THE GIRLS FROM O.R.G.Y. …
hit the farm town with a bang. Their lightning lips and thunder thighs created a storm of controversy that whipped the farmers into a frenzy.
The girls shared a secret that could turn hick-ville into sin-city in two shakes of a lamb’s—or girl’s —tail!
MEET THE GIRLS FROM ORGY!
They're red hot and ready for all comers!
They're experts in all kinds of loving! They're the girls the ladies from Boston called “The Dirty Duo!”
They’re bursting to meet you and greet you with exotic, erotic adventures that’ll knock you over!
They’re something extra-special, extra-nice . . .
And they're here directly. . .
FROM THE EROTIC FILES OF TED MARK — THE MAN FROM O.R.G.Y.
THE GIRLS FROM O.R.G.Y.
Ted Mark
1975
CHAPTER ONE
The touch was the touch of death. Sudden death! The aroma was a mixture of heady perfumes, fragrant, female, frankly sexy. Sound -- point, counterpoint—a young girl’s heavy breathing, the steady pitter-patter of shower flow pelting flesh and bathtub porcelain. The taste was the dryness of fear and horror, salt-flavored with unshed tears, sour with the bile of nightmare nausea. And sight. The unseen scene. A small motel room, bath adjoining. The room dark with night, the bathroom bulb-lit. Half in, half out of the tub, bent backwards with hair cascading into the small puddle forming on the floor, sprawled the body of a young girl. From just under the swell of one scarlet-tipped breast protruded the handle of an ice pick. Her eyes were wide open, staring. She was dead.
In the other room, in a corner, as far from the macabre scene as she’d been able to get, another girl crouched. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut against the picture of death framed in the bathroom doorway. Her hands were clenched across her naked bosom. Her head was bent, the features of the face hidden, a white towel wrapped turban-style around her head and reflecting the overflow of light splashing from the bathroom.
The huddled figure of the girl, the twisted corpse, the running shower, the bright red blood splotching over the bathroom tiles, the black-gray room—all caught in this moment frozen in time.
The moment has no future. But it has a past. A recent past, and a history. This recent past is part of the room, part of the evidence it offers the senses. It’s only a matter of two, perhaps three hours.
Both rooms were empty then. The bathroom was dark, the bedroom gray -- blackening with the twilight. A beam of brighter gray sliced through the motel quarters as the front door swung open and a girl entered.
“Wilma?” she called. No answer. She closed the door behind her, crossed the room and switched on the lamp on the nightstand. She sat down on the edge of the bed, opened her handbag, withdrew a letter, and began reading it.
“Dear Glory," it began. She reread it though, although she’d already read it three times. “. . . know what it is to want to kill someone for whom I once felt only desire and love. There’s nothing else to say. Good-bye. Don.” That’s how the letter ended.
She sighed to herself, refolded the letter and put it back in her purse. She stood up then and took the spread and blanket from the bed, leaving only the top and bottom sheets. She kicked off the high-heeled shoes she was wearing and sat down again to take off her stockings. One long, well-shaped leg stretched out before her, she pulled up her skirt and undid the garter. She slid the stocking down the leg, her fingertips tingling as they grazed the warmth of her flesh. She repeated the ritual with her other leg, seeming to take a sensual enjoyment in it. Reaching behind her, she pulled the zipper down the back of her dress. It was an expensive dress, simple, a subdued blue-green print. The label, as with all her clothes, was New York-exclusive. She took the frock off and folded it neatly over the back of a chair.
Wearing only a bra and half-slip now, she padded barefoot over to a closet and opened the door. There was a full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. She unclasped the bra and slid the half-slip down over her hips until it crumpled to the floor. Hanging the underclothes in the closet, she picked up a comb and brush from the dressing table and turned back to the mirror.
Now she wore only the garter belt-—a fetish frame to the lightly curl-covered fount of her femaleness. Brushing her hair, she studied herself in the mirror. The reflection pleased her.
Deservedly. At nineteen, Glory (short for Gloria) Dawes had developed into the fullest ripeness of young womanhood. Her breasts were large, firm, and perfect circles, pink-textured with etched rosettes and sharp, molded tips. She had a tiny waist with hips perhaps just a shade too heavy, but all the more voluptuous for the quiver of their slight fleshiness. Her eyes were deep, dark blue. Her hair was tawny blonde—its natural color -- long and gold-flecked. She was a pink-and-gold girl, average in height, delicate -- patrician almost—in the features of her face. These features always wore the look of confidence of one who has rarely wanted for anything, of one who is sure of her place in the world and knows it is a comfortably high place.
Now Glory turned sideways and twisted her head to study the rear view of herself in the mirror. Her back was straight with a trim sweep to small, tightly plump buttocks. She pirouetted and posed for herself coquettishly, frankly admiring her body from different angles.
“Yes, you are beautiful, darling.”
The words, the strange, almost mocking tone behind them, took Glory by surprise. She spun around to confront the girl leaning casually against the door to the room. “Wilma. You startled me. How long have you been standing there watching me?”
“Only a moment. You were so engrossed you didn’t hear me come in. I’ve been enjoying the show.” Again that light note of sarcasm—and something more, something almost—no, it couldn’t be called ominous.
“You must have come in like a cat. I never heard a thing. I suppose I should be embarrassed—you catching me admiring myself this way.”
“Why should you be embarrassed? I admire you, darling. Why shouldn’t you admire yourself?”
“Anyway, I’m glad you finally got here.” Even as she said the words, Glory wondered to herself if she really meant them. Was she glad to be here with Wilma? “. . .to want to kill someone for whom I once felt only desire and love. . .” The words of Don’s letter crossed Glory’s mind. Was that how she really felt about Wilma? Was she beginning to feel hate for her as she now knew that she should? Or was it desire -- still the same wanton hunger -- that she was feeling? Her confusion grew at the mixture of emotions she felt as she looked at Wilma.