Dean Ryder wiped some grease from his hands and looked over at the clock inside the station. Eleven-thirty, just about time to start thinking of lunch. He tossed the crumpled paper towel in the trash can between the gas pumps and started for the office, licking his lips in anticipation of the cold beer he had stashed in the big red ice chest alongside the bottles of coke and soda.
He had just stepped inside when he heard the double ring announcing another customer, another set of tires rolling over the bell tubes by the pumps. He cursed the bastards who wouldn't give a man a few minutes for a beer on a hot day and turned on his heel, back toward the pumps.
What he saw at the wheel of the white Lincoln convertible was no bastard. It was a gorgeous blonde wearing a white bikini that barely covered her tanned, ripe body. He came around to her side, and she smiled up at him expectantly. "Fill it up for you?" he asked, as coolly as possible under the circumstances. There was a pause while her eyes took in the lean six feet of Dean's body. Finally she answered.
"Yes. Fill it up." She said it simply, with a smile playing about her wide, sensual mouth, as if she meant something more by these words. Dean ignored her play on words and flipped open the lid on the Lincoln's filler-pipe. He'd been flirted with more than once by pretty customers, and he knew that most of them were just getting their kicks trying to turn him on; that they were on their way home to husbands and boyfriends and didn't intend to come through. He grinned back at her and shoved the nozzle into the pipe, feeling the handle grow pleasantly cool against his palm as the gas shot through it.
The blonde got out of the car and padded over to Dean on bare feet. She was tall, slender, and ample in the right places like the girls in Pepsi commercials.
"Do you have a ladies' room?" she asked him. "I've just got to brush my hair out. Been driving all day with the top down and it's a real mess."
Dean pointed around the corner of the garage. "It's around there," he said, "and the key's on a hook in the office."
"Thanks." She smiled again and followed his directions, disappearing with the key around the corner of the building. Just then a stocky man in a work uniform like Dean's came across the asphalt to stand beside him.
"Hi, Ralph. Have a good lunch?" Ralph belched and patted his stomach in a gesture of satisfaction. "Yep," he answered, "And that cute little waitress sure is gettin' friendly with me!" He grinned and ran a calloused hand through his slicked-back hair.
Dean feigned disgust. "You mean you kept me waiting for my lunch while you made eyes at that little floozy?" Ralph responded with a playful but solid punch to Dean's shoulder. "That's right, champ. Now why don't you take off for awhile and get yourself some grub?"
Dean returned his companion's punch. "Okay, Ralph. Soon as I finish up on this Lincoln."
Then he heard the blonde calling to him. "Hey, could you come help me get this door open? I can't get the key to work!"
Ralph grinned lecherously upon hearing the young, feminine voice. "I guess you'll take care of that, right?" he said to Dean.
"Right," came the reply, "Hold the fort, friend!" He left the pump on automatic and walked around to where she was struggling with the locked door. "Here," he told her, "You have to jiggle it around sometimes while you pull on the handle." As he worked on the lock, he was surprised to feel her breasts brush against his arm. He prolonged the operation, making it seem more difficult than it actually was. He wanted to see if she would do it again. Sure enough, in a few seconds he felt the scantily clad mounds against his arm and her breath hot in his ear, as she leaned over him, watching him work the lock.
Then the lock clicked and he pushed the door open. "There," he said, straightening up, "it's all yours." She just looked at him, her lips opening slightly over the white teeth, her eyes trying to tell him something. Their bodies were touching in the open doorway; then he was kissing her. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she nibbled at it teasingly. He slid his hands down and cupped the firm globes of her ass, pulling her hard against him. They broke apart for a moment and regarded each other hotly. There was only one thing to do.
Dean pulled the girl inside the restroom and locked the door. "What about business?" she asked him, gesturing outside.
"My partner's back from lunch. He'll take care of it." He pulled the bikini top off her outstretched arms, setting free a perfect pair of proud, firm breasts. He molded them roughly in his hands, pulled the nipples until they stood out erect and pulsing, while she undid his belt and pants. He broke away to shrug off his shirt, and, as it fell from his shoulders, he felt her slipping down against him, kneeling and taking his cock in her mouth. She teased the head and shaft with her tongue, then she took in as much of the big organ as she could and began to suck in earnest, holding the balls with one hand and stroking his sensitive buttocks with the other. He looked down at the blonde head moving back and forth, and realized he was going to come any moment. He grabbed her hair and tugged.
"Get up," he told her. Slowly, grudgingly, she obeyed, trailing her smooth hands over his hips and sides as she rose to face him. He kissed her again, tugging her pants down over her thighs. She stepped out of them and he covered her heated cunt with his fingers, stroking and exploring until she was wet and ready. He pried the soft lips apart and found her clitoris, massaging it with his finger until it stood out hard. She had sunk her teeth into his shoulder, and her breath was coming in quick gasps. Her nails raked his back, as he probed her vagina with three fingers. It was wide open and waiting.
Dean kicked off his pants and dragged the girl into the toilet stall. He sat down and pulled her to him, straddling his legs. The blonde needed no encouragement. She grabbed his throbbing prick and lowered herself onto it, grinding her way down in little circular swings until he was in to the hilt. Then she lowered her face to his shoulder again, sank her teeth in and went to work, while he held her by the hips or played with her bouncing breasts. Sometimes she lowered herself and sat still, squeezing him inside her so they could feel their heated organs pulsing together. Sometimes she stood halfway up on the balls of her feet and twirled around with just the head inside, almost showing between the lips of her cunt, until they were both sweating with the heat of their exertion and their need. Finally she began a rocking motion, back and forth, and they were over the brink. She muffled a scream of joy into the flesh of his shoulder, while her cunt contracted again and again in uncontrollable spasms, and he shot his hot sperm at the door of her womb.
She collapsed against him, and they held each other, slippery and satisfied. Dean kissed the girl on the forehead. "You're okay," he said. "What's your name?"
"Sheila," she murmured into his neck. "My name is Sheila." She wiggled her breasts playfully against his chest. "And who are you, stranger?"
"Dean," he told her. "Dean Ryder."
"For real?" She grinned and nipped his cock inside her with a skillful contraction.
"Yeah, for real." He answered her nip with a twitch of his cock that started her grinding against him again. Just then the entrance bell rang. A customer. He stood up, lifting her off the floor, and kissed the disappointed mouth. "Sorry, honey, but I hafta get out of here. It might look bad if someone came to the door." He pulled her up off his cock, set her down gently, and grabbed his clothes. She picked up the pieces of the white bikini and just stood there for a moment.
"Will I see you again?" she asked him. Dean buttoned his shirt and reached for the door. "Sure. Stop by for gas again. Or leave me your address." Then he was out the door, sprinting for the pumps. When Sheila walked out to her car, Dean was waving a green sedan out of the station.
"Now how about that address, baby?" he asked her.
"Let me find something to write on," she answered, sliding into the driver's seat of the Lincoln. She rummaged around the glove compartment, extracted a small notebook and a ball-point pen, and began writing, while Dean pulled the hose out of her car with a rattle of metal against metal as he shook out the last drop. She tore a page from the notebook and handed it to him. "How much for the gas?" she asked. Dean looked at the paper before shoving it into his shirt pocket. The address was in a well-to-do neighborhood near San Francisco State College. "This one's on me," he told her. "Now give it to me straight. Are you married? I don't think a big buggy like this comes out of a working girl's salary."
"You're right," she answered. "It doesn't. But I'm not married. I'm going to school at State and my father manages to take pretty good care of me."
"A schoolgirl, huh? So you live alone?" Sheila closed the glove compartment, then turned the ignition key, and the Lincoln's engine sprang to life. "No, not alone," she said. "I've got a roommate. Tell you what -how about coming to dinner sometime, and I'll answer any other questions on your list."
"Tonight?" A free dinner, Dean thought, might make up for his stupid gesture of footing the gas bill for a little rich girl.
She thought for a moment. "Okay, tonight. How about six?"
"I don't get off work until six. Make it seven."
"Seven it is, then." She pushed a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes. "You know, I forgot to brush my hair!" They smiled at each other as she drove away from the pumps. Dean laughed, shaking his head, then strode past Ralph into the office to get his beer.
CHAPTER TWO
Turning into Sheila's street, Dean shifted his red Porsche down to second and cruised slowly, looking for the number she had given him. He found it, pulled over to the curb, parked, and got out. The address was on the door of a modern apartment house. He stepped through glass doors onto the marble floor of the entrance hall and looked around. On one wall was a row of buttons with names beside them. He found Sheila's and buzzed, then pushed through the inner door as someone upstairs buzzed in return, opening the latch. Across the hall was a self-service elevator. Dean went in and pushed FOUR, the top floor.
When the elevator slid open, he found himself face to face with a gorgeous brunette who was standing in an open doorway across the hall. She eyed him appraisingly, and spoke in a throaty voice.
"You must be Dean. I've heard about you. Come on in. Sheila's putting the finishing touches on your dinner."
Dean smiled and brushed past her through the doorway, catching a whiff of musky perfume. "I'm Marty," she informed him. "Make yourself at home."
He threw his jacket on the nearest chair and took a good look at the brunette. She was tall, almost as tall as Sheila. She wore a brown leather minidress which showed most of her shapely, long legs. It was tied at the waist, emphasizing the thrust of her ample breasts, and it was sleeveless. Her slender arms, like her legs, were bare. Her shiny, dark hair was parted in the middle and fell gently past her shoulders.
"Hey, mister you're staring!" she joked, in a voice that told him she didn't mind a bit. "Yeah, guess so," he answered. "Which way to the kitchen?"
She pointed the room out to him and he went in. Sheila was standing over the stove, stirring a deliciously smelling concoction. She was wearing a maroon velour blouse with a deep V-neck, which showed a tantalizing amount of her breasts over a tight pair of Levi's. Dean felt a surge of excitement in his crotch, as he watched her ass move while she stirred. He came up behind her and cupped her breasts in his hands, feeling the nipples, unbound by a brassiere, stiffen against his palms. She ground her lush buttocks against his hard prick for a moment, then turned in his arms and kissed him, darting her tongue hotly inside his mouth. Then she drew away with a mischievous grin and continued stirring. Dean stepped back and lit a cigarette.
"What's cooking?"
"Beef stroganoff. And you'd better like it."
"Stroganoff? That's imagine cooking for a college girl, isn't it?"
"It would be, except that this stuff's frozen. All you have to do is heat it up!"
Dean laughed so hard that he almost choked on his cigarette smoke. "Wow! Frozen beef stroganoff! Now even gourmets can eat plastic food!"
Sheila turned and scowled at him. "Now exactly what is that supposed to mean?"
Dean doused his cigarette under the tap at the sink and threw the soggy butt into a wastebasket. "You know, it's just how everything's getting to be plastic, ready-made. It's just kind of funny."
"Well, it may be kind of funny to you, but it's dinner to me, and a good one in my opinion, even if it is frozen."
"Don't get all heated up over it. I'm sorry if I insulted you. And it really does smell great. When do we eat?"
"Just a couple minutes. Why don't you put on some music? There's a stereo and plenty of records in the living room."
Dean found the records in a low cabinet under the record changer. He knelt down on the floor and began to look through them, when suddenly he heard quiet footsteps behind him. Then he felt two knees pressed firmly against his shoulder blades and smelled the leather odor of Marty's minidress; the hem was just brushing the back of his head, ruffling his hair. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Marty, who was looking down at him intently.
"Not very shy, are you?" he teased good-naturedly.
"No, not very," she replied steadily. Her green eyes were narrow with desire. "I suppose you're Sheila's catch. I mean you're hung up on each other?"
Dean turned back to the records. "I wouldn't say that. I mean we just met. Is that a fair answer?" He picked a record from the shelf and set it beside him on the floor.
"That's fair... " replied Marty in a voice that wavered with expectation, "but is that all?"
"No," said Dean, softly, "that's not all." He swiveled quickly on his knees to face her and in one smooth motion raised the hem of Marty's dress with both hands as he ran his tongue deliberately up the inside of her thigh, starting at the knee. He caressed her smooth flanks and worked his tongue in and out of the soft cleft which was quickly becoming wet with excitement. He wasn't surprised at her not wearing underpants. She didn't resist, but pulled his head closer, tugging at his hair. There was the smell of leather and the hot reek of her sex whirling in his head, and Dean licked her furiously and stroked her smooth ass with insistent palms. She writhed against him, moaning softly.
Just then, Sheila's voice rang out from the kitchen. "Time to eat, Dean. C'mon, put on a record and come sit down!" Dean pulled away from Marty, grabbed a record and stood up. She was breathing heavily, and her eyes were closed. He smoothed her dress with his hand. "What are you doing tonight, Marty? I mean later."
"I work nights at a topless place on Broadway." She kept her eyes closed and leaned against him weakly.
"What time do you get off?"
"One o'clock."
"Meet me then. One-thirty." He gave her his address on Brady Street. She looked at him with heavily lidded eyes.
"Yeah," she said. "One-thirty. Your place."
* * *
Dean drained the last drop of wine from his glass and set it on the table. "Great stuff, Sheila. A fine dinner."
"So you take back those nasty remarks about plastic food?"
"Yeah, I guess so. How about a cigarette?"
She took one from the offered pack and he lit hers, then his with a battered windproof lighter he had dug out of his pocket. They settled back, smoking, into a slightly uncomfortable silence. It was the first time they'd been face to face with time to talk. Finally Sheila spoke.
"The music you put on during dinner. Coltrane. I didn't really expect it."
Dean dragged on his cigarette, exhaling smoke with his reply. "Yeah, Coltrane. Fantastic music, especially when you consider that album is about ten years old." He tapped his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray and looked up at her. "What do you mean, you didn't expect it? Don't you think us pump jockeys know anything about jazz?"
"Sure," she replied, "no reason why you shouldn't. But that's not what I meant. You're not just a gas station attendant, I'm sure of that. Do you go to school?"
Dean sat back in his chair, smiling. "No, I don't go to school. Keep guessing."
"Well, I don't think you're a writer. I mean, you don't talk like one, and your hands look like you use them on something heavier than a pen or a typewriter when you're not pumping gas." She mused a moment. "I've got it!" she exclaimed, "You're an artist, right?"
Dean smiled at the cleverness of her deduction. "Right. An artist. But I don't paint, at least not anymore."
"What do you do, then?"
"Sculpture. With metal and junk. A couple of years ago this friend of mine told me that painting was dead. I thought about it for awhile and decided he was right. All those quaint, desperate brushstrokes corralled in a frame and hung up to rot in museums."
"Did your friend paint, then, too?"
"We both did. He's a cartoonist now."
Sheila laughed. "You're kidding. Really? A cartoonist?"
"Really," Dean replied. "A very artistic cartoonist!"
Sheila stubbed out her cigarette and pushed herself away from the table. "Let's go into the living room," she said. "There's lots more records where that one came from." Without waiting for an answer, she left the kitchen. Dean got up and followed her, watching the sway of her buttocks in the skintight jeans.
There was no sign of Marty in the other room. Apparently she had already left for work. Sheila took the Coltrane record off the changer and put on several others which she had selected from the cabinet. Music from the two big speakers filled the room, which was growing dark in the late summer twilight. She turned to Dean.
"Like it?"
"What?"
"The music, of course." She came toward him, drawing the velour shirt slowly over her head and dropping it to the floor. Dean reached out for her, drew her to him, and bent his head to the whiteness of one of her breasts. He gave the stiff nipple a flick with his tongue and straightened up, looking into her eyes. "Fine," he answered, "just fine." She undid her Levi's and slipped them off her long legs.
"Dean... "
"What?"
"Aren't you a bit overdressed for this occasion?"
"Yeah, I suppose so. What can we do about it?"
"Just this, darling-just this." She unbuttoned his shirt and drew it off him slowly, letting his shoulders feel the caress of the cloth. Dean kicked off his shoes while she undid his belt, then opened the button and zipper. Impatient, he pulled his pants and shorts off and removed his socks, throwing everything in a pile with her clothes.
They stood apart and looked at each other's bodies. Sheila looked even prettier than she had earlier in the day, and she was trembling with desire. She reached out and took Dean's hard cock in her hand, squeezing it convulsively. "Put it in me now," she begged, "fuck me."
Even as she spoke, she turned away from him and bent forward, her hands resting on the back of the couch. Her legs were well apart, and her ass stuck out invitingly. Dean stepped up behind her and rubbed the head of his prick along the lips of her cunt, teasing her. Sheila moaned with pleasure at this stimulation and thrust herself suddenly backward, taking him in up to the hilt. They were both motionless for a moment; then she began to make circular motions, slow and firm motions which brought his throbbing organ into contact with every nook and cranny of her slippery trap. Dean bent forward and weighed her pendant breasts in his hands, caressing the creamy flesh and squeezing the eager nipples. Reaching lower with one hand, he ran his fingers through her luxurious, springy pubic hair, then rubbed the erect clitoris, giving it the delicious attention it was missing because of their position. Sheila pressed her forehead against the back of the couch and moaned her pleasure, rotating her ass slowly against him, first in one direction, then the other. She reached back between her legs with one hand and played with Dean's balls, tickling and stroking the sensitive skin with delicate fingertips.
The last sunlight of the day had disappeared from the windows, and the room was dark except for the red glow of the pilot light on the stereo amplifier. Frantic jazz music filled the room, surrounding the lovers with ecstatic, garbled saxophone phrases and insistent, loud drum figures. The tension and tempo of the music mounted, urging them on. Dean held Sheila lightly by the hips as he moved in and out of her. They ground faster against each other and Dean bent forward, taking the tender flesh of her shoulder between his teeth, biting gently, then harder as the magic animal orgasm took hold of them both. Suddenly Sheila held perfectly still, quivering and gasping, while she squeezed Dean's cock with uncontrollable contractions. He drove in and out, deluging her insides with hot semen at every thrust. Then it was over, and they collapsed together on the floor by the couch.
"Wow," breathed Dean, putting his arm around her shoulder, "that was really fine!"
Sheila stroked the inside of his thigh fondly. "Yes," she replied, "it was just as good as I thought it would be after our, well, informal introduction this afternoon."
Dean laughed. "Yeah, I guess that was kind of informal, after all! Say, does that fireplace of yours work or is it just for decoration?"
Sheila ran her fingernails up his thigh in a quick motion that made him catch his breath. "No more for decoration than I am, baby," was her answer.
"Where's the wood, then?" he asked, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as she continued to awaken nerve endings with her touch.
"Outside," she told him, "piled on the little balcony. And you can use some newspaper for tinder. It always works pretty well for me."
In a few minutes they had a roaring fire going against the chill of the late summer evening. Sheila had made instant coffee, and they sat naked on a rug in front of the fire, drinking it and smoking cigarettes. Dean set his cup on the floor and lay down with his head in Sheila's lap. She stared at the fire and ran her fingers through Dean's straight, brown hair. "Your hair's awfully nice," she told him. "So shaggy and masculine. I wish when men went into barber shops they didn't come out looking like a clipped hedge. Barbers just aren't the least bit artistic... " She mused a moment, then continued. "Speaking of artists... " here she hesitated unsurely, "I was wondering why you work at the gas station if sculpting is so important to you. Couldn't you earn a living just from your art?"
"With the right breaks, sure," replied Dean with a trace of bitterness, "but you need connections, and galleries to show your work in. Those connections are hard to find."
"Well, in that case, Mr. Ryder, I think I have a connection for you!"
Dean looked at her with disbelief. "Really?" he asked, "who?"
"Marty. Her ex-husband owns a gallery downtown, on Sutter, and she's still on good terms with him. I'm pretty sure if you talked to her about it, something good might happen for you."
Dean was pleased with this turn of events. After, all, he had already introduced himself to Marty pretty effectively. To Sheila, he just said, "Thanks for the tip. I'll bring up the subject next time I see her."
They were silent for a moment, listening to the crackle of the flames. Then Dean turned his head slowly in her lap and nibbled playfully at her soft inner thighs. Sheila lay back on the rug and let her legs fall apart, while he teased the tender area with his mouth. Then he glued his lips to her still wet cunt and began licking and sucking with such intensity, that she squirmed around beside him and took his reawakened manhood in her mouth. Dean dipped his tongue into the hot, open recesses of her sex, then brought it up along the crack until he found her clitoris. He sucked it firmly and rhythmically, while he worked his now throbbing cock in and out of her luscious mouth. They undulated against each other in the flickering light. After several moments of this intense stimulation, Sheila began to come. She arched her back, thrusting her cunt against his mouth demandingly while her own mouth was busily bringing him to his own climax. Her hands grabbed his clenched buttocks to bring him closer. He shot streams of hot, white love-juice down her throat, and she swallowed the emission greedily. Finally, they fell apart and lay panting on the rug. The fire was burning low, but neither of them made a move to renew it.
CHAPTER THREE
Dean took a hard turn on the cloverleaf, revving the Porsche high in third gear. He liked the way the squat little car hugged the road without leaning in the curves, as if it were running on a track like a slot car. He pulled onto the freeway heading for home, shifted to fourth, and glanced at his watch. One-fifteen. Marty would probably be waiting for him. He looked around for cops and noticed that there was hardly any traffic on the road. He pushed the Porsche up to an easy eighty and stayed there until he came to his exit.
Dean lived in a loft in an industrial section on the edge of downtown. The rent was cheap and it was convenient to sleep and work on his sculpture in one place. There was rarely any trouble with the landlord, except when people in the neighboring apartment buildings complained about his loud parties. Then there was the time when beer had leaked from a huge keg during one of those parties and seeped through the floorboards to the studio below. A steady stream of beer had ruined the unfinished painting which stood on its easel directly in the yellow stream's path, but fortunately Dean had been able to settle with the artist without the landlord hearing of the matter. All in all, it was a good place to live.
As he pulled into his reserved parking space against the building, Dean noticed a black Volkswagen at the curb with two people sitting in it. He locked up the Porsche for the night, and heard the doors of the VW open and slam shut. Turning around, he saw two girls coming toward him; one was Marty, but the other one was a stranger. Good-looking, too, he noticed.
"Dean, this is Angela," Marty announced when the three people were face to face, "I hope you don't mind my bringing her along."
Dean looked Angela over and smiled. "No, not at all," he answered. "C'mon upstairs."
They trudged together up the three flights of wooden steps to a dark hallway, where Dean dialed open a small padlock on a huge double door and ushered them into his loft. He stepped in behind them and flipped on one of the banks of fluorescent lights which dotted the ceiling.
The girls looked around at the artwork which covered the walls and the floor of the long room. Angela whistled in amazement. "Wow," she exclaimed. "This is really far out!" She pointed to a huge, black, wooden hand on a pedestal in the corner. The index finger of the hand was resting on the push-button of an equally out-sized spray can, also black. She walked over to the piece to examine it more closely, and Dean watched her as she walked. She was of medium height, with a lushly rounded body topped off by flaming, red hair, which fell in waves far down her back. Her blue shirt was tucked into a tightly fitting pair of bell-bottom jeans, and she was wearing sandals. The shirt was styled like a man's work shirt, but it was delicate and transparent except at the pockets, where the double thickness of cloth masked her breasts. He could see the large globes bobbing firmly as she walked. He watched her for a moment, entranced, and then he turned to Marty. She was examining a huge collage of metal objects that hung on a far wall. He walked up behind her and put his arm around her shoulder.
"What do you think of my stuff?" he asked her. After all, if what Sheila had said about the gallery was true, Marty's opinion was quite important-and perhaps necessary.
She continued to stare at the collage. "I like it," she told him straightforwardly, "it's very environmental and effective."
Angela came and stood beside them. "Gee," she exclaimed, "that's huge! I mean it covers the whole wall!"
Dean turned to her and smiled knowingly. "It is the wall, baby. That's why it's environmental. It's actually part of the room."
"I see what you mean," said Angela. "Man, you've got everything in it-exhaust pipes, garden hose, sheet metal, electrical connections, even part of a kitchen sink!" They all laughed.
"Yeah, even the kitchen sink," Dean repeated. "How about some music? Anyone have a request?" He walked over to a big hi-fi console which stood beneath a smaller collage against a neighboring wall. He patted it with his hand. "It's pretty old," he explained, "and not even stereo. But it puts out a fine sound." No one spoke up with a request, so he put on a few jazz albums. Then he walked over to the panel of light switches and made several adjustments. Instantly, the room was bathed in flashing red and blue lights which pulsated alternately from fixtures around the ceiling. Dean looked across the room at the girls, who seemed pleased with the effect. He motioned to them with his hand, and they followed him through a curtained doorway into the living room-bedroom which was partitioned off at the rear of the studio. The red and blue lights were flashing in there, too.
Dean took a large jug of red wine from a refrigerator near the door. "Just the thing for a warm night," he told them. "Why don't you two make yourselves comfortable?"
In answer, Angela and Marty seated themselves on the bed. Dean reclined on his elbow between them, and opened the bottle with a snap of breaking foil. He took a long swig from the bottle, then held it out to Marty, who drank deeply and passed the wine on to Angela.
Dean reached under the bed for an ashtray, found it and lit a cigarette. He lay back on the bed. "Tell me," he said to Marty, "what do you really think about my work?"
She took a cigarette from his pack and lit it. "I think it's really fine," she told him, dropping the dead match into the ashtray. "Is that good enough, or do you want me to get technical?"
Dean grinned. "No, you don't have to get technical. I'll be honest-the reason I want to know is because Sheila said you might be able to help me show my work at a certain gallery."
Marty was amused. "So she told you about my old man, did she? Well, we're not really on the best of terms, you know, but still he takes my advice once in awhile."
"So you might be able to do something for me?" asked Dean, unable to conceal his eagerness.
Marty put out her cigarette and lay back beside him. Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "I think so. That is if you can do something for me, something like this afternoon... " Dean gestured with a toss of his head at Angela, who was taking a long gulp of the wine.
"What about her?" he asked?
Marty smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't worry. Angie's been around. So have I. It's cool."
Dean looked over his shoulder at Angela, then back at Marty. "Okay," he agreed, "it's cool." He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth, and she responded, thrusting her tongue between his teeth and stroking his back with smooth, cool hands. When they finally broke apart they were both breathing heavily. Dean reached for the wine, took a long drink, and felt the warm tingling it brought deep inside. He looked back at Angela, who returned his gaze with one of desire. They leaned toward each other and kissed with passion equal to that of the kiss he had shared with Marty a moment before. Then Angela broke away.
"It sure is warm in here," she said. "I think I'll take a few things off." True to her word, she began to unbutton the blue shirt. Dean watched raptly as she drew it off her shoulders, and her long red hair fell against the soft whiteness of her breasts.
Marty, too, was busy undressing. It didn't take her long, because, as Dean had noticed earlier, she wore absolutely nothing under her leather minidress. When she had tossed the dress aside, she lay back pulling Dean with her. He felt Angela pulling off his shoes and socks as his lips drew a hot line of desire from Marty's sensitive shoulder up to her throat. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand, massaging the nipple with his thumb and feeling it grow erect to his touch. Marty reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt. He helped her with the buttons, then shrugged it off. Angela's hands were around his waist from behind, undoing his belt and fly. Then she was kneeling by the bed, tugging at his cuffs. He raised his hips to help her, and the pants slid off. Marty broke away, and Angie took the opportunity to come forward and lie over Dean, her creamy breasts pressing hard against his strong chest. They kissed deeply and she ground her hips against his, simulating the movements of intercourse. Then she slid back and hooked her fingers in the elastic band of his shorts, drawing them down off his legs. Momentarily, he felt her tongue lapping at his scrotum and snaking up his cock. Dean shivered in delight and reached over for Marty.
Without hesitating, Marty threw one long leg over Dean and crouched so that her cunt was over his mouth. He took her by the hips and began nibbling at the pungent morsel presented to him. His ardor increased as he felt his rampant penis sliding in and out of Angie's soft lips, and he licked, sucked, and bit until Marty squirmed over him in ecstasy. The room pulsed with loud music and flashing lights. Dean lifted his hands to Marty's gorgeous breasts hanging above him and stroked them with rhythmical, circular caresses. There was the chill of fresh air on his wet cock for a moment, as it was released from the delicious prison of Angie's mouth; then she brought herself up over it and impaled herself on the throbbing organ. The three of them moved as one on the big bed, twisting and heaving in a hot dance of sensuality.
Finally Dean could hold out no longer. He began to come, shooting his sperm far into Angie's receiving cunt. As the spasms shook his body, he dug into Marty's buttocks with his fingers, urging her on as he drove her to her climax with his doting tongue. Angie continued to rotate furiously on Dean's still hard prick, and finally, she, too, reached her crisis; she ground her hips back and forth over Dean's arched body, squeezing the last drops from him as she came. She screamed in delight, then they fell all together to the bed to lie side by side, the man between the two women, all naked, sweaty, and satisfied.
Dean stretched his arms out under the heads of both girls. He looked over at Marty, who lay with her eyes closed, breathing heavily. "Is that the kind of help you meant?" he asked her.
"That's it, all right." She smiled at him. Angie had taken Dean's limp, shiny cock in her hand.
"Look at this poor fellow," she joked, "I think he's gone to sleep."
"Marty looked over at Angie conspiratorially. "Let's see if we can wake him up," she said, "I'm still expecting a visit from him!"
Slowly but surely, Dean's prick rose to a firm stand again. Marty spread her thighs and he knelt between them. As he lowered himself to her, he felt Angela's hand directing him to the mark, rubbing the head of his cock against the moist, hot lips of Marty's cunt. Marty sighed in pleasure as he slowly inserted it, inch by inch. When he was completely inside, he paused, then began moving around in circles, rotating inside her. Marty threw her legs around his waist and clasped them tightly, so that he was held close against her. Dean felt the wet shock of Angie's tongue lapping at his balls and probing his anus. Marty opened her legs wide again, supporting herself on her heels, and drove against him faster and faster, until they exploded together in a blinding flash of pure pleasure.
"Well," remarked Dean as he put away the wine bottle and lit a cigarette, "it's been a long night. Do you two have to go home, or can you sleep here?"
"I'll stay," said Marty sleepily.
"Me, too," agreed Angela. "It would be a shame to break up this cozy scene."
"I really don't think I'll be making it to work tomorrow," laughed Dean, "so we can sleep as late as we like."
Later, the lights and the music were turned off, and the room was peaceful. The only sound was the sleepy breathing of three people. Dean turned to Marty, whose eyes were already closed. He kissed her gently on the neck. "Marty?"
"Hmmm?" she answered dreamily.
"How about the gallery?" He felt Angie cup his genitals in her hand and curl up against his back, spoon-fashion.
Marty opened one eye and gave him a tired smile which he could barely make out in the darkness. "Tomorrow," she whispered. "Tomorrow."
CHAPTER FOUR
Dean walked into the Pumpkin Eater Gallery at one in the afternoon. The place was empty except for a receptionist eating her lunch at a small desk near the door. He looked around the gallery for a few seconds before walking over to the desk. The place looked right for him; the walls were covered with anything but paintings.
There were collages, metal sculptures, even glass-fronted boxes with articles pasted or thrown inside to make a composition.
"Hi, there," said the girl at the desk. "Are you buying or browsing or selling?"
Dean was laughing as he turned to answer her. "Multiple choice question, huh? A, B, or C? Well, my answer to that question is C. Selling. That is, if you can tell me where I'll find John Thomas."
The girl carved several slices from a round cheese and nibbled at one of them. "John's out to lunch now. He'll probably be back in an hour or so. Can you wait?"
Dean looked her over carefully. She was small, maybe five-two with a stunningly developed figure. Black hair, parted in the middle, cascaded to her breasts. She had piercing black eyes and a small but sensual mouth. Her dress was a purple mini cut so low in front that he could almost see the nipples on her lush breasts. The outfit reminded him of paintings of French women who adorned the kingly courts during the post-Renaissance period. He nodded. "Yes," he told her, "I can wait."
"Fine. Pull up a chair. Would you like some cheese or an apple?"
"No, thanks," said Dean, "I've already eaten lunch. I'll just have a cigarette." He pulled one from his jacket and lit up.
"You look familiar," mused the girl. "I seem to remember you from somewhere before. A party, maybe. What's your name?"
"Ryder. Dean Ryder."
"Dean Ryder? Sure, I remember. I've seen your sculptures around, lots of places. You really do some nice work. By the way, my name's Mario." She took a bite from her apple, showing perfect white teeth.
"Sure," echoed Dean, "lots of places. But mostly in people's pads, Mario. Friends of mine. What I need is to get the goods out by showing them in a gallery."
"Well, we'll see about that when John gets back from lunch. What made you choose this gallery, anyway? Do you know John, or are you just going the rounds?"
"I know his ex-wife, Marty. She said she'd put in a good word for me."
"Good old Marty. He's bound to take her advice. I don't think you have much to worry about."
Dean took a long drag on his cigarette. "That's fine, you know, but he's still got to like my work."
Mario smiled as she wrapped the remains of her lunch in a paper bag and dropped it into the wastebasket. "Oh, he'll love it, probably. From what I've seen of your stuff, I can say that with assurance." She stood up and smoothed the short purple dress over her shapely thighs, then walked to the front door and locked it, flipping a CLOSED sign to face outward. "I have to close up for about half an hour so I can straighten out some things down in the storeroom," she told him. "Want to come along?" Dean put out his cigarette and stood up, towering over Mario. He looked down at her, unable to keep his eyes off the twin bulges of her breasts and the buttery valley between them. "Lead the way," he said.
The storeroom was filled with canvas and frames and other assorted artist's and collector's materials. Mario busied herself with several framed collages which leaned against the wall. "I have to get these ready for hanging tomorrow," she explained. She bent over to string a wire on the back of a frame, and Dean could see the brief black panties stretched taut across her buttocks. He felt a surge of excitement as he moved impulsively up behind her.
"Can I help with anything?" he asked.
"No, I don't think so," she replied. She turned her head and looked up at him. "Your company is all the help I need," she added, her voice turning quiet and husky as she surveyed his handsome form and noticed the bulge which betrayed his interest rising in his Levi's. She turned, as if to continue her work. Dean, stooping slightly, caressed her rounded buttocks through the silk panties. A shiver ran visibly through Mario's body, and she moaned softly as Dean's hand moved over her sensitive bottom. Then she straightened up and faced him. Their eyes met in a gaze of understood desire, there in the basement stockroom filled with art objects, where no one could interfere. Dean bent and kissed her upturned mouth, running his tongue tantalizingly the length of her smooth, white throat. Mario sighed and fumbled with his belt buckle, as Dean pushed the purple dress down off her shoulders and kissed the revealed breasts, letting his tongue linger over the nipples until they stood out hard with desire.
Mario finished undoing his pants with trembling hands. Then she pulled them down with his shorts, letting them fall around his ankles. She pulled down her own panties quickly and kicked them off.
Dean reached down and felt her cunt. It was hot and already wet with need. She grasped the thick, livid staff which stood out proudly from his flat belly and squeezed it admiringly.
Just then, the phone rang upstairs. Dean and Mario froze, startled. Mario, quickly recovering her composure, smiled. "Don't worry," she told him. "There's an extension right here." She reached behind her on the work table and grabbed the receiver.
"Good afternoon, Pumpkin Eater Gallery. Oh, John. Yes, I'm working in the storeroom. I definitely think you ought to come back for the afternoon. There's someone waiting to see you. Dean Ryder. I think you'll be interested in his work." There was a pause as the party on the other end replied. "A half hour? Okay, see you then. Bye." She hung up the receiver and turned to Dean, who had watched his erection wobble, then wilt during the interruption.
"Was that Thomas?" he asked her, feeling a little silly standing there with his pants down around his ankles.
"That was Thomas, all right. He was going to take the rest of the day off, but I changed his mind. You should've heard how he perked up when I told him you were here!"
She looked down and smiled when she saw his limp affair. "That call was certainly a rude interruption. Let's see, where were we?" She smiled suggestively. "I think we'll have to do something for this poor, startled fellow," she said, indicating Dean's cock.
Without another word, she sank to her knees and took the large, soft tool in her mouth. The pressure of her lips on the yielding flesh was exhilarating, and soon Dean's organ stood out quivering and ready. Still she teased it with her tongue, sliding it in and out of her tender lips, meanwhile running her fingernails tantalizingly over his sensitive scrotum.
Finally Dean, unwilling to wait any longer, pulled Mario to her feet, lifting her off the ground and setting her down on the tip of his waiting lance. She twined her legs about his thighs, hooking her feet behind for support, and let herself down slowly on his cock until it was buried to the root in her heated sex.
Dean held her by the quivering globes of her ass and moved her around while she sank her teeth into his shoulder and groaned. He lifted her and set her down again and again, as his prick touched her everywhere inside, setting fire to the quick fuse of her passion.
"On the floor," she whispered hotly in his ear, "finish it off on the floor."
Slowly Dean kneeled down, holding her tightly against him, until his knees touched the floor. Then he rocked forward and he was over her, feeling her legs locked over his waist as he drove into her with renewed vigor. She bit him wherever she could reach, moaning insistently in his ear. "Fuck me, oh fuck me... harder... faster... now... it's coming, coming... oooOO!" She arched her back and pulled up hard against him, mashing her breasts against his chest. Their lips met in a searing, searching kiss as Dean felt his own crisis approaching, and they rose and fell together with desperate urgency. Mario's nails tore into his back, and he pumped a hot stream of his seed into her gaping hole. They clung tightly to each other, then lay back together in delicious exhaustion.
A few moments later, Dean kissed the drowsy girl on the lips. "Don't you think we ought to get upstairs before Thomas returns?" he suggested.
Mario regarded him through heavily lidded eyes. "Yes, I guess we should," she replied ruefully. She turned and kissed his cock as it lay softly against his thigh, as if in thanks for the pleasure it had afforded her. Then she arose and picked her purple dress off the floor. As she shook it vigorously to rid it of dust, her pink-tipped breasts bobbled invitingly. Dean watched with appreciation, and his penis rose jerkily to a fresh stand. Mario noticed and scolded him. "C'mon, now, Dean, you said yourself that we have to get upstairs... " But in a moment Dean was on his back, gasping like a fish out of water as the receptionist kissed the inner tenderness of each thigh, then sank her warm, soft mouth down firmly over the end of his cock. His pulse pounded so hard that he feared his veins and arteries would burst as she sucked down vigorously on his inflamed organ...
John Thomas was friendly and positive. As the three of them sat in the gallery smoking and talking, Dean found himself wondering why the man's marriage to Marty had broken up. The man was handsome enough, a little taller than medium height, slim and well groomed. His face was thoughtful and sensitive. Still, thought Dean, there was no telling why some people just couldn't get along.
"Well, Dean, Marty tells me it would be worth my while to consider showing some of your work here in the gallery. Do you have anything you can show me that's ready for display?"
"Sure, John," replied Dean confidently. "I've got a number of pieces that are all set up."
"Where are they?"
"At my studio on Brady Street."
Thomas reached for his coat. "Shall we take a look, then? Do you want to come along, Mario?" Mario shook her head. "No, I think I'll just close up the gallery and go home. I'm pretty tired, for some reason."
"All right," said Thomas, "we'll see you later. Do you have a car here, Dean?"
"Yeah, right outside."
"Well, the best thing would be for me to follow you to your place, then. Ready to go?"
Dean held the door open. "Ready," he answered.
* * *
When Thomas left the studio, Dean sat on the edge of a mattress, lost in thought. His mood was one of mixed feelings: he felt triumphant and elated about his upcoming show at the Pumpkin Eater, but he was somewhat depressed due to his recent revelation about John Thomas. No wonder he hadn't been able to maintain his marriage to Marty the man was homosexual!
After Thomas had prowled the loft inspecting the sculptures, they had discussed the prospects of a one-man show over whiskey. Dean was flattered and pleased, and a bit lightheaded from the booze, but when Thomas edged more closely on the bed and began to stroke his thigh as they talked, his elation had turned to discomfort. "Listen, John," he said, "I just don't play that game, and I'm not starting with you. Now if you want to change your mind about the show, that's just the way it'll have to be. Now what's the story?"
Thomas had gulped down his drink, somewhat taken aback. "No, Dean," he replied, "the show isn't off, unless you want it to be. I offered you the chance because I think you're a fine sculptor, not as a ploy to get you into bed. No hard feelings, I hope. How about it?"
Dean thought for a moment, then smiled. He admired the gentlemanly honesty of his new friend. "Okay, John no hard feelings."
"Good. Now listen, I see about a dozen pieces here that we could use just as they are. Can you get them down to the gallery?"
"No," said Dean, "I don't think so. How about picking them up in your panel truck?"
"Fine, I'll send someone for them," replied Thomas, getting up to leave. "In any case, there's no hurry on the other pieces, because we can't schedule the show for at least a few weeks.
See you later, then, all right?"
After he left, Dean called Marty and asked her to go to the country with him the following weekend.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next few days, Dean found himself barely able to keep his mind on his work. He was looking forward with excitement to his coming show, and hopefully to the time when he could quit pumping gas. The heat of recent weeks had abated, and the days were cool and clear, a short hint of crispness in the air before the long rainy season was to inevitably begin.
Finally the weekend arrived, and on Saturday morning, Dean set out to pick up Marty. She met him at the door looking like Fall Beauty; she wore a white ruffled blouse tucked into a tawny suede miniskirt which showed most of her long legs covered by black tights. Her long, dark hair was pulled back and tied with a red band of cloth.
"I'll be honest about it," said Dean, "you look great! Are you all ready to go for a long drive into the wondrous and secluded world of nature?"
Marty laughed. "Sure enough. Just let me get my jacket." She disappeared into the bedroom.
"Hey, where's Sheila these days?" Dean called.
"Out of town visiting her parents," came the reply.
Momentarily, she joined him at the door, a brown leather coat slung over her arm.
"Okay," she said, "ready."
Dean grabbed her arm as she reached for the doorknob and pulled her around to face him. "How about a kiss, baby?"
In reply she just looked up at him, her moist lips slightly parted.
The red Porsche roared across the Golden Gate Bridge and into the countryside. Dean had finally gotten the carbs synchronized, and he was pleased with the way the car responded instantly with a surge of power to the touch of his foot on the accelerator. Marty sat relaxed beside him, enjoying the ride and the beauty of the autumn morning.
They were well into the next county when they came to a fork in the road. Dean pulled onto the shoulder.
"What'll it be," he asked her, "Muir Woods or Mount Tamalpais?"
Marty mused a moment, then answered him. "The mountain. Let's go up there."
"Mountain it is." He pulled the car back onto the road, throwing gravel from the rear wheels, and took the left fork. The road up the mountain was narrow and winding. Dean took it like a pro, pushing his little car to the limit. Marty bent forward and slipped out of her leather jacket, tossing it behind the seats. Dean's attention was momentarily caught by the movement, and he watched with appreciation the thrust of her breasts against the white blouse.
"Where did you learn to drive like this?" yelled Marty over the growling revs of the engine.
"Back home in Ohio," came his reply. "I used to drive in local races. Even tried my hand at riding horses in competition. See these old boots I'm wearing?"
"What about them?" Marty looked down at Dean's feet as they played expertly over the pedals on the floor of the car. The boots certainly looked old enough; they were wrinkled and dulled from years of use. Still she could see that they were good ones and had once been beautiful. They were cowboy boots, black with white pinstripe designs worked neatly into the leather.
"Won 'em in a rodeo when I was just a teenager," Dean told her, "for staying on a mean horse all of eight seconds."
"Great!" yelled Marty, grabbing for the assist handle as they went through a sharp turn.
At the top of the mountain was a parking lot filled with cars. Tourists were walking around with cameras and families and picnic lunches. Dean pulled the car into a parking space against a low retaining wall at the end of the lot. "Damn!" said Dean in disappointment, "I should've known this place would be crowded on the weekend." He took out two cigarettes, gave one to Marty and they lit up. "Look," she said, "you can see the city from here. It looks just like a color postcard the ocean, the bay, all the bridges. Isn't it funny that when you see reality you think it looks just like a postcard?"
Dean laughed. "Yeah. I guess nobody trusts reality anymore. They think it's all in the movies or something." He took off his jacket and threw it in back with Marty's.
"The sun," he exclaimed, "sure feels good on the skin up here. There are some side roads just below the mountaintop that run by some nice woods and fields. We can drive through there and get away from all these people."
"Good idea," agreed Marty, "let's go."
Dean found a nice spot and pulled off the road behind a parked microbus. Looking around, he saw no one else in the area. They got out of the car and stretched.
"Well, now," he said, "that's better, no more people!"
Marty pointed to the microbus. "Look at those pretty curtains. I'll bet they have it fixed up real nice inside, like a camper." She walked over to the bus and peeked through the back window, whose curtains were not perfectly pulled together. Dean watched her, and she seemed so entranced by the interior of the car that he started toward her to see for himself. As he did, she waved him away and ran from the roadside toward the woods. He followed her, a few yards behind, until she stopped to catch her breath, allowing him to overtake her. Dean coughed hoarsely. "Christ," he exclaimed, "I ought to quit smoking." Marty nodded. "Me, too," she gasped, "just running a little really does me in."
When they had regained their breath, Dean asked her, "How come you waved me away from the microbus?"
Marty smiled. "Because there were two people in there making love."
"Really? Inside the bus?"
"Uh-huh. The whole back of it is just a big bed."
"Well, now," said Dean, "that seems like a pretty good idea to me."
"What do you mean," teased Marty, "building a bed in the back of your sports car?"
"No," said Dean. "Making love. Here I'll show you -" He reached over and undid the top buttons of her blouse with sure fingers, smiling. He kissed the waiting mouth softly and felt her lips part and her tongue slide along his teeth as his hand moved up and caressed the tenderness of her neck and throat. She was still leaning against the tree, and he pressed against her, feeling her body mold itself to his, her thighs against his, her arms around his waist, holding him. She pushed him gently away after the kiss. "Not here, Dean," she told him. "Let's find a nice place to lie down." She broke away and walked on through the woods.
Dean waited for his throbbing desire to abate, then followed her at a distance. As he walked, he broke a small branch from a tree and slapped its twigs and leaves against his thigh in rhythm to a song he was humming to himself. He looked ahead and saw that she had taken off her blouse. Shafts of sunlight played over her white breasts and their pink tips as they bobbed firmly with her steps.
When he caught up with her in a small, grassy meadow she was naked in a burst of sunlight. "Lie down," she said. "I'll undress you." She pulled off his boots and socks, then removed the rest of his clothing piece by piece. He felt a wave of luxurious sensuality wash over him as each part of his body was in turn exposed to the country air and sun. As she pulled his shorts off and threw them in a pile with the rest of the clothes, he rolled onto his stomach, pressing himself against the earth and smelling the odor of grass and soil.
Suddenly there was a sharp whistle and a crack as the twigs he had broken from the tree cut into his bare buttocks. Before he could react, Marty swung at him again, raising red welts across his backside. He leaped up and grabbed her arm, which was already poised for another blow.
"What the hell was that for?" he demanded. She looked frightened, as if she was not quite sure she had done the right thing. "Well, I just couldn't help it," she explained. "I just saw that branch there where you dropped it, and I did the first thing that came to mind."
Dean scowled. "Well, I don't like it!"
Marty cast her eyes in the direction of his erect organ. "You don't?" she commented slyly.
Dean was still angry, but his tone had changed. There was lust in it now. "All right, bitch," he said threateningly, "you'll see what you get for catching a man with his defenses down." He threw her roughly on the ground, twisting her arm until she turned on her stomach; then he brought the crude whip down again and again on her tender rear. At the first few strokes, Marty was bravely silent. She pressed her face hard into the grass and bit her lip, unwilling to give Dean the pleasure of her humiliation. But as the twigs cut into the soft flesh, finally drawing blood, she let out a muffled scream. Dean grinned fiendishly, experiencing a glee at administering punishment that he had never felt. He continued the whipping, enjoying her agony as she writhed about, pressing her nude body against the earth as if to escape into it, embracing it like a lover. Finally the switch was worn down to a tired stump, and blood trickled from her backside and from her thighs. Dean threw the branch away and looked down at her prostrate body. "Had enough?" he asked her.
She mumbled her answer into the ground. "What?" asked Dean, suddenly afraid that he had hurt her badly, "are you all right?" He knelt beside her as she rolled slowly over to face him, wincing as her cut flesh pressed against the grass.
"I said fuck me," she groaned, "fuck me, please." She took hold of his stiff cock and squeezed it in her hand, spreading her legs wide as he got over her. With his organ still in her hand, she directed it to its mark against her cunt, rubbing the head back and forth over the lips and the springy hair that covered them. Unable to stand the teasing anymore, Dean thrust her arm aside and pushed into her. Marty's cunt was deliciously tight, and Dean could feel each ripple and muscle pass over the head of his instrument as he drove slowly in and out, enjoying the delicious suction. Marty slung her legs around his waist and held him tightly against her without moving, while she contracted the muscles of her steamy lovebox and treated his prick to several nips, which sent a shudder through his entire body. He bent his head to reach her nipples and sucked them; they were taut as nails, throbbing like small pricks. Now they both began to move about crazily, grinding their hot and insistent bodies together. Soon, Marty thrashed wildly against him and arched up as she came to her climax. As he brought his mouth to hers and kissed her insistently, she thrust her tongue in and out in time with his strokes. Her whole body shook, and she lifted almost entirely off the ground, carrying Dean with her, as she went through one orgasm after another. Dean held out until the last moment, and, as she reached her final peak, he thrust in and out furiously, exploding hotly inside the receiving folds of her cunt. Then they lay together in the healing warmth of the sun.
"You really hurt me," murmured Marty, "but I liked it. Is that strange?"
"I don't know," answered Dean. "I guess I liked it, too."
They burst into laughter together. "No hard feelings, then?" asked Dean mirthfully.
Marty gave a playful squeeze to his softened organ. "No," she told him, "no hard feelings."
CHAPTER SIX
In the week that followed, Dean found himself wanting more than ever to quit his job at the gas station. He knew his only chance was to make his show at the Pumpkin Eater a reality and to sell enough of his creations to make a living.
So one evening, after he had finished work, cleaned up and eaten supper at his loft, he decided to pay John Thomas a visit and begin making plans for the show. He rummaged through some papers, found Thomas's address and set off for his house, which was in Sausalito.
The gallery owner lived high on a hill in a typical modern bachelor's pad with an impressive view of the surrounding countryside and the bay. Dean parked at the curb and began climbing the steps which led up along the side of the house to the entrance. One of the windows along the way was lit up, and, as he passed it, he heard a thin scream of pain from inside. Impulsively, he stopped and looked through the window near the bottom where the shade was not quite drawn all the way down. What he saw sent a strange surge of fear and excitement through-him.
In the brightly lit room, John Thomas lay spread-eagled, face downward on a circular bed in the middle of the floor. His wrists and ankles were secured with leather straps to the frame of the huge bed. He was naked. Towering over Thomas's helpless form was another man, tall and strong looking in comparison to the slender white form of the man on the bed. The taller man was handsome like the models who pose for cigarette ads. He had dark, wavy hair, and long sideburns. He was naked to the waist, and a large silver medallion hung by a chain around his neck, highlighted by the dark hair which covered his chest. His clothing consisted of skintight black leather pants and a pair of motorcycle boots. From his hand swung a wide, black garrison belt with a silver buckle. Dean crouched down close to the window and waited to see what would happen. The man in leather was speaking angrily, and Dean could hear him clearly.
"Well, Johnnie-boy," the tall man snarled, "so you admit you've been hanging around the Cinderella Bar with those slimy little faggots, don't you? I thought I told you to stay away from those places. If you want action you'll get it from me, you bitch!"
Thomas did not reply. Dean could see him trembling on the bed as he awaited whatever punishment might be in store for him. Then the man in leather spoke again.
"What you need, Johnnie-boy, is some discipline. And that's exactly what you're going to get." With that, he raised the belt in his hand and brought it down hard across the backs of the bound man's thighs. Dean flinched as he heard the crack of leather against flesh and saw the ugly red welts appear on Thomas's legs. Thomas did not cry out at the blow, but a trickle of blood on his chin showed how hard he had bitten down in an attempt to remain silent. The tall man raised the strap again and struck at his victim's buttocks, first one, then the other. Red welts appeared on these areas, too, and Dean could see that Thomas was about to break his silence. The next blow landed on the inside of Thomas's thigh, and finally he screamed. The leather had cut so hard that there was a thin stream of blood running down his leg and staining the sheet bright red.
The tall man grinned cruelly to see his companion in pain. He snaked the end of the belt between Thomas's spread legs and flicked it gently at the exposed testicles. Thomas, despite his pain, reacted with a sensuous shiver, as he felt the fleeting kiss of leather on his balls.
"I guess you've had enough for now, Johnnie-boy," said the tall man. "Just remember to stay in line with me or you'll get worse than this." As he spoke, he reached over to a small table beside the bed and took from it a small jar of vaseline. Unscrewing the cap, he took a blob of the slippery stuff on his finger and bent forward over Thomas to lubricate the other man's anus. When he was satisfied with this preparation, he replaced the bottle and began to undress. Dean could see the bulge of an erection straining against the leather pants. The man kicked off his boots and tugged the tight pants off his legs with some difficulty. Underneath, instead of ordinary undershorts, he wore only a brief, black satin jockstrap. Hurriedly, he discarded this last article of clothing, baring a huge erection which reared up threateningly from the dark curls of his pubic hair. All through this ritual, Dean was amazed to find that his own organ had become stiff and pulsing. He knew it would be wiser to leave, but curiosity kept him crouched at the window, watching.
Now the tall man was kneeling between the legs of his partner. With one hand, he supported himself on the bed, while with the other he guided his thick staff into the most private orifice of the man beneath him. When he was halfway in, he lowered his other hand to the bed to support himself more fully. Then with a forcefulness that was almost vicious, he drove his distended organ fully into the tight passage. Once the penetration was complete, he began to move his hips back and forth very slowly, as if enjoying the tight suction of Thomas's rectum.
Thomas, meanwhile, seemed soothed and distracted from his recent ordeal. The look of pain on his face turned to one of pleasure as the tall man drove in and out of him, slowly increasing his speed. He lifted his hips up backward from the bed as much as his bonds would allow, and soon their fucking attained a ferocious, pounding rhythm. The man on top gritted his teeth in concentration and delight as he felt his orgasm coming, and he spurted his hot fluid deep into the other man's bowels. Thomas had lifted himself high enough off the bed so that Dean could see his organ spouting its own stream of semen into the bed as the strange stimulation brought him to his climax.
In a moment, the tall man withdrew from the buttocks of the man on the bed and stood over him, breathing heavily from his exertions. His cock, which had begun to soften, was slimy with semen and traces of excrement. He picked up the belt once more and walked around the bed until he was standing directly before his partner's face.
"Suck it for me, Johnnie-boy," he ordered, "suck it until it's hard and make me come."
Thomas looked frightened and repulsed. For the first time since Dean had been at the window, he spoke. His voice was petulant, pleading, like a woman's.
"Oh, no, Bruce, I can't do that. Please don't make me do it!"
Bruce wielded the heavy belt in his hand menacingly. "You don't want me to thrash you with the buckle-end of this belt, do you Johnnie?"
Thomas answered silently with a pouting look that said he would rather submit to the distasteful indignity that Bruce demanded than to be whipped with the belt buckle, but that he wasn't at all happy about the whole business. Bruce moved closer until his penis hung right against Thomas's face. Resigned, Thomas dropped his jaw expertly, making a soft "O" of his mouth, and took in the head of the reeking organ. As his tongue caressed the sensitive head and licked hotly up the length of Bruce's cock, the stimulation brought the soft tool quickly to a quivering stand. Dean could see by the expression on Thomas's face that his reluctance was quickly turning to passion, as the man began to suck down vigorously on the inflamed rod, his face screwed up tightly in concentration. Bruce then held Thomas's face with both hands and began to drive his cock in and out of the soft, moist receptacle. His motions grew faster until the tensing of his muscled buttocks indicated that he was approaching his orgasm. Then he buckled and spewed his hot fluid down the other man's throat, holding his head firmly so that he would be forced to swallow every drop that he was offering.
Outside in the darkness, Dean reeled against the side of the house with confusion and lust. When he had recovered his senses, he crept quietly down the steps to the street and got into his car, thinking that he needed a drink very badly.
He cruised the main street of the town until he found a bar that looked unpretentious, a few blocks removed from the glittery nightclubs and swanky tourist traps. He parked the Porsche at the curb, straightened his clothing and went in. The interior of the bar was dimly lit, with the usual row of booths against the wall opposite the long bar. It was an ordinary-looking tavern, the kind Dean felt most comfortable in. As it was a weeknight, there were few other customers, and it was only a few moments after he had seated himself on one of the leather-covered bar stools that a woman appeared on the other side of the counter to take his order.
"What'll it be, honey?"
"Scotch and water," replied Dean. He drew his cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and laid the pack on the worn wood in front of him. As the barmaid moved about, getting the bottle and the glass for his drink, he took a good look at her. She was older than he, in her early forties, he guessed, but there was a look of well-preserved sensuality about her that Dean liked. When she had spoken to him to get his order, there was an earthiness in her voice. He was just beginning to consider seriously the possibility of trying to arrange a meeting with her later in the evening when she set his drink down in front of him.
"Here's your drink, honey. That'll be fifty cents." Dean dug out a couple of dollar bills from his wallet and laid them on the bar. "Take it out of that," he told her, "and keep some for yourself." As she bent forward, he caught a glimpse of the tops of her breasts. They were lush and full, as if they had not suffered the slackening that age tends to bring. Surely she must have a husband waiting at home for her, he thought. He reached for a cigarette and noticed that his pack was almost empty. The waitress was walking down behind the bar toward the back of the place. "Oh, Miss!" he called, "Do you sell cigarettes here?"
She turned and came back along the bar until she was opposite him again. "Sure," she answered, smiling, "there's a machine over by the door. And my name's Eva, not Miss."
Dean returned her smile as he rose from the stool. "Sure," he replied, "Eva's fine with me. My name's Dean."
"Glad to meet you," she told him. "I just get tired of being called 'Miss' all day. Tending bar is hard enough without that."
Dean could scarcely believe it, but it seemed that she was, in the tone of her voice, extending to him the invitation he so desired. He put his change in the machine, pulled the knob under his brand, and absentmindedly grabbed the pack that appeared in the long slot. He was thinking of the lush, full body under that waitress uniform. The woman was old enough to be his mother, but how he desired her! All that remained was to find a way to be alone with her; then, under the right circumstances, he was sure that she would submit to his advances. As he returned to his seat, Dean decided to linger there until closing time. He finished his drink and ordered another from Eva the next time she came by.
After a while the place became busier, and Eva came around to Dean only when his glass needed refilling. As it grew near closing time, Dean found himself rather drunk, and his inhibitions about approaching the waitress dwindled to nothing. He was still tense and confused from the spectacle he had witnessed at the house of John Thomas. The scene of violence and homosexuality had excited him in a way he had not suspected, and he was more than a little worried about being some kind of pervert himself. He knew that an easy success with Eva would release the tension and calm his fears. He downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass and looked over at the clock.
Then suddenly, the time had come. Chairs were being turned upside-down on the tables, and the last stragglers were bolting down their beer and heading for the door. He looked around for Eva and saw her wiping down the empty tables with a speed and agility that made this last annoying job of the day look like child's play. When she had finished, she came up to him, rubbing her hands on a towel.
"Well, that's it," she remarked, "another day another dollar. How about you, honey staying all night?"
Dean, despite the effect of the evening's drinking, kept his voice level and friendly. "No, I'm about ready to leave. Can I offer you a ride home?"
Eva surprised him by accepting. "Sure," she nodded, "just give me a minute to get my coat and purse."
When they were in Dean's car, Eva gave him directions, and they started off through the small town, which was quiet and empty at that late hour. Though she leaned back and closed her eyes, as if exhausted from her day of work, she conversed freely as the Porsche growled through the streets and onto the highway leading to Mill Valley, where she said she lived. The bittersweet smell of sweat and perfume filled the little car and ignited the slow fuse of desire in Dean's half-drunken body.
She told him of her tempestuous marriage to a merchant seaman who set sail one day for Japan and never returned. When she finally managed to contact him, it was only for the purpose of filing for divorce proceedings. She had lived alone since that time, but Dean was sure that she'd had her lovers. Even as she spoke, he could almost sense the need emanating from her curvaceous body, and there was definitely an inviting sexiness in her voice.
Dean told her he was an artist, though he hesitated, thinking she might find that strange. But Eva seemed to admire his occupation; she had developed an interest in painting and sculpture, when her ex-husband used to bring home objects of art from foreign ports during the better years of their marriage.
A few miles down the freeway, Dean pulled onto a deserted little road which led to a small beach. Eva made no objection to the detour; she sat relaxed beside him, letting her eyes close from time to time. Finally he brought the car to a sliding halt on the sand and turned to her, putting an arm about her shoulders and pulling her face to his. She looked at him invitingly with sultry eyes, moistening her slightly parted lips with a darting motion of her tongue. Dean pressed his mouth roughly on hers in a long, deep kiss. The hot sweetness of the breath from her nostrils fanned his senses into flame, and he dropped an impatient hand to her ripe breasts, squeezing one, then the other through the material of her blouse under the open coat.
Then she pushed him away coquettishly. "Why Dean," she teased, "I thought you were taking me home!" Dean began to fumble with the buttons on her blouse as he answered. "Sure, I'll take you home, baby," he muttered drunkenly, "but first we're gonna have some fun, right?"
But the barmaid shoved him away violently. "This is all the fun we're going to have, Dean. Take me home right now!"
Dean was taken aback. He had expected perhaps a little resistance, but certainly not complete rejection. "Whaddaya mean, take you home? You want it as bad as I do, you bitch!"
Eva's voice grew wild with hysterical hatred.
"No! I don't want it! I don't need it! My husband was like you. Thought he was irresistible. Thought he could get away with anything. Can you imagine what it feels like to be left at home while the man you love is screwing around all over the Pacific? No, you couldn't. But let me tell you, Mr. Handsome Young Artist you're not getting anything-not off Eva!"
Her outburst so startled Dean that he loosened his grip on her, and she took the opportunity to push open the door and bolt from the car. Dean jumped out and saw her running across the sand, stumbling in her panic. He followed, racing after her down the moonlit beach. Finally, about fifty yards from the car, she tripped and fell, sobbing, and Dean caught up with her. He kneeled on her fallen body and held her down. Both of them were panting from the chase.
Eva seemed suddenly to realize her situation. "Oh, no," she moaned, "Oh, God, no!" Then Dean's palm came down and clipped her hard across the face. "All right, lady, you'd better listen. You do what I want, or I'll kill you. It's no use screaming because no one will hear you out here." As he spoke, Dean's drunken mind tried to calculate whether or not he really would kill her. At this point, he didn't know. His body and soul were completely overwhelmed by his lust for the older woman.
"Are you going to cooperate, or do I leave your body over there?" He gestured toward the ocean, which reared darkly nearby, the foam-topped waves glistening in the moonlight. Apparently, he had Eva convinced and frightened. Her breasts heaved beneath him as she struggled for breath. "Okay," she whispered hoarsely, "okay, I'll do what you want. Please don't hurt me!"
Dean grinned wickedly. "That's better," he said. "Now get your clothes off, and make it quick!" He stood back slightly as the woman complied with his order, shedding her light coat, then unfastening the buttons of her white uniform. She kicked off her shoes, then rose up to slip the plain outfit over her head. Beneath the starched cloth was a sight that made Dean's mouth go dry. Eva's body was a perfect picture of voluptuous womanhood, and well preserved. Now it was covered only by her black brassiere and panties. Dean reached forward and ripped off the bra in one vicious, efficient motion. The breasts thus sat free were heavy and round, sagging only slightly with age. Eva, frightened into near-paralysis, stood there helplessly as Dean felt his blood pounding and the hot erection growing and throbbing against the confines of his trousers.
"Get down," he spat at her in a voice that was hoarse with lust, "get down and come over here on your knees!" Remembering his threat, Eva complied, and in a moment she was kneeling before him. She stayed there, motionless, awaiting the next command. Only the heaving of her breasts kept the two of them from looking like strange statues on the moonlit beach. Then Dean spoke again.
"Open my fly and get it out," he told her. "You're going to suck that down for me, and if I feel your teeth at all, I'll bust your head open, so be careful!"
His tone seemed to convince the barmaid that he meant business, for in a moment she had lowered his pants and shorts and was applying her moist, full mouth to his demanding organ. But Dean was not yet satisfied. He barked at her like a marine drill instructor. "Use your tongue you've had a prick in your mouth before! And get your hands on my ass!"
By this time, Eva had lost all inclination to protest. Softly, almost tenderly, she cupped his taut buttocks in her soft hands and began to pull him to and fro as she applied her hot, lithe tongue to his inflamed parts. The odor and heat of his sex began to act upon her senses, overwhelming even the instinct of fear, and she applied her mouth and tongue dotingly to the body of her captor with all the experience she had accumulated in her forty-odd years of life. Her tongue slid hotly along the tender creases of his groin, dipping down beneath the swelling scrotum to probe the softness of his inner thighs, and coming up along the underside of his cock with a wet indulgence that sent tremors through his body. Dean quivered sensually as she licked around the glowing head, darted her tongue into the tiny hole to catch the pearl of expectant lubrication that hung there, then made a tight circle of her lips and sucked down slowly on the big cock, until she felt it hit the back of her throat.
Dean felt her fingernails clenching his buttocks as she pulled him, directing him in and out of her moist lips. After a few moments of this ecstatic stimulation, he felt his crisis coming on. He wound his hands in the barmaid's long, dark hair, and his sperm gushed hotly into her mouth. So aroused was Eva by this time that she did not have to be told to hold her mouth still; she swallowed greedily every drop of the copious emission.
Dean slowly withdrew his cock, still hard and glistening with semen. Eva looked up at him expectantly, and he pushed her violently back on the sand. As she lay there in confusion, he kicked his pants off from around his ankles and bent down to her, ripping the filmy black underpants away from her helpless body. An enormous black muff of hair on the woman's pubis stood out against her white skin in the moonlight. Dean fell on top of her with a hoarse cry and entered her with one merciless thrust.
Even in her now aroused state, Eva could not forget her hatred of men. The reawakening of her dormant sexuality seemed to give new energy to her resentment, and even as her hips surged involuntarily forward to meet Dean's attack, she began to scream at him. She called him vile names, and invoked curses on all males in a demented, piercing voice.
In his drunkenness, Dean forgot their isolation and feared that her cries would bring intruders. He groped wildly about for something with which to silence her, and his hand touched a club-sized piece of driftwood that lay nearby in the sand. Still imbedded in the woman's cunt, he raised the makeshift weapon and brought it down hard against the side of her head with a crack that would have sickened him, had he not been so distracted with liquor and lust. Her face paled, and her head rolled limply to one side. Satisfied with her silence, Dean continued to drive his throbbing member in and out of the unresponsive body, until he emptied his lust into the depths of her cunt with a groan.
Withdrawing his softening organ, he stood up and brushed the sand from his knees. The drain of orgasm and the sharpness of the salty ocean air took a quickly sobering effect on him, and he began to shake uncontrollably as he realized what he had done. He knelt beside the nude body of the barmaid and felt for her pulse, but he was shaking so badly that he could not determine anything. Desperately, he put his ear to her still warm breast, noticing how the nipple had stiffened in the night wind. All he could hear was the roar of the waves. In a panic, Dean leaped to his feet, grabbed his clothing, and ran for the car. Blood spread in the sand, fanlike, around the fallen woman's head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Back at the loft, Dean hurriedly packed a few essential belongings. He was sober now, and horribly afraid that he had killed Eva. The events of the night had so confused him that he could think only of escape. But where was he to go? He sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his throbbing head in shaky hands. Then he remembered hearing about a small town in Mexico where some friends had once visited, returning with glowing reports of its beauty and seclusion. They had also mentioned, it seemed, an American artist colony in the area.
He arose and walked over to a dresser where he shuffled through some maps for the ones he would need, then took a folded wad of bills from the leather jewelry box where he kept his money. He counted the bills and found more than enough for his trip; he was glad that he had saved some of his pay from the job at the gas station. He took one last look around as he headed for the door, suitcase in hand. The dozen or so sculptures had already been taken to the art gallery, and small areas of cleanliness showed where the bases had stood on the unswept floor. Even in his panic to get away, Dean felt a twinge of excitement, knowing that his work would be shown publicly within a few weeks. Then he closed the door behind him, and sprinted toward his car.
Leaving the sleeping city behind, Dean sped south on the freeway. It was several hours before his panic fully left him, and his hands began to relax their white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. By this time the sun was coming up, and the road came alive with small-town commuters and salesmen getting an early start. As he recovered his composure, Dean realized he was very hungry, and he turned off at the next exit to find a restaurant.
Coming back to the freeway with a good breakfast under his belt, Dean began to figure the mileage to Mexico. Going directly south, it would only take a day's driving to reach the border. He was trying hard to imagine what Mexico would look like, when he saw the girl standing on the curve of the cloverleaf with her thumb out. He pulled onto the shoulder a few years ahead of her, and pushed open the right-hand door. The girl hesitated before getting in, and Dean took a good look at her.
She was the strangest-looking girl, though undeniably pretty, that he had ever seen. Instead of an ordinary coat or jacket, she wore a royal purple cape of satin-like material. Her long black hair, parted at the middle, was undisciplined, almost frizzy, and between its cascading waves was a full, sensuous face lined with experience, almost a hardness that seemed inconsistent with her youth.
"How far ya going?" she asked him, in a rough voice.
"Los Angeles," he lied. He didn't want to take any unnecessary chances.
"Groovy," replied the girl. "That means I won't have to spend another night in one of these damn hick towns." She tossed an ancient carpetbag behind the seats and climbed in. Dean pulled onto the highway, and soon the Porsche was speeding south again. "Which damn hick town did you have to stay in last night?" he asked her, mimicking her rough language good-naturedly. She did not appear to notice the jibe. "Salinas," she replied, with a trace of disgust. "I took a room in a cheap motel, and they wouldn't leave me alone. The cops kept coming in to check me out on all sorts of pretenses. Guess they figured to find some grass on me or something. But I don't need to risk a fuckin' pot bust as long as I've got some of this good stuff in my bag." With that, she reached behind her and brought out a pint bottle of whiskey. She uncapped it, took a healthy swig, and held it out toward Dean. "No, thanks," he told her. "I think I'd rather stay straight today." She laughed, as if mocking his sobriety. It was a coarse laugh, as her language was coarse. Another man might have been dismayed at these unladylike qualities, but Dean found them refreshing. He sensed an earthy honesty in the girl, which appealed to him.
As they drove along, the girl spoke freely about herself. Her name was Mandy, she said; she was a blues singer, and had just split up with a well-known Los Angeles rock group. She didn't know where the next job would come from, and she didn't care. What she needed now was a chance to relax after the strain of constant performances and tours. She had just gone to San Francisco to see about organizing a new group, and her car had broken down while she was there. "So I sold the goddam thing and decided to hitch back to L.A., " she told him. "Now I'm going to lie around that little old goddam beach and let things kinda settle themselves."
Dean, on the other hand, volunteered little information about himself. He told her only his first name, and that he was a sculptor. "I just don't feel like talking much about myself right now," he explained. Mandy didn't seem to mind. She settled back to watch the scenery, reaching back occasionally for a nip at her bottle. They drove on silently for a long while, and Dean mulled over the frightening flurry of recent events. He felt as if he had escaped from a nightmare, and was glad for the soothing pleasure of sun and wind against his left arm as it rested on the door, and for the steady growl of the engine. Slowly, the nightmare faded as he realized that he was indeed escaping, and he began to relax. He glanced over at the girl beside him. She had fallen asleep, and the hard lines in her face had softened, so that she looked younger now, and very desirable. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, and the purple cloak had fallen open. The long, shapely limbs were bared to his gaze from her sandals all the way to the hem of her brief skirt, which had ridden well up her thighs. Dean sighed to himself as desire for this strange girl welled up within him. Cautiously, he removed his right hand from the steering wheel and reached out to touch her. She stirred only slightly in her sleep as he pressed his palm against her bare knee. Encouraged by her sleepy acquiescence, he slid his hand farther up, testing and exploring the soft regions of her thigh with his fingertips. As he stroked the silky skin, he felt his pulse begin to race with excitement. His cock began to throb and grow, pressing anxiously against the unyielding fabric of his Levi's. Mandy stirred again in her sleep, uncrossing her legs to give the intruding hand better access, and Dean flipped away the hem of the brief skirt to find her naked beneath it. The fluffy black triangle of hair, with the full lips barely visible beneath it, lay invitingly between the whiteness of her hips. He cupped his hand over the tempting mound, extending his middle finger downwards to trace a line up and down the entrance to her cunt. The warm flesh seemed to open for him, already growing slippery with the juices of arousal. By this time, Mandy was awake and aware, and she made it clear that she was entirely pleased with the turn of events. "Go on," she murmured, regarding Dean through half-closed eyes, "push it in."
He complied, inserting his finger slowly and moving it around inside her. By this time, he could barely keep his mind on driving. A few hundred yards ahead of them was a turnoff, beside which rose a grassy hill. He slowed the car and pulled over. Mandy had straightened her disarranged clothing and sat up beside him. Dean cut the engine and turned to Mandy. He kissed her, and she responded eagerly. Her mouth opened to him, and her warm tongue boldly probed along his lips and teeth. She reached over and squeezed the quivering bulge in his pants. "Come on," he breathed in her ear, "let's get out of the car."
Slamming the doors behind them, they scrambled together up the hill. At the top, they passed through a cleft between two huge rocks. Once behind the wall of stone, they were invisible from the road. Dean pulled off his clothes in a great hurry and tossed them in a pile at the base of the rock. He stood there, tall and gleaming in the sunlight, his outthrust cock pointing directly at Mandy, who removed her purple cloak and the scant clothing beneath it with slow, sensual movements, laying the garments in a neat pile on the grass. Then she lay back on the ground with her knees wide apart and beckoned to Dean. As he came toward her, she reached down and pulled the lips of her cunt apart with her fingers. Dean was drawn to the glistening flesh beneath the black triangle as if by a magnet. He fell on his knees and buried his mouth between her legs with a groan of lust. Her hips rose to meet him as his tongue squirmed inside her and licked a hot path up and down her slit. He cupped her tensed buttocks in his hands and drank of her juices as a half-starved dog might burrow into its feeding-dish. The delicious odor and taste of her sex washed over him until he was in a perfect frenzy. His cock twitched frantically in the space between them. Finally Mandy's hands were on his back, pulling him over her. He entered her, and the slippery passage yielded just enough to allow the intrusion of his cock and no more. He could feel her closing hotly around every sensitive square inch of his throbbing organ. He began driving in and out, slowly at first, slowly until he found her rhythm; then they began to move as one body. Dean could feel that she was close to orgasm, having been so well aroused by his torrid foreplay. They ground against each other's bodies with increasing speed until a switch seemed to catch deep within Mandy's body, and she began to come. A low growl came from her throat as she lifted herself off the ground and sank her teeth into Dean's shoulder. Dean, who had been holding himself back until now, felt his own orgasm start like a white-hot sun in his balls. At the height of her ride, Mandy slipped a deft finger into his anus, and the sun exploded, spewing a thick stream of lava deep inside her.
A few minutes later, they lay side by side in the warm grass. Dean closed his eyes. He was grateful for the release and relaxation after the tension of the past hours, but a twinge of panic seized him as he realized the necessity for reaching the border quickly. Just as he was about to suggest that they move on, he felt Mandy's hot mouth closing on the head of his resting prick. He struggled against the voluptuous sensation momentarily, but soon gave in to the need that she was renewing in his flesh. Her moist lips slid repeatedly to the root of his limp member, pressing it firmly until it sprang in little jerks to full erection once more. Having accomplished this change in his condition, she lifted her head from between his legs and began to trace moist lines around his torso with her tongue. She lingered over his nipples, teasing them with little nips until he squirmed with the sensation, then quickly ran her tongue over and into his armpit. Here she doted over his skin with her talented mouth much as he had burrowed earlier in her crotch, arousing delicious sensations in an area Dean had never imagined might be erotically sensitive.
Then her tongue quickly retraced its path, and he again felt the heat of her breath on his jumping cock. But this time she transferred her attentions lower, to his balls, sucking them gently and scraping her teeth lightly over his tingling scrotum. After a few moments of these skillful ministrations, he felt her hands under his buttocks, lifting him at the hips. As his legs fell loosely apart, her mouth left his balls, and her tongue darted hotly into his anus. Finally, Dean could stand it no longer. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her over him. Mandy willingly positioned herself, and, taking his throbbing member in hand, directed it straight to her cunt. She impaled herself up to the hilt, then began to ride him. As she moved against him, she leaned forward and back, alternately arousing unique and varied sensations. Then she raised herself, and spun around with just the tip of Dean's cock inside her until she was facing away from him. As she moved up and down upon him, Dean was doubly excited by the fine view afforded him of his cock sliding in and out of her through the cleft of her delicious buttocks. Then she began moving up and down faster and faster, until his cock was pumping in and out of her like the piston of an automobile engine. It wasn't long before she began to moan and Dean felt her cunt begin its pulsing contractions. Placing his palms against the grass, he steadied himself and rose to meet her thrusts. Finally he began to come. He could feel the muscled thrust of each spurt as he spewed his thick fluid into her spending cunt. He opened his eyes and saw the sun had moved with uncanny speed toward the west.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was early evening as Dean sped south toward San Diego and the refuge of Mexico beyond. He had stopped only long enough to eat a quick meal in Los Angeles with Mandy. The singer had invited him to stay on for awhile at her house, which she shared with several luscious young girl friends, but he had politely declined the invitation, promising to stop back the next time he was in Los Angeles. Dean was saddened by the realization that he might never really be able to return without fearing for his life or at least his freedom. He flipped on the headlights, wishing he had a radio to keep him company. It was the first time he had ever felt so alone.
* * *
He passed through Customs in the dead of night. The officials subjected him only to a routine search, and he was relieved that the delay with Mandy had apparently not mattered. The police obviously did not have a bulletin on him. He wondered if Eva's body had even been found yet.
In Tijuana, he found an all-night money-changing office where he converted his cash into Mexican currency. At the exchange rate of twelve pesos to the dollar, he left the office carrying more paper money than he had ever held in his life. The huge quantity of bills gave him a feeling of security and confidence, and he set out to look for a comfortable hotel.
The building he chose was on a side street near the center of town. He walked through the ornate, deserted lobby and found the clerk asleep in a wicker chair behind the desk. He succeeded in rousing the short, dark man only long enough to get a room key and a muttered explanation of the rates. Dean signed the register with a fictitious name and mounted the huge staircase to find his room, leaving the clerk to his rest.
The room was small, and had undoubtedly seen better days, but at least it was clean and boasted a double bed. Dean deposited his coat and satchel on a chair near the door. Too exhausted to bother cleaning himself up, he stripped off his clothes and surrendered gratefully to the bed's soft embrace. Within moments, he was sound asleep.
That night, Dean's body rested well, but his mind did not. He dreamed that he was lying on his back, spread-eagled on a cold stone slab. He tried to move his hands and feet, but found that his wrists and ankles were secured to the stone by steel bands. Looking around, he saw that he was on a beach near San Francisco, the very beach where he had left Eva to die the night before. The stone slab was actually the top of an altar-like platform, raised several feet above the sand. It was twilight, and a cold ocean wind played over his naked body, raising goose bumps on the exposed skin.
Suddenly, torches flared up all around him, and he found himself encircled by shadowy human forms, their faces barely discernible in the flickering light. One by one, the figures approached and stood beside him for a moment, as if to identify themselves. There were Sheila, Marty, John Thomas with his lover, Bruce, Angie, Mario, and most surprising of all, Dean's mother. There were others who remained in the circle without coming forward, and whose faces he could not see clearly. Those who did come near were silent, but their eyes glared accusingly into his. Finally, the circle was complete again, except for his mother. She stood there beside him, a lush-bodied woman with full, rounded curves and thick, dark hair. Then she addressed the people in the circle, slowly turning as she spoke in order to face them all.
"You know," she intoned in a steady, intense voice, "that my son has been a bad boy. Although I raised him with kindness, patience and love, he has grown to be not a man, but a monster. Yes," she hissed, regarding him with a hard glance, "a monster of selfishness. Each of you here has felt the cold touch of his greediness upon your lives. It is my unfortunate duty to decree that he should be summarily punished for his wrongdoings here, this very night." An ominous murmuring of approval welled up from those in the circle, as if issuing from one throat.
"But first," the woman continued, "it is only fair that each of you who so desires should take what gratuitous pleasure you can from him, as some compensation for that which was taken from you." The murmuring swelled again from the communal throat; this time it was louder and more frightening. With that, she melted back into the circle. Then, one by one, they began to come forward.
Sheila was the first. Standing beside the altar upon which Dean lay bound, she smoothly removed her clothing, apparently unabashed before the others. Then, as if by way of explanation, she spoke to those around her. "This man," she said bitterly, "used me, as he has used others. He courted my favor and affection only as a means to advance his career, without any thought of giving of himself." Here she began to massage Dean's cock, which was springing to erection despite his apprehension. "I shall," she continued, "ride him as one rides a horse, so that he shall know such indignity as he has caused others to suffer."
When she had finished speaking, Sheila mounted the pedestal and straddled Dean, moving up until her cunt was directly over his mouth. "Eat me!" she commanded. "Get me turned on and juicy, lover-boy!" Dean knew it was useless to think of not complying. Perhaps he might get off easily if he went along with this terrible joke, he thought. So he raised his mouth slightly to meet Sheila's descending cunt. The pungent odor washed over him as he began to lick the fleshy slit. Several times, he thrust his tongue deep into her hot hole, bringing it upward along the lips to her swelling clitoris. He sucked and nibbled at the sensitive protrusion until the juices ran freely into his mouth and over his chin. Finally, she seemed satisfied that she was sufficiently aroused, and she moved back until she was directly over his twitching member. She then impaled herself on it, but so slowly that Dean who, in spite of himself, was quite aroused shuddered with sensual delight at the tantalizing contact. He felt her lips pass tightly over the edge of the head and down the shaft until she was completely gorged' with his sex. Then she began to rock back and forth over him, supporting herself with her hands on his shoulders. Her motions gradually increased in tempo until Dean felt as if his whole body were ready to burst. Then they came together, but Dean almost forgot his orgasm as he watched her face. The expression of pleasure she wore was strangely solitary; Sheila looked almost as if she were alone, masturbating herself to climax. Not once did she even glance directly into his eyes. It was as if he had not even participated in producing her pleasure. When she had finished, she slapped Dean hard across the face and disappeared into the circle, somewhere behind him. The shadowed spectators cheered.
Next to come forward was John Thomas and his leather-clad boyfriend. The gallery director, like Sheila, turned to address the crowd. "We, too," he intoned, "have been used by the man before you. He witnessed us performing a mutually agreeable act of love and employed his distaste for our ritual of hurting and being hurt to assure himself of his so-called normality. But he, in every act of his life, demonstrates a wanton sadism that far surpasses the cruelty of anything we do. It is only fitting that he now be chastised for his blind arrogance."
When he had finished speaking, Thomas and his friend Bruce proceeded to do things to Dean that he never would have allowed, had he not been so helpless. Thomas disrobed and climbed up to straddle Dean's chest as Sheila had done. But this time it was an engorged cock, rather than a cunt, that was being presented to his mouth. Dean knew what the slender gallery director wanted, and he kept his lips pressed tightly together and shook his head in refusal. He had always prided himself on his masculinity, and was not about to be violated in this way, especially in front of so many people. Then Bruce, who was standing in the sand at the foot of the altar, advised Dean in a menacing tone of voice. "Listen, Dean baby," he said, "here's what you're going to do. You're going to let Johnny fuck you in the mouth while I give him a few lashes with this." He held up a short, mean-looking whip for Dean to see. "Johnny," he continued, "always seems to come better when I lay a few stripes on his back." He took a firm stance with his feet set apart and made as if to begin.
But Dean pressed his lips even more tightly and glared defiantly at his tormentors. Suddenly there was a whistle and a sharp crack as Bruce suddenly lifted his arm and brought the whip down on Dean's thighs. Dean let out a scream and struggled against his bonds, but it was no use. Over Thomas's shoulder, he saw Bruce's arm going up again. He saw there was no way to avoid this indignity, and before Bruce could apply the lash to his smarting thighs for a second time, he lurched forward and took the head of Thomas's cock into his mouth. When Bruce's arm finally fell, the lash cut into Thomas's back instead of hitting Dean. The man above him groaned with pain and lust, thrusting his organ deeper into his mouth. "Now suck it!" he commanded. Dean, nearly petrified by fear and shame, pressed his mouth tightly around the man's member and began to apply suction. He had hardly begun when Thomas yelped in mock pain and pushed him away with a blow to his forehead, making him strike his skull painfully on the concrete slab. "I felt your teeth!" he screamed. "I don't want to feel them again, do you understand?"
Dean was sure that his tormentor was insane. There was no telling what worse torture might await him, if he failed to comply with their desires to the best of his ability. He lifted his aching head again to the task. The whip cracked again and again, and Thomas drove his cock in and out of the tight "O" of Dean's mouth. Dean was mortified to find his own organ rising stiffly in response to the strange excitement. But his renewed lust was not to be satisfied. He felt Thomas's wet, sliding cock begin to throb against his lips; then it pumped spurts of hot, thick come over his tongue and into his throat as Bruce's whip cracked steadily against his lover's back. Dean finally lowered his head to the cement and lay there, utterly humiliated.
Afterward, Dean was violated by so many other people that he began to lose count. When they had all had their way with him, his mother came again to stand beside him. In her hand was an ugly, curved knife which glinted menacingly in the torchlight. "Dean," she announced to both him and the audience, "you have all but repaid your debt. All that remains is for me to carry out the final judgment with this." Here she held up the knife, and Dean shuddered. "Why, Mother, why?" he cried. "Why are you trying to destroy me?"
"Did you say 'Mother,' Dean?" she asked mockingly. "Look again and see if my reason is not just." Dean blinked to clear his suddenly clouded eyes. When his vision returned, he saw standing before him not his mother, but Eva. Trails of dried blood marred her voluptuous face. "You have taken my life," she explained, "but I am going to take from you something you hold more dear than life itself. I am going to take your masculinity." With that, she bent forward and took his prick into her soft, warm mouth, resting her hand that held the knife against his thigh. Dean shuddered with fear as he felt himself growing to her practiced touch. Stars reeled madly far above his head, and everything began to go blank.
CHAPTER NINE
Two days later, Dean pulled into San Miguel. It was afternoon, and the sun bore down hotly on the cobblestone streets. He made his way to the town square, a tree-shaded lot with park benches and a bandstand, and parked across from it, in front of a great cathedral. Looking around the square, he saw a number of small restaurants among the shops. He chose one and stepped inside for a beer.
As he sat down at one of the small, wooden tables, he was surprised to see that, with the exception of the Mexicans who ran the place, the other patrons were all Americans.
A few tables away sat two young men and a girl, all of whom looked as if they might be artists. They were engaged in an animated discussion. When the waitress came, Dean ordered a plate of enchiladas and a bottle of Carta Blanca beer, then lit a cigarette and settled back to watch them quietly. One of the men was tall and slender, with dark hair that began high on his forehead. The other was shorter, a classically handsome type with a full head of coal-black hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. Both were dressed casually but neatly in the traditional work shirts and dungarees of bohemian artists. The girl with them was dressed similarly, but even in such unassuming garments, she was strikingly pretty. Her small, expressive face was framed by tresses of chestnut hair, which fell gleaming to her waist. The tight fit of her clothing emphasized the delicious curves of the body beneath it. Dean sighed appreciatively, wondering which of the men she was with.
Then the waitress brought his food and drink, and he wolfed down the enchiladas, remembering to go easy on the green sauce, which the waitress had kindly thought to inform him was very hot. When his plate was empty, he lit another cigarette and sipped at the cool beer, glancing occasionally at the girl across from him and wondering where he might find lodgings. It wasn't long before the three young people seemed to notice him, and the short, bearded man came over to sit beside him.
"Hey, man," inquired his visitor, "you're new here, aren't you?" He had a deep, friendly voice, and Dean felt immediately at ease with his direct manner. "Yeah," he replied, "I thought I'd get out of the California scene and see what it's like to live in seclusion south of the border."
"Well," said the bearded one, "I don't know how much seclusion you'll find here, but I think you'll dig it. My name's Tom-Tom Shropshire and that's Martin and J.B. over there." He stuck out his hand, and Dean shook it firmly. He did some quick figuring and decided he could trust these people with his real name.
"I'm Dean Ryder," he answered.
"Dean Ryder?" his new friend repeated incredulously. "Sounds like a name for a movie-star cowboy! You're not putting me on, are you?"
Dean laughed aloud at this response, realizing that almost any alias would probably sound more authentic than his actual name. "No, Tom," he said, "I'm not putting you on. That's just what my mother called me, okay?"
Tom seemed reassured that a joke was not being played on him. "Sure, man, sure," he grinned, "but I still think it's pretty far out!" He then proceeded to remove Dean to the table where he was sitting with his friends.
"This," he said, putting a hand on the taller man's shoulder, "is Martin. Martin is a playwright. And this," he continued, moving his hand to the girl's shoulder, "is J.B., the prettiest, most talented actress in San Miguel. She's really just plain old Janis Brown, but she digs to be called J.B., so that's what we do." Then he introduced Dean to the other two, and they all nodded to each other in greeting.
They conversed for awhile, and Dean found himself very much at ease with his new acquaintances. They seemed calm, honest and outgoing, as if life in the Mexican hill town had enabled them to come to terms with themselves. As the afternoon waned, Dean remembered that he had to find a place to stay, and he asked Tom for advice.
"Listen, man," said Tom, who had revealed that he was a painter, "why don't you come stay at my place with me and J.B.? That way, you could have plenty of time to look for your own pad. How about it?"
Dean was delighted with the offer, and he accepted the painter's invitation eagerly. "Well, I'm glad that's settled," said Tom. "Listen, Dean, Martin and I wanted to go over to the school this afternoon to work on a stage set, so I was thinking maybe J.B. would take you home and show you around a little. How about it, J.B.? "
"Sure," replied the girl, with a sidelong glance at Dean, "let's go." Tom and Martin left the restaurant and drove off in a white Chevy station wagon while Dean and J.B. walked toward the Porsche.
The painter's abode was a large, second-floor apartment on a narrow side street a few blocks from the square. J.B. ushered Dean up a narrow, winding stone staircase into a living room whose walls were covered with huge, darkly painted canvases. The furnishings were simple, almost Spartan. A mattress and board, resting on concrete blocks, served as a bedlike couch. Multicolored pillows scattered about the floor, along with several crude, wooden stools, served as additional seating. On the mantle were two matching candelabra of black iron, in which were installed thick, handmade candles. "You'll probably be staying on the couch," she told him, "so why don't you just leave your bag in here?" He dropped his satchel beside the couch and followed her out of the room. She gave him a brief tour of the apartment, and he followed her around, more engrossed with the sway of her Levi'd buttocks than with the charm of the charcoal stove or the location of the bathroom. They ended up on a balcony at the rear of the house. The sun had already begun to set, and from behind a nearby mountain, it cast a red glow on the streets and houses of San Miguel. It made everything look bloodstained. Taking in the sight, beautiful as it was, reminded Dean of his recent dream, and he felt his pulse skip a beat in momentary fright. But when J.B. turned toward him, his fear vanished, replaced by sudden desire as his eyes took in the lush curves of her body, the softness of her hair and the triangle of smooth, white skin where her blue shirt was open at the collar. "Welcome to San t Miguel, Dean," she said softly, and he knew that she wanted the same thing that he did.
He bent to kiss her upturned lips. Her mouth opened softly for him, and he probed it gently with his tongue as he felt her hands begin to wander freely over his body. He broke away from her, holding her anxious body lightly by the hips. "C'mon, let's go inside," he said.
In the living room, she lit candles and incense while Dean kicked off his boots and cleared off the couch. As a plume of fragrant smoke rose to the ceiling, she turned to him in the candlelight and began to undress. He swallowed hard as she unbuttoned the shirt and slid it slowly off her shoulders. Her firm, high-set breasts quivered as she tugged at her belt and stepped out of her Levi's. Dean pulled off his own clothes, dropping them in a heap beside the bed, and walked toward her. She gazed longingly at his cock, and, with a little gasp, dropped quickly to her knees before him. He put his hands on her smooth shoulders, and watched his cock sliding in and out of the lovely mouth until his whole body was pulsing with desire. Then he gently disengaged his member from between her lips and pushed her backwards onto the floor, lowering himself over her pale body. He bent and nibbled hungrily at her breasts while she took his cock in her fingers and directed it impatiently to her already moist cunt. He slipped it in to its full extent, and began moving slowly back and forth. Her legs twined themselves around his back as he drove his big staff in and out of her sucking hole; then they came together with sudden intensity from the excitement of this first encounter.
They rested against each other for a few moments, his cock still buried inside her. Then Dean rolled onto his back, carrying J.B. with him. Immediately, she began to move up and down on his still hard cock while he fondled her breasts and thrust up hard with his hips to meet her. This time they drew it out until they were both sweating with the exertion. Finally, Dean clamped his hands around her buttocks and held her still while he quickened his thrusts to a blinding tempo. When she began to come, he held himself back for a long while, until she was trembling and moaning in ecstasy as she rode him. Then he pumped his hot fluid deeply inside her, and they collapsed together on the floor, exhausted. After a while, she got up and built a fire in the fireplace.
They sat together on the couch, smoking cigarettes in the glow of the fire. The perfume of the incense that had burned still hung in the air, giving the room an exotic but comforting atmosphere. "It's sure nice to smoke American cigarettes for a change," J.B. told him, taking a deep, luxurious drag. "It's been months since I was in the States."
"Do you and Tom always travel together I mean like when you leave San Miguel?" Dean asked her. She smiled, as if amused by his naivet�. "No, man," she replied. When I travel, I travel alone. Let's get one thing straight, okay?" Dean nodded, and she continued. "I'm not Tom's old lady, or anybody else's. I'm a free agent. That's why I can be here with you without any hang-ups about it. Tom's probably hip to what's going on with you and me, and he can dig it. That's the nice thing about our relationship we don't own each other. We're both free." Dean frowned. "Then why are you living together if you're so free?"
"Because," she replied, "we dig each other more than anyone else. But that doesn't mean we have to cut ourselves off from everything else. When you're married and you really get into that monogamy bag, you get to be like Siamese twins, joined at the genitals. Do you think that Siamese twins have much to talk about with each other after a few years?"
Dean puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette. "I guess not," he said. "I've never gotten too deeply involved with a chick because I thought that was the only way you could do it you know, the Siamese twin thing."
J.B. stubbed out her cigarette and put her arms around him. "Well, it's not," she said. "Anyway, you must be pretty tired. Why don't you just turn in now? There'll be plenty of time to talk tomorrow, and lots to see, if you'd dig getting the grand tour. How about it?" She pressed her breasts warmly against him, and Dean felt a flickering of desire, but was overwhelmed by the desire to simply get to sleep. "Fine," he said. They rose from the couch, and he turned back the light Mexican blanket that covered it and slid underneath, stretching himself out comfortably. J.B. blew out the candles, leaving the fire to die out of its own accord. Then she came to his bedside, bending over to kiss him softly on the mouth. "See you tomorrow," she whispered. In a few moments, Dean fell into a sound, dreamless slumber.
CHAPTER TEN
The following day, J.B. showed Dean around San Miguel, as she had promised to do. They walked the cobbled streets for several hours, and Dean found much of interest, especially the open-air market, where peasant families arrayed their colorful wares on makeshift stands or on blankets laid on the street. He found himself growing fond of the girl, but some instinct warned him not to become too deeply involved. She was, after all, living with Tom. Besides, there was her openly independent attitude toward love relationships. Dean had always been accustomed to having the upper hand, accustomed to being the free one, and her disposition disturbed his sense of the game.
They were standing by the outdoor tortilla factory, watching the small, flat cakes being turned out along a short assembly line. "Say," said J.B., "I've got a groovy idea. Feel like going for a ride?" Dean grinned. "Sure," he answered, "What's the surprise."
"You'll see," she replied, looking at him secretively with mock seriousness.
A few miles out of town, they came to a fork in the road. J.B. instructed him to take the left one, and they continued on in silence for almost half an hour over the bumpy,, ill-paved road. Then they came into a small village that seemed to consist of nothing more than a few adobe huts and an ancient cathedral arranged around a dusty square. Dean swerved to avoid a cow, pulled off beside a hitching rail, and shut off the engine. "Is that it," he asked, "the cathedral?" J.B. jumped out and closed the door. "That's it, all right," she said. "Follow me."
The inside of the church was cool and dark. It was like entering another world after the sun-struck dustiness of the village outside. Scattered among the pews were a few people in ragged clothing, kneeling reverently in prayer. From the left came music and a shaft of light. A group of nuns sat in a side section, singing in the haunting style of a Gregorian chant. When his eyes became accustomed to the dim light of the sanctuary, Dean could see the pulpit with its adornments. There was the usual array of chalices, candles, and crucifixes that one finds in any Catholic church. But as he approached more closely, he could see that the walls around the pulpit were covered with ancient, cracked murals. The scenes they depicted were a far cry from those seen in most religious murals. Each panel showed demons, fire, and unfortunate sinners caught in the horrors of hell. Dean stood transfixed by the sight until J.B. took his arm and led him forward until they were standing by the altar. "They used to sacrifice people here," she whispered. "It was right after the Spanish conquest, and the Spaniards had a hard time persuading the people to give up some of their own religious customs. See there are traces of bloodstains on the stone." Dean looked closely at the altar, and saw dark portions that did indeed look like bloodstains. The dream in the hotel room in Tijuana flashed through his brain, and fear shot like electricity through his whole body. He steeled himself against revealing his inner torment to J.B., and soon the feeling passed. Then she spoke again, still in a whisper. "This place is full of secret passages. Want to go exploring?" Dean nodded enthusiastically. He was glad for a chance to get away from the weird altar.
They chose a small doorway that led into a dark, musty tunnel. The passage twisted and turned, and Dean stumbled a few times in the darkness. Here and there, empty candle holders projected from the walls. When they had walked for several minutes, they came upon a place where the walls widened a few feet on either side, creating a small chamber. J.B. took his hand and drew him off to the side, where there was a stone bench. They sat down together on it, and Dean was very conscious of the warmth emanating from the beautiful girl's body. He turned and kissed her, and she responded immediately, parting her lips and nibbling at his questing tongue. He began unbuttoning her shirt, but suddenly stopped. "What if someone comes?" he whispered.
She laughed softly. "They won't," she assured him. "All the people are superstitious about these passageways. They think the ghost of their patron saint is still lurking around here somewhere, and, as much as they dig the saint, they're not very anxious to meet his ghost."
Reassured, Dean cupped one of her breasts in his hand. The nipple rose quickly to his touch, and he felt her heart beating beneath the warm flesh. He finished unbuttoning the shirt, and began to slip it off her shoulders. "Leave it," she said, "it's kind of cold in here." Then, with the shirt still hanging loosely about her, she stood up and removed her Levi's. Though he could barely see her in the gloom, Dean became giddy with passion as he smelled the hot, musky scent of her cunt a few feet from his face. She sat down again, this time straddling the bench, then reclined away from him on her back, her legs hanging over the sides to the floor. In a voice husky with lust, she demanded his attentions. "Eat me," she implored, "eat me out, right now!"
Dean slid down until he was kneeling at the foot of the long bench. He applied a warm, moist kiss to the inside of her knee, and slowly, painstakingly, traced a hot line of desire with his tongue up the inside of her thigh, nearer and nearer to the source of the exciting odor that sprang from the crux of her smooth thighs. At last, he fastened his mouth over her eager cunt and dipped his tongue deep inside the entrance to her vagina. She moaned in pleasure at the sudden contact and ground her hips against his face. Dean ran his hands up and over her body, brushing aside the open shirt to caress her breasts and the flat, smooth planes of her stomach. Even as she came, making low noises in her throat, he continued to lap at her spending cunt until her body vibrated with sensual ecstasy. As soon as she had finished, they exchanged places, so that Dean was lying on the bench as she had done. She immediately straddled him, sinking slowly down on his anxious cock, balancing herself on the balls of her feet. He reached up and played with her bobbing breasts as she moved slowly up and down on his prick. Her motions increased in speed, and he could tell that she was close to another orgasm. "Hold it in," she pleaded hoarsely, "I want you to come in my mouth." She had scarcely finished the sentence when the orgasm took her, and she threw her head back in wanton delight and rocked wildly back and forth above him. He could feel her vagina contracting powerfully around him, and it was all he could do to keep from coming. But his efforts were momentarily rewarded, as she lifted herself off him and slid down to where he had kneeled previously. Immediately, she took his throbbing organ into her mouth and sucked down hard, meanwhile fondling his balls. He felt his explosion coming, and just at that moment, she inserted her finger into his anus. It was as if she had turned on a hot water tap at full blast; he spewed his lust into her mouth and throat, and she greedily swallowed every drop. When they had rested, they rearranged their clothing and stumbled hand-in-hand out of the cathedral into the blinding light of the hot, Mexican afternoon.
Later, sitting alone on the balcony in the sunset, Dean counted out his remaining money and realized that he had barely enough to eat on, let alone to rent an apartment or a house. So when he sat down with Tom and J.B. to the excellent Mexican dinner J.B. had prepared, he asked them what he might do to earn money while he was in San Miguel. "Well, man," said Tom, between mouthfuls of the spicy food, "you could always do some sculpture and sell it."
Dean shook his head. "No," he replied regretfully, "I'm just not into that right now. I haven't had a single goddam artistic idea for weeks. Besides," he added, "I'd have to have a studio or a place of my own to work in, so that's out. How about a job like washing dishes or something. They got anything like that around here?"
Tom laughed. "Are you kidding, man? They barely have enough jobs like that for the Mexicans. As an alien here, you're not allowed to take a regular job."
Then J.B. broke in. "Hey, Tom -I know what he could do he could hustle!"
Dean laughed disbelievingly. "C'mon, J.B., the people here are so poor that they have to send their daughters out to hustle. Who's going to pay for me?"
"J.B.'s right," said Tom, "there are quite a few well-heeled women connected with the art school. If they were in Acapulco, they'd be making it with the slick studs who hang out there. But even though San Miguel is a tourist place, it's no vacation wonderland. So there's a stud shortage, right?" He grinned at Dean and returned to his meal.
J.B. added a word of encouragement. "If you decide to try it, Dean, we can turn you on to some good prospects. How about it?"
"Give me a chance to think it over," Dean smiled. "We can talk it over later."
That evening found them sitting together at the restaurant, where Dean had first met the painter and his friends. The place was a gathering spot for young people, both Mexican and American, and it was much more crowded than it had been when Dean had first stopped in. Groups of teenagers filled the tables, drinking beer and listening to the jukebox blasting out Beatles' tunes in Spanish. Tom had resumed trying to talk Dean into becoming a gigolo. "Listen, man, all you have to do is make the scene at the art gallery down the street when they're having an opening. You can always tell who the rich chicks are, because they're the ones who are pricing the stuff instead of just discussing it. Then you just kinda get friendly with them over the martinis. Let 'em know you're a starving artist. It eases their consciences, not to mention their pride, to pretend they're putting out that money for the sake of art."
Dean puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully. "Okay," he said. "I'll try it. When's the next opening?"
Tom looked pleased to have convinced him. "Tomorrow night, man. Tomorrow night."
In a few moments, Tom and J.B. got up as if to leave. "Hey, where are you two going?" Dean asked.
"Home to smoke some good grass and listen to music," Tom answered. "Are you coming?"
Dean scowled. "Not without a chick of my own to keep me company, I'm not. Why don't you sit back down for a couple minutes and I'll see what I can do?" Tom laughed. "Fair enough," he replied, sinking back into his chair, while J.B. fished a dime out of her pocket and headed for the juke box. Dean got up and began circulating among the young people at the other tables. Within minutes, he was back with a tall, slim blonde who looked about fifteen years old. "Tom and J.B., " he announced, "this is Suzanne. Shall we go?"
Back at the apartment, they sat and talked for awhile. Tom was busy rolling marijuana cigarettes in brown paper. Old Rolling Stones albums were stacked on the portable stereo, and the room flickered with candlelight. Suzanne said she was a student at the art school. She was impressed with Dean's being a professional sculptor. "Could I see some of your work sometime?" she asked him.
"No, afraid not, honey," he said. "I left everything I've done in San Francisco, and I plan to start all over here in San Miguel. But as soon as I do some new stuff, you can take a look at it."
When Tom had finished rolling several joints, he lit one and passed it around. Dean had not smoked any pot in a long time, and the weed tasted and smelled good to him. Even Suzanne took her turn at the joint, dragging deeply and holding the smoke in like an expert. Apparently, thought Dean, the kids at the art school were pretty sophisticated. He was really surprised when, an hour or so later, Tom and J.B. began rolling around together on the floor, and Suzanne turned to him and said "let's fuck" in a matter-of-fact voice. They were all very stoned by then, and their intoxication had the obvious effect of lessening inhibitions. Dean looked over at the other couple. Tom had opened his girl friend's shirt and was sucking her breasts. They were definitely not self-conscious in front of their company.
When he looked back at Suzanne, Dean saw that she had stripped off her clothes and was waiting for him to do the same. Her long blonde hair fell gleaming to her shoulders. Her breasts were smallish and firm, the pink tips standing out with excitement. Dean felt the familiar pulse begin to beat in his groin as he surveyed her slim, lovely body. He smiled and reached for his belt buckle. Soon they were fucking on the couch, and his slow thrusts were accompanied by sighs of appreciation from the young girl. He looked over at the couple beside him on the floor. J.B. had Tom's cock in her mouth, and he was gasping with pleasure as she sucked down on it. Inspired by this scene, Dean pulled out of Suzanne and moved up to straddle her, presenting his wet cock to her mouth. She sucked it in eagerly, cupping his tensed buttocks in her hands. Moving in and out of the soft, young mouth, he soon spurted his lust against the back of her throat, as her fingernails dug rhythmically into his flesh. Dean withdrew his still hard, glistening cock, and looked over at Tom and J.B., who were resting nearby on the floor.
"Hey, why don't we all do something together?" Tom suggested. The others nodded their assent, and in no time at all they decided upon a configuration. Dean lay on the couch, with his legs dangling over the edge to the floor. J.B. knelt in front of him, sucking his cock, while Tom fucked her from behind. Suzanne sat on Dean's chest, presenting her dripping cunt to his mouth. In this position, they all moved together, squirming in erotic abandon. When Tom and J.B. reached their orgasms together, they drew away, their lust sated. Dean shivered, and pummeled the girl's teenage clitoris furiously with his tongue, as he felt J.B.'s lips slide off the end of his cock. Then he lowered Suzanne to the floor, and, placing himself between her slim, pale legs, he shoved his throbbing organ deeply inside her. The young girl planted her feet firmly on the floor and slammed her pulsating, hot cunt against him again and again. He felt J.B.'s warm tongue suddenly lapping at his anus, and then he and the girl exploded together and collapsed on the rug. After a few minutes, the candles were blown out, and the couples retired to their separate beds. Dean lay awake for awhile with the lovely young blonde asleep in his arms, wondering what it would be like to do this kind of thing for money.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next evening found Dean at the gallery, dressed in a tie and jacket he had borrowed from Tom, and drinking tequila martinis. The show consisted of paintings by several students of the art school, and Dean found it largely uninteresting. He had long ago decided that painting itself was an obsolete medium, and the exhibited work was not nearly so good as those paintings he had admired before coming to this decision. But he knew it was necessary to feign interest, so he circulated among the crowd, inspecting each piece of artwork with a critical eye. Each time he finished one martini, a Mexican in butler's dress appeared beside him to deal another from the tray he carried among the guests. It wasn't long before Dean's apprehensions about the evening's undertaking were calmed, and he began to socialize. He bantered with a number of affluent-looking older women, but, though they were delighted with his knowledge of the art, and properly sympathetic about his lack of finances (which he somehow managed to mention in the midst of each conversation), they hardly seemed interested in contracting him for any sexual services. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of Tom's plan, when he felt a gentle touch on his elbow. He turned, and found himself face-to-face with a slender, well-dressed woman of about thirty-five. Her pale, pretty face was framed by luxurious waves of raven hair. "Excuse me," she said, "but I couldn't help overhearing some of your conversation. I gather that you're an artist who finds himself shall we say inconvenienced, for lack of funds. I thought I might find some way to assist you. My name is Dorothy Curtis. And you?"
"My name is Dean Ryder," he replied, surprised by her forwardness. For an instant, he regretted giving her his real name, but he decided not to worry. If there was a manhunt going on for him, he hadn't heard about it yet.
"What do you do, exactly?" asked the woman. "Are you a painter?"
Dean lit a cigarette to compose himself. "No, I'm a sculptor. But I haven't had the money for materials or a place to work since I've come to Mexico. I guess that's what you heard me talking about just now, Miss Curtis."
The woman smiled. "That's Mrs. Curtis," she corrected him. "I'm a widow. Now, as I said, I might be able to help you. I'll be frank with you I'd be willing to provide you with a place to work and with money for materials, if you're equally willing to provide me with shall we say intimate services. Or perhaps your artistic integrity forbids such arrangements. You're a very desirable man, Mr. Ryder, and I'm a lonely woman. But I'm not crying on your shoulder. I'm offering you a lucrative bargain, and I want your answer. How about it?"
This was just the chance Dean had been waiting for, and Dorothy Curtis was eminently more attractive than the middle-aged matrons he had imagined selling himself to. He paused thoughtfully to give the impression of being somewhat more innocent than he actually was. Then he smiled charmingly. "No, Mrs. Curtis, my artistic integrity can't afford to forbid such arrangements. The answer is yes."
"Fine," she said. "My man will pick you up in about half an hour. I don't think it would be a good idea for us to be seen leaving the gallery together." She extended her hand, and he took it in a polite handshake. To the casual observer, it must have appeared as if they had simply been enjoying a polite conversation about twentieth-century painting. Then she turned and threaded her way through the crowd to the door, disappearing into the dark street.
Dean obtained another martini and continued to peruse the paintings. He drank it slowly as he walked around the gallery, keeping an eye on the door. Finally, a dark man in a suit and tie walked in from the street. Apparently, he had been furnished with Dean's description, for, after glancing over the other patrons, he caught Dean's eye, and beckoned him to come outside.
Around the corner, a black Mercedes sedan was parked at the curb. The Mexican ushered Dean into the rear compartment, then took the wheel and drove off. Dean sank into the plush upholstery, noticing that a partition of opaque plastic cut off the back seat from the front, making it quite private, especially at night, when no one was likely to be able to see through the tinted windows. Even before his eyes had completely adjusted to the darkness, he sensed the presence of someone sitting beside him. "Mrs. Curtis?" he ventured, "is that you?"
The dim figure replied in a voice husky with desire, much different from the polite tone she had employed at the gallery. "Yes, Dean, it is," she said, "and I have two requests to make of you: One, that you call me 'Dolly,' not 'Mrs. Curtis;' Two, that you kiss me... " Her voice trailed off as she leaned toward him on the big seat. He found her shoulder and pulled her to him. Her mouth was soft and open, and she smelled faintly of tequila and vermouth. The shoulder beneath his hand was bare, and as he moved his fingers downward in exploration, he found that she was entirely naked. Her breasts jutted eagerly to accept his touch. They were warm and firm, and the nipples were already stiff with expectation. He flicked his fingers across them, and she shuddered with pleasure. He ran his hand down her firm belly to her thighs, which opened to admit his probing. The lips beneath the thick curls of pubic hair were already hot and slippery. He pushed his finger inside her, and she moaned and squirmed in pleasure, biting his lips and tongue. Her hands kneaded the firm, muscled flesh of his back, then dropped to his crotch and squeezed the hard pole of his erection. "Ooh... that's nice," she breathed. "Take your pants off!"
Dean undid his trousers, and he had scarcely pulled them to his knees when she leaned over and sucked his cock in almost to the root. He reached up and played with her breasts as they swung tightly with her movements, and stroked the firm flesh of her buttocks, reaching deeply into the warm cleft to tickle her anus. Feeling his touch in this sensitive spot, she bore down harder and faster, until Dean lifted himself off the car seat and spurted his fluid down her throat. When he had refastened his pants, Dean sat back, and she snuggled against him. "That was just the beginning," she said. "You'll be able to hold it for a long time, now that you've come once. We're going to my house now. I think you'll find it very pleasant there." Dean answered her with a deep kiss, wondering what the voluptuous widow had in store for him, as the Mercedes slowed and turned sharply into a driveway. Dolly quickly pulled on a simple dress before the Mexican opened the door for them.
The house, which Dean surmised was on the outskirts of San Miguel, startled him at first. It was an American ranch-type home, such as one might expect to find in a well-to-do suburban neighborhood. "Dean," she said, as they stepped into the plushly-carpeted living room, "this is my manservant, Manuel." She indicated the swarthy man with a nod in his direction. "Manuel," she told him, "this is Dean, our new friend. I want you to make him feel at home here."
Manuel smiled graciously at Dean. "Encantado de conocerlo," he told him.
"What did he say?" Dean asked her.
"He says he's pleased to make your acquaintance," she explained. "Manuel speaks almost no English." Dean returned the other man's smile as Dolly padded barefoot around the room, adjusting the lamps to a pleasingly low level. He noticed Manuel's eyes narrow as he watched the movements of her body beneath the thin dress, wondering if the manservant shared some intimacy with his mistress.
He was soon to find out, for when Dolly stepped into the bedroom, she motioned for both men to join her. She drew the dress over her head and cast it to the carpet. Then she reclined languidly on the huge, king-size bed, inviting Dean to lie beside her. He was momentarily self-conscious in the presence of the other man, but he overcame his reservations momentarily and removed his clothing. He stretched out on the bed, and she immediately pressed her smooth, warm body against his. In a moment his cock sprang to erection against her thighs, and she ground herself against him, rolling the stiff organ between them. Dean stroked her buttocks and the sensitive portions of her back, meanwhile covering her lovely white neck and throat with hot kisses. She writhed against him with desire, then whispered a command in his ear. Her warm breath there made his entire body tingle. "Eat me, darling," she said, "I want to feel your tongue in my cunt!"
Dean disengaged himself from her embrace, and moved back to kneel beside the bed as she moved forward until her legs were dangling over the edge. Then he buried his face in the hot, hair-covered flesh between her thighs. The sharp smell of her sex enveloped him as he licked her avidly, feeling the lips grow constantly wetter with her excited discharge. He thrust his tongue deeply inside her, then withdrew it to nibble at her pink clitoris, which pulsed between the lips like a small penis. He stretched out his hands to play with her breasts, pinching the hardened nipples as he drew out her clitoris with his lips. She locked her legs around his back and writhed on the bed in ecstasy. Then Dean rose to his feet. Holding her legs wheelbarrow fashion on either side of him, he thrust his cock into the gaping, dripping cunt. Dolly's head rolled from side to side as he fucked her. Her eyes were bulging with lust as she watched the movements of the young man standing between her thighs and felt his huge cock penetrating everywhere inside her.
Dean slowed his thrusts, then stood still, his cock half-embedded in her. He knew Manuel was supposed to participate, and he quickly devised a way to bring the Mexican into play. Manuel had long since undressed, and was standing beside the entwined couple, clutching his erect cock. Dean motioned him onto the bed, then he pulled Dolly up and made her stand facing away from him, toward the bed. She knew immediately what he wanted, and leaned forward, supporting herself with her hands on the edge of the mattress. Dean, holding her by the hips, entered her with one thrust from behind, while Manuel, kneeling in front of her, shoved his large, brown cock into her willing mouth. He twined his hands in her dark hair to hold her head immobile as he moved his hips slowly back and forth, drawing the length of his member between the soft vise of her lips. Dean matched his rhythm to that of his partner, and the three of them swayed together on the big bed as one. Steadily, the two men increased speed. Dean reached around and massaged the young woman's clitoris, and she came, sucking with avid abandon on her manservant's prick. Dean slammed mercilessly into her again and again, and felt his own outpouring streaming into her as he saw her mouth fill and overflow with the Mexican's gushing sperm.
Later, Dean was shown to his own room, where he sank immediately into a deep sleep. When he awakened the next morning, he found that his window commanded a view of the entire town and its surrounding countryside. The room was large, and a great portion of it was entirely bare of furnishings. Dean guessed that Dolly planned for him to use the extra space for a studio. Over a breakfast of scrambled eggs laced with hot chiles, she confirmed and expanded upon his speculation. "Well, Dean," she inquired brightly, "do you think you could enjoy staying here?"
Dean nodded enthusiastically. He could not have wished for a better deal. "I sure could, Dolly," he told her, "I sure could. I hope you don't mind my asking, but where'd you get a house like this?"
She smiled. "No, I don't mind your asking. My husband, Bob, used to teach painting at Wayne State University, in Detroit. Then, one day, he inherited quite a lot of money. He always wanted to go to Mexico, and this was his big chance. When we moved down here, we found that we could live like royalty on our money. So Bob bought this house and took up teaching again at the art school, just because he liked it. Everything was wonderful for a while, but then he began to drink heavily. He always wanted to be a great painter, and it frustrated him that he seemed able only to instruct, rather than create."
Dean lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "So he drank himself to death?" he asked.
"No," said Dolly. "I guess he would have, but his mind went before his liver. He became very defensive and belligerent, and he would pick fights with other people over the most trivial matters. One night, he was in the bar, drinking as usual, and he deliberately provoked this guy, another American, into a fight. Bob was a big man, but he was no match against this guy's knife. It took four of those little Mexican cops to carry his body out of the bar. After that, I got the money and the house, and I couldn't really see any reason to leave Mexico. But sometimes I get lonely. There's always Manuel, but I like to have creative people around me. That's why you're here. Manuel understands perfectly, and he's a very devoted friend, nothing more. Does that answer your question?"
Dean exhaled a mouthful of smoke, and she leaned across the table and kissed him on the mouth. "Now," she said, "perhaps we can talk about something a bit more pleasant."
Dean smiled. "Like what?" he asked.
"Like maybe you would like to go on a shopping trip to the art supply store. How about making up a list of the things you'll need? We can drive down there, as soon as you're ready." She reached into a nearby drawer, and produced a notebook and a pencil, which she pushed across the table to Dean.
In a single day, Dean's room was transformed into the best-equipped studio he had ever worked in. He took long walks in the nearby countryside, and made sketches and small prototypes of sculptures he planned to do. At least once a day, he would find himself in the young widow's bedroom, either alone with her, or in the company of Manuel. Together, the two men found numerous ways of pleasing the erotic tastes of the lady. Dean discovered that she loved to be penetrated in her bottom. One warm afternoon, he and Dolly were lying on her bed, cuddled together spoon-fashion, her warm buttocks pressed against his thighs. Dolly frequently indulged in the traditional Mexican siesta, and had little difficulty persuading Dean to join her in observing this relaxing and sensuous custom. They had both been pleasantly asleep, and Dean awakened first. As he stretched his limbs, he felt his cock begin to rise in tight little jerks, rubbing against the backs of her thighs. Impulsively, he lifted her uppermost leg a few inches, raising his knee to hold it there. His fingers probed between them for her cunt, and he massaged it gently, drawing lubricating juices from her vagina, which had begun to respond to his touch, even before she was fully awake. "Umm... " she murmured, "that's nice!" Soon her sex was fully opened to him, and he slipped the head of his prick between the slippery lips. His hand reached around to massage her full breasts, and she moaned softly with pleasure, backing up to him until he was buried to the hilt inside her. At first he remained motionless, enjoying the tight press of her flesh around his throbbing organ. Then he began to move slowly back and forth, inserting and withdrawing his cock as she squeezed him deliciously with her cunt.
Just then, Manuel appeared in the doorway. Seeing him, Dolly extended a sultry invitation in Spanish. Manuel needed no urging. In a few seconds, he had shed his clothing and joined the couple on the bed. Dean continued to fuck her from behind as Manuel lay down face-to-face with her. The Mexican began kissing her mouth and fondling her breasts, and she felt his cock harden insistently against her belly. "Dean," she murmured hoarsely, "I want to fuck both of you at once. Fuck me in the ass, so that I can take Manuel in my cunt."
Dean complied immediately, spreading her firm buttocks with his hands and placing the head of his cock against her anus. The tiny opening seemed for a moment as if it would not give way, but he gave a tremendous thrust, and his cock, well lubricated with vaginal juices, slid up into her. Dolly uttered a small cry of pain, then relaxed as the big cock slid fully into the very depths of her body. She reached down and directed her manservant's cock to her vagina, but it was difficult at first to find room for him, with Dean's cock lodged behind it in her anal canal. Little by little, the woman's crowded vagina gave way, until the two cocks were rubbing in and out, separated only by the thin wall of membrane which divided the two passages. The three of them hunched back and forth, slippery with sweat in the afternoon heat, until they all had come with an intensity that left them sprawled, contented and depleted, on the big bed.
And so it went: Dean provided Dorothy Curtis with those pleasures so dear to the sensuous individual, while she kept him and supplied him with the time, space and materials necessary for his art. It was a profitable arrangement for both of them. Dean found himself endowed once more with a wealth of creative ideas as the burden of his past eased itself off his shoulders.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dean walked down alone one evening to the town. Though living with Dorothy Curtis was usually pleasant, there were periods when she would take to drinking heavily. Whenever this happened, she would become abusive, or, at best, uncommunicative for several days at a time. The tragic loss of her husband had disturbed her more deeply than she cared to reveal when sober. This was one of those periods, and Dean found it necessary to leave the house to find diversion and companionship on his own. The day was in its last warm glow as Dean reached the plaza, or town square. Only a few elderly folks, too tired or too grateful for the warm sunshine to go home for dinner, remained on the benches. Dean found an unoccupied bench and sat down to smoke a cigarette. Several small children were playing on the railings of the ancient, canopied bandstand in the center of the plaza, and he watched their antics half-interestedly as he debated how he could best occupy himself. He thought of paying a visit to Tom and J.B., the young artists who had been his first acquaintances in San Miguel, but decided against it. Dolly's tantrums had put him in such a foul mood that he doubted that he could be very pleasant company for them. Just then, he noticed a strange-looking man approaching him along the sidewalk. The man was short in stature, and even darker-complexioned than most of his fellow Mexicans. One of his legs had been amputated at the knee, and he wore a weathered, wooden limb which resounded against the pavement as he walked. It seemed as if his other limbs had prospered in an attempt to offset the loss of the leg, for he was strong and thickly muscled. Over this remarkable body, he wore one leather boot on the good foot, a tattered pair of Levi's cut short on one side to allow freedom to the wooden leg, and a simple, white peasant's shirt, opened at the throat to reveal his brown, muscular chest. His physique and his clothing conspired to give him the appearance of a swarthy pirate of the high seas, which Dean somehow found amusing and sinister at the same time.
Dean had imagined that the man would walk on past him, and he was surprised when the wooden leg clumped to a halt directly in front of him, and he found himself looking up into the stranger's swarthy face. "Buenas tardes," said the man, knocking the crutch he carried for support against the park bench, as one might knock on a door.
"Buenas tardes," replied Dean. "What is it you want?" Impolite as this direct inquiry might have seemed under different circumstances, Dean had found it necessary when confronted by the various beggars, peddlers and pimps of San Miguel. If you did not immediately ask what their business was with you, they could keep you collared for hours with heart-rending tales of their families' health and welfare problems, hoping to soften you into opening your wallet to them. Sometimes the stories were true; sometimes they were not. Dean was in no mood to listen to a beggar's endless patter. His visitor, however, was not taken aback by the American's crude manner. His lips stretched into a grin which might have been disarming, had not Dean sensed behind it the air of a man who was wise in the ways of the streets and would not stand for being crossed. He remembered having seen the peg-legged man late at night, outside the bars, and wondering what his business was.
"You looking for a good time tonight, my friend?" the man asked. He spoke good, if heavily accented, English. "Maybe some pussy, yes? I got some, fourteen years old, and cheap. Forty pesos. How about it?"
Dean returned the man's smile. "No," he said, "that is not what I want tonight." Hell, he thought, why spend nearly five bucks for a fuck when he could get all he needed and more, plus room and board, for nothing? Then he got an idea. He had heard of strange, erotic shows being performed for small, select audiences, but he had never known how to get in on that particular facet of night life in San Miguel. "I was thinking," he continued, of seeing a show tonight. Do you know a good one?"
The Mexican seemed to get the hint, but he was wary. "There's a big gringo movie at the teatro tonight, 'The Guns of Navarone.' A war movie. That what you want?" he asked, cagily.
"No," said Dean, 'not war movies. I want to see a show with women, a good one."
The Mexican laughed, curling his lip back on his teeth. "Why you do not say so first, amigo? Juan will take you to the best show in Mexico. One hundred pesos."
Dean jumped at hearing the price. "What? A hundred pesos for one goddam show?"
The Mexican shushed him, holding a finger to his lips. "Eighty pesos for the show, twenty pesos for Juan. Without Juan you never find the show."
Dean thought it over for a moment, then nodded his head in assent. "Okay," he said, reaching for his wallet. He pulled out a ten-peso note and handed it over. "Ten now, ten later," he told the man.
"How much later?" asked Juan. "I can't stay all night to see if you like the show I have much other business."
Dean laughed. "No, I'll give you the other ten when we get there. Okay?"
"It is sufficient," replied the other. "Now we go, I take you to the place." Dean uncrossed his legs and stood up. Rising to his full height above the Mexican did little to diminish the smaller man's aura of formidability, and Dean was glad he had dealt carefully with him.
It had grown dark, and Dean pulled his collar up against the chill breeze as he left the plaza with his bizarre companion and stepped into the cobblestone street. They left the glow of restaurants and shops behind, and Juan pulled him into a dark, narrow alley around the corner from the post office. Over a narrow doorway halfway down the alley was one of the few neon signs Dean had seen during his stay in San Miguel. In flashing red letters, it gave the name of the establishment within. "Los Gates!" exclaimed Dean, "I've heard of it-it's just a restaurant and a bar. Is this your idea of a joke, Juan?"
The Mexican clattered to a halt, leaning against the wall and tapping his crutch impatiently against the cobblestones. "It is no joke, my friend," he retorted. "Los Gates is a place to eat and drink, yes, but it is also a teatro after the evening meal. Come with me." He pushed open the big wooden door and stepped inside, and Dean followed, unsure of whether or not he should trust this denizen of the streets.
Inside, just as Dean had imagined, were a bar and a small number of tables, crowded with the wealthy, jaded citizens of San Miguel, Mexican and American alike. The place was furnished rustically in a peasant decor. Juan went over to the bar and conversed quietly with a tall, Spanish-looking man whose finely tailored suit almost made him look out of place in the modest little restaurant. Then he returned to Dean, who was waiting just inside the door. "That is Senor Valdez, the owner of this place. I have made it all right with him for you to be here, even though you are not a regular customer. First you eat, then the show. You understand?"
Dean was a little perplexed. "When does the show start?" he asked.
"Valdez will tell you," said Juan. "Now give me my ten pesos and I will go." Satisfied with the arrangements, Dean pulled another bill from his wallet and gave it to his guide. Juan pocketed the note, and, with a conspiratorial wink, turned and hobbled out the door and back into the night.
Dean found a place at the bar and began drinking. After an hour of waiting, during which he had doubts as to the credibility of Juan's story, plates were cleared from the tables, and a hush fell over the place. As if they had been given a signal, the clientele rose from their chairs and filed, one by one, down the stone cellar steps behind the bar. Valdez himself attended to closing and locking the front door. Then he motioned for Dean to follow the other customers downstairs.
The cellar of the bar had been converted to a small, intimate theater. A stage rose up at the far end of the room, faced by several rows of plushly upholstered seats. Dean guessed the seating capacity to be no more than fifty. As the other customers were seating themselves, Valdez, who had been the last to come down the stairs, took Dean aside. "The others have already paid," he said. "The price is eighty pesos." Dean placed the required sum in the man's hand. "Very good," smiled Valdez. "Soon the show will begin." With that, he strode to the front of the room, mounted the steps to the stage and disappeared behind the curtain.
Dean took a seat in the front row, next to a well-dressed American couple. The woman, who was sitting beside him, was an attractive brunette in her early thirties. She wore a low-cut, sleeveless evening dress, and her thick, dark hair fell in careful waves to her smooth, white shoulders. Even at a quick glance, Dean could see the creamy globes of her full breasts almost in their entirety before the material of her dress hid her nipples from view. Her escort was older, in his midforties, and wore a conservative suit and tie. Dean imagined that he might be on the faculty of the art institute, and he chuckled silently to see this so apparently respectable gentleman in attendance at an erotic show.
Just then, the lights in the tiny auditorium were dimmed, and the red velvet curtains were drawn open. On a low mattress, bathed in the glow of red footlights, was the lone figure of a young, flaxen-haired girl. Her full, ripe body was clad only in a brief, black brassiere and black bikini underpants. As she lay back on the bed, one knee raised to show the lovely contours of her leg, she caressed herself slowly and lovingly. She began by placing her palms against her thighs, drawing them upward over the soft explosion of her hips, then together, stroking the pale flesh of her belly. For a tantalizing moment, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her black panties, and several low moans burst from the audience, urging her to strip off the meager garment. As if to comply with these requests, she flipped the hem of the garment down, revealing blonde tufts of pubic hair. Then she let go of the panties, to the accompaniment of disappointed grumblings from the audience. Her hands traveled upward again, rising slightly as they slid over the subtle rise of her rib cage, then higher as they came to the full mounds of her breasts. As she cupped and stroked the jutting globes, she opened her mouth slightly, flicking her tongue lasciviously along her lips. Her hips began to undulate slowly in imitation of the motions of intercourse, and again there were murmurs of appreciation from the audience. "Take it off," urged a man two rows behind Dean, and this time the girl complied. Slowly, she turned onto her side, placing her back toward the audience, and reached behind her to unfasten the catch of the black brassiere. In this position, the spectators had a clear view of the full, round rise of her hip, and her finely formed buttocks were almost fully visible beneath the sheer material of the black panties. She drew the brassiere off her shoulders and along her arms, then tossed it to the floor beside the bed.
When she turned, bare-breasted, to lie once more on her back, Dean felt a lump rise in his throat. Her breasts were the most perfectly formed ones he had ever seen. They were large enough so that, even though she was lying on her back, they thrust up proud and firm. Dean guessed she could not be older than eighteen or nineteen. She was obviously aroused by her recent self-manipulation, for the nipples were stiff and distended. Her hands returned to her breasts, pushing them together and letting them fall apart. The snowy flesh jiggled a bit, then was still each time she did this. Then she placed her palms directly over her nipples, and massaged her breasts with a circular motion. Her hips began to undulate again, and soon she slid her hands down, until they rested once more over the delicious mound at the crux of her thighs.
As she stroked this tender area, pressing both index fingers into the soft slit beneath the silky cloth of her panties, the bed on which she was lying began to rotate slowly until the girl was turned with her feet toward the audience, still pressing her hands against her cloth-covered cunt. For a moment, Dean heard the low whine of machinery in the stage floor beneath the bed. Then the sound stopped and was replaced by flamenco guitar music coming from speakers set into the ceiling of the tiny auditorium. As if on cue, the girl hooked her thumbs in the hem of her underpants, as she had before; but this time she drew her knees together and slipped the black garment gracefully off her long, shapely legs and dropped it onto the rough boards of the stage floor. When her knees opened once more, the audience had an unobstructed view of her fleshy slit, red and slippery beneath the sparse, blonde bush of her pubic hair, and of the pink, puckered hole between her buttocks. Dean was aware of the fierce surge of blood in his groin as his cock grew turgid and throbbed against the restraining cloth of his trousers. He heard a moan beside him, and glanced over and down to see the well-dressed woman gyrating slowly under the touch of her companion, who had lifted the hem of her dress and was stroking her cunt through the silk of her panties. As they indulged in this intimacy, the couple continued to face frontward, watching the developments on the stage with avid interest.
The nude blonde beauty was stroking her cunt again. While she rubbed her clitoris with the index finger of one hand, she inserted the middle finger of the other into her vagina, rotating it so that it stimulated her well-lubricated passage on all sides. She had aroused herself by this time to such a pitch that her body began to writhe almost uncontrollably on the bed. Beyond the busy motion of her hands, past the pulsing flat plane of her stomach, Dean could see her pink-tipped breasts bobbing as her shoulders repeated the rhythmic motion of her hips. As if describing the intensity of her arousal, the flamenco guitar music rose in volume and tempo to a pitch of urgency.
Suddenly the music stopped. Then the tense silence was broken by the sound of bare feet padding across the boards as a handsome young Mexican man strode into the glow of the footlights from backstage. He was slender, and rather tall for a man of his nationality. From the black curls at the base of his bronze belly jutted a large, finely formed cock in full erection. He approached the head of the bed, standing sideways so that the audience could fully appreciate the impressive profile of his member. The girl on the bed turned, casting a hungry glance up and down the length of the newcomer's body. Then she raised and turned her head, touching her lips to the young man's twitching cock. After allowing her tongue to linger against the broad head for a moment, she took the first few inches of the shaft into her mouth. From where he sat, Dean could plainly see the man's organ sliding slowly past the tight oval of her lips. This so excited him that, after glancing about him in the near darkness, he unzipped his fly with feverish urgency and wrapped his hand tightly around his own throbbing tool. Nervously, he looked around again, only to discover that his self-consciousness was unnecessary. The couple beside him were fully absorbed in caressing each other's genitals as they continued to watch the action on the stage before them. The man's trousers were fully unfastened at the waist, revealing a long, thin erection which the woman was stroking with her soft, delicate fingers. He, in turn, had pulled her panties down so that they fell around her ankles, and was moving his finger back and forth inside her dripping cunt. Dean could hear the squishy noises the finger made as it moved within the sucking folds of the woman's labia.
On stage, the blonde girl sucked her partner's cock fully into her mouth, until her lips brushed against the springy curls of black hair at its base. Then she drew back her head, and reclined once more on the bed, her face glowing with an expression of passionate expectation. For a moment, the handsome young Mexican just stood there, his twitching organ glistening with her saliva. Then he climbed onto the bed and knelt between her legs, his back to the audience. With his arms fully outstretched, he supported himself on his palms and positioned himself so that the head of his cock was poised scant inches from the girl's waiting pussy. Her pale hand descended, contrasting beautifully with the darkness of his well-formed thighs and pendant balls, and encircled his cock, directing it into the hot orifice between her legs. With a single, smooth thrust of his muscular buttocks, he was fully inside her, and a murmur of appreciation rose up from the audience.
The music began pouring out of the speakers again as the couple on the bed fucked. The slow, intense rhythms of the Spanish dance music coincided perfectly with their movements. When the girl locked her legs over the man's back and lifted her body up to meet his. Dean could see perfectly the long brown cock sliding in and out of her cunt. He jerked furiously at his own frustrated organ, wishing he had some better mode of relief than that afforded by masturbating himself. Just then, he was surprised to feel the left hand of the woman beside him brush his own hand aside and take hold of his cock. He looked to his right, and saw that she and her escort bad made a change in their seating arrangement. The man was sitting immediately next to Dean, and the woman was sitting atop him, impaled on his cock. She still faced forward.
Dean accepted the strange woman's touch gratefully. She stroked him with an expert, measured rhythm as she squirmed around on the other man's erection. Meanwhile, the couple on the stage began to slam wildly against each other, increasing the speed of their thrusts as they drew closer to the moment of climax. Finally, the blonde raised herself almost entirely off the bed, hanging by her legs upside-down from the strong back of her lover, and let out a strangled moan of pleasure that was audible over the music. The Mexican apparently came at the same moment, though silently, for Dean saw the white juice trickling down the girl's buttocks as her cunt filled, then overflowed with his semen. He heard the couple beside him grunting their fulfillment; then the soft, flashing hand of the woman brought the thick come up through the pulsing tubes in his groin, and great, hot gobs of it spurted from the livid tip of his penis, splashing against his left forearm as it lay along the arm of his chair.
For a moment, Dean closed his eyes and saw patterns of color exploding and changing within his eyelids. When he opened them again, the couple on stage had released each other from their fierce embrace, and the young man had slid down so that his head was between the girl's thighs. With long, sensuous strokes of his tongue, he carefully cleaned the mixture of their juices from her cunt. As he did so, the bed began to revolve again until the two performers were presented to their audience in profile.
Dean sank gratefully back in his seat, and glanced around the little room to see the other patrons carrying on much as he and his neighbors in the front row had been. Behind him, a middle-aged woman in a mink stole was gobbling her husband's stubby prick. Across the aisle, a young couple were thrashing together on the floor between the seats. Still the passionate notes of the flamenco guitar poured out of the speakers, and Dean wondered what further performances were in store.
He wiped his dripping cock on his shirttail, and looked up at the stage. The young man had risen to his knees between the blonde's legs, and she was gazing up at him with an expression that clearly indicated her appreciation for his sensual talents. His big, brown organ still stood firmly out from his body, gleaming with her secretions. He motioned to her to turn over, and she obeyed, rising to her hands and knees, facing away from him. He ran his hands over the yielding flesh of her buttocks, molding them in his palms. Her breasts swayed slightly as they hung down like ripe fruit.
Suddenly, three more young Mexicans, as well formed and as well hung as the first, appeared onstage. Side by side, they advanced toward the girl, their half-erect cocks swinging thickly before them. When they were directly in front of her, standing at the head of the bed, they stopped. The blonde raised her head to look at the newcomers, shaking the hair out of her eyes. Then, as if acting upon predetermined arrangements, the three men took up their places in the new configuration. The middle one presented his cock to her mouth, which she greedily swallowed, sucking expertly on it until it grew to mammoth proportions and lay throbbing between her pliant lips. The other two turned and lay on their backs in such a way that their feet were still on the floor, and their mouths directly under the girl's pendant breasts. Raising their heads slightly, each sucked a nipple into his mouth, while their comrade who stood between them reached out to grasp their up-jutting cocks in his hands.
Dean was fascinated and aroused by this new arrangement, and his lust increased as he saw the first young man thrust his staff into the girl's cunt from behind. The throbbing in his groin grew fierce as he watched the Mexican's cock slip, inch by inch, into her vagina until his belly was pressed tight against her buttocks.
Thankfully, the woman next to him came again to Dean's rescue. This time, she reversed what she had done before, sinking down on his cock, facing the stage, while she manipulated her escort's tool with her right hand. She squirmed slowly on Dean's lap, the cool flesh of her buttocks pressed down against his thighs. She was obviously restraining herself until the action onstage reached its dramatic climax.
It did not take long for the performers to work themselves into a frenzy. As the rearmost man fucked the girl from behind, he reached under with one hand to play with her clitoris, rubbing it until she twitched, as if her cunt were being shot through with static electricity. Meanwhile, the two young men on their backs were sucking on her distended nipples with hot, wet mouths, and the prick of the man in front slid in and out of her mouth's tight grasp with increasing speed. He, in turn, was jerking furiously at the cocks of the other two.
They were the first to come, shooting their eager sperm into the hanging tresses of the girl's blonde hair as they sucked all the more avidly at her pulsing nipples. Then, as the blonde began to tremble all over at the onslaught of her orgasm, the cock in her mouth exploded, and the semen that shot from it ran down her throat, filled her mouth, and overflowed, dribbling down her chin. Finally the man behind her, his penis stimulated almost unbearably by the hot whirlpool of her twitching cunt, shot his load into her, and the entire group collapsed on the bed, a mass of flesh slippery with sweat and secretions.
Dean, meanwhile, reached his own crisis as the woman bounced up and down on his lap, groaning her pleasure and pummeling her escort's cock as if it were the handle of a pump. With a long sigh, the man spurted out his tribute to her manual dexterity, and collapsed in his chair, satiated.
Then the curtain was drawn closed, concealing the exhausted performers, and the music faded into silence. Dean remained slumped in his seat for a long moment, stunned into a kind of paralysis by the richness of his sensual excesses, like someone who has eaten too much at a great banquet. Then he adjusted his clothing and filed out with the others through the bar upstairs and into the dark, hushed streets. Somewhat embarrassed, he avoided contact with his two companions of the evening, and soon slipped off by himself onto the street that led out of town and homeward.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dean and Dolly were driving back to San Miguel after a weekend of enjoying the night club life of Mexico City. They had left Manuel and the limousine at home, since Dolly often preferred to drive about the countryside in her little sports car, a flashy red Triumph roadster. This sunny afternoon, Dean was at the wheel as they rolled swiftly past the small fields where Mexicans with sarapes draped across their shoulders were tending their crops and flocks. Dolly had been riding along in silence, her eyes half-closed as she allowed the wind to blow her long, black hair behind her. Then she turned in her seat to face Dean.
"Dean, would you promise not to be angry or hurt if I told you something?"
Dean raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Depends what it is," he replied. "Why don't you try me and see?"
She smiled, as if secretly confident that he would be amenable. "Okay," she said. "I've been thinking that I'd like to add a little exciting variety to my sex life. Don't get the wrong idea-you're the best lover I've ever had-it's just that what I'd like to try is something you simply could not offer."
"And exactly what is it you'd like to try?"
"To put it bluntly, Dean, I would like to make love to another girl-preferably one much younger than myself." She paused for his reaction, and was pleased when he broke out in a hearty laugh.
"Listen, Dolly, the day I start worrying seriously about losing you to a young girl, I'll just lie down on the railroad tracks and die. It's a great idea, and I even think I know a way to help you get what you're looking for. Want to hear about it?"
"Sure!"
He told her his plan as they drove along, and soon they were pulling into the driveway of Dolly's house. After eating an early supper, they took a bath together. Dean sat behind her, soaping her back.
"Umm," she sighed, "that feels good. Do my front, too." He complied immediately, sliding his soapy hands around until they found her breasts. As he began to massage the slippery, quivering globes, she leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes. His cock responded instantly to the sensual contact, straightening in little jumps until it throbbed blindly against the small of her back. He nuzzled in her hair until he found the delicate, white shell of her ear. His tongue shot into it, and she shivered with delight. Now his hands had stopped massaging her breasts, and he was pulling rhythmically at her nipples, until they stood out, wet and throbbing. Goose bumps rose on her flesh as the warm water from Dean's hands evaporated, and she squirmed backward against him. Continuing to caress her breast with one hand, he lowered the other until it found the sopping mass of her pubic hair, just below the waterline. After quickly lubricating his finger with more soap, he pushed back the fold of skin which covered her clitoris and began to rub the sensitive nub with slow, tantalizing motions. This additional stimulation was more than she could bear. "Oh, Dean," she moaned, "Fuck me now! I want to feel your cock inside me!"
Dean teasingly continued to rub her tingling clitoris for a moment more. Then he lifted her up in his strong arms and set her down on his up-reared cock. She let out a delicious sigh as the long, thick member slid up the entire length of her cunt and bumped its broad head against the mouth of her womb. She braced her feet against the floor of the tub and began to move up and down upon him, making the water splash gently over both of them. Dean rubbed the bar of soap between his hands once more, and resumed stroking her quivering belly and her firm breasts until she was wiggling ecstatically on the spear of his manhood. Soon she was bouncing up and down so rapidly that the slap of her thighs against the water sent waves of it splashing out onto the bathroom floor.
Then, with a grateful, abandoned groan, she came. Dean shoved upward with his hips and joined her in the throes of a perfectly mutual orgasm. When they sank back down together into the tub after their mating, their mingled juices drooled from her gaping hole and floated off into the bathwater. After they had relaxed for a few moments, they stepped out onto the luxurious carpet of the young widow's bathroom and dried each other's bodies with huge, fluffy towels. A few moments later, they parted with a fond kiss and went off to their separate rooms. Dean chose some clean clothes from the closet and dressed himself, humming to himself and planning what he would do when he got to town later in the evening.
* * *
He had little trouble finding Juan. The peg-legged wheeler-dealer was hanging out at the plaza, conversing with some equally bizarre-looking confederates. Dean managed to attract his attention, and together they walked off to talk in the shadow of the old bandstand. The cripple smacked his crutch impatiently against the wooden frame of the stage as they talked, and Dean realized, to his amusement, that this small-town pimp took himself as seriously as if he were a corporation executive in Mexico City. The man's grooming, however, was far from impeccable. Dean was sure that he wore the same sweat-encrusted white shirt that he had worn upon their first meeting. "Well, my friend," said Juan, "so you like the show and you want to go back, si? You want me to make permanent arrangements for you with Senor Valdez?" He ran his free hand through his black, greased-back hair, teetering a little as the tip of his wooden crutch, worn smooth with years of use, slipped slightly on the pavement.
"No," replied Dean, "it was a very good show, but I don't want to see it again. I came about the girl."
"Which girl?" asked Juan. "I have many girls." He did not seem to remember their earlier conversation.
"The one who is fourteen years old," Dean reminded him. "You said I could have her for forty pesos."
The Mexican's face broadened into a grin of flashing, white teeth. "You mean Gloriana, the little one. She is a good choice, my friend. Often I have thought of taking her for myself, but she will not have me. It is the leg, I am sure," he mused, glancing regretfully down at the wooden stump. "The older women, they understand, but the young ones... " He paused a moment in contemplation, and Dean found it strange and touching that the tough little man should be so sensitive about his missing leg. Then Juan's face brightened again, as quickly as it had darkened, and he was back in business.
"Give me forty pesos and you can have Gloriana for one hour," he said.
"What if I want to keep her all night?" asked Dean.
"Eighty pesos," answered the Mexican, without hesitation. "And you bring her back here, to the plaza, in the morning," he added.
Dean agreed to the price and paid Juan with the money Dolly had given him for the purpose. The colorful procurer left him sitting on a bench in the square and hobbled off down a dark side street. Dean lit a cigarette and leaned back. Before he could finish his smoke, he felt a small hand touch his shoulder timidly. He looked around to see a beautiful little dark-skinned girl standing beside him.
"I am called Gloriana," she told him, matter-of-factly. "Juan says I am to go with you." Dean flipped away his cigarette and stood up, towering over her. She was barefoot, and wore a simple peasant blouse and skirt, unlike the older whores, who preferred cheap, gaudy clothes and high heels. Her black eyes were wide with the innocence and directness of youth, but she showed no fear of the tall, blonde American who had bought her services. She took the arm he offered, and they walked together to the waiting car.
It took Gloriana several minutes to get over her amazement at the plush decor and generous proportions of Dolly's house. It was obvious that she had spent little or no time beyond the narrow confines of her own impoverished neighborhood in San Miguel. She sat on the edge of the living room couch, gazing with fascination around the opulent room with its fine furnishings. Since Manuel, the servant, was absent due to an illness in his family, Dolly herself brought the child a cool glass of lemonade for refreshment. Then, in fluent Spanish, she explained the nature of what was desired of her. When Gloriana understood that she was to give her body to the woman, as well as to the man, she tensed and drew away, unsure as to what she should do. But the loveliness of the young widow, as well as a few extra pesos pressed into her hand, served to set her mind at ease, and soon the three of them retired to the bedroom.
Dolly directed the girl to lie down on the big bed. Then she turned to Dean. "Undress her for me, Dean," she said, her voice already quivering with excitement. "I want to see you take her clothes off!" Dean stepped forward, bending over the prostrate beauty. Taking the hem of her white blouse between his fingers, he pulled the loose-fitting garment up several inches above her waist, revealing a smooth, slender torso the color of fine walnut. Then, with one hand on her back, he raised her to a sitting position and lifted the garment fully off, sliding it up slowly along her upraised arms. Her adolescent breasts were firm and pear-shaped. Dean heard Dolly utter an almost inaudible sigh as the perfect orbs were revealed, and Gloriana's long, black hair tumbled back down in lovely disarray. Dean tossed the blouse aside, then lowered the girl back to the bed. Excited by the half-revealed body before him, he took hold of the hem of her skirt and, with an impatient gesture, yanked it clear down her slim, brown legs. The girl was not wearing underpants. She lay there, naked in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, breathing quickly with anticipation. The cool evening breeze wafted through the open window, rustling the tiny hairs on her flesh.
Dolly was quite evidently pleased at what she saw. "Now leave her to me for a few minutes, Dean," she said. Dean stepped back from the bed, leaving Gloriana lying there alone before the two of them, one knee drawn up shyly so that her thigh nearly covered the lush, black muff of her pubis. Quickly, Dolly slipped out of her dress and climbed onto the bed. Clasping Gloriana's knees, she pulled her legs apart. The younger girl did not resist. Though she was scarcely versed in this kind of sexual activity, she was not unwilling to help the beautiful American woman satisfy her strange appetites. Now her cunt was fully exposed. Dolly gazed longingly at the youngster's pink spice box, then lowered her head between the brown thighs until her face was only inches from it. Here she stopped for a moment, inhaling the warm, musky odor of the girl's sex. Then she pressed her mouth to the soft lips, running her tongue along their inner softness. Gloriana squirmed beneath the oral caresses, and soon the gleam of natural lubrication appeared where Dolly's tongue had touched.
For Dean, it was an exciting sight, the juxtaposition of Dolly's mature, full-breasted body against the slender, almost childlike body of the youthful prostitute. He felt his cock growing and throbbing in his pants, and shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other, hoping that he would soon be presented with a chance to join in.
Suddenly, Dolly pivoted around so that her own cunt was poised directly above Gloriana's mouth. The girl understood immediately what was expected of her, and shot her tongue into the dripping hole above her. The novelty of this situation greatly stimulated Dolly's ardor, and she lapped furiously between the girl's legs. Her breast's dangled tantalizingly over her partner's midsection, and Gloriana, warming sufficiently to the task at hand to go beyond the call of duty, reached up and fondled them. Under this double stimulation, Dolly suddenly came, jerking her spending cunt feverishly against the younger girl's lips and spraying her with such a profusion of fluid that it ran in rivulets down her chin and neck. In the throes of her orgasm, she continued to lap vigorously, bringing Gloriana quickly to her own climax. When both their bodies had ceased their delighted convulsions, Dolly lowered herself gently to the bed and turned around. The two delicious females made Dean flush with desire as he watched them embracing and fondling each other. Dolly was massaging Gloriana's breasts with a circular motion, and the smooth brown flesh quivered deliciously beneath her touch. Gloriana herself was far from passive. With one hand, she was caressing the sensitive white skin of Dolly's neck and throat, while with the other she stroked the older woman's sopping cunt.
Dean could restrain himself no longer. He tore off his clothing, throwing it in a heap on the floor, and climbed onto the bed beside the mass of quivering female flesh. Yielding to his impulses, he threw himself between them. First he embraced Gloriana and kissed her, tasting his mistress's juices on her lips. The young whore lowered a practiced hand to his rock-hard organ and squeezed it convulsively. He felt her smile against his face; she was on home territory now, exercising her precocious skills in the art of gratifying a man. Dolly, meanwhile, was lapping at the sensitive portions of Dean's back with her hot tongue as she reached down to stroke his thighs and buttocks.
Then, in a quick movement, Dean slid down the bed on his stomach so that he was looking up at the twin display of cunts and breasts. Starting at the knee, he licked wetly up Gloriana's thigh straight into her pussy. He nuzzled in the curly hair above it for a moment, then brought his tongue back into play along the pink labia of the youngster's sex. Reaching high above him, he massaged Gloriana's breasts with his left hand, and Dolly's with his right. When he had Gloriana shivering ecstatically, he lifted his head and came down on Dolly's cunt, lapping at it with the expertise she knew so well. After doing this for several minutes, until both girls were twitching in their anxiousness to be penetrated by his big tool, he slid up and over Dolly, entering her with one long thrust. As he fucked her with slow, even strokes, he felt Gloriana push his tensed buttocks apart and dart her hot tongue into the puckered hole of his anus. Suddenly, he withdrew from Dolly's palpitating cunt and rose to his knees, tumbling Gloriana backward off him. She fell onto the bed, giggling with delight at the manic ardor of this crazy American. Within seconds, he had arranged the three of them in a new and imaginative position.
Dolly was on her back, as she had been before. Above her knelt Gloriana, her head toward Dolly's feet. Her luscious brown ass and dripping pussy were poised directly above Dolly's face. Behind her knelt Dean, who lost no time burying his glistening cock to the hilt in her. In this strange configuration, the three of them rocked back and forth. As Gloriana sucked vigorously on Dolly's clitoris, Dean held her by the hips and fucked her from the behind. Every few strokes, he would withdraw his dripping rod and offer it to Dolly, who would lick the length of it lovingly. When he reinserted it in Gloriana's cunt, Dolly simply shifted her attention to his balls, sucking gently on them in their sensitive, hairy sac.
Gloriana came first, squealing in delight as her little cunt contracted spasmodically around the wonderful tool that gorged it almost beyond its capacity. Dean held himself back, and, as soon as Gloriana collapsed in exhaustion beside them, he swiveled around and plunged himself into Dolly. His mistress wrapped her legs around his waist and fucked him in a frenzy, coming to two shuddering climaxes before she slid off him in a satisfied heap. Dean felt his long-controlled passion coming to a head, and he managed just in time to get the head of his cock into Gloriana's willing mouth, straddling her above the breasts. She clamped her pliant young lips tightly around his throbbing tool just as he came, and she swallowed every drop of his copious emission with a sensual greediness that was beyond her years. She hung on tightly, sucking and tonguing him until he was drained. Then he collapsed on the bed between the two girls. It was several long, languorous minutes before they could bring themselves to get up from where they had fallen and get beneath the covers. Dean turned off the bedside lamp, and they snuggled up all together, wordlessly, to fall soundly asleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
One day, as Dean was working in his studio, Dolly burst through the door holding a newspaper clipping in her hand. Dean turned from the lump of clay he was molding. "What's up?" he asked her. "You really look excited about something!"
"I certainly am excited," she replied. "It seems that you're not quite the unknown and starving artist you led me to believe you were. I was just down at the art school, and I found this notice in the bulletin." She handed the clipping to Dean. It was an announcement of a one-man show by Dean Ryder at the Pumpkin Eater Gallery in San Francisco. The opening was set for the very next evening. Dean stared at the piece of paper, thoroughly surprised. Dolly continued in a voice whose tone was mixed with anger and hurt. "What am I doing supporting you?" she demanded. "You probably have all the money and equipment you need in San Francisco. What's the idea, coming to San Miguel like this and living off me? Is it your idea of a joke? I'd like an explanation, if you don't mind!"
Dean went over and put his arms around her. "Look, Dolly," he said, "I'll be straight with you. I was in some bad trouble in San Francisco, and I had to leave everything behind and run down here. And," he added, "this show is just a start for me. Until now, I really never have had any money to speak of. So I wasn't fooling you I really needed your help."
Dolly drew back and looked him in the eye. "You swear that's true?" she demanded.
"I swear," said Dean, "it's true."
Her face softened to a smile. "Well, in that case," she told him, "I must say I'm proud of you. Don't you want to be there at the opening? I could help with plane fare, if you want."
"Sure I want to go," replied Dean, "but I'm kind of afraid to go back there. Oh, what the hell -I can't miss my own opening! But I'll have to leave right away."
"You can make it," Dolly assured him. "Pack your things quickly and I'll have Manuel drive you to Mexico City today. You can take a flight out tonight." A shadow passed over her face. "Do you think you'll come back here?" she asked him.
"I can't say, Dolly," he answered, "but I'll try. You know, you didn't even ask what kind of trouble I was in. I thought you'd like to know."
Dolly smiled sadly back at him as she went through the door. "No," she said, "I'm not going to ask. That's your business. Now hurry up and pack. I'll tell Manuel to bring the car around."
* * *
Dean had been away from San Francisco almost two months, and he was glad to see the city again. Driving up to his old place in a rented car, he found it occupied by new tenants a bearded painter with a plain-looking wife and two small children. He had hoped the loft would still be empty, so that he could rest and clean up there before the opening. Instead, he checked into a nearby motel. He took a long shower and fell into the clean, firm bed after leaving instructions with the desk to wake him at suppertime. Despite his exhaustion from the long journey, he could not sleep. He marveled at his foolishness for even coming to San Francisco, and wondered if he should appear at the gallery or simply catch the next flight back to Mexico. But, he thought, in all the weeks of his absence, he had seen nothing in the newspapers about Eva's death or about a search for himself. It occurred to him that he might not have killed her after all, and that his appearance might not place him in jeopardy. He rose, dressed himself in some of the new clothes that Dolly had bought for him, and went out to eat at a restaurant.
After killing a few hours in a bar on Market Street, he drove to Sutter Street and parked a block from the gallery. It had begun to rain, and the streetlights and the lamps of automobiles cast colorful reflections on the slick, dark street. As he neared the Pumpkin Eater Gallery, he was astonished to see a long line of well-dressed people waiting on the sidewalk in the downpour. He pushed his way through the crowd to the door, where he was stopped by a uniformed guard. "Hold on there a minute, mister," the man commanded, "this show is by invitation only tonight. If you have one, go to the end of the line and wait your turn like everyone else," Dean smiled confidently. "What would you say," he asked the guard, "if I told you that I was Dean Ryder, and this is my show?"
The guard peered at him, frowning. In the custom-made suit which Dolly had bought him in Mexico, he hardly looked like a pop artist. "In that case," retorted the guard, "I'd tell you I was Governor Reagan. Now get the hell to the end of the line!"
Just then, John Thomas appeared at the door. He wore a thoroughly astonished expression.
"Dean!" he cried, "Where on earth have you been? Come on in here and see your show!" The guard stood back with an embarrassed look on his meaty face.
Inside, Thomas took him by the sleeve. "Listen, Dean," he exclaimed, "this show is going to be successful beyond my wildest hopes! A couple of days ago, Harvey Eldridge, the art critic from the paper, came in for a preview. The next day, his column praised you up and down. Called you the most important pop artist since Andy Warhol. We sent out the usual number of invitations, allowing that quite a few people wouldn't respond to them. But because of that column, patrons are lined up out there in the rain for half a block! What I'd like to know is where you've been for the past two months. I had to get this whole show together without your help, and it took me weeks longer than I expected, to straighten everything out."
Dean hesitated for a moment. He certainly could not blame Thomas for his displeasure, but he did not want to reveal the details of the incident with Eva and his subsequent flight to Mexico. "Well, John," he said, "I've just been traveling around. Things just got too hectic, and I had to get away for awhile. I'm really sorry about not getting in touch with you, but I really couldn't think straight. Anyway, things worked themselves out, didn't they?"
The gallery owner's expression softened. "Yes, they certainly did, Dean, even if I had to help them along. Let's just forget about it for now. There are a lot of people here who've been dying to meet you, and I think we ought to give them a chance. Okay?"
Dean smiled and straightened his tie. "Okay," he replied.
That evening, Dean received so much attention that it made him uncomfortable. He still did not know what had really become of Eva, and being in the limelight worried him. Nevertheless, he was flattered by the fuss that was being made over him, overjoyed at the prospect of being an acclaimed sculptor who could name his price for the wealthy patrons from Pacific Heights and Saint Francis Wood. He was quickly maneuvered into a corner, near the drinks. Flashbulbs popped, and he found himself subjected to a barrage of questions from reporters who had been assigned to cover the opening. After downing several cocktails, he surprised them by producing witty, and sometimes enigmatic, replies. A reporter asked him, "What kind of training have you had, Mr. Ryder?"
Dean looked earnestly at the man. "Well, I had a dishwashing job once, and I spent the first day at work learning how to use the machine they had there. You have to watch that little pressure gauge real close, so that the steam doesn't blow the kitchen to bits. Then there was the job at the gas station, where I learned how to wipe windshields. There's a real trick to mixing the water and detergent just right in that little bottle, so you can get the glass clean without costing the management too much money." Here he winked, as if he were taking the reporter into his confidence. "Oh yeah I almost forgot I did a lot of clay modeling in kindergarten, but the teacher said it was dirty and sent me to the principal's office."
The reporter, who had been jotting down his every word in shorthand, looked somewhat confused and tried again. "What new projects do you have in mind?" he asked. Dean set an empty glass on the table and grinned. "Well," he drawled thoughtfully, "I want to do a replica of my black hand, fifty feet high, and set it up on Alcatraz Island with the finger pointing straight at the financial district."
The reporter seemed offended by Dean's levity. "Are you, uh, putting me on?" he asked.
Dean gave him a most sincere look. "No, man," he told him, "I'm not putting you on. That's really something I'd like to do. Of course, I don't know how the mayor and the guys at the stock exchange feel about it yet."
The reporter thanked him, and backed away clutching his notebook and looking more confused than ever. Dean knew that the press expected celebrity artists to deliver unconventional interviews now and then. If you talked honestly with them, as you might talk with an old friend, they tended to take you too much for granted. They seemed to perceive genius only through eccentricity. He was elated at the manner in which he had baffled the reporter. Just then, a soft hand clasped his.
It was Marty. In her low-cut, high-hemmed minidress, she looked more attractive than ever. She smelled faintly of expensive perfume. Just looking at her started a pulse beating in his groin as he remembered the day he had spent with her on Mount Tamalpais. "Dean," she said, "I've missed you." She said it simply and without dramatics.
He bent and kissed her mouth. "I've missed you, too, Marty," he told her, "and I'm sorry I didn't drop you a line, but it was impossible. Are you angry?"
She slid her hand around his waist and squeezed. "No, not angry," she replied, "just glad you're here."
They were interrupted by a middle-aged matron clad in a full-length mink coat. "Mr. Ryder, I presume?" she inquired with exaggerated dignity.
Dean responded with an indulgent smile. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, in the drawl he had affected in his conversation with the reporter, "that's me all right."
The woman turned to her husband, a balding, heavyset man who had come to stand beside her. "Did you hear that, Harry?" she said. "He has such a nice, folksy manner of speech. I'll bet he grew up in some quaint place like Georgia or Tennessee." She turned back to Dean. "Where do you hail from, Mr. Ryder?"
He still wore his earnest smile. "Ohio, ma'am," he told her. "I grew up on a farm outside of Hamilton."
The woman beamed. "I just knew it," she exclaimed. "Tell me, Mr. Ryder, how much are you asking for that piece you call 'Freedom,' the one that looks like a gaily colored motorbike?"
Dean's smile broadened to an amused grin. "That's the frame of a wrecked Harley-Davidson, ma'am, and I believe it's going for three hundred dollars, but you'll have to see Mr. Thomas about that. He's managing the business end of things here." The woman thanked him profusely, and walked away jabbering at her husband about how reasonably priced she thought the item was.
Marty laughed. "You're really having fun, aren't you?"
"I sure am," said Dean. "I never thought my show would make such a big splash!"
"Well, it seems to have done just that," replied Marty, "and I'm really glad for you. Listen, how would you like to come to a small party later at John's house? Some groovy people are supposed to show up, like famous poets and painters. What do you say?"
Dean picked up another drink from the table. "Sure," he told her.
The evening wore on, and Dean jousted giddily with more reporters and saw more than half the works on display sold to eager patrons at handsome prices. Finally, when the reporters had left, and the crowd was thinning out, he decided to leave. "I'm going to split," he told Thomas. "I feel like driving around by myself for awhile."
"All right, Dean," said the gallery owner. "Will we see you later at my house?"
"Seems so," replied Dean, pulling on his coat. "I gave Marty my solemn promise." With that, he strode past the sleepy guard at the door and into the rainy night.
He began to walk briskly up the sidewalk to his car, when a woman her figure enveloped by a large raincoat stepped out of the darkness of a doorway and stood directly in his path. "Hello, Dean," said the woman. "I think we have some things to discuss." She looked up as she spoke to him, and her face was revealed in the glow of a street lamp. It was Eva!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dean froze. Here was the woman he had raped, whom he thought he had murdered in his drunken madness two months before, confronting him on the night of his artistic triumph. He just stood there in the rain, astounded, as the water soaked his hair and mingled with the sweat which had popped out on his brow. "What do you want?" he managed to stammer.
"Just to talk, lover, just to talk," she replied in a calm, but threatening tone.
"I can't talk now," he insisted, "I've got somewhere to go. Maybe tomorrow. How about it?"
Eva laughed. "I don't think you understand, Dean. I could have you in jail in five minutes, if I wanted to. I think we'd better talk right now. Do you have a car here?"
Dean nodded.
"Well," she said, "in that case, I would like you to take me home. I'm sure you'd prefer not to stay here in front of the gallery. Shall we go."
" Dean swallowed hard. "All right," he said, feeling helpless. His heart was pounding furiously, and his stomach tightened into a hard knot. They got into the car and drove toward the Golden Gate Bridge.
They drove in silence for a long time. When they had crossed the bridge and were heading north on U.S. 101, Eva spoke. "I suppose you're wondering what my game is, aren't you, Dean? Well, I can tell you one thing, baby, you're not very good at hitting people with rocks when you're drunk. Sure, there was a lot of blood, but I was just knocked out. I must've been out for a couple of hours. When I came to, I cleaned myself off with some water and put my clothes back on. Then I walked to the highway and hitched a ride home. Jesus, that salt water stung! Anyway, when I got home, I fell right into bed.
The next morning, I thought about calling the police, and I decided not to. I had a better idea, but I had to wait until I could find you to do anything about it."
Dean stared at the glistening, black highway ahead of him. "It's blackmail, isn't it?" he asked her. "Well, I guess you hit me at the right time, because it looks like I'm going to be making plenty of money now. If that's all you want, why didn't you just say so? I'd rather pay you off than go to jail."
Eva giggled like a mischievous little girl. "I don't think you quite understand, Dean. It's not your money I want it's your body. After my husband deserted me, I stayed completely away from men. I forced myself not to think about sex, because sex meant men, and men were cruel or undependable at best. But when you raped me that night, I had a taste of what I'd been missing. I've decided to make you my sexual slave." She said this in a voice that indicated that her mind was made up, and that she did not even consider the possibility of swerving in her bizarre intent.
Dean was appalled. "You're kidding," he entreated, "you've got to be kidding!"
"No, I'm not kidding, Dean," she intoned. "All you have to do to try me is to refuse. I'll have you picked up for rape and assault before you know what's happening."
Dean laughed with attempted bravado. "That's ridiculous," he argued, "how are you going to explain waiting this long to report it? Nobody would believe you!"
But Eva did not seem the least bit upset over this possible flaw in her plan. "No, they'll believe me, Dean. I'll say that the trauma of being raped, not to mention the concussion you gave me, had me in the mental fog for all this time, and that my memory finally became clear. Any doctor or psychiatrist will tell you that such a thing is entirely possible. Now turn left here. My house is only a couple of blocks away."
Dean parked on a quiet street in Mill Valley, as she directed, and they entered her house, a small bungalow nearly hidden among the trees. She flipped on a light, and instructed him to sit in the living room. The place was furnished in an ordinary fashion, except for the proliferation of oriental objects of art. Dean guessed that these were relics of her marriage to the merchant seaman, things he had brought her upon returning from cruises to the Far East. Eva disappeared into another room, and when she returned, he saw that she had changed the dumpy clothes and the raincoat for a sheer, blue negligee. Underneath, she wore only a pair of brief, black underpants. Her full, mature breasts swayed so sensuously beneath the flimsy material, that Dean momentarily forgot the severity of his predicament. Eva laughed at him. "I see the way you're looking at me, Dean. I can assure you, your fate will have its rewarding moments. Are you ready to hear my conditions?"
Dean nodded, taking her lush curves in with his eyes.
"All right," she said. "From now on, you'll be entirely at my disposal, and that means whenever I desire you. It doesn't matter what you're doing, you must leave it and come to serve me. That's one condition. The other is that you take no other lovers. If I discover you're keeping company with another woman, I'll go right to the police. I must have you, and it must be completely. Is that clear?"
Dean was aghast. "Do you mean," he asked her, "that if I ever have another girl friend, you'll turn me in?"
Eva smiled, and came over to stand beside him, stroking his hair as if he were a child. "No, Dean, it won't be forever. It'll only be until I get tired of you. I hate to flatter you, but I suspect that won't be for a long time. Anyway, I'll release you from our agreement eventually, that is, unless you misbehave. Do I make myself clear?"
Dean felt absolutely trapped. All he could do was nod his head dejectedly. Satisfied that he would be compliant, Eva became suddenly gentle, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Don't worry, baby," she told him, in a motherly tone of voice, "everything's going to be all right. Eva will take good care of you."
Dean managed a smile, and looked up at her, as if asking what he should do. She took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. There she stripped off the negligee and motioned for him to approach her. "Come on, honey," she said, "suck my breasts." Dean obeyed, bowing his head to the ripe orbs and taking one nipple in his mouth while he rolled the other between his thumb and forefinger. He thought of all the women he had had in his young life. He thought of the freedom, the exhilaration of driving his Porsche down the highway, and he thought of Dolly, waiting in Mexico for him.
"Oooh, that's good," Eva murmured. "Now take off my pants. I want you to kiss my cunt." Still lost in his reverie, Dean sank to his knees, drawing the black panties down her legs as he did so. She stepped neatly out of them and stood with her feet apart, hands on her hips. The dream came back to him, the dream that had frightened him the night he had crossed into Mexico. He remembered lying there, strapped to the stone altar, being punished for his selfishness. It was almost funny, he thought, the absurdity of how the dream had come true. He pushed his mouth into the heat of the black triangle, and felt the slippery lips parting at the touch of his tongue. She ground her hips against his face, and he felt her hands again on his head, stroking him as a mother would comfort a young boy.
