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More love to come - sex story


More love to come



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 had 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 TWO

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 had 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 THREE

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 Snyder 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 only 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 FOUR

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'

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It was now August and I was anticipating Halloween which would be here soon. This year I was planning to dress up as a woman again to fool some more unsuspecting men into letting me suck them off. Last year I went to a bar near my house and let guys ..continue reading

Bukkake Club part 2.

Erica's head was suddenly jerked backwards as Amira grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head up. They locked eyes through the mirror as Amira held her there, forcing her to look forward. "That's it don't tune it out, I want to watch that smug, cun ..continue reading

Cum and Go

Gareth Mearns was a twenty five year old man with a problem. It all stemmed from a girl he’d been madly in love with, a girl who, on the day he was planning to propose to her, dumped him and took off with his best friend. As a result of the humilia ..continue reading