Mother's Fruit
by George Anthony


CHAPTER ONE 

His fingers circled his pulsating organ, marveling at the feel of its 
hardness, its thickness, its blood-filled veins. Light beads of sweat shined 
on his forehead and upper lip. Quickly he took his hand away and stared, 
fascinated, at his cock as it jumped up, lifted from his belly, then fell 
solidly back, the massive, hard, slightly tilted, mushroom-shaped head 
thumping against his belly button. At the urethra opening he saw a clear 
drop of moisture form. 

He held his breath, listening to the sounds of the loving couple in the room 
next to his. Quietly he got out of the bed and made his way to the door, his 
big cock making slapping sounds against the insides of his thighs. He opened 
the door wider, then stepped back and checked the alignment from his bed to 
the slightly opened door of the other bedroom. He returned to the bed. He 
checked again. Yes, he could see quite clearly now. He lay naked on top of 
the bed, his head twisted toward the open door. 

Rick Lundman felt his prick getting stiffer and harder. He knew he shouldn't 
look-that it was wrong, lustful-but he couldn't pull his eyes away. His nuts 
ached with prolonged excitement. He could see the man's big hand slowly 
travel down the woman's back and knead the softness of her buttocks. He saw 
him draw her up to him and in one swift motion kiss her. Now he could see 
the man grasping her massive breasts, his fingers rubbing the large, wide 
brown nipples. 

Rick took hold of his straining cock and pumped slowly, feeling his 
heavy-hanging testicles jog up and down with the movements he made. His eyes 
remained glued to the couple in the other bed. He could see the woman reach 
down and take hold of the man's mighty bulge. What was she doing now? Was 
she going to...? Yeah! She was, all right! He pumped harder as he watched 
her inch her way down, down past the man's hairy chest and belly, down past 
his hips, down to caress his erection with her eager lips. He watched her 
head bob up and down between his thighs, saw the glazed look in the man's 
eyes. Rick's hand pumped furiously. All at once his cock sprang away from 
him and thumped hard against his belly. He opened his hand and put the palm 
of it against the underside of his shaft and rubbed it against his stomach. 
With his other hand he caressed his ponderous balls, admiring the feel of 
their silky softness. 

What was the man doing? He'd maneuvered himself in such a way that his face 
was between the woman's thighs. 

Oh, shit, thought Rick. Oh, shit, shit-he's going to eat her. Again his hand 
beat down harder, his thumb and finger rubbing against the puffy head, 
across the corded veins. He pumped hard and fast, hearing the hard sucking 
sounds the woman made, seeing the hollows of her cheeks, the eager mouth 
gorging itself on the purple-veined cock. He felt his throat go dry and he 
could actually hear the heavy pounding of his own heart. It sounded like the 
beat of a tom-tom. His head buzzed with the sounds of mouths sucking and 
lips nibbling flesh. He wanted to be closer-close enough so he could touch 
them, smell their lustful bodies bathed in lovers' sweat. 

Quietly, with the instinct of a beast of prey he swung his legs from the bed 
and carefully crossed the room to the hallway. He poised himself on his 
hands and knees at the doorway to the bedroom and peered in. 

The man pulled away from the woman's mouth, dragging out his long 
cock-out-out until Rick could see the tip of the blood-inflated head, could 
see her tongue run along the man's shaft, then her head pull back in 
startled surprise as the man's tongue thrust deep into her yawning cunt. A 
moan, deep and guttural came from her throat. Rick could hear the loud 
sucking noise as the walls of her crack opened and closed over the man's 
extended, lapping tongue. 

"Lick me," she cried, "Lick me good." 

Rick saw the woman arch her body in a way that brought the man even further 
into her. The end of the man's nose was touching her pink clitoris, Rick was 
sure of it. He could hear the man's breath come hot and fast. 

"You got a nice, tight, warm pussy," the man whispered between her legs. 

"Fuck me!" she suddenly screamed. "For God's sake, fuck me!" Her body 
swayed, intoxicated with passion. 

Rick took hold of his throbbing erection and pumped wildly. The thought hit 
him that should he come he'd spurt all over the rug. But he didn't much 
care. Screw the rug! 

Now the woman fell under the man, her mouth open, and enveloped his hairy 
testicles. She took both balls and her cheeks puffed out as though she were 
eating a mouthful of marshmallows. She pulled back as though she were going 
to rip the man's balls from his body. The man pulled his head from between 
her legs and tapped her on the back of the head. She opened her mouth and 
set his balls free. They fell to the sheet. 

'Come on, baby, I'm gonna shoot you a load." He settled on his knees, his 
massive member standing out straight from him like a saber. 

She looked down at him, lustful expectation written across her face, 
shuddering, gasping for breath. Slowly she settled back against the pillows, 
her knees up in the air. The man reached out and parted her knees, aimed his 
extended erection at her, and slowly brought it to her. 

Rick studied the cock. It was huge, really huge, and thick, the blue veins 
clearly out-lined. Though it was uncircumcised, the head just about made it 
out of the flimsy flesh that covered it. 

"Want it now?" the man asked, rubbing the tip of her cunt with his rounded 
head. 

Without answering, the woman opened her legs wider, exposing her dark pubic 
region, and the man, taking hold of his throbbing cock, guided it to the 
quivering hole. The woman was breathing hard, as, mightily, the man thrust 
his hips forward, sending the inflated head deep into her. 

She screamed as the searing cock sank into her. The man wiggled his hips and 
Rick could see the heavy balls pounding fiercely against her buttocks. One 
more thrust and the man was able to jab his massive thickness another inch 
into her. Inch by inch it plunged, another thrust, and the teeming cock sank 
to the hilt. 

"Jesus," Rick muttered licking his lips, "Jesus, look at that!" Her cunt is 
wrapped around that cock ... pulling ... hugging ... squashing ... 
squeezing. Her curvaceous hips are convulsing like she's trying to free 
herself of his giant penis ... like it's burning her insides. Rick's hand 
beat his meat unmercifully. 

The woman's scream rang out and the man silenced her with a kiss, his hand 
reaching out and grabbing at a breast, the thick fingers massaging while his 
hips pounded hard into her. Then the man fell on top of her and Rick could 
see her breasts flatten out under the man's hairy chest as he began a slow 
movement, sawing his powerful body over hers. Lifting his buttocks the man 
slowly pulled out his fuck rod. Now all that was in her cunt was the puffy 
tip of the head of his cock. Teasingly he jabbed it in, but just enough to 
make her thrust forward to beg for all of it. He laughed a coarse kind of 
grunt with each attempt she made at grabbing his vibrating stick. Then he 
held down her hips and held his body quite still over her. With a grunt he 
sank his dick so hard and deep into her that she cried out. "You fuckin' 
sonofabitch!" He laughed, took hold of both her breasts, and dug his fingers 
into their softness. Now he was suddenly gentle with her. She seemed content 
with the probing cock, deep in her now, and suddenly it seemed to touch off 
a new desire. Her body quivered with delight and her hips met his in hard, 
thrusting movements. 

"Oh," she cried. "Harder ... harder. I want every inch of you!" 

Rick's eyes opened wide and he felt the perspiration slide down the nape of 
his neck. He inhaled deeply through his mouth. 

There was the sound of flesh slapping flesh as the couple increased their 
tempo. 

Rick masturbated harder, feeling himself near. If only he could time it so 
that he could come with them. If only they would hurry ... he was so close 
... his load was ready ...! 

Suddenly he heard the man moan. "Baby, baby, I'm boiling-I'm ... so near." 

The man's ready, Rick thought excitedly, ready to shoot his hot load of 
creamy sperm into that juicy cunt. And she must be ready, too. Ready to let 
her juices flow. Rick's prick stiffened even more with excitement and he 
could control himself no more. The head of his hot cock swelled up and 
erupted. His come spurted, hitting the wall. There was no end to it. The 
excited cock jerked spasmodically as he poured his thick come into his 
cupped hand. He heard the harsh, strangling cry escape from the woman's 
lips, saw her body jerk crazily under the man. Then the man gave out a 
guttural grunt and they both fell back on the bed, their melting loins limp, 
spent, and complete. Exhausted, they lay quietly. 

Rick quickly got to his feet. He glanced down at the rug to make sure he 
hadn't spilled himself. He hadn't. He made a mental note to return and clean 
the spot on the wall where he'd spurted. Then, cupping his hand around his 
still hardened shaft, he ran quickly into the bathroom. He washed himself, 
then quickly dressed. He could hear them talking. 

"Hurry up and get dressed," she said. There was silence and again she spoke. 
"You heard me, move. Get dressed. He should be home any minute now. I don't 
want him to find you here. How in hell would I explain it?" 

"Okay," the man grunted. "Okay, don't rush me." 

Rick got into his jacket, then walked out of the bedroom, closing the door 
behind him. He quietly made his way past the other bedroom door and ran down 
the stairs. At the bottom, he stepped inside a closet, leaving the door 
slightly ajar for him to see. 

There were murmuring sounds from upstairs, then he heard the man say, "See 
you next week, Susan. And don't forget. 'Bye." 

Finally the man appeared, stopped at a mirror to tie a knot in his tie, then 
turned and left the house. Rick looked about. There was nobody in view. He 
waited a few minutes, then stepped out of the closet, opened the front door, 
and slammed it hard. He looked up at the stairs. She was standing there, a 
smile on her face. 

"Hi, Rick. I heard the door slam, thought it might be you." 

He climbed the stairs. With no sign of emotion he lifted his hand and 
greeted her. 

"How was your day?" she asked, stepping aside to let him pass. 

He shrugged his shoulders, then noticed the liquor on her breath. 

"Cat got your tongue?" There was a suspicion of a smirk on her face. 

"It was okay," he said. He walked to his room, took down a small suitcase 
and packed; a shirt, a pair of bathing trunks, two pairs of socks, sneakers, 
a comb, a toothbrush, paste, an electric shaver, after shave lotion. He 
threw in a checkbook last, then snapped the latch shut. When he returned to 
the hallway she was still standing at the head of the stairs. 

"Going somewhere?" 

"Laguna Beach," he said, seeing by her look that she seemed pleased he was 
leaving. Sure, he thought, I'll bet. "Alone?" she asked. "Yeah." 

"Seems to me a handsome nineteen-year-old boy like you would have a flock of 
gals he could call for a nice weekend at the beach. Why are you going 
alone?" 

"I want sun," he said, "not sex!" 

He saw the twitch in her eye and the way her jaw muscles clenched. Then, 
having complete control once more she fixed a smile on her face. "You boys, 
my, my!" she said. "Are you taking the Cad?" 

"No, the Rolls," he answered. "Mind?" 

"No. Of course not." 

He looked at her. She'd been to the hairdresser; he noticed her red hair 
looked redder. He looked at her breasts, the same fantastic, opulent, 
mother-of-pearl tits he'd seen naked moments ago. Now they were held in, 
covered by the silk dress she wore, but he could still see the outline of 
her huge nipples. He lowered his eyes and walked past her. 

She stopped him with a touch on the shoulder. "You in such a rush you won't 
even stop to give me a kiss?" 

Slowly he turned. He felt his stomach muscles contract. He hesitated, then 
walked to her. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips against her cheek. He 
could smell the sex of her. His lips tightened, and when he spoke it was 
almost a groan. "Mother-I-I-!" 

"What, dear?" 

"Nothing-nothing at all." He turned from her. "Money?" she asked, suddenly 
concerned. "If you need any, I-" He cut her off abruptly. 

"No, mother, that's something I never ever need." He sighed deeply, glared 
at her, then quickly turned and ran down the stairs and out the door to his 
car. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

Paul Harris held the paint brush in midair, squinted from the sun, and 
studied the canvas in front of him. He was getting it, he thought. It was 
really quite a beautiful study. He'd captured the youth beautifully. His 
eyes scanned down the hill overlooking the motel. The naked boy hadn't 
stirred in over twenty minutes. If he would only remain still that way Paul 
thought for sure he could complete the painting today. What a stroke of luck 
having a subject enclosed in the motel's private patio that adjoined the 
guest room. It was rare that anyone used these patios. Most of the guys who 
came to Laguna Beach preferred the pool or the beach area where they could 
mingle freely with the crowd. But this Adonis, for some reason, chose 
seclusion. 

Paul felt the blood rush to his cock. The boy was extremely handsome; thick 
jet black hair, broad shoulders, long graceful legs below an incredibly 
narrow waist. He was deeply tanned, but the color was a rust, a copper; he'd 
never seen a tan quite like this boy's. And those lips, he thought, those 
beautiful, full, sensuous lips, and that straight, strong, firm jaw. He'd 
caught all of that on canvas, and now he was working on the boy's thighs. 
His eyes locked between the boy's spread legs, at the dark, wiry thicket of 
hair. He could clearly see the thick, circumcised cock. It was nearly as big 
as his own. Of course, it was limp, and it was hard to tell what it would 
look like with an erection, but Paul was more than sure it would stretch to 
at least eight inches, perhaps more. 

He touched the brush to the canvas, made a circle, then carefully filled it 
in with black paint. He made wide strokes of the oil, then jabbed the brush 
in. He smiled. Looks just like black, curly, pubic hair. Again he jabbed his 
brush into the canvas; each time he did the brush spread out and made curly 
designs. His eyes returned to the youthful body and scanned the boy's legs, 
stopping at his crotch. He paused and leaned back against the tree. "Good 
Christ," he whispered, eyeing the boy's testicles. They hung loosely between 
his spread thighs, warmed by the hot sun, the well-shaped, limp member 
lazily resting to the side against his muscular inner thigh. "Too much," he 
sighed, running his hand through his thick head of blond hair. "Too goddamn 
much!" 

He put the brush aside and wiped his hands against his Levi's. With veiled 
eyes, he stared, thinking of what he'd like to do to the young boy. 

First, of course, he'd get that young dick nice and hard-real hard by 
playing with it, feeling the head, outlining it with his fingers; all the 
time kissing him. Then he'd take those gorgeous lips and force his tongue 
past the hard teeth and into the warm wetness of his mouth. Then he'd bite 
down gently on his tongue and savor the kid's sweet taste. Then he'd push 
his own cock against the boy's belly and lean down and nip at those brown 
nipples. Man, I would drive that young kid crazy-and I'm just the guy to do 
it. Then he'd wash the kid's navel with his tongue and sink his lips into 
that black, curly forest. It probably smelled good, oily with a sweetly 
masculine scent. And that cock, it must smell only like a young dick could 
smell. Then he'd lick the big balls, run his tongue around the base of that 
gorgeous cock, swirl his tongue madly over and around the blood-filled head. 
... Jezuz ... I can almost taste that young cock in my mouth right now. 

Paul got to his feet feeling the tightness in his throat and chest. The 
stirring in his groins made his head spin. "Hell," he mumbled, "he's too 
fucking much!" He picked up the brush and was about to paint some more when 
he decided not to. He threw down the brush and returned to the house. 

Paul Harris's place was a small, one-bedroom bungalow. The living room was 
the largest room and contained a fireplace and shelves stocked with books, 
most of them paperbacks. Paintings crowded the walls from top to bottom, 
mostly canvases Paul had painted. The furniture consisted of a long couch, 
which contained a hideaway bed, a coffee table, an early-American rocker, a 
wicker chair, and a milking stool. There was a color television set in the 
comer of the room, with huge rubber plants sitting in large earthen jars on 
either side of the set. The bedroom was tiny and housed a double bed, a 
bureau, a desk and chair. One entire wall was mirrored, as was the ceiling. 
Paul had done it himself. It was a bad job. Most of the gold-tinted squares 
of mirrors had been unevenly placed and much of the underceiling and wall 
showed through. A huge oil of a naked boy holding a bow and arrow dominated 
the wall facing the bed. The kitchen was narrow, small, dark, and even with 
just the refrigerator, stove, and sink it was overcrowded. He paid 95 
dollars a month for this. 

Paul poured himself a glass of beer and drank it down. He opened another 
can, then walked to the window and looked out. The boy was still there. Paul 
frowned, for suddenly the lad raised himself from the chaise lounge and 
turned over on his stomach. Was it Paul's imagination or did the boy look up 
without hesitation to the spot he'd just left? Paul continued to watch. Yes, 
the boy was staring up. Paul's breath caught in his throat. The boy had 
known all along that he was being watched, being used as a model. 

Again the boy looked up, his eyes drifting to the easel, then to the house, 
looking for the painter. Suddenly he got to his feet and walked to the fence 
for a better look. 

Paul swallowed hard. Okay, he thought, two can play at the same game. 
Obviously this kid was looking for it. Well, he'd found the right guy. Paul 
finished the beer, then quickly got out of his clothes and threw them down 
on top of the bed. He looked at his nakedness in the mirror. He knew he was 
good-looking and he knew he had a good body. Lately it'd been difficult 
getting the young ones, the tricks he liked. When there was the possibility 
of getting one, it made him so excited that he felt himself dripping. Naked, 
he returned outside to the easel under the tree. Without looking down at the 
boy he took a cigarette from the pack on the patio table, lit it, then 
leaned back against the tree, showing his body, all six feet of it, to good 
advantage. 

From the comer of his eye he could see the boy looking up. Paul's heart 
pounded hard, and he found it difficult to breathe. He turned his head 
slightly and looked down the forty-foot drop to the boy. He could feel his 
cock, which hung far down his inner thighs, begin to spring to life. The 
passionate longing for the boy was almost unbearable. 

The next instant, they turned full face to each other and frankly examined 
each other's body. The boy's cock thickened and rose in little jerks. It was 
a big one all right, thought Paul, his own cock beginning a convulsive 
rhythm of its own. Now there was no need to play games. 

He walked closer to the edge of the hill, aware of his own throbbing cock 
standing out full and straight from his body. He looked down and ran his 
tongue over his lips, staring hard at the boy's massive erection. Their eyes 
met and held. Then quickly the boy turned and disappeared into the motel 
room. Moments later he reappeared wearing bathing trunks. He unlocked the 
wooden gate which led to the pool area, looked around, and, seeing he was 
not being watched, climbed over the wooden fence. 

Paul watched him climb the hill inch by inch, his eyes glittering 
expectantly. In moments the boy had managed to come up to him, then, without 
a word, looked at the canvas. He studied it for a long while, then turned 
and said, "Pretty good." 

Paul smiled. "Glad you like it," he said. "Think it resembles you?" 

"I guess. But you haven't finished it, have you?" he said, looking at the 
canvas. 

"No, I've not quite gotten your cock," he whispered. He felt the blood 
quickening in his loins; the boy's erection under the trunks was quite 
apparent. To hell with it, he thought, what've I got to lose. Then he said, 
"I'll bet that tastes as good as it looks," his eyes fastened to the boy's 
crotch. 

The young man stared eagerly at Paul's erection. "I do that to you?" he 
asked. 

"Hell, yeah," Paul quickly replied. 

The boy's lips parted in a smile. "You really are one hot sonofagun, aren't 
ya?" 

Paul made the first move. He went to the boy, leaned over, and brushed his 
lips across the boy's. "Yeah, kid, I'm hot, real hot-and you did it to me." 

The boy swayed, then opened his mouth, asking to be kissed. 

Paul's heart raced at the smell of the boy's maleness. Again he kissed him, 
this time with a firmer pressure, feeling the boy's lips part to make room 
for his tongue. He embraced the young man tightly, his great cock pushing 
into the boy's flat belly. He pulled back and smiled, took the kid's hand, 
and said, "Hey, my name's Paul." 

"Rick," the boy whispered, his eyes glued to Paul's hardness. 

Paul laughed. "What a time to stop for introductions," he said. 

"Why stop," the other whispered, then suddenly sprang forward and fell to 
his knees. He opened his mouth and took Paul's cock. 

Paul groaned and swayed at the feel of the warm mouth over his shaft, the 
smooth tongue swirling, the full lips wetly sliding up and down the length 
of his rod. He stared down with glazed eyes at the bobbing head. "Suck, 
baby, suck it good," he said, his hands shooting down to caress Rick's head. 
He heard the boy struggle for breath. "Oh, man, like that, yeah, like that," 
Paul cried out, falling back against the tree. His hips made a slight 
movement, and he shoved his dick deeper into the boy. He heard Rick gag, 
pull back, swallow hard, then continue his sucking. Paul felt himself being 
sucked further into Rick's mouth, he sighed, felt himself tremble. The boy 
was making a feast of his cock and he felt himself near-damn near. His 
fingers tightened around Rick's hair and he moaned, "No, Rick, don't-no 
more-I don't want to come yet!" 

The boy stopped sucking, pulled away, and shot Paul a look. 

"You, Rick," Paul whispered. "You now." 

Rick lowered his trunks, revealing the texture of his thighs that was 
burnished from the sun. Paul stared hard, his heart wildly pounding as he 
saw more and more of Rick's huge erection. Finally the trunks fell to the 
boy's ankles and Paul saw the released cock spring forward. Up closer it was 
even more beautiful. God, thought Paul, it's the most perfectly shaped whang 
I've ever seen. I couldn't catch that on canvas if I tried. It was enormous, 
far bigger than his own. The head was a deep crimson, smooth and swollen and 
throbbing impatiently. Paul got to his knees, reached behind, and grasped 
Rick's small, firm buttocks, bringing him closer. The boy's gorgeous cock 
almost touched Paul's lips. Paul felt his hands trembling. He'd never held 
such a beautiful boy in his arms before. This lad was perfection, from the 
top of his head to the tips of his toes. He tilted his head, leaned down, 
and took Rick's big balls in his mouth. Pounding waves of ecstasy shot 
through him at the feel of the young spheres on the heat of his anxious 
tongue. He tasted of them, feeling his own cock swell almost to bursting, 
then released his hold on them, anxious for Rick's penis. He brought the 
thick meat to his mouth and kissed the smooth head, then rolled the 
throbbing hot flesh over his face, feeling dizzy at the marvelous scent that 
hit his nostrils. Cock-young, clean, hot cock. There is absolutely nothing 
like it in the whole goddamn world. A drop of sticky clear fluid dripped 
from the penis to his lips. His tongue darted out and licked it clean. 

He looked up at the boy, saw his eyes closed in ecstasy, then heard him say 
something. He didn't quite hear. "What, baby?" he asked. 

The young Adonis said it again. "Fuck me. God, fuck me!" 

Paul's hands reached behind the boy, his palms sliding over the smooth 
curves of the young buttocks. Not a blemish on that silky flesh, he thought, 
the smoothest, firmest, loveliest ass I've ever touched and he's asking me 
begging me to fuck it. "All right, baby. I'll fuck you," he whispered. 
Rising, he quickly disappeared into the house and came out with a jar. He 
unscrewed the top, dug his finger into the vaseline and applied it to the 
boy's tiny asshole, his finger running around it, then slowly making its way 
inside. He's tight, Paul thought, tight as a pencil sharpener! 

"Out here?" the boy asked. 

"Yeah. It's okay. Nobody will be able to see us when we get low on the 
ground. Besides, the bushes will hide us." He applied a bit of the vaseline 
to the head of the boy's cock then screwed the top back on and put it aside. 
He took hold of Rick's hand and led him to the bushes a few feet away. 
"You've got the nicest buns," he told him. "God, I love a good ass. You'll 
always have a nice one even when you're older. Some people are built like 
that." 

"You're not bad yourself," Rick told him. "You've got a good body." 

"Lie down on the grass," Paul directed. "On your stomach. I want to look at 
that cute butt." 

Rick did as he was told. 

Paul spread the boy's legs, then got down on his knees. He leaned forward 
and kissed the soft, firm flesh. "You like to be fucked?" he asked. 

"I don't know. I-I never have before." 

"Oh? Then what makes you think you're going to like it?" 

"You!" the boy answered. 

Paul smiled. "You'll like it. I'll be easy on you." 

He fell heavily on top of Rick, feeling the rounded buttocks give against 
his belly. He ran his hand over the broad, hard-muscled back of the boy. 
Then he took his organ and guided it to the boy's buttocks. 

"Maybe-maybe I better not," Rick said, suddenly pulling away. 

"Shh!" Paul whispered. "Relax, handsome. You'll love my cock; it'll feel 
real good in you. Believe me you'll like it. You'll find it's the greatest 
thing that could ever happen to you." He put his cock to the boy's opening. 
Gently he guided it and sunk it in. 

Rick reared back and Paul held himself still until he felt the boy relax; 
then with a powerful thrust he sent his cock forward between the twin mounds 
of white flesh. A rapture spread through Paul as he felt the tight-muscled 
ass against the throbbing head of his cock. 

The boy screamed from the excruciating pain and tried to throw Paul off his 
back, but Paul thrust forward again, sending his unrelenting hardness even 
deeper into the boy's tight ass. The youth twisted his head to the side, and 
Paul could see the eyes pressed tightly closed, the teeth biting down on his 
lower lip. He stopped his movements long enough for the kid to get a grip on 
himself. When he saw Rick's face relax, he moved his hips again. Now his 
body began to writhe, his little ass moving busily under Paul's hips, his 
young cock rubbing hard against the green grass. 

Paul kept a steady pace, rising and lowering, thrusting and pulling. The boy 
moaned in momentary pain. Another lunge by Paul, and the young man grunted 
and tried to match Paul's movements by throwing his ass high up into the air 
hard onto that driving, penetrating cock. Paul could feel his cock swell 
within the boy's tight hole; he thought he would go mad with the pleasure of 
it. Now Rick was slamming his buttocks hard against Paul's abdomen. He heard 
his cock make wet sucking sounds as it plunged deep and hard into Rick's 
ass. He began to whimper as he ground his hips hard against the moving ass 
and felt himself explode then pour endlessly into the boy. Quickly his hand 
disappeared under the youth. The moment he grasped the pulsating organ, he 
heard Rick groan, felt his cock jerk and his hot seed spurt in his hand. 

With a groan of exhausted satisfaction, Paul fell to the side of the boy and 
rolled onto his back. He watched the kid, his face buried in the soft grass, 
the big shoulders moving as he sucked in big mouthfuls of air. Gently he 
reached for him and turned him over on his back. He leaned forward and ran 
his tongue over the heaving, sweaty chest as his hand fondled the thick 
black hair. He moved closer to the boy and wrapped his arms around him. 

"Your ass will be sore, but not for long," he said. 

The boy said nothing. He appeared disappointed that it was over. Paul didn't 
know why he asked the question, but he did. "Tell me," he whispered as he 
cradled the boy's head. "Was this really the first time you've been fucked?" 

"Yes," the boy breathed. 

"I see," Paul said quietly. "Where you from? " 

"Los Angeles." 

"Live at home?" 

"With my mother." His voice was bitter. "How old are you?" 

"Nineteen," he answered. "You?" 

Paul coughed. "Twenty-five," he said hoping the boy didn't think he looked 
the thirty he was. "Why," Paul asked, "did you want me to fuck you?" 

"Because," he replied, "I wanted to find out how it felt." He hesitated, 
then added, "I never sucked a cock before, either." Then, with a look of 
embarrassment, he reached over, took a cigarette from Paul's pack, and lit 
it. 

"And mine was the very first?" Paul asked. 

"Yes." 

"Then you've-never had a man before-ever?" 

"No," he answered, quietly exhaling a cloud of smoke, "never before." 

Paul shivered. A thrilling wave of pleasure raced up and down his spine. He 
leaned on an elbow and stared into the young man's face. "You were 
wonderful," he whispered. 

"You mean I know how to suck and take it up the ass?" the boy asked almost 
harshly. 

"Well-uh-yeah," Paul said. 

The dark-haired boy seemed undecided in his discovery of homosexual love. 
One moment he seemed relaxed and talkative, the next he grew sullen and 
morose with a bitter sound in his voice. Then, like now, there appeared a 
glint of a smile in his eyes. 

Paul remained silent, studying the incredibly handsome face. There was the 
smell of the ocean in the cool, clean wind that passed, combined with the 
exciting scent of the boy and his wanting. He glanced down and saw that the 
boy was getting a new erection. Surprised, he looked into the young man's 
face. There was absolutely no mistaking the look of lustful desire he saw 
there. 

"When I'm through with this cigarette," Rick said, "I want you to fuck me 
again!" 

Maybe it was because he'd confessed so openly, had answered Paul's questions 
so frankly, or was there a deep sense of loneliness and isolation that 
seemed to possess him? Maybe it was the fierce urgency in the voice, or 
perhaps the strong, incessant physical need Paul instinctively felt from the 
boy. Whatever it was Paul suddenly felt sorry for him. He lay quietly on his 
side and watched Rick smoke, then reached up and placed his hand on the 
boy's shoulder and squeezed it gently in silent sympathy and understanding. 
The boy's eyes met his and held, and in that one split mini-second, Paul 
Harris knew that Rick was not merely a passing stranger who'd given him his 
body so readily and whom he'd never see again. No. There would be more with 
this beautiful boy ... much more! 

Paul slipped his arm around Rick's waist, reached out with his other hand 
and ruffled the boy's hair. His eyes held affectionately to Rick's lips. 
"Okay, baby," Paul whispered, "I'll do anything you want if it'll make you 
happy." 

Paul felt Rick's arms encircle him, and his cock began to swell as he heard 
the boy's urgent whisper, "Then fuck me, now!" 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Susan Lundman was doing what she loved best, admiring herself in a mirror. 

She'd been fascinated with her own body since she was ten years old, when 
her breasts began to take shape. Her body in later years had brought her 
great happiness and had caused her to suffer, depending on the man. She 
blamed her body entirely for her promiscuity and for all of her problems, 
and when things went well it was usually because her body was being loved. 
She was beautiful, always had been, and thought she'd remain that way. At 
least, she was determined to make her looks last by carefully watching her 
diet, by exercising her body, and by spending as much time as she could at 
the salons. And she used her body ... oh, how she used it. That, too, made 
her body more beautiful. For, to be loved-often-made her happy. Right now 
there were dark bags under her eyes, but this was understandable, she'd been 
boozing it up and screwing too much. Still, for forty she was really 
something to look at. Of course, she didn't look forty, and she certainly 
didn't act it. It was all in the mind You are what you feel, she'd always 
told herself. And right this second, Susan Lundman didn't feel a day over 
twenty-nine. Why, even the younger men, the real young ones did not suspect 
her age. She was not very big, only five feet one, but as the men said, she 
was a package of dynamite. 

She wrinkled her nose at the mirror, flared her nostrils, then patted her 
French twist hairdo. She stared into her own eyes; they were so dark and 
warm, she thought. Real bedroom eyes. Her fingers came up to touch her lips; 
small and full and sensuous. Her hands went to her breasts, the full, 
oversize breasts so many men had desired. Her fingers touched the abnormally 
huge brown nipples. She remembered so well the jealous stares of the other 
women at the gym. It gave her a feeling of superiority. This was the day of 
the big tits, and she could hold her own with the best of them. Forty-eight. 
Some size. She was proud of that number. Even girls in their teens were 
jealous of her. It delighted her to see Rick's girl friends stop in their 
tracks and suck in their breath, their mouths falling open when she was 
introduced. That's something, being more sexy than her own son's dates. And 
what about her son's boyfriends? She knew the way they looked at her, the 
thoughts that passed through their minds. Those looks had started when they 
were sixteen and had continued right up to when they were nineteen, her 
son's age. Like her son, these teen-agers walked around with a hard on most 
of the day and night just asking for it. Once, when she found herself alone 
with one of them, a really good-looking boy of nineteen, saw the lustful 
looks he threw her, she'd decided to help him out. That was the start of it. 
After that she'd helped many of her son's friends out. She smiled at her 
mirrored reflection. And she's been cool about it, and smart. Rick did not 
suspect. She did it with style, taking the boys out of town to a really nice 
hotel, always registering as Susan and Rick Lundman. Hell, most of them 
looked like Rick anyway. None of this seedy motel atmosphere for her. Class 
with a capital C. 

She touched a bit of perfume between her breasts. Men went mad for her tits. 
It always delighted her when they saw her naked for the very first time. One 
look at her breathtaking globes and they were reduced to blubbering, 
inarticulate puppets before her very eyes. 

She turned from the mirror and walked, naked, into the dressing room that 
led to the bathroom, found a flowing black peignoir and slipped into it, 
knotting it loosely around her waist. At the tray set on a desk in the 
bedroom, she made herself another highball-her fifth-then glanced at her 
watch. It was eight-thirty. 

She walked to the window and looked down at the driveway, then off to the 
road. It was pitch-black out. She touched a switch and the driveway was 
suddenly bathed in light. Her guests were late. 

Her look went to the rumpled bed; the bedspread was a big lump under the 
mangled sheets. The ashtray on the table next to the bed was filled with 
cigarette butts, next to it was a cup and saucer holding the remains of cold 
coffee. She'd given the maid the weekend off and the room showed it. 

"Fuck it!" she muttered, "they're not coming here to admire the house." 

Her look settled on the framed picture of her son. She walked to the bureau, 
opened a drawer and put the frame in between her undies, then closed the 
drawer. No use in having a picture of Rick around; they'd only start to ask 
questions. It was always embarrassing explaining about her nineteen-year-old 
son. Gave away her age. 

She sipped her drink, thinking how lucky it was that Rick had decided to 
spend the weekend away from home. She'd been wondering how to get rid of him 
for the two days. Worked out fine. The boy, always sitting around the house, 
cramped her style. He was a problem especially when she had something 
planned, like tonight. 

The idea had come to her as she sat woozily at a table by herself at the 
Glass Crutch, a little dive on Western Avenue. They called themselves The 
Guys; there were four of them in the musical group. One, a Negro, really was 
quite handsome, with a goatee, and a cigarette constantly dangling from his 
lips. He played a mean piano. The other three were good-looking, too. It was 
the Negro who first noticed her. He had stopped at her table during the 
break. His name was Lindy and he was interested-very interested. And she, 
well, she was interested in all of them. 

The drunker she got the better the idea became. On the third break she asked 
Lindy, "What are you doing on Saturday night?" 

"Making bread," he replied. "We're playing at a private party up in the 
Hollywood Hills." 

"Would you take a better booking?" she'd smiled. 

"Chickee," he'd said impatiently, "this job pays three-fifty." 

"I'll give you five hundred!" 

His eyes lit up. "Where is this bash?" he'd asked. 

"At my place. Only it's not a bash. There will only be-me!" 

The doorbell was ringing. Susan pulled out of her reverie and quickly 
crossed to the window. A Volkswagen bus was parked in her driveway. She'd 
been so engrossed in her thoughts she had not heard them drive up. 

Abruptly she turned, walked out of the room and down the stairs to the door. 

"Hey, chickee, nice pad ... real nice." 

The Negro was standing in the doorway, the other three in back of him. 

"Come in," she said, standing aside. 

Suddenly they didn't look quite as handsome as she had first thought. One of 
the men was chewing gum, his sunken eyes on her breasts. Another was taking 
in his surroundings. He had a long-jawed face and long arms that dangled at 
his sides, his long fingers moving nervously. The third one was short and on 
the heavy side. He kept tweaking his wide-beaked nose and fingering the 
beads around his neck. 

Her eyes went to the Negro. Suddenly she couldn't think of his name. Rindy? 
No-but it was something like that. Oh! To hell with it! What in hell does it 
matter? He was smiling at her, a lipless kind of smile. It was the first 
time she noticed the bulge in his trousers. God, she thought, is that all 
him? "Why don't you go into the bar and make yourselves a drink. We're very 
informal tonight. No maids, no help, nothing," she said, gesturing to the 
other room. Instantly, three of them turned on their heels and left. The 
black man remained. 

"Don't you want a drink?" she asked. 

"Well, chickee, I've got to get one thing straight first off." 

"What's that?" 

"Well, the evening is probably going to get rough!" 

Susan felt a tightness in her chest. 

"And we might all really hang one on. So, if you don't mind, I'd like 
payment in advance. You know, just in case you forget." He tilted his head. 
"Five hundred?" Again the lipless smile. 

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course. My checkbook is upstairs, in the bedroom. I'll be 
right down." She started to leave. 

"I'll go with you," he said. "You know, you really must have it to just be 
able to write out a check for five hundred smackers." 

She stopped halfway up the stairs and said, "I've got it, that's right, but 
don't get any ideas. Don't be greedy. There'll be more if I like-the way you 
play," she smiled. 

After she made out the check, he took it, folded it, and slipped it into his 
wallet. Then he didn't waste any time. 

She watched him unbutton his shirt. Desire stirred her as he stood naked and 
taut before her. She sat down on the bed and slipped out of her peignoir. 

His eyes opened wide in disbelief at the sight of her naked breasts. "Sweet 
Jesus," he whispered. 

Then he was all over her, his hands on her breasts, her legs, her belly, 
between her thighs. She felt the press of his erection against her thigh. It 
was without a doubt the largest phallus she'd ever laid eyes on-and she'd 
seen plenty. 

"Please," she whispered, "take it easy. Don't hurt me." 

His arm shot out and his fingers encircled her throat. She felt her head 
fall into the mattress. "Don't tell me that," he said with impatience. "You 
know goddam well you love it." 

His hands kneaded her breasts. His fingers were gritty and hard against her 
softness. 

Her body recoiled when she felt him push his long rod into her vagina. 

"Take this, chickee," he said angrily, passionately. 

She felt his rod sear into her and she tightened from the rhythmical beat of 
his long, lean body. It continued unceasingly until the agony turned into 
pleasure. Suddenly her hands grasped his back. "Do it harder," she groaned. 
Her legs opened wide and wrapped around his smooth, dark buttocks. 

"Like it, chickee?" 

"Yes ... yes ... yes," she moaned as his big cock flew in and out of her. 

"Ever have anything this big in you?" he asked, his breath heavy and hot 
against her ear. 

Her cunt muscles tightened around his monstrous rod. "Uugghh!" she grunted. 
"Never ... never this big." 

He pulled his cock out to the tip, then sank it back-pulled it out-sank it 
back, all the time whispering, "Oh, sweet cunt, sweet, tight, warm cunt." 

She couldn't stand it. "Fuck me ... fuck me!" Her cry was an animal-like 
cry. She felt his seed spill into her and she tightened her legs harder 
around him. He had given, but she had not. Fire raged through her as she 
sought his lips. 

He fell limply to the side. "Oh, chickee," he told her, "you are one wild 
lay." 

Through the doorway she heard a voice. "Hey, Lindy. 

Come on already. I got hot nuts." 

"Okay, Mac, be right out." He got to his feet and started to dress. He 
stared down at her. "You'll like Mac. He's smaller than I am, but thick like 
baloney." 

Her eyes slanted and her breath came fast. "Tell him to come on in," she 
whispered. 

Mac serviced her, and so did Tom, and after Tom there was Al. Then her own 
fire was put out when Lindy fucked her again. 

They were all sitting at the bar rip-roaring drunk, the chimes had just 
sounded three times, when Susan heard the front door slam. She turned her 
head. The form's visage doubled in her vision. She blinked her eyes a few 
times, then slowly the figure came into focus. 

"Rick!" she whispered in alarm. 

With effort she slid off of the barstool and unsteadily made her way to him. 
Halfway she stopped, realizing that her peignoir was open at the front and 
revealing her nakedness. She pulled the material over her breasts and 
knotted the belt tightly around her. When she got to her son, she smiled 
drunkenly, her head reeling, desperately trying to think of something to 
say. She wrenched her face to the back bar and peered at the four men. 
"These," she gestured, "are some friends of mine who dropped by for a 
drink." She giggled. "Okay, a couple of drinks. She looked into his face. 
"I-I thought you went to Laguna, Rick." 

His features were contorted into a mask of hate. When he spoke it was like a 
knife going through her chest. 

"You whore! One's not enough-you need an army!" 

"Rick!" she blustered. 

"You dirty whore!" he spat. 

She saw him whirl around, then heard the door slam. 

"Hey, Susan. Who the fuck was that?" one of the men called from the bar. 

Her eyes filled with tears. She lifted her head. "That? That was my baby," 
she whispered. Then she wiped her eyes, fixed a smile on her face, and 
walked back to them Their faces were blurs to her, but she didn't care; it 
didn't really make any difference. She fastened her lips to the blur nearest 
her. "Anybody for seconds?" she asked. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Rick lay on his back on the bed, smoking and staring up at the ceiling, 
wondering if he'd screwed ten or eleven women in the past three days. They 
were coming so fast and furious, he'd forgotten. He went over the affairs in 
his mind, counting on his fingers. For some reason it was important he know 
the exact number. Why, he didn't know. Maybe it was because he was trying to 
set a record. What was the fuck record? he wondered. Has anyone ever kept a 
record? Who had the most fucks? What woman had taken the most cock? 
Interesting! Perhaps he should do some research. Hell, it might turn out to 
be a book. Book? Hell, he'd never write it, just like he never completed a 
single story idea that popped into his head. Well, mustn't think about that, 
nothing depressing this morning. Besides, he didn't have to write-he had 
plenty of money. He had to smile. He'd made exactly two hundred dollars with 
his eleven women. It gave him pleasure when they paid for his cock. But not 
all eleven had paid. No, it was ten women he'd had. The eleventh didn't 
count-she blew him. Ten women, and he still had one to go. He leaned on an 
elbow and glanced at the door. What in hell was she doing in the bathroom 
anyway? He'd just about got it in her when she pushed him away and 
disappeared into the bathroom. She'd been there for twenty minutes. Cripes! 
How many showers can a person take? 

Well? it was a relief in a way. All she did was talk. What is it with women? 
They couldn't keep their mouths shut for five minutes. Gab, gab, gab! Every 
fuckin' one of them. Especially the manicurist he'd met at the hotel's 
barber shop. She was built all right: great tits, nice legs, kissy mouth, 
flashy eyes; she was fond of film actors, marshmallows, champagne, and 
steaks, in that order ("I did Gary Cooper's nails once. You know what they 
said about him, don't you? No? Hell, I thought everyone knew. His whang, 
biggest thing in Hollywood. ... Wish I had some candy. I love marshmallows, 
plain, not with peanuts all over 'em. But my favorite food is steak. That 
and champagne. I read once where Vera-Ellen ate nothing but steak and drank 
only champagne. So I tried it. It's great for the figure. Little expensive. 
But that's me, I'll spend a fortune on things like that. Isn't that awful? 
Wonder whatever happened to Vera-Ellen. You never heard of her? She was a 
film actress. Great dancer. She was in that movie with Fred Astaire and 
Rosemary Clooney-oh, I forgot the name of the movie. Her name was like this: 
Vera, hyphen, Ellen. Cute gimmick for a name, huh?") and she had the 
chutzpah to charge him for the manicure after he made it with her in the 
hotel room. ("You've got nice hands, believe me, I know, I've held thousands 
of hands. George Raft, Rock Hudson-whoo, boy, now there's a face. Tony 
Curtis-he keeps getting better-looking with the years. And, oh, is he nice. 
Yeah, I've done the big ones. Did you ever have your palms read? No? You 
should. Very revealing. Believe me you should try it.") Shut up and fuck. 
What's with this cunt? Talk talk, talk! 

Rick sat up and rested his head against the pillows. Then there was that 
redhead, the schoolteacher on vacation. Trim figure, and another talker; she 
was anxious for marriage. ("I'm really not what I appear to be, I mean what 
you might think I am. Really, don't laugh. I want you to know you're the 
first man I let pick me up. Why, they'd be shocked in Brooklyn Heights. It 
just happened I saw you look at me, and you appealed to me. You've got such 
nice eyes, so direct, so sure, so penetrating. You took my breath away. I 
checked with the waiter. He knew you. He said that you were a nice fellow 
and that you spent time here at the hotel to get away from it all even 
though you lived only a few blocks from here. That made me feel better. 
More-well, safe.") Sure, sure, schoolteacher, and you figured this was 
Beverly Hills and the waiter told you I had dough and, wham! like wow! this 
could be jackpot time, huh? Be great to wire back and tell 'em to stick the 
schoolteacher job because you went and snared yourself a nice young, rich 
husband. ("Staying cooped up in this hotel isn't my idea of living. There 
are other things to do, like seeing plays, attending concerts, going to the 
ballet. I love to socialize.") Well socialize, cunt! Spread those legs! 
("After all this is my first time in L.A., and there are so many places-I 
understand the Greek Theatre is a lovely-") Stop talking and fuck! ("-place 
to visit. I don't want you to get the wrong impression. I'll do it just this 
once, because I don't know, you're different, and I really believe you're 
sincere.") Yeah, Red, only you're over the hill and too damn anxious and you 
talk too goddamn much! 

Not all of them paid. He left it up to them. Most assumed he charged, like 
that brunette he'd met at the cocktail lounge with enormous sunglasses 
shielding her eyes. She said she was twenty-eight, but forty-eight would 
have been more accurate. She was the inquisitive type; her kick was to stick 
her fingers in her pussy while they were having dinner in his room and make 
him smell them, all the while carrying on small talk. ("Why'd you pick me? 
I'm old enough to be your mother. Well, maybe not that old, but I'm a few 
years past you. What is it about me? All the young guys flip for me. I don't 
understand.") You're an easy lay, that's why, you smelly cunt. I don't have 
to fight you, or talk you into it like I would some young pussy. I need it 
easy, babe, see? I need to fuck myself out, see? They've got to be old 
because-because-? Why? Because it's easy. That's why because! No other 
reason. Oh, maybe because I'll learn a little something. Shit, you've been 
around, maybe you've got a new kick for me. Anyway it delighted him that she 
paid him twenty-five dollars. Just took it out of her bag and left it on the 
bureau and silently left. 

And that rich bitch brunette he'd met in the lobby. She was married to a 
producer-she told him that while she undressed her overly perfumed body. She 
was thirty ("going on forty"), born in Savannah, had been married three 
times, had been to bed with forty different men, could only name five 
offhand, only one of whom she really loved (her present husband, who she 
cheated on because he had hot nuts for some cheap bleached number in New 
York-if she ever met up with that cunt, Jesus, would she murder the 
bitch-but he was rich and he had a cock the length of her arm and she'd been 
through the divorce courts too many times and, hell she didn't mind so much 
now, now that she got a little on the side herself). 

Well, here comes number eleven. 

He watched her close the bathroom door behind her and timidly walk to the 
bed. Suddenly the cunt was timid! Forty-year-old woman still playing girly 
games. Can you imagine that! He watched her shiver, then crawl under the 
covers. 

"Brrr, it's chilly," she said. 

He blinked his eyes. 

"My hair," she said, feeling it, "It's the water here in Los Angeles. It's 
so hard." Again he blinked. 

"Ugh! I washed it last night, but you'd never guess it this morning. You 
know-" Perhaps if he taped her mouth? 

"-I was telling my girl friend-her name is Peg....We both drove here from 
Portland. Peg, I said, we'd better bathe in bottled water." She laughed a 
high girlish laugh. "Can you imagine what that would cost us?" 

Rick shook his head. 

"Look at you, so nice and tanned." Her hand tickled across his chest. She 
looked with an affectionate, somewhat wistful gaze at him. "How I envy you 
your southern California sun. Wish I could live here. But Oregon is my 
home." 

Maybe if he stuck his cock in her mouth she might stop talking. 

"I've been with the Handon Ford Company for so many years it would be stupid 
for me to leave for a lower paying job. I make pretty good money." 

It was the source of his deepest regret that he had made eyes at her in the 
first place. She was much too skinny, her tits were no bigger than fried 
eggs, and she had bad skin; but worse, she talked more than the other ten 
put together. He fingered his testicles impatiently. She looked down at him. 
He smiled at her, reached for her arm, and pulled her to him. 

"Hold on, Mr. Anxious," she giggled, pulling away. 

He hated it when she patted her red hair; it reminded him of someone. 

"Boy, don't be in such a rush!" 

The nerve, he thought. She was playing it like a great beauty-like she 
resembled Liz Taylor. "Look! Are you or aren't you? I mean ... shit." 

Her hand reached out and clasped his mouth. "Don't use foul language! I 
can't stand men who use foul language." 

He gave out with a long, frustrated sigh, then lay back, his arms behind his 
head. Eventually she ran her hand over his chest. The blankness went 
abruptly from her eyes as another thought came to her mind-a thought she no 
doubt was about to voice. 

"You know they always kid me about all the showers I take. I'm clean ... 
real clean. I like to stay clean. I read once where a psychologist said 
something about it being a person's hang-up taking lots of showers. I mean, 
that the person was constantly cleansing himself of sin. Well, maybe that's 
true, I don't know." Her voice trailed. Without being aware of it she let 
her hand run over his arms and chest. Her eyes went blank for a second, then 
filled with lust. Suddenly her voice got husky. "You've got a marvelous 
body. You work out?" 

He nodded. 

"Mmm, thought so. You know, you remind me of someone. I thought that the 
second I met you." 

Wouldn't she ever stop talking? 

"I know," she snapped her fingers. "Grush. Mr. Grush in the rental 
department. Yeah. You two look exactly alike. Course, he's older." She 
cocked her head, sucked in her cheeks and, looking exactly like Phyllis 
Diller, smiled, and asked, "How old do you think I am?" 

"Fifty!" he snapped. 

Her face dropped. A second later she smiled. "Kidder. No, come on, guess." 

"I don't know," he said impatiently. 

"Guess. I love it when someone guesses my age. Go ahead and guess." 

"Twenty-nine." A safe number. 

"Nearly," she giggled. "I'm thirty." 

On one tit! 

"You?" 

"Nineteen." He watched her face turn red and grow solemn. 

"That young." She looked at his nakedness, her gaze ending at his thighs. 
"You, uh," she swallowed hard, "sure got a large, uh-for somebody so young." 

"My old lady fed me vitamins," he smiled crookedly at her. "Go ahead, grab 
it. Shit, it won't bite." 

"Your language. Please!" she frowned. 

This one has to be bananas, he thought. 

Gingerly she ran her hand through the wiry patch of black pubic curls, then 
clasped his penis. It quickly blooded to life. She stared, fascinated by the 
jerking rod. 

"Y-you're clean, aren't you?" 

He frowned. "What?" 

"I asked if you were-clean!" 

"No! I just dipped my cock in mustard!" 

"Well you know what I mean. A girl has got to be careful." 

His jaw muscles clenched and he sighed in disgust. 

"Don't be angry. It's just that, well, my girl friend came down with a-she 
cleared her throat,"-a social disease," she whispered, looking over her 
shoulder. "If you know what I mean." 

"Look! I don't have clap or-" 

Involuntary her hand shot out and covered his mouth. "You don't have to come 
right out and name it," she whispered wide-eyed. 

"That cuts it!" Rick swung his legs off the bed and leaped to his feet. 
"Okay, get dressed," he ordered. 

"What?" 

"You heard me. Get dressed and leave." 

"But-but why?" 

"I'm tired of pussyfooting it with you. You're a nut. Hear? A goddamn 
goofball! And you talk too much. You run at the mouth with nothing but crap. 
What the fuck am I, your goddamn psychiatrist? Beat it!" 

She glared at him. "Well! I never!" Then she turned from him and reached for 
her clothes. 

Impatiently, angrily, he watched her dress. 

"I never in all my life met up with the likes of you. You darn kids. I 
should have known better than to get tangled up with a teen-ager. Such 
terrible language, such hostility, and only because I asked a simple 
question." She was muttering as she stepped into her dress. 

Her hair, almost the color of his mother's was her best feature, he decided. 
Without the hair she had absolutely nothing. But then, none of the women 
he'd had in the past seventy-two hours had much, yet they all had two things 
in common, they were twice and three times his age, and almost all of them 
reminded him of his mother. Was that saying something, or wasn't it? Like, 
wow, what the hell was he doing? He stared at the woman, wanting her to 
leave now, right now, right this second. There was that hair, that red hair 
so much like his mother's, and the fragrance of her perfume was strong, and 
that, too, reminded him of his mother. Amidst the stillness in the room he 
could almost hear his mother's laugh. "These are some friends of mine who 
dropped by for a drink." Damn it, she'd taken on a whole fuckin' group. The 
whole bloody gang. His own mother! 

"You should see a doctor!" 

He turned to the voice and could almost see his mother before him in this 
woman who was taking her goddamn time to dress. 

"Just hurry it up," he snapped, "you old whore!" 

"Well!" She stepped up to him, her eyes daggers. "You young punk! You can't 
talk to me like that. Who do you think you are?" 

"Whore!" he shrieked. 

She drew in her breath and backed away against the wall, suddenly, obviously 
afraid. 

"Goddamn old cunt!" His eyes were blazing slits. 

Her terror-stricken face stared at him, her rosebud mouth working flabbily 
in terror. "You-you're sick," she mumbled. Her hands grabbed for her purse, 
then fumbled at the door handle. 

Suddenly Rick saw the door swing closed. He was alone. He sat on the edge of 
the bed with his hands folded in his lap. He caught his own reflection in 
the bureau mirror. He stared. What am I? he asked himself. A nothing, he 
answered. A face in the mirror, focal point of nothing but an awareness of 
his own confusion, despondency, frustration, and fear. The steady ticking of 
the travel-alarm clock made him become aware again of time. Looking at the 
clock, he saw that it was nearly twelve. He'd been on a three-day orgy and 
the women had all been his mother. That's what it was all about. In my mind 
I've been fucking my own mother! It was getting to be an obsession! 

The sun stood as though on guard at the picture window looking out over the 
hotel pool; and beyond the bright sunlight just a few miles away-Laguna. Why 
did he suddenly think of Laguna? What was the matter with him? Taking his 
vengeance out on a strange bird-like woman. Cursing her, frightening her 
half to death. For what? Why? 

He suddenly felt very alone. The cold steel shell he'd built up around him 
appeared to be cracked. He thought he'd learned how to live an unloved 
existence by living without feelings-obviously it wasn't working for him. 
Nothing was working for him. His mother had chosen men, any man in 
preference to him; it was as simple as that. He knew it all along, but 
having caught her at it, having it erupt like this all at once, was eating 
at him. He had to get away from the woman completely. But where? There was 
no one he could go to. He couldn't do it alone-that he knew. He desperately 
needed someone. If only he had a good friend, someone he could stay with, 
but he didn't. There was no one. 

Hey ... hang on! There was one person! 

Turning from the window, he walked to the closet and quickly dressed. 
Fifteen minutes later he checked out of the hotel and was driving on the 
freeway heading for Laguna-and Paul Harris. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

Paul closed the book and carefully put a ribbon between the pages he'd been 
reading. He reached over and placed the paperback on the table, then looked 
down at the sleeping figure of Rick by his side. Paul's lips twisted into a 
smile. Rick was breathtakingly handsome, he thought, really the most 
beautiful boy he'd ever laid eyes on. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch 
the boy's shining hair, then lightly traced his finger over the lad's full 
lips. He saw Rick stir, twitch his lips, and shake his head in sleep. 
Quickly Paul pulled his hand away. Laughing silently, he carefully lifted 
the covers and brought them down to Rick's feet. Delicately, he touched 
Rick's ankle and glided his fingertips over the dark hair of Rick's calf. He 
pulled himself up and sat facing the sleeping boy, leaning on one elbow. He 
gazed at the lad's smooth, hard body, the knot of rounded muscles of his 
shoulders, the tanned chest, the well-developed pectoral muscles, at the 
tiny belly button, the dark patch of belly hair. He stared in wonder at the 
tanned, muscular thighs, caught his breath at the sight of Rick's spread 
legs, his young manhood, now relaxed and arched downward, the tip of it and 
the large balls touching the sheet. He reached out and touched it, his 
fingers sliding over the cocktip. Hesitantly, at first, he felt the youth's 
prick swell in his hand, then in a great rush of force begin to lengthen 
until it stood upright, fiercely strong at soldier-like attention. 

"My God, how beautiful," Paul whispered. 

Paul quickly withdrew his hand. No use in waking Rick. Poor guy, he'd been 
at him four and five times a day from the moment he'd arrived. It had been 
like that for two weeks now, he thought, fourteen days of the most wonderful 
sex he'd ever known. No matter what time of day or night, he found he could 
not keep his hands off this dark-haired Adonis. 

He lay back against the pillow and felt the relaxation flowing over him. 
God, but he felt glorious. Happy, content, and sexually fulfilled. He'd 
never known such complete happiness. Up to now his life had been empty. He'd 
learned how to live alone and figured that was the way it was to be the rest 
of his life. He began to think himself incapable of love, for surely he 
could not fall in love with some of the screaming fags he'd taken up with. 
Certainly no young guy would want to fall in love with him. Most were after 
bigger game, seeking successful homosexuals who could give them the good 
life. But then, that was exactly what he was looking for. He wasn't 
successful and perhaps he would never be. Besides he wasn't getting any 
younger. Quicksilver homosexuals were constantly flitting from one sex 
partner to another, searching, searching, searching, and when they found 
someone, it was not long lasting. They were always looking for someone 
better, someone more handsome, someone who could offer more security. He 
thought of the handsome suntanned youths he had known and had, of the butch 
tricks he'd dragged home from bars. Remembered the way he used to wink the 
rear turn signal of his car in front of trucks. He'd have the truck driver 
right in his own goddamn truck. Fags, straights, young and old, he'd had 'em 
all. Sex! That's all it had been up to now. All those good-looking guys with 
their great bodies and their big cocks paled now in comparison to Rick. 
Since Rick had come into his life, he had dropped everybody. He didn't even 
go to the bars or the baths anymore. Nobody seemed to interest him. There 
was no one but Rick. Just touching Rick, just being near him, sent shivers 
down his back and motivated a throbbing deep in his loins. Thinking of the 
boy's large hands taking his body, thick sensual male lips crushing against 
his, Rick's anxious tongue exploring his mouth, Rick's legs locked tightly 
around his torso as he buggered the youth, made him dizzy with desire. 

Rick seemed equally as happy and content with him. At least, there were 
moments when Paul thought so. 

Okay, that was the setup; a young, handsome boy had come to live with him. 
Now what? Just what did he, Paul Harris, have going for him? This same young 
boy was apparently troubled. The hatred he harbored for his mother was 
obvious. He had good reason. No doubt the mother had deprived the son of 
natural maternal love. From what he deduced, Rick's mother was a 
promiscuous, sexually eccentric, glamorous, and quite neglectful mother. The 
boy's self-image had been destroyed. There was no goal for him to strive 
for. He toyed with the idea of being a writer, yet he'd never really written 
anything, and he seldom read. A sense of achievement was missing; everything 
had been handed to Rick. Rick's life was dreary for want of motive, lonely 
for lack of love, empty because of self-defeat. Already, at the age of 
nineteen, Rick had an emotional scar that he would carry for a lifetime. 
Because of this, Rick hungrily sought friendship. In his case, the craving 
took the form of an avid sexual curiosity. Rick had confessed this to him 
readily-all those tired women he'd screwed. Fortunately, with him, Rick 
seemed to have found something-perhaps it was because, he, Paul, had sensed 
it and reacted to it. Why else would the boy move in with him? 

All right. What now? He'd had similar setups, strange guys had lived with 
him before. At the time he had thought he would be able to have a lasting 
relationship with another male, but always he'd been disappointed in the 
results. Always! Instead of the friendship enriching him, it left him 
wounded. What of Rick? Would the same thing happen? Would the friendship 
survive a week, two more weeks, then crumble as all the others had? He 
didn't want that to happen. Okay, then how could he insure this 
relationship? By giving, that's how, he answered his own question. 
Friendship is not all taking. With Rick he would have to work harder. 
Instill courage in the boy. Be compassionate, sincere, understanding. Share 
confidence, repair the damage done to Rick's self-image. A tall order! Did 
he wish to take on this responsibility? 

Why not? It was his one chance to get out of the vacuum of loneliness, of 
oppression, of the belief he was a nonentity. He too had his problems. By 
helping the boy he would be helping himself. He automatically wished to do 
this anyway; it wouldn't be too much of a chore for him. He enjoyed all 
moments with the boy, eating with him, sleeping with him, walking, swimming, 
seeing films with him, watching television, bowling and playing tennis with 
him. The fact was, as a human being he owed the boy something, he felt 
responsible for him; he just couldn't take what Rick offered so generously, 
and then ignore the boy's basic needs. And perhaps Rick would help 
him-financially. Hell, the boy had money. Imagine, his own Rolls at 
nineteen! Yes, perhaps Rick would be generous with him. 

What he was telling himself was that he was in love with Rick. He was 
surprised by his own thoughts. Surprised and caught off balance; his own 
definite realization brought a flush to his cheeks. He fumbled for his 
cigarettes and lighter, found them, lit a cigarette and blew a long, thin 
line of gray smoke to the ceiling. With one hand under the back of his head 
and his long, well-muscled legs crossed at the ankles, he stretched out 
comfortably, enjoying his cigarette. 

Paul's thoughtful excursion was interrupted by the ring of the telephone. 
Quickly he picked up the receiver on the first ring, side-glancing at Rick. 
Fortunately the boy had not heard the ring. 

"Hello?" 

"Hello. To whom am I speaking?" a female voice asked. "This is Paul. Paul 
Harris. Who is this?" 

"Susan Lundman." 

At the mention of the name Paul gripped the receiver tightly. "Oh, yes, Mrs. 
Lundman." 

"Then the name is familiar to you. Then Rick is living there." It was a 
statement more than a question. 

Paul hesitated. Did Rick wish for his mother to know his whereabouts? 

"Hello? Mr. Harris?" 

"Yes," he answered slowly. "I'm here." 

"My son, is he living at the Laguna address?" 

"Yes. Temporarily," he emphasized. 

"I see. You know, I've been worried something awful. Rick just disappeared. 
Two weeks it's been. Without a word. He's never done that before. I was 
going to call the police-" 

Paul felt his heart hammer away. Rick was only nineteen! The police would 
not be welcome. 

"-but then I checked with our lawyer," the voice continued, "and he told me 
that Rick had mailed a postal card from Laguna instructing that his monthly 
allowance check be mailed to Laguna. I got your telephone number by checking 
the name and address with information. I've called many times during the 
week, but I never seem able to get anyone at home." 

"We-uh-Rick is seldom at home, and I've been busy between my studio and the 
house." 

"Just what is going on? I mean, Rick has never told me he had friends in 
Laguna. Paul Harris ... Paul Harris," she tasted the name. "I don't recall 
Rick ever men-" 

"We've recently become friends. We-we met at a mutual friend's house," Paul 
lied. 

"I see. How is he?" 

"Fine." 

"What is he doing?" 

"Working," Paul blurted, "on-on a book. Yes, a book." 

"Rick? Writing? My! That's rather hard to believe. Where is he now? I'd like 
to speak with him." 

"Out. He went to a film-with a girl." 

"Naturally! Well, tell him I called. You will make sure you tell him I 
called, won't you? I want him to telephone me as soon as he gets in." The 
voice hesitated. "No, on second thought, I won't be home until very late. 
Ask him to call me in the morning." 

"Yes, I will, Mrs. Lundman." 

"Goodbye." 

There was a click and then the sound of a drone and Paul put the receiver 
back in its cradle. 

"Whew!" he sighed, going over the conversation in his head. Had he said 
anything to make her suspect? No, he didn't think so. Now what? Would she be 
visiting? Was she a nosy mother? Would she size up the situation? This was 
something he had not thought about. Rick was only nineteen. Jail-bait. 
That's something else that had slipped his mind. Rick had run away from 
home. Suddenly an aching depression surged through him He was right back 
where he started. Damn it! I knew it was too good to be true. 

Turning, he looked down at Rick. Leaning over, he pushed aside a wave of 
hair that had fallen across the boy's closed eyes. "God, you're beautiful, 
Rick," he whispered. "I don't want to lose you, fella, not now, not now that 
I'm in love with you." He felt the blood rushing to his cock. His hand 
lightly caressed Rick's cheek. Slowly his hand passed downward to Rick's 
side, down to his hip and thigh. It would be awful to have to give up this 
handsome boy, he thought. His lips touched Rick's cheek. Desire welled up in 
his throat as he gazed at the firm-muscled body. 

"My love," he whispered. "My beautiful, dark-haired boy." He brushed Rick's 
ear with his lips. His hand clasped the boy's limp penis. He squeezed it to 
hardness. His other hand touched the boy's nipples, his navel, his black 
pubic curls. Taking Rick's heavy, now half-erect penis, he put it to his 
mouth, feeling it harden to fullness against his tongue. His fingers 
explored in the hairy cleft of Rick's firm buttocks. He sucked all the 
warmth of Rick's being into his mouth. In less than five minutes, Paul felt 
Rick's cockhead swell up like a balloon and erupt into his mouth and down 
his throat, hotly, fiercely, chokingly. Seconds later, Paul relieved himself 
into his own hand. After washing himself, he returned to the bed and lay 
down beside the boy. "Rick," he whispered against the youth's cheek, "I love 
you ... I love you." 

Rick stirred, moved, turned to his side and plopped his arm heavily across 
Paul's hairy chest. 

Paul grinned, his arms encircling Rick, cradling his head against his chest. 
Suddenly Paul knew what he would do. It was really quite simple. He would 
visit with Rick's mother in Los Angeles. Meet her face to face, on his own. 
He would charm the panties off her. He'd win her over, even-and he had to 
laugh at the thought-if I have to fuck the hot bitch! 

 CHAPTER SIX 

A week later, Paul was beginning to have his doubts about his affair with 
Rick. He was finding it increasingly difficult to talk to the boy. For one, 
Rick spent much of his time away from the house now. For another, Rick found 
one excuse after another not to have sex with him Somehow, the boy made him 
uncomfortably aware of his own empty life and his homosexuality. It seemed 
Rick did not consider himself a homo; he fucked women, didn't he? Didn't 
that make it all right? He was fooling himself, of course, but he firmly 
believed that Paul was something he was going through and it would soon be 
over. Paul felt this, and he had reason to because of questions like: "Are 
fags the only people you know?" and "Why in hell do you put that sissy cold 
cream on your face every night? You smell like a cunt!" and "You mind 
keeping that hard dick of yours to yourself?" this in the middle of the 
night, "Is that all you think about-sex?" It upset Paul. He defended 
himself: "Is it wrong to be my age and have the appetites of a healthy male 
animal?" Then the cutting retort: "Male animal! Man, is that a laugh!" 

The house was silent. Too silent! Rick was out; as a matter-of-fact, he had 
not returned from the previous evening. Paul wondered where he could be. 
Certainly not with his mother-she had called earlier. He could not stop 
thinking of the boy. Had Rick found someone else? Laguna was overrun with 
sex-hungry fags. Anybody would make a play for Rick. He wondered why Rick 
was no longer content with having him for a sex partner. He had tried to 
make the relationship more than just sex. He'd tried his best. He'd tried to 
give the boy something worthwhile, something permanent. Tried to steer Rick, 
encourage him to write, aid him mentally and spiritually. What does Rick 
want? What's Rick-? He was at a loss to finish his own thoughts; it was 
beyond him. 

He bathed, combed his hair, and stood for a moment at the mirror, 
scrutinizing his face. His complexion was good, his flesh was firm, his eyes 
were clear. There were no screaming age signs. He had a good muscular body, 
and he was certainly okay in the cock department. No, he did not look his 
age. Not that he was old. But thirty nowadays seemed old. Everyone was so 
young, especially in Laguna. He stopped looking at himself, realizing that 
there was no serious point to this examination. The trouble was not him 
physically or mentally-the trouble was Rick! 

It was true that he loved Rick, but there were other reasons he did not want 
to lose the boy. Important reasons, at least they were important at the 
moment. The truth of the matter was he was stone broke. Rick had moved in at 
the right time. By accepted forty-two dollars and fifty cents from Rick, 
Paul had managed to meet another month's rent. But it had taken all of his 
money. The rent for the art studio he shared with a fellow artist was also 
due. He could not pay it. He would lose the studio. He'd hocked a diamond 
ring his mother had left him, and he sold two of his paintings for a 
ridiculously low price, and still he needed money. It was too early in the 
season for tourists, so there would be no paintings sold this month. He 
should be working, painting like mad, so that he would have at least fifty 
completed works for the summer trade. But he was depressed, and, besides, he 
needed more canvases, more paint, brushes, and God knows what else. Without 
it he could not paint. 

He realized that at the center of his confused feelings was a need to find a 
security of his own. It had always been that way with him. He'd never had 
anything. He'd lived with his parents until they were killed in an auto 
accident. After he had gone through the insurance money, he'd taken one 
menial job after another until he decided to make a career as a painter. 
After all, his work had always been admired. So he painted. And at the rate 
he was going he'd end up a bum. It wasn't that he was a bad painter, on the 
contrary, he was damn good. But painters were a dime a dozen, good ones 
included. The competition in Laguna was overwhelming, and it grew steadily 
worse. He had to be sponsored, that was the only way. Or he at least had to 
have someone sharing the expenses; he could not possibly do it alone. It 
wasn't that he hadn't tried. He'd played the field, always hoping to meet up 
with some old rich queen who could be talked into parting with his money, 
hoping to be kept, to be cared for and fed in return for his body. In a way 
this had been in the back of his mind with Rick. Maybe on a smaller scale. 

He sighed. Now it was too late. Obviously Rick wasn't going to stay on. 
Meanwhile he was broke, damn broke. There wasn't even enough money for grub. 
The trouble with me, he told himself, is that I'm not a big enough taker. 
When would he learn to reach out and grab? He was confused by Rick's sudden 
rejection, confused and angry at his own inability to make a successful life 
for himself; its intensity frightened him. 

He glanced at his watch. It was early. Early enough for him to give Eric a 
call. Now, there was a rich queen. A smile cracked Paul's face. Yes, Eric 
was loaded, but he was damn smart. All Paul could hope to get out of him was 
a free dinner and invites to gay parties and an occasional cruise on the fat 
slob's boat. Yet, if Eric was in the mood to play his sex games, Paul could 
make a bundle. Eric was like that. Eric liked him, liked his body. He'd be 
taken to a classy restaurant and they would end up here at his place. 

"Might as well," Paul sighed, walking to the telephone. He certainly 
couldn't stay here and pine away for Rick. No percentage in that. Besides, 
he hadn't had a cock date for a long time. 

After dinner, just as Paul anticipated, he and Eric were sipping cognac and 
watching television at his house. 

"That was a great dinner," Paul said. "Thanks." 

"It's always a pleasure eating with you." Eric gave him a lecherous smile. 
"And eating each other!" 

That was the length of Eric's humor, Paul thought. Fag jokes about 
cocksucking. He forced a smile, "Oh, Eric," he said. "You're too much." He 
finished his drink, got up, and poured another. "Want one, Eric?" 

"No, dear. I don't want to get too high before the big event." 

Paul smiled. Then the old fag was in the mood for his sex game. Paul 
returned to the couch and lay on his back, staring at the television set. 
The fragrance of aphrodisia cologne was strong in his nostrils. Eric must 
have used the whole bottle. He felt Eric's fingers under his shirt across 
his taut abdomen. He stretched his legs and felt the all-familiar warmth in 
his loins. His limp cock stirred, then roused itself and began to lengthen. 
A friend's remark leaped to Paul's mind. 'That Paul ... if Hitler touched 
him he'd get a hard on." The joke happened to be the truth. Paul didn't find 
Eric attractive, fact was he thought him to be downright ugly. But the 
second he was touched.... 

"I think," he said, trying to ignore Eric's hand on his pectoral muscle, 
"that Bette Davis, that is early Bette Davis, was quite talented. What 
happened to her?" 

"What happens to all of us, darling, she got tired," Eric laughed. "Hell, 
how long can one go on? Anyway, who the hell cares?" 

Paul turned to look at him Eric had gotten fatter and, he seemed, shorter. 
He was now almost bald. Paul wondered why the man didn't buy a wig, after 
all he could afford the best one made. But then he thought a wig would not 
help; Eric had too many things wrong with him. He had jowls that hung 
loosely, and a complexion the color of phthalocyanine green (an oil color 
Paul used in his painting), and his eyes were a washed-out blue, and his 
lips were blubbery. He sweated something terrible (thus the heavy usage of 
aphrodisia, Paul's unfavorite cologne), it really upset Paul, it was all he 
could do to keep from gagging. Thank God, Eric refused to take off his 
clothes. He'd never seen the man naked, and hoped he'd never have to. The 
only good things going for Eric were his money and his cock. And thinking of 
cock....Paul's gaze dropped to Eric's lap. Sure enough, the old fag had it 
out, balls and all. It really is a monster of a prick, thought Paul, too bad 
it isn't attached to a more attractive body. His eyes returned to the set 
and Bette Davis. 

"Oh, shit," Eric said. "I can watch the telly at home." He rose and snapped 
off the set. "Fuck Bette Davis." 

Uh-huh, thought Paul, he's starting early tonight. He saw Eric turn and 
smile, finger his testicles, then gesture for Paul to come to him. 

What I won't do for a free dinner, Paul thought as he got up. He'd been to 
bed too many times with Eric not to know what was to follow. Well, he mused, 
everyone to his own kicks. He reached into his shirt pocket for the capsule 
of amyl nitrite, then stood waiting for Eric's command. 

"Get on the floor," Eric commanded. "And listen to me good!" 

Paul had to suppress a smile. Eric's soldierly order was given with a 
sibilant s. 

Suddenly Eric pulled himself tall, parted his legs, and glared at Paul. When 
he spoke, it was with a German accent. 

"You prisoners are nothing but trouble, always trying to escape from camp. 
Veil, I'm going to teach you a lesson!" 

Oh, so that was it. Eric was playing Nazi this evening. Well, that should be 
good for twenty-five dollars, Paul thought. 

"Down!" Eric ordered, pretending to crack a whip. 

The trick was not to laugh, Paul warned himself. The minute he did, Eric 
would storm out of the house. It had happened before. He needed the fat 
slob, so he kept his face serious. 

Eric's fat, anxious fingers undid Paul's clothing. He pulled the shirt 
impatiently from his back, ripping the material, and was now fumbling with 
the belt of Paul's trousers. Didn't matter, Paul told himself, tomorrow or 
the next day a package would be delivered to him and it would be a very 
expensive shirt from Eric. 

"Now, back on your knees." Eric glared down at him. "Move!" 

Naked, except for his socks (Eric thought feet were ugly), Paul stared up at 
Eric's massive erection. 

"You know what you're going to do, don't you?" 

"No," Paul whispered, assuming a helpless, confused attitude. 

"I'll tell you. You're going to suck my fat dick!" 

Paul looked up with frightened eyes. Lay it on good, he told himself. "No, 
please ... don't make me do that. I can't ... I've never done that before." 

Eric's rasping breathing was heavy now as he jerked Paul's head back and 
down onto the floor. One hand locked around Paul's neck, choking him, while 
the other guided his fat penis to Paul's mouth. "Just open your mouth and 
take it," Eric said, low animal-like moans coming from his throat. 

The odor of the man's foul-smelling cock came to Paul's nostrils. It wasn't 
exactly his favorite smell. But a buck was a buck. 

"Suck!" Eric's voice was harsh, demanding, with rising passion. 

Paul reached out and touched the moist velvet flesh of the cocktip. It 
certainly was huge, he'd always been fascinated by it. It had to be all of 
eleven inches, and it was as fat as a slab of baloney, with heavy blue 
veins, and the head of it was massive under the silky foreskin. But what was 
so intriguing was its hardness-like steel. Paul had never known as hard a 
prick as this one. He pushed back the foreskin and brought his lips forward 
to kiss it. The teeming organ throbbed. 

"Suck!" Eric lisped. 

Paul opened his mouth, devouring the fat rod. 

"Yes, like that ... like that, you damn Jew!" 

Eric was really playing Nazi. Thank God there weren't any gas chambers, he 
was sure Eric would throw him into one. 

Eric's hands rubbed along Paul's hairy, muscular torso, then he maneuvered 
himself down onto his knees to the floor and reached for Paul's heavy, 
well-formed cock. He held it tightly, feeling of its hardness. Then he 
squeezed it savagely. 

"I am the master race. You are my slave. You will die a slave!" 

God, thought Paul, he'd seen too fucking many war pictures. 

Eric squeezed Paul's cock. 

Paul groaned from the sudden pain. He pulled his mouth from Eric's penis and 
was about to curse the man when Eric cupped Paul's testicles, his fingers 
tightening around the full hanging balls. 

"Watch it!" Paul cried. "Rough is rough, but when you-" 

"Shut up. If you don't like it why'd you call me in the first place?" Then 
Eric smiled. "Because you need dough. Well, if you want my money, then work 
for it!" His hand squeezed Paul's balls even harder. 

Paul gritted his teeth, sucked in a mouthful of air, took the pain as best 
he could. Finally Eric let the aching balls drop. 

"Well! What do you think of it?" 

Without looking at Eric, Paul said, "Your cock is beautiful." 

"And what does it do for you?" 

"It-it thrills me." 

"Well, play with the damn thing!" 

Paul cupped the heavy balls, huge things, as big and round as golf balls. 

"You like sucking me off?" 

"Yes, very much." He saw Eric stiffen. 

"Yes, very much-sir! " Eric commanded. 

"Yes, very much ... sir!" Paul repeated. 

"And remember to sir me from now on, you slave!" He took his prick in his 
hand and then pressed it against Paul's mouth, pushing it from side to side, 
sliding it almost into the full closed lips. 

Paul felt a heavy drop of come on his lips; he tongued it, taking it into 
his mouth. 

"Yeah, lick my come, lick it good," Eric whispered. He rested his cocktip at 
one comer of Paul's lips. "I want to see you eat me," he husked. 

It'll take some doing over that big, fat belly of yours, thought Paul. 
Suddenly Eric forced his cock into Paul's mouth, and then worked his hips 
back and forth, forcing at least six inches of himself inside. Quickly he 
pulled himself out. 

"Say it!" he demanded. 

"Say what?" Paul was confused. 

"Say-I love you!" 

Paul swallowed hard. Jesus, he thought, he wanted a lot for his money. "I-I 
love you!" he breathed. 

"Damn you," Eric's rasping voice swore. "Say it like you meant it." 

"I love you-" 

"Better. But haven't you forgotten something?" 

Paul clenched his teeth. "I love you ... sir!" 

"Yeah, that's what I want to hear." Eric eased his cock into Paul's mouth, 
then shoved his fat hips forward, sinking it deep into the man. 

Paul choked at the deep invasion, then became accustomed to the enormous rod 
in his mouth. He moved his mouth and lips in piston-like movements, 
conscious of Eric watching his every move, extracting delirious enjoyment 
from every movement. 

Now Paul felt the teeming head working against his tongue and cheeks. Eric 
suddenly thrust his hips forward, sending his big cock deep into Paul's 
throat and Paul started to choke. But Eric could care less. Another shove, 
and the entire length of his fat dick pushed far into Paul's mouth and down 
his throat. He gagged violently. He choked and found it hard to breathe. 
Still the cock remained. His discomfort was tremendous, but he sucked 
onward, hoping Eric would come. Finally Eric gave up a few inches, and the 
tears rolled down Paul's cheeks. He swallowed hard, already feeling the 
start of a sore throat, as Eric started a slow sawing motion, easing his 
dick in and out in short strokes, ending with one very deep lunge, all the 
way down. Finally Paul got used to the rhythm and timed his breathing so 
that he would not choke. He felt pudgy lips kissing his navel. The mouth 
worked down and he felt Eric's teeth graze his cock. 

"Mmmm, aghhh," Paul groaned in pain. 

Then Eric seized his cock in his big wet mouth. Paul moaned at the sudden 
delicious feeling. Now if Eric wouldn't get rough! The mouth sucked hard, 
anxiously, excitedly, expertly, slipping all the way down to the very root 
and back again. Paul made himself suck harder at the other man's cock; he 
became excited. Eric's big, surprisingly cool nuts pounded heavily against 
his nose, his forehead, and his eyes. He closed his eyes and moaned as 
Eric's attentive mouth and tongue sucked ravenously. 

He'd become accustomed to the short strokes of the man, but suddenly Eric 
changed and pistoned full length, hard into him. Paul choked and gasped for 
breath. He wanted to pull away. The cock was much too big; it completely 
filled his mouth from cheek to cheek and his tongue had a hard time under 
the pushing cock's underside. His throat felt raw and tight and he thought 
he would faint. He felt Eric's mouth and tongue swirling over his own hard 
cock and he tried to pull himself out of the mouth and at the same time 
tried to push the man's fat belly away, but it was like trying to move a 
Mack truck. He began to get almost hysterical and tried to moan, but 
couldn't; he was choking so much. 

All of a sudden Eric's cock eased from Paul's throat until only the massive 
slippery head remained in his mouth. Saliva ran down his chin and cheeks as 
he struggled for air. Just as he was beginning to feel better, the cock 
moved, pushed forward, pulsated, and throbbed in his mouth. This is it, he 
thought. He felt the wiry pubic forest rubbing his chin hard, the prick deep 
in his throat beginning to swell. He slapped Eric on the buttocks to get his 
attention-was he about to shoot his load? But Eric was feasting ravishingly 
on the prick in his own mouth. Then the cock stiffened even more in Paul's 
mouth (how was it possible?), and he felt the gushes of come shoot down his 
throat. He remembered suddenly Eric's explicit instructions. Quickly he took 
the amyl nitrite capsule he'd been holding so long in his hand, cracked it 
open, and put it to Eric's nose. Eric inhaled deeply, let out a loud groan 
and Paul felt the man's big frame stiffen then go into jerky convulsions as 
he screamed loudly his pleasure. He lunged his fat hips into Paul's face and 
Paul thought he would die. It was too much, too much. Eric erupted spasm 
after spasm after spasm of hot, bubbly come. Paul thought it would never 
end. 

Then Paul writhed his hips at the feel of the throat contractions around his 
own cockhead. But Eric stayed inside of his mouth, his cock still as hard as 
steel. He writhed his hips and Paul could feel his throat contracting over 
the man's cockhead. He was gagging and at the same time ready to shoot his 
load. He shoved his hips in, fucking the man's mouth brutally. Then he came, 
a big load. He thrust his hips hard into the man's face. Swallow that! You 
fucker, he thought, like I was forced to do. 

They lay there for at least five minutes before Eric finally pulled his cock 
from Paul's mouth. 

"You suck cock beautifully, Paul." Eric was being Eric again, dropping his 
accent completely. "I swear to God there isn't a better cocksucker in all of 
Laguna." 

Spare me the compliments, thought Paul, excusing himself so that he could 
vomit out what he'd been forced to take in. That, and to gargle his sore 
throat and dress. When he was through in the bathroom, he returned, poured 
them both another drink, and waited for the big moment. 

"Well, doll, it's getting late," Eric said, peeling some bills from a roll 
he took out of his pocket. "I know my lover boy is having a bad time of it, 
so here's a little bonus for you." 

Paul took the money without looking at it. He slipped it into his pocket, 
kissed his fat slob of a date good-night, and saw him to the door. When he 
heard the car drive away, he searched his pocket to count the money. Fifty 
bucks! And he'd suck-earned every penny of it. Thank God, he thought, I'm 
saved for a while. 

"What in hell was that all about?" a voice asked from the darkness of the 
kitchen. 

Paul whirled around. 

"Rick!" he whispered, surprised by the boy's presence. "When-how long have 
you-" 

"I saw the whole thing." 

"You could have made your presence known." 

"And spoil all your fun? Boy, you must be hard up. What'd you bring that fat 
old queen home for?" 

"Guess?" Paul said, turning away from Rick. 

"He gave you money. Is that the reason?" 

"You tell me." 

"Christ!" How could you do it? Nobody can be that strapped for money." 

Paul turned sharply to face Rick. "Well, I am. Is that so hard to 
understand? Not everybody has a rich mother to support them. You don't know 
how fucking lucky you are. Besides, what's wrong with taking his money. I 
gave the sonofabitch what he wanted, didn't I? I-" Paul turned away so that 
Rick wouldn't see the tears. "-I needed money. Shit, I don't even have any 
oils left, and I make my living painting. I'm about to lose my studio. Next 
month I won't even have the money to pay the rent on this house. Hell, I 
don't even have money to eat." 

Rick was at Paul's side, sensing the desperation in Paul. He embraced him, 
holding him tightly in his arms. 

"Hey, come on. I'm sorry I said those things." He kissed Paul on the cheek. 
"Come on, babe, stop crying. I didn't know. I was just thinking about my own 
problems. Babe-come on now, stop crying," he whispered tenderly, stroking 
Paul's cheek. "I'm back. I'm back now. You won't have to see the sonofabitch 
again." 

"You mean it, Rick? You are back for keeps? Oh, Rick, you just don't know 
how much I love you," Paul breathed. 

"Okay," Rick smiled, "is that anything to cry about?" 

Paul blinked back the tears and laughed. It was a quick, shallow laugh, but 
a laugh all the same. 

Rick tilted Paul's head up and grinned. "Tomorrow you go out and get 
yourself all the paint and canvases and stuff you need. And don't worry 
about the studio. I'll pay the rent. Hell, Paul, why didn't you tell me?" 

"Because-I-I was ashamed." 

"Not with me, Paul. Don't ever be ashamed with me." 

Paul buried his face into Rick's chest. It was so strange. Rick was so 
tender; he'd never known him to reach out and touch him, it just wasn't 
Rick's way. But now, it was different. The quick male warmth of Rick reached 
out and engulfed him. In one split second he had managed to convince Rick of 
his urgent needs. Because the boy had witnessed the scene with Eric, a 
newfound tenderness and love seemed to come from Rick, a tenderness and love 
that had been missing. It wasn't his imagination-Rick did feel something for 
him. 

"Paul?" 

"Yes, Rick?" 

"Remember this, Paul. Tomorrow is the very beginning of your life. 
Yesterdays don't count-only tomorrow," Rick whispered. "I read that 
somewhere, and it stayed with me. Only tomorrow." 

"Yes, Rick." It was happening, Paul thought, as he felt Rick's lips on his 
own. He was going to get what he wanted. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Susan Lundman was bored. She'd just returned from Las Vegas and in the quiet 
of her house now paced the floor nervously. Gambling bored her, films bored 
her, television no longer held her interest. She didn't read, she hadn't 
picked up a book since Forever Amber. So she spent most of her day at the 
salon, or shopping in Beverly Hills, or meeting other women friends for 
lunch. But even that was becoming a bore. Idly Susan drifted away from the 
dining room and out onto the terrace. Slowly she walked down the steps into 
the Japanese garden. 

The fragrance of the flowers was strong in her nostrils and she stood, drink 
in hand, looking glumly up at the sky. She wasn't feeling too well this 
morning. She had a hangover and the shakes that wouldn't stop. She didn't 
know what was happening to her. There was a time when she could take four or 
five scotch highballs before dinner, then drink a few more after, follow 
that by cognac straight through the evening, and still manage to wake up in 
the morning clear as a glass of champagne-well, maybe occasionally she would 
have a dull ache in the head the following morning, but a glass of scotch 
over the rocks and black coffee always took the "blaliness" away. For the 
past three years, however, drinking had become an increasing problem. She 
craved it so. Four straight shots of scotch was what she required the second 
she got out of bed to bring her into a semblance of endurable coherence; she 
drank scotch in the morning, martinis through lunch, old-fashioneds before 
dinner and whatever else she craved after. Each night she'd fall into bed in 
a state of quasi-delirious, exhilarant apprehension, hoping-she had even 
prayed-that she would be able to get through the long night, taking a secret 
vow that tomorrow, hangover or no, she would not touch a drop. Yes, tomorrow 
she would be a new woman ... tomorrow she would go on the wagon ... and 
while she was at it, she'd give up smoking. Tomorrow always came, but she 
drank even more, and smoked twice as much. 

What happened to her? When had it all started? When had drinking ceased to 
be social and had become personal? At what point had it stopped being 
pleasurable and had become a nightmare? That's what she was, an alcoholic. 
But she wasn't alone, she compensated. There were others like her who could 
understand the consuming, corrosive, nightmarish terror of the alcoholic 
compulsion. So? Why should she join that miserable crowd? Nobody held a 
knife to her stomach, threatening her to take a drink. Look what it had 
forced her to do. She found herself increasingly alone in bars. She was now 
drinking her dinner, her lunch; subsisting chiefly on ham sandwiches, 
drinking black coffee in copious quantities, and, of course, taking 
barbital. When would the long, tortuous cycle end? She asked the question 
with increasing despondence, and never got an answer. She'd been to a 
sanitarium, to three doctors, and to a psychiatrist. The last had told her 
that she obviously had been a troubled child (she could have told him 
that!), that she was too self-exacting, that it was a form of escape, even 
that she was allergic to alcohol. When she paid him the two hundred dollars, 
the end result of her consultation was a week's jag in the Beverly Wilshire 
Hotel, a sex orgy with six guys, and a heavy fine for drunken driving and 
disorderly conduct. 

Out of the three years of combined, collective bewilderment, loneliness, 
frustration, fear of growing old, had grown an all-increasing anger and 
resentment for all that tortured her, all that made her existence miserable; 
a resentment as strong as her despondency, which directed itself toward 
Rick, her late husband, and every and all lovers she took. Her hopeless kind 
of existence was painful, and finally her emotions and energy dissipated 
itself into innumerable moods of deep exhaustion. The point was to free 
herself from her emotional bracelet, to stretch, straighten, and clear out 
of the dark pit she was in. Jesus, there must be a way; there had to be some 
kind of answer, and, moodily, standing solitarily in the Japanese garden, 
drink in hand, she sought to find the way. 

Susan Lundman's jaw set firmly as she sank into the depths of depression. 
Each time she looked at her face in a mirror she told herself that she was 
the most lasting beauty of them all-a regular Garbo. But inside she knew age 
had touched her with its ugly finger. Men no longer threw themselves at her. 
She really had no choice in sleeping partners anymore. She had to resort to 
a certain kind of man, the older type with the tire around his waist, the 
gray hair at his temple, married men sneaking a lay on the side. That, or 
she had to pay for it. She could get anything she wanted as long as she paid 
for it. Money talked, she knew that well. But paying men, forcing them to 
love her, took a lot out of her. It had frightened her when she saw the gray 
at her roots just before she had her hair bleached. Susan Lundman, beauty, 
fading away faster than any of the sad parade of bed partners she'd pursued 
and pitied. She turned and walked back into the house to look at herself in 
the mirror. Her face was a bit bloated and heavy from drink. She was 
overweight, and her skin was sallow without makeup, her eyes bloodshot and 
watery-and what was that? A wrinkle? "God, no," she muttered aloud. Why, 
just recently she'd studied her face and thought she looked well. She had. 
Who wouldn't with globs of makeup? A thin line of pain shot across the back 
of her head as her thoughts fixed on the fact that she was falling downhill, 
headfirst and heedless. 

"I don't give a hoot," she mumbled. "What the hell. I'm not that bad!" No, 
it's just that she'd hung one on in Vegas, that's all. She was suffering the 
aftermaths of a big weekend, it was that simple. 

The sound of a car parking in her driveway pulled her from her thoughts. She 
walked to the window and looked out. "The Rolls," she muttered. "Rick." 
Quickly she walked to the makeup table and applied some lipstick, combed her 
hair, and, slipping into a peignoir, went downstairs. She waited for the 
sound of Rick's key in the door, but heard the chimes ring instead. "Must 
have lost his key," she muttered as she walked to the door. 

She swung the door open, the smile fading from her face when she found 
herself staring at a stranger. "Oh, I thought you were Rick!" She stared at 
the tall blond man. "Rick's my son," she explained. Her glance went to the 
Rolls-Royce. "He has a car exactly like yours." 

"It's his car." 

Her brow creased. "Has anything happened to Rick?" 

"No, no, nothing like that. I borrowed it. My name is Paul Harris." 

"Oh. Yes. Paul. Rick is staying with you." 

"Yes. You spoke with me on the phone a few times." 

She stood there, hesitating. "Yes," she smiled. Standing aside, finally she 
beckoned him in. "This is a surprise. Rick isn't with you?" 

"No. I came alone on business." 

"I see." 

"My car-" he laughed, "-jalopy is more like it-hates freeways," he told her. 

She laughed back. "What kind of business are you here on?" 

"I'm an artist." 

"Artist?" she questioned, closing the door behind her. "I paint. I thought I 
told you." 

"If you had, then I've forgotten." She glanced at him fleetingly, her dark 
eyes glittering. "Funny, you don't look like an artist." 

"Oh," Paul grinned. "Do they have a special look?" 

"Ones I know do. Bunch of fags." She saw him flinch. "Sit down," she 
gestured to a chair. "I'm having scotch. What's yours?" She saw him look at 
her in surprise. "Too early for you, huh? Well I can get you tomato juice 
or-" 

"Scotch will be find. On the rocks." 

She made him a drink then stood studying him as he drank. "I didn't realize 
you'd be so handsome," she complimented him, pulling her peignoir closer 
around her and touching her hair. She noticed his blush. "So you came by to 
ogle Rick's old lady." 

"To introduce myself formally," he corrected. 

She put a cigarette to her lips and immediately he was on his feet lighting 
it for her. The cigarette glowed, casting a shine over her face as her eyes 
swept over him. 

"To return the compliment, I had no idea Rick's mother was as youthful and 
as beautiful." 

"You just scored with me," she smiled. "Tell me, how is Rick?" 

"Fine." 

"Still writing?" she asked, wondering what Rick must have told him. "Yes." 

"I find that hard to believe." She hesitated, then said, "He never mentioned 
you. I find that strange. Oh, but then you told me how you met." She saw him 
swallow with difficulty. "Tell me, do you have a big house in Laguna?" 

He laughed. "No, very tiny." 

She caught the word tiny and wondered why he didn't say small. Tiny was one 
of the precious words her homo artist friends used. She gave him another 
look. There was something poetic about this boy. Yet he wasn't a boy, he was 
far older than Rick. Strange that Rick would have someone this old for a 
friend ... a roommate. An artist who lives in Laguna. Hmmm, and such a 
handsome one. She saw him light a cigarette, caught the relaxed wrist, saw 
him cross his knee, and began to notice little signs. 

"So you paint. Tell me, how old are you?" 

"Twe-thirty," he mumbled. 

From his uncomfortable look he seemingly did not enjoy being questioned. 

"Really. You don't look it. I'm surprised by your age. I mean, Rick's 
friends have always been in their teens." She watched as he mashed his 
cigarette in the silver ashtray. He was far from comfortable. "Rick must 
like Laguna." 

"I think he does." 

"I don't believe that stuff about the writing. I think he must have 
something going for him there," she laughed. Suddenly she saw the guarded 
look on his face. She knew instantly what that look meant. It surprised her, 
she had to admit. She never suspected Rick would become involved with a man. 
It was obvious to her. It was also strange how she felt; suspecting Rick and 
this handsome man gave her a vicarious thrill. Paul Harris was too damn 
handsome not to be queer. "Well? Does he have someone?" She cocked her head, 
enjoying the hint of fear in his face. 

"I-I wouldn't know. He-he spends lots of time on the beach. I guess he meets 
girls there." 

"Yes, I'm sure." 

Paul Harris was queer; instinct told her that. She could always tell. Hell, 
she should know about men by now. She also knew the reason he'd dropped by. 
Paul knew that sooner or later he'd have to meet Rick's mother if the affair 
were to continue. Obviously Paul had decided to do it this way, alone, 
without Rick; that way she would be less suspicious. It was almost 
impossible to believe Rick would seek this kind of arrangement. It didn't 
bother her, but it surprised her. A smile came to her lips when she raised 
her face. She told herself she'd play with Paul Harris-make him sweat. 

"Tell me, are there just the two of you in this tiny house?" 

There was an uncomfortable silence. 

"I mean," she continued, "You don't have a wife, you're not married?" 

She watched him put down his glass and immediately light another cigarette. 
"No, I'm not married." 

"Ever been?" 

"No." 

"Strange." 

"Why?" 

"You're too good-looking to have escaped. I should think women would throw 
themselves at your feet." He laughed off her remark. 

"No, really," she insisted. She looked at him mischievously. "Well now, 
we've established the fact that you are not married. Do you have a steady?" 

"I date now and then," he said guardedly. 

She knew he was lying. "No steady. That means you don't belong to anyone," 
she said teasingly. 

"I suppose you can say that," he said dryly. He shifted his weight, looked 
at the arms of the chair he was sitting in, and said, "This chair. Isn't it 
Louis the Fifteenth?" 

He was purposely changing the subject. She suppressed a laugh. It was so 
obvious. "Yes," she answered. "How clever of you. Then you collect 
antiques?" 

"Hardly. I'm a lover of antiques. I could never afford to-" 

"But the chair you're sitting in only costs fifteen hundred dollars." When 
she said it, she knew it was bitchy of her. 

"I figured it was in that neighborhood. Exactly why I could never buy it." 

"Then painting is not making you rich?" 

"God, no," he laughed. 

Her eyes settled on his mouth, and a warmness stole through her. He had an 
absolutely marvelous smile, she thought. 

"Tell me, are you a good painter?" 

"I think so." 

"One day you must let me see your work." 

"I'd like for you to, Mrs. Lundman." 

"Then I will." Her eyes searched his. "Under one condition-that you please, 
call me Susan, not Mrs. Lundman-and that we get to know each other better." 

"Agreed." 

A wave of sudden sexual emotion sluiced over her. "And we can start right 
now." 

His face was impassive as she walked up to him. She smiled. He smiled 
nervously back at her. She leaned down, permitting him a good look at her 
bobbing breasts as she ground out her cigarette. "Has Rick spoken much about 
his mother?" 

"Some." He gulped uncomfortably, unable to see beyond her half-exposed 
braless breasts. 

"I'll bet he has. What did he tell you?" Her eyes flicked up at him. "That 
I'm aggressive-to use a nice, full-bodied sounding word." 

"Uh-uh, no, he never said that." 

"He hates me, you know. Oh, yes. Why, I will never know. He must have told 
you." 

"No, he just spoke of his home-and-" 

She cut him off by placing a finger on his lips. "You don't have to 
explain," she said gently. "I understand everything." She ran her teasing 
fingertips down his cheek, his neck, and up again through his thick blond 
hair. "About your being gay-" She felt him stiffen. "-relax. It doesn't 
bother me. I've had some damn good times in bed with gay boys. Lots of them 
are AC/DC. You?" 

"Mrs. Lundman, I-" 

"Susan. Remember? You haven't forgotten we're getting to know each other." 

He pushed her hands away and got to his feet. "I think I better go," he 
said. 

"Go? Why, you've just arrived." 

"Nevertheless, I still think I better go. I don't think we-you-that we-" 

"Oh, shut up! Look, Paul, I'm not stupid. I know why you came here. To get 
to meet the old lady. Right? To set it up so that I wouldn't think there was 
anything out of the ordinary between you and Rick." 

"Hey, look. This is a bad scene we're playing," Paul said, turning to face 
her. 

"Why? We're being honest with each other. My, my, my, what have you got 
against the truth." Her face broke into a mirthless smile. "Didn't think I'd 
be so smart, did you? Well, I am. Smart enough to know you can get into 
trouble. Rick is still underage-ever stop to think about that?" 

"I never said that Rick and I were-" 

"You don't have to say it." 

"You have no proof." 

"He's living with you, that's proof enough. Mothers can make an awful lot of 
noise, you know, especially rich, Beverly Hills mothers." 

He turned to face her, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing. "What's this 
all about?" 

"Nothing. I just don't like being lied to. Look, I don't mind at all what 
you are, or, for that matter, what Rick is or isn't. Hell, my son is better 
off living with you than some tramp who would be trying to hook him for his 
money. And there won't be any babies-they've already tried that on him. I 
had to pay but good. No, I don't mind." She felt an angry burning sensation 
in her chest. "But," she whispered, "I do mind rejection! I mind that very 
much." 

"You're asking me to-" his voice caught. 

"I'm not asking-I'm telling you," she smiled. "Servants are out, we're 
alone, no time like the present." She opened her peignoir, revealing her 
huge, creamy breasts, and looked him square in the eye. 

He made an effort to look away, but she saw him return his look, his eyes 
feasting on her massive globes. Instantly she knew he swung with women; 
nobody could look at her tits like that and not be attracted to her. She 
walked up to him and stared him down. 

"You sure don't waste time, do you?" he said quietly. 

"No, baby," she answered, her eyes slanting, her lips parting, her arms 
going around him. "Not one fucking second!" 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

It was really a laugh, thought Paul, as he got out of his clothes. He'd only 
half-kidded himself about screwing this woman. The most he thought would 
happen was that she would be infatuated with him and flattered by his 
flirtatious attention. But Susan Lundman took the cake, the whole cake. He'd 
never before met such an aggressive female. There had been two women he'd 
boffed, but he'd only done that in high school, to prove his masculinity on 
weekend dates with the other guys and their girls. He didn't like women, 
much, but it was not difficult for him once he got started. And right this 
minute, Susan Lundman had him going. 

There was something about her. Maybe it was her urgent sexual need, maybe it 
was her complete fascination with the male body, maybe it was because every 
thing she did, said, felt, smacked of sex. It could also be because she was 
an expert at lovemaking. Her very fingertips oozed sex. It was as though sex 
was her nourishment. She made him feel like a god ... the way she seemed to 
grope for his love. She was all over him in the bed. Her hands reached out, 
feeling his arms, his chest, his hips, his buttocks. She moaned huskily, 
staring in fascination as his cock sprang forward like a sabre. 

"You're beautiful," she whispered. "I hoped you'd be hung, but I never 
expected-" She reached for him, cupping the palm of her hand under his heavy 
balls, tracing the outline of his pompous, purple-veined prick with her 
other hand. "Cripes," she whispered, "you're enormous." Her eyes burned into 
his, and Paul saw the crooked smile flicker across her face. "I'm burning 
for you baby, really burning." She brought his hands to her breasts, leaned 
forward and parted her lips against his. "Kiss me," she pleaded. 

He sent his tongue between her lips, kneading her breasts at the same time. 
Her mouth opened wantonly as she eagerly accepted his tongue. 

"Cripes," she whispered, pulling back. "You sure can kiss." She let her eyes 
wander over his nakedness. "Damn, but you're built. Nice-strong-hard-sinewy 
body. I like your cheekbones, so prominent; and you've got a nice square 
chin and-hey, I just noticed the dimple in it." 

"Yeah, I'm a regular Kirk Douglas," he grinned. 

"That's not bad, baby, not bad at all." 

He looked at her breasts; swollen, huge, big round red tips, straining out 
to him. He faltered, wondering if he were able to play the male role. Could 
he satisfy her? If not, she'd turn into a raging bitch. This kind of woman 
would. He'd come on strong with the other women, but he had failed them once 
they were in bed. It didn't matter then; he and the girls were so young. As 
for men, he found them more agreeable to his nature; if it didn't happen, 
there was always a next time. But with Susan Lundman it was either now or 
never! Besides, he wanted to try with this redhead-try to see if he were a 
man. He was a little jealous of Rick who was able to switch from female to 
male at the drop of a hat. It might not be so bad after all. One thing Susan 
had was tits. He was attracted to them. He laughed inwardly. It could be 
that he was jealous of those great, big, beautiful tits. 

She fluffed a pillow, then settled back against it, striking a pose that was 
at once both feminine and wanton. He studied the glossy body; the generous 
tits, the narrow waist, the rich hips, the long legs; stared at the rigid 
nipples, the dome-like stomach, and frankly had to admit that she was really 
something for her age. 

She took hold of his hands and impatiently brought them back to her breasts. 
His hands glided over the hard, rubbery protuberances. He felt a little 
giddy; they did feel marvelous, and they were breathtakingly beautiful 
breasts. Her lips were swollen, full and sensual. For a fleeting second her 
face seemed to turn into Rick. The resemblance was fantastic. Her bright 
eyes hooked to his cock. Even the way she did that reminded him of Rick. She 
slid her hand down her belly with a slow, languorous movement and rubbed her 
pubic region. How many times had he seen Rick do that? Paul felt his whole 
body tremble and go limp with sudden longing for her. Having Rick's 
beautiful mother, naked and begging for his big cock, stirred him with lust. 

She pulled him to her and kissed him hotly, almost engulfing his mouth with 
hers. "Fuck me!" she begged. 

He heard another voice, just as urgent, the male voice of Rick-"Fuck me!" 
Her lips were torrid, yet strangely soft and exciting, as was the feel of 
her hips and thighs pressing into him. His tongue danced in her mouth as he 
drew her to him in a tight embrace. 

She captured his surging phallus, squeezing it, begging him to use it. 
"Please, oh, please," came her urgent whisper. Her body began to wiggle 
against his as she slid her arms around him. 

He could feel her great round warm breasts mashed against his ribs, felt the 
hard core of her big nipples stab into him. He ran a hand across her smooth 
thighs. Immediately she clamped her legs tightly around his hand and 
shivered with uncontrollable passion. 

When she smiled, her face took on a strange bright beauty. "Just being 
kissed by you, touched by you, thrills me," she husked. 

Her enthusiasm for him engulfed him like a sudden warm summer wind. A hot 
feeling spread through his body. He began playing with the soft, white flesh 
of her tits. Then he pulled himself up and rested his throbbing erection 
between her mounds. He clamped her breasts with both hands against his 
swollen prick then moved his slim hips back and forth, fucking the velvety 
tits. Her body moved under him in a slow motion, enough to let him know she 
was enjoying it. Little beads of moisture came from his cocktip and trailed 
down the white skin under her heavy globes. His balls bounced against her 
soft tits, sent shivers through him. She guided his hand between her legs. 
His fingers ran through the soft, silky, moist hair. They reached further to 
the opening. He inserted his finger past the edge of her now puffy lips. 
Immediately she spread her legs, opening her crotch even more to admit him. 
His fingers teased her erect clitoris. He shoved his finger into the first 
knuckle, and he felt her shudder. 

She had a tight one, he thought, real tight for a woman who obviously used 
it as much as she did. The inner folds of her snatch covered his finger and 
seemed to pull, wanting to suck his finger deep inside her. He shoved in 
further, this time to the second joint. Hearing her sigh in pleasure, he 
sank his finger to the hilt and began finger-fucking her unmercifully, 
ramming in, pulling out-in-out-in-out. 

Her body squirmed as she begged, "Paul, please, oh, God, do it tome." 

He withdrew his finger and got to his knees. He trailed his big cock along 
her belly down to her thigh. She was breathing hard and heavy now, staring, 
mesmerized by his wet, swollen cock. Staring the way Rick did, Paul thought. 

Almost the same expression of anticipation. He took hold of her ankles and 
pushed back her legs, folding her knees back against her breasts. He wedged 
his frame around, arranged her ankles on top of his shoulders, and stared at 
her gaping cunt. It wasn't a cock, but right now he wanted very much to 
stick his prick into that warm slit that was so eagerly opening wider, 
winking, and surging toward him. He took hold of his rod and rubbed the tip 
of his cock around the outer ridges of her box. Teasingly he rubbed it up 
and down and sideways. 

"Don't tease," she moaned. "Please, don't tease me like this." 

Paul touched his moist penis to the soft curls that surrounded her 
pink-lipped cunt. Slowly he moved closer and ran himself almost into her, 
but not quite. Again he made as if he would sink into her, hesitated, and 
pulled back. Finally, after five of these teasing thrusts, he moved his hips 
in a long round circle and then thrust forward with a mighty lunge. He could 
feel his cock sink all the way into her. Another shove, and he heard her 
scream, "Oh, Chriiiiiiiist! Oh, shit. Good, it's good, good." He reached 
under her, cupped the pliant globes of her ass, and raised her higher. He 
held her that way for a moment, then thrust into her again. 

"You know," she sighed, "Oh, God, how you know!" 

He could feel her cunt contract, grabbing greedily his sliding, slippery 
hardness. He stopped moving, held his hips still, and let her hugging pussy 
pull him deeper. 

"Kiss me," she pleaded. 

He leaned down and took her lips. 

When she pulled back, she stared into his eyes, the flicker of a smile on 
her lips. "Am I better than my son?" 

He didn't know why the question thrilled him, but it did. It made him feel 
like a superman, like the greatest of all lovers. He felt bathed in glorious 
light. He was a lover-a son lover-a mother lover. The greatest. Unique. A 
lover! He grinned down at her. "We haven't finished yet, too early to tell," 
he whispered, sinking his cock deep into the clinging wealth of her vagina. 

"Uhhh," she moaned. "I'll tell you something, lover. Now I know why Rick 
left home and is living in Laguna." 

He smiled, then pushed her knees hard into her tits as he got himself into a 
more comfortable position. All thoughts vanished from his mind as he thrust 
his hips forward into her demanding body. The warm, wet cunt his cock was 
fucking, was his reason for being at the moment-nothing else mattered save 
fucking her hot cunt. Nothing! He smiled when he heard her muffled grunts of 
tantalizing pleasure. When she began a slow roll beneath the hard dick that 
impaled her, he clamped his teeth tightly. Her hungry snatch took all of him 
to the very hilt. An electric tingling sensation shot through him, racing 
from his balls to the tip of his prick. He felt her grind her snatch against 
him, felt the wild movements of her thighs, hips, and the hard brown tips of 
her breasts. She felt like burning hot flames to his skin and lips. Now her 
cunt muscles began to dilate and contract-dilate-contract-devouring his 
massive meat, nibbling eagerly on his swollen prickhead. The sweat was 
rolling down his back as he jerked his hips forward, wanting even his balls 
to fill that glorious hot hole. Now she started to work her body and cunt 
muscles relentlessly, the soft warm ridges of her pink box screwing onto his 
whang. He felt close-damn close. He withdrew his cock to the edge of her 
puffy lips. "Baby," he breathed, "I'm near ready." 

"Don't stop now," she cried. "Shove it into me. I want all of you-all. I 
want you to flood me inside. Oh, baby, baby!" 

Paul steadied himself on his knees, took a deep breath, and rammed his dick 
in as hard as he could. He started a quick fucking motion. He could feel the 
hot flowing juices in her pulsating cunt, could hear the loud, wet, slushy, 
sucking noises from their union. Her hips were wild, driving, thrusting, 
demanding, bucking! He thought he'd go mad at the crazy vibrating body of 
the woman. Never had he experienced anything quite like this before. He 
pushed her knees back almost to her ears, then pulled himself to the outer 
edge and began ramming his penis with direct accuracy into the hot hole. 

"Jeeeeesus!" she cried. 

He dropped his body heavily on hers, feeling her great tits mash under his 
hairy chest, her hard nipples stabbing into his skin. Holding her head 
between his hands, he kissed her as his bloated prick ground hard into her. 
He thrust his tongue into her mouth and sank it deep down into her throat. 
Feeling the aching, bubbling, swelling, in his balls as they flapped 
heavily, wildly against her ass cheeks, Paul knew that the moment was now. 
He sucked in his breath and felt his cock erupt, spilling his hot come into 
her cunt like molten lead. 

"Oh, I'm going to-" Susan cried as her body vibrated uncontrollably with an 
explosion of her own. She locked him tightly to herself as simultaneous 
release carried them through space and slowly brought them back to earth. 

The demands of their bodies satiated, they both collapsed on the bed. 
Moments later, Paul felt the strength return to his body and carefully 
pulled his now limp penis from her. 

"You're something, do you know that?" Susan muttered. "I haven't been fucked 
like that since I was a young girl." 

"You're not so bad yourself," Paul grinned. 

"You liked it?" 

"Yes. Very much." 

"Then you'll come back for more?" 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

"I hope you will." She threw back her head and laughed. "You know what? 
You're really a mother-fucker." 

Paul laughed back, then glanced at his watch. "It's getting late." 

"Got to be back in Laguna-and Rick, huh?" 

He got off the bed and started to put on his shorts. "Let me have another 
look," she whispered huskily. "Ah, come on." He almost blushed. "Just a 
peek." 

He lowered his shorts and saw her stare at his long, hanging, soft cock. 

"It's beautiful, hard or soft," she whispered, staring with glazed eyes. 
Then she brought her eyes up to meet his. "Listen, I want to give you the 
Louis the Fifteenth chair. A gift from me to you." 

He stared at her in disbelief. "No," he frowned. "I couldn't accept it. It's 
far too precious and expensive." 

"Exactly why I want you to have it. That bit of 18th-century antique is 
signed, I want you to know. See, that's what I do when I like someone." 

The chair was worth a fortune. If he accepted it, then sold it, he could 
live on the money for a time-it would pay a whole year's rent. Taking a 
second look, Paul slowly began to realize Susan Lundman could be the very 
person he'd been looking for. Up till now he'd been searching unsuccessfully 
for a rich old man. It never dawned on him to seek out a woman. Suddenly he 
was intrigued with the possibilities of the situation he'd stumbled onto. 
Susan Lundman could help him. The woman was rich, important. She was in a 
position to bring him to the attention of the right people in the art world. 
She could quietly pull strings for him. The more he thought of it, the more 
he liked the idea. He'd been fiercely passionate with the woman-even felt a 
kind of attraction for her. As for Susan, she'd flipped for him, it was 
obvious. To be wanted and sought after was important to this forty-year-old 
woman. She needed affection. It would not be difficult to string her along. 

There was only one drawback. Rick! He did love the boy. Should Rick find out 
that Paul was having an affair with his mother, all hell would break loose. 
It was a strange situation to be in. In love with a young man, and having an 
affair with the young man's mother. But, strange or not, there was so very 
much to gain if he handled himself well and wasn't obviously greedy. He 
would have to make it appear as if it were Susan Lundman's idea. Okay, he'd 
play it by ear. He'd keep his mouth shut, hide his affair from Rick, and see 
Susan Lundman as often as she wished. 

He lit a cigarette and sat down on the edge of the bed in his shorts, facing 
Susan. "I can't accept the chair," he said, taking her hand. 

"Why not?" She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it tenderly. "I want 
to do something for you." 

"It's not necessary." 

"I know," she said, hooking onto a new idea. "The next time you come to Los 
Angeles, why don't you bring a few of your paintings. I'll buy one." 

"All right," he grinned, "I'll give you a discount." 

"I'll have a Paul Harris original. I'll show it to all of my friends. 
They'll be envious and anxious for one just like it." 

He leaned down, kissed her lips, and at the same time ran his fingers 
through the thick abundance of her pubic curls. Exactly, he thought. It's 
going to be easy. Resolved, he felt her hand slip under his shorts; 
suddenly, making it back to Laguna and Rick wasn't important anymore. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Something woke Rick out of a restless sleep. It was either the distant 
sounds of the sea, the cool breeze blowing into the room from the open 
window, or it might have been the first dim dawn light. Of course, it could 
have been the nightmare he'd had. The previous night he'd had too much to 
drink. He'd waited for Paul until two in the morning and, finally, when Paul 
had not come home, he had fallen asleep. 

His eyes pained him, it was as if a needlepoint was prodding somewhere under 
his lids; his throat was as raw as if he had swallowed boiling coffee. When 
he rolled his body over a few degrees the needles penetrated upward into his 
head. He didn't remember undressing, but here he was completely naked, his 
face half buried in a pillow. When he lifted his head, he blinked his eyes, 
not believing what he saw. 

There was a girl in the bed. He could see a head of red hair on the other 
pillow inches from his face. His eyes blinked uncertainly a few more times, 
desperately forcing the sleep from them, and darted over the well-shaped, 
milk-white back that tapered down to smooth curving hips and the tiny bare 
buttocks that were turned toward him so invitingly. He heard a feminine 
sigh, held his breath as the lush body stirred. He watched a hand shoot up 
from the sheet, then reach back, feeling first his chest and then trailing 
down to stop at his hip. Very slowly the long, tapered fingers worked their 
way to his groin. He swallowed uncomfortably and watched the hand close over 
his half-erect cock and squeeze possessively. Then he heard a husky, "Umm, 
mmm!" kind of a sigh from the female stranger. Suddenly the girl turned her 
head to the side, blinked at him, then rolled over, her red hair falling 
away. He found himself looking into sleepy, smiling eyes, a cute pug nose, 
and sensual, inviting lips. She can't be any older than eighteen, he 
thought. 

"Hi," the sleepy voice greeted. 

"Uh-hello." 

"Surprised, huh?" 

"Hell, yeah," he said. 

"Don't look so scared. I'm not going to bite you," the girl laughed, running 
a hand through her shoulder-length hair. She rose, rested her weight on an 
elbow, and gave him a perfect view of her oversize breasts. 

He knew she could see him staring; it was almost impossible not to stare at 
those voluptuous swollen tits. They were enormous, biggest tits he'd ever 
seen. 

"Wouldn't think of harming you," she purred. 

"I wasn't thinking that." 

Her hand squeezed his cock, stirring it to life. Her breasts heaved, and 
Rick studied the thin drop of perspiration that was about to slide within 
the valley between her immense white mounds. His fascination was obvious as 
he continued to stare. 

"Well, whoever you are," he said, "I don't want it to end." 

"Really? I'd like to believe that. Hey, don't you remember at all?" 

"What?" 

"I should have known you'd forget. You hung one on last night. Happens to 
me, too, every time I drink brandy." Her eyes were dancing now. "I knocked 
at the door at midnight. No answer. I left and came back at two. This time 
you answered my knock. You let me in, we talked, and wham! you passed out." 

"Then it was you who-" 

"Yeah, I undressed you. Took me forever to get your Levi's off." 

"Did we-" 

"No. You were a gentleman. 'Sides you couldn't get it up. I know, I tried." 
She wrinkled her nose. "See, I wasn't the perfect lady." 

"Are you a friend of Paul's?" 

"His sister." 

Rick's head shot up. 

"Don't let it throw you. I know all about my brother. He told me he had a 
roommate. So you see, I didn't expect you to get rough with me." Her eyes 
raced over his naked body. "But it sure is a waste. That is, for me it is." 
She took her hand from his cock. "Though right now I'd say you were a bit 
stirred." 

He glanced down. "Yeah," he smiled foolishly. "I'd say so, too." He didn't 
remember a thing about the preceding night. The sudden thought of Paul 
walking in brought him to his feet. He searched for his Levi's. 

"In the closet on a hanger. I'm the neat type," the girl said. 

He went to the closet and slipped into a robe. "What's your name?" he asked 
going into the bathroom. "Maggie," she answered. "Maggie?" He spit out the 
mouthwash. "Rotten name, but that's my cross to bear." 

"Go to school?" 

"UCLA. Freshman. I wrote Paul I'd be in Laguna this weekend. Guess he 
forgot. Where is he?" 

Rick returned to the bedroom. "In L.A. on business." 

"He take the bus? I noticed his jalopy is parked outside." 

"I loaned him my car." 

"Oh." 

She had settled back against the pillows. The sight of her firm, rounded 
breasts shot a bolt of electricity down Rick's spine. "Look, maybe you ought 
to get into your clothes. Paul might pop in at any moment." 

"Come on, baby. Who's kidding who? Why, if I thought there was half a chance 
of turning you on I'd-" She stopped herself, her eyes on the bulge under the 
robe. "You better go to the bathroom," she smiled, "you've got a piss hard 
on." 

"You sure take a lot for granted, don't you?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean thinking I'm queer." 

"Oh? I suppose you're going to tell me that you're not. If not, what are you 
doing with my brother? I know he's as queer as a three-dollar bill." 

"Okay, we made it together, but that doesn't mean-" 

She reached for his belt, loosened it, then parted it, exposing his massive 
erection. "Then prove it to me," she dared him. 

"You're hot for it, aren't you?" 

"With a cock like yours, I'd be a liar if I said no. I'm not the lady type. 
I like my man big. I've been playing with yours half the night. But usually 
that's all I ever get to do with gay boys. I can touch them, get them all 
hot and bothered, but they never want to continue." She raised her chest. 
"You going to be like the rest?" 

"No, baby doll," he said. "I sure as hell am not going to be like the rest." 
He walked closer to the bed and ran his fingers along her smooth, flat belly 
down to her curly forest, all the while watching their movements in the 
mirror. 

Her hand sought out his naked genitals. She lay back against the pillows, he 
stood, indulging in loving mutual masturbation. 

Maggie had her long legs widely spread, her parted lips were curled in an 
approving smile, her eyes closed, reveling at the feel of his fingers 
expertly stimulating her. 

Rick's fingers massaged her vagina, making quick, darting touches to her 
clitoris. He leaned down and took the tip of her breast into his mouth and 
eagerly sucked her quivering nipple, then got out of his robe and spread 
himself over her, feeling the warmth of her bare legs, her stomach, her 
breasts and the soft caress of her hand as it stroked his shoulders. 

"Well, I'll be-" she whispered. "I got me one that swings." Her lips kissed 
and nibbled at his mouth. Her tongue made a sudden thrust. 

He felt her thigh, there was a nerve twitching there, a most energetic, 
thumping kind of a twitch, as if her naked thigh were doing a dance of its 
own. The breath began to rise within her; he could feel it. A pained sigh 
escaped her throat. 

"Baby," she moaned. "You're not bad at all. You ain't a waste after all." 
Her hip against his leg began a slow grind sending his blood to boiling 
point. She reached up to the back of his head and forced it down against her 
breasts. "Kiss 'em, Rick," she murmured. 

He buried his face into the softness of her throbbing mounds, opened his 
mouth, and took one pink nipple, sucking hard, feeling it harden. He felt 
her push his face harder down into her. He kissed her breasts more 
feverishly. 

"Oh, man, a little more of that and there'll be no stopping me," she purred. 

And she was right. Positioning himself above her, he rammed his big prick 
into her yearning cunt. 

"Ohhhhhhhh ... umm ... mmmm," she moaned, accepting his cock greedily. 

He began a relentless series of long, coaxing thrusts. She lifted her legs, 
locking his hips with them, and rolled her ass from side to side, arching 
her hips upward for her young lover's thrusting penetrations, moaning, 
smiling in blissful contentment. He could feel her heels jab hard into his 
lower back, forcing him to sink even deeper inside her. 

"Kiss me," she demanded, her nails raking his back. Her body went into 
spasms as his tongue sunk deep into her throat, almost choking her. Her hips 
battered into him like a ram, meeting his cock. Her body moved in a frantic 
motion, and he could feel her feet beating against his ass muscles, her 
tightly clenched fists against his back. "Oh, fuck me good!" she screamed. 

Rick's body went rigid as he let himself go, spilling his hot come, flooding 
her insides. "Damn," he heard her cry. Then he felt her vagina muscles 
contract, pulling and squeezing the last drop of come out of his prick. He 
waited a second and started to pull himself out of her when her command 
stopped him. "Don't. Leave it in. Come again, and this time I'll come with 
you." She took his lips, and her hips began rotating under him wildly. Rick 
had no trouble keeping his prick stiff. He'd shot his load; but he was ready 
to shoot it again. He could go forever, he knew that. He sank his cock 
deeper and began to move his hips in slow circles. 

Maggie's hips began to pump in a wild frenzy. He could feel her breasts push 
into his chest as he ground his pelvis into her, their pubic hair meeting in 
a tangled mass. He stared into her clear, wide eyes, thinking, She's 
beautiful, so eager, so good at it. He caught her hair, pulled her head 
back, and kissed her hard on the mouth. Maggie closed her eyes, and when she 
opened them they were wide and wild. "You're gorgeous," he whispered to her, 
running his fingers over her breasts. 

"So are you, baby. I-I wish-" 

"What do you wish?" 

"That things were different. That I could really have you for my own." She 
blinked her eyes rapidly, then forced a laugh. "But having you once is 
better than never." She pushed his mouth into her breasts. 

He kissed them, running his tongue around the stiff, pink tips. He pumped 
slowly but firmly, sending his rod deep into her-in-in-in-until she screamed 
with joy. "Now!" she cried. "Now!" 

Clasping her closer, he felt her body devouring his in uncontrolled frenzy. 
Then he came, even more than before, in flooding spasms. This time he knew 
that Maggie, too, had triggered off. She twisted her smoldering body in 
pleasurable agony, then fell back limp against the bed sheets moaning in 
final heavenly release. 

He was grinding his cheek against her soft globes, when his eyes caught 
sight of someone standing in the doorway, staring at them in cold fury. He 
swallowed hard, lifted his body, and took a closer look. 

It was Paul! 

 CHAPTER TEN 

When Rick heard the doorknob turn, he put down the book he was reading, 
turned toward the door, and felt the creeping guilty memories starting up in 
his body. 

Paul came into the house and, without so much as glancing at Rick, walked 
into the kitchen. Rising, Rick followed him. He sat down at the kitchen 
table and quietly watched Paul warm a pot of coffee on the stove. His 
movements were slow, deliberate. 

"Maggie get off all right?" Rick asked. 

Paul did not answer. 

Rick traced the flowered pattern of the tablecloth with his finger, feeling 
all at once a strange, confused mood. But another emotion stirred him 
also-an oddly exciting one caused by the tension of the morning. Looking at 
Paul, he knew the man felt irritable, impatient, angry. He didn't much blame 
him. But he was determined to let him know it was not entirely his fault. 

"Look, Paul. About this morning-what happened was, well, it wasn't like it 
looked." He saw the line of Paul's jaw tighten. "It really was innocent." 

"Innocent!" Paul raised a quizzical eyebrow. 

"To tell the truth I was asleep. She was in bed with me when I woke up." 

"I don't want to talk about it," Paul snapped. 

"But we have to. You seem to be seething with anger." 

Paul whirled about. "Do you know how young my sister is?" 

The question caught Rick off balance, and its implication brought a flush 
starting at his throat and climbing to his cheeks. 

"Seventeen! That's how young. I think you had one hell of a nerve!" 

Rick was startled by the bitterness in Paul's voice. "She-she begged me to-" 

"Shut up!" Paul cut in. 

There was a long silence, then Rick said, "You ought not to have slapped her 
like that, Paul." 

"I'll do what I like with my own sister!" 

Rick saw Paul's shoulders sag. He knew at once Paul was sorry he'd hit 
Maggie, but he also saw something else in the face, something he could not 
define. It disturbed him. 

"When I saw the both of you in bed I saw red. I-" 

"I understand, Paul. All I can say is I'm sorry." Rick felt awkward. He knew 
there was nothing he could do or say to ease Paul's misery. He shouldn't 
have touched the girl; he knew that then, he knew it now. Yet he didn't 
completely understand Paul's fury. Maggie certainly had had affairs before; 
it wasn't like she was a virgin. Or didn't Paul know this? God, he wasn't 
the first guy Maggie gave it out to. 

He watched Paul pour the coffee. Behind the man's heavy sun-bleached brows, 
a storm was gaining momentum. "What are you trying for, Rick-the Fuck 
Oscar?" 

"Don't be stupid, Paul." 

"My own sister," Paul muttered. 

"Paul. She's seventeen, sure, but she'd had other affairs. I wasn't the 
first guy!" Rick regretted having said this, for it brought an expression of 
confusion and defiance to Paul's face. 

"You had to do it, didn't you?" Paul whispered. By that one remark and the 
way Paul looked at him, Rick realized it wasn't his sister Paul was 
concerned about, it was him. Paul was jealous. Instead of annoyance, 
surprisingly enough, Rick felt pleased. A bland unrevealing smile appeared 
on his lips as his mind took in the situation. Paul really did love him. 
He'd been proving his love all along. He had thought it were Maggie Paul was 
possessive of, but it was not, it was him. He stared at Paul, his expression 
turning kind and understanding. It dawned on him for the first time in his 
life that someone really cared for him. Fate had taken a strange way to 
convince him-but here it was. He leaned back in his chair, frowning faintly 
as his thoughts rambled on. He now realized why he'd fought Paul all the 
way. He was afraid to face facts. But now he knew why he'd wanted so 
desperately to make love to Maggie. It was because she was Paul's sister. 
That proved something. The revelation startled him. He was in love with 
Paul. The very thing he wanted so very much, to be in love and to be loved 
in return, had finally happened. In his mind he'd known it all along, but he 
had fought it, rejected it, because he did not truly consider himself 
homosexual. Homosexual love left him cold; it just wasn't his cup of tea. 
Partake, sure-experiment with the same sex, but love? Hell, that meant 
embracing the Third Sex-where would that lead to? But suddenly it was 
becoming increasingly clear to him. It did not matter if he swung with a 
female or a male; that was not important. Love was important. Sex had 
nothing to do with it. And so he had fought Paul and had made himself 
miserable because of his puritanical beliefs. Where before, nothing 
mattered, he now suddenly felt a part of someone's life. He wanted 
something, life wasn't a complete waste for him after all. He'd taken Paul 
for granted, living with him, yet not really knowing him. Now he wanted to 
know this man standing before him, wanted a more rewarding relationship, 
wanted to lavish affection on him. But more, he needed Paul. Paul was 
strong, protective, certain, loyal. He did need these things, desperately. 
Nobody had given this to him before. This was something money could not buy. 

The situation was simple. Here were two people, two men, one older, one 
younger-two men in love with each other, two men who needed each other, two 
men who sexually fulfilled one another. This was something one did not take 
for granted. 

Rick looked at Paul. Alone with the man, he knew he had to mollify Paul's 
apparent injured feelings. He would never have even considered doing this 
before, but now it was different. Now he cared for Paul. He would tell Paul 
what he wanted to hear. He shifted his weight in the chair, then sank into 
its depths. How does one say-I love you? Three little words-three important 
words-three simple words-yet he could not say them, the words were like lye 
on his tongue. 

He stood up slowly. He felt a weakness in his legs, a dryness in his throat, 
the blood pumping heavily through his body; it was an instinctive reaction 
to the feelings surging through him, of emotions that were alien to him 
"Paul," he whispered. "Look at me." 

Paul turned from the window and met Rick's eyes. 

Rick cleared his throat. "I want you to believe what I'm about to tell you." 
He shrugged his shoulders, trying to find the right words. The truth, he 
told himself, tell the truth. 

"Yes," Paul said, "go on." 

"It's difficult for me. See, Paul, I'm not an emotional person." He laughed 
a hollow sound. "No. That's a lie. I am emotional, but I've curbed my 
feelings all of my life. I-did you know I couldn't touch anybody because I 
thought people found me distasteful? Couldn't touch anybody. I guess that 
comes from neglect as a kid. I-I still can't touch, can't show affection. 
Even hugging is hard for me. I touch people in bed, that's the only place. 
I've just realized this. I-what I'm trying to tell you is that, with your 
sister-well, I tried to bring myself closer to you by making love to your 
sister." 

Rick saw the startled look on Paul's face, could hear the thick quiet of the 
room. 

"It's true. I know that now. As ridiculous as it sounds, as unbelievable, I 
was loving you-as a man-through your sister. I-I was trying to reach out to 
you the only way I knew how, through Maggie." He felt his face turn scarlet. 
Revealing, soul-opening moments like this were rare, it threw him, 
embarrassing him. He felt awkward, stupid, tongue-tied, and he felt close to 
tears. He didn't wait for Paul's further reaction. Instead, he quickly left 
the room. 

When Rick had gone, Paul sat down at the table and put his head in his arms. 
Rick's presence, in fact his very smell-that special hair tonic he wore, the 
smell of his sneakers, the freshly laundered sweat shirt-seemed to fill the 
kitchen; the boy's very words still seemed to echo in the room, as palpable 
as the summer heat. Or was the heat in his own cheeks because he was ashamed 
of himself and a little angry? He'd reacted violently this morning. It tore 
into him seeing Rick with his sister. Yet, at the same time, it had thrilled 
him. He had watched for a long time-too long for an angry brother. 

It was strange. He didn't know just how to react. His confusion was 
understandable, having just returned from spending the night with Rick's 
mother. Imagine how Rick would have reacted? Who was the greater sinner? 

He had been bound for an entire evening with Susan in a complicity of shame. 
The thought stung deeply into him. What right had he to become angry? What 
right did he have slapping his sister, yelling and accusing Rick of 
molesting his sister? 

He raised his head and turned to look out the window. He could see the long 
stretch of ocean before him. The dirty, gray-colored sea gulls were like 
brush marks against the blue and white background of sky-an oil come to 
life. The view seemed to bring him back to reality, forcing him to face the 
truth. The view always had that effect on him, and he was grateful for it. 

What Rick had confessed was blessedly true. He understood perfectly because 
he, too, had experienced a special closeness with Rick through the boy's 
mother. He couldn't quite understand it, but it was there. Oh, it was mad! 
The whole scene was ridiculous. What was happening? Why had he gone to Los 
Angeles? He shook his head, not wanting to think about Susan. His heart 
thumped heavily in his chest. Rick had come so close to professing his love. 
Why had Rick waited so long? He felt a stab of compassion as he thought of 
the boy, remembering his pitiful confession about not being able to touch 
people, not being able to show emotion. It had tom into his heart when Rick 
had confessed this. How the boy needed to love and be loved. 

Paul felt a tightening in his chest. Had he ruined something between himself 
and Rick because of his own greed? How would Rick react to the news when 
Paul told him he'd visited his mother? Worse, how would he take it should he 
ever find out he'd had an affair with Susan? Man, he had really created a 
problem for himself. It wasn't as if the one affair with Susan was it. Susan 
didn't work that way. Besides, he wanted to use Susan. She could make a 
whole rich life for him if he handled her right-yet-he was in love with 
Rick. He had to choose-love or security! 

Every time he thought about it his stomach muscles tightened into knots. His 
head began to ache when he thought of Susan's last words: "See you in 
Laguna. Time I paid my son a little visit." And she was arriving this 
evening-and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it! 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

The spicy, fragrant odor of food and the clatter of silverware and dishes 
synchoronized into a sharp smell and sound as Rick sat stiffly at the dinner 
table in a mesmerized state. He'd been that way ever since he'd answered the 
knock on the door and found himself staring into his mother's face. Now her 
voice closed like a trap around him. 

"It was getting to the point where I almost forgot what my son looked like. 
So I thought, why not pay him a visit." She glanced over at Paul who was 
serving the salad. "And his roommate," she added. 

Rick's look went to Paul. He did not seem disturbed by his mother's surprise 
visit. As a matter-of-fact, he seemed to be enjoying her. Ever since they'd 
been introduced they seemed to be coyly playing a little game with each 
other. Paul's dark eyes were humorous and boyish beneath arched, corrugated 
brows. He was smiling, listening to her speak, looking disdainfully 
youthful. Rick had never seen him look like this before; there was something 
strange about his appearance, about the way he conducted himself. It was as 
if he were putting on a show for his mother. 

"I gave the servants the weekend off. You should have seen them beam. Oh, 
Rick, I brought your tennis rackets. I thought you'd want to play." This his 
mother said with an affectionate tap on his hand. Then to Paul in the way of 
an explanation, "Rick and I often play tennis together-course I have to 
force him into it. We're pretty good as a team." 

"I'll bet," Paul smiled. 

"Rick, I've missed not having you around." When his mother looked at him, 
her face seemed to become larger, encircling him. 

He flexed his knees agonizedly together. Panic! That's what he felt every 
time he looked at her; but she was unaware of the way he felt, her 
high-pitched voice flowed on obliviously, her stuffed mouth chewed her food 
obliviously. 

"Rick," Paul said, "you're not eating." 

"Yes, yes, I am " 

"Rick's always been a slow eater. Haven't you, Rick?" Her voice droned on, 
explaining episodes out of his childhood to Paul. It had been weeks since 
Rick had seen his mother. He had not missed her, had had no desire to 
contact her, was hoping to keep the distance between them permanent. Then 
suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, here she sat at the same dinner table 
with him. 

"What a gorgeous table you've set, Paul," his mother said, her heavy-lidded 
dark eyes roving with voluptuous appreciation over the sparkling dinner 
table. 

"Thank you, Susan." Paul beamed. 

Rick raised the wineglass to his lips and saw that his hand was shaking. He 
swallowed a few drops of the red wine, then put down the glass. She had that 
effect on him. She made him nervous, insecure-damn it, he hated her. And he 
was annoyed at how well Paul was treating her-angry and annoyed. 

"I must confess I didn't make the salad. Rick did. He's quite good at it." 

His mother's face darkened, but only for a split second, then she imposed a 
half-smile on her lips and wrinkled her nose. "Rick? Rick made the salad?" 
Then to him. "Why, Rick, how domestic of you. I'm real proud of you." 
Quickly turning back to Paul she said, "I never thought he could even make a 
peanut butter sandwich." 

Rick chewed his food, the lamb was like leather in his mouth. He had a 
subliminal thought of tearing off his mother's diamond bracelet and shoving 
it down her throat. He watched in silence, watched as his mother adopted one 
of her usual comical poses, her fingertips at her chin, wrinkling her 
forehead into a brooding frown. "See what happens when my son meets up with 
a man of the world?" she said, raising her eyes to the ceiling, and speaking 
in a purring voice. 

A stifling irritation surged through Rick as he watched his mother's 
gestures. There she goes, he thought, being bitchy, getting her digs in. Why 
was she here? Did she know? The questions burned through his mind. 

"You'd be surprised at the things Rick does. He built that brick bookcase 
over there," Paul gestured, throwing Rick a complimentary smile. 

She spun her head around to look. "You're telling a fib," she said, putting 
the back of her hand to her mouth in a theatrical gesture of surprise. 
"You're joking!" 

"No, I'm not. He also did a miniature oil painting. I have to say, it's 
pretty good. He shows promise." 

Her look quickly went to Rick, her eyes widening dramatically, and she let 
her mouth fall open; the grimace turned her face into a mask of 
astonishment. "Rick, but this is marvelous." 

Paul and the mother talked of other things; Susan kept it going in a steady, 
forceful flow. She was using her finest mannerisms, thought Rick; her voice 
was huskily low, and she dramatized with vivacious posturings and outlandish 
facial expressions. She was forty, he thought, looking at her breasts. She 
kept her body in shape with swimming and tennis and obviously no amount of 
hard drinking showed or took away from her beauty. He wondered if she were 
flirting with Paul. And did Paul think his mother beautiful? Was that why he 
was so attentive? 

"What does one do around here for excitement?" his mother asked. 

What you really mean to ask is, Whom does one fuck around here for 
excitement, thought Rick. He knew that's what she wanted. 

"We have several theaters that show the latest films. There is The Playhouse 
and the shops. Got a few good restaurants, expensive but good. Then there's 
the beach," Paul explained. 

"I'm the indoor type," Susan said. 

You sure are, thought Rick. He stiffened when he saw his mother's eyes race 
over Paul's body. 

"Tomorrow night I'll take you both out for dinner. I was hoping there'd be a 
nice restaurant." 

"Tomorrow night?" Rick was surprised the words left his throat. 

"Why, yes, Rick. Are you free?" 

"Uh-asamatterfact," he tumbled the words out, "I'm not. I'm leaving for Los 
Angeles tonight. I'm meeting Mr. Arlen," he lied. 

"Arlen? Since when do lawyers work on Sunday?" 

"I'll be seeing him tomorrow. Tonight I've got a date and tickets 
for-for-Plaza Suite." 

His mother looked disappointed, but he knew better. "Oh, that's too bad. 
Then, of course, I couldn't stay-" 

"Oh, sure you can," Paul cut in. "I'll take the couch." 

"I couldn't think of taking away your bed," she said, fluttering her 
eyelashes. 

The moment held a curious stillness, and amidst the quiet, Rick got suddenly 
to his feet. His mother came-saw-and was about to conquer Paul. He knew that 
without a doubt. She'd done it before with his teen-age buddies and she was 
about to do it again. Only, and he had to stifle a smile, she was in for a 
surprise. She didn't know that Paul was queer. Well, he had that going for 
him at least. He didn't feel so bad now that he realized his mother would be 
in for a bit of a disappointment. This was one time she wouldn't have her 
way. 

He didn't want to stay around while she was here. He'd leave, check in at a 
motel here in town, spend tomorrow on the beach, and wait until his mother 
left the house. Paul would be busy all day tomorrow with the art show and 
she would be left alone. She'd have a miserable time in gay Laguna and would 
think twice about visiting again. It was that simple. 

"I better be going," he said. 

"I wish you didn't have to, Rick. It's not often I can get away and-" 

"Good night, mother," he interrupted. 

She held her chin up and tilted her face, waiting for him to kiss her. 

He brushed his lips against her cheek lightly, nodded a good-night to Paul 
and left the house. 

Paul knew that Susan was drunk by the time they parked the car in front of 
the house. They had gone to Victor Hugo's restaurant for drinks, then 
stopped on the way back at Dante's Inferno for a nightcap. Susan was 
fascinated with the gay crowd at Dante's, and after her fifth drink made a 
spectacle of herself by dancing with a lesbian and falling on her ass. It 
had been in good fun and Paul didn't mind-that is, he didn't mind until she 
really got drunk. All evening he had been concerned about Rick. It had been 
a mistake letting Susan come to Laguna. Rick had clamped up, wouldn't eat, 
and seemed tense and moody. He felt guilty having kept secret the fact he'd 
met the mother on his own. It was stupid pretending through the 
introductions; he was sure Rick had seen through it. In a way he was sorry 
he'd gone out of his way to meet Susan. In one short evening he'd discovered 
she couldn't control her liquor, that she flirted outrageously with every 
male she met, was loud and undignified, and, to top it all, got bitchier 
with each drink. He just could not control her. Take, for instance, the 
queen in the back seat of the car. Susan had insisted he come home with them 
for coffee. But Paul knew exactly the reason Susan wanted the boy. He hadn't 
missed that look of hers when she fastened her eyes onto the kid's basket. 
He had told her he did not think it a good idea, explained to her the guy 
was a queen and not the least bit interested in her, but she ranted and 
raved so that he had to give in. Well, she could have the queen. He'd take 
the couch. 

"Susan?" He reached over and shook her shoulder. "Wake up, we're home." 

"What-where the hell am I?" She blinked her eyes and looked at him. "Oh, 
Paul. Hi, honey." 

"Listen, I think I better take you into the house then drive queeny here 
home." 

"The name's Forest," the boy lisped. "Forest Greene." 

"Isn't that a lovely name," Susan smiled. "No, Paul, he's coming in. I can't 
be rude. I promised our friend some coffee." 

"But it's late," Paul insisted. 

"Never too late," Susan chuckled. 

Paul looked toward the back of the car. Forest Greene was staring at him, 
his eyes dark and flirtatious. Paul hunched his shoulders in defeat, then 
got out of the car. "Okay, come on," he said, opening the door for Susan. 

Once inside the house, Paul made them coffee, excused himself, got 
undressed, and plopped down on the couch. He was much too drunk and too 
tired to make idle conversation this early in the morning. He turned off the 
lamp and turned on his side, burying his head under the pillow. 

An hour later he was awakened by the sound of voices. He turned over and lay 
on his back, looking toward the bedroom. He could see the naked reflections 
of Susan and Forest Greene in the mirror-paneled ceiling. The boy was lying 
full length over Susan. She was kissing him and whispering small sounds. 

"Nah, I'm not much good at this-with a woman, I mean," the boy said. 

"I gave you twenty dollars now, didn't I? Bet nobody ever gave you that much 
before." 

"Yeah, but, just the same, this isn't my bag. Now that guy in the other 
room, he's more my speed. He's really groovy." 

"Great compliment to me," Susan muttered under her breath. "Forget him, he's 
out," she told the boy. 

Paul smiled, leaned back against the pillow, and let his glance roam the 
contours of the boy's body. Undressed, he looked pretty damn good. Nice, hot 
ass, he thought, feeling the pleasant thrum of desire as his eyes feasted on 
the boy's small buttocks. He cocked his head to one side. Susan was working 
on the boy's cock, but it was limp. 

"I'll give you more money if you'll try," Susan muttered. "Maybe if I sucked 
on it awhile." 

"That won't do it. I can't stand lipstick on my prick." 

"You do have a nice way about you, I must say," sighed Susan. "Maybe if I 
played with it awhile." 

"I can't get it up. You just don't excite me." 

"Thanks a hell of a lot," Susan said. 

Paul laughed to himself. She really wanted that cock. Hell, she wanted any 
cock. 

"Well, I can't help it. I thought he was going to get in on it. I can do it 
then with you, just as long as I've got a hot cock in me." 

Paul saw the excitement in Susan's face. "You mean, if he stuck it in you, 
then you could-" The very thought of it seemed to charge Susan with newfound 
desire. 

Actually, the little queen did have a nice tight body, Paul thought, feeling 
his cock harden. He swung his legs off the couch and got to his feet. 
Silently he made his way toward the bedroom. Maybe he should join them. 
After all, Rick wasn't coming home, and he was aroused. Besides, if Susan 
received some pleasure on her weekend in Laguna, she might be quite generous 
with him. 

"I thought you two were having coffee," he said, stepping into the bedroom. 

"Paul," Susan said, surprised. 

The boy turned sharply, his eyes opening wide when he saw Paul's nakedness. 

"I see our little friend here needs a little help." Paul stood with his legs 
spread, knowing the effect his hard cock was having on the young boy. 

"Yeah," Susan's eyes glistened, "look at you now." 

Forest Greene's prick blooded to life. It was smaller than Paul's, 
uncircumcised, and purple in color. 

"He was telling me-" 

"Yeah, Susan, I heard," Paul smiled. He gestured for the boy to resume what 
he was doing. The boy complied. Immediately Susan wrapped her arms around 
Forest and kissed him. Then she pulled back and said, "Paul, it's freezing 
in here. Turn on the thermostat." 

"Don't have that kind of heating." He pointed to the gas stove on the floor 
in a comer of the room. "Gas is all we have." 

"Turn it on, it's cold in here." 

"Hate to use it. Smells the room up with gas. Besides," he grinned, "you'll 
be warm in a minute." 

He lowered himself onto the bed and arranged the boy's legs over Susan's. He 
ran his hand down the boy's back and over the twin mounds. Then he reached 
over, opened a drawer, and unscrewed a bottle of vaseline. 

Scooping some of it on his middle finger, he ran it to the outer ridges of 
the boy's asshole. Slowly he slipped his finger in, gently lubricating the 
tight asshole. With his other hand he reached under the boy and felt the 
stiff rod. "Now you're all right," he said, guiding the boy's prick between 
Susan's legs. 

"Paul," Susan whispered, "kiss me." 

Paul rested his chin on the boy's shoulder and kissed her. Her lips parried 
for control, brushed gently, and finally submitted, taking his tongue all 
the way. At the same time she pushed the boy's face into her breasts. 

Forest looked at her excited tit an inch from his eyes, at the swollen tip. 
The pressure of her hand against his head told him she wanted him to nibble 
her. He opened his mouth and suckled the brownish nub. 

Paul meanwhile worked Forest's cock until the head of it swelled double its 
original size. He guided it to the lips of Susan's cunt, then stuck it in, 
at the same time pushing the boy's ass hard into her. 

"Aagh! Ohhhh," Susan cried, feeling the fiery rod plunge into her. "Oh, 
good, good, good," she muttered over and over, lifting her hips to meet his 
lunges. 

Quickly Paul climbed carefully over them and swung one leg over so he was 
kneeling, straddling the boy. His hand caressed the boy's ass cheeks. He 
looked down at his own cock; he was noticeably aroused. He clasped himself, 
brought his cock to the boy's buttocks, then, spreading the firm muscles, 
sank the rounded head of his prick in and lowered himself slowly. 

"Oh, shit," Forest cried, his body shivering with pleasure. "Shit, shit, 
shit," he cried over and over again as he thrust his hips hard into Susan. 

Paul saw Susan's body move wildly, one hand on his shoulder, the other on 
Forest's cheek. 

"Two of you," she cried joyously, "hell, this is something." 

Paul leaned down when he felt Forest groan in pain. "God, you're a big 
sonofabitch," Forest whispered. 

"Easy, huh?" he said with mounting passion. 

Paul's mouth moved against the boy's earlobe, whispering, enticing, 
encouraging the kid to take all of his meat. The boy's warm, tight, moist 
ass felt marvelous. His hips seemed to be acting by reflex action alone. As 
the boy thrust deeper into Susan, Paul lunged forward sending his hot, hard 
cock deep into the warm hole of the boy. 

Now the three bodies moved as one, Susan meeting Forest's, and Paul meeting 
the squirming, cock-hungry tight ass. 

Thinking of Forest's hard prick in Susan; of her cunt, contracting and 
grabbing his sliding piston, made Paul wild. He could feel his moment was 
near. 

"I'm ready ... oh, shit, I'm ready," the boy cried. 

Susan rammed her hips up hard into the boy, clutching both him and Paul. 
"Me, too," she whispered, "oh, yes, yes." 

Their breaths intermingled, their perspiration ran together, and Paul was 
conscious of the odors; the smell of sex was super strong in the tiny 
bedroom. Paul lunged; Forest lunged; Susan cried out her joy. As their 
movements became faster, wilder, Paul pressed his groin hard into the boy's 
buttocks, pressed with all of his might so that he could feel the crisp 
patch of hair of the boy's rear. His cock swelled and he felt himself shoot. 
"Ahhhhhhh," he groaned, sending his prick deep into the boy. 

"Ohhhhh, shit," Forest whispered, taking Paul's eruption and sending his own 
into Susan's hot cavern. 

"Jeeeeeesus," cried Susan as she wiggled her body uncontrollably, feeling 
her climax near. 

The three of them spewed their come and moaned and groaned their pleasure as 
their bodies fused in mutual ecstasy. Susan collapsed back onto the bed, her 
glistening body in a heap, her disarrayed hair scattered over the pillow. 
Forest, breathing hard, pulled his now limp cock out and fell facedown on 
the bed, his small shoulders heaving, his breathing hard. Paul fell to his 
side, his face buried into the blankets, his eyes closed, exhausted, spent 
in the complete fulfillment of threesome love. 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

It was almost two weeks from the day of their lovemaking before Susan heard 
from Paul again. 

Hurt and angry at not hearing from him, she tried to busy herself with other 
things, but always her thoughts returned to him. Many a time she had the 
receiver in her hand, was about to dial him, but had caught herself in time. 
She wasn't about to throw herself at him, not that way. But always his face 
came to her. She found him sexually fulfilling. Nobody had ever thrilled her 
so much. Obviously he did not feel the same toward her, or he would have 
called by now. Beyond the personal hurt, she was puzzled. After all, this 
young man was clearly searching for the way up, desperately trying to cut a 
niche for himself in the art world. Didn't he need her as much as she did 
him? She knew he was penniless, that he was having a bad time of it. He knew 
she had money, that she was generous. Why didn't he jump at the chance? 
Perhaps it was because she had not made it entirely clear what it was she 
could do for him. Or perhaps the thought just never entered his mind. 

Then there was the problem with Rick-at least, it was a problem to her. 
Could Paul possibly be in love with Rick? He had always avoided her 
questions whenever she'd tried to find out. And Rick? Was he in love with 
Paul? She rather doubted it. Besides, if they were both in love with each 
other it did not matter to her in the least. What mattered was her own 
personal feelings. Somehow she had to convince Paul of her urgent desire to 
help him establish himself as an artist. 

A thought came to her mind: Perhaps I should throw a party. Invite Paul, 
have him bring some of his paintings, introduce him around, get him started. 
She did know a few people in the art world, powerful people. They were 
impressed with her because she was rich. It wouldn't be difficult. Yes, 
that's what she would do. Rising, she walked to the telephone when the sharp 
ring stopped her in her tracks. Lifting the receiver, she answered: 

"Yes?" 

"Susan?" 

"Yes." 

"Paul, here." 

"This is a coincidence. I was just going to call you. Your ring scared the 
hell out of me." 

"I'm in town. Thought I'd drop by." 

"Why don't you?" 

"Okay. Hey, I brought a few of my paintings." 

"Wonderful, dying to see them." 

"Be there in fifteen minutes." 

"Hurry, I'll be waiting." She hung up and quickly raced to her bedroom to 
change into something more flattering. 

Fifteen minutes later, the maid led Paul into the den. "Hi, Susan," Paul 
said, walking to her. 

"I shouldn't even talk to you," she told him, looking over the brim of her 
glass. "Why?" 

"Silence for two weeks. Not very flattering for me." She turned to the maid. 
"Bring another scotch over the rocks for my guest." 

The maid smiled, then left the room. 

"You had nothing to do with it," Paul told her. "I've been painting my ass 
off." 

"Too busy to pick up the phone?" 

"Well, I was working at the studio. We don't have a phone there." 

"I'd advise you to put one in immediately." 

"And have the customers call San Francisco every chance they get?" 

"Where are your paintings?" 

"In the hallway." 

"Well, get them, I'm dying to see them." 

He left the room, returned with three enormous canvases, and arranged them 
by the window. One by one he showed them to her. 

"Paul, that one is wonderful. Such detail on the landscape. How long did it 
take you to do it?" 

"Three days." 

"Marvelous. And that one-why it's the view from your house in Laguna, isn't 
it?" 

"Yes." 

"I love the thick white oil in the sea, gives it almost a three-dimensional 
look." Her mouth dropped open when she looked at the third painting. 

"Recognize him?" 

"It's Rick, of course." 

"Yes." 

"That's not hard to see." She made a face. "And in all his naked glory." 

"Male nudes are very popular now." 

"I know, I know," she said irritably. "But did you have to paint him that 
nude? Why, I can see the veins in his cock!" she remarked dramatically. 

"You don't like it?" 

"What? The veins?" 

"The painting!" 

"Oh, it's good, I guess. I just like the others better." 

"But why don't you like the one of Rick? It's one of my best paintings." 

"I just don't dig it." She lit a cigarette, her eyes returning to the nude. 
"You didn't exaggerate?" 

Paul grinned. "I thought you of all people would know. No, I didn't 
exaggerate one bit." 

"The things mothers do not know about their own sons." 

"I think this will sell, Susan." 

"Without a doubt. Some queen will go mad for it." 

"You're angry." 

"Why do you say that?" 

"You sound it." 

"Not angry, Paul. Surprised." She butted out the cigarette, then took a sip 
of her drink. "You know, I was just thinking of throwing a party for you." 

"For me?" 

"Yes. I thought it would be a good way of introducing you. Maybe have a few 
of your paintings framed and hung and then invite-" 

"You don't do it that way." 

Susan looked at him. He was anxious, she thought, damn anxious. Biting at 
the bit. "Oh?" she tilted her head, "then how do you do it?" 

"With a showing. At the best gallery in Hollywood." 

"For instance?" 

"Ambrick's Galleries on La Cienega. They're the best." 

"Well, then, why not have a showing?" 

"It's expensive. You have to do it up big, cocktail party, circulars, all 
the canvases have to be framed just right, lighting of the pictures. Then 
you practically have to pay a fortune for the right guest list-the real 
money people and-" She didn't let him finish. 

"Oh, hang the expense. And no hard liquor-it's champagne all the way. And I 
can get all of my friends to attend. We'll put the paintings up for grabs 
with sky-high prices. I'll say I discovered you. And I did, in a way." 

"You'll have a showing for me, then?" 

"Would you like for me to?" 

"Yes-very much." 

"Then I'll do it." Her mind raced. This was wonderful, she couldn't have 
planned it better. Paul was asking for her help. If she could really put him 
on the map, it would be an insurance for her. Then she would have him for 
good. But more, why not really insure the bargain? Why not marriage? She 
hadn't thought of that before. As a matter-of-fact, she never thought she'd 
ever want to marry again. But now the idea seemed marvelous. Paul was ideal. 
She liked the fact he was gay. It made it easier for her. He was gentle and 
kind and understanding; she liked that. That and the fact that nothing 
shocked him. Whatever she did, he took with a grain of salt. He was just as 
bad as she. It meant they both could have their men on the side. And since 
he swung both ways, it would be a diversion for her. They could have some 
wild orgies. She might as well have one last fling. He was fun to be with, 
they were never at a loss for conversation, and she could control him. That 
was important, her having the upper hand. But the question was, would he go 
for it? She was sure he would. Not so much because he had flipped for her, 
but because he was attracted to her money. But that did not matter to her, 
as long as she got what she wanted. 

The maid returned with his drink. Susan waited for the maid to leave, then 
walked over to him. 

"I've got an idea. I'll hire a publicity man for you." 

"Why?" 

"To get your name going in the columns. It's important. The art world is 
very snobbish, that much I know. You have to come on big." 

"I have no objections," Paul grinned. 

Susan watched him as he sat on the sofa. He looked incredibly handsome, she 
thought. Oh, the things she would do for him. She'd buy him a whole new 
wardrobe, real mod stuff. He had the figure for it and the personality. He'd 
look marvelous in loud colors and scarfs and striped pants. It would be fun 
helping Paul to get started; besides, it would give her something to do. She 
could really throw herself into something like this. She so needed a new 
interest. But more, she desperately needed Paul. The more she thought of it, 
the more the idea of marriage appealed to her. But that was something she 
would have to ease into. Perhaps even make it come out as if the idea was 
Paul's. She knew how to do it; she was clever enough. Meanwhile, it was her 
job to get his career going. Tomorrow she would have lunch with her artist 
friends; she'd ask them questions like mad. It would be a project that she'd 
give her all for. She'd hire Stemler, Publicity. He was the best PR man in 
the business. 

"Paul?" 

"Yes." 

"When will you be ready?" 

"I've got a few more paintings I must do. I'm not sure." 

"Well, just about when? A month?" 

"Yes, I'd say a month." 

"Good, that'll give us enough time if I start right now." She walked to the 
sofa and sat down next to him. "You know, this is going to be fun. You're a 
talent, and this whole city is going to know it soon. I'll make sure about 
that." 

"Thanks, Susan," Paul said, simply. 

"Oh, Paul, don't thank me." She kissed his cheek. "I should be thanking you. 
You don't know how much you mean to me. You know I flipped for you the 
second I set eyes on you." 

She felt him stiffen, then twist his body so that he could reach for a 
cigarette. He didn't want to hear what she had to say, she felt that 
immediately, knew that by the way he kept his face so straight and sober, 
busying himself, ignoring her words. 

"Paul?" 

"Mmmm?" 

"Don't show the nude of Rick." 

"Why not?" 

"I don't know. It's-it's-well, vulgar." 

"Vulgar?" 

"Well, it's embarrassing-sick." 

"Aw, come on, Susan," he grinned. "You're just jealous I haven't painted 
you." 

"That's not true," she fairly shouted. 

"Okay-okay, I won't show it. I didn't want to sell it anyway." 

"Paul?" 

"Yes." 

"One thing I want to get straight. I'll help you, sure. But I want something 
in return." 

"What's that?" 

"That you break with Rick!" Paul turned from her look. 

He knew it, too, she thought. Rick was the only link separating them. "I 
want you completely," she said, her eyes holding to his. 

"You're giving ultimatums early in the game, Susan." 

"Yes, it is an ultimatum, isn't it?" She saw his gaze go to the wall, the 
pictures, then to the drapes. "Is that too much to ask?" She wet her lips. 
"Are you in love with him?" 

He didn't answer. 

"After all, Paul, it is a touchy situation, isn't it? He's against me as it 
is, so you're going to have to be the heavy in this one. Well? Don't you 
agree it's touchy?" 

"Yes." 

"Then you'll break with him?" 

Again he remained silent. 

Rising, she walked to the window and, without looking at him, said, "Think 
about what I can do for you, Paul. I can give you a great deal, you know. I 
can buy a place for you in the art world. It isn't talent that does it, not 
really. Half the successful artists around have been helped by people just 
like me. You know that. I know it. But you've got enough talent to make it 
interesting, and with my money, you can be a household name in no time. 
You'll never get a chance like this again, of having someone like me this 
interested in helping you. I won't go back on my word; I'm not that kind of 
a person." 

There was a long silence as Paul shifted his position. 

"What I'm really saying is that I've fallen for you, Paul, hook, line, and 
sinker. I want you. I want you very much." Turning from the window, she 
faced him. "That," she forced a laugh, "is about as serious as you will ever 
see me get again, darling." Abruptly she glanced at her watch. "Four 
o'clock. If you leave now, you'll avoid all that freeway traffic," she said, 
dismissing him. 

Paul got to his feet. He seemed a bit confused. 

"I'll leave the paintings here, if it's all right with you." 

"Fine. But take the one of Rick." 

She watched him walk to the painting, lift it, stop, then set it down, and 
return to kiss her cheek. 

"I'll be in Laguna this weekend," she said. "Any objections?" 

"No, not at all." 

"I won't interfere with your work," she promised. 

He picked up the painting and went to the door where he turned to face her. 
"About Rick. I-I-" 

"Don't say anything now," she silenced him. "Just think about it during the 
week and give me your decision over the weekend." 

"Good-bye." 

"Au'voir, cheri," she said. 

From the window she saw him put the painting in the back seat, then get into 
the Rolls and drive away. She twisted her hands together, feeling a flash of 
panic surge through her. She had given Paul his choice-her or her son! Whom 
would he chose? She felt a numbed emptiness as her face hardened into a 
sharp line. Never had she hated Rick as much as she did right now! 

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Rick was holding a package with the label Leading Man printed in thin, long, 
black letters, and showing a picture of an athlete, nearly nude save for the 
strip of film covering his crotch. He walked down the side steps to the 
house and made his way to the beach. 

Except for a few surfers in the distance, the beach was deserted. He walked 
a stretch of the beach until he came to Paul, who was seated under a huge 
umbrella, paintbrush in hand, squinting his eyes toward the water. 

"Hey, that's great, Paul," Rick smiled. "I can almost see the waves coming 
at me." 

Paul made a few strokes with the brush, stood back to survey his work, shook 
his head, then put the brush down. "I don't like the green I've used," he 
said, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Going to have to mix more of a sea 
green." 

"Well, I like what you've done." 

"No, it's got to be better." 

"You're too much of a perfectionist," Rick grinned. "Oh, this came for you 
just now." 

Paul glanced at the package. "I know what it is without looking." 

"What?" 

"Eric does his shopping at Leading Man. They've got some great things, but 
knowing Eric's taste I'm going to be shocked." 

"Why'd he send you a shirt." 

"That's how far back your memory goes. Because, idiot, he tore my shirt off 
my back. Open it, will you? My hands are dirty." 

Rick snapped the string, opened the package, and pulled out a yellow shirt 
with white ruffles along the sides and on the sleeves. 

"Be great for Halloween, huh?" Paul frowned. "I'll take it back and exchange 
it for something else tomorrow. Oh, can't do it then. Well, one of these 
days." 

Rick covered the box and set it down. "You're really painting up a storm, 
Paul. Gosh, you haven't stopped in days." 

Paul made a circle of white around the sun on the canvas. "I know, I know." 

"Is there a reason for it? You got a deadline or something?" 

"No." 

"Well, is there somebody interested in buying your stuff?" 

He saw Paul turn from his painting and look at him. It was a quick look but 
a revealing one. He didn't understand why Paul suddenly shifted the 
conversation with: 

"Rick, you're getting as brown as a coffee bean. Are those new bathing 
trunks?" 

"No. They're yours," he answered. 

He saw Paul's gaze go to his crotch. "I wish I looked as good in them as 
you." 

"As for my tan. Hell, what else is there to do with you painting all day and 
half the night." 

"Come now," Paul said. "Don't tell me you're angry because I've started to 
throw myself into my work. It was long overdue. I thought I couldn't paint 
again, it was that long." 

Rick kicked some sand with his bare foot. "I was thinking that maybe we 
could go out for dinner tonight and maybe hit a movie." 

"Can't." 

"Why not?" 

"I've got to finish this, that's why." 

"But you said that last night." 

"Okay, so I did. So what?" 

"Jeez, suddenly you don't want to do anything but paint." 

"I'll grab me a sandwich later. But don't let that stop you from going out." 

Rick tried to pinpoint the vague anxiety flickering on the edge of his 
thoughts. He saw a change in Paul. He didn't know exactly what it was, but 
something was wrong. Paul had been evasive for days now, ever since he 
picked up his brush and started going crazy with it. He had all but ignored 
him. Rick found himself more and more alone. And there was something else. 
Paul had taken to sleeping on the sofa. He wondered why. 

"No. I think I'll stay home myself," he told Paul. "I'll make dinner though. 
Hey, how about a nice thick steak and some-" 

"No," Paul cut in, stopping him. Then his voice got softer. "I'm trying to 
stay on a diet." 

"You? Why? You're as slim as a toothpick." 

"Yeah, but I don't like the tire around my middle, at least the start of 
one." 

"Don't be silly. I'll get a nice salad and bake some pota-" 

"You heard me, Rick. No! Try to understand I have a lot of work to do." 

"Shit, you can't work on that painting twenty-four hours a day!" 

"I can if I want to!" Paul said with a surprising twist of anger. 

Rick sensed the leaden weight of Paul's annoyance. He curbed his own growing 
irritation, feeling his hands go tense and prickly. They always did when he 
felt frustrated. He reached down and took a cigarette from Paul's full pack 
on the canvas chair and lit it. He remained silent as he watched Paul at 
work. This is the way he's been for nearly a week, he thought. There was no 
way he could please Paul, for there was nothing Paul seemed to want; he 
stopped watching television, stopped going out, stopped talking to him, and 
stopped sleeping with him. That spoke volumes. It was the strangest thing, 
he thought, for, with Paul suddenly wanting nothing, having no preferences, 
remaining alone as much as possible, Paul could not be pleased. Rick found 
himself looking for little things to do, thinking of topics to discuss, 
anything to make contact with his lover. But Paul seemed to grow more 
distant daily. No wonder he was frustrated. 

"I'll take the shirt back for you since you don't have the time, Paul," he 
said, "I'll do that today." 

"No need." 

"What color shirt would you like." 

"Don't bother." 

"No bother for me. It'll give me something to do," Rick smiled. 

"I said forget it!" 

Rick's smile disappeared. He kept his face straight with an effort, ignoring 
Paul's sharp look of annoyance. 

"Guess I'll go for a swim," he finally said. 

"Brilliant idea. Water must be marvelous today. Wish I could." 

Rick saw that Paul was relieved to change the subject, as relieved as he 
was, he thought. Ah, he was only going in full circles with Paul anyway, and 
getting nowhere. Disgusted, he buried his cigarette in the sand and, without 
another word, raced down to the water. 

As a rule, a good fast run along the beach and a swim refreshed him. Then, 
sitting on the sand, looking out toward the horizon and the sailboats, gave 
him a calm and comfortable sense of well-being, especially knowing that Paul 
was by his side or somewhere near by. This morning it just wasn't happening. 
For one, Paul was not by his side-oh, he was near, but he might as well have 
been a million miles away. And the water was too cold and dirty, there was a 
chilling breeze that cut through him, and there were too many surfers in the 
water. It added to his annoyance. He got out of the water and, without even 
glancing at Paul, made his way back to the house. What he had done was 
change his life, that's what, he told himself. Paul had become very 
important to him. The fabric of his life was now so tightly woven with that 
of Paul, so strongly stitched, that he asked himself what would happen if 
anything ripped the tiniest part of it. Was that what was happening now? If 
so, why? There was another force entering, a force that was nameless and 
destructive. He sensed it, but for the life of him did not know what it was. 
There was too much anxiety, too much hollering and bickering between them, 
and it was building so that the emotional climate between them had become 
raw, driving them apart. 

He showered and dried himself, feeling depressed. He walked to the bed and 
stretched out on it, relaxing as best he could. Fumbling for a cigarette and 
matches, he lit it and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Just as he finished 
the cigarette, the bedroom door opened and closed with a soft click. 

"Sleeping, Rick?" 

"No," he answered, his voice tight. 

"I'm sorry I've been so-well-tense," Paul said. 

"Forget it," he answered, dabbing his cigarette into the glass ashtray. He 
heard the soft whisper of Paul's shirt as he threw it across the bed, 
followed by that of the Levi's. 

Rick swallowed hard when Paul slipped in bed beside him and he felt Paul's 
body straining against him, his arms clinging to him. Paul's cheek was oddly 
wet against his own. 

"What's the matter, Paul?" 

"Oh, Rick. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." 

"Don't cry. I've never seen you cry." 

"I've been so uptight, I guess I need the release." 

"What's been happening to us, Paul?" 

"Oh, let's not talk, Rick. Just hold me close to you." Paul lay on his side, 
breathing unevenly. 

Rick put his arm around him and rubbed Paul's bare chest. "All right," he 
whispered, feeling his own blood stirring strongly. He pulled the sheet from 
his body and let his thick cock free. It wound itself upward from the thick 
brush of curly hair surrounding the thick, hard base. "He's missed you," 
Rick whispered. "Very much." 

Paul reached for it almost timidly and took hold of it. He squeezed the hard 
cock in his hand, then, pulling himself closer, he ran his tongue lightly 
over Rick's smooth chest, taking his tiny nipple in his mouth and feeling it 
harden against his tongue. 

"Baby, baby," Rick whispered. 

Paul's lips moved downward until they met Rick's cock, and then he opened 
his mouth, taking all of it, cupping Rick's balls at the same time. Suddenly 
Paul's head shot up and he looked into Rick's eyes. 

"Oh, Rick, I've been so miserable. I don't know-just so damn miserable." 

"Kiss me, baby," Rick said. "Don't talk. Just let me hold you in my arms and 
love you." 

They lay embracing each other for a moment, then Rick's lips closed over 
Paul's, his tongue forcing its way inside Paul's mouth, running lightly over 
his strong, even chalk white teeth and firm gums. Rick held Paul even 
tighter, savoring his tongue between his teeth, his jaw moving slowly up and 
down as he tasted the velvety sweetness of the man. He could hear Paul's 
muffled cries, and could feel his quickening need. Suddenly he wanted 
desperately to be fucked. 

Paul enjoyed the feel of Rick's fingers as they massaged his back. He was 
conscious of their warm bodies pressed against each other as they lay on the 
bed. He rested his head once again in the crook of Rick's arm and felt 
Rick's mouth kiss his forehead, nose and eyes lovingly, tenderly. 

"Feel good?" he heard Rick ask. 

"Mmm," he replied. He felt Rick move his legs closer against his and draw 
his fingertips lightly over his stomach. 

This is what he loved best, he thought, the both of them lying close to each 
other after marvelous sexual release. 

"Feel like talking about it now?" Rick asked him. 

Paul wondered with an uneasy pang if it were at all possible to tell Rick 
the truth about himself-about Rick's mother. He would have to, sooner or 
later. It hurt him deeply, trying to kill his feelings for the boy. For 
that's what he was doing, little by little. "Oh, it's nothing," he answered. 
"Just overwork." 

"No, it's more than that. I can feel it in you. Tell me," Rick said. "I want 
to know." 

He thought of Susan's words: I want you to drop Rick! and his stomach 
muscles turned into a hard knot. "No, really, Rick. It's just that I've been 
tired," he lied. 

"No wonder. You've been driving yourself too hard." 

"I guess." 

Would he be able to drop Rick, Paul asked himself. Was it worth it? "Paul?" 

"Yeah, babe." 

"I wish I could buy you your own studio. I wish I could do a lot of things 
for you." 

Paul smiled, reached up, and put his fingers to Rick's lips. 

"Some day I'll be able to do it," Rick said. "I only get four hundred a 
month. But when I'm twenty-five I come into a great deal of money. Did you 
know that?" 

"No." 

"What I'm saying is, well, I can buy us a big house. Anywhere you want. And 
a car-a Cad, a Lincoln, a Rolls, any kind you want. And," he laughed, "I 
could buy all of your paintings. You can charge me anything you want. I'll 
pay it gladly." 

Guilt surged through Paul. Guilt that made him depressed and angry at the 
very thought of giving Rick up. "Yeah," he said, "when you're twenty-five." 

"But that's only six years from now." 

I'll be thirty-six, Paul thought. Hell, I might not even be painting then. 
No, it had to be now-right now! "Yeah," Paul whispered, "six years from 
now." 

"Well still be together, Paul. I know we will." 

Paul twisted his head so that he could look better into Rick's face. "Will 
we, Rick?" 

"Don't you think we will?" 

"It's hard for me to-" 

"We will," Rick interrupted. "I'll tell you why. It's because I found 
something in you that has been missing from my life. I need you, Paul. And I 
know you want and love me. I want to have you forever. I-I love you." 

He saw the flash of tears in Rick's eyes, but only for a moment. 

"There, I said it," Rick said in an unsteady voice. 

Yes, he had said it, Paul thought. The very words he so wanted to hear. Rick 
was in love with him. But the words had come too late. He did not want to 
hear them now. He couldn't hear them now. There was too much to lose. He 
needed success, damn it, and he needed it now. Susan could give him 
that-now! It was worth every sacrifice. He must not falter, must not get 
carried away by this beautiful youth. He'd made a mistake falling in love 
with Rick; he would have to undo it all. But he did not want to hurt Rick 
anymore than he had to. It would be difficult, especially now that Rick had 
confessed his love for him. And Rick would take it hard. He was a troubled 
boy, rejection would not come easy. Could he do it? Should he do it? He 
pulled himself from Rick's arms and straightened up. 

"You're wonderful to say that, Rick. But I don't think you're really in love 
with me. Fond maybe, yes, but not in love." 

"But I am. I could never say something like that unless I meant it." 

Paul put his finger across Rick's lips, urging him to be quiet. Then he 
looked with delighted wonder at the youth's lean body stretched over the 
bed. Soon it would be his no longer, he thought. It was a great sacrifice. 
He reached out and touched Rick's trembling cock. "That's what we've got 
going for us." he winked. Rick was becoming far too dramatic. He had to stop 
this and now. Besides, he could not bear to hear those words repeated. 

Rick smiled. "Our cocks? Yeah, that's no lie. But it's more than that." 

"Maybe, but not much more," he lied. He saw Rick's organ slowly begin to 
stiffen. Quickly he pulled his eyes away. He must change the subject, he 
told himself. He got to his feet. 

"Where you going?" Rick asked. 

"Back to work. Oh, there is something you can do." 

"What's that?" 

"Clean up this house. Looks like pigs live here." Rick looked about. "It's 
not any worse than usual." 

"The bathroom is filthy." 

"I'll find a maid tomorrow. Hell, I'm no housemaid." 

"You'll have to clean it today. Tomorrow will be too late." Paul paused, 
knowing the reaction he would receive. "Tomorrow your mother is coming." 

Rick's face grew serious. "How do you know?" 

"She called late last night. You were asleep." 

"What the fuck is she coming for?" 

"To spend the weekend." 

"Shit!" 

Say it, Paul told himself. Start it going. It has to start with an argument. 
"Rick," he said. "A word of advice. Try treating your mother with a little 
more respect." 

Rick's head shot up. 

"I mean it. Give in a little. It won't kill you. You're so miserable every 
time she comes here. Certainly she must feel it." 

"Good!" he snapped. 

"No, it's not good. Christ, she's your mother." 

"Tell her that!" 

"After all, Rick. She's coming to see you." 

"It's too late. She can't make up nineteen years of neglect in a weekend. I 
hate it when she comes here. This is our home; she has no right here." 

"She has every right here!" Paul shouted. "Besides, it's my house!" 

Rick stared at him, his face darkening. "What-what are you getting angry 
for, Paul?" 

"Because I hate the tension in the air when she's here. You cause it, you 
alone." 

"Then tell her to keep the hell away from here." 

"I won't do that." 

"Why? For Christ's sake." 

"It's wrong, that's why." 

"What goes here?" Rick asked, his voice rising. There was an instant of 
silence. Then Rick shook his head slowly and said, "Something's happened to 
you. It started with her visit here. I felt it then, and I feel it strongly 
now. What is it? Has she got you snowballed?" 

"No. I was just thinking of you." 

Paul saw Rick get to his feet, glare at him, then heard him say: 

"Well, don't think of me. I'll handle my cunty mother my own way, hear?" He 
turned and strode out of the room. 

Paul stared after him. He sighed deeply. He'd started it, he thought, 
feeling a little sad. He'd planted the seed. It was going to kill him, he 
knew that, but he was determined to break with Rick. 

He dressed and walked down the steps to the beach. Under the umbrella, he 
sat, and moodily stared out toward the sea. When he dipped his brush into 
the dab of heavy green paint on the easel, his mind started to reel. There 
flashed before him the faces of Rick and Susan, and he heard a voice cry 
Choose! and suddenly he felt as if he were on the edge of some nameless 
danger. 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Rick had slept past four o'clock in the afternoon, killing time before 
returning home and seeing his mother. He'd dreaded her visit for two days 
now, ever since Paul had told him she was coming. He stretched his arms, 
feeling the pain in his legs. He'd been lying out in the sun much too long 
without once turning his body. He applied some sun cream lotion to his 
calves and ankles, then wiped his hands on a towel and got to his feet. 

He'd been doing a lot of thinking. Perhaps Paul was right. Maybe he was 
being spiteful concerning his mother. He had every reason to be, he knew 
that, but his attitude with the woman grew steadily worse. It did not ease 
the situation between them. One thing for sure, she was going to be paying 
them a lot of visits. He knew that. And he also knew his mother was 
intrigued with their living together. She may have suspected by now, he 
wasn't sure. Whatever, he realized now that fighting the bitch was not the 
answer. Perhaps that was what Paul was trying to tell him Maybe if he gave 
in a little, tried to get along with her, it might work out for the better. 

He walked resolutely to the house, rehearsing as he went the exact words he 
would use on his mother. Glad you came. Yes, he'd tell her that. You look 
very nice. That would make her feel good. How would you like to go to a 
movie, just the two of us? He'd hate it, but she'd eat it up. 

It was a real surprise for him, however, on entering the house to find both 
his mother and Paul engaged in quiet conversation in the bedroom. He thought 
it strange their being in the room About to knock on the partially closed 
door, he hesitated when he heard his name. 

"What about Rick?" his mother asked. 

There was a silence on Paul's part. 

Rick stood motionless, trying desperately to follow the drift of their 
conversation. Then he heard his mother's voice again, only this time on a 
completely different subject, and her voice had changed, sounding higher, 
lighter. 

"Oh, Paul, everything's working out so well. I've been as busy as a queen 
bee in Los Angeles." 

There was a rustle of paper as she fished into her purse. 

"Look, Paul." 

Rick got closer to the door and peered in. 

Paul took the circular from her and looked at it. 

"Three thousand of them have been sent through the mail. The showing will 
last a week. Seven parties from seven to ten. And all the art collectors 
will be there. Oh, yes, it'll be covered on Tuesday night by channel 
thirteen. That's what a publicity man can do for you," she laughed. 

He handed her back the circular. "It's great." 

"Like the color?" 

"Yes." 

"That's my idea. I designed it. Oh, they got me so mad. They had it all 
wrong. I made them do it all over again. You should have seen me licking 
three thousand envelopes. I had a girl come by the house to handle it for 
me." 

"You know, just thinking about it, I get nervous." 

"I know. But that's only because it's your first showing. Don't worry, 
you'll win them over. Oh, I saw some of your new work. Peeked when you 
weren't around. Paul, the sea you painted is absolutely gorgeous." 

"Glad you like it." 

"It's happening, Paul," she whispered. "Finally." 

"Yeah," he smiled. "Thanks to you." 

"Oh, I've tracked down the fifteen paintings you've sold. Managed to buy 
three of them back, the rest have given their permission for us to show 
them." 

"That's great. I'll have nearly fifty paintings." 

Rick stared frozen to the spot as he watched his mother slip her arms around 
Paul. She reached up to accept his warm kiss. Rick wanted to cry out, but he 
remained glued to the spot, his throat dry, emotionally stunned beyond words 
or actions. 

"Now," he heard his mother whisper. "Tell me of your decision. Are you 
breaking with Rick?" 

Rick felt numb, as if all the blood had frozen in his body. 

Another pause, and finally Paul whispered, "Yes." Rick saw his mother's face 
light up, then lean forward to kiss Paul fully on the lips. "Oh, Paul, Paul, 
I'm so glad." Rick's breath quickened. 

"I haven't told him yet, Susan. It-it isn't easy for me." 

"Yes, darling. I know. I know. But you've made me so happy. You'll see, 
it'll be marvelous. You'll have a whole new life." 

Rick's body stiffened and his knees felt wobbly, so much so he had to hold 
onto the door for support. Jesus, he thought, that's why Paul has been so 
busy. His look went to his mother. She crawls, he thought, my mother crawls 
like a snake. What he had been listening to could not be true. It was not 
happening, these words were not being spoken, he was not standing here. It 
was a bad dream. 

"Now I can say it," he heard his mother almost giggle. "I was going to be 
very feminine and work it so that it was your idea. But knowing you, it 
would never work. Paul, I've been doing a lot of thinking. I-I want you to 
marry me." 

Rick saw Paul stare at his mother in complete bewilderment. "Marry, Susan?" 

"Yes, darling." 

"I-I hadn't thought about it." 

"Well, start now," she laughed. "Marriage?" 

"You'll be a very rich young man. That's something that should tempt you," 
she kidded. 

Rick began to feel a dizziness come over him in waves. He hardly dared to 
move as he listened to their muffled voices. 

"I don't mean to rush you into it, darling. And I don't mean to marry you 
tomorrow. But soon. We'll have a lovely wedding-a big one-and a wild party 
after. And I'll take you to Europe. And-" Suddenly she broke out laughing. 

"What's so funny?" Paul asked. 

"I was just thinking," she said, through another peal of laughter, "you'll 
be Rick's stepfather!" 

Rick made the gap between the door and the sofa without falling over. 
Somehow he staggered down the steps that led to the beach and threw himself 
onto the sand. His fists beat against the sand until they felt raw. Finally 
he stopped and regained control of his emotions. 

That's what it was all about. That's why Paul had been acting so strangely. 
How blind he'd been. How stupidly, naively blind! Of course, his mother! She 
had been seeing Paul all along. When? When had it all started? He felt 
ill-terribly ill. He turned away from the sun and stared up at the house, 
his face a mask of contemptuous hate. The two of them! The two of them! He 
felt drained of all emotion as an emptiness took hold of him. 

His mother now claimed the one person he really loved. She had taken Paul 
from him, just as she had taken everything else from him. He'd put up with 
it all-but this-this was something else! 

He threw himself onto the sand, buried his face in his arms, and, shuddering 
gently, plummeted nauseously into hooded sleep. 

He didn't know how long he had slept, but when next he looked up, it was 
night. He was cold to the bone. He hugged his arms around his bare chest and 
pulled the bathing trunks tighter up around his hips. Slowly reality 
returned to him by successive expanding degrees. Voices and visions and 
remembrances emerged as movie slides; and recognition, from amidst the 
swirling mixup in his mind, assumed tangible, shattering form. 

His throat felt dry. How he would like a drink, beer, scotch, anything. He 
rubbed his eyes, then stared up at the house, the house which had 
represented a new, happy life for him. He stared at the windows, the doors, 
the brush, as though expecting to find it vanished. Yes, that would be 
marvelous, he told himself, if it would vanish at the snap of his fingers. 
He snapped them hard, and stared, and snorted a hollow laugh. 

"Oh, Holy Jesus," he muttered; but Jesus bore no significance, the mutter 
held no surcease. The need to go to Paul, the need to warn him about his 
mother, protect him, the desire to profess his love for the man, was so 
imperative that he found himself halfway to the house on the run before he 
stopped himself. Then the sense of revulsion for his mother-and suddenly for 
Paul-hit him so violently, it fairly choked him. 

Mistake! Mistake! Mistake! The word hit into his brain like a hammer. It had 
all been a mistake. Seeing it now, clearly in his mind, he observed the 
mistakes he'd made. He should have never let his mother know where he was. 
Once she knew, he should never have permitted her to visit. He should never 
have led Paul to believe he was rich. He should never have told Paul of his 
true feelings for him. The whole thing should never have happened. He should 
have left home a long time ago-cut out-got away-away from his mother's 
clutches-away from her evil fingers. 

An inner weariness took hold of him when he thought of his mother. Ruthless, 
conniving, jealous, horrible bitch! The evil in her was eating her body like 
a cancer. 

Unsteadily he got to his feet and slowly, with great effort, made his way up 
the stairs. He did not want to see either of them again. He would go back 
into the house, put on a shirt and Levi's, grab his checkbook, get into the 
Rolls, and drive. Drive anywhere, as long as it was away from them. 

Inside the house he glanced at the clock. It was ten p.m. He made his way 
down the hallway and stopped cautiously at the bedroom door. Her car was 
parked outside in the front, as well as Paul's jalopy. They were still in 
the house. He pressed his ear close to the door. Then he heard Paul's voice. 

"I wonder where he is." 

"Rick? Oh, who knows. He's a loner." 

"But the least he could have done was join us for dinner." 

"Leave well enough alone. But I did enjoy dinner. I always do when it's with 
you, darling." 

Rick crept closer, his hand twisting the doorknob, opening it slightly. 
Inside the bedroom he saw them lying side by side, the only light coming 
from the opened bathroom door. They were both naked and she was rubbing his 
neck. 

"I feel so wicked," she laughed. "And daring. I mean, being this way with 
you in your bedroom-with Rick on the loose." 

"You really have a thing about him, don't you?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Like he's your competition." 

"He is, darling." She cocked her head, smiled and said, "Correction. Was!" 

"Why do you dislike him so, Susan?" 

"Because he hates me." 

"Does he really?" 

"You can see it, can't you? You're not blind. Every time I come here he's 
off somewhere doing anything he can to avoid seeing me. Oh, you don't know. 
The things I could tell you." 

"Like what?" 

"Like how different he is with me when we're alone. You know what he does? 
He just stares at me." She shook her head. "Just stares at me like a cat. 
When he was a kid he used to sneak in and watch me bathe and put on my 
makeup. He'd run home from play just to watch me do that. But it wasn't 
because he wanted to be with me, his mother. Nothing warm and tender like 
that. He just watched me with his cold eyes. I finally had to lock my door. 
But he would look at me every chance he got. At the dinner table, while 
watching television. It's scary having someone stare at you all the time." 

"That's all, Susan? I mean you said he was-" 

"He was always getting into trouble all the way through school. Not the 
usual kind of trouble like the other kids. No, he had to set the girls' room 
on fire. Can you imagine? The girls' room. Now tell me why would he do a 
thing like that? Oh, Paul, he never fit. I saw him go through the hippie 
period. I had to bail him out of jail because he was involved in those damn 
college uprisings or whatever in hell they call 'em. If it meant trouble, 
there was Rick. He was arrested three times because of dope. Did you know 
that?" 

"No." 

"No? Well now you do. I don't think he's on it now. He's probably drinking 
now. He goes from one to the other." 

"With me he's been-well-fine. I never for one moment would have suspected 
any of these things. He seems to have made an effort with me. I wish I had 
known how much of an effort." 

"That's because he wanted something from you. Look, he has no bearings, 
Paul. He's a poor soul, malformed in a malformed culture. Isn't that the 
pattern for our typical lousy American youth today? No, baby, I'm not the 
heavy that little shit makes me out to be." 

"Perhaps if he had a motive. If only he were just a bit more ambitious-" 

"Oh, hell, Paul. You saw the way he works. He wants to be a writer. Okay, 
did you ever once see him pick up a piece of paper and a pencil? Of course 
not. I bought him a typewriter to encourage him. The very thing you do to 
encourage him is the very thing he hates you for. No, Paul. He's a hater. He 
destroys anything good in himself." 

Paul shook his head. "He's terribly troubled. I had no idea just how 
troubled." 

"He hasn't got any friends, you know. He's a loner. He's been that way all 
of his life. Listen, I was concerned, believe me I was. I tried sending him 
to a psychiatrist. He went twice, then told the poor doctor off in no 
uncertain terms." She sighed. "I don't want to talk about him. He gets me 
depressed. Let's talk about us." 

Rick's ears burned at her words. He watched, as a curious weakness crept 
through him. He gazed with silent, unblinking eyes as she pressed her mouth 
to his. 

"Oh, darling, nibble!" she sighed. She pressed his mouth to her breast and 
moaned at the feel of his lips flitting over the taut, puckered pinkess of 
her aroused flesh. "Oh, Paul, hold me, love me. I need you so," she 
whispered breathlessly into his ear. 

Rick saw Paul swing his body over hers where he rested himself on the palms 
of his hands and his knees. He saw his mother spread her legs and throw back 
her head, her body moving from side to side as Paul's penetrating fingers 
plunged deep within her hot, eager vagina. He held them there as she moaned 
her delight. Then she reached down and ran her fingertips around the outline 
of the head of his cock. Her breath came quick and heavy and Rick saw her 
eyes slant and her lips part, her face a mask of lust. Paul's hands reached 
forward to grasp her bouncing globes. His fingers rubbed the brown nipples, 
his other hand was busy at her crotch. 

Swallowing hard, Rick dared to open the door wider. Quietly, he brought his 
face closer to the door. 

Now Paul lowered his body on top of Susan's and his hands reached down to 
her calves. He ran his hand over her, sliding over the firm muscles and the 
smooth skin. Paul stared at her breasts. The sight of the huge, upright, 
spherical tits, seemed to turn Paul into a wild animal. Rick watched Paul as 
he held the globular breasts and brought them to his lips, running his 
tongue over her nipple. 

Rick's eyes slanted hatefully as his glance returned to his mother. She lay 
there, her eyes fluttering, watching Paul's every movement, seemingly 
enjoying his searching hands over her body as she became more and more 
aroused. She began moving her hips from side to side, then upward, pushing 
against him. 

"Oh, Paul, fuck me. Please, fuck me." 

"Now, Susan? Now?" 

"Oh, yes, yes, now." 

Paul smiled, kissing her eyelids. "All right, baby," he whispered. 

"Oh, Paul, Paul," she cried aloud at his growing strength. 

Rick's eyes darted to Paul's cock. He saw it swell and gleam as Paul guided 
it to his mother. Rick wet his lips. My cock! he thought. That's my cock! 
And now his mother reached for it, clasping it, holding it tenderly, loving 
it. Paul's cock! The cock that belonged to Rick! He held his breath when he 
heard his mother's gasp of delight as Paul entered her. 

"Oh, Paul, Paul," his mother cried. She bit into Paul's shoulder, thrusting 
her hips upward to meet his wild attack. 

Rick saw Paul lunge his hips forward, sending his hardness deep into his 
mother's cunt. He stared for a long time, listening to their moans of 
pleasure. Finally he heard Paul whisper: 

"Ohh, Susan, you're a wild fuck. I can't hold it any longer. I've got to-" 
Then suddenly he saw Paul lunge deeply into her cunt. He stayed that way for 
a moment then fell down heavily on top of her. 

"Oh, Paul," his mother cried. "Fill me with your come. Fill me!" 

Rick felt the perspiration slide down the nape of his neck. He inhaled 
deeply and as silently as he could through his mouth, desperately fighting 
the nausea that was enveloping him. Quickly he stepped backward. He had seen 
enough. He couldn't watch any longer. Quietly, with great effort, he made 
his way out of the house and back to the beach where he fell to his knees, 
digging his fingers into the sand for support as his stomach heaved. When he 
could vomit no more, he got to his feet and hurried down to the water. He 
cupped his hands, filling them, splashing his face with the cold sea water. 

For what seemed an eternity, he stood by the shore, overcome by the 
experience he had just witnessed. At length he walked along the sand, 
wandering aimlessly. He was the only one on the darkened beach, and the only 
sound was that of the water at high tide. He was hardly conscious of his 
movements. 

The feeling of loneliness was so intense that he found himself staring in 
despair at the sea, at the black horizon, and at the barren stretch of gray 
beach. He was swept with the sad and hopeless feeling that he had been 
stripped completely of everything he had left. 

The air was soft and cool on his face. He walked for what seemed miles 
before he stopped and looked about curiously. He shook his head, and pressed 
a hand to his temples, as if this gesture alone would take away the pain he 
felt there. He sat on his haunches and stared at the darkness beyond, seeing 
an occasional light from a passing ship. He wished with all his might that 
he might be on that ship, that he had not heard or seen what he had this 
day. He wasn't sure just what he felt, other than an aching emptiness that 
was almost physically painful in its intensity. The resentment of his mother 
tortured him. God, he thought, she's a horror. There was nothing she would 
not do to satisfy her lust. She had taken the one all important thing from 
him. She had taken the man he loved. He had never loved before-anyone. He 
did not think he could live without this love. It was like a confused 
nightmare; he did not quite believe it. Yet it was true. His own mother had 
taken his lover! His own mother! 

God damn her! God damn her! GOD DAMN HER! 

"Paul," he cried. "Paul ... Paul ... Paul!" There was a moment that had 
become elongated beyond endurance as though time had stopped save the 
enormous, thunderous, painful pounding of his own heart. He wanted to cry, 
but the tears would not come. There was nothing left for him. He'd been 
stripped of everything. His mother had taken the one chance he had left. The 
one man who could help him, give him some sense of being, some sense of 
belonging. 

Why had Paul turned from him? Was it greed alone? Could he possibly be in 
love with his mother? He did not believe that, it could not be. No, it was 
she! She had poisoned their love. She had thrown herself at Paul. She had 
promised him a whole, new, rich life. And he had believed her-the stupid 
bastard believed her. The lengths she would go to hurt him, he thought. She 
was rotten to the core-every muscle in her body-rotten. Every thought in her 
head-rotten! 

He stood motionless at the water's edge as the idea came to him. His 
thoughts were spinning so fast, so clearly, that he felt almost drunk. Yet 
his thoughts, as wild as they were, were at the same time calm and quite 
sober, despite the excitement that was welling up inside of him. 

It was over for him, he knew that now. He would never find another Paul, he 
knew that, too. What more could he lose? Nothing mattered to him now. 
Nothing but the idea generating in his mind. Maybe he'd be playing a trick 
on himself, maybe he would be hurting himself more, but he didn't care 
anymore. His thoughts raced so fast in his mind that he found himself 
running back to the house. 

It would be so simple, he told himself. Really so simple. Nobody would 
suspect. He could get away with it. And for once in his miserable life he 
could throw off, by the very force of this decision, by the sheer force of 
the act, the tedious, frustrated, lonely, angry, impotent feelings that had 
been with him all of his life and were with him now. In one moment he could 
do this, he told himself. The flick of a wrist and it would be done. 

No longer did he feel lonely, oppressed, angry; now he felt only an enormous 
elation. As he ran he could feel his cock swelling beneath his tight trunks. 
The idea had not only stimulated his spirit but his physical senses as well. 
He slowed down when he came within sight of the house, then stopped, 
studying it. There was a moment of doubt, but it was only a moment. 

Inside the house it was warm, the only light coming from a lamp in a comer 
of the living room. He saw that it was past midnight. He lit a cigarette and 
dragged hard on it, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs. His mind was 
reeling. His hands shook and he felt a sliding line of perspiration down his 
back and under his armpits. He snuffed the cigarette out in a flowerpot. 
Silently he edged his way along the carpeted, narrow hallway. Slowly he 
crept until he came to the door. His hand gripped the brass doorknob and he 
slowly twisted it to the right. A smile came to his face. His hands had 
stopped shaking. He would be fine now, he told himself. The sharp clicking 
sound made him hold his breath. He waited, swallowed hard, his hand still 
gripping the doorknob tightly. Carefully, slowly, quietly, he edged his way 
inside the doorway. He dared not breathe as he slowly permitted his eyes to 
become adjusted to the darkened bedroom. 

Then he saw them. With an intake of breath, his eyes widened. A nerve began 
to twitch in his eye. 

Both of them were asleep. His mother had thrown off the bed sheet and was 
lying on her back completely naked. His breath came in nervous spurts at the 
sight of his mother's immense breasts, her shining red hair framing her face 
against the white pillow. His eyes traveled to Paul. He, too, was naked, his 
now limp cock resting against his thigh, his balls hanging down to the 
sheet. Rick's eyes took in the slightly rounded stomach, traveled the length 
of the slim hips past the long, muscular legs, to the cock, down to the tips 
of his toes. 

Rick swallowed hard, then made his way to the bed. Slowly, holding his 
breath, he leaned down and brushed his lips against Paul's forehead. Paul 
did not stir. Again Rick leaned down, this time kissing the head of Paul's 
cock. "God," he muttered, "Oh, God, oh, God." 

Paul stirred. 

Rick drew back as quick as a flash. He waited, then backed away, careful not 
to bump into anything, then turned and headed for the window. Reaching up, 
he very slowly and carefully lowered it, locking it. Then, turning, he 
silently made his way to the comer of the room. 

Quietly he knelt down by the gas heater. He reached out. His hand began to 
shake. He sucked in a lungful of air through his mouth and waited until he 
had himself in control. Carefully, silently, his hand reached out. He felt 
the cold brass handle. He hesitated, turned to look over his shoulder, then 
quickly turned the handle to the right. There was an immediate hissing 
sound. Another twist and he had opened it as wide as it would go. Already he 
could smell the heavy gas filling the room. 

Rising, he held his breath, then made his way to the door. Opening it, he 
suddenly turned to look back. His eyes were dark with an odd lifeless 
stillness as he looked at the naked couple, then at the wide-open gas 
heater. He allowed himself a thin grimace of satisfaction as he surveyed his 
handiwork, then carefully, very slowly, very silently, he pulled the door 
shut. 

He leaned heavily against the wall for a brief flash out of eternity, then 
sighed deeply, walked out of the house, down the steps to the beach, and 
across the sand. He seemed to be unconscious of the change in the 
consistency of the sand particles under his feet as they went from dry to 
moist. 

He did not even give much thought to the fact that the sea was inordinately 
calm as he permitted it slowly to swallow him whole.... 


THE END
