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SLP-247 More Love To Come by Hernandez Villie Chapter 1 Although the bedpost could have provided support for his venture, the skinny hairy man was too drunk to notice. He balanced on one leg and regarded the sock--his arch-enemy of the moment--curled enticingly around his toes. He grabbed for it, missed, grabbed again, finally managed to pull it up at least as far as his ankle, took that for a victory, put his foot back on the floor just in time to avoid a fall. He remembered the voluptuous girl on the bed, frowned at her, began the search for his other sock. Judy Burton returned his frown with a smile, thought "you skinny fuck, just put the money on the dresser and get the hell out of here." The man ignored her telepathic message, continued rummaging around the room for his sock. Judy took a pull on her stale bourbon and soda. "The money," she thought, "just leave the money." The man had gotten everything he wanted, and more, the bruises on her thighs were testimony. Now it was her turn. She bad to have that money, it was well that mattered. Judy tried to forget the bruises on her legs, the tiny stinging welts on her back, the throbbing ache in her pussy. She tried, but she could not. She was still too new at this business, had not yet hardened her mind and body to the brutal mistreatment she was expected to take. In the course of just a few months every part of her had been violated, but she had never complained. She had no one to complain to, no one who would care. Yes, she thought, this one had outdone them all. He looked so harmless now, so comical and silly, crawling drunkenly around her room, but just a few moments before he had been anything but funny. Judy's pain came roaring back as she remembered his gouging fingernails and rock-hard fists--she had been astounded that someone so skinny could hit so hard--and finally the savage penetration of his prick, without warning, a sudden, ripping spear in her still-dry and unprepared cunt. He could have at least waited until she was ready, could have fingered and toyed with her gently to get the juices flowing, but that was what happened when you made love, and love was not a part of this man's constitution. This man, or any man. Judy wondered how anyone had ever come up with the phrase "making love." What this man had done, what all men did, they did out of hate and lust--love was nowhere to be found. When he had taken her nipple between his teeth and bitten so hard that blood had begun to flow; was that love? When he had brought his open hand, then his fists, crashing down on her body and face, was that love? And when he had entered her, tearing at her tight, tender flesh, forcing himself further and further in even though she had begged him to stop, to wait until she was ready; was that love? No, Judy thought, there was no love in this business. "Making love" indeed! The aching in her pussy continued while the John went on looking for his sock. He bad crawled under the bed, was bumping his head and swearing, causing little earthquakes in the mattress. Judy wished that he would leave, hoped that he wasn't so drunk that he would forget what he paid for and ask for more. She knew she would not have to submit to him again, even if he asked for it, even if he demanded, but she hated the thought of having to argue, having to force him to leave, or having to call Slackjaws to throw him out. Probably, though, she wouldn't have to worry--most of these johns were good for one brief go-around and nothing more, and there was nothing to indicate that this one was any different. Tom, at least, had been better than that, even if he was a skunk in every other respect. Tom. Before she had met Tom, Judy had been exactly like thousands of other eighteen-year-old girls, full in the body but hopelessly naive, dreaming her dreams of escape, trusting everyone, waiting for the man who would change her life in a day. Tom had changed her life, all right, but in a way that she never would have imagined. Tom had done this to her, Tom and that other skunk, Jay Snyder. She hated both of them. Tom was always in her mind, even now, even while this puny trick stood in front of her with his prick caught in his zipper. No matter where she went, no matter what she did, it was Tom, always Tom who occupied her thoughts. Her mind raced back to the little run-down theater in Bisbee, Arizona, the shabby marquee, the noise of hundreds of screaming brats waiting to get in for the Saturday matinee, the copper miners and cowboys who always stared at her as they bought their tickets, then made crude, back-slapping jokes as they walked away. She had hated that theater, had worked there only to make enough money so that she could get out of Bisbee and go to college in Tucson. She had been an excellent student in high school, had won a scholarship to the University of Arizona, but the scholarship was not enough to pay for everything, and her parents were unable to help her. So she had worked at the theater, hating it ("How many?" "Three, please." "Three dollars; show starts in ten minutes."), and had waited impatiently for the summer to end. The U of A, she knew, was a rich boys' party school. She had been to Tucson, had seen the Cadillacs and Alfa Romeos and Ferraris parked outside the fraternity houses, had watched in amazement as trucks delivered cases of liquor to the back doors. On the campus she had stared at the tanned, blond boys and handsome bearded professors, so different than the grubby sons of miners she had known all her life. Once she got to Tucson, she thought, everything would be different. She would get to know those beautiful rich boys, those intelligent worldly men. She would ... But she had never gone to Tucson. Instead, Tom had appeared. She had not been in the habit of looking at her theater customers as they bought their tickets, but something in Tom's voice had made her look up. She had never seen anything like him before, not even in Tucson. He was tall, well over six feet five, not muscular, but big-boned and strong-looking. He had bright red hair, very long-- she had never seen a man with long hair before--and a flaming red beard. His eyes were bright blue and incredibly clear, and his fingers long and slender. Immediately she had imagined those fingers moving along her back, up her thighs, around her nipples, all over her already-flaming body. All she could do was stare at him. She was in love. "Aren't you going to give me my ticket?" Tom had said, smiling. He was used to this reaction from women, counted on it, in fact. Judy stepped out of her trance. "Sorry," she said. "I thought you were someone I knew." She handed him his ticket and change, feeling the tingle down her back as their hands touched, ever so briefly. "Sure," said Tom, and smiled again. He took his ticket and walked into the theater, not bothering to look back. He knew she was his if he wanted her. There was a war epic playing, a long one, and Judy knew it would be at least three hours before she saw him again. She wondered, hoping against hope, if he had noticed her, if he would come talk to her when the movie was over. She had never seen such a man, had never felt such marvelous feelings of anticipation in her body. And Tom had come to her, just as she had hoped. He had walked right up to the ticket booth, smiled at her, and asked her if she would be free when the show was over. Would she be free! For this man she would be more than free, she already knew that she would do anything he asked of her. Tom had an old Dodge panel truck. Judy was disappointed when she saw it, beaten- up as it was, with chipped paint and rusted chrome and cracked tail-lights, but her disappointment changed to astonishment when she stepped inside. The back of the panel truck had been set up as living quarters, and it was as lush as any apartment she'd ever seen, even those that belonged to the rich students in Tucson. There was a stereo set, complete with headphones, and a small bar. The walls were paneled in rich dark woods and covered with beautiful bright-colored paintings. There was thick pile carpet on the floor, and on the bed ("a king- sized bed in a panel truck!" Judy thought) was a luxuriant fur bedspread. Judy ran her fingers through the fur, felt her body begin to tingle again. As they drove, Tom talked in a soft, gentle voice. He was an artist, he said, from Los Angeles, just traveling through after a summer in New Mexico. Judy had never known an artist before; she was fascinated as he talked about a world that was totally foreign to her, a world of studios and models and galleries and rich women who wanted to buy much more from the artist than just his paintings. She had listened eagerly, trying to imagine what it would be like to be the wife of an artist. They had parked in a lonely spot in the mountains, and Tom had gone on talking, about his dreams, his plans, his work. When he was through, they made love. Tom was as gentle as his voice, as fierce as his flaming red beard. She still remembered the dizzying shock she had felt when Tom came in her, the first time she had ever experienced a man's dick. By morning they had made love four times, and Tom had asked her to come with him to Los Angeles. By then Judy had already forgotten about her parents, her job, her plans for college, had forgotten about everything except Tom and their new love. She wanted nothing but to be with him, to make love to him, to feel his delicious prick inside her warm wet pussy. She would go anywhere with him: Los Angeles, China, the moon; it made no difference as long as they could be together always. She withdrew the few hundred dollars she had saved, packed a few clothes, and set off with him for L.A. For the first few months everything was fine, except that Judy often wondered why Tom never seemed to paint, all he did, when they weren't making love, was sit around sucking on a strange ornate pipe, which he kept refilling with a queer gummy black substance. When she asked him about his painting and about the pipe, Tom said he was resting, building up inspiration. But Judy didn't really care. If Tom was resting that was fine with her, just so long as he didn't rest when they were in bed together. Then Judy began to get sick. At first she thought it was just some minor ailment, something to do with the fact that her period was a little late. But when a month had passed and she still had not menstruated, she started to worry. Finally she went to see a doctor, who examined her and took a blood smear. A few days later the results came back: "Well, Mrs. Simmons," the doctor had said, sure that his news would be cheerfully received, "there's going to be a little one." Judy had been dazed. Up till now she had not wanted to tell Tom about any of this, but if she were really pregnant, there was nothing she could do, she would have to tell him. Tom took the news calmly, even held Judy's hand and tried to soothe her. "It's all right," he said. "We'll just go ahead and get married. Now sit right here, don't move, and I'll go to the store and get you some orange juice." The store was only two blocks away. When an hour had passed and Tom had still not returned, she began to wonder. After two hours she began to worry--maybe something had happened to him. It was only after the afternoon and early evening had gone by that Judy began to realize: Tom had left her. He had run out on her, left her alone to deal with the baby that was already forming deep within her womb. What was she to do? Judy wanted no part of unwed motherhood. If there wasn't a man to take care of her, then there would be no baby either. She asked around, was told of a doctor in Tijuana. She took the bus to San Diego, walked across the border, had a quick, painless abortion. The operation cost her $150, all the money she had. She returned to Los Angeles with no idea of what she would do with herself, with no feelings at all except raging hate for Tom, the bastard who had deserted her. She would find him, she thought, she would find him and make him pay. She searched all over Los Angeles for him, went to all his favorite bars in Hollywood and Venice, but no one had seen him, no one knew where he had gone. Finally she had stopped looking. She was completely broke, had no job and no food, was too ashamed to go back to Bisbee and her parents. Then one night a friend had introduced her to Jay Snyder. Jay, she thought, another bastard. He had seemed very nice at first, and she had been impressed with his big gray Rolls Royce and fine clothes. He had taken her to his home, high in the Hollywood Hills, overlooking the city, and had given her food, something to drink, an odd-looking cigarette to smoke. Soon she found herself in his bed, dizzy from the drink and the strangely sweet-tasting tobacco. When they were through making love, Jay had offered her a job. "How could I have been so stupid," Judy thought as she watched her john combing his long greasy hair. The job, Jay had assured her, was an easy one--all she had to do was set herself up in an apartment, which Jay would pay for, and wait for the men to come to her. All the men wanted was a little taste of her body, Jay said, nothing more, nothing unusual, and they would pay very well. "You can't really afford to turn it down, now, can you?" Jay had smiled. So Judy accepted his offer. Quickly she had discovered that her customers did want something more than just her body, and that as often as not what they wanted was highly unusual, but the money was good and Judy found that she could satisfy any man almost without trying--some of them weren't even able to get an erection. But then there were others, like this bastard who had just walked out the door, the ones who abused her and laughed at her pain; and this type was appearing more and more frequently. Often she had asked Jay to release her, but Jay had always refused, saying that he would write her parents in Bisbee and tell them just exactly what Judy was doing in Los Angeles. Judy wanted out, but all the doors seemed to be closed. Unless, she thought, unless someone would come along, someone stronger than Jay, who would get her out of this mess, some man ... Oh come on, Judy. Some man, sure thing. Just what you need, another man. Chapter 2 Smells of sulfur and grease mixed together as Tim Huntley lit his cigarette. The chef scraped the grill, leaving Tim's barbecued beef sizzling, an isolated heap in the center of the grill. It deserves to be alone, Tim thought, who else would want to eat in this dive? Tim had been eating in greasy diners, and hating it, for as long as he could remember, ever since the night he and his cousin, both thirteen years old, had stolen all those carburetors. It had been Tim's first arrest, he still remembered the cold, disgusted look on the cop's face as he had shone the flashlight in his eyes, but certainly not his last. He often wondered who was really to blame for that night, for all the nights afterwards. He had done it himself, he knew, although it had been his cousin's idea, but his father's attitude had not helped. "What'd ya go and get caught for?" his father had said. "Christ, you don't even have what it takes to be a good thief." Always Tim had had to prove to his father that he was good at something, that he was worthy to be called his father's son. When he brought home good grades from school, his father wanted to know why he hadn't been valedictorian, or at least made the honor roll. When he pitched a one-hitter in Little League, his father wanted to know why it hadn't been a no-hitter. The work he did around the house was never careful enough for the old man, the girls he brought home never pretty enough. Everything Tim did his father could do better. There was no satisfying him. So finally, after he had tried everything else, Tim tried stealing. The carburetor theft, although unsuccessful, had made him a hero at school, and he found that all the praise and support he had been missing at home was available in the schoolyard. It seemed that every boy in school was eager to hear the story of Tim's caper, of the arrest and the overnight stay in Juvenile Hall. Girls he didn't know would point at him in the halls and whisper excitedly to one another, and Tim did not fail to notice the exaggerated swishing of their small, firm buttocks as they passed by. He tried to keep his head, tried to get on with his studies so that he could someday escape those Brooklyn slums, go away to college and become a doctor. That way, he would be able to help other people and help himself at the same time. But soon after the theft he found that the good students shied away from him, that the only friends he could attract were those who, like him, were on their way to delinquency. Without quite knowing how it happened, Tim became the leader of a gang. At first, the gang's escapades were more like childish pranks: they reached the limits of their bravery when they spent a Sunday throwing eggs at cars on the throughway. Soon, however, the stunts and pranks took a criminal turn. Under Tim's leadership the boys had begun to steal, first only small items shoplifted from the grocery and variety stores, then on to hubcaps, and finally to cars. Tim was arrested many times. In the beginning the police treated him well enough, taking him to Juvenile Hall and releasing him after a night and a lecture, but when they saw that their moralizing was having no effect on the boy, they began to turn nasty. The stays in Juvenile Hall became longer, beatings more frequent, and eventually there came the day when the Juvenile Judge looked at him and said, "Son, it doesn't look like you're going to learn." The judge had sent him to the reformatory for six months. The sentence jolted Tim. He began to think about his life, something he had not done since he had taken over leadership of the gang. He remembered his original goal, his desire to become a doctor. He studied hard in the reform school, took no part in the conversations and plans of the other boys, the endless boasting about thefts and drugs and girls, kept to himself. His standoffishness cost him a couple of mild beatings at the hands of his jealous peers, but they soon stopped antagonizing him and left him alone. His good behavior won him the respect and friendship of several of the staff members, who helped Tim all they could. He was released two months before his sentence was up. The cook placed the barbecued beef sandwich in front of Tim. As he took a bite, he remembered back to those first few months after reform school, the months just before his seventeenth birthday. Despite his hard work at the reformatory, Tim had found himself far behind his classmates, and he had studied night and day to catch up. His father, as usual, was disparaging of Tim's efforts: "I don't see why you bother trying," he had said, "you'll never make it." Tim simply shut his father's words out of his mind and kept on studying. His teachers took some notice of him, but in general they were far too busy to care--there were seventy-five to a hundred students in each class, and the teachers had time only to grade papers and to discipline the troublemakers, who were almost a majority in every classroom. But the worst part was the loneliness. Tim's former friends, the boys in his gang, wanted nothing to do with him--he had turned soft, they said, had become goody-goody. "Asskisser," they would whisper to him as they passed him in the halls. Having lost all his old friends, Tim had tried to make new ones, seeking out the best students, those who seemed to have some chance of escaping the ghetto, but the serious students mistrusted him as much as his old friends. It was strange, Tim thought: the people he wanted to associate with him saw nothing but the old Tim, while his former friends could see only how he had changed. Eventually Tim gave up. The loneliness and lack of support was too much for him; he just couldn't do it all by himself, with no help from anyone. He returned to the gang, quickly asserting himself and regaining his leadership position. The boys were older now, and their criminal schemes became more elaborate, their techniques more sophisticated. Within a year they progressed from car theft and burglary to protection rackets and narcotics dealing, from pickpocketing to armed robbery, from knives to guns. On his twentieth birthday Tim was arrested for robbing a liquor store. An underworld friend of his bribed the judge to release him without bail, and Tim left Brooklyn the day before his trial, headed for the West Coast. Tim's shrewdness and physical capability had attracted the attention of the Brooklyn syndicate. When he left for Los Angeles, one of the syndicate chiefs gave him five hundred dollars, and a telephone number. "When you get to L.A.," he had said, "call this number. Ask for Jay; he'll help you out." The day he arrived in Los Angeles Tim called Jay Snyder. "I've heard about you," Jay had said. "Come around and see me at my office tomorrow morning." Tim had spent the rest of the day hitch-hiking around Los Angeles, going to the beach, even stopping at Disneyland. California was unbelievable, he had thought. There was ocean and sunshine and beautiful gentle mountains, trees and flowers everywhere. And the women! Every one of them, it seemed, was tall and tan and blond, with long golden thighs flashing out from beneath their mini-skirts. This, Tim thought, is definitely not Brooklyn. I think I'm going to like it here. He took a room at the Beverly Hilton, went to see Jay Snyder the next morning. "They tell me you're smart and fast," Jay had said. "I'm looking for guys who are young and smart and fast. There's room for you here, absolutely." He had given Tim a job as a driver, promising him that if he did a good job and kept quiet he would quickly be promoted. Within a few months Tim had found out all about Jay Snyder, all about his "organization." He fronted as a respectable businessman, owned several nightclubs on the Sunset Strip and several more in Torrance, was frequently seen on the society pages of the newspaper--"Jay Snyder Donates $50,000 to Symphony Fund;" "Entrepreneur Jay Snyder and Mrs. Samuel Kruger at the Opening of the Kruger Pavilion," and so on. But behind this facade, Jay Snyder was one of the most vicious gangsters in America, and his specialty was white slavery and prostitution. He was particularly adept, Tim had discovered, at convincing young girls that he could help them get movie contracts, making them believe that if they just sold themselves for a few months, "to the right people, of course," that they would be assured of fat contracts and eventual stardom. In every case, of course, the months turned into years, and the starry-eyed girls turned into hardened professional prostitutes. And Tim had fared no better. His salary as driver was small, almost pitifully small, and the promised promotions never came. When he threatened to quit, Jay had laughed at him, had told him that no one in town would touch him when Jay got through spreading the word. So Tim had stayed on, hopelessly, doing his job, living in a senior citizens' hotel in Venice, eating in run-down diners like this one. The barbecued beef bad grown cold. The cook stared at him: "Something wrong with your sandwich, buddy?" Tim shook his head. There bad to be a way out of this life, he thought. There had to be. He could never hope to become a doctor now, but at the very least he could quit Jay and get an honest job, save a little money, maybe find a girl and buy a house. Quit Jay? Tim laughed to himself. Just how was he going to do that? The gangster had him lock, stock and barrel. No, there was no way out, not with Jay around. Not with Jay around ... Chapter 3 Dinner was over. Mike Kramer got up from the table as his wife, Lisa, began clearing off the dishes. The news would be on in a few minutes, and Mike never missed a minute of the evening news. It was all part of being a cop, he told himself, keeping up with what was going on, not only in Los Angeles, but in the rest of the world as well: a good cop kept himself informed, current. Mike Kramer prided himself on being a good cop. As Mike sat down to watch the news, Lisa passed through the living room on her way upstairs. Mike watched her, still admiring, after all these years, the grace of her walk, the firmness of her body. She had been and still was a very beautiful woman, a fine wife. They were just as much in love now as they had been when they first were married, over ten years ago, but now their love had matured, ripened, become firmer and more substantial. Yes, Mike thought, she's a good wife. She kept an immaculate house, cooked food that was better than anything you could get in even the most expensive restaurants, always looked after his needs. She was constantly in good spirits, had a keen sense of humor, and was always ready to give her full attention to Mike's problems, listening with enthusiasm even though she never quite understood the real dangers of his job, never quite believed in its terrors. In fact, their only point of disagreement had to do with Mike's job: Mike was a lieutenant, assigned to the vice squad, and he was perfectly content with his position--as a lieutenant he had enough authority to take part in decisions of policy and approach, yet he was not removed by rank from the real heart of any cop's job, the streets. The pay was good, and although the work was always difficult and sometimes dangerous, Mike enjoyed every minute of it. He would not have traded places with anyone. Lisa thought that Mike should be interested in trading places, with one of the captains, for instance, or even an assistant chief. In the beginning of their marriage she had kept quiet while Mike had struggled up through the ranks, from patrolman to sergeant, and finally to lieutenant. It was only after Mike had been a lieutenant for five years that she had begun to ask why he didn't seem interested in promotion. Even at that, she asked only rarely, she didn't want to annoy him, because she knew that would only make him more stubborn. "... and the well-known night-club owner, Jay Snyder," said the newsman, interrupting Mike's reverie. He sat forward to watch, all attention now. Jay Snyder was the object of Mike's personal crusade--he knew that Snyder controlled almost all the prostitution and illicit white slavery traffic in Los Angeles, and even if no one else believed him, he was going to put Snyder behind bars, put him behind bars or die trying. Lisa came downstairs, saw Mike leaning forward in his chair, a look of intense concentration on his face. "Snyder again?" she said. Lisa thought Mike's crusade against Snyder a little ridiculous. How could Jay Snyder be a crook? She saw his name in the newspaper nearly every week, and always associated with some charity or other, or with the names of the wealthiest and most respected citizens of Los Angeles. Jay Snyder a criminal? Hardly. "Yeah," said Mike, "Snyder again. I'm going to get that bastard one of these days." "Mike," she said, "I know you know a lot more about this than I do, and I know you're sure you're right, but ..." "But what?" snapped her husband. He knew what was coming next; they had talked about it several times before. Lisa was simply too naive to believe that anyone who seemed so respectable could be involved in crime, particularly in prostitution. "Well," she said, "are you really sure?" "Yes, dearest," he said sarcastically, "I'm really sure." The only thing he disliked about his wife, the only fault he could find with her, was her naivete--she had grown up in a middleclass dream world, isolated and sheltered by her parents from the harder, meaner world of the streets, and he knew, although he tried to educate her, that she would never be capable of understanding the way organized crime worked. She simply refused to look at the facts. It wouldn't be so bad, he thought, if she'd just keep her nose out of it, keep her head in the clouds where it seemed to want to stay and stop needling him about Jay Snyder. If she couldn't face the facts, then she should just forget it and leave him alone to do his job. But then again, she was his wife, and she bad a right to her opinions, even if they were naive and based on illusion instead of reality. When you got right down to it, Mike was secretly glad that she was at least concerned about him, about his work. Sometimes, though ... She kept at it. "I just can't see," she said, "how Jay Snyder could be involved in anything like prostitution. I mean, he doesn't even need the money, not with all those night clubs he owns. His clubs are famous, Mike. People come from all over the world to see his shows." "You don't have to tell me his clubs are famous," Mike said. He was getting angry; she just wouldn't shut up about this. "But where in the hell do you think he got the money to buy those lousy clubs in the first place? Do you know anything about Jay Snyder's history? No, you don't. Well, I'll tell you a few things: Jay Snyder came out here from Chicago in 1940, without a penny to his name. You know what he'd been doing in Chicago?" Lisa shook her head. "No, but ..." "Just listen for a minute," Mike interrupted. "Listen and maybe you'll learn a thing or two. In Chicago, Jay Snider was a pimp, a scrounging, two-bit pimp who couldn't get anyone to work for him except old barflies and teenage girls. He got into trouble with the syndicate, big trouble, and they forced him out of town. Tie came out here without a dime, like I said, spent his time snatching purses and hanging around the track. He'd still be doing it now, if it hadn't been for Carolyn Ames." "Carolyn Ames," said Lisa, frowning. "The actress?" "The actress," said Mike. "She wasn't in such good shape herself--drank too much, took too much dope, and she'd lost her looks. She did have a lot of money, though. Snyder met her one day at the track and somehow managed to get friendly with her. Maybe he was the on]y thing she could find to screw." "Mike!" "OK, OK," he said. "Anyway, they got to be friends. Somehow Snyder talked her out of a lot of money, went out and set himself up in business again. But this time, with Carolyn's money behind him, he was able to buy some good girls, pretty ones, the kind who get a hundred dollars or more a night. So instead of being a low-class pimp; Snyder became a high-class pimp. His business kept on expanding--this was right after the war, when money was loose--and finally he got enough to buy his first club. From there, it was just a matter of time. The first club was a hit, mostly because Carolyn Ames helped him put his show together, so he bought another one, then another one. Carolyn kept introducing him around in high society--everybody thought his southside Chicago accent was cute, you know?--and that's how he made his contacts. What do you think about your Jay Snyder now? Still think he's 'respectable?'" Lisa shook her head. "Oh, Mike," she said, "I just don't know what to think. It all sounds so incredible." "True, though," he said. "Listen, Jay Snyder is a scummy bastard. As long as he's around, this is a scummy city. You want to raise kids in a place where people like Jay Snyder are running things? What if we had a daughter? What if our daughter got into trouble and figured she couldn't get help from anyone but Jay Snyder? What if she went to Snyder? You know what would happen then?" Mike didn't think any of that was very likely, but he had to get through to Lisa somehow, and maybe these shock tactics would work. Nothing else seemed to, that was certain. Lisa was quiet. Mike's mention of children had made her stop thinking about Jay Snyder, had turned her mind to their own problems, hers and Mike's. They had been married for ten Years and still had no children. They both wanted kids, Lisa as much as Mike, but they just couldn't seem to get together sexually. Lisa bad been a virgin when she and Mike were married, had never even experimented with sex, and she still remembered the shock of their wedding night, of seeing Mike's crude, massive prick underneath all that fuzzy hair, of feeling that thing come into her like a knife, tearing at her insides, hurting her, torturing her, making her writhe in pain. Her secret passages had hurt for days afterwards, and now she could not even think about sex without feeling the pain and shame of that night. She had a fine body, she knew that, with perfect ripe breasts and full rounded hips, and she kept her body in good shape, but somehow she could almost never bring herself to submit to Mike's urgings. Occasionally they made love, particularly when Mike fingered her while she slept, got her excited before she could realize what was happening, but the occasions were rare, and they never talked about it. In fact, the whole subject gave Lisa a headache. "Mike," she said, "maybe you're right about Snyder, I don't know. Anyway, I don't feel too well. I'm going to bed." Mike had guessed at what was bothering Lisa, knew she was thinking about sex and children. He imagined her in bed, with her blindfold on to keep the light out, her body stiff and immobile, unyielding. Then, for just a brief moment, he imagined a different Lisa, an excited Lisa, Lisa with her legs thrown in the air and her hips churning, her cunt streaming hot juices, her mouth twisted with sexual power. The fantasy lasted for only a moment. "Yeah," said Mike, wearily, "guess I'll go to bed too." Chapter 4 Tim took his time finishing his barbecued beef sandwich. The evenings were long, much too long, and Tim had gotten in the habit of taking much more time than he needed to do even the simplest thing. Everything had to be stretched out to fill as many of the empty spaces as possible. Tim's evenings were nothing but empty spaces, except for the rare occasion when he was called on to do some small errand for Jay. Tonight there would be no errands. Tim knew he had to decide what to do with himself before he finished his coffee; otherwise there would be a long empty space in this diner, another chain of cigarettes, more tunes on the juke box. When "Rockin' Robin" came on for the fourth time, Tim had had enough. He jumped up, slammed his money on the counter, yelled "keep the change" and ran out the door, nearly colliding with the crazy newsboy. Once out on the street, Tim's pace slowed. The lights of Sunset strip glowed brightly, invitingly. Tim made an arbitrary decision, stepped into a small, average-looking bar, one of the many bars on that particular block. He wondered if it belonged to Jay--most of the bars on this street did. What the hell, he thought, what else can a poor boy do? He grinned to himself. Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad. The bar--Papa's, it was called, was wholly unremarkable: dark, smoky, booths covered in black and red synthetic leather, rattan bar stools. Tim waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark, took a seat at the bar, ordered a seven-and- seven. Just as the drink arrived, someone behind him said, "Got a light?" The voice was cool and low. Tim was used to cool, low voices. He turned around, expecting to see the usual barfly, some woman in her forties, not-quite drunk, painted--like a fading actress. What he did see was a girl whose beauty made him instantly dizzy. She had long black hair, straight but thick, enormous green eyes, a pale complexion, full lips. She wore hip-hugger slacks and a half-top that left her stomach exposed, and her stomach was smooth as a freeway. Tim had never seen anything like this girl. He wanted her, and right then. "Well?" said the girl. "Oh," Tim said. "Sure." He fumbled in his pocket for a match, pulled out his keys, his change, an old race track ticket and a pocket-knife before he found the matches. He struck once, twice, three times before he finally got the match going. The girl watched in amusement, smiling. "I hope you're not a heavy smoker," she said. "No," Tim said. Did heavy smoking displease her? If so, he would quit entirely. He would never do anything to displease this girl, if she would only stay with him. "Who are you?" he said. "Judy," she said. "And you?" "Tim, I think." She smiled again. This is a nice guy, she thought. How long has it been since I met a nice guy? "Let's go sit in a booth," she said. Tim followed her to the booth, feeling the first ticklings in his loins as he watched her swing her ass just ever so slightly. "A drink?" she said, after they were seated. Tim signaled the waiter, ordered two drinks even though he had barely touched his first. "Are you a little confused?" said Judy. This guy was funny, almost like a farm boy come to the city. Funny, but nice too, in a way. She found herself liking him. He thought for a minute. "No, not confused. Or maybe I am confused. I don't know." He laughed, and Judy laughed with him. Then it hit him: this girl was a prostitute, a whore! How could such a beautiful girl be a whore? Maybe, he thought with a shock, maybe she even worked for Jay. What would happen? What was he doing here? If this was one of Jay's girls ... "You look like you just got hit with an iron. What's wrong?" "What's your last name?" Tim asked, still gaping at the girl. He had heard the names of some of the girls who worked for Jay; maybe he could find out without asking her directly. "Are you some kind of cop?" Tim laughed. "Not hardly," he said. "I'm just trying to find out ... Well, look, let me ask you a personal question. What sort of work do you do?" This guy is dumb, Judy thought. What does he think I am, a social worker? "I'm a social worker," she said. "Really?" "No, not really. Really I'm an organ grinder, and I'm looking for a partner. Would you be interested?" I'll bet you're an organ grinder, Tim thought, resenting the girl for her mockery of him. "Come on. Please. It's important to me to know." "Why is it so important?" "Because," he said, "I think I'm in love with you." Tim was embarrassed. He had never said those words before, not once in his life. Judy's expression became serious. "No," she said. "You're not in love with me. You don't want to be in love with me. I work nights." She didn't want any man in love with her, certainly not now, while she was working for Jay, and probably not ever. "That's what I thought. Do you work for Jay Snyder?" Instantly Judy was suspicious. "You're a cop," she said, and started to get up from the booth. Tim grabbed her wrist. "No, sit down, please. I'm not a cop. I work for Jay too." She eyed him suspiciously, still standing. "The collector's already been to see me this week," she said. "I don't have anything for him right now, not for a couple of days." "I'm not a collector either. I just drive for him, do his errands, shine his shoes." "Jay Snyder's shoeshine boy. Well, how do you do?" "Will you sit back down?" "OK." Judy sat down, stared into her drink, rattled the ice cubes against the glass. Just my luck, she thought. I finally meet someone nice and he turns out to be Jay Snyder's errand boy. She looked up at him. He was smiling, a warm, friendly smile that made her relax a bit. He seemed very different from the other men who worked for Jay, the big, tough hoods who took their pleasures from her whenever they pleased. Yes, this one was different. She wondered how old he was, he seemed to be about her own age. "How did you get trapped into working for Jay?" Tim asked. He knew how Jay got his girls, knew he played on their innocence and their fears to keep them under control until they were so deeply into his messy system that they couldn't ever get out, couldn't do anything except become hardened prostitutes. Very few women ever went to work for Jay willingly. "It just happened," said Judy. "I'm not even sure how. You wouldn't be interested anyway." "But I am interested. I want to know everything about you." He gazed at her breasts, at the soft points of her nipples showing through the blouse. "Everything," he added. Judy looked at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. Was this boy for real, or was he just trying to soft-talk her into a free roll in the sack? Was he like every other man she'd ever known, or was he truly different? She met his eyes, saw that he was actually paying attention, not just making conversation. He was paying attention to her. "It's a long story," she said. "You sure you want to hear it all?" "I'm sure." Judy began her story, recalling with pain the shabby little theater in Bisbee, her parents and her home, her plans for college and a life of adventure. God, she thought as she talked, it seems like such a long time ago, like another world that I can never go back to, no matter what happens from here on in. How had it come to be this way? How could she have thrown that life away, what could she have been thinking of when she ran off with Tom? The thought of Tom brought tears to her eyes. She couldn't bring herself to go on with the story. Tim saw her hesitate, saw the tears start to form, so he reached over and covered her hand with his own. "It's OK," he said. "Tell me. Maybe it won't hurt so much if you talk about it." Won't hurt so much? How could it not hurt, she thought. It'll never change, it'll just go on hurting forever. The only thing I can do is try to forget about it. She looked around her, saw the dingy bar, the few customers doing their best to forget everything too, knew that as long as she worked for Jay, as long as she had to spend her nights in places like this, she could never forget. Maybe he's right, she thought. Maybe I should go ahead and talk about it. She continued talking, telling him about Tom and how he had deserted her, about the abortion, about her first meeting with Jay Snyder. The warmth of Tim's hand urged her to continue, to tell everything. Never in her life had she shared her troubles, her deepest feelings, with another human being. Tim listened with all his heart, never taking his eyes from Judy. Here, he thought, was someone just like him, with the same problems. Her background may have been different from his, her goals different, but basically they were two people caught in the same miserable situation. They were both trapped, trapped by Jay Snyder and by their own innocence, and they both wanted out more than they wanted anything else in the world. Maybe if the two of them stuck together they could find a way out. If not, then at least they could share their misery with one another. As far as Tim was concerned, it was definitely worth a try. Judy had stopped talking. "That's it," she said, "and here I am." She felt tired, but she also felt relieved, lighter. It was as if she had been allowed to rest, to pass the burden of her life to someone else, even if just for a moment. "Here you are," said Tim. "Here we both are." "Both of us," she agreed. She looked at him, suddenly curious. "How did you get here?" she asked. "What's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?" Should I tell her? Tim thought. Maybe she'll think I'm just a cheap crook and she won't want to have anything to do with me. He decided to chance it--the least he could do was repay her honesty with his own. He told her about his boyhood in Brooklyn, how everyone and everything seemed to work against him. But be made no excuses for himself, "I made the decisions," he said, "no one else. I could have been stronger." "Nobody's that strong. Nobody. You did what you had to do, just like I did, so don't blame yourself. It wasn't really your fault." "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "I really don't know." "Of course it wasn't your fault. Did anyone ever offer to help you? Did you ever get any encouragement?" "No, I guess not. Maybe you're right. Anyway ..." "Yeah," she said. "Anyway ..." "Here we are." Judy smiled. It felt good to have a friend, someone she could talk to, someone who could understand. And, she thought, he's not bad looking either. Tim was thinking exactly the same thing, although in slightly more superlative terms. Judy seemed even more beautiful to him now than she had when he first saw her--her face had relaxed, had taken on the youth and innocence that she must have left behind in Bisbee. And her body ... Tim felt a little bubbling sensation in his balls, the brewing of juices. "Judy?" he said. "Hmmmm?" "Can we go someplace?" She wanted very much to go someplace with this man. But tonight was one of her working nights, she was "on duty" and, if one of Jay's men came looking for her only to find her missing, it would mean another beating and rape scene later on. Still, she felt that it would be worth any beating or torture that Jay's men could give her, just to be alone with Tim, to feel the weight of his body, the touch of his fingers. "Let's do," she said. "Let's go to my place." These words brought Tim up short. "Let's go to my place," she had said, as if he were a customer, a john. She must have said those words hundreds of times before. And now they would go to her place, the place that Jay Snyder paid for, and make love on a bed that had been used by every anonymous john on Sunset Strip. It was like saying "I love you" to someone and then having them say "step into my office, won't you?" Judy guessed what he was thinking. "It's OK," she said gently, "we'll go to my home, not my place of business." Tim looked at her. If that was true, he thought, if we're really going to her house, then I must be something special to her. His heart started racing. Was this possible? Did she really like him? It was almost too much to believe. Tim felt his desire for this girl, which had already reached feverish proportions, rise still more. Already his cock was straining against his pants. "Let's go." They were too involved with one another to notice the ringing of the pay telephone at the bar. The bartender picked up the phone, spoke in a low voice for a moment, then walked over to their booth. "Judy Burton?" he said. The bartender's voice brought Judy back to reality. She was a whore, she thought, nothing but a whore, always on call. "Yes," she said, "I'm Judy Burton." "Phone for you." She walked over to the bar and picked up the phone, dreading to hear the voice on the other end of the receiver, knowing that it would bring an end to her evening with Tim. "Hello," she said, caution in her voice. "Hiya, Judy, this is Nelson." Slackjaws Nelson was Jay Snyder's enforcer, a big, mean, ugly man with a body like steel and a mind like a peanut. He did all Snyder's dirty work, the 'convincing,' as Jay called it. "What do you want?" "Now, baby," Slackjaws said, "is that any way to talk to your best friend, after all I done for you?" Slackjaws snickered. "I got a trick for you." "Oh, Mr. Nelson," she said (the muscleman hated his nickname), "I've had four already tonight, I'm pretty tired." She hoped her lie would impress the enforcer, make him leave her alone at least long enough to spend some more time with Tim. But it didn't work. "No sob stories, baby. Just douche yourself out, take an aspirin or something. This is a big one, a personal friend of Jay's. He'll meet you there in half an hour." Slackjaws hung up without giving her a chance to reply. Judy walked Back to the booth, feeling like a zombie. "Tim," she said, "I can't go. Something's come up, a change of plans." "You mean a customer." He had known the phone call would bring had news, bring an end to the only good evening of his life. Oh, well, he thought, maybe I can see her another time. But he was disappointed, bitterly disappointed. "It's OK," he said, without conviction. "I understand." "No, you don't understand at all. You think I'd rather be with a customer than with you? Christ, I'd give up all my customers just to be with you another five minutes, but this isn't just any customer. It's a friend of Jay's. That was Slackjaws on the phone." Tim knew she was telling the truth, and he understood immediately. He'd heard stories about what Jay did to his girls when they crossed him, about Slackjaws and his vicious perversions. As much as he wanted Judy, he didn't want her to get hurt, didn't want her to have to submit to Slackjaws or any of the others. "OK," he said. "Maybe another time. Come on, I'll get you a cab." "No, I'm supposed to meet him here." Tim nodded, reached for his coat. "Can we meet another time?" There was fear in Judy's eyes. "I don't know, Tim," she said. "It might be dangerous. For you, I mean, not for me." "I don't care about that, Tim said fiercely. "I have to see you again. I have to ..." Judy saw the passion in his eyes, heard it in his trembling voice. It made her afraid, but it excited her too. She began to think about Tim's hands, to feel them stroking her breasts, reaching into the warm wet darkness of her pussy. "We'll see," she said, smiling. "We'll see. You know where to find me." Tim nodded slowly. He was on fire with love for her, wanted her body more than he had ever wanted anything. Nothing was going to come between them; not Jay, not Slackjaws, nothing. He put on his coat, stared deep into Judy's eyes for a moment, then turned and walked out the door. He stood there, very still, breathing deeply, trying to think. Something new had come into his life, something new and tremendously exciting, this beautiful girl with her full ripe body, this girl named Judy. Maybe this is it, he thought, maybe my luck's finally changing. He felt that with Judy beside him he could do anything, quit Jay, go out on his own, maybe even find a way to get into college and become a doctor. Anything was possible now. He began walking down the street, lost in his fantasies, in dreams of a solid and glorious future with Judy, his wife. He was so wrapped up in plans that at first he didn't hear her voice calling him, or if he did hear, he assumed it was part of the dream. "Tim," she called. "Tim, wait." Then he heard footsteps behind him. He turned around and there she was, panting, her hair wild on her shoulders, her eyes burning with passion. "Wait," she said, breathlessly. "I changed my mind." "You what?" "I changed my mind," she said. "To hell with Jay, to hell with all of them. I want to be with you." Tim could scarcely believe what he heard. She was going to forsake Jay, to put herself in danger just to be with him? "You want to what?" "I want to be with you." Tim's mind stopped. He embraced Judy, holding her as tightly as he could, his arms trembling. He could feel the firmness of her breasts as they pressed against him, and the smooth bones of her pelvis moving along his loins. Her arms circled his neck, her hands ran wildly through his hair. "Hold it," he laughed, "or we're going to be doing it right here on the street." "I wouldn't mind," Judy said, her voice shaking with desire. She let go of him and they started walking, not quite knowing where they were, arm in arm, no sounds but their footsteps, no thought except to get to Judy's place, to get to bed. * * * Judy made a scotch and water for each of them. Once inside the apartment, Tim had become nervous; Judy hoped the drink would calm him down a bit. She didn't quite understand his nervousness--maybe it had been a long time since he'd been with a woman, maybe he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to make love. Or maybe he had some disease and was ashamed to tell her about it. Men were strange, she thought; they got upset about such trivial things. But Tim was thinking about something else: he was thinking about Judy's job, about all the men she'd been with in the past. Maybe, he thought, maybe she's even been with someone else earlier today, or this evening. The thought of Judy lying naked in bed with some anonymous john made Tim burn with anger and jealousy. He wanted to ask her about it, wanted to know exactly how many men she'd had, what their names were, their occupations, what they'd said to her. He especially wanted to know if she'd ever enjoyed fucking any of them, and if she'd ever brought anyone else up to this place, her own apartment. He wanted to ask her all these things, but at the same time he felt a little childish, so he kept quiet. Judy brought the drink over, smiled at him, knelt down on the floor in front of him She began to rub the inside of his thigh, leaving trails of electric sensation as she ran her fingernails up his crotch. Tim felt his balls swell, his penis begin to come to life. He reached out quickly and grabbed her hand, pulled it away from his legs. "Wait!" "Tim, what's wrong? Why don't you tell me?" "Nothing's wrong," he said. "Sure there is. Please tell me about it maybe I can help." Tim glared angrily at her. "Maybe you can help? Sure you can help. Just like you help all your customers. It's all part of the job, isn't it, all in a day's work--make them relax, make them feel special, make them forget that you're a whore." "So that's it," Judy said quietly. "You're damned right that's it." Tim was almost shouting. "How many men have you had this week? How many today? You say you wouldn't take me to your place of business, but how do I know if you're telling me the truth? How do I know? What if I'm just another john, and all this is a set-up; what then?" "Have I asked you for money?" "No, not yet at least. But what's going to happen when we're through? How do I know you won't say 'Tim, darling, I need to buy some stockings; could you give me a hundred dollars?'" "You don't know." "You're damned right I don't know. Back there in the bar you made me believe that I was something different, something new in your life, something special. But now we get up here, and what do you do? You make me a drink, just like I was one of your tricks, some scared little guy who was too afraid to make love to you without being full of booze first. Then you come over and start rubbing my leg, just like you'd do for any of your customers. Oh, it felt good, very good. You must have had a lot of practice. Well, practice on someone else. I can buy a whore anytime. With you I was hoping for something a little different." Judy was hurt by this speech, but she understood Tim's feelings, knew that the problem would have to be dealt with sometime, and that now, before they actually got involved, would be as good a time as any. "Tim," she said softly, "this is something different. You are special. I knew that as soon as we started talking. You're the first man I ever met who gave a damn about me, who cared about anything except my body. Of course you're special. There's no way I can prove that to you, not now, certainly not with words. You'll just have to trust me. You'll have to believe that I'm not lying to you." She took his hand. "Here," she said. "Look at me." Tim raised his eyes to meet hers. Immediately he knew that she was telling the truth--her eyes were clear and strong, without the slightest trace of deceit. This was his woman, her eyes made him understand that, made him forget all his doubts. "OK," he said. "I believe you. I'm sorry," "Don't be sorry." Judy smiled at him. "Just talk to me." Tim got up, began striding happily around the living room. The apartment was not luxurious, but Judy had made it a comfortable place to live: soft pillows lay on the floor, and the obviously second-hand furniture had been covered with bright fabrics. There were paintings on the wall, and posters from other countries. One poster in particular caught Tim's attention--it was from Italy, showed a small village set high in the Dolomite Alps. All the houses were made of native stone, the sky very blue, the light on the village crisp and clear. "You know what I think?" Tim said. "What do you think?" "I think maybe we should go there." He pointed at the poster. Judy laughed. "Dreamer." "Sure it's a dream, but we could do it. We could save some money, quit Jay Snyder, and go to someplace like that to live. Once we were out of the country Jay couldn't touch us." He looked back at the poster. "Sure," he said softly, talking as much to himself as to Judy, "we could do it. Look at that place. So peaceful. We'd have nothing at all to worry about." Judy was still laughing. "Which would you rather do first," she said, "go to medical school or go to Italy?" "Don't make fun of me. I'm serious." "I know you're serious, but don't you think we ought to take things one at a time? We can dream all we want about Italy or medical school or being President of the United States and his charming First Lady, but when all the dreaming's over we have to come back to the real world. In the real world we both work for Jay Snyder, and I don't see any way out of that. I don't see any way at all." Her words brought Tim back down to earth. She was right--all the dreaming in the world couldn't change the facts. They were stuck, and stuck they would remain unless some miracle happened. "There has to be a way," Tim said almost under his breath. "There just has to be a way." "Maybe there is," Judy said, "but I can't see it. Not now, anyway." "No, not now. But someday." Judy had propped one of her oversized pillows up against the couch, was leaning back on it, her drink beside her on the floor. Her black hair lay loose on the pillow, spreading out around her like a mane. Tim ran his eyes along her face, down her neck to her shoulders, and then down to those voluptuous breasts. Judy felt herself stir under his gaze, felt his eyes burn paths in her skin. When they came to rest on her breasts, Judy could feel them almost as if they were hands; her nipples began to harden, pushing out against the soft fabric of her blouse. Then Tim's eyes moved again, to her bare stomach--she imagined his fingertips brushing gently against the sensitive skin of her belly, going back and forth, creating little stirrings in her abdomen. Oh, she wanted him to touch her, to move his hands all over her, to feel the strength in his fingers as he made the flames of her desire burn higher and higher, faster and faster. She could see the rising bulge in his trousers, and she had an impulse to go to him, to free his aching cock from its confines, to stroke it with both hands, to feel it throb and pulse under her touch. She got up, crossed the room and knelt in front of Tim where he stood. She let her hands lie loosely at her sides while she ran her lips along his legs, grazing him lightly. She moved her head slowly, making her lips slide up and down his legs, drawing lines and circles, lines and circles. "Mmmm," Tim murmured. "Mm-mm-mm. Very nice." Slowly, ever so slowly, Judy brought her lips up to the base of Tim's cock, feeling it pulse through his trousers. She opened her mouth, let her teeth describe the borders of his prick, nibbled along its outstretched length--the size of it surprised her, frightening her a little at first, then excited her all the more. She had to have that prick, Tim's prick, inside her, had to feel his hot juices squirting through her insides. She had been to bed with many men, but no one, not even Tom, had made her feel this way, as if she would explode if she wasn't satisfied right then. She pulled away, realizing that her body was going too fast for her. She wanted to take it slowly, to draw it out as long as possible, to savor every minute of their love-making, every sensation, every tiny movement of their bodies. She had only been in love once before, and then had been too inexperienced to make sex as pleasurable as she knew it could be; this time she was going to do it right. At least, she thought, being a prostitute is good for something. Tim knelt down, took her face in his hands. "What's wrong," he said. "Why did you stop? I was just starting to enjoy it." "Good," she said, smiling. "If you enjoyed it then, just think how much you're going to enjoy it when we really get started." "Oh, the previews, is that it?" Judy laughed. "That's it," she said. "OK, but let's not wait too long for the main attraction. I don't think my heart could take it, let alone those other parts of me." Judy laughed again. It was nice to have a man with a sense of humor, who saw sex as a game, something to be played with instead of taken as a matter of life and death. It was going to be good, very good. Tim went in the kitchen, began mixing more drinks. "Get ready," he said, "because you are about to have a unique experience. You're going to taste your first Brooklyn Bomber." Judy joined him in the kitchen, stood just behind him with her hands behind her back, standing up on tiptoe to see over his shoulder. "Before I drink this thing," she said, "I'm going to have to know what's in it." Tim bent over, blocked the blender from view with his body. "Sorry," he said. "Ingredients can be revealed only to Brooklynites and a few selected certified aliens. Could I see your passport please?" Judy put her hand on Tim's shoulder, spun him around, and planted a quick kiss on his mouth. As she tried to break away, Tim grabbed her. "Customs inspection," he said, and gathered Judy in for a long, lingering kiss. Her tongue played along his teeth, tickled the roof of his mouth, investigated the underside of his lips. When their tongues met a sensation of sparks passed between them. Tim ran his hand down her back, massaged the soft rounded flesh of her buttocks. Judy began to moan. "Take me, Tim," she said. "Take me now." Tim stepped back. "Now?" he said. "Before dinner?" Judy smiled. "OK," she said, "let's get on with this Brooklyn Bomber. Did I pass the inspection?" "The gold star seal of approval." He turned back to the blender. "Now," he said, "as to this Brooklyn Bomber--start with half a glass of vodka, half a glass of orange juice ..." "A screwdriver," she said. "Very appropriate." "Not a screwdriver. A Brooklyn Bomber. Now listen carefully: a sprig of mint, two cloves, half a teaspoon of nutmeg. Mix it up ..." he turned on the blender, letting it whir until the drink foamed, then quickly turning it off. "... pour ..." he filled two glasses with the foamy orange drink, "... and taste." Judy raised the glass to her lips, took a cautious sip, put the glass back down. "Very good. How far is Brooklyn?" Tim made a face. "Not far enough," he said. "Not far enough. This drink was the only good thing that ever came out of that place; that and the Dodgers." "You came from there," Judy said softly. "You're a good thing." "Am I? Yeah, maybe I am. Maybe now I finally am." He took Judy in his arms, held her close. What a woman, he thought. She really does make me feel like I'm worth something, like I can do anything I want if I try hard enough. He pressed her closer, felt her cool breath on his neck, her silky hair against his face, her hands on his back. They stood there like that for a few moments, feeling one another's heartbeats, then Judy began to gently roll her hips, to press her thighs hard against him. Tim's penis began to rise slowly. He slipped his hand underneath her blouse, began massaging the smooth skin of her back, moving his hand in slow, lazy circles. He was pleased and surprised to discover that she wasn't wearing a bra, that her breasts stood up as they did with no help from the lingerie industry. Feeling her bare back where the bra strap should have been excited Tim even more; he could feel the hot semen gurgling in his balls, straining against his scrotum, begging for release. "Not yet," he told his body. "Not yet. Be patient." He began to run his fingernail along her spine, gently, starting at the base of her neck and moving slowly down to the tip of her tail-bone. "Mmmmf," Judy said, responding by gradually increasing the rolling motion of her hips. Every time Tim ran his fingernail down her spine she ground her lower body into his, feeling his half-hard prick rub against the hairs on her pussy. Her tailbone was like the switch to a furnace--every time he touched her there the flames of desire rose inside her. Tim's hands were all over her now, massaging the cheeks of her ass, defining her sides, her waist, her hips, investigating, questioning, deciding. They seemed to have a will of their own, those hands, as if they were operating solely under their own power, choosing their route according to some secret knowledge that was entirely lost to the brain. They wandered over the hills and valleys of her body, bringing excitement and longing wherever they went. Her mind was shutting down now, words and thoughts were leaving her alone with a passion that increased with every move of Tim's wonderful hands. Judy had never felt like this. Always before, with her customers and even with Tom, her mind had held itself aloof, never losing its clarity and detachment. "That's all right," her mind would tell her. "This isn't really happening You haven't been touched, not really--how could you be touched if I'm still up here, safe and sound, watching." Eventually, after some practice, Judy had been able to leave her body entirely, to float along the ceiling and watch the two strange bodies writhe below her in her bed, or even to leave the room entirely and go flying above the city, across rivers and mountains and oceans to the secret valleys of the East. But this time there could be no leavetaking. Tim's hands held her inside herself, soothed and calmed her mind even as they massaged her body into a fury of passion, made her want nothing more than to stay here, safe under Tim's touch. Blindly she reached for his shirt, pulled it out of his pants. She began to run her hand over his bare hack, feeling his firm muscles quiver with each passing of her fingers. Their hands were moving together now, keeping rhythm with one another like a piano player playing octaves, sending chills of delight through their bodies. Now Tim began to run his lips along the side of her face, brushing her like soft flowers. He bent down slightly, moved his mouth down her neck, found her open throat as she raised her chin to accept him. He nibbled her teasingly, kissed her, and then began to suck gently on her throat, maintaining a pulsing rhythm in his lips. Judy moaned softly. "Ooooooo," she said. "Don't stop. Please don't stop. Don't ever stop. Just keep doing that. Keep doing it. Don't stop." The sound of her voice, her fiery words and heavy breathing, excited Tim even more. Suddenly he took the soft skin of her throat between his teeth, bit down hard, twisted the skin and then released it. The short sharp pain tingled through her body all the way to her cunt, which by now was twitching freely, preparing the warm lubricating juices that would soon flow over Tim's prick. "Ohhhh," Judy moaned. "Oh, Tim. Oh, my darling Tim." She stepped back just a bit, far enough so that she could free her hands but not so far back as to break contact with Tim's mouth. She rubbed the front of his thighs as he continued kissing her throat, then moved her fingertips slowly up the inside of his thighs to his balls. She played her fingers on his scrotum, lightly at first, just barely touching the hard glands inside, then more and more firmly, until finally she had her hand closed tightly around them and was jiggling them in her palm. "Jesus," Tim said. "Christ Jesus." By now his prick was firm and erect, his balls swollen to the point of explosion. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. Every fiber of his body ached to be inside Judy, to plunge his massive prick past those tender cunt-lips and into her warm pussy. He wanted her so much that he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to contain himself, that the pressure on his balls and the straining of his prick would be too much for him, that he would lose control and come before the time was right. He concentrated on his sphincter muscles, compressing them, straining against the pressure that threatened to make him burst. It would have to be soon, he thought. The confinement of clothes had become unbearable--he cupped his hands underneath Judy's ass, picked her up and started carrying her toward the bedroom, while she held on tightly, her arms around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist. He took her into the bedroom, laid her gently down on the soft double bed. He knelt above her, straddling her body with his knees, and began to undress her. He slipped the little blouse over her head and whistled softly as her perfect breasts remained standing almost straight out from her chest, even though she was lying full on her back. Gently he rubbed her nipples, taking them between his thumb and index finger, feeling his own growing excitement as the pink buds hardened and came to attention. Never had he seen tits like these! Judy groaned and tossed her head from side to side, her black hair slithering along the pillow as her head moved back and forth. Tim slid his hands down her sides to her hips, pulled the tight black pants off her in a single sweeping stroke, then did the same with her bikini panties. Immediately a spot of liquid dotted the sheet as the hot sweet juice flowed from her. Now she was naked in front of him, the soft black mound of her pussy glistening. Quickly, Tim jumped from the bed and stripped himself. Judy's eyes widened as she saw his huge, throbbing prick escape the confinement of his trousers. She wanted that cock inside her, to be everywhere at once; in her mouth, her anus, her pussy all at the same time, to suck the thick liquid from it and swallow it, to feel it stream out and run along the walls of her aching cunt. Oh, how she wanted this man, more than she'd ever wanted anyone, more even than Tom. As Tim approached the bed, Judy sat up and reached out for him. She took his enormous cock in her two hands, began to stroke it gently, moving her hands along its full length, from the base to the pulsing tip. The first thin traces of semen ran down the underside of his prick, lubricating her fingers. She stooped to lick the oily stuff from her hands--the taste of it nearly drove her wild--then resumed her stroking. Tim's legs were shaking; he could barely stand up. "Not too much, now," he whispered. "Take it slow and easy." "Don't worry," Judy crooned. "I'm going to save you for the best part." She released his cock, and Tim slid onto the bed next to her. They lay side by side, facing one another, Judy keeping her legs together as Tim slid his hands in between her thighs. He moved his hand further and further toward the entrance to her cunt, feeling the slick fluid leaking down her legs. Quickly he turned her over on her back and spread her legs apart. She was so beautiful, he thought, and soon she would be his and his alone. His! He lowered his head, began licking at her thighs, making a hard mound of his tongue. Judy squirmed with delight "eat me," she whispered. "Please, Tim, please, darling, eat me." Tim obeyed, moving his tongue up to her pussy, separating the lips and plunging his tongue into the sweet ditch above her clitoris. "Oh God," she yelled. "Ohhhhh, Jesus." Tim probed with his tongue until he found the hard little ridge. He lapped at it, moving his tongue up and down, caressing it, kneading it. Judy began to tremble with excitement. She felt as if he was licking her from the inside out. "Turn me around," she groaned. "I want to taste you too." Tim lay on his back as Judy straddled him. She took his cock in her mouth, just the tip at first, simultaneously sucked and licked it, at the same time thrusting her ripe, flowing pussy into his face. Tim followed her rhythm, licking her clitoris faster and faster as she sucked him harder and harder. Their breath came in unison, and Tim's bass grunting counter-pointed her high- pitched squeals. His prick throbbed in her mouth as she took more and more of it inside her. Finally Tim could take no more. Passion had reached the breaking point; he felt he would explode if he didn't have her immediately. "Now!" he yelled. "I want you NOW!" Judy was ready, more ready than she had ever been in her life. The lapping of Tim's tongue had nearly driven her mad with desire for him, and she knew she could wait no longer to feel his beautiful cock inside her. She turned around to face him, raised her hips until her cunt hovered just above his outstretched prick. Slowly, ever so slowly she came toward him, rotating her hips, describing a small tight circle as Tim strained upward to meet her. Down and down she came, groaning softly at the first light contact. She took him in slowly, still moving her hips in small circles, screwing herself down onto him, making him dizzy with pleasure. When she had half his massive organ inside her, when the aching desire of her body grew too strong for teasing, she plunged herself down the full length of his dick. "Ohhhhhhhh," he said, as the tight muscles of her cunt closed around him. For the briefest moment they were content to lay still, to feel themselves finally together as one person. Judy could feel Tim far up inside her, feel the warmth of his cock as it throbbed against the walls of her pussy, filling her as she had never been filled before. Then she started moving, slowly raising and lowering herself, going up until Tim's prick almost came out of her and then sliding down the full length of it, moaning and quivering as it stabbed into her again and again. Holy Christ, thought Tim, I'll bet her customers never got anything like this. Her customers! The thought of Judy in bed with anyone else, the thought of anyone else inside her, driving her into a passionate frenzy, nearly drove Tim mad with jealousy. I'll show her, he thought. I'll fuck her like she's never been fucked before. He withdrew his prick from her vibrating cunt, heard with satisfaction as she let out a disappointed "Oh!" "Now we'll try it my way," he said. He turned her over roughly, lay her on her back, and thrust his prick into her as far as it would go. "Ohmigod!" she cried, raising her legs high in the air, pulling him deeper and deeper inside her. "More!" she cried. "Fuck me, Tim; fuck me, fuck me!" Tim responded by driving into her even more savagely, in and out in long, smooth strokes that made her shudder with delight. No matter how far he went into her, even when he slammed against the walls of her cervix, she still wanted more. She locked her legs around his waist, undulated her hips in perfect time with his stroking. "Ohhhh, yes," she whimpered. "Do it to me. Do it to me some more. Don't ever stop." Tim had no intention of stopping. He was going to show her what it was to have a real man, someone who could give her everything she needed. He reached around behind her, dipped his finger in the viscous fluid around her cunt, and stabbed his finger deep into her anus, continuing all the while with his stroking. "Yes," she screamed. "Yes! Do it there too! Do it everywhere!" Judy was going crazy. Never had anyone done this to her, never made her feel as if she would die if she didn't get more, as if there was nothing else in the world except this tremendous cock inside her, this finger rotating in her anus, making her mad with lust, building passion in her until she thought she would come apart. This was a man, oh yes, this was a real man! Already she could feel the stirrings deep inside her, the little series of shocks that would eventually lead to that final orgiastic explosion. The stirrings became deeper and more pronounced with each thrust of Tim's prick, with each rotation of his finger; building and building and building, becoming a solid wall of pleasure, until she knew she could hold off no longer, until the pleasure was too much for any woman to contain. "Ohhhhhhhhh," she yelled. "Oh, God, oh, Jesus, oh my God, I'm cummmmmming! Oh God I'm cummmmming NOW!" Her pussy was oscillating like an electric vibrator, her hips thrashing wildly as Tim continued to stroke, building her climax to incredible proportions as he moved toward his own. "Scream," he said. "Scream, baby. Feel it. Feel me. That's right, scream!" Tim could hold himself back no longer. He relaxed his sphincter muscles, allowed the pleasure to build up inside him as he took the pressure off his straining balls. "Oh, here I come! HERE I COME. NOWWWW!" His hot sperm spurt in rivers from his cock, filling Judy with the fabulous juice of passion. She grabbed his balls, squeezed them hard, wringing every drop of sticky come from him, making him scream with pleasure and pain, drawing out his climax until he nearly fainted from ecstasy. Lord, he thought, as he collapsed on top of her, there was no one like this girl. No one. Judy was thinking exactly the same thing. "Tim," she said, "I love you. I love you very much. What you did ... oh, I'm so happy." Tim knew she couldn't possibly be lying, not now. Now they were truly together, now nothing would ever separate them. They had made love like no one before them, and they would go on doing it forever. In fact, he thought as he reached for her, it's almost forever already ... Chapter 5 "I.D., please," said the uniformed security guard at the door. Mike Kramer reached into his coat pocket for his badge case, showed the badge to the doorman. "Vice squad," he said. "Right," said the doorman. He grinned at Mike. "Come to check it out?" "Strictly on my own time. I'm here for pleasure, not business." In a way this was true--Mike had come to this convention on his own time, but he was there for anything but pleasure This was a convention of night club owners from all over the United States and Canada, and Mike hoped that if he played his cards right he would be able to get close to Jay Snyder, close enough to accumulate some evidence that could be used to build a case against him. Since the convention was in Los Angeles, and since conventions of this sort were always attended by wild partying and paid sex, Mike figured that Snyder would have the sex concession. Mike thought about Lisa. If he could only convince her, he thought, if he could only make her see that this was the important part of his job, nailing crooks like Snyder, and that it didn't matter what rank he held on the force just so long as he could be effective. The higher up you went, Mike knew, the less effective you became. Hell, the guys who really did the work were the patrolmen; even lieutenants spent too much time behind a desk, shuffling papers. If he could just make her see. "Jackson's the name," boomed a loud voice at Mike's side. "Own a topless joint in Dubuque, Iowa." Mike turned to see a short, fat, bald man of about fifty. He had a patch over one eye, and a huge gap where his front teeth should have been. Protruding from that gap was the biggest, blackest, stinkiest cigar Mike had ever seen. Mike had met hundreds of men like this in his work, sleazy little bastards who thought about nothing but money and women, who preyed equally on their customers and on the girls who worked for them. Generally they weren't worth the time of day, but tonight Mike was playing all possible angles. "Hi," he said. "Mike Kramer. I'm from town here." "That so?" said Jackson. "What kind of joint you running?" "Discotheque," said Mike. The fat man eyed him. "Discotheque, huh?" he said. "I tried one of those. Didn't go over so big in Dubuque. Now in Chicago, or New York .. "Or Los Angeles," interrupted Mike. "Right," the fat man said, grinning and nodding his head. "Here in L.A. you guys got a good thing going. In Dubuque I got to work my ass off all the time." I'll bet you do, Mike thought to himself. Then out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Steve Paul, Jay Snyder's right-hand man. Paul was moving slowly across the convention floor, smiling and shaking hands with every second person he saw. Christ, Mike thought, it looks like he's running for President. But Paul was hardly presidential timbre. He ran all Snyder's collections and all his legitimate businesses, helped him maintain his front as a respectable entrepreneur. More than that, he was also his boss's aide and confidante, the only man Snyder trusted. This was a big fish indeed. "Excuse me," Mike said. He walked abruptly away from Jackson, left him chewing his cigar and wondering. Paul was moving toward the opposite door, and for a moment Mike thought he might slip away. He hurried on, pushing and elbowing his way through the crowd. "Hey, buddy," said one of them, "take it easy. There's no rush." "Sorry," said Mike, and he pushed on. Steve Paul was almost to the door when Mike finally caught up to him. "Hey!" he called out. Paul turned around, regarded Mike with a cold stare. "Yes?" he said. "Aren't you Steve Paul?" "That's me." Mike was panting with exertion. "Hold it a minute," he said. "Let me catch my breath." Luckily, Paul waited for him. Mike used the interlude to think up an approach. "Don't you own a joint on the Strip?" "Several. To which joint were you referring?" Snyder's henchman liked to project an image of educated erudition, as if he was at least one cut above everyone around him, but Mike knew better. "The Gay Paree, up near Fairfax. Isn't that one yours?" "As a matter of fact, it is. You know the place?" His eyes began to show a spark of interest, a spark which Mike did not fail to notice. Now I've got him, thought Mike. Now I've got the egomaniac bastard. "Know it?" Mike said. "I practically live there. Every time I get a chance, whenever I can trust someone else to run my little place, I'm at the Gay Paree. Quite a joint, that is. Quite a joint." "Well," Paul said, obviously flattered, "thank you. Thank you very much." He looked at Mike closely, studied his face, frowned. "Funny, though, I can't remember ever having seen you." Uh-oh, Mike thought. Suspicious. No wonder Snyder likes him so much. "It's no wonder," he said. "I always stay in the back where it's dark. I don't like to be noticed, if you know what I mean." "I do know what you mean, I do indeed." He smiled at the cop. "What are you doing with the rest of your evening?" he said. Mike's heart beat a little faster. He'd hooked him! "No plans," he said, keeping his voice calm. "Well, we're having a little get together at my place, private, you know, in my home." He emphasized the last word so that the honor of the invitation would not be lost on Mike. "Why don't you come along?" "Great. Love to." Would he ever! If he was lucky, he might run into Jay Snyder himself. "Fine," Paul said. He scribbled something on the back of a matchbook, handed the matchbook to Mike. "Here's the address. It starts in an hour." The gangster turned to go, then stopped and turned back to face Mike. "By the way he said, "I didn't catch your name." "Johnson, Gus Johnson." * * * In exactly one hour a yellow cab pulled up to the curb in front of an exclusive apartment building. Mike stepped out of the cab, craned his neck to look up the side of the building, toward the penthouse suite. From the top of the building lights blazed, and loud music leaked out onto the street below. Mike straightened his tie, walked into the building, took the elevator to the top floor. Well, he thought as he rang the doorbell, here goes nothing. The door opened a tiny crack, revealed one eye and a nose. "What is it?" "I'm Gus Johnson. Mr. Paul invited me." "Just a minute," said the voice. The door closed, then opened wide a few seconds later, framing an elegant butler dressed in full tuxedo. Whew, Mike thought, a fancy dress ball. This guy does know how to give a party. "Come in, won't you?" said the butler. Mike walked in. The room was brightly lit and crowded with people. Through the smoke he could see Steve Paul standing near the bar, chatting pleasantly with a dazzling blonde. The music was very loud. Someone thrust a drink in his hand. Suddenly the music stopped. Everyone sat down on the floor, as if in answer to an unseen signal from their host. The bright lights were dimmed, a soft blue light replacing them. The music started again, a slow, bluesy tune. Heads and bodies began to sway. Somewhere a door opened, and out stepped the most incredible woman Mike bad ever seen. She was tall, almost six feet, slender without being skinny, with bright red wavy hair. Her eyes seemed to smoke. She was wearing a belly dancer's costume, a thin gauzy dress with a burnoose and a long veil that covered her breasts. Even in the dim light, Mike could see she was beautiful. The girl began to move her body, slowly rocking her hips back and forth in time with the music, her dress making a swishing sound as she swayed. Mike couldn't take his eyes off her. Lisa, his wife, was pretty enough, in fact some people thought her beautiful, but this girl was from another planet. Mike had never seen anything like her. And despite his faithfulness to Lisa, his prick had a mind of its own; even though he tried hard not to be enticed by this lovely woman, he felt his prick begin to twitch against his pants. The tempo of the music increased; the girl rocked more violently, pacing herself against the music, building slowly. A woman standing next to Mike put her hand down her partner's pants. Mike imagined the dancer's hand crawling down his stomach, reaching for his rising cock. Christ, he thought, if Lisa could only be like that. He wanted that girl in a way he had never wanted Lisa, passionately, in a frenzy of rich, voluptuous sex. He continued to stare at her and fantasize, picturing the red hairs of her pussy wet and shiny with her come that he, Mike, had called forth from within her. No, he thought, no. I can't think this way. Lisa is my wife and I am her husband and we are true to each other--not particularly hot for each other, but true nevertheless. The redhead's dancing seemed to mock Mike's faithfulness, seemed to say "really, now, wouldn't you like a taste of something different? Wouldn't you like a taste of me?" Now the girl began to strip. She unhooked the veil from the burnoose, used it like a shoe-shine rag across her breasts. Mike could imagine her nipples beginning to harden from the gentle brushing of the material, could imagine those same nipples rising under his own fingers. The man next to him responded to the girl's dancing by massaging the breasts of his woman, who still had her hand down the front of his pants. Mike glanced around the room--everywhere were couples locked in one form or another of sexual embrace. Steve Paul stood at the bar, seemingly aloof from the scene around him, but Mike could see that his eyes were shining. Saving himself, Mike thought, saving himself for later. Then it hit him: was Steve Paul saving himself for this dancer? No, it couldn't be! That girl had to be his, he couldn't stand the idea of her opening her luscious body to that crook. The dancer let her veil drop to the floor, revealing a set of the most perfect breasts Mike had ever seen. They stood far out from her chest, wiggling and shaking as she danced, without a hint of sag or droop; and the nipples pointed up. The red head ran her hands along the underside of those breasts, squeezing them, playing with them, making them stand out even more. With every bounce of her breasts, every movement of her rolling hips, the thought of Lisa and his faithfulness receded further and further from Mike's mind. He could think of nothing but his desire for this girl, this paragon of sex. "Don't look too hard," said a voice at Mike's side. It was the butler. "She belongs to Mr. Paul." Mike's worst fears were realized. That incredible woman, the sexiest woman in the world, reserving her charms for a gangster like Steve Paul! It was too much to take. "Is she for sale?" said Mike in a hoarse whisper. "Generally," said the butler, "no. But under certain circumstances, on certain unusual occasions, Mr. Paul can be persuaded to part with her for an hour or so. Very unusual circumstances," said the butler, "if you know what I mean." Money. He would pay anything to have this girl, even if just for an hour. He had a cache of a few hundred dollars, the existence of which he kept secret from everyone, including Lisa; it was for "emergencies." And if this was an emergency--Mike's rigid cock was sending out a call for rescue, and he knew that tonight only this girl could save him. "How much?" "That depends on Mr. Paul's mood," said the butler. "Wait right here; I'll ask him." Mike reluctantly took his eyes from the girl, who was now caressing her nipples with her tongue, followed the butler as he walked across the room to the bar where Steve Paul stood watching the dance. Mike saw the butler whisper something in Paul's ear, saw Paul shake his head, no. The butler whispered again, then both men turned and looked at Mike. Mike nodded in return. Paul whispered something to the butler, who immediately turned and came across the room to Mike's side. He said, "Mr. Paul is very reluctant to part with the young lady--he mentioned something about an anniversary. However, for a fee of two hundred dollars, he says, you might be allowed an hour alone with her." Two hundred dollars This was all Mike had in his secret emergency fund. And for only one hour! What Mike wanted to do with this girl would take much longer than an hour--he could fuck her all night long, all week long, all the rest ... No, he thought. It was too much money for too little reward. Besides, there were other things to think about: Lisa for example, and his job. He was here he reminded himself, to nail Jay Snyder, not to go off amusing himself with one of his whores. Mike turned to the butler. "No," he said, "it's too much." "Are you sure?" said the butler. "Look." He nodded in the direction of the girl. She was standing still now, moving her pelvis in and out, thrusting her cunt, it seemed, directly into Mike's face. Her hand reached for the clasp on her hip, undid it, and the thin skirt joined the veil on the floor. She was completely naked, and far more beautiful that way than she had been when fully clothed, or even half-clothed. Mike's longing for her returned in a flash, causing his prick to beat madly against his pants. The redhead ran her fingers slowly along her smooth, glorious thighs, beckoning Mike to do the same. She had caught his eye, was looking straight at him now, asking him, enticing him, begging him to fuck her as she'd never been fucked before. Her eyes paralyzed him, seemed to strip him of everything except his desire for her, his awareness of this throbbing prick. Now she did a backbend, arching her trembling body so that her head and her feet touched the floor. Her cunt was pointed directly at Mike; it seemed to vibrate, driven by a power all its own. Her crawling fingers moved further and further up her thighs until they finally came in contact with her beautiful pussy. Then she spread the red pubic hairs, spread her cunt-lips wide to reveal the rigid little mound of her clitoris. Slowly she began to finger herself, treating herself gently, manipulating her hardened clitoris with the gentlest of touches--all over the room her movements were echoed by fingers, by tongues, by exposed cocks and pussies. Mike could hardly stand it. Now there was no Lisa, no emergency fund, no cop and no vice squad, no Jay Snyder--there was only the burning in his body, the lustful squirmings of his prick, the tingling in his balls. He had to have her; there was no longer any doubt. If he never did another thing in his life, he had to have this incredible woman. He turned to the butler. "All right," he said. "Sold." "Fine," said the butler: "Now if you'll just wait a few minutes, I'll make the necessary arrangements." Mike nodded, turned back to watch the girl as the butler disappeared from his side. She was reaching the climax of her dance, the climax of her body; shaking and moaning as she rubbed her clitoris faster and faster, harder and harder. Finally she screamed: "Ahhhhhh! Oh, Jesus. OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" and collapsed on the floor, exhausted and sweating. That's right, thought Mike as he rubbed his aching cock, rest. Rest your body, because I'm going to make that orgasm you just had seem like a popgun against a hydrogen bomb. Rest, he thought, just rest. I'll be with you soon. * * * "Hi," she said, smiling at him. "My name's Cindy." "Gus," said Mike. "Gus Johnson. Can we get out of here? He was anxious to leave the crowd in the penthouse, anxious particularly to get away from Steve Paul, who was watching them like a hawk. "Got something on your mind?" she said, laughing. "I saw you while I was dancing. Yeah, I'd say you definitely had something on your mind." "Let's just go," said Mike. "I don't want to stand around here talking all night." She looked at Mike, saw the desire in his eyes, felt her own passion returning. "Where would you like to go?" she said softly. "Your place," Mike said. "That'll cost you more," she said. "OK, OK." Money meant nothing now--he could always get a loan from his mother. "Let's just get out of here, quick." * * * Cindy had a small house, high in the Hollywood Hills, overlooking the San Fernando Valley. The lights of downtown Burbank winked up at them as they sat on the sofa, smiling at one another. Since they had arrived at the house, Cindy's whole manner had changed: she had dropped her tough-girl front, had become coy and even a little shy, and somehow this pleased Mike almost as much as her wild, orgiastic dancing. At least, he thought, she's a person, a woman, and not just a whore. That makes it better. "How old are you?" Mike asked, suddenly curious. Her eyes narrowed a bit. "You wouldn't be a cop, would you?" At the mention of the word "cop," Mike's heart skipped a beat. Did she know, or was this just a guess, just a suspicion? He couldn't afford to have her know-- she might tell Snyder and then his whole gambit would be ruined; his effectiveness as a whole might even be undermined. He laughed. "Hardly," he said. "Good, I hate cops." Her voice was harsh and bitter. Mike wondered at the bitterness in such a young girl. "Why do you hate cops so much?" "It's a long story." "That's OK. We've got plenty of time." She looked at him. This guy is strange, she thought. Back at the party he was practically drooling on his shirt, and now that he's got me he says we have plenty of time. Maybe, she thought, maybe he's not like the rest of them. He seems nice enough; maybe I can trust him. "Sure you want to hear?" she said. "Positive," Mike said, smiling. He was so warm, so gentle and understanding, that Cindy decided to tell him the story. She began in a soft, almost blank voice, telling him about her brother and the cop who had framed him on a marijuana charge, planting an ounce of dope in his glove compartment and then arresting him. Their family couldn't afford a lawyer and the public defender had been too busy to care, so Cindy's brother had been sentenced to two years in the state penitentiary at Tehachapi. When she mentioned the prison, Cindy broke down in sobs. "He doesn't belong in jail," she wept. "He never did anything bad in his whole life." Mike listened to her story with growing anger. If there was anything he hated more than gangsters and pimps like Jay Snyder, it was crooked cops. They gave the whole force a bad name, detracted attention from the vast majority of cops who were honest and dedicated to their jobs, created in the public a sense of insecurity and outrage. Mike would be just as happy to put a bad cop behind bars as a gangster, maybe even happier. An idea formed as he tried to console Cindy, who had collapsed in his arms in a paroxysm of weeping. Perhaps they could help one another, he thought. Even if he wasn't able to get that lousy cop jailed or fired from the force, he could at least pressure him to get that kid out of jail on a mistrial. In turn, Cindy could help him bag Jay Snyder. He wasn't sure, but he had a feeling that she didn't work for Snyder willingly, that her liaison with Steve Paul was something she had been forced into. He tested his idea. "Cindy," he said, "tell me about Steve Paul. What's he to you?" She stopped crying, made an ugly face. "That bastard," she said. "He's nothing to me, in fact, I hate his guts. But when my brother went to jail, he offered to help me--I was a dancer at one of his clubs--to give me money so that I could hire a good lawyer. He talked me into working for him, like this, like you saw me at the party, and then when I asked him for the money he refused to pay, said he'd tell my parents what I did for a living. He trapped me, him and that other bastard." "Jay Snyder?" She nodded. "Jay Snyder." So that was it, Mike thought. Sure, it all made sense; that was just the way those scum operated. Although he felt pity for Cindy in her situation, he was happy to hear what she said; happy first because he knew he could convince her to help him fight Snyder, and happier still to hear that she wasn't in love with Steve Paul. He put his fingers under her chin, tilted her face until their eyes met. God, she was beautiful! "Cindy," he said, "I think I can help you." "You? How?" "Well," he said, "you were right a little while ago. I am a cop." She shrank back from him, looked around the room as if seeking help from someone who was there but not visible to either of them. "It's OK. Don't worry, I'm not after you. I want Snyder. I want him behind bars. Now, I'm willing to make a deal with you. If you'll help me get Snyder, I'll help you get your brother out of jail." She looked at him in amazement. "How?" she said. "How can you do that?" "Easy. You just give me the name of that cop, the one who framed your brother, and let me take care of it. I guarantee that if you're telling the truth, your brother will be out of jail in a month." "I am telling the truth," she said quietly. For the first time in a year, she was beginning to feel something like hope. Maybe this man could help her and her brother; no one else had, not the public defender, certainly not Steve Paul. Oh, if he could help her! She would do anything he wanted. "What do I have to do?" she said. "Almost nothing," said Mike. "First you have to tell me everything you know about Snyder and Steve Paul." "Gladly," she said. "I know plenty." "And then you have to be willing to testify against them in court. You'll have immunity, of course, and police protection." "I'll do it," she said. She got up and walked around the room, came back, sat down next to Mike, looked him in the eyes. "I guess all cops aren't bad," she said. Mike laughed. "No," he said. "Not all of us. Not even most of us." He returned her gaze, was reminded in a flash of her unbelievable beauty, of the desire he felt for her. Their new alliance had made that desire increase a hundredfold. He wanted this girl, oh how he wanted her, and right now, tonight! Cindy was thinking exactly the same thing. She had known right away that there was something special about Mike, had known it from the first moment when she caught his eye at the party. And now they would be partners. He's so wonderful, she thought, and he's really kind of sexy too. She felt the first calls of passion sounding inside her as she stared into his eyes, felt the yearning deep inside her body that she knew would only be satisfied when this man came in her. She jumped across the couch into his lap. She threw her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth against his in a long, lingering, maddening kiss. Then she began to brush her lips against his, gently, softly, outlining his lips with her tongue. At the same time she rotated her hips, grinding her ass down on his cock rising inside his trousers. Holy Christ, he thought, this is going to be even better than I imagined. He thought of Lisa, he could never turn him on the way this girl was doing, could never free herself from her inhibitions so that she could enjoy sex as it was supposed to be enjoyed. Too bad, Lisa, he thought, and then he stopped thinking altogether as he raised his hips to meet Cindy's ass, to press himself as deeply as possible into her anus. Cindy jumped up, went across the room and turned on the stereo. Afro-Cuban music flooded the room, the congas and steel drums merging their rhythms with the hot pulsing of Mike's cock. "A dance," said Cindy. "To you. To our partnership." Mike watched, his passion increasing as Cindy began to sway in rhythm with the drums, her thick red hair thrashing wildly across her face. She threw her arms straight up in the air, stood stock still with her head turned to one side, her face hidden by her luxuriant hair, her hips rotating in small sensuous circles. Then she began to shimmy, making her body vibrate until Mike thought she would come apart, making her sumptuous breasts leap up and down under her blouse. Without warning, she suddenly tore her blouse from her body, freeing her breasts to continue their wild, quivering dance. Her dancing at the party had been calculated, strained, even slightly mechanical, but there was no constraint now. Faster and faster she shook as the tempo of the music increased, faster and still faster, until her breasts were a blur of motion. Then she stopped dancing, began to tweak her nipples with her thumb and forefinger. Harder she tweaked them, and then harder yet, causing them to rise straight out from her breasts, torturing them until they nearly bled. All the while she was whimpering In a frenzy of pain and passion, crying out against her own self-mutilation, at the same time urging herself on to new heights of sexual fury. This was entirely new to Mike, entirely new and impossibly exciting, this lovely, sensuous girl turning on through pain. He laughed to himself as he tried to imagine Lisa doing anything like this--not a chance! But this girl had obviously explored every avenue to sexual pleasure, had pleased and gratified herself, and her men, in every possible way. Mike burned with longing for her, ached to thrust his nearly-bursting prick into her, to release his hot, foamy sperm into her welcoming body. When Cindy stripped off her pants, Mike could take no more. There she was, naked and trembling in front of him, her arms outstretched, her body taut with passion. She called to him with all the force of her womanhood, with all the volcanic strength of her lush body, silently begging him to fuck her, to fuck her again, and still again, until she was all but dead from pleasure, to fuck her and go on fucking her forever. Mike leaped off the couch, began to tear at his clothes, popping buttons and breaking the zipper on his pants. Finally his prick burst loose from its confinement, flinging droplets of sperm out into the room, pointing at Cindy like a divining rod. She gazed at it, her eyes on fire with hunger for his enormous cock, this throbbing scepter of sex. She began to walk slowly across the room, never taking her eyes from his prick. Closer and closer she came, and it seemed to Mike that each step lasted an eternity. How long would it take, his body screamed, how long before he could finally surround himself with her burning flesh? There was no end to the things he wanted to do to her. Cindy continued walking toward Mike, still moving with measured, unbearable slowness. When she was right in front of him, she suddenly dropped to her knees, began to nibble at his thighs with her teeth. She wanted to take her time, to show her gratitude by making this man feel every sensation to the utmost. She chewed along his legs, aching all the while to take his balls in her mouth and swallow them whole, to stuff herself with his gorgeous prick, to feel the weight of him on top of her, to feel his prick move through her like a freight train through a tunnel. She wanted all this, but still she held back, content for the moment to tease and nibble, to taste every inch of him. Her teasing was the most marvelous agony Mike had ever experienced. Lisa's idea of foreplay was to lie flat on her back while Mike finger-fucked her; she would never have dreamed that a man was more than an emotionless, sex-crazed ramrod, that men, like women, needed to be played with and brought to an intense pitch of excitement. But Cindy knew; the barest touch of her teeth on Mike's legs was enough to throw him into a mindless fit of lust and passion. Slowly but steadily she chewed up his legs toward his balls, sending shocks of excitement all through his body. His hands reached out for her, clasped her head between them, firmly enough so that she could feel it but not so firmly as to inhibit her movements. Finally her mouth moved up the last few inches of his crotch until her lips brushed lightly against the hair on his balls. She gathered a bundle of the pubic hairs with her tongue, clenched them between her teeth and tugged at them gently. A sensation like an electric shock shot through Mike's testicles; it was as if someone had put his balls on to boil. He could feel the semen gurgling and bubbling in his glands, straining, begging for release. His prick had swelled to unbelievable proportions--he took one hand from Cindy's head and began to stroke it softly. "Ohhhh, Cindy," he moaned. "Lick me, Cindy. Eat me. Don't stop." By now Cindy's playing had made him weak with desire. He placed his hands under her armpits, gently stretching her out on the floor below him. For a moment he just stood there, massaging his dick, watching Cindy writhe on the floor with her breasts heaving and her hips undulating. How beautiful she was, he thought, and soon that lush body would be his He would drown himself in her, fill her to the brim of her oscillating pussy, fill her with his eight inches of love. Mike dropped to his knees, straddling the girl, and lowered himself down until his balls dangled just above her mouth. He wanted to be licked by her, to feel the hard tip of her tongue as she lapped at his nuts, carrying him further and further into this insanity of sex. Mike had not known that there was pleasure like this to be had anywhere in the world. "Mmmmmmmmm," Cindy purred as Mike's balls touched her quivering lips, their warmth and softness sending shivers of delight scurrying through her body. She made a moist pad of her tongue, broadening it as far as she could, cupping it to form a container for Mike's huge balls. Then she compressed her tongue until it formed a hard point, skated it along the underside of his testicles and up the back toward his anus, up and back, up and back, tasting the musty sweat of sex. Mike brought one hand around behind him, ran his fingers along her moist, glistening inner thighs to the warm damp patch of her pussy. He spread her lips wide with his index and ring fingers, used his middle finger to rub her clitoris. At this Cindy began to shake and moan. Oh lord, she thought, no one has ever turned me on like this, no one. Never again would she judge a man by his occupation--this cop was the sexiest thing she had ever encountered. What he was doing to her! She had never dreamed that anyone could excite her so. She had a sudden urge to do something entirely new, to feel Mike's cock in the one place where she was still a virgin. She turned herself over, raised herself onto her hands and knees, rammed her ass into Mike's rigid prick. "There?" she screamed. "Do it there! Oh please, please fuck me in my asshole!" The raunchy vulgarity of her screams excited Mike as much as her tongue had. He knew that she was half-crazy with lust now, that she was totally his captive, that he could do anything he wanted to her. What the hell, he thought, let's give her what she wants. He began to rub his outstretched prick along the crack in her ass, lubricating her with the hot sperm that leaked down from his blood- filled tip. "Ohhhh, yes," she breathed. "Yes. Yes! YES!" Now Mike took his hands and spread her cheeks wide apart. The tiny entrance to her rectum throbbed in front of him, pinkish brown and shiny with moisture. No matter how many men she's had before, he thought, no one has ever been here. The thought of fucking her in her virgin ass made Mike's eyes shine; his desire, which had welled up in him until it almost reached the breaking point, climbed still higher, his breathing had become a rasping moan. He wedged the tip of his dick in between her cheeks, rubbed her asshole with it--then this contact made him forget all caution, all thoughts of gentility. He had to be inside of her, he had to have her right now! Suddenly, without any further preparation, Mike plunged the entire length of his dick into Cindy's asshole. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!," she screamed as the huge rod burrowed into her, filling her, stretching her, splitting her, nearly tearing her apart The pain was excruciating, but she was so mad with lust for him that the pain only excited her further. If he was going to tear her apart, then he should go right ahead, just as long as he kept on thrusting into her, filling her with his huge rod. Mike held himself still for a moment, feeling the walls of her asshole close around him, milking him; allowing her to feel the steady throbbing of his prick. Then slowly he began to move himself in and out, marveling as her anus stretched to accommodate him. The round hills of her buttocks grazed him as he stroked in, squeezed him as he moved out. Faster and faster he went, plunging into her, withdrawing, plunging again, all the time working toward what he knew would be the most incredible climax of her life. By this time Cindy, too, was nearing her orgasm. The stroking of Mike's prick had made her nearly faint with pleasure, made her rock her hips violently in time with his movements, slamming her ass against his body, making slapping sounds as they collided with him. Now that her moment was near, she wanted to draw it out as long as possible, but she was beyond all control. "Ohhhhhhhhh, Jesus, oh my GOD, I'm coming," she yelled. "I'm COMMMMMMMING!" "I'm coming too," screamed Mike. They held still, locked like two animals as Mike poured his steaming sperm into Cindy's rectum. She twitched spasmodically with each pulse of Mike's cock, tossing her head wildly as the hot semen flowed through her. Never before, she thought as she collapsed on the floor. Oh, God, never before! "By the way," gasped Mike as he collapsed beside her, "my name's not Johnson." Chapter 6 Steve Paul knocked at the office door, trying to contain his anxiety as he waited for the answering, "yeah?" "Jay," he called through the door, "it's Steve. Could I see you a minute?" Jay Snyder mumbled under his breath. Interruptions, he said to himself. Always these god damned interruptions. "Not now, Steve," he said. "I'm busy as hell." Not too busy for this, Steve thought. "Jay," he said, "it's pretty important." Snyder sighed. Something like this always happened when he was doing his most enjoyable work, which consisted of thumbing through photos of naked girls, trying to decide which ones might be better suited for prostitution. "Personnel management," Snyder called it, although in other circles it would be called something different, "white slavery" for instance. "OK, Steve," he said. "Come on in." The door opened and Steve Paul came in. He was impeccably dressed, as usual, wearing a wide-lapeled pinstripe suit, a flashing pink shirt, a wide red and white striped tie, and the light blue shoes that were his trademark, his badge of identification. Steve was always careful to maintain his calm, knowledgeable front, so that the legitimate businessmen he dealt with would not guess at his real vocation: sex and perversion. "Jay," he said, "we've got problems." "You're telling me we've got problems," said Snyder. "The first problem is that I can't get any god damned work done because every time I sit down to it some jackass comes in here to tell me we've got problems. I'm tired of hearing about these god damned problems. That's what I pay you guys for, especially you, to take care of problems for me." Paul was used to this, knew it meant nothing. Jay liked to blow off steam, liked to pretend that he was swamped with work and had no time, but when it came right down to it, he liked to handle everything himself. "Never trust anybody," he often said. "The only one who knows exactly what you want is you." "These are serious problems," said Paul. "We could be in real trouble." "How's that?" said Snyder. "Two things. The first has to do with one of the girls, Judy Burton." "Judy Burton?" Snyder said. "Nothing wrong with that girl; she's one of the best I've got. She's so good, in fact, that I fixed her up with Joe Carruthers last night." "That's just it. She never showed." He knew this would get under Snyder's skin-- if there was anything he hated, it was being crossed by one of his girls. "She what?" Snyder said, rising out of his chair. "She never showed." "Well, what in the god damned hell happened to her?" Snyder had come around to the front of his desk, was standing over Paul, glaring at him. "You have a kid who drives for you, right? A kid named Tim Huntley?" "Sure. What about him?" "Last night," Paul said, "he was seen with Judy Burton at the Gay Paree. They came in separately and left separately, but they were in there together for about two hours, and very chummy. About eleven o'clock, just after Slackjaws called to tell Judy about Carruthers, the kid, Huntley, left. Two minutes later Judy Burton left too. The bartender was curious, so he poked his head out the door, saw them walking down the street together. Again, very chummy." Snyder slammed his fist into his palm. "Why that little bitch," he said. "And you mean to say that she never met Carruthers?" "That," said Paul, "is exactly what I mean to say." "Why that little bitch," Snyder repeated. He thought for a minute, pacing around the desk and muttering to himself. "OK," he said. "I'll take care of her. What else?" "What about the kid," said Paul. "the driver." "He's all right. Just a little too young and a little too dumb. All he needs is a good talking to. Now go on, go on, what else?" "This one could be a lot worse," Paul said. "Last night at the convention this guy came up to me, made a real point of introducing himself to me and shaking my hand. Said his name was Johnson, Gus Johnson. He was so eager that I got a little suspicious, so I decided to check him out. I invited him up to the party--great party, by the way--and got him together with Cindy; they went back to her place and had a wild fuck. We've got her place so bugged that you can hear a leaky faucet on the tape." "Good," Snyder said. "I don't trust that redhead bitch." "With good reason," Paul said. "It turns out that this guy Johnson--actually his name's not Johnson at all; it's Kramer--is a cop, a lieutenant on the Vice Squad, and he's after your tail. He got Cindy to promise to turn evidence on you and testify against you in court." Snyder stared at him, wide-eyed. "Is this true?" Steve Paul looked hurt. "You know me, Jay," he said. "I'm no alarmist. Everything I said is true. I can play the tape for you if you want." Snyder shook his head. "No," he said, "it's OK. I believe you." He paced around the room, absent-mindedly picked up a paperweight, put it back down on the desk. "OK," he said finally. "I think I know how to handle both problems at once. Send Slackjaws in here." Paul pressed the button on the intercom. "Trudy," he said, "ask Mr. Nelson to step into the office. Tell him Jay wants to see him right away. Tell him it's important." He released the intercom button, sat back in his chair. "What've you got in mind?" he said. Paul's eyes were shining. He knew whatever his boss planned to do that he, Steve, would be assigned to carry the project through, that in the course of carrying out Jay's orders he would be able to amuse himself as well. "Just hang on a minute," muttered Snyder. "You'll see." Paul nodded. "By the way," he said, "the cop, Kramer; I did a little investigation of my own. He has a wife, Lisa, who's very very nice to look at, but, I understand, a little on the slow side in the sack." "Excellent," said Snyder. "Excellent." He grinned. "Maybe we can speed her up a little, what do you think?" "I think," said Paul, returning his bosses grin, "that it is quite possible." Just then the door opened and Slackjaws Nelson walked in. Slackjaws had played football for UCLA for two years, had gone to work for Snyder immediately after he flunked out of school. He stood six five and weighed two hundred and eighty pounds, all of it solid muscle. He had a huge round head, small piggish eyes, and a protruding underslung jaw, from which his nickname was derived. On the football field he had been called "The Animal," and of that nickname he was quite proud. An animal he was, stupid and vicious, and he had only two pleasures in life: beating people half to death and screwing women. "You sent for me, boss?" he said. He was almost drooling in anticipation, knowing that Snyder would not have called for him unless there was work to be done, work that involved at least one, and possibly both, of Slackjaws' hobbies. "No, I wanted Liberace." "Oh," said Slackjaws, his eyes shading with disappointment. "Well, if you've got an appointment, boss, then I'll come back later on." He turned to leave. "Come back here, you idiot!" yelled Snyder. "Of course I sent for you. Jesus Christ, no wonder this organization's falling apart." "Falling apart?" Slackjaws said, puzzled. "That's what I said, falling apart. Now sit down, shut up, and listen carefully. I've got a job for you, and I want to make sure you understand it perfectly. I don't want any mistakes." "OK," said Slackjaws. "I'm all ears." He pulled his huge ears straight out from the sides of his head until they looked like a pair of wings. "See?" "Christ," groaned Snyder as Steve Paul snickered. "What do I have to do?" "Maybe a lobotomy?" Steve Paul suggested. "Shut up!" Snyder snapped. "Forget the funny stuff, both of you, and let's get down to business." "Right," Paul said, leaning forward in his chair. "Right," echoed Slackjaws. "Now," said Snyder. "You. You remember last night, how I told you to fix Carruthers up with Judy Burton?" "I remember, boss." "And you remember calling her at the Gay Paree?" Slackjaws nodded, pleased that he knew what his boss was talking about. "Well," said Snyder, "she never showed up. Now today, when you leave this office, I want you to go straight to my kennels. I want you to make sure that Ambush gets more than his share of good red meat. You got that?" "Sure, boss." Slackjaws frowned in confusion. Is that what his boss had called him in for, just to go feed the dog? He couldn't understand it. "Boss?" he asked timidly. Snyder groaned to himself inwardly, knowing that Slackjaws' pea-sized brain was unable to make a connection between the dog and Judy Burton. "Just be quiet," he said. "I'm not through." "Oh," said Slackjaws, leaning back. "As soon as you get through feeding the dog, I want you and Steve to go straight over to Judy's place. Take the dog with you. Now you get the picture?" Slackjaws frowned again, but Steve had caught on immediately. "Beautiful," he said. "Girl meets dog." Ambush was a two hundred and thirty pound St. Bernard who had been trained to have sexual intercourse with human females. Normally he was used only for Snyder's special shows, the ones that were staged for important out-of-town visitors. But occasionally, Steve knew, Jay used the dog to punish one of his own wayward girls. "Exactly," said Snyder. "Girl meets dog, and dog 'meats' girl." Steve Paul chuckled appreciatively. "I'm sorry, boss," said Slackjaws, still frowning, "but I don't quite get it." "Oh, Jesus," said Snyder, "this guy needs a sledgehammer between the eyes. Look, I'll spell it out for you. You and Steve--that's this guy sitting right beside you, got that?--you and Steve are going to take Ambush, the dog--got that?--over to Judy Burton's house. OK so far?" Slackjaws nodded slowly. Snyder continued: "You are going to tie Miss Burton down on her very own bed, and you are going to watch while Ambush fucks her. Clear?" Slackjaws' face slowly spread into a wide grin. Now he understood what his boss had in mind. Then he flashed disappointment. "Boss," he said meekly, "don't I get any of her for myself?" "NO!" thundered Snyder. "The last time I let you at one of my girls you damn near killed her. Put her out of work for a month. I can't afford your casualties. There's another convention coming to town next week, and I want all my girls healthy, do you understand, healthy!" "Whatever you say, boss," Slackjaws said disheartedly. "Listen, Jay," said Steve Paul, "why not let Slackjaws have a little go at her first? She'll never be able to take that dog's dick if she's not warmed up." "Yeah," said Slackjaws. "Please." "No, god damn it," said Snyder. "You hear me; I don't want you to touch her. She'll be able to handle the dog. You're not going to touch her, Slackjaws, have you got that?" "OK," Slackjaws said, disgruntled. Then he brightened a little. "Could I just make her suck me off?" he pleaded. "Jay," said Steve Paul, "why not? She could give Slackjaws a hum job and then the dog." Ingenious forms of sodomy were Steve Paul's specialty. "Then after she got through sucking Slackjaws off, the dog could fuck her. That'd make it complete--she'd never cross you again. Snyder considered this for a moment, looking at his two henchmen, both of whom were obviously eager to punish this girl as imaginatively as possible. "OK," he said finally. "Slackjaws, you can make her blow you. But that's all, you understand? Nothing more. I don't want your prick tearing her apart; the dog'll be bad enough." "Right," said Slackjaws. "I got it. Just a little hum job, nothing else. I got it, boss." He grinned, pleased that Snyder had allowed him this favor. He got up, turned toward the door. "I'm going over to the kennel right now," he said. "Hold it," said Jay. "There's more." "More?" said Slackjaws, puzzled again. "More," said Snyder. "Another job, to be done as soon as you finish with Judy Burton. We've got a cop on our tail." Great, thought Slackjaws--his two favorite jobs, both in one day, a screwing and a beating. Snyder read his mind. "I don't want you to beat this guy up," he said. "That'll just bring the whole god damned force down on our necks. What I want you to do is teach him a lesson, a very private, very personal lesson." "What do you want me to do, boss?" "I'm not sure yet." He turned to Steve Paul. "Steve," he said, "you're good at this sort of thing. Got any suggestions?" Paul thought for a moment, then smiled. "Yeah," he said, "I've got a fine idea. Remember I told you about his wife, the prude?" "Mm-hmm," said Snyder. "Well let's de-prude her." For the first time in his life, Slackjaws caught on immediately. "Yeah," he said. "We can give her fly, something like that, really turn her on and then fuck the shit out of her." "That's a good idea," Steve Paul said. "And even better, we can bring her snooping husband in to watch, call him on the phone while we're fucking her and grab him when he comes back to the house." "Good," said Snyder softly. "Very, very good. In fact it's so good that I think I'll come along and have a look myself." He grinned, imagining the look on Kramer's face as he saw his supposedly frigid wife crazy with sex, taking on two or three men at the same time. "No," he said, "I don't think we're going to have any more trouble with that cop." Chapter 7 Tim Huntley sat back against one of Judy's big overstuffed pillows, thumbed absently through the morning paper. Never any news worth reading, he thought, always the same old crap: wars and bombings and riots and murders. It seemed that his whole life had consisted of bad news and violence; he didn't need to know about the greater violence going on in the world at large. He had never been happy, he thought, never in his life until now, until he met Judy. Judy, he thought, yawning and stretching, laying back against the soft pillow. His body was tired, pleasantly tired--they had made love practically all night, falling asleep only in the last few minutes before dawn, when they were completely exhausted, completely filled with one another. They had slept then, for a few hours, locked in one another's arms, then had awakened and made love yet again. Now Judy had gone off to the store, to buy eggs for their late breakfast, and Tim had nothing to do but relax and contemplate their new love. What a woman she was! Tim smiled as he thought back over the course of the previous evening, remembering the greasy barbecued beef at the Taco Nito, his depression and feeling of hopelessness. It had all changed so suddenly, from the first moment he had seen Judy's face in that bar. He smiled as he recalled the conversation that had started at the Gay Paree and then continued in her apartment, felt his prick stir to life at the recollection of their fiery lovemaking. Yes, he thought, I've finally found it, finally found the woman who can make me happy, and now that I've found her you bet your sweet ass I'm going to enjoy her. Tim heard footsteps sound in the hall, the clicking of the doorknob as the door opened. "Hi, baby," he called out. "Hi yourself," said a deep masculine voice. Tim turned his head sharply to see Steve Paul and Slackjaws standing over him, grinning. Jay's men He had forgotten almost entirely about Jay, forgotten that he and Judy still worked for him--the gangster had seemed so far away last night. Fear rose in his throat as he looked at these two grinning hoods, the one smooth and polished, the other massive and brutal-looking. Judy had disobeyed Snyder's orders, he remembered, had turned down her boss's friend in order to spend the evening with Tim. Were these men here for revenge? "What do you guys want?" he said, his voice trembling. "Nothing much," said Steve Paul. "We just want to have a little talk with your girl friend, see what she thinks of our new pet. Mr. Nelson," he said, turning to the muscleman, "why don't you call for Ambush?" Slackjaws let out a whistle, and the biggest dog Tim ever seen came bounding through the door. He looked like the dogs you see in cartoons, wading through the snow with little barrels of wine tied around their necks. Tim backed away as the dog came toward him. "It's all right, Timmy boy," said Steve. "He's perfectly friendly. See?" The gangster began scratching the dog's head, and the dog responded by rolling over on his back, his legs in the air, his huge tongue lolling on the carpet. "Quite a tongue," grinned Steve. "Don't you think?" Tim nodded, crept cautiously over to the dog, began to rub his stomach. The immense animal lay perfectly still except for the steady swishing of his tail, submitting himself to Tim's touch. Well, thought Tim, the dog seems friendly enough; I guess there's no harm here. "Listen, Timmy boy," said Steve ingratiatingly, "we'd sort of like to talk to Judy alone, you know how it is. Anyhow, Jay wants to talk with you, give you some friendly advice." Tim's eyes widened with fear. What did Jay want with him? What did Paul mean, "friendly advice?" Was he going to be fired for being with Judy; fired, or something even worse? And what were they going to do to her? He knew the dog had something to do with it, but he couldn't imagine exactly what; surely they were not here as dog-lovers. "Does Jay want to see me right now?" Tim said. "Right now," said Paul; his voice turning hard. "Immediately." "OK," Tim said, standing up. "I'm on my way." "Good boy. You know Jay doesn't like to be kept waiting. Oh, and Timmy," he called as Tim started out the door, "do me a favor and tell Jay you ran into us, will you?" "Sure, Mr. Paul," said Tim. He closed the door behind him and walked down the hallway, making as much noise as he could. When he reached the end of the hallway he took off his shoes, tiptoed back to the door of Judy's apartment. He put his ear to the door, straining to hear the voices inside. " ... forget the gun," Steve Paul was saying. "That kid's gone. He's not dumb enough to come back and try and give us trouble. He's just a little errand boy-- did you see how he jumped when I mentioned Jay's name?" "Yeah," said Slackjaws, "I saw. I guess you're right; I just like to be ready, that's all." "Well if you want to be ready," said Paul, "put the gun away and concentrate on Ambush. He's the one who's going to be doing all the work." "Not all the work," said Slackjaws. Both men laughed. "Right," said Paul. "Not all of it. This is going to be quite amusing." Already he was thinking ahead, savoring the thought of Judy spread-eagled on the bed with the dog between her legs, lapping at her cunt with his long tongue. Yes, this would be quite a scene. "Yeah," said Slackjaws. "First we'll warm her up real good, get her ready for the dog, and then Ambush'll take over. Boy, this oughta be something!" "Take over," agreed Paul, "and how!" He could hardly wait to see Judy writhe with pain as the dog's huge prick tore into her, split her apart. Other people's pain, particularly womens' pain, was Steve Paul's laughter. "Then when Ambush is through," he said, delighted, "we'll go over and take care of that other bastard, that cop, Kramer." "Right," said Slackjaws, his small cruel brain racing with anticipation. "What a day, huh?" "What a day indeed," said Paul. "Two major problems taken care of, and both so simply." He chuckled. "OK," he said, lowering his voice, "let's shut up. She'll be back any minute, and we want to be sure to surprise her." Tim stood at the door, paralyzed with fear and rage. He wanted to smash down the door and charge those two hoods, throw them both out the tenth story window, but he knew he could never pull it off. He would just have to warn Judy, then get someone to help them. It was the only way. He would have to hurry; she should have been back already. He ran to the elevator, saw that it was waiting on the ground floor, decided that it would take too long to get there. He ran to the exit, took ten flights of stairs three steps at a time, burst through the front door and out onto the sidewalk. Desperately he strained his vision in both directions, looking up and down the street, but Judy was nowhere to be seen. He thought of leaving a note in her mailbox, realized he had no pencil and no paper. Then he saw a small boy sitting on the front steps of the next building, playing with a yo-yo. "Hey kid!" he yelled. "Want to earn a dollar?" "Sure," said the boy, getting up and coming over to where Tim stood. "What do I have to do?" Tim gave the kid a dollar, described Judy and told him the message. "Whatever you do," he said, "don't leave until she gets the message. Make sure she gets it, OK?" Good, thought Tim, that's taken care of; now to get some help. That cop, he thought, Kramer, that's the guy I need. I can warn him about Steve and Slackjaws, then I can get him to help me get us out of this. Kramer, he thought, Kramer: he's the man. * * * "Johnny," came a voice from across the street, "Johnny! Get over here this minute!" The boy stopped his yo-yoing, looked up and spotted his mother. "I can't, Ma!" he yelled. "I'm working!" "I'll work you," screamed his mother. "Get over here, now!" Johnny reached into his pocket, felt the crinkly dollar bill. Well, he thought, I've already got the dollar. I guess I can watch from the window, catch the girl before she gets into the building. He got up, looked down the street. No girl. "Johnny!" yelled his mother. "OK, Ma, OK," he replied. "I'm coming." * * * A few minutes later Judy came down the street, carrying a carton of eggs and some cigarettes for Tim. She stopped to look up at the sky, at the two puffy white clouds that were drifting past the tops of the buildings. It was so beautiful, she thought. Everything had been beautiful since last night, since she had met Tim; now she could hardly remember a time when she hadn't been happy. Maybe it was true, maybe they could get away from Jay and go off somewhere, to Italy, or even just to San Francisco; anywhere but L.A. or Bisbee, Arizona. And even if they couldn't get away just now, still working for Jay wouldn't be so bad as long as she had Tim. Yes, she thought, everything was different now. She went into the building, pressed the elevator button, rode to the tenth floor. There was a mirror in the elevator; Judy carefully brushed the hair from her eyes, tucked her blouse in. She wanted to look nice for Tim, always. The elevator stopped. Judy got out, walked down the hall to her apartment, her heart starting to beat faster as she thought of Tim waiting for her inside. They would have some breakfast then make love again, maybe all day long. Oh, it was going to be good! She unlocked the door, walked into the living room, saw that Tim was not there. Oh well, she thought, he's probably in the bathroom. "Tim?" she called, but there was no answer. Maybe he's gone back to bed. They hadn't had much sleep last night, it was true, she thought, smiling to herself; he's probably tired. "Tim?" she called again, but there was still no answer. She walked into the bedroom and froze with terror as she saw the grinning faces of Steve Paul and Slackjaws. They were sitting on the edge of her bed, between them the biggest dog Judy had ever seen, heaving and panting, spit dripping from his tongue. What were they doing there? Judy had heard stories about how Jay "punished" any girl who disobeyed him, and she could think of no other reason for their being in her apartment. But her fears for herself quickly subsided as she realized that Tim was nowhere to be seen. What had they done to him? Was he even now lying on the bathroom floor, beaten unconscious, or worse? "What do you want? Where's Tim?" "Now Miss Burton," said Steve Paul, his mouth contorted in a vicious grin, "is that any way to welcome your friends and associates? You haven't even said hello to us." "Never mind that crap," said Judy. "You guys aren't here to pay a social call, I know that. What have you done with Tim? If you've hurt him, I'll ..." "You'll what?" snapped Steve Paul. "What will you do, Miss Burton, slap us? Pull our hair?" Slackjaws snickered. "No, Miss Burton," continued Paul, his voice becoming milder, "I don't think you'll do anything to us. We're your friends, after all. We've only come to share a little pleasure with you." "Yeah," said Slackjaws, grinning, "a little pleasure." "As for your young friend," Paul went on, "he's perfectly fine. As a matter of fact, he's on his way to see Jay right now, to receive a little fatherly advice. Jay just loves to give fatherly advice, doesn't he, Mr. Nelson?" "Yeah," said Slackjaws, without the slightest idea of what Paul was talking about. Judy didn't know whether to believe them or not. What did they mean, fatherly advice? Was Tim going to be fired, or as they said, only warned? It might not be so bad if he was fired, she thought. Then I could quit too and we could get out of here, go someplace else to live. We'll find some kind of work, she thought; we'll make it somehow. It might be rough, particularly at first, but we'll make it. Slackjaws coughed, jerking her thoughts back to the present, to the two thugs sitting in her bedroom. She was going to be punished, she knew that, and probably punished brutally--Steve Paul's imagination was something of a legend, as was Slackjaws' strength--but she felt she could take anything they could give her so long as Tim was all right. Then, when they were through ... "All right," she said. "Get on with it." She had no idea of what they had in mind, but she wasn't going to make it any worse by putting up a struggle. They would have no help from her. Steve Paul was disappointed. She was too passive, too tractable--he much preferred his hobby when the objects of his cruelty put up some sort of fight. Besides, they usually fucked better when they were scared, he thought. Shocks of sex began to move through his body as he recalled the many girls he had tortured, how they had screamed and begged for mercy, and how finally they all succumbed, excited much more by the violence being done to their bodies than they ever could have been by normal foreplay. Steve looked hungrily at Judy, taking her whole body in with one avaricious stare. This was a lovely girl, he thought, one of the loveliest he had ever seen, second perhaps only to Cindy, and even then ... His passion began to rise as he imagined her tied on the bed, whimpering with pain and fear and lust, begging them to fuck her, to fuck her some more. Yes, he thought, this was going to be quite a party, quite a party indeed. "Did you hear that, Mr. Nelson?" he said. "The young lady requests that we, as she so quaintly puts it, 'get on with it.'" "Yeah," said Slackjaws. "I heard, all right." "Shall we comply?" "Awww," said Slackjaws, terribly disappointed. "Come on, Steve. I thought we were gonna, you know. "You fucking idiot," said Paul. "What do you think I meant?" "Oh," said Slackjaws. "Well ..." "Oh," mimicked Paul, "well." He looked at Slackjaws in disgust, then turned to face Judy. "Miss Burton," he said softly, "would you step over here a moment?" Judy tried her best to blank out her mind, to use her old trick and leave her body, but fear prevented her from doing it. Although she wasn't sure what they were going to do to her, couldn't figure out why they had brought that big dog along, she knew this would be no ordinary fucking. She took a halting step toward the bed. Steve Paul reached out his hand. "Come along, Miss Burton," he said gently. "There's nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all." When Judy had nearly reached the bed, Steve Paul suddenly stood up, reached out and grabbed her by the hair. "You little bitch," he snarled, "get over here!" He threw her onto the bed face down, turned her over, and took both her wrists in his hand. "Slackjaws, get the rope," he said. The muscleman brought the rope, quickly and expertly tied one of Judy's wrists to each bedpost. "No, please," she whispered. "I'll do anything you say, whatever you want, but please don't tie me up." "Shut up!" snapped Paul. "We're calling the shots, not you." This was getting better, now that she was complaining a little--he liked a woman with spirit. She'd be complaining, all right, she'd be complaining plenty as soon as that dog started to work on her, but she'd be loving it too, the little bitch. They all loved it, no matter what they said; and they all looked the same when it was over: exhausted, sweaty, and beaten, completely defeated, completely under his control, and oh, so satisfied! He stood over her, slowly began to remove her clothing as she squirmed under his touch. "What's the matter, Miss Burton?" he said. "Don't you like me?" He hoped she would say something insulting, giving him an excuse to bring his open hand down hard on her face or her breasts, but she didn't respond. This made Paul so angry that he slapped her anyway, cracking his palm across her face as hard as he could. "You little cunt," he yelled. "Answer me when I talk to you!" Judy looked up at him, her teeth clenched, tears in her eyes. "You bastard," she whispered. "I hate your rotten guts." Paul grinned. "Much better," he said. "Much, much better." Hard words and insults were all part of the game to him--the more hate involved, the better he liked it, the more aroused he became. He continued to strip her, whistling softly as her luscious breasts popped into view, revealing her soft, brown, silver-dollar sized nipples. "Mmmm," he said. "Little Timmy-boy sure found himself a pretty morsel here. Too bad he doesn't know what to do with it, eh, Slackjaws?" "Yeah," said Slackjaws, his eyes wide with lust, "too bad, all right." "But I suppose," said Paul as he peeled Judy's pants from her, "that we'll just have to show him how to enjoy this little playground. He should be here to watch, of course, but that's all right. I'm sure Miss Burton will have plenty to tell him later on, if she can still talk, that is." Judy wriggled on the bed, forgetting her resolution to lie still and take whatever they had to offer. She wasn't worried about Tim--he'd understand, she knew, and it might even help him get the courage to leave Jay, and she wasn't too worried about herself either. She'd been had by each of these punks at least once before, knew exactly how much they had to dish out, knew she could take all that and more. Still, she'd never been officially "punished" before, never with Jay Snyder's knowledge and sanction, and she knew that Steve Paul was famous for his cruelty and perversion. And the dog, she thought: what the hell was that dog doing here? Paul was still perched on his knees above her, fully dressed. Now he began to stroke her, starting at the base of her neck, moving his open palms down her chest, over her breasts, down her stomach to her abdomen, brushing the soft black mound of her cunt lightly before returning to her shoulders. Judy found herself aroused in spite of herself--she had expected anything from Paul except gentleness, and now she found that his light stroke was beginning to stir her body, to awaken the juices of desire that lay deep within her. "Like that?" Paul cooed. "Well, there's plenty more where that came from. We're just starting, Miss Burton; we've got all afternoon. And a very long afternoon it's going to be." He continued to move his hands over her in the same way as before, then altered the stroke slightly, using his fingernails instead of his open palm. The gentle scraping of his nails sent chills up Judy's back--she could feel the machinery of her cunt beginning to respond, beginning to manufacture the first squishy fluids of sex. She thought of Tim, of how he had excited her so wonderfully the night before, how she had been sure that no one could ever make her feel such desire. And now here she was, with Tim just barely gone from her apartment, being aroused all over again by the touch of someone she didn't even like, someone she hated, in fact. Is this what it means to be a whore, she wondered, to be a slave to one's own body and at the mercy of any anonymous man who touched her? How could love mean anything if one man's touch was just as good as another's? No, she thought, I have to fight this. I have to reserve my deepest self for Tim and Tim alone; otherwise I'm just a no-good whore. She clenched her teeth, tried to close her mind to Paul's stroking, tried to turn her body off. She concentrated as fiercely as she could on Tim, on her love for him; but it did no good. Paul's expert hands were like firebrands; each touch seemed to sear at her flesh, seemed to carve their way inside her body to the deepest, most hidden place--there was no denying the excitement that this man created in her, no escape from the prison of her own aching desire. Oh Tim, she thought. If only it could have been different. If only you could have been the first to touch me instead of just an interlude between customers. Then I'd never know what it was to be excited like this by another man, and I could take all my pleasure from you, only from you. Now it's too late; now I'm already ruined. She began to weep softly. "Why Miss Burton," said Paul, genuinely surprised. "Whatever could be the matter?" Usually his women didn't begin crying until later, until his play changed from gentleness to cruelty. Again he felt as if he were being cheated-- this girl would simply not play according to the rules. But on the other hand, he thought, if she's crying already, what will she do when I really turn on the pain? Maybe this was going to be even better than he imagined. This thought made Paul want to hurry, but he reminded himself that the longer he took with her, the more satisfying would be the result. "Patience is it's own reward," he told himself, laughing inside. Yes, he thought, patience. Patience and practice and time; he had only to follow his own elaborate instincts, and this girl would soon be reduced to a condition of abject slavery, exactly like Cindy and dozens of girls before her. Paul shifted his position slightly to allow his fingers to reach the sweet flowery confines between her legs. He began to probe questioningly at the soft flesh, softly kneading her cunt-lips with his middle finger, lubricating himself with her spicy fluids. Judy moaned softly as he separated her lips, exposing her clitoris to the cool stimulating air of the room. She writhed helplessly, straining her wrists against the ropes that held her fast while her clitoris began to harden with excitement. Already her thighs were soaked with the hot thick liquid that leaked out from her most secret places; already the thought of Tim had begun to recede from her mind as she lost herself in the lush sensations that Steve Paul was creating. Paul, meanwhile, was lost in sensations of his own. Judy's response had sent streaks of pleasure through his body, but the pleasure had seemed curiously abstracted, unreal. His dick was still as limp and unmoved as it would have been had he been watching a baseball game or making a peanut butter sandwich. The old familiar fear began to move in him: was he wasting his time again? Would his body once again refuse to respond to the urgent callings of his mind, refuse as it had done so many times in the past? No, he thought, please not this time. Please let me be a normal man just this once, just this one afternoon; let me satisfy this girl, this beautiful girl, the way a normal man would. But his body seemed to laugh at him. All right, Paul told his recalcitrant prick, have it your way for now, but I'm going to outlast you. In the end my patience will be too much for you; you'll come around, just wait. Now Paul began circling the entrance to Judy's cunt with his fingers, exulting at the way her sweet feminine flesh yielded so willingly to his touch. Now she was moaning softly, moving her hips just enough to push her crotch gently against Paul's finger, in perfect rhythm with his circlings. Then, suddenly, he thrust deep into her waiting cunt with three fingers, causing her to gasp with pleasure. Oh God, she thought as she felt his fingers massage the pliant walls of her pussy, what this man is doing to me! She could feel her cunt expanding as her rubbed her, greedy for more of him, and yet more. It seemed as though a million flashbulbs were exploding in her brain, as though her body was a high- voltage wire taut with electricity. God, she thought, how long is he going to take? How much more of this can I stand? Paul was in no hurry. His dick was still cold and limp, still mocking him with its refusal to respond. He could feel the muscles of Judy's cunt clasping his fingers, could see the pinkish bumps of her nipples rising before his eyes, quivering and reaching for him, could hear his mind screaming "Fuck her! Fuck her!" but there was no answer from his stubborn little member. On and on he went, massaging, rubbing, stroking the hot flesh inside her pussy, feeling her move, hearing her groan and whimper in anticipation of the climax that was already starting to mount within her, and he could feel at the same time the first faint stirrings of his own rising panic. Could he do it? She was coming on fast; would he be ready when she was, or would he once again be forced to watch, helpless, as the girl came? No, he thought, no, please no! I have to make it this time, I just have to! Judy was beginning to wonder herself. How long was he going to take? What was he doing? Already she was nearly lost in the rising stream of her passion; would he never come to her? "Hurry," she whispered. "Please hurry. What are you doing? I need you now, NOW!" Slackjaws was leaning forward in his chair, his face a parody of animal lust. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, his mouth was hanging open slightly, his tongue moving back and forth along his lips. It was nice of Steve to spend all this time getting her ready, but when was he going to let old Slackjaws take over? Jay had promised him that he could make the girl suck him off, and he hadn't said anything at all about Steve Paul, so what was going on here? Slackjaws was aching to feel this girl's beautiful mouth wrapped around his prick, to feel her tongue move along the underside of it. He wanted to thrust his burning prick far down her throat, to choke her with it, make her gasp and scream for more. He wanted to feel the hot cum escaping, hear her gulp as it slid down her open throat. Even now his prick was beginning to bulge in his pants as he watched Steve finger her; he wanted his turn, and he wanted it now! Jay had promised him, so what was Steve doing taking all this time? He could get her hot enough all by himself; he didn't need Paul's help. Look at her, he thought. She's just about ready to get her rocks and that guy's just dawdling along, not even slapping her around or anything. Still, he thought, I'd better keep quiet. I guess he knows what he's up to, and besides, he'll probably just get me in trouble with Jay if I butt in. God dammit, though! This Judy Burton was sure a hot little number, and Slackjaws was having difficulty containing himself. Now Steve removed his dripping fingers from Judy's luscious cunt, backed off and lay down on the bed, lowering his head until it lay directly between her legs. He began to lap at her with his tongue, savoring the hot sweet juices that were now flowing freely from her pulsating cunt. Jesus, how I love that flavor, he thought. This was a real woman! Quickly he thrust his tongue between her lips, found the quivering hard ridge of her clitoris. He made a point of the end of his tongue, moved the tip slowly up and down the full length of that delicious mound. Maybe this will turn me on, he thought. Sometimes the tongue works better than the fingers. Up and down he went, up and down, as Judy squirmed and wriggled above him, pushing her juicy cunt harder and harder against his face until his nose was buried in the silken hairs. "Ahhhhhhh," she groaned. "More; please more!" Steve was glad to accommodate her. His tongue continued to slither along her pulsing clitoris. She was beginning to feel that he was glued to her, that their flesh had melted and joined, that they were a part of the same machine, her delicious flesh and greedy hips, his probing tongue, locked together, not to be parted until she screamed out with the explosion of her orgasm. Her pussy was beginning to vibrate now, twitching and wiggling as the marvelous feeling built up in her, filling her until she thought it would break her apart. Suddenly Paul thrust his tingling tongue deep into her cunt, causing her to thrash wildly, her body totally out of control. He curled the tip of his tongue up against the warm moist roof of her pussy, feeling the voluptuous soft muscles quiver and pump as he touched them. Still there was no reaction from his stubborn prick, even though she had been transformed into a wild-woman, a savage beast, a pounding body that demanded total satisfaction and nothing less. "Ohhhhhhhhhhh, GOD!" she screamed as her orgasm sprang up from deep within her aching body. "Fuck me, please luck me! Fuck me with your cock, oh God please, FUCK ME NOW!" Her words sent Paul into a fury of passion and anger. He jumped up on the bed, unzipped his trousers and began flailing at his stubby little prick, slapping it and tweaking it with his fingernails. "You little bastard," he yelled, tears filling his eyes, "what the hell is wrong with you? Why the fuck don't you do something?" He went on beating it and cursing; tears streaming from his eyes. "God damn it," he kept repeating, "do something. DO SOMETHING!" "Please," cried Judy, her body trembling and heaving with unspent passion, "please, don't leave me like this. Please help me, please make me come. Use your finger, use your tongue, use anything; just don't leave me like this. Please, oh please, make me come!" She was going crazy. Never had she been so excited, and then to be left hanging like this, her body screaming and begging for release as her orgasm boiled, so close to the surface, yet so far away. Was this how he tortured his women? She could imagine nothing worse than to be trapped like this, out of her mind with desire, her climax dammed up, exerting a pressure on her that would certainly break her apart, and with no chance for release. "Oh, God," she whimpered again. "Please help me." "You little cunt!" raged Paul. "Shut up! You'll cum when I want you to, not before. Now just shut up!" He began to beat her, slapping her on both sides of her face, first with his palm and then with the back of his hand. "Shut up!" he kept yelling. "Just keep your fucking mouth shut!" Steve Paul, the coolest of cool customers, was now completely out of control with rage and frustration. The beating now began to take on a vicious character; the open hands changed to fists as Paul continued to pummel the helpless girl. Already her nose was bleeding, and bruises were beginning to rise on her face. Judy was so tortured with passion that she could hardly feel the pain of Paul's beating; in fact, the pain only served to arouse her still more. The climax that was still inside her, still pressing against her body with the strength of a dynamo, still waiting to be released from its prison, only took on added strength from the fury of Steve Paul's blows; now, Judy thought, now she would surely explode. Each time Paul struck her it was like the thrusting of a prick inside her, each blow rekindled the flames of her sexual frenzy. Slackjaws Nelson could hardly believe his eyes. He had been with Paul on any number of these escapades and knew about his impotence, but he had never seen Jay's right-hand man so totally beside himself with fury. No matter how viciously and unmercifully he "punished" a girl, Steve never lost his self- control, never let the situation get the better of him. But this time Paul had finally lost it, had finally allowed his pent-up feelings to break loose and run away with him. He's going to kill that chick, Slackjaws thought. Maybe I'd better stop him. Anyway, it's my turn. "Hey!" he said. "Mr. Paul! Wait! Hey, stop a minute, will ya?" Paul stopped, turned to Slackjaws, his eyes glowering with rage. For a moment he said nothing, just stared at the muscleman as if he had no idea who this strange intruder was. Then recognition dawned on his face. "What did you say?" he whispered. "You gotta stop," said Slackjaws. "Remember what Jay said, about how he didn't want her messed up, there was a convention coming up and everything?" Slackjaws was almost pleading with him. "I remember," said Paul. "So what?" He turned back to the girl, raised his arm as if about to administer another blow. "Hey!" said Slackjaws. "God damn it, stop! It's my turn anyway, Jay said so." Paul looked down at the beaten girl. The blood running from her nose made him even angrier and more excited than he had been before. "Well," he said, still looking at the girl, "Jay's not here, is he?" "No," said Slackjaws, "but ..." "And when Jay's not around, who gives the orders?" "You do, Mr. Paul," said Slackjaws, almost whimpering, "but ..." "THEN KEEP YOUR STUPID MOUTH SHUT," Paul screamed. This was too much for the muscleman. Over the years he'd taken a lot of crap from this guy, taken crap and always kept his mouth shut, but this time he wasn't going to get away with it, especially when Slackjaws knew he was in the right. He leaped up from his chair, ran across the room, and hit Paul across the jaw with all his strength. "There," he said as the gangster toppled off the bed and crumpled unconscious on the floor. "Stupid, am I? Idiot, am I? 'Slackjaws, do this; Slackjaws, do that,' just like I was some sort of trained ape. Well this here ape's breakin' loose, you hear? He's gonna get what's coming to him." He turned to Judy, saw that her eyes were wide with fear. "Aw, baby," he said. "Don't be afraid. Nelson's gonna take care of you now, like a real man should; no more of this horse shit. So don't be afraid; I ain't gonna hurt ya." Judy didn't know what to do. She couldn't help being afraid of this muscled monster who stood over her, grinning, but at the same time she knew that someone was going to have to take care of her or she would go crazy. Her climax still screamed within her; the pressure had grown to unendurable proportions. If he would just be a little gentle with her, she thought. If he would just be gentle, then maybe it would be all right. "Come on now, baby," crooned Slackjaws as he began to unbutton his shirt, "let's you and me have a go of it. Let's you and me have a real good time." Now that Paul was taken care of, Slackjaws knew he wouldn't have to restrict himself to a hum job; he could fuck her all he wanted. Even if Paul came to before he was finished he wouldn't dare tell Jay, not after the way he'd disobeyed the bosses' orders himself. Yeah, thought Slackjaws, I got me a free ticket, and I'm gonna ride it to the end of the line. He removed his trousers, began stroking his massive prick as he looked hungrily at the beautiful girl on the bed. She was sitting up now, her back against the headboard and her legs curled up against her body so that her chin rested on her knees. The expression on her face was curious, a mixture of fear, caution and desire. Slackjaws found it tremendously exciting. His prick responded to the massaging he was giving it, began to swell and throb with anticipation. "Too bad he's got your hands tied up," said Slackjaws with a grin. "You should be doing this for me." He thought for a moment, then the grin on his face spread even wider. "He ain't got your mouth tied up, though, has he?" he said. "That'll be even better." In spite of her fear, Judy found herself staring at Slackjaws' enormous cock. She had never in her life seen anything that size--not even Tim's could compare with it. And even though she was terrified of this thug, even though under normal circumstances she would have sooner died than allowed Slackjaws to touch her, now she found that she wanted that cock, that she had to have it. These, after all, were hardly normal circumstances. Her body had been whipped to such a fever pitch of excitement that no one, not even Tim, could blame her if she ached for relief. Slackjaws saw her staring at him, grinned again. "You like that," he said, "don't ya, baby? Never saw one that big before, did ya?" Judy shook her head, her eyes gobbling that incredible prick. "Well," said Slackjaws, "you're gonna see all of it you want, and taste it too. It tastes even better than it looks." He laughed at his own crude joke. "So come on," he said, "let's get started." He got up on the bed, knelt down in front of her so that his massive rod came to rest squarely between her breasts. She could feel the heat of it just above her heart, feel the drops of warm, oily semen run down her stomach. She put her chin against her chest, stared down her nose at the tip of his prick--it was so red, she thought, so soft and tasty-looking. Desire swelled in her as she thought of feeling that wonderful organ in her mouth, of sucking the thick hot juices from it until they slid down her throat and into her belly, filling her with their thick sweetness. Tim, she thought, forgive me. I don't know what I'm doing, why I'm thinking this way, and I'll make it all up to you, I promise. You're the one I love, but you're not here right now, and I have to do this or I'll go nuts. She cupped her hands around her breasts, squeezed them until they formed a channel around Slackjaws' cock, began rubbing them up and down. Oh, the warmth of his dick felt so good against her, like a big, throbbing heater on a cold night; she wanted to go on rubbing it until it was red hot, until the heat of it seared her flesh and left her branded for life. "Mmmmm," said Slackjaws. "Very nice. Very nice, baby. Just keep it up; don't stop. No, no, don't ever stop." Judy slid her legs underneath Slackjaws' ass, began rubbing her shinbone gently along the crack in his anus, lightly grazing his balls at the same time. Wow, thought the muscleman as the shock of this new touch streaked through him, this girl really knows what she's doing. No wonder Jay doesn't want her messed up. Then he stopped thinking about Jay, stopped thinking about everything except the milky touch of her breasts on his dick, the exciting stroke of her skin. Slowly, slowly he began to raise himself up, to move his aching prick toward Judy's hungry mouth; and slowly she lowered herself to meet him. She extended her tongue, and as the blood-swollen tip came up to meet her she lapped the semen from the tiny hole in the center. Slackjaws' body began to tremble at the gentle, insistent touch of her tongue. He could hardly stand it; he had to be inside her! Still she came down on him, rubbing her sperm-moistened lips along the head. Then suddenly, with a huge, sobbing gasp she took him in, thrusting her head down until she had half his outsized organ inside her mouth. Oh, lord, she thought, it tastes so good! The huge cock filled her, pulsed against the roof of her mouth, smoothed itself along her tongue, scraped gently against her teeth, the heat of it sending her into raptures of orgiastic excitement. She had to have more of it, more, more! Slackjaws responded with a powerful thrust of his hips, sending the swollen, throbbing prick halfway down he? throat, nearly choking her. Oh! she gasped as the hot cock lodged in her throat, this is too much! I can't stand it. Even so, she did her best to take more and more of him inside her. Slackjaws had never experienced anything like this. He had his prick three- quarters of the way into her, and still she seemed willing to take more. He had to be careful, though she was having trouble breathing. Gently he began to withdraw, until only three or four inches remained inside her. "Suck it, baby," he whispered. "Suck it now." Judy began to suck, immediately feeling the semen slide down her tongue, forming little rivulets as it dripped into her throat. This was not enough: she wanted him to pour enormous torrents of hot liquid into her, wanted to feel a river of gushing sperm stream through her mouth and into her warm insides. Slackjaws was moaning softly now "come on, baby," he was breathing, "harder now! Suck it harder. Come on." She sucked harder, her entire body aching for his orgasm, aching to be used as a receptacle for his creamy white juices. The sperm was flowing faster now as he approached his climax, and each new spurt urged her to suck harder, and harder still. "Eeeeeeeeyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaa," he screamed. "Now, I'm cummmmmmmminnnnng NOW!" Judy sucked with all her might, her head jerking as Slackjaws bucked uncontrollably. The huge prick in her mouth lashed and rolled, sending great streams of hot cum rushing through her. On and on she sucked as the great torrent continued, spitting and gushing such an incredible volume of semen that Judy thought she would never be able to swallow it all. She gulped once, twice, three times, feeling the lovely sweet oil filling her throat and belly, and then, suddenly found her mouth empty as Slackjaws collapsed on the bed, groaning. "Baby," he said, "you sure know how to suck a cock." Slackjaws was exhausted, but Judy's body, stimulated beyond belief first by Steve Paul's foreplay and then by her session with the muscleman, was still a seething mass of unsatisfied desire. She had enjoyed sucking Slackjaws, she had to admit that, but she had not been able to share in his great release, except as a recipient--now she was even more tormented, even more desperate for climax, than she had been before. Was there no one to help her, no one to release her from this prison of lust? In desperation she began to finger herself, to rub her clitoris as fast as she could, but she knew that she could never give herself the relief she needed. She had to have a man, and quickly. Steve Paul sat up against the wall, rubbing his chin. He glowered at Slackjaws, hate pouring from his eyes. "You bastard," he growled, starting to get up, "I'll fix you." Slackjaws raised his head to look at Paul. "You'll fix who?" he said. "Me? What're you gonna do, tell daddy Jay on me? No, you phony prick, I don't think you will, cause right after you get through with your story I'll be there with mine. Jay'd just love to hear about the pounding you gave our lady-friend here. Yessir, he'd get quite a kick out of that." He grinned at Paul, then suddenly became serious. "Now listen," he said, surprising even himself with the way he'd taken charge of the proceedings, "we came here to do a job, and we ain't through yet; we still got to put on the main event. So get your ass off the floor and bring Ambush in here." Although still lost in the frenzied outcries of her body, Judy had a dim awareness of what the two men were saying, and she was quite confused. First, she felt a surprising pang of sympathy and affection for Slackjaws, she had always known him as a brainless muscleman, an animalistic brute who had not a shred of human feeling in his character; but today he had already shown her at least a small kindness by interceding when Paul was about to beat her silly. And he himself had been amazingly gentle with her, even stimulating. No, she could harbor no resentment against Slackjaws. But what was this they were talking about: a "job to do", "not finished yet" ... "the main event?" Hadn't they finished what they had come to do? Good Lord, what else could they have in mind, what further cruelty was she going to be subjected to? And who was "Ambush?" All her questions were answered in an instant as the bathroom door opened and the huge St. Bernard bounded into the room. She had forgotten entirely about the dog, had even forgotten to wonder why he was there in the first place. Now the answer came to her with paralyzing suddenness--as if the humiliation already inflicted on her weren't enough; now she was going to be forced to mate with a dog. Judy cringed with fear, pulled her legs up against her chest, made as tight a ball of her body as she possibly could. She strained against the ropes that bound her wrists, thrashed her head wildly from side to side, saying "no, oh God, please, no;" but she knew even as she struggled that it was hopeless, that these men would show her no pity. "Please," she cried as the dog leaped up on the bed, his enormous tongue lolling from his mouth and leaving puddles of drool on the sheets, "oh, please, no. I'll never do it again, tell Jay I'll always do whatever he says, always, I'll never cross him again. Tell him I'm sorry, tell him anything, just keep that dog away from me." "Why, Miss Burton," said Paul, his cruel enthusiasm returning, "I'm surprised at you. I thought you liked dogs. Really, you know, you shouldn't talk that way-- Ambush is a very sensitive animal, and if you were to hurt his feeling, why there's just no telling what he might do. Isn't that so, Mr. Nelson?" "Yeah," said Slackjaws. "Ya know, I've raised that dog from a pup, and I still never quite know what he's got on his mind. Sometimes he'll be just as gentle as a lamb for awhile, but you say one thing that gets his goat and barn, he's at you hands and feet. Baby, I've still got some of the marks from his teeth, you wanna see 'em?" He began to unbutton his shirt. "No," Judy whimpered. "Please, I can't stand this." By now the animal had been attracted to the musty odor of sex exuding from Judy's body, and he was sniffing curiously at her, touching his cold wet nose to her legs, searching out the origin of the intoxicating smell. "Can't stand what, Miss Burton?" grinned Steve Paul. "Can't stand a little friendly sniffing? Obviously, Ambush thinks highly of you, wants to get to know you better. How could there be any harm in that? Just a little girl-meets-dog, that's all there is to it; certainly nothing to be alarmed about." By now Judy was nearly hysterical with fear and humiliation. The dog Ambush was sniffing faster, more earnestly, as his mind filled up with the lusty aroma of Judy's unspent passion. The girl crouched against the headboard like cornered prey, sweating in terror, trying to keep her vulnerable ripe cunt protected from the animal. Still he came on, sniffing up her legs, parrying with his nose as Judy attempted to ward him off. She could not allow this to happen; otherwise how could she ever face Tim again, how could she give freely and sincerely of the love she felt for him once she had been had by this smelly beast? She tried kicking out at the dog's muzzle, but the dog snarled at her so viciously that she thought better of it. The beast's tongue was bad enough; she wanted no part of his teeth. We'll just let this little fencing match go on for awhile, thought Steve Paul, let it go on until the girl was beside herself with fear and the dog raging with desire. Then we'll step in and get on with it, he thought. He laughed to himself as he imagined her spread-eagled on the bed, her ankles tied to the bedpost, writhing helplessly as the dog went at her, first with his tongue and then with his astonishing prick. Paul's good spirits were returning after the humiliation he had suffered from Slackjaws; Judy's feeble and comical efforts to keep the dog from her appealed greatly to Paul's perverted sense of humor. Slackjaws, too, had returned to character. There was no kindness in him now, Judy realized as she saw him staring at her, his face contorted into an expression of pure, bestial lust. His mouth was open slightly, his tongue hanging out in parody of the dog, and he was panting--no, Judy thought, there would be no help from Slackjaws this time. If only Tim would come back, if only ... But no, these men never went anywhere without their pistols; Tim wouldn't stand a chance against them. Thinking about that, she hoped that Tim would have the good sense to stay away, not to try anything heroic and foolish--she would suffer any degradation these men had to offer, endure any pain or torture rather than see her new lover hurt or killed. Still she continued to wriggle and squirm, still the dog came at her. She could see the tip of his huge pink dick beginning to poke out through the furry sheath, and the sight of it made her squirm all the harder. This in turn aroused the dog still more--he began to leap up and down on the bed, the weight of his two hundred and twenty pound frame making the mattress bounce and tremble. He was barking and squealing, his tiny mind excited beyond all bounds by Judy's furious thrashing. Steve Paul was growing bored with this cat-and-mouse game: he was ready for some real fun. "Slackjaws," he said, "go get some more rope." The muscleman disappeared into the bathroom, came back a moment later carrying two long strands of nylon cord. Steve Paul stood up, took the rope from his henchman, walked slowly toward the bed, one length of cord dangling from each hand. To Judy the cords looked like two snakes, two vicious snakes with their tails wrapped around a tree, just waiting for the moment when they could drop on her and sink their fangs into her soft flesh. So they were going to tie her legs too, she thought. Well maybe so, but not with her cooperation. As Paul approached she began to kick at him wildly, pumping her legs as rapidly and as powerfully as she could. "God damn you, you little whore!" yelled Paul as her foot caught him squarely in the nose. He backed off for a moment, put his hand to his face, then smiled with delight as he saw the blood running onto his palm. This was getting good, he thought, the sight of blood acted on him more strongly, and in a more directly sexual way, than any amount of foreplay could ever have; finally, finally his prick was beginning to react, to swell with the first stirrings of desire. How could he have been so stupid, he thought. How could he have forgotten? It had always been blood and violence that aroused him when all normal means failed; he knew that and exulted in it, yet this time he had allowed himself to be carried away by that delicious little bundle of sex. She had made him impatient, had made him forget that there was only one way for Steve Paul to get his kicks, and that was through blood and violence. "Mr. Nelson," said Paul, in a quiet but ominous voice, "the young lady needs some more assistance. Would you kindly help her out?" "Sure," said Slackjaws. He walked over to the bed, easily took one of Judy's flailing ankles in each hand, slammed her legs down hard. Immediately Paul was there, wrapping the cords around her ankles so tightly that she screamed with pain, then tying the other end of the cords to the bedposts. He stepped back for a moment, grinning at the girl sprawled out on the bed, helplessly bound. Then he stepped forward again and slowly, almost lovingly, rubbed his blood-stained palm against her stomach, making a huge red smear on her skin. Judy had stopped struggling against her bonds, had begun to weep miserably, like a lost child, but Paul paid her no attention as he spread the blood all over her body. "Now," he whispered, regarding his work with the delight of a true pervert, "now let Ambush have her." The dog, seeing that Judy was open to him, crossed the bed in one triumphant leap. Immediately he pushed his nose into her tightly-puckered cunt, filling his brain with her wonderful spicy odor, driving himself half-mad with the sweet luxury of it. Years of careful training had twisted his instincts, had made him long more than anything else for the feel of a woman's tender skin. This was his favorite meal, and he would partake of it until his elaborate cravings were finally satisfied. Judy had never felt so hopeless in her life, so completely vulnerable, so thoroughly shamed. How had this come to be, she thought desperately. For the first time in over a year she longed for the dirty streets of Bisbee, Arizona, for the dust that welled up from the copper mines, the smell of ocotillo blossoms in the springtime, the warmth of her parents' living room. She even missed the cramped cashier's booth at the old theater, the boring hot-dog-and- drive-in-movie dates with the sons of the copper miners. She would give anything to be back there, to have her innocence back, to be shocked at the fold-out pictures in the men's magazines at the drug store. If someone had told her then what was in store for her, that she would be lying here this day in her bed, a shameless prostitute about to be brutally fucked by a St. Bernard, she would have been either totally outraged or convulsed with laughter. Yet here she was, with the dog nosing at her most secret places--the craziness and terror of it would have been too much for her to digest had she not been aware oh, how aware of its awful reality. Yes, it was really happening, and there was not a thing she could do to stop it. The dog's nose was shockingly cold against her tender pussy, and at first she tried to recoil from it. But Ambush only came back for more, and soon Judy found herself becoming accustomed to his chilly pokings. And no sooner did she come to tolerate the moist twitchings of the dog's nose against the dry, chapped outer skin of her cunt, than she began to actually enjoy it! No, she thought, this can't be. I may have to give in to this furry bastard, there's nothing I can do about that, but I don't have to like it, for Christ's sake! Still, she could not deny it: the dog was beginning to turn her on, to send little currents of pleasure up into her belly. The St. Bernard immediately sensed her change of attitude, began to joyfully lick at her now-receptive cunt with the edge of his enormous tongue. The rough, sandpapery touch of it was like nothing Judy had ever experienced; far more titillating than the smoothness of a human tongue. Already Judy could feel herself beginning to turn to liquid inside, could feel the spongy walls of her cunt beginning to expand, to ready themselves for the dog's penetration. "Oh, my God," she cried, half in amazement and half with pleasure, "what is this? What's happening to me?" Steve Paul and Slackjaws looked at one another with little knowing smiles on their faces. They had seen the dog in action many times before, knew it was only a matter of time until the girl began to turn on. No matter how horrified they were at the beginning, no matter how much they begged to be released, eventually they had all of them, each and every one, been reduced to quivering masses of yearning flesh; had begged, each of them, not for release, but for more, and yet again more. This one would be no different, they knew, even though she had struggled somewhat harder than the others; probably her struggling in the preliminary stages would only serve to arouse her that much more in the end. Paul was suddenly struck with an idea. Maybe, he thought, we ought to take Ambush with us when we visit that cop and his wife. There's no cure for prudishness like a session with a St. Bernard. He laughed to himself as he imagined the cop, Kramer, watching with bulging eyes as the dog hunched over his wife, ready to spear her with his huge red cock. What a scene that would be! Meanwhile Ambush continued to lap at Judy's cunt, drawing the hot fluids out of her body until her thighs were gleaming with them. Eagerly he licked up each new outpouring, running his moist rough tongue along the inside of her thighs and up underneath her arms, then returning to the delicious little mounds of skin between her legs. He worked at her quietly, expertly, never hurried but never stopping, always the steady, insistent rubbing of his tongue against her, first in this place, then in that, always the huge, patient, inexorable tongue. Judy could not believe that the dog was actually doing this to her, actually inciting her to such an incredible frenzy. There could be no holding back now, no stopping--her body was nearly out of control with longing for this ... this dog! The warm, rough stroking of his tongue was creating a fire inside her, a fire that would not subside until he brought her aching body to a blazing holocaust of consummation. Shame was irrelevant now, Tim and her love for him no more than a dim memory--nothing existed except her fierce desire, the mad callings from the very center of her aroused being; nothing but this and the St. Bernard's marvelous tongue licking at her, caressing her, thrilling her beyond her wildest fantasies. Jesus, thought Slackjaws, this little bitch is really loving it. Seeing her excitement, he wished he had spent more time with her himself--this dog was getting all the really sweet action. Well, he thought, it's a long afternoon, and if she's not crippled or torn apart by the time the dog gets through with her, then maybe old Slackjaws will have another go at it. He glanced over at Steve Paul, saw the hunger in his eyes, even noticed the small but rising bulge in his pants, but Steve Paul's needs were no concern of his. Shit, thought Slackjaws, he's no problem; I'll just take care of him like I did before, then I'll have that hot little cunt all to myself. He began to rub his own swelling prick at the thought of what he would do to her this time. By now Judy was nearing her climax. Her body was soaked with sweat, the sheets below her wringing wet with a mixture of perspiration and sexual fluid. Still the dog continued his steady, patient, lapping, occasionally running his sandpapery tongue past the opening to her pussy and up along the smooth, flexing walls inside; and each time he did it Judy screamed with pleasure. "Oooooooooooooooo, doggie," she cried, "do that some more. DO IT MORE!" Somehow Ambush seemed to understand her, for suddenly, just at the right moment, he shoved his tongue into her as far as it would go. Judy let out a moan that came from the very depths of her soul. This was an entirely new sensation to her, having something inside her pussy that was as long or longer than any human prick, yet at the same time soft and malleable, with a freedom of movement all its own; she was sure the touch of it, the long sweeping strokes against her cunt walls, would turn her inside out. She was closer now to her orgasm, and then closer still as the painful pressure built up in every part of her body, threatening to break her apart. Closer and still closer, the dog waving his tongue inside her faster and faster and faster until it felt like a piercing bullet, closer and closer and closer, and then ... The dam inside her finally burst--she was overcome by the most powerful climax she had ever experienced. A great storm of pleasure raged through her body, neglecting no part of her, reaching everywhere and touching everything, sweeping her soul and her life away with it, drowning her in pleasure. Her body bucked and pitched as she tried to ride out this incredible orgasm, but it was too strong for her. Finally she could do nothing but lie rigid in the bed, her eyes rolled back and her mouth wide open in a silent scream as the storm coursed through her, sucking every ounce of life from her veins, ruining her, ravaging her, washing her clean. It was not until the storm had subsided somewhat that she was able to move, to make sounds, to finally scream: "Ohhhhhhh, my sweet Jesus, oh my God, OHMYGOD I'M CUMMMMMMMINNNNNNNGGGGG!" But the dog had only begun. All this had been only part of a sequence, a sequence that would not end until Ambush himself lay exhausted and spent on the bed. His masters had found in training him that his full erection was far too big to fit inside any woman unless she had first been prepared for him by the expansive action of an orgasm. For the act to be timed perfectly, for it to succeed at all, in fact, Ambush had to penetrate his victim immediately after she came; otherwise he would be too late and the girl's pussy would be closed to him for at least another fifteen minutes, or until he could bring her to climax again. Ambush did not like to wait. The girl furious response had excited him as no bitch in heat ever could; his huge red prick had swollen out of its sheath and was even now throbbing in readiness. No, there could be no waiting. Judy was lying on the bed, half-dead from exertion and release, and the incredible thrust of the dog's outsized prick took her totally by surprise. It was as if someone had driven a steam-shovel deep into the heart of her, as if a locomotive from hell had been called up to drive its way into her unwilling, exhausted body. This was something that no human could ever hope to match, this gigantic pulsing organ that was burying itself into her flesh, stretching and filling her until it seemed to become a part of her, as if a whole new piece of flesh had suddenly been grafted to her vagina. But this new piece of flesh, this new organ of hers, refused to lie still and melt into her, refused to behave like something that was truly her own; instead it drummed in and out, In and out, with the strength of a mighty, diabolical machine, sending her into uncontrollable paroxysms of pain and delight. On and on it went, tormenting her, splitting her apart. She was lost now, in a world without sound, without voices, an unreachable floating universe from which all thought had been banished, a world that was at one and the same time a glittering heaven and a fiery hell, where there was no time, no waiting, no past or future; only the unendurable present, only the dog fucking her with such inhuman, brutal strength. And then into that world came a sensation that Judy had never hoped to feel again: the first, faint electrical buzzing of approaching climax. She concentrated on the little hum as hard as she could, trying to close out all the tortuous pain that surrounded it, meeting the pain with the hard squeezings of her inflamed and dripping cunt, trying to choke the life out of the massive rod that was thrusting into her. "Unnnnnnnnnhhhhhh," she groaned through clenched teeth, as she concentrated harder and harder on pressing into the dog, on maintaining and building the small but insistent buzzing that heralded her orgasm. Her hips were moving like ramrods, matching each thrust the dog made with an equally strong thrust of her own, driving the dog back and pulling him forward again. Holy shit, thought Slackjaws, his eyes wide with disbelief, she's outfucking the dog. What an incredible little whore she is! She's actually outfucking the dog! By now Ambush was squealing with terror and pain. Judy's cunt had become a prison, a terrible squeezing prison that held him fast and would not let him go, that clamped down on him, suffocating him, making him whine with fear. He began to wiggle back and forth, trying to pry himself loose, but Judy would have none of it: she simply clenched her teeth and clamped down all the harder. This little puppy was not going to leave her now, not when she was so close, so very close. He had been given to her and she was going to keep him, right to the bitter end--they weren't going to let her down again, no, not this time. She was going to cum and cum and cum and keep on cuming; this beautiful animal was going to be hers and hers alone. Finally, with one great spasm of her body, one graceful arching of her back, she met her climax; and this one was even more powerful, more unimaginably thorough, than the first one had been. It erupted in her like a volcano, spewing out a torrential lava of flaming juices, burning her with the angry fury of a thousand exploding suns, searing her, melting the substance of her body and soul into a mighty caldron of nearly unbearable pleasure. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYAAAAAAA," she screamed, her body still arched and rigid, as if a million volts of electric current were passing through it. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAA!" "Jesus jumping Christ," whispered Steve Paul as the dog slid off the bed, whimpering in agony. It was the only thing he could think of to say, so he said it again: "Jesus jumping Christ." Slackjaws could do nothing but stare. "Well," thought Judy, just before she lost consciousness, "let's see what Jay Snyder has to say about that!" Chapter 8 "Vice Squad, please," said Tim into the telephone. "I want to speak with Lieutenant Kramer." "I'm sorry," said the cool, efficient voice at the other end of the line, "but Lieutenant Kramer isn't in at the moment. May I take a message?" Damn, thought Tim, what a time to be on a coffee break. "Yes," he added, "I'll leave a message. Tell him that I have information concerning Jay Snyder, lots of information, and that I'll be waiting for him in the bar at the Ambassador Hotel. Tell him it's urgent; his wife might be in trouble. Make sure he gets that message, will you? Tell it to him just like I told it to you." "Certainly, sir," said the receptionist. "Now would you care to leave your name?" "No," said Tim, "I wouldn't." * * * Tim fingered his drink nervously. Where was that guy, he thought, glancing at his watch for at least the hundredth time. Just like a cop, never around when you needed him--probably he was out peeking into toilet stalls at the MacArthur Park John. Tim looked in the mirror behind the bar, saw a short, stocky red-haired man in a business suit standing by the doorway, peering around the room. Tim waited until the man caught his eyes in the mirror, then slowly nodded his head. The man walked over to the bar, sat down on the stool next to Tim. "Bartender," he said, "beer, please." "Lieutenant Kramer?" said Tim. "That's right." He turned to look Tim over, surprised that he was speaking to such a young man; he seemed little older than a kid. "You're the one who left me the message?" Tim nodded. "Well, what have you got for me?" "I work for Jay Snyder," Tim began. "I'm his driver. I'm not very high up in the organization, but I keep my ears open and I remember what I hear. I've learned a lot about how Jay runs his operation: the names of most of his girls, names and descriptions of the guys who work for him, how he signs his girls up in the first place, what he does to keep them quiet. I know enough to put Snyder behind bars for a long time." Mike doubted that this was true. He'd heard the same line many times before, usually from young, scared kids like this one who wanted some sort of small deal for themselves. More often than not, their information turned out to be vague and inconclusive; and very rarely were they willing to testify in court. But as a cop Mike felt obligated to follow up every possible lead, to investigate every possible angle, particularly where someone like Jay Snyder was concerned. Besides, this kid had mentioned something about his wife. "Well," said Mike, "start talking." "Not so fast," said Tim, taking a swallow of his drink. "I want to make a deal first." Here it comes, thought Mike. "What sort of deal?" be said. "I want to know what sort of immunity you can give me." "Uh-huh, thought Mike. Another pickpocket or tout trying to bluff his way out of a petty theft charge. Christ, there were so many of them, and they were such a damned waste of time. Well, he thought, I'm here; may as well listen to what the kid's got to say. "I can't offer you immunity from the law," he said. "Only the D.A. can do that." Tim looked at him, fear in his eyes. "I don't want immunity from the law," he said. "I haven't done anything wrong, unless driving someone else's car is a crime these days. What I want is immunity from Jay Snyder." So that was it--the kid had gotten in over his head, gotten scared, and now he wants out Mike looked at him closely. He seemed like a nice kid, maybe a kid from a poor family, a kid who'd made one mistake too many, and now he was beginning to wake up. Mike felt a sudden pang of pity for him. "All right," he said, "I'll give you all the police protection I can." "That's not enough," said Tim. "You don't know Snyder. He's a vicious son of a bitch, and he has ways of getting at people that the cops wouldn't even dream of. I need to know that you're going to put Snyder and all his buddies behind bars for a long, long time. See," he said, his voice softening, "there's this girl, she works for him too, and I want to make sure she comes out of it OK." This kid is really sincere, Mike thought. He's gone and fallen in love with some whore, and now he's trying to whitewash his whole life. The power of a woman! Still, if the kid knows as much as he says he does ... "If your information is as hot as you say," said Mike, "I'll put Snyder so far behind bars that he'll never see the light of day. You don't hate that bastard any more than I do--I've been after him ever since I was a patrolman." "OK," said Tim, "I'll tell you everything I know, but we've got to hurry. The girl, her name's Judy Burton, there's two of Snyder's men in her apartment right now, and they've got a big St. Bernard with them. They're going to ..." Tim's voice choked as he remembered Steve Paul's words, "they're going to ..." "It's OK," said Mike gently, putting his hand on the kid's shoulder. "Just keep talking." "I hope to God they don't get at her," said Tim. "I've seen what that dog can do to a girl. Anyway, she wasn't there when those guys came, and they let me go, so I left her a message not to go up to her apartment." Tim thought about the boy he'd trusted with that message, the most important message of his life, remembered his yo-yo and chewing gum, how he'd pocketed the dollar Tim gave him. "Oh, Jesus," he said, his voice clogged with tears, "I hope she got that message." "Obviously," said Mike, "we don't have time to sit here and wonder about it. We've got to move. Now tell me what else you know, and tell me quick." Mike's words snapped Tim back to the present. The cop was right, he thought, they had very little time. Even now that dog could be hunched over Judy, his huge red prick about to ... He didn't even want to think about it. Using the smallest number of words he could, he told Kramer everything he knew about Jay Snyder and his organization, with particular emphasis on the events of that day, right up to the conversation he had listened in on from behind Judy's door. "... so," he finished, "that's how I know that you're involved in their plans too. I didn't catch everything they said, but I know it had something to do with your wife--her name's Lisa, right?" Mike nodded. For just a moment he was silent, stunned by what Tim had told him about Snyder and his cruelty, stunned particularly by the thought of his wife as the victim of that inhuman brutality. Lisa, he thought, Lisa, my God, no ... Then suddenly he turned off his own emotions, snapped into action. "Let's get going," he said. "I want you to go get a doctor, just in case, and get up to your girlfriend's apartment as fast as you can--she could be badly hurt if they happened to get at her. I'll call the station and get a squad car over there. Wait for me and I'll meet you there later." "What are you going to do?" said Tim. Mike looked at him. "I'm going to go see about my wife," he said. "Maybe you got the story wrong, but I want to make sure." Tim nodded, relieved that he had finally found someone to help Judy and himself, that there was something that he could do too. This cop was all right, he thought, really ready to help, not like those other bastards who were only interested in you when you'd done something wrong. Just then the phone behind the bar started to ring. The bartender picked it up, said "Hello, Ambassador Hotel," then "Just a minute, please; I'll see if he's here." He turned around to face the bar, cupping his hand over the receiver. "Lieutenant Kramer?" he said. "Right here," said Mike. The bartender handed him the phone. "Yes?" said Mike. "Lieutenant," came the voice of his receptionist, "I'm sorry to bother you, but someone just called from your house, said he was a doctor or something. It was something about your wife, I didn't catch it all ..." "Thanks," said Mike hurriedly. He slammed down the receiver, dialed his home phone number, his hand trembling slightly. The phone rang once, twice, then came a click as someone picked up the receiver on the other end. "Hello?" said a cautious male voice. Mike's heart jumped with fear. "This is Lieutenant Kramer," he said. "Why, hello, Lieutenant," said the voice. "Nice to hear from you. This is Jay Snyder speaking." Chapter 9 Lisa Kramer stood naked in front of the full-length bathroom mirror, admiring the graceful curves of her body. She had been considered a pretty girl ten years before, when she first met and married Mike, and now, she knew, she was prettier still. The youthful leanness of her body had slowly and subtly disappeared during those ten years, to be replaced by a luxuriant voluptuous fullness that was far more mature, far sexier. Yes, Lisa thought as she ran her hands along her sides and over her ample hips, I'm in good shape. Now if only Mike could appreciate me for what I am and handle me gently, the way a woman should be handled, then maybe our sex life would be a little more exciting. It was the only complaint she had against her husband, besides his lack of ambition: his crude and muscular manner with her when they were in bed. Over the years she had tried to accustom herself to his pantings and squeezings, the rough way he treated her when it was time for sex, but it had been no use. Eventually she found him coming to her less and less often: they had put the double bed in storage, switched to twins, and finally had agreed to sleep in separate bedrooms, Lisa using Mike's snoring as an excuse. Oh, well, she sighed as she turned away from the mirror, he's a good man anyway; a good husband and provider, loving and considerate in every way. Besides, there was more to life than just sex, much more. She had her gardening to attend to, her bridge club, her tennis. Really, she thought, I hardly have time for sex, hardly have time for anything any more. Tomorrow, she vowed as she went to answer the doorbell, putting on her housecoat as she walked downstairs, tomorrow I'm going to relax all day long, maybe go out to the beach and collect some driftwood, or go hiking in Topanga Canyon, all by myself with no chattering women around to distract me. She opened the door, saw three strange men standing there smiling at her. The shortest of the three, the one in the middle reminded her of Mickey Rooney, but besides his resemblance to the movie star, there was something else about him that was vaguely familiar, as if she'd met him once a long time ago, at some long-forgotten meeting or party. The other two men were big and mean-looking despite their attempts at friendly smiles; she disliked them immediately. "Mrs. Kramer?" said the one in the middle. "Lisa Kramer?" "That's right," said Lisa. "What can I do for you?" "Forgive me for coming without letting you know in advance," said the short man, flashing Lisa a charming smile, "but it's really quite important that I talk to you. It concerns your husband, you see." It concerned her husband? Mike? Why on earth would these strangers want to talk to her about Mike? Lisa began to be afraid. "Who are you?" she said. "What do you want?" "My apologies," said the short man. "You can see how preoccupied I am. My name is Jay Snyder; these gentlemen are my associates, Mr. Dixon and Mr. Carstairs." "How do you do," said the two men almost in unison, making a graceless and comical attempt to bow. Jay Snyder! she thought. The wealthy businessman, the philanthropist, the same Jay Snyder whose picture was always appearing in the newspaper? What could Jay Snyder want with her? She remembered having once written him a letter, thanking him for his donation to the charity drive she had chaired; had he come to return his respects. No, she thought immediately, of course no rich and famous people don't go around responding personally to mail from anonymous housewives. What could it be, then? He had mentioned her husband, how on earth did he know Mike? Then she remembered the conversation that had taken place the previous evening, remembered how Mike had gone on and on about Snyder, claiming he was a gangster and the head of a huge prostitution ring. And now here he was, with Mike's name on his smiling lips; what did it mean? Was he in truth a gangster and not the respectable businessman he claimed to be, was Mike closing in on him, getting so close that he had come to warn him through Lisa? She looked at him closely. He seemed quite charming, not at all like a gangster, although she didn't care for the looks of those other two, Dixon and Carstairs. Still, she thought, he couldn't be a gangster, not him. She would sooner trust her woman's intuition than Mike's wild theories. "Mrs. Kramer," said Snyder, "may we come in?" "Oh," said Lisa, "I'm sorry. I was just surprised. Yes, of course, please come in." "Thank you," said Snyder. He followed her into the living room, the two bigger men trailing after him. "Won't you sit down," said Lisa, pointing at the couch. "I've got some coffee on, if you'll just excuse me a moment. Would you like some?" "Yes, thanks very much," said Snyder as he plopped down on the couch. "We appreciate it. It's been a rough morning already, and it's not even eleven o'clock yet." "I can imagine," said Lisa as she walked toward the kitchen. "You must be a very busy man, with all your businesses and charities and what-not." "It does keep us moving," he agreed. Lisa went into the kitchen, poured out four cups of coffee, placed them on a silver serving tray with a creamer and a sugar bowl. She brought the tray back into the living room, bending over as she placed it on the coffee table. "Here you are," she said. "Help yourself to cream and sugar." "Thanks again," said Snyder, staring at the bulge of Lisa's breasts as her housecoat opened slightly. Wow, he thought, big ones. This is going to be even more fun than I thought. Lisa sat down in a chair, facing the three men. "Now," she said, smiling, "what can I do for you?" "It's not what you can do for us, Mrs. Kramer," said Snyder, "it's what we can do for you. What would you say if I told you that your husband spent last night with a whore; excuse me, a prostitute?" Lisa laughed. "Mike?" she said. "With a prostitute? That simply isn't possible." "The girl's name is Cindy," said Snyder. "She works for me. We have the whole thing on tape, if you'd care to hear it." The man named Dixon produced a reel of recording tape from his coat pocket, held it up in front of her. Lisa was stunned. So it was true, she thought, so Jay Snyder was the head of a prostitution ring, just as Mike had said. But what was this about Mike and some girl named Cindy, what was this tape the man was showing her? Mike had always been faithful to her, she had absolutely no doubts about that, so why were they saying these awful things. "Let me see that," she said, reaching out for the tape. Dixon jerked it away from her. "No, no, little lady," he said. "Mustn't touch." "Mrs. Kramer," Snyder continued, "your husband has become, you'll pardon the expression, a real pain in the ass to us. He goes around sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong, stirring things up, making no end of trouble for me and my organization. Now we want you to help us. We want you to warn him to, again pardon the expression, fuck off, to leave us every much alone. Will you help us?" "Of course," said Lisa. Fear rose in her, making her heart beat faster and louder. It would be best to play along with them, she knew; then no one would get hurt. "I thought so," said Snyder. "Really, I'm very grateful to you." He reached into his coat pocket, brought out a little, ominous looking vial. "Now just to make sure that you're really on our side," he said, "I'm going to ask you to drink this." He held the vial out to her. "No," she said in a small voice, shrinking away from his outstretched hand, "I won't. It's poison." Snyder jumped up, slapped her hard across the face. "Bitch," he growled. "Drink it!" She took the vial to her lips, afraid of what he would do if she refused again. She drank the liquid down, thinking, well, it doesn't taste too bad, sort of like Kool-Aid. Maybe it won't hurt me. "Ah," said Snyder as she drained the vial. "Very good. We appreciate your cooperation. Now you're just going to sit very still in that chair, and we're going to sit right over here and watch you until that stuff takes effect. Then" he said, an evil smirk on his face, "then we're going to have a party." Even as he spoke Lisa could feel a strange sensation begin to rise in her, something like what she had felt so long ago, the first time she had seen Mike, but which up to now had been nothing but a vague memory. Horrified, she found herself looking with sudden interest at the front of Snyder's trousers, observing the small torpedo-shaped bulge moving down his right leg. How could she be so lewd, she thought, what was this stuff doing to her? Despite her thoughts, she could not control the desire that was growing within her, the desire to fondle that appealing little bulge with her hands, to knead it until it was stiff as a board and ready to penetrate her, to fill her warming cunt with its rigid splendor. Her mind raced wildly. What was happening to her? She had never felt anything like this before, not even with Mike; never anything like this coarse but insatiable longing for a man's penis. Women were not supposed to feel this way; it was the man who was supposed to be the aggressor, the woman nothing but a helpless, passive victim. I certainly don't feel passive now, she thought. I feel like I want to go over there, unzip that sexy little man's pants, and ... No, her mind cried out, no, I can't be thinking like this! But she could not control herself, could not overcome the drug-induced desire, no matter how hard she tried. Slowly, stiffly, almost like a robot, she got up out of her chair, took the two steps necessary to get her to the couch. She felt oddly detached from herself, as if she were watching herself on television, or in some awful dream. Snyder's face seemed to be twisted into a hideous leer, a gross parody of lust and anticipation. "Well," she heard him say, although she could make no sense of his words, "looks like the stuff's working, all right." Lisa went down on her knees in front of the gangster, reached automatically for his belt. She undid that, unhooked the clasp at the top of his trousers, pulled down the zipper, slid his pants down to expose his still-limp prick. My, she thought, what a cute little thing, must be just a child. Wonder if it wants to grow up. She plunged her mouth down on it without any hesitation, just as if it was something she did every day, to every male who stepped into the house; just to be polite, of course. Mmmmm, she thought, it tastes so fine and salty, like a hot dog at the beach. She massaged Snyder's cock with her lips, lightly grazing the tip of it with her tongue, exulting in the wonderful sweet feeling of it. But at the same time another part of her mind, the older, more familiar part, was screaming with outrage. Here now, it was saying (and the voice sounded curiously like her mother's), what do you think you're doing? You're no better than one of this man's hired prostitutes, and probably a little bit worse--I'm sure they don't enjoy their work anywhere near as much as you seem to be enjoying this. Are you a whore then; is that what's been hiding inside you all this time? And what about your husband; what about poor Mike? Right now he probably thinks you're out playing tennis or doing the laundry; what do you think he'd say if he saw you down on your knees in your own living room with this gangster's penis in your mouth? The conflict between her upbringing and her desires of the moment was almost unendurable--Lisa thought she would go out of her mind with it. One voice, the voice of the drug, was saying "fuck Mike; he spent last night with a whore, didn't he? Well, now it's my turn;" while the other, "normal" voice called shame and degradation down on her. And which of these two voices was hers, truly hers? She'd been forced to take a drug, she knew that, and the drug was obviously working its evil on her, but why was this evil so enjoyable? Was it possible that the drug had only freed her to hear her own deepest yearnings and desires? Was it possible that both the voices were hers, or even more horrible to contemplate, that the voice of lust was the only one that really belonged to her, that the other voice was only an overlay, some outside imposition that had nothing to do with her true feelings, her true self? No, no, her mind screamed, it was impossible--this couldn't be her! Yet her body went on reacting to its hidden longings, still her lips moved along Snyder's cock, still her tongue gathered in the droplets of semen that leaked down onto it. She was dimly aware that Snyder was squirming on the couch, that the other two men--what were their names?--were ogling her, pointing and laughing, but the only thing she was fully aware of, the only thing that mattered, was the knowledge that Snyder's prick was slowly growing, slowly filling her mouth with its warm, pulsing beauty. What a cock this was, she thought. To her drug-soaked mind Snyder's cock had become the quintessence of all cocks everywhere--she felt as if she was sucking off the entire male race. In the meantime Snyder himself was becoming more and more personally involved with the proceedings. Wow, he thought to himself, this little bitch can really suck! It is just the fly, or has her old man been missing out on something all this time? Maybe, he thought, chuckling to himself, maybe we didn't have to give her fly at all, maybe all we had to do was ask her. She sure was doing a job on him! He could feel her coating his dick with her warm, slick saliva, scraping him gently with her teeth, licking him, caressing him with her lips, taking more and more of his stiff cock into her soft pink mouth. Already the semen was beginning to churn and gurgle in his balls, already he could feel his climax approaching. He reached down, grabbed Lisa by the ears, pulled her off him. "Hold it, baby," he said. "Let's all go up to where we can be more comfortable. I don't want to stain your nice velvet couch." Dixon and Carstairs laughed out loud. "No," cried Lisa, "no," as she immediately plunged herself back down onto Snyder's burning cock. She couldn't bear to be separated from that magnificent rod, no, not even for an instant. Every fiber of her being cried out for it, had to have it, had to feel it slide down her mouth and lodge in her throat. Fiercely she grabbed onto Snyder's thighs, gouging into his flesh with her fingernails as she filled her open, yearning mouth with his pulsating prick. "Come on, baby," said Snyder imploringly, pushing her away from him again, "let's go upstairs. Come on, now." Still Lisa would not be moved. She dug her fingernails even deeper into Snyder's thighs, threatening by implication to leave huge red welts up and down his legs if he attempted to push her away again. There was no stopping her now: she had kept a tight lid on her desires for almost thirty years, and now that the drug had freed her from her self-imposed prison she was determined to make the most of it, to suck and suck and go on sucking, forever if necessary, or at least until Snyder's prick eroded away in her mouth. Snyder saw that there would be no deterring her, no possibility of an intermission, no matter how brief, so he decided that the best thing he could do would be simply to sit back, relax, and enjoy it. For there Was no denying the intense pleasure of it, the exciting sensation of her lush wet mouth wrapped around his penis--never had the gangster been treated so royally, not even by his own hand-picked prostitutes. Yes, he thought, I'm just going to let this incredible woman take care of me. Lisa had swallowed nearly the entire length of his aching cock. Now she began to suck in earnest, to pull at the tender foreskin with all the strength of her jaws. Her muffled moaning echoed in Snyder's brain, which in turn sent messages of excitement scurrying down to his loins. He felt as if his entire body had been pulled into his penis and concentrated there, as if there was nothing left of him except the raw, pulsating nerve in the tip of his dick. "Oooooooooooooooooooo," he cried. "That's it, baby. Come on now, suck me. That's right, suck me. Don't ever stop. Don't ever stop." Lisa was not about to stop. His prick was throbbing steadily now, like a mighty drum inside her mouth, and each pulsing beat of it sent chills of pleasure down her spine. She knew he was coming nearer and nearer his climax, could hardly wait to feel his warm, gushing sperm stream into her throat. This thought egged her on, drove her to suck harder and harder yet, until she could barely breathe. She had dug her fingernails so far into the gangster's thighs that blood had begun to drip out--she could feel it on her fingertips, and the warm oiliness of it only aroused her that much more. She had to drink his cum, her crazed mind cried out to her, she had to drink it or surely she would die of thirst. "Oh," Snyder was crying as his orgasm welled up in him, "oh ... oh! ... Oh! ... OH! ... AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! I'm cumming, oh Jesus God, I'm CUMMMMMMMIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG!" Lisa felt his prick lash in her mouth, felt the first torrents of hot sperm gush into her. She gulped once, twice, three times, greedily swallowing as much of the honey-sweet white stuff as she could, feeling it slide down her esophagus and into her waiting belly, filling her nearly to overflowing. But the torrent started to subside before Lisa had gulped all she wanted, so suddenly, without warning, she grabbed Snyder's balls and squeezed them as hard as she could, milking them for every drop of semen they contained. "YAAAAAAAAA," screamed Snyder as she squeezed his balls. He jumped off the couch, tearing his prick from Lisa's mouth as he did, shredding it on the hard surface of her teeth. The last few drops of his semen dribbled out onto the floor as he danced in pain, blood beginning to ooze out from his wounded prick. "AAAAAAAAAAAAHH," he screamed again. Never had he felt such pain, such excruciating, tortuous pain. But, he remembered as he fell to his knees in the middle of the living room, he had never felt such pleasure either. Oh, that poor, dumb cop, he thought, what that poor bastard's been missing--he should have given this chick Spanish fly years ago. Dixon and Carstairs could hardly believe what they had seen, what they were seeing right this moment. There was their boss, the toughest, shrewdest operator on the West Coast, maybe in the country, on his knees in front of them, bleeding from a blow job by some cop's wife. It was too much, absolutely too much, Dixon thought. Lord, how that little housewife could do it; and in just a few minutes she was going to be doing it to him. Except Dixon wasn't going to settle for just a blow job--it didn't look like the safest thing in the world anyway--he was going to plant himself all the way inside that hot little bitch. Yes, he thought, this is going to be one hell of a fine afternoon. "Get her upstairs, boys," said Snyder hoarsely, struggling to his feet. He was recovering now: his dick had stopped bleeding, and he could feel his strength returning. He stood up, reached down to his pants, which were still wrapped around his ankles, pulled them back up to his waist, took a few cautious steps. "Go on, go on, take her upstairs," he said. "I'll be up in a minute." Dixon went over to Lisa, who was lying on the carpet, her eyes glazed and staring, her body quivering with unfulfilled lust. The drug had completely taken over now, had put her in touch with a lifetime of hidden sexual fantasies--her session with Snyder had been amusing, but it was only a beginning. The touch of Dixon's hands as he bent over to pick her up was like a siren sounding through her blazing body; immediately she threw her arms around him, dug her mouth into his neck. Jesus, thought Dixon, is she going to fuck me right here in the living room? "Hold it, baby, hold it," he said, unhooking her arms from the back of his neck, "let's go upstairs, then you can do anything you want." He looked at her, saw the uncontained desire in her eyes, felt his own excitement increasing rapidly. "Anything at all," he whispered. "Forget the talk," said Snyder, "she can't hear you anyway--all she wants to do is fuck. Just get her up there, and hurry it up. We haven't got all day." "Right, boss," said Dixon. He picked Lisa up, slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, began carrying her up the stairs. Lisa went limp, finally realizing that she would have to wait the thirty seconds it would take them to get to the bedroom. Still, she thought, I can have a little fun on the way up. She dangled her arms down Dixon's broad back, grabbed his ass and began to massage it as he walked. Dixon laughed. "Good, baby," he said, "very good. You don't waste a minute, do you?" He reached the top of the landing, carried her through the bedroom door, threw her halfway across the room onto the big, soft bed. Immediately he began to strip off his clothes, never taking his eyes from her voluptuous naked body, concentrating his gaze especially on the perfect little triangle of black pubic hair below her belly. By the time he finished undressing, the sight of her lying there waiting for him, her body so open and willing, had made his enormous prick come to strict attention. "Mmmmmmmm," thought Lisa as she stared at him, "what a big one. What a big, juicy, pretty one." She could hardly wait to feel him inside her, to feel that big hot cock thrusting powerfully into her body, joining her, filling her with its exciting presence. She wanted that cock more than she had ever wanted anything in her entire life, and soon, she knew, she would have It. Just a few minutes more, just a little more patience, and that golden scepter would be hers, she grinned at the thought of it. "Come over here, my beautiful man," she said (from somewhere in a lost corner of her mind came that other voice, now reduced to a tiny whisper: "what are you doing? what are you saying?"), "come over here and let me get close to you. Let me see that thing," she said, pointing at Dixon's straining prick, "Let me touch it." Dixon walked slowly over to the bed, lay down beside her. Instantly she grabbed for his cock, began stroking it with both hands, pulling it toward her body. There was no need for foreplay now--the drug and her interlude with Jay Snyder had taken care of that. Already her cunt was soaked with her own warm juices, already it was quivering In readiness for his penetration, crying out with a lusty hunger all its own, stretching itself to welcome him. Closer and closer she drew It to her, still clutching it with both hands, until the first light touch of it between her legs made her shiver with delight She rubbed the tip of it up and down along her clitoris, laughing crazily at the shocks of pleasure that filled her body. Finally she could stand it no longer: she spread her legs wide, arched her back, and crammed Dixon's rock-hard prick into her as far as it would go. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh," she groaned, as the huge piston came into her, lodging its tip hard against her cervix. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, oh, it feels so good!" "Mmmmmmmmmfffffff." said Dixon, feeling the muscles of her warm, moist cunt close around him. "Come on, now," whispered Lisa. "Come on and fuck me. Give me everything you've got! Fuck me, oh come on. Fuck me!" She began moving her hips in an undulating, circular motion, drawing Dixon's throbbing stiff prick further and further into her, feeling the searing hot flesh of it burn against the walls of her oscillating cunt. She contracted the muscles of her pussy, using all her strength to close down around the mass of throbbing bone and muscle inside her, squeezing it, trying to make it a permanent part of her. Oh, Jesus, she thought, where have I been all my life? What have I been missing? There was nothing in the world to compare with this, no experience or sensation that could measure up against this one, this wonderful raging prick inside her, pumping in and out, banging against the soft warm flesh of her cervix, exciting her beyond belief. All the familiar aspects of her world--her house, the endless tennis games and club meetings, the thousands upon thousands of breakfasts and lunches and dinners--all these had shrunk away, leaving nothing but the infuriating and heavenly stimulating of this strange man's cock, the paradise of pleasure inside her. Even her husband, to whom she had devoted all the energies of her womanhood, every thought, every care; even her husband was forgotten for these few moments, lost and drowned in the tempest of pleasure that was going on in her body, pushed out of her life by the powerful thrusting of Dixon's huge prick. They were both so lost in one another, so deeply involved in the outrageous pleasure of their fucking, that they didn't hear Snyder and Carstairs come into the room. Even the ringing of the little princess telephone on the nightstand failed to distract them--there was nothing that could stand in their way, nothing that could tear their attention from the animal-like pumping of their bodies. Snyder picked up the receiver. "Hello?" he said cautiously. Then his face broke out into a wide grin; he winked at Carstairs, pointed down at the receiver. "Why hello, lieutenant," he said. "Nice to hear from you. This is Jay Snyder speaking." "You filthy bastard," came the voice on the other end of the line, "what are you doing in my house?" "Why, lieutenant," said Snyder. "What a way to talk. Actually, we're not doing anything much. You hear that noise in the background?" He brought the receiver over toward the bed, close enough so that it could pick up the sound of Lisa's rapturous moaning, then put it back to his mouth again. "That's the sound of your beloved wife, who at the moment is being fucked silly by a friend of mine. Want to hear some more?" He brought the receiver back to the bed. Mike's face went red with fury. This was no joke, no put on--that was Lisa's voice, there was no mistaking it, although he had never heard her make sounds like that before. What were they doing to her? He had to get out of here, had to get home and help her. He slammed the receiver down, ran out the side door of the bar, flagged down a passing cab. He gave the address to the driver, sat back in his seat, fingered the cold steel of the pistol nestled in his shoulder holster. He'd show those bastards, he thought. Nobody could do this to him, to his wife--they wouldn't get away with it, not this time. Jail was too good for scum like that, no one would blame him if he killed them all. Probably he wouldn't even be brought to trial. That's what I'll do, he thought, his mind out of control with rage, I'll kill them all. It was only a few minutes' drive from the Ambassador Hotel to Mike's home in Culver City, and Mike was so enthralled with his thoughts of vengeance that he barely noticed the passing of time. It seemed only a few seconds until the cab pulled up in his driveway, right behind Snyder's black Cadillac limousine. Mike jumped out, paid the driver, and ran to the front door, all thoughts of professional caution thrown aside in the fury of his anger. He pulled the pistol from its holster, burst through the front door, and then fell to his knees as the blackjack crashed down on the back of his neck. * * * When Mike regained consciousness he found himself on the floor in his wife's bedroom, his back propped up against the wall. He had not been tied up--this surprised him--so he went immediately for his shoulder holster, only to find it empty. The back of his neck hurt like blazes, and there was an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach, but other than that he seemed to be all right. He was all right, that is, until he looked up at the bed. What he saw there give him the shock of his life: his wife, his prim little Lisa, her back arched high in the air, her hips pumping with unbelievable energy, a weird, twisted grin on her face as the strange man above her slammed his dick into her again and again and again. "Oooooooooooohhhhhh," she was screaming, "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me MORE! Don't stop, don't ever stop!" Mike could not believe what he saw, could not believe that the stream of enraptured words he was hearing were really coming from Lisa's own mouth. Feebly he tried to struggle to his feet, but sank back down again as a wave of dizziness struck him. He was helpless, he could do nothing but sit and watch, his mouth gaping open, as his wife went on fucking like a wild animal. By now her whole body was shaking crazily, her hips driving with the force of a locomotive--it was all her partner could do just to hang on. "Yaaaaaaaaaaa," she screamed finally, her body bucking and heaving, her face contorted into an unrecognizable mask of erotic pleasure, "I'm cummmmmmiiiiiinnnnnnggggg! Oh, GOD I'M CUMMMMMMIIIIIIINNNNNNG NOW!" Mike stared at her in amazement as she and her partner collapsed in a heap together, sighing and panting. Never had Lisa been like this, never! In their whole married life she had never once even approached an orgasm, never, he secretly believed, even knew she had one coming to her; yet here she was, soaked with sweat and thoroughly exhausted after the wildest climax Mike had ever seen. Despite the horror of the scene, Mike found himself becoming aroused, found his prick beginning to swell and crawl down his leg. "What do you think of that, Lieutenant?" said Snyder, grinning at him. "What do you think of your little prude now? Never thought she could throw such a mean fuck, did you? Maybe all she ever needed was a real man in bed with her, ever think of that?" Mike was so amazed that he wasn't even able to work up any anger at Snyder's words. Besides, he thought, maybe the bastard's right, maybe it's been my fault all this time, and not Lisa's, maybe if I'd treated her a little better ... But no, he could not believe that it had ever been in his power to excite Lisa so, to turn her into this full-blooded, erotic yearning woman. That was the difference, he thought: she was a woman now, and not an overprotected, naive little girl. Mike found that he wanted this woman, this new woman of his, more than he had ever wanted anyone. Not even Cindy, beautiful and exciting as she was, could compare with his wife as he saw her now. Lisa lay on the bed, felt her desire returning even though she had been so thoroughly satisfied just a moment before. She cast her eyes wildly around the room, looking for another man, another cock she could reach out to. She saw her husband sitting opposite the bed, but his presence didn't register with her; all she cared about was being fucked, being fucked again and again and again until she died of pleasure. She turned over on the bed, thrust her ass into the air, reached back and separated the cheeks with her hands, inviting anyone who pleased to come and take her. Come and get me, she seemed to say; put it anywhere you want, up my ass, in my pussy, anywhere at all, but please, please hurry. Carstairs took her up on her offer. He jumped up on the bed, began rubbing Lisa's anus with the tip of his erect prick, tickling the rubbery little doorway to her asshole. "Like that, baby?" he murmured. "Mmmmmmmmmm," said Lisa. Carstairs slapped her hard across her butt. "I asked you a question," he yelled. "Let's have an answer!" He slapped her buttocks again--the smack of it echoed through the room. "Yes," cried Lisa, "ohhh, yes, I love it. Keep doing it, please!" The stinging of his blow had merged with her already raging desire, goading it on to new heights, while the touch of his dick against her rectum was stimulating her entire body. "Keep doing it!" she yelled. "More, please more!" "That's better," said Carstairs, his voice softening. He continued to rub at her anus, lubricating it with the hot white fluids that leaked out of his enormous prick. "How about inside, baby?" he said. "How about having me inside that pretty little asshole?" "Yes," screamed Lisa, "yes! Do it to me! Do it to me in my ass!" She was long past all considerations of shame and propriety: all she could think of was the burning ache in her rectum, the storm of desire that had built up within her, the urgent longing to be penetrated, to be fucked where she had never been fucked before. Mike was dumbfounded. He could remember having once hinted to Lisa, very, very delicately, that they experiment with anal sex, but she had been so shocked that he had withdrawn the suggestion immediately. Lisa had once read a pornographic novel, so she had an idea that there were other ways to make love beside the old tried and true missionary position, but the thought of indulging herself in anything but the most proper forms of lovemaking had nearly made her vomit. Yet here she was, begging to be fucked in the ass by someone she didn't even know. It was too much, too much to understand--Mike couldn't assimilate this new Lisa. He had to admit, though, that she was turning him on, appealing to him in a way she never had before, and he found himself wishing he had the strength to get off the floor and go fuck her in the ass himself. Jay Snyder was very pleased with Lisa's performance. That cop'll never bother us again, he thought, not after he sees his wife's asshole reamed out by Carstairs' cock. Everything was going exactly according to plan, actually even better than he'd planned, thanks to the surprising willingness of this hot-blooded little lady. Ruefully he rubbed his prick, which was still stinging from the shredding it had suffered. Yes, he thought, that woman is really something. Wish I had some like her working for me. Even Cindy could learn something from this babe, he told himself. "Oh, God," Lisa was yelling, "you're torturing me. Stick it in, please, please, stick it in me!" Carstairs responded by driving his throbbing cock deep into the dark wet confines of her rectum, hearing with satisfaction as Lisa screamed in delighted agony. He could feel the damp rubbery walls of her asshole slowly pulsing against the tender throbbing skin of his prick. He was about halfway in her now, knew he had to stop for a moment or he would rip her open. He waited a few seconds, retracted his prick a few inches, then with a powerful lunge drove the quivering rod in as deeply as he could, feeling the virgin skin of her anus stretch to receive him. "Iiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeee," Lisa screamed. "Oh Jesus, what are you doing to me? Oh my god, I've never felt anything like that in my whole life! Oh, it feels so good, so very, very good!" Slowly now, very slowly Carstairs began to pump his hips, driving his dick in and out, in and out, the tight, rubbery muscles of Lisa's asshole rubbed against his swollen prick, squeezing him, crushing him, nearly driving him mad with pleasure. He held the cheeks of her ass with both hands, slapping against them with his pelvis as he thrust into her again, and yet again, using his dick like a rotary hammer. God, she was good, he thought, as the semen boiled up in his balls, begging for escape. But he wasn't ready to cum yet, no, no, not yet He contracted his sphincter muscles, closing down on the sperm-channel, holding the boiling white cum back until he was ready. He wanted to enjoy this woman for as long as he could, to spend the rest of the afternoon feeling his aching dick move back and forth inside her. He wanted her to remember this, her first ass-fucking, for the rest of her life. Mike could hardly contain his growing excitement as he watched his wife thrusting her hips up against Carstairs' pelvis. She seemed to have the strength of a buffalo--surely no mere woman could move like that, could take such brutal punishment and yet give back more than she was getting. He could see that Carstairs' face was beginning to redden from exertion, knew the gangster would not be able to hold back much longer; yet still Lisa drove at him, apparently nowhere near her own orgasm. If I only had the strength, Mike thought as he rubbed his stiffening prick, if I could just get up off this floor I'd go over there and ... Finally Mike could stand it no longer. He had to have his wife, had to get into her, had to have a role in her sexual initiation. He got slowly to his feet, fighting to hold back the dizziness, struggling to keep his balance. He had to get to that bed, he just had to ... Dixon saw Mike get to his feet, started over to intercept him. "No," said Jay Snyder. "Leave him alone. It's just the fly working on him, he won't do any harm. Shit, he deserves at least the leftovers." Dixon laughed, left Mike to make his uncertain way to the bed. "Lisa," he moaned, "it's me, Mike, I'm coming." But Lisa didn't respond--she was too busy enjoying the marvelous thrusting of Carstairs' prick into her wet, aching rectum. Mike crawled weakly up onto the bed, maneuvered himself until he was lying directly under Lisa's upraised body, feeling her long black hair dangling on his chest. The closer he got to her, the more his strength returned. Now he raised himself up on his elbows and, ignoring the fact that Carstairs was still plunging his dick into his wife's asshole, he probed at her cunt with his own dick. It took him only a few seconds to find her soft opening--she was wide and wet, dripping with readiness for him, her cunt vibrating its welcome. "Ohhhhhhhhhh," Lisa gasped as she felt the familiar sensation of Mike's prick coming into her. This was more than she could ever have hoped for, more pleasure than she had ever dreamed was possible. Now both her burning holes were filled with men's flesh, now, for the first time in her life she was truly complete. The wonderful surprise of Mike's prick immediately started the mechanism of her orgasm working--she could feel it welling up inside her, sudden and powerful-- while the driving movement of Carstairs' cock in her anus only doubled the pleasure. Never had she felt anything like this, this incredible simultaneous fucking of her pussy and her asshole--she thought she would go crazy with the lush, erotic excitement of it. Deeper and deeper plunged the two men, closer and closer came her climax; it felt as if two huge armies were attacking her from the outside, while her own army rose from inside to meet them. Deeper and deeper, stronger and stronger, closer and closer, until finally . "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH," she screamed, as the immense explosion burst within her, pulsing against every point in her body, straining to escape the confines of her skin, "OH MY SWEET JESUS, OHMYGOD I'M CUMMMMIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGG!" "AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHH," yelled Carstairs at the same moment, as his dick poured rivers of cum into Lisa's ass. "OHHHHHHHHHHHH," echoed Mike, sending his own ocean of steaming fluid rushing deep into Lisa's waiting, throbbing cunt. The three of them froze together, rigid on the bed, their faces racked and twisted with the intensity of their pleasure, like some unbelievably erotic statue shaped by a master of sex and insanity. Then, still locked together, they collapsed, forming a pile of undifferentiated flesh on the bed. Now that it was over, Lisa realized that it was her own husband who had helped give her such unbelievable pleasure. "Oh, Mike," she cried. "Oh, Mike I love you so much. Please, please, it's not like you think .. "I know, baby," he said, gently stroking her face. "I know how it happened. It's OK, please, don't cry, it's OK." He was nearly crying himself, he was so happy to see her like this, spent and exhausted from wild, untamed sex. Now she was truly his, truly his wife; now their life together would be complete. He knew that she could never return to her old prudish ways now that she had experienced the ultimate in sexual fulfillment, knew that from now on the two of them were going to be real lovers, a very passionate pair indeed. "It's OK," he kept repeating as he gathered her in his arms. "It's really OK ..." "Come on," said Snyder, motioning to his two companions, "we got what we came for. This cop won't bother us again. In fact," he added as he looked at the happy couple on the bed, "he'll probably send us Christmas cards." Chapter 10 JUDY BURTON, said the card on the hospital room door. This must be it, thought Mike, knocking softly. A girl's voice, low and cool, came from the other side of the door: "come in," it said. Mike opened the door, saw Tim Huntley sitting on a chair next to the steel bed, talking to the astoundingly pretty girl who lay there, covered in white. So that's Judy Burton, Mike said to himself. No wonder the kid had been so anxious, so eager to protect her--the girl was a knockout. What kind of hard-luck story was it, Mike wondered, that had a girl like this as the main character, and in the role of a prostitute at that? Tim got up from his seat when he saw Mike, rushed across the room to shake his hand. "Hi, Lieutenant," he said. "Glad to see you. Judy," he said, turning to the girl, "this is Lieutenant Mike Kramer, that good cop I was telling you about." "Hello, Lieutenant," said Judy. Mike nodded to her. "Well," said Tim, "any news?" "Yeah, there's news," said Mike. "Good news for me, good news for both of you, good news for the citizens of Los Angeles." "You got him," said Tim. "You got Jay Snyder." "Right now he's in county jail, awaiting trial. With your testimony, and Judy's, and mine we should be able to get him, oh, I'd say about thirty years in Folsom." "Great," said Tim. "Honey, did you hear that? We're free, they're going to lock Jay up, and we're free. We can get out of here and go see about that village in Italy." "Hallelujah," said Judy, her face breaking to a broad smile. "I never thought I'd see the day." "Me either," said Tim. "Lieutenant, I want to thank you for your help. It's the first time in my life that a cop ever did me a good turn, and it came at the best possible time." "It's OK," said Mike, smiling. "I just hope it's not the last time. Besides, you two helped me as much as I helped you. It's not hard when you have a common goal." "Right," said Tim. "Oh, say, that girl you told me about, the one who worked for Jay--what was her name?" "Cindy," said Mike. "Yeah, Cindy. What happened to her?" "She's OK," said Mike. "In fact, that's my next job ..." "I don't blame you," Tom interrupted. Mike grinned sheepishly. "No, not that kind of job," he said. "Now that I've got Jay Snyder into jail, I've got to get her brother out. It's a deal we made." "Sure," said Tim. "I gotcha." He winked at Judy. "Well," said Mike, suddenly embarrassed, "my working day Is over, so I'm going to be on my way." "OK," said Tim. "Listen, Lieutenant, thanks again for all you did for us." "Yes," said Judy. "Thanks ever so much. I don't know what we would have done without you. "Well, I don't know about that," said Mike, turning toward the door. "But I know you can do without me from here on in. Be happy, you two," he said as he opened the door. "You deserve it." * * * That's that, thought Mike as he merged his car with the traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway. Those two kids are going to do all right. He looked around, groaned as he saw a rush hour traffic jam forming in front of him. He was in a special hurry to get home that evening: Lisa was fixing his favorite meal, complete with champagne, to celebrate his promotion to Captain. The dinner didn't mean too much to him, and neither did the promotion--it was the after- dinner celebration that Mike was looking forward to so eagerly. Since that horrible day when Snyder and his men had appeared, Lisa had truly become a new woman. For the past week they had been going to bed, the same bed, at seven o'clock or even earlier; and this at Lisa's insistence, not his. Jay Snyder may well have been an evil man, a wolf at society's door, but his evil had accomplished at least one thing in Mike Kramer's personal life: it had transformed Lisa completely. Now, thanks to Snyder's brutality, she knew exactly what to do with that beautiful body of hers, and she was doing it at every opportunity, all night long and into the morning. Mike was tired as hell, but he didn't care, just so long as she kept on making love to him with such incredible vigor. Her prudishness had been just as much his fault as hers, he realized that now. If he had just talked with her, treated her as gently as she had wanted to be treated, approached her with delicacy instead of like a bull in the meadow, perhaps all these years of abstinence could have been avoided. Now that he needed to be gentle now--Mike found himself smiling as he thought of it--she was just as eager as he, maybe even more so, and now they used gentleness as an interesting side-show, an intermission between full-out bouts of plain old fucking. Maybe, though, maybe he would be gentle with her tonight ... The End

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