She was sunning herself on the balcony outside her room, and she spotted me as I got out of the cab. "Hello there," she called. "I'd just about given up on you. Come on up."
I went up.
"What happened to you?" She stepped back in astonishment as I came through the door.
"It's a long story."
"And a dirty one, from the looks of you," she opined. "What that dreadful odor?"
"What does it smell like?"
"Not roses, that's for sure."
"Answer the question."
"I'm too polite. I'd hate to tell you what it smells like."
"You guessed it. That's what it is, too."
"It makes me nostalgic. I used to be a farm girl." But the look on her face was more kittenish than nostalgic.
"Is that so? And where was that, Ilona?" I fished.
"When I was a kid."
"Not when. Where?"
"Do you like to ask questions, Mr. Victor?"
"I like to get answers."
"Later. I'll tell you the story of my life later. For now why don't you get out of those smelly clothes and take advantage of my shower in there." She pointed at the bathroom.
I took her up on the offer. While I was scalding the offal aroma off my hide in the stall shower, I thought about Ilona. She was a puzzle, all right. In the short- shorts and halter she'd been wearing to sun herself, she looked like a sexy volcano ready to erupt. And if I wasn't mistaken, I'd detected traces of bubbling lava in the throaty way she'd swapped dialogue with me. There was a certain steaminess in the way those near-black eyes had raked me over too.
She was a long drink of vodka, only two or three inches shorter than my six-foot- one. With that wild, long black hair and those ball-bearing hips, she looked more like a leggy invitation to love than a dedicated and anti-sex member of S.M.U.T. And if she was that anti-sex, how come she'd volunteered for the brothel bit in the first place?
I turned off the shower, dried myself, wrapped the bath-towel around me and rejoined Ilona. She raised an eyebrow at my appearance. "What the well-dressed man will wear," she commented.
"I'll get dressed if you want," I offered.
"You're kidding." She waved towards the balcony where she'd put my clothes to air out.
"So I won't get dressed." I sat down opposite her.
We looked at each other in silence for a long moment. It was the look of wrestlers sizing each other up just before they come to grips. The way I sized Ilona up, it was going to be quite a clinch.
The straps of her halter hung loosed in front of it, grazing the tips of her breasts. The tips were outlined clearly under the white material hugging them. Her shorts were of the same material, and just as tight. The way she was sitting, they creased into an erotic V bisected revealingly at the base. I sensed more than saw the faint, hungry pulsation there. She moved uncomfortably under my gaze and the flesh of her thighs quivered slightly.
"Why are you staring at me so?" Ilona finally broke the silence.
"No reason." I shrugged.
"Your towel says differently."
She was right. Her sexiness had affected me. There was a terrycloth tent rising from my lap. I felt like a schoolboy caught short without any textbooks behind which to hide the naughtiness of his aroused puberty.
"Why, Mr. Victor, you're blushing!"
"Sorry."
"Don't be. It's sweet. But very unexpected from a man of your experience. After all, you are the man from O.R.G.Y."
"Even Casanova was capable of being embarrassed in a specific situation. But how come you know about O.R.G.Y.?"
"Oh, word gets around," she said evasively.
"And," I added, "your frankness isn't really very consistent with your membership in S.M.U.T."
"Let's forget about S.M.U.T.," she cooed. "Let's just stick with the situation at hand." She unfolded her charms and sauntered over to me. "You're putting an awful strain on that towel," she murmured, standing over me. "The hotel isn't going to like it if you rip through." Her hand hung directly over the top of the tent, the fingers dangling loosely with a nervous sort of plucking motion.
I don't have to be hit over the head. The handiest portion of her anatomy as she stood in front of me was the derriere quivering under the white shorts. I encircled her with my arms and took a firm grip with both hands.
She plucked. The towel was tossed over her shoulder, and she knelt in front of me. Her hand stroked for a moment, and then she converted it into a fist. My own hands slid around the front of her body and dipped into the white halter, sliding past where her suntan ended and squeezing the hot, creamy whiteness of her breasts.
Ilona slip onto my lap then, grasping my manhood with the fast-fluttering muscles of her thighs. She was facing me with her eyes shining brightly, her lips moistly parted. The heat of her desire burned against me through the shorts with a steady, insistent pressure.
We kissed. Her mouth was a suction valve, the lips alive and hungry, the sharp, even teeth playing a teasing game of pleasure-pain, the tongue probing and retreating with a sensuality that was maddening. Throughout the kiss, I clawed at the waistband of her shorts, trying vainly to pull them down over the fleshiness of her writhing hips.
"No." Ilona stayed my hands. "First I want to -" She left the sentence unfinished as she slid back to the floor and once again knelt in front of me. Her black hair swept over my naked thighs as her mouth swooped down to capture the target she had selected.
She was no novice. She didn't rush things. Quick, exciting kisses covered the are and then her tongue darted at random, making me squirm. After a few moments of this, she slowed down, her lips fastening for longer periods here and there, her tongue laving me with slow, thorough relish. Her head came up for a moment, and her face was flushed with wantonness. Her hand grasped the base of my manhood and she bent her head once again. This time she seized the target directly.
My body arched like a strung bow and shook uncontrollably. My hands tangled in her hair and forced her head down farther and farther. Her tongue churned wildly. Her cheeks were taut hollows formed by the vacuum-like sipping of her lips. I could feel her very throat contract in preparation for the nectar she had brewed in me, the nectar at the boiling point and set to erupt. And then -
And then there was a sudden loud pounding at the door. For a moment my passion-fogged mind played tricks on me and I was back in London again with Gladys. But the passion subsided and I came back to reality as Ilona, startled, relinquished her erotic meal-in-the-making and half rose to her feet.
"What's that?" she exclaimed.
The knocking was repeated.
"Who is it?" she called.
No answer. Just more rapping.
"Go away!" Ilona responded, frustrated and annoyed.
But the pounding only grew louder.
She crossed over and opened the door. "There's no one here!" Puzzled, she threw the door wide open to demonstrate her conclusion to me.
However, I knew she was wrong. And a moment later, just after she closed the door, she knew it herself. "Eek!" she screamed as she turned around and her line of vision fell downward. "What's that?" She pointed.
"Lagula," I sighed. I had seen him walk softly between her legs to enter the room while she was still peering out the door. "What do you want?" I asked him.
"To save your life once again, Mr. Victor. You and the young lady must get out of this room immediately!"
"Your timing is really something," I grumbled. "I can well believe Putnam put you up to helping me. He has a sadistic habit of interrupting me at the most crucial times."
"My apologies, Mr. Victor. But believe me, it's a matter of life and death."
"Who is he?" Ilona demanded. The way her voice went up the scale showed she was just as outraged at the interruption as I was.
"I guess we don't have time for me to explain," I told her. "We'd better do as he says."
"Can't he wait five minutes until we -" Her hands slid down her body expressively.