by Troy Conway
She obviously wanted a quickie. A stand-up jet job. I guess she didn’t have much time. She was nude to the fingernails and toenails and before I could get a word out, she got me in. With both hands and then with a wild wriggle of her thighs, she locked me in a standing prison of warm flesh and warmer motions.
She exploded right away so I let her. She was breathing hard and her body felt like it was on fire down below. I couldn’t do anything facy with her except provide the key for her lunging lock. She went at me with a vengeance.
“What is this?” I whispered. “A wham-bam, thank-you, sir?”
“Oh, Rod. Sorry. The damn Madame ordered me up to her office in five minutes. Something about my extracurricular activities with you, I suppose. One of the kids must have ratted. To hell with all of them.”
“Hey, don’t get in any trouble on my acount. . .”
“Don’t be a chump. I’d hold hot chestnuts for an hour in both hands for five minutes of your gorgeous tool. Don’t talk. Push me some more . . .”
“But I have something to tell you. Viviane says its okay with her but I want you to make up your mind.”
“I’m listening—mmmmm—would you just push a little at least? Don’t make me do all the work.” So I pushed and while I was so occupied, I explained to her about the little party I had planned. I would need girls like her and Viviane Fresnay to throw the wild crowd of Les Deuces off the track. They mustn’t suspect anything. Not anything.
“Wheee!” Mady Morrow was overjoyed. “A party with you? Count me in! Anywhere, anyplace, any time!”
“You sound like me. And listen—I wouldn’t mind at all if, when you see Madame, you sort of drop hints all over the place. Who knows? We could cure that lady yet of her lez tendencies.”
“Hot damn,” Mady exulted in her Chicagoese. “I’d sure like to see that icebox defrosted right before my eyes. See her begging for your stick. That alone would be worth the price of admission.”
“I sincerely hope so,” I added fervently.
She added some more ferventlys of her own but her five minutes was soon up so she let me out. When she redressed and took off upstairs, I gave her one last long lingering kiss. She liked that, and I did too. I liked her. There is nothing so satisying as a cooperative broad. Even if she is from Chicago.
My plans were shaping up jolly good and when I walked down the quadrangle to the Renault, the one hundred Sexualités were now all shimmying and shammying to a loud-speaker rendition of Ballin’ The Jack. What a routine. They, with their insidious hip-twisting, breast-shaking and rump-dancing, were balling Jack, Tom, Dick, Harry, Charles, Peter, William, Richard and the French Foreign Legion. En toto. It was a fine school, I can tell you. I was all for it, with or without a Lezzie as its principal.
I hurried because I had a lot more fish to fry, planning for my party. I had to beat Madame de Jussac to the punch. We had to have my party before we had her party.
On the way back to Montmartre and Brigitte Lebeau and Walrus-moustache, I detoured for a flying visit to Les Deuces. There was no time to spare. I ducked down the manhole, found the ladder and descended into the club. Francoise Marnay and Mei Ling High were sleeping off their kicks on the rug in one corner. I padded toward the cubicle where I had kicked the daylights out of Annette and Wan Lo. I had to control myself, knowing that Wan Lo might be Danielle Lebeau’s killer, but like Walrus-moustache had said, we needed proof.
I expected to find them in because I’d only left them a couple of hours ago and where can rats like them hole up in the daytime except in a sewer like Les Deuces?
When I came back, I got what I came for.
For a long second, I had to watch. It was like a lousy traffic accident. Or an exhibit in a freak side show.
Wan Lo was lying on a wooden board just an inch off the floor. I didn’t have to look under him. It was a bed of nails and his fat, chubby face was wreathed in a smile of mingled pleasure and pain. Annette was adding her two cents worth of insanity to the entire procedure. She was straddled above him, at the waist, methodically sticking a collection of long needles into his pudgy flesh. They looked like hat pins and she looked like she was sticking a pig. With each jab, she was emitting a howl like a banshee.
“If you’re through making love to each other, I’d like to talk to you,” I said.
Annette whirled, her eyes surprised. Wan Lo opened his too, craning his neck. Both of them didn’t lose a beat. Sweet smiles of delight swept across their faces.
“You came back.” Annette cooed. “You darling!”
“You missed us,” Wan Lo sighed. “I knew it. See, Annette? I told you a man like him loved being cruel. He is, you know. Oh, so beautifully, marvelously cruel—” He tried to rise, grimacing with his nails-treatment. “Kick me again, pretty please.”
“Don’t get up. I gotta run. But I did want to invite you both to my party. You’re such a pair of experts, as wanton as I am, I couldn’t see my way clear having a ball without you.”
“A party?” Madame Annette was incredulous. “But that’s so chic of you, Mr. Damon. What’s the party for?”
Wan Lo shrilled in his falsetto. “Does he need a reason? Let the man have his party, for heaven’s sake.”
“I knew you’d understand. Can you both be there tonight at say eleven o’clock? I promise I’ll wear my hobnailed boots.”
Annette shuddered. “A perfect time. With a full moon and a witch’s brew. How glorious! Where is the party to be—would you like it here?”
“No, no. This must be intimate. Just a handful of us truly different sort of folk. However, I would like you to bring your most talented help. And of course, should you care to bring along some of your very best clientele—”
I smiled disarmingly. “I’ll be frank with you both. I’m preparing a treatise on orgies. A master work—my tentative title is Orgies in High and Low Places. You see what I mean. So I would like your help in selecting some of the very oddest and best people.”
“Then where is this party to be held?” Annette demanded with her hatpins still jabbing Wan Lo. “It would have to be a fairly large domicile.”
“I have hired an entire floor of the Hotel Fourchette,” I lied. “My personal playground. That large enough?”
“But that is perfect,” crowed Annette. In her delight, she stuck a pin very, very lustily into Wan Lo’s stomach. He screamed when it entered but his eyes filled with happiness. I backed out through the curtain. They both gave me the screaming meemies.
“Do bring Francoise and Mei Ling High,” I said. “They’re a swinging pair, it seems to me.”
“But of course.” Annette was glowing. I was a convert to her twisted way of life and she was envisioning her truimph telling her world that the great Rod Damon had fallen from his throne.
Wan Lo smiled at me from his bed of nails.
“You promise you’ll be mean to me tonight, Rod?”
“I promise. I’ll pound your poop, Pappy.”
He writhed with pleasure. Annette stuck her tongue out at me and worked it around her mouth. Her wide eyes were vicious.
“And I? What will you do to me?”
“Madame, I’m going to go to work on you with a crowbar studded with spikes.”
She swayed, almost passing out with the expectation. But she caught hold of herself.
“Eleven o’clock, you said?”
“Be early and stay late,” I advised.
They both shrieked with joy. So I left them. Wan Lo on his bed of nails. Annette with her hatpins.
I got out of Les Deuces as fast as I could. Places like that really make a guy like me sweat bullets. The really abnormal, the sick, sick, sick, do not fascinate me at all. I don’t mind sexual freedoms and liberties but when it’s accompanied by hang-ups like sadism, masochism and homosexuality, I am turned off, but quick.
Still, my plans were still going great guns.
Now I had to make quick tracks. Time was running out.
I had a feeling that Madame
Annette would bring the bronze stud, Michel-Duval Fountainbleau to the party. Knowing her, the cruelty of the idea would tickle her right down to her sadistic toes. That is, if the poor stud hadn’t gone ahead and killed himself.
I climbed out of Les Deuces. Francoise Marnay and Mei Ling High were still snoozing quietly in one corner of the darkened club. I had a feeling I’d be seeing them too tonight. With bells on.
But I also hoped that the bait was being nibbled on and that Madame Annette and her secret friends would think it was a perfect spot and a perfect time to work their peace talks sabotage plan that was crying out for fulfillment. They had delayed too long.
I expected to see a lot of VIPs that night at the Hotel Fourchette. Very VIPs. The kind who would be important to the peace of the world but alas, still the common clay that had to have a little sexual diversion now and then.
That’s the way it goes, mes enfants.
Everybody wants to get laid.
I had to knock to get into Madame Brigitte Lebeau’s apartment. The door was locked. I expected it to be. Walrus-moustache is not the sort to let any grass grow under his hirsute adornment. There was no answer until I began to kick the door in.
Then a very sheepish Walrus-moustache opened the door and peered around the dangling chain. That wasn’t all that was dangling. His face was ruddy, flushed and glassy-eyed. Sure signs that he had had—was having—a ball. I expected no less of Madame Brigitte Lebeau alias Fifi Le Fleur.
“Really, Damon—”
“Crap,” I said, walking by him. “Close the door and crawl into your pants. I’m sorry to bust this up but I’ve made some plans and they won’t mean a thing without your cooperation.”
“But who is it?” Brigitte called drowsily from the rumpled bed.
“Damon, my pet,” Walrus-moustache shouted, stiffly climbing into his clothes. “Really, Damon, you could have phoned or something.”
“No phone here and I wasn’t going to stand in the street and throw rocks like in the movies. Come on. By the look of you you’ve really had your pipes cleaned. You ought to be grateful.”
“I am, I am. But still—”
“Is that you, mon Rod?” Brigitte’s voice was louder now.
“Yeah,” I called back. “Go back to sleep. Be with you in a jiffy. Sorry but I have to send our friend on an errand. . . .”
“C’est la guerre,” she said airily. There was a happy note in her voice. Tribute for Walrus-moustache or promised land for me.
With his suit on and his moustache twirled to get the bedroom scraggle out of it, he was his own man again. He harrumped a few times and I handed him his bowler hat. Briefly and quickly, I told him about my party idea. He listened and forgot about sex and Madame Brigitte. But he was still grumpy and out of sorts.
“Capital, old sport. But why my hat and why must I go rushing out into the night?”
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” I reminded him. “Which will give you about several hours to make the necessary plans.”
“Plans? What plans?”
“Dammit, will you listen? I need a whole floor of that hotel for that party. Get me? Which means you have to pull any strings and wires you can to vacate the floor. There can’t be any substitute now. I said the Hotel Fourchette, and the Hotel Fourchette it’s got to be.”
“Fourchette,” he said acidly. “That’s French for fork, isn’t it?”
“No jokes, please. We haven’t got the time.”
“Very well, I’ll get in touch with the Consul. Won’t be easy but it’s not impossible. What else?”
“Can you get hold of camera equipment? I want real movie sound cameras. The works. But they have to be the sort that can be hidden and not spotted at all. Also, I want one camera manned by a great photographer. The kind who could win Academy Awards. I want what goes on tonight to be shot in the cinéma verité style—you know, like it happens, like it is. Close-ups and tight shots and all. The cameraman can’t be squeamish about focusing.”
He was beginning to get the picture. A crafty gleam came into his eyes. He could see the possibilities.
“I see. Sort of an Andy Warhol-type movie, capturing every belch, fart and what have you?”
“What-have-you is what we want. If Annette and her weird Chinese boyfriend do what I think they’ll do, we can do a little blackmailing of our own and save the world for democracy again, dammit. Or peace. Or whatever.”
“Damon, I’m proud of you.” He shook my hand. “A scheme worthy of Machiavelli and Joe Stalin.”
“If it works. And now comes the hardest part of what you have to do.”
He shuddered. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like this.”
“You won’t. But it has to be done. Do you think you can get your hands on about a pound of LSD?”
“LSD!” he shouted.
“Not so loud. You’ll disturb Madame. About a few ounces would do the trick, I suppose, but a pound would really cement the deal.”
“LSD,” he said again. It was a very dirty word in his book.
“Say it all night. But get it. Come back as soon as you get all these things accomplished and maybe you’ll have time for another crack at Brigitte.”
He stiffened. “Don’t be foul-mouthed, Damon.”
“Okay, okay. Make love then, that sound better?”
“Much.” He turned to the door. “Damn it, you have given me a lot to do. This will take hours.”
“That’s the idea but you must be all set up by eleven or it’s all a waste of time. Got that?”
“Got it.”
“Now buzz off.” I pushed him through the door. He went, grumbling, but he went. The best part of it was that he thoroughly approved of the plan. There was hope for me yet as spy labor. I knew he’d say that in his report to the Coxe Foundation. If we survived this case.
I was tired. I kicked off my shoes, mentally cataloging all the points of my plan. It should work, if Walrus-moustache accomplished his red-tape miracles. Yawning, I walked to the bed and climbed in. Brigitte was awake and listening. I could tell because she made room for me, allowing only one fleshy thigh and her right hand to greet me in the warmest way there is.
For answer, I faced her sideways, anchoring her legs around my waist in that fine old side-saddle method which is probably enjoyed by many more married men than single ones. It takes marriage and at least a long affair with a woman to appreciate the comfort and pleasantness of the position. Most women I know are very fond of that ploy.
The Madame was well-juiced and oiled but I didn’t mind seconds or thirds. Brigitte Lebeau was all woman. A rare bird indeed. She had enough to satisfy an army of men. Even if she liked girls.
“Rod?”
“Yes, pet?”
She laughed. “He was so kind and droll. Really, a fine man. Sensitive, afraid to hurt, and his moustaches, how they tickled. But—will you not let me come to the party also?”
“It could be dangerous . . .”
“Talk to me of danger? I, Brigitte, who have lived so long and so hard. Pah! I laugh at danger. The only thing I’m afraid of is old age.”
“You ain’t old . . .” Slowly, swishily, we began to seesaw against each other. A delicious sensation. She was ample and dexterous. And not tired.
“May I come?”
“You talking about the party or le piston?”
“A little bit of both.”
“Then you may do both.”
She did. With Gallic sighs and Gallic murmurs. Her accent made it all sound so different even though it was the same old side-saddle game enjoyed the world over. They really dig it in America.
I enjoyed myself too.
The Damon way. With bumps and grinds and delirious thrusts and things that went socko in the night.
It was a love-in all the way.
Which is far better than hate humps, spite jumps, gang bangs and any other kind of distorted sexual activity.
It drove Annette and Wan Lo and Madame Lilly de Jussac and s
hattered Danielle Lebeau out of my mind. And made me forget all about Mei Ling High and Francoise Marnay and whip cults and nutty broads.
It reminded me of Minda Loa, Mady Morrow and Vivian Fresnay. Three tiger lilies of a far different stripe.
So I had planned a party for eleven o’clock. A party to solve the case, save the world, and maybe send me back to America. But I cheated.
I had my party on a four-postered bed on a hilly street in Montmartre with one Brigitte Lebeau. While poor Walrus-moustache ran himself ragged all over Paris making with the arrangements and handling all the details.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost but not quite.
“Ah, Rod, Rod, Rod . . .”
“Yes, Brigitte?”
“I think I could love you . . .”
“Don’t think. Do it.”
“Would you love me?”
“Brigitte—what the hell do you think I’m doing?”
“But this is not true love—this is Sex—a man and a woman—”
“That was a lousy movie and this is what love is to me. A man and a woman.”
“Ahhhhhhhhh, now I understand!”
“Bon! Which reminds me—have I ever showed you the Bon-Bon Method. Of course, you need a box of chocolates—”
“There is a box of them on the icebox.”
“Real bon-bons?”
“Are there any other kind?” She laughed, squirming out of the bed.
So, she had a box of bon-bons.
So, I showed her.
Ogden Nash’s famous verse goes: Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker.”
But that highly clever, educated rogue could not have been talking about The Bon-Bon Method. Of course he meant in his own civilized way that liquor will weaken Milady’s defenses so that you might score a little sooner but I have always scorned the tactics of seducing damsels with varieties of hootch. I want my women fully undressed and in their personally prepared mind when I unpack my tool box.
It’s all quite simply, really.
Simply place on luscious bon-bon atop each of the four primary erogenous zones. One on the closed mouth, one for each crest of breast and the last smack-dab on target, poised on the Venus mound. Milady mustn’t move until she has let you swoop down from on high like an eagle to kiss and munch the bon-bons from her body. I guarantee you that when you reach home plate, you wUl slide, Kelly, slide—all the way into Paradise.