The future. Or, to put it another way, what now? With Sam gone from her life, new arrangements would have to be. made, new ways found to satisfy her urges, new girls located and bedded to feed her lesbian desire.
It was the only course open to her, and it was the best one. Continuing on as if nothing had happened, teaming up with someone new just as Sam had, was the ideal way to prove to Sam, and to herself, that the termination of their affair was an event of no importance.
If Sam could feel that way, then so could Lil.
The image of her former lover evaporated from her mind, leaving her with a feeling of peace.
Her next thought was the recollection of the phone call.
The card was still in her skirt pocket. She picked it out and looked at it. It was really a very silly advertisement—the way it was set up, the offhanded manner in which it hinted at perversion, and that stupid melodramatic name: Madam Fury.
Lil knew she would never have called the number on that card in a million years, if not for the circumstances of that evening. Only because of the pain left behind by Sam's treachery, combined with the waiting and the coffee and the conversation with that vile young man and the eternal ringing of the unanswered phone in Sam's apartment—if any one of these elements had been lacking, Lil would probably have just glanced at the card, laughed, and thrown it away. Madam Fury, indeed. It sounded like a character from a comic book.
But conditions had been exactly right At the very moment she was at her lowest ebb, the moment she was feeling the deepest anger and frustration, she found that card. A thought had crossed her mind at that point, and she cast back through her memory, trying to recall what it had been.
The card had seemed to her to be an advertisement for a sexual service of some kind. She could remember running down the list of possibilities in her mind—that Madam Fury was an exclusive call-girl, or ran a massage parlor with more elaborate massages available in the hack room, or was the operator of a whore house, or a seller of pornography. Madam Fury could have been any one of these things, presuming her business was sexual at all. Lil remembered being aware that the card could represent a perfectly legitimate business.
Even if she had been convinced that Madam Fury operated a sexual enterprise of some kind, she still had been foolish to call. After all, prostitutes and illicit services were commonplace around the city, and none of them catered to lesbians. Oh, there were specialty houses where people with strange tastes in pleasure could enjoy themselves, but they were all designed for men only. A lesbian with an urge had only two choices open to her if she couldn’t find a partner through her own efforts: She either hired a hundred-a-night call-girl to satisfy her, presuming she could locate one willing to go dyke for an evening—or she wandered around until a man picked her up, and settled for a heterosexual fling.
As far as Lil knew, there wasn’t a prostitution service anywhere that catered to lesbians.
She’d run through this whole line of reasoning while she sat there in the telephone booth and stared at that card. But she’d made the call anyway.
And she’d connected.
Lil could still recall vividly the sound of the woman’s voice. There had been a coldness in her words, but not the coldness of disinterest. Rather, the voice had been very calm and businesslike, and had talked of hot exciting things in a chill and matter-of-fact way. The odd thing was that this tone didn’t drain the heat from her words at all—it increased it. When the conversation had ended, Lil was left with the impression that Madam Fury, whoever she was, had seen, understood, and maybe even experienced personally every variety of sexual pleasure there was.
The voice had sounded like that of a female Pan—the insatiable goat-footed god of lust somehow transformed into a goddess.
The more Lil thought about it, the more difficult it became for her to maintain any perspective on the conversation. A portion of her mind told her she was expecting more from Madam Fury than was possible in the real World. It was all right to think about female Pans, imagine houses which staged orgies for the benefit of lesbians such as herself—but such things couldn’t exist
And even if they did, their services certainly wouldn’t be available without charge.
A young innocent one—that’s what the woman offered her. It was uncanny the way she had hit the nail squarely on the head. A fling with a practiced lesbian would satisfy the ache of physical desire inside Lil, but how much more satisfying it would be to take her pleasure with an unfledged girl, one who had never, experienced the dark delights of lesbian love-making, maybe even a virgin who knew nothing at all of sex in any of its forms.
Far more satisfying. And why was that?
Lil smiled to herself. The answer to that question, at least, was quite easy.
A young inexperienced girl couldn’t possibly survive such an interlude without being scarred by it The loss of virginity was a terrible moment in a girl’s life even when it happened by normal and unperverted means. But to have your innocence taken away by a lesbian, a strange woman with strange tastes and stranger caresses—
It would be frightening. It would be weird. It would hurt.
Lil had to admit the truth to herself. She wanted just such an innocent bed-partner. She wanted to hurt someone like that, the way she herself had been hurt by Sam. She wouldn’t be satisfied with simple sex, or even complicated sex—she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than . . .
Revenge? Yes, that was the thought But revenge against whom? Not against Sam, because Sam would never know of it, and wouldn’t give a damn if she did.
Revenge—against the world, perhaps? Or was it against herself?
She didn’t know, and didn’t care. The last of the vodka trickled down her throat. It was very late and she was tired. Sometimes her mind played tricks on her when she was fatigued. Quite often she had gone to bed feeling convinced of a fact, and had awakened the next morning thinking the direct opposite.
It might happen this time. In the morning, this whole evening might seem nothing more than a dream to her. She might shrug off the phone call, might even decide to give Sam another chance to start calling her again.
She went to the bedroom, stripped herself naked, and slipped in between the sheets.
Things might seem different to her in the morning. Then again, maybe not.
As she fell asleep, she repeated the formula over and over again to herself: Richmond Terrace to Hylan Boulevard, then right to Eugene Street, then right again to Bliss Place—and, according to Madam Fury, she would know the house when she saw it.
* * *
The phone rang again.
The man was asleep in another room, but the woman was awake. She had finished her magazine hours ago, and for lack of anything else to do, had started filing her nails. She was very tired; after all, she’d been up all night
But the ringing of the phone snapped her out of her reverie. She dropped the nail file on the coffee table and stood up from the couch. The phone rang two, three, four, five times.
She picked up the receiver.
“Yes.”
“Who is this?”
She frowned. She wasn’t much in the mood to play games this time. Her mind and body ached with fatigue, and ached with the further knowledge that she had to wait by the phone until all the calls had come in, which might not be for hours yet.
She was about to answer the caller, when a thought struck her. This could be a wrong number. If some stranger had dialed her by mistake, it would be unwise for her to name herself.
“To whom did you wish to speak?” she asked.
“Is this Yeoman 6-6059?” The voice was that of a man, very clipped and self-assured.
“Yes, it is.”
“I want to speak to Madam Fury.”
The woman’s face reflected surprise. She hadn’t been expecting the caller to come right out with it that way. A suspicion began to grow in her mind.
“This is Madam Fury,” she said.
“I have
your card,” he said.
“Yes?”
“It was left on the seat of my car—either by you, or by someone in your employ.”
Car, she thought. That would be the young man—the one who had parked to go buy cigarettes. She had difficulty connecting the voice with her memory of that young man. When she’d spotted him leaving his car, she’d tagged him for an ordinary young male—a bachelor with average knowhow and sexual appetites. That image didn’t equate with the polish and assurance of his voice.
“Yes,” she said again.
“You advertise private and personal service. Is that right?”
“What sort of service did you wish?” she asked.
“Fury,” he said. His voice changed oddly. “Your name is Fury.”
“That’s correct.”
“Does that name mean anything?”
All at once, she had it. The peculiar tone behind his words became suddenly identifiable.
“Pain?”
He didn’t reply.
“Am I to understand that you wish a pleasure-pain service? Is that your taste?”
When he spoke again, his tone was very tight. “Yes.”
“That can be provided.”
“I thought so,” he said. “I hoped so.”
“Fine,” she said, “Now—do you wish to be die giver or the recipient?”
“What?”
"The pain—do you desire to experience pain yourself, or to inflict it upon another person?”
“Oh. Inflict. I want to be the giver of pain.”
The woman’s tired face broke into a smile. The caller was a sadist. What could be more ideal? Her luck was holding out far better than she could have hoped.
“I see,” she said. “It can all be arranged. I presume you want your—partner to be a young lady.”
“Yes,” he said. “Of course ”
“Then it’s settled.”
“But—wait.”
“What is it?”
“This girl—my partner. What can I—do to her?”
The woman smiled again. “Anything you wish.”
“Anything?”
“That is correct.”
“You—should know that sometimes—I hurt girls.”
“Of course. I understand that.”
“Sometimes—I hurt them very badly.”
“That is to be expected.”
“And—it doesn’t make any difference to you? Or to the girl?”
“No. None whatever. When the time comes, you may do what you wish, guided only by your own appetites.”
“When?”
“Tonight,” said the woman. “Just before midnight.”
“Good. Where?”
“Bliss Place on Staten Island. Do you know where that is?”
“No. Tell me.”
“From the ferry, Richmond Terrace to Hylan Boulevard, the Boulevard to Eugene Street, then right to Bliss Place.”
“Yes. What’s the address?”
“You’ll know the house when you see it.”
“How?”
“You will. Have no fear.”
He paused. “All right. Now—one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“What’s the charge for this?”
“There is no charge.”
“The fee,” he persisted. “The amount I have to pay you for the use of your girl. How much does it cost?”
“I told you, there is no fee. Madam Fury does not accept a fee.”
His voice became wary. “If you don’t take money, then what do you take?”
She was prepared for the question, and she answered in character. “Madam Fury only takes pleasure—in the pleasure of her customers.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Anything you want it to mean,” she said. She hung up. She crossed the room and went through the door into the next room. There was a bed against one wall, and the man was lying on it. He was awake.
“What was it this time?”
She came over and sat on the bed beside him. “A sadist,” she said.
The man made a face. “How do you know that? Did he tell you he was a sadist?”
“Yes. He wants me to provide a girl for him to hurt.”
“Can you?”
“I think so.”
The man shook his head from side to side on the pillow. “You have the whole thing figured out, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“It had better work as you say. I’m going to be very annoyed if it doesn’t.”
Her eyes flashed. “You? Annoyed? What about me? I’m the one who sat up all night, waiting for the phone to ring. What have you got to be annoyed about?”
“This bed,” said the man. “It’s hard as rocks. And this ratty room. And spending the night in this cheap place-going through all this discomfort without even a guarantee the results will make the effort worthwhile.”
“The results will be exactly what I promised.” She smiled. “In fact, I think they may even surpass my expectations.”
He yawned. “Well, I hope so. What’s the time, anyway?”
“Six forty-five,” she said.
“In the morning?”
“That’s right.”
“The hell. I’m going back to sleep.” He rolled over toward the wall and began to punch his pillow into shape. “How many more calls are you expecting?” he asked.
“Two,” she said.
“Hmmm.” He settled his head into the pillow. “And how long are you going to wait for them?”
“Right up to the last minute,” she said.
“Damn.” He inhaled deeply. “Let me know if anything interesting happens.”
She didn’t answer him. In a moment, his rhythmic breathing told her he was asleep. She arose from the bed cautiously, not wanting to disturb him, and left the room.
She returned to the couch and stood beside it, rubbing the back of her neck with a hand. Her body felt stiff and dry. She needed a shower and some coffee very badly. Her eyes turned toward the phone.
After a few seconds’ thought, she walked over, lifted the receiver from the hook, and placed it on the table.
There. If anyone should call while she was showering, they’d get a busy signal and would try again. At least, she hoped they would.
She went into the bathroom, unzippered her red satin dress, and dropped it on the toilet seat. The bathroom was as shabby find decayed as the rest of the apartment, and she looked with distaste at the stained condition of the tub as she removed her slip, her brassiere and panties, her garterbelt and stockings. As unappealing as the tub was, she had no choice but to use it.
She turned on the shower water and waited until it became hot. It seemed to take forever. This apartment really was an abominable place, she thought. She hoped the other two would call soon, so that she and the man could leave here and prepare in comfort for the evening ahead. After twelve solid hours in this place, she was heartily sick of it.
Well, she thought, one way or another she’d be out of here soon. If the calls came, fine—if they didn’t she was determined to go ahead with her plan anyway. It might not turn out as well as she anticipated, but one never could tell.
Smiling, she stepped into the shower and drew the curtains around her.
The woman’s naked body was very beautiful. Her skin was like alabaster, her breasts like ripe hard little fruits. She had a long sinuous torso, slender legs, a tender belly, and delicate legs. Her arms were slim, her wrists were narrow, her hands were traced with faint blue veins, her fingers tapered to pointed red nails.
In short, she looked exactly as Ginny had pictured her in the dream.
The woman didn’t know about Ginny’s dream. But she remembered Ginny from the diner.
She hoped the girl would call soon. The little blonde waitress was absolutely essential to the ultimate fruition of her plans.
CHAPTER 7
BURTON SMALL AWOKE just before noon.
He eased his
massive body out of bed, stretched, scratched himself, then chose a bathrobe from his closet. He went first to the bathroom, relieved himself, showered quickly, brushed his teeth, and began his invariable meaning routine.
Sandwiched in among the third-floor trophy rooms and libraries was another room. It was very narrow and long. The wall opposite the door was curtained. The walls on either side were filled with shelves, and the shelves were filled with many round metal containers. Just inside the door was a deep leather chair. Beside that was a low table, containing an ashtray, an electric coffee-maker, and a set of cups.
This was Small’s eyeopener room. He never could quite bring himself completely awake until he had spent a half-hour or so in this room.
He came through the door, dosed it after him, then turned to a smaller door set into the wall. When he tugged the handle, the door swung out, along with a pivoting shelf connected to the door’s lower edge.
On that shelf sat a 16 millimeter projector.
He reached out and picked one of the film cans at random. The nature or subject matter of the film was not important to him. Every red in the room concerned itself with one or more manifestations of the same basic idea, and it was that basic idea which fascinated Small.
He threaded the reel deftly, then left the projector and went to sit heavily in the chair. Built into the edge of the table was a series of pushbuttons. Small’s thick fingers punched them in the old familiar sequence.
The room lights dimmed. The curtains at the end of the room drew back, revealing the white surface of a motion picture screen. From this point on, the operation was completely automatic. The focus of the projector was fixed, since the lens-to-screen distance never varied. The film would start and stop automatically, and the same mechanism would turn the lights on again afterwards as the reel was being rewound.
Before the lights had died completely, the electric coffee-maker was perking. Small poured himself a cup.
The film started.
The scene was a bedroom. There was an oversized bed in the center of it. On that bed lay the body of a young woman.
She was wearing a thin negligee which did little to conceal the ripeness of her body. Even lying on her back, the lush cones of her breasts rose almost straight upward, filling the lacy material with their fullness. The hem of the negligee was caught up around her shapely thighs. Her eyes were closed, and the regular rise and fall of her round bust gave the impression she was sleeping.
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