Girl's Camp
by Gus Stevens


To the outside world, the Treacher Camp for Girls was an ideal summer 
institution, situated as it was in the pine-covered mountains sixty miles 
east of Los Angeles. Even its one notable difference from similar camps for 
daughters of the well to do-the inclusion among its girls of a few carefully 
culled "problem" teenage troublemakers-gave it added luster as serving a 
noble social purpose. 

What the outside world did not know was that the supervisor, a sleek and 
successful woman Hollywood flesh-peddler who generously donated her time and 
talents, was a dedicated sexual pervert ... or that the handsome head of the 
boys' camp nearby was a practiced seducer of teenage girls. 

It was a dynamite-laden situation that could not endure ... and the stirring 
personal dramas, hot-blooded and poignant, that lead to a cataclysmic 
explosion are the basis of the most exciting and stimulating story Mr. 
Stevens has yet written... 


CHAPTER ONE 

It was June, a time of long days and short nights, a time to shrug off the 
confining work of the long winter and spring, a time to be restless, a time 
to dream... 

Sandra's eyes stared at the Economics text, dutifully obeying their owner's 
command, but they did not see. The words unrolled facts and figures about 
the Depression of the Thirties, the effects of the Civil War on the South's 
economy, U.S. tariff laws and countless other bits of intelligence. But the 
messages were not relayed from her eyes to her brain. 

She sat lazily at the small window-desk, her elbows propping her chin. From 
time to time, she caught herself staring down at the quiet street with its 
murmur of traffic and its newly green trees and shrubs. 

Sighing, she forced her gaze back to the book, a wheat-production chart 
swimming under her eyes. Damn! she thought. Why was she caught with such a 
late final? Already the apartments were half empty, and even at that moment 
she could hear someone in the hall wrestling with boxes, moving out. 

She sighed. Two more days, and Professor For-sythe and Econ 121-B would be 
out of her mind for at least three months. In two days she would be free, 
but free to do what? 

Of course she had tried to make plans. Her parents had begged her to come 
home for the summer, her father had promised her a job in the mill. But she 
had no intention of letting them gather her back into the fold, especially 
after she had deliberately selected a university a thousand miles away. 
Sandra wanted freedom, and she was getting it. 

Then there was Bobby. If he had his way she'd spend her summer in Los 
Angeles, right in her own little apartment, either picking up a few extra 
credits at summer school or working at any dull job she might manage to find 
at this late date. The chances of obtaining work in the city were terribly 
slim, anyhow, since thousands of others had already snapped them up. 

But Bobby didn't care about that. He didn't want his girl to stray off to 
some place where their cozy relationship might be threatened. He was as 
grasping as her parents, always worried about her leaving, always wanting 
her to settle down, to be patient, not to rock the boat. 

Sandra had tried mightily to break away from the lure of her parents, from 
Bobby and from the dull routine of a tiny apartment in Westwood, just a few 
blocks from the campus. 

She had written letters all spring, offering her talent and training as a 
junior in college to national parks, private resorts, camps and lodges up 
and down the coast. All of them, it seemed, had filled their summer employee 
rosters long before Sandra decided to make herself available. 

Now, she thought, she was stuck-condemned either to Bobby or to her parents 
until September. September ... that month held no excitement, either. True, 
it would mark the beginning of her final year, but it would be a long year, 
for she was fed up with college. 

More classes, more books, more giggling girlfriends, more adolescent boys 
anxious to pet in cars, at the beach or-heaven forbid!-in her own apartment. 
Sandra had outgrown life on the campus. That was why she had hoped to get 
away to the mountains somewhere, where she could get rid of the crowd, could 
think ahead. 

Now her thoughts were on the more distant future, on life after college, on 
her career. She had to smile at the thought. Her career ... that was a joke. 
She had run against a stone wall in her efforts to get a start, to find a 
foothold in her chosen field. She had known it would be difficult, but she 
had somehow thought that, when producers and agents saw her looks and her 
talent, they would be delighted to give her a tryout. 

The most encouraging thing she had heard was, "Don't rush your career, 
sweetheart. Finish school, knock around the sticks a few years, then come 
back. Maybe, just maybe, then we'll have something for you." 

If that was the way it was going to be, she certainly wasn't going to stop 
living in the meantime. No, sir-Sandra Albright was going to have fun, 
excitement, new experiences which would enrich her natural talent ... 

She took a deep breath, glancing at her watch. Meanwhile, Sarah Bernhardt, 
you've got a date with Bobby tonight and with Professor Forsythe the day 
after tomorrow, she told herself. She snapped the book closed and shoved 
back her chair, getting up and stretching. Her date would be around in a 
half hour. It was time she did something to wake herself up. 

She opened her closet door so she could peer into the full-length mirror. A 
pretty girl looked back at her-a girl with long, dark hair, dark eyes which 
seemed to search the face of everyone they looked at, a short nose and a 
stubbornly firm chin. The mouth was turned down as a result of four hours 
with an Economics book, but it was a generous mouth with full lips which had 
a rich, natural redness. 

"You look good enough to me," she said, the loudness of her voice startling 
her after so long alone. "I don't know why the princes of stage, screen and 
television aren't pounding on your door." 

She wore stretch-pants and a bulky sweatshirt. Half turning, she examined 
the profile of her bottom, liking its proper fullness and its youthful tilt. 
She knew Bobby liked it, too. She had had to slap away his hand often 
enough. 

She pulled at her sweatshirt, stretching it over her breasts so she could 
read the UCLA letters and see the university seal. Her breasts pressed 
forward, high, full and hard, yet half-smothered under the thick folds. 

She crossed her wrists and pulled the sweatshirt over her head, sending her 
hair every which way. She smoothed it and then looked at herself again. Yes, 
that was better. Encased in only a brassiere, her breasts looked good. She 
was proud of them. In her wilder moments, Sandra often wished she could go 
about in bra and panties, confident that she looked her best when her 
natural beauty was exposed. 

Her skin was deeply tanned from long afternoons at the beach with Bobby. Her 
shoulders were soft, rounded, inviting, and her tummy was flat and smooth 
with just a whispering trail of fine, light hairs below her navel. 

She pulled at snaps and a zipper and zigzagged out of her stretch-pants, 
kicking them to the bed. She ran her hands over her slim, curving hips, 
fingering the sheerness of her panties. 

She was a tall girl. Her legs were long and straight, tanned and athletic in 
appearance. Firm, youthful, strong in the thighs, tapering to slim ankles. 

Despite her twenty-one years, despite her willowy, leggy appeal to boys from 
the time she was fifteen, despite her own warm-blooded compassion and 
passion, Sandra could still call her body her own. She had never given it to 
anyone. There had been times through the years when things had almost 
happened. 

There was the boy next door, a hot summer afternoon and the mysterious 
privacy of his garage. They had explored one another to the accompanimerit 
of giggles and Sandra had felt a new heat deep inside her adolescent body, 
but the boy had been mercifully ignorant of the procedures of love and sex. 

There had been the high-school halfback, a heavy, stocky youth, who had 
boasted of his "scores" with a dozen or more girls in their senior class. He 
might have added Sandra to his list, for her knees weakened when his hands 
touched her body. But he made the mistake of comparing her thighs with the 
thighs of several of her girl friends. She was able to close them to him in 
time. 

Then there was Bobby. He had also come close, but he was such an adolescent, 
such a fumbler! There were times when Sandra wanted to scream at him to take 
her, to stop his playing, his begging. In short, she wanted him to be a 
man-masterful, possessive, taking, not asking. 

Bobby, although he was Sandra's age, seemed years behind her in maturity. 
While she had studied worldly subjects like Philosophy, Literature, Logic 
and Drama, he had buried his nose in his Engineering texts, oblivious to the 
fast-changing world about them. He was a good person, butagain she sighed-so 
terribly dull, dull, dull. 

As dull as everything about her, she thought, glancing around the room. She 
had space for a bed, a dresser, a desk and two chairs. A door led to a tiny 
kitchen and bath. And this, she sighed, had been her life for the past three 
years. 

Dull, dull, dull ... She wanted to scream. 

The sound was familiar, and she went to the window, keeping as far back as 
possible, but peering between the curtains. It was Bobby's aging Ford 
pulling up to the curb. Then he was leaping out. Of course he didn't wear a 
necktie, only his usual sport shirt and slacks, which needed pressing. 

Sandra moved away from the window and stood waiting, wondering at the wild 
thoughts which went through her head. What madness was this, standing in the 
middle of the room, behind an unlocked door, waiting? She looked down at 
herself, clad only in panties and a brassiere-a bra which seemed to grow 
fuller and heavier with her thoughts. 

She heard him coming up the hall, his footsteps slowing and then stopping. 
Suppose, through some impulse, he simply opened the door and walked inside. 
What would she do? She smiled, sucking her lip. It would depend on what he 
did. But-her shoulders slumped-she knew he wouldn't throw open the door. Not 
Bobby. 

The knock came, and he called her name. 

Of course, she could simply call back, "Come in," and see what happened. 
Again she looked down at herself, wondering if the sight of her like this 
would ignite him into instant action. She wanted to find out. 

But she remembered who she was. She was Sandra Albright, the beautiful 
daughter of the Hector Albrights of Florence, Oregon, and she would do 
nothing to shame them. Not here. Not now. 

"Just a minute!" she called at last, going to the closet. She pulled out a 
wrapper and put it on, tying it tightly at her waist, careful to leave a 
generous expanse of skin exposed at her throat. 

She opened the door wide, standing before him, her feet bare, wondering if 
he could see through her silhouette. "Good evening, Robert," she said with 
ludicrous formality. 

He came in and turned, looking at her, and she fastened her dark, 
penetrating eyes on his. He was a freckle-faced young man with curly, blonde 
hair, only an inch taller than Sandra. "Hi," he managed to blurt, a silly 
grin on his lips. 

She closed the door, seeing a look something like alarm cross his face. Good 
heavens! The greedy ape was frightened. She knew he wanted her. He had tried 
often enough. But when the time and the place were all too obvious, he 
turned into a fleeing chicken. 

He fled now, going to her desk and sitting down. He fingered her book. "Been 
hitting it for good old 121-B?" 

She went to the bed and climbed on it, sitting at the head, her back against 
the board. She tucked her feet under her, arranging the wrapper over her 
legs. "Awful stuff," she complained. After a minute she added, "How was the 
beach?" 

"Crowded and hot. Everybody in school was there." 

She thought of the sand and the surf and her delightful bikini, and the late 
final exam angered her all over again. "When do you start work-Monday?" 

He nodded, looking over the desk, then at her. "How about you? No mail again 
today?" 

"No letter today," she sang, picking up the tune of an old song. She 
smirked. "Perhaps I'll become a streetwalker for the summer." 

"Sandy!" 

"Why not? They say it's good money. You think I'm worth a hundred dollars a 
night, Bobby?" 

"You're not very funny." He reached into his shirt pocket, taking out a pack 
of cigarettes. She watched him strike a match, light his cigarette and then 
inhale, struggling to keep from coughing. 

"Throw me the pack, huh?" 

He looked at her again and, as he did so, she moved her knee almost 
unconsciously so that the wrapper fell aside. Knee and thigh peeked out but, 
what the hell, the whole world saw a great deal more of her when she wore 
her bikini. What was so different about this? Plenty, girl, an inner voice 
told her. 

"I don't think much of your smoking," he muttered. 

She had to laugh. "You're not much good at it yourself, Humphrey Bogart." 
She scrambled from the bed, showing him the full length of her legs, and 
brought the other chair to the desk. She set it across from him and sat 
down, picking up the cigarettes. 

She placed one between her lips and leaned forward, waiting, letting her 
wrapper fall open so he could see into the top of her brassiere. He struck a 
match, and it wavered as his eyes slid down her throat into the deep, 
waiting valley. 

She got her light and blew the smoke to one side, pulling the wrapper about 
her again. "Perhaps," she said, deliberately wanting to upset him for some 
devilish reason, "I should just chuck it all and go home. At least I'd have 
free board and room." 

He shook his head. "What a drag that would be! I hear they're looking for 
some senior arts people at the library. Part-time work all the way through 
summer school." 

"Goody!" she said, her voice flat. "It has all the excitement of the life of 
a museum guard." She flicked her fingers over the back of his hand until he 
pulled it away. Then she flicked the same fingers at the throat of her 
wrapper, hearing the fabric whisper. He was watching again. "What marvelous 
excursion have you planned for tonight, Robert?" 

"Don't call me Robert!" he snapped, surprising her. "I don't like you making 
fun of me and everything I do. If I bore you too much, say the word, and 
I'll pull out. Maybe you'd like me to send over one of the other guys from 
the dorm." 

Abruptly, Sandra was contrite. He was right, of course. She was being a 
spoiled, bored, unhappy little girl, taking out her frustrations on him. She 
reached for his hand again, lifting it to her lips, kissing it. 

Now he was embarrassed. "I'm sorry as hell, Sandy, but I sure don't want to 
lose you for three months. Why don't you see them at the library? It's 
better than working in some lousy amusement park, at least." 

She smiled, turning on a real, warm smile, and she saw his resentment melt. 
"Perhaps I will. The mailman has let me down for weeks now. How I hate 
myself when I take it out on you!" She sat up, her eyes bright. "Now, what's 
on tonight's agenda?" 

As it turned out, Bobby had very little on his agenda. So they looked 
through the papers for a while and finally picked what looked like the least 
boring activity. It was nearby and inexpensive. Sandra shooed Bobby out of 
her room and shimmied into a pretty summer dress, anyway. Perhaps he would 
be the only person to see it, but she wanted to feel like a woman, not a 
tomboy. 

So now she sat, her back wedged into the corner of the front seat, her feet 
tucked under her. She watched the gigantic figure of Kirk Douglas march 
across the screen and lift Debra Paget down from a wall somewhere in Spain. 
He put his arms around her and kissed her. 

Sandra stirred, looking across at Bobby. He was slouched against the door, 
his foot up on the edge of the seat, his hand propped under his chin. His 
eyes followed the action with heavy-lidded interest. 

She slid across the seat until her shoulder touched his. He looked down at 
her, smiled, and looked back at the screen. Tracing her finger lightly over 
the back of his hand, she whispered, "I'm sorry about being so nasty at the 
apartment." 

"Forget it," he muttered. 

She took his arm and draped it around her shoulders, clutching his hand. 
"I'm so frustrated I've bitched at all my friends the past two weeks." 

He looked down at her, touching her cheek. "Don't say 'bitched.' It sounds 
lousy coming from those lips." 

She grinned and turned her face, catching his finger between her teeth. She 
bit gently and her tongue played with the tip of the finger. 

"Hey!" he whispered, straightening, putting his foot back on the floor. 
"What's going on here?" 

She pulled harder at the hand which hung over her shoulders. "What would you 
like to have going on, slugger?" 

He leaned his head down and kissed her lightly on the mouth. At the same 
time she pressed the back of his hand until it touched her breast. She felt 
him stiffen, then his fingers closed around her softness, squeezing lightly. 
She felt her own body stiffen. 

He stopped, and the hand hesitated and then removed itself from her breast. 
She opened her eyes, looking into his face, seeing his indecision, his need 
for encouragement. Poor little boy! 

Biting back a sarcastic complaint, she said instead, "Say, tiger, you come 
on strong." 

She placed her lips on the side of his neck, just under his ear, and felt a 
shudder roll through him again. His hand returned to the breast, pumping 
until she felt it swell inside her bra. She pushed lightly at the hand, 
urging it to the valley between her breasts and it fell into the deep cleft, 
wiggling softly under the tight edge of her brassiere. 

The fingers fought for room, worming deeper, and Sandra wanted to remind him 
of the buttons which paraded down her front and about the catch at the back 
of her brassiere. But he worked hard, and at last a forefinger poised and 
then dug at the tip of her breast. 

It hurt for a moment. Bobby was so clumsy! But she liked it, needed it, and 
the nipple tried to stiffen, to jerk alert, to dig right back at him... 

"Coffee, ice cream tonight, folks?" 

They jumped as though a bucket of ice-water had been thrown over them, and 
Bobby's hand shot back to his lap. 

Sandra breathed deeply and looked out at the grinning vendor who stooped, 
peering in their window. His eyes danced with mischief as though he had seen 
something. His white cap was cocked at a rakish angle. 

"What did you say?" Bobby blurted. 

"Forget him," Sandra snapped, straightening, moving her shoulders to seat 
her breasts properly once again. "Tell him we're going some place where they 
serve more than coffee and ice cream." 

Bobby looked at her, his nose wrinkled. "Huh?" 

She snuggled against him, ignoring the still staring vendor. "Come on," she 
whispered, her fingers jingling the keys in the ignition. "Let's go back to 
the apartment. Kirk and Debra can survive without 

 CHAPTER TWO 

What was she doing? Sandra asked herself this question, time and again, all 
the way back to her apartment. Was she inviting Bobby to seduce her? Of 
course she was. But why, all of a sudden? Why this rush to lose her 
virginity? 

Was it because school was almost over, and she was relaxing after months of 
frustrating challenges? Was it the warm weather? Was it because she was 
restless, anxious for change? 

Perhaps, she thought, it was merely because she had recently passed her 
twenty-first birthday. This made her an adult woman and, perhaps, it was 
only proper that an adult woman should have an adult affair. The time for 
puppy love and drive-in theater petting was over. 

Whatever the cause, Sandra's body was stirring as she unlocked her door and 
walked in ahead of Bobby. She switched on the light and pulled the drapes, 
conscious of a tiny twitching of muscle or nerve deeply inside her. When she 
walked she felt her thighs brush together lightly, and somehow this excited 
her still more. 

She turned and glanced at Bobby, who stood rooted in the center of the 
crowded room, staring at her as though she had lured him to the end of a 
one-way plank aboard a pirate ship. 

Usually at this point, the woman said something about slipping into a more 
comfortable outfit, she thought, but she had gone through that routine 
before they went out. Instead, she waved awkwardly toward the kitchen. 
"There's beer in the refrigerator." 

He left her, and she heard him open the door. There was the clatter of the 
can on the sink, and then the snap as he pulled off the tab top. He came 
back with a glass for her while he sucked the foam from the top of a can. 

Walking stiffly, he sat down at her desk and placed the can before him. He 
studied it a minute and then, without raising his eyes, muttered, "How come 
you're acting so funny tonight?" 

Although Sandra had asked herself the same question, it angered her when it 
came from him. "How in heaven's name do you expect me to act?" she snapped. 
"Like your sister?" 

"Aw, golly, Sand-" 

"And you can stop that juvenile 'aw, golly' talk this instant," she 
continued, her voice snapping at him. She folded her arms, pacing the room, 
her fingers drumming on her elbows. "You're a senior in college and still 
talking like a junior high school boy. Why don't you grow up, Bobby 
Williamson?" 

He was silent for several minutes, at first watching her pace and then 
studying his beer can again. His eyes were half closed and his mouth pulled 
down as that he looked like a sullen little boy. How, she wondered, did a 
woman explain her frustration to a man? How did she goad him into action 
without playing the role of an on-the-make tart? 

She stood behind his chair, draping her arms over his shoulders, leaning 
down to rest her chin against his hair. "I'm sorry about the tantrum, honey. 
I guess it's the heat, or worrying about my last final, or wondering about 
the summer. Whatever it is, I've no right to be so bitchy." 

He reached up and placed his hand against the side of her neck. Then she 
leaned closer, letting her breasts touch his shoulders and flatten their 
warmth against him. Seemingly without purpose, her hands twisted against his 
chest, thrusting inside his shirt and whispering against his skin. 

"Sandy," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet. 

"Yes?" She waited. 

"I ... I think it might be a good idea for me to go." He shuddered. "If I 
don't get out of here fast..." 

She stiffened and pulled away, jerking her hands free. "Perhaps that's the 
best idea you've had all night." Her voice was like shattering ice crystals. 
"Why don't you run home to mother? Then you can cry yourself to sleep in 
your own little bed." 

"Come on, Sandy," he pleaded. "You know how I feel about you. You're my 
girl!" 

"Really?" She watched him get up, her head cocked and her fists on her hips. 
"I thought I was your twin sister. You know, the kind of person you take 
fishing and hiking and to stock-car races. Real buddies, that's us!" 

She never saw his arm come up, but she heard and felt the slap. The sharp 
sting made her whole face numb for an instant, then there was only the 
tingling in her cheek. She put her hand to the spot, rubbing it lightly, her 
eyes wide, staring at him with unfamiliar awe. 

Then he was close to her, putting his arm around her shoulder, removing her 
hand so he could examine her cheek. With small, meaningless murmurs, he 
kissed the place where he'd struck her, his lips moving all around the spot 
until he discovered her lips. 

Her arms went around his neck and they clung, their lips tight and hard 
against one another, their breathing loud. She turned her face, breaking the 
kiss, but her hips were fastened against his body, jabbing at him without 
conscious instructions from her brain. 

She pulled away then and, clutching his hand, marched to the bed and sat 
down, urging him down at her side. Still holding his hand, she placed it 
between her knees, again without thinking. It was an impulse. 

His hand became alive, the fingers working, worming against her thighs. She 
breathed deeply and let herself fall back, her eyes closed, her breasts 
trembling like threatening volcanoes. 

His hand worked on and suddenly she wanted to stop it. She commanded her own 
hand to dash to the rescue, to save her thighs from being invaded further, 
to halt his steady advance toward her loins. 

She tried, but she could not. No, Sandra, she whispered urgently. It's not 
right. You mustn't. But you led him on. You begged him to do what he's 
doing. It's too late... 

His hand froze at the knocking and she sat up as though a gun had exploded 
close to her ear. They looked stupidly at one another a moment, their eyes 
shooting urgent messages. 

"What is it?" she called at last, straightening her dress while Bobby 
retreated to the desk, sitting down heavily. 

"It's me!" a girl's voice called. It was Wendy, a friend from down the hall. 
"Something came for you." 

Sandra breathed deeply and blew out her cheeks while she went to the door. 
She opened it and Wendy handed her a scrap of paper. "Western Union called 
on the hall phone while you were out. I told them I was you, so they'd leave 
the message; I hope you doh't mind. It's all there." She leaned past Sandra 
and saw Bobby, waggling her fingers. 

Bobby, who had met her several times during the year, waggled back. 

"That's fine," Sandra said, clutching the paper, her heart rising in her 
throat. "Thanks a lot." 

"Sure, sweetie," Wendy called, retreating down the hall. "And 
congratulations. It's good news at last." 

Sandra closed the door and leaned against it, half afraid to read the 
message. She gazed at Bobby, not really seeing him, yet thankful that Wendy 
had come in time. Then she unfolded the paper and read it. 

Treacher Foundation Camp for Girls has last-minute opening for counselor due 
to illness. If interested please call Los Angeles office prepared to report 
for duties at San Jacinto Mountains campsite Monday morning, June 20. 

Hester St. Claire, Supervisor 

Sandra closed her eyes for a moment, hugging the message to her breast. She 
swallowed rapidly. 

"So you got a job after all!" Bobby's voice was low, morose, defeated. She 
opened her eyes and looked at him. "Now you won't need me for the rest of 
the summer. You'll be going off some place." 

"I will be leaving town," she breathed. 

"And I'll be the forgotten man." 

"Bobby, you know that's nonsense!" But as she said the words, her eyes 
danced, and she had a hunch Bobby was right. 

* * * 

Candy Simms dragged on the cigarette, letting the smoke penetrate deeply 
into her lungs. She held it there for the better part of a minute and then 
let it trail through her nose. 

She could feel the abrupt sharpening of her senses, the strange prickling 
sensation passing across the top of her head as though she were being 
blessed with a sudden bonanza of brains and perception. 

Other senses were heightened, too. Pot, she told herself, stimulated a great 
deal more than a girl's ability to figure long division in her head. She was 
conscious of herself as a woman, conscious of her body. 

She placed the cigarette on the tin ashtray which had Sportsman's Tap Room 
printed across its bottom in stained white letters. Then she knelt beside 
her canvas cot and pulled one of the cardboard boxes from under it. She 
rummaged among the clothing and found the bathing suit. 

She took it across the tiny room to the large chipped mirror nailed to the 
wall. She stood before the glass, peering at herself through heavy printing 
which advertised a central Los Angeles brewery. 

She saw a spectacularly pretty teen-ager standing under a mass of fluffy, 
champagne blonde hair. She had a pouty face with provocative eyes and mouth 
and a figure which was the object of a great deal of attention because of 
its extravagant curves, dips and peaks. 

"Let's face it, Candy honey," she murmured, winking at her naked body. "You 
got it where it does the most good." 

She giggled, enjoying the cigarette immensely, and ran her hands the length 
of her body. Her fingers roamed over her high, pointed breasts, loving their 
responsive tingle. She could almost join her fingers around her middle, so 
tiny was her waist. She had the hips of a woman and, she boasted to the 
mirror, she knew how to use them. Her legs were the legs of an athlete, of a 
strong girl who could outrun or outfight most of the boys at high school. 

Again she snickered. It was lucky she was fast and tough. Depending on her 
mood, she had either had to outrun or outright almost every boy in her 
class. Some, of course, she did not run away from and, if she fought them, 
it was only a feeble fight designed to heighten their desire for the 
conquest. 

She dropped a piece of the tiny red bikini to the floor and shimmied into 
the bottom half, tugging it up over her thighs and settling it between her 
legs and over her saucy bottom. Then she put on the top, stretching it 
carefully over the dart-like tips of her breasts, loving the way her proud 
twins bulged above and below the thin band of cloth. 

She was inspecting herself, turning this way and that to glory in her own 
profile, when she saw the movement behind her. Immediately, she thought of 
the cigarette on the battered table and whirled. 

Her father stood in the doorway, his eyes darting from her to the cigarette. 
He wore heavy work-shoes, a greasy pair of khaki pants and a sleeveless 
undershirt with yellow stains down its front. His stomach rolled over the 
top of the trousers and his sagging belly had long since snapped off the top 
buttons. 

He held a can of beer in his hand and, as Candy watched, ready to jump like 
a cat, he belched. She could smell the yeasty belch. She could smell him. 

He moved at last and, although Candy was faster, he was closer to the table. 
His fingers closed over the cigarette an instant ahead of hers. At the same 
time, one of his shoes came down on her bare foot, and the beer can slammed 
on the table, pinning her reaching hand. 

He pressed with shoe and beer can, making her wince. He grinned so that the 
gaps from missing teeth showed in his mouth. "Hidin' the stuff from your old 
dad again, you little snot-nose!" he barked, his face close to hers, his 
weight hurting her. 

"Get your crummy hand off that cigarette," she snarled back at him. "You got 
no right at all ... " 

"Who's got no right?" He laughed and put the cigarette between his puffy 
lips. The smell of stale beer and dried perspiration was like acid fumes to 
her nose, and she made a face. "What's the matter, missy? Ain't you a family 
girl, the way your maw always wanted?" 

She watched him inhale, and the precious cigarette shrank by a quarter of an 
inch. "Gimme that!" she cried, reaching. 

He held it behind him, making her fall against him. She hated it when her 
body touched his. He put the thing back in his mouth and placed his hand on 
her breast, shoving her so that she lurched back against the table, her hand 
and foot still pinned. 

He looked down at her body, and something was kindled deep in his small 
eyes. "Why, you look like a cheap whore!" he blurted. "You goin' some place 
to sell it tonight?" 

"None of your business!" 

"I'm your father!" he shouted, his face close to hers. She could see the 
bristles on his chin, black and ugly against the pasty skin. "If your mother 
was here, she'd warm your little ass good." At that he snickered, obviously 
enjoying the pot. "But your mother ain't here, is she, Miss Boobs?" 

He reached behind her, sinking his fingers into her buttocks and pulling her 
against him. His breath rattled in his throat, and he leered. "Maybe you 
ought to give your father a sample before you put it on the market." 

"Get your slimy paws off me!" she cried, trying to twist away. 

She half-turned her body, and his arm slid up across her breasts, pulling at 
them until the bikini-bra slipped down, letting them ride high, free and 
naked to his gaze. She watched his dirty fingernails nip at the end of a 
nipple, and a shudder of revulsion went through her, stronger even than the 
pain from his foot or the beer can. 

In a lightning movement, she dipped her chin and caught one of the fingers 
between her teeth, biting hard, tasting blood immediately. 

He screamed and jerked his body away from her, freeing her hand and foot. 
But she held on, grinding to the bone, feeling the blood begin to run down 
her chin. She hoped she wouldn't be sick. 

He jerked away from the door, and the cigarette dropped to the floor and so 
she let go. He stumbled backward across the room, lurching heavily onto the 
cot, snapping its wooden legs. Everything went to the floor in a heap, and 
her things in the boxes under the cot were scattered. 

Candy stooped, snatched up the cigarette and ran, scampering through the 
kitchen and out the screen door. It didn't slam behind her until she was 
halfway down the long flight of steps to the street. At the bottom she 
stopped, placing the cigarette to her lips and drawing on it. Never had she 
needed pot so badly. 

She heard the car then, its tires squealing as it slammed around the corner. 
She remembered and, looking down at herself, she tugged the bikini up over 
her breasts, stuffing them in as best she could. She dragged again on the 
cigarette, and her fingers burned, so she dropped it into the gutter just as 
the car pulled up. 

She jerked open the rear door of the battered fifteen-year-old Chewy, and 
leaped into the back seat. As they roared away from the curb, she looked up 
the flight of stairs to the screen door. Her father's silhouette was against 
the light, his beer belly giving him the shape of an egg. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

The wood fire, trapped inside its ring of concrete, had given up the 
struggle, and its flames had faded to a mound of glowing coals which cast 
the only light on the beach. 

The faces were in shadow, mostly, with red highlights from the fire, so that 
they looked like Indians. There were eight or ten of them, three girls, the 
others boys, all from the high school. 

The year was over, another lousy term had ended. In another year, she'd be 
free, unless she quit before then. She wanted out now, but they practically 
broke down and cried at school when anybody talked about quitting. 
Dropout-that was the dirty word. They said she'd go straight to hell if she 
dropped out. Naughty, naughty... 

Candy wiggled her toes in the sand, enjoying its locked-in warmth from the 
afternoon sun. She wriggled her bottom, too, working it into the blanket. 
Her suit was drying, leaving salt on her body, making it tingle and itch in 
a way that she liked. 

She looked again at the faces in the ring. Generally they were seated boy, 
boy, girl, boy, boy, girl, so that each girl got plenty of attention all the 
way around. From time to time, one of the girls would be urged to lie back 
on the sand, and a husky, brown body would be over hers for a while in a 
tangle of arms and lips and busy hands. 

Sitting, waiting for the cigarette to make its rounds, hoping she'd get at 
least two more puffs before it died and fell from the end of its toothpick, 
Candy was sad. Perhaps the pot would help, but she doubted it. 

In her effort to escape her father and the stinking shack on the hill, she 
had been out every day and every night since the term ended. Already, it 
seemed like a long summer, and she wondered if her body could take the 
punishment until fall. She hoped so, for this life was better than life at 
home. 

Home! The word was a joke. What was home? It was nothing. It was worse than 
nothing. It was a shack at the top of a flight of stairs, clinging to the 
slope of a scrubby hill. It was a place which rattled with winter's cold and 
rain, a place which sweltered in summer. 

Worst of all, it was a place where her father prowled, waiting for her, 
pawing her, alternately using force and sickening pleas in his efforts to 
seduce her... 

"Hey, your turn!" 

She was startled by the bump on her elbow and turned to the boy, taking the 
cigarette from him. Nuts! It wouldn't last even another round. She raised it 
to her mouth and sucked, feeling its heat and strength. Holding the smoke in 
her mouth, she passed the cigarette. 

Then she swallowed, taking the fumes into her body, inviting them to fill 
her breast, her stomach, her loins with their strength. When she exhaled 
less smoke went out than came in, and she wondered where it lay inside her. 

The stuff worked, and her spirits were buoyed again, and she looked at the 
youth by her side, giggling. He giggled back, and she tried to remember his 
name. He was one of the newer ones, and the pot got to him more quickly. 

Awkwardly, he put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him, 
hearing his intake of breath. Apparently, he was surprised that she seemed 
to yield so willingly. She turned her face up to his and waited. Presently 
he kissed her on the lips, and she placed her hand flat against his chest, 
feeling his skin twitch. 

She waited again, but the arm around her did not move. The best he could 
manage was a hesitant probing with the tip of his tongue. She opened her 
mouth wide and drew him in, pulling at his tongue, trying to suck it from 
its roots. With a gasp, he pulled his head back and away. 

"Oh, for . . ! " She gnashed her teeth. "Come on, old buddy. This stuff will 
wear off before we're..." 

She felt the touch on her thigh and turned to look over her shoulder. The 
boy on her other side was leaning, his fingers pressingly insistently 
against the inside of her leg, pawing the soft, white skin. She liked the 
touch. It kindled a deep flame, almost like another puff of pot. 

She looked at his face. It was a boy they called 

Mac. He had been a regular at their parties since the day school closed. 

"Hey, bo," she whispered, turning to him, forgetting her other suitor. 

"Hey, yourself!" he muttered, moving his hand to her belly, again kneading 
the flesh. The hand drifted up to her throat and pushed. 

Candy let herself fall backward, slowly, gracefully, until her shoulders 
touched the blanket. It was warm and a bit gritty with sand, but she enjoyed 
working her spine against it. 

"Hey, what are you, a belly dancer?" He was leaning over her, his elbow 
jabbing her stomach, his face close. 

"You name it, I'll be it, Batman." She fluttered her eyes as though she were 
overwhelmed by his charms. He laughed. 

She let her head go back to the blanket and closed her eyes when he pulled 
at her bikini top, reaching under her, fumbling with the catch until he 
lifted it off. His hands were on her, one snaking along her ribs, the other 
sliding down the valley between her breasts, climbing first one peak and 
then the other to massage her nipples, making them harden and pop forward, 
eager for more. 

Candy was not a passive girl, not a girl to lie back and let her lover do 
everything. She was readily responsive, even aggressive-the take-charge 
type. Her own hands were busy, roaming across his chest, then dipping to his 
stomach, where she punched him lightly, playfully with her fists. 

His little grunts caused her pleasure, and she wondered if one of these 
school psychologists would say she was really punching her father. She 
laughed out loud. Maybe she was. Maybe, when she made love, she was doing it 
to defy him, too. Well, if she were fighting him, this was a great way to do 
the job. 

She ran her hands over the boy's hip, and he placed his fingers on her 
thighs again. Their thoughts were as one as they tugged, quietly yet 
strongly, at one another's suit. They loosened the fabric and pulled hard, 
lowering them to their knees and then off completely. 

They waited a moment, looking at each other, and Candy wondered if he were 
going to take her here. It would be wilder than anything they had done, but 
what the hell. . . 

The slap rang out like a shot, and everybody was laughing as Mac winced and 
reached back to rub his white, smarting buttocks. It caught the light so 
that all could see. 

"Come on-give us a show!" they called. 

He looked down at her again, a question in his eyes. Her answer was that she 
couldn't care less. Sure, let's do it here. I'll show those other dames what 
a woman's made for. I don't care, Mac. Give it to me right here, if you 
want. 

These things her eyes said, and he read them, but something in him might 
have been better than her, for he turned to the others, calling for them to 
mind their own business. Then he lowered his face over hers, but he did not 
kiss her. "The car?" 

She wrinkled her nose. "Hot and stuffy. Besides, there's no room, and 
Corky'll get mad if we mess up his precious upholstery." 

He nibbled his lower lip, then she lifted her head, taking his lips lightly 
between her teeth and doing the nibbling for him. Presently he said, "Come 
on!" 

He rolled from her and leaped to his feet. He reached and pulled her up with 
him, and they looked at the others. One or two faces were still turned their 
way, but the others were exploring one another's bodies, oblivious to any 
show Max and Candy might stage. 

They looked down at themselves, seeing the mounds and hollows change in the 
red glow. He touched her breast, pushing it in so the shadow would deepen. 

Then he took her hand, and they ran across the beach, down toward the water 
where the sand grew firm and then damp under their feet. They raced into the 
surf until the water surged about their ankles. Candy had thought it would 
be cold, but it wasn't much cooler than the night air. 

He stopped, taking both her hands. "All right?" 

She laughed aloud. "Let's quit with the questions, huh? Show me what you 
got." 

He laughed in turn and, gripping her waist, he led the way out to deeper 
water. T-hey laughed, happy as dolphins, and, when the water was at her 
knees, a small wave toppled her off balance. 

She fell headlong into the surf and rolled over, sitting up, wiping the 
water and streaming, champagne hair from her face. He fell at her side and 
his body touched her on the thigh. He was ready, she knew. His young body 
was hard and ready for hers. 

She lay back, keeping her head up, holding her breath when a wavelet washed 
over her chin, and he pulled himself across her, moving her to suit himself. 
She let her body open and he struck, sure and clean, like a snake. 

They were together, helped by the gentle wave action, their rhythm smooth 
and clean, young and virile. Their bodies were like slick rubber balls, firm 
and resilient at the same time, bouncing back, despite their abuse. 

It was over in a moment. "Damn you, Mac," she cried, her lips open in 
anguish. "You're always so fast!" 

She clung to him a minute longer, her hips making the water swirl in a fury 
of activity. Then she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, arching her 
back so that her head dipped into the water. 

She cried out again, but this time in pleasure, her fingers clutching his 
shoulders, her nails making red welts across his skin. The delicious 
sensation rocked through her body, and her hips moved on in slowly 
diminishing spasms of joy. 

At last she let him go and fell back full length into the water. A moment 
later she sat up, sputtering, choking, coughing, and they laughed together. 

"I forgot where we were!" she gasped while he thumped her back, making her 
cool breasts quiver' like gelatin. 

"Hey!" He said the word in a voice low, with fear, he was on his knees, no 
longer erect and lustful, his gaze toward the beach. 

She followed his look. 

The others were standing about the fire. They had been joined by four 
additional figures. The strangers were taller and heavier and they wore 
white crash helmets and khaki uniforms. 

While the newcomers arranged themselves in a loose circle about the group, 
the younger people began picking up what clothing they had, folding blankets 
and throwing sand on the fire. 

"What do you think?" Mac blurted, his hand resting on her shoulder. 

She pulled the hand and they sat down on the bottom, their eyes wide. "Keep 
still and don't move," she commanded. "This may be the luckiest little old 
piece you ever had." 

They waited, and Candy's heart pounded. She could feel it and, looking down, 
she saw her breasts moving with its rhythm. "Oh, oh!" Mac whispered. 

She looked up. One of the men was holding up garments-her bikini and Mac's 
trunks. 

Heads turned their way and, a second later, a strong light struck them full 
in the face. 

Candy looked at Mac, a wistful smile playing with her lips. "Thanks for the 
ride, pal. It'll be worth every day we spend in stir." 

* * * 

It was a large, noisy, crowded room. This surprised Candy. She had always 
thought that court was a place of quiet and dignity, like on television. 

Even the judge was unimpressive. He was a little man who sat with his chin 
propped in his hand while he toyed with a pencil. He wore no robes, and 
there was no gavel in sight. 

The voice of the court officer droned on. He was reading papers immediately 
before the bench. If the judge was listening, he gave no sign. 

Candy looked around. Several of her friends were in the room; those who had 
been picked up during the party. She saw a number of adults, their faces 
strained and white, seated with them. She had a parent in the courtroom, 
too. Her father, a dark coat thrown over his dirty undershirt, was seated in 
the opposite corner of the room. She had to smile at his bandaged finger. 

Presently the man stopped reading, and the judge nodded at the boy who stood 
by his side. "All right. I'll agree to that." 

A policeman took the boy by the arm and led him out a side door. A 
middle-aged woman-apparently the youth's mother-trotted along behind. 

"Candace Simms ... William Simms." 

Candy jumped at the sound of her name, and the matron at her side looked at 
her. She got up and walked forward, stopping before the bench. Her father 
shuffled across the room to stand on the other side of the officer. 

The man, who wore a dark suit and horn-rimmed glasses, rattled the papers 
and glanced at the judge, who nodded, looking from Candy to her father. His 
eyes flicked back to Candy, and she tried to smile, but he frowned. 

"Get on with it, Mr. Lewis." 

"Yes, your honor. William Simms had pleaded guilty to contributing to the 
delinquency of a minor and to the use of narcotics. Candace Simms, his 
daughter, was among the young people the officers found at the beach party." 

The judge nodded. "Had she been smoking marijuana like the others?" 

"Yes, sir. She was also found in the surf with one of the boys, Charles 
Maclnnes, in a state of ... well, neither wore any clothing." 

The judge seemed to sigh and he was studying his pencil again. "Very well. 
What do you suggest?" 

"This is the first time the girl has been picked up, your honor. Yet, it's 
obvious she'll only get into more trouble if she stays at home. One of our 
people checked it out, and it seems she and her father live under the worst 
conditions imaginable. There was no food in the house, but we found empty 
beer cans and whisky bottles and a number of marijuana cigarette butts." 

The judge nodded at Candy's father. "What about him?" 

"William Simms," the officer went on, reading from the papers. "Produce 
truck driver ... when he works. Presently unemployed. Married to Wilma 
Simms, mother of Candace. But the mother disappeared more than a year ago. 
Apparently, the family hasn't heard from her." 

The judge looked at Simms, his eyebrows up. "Why did she leave?" 

"She was no good, judge," Simms drawled, wiping his hand across his mouth. 
"No good at all. She took up with some lousy bartender, and we ain't never 
seen her since." 

"Your honor," the officer continued, "Candace Simms told our worker that her 
parents fought a great deal and that her father frequently beat her mother. 
She also told us that she herself has been beaten with some regularity." 

The judge dropped his pencil and straightened. "So what do we do about them? 
As you suggest, they can't live together. They'd be back before me within a 
month." 

"I agree, sir. We suggest that the father be placed on probation, ordered to 
clean up his place of residence and that he report to our department 
regularly. As for the girl, we were hoping there might be room for her on 
the welfare list at the Treacher Foundation Camp for Girls." 

The judge nodded. "That would keep her out of trouble for the summer, at 
least, and perhaps something could be worked out by fall, if necessary." He 
peered at the officer. "Is that how you see it?" 

"Yes, sir. With your permission, I'll check with the Foundation officials 
and see if they can take the girl. Their summer program starts Monday." 

The judge peered at Simms and Candy, his eyes moving back and forth. "You 
can both consider yourselves lucky. You"-he pointed at Simms "because you're 
getting a chance to stay out of jail. 

But you'd better behave and clean up your home, or I'll hear of it." 

"Yes, sir," Simms mumbled. "Thank you, your honor." 

"And you"-he pointed at Candy-"because, instead of Juvenile Hall or a county 
girls camp work unit, you're receiving an opportunity to mingle with decent 
young ladies at a decent place. You'll be in the mountains, away from the 
squalor of your section of the city. You must learn a lesson from this, 
Candace Simms. This is your first offense, and I'll not tolerate another. 
Next time, you'll get the full juvenile treatment." 

Candy's face reddened, but she said nothing. 

"You ought to get down on your knees," the judge went on, "and thank the 
probation officer here for arranging space for you at such a decent camp. 
And you should also thank the founders of the camp who set aside funds to 
help girls in your sort of difficulty." 

At last Candy nodded, realizing the judge was waiting for some sign of 
repentance. 

"Very well, that settles it." The judge looked at the clock on the rear 
wall. "It's past noon. I'll hear about the others after lunch, Mr. Lewis." 

He tapped his pencil on the desk and stood up, leaving by a side door which 
a policeman held open. 

Candy turned and met the eyes of her father. He glared at her, his fists 
clenching and opening. "You little bitch!" he hissed in a whisper. "What 
kind of crap did you tell that dame what come out to the house?" 

"Let's go." A policeman took Simms by the arm and wheeled him away without 
waiting for an answer from Candy. 

She turned and saw the matron just behind her. 

"Big deal," she said, cocking her head toward the bench. "Santa Claus came 
in June." 

The matron puffed up in disapproval. "Like the judge said, you're a lucky 
little girl." 

Candy turned up a corner of her lip. "Screw luck and screw the judge! I want 
to get out of here." 

"You'll be in Juvenile Hall until Monday morning, you little tramp!" the 
matron exclaimed. "Then we'll escort you to the bus and make certain you're 
still aboard when it arrives at the Treacher Camp." 

Candy shrugged. "Okay, warden, take me away." The matron did. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Hester sat frowning, trying to find the proper words to give the letter the 
bite she wanted. 

"The manner in which you played the role," she went on, speaking carefully 
and slowly, "did not have the originality the director demanded. Therefore, 
the agreement is terminated and I enclose your check for two hundred and 
seventy dollars. My usual ten-percent commission had been deducted from the 
total, etc., etc." 

She finished dictating with a rush and sat back watching Judy's pencil race 
across the notebook. It was but a short trip for her eyes to travel from 

Judy's book to her knees, which were delightfully in view, thanks to the 
ever-shorter skirts they were selling to the younger girls these days. 

They were nice knees, pleasantly rounded and encased in sheer nylon which 
did not go much beyond them. Hester could see the bare underside of a thigh, 
white in the shadows beneath the skirt. The thigh was... 

The pencil had stopped its scraping, and Hester looked up. Judy was staring 
at her, her eyes narrowed, her head cocked in a questioning manner. 

"Well..." Hester cleared her throat and shuffled a few papers on her desk. 
"Our Mr. Smythe won't like getting only two hundred and seventy dollars for 
his part, but perhaps he'll learn that a bit of extra effort could have kept 
him on the studio payroll longer." 

Judy said nothing, and Hester, feeling her face begin to color, rummaged in 
a drawer, finding a package of cigarettes. She held out the pack to her 
secretary, but the girl shook her head. 

"It's getting late, Mrs. St. Claire. Perhaps I'd better just type this out 
and then go home." She paused for just an instant. "That is, if you don't 
mind." 

Damned little bitch! Hester thought. A tease like you should be put over my 
knee! Instead she smiled and got up. "No that's fine. You run along when 
you're finished, and I'll lock the front door." 

Judy closed her notebook, rising and turning for the door, but Hester caught 
up and walked with her across the large, carpeted office. "Sure you wouldn't 
like something?" she heard herself saying, almost pleading. "A drink, 
perhaps?" 

Judy sighed and shook her head again. "No, really. Thanks, but I..." 

Judy put her hand on the knob, and at the same instant Hester put her hand 
on a plump cheeks of her buttocks. The girl hesitated and turned to look at 
her employer. Hester had hoped to see a look of anticipation in her eyes, 
but there was only reproach and resignation. 

Hester managed to smile in her old, confident way. "If you should finish any 
other work which needs my study or my signature, just stuff it into a 
brief-case and bring it by the house this evening." She was pleased at how 
coolly she was able to say the words. 

Judy's eyes wavered. "Your house? Tonight?" She glanced over her shoulder at 
the outer office, where a client waited to see Hester. "I presume the doctor 
will be out." 

"You presume correctly." 

"Well, I don't know." Judy shrugged, and Hester's eyes dropped to her 
breasts. "I may have some things for you to sign..." 

"Yes?" Hester blurted like a schoolgirl. 

"And then I may not." 

She closed the door in Hester's face, leaving her sucking in deep breaths 
while her hands clenched and unclenched, the fingers entwining like snakes. 

"That's what you need, you tease!" Hester mumbled aloud as she went back to 
her desk, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. Her hand shook. "A good 
old-fashioned paddling." 

She leaned back and placed her head against the thick leather rest of the 
chair. She closed her eyes, working to drive the frustration from her loins. 

After another two or three days, she wouldn't be seeing Judy so much for the 
remainder of the summer. Hester would be off to the Treacher Camp first 
thing Monday morning and then, except for an occasional drive down to the 
city to take care of business, she would be deep in the forest, cut off from 
Judy and her annoying, teasing ways. 

Hester depended on Judy a great deal, which was one reason she paid the girl 
two hundred dollars a week. Every year, Hester donated her entire summer to 
the Treacher Camp, giving freely of her valuable time. During those weeks it 
was up to Judy to keep the agency running smoothly, with Hester in regular 
contact by mail and telephone. 

Therefore, Judy was more than a mere secretary. Much more. She was Hester's 
strong right arm, capable of taking charge almost as efficiently as Hester. 
Hester smiled. But not quite as efficiently. 

Hester was the seasoned master who knew how to handle their show-business 
clients. She could make them happy on jobs that were less lucrative than 
they had expected-and what job wasn't? She had the all important connections 
with the studios and the stations, so that they came to her when they had a 
difficult part to fill. 

Still, Judy was worth her ten thousand-plus a year. On occasion, she 
performed certain overtime work for which she was paid extra. This rankled 
Hester, for when Hester had first broken Judy's resistance, the girl had 
been a willing partner with no more payment than a compliment and a promise 
of more. 

Then the bitch had gotten smart, knowing how much Hester needed her, and had 
begun to make demands-demands Hester had had to meet, or do without. 

The price had gotten so steep lately that Hester had become more annoyed 
than ever. She had hated to cheapen their experiences with money in the 
first place, and now to have to pay so much... 

She smiled. This summer she'd keep an especially close watch at the camp. 
Surely, something would turn up. A nice Los Angeles girl, so that everything 
wouldn't come to a halt when Labor Day arrived, and summer was ended. She 
needed someone to replace Judy on a year-round basis. 

She had done well the summer before. There had been a sweet sixteen-year-old 
from San Francisco, plus an eager, red-headed counselor of twenty from 
Phoenix. She reacted at mere memory of those lovely legs. Two wonderful 
girls, but both out of reach when the holiday was over. 

This year her goal was definite and sensible. A girl closer to home, a girl 
she could see all year, whenever she pleased. A girl she could cultivate, 
help develop. Perhaps, even, a girl to take Judy's place at the agency. 

Hester actually laughed out loud. Then she could kick the blonde trollop out 
on her fanny. 

Fanny! She thought of Judy and her marvelous bottom. At that moment, Judy 
was all she had, and Hester needed someone badly. She squirmed in her chair, 
feeling the itch in her loins, pressing her fingers against her stomach. 

The box on her desk buzzed and she stabbed at it, missed, and stabbed again. 
"Yes?" 

"Mrs. St. Claire, Mr. Hagen is still waiting to see you. May he come in 
soon?" 

"Yes, send him in now." She bit her lip. "And Judy...? " 

"Yes, Mrs. St. Claire?" The voice abruptly turned frosty with a professional 
chill. 

"I believe arrangements can be made to pay you twenty for your overtime 
services. I thought you'd like that." God, she hated herself for crawling! 

Judy's answer came fast. "I've so many things to do, but perhaps I could put 
them aside for fifty." 

"Fifty!" Hester closed her eyes. "Not a penny over thirty-five." 

"Fifty, Mrs. St. Claire." Judy's tone made it clear there was no room for 
bargaining. 

"Very well." Hester sighed. "Fifty. And send Mr. Hagen in, if you please." 

"Yes, Mrs. St. Claire." 

The box clicked dead, and Hester pounded the desk with her fist. Fifty 
dollars! Her most outrageous price yet. "Yes, Mrs. St. Claire ... No, Mrs. 
St. Claire," she mumbled in a mocking voice. But she could still smile. 

It may be the last fifty you'll collect, darling Judy. For by the end of 
next week I may have another, younger, brighter jewel for my harem. 

The door opened, and she tacked on her professional smile as Mr. Hagen 
walked in. 

* * * 

Hester stood before the mirror, tugging the clinging gown into place, loving 
the way it stretched across her hips and molded the gorgeous curves of her 
bosom. 

She lifted one hand high behind her back, struggling for the fastener, but 
it was useless. There was nothing left but to ask for his help. 

Sighing, she went to a door and tapped. 

"What is it?" he called. 

"My zipper." 

He opened the door, standing before her in his shorts, a towel around his 
shoulders. She turned her back to him and he tugged on the fastener, pulling 
it up to the back of her neck. 

"Fancy clothes," he muttered. "Where are you off to tonight?" 

Hester was a bit surprised, for George rarely asked her about anything she 
did any more. "I'm staying home," she snapped. "But there's no reason for me 
to look like a fishwife. After all, you know I like to dine as a civilized 
woman." 

"I know all about your civilization, my dear," he shot back. 

"What does that remark mean?" she hissed. 

"Nothing. Nothing at all." He sounded weary as he turned away, ready to 
close the door. 

She peered in at the dark suit laid out on his bed. "You're still going 
out?" 

"Of course. You know it's the Medical Society every second Friday." 

Hester turned away as he closed the door behind her. Good. George would be 
gone until after midnight, providing he drank his usual amount of whiskey 
after the dinner speeches. 

At dinner, they sat quietly, one at either end of the table. From time to 
time, the cook hurried into the room, placing meat, vegetables and, at last, 
the cheese and coffee before them. 

The cook hovered, waiting, until they looked up. "Will that be all, ma'am?" 
the heavy, middle-aged woman asked. 

"Yes, Hilda. We won't be needing you until, oh ... say tomorrow afternoon." 

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much, ma'am." 

When she was gone, George frowned. "What was that all about? She was off all 
day yesterday, and now you're giving her another twenty-four hours." 

"Not quite that long, my dear," she snapped. "Besides, she's been working 
hard this week. A bit more rest won't hurt her, I'm sure." 

George was silent a moment. Then he continued, "What are you up to?" 

"Nothing," Hester blurted, her voice rising. "Nothing which concerns you." 

"You've made certain that Hilda and I won't be around the house this 
evening." Pie picked up a piece of cheese, studying it. "Got friends 
dropping in?" 

"I refuse to be grilled like a suspect in a station house, George St. 
Claire!" Her voice trembled with anger. "Hilda needs the rest, and your 
going out is completely your own doing. If you prefer, I'll run into the 
kitchen and stop her. Is that what you'd like-a scene with the domestic?" 

George waved a hand. "No, no. Let her go, for heaven's sake!" 

When they had finished the cheese and George began gulping his coffee and 
glancing at his watch, Hester said, "You know I'll be leaving Monday 
morning." 

"Monday morning?" He frowned. "What's Monday morning?" 

"The Treacher Camp, as if you didn't know." 

He paused, setting down his cup, and a look close to despair crossed his 
face. Slowly, he reached inside his jacket and took out a silver case. He 
plucked out a cigarette and touched flame to it with a silver lighter. "So. 
Another summer in the company of a hundred-and-fifty girls." 

"A hundred-and-fifty wonderful girls, if you please," she said defensively. 
"Believe me, the foundation is delighted to have me donate my time and skill 
to those..." 

His abrupt laugh was more like an anguished cry. "I'm sure the foundation is 
delighted to have Hester St. Claire as camp supervisor for those kids. All 
kinds of kids. Rich and poor, paying and nonpaying ... they provide a mighty 
large target for you, don't they?" 

"Suppose you explain that?" she snapped. 

"You wouldn't want me to, and you know it." He dragged on the cigarette, 
flicking ashes across the cheese. "I've seen enough in my own home to be 
able to guess what goes on when you've got girls living in the woods for two 
months." 

Surprisingly, she said nothing, instead bowed her head for a moment. At 
last, she raised it and sipped at her coffee. "I don't think such ridiculous 
talk needs any answer from me," she said, her voice low. 

"Hester!" He was pleading now, but she remained silent. 

"Hester, for God's sakel You're a healthy, attractive woman of thirty-one. 
Why in heaven's name can't you behave like a normal housewife?" 

"You're calling on the almighty a great deal this evening, George," she 
snapped. "But, since you ask, how can one behave like a so-called 'normal' 
housewife when one has never lived like a housewife? You know our 
relationship hasn't been normal since that first night..." 

He slapped on the table. "Yes, that first night when you froze over like a 
Minnesota snowstorm..." 

"Yes, I admit that!" she shouted, and her eyes filled. She looked at her 
hands in her lap. "I've told you a hundred times it wasn't your fault. It 
started years before I met you." 

"In those sick girls' schools." 

"Yes." Her voice was small. 

"And you keep wanting to go back to that same life." 

"No, not really wanting to go at all." 

He wiped his face and threw down his napkin, rising. "I'm late." 

Of course, you're late, she thought sadly. You're always late just when we 
get close to discussing the very heart of my problem. The heart? My parents 
and their lack of love for one another and for me. Their insisting that I 
live away from home, that I associate with girls my own age. I wasn't ready 
to face the competition of the world. I was too young, and I'd had no early 
training, no challenges and-no love. So I took love as it came, not knowing 
it was wrong, not knowing that all girls weren't like those who took me... 

For some reason, she went with him to the door. The bell rang as he placed 
his hand on the knob. He looked at her, frowning, then opened it. 

Judy stood outside, smiling tentatively, hugging a brief-case to her breast. 
She wore a sweater, skirt and brown-and-white saddle shoes, in the manner of 
a high school coed. If there was any make-up on her face, it didn't show. 

"Hi, Dr. St. Claire," she exclaimed, her voice taking on the manner of an 
adolescent. "On your way out?" i 

He brushed past her, looking back at Hester. "Yes, conveniently for all of 
us, thank God!" 

The girl stepped inside and the door slammed hard behind her. "My!" she 
breathed, talking almost like a child. "He's in a terrible mood tonight." 

Hester looked at her with distaste, and the girl stared back, placing the 
brief case on the hall table and then preening, her hands clasped behind 
her. She pursed her lips in a self-conscious smile and lowered her eyes. 

"Judy, how old are you?" 

The girl hugged her elbows and rocked her body back and forth. "Tonight I'm 
eighteen. Just the way you like." 

"How old are you?" 

Judy took a step back, her hands coming to her mouth, her eyes wide. "Why, 
twenty-five, I guess." 

"You guess," Hester snapped. "I'd guess so, too. You'll never see your first 
quarter century again." 

"What's the matter?" Judy walked toward the living room and Hester followed. 
"Why are you being so mean?" 

"You're a bit ancient for the teen-age role, wouldn't you say?" 

The blonde stamped her foot. "That's not fairl You always say you like me 
best like this." 

Hester began to say something else nasty, but a dam of resistance gave way 
deeply inside her body and, cursing her parents, she felt her face soften. 
"You're perfectly right, darling." She smiled and extended her arms. "Can 
you forgive your best friend?" 

"Well..." Judy's toe dug at the carpet and at that moment she looked 
immensely desirable. "I suppose so ... if you have a present for me." 

"Of course. Open the brief-case when you get home and you'll find the 
envelope." 

Judy's face split in a childish giggle and she clapped her hands. "Goody, 
Hester! Gee, you're the best friend on the whole block." 

She ran across the room into the older woman's waiting arms, burying her 
face in her neck, letting her body fasten itself against Hester's. 

Hester stepped back, holding her at arm's length, and then she let her hand 
stray across the full mounds under the sweater. "Did you wear one?" 

"Goodness, no! I told you I'm a little girl tonight. Little girls don't need 
those things." 

Hester smiled sweetly, like a woman thinking gentle thoughts, then she 
grasped the sweater at Judy's waist. Lifting, she eased it up over her body, 
while Judy dutifully raised her arms. It slid over her head easily. 

The blonde's high, hard breasts jiggled before her eyes, fresh, clean and 
unencumbered by any undergarment. Hester placed her thumb on a nipple and 
Judy whispered, "Oh...!" 

"Like it?" 

"Um! Do you like me?" 

For an answer, Hester lowered her face, and her lips first kissed one of the 
pink nipples. Then they opened and took the nipple into her mouth, pulling 
at it greedily, much as an infant pulls at its bottle. 

"Oh...! " Judy moaned again, and her fingers linked themselves behind 
Hester's head, holding the lips in place as they fell back on the couch... 

Three and one-half hours later, at eleven-thirty, Judy kissed her hostess 
one last time and tiptoed from the house before George's return. She carried 
the brief-case. 

Hester had remembered to slip fifty dollars into the case while Judy was 
freshening herself in the bathroom. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

As the bus climbed through the foothills, the warm air of the Coastal Plain 
grew cooler. Sandra poked her head from the window and sniffed, already 
catching the scent of pine. 

She tingled at the sensation. It was wonderful. Ten weeks away from the 
city, away from Bobby, away from the dull life of college, away from the 
anxiety of an uncertain future on the stage. 

At last, the bus passed through the cool green of Idylwild and rolled even 
higher, into thicker forest, passing under a gate constructed of rough logs. 
A sign hung across the road read-TREACHER FOUNDATION CAMP FOR GIRLS. 

They pulled to a halt before a large log building which, Sandra was to 
learn, was the only permanent building in the camp. Its vast room provided 
space for the administrative offices, recreation hall, mess hall and 
dispensary. A dozen or so girls, all of them apparently counselors like 
Sandra, stood up and began hauling their luggage into the aisle. 

"Brace yourselves, girls," one hard-faced redhead called to no one in 
particular. "It's time to go before the wicked old witch." 

Sandra, close behind her, asked the question without being conscious of it. 
"Who?" 

"The witch. Hester St. Claire. You know." 

Sandra shook her head, pulling at her suitcases. "No, I don't know." 

"God, I forgot! You're one of the new babies." She studied Sandra a moment. 
"Just keep these things"-she stuck her finger into Sandra's breast, then her 
thigh and then her buttocks-"out of reach, and you might be safe." 

By the time Sandra stepped from the bus, the other girls, all of whom seemed 
to be about her age, were lined up across the porch. The head of the line 
was at a door marked OFFICE. Sandra looked about her. They were in the midst 
of a clearing more than a hundred yards across. Large tents with frame sides 
stood in a ring about the clearing. 

One by one, the girls disappeared through the door, to emerge a few minutes 
later, papers in their hands. The redhead came out, passing close to Sandra, 
and winked. "Remember, sport, imagine footwork may save you." 

Sandra frowned, puzzled, and then it was her turn to step inside. A thin 
teenager was behind a counter. She smiled at Sandra, pointing the way 
through an inner door. She put down her luggage and moved on. 

The woman sat behind a rustic desk of natural wood with a highly polished 
top. A wooden sign had letters burned into its face that read Mrs. St. 
Claire, Supervisor. 

She looked up, turning attractive brown eyes on Sandra, smiled as Sandra 
came to the desk. "Ah, you must be one of our new counselors." 

"Yes-Sandra Albright." 

"Of course." She stood briefly and shook hands across the desk briskly. 
"Welcome to the Treacher Camp. We hope you'll enjoy yourself while you lead 
our girls." 

Sandra broke into a smile. What was so frightening about this handsome 
woman? Goodness, she couldn't be over thirty, and she was so friendly. 
"Thank you. I think I'll love it!" she exclaimed, the enthusiasm of youthful 
sincerity gracing her words. 

"You'll learn the routine soon enough, but study this." She gave Sandra a 
large envelope. "Inside, you'll find all our regulations, our handbook for 
Treacher Girls and a schedule of events for the entire summer." She paused, 
and her eyes seemed to widen. "Of course, you'll report to me each morning 
for the day's instructions. At that time, you can tell me about problem 
girls, illnesses and so on." 

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Claire." 

The supervisor stood and came around the desk, her eyes wandering down to 
Sandra's feet and back again. For an instant, Sandra remembered the 
redhead's warning, but she quickly forgot that nonsense. 

"You're prettier than most of our girls," Mrs. St. Clair said abruptly. "I 
trust you'll be able to last the summer without any boys swinging on your 
front gate.". 

Sandra colored. "You won't need to worry. I've had my fill of boys for the 
year." 

Mrs. St. Claire smiled her warmest smile of the interview as she brushed 
past Sandra, her elbow brushing the younger girl's stomach. "Excellent!" She 
was ready to open the door, but turned. "In the privacy of my office, when 
the others aren't around, you may call me Hester, if you like." 

Sandra's color deepened for some reason, and she moved toward the door which 
swung open before her. She thought the supervisor was going to touch her 
again as she slipped past, but there was a fraction of an inch between her 
hip and the hand on the knob. 

* * * 

The buses carrying a hundred and fifty girls were to arrive at any moment, 
and Sandra paced the tent, nibbling on her thumbnail. 

Only an hour before, Mrs. St. Claire had called her staff of counselors into 
the recreation hall and told them what she knew about certain problem 
girls-the ones who were at the camp by the grace of the courts and the 
Treacher Foundation. Each summer, about a dozen of these girls were 
sprinkled among the others in hopes that the association would save them 
from further trouble with the law. 

Sandra looked again at her list of ten girls. She had one of the tough 
ones-Candace Simms. She wasn't told the nature of the girl's troubles, only 
that she came from the shabbiest part of Los Angeles and that her home life 
had been a struggle for day-to-day survival. She was to be treated with 
sympathy, understanding and firm guidance. 

Firm guidance. She wondered what that meant. 

From the sound of the girl's background, it seemed she'd need to be taken in 
hand, one way or another. Sandra didn't know if she had the patience or, 
indeed, the courage to wrestle with another girl's emotional problems... 

The roar of motors came from the direction of the gate, and Sandra looked 
down at herself before going to the door. She wore the white shorts and 
T-shirt which was the standard uniform of the camp. The counselor had black 
piping at the necks of their T-shirts and down the outer seams of their 
shorts. Otherwise, everyone's uniform looked alike, the crest of the 
Treacher Foundation Camp for Girls emblazoned between their breasts. 

She hoped her shorts were not cut too high and that her T-shirt was not 
overly tight. She shrugged, smiling to herself. It didn't make much 
difference. Except for the old watchman Mrs. St. Claire had introduced and 
an occasional passing ranger, there wasn't a man within half a mile of the 
camp. 

She stepped outside into the bright, late-morning sun, shielding her eyes 
and reaching into her back pocket for her billed cap. She perched it 
carefully on her shining dark hair and moved toward the three large buses. 

Already girls were boiling from the vehicles, lugging their suitcases and 
boxes down steps into the sun and skipping about in the dust. Mrs. St. 
Claire and several counselors were racing about, trying to coax the girls 
into line, doing their best to hold down the confusion. 

Presently a hundred-and-fifty girls, all between sixteen and eighteen, were 
lined up in four rows, facing the supervisor and the twelve counselors, 
reminding Sandra of a large army facing a woefully outnumbered foe. 

Mrs. St. Claire, barking her welcome with amazing speed and clarity, 
presently instructed the counselors to begin calling the names on their 
rosters. Fifteen minutes later, Sandra was surrounded by ten giggling, 
shouting, fidgeting girls. 

She led them to their tent, hearing the commotion behind her as they went, 
feeling terribly self-conscious. She wondered if they were laughing at her, 
at the way she spoke or the way she looked or the way her shorts clung to 
her bottom. 

Inside, she posted each girl to her bunk. There were five doubles, upper and 
lower, and Sandra had a single bunk just inside the door. She felt vaguely 
like a jail matron as she stood by her bed, watching the girls unpack their 
things, folding them into lockers which stood between each set of bunks. 

She glanced at her list, looking up to associate each face with a name, 
standing by as they pulled off their city clothes and stepped into their 
snowy white camp uniforms. 

One girl was hardly more than a child, her pretty body still budding, her 
hips still slim, her breasts still small with a promise of future beauty and 
fullness. Sandra checked the girl's name-Nola Franchetti, San Diego, just 
sixteen. 

Another girl was a full-blown woman under her bundle of champagne blonde 
hair. As Sandra watched, she slipped off a plain cotton dress and tossed it 
on the floor. She stood in brassiere and panties, her breasts straining, her 
hips flaring as though she were a woman of twenty-one. 

The girl picked up the white clothing from her bed and regarded it with 
disdain, watching the others shimmy into their new clothing. With a short 
laugh, she threw it on the floor. 

Sandra frowned and checked her list. Of course, it was Candace Simms, the 
Los Angeles pepper pot. She approached the girl. 

"What's wrong, Candace?" she said, keeping her voice level, yet not harsh. 
"Doesn't your uniform fit?" 

The blonde whirled about, fastening her eyes on Sandra with a look of fear 
which abruptly changed to mockery. "Who knows? Who cares?" she snapped. "I'm 
not getting into the monkey suit." 

Sandra smiled. "I'm afraid you must. We all must." 

"Must we all?" Candace chirped, mocking Sandra's sweet tone. Several of the 
girls heard and laughed, stopping to watch the drama. 

Sandra swallowed and became angry with herself when color crept up from her 
throat. She knew the other girl noticed, for her mocking grin spread. 

"Pick up your clothing!" Sandra snapped. "All of it. Put on your uniform and 
hang your dress in the locker, as the others are doing." 

"Make me," Candace said, her voice quiet, yet filled with a power born of a 
desperate way of survival. 

"If necessary, we'll put you into a tent for bad girls," Sandra warned, 
knowing there was no such tent in the camp. 

"Fine. Lead the way." The blonde stood there, her feet planted, her hands on 
her hips, her chin high. She still wore only panties and bra and, as Sandra 
stared, she wiggled her shoulders and hips. Again Sandra flushed, and again 
the other girls sniggered. 

"Perhaps you'd care to go without eating until you learn to behave," Sandra 
continued, wondering of such punishment was ever meted out. 

"Okay with me, sweetie," Candace laughed. She looked down at herself, 
patting her tummy. "I want to lose a bit of flab anyhow." 

Sandra breathed deeply, feeling all eyes on her, knowing if she didn't win 
this test she'd be in trouble for the rest of the summer. Something occurred 
to her, and she bit her lip, knowing she'd be playing unfairly, but she was 
desperate. 

"You realize, Candace, that we can arrange to have you removed from the camp 
... sent back to Los Angeles." She cocked her head, watching the blonde's 
eyes narrow. "What would happen then?" 

Sandra did not go on. None of the others knew that Candy would go back 
before a court and probably be sentenced to Juvenile Hall. Sandra didn't 
know how she had misbehaved, but under no circumstances were the other girls 
to learn that Candy wasn't a paying camp member, just like they. 

Candace said nothing for a full minute, her eyes locked with Sandra's, her 
breasts heaving. At last, she knelt and picked up the clothing, clutching it 
as though it were something foul. 

"That's better," Sandra said, her voice soft again, her nervousness fading 
for the moment. 

"It's not over, miss high and mighty!" Candy hissed, her eyes hard. "I hate 
you for what you just did, and you better keep your eyes on me from now on. 
Don't dare forget you got a wildcat on your hands." 

Sandra retreated to the door and addressed the others. "It's almost time for 
lunch, girls. Please go outside and line up at the mess hall in fifteen 
minutes. Move along now." 

They skipped out, some of them looking from her to Candace and then 
whispering, their eyes bright, dancing with malice. Sandra wished she had 
never left Los Angeles. At that moment, she could have been in her apartment 
or working at the university library. And she could have been dating Bobby 
that night. 

Instead, she was approaching the self-styled wildcat again, watching her 
pull on the T-shirt, stretching it over her healthy breasts and then shimmy 
into the shorts, which clung to her body even more tightly than did 
Sandra's. 

"Candace," she said. "Tell me, do they call you Candy?" 

The girl turned sullen eyes on her. "My friends do." 

Sandra sighed. "I'd so hoped we could be friends. I don't know what happened 
to make everything so ugly." 

"You're ugly!" Candy blurted. "That's a chicken trick, keeping me in line 
with that garbage about a one-way trip back to L.A." 

"I'm sorry." Sandra decided to be frank. "I couldn't let you have the last 
word in front of the others. I'm your superior, whether you like it or not." 
She nodded toward the door. "Their parents pay so their girls will have 
guidance during the summer. You're here as a guest of the Treacher 
Foundation and you don't appreciate it one bit. You're actually a very lucky 
girl." 

Candy snorted, going to her locker and throwing her dress inside. She 
slammed the metal door with a clatter, glaring back at Sandra. She began to 
march out, still watching Sandra with a look of hatred. 

"If spending the summer in this dump is good luck, square lady, I sure as 
hell don't need any bad luck." 

Sandra, her shoulders slumping, watched Candy march from the tent, her fully 
packed behind snapping back and forth angrily inside the shorts. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

She sat on her bunk, wondering why it had happened to her. Where did she go 
wrong? Where was she weak? Why had Candy Simms taken such a violent dislike 
to her? 

With a sigh, she rose. It was almost time for lunch. Perhaps, just perhaps, 
Candy would be in a better mood when she had her belly full of the Treacher 
Camp food. All the counselors had told Sandra that the place was famous for 
its excellent table. 

She took a step toward the door and halted. Someone was opening the screen, 
coming inside. It was Hester St. Claire, dressed in her T-shirt and shorts, 
and Sandra had to admit that she looked as young as a girl herself. 

"There you are," Mrs. St. Claire said, the trace of a smile on her lips. 
"Your girls are milling about outside the dining hall, and you're in here. 
That's not following the rules, Sandra." 

Sandra nodded. "I know. I ... Well, I wanted to talk privately with one of 
the girls." 

"Trouble already?" 

Sandra hated to complain, but there was no way out. "A little. Nothing 
serious." 

"With whom." 

"Well ... Candace Simms." 

"I imagined as much." Mrs. St. Claire sat down on Sandra's bunk, crossing 
her legs. Her figure was full and young and Sandra was surprised at the 
almost latent strength which rippled across her shoulders. "They warned us 
she could be a bitch to handle. Well, that's no real problem. We'll just 
call the garage and send her..." 

"No!" Sandra blurted, dropping to the cot by Mrs. St. Claire's side. "No, 
I'll work something out. We must give her another chance." 

The woman looked at Sandra, her mouth strangely pursed. "Why must we?" 

"The Foundation is willing to take a risk to save her. It seems we should 
give her a reasonable time to behave." Sandra looked into the supervisor's 
eyes. "I'm quite willing to bend over backward, Mrs. St. Claire. Please!" 

The woman smiled, her eyes glittering with a different light. "Are you 
really?" 

"I don't understand." 

"Are you really willing to bend over backward?" She said the words as though 
the thought conjured up some secret joke. 

"Oh, yes. Won't you say it's all right?" 

She placed her hand lightly on Sandra's knee, and the redhead's warning 
flashed through her head. It was something Sandra had not yet figured out. 
"Well, perhaps, on one condition." 

"Yes, Mrs. St. Claire?" 

"That you accept the invitation I gave you in my office-the invitation to 
call me Hester when we're alone." Her fingers squeezed just above Sandra's 
knee. 

"I'd be flattered to..." 

The screen opened again and the young girl from San Diego, Nola, bounced in, 
her cap clutched in her hand. She stopped before them, her small breasts 
rising and falling from her speedy run from the dining hall. "Oh." She 
looked into each woman's eyes. "I thought you'd be alone, Miss Alt bright." 

"That's all right," Sandra answered. "What is it?" 

"I've been saving you a place next to me at lunch and, when you didn't come, 
I got kind of worried." She lowered her eyes. "Maybe you don't want to eat 
with me." 

Sandra's heart softened, and she reached for the girl's hand. "Of course I 
do. You just keep saving that seat, and I'll be along in one minute." 

Nola turned to leave, but Hester then caught her hand. "My, but you're a 
sweet, lovable little thing," she exclaimed, drawing Nola close and hugging 
her. "Tell me your name." 

"Nola Franchetti," the dark little girl murmured, her eyes lowered with 
embarrassment. 

"A pretty name for a pretty girl," Hester continued, squeezing her harder. 
Sandra saw the fingers pressing into the girl's spine and shoulders with an 
almost frightening intensity. "How I love pretty little girls!" 

Perhaps Nola sensed something, too, for she squirmed a moment and then broke 
away, backing toward the door. Again she gazed at Sandra, her eyes 
imploring. "You promise you'll come real soon?" 

Sandra nodded and crossed her heart on her T-shirt. The girl skipped 
outside, letting the door slam. 

Sandra sat motionless by Hester's side, her discomfort increasing. Something 
was terribly wrong. Exactly what that something was remained a mystery, but 
she sensed undercurrents of strong emotion-and they seemed to swirl about 
whenever Hester was close. 

"What a darling child!" the supervisor said at last, turning back to Sandra. 
Her lips smiled with sweetness, but her eyes remained hard. "Don't you 
agree, Sandra?" 

"Yes, she seems very nice." She put her hands at her sides, ready to push 
herself up. "I suppose I'd better run along. She'll be waiting..." 

"One moment," Hester said, grasping Sandra's wrist until she sat back again. 
"You do like little girls?" 

Sandra shrugged and Hester's eyes dropped to the bobbing mounds under the 
T-shirt. "Of course." 

"And big girls." 

"I'm afraid I don't understand." 

Hester seemed to reach some private decision, for she smiled more broadly 
and touched Sandra's knee once more. "That's all right. I was just trying to 
know you better." Her fingers traced a square on Sandra's knee and the 
nerves underneath the skin sent out tiny tingles. "Your card says you're a 
Dramatic Arts major at UCLA." 

Sandra nodded, wishing the hand would go away. "Yes. I'm in my last year." 

The fingers switched to the other knee, idly, not wanting to go anywhere, 
merely hopping about as though by chance. "Do you hope for a show business 
career?" 

She laughed unnaturally high. "Of course. Doesn't every girl who comes to 
California?" 

Hester smiled as though she knew all about it. "What do you do?" 

"A bit of classical dancing and some writing." She looked into the older 
woman's face, seeing tiny beads of perspiration on her upper lip. "I had the 
lead in the Junior Revue last spring, and the Drama Club did a one-act 
mystery which I wrote." 

"Wonderful!" The fingers squeezed tighter. "I didn't realize we had a 
celebrity at the Treacher Camp." 

Sandra pulled away. "I really must be going, Mrs. St. Claire..." 

"Please-Hester." 

" ... Hester. The girls will be finishing and getting into mischief." She 
began to stand, but Hester pulled her down again. 

"You'll want to hear this." She cleared her throat. "I presume you're not 
acquainted with my professional work." 

Sandra frowned. "Why, no." 

"I own and operate the St. Claire Agency. Perhaps you've..." 

"You mean the agent?" Sandra's mouth opened, and her lips made an O. "You 
represent Vinnie Daniels and Maria Lucca and those other people in the 
movies and TV and at Vegas? You're that St. Claire?" 

Hester bowed her head. "At your service." 

"Why...! I never imagined." Sandra's hands fluttered at her throat, but 
Hester's hand continued its journey from knee to knee. "Why, you're famous 
in Hollywood!" 

The supervisor laughed deeply in her throat. "So I've been told, but not 
always in the manner I would wish." She cleared her throat. "The studios are 
always on the lookout for new, fresh talent. Have you been to see them?" 

Sandra made a face. "Until I thought my legs would fall off at the hip." 

"Oh, not those pretty legs!" Hester exclaimed, sliding her hand up and down 
a thigh. The tiny nerves jumped again, their messages of alarm growing 
stronger. "Perhaps ... just perhaps ... I could help you once you've 
finished school." 

Sandra didn't dare breathe for a moment. She pressed her hands tightly to 
her lips, her eyes wide. At last she blurted, "I never dreamed I'd have such 
luck, Hester. Oh, I'd give anything for a chance!" 

Hester leaned forward and brushed her lips across Sandra's cheek, her eyes 
closed. "I'll want to learn just how talented you are and exactly in what 
direction your taste lies. Perhaps you could drop by my cabin some evening 
soon, and we could discuss it privately?" 

Sandra's cheek twitched where the older woman had touched her, and she 
rubbed the spot. Ambitious as she was for a stage career, the prospect of a 
nocturnal visit to Hester did not appeal to her. There was something... 

The hand moved, sliding up her leg to grip the firm white flesh high on the 
inside of Sandra's thigh. The fingers squeezed, and Sandra leaped, , shoving 
herself away a few inches. She looked down at the hand. "Please!" 

Hester shook her head. "You mustn't fret. 

Everything's going to be all right, Sandra darling. It's going to be just 
fine, all summer." 

She stood, looming over Sandra, her face turned down. Abruptly she grasped 
the younger girl's chin in both her hands and she leaned over, kissing her 
hard on the mouth, her lips sliding back until their teeth scraped. 

Sandra was at last able to twist her face away. She rubbed her hands across 
her mouth ... hard! Hester went to the door and looked back, still smiling 
like the indulgent, overprotective supervisor. 

"Don't forget," she said with a light laugh. "We have a date." 

When she was gone, Sandra poured water from a canteen into a basin, taking a 
towel, dampening it and wiping her lips desperately. She wondered if she 
could stand the sight of lunch without being sick. 

At any rate, she vowed, she'd be careful of Hester St. Claire for the rest 
of the summer. And she'd keep a close watch over Nola Francetti, as well. 

The young girl would be an easy target. . . 

* * * 

Candy opened her eyes, keeping her body perfectly still. Then she rolled her 
eyes as much as she could, finally moving her head from one side to the 
other. The only noise was the heavy breathing of the girls. 

She slid the sheet from her body and eased her feet to the floor, sitting 
up, waiting another full minute before she moved again. She reached under 
her pillow and unfolded her T-shirt and shorts, slipping the garments over 
her naked body. Barefoot, she stood, patting the package in her pocket. 

She took a step ... a second, and a board creaked with an astoundingly loud 
racket, the noise filling the room. She froze for another full minute, 
hearing one or two girls roll restlessly, and then everything was quiet 
again. 

She crept on, as slowly as before, until she reached Sandra's bed. She stood 
over the dark-haired counselor, looking down, hating her. How she would love 
to run a dinner knife into that white throat! 

Instead she leaned down, close to Sandra's wrist, until she could read the 
luminous dial on her watch. One-thirty. Good! Even the old man who 
masqueraded as a night watchman would be snoring in his shed out by the 
gate. 

At the door, she slid the locking lug and turned the handle. The screen, its 
tension eased, sprang open a few inches with a thwang. Candy's heart stopped 
for a moment, but no one stirred. 

Outside, the moon was bright, and she looked down at herself. These damned 
white clothes! she thought furiously. She felt like a child ghost. Even her 
feet, still bare, seemed dead white against the pine needles. 

She turned her back on the clearing and, passing cautiously through the 
double ring of tents, slipped into the denser trees and shrubbery, leaving 
the snores, sighs and occasional whistles of dozens of sleeping figures 
behind. 

Ahead, through the streaming moonlight, she saw a large tree. Excellent! She 
could go to its far side and sit down, protected from view. What the hell, 
they wouldn't even be able to see a match. 

She began to move around the tree, taking a final look over her shoulder as 
she did so. 

"Evening, chum." 

Candy froze, her heart pumping like a mad thing, her breath rattling. 

"Well, are you going to stop wheezing and sit down?" the voice asked. "I 
hope you brought your own cigarettes. Mine may not last the summer." 

Candy looked down, seeing a girl dressed exactly like herself. She was 
seated with her back against the tree. At that moment a tiny glow lighted 
her face, and she blew smoke into the night air. 

Candy sat by her side, careful to stay out of sight of the camp. "You need a 
smoke that bad, too?" she whispered. 

"You don't need to whisper," the girl, who had long dark hair and a pinched 
face, remarked. "They couldn't hear a bomb from this side of the tree. You 
bet I need my weeds! My counselor's that redhead, Hofstedder. She can smell 
cigarette smoke halfway to L.A." 

Candy laughed, deep in her throat. Thank God, they weren't all forest fairy 
squares up here! "I know what you mean. Albright would have her monthly a 
week early if she took a bed-check about now." 

She reached into her shorts and took out the package. It looked like a 
regular pack of a popular brand of cigarettes but the one Candy shook out 
was thin and seemed homemade. She placed the cigarette between her lips and 
tucked the pack back in her pocket. 

"No use taking chances," the brunette muttered, holding the lighted end of 
her cigarette close to Candy. Candy touched the tip to the glowing end and 
sucked, feeling the heat immediately as it caught. 

She pulled the smoke into her lungs and let it ride there for a few minutes, 
her eyes closed, a look of absolute peace on her face. 

"Boy, you needed that drag like I need my boy friend," the other girl 
observed. "Amen!" 

"How did you get roped into a cornball setup like this? You have parents who 
ship you away so they can swap partners around the neighborhood all summer?" 

"Nope." Candy let her eyes roll up. The pot was heaven, and her imagination 
soared. "I have an apartment of my own in San Francisco, but it's a bore in 
the off-season. I thought a whiff of forest air might break the monotony." 

"He-ha!" The laugh was measured. 

"You don't believe me." 

"Hell, no." The girl took a final drag on the cigarette and ground the butt 
into the forest floor. "There, now Smokey the Bear won't come around shaking 
his finger at me." She chuckled. "Come to think of it, I could use a 
man-sized bear about now." 

Candy took another drag and offered her cigarette. "Here. Try something 
good." 

"What is it?" 

"What's wrong? You afraid?" 

"In a pig's eye'. " She puffed while Candy watched. "Hey!" She held the 
cigarette away from her mouth, studying it. "This isn't my brand." 

"You won't find it in the corner drug store vending machine." 

"Agreed, chum. Agreed. Great stuff!" 

Candy, loving the effects of the cigarette, feeling the itch in her loins, 
wiggled her toes in the pine needles. "You said something about being hot 
for a boy or a bear or something on two legs." 

The brunette puffed on the cigarette until she dropped it, shaking her 
finger and then sucking its burned tip. "You have good ears, chum." 

"What do you do about it?" 

"Here?" 

"Here!" 

"Not a thing." The girl looked at Candy, and the moon threw sharp shadows 
across her face. Her skin was milky white. "I'm on probation. If my folks 
find out I'm horsing around once more, they'll ship me to a girls' school in 
Siberia." Her eyes glittered. "As it is, I've got a good thing going with a 
teacher at my school in Pennsylvania, and I wouldn't want any off-season 
play to mess things up. You understand?" 

Candy was staggered by the girl's story. How rich her parents must be! They 
send her to school all year, and she seems to commute across the country 
between seasons. The thousands of dollars the arrangement would have to cost 
was almost beyond Candy's comprehension. 

At last, she said, "I still got a hunch a dame like you knows the angles. 
Where did you go for it around here before you chickened out?" 

The eyes blazed. "Who chickened out?" 

"Stop yelling!" Candy whispered. "Cut the drama and tell me what a girl does 
here. And forget the old bastard who guards the gate." 

The other girl gave a nasty little chuckle. "Last year, I got my kicks, all 
right, until they caught me." She frowned at Candy. "It's pretty damned 
dangerous, you know." 

Candy was soaring with the pot. "To hell with danger. Just lay it on the 
line." 

The brunette got to her hands and knees and peered dramatically around the 
tree trunk, back toward the camp. Then she sat back, her eyes wide. "The 
Archer Camp." 

"What's that?" Candy leaned forward, he? hands clenched. 

"Oh, a place." 

"Come on, spill it." 

The girl's face was even more pinched. "What's it worth to you?" 

Candy smothered a harsh laugh. "What a joke! You're so loaded you got flat 
feet, and then you wonder what I can hand across." 

"Got any more of those cigarettes?" 

Candy tensed, putting her hand over her pocket. "They're private stock, 
strictly." 

The girl dug in her shorts and produced a rumpled bill. "I'll tell you about 
the camp and throw in ten dollars. What do you say?" 

Candy didn't need time to weigh the deal. She paid a dollar apiece for her 
cigarettes-when she didn't get them free from grateful boy friends. She 
stuck out her hand. "I say okay." 

The money and a cigarette changed hands. 

"It's a half mile along the road," the girl said, talking swiftly. "You can 
get by the gate by cutting through the woods, naturally. Then turn right and 
go the half mile. You'll see the sign:-'Archer Camp for Boys.' " 

"Are they a bunch of snot-noses?" Candy asked. 

"Heck, no. I think they go up through nineteen." The brunette made a kissing 
sound. "Then there's some pretty peachy counselors, too." 

Candy got up, brushing the pine needles from her shorts. "I'm cutting out, 
old pal, but if I ever hear any chatter about this around camp, it'll be 
your fanny." 

The other girl also got up, tucking the cigarette into the neck of her 
T-shirt. "You think I'm crazy? I wouldn't want to cut off my supply of 
weeds." 

"It's already cut off, cookie. That's your first and last one poking down 
there between your boobs." Candy laughed as she turned away. "Take my advice 
and smoke it half at a time, or you'll be climbing all over the girl in the 
next bunk." 

Then she crept off into the deeper woods, careful to cut around the camp 
gate in a wide arc. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Candy spent almost a half hour creeping past the watchman's gate station, 
working her way down the deserted road to the Archer gate and then into the 
wood once more. 

At last she halted behind a large tree, gazing into a clearing much like the 
one at the Treacher Camp. There were a large frame building and several 
groups of tents, each throwing a sharp shadow in the moonlight. 

She wondered... 

"Who is it? Who's out there?" 

The voice, high-pitched and perhaps frightened, came from one side and she 
looked into a group of trees where the shadows blended into a solid mass. 
She might have seen something move, but she couldn't be certain. She thought 
fast. 

"It's just me," she replied softly, keeping her voice light and innocent. 

"A girl?" 

"I'm lost. Won't you give me some help?" 

A figure detached itself from the gloom and stepped into the moonlight. He 
was a year or two younger than Candy, with straight, wheat-colored hair that 
flung itself across his forehead. His chest and shoulders had the thinness 
of an immature boy-but he was big enough for what Candy wanted. 

She breathed through her nose, still detecting the faint smell of her 
cigarette, and her senses raced as she, too, stepped into the moonlight. 

"I'll be darned," he exclaimed, coming close and peering down into her face. 
He was kind of cute. "What's a girl doing in the woods at three in the 
morning?" 

Candy stifled an impulse to hand back a double meaning reply. "I'm in a 
terrible mess. I've been lost since nine o'clock, and if they find out 
they'll positively kill me." She hoped she was talking with the affected 
English of a Treacher girl. "What about you?" 

"Guard duty," he replied, a ring of pride in his voice. "All the bigger guys 
pull four hours of night duty once a week. You know, to keep watch over the 
place and make sure no tramps wander in to steal things. Only us bigger 
fellows are able to qualify." 

"Oh, I can see that," she replied, her voice an awed whisper. "But what can 
I do? I've been wandering around the woods for hours and if I don't get 
back..." 

"What's your camp?" 

"Treacher. Have you heard of it?" 

"Sure. Just a little way up the road." He snickered like an adolescent. 
"They usually rope us guys into a dance there every August." 

Candy wrung her hands. "I've simply got to get back, but I don't know the 
way." 

"You just go out to the road..." 

"No!" She shook her head. "I've been scared to death all night and I'm not 
going to take another step alone." 

The boy looked over his shoulder at the tents. "I could wake Mr. Gibbs..." 

"No! I told you, they'd kill me. I got lost during a night nature hike and 
my counselor will think I skipped out." She sighed. "If that happened, I'd 
probably be dismissed." 

She could almost hear the wheels turning inside his head. At last he said, 
"I suppose I could show you the way..." 

"If someone found us, you wouldn't be in any trouble." She stepped closer 
and placed her hand on his chest, gazing up into his face, smiling her most 
sincere smile. "I'd tell the truth for you ... What's your name?" 

"Ralph." He gulped. 

"I'd make sure you didn't get into any trouble." She shrugged, throwing her 
shoulders back so he could see her figure more clearly. "If no one saw us, 
well, it wouldn't make any difference." 

He shook his head. "I really better not. If I left my post Mr. Gibbs would 
raise cain..." 

Once they were on the road, he grew more cocky. As they stepped along he 
stuck out his chest and assumed a protective attitude and, at the same time, 
he flirted with her in his way. 

"Candy-do they call you that because you're sweet?" 

"Could be," she said, knowing they didn't have much time. They were already 
more than halfway back to the Treacher Camp. 

When they came to a place where large trees threw shade over the shoulder of 
the road she stumbled, falling to her knees. He was at her side immediately, 
tucking his hands under her shoulders, pulling her up. 

"Hey, are you hurt?" He studied her, frightened again. 

She shook her head, leaning against him, clutching his arm and letting her 
breasts dig into his chest. For an instant, he pulled away. Then he changed 
his mind. 

"I need a minute to rest," she sighed, leading the way into the grass. She 
sat down heavily and pulled the package from her shorts. 

She shook one out. "Smoke?" 

He stared at the pack a moment and swallowed. Then he tried to match her 
casual mood. "Why not?" 

"That's the ticket, sonny," she snapped, abruptly abandoning her Treacher 
accent. Candy knew she had him the instant she touched a match to his 
cigarette. No more need for drawing-room affectation. 

They sat with their backs against a tree, puffing slowly but deeply, and 
from time to time she glanced sideways at him. He said nothing about the 
peculiar taste of the cigarette and, judging from the way he held the thing, 
it might have been the first he had ever smoked. 

"Where you from, bo?" she asked. 

He was trying to inhale and his breathing had changed. It was faster. 
"Bakersfield." 

"Hot town." 

"You bet! My family heads for Laguna every summer, and they ship me off by 
myself." 

Another one of the rich brats. Just think! Enough money to spend the whole 
summer on the coast or in the mountains. "Your daddy print money in the 
basement?" 

He laughed in a high titter and she knew the smoke had taken over. "Heck, 
no. He's got a big Cadillac agency. All those oil wells earn money for 
expensive cars." 

She sniffed, wishing she were back on the beach at a pot party with a 
swinging crowd. "Dad wants to give me a Cad," she said inanely, "but I'm 
holding out for a Continental." 

He didn't seem startled. "I'll have to admit,' that's a good car, too." 

They were silent until their cigarettes were gone and then he looked at her. 
It was darker now; the moon was lower in the sky and in a couple of hours 
the sun would trade places with it. The pupils of his eyes were extremely 
black and the whites very white, giving him a trace-like stare. For no 
reason he looked at her legs and laughed. 

"Feeling chipper, jocko?" 

"I feel something, that's for sure." He sucked air in through his nose, 
puffing up his chest. He pounded on it with both fists, making a thumping 
noise. "Man, I feel as strong as a bull!" 

"According to plan," she said in a dry tone. "Let me know when you're strong 
enough to work off a little of the excess." 

"Huh?" He promptly forgot his question. "Boy, I never knew a cigarette could 
make everything so tingly. No wonder my folks each go through two packs a 
day. They must be riding high all the time." 

At last she sat up, turning toward him and drawing her feet under her so 
that her knees jutted. "Bakersfield, your daddy and mama and Cadillacs are 
peachy, chum, but what about us? You know, like here and now?" 

He giggled again and she hoped he wasn't putting all his energy into 
laughing. "I feel like I want to do something, all right." He looked down at 
his hands and then at her knees, just inches away. "I don't know what. It 
isn't like wanting to run or swim or wrestle with the guys. It's different." 

She lifted her hand and crooked her ringer. "Come on over. I'll tell you 
what it is, stud." 

He leaned forward, his head turned to one side so she could whisper into his 
ear. She put her hand on his head and her lips to his ear. Then her tongue 
darted out, jabbing harshly into the ear while she held on, keeping him 
close. 

His body jerked as though his nervous system had gone wild, and he pulled 
away, rubbing his ear. "Hey, that's crazy!" But he was grinning foolishly 
and didn't move far off. 

She turned her head again, cupping his chin and pulling at him. She kissed 
him on the mouth, and her tongue thrust against his teeth until his jaws 
opened. In she darted, pushing everywhere, exploring deeply. His breath 
rattled through his nose. 

She released him and sat back, her hands resting on her thighs. "Well?" 

"Boy!" He rubbed his mouth. "That was something!" 

She ground her teeth, biting back a remark that might have spoiled it all. 
Instead, she smiled and let her fingers touch the side of his face. She put 
them over his mouth, and he kissed her palm. 

In an abrupt movement, she pulled her T-shirt over her head, taking a moment 
to pat her champagne hair back into place. While he stared, she looked down. 
Although the night had darkened, she could still see the high whiteness of 
her breasts and the darker color at their tips. 

"What do you think of them?" she demanded. The cigarette had taken a tight 
hold on her senses, and she was growing tired of her timorous playmate. It 
was time for action. 

"Beautiful!" he said with awe. "My mom has pretty good ones, but not 
like..." 

"Screw your moral" she hissed, clasping her hands around his neck and 
pulling his head down on her. 

His face struck between her breasts, buried itself in the deep, soft valley 
of cool flesh, and she could feel the whisper of his eyelashes against her. 
She tingled everywhere, her body fully ready, knowing that something would 
have to happen very soon. 

His face turned to one side and, wiggling her shoulders expertly, she popped 
a nipple between his lips. Instinctively, he took it, opening his mouth over 
as much of her as he could manage. The pull of him was wonderful, and she 
felt her breast swell with ecstasy as the nipple stiffened, its very tip 
popping forward to a point. 

He moved to the other breast, again taking as much as he could, and again 
she felt the delicious swelling, the final preparation of her body for the 
thing she wanted most. He removed her face and, unexpectedly, pulled out a 
handkerchief and wiped the dampness from her nipples. The touch of him was 
driving her ever closer to the brink. 

"Come on, come onl" she growled, deeply in her throat. "Move into high gear, 
mister Cadillac." 

His hands moved over her breasts and shoulders, patting her lightly, 
traveling in aimless circles. "I ... I ... guess I don't know..." 

"I guess you don't," she cried, slapping his hands away. 

She tugged at her hip, parting her shorts and kicking them off. She saw his 
shock at the sight of her lovely body, but at the same time he licked his 
lips and his fists opened and closed. 

"Come on!" she cried again. 

He put his hands on her, and she closed her eyes, letting her head roll 
back. Fingers explored her middle, worming into her navel, around her hips 
and then across her thighs. Her body stiffened like a hundred and 
twenty-five pounds of spring steel, and she realized she'd waited almost too 
long. 

With a small cry, she lunged, hitting him on the chest, rolling him back on 
the pine needles. Instantly, she was digging at his clothes, opening things, 
releasing him, reaching for him. 

He gasped, his knees working, his back on the ground. He was ready, she 
knew. Thanks to tender, virile years and the cigarette, the Mister America 
of Bakersfield needed almost no preparation. He still didn't know what to 
do. 

She threw herself over him, letting herself down with the accuracy of 
imaginative experience, finding him, and pushing down harder. She felt him 
and, for a youngster, he was highly satisfactory. 

Her talented hips took charge, and he began to catch her rhythm, struggling 
to match her speed and power. He did so at last, just long enough for them 
both to reach a bursting climax. 

Their bodies stiffened and they hung onto one another for a second, then let 
everything go in a swirling geyser of sex. She let her face fall down on 
his, and her teeth found his lower lip. She bit spasmodically for a minute, 
and then it was all over. 

Her body was drenched in perspiration, and moisture dripped from the tip of 
her nose to his face. Their bodies had lost their strength and relaxed 
together so that she was sprawled prone the length of him. 

"Hey!" he said at last, his breath rattling in his throat. 

"Hey, yourself, tiger." 

"That was something!" 

"Good enough for an encore?" 

He blinked. "Tomorrow night?" 

Candy hadn't planned to put it off so long. She had been toying with the 
idea of resuming relations in something like fifteen minutes. But she 
nodded. "Same time. Same place." 

He closed his eyes when she lowered her lips to his. Then he said, "We'd 
better get moving. It'll be dawn soon, and they'll..." 

She heard a footstep a split second before the voice crashed down on them. 
"So, here you are!" Then a brief pause and the realization. "Good God in 
heaven!" 

The boy whimpered like a puppy. "Cripes! That's Mr. Gibbs!" 

Instantly she put her lips down to his ear. "Okay, so we're caught. It's 
bad, but it'll be worse if they find out we were smoking. Remember, not a 
word about the cigarettes. Not one word!" 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

She was sitting between Bobby Williamson and Hester St. Claire, and the car 
was traveling at great speed. 

Somehow, neither was driving. The car guided itself around curves and 
through busy intersections, maneuvering among pedestrians, and Sandra knew 
they would hit nothing. She also knew that they couldn't be stopped. 

As they rounded a curve, Sandra was thrown against Hester and the woman 
clutched at her body, her fingers raking. At the next curve she was thrown 
against Bobby, and his hands also reached, wanting but not hurting her. 

Presently, they came to a rough road and the car lurched horribly, bumping 
them up and down, and Sandra found herself drifting over into Hester's j&p. 
There was no way she could stop herself. Hester reached for her and held on, 
her strong fingers shaking. 

She shook and shook... 

"Sandra ... Sandra ... Wake up!" The voice was at her ear, low, intense, 
urgent. 

"What is it?" She was terrified. It had only been a dream, of course, but 
the villain was here, kneeling by her side, the same hands on her body. 

"Get up and put your clothes on. I'll be waiting outside with the car." 

She was gone, and Sandra held her watch up to her face. Four o'clock. What 
in the world...? Perhaps someone was sick. Or there was news from home. Mom 
and dad ... Something had happened! 

She slipped into the Treacher Camp cool-weather outfit skirt and sweatshirt, 
complete with Treacher crest. 

Outside, she saw a car parked by the administration building, its motor 
running quietly, its lights off. She ran across the clearing and got in. 
Hester drove to the gate and stopped as the watchman popped out of his 
shack. 

She leaned out, peering up into his face. "Remember, Oscar, not one word 
about this to anyone. If I hear anything came from you, there'll be 
trouble." 

"Don't worry, Mrs. St. Claire," he said, his voice subdued. "I'll keep mom." 

They moved out onto the road, and she switched on the lights, accelerating 
the car. "Stupid man!" she muttered, half to herself. "If he had eyes and 
ears, this never would have happened." 

"What wouldn't have happened?" Sandra asked, her hands clinging in her lap. 

Hester glanced quickly at her and then returned her glowering gaze to the 
line on the pavement. "Didn't you count your girls before you left?" 

"Just now?" 

"Yes, just now!" she blurted. "If you had, you'd find the Simms girl is 
missing." 

Sandra's hands shot to her mouth. "Candy-missing?" 

"She was found under a tree with a boy from the next camp." She sighed. 
"Isn't the Treacher Foundation going to enjoy that cozy story if it ever 
leaks out." 

They said nothing more for the next few minutes. Sandra huddled in the 
corner, almost in shock, while Hester glared at the road, her foot heavy on 
the accelerator. Then they were turning at a gate and Sandra saw the sign, 
ARCHER CAMP FOR BOYS. A man waved them through, and a moment later they were 
walking into an office building where the only light in the entire camp 
burned. 

Inside a man was sitting on the corner of a desk, one leg off the floor. 
Facing him, seated side by side, were a young boy and girl. 

Candy looked up as they came in. Her eyes were dark and sullen, her face was 
flushed. Her hair was rumpled, and her T-shirt was hanging outside her 
shorts. Her Treacher uniform was a mess. 

The boy's face was also flushed, and his eyes had a wild, glassy look. He 
glanced at them a moment and then looked down to his lap. 

The man at the desk rose. He was a tall, athletic type with straight dark 
hair, and he clenched a pipe in his teeth. It seemed to go with the tanned, 
even features of his face. He wore khaki pants, tennis shoes and an old 
corduroy jacket. 

"Good evening, Mr. Gibbs," Hester said, her voice chilly and formal. 

He nodded at her, taking the pipe from his mouth. He had worn an expression 
of concern as they came in, but now Sandra saw it was replaced by a look of 
distaste when he saw Hester. 

"Mrs. St. Claire," he said, his voice even and deep. He looked beyond her to 
Sandra and again his face changed. Despite their surroundings, a tiny 
vertical line appeared between his eyes and he stared a moment, his gaze 
intense. He was like a man suddenly viewing a minor miracle. 

Sandra, even as she saw these things, felt her own expression change from 
one of consternation and shame for Candy to frank curiosity. Here was a man! 
A man of size, a man who moved like a track-and-field athlete, a man who 
obviously was in charge of the situation. Yet that sensitive face! 

"Miss Albright, this is Mr. Gibbs, the director of Archer Camp. Miss 
Albright is one of my counselors." She glanced sideways at Sandra, her gaze 
withering. "One of my inexperienced counselors, I might add." 

He went back to his flat, distasteful look, nodding at her, glancing again 
at Hester, then toward the two young people. "These are the culprits," he 
said, and again Sandra loved the sound of his voice, even as her concern for 
Candy deepened. 

"What happened, Mr. Gibbs?" she blurted. "Hester said tbat they were..." 

"Yes, they were," he cut in. "Neither has the power of speech now, 
apparently, but it's not needed. I stumbled on them myself." 

"But how...? " 

"My trusted lieutenant here"-he nodded at the boy, who flushed a deeper 
red-"was seen creeping through the brush with your piece of property." He 
nodded at Candy. "Fortunately, not all of our night sentries are so easily 
lured from their duty." 

Hester walked closer to Candy and the boy, leaning down, peering into their 
faces. She ran her eyes over Candy, from head to toe, at last straightening. 
"What did you do out there?" she snapped. 

"He was showing me the North star," Candy retorted, her lip curling in a 
snarl. Sandra sensed she was as frightened as she was defiant. 

"While you were on your back?" Hester said. 

"Naturally. It's the best way to look up." 

She straightened and went back to the director. "You say you saw them?" 

Mr. Gibbs nodded. 

Hester looked from Sandra to Candy, her face working. "I want to make 
certain." She nodded toward a door. "May I take her in there?" 

"Certainly," the director said, going to the door and opening it. 

Hester prodded Candy to her feet, and they marched from the room. Throughout 
the drama, Candy never once met Sandra's eyes. 

When the door closed behind them, Sandra hurried to the director. They were 
far enough away so that the boy could not hear. 

She felt her face beginning to crumple, but she was able to ask her 
question. "You mean my Candy and this boy were ... together?" 

"In every sense of the word," he said, gazing at her, his voice low. He 
seemed torn between disgust and interest in Sandra. "Your girl friend is in 
there to see for herself." He snorted. "She fancies herself an expert in 
such matters." 

"Doesn't Mrs. St. Claire believe you?" 

He looked beyond her to the boy. "Of course she does, but her so-called 
clinical examination will prevent the evening from being a complete waste. 
She'll be able to paw the sexy blonde, and it will be quite legitimate." 

Sandra felt her face warm. "I think I know what you mean." 

He snorted again at her embarrassment. "I imagined you would." 

She frowned, looking up into his face. Even in her discomfiture, there was 
something about him which drew her. "And just what do you mean by that?" she 
snapped. 

He barked a short laugh. "Hester St. Claire doesn't hire counselors because 
they're antisocial-especially where she's concerned. I'm wondering if you're 
this summer's headliner or just one of the girls in the chorus." 

Sandra took a deep breath, and he glanced down at the movement of her 
sweatshirt. "I'm not certain what you're getting at, Mr. Gibbs, but I get 
the idea that you should have your face slapped." 

The door opened and Hester peered quickly at them before shoving Candy out 
ahead of her. She moved toward the door and Sandra followed, suddenly 
feeling dirty and ashamed. So even a man in the next camp knew about Hester. 
That, in addition to Candy's mess, made everything a shambles. 

At the door, Hester turned. "Thank you for calling so promptly, Mr. Gibbs. 
If we meet again this summer, let us hope circumstances will be more 
pleasant." 

"Indeed," he said, taking the pipe from his mouth. He glanced toward Sandra 
witb a half bow. "Good night, Miss Albright. I hope you find your summer 
stimulating." 

As they went out to the car, Sandra wanted to run back and claw his eyes 
out. At the same time, she wanted to throw herself on him for another 
reason. 

During the ride back, it was as though there were a tiny worm wriggling 
impatiently between her thighs. 

* * * 

She stood at the window, watching the sun rise above the final row of trees. 
In half an hour, it would be hitting the clearing full force, and the 
temperature would climb into the nineties once again. 

From the woods, she could hear occasional shouts and laughter. A 
hundred-and-forty-nine girls were among the trees on their daily nature 
hikes, or learning to put up tents, or trying to cook bacon and eggs with 
only two matches to light the fire. 

She turned back into the room. Already it was growing hot under the canvas, 
but the blonde girl sat on the edge of her bunk, apparently relaxed. Only 
her protruding lower lip revealed her inner tension. 

At last Sandra said, "Can't you say why you dislike me so completely?" 

Candy tossed her head, hurling a champagne lock back into place. "Sure I 
can, lady. It's because you're like them." She pointed toward the door. 
"Them out there. They're all little miss rich-bitches, and they know enough 
about where I come from to lord it over me. You're another. As soon as you 
knew I was on the dole, you turned into a damned missionary." 

Sandra shook her head. "We're not patronizing you. We honestly want to help. 
They're good girls. They mean well." 

"What's patronizing mean?" 

"Well ... false kindness because they feel superior to you ... that they 
have more than you." 

"You said the magic word, sister." 

Sandra fought to keep from crying. Folding her arms, she paced the floor. At 
last, she went to her locker and took out a package of cigarettes. She went 
to Candy and offered her one. 

"Help yourself, and I'm not patronizing you. I realize now that you're an 
adult in a girl's body, and from now on that's how you'll be treated." 

Candy took one, and so did Sandra, lighting them both. They smoked quietly 
until Sandra went on. "I imagine you've seen much more of life than any 
other girl in this camp-including me." 

"You bet your sweet one I have." She inhaled expertly, speaking as the smoke 
trailed through her nose. "It's a jungle on the street where I live. It's a 
jungle in a house with a lunatic father and a jungle outside with pat ... 
patronizing teachers, grabby boys who think they can help themselves 
whenever they want, tough cops and lots of other stinking people. When I get 
out of school, there won't be no jobs around, either." 

"You know Mrs. St. Claire plans to send you back." 

Candy looked away. "Who gives a damn?" 

"I think I know what that means. You were in trouble with the law, weren't 
you? Now you're on probation. If you don't work out here you'll be sent to 
reform school." 

Candy glared at her. "The headshrinkers and legal Fancy Dans call them 
schools for girls now. Didn't you hear?" She looked around the tent. "I knew 
I never had a chance. They just sent me here to show each other how damned 
big they are about dames like me. Now that I goofed off, they can put me 
away and still be able to sleep at night." 

"That's not true!" Sandra cried. "The Foundation is the loser if you fail, 
not the law. The Foundation is paying the bills. They're the ones working to 
save you." 

Candy snorted, but a spark of interest glowed in her eyes. "How can they 
'save' me?" 

"By teaching you about life away from your father and pawing boys and what 
you call tough cops. Perhaps, if you had lasted, by fall you'd have wanted 
something better. That's essential-wanting." Sandra sat beside the girl. She 
wanted to shake her to make her understand. "Then, when you went back to 
school, you would have worked hard to go on saving yourself. With good 
grades, you could get still more education, and then, someday, that job 
would be waiting." 

Candy said nothing for several minutes. She finished the cigarette, started 
to drop it on the floor, but instead she got up and brought back the 
wastebasket. Together they split open the remnants of the cigarettes, 
sprinkling the tobacco into the basket and shredding the paper. 

At last, she looked Sandra in the eye for the first time. "You make life on 
the other side sound pretty good, but it's too late. I'm finished anyhow." 

"I could talk to Mrs. St. Claire." 

Candy shook her head. "That dyke wouldn't go for it. Last night I knead her 
in the gut when she tried to play around." 

Sandra gasped. "You mean at the Archer Camp?" 

"Sure. In the back room." 

So Mr. Gibbs had been right. Yet it meant there was a chance for Candy after 
all. Perhaps Hester's weakness could be used to change her mind. 

She turned to Candy. "If I fix it so you can stay, do I have your word that 
you'll behave?" 

Candy stared. Then, slowly she nodded. 

"I can't promise anything, except that if Mrs. St. Claire agrees, I'll be 
responsible for you. If you misbehave again, we'll both have to leave. Do 
you understand that?" 

The blonde girl swallowed. "You'd go out on a limb for me?" 

"Yes, God help me! I think you're worth the try, Candy. It you're not, I 
want to know it firsthand." 

Sandra saw naked respect light Candy's face. It was beautiful once the 
cynicism was washed away. "It's a deal, Miss Albright. You stick up for me, 
and I won't let you down. Guaranteed." 

Sandra held out her hand, and the girl hesitated then took it. "It's Sandra 
to you." 

"Sandra." 

She didn't relish the next battle in her campaign to rescue Candy Simms from 
the filthy front lines of life. Now she had to face Hester. 

* * * 

She went through the whole thing. She told her that Candy's attitude was 
changing. She told her that Candy trusted her. She told her that she would 
be responsible if Candy got into trouble again. She would take full 
responsibility and resign her counselor's job in the bargain. 

Hester listened for fifteen minutes, her face unreadable as she sat behind 
her desk. At last she said, "I don't like it one bit. That she-wolf won't be 
able to last the summer without her sex-life. She's too hard a nut to 
crack." 

"Don't you understand?" Sandra pleaded, leaning over the desk, her face 
close to Hester's. "She has cracked. She's given her word. For a girl like 
her, that's a bond stronger than steel. At any rate..." She sighed. "There 
would be no ringer pointed at you, whatever happened. It's my head in the 
noose." 

The head shook. "I just don't think..." 

"You said you hoped we'd all have a pleasant summer here," Sandra blurted, 
firing the last of her ammunition, gambling that it would explode without 
killing her, too. "I thought you liked me and respected my judgment, Hester. 
You seemed so friendly at the beginning." 

"Well..." The older woman seemed flustered, but also flattered. "Well, I do 
like you, dear. I didn't realize what I said meant so much..." 

She began to rise, her lips smiling at Sandra like the muzzle of a friendly 
gun-possibly harmless,' possibly deadly. "Very well. I'll let the child stay 
on the conditions you've laid down." 

"Thank you, Hester," Sandra's hands clapped once. "You won't regret it." 

Hester walked with her to the door, her arm around Sandra's shoulders. She 
squeezed her and let her hip sink into the softness of Sandra's buttocks. "I 
don't intend to regret it, darling. We'll be seeing more of one another." 

Sandra's knees went so weak that she almost fell as she raced across the 
clearing toward her tent. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Never had Sandra seen the recreation hall so beautiful. Chairs lined the 
walls, and at one end was a bandstand. Bunting hung from the walls and 
ceiling. In the center of the roof was a large ball with dozens of tiny 
mirror faces coating it. Later, in the semidarkness, spotlights would catch 
the revolving mirror and throw a hundred bits of light about the hall. 

Above the ball was a large net containing exactly one hundred and fifty 
balloons, one for each couple. The huge ribbon holding the net had orange 
letters sewn along its length: HARVEST MOON BALL. 

All the girls had caught the excitement. After six weeks of rigid communal 
living, they were ready for a bit of real socializing. For days, they had 
worked on the hall and on themselves, sprucing up their party dresses or 
making themselves new ones in the homemaking shop. 

Sandra was pleased that even Candy had caught the spirit. In fact, she had 
behaved quite well since that terrible night nearly a month before. A clever 
girl, she had fashioned herself a slinky evening gown, but when Hester 
caught sight of the plunging neckline, she made her go back to work-on a 
little jacket to cover more of Candy's sex appeal. 

Now it was growing dark, and soon a hundred-and-fifty pairs of feet would 
come marching down the road and turn into the Treacher Camp gate. The feet 
would belong to the boys from the Archer Camp, and at the head of the 
procession would be Anthony Gibbs. 

Although she hadn't seen him since that disastrous night, Sandra hadn't been 
able to get him out of her head. Through a bit of calculated questioning 
among the other counselors, she had learned that his name was Tony and that 
he was an assistant professor at Santa Barbara when he wasn't running the 
Archer Camp. 

She told herself that she was foolish to keep him in her thoughts. He was 
older, perhaps thirty, and chances were he had forgotten her by now. As it 
was, he had been suspicious of her, she remembered, thinking perhaps she was 
Hester's playmate for the summer. 

Thoughts of Hester reminded Sandra of her responsibilities for that night. 
She would need to keep a close watch on Candy to prevent another orgy from 
taking place somewhere beyond the reach of the lights. 

In addition, she would have to keep watch on all her girls. Hester had been 
attracted to the young and appealing Nola Franchetti from the first day of 
camp. Until now Sandra had been able to look out for her charges. 

As for herself, she, too, had been the object of the supervisor's advances. 
From time to time, Hester would get her in a corner and remind her of their 
friendship, of their unspoken pact regarding Candy, of Sandra's promised 
"cooperation." Sandra hadn't been able to avoid a few friendly pats here and 
there, but she had somehow managed to keep her clothing intact. 

Hester's urgency had increased as the weeks rolled by, and Sandra could 
understand how girls might let their guards down when they were cut off from 
boys for too long. There had been rumors about several of the girls in the 
camp, and two had been sent home after being caught in a single bunk 
together. Two other girls had arrived from Los Angeles the following day to 
take their places. 

Sandra found herself more restless. More and more the thought of an evening 
with Bobby Williamson seemed appealing. Although she had every second Sunday 
free to leave the camp, she hadn't returned to the city. She knew her 
yearning for Bobby wasn't real. And she knew she did not want to become 
involved with him all over again. 

When there were men in Sandra's thoughts, Tony Gibbs occupied the dominant 
position. Again, she had to smile at herself. He didn't even know her, and 
that showed how wild her flights of imagine had become. 

Under such a strain, she could understand how a girl would let herself get 
too close to another girl. If she herself had been a weaker person, she 
might well have succumbed to Hester's advances. After all, Hester was a 
handsome woman, and she had a great deal to offer-camp privileges, more days 
off and, most important, a valuable show-business connection. 

She was shocked at her thoughts. At the same time, she was a bit concerned 
at her confidence. The summer wasn't over yet, and the final month probably 
would be the loneliest of all. She'd have to be extra careful. 

"How do I look, Sandra?" ' 

The voice was at her elbow and, even among the furor of last-minute 
preparations in the recreation hall, Sandra was startled. 

She turned to see Candy beside her, posing in her new gown, properly 
jacketed. She looked like a girl Sandra's age, instead of just eighteen. 

"You look so fabulous I'm frightened all over again," Sandra replied. 
"Remember, I have your word about tonight." 

"Yes, damn it!" 

"You promised to stop using that language, too." She looked around and went 
on, her voice low. "I presume your boy friend of that night under the stars 
will be here. You're not to leave the building with him." 

Candy wrinkled her nose. "With that jerk? Listen, Miss Counselor, that twerp 
was the lousiest hunk of man I ever had the bad luck to sack in with." 

"Candy!" she said. "For God's sake, cool it! 

The sound of voices came to them then. At that moment, as though by magic, a 
half dozen musicians appeared on the bandstand, tuning their instruments. At 
the same time, the front doors burst open, and scores of young faces-some 
obviously expectant, others a study in calculated boredom appeared in the 
recreation hall. Each face belonged to an Archer boy. 

The lights blinked once and then came on again, but less intense. The 
orchestra began to play Harvest Moon, and the party was under way. 

Sandra saw him a number of times during the evening, usually from across the 
floor, but not once did she see him looking in her direction. Not once did 
Tony Gibbs even speak to her, much less ask her to dance. 

It was true, she told herself in a silent but firm voice. He doesn't 
remember. You're a nobody and he's a college professor and the head of an 
important boys' camp. Sandra Albright, please forget you ever met Tony 
Gibbs. 

It was after ten o'clock. The party had less than two hours to go. As a 
special favor to both boys and girls, the directors had given permission for 
the festivities to go on until midnight. At that hour, the Prince Charmings 
would take their leave, and the Sleeping Beauties would go back to dreamland 
for another twelve months. 

Sandra finished a dance with a pimply faced youth, stifled a yawn and made 
her way toward the door and a few breaths of fresh air. Tony Gibbs was at 
the other end of the hall, gallantly working his way through the ranks of 
the Treacher Camp counselors, making certain he danced with every one. Well, 
she wasn't going to hover about like a wall flower, waiting for him to make 
her evening blossom with excitement. 

To hell with Tony Gibbs! Sandra marched outside. 

She walked slowly in the darkness. Every few feet, light from the windows 
illuminated the ground before her and, here and there, couples lounged in 
the shadows, startled by her approach and then going back to what they were 
doing. It was perfectly all right, Hester had ruled, for the Treacher young 
ladies to let themselves be escorted out into the clearing. But the 
bordering rows of tents and the woods were strictly out of bounds. 

Oscar was spending the evening hiking around the perimeter. The night 
watchman was under orders to prevent any couples from breaking through his 
picket line. 

On she walked, around to the rear of the building, on the side away from the 
dance. She paused outside Hester's office, surprised to see the light 
burning. She climbed the steps to the porch, walking with extra softness for 
some reason, and went to the window. 

She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the brightness. Then she could 
see movement. Hester, dressed in a strangely masculine outfit, was perched 
on the corner of her desk, leaning forward, talking to someone seated before 
her. 

Sandra gasped. That someone was Nola Franchetti. Hester's hands cupped the 
pretty girl's face, and Nola's eyes were wide with fright. The hands strayed 
to her neck, and Sandra could see Hester's smile widen. Her lips were moving 
as though she were seeking to cast an evil spell over the clean young girl. 

Sandra hurried to the door, throwing it open and rushing inside. Hester 
looked up with surprise and then annoyance, and Nola squirmed until she 
escaped from the chair. She stumbled across the office to Sandra. 

"Yes, what is it?" Hester snapped. Her breathing seemed faster than usual 
and her hands worked, gripping the sides of the desk until her knuckles 
whitened. 

Sandra put her arm around the girl's thin shoulders. They were trembling and 
she choked back a sob. She studied the girl for a moment. "Are you all 
right?" 

"Yes, I ... I guess so." 

"Go on back to the dance," Sandra told her. "When someone else from our tent 
goes to bed, you go along, too. That way, you won't be alone." 

"Yes, Miss Albright." Nola went out. 

The two women looked at each other, their eyes wary. The spark of 
frustration and annoyance still glowed in Hester's glance. Sandra was filled 
with mingled relief and apprehension-relief that Nola was out of it and 
apprehension toward what might happen next. 

"Well?" Hester took a few steps toward Sandra. "I asked you what you 
wanted?" 

Sandra lifted her chin. "I wanted Nola. She was missed at the dance. I was 
afraid for her." 

"You were afraid." The older woman said the words as a flat statement of 
fact, her words even, their meaning enigmatic. "Are you still afraid?" 

"Of course not." She looked down at her twisting hands, almost surprised to 
see she wasn't wearing the eternal white of the Treacher Camp. For the 
dance, she had put on a baby blue party dress. It fitted her snuggly, and 
its low, square neckline was held in place by thin spaghetti straps. 

Hester went to the door. She peered outside a moment and then pulled the 
blind. She did the same at the window. She came back to Sandra. "You must 
have something to say." 

"Yes. I'd rather you stayed away from the girls in my tent. If you want to 
talk to them for any reason, please see me first." 

Hester's eyebrows lifted and her mouth pursed. "Why you spoiled little 
snot!" she spat. "Do you realize you're addressing the camp supervisor? I 
can talk to any girl I wish and, if I choose, dismiss anyone from the camp. 
You hear me? Anyone?" 

"I don't want you to put your hands on her again," Sandra said, her voice 
quaking. Perhaps it was all over, but at last she'd go down fighting. 

She braced herself for the next verbal onslaught from the supervisor, and 
Hester did indeed open her mouth, her finger shaking under Sandra's nose. 
Then she stopped, and indecision flickered across her face as she let her 
arm drop. Surprisingly, she returned to the desk, sat down and took a 
package of cigarettes from the drawer. 

"Come here and sit down," she called. 

Sandra took the chair Nola had vacated. Accepting a cigarette, she allowed 
Hester to light it and they were silent for a moment, puffing quietly. "Ah," 
Hester murmured, "I needed that." 

"So did I," Sandra admitted. 

Hester put the cigarette in a tray and reached, taking Sandra's from her 
lips, putting it aside. "I really don't want to fight with you, my dear." 
She patted her hand. "It seems we've had so little time together since early 
in the summer, when we had our nocturnal crisis. We've been almost strangers 
since then." 

Sandra crossed her legs, tugging at the hem of her skirt, wishing it were 
long enough to cover her knees. Hester watched, obviously enjoying her 
discomfiture. 

"It's a beautiful dress, and you look lovely tonight, darling. It's 
refreshing to see a Treacher girl out of uniform." 

Sandra squirmed. "Thank you. All the girls seem so different tonight." 

Hester picked up her cigarette, drew on it, put it back on the tray. "Yes, I 
remember our discussion when you pleaded with me to spare that Simms tramp. 
There was a sort of unwritten promise that you and I would become the best 
of friends, Sandra." 

"Everything has gone smoothly. Candy has behaved like a lady." Sandra puffed 
on the cigarette. "I really think she's been helped by her experience here." 

"How lovely!" The eyes flickered with mischief. "You know, I let you change 
my mind that night. Now, for the second time, you burst in on me and tell me 
what I must and must not do. If I have let you have your way, my dear, you 
must realize there's a reason." 

"I really don't..." 

Hester slapped the desk, and Sandra jumped. "You owe me something! You know 
what I need and when the mood suits you, I get a half-promise you'll 
cooperate. When we've made our bargain, you manage to skip out." She 
breathed deeply, her breath noisy in her throat. 

"Well, by heaven, you're going to begin delivery or find out who's running 
this camp. I can still send Candace Simms back to Los Angeles, and I can 
still bring Nola Franchetti or any other girl into this office for a private 
conference." 

Sandra was aghast, although she realized something like this might happen 
eventually. She had baited Hester more than once, and managed to make a 
bargain without paying the price. 

Hester was smiling now, leaning forward, her eyes twinkling. "My, don't I 
sound ruthless!" she said. "Actually, I'm a pushover when people get to know 
me. Oh, I can't count the number I've helped in show business, and for 
almost nothing. Simply because they were kind, and we got along so well." 
Her smile broadened. "I'd like to help you, Sandra, if you can show me you 
have real talent. I believe you said you were a dancer." 

Sandra squirmed. Lord, how she wanted to accept help! How badly she wanted a 
push along the path to success! But would she need to be with people like 
Hester St. Claire in order to make it in show business? She prayed she would 
not. 

"Yes, I dance." 

"Perhaps we have time for an audition." Hester rose, clapping her hands, 
overjoyed at her idea. "Yes, here and now. Come on, my dear, show me how you 
dance. Do something slow and graceful something in which you twist your body 
this way and that, something which will excite me, something you love so 
much that you, too, will be stimulated by the time youve finished." 

"Please!" Sandra half whispered, looking toward the door. "There's the 
party..." 

"Screw the party! It won't be over for two hours and everyone's having a 
harmless good time-just as we are." She stood over her, her fingers resting 
lightly on her shoulder. "Come on. Kick off those shoes and show me how you 
can stimulate an audience." She laughed. "I promise you, you beautiful 
thing, I can be a very appreciative audience." 

"I couldn't," Sandra whimpered, her body shaking at the macabre thought of 
her gliding about the room, exciting another woman with her movements. 
"There's no music." 

"That's nonsense." Hester leaned over the desk. "We have the radio." She 
snapped it on, and instantly the strains of Dancing in the Dark filled the 
room. She turned it down low. "We mustn't clash with the live music on the 
other side of the building. 

"No, please...! " Sandra felt the strength draining from her body. Dancing 
would be impossible. Shame and embarrassment washed over her, leaving her 
limp in the chair. 

Hester saw. "No? Perhaps you're too tired." 

"I'm exhausted." 

"Very well, then." She walked around Sandra, making a complete circle of 
inspection. "I'll simply be forced to examine your talents in an inert 
state. Just sit quietly and let your hands rest at your sides." 

Sandra's body felt positively leaden by now, and, indeed, her hands hung 
limply over the arms of the chair. She wanted to let her head loll to one 
side, but she managed to keep it upright. How strange it was, she thought. 
What black magic had Hester used to rob her of her strength? 

She watched Hester hovering over her, saw her lick her lips, all the while 
purring soft endearments as her eyes danced with anticipation. 

"Remember, darling," she said time after time, "you owe me something. You 
owe me this." She said it again and again, and Sandra felt like a subject 
being hypnotized by a swinging pocket watch. 

At last, Hester disappeared behind her chair and stopped, her breathing 
harsh. Even over the murmur of the radio, Sandra could hear the noise in her 
throat. She waited, her body trembling, wondering where her tormentor would 
strike, wondering even more desperately why she could not leap up and flee. 

The touch came, lightly, mere fingertips on Sandra's shoulders. The fingers 
drummed in time to the dance rhythm from the radio, tapping her bare skin, 
occasionally catching a spaghetti strap and pulling at it. 

The fingers whispered down to her throat, coming together under her chin, 
and Sandra could feel 

Hester's body leaning over her, bending to its task. The weight of the other 
woman's breasts rested against the back of her head, propping her erect, 
keeping her from swaying. 

Down came the hands, lower on her throat, finding the first swell at the 
tops of her breasts, sliding still further down across Sandra's skin. The 
hands slipped into the valley between her trembling bosom, thrusting deeply 
into the warm, quaking depression. 

"Hester...! " 

"Hush, darling! You're doing wonderfully!" 

The hands left the depths of the valley, separating and working their way up 
either side of her breasts, tugging against the tight bodice, squirming 
under the baby-blue satin, struggling to reach the high points of Sandra's 
mounds. 

Sandra closed her eyes, the tears running down her cheeks. She clenched her 
teeth, her jaw working. Her hands curled themselves into fists which beat 
feebly at the air. 

Hester was almost at her goal and her fingers trembled with excitement 
almost as much as Sandra's body trembled with despair. 

The moment had come... 

Mercifully, like a hand from heaven, a thundering series of knocks sounded 
at the door. Sandra sobbed aloud with relief as Hester's hands whipped away 
from her body. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

Sandra sat as though she were made of wood, hearing Hester's muffled curse 
and then her footsteps crossing the office. The knob rattled. 

"Oh! It's you!" 

"Yes, it's me. One of your girls told me I might find Miss Albright in the 
office." 

The voice was familiar. Sandra managed to turn her head to see Tony Gibbs 
crossing the room with long steps, coming to her. He stopped before her, 
half-bowing in a courtly fashion. 

"Miss Albright, yours is the last name on my card. May I have the pleasure 
of this dance?" 

Sandra worked her lips, trying to speak, waves of nausea washing over her. 
She might have toppled from the chair if he hadn't gripped her shoulders. 

"What is it?" he demanded. He looked toward Hester. "What the hell's been 
going on here, you filthy . . ! " 

"Get out!" Hester shot back. "Take her with you, if you like, but get out. 
She's nothing, anyway. Just a helpless, quivering, powerless piece of 
flesh." Her face was ruddy with frustration and beads of sweat dotted her 
forehead. 

He helped Sandra to her feet, leading her toward the door, while Hester 
stood, gripping the back of a chair, panting as though she had climbed the 
steep slope of a mountain. She said nothing as they went through the door, 
but it slammed behind them with a thunderous crash. 

They stood on the porch for a few minutes, and Sandra felt her strength 
returning. Her stomach was settling down, and at last she no longer feared 
she would vomit. 

He was holding her with one hand in the center of her back. With the other 
he dabbed at her face with his handkerchief, first moistening it at the 
porch drinking fountain. He made her take a drink of water and then she felt 
better when she straightened. 

"Thank God!" she breathed, looking into his face. He was more deeply tanned 
than she remembered and his body looked harder under his light summer suit. 
His hair was black against the night. "How did you know?" 

"As I said, you were the only counselor I hadn't asked to dance." His voice 
was low, husky with power and authority. "I found two of your girls, one of 
whom had left you just a short while before with St. Claire. She seemed 
concerned. The other gin-a snappy peroxide blonde-confirmed what I'd already 
heard about that queer duck in there." He nodded at the office door. "She 
also told me how you'd been holding her off all summer. I'm sorry I was rude 
the first time we met. You see, I assumed you were one of her stable." 

Sandra sighed, loving being so close to him, pinching herself as she 
realized that he'd remembered her after all. "I've been walking a tightrope, 
protecting my girls with one hand, trying to keep her off me with the 
other." 

He nodded. "You're a brave woman, but I think you'd better move around a bit 
so you can snap out of St. Claire's trance. What do you say-may I have that 
dance?" 

Something seemed to melt and give way in her' breast and she smiled into his 
dark eyes, loving the way the shadows played across his high forehead. "I'd 
love it," she whispered... 

She floated, her feet scarcely touching the floor, her head tucked between 
his neck and shoulder. On they danced, again and again, and from time to 
time she opened her eyes to see others smiling at them with approving 
warmth. "How are you now?" 

His voice came to her out of a dream, and she snapped alert, her eyes 
popping open, her fingers pressing more firmly against his shoulder. 
"Wonderful!" 

"I was afraid I might never see you again." His voice was muffled in her 
hair, and she could feel his breath whisper across her head. 

She laughed. "I don't believe you." 

"It's true. A half mile can be a thousand miles when they keep us so busy." 
He held her away a moment, looking into her eyes, and she felt herself 
drowning all over again. "We met under such grotesque circumstances, and I 
behaved so badly toward you. I was afraid to call for fear you'd slap my 
face as you threatened." 

She stared. "You remember all that?" 

"Of course!" He pulled her close again, and their feet moved in perfect 
harmony. "I remember the instant you walked into my office. I also thought I 
detected something in your glance that night." 

She nodded against his shoulder. "You should have. I felt when I saw you as 
though I'd slipped my finger into a wall socket." 

He laughed deeply and she felt his chest move against her. That triggered 
something and she knew he was conscious of it, too. She was aware of their 
bodies-his and hers. 

At the places where they touched she felt a slowly growing heat. Her fingers 
tingled against his back, her temple was warm against his cheek, her breasts 
seemed hot and hard against his chest and their hips moved together in a 
slow, grinding rhythm. 

"Tony, I..." 

"Yes?" 

The music was slow and sultry and, in the final hour, the lights had been 
dimmed so that the shadows were deep. "It's been too long since I've ... 
been close to a man this way." 

"Too long for me, too." 

They danced on and, helplessly, she felt her heat increasing. An itching 
began in her loins, spreading slowly, shooting out into other parts of her 
body and once she stumbled against him. He caught her expertly. 

"I can't hear the beat any more." 

"It's not a very good orchestra." 

"No, it's not that." She let her face turn against his cheek so her nose and 
lips were tucked under his ear. "My knees. They don't want to support my 
body." 

"You're not tired?" 

"Of course not. I'm walking on air, but something's going wrong inside me. 
I'm not certain ... It's never happened like this before." Her lips pursed 
and she kissed him on the side of the neck. His fingers pressed into the 
small of her back. "Oh, Tony!" 

"Be careful, my darling," he whispered. "We're in the center of the dance 
floor." 

"Then for heaven's sake get me away from here," she begged, her body 
stiffening against his. "I can't be this close to you any longer. I'll make 
a fool of myself right here in front of everybody." 

He guided her slowly away from the pattern of dancers, toward a side 
entrance. After a quick glance about them, he released her and opened the 
door, urging her through ahead of him. 

Once outside, she took several deep breaths and then, with hands linked, 
they walked across the clearing. It was a dark night now, clouds covering 
the moon and no one, she was certain, would know about them. 

They found themselves inside the line of trees and tents and, without 
thinking, she led him to her tent. She stopped outside and sat down on the 
step and he sat at her side. 

"Tony ... Tony, what is it?" 

He put his arm around her shoulders and her head fell against his. "It's 
like the electrical attraction between two poles," he murmured, "drawing 
opposites together with a force no man has ever really understood." 

She lifted her head and looked at him. "Or is it as I said before-too long 
since we've been out with a man or a woman. Is that it? Are we simply 
hungry, starved for the touch of another human being?" 

He chuckled. "If we are, it's the most wonderful meal I've ever enjoyed." He 
put his hand to her chin, turning her face toward him. "But it's more than 
that. You know it, and I know it. We knew it that first night we met, and 
neither of us was starved for affection then." 

"You're right." 

"Sandra, I wonder if I..." 

"Yes, you may, Tony. I'll scratch your eyes out if you don't. Kiss me, 
darling!" 

He did, his lips gentle over hers, not forcing, not hungry as Bobby's had 
always been, but cool and easy. He kept them over her mouth for a long time, 
and her eyes were closed. Presently, his lips parted, and she felt the tip 
of his tongue move, tickling the rim of her lips, making the complete 
circle. 

Surprising even herself, she tore her mouth away, drawing her head back, 
searching his face for some clue. "Tony! This is all new! I've never felt 
like this before. Please tell me what it is?" 

He studied her, his fingers digging into her shoulders. "You've never...? " 

"Never!" 

"Never been ... with a man?" 

"No!" She sighed, her breath seeming to tear at her throat, and the fire 
spread up from her stomach. Her legs wouldn't be still, the knees always 
moving, always moving..."I want you to show me, to make it beautiful. Can 
you?" 

Again he kissed her, this time with more force. She twisted her body, 
hurling her arms around his neck, and her mouth opened wide. His tongue 
darted in, finding every sensitive spot, almost choking her with its 
powerful probing. 

He freed his arms and pulled hers from his neck so he could look about. "I 
don't know this camp 

"Come!" She reached for his hand, pulling him with her. She turned and 
opened the door to the tent, her poised hand ordering him to wait quietly. 

She went inside, where it was almost pitch black. Slowly, she felt her way 
around the familiar room, touching each bunk, making certain it was empty. 
Good girls. All of them were staying with the party to the very end. 

She returned to the door and opened it so he could slip inside. He stood by 
her side and she twisted to hook the latch so they would not be surprised. 
At that instant, she felt his hand press under her arm, across her ribs and 
fasten itself full on her right breast. 

She started, her eyes wide in the night. His other hand came up from her 
other side and clasped her left breast. 

"Oh, Tony...! " 

She let her head fall back against his chin and, again, she feared her knees 
would give way. His fingers pressed in unison, pumping against the softness 
of her breasts, and she felt the already swollen mounds burgeon still more 
tightly against the blue satin. 

The hands went to her shoulders, flicked at the thin straps, dropped them 
over each arm. Then the hands were sliding down her throat and Sandra did 
not remember the sickening sensation when Hester had performed the same 
maneuver. This was a different place and a different night, her senses 
assured her body. 

The hands went under her neckline, forcing the satin down, shoving the 
strapless brassiere with it, until he was able to push his way to the ends 
of her breasts. He caressed the nipples, and they, too, joined the other 
parts of her breasts in swelling and hardening, their tips poking into his 
palms like eager puppies seeking further caresses. 

"My God, Tony!" Her words came in broken sobs. "Please, my sweet, don't play 
with me like this. It's beautiful, but it's torture!" 

"Yes, darling," he whispered against the back of her neck, the touch of his 
lips making her skin quiver as though a current were passing through it. 

He turned her around and, feeling his way in the darkness, found hidden 
fasteners and opened the dress, working it carefully from her body. Her 
underclothing slid off with it, and she helped him strip away her stockings 
and shoes. 

She waited, her body rigid, her breasts rising and falling so tremulously 
she feared her lungs would burst. Her skin was hot to the touch, and she 
wondered if she actually had a fever. She heard the rustle of his clothing, 
and then he was back, his hand in hers. 

"You lead the way." 

She did, taking him the few steps to her bunk, praying no one would walk in 
on them. She pulled her bed open and sat down, her knees together, waiting. 
"I want it to be perfect, my Tony." 

"It will be, darling. Trust me." 

It was, indeed, Sandra's very first time. Perhaps she would have done it 
somewhere, sometime, before-but circumstances had always conspired against 
the event. She was, truly, a virgin, possessing all a virgin's hopes and 
dreams and fears. But she was also with the man she loved, and she knew that 
it would be all right. 

She felt herself being urged to lie back, and she did so, until her head 
sank into the pillow. Then hands were on her face, her throat, her breasts, 
her stomach... 

"Yes! Yes...! " 

On they moved to her legs, up her thighs, around her hips, digging into the 
generous softness of her buttocks and then, at last, into the heart of her. 

She felt herself stiffen, and her heels dug into the bed to swing her body 
up in an arc to meet his caresses. At the same time she felt a rhythm 
starting in her, a rhythm much like their motions on the dance floor and she 
realized why she had become so upset when they moved as one to the music. 

"Please...! " 

She felt the weight of him forcing her back, and her fists beat helplessly 
into the pillow on either side of her head. Then he was taking the pillow 
from her, lifting her hips and sliding it under them. She felt her body 
frozen in the natural arc, yet she knew it was right. Her man was truly an 
expert in the art of love. 

In the blackness of the tent they came together, as one, inseparable. She 
helping where she could, but Tony led most of the way. 

It hurt, and he waited until she tugged at him and then worked again until 
it hurt. Again and again he pressed, always gentle, always patient, always 
easing until her pain subsided. 

You're going, Sandra, her whirling brain told her. This is the night-the 
very instant-you cease to be a girl and are transformed into a woman. You'll 
always remember this night. It's the grandest thing in your young life. 
Enjoy it, let it burn itself into your mind, keep it locked away so the 
memory will return to comfort you in more difficult times. 

She did, feeling every minute contact as he brought them ever closer to 
fulfillment, feeling her bodily sensation heighten and grow more acute with 
each bit of effort. He was almost to it, something told her and she willed 
her body to open still further until she could possess him completely. 
"Darling, that's itl" 

Their final rhythm lasted only an instant, as she locked her limbs about him 
and squeezed with all her power. They rose together in a swell of ecstasy 
and were carried away into the depths of the night-each of them together and 
yet apart in the Valhalla peculiar to the individual senses. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Everything was different. The sky was bluer, the trees were taller, the 
pungent smells of the forest more delightful than ever before. 

Sandra walked at the head of her little column, leading the way through the 
forest, her head high, her breasts thrust forward proudly. From time to 
time, she sniffed and glanced about, almost laughing aloud. 

Often she looked back over her shoulder and slowed her pace until the others 
were able to catch up. She would call to them and clap her hands and laugh 
with joy, and her girls would respond with delighted calls. 

At lunch time, they halted in a clearing, high in the mountains. The place 
had been used many times before, and there were a number of rings of 
blackened stones where fires had been laid. They threw off their packs and, 
under Sandra's direction, the girls began warming the food. 

Sandra and Candy shared one of the fires, squatting on their haunches and 
holding wieners over the heat on sticks. The other girls were collected 
about three separate fires, their chatter and laughter filling the clearing. 
It had been a successful morning. They had found most of the plants on their 
work lists and caught glimpses of several varieties of small game. 

Sandra hummed as she withdrew her stick from the heat and examined the meat. 
It was darkened and bubbling on one side, so she turned it over. Her humming 
continued, and there was a Mona Lisa smile on her lips. 

"For cripes sakes, you sound like a bumblebee just after he made out in a 
flower!" Candy muttered, looking from her stick to Sandra. 

Despite her words, she was half smiling. She was a beautiful girl, Sandra 
thought, and she was pleased that her summer was going so well. Candy had 
the sort of figure made for a Treacher Camp uniform-the T-shirt properly 
filled out by high, hard young breasts, the shorts prettily stretched across 
her bottom, excellent young legs, straight and tanned. 

Sandra laughed. "I'm not certain what that means, but I suspect you're 
talking like a tramp again." 

"You bet your sweet you-know-what I am. "She moved her knee until it brushed 
Sandra's outer thigh. "Come on, what's the score? Your feet haven't been 
near the ground in two days." 

Sandra looked at her, her dark eyes dancing. "Does it really show that 
much?" 

"If they could plug you in, you'd generate enough power to light Dodger 
Stadium through a double-header." She snorted in the direction of her 
blackening wiener. "And I'd rather buy one of these dogs there than cook my 
own." 

"I think it's wonderful to get out like this all day and eat under the 
trees." 

"Maybe, if you're a jackrabbit or one of those forest sprites, but I'm not. 
I'm just Candy Simms, late of Los Angeles and who knows where she's going 
next?" 

Sandra touched the girl's arm. "I don't know where you're going, but I know 
it will be a better place than the one you left." 

Candy smiled, and Sandra could read grudging affection and respect in the 
younger girl's eyes. They had grown close as the days went by, and Candy had 
kept her word, staying out of troubleso far as Sandra knew. She was a tough 
little blonde, but her word was good. 

"Quit changing the subject, chief weirdo of the woods. What or who is 
turning you on like an Edison lamp?" 

Sandra had been moving about in a trance ever since the night Tony Gibbs had 
changed her world campletely. Now she was a woman, a fulfilled woman who 
finally knew why she had been put on earth. For two days, she had kept her 
secret locked inside her breast, wishing she could leap up on a table during 
dinner and shout the news to the entire camp. Several times, she had debated 
telling Candy the whole story-but she was still afraid to confide in her. 

Now, it seemed, the blonde knew something was going on, anyhow. 

"I suppose you'll keep after me until I tell," she barely suppressed a 
giggle, feeling like a high-school girl all over again. She hoped, of 
course, that Candy would keep after her. 

"I'll keep after you like the Dynamic Duo keeps after the Riddler. Come on, 
spill the beans or I'll sic that lesbian supervisor on you some night after 
you're in bed." 

Sandra shuddered. "Don't even joke about such a thing!" But not even the 
thought of Hester could quiet her bubbling spirits. "All right, I'll tell, 
but you must promise..." 

"Lady, where I come from nobody squeals. If they do, it's..." She drew a 
finger across her throat. 

Sandra took a deep breath. "Tony Gibbs." 

Candy stared and then grinned, showing all her teeth. "I ought to have 
figured it out, especially after Nola and I sent him into Hester's office 
after you the other night." Again she nudged Sandra's thigh. "So you two 
rang all sorts of bells together, eh?" 

"A million bells!" 

"That's good," Candy went on, examining her wiener and then trying to pull 
it from the stick. She burned her finger and sucked the grease from it. "You 
needed a good man after so long in this booby hatch. "She looked at the 
forest about them, rolling her eyes in consternation. "I'm starting to grow 
a tail." 

"I realize now how much I needed him," Sandra agreed. 

"You ... uh, you went the whole route, eh?" Candy was peering at her, eyes 
squinting. 

Sandra turned her head away, concentrating on placing her wiener in a bun 
without dropping it into the dirt. "That's right." 

"How do you feel about that?" 

Sandra faced her again. "I feel perfectly wonderful, thank you. Not ashamed, 
but proud." 

Candy grinned. "Good! I assume, from all the fireworks going off, it was 
your first roll in the hay." 

Sandra sighed. "Must you put everything into your own inimitable language?" 
She bit into her roll, and juice spurted, running down her chin. She wiped 
with the back of her hand and chewed until she got the mouthful down. "Yes, 
it was my first time." 

"Welcome to the club. How did you manage to keep it until you were 
twenty-one?" 

Sandra laughed, making it a low, lustful sound. "Blame it on the backward 
social stratum in which I was raised." 

"Anyhow, I'm glad you aren't going to pieces all over the place." Candy 
finished her hot dog. "Some dames make a big thing of it, like they earned a 
dishonorable discharge or something. They think everybody on the street will 
know. Some of them are even dopey enough to think they cheated on the guy 
they're going to marry even though they haven't met the poor sucker yet." 

"I know." Sandra nodded. "I've seen other girls go through the experience. 
But it's no problem for me, because Tony is the man. I made love to him 
because I love him, because he's the one, not because I was carried away by 
a handsome profile or a pair of provoking hands." 

"My, my! Candy said with awe in her voice. "You really are serious about 
this gorgeous hunk of male down the road. How far does this route lead-clear 
past this summer?" 

Sandra lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders, jutting her breasts 
with defiance. "I'm betting everything I have that it will last forever. 
Don't you see? That's exactly why I feel no remorse. That's why I don't feel 
I've cheated on the man I'm going to marry." 

Candy gasped. "You mean . . ? " 

"Exactly. If I have my way, someday soon you can call me Mrs. Anthony 
Gibbs." 

Candy clapped and a few of the others looked their way, smiling, but they 
turned away again, intent on their meals. "Keep after him, baby!" the blonde 
advised, her voice low and calculating. "Keep after him until you bring him 
down. From what I've seen of that buck, half the female hunters in Southern 
California must be on his tail. Strike fast." 

Sandra smiled and said, "I have my plans all made, thank you, and striking 
fast is among them." 

* * * 

Everything changed as they wound down the highway, taking the curves fast 
with a slight squealing of the tires. The pines gave way to high brush, 
which gave way to cactus. The temperature climbed from eighty to more than a 
hundred and ten by the time they reached the desert floor. 

Sandra turned the wind wing on the convertible as far as she could, so that 
the breeze whipped in at her, sending her dark hair streaming back from her 
face. She squinted into the hot wind, her arm trailing from the window, 
loving the feel of the warm air on her palm and fingers. 

She turned to Tony, letting her knee slide over to meet his. "Now I know why 
Palm Springs isn't a summer resort," she said. 

He nodded, grinning as he maneuvered the car around the baking carcass of a 
rabbit. "We're lucky. I don't think it's as hot as usual." 

How she loved to hear him speak! How she loved to see him, to look at him! 
How she loved to touch him, to have him touch her! 

Tony ... he was her Tony. Even though they'd only been together that one 
night, she knew he was hers from the moment they put their arms around one 
another on the dance floor. And she was his. She knew this, too, and she 
wanted him to understand how deep her love had become. 

It had been a terrible two weeks. They had had to wait a full fourteen days 
until the Sunday came when each could slip away from camp duties. He had 
been adamantly against casual visiting between camps and equally strict 
about telephone calls. He bad warned her how easily rumors-whether true or 
not-could spread if they were seen together. 

So she had waited, her spirits high, at first, as they were the day she took 
Candy and the other girls on the long hike. After the third day, when she 
beard nothing, she began to break apart. No visit. No call. Nothing... 

The horrible thought which had always lurked in the back of her mind came 
forward-the fear that perhaps she was nothing more to Tony Gibbs then 
another conquest. She told herself it couldn't be true, that he was far too 
sincere, too tender, too much the gentleman to hurt her. 

Then the letter came. He could get free the following Sunday if she were 
able to meet him. It was not Sandra's day off, but she traded with another 
counselor, who asked no questions, and met him on the road, out of sight of 
the Treacher Camp gate. 

The trip to the desert was his idea, and she thought it was wonderful. If he 
had suggested they spend the day hanging by their thumbs from the limb of a 
tree, she'd have been equally ecstatic. After eight weeks in the woods, they 
agreed that a shot of the swimming-pool and bright-light life would do them 
good. 

He wore white slacks and a white T-shirt. She wore a halter-type dress which 
was backless and sleeveless. He wore tennis shoes, and she wore no 
stockings. They had done all they could against the heat, but still it was 
hot. 

By the time they reached the chain of luxury hotels at the approach to the 
city, they were perspiring, the moisture pouring from their skin and running 
down their faces. She could see the dampness coming through his shirt, and 
she could feel her own moisture building. 

When he turned into a ranch-type hotel she pointed out, it was too hot for 
her to remain in the car while he checked in. She went into the office with 
him, not caring if the clerk should notice she wore no ring. She was with 
her man-that was all that mattered. 

"Yes, sir," the clerk said, chattering while Tony filled in the register. 
"That's why they call it the Palms to Pines Highway. You can go from snow to 
eighty degrees in the winter and from chilly weather to a hundred and twenty 
this time of year." He beamed at Sandra as though he personally made the 
climate miracle happen. 

They accepted a bucket of ice and returned to the car. Tony drove slowly to 
the rear, all the way to the cabana with the most privacy to offer. He 
parked and lifted out a small canvas bag and the ice bucket. 

It was mercifully cool inside the cabana, which was done in Old Spanish with 
lots of tile, heavy drapes, matador posters and a corner adobe chimney. "We 
must come here during the winter," she exclaimed, whirling in the middle of 
the room like a housewife discovering her first home. "How wonderful it 
would be to curl up in front of a fire!" 

Tony chuckled, taking the bag into the kitchen. He took out a couple of 
bottles and got glasses from a cupboard. In a minute, he had made them each 
a cool, green, brimming gimlet. 

"Hey, what's wrong?" He chuckled. "Too strong?" 

"How unromantic can a lug get?" she replied, pretending to complain. "His 
one and only gives the misty-eyes-of-love look, and he thinks she's choking 
on bad vodka." 

She set his glass aside and put hers with it. 

"Hold on! I hardly toucbed my medicine," he sputtered, reaching for his 
drink. 

Sandra grasped his wrist and pulled him away from the table, throwing her 
arms around his neck. "You're my prisoner." 

"I'm also thirsty." 

"I have something which should satisfy any complaints you might have." She 
pressed her hips against him and her breasts dug at his chest, their ends 
hard, probing. 

"God, it's so hot!" he complained, methodically peeling her arms from his 
neck, one at a time. "Tell you what. Let's go into the pool first. Then 
we'll be clean, cool, comfortable." 

"Ugh!" She made a face. "You sound like a television ad for a deodorant." 

"Come on," he exclaimed, taking her hands, pulling her close for a kiss and 
then shoving her away. He got the bag out of the kitchen and rummaged in it, 
taking out her bathing suit, a white, one-piece outfit. "I'll bet you drive 
the boys wild in this mantrap." 

She laughed, catching the suit when he threw it. "All right, you terrible, 
frigid old man. I'll go swimming with you, but you're not going to hold me 
off for long." 

She began to loosen the halter of her dress, untying the straps at the small 
of her back, her eyes dancing with mischief while she watched him slip from 
his shirt. When he had kicked his trousers from his legs, she struck. 

She leaped on him, her weight carrying him with her and they staggered to 
the bed, falling in a heap on the coverlet. She climbed on his body, 
straddling him, holding him down with one hand while she clawed at his 
shorts with the other. She stripped him to the cozy sound of giggles-giggles 
which were designed to sound seductive. 

He was pinned, helpless except for his hands, so he put them to work. She 
thrilled when he pulled her straps free and the halter fell to her waist. 

"What a hussy!" he exclaimed. "No bra! You'll be drummed out of the Treacher 
Camp girls Honor Society." 

"Please don't mention Treacher again in this room or I'll do something that 
will hurt," she warned, her small fists poised over his stomach. 

He didn't. Instead he touched her breasts, and the same electric shock which 
had rocked her that night in the forest made her buck and lunge all over 
again. Her reaction to him was more violent than ever. Then he was pulling 
at her hips, removing her dress, flinging it away so that they were 
nude-nude and together as she had ached to be for fourteen days. 

Then he was rolling, upsetting her so that she was a tumbling collection of 
arms, legs and breasts, falling to her back on the cool softness. He was 
kneeling over her, his face on hers, their mouths locked together in a hot, 
feverish seal which could not be broken. 

His hands were busy again, preparing her body, massaging breasts, tummy, 
hips, her thighs, making her more ready than she thought she could ever be. 

"Darling, darling . . ! " 

Her voice was a harsh whisper as she felt things happening inside her. 
Things which were being mixed in the laboratory at the center of her 
womanhood. These things would be mixed with the product of his body 
chemistry, and they would fuse in a wonderful explosion. 

She reached, finding him, grasping him hard until he cried out with sweet 
anguish. 

Then he was slapping her hands away, throwing himself upon her, his body 
hitting hers heavily but accurately. They were one, and their motion was 
beautiful and effective. She felt his heat reach an animal pitch and, from 
the look of anguish on his lips knew his chemistry was ready for hers. 

They were poised, bodies arched, hard and stiff, and then the center span of 
their bridge broke, and they fell heavily to the softness, their bodies 
expending themselves, their strength flowing freely and wonderfully for 
second after second after second. 

"You're good ... You're good ... You're good..." he panted as his strength 
poured from him into her, satiating her for the moment, giving her the peace 
of mind which only a fulfilled woman can enjoy. 

As last, she said, cradling his dripping face, "Yes, I'm good with you, 
dearest. I'm best when 

I'm with you, and I know we'll be good for each other ... always!" 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

They lay by the lip of the pool, alone in the almost deserted resort, two of 
the few guests willing to endure the boiling heat of a Palm Springs summer. 

Their bodies, covered with oil to prevent them from blistering in a matter 
of minutes, were comfortable on long, air-filled rubber pads. They had been 
out of the water for only a minute, but already Sandra's hair was drying, 
and she could feel the first prickle of perspiration under the halter of her 
suit. 

She looked at Tony, who lay with his face a few inches from hers, his body 
within reach-all the way down to their feet. His eyes were closed, and he 
was enjoying the exhausted rest of a man who had been called on twice within 
the hour to satisfy a woman who loved him. 

Sandra slept too ... and then she awoke... 

It was growing dark about them and already a few lights were winking on here 
and there. She didn't know how long they had lain like this, but her body 
tingled. Thank goodness the sun had set. They would be free of its burning 
power until they were back in the mountains. 

She didn't like to think about that, for it meant they must part again, not 
to see one another for, perhaps, two more agonizing weeks. She couldn't 
stand that long a wait. She needed him with her constantly. 

She lifted her chin and put her face close to his, blowing softly until he 
blinked and opened his eyes. He stared vacantly for a moment, looking at her 
as though she were a stranger. She was frightened until he smiled in 
recognition. 

"Lord!" he sighed, stretching his wonderful body. "What did you put in my 
gimlet?" 

She giggled. "I didn't give you anything, lover. I simply took all you had." 

"Amen! A female Hercules." 

"I'm only as strong as you make me, darling." Again she laughed, a wanton 
gurgle in her throat. "And I hope you do, often." 

"Make you?" 

"Yes." 

He rolled his eyes. "I've latched on to a direct descendant of Attila the 
Hun." 

She placed her fingers over his lips until he stopped making sounds. Then 
she kissed him lightly, resisting the impulse to hurl herself upon him. She 
made herself take her lips away. 

"Tony. I meant it when I said I was good with you. You make me something 
special. I think we're good for each other." 

"I told you that first night. It's the power of electricity." 

"Yes." She nodded. "Another word for it is love." 

He looked at her, studying her eyes. "Love ... that word can mean many 
things." 

"I know what it means to me-and to you." She ran her fingers over the bridge 
of his nose and down to his lips again, letting his teeth catch their tips 
and nibble on them. "Tony?" 

"Hm?" 

"What's going to happen with us?" 

She wondered if she only imagined that a veil dropped behind his eyes. "More 
marvelous things, that's what." 

"You know I love you, darling. I want to be with you always." She took away 
her fingers and replaced them with her lips, whispering directly into his 
mouth. "Will you take me with you? Will we go away together when this 
wonderful summer is ended?" 

He chuckled and pulled his head away from her, his laugh a bit stiff. "Hey, 
aren't we pushing things just a bit? I thought the man was supposed to make 
the sales pitch." He smiled. "Besides I haven't discussed your dowry with 
Mr. Albright, that rich lumber magnate from Oregon." 

"A mere administrative detail," she persisted, hitching her body forward so 
that her face was close to his again. "We're not living in Victorian times, 
darling. I can make any decision I please and tell my parents afterward. 
There's no one you need ask for permission to carry me off to your secret 
castle in the clouds." 

He smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid there are no castles in my estate. Not even 
a six-room house." 

"Shucks, I thought I was landing a prince with his own rich kingdom." 

"No such luck." He shook his head. "I've been strapped all year, as a 
matter-of-fact. I spent last year finishing my doctorate, and I'm still 
paying the bills for that. Your prince has patches in his velvet cape, I 
fear." 

"I'll take you, rich or poor." 

He looked into her eyes, his wide gaze searching. "Don't run with the bit in 
your teeth, Sandra." 

Something in his tone stopped her. "What do you mean?" 

"Where I come from," he said sternly, "the men make such decisions as who 
will live with whom and when and how and where. A Gibbs man is never ruled 
by his princess, except in the kitchen and bedchamber." 

Sandra closed her eyes, her heart almost stopping in the sudden wave of 
shame which washed over her. She looked at him again, her eyes brimming, her 
smile tender. "Will you please forget how stupidly I've been acting the past 
few minutes, Mr. Gibbs? Your friend Sandra Albright tends to get rather 
pushy when she becomes enthusiastic about something close to her heart." She 
kissed him on the forehead. "Thank you for putting a brake on my runaway 
emotions." 

"Baby, I ... I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." He stroked her sleek 
hair, his touch light, tender. 

"You haven't. You're making me behave like an adult, that's all." She 
sighed. "You're absolutely right about my being too pushy. Actually, I 
wouldn't think much of a man who would allow me to make plans which are 
properly his to make. I guess that's why I like the Gibbs type of man." 

He seemed relieved, and she suspected he was glad to be put in charge again. 
"You're something special, Miss Albright. Remind me to tell you that ... 
often." 

"I shall," she murmured, looking over her shoulder at the deserted pool 
area. She rolled against him, locking her arms around his neck, pulling him 
half over her so she could look up into his eyes. "I'll remind you of 
something else. Something I want very badly-but I'll promise to be subtle. 
Okay?" 

"Okay." 

He kissed her, their lips strong on one another and she felt her body awaken 
at the contact, suddenly anxious for more of this remarkable man. How wanton 
she was becoming! Twice in one afternoon and now, when it was scarcely dark, 
she was panting for him again. 

Her fingers dug into his back, pulling him down on her, hard, eagerly, 
desperately, clutching at his muscles like a drowning woman reaching for the 
surface. 

"Hey, tiger." He managed to pull his face one inch from her lips. "You're 
insatiable. If I'd known you were such a glutton, I never would have asked 
you to dance." 

"Old insatiable, that's me." She laughed, her voice hitting a wild note, and 
she cut it off, embarrassed. "There I go, playing the cave woman again." She 
tangled her fingers in his hair. "But it's true, Oona needs her caveman, 
Zug. Does Zug want to take Oona back into the cave?" 

He pulled himself to his hands and knees and gazed around the inner patio. 
Except for a light in the office, the place was dark. Apparently the manager 
was saving on his summer electric bill by leaving the pool lights off, too. 
Sandra saw these things at the same time Tony saw them. 

"I know what you're going to suggest and I'd love it," she blurted, sitting 
up with him. 

He stood and pulled her to her feet. She knew she looked good in the bikini. 
Its fabric hugged every curve and hollow of her body, and the first time 
Bobby Williamson had seen it on her he had gone wild. Tony looked her over 
now, and she knew he was becoming aroused, just at the sight of her. 

"Okay, water sprite, let's go," he whispered. 

Together, they went to the ladder and she led the way, creeping down its 
chromium rungs, easing her body into the cool, dark water. He came close 
behind and she was able to reach up to pinch him as he descended. 

Then they were in all the way, only their faces bobbing at the surface, 
treading water, their cupped hands drawing them slowly to a shallow corner 
which was farthest from the light. 

At last she stood, the water at her waist, her feet on the bottom, her back 
braced against the side. His face was only a shadow before her, the whites 
of his eyes and his teeth glowing dully in the night. 

She felt his hands exploring her body again, pulling at the taut halter, 
which stretcbed and yielded to his pressure. Then he was pulling at her 
hips, removing the bottom, careful to keep the water from swirling too much. 

At the same time, she fumbled with the lacing at his waist, jerking the bow, 
opening the string so she could pull at his skimpy trunks. Down they came, 
seeming to cooperate ever so much better than her own. But at last his hips 
were freed of the elastic, and the rest was easy. 

They came together, their bodies cool and hard, probing for one another. Her 
breasts were rigid and swollen, wanting to float to the surface like cork 
cones. He touched them, feeling their tips, which were like chilled rubber. 

Sandra spread her arms behind her, gripping the side of the pool, bracing 
her elbows. At the same instant she swung her legs forward, catching him at 
the waist, pulling him tightly against her. With a simple bend of his knees, 
Tony was able to guide himself so that they met exactly as they wanted. 

Sandra's head was flung far back, resting on the edge of the pool through it 
all. With eyes closed tightly, her teeth clenched, she loved her man for the 
third time in just a few hours. 

What, she wondered during the frenzy of their lovemaking, am I turning into? 
I've practically raped this man three times. Only two weeks ago, I was a 
girl, a virgin, a girl who only dreamed of such experiences, thinking they 
were only for others. 

Now I'm in the middle of a torrid, pulling, whirling sex cauldron, wanting 
more, more, more ... But more from one man only-and that's what makes it 
beautiful. 

At their climax, she thought of nothing at all. Her animal senses took over, 
giving her the strength of ten, giving full vent to all the lust of her 
demanding young body... 

* * * 

The car purred like a jungle cat as it crept down the report city's main 
street at ten miles an hour. It was a large, new car, air-conditioned so its 
owner was comfortable. 

It drove the entire length of the hotel strip, a distance of almost five 
miles. Then it turned and came back again, slowing at the entrance to each 
hotel. There wasn't much to look for, really. Most of the places were next 
to being empty, witb only a few cars parked in their patios. 

From time the entire parking area was not visible from the street, so the 
large sedan would turn into the hotel patio, its lights dimmed, and make a 
slow circle of the grounds, so its owner could see every car. 

Then it would proceed down the strip again, more slowly than ever, because 
there weren't many places left to search ... Wait! 

The car stopped with a slight squeal of brakes. It backed up and turned into 
the hotel, its headlights out. It was dark in the patio, but the car skirted 
the pool and stopped, the silhouette of a convertible between it and the 
lighted cabana beyond. 

The driver stepped from the car, closing the door until it touched the jam 
to keep the cool air inside, but careful that the latch made no noise. At 
the side of the convertible, the driver produced a tiny flashlight, snapped 
it on and directed its small white cone to the steering column and the 
registration slip. 

It was easy to read-Anthony H. Gibbs, 34 Calle Hermosa, Santa Barbara. 

The light went off, and the figure walked to the cabana, stepping to one 
side of the window, seeking to see through the tiny space between the drapes 
and the frame. 

There! That was the place to look. Something moved. A man's feet-bare 
feet-on a couch. Patience ... Ah! She was crossing the room to him. 
Excellent! She stopped for a moment in full view, framed by the tiny window 
crack. 

It was Sandra Albright in there with him, and she was smiling down at the 
couch. She held a cocktail glass in either hand. What kind of drink was in 
the glasses? Gimlets, perhaps, but it really didn't matter. Sandra herself 
was much more interesting. 

The figure at the window breathed more deeply at sight of her, hands 
trembling as the flashlight was tucked back into a purse. 

Better to get back to camp and a good night's rest, so she could think of 
some pleasant surprise for Sandra Albright on her return. 

She got back into the sedan and purred away from the hotel and the resort 
city as softly as she had come. But she didn't sleep well when she returned 
to the Treacher Camp just before dawn. 

Her body was still aroused by the view of Sandra she'd gotten at the cabana 
window. She had seen a body young and proud, perfectly rounded, graceful, 
wonderfully feminine... 

 ... and completely nude... 

* * * 

It was sunset, a time of day which was becoming Sandra's favorite time. 
Dinner was over and so was the busy schedule of activities which had kept 
her on the jump since sunrise. 

A hundred-and-fifty teenaged girls didn't run out of energy as quickly as 
Sandra, even though she was only a few years older than they. Those kids 
could go and go and go and never seem to tire. 

Now, except for the usual evening program, she was finished with her duties 
until sunrise tomorrow. Often, she was one of the evening campfire leaders, 
directing the group in singing or dancing or games. But tonight, there was 
to be a nice long motion picture film about survival in the forest. 

She sat at the head of her bed, her knees tucked under her chin, pad and pen 
in hand. How many days had it been? She pretended to think, knowing the 
number was burned into her brain. Five ... it had been five days since their 
long night at Palm Springs, and they hadn't seen one another since he 
deposited her some distance up the road from the Treacher Camp gate. That 
had been a scant half hour before sunrise Monday morning. 

They had not communicated since then. Ridiculous as it seemed, Sandra knew 
the only thing to do was write, as Tony had written her the week before. She 
would send him a note, and perhaps they could arrange to meet again soon, 
when they were free. 

She let her knees down slightly and rested the pad on them, beginning to 
write. The thoughts came easily, straight from her heart. 

Dearest-It's been five years, not five days, since I've been alive. You 
know, of course, that I'm only alive when you're near. I'll never forget our 
cozy hacienda, the wonderful pool and the things we did. How wonderful it is 
to explore with you, to discover what life is really about ... 

"Miss Albright?" 

The small voice came from outside the screen, and Sandra put aside her pad, 
getting up to open the door. It was an office messenger, wearing the arm 
band which made her duties so terribly official. "What is it, Eleanor?" 

"Mrs. St. Claire wants to see you at the office. She said for you to come 
right away. All right?" 

Sandra smiled. "All right, messenger girl. You've done your duty." 

When the girl was gone, she sighed, looking at the unfinished letter. She'd 
hurry to Hester and get back before the film ended, so she could finish it 
before the girls poured into the tent. 

She opened her locker and looked at herself in the mirror, tucking in her 
T-shirt and smoothing her shorts. She examined her face, thankful that the 
dark circles which hung under her eyes early in, the week were gone. When a 
girl lived the outdoor life all summer, a bit of late-dating could change 
her looks in a hurry. 

Please, she whispered to herself, her eyes closed. Please, Tony, come and 
take me away now. Give me dark circles again. I love earning them and I wear 
them with honor. 

She sighed and went outside, walking easily across the dark and deserted 
clearing. Everybody must be at that silly survival movie, she thought. She 
went across the porch outside the office, seeing the blinds were pulled for 
privacy. She opened the door, hoping there was nothing ominous in the closed 
blinds. 

Nonsense! She had learned to handle Hester. With only a bit more than a week 
to go before the end of summer, she could hold her off until they broke camp 
for the season. 

Hester sat behind her desk, scribbling on a mass of papers before her. She 
looked up when Sandra crossed the room, smiled briefly, waved at one of the 
chairs. 

Sandra sat waiting, saying nothing, watching Hester sign papers, scribble 
short notes at the tops of letters and gradually work her way through the 
back log of office work. She glanced around the office at the old leather 
couch, then at the rows of group photographs of past camp classes and their 
leaders. By next year, she knew, the current class would be banging on the 
wall, and Sandra would be in the row of counselors in the foreground, just 
behind the supervisor. She continued looking, turning her eyes to the drawn 
blinds. No, that could mean nothing. 

At last Hester stuck her pen back in its holder. Her desk was clear. "Well, 
that's that. First things first, you know." She smiled at Sandra warmly. 

Then she got up and went to the door, snapping the bolt home with an 
authoritative click. She came back to the desk and, instead of getting 
behind it again, sat in the chair at Sandra's side. 

"Well, darling Sandra," she said, her voice light, almost lilting with some 
hidden joy. "What are we going to do about you?" 

Sandra frowned. "I beg your pardon." 

"That, dear, was a rhetorical question. You see, we'll do with you what I 
choose, and I've already decided how you shall be handled." 

Something froze in Sandra's breast, and she tightened her grip on the arms 
of the chair. The woman was smiling like a snake about to strike, positive 
it had full control over its victim. Well, it simply wasn't true! 

"I'm afraid you're talking in riddles, Hester," she said airily. 

"Of course. Perhaps I can explain to you." She took a deep breath and her 
look of satisfaction increased, spreading across her face like a wind-driven 
brush fire. "I know everything about last Sunday night." 

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Sandra's face turned to wood and the rest of her body seemed to stop 
functioning. Her heart skipped a beat, quivered in terror for a moment, then 
pounded in her breast, threatening to tear itself from its confining cavity. 

"That's impossible," She heard the words fill the room, but she wasn't aware 
she had spoken. 

"Not for a minute, my aspiring dancer. You were at the Jumping Cholla Hotel 
in Palm Springs with Tony Gibbs. You went there in his car and you made love 
until almost dawn the next day." 

Sandra's fear was replaced by anger, an anger which made her body tremble as 
though she were still afraid. But she felt strong. So their secret was out! 
So what? Together, she and Tony were strong. They could face any problem, 
any obstacle-even Hester St. Claire. 

"You're nothing more than a filthy peeping Tom," she hissed, drawing away 
from the older woman. "How did you know where to do your snooping?" 

"History was on my side-history and my excellent memory for it." She sighed, 
seemingly at peace with the world, as though she'd accomplished a 
much-sought goal. "Your Mr. Gibbs has been in Palm Springs before." 

Sandra tossed her head. "I don't believe you." 

"It's true. He was there last year." She rose and went to a door which led 
to another room, deeper in the office. She opened it. "Come in, please, 
Connie." 

A red-headed counselor, the girl who had first spoken to Sandra on the porch 
outside that day so long ago, came into the room. She was the girl who had 
first warned Sandra bout Hester. Sandra and Connie Hofstedder had seen each 
other often since then, of course, and they were friends. Now the girl was 
cringing, and her eyes were red. She stood before them, like a child anxious 
to deliver its recitation and hurry away. 

Hester looked from Connie to Sandra, and then back again. "All right, tell 
her." 

The redhead spoke woodenly, as though she were drugged. "Last summer, Tony 
Gibbs and I drove to Palm Springs in his convertible several times, staying 
in various hotels. He made love to me in all of them. When we broke up in 
the fall, he told me he had taken other girls down there." 

"It's a lie!" Sandra leaped to her feet, her eyes wide, her ears not wanting 
to hear any more. 

"You're both in this together. You want to drive us apart." She pointed at 
Connie. "That's it! You're jealous. You want to get him back for yourself." 

Connie shook her head. "I haven't seen him since last September except at 
the camp dance. Now I'm engaged to be married in November, to a boy from 
Denver. I can prove it, if you like." 

"I'd like it if you got out," Hester snapped, pointing at the door. "Right 
now. Go!" 

The redhead turned and went to the door, opening the catch, and going 
outside. She left like a zombie, not looking to left or right. Hester 
followed her and threw the lock home again. 

"How could you make her tell such a lie?" Sandra demanded, shouting into 
Hester's face, her chin forward. 

"It's not a lie. She consented to tell all because she knows I can ruin her 
reputation with what I know about her behavior." Hester shrugged. "It's as 
simple as that." 

Sandra sat down on the old leather couch, her head drooping. She couldn't 
think. She was acting at the command of animal reflexes, clutching at hope 
where she could. "I don't care. Tony never lied to me. He never claimed I 
was the first. So there were others, but none like me. He's practically 
promised he'll propose at the right time." 

Hester sat down next to Sandra, tenderly taking her hand, and she dropped 
her heavy bomb. "When will you get this proposal-after his divorce?" 

Sandra didn't know what she had heard, but she felt the reaction deep in her 
belly. There was a sudden knot which twisted her insides, making them hurt. 
She merely looked at Hester, silently demanding proof. 

"Anthony Gibbs. Assistant professor of English at Santa Barbara. Husband of 
Betty Gibbs and the father of four lovely children, two boys and two girls." 

Sandra's head moved back and forth in protest. 

"But yes, sweetheart. I have the address in my desk. Shall we have the 
telephone operator put us through? Would you like to speak to her, or 
perhaps to the children?" 

Sandra said nothing for more than five minutes. She sat quietly, her hands 
gripping her knees, staring at the far wall. At last she murmured, "I'm 
going to be ill. May I leave now?" 

"No! And you're not going to be sick." Hester commanded. "You only hope you 
will be, so you'll feel better later. You're going to stay right here, 
darling, and do your dance audition for me. Remember how the great Tony 
Gibbs himself interrupted us the last time?" 

"No. I'm going outside." 

"If you do, a number of things will happen." Hester ticked them off with her 
fingers as though she were reporting to a board of directors. "The Treacher 
Foundation will hear of your relationship, and you'll be fired in the 
morning. I'll make certain your friends at school get word about your 
nocturnal activities and, finally, one day next week your parents will get 
an anonymous letter-a fat letter." 

Sandra didn't know why she still cared about protecting herself from 
scandal. Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps she hoped she might still have a 
life to go back to, if she survived this terrible hour. 

"And if I dance for you?" 

Hester turned Sandra's face to her, kissing her on the lips. Sandra could 
feel the older woman trembling with anticipation, with the hope of final 
victory. "Then no one but Connie, Tony, you and I will ever know." 

"So I will dance." She stood, looked down at 

Hester, feeling as drugged as Connie had, knowing she had no will left. 
"I'll call it the dance of the blackmailed whore." 

"Delightful!" Hester leaned back on the couch. "Turn on the radio and 
begin." 

Sandra went to the desk and snapped on the portable. Obediently, it provided 
music, a wild sort of music with a beat which seemed to match the wanton, 
hopeless, black trance into which she had been plunged. 

She danced and danced, doing every step she'd ever learned and improvising a 
good many more, her arms and legs and hips flashing this way and that, on 
and on and on... 

Hester's eyes grew bright with anticipation, and she leaned forward, her 
hands twisting and knotting together and she licked the perspiration from 
her upper lip from time to time. Her breathing became harsh, and Sandra 
could hear it, even over the beat of the drums and the thudding of her own 
broken heart. 

As she danced, Sandra felt her trance-like depression grow, taking control 
of her brain and her body until she was no longer a rational being. She had 
become a zombie, an automaton which could perform certain functions without 
a will of its own. She was, she knew, the slave of Hester St. Claire-the 
woman who held Sandra Albright's future in her hands. 

Sandra's body writhed, back and forth, up and down, in broad, erotic 
circles, snake-like, sensual, until she caught the excitement, drummed it 
against her senses until they accepted it and, therefore, dulled the pain. 

Then Hester was with her, dancing by her side as best she could, taking her 
hands, leading her like the male dancer leading the woman, taking her 
gracefully toward the couch. 

Hester forced her to sit, and she did so, her body still going through the 
motions of the dance. Then Hester coaxed her to lie down, and she did, her 
hips still alive with the rhythm, refusing to stop, like a snake 
which-although dead-will not cease writhing until sunset. 

At last Hester took complete charge and Sandra, reduced to a passionate and 
beautiful young animal, let her do as she wished. The older woman's expert 
hands removed the T-shirt, the shorts and the garments underneath until 
Sandra's body was fully exposed. 

Hester proceeded with her ritual in a cool, calculated way, taking her time, 
not missing a single step in the intricate procedure. It was effective, and 
Sandra's yielding body responded fully, first accepting the stimulation, 
then welcoming it, then anticipating it and, finally, demanding it. 

With Hester probing at the very core of her soul, Sandra's lips opened and a 
stream of foul oaths poured from her throat-horrible, wanton, black words 
and phrases Sandra had not known she knew. 

"Wonderful, darling!" Hester exclaimed. "Now we're learning just what kind 
of candy and cake this little girl is made of. She's so sweet and so 
spoiled. Spoiled rotten!" 

At last she was fully possessed, with Hester down over her, her face close, 
working, taking her, digging into places which had once been so private, so 
sacred. Now they were laid bare and used until they had no more to give. 

There was a blinding flash, and Sandra heard herself whimpering like a 
wounded puppy, minute after minute after minute... 

* * * 

Her hand shook so badly she could barely hold the dime in her fingers. But 
she held on long enough to drop it into the slot. Then she ran her finger 
under the number, her lips moving as she repeated it. 

She dialed and heard the buzzing. A young voice answered and she asked for 
him. She said it was an emergency, that she had to speak to him even if he 
were the referee in a championship volleyball game. 

He came on the line. "Hello?" 

"It's me." 

She heard his intake of breath. "I told you never to call me here." 

"Why not? What have we to hide?" 

He was annoyed now. "Well, what is it? I'm in the middle of something." 

"This is more important than volley ball. I must see you. Today. At once." 

He sensed her strength, perhaps, for he did not protest further. "All right. 
Start walking up the road, and I'll meet you halfway." 

* * * 

They sat in the woods, on a soft blanket of pine needles, the branches from 
a huge circle of trees shutting out the slanting late summer sun. 

She picked up a small cluster of needles, studying the way they grew in 
groups, three or four to a bundle, coming from a single core. Thoughtfully, 
she pulled the needles apart, one by one. She held them close to her face 
and her eyes were slightly crossed. 

"Then she was telling the truth. You are married. You are a father." Her 
voice was flat, dead. 

"Sandra, honey," he replied, his voice soft, pleading. He placed his hand 
over hers and she did not draw away. "God, how I wanted to tell you! How I 
wanted to spill out the whole mess, but I didn't want to ruin a beautiful 
relationship. I admit it, I was weak..." 

She choked on a sarcastic laugh. "Not as weak as I was." 

"Yes. It's my fault. Perhaps you were weak, but at least you were honest." 

She dropped the needles and looked at him. "Did you believe me when I told 
you I loved you?" 

He nodded. "And I wanted to tell you of my love, darling, but I didn't dare. 
I couldn't. Not with things the way they were in Santa Barbara." 

Sbe squinted, studying his face. "How are things in Santa Barbara?" 

"Like a nightmare. You don't know what it's like to feel trapped for the 
rest of your life." He kicked at the earth, apparently shaken anew by 
frustration. "I'd leave her tomorrow if it weren't for the children and my 
position at the college." 

"Yes. It would look bad at the school, wouldn't it? The dean and the 
trustees and your students would be all shook up." 

He nodded. "Of course. When one's a teacher, he's under the magnifying 
glass, so to speak. That's why I wanted us to be discreet here. The tiniest 
hint can be blown up into a mighty rumor and carried all the way back to 
Santa Barbara." 

"For your sake, we'd better call it off, then." 

He stared at her, apparently wondering if she were sincere, then deciding 
she was. He was easily fooled. "You're wonderful, Sandra. To think of how 
much you'd hoped would come of this. Then to have everything-your whole 
world-dashed into a thousand pieces. And you're still a good sport, a 
friend." 

She smiled. "Sure. Why not? I enjoyed myself. Didn't you?" 

Again he studied her, believing her again. "Wonderful fun. I ... hope we can 
get together next summer, too. I'll certainly be thinking of you during the 
winter months." 

"Those cold winter months?" She winked. "With no one around but your wife 
and four little Gibbs tykes?" 

"I'm being sincere, Sandra." 

"So am I, darling, but I don't expect to return to the Treacher Camp next 
summer." She sucked on her lip, wondering why she was playing this game, 
wondering if she were going insane-especially when she didn't know whether 
to laugh or tear her clothes in screaming agony. "I understand Connie 
Hofstedder is returning, however, You won't be completely alone." 

"Connie Hofstedder?" 

She started to laugh. "Good Lord, you don't remember her. Believe me, she 
remembers you and, I'm afraid, I'll remember you, too." 

He nodded. "I'll remember you, too, honey." He touched her hands again, 
squeezing them. "I won't be able to turn you off like a light switch." 

"But you'll recover." 

He nodded. "It won't be easy but, yes, eventually I'll be a whole man 
again." 

She wanted to laugh, to have hysterics. It was like hearing lines from a bad 
soap opera. "I pray that someday I'll be as I once was." 

"You will." He put his fingers on her cheek and let them drop to her breast 
where they wandered, straying about the stretched mounds inside the T-shirt. 
"You're taking it hard because I was your first, that's all. You'll have 
others, and you'll forget." 

"Do you kill your love pains by possessing scads of woman, Tony?" she 
teased, letting him feel her body. She didn't respond. Something inside was 
cold and dead to his touch. 

"I..." He looked into her eyes like a lovesick spaniel. 

"What is it, darling? Speak to me." She patted his head while he fondled 
her. Still she had no sensation. It was as though she were watching him make 
love to someone else. 

"I know one way we can both kill our pain, a way we can part forever, but 
part as friends with only the fondest of memories." 

"How wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Do go on." 

He cocked his head, frowning, perhaps suspecting her again. "You mean it?" 

"Yes, yes. What's your plan ... and I'm hoping you'll say what I think 
you're going to say." 

"We could make love one last time," he blurted. "Here and now, under the 
trees. It would be a fitting goodbye." 

"Wouldn't it, since that sort of exercise has dominated our relationship, 
thanks to me and my insatiable body." She let her eyes widen. "Stand up, 
darling." 

"All right," he said, his voice eager. He stood and she let him pull her to 
her feet. 

"Now close your eyes and don't move. 

He did so, waiting for her, exposed to her calculated plan. 

But the plan abruptly ceased to work... 

She had intended to do something to him; perhaps strike him in the face or 
in the stomach with her fists, with all her power. Or, better yet, she might 
have jammed her knee into his groin, seeking to ruin that part of him which 
had driven her so crazy with desire. 

But Sandra wasn't the girl she thought she was. She couldn't be so cold and 
calculating. She couldn't punish him so deliberately. That would be the 
behavior of an animal and she was a human being-a warm, sensitive woman who 
was incapable of such trickery. 

No, she couldn't mete out that sort of punishment. Tony Gibbs would be 
punished some day, by someone, but not by her. Perhaps ... Just perhaps, he 
would get his punishment when he was forced to return to Santa Barbara and 
his own woman. 

She looked at him, still waiting like a faithful dog, his eyes closed, and 
her own eyes filled with tears so that she couldn't see him clearly. 

Then she turned and ran, as fast as she could, stumbling, falling in her 
frantic haste to get to the road. She heard one brief call from him, and 
then he was out of hearing. She reached the road and turned toward the camp, 
still running, still falling, still sobbing as though her heart would force 
itself into her throat and choke her. 

As she ran, she was glad of one thing. She had regained control of her 
emotions again. She was no longer a robot for Hester, no longer a 
calculating schemer seeking revenge on Tony. 

She was hurt, wounded, bleeding, but she was still human and, thank God, 
still a woman... 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Sandy waited quietly, leaning her back against a tree, while the nine girls 
cleaned up their lunch things and scurried about the camp ground, anxious to 
leave it more neat than when they arrived. The fire rings reminded her of a 
wild beach party ... It seemed like years ago. 

In the past two months, the blonde girl from the slums of Los Angeles had 
emerged as the natural leader of the group and, in many ways, had become 
Sandra's assistant. 

The responsibility had been good for her. She had learned what it meant to 
use authority wisely, she had learned that kindness and patience could get 
results better than screaming and fighting, she had learned that even a 
small measure of personal success can be rewarding. 

Her character had done an almost complete turnabout during her stay at the 
Treacher Camp. If it weren't for Hester St. Claire, she would have begged to 
return the following year, perhaps as a counselor. In the meantime, she 
decided, she was going back to high school and work hard to do something for 
those sagging grades before it was time for college. 

College! Ten weeks earlier the life of a college coed was as remote to Candy 
as a trip to Pluto by skateboard. Now, even though she was a year behind her 
former classmates-thanks to her stub-born refusal to study-she was ready to 
work toJ ward college campus life. She would beef up her final year of high 
school with college-entrance courses-things like algebra, chemistry, 
language and English, instead of sewing, physical education and homemaking. 

Already she had sent for scholarship lists, had found out who was giving 
away how much for students at which schools. She was certain she could make 
it at college if she studied hard, earned a scholarship and worked on the 
side. 

She smiled to herself, tossing her champagne hair in the sun. Candy Simms 
wouldn't have time to be bad any more. 

"We're all ready, Candy," Nola called from the clearing. "Shall we put on 
our packs?" 

"Yes," she called. "We've got to get back so we can clean up before dinner." 

They seemed too young as she watched them struggling into their gear, 
helping one another with straps, picking up escaping knives and forks and 
tucking them back into pockets. The youngest among them was only two years 
younger than Candy, but none, she was certain, had seen life as she had. 

That was what, in a sense, had made her strong today. Her life had been the 
crucible which had made her a leader. She was like a veteran soldier-a 
combat man who had seen it all-with a group of recruits. 

As they hiked through the forest, heading for the camp, Candy thought for 
the hundredth time how much Sandra had helped her. If Sandra hadn't gone to 
bat for a little blonde tramp from L.A. that morning after she got caught in 
the woods, Candy would be back in Los Angeles today-probably washing dishes 
at Juvenile Hall. 

What a wonderful friend the dark-haired girl from UCLA had been. If only she 
could model her life after Sandra's. Sandra was beautiful, intelligent and, 
most important, she was a lady-a true lady with a lady's background. 

She frowned, remembering how she happened to be leading Sandra's little band 
on this particular day. Sandra hadn't been well at breakfast, and Candy had 
found her throwing up behind the tent just before the hike. She had insisted 
that Sandra return to bed and taken the group into the woods. 

Candy was worried about Sandra. For the past two days she'd been behaving 
strangely, as though she were either ill or terribly upset. Perhaps it had 
something to do with Tony Gibbs. Perhaps she was mourning because the summer 
was almost over and they would be parting. 

She shook her head. It wouldn't be much of a parting, really. He would be in 
Santa Barbara and she in Westwood, less than a hundred miles away. 

At any rate, she'd make it her business to get to the bottom of Sandra's 
trouble when they returned to camp. She owed her so much-everything, in 
fact. Sandra's problems were Candy's problems, and that was the way it was 
going to be. 

It was late in the afternoon when they dragged themselves into the tent 
area. It was a hot day, even though it was almost September, and, despite a 
summer of physical conditioning, ten miles in the forest could slow even 
inexhaustible teenage energies. But by the time the dinner bell sounded, 
they'd be as fresh as a bull pen pitcher, ready to down a fifteen 
hundred-calorie, baked ham supper. 

Sandra was not in her bed, and Candy told the others to take their baths, 
change their clothes and stay out of trouble until dinner. Then she began to 
look. 

She found her in the forest, a hundred yards beyond the last tent. Sandra 
sat on a log in a tiny clearing, her chin resting on her fists, staring at 
the ground. Candy sat by her side before Sandra noticed there was company. 

"Oh ... Hello." 

"Hello yourself. Why the hermit act?" 

Sandra shrugged while Candy studied her. She didn't seem physically ill any 
more, but she wasn't ready to run the mile in four minutes, either. 

Sandra cleared her throat. "I had things to think about." 

"What things?" 

"I'd ... rather not say." She turned her head away, her body slumping. 

"I thought we were tell-all buddies, blood sisters and all that jazz." 

"Not about everything." 

Apparently, she planned to say more, but a choking sob cut off her words. 
She let herself sink down on the log, her face on the rough bark, her 
fingers stretched like claws, digging into the wood. 

Sandra cried, her body shaking, retching, writhing in total misery ... 
complete agony. Candy waited, knowing there was nothing she could do until 
it was purged. Perhaps then Sandra would accept help. 

At last it was over, and Sandra sat up, looked at Candy and fell against 
her, burying her face in the blonde girl's breasts, her tears still falling, 
making Candy's T-shirt wet through. This time, when she lifted her face, 
there were no more tears. 

Her eyes were puffy, red-rimmed, and she held a handkerchief to her nose, 
but there was no more moisture to be shed. 

"Candy ... Candy!" 

The poor thing was in desperate trouble, Candy realized at last. It wasn't 
merely the unhappiness of a temporary parting from Tony. Sandra would be 
strong enough to endure that. No, this was something bad. 

"Tell me. I want to help." 

Sandra shook her head. "You can't." 

"Just telling me will help you. I know it will." 

"I'm too ashamed." 

Candy squinted, her lips pursed. "He's dropped you. Is that it? Tony's given 
you the gate." She patted Sandra's sleek hair. "Don't worry. You'll find 
somebody..." 

"No, no, no. It's more. I gave myself to him, time after time, and then 
Hester told me." 

"Told you what?" 

Sandra took a deep breath and the words came in a rush. "He's married. Very 
much married. Four children. Hester stunned me, crippled me with the news. 
Then she ... she..." 

The hairs prickled at the back of Candy's neck and she sat up straight, like 
a tigress ready to pounce. "She what?" 

"She caught me when I was helpless. She threatened to tell everyone of my 
affair if I didn't..." 

"Go on!" 

"If I didn't let her ... take me..." Sandra's voice trailed off to a whisper 
and Candy had to keep her head close to hear. 

She seized Sandra by the shoulders, turning her body roughly so that they 
looked into one another's eyes. "She raped you? She went the route?" 

"I..." The dark head nodded. "Your way of saying it is so incisive, so 
terribly expressive. She ... went ... the ... route." 

Candy got go her feet, feeling strength surge through her body. She rocked 
forward on her toes, her arms also forward like a wrestler preparing to 
apply a hold. "It's going to be all right, Sandra. Finish your cry and get 
back to the tent. You'll be taking the girls to dinner." 

Sandra looked up, her arm raised in a questioning helplessness. "What are 
you going to do? I wouldn't want..." 

"Do as you're told," Candy snapped. "Straighten up and get your fanny back 
to the tent. You have a responsibility to those girls. Now! Move!" 

Sandra got up, hesitated, and then walked off slowly toward the camp. 

Candy watched her go, wishing she could break down and have a good cry 
herself. She couldn't afford that. Not yet. She had to make someone pay for 
crippling Sandra. 

Hester wasn't in the office, but the girl who was messenger for the day told 
Candy that their supervisor was at her tent, dressing for dinner. 

Good, Candy thought, going outside again. What better place tban Hester St. 
Claire's private tent? They would be more alone, apart from the crowd, where 
Hester's screams would not be heard so quickly. 

She crossed the clearing, went through the rows of tents and some distance 
beyond until she came to the tent which was Hester's private domain, a place 
where the supervisor could be alone, free from the responsibility and the 
presence of a hundred-and-fifty girls. 

She stopped outside the screen door and knocked, letting her impatient fist 
pound hard before she remembered her plan. She knocked again, this time with 
proper respect for the privacy of her leader. 

"What is it?" a voice called. "It's Candy Simms." 

"Oh." The voice was flat, suspicious. They hadn't gotten along since the 
night Hester had tried to paw her in the back of Tony Gibbs' office. "I'm 
dressing. See me at the mess hall." 

"I want to talk to you now ... Hester." She dropped a pregnant pause in her 
words before she used the supervisor's first name, and her use of the first 
name was a departure in itself. 

There was no sound for a moment, and then the voice was just a foot away, on 
the other side of the screen. "What do you want to see me about?" 

"It's personal." 

"Personal? How?" 

"Well..." Candy dug her toe in the step and looked down. "Summer's almost 
over, Hester, and I'd sure like to come back next year. I wanted to tell you 
how bad I felt about that trouble I got into with the Archer boy. That 
night, when you tried to be nice to me later on, well, I guess I didn't 
appreciate it very much." 

"You certainly didn't, you little hellion. My lower stomach had a blue mark 
on it for a week." 

Hester's words were snappish, but Candy could hear a note of hope in them, 
as though Candy were now considered a rogue who was ready to repent-to do 
her duty for her leader. 

"Very well," she said at last, and Candy heard the lock snap off. "Come 
inside." 

She opened the door and let it close behind her, keeping her hands hidden 
until she'd set the lock again. Slowly, her eyes grew accustomed to the 
shadowy interior. After the brightness outside it took almost a minute. 

Then she saw the room, the dresser, the vanity with its bench and mirror, 
the bed... 

Hester was seated at her vanity. She had on her white cotton uniform skirt 
and a brassiere and she stared into the mirror, her hands on top of her head 
as she pinned her hair. Her concentration seemed almost complete. 

Candy stepped behind her and waited. At last Hester looked up at her in the 
mirror, and her hands dropped to her lap. "You want to be nice now, so I'll 
allow you to return next year. Just how, Candace Simms, do you intend to be 
nice." 

"By doing something you like." Hester smiled with one corner of her mouth. 
"I knew your type would know the score about ... women like us. And I know 
you're an expert. No girl with a body like yours could be completely 
innocent." 

"You're so right. Shall I show you?" Hester waited, her back straight, her 
hands twisting with anxiety. "Please do." 

Candy leaned over her, dropping a hand over either shoulder, down to her 
breasts. She ran her fingers inside the cups of the brassiere until she was 
able to grip the fullness of each mound, her fingers closing over their 
ends, scissoring, making them seem to inflate like rubber balls. 

"Oh. God...! " 

"You like it, Hester?" 

"What do you think, you little fool?" She had her head thrown back, her eyes 
closed, but Candy wasn't ready to strike yet. She let her hands slide lower, 
into the waist of the skirt, still lower, and Hester began to writhe. like a 
giant snake, she let herself weave back and forth on the stool, her hips 
twisting, her breasts heaving ever faster. 

"This isn't right," she breathed, placing her hands over Candy's. "I'm the 
aggressor, the one who always takes charge. Don't you understand? You're 
reversing the roles..." 

Candy took her hands away and stepped back. "I didn't know it worked that 
way, sweetie," she murmured, her hands behind her back, her breasts jutting 
in a way she knew was driving the hungry supervisor out of her senses. "I 
don't know if I want you to touch me like that. It seems sort of nasty..." 

Hester had turned on her most engaging smile, and her hands were out, palms 
up, begging, pleading for Candy to stop her back-pedaling. Candy kept a few 
feet between them, always shifting, always just out of reach. 

Hester came on, still smiling, her lips moving in the mumble of a woman who 
is just inches from the treasure of a lifetime. "Candy ... Beautiful blonde 
Candy ... Come to your lover-boy ... Your man wants you..." 

Candy let herself step back against the bed and be upset so that she plunged 
down into its softness. Hester was right over her, bending down, her hands 
extended like vulture claws. 

"My knees," Candy breathed, choking with what she hoped was convincing 
passion. "Start with my knees and work up. I love it that way." 

Hester smiled like a witch over a caldron. "You tramp. That's all you are, 
isn't it? A slum bitch who swings both ways." 

"My knees ... please!" Candy pointed. 

"Yes ... Yes. I'll make you give up all men and all other woman." Hester was 
choking. "I'll make you mine for as long as I want you." 

"Touch my knees!" 

The hands, still bent like claws, went to her knees, and the face hovered 
over Candy, exposed. Candy loved the sublime moment when she drew back her 
fist and drove it into Hester St. Claire's face, seeing the blood splatter 
when the blow broke her nose. 

Hester went back and down, and Candy was on her, her tight little body 
straddling the older woman, her fists raining blow after blow, always into 
the face ... determined to make the witch ugly for life... 

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

Sandra stood on the concrete steps, blinking in the sunlight, looking down 
at herself. After so long, she felt strange in a cotton print dress which 
was not white. And her high heels were a challenge. She wobbled in them like 
a teenager at her first dance. 

But she had things to do, and worrying about how she looked or walked wasn't 
important-not now. 

She began to move down the street, crossing the intersection without 
bothering to be careful, so that traffic stopped and honked with anger. She 
went several blocks before she came to another large building. She went 
inside and suddenly it was very clean and quiet. 

People rustled in their starched uniforms as they walked past and she looked 
after them for a few moments before she went to the reception desk. A girl 
in a white uniform looked up, smiled at Sandra's pleasant face, and asked, 
"May I help you?" 

"I'd like to see Hester St. Claire." 

The girl flipped through an index of cards, her fingers moving rapidly. She 
pulled one out. "I'm afraid she's not to have visitors." 

"I must see her." 

She took a closer look at Sandra. "You're a member of the family?" 

"Yes, her sister, and it's urgent family business. 

At last, she was given the number, and she walked along a gleaming white 
corridor until she came to the room. She opened the door and went inside. 

Surprisingly, the bed was not occupied. Hester was sitting by the window, a 
blanket about her knees, looking out. She wore a faded blue robe and her 
hair was a torn tangled mess. 

Sandra cleared her throat and at last she turned, startled. "Oh, I didn't 
see you!" 

Sandra wouldn't have recognized her. A wide swatch of tape ran across her 
nose and was anchored to each cheek. Both eyes were blue-black. There were a 
number of scratches on her chin and throat. 

Sandra crossed the room and stood in front of her. "How are you, as terrible 
as you look?" 

She sighed, looking tired, defeated. "Not really. A nose fracture, cuts and 
bruises everywhere else. No concussion and no permanent damage, thank 
heavens." 

"I was afraid you might be worse. They were awfully stuffy about visitors." 

Hester shrugged. "I wanted to be by myself with no one here except my 
husband..." Sbe looked outside again. "And he hasn't come." 

"That's a shame!" Sandra replied, wishing she could feel compassion for 
Hester St. Claire, but her words came out as sarcasm. "It doesn't surprise 
me. I'm only here because I want something." 

Hester looked down, at herself. "I'm a captive audience, but I'm not giving 
anything away." 

"I want you to see that Candy is released from Juvenile Hall, and I want it 
done promptly." Sandra was pleased at the way her words snapped out with 
authority. 

"You're insane! I wouldn't help that she-wolf for one second." She tried to 
smile, but the gesture was replaced by a grimace of pain. "I hope she rots 
in a cell until she's sixty-five and ugly." 

Sandra shook her fingers under the older woman's nose. "If she does, you 
won't be much better off." 

"You're boring me. Please leave." 

"If I leave now," Sandra hissed, "it will be to go to the Treacher 
Foundation and tell them what you did to me. Then I'll tell your husband all 
about it and then I'll write a few letters to some show-business people. You 
won't be worth much as a human being, a camp director or an agent." 

Hester's blotchy eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare!" 

"No? You had me in the same position once, and I don't mind turning the 
tables." She shook her head. "I'm not here to threaten or beg. I'm giving 
you an order. I want you to call the police. Tell them your fight with Candy 
was honest and personal between you two. Tell them you provoked the whole 
shabby spectacle. Then tell them you aren't pressing charges-that you want 
her released." 

Hester glared, hate spitting from her ugly eyes. "I'm not going to be 
blackmailed by anyone of your..." 

"Yes you are," Sandra interrupted, "because you know I mean it. I'll do as I 
threatened if you don't pick up that telephone in one minute. Call the 
police and say the right things. If that doesn't convince them, invite them 
over. Whatever you do, get Candy out of jaill" 

Hester's words dripped with acid. "If you do this to me, you can forget I 
offered to help you get a start in show business." Her expression changed, 
and she attempted to smile again, this time showing Sandra a gap where a 
tooth was missing. "On the other hand, I could do a great deal for you. It 
isn't easy for an unknown to break in at the studios." 

"I'll manage in my own way. If I haven't the talent, I don't want your help. 
If I have the talent, I'll be able to make myself known to the right 
people." Sandra believed what she was saying. She wasn't going to drive 
herself crazy with agony over ambition for a show-business career. Not any 
more. There were too many other good things in life to be appreciated. 

"I'd kill..." 

"Stop arguing and get on that telephone!" Sandra snapped, stamping her foot. 

Hester studied Sandra's face for a long moment. At last, she got up from the 
chair and, walking like an old woman, went to the night table by the bed. 
She picked up the instrument and dialed once. 

She waited, holding the receiver to her ear, wincing when she accidentally 
touched her cheek. At last she spoke. "Operator, I want the police... 

* * * 

The three girls sat on Sandra's bunk. Sandra reclined at the head with a 
pillow propped behind her back, Candy at the other end, her legs tucked 
under her, Nola in the middle, leaning her back against the wall, her legs 
outstretched. 

Their luggage was stacked on the floor, close to the door, a lonely, sad 
sight. The tent and the rest of the camp were unusually quiet. Almost all 
the Treacher girls had already been taken away, and only a handful waited 
for the last bus, which was to arrive at any minute. 

Summer was over. It was Labor Day and time to break camp. Already, a 
work-crew was carting furniture from the vacant tents, storing it in the 
main building for the winter. Already, the breeze that rustled through the 
tall pines carried a cool hint of frost to come. The sun was lower in the 
sky, its heat noticeably less intense than only a few days earlier. 

Sandra's face was drawn with weariness, saddened by her thoughts. She had 
come to this place ten weeks before as a naive coed who never had fallen 
from her pillar of virtue. Now she was off her pedestal. She had fallen in 
the worst way-with a man who took her and then tore her heart out, and with 
a woman who had made sex a vile, unnatural thing. 

Tony would be in Santa Barbara by now, perhaps suffering with a wife who 
could not please him. For him, possibly, it would be a long, chilly winter. 

She knew that Hester was being amply punished. Not only had Candy beaten her 
senseless, but now this other thing had happened ... something far worse. 

She looked at Candy. "I suppose it had to get out about Hester. She took too 
many chances to escape discovery for long." 

Candy raised her eyebrows and shrugged in agreement. "That's for sure. Most 
of the girls knew she was a dyke from the opening gun. So when the fight 
upset the applecart, somebody was bound to blow the whistle." 

Sandra nodded, and so did Nola. What a shame that such a young thing as 
Nola, so sweet and unspoiled, should be exposed to such a scandal, Sandra 
thought, looking into the girl's eyes. 

"You say somebody wrote home about the fight and told her parents all about 
Hester's reputation around the camp?" 

"In spades," Candy muttered. "It so happens that the father who read the 
letter is a judge in San Francisco. Well, he wasn't going to have his little 
girl in a camp run by a bull dyke. He got on the horn right away, straight 
to the Treacher Foundation trustees in L.A." 

"They didn't know about Hester." 

Candy shook her head. "Not hardly, old girl! They couldn't believe it until 
they went to the hospital in Riverside and gave her the third degree." She 
grinned. "It's lucky you got to her first and had me sprung from the cooler, 
otherwise you would have been fresh out of blackmail ammunition." 

They heard a motor and then the squeal of brakes. "Here comes the ticket to 
freedom," Candy said. 

Sandra looked at the young girl. "Nola, you go on ahead. Tell the driver 
we'll be along as soon as we collect our things." 

Nola hopped from the bed, picking up her suitcase. "Don't be too long," she 
said over her shoulder. Then she was gone. 

Candy and Sandra looked at one another for some time, saying nothing, 
knowing that each had found a true, lifelong friend. Sandra extended her 
hand and Candy took it, their fingers squeezing in a firm grip. 

"What will you do now?" Sandra asked quietly. "And you'd better have the 
right answers." 

"Sure." Candy wiggled her hips seductively. "The old teenage terror of 
sex-ridden Los Angeles is dead. A nice, clean innocent Candace Simms has 
been born in her place. No Dropoutsville for this chick. I'm an honor 
student from here on it. Then it'll be college and, if I keep my nose clean, 
a nice respectable husband on the horizon." 

Sandra nodded. "Be sure you pick him for love, Candy. Not for money or 
position or anything that isn't really important over the course of a 
lifetime." 

"I'm not so square I don't know a wrong from a right guy, counselor." She 
wrinkled her nose in a reassuring smile. "I'll get along fine." 

Sandra got up and went to the door, staring through the screen, and the 
silence was heavy. Somehow, she didn't want to go out to the bus. Not just 
yet. 

"Sandra?" 

"Hm?" 

"What about you?" 

"Oh, I don't know." Her voice was lifeless, without a spark of youth or 
innocence. "Perhaps I'll chuck it all and go home to dad's mill as a 
secretary or something." 

Candy got up and came to her, putting her arm around her waist, and they 
leaned their heads together, looking out at the trees and the deserted, 
flapping tents. The bus tooted its horn. 

"Listen," Candy snapped, whirling and gripping Sandra by the arms. "You're 
down now, honey, but you've got to come back. I know a man and a woman did 
you dirt, but if you're a good little pussycat, you'll fight. If you give 
up, you're no better than them. You'll just keep running downhill until 
you're worse off than I ever was." 

Sandra's eyes filled, and she shook her head. "How can I fight when I have 
no heart?" 

"Damn it!" Candy snapped, shaking Sandra hard so that her hair flew. "You 
lectured me on how to lift myself from the scum, how to get up and walk on 
two feet. If you can't do it now, I suppose that means you were feeding me a 
pack of filthy lies." 

Sandra stared. 

"Is that right, counselor?" Candy cried. "Were those lies about morality and 
education and ambition? Should I give up like you? Should I be a quitter, 
too?" 

Slowly, a smile curved Sandra's lips, and there was a hint of twinkle in her 
eyes. "You're a tough nut, aren't you? A slugger from the slums." 

"You bet your fanny I am, and I'm not going to give up on my old buddy." She 
made a fist and tapped Sandra softly on the side of the chin. "What do you 
say, coach? Do we ride to the top together?" 

Sandra picked up her bags and waited for Candy. They stepped out into the 
cool breeze, walking briskly toward the bus. All the way back to the city 
Sandra thought of a phone call she was going to make. She had to say the 
right things, and she composed her message carefully. 

She was going to call Bobby. She'd invite him over to her apartment, and if 
he wanted to take her to a drive-in movie, that was all right, too. 

She needed him now, needed and wanted him near her-desperately. 

 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

Hester looked around the tent, making a last check of the emptiness. Yes, 
everything was in the car. There was really no reason to stay any longer. 
She was leaving the place clean, with everything picked up and put in order. 
That was the least she could do after what had happened. 

Tired, she put her hand to her face, feeling only a vestige of pain when she 
rubbed her eyes. That was the way it was now. She felt the fading throb only 
when her body was weary. 

Two weeks had worked wonders for her battered features. The bruises were 
gone and so were the scratches. The tape had been removed from her nose and, 
except for having to be careful not to bump it by accident, everything 
seemed to be all right. 

Except that everything was not all right. Things were absolutely miserable. 
She was miserable. 

She had lost everything-her job at camp, her effectiveness as an agent, her 
home and, almost certainly, her husband. He hadn't called, hadn't come to 
see her at the hospital. 

She had lost even more. She was no longer human. The great wave of hate 
which rose up against her at the time of the scandal had cut deeply-far more 
deeply than Candy's fists. She had been cut to the soul and exposed, to 
herself especially, for the "thing" she'd become. 

There was no way to come back. Homosexuality was like a cancer as far as 
society was concerned. No one could be "cured." The stigma was always there, 
far worse than the shaved heads of the miserable wartime prostitutes who had 
collaborated with the enemy. 

She walked from the tent and stood on the step, looking about the camp. The 
wind sighed in the trees, as though keening a mournful dirge for Hester St. 
Claire. The wooden sign over the gate creaked to and fro, its sound cutting 
into her vitals like a dull knife. It was a grinding, rasping sound, sad 
with the message that the winds of winter were upon them. 

The tents were gone except for hers, and only plank floors and skeleton-like 
frames stood among the dark forest shadows. She stepped to the ground, the 
dust swirling about her ankles as she walked toward the car. 

She reached it and looked inside. Her bags were stacked on the seat, along 
with her typewriter and the camp ledgers. She'd return them to the Treacher 
Foundation, and that chapter of her life would be closed forever. 

She put her hand on the door, ready to drive away and never see this place 
again. Despite the recent awful memories, she would always have, she loved 
the Treacher Camp for Girls. Her willing acceptance of the supervisor post 
each year had not been completely selfish. 

She had hurt some girls along the way, but she hoped she had helped others 
by exposing them to the better things of life. If only-she choked back a 
sob-if only she hadn't weakened and allowed herself to teach others so many 
filthy things... 

She heard the car and opened her eyes, lifting her head. It was turning in 
the gate, and it looked familiar. The driver looked familiar, too. Somehow 
the silhouette in the shadows was like home. 

"George!" she cried. It was her husband. 

She waited while he braked the car and climbed out stiffly. He came to her 
and stopped, looking into her face, saying nothing. 

At last he cleared his throat, wiping his hand across his mouth. "I wasn't 
going to come. I never wanted to see you again. But I'm here, Hester. I'm 
here for two reasons. I pray there's a chance we can do something for you. 
I've talked it over with friends at the hospital, and they're anxious for 
you to come in for a preliminary examination." 

She nodded. "I'm willing to try." She forced herself to look into his face, 
choking back her shame. "What's the other reason?" 

"It's selfish," he murmured. "I'm here because, despite the bad times, home 
is an empty place without you. Come back with me, and we'll try to fill it 
again." He coughed. "Get inside, I'll drive us back to town." 

The car disappeared around a curve, and the only noise was the creaking 
sign. Somehow its sound seemed less lonesome now.
