Even the minor details of Lil’s body were fascinating: The delicate structure of her fingers and toes, the tiny flexing shadows beneath the bones of her ankles, the faint W’s of muscle at the backs of her calves, the creamy roundness of her arms and shoulders—taken all at once, the many features of Lil’s body added up to a male’s dream of pleasure.
It was a pity, really, although Lil didn’t think so.
Naked, she crossed the bedroom and went down the hall into the bathroom. She stepped daintily into the tub, pulled the curtains into place, then turned on a stream of water as hot as she could stand from the showerhead above. The water lanced steaming out of the fixture, and drummed against her nude flesh with a pins-and-needles prickling.
She sighed. She arched her spine and let the water assault her back, bringing the blood to her skin and warming away all the stiffness. Then she turned, presented her firm breasts to the stream, and relaxed as the rain of hot water flushed her sensitive flesh with rosy color. In no time at all, her entire body was glowing.
She took a cake of soap from the dish set in the wall, worked up some suds, and began lathering herself. Her hands flowed over her curves, forming themselves around all the lush thrustings of her body. Her fingers paused now and then—at the breasts, the buttocks, at the insides of her thighs.
At the moment, Lil had her eyes closed, and was alone in the safe private darkness inside her mind.
In there, a change was taking place.
The everyday Lillian Peale—the Lil who rode the subways to work, who walked and talked and did her job just like all the other employees, who dressed and moved exactly like thousands of young working girls—that Lillian Peale was vanishing. It was a disguise, and it didn’t take very long for the shower water to wash it away completely; nor did it require much time for her brain to shift gears, adjust itself out of the patterns of her daily impersonation and allow the basic character of her to come to the surface.
Before ten minutes had passed, the old Lillian Peale was gone as if she’d never existed, stuffed away in mothballs until Monday.
Of course, the new Lillian Peale looked quite a bit like the old—but looks, as you probably know, can be deceiving.
Last of all, Lil stuck her head into the stream of water, and smiled to herself in satisfaction as she felt all the careful waves and curlings of her hair fall straight. She always saved the drenching of her head until the last during these Friday night: rituals—feeling her hair soak out into long wet strands across her shoulders.
And that was it. When she’d dried herself, fluffed-out her hair, bound it into a long red ponytail with a small brass clasp, and wiped the last traces of makeup from her face, the transformation was complete.
Against one wall of the bathroom was a full-length mirror. It was too steamy to present any clear reflection, so Lil opened the bathroom door, and waited until the glass became transparent again.
She stared at herself, examining her scrubbed and glowing body from head to toe. She reached around her neck and brought the limp wet ponytail over a shoulder, hanging it carefully between her breasts.
The effect pleased her, and she smiled.
Her hands came up and curled around the undersides of her breasts, lifting them as much as they could be lifted, holding the delicate points of the nipples lightly between her fingertips.
Her smile grew.
Her hands came down from her breasts; down, around, and behind, to cup the neat halves of her rump, if hen the hands came forward again, over her hips, down across her belly, down to her thighs. She smiled happily
Lil was a beautiful girl, and she knew it. Her body radiated desire, and she knew that, too. Best of all, her body was capable of giving and receiving pleasure on a level that was almost unbearable in its intensity—she knew that fact as well as she knew her own name. Add to those facts the fact that she was only twenty-three and had years and years of delight ahead of her, and you knew almost every important thing you needed to know about Lil.
Beautiful, she thought, as her hands brought her pleasure, as she watched her reflection through half-closed eyes. I’m beautiful. No wonder Sam likes me. No wonder Sam enjoys making love to me.
Sam. It was Friday night; it was Sam Time. Tonight, and tomorrow night, and maybe even part of Sunday. Sam Time. Sex-With-Sam Time. Forty-eight hours of pleasure, of being herself, of being naked and tingling and throbbing with desire in Sam’s arms.
Lil ached for it. She and Sam didn’t make love, exactly—they made sex, which was what Lil wanted. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. She could hardly wait to have it.
Reluctantly, she removed her hands from her flesh and went back to the bedroom to begin dressing. The clock on the night table said a quarter to seven. It was getting late; she hadn’t even had dinner yet. She was too excited to be really hungry, but she knew she’d feel it if she went too long without food. She pulled open a bureau drawer, bypassed the pile of lacy panties, and pulled out a pair of leotard tights. They fit her body like a black second skin. She also bypassed the brassieres; her breasts, she knew, were firm enough to stand by themselves. Brassieres, like panties, would only get in the way when she and Sam were alone.
She took a wide black skirt down from a hanger in her closet, stepped into it, then slipped a hairy brown sweater over her upraised arms, popped her head through the neckhole, and drew it down into place. The coarse fibers tickled her naked breasts, and she grinned at the sensation. It reminded her of Sam.
She put on brown leather sandals, transferred some money from her purse to her skirt pocket, examined, herself in the bureau mirror, and decided she was all set. She left the apartment, caught the bus at the corner, rode to the subway, and came down the steps just in time to catch a Manhattan-bound express. She settled into a seat, crossed her legs, crossed her arms beneath her unbound breasts, and sighed.
No more sweating. No more pretending. The lousy week was dead, and it was time to quit worrying and simply be herself. And be with Sam.
The idea warmed her. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander into private and quivering anticipation. Maybe Sam would be waiting for her when she arrived at their favorite, little coffee-shop, the Greenwich Village hole-in-the-wall where they usually met. Even if Lil arrived first, though, she was sure she wouldn’t have a very long wait. Sam was always prompt.
And then, they would go to Sam’s apartment together, and have sex.
Yes, Lil had a problem. It had been with her a long time, long before Sam had come into her life. Sam was only the latest in a lengthy catalog of lovers.
Sam, you see, was not a nickname for Samuel. It was short for Samantha.
Sam was a girl.
Lil was a lesbian.
And that was the problem.
The rocking of the subway car was lulling, and Lil allowed her mind to drift away from reality, drift into a recollection of the things she and Sam shared together—Sam’s hands on her body, Sam’s lips kissing her body and cherishing her breasts, the delicious sensation of Sam’s own breasts and thighs, the wonderful tingle of their lips meeting, their tongues twining, their nude female bodies touching . . .
Lil really had a problem. But, oddly enough, she didn’t know r it. As far as she was concerned, the only annoying feature of her life was the necessity of pretending she wasn’t a lesbian, and she made up for that on the weekends, with a vengeance.
And so, with her eyes closed and her mind dreaming, she let the train carry her out of dull boring Queens toward the hot excitement of the Village. She was so happy with her thoughts that she never even noticed the person who sat down next to her; nor did she notice when, a few stations later, the person got up and departed.
And it would be some time before she discovered the card that person had slipped into her skirt pocket.
* * *
“What the hell did you say your name was again?” asked the girl, as she unbuttoned her blouse.
He was sitting in a chair across the room fr
om her, smoking a cigarette and smiling. “Ted Morton,” he said. “And you’re Karen, right?”
“Karen Baker—that’s right. It ain’t easy to catch names sometimes in a noisy gin-mill, you know what I mean?” The girl shrugged off her blouse. Her bra was gray from too many washings. The cups were barely large enough to hold her enormous fleshy breasts.
“Sure,” said Morton. “It’s better like this. In an apartment.”
“For a lot of things,” said the girl.
“Uh-huh. For a lot of things.”
She unzippered her skirt and slid it down from her hips. Her panties were black and lacy, and made no attempt to match the bra. He watched with appreciation the way her ripe buttocks filled the material as she lifted one leg, then the other, free of the skirt.
“Although,” continued the girl, “names don’t mean a damn thing when you come right down to it. A guy and a gal living it up together don’t even have to give their names at all, or could maybe even make up phony names, and it wouldn’t change nothing. Like, you say your name is Ted—you could just as soon be a Louis or a Pete or something, and what the hell difference would it make?”
“And you,” said Morton, “could be a Janis or a Shirley—and you’re right. It doesn’t make any difference at all.”
The girl smiled and turned her back to him. He watched as her fingers sought up to the clasp of the bra, found it, opened it. The elastic halves fell away. There was a faint red mark where the bra had pressed into her skin.
She hunched her shoulders. The straps rode down her arms and the brassiere fell to the floor.
She turned to face him. “Names, names,” she said, standing calmly with her hands on her hips, unconscious of her bared breasts. “Names are just labels, right? Names just make it easy to identify people, right? There are plenty things in the world more important than names—am I right?”
“Like boobs,” said Morton, grinning. “Right.”
“Boobs.” The girl laughed. “That’s a little kid word.”
Morton shook his head. “I like it. Those two circles In the middle—they remind me of what the word means.”
The girl laughed again. “You’re a nut.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, then skinned down, her panties. She wasn’t wearing garters or stockings. As the pan-ties slipped free of her legs, she kicked off her shoes, which were her last remaining garments.
She was completely and voluptuously naked.
Morton examined her, and liked what he was seeing. Not bad at all—especially for a bar pickup. She was a cheap kid, of course, without any class or intelligence. But she had the body.
She had one hell of a body, and she seemed to have the inclination, and what more could a man ask than that?
Ted Morton could think of only one thing more. But he was going to get that, too, before he was through with her.
She was looking at him, standing with the whole length of her nudity displayed in the harsh light of the single overhead bulb. She looked curiously soft and tender in contrast with the scarred walls of her cheap apartment. The effect pleased Morton quite a bit.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey, what?”
“You’re all dress yet.”
Morton glanced down at himself in mock surprise. “Why, so I am.”
“That’s a hell of a thing. For you to still be dressed. “You ought to take off all of them clothes.”
“Should I?”
“Sure. Like, the least you can do when a gal strips is strip yourself.”
“I’m too comfortable,” Morton said. “I’m enjoying just sitting here and looking at you. You might say I’m just plain lazy.”
The girl scowled. “Huh?”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Undress me.”
Her scowl changed slowly into a smile. “Oh, I get it. You want me to strip you? That give you a charge, or something?”
“In a way.”
She shrugged. Her massive breasts shrugged with her. “Okey-dokey. No skin off my fanny. Maybe it’ll even be fun. Like, I never undressed a guy sitting in a chair before.”
Morton smiled. “Be my guest.”
She came across the room casually, moving her naked body with an unconscious feminine grace. She was young, thought Morton—young and ripe. But there was a little too much of her for that youthful lusciousness to last. In a few years, those dark-nippled monsters would start to sag and lose their jiggling roundness, pudding-marks would appear inside her thighs and under the cheeks of her: butt; her legs would get veined; her eyes would lose their snap; her skin would lose its bloom. It wouldn’t take long for time to turn this girl from a delightful dish to a fat sloppy broad.
But that was the future, and the future didn’t exist until it got here. At present, the girl was everything Morton wanted.
She stopped in front of his chair and looked down at him. “You’re kind of peculiar—you know it?”
“What makes you say that?”
She nodded at his lap. “You ain’t excited. Here I stand, all nude and ready to go, and you ain’t excited at all.”
He grinned. “Maybe it takes more than just looking at a woman to excite me.”
“Yeah—that’s what I was thinking.” She shifted her stance slightly, and her ponderous breasts swayed before his face.
“I’m beginning to wonder if I’m gonna be able to get you there at all.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Morton said.
“Try it, you mean.”
“How else?”
She bobbed her head briskly. “All right. Let’s see what I can do for you.” She bent her knees and let herself down on her haunches at his feet. She leaned forward pressing her huge breasts up against his trousered legs, as her hands slid from his knees up along his thighs. She smiled as her hands climbed toward his belt-buckle, and she said again, “Let’s just see what I can do for you.”
Morton let his head back on the chair cushion, stamped out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, then closed his eyes.
Poor stupid kid, Morton thought. Got as much fat in her head as she’s got in her boobs, and that’s saying a lot. Only one thing in the world important to her right at the moment, and that’s getting me excited. She needs that. If she can’t make that happen to me, she’ll lose confidence in herself, she’ll begin to doubt her female ability, and that would kill her. They’re all like that All they have, are their bodies.
But, he thought, their bodies are useful. Yes, indeed—they’re certainly useful. Not in the ways they enjoy or understand, maybe; but useful nevertheless.
He smiled to himself. In a few minutes, he was going to put this girl’s body to use. And he had the feeling he would derive quite a bit of pleasure from it. The full-fleshed ones were the best for his purposes, although he’d settle for a slim girl if that was all he could find. There was pleasure to be had even from skinny girls—a different sort, perhaps, than the pleasure he found, with the plump ones, but almost as intense in its way.
The girl’s fingers unbuckled his belt. Then the fingers unbuttoned the waist band of his trousers. Then the fingers slipped into the fold of cloth, found the zipper tab, and began drawing it down.
Morton decided she was probably going to get through to him after all. The reaction wasn’t really under his control; sometimes it happened for no particular reason, sometimes it
refused to happen in spite of everything a girl could do. As long as Morton and the girl continued their relationship on a more or less normal plane, he could never predict how his body would answer caresses.
Of course, the minute Morton took over, changed the scene from the ordinary stimulations' of everyday sex into the hot' sweet patterns of his specialty—then it would happen. It had happened the first time he had ever discovered the specialty. He’d been sixteen then, and the experience had opened a whole new world to him. It had happened
every time since, too; and now, ten years later, it was still happening.
Morton knew just what to do in order to make it happen. So simple, really—and so delightful.
This time, he felt himself getting off to a head start. The girl’s fingers had drawn the zipper completely open, and were searching down through the cloth layers of trousers and shorts. The pressure of her naked breasts against his legs stirred something in his intestines, and that stirred another portion of him.
She touched him, his clothing shifted, and cool air blew across his flesh. He knew without opening his eyes what she was seeing.
“That’s . . .” The girl paused and seemed to be searching for words. “I ain’t never seen anything like it. You’re some man.”
“Am I?”
“I’ll tell the world. This is really something.”
“Glad you’re satisfied.”
“I ain’t satisfied yet,” she said. “But I’m gonna be. No doubt about it. I’m sure gonna be.”
Her fingers moved subtly as she shifted her body forward.
“You got a minute to spare before we get started?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you do. I think you’d enjoy it. I know I’d enjoy it.”
“In that case,” said Morton, “what are you waiting for?”
She wasn’t waiting for anything.
Nice, he thought. Still not the greatest, of course—still far short of the ultimate—but nice just the same. He always enjoyed this sort of preliminary caress, although her never insisted on it. And while it didn’t begin to match the big pleasure, the fantastic special satisfaction his body craved, he had to admit it had a certain charm all its own.
He relished the knowledge that her own excitement was building, that she was almost ready for the ultimate pleasure—that is, what she considered the ultimate pleasure.
Best of all, he liked the realization that the final moment between them was to be a complete surprise to her, and would come from a direction she didn’t suspect. He was fooling her, as he had fooled so many women in his time, and that was one of the most delightful facets of his specialty.
The Jaded Sex Page 3
