The Best Laid Plans

by Troy Conway

  One more thing I was certain of: she was not a HECATE girl. She could never have faked her surprise when I revealed the fact that I was the founder of L.S.D. So I scratched her as a threat. She was not the spy sent to kill me if I failed to kill Madame Bree.

  I drew her against me. The rigidity leaving her flesh, she pressed eagerly against me as I added, “I want to undress you, Agnete. I want to take your clothes off and kiss you all over.”

  Her moan was louder. She was panting in my ear as her hips began a slow, rotary motion that was completely unconscious. I drew away from her so abruptly that her face was almost grotesque in her surprise.

  My hand caught her arm and moved her along the path. She came quietly like a little girl with a parent. Agnete Stralsund was not thinking too clearly at the moment, her body was feeling the stab of desire my words had roused in her.

  “We aren’t going back to my hotel room yet,” I informed her. “I feel like dancing some more. Something wild, like at a discotheque. Are there any in town?”

  “The Adlon,” she murmured.

  We went to the Adlon and fruged and fished for two hours. The exercise put Agnete in a better mood, she was back to her hand-holding as we walked out into the street a little after two in the morning. I found a cruising taxi and told the driver to take us to the Kongen af Danmark hotel.

  In my room, Agnete looked at me questioningly. “Now what is it about me you think you have discovered?”

  “Not now, honey. Tomorrow at the contest. I want to take you by surprise. I want you completely natural. I don’t want you thinking about what I might have told you.”

  She bit her lip and shrugged. She was accepting my leadership, no longer the trainer but the trainee. Half bashfully, she removed her nightgown from her bag and walked toward the bathroom. I did not stop her. Time enough tomorrow to see her nudity for the first time.

  I got undressed and slid into bed. Moments later she came out of the bathroom and paused near the lamp on the night table. Her shortie-nightie was completely transparent, it showed the half-dollar-sized red nipples and the froth of ebony pubic hair at her loins.

  My hand threw back the covers.

  “Turn out the light and get in. We’re going to sleep together and neither of us is going to get excited.”

  She stared at me as if not believing her ears. “You mean we aren’t going to——”

  “You want me to save myself, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes. But——”

  “Then climb in here and go to sleep.”

  She obeyed. It was difficult to feel her softness against my body and not do something about it. I would have, gladly, but now I was keeping her chaste against the moment of her need.

  Deep fires were banked inside this girl. A sexologist like myself could rouse them to fiery incandescence, but this was not the time. I must win that week at the Bree villa, it was part of my assignment. To do that, I needed a partner who would be as anxious to have me win as I was myself.

  It was my firm belief that it was Agnete Stralsund who had failed the men she selected as entrants, not the other way about. A man needs cooperation and eagerness in a female for him to do his best. She must like—or appear to like—the things he is doing to her. Agnete had not been such a girl in the past.

  Tomorrow she would be as eager as a nymphomaniac.

  So I felt a soft, heavy breast brush my arm, knew the touch of a warm thigh flung over my legs, let her long black hair tickle my chest as she moved in her sleep, without so much as patting her backside. It was hard on me, no pun intended, but after a while I fell asleep too.

  I had planned an itinerary for the morning and afternoon that would keep the two of us busy until it was time to set out in the Volvo for the villa.

  We breakfasted on ham and eggs, aiblekage—apple cake—and coffee. Then we were off to Amalienborg Palace to see the changing of the guard, we visited Rosenbord Castle to view the crown jewels, we went to the Glyptotek museum.

  At three in the afternoon, we stopped in at Oscar Davidsen’s restaurant for a few of his hundred and seventy-eight differing types of open-faced sandwiches. It was only an hour drive to the Elsinore sands, and I wanted to arrive well fortified for the contest.

  I was happy to see that Agnete was her old self. She bubbled laughter, she teased me about not responding to her almost-naked charms when she was in bed with me, she even pinched me from time to time. The shadow on her face was a thing of the past. She was convinced in her mind that I possessed the philosopher’s stone that would enable me to win the prize.

  We pulled onto the blacktop parking space alongside the Bree villa at quarter after five. Agnete explained that the contestants enjoyed a cocktail and a cigarette before being called into the contest chamber, and that everybody had to wear certain special garments. Giggling, she refused to tell me what either of us was to wear. All I could get out of her was the fact that Madame Bree changed them from year to year.

  We entered the villa, hand in hand.

  A pert blonde maid met us, escorted me to a small room in the lowest tier of rooms; it was like a bathing locker, where you could hang your clothes. It was empty save for a cache-sexe of transparent black nylon which was to be my only garment.

  I slid out of my clothes and into the cache-sexe, then wandered to the bar-kitchen, where I found half a dozen other males sipping at martinis or manhattans or just plain whiskey.

  Me, I ordered a lemonad. Whiskey dulls the erotic senses in a man, I have found. I wanted to be alert to every nuance. I asked for more ice in the tall glass, then settled back to await the arrival of the women.

  Hannie came first, in a hip-length sheerness of red nylon. Kaija wore white, a redhead and a blonde were next, in blue and green, Agnete was nude under black nylon, and two blonde girls completed the list in purple and yellow. They were like flowers in their finery, I thought.

  The young men who were their partners rose to their feet, their eyes taken by the beauty they were seeing, though perhaps not for the first time. I reached for Agnete, she came eagerly to my hand on her fingers and seated herself as demurely as she could in her black nylon transparency.

  The girls drank cocktails too. By the taste of my lemonade, I knew something had been added, perhaps the tiniest bit of Spanish fly, to make certain we male contestants would do our best. Already our cache-sexes were bloating with the undeniable evidence of its effectiveness.

  “You’re not nervous?” I asked my black-haired beauty.

  She shook her head, smiling, but she gulped at the Sazerac she had requested. I slid a hand along her thigh, saying, “Your skin is like warm cream, my darling. It will taste far better than your tears.”

  Her body remembered the way in which I had licked her cheeks clean of tears last night. Under the dark froth that was her sole garment, her nipples began stiffening. She squirmed a little on her chair seat.

  A gong sounded. A couple of the most eager partners rose to their feet. The rest followed them. I was close enough to Agnete to touch her buttocks with my manhood.

  “These are a better aphrodisiac than any cantharides,” I told her, and moved slowly, back and forth. She flushed, gasped, and half turned to me.

  “Walk,” I told her, and glued to her behind, I followed the others out of the bar-kitchen and up the flight of stairs.

  I whispered as we walked, I told her she had the prettiest derrière I had ever seen, that her cheeks shook like brown jelly (they were as tanned as the rest of her) and that I could spend a day just examining them. She was gasping and nudging me with her flattered behind as we stepped through a heavy brocade drapery into the contest chamber.

  There were seven beds in the big room. Each bed had a contour sheet on it, no more. Colored scarfs hung from each of the four bedposts. Agnete and I moved toward the bed with the black scarves.

  A dais holding three chairs stood behind the beds. On each chair sat a woman in an evening gown. Madame Bree, Madame Metayer, and an unknown woman with v
ery white skin and black hair flecked with gray, who was undoubtedly Madame Germaine Audibert, were here to serve as judges.

  I gave Margot a mock salute. She stared back at me quite coldly.

  Sabine Bree said softly, “For those of you who do not know our rules, there are five basic positions that must be attempted. The man-above and woman-supine, the woman-above and man-supine, the man and woman on their sides, the Venus reversa, where the woman kneels and the man takes her from the back, and the standing position.

  “We will proceed in order as named.

  “If at any time the man—or the woman, for that matter,” and I saw her eyes touch Agnete, “cannot or will not continue, let them remove the scarves from their bed posts.

  “If anyone completes all five of the postures, he will be adjudged the winner. If no one completes all five, he will be named winner who outlasts the others.”

  I heard a big blonde youth to my left breathing harshly. He was the partner of blonde Hannie. I glanced at them. Hannie was standing with her arms by her sides, but with the fingers of her left hand she was tickling her handsome companion on his bulging cache-sexe.

  I raised a hand. Madame Bree glanced at me.

  “How long do we have for each position?” I asked. “What I’m getting at is, we don’t just act like a lot of animals, do we? Don’t we have any time for love-play?”

  Madame Bree smiled in delight. “Congratulations, Professeur! For the first time we have an expert in our midst, who understands something about the female body. Usually we have fifteen-minute periods. Suppose we extend them to half an hour, fifteen minutes of which must be spent in conjunction. Is this fair to all?”

  Nobody argued with the boss.

  I whispered into Agnete’s little ear, “I want time to convince you how exciting you are, sweetness. No slam-bang, thank you, ma’am, measures for us. I want to kiss you all over. Everywhere. You must be convinced you are the most desirable woman on Earth. . . .”

  My voice went on whispering even while the gong sounded that was to start the contest. As far as I was concerned, Agnete Stralsund and I were the only people in it. I wasted no time in watching the others. My job was to turn this girl with the long black hair into an unthinking animal.

  I began by kissing her smooth tanned shoulders. I kissed her upper arm, off which I was lowering her shoulder strap. As I kissed I whispered words that only Agnete could hear.

  “You are a love goddess. Astarte. Venus. Aphrodite. Your skin is wine caught in suspended animation. Your very sweat is like the amorous tears of all sensually tormented women. . . .”

  As I have said, Agnete Stralsund was a person who must either talk or hear talk about erotic matters to get her kicks, to be aroused to the very utmost. She had failed at sex in the past because her partner had no consideration for her as a female. He was so bedazzled by the prospect of the five thousand kroner and the week at the villa which would be his reward, that he ignored her feelings.

  Not me. My main concern was Agnete. She was the weak link in my chance at the week here in this villa. I could count on my priapism to see me through. Agnete had to go along with me, or my attempt would fail.

  So I told her things that might make another woman blush and pull away. Not that she didn’t blush, she did. But the words I poured over her flesh while kissing her naked back down to her buttocks, while fondling her heavy breasts which were as hard as marble, drove her mad with desire.

  “Venus herself would envy you these love jugs,” I breathed, lifting and shaking her breasts. “They were made for the lips of your lover to nurse.”

  I bent, I took each rigid nipple between my lips. I played at being her baby until her breath scratched heatlines in the air. My hands were sliding across her hips, down toward her black pubic puff and around to the soft bulges of her quivering buttocks.

  “Please,” I haard her whimper. “Do me now. Oh my God, don’t torture me any more.”

  But I kept on whispering, toying with the various parts of her body with my fingertips and my mouth until she threw back her head and wailed out loud. Her hips were bucking uncontrollably. Her breasts moved only lazily, they were so hard, to those bump and grind movements.

  A bell rang.

  To my surprise, every couple but Agnete and myself were already in the frantic motions of love. I let Agnete drop flat on her back, I knelt between her spread thighs. I searched out her femininity with a kiss, then moved to take her.

  She accepted me like a demented thing, her naked legs locking about my hips, fitting herself to me in one wrenching thrust. I had very little to do except support her with my hands on her rump; she was all motion with her hips and buttocks.

  My voice was never still. I went on whispering into her ears, telling her in graphic detail what I was doing to her, what she was doing to me. She climaxed five times in those fifteen minutes, she left marks on my shoulder when she bit me in her final spasm.

  The woman-above position was a continuation of our first copulative conjunction. I merely flipped her over so my back was flat against the sheet. Agnete rode me like a wanton, eyes closed and mouth open, bouncing, swaying, rotating her hips.

  I aided her efforts with my voice.

  “This is how Andromache took Hector, her husband. Their servants used to watch them, you know. In Troy, during the Trojan War, it was her delight to ride big Hector, to feel as if he were bursting her tissues. She claimed . . . .”

  Agnete screamed, doubled up on me, biting her lips to stop that instinctive admission of her sensual pleasure. My hand hit her naked hip, made her continue her movements atop me.

  “. . . . claimed she could feel more of her husband in this way. Go on, love. You are Andromache, I am Hector. You like the feel of my maleness filling your love channel, sliding back and forth. It stuffs you. It brings you such release as you’ve never known. . . .”

  The half hour ended when a bell rang.

  I swung my pussycat partner onto her side without breaking contact. My hips flailed away and Agnete counted her orgasms with her shrieks. My fingers were buried in her buttocks. I lay on my left side with my left arm under her moving hip, my right arm thrown over her. Like a dancing impressario, I guided her motions with those hands.

  I threw one glance around the room.

  Only one other couple remained in action, Hannie and her blonde boyfriend, but he was tired. His movements were slow, and his contorted face made me realize he was at the end of his rogering rope.

  Madame Bree was crouched on the edge of her golden chair, staring down at Agnete and me with bulging eyes. Her evening gown skirt was drawn back above the tops of her sheer nylons. I could see that she wore nothing but her Merry Widow corset under her gown. Beside her, Margot was leaning back in her chair, eyes shut tight. Her soft thighs were moving, one against the other.

  The third judge, the woman with the graying black hair, was licking her full red mouth, staring at us. Her hands were buried deep in her lap and her face glistened with perspiration. I wondered if she might be the HECATE woman sent to spy on me, even as I felt Agnete stiffen and shudder yet again.

  The bell rang.

  Hannie cursed in French, fluently. She rolled her boyfriend off her, turned to stare at the bed where I was swinging Agnete onto her knees. Her black hair was hanging down, her heavy breasts dangling between the arms on which she rested, face down on the sheet, she was all set for a bout of Venus reversa.

  I stared admiringly at her tanned buttocks a few moments before I stabbed forward. She groaned and arched to meet me.

  There was no more need for talk. She was in a frenzy, in that state of ecstasy the Chinese name yen and the Arabs call kayf. She was utterly mindless, existing only at her erogenous zones.

  Madame Bree shrilled, “Enough! You’ve won, Professeur!”

  I cried out, “No, no. The contest calls for five figures of Venus. We shall enact them all.”

  My eyes sought out Margot Metayer, challenging her to decide once and for
all whether I was a lover or an impotent humbug. My professional pride was at stake.

  I heard Hannie mutter, “Go it, Damon!”

  My lips flashed a grin at her. She smiled wanly in response, but I saw the look of pouting jealousy on her pretty face. She leaned forward saying, “Nobody’s ever gone the whole way. Can you?”

  Maybe she only wanted me to kill myself with a heart attack, but I could have been doing her an injustice. I used her facial expression and that of Margot Metayer to spur me on.

  Agnete Stralsund was almost unconscious on her knees before me. Her head swung from side to side, she was mumbling incoherently. I felt the need to spur her to further effort so I snaked my hands about her, caught her hanging breasts and squeezed them until the pain got to her libido.

  She came alive again, screeching, hips working savagely. She had caught the sheet between her fingers, squeezing it into balls of linen that she gripped as if for a handhold on reality. I do not think Agnete Stralsund knew where she was, right at that moment. All she could understand was the ecstasy feeding itself into her flesh.

  Madame Bree was crying, “Stop them! Somebody stop them!”

  Nobody moved. Everyone was hypnotized by the go-go action on the bed where the black scarves hung. Hannie was kneeling on the edge of her own bed, her eyes wide, her tongue licking her lips. Beyond her, Kaija was biting on a knuckle, eyeing us over her hand at her mouth. The others were in various positions of utter awe.

  A bell rang for the fifth position.

  I slid backward off the bed, I turned Agnete and lifted her. She could not move her legs, so I had to hold her by her bottom and rise to my feet with her body a dead weight in my arms.

  The standing position—stasophallia—is known as the el keurchi position by the Arabs. It is the pose in which Milanion is said to have enjoyed Atlanta, just as Aloysia Sigaea relates how Tullia took La Tour while he stood imbedded in her, supporting her weight with his hands on her buttocks.

  I began walking with Agnete about the room. I felt a little sorry for her, she had never been in this position before, so satiated with love-play that she could not move a muscle. But since I wanted to finish up my performance in a blaze of gonad glory, began to talk again.