by Nan Ryan
A long distance friendship had evolved and now at last—her post office to be left safely in the hands of a substitute from Rochester—the two were to quietly, secretly meet and spend the last two weeks of summer together in Atlantic City.
The big day finally arrived.
Saturday, August 19th, 1899.
Lucy was almost giddy with excitement. She was up and out of bed before the sun, although her train did not leave Colonias until 10 a.m.
Rushing about, Lucy mentally checked off the list of last minute things to be done. She inspected every room in the house, making sure nothing was out of place, that no clutter marred the general neatness, that no hint of dust coated the woodwork or furniture. She was a firm believer that a woman should never leave her home—even for a hour, much less two long weeks—in any condition other than absolutely spotless.
After all, life was uncertain. You never knew when you walked out the front door if you’d ever return. Accidents happened and she could think of nothing more horrifying than to have friends and neighbors find out that Miss Lucy Hart had been a slovenly housekeeper.
Inhaling the soft bouquet of lemon soap emanating from the sparkling white bathroom, Lucy walked on down the short hall and into the front parlor. She ran her hand along the slipcovered back of the sofa, rearranged a crocheted doily on a chair arm, and absently touched the fringed border of a cream linen window curtain. She turned toward the old upright piano, checked to be sure all sheet music had been put away.
Satisfied she was leaving everything exactly as it should be, Lucy hurried into her sunny bedroom to finish getting ready for her journey.
In minutes she was dressed in a freshly laundered, heavily starched traveling suit of pale yellow cotton and her naturally curly chestnut hair was meticulously swept atop her head and secured with an oyster shell comb.
The packing had been completed earlier, save for one particular item. The beautiful white tulle dress she’d bought at Pauline’s still lay spread out on her neatly made bed. It would go into the big valise last.
Lucy took down from a shelf in the closet several sheets of white tissue paper saved from last Christmas. Her wide-set, green eyes sparkling, bottom lip caught behind her top row of straight white teeth, she carefully wrapped the white summer dress in the tissue paper and placed it in the large, open brown suitcase. She closed the case, patted the leather lid, then lifted and looked at her brooch watch.
Twenty minutes ’til nine.
“More than an hour to go,” Lucy lamented aloud, frowning suddenly. Then she smiled immediately, snapped her slender fingers, and said to her silent, sunny bedroom, “I shall wait at the depot! Maybe the train will be early.”
At straight up nine on that muggy August morning, a telegram for Miss Lucille Hart came over the wire. Nate Flatt, the Western Union telegrapher, not bothering to read anything other than the wire’s addressee, placed the yellow message in a matching envelope, sealed it, went to the back door of the telegraph office, and called to his young son, Bobby. The boisterous eleven-year-old came running. Barking excitedly, Post Office Champ was close on Bobby’s heels.
“What is it, Papa?” Bobby shoved a shock of dark hair out of his eyes with a dirty hand. “Me and Champ are pretty busy right now. We’re tied up.”
“Well you and Champ can get untied,” said his skinny, sallow faced father. “I have a delivery for you to make.” He handed Bobby the yellow envelope, put his hands atop his son’s slender shoulders, and said, “This telegram just came for Miss Lucy. Get on your bike and take it over to her. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bobby and Champ barked his agreement.
The telegram tucked in his front shirt pocket, Bobby Flatt and Champ set out to Miss Lucy’s house, Bobby pedaling furiously, Champ speeding ahead of his young master, the racing blood of his wild wolf ancestors coursing through his veins.
The pair had gone but a couple of blocks when they ran into a couple of Bobby’s school chums. Sonny Davis and Mark McCalister had been to A.B. Cranford’s Drug store. Sonny had a sack of colored jawbreakers. He offered one to Bobby. Champ got one too. The three friends sucked on their jawbreakers and made plans for a much-needed visit to their favorite swimming hole late that afternoon.
By the time Bobby pedaled up to Miss Lucy’s white house, his jawbreaker was gone and so was Miss Lucy.
Champ barked and Bobby knocked on the closed door again and again. But no one answered. No one was home.
Bobby looked about, made a face, and finally said to Champ, “Aw, heck, Miss Lucy’ll be back any minute. We’ll just leave her telegram in the door so she’ll be sure to find it.”
Bobby stuck the sealed yellow envelope inside the screen door and left. When he got back to the telegraph office, Nate Flatt looked up, and asked, “You deliver that telegram to Miss Lucy?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Bobby with round, innocent eyes, then raced out the front door and across the street to watch and wave to the crowded passenger train which was rolling out of the station.
Chapter Three
High up in a rooftop apartment overlooking Central Park west, Lilly Styvestant—the Park Avenue Goddess—was wide-awake on that hot August morning.
The lovely, blond tressed Lilly was in bed, but she had not yet been to sleep. Nor had her male companion. The handsome, hedonistic pair had been out on the town all night, finally staggering home to Lilly’s Park Avenue penthouse as the Saturday sun was coming up.
Intoxicated, as usual, and feeling amorous, as usual, they had begun stripping as soon as they entered the sky-high palace. Articles of clothing soon littered the lush drawing room carpet. Naked by the time they reached the bedroom, the eager, excited Lilly never made it to the bed.
She threw her arms around Blackie LaDuke’s neck and slid a bent knee up and around his thigh. She squealed with girlish delight when he lifted her from the floor, eased her down on his thrusting masculinity, and stood there flat footed in the middle of the bedroom, his dark hands manipulating the soft pale cheeks of her bottom, his own tanned buttocks flexing, his pelvis thrusting until she cried out in ecstasy.
“Darling, darling,” Lilly sighed happily, knowing it was only the beginning.
An extremely passionate woman, constantly ravenous for prolonged sexual rapture, Lilly Styvestant had finally found the ideal lover. Handsome and hot blooded, Blackie LaDuke had been blessed with limitless stamina and amazing control of his lean, well honed body. None of Lilly’s past lovers had been half so awesome as this dark sensual provider of incredible erotic pleasure. No other had ever given her the multiple orgasms she so desperately sought.
Other men had been intimidated by her fierce physical hunger, accusing her of being greedy and avaricious in bed, but nothing shocked the worldly Blackie LaDuke. With him Lilly could be herself, admitting frankly that once was not nearly enough. Not for her. Not ever.
An experienced lover, Blackie had learned to gauge exactly how much it would take on a given occasion to fully satiate the glamorous, greedy Park Avenue Goddess—who made no bones about the fact that she was mad about him.
On this sticky, hot August Saturday morning, Lilly was unusually ravenous. Blackie had brought her to deep, shuddering climaxes several times and still she wanted more. After a couple of hours of performing, he was achingly aroused, but continued to hold back. He was so hot he was feverish, but if he climaxed he might not be able to pleasure her again.
There might be no quick duplication of the enormous erection he presently sported. Rather than risk it, Blackie called on all his powers of self control, determined to stay just as he was until he could be sure this beautiful, naked woman no longer wanted to touch it, or kiss it, or have it inside her.
At ten a.m. that had not yet occurred.
So as the high, hot August sun streamed through the uncurtained floor to ceiling glass of Lilly’s penthouse bedroom, Blackie LaDuke still sublimely exhibited that unique virility, that interminable readiness which made him such an exciting l
over.
The black-haired, black-eyed Blackie lay spread eagled across Lilly’s silk sheeted bed. His bare brown feet dangled over one side of the mattress, his dark head hung down backward over the other.
The pale-skinned, pale-haired Lilly was kneeling on the carpeted floor at Blackie’s head, her hands kneading his muscular shoulders, her head bent over his face, her lips moving eagerly on his as she kissed him. Her loose, tangled hair falling into her eyes and onto his throat, Lilly kissed Blackie boldly, hotly until Blackie’s arms came up off the mattress and his raised hands cupped the crown of her head and wrapped around the nape of her neck.
While blindingly bright sunlight washed over the naked, perspiring pair, they kissed like that until, breathless, her heart pounding in her full, naked breasts, Lilly tore her burning lips from Blackie’s, whipped her head back, and pushed her wild blond hair off her face.
Blackie flipped fluidly onto his stomach, balanced his weight on an elbow, reached for her, and started kissing her all over again. For several minutes they kissed in that position—he lying on his stomach across the bed, she kneeling on the floor before him.
Abruptly Blackie released Lilly. He levered himself up, rose to his knees, and sat back on his bare heels. He crossed his muscular arms over his hair-covered chest, tilted his head to one side, and announced, “I need a drink. Join me?”
He smiled at the look of pure animal lust washing over her lovely face as she focused squarely on the throbbing tumescence rising and bobbing between his spread thighs.
“Noooo,” she murmured petulantly, “I want you.” She pointed a red nailed forefinger. “I want that!” she whined like a spoiled child demanding a favorite toy. “You give it to me, Blackie. I want it now.”
Blackie grinned, but shook his head. He was tiring; he needed some rest. If he played his cards right, one more go around might satisfy even the lustful Lilly. But he couldn’t be too quick about it. Unless he made her wait a while, drew out the titillation until she was really on fire, once more might not do her.
Blackie knew how to handle Lilly.
He yawned dramatically, turned about, and lithely rose from the bed. Without a word he padded out of the sunny bedroom, never looking back. Lilly, still on her knees on the far side of the bed, stared after him in disappointed astonishment. She made a face.
Blackie stood at the heavy liquor cabinet pouring scotch into a couple of shot glasses when Lilly walked up behind him. Her arms came around him and she pressed herself against his back while he downed a shot of scotch in one long swallow.
“Care for a drink?” he asked as her soft, searching hands slid down his hard belly and closed possessively around him.
Her lips brushing kisses to his clefted back, Lilly whispered, “In a minute.”
Lilly’s left hand cupped Blackie’s tight testicles and her right began a slight sliding motion upward from the base of his swollen erection to the smooth tip. Blackie smiled to himself, shrugged, and drank down the scotch he’d poured for her.
This would be it. He’d called it correctly. One final earth shattering orgasm and she’d sleepily pass out.
First he’d let her play for a while. Let her get as hot as a pistol, then take her right here on floor, pump it to her until she cried uncle. Then hopefully he could go to his hotel and get some rest.
Blackie set the empty shot glass down and clung to the solid walnut cabinet while Lilly continued her skillful manipulation of his genitals.
She toyed. She stroked. She tickled. She squeezed.
And all the while she was licking and biting his broad shoulders, stabbing her hard nippled breasts into his back, and rubbing the moist blond curls of her gyrating pelvis against his bare, lean buttocks.
“God, Blackie, you excite me so,” she murmured, nuzzling her flushed face into the deep cleft of his smooth warm back. “I wish I could just keep you locked up here with me forever and ever.”
“Mmmmm,” Blackie moaned, gripping the liquor cabinet, his lids lowering over passion-glazed, dark eyes and the muscles of his long legs becoming tense and weak.
“Every day could be just like Christmas,” Lilly whispered provocatively. She sighed deeply thinking about it. Then laughed softly, huskily, and told him, “While other people decorate their Christmas tree, I could decorate this.” Her forefinger moving in a circle around the jerking tip, she continued the fantasizing folly. “I could stand you naked before the tall windows overlooking Central Park and twine strings of sparkling diamonds and luminous pearls around the length of it. Then perhaps tuck tiny sprigs of fragrant mistletoe in the crisp black groin curls and…and…or…or…no…I know…it could be a fabulous Christmas present. I could sheath it in colorful wrapping paper of bright scarlet, tie a big green satin bow around it, then eagerly unwrap you on Christmas morning…my most treasured gift of all. Wouldn’t that be great fun, darling?”
“Sure,” Blackie rasped, amenable, at that moment, to just about anything she might suggest, no matter how outlandish. “We’ll try that come Christmas.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Oh, darling, darling. I believe I’d like that scotch now,” Lilly told him breathlessly.
“Coming right up,” Blackie’s breath was short as well.
With shaking hands he poured a shot glass to the brim with scotch, and held it out beside him. He flinched and shuddered when Lilly gave him one last squeeze, released him, and reached for the scotch. She stepped back as Blackie turned to face her.
Lilly held the scotch in her hand, smiling wickedly up at him. She did not drink from the glass. She put out the pink tip of her tongue and made a slow, erotic circle of her ruby red lips. Then, puckering as if for a kiss, she dipped slender fingers into the scotch and spread the liquor slowly, seductively over Blackie’s jerking, thrusting cock. When every inch was wet and glistening, Lilly handed him the glass, sank to her knees before him, and began licking the scotch away.
This was, she had confessed to him on more than one such occasion, her favorite way to drink. What sensual pleasure, she enthused, to consume her liquor and her lover at the same time. It never failed to make her deliciously tipsy and she was never quite certain which was responsible for the heady intoxication.
The scotch on her man or the man in her scotch.
A few short moments of her mouth warmly enclosing him and both were at a fever pitch and in dire need of swift, deep release. His hands tangled in her wild blond hair, Blackie anxiously pulled her head up. A half dozen hot kisses and then they were going at it on the living room rug like school was out for good.
An hour later Blackie LaDuke, bathed and dressed in his slightly rumpled evening clothes, the dark stubble of beard giving him a slightly satanic appearance, was saying good-bye to Lilly at her front door.
“I’ll drop you a picture post card,” he said, smiling, giving her bare bottom a playful squeeze.
“Don’t go, Blackie. You’ll be bored to tears down there,” she argued. He just grinned, kissed her one last time, opened the door, and walked out.
Twenty-four hours later Blackie LaDuke, rested, handsome, and impeccably dressed in a crisp beige linen summer suit, stood before the marble counter in the hotel lobby checking out of the Waldorf.
As Blackie turned to leave, the cashier called after him, “Mr. LaDuke, where shall I forward your mail?”
Over his shoulder as he walked away. “The Atlantic Grand.”
Chapter Four
Lucy Hart stood at the railing of the Hudson River steamer. Squinting against the early morning sunlight, she gazed at the tall timbered palisades rising on either side of the wide river. Any minute now she would see it. She was sure they must be getting close.
Moments later the steamer rounded a gentle bend in the Hudson River and, sure enough, there on the lofty cliffs above were the huge cannons and red brick buildings of West Point. Faintly, as if from far, far away, Lucy heard the sound of a lone bugle.
It gave her g
oose bumps.
She was reminded of another summer Sunday. She had been only a child—nine, maybe ten—but the memory of that day was as vivid as if it had been last week. She had come with her father and mother to the Military Academy for a reunion of the Grand Army of the Republic. Her father and the other proud Union veterans of the Civil War had worn their uniforms and medals for the stirring celebration.
There was a grand parade on the West Point plain. The Post band played, the Cadet Corps passed in review, and the old soldiers proudly stood at attention. Crowds cheered and women waved their handkerchiefs and tossed flowers at the aging heroes. It was patriotic and exciting and wonderful.
Lucy shivered in the warm August sunlight and for a fleeting second she missed her mother and father with such an intense yearning it was akin to physical pain. She clutched her throat, turned away from the railing, and shook her head as if to clear it.
This was no time for looking back.
She wanted only to look ahead. Two glorious weeks of adventure awaited her in Atlantic City and she meant to—had to—make the most of it.
Lucy turned back to the railing. A gentle breeze loosened a lock of her chestnut hair. It whipped across her cheek and into her eyes. Impatiently she swept the wayward curl aside. Her green eyes sparkled once more and she smiled again with pleasure.
It was incredibly exhilarating to consider that no one in the whole wide world—save Mr. Theodore D. Mooney—knew where she was or would be for the next two weeks!
The Colonias post office could burn to the ground, her brothers could come for an unexpected visit, the house could blow away—and nobody would know how to get in touch with her.
Kitty Widner knew she was going on a two-week holiday. But nothing more. She’d had to let Kitty know she would be gone. Kitty and Bruce Widner were more than her next-door neighbors; they were her dearest friends. So she had told Kitty and naturally Kitty begged her to reveal her secret destination, but she had refused.
