26 Nights
Page 1
DOUBLE YOUR PLEASURE…
“Just one thing, ladies,” I said. “Uh…
could we do it one at a time, perhaps?”
“One at a time?” Vinnie said.
“Separately?” Winnie said.
“Yes,” I said. “Separately. Just for a change.
Call it an experiment.”
“Oh, we couldn’t do that,” Vinnie said.
“We would never do that,” Winnie said.
“We do everything together,” Vinnie said.
“We’re sisters, you know,” Winnie said.
“Twins,” Vinnie said.
“Identical,” Winnie said.
“Yes,” I said. “I get the picture.”
26 NIGHTS
OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES
EROTICA FROM PENTHOUSE
MORE EROTICA FROM PENTHOUSE
EROTICA FROM PENTHOUSE III
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE I
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE II
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE III
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE IV
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE V
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE VI
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE VII
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE VIII
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE IX
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE X
LETTERS TO PENTHOUSE XI
PENTHOUSE UNCENSORED
Copyright
Penthouse ® is a registered trademark of Penthouse International, Limited.
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 2001 by General Media Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: June 2001
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2458-3
Contents
Other Books in the Series
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 1
AMBROSIAL IS THE SCENT OF WOMAN. AS always, even before I was fully awake, I knew by the scent that she was there beside me. It is indescribable and, to some, undetectable—too many men of my acquaintance have told me they are unaware of it, except under obvious circumstances, which seems to me very sad—but it is the scent of heaven, and on those rare mornings when I awaken to its absence, I am possessed by a terrible depression, combined with the need to experience it again as soon as possible.
This morning, however, it was not absent. Gratefully I reached out for the sweetness beside me, not yet awake enough to recall who it was. It didn’t matter. The scent told me it was female, and my hands soon confirmed that conclusion. Soft it was, and warm, with smooth skin, with yielding breasts, round behind, sweet tender thighs …
“Good morning,” came a throaty voice, and then I remembered. Phyllis. Blond, pretty, kittenish … and married. But with a husband who traveled. Very convenient. The trip that had taken him away this time was not the first one of which Phyllis and I had taken advantage. There was something else about Phyllis—something I strove to remember. I pride myself on my memory of these things, somewhat encyclopedic, if I do say so. Ah yes—it came to me. Phyllis liked to be touched in a certain way. High up between her thighs … just at the lower end of the vaginal opening … just … there … like this …
“Ohhh!” Phyllis gasped. “Oh Jesus … Oh Steven …” And she slithered across the bed to me and pressed her estimable body hard against mine. And wiggled. My fingers did that thing again, and then explored a bit further. “Jesus …” she said again, and her leg came across me, and then she was pulling herself on top of me, straddling me and grasping my cock (which had been hard since before I was awake) and sliding herself down over it.
My appreciative groan and the ring of the telephone came simultaneously.
“Oh God …” Phyllis said breathlessly. “Oh no …”
“It’s only Miss Greenglass,” I said. “Not to worry.” Without moving enough to dislodge her, I reached for the phone on the bedside table.
“Don’t answer it,” Phyllis said, but I merely winked at her.
“Yes?” I said to the phone.
“I’m here, Mr. Walling.” It was indeed Miss Greenglass, my secretary, who came to my house every weekday morning at a ridiculously uncivilized hour, a practice from which neither pleas nor threats could dissuade her.
“I’m busy, Miss Greenglass,” I said. Which was true only in a sense, for I wasn’t doing a thing other than lying there while Phyllis of the bouncing breasts and sweetly flexing legs was moving rhythmically up and down.
“I’m sure you are,” Miss Greenglass said, with just a hint of sarcasm. Perhaps Phyllis’s rather heavy breathing had made itself heard through the phone; or perhaps it was just that Miss Greenglass was accustomed to my being busy at that hour. “I’ll make a start on those contract figures, Mr. Walling, shall I? Until you are … free.”
“Fine,” I said. “Thank you, Miss Greenglass.” I hung up just in time to prevent Miss Greenglass from hearing a series of cries from the ever-orgasmic Phyllis, which would surely have confirmed what she already knew. Phyllis threw back her head, spasmed her way through a splendid climax, and then collapsed on top of me.
“Don’t worry about Miss Greenglass,” I said. “She’s used to waiting.” And rolling her over—very carefully, so as not to break our pleasurable connection—I proceeded to partake further of the matchless joys of the female body.
“Have you quite finished, Mr. Walling?” Miss Greenglass asked as I joined her in the room that serves as my office.
“For now, Miss Greenglass. For now. Mrs. Dilsey is rather tuckered out, and as there don’t seem to be any other females around at the moment … Unless, of course, you would unbend enough …”
Miss Greenglass just looked at me in that particularly bleak manner of which only she is capable. My proposition was not new to her; indeed it was broached, with increasing hopelessness, virtually every day, invariably followed by her rather disdainful refusal. “I am sure,” she said now, “that you will have no trouble finding adequate prey before the day is out. Shall we get to those figures now?”
The figure I was most desirous of getting to was hers, as she well knew. That figure was as tantalizing as any I have seen, and her severe and businesslike manner of dress only made it seem more alluring. Her dark hair was generally gathered and pinned neatly behind her head; I longed to see it loose and swinging about her very attractive face. But alas, after six months in my employ, working in my house five days a week, I had not even been allowed to address her by her first name.
“Prey?” I said, assuming a wounded air. “I assure you I do not think of the ladies I am fortunate enough sometimes
to … let us say …”
“Dally with?” Miss Greenglass quickly supplied.
“Thank you. I do not think of them as prey. I may hunt them, in a sense, but I don’t shoot them, I don’t wound them, I don’t cause them distress in any way. I merely give them pleasure, and they return the favor.”
“How generous,” Miss Greenglass murmured. “Shall we get to work now?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I am going out. I have an appointment at Brooks Brothers to be measured for a new suit. I happened to stop in there yesterday, and there is a lovely young woman working there as an assistant. You know, I can remember when there were no ladies at Brooks Brothers. Sometimes the times change for the better.”
“The designated target for the day, I take it,” Miss Greenglass said.
“You insist on using such sinister imagery. But the thought has crossed my mind. Her name is Abigail. I’ve always liked that name. There’s something prim and old-fashioned about it, but at the same time it’s got a kind of little-girl quality. Abigail. I’m partial to names beginning with A, you know.” Miss Greenglass’s first name is Anne.
“You are fond of names beginning with any letter of the alphabet from A to Z,” she said sweetly. “Providing they are female.”
“Come to think of it, that’s true,” I said. “And I suppose I must have gone through all the letters at one time or another. Well, perhaps not X … no wait, there was a rather luscious lady a couple of years ago whose given name, I believe, was Xanthippe—she was the daughter of a classical scholar. Didn’t really use it, though. Called herself Tiffany, actually. It was only by accident that I found out …”
“What you should do,” Miss Greenglass said, in that Greenglassian tone of hers, “is go through the alphabet in order. It would provide more of a challenge, I should think, than mowing them down indiscriminately.”
I thought a moment. “Actually,” I said, “you may have something there. It would be a challenge. Beginning with Abigail—assuming she is amenable, of course—I could then go on to, say, a Barbara or a Betty, then a Carolyn or a Christine, or … You know, if I managed one a week, I could get through the entire alphabet in six months!”
“How in the world,” Miss Greenglass inquired, “would you ever limit yourself to one a week?”
“Oh, well I could have others in between, of course …”
“No, you could not,” Miss Greenglass said. “That would be part of the challenge, you see. You must limit yourself to the alphabetical succession until it is completed. And if you haven’t completed it within the six months, you should consider that you have failed.”
I looked at her curiously. “I didn’t realize you were making the rules here,” I said. “Do you by any chance think I couldn’t do it?”
Miss Greenglass favored me with her inscrutable gaze. “I do think it would be rather difficult,” she said finally. “Even for you.”
“Would you,” I said slowly, “like to make a little wager on the matter?”
“A wager, Mr. Walling?”
“A wager. That I can sleep with twenty-six women whose first names begin with each letter of the alphabet, in succession, within six months.”
“And no others in that time?”
I shrugged. “If you insist. That will inspire me to proceed more ardently.”
“And what would be the stakes in this wager?” Miss Greenglass inquired. Her voice was cool as ever, but I thought I saw a very slight flush on her cheek, indicating that she had an idea of what my answer would be—or at least part of it.
“Well,” I said, “if by some chance I should lose—as you obviously think I am bound to do—I will, let us say, double your salary. Hell, I’ll do better than that—I’ll triple it. How’s that?”
“That is certainly tempting,” she murmured. “Extremely tempting, Mr. Walling. And if you win?”
I looked straight into her eyes, and I must give her credit for returning my gaze in kind. “If I win, Miss Greenglass,” I said deliberately, “I will then expect to start the alphabet all over again—with Anne Greenglass.”
“I see,” she said. And still she didn’t look away from me. I didn’t really expect her to accept. Which shows that although in some ways I may know more about women (I say immodestly) than any man alive, in other ways I know nothing about them, and neither does anyone else. “All right,” Miss Greenglass said. “I accept the wager.”
I nearly fell over. “You do?” I said stupidly.
“Yes,” she said. “I do. Now are you leaving immediately, or can we do some work on these figures first?”
“It has long been a fantasy of mine,” I said to Abigail, “to make love to a woman in one of the little dressing rooms at Brooks Brothers.”
“Really, Mr. Walling!” Abigail blushed prettily and turned away to straighten a stack of pin-striped shirts on a display table beside her. In spite of the blush, I had the feeling that the lady was not quite as shocked as she pretended to be. Young ladies (and the winsome Abigail was surely still in her early twenties) are seldom sheltered maidens these days. A woman who earns her own living—even in a staid environment like Brooks Brothers—is hardly sheltered; and sweet-looking and diffident though she was, Abigail, I was sure, was no maiden.
But she was obviously not to be had at the drop of a fantasy. “Oh well,” I said cheerfully. “If the dressing room is out, I’ll have to settle for taking you to lunch. What do you say?”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Walling, but I don’t think—”
“Just lunch,” I said, putting up my hands to show my innocent intentions. “A friendly lunch, in a public place. Anywhere you say.”
Her fetching brown eyes turned to me. They went beautifully with her soft shoulder-length hair. “Anyplace?”
“Name it.”
Was there a hint of mischief in those wide eyes? “I’ve always wanted to eat at Lutèce,” she said.
Lutèce! The girl had expensive tastes. But then it has always seemed to me that money has no better use than to be put to the service of love. Or lust.
“I like a lady who knows what she wants,” I said. “Lutèce it is. Shall we go now?”
Her eyes widened further. “But—but don’t you need a reservation? How will we get in?”
“For me,” I said, “they’ll make room.”
Which, of course, they did, thus further impressing my lovely companion, who appeared a bit awed by the elegance of the surroundings, the smooth solicitude of the waiters, and the superb delights of the meal itself. A perfect situation for a seduction, one would think; and yet despite my best efforts, I could see that I was not making any noticeable progress in the direction of that dressing room. Abigail was friendly and, after several glasses of wine, even a bit flirtatious, but though I was sure I could get to her eventually, a protracted wooing was not in the cards at this point. If I were to win my bet with Miss Greenglass, I had to get the show on the road, so to speak. I wondered what would happen if I were to tell her about the bet—lay the aforementioned cards, as it were, on the table. I decided it was worth a shot; if it didn’t work I would be no worse off, and I could get back to Abigail sometime in the future.
“Abigail,” I said. “I want to tell you about a wager I made recently.”
I told her everything. Well, almost everything. Of course I was wise enough to hasten to assure her truthfully that I had been attracted to her long before the wager was even thought of—indeed that my attraction to her (first name and all) had been the genesis of the wager, and not its result. But I did prevaricate a bit about the stakes—and also about the other party to the bet. I implied that it was with a business acquaintance, and purely for money. Less colorfully romantic than the truth, perhaps, but, as calculated, safer. Abigail was shocked again—or pretended to be. “You actually … You said you would … You intend to …”
“Yes,” I said. “I did, I said, I do. And it’s all your doing, Abigail. If you weren’t so lovely … or if your name didn�
�t begin with A …”
“Really, Mr. Walling.” She drank some more wine. “You can’t believe I would—just like that—”
“I was hoping you would,” I said softly. “After all, when a man sets himself an arduous task, he likes to start it off as pleasantly as possible. My future labors in this endeavor would be made so much easier if only I had you to look back on. And,” I added shrewdly, “to look forward to again when it’s over.”
“You are a terrible man!” Abigail said. She finished her wine. And then she said, “Right there in the dressing room?”
The dressing rooms at Brooks Brothers are larger than those in many other establishments, but still not what you might call capacious. Fortunately, the doors lock from the inside, and though for two people to lie on the floor, let alone conduct any strenuous activity there, might be somewhat impractical, the rooms are furnished with narrow wooden benches on which one may place one’s clothing. Abigail and I did not use ours for that purpose; the clothes we discarded lay on the floor, while we occupied the diminutive bench ourselves, I seated on the hard wood, with Abigail seated on me, with her back to me, bent slightly forward and clutching at my legs for support, with my arms around her, my hands covering her fine round breasts and my rampant cock deep inside her sweet, pulsing vagina.
In this position we could both see ourselves in the full-length mirror opposite the bench, and I must say that the sight of Abigail’s delectable body slowly rising and falling against me did nothing to diminish my ardor. Abigail enjoyed it too, and the first time she came I had to put my hand over her mouth to stifle her cry. By the second time she had turned around to face me and we were kissing passionately, so that the sound of her climax was muffled against my mouth. As was mine against hers.
Afterwards Abigail, anxious about getting back to work, and I think a little scandalized at herself for what she had done, dressed herself swiftly and left with hardly a word. I resumed dressing—more leisurely, feeling quite contented and trying to recall the women I knew whose names begin with B.