by Troy Conway
The game would continue until seven the following evening, when all the Coxeman, along with Peter Blaine and me, had been tailed to the Brice-Bennington mansion. Then it would be time for the tables to turn: The Coxemen would slip out of the mansion, pull guns on their tails, take the tails prisoners and bring them inside.
After that the whole show would be mine—and what a show it would be! I was happily contemplating the grand finale when I heard a knock on my door. I opened it, only to be greeted by a familiar face—a face weatherbeaten and wan, punctuated by a pair of beagle-sad eyes and decorated with a long, walrus-like moustache.
“Damon,” said my Coxeman-in-chief, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but it better be good.”
“Sit down,” I said, grinning and pouring him a drink. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
CHAPTER TEN
The blonde was big, beautiful and built like a brick outhouse.
She was followed by a petite brunette, small, svelte and supersexy.
Next came a Chinese girl, with waist-length black hair and a pair of breasts as fantastically firm as they were royally round.
Then came a redhead, a bit small in the breast department, but pure dunamite everywhere else.
Finally, a raven-haired lovely, tall, leggy and oh-so-lithe.
No doubt about it, Peter Blaine knew how to dig them up. There wasn’t one girl in the group who couldn’t hold her own in a beauty contest-and all four were certified swingers.
Sitting between Walrus-moustache and me on the couch in the Friends of Decency erotic library, Lord B-B watched them undress and tried hard to keep his cool.
“Quite a selection, Damon,” he confessed. “It’s not easy to pick one’s favorite.” He added quickly, “Not that I’m excited by any of this, you understand. But, of course, one must recognize attractiveness when one is confronted by it—especially in the nude.”
“One must,” I agreed, gesturing to the girls to parade back and forth in front of us. “On would be a hypocrite not to.”
The girls, one by one, approached our couch, displayed their charms, then backed away.
“I like the redhead myself,” observed Walrus-moustache dryly. “Not that I’m trying to influence your bet, Brice.”
“I like the redhead too,” Lord B-B admitted. “But I also like the blonde. And the Chinese girl is attractive also. As are the brunette and the girl with the black hair. Frankly, Damon, I like them all.” Blushing, he added, “Not in a lascivious sense, of course. I’m speaking strictly from an esthetic point of view.”
“I understand,” I grinned. “As for myself, I like them both esthetically and lasciviously. But, of course, I don’t plan to let my carnal appetites run away with me. As I see it, the difference between humans and animals is that humans control their passions and animals don’t.”
“Well put, Damon,” said Lord B-B. “Well put.”
Walrus-moustache leered wickedly. “I don’t know about you two stoic bastards, but I’d like to throw a good stiff jump into any one of them—and I just might.” He elbowed Lord B-B in the ribs for emphasis.
Lord B-B blanched.
“To each his own,” I observed superiorly. “To each his own.” At the same time I motioned the girls to give us another close look.
They did.
A very close look.
The blonde, who led the parade, brought her enormous breasts within a hair’s-breadth of Lord B-B’s nose, then inhaled deeply. Lord B-B backed away as though afraid he was going to be singed.
“Inspect the merchandise, Brice,” encouraged Walrus-moustache. “How can you tell which one is going to be the most arousing if you don’t let them arouse you?”
“I don’t get aroused,” said Lord B-B, his face ashen. He nervously searched his pockets for his tobacco pouch and his package of cigarette papers.
“Smoke, Brice?” I beamed, tugging a pouch from my pockets. “It’s my favorite blend, the one I told you about. My new shipment just arrived today from the States.”
“Do say! Love to sample it,” he replied, ducking away from the blonde, who was pressing closer to him all the time. “Really, child,” he told her, quite unnerved, “I’m not nearsighted! Keep your distance, please!”
Walrus-moustache wedged his hand between her legs. “Don’t mind the old geezer, sweetie,” he cackled, pulling her toward him. “I’ll give you all the loving you need.” Whereupon he buried his face between her breasts and began licking at them furiously.
“Sir,” hissed Lord B-B, “you’re a lout!” Hands trembling, he shook some of my tobacco into his cigarette paper. “Damon,” he whispered under his breath, “I don’t like your friend at all.”
“Ignore him, Brice,” I smiled. “He just envies your self-control.”
The blonde having moved aside, the petite brunette approached Lord B-B. Cupping her breasts in her hands, she lifted them toward him. At the same time her svelte little hips moved in a slow, gyrating motion.
“I’ve always wanted to make love to a Lord,” she purred. “I think it’d be so exciting.”
Lord B-B winced. “A match, Damon,” he said, leaning away from her. “Quickly, a match!”
I lit his cigarette. Walrus-moustache shoved the blonde aside and began fondling the brunette.
“Dirty old man,” observed Lord B-B. He inhaled deeply. “Strange aroma to this tobacco, Damon. A bit pungent, wouldn’t you say?” He looked off into the distance. “Goes down rather harshly too. Not nearly as mild as mine.”
I grinned. “Give it a chance, Brice. Take a few more drags and see if you don’t like it better.”
The Chinese girl replaced the brunette. The model of discretion, she kept a full two paces away from Lord B-B, but the feline movements of her body were sexy in the extreme, and even more disconcerting to him than the aggressiveness of the blonde and the brunette.
“A regular temptress, that one,” Lord B-B admitted, taking another puff of dynamite hash. “A regular Salome!”
“She’s getting a rise out of you, huh?” grinned Walrus-moustache, giving our host another elbow in the ribs. “Glad to see it! Glad to see it!”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, shut up!” said Lord B-B, Puffing nervously on the cigarette, he said to me, “A total boor, this man. A total boor.”
“Try holding the smoke in your lungs as long as you can, Brice,” I smiled. “That takes the harshness away.”
The redhead took her turn in front of Lord B-B. She dropped to her knees, keeping them spread widely apart. Then she leaned back until her head was almost touching her heels. Her pert, small breasts quivered like two scoops of jello. Her hips, at the same time, undulated provocatively.
“Ahhhhh, what a spectacle,” sighed Walrus-moustache. “And to think some people prefer the opera!”
Lord B-B looked at her appreciatingly. “Lovely body,” he mused. “And she moves it so excitingly.” Suddenly he stiffened. “What am I saying? What on earth am I saying?” He closed his eyes, as if to shut out the impulses that appeared to be taking possession of him, and took another deep drag on the cigarette.
The redhead moved aside, and the raven-haired beauty did her turn. Twirling her body, she offered our host a fantastic panorama of curves and delicious crevasses.
Lord B-B opened his eyes and smiled dreamily. “Beautiful girl,” he purred. “Beautiful girl. And such marvelous tobacco, Damon. It tastes so good. And it smells so good.”
“Take another drag,” I prodded him. “It gets better all the time.”
Walrus-moustache, scampering onto the floor and licking the girl’s navel as his hands closed around her hips and pressed her pubes against him, saying “It’s not how long you make it, it’s how long you make it last, la la, la la, la la.”
I waited until my Coxeman-in-chief had finished doing his thing. Then I nudged Lord B-B. “Well, Brice,” I said, “you’ve seen the girls now. Would you like another look, or are you ready to place your bet?”
He seemed to ponde
r the idea, then, taking another deep drag of Peter Blaine’s hash, said, “Let’s bet, Damon.” Pause. “No, let’s give the girls another look.” Pause. “No, let’s bet.” Pause. “Oh, I don’t care what we do, it’s all so much fun!”
Walrus-moustache tossed me a sideways glance. “If that grass ain’t Panamanian Purple,” he smirked, “it’s the next best thing.”
It sure as hell was! And it was working a lot faster than I had dreamed it would. If I didn’t get the show on the road fast, old Lord B-B would be too stoned to do what I wanted him to do when the time came for it.
“Let’s bet,” I said quickly. “You’ve seen all the girls. Now, what’s your choice for the first four?”
His face took on a studious look as he scrutinized them, all standing in line facing us. For a moment he said nothing; he just beamed at them appreciatingly. Then, chuckling to himself, he said, “I’ll parlay a thousand pounds. The girl with the black hair is number one.”
Walrus-moustache grimaced. He knew his arithmetic. The taxpayers would hate us one and a half million dollars worth if Lord B-B won—even if they didn’t know we existed.
I gulped. “Okay, who’s number two?”
He waited all of half a minute before answering. “The redhead.”
“And number three?”
He took a deep drag on the cigarette then stared dreamily into space.
“Number three?” Walrus-moustache echoed.
“The brunette.” Pause. “No, the blonde.” Pause. “Oh, who cares?”
“Pick one,” I insisted.
“The brunette,” he giggled. “Why the hell not!”
“And number four?” asked Walrus-moustache.
Lord B-B waited a full minute before answering. “I like—I like—”
“Yes? Yes?”
“I like New York in June, how about you?” he sang.
“If there’s anything I can’t stand,” muttered Walrus-moustache, “it’s a prig that can’t hold his pot.”
“Number four,” I prompted. “The Chinese girl or the blonde?”
“Oh hell, the Chinese girl,” he laughed. “No discrimination here, nossir!” He took another drag on the joint. Fortunately, by this time it had burned down to his fingers. He dropped it into an ashtray. I hated to think what shape he’d’ve been in if it had been a silly millimeter longer.
The bets having been placed and recorded, I gestured to the girls. They promptly positioned themselves on their backs on the mattresses which had been set up in the middle of the room for precisely this purpose. Walrus-moustache then went to the door of the room where five of our Coxeman were waiting, rapped sharply, opened the door, and yelled, “Okay, fellas, go get ‘em!”
The Coxemen dashed into the room like horses racing out of their starting gate. The first leaped onto the redhead, who welcomed him with open legs. The second took the Chinese girl. The third and fourth fought over the blonde; then the third won, and the fourth scampered over to the brunette’s mattress. The raven-haired beauty had already been claimed by the fifth.
The race was on. I watched bemusedly, as did Walrus-moustache. But Lord B-B was on the edge of his seat, cheering like a madman. “Come on, Blackie!” he called to the raven-haired swinger. “Move those hips! Let him have it! Sock it to him!”
And she did. Her partner pumped away atop her like a piston for thirty or forty seconds. Then, grinning triumphantly, he sprung to his feet.
“The winnah!” cried Walrus-moustache.
“You owe me five thousand pounds, Damon,” said Lord B-B, seeming very sober all of a sudden.
“It’s a parlay,” I smiled. “Three more contests to go.”
The guy with the redhead promptly swung into high gear. I sensed his climax even before he vacated the saddle.
“Two in a row!” said Walrus-moustache.
“Five times five is twenty-five thousand,” said Lord B-B. Turning to the contestants again, he cheered, “Come on, brunette! Sock it to him! Sock it to him!”
“Brunette!” groaned Walrus-moustache as her partner drove home the final thrust, then stood up. Evidently my Coxeman-in-chief had suddenly become very worried about my money. And with good reason. My money was his money.
“Twenty-five times five is a hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds,” said Lord B-B. “Go, China-girl! Baby needs a new pair of shoes! Seven conies eleven! Sock it to him!”
She socked.
But fortunately for The Coxe Foundation’s coffers, the blonde socked a little harder—and her partner got there a little sooner.
“The blonde!” cheered Walrus-moustache, his face testifying to his relief.
“Damn!” hissed Lord B-B.
“You can’t win ‘em all,” I smiled glibly.
“Up yours,” he riposted.
Walrus-moustache threw a fraternal arm around our host’s shoulders. “Cheer up, Brice. Have another one of Damon’s cigarettes. Then I’ll give you a chance to get your money back.”
Lord B-B’s expression brightened. “Another parlay?”
Walrus-moustache grinned. “Not quite. A side bet, double or nothing, my thousand pounds against the thousand you lost and a thousand more.”
Lord B-B’s scowl made it clear that he didn’t like the odds. But, as he had said so many times, he was a gambling man; he had just tossed a thousand down the drain, and he couldn’t stand to see them go without putting up a fight. “What’s the contest?” he asked.
Walrus-moustache surveyed the five girls, who still were lying on their mattresses. “This girl with the black hair,” he said, appearing to be lost In serious thought, “has proved herself beyond a doubt to be the champion of the group. But who’s to say which mode of love-making she’s most efficient in? Some girls are best at doing what comes naturally, while others are more proficient at what, for lack of a more delicate term, I’ll refer to as back-door love-making.”
“You mean—?”
“Precisely. Buggery, Brice. Buggery. Now, what I propose is this: Friend Damon here has always been a front-door suitor, and I, by fortunate coincidence, have always been a back-door lover. So what do you say the the both of us make love to her at the same time—Damon from the front, me from the rear! You decide which one of us will cimax first. If you’re right, you lose nothing. If you’re wrong, you owe Damon the thousand you orignally lost to him and you owe me a thousand more.”
“That’s not a very sporting proposition,” said Lord B-B sourly.
Walrus-moustache shrugged. “If you like, we can always call it quits right now. Pay Damon the thousand pounds and we’ll all be on our way.”
I waited with bated breath for the answer. If The Big Prig decided to call it quits then and there, I’d’ve lost my shot at the caper I was really counting on.
Lord B-B scowled. “Give me a cigarette, Damon,” he said.
“By all means, Brice.” I proferred my pouch. “By all means.”
He slowly rolled another joint. Then, after lighting it and taking a deep drag, he said, “Okay, it’s a bet. And I’m betting on Damon.”
I sighed my relief. Walrus-moustache merely smiled. We both undressed.
The raven-haired beauty joined us on the mattress closest to the couch where Lord B-B was still sitting. I lay on my back, and she lay alongside me, maneuvering one thigh over my hips. I deftly maneuvered my ship into port. Then she rolled onto her side, and as I rolled with her, Walrus-moustache established his connection.
“On three,” said my Coxeman-in-chief, whose talent for libertinage, heretofore undisplayed, I found quite surprising. “One . . . two . . . three . . . GO!!!”
We went. Lord B-B, dragging heavily on his second stick of hash in less than half an hour, cried, “Work out, Damon! Go to it! Give it all you’ve got!”
I pumped away furiously. The reciprocal motions of Walrus-moustache doing his own thing made my work all the easier. And the raven-haired beauty made it easier still.
She was nothing short of sensational. Every par
t of her erogenous zones were alive with passion. And the rest of her body wasn’t exactly out of the picture either. She couldn’t press her breasts against me because Walrus-moustache had his hands around them, but she licked at my face and neck with her tongue, and her teeth nibbled teasingly and excitingly at my flesh.
“Go, Damon, go!” called Lord B-B, getting higher all the time. I’m counting on you! Don’t let me down, boy!”
I was so impressed by his loyalty that I almost wanted him to win. Almost, but not quite. I knew that my only hope for setting up The Big Caper—the caper that would put an end forever to the Friends of Decency—lay in getting The Coxe Foundation’s hooks even more deeply imbedded into his bankroll.
I paced myself. Though I continued to move like a dynamo, I forced myself to think non-sexy thoughts. I also bit my lip and concentrated on the pain—that favorite trick of mine to delay the onset of the inevitable.
On the other side of the raven-haired beauty, Walrus-moustache was thrusting away to beat the band. His thrusts made her thrust harder, and her thrusts sent wild shock waves of sensation through me. Try though I might, I knew I couldn’t hold out much longer.
And I didn’t.
Maybe it was all the tension I had experienced during the past few days.
Mabye it was just the excitement of playing the orgy game after so long a period of nothing but one-to-one sex.
Whatever it was, I very rapidly found myself on the edge of the ledge.
And once on the edge, I plunged into orgasm’s abyss—deeply, fully, totally.
It was at that point that I did something no genuine gambler’s gambler would ever do: I cheated.
But, of course, I wasn’t a genuine gambler’s gambler. I had only been playing the role for Lord B-B’s benefit. At heart I was just a sex-happy young sociologist with a mission to perform for The Coxe Foundation—a mission one aspect of which involved the dissolution of the Friends of Decency.
So I cheated. Even though I had climaxed, I stayed in the saddle and—thanks to my insatiable virility—continued to pump away. My duplicity was costing Lord B-B two thousand pounds. But there was no way he could know I was cheating him. My perpetual erection assured that!
