by Troy Conway
I had to make her acknowledge my existence as Rod Damon. I was not indulging her flesh cravings out of pure lust. I was working as a Coxeman right now, to build a realization in Doctor Howard that I was her man, her tough boy to side her against the outside world. I had to make her understand that without me she was nothing, that she had to have me by her side all the time.
So I caught her hips and forced her back away from me.
She lay like the mother of all whores, thighs spread wide, gasping and panting for a male. I grinned down at her horrified expression.
“What? Why did you stop? Oh, God—please!”
“Remember me, honey? I’m Rod Damon. The tough guy who is going to kill your enemies for you.”
“Come on, come in!”
Her pallid hips lifted and swung. She was mindless, living only in her femininity. I felt pity for her. I do not enjoy being cruel to a wanting woman. But I was playing for greater stakes than a quick lay. I was trying to build a place for me in her life.
I leaned forward and downward, I commenced the tekhfidz play of male member with female organ, that lazy caress of one with the other on the labia major, which is known also as rubbing the pencil in the kohl pot. The
Turks call this movement ‘whitewashing’—bedana—because the penis resembles the brush coating the walls to be painted.
It is a movement exacerbating to the female, it teases her to madness. It is mentioned in the laws of Islam, the El-Hhidayeh, as a crime—unless the male gives the female the full penetration of his organ within hers.
She was weeping real tears, her flushed face distorted as her head went back and forth. Her body was trying to catch me, to trap me to her enjoyment, but I am not the founder of the League for Sexual Dynamics for nothing. This was my thing. I had the opportunity of stamping this woman with the badge of my manhood, to reduce her to an animal dependency on me. I was not about to give up that advantage until she became what I wanted her to become.
Beatrice Howard seemed to sense this, for after several minutes of sobbed curses and vain strivings to unite herself with me, she became almost calm as she looked up at my naked body.
“What do you want?” she breathed.
“I want you as a woman, not a mare, unthinking and ungrateful,” I told her. “My name is Rod Damon, I’m a killer for hire. You and I will make sweet music if you come to your senses.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “I c-can’t help it. It’s been so long. Please! Please—Rod!”
“Ahhh, that’s better,” I nodded, lowering my body.
I let her have what she wanted for long minutes, until her body had contracted in the orgasmal spasm half a dozen times. I blunted the sharp edge of her want with the tachik el heub movements that pounded me into her flesh. This particular motion is known as the capturing of love, since it involves a penetration of the entire length of the male within the female. The resultant movement of the male results in utter ecstasy for the woman.
She was almost in a coma when I moved away to find a damp cloth and dry her face and body. She smiled as I tended her—she did not expect tenderness after rape. I the Hindu erotologists because the accompanying caresses that should attend this intimate act can be carried on by the man with both hands free.
He is able to clasp and fondle the female breasts and nipples, to play at games with them. He may stroke the belly in rhythm to his hip motions, he may even add his fingers to the caressing strokes of his lingam within the female yoni.
I did all these things and more to Beatrice Howard.
Her backside twisted and wriggled as she drove herself along with me, crying out her pleasure from moment to moment. She was a mare with a stallion, a cow with a bull, a bitch with a hound as her buttocks swung and looped and shook. Her hanging head was bent as if in submission to the fleshy storm racking her body. She was alive only in her starved femininity.
And because mine was the lingam that afforded her this nayf, or pleasure of the flesh, she became eternally grateful to me. She whispered words that told me this, though they were half unintelligible, and her hanging hair as it brushed the floor was a steady whisper of praise for my erotic efforts.
Beatrice Howard tried, but she could not match my priapism. At length she begged me to stop, that she was too worn out, too sore to continue. I was the master and she the slave, she admitted, but she pleaded with me to show my slave some mercy.
I pulled free of her clasp and watched as she collapsed limply to the carpet. I bent and kissed her spine all the way to the cleavage of her buttocks. Then I turned her over and kissed from her pubic hair upward to her moist red mouth. She moaned faintly and let her hand touch my head.
“I’ll carry you to bed,” I breathed.
I got my arms under her knees and shoulders and lifted her. She was a big woman, but I am a strong man. I made it up the stairs without any trouble.
She seemed almost like a little girl as I pulled the coverlets up beneath her chin. Her eyes were big and her lips drooped a little. “You aren’t going away, are you? I mean, you’ll stay for the night? There’s food downstairs, plenty of it.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, nodding. “Of course I’ll stay. You need a man around the house, honey—and not just to make sure you get rid of your enemies.”
She nodded. The hardness had been washed out of her, she was a female with a man who could please her body to such an extent that this was all she wanted to know about him. Beatrice Howard had been on a sex starvation diet for a long time. Now she was seeing herself catered to in every way by a man who knew how to thrill her senses.
“I’ll fix a tray with some food,” I told her, patting her hand. “You sleep for a while. I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat.”
She slept like a baby.
I folded my frame on a couch in her living room after pulling down the blinds, so I would be rested for the evening activities. My campaign to make a slave of Doctor Beatrice Howard was just beginning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The sun was hot, the water was green, the air was scented with the blend of salt and Joy perfume as the big Chris-Craft skimmed the waves of Nurse Channel in the Exuma Cay sector of the Bahama islands. We were moving past Ragged Island Cays at a good clip; Bea was at the wheel and I was close beside her, enjoying the sun, the air, and her nearness.
We had flown from Great Bahama Island to Nassau on New Providence island, then to Clarence Town on Long Island, where the Chris-Craft had been lodged. Three days ago I had met Doctor Howard for the first time; today she was like a new woman.
“We have a big Quonset hut on Gabber Cay,” she cried against the wind whipping past the curving glass shield. “That’s where we test my findings.”
“You’re being mysterious about it,” I accused.
She turned her head to blow a kiss at me. Beatrice Howard was a changed woman. Gone was the prude, the modest dress, the air of dedicated scientist. During those two days we had spent together in her little house Bea had thrown herself with no reservations into the sexual frenzies I had devised for her complete subjection to my manhood.
No longer was she Puritan in dress. Witness: she wore the bikini in which her all but naked body had greeted me at her house. She told me it was the first time she had worn it, to see what manner of man I was, to test that manhood and laugh at me when she threw me aside. Instead, I had made her my slave. Normally, she wore a very modest, almost matronly bathing suit, she informed me.
But now—
The tiny cups of her bikini halter, the thin straps and twin triangles about her loins, were all she was wearing. “My body feels new—alive. Freer than it’s ever been. And you’ve caused that change in me, Rod.”
The little island hove into view off our port bow, low in the water, not much more than a small coral isle with some sand dunes, a few rocks, and a few bushes growing on its few inches of dirt. The Quonset hut made a big bump almost in its exact middle.
“I needed seclusion to make my tests
, and the hut was the best way to do it. I bought it in a sale of old war surplus materials and had it shipped down here.”
“You must be pretty rich,” I pointed out.
“I make do with what I have. I’ll be even richer, a lot richer, Rod, when I succeed in my experiments. And so will you.”
She said nothing about Howard Hayes Yule and his widow, Wanda. She wanted me to think her own money was backing her project. This was fine with me, because I wasn’t telling her that I planned to bring her project down around her ears like a house of cards collapsing.
A small quay of thin saplings with heavier pilings loomed before us as she swung the wheel to nose the Chris-Craft in against the wooden poles. I sprang to the foredeck, reached for a rope, flung it over a piling.
To my surprise, Beatrice Howard was tugging off her bikini halter, baring her breasts to the Bahaman sunlight. She giggled, catching my interested stare.
“I can’t walk in on—them—like this,” she protested, bending forward to search in her little carrying case for a black brassiere. She lifted it up, letting her breasts slip into the cups. Almost breathlessly, she added, “They think I’m a dedicated scientist.”
Her chin lifted defiantly. “Well, I am. But I guess I’m also a woman, even if I have fought against it.” She found a sweater in her case and slipped it on over her upper body.
Her fingers were busy with her bikini bottom straps.
She untied them, tossed the thin triangles aside. Naked below her sweater, her pallid hips and buttocks shining whitely in the sunlight, she flushed faintly.
“Aren’t you worried about them seeing you?” I asked.
She shook her head, bringing a garterbelt out of her small valise and hooking it about her middle. “They’re all busy working. I have a good organization, darling. They go on working whether I’m here or not.”
Over the garterbelt she pulled on a pair of nearly transparent black nylon panties. Then she sat down on a motorboat seat and, extending a slim leg, began drawing on a sheer nylon stocking. Her thigh turned sideways as she bent her head to watch as her fingers gartered the stocking vamp.
Within moments she was twisting into a skirt, standing now, half laughing as she caught my eyes. “There, I’m the lady boss once more. Nobody will know the way I’ve been showing off my body almost naked—except you. And you have the right to see me like that, Rod.”
She slipped her feet into high-heeled shoes and reached up her hand for me to take. I helped steady her as she stepped from the Chris-Craft onto the quay. As she walked ahead of me toward the shore, she showed a pair of handsome legs between her high heels and high skirt.
In a way, it was a damn shame to blow the whistle on Doctor Beatrice Howard. Under different circumstances, she could have been much fun.
I went after her stockinged legs up a stone path to a big flagstoned patio that held some outdoor furniture and then along a walkway that twisted upward and straightened to run toward the Quonset hut.
“This is testing day,” she said, walking side by side with me along the wide path. “My whole gang will be here to make notes, to plan revisions, to see how experimental ideas have come out in the test run.”
I heard voices and some laughter as her hand pushed open the door. A man stood there, uniformed like a private policeman, a Colt .45 hanging in a black leather holster at his hip. He touched the peak of his cap when he saw Bea, and gave me a sharp look out of pale blue eyes.
His face was tough, leathery; I told myself to be careful of this one, he was the kind who shot first, then thought about asking questions.
We went through a kind of crude lobby with a big door straight ahead and a smaller door off to one side, and stepped into a vast hall with a curving ceiling painted in sky blue and white fluff to represent clouds. It made the entire scene appear to be outdoors in the fresh air. Hidden lights, air vents and the painted ceiling made everything look realistic.
There were about a dozen girls and eight or nine young men, inside the hut. Ten of the girls and four of the young men were in the air, rising and falling like living elevators, as four of the men and two of the girls—all of them clad in white lab smocks—stared up at them and made notes on pieces of paper attached to clipboards.
One of the men turned his head, saw Bea, and put a whistle to his mouth. The sound rang through the hut. At that signal, the girls moving up and down in their gravity belts touched their controls and lowered to the hard dirt floor.
Doctor Howard said, “I want you to meet Rod Damon. He’s going to be my partner from now on. There are to be no secrets from him.”
I searched their faces, hunting for that of Laura Ogden. She was the one weak link in my chain of sabotage. I could never persuade her that I was not the Coxeman she believed me to be when she’d left me to die in the cellar of the Outer Banks house.
There was no Laura Ogden. Instead, I saw eager young faces, heard the murmur of soft voices. The girls were all slimly supple, good-looking, and very sexy. Maybe they looked so sexy because they were so healthy. They crowded in around me with questions babbling on their lips.
Doctor Howard raised her arms. “Quiet, quiet. You’ll get to meet him socially later. Right now I want you to show him that our Space Travel Limited gravity belts really work.”
The girls who had been testing the belts were wearing tight body-stockings, some of sheer black nylon, some of red lace, some of blue or white or pink rayon. Under those form-tight suits their bodies were naked. When they jumped around in their enthusiasm, their breasts shook and bobbled.
Their sexiness gave me an idea,
My job was to find out where Space Travel Ltd. had its laboratories, so the Coxe Foundation could destroy them. I told myself there was nothing to help me inside the Quonset hut, but in the outer lobby where the armed guard was, I had seen a closed door. Reason told me that Doctor Howard would have an office inside the hut, to file away reports on the tests she took. Where those reports were kept, I might find some hint of where the laboratories themselves could be located.
I said, “I’d like to try a belt myself.”
One of the young men in the white smocks turned to a table and lifted a belt, handing it to me. I strapped it about my middle.
Remembering that I had told Doctor Howard I had worn such a belt when I shot Wanda Weaver Yule, I said, “I know a little about them, but you’d better explain their workings to refresh my memory.”
He showed me the little dial on the belt buckle. To put power into the belt to lift it, I simply turned the dial. It sent an electric current through the belt, which was fashioned of leather into which the metallic compound called Yule-lift had been stitched. This would lift me upward. When I wanted to come down I would simply cut down on the amount of electric current I was feeding into the belt.
I turned the dial.
Nothing happened.
Everybody started to talk, crowding in around me. Doctor Howard pushed forward, nodding her head. “Just as I thought. The belt isn’t strong enough yet to lift a man as large as you.”
She glanced at me suspiciously, frowning. I knew what was in her mind. She was wondering how in hell I had used Midge’s belt to shoot Wanda Weaver Yule. I winked at her, grinned happily, and she seemed to relax. I told myself to think fast; I needed a damn good explanation to cover up for my goof.
A man brought another belt and I buckled it about my middle. This time when I pressed the two buckle-dials, I shot up into the air.
“Woowww!” I yelled.
“Not so much juice,” a girl called.
She apparently thought I needed help because she turned her own dials and rose up into the air after me. I stared down at the red hair framing her upturned face. She was laughing delightedly at my predicament. There was no danger, her blue eyes were telling me as they glinted gleefully, she would be up in the air with me in a matter of moments.
I turned dials. I shot downward.
My body bumped into her body as I had inten
ded it to do. My arms closed about her softness, rammed it up against me. I heard her gasp in surprise.
I rather imagine she thought I was panicking, the way a drowning man panics. My clasp about her curving body was nothing more than an instinctive grasp at life itself, in her eyes.
“Take it easy!” she snapped. “You’re all right!”
“I’ll say I am,” I murmured, snuggling closer.
She must have felt my priapic arousal at her loins, the result of her thighs, belly and breasts pressing into me, because she went all red and tried to wriggle free. The more she wriggled, the more she excited me, as she soon found out.
“You’re awful,” she breathed, her eyes sparking fire. Almost against her will, her hips nudged into me.
The way I figured it, I was taking absolutely no risk at all. From what Beatrice Howard had told me, her boys and girls were living like hermits. She worked them to the bone, she gave them no rest. In her puritanical mind she had figured out that if she kept them too busy to do any more than fall into an exhausted sleep at the end of a working day, she would have no problem with their libidos.
So far, she hadn’t. But now I was determined to get out from under this crowd of human beings to search that little room behind the door in the Quonset hut lobby. The best way to do this was to get them hung up on the sex life they had been missing out on.
My arms were wrapped about the redhead. Unseen by her, I touched the twin controls of my two belt buckles. I started going down, with my hands fastened in her body stocking. Naturally, the body stocking tore at her shoulders and began sliding down her slimly curved body.
The redhead yelped and put her hands on her gravity belt that was buckled about her waist. The hell with modesty at a time like this! She was thinking. Without the belt, she would fall. So while she held the belt. I held her skintight garment, and drew the damn thing down off her body like an aerial strip tease.
Down below, they thought I was a clumsy oaf.