Whatever Goes Up

by Troy Conway

  She moaned, grinding her pelvis onto my own bulging loins. Back and forth she worked her hips, scrunching lower, fastening her legs around mine for purchase. Her panting filled the air.

  After a moment, during which her fleshy body shook uncontrollably, she whispered, “Not here either, I suppose?”

  “Certainly not,” I laughed, holding her close.

  She bit my shoulder gently, then licked it with her tongue. “If anybody were to try and kill me now, I almost wouldn’t mind.”

  “Go ahead. Remind me I’m not doing my duty.”

  “But you are, you are,” she protested, tightening the grip of her arms about my neck. “You’re doing fine.”

  “Just the same, I have a few questions to ask you.”

  “Must you?” she pleaded, pressing into me.

  I drew her with me toward the pool rim. I turned and hoisted her up onto the edge, her buttocks slapping the stone edge wetly as she landed. A moment later, I was there beside her.

  “The tailor tells me you’re an angel,” I began. “You lend money to everybody. He says there isn’t anything a hundred people wouldn’t do for you.”

  “I have money, they don’t. I try to equalize things.” She pouted as an afterthought, “But you don’t. You’re mean. You know what I want and I have what you want, but we aren’t sharing our wealth.”

  “We shall,” I promised, “after you tell me all the people you’ve loaned money to.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “You don’t really expect me to remember them all, do you? I’m not much of a businesswoman when it comes to things like that. About the factories and the stores I own—yes. There I keep a staff of accountants and lawyers to protect my interests, but as for my personal loans, as I consider them, I don’t pay much attention to details.”

  “You must have some records!”

  “None, Professor. Almost absolutely none. It is a personal thing with me, those loans. I give ten thousand dollars here, a hundred thousand there. Even a million or two, at times.”

  “A m-million? And you have no records?”

  One tanned shoulder lifted casually. “It is my hobby.

  Oh, I guess I do remember a few people, here and there. A professor of literature, to write a book. A doctor of physics, to finish an invention. A young man with a good business background, to start his own firm. That sort of thing.”

  We would have to make an inventory, I told her. We would write out a list of her debtors and the amounts they owed her, as best she could remember them. I was quite determined about it. It was the only clue we might have as to her would-be murderer.

  Wanda was almost shocked at the idea.

  “None of them would every kill me, not for money! I know it. I refuse to even consider the idea. No, no. I won’t be talked into it. Come! Let’s go back into the pool!”

  When she finally pulled herself out, it was growing dusk. We were to eat dinner in the dining room at eight o’clock. I had a while to shave and get dressed. She was going to wear an evening gown, but I could make do with the business suit that was draped over a hydrangea bush.

  In my room, I lay down on the bed and thought

  The realization dawned on me that I was no nearer the solution of this case than I had been when I’d been surf-casting along the Outer Banks. Sure, I knew two girls were involved in a plot to kill Wanda Weaver Yule. At least, I thought I did.

  But, “Wander wherever you will” might not mean Wanda Weaver Yule at all. And in that case, I was on a fool’s errand here in this Southern mansion. One thing I did know. Laura Ogden and Midge Priest were involved in the plot They had damn near killed me, and they wanted to murder somebody else.

  I was dozing a little on the bed when Molly woke me by knocking on the door. It was twenty to eight, she informed me, and the mistress was expecting me in the library-den for cocktails. I thanked her and got dressed.

  I made a reasonably presentable appearance, I imagine, as I joined my hostess at the bar in the library-den. Her green eyes actually glowed at sight of me.

  “Manhattans? Martinis?” she asked gaily.

  My eyes ran over the bottle-laden glass shelves behind the mahogany bar. “Let me,” I replied. “Let me make the drinks. I have a B.B.A. degree, you know—Best Bartender Anywhere.”

  She giggled but relaxed on one of the high stools in front of the bar, and waved a diamond-braceleted arm at the bottles. “Indulge yourself, Best Bartender.”

  Wanda was poured into a gold lame evening gown. Its middle hugged her slim waist and curving hips, its bodice barely contained her breasts. Its mini-skirt showed off her bewitching legs in liquid-look stockings.

  She put her elbows on the bar and stared as I built a Montgomery—named after the field marshal—a martini made fifteen parts gin to one of vermouth.

  My hostess sipped. “Ooooh—it’s delicious!” she exclaimed.

  “Just one more of my many talents,” I grinned.

  We savored our Montgomerys while we talked about the national drinks of many countries. When I expressed surprise at the completeness of her bar, Wanda Weaver Yule confessed that her husband, while not a compulsive drinker, enjoyed experimenting with liquors.

  “He’d lose himself back there behind the bar,” she said. “He’d see a new recipe for a drink and nothing would satisfy him until he made it. He didn’t like all those he made, but he had a favorite few. He liked to say each liquor was different, that some blended with some, others were individuals.”

  “I feel that way about people.”

  “Some people respond to kind treatment, others need a whip hand. I use the whip hand in business, but as far as individuals go, I like to play at—yes, at good angel, I guess. Fairy godmother. I give people their tangible dreams. I’m like a deus ex machina.”

  “How about me? Would you stake me if I asked?”

  “At what?”

  “I could open a sex education school.”

  Her head moved back and forth. “Not you. You aren’t keen enough on your own idea. You have it made now. You’re a university professor, you’re the founder of that League for Sexual Dynamics. You don’t really want to open any school.”

  “I take it personal enthusiasm makes a big difference?”

  “Naturally! A man won’t make a success at something he isn’t enthusiastic about. And he won’t be about something he doesn’t love. You give me enthusiasm and love, and that’s a pretty powerful combination. It spells success. If all a man needs is money—I give it to him.”

  I leaned over the bar and kissed her cheek.

  She actually flushed.

  “Damn you! I mean it,” she protested.

  “I’m admiring you,” I told her with enthusiasm. “It makes me want to cuddle and protect you even more.”

  “Mmmm, I’d like that,” she said, smiling lazily. “I’d like it even more if you did your thing with me instead of putting it off and sublimating your sex drive with words and promises.”

  “I’ve been building you up and then letting you down, haven’t I? All talk and no play makes Rod Damon a very dull fellow, I’m afraid.”

  “We-eell,” she drawled, her eyes gleeful as I came around the bar.

  As I stood behind her, my lips ran across her bare shoulder up to her soft throat. From this perspective I could feast my eyeballs on the soft bulges of her breasts trapped inside the gold lame bodice of her evening gown. I was about to make myself indespensable to this rich society woman.

  “Care to let me handle dinner?” I murmured.

  She shivered voluptuously. “Any time,” she murmured throatily.

  “Then we’ll eat in your room—my way.”

  “The table’s all set,” she whispered.

  My lips were on her earlobe, drawing that perfumed tidbit of female flesh between them, my teeth nibbling gently. I whispered, “I’ll carry the trays and dishes upstairs to your bedroom.”

  Her green-tinted eyelids flickered. She was beginning to catch on. The plump white mound
s in her bodice lifted and shook more rapidly.

  “What should I do?” she asked.

  “Give the servants a night off. Or make sure they don’t come up into the bedroom. They might be a little—shocked, shall I say?—at our eating habits.”

  We went into the huge kitchen that flanked the dining room. The cook and a pretty maid goggled at me as I took a big silver tray from the dining room, piled on the platters of oysters Rockeller and the coq au vin and marched out with Wanda Weaver Yule at my heels, carrying plates and knives and forks, spoons, cups and glasses on a serving tray.

  “Maddy, bring the wine—two bottles,” she was saying. “After that both of you can have the night off.” Her voice broke twice as she spoke, I rather imagine she was wondering just how we were going to eat this epicurean feast.

  Her bedroom was something out of a movie spectacular. It was half of the entire upper floor. At one end was her king-size four-poster bed, the valance and bed coverlet done in royal blue satin. The bed was flanked on one wall by a fireplace with a bronze hood, with easy chairs on either side. There was a picture window across from the fireplace; its heavy, pale blue drapes were pulled shut A thick blue rug was spread across the parqueted floor.

  The other end of the room held an oak secretary with a chair before it, so that when the writing board was pulled down, one could use it as a desk. Two straightbacked chairs were on either side of the secretary, just below twin windows. Another picture window was to the left of the secretary. It matched its duplicate, and was as heavily pull-draped.

  In the middle of the room was a chaise lounge. Between the picture windows was a dressing table with an absolutely gigantic mirror. Its bench was covered with ocelot fur that matched the sides of the table itself.

  This was the formal Wanda Weaver Yule.

  Along two long walls, the secret Wanda Weaver Yule was visible. There were posters of all sizes and descriptions hung for her to see when she wanted to brood on her new society. Psychedelic art paintings and photographs were grouped about a light organ which would throw colored lights around the room when turned on. A stereo phonograph could blare out the musical media of the mod world when she was in the mood.

  A satiric assemblage by Marisol stood cheek by jowl beside a boxed imagery by Cornell. On the walls, where the posters yielded room, I made out a black stripe painting by Stella, a bit of pop art by Oldenburg, a lifesize plaster mannikin by Segal.

  It was somewhat overwhelming, but I told myself to ignore the surroundings and concentrate on my mission for the moment. At one time, this room must have been two; a wall had been knocked down to make it into an enormous bedchamber. Now the room was something more than just a place to sleep. It was a mirror for the woman deep inside Wanda Weaver Yule. I noticed there were no rodeo trappings anywhere in the room. Was she ashamed of her former heritage? But no matter. I gathered that Wanda Weaver Yule could live very comfortably in here.

  If she wanted to be business-like, the secretary would accommodate her. I told myself there might be secrets in that piece of furniture. It might repay me as a Coxeman to know about that. Later, after we had used the king-sized bed or maybe the chaise lounge for our embraces, I would have a look at that secretary.

  When I had set up our feast on the night tables, which I placed in the middle of the spacious bedroom. I turned to the still goggling maid, who was clutching two wine bottles to her bosom. “You run along, Maddy. The mistress and I are going to indulge in a special kind of dietary dinner. It’s my own invention, and I don’t want anybody to know the secret.”

  Maddy was actually squirming with curiosity, but after I took the wine bottles and slid them into twin ice buckets, I took her elbow and guided her toward the thick oaken bedroom door. I escorted her out into the hall, then closed and bolted the door. Wanda Weaver Yule was just as curious as her servant girl Her green eyes were big with wonder.

  “Is this really a dietary dinner?”

  “It is. I omitted one very important word from my description to Maddy. In essence, this is a dietary diddle-thon.”

  The green eyelids blinked. She made a beautiful picture in the gold lame, with her diamond rings and bracelets, with the diamond necklace on her upper chest. Her face was a perfect blend of healthy flesh and the finest makeup money can buy. There was gold dust on her eyelashes as well as that green stuff on her eyelids. Her lips were a brilliant scarlet, her silver hair was coiffed in an upsweep, with a diamond pin set in the center of a swirled strand.

  I stood admiring her for long moments.

  “You look good enough to eat,” I told her softly, advancing across the thick Wilton carpet. “And eat you I shall. But first we must be presentable for this special type of dining.”

  I went behind her, sought and found the zipper of her gown. I drew it down and sowed kisses along her backbone as the zipper descended. She gave a muted little cry, and then was silent. The tab went down to the cleavage line of her buttocks, some inches below the red lace and lastex band of a garterbelt.

  My lips touched her sacral dimples set just above each buttock. After a time she gasped, “Please! Please!” Her body was shaking like an aspen in a gale. She smelled all over of perfume, and her skin was warm cream under my mouth.

  She wore nothing but the garterbelt and sheer nylons under the gold lame. I pushed aside the gold lame with my head as my mouth pastured across a bare hip and up above the red garterbelt strap to her naked side.

  “I c-can’t take it a-any more,” she sobbed.

  My teeth nipped her soft flesh, then I walked around in front of her and reached for the oysters Rockefeller. I took one on an oyster fork and raised it to her open mouth. She was not reaching for the oyster with those parted scarlet lips, she was just trying to breathe.

  “Who—who wants food?” she wailed.

  I put the oyster fork down. I began undressing.

  Her green eyes were wide as they watched me. When I stood like Priapus come alive before her, she cried, “Oh my God! Stop torturing me!”

  “If you don’t want oysters Rockefeller, I do, darling,” I whispered.

  My hands went to the gold lame gown. I drew it away from her breasts slowly. She closed her eyes and made throaty sounds as her breasts sprang out into the light. They were big, heavy, very white with blue veins just beneath the surface. Her nipples were huge, thickly swollen.

  With the sauce bucket, I coated her nipples liberally with the lemon sauce usually served with this dish. I forked a mouthful of the oysters Rockefeller and then used the lemon sauce on her nipples to flavor it. I munched each nipple with my every chew, until her hands came up and caught my head.

  “You devil! Oh, God—you wonderful devil,” she breathed.

  She was writhing her thighs together and swinging her hips like a hula dancer in her erotic excitement. Her eyes blazed with understanding and delight. Now she became a partner in our dietary delights.

  As I had done to her, so she did to me, using her sharp white teeth to bite into my tiny nubs. She still wore the lower half of her evening gown; she was a topless diner, instead of a topless waitress.

  Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled.

  When the oysters were gone, after we alternated with the application of the lemon sauces between her nipples and mine, I reached for a wine bottle chilling in an ice bucket. I popped the cork and poured.

  “To our dinner,” I proposed.

  “And most of all—the main dish,” she giggled.

  “For that, you’re overdressed,” I grinned.

  I knelt before her. My hands went to the gold lame bunched about her white hips. I drew the material down, kissing her soft white belly as I bared it. She moaned and whimpered, deep in the throes of an erotic frenzy.

  When the gown was pooled about her slippered feet, I drew back to admire her body. She kept herself in good trim, her legs were shapely, strongly curved at calf and thigh; in the black nylons and red garterbelt, she was a centerfold come to life. Her flesh was tan
ned except for the white bowls of her breasts and the tiny triangle where her Venus fur grew.

  I reached for the coq au vin.

  With a chicken breast drenched in wine sauce, I smeared her upper thighs. Then I took a bite of the coq and lapped off the Burgundy sauce. She was a blend of wine sauce and perfumed womanhood, she was absolutely delicious both to my tongue and to my nostrils.

  The chicken tasted pretty good, too.

  Then it was her turn and she tantalized me until I yelled as a safety valve for my emotions. She was not content with my thighs, she put the sauce where I did my thing. And she took her time about eating, sitting on a footstool before me, taking little nibbles of the chicken and big licks of the sauce.

  “I won’t do any more eating,” she giggled. “I don’t want to waste your strength.”

  “You can’t,” I told her.

  She stared up at me, plucked eyebrows wrinkled.

  I explained, “I’m afflicted with priapism, honey. The ability to maintain my arousal indefinitely. No matter how hard I try—or you try, for that matter—my maleness cannot be exhausted.”

  She arched her right eyebrow, showing me her disbelief. “Fact,” I told her eyebrow. “Try it and see.” “Oh no. I like you as you are. Rearing to go.” I grinned. “Nobody ever believes me. I always have to prove what I say. Okay, then. I’ll prove it. Have you ever heard of Philaenis of Samos? Samos is an island in the Aegean Sea. Philaenis is a woman who lived there once, devoting much of her time to making love and then writing about it.”

  Wanda shook her silver head. “I don’t know the lady.” “Aeschrion mentions her, so does Suetonius and Lu-cian. Unfortunately, much of her work is lost. The Roman emperor Tiberius commissioned artists to illustrate her writings in paintings and sculptures with which he adorned his sleeping quarters.”

  “How many positions?” my hostess asked.

  “Nobody knows. From the few fragments I’ve been lucky enough to lay hands on in my trips to Europe, I’d judge at least sixty.”