The burglar disengaged. The sound caused by the abrupt withdrawal was similar to that made by a cork being popped from a champagne bottle. It seemed impossible from Archie’s vantage point that the unbelievably large organ he still displayed had ever been buried in the seemingly small orifice framed by the blonde follicles.
He strode to the head of the bed and grabbed Helen's hair, yanking her face around until it was turned toward him. With his other hand he squeezed her cheeks until her eyes bulged and her mouth was finally forced into a large O. Then he thrust forward, filling the O until her cheeks bulged. Still twisting her hair, he forced her to move her head back and forth until a rhythm had been established. It went faster and faster, until he suddenly grabbed the back of her head with both hands, his thumbs clawing at her ears, and buried himself to the hilt while she gagged and sputtered and choked on the results of his lust. And still he held her tight until the last drop was drained.
He released her head, but still he wasn't through. He bent over her bosom and nibbled until his manhood once again became as rigid as her breast-tips were. Then he proceeded to the foot of the bed, where he untied her feet. He retied them as high up on the bedpost as he could force them. This resulted in Helen’s under-cheeks being completely exposed and drawn tautly apart. She simulated a convincing scream as he buried his instrument of torture in the center of this plump and fleshy target.
So it went on, with a seemingly endless chain of erotic variations, as Archie watched. At first titillated, he was surprised to find himself growing bored after the initial action. His right eye, which had been pressed to the keyhole, began to smart. He switched to his left eye, but soon that too began to tear. He stifled a yawn and wished that he could stretch. It was getting damned close in the closet.
Of course it had been close when he’d first entered it, but he hadn’t minded it so much then. He'd been both too excited and too concerned to notice at the time. Everything had happened too fast.
“And now that you’re all trousered up, I’ll bet you just can’t wait to get out of them again, hey?” Helen Giammori had teased him as she ushered him inside her small suite of rooms.
It was a setup typical of the cheap residential hotels of the area. There was a small sitting room leading to a slightly larger bedroom with a door leading to a private bathroom to the left of the old-fashioned four-poster bed. To the right of the bed was the stand-up wardrobe closet made of plywood and cardboard which was to be Archie’s hiding place in only a few short minutes.
“I don’t know about that," Archie answered her as she led the way directly into the bedroom. “I’ve been up all night and I’m awfully tired. Besides, there are some questions I have to ask you. About your friend Dixie, I mean. Do you have any idea where I might find-—?”
“Gee, honey, I don’t really have time for questions now. It’s even risky to knock off a fast one. I wouldn’t even suggest that except you’re such a nice kid and I feel bad about leaving you all hung up before. See, Vito’s due here in about twenty minutes.”
“Who’s Vito?"
“He’s my lover. Also my business manager. But he’s very strict about business only during business hours. And after six in the ayem like now definitely isn’t business hours in Vito’s book. He’s a very jealous type, Vito is. Murderous, too. If he finds you here this time of the morning, there's no telling what he might do.”
“But I only want to talk to you,” Archie objected. “I don’t want to-—” His words were cut off by a sudden loud knocking at the door. “Vito?” he asked.
“Vito.” She nodded. “He’s early,” she added.
“It figures,” Archie said wearily. “Anything to keep the plot rolling.”
“Huh? What plot?"
“Never mind. It isn’t important. What do I do now? Hide in the closet or something?”
“Yeah. Hide in the closet. Unless you’d rather have Vito cut your throat, that is. Hurry up.”
“This all has a very familiar ring to it,” Archie said as he climbed into the closet. “I thing I saw it on the Late Show one night last week.”
“Be quiet.” Helen closed the door on him.
The pounding on the door leading to the hallway was growing more insistent. She cast one last look over her shoulder to be sure the wardrobe closet door was securely shut and went to answer it. Archie crouched down, finding it more comfortable, and found his eye on a level with the keyhole. He peered through it as Helen opened the door leading from the outside hallway to the sitting room.
“Hey, Vito!” She threw her arms wide in a gesture of welcome.
“Hey, Helen!” A very small man with sharp eyes, a weasel face, and the bowlegged walk of an ex-jockey dived into her embrace. His face disappeared in the deep cleft between her breasts. “Letab-b. Wegah wukta dunaw. Arujah. Ibawda boyswit m.”
“What, honey?” Helen released her hold and let him come up for air.
“I said later, baby. We got work to do now. A rush job. I brought the boys with me.”
“Work?” There was a whine in Helen’s voice. “But you said I’d never have to work after six in the morning. You promised. I thought you’d take me out for breakfast, and then we could come back here and — well, you know. So what’s all this about work? You always tell me how I have to be careful to stick to business hours.”
“I just changed the business hours,” Vito told her firmly. “Don't bug me, baby. I told you, this is a rush job. There’s money in it. Why else do you think I'd go to the trouble of rounding up Squint and Batman?"
“Squint and Batman! Oh, no!” For the first time Helen peered over Vito’s shoulder and saw the two men waiting behind him in the hall. “Not another one of those porny movie deals,” she wailed.
“Quit beefing! It’s a must. Let’s get it over with,” Vito told her. “Come on in, boys,” he told the pair in the hall.
They entered and closed the door behind them. Immediately the pint-sized Vito became all business. “Get the equipment set up, Squint," he instructed the older of the two men. Squint, a moon-faced, balding man with one eye permanently squeezed up to hold the monocle lodged there, unfolded a tripod, set it up, and began unpacking his movie camera, recording devices and film. “You get into the burglar outfit,” Vito told Batman. “And you slip into the black nightie,” he added to Helen.
“The black nightie? But Vito, it’s in the hamper.”
“Then get it outa the hamper.”
“But it’s filthy. It has to be washed and ironed. Honest, Vito, it’s actually beginning to smell bad.”
“Cameras can’t smell. Do like I say. Get it out of the hamper and run the iron over it quick so the creases don’t show.”
“Ingmar Bergman he ain’t,” Batman commented to Helen a few moments later as he sat on the edge of the bed and watched her ironing the nightie. “No esthetic sense, know what I mean?”
“Look who’s talking about esthetic sense!" she snorted. “You’d make love to a hog if they paid you enough for it.”
“I already have,” Batman admitted without embarrassment. “Barnyard Frolics. Made it two years ago. Very big box office on the Corn Belt smoker circuit. Easy identification for the yokels, I guess.”
“How do you do it, Batman?” Helen was frankly curious. “I’ve always wondered.”
“How do I do what?”
“Get it up on order? Keep it up for hours at a time? Even afterwards, when most guys have a cooling-off period? How do you manage it?”
“You’re a helluva one to be asking me that. Jeez, we’re both in the same business, ain’t we? How do you do it?”