Carla Hedgeman cocked her head, hearing Warren's car in the drive. He was home. She sighed and wiped her hands. In a moment he would come stumbling in the side door calling "Carla, I'm home, dear."
She despised him. How long had they been married-eight years It seemed a lifetime. She had been only nineteen, not nearly old enough to marry. But Warren Hedgeman had come along wth a car, a job and a smooth line that she hadn't heard before and she had fallen under the spell. And the chance to get out of her parent's house.
She heard his step on the walk at the side door. The door opened and slammed. She held her breath:
"Carla, I'm home, dear."
She let the breath out and sighed. Picking up a saucepan, she rattled it against the sink. Now he would come in and peck her on the cheek. How had she gotten herself locked in this prison? The walls of a crummy little house in the suburbs, in the clutches of a stove, a kitchen-and she never could save enough money to take a plane somewhere. Other people disappeared into the blue. Why couldn't she?
She looked up to see him standing there, a big, good-natured oaf. She forced a tight smile.
He kissed her on the cheek. "Have a good day, dear?"
She wanted to say what the women said among themselves, 'shitty,' but she knew it would shock him. Everything shocked him, even the dancing girls on TV.
He was tall, about six inches taller than she, with brown hair and eyes that drooped. Like a wounded beagle-someone had said that about him one night at a party and she couldn't forget it. It fitted him to perfection.
She lifted her shoulders an inch. "Like all days," she said. She fussed over dinner while he stood in front of the living room TV set, listening to the news.
When she served dinner, it was on the table in front of her plate.
A small package.
She looked at him in surprise. "What's that?"
"Open it up, dear."
He had a silly, pleased look on his beagle face. He had bought her a present.
Frowning, she ran quickly over the anniversaries and birthdays in her mind. It was none of them. She sat and picked up the box. It was probably a watch or a ring.
"It's a ring, huh?" she asked. "Do you know my size?"
He leaned on one hand and waited. The tiny box was tied with a ribbon. Pushing it off, she shook the box. Nothing. She ripped the paper with her fingernail and looked at a plain black box. She glanced at him. He had the same stupid expression on his stupid face.
She opened the lid. It was a ring. She cocked her head and stared at it. It was a curious ring, and it looked old. "Where did you get this, Warren?"
"Look at it, dear."
She picked it out and turned it around in the light. It was ornate gold with a grayish stone of some sort in the setting. "It's costume jewelry," she said.
"It's not at all. It's an antique. It's very old. The man said he didn't know how old."
"What man?" She examined it closely. He was right for once. It was an antique, and very old. The band had cabalistic designs and the workmanship was amazing. She knew at once that it was valuable. She smiled.
"The man at the antique shop," Warren said. He took his fork and began to eat. "I talked him out of it."
"What did you have to pay for it?"
"It's a gift. Never mind what I paid. Put it on. Does it fit?"
She was very pleased with it. It had a lovely feel, heavy and important. She tried it on the third finger and it went on smoothly. She held her hand out, turning it this way and that. It felt wonderful. She found herself getting up to go around the table to kiss him. She was surprised at the act. She hadn't done that in-a long time.
He was pleased too. "It fits, huh?"
"Yes, thanks, darling." She sat, forgetting her food. She felt wonderful all at once. She didn't get enough gifts. She had never lost the little-girl feel of a gift.
"Eat your dinner," he said.
"It's a very beautiful ring, darling. Beautiful."
"I'm glad you like it, I thought you would."
She felt better and better. She looked at him, across the table. Even he looked better somehow. A warmth seemed to steal through her. The evening was nothing like what it had been only a short time before. She felt absolutely delicious. She regarded him steadily, and felt something she had not felt for a long while. She wanted sex.
It almost shocked her, the feeling. She picked up her fork and dropped it. Warren glanced at her, smiling. She began to eat, pecking at her food. God! What a strange feeling! She wanted to go to bed. Her loins were warm; she was horny-she knew what that meant. Did a mere gift do that to her? How long had it been, since they'd had sex?
A long time, weeks. She could think of nothing but bed. She wanted to undress and run about the room naked. To shake her titties at him! She took a deep breath.
Her face was hot. He smiled at her, "What's the matter, dear?"
"I don't know. I feel-sort of-I don't know-"
"It was hot today," he said. "Reached eighty-two downtown. I guess that's it."
She rose and went into the kitchen. Turning the tap, she filled a glass. She didn't want a drink of water: she wanted him in her. How easily the thoughts came into her mind. God! She was really horny. That had never happened to her before, not in that way. She knew it happened to others, but not to her; she wanted to press herself against something-a man. She ran her hand over her belly and down over her mound. It burned.
She nearly fainted from the stinging sensation. All she could think of all at once was putting her finger into it-into her cunt. She was so hot! Cunt!
"Are you all right, dear?"
"Yes, of course," she replied. She looked at the ring, and took it off. Slowly the heat faded from her face. The tightness began to leave her loins. That was strange! She stared at the ring. But that was silly, an inanimate object didn't have the power to-she put it on again. The feeling began to flow back into her body.
She opened her mouth and closed her eyes, enjoying it. Then she took off the ring. She returned to the table.
Warren looked at her anxiously. "You're pale-"
"I'm all right." She sat down and began to eat.
"Where's the ring?"
"It's here," she took it out of her pocket.
"Don't you like it?"
"Of course, dear. I just don't want to put it into the dishwasher-" That satisfied him. She changed the subject.
While he looked at the news, she took the dishes into the kitchen. She fondled the ring. When it was off her finger it was hard to believe that she had felt so-horny. Glancing into the living room, she put the ring on her finger. The curious warm feeling flooded her, seeming to center in her loins. She leaned back against the wall and writhed sensuously. It felt so good! She brushed her hand down over belly and mound again. Electric tingles made her shudder. God! She could let herself go!
She put her head around the edge of the door. Why didn't she just go in, sit on his lap and ask him to take her to bed? Wasn't that natural? She'd make him bounce.
Removing the ring quickly, she drooped against the wall. Perspiration popped out on her forehead. The TV set droned on. She went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. She wasn't thirty yet. No gray hair, all golden brown, her face had few and tiny wrinkles. Everyone got wrinkles, a few at a time. The fact was pleasant and oval, a nice nose, a rather too large mouth, but pleasant. Her figure was good, even with Warren's disinterest in her, she hadn't yet allowed herself the middle-aged flab.
She put the ring on again, and smiled at herself in the mirror. Carla, you shameless female! God! What was she missing?
Pulling up her skirts, she rubbed her hand up the inside of her thighs. If Warren should see her now, he'd die-absolutely die! She wanted to giggle, and her finger curled under her panties. Then, with a rush, she covered the slit. It felt marvelous! The finger seemed to diddle the clitoris by itself. Sighing, she almost fell against the basin. The little thing was hard as a button. She was so hot she could hardly stand it. The finger flew, and she began to pant-wanting release. She was juicy. She could hear the small sounds her finger made.
Then she came to a climax.
The self-gratification overwhelmed her. She yanked the ring off with the last of her will power. Oh, how she wanted not to! She stared at the white face in the mirror. Could she become helpless under its spell?
She didn't dare think that far ahead.
With the precious ring in her pocket, she went back to the kitchen. Warren hadn't stirred. She grinned at his back; if only he knew what kind of a present he had given her. She grinned like a cat as she did the dishes.
What if she put the ring on his finger? The idea fascinated her. But then she would feel nothing-or at least nothing like the glorious passion that came over her with it on. What might he do? He might rush out into the street with his thing hard and rape the first woman he came to. The idea made her giggle aloud. What a picture!
But she knew she couldn't trust him with it. It was her secret. She paused and looked at it again. Such an innocent, pretty ring. And yet somehow sinister. The stone seemed warm, but maybe it was the heat from her hands. It also seemed to change color slightly, but perhaps that was the light. She put it back in her pocket conscious that her heart was beating fast.
In bed that night, the ring clutched tightly in her hand, she wondered if her life was being changed. Warren's breathing was regular and deep.
She hadn't been able to bring herself to try to make him want her. The idea of the strange ring was yet too new. She listened to his breathing; he was asleep, she put the ring on her finger.
In another moment she began fingering herself. The bed moved as she writhed. Warren sniffled in his sleep. She slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. Panting, she fingered herself wantonly. She simply couldn't help it. After she came she was able to get the ring off. She put it in a drawer.
After breakfast, when Warren had gone, she sat and stared at the circlet of gold. The stone was cold and drill. When she picked it up, it seemed to warm a bit, and when she slipped it on her finger it definitely grew warm and the color improved. It seemed to glow. Was it her imagination? The way she felt was not imagination. With the ring on her finger, she was horny.
She locked the doors. In the ferment the ring brought on, she dropped to the couch. In a moment she was masturbating furiously. Lewd thoughts rushed through her heated brain. She wanted more than the finger that teased her. She wanted a man!
The telephone-call a man! It all seemed so easy. Call a man for God's sake! Her thoughts whirling, she went to the phone and dialed the grocery. Her voice was soft and throaty-she wanted to giggle.
The man at the other end was interested; she could sense his interest-desire. The sound of his voice seemed to inflame her further. A male voice. She read her list, rubbing herself against the edge of the table. God! It was a delightful anguish. She had to remove the ring.
When she put the receiver down she put it on again. She was crazy-she couldn't call a man and ask him to come put her to bed! Could she? The ring seemed hot to her touch. She staggered to the couch and rolled on it, fingering herself. She screamed at the sheer luxury of it.
She tore the ring off. What in the world was she doing? She, a married woman, carrying on like a common slut! She should throw the ring away.
She looked at it-and put it on her finger. She squirmed and yanked her skirts up, giggling. Don't think.
The delivery boy didn't bring the groceries this time. Mr. Justin showed up, the man who had taken her order. She had nodded to him in the store, and knew him slightly. Pie was tall, with glasses and a smooth, round face that smiled easily. Pie knocked at the kitchen door.
Carla put the ring on and ran to open it.
"A-hello, Mrs. Hedgeman?"
She smiled and told him to bring the bags in. When he passed close to her she stiffened and clenched her hands. She wanted to grab him. He put the groceries on the sink. "There's-a-another bag in the car."
She nodded. The way he looked at her made her tingle. Did the ring's power extend to another-did it arouse him too? Who cared-she was half crazy for him. She moved closer so he would have to brush by her to reach the sink. She watched him at the car; he almost ran back to the house, he was breathing hard when he entered.
"Let me take it," Clara said. She moved in front of him and her hands were over his, taking the bag and feeling the flush of him. Her face was burning. She turned and put the bag on the sink-and he was behind her suddenly, pressing her, his arms about her.
She turned slowly, deliciously. Her pouting lips sought his. Her arms wound about him, embracing him, revolving her hips against him wantonly. She was on fire. God! How she wanted it! er-I'm glad I came instead of the boy," he said.
She closed his mouth with her lips and her hand snaked down his body. He sucked in his breath as she grabbed it. He looked round the kitchen.
"The bed's that way," she hissed, indicating with her head. His penis was terribly hard!
"Yeh-'" With both hands he pulled her along, across the dining room into the bedroom. Turning suddenly, she pawed at his fly; her hands were like claws. He stared at her, pushing the hands away and unzipping. His long organ popped out and she gave a delighted little giggle and captured it in both hands. Dropping to her knees, she kissed it. She hadn't kissed a man's penis in years, she thought. But thoughts were in a far comer of her mind, they were there but hardly noticed. She craved feeling-feeling.
Jumping up, she pulled him to the bed by the penis. She giggled, scooping up her skirts and falling onto the bed. Mr. Justin crawled on her quickly, pushing her legs wide. The bobbing phallus pointed at her middle. He was panting too and his eyes were round marbles.
"Hurry," she hissed. She grabbed the thing and pulled it-it felt hard and velvety. She stuffed it inside her. She was wet and the thing never hesitated. It glided and he thrust it deep with a grunt. She yelled in pure pleasure as it skewered her. Mr. Justin jerked nervously, but she held him tightly, arms and legs about his body, and bucked up. He didn't believe that, his face said. "I don't know what you've got," she said, "but it excites me-"
"Yeh," he agreed, still wary.
She smiled and squirmed under him, twining against the prong.
"Oh, God!" she whispered hoarsely in his ear, "take me, take me-"
It drove him past caution. The excitement of her fired him. He folded her in his arms and assaulted her pliant body, plunging frantically as deep as he could go. She lay writhing under him, eyes closed, absorbing the sensuous battering. The room became misty and blurred as images assailed her brain. She was in an excruciating dream of naked men and whirling, painted dancers-she was dancing with a man and his Herculean body twisted and wrenched with hers, his magnificent maleness pierced her, and she screamed in orgasm.
Her passion drove him wild, and he became a violent battering ram for long moments. The bed squeaked alarmingly and thudded along the floor. Her sighs mingled with his panting, and she urged him on, bucking against him.
"Wait a minute," he wheezed. He leaned on an elbow and gazed down at her, his face wet with perspiration. "Don't you ever get enough?"
She moaned, then she opened her eyes and focused on his mouth. He was not the man in her dream, but he was a man-then she remembered. "We've just started," she giggled.
He stared.
"You excite me," she whispered.
If he didn't believe it he made no sign. "You're the most excitable dame I ever-"
She hugged his body. "Ever what?"
"Ever screwed." He kissed her and she shuddered involuntarily and undulated, squeezing him and pressing shapely legs about him.
"Say that again-"
"What?"
She giggled and bit his ear. "That you wanna screw me-" It was delicious to use the word. She rammed herself against him.
"Jeez, Mrs. Hedgeman-"
"Carla."
"Jeez, Carla, I gotta rest a sec."
She sighed. "What's your name?"
"Joel."
She closed her eyes dreamily and revolved her middle about his shaft. She could hear the tiny sticky sounds of it. That was what she had been made for-screwing. Why did she want to do anything else? He was inert. She opened her eyes: he was staring at her.
"What?"
"Boy, you're a hot one," he said.
'What good is an iceberg?" She felt dreamy. "Nothing." He moved slightly as she moaned happily. "You're for me, Mrs.-er-Carla. I never thought you'd be like this."
She giggled. "Why not?"
"Well, you always seemed so, sort of distant, you know what I mean? Like you didn't play around."
"A lot of girls do-that come in the store?"
"Yeah, some. The delivery kid-" He broke off.
"He what?"
"That delivery kid, he gets his share, I guess. He talks a good line anyway. He said not you, though."
She wriggled provocatively. "But you know different."
He squirmed it deep. "Yeh, I know different. A lot different. When I heard your voice on the phone, it kind of got to me, you know what I mean-?"
His voice trailed off, the mists swirled around, violently colored. Wild music splashed on her ears and the naked man was back, grasping her in his huge arms and whirling her. Something was driving into her with compelling force. She wanted to sing, to scream, to fly. Waves of sensation washed through her body and she tumbled through space, jerking in paroxysms of pain-pleasure. She was on fire; she was struggling with someone who wanted to throw her into the fire. She woke with a shriek, half berserk, pounding and scratching at the demon who-she realized that it was Joel.
He was holding her, yelling at her. "Carla, for crissake, Carla!"
He slid off her, eyes wide. She felt it leave her and she moaned and twisted sinuously to regain it.
"Carla!" he shouted. "Dammit, Carla! Relax a damn second-"
"No, no, no," she moaned.
He held her down on the bed, arms and legs spread. He was stronger than she, but she scared him.
Some fragment of reality smeared across her heated brain and she ceased to struggle against his hands. She was panting and her pointed breasts were heaving. She was sweaty and her muscles felt tired under the urge that tightened them. He saw her eyes open and he released her cautiously. "You all right now?"
She tried to smile. "God, you excite me, Joel, you know that? You excite me."
"Jeez, you're a helluva lot of woman, Carla. D'you get that way often?"
She shook her head. "Huh uh, never before." He didn't believe that, his face said. "I don't know what you've got," she said, "but it excites me-"
She smiled and squirmed under him, twining herself about him, feeling the delicious flesh, the warmth of him. Her legs went about his body and he sighed deeply.
"My Jeez, Carla-"
"Come, love me." She pressed her mouth to his. God! how it made her spine tingle! His maleness stirred against her, she could feel it squirm and twitch. That fired her. She writhed her loins to it, pulling at him, "Come to me-come to me-"
The mystical haze enveloped her; she felt dizzy then, as though drunk. She tried to speak but only sounds came out: she was screaming in passion but she couldn't help it. The delicious phallus was ramming and thrusting and the wild music slammed at her ears. The demon wrenched at her, she could feel his presence, feel his hot breath, he was fierce and she had to give in to him.
"Carla-Carla, Carla-"
She heard her name and tried to rise. Something held her down. The demon slapped her face, she felt the sting and rolled her head away. She growled.
"Carla, dammit-"
She opened her eyes, staring straight up; she was alone. She twisted, and there was Joel, lying beside her. He was panting heavily.
"You win," he said, "I'm all through."
She giggled and slithered over him, down toward the wrinkled thing. He didn't stop her. She captured the dear thing, mauling it with her lips; he sat up.
"Hey, what time is it?"
She paid no attention.
He rolled and squinted at the bedside clock, then jumped in startled surprise. "Jesus Christ! It's after four!"
He pushed her aside and swung off the bed in one burst of energy. She cried out and grasped at him. He scooped up his pants and pushed into them.
"My God! We've been at it for hours!"
She stared with wide eyes, watching the dear thing disappear into his shorts. She was going to lose him, lose his body "Listen, you better get up," he said. He came over and kissed her quickly. "I gotta go, Carla. Got to. Jeez, they'll think I got hit by a truck." He extricated himself gently and went to the door. He looked back at her. "Man, I'm weak as a kitten. I'll see you later, honey."
Then he was gone.
She cried. She heard the car start up and back out of the drive. She looked at her hand, where the ring glowed. She took it off hurriedly and stared at it. The car's gears ground as it reached the street. In the far corners of her mind she wondered what the neighbors thought-the car with the grocery sign parked there all afternoon. She picked up the ring. Who cares what they think?
She was sobering, becoming conscious of what she had done. She had engaged in an orgy of lust the entire afternoon.
What would become of her? She began to cry, gripping the ring in her small fist. It must be her imagination. No bit of stone and metal could cause that raging thirst for release. Perhaps she was slowly going mad. She had heard that people sometimes slowly went mad-over fetishes. The ring was a fetish, wasn't it?
She opened her hand and stared at it. She must get rid of it. Rising, she went to the window. No, she couldn't throw it away. Besides, Warren would ask for it, want to see it. She tucked it away in the drawer.
She went in and took a shower.
Warren noticed nothing. She aired out the house and changed the sheets on the bed. "I'm home, Carla dear." She winced and steeled herself for the peck on the cheek, thinking of the idyll she'd had. She felt like a bag of straw.
And then, Warren wanted sex that night, of all nights. It almost made her laugh. The ring was in the drawer. She was cold as the salad she'd served for dinner. She was tired from the violent stimulation and exertion of the afternoon. But she let him have his way with her, feeling little and wanting nothing; how could she?
But she felt twinges of guilt as he poked and prodded, and she helped him a little. It was not the same. She thought of getting up for the ring and fought down the idea. Wait.
When he rolled off and went to sleep, she stared at the ceiling hardly able to believe it had been she with Joel, frantic and demanding. Yet her body's tiredness confirmed it. Her memory assured her, and there were patches in the memory, things she couldn't remember. She knew she had blacked out some of it. What in the world did Joel think of her now? He must consider her a real sex-mad female.
In the morning she thought of the ring constantly. She was able to keep her hands off it till noon. She put it on and ran to the bed, naked. Masturbation gratified her-partially. To a point she wallowed in it, but soon the terrible wanting began to eat at her brain. She wanted a man.
She forced herself to take off the ring. Dressing, she worked at the house, the thought of the ring always in her mind. It was insidious, like a drug. Could she ever come to control the ring? It was only a bit of metal, of course she could control it. All she had to do was take it off her finger.
The thought eased her mind. All she had to do was remove the ring, put it aside. What could be simpler?
Joel called her late in the afternoon. "I just wanted to say 'hi'."
She was cool, not unfriendly, but a little distant. Talking to him was a little like chatting with a stranger, and yet it wasn't. He knew her as well as her husband did-or differently at least. She tried to warm up, but it was difficult. He was only a voice in her ear. She focused on a picture of him nude and the idea did not inspire her. He had a slight pot. Just a bit of a belly.
"You remember me, don't you?" he asked with faint sarcasm.
"Of course," she said. "I-I guess you-have a rather-interesting idea of me."
He laughed. "I'm so tired today I can't lift beans, let alone anything else."
She knew what he meant. "I can't either." That was a silly thing to say-she bit her lip in annoyance. She wished he would get off the line. They weren't lovers. He was taking advantage of her.
"All right," he said. "I'll see you later." He hung up. She put the phone down with more than necessary force.
The whole dangerous idea gnawed at her. She had made a foolish mistake. She had jeopardized her life-her life. She sat down and looked at her hands. What life? She had been feeling sorry for herself, married to a man like Warren. Suddenly she had found an exciting interlude and had loved every exciting second of it, and now she was eating her heart out wondering if people thought ill of her.
She went to the front windows and stared at the street. A moderately attractive, dumb street. What did her neighbors think of her?
What did she care what they thought? She went to the kitchen and put a fire under the coffee. Yes, she cared. How could she not care? She had been brought up to care what people thought. It was impossible to change in one afternoon.
Even if she had a magic ring. She smiled. Magic ring indeed.
Pouring coffee, she sipped it, then hurried to the bedroom and got the ring. She slipped it on. Immediately her outlook seemed to change. Slowly she went back to the kitchen, rubbing her shoulders sensuously on the doorjamb as she passed it. She giggled and brushed her breasts past a shelf. She felt alive.
She looked at the calendar. This was Warren's bowling night. That conjured up a picture-of a big black ball, with a penis sticking out of it. Two bowling balls with a penis jutting up. She laughed and said the word aloud. "Cock, cock, cock-"
She took the ring off and laid it in the center of the kitchen table. Oh, the things it made her do! She walked around it and went back to the front windows. She felt like a child, with a present waiting. The present was on the kitchen table, waiting for her. Waiting.
The flame was dying inside her. She could think more clearly. But the residual pangs were still there. The idea of a man seemed delicious. She stared toward the kitchen where the ring waited.
Housework would take her mind off it. She busied herself, sweeping and cleaning. The ring waited. It was never far from her thoughts. She went past it to put the broom and dustpan away. She licked her lips and stared at it. A present. It seemed hot to her touch.
She carried it to the bedroom and stood with it, her mouth dry. She opened the drawer, trying to force herself to give it up. She wanted it, and what it meant: release.
Putting it in the drawer, she ran from the room.
The idea of going out to a movie came to her as they were eating dinner. He was going bowling, after all. Goose for the gander-or however the rhyme went. But he would take the car. She sighed. It was a man's world.
Sam picked him up. Warren went bowling, leaving the car in the garage. She looked at TV, not seeing it, not hearing it. The ring waited.
But what might she do, with it on, outside the sanctuary of her own house?
She looked at the clock. He would be gone till eleven or perhaps eleven-thirty. It was impossible for her to concentrate on TV. What in the world were they saying? Rising, she switched it off.
After that it was easy. She almost rushed into the bedroom and snatched up the ring. Putting on a coat, she ran out to the garage. When she backed the car out, she paused. Where was she going?
She had no idea in the world.
She drove aimlessly; down one street and up another, and the restlessness she felt did not dissipate. What did she expect would happen? Sighing, she turned the car toward home. She passed a bar, a red neon sign.
What about a drink? Just a quick one. One drink and get out. Just to see how the other half lives, or just to be doing something. She slid the wheels to the curb past the next bar, and sat, looking back at the neon entrance. One time she had gone to a bar with Warren and it had been a very nice place, soft music and quiet people. A very pleasant experience. She took the ring from her pocket and slipped it on her finger.
Courage. Yes, it had been a pleasant experience. She would have another. She was sure of it. She felt warm all over.
Patting her hair, she approached the entrance. Two men came out and looked at her. "Hello," the tallest said, almost under his breath. "Will you lookit that?"
Carla smiled at them.
They took her arms quickly, one on either side. "Twenny bucks for the two of us," the shorter one said in her ear.
She stared at them, startled. They pulled her past the bar entrance and into the deep shadows of a store front.
"What's your name?" the tall one asked. She gasped as his hands explored her breasts under the coat. The short one was rubbing her buttocks. She writhed under their hands.
"C-Carla-" She gulped. She was flustered.
"Where d'we go, honey?" the tall one asked. "Man, you're a piece. You ain't been workin' this bar long, huh?"
She swallowed, despite the ring. They thought she was a whore! And the idea made her smile. The short one slipped his hot hand under her skirt and she jerked as he felt her. His brazen fingers knew just where to go. She leaned back against him, parting her thighs.
"I haven't got-a-place," she said, breathing hard. The finger went into her and she shuddered suddenly. The tall one was inside her blouse; she smelled his beery breath. His hard-on pushed at her thigh. The short one was working the finger, massaging her and the images flushed past, making her giggle.
"Shit, Morey," the little one said, 'let's take 'er around to the parking lot."
"Yeah," Morey said. He kissed her mouth. "I'm gonna fuck you silly, baby. C'mon-" They pulled and hustled her along. The short one hated to remove his hand from between her thighs. It was only a short walk, around the side of the building and into the dark lot. Their car was parked by the fence. Morey's pants were open and he thrust it naked into her hand.
Morey opened the door and pushed her into the back seat. He was on her in an instant, forcing her thighs apart roughly, pressing his weight on her. She sucked in her breath, feeling the spear drive into her flesh. He rammed her panting with excitement. He got her legs up high. The car rocked and squeaked. "Oh man, Rizzo-"
The short one, Rizzo scurried around and hung over the back of the front seat, his eyes shining. "C'mon, hurry up-"
Morey paid him no attention. "Man, honey, you're a piece of ass!" He thrust like a jackhammer; he made her gasp, forcing the air out of her lungs. His hard member surged and the smear of lust made her cry out.
"Shit, Rizzo," Morey said, "she's tighter'n a asshole!"
"Well hurry up, for crissake, this thing I got ain't a goddam rope."
"You hot, huh, honey?" Morey was chewing her ear. "You like it, huh? Man, you're gonna get it."
Carla giggled. She heard the door slam. Rizzo scuttled out and came in the back, crowding up beside her. Morey growled, "What the fuck you doin'?"
"Here y'are, baby," Rizzo said. He knelt by her head and pushed his meaty penis at her mouth. She felt his trembling hand pull her mouth to it. She opened her lips and felt it nuzzling her. Rizzo sighed and jerked it between the red lips.
"Stay in the saddle, pal," he said. "I rather be blowed anyway."
Morey grunted, smelling the musky odor of it. She was squeezing him in a way he had never been squeezed-he was on the verge-and then it came erupting. He plunged into her, bucking and sweating. The car squeaked madly.
Rizzo laughed. Then he swore as she bit him. In another minute he yelped and tried to get it away from her. "You ain't any whore," he growled, "what the hell're you doin'?"
"Let me have it," Carla hissed, lunging at him, but he fought her off easily.
"Jesus! what we got here?" Morey said. "I never seen a whore that cock-happy."
"Lemme have it," Carla said, trying to control her voice. She changed to a pleading tone. "Please lemme have it."
"Naw you don't," Rizzo said. He frowned and backed out of the car, zipping up his pants. "Let's get outa here, Morey, there's somethin' wrong with this dame."
"Ahhh, you're outa your mind, she's great," Morey patted her flank and she swung around at him, eyes wide. She dived at the still visible organ and he let her have it.
"C'mon," Rizzo said. "Let's beat it, huh?"
Morey shook his head.
Rizzo put his head in the window. "I tell you, this dame is trouble."
"Why?"
"I dunno. I just got a feeling. Dint you ever get a feeling? She's a psycho."
Morey laughed. "Go 'head if you wanna, I'll see you later."
Rizzo shrugged. He looked at the silent girl and turned on his heel. Morey watched him go. Rizzo was always having crazy ideas. What could be wrong with a dame who was doing what she was doing? He lit a cigarette and watched her in the gloom. Jeez, she was good.
She made him wild for a few minutes, and when he wanted to relax she did not. "Come on," he said.
She only growled, deep in her throat.
"Yeah, I like it, honey," he told her, "but come on, enough's enough, huh?"
Carla's brain was on fire. She heard his words but they were far off somewhere. He didn't mean her. His voice was a blur of sound and she disregarded it completely enveloped in the sensations that assailed her. His tones changed, and then his hands were on her, pulling her away from the center of her desires.
He got her pushed into the comer of the seat. He held her tightly and made her focus her eyes. "Come to, baby," he was saying, "come to-"
She shook herself as though coming out of deep water, and smiled. He relaxed and smiled back. "Jeez, honey, you really pig it."
"Don't you like me?" she asked.
"Hell, I'm crazy about you," he said, patting her. She took his hand and caressed it. She crawled over him and he laughed at her sensuous animation. "You gotta let a guy rest, baby. What do you think I am, huh?"
She was disappointed in him. He had been muscular and now he was jelly. She pouted, moving on him in supple rhythm. It did no good. He gave her a cigarette and lighted it for her.
"Where you live, baby?"
She looked at the cigarette. She must not answer questions. The thought crowded into her heated brain. Questions. She grabbed the ring and twisted it on her finger. Then, with a jerk that surprised her, she yanked it off. He didn't notice.
"I'm not a whore," she said softly.
"OK, but where d'you live, baby?"
She looked at him curiously, able to see him more clearly. The passion was going out of her fast. He was pasty-faced in the dim light and had a big nose. His clothes were disarranged and he looked like a bum. She took a deep breath. What the hell was she doing here with this stranger?
"C'mon, I'll take you home," he said.
She shook her head. "I've got a car-"
"Where is it?"
"On the street." She wriggled around on the seat and began to fasten her blouse. She tossed the cigarette out the window and looked at him. He was busy fastening his own clothes. This was as good a time as any-she had to get away from him.
She opened the door. He yelled at her instantly: "Hey!"
She slipped out into the night and slammed the door behind her. She ran. The parking lot was dark and shadowy, not full, but there were hundreds of cars and she ducked between them hearing him slam the door and give chase.
"Hey baby-come on, cut it out-"
She ran blindly, interested only in losing him. When she paused for breath she could hear him stumbling about in the dark swearing. She was less scared when she knew where he was. Looking about her, she could see no landmark. The street where the bar was should be the best lighted, she thought, but it apparently wasn't. She was all turned round.
It was annoying. Silently she moved away from him and came to a chain link fence. She followed it and found a gate. It was not locked and she carefully lifted the metal hook from its ring and opened it, biting her lip at the slight squeak.
She was on a dark street. Looking both ways, she shrugged to herself. One way was as good as another. With a backward glance at Morey, she set out resolutely.
God, she had been foolish. She was lucky to get out of the escapade as easily as she had. What would Warren think-or do? She was embarrassed by the whole affair. It had been the fault of the ring. She took it out of her pocket and stared at it. She should throw it as far as she could-just close her eyes and throw it.
She put it back in her pocket.
At the first comer she paused. She started toward the right, then drew back. A noisy car chugged along the street behind her and came to a stop opposite her and she stared at the people inside. They all smiled at her. Four of them; hippies, she thought. They wore the outlandish attire, beads, long hair, and one of them was singing.
A girl's voice said, "She's a waif in the wilderness."
They all laughed and a man got out quickly. He made her a bow and Carla turned to run. "We won't hurt you," he said quickly and she paused.
"I'm lost. I can't find my car."
The man came close and curled his arms about her. "She is a waif, you were right, Liz."
Carla struggled. He didn't smell as good as he might. "Let me alone, I'll be all right." His hands were very bold.
"It's our duty, waif," the man said, pulling her to the car. "Make way, citizens." He lifted her and put her in the car. A girl made room for her.
"Hi, I'm Hilda."
"Carla," Carla said automatically. The girl was blonde, with long stringy hair and a blank face. She was pretty in a bland way, her features were smooth and unblemished. She wore no make-up at all, and her clothes were dark, so her pale flesh looked almost iridescent.
"She was out to steal a car," the man said as he got in. "We got to protect her from the fuzzies."
Carla felt herself becoming annoyed. "I can't find my own car," she said. Someone giggled in the back seat.
They went around several blocks. The car rattled and snorted. There was no bar. "You're going the wrong way," Carla said.
"Isn't everyone?" Hilda agreed. "We're all going the wrong way together. The world is going the wrong way-"
"Try not to care, darling," the man said.
"If you'll let me out," Carla insisted, "I'd rather walk." , 'We're almost there." The man reached over and patted her knee. "When did you first feel this compulsion?"
"What compulsion?"
"To steal cars, darling," Hilda giggled.
Carla felt her anger rising; then she decided she would not allow them to get her goat, she forced herself to relax. "I've always stole, haven't you?"
Hilda giggled. "You're too much-"
The car stopped. Carla jumped out quickly but the man went around the front and led her to the apartment house. "I'm Bogie," he said, "don't you like me?"
"Terribly," Carla said with sarcasm. "Why won't you let me go?"
"You have possibilities, honey," Hilda said.
"Where's Liz and Pops?"
"Screwing, I guess," Hilda shrugged. "You can hear 'em in the back seat."
They went in, with Carla looking back at the car. Were they really? It was impossible to tell with Hilda; she might say anything, in her little-girl's voice.
It was an old house, in a row of old houses; three story and stucco, with a smell of food in the hall. Carla turned up her nose-hippies in a pad, she thought. Bogie unlocked a door and half pushed her in. Carla stumbled on a rug.
"We keep it locked from the hall on account of the fuzz," he said. "They're always dropping by."
"For a feel," Hilda yawned.
Carla frowned around at the room. It was almost bare of furniture, a rumpled rug, some pillows, a few chairs, and dozens of posters on the walls. Someone had been writing on the walls too, with chalk or lipstick. Some of the words made her blush.
Liz and Pops came in behind them and she turned. Liz was a small girl; she looked fifteen, a dark impish face and a short green dress hung with beads. There was a satisfied look in her round eyes. Pops was older, hairy and clad in denims like Bogie, but skinny as a dime with a cadaverous face and unbuttoned pants. Denims don't have zippers.
"There's meatloaf," Hilda said, going into the kitchen. "Who's turned on for what?"
"Are you a musician?" Liz asked her and Carla looked her surprise. She shook her head. Liz had a deep voice for such a small girl, she went into a comer and began to strum a guitar.
"The problem is," Bogie said, stuffing his mouth with a chunk of meat, "they want us to think like them. Man, that's a freak. A fuckin' freak." He waved his finger at Carla. "Here is a case in question, like she's walkin' the dark street, right? She's pickin' up guys at the bar and she's afraid to speak the right thing, right? You gotta say it straight, baby."
Carla blinked at him. What in hell was he talking about? She didn't care for him, she thought. It wasn't nice to talk about people as though they weren't right in front of you.
"It's hard to say the words straight," Liz said, moaning over the guitar. "Leave her alone."
"It's a case," Bogie said.
'What in the world are you talking about?" Carla asked.
"It's like the whole world wrapped up in one peel. We got it right in front of us. Only nobody can see it."
"Bogie, fuck off," Hilda said. "Can't you see you're talking with your dumb mouth full?"
"Uncouth," Pops grinned. "What's wrong with being a whore?"
"Nothin', for Chrissake," Bogie yelled. "That's what I'm saying. I want her to see it."
"Maybe she don't want to," Liz said. "So who's cooking?"
"Meatloaf," Hilda jerked her thumb. "I got it in the watchamacallit." She rose and did a sinuous dance to Liz' strumming. Pops began to clap his hands in rhythm. "Ohhh, I feel alive-'"
"You got to say it straight," Bogie said to Carla. "Sure, you do your thing, but don't put it down. It only hurts you, you know?"
Carla shook her head helplessly. She sank to a chair and sighed. Perhaps she could slip out the door when they weren't looking. They seemed harmless, and she got some of her confidence back, but it was getting late. Warren would be back home wondering where she was.
"What's the name of that?" Pops asked.
Liz said, "I just made it up. I make up beautiful things. Who's got a butt?"
"I could screw you," Pops said. He gave her a cigarette and stood over her to light it. She put her finger into the open denims and made him squirm.
"Like it doesn't matter," Bogie said earnestly, sitting beside her on the floor. "It's only what you think and what you feel-you know? The things that really matter. You have to make your own scene. You dig?"
Carla nodded dumbly. Across the room Liz had flipped out the meaty organ and was smothering it with kisses. Hilda glanced at them and went into the kitchen to rattle something metallic. The casualness of it all upset her and Carla found her heart beating fast. She tried not to look at the couple and her fingers clutched the ring in her pocket. It was warm.
"How long you been humpin'?" Bogie asked her.
"What?"
"You don't have to be ashamed of it. You got as much right to your life-you know life is something they got to let you have. You ever think of it that way?"
"I guess so," Carla said, confused. She wondered if there was a back door. It was unnerving to sit there and try not to watch the provoking things Liz and Pops were doing. She was a wanton little thing.
Hilda came out with a bottle of red wine. She poured some in a glass and handed it to Carla. Carla tossed it down quickly; she needed something, she thought desperately. Bogie's hands were on her thighs, casually, and she rose. She needed air. Across the room Liz and Pops were kissing in a tangle of arms, and his virility stood out for all to see. Liz' bare legs made her seem nude. Carla went into the kitchen and was appalled.
"More?" Hilda offered her the bottle.
Carla put out her glass automatically. The kitchen was a cluttered jumble of moldy objects. The smell was sour and persistent. She drank the wine quickly. Bogie came up behind her and embraced her with tight arms.
"It's real," he said in her ear. "What we're doing is real."
She could feel him, the bulge of him against her backside. His hands were impossible to control; she fought them for a moment, then sighed.
"More wine?" Hilda said, her blank eyes innocent.
Carla shook her head and gave her the glass. She wrestled Bogie, trying to get free and he chuckled. "Good, good, express yourself-I want you to. Tonight you can fight them off and I'll help you-" His long sinewy fingers were all over her. "There's no pay now, so fight-"
They moved to the doorway and Carla stopped fighting. She stared into the other room where Hilda sat, fingering the guitar and humming. Behind her, on the floor, Liz and Pops were coupling frenziedly, rolling slightly from side to side.
Bogie moved her back into the kitchen, against the littered sink. He slipped in front of her. "Express yourself-"
She had the ring in her hand; it seemed to bum her fingers. In another moment Bogie would overpower her. He was lithe and supple, like an eel, and when she stopped him in one direction he oozed over her in another.
She bent her finger and the ring inched over the knuckle. She felt her face, warm and glowing as the ring squeezed her. He swept between her thighs and she grabbed at his neck, smelling the sourness of his long hair. She was tingling in agitation, her brain felt numb; receiving only sensation, and as though in slow-motion, she felt him enter and the voluptuous waves engulfed her. She sighed and relaxed completely for a moment before joining his serpentine urgings.
Scissoring him she impaled herself as deeply as possible and silky thighs held him. The familiar fantasy drenched her and she moaned aloud.
"You're the end-the very livin' end," he whispered.
She heard the sound of his words, "You're the center of the universe-" Why did he talk so much?
The sky opened up, green and streaked with violet, and it rained petals. She felt them on her face, as though someone was kissing her. She was on a heaving sea in a satin storm and all about a mystical orchestra played, blaring in her ears. Someone was screaming "Put her on the couch," Hilda's voice said.
She felt herself lifted and winds swirled through the rooms. Opening her eyes, she looked at the dark, mysterious ceiling. Where were the stars?
"-nobody screws like that," a man said. Was it Warren? It couldn't be Warren. She focused her eyes. The man was Pops. He stood over her, feeling her pulse as though he was a doctor, and his manhood arched from the denims. Carla giggled at it.
"Lissun, she's gotta be a hunnerd dollar girl," Bogie said with earnestness. "She's a success, you know?"
"Man, you laid her, I didn't." Pops put the wrist down and grinned as Carla reached for him and squeezed him. "She's turned on."
"You better turn 'er off," Hilda said. "Pops, you get the joints outa here if she screams anymore."
"Lemme have it," Carla said.
"Bugged out," Pops said. "Ten to one she's high. You give her pills, Hilda?"
"No, I ain't got any." Hilda lit a cigarette. "You want meatloaf, you guys?"
Liz strummed the guitar. "-I'd sell my soul for the everlasting way, the day of joy-I'd sell it all for one sweet kiss-" She fingered the strings intricately and watched Pops put it back in his pants and sit beside Carla. She hummed the tune in her throaty voice. Pops looked at her and shrugged, the girl was pawing him.
Hilda came out with a plate piled high with steaming meat. She put it on the coffee table. "We better take her back, huh?"
"Accept it," Pops said. "This is the thing. Serenity. She don't want to go."
"She dunno what the fuck she's doin'," Hilda said.
Carla squirmed around, trying to crawl into Pops' lap. He helped her as Liz looked on and strummed, her dark eyes curious. She sang to herself. Hilda scraped meat into a plate and picked at it.
"You sure do some dumb things, Bogie."
"Like what, dreamboat?"
"Bringing her here. She's a screamer."
Bogie sat down on the floor and began to eat.
"I want that," she said, reaching for it. He didn't back away.
"Let her have it, Pops," Liz said. "The poor thing, she needs it."
"Lissen," Hilda called from the kitchen, "isn't anybody goin' to finish the meatloaf?"
Carla sank back into the abyss. Pops was on her, exulting between her parted thighs, and Liz caressed her face and kissed her tenderly.
"It's gettin' hot in here," Bogie said and Carla's anguished eyes saw him pressing Hilda to the sink. She closed her eyes feeling the velvet of Liz' kiss on her lips and moaning with the first convulsive wrench of her straining body.
She pressed the ring tightly, closing her fist on it. As in a delirium, she made sounds and the waves of distorted impulses washed over her. She could no longer control her twisting body; she abandoned herself to the singing, battering images, and she pictured herself running naked in the wind.
Voices were entering her consciousness. She lay still and listened. They were in a tunnel, a thousand miles distant, whispering sibilantly. She was rushing down the tunnel toward them.
"-take her upstairs," a man said, "she's beautiful."
Carla opened her eyes. It was dark in the room. In the comer was a metal rack of some sort with two candles burning silently, long streamers of color reaching toward the ceiling. She watched them, fascinated.
"I'll go with you," Liz said. The guitar strummed, and Carla looked down. Pops was sitting by Liz' chair and three other people stood round her. There was no sign of Hilda and Bogie. She blinked and a strange girl brushed hair from her face.
"We're fun people," she said. "I'm Fay." She looked at Liz, "what's she on?"
"Nothin'," Liz said. "We didn't give her anything. A little wine, that's all."
Carla felt herself being picked up and she giggled. The two men lifted her. One said: "Open the door, Vito."
They carried her upstairs and she luxuriated in the feel of their strong hands on her naked skin. She tried to twist around but they held her firmly, one at her feet and one at her shoulders.
"Jesus, you can't screw all the time," Fay said behind her. "What's her name?"
"Carla, she said."
They went into a room that smelled stuffy with smoke and a harsh nose-tickling odor. There was a light on the floor and no furniture at all.
"That crazy Bogie said she was a whore. He wants to put her on the straight an' narrow."
"Bogie cut out."
"I know it. He forgot."
"She ain't a whore," Liz said, close to her. "I think she's straight. Look at her purse."
"Where is it?"
"We left it downstairs."
"So, let's screw her," said one of the men. Carla opened her eyes and one of them was on her. She felt the warmth of him and parted her thighs, clutching at him. Someone giggled in the room. "She's alive," said the man on her.
The passion was on her again. Enveloping her, it closed out the room. A voice, standing away from her, spoke in measured tones and she tried to hear what it said, but could not. The tone of the voice was brown anyway and was probably saying something she did not want to hear-not now. She sighed and sank into the satiny fantasy that he brought on with his thrusting.
At intervals she came out of it. Not entirely, but enough to be aware of her surroundings. Different men coupled with her; they smelled differently. She could hear Liz' deep voice now and then, and hear the music of the guitar. At other times, Liz was laughing and whispering very close. When she opened her eyes dreamily, she seemed to see nakedness. Liz seemed to be naked, writhing like fury, and the sound of her voice was changed and urgent.
She was in a shower. The water poured on her and she cringed at the coldness of it. She was awake, staring at the girl who got into the stall with her.
"I'm Fay," the girl said, "you remember me. We got you away from Vito."
Carla fingered the ring. Fay handed her a cloth with soap. The ring slipped off her finger and she squeezed it in her hand. It was cold in the room.
"There isn't any heat," Fay said. "Hurry up and we'll get outa here."
Fay was tall and dark, with large eyes and very small breasts. They were mere mounds, but the rest of her was well made and glistening with the water.
"Is it-the same night?" Carla asked. Suddenly she was anxious. This naked girl was a complete stranger. She was in a strange house.
"I dunno what night you mean," Fay said, raising her voice over the sound of the shower. "You feel OK now?"
"I'm all right, I think," Carla said. She was sore in the vagina. She felt down, her hand soapy. Yes, it was sore. Fay noticed.
"What's with you, honey?"
"What?"
"What're you on?"
Carla shook her head. She soaped quickly, transferring the ring back and forth. When she touched Fay she pulled away and Fay cocked her head. She had a puzzled look on her oval face.
Fay moved close and one slim hand closed over her breast and Carla jumped. She brushed the other way.
"You sure changed," Fay said.
Carla slid out of the shower and looked around for a towel. There was only one. She grabbed it and Fay shut off the water and stepped out beside her. She waited patiently till Carla had finished with the towel.
Her clothes were piled on a stool and Carla dressed with fumbling fingers. Warren would be frantic by now. It must be the next day. She had been out all night; she had never done that before, what would he think? What in the world would she say? She couldn't tell him the truth.
A man came in and lounged by the door. Carla stared at him. In the cold light he looked miserable. He wore a dirty yellow shirt and levis. His feet were bare and his face was scraggly with beard, his hair uncombed. He was ugly, she thought and tried not to show her feelings on her face.
"Hi," he said. "You OK now, waif?"
"She needs to eat something, Bogie," Fay said. "We've got stew," Bogie nodded. "I'll tell Liz." He lit a cigarette and offered Carla one. She took it with trembling fingers. Bogie. This was the man who had first picked her up. How could she have gone with them?
He went out and Fay looked at her with glowing eyes. "Will you stay with me? You want to make it some more?"
Carla bit her lip. The ring felt warm in her hand. What in the world had she done during the night? Her entire body felt used. She glanced into the mirror and winced. She looked terrible.
Fay slipped a bare arm about her waist. "Don't you remember last night?"
"No," Carla said, moving away. "I-was-drunk."
You weren't drunk. Jeez, you're a funny one, you are. What turns you off so fast?"
Carla puffed at the cigarette and shook her head. Without a backward look she went into the hall and Bogie beckoned to her.
Liz was small and plump, with rumpled dark hair and a round, brown face. Her eyes crinkled at sight of Carla. Hi, lover." She motioned toward a beat-up couch. "Sit down. I'll bet you're tired." She came over and sat beside Carla, large breasts waggling under the single thin dress that reached the middle of her thighs.
"I-want to go," Carla said, glancing at Bogie. He nodded. "Sure, waif. You don't owe us nothing. You can go anywhere you want."
"What-day is it?"
"Friday," Bogie said, "I think."
Carla closed her eyes in pain. It couldn't be. That would mean she had been here two days. "When did I come here?"
"Wednesday," Liz said. "This is Friday. That's not long. You kinda freaked out, you know? You had us worried." She went into a small kitchen and rattled something on a stove. She returned with a dish which she placed before Carla. It was a large dish with a small amount of stew. It had a sticky consistency and a spoon adhering to it.
Carla tasted it. It was like wadded-up paper and no salt. She pushed it away. And she was ravenous. Warren would have gone to the police by now, she thought. She looked at Bogie; he had dead-fish eyes and dirty fingernails. God, would she be glad to see Warren! His pudgy, stupid face would be like a spring day beside this ugly creature. She wished Bogie would stop staring at her.
She rose, conscious that her clothes were wrinkled and soiled. Whatever would she tell Warren? She found herself thanking them awkwardly-why should she thank them? They had practically kidnapped her!
Bogie followed her down the hall. He took her arm as she reached the stairs. "In here." He pulled her into a room before she could object.
The room was pallid in the light, and looked filthy. The windows were curtainless and grimy. Bogie closed the door and his arms went about her.
"Stop it!" She pulled away and he laughed and dumped her on the floor. She rolled, staring at him as he ripped his pants open. He was erect and ready. He dived at her.
"What're you doing! For God's sake-"
"Hey, what's got into you, baby?" He fell on her sweeping her skirts up.
She screamed.
He slapped her across the face. His sinewy body grappled with her and insinuated itself and her skirts were flung up. She screamed again as he penetrated her. The door opened and Liz stared at them.
Carla writhed, craning her neck. "Stop him!" She beat on him with her fists. "Make him stop it-"
"Jeez, honey," Liz said, "you're the craziest dame I ever seen."
Carla began to cry. Bogie thrust and lunged heatedly. "Make her stop that," he panted.
Liz slid on her knees beside her and Carla felt her fingers. Liz petted her. "Hush, honey, hush."
Carla sobbed helplessly. She relaxed her muscles and let him have her. Closing her eyes to the loathsome sight of him, she gritted her teeth, bearing the sound of his hoarse breath. Liz stroked her cheek and kissed her occasionally. It was a harsh experience. He finished and rolled off her.
"Christ, what a nothin'."
Carla pushed her skirts down, her breasts heaving. She struggled to sit up. Liz smiled wanly at her, shaking her head wonderingly. "You sure ain't the same dame."
Bogie tossed her a dirty towel and she wiped herself. He looked at her with the flat eyes and went out.
He was back instantly. A slim man in a suit backed him into the room. Two blue coated policemen followed. Liz jumped up, eyes wide. "Cops!"
Carla went to her knees and hung her head.
The man in the suit knelt by her. "You don't belong here do you?"
She looked at him with despair in her eyes. Now what would happen to her? The two uniformed men were searching the room efficiently. She could hear small sounds now, the entire house was stirring. Apparently it was a raid, as Hilda had mentioned-was it only a day or so ago?
She shook her head. "No." She let him help her to her feet. "I-was-" What would she tell him? He seemed to be waiting expectantly. He picked up her purse and looked in it. Liz was yelling that cops had to have a warrant. They took Bogie out of the room.
"Who are you?" the cop in the suit asked. He was slender and hard-looking. His eyes were blue, like diamonds, and brittle. His skin had a shiny cast as though it had been scrubbed. "You don't belong here."
"I-came in-by mistake," Carla said. "I was-lost."
He frowned at her. Looking her up and down, he nodded. "You were drunk?"
She took a deep breath and nodded. She winced, seeing the brittle eyes grow more flinty. He reached for her hands suddenly and opened them. He took the ring and she yelled, "That's mine!"
He stepped back and peered at it closely, holding it so that she could not snatch it back.
"Why aren't you wearing it?"
"Because-it's tight."
He cocked his head. Looking at a card he had taken from her purse, he looked her up and down again. "All right, Mrs. Hedgeman. If it's yours you'll get it back." He slipped it into his pocket. "I'll give you a receipt for it."
She bit her lip, hearing her name. "Why do you have to take it at all? It's mine. My husband gave it to me."
"Then it'll be easy to check," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hedgeman, but we're checking out stolen goods too." He took her arm and led her to the hall.
Uniformed men moved about busily. There was a chatter from below on the stairs. She recognized Liz' deep voice protesting.
He led her down the stairs. "Have you any complaints?"
She was silent. What should she say? Could she admit the obvious orgies that had taken place-she was one of the participants, perhaps the central one-she sighed and he looked at her curiously.
"No," she said.
"Are you a junky?"
"No." She shook her head, but he examined her arms on the landing and released her without comment.
Bogie and Liz stared at her with expressionless faces. She met their eyes and looked away. The slim cop led her to the sidewalk and down the street where his car was parked. The sunlight hurt her eyes. God, she was tired! She waited, feeling like a criminal while he wrote out a receipt and handed it to her. Warren would ask a million questions.
She sighed. To hell with Warren. Maybe this would teach him a lesson. He'd be more interested in her-but did she want that? It struck her that this was the perfect time to do what she had been thinking of for-how long? Why didn't she just keep going? It would never be the same with him again. This escapade would always hang between them because of what he was.
He would never forgive her. And she didn't want his forgiveness. She smiled. Maybe the whole thing was a blessing in disguise. She felt better suddenly.
The policeman had been talking on his phone. He got out of the car. "I'll send you home if you wish, Mrs. Hedgeman."
"My car is-" She paused and took a breath. "I'm not going home. Give me my ring, please." She put out her hand.
The man put his hand to his pocket. Then he looked startled and dug the hand into it. He looked very surprised. "It's gone!"
Carla stared at him in horror.
CHAPTER TWO
Early Sommer smiled to himself. Outwardly his face was a mask. It was a smooth, almost unlined face, with a sharp nose and pinched eyes that were wise despite his efforts to make them innocent.
Cops were only people, after all. Dumb and upright, just like people. He shuffled downstairs, the ring in his hand. It felt heavy and valuable. He had pinched it from the plainclothes dick. It had been easy. With his trained fingers. Cops were arrogant too. This one had brushed him, close enough for Early to feel the bulge. He hadn't expected a ring. He hadn't even looked at it yet.
But it felt valuable. A guy had to make a profit, even from cops. He slipped the ring into a crevice when no one was looking. It would keep.
Downstairs they lined him up with Bogie, Liz and Pops. The slim cop took a good-looking dame out to the front. He stared at her legs, wondering where she had come from. They were nice legs. He sidled close to Bogie, whispering.
"Any H in the place?"
Bogie shook his head. He formed the word 'grass' silently.
They didn't find any heroin. They found a packet of grass; no one had any on him. A sergeant questioned them and they went downtown, after a thorough search. The slim cop was sore as hell. Someone had picked his pocket and suspicion settled on Early.
He was clean, but the cop pushed him around. Early had done a stretch for picking pockets.
They had to let him go the next day. Early went to his hotel, showered, shaved and got dressed. He liked to dress well. It impressed the dolls.
He didn't go near the building till after dark. No one would find the ring. Besides, it might not be valuable and he'd be wasting his time. But he was not the kind of guy to pass up a sure thing. It might be.
When he looked at it, he was sure it was. The stone glowed when he held it in his fingers. Maybe it was an opal. Early liked the feel of it. The ring part looked gold too, and heavy. It had been worth going back for.
He didn't like Bogie much, but he had it for Liz. Liz was a real boot in the ass. She passed it around without a lot of gassing. Liz gave it to him because he kept them supplied with grass; he knew it, and he didn't care. She saw him looking at the ring.
"Izzat for me?"
"It's a man's ring," he told her, encircling her waist with a quick hand and pulling her close. He slipped the ring on his finger. "You'd look funny wearing a man's ring."
"The hell I would."
He kissed her and liked it more than usual. His hand discovered that she wasn't wearing much under the thin dress. "Hey, how 'bout it?"
"Sure," she wriggled against him and he took her into the first room. They were on the second floor and someone was yelling downstairs and the radio was blaring. There was a couch and she jumped on it and faced him, waiting.
She had an impish grin on her round face. He slipped the jacket off, zipping his pants down hurriedly. His hands were trembling and his face was hot. Even as he tore his clothes off he wondered at the unusual desire that flooded him. He was horny tonight!
And Liz seemed to know it. She rolled back when he bounced onto the couch and they joined in flaming haste. She felt good-so good! Scissoring him, she bit his ear and the sheer luxury of her pulsated through him. Why did it feel so exciting? He couldn't get enough of her fast enough, battering her and jabbing her. She giggled and drummed her heels on his backside.
"Jeez Christ!" he breathed, "I forgot what a crazy lay you are, baby-"
"That's my luck."
"Yeah," he hissed at her. "Luck-what a bag, luck. It's rollin' my way, baby. Whyn't you get the hell outa this dump?"
She held on tightly and the couch squeaked. "Naw, I love Pops-you know that."
"Pops." He spat out the word. Pops was a stupid nothing. Like most of the bums who wouldn't work and who spouted philosophy they didn't understand. He had nothing but contempt for Pops and Bogie. If it wasn't for Liz and a few of the other broads-he grunted and began to pant in her ear. God! How hot could a guy get? He amazed himself.
He could tell by the look in Liz' eyes that she was surprised too. Her stimulation grew and engulfed her and they grew wild, culminating in smothered sighs. He was frantic, seeking satiation.
"Man, you really go," she whispered.
They were sweating profusely. His spear seemed, to grow in strength and despite himself; with a part of his brain he thought back, wondering what he had eaten that gave him such power. Liz was a writhing feline; she exulted in the carnal ballet and harassed the tool of stimulation.
"Does Pops make it that good?"
She scratched him. "Lay off Pops. I tole you, I love him."
"Yeh, I love you too, baby." He did, at that minute. How could he help it?
"Alright." She didn't sound as though she believed him.
He let it go. There was a roaring in his ears anyway, and an excitement inside him that he didn't remember feeling before. He wanted to impregnate every woman on earth-and he felt he could do it. Liz was moaning under him, breathing hard. Her satiny skin was delectable. She was in ferment. When he fountained into her she almost screamed and bucked in surges. His body was racked by spasms and he felt he couldn't breathe.
What the hell had come over him? Was it Liz? God, how he went crazy over her!
Something was hurting his finger, but he barely felt the pain, like a prick from a pin. His body grew rigid, then relaxed slowly. He was tired, but still mighty.
"I c'n still feel it," Liz said with surprise. She giggled. "You been eating eggs, honey?"
"Something, I guess." It was hard, alright, but he leaned on his elbows, getting his breath back. It would probably go down in a minute. He drew it almost all out and thrust, and she gasped.
He looked at his hand, but the room was gloomy. The ring was pinching his finger. He tried to ease it down to the knuckle but it was too tight. He swore under his breath; he wasn't used to rings, this one was just too tight, maybe his finger was a little swollen.
She wriggled. "C'mon, do me again."
He kissed her and the wind rose, blasting his ears. It must be Liz: every time he kissed her it excited him. He forgot his tiredness and they squirmed in exquisite abandon. Time raced by. Convulsions gripped him, and he knew that Liz was experiencing her own tempestuous climaxes, and he couldn't stop. As though a fog settled down on his mind, he plowed into her and the luxurious fantasy changed bit by bit to a droning stupefaction.
He came back to consciousness slowly, feeling intense pain. Liz was biting him and pummeling him, shouting at him.
He stopped.
"Get off me," she hissed, struggling and pushing. "Get the hell off-"
Automatically he rolled off, feeling his organ waggling, still stiff and impudent.
"Oh, my God!" she said out loud. "I never seen a guy like that!" She was panting and looking at him in wonder. The penis was long and red and shining. Early stared at it in dull astonishment.
"You hurt," she said, annoyance in her voice. "I'm raw, dammit. Man, I'm raw!"
His finger hurt too. He frowned at it stupidly. The damn ring hurt. He pulled at it and it came off the finger easily; it wasn't tight. He looked at the finger, seeing a red slit. It had cut him slightly.
"I never seen anybody like you," Liz said again. "You went kinda crazy, you know?"
He laid back, the ring in his hand, breathing hard. He could feel the organ slowly shriveling. It was about time.
Early Sommer was five feet ten inches tall, he weighed about one hundred fifty, and was not impressive to look at. He wore heels that made him seem taller. He wanted people to think him a big shot; he tried to act like one but he was usually short on dough. "I got a deal cooking," he would say. "A big pot, you know what I mean?"
Early hung around the Martinique Bar. He ran bets and did errands for Vicente Stagg who owned the place, and a few others. Stagg wasn't his real name, but no one prodded him about it. Very few prodded Vicente about anything. Early was glad to return a word to him when Vicente noticed him around.
Vicente didn't like it that Early sold grass or H when he could get it. Early obtained the H through one of the bartenders, Franz, who got it various places, one of them a hospital where he had connections. Franz looked and sounded smart, but he was into the loan sharks-deep. Franz also liked young ones, and Early provided them when he could. Early would do anything for a buck. That was his stock in trade. Anything.
He was in bed for a day and a half after the lay with Liz. He put the ring in his pocket and forgot it.
When he staggered out, starving and hollow-eyed, he didn't notice it till he got a shave and brunch and was sitting at the bar talking to Franz. Then he pulled it out with his change and Franz picked it up.
"What's this here?"
"A ring, for Crissake. You think it's a bucket of paint?"
Franz grunted. "Shit, I can see it's a goddam ring." Franz was tall and thin; cadaverous. He was gray and had deep-set eyes that looked dull. He complained of this and that. His favorite complaint was about his liver.
"It's an old Chinese good luck piece," Early said. "Cost me a bundle, I tell you."
"How much?"
Early looked around. "A C note."
Franz shook his head silently, turning the ring in his fingers. "It don't look Chinese."
"The guy I got it from got it in Hong Kong." Franz hefted it. "Gold?"
"Hell yeah, solid. That's an opal in it. Worth more'n a C note. Opals are damn valuable. Is Vincente around?"
Franz shook his head. "The missus is around somewheres." He nodded his gray head. "Over there at the comer table."
Early looked across the wide room. It was dimly lighted, the afternoon light never penetrated into the plush club dining room. Mrs. Stagg was Kika Stagg, former showgirl and singer, and, the whisperers said, former hundred buck-a-night girl. She looked it. Except for one thing-she seemed to like men more than the hustlers did. Early rolled a sip of whisky around on his tongue and stared at her. Sometimes he had done errands for her and she paid well.
He needed dough.
His luck was running now, though. Something would come along. He knew it was running because the cops hadn't pinned him with grass at Pogie's place. That was a sign. Any other time he'd have been made with the marijuana in his hip pocket.
"I could use some Man O War," he said casually to Franz. Man O War was their code word for horse. Franz nodded and pushed the ring across the bar to him.
"Take a few days. How much?"
"I'll round up a couple hundred."
Franz sniffed. That was nothing. He slid down the bar and waited on a customer.
Early watched Kika. She rose and came across the room, trailing fur. She was lush. A trifle heavier than when she trod the boards, but still a lot of woman. Early gazed on the curves admiringly. She had a pretty face too, empty and smooth, framed by platinum hair. Heads turned, following her. She liked that.
He slipped off the padded stool and took a couple steps as she came out of the dining room and turned toward the door. "Hi, Kika."
She looked at him and the vacant eyes stared for a second, then she nodded and the cupid bow mouth smiled. She had placed him.
He got back on the stool. She paused and came back. "Early-"
He turned with the drink in his hand, then gulped it down with a wave at Franz. He followed her out to the street. The doorman saw her and whistled for her car.
"Why don't you drive me, Early," she said. It wasn't a question. He nodded and she fished in her handbag for a cigarette.
"I gotta go over to Miles Island." She looked at him over her lighter. "That OK?"
"Sure, Kika." It had to be OK and she knew it. He went around and got in the front seat of the Caddy when it came. She didn't push him around, anyway. Not like Vicente. She asked him first, and made it seem like he could refuse. He still had the ring in his fist. He slipped it into his pocket and watched her get in. He'd wanted to palm the ring off onto Franz. All that talk of a C note, he would have grabbed at twenty.
As they went down the parkway he glanced at her in the rearview. Maybe Kika would spring for a bill. It wasn't a bad-looking ring.
She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. She was a lot of woman. He caressed her neck and breasts with his eyes. Vincente could pick 'em. There was nothing much to think about anyway while he drove. He compared her to Liz, thinking back to the dark girl. Liz was a wild one when she got it in her. He wondered how Kika was in bed.
Miles Island was a new development 'way out. The Staggs were always investing, so the talk went. Maybe Kika was out collecting rents. If so it would be a good time to bring up the ring.
He glanced into the rearview. She was staring out the window with the vacant eyes. He cleared his throat and she looked at him.
"I got a real nice ring, Kika-" he began.
She half smiled. "You peddlin' rocks now, Early?"
"Naw, I just got this from a guy-you know, a guy who works on a boat. He brought it in from India. He was broke and I got it cheap-only a C note."
"A C note? Where'd you get a hundred bucks?"
"C'mon, that ain't much.
"It is if you haven't got it."
"It's a ring from India. The guy said it was from one of them temples, you know, a real luck piece."
She chuckled. "Luck, huh? You better keep it."
He dug it out of his pocket, noticing once more how heavy it felt. He had a momentary twinge, wondering if the thing was worth more than he was asking. Maybe he should get it appraised.
She reached for it and he let her take it. "Heavy," she said. She grunted as she turned it over and over in her fingers. "Yeah, that's a funny one alright."
"It's real rare, Kika. There's a history goes with it. That ring was passed down from one family to another for hundreds of years. I'll bet they'd pay plenty in one of them temples to get it back."
"Sure they would," she agreed. "What you want for it?"
"Well, I give a C note, like I said."
"That's a lot of dough." She sounded doubtful. Her eyes, when he caught the look in the mirror, were not vacant anymore. They were bright and dancing. Kika was no pushover, he realized suddenly.
She settled back on the seat and stared out the window at the sameness of the stores and signs along the street. She seemed to be thinking, and Early was silent. Hell, she might spring for a hunnerd, you never could tell. The ring might just take her fancy. Let her mull it over.
He watched her, with quick flicks at the rearview. She had put the ring on her finger and was admiring it. She turned her hand this way and that, looking at it in the light. It was a damn strange-looking ring alright.
"What're you doing these days, Early?" she asked suddenly.
He shrugged. Smiled. "Getting along, Kika."
"Vince says you're pushing. Is that true?"
"Well, you know. A guy's got to make a buck."
"It's a stupid racket-for the little guys."
"Yeah, I know, Kika. But some of us ain't got the scratch to start out big." He made a nice smile for her in the mirror. Maybe she'd spring for a C plus.
"What would you do if you had dough, Early?" He bit the comer of his mouth and squinted his eyes at the traffic. "Well-I guess there's deals would come along. You got to study it, you know? When you got a few grand it looks different."
"It sure does." She sat back and half closed her eyes. "I've got things in mind-I could use a partner in a few...." She stopped and frowned out the window.
Early's eyes widened. A partner!
"I changed my mind," she said. "I don't think I'll go to the Island. Turn on Garvey and go east, I'll tell you from there."
"Sure, Kika." He wondered what the hell. She sure looked funny all of a sudden. Not sick or anything, just sort of nervous. She was breathing hard. It was damn interesting just to watch her breathe. Those big tits of hers moved so that he licked his lips.
"You got a girlfriend, Early?"
The sudden question startled him. He shook his head and looked at her. She was practically simpering. He blinked.
"You're not a faggot for God's sake?"
"Hell no, Kika." What had got into her? He turned onto Garvey and went east. The big Caddy rolled smoothly. They were in a neighborhood of apartment houses and shopping centers. He followed her directions, turning off the main drag and down several side streets. Where the hell was she going?
"Park in front of that green building," she said. "We're going in there."
He nodded and pulled up. They were in a middle-class district; there were trees along the parkways and cared-for shrubbery. The green building was a tall apartment house that looked exactly like a dozen others. Stucco and some decorative brick with three bikes on the small grass plot in front.
He opened the door and she got out and stood beside him. There was a strange look on her face, he thought. She looked at him in a way that made a shiver go up his spine. "I own the building," she said in a husky voice. "You just follow my lead, huh? There's a manager."
He nodded, swallowed hard, and followed her into the foyer. She knocked on the manager's door. He was a skinny little guy with sparse hair and a nervous tic in one eye. Early thought he looked like an ex-jockey. The guy was all upset at seeing Kika. He stammered, but Kika cut him off.
"I'm just going to look at some of the empties, Mr. Stine," she said. "This is Mr. Franklin. He's a decorator." She turned away and headed for the elevator.
The manager nodded like a scared bird. "I'll-get my coat, Misser-"
Kika paused. "I don't want any help, Mr. Stine."
"Oh, er, yes."
She waved a slip of paper at him. "I've got the numbers of the empties-" She pressed the elevator button and beckoned to Early. "C'mon, Mr. Franklin."
Early hustled into the elevator and the door closed on the skinny manager. His foolish mouth hung open.
Kika giggled at him. "How you like being a decorator, Early?"
"Gee, OK, I guess, Kika. I never been one before." What the hell was going on? Kika was almost pressing against him. The space in the elevator was like a phone booth, but not that close. It scared him a little. After all, she was Vicente's wife. Even to think of that curled his fingernails. He was terribly aware of what and who he was-a small-time guy with a big hood's wife. Well, not with her, just in tow. She was calling the shots.
He smiled at her weakly. He must be imagining it.
The elevator stopped and she took his arm as they got off at the seventh floor. He noticed the big seven painted on the wall opposite the door. He was still pondering what she'd said earlier-a partner. What the hell did she mean?
"Here we go," she said, studying the slip of paper and producing a key. She stopped in front of number 709 and put the key in the lock. She waved him in and he slipped inside the darkened room smelling the stale odor of the closed room. There was a slight paint smell mingled in. He glanced around quickly. It was an average furnished apartment, chairs, dark couch, dusty filmed tables and chair arms.
Behind him, he heard her lock the door and shoot the bolt. When he looked around she giggled at him.
"We're alone now," she said.
He blinked at her. Fumbling nervously for a cigarette, he saw her doff the fur and dump her purse on the couch. She had a giddy look in her eye. His knees were turning soft; he wanted to sit down, and he backed up as she approached. God! She was a lot of woman!
She took the cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it away. "Whassa matter, don't you like me?"
"Jesus Christ, Kika!"
"I said-don't you like me?" She was very close, too close. Her perfume was heady. Her brittle eyes held him. Suddenly he knew she was hot. Hot pants.
"I-I mean-hell yes, Kika-but-"
She moved closer. There was nothing he could do. He put up his arms, feeling like the floor would go out from under him any second.
She came into his arms and kissed him.
He had never been kissed like that before. It boiled him over. The way she went for him scared him too-and Vicente went out of his mind for the while. She thought he was something; he could tell, else why would she be writhing and kissing him like that? She was wriggling against him in the most wanton, provoking manner, and he knew she could feel his dong rising. It seemed to set her aflame.
"My God, Early-"
He took a deep breath when she let him. She was getting wild!
She tore at his clothes, pushing his coat off his shoulders. Her face was flushed and he was startled at the passion in her face. What the hell had come over her?
"-gotta have it-" she was muttering. She ripped at his pants. She slid to the floor and her fluttering fingers worked at his zipper. She swore under her breath.
He tossed his coat to a chair and took the zipper out of her hands. Then she clawed his pants down like a wild thing. An animal-like noise came out of her throat as she flung herself at the penis. Early stared in astonishment. He watched it disappear into her mouth. She bit him and he yelled.
She tugged and pulled at him and he found himself falling. She had strength! She clawed her skirts up. They rolled. He was atop her, trying to steady himself. Her claw-like hands raked him. Her knees were spread. "Fuck me-" she hissed in his hear. "Goddammit, Early-"
He lunged at her, feeling it enter and plunge. She screamed and her head bumped the hard floor. He rammed it. His knees were instantly sore. The floor was hard as concrete. Her ass was bumping; he couldn't get it in far enough-she was swearing horribly.
"Get me on the fuckin' couch," she snarled.
He tried to pull her over to it without taking the thing out, but it wouldn't work. When he moved back she screamed again and grabbed at it. Her eyes were wild. For an instant he wondered if she'd gone mad. She looked like a madwoman, screeching and ripping at her clothes.
She flung her shoes off. With a single yank, she ripped her dress down from the neck. She flipped the brassiere up over the large, firm breasts and Early stared at them, pink and rose-nippled. She dropped the brassiere and pushed at her panties. In another second she was naked.
The look on her face startled him-despite what had gone before. She looked at him the way he'd seen men look at a sex show in some smoky back room with the drums beating and the smell of whisky strong. She leaped at him.
They tumbled to the couch and for a moment were tangled in a delirious convulsing wrestle. Then her shapely thighs united with his and the sudden sensuous fusing made her laugh aloud. He stabbed her and she yelped in delight. He battered her and the couch bounced and thumped the floor. He was so excited he was wild with her. This was Kika Stagg! This was the most impossible day of his life!
He looked down at her, seeing only the devil in her sparkling eyes. She bit his cheek, his ear, his lip. Her loins beat a tattoo on his-and she went screamingly wild for a long, crazy period.
All he could do was hang on and let her violence subside. My God! Did Vicente have this kind of love at his beck and call? How could he stand it?
But thinking of Vicente raised the hair on the back of his neck. If that manager downstairs should ever say anything-! Early began to sweat, even more than Kika's body urged him to. Vicente would never hesitate. He'd be dog meat.
She came back to reality slowly. She looked at him and her tongue licked his lips. "You like me, honey?"
He nodded. "I'm nuts about you, Kika. But-"
She pushed herself at him and giggled. "But what-you're scared of Vince. Let me worry 'bout him. He's only a guy."
"Jeez, I don't wanna worry. But Vicente don't like me much anyhow."
"He just seems that way, Early darling. Christ, what d'you do to me?" She rammed herself up at him. Giggled. "You sure got it for me, honey."
"You ain't so bad yourself."
She giggled. "I know what I am. But I never had a guy get to me like you. You got something I got to have."
He worked it. She was a satin feline, warm and supple. Her arms, thighs and the delectable nestling bounty of her was more than any other woman. He had never had a woman like Kika, and this was all a mad dream. It had to be. He knew what he was. Why should a chick like Kika Stagg go ape for him? And so suddenly. It was like what he'd felt with Liz. That was it, she was just temporarily sex-mad.
"Gimme more," she whispered. "I want a lot more-"
He gave her all he had. She took it and demanded more. They rolled off the narrow couch, and somehow Early found the strength to pick her up and carry her, squealing, to the bedroom and drop her on the mattress. She pulled him down on top of her. She held him, belaboring him through paroxysms and smothered sighs.
"I gotta rest, Kika," he panted.
"Sure, Early, darling."
It was strange to hear that from her. Would he ever get used to it? She was Vicente's wife-he had to get that idea out of his head. The more he thought of the hood the limper he got. She didn't want him limp.
She lay beside him, waiting. She was beautiful and shapely, with long tapering legs and tits. God! such tits. He caressed them and kissed them and she giggled.
"You sure are a beautiful doll, Kika-"
"Yeh," she whispered. "I heard that a lot, but coming from you-kiss me, Early."
When he kissed her she rolled on him, legs splaying. She was tempestuous and voracious. The perfume of her excited him and her darting tongue radiated electricity. Her every silken touch was titillating. Undulating on him, she rubbed velvet thighs on his and teased him with her mouth.
She set herself off again. She writhed her sensuous body on him in ecstasy. "My God, Early-where you been?"
"Ri-right here, Kika-I gotta rest-Jesus!"
"My sweet. My sweet darling-of course. Kika'll nurse you." She slithered into his arms, inciting him with lecherous tension. Her body was never still, always trembling, tantalizing, and he flopped on his back, worn to a nubbin.
She kissed it and sucked it hard, then harassing it, but it wouldn't rise. She lay her cheek on it and squeezed him, sighing.
"Early, you move in here, huh?"
"Here? In this apartment?"
She nodded and kissed his penis. "Uh huh. We gotta see each other, huh, darling?" She looked at him and her large eyes were melting. No woman had ever looked at him that way. He swallowed hard. What would happen when she came out of it-whatever she was in-and realized he was just a small-time guy?
"Gee, anything you say, Kika."
She sighed again and nodded dreamily. "Then you move in, darling. I'll come see you every day." She stared at him with the burning eyes and suddenly crawled up to his mouth and kissed him, surging and rubbing over his phallus wantonly. He fell back and let her passion spend itself.
But she was wild again.
For an hour she was like a maddened creature. Early clung to her, sated and enslaved by her excitement. He could do little but hold her and fondle her, but she exulted in his tired kisses and his caresses. He tried to calm her, and she lay across him, stretching her lovely body, cat-like and flawless. She looked at him with the huge eyes and he was constantly astonished at what she seemed to see there. At times he had the almost overpowering desire to run into the bathroom to look in a mirror. Perhaps he was somebody else!
When she lay beside him on the bed, he noticed that it was getting dark outside. She saw it, he knew, and said nothing. She spoke less and less, moaning and kissing and writhing. Her hand moved across his face and he felt the hard metallic bump of the ring. He had entirely forgotten the ring.
He took her hand and looked at it. The stone was glowing in the gloom of the bedroom. Opals glowed like that, he had heard. She didn't even know it when he slipped the ring off her finger. In her state, she probably wouldn't even remember that she'd worn it.
And there was no sense in letting her have a valuable ring. Early had that well ingrained sense of self-protection common to his class. He put the ring on the floor beside his shoes. Maybe the ring was his good luck piece. He'd just keep it for a bit. No sense in selling it-maybe it would work more wonders.
She turned her head after a few moments and looked at him. "It's getting late, darling."
Early nodded. "Yeah, we better get dressed."
She sat up obediently, sighing. "Geez, I had a hell of a time, Early." She made a face. Felt herself. "God! I'm sore, you know it?"
He grinned. "You're a tiger, Kika."
"So are you, darling." She kissed him fondly and rose.
He watched her walk out of the room, her lovely buttocks undulating. He had had all that! All afternoon. He shook his head, still hardly daring to believe it-and the thought brought Vicente to his mind. His feet grew cold.
Kika laughed gaily at the wreck of her dress. "Lookit what you do to me, darling." She came in, naked, exhibiting the tom dress. She put it on and covered it with her fur.
"Vicente better not see me-" She paused and looked at him. Then she smiled. "You leave Vince to me."
"You still want me to move in here?"
"Of course!" She came over and kissed him. "Come on, now, hurry up."
They drove in near silence. Kika was satiated. She curled up on the seat beside him, her head on his shoulder and slept most of the way. Early kept looking at her. It was amazing. Him, Early Sommer, cheap cannon, with Kika Stagg. Amazing. No one would believe it.
That brought him up sharp and he glanced around. If anyone knew it he, Early, would be mincemeat. He'd have to watch his step from now on. God! He hoped Kika had a close mouth.
He parked the Caddy a block from his hotel and woke her. She yawned and stared at him, then she smiled. It relieved him. He was sure she'd forget. He had to get more confidence. He had something she liked.
"Where are we?"
He told her and she sighed. "Jesus, I'm tired. You sure wear a girl out, Early."
"That's me. I'm a bear."
She nestled close. "I never been screwed like that since-" She paused and laughed shortly. "No, I never, I guess."
"You're a lot of woman, Kika."
"Nothin' to you, darling." She sat up and moved her head around, feeling her neck. "Oh, I'm dead. I ache all over." She kissed him. "Lissen, you move in, hear me? I'll fix it with Stine. You move your junk in and I'll see you-in two days. OK?"
He nodded. "Yeh, day after tomorra."
"Right," She patted his leg and he opened the door to get out. She pulled at his coat. "And Early-"
"Yeh, Kika?"
"Save it for me, you hear me?" She pressed a wad of bills into his hand. "Get yourself whatever you need for the apartment, OK?"
He swallowed and nodded. He moved in and kissed her on the mouth-then she was gone.
He closed his hand about the money. Jesus Christ! his luck was running strong! Kika, Kika, Kika!
In the bar, Franz looked at him and put his solemn head on one side. "What the hell you been at, Early? You look fagged out."
"Gimme a beer," Early said. "And put a egg in it."
Franz nodded and moved away. He came back with the beer. "Lemme see that ring again, Early. Maybe-"
"Nothin' doin'." Early sipped the beer. "I'm keeping it. That's my lucky piece."
He moved into the apartment. It didn't take much to move him; one small handbag and a plastic do-dad for his sport coat and second pair of pants. He had been surprised when he counted the money Kika had given him: Three hundred bucks.
That wasn't bad for an afternoon of screwing one of the prettiest broads in town.
He bought sheets and towels and some groceries for the kitchen, and booze. He laid in five bottles of booze. Maybe Kika liked to drink. He smiled at the naked picture of her. Did she screw like that all the time?
Mr. Stine was very helpful. He broke his back being nice and helpful. Early was pleasantly surprised, having had the opposite experience of managers. Kika must have laid down the law. Anything he wanted he got. He even sent a woman up to clean the place thoroughly. Mr. Stine was great. He said that Kika owned the building personally. Early bought him a drink and they talked. Mr. Stine had never met Kika's husband; but he understood that Mr. Stagg was a big man.
And he opened up, under the influence of whisky. "I thought maybe she put you here to see how I worked the place," he said.
Early shook his head.
"-you bein' her cousin," Stine went on.
Early nodded wordlessly, staring at the little man. Kika thought of everything. The thought percolated his head: Kika wasn't the dumb blonde she looked.
She showed up just after noontime the second day. There was a slight scratching of fingernails on the door, and there she was. More beautiful than ever, Early's heart lodged in his throat as she swept in. There must be some mistake. He was caught in one of those time-warps the TV screens were always talking about. She thought he was Rudolph Valentino or something.
She kissed him-then looked at him curiously. "Aren't you glad to see me?"
"Jeez, I'll say, Kika."
She dropped the furs on the couch and looked around. "Yeah, that's better. It smells better too." She went into the small kitchen and into the bedroom, nodding her lovely platinum head.
"How about a drink, Kika?"
"Yeah, that's a good idea." She followed him into the kitchen, looking at him. It made him nervous. His confidence was going fast, now that she was here. She seemed to be saying: 'What do I see in this punk?'
He mixed two bourbons and water quickly and handed one to her. "Cheers-"
She sipped tire drink and looked at his hand, at a level with her eyes.
"That's the ring you wanted to sell, huh?"
He nodded. He had just slipped it on his finger, hoping it would give him that certain air of class. "It's my good luck piece," he smiled at her. The ring was good luck alright. He was beginning to feel much more confidence.
When he smiled at her, she smiled back. At least this time she hadn't jumped him and dragged him to the floor. But as he thought of their mad screwing, it began to appeal to him. Maybe that's what she was waiting for-she wanted him to make the first move. He edged closer.
"I been crazy to see you, Kika."
She lowered her lashes. She swirled the ice in the glass. "I dunno what got into me-" She sipped the drink and tinkled the ice. She seemed to be considering something, wondering about something. She wasn't the same girl. Maybe she'd had bad news. When she looked at him it wasn't with the same eyes.
"I been thinking about-us, ever since," he said. It seemed to come out clumsily.
She changed the subject. "Lemme see the ring," she said.
He was almost annoyed. He wanted her badly. She was Kika Stagg, and a thousand miles above him on the social scale, but he wanted her bare ass naked on a bed. The way he'd had her.
When he moved closer she drew back slightly. He knew she was confused and hesitant. "Lemme see the ring," she said again.
He knew it was a subterfuge, just something to say-he tore the ring off and gave it to her. What the hell was eating her now? Hadn't she installed him-hadn't she come over here to get fucked?
He made another drink. She put the ring on her finger and went into the living room, standing at the window to look at it.
"Don't you want to sell it, Early?"
He brought her the drink. "Naw, it's my good luck thing, you know? It brought me you."
She smiled at him. She went across the room to the couch and sat down. "Put on the radio, Early. Let's have some music."
He switched it on and fiddled with the dial. His big flush for her was going fast. For a minute there the thought of raping her had entered his mind. She was a lot of woman alright. She sure did things to him. He glanced around. She was smiling at him now; the funny look was gone from her eyes, and she looked more like the naked dame who had made jelly out of him. He found a station and went over to the couch.
She wanted to kiss.
She was soft and yielding now. He began to get his confidence back. "You want another drink, Kika?"
"Screw the drink." She came into his arms like a lissome nymph. Her red lips sought his and he sank into the voluptuousness of it, marveling at her moods.
"Man, it's funny," she said softly.
"What's funny?"
"I kiss you once, nothin'. Then I kiss you again and it tears me all up." She pulled his hands over her. He jiggled her knockers and she squirmed.
"I don't come on all at once," he said.
"Do I know it!" She was sinuous in his arms. Her skirt slid up over the perfect thighs. "Undress me, darling," she whispered.
He fumbled at her neck, unfastening the dress and she was restless. He shoved it over the curved shoulders, feeling his mouth grow dry at the voluptuousness of them. His hands slid down and cupped her breasts and she twisted, kissing him on the lips. Her hands were all over him.
"Hurry up," she breathed.
He pulled at the brassiere; the hooks eluded his nervous fingers. She flipped it up over the rounded shoulders and pushed a naked breast at him.
"You know what I want," she said almost hoarsely. "Jesus, give it to me, darling-"
Her legs went up in a lacy flurry and he wrestled himself between them, grabbing at his zipper. Her arms were hooks, her legs pummeled him. She screamed with sheer delight when the carnal tusk invaded her.
"Oh Jeez, darling, fuck me-I gotta have it-gotta have it-you set me crazy!"
He attacked her, thumping, lunging, piercing her. The perfume of her hair and the exquisite feel of her inflamed him. She squealed aloud, driving herself up to meet the spear. The encounter became violent. She drummed her heels on his plunging back. She shrilled in his ear-"I'm coming-" The couch bounced with her twisting, lustful body. "Coming-coming-"
Early found himself riding a monster-a beautiful abandoned creature of lust. Her hot breath seared him and her panting made him tingle. She was more woman than he knew what to do with.
She was wild, and in the middle of her wrenching ballet, she caressed his face and dragged the hard metal of the ring across it. He felt the blood and tasted it.
He grabbed her hand and slipped the ring off. She never noticed. There was no place to put it except on his own finger.
"My God," she whispered, calming somewhat. "You won't believe I had doubts, huh? I won't doubt you anymore, darling."
"I told you, I come on slow."
"I'll remember-remember-"
She calmed slowly, twitching and trembling, and giggling under his steady thrusting. He felt wicked and virile. He made her squeal with his swollen rod. She clung like a barnacle, hugging him and cuddling him.
The couch was too narrow. He felt like he could screw her all night. His phallus was brawny and muscular. He pulled her down on it, then gathered her up in his arms and lifted her. She screamed with pleasure; he rammed her as he lifted.
He carried her to the bedroom, never removing it, putting her on the bed and battering her posterior all the while, poking and thrusting. Her supple body embraced him. He lay on her and drove it at her, in her, embedded in her. She moaned and screamed in an excruciating wild kicking.
When he fountained it did not go down. He felt the same impelling passion he had known with Liz. His cock was steel. He was the last man and she was the last woman. Theirs was a tryst of love and the only source. He had to screw her. She nibbled his ear, whispering things he could not hear because of the ferment in his brain.
He was a machine. He giggled to himself as the idea crossed his mind. He was a fucking machine. He knew she was gorging on lust, frolicking in it, pulsating with it.
The bed rammed the wall. He heard the noise without comprehending it. She punched him, forcing him to pause, to listen.
"Ease up," she was saying. "Ease up, darling."
"Why?" He bit her neck and she giggled. He drove it into her. "I thought you wanted cock-"
"I do, darling. My God! What a man! But don't knock the goddam house down."
He sniffled, the picture of them lying in the open, screwing madly wasn't bad. Then Stine would know-and Vicente. He chuckled to himself. Fuck Vicente. He was fucking Vicente's wife-and would do it forever.
"Ease it up, darling," she said again. "How d'you keep it hard so long?"
"I'm Superman."
She giggled. "I know it. That thing must be a foot long!"
"It's yours, a present from me to you."
"I'll take it," she kissed him with a luxurious hug. "It's a perfect fit."
"You like it more'n you do me-"
"Do I? It's part of you, darling."
"But it belongs to you." He drove it in hotly and made her squirm. "It wants to fuck you all night."
She giggled. "You're not real."
"This is real." He rammed her with it.
"Oh Jesus! I never knew anybody like you. I never had a man like you-"
"Have you had a lot of men?"
She giggled. "Yeh, my share, I guess."
"How many?"
She shrugged and kissed him. "I dunno."
"Tell me or I'll stop." He slowed the cock and she drove her loins up to meet it.
"Don't stop-" Frantic.
"Tell me."
"A hundred-over a hundred. I dunno how many." She kissed him deeply. "Fuck me, dammit-" He propelled it, thwacking her rump with his balls. He sank again into the frothy passion of her. giving himself up to fornication. She became wild at intervals, cooling and flaming, but always moving with him.
It became very dark in the room.
He came slowly back to sober consciousness, like a drugged man, stupefied and glutted. She was shaking him, speaking to him. He found himself on his back. She had got out from under him, and was partially dressed.
"I've got to go, darling-"
He rose, shaking his head stupidly. His cock still pointed at the ceiling. Staring at it, he began to laugh. He was the ultimate man. He was Superman.
She went out of the room and came back, switching on the bed lamp. She was nearly dressed, fastening the back of her blouse. "God! It's still hard."
He looked at her, beautiful and flushed. He wanted her. He moved toward her and she backed away.
"No more, baby. Jesus, you screwed me silly."
"You're beautiful-not silly."
"Thanks, darling." She came close and sat on the edge of the bed. "No tricks now." She was ready to jump.
He eyed her, should he pull her down and jump on her again? She saw and interpreted the look and shook her head. "Come on, no more today."
"Just one more."
"I'm sore as hell, darling. D'you realize it's seven? I've got to go. I left some money and a number. Get a phone in and call me. You hear me?"
He nodded. He didn't want to lose her. He moved toward her and she jumped up. He got off the bed. His legs felt tired, but he ignored it. His phallus was hard and pointing at her. She backed up, staring at it in real wonder.
"I'll see you in a couple days, darling." She turned and ran for the door, scooping up her furs. He stopped and leaned against the doorjamb. The ring was hurting his finger. He stared at it stupidly. Crossing to the bed, he pulled it off. He flopped on the bed.
When he rose again it was later and the thing was soft. He was sore all over. He lurched into the kitchen for food. She had left him two hundred dollars and a scrap of paper with a phone number.
It made him laugh. He was a big-time whore.
Vicente sent for him in three days.
He had seen Kika only once, the day before, for a moment only since their second meeting at the apartment. She pressed a wad of money into his hand in the alley behind the Martinique.
"Get some clothes, darling," she hissed at him, and took off in the Caddy. Vicente had come out then and had looked hard at him, but had said nothing.
It scared him half to death. The phone man had put in the instrument the next day, and he had called Kika.
"Vicente will see you in a day or so," she said. "Get a suit. I want you to look sharp."
"What for? What's he want to see me for?"
"I told him to," she said mysteriously.
"But why?"
"Lissen, darling, I'm putting you in business. I told you I need a partner, huh?"
"Yeah, Kika, but-"
Her voice was husky. "Sweetheart, you're a dream in bed, but I can't keep running out there to that apartment all the time. If you're a partner, we have to see each other, you get it?"
He nodded to the phone. "Yeh."
"Don't be scared of Vince."
"Sure."
"I mean it. Vince don't care about you. Just act natural. It'll be all right." She paused. "I love you, darling."
He got the suit, and he saw Vicente. Kika had been right. Vicente hadn't cared about him. He had eyes like ripe olives. "You got her vote, pal."
Early had nodded and looked at the cigar.
Vicente hadn't asked why Kika had wanted him to be a partner. That meant he already knew.
When Vicente stopped talking, he got up. They shook hands perfunctorily.
It had surprised him.
But then, everything was surprising him these days. He had dropped the pushing. Franz had H for him, but he shook his head. Franz was startled at his new appearance. So was everyone else who knew him. Early tried to ignore them.
Kika had said she loved him. If he could believe that, he could believe anything. She really seemed to mean it. She met him at the apartment that night.
He wanted to screw her, but she had somebody with her. A hard-looking hood named Mushy. The nickname came about because he was so hard-looking. Early had seen him around the Martinique. The noise was, Mushy was a fast shiv man. No brains to speak of, but lots of action.
They shook hands and Mushy sat in a comer with a glass of whisky.
Early sat and looked at her. It was a funny feeling, sitting there with someone else present. She was gorgeous. She batted her eyes at him, but she got down to business.
"Mushy will show you the route," she said. "You're taking over collections in this area-" She had a map and let him see the area, marked in red pencil. It was a big area.
"Collections?"
"Numbers," she said, smiling slightly. "You're the boss now, darling."
Early almost blanched. The boss! "Whater-what'll-?"
"Mushy will show you, don't worry. It's a breeze. Right, Mushy?"
"Nothin' to it," Mushy said in a thick voice. "I pick you up tomorra." He went over and copied the phone number.
"Wait downstairs," she told him and he nodded and slipped out.
"The boss!" Early said. "They won't-"
"You're the boss-right after me, darling," Kika said. "You won't have any trouble. Just do what Mushy tells you. You'll learn it fast."
Early nodded and shrugged helplessly. It was all happening too fast for him. "But why you-and not Vicente?"
"Vince is the wheel, darling. But I'm the one with the figures." She tapped her head. "I've got it all, right here. Memory."
Early blinked at her. She was more amazing each time he saw her. She was a memory expert!
"I've told them you have a fantastic memory, darling." She rose. "Just like me."
He was open-mouthed at her inventiveness. She came around the table, kissed him quickly and went to the door.
"I'll tell you what to say. Don't answer any questions. You'll be fine." She opened the door. "I'll call you tomorrow."
She was right. It went like clockwork. Mushy knew all there was to know about the racket. Early applied himself. That night Kika called him. She had another apartment for him. A fine, big one in the Crown Hotel.
He felt as though he was on a fast train rushing headlong down a tunnel. How had all this happened to him? He met her at the hotel and they went up to the suite together. She had the keys.
He was wearing the ring-his lucky piece.
When he kissed her in the elevator, it got like steel. It stayed that way for three hours.
"My God!" she moaned, writhing on the bed. "You'll kill me with that thing-I love it, I love it-"
"Say you love me."
"I love you, darling, I love you."
It was the same. In an hour he was foggy with lust and drove it into her blindly, headlong. She screamed under him, clutching him and wriggling.
She brought him out of it slightly but immediately he scooped her up again and belabored her with it while she giggled, then panted. At the end of three hours she was able to escape him. She locked herself in a bathroom and dressed.
When she came out he was lying, face up on the bed, his phallus like a pink spike. She stared at it with unbelieving eyes and slipped out of the apartment.
She had Mushy post a man in the hotel to keep her informed about Early. She wanted to make sure he was hers.
Vicente was the big wheel, with an inner circle of six others. Vicente operated with the approval of the Higher Bosses. His territory was too valuable to allow just anyone to take over. Vicente was a tried and true underling. He was a known quantity. His attitudes could be predicted, his thoughts were known, his actions were always what the Bosses wanted.
Vicente had been the big wheel for a long time. He had come up the hard way, as all did, but the ways had been changed. Vicente did not have his ear to the ground as he once had. He depended on others for that. He depended on Kika too.
Kika had always been right-about finances. She carried accounts around in her head; nothing should be committed to paper if it could safely repose in Kika's memory banks. Vicente depended utterly on Kika. But he forgot to take into consideration that Kika was a platinum blonde by fate and not by desire. Vicente, due to his motion picture training-grade B pictures seen from a balcony-had somehow gotten the idea that platinum blondes are not bright in the head.
Kika reinforced this opinion by not looking bright. She was smart enough to know that some men disliked bright girls. Vicente was one of them. He thought Kika's amazing ability was a quirk.
The thing that ultimately caused friction was that Vicente, like all his ilk, was a woman-chaser. He could not keep his pudgy hands off girls. Worse, he made no bones about it. He let Kika know of his conquests. She resented the whores and willing broads. She began to wonder why it was necessary to submit to the humiliation.
She made plans to undermine Vicente.
Early had come along when these plans were bearing fruit. He had been no part of them, and perhaps would not have been, but he was convenient.
The mob would not take orders from a woman, but they would go along with a man, even if the man was Early. Few knew him anyway. If he was backed by guns and authority they would not question it. She shrewdly figured even the Higher Bosses would not object to a change. Because if Vicente was so weak that he could be overthrown, he should be. They wanted the best.
Kika, by various means, had gained the secret backing of four of the inner circle. These four controlled most of the area and men. She was consolidating this backing.
Mushy made no attempt to give Early a more than sketchy idea of how the racket worked. Mushy was no genius, but he recognized that neither was Early. He wondered, naturally, about Early, but Kika had said that the little guy was necessary to her plans.
"Kika is a great dame," he said, as he drove the car expertly from one collection point to another. Mushy had been a wheelman in lesser days.
"Yeah, the best," Early agreed. "She sure treated me great."
Mushy wondered why, but let no sign of it appear on his granite face. "You met Vicente, huh?"
"Yeah, He's a great guy too."
Mushy looked at Early with blank eyes. He knew then that Early knew nothing of the plans.
They met dozens of curious-eyed men. Early was inspected and discussed. Mushy told them all the same thing, behind Early's back. "Go along wi't this guy. Kika says so."
For the first week, Early was constantly afraid. He knew many of the men he met by reputation. Any small time bum knew their names. Now he was shaking hands with them and making small talk with them on a first name basis. It was almost too much for him at times.
He saw Kika every night.
She had become demanding and eager. She never stayed the night, but she staggered out after several hours of violent love-making, sweet of smile, professing her undying love.
He knew now that he was a fucking machine.
She praised him fantastically and he was proud of his exploits. No one in the history of the world could screw like him. Kika said so and she knew-partly by experience.
Of course, Kika was a part of it. He had never been so wonderfully endowed until he'd met her. The two of them somehow mixed a magic brew that sated her.
"You've got a bone in it, darling," she would say. "You ought to will it to science."
"It'll never die," he'd say, mounting her.
"I will if you don't fuck me," she would reply.
He never wore the ring except when he was with her. That's where he got the good luck it gave him-from her. Besides, it hurt during the day. It hurt his finger.
Also, he somehow got too many erections-though that wasn't the ring's fault. He didn't get them when he wasn't wearing it, but that was coincidence. Perhaps the pain in his finger brought on the erections.
He was never alone any longer. Everywhere he went during the day, Mushy went. He saw Kika every evening. He saw none of his old friends, and seldom saw Franz at the Martinique. Kika wanted him to stay clear of the Martinique.
"Trust me," she said. "I don't want you talking to Vince."
"Don't worry, I don't want to." He still had his fear of Vicente.
One afternoon he went into a whorehouse with Mushy. The house was one belonging to the mob. Mushy had a drink with the madam, and Early wandered. There were a dozen lovelies, all eyeing him because he was a big shot. If the guy took a liking to them, they could wind up in a suite, drowning in lace.
The best looking of the girls, a sulky-eyed minx with tits that wouldn't quit, got him in her room. Early, without his ring, was saturated and abused by her red mouth.
Mushy came and pulled her off him.
"Jeez," Mushy said in a harsh undertone. "Don't take them chances, kid. If Kika found you sockin' it to that broad she'd claw my liver out."
Early looked his surprise. "She tell you that?"
"Orders, kid."
It brought home to him that he was Kika's property. He was her fucking machine. Even if he hadn't done well with the whore. But Kika was his luck. His talents were for her.
It was astonishing. He'd hardly been able to keep it hard with the whore, but when Kika came to the apartment that same evening, he had the granddaddy of all hard-ons. She wound her supple arms about his neck and it pronged out and she giggled, feeling it through the cloth of his robe.
He pushed it at her, knowing her reception. He had confidence now. "Let's screw, baby."
"Make me a drink first," she said. "We have to talk."
"I dowanna talk, wanna screw."
"Me too, lover, but we gotta talk."
He pouted. He made the drinks, his dong pushing out the robe, and her eyes were on it hotly. She took a deep breath and sipped the whisky. He sat opposite her, devouring her with his eyes, capable only of thinking of her on the bed.
"It's time," she said.
"Time to screw-"
"Get your mind off that for a minute. It's time to move in on Vicente."
That shocked him back to reality. "Vicente!?"
"Darling, what the hell do you think this is all about? Vince is through. You're going to be the boss pretty soon."
He looked at her, almost speechless. Even the smeary blur of his mind, smoky with thoughts of cunt, could focus on that. "Me!?" He stared stupidly She nodded. She knew he was limited mentally, and when his penis was ruling him, as now, he was hardly able to comprehend anything, but she had to tell him. It was necessary for him to know something about it.
"I don' wanna," he said.
"You're going to be the boss, darling. It's all settled."
He pulled the robe aside and his naked cock stood up like a pole. He moved his body and it waggled as though it had a fife of its own; he giggled at her.
She gritted her teeth. My God! What a cock!
Her resolution was going fast. She could never resist that amazing organ. How did it happen that a little creature like Early should receive a gift like that? She felt the desire crawling up her spine.
"Come an' get it," he said.
She flung herself across the room to it.
Ripping off her clothes, she impaled herself on it, laughing and trembling. She wriggled wantonly as he carried her to the bedroom, ramming her all the way. She was the boss, everywhere but flat on her back.
She screamed in delight at his carnal violence.
For the first time, she stayed all night.
The plan against Vicente almost failed because Kika could barely drag herself out of bed by morning. He came after her as she stumbled to the bathroom, catching her in the hall and mounting her once again as she wailed. She got away and crawled to the bath; they fought in the doorway, his phallus seeking her, driving at her.
He got it in, on the bathroom floor, and battered her bruised pussy. She shrieked and twisted, pounding her fists on his bowed head. He fucked her madly, as madly as he had done most of the night.
Somewhere she gained strength and forced him out. She slammed and locked the door. Sinking to the floor, she cried, half sated, half blissful. Surely no woman had ever had a man like Early! She sighed. He was still beating on the door, trying to get at her.
She bathed, treating her rawness, soothing red-rimmed eyes. She felt weak-and she could also still feel the thing inside her. He had stopped pounding on the door.
Early was a physical wreck. When he took off the ring, he could hardly move his limbs. Pain surged inside him. His mind cleared of the reddish haze that had obscured his thoughts. He tottered to the bed and crumpled in a heap. Kika could not awaken him.
She had to leave alone. It would have been better had Early been present, but she had the thing to do, Early or no Early.
Vicente was taken to the airport and put on a plane. It was old-fashioned to kill. After the first frenzied screaming when he had been confronted by Kika and the powerful four of the inner circle, he had come apart.
In subsequent quick strokes, the remaining two members had also been confronted and had obligingly switched allegiance. Kika had won out in a bloodless coup.
Early was the gang leader.
She came back to the apartment in the evening. Early was still sound asleep on the bed. Kika sat beside him, staring at the man she had made leader. She reached inside the robe and fingered the thing that had convinced her. It was small and wrinkled. He did not stir at her touch.
She was still sore. "You earned it, darling," she said aloud, and went out quietly. She was lonely in her big house, with Vicente absent. She had a drink to celebrate, then called Mushy. She sent him for a man.
He brought her a smooth-faced youngster and she bedded him-without even asking his name. He was very big and very expert.
She was vastly disappointed. She pushed him off her and sent him packing. He couldn't hold a candle to Early. After one pop he had to rest. She got dressed and went to the apartment. Waking Early, they had the celebration drink and he took her to bed.
They screwed all night again.
He was pale and wan looking in the morning, but his wand was upright and strong. Kika was a kitten. She was purring when she went out for her first meeting with the inner circle.
Several of them, old timers, protested the easy treatment of Vicente. He should have been eliminated.
"What's to prevent him from returning?"
"We're in control," Kika said. "If he talks, he's dead. Vince is no fool." She stood in front of them, poised and beautiful, every platinum hair in exact place. Her eyes were frosty as she designated to each his percentage, memorized, and assigned territories.
"It'll take him a month to return," said one of them, Shecky, a shrewd Greek. "If he's going to return."
"We'll put ears out," Kika said.
She moved Early to her big house that day. He was thinner, much thinner. She made him eat, worried about his weight. But at night she could not resist. She stripped and enticed him to the bedroom. She skewered herself on the flaming rod and wriggled like a butterfly for hours, shrieking with the excruciating treatment.
The days passed. When the month was up, they knew that Vicente would not return. He had been drowned in a lake in Switzerland.
Kika had a party to celebrate the final takeover. She had Mushy drive Early to his tailor for a tuxedo. It was an ordeal for Early. He could hardly stand. The tailor clucked over his skin and bones. It was difficult to make a suit hang when one had little help from the wearer.
"You're not eating enough," Kika said to him.
"I eat," Early protested. "What I need is a vacation."
"I can't spare you, darling."
"But I don't do nothing!"
"You love me, that's enough. What would I do without you?" She pushed him into an easy chair and rang for the cook. "Make him some broth," she said.
"Kika-"
"I need you," Kika said, patting him.
Despite the new tuxedo, Early was too weak to attend the party. He rested in bed.
When the party was over, Kika came in and crawled in with him. Automatically he put the ring on his finger. His lucky piece. It had brought him all this, and Kika too. He was a very lucky man.
She straddled the truncheon and bounced on it happily. "You must never leave me, darling. I need you so."
He was glad she enjoyed it. He could not help her, but he was glad she got her pleasure of it. His cock was all he had left, strong and muscular. He lay under her, breathing his shallow best as she drove herself wild on the prong.
Sometime during the night, Early Sommer died.
He expired silently, without a whisper to his love. It may be said that Kika was selfish. She thought much of her own passions and little of his.
She did not know he had expired. She fucked herself over the herculean prick till long after dawn had entered the room. Even in death it stood up like a tusk.
Rankin Drucker was a partner in the Greenfield Mortuary. He was annoyed when the body was brought in. A stiff should not have a hard-on. It was hardly fitting.
"You shoulda seen the dame-"
"What dame-er-woman?" Drucker demanded. The driver was uncouth, a skinny lizard-eyed fellow.
"The dame where this guy was," the driver said. "Jesus, I never seen a dame stacked like that."
"Please-" said Drucker.
"She musta fucked 'im t'death," the driver said on his way out.
That, of course, was literally true.
CHAPTER THREE
Rankin Drucker was six feet tall, he weighed one hundred and eighty-five pounds and was thirty-four years old. He had an olive complexion, black hair and black, crisp eyes. He was an undertaker because his father had been one. He even looked like an undertaker.
His wife of seven years, Naomi, said he smelled like one. They did not get along well. Naomi had soon regretted the bargain she had made. It irked her to admit to others that her husband was a mortician.
He, however, had never once regretted the marriage. Drucker was a man who took things as they came. He was, in a sense, a fatalist. Perhaps the proximity of death had given him a more tolerant view of life. His forbearance was not obvious, being well hidden under a facade of unctuousness. His partner and his employees considered him a windbag.
That might have been true, but he was also other things as well. He was a thief, for one.
When he saw the ring on Early Sommer's dead finger he could not resist it.
Drucker was right about one other thing. "That thing," he said, referring to the amazing penis, "will relax when rigor subsides."
It did. But then Drucker had removed the ring. He knew it was valuable as soon as he saw it, and held it to test the weight. He was disappointed to find that it would not fit his finger-not one of them.
To his surprise, Mrs. Stagg did not request the return of the ring. Her grief was outside any of his experience. She was distraught to a remarkable degree. She had to be carried to the funeral, she cried bitter tears during the ceremony, and was carried away afterward.
It was no wonder she had no thoughts for a bauble.
Rankin Drucker put the ring in his pocket and went out. He had placed the circlet in a safe place till after the graveside ceremony, and had prepared a story in case Mrs. Stagg should request its return. It had not been necessary.
The ring would provide him with a convenient excuse, he thought. Drucker fancied himself a patron of the arts. At times he bought daubs and hung them on the walls. Somewhere in his make-up was a residue of art. The merest blotch.
Several miles from the mortuary was a street on which a number of galleries were located. Fair-gate Street. In the Fairgate area were a number of smaller galleries and a number of studios which also did duty as display rooms.
Drucker had noticed a girl in one of these studios on a previous visit.
Her name was Doria Verity. It was emblazoned on the door in wrought iron. She was short, with bangs of lank brown hair and almond eyes and blue stockings that went from toes-to somewhere. She wore a yellowish dress that caressed the middle of her round thighs. She wore Roman style shoes with thongs, and odd bits of jewelry and beads. She was an artist.
She looked him over, smiling automatically when he entered the smelly studio. Her black-rimmed eyes noted his expensive suit, twinkling with the shimmer of Italian-made cloth, and the tie clasp which bore an unmistakable diamond. A live one.
She offered him a cigarette and a cup of coffee as he admired her paintings.
"That one is of the soul," she said in her professional husky voice, indicating a smudge of red and ochre streaked with olive which had bits of glass embedded in the paint.
"Oh my, the soul."
"The soul is the most divine, impossible to recreate, you know. One can only make a statement of feeling-of obedience-"
"It's very-interesting," Drucker said, looking at her sidelong. She had full lips and heavy-lidded eyes. Too much mascara, but yet expressive eyes.
"This is love," said Doria, pointing to a large panel of twined figures. They were hard to make out, anatomically, but they flowed and glowed with subtle color. "Love is eternal, don't you think, Mr.-"
"This also is love." She had brought out another painting. Of a girl's spread thighs. Drucker glanced at it and his eyes widened. He couldn't take that one home. God! Naomi would scream.
"Excellent," he said quickly. "Oh yes, excellent."
She cocked her pretty head at him. "You have more than the usual discrimination. Are you an artist yourself, Mr. Drucker?"
He smiled, twiddling the cigarette in his fat fingers. "Only an amateur, Miss Doria."
"Call me Doria."
"And you call me Rankin, please."
She smiled and came closer, the almond eyes sparkled in the depths of the kohl. "I think you're putting me on, Rankin. You are an artist."
"Please, no-I don't pretend-"
She took his arm and led him to the opposite wall. "Very well." She let him stand in front of a huge mess of green and white, heavy with layers of clay and even sticks of wood in the knifed paint. In the right light there was dust on the bumps of paint.
"It's beautiful," he said.
"A spring day. That's my title. There's something elegant and fresh about spring, and mysterious too."
"Oh yes, my yes."
"It's different from any other painting I've done. Don't you think so?"
He glanced about the studio. "I believe you're right, Doria. It has less of the er-"
"The material?"
"No, I'd say, the-well-dear me, I think-"
"The essence of life-of love?"
"Yes, I believe that expresses it admirably."
"Have another cup of coffee, Rankin."
"I believe I will, thanks."
He followed her to a small room off the studio.
It had draperies and weird sculpture of wood and iron. It had a small barrel-head table and a couch and one chair. It was dark and rather intimate, he thought.
"We'll be more cozy here," she said. "I only bring my friends here."
"Thank you," Drucker said, sitting on the couch. He liked her. He had been right, she was a bohemian. He watched her as she put the coffee on a burner and scratched a match. She had large, high breasts, well covered, unfortunately, by the yellow dress, but her legs were disturbingly round and seductive. They disappeared up under the yellow skirt, and when she put one leg over the other the form and voluptuousness of them quite took his breath away.
"Do you paint?" she asked.
"Weller-I hardly have time-" He wanted her to think he had painted, or would paint. He succeeded; she obviously fell into his trap.
She nodded her head; the bangs twitched and her earrings flashed in the warm gloom. "Painting brings out the inner fire. One must express oneself, as you know, or die."
The blue flames under the pot flickered. He thought of the ring and fished into his pocket. The flames reminded him of the bluish cast of the stone-only it wasn't bluish, it was warm and rose-colored. It must have been his imagination.
Her eyes opened slightly, seeing the ring. "Is it something you made?"
He shook his head. "No, it's a-family heirloom. I don't know where it came from originally." He held it out to her.
"Fascinating," she breathed, turning it over and over in her hands.
"It's very old. Hundreds of years."
"I'm sure it is. I've never seen designs like these." She looked at him with smoldering eyes. "You don't remember where it came from?"
"Central Europe," he said, taking a guess. "I think-well, I'm not sure, you know."
"Yes, I'm sure you're right. It has a curious blend of motifs-" She held it out and stared at the stone. "It's beautiful, beautiful."
"It's heavy. A man's ring."
She smiled. "Why aren't you wearing it?"
"It doesn't fit."
"Ah." She slipped it on her finger. "It fits perfectly! It was made for me."
He laughed politely. It certainly wasn't made for her at all. He kept his eyes on it.
She brought cups and poured the hot coffee. She lit two cigarettes and handed him one. No woman had ever done that for him before. She was certainly different. What did they call girls like her now? Not bohemians. There was another word-an up-to-the-minute word.
"Are you lonely?" she asked him suddenly.
He blinked. He wasn't, in the slightest. He smiled. "Sometimes." He sipped the coffee. "Very good."
"I grind the beans myself."
He didn't believe her. Nobody did that anymore. "You're a very resourceful girl, Doria. Very talented and-pretty."
"I was lonely till you came in," she said, moving closer. "I try to lose myself in my work, you know, but today," she sighed, "I was looking for something-"
He blinked at her. Her slitted eyes were glowing in the depths. He thought of a great cat all at once. She had red nails too, and the ring on her finger was glowing. He frowned at it. That was ridiculous. It was merely reflecting fight from somewhere.
"I'm-er-glad," he faltered. Why was she looking at him that way?
"I-er-I meant that I'm sorry you were lonely"
"Glad that I was looking for something?"
She moved even closer. He could smell the perfume of her hair and the warmth of her body seemed to penetrate his consciousness somehow. She was very close. It made him nervous. He wanted her, and he was afraid to move toward that end. The cup rattled on its saucer.
She took them out of his hands and slid them aside. "I'm glad you came in, very glad-Rankin."
He took a deep breath. God! she was close.
Her lips seemed to be brushing his. His hands went up, touching her shoulders.
She kissed him. A mad, wild kiss.
He moaned when their lips met. He grabbed her and they rolled together on the couch. What a crazy, heady thing! She was a wild feline. Her nails dug into him, even through his coat. Her mouth was devouring him, her tongue a darting snake. He couldn't hold her at all.
"Christ! You got clothes on," she hissed. "I don' want you with clothes on-" She tore at his coat, pushing it back, levering him down. Her eyes were hot; her breath was hot.
"The door," he wailed. "Somebody'll come in-"
"Fuck the door," she growled.
It jarred him. He was out of his depth. His idea of coming to this bohemian idyll, of dalliance with a charming young creature who would respect his station was being dashed. This girl was a frantic, pulsating animal! She clawed at him, threw herself at him and chewed his flesh.
He powered her away, forcing her to allow him to sit up. His coat was half off, his tie askew, his shirt rumpled-his hair hung in his eyes. It was hardly dignified. "My dear-please-"
Her breast was heaving. She stared at him with toe slitted, glowing eyes, licking her lips. He thought she would spring on him at any second. The feeling of being attacked by a feline was almost overpowering.
But she was arousing him. He could feel it inside him, hot blood coursing through his veins in an unfamiliar beat. His temples throbbed. "You've got to lock the door," he said, breathing hard.
She made a noise. Then she jumped up and ran out. He heard her slamming the front door and clicking a metallic something. She said something he couldn't catch. Then she ran back.
And when she came into the little room she was half naked. The yellow dress was gone, dropped somewhere. He stared, pushing the suit coat over his shoulders. She wore only a filmy bra and the long blue stockings that fastened about her waist. She smiled at him and he very nearly cringed away from the look. He felt like the canary in the cage, facing the cat. What was it about this crazy girl!?
Her body was satiny in the dusk of the room. She stripped off the stockings, always looking at him. She came for him when he had his shirt half off.
The sounds that came from her throat were almost snarls-could he be imagining her? Was this real? She grabbed him, pulled him, massaged him. She pushed him back. She straddled him.
His stalwart prong jutted from his middle. She slithered over it and it stabbed her. She gave a high-pitched little scream as it entered. She sat down on it hard. He felt it course into her flesh, skewer her, suddenly warm and tight.
For a moment all he could do was stare at her in astonishment. She was bouncing, bucking, driving herself over the spike in a fury. Her mouth was open in a grimace. Her breath came fast-too fast. She was a maddened thing. He giggled; he was being raped. Fantastic!
Reaching up, he pulled the bra hard and it ripped. He tossed it away. Her two beautiful, full breasts hung swaying like gorgeous melons, rose-nippled. He clutched them eagerly. She didn't notice. Her eyes were closed. She drove herself up down, up down; she was trembling, shuddering. Her mouth opened and a shriek came out, wavering and shrill.
They fell over sideways. He rammed it into her with all his strength and speed. She was flopping in an uncontrollable paroxysm. Her red nails dug long cruel gashes in his shoulders. He kept pounding it at her.
And then he too fluttered and pumped violently for a moment. Then relaxed slowly-moaning softly. Her tremors shook him and he held her about the hips.
"My darling-my darling-" she was whispering.
He swallowed hard, panting and sweating. What a woman! If only Naomi were like that. He closed his eyes and tried to regain his breath. She was wriggling over him, squeezing him, making his prick pulsate and twitch. Hadn't she had enough?
"Darling, darling-"
He opened his eyes and looked at her. And was startled at what he saw. She was looking at him in a very peculiar way. Sheer lust shone from those cat's eyes.
"Christ, what a man!"
He smiled wanly.
"No man ever did that to me before, darling, I tell you, it's crazy! You bring me alive."
"Me too," he said lamely. What could you say to a creature like this? She was squeezing his prick with her vagina in a very unsettling way. It was still hard.
"I want you on top," she whispered. She pulled at him. "Come on top of me-please, darling, on top of me."
He rolled with her, still breathing hard.
She cried out sharply. "Don't lose it-don't let it get out of me-I"
With an effort, he got atop her, clumsily elbowing himself over her, driving his cock deep. She giggled and kissed him.
"Now ram me," she whispered lewdly, bucking against him.
"Take it easy," he said. His breath was almost back to normal. He fed it to her and she writhed like the houris in his dreams. This was a most remarkable day. And he had no one to discuss it with.
She was rocking and holding on, actually doing most of the work under him. He stared down at her, inhaling her perfume. She was a stranger. A complete stranger. A most remarkable day indeed.
What was it he had that attracted her? A chemical reaction, perhaps. He had heard that some people were instantly repelled or attracted. He must have something this mad girl desired. She had gone wild for him, had she not? She had been the aggressor. Her passion was transmitted to him ... not in the same degree, but he was definitely stimulated by her sexuality.
She went into another wild, flaming orgasm, screeching and wrenching herself. He marveled at her passion. He did his best to thrust into her to suit her tempestuous agitation.
Apparently he did it well enough. As she came out of the shuddering ecstasy she kissed him hugely, embracing him with her whole body.
"You're my own, my very own, darling-"
"Take it easy," he said, pumping more slowly. "You're a wild one."
She giggled, smothering him with wet kisses. "You're the wildest fuck I ever had-you're the one."
She was certainly uninhibited. He petted her, wishing she would calm down slightly. It was unsettling, having this lovely girl writhe under him. Naomi, or any other girl he'd ever been with, none of them had been like Doria.
She was back to squeezing his cock again. He sighed down at her. "You still want more?" He tried to make it sound casual. He was deathly afraid she'd say 'yes."
She did. "Fuck me, darling. I'll never get enough of you."
He kept it hard for another half hour. Then she squeezed it out of him and he was through. Completely through. She was ten years his junior; not that he was senile at thirty-four, but he had never been an athlete.
She merely went after it orally. She had clawed him down after a chase and now she was eating him alive. He lay on his back, his breath fluttering, and let her gorge on his manhood.
Somehow, in his mind's eye, the picture of her, with bloody face and long claws crept into view.
She chewed him and provoked him and abused him. He had heard the old joke: What a way to die!
When he spoke to her she did not answer. He lifted her head, unable to keep her from mouthing him, and she seemed unable to focus. That worried him. She might be in some sort of coma. She was making animal-like sounds in her throat and she pushed him away. He grabbed her hand-and felt the hardness of the ring.
She seemed not to notice as he pulled it off her finger. He had no intention of making her a present of it.
"Doria, come on, it's getting late-"
She suckled him, limp as warm taffy, ignoring his voice. But in another ten minutes she seemed to rouse herself. When she looked at him it was with noticeably less fire.
He breathed easier. She was sated at last. He managed to sit up and helped her to move aside. She was beautiful, naked and tawny, but he was afraid to handle her breasts lest he inflame her again.
Dressing quickly, he lit a cigarette and sat next to her on the couch. She was rational, smiling at him lazily, like a well-fed cat.
"This can't be just an interlude, Rankin. I want to see you again-"
"Of course, Doria." She reached for the cigarette and he gave it to her and lit another.
"What do you do? I know nothing about you, darling." She stretched, cat-like, and rubbed her hand over his leg.
'I'm a-an insurance man. I'll call you, prom "Can't I call you too?"
He bit his lip. "It might beer-difficult."
She stared at him, with long-lashed eyes. "You're married, of course."
He nodded. She went with him to the door and clung to him. It was dark out. There was a note stuck in the door and she grabbed it and kissed him. He glanced about, then walked swiftly from the studio.
He ached. God, what a workout she had given him!
What a woman!
He had the ring appraised the next day. He drove across town and went into the first shop he came to, a small jeweler's establishment in a block of stores.
There was a bright-eyed girl behind the counter. "Can I help you, sir?"
He showed her the ring, looking beyond her to the back where an old man with a glass in his eye should be working. She seemed to be alone in the store. "This ring," he said, "it's an heirloom. I've been wondering if it's valuable."
She puffed out her cheeks as she looked at it closely. She was young, not over twenty, he thought, noting her pink roundness and the fullness of her breasts under the dark blue dress.
"Gee, it feels valuable." She held it loosely and jiggled it up and down in her hand. "Mr. Schell is out for a bit-" She put the ring on her finger.
"Well," he hesitated. "Will he be back soon?"
"I don't know. I think so-" She was examining the stone, turning it about to the light. It glowed in the diffused light of the showcase. "It's a strange ring, alright."
Drucker liked the way she looked at him. He knew he possessed a certain something that certain women tuned in on. Doria had gone wild over it. Perhaps this pretty little clerk was the same. He smiled at her fondly. "It's been in our family for hundreds of years. I'm interested in having it appraised because of insurance, you know."
"Yes." She leaned over the counter toward him and her eyes seemed smoky. Her voice grew husky, as Doria's had. He felt his heart skip a beat.
"Yes, indeed," she said again, looking at his lips. Her hand crept out and touched his sleeve. Her fingers curved inward, like claws. Her eyes were hot, melting.
He was almost hypnotized for a moment, watching her nostrils dilate. She was much younger than Doria. Her skin was creamy and white, firm and exquisite. The cleft that disappeared into the neck of the dress was luxurious. Almost without conscious thought, he reached across the counter and captured one bountiful breast in his hand. He squeezed it.
She sighed and made a strange little sound in her throat.
She pulled his arm. He moved along the counter to the end and she was in his arms with passionate fervor. He held her nervously. It was happening again-he had been right. She couldn't resist him.
She pulled him into the back of the store. He went, unable to resist her bloom, the feel of her, the excitement of her. The street noises seemed to fade, though he was aware that someone had come into the store. A coin rapped on the counter.
The girl swore, and Drucker was startled at her oath. "Shit!"
He blinked at her, almost a head shorter than he. She glared over his shoulder at the curtain that hung between them and the store. "Who is it?"
A querulous woman's voice answered. "Isn't this store open for business?"
"No it isn't," the girl said. "Get on out."
Drucker was astonished. The girl was pressing against him, feeling down for him, unzipping him-all in an agitated way that made him remember Doria's wanton fingers. Her body moved against him provokingly.
"Well-" The woman's voice rose, she said something that Drucker could not hear, then she stalked out with heels tapping.
The girl slid to a stool, her legs went wide. She had his cock in her hand. Drucker moved as though in a dream-this sort of thing was so new to him-he let himself be pulled in front of her. His nerve-ends recorded the fact that his penis was being stuffed into her and he thrust it. It felt warm entering her.
"Oh Jesus, fuck me," she said.
He pushed it hard. His face grew hot, the blood pounded through his veins; she inflamed him by her excitement. She was a wanton little thing. Why did he excite women so?
It occurred to him to wonder why the phenomenon had not occurred earlier. He was in his thirties, after all. But perhaps it had and he hadn't noticed. That must have been it. Unless one gradually gained some mysterious power-irresistibility-over a period of years.
She pulled at him, "Come on-come on-"
He was beset by a number of things-the open door just beyond the curtain, the fact that she was moaning and the stool was rocking under their combined agitation.
She went wild all at once, surprising him with her sinuous energy. He had to fight to keep his feet. She was clinging to him, ramming herself against him and swaying. The intense sensation racked her body and he clutched at her, conscious that the whole thing was more worry for him than pleasure.
What if someone should come in and see them like this!? He thought of dashing out before she was yet wholly able to function. He got his penis out of her. She groaned as it left her, and clutched at it. He sidestepped and she fell forward. The stool slipped and she fell headlong, screaming.
Drucker swore. He got his pants zipped up and felt better instantly. His dignity had to be protected at all costs. She was sprawled on the floor, struggling to get up, her skirts up, her lovely naked legs making a charming picture of nudity.
She was coming after him. Drucker bit his lip in exasperation. "Haven't you had enough?"
Her grin made him uneasy. She clawed her way off the floor and came toward him, lifting her skirt. "Please, mister-"
Drucker turned and ran.
This was ridiculous. The girl must come to her senses in a moment. He ran out of the store and tried to slow to a walk. But she was right behind him.
"Come back-come back-we haven't finished-" He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was white-faced and obviously upset. People were looking their way. He was conscious of the blur of faces; even people passing in cars were staring at them, and someone called: "What's the matter?"
In a panic, Drucker broke into a headlong run. He heard her scream behind him. A man stepped in his way, and Drucker shoved him aside roughly. He turned the comer. Where the hell had he parked the car? He couldn't remember.
What was she screaming? She loved him?
He flung himself off the street into an alley, a place where cars were parked and where merchandise was stacked in huge crates. His breath was wheezing. He was out of shape for such a run. He had to stop. He had to-and he could hear her, and another dozen voices.
"Where'd he go?"
"There he is."
They had him cornered. Drucker leaned against a crate, his breast heaving, fighting to get his breath. The girl ran into his arms and clung to him.
"Oh hell," someone said, "she's his wife-"
"Perty young though."
"Let's get outa here, I don't wanna get involved in no argument-"
The girl was wriggling in a most obscene manner. She was giggling between gasps. Drucker stared round. The few curious were slowly retreating, looking back over their shoulders.
He patted her shoulder, making a show of it for them. Thank God they hadn't taken it into their heads to call the police. They might have thought he was a thief!
"You gotta do it again," she said. "You gotta-you gotta-"
She was thrusting her loins at him in a lewd fashion. Drucker drew in his breath sharply. This thing had gone far enough. Irresistible or not, he had to take charge-to stop it now.
"Now, now, now," he said in the voice of a parent reprimanding a child. "You must stop this instantly. You've made a public spectacle-"
"Come on, fuck me," she breathed. She grabbed at his pants.
"My dear young lady!"
He hauled her head around and looked at her. She was pretty. Her eyes seemed glazed over. He frowned. She was in some sort of state. Her breath was coming fast, she jerked against him as though in pain. He ground his teeth together and stared about. A few of the more curious were still watching them from the entrance of the alley. The girl must be providing an interesting sight with her lascivious wriggles.
He got both her hands in his and held them. He slapped her cheek. It didn't bring her out of it. He pulled her aside, out of sight of them. What should he do?
"Give it to me," she breathed. "You gotta-"
She got one of her hands free. It flew up and encircled his neck. He pushed it down and she brushed it over his cheek, muttering words. She scratched him. He felt the sting of it and saw a spot of blood on her fingers. She had scraped him with the ring.
The ring! He mustn't let her have it. It was too valuable. He grabbed her hand and forced it off the finger. It came easily. Shoving it in his pocket, he grasped both her hands once more and looked about helplessly. How could he get her back to the store without people wanting to know what he was doing to a poor helpless girl?
"You've got to forget me," he said to her earnestly. That was a good phrase. He had heard it in a movie or something. "You must forget me-" Despite the terrible situation, it made him feel good to say it.
She was no longer wriggling. She had become almost limp in his arms. She was sighing. He twisted her head around and looked at her eyes the way doctors did on TV. She looked tired, but the glassy appearance was disappearing from her eyes and she blinked them at him.
"God! What you do to me," she said.
"You really must stop this," he lectured her severely. "You've been a very naughty girl. Do you feel better now?"
She nodded. "Come back to the store with me-my God! The store!" She broke off, her hand went to her mouth. "Mr. Schell will kill me!" She grabbed his hand and started running.
He twisted away. "I'm not going back there."
She stopped and looked at him. "Please-?"
"No." He had the upper hand now. "You've got to forget me."
Her eyes brooded. "But I don't want to."
"You must." He went with her to the entrance of the alley. His car was parked only a short distance down the street. "Now go back to the store and forget all this."
She turned and walked away. Then stopped. Drucker felt ridiculous. She was much younger than he. What would people think? There were three or four standing on the comer looking toward them. He turned abruptly and strode to his car. He knew she was looking at him and it made him feel like someone in a movie. He got his keys out and unlocked the door. When he got in and pushed the starter, he glanced at her. She stood perfectly still and watched him go.
He went about his duties in a desultory fashion, his mind elsewhere. When he spoke to his secretary, Mrs. Bukey, he wondered what she felt toward him. Did she conceal her feelings well-longing for him all the while? He examined her profile when she did not suspect. She seemed poised and business-like, as usual.
Perhaps he did not affect Mrs. Bukey. All women did not scream and rush at him, after all. Only certain ones. Or certain types. Perhaps it was a question of chemistry after all.
He called her into his office. She was thirty or thirty-two, a nice-looking girl. Her husband was a paint salesman, or something like that; was it lumber? She was dark and quiet, and reserved.
"How are you this morning, Mrs. Bukey?"
She looked at him in surprise. "Just-fine, Mr. Drucker."
He rose and went around his desk. Standing beside her, he looked down at her intently. She was several inches shorter than he. She seemed slightly nervous. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, Mr. Drucker, fine."
He waited. The other girls hadn't shown immediate interest, perhaps it took them a few moments to overcome their female reserve. Mrs. Bukey shuffled her pencil and notebook from one hand to the other and glanced up at him under dark lashes. "Did you want to write a letter, Mr. Drucker?"
It wasn't working on her. He sighed. Well, he surely would have noticed before this. Mrs. Bukey had been with him for three years. "No," he said. "That's all, Mrs. Bukey."
She almost ran from the room.
Later, at lunch with Helen, another secretary, she related the incident. "It was the strangest thing. I felt he was waiting for me to perform a trick or something."
"He's a spooky one, that Drucker," Helen replied.
Rankin Drucker kept his word. He called Doria from a pay telephone. She insisted on seeing him.
"Come tonight," she said breathlessly, "I'm so lonely for you-"
"I can't, not tonight. There's, well, there's-" 'Tour wife?"
He took a breath. "Yes, I told you I'm married."
"I don't care. I want to see you. Don't you want to see me?" Plaintive.
"Yes, of course I do." He remembered to say 'darling.' "Of course I do, darling." It made him nervous, talking to her. He hadn't done this sort of thing before-had a mistress-it confused him slightly.
I'll
"When will you see me?"
"Let me think-tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow."
"Tomorrow when?"
"I'll call you. Do you live there in your studio?"
"Yes, in the back."
He thought she sounded disappointed. He hated to disappoint her, but he had to have time to think. He had to sort things out. After the experience of the unknown girl at the jewelry shop, he was aware of his power.
He bought off Doria with a promise. When she hung up he breathed a sigh of relief. There had been such intense feeling in her voice. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't love her, but he didn't want to hurt her.
Naomi was her usual distant self. He appraised her silently over dinner; their meals together were usually silent. She was still pretty, in an unglamorous way. Not like Doria at all, he thought. She had none of Doria's animal intenseness. He felt one fleeting pang of guilt in comparing his wife with the girl of the studio.
After dinner they made small talk: "Your mother called-really, Rankin, you should see her more often-"
He promised. Women were difficult.
He did not notice that Naomi had made up a bundle for the cleaner, and that his suit, the one he had worn that day, was among the clothes. But at night, when they went to bed, she had the ring.
He was surprised. "Where did you find that?"
"It was in your pocket. I'm sending your suits to the cleaner-"
She put the ring on her finger and turned it this way and that. He regarded her somberly, wondering what story to tell her. She was sine to ask where it came from.
"It fits," she smiled at him. "What a curious ring. Is it for me?"
"It's a man's ring. I-er-found it."
She cocked her head, looking at the stone. "It's beautiful. Beautiful stone." The stone glowed in the subdued light. She moved close to him as he stood in the door to the bath. "Darling, do you remember how we-" She looked at him, slightly embarrassed. "I feel so strange, as though we were on our honeymoon again."
He smiled and took her arms, kissing her fondly on the cheek. In her soft gown she was very desirable, just as she had been on their honeymoon.
"Yes, I remember." He looked into her dark eyes, feeling surprise at the flame kindled there; he realized suddenly that she wanted him, she felt passion for him.
She kissed him in a way he hadn't felt from her for a long time. "Hurry and come to bed," she whispered.
He nodded dumbly and went into the bath.
Naomi was ardent. She writhed with passion. She flung off the gown and ripped at his pajamas, grasping his phallus and tugging it till he slipped over atop her.
"Darling, you feel so good to me-Ohhhhh, please, I'm crazy for you!"
He was astonished. Naomi had never said such things, not even on their honeymoon. When he entered her she was a supple, tempestuous female.
He had to keep telling himself this was Naomi, this was his wife.
He knew her perfume, her voice, yet he did not know her convulsive agitation. She was carnal, demanding, and never satisfied. He gave her all he could, driving himself, remembering Doria and the girl of the shop, marveling at his wonderful new power to excite women.
When he was nearly exhausted, she was purring and whispering in his ear. She cooed to him, mad words of love and affection that he had never heard from her.
She had rocked sensuously time after time with voluptuous paroxysms. How could she continue this mad lustful journey? He sighed as she enveloped him in kisses. He tried to soothe her, to calm her, but it was impossible. Each exciting touch obviously inflamed her further. He knew he owned a terrible power.
He was convinced that he had been singled out by an unholy spirit to bring a mystical satiation to women.
Naomi nearly killed him with love.
In the end he fought her off, overpowering her and being cut with the ring in the process. It was only when he removed it from her finger that he calmed her at last. He did not realize the coincidence. She had gorged on his body; he preferred to think of it that way, and in the morning she was sulky-voiced and indulging.
God! What he did to women!
He went away from the house with her kisses on his lips, her fond hands still hot on his cheeks. She had begged him to hurry home to her.
He was astonished. Naomi! His own wife.
At the office he looked at each of the secretaries, thoughtful, appraising looks. He made them nervous. But he could smile inwardly. If only they had the boon of his kiss, then they would change. He knew it.
He had promised to call Doria. He sighed. Amorous women would drag him down. He spent time preening himself before a mirror, squinting at his profile in the three-fold glass, examining his hairline and the texture of his skin. During the business conferences with his partner and their accountants, he doodled, his thoughts far away.
That afternoon he called Doria, uncertain what to say. She was eager.
"Darling, why didn't you call me sooner?"
He explained how pressing was business.
"You promised to see me-"
In
THE END he had to go to the studio. He drove there, suppressed excitement suffusing him. Ah women!
The studio was empty. She locked the door behind him as he entered, and smiled. Her almond eyes seemed to glitter in the gloom of the exhibit room. She wore a yellow dress that cleaved low over the sheen of her full breasts. Her legs were bare, and so much leg! He stared at them; her dress stopped in the middle of the thighs, she wore flat sandals.
"I thought you'd never come," she said in her throaty voice. "Didn't you want to?"
"Of course I did." He walked in primly and laid his hat aside. She came to him swiftly and clung. Her kisses surprised him. Then she moved away.
"You're cold," she accused.
"I-well, I'm not unwound yet," he said. Now that he was here he hardly knew how to take charge. His hands were clumsy, and he could see a questioning look in her feline gaze. That would change in a moment. "Come and kiss me," he offered his hands to her and she took them.
She kissed him ardently, then twisted away and stared at him.
"Would you like coffee?"
He nodded. They went into the small den room. Something was different, he could feel it. What had happened to the magic?
He tried to kiss her again. She suffered him, then looked at him strangely. When she put the coffee on the flame she trembled; she dropped a spoon and he picked it up.
Forcing a laugh, she seated herself opposite and gave him a cigarette. "We're like a couple of strangers all at once. What's wrong?"
"I haven't changed," he said.
"Meaning that I have?" She shrugged and looked at him carefully. "You are Rankin Drucker?"
He smiled. "I am."
"I don't know you at all-perhaps that's it. We were so aroused when you were here before-" She let the words float away and smiled at him. "Maybe we should get acquainted."
He stared at the cigarette in his fingers. It was very different, this time. What was wrong? What could he tell her?
"What do you do?" she asked.
"I told you, insurance."
She said nothing, but the slitted eyes regarded him steadily. Her bare legs drew his gaze though he tried to keep them from sight. There seemed so little of her that was clothed.
She poured out the coffee and they drank, looking at each other. It was all going badly. He lit another cigarette, fumbling with his lighter. When he replaced it in his pocket he felt the ring.
The ring had brought him here in the first place; it had been his excuse to pretend an interest in art, so that he might meet her. He drew it out and it caught her eye immediately.
"Oh, let me see that again-"
He handed it over and she smiled in pleased remembrance at the feel of it. "It's so heavy," she said.
"I showed it to someone yesterday who thought it might be a Chinese Emperor's ring."
She shrugged, turning it about in her fingers. "I suppose it could be. I don't recognize the motif-it doesn't look Chinese to me, but maybe-"
"I'd wear it, only it doesn't fit."
She slipped it on. "It fits me perfectly." She giggled at him and the almond eyes flashed fire in the dim light. "I'll trade you a painting for it."
He shook his head. "No offense, Doria."
"Call me something else-" She rose and came over to him.
"Darling?"
"That's better." She ran her hand through his hair. She tilted up his chin and pecked at him with pursed lips. "You're bad. You didn't call me and you made me worry."
"Darling, I can't be at your beck and call, you know that."
"I don't care. When I want you-" She slipped down and her mouth crushed his. The warmth of her smothered him. His hands were on her breasts and her mouth was an oven of lust. He felt the sudden surge of desire and fell back with her on top.
"I thought I was cold," she whispered. "God! I almost asked you to leave!"
"Darling-"
She was on fire. Her kisses were exulting, inciting. Her sinuous, undulating body was suddenly naked as she flung the dress from her and filled his arms with her satiny lushness.
"My God, Doria-"
"Not Doria, darling."
She stopped his words with her lips, her tongue. He could not become accustomed to this amazing turn-about in her nature. From ice, she went in one blazing streak to white heat-body heat. She desired him fiercely. She tugged at his maleness, seeking to free it from the confines of his clothing, swearing gutturally in her excitement.
He unzipped hastily, afraid she would tear his pants. Then she was on him, skewering herself and jogging him, her breath hot as she bounced over it.
"Let me get undressed-"
She ignored him. She was tempestuous; becoming more abandoned every moment, hissing into his ear: "You're driving me crazy-you're driving me crazy-" Over and over again.
He fought to roll her over. His passion flared and he struggled to get her on her side. She was seemingly deaf to his entreaties, surging against him, battering herself over the spike. He began to giggle at the curious situation. Her voraciousness touched a chord somewhere. But he got her over onto her back.
She gave a great sigh and enveloped him, arms and legs. Her body wrenched and twisted-and then she seemed to explode with passion.
She screamed in his ear. She went berserk for long moments of lunging and bucking; she gulped and gasped for air, her nails raked him.
Drucker beat it into her, a frothy mess, sweating with exertion. God! This woman was insatiable. Her wicked excitement was more than gratification. He wondered for the first time why Doria seemed separate from him even in the exquisite climax of their act. She was satisfying herself.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. He saw smoldering depths, and a cold finger drew up his spine. It was unreal, the look. He was not a lover, he was just a being to service her-or did he read the look wrongly?
His insight faded. She was a lover. Her arms held him warmly, her lips pressed his; her loins ground with his.
Someone rattled the front door. Someone rang the bell.
Doria, if she heard, made no sign. She held him tightly, kissing him deeply. Her legs tightened about the backs of his thighs. Drucker lifted his head to listen, then she was squeezing him-urging him.
He forgot the door.
She drove him to a thrusting, thumping mad ness. He stroked, pumped and propelled himself in a gorging lecherous energy-and gushed in stupefied abandon.
He heard her delighted cries, felt her embracing arms, but he was weak. He was glutted. His body wrenched in delightful agony, and rocked to a shuddering halt.
Far away, it seemed he could hear the door rattling. Then the noise died. Only the couch squeaked as she squirmed in sensuous luxury. Only the sound of her breathing invaded his sated being.
She was moving under him. She was whispering to him. He was tired. He let her roll him to his side, then onto his back. He felt her mouth, and he tried to tell her he was finished. But she would not listen. He knew he was finished. He was no superman. He drifted off. God! He was tired.
For a long time he felt her, mouthing him, whimpering over him, but to no avail. His arms, his legs were like lead. He let himself wander off into nothingness.
When he woke, he was cold. He lay on the couch perfectly naked. He stared upward at the dark ceiling. It took him a moment to realize he was still with Doria. But where was she? He was alone.
He sat up, conscious that a murmur of sounds came from somewhere-he could not identify the sounds. He was so tired. He sighed. What a woman! What a lot of woman. He stared at his watch, turning it about so he could catch a bit of light on the dial. Hours had passed. He was suddenly very awake. It was dark out. Naomi might be calling the office-he stood up.
The studio was dark. Had she left him here?
He must get out of this place. His reputation, his position-He ran back and began pulling on his clothes in haste. He was very foolish to risk his career and even his home for this wanton girl. Now that his wife was changed-he thought of her fondly. Oh no, he was so tired-he sighed deeply. Naomi would surely want sex tonight.
The tiny noises nagged him. He followed the sounds, adjusting his tie. She had an apartment behind the studio, she had said. He went down a hall, past a kitchen and paused in the doorway to a small bedroom.
His mouth dropped open and he scuttled behind the open door and peered round it. Doria was in the bed. So were two naked men.
He could smell them, smell the sweat from their bodies. He could smell her perfume. She was fused in a writhing ballet with one of the men. The other lay beside them, inert, his penis wrinkled and dark. The bed moved rhythmically. He could hear Doria's breathing.
She was a wanton! Where had these men come from?
He was shocked-and disappointed. He stared at them with round eyes, watching the lewd encounter with mixed astonishment and fear.
Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes to clear the lecherous picture from them. But they were still there, and Doria was beginning to pant, and to cry out. Her voice had an animal quality that made him cringe slightly. He knew she was orgasming and he stared at the couple hypnotized.
Even the second man turned his head and looked at them.
Doria crooned, and gasped. The bed quivered and groaned with the weight. Drucker stumbled back down the hall, hearing her spasmodic cries. He found the front door and let himself out. Doria screamed from the bedroom as he closed the door.
He felt drugged and mindless. He stumbled toward his car. He was through with Doria.
Through.
CHAPTER FOUR
Doria Verity was a girl who believed in very little, not even in herself. She was twenty-four, brown-haired and not too tall. In high school she had determined to become an artist, though just what kind of artist she was not sure. She had never been sure.
At first she had thought she would do fashions and become famous and make a great deal of money. But designing and drawing fashions was hard work. Very hard work. She kept putting off the work. In art school she dawdled and wasted time, not consciously perhaps, but with hope. Someone would come along and discover her. She had great talent, she said to herself.
Much of her talent seemed to lie just below her navel. Men admired her art, but stayed to talk and caress her. They talked about fine arts and how one could debase oneself to the establishment. They went into the bedroom and made violent love.
She never went to look for a job doing fashions. And no one ever gave her one. But she did have talent.
Hugo Fulton told her she had talent. He showed her how to fill a canvas with agitated line and color: how to splash it and muddle it and give vent to what he called 'expression.' Hugo loved people who expressed themselves. When she painted a particularly violent panel, he would come and stand behind her and talk to her about what she had done, and his penis would stir and they would become wild in a moment. They would make frenzied love with the picture beside them, occasionally rolling against it, becoming splattered with wet paint.
Hugo said they were caressing the picture with their bodies. He squeezed paint onto her naked breasts and rubbed them onto canvases. They even engaged in writhing fornication atop a canvas. It was messy.
Hugo was away when Rankin Drucker had come asking her about his ring.
Drucker was a pompous, asinine man. She had catered to him and swallowed her disgust at his stupid superficial outlook. She needed money badly. Perhaps he would buy something.
And then, without warning, she had felt an urge for the stuffy insurance man; a fever that she had never felt before. He had driven her out of her mind. He had driven all thoughts of Hugo from her. She would have forgotten Hugo in an instant if only Drucker had said the word.
He was unfeeling. When he had gone she had thought of him constantly. When he returned, she was repelled. What in the world had she ever seen in this impossible, middle-aged man?
And then it had come upon her again.
Madness. A warmth had swirled out of her loins and engulfed her. She had never felt its like. It was sheer sensation. She became drunk and gorged on his soft body. The carnal paroxysms seemed to come on her in waves. They swept her into smothering fits of pure ecstasy. At intervals she came up, as one comes up to breathe air-and found that Drucker was gone and she was with others. She didn't care.
It was Hugo above her. She opened her eyes and stared at him.
"Thank God," he said. "We were worried-"
She lay still and collected her thoughts. Hugo was here. Where was Drucker? She moved, feeling the pull of her muscles.
"Ohhh, I'm stiff."
"No wonder," he said. "I never saw a woman so goddam horny."
She blinked. "Me?"
"Hell yes, you." He sat beside her. "Aren't you hungry?"
She pushed herself to a sitting position and groaned. Her cunt hurt. "Yes, I'm hungry. What day is it?"
"Were you high, baby? Jesus, I mean, you couldn't get enough." He slid his hand up her leg and rubbed her.
She sucked in her breath. She was sore between the legs. Rubbed raw. "Damn, don't, you'll tear me up."
He lit a cigarette and gave it to her. He was blonde and chunky, with a pair of china blue eyes and a pair of long sideburns that sometimes made him look balloon headed.
"Go take a shower. I'll fix you some breakfast."
"Jeez, how long we do it? Screw, I mean?"
"We found you yesterday night running down the alley."
'We?"
"Me and Chuck. We been fucking you, baby. You couldn't get enough." He rose and patted the top of her head. "You killed us both off, you know that?"
She giggled. "You and Chuck both?"
"Yeh, both. I won't be able to get a hard-on for a week."
"I'll bet." She dragged on the cigarette and smiled up at him. "Did you have fun?" What the hell had happened to Drucker? She didn't want to mention him.
He nodded and went into the kitchen.
When she rose and stretched she could feel it. Man, she was raw! She padded down the hall naked, and looked into the studio. It was empty and the door locked. She went into the den. It too was empty. But there were butts where she and Rankin had smoked. So he had left. Had he seen Hugo and Chuck? She shrugged. What if he had?
She went back to the kitchen. "I was running down the alley?"
"Yeh," he said, looking at her nakedness. "You were glassy-eyed, baby. All you wanted was cock. We brought you back-" He shrugged. "Like that."
She gazed at him, her tongue in the corner of her mouth.
"Go put something on," he said, "or I'll slip you one."
She backed away. "No you won't, darling." She ran to the shower.
When she came out, she sat on the edge of the bed and dressed slowly, digesting what Hugo had said. She had never done that before-an orgy. God, what had caused that? Not Drucker. Or had it? It was curious about him, his effect on her. When she first saw him he repelled her, and then she couldn't get enough of him.
She combed her brown hair and sighed. Damn funny.
She smiled, thinking of Chuck. Too bad she hadn't been more conscious, she might have enjoyed making it with him. Chuck was a very good-looking guy.
More conscious. Frowning, she sat still, looking at the black comb in her hand. She had been under the influence of something, because she didn't remember any of it. Hugo had said she was running down the alley naked. She didn't remember that. Had Drucker put something in her drink?
So that was it! He had drugged her to make her feel the way she had. An aphrodisiac-she had heard of them. Damn that son-of-a-bitch!
She slammed the comb down on the dresser in annoyance. That goddam Drucker. So that was how he had got to her. That was pretty low, doing a thing like that. She reached for her slippers-and almost screamed.
At first she thought it was some kind of small animal, but it was only the ring that rolled from the toe. Rankin Drucker's ring. She picked it up, her heart pounding. It was so heavy. Well, she was due something from him for his sneakiness. She joggled the ring up and down in her half-closed palm.
She could keep this-if he returned for it she could say she didn't have it. Let him prove she did.
The stone seemed to glow. Absently she rubbed her thumb over the curious designs of the metal. They were raised and hard, with hard edges. She had been wearing that ring-hadn't she? It must have come off during the night and fallen into her slipper by the bed. Perhaps she had removed it without knowing. She had done so many things without remembering them. She slipped the ring on her finger and lit a cigarette.
Plugo was singing softly to himself in the kitchen. She smoked, wondering what she had done, realizing that she felt very good about it. Her tiredness was slipping away. Youth. She had youth at any rate.
"You ready, Doria?" Hugo called.
She smiled. She was ready. She was ready.
Putting the cigarette down on the ashtray, she gently explored the tender cleft between them. The rawness was less apparent. It didn't hurt to rub herself-but it made her tingle like crazy! She gasped at the intense feeling and rolled on her side suddenly, her hand pressed tight to her vulva.
"Doria," shouted Hugo. "Dammit, breakfast."
She got up, still fingering the delightful region. "I'm-coming-" she said. She giggled. She could make herself come in a minute if she kept that up. She thought of Hugo-she wanted him suddenly. She wanted him in her. She hurried to the kitchen.
"Come on," he said. "Those fuckin' eggs won't-"
She was in his arms. Kissing him and rubbing herself on him. God! How she wanted him!
"What the hell's got into you?"
"Jeez, don't ask questions, dammit," she breathed.
"You horny little-"
"I can't help it." Her mouth found his and she fused her body with his and writhed. She reached for him, tugging at it, pulling it. He made strange growling sounds in his throat. Then he sat her on the sink in one heaving lift. Her thighs went wide and he was between them. He was in her. He thrust it deep and she cried out in gushing eagerness. Her bare feet curled about his driving body and she moaned aloud in delight.
"Jeez Christ, woman-you're gonna kill me-"
"Don't talk," she whispered, "fuck me. I gotta have it-gotta have it-"
Her wildness kindled him and provoked him to a surging assault and left him suddenly melting in an involuntary energy. He held the sink, panting and ramming her as she squealed.
"Lissen, Doria-"
"Please, please, darling-"
He stood pressed to her, his breast heaving with exertion. The night had been hard on him, but she was blind to his problem. She twisted and squeezed him, urging him and kissing him madly. But his initial muscular virility had gone. She took his head in her two hands and kissed him, laving him with her wet kisses.
He stepped back and lifted her down. She screamed and clung to him.
"Hey, it ain't any use, baby. You wrung me out. Don't you know that?"
"I gotta have you-"
He pulled her close and let her writhe herself on his wrinkled manhood and handle it, moaning.
"Take me in the bedroom," she begged. Even through the curtain of lust that had fallen on her, she knew it was like that feeling, that Drucker had aroused in her. Did all men arouse her?
Hugo slung her up into his strong arms and carried her to the bed and dropped her on it. She scrambled around and threw herself at the penis. He sat and let her have it. He took her hand, noticed the ring, and slipped it from her finger.
She paid no attention.
All her efforts could stimulate it only half-heartedly. But as she belabored the reluctant organ her desire began to flag. The mists cleared and the raging need diminished. She sighed and sat up.
"What's this?" he asked, showing her the ring.
She brushed the hair from her eyes. "Oh that, just a ring."
"I know it's a ring for Chrissake. Where'd you get it?"
"I've had it a long time."
"I never saw it before."
"So, you never saw everything, huh? Jeez, I had it in a box. My-mother gave it to me."
He grunted. "Feels like gold."
"Yeh." She rubbed her eyes. "I'm hungry."
He put the ring aside and looked at her. "You sure you're alright, baby? First you want breakfast, then you want cock-what the hell?"
"So I'm fickle." She rose and gave him a mysterious smile. She paddled into the kitchen and he followed.
"The fucking eggs are cold."
"Make some more," she said.
The Fairgate Avenue studio was only six months old. They had been scratching for the rent and for food, and had enjoyed far too few paying customers. Hugo was an artist, but not a businessman. Hugo had a huge contempt for businessmen, and thus had no ready cash.
"The only solid fact is art," he said. "Art will last when the filthy dollar goes down the drain."
Doria didn't argue. She put the ring safely away. It looked valuable. She might have to pawn it one day. Her day consisted of a few household chores-Hugo was willing to help with those-and of sewing. Her mornings were usually spent sewing on decorative belts. She worked on a piecework basis for a small belt firm and made enough to sustain them.
Hugo spent his time painting and talking. He talked all day and far into the night.
Doria put aside the belts after lunchtime and prepared the studio. On pleasant days there was always the possibility of tourist trade. Occasionally she sold a picture. There was always the possibility of a sucker like she had thought Rankin Drucker would be.
Combing her brown hair carefully, and taking an hour to put on her make-up, Doria dressed in her shortest skirt-to show off her lovely long legs, and opened the studio door wide.
The first fly came into the parlour. He was a tall man, dressed in a conservative suit. He had a white face and crinkled eyes. He looked about the room as though he had never been in a gallery before. Doria smiled and stood before him, pushing her breasts out. This one looked as though he had money.
"I'm Doria," she said.
"How nice," he said. He took off his hat. "You have some lovely pictures here-" He said it in a tentative voice.
"Thank you." Doria smiled and guided him on tier prepared tour. She leaned close enough for him to smell her perfume. She fluttered her lashes and knew she was having some effect on him. His name was Orrin Ryder, he told her, and he gave her a card.
He was an art dealer.
Doria was surprised. Ryder had listened to her sales talk without a word, except faint praise for this or that.
"You're slumming," she accused him.
"Not at all, my dear. One never knows what one may find, eh?" He waved a white hand at the walls. "You are following the popular trends-these are all yours are they not?"
Doria nodded. Some were Hugo's attempts, but signed by her. "The popular trend sells."
"Does it?"
"Would you like some coffee?"
He pursed his lips, then nodded, looking at her legs. "You're young, my dear. Did you study in Europe?"
She debated lying to him and decided to tell the truth. "No, I studied in Chicago." That was partly the truth. She had studied there, but not art. She put the coffee on and inspected the cups-they would pass.
He sat on the couch and she could feel his eyes on her. Several people drifted into the gallery room. She went out to smile at them. They avoided her eyes and slowly made the circuit of the room.
"I'm interested in sculpture," Ryder said as she returned. "Do you work in that medium?"
She shook her head. Ryder was an angular bird, she thought. He had a peculiar clipped manner of speaking, as though he might be addressing a class.
"Sculpture of the right sort is very good now, you know. Perhaps you should try it. Do you do any jewelry?"
"No, just paintings." She thought of the ring. It was an odd piece. "Are you buying, Mr. Ryder?"
"Yes indeed, Miss Doria." He looked at her with the squinty eyes. There seemed to be meaning in them.
She poured the coffee and made a tour of the exhibit room. A couple was murmuring in one comer and a leggy girl slowly moved from one picture to the next. Doria smiled automatically and went back, past the kitchen, into the bedroom and picked the curious ring out of the box. She slipped it on her finger. It was surely valuable. Every time she touched it she was sure it was a costly stone.
Orrin Ryder was delighted with it. She showed it to him, on her finger. She felt wonderful.
"It's beautiful!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get it-did you create it, my dear?"
"No. I-er-bought it in Chicago." Ryder was actually a much more handsome man than he had at first seemed. In the dimness of the coffee room den, he had a dashing look about him, slim and lean. She trembled slightly as he took her hand. She was warm.
"I don't believe I've ever seen such a ring," he said. "I confess, the motif escapes me. Would you say it was African?"
"Central Europe," Doria said. "Perhaps with a bit of Moslem influence." She caressed his head with her eyes. She was beginning to feel the way she had felt when Hugo was making breakfast.
"Yes, Moslem-perhaps."
"Of course it could be Indian-"
"Hhhh." He shrugged. He turned her hand this way and that. 'What is the stone?"
"I-er-an opal, I imagine." The fire that surged through her was beginning to stifle her. She wanted air. She wanted HIM. God! What was getting into her? Every time she put the ring on she-the ring! She stared at it. Could it be the ring?
"May I examine it more closely, my dear?" Ryder was slipping the ring from her finger.
She sighed, feeling the pressure of it recede. It couldn't be the ring-that sort of thing just didn't happen. How could a mere ring make her feel lustful?
But now that the ring had been removed from her finger she felt less flushed. She rose and went into the exhibit room, more to walk and do something than for other reasons. The exhibit room was empty of people. She stood by the open door breathing in deeply. She was definitely less excited now.
So it was the ring.
She breathed deeply. With the flush of desire removed, she began to think about Ryder again. If he was a dealer, perhaps they could come to terms. She was willing to make certain concessions to sell pictures. She went back to the den.
He had the ring on his finger. She saw the look in his curious eyes. Instinctively she knew the ring was doing its work. Could she make it work for her?
She stood by the door. "If you're buying art, Mr. Ryder-"
He interrupted her. "Of course I'm buying-"
She moved just out of his reach. "I'm selling, Mr. Ryder."
He smiled and moved along the couch toward her. His eyes glittered. "Then we understand each other-Miss Doria." His arm went about her thighs and pulled her closer. He was breathing hard.
"Do we understand each other?"
"Anything you say, Doria." He was pulling her down to the couch. "Anything-you-say-" She knew he was past thinking. He was on sheer impulse now, on animal instinct. And he was strong-much stronger than he looked. He rolled her onto her back and fought to get between her thighs.
"Say it," she said. "You'll buy the paintings."
"I'll-buy the-fucking paintings-" he panted.
She opened her legs.
The door to the studio was open, but she didn't care. If someone came in, well, they came in. She received him, helping him along by wriggling and pressing it into the proper slot with her finger tips. She was prepared for the ramming that came. Ryder was past the finer things. He was in a fever of lust, jabbing and spearing her with demon strength.
She relaxed and smiled under the ravishing attack. Is this what the ring had done to her?
The couch squeaked fearsomely. Anyone entering would hear them immediately. She was slightly surprised when Hugo appeared in the doorway. She had not expected him. He stared at her with open mouth, then frowned at Ryder's back. She signed to him to be silent.
Ryder reached a bucking, wheezing climax as 'Hugo stood in the doorway. Doria clung to him, her silky legs about him, grinning at Hugo. He looked very exasperated, she thought. She motioned him to disappear.
Then she slipped the ring from Ryder's nerveless finger. The man was wheezing and panting with his violent exertions, still driving the truncheon into her with involuntary spasms. She held on and waited. She heard Hugo close the front door.
Gradually Ryder's ardor dissipated. He lay on her breathing hard, but the fire had gone out. She smiled as intelligence came back into his eyes. She was enjoying the tete-a-tete; as he calmed, she was gaining interest in the proceedings, without benefit of the ring's power.
"My goodness," he said, "that was a sudden thing-"
"Don't stop," she whispered.
"I don't believe such a thing has ever happened to me before." There was wonder in his voice. He smiled down at her, still moving in her. "We seem to have become very good friends all at once."
She giggled and kissed him. "You said we were a good deal more than friends."
"Did I?" He smiled quickly. "Yes, we're very close, aren't we?" He pushed hard with his embedded member and she giggled again.
"Do it harder."
His mouth closed on hers and the penis surged into her as she gasped and squeezed him with her legs. She stared over his shoulder as Hugo appeared there, frowning. She motioned him to go away. Hugo must be wondering who the man was-let him wonder. The prong was delicious.
She slipped the ring on her finger. It would help her enjoy the affair. She was astonished at how quickly the flush swept through her. It must be, she thought, because she was already engaged in sex. She felt lewd and passionate all at once.
Biting his ear, she whispered, "God, fuck me, darling-"
She lost track of time. The ferment in her brain fused everything into an exquisite blur, a delirium of voluptuous fantasy. She forgot the ring, and her intention of removing it. She was enslaved, stupefied by the fiery passion that kindled her in waves. She clung to Ryder, long after he was satiated and unable to belabor her longer.
He struggled, threshing like a fly caught in the web, to free himself from her enveloping arms and legs. He slapped her, hissed at her, and she only giggled. But when he finally freed himself she moaned and clawed at him.
Hugo watched in amazement, concealing himself from Ryder. Doria was in another of her passion fits.
With his arms, Ryder kept her at a distance. She came out of it momentarily, eyes blazing, tearing off her remaining clothes, shrieking at him. Ryder was able to gather up his coat and hat and avoid her talons. He ran from the den and managed to get through the door to the street. Doria screamed at him. He ran blindly.
She found Hugo, and ran at him, naked and demanding. He was able to satisfy for a moment. But she was wild. He wrestled her to the bath and shoved her into the shower. Icy water cleared her brain for a shocking moment. She seemed to recognize him, and smiled.
"Doria, you're crazy!" he shouted.
She pulled off the ring and came out of the shower leering at him. He backed away.
"What the hell's got into you? You donna what you're doing! Who was that guy?"
She wrapped a towel about herself and looked at him with the almond eyes. "Oh shut up," she said. She went in and flopped on the bed.
She told Hugo about Ryder when she was rested. "He's an art buyer, darling. I had to be nice to him."
"Nice!" he snorted. "You're fuck-happy, Doria."
She smiled. "Don't be vulgar. I wanted him to remember me."
"Where does he live? Who's he buying for?"
"I don't know. But he'll buy this stuff." She indicated the paintings on the walls. "We ought to have more."
Hugo fumed. He protested and he growled, but Doria merely smiled at him. "He'll be back," she said.
He came back the next day.
They met in the exhibit room, he very wary and she smiling. She went to him immediately and kissed him, then drew him into the den.
"Why did you run away?"
He looked at her fixedly. "I don't know. I was startled, I suppose."
"By what?"
"By you, of course. You were so-"
"Mad for you?" She smiled and poured coffee. He wasn't bad looking. Conservative in dress, but perhaps that was necessary in his business. He did have triangle eyes though, light brown, or hazel, that gave him an odd, pupilless stare.
Sitting beside him, she patted his hand. "Let's forget what went before and begin again."
He smiled. "But I don't care to forget it. I'm not sure I could."
She pecked his cheek and giggled. "It was fun, huh?" Without waiting for an answer, she squeezed his hand and moved closer. "Tell me about you. I want to know everything." She moved the hand against her breast.
"I was born in a small town-"
She giggled again. "You're cute." She rubbed the hand up and down against the breast.
"You don't want me to go back that far?" He turned the hand over and captured the breast. She sighed and leaned against him. His hand was warm, flooding her with warmth.
She sat up, removing the restive hand and holding it firmly between hers. "Now, tell me about my pictures." Her lips were close to his and she gazed at his mouth.
"The pictures?" He took a breath. "Yes, I promised to buy them, didn't I?"
She nodded and let her lips drift across his, touching them lightly as a feather's brush.
He cleared his throat. "I represent Revelle's, darling. You're heard of them?"
She stared at him. Was .he putting her on? Revelle's was one of the big dealers.
"You're surprised?"
She nodded. "Are you really, or are you just-?"
"I'm perfectly serious. We have connections with Christies and Rermonsey in London. We have-"
She shook her head. "You don't have to tell me that. Why come to me?" Her tone was flat. It was hard for her to believe him. Revelle's didn't go looking for her sort of art.
"Darling, every dealer has problems getting material. Didn't you know that?"
Her expression didn't change.
"I've been buying art for more than ten years. I often buy from small-from the artist himself."
She rose and went to the door. There was something wrong here. He couldn't be telling her the truth. She wanted desperately to believe him, but he couldn't be telling the truth. Revelle's would never accept her paintings. Even some of the smaller galleries wouldn't hang them-or even display them.
"What's the matter, Doria?"
She stepped into the exhibit room. They were daubs, hanging on the walls, she didn't have to kid herself. She could palm them off on the straights, but not on Revelle's. They knew better.
He followed her. "Doria-what is it?"
"Revelle's," she said. She faced him. "Darling, I know what kind of painter I am. Hell, I can't even draw. You wouldn't hang these in Revelle's-" She indicated the framed paintings.
"Why not?" He moved close and took her elbows. Looking down at her, he smiled. "Let me tell you a secret, Miss Furrowed-Rrow. Revelle's is in the market to sell art. We sell all kinds of art."
He glanced at the walls. "Well, I'm glad you know your worth. It's more than many artists do." She looked at him. "What did you really come here for? What you got yesterday?"
He sighed. "Of course not. That just happened."
"You said you'd buy the pictures," she pouted, "then you ran out."
"You're trying to mix me up. I didn't run out as soon as-" He took her hand. "Come on, let's have that coffee."
He sat her down in the den room. He was rather nice when he took charge, she decided. He had a streak of iron somewhere. Not like Hugo. Hugo was weak.
"Now let me tell you something," he said. "The facts of life are that a large portion of the art-buying public does not buy expensive items."
He had a nice mouth too.
"The very rich, and the museums buy the Rembrandts and the major Picassos and the rare old masters. But they are a very small percentage of the total. Certainly there are fewer than twenty markets for a million dollar picture-in all the world."
The eyes were funny, but not ugly, certainly. She smiled at him.
"It is true that Revelle's has a reputation for dealing in high-value items, but perhaps you don't know that we make up the losses in that field with our profits in the lesser market."
"The lesser market?"
"That's you, darling," he said. "We sell thousands of pictures just like these every year." He swept his hand around at the exhibit room. "Now do you understand?"
She nodded slowly. Maybe it was the truth after all.
"More than thirty percent of our sales are in low-cost items."
She blinked at him. "Then you really will buy them?"
"Of course." He reached for her. She smiled.
"All of them?"
"Every one. For a price, naturally. We won't pay tourist rates."
She giggled. "Of course, darling." She snuggled close and took his hand again, pulling it up to her breast. She lost herself in his kiss.
The room was silent for a long time. "My God, Doria," he breathed, "you're wonderful-"
She lay in his arms, her blouse unfastened to the waist. "Darling, would you have bought them if I was an old wrinkled hag?"
"Do I have to answer that?"
She shook her head slightly. That's what she had thought.
She and Hugo quarreled.
"Just because he's buying the paintings doesn't mean he's buying you," he argued.
"He isn't buying me for God's sake. Be a little understanding. I have to be nice to him. He could buy this crap anywhere."
"So that's what you think of it-"
"Don't be a fool. Look at it." She put her hands on her hips and regarded him with something approaching distaste. He was unkempt, unshaven and had dirt under his nails. "Clean yourself up, for Crissakes," she said.
He yelled, swinging his arms. "Now you're comparing me to him!"
"Well, he doesn't look like a shitty tree-dweller."
"Doria-" he wailed.
She stamped out. Hugo was really her past life. Only he didn't realize it yet. When she looked at him she saw poverty and the day-to-day struggle. Orrin Ryder meant luxury.
Hugo followed her. "What's wrong with us?"
"Us! It's you."
"It's that fucking Ryder, the creep! That's who. Ever since he come in here we've been fighting." He came close to her. "We never fought before, Doria."
"I didn't like it before, if that's what you mean."
"Didn't like what?"
"This goddam life, that's what." She brushed his hands from her tits. "Stop pawing me."
"You liked it once."
She sniffed at him. "You're supposed to be creating."
"I don't feel like painting."
"Do it anyway."
"Doria-"
She whirled on him. "You stupid jerk-Orrin will buy this crap! Did you ever sell as much before? Of course not." She took a breath, pausing. "If you won't do it-I'll get someone else."
His mouth fell open. "Doria-!"
"It's business, isn't it? We paint, Orrin buys. That's simple enough. Two and two makes four. You oughta be able to get that through your head."
"Darling, don't talk to me like that-"
"Then stop being stupid." She almost stamped her foot. "I'm tired of being poor. I'm tired of being hungry and never having a goddam thing to put on my back-now there's a chance to beat that." She squared her tiny jaw. "I'm not going to let you stand in my way."
He stared at her. He had never seen her so determined; this was a new Doria, he didn't know what to say.
"If you want to come along on the ride, OK," she said. "But I'm gonna ride, with you or without you."
"You don't have to-"
She was winning. Hugo was weak, he could never stand up to her. He could never stand up to anyone. She smiled grimly. "If I have to let him fuck me to do it, I'll do that too. Get used to it."
He winced. "Don't say it that way."
She turned. "We need paintings."
"Help me, Doria."
She shook her head. She knew what he meant. She didn't want to screw him.
"We need paintings," she said.
Then she found out about Evelyn.
Evelyn Sprague was the other half of the Revelle team locally. Evelyn was an expert on most things, especially art. She gave advice freely. She was unmarried, thirty-six years old and rather plain.
Evelyn and Doria did not mix well. They were opposite poles and both knew it instinctively. Orrin Ryder did not immediately understand the situation.
"She's a crass little thing," Evelyn said of Doria when they had met finally. He began to understand.
"Her stuff sells."
"Any of that sort of thing sells," Evelyn retorted. "If you push it."
"Yes," Ryder smiled at her. "Doesn't it."
Evelyn was short and rather muscular for a woman. She had black hair, worn in a severe tight fashion, and she eschewed make-up. She could use it, Ryder thought to himself. "Don't worry about her," he said.
Evelyn lifted a shoulder. "Her deliveries are always late. Do you feel sorry for her, Orrin?"
He shook his head. Evelyn was a bitch. She had the idea that art was something special, not a really good attitude for one in her game. Art was a commodity. But he could never make Evelyn see the truth. He had always regretted his association with her, but Evelyn had pull at the home office. Someone there believed in her. Ryder had always made it a point to praise Evelyn to the brass. Diplomacy.
He put on his hat and went out. It was impossible to win an argument with Evelyn. She wouldn't understand love anyway; she had never been in love, really. All Evelyn's love went to art. She had never had time for mere men. He wondered idly if Evelyn was still a virgin.
Probably.
Occasionally he and Evelyn held cocktail parties in general promotion of this or that. Free booze always brought a certain predictable number of the news media around, and almost always this resulted in mentions and in columns. So much booze balanced against so many free ads; it was all very mathematical; everyone knew it. It also brought buyers and dealers out. And one other important factor: Evelyn loved them.
Evelyn had such a party arranged for the purpose of introducing what she considered an important young sculptor to the world. With the mantle of Revelle's draped casually about his narrow shoulders.
"Please, Orrin, don't invite Doria Verity."
"Why not, for God's sake?"
"She's so-well, earthy." Evelyn lifted her shoulders in the gesture he knew so well. "Has she been through high school?"
"How the hell do I know?"
"You're so close to her, dear."
"Evelyn, for God's sake I wish you wouldn't rake your fingernails over my face. There's nothing wrong with Doria. She's presentable."
"Don't swear." Evelyn picked a silver lighter off her well-ordered teak desk and lit a cigarette delicately. "She's a selfish, money-hungry little vixen-and you say she's presentable."
"Because it's true."
Evelyn's heavy-lidded eyes stared at him. "Because she shows her legs at every opportunity. I suppose men like that-"
Ryder smiled-knowing it would irk her. "Yes, we men like that." He rose from the gilt chair and went to the door. "Many of the dealers are men, darling. They'll love to meet her."
Evelyn sighed and tapped ashes resignedly.
"Try to like her," Ryder said. "It isn't important and it will help sales."
Evelyn made a very unlady-like noise in her throat as Ryder went through the door. He did not hear it.
When he called Doria on the telephone he also aid not know that she took the ring off her finger to talk to him-she had just put it on. Hugo was naked beside her.
"Yes? Oh, Orrin, how nice to hear-"
"There's going to be a cocktail bash at the gallery and I want you there," he said.
"Of course, darling," she purred. Hugo's mouth soothed her; the ring had done its devilish work for moments and she was in a mood to purr. His voice sounded sweet in her ear. "Will you come for me?"
"I'll see you before then, it's three days away. Are you working?"
"I was having a bite," she said throatily-she had been biting Hugo. She looked down to see Hugo's questioning look, and his smile at the remark.
"When can I see you?"
"Right now," she cooed. Hugo's tongue was in her.
"I can't till tomorrow," he said. "But I'll come by in the afternoon, OK?"
"Oh yes, please-"
"God, I love you," he whispered.
"Then come," she purred, and hung up. She couldn't stand it any longer; Hugo was making her squirm! She slipped the ring on again: She scissored his face and rubbed herself sinuously over his darting tongue-and screamed to a climax. She shuddered, bucking helplessly as he held her. The phallus bobbed between his thighs, the skin stretched dangerously. He relinquished the wanton gorge and lifted himself as she shrieked. Throwing himself forward, he grasped her writhing body and the long velvet tusk slid like a striking snake into the frothy, feverish source. He thrust as she gasped and arched her back to receive him. He gave himself up to repeated frantic convulsions. Her feline body fused with his and her giggles sounded in his ear. Her provoking, sensuous wriggles inflamed him. Her flaming tongue coupled lewdly with his and licked into his ear. He groaned and for a driving moment went berserk, spearing and assaulting her squirming lusciousness.
They rolled, delirious and melting. The fountain gushed and she laughed aloud in her throaty voice, curled about him. "Fuck me, Orrin," she whispered. "Oh, fuck me-"
Hugo heard and nearly cried, in the midst of his ecstasy.
He knew she was out of her mind again, in one of those unexplainable passions. Gently he caressed her, patiently helping her through the voluptuous excesses that enveloped her beautiful body. He could love her, even though she merely used him.
What else could he do?
The Revelle Gallery was on Twenty-eighth Street just around the corner from fashionable Sackette Square. It was a marble-faced bank-like building with Grecian pillars and polished brass and glass doors that shone in the late afternoon sun like crisp banknotes.
Orrin Ryder took Doria in the side door which he unlocked himself. "We're late, darling, this way."
"Don't let me drink," she said as they mounted the stairs. "I get so dizzy-"
"I'll watch over you."
The party was on the second floor in the large reception room. In the hall, Ryder paused and turned. Doria came into his arms and laid her head on his shoulder.
"Don't talk to Evelyn," he said. "Smile mysteriously if anyone asks hard questions and you'll be all right."
She pressed her loins against him hard. "Rescue me-"
"Don't do that, darling." He moved away.
She slipped her hand down, giggling. He was stiff, getting stiff. "Why not?"
"Because it excites me, that's why not."
"I want it to."
He took a breath and grabbed her questing hand. "Later, dammit. Now remember, avoid Evelyn. You know how she is."
"She needs a screw."
"Doria!" He laughed. "Maybe you're right." He stepped back and looked at her. She wore a pale blue gown with a simple neckline that showed off her lovely face. His face showed that he was pleased and she smiled.
"I bought the dress just for you."
He took her arm. "Come on."
It was a large, almost square room with Empire decor and Persian rugs. Doria could see only the glitter and sparkle of it for a moment. She had never been in the company of the men and women who graced its hall and she felt insecure and frightened. She pressed herself close to Orrin who patted her hand.
"Steady, girl."
"Jeez, I'm scared-"
"Don't swear in front of the men. Come on, I'll introduce you around."
It went very well. She could remember few of the names, but the faces sorted themselves out: Old Mrs. Gage who was supposed to have millions; Tomas Betaire who had houses in a half dozen countries, who stared at her with smoldering eyes; Max Weitzel the king of the contractors who had flat, fish eyes that seemed to see through her; Irene Laurens, daughter of the Laurens Empire-and a hundred others.
They looked at her and went on with conversations of fishing, boating, racing, the Mediterranean in season, how to cook eggs in wine, who was that with Tilly Lester at the opera, and incidentally, of art.
She saw Evelyn looking at her with an odd smile. It made shivers go up her spine. She bowed slightly and very politely and smiled.
Against her will and against Ryder's admonition, she found herself approaching Evelyn. Why did she care if Evelyn liked her?
"I'm so glad you could come, my dear," Evelyn said with a ghost of a smile on her thin lips. She wore a long, Grecian style gown that allowed her no curves, but suggested all. A gold necklace curled about her neck and flashed dully, exchanging signals with equally gold earrings.
"It's a lovely party," Doria said, "thank you."
"Has Orrin taken you around?"
"Oh yes. He's been very kind." Doria felt stifled, she was on her very best behavior.
"Orrin's a dear." Evelyn looked at her with tolerant amusement. "Come, let me get you a drink."
Ryder was engaged in earnest conversation with a bearded man in the corner; two other men hung on to their words. Doria glanced round for him, following Evelyn to the side bar.
"Gin or what?" Evelyn asked.
"Bourbon and water," Doria said, "not too much though."
She saw that Evelyn chose deliberately to misunderstand her, and poured two jiggers of whisky into the glass with only a small amount of water. It was then she got the idea.
"Thank you." She accepted the drink and remarked on Evelyn's necklace.
"Like it? It's South American, I got it in Rio last year."
"It must be heavy-"
"Gold is heavy, dear," Evelyn said in a voice heavily laced with sarcasm. She sipped a green liquid and regarded Doria with opaque eyes.
Doria smiled and slipped the ring from her purse. She held it in her fingers and turned it about. Evelyn drew in her breath.
"That's lovely!"
"Chinese. It was taken from an Emperor's tomb, you know."
"I can believe it-" Evelyn reached for it with the merest gesture of 'may I?'
Doria smiled in assent and watched with rising interest as Evelyn slipped the ring onto her finger, admiring it.
"It's absolutely beautiful-are you sure it's Chinese?"
Doria shrugged and sipped the whisky. "Chinese or Indian-"
Was Evelyn breathing faster? She watched the woman closely. The stone of the ring was glowing. Evelyn's color seemed heightened-there was a brightness in her eyes that had not been there before.
"Goodness," Evelyn said, "it's warm in here-" She looked at her drink.
"It is a little. I noticed it myself."
"I think I'll go into the lounge-" Evelyn turned, leaving the drink on the bar. "Do excuse me, Doria."
Doria smiled.
She sipped the whisky and followed. Evelyn was walking slowly, searching the crowd with her eyes. A man stopped her and Evelyn smiled quickly and they talked; another man joined them and Doria circled the group hearing Evelyn's laughter. There was a shocked gasp from one of the men.
Doria looked round for Orrin. He still chattered with the men in the comer. She could hear exclamations from the group surrounding Evelyn. "Please, Miss Sprague-!"
Evelyn was coyly embracing one of the men.
"I say, Charles, give me a hand-"
"You seem to be doing all right by yourself."
"Charles, dammit, this woman is-Miss Sprague!"
Doria tried to keep from giggling. Others were looking now, some startled, some amused. Evelyn was practically attacking the man, a rather handsome British-looking gentleman.
"My God" Evelyn was saying, "I need you so-I need you-"
She grabbed at the man's trousers. Her quick hands ripped the cloth, exposing his genitals and she screamed in delight.
The man shouted. The crowd pressed close behind him as he tried to move away. Evelyn flung herself down, her arms went about him and she buried her head in his loins.
"Get her away from me!" the man screamed.
Women giggled and Orrin Ryder hurried to them. Evelyn was madly sucking the man, and his penis under the treatment was rising.
"What the hell's happening!" Ryder pushed through the crowd. When he saw Evelyn his jaw sagged. Doria felt sorry for him at that instant. He seemed to come apart. His fingers picked at the air and tousled his hair. He stared at the lewd scene as others were staring. A hush fell over the guests for a long moment. Only the frantic sounds of Evelyn's sucking mouth could be heard.
Then the man swooned away. Hemmed in so tightly, he slumped to the floor rather than fell. Instantly Evelyn transferred her attentions to the next person-a woman. She screamed suddenly as Evelyn's hands yanked at her skirt.
The crowd reacted all at once. Hands clutched at Evelyn, head buried in the woman's middle. Animal-like sounds came from Evelyn's throat. They dragged her off.
"Into the lounge," Ryder said, coming out of his shock. "Take her into the lounge-"
Evelyn shrieked as though in agony. "I want her-I want her-"
They struggled off and Ryder followed, white-faced. The room buzzed with excited conversation. Several hurried out to telephones. Doria trailed after Ryder. The skirtless woman ran to the lounge ahead of them, her husband swearing and waving his fat fist.
The cocktail party came to an abrupt end.
The occasion became a shambles, and Ryder was here and there, trying to soothe guests, explaining to others, mollifying and lying. Doria went in to Evelyn, who was being held in a small room by three husky females. One sat on her back, one on her head and one on her legs.
"The ambulance'll be here perty soon," one of them said. "Josie called 'em."
"Let me have her," Doria said, "I know what to do for this-I've seen it before."
"Yeah? What is it-?"
"A touch of hysteria," Doria said. "C'mon, get off her."
"If we get up she'll claw the tits off you," one of the women said.
"I told you for chrissake I know what to do," Doria replied. "You get on out and lock the door. C'mon."
They shrugged at each other. Evelyn was moaning and beating the floor with her fists.
"Let's go," Doria said. "I guarantee I can handle it."
Josie shrugged again and rose from Evelyn's back. Doria sat in that spot and grabbed at Evelyn's hand. The three women ran for the door.
"Lock it," Doria yelled. She heard the door slam; the key turned, and Evelyn screamed in delight at being suddenly released. She turned like a slavering wolf and hurled herself at Doria.
Doria slipped the ring off 'her hand with one deft twist. With the ring wadded up in her own fist, Doria rapped Evelyn on the chin. She kept rapping her.
"I'm gonna get-I'm gonna eat you-"
"Come out of it," Doria commanded. She slapped the other sharply. Evelyn seemed confused. Doria had little room to back, but she kept Evelyn off balance. She was younger and stronger than Evelyn-and she knew the effects of the ring were going fast. Evelyn had lost the drive that made her wild.
By the time they began pounding on the door, Evelyn was tractable. She sank to the floor, crying bitterly. Doria opened the door and Orrin rushed in, followed by several men in white.
"Thank God you're all right-"
"She's OK," Doria said, watching Evelyn. The men picked her up and placed her on a stretcher. Doria did her best to conceal her elation. Evelyn had got her comeuppance.
She let Orrin Ryder lead her from the door, comforting her. "That was a brave thing to do, darling," he said softly. "She must have gone mad-how can that happen?"
"It's too bad," Doria said.
"My God, it'll be in all the papers."
"Is it serious?"
He looked at her in astonishment. "It's the kind of publicity we don't need."
I m so sorry He pressed a bill into her hand. "Here, darling.
Take a cab home. I'll have to see what I can do to save the pieces. I'll call you as soon as I can."
She went out smugly, passing the still excited groups. She had made the ring work for her.
When she got home Hugo was slashing moodily at a canvas. He eyed her, looking up and down at the new gown. She smiled her best feline smile and went into the bedroom. Stripping down to nothing, she put the ring on her finger.
"Hugo," she called. "Darling, come and love me a little-"
She stretched like a cat and wriggled herself before the mirror. She was insouciant, the passion of the ring flamed through her.
"Hugo, you sonofabitch, come here!"
It was three days before she saw Ryder again. He was worn and listless. "The goddam gallery has gone to hell," he said.
"What about Evelyn?"
"She quit, of course. Packed up and went south." He sighed. "I never saw anything like that in my life. Not even the doctors know what happened to her. She just suddenly went stark staring mad."
"What does she say?"
"Nothing." He shook his head. "She wouldn't talk about it. It's like she had a streak of insanity in her family that suddenly caught up with her." He walked about the darkened studio. "I can't understand it. Somebody else, but not Evelyn. My God, do you know she attacked a woman too?"
"Yes, I saw it." Doria smiled. Her almond eyes gleamed; it was a shame about Evelyn. She
? squeezed the fateful ring in her hand. Hugo was away, they had the place to themselves. She licked her lips, staring at him.
"Trouble from the main office," he swore under his breath. "They can't understand what the hell it was all about, blame it on me most likely."
The room was dim; shadows piled up in the comers and the gold glimmered wetly on the leaves outside the dusty windows, glimmered and faded slowly. His shoes scraped over the dull floors and thudded on the carpet as he paced.
Doria smiled again and slipped out of her sweater. She was naked to the waist and he did not notice, intent on his own misfortunes. He stared through the wine colored glass, his back toward her. "I've sent them the newspaper accounts, my reports and the doctor's note, but they'll say it was my fault, sure as you're born."
She leaned forward out of the chair, watching her beautiful white breasts sway as she rolled her shoulders slightly. The ring was warm in her fist. She slipped a finger into it and pulled it out again, trying not to giggle. She was fucking the ring. The thought made her feel lecherous, and she liked the feel.
He turned and saw her then. She heard his gasp, but she did not look up. She had beautiful breasts, very beautiful. The nipples were hard as acorns, and the rose dark circles were voluptuous.
"My goodness, Doria!"
She smiled at him and wriggled her shoulders. She put her finger into the ring and left it there. The flush began at her loins; she could feel it and she smiled cat-like and pursed her lips at him.
He came to her with a rash and swept her into his arms. "God, you fire me, Doria. You drive me out of-"
"Don't talk," she whispered, pressing her lips on his mouth. "Give me your-"
He carried her into the darkness of the den room and rolled her onto the couch. Her giggles filled the silence and she kicked off her skirt, flinging it into a comer.
"Hurry, darling-"
She dived at his knees, tugging at the pants. He swore at her, "Dammit, Doria-I can do it-Oh Jesus!"
She bit him. She giggled and burrowed into the nest below his belly, seeking with her feverish mouth, and finding. He sucked in his breath.
Kicking off his shoes, he lay back, the pants half mast about his shins. "Doria, you'll kill me!"
She made noises.
"Doria-for God's sake don't bite-how do you get so excited!"
He fumbled at his tie, picked at the buttons on his shirt, gritting his teeth. The shirt came off jerkily and he wrapped his bare arms about her silky body and dragged her very close. She giggled throatily and straddled his face. "Doria-" he breathed, and lost himself in the sensuous idyll.
Her tempestuous mouth harassed his nerve-endings. Squealing with enslaved spasms, she writhed wickedly over his exquisite kisses. The now familiar mists smeared over her consciousness and left her in paroxysms of screaming sensation.
Ryder listened and marveled at the passion he stirred in her. No one was as wanton and seductive as Doria-insatiable was more like it. He slowly rolled her over, onto her back. She seemed to throb and pulsate under his caresses. He fused with her, listening to the music of her lips caressing his lips, his cheek-feeling the deliciousness of her satiny breasts.
She was past thought. She was sunk in the valley of lust, in a carnal reverie where fantasies played in her brain, maddening and seeking release that could not soothe. Ryder saturated himself on the bounty of her, the beauty of her. She screamed when he left her, and moaned when he thrust with her.
She tortured him, demanding and belaboring him in anguished delirium. She mouthed words that he could not distinguish. He was exhausted and still she smothered him.
It was more than mere man could bear. Hours after darkness had fallen, he gathered up his clothes and darted from the room. She stumbled after him calling and shrieking. She stumbled and fell and he found her, after he had dressed, gathered into a lustful ball, masturbating in a hypnotized state.
He carried her to the couch and left her there, unable to keep her from the act or to help her. Closing his eyes to her serpentining body, he stumbled to the door and let himself out.
Hugo found her after midnight. Still moaning, still writhing. He undressed and coupled with her quickly, knowing that he had not been the first.
She was wilder than he had ever seen her.
But sometime during the night, she got the ring off. In the morning she was pale, and there were deep circles about her eyes, but she was sated and cuddlesome as a cat. She woke before noon, drank coffee and went back to sleep. In the middle of the afternoon she rose and padded into the studio where Hugo worked; she was half naked and hungry.
"Feed me, darling."
"Doria, what the hell gets into you?"
She stared at him, knowing well what he meant, and pretending astonishment. She batted her eyes at him innocently.
"Don't look so fucking innocent. You know-what makes you so goddam horny?"
"You don't like me?"
"Of course I like you. But you're gonna kill yourself screwing."
"Don't be vulgar, darling."
"Me vulgar!" he shouted.
She giggled. "Feed me and stop yelling." She kissed him. "Darling, my cunt hurts."
"Of course it does. My God, the way you use it!"
She sniffed and padded back to the kitchen. They entered upon a period of solvency, the like of which neither of them had experienced before. With no Evelyn Sprague to act as a brake on Orrin Ryder's willingness to buy, they sold him everything they put on canvas and he in turn disposed of it steadily.
A one-woman show at the Revelle Gallery was a success, despite the biting remarks of several critics and cold shoulders from others.
"You're a financial success, dear," Ryder said, "but I wish we could point to more acceptance with the media. They do influence some, you know."
Doria didn't care. She went to his home more often, and they sank into excesses, she with the help of the ring, and he inflamed and caught up in her passion. She knew she was hooked as though on heroin, but parting with the ring was unthinkable. She met Neil Deiafield finally.
Delafield was the art critic of the Tribune, and influential beyond the subscription list of his paper. He was a thin, graying man, slightly stooped and equipped with a perpetual cynical sneer. At their meeting she thought him particularly acid.
"I've seen and admired your work, Miss Verity," he told her, and it was plain that he meant not a single word of it.
But she accepted it on face value. They met at the Revelle Gallery, in the bar room off the main reception room. It was a place of wood and leather and sparkling glass. She leaned toward him as though fascinated, knowing he could see almost to her navel, wondering if he would be interested in the charms so displayed. He was.
He was blunt. "They're beautiful," he said, and he meant the breasts.
She smiled. "I'm thrilled you like beauty, Mr. Delafield-"
"My life work, my dear."
She tried not to giggle, but she breathed deeply, knowing it would please him. "Mr. Ryder is anxious for me to please you-I mean my work, of course."
"Of course," he said, looking down the cleft. He glanced around casually. "This seems such a crowded spot to discuss art. Perhaps there is another less peopled nook-"
"I'd love that," she giggled.
She met him in the foyer, her coat about her shoulders, and they slipped out and took a cab. He gave the driver an address. "My place," he said to her.
Delafield slipped his hand inside the dress and cupped a bare breast. She snuggled close. "You haven't been very nice in your reviews," she said.
"That may change, my dear." He caressed the breast tenderly. The nipple seemed to please him. "Perhaps I hadn't all the facts then. One mustn't judge too quickly about art, must one?"
"Hell no," she said and he laughed.
He had a fascinating apartment, lavish and cozy, far more than she had expected. He took her coat, caressing both breasts in the operation. She smiled at him and slipped the ring on her finger for a long moment. The passion welled up.
She removed the ring and they had a drink, and an interlude of kissing. Delafield was younger than the pose he assumed for the public had led her to believe.
"Orrin tells me he discovered you-"
"Yes," she said. "I have a small studio and he came there slumming."
"Your work is terrible, you know."
She giggled. "You mean my painting of course?"
"Of course."
She laid her head on his shoulder and snuggled closer as she unfastened the dress. Her hand crept along his thigh. "It depends, doesn't it?" "Well, art is relative-is that the word? It means one thing to me and another to a Hottentot. You have lovely breasts, my dearest."
Doria breathed deeply, satisfyingly. The ring felt warm in her hand. Delafield moved her forward and unhooked her bra. Stroking the naked breasts, he kissed her cheek. "Your painting has a definite primitive quality, a very delightful quality."
"You're sweet to say it-"
"Isn't it strange I've only just noticed the exotic values in your work." His lips teased hers.
She giggled. "You mustn't ever look at my pictures again."
"That might be wise." He embraced her and she gave herself up to his kisses, transferring her warmth to him.
Her hand swirled up his thigh, rubbing over the place that would be protruding, but was not. Doria was slightly surprised. Wasn't he aroused? Her kisses became more ardent. Her roving hand found no response in him. He captured the hand and kept it from roving. Then he pushed her down and his mouth sought her breasts.
She slipped her finger into the ring and took it out. She writhed and twisted under his provoking mouth. Then she lifted his head and squirmed into his arms.
"I want more than that-"
He laughed shortly. "I'd never have known from those paintings what you are."
"You don't know yet, darling."
Her clothes were half off and as she undulated in his arms, his mouth was everywhere. She sighed as her skirt slipped down over her knees and fell in a shimmering pool. Slithering, she fed him her bosom, feeling hands enveloping her. She squirmed into his crotch, and felt nothing. He was limp, hardly stirring.
"I'm sorry," he said apologetically, "but I won't disappoint you-"
She faced him directly, surprise in her eyes.
"I've a-problem, darling," he said.
"You can't get it up?"
"Must you be so crude?"
She was in his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-I didn't know-" She kissed him passionately. "I didn't realize-"
"I can satisfy you another way, dearest."
She sat back. "I want another drink."
He shrugged. "Of course." He rose and went to the bar. "You're not angry with me?"
She shook her head. "No, of course not." She had never met a man who couldn't get it up. He fascinated her in a strange way. She squeezed the ring and looked at it, at the glowing stone.
He came back with the drink, his eyes on her nakedness. "You are beautiful, you know."
"I know." She smiled and opened her hand. "I almost forgot, I wanted your opinion on this-this new acquisition. As I critic, I mean."
He sat beside her and took it quickly. "My God-that's a lovely thing!"
"It's probably a museum piece."
"Oh yes, certainly." He turned it over and over in his hands. "Where did it come from? I don't believe I've seen anything like it."
"It's a long story, darling. But is it valuable? I'm sure it's gold."
He slipped it on his finger. She moved close and kissed him, and he forgot the ring for long moments. When he tried to speak, she closed his mouth with her lips. Her silky body moved sinuously in his grasp.
"Take me," she whispered. "I want to be yours-"
He struggled; strange flames licking at his brain releasing tortured bonds. He nearly screamed aloud as she pulled him. They rolled and she giggled, feeling the maleness of him, hearing his panting breath and the wonder in him. He ripped at his clothes in torment. She bit his ear and squirmed wickedly.
"Come to me, darling, hurry-"
She purred as he entered her and drove himself wildly in voracious agitation. "Ohhhhhhhh-"
"My God-Doria!"
"I want you so," she whispered, "I want you-"
He was crazed with passion. She smiled languidly at the ceiling, caressing him as he exulted in the longed-for excitement. The luxury of his thrusting body caused delightful fantasies in her mind, almost as though she wore the ring-was it because the ring was so near and thrilling her?
She lost herself in the desire and lascivious pleasure of it. She clung to him as he heaved and jerked in frantic, virile orgasms. She giggled and whispered in his ear, telling him of love though she knew he could not answer, gripped as he was in the violent surges of passion. She gave herself up to ecstasy and feverish dreams.
The night was mystical, velvet and abandoned. She roused herself-how late was it? Delafield was insatiable, gorging himself, his body shaking in paroxysms of surging anguish. She slipped the ring from his finger.
"Now we'll see," she giggled and petted his insouciant cheek. He roused himself much later, worn and drooping. He could hardly stand, but she got him to bed, and crawled in with him.
In the morning he was pale but triumphant. She mothered him and caressed him, even made him breakfast.
"Darling, I haven't been able to do that for years-"
"I'm good for you," she assured him. She dressed and despite his entreaties, slipped away from him.
He called her three times that afternoon. Hugo was moody and bellicose.
"You don't need me anymore-"
She could agree to that, but did not say so. His black moods were annoying. She wanted him in bed, but not if they argued constantly. Perhaps it would be best to replace him with another-painter. Doing the paintings that Ryder required of her was a bore; she had got into the habit of letting Hugo do them all, though she knew he hated to sign them with her name.
She put off Delafield. He would desire her more if she made herself less available. Let him prove his love a little. She went out in search of a replacement for Hugo.
There were dozens of studios nearby, and she knew many of the artists. But she had her mind on one. His name was Gabriel; he pretended to have no other. She knew he was poor. His studio was small and smelled of paint and food.
He knew her: "Come in, Doria. My Jesus how the lightning strikes-"
"What do you mean?"
"You're getting famous," he said. "For Crissake, your stuff is terrible."
She smiled at him. He was tall and black-haired, with brawny arms and no shoes. His jeans were tight over narrow hips. She ran her tongue over her lips and nodded, staring at the bulge in the front of the jeans. Tearing her eyes away, she reminded herself of her errand. "Aren't you selling?"
"Don't be a bitch. Did you come here to gloat? You want some coffee?"
"Please." She looked at the walls. His work was good, better than hers. Better than Hugo's too. At least he could draw. That always helped.
"What the hell did you come for?" He poured two cups and looked at her curiously.
"I came to gloat, like you said."
"Fuck you."
She giggled. "No sugar in the coffee."
He passed it across and pulled up two chairs. "Go and shave," she said.
"What?" He looked startled.
She ran the back of her hand across his cheek. "I said go and shave."
He put the cup down and went to a door. Rummaging inside he came back with an electric razor. Plugging it in, he began to shave, looking at her with unfathomable eyes. She watched him and sipped the coffee contentedly. He was better-look in than Hugo, and had strength. More than physical strength, she thought.
When he finished, he put the razor away and resumed drinking the coffee. "I live upstairs," he said. He looked at her empty cup. "Go up and wait for me, I'll lock up."
She got up obediently and went to the stairs. She heard him click the lock on the door and go through to the back. His quarters were small, a bedroom and a kitchen and bath. She went into the bedroom and smoothed the rumpled bed.
Her excitement mounted when she heard him on the stairs. She pulled the dress over her head and faced him, unfastening her bra.
"Jesus, God!" he said. "You don't fool around, baby."
She giggled and pushed off her panties and jumped on the bed. "I want something, darling."
"You're gonna get it." He stripped off the jeans and ran at her. She screamed in delight. The bed bounced alarmingly and they fused in violence.
He was sinewy and in a hurry. He attacked her as she shrilled and clung to him. In a berserk frenzy they panted in harmony. The spear thrust and pulsated and convulsed her. She raked his back and bit him in ferment, urging him and squealing, with silky legs caressing him.
"Jesus, God!" he breathed, "where th' fuck've you been?"
She giggled in his ear, bucking wildly. He moaned as the fountain gushed and she squeezed him with all her strength. She didn't need the ring today-just the thought of it spurred her.
"Do you like me?" she whispered.
"Sheeee-" He panted desperately and rolled on his side, looking into her wide eyes. "You fuck like a mink, darling. I could love you forever."
"Is your name really Gabriel?"
He laughed. "Gabriel Scalonas." He kissed her. "Did you get what you came for?"
She shook her head.
"You want more?"
"Of course, but that wasn't what I came for."
His eyebrows went up.
"I want you to come and work for me."
"Oh? Screwing or painting?"
"Painting, darling." She bore down with her vagina, seeing that he felt it. "It'll be cozy."
He stroked it languidly. "I've never had a better offer-of course I will, if you go with it."
She pulled at him. "I want some more, darling."
He rolled her onto her back. "Say please."
Her tongue licked out. "Fuck me, dammit."
She returned home late, glutted like a cat, to find Delafield pacing in the studio.
"Where have you-?"
"No questions." She regarded him coldly. "I'm not your property."
"Forgive me, darling." He kissed her hand and she smiled. He was repentant. The might had fallen to her.
She let him kiss her then, squirming in his arms, exciting him. He waited an hour while she bathed and dressed, and took her to dinner. He was gallant, and the lynx-eyed members of cafe society recognized her importance from his attitude.
Halfway through the dinner the pangs came upon her, wanting him. Was she such a slave to the ring? She fought down the urge, giggling as she felt his hands on her thigh. She reached for him and grasped his rampant organ, squeezing it wickedly. He groaned aloud. They left the dinner and hurried to his apartment.
She slipped the ring on her finger and the mystical exultation surged through her. She dragged him with her to the velvet, tempestuous pit, screaming in the fever she transmitted to him.
In the night he slithered from the bed, fighting off her clawed hands, and locked himself in the bath. She whimpered at the door, crying pitifully, and when he could no longer resist, opened it to be smothered under her voluptuous demands.
"I can't help it," she whispered to him in the morning, the ring removed. "You thrill me so-I want you so-"
He believed it-had he not experienced her devotion? She was sheer ecstasy: He wrote glowing reviews of her art. The Revelle Gallery could not hold the crowds that thronged her shows. Neil Delafield was her white knight. The opposition was scattered and weak-voiced. They had not the great dailies to protest Doria Verity's insipid superficial daubs.
Hugo was turned out, but relieved too. Doria was not the same girl. Nothing about her was the same. Not even her frantic lovemaking was the same. Hugo was secretly glad to escape from her flaming demands. He pitied Gabriel.
Orrin Ryder was the darling of the faddists. Doria was his protege. Rut he was shrewd enough to realize the bubble would burst. He could realize it, but how could he relinquish her? Other women were as dry, stale toast after Doria's passion.
And Doria herself knew she was but riding a wave that could crash. She had entered the game for money, and now every day that passed found her desiring money less. Her savings account did not grow, she was careless. What was happening to her? All she seemed to care about was gratification. Was the ring poisoning her? She took it out and laid it on her palm. The stone seemed to turn slowly from cold, dull gray to a glowing luster.
She put it away in a drawer.
How could a mere bauble poison her? She went to the door of the studio, watching Gabriel cock his head at an easel. Her eyes widened at sight of his muscular body. She found her thoughts wandering to the ring. She forced them away. She looked at him and they drifted back.
She ran to the drawer and snatched up the ring. "Gabriel!" she shouted.
Nothing could satisfy her, no one could sate her. The day came when she wore the ring almost constantly, screaming in tortured paroxysms. Ryder carried her to a physician who could find no reason for her behavior-other than mental, which he suggested to Ryder.
She was quiet and obedient when they were interviewed, and compliant as the doctor examined her. His touch thrilled her, as she was naked, and she slipped on the ring. The doctor found himself drawn into a convulsing passion; unable to combat her seductive advances, he succumbed. He realized at first hand what Ryder had explained to him.
She became wildly hysterical during their coupling. It disturbed the entire building.
Ryder dipped into moods, wanting to rid himself of her and yet unable to. Her pictures sold well. The brass was pleased with him. She sensed his moods, when she was calm, but his disquiet did not find her sympathy.
She turned to Gabriel more and more. The others were weak, Ryder and Delafield; they could tease her and little more. Under the heady influence of the ring she writhed in Gabriel's embraces to the brink of dementia.
Neil Delafield would not be put off, however. No other woman could arouse him as Doria did. He was positive of that; he tried others. His penis was flaccid and remained so under any treatment. Rut with the mesmeric Doria in his arms, he was a man again.
He would not give her up to anyone.
He had power, and used it. His initial move was to offer Gabriel money: "Two thousand dollars, in cash-"
"I don't want your money," Gabriel said when they met outside the studio at Delafield's request.
"What do you want?"
Gabriel smiled. "Doria."
"Make up your mind to it," Delafield said, "I'll have her one way or the other. I advise you to take the money while you can."
"Threats?"
Delafield shrugged at the younger man. "I'll say it again. I'll give you two thousand dollars if you leave the city and don't come back. I want you to leave tomorrow."
Gabriel shook his head and walked away.
That same evening Delafield's hirelings assaulted him. He was badly beaten and left in the alley behind the studio. Gabriel got the point. But he did not get the money. When he telephoned Delafield the critic merely laughed.
"My generous offer just expired." He hung up.
Gabriel packed up and left the studio without a word to Doria. She was distraught when she discovered that his things were gone from his room. Orrin Ryder was obviously surprised to hear of the disappearance; but she could not tell about Delafield. Delafield was suave and sympathetic:
"After all, dearest, he was only a helper-"
She went to dinner with him, and Delafield was charming and witty. Later, at his apartment, he asked her to come live with him.
"I need you, Doria."
She was astonished. "You want me to marry you?"
"Marry?" He hedged. "We're modems, you and I, let's not bow to the common red tape, not just yet."
She put the ring on her finger, smiling at him with cat's eyes. Marriage had never, until this moment, entered her mind. She had known instinctively that Neil Delafield was not the marrying kind. But perhaps he could be induced. She unfastened her dress while he watched with darting eyes.
"You're beautiful, Doria," he said thickly. He watched her undress completely and licked his thin lips as she paraded before him.
She flung herself at him. He was impotent again, but she enveloped him in her passion. They drank, laughing and kissing-and she slipped the ring onto his finger and thrilled as he went completely berserk.
With the idea of marriage fixed before her, she was able to tear herself away in the morning. When he awoke she was gone. He came after her but she avoided him for a day-two days.
At last, when he found her in the studio, he was desperate: "Doria-my God! I need you-"
She kissed him. "You're sweet, darling, but-"
"Marry me, Doria. For God's sake, marry me!"
She smiled.
They were married in a week, to the surprise of hundreds of people, including Orrin Ryder.
Doria forced herself to go through with the ceremony, suppressing the doubts. In the first flush of it, marriage with the prominent critic had seemed a fantasy. But with the reality came a sense of unrest. He depended on her so much. Too much.
The night before the wedding, she went to Orrin Ryder, and spent much of the night with him. She forgot her doubts with the ring's help. Ryder came to the ceremony, pale and waxen from their struggles.
There was no honeymoon. Locking themselves in Delafield's suite, they gave themselves over to frenzy. No one could get them on the telephone.
Ryder, with gallery problems, went to the door of the suite but they would not answer his knock. A friend of Delafield's met him there, a blonde with a red mouth and dull eyes.
"The sonofabitch, I don't believe he's married-"
"I was there," Ryder told her. "It's true."
"Him," she sniffed. "How could he marry? He's impotent as a worm-" She shrugged and went away.
Ryder stared after her. He had heard that whisper, but had discounted it. The blonde seemed the kind who would know. He smiled. An impotent husband with a raving nymphomaniac for a wife. He sighed at the closed door.
On the fourth day of their marriage, Neil Delafield managed to get the door open. He staggered into the hall and fell headlong. A guest called the police about a drunken man.
They got him to the hospital just in time; his heart attack was not fatal, but he was unconscious for days.
Orrin Ryder rushed to the suite. Doria was drunk. "Go away," she said to him. "Stay 'way from me, I'm bad luck.'"
"He'll recover-"
"I don' care. Don' care 'bout nothin'." She went into the bedroom and slammed the door.
"Doria, what's the matter?"
"Go 'way," she yelled through the closed door.
He opened it and went in. She was sitting in the middle of the bed looking at something. She had a piece of jewelry in her hand.
"That's 'cause of all the trouble," Doria said, her tongue thick. "Can get rid of it." She looked at him.
"Doria, you're just a little woozy, that's all."
"No 'm not."
Ryder sat on the edge of the bed. "What trouble?"
She looked at him and began to giggle. "Me. I'm trouble." She put out her tongue and licked her lips, looking at him under the mass of brown hair piled on her head as though done by a windstorm.
He came to her and she wilted into his arms. She was tired. Nothing had come out right. Everything had been easy-because of the ring. She felt it biting into her palm. She squeezed it hard. It had gotten her everything-and nothing.
"You've got to go to the hospital and see him," Ryder was saying, "they'll expect it."
"Don' want to-"
"You've got to."
She sighed. "I made 'im marry me, Orrin. I made 'im do it. It was the most terrible thing. Shouldn't have done it-"
"You're stuck with it now, darling," he said. He pushed her away and looked at her. "Come on, there's certain things you have to do, you know."
"Want a drink."
"You've had enough."
She giggled at him and licked out with her tongue. Her finger slipped inside the circle of the ring. Her eyes felt heavy.
Ryder bit his lip, recognizing the signs he knew so well.
"Kiss me," she said.
"Doria-"
Her two hands ripped at the neck of her dress. She laughed aloud as the cloth tore away exposing her naked breasts. Ryder moaned. Doria pounced on him like a cat. She made tiny noises in her throat, bearing him back on the bed. He struggled, but his struggles were token.
She was suddenly a supple, lustful Amazon. The scarlet images flooded her brain, much quicker now, and she screeched at him shrilly, demanding, tearing at him. They twisted; he flung her on her back as she screamed in his ear, and they fused. Her body writhed wantonly. He looked into her eyes; they were like an addict's, staring as those of a snake. Ryder shuddered.
Her nails clawed across his back and the sounds that issued from her throat were scarcely human. She was beyond listening to him, beyond consciousness.
He tried to withdraw and she shrieked and clasped him desperately. He gave himself up to it, trying to satisfy her, knowing he could not. But he could at least lull her sensuous, satiny body, gratifying himself at the same time. He could not help that. And he could not help feeling sorry for her, this beautiful girl. Everyone was a little mad, Doria was only one more victim-was it madness?
It was impossible to communicate with her, she was beyond any power save carnal gratification. Ryder forced her arms from him and, as she screamed curses, he evaded her. She drained him. What could he do?
Slamming the door behind him, he held the knob till she tired of pulling at it. He opened the door, watching her climb back onto the bed, crying pitifully.
"God, Doria, I wish I could help-" He put on his clothes and went out, the words of the physician in his mind: "There's nothing physiologically wrong-she needs someone who can get inside her head."
Doria moaned and tossed on the rumpled bed, hiding from the world in the sensuous smear that the ring brought her. She could see gorgeous visions, hear fantastic music, and feel-how she could feel-the more-than-velvet luxury of the cocoon that seemed to surround her. Sensations drenched her and drove her to stupefied paroxysms.
She rose and ran, calling Hugo ... where was he? She seemed to feel his touch, yet he escaped her. The golden window, shimmering in the light of the dying sun, drew her. He was there, in the halo of light-she screamed with delight and plunged through the glass.
She fell five floors to the side street.
Matt Oliver saw her fall, and hunched his shoulders and cried. He sobbed, half lying in the shadows of the apartment garages. Matt hated death, and there it lay before him, a red ruin on the pavement.
He was a bum, a derelict. No one paid him the slightest attention as a crowd gathered. Women shrieked and several men vomited at sight of the naked mess. The ambulance and the police sirened to the spot. They gathered up the poor remains and sloshed down the blood with hoses. They were efficient.
Matt watched from a distance. The police asked questions, but they did not bother with him. He cowered back, hands fluttering, parched for whisky.
But when they all went away, he edged to the spot, drawn by some dreadful curiosity to stand on the very spot where the girl had died. He stared upward at the distant apartment whence she had flung herself. He could even make out the shattered window where even now people stood.
He slouched away, eyes in the gutter; habit overcame all. And then he saw the ring.
He pounced on it, a glittering circlet of gold, with a stone. It was heavy, it had to be gold. He grasped it in a shaking hand and hurried from the spot. He did not connect the ring with the dead girl. Someone had lost the ring, and the police hoses had merely washed it further along the gutter and clotted it with mud. Matt's lips were dry and his tongue flicked out. The ring meant money-money for whisky.
He hurried to the nearest pawn shop. "How much?"
The man thought he had stolen it.
"It's mine," Matt swore. He knew he was shabby, his old hands shaking. "It's all I got left," he said. "I got to pawn it-but I'll be back-"
The man gave him ten dollars. Tagging it, he nodded with wise eyes. "Sure, old timer."
Matt rushed from the place. He never went back.
Two months later, a man entered and took his time examining watches and rings. He was tall, with brown hair and eyes that drooped. He looked like any of a million businessmen.
When he came to the gold ring with the gray stone, he pointed to it. "Let me see that one, huh?"
The clerk put the tray under his nose. The man picked the ring out and examined it. The stone was not gray after all, it had a sheen to it.
"How much you want for this?"
The clerk consulted the tag. "Eighteen dollars. It's marked down."
"I kinda like it."
The clerk shrugged thin shoulders. "Yeah, I can't understand why nobody's bought it. The boss says mark it down so's it'll move."
The customer hefted it. Gold alright, and the stone sure looked valuable. It had a definite glow to it like an opal. He stuck his tongue into his cheek and looked at the ring with his head cocked. Yeah, she'd like it alright. She liked nutty stuff, and this sure had an exotic look. And eighteen bucks might be a bargain.
"You got a box for it? I wanna give it to my wife."
"Sure, we c'n fix you up." The clerk rummaged in a bin and brought out a black box; he rubbed the dust off on his pants and put the ring in it. The stone glowed dully. "You got the bes' one we had, mister. That's a good-lookin' ring."
"Yeah." The man counted out the money.
He drove home with the ring in his pocket. She'd be surprised with that one alright. He put the car away and went in, humming softly to himself.
He closed the door behind him. "Carla, I'm home, dear."