Man From O.R.G.Y Chap 8

[Zifferman]

CHAPTER EIGHT
"Hallelujah, boy! You been saved!"
Instead of the fatal bullet blowing my gonads away with my orgasm, there was
the familiar voice. My mind stepped back from the brink of the grave and my
eyes opened. There, standing in front of me, an old-fashioned blackjack still
vibrating in his clutch, stood Grandpa.
Lorna Doome was face down in the sand in front of him, still between my
widespread legs, a lump the size of an egg already poking through the red hair
on top of her head. She was out cold. Her hand holding the gun was still under
me. The safety was still off. I raised myself off it very carefully.
"Wipe yourself off, sonny." The old man's voice was disgusted. "And put on your
pants." I did as he said.
"Some kids never learn." The old man shook his head ruefully. "A stiff cock's
got no brains. Keep following it, kid, and one of these days you're gonna wake
up dead with it stuffed in your mouth."
"Tonight was close enough," I assured him.
"I sure am glad you followed me here."
"Didn't follow you. Followed her." He pointed the blackjack at the unconscious
Lorna. "Been
following her since she left your apartment last night."
"How come?"
"Professional curiosity. She's supposed to be the best contract hitter the
mob's got. I been out of the action a long time. I wanted to case her
technique. I may be old, but I ain't too old to learn new tricks. In my
business, you gotta keep up.
`Somehow I don't think you're going to be able to adapt her tricks for
yourself," I told him. "Not at your age."
"Age hell! It's what you call `gender' that's the problem." He stooped over
Lorna who had just groaned and was starting to regain consciousness. He went
through the pockets of her dungarees and pulled out a key ring. He handed it to
me.
"What's this?"
"Keys to the cab. Use it to drive yourself home, sonny. I'll take the lady back
in my car."
"In your car? Wait a minute! Don't you realize that if I don't call the cops
and have her arrested she'll try to kill me again?"
"Why, sure she will, boy. But that's no reason for you to get all whiny about
it. Hell, killing you is her job. There's nothing personal in it. Matter of
fact, from what I saw, I'd even judge she's fond of you."
"The hell with that! I don't want her walking around free to off me every
chance she gets! She's got a contract! She won't stop!"
"Course she won't. A contract is a contract. But I don't turn nobody in to the
bulls, sonny. I'm a stand-up guy. I don't blow the whistle on nobody. So you
just trot on home. I want to talk
to the lady anyway. Ain't had a good gab about the business in a long time."
The old man patted
Lorna's cheek with a withered hand as her eyes fluttered open.
It was no use. By the time I found a cop and got back there, Grandpa would have
spirited her away. I got in the cab and drove myself home.
When I got there, I found two messages on my phone answering tape, both asking
me to call back. The first was from Gina Ronzoni, the second from Stephanie
Greenwillow. I took them in order and called Happy Ronzoni's widow back first.
"Hello, Steve. You keep late hours." Her voice sounded sleepy when she answered
the phone.
"Your message said `Urgent'," I reminded her.
"You take things very literally." Her tone was more wide awake now. "Like
Grandpa."
"Grandpa keeps late hours too," I told her. "I just left him."
"Oh, dear! I do hope he hasn't been harassing you again."
"Nope. On the contrary. He saved my life." I explained. "Now tell me about
`Urgent'," I added when I'd finished.
"I came across some of Happy's notes in his desk. The raw notes he used when he
was researching Fornicate! Fornicate!. They talk about meetings with Stephanie
Greenwillow."
I thought that one over. "Stephanie said she never met your husband before the
night he
was killed," I said slowly.
"According to these notes they met eight or nine months ago for the first time.
There are also mentions of meetings subsequent to the first one." Gina
Ronzoni's voice was low and over controlled. "It isn't spelled out, but there's
a strong implication that they were having sex."
"I don't want to hurt your feelings, Gina, but in researching his book your
husband had sex with lots of people. Their knowing each other beforehand
doesn't implicate Stephanie Greenwillow any more than she already is."
"But why didn't she tell you, Steve?" I had no answer for that.
"Don't you find it suspicious that she'd withhold such a crucial piece of
information?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "It's suspicious. But I have a question for you, Gina. Why
are you so anxious to pin this on Stephanie?"
"I'm not. I just want the case closed so my kids won't be hurt any more. I told
you. And you're the one that's keeping that from happening, Steve."
"I'm sorry, Gina. But we've been all through that. You haven't told me anything
to make me change my mind and back off."
"Suppose I told you that in his last note that mentions Stephanie Greenwillow,
my husband used these words: `I may have gone too far with her. She is a very
dangerous woman. By pushing her, I may have unlocked a violence beyond my
control, or hers. Such unleashed sexuality is what underlies the most brutal
sex killings.' How does that strike you, Mr. Victor?"
"As compromising. But it's not proof that Stephanie Greenwillow killed your
husband."
And that's the way it was left when we said goodnight and hung up on each
other.
Still, it bothered me a lot more than I'd let on. If Gina Ronzoni was telling
the truth about what she'd found in her husband's notes, the implications were
damning for Stephanie. And why wouldn't Gina be telling the truth? Her kids
certainly weren't reason enough for her to lie about a thing like that.
Stephanie, on the other hand, had lots of reason to lie. She was facing a
murder charge. Late as it was, I decided to call her and put the question to
her directly.
"Did you know Happy Ronzoni before the night he was killed?" I asked her when
she answered the phone in a voice filled with yawns.
"No."
"You'd never met?"
"No."
"You'd never had sex with him?"
"Of course not!" She came wide awake, her voice indignant. "Steve, what's this
all about." I told her.
"She's lying!" Stephanie's reaction came fast.
"Why would she lie?"
"I don't know. But she is."
"Well, somebody is," I said. "But I'm not sure who."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Stephanie sounded hurt.
"Our relationship hasn't inspired confidence," I reminded her drily. "Now what
did you call me for?"
"To tell you I'd been contacted by Leslie Robbins. She says she has something
to tell me about the murder. She wants me to come to her dressing room at the
ballet after Thursday night's performance. I thought maybe you should come with
me."
"Yeah," I said. "I should." I was remembering what Adele van Dyne had told me
about Ronzoni falling in love with Leslie Robbins during an orgy at Gravelgrit.
"I'll meet you at Lincoln Center. What time?"
"After the ballet. I guess about eleven."
"I'll be there."
"Steve-!" She spoke quickly before I had a chance to hang up.
"Yeah?"
"I didn't kill Happy Ronzoni. I really didn't."
"Sure," I said. "That's what you want me to prove."
"Steve, how is it going? I mean, have you found out anything to help me?"
I gave her a rundown on everything I'd been doing so far.
"That isn't much," she said doubtfully.
"It is if you've lived through it."
"What will you do now?"
"Get a night's sleep."
"I mean after that. Tomorrow, for instance."
"I thought I'd get a massage."
"Oh." Her voice fell. "Well, I guess I can't expect you to spend all your time
on my troubles. I guess you're entitled to some time off for a massage if
that's what you want."
"Yeah," I said. "I guess so." The hell with her.
Stephanie hadn't treated me so terrifically that I found it necessary to
explain that I was going
to Pierre de Touehe for my massage. Nor did I feel obliged to spell out that
Pierre de Touche
was the fancy massage parlor that Happy Ronzoni used to manage and that Cindy
Lou Gibbs, one of the girls at the Barfer party the night Ronzoni was murdered,
still worked there.
I asked for her by name the next afternoon when I went up to the receptionist
at Pierre de Touche. The receptionist-a hostess really was very understanding.
She was dressed in a high-necked, tight black silk dress that seemed
conservative until you realized that there wasn't anything underneath it except
feverish, nervous, constantly undulating flesh. She looked at me with eyes like
erotic lasers and asked if I had an appointment with Mademoiselle Gibbs.
"No," I confessed.
"But you have been here before and met her, and now you wish to renew the
acquaintance," she suggested in a voice suitable for pouring over crepes.
"No. We've never met."
"Oh?" Her expressive breasts deflated. Black silk restretched over impatient
flesh as she took a deep breath. "Mademoiselle Gibbs is one of our most popular
masseuses," she confided regretfully. "Perhaps one of our other jeune filles-?"
"Cindy Lou Gibbs," I said firmly. I smoothed a hundred dollar bill on the
marble top of the desk at
which she was sitting.
"I will arrange it." The hundred vanished below the high neck, distorting the
line of the bodice under the black silk. "If you will sit down, please, I will
be right back."
She vanished behind a curtain. I sat in a plush red velvet armchair that
embraced me like an old flame.
Matching draperies lent an air of restfulness to the reception room. An incense
that smelled like perfumed pot added to the over-all feeling of relaxation as
it was exhaled by invisible burners. Lazily, I studied the mural on the wall
opposite me.
It was a rendition of the Eiffel Tower in the Impressionist style. A carefully
hidden spotlight accented the sweep of the tower from floor to ceiling in the
otherwise subdued lighting of the reception room. Long, graceful, feminine
fingers with sharp, exquisitely manicured blood-red nails stroked the tower as
if they were an extension of some Amazonian goddess. The painting conveyed
unmistakably how the touch of the fingers had made the steel of the tower come
alive. Nor was the rendition so subtle as to disguise the obvious implication.
This Eiffel Tower might just as well have been a Texas oil well about to blow
its geyser. It was the visual symbol of what Pierre de Touche had to offer.
The receptionist returned. "If you will come this way, M'sieur."
She held the curtain aside for me to enter. As I did so, I brushed up against
her. Her eyes closed. A smile formed on her moist, red lips. She had an
instant-but unmistakable-orgasm. "Welcome to Pierre de Touche, M'sieur." The
curtain closed behind me and she was gone.
I found myself in a small, cool room of pastel creams and lemons and greens.
There were prints
of Picasso's humorous pornographic sketches on the wall. A handsomely brocaded
divan, curved in the Louis XIV style was the piece of furniture central to the
chamber. A knew that he was dead. From her exuberant bounciness, it didn't seem
she was grieving overly much. "Yes," I lied. "We were real close. I miss him."
"I never think of him as gone." Her bubbly eighteen-year-old tone might have
been discussing a boy who had left school to go to work. "He'll always be alive
to me. And that's how he would have wanted it. You know how Happy was." She
removed my shirt and furrowed the hair on my chest with her long fingernails.
"Yes. I know how he was."
"Mmm. You've got a nice chest, Steve."
"You, too."
"I don't have any hair on mine." She giggled.
"That's okay. I'm sort of bored with hairy chested women."
"Oh!" She went up the scale with the giggle.
"You're just like Happy was." She knelt down in front of me, her naked breast
brushing my pants leg, and started untying my shoe laces.
"What do you mean?" I asked innocently. "How was he like me?"
"Always kidding. But other ways too, I'll bet."
Cindy pushed me back on the divan so that she could remove my shoes and socks.
"I mean, he
was such a nice man. Really sweet. And I can tell that you're just like that
too, Steve." She pressed her cheek against my thigh and looked up at me with
blue eyes so innocent they would
have stayed the trigger finger of the most calloused deer hunter. "I can tell
about men," she added.
"Aren't you a little young to be so sure?"
"Stand up."
She stood in front of me and unbuckled my belt. The blush on her cheek was
genuine, not make-up. "This is always a little embarrassing, isn't it?" Those
eyes again! "But I am sure." She responded to my question. "I may be just a
college girl, but I can tell about people. And working in a massage parlor
helps. You learn to tell the good guys from the creeps very quickly."
"And I'm a good guy?"
"Very good." Her voice was a shy murmur as she unzipped the fly of my pants.
"Would you just lift your leg and step out of these, Steve? Thanks." She folded
them neatly over a hanger and hung them beside the jacket in the closet.
Walking back to me, she eyed the outline of my penis through my shorts. "Very,
very good," she murmured. "And I didn't learn that in college."
"Just what are you going to college for?"
"Theology."
Her hand was warm in mine as she led me from the room.
"I beg your pardon?" I wasn't sure I'd heard her right.
"I'm a theology major. I want to be a minister of the gospel."
Cindy Lou Gibbs led me into another room. Venetian tiles dictated the motif
here. The decor was more Roman Empire bath than French. There was a heated pool
about eight feet square set into the mosaic of the floor. It was fairly
shallow, about waist high. I could tell this because there were two young women
standing in the water and their bare bosoms were easily visible.
One of the young women was Oriental. Her face had the delicate texture of rice
paper with a faint, golden glow. Her hair was blue-black, luxurious, and quite
long. Her breasts were small and sharp, shaped like pears, uptilted. Her smile
was welcoming.
So too was the expression on the face of the other young woman. She was rounder
than the Asian girl, more padded, solider. Floating on the water, her
pink-nippled breasts had an appealingly moist heaviness to them. There was a
sprinkling of freckles across them, and across her friendly, frankly Irish face
as well. "What do you drink, Steve?" Cindy Lou Gibbs inquired.
"Scotch. Rocks."
She pulled a bell-cord. A moment later a maid in a short-skirted French uniform
appeared.
Cindy Lou gave her the order and she returned quickly with the drink. Cindy Lou
stretched out on a chaise, longue at the edge of the pool and I sat on another
beside her and sipped my scotch. The girls in the water waited. When I finished
my drink, Cindy Lou spoke again.
"Why don't you join them while I fetch you another scotch." She stood up.
Automatically, I too got to my feet. Immediately, Cindy Lou was in front of me
pulling off my shorts. Naked, I allowed her to push me into the pool. Then she
vanished and I was alone with the two girls in the heated water.
They came towards me. The Oriental girl positioned herself right in front of
me, so close that her sharp nipples grazed my chest. The colleen circled and
stood behind me. They had large, soapy sponges. Eyes sparkling mischievously,
the Asian sprite reached under the water with hers and started scrubbing the
fronts of my legs from my knees to my pelvis. Behind me, I felt her partner
soaping my rear end.
"Sure now, and why are you so tense?" she inquired with a noticeable brogue.
She rubbed my left buttock with the palm of her hand until the muscle there
relaxed.
They were naked from the waist down as well as from the waist up. I determined
this almost immediately when they brushed against me under the water while
bathing me. The Oriental girl's sporran was long and silky against my thigh.
That of the Irish lass was more bristly and it felt prickly when she laughingly
pressed it into my balls from behind.
Having located my balls, she now proceeded to soap them, using the sponge
first, and then her hands. At the same time Asian fingers, adept and graceful,
worked up a froth of suds over my cock, manipulating to replace the soapsuds
again and again as the water melted them away. Pretty soon a full-grown
erection had crawled up my belly, taut as a springboard.
"Nectar, gang!" Cindy Lou returned with a tray of drinks. My two playmates
moved me to the edge of the pool where we would be within reach of them.
Their drinks were tall and cool with exotic tropic fruit decorating them. Mine
was a simple scotch over rocks. "Are you enjoying your bath, Steve?" Cindy Lou
inquired.
Before I could answer, the Oriental girl had pulled my erect penis from the
water to show it to Cindy Lou.
"Ah, yes. I can see that you are." Cindy Lou looked again. "Yes. You really do
resemble Happy." She stretched out beside the pool as the two water-nymphs
laved my body thoroughly once again. The toga fell away from the lower half of
Cindy Lou's body and her brazenly jutting hip and one plump farm girl cheek of
her derriere were completely exposed.
"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked, although I knew the answer. My
two companions had switched places, and now the Irish lass was rubbing her
thickly soaped bush up and down my rigid rod under the water while the Asian
beauty pressed her nipples into my shoulder-blades and licked the nape of my
neck with a tongue like a flickering flame.
"At a party the night he was killed."
"Bunny Barfer's Macho party?" The freckled girl guided my hand to her pussy. It
was warm and slightly sticky and wide open.
"That's right."
"Where were you when he was killed?" The Oriental sprite was doing strange and
wondrous things between the cheeks of my behind.
"I was watching these two people snorting coke."
"What people?"
"Rudy Karlholm, the editor of Haute Monde, and this masked woman, Adele. I
don't know her
last name."
Adele Van Dyne. It seemed her alibi and Cindy Lou's confirmed each other. "Were
you snorting with them?" The Asian girl sank her teeth into my shoulder.
"I don't do coke. Grass sometimes. A little hash. That's the most."
"Did you make it with Happy Ronzoni that night?" I asked, remembering what Wee
Wendell had told me about evidence that Ronzoni had ejaculated shortly before
his death. The colleen was churning up the water as I played with her clitty.
"Why do you ask so many questions?" Cindy Lou was suspicious.
"Happy was my friend," I lied. "That gives me an interest in his murder."
"Are you a detective?"
"No. Just a friend."
"Well, it seems pretty sure it was that feminist writer, Stephanie Greenwillow,
who killed him."
The water nymphs had me on my back now. They floated me around the pool,
laughing and bobbing their heads to kiss the mast of my dick just as if they
were bobbing for apples. Finally they pushed me over to the stairs and I found
myself climbing out of the pool.
As I stood there dripping warm water, Cindy Lou came over to me with a towel. I
thought she was going to dry me off. Instead, she hung it off the tip of my
erection, a maneuver which pulled my prick down to a perpendicular position.
"I didn't have a hat." Cindy Lou laughed. "Very funny." I removed the towel and
dried myself. Now Cindy Lou led me to a sort of lounge. It was small with a bar
and a table set with various delicacies along one wall. There was a deep, plush
couch quite large enough for two.
Opposite it was a screen. The lighting was dim, intimate. The rugs, the
draperies, the upholstery of the couch were all soft and flossy. The nap
tickled my butt as Cindy Lou guided me to the couch and pulled me down beside
her. She popped a grape into my mouth as the screen lit up.
It was a porn flit, and the quality was excellent. The story concerned a shy
young man who visited a massage parlor not unlike Pierre de Touche. Three
nubile masseuses helped him overcome his shyness with a variety of techniques
ranging from manual to oral to genital. I became engrossed watching the petit
brunette stuffing a long nipple into his anus while a rangy blond with
well-tanned breasts spread herself wide over his face and an enthusiastic
redhead mounted his stiff prick and bounced like a jockey whipping her
galloping steed into the stretch.
"Isn't it exciting?" Beside me on the couch, Cindy Lou was breathing hard. Her
breath was hot in my ear. The nipple of her exposed breast was rigid and
straining. Her fingernails dug into one of my naked thighs.
"Yeah." I turned to her and our mouths met.
Hers was warm and sucking. It drew my tongue deep into her throat. I squeezed
her breast and the nipple jerked excitedly in the palm of my hand. Her nails
clawed their way from my thigh to my naked prick and she fisted it.
On the screen, the shy young man had mounted the redhead from behind and was
balling her dog style. The brunette was on her hands and knees behind him and
was licking his balls as he moved in and out. The blond was behind the
brunette, sucking her widespread pussy. I reached for Cindy Lou's crotch. It
was somewhere under the toga, and I fumbled trying to find it. She changed
position and the toga shifted away, exposing her thick, blond bush. At first
she rose to my eager fingers tangling in it, but then she gave a little laugh
and pulled away.
"We're both getting much too overheated," she said. She pushed a button and the
screen went blank. She removed my hand from her dampening pubic curls. "Let's
cool off." She was on her feet now and pulling me from the room.
"You're a tease," I protested.
"That's what's so marvelous about our techniques here at Pierre de Touche. We
drive our customers wild teasing them. But in the end," she promised, "they're
always satisfied. Completely satisfied," she stressed.
"Was Happy Ronzoni satisfied?" I remembered she hadn't answered my question
before. "Did you
ball him that night before he died?"
"It wasn't like that between Happy and me. He was my boss here at the massage
parlor when he
ran it. We became friends. We confided in each other. That was the kind of
relationship we had."
We entered a large shower stall. There were hooks along the wall. Cindy Lou
relieved me of my
towel and hung it up. Then she re moved her toga and hung beside the towel.
Naked, Cindy Lou Gibbs was everything that college boys fantasize when they
undress cheerleaders in their heads. She was a Mariel Hemingway type, and her
nudity stressed the combination of innocence and innate sensuality. Her
blondness, the slight pudginess of her long thighs, the natural sway of her
fully budded breasts, the teasing bounce of a bottom designed for mooning-all
these qualities confirmed the vibrancy of her youth.
It was a needle shower. Cindy Lou inched the control from lukewarm to ice cold.
We hugged each other and clung together under the punishing spray.
Despite this proximity, and the softness of Cindy Lou's body hugging mine, the
icy needle-spray chased away my erection. I emerged from it tingling, but no
longer aroused. This was only slightly changed by the intimate-but
brisk-toweling she subjected me to when the shower was over.
Next stop was the steam room. We mounted to the top of the tier of benches
where the steam was thickest. The sweat began pouring off both of us.
"What sort of things did Happy confide in you?" I got back to business.
"Happy was a nice guy, but he was obsessed with sex." Perspiration trickled
between Cindy Lou's lovely, plump breasts. "He had a positive knack for getting
himself in deeper than he intended. And when he tried to get himself out, he
didn't always succeed in keeping it friendly. He-" Cindy Lou interrupted
herself to point through the steam. "Oh, look!"
A small, fat man was spread out on the floor of the steam room. He was naked,
as were the two strapping young women with him. They had him by the shoulders
and the ankles, and they were wringing him out the way you would a wet dish
towel.
"What the hell are they doing?" I asked.
"It's our special Steam Twist Massage. Would you like to try one?"
"No thanks." My body was already leaking water like a sieve.
"It's really very relaxing."
"Yeah? From the looks of it, he's going to walk out oŁ here looking down at his
own ass."
"Some men find it . . . stimulating."
A thin, gelatinous white stream arced through the steam.
"I see what you mean." Watching Cindy Lou fanning the steam away from her
golden pussy, I felt the re-stirring of desire.
"You were tolling me about Happy's involvements," I reminded her. "Could you
give me a few details?"
"Well, his wife wasn't altogether thrilled with his research. She hated his
managing this place."
"I know. That was in the papers."
"And then there's Whipped Cream, that performer at the Hit & Miss Club. She was
furious with what Happy wrote about her in his book."
"I've been told about her."
"Happy said she was more vicious than the Marquis de Sade." Cindy Lou shuddered
as if an icy breeze had touched her naked body. "Have you had enough steam,
Steve?" she inquired. "Yeah. I'm ready to be dipped in the
butter sauce."
We took another shower together, this one soft flow, pleasantly warm, sudsy. I
elected to pass up the sauna, and so we donned terrycloth robes and Cindy Lou
led me to another lounge. Here we munched thin crackers with black caviar and
sipped a very pale, very dry French champagne and watched through a one-way
mirror as three naked couples performed a live sex act. Various scents were
wafted into the room to enhance our enjoyment. I felt very relaxed, including
the laziness of my semi hard-on.
After the show, we experienced the Pierre de Touches version of a jacuzzi.
Twelve naked girls with high-powered electric eggbeaters stirred up the water
around us. One short circuit, I couldn't help thinking, and I'd be nothing but
parboiled cock in a nookie goulash.
"Listen," I asked Cindy Lou as our flesh jiggled in the vibrating water, "could
you tell me why they call this place a massage parlor when so far I've done
everything but get a massage?"
"The massage is the piece de resistance," she told me. "And I think you're
ready for it now." Cindy Lou conducted me into a sparsely furnished room. Its
centerpiece was a large, comfortable looking leather massage table with a white
silk sheet draped over it. Along one wall there ran a series of shelves. These
contained a variety of vials and bottles, spray-cans and atomizers, cloths and
towels. The room was low lit with a slowly turning color wheel changing the
tint of the white sheet from amber to gold to lime to Mediterranean blue to
lavender to sunset pink. The air was thick with obligatory incense. This time I
was sure there was some hash mixed with it.
Prompted by Cindy Lou, I stretched out belly-down on the massage table. She
removed my robe and covered my naked butt with a towel. Then she stood in front
of me where I could see her. With a motion worthy of the most practiced
stripteaser, she shrugged out of her robe and posed before me nude.
The door behind Cindy Lou opened. A young woman wearing a loincloth and
eyeshadow appeared. She began anointing Cindy Lou's body with a perfumed oil
that made it glisten erotically. Her fingers lingered over erogenous zones as
Cindy Lou's earlobes, the tips of her breasts, her round buttocks and the pink
and purple treasures beneath her golden pubic triangle. She worked very slowly
and thoroughly, and Cindy Lou stood quite still, obviously enjoying the sensual
sensations.
I thought that I was supposed to get the massage, but I decided against raising
the question. Instead, I went back to my concern with Happy Ronzoni's last
night on planet Earth. "If you didn't ball Happy the night he was killed, do
you know who did?" I asked.
"That Stephanie Greenwillow, I suppose." Cindy Lou writhed slightly under the
titillation of the fingers rubbing perfumed oil into her responsive flesh.
"Anybody else?"
"The only one I know he made it with for sure that night was Leslie Robbins."
Cindy Lou sighed voluptuously. "That was a nice going away present for Happy.
He was in love with her."
"He talked to you about Leslie Robbins?"
"Sure. He was crazy about her. But he was also a little afraid of her."
"Afraid?"
"He said that when it came to sex, she was always one step ahead of him. They
met at Gravelgrit at a group sex party. She'd had a lot of experience. She was
always looking for new things to try. Some of them were pretty wild. That's
what scared Happy."
"What kind of wild things?"
"Crazy scenes, you know. Balling in airplanes and jumping out together and
trying to come before pulling the ripcord to open the parachute. Performing
oral sex on Happy while he was driving a car at ninety miles an hour on a
mountain road. Making it on a bobsled. That kind of thing."
I wondered if I should introduce Leslie Bobbins to my neighbors the Friedliebs.
"Any S & M?"
"Oh, sure. She introduced him to spreadeagling and spanking and whipping and a
lot of stuff
like that. He said sometimes it got so rough he wasn't sure where the game
playing left off and
viciousness began. And he was also worried about some of the people she'd been
mixed up with at Gravelgrit. The way he told it there were some really bad
characters who didn't know where to stop."
As the woman in the loincloth finished the massage, Cindy Lou's naked body was
shaking as with an ague. Her eyes were bright and feverish. Her breathing was
very slow and very deep. The flesh of her healthy, cheerleader body glowed and
glittered.
When the woman left, Cindy Lou came up o me. Her aroma was positively
aphrodisiac. 'It's time for your massage now, Steve," she aid in a voice that
seemed husky with desire. "I'm ready."
Her fingertips, thick with a cooling, romatic cream, kneaded my naked back.
Shall I tell you how I got the call while I give you your rubdown?" Cindy Lou
suggested.
"Why not?" I replied, although I wasn't too tire wha