Don't Call Me Madame
Page 15
It was a lovely, well-furnished suite, thickly carpeted. There was a spacious living room, a spacious bedroom, a spacious dressing room, a spacious bathroom, and every room had every possible appurtenance for the convenience of the guest. (The medicine cabinet of the bathroom contained toothpaste, two sealed toothbrushes, a sealed comb, a sealed hairbrush, a sealed can of squeeze-a-spurt-of-shaving cream, a sealed Gillette razor, and a sealed packet of razor blades — the sealings all sparkling transparent plastic.) He finished his inspection of the suite, took out his little address book, and picked up the phone. Immediately the switchboard girl said, “Sir?”
He gave her the number. He heard her dial, heard the buzz of the ringing begin, heard her click out. It would be a free wire.
A woman’s voice came on. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Dorn?”
“It’s Miss Dorn.”
“Miss Dorn, this is … er … Stephen Stevens.” He gave full play to his British accent. “I’m a friend of … er … John Edison …”
“Johnny Edison!” Enthusiasm shrilled in his ear. “Now there’s a broth of a man. That’s a man, that Johnny. How is he, my darling Johnny?”
“Hearty and happy and presiding splendidly at his Palisades Club.”
“That’s a great club he’s got there. Last time I was over I lost a fortune in the upstairs gambling room. So you’re a friend of Johnny’s.”
“A close and dear friend, ma’am.” The British accent was failing. He had never quite acquired it. Hell, why put it on? He talked straight American. “I’ve been out of … er … the States for quite a while. Been living in Australia; then England. Yes, John Edison. A dear friend.”
There was a subtle change in her voice. “Any friend of Johnny’s is a friend of mine.” He smiled. He was in.
“I’ve come over to the States for the weekend; some personal matters to attend to. I’m staying at the Waldorf, suite seventeen-fourteen. I’m … well …” A chuckle. “A bit lonely.”
“A friend of Johnny’s is a friend of mine.”
“I’d like somebody very pretty, you know?”
“A friend of Johnny’s would want the best.”
It was code now: the code of customer and madame. By best she meant the price. “Three hundred,” he said.
She laughed. “Sweetie, you won’t be lonely the rest of this night.”
“And an additional two hundred if the person pleases me.”
“What pleases you, Mr. Stevens?”
“I like my people blonde and trim. Tall. At home I do a bit of sculpting in my spare time. I favor models with long legs, high hips, and … er … a rather prominent backside. But the bosom must be small. The Indo-European type, you know?”
“Honey, get out your sculpting tools. You’re gonna have a model that’ll set you right back on your … er … backside. I know just the person.”
“But … er … this person. Is she available?”
“I’m going to check that out right away.”
“I’ll be here. Please call me back.”
“Right. Talk to you later, Mr. Stevens.”
Grinning, he went away from the phone, sniffed from the snuff box. He could have called her back, but he preferred the reverse. Let her, if she wished, check him out — Stephen Stevens in an eighty-dollar-a-day suite in the Waldorf Astoria. He unpacked the suitcase, set out the bottles on the side table near the glasses and the silver thermos kegs. He closed the suitcase and put it into a closet. He turned on the color TV, turned it off. He turned on the radio, found a station with pleasant music. The phone rang and the full-throated voice said, “You’ve got your model, Mr. Stevens, but just perfect according to specifications. You will love me, sir. Shell be there at eleven. And please remember to give my regards to Johnny Edison. Tell him if I were free to marry — he’s the guy I would marry.”
He laughed.
“But aren’t you free?”
“Pardon?”
“You told me you were a miss.”
“I’m a madame.”
Goldie hung up, raised her big-bellied snifter glass, said, “Skoal,” and drank brandy. This was one hell of a good night, business was booming, and she was slightly drunk. She finished the brandy, went to the bar and replenished the glass, then stood there frowning. What the hell is it bugging me? Sure! Chambers — that sweet-prick bastardi If a customer asked for a blonde with long legs and a big ass and small tits — she was to call him immediately. She had brushed it off. Chambers was an eye, not a madame. No customer was that specific. They could ask for a bright girl, or a dumb girl. They could ask for a beautiful girl, or an ugly one (there were guys that got horny with ugly women only). They could ask for a great cocksucker, or a great straight lay. They could ask for a blonde, a brunette, a red-head, even a gray-haired chick. They could ask for zoftig, or skinny as a rail. They could ask for a big ass. They could ask for big tits (and most of them did). But nobody ever got down that specific to four different fine points — it has to be blonde, it has got to have long legs, it has got to have a big ass, it has got to have small tits — but, bejazus, this prick in the Waldorf Astoria, this money-man who goes for five bills, this friend of good old Johnny Edison — this guy had laid out the four fine points, but exact.
She drank brandy, went to a phone, called Chambers, and there was no answer. Always out, the high-living, sweet-prick bastard. Well, okay, I done my duty. Like you told me, I called. I’ll call again, if I remember. You’re good, you’re sweet, you’re a nice guy — I hope I remember. But you got me on a hot night, baby. Must be a full moon, or something. They’re horny like a toad out there, the fucking phones ringing like it’s a stampede for cunt tonight. She laughed. She drank. Stoned, I’m goddamned stoned tonight, making money like hand over fist. Fist? Shit. With a fist you jerk off. And a phone rang, and laughing she took it. A customer, naturally. Business. Booming. Shit, man, I’ll run out of girls. Full. Moon. Something. Crazy for cunt tonight. Hand over fist and drunk on brandy like a brick shithouse. Stoned. Jesus, sweet Peter, I hope I’ll remember.
The show stank, a big brash noisy musical, but the people in the pews, a benefit audience, were more noisy than the people on the stage. Alone, he would have walked out, but Miranda appeared to be enjoying, and during intermission he tested her: she was enjoying. Okay, but there’d be nothing after the show, no sitting around for a drink, nothing. He would say he didn’t feel up to par (up to bar?), a headache, malaise, something. He would take her home, and he would go home, because something was tickling in the psyche, the old unknown, the old magico, intuition, occult cognition, esoteric augury and all the rest of that pile-up of ESP shit — but he was restless, restive, nervous, fidgety, itching to get the hell out. Premonition poked at his ass like a proctoscope.
At eleven o’clock the buzzer buzzed and Tony Starr opened the door and opened his mouth and just looked. Jesus to God, what a beautiful girl! Jesus, leave it to John Edison!
“Please come in.”
“Thank you.”
A vision in lavender and black. A little black cape, a lavender dress. Black shoes, a black handbag, sheer black nylons glimmering along slender shapely legs daringly revealed to miniskirted thighs.
She smiled and gave him her cape.
He smiled and draped it over the back of a chair.
She looked about. “It’s so very beautiful here.”
“You’re so very beautiful here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Steve,” he said.
“Sandi,” she said.
A lavender belt enclasped the lavender dress around a small waist and emphasized the high round symmetrical hips. It was a wide-shouldered, deep-neck dress, almost entirely exposing the alabaster-white pear-shaped titties. No brassiere, of course — it was an intricate, obviously expensive gown that obviated any possibility of a brassiere. You either had the figure for it, or it was not the dress for you. It was the dress for her, all right. Jesus, I want her! Right now this minute I want th
is beautiful bitch!
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“I’ll help myself, if I may.”
And turned — and oh God! — that big, beautiful, swaying, salacious lavender ass. He groped for the snuffbox, inhaled happy powder, and to hell with her if it bothered her. I’m paying for this merchandise. She’s a commodity — for five hundred bucks a commodity — and for five hundred bucks I do as I please in the presence of the commodity. But she didn’t even notice. She put ice in a short glass and poured Scotch on it. “Would you like something?” she asked.
He put away the snuffbox. “I would like you.”
“Naturally,” she said, her back to him. “I mean to drink.”
“Scotch. With soda, please.”
She brought his drink, sipped her own, and the huge blue eyes appraised him. Tall, a handsome young guy — what a crazy world! Why would a guy like this have to put out five hundred bucks to have himself a girl! Goldie had said three hundred for the call, and a couple of hundred extra if she pleased him. Oh, I’ll please him — but, Jesus, there must be rich women by the bushel-load who would do better than five hundred a crack to have this handsome young man all to their own. So why? Probably a kook. Probably wants me to jerk myself off hanging off the ledge from out the window or something. Well, for this kind of fee, why not? Half of three hundred is one hundred fifty, and a tip of two hundred makes three-fifty, and for three-fifty he can call his shots whatever they are.
It was as though he read her mind thinking of money. He took out his wallet and took out five hundred dollars and gave it to her. She put the money in her bag, put the bag on the table with the bottles, and then she said, “Goldie said the extra two hundred would be if I please you.”
Flatly he said, “You please me.”
“Thank you, sir.” She made a curtsy.
She sat in a deep armchair and crossed her legs.
He sat in a deep armchair and took out his penis.
Here we go, she thought. I’m starting to earn my money.
“Please stand up,” he said.
She put down her glass, smiled, stood up.
“Please take off your clothes.”
A gentleman-type. Please he says each time.
She kicked out of her shoes. She slid out of the dress, and that was it. All that was left was the tight-clinging nylon pantie-hose. She stuffed her thumbs in over the hips to take them off, but he stopped her.
“No! Just like that! Please just stand there like that!”
God, how beautiful! The first real beauty since he was in the States. The hair like spun gold, the eyes blue as cobalt, the flesh of the body without a flaw. Look at those breasts, small and firm, proudly pouting, the skin so perfectly white, the nipples so perfectly pink. And the contrast. The black and the white. The long legs, the shapely thighs, the round hips, the gorgeous rise of ass, all gleaming within the tight black nylon, and above the gleaming black, the gleaming white of the lissome torso.
“Restraint,” he said. “I enjoy restraint. Do you?”
A code-word in her profession (and she was damn glad he hadn’t said discipline). Restraint meant to be tied into bonds, and she had no objection to restraint. Discipline was another matter. Had he said discipline, she might have protested. Discipline was the code-word for spanking, caning, even whipping.
“I enjoy whatever the client enjoys.” She smiled, dimpling. “Who ties whom, Mr. Stevens?”
God, not only beautiful, but quick, intelligent. (Easy, now. Slowly. This was too good to be rushed. We have all night for fun and games.) “We tie each other, Miss Sandi, but one at a time.”
A kook, she thought. Young and handsome, but a kook, which is why he has to spend for a girl. Here we are engaged in charming conversation, soft-spoken and civilized, except it’s slightly off-beat, slightly cockeyed, the subject matter slightly weird, and the postures of the participants slightly odd — Sandi-girl standing up with her tits out and Stevie-boy sitting down with his cock out.
“Did you bring straps, Mr. Stevens?”
He grinned. “No need, Miss Sandi.”
A cute, youngish, boyish grin. All of him was youngish, boyish — except the eyes. Deep, dark, passionate, glittering, they were beautiful thick-lashed eyes, but somehow, just a little bit, they frightened her.
He stood up, stuffed his penis into his trousers, but left the fly open. He went out of the room and came back — with a razor blade! She stood up tall. Her heart thudded. He smiled the boyish smile.
“Please don’t be frightened. You may take them off now.”
“Pardon?”
“The stockings.”
She removed the pantie-hose and he took them.
“For strips of straps,” he said grinning.
Suddenly she was embarrassed. She was entirely nude, he was fully dressed. “Look, why don’t we go to the bedroom?” she said.
“Sure. Take your drink.”
A lovely bedroom. A big bed, chairs, tables, a mirrored dresser, soft-glowing lamps. She sat in a comfortable chair and sipped Scotch while he cut the pantie-hose into long strips. My contribution, she thought, to the evening’s festivities. Hell, why not? For three hundred and fifty dollars a pair of pantie-hose is a very small sacrifice.
He laid the strips on the bed, put the razor blade on the dresser, took a handkerchief from his pocket and laid that on the bed. Then he took a snuffbox from his pocket, pinched into it, sniffed into each nostril.
“Miss Dorn says you’re from London.”
“That’s right.”
“Snuff. Is that the new hip thing there these days?”
“Yep.”
He put the snuffbox away, undressed, hung his clothes in the closet, and she felt better. When there are two, and one is naked, it’s lopsided. Two — it’s got to have balance. You’re either both dressed, or both naked. He had a nice body, the kooky bastard, slim, well-muscled, well-proportioned, with big balls in a tight scrotum and a very pretty prick indeed. The dark eyes glittered.
“Like this,” he said. “You’ll gag me with the handkerchief. Then you’ll tie me, wrists and ankles, spread-eagled to the bed. And like that, while I’m in restraint, you’ll blow me. Right?”
She shrugged. “You’re the client.”
“After that, you’ll release me. We’ll sit around, talk, get acquainted a bit, and then we’ll reverse it. I’ll gag you and tie you to the bed and go down on you.” He laughed. “Okay, Miss Sandi. Let’s have a little sex around here.”
She set down her drink, took the handkerchief, and tied it around his mouth. He lay on his back on the bed and she climbed over him, her heart pounding. In its own way, in its own crazy way, this madness was exciting. She tied a wrist to one corner of the bed, the other wrist to the other corner, and his ankles to the lower corners. Jesus, look at those eyes, the gleaming, glittering, passionate eyes. She spread her knees over him and began at his ears, at the lobes of his ears — for five hundred bucks this guy’s going to get the job he’s en-tided to — and licked down the sides of his neck, and nibbled at the nipples of his breasts, and moved down, licking slowly, and the point of her tongue was deep in his navel, and down along the insides of his thighs, and gently around the taut scrotum, and then up along the tender underside of the upright penis — and his body writhed, quivered, his back arching upward — and then her mouth opened over the purple head of his prick, and she had him, took him, sucked him, and he held it, he held it back — and she was beginning to get hot in the cunt, her legs tight together now, grinding together — Jesus, if the son of a bitch doesn’t come soon, I will come before he does — but then he did, the blood-hot metallic-tasting stream jolting at her throat …
In the bathroom she washed and cleaned. She came back and said, “Want me to let you up now?”
He nodded. The crazy eyes smiled.
“Well, you just wait.” He liked restraint; a bit of cruelty wouldn’t hurt “Don’t go away,” she said, and took her glass.
“Thank you, kind sir.”
She untied him. He went to the bathroom.
When he returned she was seated, smoking, sipping Scotch.
“Just wonderful.” He took his drink and sat near her. He was anxious, very anxious for her now. Easy, he thought. Time. Don’t frighten her. He wanted a sniff from the snuffbox. Not now. Not yet. He stretched his legs, crossed his ankles. “But so am I.”
“Pardon?”
“When I do for you what you did for me. You’ll see. It’s a wild thrill, bound and gagged, while I’m down on you, eating you.”
“You’re the client” She inhaled cigarette smoke. “Tell me about London, Mr. Steve.”
Frowning. “London?”
“Never been there. I hear it’s a real swinging town …”
TWENTY-ONE
CHAMBERS came home at ten to twelve. He took off his jacket, called Sandi Barton, and there was no answer. Disgruntled he hung up, and the phone rang. He picked it up on the first ring and Goldie Dorn said, “Hi, sweetie.”
“Um,” he grunted.
“How are you, lover? Where the hell you been all night?”
Her voice was thick. Good old Goldie was hitting the brandy.
“Out,” he said.
“Always out. Always living it up, my lover boy.”
He wanted to hang up. “That’s me,” he said.
“I’m stoned, sweetie.”
“So go to bed.”
“Not tonight. I got a real live night going for me.”
Not me, he thought. Me, I’ve got a proctoscope up my ass all night. “So?” he said.
“How are you, sweetie? How you feeling?”
“Sick.” He wanted to get rid of her.