The tip of the feather described maddening, erotic circles over the surface of the underside of my scrotum. Her free hand moved urgently between the silkiness of her own thighs. When I saw that, it was too much! I moved to take her.
“No!” Leila stopped me. “Not until I say so!”
“I just want to make you happy,” I wheedled.
“I can take care of that without any help from you!” She toyed with her clitoris, simultaneously resuming her feathery torture of me.
“But—”
“And stop your whining! It’s distracting me.”
Time passed. Finally Leila dispensed with the feather. She was very excited. Her tongue kept sliding in and out between her lips. She was making low, moaning sounds in her throat. Her nipples were long, hard, blood-red, and straining. Her breasts were heaving so deeply that each gasp gave the impression of over-pumped balloons on the point of bursting. Her hips and behind were writhing hard in tempo with the movements of the hand now buried deep between her thighs. I was also beside myself with aroused lust.
She bent over me, grasping one of her breasts in her free hand. She moved it back and forth quickly so that the hard nipple strummed the surface of the head of my penis. It was the final fillip for her. Her hand vibrating deep inside her joybox, her breast-tip burning as it nuzzled my steel-hard lust-spout, Leila embarked on a long, drawn-out orgasm.
That really was too much! I couldn’t contain myself! My buttocks tightened uncontrollably. My groin thrust upward spasmodically. My passion was released in one mighty geyser.
It hit Leila square in the eye!
Let us pass over her reaction, which, to put it mildly, was violent. And let us also pass over the daily lectures that followed, on the lack of sexual control of males in general and me in particular. What’s important is that the incident caused Leila to do an about-face; sado-masochism went by the boards and she started concentrating on just plain screwing.
At first I welcomed it. Then, as her demands became more and more insatiable, I began to dread her lustful appearances at every hour of the day and night. If her aim was to cure me of the sin of premature ejaculation, she was succeeding. My body was constantly weary and aching. I cursed the female capability for multiple orgasm. I entertained wistful thoughts of life in a monastery. And, finally, I quite simply couldn’t perform.
“What the hell do you mean?” Leila was indignant.
“I can’t help it. Too much is too much. I just can’t make it.”
Which is when Leila cursed me out in Arabic and three other languages. Then she sent me on my way with my tail (I checked to be sure) between my legs. I limped down to the beach and sent up heartfelt prayers that it wouldn’t rain.
It did, of course. On the third night. And believe me, the Paradise Island beach is no Paradise when the skies pee.
They must have been saving it up for a long time. I felt like a sand-flea at the mercy of a camel’s bladder gone berserk. By the time the morning sun finally came up and chased away the night-long rain, I was waterlogged. I looked like something no self-respecting cat would have deigned to drag in under any circumstances.
Such was my condition when this spiffy cat in yacht-offficer whites ambled up to me on the beach. “Are you Steve Victor?” he asked, keeping his distance and being careful to stand downwind of me.
“I’m what’s left of him,” I admitted.
“My boss wants to see you.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Baron Antoine Duvivier.” He brushed a grain of sand from the sleeve of his nautical Good Humor Man’s uniform. “He has a job for you.” Mister Clean sniffed. “You look like you could use one,” he added.
Truth is truth. I followed him back to the Rolls Royce he’d parked on the road above the beach. We drove over the causeway from Paradise Island to the Nassau waterfront. We pulled up at the Nassau Yacht Club and walked down the dock to a waiting speedboat.
The zum-zum picked its way through the boats lying at anchor until it reached the one furthest from the shore. It was the largest and most impressive of the yachts in the basin. A rope ladder was lowered and we boarded it.
Baron Antoine Duvivier was waiting on deck to greet me. He was an elderly man, past eighty, I’d say, but he had the healthy look and strong physique that goes with wealth and the leisure of outdoor activity. He sported a Vandyke, neatly trimmed, and his blue eyes were quite sharp and shrewd for a man of his years.
Seeing me, they filled with a dismay that he quickly tried to cover. Clearly, I didn’t fit the picture of a man with whom he might ordinarily do business. But he was a courtly old gentleman, and he very smoothly put me at my ease.
A luncheon table had been set up under a canopy on the rear deck. The Baron escorted me to it and we were served cocktails and a light lunch. Light as it was, however, my stomach was so surprised at the arrival of solids after its three day fast that it rumbled an off-key version of Saber Dance all through the conversation which followed.
Baron Duvivier got down to cases over coffee. “Mr. Victor,” he said, “I hope you’ll forgive my presumption, but I took the precaution of having your organization, O.R.G.Y., checked out quite thoroughly before deciding to consult with you.” The old Frenchman smiled shrewdly. “You operate mostly on endowments from tax-exempt foundations.”
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever heard of the Duvivier Foundation?”
“I'm afraid not,” I confessed.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” The Baron’s smile turned wry. “It’s not exactly in a class with Ford, or Rockefeller, or Carnegie, or other philanthropic American giants. It’s more the family giveaway plan of a poor French family with not much left to give away.”
“Your family?”
“My family.” He nodded. “I tell you frankly that the Duvivier Foundation was set up to protect the family’s business interests. The French tax structure-—-” He sighed.
“I understand,” I assured him. “Do you mind if I ask what your business is?” I added.
“At one time the Duviviers’ holdings were quite diversified. We owned controlling interests in rubber plantations in Indochina, pipelines and petroleum distilleries in Algeria, diamond mines in Rhodesia, import-export houses in Pakistan, and sugar refineries in Cuba. The family, of which I am today the sole surviving member, also owned outright the Monaco Steamship Line, which at the height of its glory was rivaled only by Cunard. Today,” the Baron shrugged philosophically, “the Monaco Line is all that is left of the Duvivier holdings.”
“What happened?”
“Dienbienphu5 . Algerian independence. Racial strife in Rhodesia. Bengla Desh. Castro and nationalization. The Duvivier empire is as much a victim of imperialism as any Asian or African culture.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I believed in imperialism, and that belief was betrayed. But I’m not looking for sympathy, Mr. Victor. I want only to save what is left-—the Monaco Line. That’s my reason for asking you here. The Monaco Line is in serious trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Financial. The jet age has caught up with us. It used to be routine for travelers to sail across the Atlantic and other oceans. Today they go by jet liner. The Monaco Line has been forced out of the transportation business, and into the luxury cruise business. Only we were late in making the transition, and the competition is very stiff. In short, we've been hanging on by our fingernails. We are on the brink of being forced out of business by our closest competition, the Gaylife Line. This has pushed me into taking one last, desperate gamble for survival.”