow deliberation, she came forward, holding of his face. "Where ... did you get that?" the shimmering clean pink slip in her hand. "I found it-it was in your suitcase; together with some silk stockings. I don't know what happened to them. You are so careless about folding slips...." She clucked her tongue.
Bob flushed to the roots of his scalp. "Oh, I think I bought that for a girl friend or something."
"Sorry, Bobby, I'm not buying that story."
He flinched. He felt trapped. How could he talk his way out of this?
What fool he had been to keep that slip and silk stockings.
He could have thrown them away! But they were all in his suitcase which his landlady held for back rent.
Mimi paid the rent and his suitcase was returned to him, together with his typewriter. He just never bothered removing the tell-tale slip and stockings.
"Okay ... so maybe I am a transvestite." He said the words carefully, as if releasing a heavy burden.
"It's been that way with me for a long time. Ever since my parents wanted a girl instead of a boy and they dressed me like a girl until I went to school. And then, I would wear girlish clothes at home. It fell into a pattern. I couldn't get away from it."
"I see."
Just how did she see?
"Is that all you have to say?"
"What do you want to say?" she defended herself. "I'm not stunned. After all, I'm a little peculiar my-self. You know that, Bob. I can't get enough of sex
-I need it all the time, every which way, from men and from women. And maybe I did get a little kick out of seeing Lisa flog you-oh, don't make such a wry face. She didn't really hurt you. It was more play acting than the real thing. So you got a kick out of being humiliated, too. That makes us even."
Bob put down the suitcase. He admitted to himself that he had been acting foolish. Maybe we are two of a kind. I don't mean about transvestism-I can't see a girl being called a cross-dresser if she wears pants
-but I have my little habits and you have yours. So ... do we belong together?"
She came close to him and put her arms around his hard masculine body. "Mmm," her lips were lifted to his. "We belong very close together."
The rhythmic movements of her hips began to rouse the fire that would burn. But now that Bob had the upper hand, he was not going to give in so easily. In fact, he was going to make Mimi beg for it-and appreciate him.
"Okay, so I stay-on the same arrangement," he pushed her away. "Okay, I don't put out so easily ... understand?"
She made a sour face. "Don't make it sound so cheap!" She dabbed a brush into paint and swiped it across his face before he had a chance to get away. "If that's the way you look at our ... our love ... then-just go outside and cool off!"
"Then I'll leave-for good!" Again, he picked up his suitcase.
"Oh, stop it! STOP IT!" She was sobbing. "We're acting like two spoiled brats." She was in his arms again, loving the way he kissed her, the way his hands massaged the slopes of her back.
Later, she told him to visit a sculptor who would pay him twenty five dollars for an hour's posing. "She...."
"She? Do I have to pose for a she?"
"Why not? You pose for me, don't you?"
"That's different," Bob defended himself.
"What's different about it. You're just flesh and blood to an artist. Maybe it's slightly different with me-but remember, we met under different circum-stances! I think you'd better start out, Bob."
He was confused by everything that had happened. In a way, he was glad to get away from Mimi for the afternoon. His writing schedule was far in advance; he had started in on short stories for the girlie magazines, doing short print pocket novels for smaller out-fits and was earning a lot of money. He salted some of it away for the rainy days when the market might not be able to absorb his output. He did not have to model any more. But he felt obligated to Mimi and agreed to be "loaned" to friends of hers. Few of them bothered with him on an intimate basis. Some gave him scant interest when gazing upon his naked poses. A few others got him so worked up, he could not control himself.
But none of them knew he was a transvestite. That made it different where Mimi was concerned. As he left the studio loft, he vowed that before he would bed down with Mimi, he was going to dress up as a female-from the skin out! And if she accepted it, he would remain with her. If not ... he would leave!
It was Sunday afternoon in Greenwich Village. Except for the espresso coffee shops and a few bars, the business section was closed down. At this time of day, he liked to walk through Washington Square park, regarded the melting pot of the Bohemians.
He walked through the diagonal paths to go to the East section. He passed by strumming guitar players in long hair and walk shorts; a few unpublished poets were spouting verses to long haired girls.
In the few months that Bob lived in the Village, he found that it was divided up into special little niches. There was the motorcycle set-these were youths in black leather jackets and girls in blue jeans too small for them, with sweaters too big. Usually, the motor-cycle crowd gathered on the northern edge of the park, along the curb, just west of the white marble Washington Arch. For hours, these loafers would sit on their hot Hondas or Yamahas or whatever motor-cycle they had, scrutinizing one another's wheels until one of them would suddenly rev up a motor and burn out!
Bob McGill paused only long enough to look up at the Washington Arch. Here was an imposing edifice, 86 feet high, designed by Stanford White. Today, it was the favorite spot for teen-age stoop-ball. One adult who was hurling his ball against the groove in the monument brought on comments by a passerby who said, "The monument isn't what it used to be."
A short distance away from the arch, surrounded by a protective iron fence was the gathering place for the young married mothers; their children were placed in the sandbox where they could fight or laugh or be returned to the carriages. None disturbed a bearded guitar player who was seeking a rest in the grass beneath the shade of an elm.
A beatnik once told Bob, "It's the east side of the park that's out, man." He had pointed toward the benches behind the Garibaldi statue. Here, elderly women tourists reclined; they wore silk print dresses, comfortable walking shoes, and rhinestone-trimmed eyeglasses. Old marrieds and the resident isolationists were regarded as "out" by the Village's hipster crowd-they preferred to sleep at the edge of the water fountain set in the center of this green patch.
The fountain was the haven for the true Villagers. Here, a dozen guitar players, together with some who fooled with the banjo, mandolin, portable harp, flute or harmonica, would form a massive ensemble of disharmony.
Like other self-declared talents in the Village, all they succeeded in creating was a mass of confusion that sounded like a traffic jam of noise and voices.
On this sunny afternoon, the so-called singing could be interpreted as either folksongs, hillbilly, calypso or even civil right songs.
Westward from the fountain, down a path that was known to be called "Junkie Row," were entrenched an-other click. These were the deep thinkers-checker and chess players. Most of them were elderly Italians who had lived in the Village as far back as they could remember. They quietly disliked the noisy, youthful crowds around the fountain but could not do a thing about them. All these elderly chess players could do was reflect upon the days when things were better ... or at least when they, themselves were younger and could have a lot of fun!
He was leaving the park now and heading further East where many artists, sculptors and would-be poets now lived in cheap tenement flats and converted lofts. Glancing at the slip of paper containing the name and address of this studio, he saw that it was on East Third Street.
"I'll have to cross the Bowery," he thought. Now he passed boarded up buildings, shabby factory structures, parking lots, old fashioned stores selling chinaware and used clothing. He ignored the outstretched hands of tattered bums who begged for a coin so they could have a cup of coffee. None of them would even drink coffee if they had it! A few dimes bought a cheap swill of drink.
"Who do they think they're kidding?" frowned Bob as he walked down Third Street, passed a few renovated brownstones and improved structures. It was a spotty neighborhood where well-to-do rubbed elbows with the old timers who lived on Welfare and preferred to re-main in familiar surroundings.
The sign on the first floor of the walkup boldly pro-claimed: SAPPHO STATUARY. In smaller letters on the hand-painted sign, appeared the legend: Ada Petrikas.
Hmm, thought Bob as he pressed the button, an honest to goodness Greek. Thought the only Greek sculptors were those in the museum. This looked interesting.
It was only one flight up but when the hallway door was shut, he was in a vacuum. The sound of footsteps came from behind the wooden door. Then it opened.
She was a woman well in her very late 30's, probably approaching 40, hut a well shaped figure and a certain sensuous look made her appear much younger.
"You're the model, Bob McGill, aren't you?" She opened wide the door and admitted him. "I'm Ada Petrikas."
While he had been in other studios throughout the Village, Bob felt a tingling and ill-at-ease reaction upon entering this one. It was the usual high-ceilinged af-fair. The entire enormous room, more like a cavern, actually, was filled with white marble statues in various stages of completion. Some were of girls surrounded by little cherubs, others were of the usual heavy muscled men with exaggerated manhood, in expressions of awe, surprise and astonishment. There were some couples, their arms entwined around one another, but these were in the minority.
"Most of my customers are wealthy industrialists who like to furnish their homes with imposing statuary." Ada pushed back a wisp of hair from her oval shaped face. She wore a blue smock which hugged her figure tightly. In fact, she had such a narrow wasp waist, it was obvious that she wore a very tight figure trainer or rubbery girdle beneath her dress. Her hour glass shape was tortured further by the sleek mauve colored skyscraper heeled shoes she wore. The heels were as slender as toothpicks and a bright red. Her shoes were a blushing pink, almost the color of naked flesh; the toes were narrow as an arrow, squeezing her delicate foot into a shape that must have been savagely painful.
Bob felt admiration for a woman who would submit to such figure and foot training methods for the sake of fashion and style.
"I suppose you work deals with antique shops." Bob knew of this type of arrangement also. He passed among the pedestals, glanced at the molds still wet, at the array of chisels and tools. "That's supposed to he a good way to make a lot of sales."
She nodded and indicated a small raised dais upon which he would pose. "Yes. I make fountains, sun dials, bird baths and the like for the country lawn people. They usually browse around antique stores in the Village and get all excited when they discover a charming little marble statue. Usually, the antique dealer pretends innocence about the age of the statue and says it's something he picked up on his cross-country buying tours. It makes the statues more valuable."
Bob McGill took a deep breath, forgetting the musty air inside, nearly choking on the white chalk dust and residues. After a coughing fit, he managed a weak smile. "I'm used to artists' studios, painters and writers-I should know better than to breathe deeply in a sculptors' pad."
Ada Petrikas surveyed him coolly. She found her-self liking his boyish way of smiling, the strong masculine look. He was unlike other models she used in the past. Some were distinctly gay, even though they had athletic physiques. Others were mammoth looking, more on the line of naked gladiators with bull necks, massive chest hulks and expansive stomachs that they regarded as solid muscle when there was more flab than development. This young man with the sunburned blond hair was both handsome and had the clean look of an athlete. She knew she would get along well with him.
"Mimi mentioned you were a writer."
Now why did Mimi have to talk about him? Couldn't she just say he did posing and let it go at that?
"Yeh, I manage to do a little writing. Mostly the fast action stuff you see on the corner newsstands-girlie magazine stuff, pocket novels. The pay isn't the greatest but it's steady." He switched the subject. "Do you want me to pose on that dais?"
"If you please," she set out her tools on a wooden table beside a small marble block. "This is just a bust-from the waist up."
He was relieved. At least he wouldn't have to strip nude in front of her. Not that he cared at this stage of the game, but the woman was clearly twenty years older than himself and despite her well preserved looks and the way her pendulous breasts were firm, he felt embarrassed at the idea of exposure.
He got out of his shirt and stood bare chested on the dais. He deliberately sent a rippling wave of power through his broad chest and thick upper arms. It made him feel sensuously alive. He was vaguely conscious of a tingling at the bottom of his hard, flat stomach.
Ada Petrikas was quiet as she black chalked out some lines on a square of marble, then started chipping away. She worked swiftly, with hands that were strong, yet bore a delicate talent.
She kept glancing up at him while she worked. Her eyes were liquid soft. "Would you drop your belt line a little lower? The bust goes down to the hips."
He complied, wiggling his thighs until his jeans were sliding down around his lower hips. He could feel the taut sensitivity of exposure even though there was no actual revelation. What was there about Ada that should make him feel this way?
Chips flew. Indentations were made. The silence of the statue-filled room was punctured only by the steady hacking of the tools as the marble slowly took on a life of its own.
"I won't need a model for this statue again." She looked up and again, her eyes took in his youthful athletic physique with a more than professional interest. "Most of my statues are done from my own imagination."
"Then why use a model at all?"
"Because I make the outline from the model and do the rest from my own thoughts. As you can see, the figures in the studio are all more than just copies!" It was true. But Bob noticed something else. Nearly all of the female statues had excruciatingly narrow waists. By contrast, their hips fanned out like handles on a Grecian vase. But the waists had been squeezed until they were so slender, one could cup one's hands around them.
"They're slender waisted." was his comment.
She paused. Ada smiled, revealing white teeth. "Yes, I have always felt that the ultimate in beauty of womanhood was a narrow waist. At times, the waist must be constricted by outside sources; and the woman must never shirk at the obligation of having her figure squeezed and bound within a confining garment."
It was nothing new to Bob. In fact, he had done considerable writing on the effects of tight girdles and corsets-with someone helping the girl being laced up into a seal-tight foundation garment. He heard of such desires. This was the first time he had met someone who indicated a personal interest.
"I've written on the subject," he offered calmly. Then more impulsively, "I've also written on transvestism." His heart pounded as he revealed this side of his nature.
"Oh? You mean cross-dressing, don't you?"
He nodded.
"That, too, is a method of behavior which has its place in our society. Men go through a lifetime of longing to wear feminine attire but must repress these urges because of social pressures. Personally, I have nothing against a male if he likes to wear bloomers, panties, silk or satin dresses, a wig, even makeup. Of course, he must always function as a male. I dislike the homosexual transvestites."
Now Bob McGill felt the leap of desire. At last, a sympathetic listener. While Mimi DuClos knew of his cross-dressing and lingerie-loving urges, she was not necessarily cooperative or in an approving state of mind. She had not even suggested that he dress up in feminine clothes some evening when they were alone and free from prying eyes.
"That's exactly the way I feel. Too many misconceptions exist about transvestites. Many of us ... I mean, them, are as masculine as they come: truck drivers, ditch diggers, professional business men, married and fathers, as well. It's true that a lot of gay boys like to go in drag, but the true transvestite doesn't care for homosexual affairs. The real cross dresser assumes a feminine personality when dressed in feminine garments but he is able to function as a man and prefers to act as a sexual man."
Ada Petrikas put down her chisel and came toward him very slowly. Her eyes never left his rock hard chest. "Is your interest in transvestism more than a commercial one?"
He swallowed hard. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?"
It became deathly still in the studio. The thick walls shut out all outside noises. The white marble statuary looked ghost-like in the gloom. The ceiling to floor windows were dusty and the sunshine filtered in a misty glow.
"I write about transvestism ... because I get paid for it. Just the way you do statues-to get paid for your work."
Ada folded her arms across her top heavy breasts. Her uptilted nose and high cheekbones made her look more youthful, despite her obvious maturity. Yet she was still sexually stimulating. Her hips were proud and firm and moved in a rounded arc as she walked closer to him. A mirror from behind caught her straight back.
"My statues interest you, don't they?"
He leaned back and dropped his erect pose. Suddenly, he felt very naked even though his jeans were down around his pelvic bones, almost exposing his blond thatch. "In a way."
"In what way?" she pursued slowly.
"The narrow waists, especially-all of your statues show hour glass figures. Even the men-they may have broad chests and thick biceps, but before the physique spreads out to the masculine hips, the waist-lines are narrow. I guess a lot of genuine body builders would do anything to have such trim middles."
"Not all of my assignments call for narrow waists-but I believe in figure training personally. That's why I squeeze the middles of my models, if you'll par-don the poetic license."
He felt exhilarated. There was something between them. He could not yet describe it, but they did share some mutual interests.
She continued, "Now, Bob, you need not hide any-thing from me. If you like cross-dressing, you should admit it to someone who understands. And I under-stand because I like men who cross-dress-and I also like narrow waists in women."
Bob nearly swooned from excitement Beads of moisture broke out over his whole face and upper torso. "It's not easy to break the news about a hobby like that.
Hobby," he laughed shortly.
"That's what a lot of them call it But it's not a hobby ... it's a way of life that's unacceptable-even here in Greenwich Village where everything bizarre is considered the right way to live."
"Would you like to wear some feminine clothes?" she said quietly.
His heart pounded wildly. This was too good to be true.
At last he would have an opportunity to completely transform himself from a male into a female. "I ... I don't know...."
"But you'll have to do something for me."
He should have known there would be a catch. His spirits fell. "Such as?"
"It should be obvious," a smile played on her lips. "You're a handsome young man with good looks and virility. Maybe I am a bit older than yourself, but I love youth-and I want it!"
"Oh ... I...." Was he going to have to play stud again?
"That isn't all. I need a pair of strong arms."
She wits talking in circles.
"Strong arms? I don't understand you, Miss...."
"It's Ada."
"Ada, I wish you'd make yourself clear."
"You will put on feminine clothes-my clothes-and then you will lace me up in a figure training corset. Its made of pure leather with stays as hard as the ribs of a whale. You'll insert the laces through each and every eyelet and pull so tight that I'll scarcely be able to breathe. But you disregard any outcries I make-and continue training my figure until it's a perfect hour glass." She was speaking rapidly, her face flushed with anxiety. "Surely you would not begrudge me a little satisfaction."
He was excited. His heart pounded and he felt the painful longing at the intersection where his jeans became tight. "Sure, sure, Ada. When do you want to start?"
"Right now."
Ada put down her little mallet and reached behind the nape of her neck. The string was pulled open and the smock came loose. She wiggled until the smock went down around her ankles, then she stepped out of it.
"Where ... where are the clothes I'm going to wear?" He moved down from the dais with athletic grace and a lithe sensuousness.
"They're right here...." she pointed on herself with a wicked smile. "Help me out of them, won't you?"
Ada Petrikas had a mint colored two piece outfit; it featured a stunning jacket with notched lapels that plunged deep into a V and then tucked smartly into an alabaster white cummerbund. The three-quarter sleeves reached her slender wrists. The skirt was pencil thin. She wore sheer silk stockings with black seams that were so straight, they were enviable!
Her heavy breasts shook in the confinement of the two piece outfit. She wore a bra and a pair of knee-length bloomers which Bob would soon fit on his own masculine physique.
"I have a wig in a hat box over on that shelf. You'll find a makeup kit in the same box. But first, remove my clothes, Bob."
CHAPTER EIGHT
He nearly stumbled as he came toward her. The blue jeans were down lower and flapping around his feet. "I ... I better get out of these. I never did like men's clothes. As you can see, my tastes are simple." Nervously, he kicked off his loafers, peeled down his socks, then shrugged out of the jeans.
He wore only a pair of briefs-tight around his hard buttocks. Coming nakedly toward Ada, he could feel his ardor strengthening. His strong, athletic legs moved with power as he stood before her.
She explored him intimately, making him twitch with desire. "Strength ... youthful strength ... I love it. Your body is beautiful, Bob. A young man's body is always beautiful to a woman like me." She was discreet enough not to mention her age.
"Now let's see your body."
His hands were nervous. He reached down to open the cummerbund, unwind it from her waist. Then he loosened the frog button closings and pulled the jacket apart.
Into view leaped her bra covered breasts. They were kept upraised by the form fitting half cups of the satin bra. The flesh of the thick breasts moved with the soft grace of a rippling brook.
When Bob pulled the jacket away from her upper torso, her breasts threatened to leap out from their confinement. He was dizzy from the smooth suffused pink of her upper body. His fingertips stroked the elasticized flesh.
"Beautiful," he gasped. He chafed at the sudden pressure of his own briefs. His hard buttocks flinched, bringing muscular power into play.
"I knew you would like me," she said softly.
Ada stood erect and tall; her head was held back in a defiant, proud gesture. Her body was unbelievably lovely-the spreading hips, sloping swiftly in to a tiny waist. Her breasts were jutting under the taut satin lace of her bra.
"Your body could be a statue."
"But I'm flesh and blood, Bobby, not marble. And you're going to love me." With that, she bent at the waist, letting her heavy breasts dangle from her chest. She gripped the hem of her skirt and pulled it up, all the way to her waist.
Bob almost swooned. He saw the slim, tawny perfection of her thighs as they curved upward to the wide flare of her hips. She wore no slip-only silk bloomers with tight elastic bands around her knees. But the bloomers fit her so tightly, she might have been naked.
Teasingly, Ada dropped the skirt. "Now, you must remove my skirt."
Bob had a fading vision of her rump; it was a saucy curve of resilient flesh-being thrust outward by her excruciatingly narrow waist.
Dazed, he bent down to take her hem when Ada stepped back. "No, not that way-and not here. Come, into my private room."
He followed her, feeling the surge of his manhood more pronounced. He watched the way her bottom wiggled with freedom-a freedom that would soon be taken away. He felt abashed at his own near nudity. He was sure that this was part of her plan to arouse him.
The inside room was small, neat, in contrast to the litter outside. The walls had Matisse and Utrillo paintings; indirect lighting shaded the silken covered bed, the matching rose colored sectional furniture. A television was in one corner. With the press of a button, the room was filled with soft music of harps and flutes.
"Now, remove my skirt. Oh, you left the jacket out-side. Do bring it in. After all, you're going to wear all j of my things."
! Bob was aware of her eyes on his broad, naked back as he went out of this room, then returned with the silken jacket. He was even more self-conscious at the way she was inspecting him. It was always this way, he had a flash of thought. On inspection. A male slave.
Again, he reached down but she backed away. "No, no," her voice was firm, "you should kneel down. It's better that way."
Humbly, he obeyed. The planes of his strong back rippled with powerful muscular strength as he knelt at Ada's high heeled feet, took the skirt, pulled it all the way up. His nervous fingers fumbled with buttons on the side, then he pulled the skirt apart. Now it dropped to her ankles. Daintily, she stepped out of the mint puddle.
"I'll sit on this hassock and you remove my stockings."
Her rounded hips pressed flat as soft cushions when Ada perched on the hassock. She extended one shapely leg.
Bob held the silky foot in the palms of his hands. Kneeling, he could scarcely keep from tottering over with emotional impact. He brought the foot up to his face, buried himself in its silky confines, ran his cheek along the soft and cool stocking. His heart was already pounding in his throat.
"Peel off the stocking," she ordered.
Ada's breasts shook heavily. Her naked midriff above the pink elastic of the knee length bloomers, was surprisingly slender as a young girl's. Only the slightest little fold of flesh marred what would ordinarily have been perfect beauty.
Bob took hold of the hem of the silk stocking. Touching her upper thigh made him feel trembly. He had pushed the elasticized knee of the bloomers up high around her crotch. Her inner thighs felt warm and soft. His fingers brushed against the smooth flesh. Ada sighed with self-pleasure.
The stocking peeled down as smoothly as if it were a second skin. Her naked limb was as white as alabaster and flawless in elasticized smoothness. Impulsively, Bob snuggled his cheek across the calf and felt his heart pounding all the more furiously. He was kneeling, on his haunches to be exact; he felt the painful tightness of his own briefs. He knew he could not control himself much longer.
The rocky ridges of his abdomen were quivering with desire. He was breathing shortly. His face was pale and glazed.
"Now, I'll take off the other stocking." Bob peeled off the silky mate which joined the other little puddle on the floor.
Ada's feet were delicately shod. The toes were pink tipped. The heel was as soft as a marshmallow. The arched instep was curved like an oval treasure. Pale blue veins across the vamp and ankle were riots in stunning color. Holding the foot in the palms of both hands made Bob McGill grow weak with desire.
"Now remove my bra," she ordered quietly.
The fragrance of myrrh and sandalwood tortured his already agonizing senses. He still remained on his knees but upright, exposing the proud lance of Apollo, in full force as it burst from its confinements. He flushed with a strange humiliation at the way Ada took it all in.
His fingers were all thumbs as he struggled with clasps at the soft indentation between her shoulder blades. Facing Ada, he felt her thick breasts against his hard chest. He had to be careful not to tear the buttons or stays of the bra since he, himself, would soon be wearing it.
At last, the straps came apart. He peeled the bra from her breasts. The milky globes leaped-no, they actually bounced-on Ada's chest before coming to a halt in an uptilted position. The tips were bright cherry pink and already leaping into life.
"Do you like them?" she asked in a hushed voice, her eyes never leaving the exposure of his aroused and naked manhood.
"Y-yes ... I love them," he cried chokedly.
"Remove my bloomers-and then you shall wear them."
She lifted herself just a little bit so that Bob could pull the elastic waistband down over her fulsome hips. When she sat back on the leather covered hassock, Ada felt the stimulus of the cool leathery skin as it kissed her bare buttocks. It was such an intimate contact, the tingling was a fire in her blood.
Ada rocked on the leather hassock, thrilling to the bolts of fire shooting through her bared bottom. Her face was taut with ecstasy. "I love the feel of leather-it makes me tremble with excitement."
"Then you'll enjoy being laced up in your leather restrainer."
"I'll get it," she whispered huskily. As she hurried to the closet, her plump hips, shaped like sloping pears with satin smooth creases, plunged up and down ... up and down ... up and down ... a dizzying rhythm of soft flesh.
Her rounded breasts leaped into life and did a weird dance like beach balls being swung to and fro. The cherry tips were moist and red while not as elongated as those of Mimi, they were bulging with swollen desire.
When Ada returned, facing the still kneeling Bob McGill, she held the leather corset in both of her hands. She opened it up. It gleamed with a strange life of its own. It was sheer black leather, smooth as a glove, remarkably wrinkle free. The leather laces dangled like slender snakes. The eyelets were polished smooth like mirrors.
"I want to be wrapped nakedly in this leather prison!" she gasped. "Bob, stand up!"
Humbly, he obeyed and watched her come closer.
She put the leather corset down on the hassock long enough to seize his briefs and with surprising strength, rip them from his flanks.
"A golden slave!" she breathed with emotional depth as she investigated his complete manhood. He quivered and twitched when she disported herself so intimately. He was taut with turgid desire. How long could he hope to control his emotions. "A slave to do my bidding!"
"Y-yes...." He cast anxious eyes toward the two piece mint colored suit, the bloomers, the bra, the heavenly silk stockings, the amazing skyscraper heels. He wanted to wear them. He wanted to experience further domination by being compelled (even though it was willing, he imagined it to be compulsion) to dress as a woman-and assume the female masochistic passive attitude.
"Put this leather corset on me, slave!"
Her breasts now hung ripe and heavy. They were swollen with desire and sensitive to the slightest touch. Her hips were brought together; the slopes of her lower tummy fanned out to the delicate intersection where her thighs joined to contain the forbidden triangle of Aphrodite. In its shadowy grove, the dark mystery beckoned.
Bob kept his legs far apart to balance himself, else he would have fainted from sheer ecstasy at the feel of the leather corset. His manhood was a painfully thick spear of dynamite! He flaunted it with savage pride. He thrilled when Ada delighted in his comparative youth. He flushed when he heard her sigh, "A golden shield for the lance!"
Just how it was brought about, Bob McGill could never fathom. One moment she was facing him. The next moment, she was kneeling on the hassock. Her breasts rolled around. Her soft back was toward him and he permitted the daring exploration of her back, down to the shadowy indentation of her magnificent hips.
"Hurry, hurry," she ordered. It was obvious neither of them could control their urges.
He spread out the corset before him, then wound it around her mid-section. It fit from her armpits all the way down to the dimple of her feminine buttocks. It was certainly a long leather corset!
The longest figure trainer he had ever seen!
He worked swiftly, even though his fingers kept fumbling. The ends of the corset came together to be laced from the nape of Ada's neck down to her hips and cleavage. The leather laces were inserted with patient care. He yanked the laces each time he went lower. Ada flinched at times, sucking in her breath, but she voiced no complaints. She bore her bondage with pride and stamina.
Now the laces were descending around her hour glass waist, kneading, squeezing, imprisoning the flesh with-in the leathery confines of the corset.
The laces were tight-so tight that each tug brought a weak exclamation from Ada, yet she urged him to continue until the last lace was inserted and knotted. Now she was completely bound up within the leather figure trainer.
Weakly, she got off the leather hassock and tried to walk around. She was pale. The leather corset bound her securely around the bust. A bodice had been shaped so that the pendulous breasts were imprisoned within a leathery bra, kissing the soft flesh, teasing the nipples until they were on fire.
Her rib cage was pressed in; the steel stays made within the leather of the corset moulded Ada Petrikas' shape until her midsection was so narrow, it must have measured twelve inches! She could scarcely breathe yet she was completely determined to bear the commands of this figure training garment!
"Are those ... panties?" Bob McGill, nakedly per-spiring from the ordeal, stared down below the flat of her impressed tummy. "I ... didn't see them before."
"No," she said weakly. "They're like a man's ... you know ... athletic supporter."
She turned sideways, showing off her narrow figure. "But I'm bare ... in the back...." Indeed, her buttocks were paganly bare.
There was no time for further thought or pondering about the purpose for covering her most intimate possession and revealing the rest of her.
Bob hurried into his feminine garments. The feel of the silk on his strong legs was sheer heaven. Surprisingly enough, even though he had muscular limbs, the stockings fit him snug and tight. The silk kissed his legs, then enclasped his thighs. He shivered when he picked up the still warm pink bloomers.
He buried his face into its soft confines, throbbing with dynamic desire and no longer feeling abashed at being exposed before a woman who was two decades ahead of him in age.
He bent, stuck both feet into the bloomers and slid the pink cloth up around his hips. It was a near explosion to feel the kissing intimacy of soft silk. He was in such trembling excitation, he knew he could not control himself for more than a few more moments.
Quickly, he put on the bra, looping the straps around his thick deltoids. Fortunately, the bra had a bit of padding although Ada needed none. This gave a simulated bust effect to Bob McGill. Now he wiggled into the mint skirt, tightened the buttons and then slipped into the deep V cut jacket. In a few more moments, he was putting on a blond wig and applying a splash of makeup to his masculine face.
When he put on the skyscraper shoes, fastened the straps, he was a fully dressed female in every respect. "How do I look?"
She giggled. "Except for your excitement, you could pass for a girl! You're ... beautiful."
Ada had difficulty in walking to the bed. She twitched as the leather corset forced her to walk erect. She had to take short breaths because of the squeezed-in-the-waist reaction. Ada's face was flushed from exertion and excitement at the same time.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Bob McGill was also astonished at how successfully he had made the transformation. Fortunately, his legs were smooth and free of hair, even though the calf muscle and thighs were strong and masculine. His arms were also smooth but since the jacket went down to his wrists, he was feminine in that part of his ensemble.
His hands straightened the tease hair blond wig and with a wicked wink at himself, he smiled and declared, "You're a beautiful girl-in every respect!"
Ada Petrikas felt her own emotions soaring. "That's the way I like it-a man dressed as a female. Come to me ... come to me...."
Ada reached out, snatched the cord of the lamp and pulled it. The room became very dark. The heavy drapes obscured daylight. With the piped in harp and flute music, they were transported to an isle of their own.
They forgot the world.
They forgot time.
It was a world of their own where time did not exist-except to do their bidding.
She loved him with patient warmth and not the fiery flash of heated youth. She loved him because she was experienced, mature, an adult-and he was her little, blond doll.
He moved his hands up and down, slowly and gently, fondling her back and thrilling to the leather covering. She experienced difficulty in bending but made no out-cry. As they kissed, she made a soft flutter of breath on his face. Her lips were soft, ripe and full against his.
His tongue slid out and was thrust between the sweet heat of her lips. She drew back her tongue, then touched and pushed against his. All the while, her breasts in the leather prison kept heaving up and down across his own dress-covered body. His legs went high in the air, kicking in feminine joy. But he was masculine.
He was very masculine.
Their gasping, heaving bodies were now in the throes of passion. Bob whispered about the confinement of his bloomers, but Ada brushed the protests aside. Her hands stole beneath his skirt, seized the bloomers and ripped them apart. Then she discovered more about him.
He trembled, made little screams as he felt shooting stabs of pleasure-pain because of her claw like fingers.
"Now ... now...." he begged.
His heart slammed up in his throat. His head was on fire. His body was burning.
"Yes ... yes ... my little doll ... yes...."
But Ada had a final surprise in store. She pushed him apart and maneuvered her leather covered body on her front. Now she arched her hips, pushed against him. "Now ... now...." she repeated, only this time she meant it was to happen for both of them.
Had he not been garbed as a woman, having not assumed the personality of a woman, he would not have obeyed. But in this exotic transformation, he was powerless. He would have performed in any way that she wanted.
He felt the high rise of her buttocks pressing against his thighs. His hands seized the taut pear shaped fleshy extrusions.
There was an electrifying shock searing his loins when he obeyed. Suddenly, he felt the dynamic power surging from his loins and erupting with explosive powers.
His body was taut, then became a throbbing mass of power. He slammed himself down ... deep ... deep ... deep....
A thousand licking sparks and a thousand pin tips slashed at his most sensitive parts. He could not stand it. His arms linked around the leathery midsection of Ada Petrikas ... and he used her ... the way one lesbian might use another ... with the use of some-thing extra....
He was so shocked, so stunned, that when the rocky explosions tore through his body, he lost all sense of reason and hurtled forward into the fiery pit....
That was all he knew....
CHAPTER NINE
"Don't tell me you go for the 'mature' type of women?" It was Henry Weiner who made the pointed comment to Bob McGill as they sat in a coffee shop just off McDougal Street in the heart of Saturday night Greenwich Village.
"To each his own," commented Lisa Lowery, sans her leather outfit but mannishly attired in a pair of form fitting satin slacks and a button down shirt.
Bob had disliked the way Ada Petrikas had to tell a few people about her young lover and male model. He still chafed at the way she had raised her pear-shaped bottom to him and what he had to do-did Ada have to tell all of those details?
"Let's just say Bob is versatile!" It was Mimi DuClos who came to his rescue. At least she could hold a secret and never did divulge the juicy bit of gossip that Bob was also a transvestite. In fact, she had frequently told him, when they were alone in the studio and he dressed as a female, that there were others of his sort in the Village and he would like to get together with them. But Bob reneged and preferred remaining by himself.
At times, Bob wondered whether he was doing the right thing in remaining with Mimi at her studio. He had donned feminine Grecian clothes, a chitin and wraparound and wispy little panties, in posing for the mural of Hermaphrodite-half man and half woman-but that was nearly over with. He had fulfilled his obligation. Why didn't he leave?
"You know, in order to write about something well, a writer should really live some of the experiences he's describing." Bob stared around the simply furnished espresso and tried to look disinterested. "I'm doing some paperbacks on the theme of an older woman seducing a college boy."
"And you decided to get personal experience, eh?" Henry Weiner was not buying that story. He was too smart for it all. Despite his own peculiarities and dual sexological nature, he was open faced about every-thing. "Look, if that's how you get your kicks, why keep it under wraps?"
"If you don't mind, Henry, let's skip the subject," he said firmly.
Mimi was sympathetic since she knew something about Bob that none of the others did. "Well, this is supposed to be a Bohemian atmosphere so who's to call a spade a spade?"
Lisa scoffed. "Bohemia? Beatnik? It's all phony. I've lived in the Village long enough to look under the surface. It's all an act. Just put a red light bulb in your pad, toss in some books on Zen, an organ box and you're a Bohemian villager."
Bob suggested putting in a few girl lovers. "Now, that's the real Village, isn't it?"
"You're damn right!" That was Lisa's department.
"It's an escape hatch from the bluenoses. Two girls can make hot love to each other in full view and no-body thinks twice of it in the village."
At least we all have our pet idiosyncrasies, thought Bob, so none of us can toss bricks in the glass houses of the others. "We were once talking about the differences in male-female and female-female love, weren't we, Lisa?"
She nodded her unblemished face, free from feminine makeup. "And women are superior, aren't they, when it comes to making dominant love? To use a cliche, something we've said over and over again, no one knows what a woman wants except another woman."
"That goes for the men, too," smiled Henry.
Bob disregarded the last interjection. "But a man appreciates a feminine body. It gets him excited. It makes him do all sorts of things. And a woman should get excited over what a man does to her."
Lisa slammed down her hand on the table, drawing curious stares from the others. "Exactly-but what man cares about female response? He's only interested in getting himself all steamed up and ready to rocket-the girl can just lie there in knots as far as he's concerned. When he rockets, he's only concerned with himself!"
Mimi laughed. Both elbows were on the table. Her breasts were naked beneath the silk blouse and the aureoles were pressed so tight, she might as well be completely bare breasted. "Maybe we should follow Henry's original dictum: let's love men and women and that way we can get something of each."
"Nonsense!" Bob was not in favor of this dual nature. "It's a biological error to be either a half-and-half or pure queer. The sexes were made for each other. What would happen to the human race if every-one were straight?"
Lisa, a confirmed lesbian, would hear nothing of this Freudian reasoning. "Biologically speaking, each person is born a half and half. But society conditions him to love a member of the opposite sex. Some con-form to society. Others rebel and conform to their own tastes and become lesbians, homosexuals, sadists, masochists, fetishists, even transvestite-and they're happy that way. Biology has its foundations in inner happiness. If there would be no love or happiness, then there wouldn't be any human race! There are always a few who walk the straight and narrow path so don't worry about propagation of the races."
"Besides," interjected Henry, "the world is over populated as it is so I think we're doing everyone a favor by remaining as we are."
"Cut out that 'we' stuff," insisted Bob McGill. "Don't include me in your little world. I don't condemn or condone your bizarre tastes. But don't include me. Okay?"
"Okay, okay." Henry Weiner was jittery and nervous again. He was anxious for a smoke of the weed. "I think we ought to have another little 'tea' party soon. Man, do I feel my spirits sighing when I take a few whiffs of the roach."
Bob smiled. "You get a real high and hot on pot, don't you? I remember when you took the part of a woman and that bull dyke...."
Henry flushed to the roots. "Cut that out, Bob, I don't like my private life aired like that...."
"Like most of the deviates," Lisa Lowery grinned, "you like your half-and-half twilight world-but it has to be kept in the twilight. Don't be so bashful, Henry. We're all friends and, in one way or another, in the same boat."
It was tiring to Bob McGill. After several months throughout the summer of living with Mimi DuClos (and was she a nympho!), he had accomplished comparatively little. Except for a raft of paperback novels and girlie magazine stories, he was back where he started. He was nowhere closer to his objective of writing a solid book, one he could be proud of and which would be his ticket to success and recognition.
What was he doing here? he thought. Sitting in a dingy espresso, sipping coffee that was bitter and thick and anything but worth the twenty-five cents the management charged for the privilege of occupying his store.
He thought of the weed parties. He had hit the ceiling. He even found out that when forced to humble himself-"kissed" by a leather lash, he was initiated into a world of excitement he never thought could be his.
But that, too, was passing.
The novelty was wearing off.
The only success he could rightfully claim was his obvious writing improvement in style-and getting to meet Ada Petrikas.
They still did not fully accept the arrangement. They-the others around the table. It was incongruous. Why should Bob McGill, a good looking young athlete hardly out of 20 years of age, fall for a woman sculptor who had a good figure and sensuous charm but was hardly out of her 30's?
They could not properly understand it all. Bob had no intention of trying to explain. In fact, he could hardly explain it to himself.
Except ... he was in sheer rapture when dressed as a female and making love to Ada-who wore a leather restrainer from shoulders to hips-against her naked body that was warm and vibrant and exciting.
He felt he did not have to make explanations to any-one. Least of all, to Mimi DuClos.
Mimi.
The pixie with a pony tail and enormously rounded breasts that gleamed like red-flecked headlights when she ran to him in naked heat, embracing him, begging him to fill her with sheer ecstasy.
Mimi.
Bob would have sacrificed everything for Mimi-if she would have given up Lisa Lowery. But she continued her lesbian relationship with the leggy boyish faced creature and she loved it-but made Bob feel so miserable, he often had an urge to take hold of Lisa and really shock her!
Bob knew that neither he or Mimi could straddle the fence much longer. There was going to be a climax and he was going to destroy his competition-or bring down the house of destruction upon all of them.
CHAPTER TEN
"A MASQUERADE BALL?"
"Isn't it exciting!" Mimi and Henry were in her studio, watching as Bob McGill posed for the final strokes of the Hermaphrodite mural.
"What kind of costume am I supposed to wear?" Bob felt a bit squeamish over the way Henry Weiner was looking him over. Heretofore, while there had been some modesty on his part to wear the veil like gown and panties as tiny as a handkerchief, it was now embarrassing to stand in a spread-eagled, arms upraised pose, with his flagrant exposure before Henry.
"How about a ballet dancer?" suggested Henry, his voice choking a bit. "You've got a nice physique, Bob. You shouldn't hide it in ordinary street clothes."
"Cut the comedy." There was a feeling of warmth as Henry came closer and stared openly at him.
"I don't like showing off that much!"
"I'm not kidding. What do you say, Mimi?"
"Mmm? What?" She was busy using the final strokes of the brush on the canvas. "Oh, I'm sorry, Henry, I wasn't listening."
"I was suggesting that Bobby wear a ballet outfit
-but let's use a new twist-we'll design it so that one half is pink and the other blue-that makes it a he-she."
Bob flushed at the idea. Did they suspect? "I thought I made it clear I'm not that way."
With a swift, lightning flash, Henry's hand seized away the thin Grecian covering and then snatched at the fragile panties. "You ought to be!" exclaimed Henry as he devoured Bob's masculine nakedness.
Bob turned and stalked into the next room, his bronzed buttocks going up and down. "Another trick like that," he turned sideways to expose himself to the three of them, "and I'll turn you into a real woman
-all the way deep, too!" The door dammed on their laughter.
Lisa Lowery knew that the crisis was coming to a head. That night, the masquerade ball would be held at a fashionable hotel. Instinct warned her that Mimi would make her decision during the ball. She would select either Bob or herself and cross over the Sapphic bridge.
She called Mimi at an hour when she knew Bob would be out for a posing session with that weird Ada Petrikas. That would give Lisa enough time to make it clear that Mimi would have to stop straddling the fence. They had a few drinks and before long, Mimi was ready-she had come to expect it from Lisa during these meetings.
Mimi had peeled off her silk dress and watched as Lisa did the same. Strange, thought Mimi, I never really gave her a close look. Usually, she was the aggressor and I let her service me.
Mimi stared fascinated at the pale almost-boy that was Lisa; the skin was so transparent, the blue veins emerged like fine pencil tracings. Lisa smiled as Mimi inspected the bony diagram of her body.
The broad chest made the twin mounds of breast look inconsequential so that the over-sized, red deep-red nipples appeared extra large. Against her will, Mimi's eyes fastened at a strategic point where strippers wear fig leaves.
Mimi giggled. "You're a real brunette, aren't you?"
Lisa strode forward. "That makes two of us." Now it was Lisa's turn to admire. "Mmm, delightfully delicious. I've always loved you, Mimi, giving you love a man would never be able to do-they're too impatient." Her hands flicked over Mimi's buttocks, then moved forward down the thighs, making Mimi vibrate.
Her hands were artistic, gentle, knowing; they moved over the concave tummy, cupped her heavy, swollen breasts. Mimi felt dizzy with anticipation.
Lisa fronted her close, nipple touched nipple and the breasts moved from side to side, increasing the friction by pressing close. Finally, their lips came together, remained fused with Lisa's tongue exploring. Wrapped in a tight embrace, hands straying on each other's backs, they stroked their flesh.
Mimi would never recall how they landed on the bed. But she would forever remember the tender, intimate caresses of the girl who was now kneeling over her, fanning the fires of desire expertly and with deliberate tantalizing slowness.
Mimi was overcome with a feeling of strangeness. In her mind's eye, she regarded Lisa as a young boy, eager and curious to discover the secrets of Eros.
Yet, Lisa's kisses were seasoned by a thousand years of living. The spice of her allure was in the deftness of her hands and in the delicate way she caressed Mimi.
Mimi's legs strained. Her insides became taut with excitement. Her breasts ached, wanting to be fondled by this Sapphic lover.
Almost mannishly, Lisa pried apart Mimi's legs and explored her curiously. "You're ready," she whispered, "you're ready."
Mimi sucked in her breath. Suddenly, her body erupted with spasms. She fell ... she hurtled ... and surrendered completely to Lisa's knowing administrations, twisting, moaning, being scorched by ribbons of fire.
"Give it to me!" ordered Lisa.
Mimi soared to the peak of ecstasy and was swept along with the rivulets of moisture that welled forth. Immobile, snug in a mantle of euphoria, Mimi fell into a wondrous twilight of the senses. Her body was a cloud.
Mimi opened her eyes when she heard Lisa whisper, "Come back to me ... come back to me...."
Sleepily, Mimi gazed on Lisa. Her skin was so delicate. Her form was so boyish. Lisa's hands were firm on Mimi's shoulders, pressing down; her entire body was a white arc, an offering, an ecstatic exhibiting of each tender curve and hollow, withholding nothing from lip or hand.
Bittersweet tasted the hidden fruit, softly melting on the tongue. Warm flowing tides wet the shores, drop-lets of balm were lapped up.
"Oooh, sooo good," moaned Lisa, twisting and sighing, surrendering to the moment of unique, exquisite pleasure.
The spasms subsided as Mimi suddenly roused her-self. From somewhere, a door closed. She heard steps. She jumped up, her eyes frightened.
There he was-Henry Weiner, with a fawning grin on his face.
"How-what-how did you get here?" Mimi was upset. She tried to cover herself. She had never let Henry touch her but now....
It was Lisa who smirked. "I thought it would be more exciting this way. But darling, don't you also favor men? Then you and Henry should have some-thing in common."
Mimi frowned, snatched up the sheet and wrapped it around her swollen breasts. "Lisa, you knew all the time, didn't you?"
"Why cover it up, Mimi?" Henry was already taking things for granted and started getting rid of his clothes. Nude, he was in a feverish pitch of taut anxiety. "Don't you want a man to love you?"
"The ... three of us?"
Lisa smiled and shook her breasts. "I'll be part of it-but my attentions will be solely confined to you, Mimi."
Henry grinned. "Two Venuses and I'm only one Eros. Well, it takes a good man and I feel up to it." Without further ado, he was in the midst, embracing, kissing and performing lewd motions.
It was lewd to Mimi who disliked the intrusion. Angrily, she hated Lisa for having secretly conspired to bring this about. What did she hope to gain by it?
Henry was like a huge faun with a nymph in his captivity who did not flee and actually loved being imprisoned. The way he took her was almost vile-but he satisfied her. His strong hands covered her slim thighs and pushed them apart.
At the same time, Lisa's lips were everywhere, sending sparks of flame throughout her bosom and in her lower tummy. She soon had Mimi writhing in agony, demanding relief.
She could not differentiate between the both of them. Faster. Faster. Three bodies touching intimately.
An outcry was followed by a deep moan. Mimi sank back on the pillow. She closed her eyes. She felt faint-but still stirred up. Her nerves vibrated.
She moaned in rapidly mounting frenzy. Her senses fused into one sensual paroxysm of dissolving climax. Then Mimi floated down the calm river of sheer appeasement....
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Annually, a masquerade ball was held for those of Greenwich Village who had more bizarre tastes than the conventional Artists and Models ball. At one time, perhaps back in the 1920's during the era of free living, this Artists and Models ball was quite an exciting event. Girls would plunge into water fountains and come out dripping wet, their gowns clinging to their sylph like bodies, highlighting their natural charms. Boys would wear Roman togas or weird orgiastic costumes which accentuated instead of detracted from their manly attributes. At midnight, nothing was hidden and they had themselves a real ball!
Gradually, with the tempering of the spirits and with a lessening of daring, the Artists and Models ball became a charitable function. It was colorful, musical and brim full of excitement with dances and little con-tests. But it was too conventional for those who wanted more zest.
Small wonder that a few of the more adventurous creative geniuses of the Village decided to hold a ball of their own. They had selected a farm house way out in the country, surrounded by woods, shrubbery, trees and complete isolation. Here, the passions ran wild. Here, a costume selected indicated the wearer's secret urges.
A man garbed as a horned and tailed Devil was every bit as Satanish as his costume indicated; he would give chase to and capture giggling maidens, ravishing them in full view of the others.
A Grecian Pan with hooves and a faun like grin would be ever in pursuit of maids and lads and whisk them away in a secret wooded grove and here would unleash his satyr urges upon one and all.
There was the inevitable Lady Godiva who wore skin colored tights and defied anyone to discover where the tights left off and her flesh began. Needless to say, many rose to the challenge.
The Ball had still another group of costumed merry makers. These included the black hooded keepers of the dungeon who carried steel-tipped cat o' nine tails, huge leather paddling boards which would be whacked across the taut buttocks of those who could be seized and spread-eagled until they screamed for mercy. Also included in the costumed brigade were the dynamic Amazonian blondes and redheads, as well as brunettes. These wore stilt-like skyscraper shoes an boots; wearing pink and white veils around their magnificent, high breasted bodies, these Amazons delighted in seizing an unsuspecting girl (especially one who was unwilling) and initiating her into the rites of Lesbos.
It was the photographer, Eric Norton, who took the retinue of Mimi, Lisa, Bob McGill and Henry Weiner to the country farmhouse used for the Ball. Eric drove them all in his station wagon.
Their costumes would have shocked anyone on the street.
Eric Norton, true to his narcissistic nature, wore a pair of skin tight leotards that were so form fitting, they were embarrassing! Flesh colored, even the trunks molded his manhood with infinite detail which caused Lisa to remark, "Why didn't you go in your birthday suit, Eric?"
"You know," he laughed, parting his strong thighs, "that's not a bad idea. But with what I'm wearing, who can tell the difference." He swerved the wheel and they turned onto a small dirt road that would lead to the farmhouse. He glanced at Lisa. "All done up in leather, eh?"
Lisa Lowery was breathtakingly dynamic. She wore a leather blouse that hugged her boyish figure tightly. The leather was kid glove soft. It was a rose colored hue, with scarcely a wrinkle. Even the seams were so softly stitched that they appeared to be part of the skin like leather. The sleeves came down tight around her wrists, where a pair of gloves made of equally soft kid leather, framed her hands.
But the leather did not end with the gloves. Stitched to each cuff of the sleeve was a small coiled whip. The whip was braided, gleaming, and had reinforced wiring so that it retained its coiled position, much like a snake. Each sleeve had a whip so all Lisa would have to do would be to raise both arms, twist the wrists, and the whips would uncoil to wield out whatever fury was necessary.
"Do you like these leather jerkins?" asked Lisa. "They're more like jodhpurs, actually. But see how they fit right into my black leather boots? I like boots that go up to the knees and over the jodhpurs. Boots are so beautiful-shouldn't they be seen down to the last detail?"
Indeed, the boots were fascinating. They were ebony and as smooth as soft silk, but as powerful as a black whip! The boots were sharp toed; the vamp was decorated with a single gleaming tiger's eye that winked with deadly hatred at the slightest move. Lisa's ankle bones were punished by confinement within the shoe portion of the ebony boot. The extremely high arch instep was precarious. The slender matchstick heels were enormously high-so high that they forced her legs to bend slightly at the knee when she walked around. This created complications because the boots were laced right up to the knees and held the caps captive. But everyone expressed admiration for Lisa Lowery who was determined to remain defiant and not bend to the will of the dynamic boots.
The leather jerkins made strange sounds as she moved around on her seat in the station wagon. If she so much as tapped the tiny toe of her boot, an ominous echo could be heard, sending sparks of fear into the hearts of all who were close by.
"You look kind of cute," remarked Henry Weiner as he saw Bob McGill's costume. "A ballet outfit, just as I suggested-and half pink, half blue. A true Hermaphrodite. Say, I'll bet you want to have one of those Christine operations!"
Bob flushed darkly. "Maybe you're the one who should have it." He kept both of his legs closed; his thighs were locked but the pronounced bulge was still embarrassing. Why did he ever agree to get such a costume?
"That's right," interjected Mimi DuClos, a delightful little doll, dressed up as an actual doll with square buckled shoes, white cotton hosiery, a fluffy skirt and a very tight peasant blouse in candy striped design. The blouse was sleeveless. Her rounded globes danced with each bounce of the station wagon as it went over rocks and gravel paths. Her waist was squeezed in which fanned out her hips into soft cushions.
Mimi glanced sideways at Henry Weiner's costume-dressed like a cave man with an animal like skin over his upper chest and winding its way down around his pelvis. "You look like the missing link-maybe you're the link between men and women-a combination of both."
"Another crack like that and I'll brain you with my club!" Good naturedly, he showed his club which was actually a leather paddle; it was round like a club but had a flat surface and when slammed against a girl's bottom, could evoke a startled scream and a thrill, at the same time.
"We're almost here." Eric Norton, the photographer, took a side road and they were soon slowing down before a huge barn like structure that was filled with lights. The sounds of merry making and laughter al-ready could be heard. An occasional shriek and a sound of more erotic significance then pierced the air.
"Not a minute too soon," commented Henry, already holding the handle of the door, eager to get out and join the fun. "I've been on the make for a cute little blonde-man oh man," he smacked his lips, "has she got a pair of real big ones. I'm going to chase her all over the place and watch them bounce up and down. If her boy friend gets mad, I'll become a willing victim." It was a favorite trick of Henry to arouse the wrath of jilted boy friends who would then use him the way they would use a girl. "That way, I can have my cake and eat it, too," he winked.
The car parked. "Everybody out-and every man to himself," declared Eric Norton who was already hurrying down the flagstone path and joining the fun.
Lisa held on to Mimi's hand. "Coming with me?" The leather bull whip was cool and firm against Mimi who looked like a timid and frightened Alice in Wonder-land.
"How about me?" asked Bob McGill. In his skin tight ballet outfit, even though the vertical colors were divided, he looked every bit of a mischievous little boy. His blond hair was silky soft. His high cheekbones and smooth skin gave him a fresh, almost sensuous look. Yet he was anything but boyish when he eased his way out of the station wagon and stood with his thighs apart. "I thought we had this settled."
Mimi was confused. "I ... I don't know."
But Lisa Lowery showed her dynamic nature. In the pale moonlight, her gleaming leather outfit made her into a powerful goddess who knew not defeat. "Come with me, Mimi-and I'll show you what it's like to really taste the fire that burns."
Bob said nothing and watched soberly as they went into the brightly lit farm house. As he walked, the gravel path bit into his ballet slippers but he felt little discomfort.
"Well, hello."
He turned. It was Ada Petrikas. Unlike the others, she was not lasciviously garbed. Instead, she wore a four-tiered white and bejeweled Marie Antoinette wig; her face was powdered and rouged and a little beauty mark appeared on one cheek. She had an old fashioned French hoop skirt gown; her waist was nipped in, squeezed by a figure trainer. Her mature breasts were uplifted by a foundation garment. The bodice was low cut. A deep V reached to her narrow waist. Had the bodice been parted, her milky white breasts would have been flopping around on her chest.
Ada walked on high heeled slippers that tinkled and shone brightly with each movement. "I thought I'd find you here."
Bob was sulking. "Hi, Ada. You didn't tell me you were coming when we had our last posing session."
"I wasn't sure about it myself, until the last minute." She linked her arm in his. "I do wish you were dressed as Robespierre or King Louis or someone of my era. But I have to admit-you're like a real muscle boy in your pink and blue ballet tights." Her free hand cupped his buttocks, then ran up and down his thighs, making him shiver. She always delighted in stimulating him this way.
"Ada, please."
They walked to the entrance of the house. She laughed gaily. "Very well. Why didn't you come dressed as a girl, Bob? This was your chance. It's perfectly acceptable during a costume party."
He had thought of it but reneged. "I don't want to make anyone suspicious. Besides, I'm one of those transvestites who prefer practicing in private, or with one or two friends." He liked Ada because of her sympathetic attitude toward him. And he liked Mimi because she, too, understood his leanings and had good enough sense to keep quiet about her discovery. He had never dressed as a female with Mimi but looked forward to the day when he could make the transformation.
He would have done so already had it not been for Lisa Lowery's interference. He had to get rid of her. Somehow, in some way, he would dispose of her.
Inside the house, the rooms were ablaze with light, color, shrieks of laughter and happiness. The costumes were as wild as the music which blared from hidden speakers throughout the building. Some of the girls wore bridal gowns and kept seeking young bridegrooms who would go on a honeymoon with them. Some girls were dressed as men, complete in business suits, ties, hats and walking canes! They defied detection. If there were some boys dressed as girls, they too, could not be recognized.
A few were clowns; some dressed as Puck, and there was the inevitable Napoleon.
The preponderance of Grecian and Roman clothes indicated the underlying purpose: as much exposure of soft feminine flesh and hard masculine virility as possible while still creating the illusion of a costume ball.
One low-necked French courtesan who said she was Madame DuBarry came rushing to Ada, kissing her fondly, embracing her the way a man embraces a woman. Then she turned to the quiet Bob McGill and shrilled, "Oooh, is this your page boy? Isn't he cute?" Her eyes went up and down his length. "Pink and blue-a half-and-half. Which is which?"
Before Bob could get out of the way, her sharp, talon like fingernails tore at his costume, ripping open his chest covering. "Hey!" he yelled angrily. "Get the hell away from me!" He was so mad, he could have struck her.
"You're a man on top-see, your nipples!" The girl was nonplussed even though Ada managed to extricate the two of them and shoo her on her way.
"I ... I'm sorry," she apologized. "That girl takes just one sip of champagne and she goes wild."
Bob was sulking. After having lost Mimi to Lisa for the night, and now with his skin tight ballet blouse ripped, he was not in a good humored mood. "It's okay. It's the pink part that she tore so you can't tell the difference."
Off to one corner, a little alcove had been set up to be used as an Arabian slave market. Already, a few sloe-eyed maidens wearing veils that covered them from head to toe-but were so transparent, the round concaves of their bellies and the strawberry tips of their globular breasts appeared softly naked-were being shackled to a wooden beam.
"How delightful," exclaimed Ada. "Let's look at the slaves."
In the melee, the two of them were parted and Bob was glad of this. He wanted to find Mimi and make it plain to her that she would have to choose between Lisa and himself. This was the last chance. If she chose Lisa, then he would pack up and get out and try and forget this part of his life.
After all, he had his own leanings. He wanted to get his own Village pad and dress in feminine clothes when-ever he wanted to do so; even when he was writing!
"We need a male slave!" An Arab sheik with a turban and curved scimitar, not to mention a short handled two-thonged leather whip, was calling for a new addition to the slave block.
"There's a real cute one-with blond hair! Blond males bring the highest prices in the Arabian slave markets!"
Just how it happened, Bob was never certain. One moment he was pushing through the throngs of costumed revelry makers and the next moment, strong hands were pulling him to the platform despite his protests.
He found himself sandwiched in between a pair of soft hipped girls, both with jet black hair, offering a contrast to his own light color. The girls had both arms upraised; leather ropes were twisted around their wrists. Chain manacles were secured around their ankles. The girls were laughing happily, enjoying the exhibitionistic spectacle of displaying their rounded globes and the eventual inspection of their dimpled charms.
"Hey-let me go!" yelled Bob, but this only brought a few more robed and turbaned sheiks to the scene.
"Silence, slave!"
A leather whip uncoiled and snapped through the air, coming within a fraction of an inch from his broad shoulders. Bob was stunned into humble submission.
His wrists were seized, then yanked upward and fastened to thongs on the beam. He felt completely vulnerable. The crowds were cheering and a few bids had already begun.
The slave master passed from the few girls, then paused before this new "blond slave" and called out, "Let us see how much he will bring!"
"Don't do that!"
Bob's protests fell on deaf ears. The slave master searched his hard, masculine torso with intimate fingers until he found where Bob's tights began; he wore a two piece outfit. The slave master seized the nearly invisible elastic around Bob's waist and pulled the tights toward him.
"Get away from me! I'll...." Bob sputtered and fought against his bonds. A moment later, the thick fingered slave master had inserted his intimate hand beneath Bob's yanked away tights and manipulated expertly until the "blond slave" could not control him-self.
A few girls in front saw the reaction and started bidding high prices.
Bob felt himself flush to the roots of his hair. He tried to kick the manipulating slavemaster away but this only succeeded in having his drawers peeled down around his hips.
Everyone was hushed with exotic excitement. A few of the men in the audience were amazed at his power. "A real bull!" Then someone yelled, "Pull his pants all the way down."
The slave master gripped Bob by his hip bone and forced him to turn around, nearly all the way. "Smooth as silk," his hands caressed Bob's masculine buttocks. "Surely he can serve a double purpose...."
Everyone laughed but Bob was so angered, he would have punched the other fellow and given him a working over. He twisted his body until he faced front, flushing because his elongated manhood was in full arousal and being manipulated to even greater forbidden ecstasy. He mouthed some vile oaths.
"Flog him!" ordered one man garbed as Julius Caesar, complete with a curved leaf around his head. "Let's see how you flog him!"
Bob fought like a savage animal, aware that his en-tire costume would soon be peeled down and he would be turned into a humiliated slave. There was no telling what they would next do to him! How did he ever get up in this? Was this a joke or something?
Maybe they were all high on pot!
That was it!
They could not distinguish between reality and play acting and were going to torture him as if he were a blond slave in an Arabian slave market.
The slave master yanked up the tunic part of his ballet tights and pulled it high around his armpits. Bob's broad chest gleamed with nervous perspiration. Giggling, the slave master forced him to turn sideways and then all the way around, exposing his hips. The whip uncoiled and slapped against his back. The muscles quivered. His buttocks became taut, then loose, then taut. A strange sense of passion seared his loins. Soft breezes assailed his manhood.
Again and again the whip punished his back; but it was more like a slap than a lash and he was grateful for that. Still, each time the whip slapped his back, he stiffened, then relaxed, then stiffened again. The crowd cheered.
When it was over, he was left in this semi-nude condition and the master turned his attentions to the tittering girls. "What have we here?" he announced. "These girls need training!"
To everyone's astonished amazement, the slave master ripped the veil like robes from the girls and then fingered their breasts, causing the knobby tips to leap into fiery life. The globes were forced to bounce. Each time the crowd demanded that the girls twist and make their breasts bounce, the slave master used his whip upon their hips. The girls shook. Their breasts rolled around on their chests. Their columnar thighs, milky white as ivory, parted and closed, then parted and closed again, calling attention to their lace fringed treasures.
Bidding was high. Everyone shouted figures until one girl was released and nakedly carried off by a black hooded dungeon keeper wearing a leather apron around his strong hips and nothing else. Screaming with hysterical laughter, the girl was kept away from prying hands and carried into a private place where the dungeon keeper made her become flaming hot with need and eventual fulfillment.
The second girl was won by a tall, broad-hipped Amazon complete with gleaming helmet and ornately carved shield. She wore a simple wraparound tunic that emphasized her huge breasts and masculine muscular strength. She was a veritable female Tarzan, a glorious she-warrior in leather sandals. She, too, carried the lovely bundle of soft curves in her arms and they retired to an undisclosed site in a garden where the fires of Lesbos were fanned into a roaring inferno.
Bob McGill was still erupting with spasms as he fought to control himself. Not only was the slave master continuing his massaging and deliberately calling attention to the "blond garden of pleasure" but he did other things to make Bob want to haul off (if only he could get free) and break every bone in his body!
"How much am I bid for this one? I will sell him to either male or female-or both, since he will serve both needs!"
When Bob heard that, he mustered every ounce of his strength. He hoisted himself up on his leather thongs which had not been properly secured and swinging his bare-hipped figure, did a flying leap and brought both feet together while smashing them against the slave master. Stunned, the victim collapsed to the floor and writhed more from shock than anything else.
Bob succeeded in loosening his thongs and was running away from the platform while others were shouting, "Get him ... get him!"
He managed to pull up his tights and cover himself so that he was again decent. The insistent throbbing, however, created an embarrassing bulge and he fled outside to the cool woods where he hoped he could compose himself.
But he was not alone, either. A few pirates and girls dressed as pure pilgrims (the way they were displaying themselves was anything but pure) were struggling happily and having a lot of fun.
The night was cool. It always was in the country-and Bob managed to catch his breath and ease his pounding heart. He also eased some of his other feelings.
Now he was going to find Mimi.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The masquerade ball was more than just a festive occasion. It was an excuse for a bacchanalian orgy that would have outrivaled the weird urges of Nero and Messalina.
Outside in the woods, with the silvery moon as bright as some of the naked breasts of the girls being chased, captured and loved, Bob McGill started pushing his way through the grasping throngs, hoping to find Mimi DuClos.
"Come and join the party!" called a red haired youth who was pulling a reluctant brunette wearing a Cleopatra sack-like affair, slit down the front and back exposing the alternate dips and the eventual swells of responsive flesh.
Bob had no intention of joining the red haired guy who was pulling the screaming girl toward a huge water trough. In a matter of moments, the girl had been tossed into the trough, all the while that she was begging and screaming to be left alone.
A small group formed around die trough and laughingly helped her climb out. She was drenched, soaked to the skin. Her sack like dress was completely wet and clung to her maiden like form as if it were a cellophane wrapper.
"No ... NO ... DON'T!" she yelled as she flopped out of the trough. She was sopping wet and everyone tried to pull the wet mess from her body. Already, the globes of her chest were straining against the sheer cloth.
Bob did not know what the girl was so terrified about. Except for dunking her, the little group meant no real harm. Curious, he pressed forward.
"Watch this," a girl laughed.
A rousing yell filled the clearing.
Bob McGill was astonished. Now he saw what was going to happen. A broad shouldered cave man type, wielding a heavy and flat wooden paddle, pushed his way forward; with crazed laughter, he flung the girl down on the mossy ground and started paddling her.
She shrieked.
Each time the paddle whacked her pear shaped rump, she screamed. The crowd cheered.
Bob felt his fury rising. He was instinctively compelled to save the girl. He knocked over some laughing onlookers, rushed at the broad shouldered cave man and landed a smashing roundhouse on his jaw.
Everyone screamed. "Don't-don't stop...."
It was plain to see that this little bit of fisticuffs was even more exciting. The hairy chested cave man was temporarily stunned. He got to his knees just as Bob was bending over, trying to get the girl in his arms.
Just at that moment, the caveman seized his paddle, took careful aim. With full power, he smashed the flat hard paddle across Bob's buttocks.
Bob yelped. A flash of fire tore through his mid-section. Again, the whoosh of the paddle and this time his other buttock was slammed. He was being spanked! Everyone laughed derisively. The whacking landed again and Bob was a comical sight as he struggled to regain his balance and keep out of range of the spanking paddle.
"Keep it up! Spank him black and blue!" were some of the lusty cries of the crowd.
"I'll break your neck!" Bob lunged forward to grab hold of the caveman but his foot-wearing a satin smooth ballet slipper-slipped in the mud. He flew up over his own heels and suddenly there was a loud splash.
Gushes of water poured through his nose, into his mouth, into his lungs, his ears. Cold water soaked him to the skin and he sputtered wildly, threshing the water in the deep trough, trying to clutch at something.
His fingers tightened around a long pole which hoisted him up. But just for an instant. The pole slipped from his grasp and as he went splashing down into the trough again, the roaring laughter tortured his sense of dignity.
Again, Bob splashed and sputtered and sought to get out of this watery bondage. He now gripped the sides of the trough and hoisted himself up. Slowly, a soggy mess, his blond hair plastered down on his face, he gasped precious air, and managed to just about fall out of the trough.
This time-he fell into oozy mud. The slimy, gooey stuff smeared him, filled his face, nostrils, ears and even his mouth. He slipped, struggled, then slipped. It was a miracle that he could even gain his balance.
He crawled away, kneeling in humble defeat, dimly aware that if he did not crawl fast enough....
WHAM!
The crowd roared.
WHAM!
Blazing fire shot through both of his hips-the wooden paddle was punishing one buttock, then the other. The shock was enough to act like lightning. He forgot all sense of manly dignity. He just wanted to escape.
He half-stumbled, half-fell, half-ran into the thick woods. Here, free from the crowds, with their derisive laughter and catcalls still in his ears, he was able to catch his breath. He wanted to sob. He felt like breaking right down and crying. He had never before been so humiliated like that!
It was bad enough that he had been bound to the wooden beam in the slave market, but to have the sheik yank open his ballet trunks and then ... well, Bob was indignant at being inspected as though he were a real slave-and manipulated so that he would be more of a man ... and more desirable....
But after that, he had to be spanked-tossed into a water trough, his whole costume ruined-and to add the height of insult, to be thrown into slippery mud and degraded as though he were a real slave!
Well, he had enough of all this. He was going to get away from this bizarre set. He was going to free him-self.
But first he had to get dressed. Damn it all! He had come with Eric Norton in his station wagon, wearing this costume. He could not get back to the city looking like this-mud or not.
He had an idea. Maybe he would find some little brook, stream or lake where he could wash himself. He thought he would go back into the house but with so many weird masquerades going on, he would not chance it. There was no telling what might next happen to him once he got into the clutches of some twisted male or female!
Now he was alone. The wind rustled through the thick branches; from somewhere, there was the steady chirp-chirp-chirp of crickets and other night creatures. A hoot owl made its signal. A few birds sang plaintive songs. It appeared to be so peaceful here. Maybe that was what he sought all this time.
Peace.
Well, he was going to get it-and he was going to fulfill some bizarre urges of his own. He would get himself a complete feminine outfit, from silky soft panties to an ermine muff, and dress as a female in the privacy of his own home! If Mimi DuClos did not like it, then he would stand up for his beliefs and tell her that he liked it and it harmed no one and he was going to continue that way!
But there was no more time for reflection. First he would have to wash himself. Then he would wash his ballet outfit and look respectable and see if he could find Mimi.
He walked around the shaded woods, the branches and brush crackling under his damp and muddy ballet slippers. Where was he? If he got lost, it would be more embarrassing. Especially would it be unpleasant if he strayed onto a neighbor's farm-looking the way he did!
He paused.
The air had a crackle. Footsteps. He tried to duck for cover when he caught a whiff of familiar perfume. He whirled. In the bright moonlight he saw her.
"Ada-how did you get here?"
"I'm really Marie Antoinette," she smiled and her ample bosom moved up and down excitedly. "I saw what they did to you. It was all in good fun."
"What?" he sputtered. "You call getting mauled on that slave block, then getting spanked and dunked and muddied up-all that is fun?"
She shrugged her soft shoulders. In the pale moon-light, in the midst of the trees, she did look feminine and so wholesomely appealing. "It all depends upon the way you look at it. But right now, looking at you, I think you need a bath and a change of clothes."
"That should be obvious. Where do I get all of those luxurious accommodations?"
"I've been up here before. If you'll follow that path, there's a small babbling brook at the end. It goes up to your hips. And I won't peek, if you're bashful." He smiled and preceded her, listening to her directions. They came to the brook so suddenly, they almost went into it. It whispered in the soft moonlight and beckoned. It looked so refreshingly clean.
"Once I get out of these muddy and tom things," he pointed on himself, "I won't be able to put them on again."
Ada Petrikas waved the problem aside. "I'll let you borrow my petticoat-and a slip. In fact, why not use this opportunity to transform yourself into a female. I have a better idea! I'll slip into the house and bring you a gown and powdered wig. We'll both look like ladies of the court. What do you say?"
It was an intriguing challenge. "Do you think it'll work?"
"There is no time to lose or debate. We have no choice. You wash up, Bob, and I'll be back in a jiffy." In the silence of the woods, he slipped out of his ruined ballet costume. Naked, he dipped his tired and weary body into the babbling brook. The water was soft and intimate as a kiss. It lapped his torso, cleansed him, rejuvenated him so that by the time Ada came back, bearing an armful of clothes, he was slippery clean.
"You are like a Grecian woodsman coming from a pond," she gasped.
Bob remembered that he was naked and trembled slightly. "Let's see what I'm to wear."
In a few moments, the warm late summer night had dried him. Now he examined his new outfit and it was quite an outfit, too! He started with ruffled pantaloons. These were soft and made of starched white cotton, but when he slipped his trunk through the garment, he felt a sensuous thrill running up and down his broad, athletic body.
He wiggled slightly and felt ashamed at how stimulated he was becoming by the feel of the feminine pantaloons against his trunk. Then he put on a wire contraption that would be the hoop. After that came a series of different petticoats of all colors and designs. "How does it look thus far?"
Ada smiled. "You're wonderful. Now, put on this little chemise. Oh no, first comes the bra. This is padded. Just hook it under your armpits."
When this was done, he donned a blue chemise and buttoned it up in front. It had all sorts of little bows, ribbons and flowery imprints that made it flounce with pure femininity. It was just what he liked.
Now came the gown. It was a superb creation. Ada explained, "During the time of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, white was the official color at balls and state affairs. So it's really difficult and out of character to wear a gown of any other color."
"It doesn't matter that much to me," said Bob as he lifted the enormous gown with its ribbons and glittering jewels and put it down over his head. He fairly swooned from the strange perfumed scent that was distinctly feminine. He twisted his trunk until the gown was fitted over his torso and smoothed out over the many tiers of hoop contrivances.
"Wonderful," exclaimed Ada as she, too, on her delicate high heels, danced around him. "You're like a doll-a beautiful doll!"
"How about my stockings and shoes?"
"I've brought them, too. Just balance yourself on that tree trunk. It's difficult to sit down in a hoop skirt. And oh, Bob, when you walk, do it with a little hop skipping movement. Otherwise, you look too clumsy and mannish."
Balancing himself on the stump, he extended one masculine leg, inserted it into a pair of heavenly sheer silk hosiery. The size was too small but he did not care. He loved the tight feel of silk against his limbs. There was a crackle of electricity as he ran his palm up and down the length of the leg.
"Would you like to try that?" he asked Ada.
"It looks like fun." Her hands ran up and down both silken covered legs, causing shock waves of erotica to pass through his body.
"Don't do it again or I'll just faint!"
Both of them laughed at that.
Now came the shoes. They were delicate, simulated glass slippers, with six inch heels that were trans-parent When worn, the effect was being barefooted. Of course, beneath the hoop skirt, no one could see feet anyway, but it was considered quite daring and sensuous for a royal lady at the court of Louis XVI to extend a leg and expose a glass shod foot.
"What about my hair?" He fluffed his golden hair. "Don't I need a wig?"
"I've brought that, too. While it's not as high as the one I'm wearing, it has a tease effect-and it is white, with jewelry strung through the strands, so it looks authentic. It's powdered, too."
Holding the platinum blonde wig, fingering the pearls, the glittering ruby, gave Bob a thrill that stirred his vitals. He held it aloft, then placed it down on his head. It felt soft and cool.
"Perfect fit!" Ada Petrikas exclaimed, clapping her hands with delight. "You're just like a French doll. Oh, let's make up." She withdrew a compact from a beaded bag slung over her arm, extracted some white powder with a puff, dabbed it all over Bob's face. "Now with the rouge...." Two red spots appeared on his cheekbones. "And the lipstick...."
Bob stood still as the lipstick was applied. He liked the taste of it and licked his lips when it was over. "How do I look?"
"See for yourself." She held up the mirror of the compact.
Bob nearly fainted. "I'm ... beautiful-so beautiful ... I can't believe it's really me."
"But it is you, my dearest And it is the real you, Bob. You may be athletic, a handsome Apollo who sets the girls' hearts a-flutter with a physique that belongs in a Grecian gallery. But you are also an excellent cross-dresser and if you feel happy when dressed as a female, then you should pursue that desire."
He practiced a few steps on his glassy slippers. He thrilled to the way his silk stockings whispered when his legs crossed together.
Holding his blond wigged head aloft, with his chest pushed forward so he would have a bust with shadowy cleavage, Bob McGill was an expertly dressed femme of the royal courts of Paris and Bourbon.
"Maybe you're sympathetic and understanding, Ada," Bob said carefully, not wishing to make her more aware of their difference in ages,
"but others are not that way." He was thinking of Mimi.
She read his mind. "It's that pony tailed girl you're living with, isn't it?"
He nodded.
"Does she know?"
"Yes ... and she keeps quiet about it."
"Ah," she linked her arm into his and they left the babbling brook, "but does she encourage you-or suggest you dress as a female in the privacy of your home?"
"No, she doesn't. But ... she is good-very good in bed, if I have to be blunt" Bob was already becoming passive. Wearing feminine clothes was causing the complete transformation both mental and physical. He knew he would no longer be able to battle a cave man, or otherwise show an aggressive trait. He was a female!
"But as blunt as is necessary, if it is the only way you can make yourself understood. Mimi has her good qualities, I gather, but you still feel something missing."
Ada Petrikas was so understanding. Well, he, too, was understanding about the way she wanted to be laced up in a tight garment and then used in that peculiar manner. Of course, it had not always worked that way. She was mature, at least 20 years older than himself and like most mature items, well seasoned and versatile.
She had taught him many new things. He never even believed it was possible to soar through the gardens of Elyssa but Ada showed him the secret pathways.
They had all been filled with idyllic pleasures.
"Yes," he said as they neared the house, still noisy with the sounds of merry making; many couples had gone off by themselves, or in groups, and made their own parties. Bob and Ada had to walk daintily, lest they step on top of naked bodies in the throes of passionate love.
"Yes," Bob repeated as his hoop skirt bounced around on his hips, "something was always missing. I prefer dressing as a female before getting together with some-one."
"But you think only of your desires." Ada said care-fully. "What of that girl-Mimi? What does she feel?"
Quickly, he told her that Mimi was a nymph. "A willing nymph who takes men, women, singly or in bunches. She can't get enough of it."
"Women, too? Then she is a lesbian. Under those conditions, Bob, you will have a difficult time with her.
No matter how you want to satisfy her, no matter how you try, she will always seek the other element That is hardly a good foundation."
Just then they came to the steps leading to a rear wing of the house. A familiar laugh made Bob stop. "Wait a minute."
"What is it?" Then she added, "Do try to keep your voice more feminine; speak in half-whispers."
Bob did not even listen to this valuable advice. Picking up his voluminous skirts, he tiptoed to a bay window. It looked in on a lavishly furnished bedroom. A huge four poster bed with a canopy dominated the room. And on the bed, squirming in hot loving, were both Mimi DuClos and Lisa Lowery. A rosy hue was cast by the bed lamp; Mimi's white flanks came into view. Then he saw Lisa's boyish figure, her smallish breasts like rounded apples. She was maneuvering so that Mimi was lying spread on her back. Mimi's rounded breasts were deliciously soft and milky.
Through the open window could be heard Lisa's words. "Isn't our love better than anything else?"
"Yes-oh yes." Mimi's legs were doing scissor motions. "Kiss me, Lisa ... kiss me where no man would kiss me. Show me how much better it is to be loved by a woman."
Lisa straddled Mimi. The bony ridges of her spinal column were in etched relief as she bent her head and then it became lost between the milky globes. Lisa's head went lower and lower. All the while, Mimi was gasping, threshing around wildly on the bed, moaning and sighing.
Then Lisa's head vanished. In that moment, Mimi's lyre shaped hips were spread at opposite extremes and a pleasure-pain scream filled the room. Mimi's body erupted into twitching spasms and she could not stop the wild moaning and exclamations of pure joy.
Seconds later, Lisa flattened out on the bed and watched as Mimi started loving her. "I love you-
more than Bob ... more than Bob...."
Mimi's pony tail vanished in the near darkness. Now it was Lisa's turn to exclaim with sweet joy as Mimi helped her reach the highest peak of passions.
Bob felt choked. He pulled himself away from the scene. Let's go, Ada. I think I've seen enough." He lifted his hoop skirts. "How do we get back to the city?"
"I came in my car. It's over this way."
Silently, they rode back to New York. It had been a precarious chore to squeeze their hoops into the car but with some deft motions, they managed to get it done.
"Well, I think I'll pack my few belongings and...."
"And what...?"
He paused. "What next?"
"My home is open to you, Bob-why don't you try it with me?"
It was more than a new home. It was a new world-Bob McGill accepted the offer. It was bizarre. It was weird. It was a mystery. But he loved it-in silk stockings.
