A Good Peace

by Troy Conway

  It was uncanny.

  Almost by silent agreement, about five of the killing crowd closed in on me, pushing me to the far wall. I was trapped. The five were a mass of shouting, laughing, drugged women. But it wasn’t my charm that made them behave that way. They had other plans and they didn’t want me to interfere. The broad with the big booms blinded me.

  It was useless to fight back. I was literally swamped by the five broads. They had my arms spread-eagled against the wall, my thighs locked in their arms. To make it worse, the bronze stud joined the jailers and, smiling, planted himself right next to my side, already making with the eyes at my crotch. He didn’t give a damn what his playmates were up to.

  I did. I craned for a look.

  What they were up to was a mass gang bang of Brigitte Lebeau. When she realized finally what was happening, she tried to climb down off the hassock and run. It was too late. Every other woman left in the room, led by the lanky Chinese girl, engulfed her. There was a great tearing of clothes, a ripping of the spangles and the feathers and pretty soon, Brigitte Lebeau was exposed in all her feminine glory. For a moment, the attackers admired her, giving her the tribute of their oohs and aahs—remember Naadia Grey in La Dolce Vita—the orgy scene? Well, Brigitte had all that and more. She was as finely figured as a woman can be. Her body was a gorgeous arrangement of hill and dale. The valley was as inviting as a Venus mound can be. Danielle’s doll of a mother even had dimpled knees.

  There wasn’t a thing I could do but watch. And that hurt too. The bronze stud was admiring me by this time. I was helpless and he was making measurements with his hand spans. I didn’t care. I tried to beg them all to stop but one of the broads had stuffed a spare bra into my mouth. It was silk and it tasted lousy.

  Then it began.

  Maybe a dozen women, I lost count, spread Brigitte Lebeau on the carpeted basement floor and got going. They hit her from all directions of the Lesbian’s compass. The North, South, East and West of Madame Brigitte was assaulted and the ground was held by one ravening, ravaging female pussycat. For a second, the tableau was a weird wheel of passion with Brigitte the hub of the spokes. And then the scene revolved and the biting, and the eating and the drinking began. What a feast for a pervert! And playmates of sex clubs all over the globe.

  And those sounds, the telltales; the squishy, slurping, gurgling, echoing rhythms of evoked passions. Madame was only human. She tried to fight. Her mouth broke free for a moment and she shouted, “Damon, I am destroyed!”

  She said a mouthful and got one too. The lanky Chinese whose breasts were not lean, rammed her right breast into Brigitte Lebeau’s mouth to silence her. After that, it was all of a piece. The grunting and the groaning, the twisting and the turning. The Madame was only human, after all. She began to enjoy herself. Enjoy? She went ape. When every opening of the body, when every inch of responsive flesh is titillated, it would have taken a Saint to resist and even then, who can really say?

  The Madame was being reamed, steamed and dry-cleaned. Almost renovated, you might say, and the dry-cleaning job was being done by the sort of dames who make their living at it. I looked away but the smacking noises would not go away. The room reeked of the aroma of intercourse. Maybe not too heterosexual but what the hell. Brigitte Lebeau was fighting back, biting back before they ruined her altogether for a man. Any man. Will power in sex is a vastly overrated and very much misunderstood item of make-up. Nobody’s that safe.

  Madame Brigitte Lebeau was being seduced.

  She was being raped.

  She was being devoured.

  Wolfed, ravaged, ravished and humiliated. By a pack of the horniest, most lecherous, most self-serving bunch of female cats I have ever personally witnessed in action. To my shame and lack of action.

  What could I do?

  What did I dare do?

  The mad little mob scene taking place in the very heart of the hole known as Les Deuces was one of those tidbits which was meaningless in a world like this one but it just could be the sort of soul-shattering situation and experience from which a woman like Madame Brigitte Lebeau might never recover.

  I had to do something.

  Anything.

  Desperately I gazed around the room, blotting out the wicked sexy scene before my eyes. Looking for a way out, an answer to a horny dilemma. Madame Lebeau had about five more minutes before she became the very looniest of dames in all of France. You could only take so much, be used so much before the wheel will spin the other way. I know. Don’t I major in the understanding of the sexual condition as it applies to the human race?

  Under Paris skies, a very heterosexual woman could be converted into the most free-wheeling Lesbian in the universe.

  Especially sensual, liberated women like Madame.

  How much can any woman—any man—really take when the lips are down?

  The bronze stud, all curly-haired and smiling, breathed in my ear. “Hah. I am fully a thumb longer than you. See?”

  “Congratulations. Buzz off.”

  He ignored me, chortling to the panting wenches that held me captive, women waiting their turn at the festival of Brigitte Lebeau. The crossword-puzzle beauty was champing at the bit now.

  “See? He is not all they say! I beat the American! I, Mi-chel-Duval Fountainbleau!”

  The girls ignored him too. They were beginning to change places with exhausted members of the love pack trooping back from Brigitte’s much-abused body. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to look anymore. I was close to panic too. What if the party got around to me? Ouch. That would really hurt. A castrating process, psychologically, for a man like me. The boys with long hair were clapping their hands, agog.

  We had to get out of there. Pronto. Or the world might see the very last of healthy, normal sex treatises by one Rod Damon. I did not want to be the laughingstock of a lousy little sewer called Les Deuces. So I gambled. I opened my eyes and smiled at the bronze stud. He smiled back proudly.

  “Think you’re pretty good, eh? Well, I’ve got news for you. I don’t even have an erection. What do you think of that?”

  His face broke apart. “That is ridiculous!”

  “Yeah? Would you care to challenge me in the center of the floor?”

  “But—but—” His eyes wouldn’t leave my tool. “Even now you are thrust out. At the ready. Am I a fool? My own eyes tell me that is about as far as you can go . . .”

  “What’s the matter, Michel-Duval Fountainbleau, are you afraid to be shown up in front of these whores?”

  “Afraid? I?” He snorted and I swear he would have pounded his chest like Tarzan. I had insulted his manhood.

  “Then turn me loose and let’s see. To hell with my friend. She’s having fun, why can’t I?”

  Hoarse shouts and moans were emanating from the fleshy pile of bodies in the center of the room. The bronze stud waited no longer. He stepped back, tugging me free from the women who held my arms and legs. He flung them away like so many toys, literally dragging me out to the center of things. By that time I had all the freedom I needed. Nobody in the daisy chain snaking around on the floor paid any attention to me and the bronze stud. And that was all the operating time I needed.

  I kicked him right in the balls. High and hard. There was no time to be a nice guy. He went down, screaming, pawing at his most prized possession and rapidly forgot about everybody else in the world. That’s what I wanted. I moved fast.

  The drugged, sexy bitches swarming over Brigitte Lebeau never saw me coming. I kicked into the pile, scattering naked whores right and left, kicking them where it would do the most fun and dug Brigitte out from under the pile. It wasn’t easy. She was a battered, limp, nearly lifeless bundle of womanhood. I swung her in a fireman’s carry over my shoulder, turned around and lowering my head, charged through the room for the stairs leading up out of the sewer sin circle. I stiff-armed Miss 50’s out of my path. She went down with a meaty bounce, landing knockers first.

  Mad angry screams rose in a chorus
behind me.

  The Chinese sweetheart tried to block me. I let her have one right across the chops and she went down with a silly smile on her face as if she liked it. By that time, whatever customers were left in the joint were shrinking back from me, trying to stay out of trouble. I shouldered through the pack, racing like mad, until I gained the stairs. The bronze stud was sitting on the floor, huddled over his joystick, crying great tears. Brigitte Lebeau’s shapely sack of flesh was getting heavier by the second. Some shouted, “To arms!”

  Up under the manhole cover, the doorman, a burly, hairy cat with big hands, tried to block me at the ladder. I flung a thick roll of franc notes in his face and he immediately closed his eyes, turned around and lay down on the floor as if I had hit him. Damn clever, these doormen. And money can always parlez-vous.

  Getting through that manhole cover was like coming back to life. The air was sweet, the sky was full of stars and not even a passing gendarme marred the view. The cops had to be on the take. Nobody runs a spot like Les Deuces without an official by-our-leave. And some loot. The way of the crooked world. I was in a rotten mood. As hard as nails and unhappy.

  I found a cab, poured Madame Lebeau into the back seat and gave her home address to the cabbie. He was a French cabbie. A badly mauled naked female meant nothing to him. Other than as a curiosity. I was breathing like an old locomotive, realizing how narrowly I had escaped a mass bungholing and God alone knew what else.

  “Madame is ill?”

  “You’d be too if you’d been attacked by a gang of alleycats.”

  His eyes were kind and interested in the rearview mirror.

  “Two-legged or four-legged, Monsieur?”

  “Real mean pussies. The worst kind of people.”

  He sighed and gave his wheel a flick. He was a man’s man.

  “It is true. One can suspect what a man will do but no one can safely say what a woman will. Ah—the world is in sad shape, my friend. Is it any wonder that the Peace Talks can not be settled?”

  “Yeah. Ain’t it the truth.”

  Brigitte Lebeau was stirring against my shoulder, moaning and crying in her delirium, I checked her quickly. She was Hickeysville, France. Large red strawberry bites covered every inch of her anatomy that I could see. Especially around the thighs. They had done her up red-black-and-blue as well as brown. What a sorry sight she was.

  I was disgusted. Even her dimpled knees were gouged.

  The investigation, which had been running along smoothly, had run afoul at Les Deuces. A complete deadend—well, not really dead—and a waste of time. Finding a murderer had nothing to do with getting raped and mauled in an underground bistro. I felt in my side pocket for Danielle Lebeau’s address book. It wasn’t there. I cursed. It must have dropped from my pocket in all the fandango accompanying the hasty exit from the place. That—or it had been lifted from me during the assault on Brigitte Lebeau. I had to think about that. It was a screwy possibility.

  Maybe Les Deuces was not what it all seemed at first glance.

  Maybe Danielle Lebeau had had it listed in her address book for a very good reason. Maybe it just wasn’t a place to see how the other half lived and tangled tails.

  Maybe she’d gotten more than just her thesis, Sex and Concentration, out of it.

  Maybe—hell. I had to get Brigitte Lebeau home first and into a hot bath and safely tucked in bed. I’d damn near come getting the beautiful warhorse killed. I knew she couldn’t have helped enjoying it a little, but that kind of wholesale sex act is not exactly calculated for the saving of wear and tear on valuable, intimate sections of the body. It can ruin you.

  She was still mumbling drunkenly when I sneaked her out of the cab up to her room, with my coat jacket around her for a modicum of protection. When I got her into the room and the door was closed, she was sobbing like a baby. I couldn’t keep her arms from around my neck as I laid her down in the four-postered bed. She was crying terribly and her warm hands, scratched and red, were imploring me for something far different than she had had.

  “Ah, Rod—please, please—don’t go—you must stay with Brigitte. You must make love to me!”

  “Look, after what you’ve been through!”

  “That’s it! That’s just it! Damn me for a wicked woman, I enjoyed myself! You hear? I loved all those hungry mouths, those fingers, those lips—Rod, you must help me! I must find out if I can still enjoy a man. Now, tonight, here—this next second! If those women have robbed me of my greatest delight, I will seek them all out with a carving knife and cut their asses to ribbons!”

  She lay back on the bed, eyes begging, holding up her arms. There was a desperate rhythm in her quivering breasts and her straining thighs. I sighed and took off my tie.

  “You’re sure, Brigitte?” Chewed up, bitten, red-marked and all, she looked like the godmother of every lovely courtesan in history.

  “Sure?” Her laugh rose bitterly in the tiny, dark room. A glow of neon filtered from without the narrow windows. “I am sure of only two things. This.” She touched the silken convex of her womanhood. “And that.” She touched the bulge of my trousers where big things meant a lot. “For a French woman, there is little else in the world. You understand? Ah, Rod . . . give me back my pride and my honor and my soul!”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do insist.”

  “I warn you. If it hurts even just a little, promise you’ll say so and we’ll try again later.”

  “Oh, hurt me, hurt me! I wish that with all my heart.”

  “You are nuts, Madame Brigitte, but you’re a damn good-looking woman.”

  “Yes! Is it not lucky!”

  “Lucky for you and for me. I love good-looking women.”

  “Rod?” She stroked me. “Yeah?” I murmured.

  “Please stop talking and take me to bed. Now, this instant, immediatement!”

  I finally agreed and lay down next to her, tossing my socks into a corner.

  “Let me kiss you first. Let me build within you the fires that consume . . . in that way I, too, will have a little breathing time to refill my own desires. . . .”

  “Now who’s talking too much?”

  “Pardon!”

  She sighed a little and lowered away, raising the bridge to her warm and waiting mouth.

  The sinful scenes of Les Deuces now took a back seat.

  Madame Lebeau reminded me of Minda Loa. Without the clever and tricky feather. She didn’t need the south end of a duck to make me satisfied.

  So I waited.

  And watched her.

  It was a very dangerous and daring experiment in a way. Even I, who have satisfied and endured and comforted maybe a thousand dames, wasn’t quite sure exactly how successful I would or could be with a woman who had had her very insides and soul ripped apart by a mob of wolfish brutes. There was no telling whether or not I too would damage the tender and gentle libido that reposes in the breast of all womankind.

  “Brigitte, please—”

  “Yes?” Her eyes tried to find me above the giant that towered in her palms.

  “Please remember. It is not a test. Or a challenge. We will go slow, eh? We have all the time in the world.”

  “Quite .. . ahhhhhh . . . ,” she murmured. “It is good to feel the salt of a real man . . .”

  “All well and good. Just remember, you don’t have to prove a thing. We don’t have to prove a thing. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Good. Now get on with what you’re doing and devil take the hindmost.”

  She laughed lightly. “No, we will save nothing for that rascal!”

  Madame Brigitte Lebcau wanted to get the show on the road. You would have thought it was the only game in town, the way she played it.

  Too bad the queer darlings of Les Deuces weren’t hanging around to watch what 1 did with the Madame and what she did to me. In the very wise words of Pal Joey, if they knew what they had thrown away they would have cut their throats.

  The b
ronze stud would have committed suicide under the Eiffel Tower.

  And maybe Madame Lilly de Jussac would have amply understood why her forthcoming purpose to let me give a symposium on Sex to the ladies of I Académic Sexualité, might just be playing with fire. It would have cured her Lesbianism for all time, at the very least.

  Mady Morrow would have understood. Minda Loa, too. And perhaps, dear little Viviane Fresnay.

  I’m sure Danielle Lebeau would have understood best of all what her mother and I did under Paris skies in the little room above the curving alleyway.

  After all, the young girl who penned Sex and Concentration would have been in my corner. Maybe even shouting “Bravo!” and “Encore!”

  Her lovely mother was Sex and I was concentrating.

  Paris and bedsprings.

  What a combination.

  CHAPTER SIX

  We made love for about five hours.

  If the good Madame had had any doubts about herself, they all dissolved within the confines of my arms and the wide four-postered bed.

  Brigitte Lebeau’s return to normalcy was a completely painless process. In fact, we had a ball. From quiet beginnings can come great things. We both went slowly, taking all the time there was and nobody was in a hurry to go anyplace or catch a streetcar or a bus. With caution and care as my watchword, and finesse as my long suit, it was one of the happiest experiences in a lifetime of happy experiences.

  “Sacre,” she whispered, laving me softly and moistly with slow, deliberate encirclements of her pink tongue. “You fill the eye, Rod.”