Look at that hard-on! This really turns him on all right. With the hair off them, his tits are as sensitive as a woman ’s. They get hot and hard just like a woman’s too. But that stiff prick of his sure isn’t like any woman’s. Look at his balls all swollen with juice and ready to go! And his stiff cock throbbing like it can ’t wait. But first I’m gonna shave him clean as a baby. . . shave the hair off his groin. . . off his balls. . . tickle his jerking cock with the electric razor as if it was a vibrator. . . .
Wilma ran the razor down the line of hair which started at Don’s flat belly and was lost in the thick growth covering his groin. She shaved his groin. His body jerked upward. He was about to come. Wilma reached quickly beneath him with her free hand and jabbed two sharp-nailed fingers all the way up his anus. It stopped his orgasm. Keeping her fingers there, she finished shaving the hair from his groin. His erection stuck straight up from the raw, red, naked flesh, impossibly large and eager, but stalemated by the fingers pressing-his sphincter. She shaved the tight, filled, sac of his scrotum.
What’s she doing now? Oh God! She’s running it over my dick. It nicked me! It hurts. But it’s so damn exciting! My dong never looked so big or felt so hard! What's she doing now?. . .
Wilma unplugged the razor. Her red hair cascaded over Don’s belly. Soft as it was, it smarted where it came in contact with the shaved areas. His groin, shaved clean, looked strangely obscene; the skin burned and stung under her ginger-lips; there was real anguish as Wilma deliberately increased the pressure of her mouth on the raw flesh of his crotch.
My balls! She’s going to lick my nuts now! Ow! That’s sore! All raw from shaving! But sensitive too! So sensitive! Oh, that tongue of hers licking me there! Ahh-Ahh-Ahh! That feels so damn. . . But she won ’t let me come! Her fingers up my ass. . . all the way. . . stopping me. . . but sucking my nuts now. . . first one, then the other. . . sucking them, kissing them, licking them. . . I want to shoot my load! . . . Let me come, baby! . . . It hurts! I can ’t stand it! Dammit! Let me come! Let me come, or I’ll kill you, you sadistic cunt! . . . Oh, she’s taking it in her mouth now! , . . . Christ, it’s tender!. . . All the way down her throat! Sucking and licking and swallowing!. . . Taking her hand out from up my ass now. . . . Sucking!. . .Sucking! . . . Here it goes! I’m coming! . . . All of it. Suck all of it! . . .
And then a scream torn from his lips as release combined with searing pain... then the gentle massage of cold cream over the tormented and abused sac and the limp member... and the crooning interest in how his career was progressing. . . .
“You’re edgy tonight. Did you have a bad day?”
“Yes. That creep Barker pulled something that really got me mad.”
“What?”
“He called in some guy from New Orleans to arrange for a bunch of hoods to bring Malden around.”
“You mean rough him up?”
“Yes. Maybe burn his barn. I don’t know. What I do know is that Universal Enterprises doesn’t conduct its business that way. If Dawes ever found out about this, he’d blow a gasket. And if word of it ever reached the New York office, there’d be all kinds of hell to pay.”
“Did you stop Barker?”
“To tell the truth, I’m not sure. He’s such a slimy rat that there’s no telling what he’ll do. All he’d say was that he understood that neither Universal nor Continental wanted to be in any way involved. He just kept assuring me that it had nothing to do with me and that any action that was taken in that direction would be taken on his own. He also mentioned that this fellow D’Angelo from New Orleans was an expert at handling matters like this discreetly and without any fanfare.”
“What was that name?” Wilma exclaimed.
“D’Angelo. Vito D’Angelo. Why? Do you know him?”
“No,” Wilma lied. “I don’t know him. But you haven’t answered me. Is D’Angelo going to go ahead or not?”
“I just don’t know for sure. . . .”
Driving back from the Morton Motor Lodge now, Don recalled the highlights of these scattered conversations and they filled him with bitterness and rage. He could have killed himself for being such a sucker as to fall into Wilma Malden’s series of conversational traps. He could have killed Glory for descending to the perversions of a tramp like Wilma. He could have killed Wilma for the evil web she’d created, the web enmeshing them all.
Some way, Don wasn’t sure just how, she’d used the information she’d milked from him to break each of the arrows he’d aimed at Ben Malden before it even left his quiver. Somehow, she’d managed to abort each of his plans. But how?
Only Wilma could have told him. Only she knew the truth about each of the actions his loose talk had provoked. Only she knew how far she’d gone to render each of his accomplices useless.
Mr. Birdwell was the first to have his sting removed. Wilma visited her former high school algebra teacher at his small house one night. It was one of a group of houses, all built from the same plan, and strung close together like so many barracks. Wilma had taken the trouble to investigate Birdwell’s neighbors on either side.
The ex-schoolteacher was dressed for bed when he answered the door. He was wearing an old-fashioned full-length man’s nightgown of shapeless flannel. He peered at Wilma, not recognizing her.
“I’m an old student of yours, Mr. Birdwell. May I come in?”
“It’s awfully late --” Before he could finish protesting she had slipped through the doorway and was standing in the hall waiting for him to follow her into the living room. Confused, he let her lead the way.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked when they were both seated.
“I’m afraid not. I had so many students, Miss—”
“Malden. Wilma Malden.”
Birdwell reacted as though he’d sat down on a hot poker.
“What -- what—” he stammered, jumping to his feet.
“Relax, Mr. Birdwell. I came here to do you a favor and to save you a lot of trouble.”
“I remember you now! The Malden girl! You’re no good! You got me in a lot of trouble.”
“Because your eyes kept wandering to where they didn’t belong. And from what I hear, Mr. Birdwell, you’re still having the same difficulty.”
“What do you mean? What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“Where do you keep your binoculars, Mr. Birdwell?” Wilma asked conversationally.
How did you -- I—I don’t have any binoculars. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Oh, yes you do. You see, Mr. Birdwell, I have a pair of my own. And do you know what I’ve been doing with them?”
“Of course not. And I don’t care.”
“Yes you do, Mr. Birdwell. Or at least you will. You’re going to care very much. Because I’ve been watching your upstairs bedroom window through my binoculars. For the seven last few nights I’ve been watching, between ten and eleven o’clock—just the time that little Alice Simpkins undresses for bed. She’s such a foolish little girl, don’t you think? Always keeping the lights on and the shades up and primping in front of the mirror. And never dreaming that you’re staring at her from your window with your nightie tucked up so cute above your waist and your hands so busy. What are they busy at, Mr. Birdwell? Trying to find that shriveled-up little do-it-yourself kit of yours? Is that what? And Alice never dreams that she’s giving you your kicks, does he? But she’s so young. Surely not more than sixteen. While you must be at least sixty, Mr. Birdwell. Isn’t that right?”