“Well—” He thought a moment. “Tell me this,” he said finally. “I have read the Kinsey Reports and always they leave me with one nagging question. How can an interviewer dealing with such a delicate matter as sex be sure that the subject is telling him the truth?”
“By cross-checking the answers to a variety of questions. Ot course, nothing is a hundred percent sure, but I do believe that the technique developed by O.R.G.Y, allows us to attain a high degree of accuracy. Plus the fact that truth is relative. There may be more truth to a subject’s fantasies than to his real life experience.”
“Ahh, then you do concern yourself with the fantasy world of sex." Friedriksenn nodded approvingly.
“Of course.”
‘Then I have something which should prove most interesting to you. Some films. Most difficult to obtain. Really items for the connoisseur. Would you like to view them?”
“Very much.”
So it was that after dinner we all traipsed into the library. The blinds were drawn and a large white screen lowered. It covered almost all of one wall. Friedriksenn inserted a reel of film into a sound projector and the lights were doused. A moment later the screen came to life—in Technicolor, yet!
The film started out slowly enough. It took a good five or ten minutes before it worked up to the beginning of the orgy. llut when it did, I saw what Friedriksenn had meant about its being an “item for the connoisseur.”
The setting was Oriental. The cast was mixed—-all races and colors, all manner of sexual persuasion. The action was uninhibited-—-to say the least. Here a blonde girl reached inside her blouse and withdrew a large breast. She held it in her hand while a man tickled the tip with a feather. There was a close-up of the nipple as it distended to an imposing length.
There one girl knelt before another and pushed up her skirt. Another close-up as her lips skip-kissed between pink, quivering thighs and her tongue darted out to flick at the scarlet target.
The camera moved on. Three men being serviced by a Japanese dancing girl at one time. A bosomy redhead impaling herself on a candlestick. A young man being brought to a peak of passion by a whipping which left his buttocks bleeding. A couple making love standing up in a shower.
I’d seen pornographic films before, but never so lavishly produced. And never with such good-looking people -- male and female. There was even a well-rounded plot to give impetus to the action. And the action seemed to overlook no possible sex act.
Being human, I found it arousing. I wasn’t the only one. About halfway through the film I felt a hand groping in my lap. It was dark and I couldn’t tell to whom it might belong. But that didn’t make it any the less effective as it opened my pants and groped under my BVD’s.
It found what it sought and freed it. A moment later a leg was thrown over my lap. The leg was bare and I felt the bunched-up skirt of an evening gown against my belly. There was nothing under the evening gown. Then there was hot breath in my ear as I was straddled and the figure facing me began bouncing gently up and down.
I didn't know what the hell to do. I was filled with lust, but afraid to move. The body locked to mine belonged to Carmella Friedriksenn. And her husband was only a few feet behind us, running the movie projector.
Suppose he heard us? Suppose he saw what we were doing? Suppose he was the violent type?
That’s what I was thinking as I moved surreptitiously with a rhythm matching Carmella’s. But even as I was thinking it, I was appreciating the fact that she was adding a new dimension to movie-going. Yes, as far as I was concerned, movies really were better than ever!
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS a kaleidoscope of sex, a fast-moving panorama of erotic possibilities. Straddling my lap, Carmella held me in al pulsing grip of liquid fire. On the screen there was a close-up of a naked Tahitian girl writhing ecstatically under the deep-piercing, intimately darting tongue of a Norseman.
Still nervous about Friedriksenn, I swiveled my head to glance at him. In the light-splash from the back of the projector, his face was a staring mask, sweating slightly, eyes riveted to the screen. My glance dropped and I could just make out the black velvet gown curled up on the floor beside him. I couldn’t see Anna Del Vecchio’s face. It was huried in his lap and her long hair was fanned out over his widely parted knees.
I stopped worrying about Friedriksenn‘s noticing what his wife and I were doing. He was obviously too well occupied to pay us any mind. I followed his gaze back to the screen.
The camera was now lingering on a long shot of four nude people—two men and two women. They formed an interesting pattern. Not geometric, but trigonometric— three-dimensional. One woman was kneeling on her hands and knees. A man was standing behind her, his hips moving like a pile-driver as he assailed her plump buttocks. His head was turned to one side, his mouth fastened to the breast of the second woman. She was seated on the couch, her muscles tensing her long legs so that they formed a question mark. The second man knelt before her, his face lost in her clenching thighs. The lips of the first woman kept gripping and losing him from behind.
Carmella moaned in my ear, distracting me from the screen. She was bouncing up and down more insistently now, and I had to reach under the bunched-up evening gown for a firm grip on her burning buttocks to keep from losing her. The shift in position brought Maria Trendasia and Luigi Tortorizzi into my range of vision.
The secretary still wore her glasses. She was staring straight ahead, at the screen, and her face was as expresionless as if she’d been watching a slightly boring documentary on canal irrigation or the problems of the wheat farmer. Her hand, busy in Luigi’s lap, seemed to be moving mechanically, as if it were a thing apart, as if it were an office machine performing a task assigned by the effficient Signorina. Nevertheless, Luigi was reacting energetically.
So, by now, was I. My face was buried in the deep cleft between Carmella’s breasts. She had pushed down her gown so that one of them was free and the long, distended tip was tickling my cheek and ear as she bounced. Then she stopped bouncing and began a slow, grinding, circular motion that quickly brought both of us to the verge of satisfaction.
“Now!” Her voice was hoarse and wildly insistent in my ear.
I braced both hands on the sides of the chair-seat and thrust violently upward. Carmella gasped, and for a moment the room was spinning dizzily as, together, our rapture exploded. Finally I opened my eyes and came back to reality.
She didn’t move. “Again!” she whispered insistently.
“You’ll have to wait a minute,” I protested, whispering back.
“All right.” She relaxed a little, but stayed where she was without releasing her grip.
The interlude made me remember why I was there. And, pleasurable as it was, I wasn’t there just to make love to my host’s wife under his very nose. No, I was there to find Gina Moretti. Any one of the three women present might have been her. The only way to identify her for sure was to find that crescent-shaped scar which was supposed to be on Gina Moretti’s derriére. And this was as good a time to start as any. Maybe better, since I already had a hand-hold on one of the three rumps in question.
Using the pretext of caressing her further, I pushed Carmella’s gown still higher. My fingers investigated, but they couldn't really tell me anything. So I angled my head under her arm and bent low to peer at the area in question. I figured there was just enough light coming from the movie projector to get a look at her bared petard. Twisting my neck into an impossible position, I tried to bend still lower.
The tactic proved unfortunate. It threw us off balance. Carmella grabbed wildly for my shoulders and the two of us went sprawling loudly to the floor.