The nightmare had seized her now. Her visage, eyes still closed, was contorted with the horror playing itself out on the invisible screen behind the shuttered lids. Her body thrashed about on the bed, as if fighting against the dreadful phantasmagoria, a luscious breast tip straining free between the buttons of the pajama top, a plump V-shaped mound flashing into view and then disappearing behind a protectively spread hand. Her hips undulated as if seized by a sudden fever. Whimpers, moans, gasps of terror escaped her trembling lips.
I could empathize. I knew—and it was no guess-— the nightmare that possessed her. I had seen it the previous night and now I knew that to her it had been a dream, the very dream that had her in its grip now.
Suddenly she shot bolt upright in her bed, eyes wide open and staring now. Slowly consciousness filled them, and she relaxed, leaning back against the plump pillows. A girlish moue puckered her features for a moment. Then it was replaced by an expression that can only be described as calculated naughtiness. Combined, the two expressions added up to a dissipation of fear and a recognition of the thrill component which is fear’s allure. The dream was her roller coaster, the death-filled symbolism of the cemetery was the ground rushing up to crush her, and the act of necrophilia was the titillation of flesh surviving the mindless plunge, flesh atingle with survival. The valor of flesh so tested deserves its reward. Her hand, slowly stroking the pulsating mound at the juncture of the arched, pinkened thighs, was starting to bestow that reward.
She was reliving the erotic events of that midnight dream world. Only now the horror of the cemetery was missing. It was morning, the sun was shining, it had only been a dream, and now the Girl Next Door was merely indulging in some good, clean, middle-American, post-adolescent, clean-fingernailed, manual sex play.
But if it had only been her dream, then what had I, Steve Victor, the Man from You-know-where, been doing in the middle of it? And what was I doing here now, in her bedroom, sitting in plain view only a few feet away from her as she kneaded her nipples and played with her passion pulse? . . . Watching, that’s what. Wouldn’t you?
Smiles of anticipated, mounting pleasure tensed her face. Her tongue moved in and out, between her lips, like a frantic pink piston. Hands fluttered to breasts, squeezing, teasing the nipples to hardness, tantalizing fingertips tracing the circles of the aureoles. Then they slid down her body, nails digging into plump, frantic buttocks, palms sliding over hips and belly and upper legs to the upside-down apex of the downy mound, gently prying, probing the damp, testing the torridity, circling the slippery clitoris, finger-plunging to fill the tight, pulsing glove-finger of lust. She laughed excitedly-—half a moan—and reared upward in the bed, straining. Then a rapid series of frenetic bounces, a small cry of pure joy, and she fell back, relaxed, a sheen of dewy perspiration making her body shine with the glow of after-sex.
I crossed my legs. In my line a certain detachment is called for; it’s unprofessional to betray it by a below-the-belt bulge. But I’m human. I crossed my legs.
I needn’t have bothered. For all the attention she paid to me, I might as well have been invisible. Revivified, she now leaped from her bed as eagerly as Miss America greeting the day following the night on which she won the title. She shucked off her pajama top, pulled on a robe, and headed down the hallway to the bathroom.
I followed along. When she slipped out of the robe and climbed into the bathtub, I sat down on the hamper. She turned on the shower and soaped herself, working up a lather. I restrained myself from doing same and settled back to watch.
Covered with soap now, erect red nipples peeping through the lather, she arranged the shower flow so that it was a narrow, hard-driving needle spray. Then she leaped away from it so that her upper body formed a V with the stream. The juncture of the V was her softly hairy Mound of Pleasure. The soapsuds quickly melted away from it, revealing her small, red, straining clitoris, once again aroused.
Head thrown back, her hands moved the froth sensually over her breasts. The jet spray strummed her clitoris. Her foam-rubber ass, high, firm pink flesh layered over with suds, rotated grindingly in small circles, picking up speed, moving faster . . . and faster . . .
“Caught you!”
The voice came from the bathroom doorway. The door was quickly opened and closed. A man’s bathrobe fell to the floor, and then he was in the tub with her, naked under the shower.
He was her nightmare come to life! Last seen, he’d been shoveling dirt into the open grave in which she lay. He was the cadaver from last night’s cemetery interlude. Only now he was very much alive.
Very much alive, indeed! So much so, that for a moment it looked like he was going to crush his aroused manhood against the tiled wall over the bathtub. But he shifted position in the nick of time, and instead it slid off her soapy flesh.
She reacted with none of the fear of a girl meeting her nightmare in the brazen flesh. She was remarkably calm. She reached out and grasped his penis and pumped it as if she were shaking hands. Her voice greeting him was unrattled.
“We can’t go on meeting like this,” she said.
“It’s your fault.” He sponged the soapsuds from her bottom and planted both hands firmly under it. “The way you tie up the bathroom, it’s the only way I get a chance to use it.” He pushed upward.
She leaped nimbly, locking her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. “Can I help it if I have a shower fetish?” she panted.
Backing her up against the wall, he plunged in to the hilt. “Just my luck,” he grumbled, pumping. “Why couldn’t I have a sister with a bed fetish?”
“Same reason I’m stuck with a brother who makes love like he’s trying for the four-minute mile.” She wriggled frantically, letting her weight settle to the impalement in an effort to slow him down. “Can’t you take it easier? Why does it have to be over so fast?”
“Because any minute now, Pop’s gonna want to use the john. That’s why.” He jounced her up and down quickly, forcing her to keep up with him.
“Oh, brother!”
“Oh, sister!”
They were synchronized now. Conversation ceased. The joined fulcrums of their bodies moved in a blur of passion-peaking movement.
“What are you doing, children?” The voice, shouting from downstairs, was female, mature, motherly -- the tone that of a parent checking up on her offspring.
“Fucking, Mother,” he called back with a reverse semantic twist.
“Play nice.” The answer floated back up. “Don’t fight.”
They “played nice.” Real nice. Her breasts bounced on top of his shoulders and her torso moved up and down energetically. She freed one hand from around his neck, reached down and tickled the underside of his scrotum. He reacted so violently that she gave a little cry. They froze for a long, straining moment, and then the nectar of their lovemaking flowed freely, mingling with the soapsuds. Slowly, tired now, they disengaged and he lowered her to the floor of the tub.
“Cut!”
The director popped up from behind the toilet and barked at the cameraman riding the boom hovering over the bathtub.
“Cut and print it!”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Skin flicks . . .”
Charles Putnam pronounced it like he’d bitten into a particularly sour pickle. It was the morning after our meeting in the Paradise Island Casino. He was explaining what I’d committed myself to the night before.
“Skin flicks,” I repeated after him. Hung-over, my brain still treading Scotch, I wasn’t exactly at my sharpest.
“Erotic underground movies. Pornographic films. Beavers and such. The cinematic side of today’s sexual subculture. Does O.R.G.Y. have access to this milieu, Mr. Victor?”