What could she do, lovely and desirable as she was, if her husband preferred his secretary's sinful arms? It didn't take redheaded Shelly long to learn -- not with wanton Diosa to tell her about the Man-Haters, a club of women dedicated to the lust-destruction of all men! Joining was easy -- all you had to do was find yourself a man -- any man -- and cater to whatever desire he might have. And later you called his wife and gave her every gory detail! It never failed, and it wasn't long before Shelly was as accomplished a sin-devil as any of the other Man-Haters -- as lustful, as wanton, as willing to do anything with any man -- just so long as she had her moment of revenge afterward. The orgies, where the unsuspecting businessmen thought they had found a flesh paradise... the motel rendezvous where the furtive embraces and soft whispers soon turned into cries of outraged pain. Even to the twisted embrace of Kim, the club president whose evil schemes were as deadly as her strange desires... All this was Shelly's, as sweet as revenge can appear to be -- until the day she found that she herself was the real victim!
CHAPTER ONE
The bar was ridiculous in concept and execution. It was just the kind of a fake chi-chi trap that would catch on in a place like Lake City. Patterning itself after its prototype in New York City (in name at least), the club was called the Candystick Lounge. And if this atrocity wasn't bad enough, the owners had played it for full ugh value, using red and white, green and yellow for the predominant colors.
The seats of the bar stools were striped in gaudy plastic; the bar fascia was a blatant streaking of red and white. The tablecloths were green and yellow bars, the chair backs matching. Even the wallpaper was in mercilessly modulated stripes. Real headache stuff.
And if this wasn't enough to induce galloping nausea, there was the unique construction of the circle bar itself to contend with. This was done in an over-cute carousel motif; the bar canopied, streamered, ballooned. Of course in red and white, green and yellow. As a coup de grace, the bar was established on a monstrous turntable; a silent, efficient meshing of gears and wheels that slowly, almost imperceptibly revolved, taking its kooky, rustically fascinated patrons with it.
Then there were the dummy candysticks; huge, red and white, their crooks supporting the canopy.
Yes, Lake City dug this bit the most. As a result, the Candystick Lounge was Mecca to a certain kind of drinker. The word got around fast; the Candystick was jammed every night. Pickupsville, and no mistake.
It was very modern, very clean, and very corny.
Perhaps the owners operated on the theory that if they made their patrons sick enough, they would turn to the solace of booze.
Which was why they were in business.
With beer going at a dollar a bottle, they were definitely coining it Who needed cash registers? Just throw it in the barrel behind the bar.
The two women, one a redhead, the other raven-haired, were at the circular bar, judiciously nursing whisky sours. Both of them appeared to be the same age. The redhead was apprehensive and nervous, while the other, a smoky-complexioned vixen, seemed experienced, and at ease. She was obviously in charge of whatever sortie the twosome had in mind this evening.
"Do we have to sit at this damned bar?" Cherry-top said. "I've seen some silly things in my time, but this takes the cake. Another minute and I'll be spraying my dinner all over the floor. Can't we take a booth?"
Her companion regarded her with a condescending smile. "C'mon, baby, don't be that way. We'll sit here where the guys can see us. Or maybe you forgot why we came out tonight in the first place?" She put her hand on Shelly's wrist and pressed it. "Stay cool, child."
Both of the women were beautiful; both smartly dressed, young, possessed of firm, vibrant, silky smooth figures. Their gowns were patently intended to inflame. They were skin-tight, silk sheaths. They displayed the conical tautness of their high, pointed breasts (intentionally crammed into Paris Tease brassieres); the dip and dive of their decolletage; the plummeting, sheer drop of their waists; and the cascade and flowering of their compressed, restless hips and buttocks.
Their exciting, shimmering legs were filmed in iridescent green hosiery; their feet sexily encased in black kid, the heels tall and thin. If a man were called upon to determine which woman was the more beautiful, he could easily go out of his mind It was an irresolvable draw; they were both stunning women.
One thing was unmistakable. Judging from the way they threw themselves about at the bar, the way they let their skirts ride up to expose their knees, the way they displayed the bursting globes of their breasts, they were definitely two dolls on the make.
And yet there was an uncertainty about the redhead. She was perturbed, preoccupied, not so single-mindedly aggressive as her mate. Close scrutiny would have revealed even more intrinsic weakness. Red was scared silly.
Shelly DeTroye had never been in a place like the Candystick Lounge before. It was quite an experience. The noise, the movement, the audacious dancing that went on, the flashy, trampy women who wriggled then-way through the crowds. And as she evaluated her own purpose in being here tonight, when she classed herself with the cheap pickups who crowded the club -- Small wonder she was frightened.
Shelly was a tall woman, standing five-eight in her stocking feet; add three-inch heels to that... Yet everything else was in perfect proportion; her breasts, her hips, the fullness of her calves and thighs. There was something refined, almost regal in her bearing; she never moved through a crowd without attracting attention. Tonight was no exception.
She regarded herself sadly in the curved mirror behind the bar. She saw the pompadour; the severe arrangement of her orange hair that revealed the graceful, creamy line of her throat. She couldn't help but wonder what had gone wrong. Why wasn't it enough, Bob? Why wasn't I woman enough?
She felt naked without her wedding and engagement rings. The fear grew. She was gripped by a desperate yearning to wheel on the bar stool, to bolt from this place. I can't go through with it! I just can't!
Then she calmed herself. She couldn't back out now; she was in too deep, she was duty-bound to see this night through. After all the scheming Margo had done in her behalf, going directly to Kim Brady to intercede for her, she couldn't let them down. She couldn't let Diosa, the woman they'd appointed to shepherd her through this initial foray into infidelity, down.
But now her reticence was swiftly swept away. She recalled how easily, happily almost, Bob had taken her mid-afternoon call to his office. A call announcing a sudden desire to visit her mother in Kiley, thirty miles north of Lake City. She would stay overnight and come back tomorrow afternoon; so she would have Bob believe.
"Fine, honey," he'd said. "Take the car. I can hitch a ride with someone. The change'll do you good. You've been looking a little peaked lately."
Shelly's rage assumed prairie fire proportions. She envisioned Bob, even at this moment, somewhere with Jane Crawford, his slut of a personal secretary, perhaps already in bed. The thought of their two bodies joined, flailing and thrashing at each other in carnal limbo, made her queasy all at once. She raised her glass and drained it in a swallow.
I'll get even, Bob, she thought, in blind, pettish fury. Just you wait and see if I don't.
"Watch it, baby," the voice at Shelly's elbow warned. "Not too fast. You're still paying for that stuff, remember."
"I forgot. I was thinking about Bob again."
"Don't bother, Shel. He isn't worth it. After tonight he'll never be worth it again."
"I know, Diosa. But when I think of how I trusted him, how I loved him... "
"Skip it," Diosa snapped, her feral eyes scanning the rapidly filling room.
At first glance one would take Diosa Argente as an angel incarnate. There was a soft, dreamy quality to her round face; a disarming childishness to her smile. Her hair was cut in shaggy, windswept fashion. It haloed her face and fell over her forehead, enhancing her dark eyes. They were almond shaped, dark-lashed, and soul-fully expressive -- an elusive something was lurking there; a lost, yearning intensity that was indescribable. It was the sort of take-me-home-with-you wistfulness you might see in the eyes of a pet shop puppy.
She was a Mexican girl and, like Shelly, twenty-three years old. And, like Shelly, she was entirely disillusioned with life; with the way her marriage had turned out Only for vastly different reasons. Her skin was dusky, her hair jet black. And yet there was a spiritual beauty in that face; in those eyes that drew men like flies. Like the legendary Lorelei; the contradiction between her virginal, innocent expression and the reality of her inner cruelty and wantonness stunned and destroyed them.
In actuality, Diosa Argente was a sensualist from the word go; a hop-happy little libertine who rode the sex-express just for kicks.
That was evident during their first interview, when Shelly had pressed Diosa for her reasons for becoming involved in the group. "I don't understand, Diosa," she'd said. "If your husband is faithful, if he loves you; why should you carry on like this?"
"I get my jolts," Diosa had smiled with that maddening, sleepy innocence. "That's all that counts. I'm young. I'm pretty. Why should I waste myself on one man? I like to chase around, I like the thrill it gives me; the way I get all twisted up inside when I've got a man worked up, and make him crawl and beg for it. I can't explain it. It gives me a feeling of power inside. It's like a medicine. I just have to have it. And Sammy isn't enough."
"But he loves you, he believes in you. All those nights he's working at the steel plant; he thinks you're home waiting for him... "
"So? Let him think. I've never refused him, have I? I might be dead, but he always gets his."
"But if you love a person you don't..
"Love?" Diosa had snorted. "God, kid, you've nicked your record. What'n hell's love? Does it guarantee love just because you marry the guy; because you promise to love, honor and obey? Does that mean you're going to have that out-of-your-head stuff all your life?
"I'll tell you what love is. It's my Sammy wild for my body for about one goddamn year. It's Sammy pawing around like a clumsy farmer, making like Valentino; then climbing, on and getting done in about one minute flat. He doesn't care whether I get anything out of it or not. And now he doesn't even bother to paw around He just lays into it. He's got it down to thirty seconds now. Is that your idea of love?
"God, a girl wants some romance, some excitement; she doesn't want to be treated like a brood sow. You know how long it's been since Sammy's come around? Almost a week. He's too tired, he says, when I try vamping him. After all, I got needs. Women are human, too; they aren't plaster saints.
"And so, if Sam can't make it, I can find someone who can. Someone who makes me jingle-jingle inside, who makes me feel like somebody. If I have to chase thrills, then that's what I'll do. Hell, I sure ain't depriving my loving husband any.
"And I ain't been sorry one single day since I started playing around," Diosa concluded vehemently.
Shelly had found herself shuddering as Diosa finished.
The face of an angel -- the heart of a vampire.
* * *
Now Shelly's deliberations were summarily shattered. She found her heart hammering wildly in her chest. For long moments couldn't look up. It was time -- time to start. They were here, the two men; arrogant and bold, standing behind them. And, though they talked, her inner terror blotted out their words.
"You girls look kinda lonely all by yourselves," said the tall, brown-haired male. He was approximately thirty, and handsome in a vulpine, opportunistic way. "You mind if we join you? Seems a shame to waste all this nice music; this atmosphere. Should have some nice girls to share it with. How about it?"
Shelly froze. It was obvious that the man had been around. She glanced to Diosa and saw her eyes flick sudden assent. They'll do, her look said.
Diosa smiled. "Sure, boys. That would be nice. I was wondering when someone was going to cut in."
Immediately the operator took the empty stool beside Shelly. She cringed inwardly as he pressed his knee tight to hers. "Stagg Faro's the name," he grinned. "And this is Irv Roeder." He looked expectantly to Shelly. She was still tongue-tied.
Diosa indicated Shelly, then herself. "Shelly. Diosa."
"Pretty," the man named Roeder said, lamely. "Very pretty. Pleased to know you, Diosa." It was immediately evident who he'd concentrate on.
"What're you girls drinking?" Faro said. "We'll get a refill."
"Champagne cocktails." Diosa said offhandedly.
"Champagne?" Stagg Faro blurted, seeing big bills suddenly sprout wings. "But --you were having whisky... "
Faro tried to gloss it over. "Sure, sure, honey. Champagne cocktails it is."
Nevertheless, both men ordered beer for themselves.
This pleased Diosa immensely; it meant she and Shelly were hurting them where it counted, in their wallets. And depending on the way things developed in the next few hours, they'd bleed them lots more before the night was over. Good-Time-Charlies were her specialty.
Shelly wasn't used to champagne. At first she didn't like the taste. But, little by little, as the wine cut in, it became more bearable. She was taciturn to start, but within an hour's time, aided by the champagne, the man had thawed her somewhat. Shelly was able to push her guilts and fears into a dark closet in her mind and to slam the door. Now she laughed more and found herself giddily enjoying Stagg Faro's jokes; his innuendo, his copious compliments.
Then they danced. As Stagg held her close, tucking her belly tight to his, she was momentarily repulsed. But as suddenly she thought of Bob, in bed with Jane Crawford. And vengefully, a red blur searing her mind, she determined to repay his infidelity in kind, with this stranger. More muzzy now, from the exertions of the dancing, she relaxed and let the man press her close again. She felt a thrill of evil excitement as his fingers slid lower and played in the concavity at the base of her spine.
She felt a hot core form in her belly; it seemed to melt and seep downward. Into her legs -- other extremities. He pulled her stomach to his again and thrust himself against her -- twice, three times -- the surge of her desire becoming even wilder. She lent herself to the overture; even timidly answered with her own body.
Stagg Faro held her even closer, his lips pressed to the side of her forehead. "You're lovely, Shelly," he murmured thickly, his own need readily apparent. "So lovely. I get the biggest charge out of dancing with you; holding you like this."
"Thank you, Stagg," she faltered, for want of something better to say. "You're a wonderful dancer."
"It's only because you follow so beautifully."
"Thank you," she said again.
"You aren't attached are you, Shelly?" he whispered. "Engaged or anything like that?"
"No," Shelly lied. "Nothing like that."
"Good. I could go for a doll like you. You could mean something big to me. This won't be it, will it? Just tonight, I mean?"
"Well have to see about that," Shelly teased.
"Baby," he moaned softly. "If you only meant that." He slid his stomach against hers again.
Shelly answered him, suddenly more bold, understanding the feeling of power Diosa had mentioned. It was heady, electric. "Maybe I do," she slurred.
"You doll, you doll," he sighed.
They went on dancing.
When they returned to the table Faro had insisted they move to, they found a serio-comic tableau; a pouting stubborn Diosa and a flushed, panicked Irv Roeder. Standing beside the table was a scantily clad girl in ringmaster's attire, erne of the club vendors. She held a large, fluffy, cloth kitten in each arm and was beaming down at the stalemate.
"But, Christ, Diosa," Irv was protesting. "They're fifteen dollars. I haven't got that kind of cash."
"All right," Diosa snapped. "You can just forget about the rest of it; the things I promised. I thought you were such a big spender!"
Roeder was caught in between. Whatever it was Diosa had promised intensified his panic tenfold. "Please, Diosa; be reasonable, I bought you all those drinks."
"Okay, Irv. If that's the way you feel." She half rose. "It's about time Shelly and I blew this trap anyway."
The sallow-faced blond capitulated then and there. "All right, Diosa. I'll buy you a damned cat." He fished into his wallet and handed the girl a five and a ten.
She turned, smiling toward Stagg Faro. "How about you, sir? Buy a souvenir for the lady?"
Faro seemed to flinch. "Well, I..
Shelly felt a sudden lurch in her stomach. She wanted to put her newfound influence over the man to a test. "Yes, Stagg. Buy a kitty for me. If Diosa can have one, I can have one." And blissfully intoxicated now, her smile promising dark delights later; she savored the supreme sensation of domination over the man. She had it and he wanted it. He was sick to have it. But first -- fifteen dollars.
Faro rebounded gracefully. "Of course, Shelly. If you really want one." Then he dug for his wallet.
Shelly snuggled close to Faro in the murky booth; her arms around the plush kitten. "You're a dear, Stagg," she purred, "... so generous with me."
His arm came around her. He pulled her against him. "Maybe you'll be generous with me, too... " His fingers lightly brushed the tip of her right breast and flittingly passed over the brimming top. Shelly felt a tingle spear her all the way to her toes. It was the first time any man, besides Bob, had touched her there.
"Maybe I will," she sighed, leaning back still further and inviting more intimacies. She picked up her sixth glass of champagne; letting the happy lassitude swamp her. She felt so good. All thoughts of Bob, of her troubles, faded. They were replaced by this jittery burning inside her body. Now she fully understood the sensualist pleasures Diosa had extolled so candidly.
She closed her eyes and felt the heat multiply as Stagg's fingers returned. He began to saw across the hard point of her brassiere. "You witch," he was murmuring. "You gorgeous little witch... " Then she felt his breath on her face; his lips closing tenderly on hers. She opened her eyes briefly. "Sleeping beauty," he said. She let her lids drop again; savored his tender adoration to the fullest Why not? she thought Wearily. After all, he was a big, handsome man. Probably big all over. He was suave and worldly, knew what he wanted, and how to go about getting it. Why shouldn't she give in to him? If Bob could -- She turned off the thought. This stranger -- Stagg -- would make it good for her.
Her desire grew.
They had still another drink. By then Shelly was beyond any resistance at all. She was aware of Stagg's continuing, furtive kisses, his clutchings and caressings. She noted that Diosa was allowing similar liberties to her escort. Once Shelly started as Stagg's hand reconnoitered her leg in the darkness beneath the table; but then she allowed him this also. Twisting her body on the upholstered bench; she allowed access to the dark, hot regions beneath her skirt She knew teeming excitement as his fingers stroked and pinched the bare flesh above her stocking tops. She knew wanton surrender as his hand crept higher.
She knew delight.
* * *
Some of the effects of the prolonged drinking bout had worn off. Shelly was still pretty woozy and uncertain of things when the men brought them to the strange apartment. But there was no snippet of reluctance in that rag-bag jumble of thoughts. She wanted what would happen now. She wanted it desperately.
She'd go wild if she didn't have this stranger now.
Revenge against her husband was only a small part of it now. There was a more compelling life-force amok within her at that moment. Vengeance was a puny competitor.
The men didn't bother to turn on the lights in the apartment. Shelly heard them talking softly in the distance. She heard Diosa call a thick, drunken, "See you, honey."
Then the man named Stagg was leading her across an interminable, shifting field. She felt her heels catch in the stubble. He was opening a door, herding her into a dark room. He was tenderly laying her on a bed, putting her feet up on the spread.
She heard his muffled words. "Now maybe I get paid back for all the dough I spent on you."
She heard her own lust-charged voice reply from far outside of her own consciousness. "Yes, Stagg. Now you get paid back. Let me pay you. Pay you and pay you... "
Shelly giggled. Goodness, was that me?
"Dolly, dolly... " he groaned. "Don't do that. Wait till I get there."
"Well?" the alien voice came. "I'm waiting."
"Yeah, yeah. Give me a chance to shag out of these clothes."
Shelly strained her eyes against the darkness, trying to see where he was. In the near distance she saw the play of dim light on the muscled, tall, white body. And gradually more of it was revealed. At the last an automobile passed on the street outside, spraying the room with light. Shelly gasped sharply as she saw Stagg illumined in the glare. All of him. As she saw the hungry, cruel smile on his face.
He moved toward the bed.
Then, through her torpor, she felt his hands stroking her stockings; feverish, trembling. They progressed up her legs, all the way to her hips. Then his hands slid down again; igniting a sensation in her that made her want to scream. On and on he went; pausing only briefly when he reached her silk-bound belly, where she wanted him to pause longer.
Please, please, please, the words slammed against the dam of her brain. It's glorious, it's delicious. I can't wait. Please-- Now Faro tired of the silken Odyssey, and came upward on the bed. He began to kiss Shelly; his lips sliding, grinding into hers, his tongue cleaving her teeth. His free hand continued to rove and explore; her breasts, her stomach, her legs. Shelly was transported by an insensate delirium; she knew only one thing, the deranging desire to have this artful lover.
She was a limp bundle of rags in his arms. He raised her body, reverently unzipped and unhooked her gown. Painstakingly he peeled it, then her slip, from her body. Then he laid Shelly back down on the bed, delicately arranging her legs. "You're beautiful, darling," he repeated again and again; his hands again beginning to brush her body.
He attended her breasts for a long time, stroking the stiff nylon of the specially built brassiere. "Where did you get a gadget like this?" he asked. "First time I ever saw anything like it."
"Diosa ordered it for me," Shelly giggled. "It's supposed to attract men."
"It does that all right."
"Please, Stagg, baby," she sighed. "Take it off. Undress me. I want you so badly."
"Not yet, dolly. I wanna play a little. After all, this came high." Then his hands were wandering again. And the terrible, suffocating heat mounted within Shelly.
Finally he removed Shelly's shoes, dropped them to the floor. He kissed her nyloned legs; then began peeling down her stockings, her panties, the elastic garter belt. For what seemed hours to Shelly he sat beside her on the bed; his hands languorously skimming her legs, her belly, her thighs. Until she was writhing uncontrollably on the bed, beside herself with hysterical delight. It seemed her throat was sandpapered raw from her rapid, tortured breathing.
And still Stagg delayed; refusing to consummate the love act. Shelly whimpered and pleaded, deep in her throat.
Diosa, the wild thoughts came. I know now. I know what you meant. I know what it is to be loved, to want a man, the things a man can do to you. It's good, it's good.
She broke from the trance to find Stagg fumbling with the snap of her brassiere. Hurry, hurry, she raged. You fool, you clumsy fool. And at last: "Here, get away. Let me. You'll be at it all night."
With a click and a sudden swipe the bra came away; giving the air currents in the room a chance at the large nipples, drawing them to turgid, puckered rosettes.
Instantly Stagg as pushing her back again. He attached his lips to her breasts, put his hands beneath her buttocks, and trapped her body so she couldn't escape the maddening, hot touch. The liquid, compelling touch.
Shelly submitted with a tired sigh. She let him do as he wanted; her entire being stunned, waiting in breathless tension for the final exquisite torture.
As his lips became more punishing, as his muttered cries became more incoherent and ragged; she knew that it would soon be time. Soon, soon -- An appalled storm of disbelief broke over her.
It was now.
"Baby, baby," he gasped. "Now, now. I can't wait any more."
"Yes, Stagg. Now..
Then she froze as his body joined hers. For at that moment she felt him, and was lanced with fear. She had never, in her wildest dreams, thought that there were men like this. God, what if -- what if she couldn't?
"Careful, lover," she whimpered. "Be careful..
But Stagg Faro was not careful. For now that the final moment was here, he was possessed of a maniacal cruelty; a lust to defile, to ravish. "Now, damn you!" he rasped, and thrust himself at Shelly.
She arched her body to repel him; her arms and legs stretched to taut, steel bands. But he would not be repelled. She thought she would faint from the pain, but strangely enough, she did not. The pain faded swiftly. She relaxed and surrendered greedily to him -- there was no more pain at all.
There was only joyous relief, the total need for a continuance of joy.
It seemed a shrill, deafening clamor was born in her; like clanging sheets of steel were falling about her. Now molten steel was flowing through her; scalding, crystallizing the blood in her veins. Until she was emptied, until the noise and pain became muted. The respite was brief -- moments later the build-up commenced anew.
A woman was screaming somewhere; anguished, jarring cries that burned holes in her brain. Then she realized who it was. She recognized her own voice, calling in repeated plaint: "Bob! Damn you, Bob. Damn you. Damn, damn... "
Again the white hot, molten metal, the pain yet not pain, began feeling its way through the vessels of her body. Her scream of fulfillment rose again, and found Stagg's. The sounds twisted and wound together; formed a single discord of jubilant sound. They rose higher and higher.
At last there was silence, a surcease of angry motion. Shelly slept.
She awoke aeons later to the rustle of the bed, drowsily aware that Stagg was leaving her. Minutes later the other man entered and began fondling her. She fought, but he slapped her viciously. Shelly went limp and gave herself to the man.
To the shadow of a man. After Stagg he was no man at all.
She awoke again, to find herself trembling. She sensed nagging, jittery dissatisfaction. Stagg was back. She went to him, begged him, encouraged him to renewed efforts. At last she fell back again, blissfully sated.
It was only as dawn smudged the sky that she awoke, leaden-headed, and realized what monstrous thing she'd done.
Silently, her body convulsed. She wept into her pillow.
CHAPTER TWO
Shelly had laughed when she'd heard the first breathlessly relayed rumors about the impromptu little club that some of Lake City's restless wives had formed She'd been certain that someone was pulling her leg. It was at her bridge circle, a cross-section gathering of eight young, and not-so-young wives, that she'd got her first subtle whiff of the scandal.
Later she hadn't laughed any more.
"But it's true," Mary Treleven had insisted when the others had loudly pooh-poohed her story. "They call themselves The Man-haters. They actually have this club where they figure ways to make their husbands, and any other stray man who happens to cross their paths, pay through the nose.
"These are gals who have caught their husbands cheating on them, and are out for revenge. Who figure the best way to get even is to do a little cheating of their own. Some of them have other grievances. Maybe daddy's a drunk, he slaps them around; maybe he's got some strange ideas about how sex should go. Maybe they're just plain disillusioned. At any rate they pick this way to settle scores."
"But that's ridiculous," Linda Hopper had interrupted. "No woman in her right mind would lower herself to do things like that; to sleep with other men, just to pay back a cheating husband."
Mary had smiled mockingly. "Is that right? How do you know? How do any of us know how we might act if we caught our husbands shacking up with another woman? Myself, if I found out that Matt was... " Her mouth had gone grim. "I don't know what I'd do."
"But if these women want to sleep around," Penny Wilson had interjected, her eyes excited, "why do they need a club to do it? I should think they'd want to be as lone wolf as possible about it... "
"Is that right? Don't forget, these gals are new at this; the idea of it scares them silly. And besides, they need cover and they need alibis. They help each other out. They arrange overnight parties, church and league trips out of town; anything to keep hubby from getting wise. Why I heard that they even baby-sit for each other, so the other members can get a night out."
It was then that Carol Marsten, a hard-eyed woman of thirty-four, had rasped, "Cards, girls? I thought we were here to play bridge, not to wallow in ugly gossip."
Mary ignored her. "They go out alone, or in couples; just looking for trouble. Usually they try to pick up a guy who smells married, one who's playing the field. They bleed him white, make him drop a bundle on them, and mess him up good. That's their idea of fun."
Carol Marsten's tone was cutting, imperious this time. "Mary. Drop the subject. You're turning my stomach. If this club is going to degenerate to scandal mongering; if we have to lower ourselves to talking about filth like this --Well, then... "
The subject had been immediately jettisoned. Everyone was properly chastised and suddenly very intent on her cards.
Later, Shelly was to discover why Carol Marsten had been so anxious to have the discussion aborted.
She found out about Bob and Jane and was proselytized and groomed for Man-haters herself. She'd been shocked to learn that Mrs. Kyle Marsten was a charter member of the club; that she'd been with Man-haters for three years.
"That sanctimonious tramp," Margo Lakin had laughed when Shelly had summarized the exchange in her own kitchen that Monday morning two weeks ago. "She'd want to keep it hush-hush. She's got three extra guys on the string. Taking all she can get. It seems dear Kyle's got a little perversion he tries out on Carol every once in awhile. That's her excuse."
Now Shelly slumped over her coffee. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, until blue flames darted behind her eyelids. Dear God, was it only two weeks ago?
Abruptly she was jolted from her reverie, by a soft tapping at the back door. Listlessly she looked up to see the conspiratorially grinning blonde standing outside the door; Margo Lakin.
"Come on in, Margo," she called.
The woman who entered was a plain, washed out thing. She was thirty years old and slightly overweight. Yet there were still remains of former beauty in her fleshy figure; glints of sexuality in her eyes. When she primped, when she was dressed up, she was pretty enough; she attracted her share of playboy husbands.
Dully, Shelly rose to get an extra cup.
Margo's eyes were expectant. She plumped herself down opposite Shelly's place. "Just get in?" she asked.
"An hour ago," Shelly said, glancing at the wall clock. It was ten-thirty. "I had to wait until Bob took off for the office."
"Don't stall me, honey," Margo hissed. "You know why I came over. Did you and Diosa make out? How did it go?"
Shelly poured Margo's coffee and pushed the sweet rolls toward her. "We made out. That's all there is to it."
"C'mon, Shel. Don't be like that. You know I'm dying to hear the blow by blow."
It was vitally important to Margo Lakin, to hear it all. For, to all intents and purposes, she was the cell leader in the Sunnyview area. She was dedicated to Man-haters; perversely determined that there should always be new recruits when the club ranks thinned out. Her handsome husband had betrayed her almost from the first year of her marriage. Frantically embittered, she had turned to Man-haters with a vengeance. To Margo it was a way of life; a twisted morality to turn to where other morality had failed her.
It was Margo who had informed Shelly of Bob's unfaithfulness. She had given Shelly dates and times when Bob was trysting with his after-hours tramp. It was she who, when Shelly still disbelieved, had taken Shelly to the apartment building where the rubber-kneed Miss Crawford lived. They had parked across the street. They had seen Bob (who was supposedly attending a Jaycee banquet) arrive and furtively flee into the building. It was Margo who had held the sobbing Shelly in her arms afterward; all the while indoctrinating her with a litany of hate.
By employing the Man-hater grapevine, whose serpentine tentacles spread the length and breadth of Lake City, and by tapping the feeder line of scandal and gossip the club efficiently maintained information sources which would make Confidential turn green with envy. Margo was able, through these facilities, to keep Shelly abreast of her husband's peccadillos in a day by day account.
And in the process to poison her mind and make her a zealous Man-hater candidate; then initiate her.
Last night had been the payoff. Small wonder Margo was wild for the details.
"You and Diosa hit it off?" she asked. "She's one real smooth operator, isn't she?"
"Yes, she's very nice."
Margo sipped her coffee. "Okay, so what happened?"
"Please. Margo, do I have to?"
"Yes, baby. You have to. After all, I've got a report to make. Kim went out on a limb for you. She wasn't at all sure about you. I'm gonna have to make a report to her. Now give. You were going to make the Candystick Lounge. Is that right?"
Shelly lowered her head. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, "I feel so cheap... "
"You'll get over that. Go ahead, Shel."
"Well, Diosa came by for me at six. We went to dinner and she filled me in on things. She... " Her voice faded. "She gave me some stuff-- for my purse -- Then about nine o'clock we went to the Candystick Lounge... "
And then, haltingly, one unsavory detail after another, the sordid story of the night's misadventure unfolded. The pickup, the overtures, the way she had drunk too much. Then the primitive debauch at Stagg Faro's apartment.
There was a long, heavy silence when Shelly was finished. Now she looked up to see Margo smiling triumphantly.
"I feel all dirty inside," Shelly choked. "It was like I was out of my mind. It was like I was an animal.
A filthy, senseless animal. I don't know what got into
" me.
"So?" Margo smirked. "You were an animal. What's the fuss? It's best we level with ourselves. We're none of us so far removed from it, when you think about it. The important thing is that you got things out of your system. You got even with that cheating husband of yours."
"But did I? What good did it do? I only made myself feel dirty inside. Did that help anything?"
"You'll get over it, honey. It's a hangover, just like the first time you get drunk. The next Joe you light into, you'll forget all those prissy ideas."
"There's not going to be another," Shelly said softly. "I'm all done, Margo."
"Done? You talk like a stupey-do. Hell, doll, you're just getting started. Level with me. There at the end, for just a little while, didn't you enjoy it? Didn't you get your chills? Didn't you feel like you were getting back at that louse of a husband?"
Shelly was loath to admit it, but she knew it was true. There had been a vindication; a willful surrender to stygian depravity. She felt a catch in her throat; remembering the carnal hysteria as she'd clawed herself to Stagg, unable to get enough of him.
"Yes... " she said weakly.
"Well, that'll get better and better. Take it from me, I lived through the same thing. Now I wouldn't have it any other way."
"But I can't. Not again..
"That's what you think now. But you just lay low a few days and watch dear Robert creep around the house with that pickle-sucking grin. You think about him in bed with that slut-secretary of his, or of him flipping up her skirts in his office and taking her right there... "
"Don't, Margo."
"That kinda gets you, huh, kid? You think about it. You think about taking leftovers. When and if he's got any to spare. When he finally gets around to making a duty call, remember that's what it is; just duty. Jane got the goodies."
"Please, Margo. Don't talk like that."
"I give you three days. Then we'll see if you hate him enough to look up an encore. You'll be calling me again. Wait and see."
"No. m face him down. I'll tell him I know. PH get a divorce... "
"Divorce, huh? Think that's the answer? Go ahead. Get a divorce. That's what that Crawford witch wants. Then she'll have him and you won't. At least this way you don't have him, but neither does she."
That the logic of Margo's arguments was totally fallacious never once entered Shelly's brain. The woman's barbs had been well aimed. Shelly was oblivious to logic. Her mind was busy with a vision of Bob, even at this moment, kissing Jane Crawford in the sanctuary of his inner office; his hands inside her clothes. The mental image became life-size and continued to its inevitable climax.
And the corroding rage grew apace.
"It's getting to you, isn't it, Shel?" Margo grinned, finishing her coffee. She rose suddenly. "Well, I got to go. There's a dish down the street that's having trouble with her hubby; Kitty Franconi. He digs boys. Maybe I can promote something there."
She patted Shelly on the arm. "Don't fret, baby. It'll be all right. You passed with flying colors. The next one will be even better." She looked back at the door. "Call me when you're ready."
Then she was gone. Shelly was left with a tortured tangle of inner remorse and doubt. A battle only she could fight.
Shelly sat at the kitchen table, staring dumbly into the murky dregs of her coffee. But actually she was seeing nothing, nothing at all.
In the silence of the empty house, with only the clock humming and the refrigerator cutting off and on, Shelly quietly withdrew inside herself. She found herself unconsciously biting her lip, fighting to hold back the tragic grief. She pondered further the self-debasement she had endured -- courted -- last night.
Her eyes glazed with tears, and she struggled harder.
What got into me? she repeated in tiresome plea. What got into me?
She retrogressed even more. Into deeper self-pity.
She remembered what her marriage had once been. She recalled the end-of-the-world shock that had crushed her after Margo had vengefully announced Bob's infidelity to her. The shock that had eventually driven her to this bestial degradation.
For days she had hidden in childlike insularity, refusing to believe the things Margo had told her about her husband. She had reverted to that infantile trick of closing her eyes to things she did not want to believe. She had tried to make up alibis, to explain away all Margo's accusations. Not Bob, not my Bob. He loves me, only me. He wouldn't do this to me.
Only when Margo had taken her to wait outside Jane's apartment had she finally believed.
It seemed she had aged ten years in the last few weeks. She would never look on the world with child's eyes again. She was an adult now, hardened and realistic. Her fairy tale marriage, all sunshine and joy, in which she was protected and pampered, was gone now.
Perhaps it was this singular facet of character that had turned Bob away. Her inability to cope with problems; her tendency to shrink into the dreamy snugness of childhood, to play baby forever. For if Bob was there; strong and loving, to shield her -- to be a substitute father instead of lover and husband -- She was confused. She knew she wasn't thinking straight. She had failed Bob because she had never grown up; she had never become a real woman. He had gone elsewhere and found a pretty brunette named Jane.
It was the first time Shelly had ever had to face up to reality. It was the first time her character, her values, had ever been tested. And instead of being strong and patient; instead of waiting, hoping that Bob would tire of the other woman, would return to her -- She had plunged headlong into this hog wallow. She had lost Bob -- herself -- for good.
Still the confusion mounted; she wondered if she really wanted Bob back. Did she love him any more? Could she love him after what he'd done to her? After the futile, petty course her retaliation had taken last night? Could she ever look him in the face again?
The despair grew even more desperate. Where did I fail him? she castigated herself. What did I do wrong? Why wasn't I woman enough for him?
Her misery became overpowering, and shamelessly she let the tears come. She tormented herself to remember the happy days of their marriage when there was a glut of love, of soft words, of sweeping, sense-stealing passion. She recalled how they had built up to love; allowing every liberty, conferring every excess, caring only for the sensual hysteria that clawed at them.
Again she relived those careless days of their early marriage; those desolate, lost week ends when time had become meaningless. A time they were adrift in space; existing in a vacuum where only the other existed, where there was only their wild, heedless love.
In those somnambulistic days lovemaking had been a painstaking ritual. Bob would gladly devote hours to undressing her, caressing her, pouring out words of love, kissing her everywhere; bringing her to panting, gasping ecstasy.
Then and only then would he plunge himself to her. His words would change; become erotic, insanely inflaming, making her feel like fire raged inside her. He would bring her to climax upon climax; causing her to scream and claw him, pleading for his own matching release.
Later, with the bare duration of an hour or half an hour between their love events, he would be kissing, fondling, raising, prodding, urging her to still further passion. There had been moments when they were both so tired they could hardly move. And still Bob had come to her again; his hands hot and seeking, his voice husky with promise.
A choking sob escaped Shelly's throat now. Oh, God, what had happened? Where had those magnificent days gone? Those endless, soul-searching nights? Would they never come again?
Bob, please. Give me another chance. I'll forgive you. If you'll forgive me. We can try again. You can learn to love me again. I'm not a baby any more. I'm a woman now. A real woman. Let me prove it to you.
There was still hope. She still loved Bob. It would never happen again. Somehow she would be strong. She would suffer in silence, and hope against hope.
A new thought pierced her maudlin inventory; if only Bob would let her have the baby she wanted. Perhaps it would be the turning point. He had refused before, every time she's asked. Two years, now, and still he refused her. Not until he was better established in his junior executive slot at Vallon's, Incorporated, he said. Not until he had clawed his way into the higher echelons of the business jungle. Then she could have a baby. But for now, wait.
She would ask him the next time, if there ever was a next time. It would be a binding tie. It would bring Bob back to her. Maybe they could leave the impedimenta in the drawer for once. They could try for a baby.
Please, Bob. It's our only chance. I want you back. No matter what's happened. Tonight, Bob. Please, tonight.
Before I fall any further.
Shelly opened her hands and looked about her. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she saw the physical artifacts about her; the stove, the chairs, the small radio, the very cup she'd just drunk from. Emerging from her faraway hell, they seemed unreal. It was incredible that the world could continue to exist after the things she'd done, the recriminations she'd just suffered. Then she really cried; unleashing great, wet, coughing sobs. Her arms hung limply at her side as she dropped her head to the table.
* * *
Bob did come to her in the darkness of their bedroom that night. But it was a mockery, a burlesque of passion. There was no compassion, no empathy, no love; it was animal rutting and nothing more.
His hand crept beneath her nightdress, carelessly stroked her belly, and swept upward to her breasts.
Shelly recoiled as his fingers found her nipples, and kneaded them painfully. "How about it, darling?" he said; his voice matter-of-fact. "Feel like a little tonight?"
Despite her resolve of this afternoon, Shelly felt the antagonism grow inside her. She fought to keep her mind, her body, soft toward him; to be receptive. "You know I don't like it when you ask, Bob. If you want me bad enough you know where I am. You know I've never refused you."
He made no reply; but began to cup and squeeze her breasts with a brusque, almost perfunctory method. It was evident he was bored. Vision of both Margo and Diosa suddenly flamed in her mind. She was reminded of Diosa's Sammy; of his fumbling concept of love. Then Margo's words returned. "... Duty call, that's all it is. Duty call. Jane got the goodies... "
Shelly went dead inside. She felt nothing as Bob raised her in bed, and slid off her nighty. He came directly to her breasts; his lips and tongue business-like, no tenderness in his ministrations whatsoever. It was something to get out of the way.
Woodenly Shelly submitted; shutting out the pain, the mockery he was making of what had once been a sacred, prolonged act. Now his hands were caressing her belly, her thighs; they moved to her legs.
It was almost a greater humiliation than the one she'd suffered last night. At least Stagg Faro had wanted her, had wanted her body. Bob didn't want even that.
Then the brisk overtures were completed. Shelly felt Bob slide away from her. She heard him rattle the nightstand drawer, and another resolve returned. "No, Bob," she whispered. "Please, couldn't we go without?
isn't it time we thought about a baby? Darling, you promised that in time... "
He snorted softly. "Hell, hon, don't start that again, not now. I'll tell you when I can swing it. Babies cost money. Lay off, will you? In another year maybe." He touched her legs. "Here. This is good for what ails you."
Insane, angry resentment choked Shelly. It was all she could do to keep from spitting her rage in his face, from pushing him away and fleeing the bedroom.
He was hateful, mean, and inhuman. It was the ultimate befoulment to be forced to submit like this.
But she did nothing. Docilely she permitted his entry; coldly she froze before the sham motions of love.
She shut her mind to it and refused to answer the ebb and flow of his body. There were no kisses, no endearments, no words of desire. He was arrogant; using her unfeelingly. She was a receptacle and nothing more.
The hard male plunged above her, until the physical contact, the mechanical action, engendered an answering fire within her. Her body locked to his and she drew him tight; reciprocating in reflexive, compulsive movements.
If you put your hand in the fire, she thought, it's bound to get burned.
She groaned softly, and despite her self-disgust, achieved her release. Moments later Bob followed her lead. It was barely a flutter of a feather, compared to Stagg.
Shelly lay staring into the darkness; hearing Bob's heavy, even breathing beside her. He was sleeping. But Shelly couldn't sleep. Her mind was ravaged by a desolate, desperate despair. She fought to puzzle, to grope her way out of this grotesque trap. If she could be patient, if she could wait a little longer; a miracle could happen. She must be strong. And someday, somehow --
CHAPTER THREE
Whenever Shelly had pressed Margo Lakin, or Diosa Argente for that matter, for further details about the Man-haters, they suddenly and pointedly became evasive. It was almost as if there were secrets about the group they didn't think Shelly was ready for as yet; secrets they couldn't trust her with.
Margo did tell her that there were approximately twenty other women in the select and libertine circle; that they were drawn from all stratas of Lake City society. Their membership included women from some of the most influential families. Carol Marsten, for example; her husband a vice-president at Lake City National Bank. There were also several trashy representatives from the Yale Street district; a notorious slum. Margo further hinted that they got together at various times to discuss and celebrate their liberation and conquests. Her eyes had glittered eerily at mention of these parties.
But names, addresses -- no. That would all come later; only Carol Marsten so far. For now it was enough that she knew about Margo, and about Diosa; and of course, the phantom Kim Brady. She was, from all brushed-over allusion, the president-elect of the club; Actually, the founder.
In time, Margo's contemptuous smile had said. If there was another time.
Shelly DeTroye was determined that there would never again be another time. She had been foolish, insanely foolish. She wouldn't be that weak, that stupid again. It all seemed like a bad dream now, three days later, as she reviewed the things that had happened that night. To think, she had once laughed and thought that women could be so ridiculous. That they could be so childish as to vent their fury and hope to avenge themselves on unfaithful husbands by plunging into ugly, backstreet affairs themselves. Yet she had done just that.
It won't happen again, she vowed with burning vehemence. I'll be strong. I won't let it happen again.
But nevertheless there were moments when she felt weak; when her legs turned to putty at reconstruction of Monday night's happenings. She remembered the deranged ecstasy of her surrender and Stagg Faro's body; the madness, the clawing, screaming frenzy he had brought her to.
At these times she was filled with self-loathing. It pained her to think that she could remember it with any feeling akin to pleasure; that she could actually, deep down, hunger for a repetition of the mindless rapture.
She shook her head savagely to blur the evil, pictures that were flashing on the screen of her brain.
Stagg--
All of Shelly's brave rededications and resolves were disastrously washed down the drain on Friday afternoon. Bob called from the office to announce that she should pack a bag for him -- he was flying to New York early that evening.
"A conclave of the moguls," he tried to josh her. "Hush-hush and rush-rush. Something big's in the wind and Quillan wants me to represent the company. I'll stop by at six. We'll have dinner someplace, then you can drive me to the airport."
Shelly's mind was stunned; it became a noisy battleground for a dozen different accusations. She fought the wild impulse to voice her accusations; to tell him she knew he was sneaking oft for a week end with his secretary. Believe, believe, another part of her brain cried; maybe it's true.
Suddenly it seemed the greatest humiliation in the world if she should admit her suspicions about the trip -- that she knew about Jane Crawford. She'd die first. Thus the words came limply: "When will you be back?"
"Monday afternoon." He feigned concern. "It'll be all right, won't it? Maybe you can go see your folks again. Make a good visit of it. You won't miss me too much."
Shelly tried to put sincerity into her tone. "Ill get by, darling. I'll miss you terribly. I -- I couldn't go along, could I?"
"No, baby. I'm sorry. Quillan specifically stated it was to be a loner... "
I'll bet, Shelly thought. "I see, darling," She swallowed the tearing lump in her throat. "Okay, Bob. I'll get things ready. You want your blue suit packed?"
And as she turned from the phone the irony of her slavey servitude became unbearable; that she was expected to pack and prepare her husband's things so he could spend the week end with another woman. A final, bitter consideration came; she quickly quelled it.
What would Bob's reaction be if she should pack the equipment from the nightstand in with his underwear?
Then with a sudden, decisive motion she turned back to the phone. Frantically she dialed Margo Lakin's number.
An hour later Margo called her back. "Yep," she said breezily; pleased with herself, pleased with the efficiency and promptness with which her sources of information had tracked down the rumor. "Our little Jane's already packed. She's going to New York over the week end. You should tell Bob his steno talks too damn much." She paused in significant signal. "Well, baby?"
The hatred, the red, blinding rage was too much for Shelly. Then her fury diminished somewhat, leaving her irresponsible and vulnerable. There was only one crazy desire left in her brain; to strike out, to hurt Bob -- in any way possible. Even if it meant hurting herself in the bargain.
Her voice was cold and dead. She answered, "All right, Margo. You were right Anything you say. Tonight."
Margo chuckled elatedly. "Now you're talking, Shel. I'll get hold of Diosa. She'll be calling you shortly."
* * *
Shelly edged the Pontiac up to the passenger unloading dock at the air terminal and braked. Turning to Bob, savoring the uneasiness that gripped him, she twisted the knife. She almost smiled at the panic that shone on his face as she said, "We're a little early, Bob. Would you like me to come in, wait for your flight with you?"
"No," he squeaked, jerking as if she'd slapped him. "That isn't necessary. You'd have to park the car and all. It'll only be a minute. We'd best say good bye here."
She enjoyed his discomfiture. "It's no trouble, baby. I'd be glad to. Just say the word."
He took her in his arms, kissed her quickly. "No, you go ahead. There's really no need... " Then he was out of the car, reaching in the back for the suitcase. He administered a last peck on her lips. '"Bye, darling. Be a good girl. I'll see you Monday."
Then he was hurrying off agitatedly; quickly lost in the crowd. Shelly watched until he disappeared, then launched the car back into the traffic lane. She could envision him meeting Jane somewhere in the terminal. Or perhaps she had already loaded; was now waiting for him aboard the plane.
A tigress glitter illuminated her eyes as she came out of the airport interchange and hit the freeway back to Lake City. Viciously she jammed the accelerator down and careened through the turtling traffic at sixty.
"Yes, darling," she gritted almost inaudibly to herself. "I'll be a good girl. Shelly'll be a very good girl." The last came out in a snarl: "Good for somebody."
* * *
The man's name was Rand Creighton. They picked him up at an out-of-the-way roadhouse, three miles from the city; a place called the Golden Rooster. Rather Diosa picked him up, in a most blatant and straight-forward way. There was never a moment's doubt in Creighton's mind as to what would occur between him and Diosa before the night was out Diosa saw to that.
Only the unsuspecting victim had no way of knowing what wild bonus would be thrown in.
It was a different Diosa Argente whom Shelly picked up this night. She was restless and snappish. There was a predatory, excess-hungry look glazing her eyes; she was definitely out for blood. Rand Creighton just happened to ankle by at the wrong time. He'd never forget these two abnormal witches as long as he lived.
He was a substantial appearing man, perhaps forty; a local businessman, successful to a high degree. One could judge this from his attire, the easy way he ordered, and the way he threw money around. It became evident from the moment she and Diosa walked into the Golden Rooster and seated themselves at the bar, that he was looking for someone to play games with. The hot, yearning look he sent them was a dead giveaway.
He was successful in every way. Except one; he'd never run onto that one big adventure every man yearns for. He was a one-woman man; constrictingly bound by a dominating, grasping wife, and by the tight mores and restrictions of his prudish social group. And wouldn't he give just about anything for one night with that gypsy-hair there at the end of the bar? The one who kept staring at him; sending him that teasing, sultry smile.
Rand Creighton was a small puffy man; perhaps five-seven. His dark hair was receding slightly at the temples. His face was slack and tired, giving him a look of premature oldness. An oldness that must have suddenly become more nagging as he looked at the sexy-bodied pair down the line.
He felt an incredible, clawing hunger twist his guts. If only -- just once.
Anything. He'd give anything.
To Shelly it seemed that Diosa suddenly snapped out of her funk. She became her lively, scheming self once more. It also became obvious what Diosa was doing. She was frankly luring the heavy-set man on their left. Apparently achieving success; the look on his face became more confused, more sick by the moment.
Finally, in one decisive heave, his face strained, he pushed himself from his stool and approached them.
"Hi," he said embarrassedly, perching himself beside Diosa. Even at his advanced age he was an utter novice at modern day pickup procedures. "I... ah... wonder... would you girls care to join me in a drink? Ah... my name's Rand Creighton."
Diosa smiled tauntingly. "Yes," she said. "We will join you in a drink. Got one handy?"
He forced a smile and waved the barman down.
Later Shelly was to recall the way Diosa treated the bumbling, pompous man. The way Diosa, and later Shelly herself, had teased and baited him; drawing him into gauchery after gauchery. Business he might know, but how to treat women -- no. It was pathetic the hundred kinds of fool they made of him.
As the evening had progressed, as midnight came and went, as they all got bagged, it became apparent that Rand Creighton would be it for tonight. Diosa made no attempt whatsoever to attract another man. Shelly's questioning looks were invariably met by a wait-and-see smirk. Tonight's going to be something special, the look said.
They drank Manhattans; seemingly by the quart. Diosa nudging Shelly when she drank too fast, and yet encouraging Rand Creighton to drink up every chance she got. As time passed and the man became more intoxicated, more confident, and louder. It was a confidence that was fortified by Diosa; she rubbed her silky ankles along his leg. She allowed Creighton to rub her knees, and let him put his arm around her. But at last he'd become too noisy. "C'mon," Diosa urged; removing his fingers from her hips, stopping his attempts to caress her buttocks. "It's time to go, honey. You've had enough."
The man fought himself erect and gathered the bills he'd splashed over the bar. "That's right, honey. It's time to go." As he helped them into their coats he leaned over her and muttered into her ear. "C'n I go home with you? Please, Diosa. Le' me go home wi' you."
"Sure, lover," she smirked. "Anything you say."
"You mean it?" he yipped; his hoarse excitement carrying over the noise of the other club patrons. "You mean..?
"Shut up, damnit!" Diosa rasped. "You want to wake the dead? Outside, you... "
* * *
Over Creighton's protests they left his Caddy at the Golden Rooster, drove away in Shelly's Pontiac. There were further protests as Diosa informed him that they weren't going to "Drop Shelly off somewhere." She was going to accompany them; not to her house, but to a motel she knew of. A motel that had an assortment of individual, modern cabins to let. A motel whose owner didn't mind charging a night's rental to customers who only used his cabins for a few hours. A practical, perpetually winking man.
"But Diosa, please," Creighton blubbered as they entered the small, but clean cabin, "I thought it was going to be just you and me. If Shelly's here, how can...?"
"Shut up," Diosa snapped and pushed him inside; he stumbled and almost fell.
Diosa was locking the door behind them and pulling the blinds and drapes at the tiny windows. She switched on the small electric heater. Gradually the room became warm. She went to the table, tore open the fifth of bonded bourbon she'd extorted from Creighton as they'd left the bar, and drank a healthy slug right from the bottle. She tore the cellophane from two glasses atop the dresser and half filled them with whisky. "Party... " she chuckled.
Shelly, who had slumped into the nearest chair, happy to have her head stop spinning for a moment, looked up at her questioningly. "What...?"
"Stay loose, honey. It's gonna be all right." She turned on Creighton. "Stop, you slob!" she scolded.
"Don't drink that stuff so fast. You want to pass out before you do anybody any good?"
Almost compulsively Shelly took a deep swallow of the whisky. After the Manhattans, it tasted almost bland.
She looked up dazedly to see Creighton wrestling with Diosa, trying to kiss her. "Please, honey," he begged. "Let's turn out the lights. So Shelly can't see... "
"Turn out the lights, hell!" Diosa shot. "Those lights stay on. Not so rough, you ape. You're gonna find yourself cut off in one damn hurry if you keep that up."
"Please, baby. I'm sorry. But I want you. I want you so bad I hurt inside. I've wanted a girl like you all my life."
The babbled; slobbery words seemed to hang on the air as Diosa withdrew from the man and stood with her back against the door. A demonic, dark smile grew on her face. For a long time she stared at Creighton; her expression domineering, mocking. "Is that right, Randy?" she said in a sizzling voice. "Do tell. Just how bad do you want Diosa?"
"Oh bad... " he gritted, a psychotic whine to his words. "Bad, baby, real bad. I love you, I'll do anything for you. Please, Diosa. Let me have some. Let me have it."
"Just like that? You mean you just want me to plank myself on that bed and give it to you?" There was a hypnotic slur and hiss to her tone now. Shelly found that even she was being mesmerized by it. In this abberrated climate it seemed almost anything could happen.
"How easy do you think I come?" Diosa goaded.
"God, honey. Don't make me wait. Don't tease me. I gotta have you. Ill do anything. What do you want, money? I'll give you money. Anything, honey."
Diosa picked up the bottle again and took another swallow. "Anything?" It seemed her eyes caught fire suddenly.
"Anything, I said. Anything..."
Dosa pushed away from the wall. She moved to the dresser and clicked on the parchment shaded lamp. Then she extinguished the overhead lights; leaving the room in a yellowed, sepia gloom. A gloom that could accommodate a pagan debach without the least embarrassment.
Slowly, stalking Creighton like a panther, Diosa came toward him until she stood in reach of his arms. Then she pirouetted and turned her back to him. "Take off my dress. Zip it down. There's some snaps at the top."
Clumsily, beads of perspiration standing on his forehead, Creighton worked at the snaps. "Careful," Diosa warned as he began to peel it from her shoulders. The dress rustled its way floorward. She kicked it aside. "My slip now."
Slowly the white nylon was lifted. Diosa helped it over her head. She smiled schemingly as she saw the way Creighton's eyes bulged as he saw her standing in her lingerie, her stockings, and the rapier-toed suede pumps.
The smirk smeared and became a permanent fixture. She wheeled to display her body; the dazzling, seductively shadowed cones of her breasts, the flat line of her belly, and the flaring opulence of her glowing, lovely legs. She wore a small girdle; white, lace edged at the hem, part of an ensemble. Her panties and her brassiere were white also, trimmed with inserts of the same lace. In the murky light, the white, shimmering nylon contrasted with the honey brownness of her flesh; she was enchanting, a sinuous, lovely vision. She was a preening, self-satisfied temptress.
Creighton made a choking sound in his throat and seemed to fall toward her. But with an imperious gesture Diosa warned him back.
"You want some, Randy? You want me real bad?" she keened. "Tell Diosa. Tell me how bad."
Creighton's face became contorted with a mixture of terror, confusion, and naked lust "God, baby. You know I... "
Diosa's voice cut through the air like a whiplash. "On your knees!" she seethed "Beg for it, damn you!"
"Diosa, honey," he stammered. "You don't mean it. You don't really want me to... "
"On your knees!" she repeated; her voice shriller now, more unhinged. She pointed to the floor. "Right here. Or by God, we're clearing out of here and leaving you cold. Now, damn you! Now!" A dumb, anguished grimace on his lips; he slowly sank to the floor before Diosa. "Oh, please, darling... "
"You want me?" Diosa chanted; her arms akimbo, her legs posed in a taut, inflaming curve. "Then tell me. Beg for me. Make me feel it."
Dreamily her hands deserted her hips. They rose higher and began to stroke the hardbound cups of her brassiere, lifting and rolling her breasts at the man. "You want these? You want to get your hands, your hot lips on these boobs? Do you?" And in an orgy of self-adoration her hands went over her body. They slid along her legs and crept to her thighs. "You want to touch these, you want 'em wrapped around you?" She arched her body; her hands came higher, cupped herself. "You want this? How bad, Randy? How bad?"
Out of his mind with need for the wanton teaser before him, Creighton fell forward and wrapped his fingers around her ankles. "God, don't do this to me, baby. Don't do these things. You know I'm crazy for you. I wan' you, I wan' your body. I wan' to... " And very graphically he went on to tell her just what it was he wanted to do to her.
The insane frenzy became even greater. He was caught up in overwhelming tides of lust; he played Diosa's game, he sang her tune. She began to writhe and twist; her eyes cloudy, her body seized by uncontrollable tremors. She began to whimper in sick, liquid tones.
"Down, daddy," she hissed, her teeth in a snarl. "Kiss me. Kiss my feet; my shoes. Down, down... "
And when Creighton hesitated, his eyes uncomprehending, she leaned and grabbed a shock of hair. She twisted his head, forcing him to the floor. She held him there until slowly, tentatively he began to comply with her unnatural wishes. Then she drew herself to her full height. She looked down on him with a contemptuous smile as he kissed her feet and ankles. Now, caught up in the twisted excess, he held her foot and raised it to his lips. Diosa balanced upon his shoulders.
She soon tired of the vile worship. "My legs," she gloated. "Rub my legs now." Wordlessly, his eyes vacant, Creighton raised his head from her feet and began to rub the silken surface of her legs. He touched her ankles to the out-thrust of her ebullient buttocks; then back again, up and down. Finally, caught up in a deifying frenzy, he wrapped his arms about her thighs and pressed his head to her stomach. Rocking and trembling, he held her, coarse gasps escaping his throat.
Diosa permitted the intermission only momentarily. Roughly she rejected him. "Kiss my legs, my knees," she sighed hoarsely. "Now. Do as I say, lover."
Then Creighton's head was traveling up and down the silken highways.
"Kiss me, kiss me," she keened. "Oh, that feels good, that feels good." Then, at last, as her need overcame her she grasped his head again and held it to her body. "Kiss me there now," she whispered in awed delight. "Oh! Kiss, kiss. You gorgeous devil!"
The profane ritual went on and on.
Diosa moved to the bed and fell upon it. "Undress me," she rasped. "Now, you eager goat. Take these rags off me."
Shelly sat transfixed, disbelieving as he bent to his task with eager fingers. Moments later, long wails of delight began exploding in the gloom. "That's good, that's good," she heard Diosa sigh. "Don't stop. Kiss me here now. Here. And here." The bed squeaked as she lurched. "Do it, damn you. Do it."
Then Diosa was screaming hysterically.
Suddenly Shelly was jarred from her paralytic trance as the naked figure -- Diosa -- plummeted from the darkness and pulled her from the chair.
"You now, Shelly," she rasped. "It's your turn." and she summoned Creighton from the bed, pushed him toward Shelly. "Do it," she spat. "Do what I told you."
"Please, Diosa," he protested. "Don' make me. You said if I did you'd let me. You gotta keep your word... "
"Shut up! You'll do as you're told or you won't get anything. Not a damned thing." A new wildness blazed in her eyes. "But first, lover," she gritted, "take off your clothes. That'll make it even better."
"Please, Diosa. Don' treat me like this . .
"Strip, I said!"
And staggering, half falling, snuffling commiseratingly to himself, the drunken man undressed before the two women. Without a word he came to Shelly and fell before the chair she sat in. "Please, Diosa. Don' make me... "
"Do it!" she spat; a demonic smile thinning her lips.
Then Creighton took Shelly's foot in his hand. He lowered his lips to it.
And while Shelly watched Diosa called for each new segment; she ordered refinements. Shelly surrendered to the man's shameful obeisance then; too numbed, too drunk, too appalled, too everything. Until at last she was naked, and on the bed, and he was kissing her.
Through her alcoholic torpor it seemed she could feel his lips; like warm, lapping waves, going over her body. It burned, it burned. Then she must have dozed. Suddenly she woke to the sound of angry voices; Diosa's imperious and harsh. Creighton's pleading and frightened.
"Do her first, do you hear?" Diosa shrilled. "Then if you're man enough you can have me." There was the splintery sound of a slap, and Shelly opened her eyes to see the man falling toward her on the bed. Then he was arranging her legs; he was climbing over her.
It was deliriously maddening; a prolonged, endless journey to the heights and depths of passion. He was drunk, anesthetized; it seemed to take him forever to achieve his goal. Which was all right so far as Shelly was concerned. On and on it went; the starbursts of fire and pain kept popping, popping -- In the distance, Diosa's guttural cries kept rising and falling, fading and becoming louder. Her exhortations were evilly inventive. They created a degenerate background to their thrashing, heaving efforts and acted as a goad to Creighton.
Finally, with a sobbing groan, it happened. He collapsed: his full weight crushing Shelly. She found herself giggling and screaming in turn.
As Shelly sank into the trance-like doze again, Diosa came to the bed. She attacked the hapless man anew.
"Don't, don't," he hissed and moaned. "You're hurting me. Wait a little, can't you? Please, don't... "
"Wait, hell" Diosa laughed. "Let's get this show on the road. It'll be daylight before you know it!"
Shelly fell asleep to a lullaby of grating, pleading, demanding voices; to a steady rocking.
* * *
Hours later, it seemed, Shelly was being shaken awake. She looked up to see Diosa, fully dressed, leaning over her. "Shel, baby, wake up. We gotta get out of here."
Gradually she became aware of where she was. Shelly flopped her arm to her left and felt it slap against naked flesh. Then she remembered -- Rand Creighton.
"Hurry up." Diosa was wrestling her from the bed. The man muttered thickly, but went on sleeping.
When Shelly was dressed she looked about stupidly, seeking Diosa. Then she saw her with Creighton's wallet in her hand; at the telephone, dialing feverishly.
The phone rang for a long time before it was answered. Little by little Diosa's words took on meaning. "Mrs. Creighton? Mrs. Rand Creighton? Well, you don't know me, but I'm out here at a motel with your husband. Yeah, me and my girl friend. He's a real swinger. I wonder if you really appreciate him. No, this isn't a gag. How do you know it's real? Here, I'll let you talk to Randy."
Diosa stretched the phone cord and pressed the cold receiver against Creighton's back. "No, baby... " he groaned.
"Here," Diosa giggled. "Somebody's on the phone or you."
Dumbly, drunkenly, still not awake; he put the instrument to his ear. "Yes... Oh, Gwen, it's you." Then he realized -- gasped in terror. "How...?"
At that moment Diosa and Shelly silently let themselves out of the cabin.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was almost four o'clock before Shelly finally drove the Pontiac into the garage. From somewhere in the dim reaches of ancient history she recalled a once meaningful caution, and doused the car lights immediately. She carefully clicked the car door shut and left the garage door open. Stealthily she picked her way to the back door, hoping that none of the neighbors was awake.
Inside the house she turned on no lights. Instead she felt her way though the darkness until she reached the bedroom. She was still very drunk; stumbling over furniture and slamming into walls. Mumbling to herself (she remembered later that she giggled a lot), she jerked and tore at her clothes. Then, stark naked, she crawled between the covers.
She fell into a deep, oblivious sleep. A sleep without memory, without dreams.
When she awoke it was broad daylight. A stabbing pain pried at her eyes; she realized it was the sun. Then a more stunning recognition slammed her. The sun? It never entered their bedroom until afternoon. Had she slept that long? Was it already afternoon? It must be a mistake of some sort.
Her brain throbbed murderously; daggers of hurt slicing her eyeballs into quarters, then eighths. She raised her head and looked at the bedside clock. The pain arched up like fountains. Good Lord, it was two-thirty! It was impossible she had slept that long.
And as suddenly the gleeful, repulsive phantom reared in her mind and prodded her memory with gangrenous, maggoty fingers. The pain became intolerable. It felt as if two giant hands had descended upon her all at once and jubilantly slammed her back against the pillow. They continued to cave in her chest; to crush and crush -- Dear God -- it hadn't happened. She hadn't really done those things! The physical agony of her hangover was bad enough. But this -- Inch by inch she rolled over onto her stomach. She pushed her face into her pillow, shutting out the light. She was an inert, lifeless lump of flesh; aching, disjointed muscle and bone. A mindless, soul-rotted blob.
Shelly shook convulsively, her stomach roiling sickeningly. If she could die. Just like this. If she would never have to move again. Death would be the blessed answer.
Diosa, Rand Creighton -- that cramped cabin. It hadn't happened. It couldn't have happened; not to me, not to Shelly DeTroye, to Mrs. Robert DeTroye.
But the vise of memory became more cruel. It satistically jammed the spikes of conscience deeper into her brain until it seemed she must scream from the agony.
But she did not scream. Instead other physical reactions took priority. Suddenly Shelly was up from the bed; the weight of her head settling on her shoulders, seemingly creasing her spine. She bolted for the bathroom.
She was desperately and endlessly sick. She coughed, gasped, and choked forth the material residue of last night's saturnalia. And even though her agony the thought was there: If she could void the contents of her brain; empty the rotten garbage that festered there -- But it could not be. That cancer would remain to the longest day she lived. Sublimate it, yes. But totally obliterate it? Never.
Weakly she staggered back to her bed; fell into it once more, slept fitfully.
When she woke the bedroom was like a furnace, the room receiving the full brunt of late September sun. Her body was sweat streaked; her own odor pumping minor spasms of nausea into her stomach again. She threw off the covers and lay there naked, fighting for control.
At last, feeling somewhat better, she struggled up from the bed and hobbled toward the shower. She would scrub herself, free herself of last night's scaly filth; at least in this one small respect.
It was as she emerged from the shower, feeling even more refreshed, the pangs of hangover not quite so formidable now, that the telephone rang. Wrapping the towel tight around her, she hurried to answer.
As proof of the addled confusion, the aftermath of her remorse, Shelly found herself thinking of Bob. It was Bob, calling from the office, to tell her he'd be home soon. Bob could help her forget these terrible things. If she could hide in his strong arms -- Then as she reached the phone the truth speared her. It couldn't be Bob. He wasn't at his office, he was in New York. He was in a hotel room some place, probably in bed with Jane Crawford. A cry of betrayed rage gathered in her throat but it would not come out. God, she thought, slumping to the bed, what was the use?
The phone continued to ring without pause until finally Shelly lifted the receiver. "Hello?"
"That you, Shelly?" For a moment she didn't recognize the voice. But when she did, she was swamped with chilling dread. It was Stagg Faro!
"Yes... " she quailed. "This is Shelly."
"Shelly, doll. This is Stagg. Stagg Faro. Remember? From the other night?"
She fought for control. "Yes, Stagg. I remember . .
"I tried calling you last night, but I couldn't get a rise out of you. You must have been out."
"Yes, Stagg. I was out."
"What's with you, honey? Make like you're happy to hear from me. I thought after the other night you'd..."
An even greater terror suffused Shelly. How had he known where to call her? Did he-know she was married; where she lived? She breathed deeply, tried to get hold of herself.
"Hey, Shelly, what is It? What's wrong?"
"Stagg -- I -- How did you know where to call me?"
"Simple, baby. You told me the other night. You gave me your number. It's right here in your handwriting. 'Shelly' it says. 'MI 3-5504.' You mean you don't remember? You must have really been stoned."
Shelly breathed a massive, inner sigh of relief. He only knew her first name and phone number. Her secret was still safe. "Yes. I was really stoned..." He chuckled. "How about a return match, honey? Tonight? I'm wild to see you again."
Despite her sickness and the harrowing memories of last night, Shelly nevertheless felt a quick twinge of excitement go through her. No matter what, she would never forget the rapture of that chaotic night at his apartment. She couldn't help longing for a repetition of it.
Still a presentiment of doom shook her. "No, Stagg," she said. "I don't think we'd better. I was way out that night. I think it's best if we forget it ever happened. I'm not your kind of girl... "
"You're not my kind of girl? God, if you aren't, then there never was one. What gives, Shelly? You got some other guy on the string?"
"No," she lied. "It isn't that. Not at all... "
"Then what is it?"
"Well. I just don't want things to happen again.
Like they did the other night. I'm not that kind of girl. I was drunk, you took advantage of me."
"Come off it, baby. Drunk or sober, you'd like it. Just like I liked you. Don't give me that stuff."
The fever grew within Shelly. The man's arrogant, aggressive manner wove a strange spell. He was basic and straight-forward. He knew the score, he knew how things should go between a man and woman. He was devastatingly confident of his prowess to deliver that masterful deliverance and delight. His attitude was primarily that of a stallion toward an uncertain mare. Stagg -- what a fitting name.
The inner disquiet became a unnerving thing. Momentarily she was at a loss to understand herself. How could such sudden regeneration of desire be? She still suffered aftereffects, both mental and physical, of last night's debauch. Only moments ago she'd been castigating herself for her vicious weakness.
God, God, what's happening to me?
Then she realized that it was the sudden rebirth of her hatred for Bob. That was intermixed with the deadly male fascination Faro held for her. Suddenly her resolve was gone.
Besides, where was Bob now? Now that she needed him; he might have been able to at least grant superficial comfort. Why shouldn't she go to this magnificent brute; why shouldn't she give herself to him? If Bob could prowl around, why couldn't she?
The unreasoning hate ran amok within her anew. It short-circuiting her judgment, turning her thinking absolutely haywire. Why shouldn't she? What was to stop her?
Only one thing, her physical infirmity. She wasn't up to a savage session with Stagg tonight. But desperately her thoughts ran ahead of themselves. If she had a little time. If she could eat something, rest a little more. Degenerate lust rampaged through her. It poisoned her mind, rendering her helpless before its magnetic lure. All she knew was that she wanted Stagg Faro again. If not tonight, then -- She trampled the thought. Tonight! It had to be tonight. Just thinking about it -- She realized she was caught in a monstrous web of her own making. She couldn't delude herself any longer. There was more than hunger for vengeance on Bob behind this sudden shift in her feelings. A precarious balance had been upset in her brain.
She was as much dedicated to the pursuit of sensation, of corruption, as she was to the infliction of revenge.
Now Stagg Faro interrupted her muddled frenzy. "Hey, Shelly? You still there? How about it? We get together tonight?"
"I'm sorry, Stagg. I was thinking."
"And what did you decide?"
Though she hated herself for it, she was helpless before the terrible compulsion. "Yes, Stagg. I want to see you tonight."
"Atta' girl. Where should I pick you up?"
"I -- m meet you. The Candystick Lounge. At ten."
"Okay, if that's the way you want it. Got secrets, huh? Well that's okay with old Stagg. One secret you don't keep though, Shelly... "
He snickered. "You got it for old Stagg just as bad as he's got it for you. See you, sugar." Then he hung up.
Shelly sensed liquid, torrid stirrings inside her belly as she left the phone. The way that man talked! The things he did to her! Her legs were rubbery and trembling as she walked toward her dresser for a fresh change. The towel dropped away; for no reason at all Shelly found herself touching her nipples, savoring the excitement that coursed through her.
A half hour later she came gingerly downstairs, wearing a terry robe and slippers. In one hand she carried a rumpled ball of clothing; her clothes from last night. Grimly she stuffed them into a paper sack. Tomorrow she would take them out to the incinerator and burn them.
Now she slowly paced the kitchen. She must eat something if she would be ready for tonight; but what? Finally she decided on coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs. It was agony to endure the cooking .smells, and even worse agony to try to coax the food down her throat.
But she persisted; slow mouthful by slow mouthful, she got something into her stomach. By seven she had eaten, and already she felt much better. By seven-thirty the kitchen was cleaned up. She started upstairs again, moving more briskly now. It was time to start dressing. She would take great pains with herself tonight, she would pick her prettiest gown and shoes.
The strange breathlessness compounded upon itself. Tonight must be very special.
Stagg was already at the club, eagerly awaiting her when she entered. She saw him almost immediately. He smiled guardedly, waved her toward the booth he occupied.
His hand closed on her knee immediately. He reconnoitered her leg, sliding the silk of her slip against her stockings in an intimate greeting. Shelly felt the same electricity suddenly generated. He whistled under his breath. "Wowee, Shelly, but you are one living doll tonight. Gol, you look good enough to eat."
Shelly laughed. "Well, don't try it"
"I won't," he said, fielding the innuendo deftly. "That ain't my style."
"You can say that again."
* * *
Somewhere around midnight things began to go sour; a gloomy pall began to fall. There was no explaining it. One minute they were laughing and enjoying each other, tossing banter back and forth; the next minute the fun was suddenly gone. Stagg became tense; as if he were waiting for something, and the time was getting closer and closer. And as it did, he froze.
They were not drinking much, Shelly for two reasons. One was that her stomach was still not quite right, and the second was that she wanted to enjoy Stagg to the utmost tonight. She didn't want liquor to blur any of her senses. They'd had two drinks at the Candy-stick Lounge. From there they had moved on to Max's Club; an even more elite, more expensive nitery than the Candystick.
Shelly felt a warm glow of preening self-assurance as they entered Max's, and the male eyes clung hotly to her. Still she sensed a certain disquiet She assessed the lounge quickly, to see if there was anyone there she might know. But there was not. She relaxed.
But Stagg did not. The gloom intensified, if anything. It was a dark and sullen brooding. His mood was infectious, and soon an ominous foreboding closed down on Shelly also. Try as she might, she couldn't kid Stagg out of his morose state.
"We can leave if you don't like this place," she smiled. "After all you wanted to come here. It doesn't matter where we go."
"No. I wanna stay awhile. See how the other half lives."
"Other half? What are you talking about? You got problems, Stagg?"
"Yeah," he muttered. "Money problems."
"What kind of money problems?"
He grinned wryly. "Like not having any mostly."
She brightened at the quip. "Everybody's got that trouble. You've got no corner on it" He grimaced, twisted his fist in his palm. In a low, almost inaudible mutter he said, "I won't have problems for long."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing. Nothing to do with you anyway."
Shelly let the quizzical remark pass. She began to seriously wonder if she hadn't made a mistake to come out with him tonight "We can go home, you know," she said. "I didn't come out just to spend your money."
"Ill just bet we can," he said belligerently. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"What is it, Stagg? What's bothering you?"
"Skip it I said." Abruptly he rose. "C'mon, let's take off. I'm sick of this place." He forced a smirk. "Maybe I'll take you up on that 'Home, James' bit."
Suddenly Shelly had nothing more to say to him. She was silent as they reached the street and got into Stagg's big Oldsmobile.
The silence became even more impenetrable as they drove. Then Shelly looked up, noticed where they were headed. "Where are we going, Stagg?"
"Some place. Stay loose, baby."
Minutes later they were on the fringes of the Yale Street district. They cruised through dark, derelict streets. Then suddenly, as they came upon one of the feeder streets into Yale, Faro swerved to a stop adjacent to a yawning, dark alley. In the distance Shelly saw a crimson neon glow, indicating the rear entrance to a night club. A fairly prosperous bar judging from the number of cars parked in its lot.
"Why are we stopping here?" she asked.
But he didn't answer. Instantly he reached into the back seat, took a cloth wrapped package, and ducked out of the car. "Sit tight," he whispered. Leaving the engine running, he faded into the darkness.
A confused Sherry sat in the car; listening to the night-sounds, the muted music carrying down the alley. She looked onto the scabrous, bleak streets. Five minutes passed and still Stagg hadn't returned.
All at once Shelly heard a dull report in the distance, like a gunshot; it seemed that there was a shrill chorus of shouts and screams. Almost simultaneously she saw a dark figure break from the gloom. He was tugging at something on his face, carrying a floppy cloth bag in his hand.
Then the door was ripped open, and Stagg heaved himself behind the wheel. In one continuous, fluid motion he slammed his cargo into the space between them, and punched the car into gear; rubber screeched going away from the curb.
Then, as they passed beneath the street light on Yale, Shelly realized what had transpired. For there on the seat was the cloth bag, the ridiculous Halloween mask, and a dark, deadly Colt .32 -- instantly she understood.
"That lousy bartender," Stagg stormed as they careened into darkness again, "had to try playing hero. He's got a hole in his cigarettes now."
"No, Stagg, no... " Shelly walled. She fell back; transfixed in place as she realized the enormity of the mistake she had made tonight.
* * *
"I've got to go," Shelly said pleadingly. "I cant stay here, Stagg. Not after this."
He barely looked up from the tangled mass of bills and change scattered all over the table. "Stay put, kid. You don't go nowhere. I'm gonna need you real bad when I get done here." A crafty, eerie smile formed on his lips. Shelly attached no special significance to it She attributed the look to the fact that he'd just finished murdering a man.
"I'm sorry about this, Shel;" he continued, still counting and piling the money. "I didn't think I'd have to use the gun. I hate to get you involved, but that's the way the mop flops." He looked up again. "You're an accomplice now, you know.. "No, Stagg. Please... "
"Daddy's little helper. So you don't cut out until old Stagg says so. Otherwise you might find yourself up to your neck in the law. You gotta do like I say, understand?"
"You can't be serious, Stagg. You're just trying to scare me... "
"Am I? Try me and see."
"Oh, please, Stagg. You know I won't tell anyone. I swear."
"Drop it," he threatened. "Roughly nine-hundred bucks there." He pushed away from the table. "Not a bad haul. A shame I had to chill that guy though." He turned toward Shelly, his weird expression more pronounced now.
"Undress, honey," he said brusquely. "Skin out of those pretty duds. It's time for America's favorite indoor sport."
"No, Stagg. Not now. Not after what's happened."
He advanced on her. Suddenly his hand lashed out, caught her an explosive slap beside the cheek. Shelly went spinning backward, a surprised gasp breaking from her lungs "Undress, you tramp!" he snapped. "I need you bad tonight. It's gonna be special, hon. Real different."
He wound his hand in the front of Shelly's dress, tugged it menacingly. "Do you strip, or do I start tearing?"
Shelly's shoulders slumped. She could not force herself to look at him. Mechanically her hands rose to the zipper at the waist of her gown. She turned her back and began to undress. "Turn around, dolly," he sneered. "I wanna watch."
Dully Shelly turned around and tolerated his smug stare as she stripped. For long minutes he stood staring at her lovely, naked body. Then with an arrogant sneer, daring her to look away, he began to undress himself.
For long moments the two nude bodies froze and faced each other. And as before, when Shelly had seen Stagg nude, she felt the heady, uncontrollable excitement go through her. But it lasted only briefly; an incredible, mind-stunning thing happened.
Stagg went about the apartment extinguishing the lights; except for one, a dim planter-base lamp atop the television set. He went to his trousers and withdrew the belt from them. Shelly cringed and shrank back as he came toward her. What was he going to do? Why the belt?
The deranged smile was in full control of his features now. "No... " she wailed. "Please, Stagg."
His voice came in a sick whisper. "No, Shelly. Not you. Me. I'm the guy who's going to get his licks."
Gravely he put the looped belt in her hand and dosed her fingers on it Then he left her and went to the opposite wall. He stood perhaps four feet from it. He leaned forward until his palms came flat against the wall; leaving his back, buttocks, and legs exposed.
"Come on," he hissed. "Over here baby. With that belt. Daddy needs to be touched up here and there."
"What?" she said in an astonished gasp.
"You mean you never heard of this bit, Shel? Well it's about time you did. Go ahead. Hit me with that snake. Lay my back open. I can take it"
"No... " she quaked, appalled beyond belief. "I couldn't. I couldn't. I'll be sick."
His words were venomous. "I'm counting to ten, doll. You better be swinging by then, or I'm coming after you with that belt. Understand?" He braced his feet and hands. "One. Two. Three. Four... "
On seven Shelly, her stomach twisting with revulsion, swung the belt for the first time.
He gasped in pleasure. "That's it, baby, that's it!" he called. "Harder. Oh, Jesus, harder. Skin me, damn you, skin me!"
The disgust became more intense. Again Shelly raised the belt and whipped it down. It seemed her entrails went crazy; knotting, twisting inside her stomach as the thick slap of the belt filled the room and reverberated from the walls. Liquid, slurpy sounds dripped from Stagg's lips. "Oh, it's good," he hissed, "it's good. I love it. More, more... "
And gradually Shelly's senses became blunted to the sickness of the act. Her ears closed themselves to the continuing cut and slap of the belt; to the glutinous sobs Stagg Faro emitted.
And this -- she raged bitterly, beyond feeling now. This is the man I looked forward to -- this sick, slobbering, twisting animal; this perverted monster.
Now the strokes fell more rapidly. She put more heft into each swing and felt the resentment flow from her body; into her arms, into the slithering, black belt. Stagg's groans grew more delirious, more ecstatic.
"Lower, lower," he whimpered. "On my legs now." His hand pointed. "Here, here. Oh, God, God. I love you, Shelly. I love you. Do it, do it."
Then suddenly he turned; baring his chest, his stomach, to the biting sting of the leather. "Here," he ripped. "Hit me here. And here. It's good, good!"
Now he fell forward onto the rug and gathered himself into a tight, writhing ball. His bands came out and pinned her ankles in a vise-like grip, holding her over him. "More," he begged. "Don't stop. Morel" His cries came in hoarse sobs. At the last he released her ankles. He drew himself into a tighter knot; his hands plunging into the core of that knot.
Suddenly his body stiffened and went straight. His hands shot out and pulled Shelly's legs from under her. Before she could recover, Stagg was over her; he was driving his cruel, hard fingers at her legs. "Now, now," he seethed. And with a single, brutal thrust, he took her. He drove his body sadistically, filling her excruciatingly, totally.
For one primeval moment, Shelly hung poised on the brink of deified joy.
One moment of Neanderthal passion.
One instant when the purity of delight almost triumphed over the stumbling vocabulary of her will.
But it lasted only a moment, then it was over. Stagg chuckled in idiotic pleasure, indicating his supreme release. Shelly felt nothing at all, save for shame and utter debasement.
"Later, dolly," he gloated, trapping her body to his. "You'll get yours. Ill pay you back for the kick you gave me. I swear I will."
But Shelly knew there would never be another later. It would never happen for her again, not with this pervert. Suddenly it seemed a deep, dark, cavernous hole was opening beneath her. That she was falling into it; helpless, hopeless, completely unredeemable. Falling, falling -- And Shelly was tired --sick to the very depths of her soul.
CHAPTER FIVE
Later, Shelly was to wonder why she stupidly went to Kim Brady's apartment that following afternoon. There was really no need to answer her sudden summons. Neither she nor her ugly little club featured in Shelly's life now. She had learned fast; she had forged ahead and created her own private hell-hole. It was a snake pit from which she could never escape now.
Aptitude, she thought bitterly as she put down the phone and tried shutting Margo's grating voice from her consciousness, that's what I've got. I scored one-hundred per cent on the round-heels segment of my test.
It has been duly certified and validated that the examinee shows marked talent and aptitude toward being an unmitigated tramp. She can engage in promiscuous activities with verve and abandon, she can negate conscience with ease. It will be found that she can readily involve herself in unsavory, inextricable situations with an aplomb and proficiency that will amaze even the most --
You don't need anybody's help any more, honey, she castigated. You can find all the trouble you can handle all by your lonesome. You passed, Shel, you passed. Summa cum laude. You got your OXJL.; Order of the Limber Legs.
Kim Brady, she sneered to herself. Man-haters. Who needs 'em?
I'm doing just fine by myself. Just fine. Pm so happy I'm crying. Look, ma, I'm bawling.
Moments later Shelly managed to calm herself. And she realized why she'd accepted Kim Brady's relayed invitation to the cocktail party. She had to get out of the house, to see somebody; just be with people lest she do something desperate. Another few hours alone in this house, alone with this caged, wild feeling and I'll go out of my head.
Whenever Shelly let the leering, depraved thoughts, the remembrance of last night, charge back into her brain it seemed there were a thousand, scurrying, squeaking, red-eyed rats loose inside her skull. She wanted to scream, to never stop screaming.
An insane hysteria possessed her at the thought of the box she had wedged herself into. It felt like she was going to explode. As if her body would disintegrate from the frantic terror and would shatter, to be sprayed on the walls and ceiling of the room. It wasn't bad enough that she was a compulsive pig. Or that she had cavorted with Diosa, with the faceless phantom named Irv Roeder, with that poor Creighton sap, with Stagg Faro... That she had lived through the nightmare perversion scant hours ago -- No -- she goaded herself savagely. That wasn't enough. You had to go get involved in a murder rap on top of it.
Where are you now? Where, where?
In a wild spate of frustration and despair, she began to shred the news section of the Sunday paper, to throw it about the living room. It was full of the murder, it was front page news. "At approximately 12:20 AM. this morning, a robbery-murder was committed at Vince's Tap, 4410 W. Yale Street. The victim of the shooting, Vincent Ingrazia, owner of the establishment, was fatally wounded as he--" Perhaps if she dismembered the newspaper, she could prove it a liar.
It had been at that moment that Margo had called. Shelly had accepted the impromptu invitation with almost frantic haste and relief.
There was no mistake, she had to get out of the house. The sooner the better.
And now, two strong whisky drinks behind her, Shelly hummed tonelessly. She fought back her misery, as she got dressed. Margo was coming by for her at five.
Yet, despite all her good intentions the thoughts came flooding back. She returned to her glass more and more often as she found thoughts of Stagg Faro; of the hair-curling, masochistic deviation he'd forced her to perform as he became more cocky and domineering.
Stagg had finally consented to let her leave shortly after four. He'd even offered to drive her to her own fictitious apartment. But Shelly, in an effort to shield her real identity, had declined. She had taken a cab instead. Again she'd dragged in near dawn, to sleep until after two that afternoon.
But now, as she scooped up her purse and gloves, and ran to answer Margo's honking in the driveway, she chillingly recalled Stagg's last damning words. "I got your number, Shel. Don't forget that. You ain't getting away from me. When I call, you jump, understand? Don't try running out on me, cause I'll find you. I kid you not."
She realized that the net was closing even more tightly about her. She couldn't hide, she couldn't run away; there was still Bob, who had once been her husband. She must answer the phone. She must lie and scheme in order to go to Stagg lest he become a nuisance, lest Bob should find out about her depraved double life.
Now she seized her coat from the davenport and broke from the house, her sharp heels pounding an agitated tattoo on the concrete as she hurried toward Margo's car.
* * *
Kim Brady's fabulous penthouse apartment was located in the Colchester Arms, a very exclusive residential hotel on Lake City's east side. As they parked, Shelly risked a mental estimate at what an apartment in such deluxe surroundings might cost.
"Five hundred a month," Margo read her thoughts.
"Huh?" Shelly said, startled.
"That's what Kim pays for the apartment. But don't worry. It's only money. And Kim's got beaucoup. Her husband sees to that."
Shelly said nothing. Silently she followed Margo into the ultra-ultra building. She was surprised to find herself trembling in strange anticipation.
A dainty, attractive, Negro maid answered the door and took their coats. She ushered them into the dazzling confines of one of the most sumptuous rooms Shelly had ever seen. It was elegantly beautiful beyond her wildest dreams. Only in the panoramic, technicolored, multi-million dollar extravaganzas Hollywood was so fond of, had she ever seen its like. Instantly she fell into awed silence.
It was an immense room, richly carpeted in a honey-gold shade. Its furniture was modern and custom style. Its hangings were in perfect taste. It was an extreme, contemporary room, yet it wasn't frigid and sterile as such rooms usually are. There was a mark of identity and personality here. The pictures were modern, several of them obviously originals, but not screaming modern. An elegant bar stood to the right of the entrance, yet did not intrude. The paneled screens saw to that.
Soft, resonant music flooded the room. It was emanating from a concealed, precision hi-fi system and being relayed by idling, hidden speakers. A massive, triple-paneled sheet of glass formed the wall to the west.
This revealed a wide plaza of balcony that afforded a breath-taking view of Lake Michigan and of Lake City itself.
As a final garnish there were the various clusters of beautiful, exquisitely gowned women scattered through the room.
All at once Shelly felt like a transplanted country cousin. "Margo, are you sure--this is the right place?"
"I'm sure, Shel," Margo chuckled, delighted at her friend's chagrin. "Doesn't it get you? I'll never forget the first time I came here." Then she was all business. "Let's get a drink." She started toward the bar, where a white jacketed man was busily mixing drinks. "Then I'll take you around."
The man who impassively regarded them seemed very much out of place in these definitely female surroundings. If it bothered him, he didn't let on. He was tall and muscular, standing perhaps six-two. There was a lean ranginess to his bearing. A detached arrogance smoldered in his brown eyes. His remote demeanor indicating that he was part of this chic melee, yet not part of it. Shelly had the fleeting thought of a zombie.
His hair was brown and his eyes couched beneath shaggy, arched brows. The effect of so much intense darkness sending even more disturbing pangs through Shelly. He was handsome in a demonic, mocking, almost pretty way. His faint smile made Shelly feel ill at ease, like she was naked before his gaze.
And yet, she thought, why all this commotion? He was obviously hired help. He counted for nothing.
Which misconception was summarily scuttled as Margo greeted him familiarly. "Hi, Garth. What's the specialty today?"
"Absinthe Stingers," he said, his eyes again resting on Shelly. "How many?"
"No thanks," Margo laughed. "I'll stick with one of your good martinis. How about you, Shel?"
"A martini will be fine."
"Oh," Margo paused. "Pardon. You should get to know this character. He's a fixture around here. Shelly DeTroye," she nodded at the man, "Garth Keller."
Shelly smiled timidly. Garth nodded but said nothing. He placed two martinis before them and immediately lost interest.
"Boy," Shelly said as they walked from the bar. "Talk about a killing frost. Who is he anyway?"
"Like I said, Garth Keller. Most of the gals call him the eunuch. He's a real weirdo. Only don't try moving in on him. He belongs to Kim and Bunny."
"But what does he do? Just mix drinks all day?"
Margo's expression was lewd. "He manages to keep busy. Don't worry about Garth."
"I certainly won't."
It was at that moment that Diosa approached them. As usual she was ravishingly lovely. She was wearing a brackish-green, silk cocktail dress that did wonders for her hair and eyes. "Hi, Shelly," she said animatedly. "It's good to see you. I'm glad you could make it." Her look was humorous. "Long time no see."
"Yeah," Shelly said acidly. "Ever since Friday. Don't you ever get me that drunk again."
Diosa giggled. "Fun though, wasn't it?"
Shelly didn't answer. The quick flip in her stomach disallowed it.
"How about it?" Margo interrupted. "You gonna let me in on it? I've been dying to find out how you made out. Must have really swung if Diosa thinks it's special."
"It swung," Shelly said ruefully. "Ill tell you about it sometime, when my stomach's in better shape."
Diosa giggled evilly and dipped her tongue into her Manhattan. "Brother... " she breathed.
Shelly turned the subject off. She stared curiously about the room, "Which one's Kim Brady?"
Diosa rolled her eyes toward the four women standing closest to the giant glass panels. "The blonde there in that kind of brown dress."
"The other blonde is Bunny Traxler." There was a trace of innuendo in Margo's tone. Shelly couldn't quite fathom it. "They live together, here, like good friends. All this is their big, happy hunting ground."
Carefully Shelly faced herself so she could observe her hostess without appearing to be staring. She studied the loudly laughing woman with intense interest.
Kim Brady was an older woman, perhaps thirty-three. She vaguely resembled Grace Kelly. She was small and svelte. Her figure was curvy in all the places it should be curvy. Shelly assessed the rust-toned, fall chiffon she wore. It was a flowing, full skirted creation with a touch of the ingenue about it. It was a gown with a modest, oval neckline, smart in its distinctive simplicity. It clung to her like a cloud, and revealed Kim's marvelous figure. A plain belt and matching rust pumps, the toes chisel pointed, set off her costume.
Her blonde hair was piled high in an elegant pompadour; a flattering compliment which made the woman appear taller and younger than she really was. Her face was beautiful, cool and patrician. Her lips were thin and lightly tinted.
The perfect picture of a woman with money to burn, Shelly conceded. It was evident that, even after a vast expenditure of money to preserve her beauty, Kim Brady was still fighting a losing battle with time. It was plainly a matter of gilding the lily. Shelly caught herself when she realized that her green eyes were showing. She was jealous of the woman's self-assurance, and of her wealth. There was no other reason to pick her apart. For even at thirty-three she was still a ravishingly lovely female.
Now she concentrated on the woman beside Kim. She was blonde, too, only younger, more Shelly's own age. She was pretty enough, but hardly as lovely as Kim herself. There was something in the soulful, obsequious way Bunny Traxler looked at Kim that sent a tremor of distaste down Shelly's spine. It was in the way she seemed dependent upon Kim; to cling, to hang on her every word.
Then she began to understand Margo's veiled accusation. Was there a lesbian tie here? Could it be that there was more than disgrace at a man's hands that had turned them into man haters? Something intrinsic to their very psyches? After all, it was a fact that Kim Brady had established the club. She had recruited the nucleus of vengeful women.
"Donna Trevor and Tina Paulin," Diosa continued her hushed countdown. Then she darted to the next group and named the three women there. She telescoped the marital problems causing them to gravitate toward Man-haters.
There was one more threesome. "Betty Garvey, Luanna Williams," Margo ticked off. Her smile grew mischievous. "And the other you surely know... "
At that very moment the unidentified female turned and saw Shelly. Her face was immediately frozen into an angry, sullen grimace. For Carol Marsten had not been forewarned as Shelly had. It was quite a shock for her to have her secret life so abruptly unmasked. She smiled stiffly, and nodded, then turned back to her friends in a snit.
Margo snickered. "Lordee, did you see the look on her face? That sanctimonious hypocrite. I've been waiting for this."
Ten minutes passed during which the complement of each group became static; during which Diosa, Margo and Shelly returned to the bar for a refill. As they came away this time, they lost Diosa. She lingered behind and tried to break through Garth Keller's icy reserve.
"She's been campy for him for months," Margo smiled. "She digs that stone-faced bastard. Why, I'll never know. He'll never tumble. Not for her anyway." She sighed. "But you can't tell Diosa. She'll just keep on trying.
"She told me she caught him alone here once and tried everything on him. She stripped out of her blouse and brassiere and all but laid them in his hands. He just gave her the fisheye. He gave each nipple a good pinch and walked out on her. Talk about one burned up doll!"
Shelly shivered, "He sounds like some kind of nut to me."
While they waited for Kim Brady to finish talking to Donna and Tina, Margo filled Shelly in further on Kim's background. Shelly was surprised to learn that legally Kim was still married to her husband, a wealthy Chicago industrialist.
"She found out he was one of the gay boys, and used that as a wedge to get out from under. She doesn't want a divorce. She'd much rather bleed him for all he's worth. That's where all this comes from. She must have something good on him, or he'd have found a way to dump her before now."
Margo sucked at her drink meditatively. "That is one helluva mixed up girl. Real mean, she'd just as soon kill a man as look at him." Her voice dropped. "Watch it, she's coming over here now."
"Margo!" Kim Brady squealed as she swept down on them, bringing Bunny Trader in tow. "How nice of you to come." She pressed her cheek to Margo's briefly. "I'm afraid this is it. The rest of the girls couldn't get away. It was such short notice."
In that brief moment Shelly noted the over-bright glaze to Kim's eyes and the loudness of her voice. She saw that the woman had already taken on quite an alcoholic cargo. She also noticed the sick apprehension that flared in Bunny Trailer's gaze as Kim turned on her.
Kim looked at Shelly for a long time without speaking, a thin, calculating grin on her lips. It seemed at the last a famished something exploded deep inside those eyes. Well," she said finally, her voice softer now. "What have we here? Who is this lovely little trick?"
This is Shelly," Margo said with the pride of a mentor in a protegee.
"Ummm, nice." Kim walked slowly around Shelly, looked at her from all angles. "Shelly. Very nice." She stopped before Shelly. She took Shelly's chin in her fingers and raised her head, turned it toward the light. "You're lovely, dear," she said. "Such pretty eyes."
Languorously she let her fingers slide down Shelly's throat. For a brief second her fingers lightly pressed and kneaded the bare skin of Shelly's shoulder. Shelly cringed inwardly, not knowing what to make of it.
Now Shelly glanced up. She saw naked jealousy reflected in Bunny Traxler's glare. Shelly felt her flesh crawl.
"I -- I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Brady," she forced.
"Kim, baby. Not Mrs. anything. That's why we formed our little band of outlaws. To forget we had the misfortune to marry those pigs... " The hateful fury in her face faded. "You will remember that, won't you, Shelly?"
"Yes.. ah... Kim. I will."
Then Kim drew Shelly down onto a small love seat, imperiously excluding Margo and Bunny from their conversation. "Tell me, Shelly. What brought you to us?"
Shelly was flustered. "I -- what do you mean?"
Kim sniffed amusedly. "I mean what did that louse you call a husband do to you?"
Blurted out as they were, the words seemed stupid and incredibly ridiculous. "He has another woman. He's been sleeping with his secretary... "
Kim smiled victoriously. "Oh yes, you're the one with the secretary. I remember Margo telling me... "
Now she turned to Bunny and handed her martini glass to her. "Get me another, will you, dear?" Then she waved Margo off. "Go away, Margo. There are some things I want to tell Shelly."
A splinter of fear lodged in the back of Shelly's brain as Kim moved closer and put her smooth, warm hand on hers. She could smell tie heavy overlayer of gin on the woman's breath.
"I'm sure your experience wasn't anything compared to what I had to put up with from my husband I'd have been thankful if it had been his secretary. I could have run competition to that. But no, it was quite something else."
Dear Lord, Shelly recoiled. She isn't going to tell me--? Just like that? We've only just been introduced.
"I'll make it brief. Everyone in our group knows the story. Perhaps Margo has told you... "
"No, Kim. Margo didn't say anything."
"Don't try to snow me, Shelly."
"About that anyway." Suddenly she was seized by the strongest impulse to be away from this woman, away from this place. If she could just jump up and run -- "Van and I were out one night; having dinner, drinking, dancing, that sort of thing. This happened about five years ago." She paused to take the martini from Bunny, then she brushed her away. "We were pretty drunk, I suppose, Van more so than me." She sipped the drink.
"I don't know just when it happened. Somewhere around closing time Van met a friend of his, a man whose name I can't even remember. He joined us, and tagged us from there on. He and Van got to talking a lot. It made me feel like a third wheel.
"I don't know who suggested it, but afterward, we went for. a long drive in the country. Van and I were in the front, his friend in the back. A little while later Van stopped. He said there was some business he and his friend had to discuss. He asked if I would mind driving. I was pretty woozy, but I said I would.
"So off we went I was listening to the radio and listening to them talk with half an ear. I kept driving along in a daze. You know the way you will when you've had a snootful? Then all of a sudden, I realize that the boys weren't talking any more."
No, Shelly's mind rebelled. Please, don't tell -- "I thought maybe they'd passed out, or fallen asleep. Only when I turned around I saw they weren't asleep. Van's friend was lying back against the seat. Van was on the floor in front of him... "
Shelly's stomach began to reel.
"Well. I was just too shaken to do anything." Kim's eyes were narrow, dark slits. "I just turned around and pretended I didn't see anything. I kept on driving. And after while they started talking business again."
She paused for long moments. "About a week later I moved out on Van. But I raised plenty of hell. He sends me a check every month. Just to shut me up."
Suddenly she pulled herself erect. "So you see, Shelly, you aren't quite as bad off as some of us are." She squeezed Shelly's arm. She stood up, "I'll talk to you again later. I'm glad you're with us, Shelly. You're going to make a wonderful member."
Then she hurried off, leaving a visibly shaken Shelly DeTroye in her wake.
* * *
It was nine o'clock. Shelly was incredibly tired and incredibly drugged. There had been a little pickup lunch, but it hadn't been enough. The party had gone on and on, until it had disintegrated. Several of the women had left and Bunny Traxler had passed out and been put to bed.
Now the remaining women, falling down drunk at this hour, were gathered in a taut semi-circle. They regaled one another with the sordid, oft-repeated stores of what brutalities had driven them to become Man-haters. And as the time passed their stores became more detailed, more erotic. Now they were branching out, relating landmark episodes in their life since joining Man-haters.
Diosa had the floor. Shelly was positive that in a few minutes she'd be telling the others about last Friday night. Telling them about the man she and Shelly had taken to the cabin.
She had to get out of here. She couldn't stand much more of this.
Almost providentially she sensed a movement at her elbow. A weaving, glassy-smiled Kim Brady stood beside her. "Maybe you'd like to come with me, honey. I'm just going to look in on Bunny. That crazy kid. She just can't hold her liquor."
Silently Shelly rose and followed Kim into the bedroom. She got only a fleeting glimpse of the magnificently decorated room. She saw the huge round bed and the prostrate figure sprawled there. For all at once, as soon as the door was clicked behind her, the fights went out. Baffled and startled, Shelly became conscious that she was being borne backward, being pressed to the wall.
Then she felt Kim's hands hurtingly closing on her breasts. She felt Kim's wet, tart lips sliding on hers. She heard the garbled, thick words; "God, Shelly, I could go for you. You're so beautiful. I could go for you big. You mink, you beautiful little mink. Let me love you. Let me, let me."
Appalled, Shelly tried to fight off the leech-like female. She tried to avoid the hot lips, and the sharp, probing tongue. Suddenly, as if possessed of a superhuman strength, by a transfiguring resolve, she twisted away from Kim Brady. She pushed her back ruthlessly.
"No!" she hissed in a low voice. "No. I don't want this. I don't want you. Leave me alone, do you hear? I'll claw your eyes out. Get back, I'm warning you!"
Miraculously, seemingly defeated on her first outing, Kim backed off. She stayed backed off and said nothing. Only the sound of her sharp, rapid breathing cut the blackness.
Then suddenly the lights came on to reveal a partially composed Kim Brady. She was standing stiffly, a strained, contemptuous smile on her lips. "You little fool," she seethed. "You stupid kid." She shrugged. "All right, you can go. I can wait. You'll see the light. There's plenty of time."
Shelly let herself out of the bedroom without once looking back. She paced herself and called good-nights to the others. She found her coat in the closet and bolted from the apartment.
CHAPTER SIX
On Monday afternoon, true to his work, Bob came home.
"Hey, Shell" she heard his voice drift up the stairs, rousing her from a restless doze. She was in her underwear, covered by a light comforter, ostensibly catching forty winks. She was still trying to recoup some of the strength the long week end had drained from her. "Where are you? I'm back. Baby, I'm back."
Strike up the band, Shelly thought acidly. "Upstairs, Bob. In the bedroom."
Seconds later he came upstairs. It was a drawn, obviously very ill-at-ease Bob DeTroye who finally appeared in the bedroom door. He threw up a smoke screen of banter to hide the guilt eating at him. "Boy, the life some people have, loafing around in bed in the middle of the afternoon. You keep it warm for Pa?"
Shelly fought to simulate a joyful welcome, but it didn't come off. "Hi, hon," she said, her voice sleep-filled. "It's good to see you. I missed you something awful. Come here. Kiss me, darling."
As he dropped down onto the bed Shelly saw the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tic in his right cheek. His breath was sour and a rank smell of tired sweat clung to him. You dear philanderer, she mused, you've really had it, n'est-ce pas? Janie really worked you over, didn't she?
A long forgotten phrase came to her mind: A woman can look up a lot longer than a man can look down. That's so, isn't it, Robert? You found that out, didn't you?
As Bob kissed her she felt irritation at the lack of irritation. There was very little left now of the blinding rage that had precipitated the last week's quota of ugliness. There was only agitation and mild distaste. It seemed Bob mattered for nothing now. He was only one of the boys -- and girls -- standing in line.
Which was an indication of how tired and shell-shocked Shelly was. The aftermath of the weekend still clung in her head. Wake up, she urged. This is your husband, your lying, cheating husband. The man you're supposed to hate.
Yet she felt only pity. A pity that was reflected back upon herself. For he was as mixed up and as tortured as she was.
And from the pity were born small stirrings of love.
Bob, why did it happen? Why did we let it happen? It was only because we didn't love each other hard enough. Isn't there some way? Some way? Some way we can go back? Start over?
But then her body went limp. She was suddenly revulsed by Bob's soft kissings and nibblings in her neck, by his hot breath on her skin. It was no use. No use at all. Dear God, if only I could think straight.
The continuing panic mounted within her. Where was all this going to end? It was so intolerably hopeless. Her whole life, everything. The initial hate, her rage at Bob's betrayal, seemed so miserably petty now. Compared to the hellish bed of coals she'd recently inherited it was nothing.
The full impact of her foolishness broke upon her. She should have waited, she should have fought for Bob. Instead of -- she blinked her eyes rapidly to stem the tears. It seemed like a hundred years ago, when she had been a mere child. The words became ceaseless taunt: Childish, childish -- Bob mistook her tears. "Hey, now, baby. Don't do that. I'm here now. It's all right. You really did miss me, didn't you?"
You fool, you egotistic, unseeing fool, Shelly thought. "Yes, Bob," she forced. "I missed you."
Now he slipped his hand under the comforter. He found Shelly was dressed only in slip, panties, and brassiere. He grinned lewdly. "You do have it for the old man, don't you? All primed, ready and waiting."
He began kissing Shelly again. He was counting on the draw and clutch of his hands, on his coarse, verbal approach, to invigorate his own flagging sexual desire.
After his hair-raising weekend with Jane -- it would be no easy feat to bring off. But he had to if Shelly was wild for him. He had to keep her from getting suspicious.
Such were the fatuous thoughts that went through the idiot's head.
And his vulgar, conceited endearments went on. The fact that he could articulate them and that Shelly would tolerate them served as a surprising recharge to rundown batteries. His hands continued to flow and slide over Shelly's body; to swagger over her breasts, to pinch and manipulate her nipples. Then he raised her slip and slid his fingers inside the elastic of her panties. He stroked her belly in wide circles.
Docilely Shelly permitted the indifferent attentions. She sensed the lack of real affection or respect in his lovemaking. She even feigned approaching passion and ardor. She twisted to accommodate him, unleashing ragged gasps.
And so the dumb show went on; a flotsam of what had once been a vital, meaningful marriage. Each participant miming his role, making a mockery of love. Each seeking, in some small part, to practice deceit. And in the process -- self-deceit.
Now Bob had undressed and come under the comforter with Shelly. But not without pausing at the bedside dresser first. Now he roughly rolled and lifted her body, sliding her slip and her panties off. He half raised her, jerking and twisting the snaps at the back in his haste. Finally the brassiere went slack, and he was pulling it off her arms.
Then brusquely he fell upon the lovely, relaxed mounds. He began to nibble and kiss the bemused, pink eyes. His hands went on another erotic pilgrimage.
Strangely enough Shelly found herself actually wanting Bob. She found small twinges of desire forming in her breasts, in her stomach. She felt them grow to fluttery, itchy gossamer threads. Threads which unrolled within her to weave a fragile net and begin to tighten with exotic urgency. She brought her hands up, sliding them along his back. And to hurry the feeling, to blot out self-loathing, she brought her hands under Bob and sought him.
She realized, in one hurting moment of lucidity, that she did not really want Bob; any man would do now, any normal man. What she actually wanted, what she needed to bolster her sanity, was to engage in normal love again. Not to engage in Diosa's heathen love, Stagg's perverted substitute for love, nor Kim's lesbian, symbiotic version.
But normal love between a man and a woman; the giving and taking, the reciprocal sacrifice and release.
For now Bob's puny substitute would have to do. She held him harder.
"Wow," he gasped pleasurably, his own need magnified more than he'd believed possible. "You did miss me, didn't you, darling? You want me real bad, don't you?"
"Yes, Bob. Yes," she moaned, her need full fledged now. "Real bad."
"You want one of Dr. Bob's special treatments, is that it?"
The heat became more intense in her brain. Her legs were taut and hurting. "Yes, Bob. Please."
"Dr. Bob," he prompted, chuckling thickly. "Dr. Bob," she sighed, twisting beneath him, feeling the swollen pain in her breasts. Her nipples felt like they were burning.
"You want what Dr. Bob's got in his satchel for you?"
"I do, darling. I do... Please. Before it happens without you."
Everything else had suddenly faded to oblivion. The sudden storm of passion had driven all else before it. Only one thing mattered now.
Bob took care of the precaution himself. Then came over her, wild with desire now himself. Shelly's hands guided him She felt a deep, suffocating warmth pervade her, a frantic restlessness which would be quelled only when Bob began the first sliding motion of love. But still he lay, inert, heavy on her. Soft sighs were breaking from his lips as he savored the sufferance of the hot, liquid sheath to the utmost. Shelly wanted him, she was wild to have him. The thought multiplied his pleasure a hundred fold.
Finally Shelly couldn't wait any more. She raised her hands and clasped Bob's buttocks. She gave the unmistakable signal. She sighed and arched her belly to his.
"Baby, baby, baby... " he gasped. He began slowly to flex and relax his legs, to jack-knife his body. "You want it, you want it. Say it" Shelly answered him, stroke for stroke, twist for twist "I want it, darling. So much."
"You're good, Shel. Real good. Am I good for you?"
"Yes, Bob. You're good. Good, good, good. Oooh... " She slammed her body at him. The words were torn gutturally from her throat. "Do it. Bob. Oh, do it! Don't talk. Just do it. Go, darling. Oh!"
Now his lean, muscled flanks rose and fell faster. The covers fell away from them, revealing the two figures in all their splendid frenzy. Two figures altogether too involved, too busy to bother with such niggling matters as an errant cover.
Their groans and outcries rose and crowded the air. Shelly's small "Ohs" forming goading accent to each new thrust, encouraging Bob to more punitive spearings.
And his body rose faster and plunged vengefully. And still faster until the bodies were knotted in an eternal tangle. They seemed to be fighting each other; wrestling and writhing.
Shelly's gasps came more hysterically, more shrill and pleading. It indicated her closeness to the precipice of ecstasy.
Step by step she approached it.
Now she stood on its lip, looking down. Joyfully she poised herself to leap into its euphoric depths.
Then she was falling, turning and spinning in blissful, mindless delight.
Her animal screams rent the stillness of the afternoon. And still they continued to falter, and then to rally again.
Still the bodies locked and squirmed, as if each was wanting to consume the other.
Thoughtlessly Bob ruined it. "I love you," he called, reviving bygone lines. "I love you, Shelly. You're the greatest."
But the words were lies. They caused the shimmering temple of ecstasy to collapse suddenly, to disintegrate in a cloud of arid dust. They left only a barren desert where certainly no such thing as true love could grow.
It was the supreme mockery. It brought Shelly to her senses and robbed their lovemaking of its final benison. The words made it meaningless, cheap and ugly.
Two animals rutting, she thought dully.
While above her Bob still strained and gasped. "Help me, baby," he begged. "Help me."
But Shelly was dead. She couldn't even help herself. How could she be expected to help him?
* * *
It was three o'clock on Wednesday afternoon. It had been two when she'd answered Stagg Faro's smug, cocky summons and appeared at his apartment. For the past hour she had sat in brutalized terror. She was watching him drink straight whisky, compulsively, preparing himself for another masochistic session.
While he drank he taunted her. He seemed to be wallowing in the unbreakable hold the robbery-murder had given him over her. The newspapers were scattered all over his living room. All of them were open and turned to the pages on which late details of the murder were printed. It was obvious, from the tone of the news articles, that the trail was growing cold.
"I'm gonna' get away with it," he sneered. "Get that, Shelly? I'm gonna' go scot free. They got nothing on me." Still, despite his elation, Shelly couldn't miss an even deeper mischief lurking behind his eyes. She was not free herself. Not yet, the look said. She would never be free again.
The impatience became more pronounced as Stagg drank more. He kicked off his shoes and began unbuttoning his shirt. "You're getting to me, doll," he rasped. "In a little bit now."
Momentarily it seemed he was talking to himself. Then with a start Shelly realized he was still addressing her. "Had some time on my hands the last few days. Time to wonder about you. Time to do a little snooping. And you'll never guess what I found out."
"What?" Shelly said, instantly alert.
"Something," he paused, "Mrs. DeTroye."
A giant fist jammed into Shelly's stomach, making it impossible to breathe. He knew! He knew about Bob. But how?
Faro chuckled again, enjoying the effect his discovery made upon Shelly. "Mrs. Robert DeTroye," he repeated with evil emphasis. "Four-thirty-one Birch Avenue. Ain't that right, Shelly?"
"How -- how did you find out?" She wanted to fall, to sink to blessed unconsciousness. He had consolidated his gains, now his hold was complete upon her. With this to hold over her head, she could never escape.
"Like I said. I had time. Lots of it. I just went through the phone book, number after number. Lucky it was DeTroye, and not Zilkowski. I'd have gone nuts if I'd have had to go through that whole damned book." He attempted humor. "Terrific cast, but a lousy plot."
"What are you going to do?" Shelly breathed.
"Do? Nothing. Just as long's you go on being a good girl and doing like Stagg says."
He heaved himself up abruptly. Shelly cringed as his belt whispered from his trousers. "Which reminds me." He pushed Shelly toward the bedroom. "I've been looking forward to this." The sick tone colored his voice.
"I've had three whole days to think about it." His voice broke. "I want it, doll. If you only knew."
In the bedroom he undressed with no shame whatsoever. He paraded proudly before her as he went to dose the windows and to pull the drapes.
The terror inside Shelly was an insane thing now.
Today he took care of her. Carefully he undressed her, pausing often to fondle, examine, and admire her body. Withholding, as he was, apparently made the impending perversion all the more delicious for him. And knowing also that Shelly knew what to expect, his promises of delight, his anticipatory delineation of the joy she would inflict, became, minute by minute, more graphically aberrated.
"Please," Shelly fought as he held her in his arms. He was clenching her buttocks and trying to trap her nipples with his lips, "let me do it. Let's get it over with. But don't talk any more, don't do these things to me."
"You're beginning to dig, Shel? You mean you go the psycho bit?"
"No, no. I just want to get it over."
With a last caress to her thighs he released her. He went to the bed and retrieved the black belt. He brought it to Shelly looped, and pressed it into her hands. For brief moments he held her hand, seeming to get some special charge out of making her hold the instrument of torture.
"Later, there'll be other things," he hissed. "But for now, this'll do."
Shelly's stomach flopped as he arranged himself on the bed and she saw the still red welts on his back and legs. The disgust intensified as he took a fresh handkerchief, still folded, and wadded it double. He tested it between his teeth.
"And I mean today lay into me," he smiled dreamily, then replaced the handkerchief. His body began to tremble in wrenching spasms as he waited for the first screaming lash to fall.
Her mind was paralyzed. A terrible, wild singing was beginning in her ears. Shelly raised her arm and held it high. Still she could not bring the whip down. And then she saw Stagg Faro shake even more wildly. His body began to hump itself together like some slimy, subterranean worm.
Suddenly she was possessed of a transfiguring hatred. She must kill this inhuman apparition. She must hurt and maim it. And now, her mind temporarily out of commission and brutalized, she brought down the belt.
She felt exultation at the sharp report, at the sudden jerk the body gave. She saw the red welt form almost immediately and set herself the task of seeing if the next one would form right next to it.
Again the belt whistled down. Harder.
Shelly felt a weird, deranged satisfaction. As if, m this way, she was actually purging herself of burdensome hatred, of despair and frustration.
The belt continued to sing its bloody song.
Faster and faster.
More viciously.
Until Shelly saw only a red, shimmering haze before her eyes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were at Margo Lakin's place that morning.
It was Friday, one week later. Margo lived halfway down the middle of the next block on Birch Avenue, in a modest, brick duplex. It wasn't much from the outside, but inside it was modern, clean, and airily attractive.
Shelly had been surprised, upon entering, to find Diosa Argentine present. Margo hadn't mentioned that she would be there. Shelly withered a little inside to see her Diosa was the kind of a girl you could get tired of in one big hurry. And this morning, with the dark, heavy thoughts plaguing her, the dread knowledge that she must this afternoon again attend Stagg Faro on her conscience, Diosa was the last person in the world she wanted to face.
But she did not let on. Instead she shrugged to herself and tried to be as pleasant, and as vague, as possible. "Morning, Diosa," she said brightly. "How's tricks?"
Diosa looked tired, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep. "Hi, Shel. Tricks are lousy."
"Oh?" Margo intervened like a vulture. "How come?"
"Sammy's on a streak again. It happens every once in awhile. Then he comes on every night for a week straight. Last night was number three. He's like a wild man times like this."
"And you're knocking it?" Margo sniffed, pouring Shelly's coffee. "I thought you were the dame who couldn't get enough?"
"I was out last night," Diosa said stonily. "I ran onto a real hound. He dug faire minette. Then afterward it was regular. The bastard wore me down. I'm barely sacked in when Sammy comes charging in like the mad bull of the Pampas. Twice, yet. Then you wonder why I'm bushed?"
"Cut it out, kid," Margo snickered. "You're making me hungry." She nudged Shelly. "How about it, Shel? You too?"
"Yeah," Shelly said caustically. "I'd like something like that, and warts on my breasts too. Flip the record, will you?"
"Man," Diosa snorted. "You're in one hell of a lousy mood today. What's with you?"
"I said try another tune. Let's talk about patterns or recipes or something. Like other women do."
"Grouch," Margo said. "So? What else is new?"
Margo paused to select a roll before she spoke. "I took that Kitty Franconi on a trial run last night. Talk about a mess... "
Diosa's eyes came alive. "Yeah? What happened?"
"She chickened out on me. At least she tried to. Everything went fine until we got her to the motel. Then she got scared and didn't want to go through with it. She was a real pro up till then. She bled the poor sap white. She got lipstick on him in places only his wife'll ever find."
"And?': "I had to talk to her and hit her a couple times. Even then the Joe had to practically rape her before nature took its course. Afterward she was just fine."
"Think she's gonna work out?" Diosa said.
"Sure. She's a comer. Talk about having a mean on for men! She was just scared the first time out. She's anxious far seconds now."
"What's Kim think about her?"
"She hasn't seen her yet. I'm supposed to bring her around to the next soiree."
"You been real busy, haven't you?" Diosa smirked. "First Shelly and now this Kitty twitch... " She looked at Shelly challenging. "Only from the looks of k, Shel hasn't got much stomach for it any more. Isn't that right, Shel?"
"Leave me out of this little post mortem, will you?"
"What about it, Shel?" Margo joined in. "We haven't heard much about you lately. You ain't gone out for two weeks now. Or are you playing it on the QT?"
Shelly looked at the two women with a forced blank- ness.
"Didn't scare you off, did I?" Diosa grinned. "With that Creighton character? I guess I was a little rough on you that night. I just get that way sometimes. Ill bet Mrs. Creighton's filing for divorce right now." Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe it's that Stagg Faro guy? You haven't gone and got a crush on him, have you? You doing a single?"
Still Shelly retained her silence, praying her expression didn't betray her. If Diosa only knew the truth.
"Maybe she's still shook from Kim's party," Margo giggled. "That was quite a go, huh? But nothing compared to some of the brawls she throws. She's about due for another one soon."
"Yeah," Diosa said eagerly, "and when she does you better be on hand. They're way out. Real orgy stuff. You'll get an eyeful. Other things too." She snickered at her ad lib. "Or maybe you got your eyes opened for you the other night?"
Shelly didn't miss the dig. Coldly she said, "Fine friends you are. You could've told me she was a dyke."
"What? And spoil our fun? Everybody was just waiting for Kim to lay into you. Even Bunny. She drank herself into a state worrying over you. Kim goes wild for the young ones."
"She goes right out of her mind," Margo interjected. "Think's she's going to convert the world. Anything fresh and innocent. Like our Shelly here."
"It was a dirty trick," Shelly said.
"You've got the rest of your life to get over it."
"What about Kim?" Shelly asked. "Will she hold it against me because I didn't let her? I'd sure hate to have her for an enemy."
"No," Margo said. "Forgive and forget, that's her motto. Until the next time. She'll try again."
"And she and Bunny... ? They -- sleep together?"
Diosa laughed scathingly. "God, Shel, you kill me sometimes. Do they -- 'sleep together?' Hell, they do lots more than that. Ill bet they really make that bed of Kim's spin some nights."
"Spin? What are you talking about?"
"That fun-field's mounted on ball bearings, Shel. Kim digs little refinements like that." Margo giggled. "Maybe you'll get a spin on the lezzie merry-go-round yet."
"That'll be a cold day in hell."
"Maybe it will be at that."
Momentarily the conversation turned grave. Margo fixed Shelly with a serious stare. "What about Bob?" she asked. "Is he still making it with his secretary? Or is it cooling off?"
Shelly tried to be brittle, to hide the deep hurt in her heart. "So far as I know he is. At any rate I haven't been bothered too much lately. And when he does come around it's strictly second rate, like stock merchandise."
"Dirty, rotten louse," Margo gritted. "They oughta drop 'em all into the ocean."
"Or march 'em off a cat walk out at Republic," Diosa added. "Right into one of those crucibles. Just before a big pour."
Shelly wouldn't have dared tell her companions the truth about her relationship with Bob. Or that her continuing debasement at Stagg Faro's hands had started certain desperate considerations bubbling in her brain. Or that she had come to the end of the line, a place where Man-haters, where nobody, could help her any longer. That she was actually considering facing down Bob, telling him she knew about Jane Crawford. And in the bargain to admit her own backsliding. To tell him about Stagg Faro and about the robbery and murder.
It seemed like her only out. What else was there? If she could only plead with Bob, confess to him and make him come back to her; to help her before things got worse. Before she was entangled any further in this hellish debacle.
What else was there but this continuing boomerang? She had made the mistake of her life when she'd consented to go out with Diosa that night. She hadn't been able to see it then. But she could certainly see it now. Her plan for childish revenge had backfired, it had boomeranged. It would continue to boomerang, boomerang, and boomerang.
Then it would be too late. Bob, please! He had to help her.
Shelly forgot herself. She forgot where she was and that two ferret-curious women were watching her with penetrating gazes. Shelly let her inner panic reflect on her face, baring her inner turmoil to the world.
She remembered too late and tried to blink back the welling tears.
"Shel," Diosa said, instantly sympathetic. "What is it? What's bugging you anyway?" She rose from her chair and started around the table.
Shelly darted up. She backed away from her. "Don't Diosa," she choked. "Leave me alone. I'll be all right. I'd better go now."
"Jeez, Shel," Diosa continued, "if it's something I said, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. I was just shooting off my mouth... "
"It's all right." Shelly took her coat from the kitchen chair where she'd thrown it. "It's nothing you said. I gotta go now."
Then she bolted from the house and went running down the steps.
"Christ" Margo said, when Shelly went out of sight. "What'n hell got into her?"
* * *
When's it going to start? Shelly raged inwardly, feeling a sick, breathless impatience. Can't we get this over with so I can get out of here, so I can go home?
Stagg was revealing still another facet of his animal character. Although it was almost three o'clock he still hadn't undressed. Nor had he inaugurated any of the regular perverted overtures. In fact, if anything, he was less agitated than Shelly. With a calm, smug smile he had taken great pains with her. He made a black ritual of the act of stripping her. He made a burlesque of adoring her body. It seemed as if he was waiting for certain tides to rise in him, before he swept forward.
If not that, then something else. The fact of the matter was that he was waiting for something. With each passing minute his smile became more devilish, more gloating. He was an activated detonator, waiting for the minutes to tick off.
They were stretched full length on the bed. Stagg had not even bothered to remove his shoes. In the dim room he talked softly to her. There was a pseudo gentleness in his voice. His words were inane and vulgar. There was something faintly hypnotic about his hissing speech.
Shelly was naked and held rigidly in his grasp. Docilely she allowed him to caress her breasts, her belly, and her legs. She felt an even sicker humiliation at the contemptuous, arrogant way that he toyed with her. It was as if she were a senseless, inanimate doll into which had been breathed all the properties of a living being. A doll to be played with; to be dressed and undressed. A confessor to all the sick thoughts in Stagg's mind. A victim to his most secret idiosyncrasies.
It was as if she really couldn't hear or feel. Just a pretty toy, something beneath human consideration. A thing dedicated to his pleasure and nothing more.
It's going to be terrible today, Shelly concluded, her mind cold and dead. Worse than ever before. I can feel it. Now she jerked suddenly and tried to twist away. "Don't, Stagg!" she rasped. "You're hurting me."
"Sorry," he intoned, not sorry at all. "I forgot myself. It's just that you're so pretty. I can't help myself sometimes." His hand returned. "There, that's better, isn't it?"
"Please, Stagg," Shelly blurted, unable to keep her silence any longer. "Can't we? I mean, if we don't do it soon... I have to be home by five, before my husband gets home."
"You're getting it for Stagg, huh?"
"You know what I mean. If you're going to... Well, why not get it over with?"
His smile became even more condescending. "What would you say," he said viscously, "if I told you I didn't want that other thing today? If told you that I didn't want you at all? Just this... "
"What are you talking about?"
"Just what I said. I don't want you today. That should be a big relief, shouldn't it?"
"Then why did you undress me? Why this?"
His grin was vulpine. "Well, doll, figure it out for yourself. Just because I don't want you, doesn't mean someone wouldn't like to try you out. I'd hate to have you come all this way and give up your afternoon, for nothing. That would be a waste, wouldn't it?"
A drum-roll of warning thunder echoed through Shelly's head. She was seized by a harrowing panic. What is it? What's he getting at? He couldn't mean -- No, it couldn't be that. He wouldn't stoop that low, misuse his power over me so foully.
"I don't know what you mean, Stagg," she quaked, her body suddenly cold as ice beneath his touch.
"Well, Shelly," he started, "it's this way. I've been thinking about how greedy I've been lately, keeping you all to myself like I have. And I decided that... "
At that moment his words were aborted by a sudden, soft tapping at the door. In that instant Shelly understood. She saw it in his quick, preening smile and in the way he slid from the bed and started from the bedroom. It was this that had kept Stagg on pins and needles for the past hour. It was this that he'd waited for.
She heard Stagg opening the door in the living room. She heard the immediate rumble of male voices; soft, conspiratorial chuckles. In that crucifying moment Shelly realized the stranger's reason for being here.
And instantly, too hurt and dazed to think straight, she lurched up from the bed and began hurrying around the room to dress. As she slipped up her panties and struggled to fasten her brassiere in back, she heard the voices grow louder. She clawed her slip over her head and pulled it down. She was jamming her brief girdle and stockings into her bag when the door opened.
Stagg's voice impaled her where she stood. "You goin' someplace, Shelly?" he smiled mirthlessly.
"Please, Stagg," she said hollowly. "Don't make me...
He came into the room and tactfully closed the door in the stranger's face. "Don't make me be mean about this, baby," he menaced. "Just be a good girl, cooperate with Stagg, and you won't get hurt. Just close your eyes and pretend it's me. It'll be over before you know it."
"No, Stagg. I can't, I can't. Don't ask me to do a thing like this."
"So, who's asking? I'm telling, Shel." His smile became darkly threatening. "Baby, baby," he mocked in a whispery falsetto. "You don't want me to have to call your hubby and tell him about these wild afternoon teas we've been having, do you?"
His fingers became talons. They dug her arm savagely, almost causing Shelly to fall from the pain. "Besides," he gritted, "you wouldn't like it so much with your face rearranged or your nose on upside down."
"Why, Stagg?" she choked.
"Why? You silly witch. For money, that's why."
Shelly's despair nearly suffocated her. He would sell me for money. He would be my shill. I would regress to being merchandise. A common tramp.
A more stunning realization smashed her. This was only the beginning. The man waiting out there was only drum major to an endless parade. A parade stretching into infinity.
"No!" she raged gutturally. "I won't. You can't force me to do this!"
His grip tightened. His mouth became a white smear. "Uh-uh, Shelly," he spat. "You don't just check out like that. That guy just slipped me twenty-five bucks. He ain't gettin' no refund."
"But you have money," Shelly protested. "There was nine-hundred dollars from... "
He closed his hand over her mouth. "Shut up, damn you! You want the whole world to hear? That dough's gone. It was gone a week ago. I owed a bundle on that Olds. Now I need more cash." He released her. "And you, my hot-tailed little doll, are going to earn it for me."
Tears streamed down Shelly's cheeks. "Don't, Stagg. Please, don't. I'll get you money, somehow. But don't let that man in here."
"It's too late now, kiddo. He won't try anything, I promise. I'll see to that. I'll be right outside the door. You just have to yell. It'll be no worse than what you've been slipping me right along."
Again Shelly tried to get past him, to reach the rest of her clothes. "I can't, Stagg. I'll die first."
He wrenched her back savagely. It was as Shelly lost her balance and fell toward him, that she saw the blurring motion of his open hand. A sickening clot of pain formed in her skull. A red glare of light exploded and coated the walls of her brain. For a second she lost consciousness; she became aware of being dragged bed-ward.
When she was again lucid she saw Stagg hovering above her. There was an insane, cruel smirk on his face. "You don't get out of it, understand? You deliver. Now." He waved his hand lazily over her face. "Unless you want me to really take you apart."
Then summarily he turned and went toward the door. "His name's Fred. Be good to him. Or else... "
Shelly lay in stony silence. Her body was dead, her will to fight had been crushed. She knew what would happen now. What must happen. In a cavernous tunnel, she heard a door close. She heard muffled, excited voices behind that door.
Then the door was opened again.
* * *
She opened her eyes and saw the hesitant, awkwardly poised man. She saw his eyes sweep over her face, over her body. And gradually the uncertainty fled from that face to be replaced by insolent purpose.
He started toward the bed.
He was a short, dark, swarthy complexioned man. He was smooth skinned, and had black, greasy hair. He was a greedy-eyed, self-indulgent man. The kind of man who would rather pay for it than assume the responsibilities and expense of marriage. He was perspiring. Shelly felt a thick, phlegmy distaste gather in her throat.
His hand come down and griped the hem of her slip. Idly he flipped it back upon her belly. His eyes were heavy-lidded and serpentine as he gazed down at her legs, concentrating on the outline beneath the filmy pink nylon of her panties. A smile puckered his lips.
"Nice, baby," he hummed. "Very nice. I'm gonna like it. You're a real stunner, young and clean. Just the way I like 'em."
Then, without any more words and with no show of modesty whatsoever, he began to pull off his clothes.
Shelly felt the bed give. A wild, unreasoning terror speared her. She involuntarily rolled away from him and clung to the edge of the bed. Fred snickered in a high, aberrated pitch. "Still gun-shy, huh, kid? Better and better."
Patiently he came to her. He pulled her back to the center of the bed. Almost clinically, as if really not interested in what he was doing, he began to pinch and squeeze her body everywhere, enjoying the slide of nylon on nylon. "Pretty, pretty," he wheezed in lunatic singsong. "So pretty. I like you, honey. It's gonna be muy frantic. God, but I'll make you scream."
Shelly's stomach felt like a million maggots were swarming inside it.
The travesty of love went on and on, as the man undressed her, as he touched, pinched, and caressed her. He sat over her for long moments, just looking at her naked body. His eyes were like blank, glittering pools. Gradually the unbridled lust took control.
With a snuffled sigh of delight, he slowly and painstakingly forced the bestial union. And finally, gurgling contentedly to himself, he administered a piston movement. Then swift retraction, and again. But he was driving himself against a mute, unresponsive body.
Then, dissatisfied, he said, "You better put something into it, baby, or there'll be trouble. I'll be here all afternoon."
It was threat enough. Dully, her body a precise, finely calibrated machine, Shelly tensed her legs. She arched her body and met his jarringly.
She put something into it...
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was Saturday morning, a week later. Shelly had since serviced two other clients for Stagg Faro, and Stagg once in the bargain. On this day the showdown between her and her husband took place.
What Shelly had hoped to gain from the boldface confrontation she hardly knew. She had certainly expected a stormy, acrimonious scene. After which, she hoped, there might have been that one benison denied her life these past, depraved weeks: She prayed that Bob would make an honest attempt to understand her and to forgive her as readily as she would forgive him.
And in the end: That he would stand by her, help her gather the mutilated pieces of her existence, and w help her fit them into a meaningful whole once more.
To say that Shelly was balancing her entire future on a precarious straw would be the understatement of the year. To say that she was on the verge of a mental crackup would be another. She knew she must unburden herself to someone. She must get help somewhere. She must establish contact with the human community again. She had been living among the animals too long.
Another week of torment, of anguished frustration and despair -- even another day -- and Shelly knew she couldn't be held responsible for what might happen.
She stood atop a thousand foot scaffolding, perched on a jittery, willowy springboard. The board was being, inch by slow inch, sawed off behind her. There was only one way to go -- down. And before she fell, before she delivered herself to the caprice of fate, to inevitable destruction, there was one last chance.
To take the total initiative herself. To attempt to salvage some small remnants of her life. If she stepped forward boldly, if she forced herself to take the plunge.
To jump-- Thus it was, willing to embrace any subterfuge, no matter how petty, that Shelly primped at the bedroom mirror that afternoon. She chose a lovely wool gown, a casual, flattering thing and picked her shoes and accessories with care. For when she went down to confront Bob she must be beautiful and desirable in his eyes; he must want to take her back, no matter what.
This was, in itself a mute, pathetic testimony to the foolhardiness and vulnerability of her cause. She would fight dragons with a paper sword.
Her hands were shaking and her knees felt like runny butter as she came down the stairs. For long moments she paused outside of Bob's den, where, she knew, he was going over some work he'd brought home from the plant. Finally she gathered enough courage. With her thoughts spinning like confetti in a typhoon, she knocked at his door light, "Bob, are you busy? Can I come in?"
"Sure thing, honey. Come ahead."
He was seated at his desk, looking very efficient and confident. Shelly found herself shriveling inwardly. Maybe this wasn't the right time, perhaps tomorrow, or the next day. But she drove herself into the room and closed the door behind her. Momentarily she froze. She was hard put to quell the unmistakable sensation that somewhere, sometime, she'd lived through this moment before.
Then she remembered. Those times when her mother had sent her in to see her father. When she'd done something wrong and had to face the music. Father image. And she felt even more frightened and confused.
"Hi, honey," Bob said breezily, looking up only briefly. Then he brought his gaze up again. "Hey, Shel," he purred. "What's coming off here? Like wow. You look like a page out of Vogue."
She smiled, pleased that her efforts had been rewarded. "I just felt like dressing up. Is there a law against a husband seeing his wife dolled up now and then?"
As Bob studied her further he saw the forced gaiety and the apprehension that lined her face. "What's the matter, Shelly? You look kind of grim. Something bothering you?"
Her heart hammering painfully, Shelly forced herself toward the second-best davenport that had been relegated to Bob's den. She forced herself to sit with pretty ease. "I want to talk to you about something. Bob. Something very important." She patted the cushion beside her. "Come here. Sit by me, will you, please?"
He rose, a perplexed look on his face, and did as he was asked. Playfully he kissed her bare shoulder. "Now. What's this all about? You're so stern."
Shelly's voice was quavery despite all her good intentions. "Bob, try to understand, right from the outset, that I'm not condemning. Everybody's entitled to make mistakes, me included. I don't want to be a shrill, fishmonger wife. I want to talk this over calmly and objectively. There are certain things we've got to get straight." She sighed. "So no matter what, let's be calm. Screaming and fighting won't help one bit."
"Wow, this sounds earth shaking," he joked. "Maybe the U.N. should handle it." He withdrew from her slightly. "Okay, hon. Shoot."
The words tumbled out in a rush, then seemed to hang on the air like gliding gulls. "Bob -- I've found out about Jane--Jane Crawford."
Bob swayed almost imperceptibly, a wince streaking his features. Then he recovered expertly and smiled. "So you've found out about Jane Crawford. What's to find out? That she's my secretary at the plant?"
"That's not what I mean, Bob. What I'm talking about are those duties performed above and beyond the professional services of a personal secretary."
Bob bristled. He prepared to bluster through, to white-wash the whole thing if possible. "Such as...?"
"Such as spending the weekend in a New York hotel with her boss." She stared at him levelly. "Such as the afternoon you both took off Wednesday. The afternoon you spent at the Greenwillow Motel."
Bob blanched. He'd suspected that Shelly had only gossiped rumors to go on, rumors he could laugh off. But she had him cold, bluffing wouldn't help now. "How -- how did you find out about Wednesday?" he said.
"The same way I found out about the overnight sales trip the Thursday before. The Chicago trip you spent at Jane's apartment." Shelly felt dirty inside. She was deriving no pleasure from the showdown. In fact she sensed subtle sympathy for Bob. He looked rather pitiful -- like a whipped dog.
But Bob's contrite mood lasted only momentarily. Anger gathered behind his eyes. "How did you find out about Jane? How long have you known? You've been spying on me. Of all the dirty, rotten tricks... "
Shelly felt an ominous premonition. This wasn't going to go right at all. "Bob, please. We weren't going to lose our tempers, remember?"
"It's easy enough for you to talk. I haven't been tailing you, or looking over your shoulder. I asked you a question. How long?"
"A long time, Bob." Shelly's voice became blurry. "At least a month now. But that New York thing was the worst. You'll never know how it hurt for me to pack your things that time. When I knew all the time you... "
"Save it," he snapped. "Spare me all the weepy details. I feel dirty enough inside as it is."
Shelly fought against anger, but it was too strong. "You feel dirty? What about me? You think discovering your husband is sleeping around is a purifying experience? You think it's a big barrel of laughs?"
"Cut it out. You're breaking my heart."
"Please, Bob, don't get angry. Try to understand my feelings. I'm not blaming you, and I'm not trying to make out that I'm more perfect than you are."
"That's damn good of you," he sneered. "Real noble."
"Please, darling. At least talk to me, let's come to some understanding. I realize it was partly my fault. Perhaps I wasn't a good enough wife to you. I'm willing to take my share of the blame. But it's gone on long enough. You've had your fun. It's got to end now."
"Hell!" he roared, leaping from the davenport and striding rapidly across the room. "Knock it off, damn you! You sound like something out of some soap opera!"
"Please, Bob," she said, suddenly forgetting all the carefully prepared things she was going to say; the way she was going to tell him of her downfall, how she was going to beg his forgiveness. "Let's talk. Don't just shut me out like this. I'm willing to forget all this. I'm willing to take you back, to try a fresh start."
Her breath caught in her throat and she coughed. "Bob, doesn't that mean anything to you? That I'm willing to forgive you, willing to try again?"
Bob's eyes were thin slit. His face was an irrational, enraged mask as he stopped his pacing and faced her. "You're willing to forgive me?" he spat. "Well that's damned big of you. Thanks for nothing. Did it ever cross that simple, pampered little mind of yours that maybe I don't want you to forgive me? That maybe I don't want to try for a fresh start?" His voice was seething and contemptuous. "You've got one broken arm, Mr. Jones. Would you like to try for two?"
"Please, Bob. Listen, try to understand. I love you. You don't mean those things. You can't... "
"Can't I?" He took another step toward her. "Well get this, baby. Get it once and get it good. I don't love you. I haven't loved you for a year now. How I was blind enough to marry you I'll never know. You've got a pretty face and a big, beautiful body, but underneath-- nothing. You don't do it for me, Shelly. Not any more."
"Please, please, Bob, don't do this--"
"Stop, will you! You don't know how good this makes me feel. I've been wanting to tell you about Jane for months now. To tell you I love her, and not you. I love her, understand? I've wanted a divorce for the damndest, longest time. But I haven't had the nerve to come out and tell you. I didn't know how to say it. But so long as you've found out, so long as you brought it up, it's a perfect out for me. Can you see that?"
"Bob, I don't want a divorce. I want you."
"Well I don't want you." A look of crazed frustration lit his eyes. He took Shelly's hands and pulled her closer. "Please, Shel," he gritted. "I want out. I've given you grounds, now you give me a divorce. Go ahead, see a lawyer, start the ball rolling. You want the house, the car, alimony? Go ahead, you've got them. Just so I can have Jane. I love her. Can't you get that through your thick head?"
Shelly sat frozen on the davenport. Her face was an anguished mask; her heart was beating a murderous, drumming tattoo. She was caught completely off balance. She had expected Bob to rail at her and to call her ugly names. But in the end they would have established some treacherous common ground. They could have gone on in a counterfeit version of marriage. They could have built from there.
But not this! Not open and brutal rejection. Not glorying admission that he wanted no part of her, that he wanted another woman. It seemed her brain would crack wide open and spill its mangled contents. She felt misery and the bitterness was intense.
If Bob didn't want her he wouldn't help her. What else was there?
A self pitying spasm ripped her. If nobody wanted her -- Dumbly she broke from her trance. She became aware that Bob was holding her shoulders, pleading into her face. Gradually the words became untangled. "Please, Shelly, please. Turn me loose. You're young, you can find another man. It'll be easy for you... "
At that moment the corroding rage broke through. This was the final humiliation. She could suffer nothing greater than to be rejected, unwanted. A hatchet was methodically biting into the base of her skull; chopping, chopping -- She released a thick, choking wail and struck out at the desperate, pleading mouth. "Let me go, damn you!" she shouted. "Let me go!" Then she viciously wrenched herself from his grasp. She pushed him back, stumbling. Then, catching her balance, she rammed her way out of the room and out of the house.
The keys were in the car. Moments later, when she came out of her blind rage, she was surprised to find herself skimming down Birch Avenue with the speedometer stuck at forty. Shocked, she pressed the brake and slowed the auto.
She drove more cautiously. Confusion reigned supreme in her brain.
* * *
At first she had been determined to go to Stagg Faro. She would vent her macabre frustration by giving herself to him. She would beg him to press her to new, even more deranged bestialities. Anything he wanted; as long as she could shut the image of Bob from her mind, so she could sense the clawing ecstasy of retaliation against him.
Anything, Stagg. Anything.
But minutes later, as she pulled the car to the curb and tried to put her thoughts together again, she realized the folly of her plan. She would only hurt herself. But then, she continued, who could I turn to for help? Who, in all the world, could help me at a time like this?
Sudden thought of Kim Brady skimmed her mind. Again she saw the coldly cunning, efficient face. And instantly she decided. Kim had seen worse things than this. She had vanquished more tragic problems. All at once she became, to Shelly, the embodiment of all the self-sufficiency in the world. If anyone knew how to cope with this monstrous problem, Kim would.
She would go to Kim.
* * *
Again the Pontiac bounced away from the curb. She bullied the other motorists on Birch and headed east Please, Kim, she raged inwardly as she pressed Kim Brady's buzzer again and again. Be home, be home -- But only silence answered her. There was no movement within the apartment. Desperately Shelly continued to ring. Finally, with her shoulders sloped, she turned away.
It was then that a soft snick cut the still air. Shelly wheeled around and found herself looking into the cold, inscrutable eyes of Garth Keller. A new panic struck her.
"Oh," he said softly. "It's you. Sorry I didn't answer sooner. I was sleeping. The girls aren't here."
Shelly felt adrift, at loose ends. Where would she go now? "When do you expect them back?"
"In an hour or so. Maybe you'd like to come in and wait."
Shelly shrugged. What did she have to lose? "All right, thank you. I'll do that."
Silently he admitted her. He padded ahead of her in his stocking feet. He hadn't been sleeping, Shelly saw immediately. He had been waiting for whoever it was to give up and go away. She saw the book, Wolfe's Look Homeward, Angel, lying face down on the davenport. Garth had been reading.
"Care for a drink?" he said. "You look like you could stand one."
"No thank you," she said. "I don't think so."
Even thought it was a personal question, it did not seem personal coming from Keller. There was a ring of professional detachment to it. "Problems, Shelly?"
She flushed. "I suppose so." Then she felt surprise. "You remembered my name."
"Sure I remembered your name. We were introduced, weren't we? You think I'm some kind of a moron or something?"
"No. I just didn't expect you to remember." For long moments they sat across from each other, staring in quizzical challenge into the other's eyes.
"You want to talk?" he said. "Or... "
"No," Shelly replied too quickly. "I'll just wait."
"There're some magazines on that table there. If you change your mind about that drink, let me know." Then he smiled strangely and reached for his book. Seconds later, he was engrossed in his reading again; leaving Shelly to her muddled, wild thoughts.
Immediately a swarming remembrance of the cataclysmic scene which had just transpired between her and Bob came back. The memory fired her fury anew. Briefly she entertained the thought of leaving Kim's apartment and going to Stagg as she'd originally intended. Dear God, she raged. Bob, if I could take you with me. If I could make you watch me giving myself Stagg; watch the things he does to me.
The maddening, heady desire became even more intense. If she could only hurt Bob, defile him as he had defiled her. If she could rid herself of this breathless wildness which throbbed and pitched within her chest. If she could wash out the hurt and despair ranging her brain with caged pace. Drinking perhaps? But she did not feel like drinking.
Her eyes fell on Garth Keller as he read with single-minded concentration. She saw the hard, lean muscles of his brute's body. And suddenly the hysteria became full blown. It dashed against the confines of her skull like hurricane-swept waves breaking against a rockbound shore. It retreated, then boomed back again and again.
She was out of her head, stunned by a psychotic need to revenge herself on her husband. She had to achieve a substitute status, even if it had to be in such a mindless, aboriginal way. She knew what she must do. If she could make him want her -- Slowly, so as not to arouse the attention of the reading man, her fingers came up and began to undo the long chain of buttons running the length of her gown. Then carefully she folded back the panels and let the dress slide from her shoulders. She sat proudly in the black, lacy slip with her legs crossed. She was jiggling one foot at him. A foot clad in a black patent, stiletto-sharp pump.
"Garth?" she said huskily, feeling a wicked twist in her loins.
"Yeah?" he said without looking up.
"Do you want me? Would you like to take me to bed?"
His eyes darted up and went wide as he saw her, dressed all in black. "Hey," he breathed in awe. "What's with you? You nuts or something?"
"I asked you a question, Garth. Do you want me? Would you like to try a little for size?" She rose from her chair and began to pull the slip up over her body.
Then it whispered its way floorward.
Garth's face was cloaked with dismay. His voice came in a breathy rush. "Shelly, what are you trying to prove? You're serious about this, aren't you?"
Shelly's hands trembled as she reached behind her to undo the clasp of her black, lace filigreed brassiere. "Yes," she intoned. "I'm serious. It's sitting here idle. Someone should be getting some good out of it. I can't by myself." Her skin crawled and goose pimples rained over her, as she remembered how Diosa had failed to move this Sphinx of a man. Will I fail too? Will he turn me down?
The brassiere floated down her arms and hovered at her fingertips. Shelly felt her nipples crinkle and tingle. They felt swollen, as if they were tugging the skin of her breasts to taut smoothness.
Garth sat frozen, watching Shelly undo her stockings, his book still in his hand. Now she walked toward him. "Here," she said, "Pull them off for me, will you?"
Apparently gripped by a compulsion greater than himself, he reached out and began peeling the gauzy hose off her lovely legs. Her gorgeous, stone tipped nipples were inches from his face. A wracking shudder seized him and, without a twinge of conscience, he capitulated.
He reached up and pulled the voluptuous figure down upon him. His hands went immediately to her breasts, touching and caressing, preparing them for his lips. "Okay," he said softly, his arrogant smile suddenly returned. "You win, baby."
He twisted from under Shelly and spread her lush, creamy body full length on the davenport. He kneeled on the floor beside her and let his head fall to her breasts. With one hand he stroked the nylon-bound swell of her belly.
Shelly sighed and delivered herself completely to him. She felt a blast furnace wash of air sweep her limbs, and a torrid bubbling in her stomach.
* * *
They were in Kim's extravagant, fragrant bedroom. They were both naked now, their bodies bathed in the full glare of the October sun. In their haste there wasn't time to draw the blinds. Had the whole world been gathered outside that window they couldn't have done otherwise.
Shelly was flat on her back and glancing up at the ceiling. She saw the silver starbursts some decorator had scattered there, and felt slight incisions of queasiness as Kim's bed idly revolved. This way and that. It was an entirely new sensation, and Shelly wasn't sure whether she liked it or not.
She was sure she liked the things Garth was doing to her. She was mad for a continuation of the rapture that tensed her legs and made her go to jelly inside. Garth was hovering over her, his hands balancing and squeezing her breasts, bringing the nipples together.
His lips closed, compressing them with tender, wicked hurt. And now his tongue circled and darted between them, attending both nipples simultaneously. It was a new sensation, something she'd never experienced before. Helplessly she brought up her hands and held him in a hard grip; not wanting to release him, not wanting the delirious sensation to ever end.
Quick, panting gasps broke from her lips, and she sensed a deranging need. A need that had only once before -- that first night with Stagg -- been approximated.
Bob, the clouding thought came. If you could see this. If you could stand there, see me whining like a dog in heat for this man -- this stranger -- to come take me. To use me and never stop using me.
Her whimpers came louder. Garth's free hand slid down her belly and lifted her knees, arranging her legs. It became even more adventurous and her whimpers became still louder, still more rapid.
"Please, Garth," she keened. Every cell of her body was alive, crawling and crying for the inevitable culmination. "Oh, please. I can't wait much longer. How can you stand it? How can you go on torturing me like this?"
He laughed softly. Shelly's nipples suddenly feeling deserted and cold. "What are you used to, honey? Some jack rabbit or something? Don't you know everything's better if you warm it up first?" His hand became more inquisitive. "Enjoy it, doll. You know you're enjoying it."
"Yes, Garth, yes. I am. But I feel so cold inside. I feel like something's clawing me in there. Please hurry."
"Sure, kid. Sure." And his lips returned to her breasts again.
But finally his own need overcame him. Shelly knew at what precise moment it happened, as she felt the terrible shudder careen down his body. She released a happy sigh. "Now, darling. Now."
He laughed throatily. "Yes, Shelly. Now."
Carefully, exquisitely he couched himself with her.
He caressed and prepared her. Shelly felt a thunderbolt of insane impatience hollow her as she opened her eyes. She saw the bronzed, muscled body poised over her, and the luminous glow the sun bathed him with. "I want you," she wailed. "I want you."
Then the body dropped and burrowed and crowded into hers. A splintering sheet of flame erupted in her head. "Now," Garth gritted. His flanks tensed. The body rose and fell again and again. "Now. Now and now and now. Here it is, baby. Is it good? Is it now enough for you?"
Shelly's mind became fogged, her eyes seemingly rolling upward in her head. A purring moan of contentment broke from her. "Oh, Garth. Yes, yes. It's good. So very good. Magnificent."
She twisted and wriggled against him. She arched her back in exultant welcome and reciprocation.
"Go, lover, go," she choked, completely adrift in the swimming, swirling sea of ecstasy. "Oh, you feel so good."
"You too, baby." His exertions became more frantic. "Take it, take it... "
The unique bed Kim Brady had devised for her own pleasure now began to revolve slowly, sometimes making a full circle, sometimes only achieving a semicircle, and tracking back on itself. But as the bodies upon it thrashed and fought, as they attacked each other with such hedonistic delight, the bed began to move with more determined purpose. As though a clock-drive motor had been activated.
One full turn, two full turns, three full turns -- there. Now it was on predestined course. It turned faster and faster until it leveled out and spun at a steady, giddy pace. The bodies upon it seemed to blur, to melt into one smudge of pink and bronze.
The sensation was incredible, a fantastic struggle with normal gravity. And as the silvered mercury sloshed and pulsed within her, Shelly found a strange security flooding through her. She could not fall, she could not be spun from this glory. For he, Garth, was pinning her with dedicated persistence. She wasn't going anywhere.
Except right out of her head.
Shelly heard herself screaming, and she knew she must be calling encouragement, detailing what must be her third peak. Or was it her fourth? But she couldn't be sure, for through the blood red haze that clogged her brain, she could not make the garbled words out.
And still she called, still she thrust her body to the hard, hurting, biting one. Straining, straining -- "Please, darling, please. You now, you, you, you... "
Again she screamed and fell backward into that warm comforting cocoon. Here she could linger and savor the delicious release just achieved.
Until finally she noticed that it was very quiet in the room. There was no more charging, no more of the luscious hurt. The bed was losing speed. Now it stopped and reversed its spin.
"Garth?" she said dazedly. "Did it? Did you...?"
"Yes, Shel," he replied, the enigmatic hardness again returned to his voice. "It's all over now."
"Was I -- was I satisfactory?"
"Any more satisfactory and I wouldn't be here to talk about it."
Reluctantly Shelly turned and looked to where he lay, a little apart from her on the bed. She felt a deep thrill, thinking of the effect his dark beauty was having upon her. He was a beautiful man, an accomplished, total man.
"Do you know now?" he said.
"Know what?"
"What it was that got into you? To make you do this. You're not really a pig, you know. You might think you are, but you aren't. Something got into you. Something made you shove it at me like this."
And naturally, as though she'd been confiding in this man all her life, Shelly said, "It was Bob, my husband. We had a fight. He's going to divorce me."
"Oh? What else did you expect? You knew what you were getting into when you joined up with Kim and Company."
"No. You don't understand. He doesn't even know about this. I wanted to tell him, but he wouldn't listen. All he wanted to talk about was getting rid of me... "
Garth Keller laughed shortly. "You lost me back there about four blocks."
She was possessed of a mind-stunning need to purge herself of the rotting, reeking garbage that was infesting her mind. She was totally disarmed by the sincerity of Garth's interest and drifted naturally into her confession. Shelly began from the beginning.
She told him about Jane and Bob, that it had led to the first night with Diosa. Then, not mentioning his name, she told him about Stagg Faro, with his perverted quirks and his latest demands upon her. And finally she got back to the crushing brawl she'd had with Bob scarcely more than an hour ago.
"I was wild with grief," she said hesitantly. "I wanted to strike out against something, someone. Can you understand now, why I acted like I did?"
"And now you're ashamed?"
"No, Garth. Strangely enough I'm not. It all seemed right somehow. Like it was supposed to happen. That sounds crazy, doesn't it?"
"Yes, Shelly. Frankly it does."
Then all at once Shelly felt a terrible longing well up in her throat and almost choke her. Maybe Garth... if only he would. If only there was someone she could turn to. If Garth could be convinced to help her. Maybe if she pleaded with him. He would know what to do. He would know how to help her.
She turned to him, her eyes were wide and soulful, baring the very depths of her despair. Her eyes begging for understanding. If someone could care, they said. If someone could help me. "Garth," she stammered. "You've been around, you know things. Do you think you could...?"
But he didn't even let her finish. He had interpreted the expression perfectly, he knew what was coming. Instantly he was the imperturbable, aloof Garth Keller of old. It was as if a steel door had clanged shut between them.
"If you're thinking that maybe I'm gonna get mixed up in all this mess, if you're thinking I'm gonna try bailing you out, forget it, Shelly." His eyes were icy, contemptuous. "I've got troubles enough of my own."
"I didn't ask you for anything, Garth," she said sullenly, suddenly on the defensive, not about to let herself be hurt further. "I didn't ask for a thing." Inside her it seemed a huge block of ice had just been eased into place. Was there nowhere she could turn?
"I know you didn't. But I saw what was going on behind those big green eyes of yours. And I don't want any of it."
"Forget it, Garth. Please forget I said anything."
But the usually taciturn man was on a talking jag. It was almost as if he was trying to vindicate himself, to convince his conscience of the wisdom of his hands-off policy. "I've been bollixed up too long, Shelly. Once by a pretty, innocent chick like you. I thought I loved her." He fell silent, then as if musing to himself, "But love grows cold. Anyway it did with Kerry. I think I could get loused up like that with you."
He fixed her with a steady glare. Then as quickly, he averted his eyes. "I got a good thing going here. Kim pays me a hundred clams a week, just to hang around. I get all my food, my room, all the booze I want... " His eyes flicked over Shelly briefly. "And an occasional gal when I need one. And I should chuck it just because you got yourself in a jam?"
"Garth," Shelly gritted. "I didn't... "
"I know you didn't. But just the same, the answer is no. One of these days I'm skipping this jerky burg. Until then, this is as good a stopgap as any. You know what I do here? Well I'll tell you.
"I don't have to tell you what Kim and Bunny are. Even so, every once in awhile they get some guys up here, they play dirty little games with them. And when the suckers are about out of their minds for stuff, the girls turn them off. Sometimes the guys get nasty about it. That's where I come in."
His smile was mocking. "And you want me to back off from a soft touch like that?"
His conceit seemingly multiplied by the second. For now Keller reached over and began fumbling with Shelly's breasts. "So long's you're here, in the ready position anyway, how about going for two?"
Shelly recoiled, her brain paralyzed with disgust. She meant no more than that to him. An instant lay. He was devoid of all humanity and compassion. Just like the rest of them. Hatred, mixed with self-loathing, flared in her brain. "No," she spat. "No seconds. You've had your ups for today, sonny."
She was amazed at Garth's strength. For with one swift swipe he had pulled her over to him and driven his knee between her thighs. She felt further disgust as she saw the venal, opportunistic smile on his lips, and realized with what deadly contempt he regarded her.
She fought viciously for a few minutes, Garth laughing and toying with her all the way. But at last she was too tired to fight any more.
"All right," she hissed. "Do your damndest"
"Now you're talking, sweetie."
He plunged himself to her with the same animal ferocity.
And then it was seconds.
But Shelly achieved no sensation at all. Once again she was back at Stagg's, accommodating him or one of his clients.
Then Keller was finished. He rose from the bed and looked down on her. "Better get dressed and clear out. Kim and Bunny'll be back in another half hour." He grinned. "Better straighten out that bed too." Then he sauntered out of the bedroom.
Shelly felt nothing as she dressed, absolutely nothing.
CHAPTER NINE
Of the many drugged, unfeeling nights and afternoons that Shelly was coerced into spending at Stagg Faro's apartment there were several which stood out as landmarks. Orgies which Shelly would never forget so long as she lived.
She remembered the night with the man named Lou Garrett. The man who had undressed her with trembling, crazy fingers. And who, strangely enough, had immediately redressed her in very special female lingerie which he had brought with him in his coat pocket. It was a red silk brassiere which had the points cut out and matching silk panties which were singularly altered. He had taken painstaking care with these mutilations. Shelly saw immediately that the infinitely fine stitching on the hems had been a labor of love for the man. Then when the fetishist undergarments had been duly installed and the openings flared to a precise exposure, he had begun to make love to her.
Oh yes, there was one other variation; Lou Garrett had a matching outfit which he made her put on him. Which he also wore while making love.
Then there was the man named Kenny, who did not enjoy the virile, aggressive joys of masculine love-making. Who relished a more servile deviation. Kenny would not be content to take Shelly until he had twice half driven her out of her mind with unnatural attention. Even then it had been anti-climatic. For as he had labored long and hard to effect his own deliverance, Shelly had sensed that his heart wasn't really in it His fun had already been taken care of.
Also she remembered the fat, balding man with the horrid breath who had made her wear her stockings and high heels throughout. He had undressed her to her hosiery and shoes. He rolled the tops of her stockings himself, drew a knot, and tucking it into the roll to keep them up. His name was Harv Salzman. He had sat in a chair and made her stand on another before him. He stroked and kissed her legs for what, to Shelly, seemed like hours.
Tiring of this sport, Harvey lay on the floor and forced her to stand on his hands while she wore her rapier-heeled shoes. Drawing a chair beside him for balance he had forced her to stand on his chest, savoring the pain to the utmost. Then on his abdomen.
Even when he'd finally taken her he'd insisted she wear the stockings and shoes. He had exulted in the slide of her silky legs on his.
' " Then there was the afternoon with Stagg Faro. When he'd forced her to wield the red hot needles, aberratedly directing her as to where she should touch him with them.
There were all these and many, many more during the following three weeks. But most of them were routine, run-of-the-mill patrons who finished their business with dispatch, then left. Business had been good for Stagg and it was not uncommon for him to have two or three appointments lined up for Shelly for each of her visits. In among these customers there had been only one whom Stagg had been forced to throw out of the apartment. This was a young kid, barely twenty-one. He was determined that Shelly was going to perform the ultimate indignity on him.
Otherwise things went swimmingly. For Stagg Faro at any rate.
The strange standoff at home was still in force. She and Bob still occupied the same house, in separate bedrooms and ate at the same table. But there common civilities stopped. They barely spoke to each other. Shelly was just as stubborn as he about the divorce matter. Once he brought it up and begged her again to institute proceedings, but Shelly had looked straight through him.
What they were waiting for neither knew.
But wait they did, moving through their daily rounds with zombie-like preoccupation. Each came and went as he pleased, and not once were any questions tendered by either party. Shelly knew Bob was spending every free moment with his secretary. She did not care what he thought she was doing.
In fact, crushed by despair, by the very pointless-ness of her life, Shelly did not care about anything at all. Only in heavy drinking and in giving herself to Stagg's vile demands was there any salvation. This was her purpose. She was beyond caring now.
During the day, when she was not attending Stagg she forced herself to perform the routine drudgery of housework. This way she managed a tenuous hold on her sanity and blotted out tedious reverie and introspection. She slept a lot and spent many hours at her dressing table pampering herself.
Perversely enough, despite her constant rounds of dissipation, she managed to hold her beauty. But it was a cold, diamond-hard beauty, glittering and fastidious. It became a matter of small pride that her customers were usually knocked off balance by her youthful, vibrant beauty. Twenty-five bucks for a tussle with a dish like this? Their eyes disbelieved. As a result there was much repeat business.
It was the kind of dead beauty you might see in the eyes, figure, and features of a store-window mannequin.
Shelly had attended another of Kim Brady's Sunday afternoon cocktail parties. This time she had acquitted herself well. She watched her drinking and gave Kim no opportunity to corner her. And yet she had felt some obdurate excitement to think that she could incite such lustful agitation in Kim's eyes.
Wait, you nut, she'd mocked inwardly. Wait all your life. You'll never get any from me.
And so Shelly's life went on. She was a stumbling, spiritless, empty, day-to-day derelict, wanting nothing and going nowhere.
There was another landmark: The night of. the drunken debauch with Diosa, Margo, and three men, at Kim's summer cottage on Lost Moon Lake.
They had blatantly picked up the men at one of the Yale Street bars. They drank and danced with them until ten. But Diosa was restless and eager for more vicious sport than that which they could conclude in a public nightery. She told the men of Kim's secret hideaway at Lost Moon Lake. She promised that, once there, the party would really swing.
The three men had been coarsely dunned by the girls. When the sextet walked out the men carried a half dozen bottles of top shelf booze, quarts of mix and various other goodies under their arms.
The cottage, a large, luxurious affair, was located about seven miles from Lake City, on an isolated point on Lost Moon Lake. It was far enough out of the way of the other cottages that no amount of caterwauling could be heard. Even if the other cottages had been occupied this late in the season.
By eleven o'clock the party was well underway. It was a crisp night. The group was gathered about a roaring fireplace, drinking, necking, and laughing hilariously. For the rest of her life Shelly was to wonder what had actually transpired during that prolonged bacchanal. Afterward she couldn't envision what any of the men had looked like. She was too soon intoxicated. She only remembered that one of the men was called Jim. Beyond that things were pretty blank.
Midnight had barely passed, another day safely put to bed, when the participants of the sexfest were staggering, whooping drunk. Chairs, tables and such had been pushed to one side to provide a dance area. In the corner a portable phonograph blared rock-and-roll and twist tunes with endless monotony. Clumsily and arousingly the three couples danced. Their arms were tightly grinding body to body. Their mouths were locked and then-hands freely wandering.
It was then that Margo's date, the man named Jim, had begun playfully pulling at Margo's clothes. He was sliding her zippers and undoing her buttons. At first Margo had pretended coyness and rebuffed him. But Jim, oblivious to censure and persistent to the last, had kept at it.
Whereupon Margo had discarded pretense. Promptly and obligingly she stripped to the skin, in full view of the hooting, encouraging crowd. This wouldn't do but that Diosa and Shelly quickly followed her example. Diosa made a spectacle of it, forcing her date, a skinny blond, to do the honors.
"C'mon, honey," she teased. "You do Diosa. Strip off all her pretty things. Right here, where everybody can watch." She teetered to the middle of the floor. Then and there her boy friend had slowly, pleasurably undressed her. Diosa had wriggled and displayed herself with preening wantonness. She stopped after each garment to pose and go to each man, and let them sample her body with his hands.
Finally she was naked. She stood before the fire, swaying and wriggling in time to the music. The twist is an erotic dance. It is really something when the twist is done by a nude female, her body haloed by a dusky sheen and the highlights of her body painted with ruby firelight. It was quite enough to drive the three men wild. They cornered Diosa before the fire and forced her to submit to their drunken attentions.
The girls were undressed and standing unashamed before the men, wearing only their pumps and glassy smiles. They turned on their dates and began tearing at their clothes, men's and women's, all thrown together in an inextricable tangle in a far corner of the room.
Then it had been rockabilly and twist with a vengeance. Shelly winced now to remember the depraved, animal scene they had presented. Especially during the twist.
The drinks had come faster, and the men, maddened to a white-hot frenzy, were impatient to get to the main event. Again and again they tried dragging their partner to the dark bedrooms. But stubbornly the women resisted. They had agreed at the evening's outset to tease the men and drive them to a screaming, begging need. Only then -- "Get away, damn you!" Diosa yelled from across the room as her man tried to throw her on the davenport. "Not yet. Not so soon. Fun and games first. There's plen'y of time f'r the rest."
The games they played were impromptu and pointless. They generally resolved to a pawing, giggling, pleading melee. Invariably they ended with naked men chasing naked women about the room, over chairs, davenports, tables -- anything that was handy. There were contests to see who was the sexiest kisser and to see which girl had the most desirable figure, or the largest breasts. These competitions were done with the men blindfolded and the girls lined up before the fire, touch being the sole determinant.
Contests of similar bent were provided for the men also, and proved to be riotous.
Memory of one game was still lodged in Shelly's mind. A test whereby each man had been backed against the wall and made to stand at wobbly attention. Then the women had taken turns with each man, twisting their nude bodies, their bellies and breasts against the unfortunate male. The object was to see which man could endure the inflaming attentions the longest and still keep his hands off.
Jim had won, seemingly being a man possessed of superior will power. This was later definitively proved.
By one-thirty the men could be put off no longer. The girls knew that they would soon have to deliver. But still they stalled, pouring drink after drink into the men. And into themselves in the bargain.
At two o'clock catastrophe struck. One of the men fell victim to alcohol and passed out. No amount of face slapping or cold water could bring him around. Sadly enough the man was Diosa's supposed bedmate and she was fit to be tied. An argument developed over whether or not she was entitled to share Jim with Margo.
But Margo was adamant. She ordered Diosa back to the bedroom where her date had passed out, enjoining her to wait until he came around. Shelly had gone with her companion to the other bedroom. Margo and Jim had settled down on the davenport before the fireplace. It was a davenport that opened to form a bed.
Moments later a similar tragedy had befallen Shelly. The man had come to her in the darkness. He had barely joined with her when he released a tired, thick sigh, and passed out.
Which left two, very enraged, very frustrated women to prowl the cottage.
They had retired to the living room, where, despite all Margo's threats, they couldn't be budged. In drunken trance, smiling blissfully, fresh drinks in their hands, they had crouched on the raised fireplace apron. They watched Jim and Margo conclude. At the last Diosa hadn't been able to stand the long distance vantage point. She flung herself on the bed beside Margo and Jim; she caressed and encouraged Jim in a most graphic manner.
Jim had barely rolled away from Margo when Diosa was crawling over him, trying to arouse him to further efforts. "Oh, God," he moaned terrifiedly. "Not right away. Let me rest. Please, give me a breather."
But Diosa had only laughed and continued her very tactile ministrations. Five minutes later, still unsuccessful, she called out. "Margo, help me. We can' let him die on us. Not yet anyway. Shel. Get over here. This's gott' be a community effort."
And Margo had helped Diosa with hurting, evil persistence. Moments later Shelly had joined them. "Please," the man had begged, "let me alone. Give me a breather."
"I'll give you a breather," Diosa had gritted, not relenting for a second.
It seemed the night was endless. It went on until all the women were satisfied and the hapless Jim was more dead then alive. It was hard for Shelly to remember what happened after Jim finally finished with her.
The next thing she knew she was near the fire and Margo was ruthlessly shagging her into her clothes. In the dim distance she saw Diosa at the telephone with three wallets lined up on the mantel. She heard her throaty, victorious giggles as she gaily woke three very surprised wives in Lake City.
Shelly vaguely remembered Margo fishing Jim's car keys from his coat pocket. She remembered their hasty departure from the cabin. The sound of a ragged snore penetrated from a far off bedroom.
She remembered Margo pushing her into the back seat of the strange car, then nothing more.
CHAPTER TEN
For three days following the degenerate party at Lost Moon Lake Shelly moved in a trance-like lethargy. Like an automaton she acquitted her routine tasks, faced Bob and herself. She fought, desperately, to keep all thought of the fiasco from her mind, but at times it was altogether impossible.
Then she was again at the cottage, wound up in that grotesque, writhing ball of arms and legs. Again her head sang with the eerie, hissing words -- endearments and promises -- that they had used to arouse the man called Jim. And to rearouse him. Her brain hurt with remorseful pain as she tried to unravel the truth about her part in the orgy. Had she really -- ?
The breathless frenzy grew and bloated her. What kind of mud-sucking pig have I turned into? Can I possibly jail any lower than I have already?
Again and again she tried to formulate a plan, a day-by-day, hour-by-hour program whereby she might effect her gradual reclamation. She knew that she had to, somehow, get hold of herself.
The roller coaster ride had to stop soon, before it was too late.
She realized that without a doubt she could fall further, much further. After the point of no return, what came next? Out and out prostitution, alcoholism, degeneracy. Perhaps drug addiction. And finally?
She nearly went crazy to think about it.
But her hysterical, disorganized thinking got her nowhere. She realized that the one basic tenant of salvation was beyond her grasp. She needed outside help. She needed someone to actually and vitally care about her. But there was no one. Nobody wanted her any more, only. her body or the pleasure her body could confer.
She was totally alone in a predatory, jungle-like world -- deserted.
She spent long hours surrendering to despondent bouts of weeping.
Then on Thursday morning a glimmer of hope was miraculously delivered, by courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell. Kim Brady called.
"Shelly? This is Kim. How are you? I haven't seen you for awhile."
"I'm fine, thank you, Kim. This is quite a surprise. I didn't think you knew my number."
"Margo told me. Along with some other disturbing information. I wonder, Shelly, could you drop by my place. Say around two-thirty? I think there are some things we should talk about. Important things."
"I don't know what you mean. What kind of things?"
"Things like the trouble you're involved in. Whether you realize it or not, baby, you're in way too deep."
"What -- what are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about that thing with Stagg. Stagg Faro, I think it is."
Instantly Shelly's blood ran cold. "Stagg? What do you know about him?"
"I know lots, Shel. Maybe even more than you do."
"But how -- who told you?"
"Margo. We had an interesting chit-chat just yesterday afternoon."
"Margo? But how did she find out?"
"There was a little party out at the lake the other night I hear. Things got kind of wild. Seems one little redhead talked to Margo too much. Told her some very nasty things... "
"No!" Shelly gasped. "I couldn't have." She overturned her thoughts desperately, trying to remember. Had she really blurted the truth to Margo? And if Margo had heard, what about Diosa? The others? "I wasn't that far gone... "
"Oh?" Kim said smugly. "Weren't you? You wouldn't want me to go into the unsavory details, would you?"
If it were possible Shelly would have jumped into the phone itself. "No!" she gasped.
Kim chuckled contentedly. "Well, Shelly. Then I think we should get together this afternoon, say for cocktails. Maybe you'll let Kim help you... " There was subtle insinuation in her voice.
"Yes," Shelly said weakly. "I guess I'd better come. Two-thirty, you said?"
"That's right, honey. I'll be expecting you."
Then Shelly was sitting at the telephone stand, panic a living thing inside of her, dumbly listening to the steady buzzing in the receiver.
* * *
Shelly caught a quick glimpse of herself in the large plate glass doors of the Colchester Arms. She felt a small surge of pride. She was wearing a flattering brown print and her brown alligator pumps. She looked very smart indeed. There was no need to feel self-conscious before Kim Brady today.
And yet she knew she would. For Kim Brady knew about Stagg and the things he'd forced her to do. How could she, how could anyone, talk objectively about something like that?
A thought of Garth Keller flushed other butterflies in her stomach. She prayed that he wouldn't be there this afternoon. After what had happened how could she face him? Please, not Garth Keller.
Her relief was immense then, as Kim promptly answered the door. She saw that neither Bunny nor Garth was present. The apartment was empty and quiet, save for the soft symphonic music. It was like a sanctuary.
"Shelly," Kim smiled. "Come in. I've been waiting for you."
"Am I late?"
"No. Right on the dot. Here, let me take your coat."
Nervously Shelly wandered into the amphitheater- like living room. She sat in a severe Eames chair near the windows.
f "No, Shel," Kim called from behind. "On the davenport there, the white one. So we can talk."
Docilely Shelly did as she was told. She felt pangs of uncertainty as Kim settled beside her. Kim tucked her legs beneath her and let her hand graze Shelly's knee for balance.
"There. Now we're nice and cozy."
Kim looked very lovely this afternoon. Her blonde hair was tied sportily in a twisted magenta scarf. She wore red velvet flats on her feet and a silk blouse that was obviously from India. It was patterned in intricate swirls. It was a severe, uniform thing, with snug, three-quarter length sleeves, its decolletage diving deep between her breasts, accenting and hugging them with bold design. Black velvet slacks, skin-tight also, complemented the illusion of total sophistication. Shelly was certain Kim wore absolutely nothing beneath either garment.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" Kim smiled. "I often think that autumn is my favorite season. So gorgeous. The colors and everything. And yet a tragic, sad time."
Shelly was surprised. She had thought that such thoughts were her own personal property. "Yes, it is a lovely day. I like the fall best too."
For the next five minutes their conversation was aimless and general. It was made-up of so much small talk, neither of them willing to inaugurate the thing that was foremost in their minds. Gradually Shelly became aware of the electric excitement possessing Kim. She felt growing agitation.
It was Kim who broke the ice. "Well? This isn't getting anything done, is it? Shall we talk?"
"I suppose we should."
"You want to tell me about it, Shel? Right from the start?"
"Tell you? But I thought Margo had... "
"Never mind Margo. She'd bound to get things mixed up. I want to hear it straight"
"Please, I'd rather not. Couldn't we skip the details? You know what's been going on."
Suddenly Kim started up. "Hell, but I'm dense. Maybe a drink would help. I could go for an icy martini about now. How about you?"
"Yes. That would be nice."
As Kim worked at the bar Shelly asked, "Bunny... Garth... ? They're not here?"
A feral glitter exploded in Kim's gaze. "Uh-uh. I made 'em broom off. You sure's hell wouldn't want them around now, would you?" It seemed Kim put strange emphasis on the now.
Moments later she was back, carrying two brimming martinis and a half-filled shaker on a tray. Gingerly she handed Shelly a glass, then eased herself down onto the davenport. She sat even closer now. Kim raised the glass in small salute. "Here's to virginity."
Her hands trembled slightly as she put the glass to her lips. Fully one-third of the martini disappeared in a gulp. "Boy," Kim sighed pleasurably. "That'll put hair on your chest."
Shelly giggled and felt more at ease.
"Now," Kim said. "Drink that. And anytime you're ready, just start. I'll be a good listener. I won't interrupt once."
And finally, about four minutes later, the gin fumes began to corrode her system and she felt the snug warmth seize control. Shelly falteringly began her fable of folly.
Kim was as good as her word. She listened impassively, without comment of any sort. Once she moved to refill Shelly's glass. Even so, the narration took quite a while. Shelly was on the verge of tears as she finished.
Kim sat rigidly, staring into space. Her face was white and strained with a wrathful expression of hatred. "That tramp," she shot as it became evident that Shelly was done. "That goddamn tramp." Her tone became thickly vengeful. "I'll fix him. I swear I will."
She turned to Shelly, smiled thinly. "That is if you want me to."
Shelly recoiled from a lash of yearning. If only -- "Do you mean it? Do you think you could? Could you do something to help...?"
"I've got a line on this Stagg creep. I've heard about him before. He's a human leech. Not very human at that. I know how to take care of his kind."
"Please," Shelly blurted. "Kim, if only you could. I'd... "
Kim looked at Shelly full face, her smile painted on her mouth. "You'd what, honey?" she breathed.
"I -- " Shelly quailed before Kim's frank stare. "I'd be so grateful... "
Kim sniffed amusedly. "You'll have to do better than that, dolly"
"What do you mean?" Shelly quaked, knowing perfectly well what Kim meant. A fresh shudder rippled her spine. It wasn't only because of Shelly's impending confession that Kim had cleared the apartment. There were other strings connected to this bargain.
"I'm willing to go out on a big limb for you, Shelly," Kim smiled mockingly. "I can get to this Faro parasite. One way or another. He can be bought off. He's that kind. But before I blow that kind of loot, I've got to get certain guarantees. I've got to get fair return on my investment." , A heavy silence closed down upon them.
Nervously Shelly bit her lip. A tornado of disgust, despair, and confused terror sprang alive in her brain. That any person, a woman especially, could proffer such a carnal proposition. More devastating, that she could seriously consider it for even a moment -- consider surrendering herself, her body to this pervert. Enjoin such an unnatural liaison as this.
Then booming remembrance of her alternate choice smashed her. This or the ugly, faceless phantoms Stagg would continue to deliver her to, a perpetual degradation.
At least, if she accepted Kim's protection, she would have to suffer only one tormentor. She would have to indulge only one idiosyncrasy, one deviation. Besides, Kim was a woman. She was clean, soft, and fragrant She would be gentle, not like those ugly men.
Shelly's mind spun faster and faster. It was blurred by fear and the effects of the two large martinis she'd drunk. Until bit by bit the whirling slowed, and the thoughts became clear once more. Doggedly she forced herself to decide.
She almost laughed to herself. After all, was there really any choice? If she could stomach the other, she could certainly kill conscience before this added depravity.
"Well?" Kim prompted, already confident. She raised her arm and let it settle lightly over Shelly's shoulders. Shelly felt the anxious tremors shooting along it. "Have you made up your mind?"
Shelly's body went rigid. Then slowly, as if all the breath, all will had been sucked from her body, she let herself sink backward into Kim's arm. "All right," she breathed hollowly, her voice barely audible. "I will. If you'll help me. If you'll promise... "
A convulsive spasm whipped through Kim's body, and suddenly she leaned forward, placed her glass on the long cocktail bench. Then she turned on Shelly, her eyes dark and wild. "Oh, baby," she hissed. "You won't be sorry. You'll never be sorry."
Then she gathered Shelly in her arms. She was hugging her fiercely, burying her lips in Shelly's hair, in her throat. And now, slowly and deliberately her hand came up, it caught Shelly's chin and turned her head. Shelly quailed before the feverish, glazed look in those eyes. Inch by inch, Kim deriving scalding pleasure from the teasing prolongation, the lips came toward Shelly's.
Shelly felt her stomach begin to tumble and twist. Still she forced herself to smile, she disciplined her body bravely. The lips touched, tasted, and began to quiver against hers. Now they pressed, locked, and ground in sinuous, insane frenzy.
Shelly felt herself being pressed back onto the cushions of the davenport. She felt Kim's legs twine about her. Her feet clawed the white nylon frieze for a more advantageous hold. She felt Kim's large, pointed breasts squash against her. It gave her a definitely queasy feeling. The first time, she temporized. The first time. Hang on, you'll get used to it.
If it means ridding yourself of Stagg Faro. You'll have to get used to it.
"Kitten, kitten," Kim was whining, "you don't know how long I've waited for this. How long I've dreamed of the time when you'd say yes... " Again the demanding, devouring lips descended. "You're so lovely, so lovely. I've wanted you so much. Let me love you. Let me take care of you. You'll never have to go back to Stagg, or your husband. Just let me take care of you."
A new spasm wracked her. "I love you, Shelly. Oh God, but I love you. I'll show you delights you never dreamed existed. Oh, please. Just lay there like that. Let me love you. Let me adore you."
Kim crawled over Shelly more frantically, fitting her lips to Shelly's again and again. It was as if she wanted to consume her, to suck her breath from her. Valiantly Shelly fought her revulsion and let Kim take her way with her. There, it wasn't so bad now. She'd made it all right.
Kim's tongue, hard and pointed, darted from her mouth. It battered at Shelly's lips like a maddened serpent. It swept along the tight crack in restless, erotic fury, refusing to be denied. It probed and bunted. While at the same time Kim's legs tightened on Shelly's, she ground her belly against Shelly's.
Then, when Shelly gasped for breath, the hot, red tongue drove itself into Shelly's mouth and began its membranous, erotic reconnaissance. Dumbly and limply, feeling strange stirrings deep within her, Shelly surrendered completely. She resisted no more.
"Baby, baby," Kim gasped, breaking the kiss, "if you only knew what that does to me. I feel like someone's dragging a knotted rag through my insides. I've got it for you, kitten. God, have I got it for you."
Again she attacked Shelly. Only this time her hands became the tormentors. They tremblingly caressed her breasts, her stomach, and the secret part of her body. Shelly stiffened as the hands stroked her legs and slid relentlessly under her skirt, higher and higher.
"You're beautiful, Shelly, beautiful. I love it. Please, lay still. Let me do it..
The groping, the kissing and caressing went on and on. Until Shelly felt the wildness mount in her stomach. God, no -- she protested. I'm not going to enjoy this am I? I won't let myself enjoy it, will I?
Then abruptly Shelly was shaken from her exotic trance, she found Kim pulling her to her feet. "Come with me, baby. Let me take care of you. Let Kim take care of you." Shelly let herself be led from the room.
They entered the sumptuous, massive bathroom, tiled in acres of marble and plastic. She thought, it isn't going to happen here, is it? She stood in awe at the sight of the huge, sunken tub at the room's far end. It was ornately decorated, its fixtures gleaming chrome.
"I'll do it," Kim was babbling. "I'll do it all You just have to let me, darling." Then without further ceremony she stood before Shelly and pulled the Indian blouse over her head. Then she feverishly skinned out of the velvet slacks. She posed totally nude before Shelly.
Her breasts were heaving erratically. They were proud and taut, the nipples dark and convoluted. "Am I pretty, Shelly?" she keened. "Tell me I'm pretty."
Kim's eyes narrowed suddenly, became cunning. "Not as pretty as you, kitten. Here, let Kim see."
Immediately she came to Shelly and began undoing her buttons, running zippers, and popping snaps. She removed the gown, the slip, and the brassiere. Shelly stood numbed, feeling a strange heat generating in her nude breasts. She sensed a reluctant enjoyment from this servile attention by another woman.
"I'll take care of it all," Kim continued chanting, kneeling before Shelly. A weird glitter was flickering in her eyes. She was enjoying the self-abasement to the utmost. Now she undid Shelly's garter snaps and peeled her stockings down. She balanced Shelly as she stepped out of her shoes. Then the girdle and the orchid panties.
And while the water was running in the tub, Kim held Shelly in her arms and kissed her savagely. Her hands cruised down Shelly's back. When there was still time, she began to kiss Shelly's breasts.
Then they got into the mammoth bathtub together. "Kitten, kitten," Kim chanted as she gathered Shelly in her arms. "I'm gonna love taking care of you. Forever and ever."
They stayed in the hot water a long time. Shelly was awed by the novelty of having herself bathed by another woman. Kim savored the menial chore, wallowing in it. Again and again she soaped Shelly's body, scrubbed and rinsed it. Again and again she paused to embrace Shelly, to caress and clench her. She made a ritual of washing Shelly's legs and feet.
Strangely enough she did not expect Shelly to reciprocate. She took care of her bath herself, scrubbing and rinsing herself with business-like dispatch.
Then abruptly she dashed from the tub, began toweling herself. "You stay there," she told Shelly. "I'll towel you. Just wait a minute."
Now Shelly stood before the chair upon which Kim perched. She allowed Kim to towel her body dry, everywhere. By then the fever was an uncontrollable thing. She was swept up in the sick attentions and adoration Shelly noticed that her nipples were hard buttons and her limbs were pocked with myriad goose pimples.
She was enjoying this twisted ceremonial.
When she was finally dry, Kim drew her between her knees and held her close. Her lips flicked up at Shelly's nipples with maddening insistence.
"Now, darling," she choked. "Now we go into the bedroom." And gripping Shelly's hips, she pulled herself up.
* * *
Shelly stood waiting, the glaring sun warm on her back, while Kim hurried to pull off the bedspread. When it was swept away satin sheets were revealed, an azure blue which dazzling reflected tearing spears of light.
"Here, darling," Kim moaned. "Lie here."
But the preparations were not yet over. Kim went to her dresser and returned with an ornate bottle of bath oil. It was pungent and musky. It had an all-pervasive, exciting odor. "Lie still," she pushed Shelly back. "Let me. Let me take care of my baby."
And slowly, methodically, triggering an incredible lazy glow and a sense of supreme well being in Shelly, Kim began to massage the oil into her body. The sun and the pressure of Kim's gliding fingers became hypnotic. Shelly felt her bones turning to mush. The hands tenderly rolled and slid on her breasts, her stomach, and her legs. Over and over. Up and down. It seemed the process went on for an hour, the drowsiness continued to mount.
That was right, Shelly thought dazedly. This wm right. This was the love, the adoration she needed.
She was putty in Kim's hands. Kim rolled her over and began to rub the luxurious, thick oil into her buttocks into her back. It seemed the room was floating, that the bed was supported upon wispy, visible clouds of aphrodisiac, penetrating odor. The feeling became stronger, more delightful.
Shelly couldn't get enough of it Then finally Kim was finished with her reverent homage. She decreed that Shelly was ready. The bed creaked and began a slow whirl as Kim came to her. Her hands and lips began their insatiable Odyssey up and down Shelly's body. But caught up in the intoxicating languor, Shelly did not care. She sensed no revulsion now, only a sleepy longing that the soft, hot kisses continue.
For a long time Kim lingered at her breasts and paid them maddening homage. It seemed that Shelly would go wild from the stinging rapture burgeoning in her. Involuntarily her body began to throb and writhe. Husky whispers escaped her throat.
It was like a trigger to Kim's own snarling need. For simultaneously she was seized by a mighty spasm. She deserted Shelly's nipples, let her lips slide down. "You're going to love this, darling. You'll never want love any other way again. Ill make it glorious for you."
The lips began to nibble and kiss. "You're beautiful, beautiful," Kim chanted. "I love you." A shrill sob broke from her "I want you. Now!" And the circular bed whirled in sedate, demure speed. Round and round, at minuet tempo. Not like with Garth at all. The satin sheets slid and crinkled, reflected the glaring sun upon itself.
Shelly began to scream ecstatically.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The happy juice had been flowing fast and furiously since ten. When Kim Brady's party had been officially kicked off. And now at midnight on this particular Saturday -- Sunday morning to be more exact -- there was nobody in the room who could lay honest claim to anything resembling sobriety. Unless, perhaps, Garth Keller, who manned the extravagantly stocked bar with a cold, steady gaze, and an unerring efficiency. He seemed not to see the drunken circus that was developing before his eyes.
There were twenty women present, almost the full complement of Man-haters. With them were approximately fourteen males, Garth Keller excepted. Twice Shelly had tried to count the men, but each time had failed. They simply would not stand still long enough. And besides, by then, she was not seeing too clearly herself.
The women were all dressed in lavish, exciting cocktail gowns. The dresses were put out in every detail, plainly designing to make themselves irresistible to their male friends. The women had been planning for and looking forward to Kim's party for weeks now. AD the groundwork had been carefully laid. Dates had been arranged, not with their husbands of course, with the preciseness of a NATO strategy operation.
It was their night to ball. Pity the poor girl who couldn't ditch hubby tonight!
The men had arrived with suspicious faces, not sure of what they were letting themselves in for. A party, Tina said. That's all I know about it. Their doubts had magnified shortly after arriving, when they found themselves among complete strangers, and found the men who were already there were as much in the dark as they. And so were the men still arriving.
But the girls had given them little time to mull things over in their minds. Hewing to their pre-planned program they had commenced to liquor up their men unmercifully. In a very short time their victims didn't care what-the-hell-kind-of-party it was. All they knew was that they were having the time of their lives.
And did you ever see so many pretty, stiff-hungry dolls? Dolls who let you get away with almost anything?
But of course what these gulled sheep couldn't know was that at the party's zenith the small, rat-faced man in the blue suit who circulated so tied?
would disappear. He was an expert photographer, erudite in the way of lenses, shutter openings, high-speed films, and the like. He would shuttle into one of Kim's closets, where an impromptu photo studio and listening post was already arranged.
Here, through an advantageously placed two-way mirror granting full view of all the living room goings on, he could shoot up film to his heart's content, and monitor the trio of semi-automatic tape recorders whose leads snaked to hidden microphones in all three of the bedrooms Kim was placing at the revelers' disposal.
There was even a movie camera, which, Kim Brady had smirkingly ordered the venal little profiteer, was to be used only during one portion of the evening. "There's this tall redhead," she'd said, you can't miss her. She's young, far away the best looker in the crowd. Shell be wearing a gold lame dress. Sort of a Roaring Twenties thing. When you see me move in on her, start to undress her... " She had giggled lasciviously at that point. "Then it's Hollywood time. Roll 'em."
The reel of film, obviously, would be a treasured memento for Kim Brady. She would screen it countless times during long, cold, winter evenings. She would derive perpetual enjoyment from the carnal exhibition entrapped on that noncommittal celluloid. It would be a priceless memento. It would immortalize the frenzied night of Shelly's initiation. In a way -- Shelly's coming out party.
And the other snips of recording tape? The other incriminating snapshots? They would be carefully edited, and the faces of the female participants blurred with acid. Then, in plain envelopes or brown packages, the items would be sent to different homes all over Lake City. Souvenirs for the unlucky wives who hadn't been able to make the party with their loving spouses.
Everything was arranged all right Ball town, U.S.A.
Every woman present had been coached in procedures. In the living room they were to steer their escort close to the mirror. They were to kiss, embrace, and let him fondle and play with any of their female accessories the blind sap might choose. They were to eat it up, being careful to see that their cheating Lothario was full face to the camera.
In the bedroom the vampires were to extort any possible excess from the man. They were to use his name ad nauseum, and coax him into comparison between their libertine talents and those of their victim's wife.
Then a week later the girls would gather at Kim's place for one of her inimitable cocktail afternoons. They would sort and identify snapshots. They would listen to and snip the tape, and thread it on the tiny, individual reels. They would get a charge all over again. And finally they would write the mocking notes, wrap and address the packages and letters. The session would be something akin to an old time quilting bee.
Jolly, jolly.
All this Shelly knew, for she had been present at most of the pre-party briefings. One thing she did not know, though, the small matter of the evening's climax. Between her and Kim Brady. That was Kim's secret Shelly now sensed a tipsy disappointment that Kim had decreed there would be no man for her. She certainly would have enjoyed doing her small part in the clever scheme to bring fourteen different marriages to the brink of disaster. But if Kim said no, no it was.
For Kim was in complete charge now. There had been three more adventures in the whirling bed since that Thursday afternoon nine days ago. Shelly had by now learned how to shut off her mind as the overtures to the perverted act began. She had become resigned to her ugly fate. After all, she owed that much to Kim. And indeed, despite the nagging pains of remorse and the perpetual cloud of self-loathing hovering over her, she felt a deep, heartfelt gratitude to Kim. If it hadn't been for Kim -- Stagg Faro hadn't summoned Shelly to his apartment once since that first lesbian afternoon. Seemingly he had disappeared from the face of the earth. When Shelly questioned Kim about it she was evasive. She merely stated that the matter had been taken care of. And if Shelly persisted, Kim usually became angry.
She knew it was no fluke. Kim Brady had used her influence on Stagg. She had bought him off.
Shelly sank further into her self-damning reverie. She considered how much her life had been altered since she'd delivered herself to Kim. The gold lame dress she wore, for instance. Kim had picked it out for her and paid an enormous price for it. As well as for the gold lame slippers she wore and the exquisite French lingerie, silver grey, lace heavy, exotically tasseled, beneath the gown. Kim had dressed her from head to toe She insisted that it was only because she loved Shelly so and wanted her to look divine for the party, that she was willing to lavish money on her like this.
There were other gowns and other lingerie, small and expensive gifts, perfume, and jewelry. It seemed Kim couldn't do enough for her.
On one point Shelly had remained adamant. She had refused Kim's pleas that she desert Bob entirely, that she come live at her apartment. Bunny Traxler was, all at once, gone -- evicted, to be seen nor more. And Kim was lonely rattling about in that enormous bedroom all by herself. Wouldn't Shelly reconsider?
Shelly would not.
She couldn't explain, even to herself, why not. She didn't know what she was waiting for, why she marked time in this cul-de-sac parody of a marriage she and Bob continued to perpetrate. For the impasse went on. Neither of them was ever home, neither of them deigning to address the other. Bob was away again this weekend, with Jane. He had, in a rare outburst, blatantly announced it. He dared and pleaded with Shelly to do something about it. Divorce was still his theme-song.
And so she went to the party at Kim's. At least it was something to do.
Now Shelly broke from her thoughts. She looked bemusedly about her. Everything was so loud. There was so much motion. Why didn't they calm down and enjoy themselves? She was drinking martinis again. They had become her favorite of late. They did the job they were intended to do with the utmost dispatch. Like an old friend, she could depend upon them.
She smiled and waved giddily at Diosa, who was in a large, overstuffed chair, curled on the lap of a man she'd introduced as Lenny Slater. Diosa waved back, then returned to her vicious pleasures. Tonight she wore a knit cocktail gown, a flattering magenta colored creation with the entire front all but missing, sweeping to the tips of her breasts. At the cleft of her bosom there was a stiff, reinforced point which rose, fell in, and formed a snug seal between her breasts. It was like round bottomed W.
It was this seal that Slater toyed with, and lifted. Indifferently, enjoying the sport, Diosa allowed him to play. She let him slide his trembling fingers across the brimming prominence of her breasts. And when this wasn't enough she allowed his hand to creep inside the material itself. She fell back in sloe-eyed permissiveness, languidly sipping her Pink Lady.
No one heeded this little tableau at all. There were more vigorous tableaux being enacted in almost any part of the room one might want to concentrate on. On the davenport Carol Marsten was sprawled beside her transient lover. Calmly and drunkenly, she allowed him to raise her skirt, to fondle her legs and stroke her black girdled belly. Against the adjacent wall the woman named Donna Trevor was wildly kissing her date. Openly she was permitting him to clench her buttocks with both hands, halt lifting her from the floor in the process. Shelly saw Donna's skirt slide up, and saw the white of her legs above her nylons.
Over the top of another couch she saw the cow-lick of a male head and hulking male shoulders. And then a silky, long, female leg, seemingly dismembered, clad in iridescent hose and tipped by a needle heeled and toed shoe, slowly rose and flopped over the davenport's back. Shelly giggled to herself, wondered what was going on over there.
Then she noticed her drink was gone. Carefully, testing her legs first, she rose from her chair and started toward the bar for a refill. At first she'd felt extremely self-conscious when she'd faced Garth again. It was the first time, actually, since the afternoon of their passion event. Kim saw to it that the apartment was always deserted when Shelly came to call nowadays.
He had regarded her with a vacant-eyed expression, treating her like a total stranger. Shelly had shrunk before the contemptuous look. He knows about me and Kim, she thought. He knows everything, and despises me. Garth had mixed her drink without a word. But at that last moment before she'd turned away, it had seemed that a film had fallen away from his eyes. Shelly had thought she'd detected a spark of warmth, of humane concern in his gaze.
But she couldn't be sure. He'd turned away so quickly.
Now, with each succeeding trip to the bar, Shelly found it easier to face him. She returned his sullen glances with sullen looks of her own. Until now, it was as if he meant nothing at all, as if the soul-baring session with him had never happened. He was just a man, a vain, egocentric man.
"Aren't you hitting that stuff pretty hard?" he spoke for the first time, as she pushed the glass at him. "You're going to get squiffed, but good. You'll be sorry tomorrow. Maybe even before tomorrow." It seemed suddenly to Shelly that Garth knew something she didn't know.
"What are you getting at?" she said muzzily.
"I'm just telling you to lay off. You want to get like that hag over there?"
Shelly turned and focused her eyes. She saw the thin-legged brunette called Luanna standing before her man with a lascivious, ugly smile. She deliberately, teasingly, let down the front of her strapless gown. She brought his greedy fingers to the bursting boobs. Then Luanna pushed him away and giggled loudly. She began to do a writhing dance before him, her breasts swaying and bobbing with a nervous wiggle. Quickly a small crowd formed. Still Luanna danced, too drunk to care.
"Is that what you want?" Garth prompted. "No... " Shelly said, somewhat shaken. God, don't let me get like that. Not tonight. "Well then. Lay off."
"What do you care?" Shelly turned on him. "What does anybody care? If I stripped and ran around waving a flag, would anybody care?" She suddenly felt petulantly sorry for herself, and very drunk.
Garth shrugged. "I suppose not. Don't cry on my shoulder. I got troubles of my own. I'm just giving you a friendly warning." Quickly he averted his eyes, denying the alien surge of compassion he felt as he took in the tipsy, brutalized waif before him. The ravishingly beautiful waif.
Shelly whirled from him. Pointedly she took a deep swallow of her martini. "Keep your damn warnings," she snapped. "I got no use for 'em." Then she staggered back to her chair. Where she saw a fever-eyed Kim Brady waiting for her.
It was about this time that Andy Selensky, the weaselly photographer, chose to make himself scarce. The party was approaching pitch now.
For a starter there was Luanna Williams, wearing only her girdle, stockings, and shoes. There was the man who knelt on the floor, his head thrown back and his mouth wide. He was trying to trap Luanna's hard, red nipples as she leaned over him awkwardly, flipping her breasts past his face, teasing him -- herself -- to an insane fever.
That was worth a half dozen shots at least. There was Donna Trevor upside down in the high-backed Danish lounge chair. Her legs were straight above her. She was laughing hysterically as her male friend took off her shoes. Then he began tugging at her girdle and panties from where he stood behind the chair.
There was Carol Marsten, whose dress was unbuttoned down the front. She hobbled on one shoeless foot, fighting with wild, laughing shrieks as her partner tried pulling her toward the bedroom. Carol balked at the door, and screamed, "No, Jeffy, no! You don't get any. Not even a sniff. Not until you do it!"
The man tried hushing her, but Carol would not be hushed. "Say you'll do it. Or you get nothing." She turned to the amused bystanders. "You girls too!" she importuned. "Make 'em do it to you. Don't give 'em any until they do!"
She turned on the man. "Say it, damn you! Say you will." And finally the man relented. He muttered something into her ear. "Did you hear, gang?" Carol screeched exultantly at the top of her lungs. "He's gonna' do it. Ya' hear? He's gonna do it!" She hurried him into the bedroom. "C'mon, lover," she gritted at the last. "I'm gonna love this. It'll be the most."
A roar of savage laughter followed them into the bedroom.
While in his stuffy control closet, Selensky bent to recorder number one. Deftly he balanced the record level.
The party continued. It got wilder and wilder. It seemed Garth Keller never had a moment's rest.
While he monitored the bedroom action with a sick, twisted smile on his lips, the little photographer looked for more pictures to take. Then he spied the redhead in the gold lame dress that Mrs. Brady had told him about. He saw her on the chair, vainly fighting off Kim as she tried to kiss her. Finally the redhead gave in and let Kim gather her in her arms.
He raised the camera. Perhaps Mrs. Brady would like a few shots of this. A bonus, sort of.
"Please, Kim," Shelly pleaded. "Don't. Not here. Not in front of everybody. Don't, Kim... "
"What's the difference?" Kim smirked. "Everybody else is laying into it. Why shouldn't we?"
"That's different," Shelly argued with dizzy logic. "They're men and women. They're... "
"Damn!" Kim spat. "What difference does it make? He'n and she'n, she'n and she'n, it's all the same. You get the same jolt in the end."
"Please, Kim... "
"Sit still, damnit. I'm not going to hurt you. You think the others don't know that you're my new trick? My new little foxie? Hell, it's public domain." Her hands lightly caressed and cupped Shelly's breasts. "Besides," she simpered. "This is only a starter. The best is yet to come."
Shelly went stiff. A buzzing began in her head.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing, baby," Kim said, not wanting to spook Shelly. "Nothing at all. You just wait and see." She held Shelly's glass. "Here, take some more of your drink."
Dumbly and drunkenly, too tired and addled to care now, Shelly relaxed in Kim's arms. She let Kim kiss her forehead, and let her hands wander over her body.
As she slumped her attention was again directed to the female leg hanging over the back of the davenport. A couple had drawn up chairs before the davenport, and were watching the little drama on the couch with wide-eyed fascination. Shelly saw the limp leg suddenly jerk like a needle had been plunged into it. Now it kicked and swung madly. She saw a stockinged knee hump up. Then the other leg was rising and kicking.
In the two chairs a terrible urgency was gripping the spectators. With a shudder the lovely brunette clenched her hand on the man's leg.
While at the bar there was a slight lull. Garth Keller had a moment to survey the sinful bacchanal. But mostly he had eyes for Shelly. He felt his stomach knot with disgust as he saw Kim blissfully rubbing her legs. That damn fool kid, he raged. She doesn't know what she's getting into. Suddenly he shook his head and tried to shake the thoughts out. Stay cool, he mocked. Don't get involved. It isn't your affair. He readied a new batch of martinis.
Shelly was almost dozing when the movement woke her. "What...?" she said.
"Sit tight, honey," Kim purred. "I'll be right back."
Shelly noticed that there were more naked women capering about the apartment now. There was also a sprinkling of naked men. Her stomach wheeled sickeningly as she saw a nude Margo Lakin sitting in a large, winged chair. Shelly saw the man kneeling before Margo, his face in her lap. No, not like that. Not right in front of everybody.
Then Shelly sniffed and caught the sickly smell of vomit hanging on the air. Somebody had thrown up. The party was getting out of control.
Finally she became aware of Kim. She was teetering among the couples scattered and wrestling on the floor. She carried an armload of pillows and throw cushions. What in the world? Shelly puzzled.
Now Kim was arranging them in an empty space in the middle of the floor, fighting off attempts by the polluted couples to requisition them for themselves. She rose, a vapid smile on her face, and went back into her bedroom. When she emerged this time, she was unfolding a jet-black, satin sheet.
The sheet was carefully spread over the bed of pillows, and a hollow was punched into its center. Now, as unconcernedly as though she were alone in her own boudoir, Kim began to strip off her clothes. The nucleus of a crowd began to form.
Shelly felt a giddy premonition of disaster. What did Kim think she was doing?
Then her blood turned to ice water as she saw Kim turn and start in her direction with a feral darkness in her stare. She found it hard to breath. Oh, dear God, no. Kim didn't really mean to -- "C'mon, darling," Kim sang, "it's our turn. Now we play f'r the pretty people." Her hands went immediately for the zipper at the back of the gold gown.
"Kim!" Shelly panicked. "Are you out of your mind? You're drunk. Now stop! You don't want to do this. Stop! You've just had too much to drink. Please, Kim, you can't ask me to do this." Her voice rose in an anguished howl. "Kim! Please!"
It was an outraged, hysterical cry and it stung Kim. Her face suddenly went white. Then her hand flashed out and caught Shelly full force across her cheek, nearly jolting her head off her shoulders. "Yes," she snarled. "You will. Yes, yes! And you'll like it. Because it's what I want Understand? I want it."
Shelly attempted to struggle, to break away and escape the fervid, evil hands on her body, the flashing lights in her head. She and Kim twisted and clawed fiercely. Shelly emitted choking, anguished screams as Kim tore at the dress. But just when Shelly was breaking Kim's hold, one of the men standing by, fearing that the perverted show wouldn't come off, intervened.
Gripping Shelly's arms, he held her helpless for Kim.
Kim's face was a livid, grinning mask. "Don't, Shelly," she keened. "Don't fight with Kim. I only wanna' show people how beautiful you are, how much I love you. I'll be good to you. Le' me, baby. This's gonna be your debut. Understand? Your debut."
And all the while her hands were plucking at Shelly's clothes, at the exquisite, sexy lingerie. Now Shelly stood completely naked in full view of the others. An eerie silence had settled over the room, and only the raucous dance music from the hi-fi system could be heard. That, Kim's aberrated pleadings, and Shelly's coughing sobs. Every eye was on the two naked bodies.
"This way, darling," Kim was cooing as she pushed her toward the improvised bed in the center of the floor. "We'll do it so everybody c'n see how much Kim loves you. You'll like it, honey. I'll make ya' like it."
Then Shelly found herself being pushed down into the uneven, lumpy pillows. She felt Kim and the man turning her onto her back. She became vaguely conscious of the ring of faces that hovered above her. It seemed she was walled away from the world, from reality. And now Kim's sneering face came into view, very close. She heard her viscous soothings. And finally, Kim's hands -- her lips--began to rove her limp, naked body.
Shelly could fight no more. If it must happen, let it happen. She closed her eyes against all the sick, expectant faces hanging above her, against humiliation and depravity. Give the devil his due.
Kim's lips lingered at her breasts, for an eternity. Now they were sliding downward, toward her belly. Submit, Shelly called in tired chant. Submit, submit -- Then suddenly there was a grated, insane oath. A storm of muttering and outcry raged around her. Shelly sensed violent, piling motion around her. Her eyes clicked open.
Blurringly she saw Garth Keller shoulder his way through the crowd. He wrenched Kim up with one vicious grab and backhanded her savagely. Once, twice, three times, until blood burst from her nostrils and ran over her face. Garth's mouth was drawn into a grotesque snarl, his eyes distended with hatred.
She saw Kim fall, screaming.
"Rotten, rotten... " Garth grated in rasping singsong. "Scummy, filthy pervert... " He turned on the others. "Perverts!" he roared. "Every one of you. Leave her alone, do you hear? She's mine. Ill kill you if you touch her!"
Kim struggled to rise, her blood leaving wide trails on the satin, and on her breasts. Garth put his foot in her chest and pushed her back. "Down, you tramp!"
Now he leaned and lifted Shelly to her feet. She slipped, almost fell on the silky terrain. He put his arm around her and held her firmly.
"You," he gritted, pushing the naked Diosa backward. "Get her clothes. Her coat. Move!"
A very startled Diosa moved.
One of Kim's male guests, emboldened by liquor, barred Garth's way. "Hey," he demanded. "You damn flunky. What do you think you're doing? Put her down, before I... "
With one lazy, effortless smash Garth collapsed they drink-flushed face. The man broke a chair going down.
A very wide path was suddenly opened.
"Get her dressed," Garth ordered as Diosa scurried back. "Her dress and shoes. Put the rest in a bag. Where's her coat?"
Woodenly, unable to comprehend what was happening, Shelly raised her arms. She let Diosa drop the dress over her head. She sat in a chair, let her fit the gold pumps to her feet. Then she was being raised again. She felt the heavy weight of her coat on her shoulders.
Someone was half leading, half carrying her door-ward.
Then they were in the coolish silence of the corridor. Shelly suddenly caved in. It was the end of the line. She began to sob as if her heart would break.
CHAPTER TWELVE
For a long time Shelly lay in the strange bed without moving. She was afraid to open her eyes for fear of what she might find when she did. Her brain was buzzing; there was a dull, recessive pain in her forehead. Blurred thought of a wild party, of dozens of runny, gaping faces -- of Kim -- came to her. Of a man named Garth Keller.
At that instant she opened her eyes and stared wildly about her. Garth -- the plaint came. Where -- She winced against the bright light. Even though the blinds were drawn, it still hurt her eyes. Her body was tense and unmoving. She rolled her head sideways and tried to determine where she was. Panic flared anew.
She was in a cramped, strange room, alone. A room she'd never seen before. But how? Where? What had happened to her?
Terrified, she struggled onto one elbow and glanced at her wrist watch. One o'clock I Afternoon! Did this mean she'd never gone home? That she'd spent the night in this place? But with whom?
God, she groaned. Help me, help me remember.
She fell back and felt her heart pounding insanely inside her chest. If I could just remember.
Then shard by infinitesimal shard the recollections came. She remembered the party more clearly, she remembered a woman -- Kim! -- slapping her. Then someone stripping her clothes off her.
My clothes! she started, and rubbed her hands over her body. She found that she was totally nude beneath the covers. Then she looked at the straight-backed chair across the room. She saw a tangle of grey lingerie and the glittering lame.
Again it seemed she floated in a sea of black, slippery silk. It was as if the world had gathered around her, was looking down on her with curious, accusing eyes.
She twisted on the bed. But after that --what? What did it mean? The black satin, the gaping people?
Now a different kind of memory squeezed its way through her muddled thoughts. A tender, comforting memory. A memory of someone -- a man -- undressing her, putting her to bed, and covering and kissing her. There was a smile; protective, calm -- yet confused.
And now this.
At that moment her tangled reverie was abruptly interrupted, her puzzlings partially answered. The door opened, and a burst of sun slammed its way into the room. That was followed by a very preoccupied Garth Keller who had a folded newspaper under his arm.
"Garth!" she breathed, actually happy to see him. If it had been a total stranger -- He strode quickly to the bed and sat on the edge. "Well," he smiled warmly. "Hi, sleepyhead. Welcome back." He reached forward, took her hand. Strangely enough Shelly had no desire to withdraw it. It seemed fitting and right somehow that he should hold her hand.
"Where are we, Garth? What's happened? How did I get here?" the words tumbled. "Oh, Garth," she begged. "I can't remember anything."
He chuckled. "Not so fast. You mean you actually don't remember? The party at Kim's?"
"Up to a point. I guess I was pretty drunk. I remember that man holding me, Kim undressing me. Something about a black sheet. But after that I draw a blank."
"You don't recall me slapping Kim silly? Me hauling you out of that hell-hole?"
"No, Garth, I don't. Did you do that? Is that how I got here?"
"Whoa, Shelly. Not so fast."
A strange rush of excitement filled Shelly. "You took me away from Kim? You brought me here? Why, Garth?"
He smiled wryly, dropped her hand. "That's a damn good question, kid. I don't know why myself. All I know is that I flubbed a good deal for myself. All of a sudden I had a bellyful of the cesspool operation Kim was running there. I realized that by being there, by doing her dirty work, I was just as much responsible as she was. Then when they started doing those filthy things to you... "
"Yes, Garth?"
He looked down at his hands. "Well -- I just couldn't take any more of it, that's all. I had to get you out of there. You were in over your head, Shel. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, I know." All at once Shelly's problems did not seem quite so oppressive. Not with Garth here. "What happened then? Why didn't you take me home?"
He snorted. "How was I to know where home was? You sure's hell weren't in an shape to know where you lived. So I brought you here. We spent the night."
A small terror invaded her brain. "Garth -- did we...?"
"Did I make love to you?" He grinned benignly.
"No. I was tempted though. Even drunk you're a beautiful woman. Remembering that other time didn't help either. But like I said, you were out cold. Besides, it just didn't seem right. It would have spoiled things."
"What sort of things?" Shelly pressed, the excitement crowding her chest.
"Just things," he evaded awkwardly.
"But if you didn't -- I mean -- where did you sleep?"
"I swiped one of your blankets. Curled up on the chair. It wasn't half bad."
Shelly shook her head wonderingly. "I still don't understand. Why, after all these weeks? Even when I begged you to help me? What changed you? Why now?"
"Don't confuse me, Shelly. I said I don't know. I just lost my head. When I saw them hurting you; all of a sudden it was like you belonged to me, like I was responsible for you... "
"And are you responsible for me? Do you want that?"
"I don't know. This is all new to me. I'm all mixed up inside." His jaw firmed, as he was ashamed of his words. "I just know I'll miss you after I take you back."
A wild singing erupted in Shelly's brain. "And if I don't let you take me back?"
"Don't push me, Shelly. I can't understand what's going on inside this jungle brain of mine. I don't know what it is. If it's love you can't prove it by me. I was in love once. Or thought I was. I made one damned fool of myself over that woman. Kerry helped, I guess. I swore I'd never let it happen again, that I'd never let anybody get close to me again."
"I know, Garth. You told me before."
"Yeah, I guess I did."
"Garth, tell me something. If I asked you to help me again. What would you answer this time?"
He looked at her steadily, his eyes lit by a fearful wonder. "I'd say yes," he said simply.
Shelly averted her gaze, so he wouldn't see the happy tears there. "Then that's all we need, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm mixed-up too, Garth. I don't know what to think of all this either. But if you care enough that you want to help me then that's all that matters. I don't know what I'll do now. Take things one day at a time, I guess. But if I can turn to you every once in awhile."
"You can, Shelly."
"Then we'll have to let that do. If love's going to happen, it will. I can wait. But I know one thing... "
"What's that?"
"That if I ever learn to love again -- I -- could learn to love you." She swallowed hard, the effort igniting thunder in her ears. "Will -- will you let me try? Give me that chance?"
Garth fell on the bed. He gathered Shelly, blankets, and all in his arms. He buried his lips in the soft smoothness of her throat. "Yes," he said in a breathy burst. "I want to try too. It'll be something good, no matter what."
A terrible warmth; a longing of half sadness and half intolerable joy suffused her. It made it hard for her to think straight. She pulled his head from her shoulder and lifted his lips.
"Garth... " she sighed. Then kissed him.
They held the kiss for a long time, until it became something more than just a kiss. It generated a mutual desire deep inside of them. There was tenderness to the kiss, and yet hidden savagery, lurking lust to it also. Suddenly Garth's arms were trembling in convulsive spasms.
"Shelly," he muttered as they unlocked their mouths. "When you and Bob -- when you divorce him. I'll be waiting."
Shelly's heart lodged in her throat. "Do you mean it, Garth? Really mean it?"
"Yes. I've been running away too long. It's about time I turned and faced things. Took my place in the world."
Then all at once the yearning became unbearable, he had to know. She had to prove this one last thing. "Garth," she quaked, her heart at dead rest, "come in here with me. Take off your clothes, come to me -- please... "
His body went rigid beside hers. "Are you sure?"
"Positive, positive."
"Yea, darling" he breathed. Then pushed away and stood beside the bed.
* * *
There was no time for love-play or inciting endearments. Their need was too great for such dividends. There would be time for those later. Now there was only the insensate longing for each other, the scalding need.
And still Shelly was reluctant to start. Fearful that this glorious, transfiguring moment would be too soon over. That it would leave in its wake only fine ash, the residue of a desperate dream that never quite materialized.
So she held him imprisoned in her body, motionless, bound in the steel trap of her legs and arms. She savored the moment, the balm of his presence. She marveled at the transporting joy and sense of Tightness that was rampant within her heart. "Oh, oh, oh," she whimpered in a lost voice. "You're good, Garth. All any woman could ever want."
He said nothing, only breathed harshly in her ear. He conferred a summer shower of kisses on her throat, shoulder, and beneath her ear.
Then Shelly was shot through with the stinging impatience, the wild, jangling urgency. She loosened her arms and legs and gave the man his rein. Let him lead, she thought. I'll follow. "Yes, darling," she sighed. And contracted herself, gave him a signal. The ebb and flow of their bodies was rhythmic, easy and graceful, as though they had been cohabiting for years. It was as if they had learned from long experience what little tricks the other enjoyed. It was a perfect, precise, trip-hammer melding; a molten oneness.
Shelly rapturously suffered paroxysm after paroxysm. And yet her psyche, too long blunted and bestialized, longed for more; for ecstasy without end.
As one particularly wracking spasm of release thundered down upon her she gasped. "I can't help myself, baby. I don't want to, but I can't stop it. I love you," she sobbed, uttering the words she thought she'd never use again so long as she lived. "I do, I love you."
"Darling, darling... " Garth groaned, his body knotting more fiercely, attacking her with fresh hysteria. "Don't push me. Give me time. Until I'm sure."
A magic heat swamped Shelly, a holy, blinding compassion. She pulled Garth closer and ran her arms soothingly up and down his back. "It's all right, sweetheart, it's all right. If you'll just let me love you... "
While a fireball exploded in outer space. Its heat searing her face and seeping into her bloodstream, cauterizing every cell of her body. It became a scalding, blinding prominence that soared and arched before her dazzled eyes.
She screamed in helpless agony, begging for perpetuation of ecstasy. And knew an awesome truth. Love -- true, final love -- does make a difference.
It and the physical act are bound inextricably to each other. One cannot exist without the other.
Now she felt Garth straining against her, desperate for his own deliverance. And she released him instantly, thinking how greedily she was acting. "You now, lover. Yes, you..
Her body leaped up, twisted and squirmed to help.
Until at last, with a throaty cry, it happened.
And he held her so tightly, he drove his lips into hers so hard she almost suffocated.
Still, she thought blissfully, feeling an indescribable, drowsy contentment inundate her, what a beautiful way to die.
* * *
Later they lay huddled in each other's arms, talking about the sordid past and the glittering future. Making plans and hand-painting wishful daydreams. Until all at once Shelly froze.
"What is it?" Garth asked, instantly concerned.
"Kim -- Stagg--" she whispered. "What about them? Kim won't give me up so easily. Not without a fight. She knows about Stagg and me. About the murder. Shell tell. They'll come and find me, take me away...
Garth smiled calmly. He slid away from her and reached to the floor where he'd dropped the newspaper when he'd come in. "It's all been taken care of," he said. And opening it, he pointed out a lead article.
BODY FOUND IN LAKE MICHIGAN, its banner blared. Another murder has arrived to haunt Lake City, as late last night the decomposed, bullet riddled body of a man tentatively identified as Stagg Faro, 32, of 2002 North Claymore, was found floating at the city pier. The body was discovered by a fisherman, Mr. Thomas P...
Shelly felt a sudden shiver of dread finger her spine. She clung desperately to Garth. "No -- not like that... "
"That's his address, isn't it? It's the same Stagg Faro?"
"Yes. That's where his apartment was."
"I guess he wanted to hold Kim up. So she had to find another way to insure his silence. She must have been wild for you. To go that far... "
"Yes," Shelly said in a awed tone. "But can't you see, Garth, if she was that desperate to have me, she'll come after me again. She'll... "
Garth kissed her eyes. "Don't fret, baby. Remember this, blackmail works both ways. We know she had a finger in this killing. She knows we know. Nuff said?"
Shelly sensed an incredible ballooning of relief and freedom within her. It was the answer to everything. "Yes, darling," she sighed, returning his kiss. "Nuff said."
"And now don't you think you'd better rest a little? You were up late last night, remember?"
"I'm trying hard to forget."
Garth was persistent, and by talking softly, by holding her in lulling embrace, he managed to induce sleep. And when she dozed, he slept too.
She was still asleep when he awoke at four that afternoon. When he began kissing her breasts.
