“Of course, Mr. Victor.” Yenta’s voice was condescendingly soothing. “There are no moral judgments implied nor made. The data is simply utilized in the interest of making social arrangements for passengers so that the cruise will provide maximum enjoyment for each individual.”
“What did you just write beside my name?”
“That you were an exhibitionist as well as a voyeur, Mr. Victor,” he told me frankly.
“I am not!”
Chief Purser Yenta made no reply. He simply stared at me with an understanding sort of half-smile on his face. I followed his stare. It led to the fly of my pants. I had neglected to zip it up.
“Appearances can be misleading,” I told him weakly, fumbling with the zipper.
“Yes.” He nodded understandingly. “But you should not be self-conscious about your tastes, Mr. Victor. Believe me, they are no more odd than those of the other passengers. It is my job to determine what they are, and to see that you meet others with similar tastes, and in every way to further your satisfaction of them. I do this for all of our passengers. There is really no cause for concern. And now, sir,” he added, “the Captain is waiting to greet you. May I conduct you to his cabin?”
“All right.” I started to follow him down the deck.
“What stateroom is that?” I asked him, indicating the still darkened porthole.
“B-47,” Yenta replied.
“I mean whose stateroom is it?” I corrected myself.
The Chief Purser consulted his list. “It is occupied by Miss Amanda Lowell-Cabot of Boston, Massachusetts,” he informed me.
“Miss?” I was surprised. From her steadfast refusal to allow me inside her quarters, I had figured she must have a husband whose return was imminent. “Is Miss Amanda Lowell-Cabot unusually ugly?” That was my second guess at explaining her reluctance to satisfy her hearty erotic appetite face-to-face.
“On the contrary,” Chief Purser Yenta told me. “She is considered quite attractive.”
“She is?”
“For a lady her age,” he added.
“Her age?” I repeated. “How old is she?”
He consulted his records again. “Eighty-two on her next birthday,” he told me.
Eighty-two? The Breast—firm, pink, young! Eighty-two? The Derriere—round, springy, youthful! Eighty-two?
Talk about rejuvenation! Talk about plastic surgery! Talk about geriatrics!
She was one of the best lays I’d ever had at—-
Eighty-two years of age!
CHAPTER TWO
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
That’s how I confessed to Leila my inability to rise to the erotic occasion one more time. At moments of crisis, old saws hack it best.
Her response was gut-level rage. My impotency was more than a personal affront to her; it was a dry spit in the face of all womankind. And Hell hath no fury like Women’s Lib scorned.
The scene took place in a villa on Paradise Island in the Caribbean exactly one week before I boarded the S.S. Lascivia in New York. I shudder to think what Leila’s reaction to my subsequent porthole performance would have been had she known about it. Ritual castration in effigy at the least, I should think, with Betty Friedan, Germaine Greer, and Kate Millet2 splitting the genital trophies three ways.
Leila was that militant. Since her consciousness had been raised, that is. Prior to that, you couldn’t have asked for a more docile, sweet, agreeably experimental, warm and loving bed-mate.
She’d been bred to the former role. She was a harem girl in the service of the Arab Sheikh who owned the Paradise villa. Initially, as my reward for certain favors I’d done the Sheikh, Leila had been provided to cater to my every erotic whim3 .
Her catering services were irreproachable during our first time together. But business forced me to leave Leila for an extended period. I returned to find my pussycat a tigress!
In my absence, Women’s Lib had caught up with Leila. She was no longer content to accept her lot as a harem houri4 . Her turnabout was complete, like that of a rabid Communist who turns into an even more rabid anti-Communist.
Leila, having spent a goodly portion of her young life as a sex object, was not merely determined to relinquish that role, she was also bent on revenge. Now, she must call the shots. The man must be the passive one in the sack. The man must cater to her every sensual caprice. The man must be the houri now.
And I was the man!
Circumstances dictated my acceptance of the role. Like I was stone-broke and stranded. The Paradise Island Casino had separated me from my last shekel—- and my pride. It was either Leila on Leila’s new Women’s Lib terms, or the beach. And the beach at night, even in a tropical clime, can be mighty cold on the fundament.
Besides, even in her new role, Leila strongly appealed to me. She was built like a thirsting sex maniac’s fondest mirage. Petite and slender, her body abounded with surprisingly delicious curves. Her breasts were too large for her frame, but only a disgruntled eunuch would have faulted her for that. Myself, I preferred to concentrate on their succulent, red-berry tips, and the wondrous way in which they jutted straight out—at a true ninety-degree angle—from her torso. The plumpness of her hips was not stylish, perhaps, according to Vogue, but I wasn’t one to carp at the voluptuous excess. Add sleek legs with unexpectedly strong thighs, and an impudently plump behind, capable of the most marvelous inner-spring resiliency, and the sum of her bodily allure falls into place.
It was topped by a face like a valentine framed by an intriguingly careless cascade of long, curly, blue-black hair. Her deep green eyes were wishing-wells promising to fulfill a man’s dearest and most secret erotic desires. Two dimples nestled under high cheekbones on either side of her pert nose. Despite them, there was a hint of cruelty about her small mouth with its warm, moist, feather-soft clutch of lips that seemed always pursed to kiss— or bite. And Leila’s jaw was firm, a visible indication of her stubbornness once she’d set her mind on something.
What she’d set her mind on, when I returned to her, was that this time around I was to be the erotic slave, and she the mistress. She had a lot of anger to release, and this led to her putting me through some pseudo-sado-masochistic paces. Not that Leila ever got into the heavy stuff like whips and such. But she did use her hands freely, and once or twice laid on with my belt. Mostly, though, she stuck to the simple disciplines like spanking. In particular, she liked to go after my bare bottom with a twisted, wet towel. She got pretty adept at snapping it.
Although it was a game, it could get pretty wild at times. Leila, with her hair flying out behind her, green eyes sparkling, breasts heaving and swinging, plump bottom jiggling as she bounced up and down on the bed over my prostrate body—it was a sight I’d never forget. Once I realized I really wasn’t going to get hurt, it excited me as well. She liked that because it gave her a chance to punish me further by frustrating me. The rule was that I couldn’t do anything, no matter how aroused I was, until she gave me permission.
I remember the one time I inadvertently broke that rule. Leila had me spread-eagled on the bed, face up. She’d started out by flicking the towel at my thighs, my lower belly and my groin. It didn’t really hurt, but watching her nipples harden with her exertions, and noting a certain dampness and stiffening of her clitoris which betrayed her own excitement, I became quite aroused myself.
Leila spied my tumescence. She put the towel aside, and knelt beside me. She slapped the perpendicular of my passion back and forth gently with her hand, setting up a sort of twanging rhythm which increased my lust. Then she produced a feather!
Sweet agony! She started at my ear, worked her way down to the base of my neck, the nipples of my chest, and the sensitive area of my inner thighs. She lingered over each erogenous zone, watching me squirm. And then she applied that feather to the most intimate parts of my anatomy-— front and rear. Talk about being tickled to death!