The blond girl moved sensually under the transparent coat so that the breasts seemed to have a life of their own. They described slow, suggestive circles. They apparently filled with air, seeming to stretch the very material covering them. The nipples grew and hardened as they grazed against the material.
Debbie’s eyes were half-closed. Her feet didn’t move. And yet her breasts seemed to be dancing, to be reaching out almost, as though to envelop Dr. Golden in the deep shadow of cleavage between them.
Now Debbie reached inside the coat and undid the clasp to her skirt. She rolled her plump hips once— twice — and the skirt crumpled in a pile at her feet. She took one dainty step backward and was free of it.
Dr. Golden saw that Debbie wore no slip, only bikini panties made of black silk. Her legs were long, smooth, excitingly shaped. She slid the thighs together, then apart, repeating the motion invitingly, rolling her belly, grinding her hips. The panties inched lower and lower.
Debbie turned slowly, drawing Dr. Golden’s eyes to her plump, jiggling buttocks as honey draws a fly. She turned back and increased the tempo of her movements. One wild series of bumps and the panties were tickling their way down her thighs, fluttering to the rug. In their wake the air teased blonde tendrils, the only modesty left her womanhood, a modesty made even more stimulating for being framed by the garter belt holding her stockings.
“See? And I’ve still got the raincoat on,” Debbie laughed.
“Wonderful!” Dr. Golden’s voice was quite hoarse. “Now come inside and have that drink. You’ve earned it.”
“Not yet I haven’t. But I will.” Debbie crossed over to the nearest door, then turned and looked questioningly at Dr. Golden. “In here?” she asked.
“No. That’s my office. My living quarters are back through here.” Dr. Golden pointed the Way.
“Your office? Is that so? Hey, you know, I’ve never seen a headshrinker’s office. What’s it like?”
“At the moment, it’s a mess. I had a group therapy session in there tonight and I didn’t bother to clean up after them.”
“A group what?”
“Group therapy. That’s what it’s called when a group of patients is gathered together to discuss their problems.”
“I don’t get it. What’s the point?” Debbie wanted to know.
“The idea is that they’ll inter-act on one another and thereby help each other gain perspective on their problems.”
“That’s over my head, Doc. You’ll have to explain. I guess I’m not up on this psycho-jazz.”
“I’ll explain later, if you’re really interested. First let’s relax and have a drink.” Dr. Golden led the way into the living room.
“Hey, this is some beautiful setup you have here.” Debbie looked around at the wood-paneled walls, the imitation fireplace and the glittering bar.
“I’m happy that you like it.” Dr. Golden stirred the gin and Vermouth gently.
“It must have cost a pretty penny.” Debbie settled into a lush, overstuffed chair upholstered in velour and clucked to herself. “This psycho-whatchamacallit must be a pretty profitable dodge.”
“Psychoanalysis. Yes, it pays well.” Dr. Golden handed her a cocktail.
“Does it ever really help anybody?”
“Yes. Frequently. It’s not a racket, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Gee, Doc, I wasn’t implying anything. I’m sorry if it sounded like I was.”
“That’s all right. I’m probably over-sensitive. You see, there is a tendency among the general public to sneer at the kind of work I do.”
“Well, as long as you’re helping people, I think that’s pretty good.” Debbie paused. “Except-—” she started to say hesitantly and then stopped.
“Except?”
“Well now, no offense or anything, but what about someone like you? I mean, are you so unscrambled you can help unscramble other people?”
“I have my problems like everybody else,” Dr. Golden told her. “But I can cope with them. And I can maintain my perspective while helping my patients cope with their problems. But tell me, Debbie, why do you ask?”
“Well—” Debbie took a deep breath. “I mean, if you’re coping so well, then how come I’m here?”
“Psychoanalysts are human. They have sex desires just like other people.”
“Just like other people?” Debbie thought about that a moment. “But you’re married, aren’t you, Doc?”
“I am. But I don’t think that has anything to do with it. Nor do I think my marriage is something I’d care to discuss. Do you mind?”
“I’m sorry, Doc. I didn’t mean—I guess maybe I just don’t have much tact.”
“Now, now, it’s not that serious. Let’s just forget it, shall we?” Dr. Golden walked over to the stereo set and flipped a switch. A record dropped. “Let’s dance.” It was a cha-cha—slow-—steamy hot. Dr. Golden’s arms held Debbie tight. Their bodies, melted together, moved as one. Even through the raincoat Debbie’s flesh burned.
The number ended. Dr. Golden’s lips were searing, greedy on Debbie’s mouth. Their tongues entwined and they sank slowly to the couch together.
Dr. Golden’s fingers fumbled at the buttons to Debbie’s raincoat. When they were undone, Debbie shrugged out of the garment and pulled Dr. Golden’s head to her breast. Sharp teeth closed over its succulent plumpness and Debbie moaned softly. She writhed on the couch, arching her hips, pressing herself hungrily against the fount of Dr. Golden’s hunger.
“Love me, baby. Love me,” Debbie Whispered. “Love me all up and down. That’s how I ’m gonna love you, sweetie. You make me so hot, I’m gonna just drive you nuts, angel. We’ve got a tiger by the tail, we do.”
“Wait a minute.” Dr. Golden’s voice was thick with desire. “Not here. Let’s go in the other room. The bedroom. It’s more comfortable.”
Dr. Golden led the way and sprawled on the large double bed, panting as Debbie approached. “Love me now. Hurry. Now. Now.”
“What do you want me to do to you, sweetheart? What can I do to make you hot and happy?”
“Kiss my breasts,” Dr. Golden gasped. “Kiss my breasts and pull up my nightie and play with me. I’m your woman, Debbie. I’m your woman. Make love to me. I’m your woman. Your woman. Your Woman. Your woman!”
CHAPTER 2
Packaged for Murder.
LEGS TWISTED, hips arched, naked bodies writhed, female fulcrum to female fulcrum, grinding, straining, aching for mutual fulfillment. Scaling the heights and soaring into space, it was achieved. And flesh melted into limp, damp, sweet exhaustion.
Outside, the storm swept down from the Palisades, raged across the river, and beat against the walls of the apartment house. Raindrops rat-a-tatted against the window is though in a wild demand for entry. Drums of thunder pounded the water from the sky. The crackle of lightning split the blackness, its reflection dancing inside the room, pronouncing a harsh, jagged judgment on the sated nakedness sprawled over the rumpled sheets.
Debbie was frightened by the storm. But it wasn’t a steady fear. It came and went, according to how strongly its power seemed aimed at her personally. Thus the lightning which had seemed to explode inside the room itself had filled Debbie with genuine terror, while its aftermath left her relatively calm. In this aftermath, the picture of her bed-partner which had been imprinted on her brain in the light-flash remained.
It was a sharp picture, detailed, erotic. It was the picture of a woman in her early thirties, nude, glowing. It caught both the physical beauty and the essence of the woman.
Dr. Golden was slender, taller than average. She had narrow hips and small breasts, yet her figure did not seem boyish. Her face was an oval, the cheekbones high, the nose small and straight, the jawline strong, almost, but not quite masculine. Her hair was blue-black, worn short, with just a touch of gray at each temple.