by Paul Kenyon
The eyes of the President's man narrowed. "The Red Chinese? Could they be involved? There's nothing they'd like more than to see us and the Russians slinging nuclear bombs at one another."
"But Perkins was never in Hong Kong," CIA pointed out maliciously.
The President's man ignored him. "Any other correlations, Sam?"
"Just one." NSA frowned.
"Yes?"
NSA looked embarrassed. "Perkins died with a hard on. So did Perry. And the actress died while having multiple orgasms."
"So what do you make of it?" the President's man asked.
"Put us on it, Henry," CIA pleaded. "We'll trace all the leads, get our Hong Kong office on it…"
"We can't take a chance on any leaks," the President's man said gently. "This is too delicate. And, Sam, I don't want your regular people to know about this either."
"You want me to call Key?" asked NSA.
"That's correct. Even I don't know who Key is. That should keep it confidential."
"Well, I know who Key is," NSA said, "but only Key knows who Coin is. Except that Coin gets results."
"It's settled, then?" The President's man looked around the table. It was supposed to be a vote, but nobody in the Special Group ever voted against the express decisions of the man who represented the President. They all nodded, even CIA.
"Fine," the President's man said to NSA. He began to pack up his papers.
"Go on, Sam. Turn the Key."
2
There were four hundred people jammed into the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini's New York apartment. They milled around the fifty-foot living room and adjoining study, filled the foyer and eight bedrooms, spilled out onto the hundred-foot, tree-planted terrace that overlooked Central Park.
Everybody who was anybody was there. When the Baroness, twice a year, closed her apartment in Rome and her villa outside Florence to open the spring and fall seasons in New York, celebrities and royalty, the rich, the powerful, and the famous fought for invitations.
On the improvised bandstand against one wall, a West Coast rock group alternated with a cool trio that played nothing but Cole Porter — this season's fad. Against the opposite wall, a naked girl was picked out by spotlights while a famous pop artist applied floral designs in body paint. Several of the female guests were lined up, waiting their turns as subjects, and one of them, the Contessa Paoli, already had peeled her Geoffrey Beene gown down to the waist, showing off the pointy little breasts she was so proud of.
Harried waiters scuttled back and forth from the three bars, keeping the guests supplied with martinis and Scotch and aged bourbon. The sideboard and coffee tables offered silver dishes containing hash and machine-rolled grass.
The lights were low and the guests were high. The trio, tinkling its way through "But In the Morning, No!" was overpowered by four hundred voices all talking at once. A blue haze of hemp hung over the rooms and drifted out over Central Park.
The Baroness sipped her martini, surveying the scene with lively satisfaction. She'd put the whole thing together in only three days, but still they'd fallen all over themselves to come — the literai, the social gadflies, the titled — even the contessa, who had stuffed a gown into an overnight bag and hopped the first plane out of Rome.
She set the martini down on the grand piano for a moment to take a puff of the joint offered by the Great American Playwright who was just passing. She sent the playwright on his way with a gentle push and flashed a dazzling smile at the young senator who had just entered, sans his wife, as usual.
The Baroness was a startling beauty, with huge luminous green eyes and the spectacular cheekbones made famous by the pictures in Vogue and Elle and Claudia and Harper's Bazaar. Her mouth was wide, generous, showing a flash of strong white teeth when she smiled. Her hair was a dramatic swirl of rich glossy black that swept past her cheek and bounced springly at shoulder level.
Her splendid body, long-legged, willowy, and supple as a cat, was dressed for the party in a black, scoop-necked nylon evening gown by de la Renta; it bared her back down to the sacrum, and was cut so low in front that her breasts showed twin blushes of pink at the borderline.
The senator was pushing his way through the crowd toward her. She smiled, but took a few steps to one side to put him on a path that would insure that he'd be intercepted by Helena Pontarelli, the opera star, before he could reach her.
The NSA dossier on the senator showed that he was being bugged by the opposition party, who were hoping to uncover some scandal that would smash the senator's presidential ambitions. The Baroness had no intention of ending up in the dossier with him.
Instead she scanned the crowd for a likelier playmate.
Over by the pop artist, watching the contessa get rosebuds painted on her nipples, was Tony Sirocco, the singer. He was a big craggy man with a hook nose and a sensuous mouth. She thought it over for a moment, then decided no. Tony was healthy and vigorous, but from all accounts turned in too simple a performance.
The Baroness drifted through the crowd, stepped through the French doors to the terrace. The view was spectacular. The New York skyline sparkled like jewels under a black velvet sky.
But few of the people scattered out here were in any condition to enjoy the sight. They were stoned out of their minds, or arguing art and politics, or playing with one another. At the south end of the terrace, half hidden by a low dogwood tree in a tub, a man was braced between the legs of a thin blonde in an evening sweater, pumping industriously. She could hear the girl gasping in time to his movements.
She was about to turn back when a voice spoke in her ear.
"Looking for me, Baroness?"
She turned her head. He was tall, breathtakingly masculine, with a long humorous face and tousled sandy hair. He was wearing a soft tweed jacket, rumpled but expensive, and a navy shirt, open at the throat.
"That depends," she said. "Who are you?"
He laughed. "The price of fame — anonymity. The name's Brian."
She looked more closely at him. Her interest quickened. "That would be Brian York, wouldn't it?"
"The one and only. I guess you don't spend too many Sunday afternoons in front of your TV set, Baroness." Brian York was the football superstar who had just made history by signing a million-dollar contract. Off the field he was known as a swinger. He usually was seen in public with an actress on his arm.
"I don't remember inviting you."
"You didn't. I crashed your zone defense."
The Baroness was impressed. Her security arrangements hardly ever failed to keep away unwanted guests. Not that Brian was unwanted. She stared frankly at the broad shoulders, the thick powerful arms, the explicit pouch at the fork of his tight knit jeans. A little warm wave traveled through the core of her body. No, she thought, he's definitely wanted.
"Where's your date, Brian?"
"I came without one."
"That's a bad habit. It'll stunt your growth."
He thought for a moment, then burst into laughter. "Do you receive passes, Baroness?"
"It depends on who's doing the passing."
He grinned hugely. One of the big hairy hands grasped her forearm and drew her close to him. The other dipped into her scoop neckline after her left breast.
Still smiling, she reached between his legs and dug her thumb into the nerve center on the inside of his thigh. He gave a little cry of surprise and pain, and jerked away.
"But I don't allow myself to be pawed in public."
He smiled, though his face had turned greenish with pain. "Sorry, Baroness. I guess we just had a misunderstanding." He turned and began to limp away.
"Brian!"
He stopped, turned with a quizzical look.
"I didn't say anything about in private."
He paused, struggling with his puzzlement and anger. She watched with interest, to see if he would win. He did. He came back and stood close to her, smelling of after-shave lotion and a warm indefinable male aroma.
&n
bsp; "You call the signals, lady," he said.
She gave a cool tinkling laugh and took his arm. It felt like hewed oak. "Come with me," she said. "I think we can find an empty bedroom."
"You mean, like right now?" he said with interest.
"I mean like right now."
They stepped through the French doors into the party. The rock group was going full blast. If anything, the air was thicker with smoke and noise than it had been before. Nobody noticed them.
"What was that thing you did to me?" he said admiringly. "It hurt like hell. Usually a chick tries to give me a knee in the balls."
"I didn't want to damage your balls, Brian. We're going to need them."
Most of the bedrooms had at least a half-dozen people in them, talking, drinking, smoking pot or flaked out. The room with the big circular bed was being used by nine guests, including the well-known star of a TV situation comedy, trying out an imaginative new group sex activity.
"Let's try the little room at the end of the hall," the Baroness said.
The bed was occupied by a couple making slow-motion love. The man, his sequined jeans down around his ankles and his bare buttocks heaving, was Andy Dean, the rock singer. She didn't recognize the girl underneath him, a muscular blonde whose dress was pushed up to her waist.
"Out, Andy," the Baroness said. "I need this room."
He turned his head, his pumping halted. "But, Baroness," he complained, "I haven't come yet."
"Out!" she said, slapping his bottom.
The two of them left, grumbling. The Baroness locked the door after them. She pulled Brian over to the bed and, with a single flowing motion, pulled the de la Renta gown over her head and tossed it into the corner.
She stood there for his inspection, wearing nothing but her wristwatch.
Impatiently, she helped Brian out of his clothes, then held him at arm's length to inspect the big halfback's body. It was hairy and hard, crisscrossed with scars. She poked a finger inquiringly into a livid gouge above one bicep.
"Alex Karras did that to me," he said. He traced a deep furrow on one thigh. "Rosie Grier gave me that one."
The Baroness grasped the thick pole sprouting between his legs. It was stiff and hot to the touch. "But I gave you that one, didn't I, darling?" she said. She gave a little squeeze, digging in with her nails. He moaned in mingled pleasure and apprehension.
"Don't be afraid, darling," she whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you again. I'm going to take good care of this goalpost of yours. And it's going to take good care of me, isn't it?"
For answer, he put his hands on her shoulders and tried to wrestle her into a prone position. She squirmed free and bit his ear.
"Not so fast; darling," she said. "We have all the time in the world to make a touchdown."
She drew his head down by a handful of sandy hair, and covered his mouth with hers. His groping fingers found a breast and hefted it.
"That feels better in my hand than any little old football," he said.
Their lips joined again, and the Baroness pushed her tongue against his teeth until he opened up. Her tongue darted inside his mouth and lightly stroked the underside of his tongue.
His mouth tasted fresh and cool, the tongue hot and slick by comparison. She explored it down to its roots, feeling its strength against hers. He gave a little grunt, and began to pull gently at her nipple with thumb and forefinger, teasing it out to a rigid cone. She sighed with pleasure. She could feel a warmth and wetness growing between her thighs.
His other hand, cradled under her buttocks, slid between her legs and found the lubricated crevasse. With a gentleness surprising in that roughneck personality, he parted the outer labia and slid a knobby finger deep inside her. For answer, the Baroness peeled back his foreskin and ran a finger around the swollen ridge of the glans. He gave a hoarse gasp, and she pressed the end of the bulb with her thumb, feeling the slight sticky wetness of the single drop that had oozed out.
His thumb was moving in circles over her clitoris. There was a spasm of pleasure that made her whole body jump, but she brought it under control and saved it for the big one.
His lips had found the other nipple. He popped it in and out of his mouth until she writhed with sweet torment, then filled his whole mouth with as much of her breast as he could stuff into it. She could feel his hot tongue lapping at the nipple.
"Are you ready to receive yet?" he said tightly.
"Hold the fine, halfback," she whispered. She slid down the length of his body and gave his rigid stem a sharp little nip with her teeth. At the same time she pressed her thumb deftly into the base of his scrotum.
He calmed down again and continued pulling at her nipples.
The doorknob rattled, and his fingers paused. "Don't stop!" she whispered fiercely. "They'll go away."
The doorknob shook again. A plaintive female voice said, "Andy, are you in there?" After a moment she went away.
Brian was finding it awkward manipulating her breasts at arms' length. He took a double handful and tugged gently to urge her up the length of his body again. Instead she took the end of his pulsing tool in her mouth and, using it as a fulcrum, eased her body around in a half circle until her belly was resting on his chest. She raised herself up slightly on her knees, gripping his massive torso between her thighs.
His lips found the softness of her inner thigh. He gave a tiny nip.
Penelope ran her tongue around the distended plum at the end of his shaft. He gave a long sigh, and pushed it an inch farther into her mouth. Penelope waggled her bottom. He received the signal and ran his tongue down her vaginal cleft. It was slippery and swollen. He found the tumid bud and caressed it with his tongue. Penelope cried out at the pleasure of it. He thrust his tongue full length within her, then tilted his head so that his chin nuzzled her clitoris. She could feel the fine wiry stubble scraping against the sensitive projecting flesh. It was like nothing she had ever felt before. Her whole body shuddered, and she almost gave in to the urgency that had been building up in her. Involuntarily, her teeth fastened on his penis. He gave a slight jerk, but kept it where it was. Penelope kissed it to reassure him, then, her fingers gripping its base, she reversed direction and straddled him again, face to face.
His eyes had a wild, glazed look. He was panting like a horse. She could see the stubble on his chin, shiny with her juices. She kissed him, tasting the salty flavor she had left on his lips.
"Baroness," he rasped, "what are you doing to me?"
"Don't drop the ball, darling," she said hoarsely. "I'm building you up for a long, long run to the end zone. You've been used to short yardage, haven't you, with all those obliging Hollywood tarts?"
Still gripping the haft of his organ, she lowered herself onto it. It just parted the sausage-tight lips of her vagina, and she gave a premonitory shiver. Brian opened his mouth to suck air like a drowning man.
"Hold tight, halfback," she said between teeth clenched with ecstasy.
Monitoring his balls with her left hand, she moved the turnip-sized glans around the slippery edges of her scabbard. He reached up to hold her breasts, twisting his pelvis in a reciprocal motion that rubbed the swollen knob against her own distended knurl at each stroke. They moved faster and faster. Penelope's vision began to go out of focus, but she paid attention to the heavy weight in her left hand until, after an eternity, she felt the loose skin tighten warningly. Instantly she gave an expert squeeze and stopped the motion for a moment. Then they began all over again.
This time she let him enter her halfway. She moved him in and out, arching her back to let her thick hair trail down her back. She pulled him out, with a soft pop, at the end of each stroke, driving both of them into a frenzy at the unbearable friction. Twice more she had to stop at a warning tremor from him, but he recovered both times.
"You're doing nicely," she hissed in his ear. "Keep it up, darling."
"Have a heart!" he wheezed, squirming his way into her another two inches.
She
took pity on both of them then, and lowered herself onto his hot stem. A tingly spark ran through her insides, spreading a warm flush over her belly and thighs. She eased back until she was lying full length on top of him, riding his massive body.
He was heaving up and down in a huge undulating motion, while she held on, her fingers digging into his meaty biceps. She could feel his enormous probe working back and forth inside her. She was sucking air now, taking greedy gulps, while the universe turned red around the edges. A great blind explosion was moving closer and closer to her across light years.
And her wristwatch tingled, giving her a vicious little electric shock.
"Damn!" she said. "Of all the rotten lousy things!"
"What?" Brian said blearily beneath her, still rocking up and down.
"Not you, darling! Keep going!"
Her wrist tingled again, more urgently.
The bastards! she thought. Of all the times to pick!
"Faster, darling, faster," she urged him. He was working like some great steam engine now, thrusting and wheezing. Penelope felt the vast explosion wheeling closer again, sending ripples across the universe of her senses.
The electric shocks from her wristwatch were coming at regular five-second intervals. They wouldn't stop, she knew, until she made a certain telephone call.
Let them wait, she thought defiantly. The worst that could happen was the nuclear explosion that signaled the Third World War. There was a bigger explosion coming, and it was only a couple of minutes away.
Deliberately she closed her mind to the shocks. They receded into another cosmos. She concentrated on that great big beautiful light speeding toward her across a pulsing pink space. Everything was gone now except an intolerable urgency. The edges of the glow lapped around her and she moaned. A vast tremor began from deep, deep inside. There was a cascade of tingles and spasms, building to a crescendo. And then it came, a vast sun-bright burst that sent her into a huge shuddering convulsion. The waves of pleasure gradually receded, leaving a warm flush that lapped at the boundaries of her senses.
Brian was recovering too, catching his breath. She pulled free of his still-inflated shaft, feeling the uncorked semen dribble in a warm flood down her thighs.
