It's What Up Front That Counts

by Troy Conway

  “Then—then—” Blaine stammered, “if the Communists didn’t kill her, they probably wouldn’t have killed me or Diane either. You were bluffing. Damon! You fooled me!”

  “That’s part of being a pro, Blaine,” I grinned, echoing Walrus-moustache. “The pros know their business, and the amateurs don’t.”

  We reached the room where the orgy had taken place. Blaine’s five girls had been dismissed for the night, and the five Coxemen who had been their sex partners were all sitting around trying their best to inspire the interest of the sexy blonde in the see-through blouse who was sitting on the couch regarding them with an expression of total indifference. The blonde was Robbi Randall.

  “What’s this?” gasped Walrus-moustache. “The hour isn’t up yet. Where’s Lord Brice-Bennington?”

  I slid into place on the couch next to Robbi. My hand found the succulent expanse of bare thigh beneath the hem of her mini, and I stroked the flesh lovingly. Now that she no longer had to play the method-role, she responded by pressing sexily against me.

  “Lord Brice-Bennington, heretofore called another Big Prig,” I smiled, “is presently in the process of getting his rocks off—for the first time, believe it or not, in his forty-odd years.”

  “Not the first time,” Robbi corrected me, sliding five delicate fingers up my leg. “I’ve been keeping count, and, as of now, he’s working on his third time.”

  “But,” asked Walrus-moustache, eyes wide, “you’re out here! What is he, some kind of solo-sexual?”

  “No,” I chuckled, “he has a partner.”

  “Well for Pete’s sake, whom?”

  My chuckle blossomed into a full-blown laugh. “You’ll find out in a few minutes—just as soon, in fact, as he finishes his third round.”

  “And that won’t be long,” put in Robbi, nibbling on my ear. “Just listen to him!”

  We listened. Lord B-B’s bed was in the next room, and the door was open. The springs of the bed were squeaking to beat the band. Lord B-B was saying, “By Gad! Who’d ever believe it!? Ah, Robbi darling, it’s sensational! I can’t wait to tell Penelope!”

  “Damon,” said Walrus-moustache, “I demand an explanation.”

  “You’ll get one,” I supplied. “When I turned Lady B-B on to the pleasures of sex, I wondered how I might turn Lord B-B on also. I thought of moral suasion, but I remembered that he had that inflexible principle which guides his life—he absolutely refused to discuss four subjects: politics, sex, religion and literature. The mention of literature brought to mind a very famous work of English literature, Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, and more specifically, one of these tales, ‘The Miller’s Tale.’ “

  “You mean—?” said Walrus-moustache, suddenly realizing what was up.

  But I was too involved with Robbi Randall to answer immediately. My tongue was in her mouth and my fingers had found their way up her marvelous thigh and into the supersweet warmth of her splendid honey pot. What was better yet, she hadn’t needed a method-director to tell her how to respond!

  “Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!” came Lord B-B’s cry from the next room. “Ahhhhhh!!!” Then, a moment later: “Well, so much for the Friends of Decency. As of now, Robbi dearest, I’m off the wagon. And I’m going forthwith to Lady B-B’s chamber. There’s still some lead left in the old pencil, and she’s going to get her share!”

  “She got her share,” came a soft female voice in reply. “And she loved every minute of it, darling.”

  “What’s that!” shouted Lord B-B. “Penelope—can I believe my ears?”

  “You can, dearest,” she sighed ecstatically. “You can!”

  “But of course!” said Walrus-moustache. “The Miller’s Tale. A man is enticed into the bed of a woman he believes to be a harlot. The room is dark and he can’t see her. They make love and he suddenly discovers that he’s just made love to his own wife. That’s it, Damon, isn’t it? That’s it!”

  “Ah, Penelope!” sighed Lord B-B. “To think of all the time we’ve wasted.”

  “Forget the time we wasted, darling,” said she. “Think of the times ahead. Forget your silly repressions. Remember, it’s what’s up front that counts.”

  “Damon,” said Walrus-moustache, “answer me! Do I have The Miller’s Tale right or not?” Pause. “Damon!” Pause. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Damon, have you no decency at all? Right here? In front of all these people?”

  Yep.

  Right there in front of all those people.

  I would have answered him, but it’s pretty hard to talk when your tongue is in the mouth of one of the most beautiful creatures you’ve ever seen, and her legs are wrapped around you, and her fingernails are digging fiercely into your back, and her hips are pumping a mile a minute, stoking your passions to higher and higher peaks.

  Lady B-B had got her share.

  And now, with Robbi Randall, I, at last, was getting mine.

  What a beautiful way to wrap up an assignment!