"Somewhat," Adrian admitted. "I often throw in a wheelchair and a fine old Southern family background. I even drawl a little if the spirit moves me. Somehow it all comes out so much more pathetic with the scent of magnolias wafting over it."
"If you really want sympathy," I told her calculatedly, "why not say you were kidnapped by a white slave ring and forced into a file of prostitution?"
Her careful lack of response when she answered was a telling response in itself. There was a quick flicker of fear in her eyes, a fast-vanishing flicker that made me think Crampdick could be right about the white slave operation behind this bordello. "That's old hat," she said. "There are no white slave rings in the modern world. Girls don't have to be forced or lured into the profession. There's money enough to make it attractive. And in my case I find it attractive for its own sake."
"Meaning you enjoy your work?"
"I do. I like sex," she told me frankly. "Lots of it and lots of variety. Don't you, Steve?"
"Yeah. I do."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
The question was well-timed. Crampdick was just starting for the door with one of the girls. The room was filling up with other male customers and I guess he wanted to be sure he latched onto his "evidence" before the demand could make it unavailable. O'Steele was also getting to his feet with a girl. As Adrian and I followed them out, I caught a glimpse of Singh Huy-eva pairing off in our wake. I guessed that he figured the raid would be pulled off before his eunuch status was revealed. In any case, it was his problem.
For myself, I was half hoping the raid might be delayed. Watching Adrian's derriere wriggle provocatively as I followed it up the stairs, I was in no mood for coitus interruptus – not even pre-coitus interruptus.
She led me into a cozy room with a bed, a couple of chairs, a bureau, and a connecting door to a private bathroom. The blinds were drawn, and she turned on a lamp that shed a very soft light. A stereo set switched on along with it; background music, slow and romantic, something by Tchaikovsky as schmaltzed up by Kostelanetz.
"Does everybody get music to make it by?" I asked her as we started to undress.
"Yes. But it's different in every room," she told me as she wriggled free of her dress. Her figure looked even better in a bra and half-slip.
"Different at random?" I pulled off my socks.
"Oh, no. The music is always picked to go with the girl and the particular taste which would lead a customer to select such a girl."
"That's very interesting." I thought of Crampdick as I stepped out of my pants. He had picked a rather savage-looking girl who was probably Spanish. "As a matter of fact, from a psychological viewpoint, it's fascinating," I told Adrian. "For instance, what sort of girl would you say my friend selected? The short pudgy fellow I came with, I mean."
"Oh, you mean the one who went next door with Elena."
"Yeah. What sort of girl is Elena?"
"I don't believe in gossiping about the other girls. But," Adrian giggled, "I'll tell you the music they're probably listening to right now."
"What is it?"
"The Nutcracker Suite."
"Say no more." I laughed. Poor Crampdick! "How about the other guy I came with, the muscle-man?" I asked Adrian. "What's the tune he's jiving to?"
"Let's see." She thought a minute. "Yes, he's with Bubbles. She used to be a stripper. Can't break the habit. Still goes into her routine when she's undressing for a customer. She'll be bumping and grinding to A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody right about now."
I hoped for Jock O'Steele's sake that the bathroom adjoining his room has a real cold cold shower. "How about my Oriental friend?" I asked. "He went off with that petite little blonde – the kittenish one. What's her theme song?"
"Oh, that's Tabby. And she knows moe than one way to skin a cat. Any cat. Her theme song is Around the World in Eighty Ways."
"The title is Around the World in Eighty Days," I corrected her.
"You don't know Tabby!" She shrugged off her bra and plumped up her breasts.
It was pretty plump plumping, and I appreciated the view. Kostelanetz was building to a climax, and I figured I'd better start doing the same before it was too late. So I kicked off my jockey shorts with a gesture that urged Adrian to do the same with her panties.
She did. Whadda you know? She was a natural redhead. I made a grab for the proof.
"Take it slow," she advised, as though lecturing a novice. "It's much better if you don't rush things."
She was right, of course, but with that raid due any minute, I wasn't about to waste any time. So I played it like a technique-less Paul Revere and made haste to jump all over her.
"My, you certainly are impetuous." She sighed resignedly and did her professional best to catch up with me passion-wise.
Her best was plenty good enough. Pretty soon we were galloping through the fields of Passionata on our way to the heights of Eros. We varied our gait as we went, splitting the exercise load, shifting our weight, breaking stride for an occasional sophisticated side-trip. And we went over the terrain thoroughly, yours truly nibbling neck-nape-ily, gently bosom-biting, nuzzling a nook here and kissing a cranny there while Adrian beat at my buttocks, scratched her way down my spine, sipped at the nectar-heavy straw of my passion. Then she was thrashing about, frothing at both mouts, no longer trying to slow me down, but instead begging me to take her quickly.
No fancy stuff then. Just sex, pure and simple, straight and hard. And the two of us went soaring off into the Never-Never Land of pure and exquisite sensation. We hit the zenith and then plummeted downward, back into reality.
Reality, at that moment, was a sudden commotion in the front hallway downstairs. It was quickly followed by a lot of excited squealing and the sound of panicky footsteps racing past our door. It couldn't help but intrude on our post-coital mood.
"What's that?" Adrian asked, stretching luxuriously.
"Search me. I'll go have a look." I pulled on my jockey shorts and eased open the door. I figured it was the raid beginning. I figured wrong.
Opening the door a crack, I had a clear view down the staircase to the foyer below. Mrs. Vendergash was standing there talking to two men. The men didn't look like cops. Not even like vice cops. They looked more like Mafia rejects – the kind the brotherhood turns down because they play too rough.
I waited while a couple of excited doxies rushed past the door, and then I sneaked over to the banister so I could hear what was being said below. "But I pay through the nose for protection," Mrs. Vendergash was protesting, no longer seeming quite the grand dame she had before. "Why should they raid my place?"
"Some outfit named S.M.U.T.'s been squeezing 'em high," one of the hoods explained. "We was lucky we even found out about this raid. It's due any minute now, so you better hustle the broads and the johns outta here. But first we wanna get them S.M.U.T. guys an' tech 'em a lesson. Our info is there's four of 'em here right now. An' you got three of their chicks workin' for you, too."
"I think I've pegged the four men," Mrs. Vendergash told them. "And I've got a pretty good idea who the girls are, too."
"Well, come on and help us round 'em up before it's too late."
"That won't be hard. There's one of them now." Mrs. Vendergash had spotted me, and now she was pointing straight at me.
A gun swung up along with her outstretched arm. It was followed by a second one. Those hoods had good reflexes. Both muzzles held steady, pointed with deadly accuracy right at the white triangle of my jockey shorts. Instinctively, I clasped my hands in front of the target area.
"Ain't he cute?" one of the hoods remarked. "Won't you join us?" he added politely. The gun made a little beckoning circle which drew me to the head of the stairs. "Oh, now don't be coy," the hood said. "Come on down."