by Troy Conway
“Yes, Madame.”
Mady twitched over to the bed. She winked at me as she went by, fooling nobody. She had outsmarted the Madame, filled in for the missing Viviane and obviously just wanted me to see her in her feminine glory so I could drool a little wondering about our scheduled rendezvous. She was already climbing out of the middie blouse and stepping from the leather mini-skirt. She wore nothing under these items, either. What a school. The numberless enrollees probably didn’t have a silk handkerchief between them.
Before the show got on the bed, I had a question for Madame Lilly de Jussac, whose oddities were apparently no secret to her girls.
“What’s with the major bars? Were you in the Army?”
Mady Morrow had opted for turning the counterpane down and rolling back the blankets to the foot of the bed. All of her immense proportions bobbled, bubbled and ringadingdinged as she did so. She kept winking at me and stuck her tongue out. What a carnal babe she was. Completely uninhibited. With all the meat in Chicago.
Lilly paused, her mini-skirt dangling from her right hand. I tried not to gape. The incredible body, tapering, creamy, magnificent, was adorned with a Venus mound of red flaming glory. That was one thing I was going to have to find out for myself. Nobody is red down there. Not that red.
“Yes, I was a major. In the French Secret Service, some several years ago. I retain the rank only because it is a touch of masculinity and allows for the ladies to respect my rank and place as their head. Their Madame, as it were.”
“Shrewd move, psychologically speaking.”
“Yes, I rather thought so. Now if you will make yourself comfortable in that chair and watch, you will see how much Morrow and the other ladies of the Academie Sex-ualite have learned in so very short a time. I promise you will not be bored.”
“Mind if I take notes?”
“By all means.”
“Then, set to, ladies. I’m all eyes.”
Madame Lilly de Jussac chuckled. It was a rich, venomous laugh that actually sent cold chills up and down my spine. It had cruelty and cold-bloodedness written all over it. The way Jack the Ripper might have laughed while he was cutting up in Whitehall.
“In a very little while, Monsieur Rod, I suspect”—and here she lay back on the bed, spread-eagling her splendid body—”that you will not be able to make that claim so easily. Indeed, you may very well be all something else.”
“Show me,” I challenged.
“I shall. Mady”—her voice fell to a whisper—”kiss me, please. The way I showed you in the assembly hall.”
“Ooolalala!” Mady Morrow chortled in her ungovernable, spirited way. “lie back, Madame, and I’ll do you to perfection!”
Madame Lilly de Jussac closed her eyes. Her lips moved. Barely in a whisper.
“Idiot,” she said, without malice. “You mouth stupid things. You must be tender, sweet, loving and kind. You must draw from me all forms of desire and want and need so that I will respond. Now, do as I say. Begin at the beginning. Way down at my toes. The soles of my feet . . . ahhhhh . .. yes, yes . . . now slowly . . . do not rush . . . we must show Professor Damon so many things . . . must we not?”
The woman’s voice was magic. Sheer magic.
It had to be. For Mady Morrow shut up and got going. Moving with slow, incredible grace. 1 watched, fascinated. I had underestimated the female head of the Académie Sexualité. My superior attitude about her lesbianism, however true it was, could not justify what was happening before my eyes.
Or excuse what was happening to me, quick like a bunny.
I had lost all my ballast and the balloon was beginning to soar. Up, up and away!
Voyeurism, frotteurism—you name it. I don’t care what the hell you call it. The indisputable fact of the matter and the awful unvarnished truth was, that watching that amazing redhead tangle with that buxom blonde on that big monster of a bed, earned for me one of the throbbingest erections I have had in my life.
It Sequoia’d from my thighs, straining for the ceiling of the room, wanting to be free, yearning to swing from its moorings. Man, I was hard.
And Madame Lilly had worked the miracle all with her magic little Lesbian act. She must have been a straight-A student.
Mesmerized, I watched the two loving figures on the bed.
It was The Kiss triumphant; Rodin sculpture gone hogwild. The Madame was a naughty lady. A very naughty lady, indeed. Naughty but oh, you Kid!
Madame Lilly de Jussac.
The one, the only, the original Frenchy.
Mady Morrow was no slouch either.
Between the two of them, they wrote a brand-new chapter of French history. The kind they can never teach at institutions of academic learning in America.
This was real exfracurricular activity!
CHAPTER FOUR
As Soixante-Neuf goes, it was in a class by itself. The redhead was one of Nature’s wonders and the blonde was about a lap behind in the looks and deportment league. I got real uncomfortable on the chair, my eyes glued to the action. It was like having your own stag movie. The Madame’s private office had become a smoker.
The girls were blazing away on the big bed. Mady had gone down in flames of desire, her great dexterous tongue licking into the fiery foliage that formed the convex of the de Jussac Venus mound. For a long moment, there was nothing but two sets of shapely thighs kicking and threshing, nothing but a revolving kaleidoscope of superb posterior and unforgettable breast structure. The blonde head blossomed at the core of the game. Madame de Jussac’s red hair fluttered in the breeze. But she contributed more than a passive lovely body to the proceedings. The woman was a past mistress in the weaving of daisy chains. She’d been down that road before.
It was all too apparent.
Skillfully she had jounced her lithe body, working her long legs masterfully. She had hooked her tapering, slender fingers beneath Mady Morrow’s armpits and wilfully, almost tenderly, thrust the bouffant head into her core. Mady came without a whimper, adding all of her weight as she put her pink tongue into it. There was a heady, intoxicating interval of syrupy noises, punctuated by long, heartfelt sighs and murmurs of endearment. Mady had abandoned her coarse Americanisms, but mysteriously, she had forgotten her rotten French accent too.
“Madame, Madame, Madame,” she whispered fervently, an awestruck schoolgirl.
“Mady, Mady, Mady,” the Madame replied, in a voice like the wind stealing over a haunted house.
“At, yi, yi,” I said to myself, straining on the chair. There was no holding the new strength within me. I was lifted off the chair, wanting to run wild. But I held back. There was more to see and learn.
The passionate human pretzel on the bed reversed with a startling lack of confusion. With remarkable ease, the twin beauties rotated and the blonde head replaced the red one. Or vice versa. Mady must have been good, to judge by the Madame’s glazed sleepy-lidded look and utter smoothness of damp body. A fine sheen of lover’s dew tinted her superb flesh. But Mady must have been an amateur. To judge by what came next.
Once during my impressionable youth, I watched a Greenwich Village daisy chain composed of three men and three women. The pecking order was changeable and far from completely heterosexual but what Madame de Jussac now did to Lilly reminded me of that time. The buxom blonde didn’t have to wait to die to go to heaven. She was making the Pearly Gates in five seconds flat.
The Madame plunged her exquisite face, tongue first, into Mady’s valley of decision. After that, the whole room exploded with a rapid-fire medley of grunts, groans, moans and veritable meows of feminine exaltation. Mady took off. In her delirium, she pawed feebly at the counterpane, she mashed the Madame’s head, she kicked a hole into the ozone of the room. And then, after I don’t know how long, there was one long loving yell and the bodies on the bed stopped moving. A cloud of invisible steam might have risen about the brocaded bed. Why not? A sexual Hydrogen bomb had certainly just exploded.
In a pool of my own sweat,
I watched on.
The Madame and Mady lay subdued, crumpled, like scatter rugs flung across the bed. Their lovely mounds of womanhood, in all three areas, rippled and rose and fell with their hoarse breathing. I got hold of myself, lifted gingerly from my chair and went over to the bed.
“Time?” I laughed. “I thought you girls were real troupers. Tsk, tsk.”
The Madam’s low laugh emanated from the fleshpile.
“Ah, you jest. But tell me—was it not a delight to watch? You see how well Mady learns her lessons?”
“Private tutoring?” I suggested.
She didn’t reply, only laughing. That cruel, vicious laugh that said so clearly what she was.
I unzipped my fly. The horse sprang from the barn. The metallic noise and the whish of passage of arms, made the Madame bolt upright in bed. Her eyes saw me. Saw it and her nostrils flared and the red hair bristled and her green eyes shot hatred.
“Put that away or you will never enter this Académie again, my dear Monsieur Rod.”
“Aw, c’mon. Have a heart. You had yours. What about mine? I could add years to your life with some of my own instruction.”
“That is not necessary,” she said icily and put her feet on the floor on the far side of the bed. Mady hadn’t moved. The Madame’s incredibly lovely back was to me. I fumed for a moment, and then forgot my discomfort. Mady’s warm hand had stolen across the coverlet and vised me where it felt good. I stood there and sighed. It wasn’t what I wanted but Mady’s fingers were stroking me, then working up and down. It felt marvelous all the same. I looked down at her. Her eyes were still closed, her body a sprawl of sated womankind but her busy little fingers never let up. I had to stop her though. I was so prepared at that point, I could have shot the Madame right between the shoulder blades and pinned her to the other wall of the room. Like an oil canvas.
“Wouldn’t you like to see me in action, Madame?”
“I’m afraid not. This is a woman’s academie—not a stud farm. We don’t want to cause chaos here, do we?” She had turned, standing up, wriggling into the leather mini-skirt. She had moved too fast. So that she saw Mady’s hand working its points. For a moment, she trembled at the sight of a man. Her torso quivered and she sucked her breath in. But it passed and she was her own sweet Lesbian self again.
“Morrow!” Her voice was a whip. “Stop that!”
“Aw, Madame—” Mady’s answer was a beg of sound.
“Stop it, I said. At once, do you hear?”
“Gee, whiz—can’t a girl have any fun?”
“Morrow!”
“Okay, okay. I heard you.”
The hot hand left me. I shrugged, gathered up the slack and repacked my pants. I managed a grin I didn’t feel.
“Regardez!” I said. “Now you see it, now you don’t.”
Mady sat up, stretching her fleshy arms. She rubbed herself under the armpits. Her full chest load flared. But her eyes were two happy pools. She’d gotten her jollies, but good.
“Okay, Madame? Can I go now?”
“Yes, return to your desk. Professor Damon will be back. I have persuaded him to give you ladies the benefits of some of his knowledge. Vocally, that is. A symposium is to be arranged.”
“Gee, that’s swell! Wait’u I tell the girls.” She scrambled off the bed and redressed. From my chair, I looked at the Madame. The mad marry scene of only minutes ago could have happened to two other women. She was calm, cool and collected behind her desk again. She clapped her hands and Mady Morrow, so help me, practically curtsied and backed out of the room. But her glowing eyes reminded me to look her up first chance I got. The very first chance.
When the door had closed, Madame de Jussac got back tome.
“Well, Monsieur Rod?” She wasn’t even breathing hard.
“What do you want me to say?” I growled. “Vive la France?”
“I want you to admit that this sort of instruction does show my ladies how to completely enjoy their femininity. Their vital essence, their feminine mystique, as it were.”
“Sure. But what about the other side of the bed? Or are fifty million Frenchmen really wrong?”
Her eyes glittered. “That part is their own business. Here at the Academie we discuss it, show movies and even allow for visual aid courses, but since no man is allowed within the study walls—” Her topless body shrugged and the hemispheres barely collided. “The point is, we teach desire and the art of manipulation. As well as our libraries and records, which contain so many of your own works, by the way.”
“I’m touched.” There wasn’t anything else I was going to ask her. She wasn’t going to deliver the bacon and she hadn’t once mentioned the murder of Danielle Lebeau. I decided to get my information on that matter elsewhere. “Well, I’m buzzing off. I’m staying at the Hotel Four-cheite. When you get your schedule, set me up. I should be in Paris for a while. Okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” She watched me reach the door without getting up from the desk. I wondered about that until she said, “Tell me, Monsieur Rod. As penises go, you must be quite an over-sized male. Yes?”
“I’m real gone, Madame Lilly.”
“Tres bien. You wouldn’t care to tell me exactly how, ah, long you are?”
“Let’s just say I’m smaller than a breadbox but bigger than a Nathan’s special.”
“Nathan’s? What is that?”
“Coney Island in America. He sells hot dogs. Great big things. There’s one that——“
“I see. I think I understand.”
“I wish you did,” I said sadly. “Au revoir, Lilly. We will meet again.”
“A bientot,” she purred. So I left her, letting her think it was Game and she had taken all the tricks. The knotty-pine steel door closed behind me and I had left the half-world of the heady pussycat of the Academie Sexualite.
A bee in toe—I’d like to have put a bee in her bonnet. All the way up until it stung her into drooling insanity. Clever broads irritate the hell out of me sometimes. They just aren’t natural.
The corridor looked like clear-sailing. Not a streamlined student in sight. I headed down the hall, passing a lot more steel doors and entrances and exits. I was thinking about a lot of things but I’m no real detective. My mind was on Sex. Mady Morrow, in particular. Damn her being stuck at the Registration Desk—just my lousy luck.
ESP gets better all the time. And perhaps it is merely that minds that run along libidinous channels simply have to meet. It’s like two testicles that beat as one.
I’d just about reached the bend in the hall that branched out into the big lobby when a door on my left whipped open, two soft hands reached out and practically swept me off my feet. I went without a whimper. I followed flashing eyes, an open red mouth and a quivering pale blur of female body. Speak of the Angel!
Mady Morrow was way ahead of me.
A lock clicked, a dim light flicked on and I found myself in the broom closet. There was a mop, a pail, boxes of all kinds of detergents and rows of shelves that held nothing but laundry soap, brillo pads and that soapy smell that clears out the nostrils in no time at all. But there was also Mady Morrow, cramming me up against the wall, roving her hands all over me, licking hungrily at my face. I let her. There wasn’t much room but you don’t need a bed to tango. Not always. Close confines can be enough.
“You meanie,” she whispered hungrily. “Did you think you were going without seeing me—?”
“You’ll never believe it,” I said, grabbing handfuls of her and letting them warm my fingers. She felt big and soft and marshmallowy and I was in a toasting mood. She sighed as her fingers undid my trousers and the family jewels glittered in the gloom. “I wanted you back there with Madame.”
“Her?” Mady snorted. It was like a fine young filly stamping in a stall. “Tongues are okay but they’ll never replace this. Jeezis, Professor, is that really all you?”
“Find out for yourself.”
“Golly!” she lowered herself to her knees, clasp
ing her hands around my fanny. Her mouth found me. Thrills shot up and down my spine. I leaned against the door for leverage and pushed. She gulped hungrily, her lips racing. When her nails dug into my skin, I lifted her up and set her down on it. She squealed with pleasure, riding it, hooking her ample thighs around my waist. Her soft blind spot dampened, vising me tightly until some spasmodic jerks and pushes and rhythm from my end made her flood me.
“Ohhhhh,” she moaned. “Jeezis, Rod—”
“What’s the matter?”
“I came—here—to study and mind my P’s and Q’s but it’s so harrrrrd to be good!”
“It’s gotta be hard to be good and who says you’re being bad?”
“The Madame—she—oh, do that again—yes, yes— she says we have to learn all about our bodies but she won’t let any men help us in the classroom work—stick me, baby—oh, stop—don’t stop!”
I didn’t. I was all stored up, the scene on the bed having made me infernally savage and strong. I leaned Mady against her wall without having to move more than a yard of space. Between the brooms and the detergents, I had her boxed up solid. She had the goods too. So all she did was benefit by my enforced diet. I was ravenously hungry.
We didn’t talk for the next twenty minutes.
Not until I had taken her standing up, sideways, backways and up and down. For a really big young girl, she was deft and graceful. Her muscles and coordination were as good as any highly trained athlete. Finally, for an encore and a finishing stroke, I salvaged Yankowski’s favorite position, as he had outlined in his memorable keystone work, Vertical Or Horizontal, The Man As Aggressor. The old Polish great was convinced that the male must inevitably assume the role of attack, piercing the core of the apple, stabbing the circle, meeting the V, keying the lock. Or, splitting the atom, to coin a phrase.
So Yankowski’s perfect thrust was: come in at a forty-five degree angle and go about as far as you can go. Yankowski erred in one important particular. He never specified in which position the female of the species should, or must be. But that really didn’t matter. At forty-five degrees, it is always every man for himself, isn’t it? And woman.