“Would you like another drink?” Irving asked Llona politely.
“Yes, I would.” Llona was suddenly aware of how tense she felt and how dry her throat was.
Irving fetched it and stood by politely, not touching her as she drank it. Without intending to, Llona found herself gulping it down. Also, she was unable to control the fascination with which she continued to watch the others.
The blond’s head was in Andy’s lap now, and his hands were claws in her hair. The tall brunette had slid halfway down the wall, her dress up over her hips, her thigh muscles rippling against Lou’s ears. The redhead, stretched across Herb, was plucking maraschino cherries from George’s mouth while the thin girl was removing her bra and giggling as she squeezed the cherry juice from it.
“Would you like to dance?” Irving asked Llona formally, coolly, as if he were completely unaware of what was going on around them.
“All right.” Llona was glad of the opportunity to move. She was beginning to feel—well, itchy—-standing in one spot.
Irving held her loosely, circumspectly, guiding her through a slow fox-trot. But he made sure they passed each of the other couples for a slow, lingering view. Even though their bodies weren’t pressed together, he could feel the heat emanating from Llona’s body, and he smiled to himself as her tongue involuntarily licked her lips.
The thin girl with the long straight hair was also dancing, by herself, her bosom completely exposed and swinging free now, trying to recall George’s attention from the redhead. But George was caught up in vying for the redhead’s attention with Herb and there were four hands struggling over her naked buttocks. Andy and Lou, the Amazonian brunette and the small blond, had also joined forces. The four of them were locked in an intricate embrace, their hands mutually busy at one another’s quivering loins.
Irving led Llona into a second dance without asking. He held her closer now so that the tips of her breasts pressed against his chest. She made no objection. On the contrary, her body quivered in his arms, and slowly the contact between them increased. When Irving dipped, Llona caught her breath at the hardness probing her thighs. But she didn’t pull away.
“The skin you love to touch,” Irving’s fingers slipped between the buttons at the back of her dress and slid down to knead the naked flesh of her hip.
Llona hardly noticed. Her eyes were darting around the room, drinking in the increasingly bawdy scene. The large brunette and the thin girl with the bare bosom were dancing, not together, but facing each other. The brunette kept raising and lowering her short skirt enticingly; she wasn’t wearing any panties. Andy had frankly exposed himself and the small blond and the redhead were taking turns weighing and measuring his manhood. The redhead was bent over and George was playfully slapping her naked bottom while Herb crawled under her. Lou stood back, watching, obviously waiting his chance to pounce on the blond. As Llona and Irving danced past him, he reached out and slid his hand all the way up Llona’s leg.
Startled, Llona jerked away, seeming to catch Irving off balance. He stumbled, and they fell to the floor together. Llona had no chance to think about it, to make any conscious decision. Irving was kissing her and her body was responding automatically.
The hand on Llona’s breast wasn’t Irving’s; it was Herb’s, but Llona was beyond caring. The perfume of sex had descended on the room and her will was suspended in deference to its aphrodisiac effect. She felt her hand placed on some anonymous male genitals and it moved rhythmically, uncaring. She was only vaguely aware that Irving was removing her Nymph panties and that two soft breasts were fluttering over her lips. Two hands were fighting at the juncture of her legs, under her skirt, and her pelvis rotated with the excitement of the struggle.
Now. she felt Irving grabbing her under her arms and pulling her to her feet. The top of her dress fell away, the buttons in back ripped off, her bra pulled down on one side so that one of her breasts pushed free. Herb fastened his lips on the tip of the naked breast, managing to hold the contact as Irving led Llona across the floor to the couch. As she sank down to the couch, the tall brunette pressed her nether-lips against Llona’s face and writhed spasmodically, maintaining her balance despite the fact that Lou was attacking her from the rear. The redhead was on the floor beside the couch, her legs locked around Andy’s neck, one of her hands playing with Irving and preventing him from reaching his target—Llona’s quivering feminity.
With Llona the fulcrum, they were all clustered around the couch now—all except George. His bladder pressured by all the liquor he’d consumed, George had taken time out to go to the john. This was a primitive privy behind a curtain at one side of the cellar apartment. Just as Llona shifted her body to provide Irving with the access he sought, George pulled the toilet chain.
It was a disaster!
There was a rush of water, and then a roar of water, and then a crescendo and finally an explosion. It was as if every sewer in New York were bent on releasing its contents via this one lavatory fixture at the same time. The toilet erupted like a geyser, spewing its contents out over the room. Volcanic defecation shattered sexual appetite for one and all; girls and men alike scampered and squealed to get out of its path.
Like the others, Llona leaped from the couch, disgust replacing desire, her only thought to flee the scene. She rescued-her panties before the deluge could reach them and raced for the door. Outside, she kept running, ignoring Irving’s plea as he followed her.
“Take me along!” he caroled. “Take me along with you!”
But Llona was flying alone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I’b god a very bad cohd ad I wod’t be cobig id today.”
“One of the hazards of her job,” Raunch Rammer opined philosophically when Cal Lowe relayed Llona’s message to him. “She must have caught a draft.”
“All over,” Pierre Strongtellow mused. He’d been sitting in Raunch’s office going over an upcoming Nymph publicity campaign with him when Cal brought the news. “Raunch, you should either institute a health insurance plan for our receptionists, or move the reception desk where the air-conditioning blower won’t blast it.”
“You’re just miffed because your crack at the elusive Llona has been delayed by the common cold.”
“Delayed?” Pierre smiled. “On the contrary. I hear opportunity knocking real loud.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later, Raunch. After. After I collect our little office lottery.” Pierre’s smile was confident.
But the smile was gone, replaced by an expression of concern, when Pierre rang Llona’s door bell that evening. “Who is id?” she called.
“The Public Health Service come to bring comfort and solace to shut-ins.”
“Bierre!” Llona stood in the doorway and shook her head. She looked thoroughly miserable in a pair of Archer’s pajamas, an old bathrobe and floppy slippers. “Whad are you doig here?”
“I represent the Strongfellow Home Nursing Organization; we fight the holy war against the common cold; we give no quarter in our struggle against the stuffed head, the postnasal drip, the aches and the miseries.”
“I’b id do conditiod to be seed by mad, beast, or durse. Go ’way.”
“Nonsense,” Pierre elbowed his way into the apartment and kicked the door shut behind him. “You’re just suffering from low self-esteem; it’s quite usual in afflictions of this sort.”
“Whad’s all thad?” Llona pointed at the bundles Pierre was carrying.
“Flowers for the frail of sinus.” Pierre unveiled them. “Spirits to raise yours.” He produced a bottle of Scotch. “Sundry pharmaceuticals to relieve the physical condition.” He emptied a paper bag of bottles of pills, throat sprays and nasal inhalants. “And last, but not least, Mother Strongfellow’s Elixir.” With a flourish, Pierre unwrapped a jar of chicken soup.