JDIANE AND HER WONDERFUL BOX
AY R. SMITHSON
(R. JOHN SMYTHE)


PART I

CHAPTER I

Strangely enough, I was one of the first in town to set eyes on Diane. I 
was running a survey crew then and we were set up right in front of the bus
station when she arrived. She had one suitcase and she set it down on the 
sidewalk to make a call on the pay phone by the door. Our work came to a 
screeching halt, and we just stood there staring. Agape, I suppose is the 
right word. The girl was young—we guessed seventeen or eighteen by her 
face. (In fact she was only sixteen at the time, as I found out much 
later.) She had the white and pink skin typical of new arrivals from the 
North, and it looked even whiter against her long raven black hair which 
hung loosely over her shoulders. She wore dark glasses and gold hoops in 
her ears, and her full lips were freshly painted in pale iridescent violet.
She was really beautiful. Her breasts were large for her frame and her 
cocky hips flared sensually from a narrow waist with just enough swell to 
the belly to give her that “Arabian look,” if you know what I mean.

But what really brought us to our knees, so to speak, was the way she was
dressed. Because as soon as she stepped out of the station my chainman 
said, “Hey, she ain’t got no bra on!” and Willie the transitman says, 
“Goddamn! Look at those tits!” and trains his telescope on her. It was a 
sight which you don’t forget easily—tits like that, swinging free under 
thin knit, the nipples casting sharp shadows in the morning sunlight. The 
dress was more like a long T-shirt than anything else, and it clung to 
every bulge and hollow of her luscious body. It was bright pink with thin 
black horizontal stripes which defined every contour; it was high-necked, 
sleeveless and short. No, I mean short. These were the days of the 
micro-mini, but by any standard that skirt was indecent! When she reached 
up to put the dime in the slot, the skirt lifted a little and we actually 
saw the lower cheek of her snow-white behind. It was just a split-second 
peek though, and we weren’t sure whether or not she had any panties on 
until she hung up the receiver and sat down on her suitcase. She lit a 
cigarette and crossed her legs and then we were sure.

Under her bare thighs, which were just slightly spread, we saw a pink 
crease surrounded by lush black curls. Willie centered his cross-hairs on 
this hairy slit and locked the screws. We all took turns looking, and she 
saw us but made no attempt to cover herself. I put my hand in my pocket to 
try to tuck in my erection, and her lips turned up at the corners in a 
smile. I smiled back and was just about to cross the street when her taxi 
came. We got a glimpse of her bare crossed legs in the back seat and she 
was gone.

That was my first encounter with Diane, and though our paths crossed a 
few times after that, most of what I have to say I learned later— “after 
the storm,” as we put it—from Diane herself. One of her favorite sources of
erotic stimulation is telling in detail of her past sexual excesses. But 
I’m getting ahead of myself.

When Diane got into the taxi, though it all looked planned and efficient,
in truth she had no idea where to go; she just wanted to get away from the 
bus station. She was running away from the law and she had it in her young 
head that they’d be looking for her on the bus fine. Actually, she had 
gotten away scot free, and the local vice squad boys in Cairo, Illinois, 
were still poking around for her in the dingy corners of the city. She 
liked Florida after she’d been there a while, but she never quite got over 
a vague feeling of being trapped at the end of a dead-end street, like a 
wild animal brought to bay at the edge of a cliff. She had headed south 
with no other thought about a destination than to go as far as possible. 
Our city was just about that, and there was “nowhere left to go but into 
the sea,” as she told me once.

Anyway, she hit town with nothing but a few bucks for cab fare, and her 
first concern was to get her hands on some money. Young though she was, she
had an unbelievable amount of experience behind her and she knew the 
quickest (and most enjoyable) way to get what she needed.

“Where to, honey?” She studied the driver for a minute. He looked to be 
in his late thirties, well-built and tanned; she noticed a wedding band on 
his left hand.

“Well, I don’t really know,” she answered, “I’m sort of on a vacation. I 
thought maybe you could help me find a place to stay.”

He looked straight ahead as he talked. “Don’t know anybody in town?” She 
said she didn’t. “Well, how about a hotel on the beach?”

“Well … see, I don’t have much money. Do you know an inexpensive place?”

“How much you got?” He was getting impatient.

“N-not very much…”

“Look, miss, you got cab fare?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

He swerved out of the stream of traffic and pulled up to the curb, 
“That’ll be half a buck. There’s hotels all around here, you don’t need 
me.” At that Diane put her face in her hands and began to sob. She could do
it real good. “Now look, what am I, a baby-sitter or something? I got to 
make a living, you know…” For the first time he turned around and got a 
good look at her. She continued to sob, twisting sideways a little so he 
could see how much bare white thigh was visible below the little dress. 
Finally he reached back and put his fingers under her chin, lifting her 
tear-streaked face. She had removed her sunglasses and her pale blue eyes 
looked into his. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty-one.”

“Uh-huh. You running away from home?” She lowered her eyes but said 
nothing. “When did you eat last?”

“I-I don’t know,’ she said, “a couple of days ago, I guess,” still 
sobbing a little.

“Look, it’s almost lunch time anyway. I got some sandwiches, enough for 
both of us. We can go over to the beach and eat and maybe I’ll think of 
something to help, okay?” she nodded, drying her eyes. “Come on up here 
with me.” Instead of getting out and going around, she climbed over the 
back of the seat and slid down beside him. But on the way over she had 
swung her legs toward him and the glimpse he got of her sweet little crotch
must have added another emotion to the compassion he was feeling for her.

On the way over the bridge to the beach she sat in silence her legs 
crossed, the hem of her skirt in her lap, and her straight black hair 
blowing in the wind. The driver kept stealing glances at her and she 
noticed the bulge grow large in his pants. He drove past the public beach a
mile or so and turned into an almost hidden trail leading up the beach 
ridge through the dense casuarina trees. At the top of the ridge the trail 
opened out onto a circular clearing overlooking a wide empty beach. He cut 
the motor.

“Oh, this is beautiful!” Diane exclaimed. She got out and ran to the 
crest of the bluff. The stiff breeze off the blue ocean caught her hair and
it streamed out behind her. She tossed her head and raised her arms high, 
knowing how her dress reacted to that movement. She heard his low whistle 
behind her as she felt the clinging hem slide up over the naked 
under-cheeks of her ass … and quickly pulled it back down with a sexy twist
of her hips.

“Never seen the ocean?” he asked, getting out of the taxi and leaning 
against the hood.

“No, never.” She turned and walked toward him at a bouncy gate and saw 
his eyes rivet onto her bobbing tits. She pretended not to notice. “Could 
we eat the sandwiches now?” It was a deliberate tease, but she really was 
hungry.

“Oh! Yeah, forgot all about that.” He smiled at her and winked, then 
turned to get the lunch.

She turned back to the sea for a second and took a deep breath. She had 
him now, and she felt better. It was a new town, but men were the same 
everywhere. It would be a new start and everything would be all right. Let 
the past die, she thought, let ‘em all rot up there in the smoke and 
mud—here the breeze was fresh off the ocean and the sky was clear. She 
wanted to peel off her dress then and there and be like Eve in the Garden, 
living off the wild fruit and the fish of the streams…

Then the driver spoke and Diane turned to the immediate project, feeling 
strangely refreshed and ready for action. “My fruit and fish were right 
there between that guy’s legs,” she told me, “and when I thought of that I 
damn near laughed out loud.”

“My name’s Mo. What’s yours?” He handed her a sandwich and she got up on 
the hood, leaning back against the windshield, her legs stretched out in 
front of her, spread a little.

“Diane.”

“Look, Diane, you don’t have any money, do you?”

“No. But I’m going to get a job.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of work do you do?”

“Oh, I can do just about anything.” She put the last of the ham sandwich 
in her mouth and stretched her arms out along the top of the windshield on 
either side of her, raising one knee. Her nipples stood out in sharp relief
through the thin material and the double image of her raised white thighs 
on the polished hood was blinding. “What do you think I’d be good at, Mo?” 
She gave him a lascivious grin.

This of course was Mo’s cue, but he didn’t react as he should have. She 
thought maybe he was a little thick. His eyes went nervously over her body 
and he leaned forward on the fender to conceal his erection—but his eyes 
had a strange, steely glint, a touch of cruelty perhaps. She knew he was 
thinking what she wanted him to think, but there was something else there 
too—something which was generating a hardness behind the eyes. His 
expression didn’t change but his hand slid out across the hood as if it had
a life and mind of its own and came to rest ever so lightly on the velvet 
whiteness of her knee. It crept weightlessly down her bare thigh, leaving a
wake of goose pimples … and then withdrew, coming down on the polished hood
with unnatural force. When he spoke there was a tenseness, a kind of 
strain, in his voice.

“You’re young enough to be my daughter. If I was your father …”

“What would you do if you were my father, Mo?” His hands were pressed 
flat on the metal, the knuckles death-white. Diane reached behind her back 
and drew down the zipper of her dress. “Okay if I soak up some of this 
Florida sun?” He said nothing as she slipped her arms one at a time from 
the armholes, making a pretense of trying (unsuccessfully) not to show any 
tit as she did so. She folded down the top of the dress carefully and 
neatly just above her nipples and tucked it under her arms, leaning back 
again on the windshield and letting her head go back until it rested on the
top of the car. She straightened her legs out and sighed contentedly, 
looking at him down her nose. Her hair fanned out over the glass, filtering
the sun’s reflection and rippling in the salt wind.

“I bet your daddy’d like to know where you are.”

Diane smiled; she had never known her father, she didn’t even know who he
was or anything about him. She had often thought about the “father-idea”: 
the word had several conflicting connotations on her. On the one hand there
should be the loving father, kind and understanding, but she had no 
personal knowledge of this type. On the other was the tyrant-father, 
Authority, and with this breed she’d had plenty of experience. This 
“father” went under several names—Boss, Judge, Priest, Cop, etc. This 
father whom she was now seducing evidently came under the second category. 
“I should have been afraid,” she told me thoughtfully, “because I knew he 
was considering turning me over to the police, but somehow I wasn’t. It was
sort of a challenge, like trying to make the Pope or something, and the way
he looked at me with those steely eyes was making my pussy wet.”

“What’s your daughter’s name, Mo?”

“Peggy, if it’s any of your goddamn business.”

“Does she look like me?”

“Shut up!”—it wasn’t a shout, it was the stern father tone. “Where you 
from?”

“Chicago.”

“That where your daddy lives?” She said no. “What were you doing there?”

“Well, I was a-photographer’s model for a while, and a night club 
dancer—”

“Stripper?” »

“Mmhm. Traveled with a carnival one summer, too.” (It was a lie about 
Chicago, but the rest was true.) Here she raised her arms from her sides 
and stretched them over her head, watching his eyes follow the fold of her 
dress as it stretched tightly over

her taut tits and slipped down toward the nipples—

and hit him with the punch line: “I was a whore,

too.”

“You little bitch,” he croaked.

“That’s not nice, Daddy.”

“Goddamn you, don’t call me daddy!” His face flushed livid red, and he 
slammed his fist down on the hood. The hollow metallic boom echoed through 
the casuarinas like war drums.

“If I were Peggy, what would you do to me? Spank me…or something else?”

A hoarse roar came from his throat and he grabbed the front of her dress 
and jerked her off the car. She hit the ground on her back and it knocked 
the breath out of her. When she could focus her eyes again, still gasping 
for breath, she saw him standing over her with a rolled up newspaper. She 
tried to back away from him, but the paper club crashed into the side of 
her head and knocked her down again. Then the blows fell on her body like 
hail, but they did not dislodge the fantasy that had been building 
unconsciously in her mind: —“Oh Daddy, stop! Please, Daddy! Don’t! I’ll be 
good, Daddy!—”

And with each swing he cursed her in his hoarse croak. “Bitch!—
Slut!—-Whore!…”

Then the blows stopped. She. lay on her back, shielding her face with her
hands. Her dress was wadded up around her waist. She peeked out between her
fingers, her face again wet with tears— real ones this time. “I’m sorry, 
Daddy,” she whimpered. “Peggy…” His voice was changed, soft and soothing. 
He threw away the newspaper and dropped to his knees. “Poor little Peggy…” 
He lifted her to a sitting position and held her sobbing body against his, 
rocking gently back and forth. There were three rhythms: the slow rising 
and falling of wind-whispers in the pine needles, the more rapid and 
regular pounding of the surf, and the passionate beat of his blood in her 
ear.

After a while, her sobbing ceased. The man stroked her head, then her 
bare back. His hand caressed the sides of her torso, just brushing her 
breasts at first. She put her arms around him and rubbed his back. His 
breath was coming faster, the movement of his hands more rapid; they went 
down her sides and around to the small of her back and down inside the 
rolled up dress to her bruised buttocks, a hot hairy finger venturing into 
the crease between them. The finger stayed there, working softly, while the
other hand came up under a tit, light as a feather. Again the Goosebumps 
covered her flesh as he spoke, rolling her nipple between his thumb and 
forefinger. “Oh, Peggy, poor Peggy…”

She lifted her face to his and their lips met, lightly at first, as a 
father might kiss his child. Then their mouths opened together, and their 
tongues made love like trained snakes in a bath of hot saliva. He pushed 
her dress down over the flare of her hips and she raised up to let it pass 
under her ass and kicked it off her feet.

“Daddy—” She was panting now— “Now, Daddy, now!” She groped for his belt 
buckle and got it open, jerking down his fly. His prick was stiff and big 
as a brick and it came out like a jack-in-the-box. He stood up and stepped 
out of his pants, and she lay back on the pine needles, spreading her legs 
beneath his throbbing penis. He dropped to his knees between her legs and 
with both hands worked the snarls out of her cunthair and smoothed it 
neatly away from the oozing pink slit, which was opening and closing like a
trained oyster. She raised her legs and put them over his shoulders, 
drawing him down until his lips fastened on a puffed-up nipple, his other 
hand kneading her left tit and pressing its hot heavy bulk against his 
cheek. She reached between her thighs and guided his prick into her juicy 
cunt—

“Oh little Peggy, little Peggy—”

“Ah, fuck me, Daddy, fuck me—” He began with a slow stroke, almost a 
“thoughtful” one, as Diane put it, but soon the rhythm increased and she 
met him on every beat until the fire of their blood ignited sky and sea and
they came together in an extended, gushing orgasm.

CHAPTER II

Since her escape from Cairo Diane had gotten hardly a wink of sleep, and 
when Mo slipped out and rolled off, she sighed contentedly and drifted off 
to dreamland.

When she awoke the first thing she was aware of was a sticky sensation 
and pin-prickling pain all along her left side. She was curled up, 
fetus-like, on the pine needle carpet and the little casuarina pine cones 
on the ground were slowly poking holes in her naked skin. Until then she 
hadn’t even noticed the pine cones.

She sat up, brushed off the needles and cones and swabbed out her crotch 
with the wadded up dress. But she needed something more than that, because 
she had not taken more than a step or two before she discovered that 
affliction known to beach lovers everywhere as “sand-in-the crack.” An 
attempted purge with the finger only made it worse.

Mo was dressed and sitting with his back to a big tree, his ankles 
crossed, smoking a cigarette and watching her with a sort of detached gaze.
When she made a face and said, “Yak,” drying her finger on the dress, he 
said, “Wash off in the water.”

“In the ocean?” He said nothing. “I think I will,” she said and walked 
gingerly down the steep slope and across the hot sand to the water. The sea
was not rough that day, but it looked huge and frightening to her compared 
to the muddy rivers she was accustomed to, the Ohio and the Mississippi. 
Standing in the cool wash at the upper reaches of the waves, the little 
shells tinkling around her ankles, she looked south down the beach to the 
public bathing area. Not far away was a young couple playing in the surf. 
They had been out of sight from the ridge. She watched the boy run down the
sand and dive into a big wave just as it broke. The girl did the same. 
Diane was always ready to try anything once, and she waded out to the 
drop-off and plunged into the next roller. The cool clear water rushing 
over her naked body was refreshing and exhilarating and she came up 
laughing.

The feeling she had had before up on the ridge came back to her—the 
feeling of making a fresh, clean start. She felt she was leaving all the 
dust and mud of her former life behind; the sea was washing it all out of 
her pores. “It was like a spiritual douche,” she tells me. (Phrases like 
that come out of her apparently without the slightest effort!) She felt 
completely self-reliant and indestructible.

When she walked back into the shallows she noticed that the couple had 
been walking toward her; they weren’t more than a hundred feet away and 
still coming. Most girls, caught naked like that, would have jumped back in
the water and waited for the intruders to pass; but not Diane. She squatted
slightly and splashed water into her pussy to be sure all the sand was out,
and then turned and waved to the couple. They waved back, and she walked 
and skipped unhurriedly, back up the beach, tits all abounce.

They followed her for a ways, the boy dragging the giggling, protesting 
girl, until they saw Mo at the top of the bluff. Diane stood beside him, 
shaking out her hair in the breeze. “Ah, that was wonderful!” she 
exclaimed, breathless from the exertion.

The boy and girl continued to stare until Mo waved his arm at them and 
said, “Get the fuck out of here!” The boy gave him the finger, but then 
they walked back down to the water.

“Oh, what did you do that for, Mo?” Diane giggled.

“You don’t give a shit for nothin’, do you?”

“Very little,” she said seriously, “very little.”

Diane went to the taxi and got her suitcase out and opened it on the 
hood. She took out a pair of white Levi’s, brushed the sand off her feet 
with the pink dress, and stepped into them, tugging them up over her ass 
with some difficulty and buttoning them under her navel. She selected a 
black mesh shell and, hanging it over her shoulder, walked back to the tree
where Mo sat.

“I think I’m gonna like this place,” she said, gazing out at the 
shimmering blue horizon.

“Zip your fly,” Mo said in an irritated voice.

“Yes, Daddy,” she replied, pulling up the zipper.

He returned her grin with hard eyes and straight lips. “Now cut that out,
Diane. I mean it.” He did, too.

“Okay, Mo. It’s forgotten.” She knelt down and took his hand and kissed 
it, but he drew it back. “Thanks for letting me sleep. You’re losing the 
whole day because of me. I’ll make it up to you someday.” He didn’t answer.
She brushed a grain of sand from her right nipple. The sea water had made 
the areolas of her nipples wrinkle up slightly. “Hey, look at that,” she 
said, cupping a breast in her hand and examining the phenomenon.

“Why the hell don’t you get dressed?”

“Do I make you nervous?” She laughed, unkindly perhaps. “Poor Mo,” she 
said and slipped the shell on over her head. She held her hair up—it wasn’t
quite dry yet—and turned around. “Zip me up.” He pulled up the zipper and 
locked it at the nape of her neck. She stood up with a little hop in her 
refreshed exuberance, and her tits bounced under the black mesh. Mo didn’t 
miss it, in spite of himself. Her white jugs and dark pink nipples were 
plainly visible through the material.

“Jesus Christ. Don’t you ever wear a bra?”

“Sometimes, why?”

He said, “Goddamn,” and got up. They walked back to the car and Diane 
scooped up her sandals off the ground and tossed them into the front seat. 
She tucked the sticky dress into a corner of the suitcase. “Yak! You musta 
wiped with this too, huh, Mo?” But she couldn’t break his gloomy mood. She 
closed the suitcase and put it in the back seat, hopping in front beside 
Mo.

Mo sat behind the wheel and looked straight ahead while he spoke. “Now, 
listen. You said you’d make up for my lost time and all that. I’m not a 
complete moron, I know how stupid that is. It’s me ought to be paying you, 
and I will. But if you want to do something for me, you’ll leave me alone 
from now on. I don’t want to see you again. Nothin’ against you, it’s just 
I got a wife and kid, and— Well, you’re nothin’ but trouble to me, poison, 
no matter how you look at it. I’m gonna take you to a place I know, just 
the place for you.” He said, “Boy!” with a mirthless snort of a laugh and 
shook his head. “They’ll give you a job if you want it, and a place to 
stay. And then we say good-bye. Okay?”

“Okay, Mo.” she leaned over” and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He 
started the motor, made a tight turn and they bumped off down the trail 
through the tall trees.

The Jungle Club was a little go-go joint and motel-brothel at the 
junction of two highways outside of town. It was owned and operated by a 
couple named Leona and Mike. They used the name Patterson and were 
generally assumed to be married, but they weren’t really. Leona was 
thirty-three and Mike was forty, although everyone took them to be several 
years younger. Mike was rather tall and had thick dark hair and blue eyes, 
and he never suffered from want of a strange piece of tail. He and Leona 
made a striking pair; she had full sensual lips and the same sort of lush 
oriental figure as Diane’s, though with perhaps not as much youthful 
firmness and a little less exaggeration of contours. She bleached her hair 
and wore it short with bangs. I used to visit this place from time to time—
whenever I could slip away from my wife. I was rarely flush enough to 
afford one of the girls, but I used to come and sip Jim Beam at a table 
beside the little stage and raise a tremendous hard-on watching the topless
dancers and waitresses. I may as well admit straight off that I was a 
voyeur in those days—a watcher, Peeping Tom, the whole bit, and the back 
windows of the frame cottages lined up against a brush-covered vacant lot 
were a great temptation to me. I mention this because two weeks after that 
day we watched Diane get off the bus I walked into the Jungle Club and with
a pleasant shock immediately recognized her in one of the cages, wearing 
nothing but a fringed G-string and go-go boots; and later that night I 
indulged my perversion. . . But let me get back to that day our girl hit 
town.

Mo pulled into the parking lot and stopped at the entrance. Leaving the 
engine running, he got out and carried Diane’s suitcase up to the door, 
then returned to the taxi and opened the door for her. A real gentleman, Mo
was.

“I’m not gonna go in,” he said. “Just tell Leona you want a job. Tell her
Mo sent you, if you want to, but it won’t be necessary. One look at you 
and—” He broke off and, pulling out his wallet, held out a twenty to her, 
his eyes downcast. “Take it, goddamn it!” he said in a hoarse whisper, 
shoving it at her. She took the bill and tucked it into the watch pocket of
her Levi’s.

“Thanks for everything, Mo.”

He muttered something to himself, got into his cab and drove off without 
looking back.

Inside the lounge it was dim and cool after the glare and heat of the 
afternoon, and it took a minute for her eyes to get accustomed to the dark.
Behind the bar was a woman, and a man was stretched out in a corner booth, 
sipping a drink. Otherwise the place was empty.

Diane went up to the bar and said, “Are you Leona?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Diane. Mo said you might be able to give me a job. I’m a dancer.”

“Mo Mullens?”

“He drives a taxi.”

“Yeah.” She laughed. “He wouldn’t come in, would he?”

“No—”

“Hear that, Mike? Mo still doesn’t like us.” The man in the corner 
laughed. His eyes were riveted on Diane’s ass. Leona turned back to the 
girl. “Do you know Mo well?”

“No, we just met today.”

“Mo used to come in all the time, till one night he caught his daughter 
here—or else she caught him, we never could figure out which. She’s just a 
kid, but built real nice, and she got a little tight and decided to do a 
strip on the dance floor. Mo was over there in a booth curled up with some 
young chick. They must have both seen each other at the same time. What a 
blast. Mike and me about died laughing. The kid still comes in once in a 
while, but Mo’s never set foot in here since.” She stopped talking and lit 
a cigarette, looking at Diane’s nipples pushing through the black mesh. 
“Where you from, Diane?’

“New York, I just got in this morning.” “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” she answered, reaching into her tight pocket for her 
cigarettes ,which brought the thin shell drum-taut across her tits.

“You dance topless?”

“Sure,” she said, lighting up. “Bottomless, too, if you like.” Leona 
smiled, glancing at Mike.

“Maybe we could use you. Let’s see what you can do. Hey, Mike, put on a 
record, will you? Wanta go up on the stage, honey?” Leona flipped a switch 
and the stage lit up.

Diane unzipped the neck of the shell and pulled it off over her head, 
then picked up her cigarette off the bar and mounted the stage, kicking off
her sandals on the way. Mike got up and moved to a stage-side table with 
his drink, and Leona sat beside him. A slow sitar-rock began, loud and 
pulsing, and Diane began a spine-whipping frug to the electric beat, her 
big boobs heaving and bouncing like firm jellies. Her hands moved up and 
down as if she were ramming a huge phallus into her twat, her black hair 
flying.

Mike called to her over the music, “What about the bottomless part?”

Diane saw that they were both getting excited now, and so she went into a
slow grind, sliding her palms down over her tits, down her belly to where 
the denim was pulled up into the crease of her cunt, and she began rubbing 
the twin bulge with her fingers, legs spread wide apart. She heard “Oh 
Jesus!” from Mike,

On the next cymbal-crash she unfastened the button of the Levi’s and the 
zipper sprang open, revealing her lush black bush. She snaked out of the 
pants and kicked them off the stage, leaning backwards with thrusting bumps
and grinds, literally throwing her cunt in their faces, the pink slit 
moving with a life of its own in the midst of her luxuriant growth of 
curls.

As the record neared the end, she took the cigarette from her mouth and 
placed it between the lips of her twat… A bump … a grind … The butt stayed 
put. She danced to the very edge of the stage, spread her white thighs wide
and leaned into a back arch. Then, as the music ended, with a sudden 
lip-twitch of her vulva the cigarette, still lit, flipped out and landed on
the table between Mike and Leona.

Diane scooped up her Levi’s and jumped down beside them, panting. “Whew!”
she gasped, flopping into a chair.

Leona said, “Wow,” rubbing herself between the legs and grinning at Mike.
He picked up the ejected butt and put the wet end to his lips, taking a 
long drag.

“Mmmm mm! Best smoke I’ve had in years. Ha, ha! That’s a good trick. Does
that thing have a tongue in it?” Diane giggled and shook her head. “If it 
did it could talk,” he said.

“I’ll bet it could tell some tales, too,” put in Leona.

Diane laughed. “I learned the trick at the carnival I used to run with, 
but they tell me I have a— mm—natural talent.”

“I’ll say!” said Mike, his eyes oscillating from her tits to her pussy.

“Diane,” said Leona, almost leering at the girl’s naked body, “you’re 
hired. But you better put your clothes on now and let me show you to your 
cabin before my husband screws you right here on the floor.”

CHAPTER III

Later, after Diane was settled in her cottage, she strolled over to the 
motel office to sign the register as Leona had asked her to. On the way she
noticed a curly haired kid of about sixteen or seventeen leaning against 
one of the cabins, a butt drooping from the corner of his mouth. His eyes 
were locked onto her tits, moving inside the transparent black lace of the 
shell. When she smiled at him he looked away. Leona was waiting for her 
inside.

Diane had already decided on a name, and without hesitation she picked up
the pen and wrote in her clear, even hand, “Miss Diane Fuhks, New York 
City.” Leona turned the book around and read the name.

“Pronounced ‘fyooks.’ I suppose?” she inquired with a grin.

“No, it’s pronounced ‘fucks,’…” was the girl’s answer.

“Diane Fuhks…” Leona seemed to enjoy the taste of the words in her mouth.
“Cute name.” Her eyes wandered rapidly down the girl’s voluptuous form. 
“Cute girl, too.”

“Thanks. You are too, you know.” Diane glanced appreciatively at the 
young woman’s big tits thrusting their points against the yellow silk of 
her blouse. The first two buttons below the broad V of the open collar were
undone, showing the deep cleft and swelling fullness of her upper breasts, 
as well as the small clasp which held the lacy black 38-C cups of her 
abbreviated bra together.

“Okay, now let’s disband the mutual admiration society and get down to 
business. I’ll pay you a basic salary of a hundred and fifty a week. Some 
nights you’ll have to work the tables, but you can keep all your tips. As 
long as you work in the club the rent’s free, but I log in forty bucks a 
week for the records—and that’s what you pay if anybody asks. Sound okay?”

“Fine.”

“All right. Now all that goes in the books. Off the books, I get half of 
whatever you make in bed.” She watched for the girl’s reaction.

“Fair enough,” Diane says matter-of-factly.

“Good. Set your own prices, but don’t go too high; I don’t want to 
attract undue attention. Don’t hold out on me and keep your nose clean and 
I can give you good security—at least for the time being. I’ll explain in a
minute. Anyway, a few of my girls in the past have gotten overly ambitious 
and … well, it didn’t pay off, believe me. I’m not threatening you, that’s 
just the way it’s got to be.

“Now about security. We’ve had it made for a long time. Saul Johnson, the
local vice commissioner, has always kept City Hall off our back. He gets 
his cut of course, a sizable one, but he’s a pretty good guy and doesn’t 
try to bleed us dry. He’s an old boyfriend of mine, one of the first men I 
went to bed with in this city. The trouble is, elections are coming up next
month, and Saul’s buddy, Chief Marlow, is almost sure to lose out. The new 
police chief in that case will be an overly ambitious screw named Raymond 
Roland. That’ll be the end of our boy Saul. Roland will appoint David 
Spinxly in his place, a Bible-slapping son of a bitch who’ll have this 
place under lock and key a half-hour after the polls close.

“I’m not trying to scare you off, honey, just want you to know the score.
We’re okay so far, but Roland’s already started making it rough for us with
his goddamn speeches, and business seems to be dropping off a little. 
‘Course if Marlow wins we’re all right, but it’d be a miracle. You won’t 
get caught, none of us will. We’ll be prepared. It’s just that I can’t 
promise anything definite after the first Tuesday of next month. Still want
the job?”

“Sure. Usually I don’t plan that far ahead anyway. Besides, maybe I can 
help.”

Leona looked puzzled. “What could you do?” she asked.

“Well, maybe nothing, but I’ve had some experience with the righteous 
type.”

“Forget it, baby. Spinxly’s out of reach. And remember what I said about 
attracting attention to us.”

“Don’t worry about that. Anyway, it was just a thought. But I do want the
job.”

“Good. I think we’ll get along fine, whatever happens.”

This however was not to be the case, sad to say.

“I think I’ll go take a shower now and get this salt off me. I had a swim
in the ocean this morning.” She made a face and wriggled uncomfortably, 
causing her black veiled titties to jiggle and swing.

“Fine. Rest up from your trip and meet me at the club around seven for 
dinner. No need to start tonight, you can watch the show and see how we’re 
set up. I’ll send Curly over with some booze for your refrigerator.”

“The kid outside?” She pointed with her thumb.

“Yeah. Can’t get rid of that damn kid. I don’t pay him much, everybody 
chews his ass all the time, runs him off, but he always comes back. He’s 
okay though, good to have around for errands. He’s all the time trying to 
make the girls—that’s what keeps him here, naturally: pussy. They give him 
a feel now and then, or a peek at their bush, and he’s happy. Look, I gotta
pee.” She got up. “See you later, kid.”

Curly was gone when Diane walked back over to her cabin—at least he was 
out of sight. The warm wind ruffled her hair and caressed her body as one 
strokes a kitten, and she felt the warmth of the tropic sun in her blood. 
Even the talk about Spinxly had not staunched her exuberance. But, as I 
hinted above, the harmony and tranquility was to be short-lived—though the 
bolt did not come from the expected quarter.

Diane slipped out of her clothes and got a towel and washcloth out of the
linen cabinet. She looked at her naked body in the dresser mirror, 
remembering Leona’s golden tan. The jet-black triangle of her pussy hair 
stood out in a brazen contrast to the milky whiteness of her belly and 
thighs. “I’m going to have to get some sun,” she thought. “I look as pale 
as a corpse compared to these people!”

Again it bore in upon her that she had escaped from a land of shadows 
into sunlight, from the city of the dead to an island of life. Even in the 
sordid dimness of the club a certain ambience of health and vitality 
pervaded the gloom. But Diane, like myself, could never quite escape the 
sordid. She was always drawn irresistibly to the next lower level of the 
spiral. Unlike myself, however, she traveled downward happily and with a 
will, accepting and giving uninhibited vent to her perversions—though she 
never thought of them as such.

From the day she ran away from the orphanage she had stepped into the 
tide of her excessive desires and let it carry her where it might. She 
never worried about where it would take her, as long as it took her “away,”
away from the orphanage, away from the harassing “fathers.” Now it had 
brought her here, to the Jungle Club, a level brighter (or so she thought),
but also lower, than the last; and what was to happen at the club was a 
sudden vortex in that libidinous tide, a double-barreled Charybdis into 
which at least two souls would disappear forever.

She opened the dresser drawer and took out her good luck charm. It was 
supposed to have been left to her by her unknown parents, and it was her 
most valued possession. Though only a dime-store pin, it nevertheless had a
unique charm about it, with its gold snake entwined in a little silver 
bush. The snake’s eyes were tiny green stones and it had a red glass apple 
in its mouth. She burnished it on her pussy hair and then kissed it. “You 
and I were born happy, Mr. Snake,” she said happily and tucked it away.

While Diane was taking her shower, she heard the front door open and 
shut, and a voice called into the open bathroom. “Hey, I’m Curly. Miss 
Leona told me to put these in your refrigerator.” She looked out around the
shower curtain and saw the grinning boy standing there with two bottles of 
liquor.

“Oh, thanks, Curly!” She heard the refrigerator door open and close; and 
then he was back in the doorway.

“All set, miss. Anything I can, uh, get for you?”

“No, I don’t think so, Curly, thanks.” She shut off the water and peeked 
around the curtain. “I’m getting out, Curly,” she said, smiling sweetly, 
innocent as a little school girl.

“Okay, come on out. I’ve seen it before.”

“You haven’t seen mine before.”

“Come on, I Work here, and—”

“Go away, Curly. You’re not nice.”

“I’m not nice! What about you? You’re workin’ here, ain’t you?”

“I’m not working now, and if you don’t get out—”

“Okay, okay, my back is turned.” He turned around and leaned against the 
door frame. Diane threw back the curtain and stepped out, smiling to 
herself. They continued to talk while she dried herself, and Curly kept 
turning his head for a side glance, but she was careful not to show him 
anything but her backside.

She slipped into a short bathrobe, walked past him out of the bathroom 
and sat down at her dresser to brush her hair. The boy shuffled around 
nervously, not wanting to leave. He sat down in the chair by the window.

“Wanta know some stuff about this place?” he said, puffing up like a 
toadfish.

“Not particularly,” she said coldly. It didn’t please him.

“You know a few minutes ago when Leona said she had to go pee?” Diane 
wondered how the hell he heard that—must have been listening at the 
window—but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her ask. He 
went on when she didn’t reply.

“She didn’t really have to piss. Know what she does? She douches all the 
time—three, four times a day. Every times she goes to bed with somebody, or
some guy pats her on the ass, or just looks at her, or whenever she comes 
from the club—or like just now —after she talks to somebody, she’s got to 
go wash it out. If you tell her I told you that I’ll deny it and you’ll be 
in trouble. It’s true though. I know a lot about this place…” Diane 
remained silent, as if he weren’t there, but inwardly she was puzzling over
this strange piece of intelligence.

“Your name really Fuhks?”

“Yes, anything wrong with it?”

“No, it’s fine. Diane Fuhks. Does she? Hee hee!” She ignored him, and his
giggles petered out. “You know, I’m gonna have to speak to Leona about you.
She says you girls are supposed to … Well, see, she says since you girls 
are all the time sending me off for something, running errands and shit, 
the least you can do is…”

“Take care of you? Well, why didn’t you say so, Curly?” She stood up and 
swayed over to where he sat, grinning nervously. “Take it out, doll.”

His grin froze. “What?” he stammered.

“Take out your prick. What’s the matter?” She sat on the arm of the chair
and put her hand in his crotch, groping around. He turned red, but tried to
retain his cool. “Hey, where is it? You wanted to be taken care of and you 
don’t even have a hard-on. Really, Curly! Come over to the bed, honey.” She
pulled him up and practically threw him on the bed. Then, standing over 
him, she took off her robe.

“Here, suck on this,” she said huskily, bending down and shoving her 
right tit into his mouth with her hand. He sucked, but his hands remained 
at his side like those of a corpse. “Good?” she asked, and he nodded with a
mouthful of tit. Her nipple made a little pop as she pulled it out of his 
mouth and undid his pants, jerking them down below his crotch. His prick 
dropped.

She began playing with it. “Come on, little prick, get big, get big! 
Here, how ‘bout this?” And she bent over him again, still pulling on his 
penis, and swung her breasts back and forth across his face:— Slap! Slap! 
Slap!—His prick began to grow. “Hey, here it comes!” She put one foot up on
the bed on the other side of his face and lowered her damp bush to his 
lips.

“How y’ like that, Curly?” As she brushed her slit over his face, with 
undulations of her pelvis, her hand was busy in his crotch. “Like my cunt, 
Curly? Like my curly cunt, Curly? Hee, hee. Watch…” She opened and closed 
the pink lips as only she can do. Curly stared at it like it was some kind 
of meat-eating flower about to devour him. “Lick it, baby… lick mama’s 
cunt… Oh, now it’s getting big, mmm! Nice and big now—ah, put your tongue 
right … here, Curly—” She showed him her clit. “—Oh, do it, baby, do it!” 
He did it, but he was afraid and she felt his erection weaken.

“Look, look up here, Curly. Like my tits? Here wanta suck? Suck ‘em, 
baby! Mmmm! Good!” Then, turning around on the bed, her knees straddlings 
Curly’s head, she bent over and began one of her expert blowjobs on his now
rock-hard pecker, cupping his balls in her hand and running a finger down 
to his asshole. He put his hands on the cheeks of her ass—possibly to hold 
it away from his face— but he wouldn’t suck the pussy which snapped and 
puckered at him. When she felt the first inner thrust of his orgasm, she 
spread her thighs and lowered her open cunt onto his face. She heard him 
sputtering and bubbling, struggling to breathe as his sperm gushed into her
throat.

It was too much to hold in her mouth, so she let the overflow run out 
over his balls, but she had a good mouthful when she straightened up and 
dismounted. Taking his trembling, cunt-smeared face between her hands and 
smiling, she bent over and gave him a very large French kiss.

(No one at the club ever saw Curly again after that, but several years 
later, when she and Mike were in the thick of the closed-circuit TV racket,
Diane happened to run into him on the street. He was changed, more mature 
looking—but not afraid to talk about the past. She had blonde hair then, 
but he knew her immediately. He apologized for the way he had acted, and 
said he’d been meaning to look her up to thank her. “Thank me?” she said. 
“For what?”

“For getting me out of that place. I’ve got a good job now, and a steady 
girl—plus some others.” They both laughed. “But I might marry this one. The
thing is, if you hadn’t done what you did— made me suck like that—I’d still
be hanging around with…”

“Whores? You can say it, I don’t mind.” “Anyway, I got to thinking that 
maybe you did that for me, so I’d leave. Maybe I’m wrong, but it doesn’t 
matter. —You know, Diane—”

“It’s Linda now, Curly. You know about the trouble at the club?” He 
nodded. “You wouldn’t tell anyone you—”

“I’m not a rat—Linda. But what I started to say is …” He moved close to 
her, leaning on the lamp post at her back. “If you ever want to try that 
again, what you did in the cabin … it’d be different this time.”

She grinned up at him and squeezed his hand. “I bet it would, Curly. 
Maybe I’ll take you up on that sometime.” But they never met again.)

Diane rinsed her mouth, buffed her bush, fixed herself a bourbon on the 
rocks, and stepped out the back door, still naked. There was a little lawn 
behind the cottage and a reclining beach chair by the door. She turned the 
chair toward the setting sun and stretched out in it to wait for seven 
o’clock. She sipped her drink and marveled at the kaleidoscopic sunset, the
flat orange washes changing into fantastic cones of cotton candy, their 
soaring edges suddenly igniting in scarlet and crimson, pierced by the 
sky-wide fan of yellow rays, the fires burning down to rosy coals, to 
lilac, to purple, to mauve, to gray; and the dull slate of the zenith 
deepening to Prussian blue to burnished indigo, in the heart of which the 
first star flickered and brightened to a pinpoint flame, a many-colored gem
close enough to pluck.

It was the evening star, Venus. It hung high over the dark pines on a 
line precisely bisecting the angle of her legs spread out before her, and 
its needles of light seemed to tickle the sky-black patch of her love nest.
Everything in the whole world seemed to fall into its proper place, exact 
and predestined. She filled her lungs with the cool air, and the sound of 
crickets and frogs came from the vacant lot to the north. The last glow of 
twilight gave her thighs and belly an eerie blue iridescence, and the 
diamond formed by her legs with its double apex—the milk-white planet and 
the jet-black of her pubes— seemed to her vast and timeless, a magical 
figure drawn up a billion light-years ago by some cosmic geometer.

At a quarter to seven she went inside and switched on the lights. (She 
seldom bothered to close her curtains—still doesn’t, in fact.) Slipping 
into a gauzy blue party dress and high heels, she left the cabin, crossed 
the lot to the Jungle Club, and entered through the side door.

She joined Leona and Mike at a corner table and ordered a steak. The room
was dimly lit with candlelight and orange-shaded bulbs and the mirrored 
walls reflected the bare-breasted waitresses moving to and fro with their 
trays. Diane noticed a couple of men cross the floor and enter an unmarked 
door at the rear of the lounge. Then a young couple went in. At the next 
lull in the conversation Diane asked, “What’s in the back,” nodding at the 
door.

“The Blue Room,” answered Leona. “I’ll show you later. The show hasn’t 
started back there yet, but some find the waitresses entertaining enough. 
That’s why they’re going in early. Members only. And membership is high, 
baby.”

Mike noticed the girl’s knowing smile and said, “Reminds you of the 
carny, right?”

Diane laughed. “Yes. Half a buck to see the first half of the show, then 
another one to see the real thing—behind the curtain, the ‘hair and hide’ 
act.

‘Sorry, no ladies admitted.’ Only I used to talk Titi into letting them 
in sometimes.” She giggled. “I liked to watch their faces. They always 
tried to look shocked—and I tried to shock them, too. But you could tell 
they secretly wished it was them up there instead of me.”

Leona sipped her drink and looked vaguely annoyed. Mike’s brow wrinkled a
little and his glance ceased to shift from Diane’s near-nude tits to her 
face and he looked hard into her eyes. “Titi Moore?” he asked.

“Yeah. You know her?” Diane replied happily.

Mike glanced at Leona. “Yeah,” he said, “Years ago in Chi.”

“No shit? I worked for her in New York. She’s great, like a mother to 
me.” Diane figured it was a safe lie, since they evidently hadn’t seen her 
for many years; it was of course in Cairo that she had danced with Titi in 
the carny tent.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Mike, leaning back and smiling. “New York, 
eh?” He seemed somehow relieved, and Leona’s expression of concern also 
lifted.

“So Titi finally got out of Illinois. We used to work together, Titi and 
I. She ever mention my name?”

Diane searched her memory. “Leona … No, I don’t think so. I wasn’t with 
her very long, though.”

“Well, listen,” said Leona, getting up, “you two relax and talk over old 
times, I’ve got some business to take care of. Show her the Blue Room later
on, Mike.”

Diane watched Leona’s swaying stride, the cheeks of her ass rising and 
falling inside her skin-tight silk toreadors, as she crossed the floor and 
went out through the side exit, probably to her house. She thought of what 
Curly had told her that afternoon, about Leona douching all the time. Was 
that the ‘business’ she had to take care of? …

“Well, it’s certainly a small world, isn’t it?” said Mike, his gaze now 
dropping again to Diane’s candlelit breasts. She agreed and took a swallow 
of her Chartreuse, which was giving her a warm glow and a pleasant feeling 
about being left alone with this man. When she set her glass down she felt 
the bodice of her dress slip further down her left breast. She let it stay.

She had had this dress made to her own design—no one would have dared 
market such a garment in those days. It was made of blue silk gauze and 
modeled after a painting she had seen of the Empress Josephine, whom she 
admired. The neckline was wide and loose-fitting, so that it fell off her 
shoulders; it had little sleeves gathered with tiny purple ribbons, and a 
broader ribbon gathered the gown-like garment under her breasts, molding 
the filmy material over them, so that the nipples glowed darkly through the
gauze and pushed steadily against it. The dress differed from Josephine’s 
gown in that, instead of reaching to the floor, it ended at mid-thigh. On 
seeing her coming toward them or standing up facing them several men caught
their breath that night; because even in the dim light her black patch of 
pussy hair, her dark pink nipples and even her deep navel were only 
slightly blurred by the blue gauze.

“Leona hates carny talk,” Mike went on. “That’s part of her life she’d 
just as soon forget. I shouldn’t have brought it up, and I suggest that 
when you’re around her you forget all about our friend Titi and the old 
times.”

“That suits me,” Diane replied, “I feel sort of the same way. It’s like 
I’m starting a new life down here, and as far as I’m concerned the past is 
all a dream I just woke up from this morning. All that concerns me now is 
the present. But why is she bitter about Titi?” .

“It’s not Titi. It’s the carny. We had a bad experience one time at a 
show over near Rock Island—at least it was a bad experience for Leona. Her 
mother was a fortune teller—that’s how Leona happened to be in the carny 
game—and she’s always been a little superstitious, though she’ll never it. 
I mention that because if it hadn’t been for her superstition it wouldn’t 
have been anything but a laugh or two.

“It must have been back in ‘52—yeah, Leona was just eighteen then, same 
age as Titi. She and Titi had worked the tents and the streets together 
since they were sixteen, but then she met me and left the carny. I was a 
photographer then—still do bit now and then—and when I saw Leona that stage
I knew she was just the model I’d been looking for.”

Here was the past coming in again; Diane started to tell him about her 
own modeling experience but thought better of it. He went on, his knee 
brushing rhythmically on her bare thigh.

“That’s how Leona and I got together. She rustled up some of her girl 
friends and we sold pictures and … other things—like hotcakes, made a pile 
of bread. But that’s another story. One night we happened to stop at this 
carny I told you about, just by chance. We were always on the lookout for 
new talent, so to speak, so we took in the hair-and-hide acts but they were
all pigs—tits like hound’s ears and cunts like bomb craters. So anyway, we 
were leaving when I happened to glance into the fortune teller’s tent and 
saw the most luscious looking little piece of ass I’d seen all night. Not 
as luscious as you, though, I might say,” he added in a lower voice, 
setting his hand on her thigh.

She gave him a closed-mouth throaty laugh, and her eyes smiled at him 
through half-closed lids. He moved a little closer and she uncrossed her 
legs and spread her thighs a little, leaning forward to snuff out her 
cigarette so that he could see into the gaping neckline of her dress. It 
didn’t take much of a lean to expose a breast; the gauze just barely 
reached above her nipples, where it flared and dipped down between them to 
show the honey-white swells of her deep-cleft bosom.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said with mock innocence. “But do go on with 
your pleasant tale. About the pleasant tail.” They both laughed, and he 
continued, delaying his advance. There was plenty of time, after all.

“So we paid our money and went in, and right away I started trying to set
up the chick for modeling with us. She likes idea, and I’m getting other 
ideas in my head besides business deals. I say, ‘Look, before I can promise
anything, I’ll have to be sure you’re okay. Would you mind stripping to the
waist?’ She didn’t mind and I’d hardly asked before she was standing with 
bare titties. And they were nice! Mmm! Kind of like yours—”

He reached over and gave one of her tits a soft stroke with his hand. The
caress pushed the gauze down off her breast where it caught on the 
protruding nipple. She looked down at it. He said, “Oh, sorry about that.” 
His forefinger freed the hang-up and the blue film flipped back up over her
nipple.

“Thanks,” she smiled. “Now would you finish the story before you 
completely undress me?”

“I won’t promise that, but I’ll try.” As he talked his hand slowly moved 
up her leg, around to the soft flesh of her inner thigh, his pinky 
stretching out, reaching higher, higher …

“Mmm, where was I? Oh yeah; so there she stands with her boobs in her 
hands, so to speak, ready to take off the rest if I said the word, I 
suppose, when the rear curtain parts and out comes her mama. Well, all 
three of us, Leona and the chick and I, start talking all at once, trying 
to explain the situation, but the old lady raises a hand with big rings all
over it and says, ‘Silence!’ Everybody shuts up and the girl tries to get 
the top of her costume back on. Then the old bitch says something to the 
girl in Hungarian, I guess it was, and the kid ducks out in a hurry.

“Then the old lady seems to change. All of a sudden she’s all toothless 
smiles and sweet talk, see? ‘Come, my children, let us see what the fates 
have in store for you,’ and shit like that. Leona wanted to go, but I 
figure, hell, we’ve paid the price, might as well let the old skag earn her
money. So we sit down and she warms up the crystal ball, singing to it, in 
some spooky language—you know how they do; I start to explain again to her 
that I wanted to hire her daughter as a model, but she holds up her hand 
again, so I give it up.

“Then it comes: the old gal’s idea of revenge. ‘You are not joined in 
marriage, my children.’ Right, but anybody could see that—we didn’t wear 
any rings. ‘Yet you are joined in sin,’ she says. ‘You are in the employ of
the devil.’ Right there Leona jumps up to cut out, but I pull her back. I 
see what Mama’s up to and I don’t want to miss the punch line, see?

“‘I see darkness, red darkness. I see a young woman lie in lust with the 
devil. Now the devil go and the young woman try to remove his stain, 
washing, washing, but the stain don’t go away. The devil has leave his 
staff behind. She take it up, hell-fire come out the end. The young woman 
try to burn her, burn her, burn her! I see a deep pit, many people fall in 
pit. A man’—she glances up at me, see—‘a man sink in the mud, dead. Young 
woman running, running after devil, hell-fire come out of her, she scream, 
scream, scream! Fall in pit!’ By this time Leona’s about to piss her pants.
She’s scared shitless of fortune tellers anyway. But I’m getting a charge 
out of it, see—it’s a million laughs as far as I’m concerned, so I make her
stay, and the old girl keeps pouring it on:—

” ‘Now clouds of night come… . I see a time before, before devil go away…
. Ah yes, yes, my daughter, it is you—’ She points her long bony finger 
right at Leona. I’m holding her hand and now it starts trembling like 
crazy. I begin to think maybe I shouldn’t have made her stay, but it was 
too late then.”

He spoke in a tense whisper for effect and the candlelight dancing on his
sharp lean features gave Diane an eerie chill; goosepimples radiated over 
her body from where his large hand gripped her thigh.

” ‘It is you. You are with child. It is your child, my son. The time is 
now. Did you not know?’ Leona shakes her head. She’s white as a sheet, 
really falling for it, see. I tried to think of something funny to say, but
before it came out the old woman goes on. ‘The mark of the devil, the child
will bear. It is a girl-child. She will destroy you, her mother, and she 
will lie with her father as a wife!’ “

Just as Mike intoned this last line, imitating the old gypsy’s spooky 
accent, his face very close to Diane’s, his finger closed the tiny gap to 
her crotch and slid accurately into the warm, parted slit.

CHAPTER IV

“Oooo!” Diane shrieked in mock alarm. “Please! Your hand is cold!” She 
drew hand from between her legs and crossed them quickly, giggling and 
holding the offending hand tightly between hers. She turned toward him in 
her chair and her arms, holding his hand in her lap, pressed her swelling 
titties together. She was leaning toward him slightly so that the flaring 
neckline gaped open, showing him both puffed-out nipples. He stared down at
them shamelessly, his breathing almost to the panting stage. She lifted one
hand and raised his chin. “Please, Mr. Patterson, you’re drooling like a 
dog. You were going to show me the Blue Room, remember?”

“Ah yes, the Blue Room. But you’re worth a hundred Blue Rooms, baby,” he 
murmured, rubbing her nose with his. She giggled and moved away from him a 
little.

“But finish the story. Was Leona really pregnant?”

“Of course not! What did you think? It was just the old whore’s way of 
getting back at us for stripping her little girl. But believe me, it 
worried the shit out of Leona for a while. She never forgot it, and never 
went near a carny again. She was furious with me for making her stay, and 
she kept it up so long I got mad too, and we broke up. Didn’t see each 
other for about a year. But then we got back together again and decided to 
blow Chi for good. That’s when we came down here. Miami for a while, then 
here. It’s a good home, if City Hall doesn’t come crashing down on us next 
month.”

Diane thought again of the vague plan she had begun formulating 
concerning City Hall in the probable person of one Bible-slapper named 
David Spinxly. But she said nothing.

“Come on people are staring at us,” said Mike, looking around. The club 
was rapidly filling up now, and the boys in the rock band were plugging in 
their amplifiers. Soon the girls in G-strings and go-go boots would climb 
into their cages to go into their bare-breasted dances, simulating an 
extended sex act over the heads of the patrons. But now the majority of 
male eyes were zeroed in on the raven-haired girl in the invisible dress. 
“Let me take you to more, mm, private surroundings.”

“The Blue Room,”

“The very place, my sweet.” He said it in her ear as he leaned over her, 
his hands on the back of her chair, his eyes inside the front of her dress.

When they passed through the door at the rear of the club they entered a 
veritable maze of dimly lighted corridors, which eventually led to an 
unmarked door with a peephole and a letter slot. Mike tapped on the door 
and the peephole opened on an eyeball. The door opened and the doorman 
said, “Hi, Mike!” :

“Hi, Sam. How’s it going?” Mike explained to Diane that the letter slot 
was for showing membership cards for admission.

They entered a small round room with blue-shaded candles on blue walls. 
There were no chairs, only couches set around the perimeter with little 
round tables beside them. Tucked into a little alcove between two couches 
sat a man playing an alto sax, low and breathy. The center of the room was 
empty, covered with deep-piled blue carpeting. The walls were hung with 
large color photos of nude women and over each couch were several small 
shaded lamps on goosenecks, but these were all turned off, so that the 
three men and the couple, who were spaced discreetly around the room were 
shadowy and faceless. Diane noticed that the girl who had been wearing a 
black dress when she entered the club door, was now down to her black bra 
and panties, reclining on a couch in the arms of her escort.

“Our members like to get comfortable,” Mike whispered in Diane’s ear. 
“Informality is the word here.”

“I see that.”

He guided her to a couch and they sank into the deep broad cushions. A 
buxom blonde waitress came through a bamboo curtain and swayed toward them 
through the blue light. She was barefooted and, except for a tiny black 
mask over her eyes, completely naked. Diane said, “Wow! I see what Leona 
meant about the waitresses being entertaining.”

Mike smiled and ordered a bottle of champagne. The girl turned and 
crossed the room to where the couple writhed in the half-dark, gathering up
their glasses. Diane saw the young man’s hand leave his girl’s breast and 
emerge between the waitresses legs. The naked girl made no protest, but 
moved closer, so that the arm slipped through to the elbow and the hands 
stroked the plump buttocks. She heard him say, “Like her?” to his girl. The
girl reached up and did something with the blonde’s tits, and then said in 
an intoxicated voice, “No! Her tits are bigger than mine!” The man’s hand 
came away from the waitress and he rolled over on top of the girl, saying, 
“Mrnmm, but I like yours better…” The waitress walked away with the 
glasses.

“Anything goes, huh?” Diane asked Mike.

“Yep. Anything within reason, that is.”

Mike slipped his arm around Diane and slid his hands down her arms, 
pulling the flimsy net off her tits. Their lips met in a long, open-mouthed
tongue-kiss as his hand massaged her breast and tickled the nipple.

When they came up for air, Diane panted, “What about your wife?”

“Don’t worry about it, honey. We have a sort of unspoken agreement about 
these things.” As he spoke she was untying the ribbon beneath her breasts. 
She slipped her arms out of the sleeves and the dress fell to her waist. 
Her tits heaved with passion in the blue shadows. He lifted her legs up 
onto the couch and pushed her skirt up into her lap, and when the naked 
blonde returned with the champagne, his head was between Diane’s legs, 
moving up and down to the music as he lapped her foaming cunt.

Lying on her back in ecstasy, she saw the big tits of the waitress 
hanging over her and impulsively reached out and grabbed one by the nipple.
It came easily to her mouth as the girl obediently bent over, and Diane’s 
hand went to her bleached bush. She felt her dress being pulled off her 
hips and legs and she was deliriously naked.

The waitress’s nipple was still in Diane’s mouth and her juicy cunt 
folded over her exploring hand, as Mike slid forward and began biting her 
tits. She spread her legs and her free hand found his prick and guided it 
into her slit. Everyone turned to watch the three naked figures as Mike and
Diane fucked violently in the blue glow.

By tugging and pulling at the waitress, Diane finally got her to her 
knees on the couch, so that the blonde straddled her face. Now, looking up,
the soft light filtered down through the girl’s cunthair and her big, 
pointed tits bounced and jiggled overhead, their shadows dancing on her 
rounded belly. She pulled Mike’s mouth from her nipple and said 
breathlessly, “Don’t you want to kiss her? Suck her tits?—”

He straightened up, not missing a stroke, and embraced the girl. Diane 
saw their tongues meet above her, then his mouth closed over a big pink 
nipple and she lifted her head so she could reach the blonde’s oozing cunt 
with her tongue. She spread the wet curls with her hands and plunged her 
tongue deep into the hot slit and went immediately into a prolonged, 
lurching orgasm. Before it was over Mike’s prick went off like a cannon and
she felt the hot jets of sperm burning deep inside her.

Through this entire exhibition of uninhibited bi-sexuality the alto 
player had accompanied the action with amazing skill, increasing his tempo 
with theirs, moaning, grunting, sighing, wailing, bringing “jazz” back to 
its original meaning. Now, as the exhausted lovers lay in the deep 
cushions, panting contentedly, he dropped into a slow, relaxed blues. The 
blonde waitress went off about her business as if nothing had happened, but
she must have gotten pretty hot after all, because a little later Diane saw
her slip over to a dark couch where a man sat alone—probably her boyfriend.
She could see the naked flesh intertwining and heaving rhythmically in the 
dim blue light as they enjoyed a quick fuck.

“Come on, sweets,” said Mike, taking Diane by the hand, “let’s go freshen
up before the show starts.” Instead of going into the ladies’ room she 
followed him through the door marked “MEN.” While he wiped his prick and 
put on his pants, she stood before the mirror and combed her long black 
hair. Then she took a paper towel from the dispenser, wet it and wiped her 
crotch and thighs. Slipping the dress on over her head, she tied the ribbon
under her breasts and stepped back to look at herself. In the bright white 
light of the bathroom the dress obscured few details of the naked body 
partially inside it. Mike came up behind her and slipped his hands under 
her arms and over her half bare tits, squeezing them and pushing them 
together. She leaned her head back and licked his mouth with her tongue. He
caught it between his teeth and sucked on it, nipping one tit out of the 
dress and fingering the nipple.

“Yes, I think we can find a place for you around here, Miss Fuhks,” he 
murmured in her ear. They both laughed and she wiggled free of his embrace 
pulling the blue film up over her nipple again.

She jerked up her skirt and sat down on the toilet, leaving the door to 
the compartment open. “Will I be dancing here in the Blue Room, Mike?” she 
asked as she began to pee.

“Yeah, I’d like you to some of the time. The same bit you did for us this
afternoon with the cigarette. How about it?”

“Sure,” she said, ripping off some paper and drying her pussy, “Why not?”
She stood, straightened her dress, and they went back out to their couch.

The show began with two girls—sisters—who very gracefully ate each other 
in time to the music. Then there was a titty act: a buxom redhead with 
oversize jugs bounced out of the curtains and did all sorts of things with 
her boobs. It was sort of like a trained-animal act, her tits seemed to 
each have a life all its own. They jumped through hoops, played leap-frog, 
did the whirling dervish and the St. Vitus’ dance. The next girl—a willowy 
brunette— came out in street clothes, did a slow peel and began to stick 
things into her cunt—bottles, bananas and such like—and ended her act by 
taking on one of the customers.

At the end of this act one of the customers got up from his shadowy nook 
and walked slowly and deliberately across the room to where Mike and Diane 
reclined. He stood there over them, a tall dark shadow, like the shadow of 
doom. Mike withdrew his hand from the front of Diane’s dress (he had been 
casually massaging her tits as they watched the show) and she removed her 
hand from Mike’s fly.

“Michael Patterson?” said the shadow.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Mike, standing up.

“You the owner of this sewer?’”

“If you’re looking for a sewer, I can. show you to the nearest manhole. 
This is a private club; who the hell are you and how did you get in?”

“My name is David Spinxly. No doubt you’ve seen my picture in the papers.
I’ve heard of this place, but I never dreamed it was this bad. I watched 
the whole thing, Mr. Patterson, including your disgusting exhibition with 
your girlfriend. God deliver me from ever having to witness such filth 
again!”

“You could have left at any time.”

“Sometimes we must endure the distasteful to do God’s work. I only wish 
to inform you, Mr. Pattersen, that as soon as I am appointed to the 
Commission—and I will be, you know—I will strike this abomination from the 
earth!” He spat on the carpet. “Good night, sir. May the good Lord have 
mercy on your soul, young lady.” And before Mike could answer he turned and
walked out.

Mike and Diane went out into the main lounge and sent for Leona. They sat
down at a table and Mike told Leona what had happened in the Blue Room.

“That son of a bitch!” she said. “He’s determined to use this place to 
put another feather in his cap. God, I’d like to fix that motherfucker!”

“Maybe we can,” said Diane.

“What do you mean?” they both asked.

“Just trust me for a while, and tell me where he lives.”

CHAPTER V

Early the next morning Diane got up and selected a bikini from her 
dresser. But when she put it on and looked at herself in the mirror, she 
changed her mind and took it off. Something special was needed for today. 
Digging into the drawer, she finally found what she was looking for. Four 
black silk stars.

She had made this “suit” herself; it had no strings or straps, but was 
designed to stick on the body. The undersides of the pieces were lightly 
gummed with rubber adhesive which clung nicely but didn’t get sticky. They 
left no marks either.

The black stars had long spines and were about six inches in 
diameter—although the one for her behind was slightly bigger. She carefully
stuck the first two stars to her nipples, smoothing down the points over 
the soft flesh of her breasts. The centers of these pieces were so small 
that the puffy areolas of her nipples showed all around between the spines.
Then she spread her legs and fitted the next star over her pussy, so that 
it was centered on the slit with one spine leading downward to where it was
stuck to the tender flesh between her cunt and her asshole. The others 
extended out onto the white inner thighs, toward the hips and up over the 
bulging bush onto the gentle curve of her belly. A few delicate ringlets of
black hair peeked deliciously out between the spines. The rear star she 
folded and, bending forward slightly, inserted it between the cheeks of her
ass, then straightened up, clamping it in the soft white vice between them.
She smoothed out the spines over the curves of her butt and down between 
her legs. The crack of her ass showed between two silky fingers of 
cloth—just the top of it, that is. Diane still has this outfit, and 
whenever she wears it I immediately get an erection. It’s just like body 
paint (she’s tried that too, by the way), everything moves just as if she 
were naked.

She brushed out her long black hair which fell freely over her shoulders,
put on pale violet lipstick and a pair of round-lensed sun glasses. Just 
looking at herself in the mirror, Diane began to get hot. She reached down 
and pulled a couple more curls of cunt hair out from under the star over 
her crotch. (The hotter this girl gets the more she wants to show.) 
Satisfied, she grabbed a large beach towel and her straw bag and went 
outside. She went over to Leona’s little red Jag, hopped in and drove out 
onto the highway toward the beach.

Diane found Spinxly’s house without trouble and drove on past it to a 
small sand road she found leading into a grove of casuarinas. She turned 
into it and followed it up through the trees to the top of the ridge, 
stopped the car and walked out onto the beach. There it was, perched atop 
the ridge to the north. Spinxly’s house. She took a little pair of field 
glasses from her handbag and trained them on the house. Immediately she saw
her prey; he was sitting on the patio which overlooked the beach, sipping a
cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. As she watched him, trying to decide
on the best approach, lo and behold he picks up his own binoculars and 
begins scanning the beach. “Perfect!” thought Diane, and putting away her 
glasses, she grabbed her towel and sauntered down to the lower beach. She 
spread her towel on the sand and sat down to light a cigarette, opening her
legs in Spinxly’s direction. She could see the sunlight glinting on the 
binoculars.

Rubbing herself with suntan lotion, Diane thought, “Even if I can’t 
seduce Spinxly, at least I’m going to get a tan.” She gave much attention 
to her tits, getting the lotion into the spaces between the spines of the 
stars. She made the soft firm flesh swing and press together and spread 
apart—all for the benefit of her one-man audience, lifting each tit to 
treat its underside and letting it drop with a firm bounce when she was 
satisfied. Then she did her legs, spreading them wide to smear the lotion 
onto her inner thighs, giving the would-be commissioner a clear view of her
black star with its hairy penumbra, thinking, “I wonder how powerful his 
binoculars are.”

She pretended to have much trouble with her back, hoping he would come 
down and offer to do it for her. But he didn’t. She sunned herself for an 
hour or more, turning from time to time, but always keeping her legs spread
in the direction of the big house and the flashing glasses. But he never 
came down.

By this time Diane was hot not only from the sun. She had come to get 
fucked and she didn’t care, anymore whether it was by Spinxly or the man in
the moon. She sat up, shook her hair in the wind, and peeled off the stars 
from her bosom. Taking up the lotion bottle again, she smeared her titties 
vigorously with the oily fluid. “What do you think of that, mister?” she 
said to herself. After showing him her naked tits for a while she lay down 
and took out her binoculars, keeping them hidden behind her big straw bag. 
She got him focused just in time to see him standing up at the railing, the
binoculars held to his eyes as best he could with one hand and his stiff 
prick in the other, his lower body lurching and his semen shooting off into
space.

“Shit!” she said, and walked bare-breasted down to the surf for a swim, 
thinking, “Well, at least I got his attention.” Afterwards she gathered up 
her things and climbed the ridge to the car. As she was getting in, another
car pulled into the trail off the highway. For a moment she got a good look
at it through the trees: two boys with surfboards. “Ah!” she said, and 
running to a sunny spot in the clearing, threw down her towel and lay down 
on her stomach, pretending to be asleep.

The car pulled up and stopped. She heard them whispering when they 
spotted her. Their footsteps rustled on the pine needles… . then stopped… .

“Hi, baby,” one of them finally said.

She rolled over, pretending to wake up. “Hi,” she said, pretending to try
to cover her tits with a corner of the towel. “Excuse me, I didn’t expect 
anyone up here.”

“Quite all right, honey. Look, put the towel down and we’ll all get 
comfortable. Right, Sammy?”

“Yeah, man, let it all hang out.”

She said nothing as they stepped out of their bathing suits. She was too 
hot to put on a good act, but she said something about their being rude and
violating her privacy and all that. But she didn’t bother to cover her 
tits, meanwhile.

“Take the rest off, sweet. Let’s see how this thing works anyhow.” And 
Sammy started peeling off the crotch star. She put up a little giggling 
struggle but in the end both stars came off and they were on top of her and
she was passionately swapping saliva with both of them. Sammy got it in 
first and while he fucked her the other kid sucked on her tits and put his 
prick into her mouth. When Sammy came, she rolled on top of the other boy, 
straddling his pelvis and putting it in for him. She rode him like a 
bucking horse, clubbing the sides of his face with her big boobs.

Diane had to wait about a half hour till they were ready to go at it 
again, and then, after having two more loads pumped into her, she kissed 
them goodbye and left.

“Well,” she told me, “a little sun, a little cock! The day wasn’t a total
loss.”

For several more days Diane kept at it. Spinxly was taking a vacation 
from his business at this time, so he was often at home. Sometimes he would
be sitting on the patio or swimming in the surf with his wife and children,
and at these times she would make sure he knew she was there, but did not 
put on the whole show. This she reserved for times when she knew he was 
home alone, and could come down to her without anyone seeing him. But she 
could never lure him down.

“He was a child, that’s all,” she said when she told me about it. “He’d 
just stand up there and jerk off. He wouldn’t even have done that if he’d 
known I could see him. No matter what I did, he wouldn’t set one foot on 
the beach. After a day or two of that, I started walking past his house—to 
give him a close-up. Sometimes I’d wear my stars, sometimes a bikini. Once 
I even came down on the beach in street clothes and took off my dress and 
strolled past him in a little black half-bra and black bikini 
panties—transparent as hell with no lining in the crotch. I looked up at 
the patio as I went past. I was going to wave to him, but the son of a 
bitch was hiding! All I could see was his eyes, peeking out through a 
bamboo screen.

“After that I began lying on the beach naked, but even that didn’t 
dislodge him. I got a good tan though—all over. Half the time when I went 
there Sammy and company would be waiting. I didn’t mind it at first, but 
every time there would be more of them. Everybody wanted to get in on the 
gang-bang. Anyway, I was getting tired of all those cherry kids getting 
free lessons and I was getting nowhere with Spinxly. I had to think of 
something else.”

Spinxly was a deacon or something in his church, and Diane found out that
he sometimes preached at a seaside chapel on Wednesday nights, 
pinch-hitting for the regular pastor. “So that Wednesday I put on a 
sea-blue shantung silk dress with deep V-neckline and a very short skirt 
and made it to the evening meeting. I put my hair up and wore a blue 
headband and gold hoops in my ears. With my opalescent lipstick, high-heels
and black mesh stockings I looked … Well, it just happens that the next day
I saw a photograph of myself in that outfit, and I must say I 
looked—stunning.”

“And ready,” I replied. We were sailing on the bay at the time, out 
little sloop bubbling lazily along before the light offshore airs over five
hundred miles (and what seemed a century or two) from the scene that night 
at the seaside chapel. It was early but already there were quite a few 
fishing boats out, trolling in the calm waters or working out to sea. 
Apparently oblivious to the charter boat full of tourists that was cruising
past us, Diane smiled and pulled her T-shirt off over her head. She was 
wearing a little white wisp of a nylon half-bra which gave those aboard the
charter boat a clear view of her golden swelling boobs and large brown 
nipples.

“Baby,” she said in a seductive voice, “I’m always ready.” Noticing the 
boat off to starboard—it had slowed down and the skipper on the flying 
bridge had his binoculars trained on her—she lifted her arm and waved, 
causing her tits to swing and bounce in their sheer envelopes. They all 
waved back, and some whistles came from the men. But a few of the wives 
began to bitch, and finally the cruiser rose in the water and sped out to 
sea.

Whenever she puts on these little skits I turn on like a pinball machine,
and this was no exception. But I was anxious to hear the story, so I tucked
my hard-on between my legs and told her to hold off a while.

“I’ll never get this book written if we’re going to screw in the middle 
of every episode,” I said with a chuckle.

“Oh shit!” she pouted.

“Now what do you mean, you saw a photograph of yourself in that dress?”

“I’ll come to that in a minute,” she said, lighting a cigarette and 
stretching out on the deck to continue her tale. It was a tall tale of 
tail, as Diane likes to call it, but every word was true—“Just as it fell 
out.” (Shakespeare.) And as for my recording of it, let me quote Sammy the 
beach boy: “Let it all hang out!”—and the devil take the hindmost.

“So anyway, here I come to church with half my tits hanging out. There 
were a lot of frowns from the women and I know they didn’t want to let me 
in, but what could they do? I sat down front, right in front of the pulpit,
and right in the middle of Spinxly’s fire-and-brimstone tirades I’d cross 
my legs and flash my twat at him. He was preaching about resisting 
temptation, believe it or not.”

“I wore a garter belt, but no panties, and I made sure he knew it. When 
the sermon was over, he left the pulpit and went down the stairs at the 
back of the platform. The choir sang a hymn and he didn’t come back up till
it was over. I didn’t realize till later what he was doing down there.”

She put her hand over my mouth before I could get the question out. “Now,
just wait, I’ll get to it. Afterwards he was at the entrance shaking 
everybody’s hand as they left, you know? I got in line to congratulate him 
on his sermon, hoping to get some positive reaction out of him. His hand 
was hot enough, but the rest of him was strictly cold fish. He hardly spoke
to me, tried to ignore me, the son of a bitch. I was beginning to wonder if
I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Leona was paying me good for all my 
fucking off on the beach and all, and she was expecting results. It was 
only a few weeks until the elections. Anyway, I don’t think he recognized 
me yet as the girl in the Blue Room.

“Next day I didn’t go to the beach. Obviously that wasn’t going to work. 
That night I jumped in Leona’s Jag and just drove around, trying to think 
it out. Also I was trying to avoid Mike and Leona, since I still had no 
progress to report. I ended up out on the beach road. As I passed the 
chapel, I noticed Spinxly’s car parked in the lot. It was the only car 
there.

“I was curious—though I’d just about given up hope of hooking him. I 
drove on around the bend where he couldn’t see the car and pulled over to 
the side. He would have seen me if I’d walked back along the road, so I 
went down to the beach and came up on him in the dark.

“There were only a few dim lights on in the vicinity of the pulpit, so I 
was able to climb up the rocks and over the railing without him seeing me. 
The first thing I saw was not him, but me!”

“The photograph!”

“Right. A life-size photograph yet! It was mounted on some kind of stiff 
backing and standing up in front of the very same seat I had been in the 
night before. It was quite a picture too: a breathtaking view right up my 
dress, my little slit all puckered and you could count every hair. I must 
have been just crossing or uncrossing my legs and taking a deep breath, 
because my boobs were all swelled up above the neckline. It was cut lower 
than I had realized! I could even see the outlines of my nipples under the 
thin silk …”

Here she caressed her nipples with the tips of her fingers and they began
to puff up and get hard. She made little noises in her throat and folded 
down the unhemmed tops of the half-cups of her nylon bra, fully exposing 
her nipples to the bright tropic sunlight; Her breasts stood up large and 
firm though she was lying on her back on the deck; they sagged only a 
little to the sides. I reached out and rolled a nipple between my fingers, 
but with a superhuman effort quickly withdrew my hand. The book comes 
first, I told myself. (Absurd, what?)

“Steady, old girl,” I said. “Please continue thy pleasant tale.” She was 
getting herself all worked up, rubbing her cunt through her cut-off jeans, 
but after a few obscene jerks of her pelvis she brought her legs together 
and rolled over on her back to continue the story.

“Now where was I? Oh yeah: All of a sudden I remembered Spinxly ducking 
out after his sermon. He must have snapped my picture through the grill 
under the platform. I found out later that photography is a hobby of his 
and he has his own darkroom and everything. He must have gone right home 
and developed the thing and made that giant blow-up. I think he took a 
whole roll of me while he was down there—maybe more—but he would never talk
to me about it. It embarrassed him, so I went along with him and pretended 
it had never happened. I never told him I watched him masturbating either.

“Anyway, after a minute or two I saw him walk up to the pulpit from the 
back of the platform. He had my picture spotlighted and for a while he just
stood there staring at it. Then he began to talk.

“At first I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The surf was crashing 
right below me, and of course he didn’t have the mike hooked up. But as 
soon as I caught a few words I understood: he was preaching! It was the 
same sermon he’d delivered the night before. He was re-enacting the scene, 
see?

“I suppose you can guess what comes next. Out comes the old cock, and he 
starts pumping away and the fire-and-brimstone gets louder and louder. ” 
Now I was getting ideas; maybe there was hope yet. But I wasn’t dressed or 
prepared for any action that night. I had on an old pair of jeans and one 
of Mike’s shirts, and my hair was a mess. So I just waited till he got his 
gun—the cum landed on the floor just short of my picture—and then I climbed
back down to the beach and went back to the car.

“I had to take a chance that he would repeat the performance and I 
resolved to be there when he did. On the way home I thought out my plan 
thoroughly. I knew it would work.”

She was still lying on her belly along the lee rail, her elbow on the 
deck and her shin resting on the heel of her palm. Her nipples were still 
uncovered, her tits squashed out a little on the warm planking. I began to 
lose interest in my research. I’m dedicated, yes, but I have my limits.

“I don’t know why you say you weren’t dressed for it,” I said. “You’re 
wearing old jeans and one of my shirts now—or at least you were wearing 
one—and you certainly seem ready for action to me.”

“I am, James, but you’d rather hear stories evidently.”

I put the tiller down and the bow swung up into the wind. I reached over,
ran my fingers through her long black hair and unhooked her bra. She let it
fall from her arms into the cockpit.

“Ready for a break, huh?” she smiled.

“Yeah, between chapters. Lower the sails, will you?”

She stood up and stepped over to the mast, releasing the halyards. I came
up behind her in the cockpit, looking up at her bare tits swinging freely 
as she hauled down the mainsail. I reached around her and unbuttoned her 
cut-off jeans, pulling down the zipper. She giggled as I pulled the shorts 
down off her naked ass. She stepped out of them and I tossed them into the 
cockpit. She was magnificent with the sunlight caressing her bare contours 
and turning the golden down on her arms and thighs to silver… .

I nuzzled the crack of her ass with my nose and she spread her legs. I 
turned around and stuck my head between her thighs so that I came face to 
face with her wonderful box. She squatted slightly, holding onto the mast 
with both hands, and I spread her bushy, upturned cunt with my fingers and 
started tickling her already stiff clit with my tongue. She moaned and 
quivered like a speared mackerel and I probed as deep as I could reach. As 
usual, nothing inside but pure honey.

Standing there naked on the deck in broad daylight, my face between her 
legs, hanging onto the mast, the bay full of boats, she had a wild, spastic
orgasm which nearly doubled her up. The surface of the bay was as calm as a
duck pond, but our boat rocked so violently we both damn near went 
overboard.

After that I sat her down on the cockpit coaming and fucked her standing 
up. This time she had a violent chain-orgasm which went off like a string 
of bombs. Flower bombs. The pink petals drifted down over the blue bay and 
the green mountains, settling over the stone streets and the patinaed walls
of the buildings of the beautiful old town, settling and drifting over the 
whole world… .

Afterwards we took a dip in the bay and then ate the sandwiches we had 
brought along. I hoisted the sails again and headed up along the coast 
toward the cape. Diane, still naked, sat cross-legged on the windward deck 
facing me, and as we polished off our jug of Chablis, she went on with her 
story.

“The next night I dressed up in the same outfit I had worn to the 
meeting—complete with black mesh stockings—and off I went again to the 
beach. I got to the chapel an hour or so earlier than I had the night 
before. Nobody was there. I hid the car in a little dirt road and ran to 
the amphitheater.

“There wasn’t anything to do then but wait and hope that he’d come. I had
waited for hours and was just about to give it up for the night, when a car
pulls into the lot. Sure enough, it’s him! I got down on the floor behind 
the first row of seats and held still. I figured if he didn’t turn on any 
more lights than he had the last time, he couldn’t see me.

“For a while all I can hear is his footsteps, then he turns on a light of
some kind and trains it on that same seat. He sets up the big photo and 
climbs up to the pulpit. Now I was ready to move, but I had to wait for 
just the right time. It had to be just right, you see; one false move and I
was sunk. It had to seem like a dream to him, unreal, because to this guy 
the real world was poison.

“Then my chance came. He turned around and walked to the stage for 
something, and I slipped around to the lit-up seat, put the big picture on 
the floor behind it, and sat down, assuming as nearly as I could the same 
pose in which he had so expertly captured me.

“When he stepped back up to the podium and looked down at me his eyes 
damn near popped out of his head. The picture had come to life! I didn’t 
say a word; the slightest noise would have blown it. His mouth fell open 
and he just stood there like he was hypnotized. This was what I had been 
waiting for—to get him in my spell. The rest was easy.

“The first thing I moved was my honey-pot. A few slow tricks, like this… 
” (She demonstrated, and, drained as I was, I nearly went into a trance 
myself!) “Then I stood up, real easy, lifted my skirt and unhooked my 
stockings. I slipped off my high heels and rolled down the stockings. I 
paid no attention to Spinxly, didn’t even look his way. He was glued to the
spot like a statue.

“Then I reached back and unzipped my dress, pulling it slowly down off my
shoulders and arms. It caught on my hips, just below the top of the garter 
belt. I had on a little black nylon bra that covered very little. I looked 
down at it and rubbed my nipples lightly till they puffed up. Then I 
unhooked the bra and took it off. A few hip wiggles and the dress fell down
to the floor, followed by the garter belt, and presto!—I was wearing my 
favorite outfit.”

“The one you’re wearing now, you mean.”

“Exactly!” She raised her arms over her head and shook her naked tits 
playfully.

“Then I started toward him. Across the floor and up the stairs. His hand 
went automatically to his pecker, but I gently moved it aside and unbuckled
his belt. When I got his pants down, I put my arms around his neck and slid
my tongue into his mouth. And what do you think! He responded! His tongue 
came to life and he tried to ram it down my throat. His hands were all over
my tits and he had three ringers in my cunt before I knew it.

“It was like a dam had burst inside him, and years of pent up animal lust
came pouring out. He growled like a bear and literally threw me down on the
stage. He grabbed my legs, threw them over his shoulders and stuck it in 
with one lucky jab. Wow! What a fuck!”

After she succeeded in breaking Spinxly’s fear of her everything went 
smoothly—for a while. That night, after they had made love again, he took 
her to a bar for a drink. She told him where she worked and he didn’t even 
care, he was like a kid with a new toy, clearly a changed man. They began 
to see each other regularly, and now Diane could tell Leona and Mike to 
breathe easier.

Finally the elections came and, sure enough, Roland was the new police 
chief. And just as Leona had said, the first thing he did in office was to 
appoint David Spinxly as vice commissioner. For the next few days Leona and
Mike and all the girls at the Jungle Club held their breath. But Diane was 
confident.

Then one night, in comes Spinxly. Trouble, everyone thought. But they 
were wrong. He just came in to have a drink with Diane after her Blue Room 
act. He was very quiet and polite to everyone and looked happy as a pig in 
shit.

And so it was that Diane accomplished the impossible and saved the day 
for the Jungle Club. But another day was coming, sad to say.

CHAPTER VI

Meanwhile, Diane had begun working in the Club three or four nights a 
week. Usually she danced in the Blue Room, but sometimes Leona put her on 
the main stage or in a go-go cage in the lounge because she drew business 
like a magnet. Word of the new girl at the Jungle Club spread rapidly, and 
people came from miles around, men and women alike, to check her out. No 
one was disappointed.

Spinxly slid more smoothly into his double life than Dr. Jekyll would 
ever have thought possible. It wasn’t that the new commissioner was the 
victim of a bad case of schizophrenia—in fact, he wasn’t a schizophrenic at
all; what he was was a professional hypocrite. Had Stevenson’s good doctor 
the years of training and practical experience in hypocrisy that Spinxly 
had, he would have had a much easier time of it and the “strange case” 
would have ended quite differently. Anyway, Spinxly kept up his business 
interests, his political career, his preaching, his family picnics and his 
balling, all without missing a stroke, so to speak. Diane was available to 
him at any time and he received frequent cash “gifts” from Leona and Mike, 
in return for which he saw to it that the Jungle Club’s slate stayed clean.

It would have gone on like that for some time, I suppose, but the fates 
had other ideas. It began with an incident that strained the relationship 
between Leona and Diane. This first downward dip toward the maelstrom 
occurred on that night I mentioned earlier—a month after Diane’s arrival, 
when I walked into the Jungle Club and saw her in the cage, shaking her 
bare tits over the heads of the crowd.

The place was packed but I finally managed to grab a stool at the bar, 
not far, happily, from Diane’s cage. The barmaid was a tall young redhead 
with bouncy, globular breasts. She was naked except for a frilly little 
apron and high heels. Her white spheres were tipped by large pink areolas 
with nipples that stuck out a good half inch, and I was so busy studying 
these bobbing points (it was especially nice when she used the shaker) that
when they came to rest in front of me I didn’t realize immediately that she
was waiting for my order. I looked up hastily, and with a little 
embarrassment, into her green eyes, and asked for a beer. Her smile left 
little doubt that she enjoyed her job. As she walked away to get my beer I 
watched the swinging crease of her ass peeking through the lacy bow of her 
apron… .

But as sweet as the redhead was, my gaze soon became riveted to the now 
bronzed black-haired beauty in the cage. Her dancing—not to mention her 
body!—far surpassed that of the girls in the other cages. The thundering 
rock beat of the band seemed to fill her with a sexual frenzy, and she 
danced as if she were begging every man in the room to come up and stick it
to her. She kept clutching at her black fringed G-string (her only garment 
save the boots) as if she wanted to tear it off!

“Who’s the new girl?” I asked the barmaid.

“That’s Diane. Nice, huh?”

For a reply I gave a low whistle and looked back at the girl going wild 
in her cage.

At a table at her feet sat a blonde-haired man, looked to be around 
thirty. He was gazing up at Diane’s fireworks, thoroughly enjoying himself.
At the end of the set, as soon as Diane bounced off to the back room, he 
waved a waitress over, whispered something in her ear, put a note into her 
hand, and with a pat on the butt sent her off. A few minutes later out 
comes Diane in a white silk sheath with a high mandarin collar and a 
mid-thigh-length skirt slit up to the hip. It clung to her big tits so 
snugly that there was no question as to whether or not she wore a bra; and 
there were no tell-tale ridges around where her panties should have been. 
Clear gold skin showed all the way to the top of the slit in the skirt, and
when she sat down the garment fell away from her legs as she crossed them, 
revealing the bare cheek of her ass. The contrast between her golden-tanned
skin and the brilliant whiteness of the shimmering silk was breathtaking. 
They exchanged a few words, then got up and left together, Diane’s swaying 
hips leading the way out the side exit.

Apparently just another quick trick between sets, and so it was, but 
there was more to it than met the eye, as I found out years later. The man 
was Dr. Donald Arigga, who happened to be Leona

Patterson’s present lover. He had come to the club tonight to meet her, 
Leona, and not for a roll in the hay with the new girl. He’d been seeing 
Leona regularly for about a year; he gave her lavish gifts of jewelry and 
clothes, and for many months now they had been planning to run off to 
Europe together. Not planning it exactly, but they talked excitedly about 
the possibility.

Leona had had many men, and even at this time did not confine herself 
entirely to Mike and Dr. Arigga, but it had gotten to the point where 
Arigga was the only one who could really satisfy her. There were a number 
of things in his character which contributed to this, but the main thing 
was not in his character but in his pants. The man, it seems had a cock 
that stood eleven inches on the bone and had a mole on the underside, just 
below the head.

Young Doc Arigga was not really an M.D., but a veterinarian. He lived 
much higher than the average vet, though, thanks partly to selling a few 
large parcels of land he had inherited, and partly to the fact that his 
office was also a head shop. I might add, however, to his credit, that he 
dealt only in grass and acid; wouldn’t touch heroin or any of the opiates 
with a ten-foot pole. He was a widower and Leona was just the right 
medicine for him—or was until he met the chick with the wonderful box.

Anyway, that day Leona had been spotting her panties in anticipation of 
their meeting that night. Arigga had been away for over a week on some real
estate business in Illinois, and Leona had been saving it up for him. It 
was a rare thing for her to go that long without sex, so by this time she 
was practically on fire. Diane found out about all this later, I should 
explain, from Doc himself.

So when Leona came to the lounge looking for her lover— But first let me 
tell my side of it.

When I saw Diane and the straw-haired man go out the side door, I had no 
doubts about their destination. I knew what went on in those cabins behind 
the Club, and as the couple disappeared into the night, whatever hope I 
might have had of quelling my voyeuristic compulsions that evening 
disappeared with them. I gulped down what was left of my third beer and 
left as casually as I could by the front door.

I threaded my way through the parked cars to the north edge of the side 
lot, took a look around, and ducked into the shadows behind the club. As I 
made my way cautiously down the narrow lawn between the rear of the cabins 
and the dark scrub oaks, I heard a sound. I stood still and listened. It 
was the sound of squeaking bed springs in the first cottage. Could they be 
at it already? There were no lights on inside. I moved hopefully down to 
the third building where a dim light shone in the window. The jalousies 
were open just enough for me to peer in… . A man and a girl were in the 
bed. The man was chewing passionately at her tits as they screwed happily 
away. But the girl was a blonde.

The rest of the cabins were dark except for one about half way down the 
row. Last chance, I thought. As I came up to the window I saw that the 
jalousies and curtains were wide open. When I looked in I saw the 
blond-haired man, but not the girl. He was sitting on the bed removing his 
shoes. Good, I wasn’t too late!

Then suddenly beside me I heard the screen door of the cottage shut! I 
wheeled around in panic at the thought of getting caught and bolted into 
the scrub oaks, turning just in time to see the silk-clad girl framed in 
the light of the doorway that led from the back porch into the main room. 
She looked back once, and then shut the door. I was caught in the dense 
bushes like a rat in a trap; my heart was in my mouth. The man got up from 
the bed and peered out the back window—looked right at me, I was certain!

“I thought I heard something out there,” he said.

“It was me, silly,” said the girl, coming up behind him. “I went out to 
get my blanket off the ground. I was sunbathing today.” There had been no 
blanket on the ground, I was sure of it.

He went back to the bed and removed his shirt, and the girl stood by the 
window for a moment, looking out. Just before she turned to join her 
partner, she puckered her full opalescent lips and threw a kiss out into 
the darkness!

Good God! Does she know I’m here? Was the kiss intended for the peeper?

It was indeed. “Of course I knew you were there,” Diane told me later. 
“That is, I knew somebody was there. I was getting my blanket in while you 
were looking in Donna’s window.”—“You mean the blonde in the third 
cabin?”—“Yeah, you were standing right in the light. Hee, hee! Then, when 
you came running up to my window, I was standing in the porch, right by the
back door. An audience at the window always gets me hot, so I wasn’t about 
to give you away. I entertained my first Peeping Tom when I was twelve 
years old at the orphanage in Cairo. He used to come every night at—” But I
digress.

When I saw the girl flip her long black hair out of the way and unzip the
back of her dress, I crawled out of the bushes and took up my position 
again beside the window. The thought that she might be aware of my eyes on 
her gave me a hard-on a cat couldn’t scratch!

“Shall I fix us a drink?” she asked.

“Not for me, thanks,” the man replied. “Wanta blow some grass? I got one 
number left.”

“Oh good! Why didn’t you say so? Hey, that’s a real bomber you got there,
man!” He lit the joint and passed it to Diane, who placed it expertly 
between her open lips and took a tremendous toke, holding her breath so 
long that she almost seemed to rise up off the bed. “Wow!” she gasped, 
“That’s boss grass!”

“Fresh from Mexico, baby.” They sat facing each other cross-legged on the
bed, passing the joint back and forth, and finally smoked it down to the 
roach. I was getting stoned myself in another way: Diane was facing the 
window just enough so that I could see part of her cute little hairy cunt. 
Her customer had been looking at it too, but he seemed to be in no hurry. I
saw the roll of bills on her dresser and wondered how much of her time he 
had bought.

Diane still had the white silk sheath on, unzipped in back and gathered 
up high around her thighs, when the. man reached out and stroked her 
crotch. She made a dreamy sound in her throat and tugged her skirt from 
under her ass, drawing it up to her waist to give him unimpeded access to 
her privates. She leaned back, putting her hands behind her on the bed for 
support, and let her head fall back, mouth open, eyes shut, little grunts 
and ecstatic moans coming from her throat. She had twisted around just 
enough for me to have a clear view of her puss. As the big hand stroked the
black ringlets of her bush, I saw moisture begin to appear along the edges 
of the pink slit, glistening in the lamplight. He ran his index finger 
along it, making her pelvis twitch spasmodically, until the finger was 
covered with juice. Then he raised it to her upturned face and wet her 
parted lips with it; she closed her mouth on the slippery finger and sucked
on it rhythmically, while his other hand went to her lurching cunt. They 
both began to laugh like children, she without releasing the finger from 
her mouth. Now she had a finger in each mouth, so to say, and they seemed 
to find it extremely funny.

Suddenly, still laughing, he said, “Hey!” and leaned forward to peer 
closely at her crotch. “Let go,” he giggled. She shook her head, shaking 
with laughter and passion. “God, what a grip!” he gasped, and uncrossing 
his legs, he lay down on his stomach and stuck his head between her legs. 
His hand was caught fast in her man-eating oyster. He pulled his finger 
from her mouth and she released her grip on him. His hand slid free, well 
lubricated, and began spreading the curl-lined lips, peering in. “Wow!” he 
says, “talk about a snapper!”

She was putting her vagina through its paces: it opened like an exotic 
flower of flesh; it closed like a fist, the lips turning inward out of 
sight; it puckered and made a little smack as it threw a kiss at his 
astonished face; then it relaxed and almost seemed to smile! I could 
actually see her oversized clitoris jumping up and down like an elfin penis
with a bone on. Overwhelmed, he plunged his face into her snatch with a cry
of delight. “EEEEEEE!” she yelled as his tongue went in. They were within 
arm’s reach of the window where I stood, and it’s a good thing it had a 
screen, because I wouldn’t have been able to keep my hands off her!

She threw her dress off over her head and leaned over, watching his 
tongue lapping furiously at her now foaming slit. She giggled ecstatically 
and pressed his head between her tits, stopping up his ears. Her giggles 
turned into squeals of pleasure-pain as his expert tongue-work brought her 
to a jerking orgasm which rattled the window panes.

When he came up at last, sputtering and gasping, his whole face 
glistening and flecked with foam, he said, “Baby, I’ve got just the thing 
for that doomsday machine of yours.”

“Doomsday machine? Honey, that’s my Garden of Eden.”

“Yeah? Well, then I got just the snake for your tree.”

And with that he stands up beside the bed and drops his pants. The girl 
stared in wonder at the great club of throbbing meat which now danced and 
twitched before her eyes. “Wow!” she breathed, cupping his balls in her 
hands. When she put her hands on his joint, gripping it as you would grip a
golf club, three inches of it remained exposed. She lifted it and 
discovered the mole underneath, smiling up at him in anticipation of how it
would feel inside her. When a glistening drop of clear fluid appeared at 
the tip, she leaned forward a bit and licked it up. Then she began running 
her tongue all around the head and down the shank, drooling as she worked 
so it would be well lubricated when it entered her pearly gates.

She put a hand down to her cunt and came up with an even better 
lubricant, smearing it over the red-and-blue-veined phallus with her 
fingers and tongue. She had just lifted the pulsating member again and was 
tickling the wart with the tip of her tongue, both of them on cloud 69 and 
giggling like loonies, when who should appear at the front door, dressed in
a sexy, black knit dress, but the proprietress of the Jungle Club.

To explain how Leona happened to come to Diane’s cabin at that particular
moment, let me go back to an incident that occurred only a few days after 
Diane came to town… .

It was late in the afternoon—she had just returned from the beach below 
Spinxly’s house— when Leona knocked on the door.

“Anybody home?”

“Yeah, come on in, Leo.” Diana had just taken a shower and stepped into a
pair of sheer pink bikini panties trimmed with lace. She had nothing else 
on except a bath towel which was draped around her neck and hung down over 
her breasts. She was standing before her dresser mirror brushing out her 
damp hair. “I just got back from the beach.”

“You look like it. You’re gonna get one hell of a burn if you don’t watch
it.” Diane’s skin had lost its milky whiteness and now seemed to glow with 
a pink fire from within.

“I hope not. I’m using plenty of suntan oil and trying not to get too 
much sun at one time.”

“I see you’re giving Spinx the works,” said Leona, running her hand down 
the girl’s smooth bare back, “don’t see any strap marks. Any luck?”

“Not yet, but there’s still plenty of time. He’ll break.”

“How can he resist?…” Their eyes met for a moment in the mirror. “I saw 
you drive up, thought I’d stop in for a drink if you’re not busy. Mike’s 
out of town on business.”

“Cool. I was just going to make myself one,” Diane replied, padding 
barefooted over to the refrigerator. “What’ll you have?”

“Bourbon and water for me.” While Diane mixed the drinks, she could feel 
Leona’s eyes slithering up and down her body. When she brought the drinks, 
Leona was standing before the mirror, admiring herself. She was wearing 
tight yellow hip-hugger slacks and a pink silky long-sleeved blouse. The 
blouse had no buttons on its wide overlapping lapels; it was fastened only 
where it tucked into the wide belt around her hips. The neckline plunged 
below her tits and gaped so wide that Diane could see where the bronze 
smoothness of her upper chest faded out toward the nipples to a soft creamy
hue. Diane handed her the drink and she took a big swallow.

“I see you’re picking up my bad habits,” Diane said, smiling at the 
blonde’s swelling cleavage, “No bra.”

“You think I need one?” she said, taking a deep breath.

“It would be a crime to cage those things up,” Diane answered with 
sincerity. They both laughed.

For about a half hour they talked and drank, until finally they had 
killed the fifth of bourbon. By this time Diane was sprawled open-thighed 
in the chair, the towel now hanging over one shoulder only, so that one 
titty swung free. Her black patch of cunt hair was clearly visible through 
the transparent nylon crotch of the pink panties, and Leona, propped up on 
the bed, was staring straight into it.

Diane could see what was on her mind, and what she had come for. But 
Leona seemed reluctant to make the first move, and finally she tore her 
eyes from the girl’s body and got up. “Well, I better go,” she said, 
weaving a little on the way to the door.

Diane jumped up, stumbling also, and grabbed the blonde under the arms. 
“Hey!” she giggled, “Better watch out y’don’t fall and bust your ass!”

“C’mon, you’re actin’ like a drunk or somethin’.”

As they stood there holding on to each other, Leona looked down and saw 
that Diane’s towel had slipped off. Leona’s blouse bad now come out of her 
slacks, and it hung loose and open in front. Diane looked over at their 
profile in the mirror. “Look at that,” she giggled. “Aren’t we a pair?”

Leona looked and said, “Hey, we look a lot alike, don’t we?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Birds of a feather, I guess.” When their intoxicated
laughter died they were still holding onto each other. They stood that way 
in silence for a moment… and Diane looked the older woman in the eye and 
said, “Leo?”

“Hm?” she answered, looking up from Diane’s tits.

“Do you want to make love to me?”

For a moment Leona said nothing. Then her reply came in a whispered rush 
of passion: “You’re goddamn right I do!”

Their lips came together and their tongues intertwined. Leona slipped her
hands into Diane’s pants and, cupping the full cheeks of her ass, pressed 
her pelvis to her own, their cunts grinding together. Then as Leona sucked 
on Diane’s tongue, Diane released the belt buckle and slid the tight slacks
down off her employer’s flaring hips. She was wearing no panties.

The girl and the woman moaned with pleasure as squeezed each other’s 
buttocks and ran exploring fingers into the other’s crack. They fell onto 
the bed clumsily, half out of drunkenness, half out of frenzied lust, and 
the blonde pulled off the brunette’s pink panties and flung them across the
room. She threw her blouse off, and Diane began sucking her large swollen 
nipples.

Then Leona slid down to the foot of the bed and began running her tongue 
along Diane’s ankle, her calf, her thigh … Diane spread her legs wide and 
she squealed when Leona’s tongue rippled up the oozing lips of her cunt and
slurped at the erect clitoris.

“Wait!” urged Diane. “Turn around! Hurry!”

Leona swung around, facing the foot of the bed, and straddled girl’s 
hungry face. Diane jammed a pillow under her head to bring her up closer 
between Leona ‘s thighs. Then as the woman’s tongue delved into her slit, 
with her fingers Diane spread the mat of moist pungent curls away from her 
partner’s juicy cunt and began lapping the pink flesh of its inner folds.

Soon both their crotches were foaming furiously and the hot juice ran 
free; and finally with sputtering squeals and jerking hips they came off 
together. When it was over, they collapsed into blissful oblivion.

Diane and Leona had sex one other time—about a week later, I think, when 
both Mike and Doc were out of town—but it went about the same as the first 
time, except that they omitted the preliminaries and didn’t get drunk. 
Anyway, this is why, when Leona went to the Club at the appointed time to 
meet Doc and found no trace of him, she made it straight to Diane’s. Not 
that she had any idea of finding her lover there; far from it! But she was 
so worked up in anticipation of the long-awaited tumble with Doc, and so 
infuriated at his standing her up, that the first thing that popped into 
her head was a few falls with Diane’s snaky tongue to relieve the burning 
between her legs.

You can imagine her outrage when she opened the door to find the two most
important objects in her present sex fife—the snaky tongue and the titanic 
phallus—in intimate contact with one another and quite preoccupied. Of 
course as I stood there watching it all from the window, I didn’t know all 
this; I only saw the woman, whom I knew to be the owner of the place, and 
the naked couple on the bed stare at each other for an apparently awkward 
moment, the girl still holding the man’s cock in both hands. Finally the 
woman said “Pardon me!” in an icy voice and slammed the door.

Doc said, “Well, that’s that, I guess,” still looking at the closed door.
Then he said, “Fuck it,” and turned back to the girl with the incredible 
crack.

She looked up at him, puzzled.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said to her, “I’ll explain later. We have more
important business right now, don’t you think?”

In answer she giggled and, falling back on the bed, pulled him on top of 
her by his tow rope. He came onto the bed on his knees, straddling her 
face, and his huge cock slipped into her open mouth. Hunched over her, he 
began to pump his hips, his prick going in and out of her like a 
pile-driver; but try as she might, she could get little more than the head 
of the beast into her mouth. She turned her head aside and it jabbed into 
the mattress, glancing off her cheek—a near miss!

Catching her breath, she said, “Would you care to try the room 
downstairs? It’s larger.”

“You mean this one?” he asked, grabbing her bubbling bush.

“Yiiiiiii!” she squealed as his finger went in. “Be careful, it’s got a 
hair trigger.”

Doc took both pillows from the head of the bed, and Diane raised her ass 
off the sheets, arching her back. As he placed the pillows under her, 
leaning forward, she raised her fluffy bush a little higher so that it 
looked him in the eye at point blank range. He gave it two full-length 
licks, but on the third pass the pink lips opened and clamped shut on his 
tongue. “Aaaaagh!” he cried. She laughed, released his tongue, and let her 
ass drop onto the stacked pillows. He felt his tongue. “Oooo, that hurt.” 
He put his hands on her big firm titties and lowered his face to hers. 
“Kiss it,” he whispered, and she took his tongue between her lips, sucking 
and caressing it with her own red-hot tongue. I’m sure they had forgotten 
all about Leona by that time—I know I had!

Doc was on his knees now, torso erect, between Diane’s widespread legs. 
She lay back limp, watching with half-closed eyes and making little moaning
noises in her throat, as the man took his blunt weapon in his hand and 
began sliding it up and down the quivering lips of her elevated pussy. The 
great red head nuzzled among the curls, making gentle shallow jabs between 
the tender folds, seeking an entrance.

Then, as he grasped her graceful tanned hips with his hands, it went in, 
and I saw the girl’s mouth come open in ecstasy, and her whole body 
stiffened. He worked slowly, rhythmically, at first, sinking no more than 
half the glistening shaft into her at a stroke. His powerful hands still 
gripped her hips, his torso bent forward just a little, and he leered down 
at the fantastically beautiful girl spread-eagled below him, apparently in 
a twitching swoon, as he drove his piston in and out at an angle slightly 
above the horizontal. Clearly he was the master; he was taking her, in 
every sense of the word. Here was the perfect symbol, the origin and final 
proof, of male dominance over female. Here was primal man, the thruster, 
the warrior, the lord, partaking of his woman; eternal woman she was at 
that moment, the passive thrall, the receptacle, the stew pot, the 
child-bearer. It was the lack of this kind of male power that had me 
lurking under lighted windows like a madman, a leering hop-toad, cringing 
in the shadows with a bone on.

But I was too hasty in assigning so simple a role to Diane. For suddenly,
in mid-stroke, the man hunched forward with a grunt, nearly doubling up, 
and I heard a throaty chuckle come from the girl. If Diane was a 
receptacle, then so is a Venus fly trap; her passivity was that of a bed of
quicksand—as the good doctor was now finding out, to his dismay and 
delight.

Because just as he was stepping up his stroke, Diane had let loose a 
ripple of her vaginal muscles that ran up his pole like a troop of monkeys 
up a palm tree! For a moment he remained bent over, his face buried in the 
soft skin of her belly, and it was now the girl’s hips that were in motion,
thrusting, her cunt grasping, sucking—then his knees slipped and he came 
down on her, the bed tossing like a rowboat in a hurricane!

Now they went at it like opponents, vying for mastery over each other. He
told her later it was like she had two hands inside her, red hot and 
boneless (how well I know what he meant!), and the things they did to his 
ramrod were fast sending him helpless into another world where she alone 
ruled supreme. But then he roused himself from the edge of oblivion, got a 
fresh grip on the cheeks of her bucking ass, and drove his massive ram home
to the hilt! She shrieked in surrender, writhing and flapping beneath him 
like a stuck goose!

After they had each won and lost several battles, they began to fight the
war. But now they fought together; they had become one, the “two-backed 
beast.” The sea was still violent—even more so than before!—but now there 
were no cross-currents, no confused turbulence, only a driving, heaving 
gale, blowing backward through time toward the primeval seed of the 
universe.

She was taking all of him now, and the fleshy rasping of the mole was 
turning the gripping fingers of her boiling cunt to pure electricity—and at
last the final fusion occurred. In the midst of her convulsive orgasm which
was wracking her body with ethereal gusts of cosmic fire and seemed to be 
disjointing her very bones, she felt the jolting jets of his semen 
thrusting at point-blank range with the force of a fire hose against the 
palpitating gates of her womb!

And they arrived together—not as man and woman nor even god and goddess, 
but as the One, the original amoeba of love—arrived at the very beginning 
of things, at the moment when the cosmic clock was set in motion. Then the 
fused seed exploded, and the shrapnel of the cosmos, the gas and the 
galaxies, went streaming off into space and the world was created anew.

CHAPTER VII

That wasn’t the end of it, but it was all I could take. I had ejaculated 
spontaneously and copiously in my pants—without so much as laying a hand on
my pecker! I limped off through the shadows, feeling clammy and sticky 
around the thighs. The sky was full of stars, and each one seemed to be 
shooting bright feathery needles into my brain. They whirled and shifted 
and regrouped to form one sky-wide constellation called “Diane, Goddess of 
Lust.” I felt as if I had smoked a joint or two myself. Her naked image 
hung in my mind like an indelible stain, and as I drove home—home! Where my
cold, barren bitch of a wife waited with a mouthful of poison arrows; how I
dreaded it!—as I drove home, I say, I determined to beg, steal or borrow 
enough loot for at least an hour with that incredible creature, if for no 
other reason than just to see if she was real, flesh and blood, and not 
some ghostly product of a magic spell. But I was not to have my wish, not 
yet. Because by the next weekend it was all over, and the Jungle Club had 
met its fateful doom. The next time I saw Diane was on TV; her hair was no 
longer black but blonde. It had been over a year, but I recognized her 
immediately. She was stark naked and just climbing into bed with a handsome
long-limbed Negro.

But getting back to that night …

Before they finally got dressed and left the cottage, Doc had four more 
climaxes to Diane’s fourteen (her count). Back in the lounge Leona was 
nowhere to be seen, so Doc left Diane and went to his mistress’s house. He 
knocked on the door and called to her, but she wouldn’t come out. He 
shrugged his shoulders and rejoined the girl.

The next day Diane went to Leona and tried to apologize.

“Look, honey, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t know he was yours.”

“Would it have made any difference?” Leona replied without looking up 
from her ledgers.

“Of course, silly! If you don’t want to share him, that’s your business. 
After all, I just work here. But he didn’t tell me he was here to meet you,
or anything else. He was just another trick to me.”

“Was. What about now?”

Diane hesitated.

“Never mind, I’ve got no hooks in him, he can fuck every slut in town for
all I give a shit.”

Diane stiffened at the word “slut,” but decided not to risk her job by 
returning the insult. “Look, Leona,” she said after a moment, “why don’t 
you come over to my cabin and have a drink?” In a softer voice she added, 
“We can—” But Leona cut her off:

“No, I’m busy. I’ve got to go to town in a minute, I may not be back till
late. I want you to work the tables tonight.”

“Why? Is Joan sick?”

“No, she’s been wanting to dance, so I’m going to give her a chance.”

“I see,” said Diane in a voice that ill concealed her anger. She was 
about to say much more, but held her tongue and walked out without another 
word.

So the bitch was going to take advantage of her position to get revenge, 
Diane thought. She knew that if she didn’t attract so much business, Leona 
would have fired her flat. She knew also that tonight’s demotion was only 
temporary; Leona was too efficient a business woman to keep her star 
attraction tied up waiting on tables every night.

Diane fumed for a while, but she was never one to give a situation like 
this undue concern, and after a few drinks and a good supper her anger had 
subsided somewhat. She decided not to complain to Mike, as she had intended
to do at first, but just to play Leona’s silly game until she tired of it. 
She took out her good luck charm, the snake pin, burnished it on her mound 
and gave it a kiss. She shook off her gloomy mood and decided, “The hell 
with it. Let the “chips fall where they may!”

That night, even as a waitress, she stole the show. She wore the bottom 
half of a black bikini with silver sequins, black high heels, and ornate 
silver hoops in her ears. The bikini was extreme in its brevity: it rode so
low in back that the crack of her bronze ass peeked over the top, and in 
front its upper edge clung to the very mound of her cunt, right at the 
upper edge of her black bush. It was fastened with tiny black strings at 
the hips. Sometimes, as when she bent over to place drinks on a table and 
then stood up, it would slip down a fraction of an inch and a few silky 
curls would spring out. Her titties were bare, but she had drawn ornate, 
swirling star-flowers on her sun-darkened nipples with a make-up pencil, 
their coiling tendrils creeping out over the creamy gold of her swelling 
globes.

By eleven o’clock she had raked in more than twice as much in tips as the
other two girls put together. She was now giving particular attention to 
three wealthy looking middle-aged couples at a table near the stage, 
certain of getting a spectacular tip. One of the men, whenever his wife 
wasn’t looking, would give Diane’s ass a gentle pinch, and instead of 
acting offended she encouraged him, as was her way. As the night 
progressed, so did his boldness, and he began to slip his hand up between 
the girl’s thighs whenever she stood near him. The other men were warming 
their mitts on her too, and one of them, a middle-aged executive type named
Bill Dawson, waylaid her in the short hallway leading to the restrooms.

He grabbed her playfully around the waist and kissed her. She surprised 
him by slipping her tongue into his mouth. His hands slid down her smooth 
bare back and cupped her buttocks; she could feel his erection through his 
pants, twitching against her cunt, as he pressed her pelvis to his. He told
her he’d be back some night soon without his wife. “I’ll be here, Mr. 
Dawson,” she breathed in his ear, as his fingers twined among the curls of 
her bush and his mouth closed over a shimmering nipple… .

Later, just as the three couples were preparing to leave, in walks Leona.
Apparently these people were old acquaintances of hers, because as soon as 
she saw them she went straight over to their table. After they had 
exchanged greetings Diane saw Dawson jerk a thumb in her direction. Leona 
glanced up briefly at Diane where she stood beside the bar waiting for the 
check, then began talking to the man and his wife with a changed 
expression. The others perked up their ears and listened in. “She’s giving 
them a line of shit about me,” thought Diane.

When she took the check over to the table, she didn’t look at Leona, who 
was still talking to the man in a low confidential tone. Diane only caught 
a word or two: “slut” was one of them. With an effort she gathered up the 
glasses and tried to quell her anger. “There goes the big tip,” she 
thought.

As she started back to the bar, the man said in a low but audible voice, 
“Still, Leo, she’s the best waitress you ever had!” Leona’s answer was loud
enough not only for Diane to hear quite clearly, but also to cause several 
people at adjoining tables to turn their heads and take notice:—

“She’s okay, if you like nymphos.”

Diane froze in her tracks, and a blush of rage colored her body from head
to foot. A plan of revenge flashed like lightning through her mind.

She continued on across the room without turning around. “We’ll see who’s
the nympho!” she thought, smiling coldly to herself.

That night Diane slept well, despite her humiliation, and dreamt of 
revenge. She slept late and, after fixing herself a breakfast of sausage 
and eggs, got ready to pay Doc Arigga an office call.

She got out an orange sun dress of light cotton and slipped it on over 
her naked body. Its neckline plunged deep between her tits and the thin 
material hugged them so snugly that the contours of her prominent nipples 
were only a little blurred. Two strings which tied behind her neck held it 
up and the rather full, extra-short skirt flared out from beneath her 
breasts, where it was gathered with an elastic band. On her feet she wore 
gold sandals and in her ears gold hoops. Painting her full lips with 
opalescent violet and donning a pair of round-rimmed sunglasses, she left 
the cottage and walked out to the telephone booth by the intersection. She 
wasn’t sure exactly how she was going to get to Doc’s place; her former 
privilege of using Leona’s car was all over, needless to say. She found his
name under veterinarians in the Yellow Pages. It was north of the club, on 
the other side of town. She was just about to call a cab, when a boy in his
late teens drove by in a convertible and saw her standing there beside the 
booth, her skirt ballooning up in the brisk breeze, her long black hair 
blowing about her face. She caught his leering eye and on an impulse stuck 
up her thumb.

Immediately the kid swerves off the road and stops. Diane goes to the car
in a slow, voluptuous run, her tits almost bouncing out of the flimsy 
bodice. As she got in beside him he said, “Hey, baby! Didn’t recognize you 
for a minute.” Diane looked at him, puzzled for a moment. Then she 
remembered and smiled.

“Sammy! Hey,” she said, “Where’s the gang?’

He spun the wheel and the car roared back onto the highway, burning 
rubber. “Oh, fuckin’ around somewhere. Where the hell you been, girl? We 
been looking for you at the beach every day.”

“I’ve been busy the last couple of weeks. I’ll be over to see you guys 
again one of these days. How far are you going, Sammy?”

“I was on my way to pick up a chick over at Lake Leethy, but I’d break a 
date with Ursula Andress for an hour with you, sweet. Why don’t we zip over
to my pad and—”

“Sounds great, Sammy, but I just can’t this morning. Can you run me up to
Sixty-first street?”

“Sure thing.” He reached over and touched her shoulder and she slid over 
to him, snuggling close and kissing him on the cheek. His hand slid down 
over a swelling titty and she felt her nipple involuntarily respond, boring
into his hot palm through the scanty dress. “Got time for a quicky, don’t 
you?”

“I’m sorry, Sammy, but I really don’t,” she said in his ear. “You’re 
going to mess me all up now.” she pushed his hand away and smoothed out her
lair. “I’ve got an important appointment. I can’t show up all juicy, now 
can I?”

“Why not?” he answered, putting his hand between her legs and pushing her
skirt up.

“Eeeee! Now cut it out, Sammy! —mmmm … now stop …” But she couldn’t 
resist the determined kneading of his hand and her thighs slowly opened. He
turned her around and pulled her down so that she lay on her back on the 
seat with her head in his lap. She giggled and raised her ass to pull her 
skirt up above her waist as his fingers tickled her cunt. She felt his 
prick throbbing against the back of her head, and the wind coming through 
the air vents rushed between her legs, cooling her naked crotch. Sammy gave
her scented bush a vigorous rubbing and then ran his fingertip up and down 
the quivering lips until her juice began to flow. When everything was nice 
and slippery, he eased his hand into her, one finger at a time, while his 
thumb kept up a circular, rhythmic massage of her erect clitoris.

“Oooooh … you’re gonna have a wreck, Sammy… aahhhh—”

When the Greyhound bus passed them in the right lane, Diane had her legs 
stretched out and spread wide, her feet dangling out the window. Sammy’s 
hand was sunk to the knuckles in her hairy slit, which was now sudsing up 
like a washing machine, and the bright morning sun bathed her voluptuous 
spread-eagled body, naked except for her bosom, below which the dress was 
bunched up. In this posture she looked up to see the row of windows full of
faces high above the open convertible, moving only slightly faster.

“Hey!” she shouted, “Look, Sam, we’ve got an audience!” There were all 
sorts of faces at the windows—old men and women, a young couple, 
middle-aged businessmen types, tourists, children, and so forth. Diane gave
them a big smile and waved cheerfully, spreading her legs a little wider, 
but immediately thereafter her eyeballs rolled up and she went into a 
lurching, grinding climax, while the row of gaping faces loomed overhead, 
taking it all in.

After that she was able to fend Sammy off for the rest of the trip. She 
was angry at herself at first for shooting off like a pressure cooker just 
because some kid stirred up her candy bowl, although she knew it was the 
onlookers that had brought it on. But Sammy had a box of tissues in the car
and after giving her puss a good swabbing, she rode for a while with her 
skirt up and her legs spread until the draft took all the dampness out of 
her bush. She rescented it and smoothed down her dress. Meanwhile Sammy got
his cock out and started spouting all kinds of sex talk, but she tried to 
ignore the talk and keep her eyes off his joint for fear of starting to 
juice up again. She re-made her face and combed her hair and by the time 
they arrived at Doc’s office she felt fairly fresh again.

As he pulled up in the lot out front, Sammy said, for the zillionth time,
“Come on, baby, how ‘bout a little pussy. We can go down to a place I know 
by the lake—”

“Look, Sam, I really appreciate the ride, but I just don’t have time 
today. I’ll tell you what: Come to the Jungle Club tonight. Bring the boys 
if you like. I think I can guarantee you all the pussy you can handle.”

“Oh, yeah? Sounds wild. I’ll see you tonight then.” She gave him a kiss 
and off he goes, ruining his tires.

Inside, Diane told the receptionist she wanted to see the doctor, and in 
a moment he appeared in the doorway.

“Well, hello there!” he exclaimed, giving her the once-over. But then, as
the girl at the desk gave him a wry smile, he cleared his throat and in a 
more business-like voice said, “Step right this way, please.”

She walked past him into the hall and he shut the door behind them. “This
is a pleasant surprise,” he said, eyeing her scantily wrapped bronze body.

“Well, I happened to be up this way, and I wondered if we might have 
lunch together—unless you have other plans.”

“If I had any I’d cancel them, believe me. But look, I’m tied up right 
now. Got a sick cat on the operating table, and her owner’s in there 
wringing her hands. Do you mind waiting?” She said she didn’t. “Good. Step 
in here, you can keep Cerberus company.”

He led the way into a small room with a couch, a table, several 
bookshelves and a large medicine cabinet. Diane could see the kennels out 
back through the French doors at the rear of the room. Beside the doors was
a small swinging gate through which entered a huge handsome Great Dane, 
wagging its tail. The dog stood up on its hind legs and put its forepaws on
Doc’s shoulders. He stood just slightly taller than the man.

“Cerberus, meet Diane. Diane, Cerberus.” Cerberus dropped to all fours 
and lifted a paw to the girl.

“How nice to meet you, Cerberus,” said Diane politely, taking the dog’s 
paw and shaking it.

“Woof!” replied Cerberus.

“He’s gentle as a lamb. You two get acquainted, I’ll be back in about a 
half-hour.”

After Doc had gone Diane scratched the big dog behind his ears for a few 
minutes, talking gently to him, then went straight to the medicine cabinet.
She scanned the rows of bottles and tubes until she found what she was 
looking for. But as soon as she touched the door handle to open the case, 
Cerberus let out a menacing growl. She removed her hand, alarmed. The dog 
eyed her suspiciously. She put her hand to the handle again, but once more 
the dog snarled and advanced a step toward her. “Shit!” she said to 
herself, “Now what?”

She went to the little gate which led out to the kennels and opened it. 
“Come on, Cerberus. Nice Doggy. Want to go outside? Come on…” But the dog 
just sat down and looked at her coldly. “Damn,” she thought, “I can’t ask 
Doc for it.”

Disgusted, she sat down on the sofa on the other side of the room from 
the cabinet. Now the dog walked over to her, hanging its huge head, a 
penitent expression in his big dark eyes. She put out her hand, a little 
apprehensively, and patted him on the head, in answer to which he gave her 
a big lick in the face. “Oh, Cerberus!” she laughed, wiping her cheek. 
“Well, he’s friendly enough now,” she thought, and started to get up and 
try the cabinet again.

Immediately the dog stiffened and uttered a whining growl as if to say, 
“Now, don’t go over there again, Miss. You aren’t allowed. Just sit down 
and scratch me.” Disgusted, she sat down again and ignored the dog. She 
supposed she would have to give up the plan.

After a while she said, “Stupid dog!” looking the beast in the eye. In 
answer to that Cereberus gave a sorrowful whine, sat down in front of her 
and began licking her knee. Diane snatched a magazine off the sofa and 
began flipping through it in nervous anger, scarcely looking at the pages. 
The dog kept licking. He did a thorough job on one knee, then began on the 
other. Then he poked his big snout between the two crossed knees, swabbing 
and nuzzling—a little too vigorously, it seemed to Diane.

She put down the magazine and looked at the dog. “Okay, pup, I 
understand. You’re just following orders, right? Now go scratch a flea or 
something.” But the dog kept lapping and nuzzling, more and more 
forcefully, until he forced her knees apart, and Diane uncrossed her legs.

At the instant her thighs parted Cerberus, with a snort, nosed under her 
skirt, his hot wet breath blasting her unclothed crotch! “So that’s what 
you want… Oh! Cerberus!—ah, ah, ah, ah, ah—now stop it, Cerberus… nnnn nnn,
nh, nh, nh …”

The big tongue was lapping passionately over the trembling lips of her 
vagina, driving her mad with sensuous pleasure. She jerked her skirt up 
above her waist and spread her thighs wide. The big hot tongue probed into 
the valley below her frothing slit and gave her puckering anus a thorough, 
vigorous washing. She squealed with delight, nearly getting her cookies 
then and there.

The drooling dog turned his big head sideways and stuck his tongue 
straight into the boiling bore of her cunt. Deeper and deeper it went in 
snaky, undulating waves, transforming her into a molten incarnation of pure
animal lust. For a fleeting moment she was with Doc again at the birthplace
of the world, but then she was past even that, beyond it, swept onward and 
inward on a timeless tidal bore; she became the embodiment of the sex-form 
as it was before the Beginning. Intelligence, genus, species, substance 
itself, all fell away from her. The facade of her finite glandular system 
tapped into a timeless continuum stripped of matter and remembered a time 
which never was, a time when the primal Female copulated with the primal 
Male in the depths of the empty abyss where the unmade nebulae burned black
on black and no star shone. They were two beasts without name or shape 
cohabiting a universe where copulation was the normal state and orgasm was 
always just beginning, just becoming, being born, a world which lives in us
all, apart from the mind, lurking in the dim memory of the autonomic 
nervous system.

The serpentine tongue snaked inward in hissing, jabs, striking deeper and
deeper until it touched the abysmal gates to the womb. It assailed the 
bulwarks with the fury of an army of titans, laid relentless siege to the 
pulsing bastions of secret flesh, striving onward and inward toward the 
very center of the world, toward the unseen shimmering lake in the pit 
beyond the doors where the rivers of spirit flow into the sea of flesh.

Outside the sky darkened under an approaching storm cloud. The rain 
falling from it made a grey-blue wall beyond the French doors, fading out 
toward the east in wispy strands, twisting in the winds like the flowing 
hair of a giantess standing beyond the rim of the world. Lightning struck 
from her eyes and a deafening crash of thunder filled the room as Diane 
went into throes of orgasmic ecstasy, skewered on the thrusting tongue.

The beast stood tall over her limp, spraddled form and wrapped his 
forelegs around her upper body. He straddled one of her legs and began 
hunching frantically, his great red penis smearing its hot juice up and 
down her thigh. “—No,” she whimpered breathlessly, “not like that…” She 
yielded to the dog’s clumsy embrace and rolled off the sofa onto the floor,
but she was too drained to hoist herself into position, and the dog in his 
impatience tried to turn her over by pulling at her dress with his teeth, 
but only succeeded in tearing the flimsy garment to shreds. Then she moved,
not of her own strength, it seemed, for she had none left, but under the 
terrific influence of the unintelligible spatial medium, the Ocean Sea of 
universal-fuck in which she felt herself immersed. She rolled over on her 
face, got to her elbows and knees on the rug, and heard her voice coming 
apparently from a great distance, echoing across a vast hollow—“Here, like 
this… Give it to me! Give it to me! …”

The brute mounted her, clutching her firmly around the waist, his 
forelegs crossed beneath her belly. She felt his panting snout at the nape 
of her neck, the great lolling tongue brushing her skin, the fiery drool 
burning furrows over her back, down her sides, into her armpits, over her 
naked tits, running off at the nipples in dripping streams onto the rug. 
The dog hunched frantically, searching for the hole. She arched her back, 
raising her buttocks as much as possible, spread her legs a little more and
tried to grab the dog’s jabbing penis with the hungry, burning mouth in her
crotch… .

Then they truly became the “two-backed beast.” The red-hot poker stabbed 
into her at the furious tempo of a jackhammer and she became a dog, a bitch
in heat, yipping in delight. Then all sensation dissolved, all thoughts 
drained off into the dark, thundering chasm, and she became neither dog nor
woman, but only Cunt, pure spirit-Cunt created in the days before time 
began, the eternal image and symbol of the Void. Some remnant of her still 
drifted in space, and through this shred of consciousness she perceived, 
far, far down in the core of her emptiness, light-years away, the hot, 
thick jets of a blowtorch burning her down to nothing… . From the far edge 
of oblivion came a sound, a shout, echoing in the void, barely audible. 
“Cerberus! Cerberus! Get off! …” There was a snarl, then a whine. “Go on! 
Get away, get in there!” A gate slammed.

Slowly, unwillingly, Diane drifted back into the world of time and space.
She was aware of Doc lifting her in his arms and lowering her gently to the
sofa.

“Diane?” His voice was fraught with concern and fearful anxiety. “Diane, 
are you all right?”

“Y-yes—I think so,” she answered weakly.

“I’ll shoot that goddamn dog, so help me! This is the second time he’s 
tried to rape a woman. I should have put him down a long time ago.”

“Oh, no—no, don’t do that! He didn’t hurt me. He’s just a dog, Doc. He 
doesn’t know there are rules about things like that. I mean—”

“You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that, Diane. I think I’d 
die too if I had to shoot the old bastard. Now you just be still for a 
minute and I’ll get something for those scratches.” He went out and shut 
the door.

She looked down at her naked body and for the first time noticed the claw
marks on her legs and midriff. Suddenly she remembered why she had come 
here and at the same time became aware that she was at last alone in the 
room. She would have to hurry. Summoning all that was left of her sapped 
strength, she got up and staggered across the room to the medicine cabinet.
It was not locked. She found the jar she had spotted earlier and read the 
label again to be sure. She took the container, found her handbag and 
stumbled back over to the sofa. She had just dropped the bottle into her 
bag and zipped it up, when Doc opened the door.

“Now lie down, Diane. Don’t try to get up yet.” She smiled and stretched 
out again on her back. Doc began treating her wounds with a piece of cotton
saturated with disinfectant. “This might burn a little at first… These 
aren’t nearly as bad as they looked, won’t even show in a few days. Damn 
good thing the son of a bitch didn’t use his teeth on you. Marda lives just
down the street, she’s gone to get you something to wear. We’ll have our 
lunch yet.”

Diane was all washed, swabbed and bandaged when the receptionist came in 
with the clothes. She smiled and blushed as she glanced at the naked girl 
lying on her back on the couch. “I think these will fit you, honey. In 
fact, they’ll probably look better on you than they do on me.” Diane 
thanked her and politely denied the compliment, but in truth Marda’s figure
was rather nondescript. “I couldn’t help noticing that you weren’t wearing 
underwear when you came in, Miss Fuhks,” she added, a bit cattily perhaps, 
“so I didn’t bring any.”

“Marda, this girl is straight from the Garden of Eden,” Doc replied, 
“Clothes are only an encumbrance to her. She wears only the minimum.”

“So I see,” said Marda with a cynical smile—and a touch of envy too, no 
doubt. “Well, you two have fun.” And she left them alone.

“I feel sorry for Marda,” said Doc as Diane slipped into the blue and 
green smock. “She’s only twenty-four, and single, but she never goes out. 
She’s no beauty, but it seems like she could get a date now and then. She’s
all business, conscientious as hell; even takes care of Cerberus for me at 
night.”

“Oh?” said Diane.

“Yeah, a real dog lover, evidently. I just don’t understand the girl.”

“I do,” said Diane, smiling to herself.

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking at her quizzically.

“Oh, nothing. Let’s have that lunch.”

CHAPTER VIII

That night while dressing for work in her cottage, Diane had some second 
thoughts about her scheme for revenge; but when she thought about how Leona
had insulted her, she decided to go through with it. Mike was gone again, 
so it was a good night for it. She took out the little jar and removed the 
lid. It was about half full of yellowish-brown powder. Cantharides is a 
drug prepared from dried, crushed beetles, commonly known as Spanish fly. 
Vets use it externally on horses as a blistering agent, but when taken 
orally by humans it acts as a powerful genital stimulant, and ever since 
its discovery unscrupulous men have used it as an aphrodisiac on reluctant 
girls. It can be quite dangerous in the hands of the uninitiated. Diane had
had some experience with it in the past, but she wasn’t sure of the proper 
dosage.

“Oh well,” she thought, “it won’t kill her, and anything short of that 
she deserves anyway.”

Diane decided not to work completely topless tonight because of her 
battle scars, so she got out a white sheer Spanish style blouse with a wide
off-the-shoulder neckline, slipped it on over her head and pulled it down 
over her golden, bronze-tipped globes. Then she hooked a tiny black elastic
garter belt around her hips, stepped into a pair of black mesh stockings 
and clipped them to the belt straps. As she sat on her bed, putting on 
black high heels, she happened to glance out the screen door—her inner door
was open as usual—to see a group of men at the rear corner of the parking 
lot leaning on a car beneath a light pole. They were only about a hundred 
feet away and looking right at her. She got up, ignoring them, and stood 
before her mirror, combing her long black hair; but she couldn’t bring 
herself to close the door or pull the window blinds, and before long she 
began to get hot in the crotch again. She was an incorrigible 
exhibitionist. She turned sideways just enough so that they could see her 
black bush below the thin belly strap of the garter belt. It was time to 
put on her skirt but she was enjoying the audience too much to put an end 
to the show, so she walked about the room, pretending to straighten things 
up, giving them a well-rounded view of her body.

By this time the group—about five men—had started across the drive toward
her cabin. When they got to the door, she was standing at her dresser 
again, hanging large gold rings from her ear lobes.

“Hey there, baby!” said the first one, trying the door and finding it 
hooked.

Diane said, “Hi,” turning her head briefly to glance at them, but making 
no move to cover herself.

“Open up, honey, we want to talk to you.”

“You want to talk to me?” she said smiling lasciviously at the leering 
faces at the door. This brought a chatter of laughter from the men.

From the rear of the group came a voice less full of embarrassment due to
his distance and the fact that his face was in darkness: “How much for a 
fuck?” More embarrassed laughter from the others.

“How many are there?” asked Diane as if she were about to pass out 
goodies to a gang of trick-or-treaters on Halloween. Five was the answer. 
“I’ve got to go to work in about ten minutes, boys … but maybe I’ve got 
time for one.” She was primed now and there was nothing for it but a stiff 
prick.

“How much?” said several voices.

“Forty bucks,” she answered after a pause.

“Forty bucks! Goddamn!—”

“Okay, then forget it, fellas, I’ve got to get ready for work,” and she 
started to close the door.

“No, wait,” said one of them, “I got the bread.”

“So have I,” said two others.

“All right, let’s flip for it.” They fished out coins and began tossing 
them in the air, clumsy with excitement and the distracting view of those 
luscious melons and that bushy crack just out of reach. “Balls!” said one. 
“Shit!” said another. The third took one giant step and stood at the 
threshold, grinning like a chimpanzee. “I won,” he said sheepishly.

Diane laughed and let him in, hooking the door after him. The proud 
winner started to close the inner door, but the girl stopped him.

“Let ‘em watch, honey,” she said. The man looked shocked.

“Yeah, Marvin,” said the others, “Don’t be so goddamn bashful! Ha, ha, 
ha!” Finally Marvin shrugged his shoulders and agreed.

Diane walked over to her dresser, her bare ass swaying seductively. “Put 
the money down there, Marv,” she said. He counted out the forty and put it 
on the shelf. Diane then turned her back to him, spread her legs, and 
leaned forward with her hands on the dresser for support. She looked at him
in the mirror and said, “Sock it to me, baby.”

“Backwards?” said Marvin, “standing up?” Peals of laughter came from the 
door and the windows. The others had spread out around the cottage, each 
picking the window they liked best. All her blinds and windows were open.

“Come on, let’s have at it, baby, hurry!” Diane urged. “It’s good this 
way, you’ll see.”

So finally old Marv drops his drawers and steps up behind her, his prick 
jumping between her open thighs. He reached around under the transparent 
blouse and rolled her stiff nipples between his fingers. Then, holding the 
nipples, he shook her big tits and watched them jiggle in the mirror. 
“Shake ‘em up, Marv!” came the cheers from the gallery. “Stick it in, 
Marvin!” “Yeah, Marv, it goes in that hole with the hair around it!” “Wow! 
What a cunt!”

Diane reached between her legs and guided his cock into her slippery 
slit. Marvin hunched over, got a firm grip on her jugs, and began pumping 
it to her. He let out a swooning moan—“Oooohhhhh!”— when he felt her 
marvelous cunt-muscles working on his cock. Diane closed her eyes and 
thought of Cerberus… .

It was soon over, and Marvin let go of her tits, slipped out, and fell 
backwards on the bed, puffing like a steam engine. Cheers and applause came
from the windows.

While Marvin was getting dressed, Diane went to the bathroom to freshen 
up. She put on a short black silk skirt slit to the hip, and tucked the 
tail of the nylon blouse into it. When she came out of the bathroom Marvin 
was dressed and standing by the dresser. He had something in his hand, 
looking closely at it. It was the jar of Spanish fly.

“Hey, give me that,” she said, with a bit too much alarm, she thought 
later—and snatched it from his hand.

“What’s the matter? I was just looking at it, for Christ’s sake. Hey 
honey, I don’t know what you got inside that thing—” He reached out and 
touched her mound. “—but whatever it is, I like it.”

“Thanks,” she said, thinking, “No harm done. Why am I so jumpy?” Dropping
the jar into a drawer, she turned and smiled, sweet as a schoolgirl, and 
kissed him on the cheek. “Bye-bye for now, everybody,” she said, blowing 
them all a kiss. “See you later in the Club.”

They were just leaving, when in walks Leona with a toothy grin on her red
lips and hate in her blue eyes. She was wearing high-heeled gold sandals, 
tight pink slacks and an orange low-cut pullover of wide-mesh knit over a 
brief lacy black bra. Her short blonde hair was in meticulous disorder.

“Well, that looked like fun—at least from where I sat,” she said 
cheerfully with an undertone of biting sarcasm. “I’ll take my cut, hon, if 
you don’t mind,” she added, peeling off two fives and a ten from the roll 
of bills on the dresser. The men looked on nervously over their shoulders 
as they left.

“Can’t you wait till the end of the week, ‘hon’?” —meaning bitch—asked 
Diane, imitating the woman’s sarcasm.

“Oh, I’ll just take it now,” she said, tucking the bills into her bra. 
“in case you forget how much you made on that little open-air show. Bye-bye
now. Don’t be late for work.”

Leona walked out and caught up with the men, who had not gone too far, 
throwing her arms around two of them. Diane heard her speaking as they 
moved out of earshot—“Come on, boys, I’ll get you a good table.”

More humiliation, she thought, taking the little jar out of the drawer. 
After a few moments she tucked it under her waistband and checked her 
appearance in the mirror. A cold light of vengeance burned in her sea-blue 
eyes. “We’ll see who has the last laugh,” she said aloud.

The rain had stopped about an hour ago, but in the north intermittent 
flashes of lightning bloomed in the black sky like flowers in Hell.

It was Friday, a busy night for the Jungle Club. The band was going 
full-blast, the ever hanging patterns of the light show swirled about the 
walls, and the swivel-hipped girls on the stage and in the cages bumped and
frugged and ground their hips over the dancers and the drinkers. Sammy and 
his friends had come in around ten thirty. When Diane brought their drinks 
over, Sammy said, “Hey, baby, you look great!”—eyeballing her nipples 
through the nylon film of her blouse—“Where’s all this action you were 
talking about?”

“Drink up and be patient, Sammy,” she answered with a smile. It’s just 
about time, she thought.

Just then, to her delight and surprise, she saw Bill Dawson and his wife 
walk in. Now the stage was set.

Spinxly had come tonight too. Diane considered giving up her plan because
of this, but decided to go ahead. It was the “Mr. Hyde” part of him that 
sat there at the corner table, the candlelight flickering in his hungry 
eyes. Anything that satisfied his perversities would be fine with him. 
Whenever she had a free moment she went over to his table and let him play 
with her tits and whatnot. She was on her way there from Sammy’s table, 
when Doc walked in.

She led him to a table on the other side of the dance floor from Spinxly.
“What about Leona?” Diane asked as he sat down.

“What about her? You think I’m afraid of the bitch? If she wants any more
from me, she’s going to have to come crawling for it. Listen, sit down a 
minute… .

“I thought Leo was a real hip chick till she pulled this stupid jealousy 
bit. We made it real good together for a while. You know, she’s a lot like 
you, in a way. Anyway, we were going away together, Leo and I—to Europe. 
Between the dope and the dogs, so to speak, I’ve banked a considerable wad 
over the years, always with this big move in the back of my head. Every 
time I get a little depressed or irritated at something, ‘Split to Europe!’
I tell myself. But I’ve never had quite enough bread to pull it off in 
style. Never until now.

“You know that I just got back from Illinois the other day. I flew up 
there to close the final sale of some land I inherited from an uncle who 
died last year. Well, I hit it big, honey, real big. I’m bound for the Old 
World, first stop Madrid. I decided not to sell my house here, in case I 
want to come back now and then, even brought back a woman from Illinois to 
live in and take care of the place while I’m gone—she was Uncle Artemo’s 
housekeeper.

“But here’s what I’m getting at, what I came here for tonight: I want you
to come with me, Diane. Leo and I could never have made it together for 
long; it must have been fate that brought you and me together. I—I think 
I’m falling in love with you, Diane.”

“Oh Doc:—I don’t know what to say—”

“Say you’ll come with me.”

“Oh,”—she threw her arms around him and gave him a big kiss—“I will!”

“There’s Leona now; go over and tell her to kiss your ass. Pack up your 
things right now and we’ll make it to my pad for the night.”

For a moment Diane hesitated…“Let’s stick around for a while, Doc—Hey, 
what’s your real name?” she said, rubbing noses with him, “If you’re gonna 
be my honey—”

“Don.”

“Juan?”

“My great grandfather,” he answered with a grin.

“I like what you inherited from him better than what Uncle Artemo left 
you,” she murmured in his ear, putting her hand to his fly.

“Good. Let’s go see if it still works.”

“Mmm, you tempt me, Don… But wait a while, love. I’ve got some unfinished
business here.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Personal business. Sit tight, I’ll be back.” She kissed him and hurried 
off.

Leona was just sitting down with a pretty young redhead in a chartreuse 
micro-dress with pink and green knee-length boots. Diane’s mind was 
spinning as she walked toward them. She tried to comprehend the 
significance of what Don had just said, but it was just too wonderful to 
make sense. The outcome of her plot of revenge was irrelevant now. It 
didn’t even matter if Spinxly closed down the Club; she would be long gone,
with no more need of a job of any kind. She couldn’t conceal the look of 
elation as she came up to Leona’s table.

“Ah, there you are, Diane, honey. My, don’t you look cheerful, though!” 
Leona’s voice was sweetly malicious. “Diane, sweety, I want you to meet 
Peggy.” The two girls said “Hi” to each other. Peggy?… Diane wondered if 
this was Mo Mullen’s daughter and started to ask, but thought better of it.
Peggy was a common name after all. “Peggy’s finally decided to come to work
for us.” Diane said that was nice. Then Leona added with an extra bite in 
the tone, “She’ll be taking your place in the Blue Room.”

“Oh, how nice!” said Diane with such apparent sincerity that Leona looked
up curiously at her, her smile fading a little. “Congratulations,” Diane 
added.

“Thanks,” replied Peggy, blushing. The girl was built like a brick 
shithouse, so to speak, with nice pointed titties, flaring hips and slim, 
gracefully curved legs, but Diane could see through her make-up that she 
probably wasn’t over seventeen.

“Bring us a couple of Tom Collins,” said Leona, a touch of irritation 
coming through the sugar-coated voice.

Back at the bar Diane was floating on air and ready for the fun to begin.
When the drinks came, she carried the tray into the hallway leading to the 
Blue Room. It was empty. She took the jar from her waistband and sprinkled 
a little powder into one of the glasses.

On her way around the dance floor toward Leona’s table, someone called to
her over the music. It was old Marv, ready to go again.

She went over to them. “Put that down, baby, and sit with us a minute.”

“I’ve got to work, silly,” she said, but they tugged at her so that she 
had to set the tray down to keep from spilling the drinks. Marv pulled her 
down on his lap and the others went into a huddle around her.

Marvin and another man began twiddling with her nipples through the 
diaphanous blouse. “Hey,” says Marv in a confidential tone, “these guys 
don’t believe me about your pussy. Let ‘em take a look.” She laughed and 
said not now. “Come on, it’ll just take a minute. I got twenty bucks ridin’
on it, and half of that’s got your name on it. ‘Course, I’ll expect a 
discount next time we, uh, get together. How ‘bout it?”

Diane laughed. Everything seemed hilarious and rosy to her tonight. 
“Marv, you’re too much. Okay, what do I have to do?”

He pulled her skirt up and tucked it under her so that all could get a 
good view of her crotch. “Okay, now lean back a little and spread your 
legs—here, put ‘em up on Johnson.” She obeyed. Johnson reached over and 
fluffed up her black bush, and they all cackled with delight. Marv pushed 
his hand away and tried to put his finger into her.

“Hey, wait a minute, Coldfinger!” she protested. :

“Oh, sorry. Been holding my drink,” Marv explains, wiping his hand on a 
napkin.

“Let me prime it a little,” Diane said, putting a finger in her mouth and
rubbing the saliva up and down her slit. “It’s tender, you know.” Then she 
took Marv’s hand and put it between her legs. “Okay, go ahead.”

Now his finger went in and in a few seconds she was slippery as a fish. 
She gave his finger a rippling squeeze. “Yeah! That’s it!” he says, “Come 
on, Johnson, put your hand in there.” After rubbing the juicy lips for a 
moment, Johnson slid three fingers into the crack. Diane clamped down on it
with a giggle.

“Hey… Hey, that’s all right… Hey, let go!” He made a brave effort to 
withdraw his hand, but it was stuck fast. “By God, I can’t pull it out!” 
Everyone laughed wildly and Diane released his fingers. The other three 
took turns getting their hands caught. Then Johnson says, “Okay, Marv, it’s
a snapper, but I’ve seen snappers before. You said she had somethin’ 
different.”

“By God, you dip your dauber in it, you’ll think it’s somethin’ 
different!” Marvin comes back.

“Here, maybe this’ll settle it,” says Diane, taking Johnson’s cigarette 
from his mouth. She shifted her ass a bit to get a little further from the 
table and aimed her cunt right at Johnson. The others huddled in closer. 
She put the cigarette down to her bush, reached out slightly with the lips,
and plucked the butt delicately from her fingers. Then, holding her hands 
above her head, she drew it into her crack till the burning ash almost 
touched hair … and flipped it out right into Johnson’s lap without moving 
her hips.

Johnson leaped up, brushing the ashes off his pants, and everyone cheered
in approval. Marv got his twenty, and he put ten into Diane’s hand, but she
gave it back. She guessed she’d taken old Marv for enough tonight already; 
besides, what did she need with money now?

But the upshot of this little incident was that when Diane picked up the 
tray again and started toward Leona’s table, she couldn’t remember which 
glass she had loaded. Back to the hallway she went, and after pondering the
situation for a minute, she loaded both glasses.

“Well, it’s about time,” Leona said as Diane placed the drinks on the 
table. “What did you do, go out for a trick?”

“Not exactly,” said Diane with a poisonous smile. “Well drink up, girls. 
Say, Peggy, why don’t you show us your stuff?”

“I beg your pardon?” said the redhead, blushing.

“Dance for us. You’re a dancer, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“You’ll see her stuff in good time, Diane. Go on now, customers are 
waiting,” Leona said, dismissing her with a wave of the hand—as if she were
brushing away a fly. Diane only smiled sweetly, curtsied, and walked away.

It began about two hours later. It was not the beginning of the end; it 
had begun years before, centuries, perhaps…

I heard this part two years ago, shortly before we left America. We were 
huddled before a gas heater, wrapped in blankets, in the tiny dismal 
apartment of an obese old man who had taken us in. Outside the tail-end of 
hurricane Hecate was rattling the town with her last whistling blasts. It 
was not the time or the place to tell it—certainly not to me, almost a 
perfect stranger to her at that time—but there was no holding it back; it 
was like an inflammation which had to come out of her. I had read the story
in the newspapers afterwards, but five years had passed since then—and 
besides, the details never became public. For Diane, however, it was all 
still as vivid in her mind as if it had happened yesterday… .

It was Peggy who showed the first signs. Diane saw her giving a couple of
men the eye, but they were leaving. She swung her legs out from under the 
table to give everyone a look at her lacy black panties under the tiny 
skirt. A hungry look was in her roving eye. Leona was getting restless too.
When Diane noticed this she immediately went around to the other side of 
the dance floor and told Sammy to go ask the redhead to dance, which he 
did. The girl had now lost all her shyness; she danced as if she were being
fucked on her feet by an invisible lover. Sam just stood in front of her 
clapping his hands to the tom-tom beat of the music, saying, “Yeah! Go, 
baby!”

As soon as she unzipped her dress down the back everyone stopped dancing 
and gathered around to watch. Doc and Diane moved in close too. Doc stood 
behind Diane as they watched the redhead peel her dress off over her head, 
and Diane felt a hand slip under her arm and cup one of her tits while 
another slid into the slit of her skirt and down between her buttocks, 
emerging at her crotch, the fingertips scratching her curly-haired hump. 
Peggy was shaking her pointed titties like mad and jerking her cunt at 
Sammy’s face—he was down on his knees. Her movements were becoming more and
more frenzied. She didn’t unhook her bra, she grabbed the two lacy black 
cups and tore it apart, flinging it into the crowd. Taking Sammy’s hands 
she placed them on her conical breasts and shuddered with pleasure at the 
touch as he squeezed them and stretched the large baby-pink nipples.

Until now everyone had been clapping and cheering, and the band played 
on. But as soon as the redhead began to slither out of her bikini panties, 
rolling them seductively down her hips, the music faded out—all but the 
drums—and the crowd became strangely quiet. The other musicians came over 
to watch, but the drummer stayed at his traps, beating out an Afro-sexual 
pattern on the tom-toms.

When the girl’s fluffy red bush hove into view and the black panties 
floated to the floor, a deeper hush fell over the crowd. Anyone could tell 
by the expression on her face that she intended to go all the way. Her eyes
were sending a message to Sammy and whoever else was available and 
equipped: Fuck me. It was not a request, it was a demand.

She dropped to her knees with Sammy and pushed him backward, unbuckling 
his belt, ripping his fly open and jerking down his pants. His rock-hard 
penis sprang out, and for a moment she sucked it—but then with a moan of 
need she pulled him over on top of her and spread her legs wide to receive 
him. The red curls in her crotch were wet with secretions and the tight 
pink slit smacked and slurped hungrily as Sammy’s prick sunk into it to the
balls.

There was a hush of wonder over the place; the only sounds were the rush 
of hot breath, the low boom of the love drum, and spreading out across the 
room like cosmic waves radiating from a black star at the crotch of time 
the flesh-and-fluid slip-slop of copulation. Something bizarre and occult 
was happening, and all who were there felt it. It was it was the stroke and
antistroke of Destiny grinding toward culmination in the spaceless tempo of
a blind fuck.

Meanwhile, despite the eerie chill which she shook off with some 
difficulty, Diane’s crack was becoming quite warm and slippery—what with 
the exhibition on the floor and Doc’s caresses. “But I wanted to see what 
Leona was doing,” she said. (Diane was speaking in a strange trance-like 
monotone, hunched forward, staring into the gas jets, as if the truth of 
the matter were somehow there, in the flame.) “Now that I’d gone this far, 
I had to continue. I tried to keep my mind on how she had mistreated me and
how sweet my revenge was going to be.

“As soon as I slipped away from Doc, I saw Bill Dawson and his wife 
standing there like statues, watching Sam and Peggy screwing on the floor. 
Then, all of a sudden, it seemed like his wife came to her senses and 
started tugging on Bill’s arm, pulling him away from the circle. ‘My God, 
we have to stop this!’ she said. Some looked at her, but otherwise paid no 
attention. ‘Where’s Leona?’ she said and started dragging Bill through the 
crowd, looking for her. Dawson and I spotted Leona at the same time. She 
was on the far side of the ring, staring down at the kids. She had a 
strange light in her eyes and her lips were parted. I saw her ass twitching
and knew that the fly was getting to her.

“When Mrs. Dawson came up behind her, Leona turned around and walked with
her out of the crowd. ‘Leo, for God’s sake, you’ve got to break that up!’ 
she says. ‘You never allowed anything like this before. —Leo, don’t you 
feel well?’ And Leona says, ‘I feel fine,’ and then she turns to Bill with 
her eyes all glazed-looking. She gets up real close to him and rubs her 
tits on his chest and says, ‘Let’s fuck, Billy.’ Bill almost falls over; he
doesn’t know what to do. First he puts his hands on her, then he takes them
away—keeps telling Leona to cut it out, his wife’s there and people are 
staring—but Leona keeps it up, she’s getting more and more frantic. I know 
the feeling—you’ve just got to get something in you or you’ll go mad. 
Bill’s wife says—she’s almost screaming now, but screaming in a whisper— 
that horrible hush was still in the room and no one seemed able to break 
it—‘Leo!’ she says, ‘Stop it! What are you doing? Where’s Mike?’ Now 
Leona’s got him backed up against a table by the wall and starting to 
undress and the circle slowly widens out into a big horseshoe so that Peggy
and Sam and Leona and Bill are all in the arena. I saw Spinxly standing 
there with his mouth hanging open, looking from one couple to the other. He
looked rooted to the spot. The girls in the cages weren’t moving, they just
stood up there staring down, fascinated.

“I went over to the woman—Bill’s wife—who was almost hysterical in her 
outrage. She seemed to be afraid to get too close to Leona, kept reaching 
out toward her husband and calling his name, as if to drag him away by 
nothing but will power. I said, ‘Mike’s out of town tonight, Mrs. Dawson. 
Leona has been acting this way lately every time he’s not here.’

” ‘My God, just last, night she was telling us that you were a 
nymphomaniac!’ And I said, ‘Yes m’am, I try to tolerate that. I suppose it 
relieves her guilt feelings to accuse other people of her own vices.’ She 
wanted me to help her but I said there wasn’t anything I could do, and I 
managed to slip away.

“Leona had her blouse off and was getting out of her slacks with jerky 
motions—her panties came off with them. She asked for it. That’s what I 
kept trying to tell myself, but I was wondering now what all this would 
lead to. She threw her bra into the air and it seemed to hang up there in 
the dim light like a black spider or something—” Her voice sank to a 
shuddering whisper: “Horrible!”

It was some time before she could go on. The old man lumbered up with two
more glasses of brandy, and Diane downed hers in one gulp.

Leona managed to rouse Bill Dawson’s sexual instincts despite his 
inhibitions and he didn’t put up much of a struggle when she ripped open 
his pants and tugged them off. His wife could no longer speak; she just 
stood there with her hand over her mouth, horrified, as Leona pulled him to
the floor on top of her and guided his stiff cock into her boiling cunt. 
Some of the couples, intoxicated by the heavy sexual atmosphere, began to 
undress and join those on the floor. The others milled around, going from 
one couple to the other, some only looking, others reaching down and 
squeezing a tit or running their fingers through a lush bush.

By now Sammy had shot his wad and Peggy was taking on one of his friends.
Despite the air-conditioning her body gleamed with sweat. In the sexual 
excitement Diane’s guilt feelings retreated to a far corner of her mind and
she became a purely sexual animal, a wet void, hungry to be filled.

She and Doc found each other in the crowd and without a word stepped into
the arena and began to undress. The drumbeats rolled on, mingling with the 
muted sound of the thunder outside.

Diane removed her sheer blouse and black skirt, and was standing before 
her lover, surrounded by the onlookers, in nothing but high heels, black 
net stockings and the little black elastic garter belt, her fuzzy snatch 
drooling in anticipation—when suddenly a man burst into the circle.

He didn’t take another step, just stopped there, hunched over as if ready
to spring. It was Mo Mullens.

Diane followed his wide-eyed gaze to where Peggy lay spread-eagled on the
floor in a smear of sweat and semen, naked except for her pink and green 
knee-length boots. A new partner had just mounted her; he was holding her 
ass up a little off the floor and was on his knees between her legs, 
jabbing his cock into her lathering red-bushed cunt, while another of 
Sammy’s friends was astraddle her face, his prick sliding smoothly in and 
out of her glistening lips. Diane thought, “So she is Mo’s daughter after 
all,” and profound compassion bit through her erotic desires. Mo seemed to 
tear his eyes away from his daughter with a great effort, and his gaze made
a rapid sightless scan of the room, coming into focus upon Diane with 
deadly precision. His lips formed the word, “You,” though nothing but an 
unearthly noise came from his throat. He turned away; the crowd opened for 
him and he passed through at a shuffling gate, laboriously gaining speed as
if his feet were shod with lead, and in a moment he was gone.

Diane ran to the door and out into the parking lot just as she was. The 
cold rain hit her naked body like an ice bath and a crashing flash of 
lightning lit up Mo’s taxi as it spun crazily out of the driveway and leapt
away into the dark.

As she walked back through the foyer, her hair and skin drenched and 
dripping, she passed Bill Dawson and his wife on the way out. The woman was
sobbing. Bill’s shirt was ripped down the front and his face wore an 
expression of fatigue and numb confusion. He opened his mouth to speak to 
Diane, but no words came, and they passed on out into the rain.

Inside, someone had dragged a table onto the dance floor, and Leona was 
sprawled over it on her back, naked, her legs dangling off the edge, 
twitching, as the man standing between them fucked her vigorously, his 
hands massaging her large brown-nippled breasts. Peggy was still on the 
floor, now on her fourth or fifth partner, surrounded by men and half naked
girls who pawed and pinched and rubbed her taut young body in all its 
delicious places. Diane saw Doc on the floor with two girls in their 
underwear, who were examining his enormous penis with wonder, licking it 
and kissing it. Diane saw him looking around for her, but she couldn’t seem
to muster enough energy to go to him. She felt drained and her brain was 
spinning.

“Then I felt hands on me, pulling me sideways, away from Don. I don’t 
know who they were—just some men, four or five of them. I was wet and cold 
and their hands were warm. I just wanted my mind to dissolve until it was 
over and Don and I were on our way to Europe and a new life… You know, 
James, I’m really very literate. I don’t mean it as a boast, it’s simply a 
fact. I read a lot: I’ve read Goethe and Shakespeare, Nietzche, Oswald 
Spengler and lots of others… .”

This was too much! A whore, an exhibitionist, an orgiast— who had read 
Oswald Spengler! I didn’t really believe that she had read those guys, but 
the mere fact that she had evoked their names irrevocably altered my 
opinion of her. I gulped my brandy and stared with renewed confusion into 
her blue eyes where the flame of the gas heater jumped and danced. In the 
background the old man wheezed laboriously.

“I could have led an intellectual life if I’d wanted to. But sometimes … 
sometimes it’s as if my head is completely empty, numb. The only brain I 
have then is between my legs… . Somewhere—in the South Seas, Micronesia, I 
think—the people have a legend about an Eating Vagina. It was a part of the
boys’ puberty rites to go out in the bush and fight the Eating Vagina. If 
they survived, then they began their life as men. I feel like that 
sometimes, like the Eating Vagina. My mind goes numb, and kindness, reason,
anger, everything fades away, everything except a ravenous hunger between 
my legs… .

“That’s the way I was during the rest of it. One of the men lifted me up 
and put me down on a table. Then they dried me off with a tablecloth. Warm 
hands all over me. The first man stepped up between my legs and I put my 
knees up over his shoulders and he stuck it in. Oh, James, that was all I 
wanted, all I cared about. Leona and Peggy and Mo were all ghosts in some 
other world. I was nothing but Cunt and my only wish was to be fucked. To 
fuck and fuck and fuck until the end of the world.

“I don’t know how many I took on, I just wanted them to keep coming. As 
long as it kept up I didn’t have to think or see what was happening in the 
room. But then someone turned me over and started fucking me from behind, 
and I could see Peggy and Leona. I saw them, but they were still ghosts; 
nothing mattered but the thing going in and out of me. Peggy was still 
screwing away on the floor, same as before, but Leona didn’t have a 
partner. She was spread out on the table and my eyes got stuck on her 
crotch—I couldn’t look away. But still I stayed in my dream world. Her cunt
was all red and dripping white and the bleached hair on it was stringy and 
soaked with juice. It was wide open and gaping… . Once when I was a little 
girl, someone came to the orphanage where I lived and took some of us kids 
down to the river on a fishing trip. I had never had a fishing pole in my 
hands before, but right away I caught a fish—a tiny little fish. It was so 
cute and so frightened … I didn’t know what to do with it. I wanted to put 
it back in the water but no one would help me get the hook out. So I just 
sat there on the bank and watched it gaping until it died. I cried and 
cried… That’s just what Leona’s cunt looked like, like that fish, gasping 
for air… .” Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks, but her gaze 
remained fixed on the flames, her expression unchanged.

“She was propped up on her elbows and calling in a desperate voice for 
someone to come and make love to her. She rubbed her tits and held them up 
for approval and tried to grind her hips seductively. But no one came to 
her. ‘I could see the people talking among themselves, shaking their heads.
I saw disgust on their faces. Most of the watchers ignored her; they were 
looking at me or at Peggy. I guess her age had something to do with it. I 
was looking right into her open hole. I wanted to look away or close my 
eyes but I couldn’t.

“Then someone stepped up and stuck a champagne bottle into her and she 
squealed and laughed hysterically as it went in and out. When the man took 
the bottle out and set it on the table and walked away, Leona took the 
slimy thing and put it back in. She put her feet up on the edge of the 
table and fucked herself with it for a while. Then she said ‘Shit on that!’
and threw it across the room. She got up and started staggering around, 
grabbing things and sticking them in her cunt—bottles and candles, a big 
salt shaker, whatever she could find, always throwing them away and 
swearing at the men who kept backing away from her like she was a leper.

“Finally she got to the bar and climbed on top of it. She squatted up 
there with her legs open and started pulling the biggest bottles she could 
find out from under the counter and ramming them into herself. Then I saw 
her lift something long and black from behind the bar, but just at that 
moment my eyes went out of focus, because someone behind me was gently 
forcing his thing into my other hole. Oh, it felt so good! I like it that 
way… Leona was just a blur then, hunched over, with the long black thing 
going in and out between her legs. Then I felt myself starting to come, and
the man shot off in me, and just for a split second I saw what Leona had—”

The drummer had not let up all this time, and he kept it up right to the 
end, which came when Leona, with a sighing moan of ecstasy and 
satisfaction, slid her thumbs under the stock of the shotgun and pushed 
both triggers.

In the echoing silence which preceded the screaming, Diane remembered 
hearing the drumbeats of thunder rumbling faintly through the ceiling.

PART II

CHAPTER IX

It is a fine morning. The bay is bright and sparkling and alive with 
activity. The little fishing boats are working out to sea, their patched 
sails drawing full, their hulls heeled and bobbing in the fresh breeze. Our
little house is perched high above the bay, nestled among others like it, 
all of them notched into the hillside at crazy angles. My typewriter is set
up at the east window of the bedroom, the panes thrown open so that I can 
hear the women and children of the village chattering and singing on their 
way to the marketplace below. Our own children, Michael and Christine, are 
playing with some of the neighbor kids in the little garden behind the 
house…

It all seems so fresh and alive and far-removed— so much more distant 
than it actually is—from those bizarre events which I am trying to set down
here. Sometimes it seems as if I dreamed the whole thing or that it took 
place in some other world, some other dimension. And yet Diane is real. She
exists. I hear her in the kitchen, making tortillas talking to Maria. And 
she was certainly real last night when we were all three in bed together…

But to get on …

It was a gray day in May and it faded into a gray night. I was walking 
the streets alone, not a friend in the world, no place to go. I was out for
tail frankly, but as usual had no idea where to look for it. Forlorn as my 
condition was, still it was better than going home to my wife. She was 
getting more intolerable every day, and the more fed up with her I became 
the more I became a slave to my perversions. After our nightly fight I 
would storm out of the house and walk the dark streets of our neighborhood,
visiting all the likely windows, hoping for a glimpse of a bare tit or a 
hairy snatch, loathing myself every stealthy step of the way. But once in 
the street, the loather hadn’t a ghost of control over the loathed; my legs
carried me automatically down the dark hedges, over the dewy lawns, under 
the magnetic yellow windows. Ah, those sweet-bodied housewives, those 
school girls with newly sprouting tits and fuzz!—I knew every crease and 
swell of their bodies like the palm of my hand… .

At least here in the neon streets I was not likely to be tempted by an 
open bedroom window. Cunt on the hoof is what I wanted now, but how to go 
about it? Face to face with a woman I was a stuttering boor, bashful as a 
school boy. On top of all this I was fed up to the gills with my job—with 
all jobs. Work in general went against my grain. I was a writer, was I not?
Why did I have to kowtow to all these idiots for a weekly handout? Why had 
I enslaved myself to that bitch who lived in my house, sponging off me? I 
felt my life wasting away and no respite, no escape from any quarter, no 
one to drag me out of it. That I would have to do it myself, that I could 
expect no help from anyone, was a thing I could not yet face. Instead I 
walked the streets, mingled with strangers, drank myself silly, waiting for
a bolt from the blue. Ordinarily, on a night like this I would have 
gravitated to the Jungle Club, but it had been closed since March of last 
year, so when my aimless wanderings took me in view of the Railroad Bar, a 
dive I used to frequent, I ducked in and ordered a beer. They’d hired a new
barmaid since I was there last. She looked to be in her early thirties, a 
Scandinavian-looking thing with long blonde hair swept high and hanging 
down behind in a pony tail. A translucent green dress hugged her slightly 
pendulous tits and broad hips; it was short and beltless, and even in the 
dim light I could see her large dark nipples inside the brief lacy bra and 
(or so I imagined) the dark bulging patch of her bush inside her bikini 
panties. She wore no slip. Her underwear was white and it had an inflaming 
effect on me, glowing through the dark dress.

When she wasn’t busy, she sat on a stool behind the bar some distance 
from me, and once she propped her feet up on one of the rungs of the stool 
and—whether by accident or on purpose—opened her legs just enough for me to
see a tuft of dark tawny hair spilling out one side of the sheer crotch of 
her panties. She raised her arms to arrange her hair and I saw two curly 
sprays of the same color in her armpits. One of her feet slipped casually 
off the rung, pulling her short skirt high and tight across her spread 
thighs, and I got a clear view of her shaggy slit through the sheer nylon. 
I imagined I could even smell the heavy sexual musk of her body… .

Then someone came in and she got off the stool. I could hardly breathe. I
gulped my beer and cursed my timidity.

It was a girl who had come in, and she took a seat at the far end of the 
bar, saying, “Hi, Mom,” to the barmaid. The girl was blonde too and had the
same type of body as her mother—only younger and firmer. Her hair hung 
loose nearly to her waist and she wore a snug minidress of bright yellow 
knit, which bunched up and showed her bare legs all the way up to the hip 
as she sat on the bar stool. The barmaid fixed her a vodka collins and they
talked to each other for a while, but I couldn’t hear them over the 
jukebox.

I was on my fourth beer, unable to drag myself away from the 
blood-boiling scenery—when Fat Joe, the owner of the place, came out from 
the back room. “Hey, Jim,” he says, his great hulk rolling toward me like a
grounded whale. I had known Joe since I was a kid and he knew about my old 
dream of becoming a writer. Tonight, when the hopeless depth of my failure 
was heavy as a mountain on me, Fat Joe was the last person I wanted to chat
with. I mentally kicked myself in the ass for coming into the place. “Long 
time no see,” he goes on, laying a meaty hand on my shoulder, “How in the 
hell are you?”

“Pretty good, Joe. How ‘bout you?”

“Fine, fine, (Cough! Gasp!)”—What had kept the old bastard alive all 
these years was more than I could see—“I got something to show you, m’boy,”
he wheezed. “How you fixed? Broke as usual, I suppose.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Joe, broke as usual,” I said, thinking, Why don’t 
you rub it in, you fat son of a bitch?

“Well, the hell with that. It’s on me tonight.” Whatever the fuck he was 
talking about, I wanted no part of it, but I hadn’t even the balls to tell 
him to leave me alone. “Come on, come on,” he’s demanding in a puffing 
whisper, pulling me off the stool, “Bring your beer with you.”

The first hint I got that he might really have something interesting to 
show me was the knowing grins on the faces of the barmaid and her daughter 
as I passed by them in Joe’s wallowing wake on the way to the door at the 
back of the bar. Inside the dingy hall I saw nothing but the doors to the 
toilets. “What’s the idea, Joe?” I asked with a little irritation.

“Shut up and follow me, boy.” And he lumbers on down the hall to a door I
had assumed was a broom closet.

Following him through it, I was surprised to find on the other side a 
room full of people. The place was dark as hell; the little red-shaded 
lamps on the tables gave off little light, and it was like running an 
obstacle course, trying to follow Fat Joe’s faint hulk dodging ponderously 
through the murk toward the other side of the room. There was, as nearly as
I could make out, a long, upholstered bench or divan all along one wall, 
with small round tables set before it, and it was onto an unoccupied 
portion of this that Joe flopped, pulling me down beside him.

“I just had this rig installed about a month ago. Cost me a pretty penny,
but it’s damn near paid for itself already. I charge a couple bucks to get 
in here and double the price on drinks. Like I say, it’s all on the house 
for you tonight, m’boy, but don’t let on. The only thing is, I gotta be 
careful who I let in. All these people are hand-picked. Spinxly’s gettin’ 
his, but the son of a bitch’ll cut your throat if somebody makes it hot for
him. I know you won’t say nothin’…”

“About what, Joe?” I asked sincerely.

“That’s my boy.” He misunderstood me. “Now just watch the tube. What time
is it?… Eight o’clock. (Kaff! Choke! Wheeze!) Should be startin’ right 
now.”

I looked where he pointed and saw a large television set on a high 
platform against the opposite wall. I’d seen it when I sat down, but paid 
no attention. TV frankly disgusted me and I had no wish to sit here in the 
dark and watch a stupid horse race or prize fight or whatever drivel he was
having piped in. I thought of that fuzzy crack outside and tried to think 
of some excuse to go back to the bar.

But before anything came to me, an image flickered to life on the large 
screen. It must have

been a forty-eight incher at least… .

NANCY

it read. Then the title disappeared and a large swanky-looking bedroom 
came into view—in full color. There was no one in it, just a large round 
bed and nightstand, lace-draped windows, a dressing table, and so forth. 
The camera looked down on the interior from a rather high angle with the 
bed in the center of the picture.

There was the sound of voices and then the door opened. A slim young girl
with swirling ash brown hair entered, followed by a tall Negro man in 
casual Africanized clothes. A brass amulet hung on a chain around his neck 
and a small gold ring gleamed in his right earlobe. He had a look of 
primitive royalty about him, like a Bantu king.

Through the open door came sounds of talk and laughter and the clink of 
ice cubes, as if a party were in progress. The man closed the door and the 
girl slipped into his encircling arms. He inclined his head and she stood 
on tiptoe and their mouths clamped together in a fiery kiss. She ran her 
tongue all around his lips and her hands cupped his small strong buttocks, 
squeezing them and pressing his pelvis to hers with passionate urgency. She
was wearing a black low-cut party dress, and the long black spidery fingers
of her lover found the zipper tab at the nape of her neck and drew it down.
She stood back from him a few feet and let the dress fall down off her 
upper body. She wore no bra and her small but perfectly formed breasts 
swelled out creamy white against the light bronze of her torso. The man 
reached out and rolled each of her firm rosy nipples between his fingers 
until she moaned and quivered under his touch. She wiggled her hips and the
dress fell to the floor where she kicked it away with her bare foot. She 
had no panties on, and her flat belly was as white as her tits.

While the man undressed, she went to the large bed and stretched out on 
her back, spreading her legs. The camera was now looking straight into her 
sweet little pussy. The small, thin triangle of down which grew on its 
upper hump narrowed downward to two outward-swirling rows of dark brown 
hair growing along the length of the tender young lips… .

Suddenly it came to me that I was watching this on television!

“Joe, what the hell is this?” I whispered.

“Hee, hee, hee! (—hack! hack! hack!—)” He wheezed, puffed, blew and 
spouted like Moby Dick. “Better’n you thought it was gonna be, eh? The gal 
knows she’s on camera but the stud don’t. It’s live too, happening right 
now—‘cept I don’t know where that place is. If I did I might go put on a 
little show m’self. Hee, hee, hee—(Cough!) That’s just one of ‘em, they got
five or six places hooked up so far. Guy named Patterson—”

But I couldn’t even concentrate on the answer to my own question. The 
Bantu king, now naked, was bending over the slim girl spread out on the 
silk sheets. With one long black finger he was opening the lips of her 
cunt, rolling his hand to spread the moisture over the outer folds. Her 
moans and squeaks were clearly audible and her crotch was getting slicker 
and juicier with every caress of the finger. Then he lowered his face and 
put his tongue where his finger had been, and when he came up for air her 
hair-lined slit was parted and bubbling with creamy foam… .

At a signal from Joe the waitress brought me another beer. She leaned 
over and said something to him. “Sure thing, honey, you run along. Send 
Ursa in, will you, I’ll be right out.”

…The lion-killer of Uganda was crawling over the white, writhing form of 
his willing prey, tickling her hump-backed twat with the point of his 
spear. I saw her reach out with one foot and touch something on the 
nightstand with her toe, and immediately another camera cut in—apparently 
it was concealed in the wall near the door—giving us a profile view.

The broad lips of the black man, still frothed with cunt-foam, had a 
savage strength to them, as though they had once suckled at the teats of 
the she-wolf, and now they parted and engulfed the entire left breast of 
the pale girl beneath him. She was panting and twitching as he devoured 
her, and she reached down for his great black penis, rubbing her stiff, 
fuzz-bordered clitoris with its heavy, leaking head at a furious, vibrating
rhythm, her other hand creeping delicately up along the crease between his 
gleaming buttocks, tickling his anus with her fingernails. When he lifted 
his face from her chest, the small swelling hemisphere of her left breast 
was glistening with saliva, and the rock-hard nipple, formerly of a rosy 
hue, was now livid scarlet and standing bolt upright like a turret of nerve
ends, as though distended and distorted from the suction. Then he fed at 
her other breast and when he raised his face again her entire bosom was wet
with drool. She brought her hand up from his anus and smeared the slick 
saliva over her upper chest and down over her ribs and belly until her 
fingers entered the hairy spring at her crotch where the black beast 
nuzzled the fissure; there she gathered fresh ointment for her burning skin
and spread it over her belly and upward, mixing it thoroughly with the 
drool, and the waters from two springs mingled in a glistening sheath over 
the naked rippling surface of her white-hot body… .

At this point a bolt of yellow light from the doorway shot across the 
dark room where I sat, breaking my sexual trance. Two women came in and 
shut the door behind them. It was the barmaid and her daughter. The girl 
sat down on the long divan on the other side of Fat Joe, and the older 
woman came up and spoke to him, leaning on our table and cocking one hip.

“I’ll take care of the outside for a while, Ursa. You hold it down in 
here. Oh—(Caff! Wheeze!)— Ursa, this here’s my friend Jim—”

“Hi, Ursa.”

“Hi, Jim. That’s my daughter Ellie.”

“Hi, Ellie.” The girl smiled and waved over the mountain that sat between
us.

“Ursa, I want you to keep my boy’s glass full, y’hear? I’ll pick up the 
tab.” With a puff and a gasp he hoists himself to his feet. “Now, relax and
enjoy the show, Jimmie. I’ll see you later.” And off he lumbers.

Ursa went about waiting on the tables, the soft round cheeks of her ass 
rising and falling seductively as she walked. Even in the gloom I could see
her brief white bra and panties moving inside her translucent dress. On the
screen the lanky black man was getting his chest and belly all slimy, 
rubbing his body up and down the drippy-slick frontside of the white girl, 
his ass going back and up, forward and down, his long stiff prick making 
phosphorescent furrows in the drool between her navel and her bush. The toe
reached out again and the first camera cut in, giving us a spectacular view
of black balls in a tight scrotum and pink twitching cunt-flesh. I glanced 
to my right at Ellie, who returned my look with a smile. Her legs were 
crossed and her short knit skirt was nearly up to her ass. Her arms were 
stretched out along the back of the couch, a cigarette glowing between her 
fingers, and the thin yellow knot was stretched tightly over and under her 
heavy but jutting young tits. It was nerve-racking; I didn’t know which way
to turn.

But since our eyes had met, I felt compelled to speak to Ellie. “Beats Ed
Sullivan, doesn’t it?” But my voice must have been too low. She leaned 
toward me.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“I say, it beats Ed Sullivan, doesn’t it?” I repeated, sliding closer to 
her.

“Oh, brother! Beats him all to hell.” Her voice sounded much younger than
her body development indicated, and I got a little uneasy. “Look at that!” 
she whispered moving closer. She had a clean soap-and-cologne smell to her.

The black warrior had the white nymph’s ass propped up on two pink silk 
pillows and was just addressing her palpitating love-hole with his black 
ram. He was on his knees between her uplifted legs (we were getting the 
profile view now), his body erect, guiding his club-headed prick expertly 
into the foaming gulley between the two arched hedgerows of auburn 
ringlets. She was so thoroughly lubricated and dilated by now that on the 
first stroke he drove home without a hitch. You could see the muscles in 
her steeply inclined body tense and ripple as the long thing went in and 
out of her, sinking to its bristling roots on each plunge. The small 
half-globes of her tits fluttered with a gelatin jiggle, and she squirmed 
under his savage siege like an eel on a spit. His lanky, jet black fingers 
gripped her hips with steely firmness, nearly encircling her, gleaming 
darkly like a raven’s wing against the snow-white softness of her slim 
buttocks, as he raised and lowered her midsection in rhythm with his jabs… 
.

“Did you ever fuck a colored woman, Jim?”

This brazen question in a child’s whisper, breathed right into my ear, 
jolted the shit out of me!—but I managed to keep my cool. “I, uh—yeah, one 
time … when I was a kid.”

“Was it good?” She was very close to me now, and she laid her hot hand 
casually on my leg. I looked down into her blue eyes with the colored light
from the big tube flickering in the pale blue irises.

“Sure it was good.” I covered her hand with mine. “It’s all good, Ellie.”

“I know,” she said, as if she were talking to a lifelong girl friend, 
“but I want to get fucked by a black guy sometime.” She looked back at the 
television. The girl’s legs were wrapped around the man’s neck now, and he 
was holding her ass up completely off the pillows and thrusting his dark, 
cream-smeared pole into her at an incredible tempo, like a grunting black 
jackhammer destroying a pavement of white marble… . “Like now!” Ellie 
breathed, pressing my hand to her hot upper thigh.

The electric goosepimples dancing under my palm and up her downy leg made
me forget how young she was. I put my other arm around her shoulders, 
letting my hand hang in front of her right tit—just brushing it. I nuzzled 
her long straw-silky hair with my nose, brushing her cheek and earlobe with
the tip of my tongue. “But I’m not black,” I said in her ear.

“So what?” she replied, breathing heavily, “It’s all good, remember?” And
with that she shoved my left hand up her inner thigh, hard against her hot 
cushion of springy hair and puffy girl-flesh covered in black lace. 
Automatically I grabbed her tit with my other hand and squeezed it—it was a
good handful!—then slid my fingers down into her deep-scoop neckline, down 
into the warm deep crease between those swelling young melons… .

“Oh, look!” she said, “They’re coming!”

The black man was hunched over Nancy now, both their bodies lurching and 
flailing in the turbulence of a perfect orgasm. The girl’s head hung back 
off the edge of the bed, her mouth open, her eyes rolled up in a sightless 
ecstasy, and you could almost hear the jets of semen pounding furiously 
against the inner doors of her body… .

My fingers slipped easily into the right cup of El-lie’s black bra and 
down over the upper swell of her pushed-up titty, touching her 
puffy-fleshed, button-tipped nipple at the same time that my other hand 
forced entry into one leg-hole of her panties and crept into the crisp 
tangle of cunt hair on her plump little mound, while her own hands were 
busy at my fly, fumbling with the zipper—

I looked up just in time to see Mama enter the room!

I jerked my hands out of her underwear, knocked her paws from my crotch, 
and grabbed for my beer mug, nearly knocking it over.

“Enjoying the show?” asked Ursa, setting a fresh beer on the table, along
with another vodka coffins for Ellie.

“Y-yes,—thanks,” I stammered. It’s a good thing it was dark, because my 
face must have been red as an apple. Ellie just picked up her cigarette and
took a pouting drag on it, sitting up straight and folding her arms.

Just as Ursa’s ass went twisting away into the gloom, the door opened and
a man came in, threading his way through the little tables, looking for an 
empty seat. For some reason there was now a kind of rift between us—Ellie 
and me—and I was just about to set about closing it, mama or no mama, when 
this bastard of a newcomer feels his way up to the long sofa on the other 
side of Ellie. He leans over her and says, “This seat taken?” She said it 
wasn’t. Her voice was too friendly. She was ignoring me; she even edged 
away from me a little—or so I imagined. “Damn it,” he goes on, sitting down
beside her, “looks like I missed the climax.”

On the screen the two lovers were flaked out on their backs beside each 
other, panting and sighing.

“Yeah,” Ellie answered, “It was a good one too!”

“I’ll bet. I’m Steve, who are you?”

“Ellie. There’ll be more, Steve.”

“More?”

“Climaxes.”

“Oh, yeah, I know. I’ve been here before. First time I’ve seen you, 
though.”

(I’m burning up, listening to this shit! God, how I needed that pussy! 
But what the hell was I supposed to do?)

“This is only the second time I’ve been here. That’s my mother over 
there; she just started working here day before yesterday?’

“Wow. Your old lady’s stacked, Ellie. Almost as nice as you…” She thanked
him with a throaty giggle. “Say, Ellie,” he-says quietly, slipping his arm 
around her, “why don’t you and me start up a little climax of our own?” She
offers no resistance, leaning into his embrace, lifting her face to his. 
She murmured something to him and he murmured something to her, and I saw 
his hand slide down from her knee, shoving the little skirt down her raised
thigh as she uncrossed her legs to allow his paw to slip between them. 
Their mouths met and his other hand dived into the low front of her dress. 
I could see it moving inside the yellow knit, brutally kneading her left 
tit. The little slut!

Goddamn! I thought, If I had any bread I could find a whore… . I wonder 
what her mother would have done if I’d held onto the girl…Why do I always 
fuck everything up?…

One of these questions was about to be answered for me.

While I sat there fuming, gulping down the cold draft, I tried to 
concentrate on the television and keep my eyes off the two intertwined 
bodies on the seat beside me. On the screen another man came into the 
room—a white man—and stood beside the bed where Nancy’s head hung. He was 
naked and he straddled her face and swung his dangly balls across her face.
Then he leaned over her in a push-up position—except his feet were on the 
floor and his hands on the bed—and put his head between her juicy legs and 
his cock into her mouth, and they ate each other while the Negro lay there 
beside them, playing with the girl’s tits. Then his own prick got stiff 
again—the Negro’s—and he straddled Nancy’s sperm-smeared face, facing away 
from the bed, and she took his black cannon into her mouth while the other 
guy propped her butt up again and fucked her till she dropped like a wilted
lily.

But now I couldn’t keep my mind on it. A real flesh-and-blood cunt had 
been right at my fingertips, ready and willing, and somehow I had bungled 
it. Should I leave or should I stay? It was humiliating to sit here beside 
those two. I wondered if anyone had noticed her switch.

In the midst of these disgruntled musings I looked up to see Ursa coming 
toward me. I started to tap Ellie on the shoulder to warn her, but when I 
saw her condition of undress I realized it was hopeless. The back of her 
dress was unzipped and the sleeve nearest me pulled down to her elbow, 
revealing her right tit in its lacy black half-cup, the bra strap also 
dropping down her arm. Her skirt was pulled up to her waist, legs parted 
wide, and her hips were doing a rolling grind, slowly and obscenely, to the
rhythm of his hand which was plunged deep into the front of her black 
panties; from the bulging outline of his hand inside the lacy crotch I 
guessed that he had at least two fingers sunk to the knuckles in her twat. 
Even as Ellie’s mother approached, Steve jerked the bra down off her left 
breast, slid his lips off her open mouth, down her neck, her shoulder, 
along the heaving swell of her upper chest, leaving a flickering 
snail-trail of polychrome slobber all the way down to the rosy-dark nipple 
which he sucked up like a famished leech. Neither of them saw Ursa—or 
anything else, it seemed.

Well, good, I thought. Serves her right. Here comes Mama, daughter dear. 
The shit, in the words of the sage, is about to hit the fan. Hi ho, 
Steverino! …

But of course nothing hit anything. Ursa came up with another beer for 
me, paying no attention to her daughter. She leaned over the table, one of 
her large free-swinging tits almost plopping into my beer mug, and said in 
a low voice, “You lose?”

“Huh?” I came back cleverly.

“Her,” she said, tossing her head in the lovers’ direction.

“Oh! Well—yeah, I guess so.”

“Ah, the little whore’s as fickle as a fish. Don’t feel bad.” She 
straightened up and picked up Ellie’s glass. Then she looked back at me and
whispered—so as not to disturb the son of a bitch, I suppose—“What’s he 
drinking?” (Now how in the fuck should I know?)

“I don’t know,” I said. “Milk, from the looks of it.”

She laughed silently and thumbed old Stevo on the head.

His mouth came off Elbe’s nipple with a wet pop. “Huh?” he says, looking 
around.

“What are you drinking, lover boy?” Ursa asked with a grin.

“Oh, a whiskey sour, please,” he says without taking his hand out of 
Ellie’s pants, and immediately turns his back on Ursa, yanks down the other
cup of the bra and clamps his sucker to the other nipple.

Well, there I was again: James Coriss, idiot first class, earns his 
zillionth Medal of Cowardice. I could have raped the little slut on the 
floor and her mom would have been the first to applaud. Balls!

Just as Ursa was turning to go, a sudden inspiration came over me. “Hey, 
Ursa,” I called softly.

She came back. “Yeah, Jim?”

“Listen, why don’t you and I—”

“Aw, I’m sorry, Jim,” she cut in. Sounded as if she were soothing a 
disappointed child. “I’ve got a date right after work.” .

“Oh.” She didn’t even say some other time. Damn it, I should have said 
that. How in the hell could I have taken her out anyway with no money? Oh, 
fuck it!

But just as I was getting up to leave, I saw something on the TV screen 
that made me sit back and forget about Ursa and Ellie both.

The three orgiasts were stretched out on the round bed, resting up 
between orgasms, when the door opens and in steps a beautiful, voluptuous 
young girl with golden skin and long ash blonde hair. Even with her new 
hair color I recognized her immediately: it was Diane, the girl I had 
watched that night at the Jungle Club!

She called back through the open door, “Hey, look everybody! Three 
corpses in the bedroom,” and with that went straight to the bed and crawled
in beside the limp King of the Zulus. She was barefooted and dressed only 
in transparent pink bra and panties. A title in red letters flashed 
momentarily on the screen:

LINDA

So, I thought, she’s changed her name too. As she bounced into bed, she 
touched the little box on the nightstand, activating the second camera.

People began coming into the room, talking and laughing—about five 
couples, I guess. They were all in their underwear—the young men in jockey 
shorts or drawers and the girls in lacy brief bras and panties—white, pink,
black and even red. Somebody brought some chairs in and they all gathered 
around the bed, some sitting, some standing. The girls were all beauties 
with tits of all sizes and shapes, but my eyes were glued to Diane.

She positioned herself so that the camera was trained straight up her 
parted thighs. She had bleached her cunt hair too, and her luxuriant fuzzy 
bush spilled out from the edges of the narrow pink crotch of her panties, 
her dark slit opening and closing inside the thin material. She began 
playing with the black man’s limp prick, and in a moment it began to swell 
and lift its head.

“Hey, this one’s still alive!” she sang out, and took his growing member 
in her mouth, her long silvery hair spilling over his rippling black belly 
and thighs.

“Suck it, baby!” urged one of the men. A girl answered while unhooking 
her bra, her two big pink-nippled jugs springing free, straight into the 
hands of her boy friend, “Yeah, eat it up, Linda!”

She did.

And while she bent over him, her head bobbing, he reached for the bra 
hook at her back and released it. She pulled it off her arms without 
missing a stroke, and one of the girls stepped up to the bed, saying, “Let 
me give you a hand, honey. I don’t think you’ll be needing these,” tugging 
Diane’s panties down off her hips and fitting them over the head of the 
naked white man on the bed. He looked up at the girl wearily through the 
pink seat of the pants, his nose right in the damp crotch, and everyone 
laughed hysterically.

Diane was on her hands and knees now between the warrior’s legs, her 
hindquarters spread before us in the center of the screen. As she pumped 
and rolled his cock in her mouth, he reached out with his long wiry arms 
and the black spidery hands crept up to her furry blonde snatch from two 
directions—one crawled down between the parted cheeks of her white-gold ass
and the other slid up from her belly. With the middle finger of each hand 
he tickled and stroked the shaggy lips of her cunt and the juice began to 
flow. Then both fingers went in, exploring her secret cave… .

If I had had only this view of Diane, still I would have recognized her 
at a glance. Because now that wonderful box began to clutch and grasp at 
the black fingers between them. If you ever saw that cunt—just once!—you’d 
know what I mean; surely there is none to equal it the world over. It’s her
birthmark, so to speak.

(She was standing behind me, watching me type the above lines, and now 
she’s brought a chair over beside mine, stood up on it, lifted her skirt, 
and she’s snapping and pulling at my ear with her prehensile pussy! — what 
a pest!— Maria looking on, laughing her ass off, kids running all over the 
place, the whole town probably watching through the window—makes no 
difference to my Diane—)

Now where was I? Ah yes.

Well, before long Diane was astraddle the black giant, giving him the 
fucking of his life, battering his face with her heavy, swinging tits and 
devouring his cock with the amazing lips and jaws of her lower mouth. This 
was his third orgasm in a little over an hour, but he came so copiously in 
her that, before he had finished, some of it came gushing back out in 
streaming dollops and caught in the wet wiry hair around his balls. Cheers 
went up from the onlookers.

Diane dismounted, and rolled over beside him on her back. She lifted one 
leg high, and slowly, dramatically it seemed, traced an arc through the air
with her pointed toe. When the toe came down lightly onto the nightstand, 
the screen went blank.

There was more: four other rooms, five more different girls. At the end 
of Diane’s bit, I looked over at Ellie and Steve to see the son of a bitch 
kneeling on the floor between her legs, which were spread open and propped 
up on the table, lapping her cunt like a dog. Her pants were on the table 
between their glasses, and the rest of her clothes were bunched up around 
her waist. While he ate her he was twiddling with her naked nipples. You 
could hear his slurping all over the room. I was disgusted. Not with them, 
mind you—with myself.

Steve and Ellie left after a while—for more private surroundings, no 
doubt—but old Jim stayed through it all, right to the bloody end. Out in 
the street again, the gray dawn was reluctantly thinning out the gray 
night. I could hardly walk, my nuts were so swollen.

CHAPTER X

One year later—almost to the day—quite by accident, I met Diane in the 
flesh. For the first time our bodies touched, perhaps our souls also. We 
were like two lost night birds from opposite ends of the earth, meeting 
momentarily in the stratosphere for a blind fuck, and flying on. I say by 
accident, but it seems rather like we were following some precise 
timetable, a cosmic agenda, fixed and immutable.

From the moment I first saw her, that day at the bus station, a clock 
lodged in some dark corner of my unconscious began to tick, a time bomb set
to go off five years hence at a time when the turbulence of natural 
phenomena would rise to match and conjoin with that of the psychic; that is
to say, in the midst of hurricane Hecate, the worst storm to hit Florida in
two decades.

There was within me some spiritual lack, some unnamable void into which 
my inborn strength and courage leaked and was neutralized. It was this 
internal leak that had made me the gutless, perverted failure that I was; 
and after this night I’m about to describe, I knew that this girl, this 
Diane, who had since my childhood been enflaming and torturing my mind and 
body—first in dreams, now in the flesh—this lewd, shameless, corrupt, 
beautiful apparition who in her everyday life acted out my wildest sexual 
fantasies—knew then that she was in some way the very embodiment of that 
lack, that missing part, taken from me at childhood by a guilt-ridden 
mother. From that night on I was drawn to her by a kind of circumlocutious,
lethargic persistence, like a walking cloud of unformed cosmic dust, the 
debris of a once green and fertile planet drifting imperceptibly through 
space on an inexorable trajectory toward an obscene black sun in a galaxy 
of antimatter.

I was in the street again. This time over on the beach side. It was late,
after midnight, I think. In the middle of the fuck show at Fat Joe’s I had 
suddenly been overcome by a sort of claustrophobic depression, a craving 
for a breath of fresh air. I was on foot tonight, because my wife had 
hidden the car keys, so I struck out through the deserted streets in the 
general direction of the sea.

As for Ursa and Ellie, I never did get into their pants. Every time I 
showed up they were busy or with somebody else, but finally one night Fat 
Joe—out of pity, I guess—said he’d fix it up for me with Ursa. It was all 
set for the following week, Wednesday night, ten o’clock. I was not above 
charity, or any other means, if it would get me in bed with that lascivious
she-goat. The week crawled by, supercharged with growing anticipation, but 
when

Wednesday came at last, it seemed Ursa had quit— gone to Miami with an 
old lover who had turned up unexpectedly—and I never saw her or her 
daughter again.

Still I kept going to the Railroad Bar, since it kept me away from 
windows and I could always count on Fat Joe for a handout. But tonight I 
was sick of the place. There were no women there, just a bunch of 
washed-out creeps come to watch somebody else fuck, since they couldn’t get
any themselves. I even saw one of them over at a comer table jacking off. 
The sickening thought that I was becoming a member of that motley crew was 
probably what triggered my sudden need for air.

The surf was up, black and loud, and the salt spray made smoky halos 
around the stars. I was walking north away from the pier, along the 
seawall, when I saw her. She was seated on the wall, facing the street, 
just inside the yellow light of a street lamp, with her feet on a park 
bench. She was leaning back, her hands on the seaward edge of the broad 
wall, so that even at a considerable distance I could see the spectacular 
profile of her tits jutting out in silhouette against the darkness beyond. 
Her long blonde hair looked wild and barbaric as it blew out in disarray, 
hiding her face, whipping in the stiff wind off the ocean.

As I got closer, I saw that she was not dressed for the street. She had 
on a blue pleated shorty nightgown held up with little silk ribbons tied in
bows at the shoulders; it was of the sheerest chiffon and it fell loose, 
ending just below her hips in a wavy ruffle. I was not more than ten paces 
from her when she lifted this ruffle and scratched the left cheek of her 
ass with a pale fingernail. There was nothing underneath; nothing but naked
golden skin. My heart was beating in my throat. Surely she had seen me by 
now… .

The thin chiffon was stretched tightly across

those fantastic tits and I saw the large nipples glowing darkly, their 
button-like knobs straining stiffly against the blue veil… . Good God! 
Could this be … her? The tits were the same—and the legs, the hair … It 
would be just like her to be sitting out here on a public street, half 
naked. Still, I couldn’t be sure; it had been months since I’d seen her on 
the tube at Fat Joe’s.

As I feverishly pondered this question, I suddenly became conscious of 
the fact that it was important to me that it be that girl, and not just any
girl. It was the first time I had realized what a deep impression she had 
made on me. At that moment—I was practically on top of her

now—she tossed her hair from her face and looked

up at me. It was her. Her eyes looked red, as if she’d

been crying. I shook off a welling paralysis, a frightened inertia which 
would have carried me past her—and said, “Hi.”

She smiled—a strange smile, wanton, rebellious, and at the same time … 
absent, pitiful maybe—but said nothing. Of course she didn’t know me from 
Adam. She threw her head back again, closing her eyes, and the wind took 
her long thick hair in a salty gust. I sat down on the bench beside her, my
blood beating louder than the surf, but no words came to my mouth. I just 
looked at her, drank in the closeness of her, the sweet smell of her, the 
smell of erotic, brazen sex. The distance—the “safe” distance, I might 
say—that had always separated us up until now—the street, the window 
screen, the TV tube—had abruptly fallen away without warning. Here she was:
within actual reach of my hand. I have no words to describe the impact this
simple fact had on me.

She paid no attention to me at first—acted as if I weren’t there. The 
ruffled hem of her tunic fluttered and flapped about her bare hips, and in 
the yellow lamp light I could see the outlines of her midriff through the 
gossamer pleating, as well as the soft, curved undersides of her tits. 
After a few moments, which seemed like hours, she opened her eyes and 
looked down at me.

“Hi,” she said, “I need something.”

“So do I,” I heard myself answer.

“I need it now. Here.”

“Yes. I know,” said the voice.

She slid along the wall until she sat directly in front of me, placing a 
bare foot on the bench on either side of me and raising up to jerk the 
skirt of the nightie out from under her ass, the bare cheeks settling down 
again on the damp stone, plump and golden. And there, right before my face,
was that beautiful hairy cunt, oozing and smacking in the lamplight. She 
had let her bush grow out since I saw her last on TV; it was now in its 
natural state, jet-black. I watched the goose pimples run down her inner 
thighs, and ran my fingers along them until I touched the first dark 
ringlets at the borders of that infernal paradise. The thing parted its 
lips and snapped at my fingers, but I pulled back, teasing it.

I reached up and pinched her big puffy nipples through the taut chiffon, 
and as I rolled them back and forth they grew and hardened between my 
fingers. Looking down at her swelling chest she smiled and shook her 
shoulders, making her tits swing and jiggle in my grasp like live things, 
wild and begging for freedom.

Dropping one hand, I ran a finger along the slippery lips of her cunt and
she started breathing heavier, her thighs opening wider. I finger-fucked 
her faster and faster until her slit began to slobber and bubble with hot 
juice. Then I palmed her mound and rubbed the foam and froth into the dense
curls, and she began to grunt with pleasure… .

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement down the sidewalk, and 
looked up to see a young couple strolling hand in hand toward us.

“Someone coming,” I said.

“Good,” she panted, untying one of the bows at her shoulder. I nodded and
loosed the other one. Together we tugged the top of the tunic down off her 
jugs, and they popped out into the light like two pink-tipped moons. She 
raised her arms above her head and shook those heavy globes till they swung
and bounced and collided, and when the boy and girl were only a few feet 
from us, she said in an obscene and quite audible voice, “Eat me, honey!”

I did just that. I put my face between her soft thighs and lapped up that
sweet hot honey like a pig at the trough. God, it was good! I grabbed her 
tits and drove my tongue in as far as it would go. Once she put the grip on
it and I thought I would pass out before she let go; my nose was buried in 
her thick shag, so that I couldn’t breathe. But it was ecstasy! I came up 
gasping and went back for more. Her gash was boiling now with white foam 
like the surf crashing on the beach below us, and I wallowed my face in it,
I swallowed it, I breathed it, it was in my eyes, my nose, my ears! I took 
handfuls of it and smeared it over her boobs, and she put her own hands on 
them and spread it around—I could hear her laughing somewhere up there… .

When she came it was like nothing I had ever experienced; it was an 
orgasm like a seismic upheaval, a mockery of the natural polarity of the 
sexes. Something jetted all over my face and down my throat with terrific 
force. It was scalding hot, but I gulped it down, savoring every drop, and 
kept it up until the eruption died in convulsive vaginal twitches.

When I came up for air, her head was thrown back, her hands behind her on
the wall. She was breathing hard and with every breath those great 
glistening tits would fall and rise like the tide.

The kids had seen it all. They were sitting on the next bench, out of the
light, watching and giggling.

“Oh, thank you!” panted Diane, “Thank you! God, how I needed it!” She 
stood up and the blue nightie floated to the ground, leaving her naked and 
gleaming, her breasts casting great, moving shadows in the yellow light. A 
car came toward us down the street, and she crouched down between my legs 
as it passed by. “Might have been a cop,” she said with a giggle. Then the 
giggle died and she added, “Or else—” but she didn’t finish the sentence. 
“Here,” she said, smiling again and reaching for my fly, let me repay you, 
kind sir.”

I had such a hard-on by this time, that when she unzipped me it sprang 
out like a freed weasel. She tugged my pants down to my ankles and wrapped 
my cock in her silky hair, tickling my balls. After a bit she unwrapped it 
and, down on her knees now, stark naked, between my legs, began licking it 
like a cat, lapping up the clear fluid flowing freely out the end. Then she
took it in her mouth, her hot lips sliding up and down at just the right 
tempo, her tongue stroking and trilling over just the right places. And 
what a tongue she had! (Has!)

I got a good hand-hold on each tit and shot a load into her that would 
have choked a horse. But she took it all, sucking out the last drop.

When I was drained, she lifted her face to mine and we kissed, the waters
of four mouths mingling in our cheeks, the steaming rivers of the four 
corners of the earth flowing into the divine sea at the center of the 
universe.

After we had rested, she stood up in the full glare of the street lamp 
and stretched her naked body before me. Her cunt hair was still full of 
froth and I reached out and lathered it up, spreading it over her rounded 
“Arabian” belly. She put her palms to my mouth and I kissed them until they
were well watered, and she lifted her hands and doused her breasts with the
two pools of saliva, rubbing it over them until they gleamed like white, 
polished brass. It was more than I could take. There was something about 
her that would increase the virility of a eunuch. I took her by the waist 
and lifted her up onto the wall, my cock alive again and jumping at her 
crotch like a mongoose. I put her legs over my shoulders, oblivious to 
everything, and when I threw it into her she moaned with reborn pleasure.

That hour on the seawall was a turning point in my life. I would have 
been content to crawl headfirst into that magic cunt, then and there, and 
dissolve like an aspirin.

Afterwards, my passion gone, my perverse delight in displaying Diane’s 
salacious charms and talents to the young couple on the next bench and 
whoever else might be looking likewise disappeared, and I became 
embarrassed and fully aware of our exposed position. I hastily pulled up my
pants and hugged Diane to me to cover her nudity. The little nightie had 
fluttered away in the breeze and lay some yards down the wall. I suppose 
the kids decided the fun was over and after a while they got up and walked 
away. I was just about to suggest that we move out of the light, when the 
black limousine pulled up to the curb and stopped.

Before I could think what to do, a tall man with a haggard hawkish face 
got out and grabbed Diane roughly by the arm, jerking her to her feet. “Let
go of me, you Son of a bitch!” she cried, struggling fiercely as he dragged
her toward the car. Hardly knowing what I was doing, I vaulted over the 
bench, grabbed the man by the shoulder, spun him around and slammed my fist
into his face with all my strength.

This giant-killing blow didn’t even faze him. His head only snapped to 
the side for a second. When I focused on him again, ready for another 
swing, he was just standing there calmly, smiling down at me. It was a cold
smile; there was something demonic, fanatical, about it. Diane was cringing
against the car, sobbing.

“Take it easy, old buddy,” says the man. He looked much older than Diane.
“I’m not a rapist— though if I wanted to call you one I could make it 
stick, believe me. This woman is my wife. She’s also the mother of my two 
children. It’d be hard for the kids if a thing like this was hung on their 
mother’s name. I’m sure you understand.” I said nothing, as he reached into
his pocket. His face looked vaguely familiar, but my brain wouldn’t 
function. A half-formed dream of escape, of hope, was being shattered in 
the seed by these shocking, cold, threatening words.

“Here y’go, old buddy,” he continued, stuffing some bills into my shirt 
pocket, “I know you wouldn’t try for a repeat performance, or anything 
stupid like that, right? Better take care of that hand, old buddy.” And 
with that he turns his back on me, opens the rear door for Diane and climbs
in behind her.

Not until they were gone did I notice the pain in my left hand. He must 
have felt my knuckle shatter on his cheekbone. I could have taken the 
twenty bucks and tied on a three-day drunk, but it didn’t occur to me. 
Instead I went down on the beach and walked for miles along the upwash line
of the booming surf, rubbing the pleated chiffon of the little blue tunic 
between the fingers of my good hand and reveling in the throbbing pain in 
the other one. At last I had begun to suffer!

Here is what had happened… .

Somehow—she has never remembered how or precisely why—Diane got out of 
the Jungle Club that night before the cops burst in. As she ran blindly 
through the dark, the sharp-twigged scrub oaks and thorn vines scratching 
and clutching at her naked body, she heard the ghastly howls of the police 
sirens growing louder and louder behind her. But it was not an escape from 
arrest and punishment; it was an instinctive headlong flight from horror, 
from memory. It was the escape from the self, the desperate dash on the 
treadmill, which only takes us deeper into the trap.

She ran west, away from the highway junction, across the tracks and into 
a large deserted area littered with junked cars. On the other side of the 
junk yard she came out on a high sand ridge, dotted with ancient, gnarled 
scrub pines and clumps of cactus. It was a Negro cemetery, and she 
collapsed at last from exhaustion beside a crooked cross made of scrap 
lumber at the head of a grave overgrown with weeds and decorated with 
pieces of colored glass.

When she woke it was daylight. She was startled to find herself covered 
with sand and stark naked except for the garter belt and black mesh hose. A
thrill of fear ran through her and she nearly lost consciousness again—when
she looked up and saw the lanky, towering form of a black man looming over 
her, blocking out the climbing sun. A gold ring glittered in his right 
earlobe. She had the feeling he had been standing there a long time. Beside
him was an old rusty yard cart loaded with lumber scraps and an assortment 
of pots and pans from the junk yard. No words would come to Diane’s mouth, 
and she was too stiff and sore to move. Finally the Negro spoke:—

“Jus’ a minute.” He turned and walked up to the crest of the hill, 
looking around in all directions. There was a kind of resolution in his 
voice, as if he had just made up his mind about something. He came back 
down and knelt beside her, removing his blue work shirt and spreading it 
over her.

“You wait,” he said, “I be right back.” He stood up. “You wait, now.” And
he took off down the hill in a loping run.

Diane had just about mustered enough energy to get up and run for it, 
when the man came back with a paper bag stuffed under his arm. “Come on 
over here in the shade,” he said, lifting her up and leading her over to a 
twisted pine. “Betta get them things off. Don’t wanta ‘tract no more 
attention than necessary.” He helped her remove the garter belt and 
tattered hose. She still had her high heels, but the heel had broken on one
of them; he put them into the yard cart.

From the bag he pulled out a clean rag and began brushing the sand from 
her scratched and bruised body while she leaned against the tree trunk. 
Diane was glad she had not run again; she felt safe with this man now. He 
was young, in his early twenties, she guessed, but he seemed more mature. 
There was a strong gentleness about him. “My name’s Washington, by the way.
Wash, they call me. You don’t have to tell me yours if you don’t want to… 
Tha’s about the bes’ we can do till we get down to the house. Here, see is 
this gonna fit ya,” he said, handing her a flower-print dress from the bag.

Diane put on the dress, and Wash took her down to the little clapboard 
house where he lived with his aging mother, and for three days made no 
sexual overtures to the white girl. He asked her no questions and, in fact,
made no demands on her at all. He knew she was in some kind of trouble, 
that she was on the run, and he was simply providing refuge. Wash slept on 
the couch, Diane in his bed behind the wooden partition. The old lady, who 
nursed the white girl as if she were her own daughter, slept in a little 
room of her own at the rear of the house. But on the fourth night, after 
Mama had gone to bed, Diane led Wash into his own room, and from then on 
they slept in the same bed.

Diane did not really believe herself to be running from the law. She 
didn’t see how they could pin anything on her, or even why they might be 
looking for her; she had been just another employee there after all. There 
was nothing in the newspapers to alter these assumptions. It was written up
merely as a bizarre suicide and an event which at last revealed to the 
public “the true depth of corruption in that sanctuary for illicit sex. 
Commissioner Spinxly,” it went on, “who happened to be in the area at the 
time of Mrs. Patterson’s death, said, ‘I was shocked and dismayed to 
discover such things going on undetected, right here in our own town.’ 
Spinxly announced that there will be a thorough investigation of the police
officers assigned to that precinct.”

When Mike returned the following day, he was immediately taken into 
custody. The employees, however, were all released after questioning, and 
within hours of his arrest Mike was set free on bail pending a hearing on 
the activities of the Jungle Club.

So, while it seemed to Diane a good idea to stay in the shadows—both for 
her peace of mind and her safety—she did not expect to be the object of a 
hunt. As for Leona, she was dead. It was too bad, it was horrible—but she 
was dead, and no amount of remorse would bring her back. After all, Diane 
had only known her a few short weeks. What weighed heavier on her mind was 
the fate of Mo Mullins. He had been killed in his taxi that same night, 
apparently only minutes after leaving the Club, in a head-on collision with
a semi-trailer. The story was on a back page of the paper. She wept when 
she read it.

But the foremost thing in her mind now, now that her body had healed and 
recovered, was to reunite with Don—Doc Arigga—and let his love and money 
heal her spirit. Soon they would be in Spain, France, Italy, and all this 
would fade from her mind like a bad dream.

After she had spent a week with Wash, she told him she had to leave. “I 
won’t forget all you’ve done for me, Wash. Someday I’ll come back and—”

“Uh huh,” he said, skeptical of her new optimism, “maybe someday soon.”

“Oh, Wash, I’m serious. I’ll be all right now,

more than all right. Soon I’ll be living under the

money tree, and I intend to start a long program of

paying you back for—”

“Get yo’ white ass back in bed and you can start that program right now. 
Prob’ly get a heap paid off ‘fore mornin’.” And so she did.

In the morning Wash said he’d stay home from work and drive her where she
wanted to go, but she refused the offer, accepting a couple of dollars for 
cab fare instead. She wore a boiled white cotton dress and the black high 
heels which Wash had repaired. Her black hair spilled beautifully over the 
worn but crisp white cloth, and her unsupported breasts moved deliriously 
inside. She had no underwear at all. She was beginning to feel like her old
self again—ready for anything. She kissed Wash and the old woman good-bye 
and set out for Don’s office.

When she found the office closed, she thought, “Of course he would close 
the office. He doesn’t need to work anymore. I’ll go to his house.” She 
didn’t have enough left for another taxi, and she didn’t want to telephone 
him and spoil the surprise, so she took a bus to his neighborhood and 
walked the rest of the way, finding the place without trouble.

His house was a sprawling split-level job, set on and into an artificial 
hill landscaped with tulip trees and other oriental-type shrubs. A woman 
came to the door.

“He’s been gone since Tuesday, Miss,” she said in an impatient voice. 
“Ain’t nobody here now.” She started to close the door.

“But—wait a minute! Please, do you know where he went?”

“Went to Europe.”

“Europe—But—didn’t he leave a message for me, Diane Fuhks?”

“Nope. Reckon I’d remember a name like that… Diane …” The, woman 
scrutinized her. “Don’t I know you from somewheres?”

“No …” Diane thought for a moment; the woman did look vaguely familiar. 
It was impossible to guess her age; she was old certainly, but yet strong 
with a certain ageless vitality about her drawn face. “No, I don’t think 
so. But please, are you certain he left no message? Did he say when he’d be
back?”

“Nope. ‘Bout a year, I reckon. I got work to do now.” And with that she 
closed the door.

Diane walked back down the winding flagstone walkway, suddenly aware of 
her shoddy clothes, and the scars on her arms and legs. She began to sob 
uncontrollably. “0h, God,” she thought, “he must have guessed I was 
responsible for what happened. I as much as told him. What am I going to do
now? What am I going to do?”

She did what she had always done. She sold her body to the first comer. 
Then the second. When she had enough money she rented a cheap hotel room 
near the bus station where she had first met Mo. In a couple of days she 
had enough to buy some decent clothes and a good meal, and her spirits had 
begun to rise somewhat when she saw the headlines of the afternoon paper: 
“New Testimony Implicates Dancer.”

“Two new witnesses produced unexpectedly by the state in the Jungle Club 
hearings this morning, Marvin Thomas and William Johnson, testified to 
seeing in the possession of one of the club’s dancers, Miss Diane Fuhks, 
now missing, a certain drug which may have played a part in the events 
leading to the death of Leona Patterson, proprietress of the club. A new 
autopsy has been requested by the state, and an investigation into the 
whereabouts of Miss Fuhks is now underway… .

Diane remembered now how she had snatched the jar of Spanish Fly from 
Marvin. Too impatiently, too impatiently! she thought in desperation. She 
bad blown it. Everything had gone wrong. Everything.

It was past midnight when she tapped on Wash’s bedroom window. “Uh huh,” 
he said sleepily as he let her in. “What I say?”

The seven months Diane spent with Wash in the ghetto were a sort of 
interlude in her life—an intermission in the drama, if you will—and though 
more than enough took place there to fill another book or two, I’ll have to
pass over it here in a few words. Suffice it to say that for Diane it was a
time of warmth, hard work, safety, exile; it was the closest she had come 
thus far in her life to an understanding of the words “home” and “love,” 
taken in their larger sense.

It is significant, maybe, that Mike Patterson found her at last, purely 
by accident, in the funeral procession for Wash’s mother. For while Diane 
was the very symbol and incarnation of raw life, she was also, at least 
where Mike was concerned, a signal of death.

To pay his attorneys and the stiff fine imposed on him by the court, Mike
had been forced to sell the Jungle Club. Leona had always been there in the
past to get him out of a jam, but now she was gone, and finding himself 
suddenly down and out, he was forced to stoop to a legitimate occupation, 
namely, his old trade as a TV repairman. Since Diane could not be found, 
the investigation of Leona’s death slowly petered out. But through it all 
Mike had never given up the search for Diane. She was the one gem of the 
Jungle Club days that he did not wish to lose. Like other men who had been 
into Diane’s pants before him, he could not get her out of his mind. Before
leaving the club, he had packed up the things she had left in her cabin, 
hoping she would contact him in order to get them back. After seven months,
however, he had heard not a word nor a clue and was about to think he would
never see her again, when suddenly there she was, in the most unlikely spot
imaginable—a Negro funeral procession. It was one of the few times during 
the whole period that Diane had ventured more than a stone’s throw from 
Wash’s yard.

Soon after this reunion Mike’s sojourn in the straight world came to an 
end. He and the man he was working for had been cooking up the closed 
circuit television scheme, and now, with Diane’s encouragement, they pushed
ahead with it. It was an immediate success, as we’ve seen, and before long 
Mike and Diane had moved into a large house on the beach. Wash was there 
too; Mike had hired him as his chauffeur. He was also Diane’s part-time 
lover. It was he I had seen on the set that night at Fat Joe’s, and he was 
the one driving the car a year later when I fucked Diane at the seawall. 
She had bleached her hair and changed her name to Linda Sloane to avoid 
detection. In short, things were going along rosy. But, alas, it was to be 
short-lived.

A change began to come over Mike. What brought it on, I can’t say, unless
it was the fact that he now found himself wealthy but childless at the age 
of forty-two. I suppose it was that tendency toward the domestic that 
appears in some men near the end of middle age—especially those who had led
lives full of hell-raising and love-making. Anyway, he decided he wanted to
marry Diane and have children. He became increasingly irritated at Diane’s 
promiscuity; because, although she was Mike’s mistress and always gave him 
“first rights,” so to speak, still she found plenty of time left over for 
others. At first Mike accepted it, as he knew any man who lived with Diane 
would have to; besides, it gave him freedom too. This was the way he and 
Leona had lived for sixteen years with hardly a hint of friction. But now 
his new desire for “respectability” was getting the better of his common 
sense, and he tried to instill this feeling in Diane. The only result at 
first was that she conducted her affairs less openly than before, but it 
began to tell on her and she resented the new restrictions. Still, she felt
deeply indebted to Mike and humored him as much as possible. All her 
worries, her days of streetwalking and penny-pinching, were apparently 
over; she was set for life at the age of seventeen. For this reason she 
finally consented to marry him.

When Mike learned she was pregnant, he was overjoyed. Now his worries 
would be over. Nothing like motherhood to settle a girl down. It was at 
this time that he ceased to allow his wife to perform before the bedroom 
cameras, even though she was the star attraction. That’s when I stopped 
seeing her at Fat Joe’s. To her this had been the most exciting “job” she 
had ever had, and she was by no means ready to retire from it, pregnant or 
no. But retire she did. She began to feel like a harem wife, locked in a 
tower. The only one of her former lovers she managed to meet once in a 
while was Wash—and that increasingly seldom. When she started to show, 
however, she calmed down somewhat and her concern centered mainly on her 
baby—the fascination and excitement of feeling it grow inside her.

In January of the following year she was delivered of twins, a boy and a 
girl. Mike was the very image of the loving father. Nothing was too good 
for Mommy and the babies. He delegated nearly all of his business duties to
others and hung around the nursery all day like an old woman. This soon 
began to irritate Diane; she did not turn out to be the devoted mother Mike
had hoped for. In several months her need for freedom of movement began to 
return, and she insisted he hire a nursemaid for the children.

Mike finally agreed and put an ad in the paper. He hired the first 
applicant, and though she was rather old and grumpy, she had good 
references and a long background of nursing and child care. When Diane 
first saw her she was startled; it was the same woman she had seen at Don 
Arigga’s door on that miserable morning nearly two years ago. But she tried
to conceal her surprise, and if the old woman recognized Diane she said 
nothing about it. Her name was Teresa Crawford—Miss Teresa Crawford. Diane 
thought this must be the woman Don said he brought back from Illinois to 
take care of his house. Evidently he had sold the place and was no longer 
in need of her services. For some reason, Diane felt uneasy about her; 
sometimes the old bitch gave her chills, the way she looked at her. But she
was good with the children and Mike trusted her, so they kept her on.

One night—the twins were now five months old—all Diane’s pent-up passions
came to a head. She felt if she didn’t get out of the house she would 
explode. Sex is what she wanted—illicit, sinful, outdoor, public sex. Mike 
lay beside her in the bed, snoring contentedly. He hardly touched her any 
more. She spread her legs and ran her hands over her breasts, rubbing the 
nipples till they were stiff and taut. Pregnancy had not damaged her beauty
in the least. Her amazing vaginal muscles had regained their tone and 
strength. She began to finger her clitoris … but suddenly stopped and got 
out of bed. Why should I be forced to masturbate because of him? she 
thought angrily. She got out a sexy blue nightie and slipped it on over her
naked body.

Downstairs, she quietly opened Wash’s door and peered in. He too was 
snoring away. She was just about to crawl into bed with him, hardly caring 
whether Mike caught her or not—when suddenly she changed her mind. She had 
to get out. Out of that prison.

She slipped out the front door, wearing nothing but the sheer tunic, and 
through the big iron gate which opened onto Ocean Boulevard. But as she was
closing the gate behind her, she happened to see, at a small dimly lighted 
window high up in the house, the nursemaid, Miss Crawford, looking down 
through the half-drawn drapes. Fuck you too, she thought.

She didn’t go far. The spot where I found her sitting on the seawall was 
only a few blocks from her house. It must have been the old woman who 
alerted Mike—but why did she wait so long?—almost an hour! …

From that night forward, Mike kept a guard on her at all times. Even when
she went to town to shop, he had her followed. When Diane began seducing 
the guards, he put guards on the guards, tails on the tails. It got worse 
and worse, and Diane became more and more sex-mad, her schemes increasingly
ingenious, though consistently thwarted. It couldn’t go on like this for 
long, that she knew; neither she nor Mike could endure it. But they would 
never have believed that it could end the way it did.

CHAPTER XI

“… During her long passage from the west coast of Africa hurricane Hecate
has increased considerably in intensity. She is now considered extremely 
dangerous, and a threat to any land mass in her path. Hecate’s coordinates 
at noon were 25 degrees 45 minutes North, 72 degrees 15 minutes West, or 
about 500 miles east of Miami. Gusts near the center have been recorded at 
125 miles per hour, and hurricane force winds extend outward 300 miles in 
the southeast quadrant. She is moving in a west-northwesterly direction at 
about fifteen miles per hour and is expected to continue on this course and
speed for the next twenty-four hours, with a possible increase in 
intensity. Residents of the Bahamas from Cat Island to Grand Bahama should 
take full hurricane precautions. A hurricane watch is now in effect for 
south Florida from Florida City north to Melbourne on the east coast, and 
on the west coast from Cape Sable to—” Mike cut it off.

“Reckon it’s gonna hit us, Mr. Patterson?” asked Miss Crawford without 
looking up from her knitting.

“No,” said Mike, bouncing his three-year-old daughter on his knee. “No, 
they’re all going around us this year. It’ll turn to the north tonight 
probably, like Gretta did. We’ll get some wind from it all right, but we 
don’t get the bad storms any more.

Little Mike was on the floor, drawing circles on a sheet of paper with a 
red crayon. “We gonna have a storm, Miss Crawford?” he asked.

“Your daddy says no, Michael.”

“Oh damn!” said the little boy, scribbling out his circles.

“Mike!” shouted his father angrily. “That’s not nice! Don’t say bad 
words! Miss Crawford have you been teaching him to swear?”

“No sir. You know I ain’t,”’ said the old woman coldly, glancing up at 
Diane who lay on the couch in a short slip of black lace, reading, a book.

“Linda,” said the man, following the maid’s glance, “You been swearing 
around the kids again?”

Diane looked up from her book. “Me? Shit no.”

“Linda!”

“What’s shitno, Daddy?” asked the little girl.

Her father put his hand over her mouth. “Shhh! Not nice,” he said.

“Mommy says it,” mumbled the child through Mike’s fingers.

Diane giggled and put down her book. She got up and walked over to the 
child, ruffling her mop of black hair. “You listen to your daddy, Chrissy,”
she said, “Sometimes Mommy’s not nice.”

“I think you’re nice, Mommy,” said Christine.

“Me too,” said her brother.

“Linda, for God’s sake put some clothes on!” Mike hissed. “You have to go
around half-naked all the time?”

“Why should I get dressed? I never go anyplace. I’m a homebody, remember?
Content just to putter around the house all day, play with the kiddies, to 
bed with the sun, up with the sun, month after fun-filled month, year after
fucking year—”

“All right, that’s enough, Diane! Didn’t I just take you out less than a 
month ago?”

“Get fucked,” she said in disgust.

“Linda, I’m warning you!…”

Diane glanced at the clock on the mantle, ignoring her husband’s threat. 
“Well, storm or no storm, it’s a beautiful day,” she said, stretching her 
arms before the wide French windows, her big tits straining against the 
fragile lace of her slip. “I think I’ll go up to the solarium for a while.”

As she walked away, she heard Michael say, “Mommy walks pretty, don’t 
she, Daddy?”

“Yeah, yeah. Out you go now, kids. Miss Crawford’s coming with you.”

Three fifteen. I hope he’s on time today, thought Diane as she climbed 
the steps to the solarium. Mike had had this sun deck built for her on top 
of the car garage in an attempt to halt her bitching about going to the 
beach. She was spending more and more time up there lately, and Mike was 
pleased. He must have thought the solarium was his best idea yet in the 
taming of his shrew; it was one place he was sure she couldn’t get in 
trouble. Diane closed and latched the wooden door behind her and walked 
across the smooth concrete to the flagpole. After hoisting the flag to a 
point about a foot from the top of the pole, she pulled the coiled-up rope 
ladder out of its hiding place in the drainage tile and let it drop down 
the south wall, hooking it securely on a ring bolt. She lit a cigarette and
leaned against the iron railing, her long white-gold hair streaming in the 
gusty wind. She didn’t have long to wait.

At first Diane had hated the solarium. She knew Mike had it built just so
he wouldn’t have to take her to the beach any more. It was just another 
cell to her prison; open to the sky, to be sure, but a cell nonetheless. 
The vine-covered walls at the street were so high that she couldn’t even 
see the beach, and to the south and west the adjoining buildings were cut 
off from view by the tall gumbo limbo and chinaberry trees which grew in 
profusion around the house. One day, however, she saw something which made 
her change her mind about the solarium… .

Hearing a noise below, she got up from the deck chair and went to the 
south rail. She heard a rustling in the dry leaves, footsteps—then a young 
man emerged from a clump of trees, heading east. He wore a bathing suit and
had a towel rolled up under his arm. To her this boy was nothing but 
walking cock, live and on the hoof.

“Hey!” she called, wrapping a towel around her naked tits. When he heard 
her voice he started to run for it, but then he got a look at her—and 
stopped. She was holding the towel together under her left arm with her 
right hand, cradling her boobs with her forearm. She held the towel very 
low on her pushed-up tits, and her wild hair streamed in the breeze. The 
solarium was off a bit to the south of the rest of the house, and there was
a wall abutting the garage running the length of the property, so that the 
boy could not be seen from the main living quarters, nor could their 
conversation be heard.

When he stood beneath her, she said, “What are you doing, please?”

“Well, I guess I’m trespassing, but I’m just on my way to the beach. I 
always take this shortcut from my apartment:—isn’t this a vacant lot?”

“I guess it is, but it’s part of this property,” she said, drinking in 
his strong young body with her eyes. His skin was golden bronze, the same 
as hers. “How do you get through the fences?”

“Climb over. But I’ll go around from now on—”

“No, it’s all right. If, uh, if you aren’t meeting a date or anything, 
would you like to come up? I have some beer.”

“Sounds great, but—I mean, what about your father?” “My father?”

“Yeah, isn’t this your father’s place?”

“Oh … yeah, but he won’t care. Come on up.”

“Okay. Shall I go around to the front door?”

“No!—I mean, why don’t you climb up? I can find a rope or something. I’d 
throw down my hair like Rapunzel, but it’s not long enough,” she added with
a laugh.

“Ha! Yeah, because your old man would care, right? Listen, if he caught 
me up there with you, I’d be a dead prince. I know jail bait when I see it,
honey.”

Diane was flattered to be called jail bait. “Oh, don’t be such a chicken.
I can lock this door and nobody can get in. Anyway, he never bothers me up 
here.”

He gazed up at her, the tops of her delicious jugs spilling out in the 
sunlight; desire was getting the better of his good sense. But he shook his
head. “It’s too risky. I’m too young to die. Why don’t you come down. Meet 
me over on the beach.”

“No … I can’t. But please, won’t you come up?” She accidentally on 
purpose let the towel droop and slip off one tit. The boy looked up at its 
swelling roundness, the naked nipple jutting out over his head, casting a 
sharp curving shadow over the soft bare flesh… .

“Find a rope,” he said.

“Be right back!” She jerked off the towel, hung it over the wall, and ran
to the storage room beside the door to the stairs. After a few moments of 
frantic fumbling she finally found a rope. Without bothering to put the 
towel back on, she tied one end of the rope to the iron railing and threw 
it down to him. He was staring, his mouth agape. “Oh!” she giggled, “Excuse
me!” snatching up the towel and covering herself with it. He came up the 
rope like a monkey and in a moment was standing before her on the sun deck.
She tucked the towel under her arm, but it was an inadequate sarong: her 
bulging tits threatened to unfasten it with every breath, and it barely 
reached below her pussy. She took him by the hand, glancing passionately 
into his disbelieving eyes. “Come on, let’s have a beer,” she said, leading
him over to the ice chest beside the deck chair. “Open two for us, will 
you?—and relax, the door is locked and no one can hear us.”

While he opened the beer cans, Diane took the cushions off two lounge 
chairs and laid them on the deck, side by side. As she was bending over, 
smoothing out the mats, her back to her guest, she felt a gust of wind lift
the tail of the towel and throw it up above her bare bottom. With delight 
she heard his breath whistle backward through his teeth.

“There,” she said, straightening up and smoothing down the towel. When 
she faced him his face was red with lust. “My name’s Linda. What’s yours?”

“Ted… My God, you’re beautiful!”

“So are you, Ted. Do you want to see my body? I’ll show you mine if 
you’ll show me yours.”

“You got it,” he said, and Diane released the towel, dropping it to the 
ground. His eyes drank in her naked beauty.

“You like my tits?” she asked, cupping them in her palms, giving them a 
little bounce. “—My pussy?” She fluffed up her bush. “I’m really a 
brunette, as you can see. I used to dye it, but I don’t anymore. Do you 
mind this much hair? Some men like a lot of hair, and others just like a 
little fuzz. I’ve been hairy since I was twelve… . Okay, your turn, Teddy.”

He stepped out of his suit. His prick was long and hard as a rock, the 
veins standing out along the shank in red, pulsating relief. “Oh wow!” she 
moaned, neatly swooning. “It’s been so long!” She dropped to her knees at 
his feet and took his oozing penis into her hungry mouth. Holding her head 
in place, he lowered himself to his knees on the mat, so that Diane rolled 
over backwards with him on top of her. She spread her lovely tanned legs 
and elevated her pelvis. With his cock in her mouth he leaned forward and 
sank his face into that black, damp, bushy love-swamp between her silky 
thighs. It opened to receive him and bathed his face in liquid fire. When 
he shot his dick fired with the force of a cannon; his cum went down her 
throat and all over her face. To her it was the elixir of the gods, the 
balm of Gilead… .

Later they fucked and drank beer and talked, making plans for future 
rendezvous. As he prepared to leave, he kissed her good-bye—first her 
mouth, then each rosy nipple, then her bushy cunt. But he wasn’t content 
just to kiss the hump: he parted the lips—she had put one foot upon the 
wall—and planted a passionate French kiss right on her gooey slit, 
inflaming the still steaming inner folds. This brought them both to the 
deck again and they locked into another fast sixty-nine. When they finally 
said good-bye, the boy hardly had enough strength left to slide down the 
rope. He staggered off through the trees like a drunk, but it wasn’t the 
beer that had intoxicated him.

After that their meetings were regular, precisely planned, and 
undetected. It was Ted who had made the rope ladder which now, several 
months later, hung down in wait for his arrival. The flag was his signal 
that the coast was clear. She looked up at the sky, rubbing her nipples in 
anticipation. The sky looked weird, somehow—too blue. There was a strange 
new smell to the air—depressing in a way. Tiny clouds like surf foam 
scudded overhead in long narrow bands, sweeping in across the sea from the 
northeast. She wondered if Mike was going to be wrong about the hurricane. 
“If I’m lucky,” she thought, “it’ll blow this goddamn house right off its 
foundation!”

Ted slipped over the rail and drew up the rope ladder. “Hey, baby,” he 
said, taking her in his arms. He kissed her open lips, sucking her tongue, 
and then bent his head and nibbled at her taut nipples with his teeth 
through the lace of the slip. “Got a surprise for you today,” he said, 
sitting down on a deck chair. She stood in front of him, running her 
fingers through his wild hair.

“A surprise? What is it?—Don’t tell me. I wanta fuck first. Anyway, what 
surprise would be better than that?” She wondered why she was afraid to 
find out what he was talking about.

He laughed and reached under the short skirt, rubbing her hot thighs and 
her thick black bush which was visible through the lace. She put one foot 
in his lap, rubbing the head of his cock which stuck out from the leg of 
his bathing trunks, and his fingers slid smoothly between the undulating 
lips of her cunt and into the close warm darkness within. She lifted her 
skirt and drew it over his head when he started to talk. “Shhh!” she said, 
“Later—”

He slid off the seat and sat on the deck between her feet, his head 
veiled under the lacy skirt. She pulled his head up into her crotch, 
opening her legs wide, and felt his pointed tongue wiggle into her slit. 
Then she pulled the slip off over her head and stood there, 
spraddle-legged, knees bent, body hunched over, rolling her pelvis back and
forth, the cheeks of her perfect ass all aquiver, holding his head with 
both hands, her own head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open, grunting and
moaning in ecstasy—! She came almost immediately, and collapsed into the 
deck chair in at least temporary relief.

Ted wiped his mouth on her slip and said, “Wow! What got you all 
excited?”

“I don’t know,” she panted, “The weather maybe.”

“Then I sure hope it lasts. But anyway, now that I’ve had lunch, maybe 
you’ll listen.” She said nothing as he stood up and took off his trunks. 
“We’re gonna split out of here, you and me. Tonight.” Diane remained 
silent. She felt she had known what he was going to say. “I’m getting 
two-weeks’ vacation pay this afternoon—it’s enough to get us a hell of a 
long way from here. Well, what do you say? You hate this place, don’t you? 
That’s what you’ve been telling me. After all, you’re a big girl now, what 
could your old man do?—even if he could find you?”

He’d find me all right, Diane thought.

“Look, you gotta get away from here. The old bastard won’t even let you 
out of the house! A person can’t live like that. You get some things 
together and slip out—or use the rope ladder; it’ll be the last time we’ll 
have to use it. I’ll get the old Ford revved up and—”

“Ted … I can’t.” For the first time Diane realized the change that had 
come over her in the last several years. She had vegetated so long in 
comfort and luxury—and safety—that she no longer felt capable of striking 
out into the cold world again. One part of her thought all the time about 
escape, but now it came over her that she no longer had the strength for 
it. She had run too long; each time she had started a new life—for what she
thought would be a new life—it had ended in stagnation or horror or 
imprisonment. She felt suddenly drained, hollow, incapable of movement. She
had run at last to the end of the tether, there was no longer any place to 
go. Florida … Now she knew the meaning of the word. Florida was the place 
where the butterflies came to die. It was the Last Garden, deceptively 
bright and sunny, a place where the flower of youth bloomed its last and 
died, where the thistle spread its last proud thorns before the blossoms 
blew away in the warm wind and scattered over the ocean, leaving nothing 
but a dry, hollow pod, rattling in the blue-green dust, a cracked 
decomposing monument to the free and lusty soul which once lived. “I 
can’t,” she repeated.

“But why? You’re crazy to stay here—”

“He’s not my father.”

“What? Who?—”

“The man we’ve been hiding from—the man who keeps me locked up here. He’s
my husband. I have two children. I really do hate this place, and my 
husband—but I can’t leave. Please don’t ask me to explain, I don’t think I 
can. I—I’m not good enough for you, I’m weak, I—Please, Ted—please be 
kind.”

“You’re married—? Good God.” He stood there for some time like a statue, 
rooted to the spot. Then he seemed to panic—started awkwardly getting into 
his trunks, backing toward the ladder.

“Wait, Ted!” She jumped up and threw her arms around him. “Please, 
forgive me!” She burst into tears.

“Hey, Linda,” he said, calming down, “take it easy now, baby. I’m not mad
at you. But, honey, I’ve made plans and—well, I’ve got to leave town 
tonight. I—”

“I know,” she said, sobbing. “But Ted … please, one more time … before 
you go.”

And so they made love again for the last time, and Diane watched him walk
off into the trees. She rolled up the rope ladder as usual and stuffed it 
into the drain tile. For a long time she lay on her face on the deck chair,
weeping, as the hollow husk of the sun turned blood red and sank from the 
foreboding sky.

Two days later Hecate came down on us like an Aeolian sledge hammer. Her 
murderous spiral arms now reached out four hundred miles in the north and 
two-fifty in the south, and she dead-centered our town with uncanny 
precision. The anemometers at the airport recorded winds of two hundred 
knots before the instruments blew away during the first few hours of the 
storm. The bright chrome-and-varnished boats which the yachtsmen had drawn 
up into sheltered coves were shattered and sunk at their moorings, or 
tossed out on the open water like formless heaps of wet straw, their 
wreckage crashing over the seawalls and washing down the flooded streets at
tremendous speeds, wrecking everything in its path. Trees were uprooted, 
pavements disintegrated and tumbled away in the brown surge. Buildings were
undermined, hovering on the brink of collapse.

To me these sights looked familiar. For a long time I had felt the world 
to be in a state of collapse and ruin. With every step I took during the 
daily grind it was as if the very ground was decomposing and falling away 
beneath my feet. The storm only brought things into proper focus. To me, 
Hecate was nothing but an exteriorization of the true inner condition of 
things, a momentary, savage materialization of my own psychic decay.

Once she had us in her grip, the hurricane sat on the town like a mother 
dragon hatching an egg. Its forward motion all but stopped as it gnawed 
away with furious hunger at the puny constructions of men. That night Mike 
made the children go to bed, though they cried and begged to stay up and 
watch the storm. The electricity had long since gone off, and they sat in 
the large living room dimly lit by kerosene lamps, the house shuddering 
under the onslaught of wind and rain. That morning Wash had gone to help a 
relative board up his house and he had not returned, so now it was just 
Dianne, Mike and the old nursemaid in the living room. The front windows 
were protected by a wrought iron grillwork, and they had left a portion 
unshuttered in order to watch the hurricane. But now it was dark and they 
could only hear the solid sheets of water buffeting the wall and hurtling 
past in the night like hellish devils. None of them felt like going to bed.
Miss Crawford served blackberry liqueurs and coffee. Diane tried to read 
but found it impossible. The fury outside was hypnotic; she imagined 
herself to be out there, blowing around and around the whole gigantic 
circumference like a piece of weightless debris, around and around, ever 
inward in great ponderous spirals, inward toward some hidden black vortex 
of oblivion. It must have been near dawn when this vortex finally began to 
reveal itself.

Perhaps it was the liqueurs that started Miss Crawford talking—or maybe 
it was her disgust at Diane’s obscene behavior… .

“This goddamn heat is unbearable,” said Diane, getting up from the couch.
“All that wind and not a breath in here.” She threw off her short 
housecoat, walked over to the table and poured herself another drink, her 
cigarette dangling from her lips. She had nothing on under the housecoat. 
The yellow glow from the kerosene lamp flickered over her naked body. Her 
breasts and belly glistened with perspiration, throwing needles of reddish 
light into the gloom. It was like a Medieval scene of the temptation of a 
saint, thick with the chiaroscuro of blasphemy and aglow with the fires of 
hell.

A look of nausea came over the haggard face of the nursemaid. Mike roused
from a half-sleep and saw his wife standing there, gulping down her drink. 
“Linda! For God’s sake! Miss Crawford’s here!”

“So what,” sneered the girl, pouring another drink. “Surely she’s seen 
cunt before. It’s too fucking hot for clothes. She can take hers off too 
for all I care.”

Mike’s next words were menacing, at the limit of outrage. “You get that 
goddamn robe on right now. If I have to do it for you, you’ll be sorry. One
of those kids could walk in at any time.”

“She don’t care. Never has.” It was the voice of the old woman. There was
something strange about her voice. They both looked at her.

“What the hell do you know about what I never have and what I never 
haven’t?” Diane slurred.

“I know all right. I know who you are. You don’t care no more about kids 
than your mother did. If you had your way, you’d do what she did with 
hers.”

Diane walked slowly over to where the old woman sat. “What the fuck are 
you talking about?” she said, peering down at her. Mike seemed to have lost
his voice. “For your information I’m an orphan. I have no parents.”

“Maybe not, maybe so. Your mama left you in a garbage can to die. That’s 
how come you to be in that orphanage. A garbage collector found you and 
brought you to us. Better he hadn’t bothered.”

As soon as she spoke these words, Diane remembered her. “Crawford … You—”

“That’s right. I thought I recognized you that day you come draggin’ up 
to Mr. Arigga’s house but I couldn’t place you till I come here. You don’t 
need to worry, though. Just as soon as the weather lets up I’m a-leavin’.”

“You were a nurse—in the left wing—”

“That’s right. I didn’t have much to do with you —figured you wouldn’t 
remember me. But I knew about you, all right. The whole Home knew about 
you. How you left your dorm window open and undressed every night for that 
sex fiend that come sneakin’ around all the time. The good Lord knows how 
long that went on before you got caught. Reckon you couldn’t stand it after
we run him off, ‘cause right after that you run away. Good riddance, I 
said. You even had them men at the Home goin’ around in a daze. I could 
even see it in the superintendent, and him with a wife and four kids. You 
was nothing but trouble from the start, and you ain’t changed a bit. I know
about that boy you got climbin’ the wall every day, but wasn’t none of my 
business.”

“What wall?” said Mike, finding his voice. “What are you talking about?”

“Why you think she goes up to that solarium so much, Mr. Patterson? For 
the sun? Seems like you’d know her better than that.”

“But why didn’t you tell me? I told you that was part of your job. You 
told me the other time, why—?”

“So it was you that told him, you old bitch!” hissed Diane.

“It was. I wasn’t sure it was you till that night. I followed you. I 
watched you have sex with that man, right there on the street under the 
light, with them kids watchin’. It was the most disgusting thing I ever 
seen! I knew right then it was you. Your name ain’t Linda, it’s Diane. 
Diane Shephard, they called you, after the man that found you in that can 
full o’ dead fish. You was such a sweet, pretty baby. How you coulda grown 
up to be such an abomination is—”

“But—my mother … she couldn’t have left me in a—”

“She did, all right. And the only thing she left you besides an old rag 
was a pin to hold it around you. It was that pin you used to wear all the 
time till they made you stop. It wasn’t nothin’ a nice girl should wear. 
You could tell just by lookin’ at it it belonged to a loose woman. Your 
mama was a prostitute, child. Ain’t no gettin’ around it. And you growed up
just like her. Bad blood, that’s what I said all along.”

Mike’s voice seemed hollow, a slight fearful quiver in it:—“Where—where 
was this orphanage? New York?”

“No sir, it was in Cairo, Illinois.”

For a few long seconds there was no sound in the room but the window 
panes rattling in the wind. Then Mike spoke again.

“But the pin—You couldn’t be sure unless you saw it, and—” He seemed 
ignorant of the fact that Diane had denied none of this, as if he did not 
want to believe it.

“Oh, I seen it, all right, Mr. Patterson.”

“You’ve been snooping in my dresser?” Diane shouted.

“I admit it. I wanted to be sure. You don’t need to bother firing me, Mr.
Patterson, I done quit.”

“Go get the pin, Miss Crawford,” said Mike in a strained voice.

“You stay the fuck out of my dresser, bitch!”

“Shut up, Diane. Go get it, Miss Crawford.”

Something cold and menacing in his voice made Diane stand quiet while the
old woman picked up a lamp and went up the dark stairs. Not a word passed 
between the husband and wife until Miss Crawford returned and handed the 
gleaming snake pin to Mike. Ruby red spears shot like arrows from the 
snake’s eyes. Mike hardly seemed to look at it. He placed it on the floor 
beside his chair and put his face in his hands.

“Oh, God, no,” he muttered, “It can’t be… “

Diane knelt beside him, still naked. “Mike?—” Her voice was changed, more
soothing. Somehow Mike was being hurt, but she didn’t understand how. 
“Mike, what’s the matter? I’m sorry I’m the way I am, but you knew what I 
was when you asked me to marry you. And—if my mother was a whore, what does
it matter? I can try again to be a good mother, if—”

Mike lifted his head. His eyes were red, but there were no tears. “I gave
this pin to Leona twenty-three years ago.”

At that moment the wind outside ceased, as if someone had switched it 
off. A heavy silence seeped thickly into the house through its cracks and 
pores. In Diane’s head was a rushing roar of silence, non-sound, such as 
one hears when a seashell is held to the ear; it is the tragic echo of 
ancient oceans, seas which rolled and spawned and died before the first 
spiny creature walked the earth. She does not remember speaking during the 
rest of it; she only heard her own voice coming hollow and toneless from a 
great distance, as across an immense chasm.

“To Leona—? But—”

“The last time I saw it was in Cairo in 1951. Leona and me had a fight—I 
told you about it once, Diane. I didn’t see her again till the next—July. I
asked her one time about the pin. She said she lost it. I must have packed 
it up when I got your things from the cabin and didn’t even notice it.” His
voice droned on in a strained monotone. “Miss Crawford, when did they find 
the baby?”

“It was in 1952. I remember the exact date; it was July 22,1952—” 
Suddenly, she seemed to realize what was happening. She gasped and put her 
hands over her mouth. “Oh, Mr. Patterson! I never—”

“The old fortune teller,” came the voice across

the chasm.

“And it was true about Leona,” said Mike, “What they suspected.”

“Yes. I killed her.”

Mike nodded, expressionless. His face was pale as death in the lamplight,
it seemed to Diane that his features were changing before her eyes. He 
seemed to grow old. Dry wrinkles criss-crossed his face. His eyes that were
her eyes drooped in their sockets. He seemed at once limp and rigid. It was
like watching a time-lapse film of a mummy, shrinking, drying out, 
centuries passed in procession across his face in the space of a few 
seconds. Only some cruel enchantment seemed to arrest his descent on the 
very brink of decomposition.

Diane’s father arose from his chair as if under the influence of some 
furious lethargic impetus, some unseen demon come to lead him the rest of 
the way. He walked across the room stiffly, like a skeleton with frozen 
joints, unlatched the door, and passed out into the dark silent ruin of the
night.

Neither the girl nor the old woman spoke or moved until they heard the 
car pass through the gate and into the street.

“My Lord,” whispered Miss Crawford, “what have I done?—Mrs. Patterson! 
Don’t go out there, child, the storm ain’t over. This here’s the eye, 
directly the wind’ll come back from the other direction. Don’t never go out
in the eye of a hurricane— Mrs. Patterson, please!—”

But Diane went on out the door and down the littered slope of the front 
lawn. The big iron gate lay crumpled beside the opening in the wall, where 
a flying tree limb had struck it from the hinges. She stumbled out onto the
heaped rubble that had been Ocean Boulevard, and walked blindly southward, 
the swollen sea rushing about her ankles. Jagged stones cut her bare feet, 
and now and then the sea would draw back and throw her down in its 
returning turbulence, washing her over lumps of shattered concrete and 
fallen trees. The pain felt good to her. She was glad the end had come.

She turned away from the ocean and walked through the demolished streets,
past shattered store windows and crumbling walls. Dawn came like a gray 
eerie pall. It came soundlessly. Nothing moved except the brown water in 
the choked gutters; nothing spoke but the confused sea which continued to 
pound and gnaw chunks from the ragged coastline. In the midst of this gray 
desolation the naked girl must have looked like a ghost trapped in the dead
wreck of Limbo, doomed to walk on forever.

The swollen, lusterless belly of the lagoon spread out before her. It 
seemed to beckon her, and she walked calmly into its cool grasping hands, 
into its froth-flecked maw, like an enraptured virgin into the Well of 
Sacrifice.

A large looping eddy immediately took her body and bore it out fast and 
silent toward the main channel.

CHAPTER XII

When the storm hit I had been up on benzedrine and some other things for 
three days with hardly a wink of sleep or a bite of food during the whole 
time. I had finally mustered the courage to tell my wife I was leaving her.
I had no idea how she would react. Would she cry? Would she threaten to 
kill herself? Would she refuse to give me a divorce. Visions of a thousand 
gruesome ordeals flashed through my mind as I put it to her. There was a 
long moment of silence. Her face conveyed nothing; it was like a death 
mask. Finally she spoke:—

“I get the car and the house and—” She reeled off alimony percentages as 
if she’d been rehearsing this moment for years. I burst into uncontrollable
laughter and walked out the door without taking a thing with me. A ton of 
worry had been lifted from me! She could take every dime for all I cared, 
every knick knack, tin can, insurance policy, coffee table and 
cockroach—and shove ‘em up her ass.

Soon afterward, however, I became miserably depressed. I had shorn myself
free of everything, but I had no place to go, no goal, no direction. I was 
adrift in a hostile land, an exile and an outcast in my own hometown. After
the encounter with the girl Diane on the beach three years ago I had combed
the town for a sign that she really existed, that I had not dreamed it, or 
had intercourse with an apparition. She was the only anchor of purpose left
me, the only reference point in a world which seemed mad and pointless. I 
felt if I could not unite with her, I would disperse like a cloud of 
cinders, a denizen of the gutter, unfulfilled, impotent, an animated shell 
filled with death. That’s about what I was on that murky morning in the 
dead eye of the tempest when I stalked out onto the bones of the bridge. To
me it looked like the end of the world. “Good,” I said to myself, “let it 
come!”

I had searched diligently for her for months, but finally gave up in 
despair. After that I drifted. I soon managed to get myself fired from my 
job, only to fall into another one in a few days, then another, and 
another. I worked for five different companies during these last three 
years, until at last I ran out of companies. “He was a good surveyor once,”
they said, “but now he just doesn’t give a damn. Trouble at home, probably.
Too bad.” Too bad for you, you bastards, I thought. I’m the best man you 
ever had and you know it. “Fuck ‘em all!”

But now I was at the bitter end—the end of hope, sunk in the black light 
of disillusion and despair. It was the rock bottom of the soul, the dead 
end of my downward drift. If I hadn’t by chance run into Fat Joe on the 
street the day Hecate came in, I suppose I would have blown away with the 
first puff like a piece of trash. A true saint, old Joe, one of the truly 
few kind souls left in the world, but I had never appreciated him as I 
should have, and at the time I wished he had not found me. Somehow, 
crouched in his little apartment— But I should explain that Joe had to sell
the Railroad Bar and that since then his financial condition had gone from 
bad to worse. The closed-TV racket had brought them in droves, but the 
political graft that went with it finally did old Joe in. He was lucky to 
get out with his skin. He was now living in this moldy hole in the wall, 
with its rusty balcony overlooking a gloomy alley to which one descended by
a retractable iron stair. It reminded me or a Pueblo fortress, a time-worn 
ruin of a once mighty civilization.

But to return— I felt uneasy, crouched in there with the titanic blasts 
shaking the building—guilty is the word. I should have been out there. 
Hecate had come in my need to make an end to my torment, and here I was 
hiding, cringing as usual, avoiding my fate. So when the leading wall of 
fury passed over us, leaving nothing but a roar of silence in the ears, I 
slipped out and down the fire escape into the flooded alley. Joe had gone 
into the bathroom to shore up the shutter, so he didn’t know when I left.

I followed the curve of the ruined bulkhead as best I could, and mounted 
the crumbling bridge to the beach. Perhaps I was heading for the ocean, but
I never made it. In the middle of the bridge span the whole hideous scene 
flickered and spun below me in such vivid clarity that my feet were rooted 
to the spot… .

All about me was hollow and ruin. The bridge itself was scaling away, 
dead branches grew from its cracks, crawling creatures crept from its 
crevices, obscene and hideous. The water below was the color of brown 
slate, flat, impenetrable, yet weirdly transparent. It rushed around the 
rotting concrete of the pilings and yet looked dead, unruffled. Through 
this solid liquid skin I saw a spiny skate ghosting along in its watery 
flight; below the skate a grey-green fish-thing with a spoon-billed bird 
head rose and sank into the murk; all about slimy creatures writhed and 
swam, some snarled in nets, some with spears through them, their wounds 
bloodless. The very water seemed to be decaying before my eyes, rotting 
away in ragged brown sheets of fungus. Down the soundless flood came a huge
fish, half out of the water; it wore iron armor on its back and a red 
cloak; a great sword trailed in its wake. The top of the fish’s body, back 
of the dorsal hump, was hollowed out like a cockpit, and in it sat a dark 
hooded manlike figure, steering with a spoon. A companion was paying out an
endless net over the stern, snaring the evil smelling hosts which flapped 
and gasped in the spidery mesh.

From the other direction came the shell of a decapitated duck, flying the
paper-thin skeleton of a sting ray for a banner. Inside a man was 
imprisoned, staring out through a wire grate with bespectacled unseeing 
eyes, his hands protruding through holes at the duck’s sides, flapping 
idiotically. Atop this vessel rode a cloaked imp, a sword through his leg, 
a dead branch growing from his anus. On the branch perched a plucked bird, 
screaming in an agony of silence. On the far bank, from out of a ragged 
rent in the decaying husk of a huge apple, came a hideous thing with a 
horse’s skull for a head, making its way through the rubble, lumbering down
to the hungry gulf on the back of an inflated, rubber goose wearing Thom 
Mcan loafers, and pursued by a pale dwarf in a swinging wicker basket who 
hacked at the rubber goose with a scimitar. Inside the apple skin a large 
bird fucked a naked girl, but crumbled away in the very act.

Destruction, depravity, rot—Was this to be my fate? Were these the demons
who would soon be gnawing my bones? Or had they already sucked me dry, 
skinned and gutted me? All along the west bank rode fiends mounted on rats 
and chickens, plucked and drawn. In the distance an iron tower, shattered 
like an eggshell, floated upon the swelling flood. Soon all would be 
inundated, whatever needed air to breathe would die. But these teeming 
devils seemed dead already; they seemed intent only on discovering new ways
to die, to inflict pain, novel ways to decay, to escape another birth. Some
strolled along through the desolation, reading, whistling, casually 
stabbing and mutilating themselves, oblivious to it all. Once in a while a 
leg would give way, or a flipper, and the poor beast would topple into the 
gutter and be immediately devoured, only to climb out a moment later 
through a crack in its predator’s shell and stump away, grinning.

The only advantage I had was height. From the bridge I could see them and
their habitat. I too was decaying, but I had not yet lost my sight. How 
long the bridge would stand, I didn’t know. Beside me the bridge house was 
exfoliating, flaking away. Two walls had already collapsed, and dead spines
of brush and fungus had sprung from its cavities. Spiked tendrils of plant 
flesh were creeping along the railings, devouring the rubble, transforming 
the concrete into rotten wood or splintered bone. Beyond the bridge the 
city was in flames; the sky was a dull red, shot with blinding flowers of 
fire, filled with flying debris—legs, arms, tea kettles, bats, roaches, 
step ladders, TV antennae, a human head, a dog, a filleted flounder, a 
swarm of lizards with burning antennae. The entire continent was a cracked 
carapace in a state of total collapse and decomposition. From high overhead
came the air ships, crashing to the earth in a clatter of scales and 
feathers, all flags flying. Screaming hoards issued from the burning town 
and plunged to their death in the flood; others fled from the swarming 
waters and embraced the flames; water or fire, it made no difference. 
Myself, I’ll take the water, says I. It’s Davy Jones’ locker for me, back 
to the motherfucking sea where we all came from.

When I stood up on the rail, I suddenly realized that the waterway was 
really a gigantic cunt, nothing more, nothing less. The smell should have 
given it away, I thought. Funny how you don’t see things clearly until 
you’re above them—and by then it’s too late.

Just then, from under the bridge, between a school of boned mullet and a 
pig-headed trigger fish, drifted a long-legged, naked nymph, stretched out 
flat on the skin of the current. I flew down from the railing in wide 
spiraling swoops, and as I soared I saw the burning complex of glass and 
steel swell up in one last sigh of fatigue and fall with a shattering, 
ringing clamor into the black bog. There was a deafening hiss, a final gasp
of mineral agony, and billows of blue-grey fog steamed into the sky.

I entered the cool vaginal flow beside the temptress with hardly a 
ripple. I knew it was her long before I reached the water. And I knew it 
was precisely right, this final surrender.

Fat Joe found us at the last minute—or very nearly so. I had dragged her 
up on a large tilted chunk of asphalt pavement which the storm had ripped 
loose and cast above the flood. She was dead, I knew that. She died in my 
arms as we left the water—died in one jerking spasm and went absolutely 
limp. To me, it was a minor problem, an annoying incident of the moment. 
Even as I breathed into her dead lips I realized that it was necessary. 
That she should die, I mean. I noted calmly as I worked over the corpse the
great dark wall of the southern rim of the hurricane looming over us. By 
the time Joe lumbered around the demolished corner of a building, the air 
had already begun to stir, and a moaning roar echoed distantly through the 
streets.

But Joe was right on time. It would have done none of us any good had he 
come any earlier, because it was just then, just before he came around the 
corner, that something stirred in the girl and life returned to her body.

“What you got there, boy?” called Joe, gasping and floundering through 
the knee-deep slush. “Come on—(hack! hack! hack!)—grab ahold! Hurry up, 
boy, before that son of a bitch blows us all away! Give her to me, you 
can’t carry nothin’—that stuff you been takin’, you look like a goddamn 
zombie or somethin’—”

“I’m all right, Joe. I’ll carry her. Lead on.” But I was falling even as 
I said it, and Joe had to practically carry both of us back to the alley. 
He had no sooner nailed up the door than Hecate struck again with a 
thunderous backhanded blast that shivered the city to its deepest lairs.

(It must have been at this time—it couldn’t have been much later—that 
Mike Patterson’s car was blown off the narrow strip of remaining pavement 
on Island Avenue and into the mangrove swamp through which the road ran. 
They didn’t find him until two days later when the water went down. The car
was sunk in the mud to the windows, with Mike still behind the wheel, held 
upright by the sludge. By the time the police found Diane and informed her 
of her husband’s death, all emotion had drained out of her. All she said 
was, “I know.”)

I have already told how, that afternoon, as Hecate moved on up the coast,
the gusts in her wake still buffeting the wounded town, Diane sat with me 
before Joe’s old gas heater and spun out the main scenes of her astonishing
tragedy. I listened, but only with one ear, as it were. That morning I too 
had been resurrected from the dead, and it was still difficult for me to 
believe in a past—or at least to take it seriously. For me the world had 
just been born out of fire and water, and I could only gaze with rapture 
into the blue eyes of this girl from the Uterine Sea. In those eyes I saw a
vast gentle ocean on which the two of us would soon set sail, hand in hand,
bound for the Land of Eden before a warm, singing wind.

We stayed at Joe’s for a week before getting an apartment of our own—in 
the same building, I might add. Diane of course could get nothing from 
Mike’s checking account, and it would be close to a year before the estate 
would be settled, but she had a small in an account of her own and that was
plenty for us. We were tempted not even to use that; neither of us wanted 
to draw on the past for anything, We had a feeling, which we did not find 
necessary to articulate, that we would from now on be provided for, that we
now in good hands. We talked and laughed with joy about the prospect of the
hard times ahead of us.

But one thing was missing. I felt it. One night after the three of us had
enjoyed a delicious supper of hamburgers and beer in Joe’s apartment, Diane
stopped me on the stairs.

“James … I want the kids.”

“Sure, honey. So do I.”

She wept joyfully on my shoulder.

As soon as the ordeal of my divorce was over, Joe took us directly to a 
friend of his, an old Presbyterian minister who lived in a rambling 
weather-beaten parsonage west of town, where we were married immediately. 
The next day we went to see Miss Crawford. The storm had completely eaten 
away the portion of Ocean Boulevard which had run along the public beach 
and past the Patterson house, and the surf now broke over the ruins of the 
front wall and slid high up the denuded slope where the lawn had been, 
practically lapping at the front steps of the main house. But the property 
could be reached by the drive that wound in from the street at the rear, so
Miss Crawford had stayed in the house, caring for the children. Almost 
immediately she seemed to sense the change in Diane. To me she seemed like 
a kindly old grandmother, and we hit it off quite well. To make it short, 
she gladly released Mike and Chris to us, and even offered to come with us 
and take care of them.

“I don’t need much money, child. I wouldn’t need nothin’ but meals till 
you get settled. I—I feel kind of responsible for what—”

“Oh, Miss Crawford, please. It’s all over now. It 1 had to happen. You 
couldn’t have stopped it.” Diane pressed the old woman’s hand. “Well, 
anyway, them kids’ll drive you nuts without me to keep ‘em out of trouble. 
Let me pack my things—I ain’t got much—”

“Miss Crawford, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it—I don’t know how to 
thank you—but … well, I want to be a mother now. I want to be alone with my
children and my husband. I hope you understand, I—”

“Sure, honey, sure I understand. It’s the best way. Anyway, best I went 
back up north where it’s safe. I ain’t goin’ through another storm like 
that if I got anything to say about it. One more of them things and there 
won’t be no town here!”

She didn’t even want to take any money, but we gave her what we could 
afford—at least enough to get her back home. As for Wash, his three years 
at the Crawford house had thoroughly soured him on the white man’s world, 
and he had gone back to his own people. I regret not having been able to 
tell more about Wash in these pages—he was quite an intelligent man. He had
his own ideas about a better world, and one night he and I sat up for hours
discussing our respective ideas of the “Millennium.” It was a moving scene 
when he and Diane kissed good-bye. It brought a lump to my throat.

Now everything that kept us in the States had dissolved, and with a fresh
exhilaration, kids in tow, we set about preparations for our migration to 
the south. We tried to talk Joe into coming along, but he said he was too 
old to start a new life. “I’m a pretty tough old bastard, Jim. I’ll just 
ride it out. (Puff! Wheeze!) Just drop me a line now and then—that is, if 
they got a post office where you’re goin’.”

Financially, it was a leap in the dark. But I sold a story to an American
magazine almost immediately. Diane took it casually—“Of course, they bought
it. What did you think?”—but to me it was a miracle, pure and simple. To 
this day I have wondered if I could ever have sold a line while in America.
I doubt it.

How we found this village is not important. The place itself is not 
really important:—it’s not unlike any other Mexican fishing village. We 
live in a typical stucco house—almost a hut actually—on a hill among other 
houses. We are not far from the market place or the bay—the boat I spoke of
earlier is ours—and the kids love it here. Maria, a beautiful Mayan girl in
her early twenties, has come to live with us as a housekeeper. But, as I 
say, all this is only the outer skin; what’s important is the ambience of 
the place—what I might call the “inner landscape.” It is this which I want 
to describe… .

All here is sea-blue, sky-blue, or the color of flesh. Everywhere life in
all its lusty, unashamed abundance unceasingly manifests itself. Sex is 
everywhere, but there is no perversion. In every grassy hollow, under every
spiny tendril, beneath every clam shell, lovers are loving. All races are 
here—Indian, Mexican, Negro, Oriental, Mulatto, Anglo—and they mingle 
freely, strolling arm in arm, often innocent of clothing along the garden 
paths, stopping from time to time for a pleasant fuck in the sunlight; or 
for a bite or two from the delicious fruit which grows all about the banks 
of the pools in ever-ripe abundance. These pools are crystal clear, and at 
all hours of the day they are filled with naked young girls wading and 
bathing or sunning themselves on the banks. And around them, galloping 
among the giant thistles and black berries, ride the girls’ suitors and 
admirers, mounted on horses, leopards, unicorns, bears and all manner of 
beasts. For faster travel one simply climbs oh the back of a hummingbird or
a butterfly or a sparrow. Birdsong pervades the air from dawn to dusk, and 
at night the moonbirds compose their seductive chants.

All day children run and dance among the lovers and up and down the 
towering plant-castles. They are children of the sun and the moon, knowing 
neither sin nor guilt. All dwelling places built by man have long since 
been overgrown and buried beneath the rolling turf and the orange groves; 
here the dwellings grow from the ground when needed. Some are like huge 
thistles on fleshy pillars, hung with grape vines and glass bubbles. Others
are like great castles of cactus apples, spire-studded and spacious, draped
in flowering thorn vines and birds’ nests. These plant-dwellings are the 
latest evolutionary stage of those creeping tendrils which first appeared 
on the storm-crippled bridge that fateful dawn two years ago. (Or was it a 
thousand?) They are the harmless and useless household plants which rest 
dormant until the day the demonic machinery begins to creak and collapse; 
then they rise up and begin their demolition. Only when they have crushed 
all construction into dust, only when the historic mechanized horizon of 
their homeland is but a thin stratum of rubble, deep beneath fertile tons 
of black loam and mulch, only then does their innate luxuriant benevolence 
grow and develop and nourish. Here there is no production, only growth, 
proliferous foliation—which is to say, creativity.

Yet here I am, squatting in the shade of a leaf, scribbling away, wasting
my time. How long, I wonder, will I find it necessary to do this? But then,
why worry? When I get tired of it, then I’ll stop. Simple, really. Maybe, 
though—now that I’ve at last written the history of Diane (A Phantasmagoria
in Two Parts)—maybe now I will write about this world, the “hidden side of 
the earth,” as I might call it. Ah, but who would believe it?

Over the orange trees come Diane and Maria on the back of a flying fish, 
its scales flashing in the pink-white sunlight. Diane’s hair is now as 
black as Maria’s, but Maria’s skin is a golden sienna, while Diane’s is 
like polished bronze. As they dismount and walk toward me, I find myself 
still comparing their bodies. The nipples for instance—Diane’s are not much
darker than the rest of her breasts; Maria’s are almost black. But as to 
which one has the most hair between her legs—well, that will take a little 
research.

“So there you are, James,” says Diane as they flop down on the turf 
beside me. “Still scribbling away, I see. When are you going to finish it?”

“It’s finished—I mean, almost,” I answer, still comparing.

“James … did it all really happen?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“No. Come on, now!” She jumps to her feet and starts tugging on my arm.

“Wait a minute,” I say, staying on the ground. “Maria, could you stand 
up, please?” When they are both standing in front of me, I reach out and 
fluff up the two black bushes, one with each hand. They giggle and look at 
each other with mirthful puzzlement. It’s close, but Diane is definitely 
the winner. As for the tits, though, I’ll have to give it to Maria.

“Come on, crazy,” they say, laughing and pulling me to my feet. “Let’s go
to the park!”

We jump on the fish and zoom off over the strawberry forest. Below us, as
far as the eye can see, the naked multi-colored bodies of the men and women
bask in the sunlight and splash in the pools. We soar down over the thistle
groves filled with children and lovers, loop around a lush, tendriled tower
with a violet spire, its gutters full of napping old men, their women 
gathering fish and berries for supper, coast over the bramble thicket at 
the center of the long park and alight with a gentle bounce between the two
fleshy pink hills. The girls snatch a big mulberry from a bush and run to 
the top of the east hill. These two jiggling dunes are topped with rosy red
cones, and from their centers firm flat-topped knobs, like short columns, 
jut upward. At the center of these is a small fountain which gives sweet 
warm milk when squeezed. They put the mulberry on the knob and we sit on 
the soft cushion of the cone around it, nibbling at the sweet fruit.

When I’ve had enough, I but my face in Maria’s lap and wipe my mouth and 
beard on her bush, my long hair draped over her brown thighs. She shrieks 
in playful alarm and, grabbing a handful of my hair, wipes the berry juice 
out of her maidenhair. Held down thus by the hair, I feel Diane’s laughing 
mouth close over my dick, and when I get free and look down at it, it’s 
purple. The girls are both de-

lighted at this and start playing with me, until after

a few minutes the thing is standing up like an ear of

corn.

A troop of children come charging through the valley between the two 
dunes on their way to a game or a battle with other children. Mike is among
them, armed with a long stamen. “Hey, Mom! Hey, Dad! Hey, Maria!”

We wave back to him. “Where’s Chrissy, Mike?” I shout.

“She’s over at the pool by the cherry trees, Dad. See ya’ later!” And the
troop rounds the west hill and spills out onto the plain below.

“Hey!” says Diane, spitting out a seed. “Wanta fuck?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” I say. Maria’s for it too.

“Let’s go down to the brambles where it’s cool,” sings my wife, running 
down the round pink slope and onto the undulating fairway. After taking a 
swallow or two of milk from the fountain, Maria and I join her. About 
halfway between the twin hills and the bramble thicket is a shallow 
depression with gentle banks of pale rose. Rain water collects in this hole
and it serves as a drinking cistern for the park people. Here we flop down 
for a refreshing drink to wash down the milk and mulberry, and then proceed
southward over the broad swelling plain and down into the dense cool 
thicket.

In the center of the thicket a warm spring bubbles from a deep fissure 
and flows southward into a great round-rimmed canyon. There are always 
birds here, darting and singing among the brambles, catching insects, 
bathing in the spring—and there are always lovers too; it’s a great place 
for making love—something about the atmosphere of the place.

As we enter the soft shadows are alive with voluptuous movement. There 
are groups of two, three—even a few foursomes—locked in postures of the 
most ingenious and amazing variety. Some, drained for the moment, sit on 
the banks of the fissure, dangling their toes in the warm flow. When we 
reach the high ground at the head of the spring, Maria settles to the 
ground and pulls me down on top of her. Diane covers us both, so that I’m 
sandwiched between those hot lush bodies, the ground beneath us yielding 
softly to our every lurch and roll. As Maria nibbles at my eyes and mouth 
with her large full lips, I begin massaging those huge, firm tits of hers, 
the like of which one seldom sees. Meanwhile, Diane’s stiff nipples are 
burning hot trails down my back and over my buttocks. She twists around and
inserts her head, face up, between my legs, using Maria’s cushiony cunt for
a pillow. While I suck Maria’s big black nipples for all I’m worth, my 
wife’s busy trying to cram my cock down her throat. But the head action on 
her grassy hump is getting to Maria, and now she slides out and upward 
until my face is even with her crotch. I get to my knees to give Diane room
and lower my mouth to the Indian girl’s juicy slit. She throws her heavy 
legs around my neck, drawing my whole face into her slimy, quivering swamp,
and I reach around her thighs for her jumping jugs, slapping them around 
like punching bags. I try to save it, but what the hell?—Bang, bang, 
bang!—I blast a pint or so into Diane’s mouth. She gulps it down and 
scurries around me on all fours, reverses her body so that she’s facing me,
and straddles Maria’s

ecstatic face. While the brown-skinned beauty laps her clit, Diane 
nuzzles and nibbles at my ears and I gulp away, sunk to the eyeballs in 
that sweet, flooding jungle. She pulls Maria’s thighs apart and nudges my 
head aside to have a little snack for herself. I sit back in pleasant 
exhaustion and watch the two girls gobble each other up.

There is a commotion of some sort off in the brambles. A girl yells in 
pain. A man laughs—a big man, by the sound of it. Now I see him. Big is 
right. A Mexican, I guess. He’s a veritable giant, with a big black 
moustache and greasy hair. He has two leathery vines around his hairy 
shoulders, crisscrossing over his chest like bandoleers. But the most 
startling thing about him is hanging out of the matted forest of hair 
between his legs. If it’s not the longest, thickest prick in the world, I’d
hate to see its match! He’s lumbering around among the groups, knocking the
men and boys out of the way and ramming that murderous thing into every 
twat he can find. Every time he drives home his victim screams and his 
booming laughter echoes through the park. Then he drops her and goes to the
next. A rapist in Paradise? Come on.

The girls are too wrapped up in their fun to take notice, and I’m still 
trying to make sense out of the phenomenon, when up he steps and bowls me 
over with a foot in the chest. My eyes focus in on the scene again just in 
time to see the bandito, or whatever he is, slip up behind Diane and grab 
her by the hips with his hairy hams. Her puss comes off Maria’s tongue with
a loud slurp as he jerks her clear off the ground. Holding her up by her 
ass like a rag doll, he points his greasy bludgeon at the crack and with a 
mighty thrust impales her on it dog-style.

Only this time it’s different. It’s Diane who laughs and El Rapo who 
screams.

“AIIIIIIII, CARAMBAaaaaaaaaaaa! ———”


THE END
