By the time he returned, I'd finished with removing the debris from Misty’s dress and she’d calmed down a little —not much, but a little. I, however, was not calm. I'd forgotten that I was hungry—for food, that is. I drained off my second Early Times double at a gulp. It was disrespectful to good bourbon, but I didn’t care. Sipping for the smoky taste and savoring it might be all very well, but it was another effect I needed at the moment.
I got it. The background, the waiters, the other people in the Cancer Lounge receded into the background. Misty’s mammarian endowments loomed large, and the ovarian glint in her eye found its hidden response nestling too briefly in her hand under the tablecloth.
Then her arms came around my neck and she kissed me. I kissed back. Enthusiastically. The aromas of Early Times and vodka martinis mingled, and her silk-covered breasts were like twin blowtorches searing away the material pressed between us.
The kiss over, she grasped me again. The target wasn't hard to find. Her other hand grabbed one of mine and guided it up the length of nylon sheathed legs to bare, quivering thigh-flesh. Her thighs clenched and held it there. She leaned on me heavily, pushing me off balance so that I was bending backward, half out of the booth. Under the impetus of her passion—was it passion? was it really? later I would wonder-my head lolled backwards, my eyes stared straight up, and my neck stretched out long and white, caught in a beam of light.
There was a waiter standing at his station almost directly over me. My eyes focussed on him upside-down; my brain saw him only peripherally. I was trying to get my balance back by pushing against Misty. Her body was soft and warm and seemingly pliable, but I couldn’t budge it an inch. I was forced over just a bit farther, still mainly conscious of the erotic way she was grinding against me. And that's when the waiter dropped the knife!
It was a sharp knife, the kind used for carving meat. Yes, sharp, both blade and point. It was the point that zoomed down at my jugular with more force than it seemed possible could have come from simply dropping the knife. Still, there was no hand holding the hilt; it wasn't a stabbing movement. It was more as if somebody had pushed it at me the way a knife-thrower throws a knife, only from above rather than on a level. All of which I reconstructed later, and perhaps not too accurately. On the instant, there was only my exposed throat and the sharp knife point zeroing in on it.
If I’m ever killed, it won’t be by getting it in the neck. My reflex muscles there are just too quick. Maybe it's because I spent so many years mastering karate. Anyway, in this instance, I yanked my neck to the side hard and fast. The blade of the knife sliced through the side of my collar, just missing the flesh where my shoulder and neck join. My quick movement had slammed my head into Misty’s bosom quite hard.
“Oouch!” She recovered quickly. “Impetuous boy!” She clutched me so hard I was momentarily enveloped between her substantial breasts.
Looking sideways, I could see the knife still quivering in the floor where it had come to rest with its point embedded. The waiter had vanished. Nobody else seemed to have noticed my narrow escape. Even Misty seemed unaware of it.
“Your shirt is ripped, lover,” she cooed, nuzzling my neck.
But was she unaware? Or had she deliberately maneuvered me into position for the dropping of the cutthroat cutlery? Then again, maybe the whole thing was just another one of those flubs that were always being pulled at the Beverly Topless. Maybe it had really been an accident. Still, if it had been deliberate—with or without Misty in on it -- it certainly could have passed as another accident, albeit a fatal one. Sorry, but these things happen in the best-run hotels! I could just hear the manager explaining it away. I could just see the guests shrugging it off, as they carted my neck-lopped cadaver out the back way. And that raised the most important question of all once again. Who was out to kill me? And why?
It was only the first of a whole series of incidents that would raise that question. It would be a while before I had even a partial answer. Meanwhile, there was Misty . . .
“Lets go to my room.” She was positively panting by now.
My ardor had been somewhat dampened-—understandably, I think -- but she was doing a pretty good job of rekindling it, what with her hands busy under the table and her breasts giving me a facial massage. She didn’t really have to coax me. I kissed her to signify my agreement. We unwound ourselves from each other and got to our feet. I stooped over and yanked the knife out of the hardwood floor. On the way out I handed it to the maitre d’.
“Give this back to the waiter who dropped it,” I told him.
“Surely not one of our waiters, sir. It must have been a guest.”
“Then he must have been on his way to a masquerade, because he was wearing a waiter’s jacket.”
“Are you sure, sir? Did you see him drop it?”
‘Yes. I had a worm’s-eye view. You see, it just happened to slip out of his fingers right over my throat.” I showed him my slashed collar.
“I can’t understand that, sir. Our personnel is specially trained and drilled never to drop anything.”
There was a crash of dishes as a waiter’s tray went skidding across the floor. “Are they, now?" I asked sweetly.
He never blinked an eyelash. “Yes sir, they are!” he assured me emphatically.
“Are you coming, lover?” Misty was waiting impatiently, tapping her foot.
Two tourist types were standing behind her ogling the derriere movement caused by the foot-tapping. Neither could see her face. “That’s Milos!" one said positively.
“Couldn’t be anybody else,” the other agreed.
Such is fame! I followed the hallmark of identification down the corridor to Misty’s room. She closed the door and locked it behind us. Then she switched on the light and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
“Oh! I’m a mess!” she reacted, seeing the food stains on her dress. “I’ll never be able to wear this again.” Saying which, she pulled a zipper and the offending gown fell away from her body and crumpled to the floor.
I'd known she wasn't wearing a bra. Now I saw that she wasn’t wearing panties either. She stood before me naked except for a flimsy garter belt and sheer silk stockings. The sight left no doubt in my mind as to why Misty was the number one erotic dream girl to millions of movie-going males. I’m afraid I gulped.
“I feel like I smell of bacon and Russian dressing,” she sniffed.
What she really smelled of was aphrodisia and some kind of orchid perfume. I told her so.
“No. I just have to take a shower."
“I’ll wait.” Who wouldn't have?
“Take it with me, Stevie.” She was in front of me now, pulling off my jacket and managing to caress the length of my body at the same time.
“I just took a shower.” My protest was weak.
“I’ll scrub your back.” She had my shirt off now, and her fingers were fumbling at my belt.
“You can do better than that.” I stepped out of my pants and kicked off my shoes.
“Can I ever!” Her nails dug into my naked buttocks as she pulled me toward the bathroom. Behind us there was a trail of clothing.
It was a stall shower, a little crowded, interestingly crowded with Misty Milo flesh pressing against me no matter which way I turned. Not that I had cause for complaint.
She turned on the water and regulated it to a comfortably warm spray. Then she did indeed soap my back and scrub it—with one hand. The other hand was reaching around me strategically, moving to the rhythm of a quite different drummer. After a while I returned the courtesy. I soaped her back thoroughly, working my way down her spine until I’d coated her famous derriere with thick lather.
I turned Misty around and soaped her shoulders and breasts. All the while she was holding onto me with both fists, moving the lower portion of her body so that there was a light, teasing contact. I became playful, drawing designs in the suds on her breasts, finally covering them completely except for the ruby tips. The effect was exciting, the two quivering nipples peeping out invitingly from the white froth. She almost lost her grip on me for a moment. I soaped her hips and belly then, working up a froth and using the palms of my hands, my fingers tingling at the contact with the velvet skin, the caresses inspiring her to move her hips with a slow, grinding motion that established the contact of our lower bodies firmly, one step farther than the tenuous teasing touch of a moment or two ago.