Letting the paper slip on to his lap, Joe tried to calculate how much he was currently worth. He had his “commission money” kindly paid by Terry for “services about to be rendered”. That was a bloody good laugh! Getting paid to double-cross a mate! The fool! He had a locker key and inside that locker a cool four hundred quid’s worth of pot. At market prices, that was. He’d find a buyer, make the deal and drop out from the scene. He didn’t like messing around with drugs. The profits were fantastic but he had an aversion. Nothing to do with morality. Just – it wasn’t his pitch.
Almost five hundred sounded nice in his mind. With that kind of loot he could easily afford to splash out on decent food, more top notch gear, a snazzy flat and a couple of birds. Not just Lois, although making her was of paramount importance. He did not like admitting failure. She would be his. Tonight. After her, there would be others. Ones used to performing bloody wonders and not bothered about getting pregnant or betraying daddy’s trust. God, that was a lark. Imagine a bird in this day and age keeping herself whole because she had promised daddy! It was unbelievable. Fantastically so.
The newspaper dropped to the floor and went unnoticed by Joe. He was way ahead of the present – this dreary day with its breathless waiting for events to mature. Everything he had read about suedeheads made him want to develop his talents to the exquisite point offering ambition’s fulfilment.
If he had to appear above suspicion he would, of necessity be compelled to belong to some notable, worthy youth fraternity. That meant questions in the office. Some of his snooty-nosed workmates attended clubs specifically aimed at helping out less fortunates than themselves. Joe would get some names and make enquiries. When he found the one he reckoned would suit his purposes best he would join. Until then, he had more than sufficient to be getting along with... Lois, flogging the dope, finding new accommodation...
Lois’s large, luminous blue eyes widened in surprise when she saw the liquor bottles arrayed on a table. She did not know that Joe had bought the reproduction sofa table on his way home especially for the occasion... well, not quite especially. He would need decent furniture when he got his close-to-Mayfair flat. This was a start and making an impression at the same time. He had also splurged on drink – a bottle of Hundred Pipers, Captain Morgan Rum, Noilly Prat and several types of mix.
“Joe, how much do you think you can drink?” she asked with a pleasant smile.
He placed his bowler on a peg and removed his coat and jacket. “Get comfortable, Lois and forget about putting a limit on booze. Let me have your sweater.”
“That’s all you’re getting, Joe,” she replied firmly as he helped remove the pearl-studded Austrian sweater. He could tell it was expensive from the way it felt.
Ignoring her remark which was too pointed to please, he poured a treble Scotch into each glass and added the minimum mix. Even with the window open the flatlet was hot – clammy hot. And he could see the old biddy across the street doing her peeping from behind those static curtains. God, he hoped she’d get an eyeful tonight! If she was that bloody frustrated she’d have an emotional kitten when he began stripping Lois.
Handing the glass to Lois he said: “Cheers,” and settled on the bed. “I’d like to ask a favour of you, Lois,” he said finally as she prowled the room sipping her drink and pulling faces at its strength. “I’m not happy living here and I thought you’d like to help me find another place – nearer the West End; something better.”
Her shoulders moved in a shrug which only served to emphasise her lovely breasts. She was wearing a frilly blouse, a – of all things – suede skirt down to mid-thigh, tights and flat-heeled shoes. Her hair was still tied in a knot at the nape of her slender neck – ready, Joe believed, to be untied and caressed as passions began to rise.
“Why me?”
“You’ve got taste. You’re extra special in my estimation.” He hid a grin. Terry had suggested reading books and he had. One. The line came directly from that! Admittedly the book lay under his bed open at page twenty three. He was a painfully slow reader but his memory for things which could progress his ambitions was excellent.
Lois preened self-consciously. She adored men paying her unsolicited compliments. Joe grew a foot in stature in her estimation! “Thanks for that, Joe. I’d be glad to assist you.”
He had his campaign all mapped out. First the feint, then the lull to throw the enemy off balance until, finally, the main body was sent in to totally destroy opposition.
“I’m so tired,” he lied. “My back aches something awful.”
Lois came and sat on the bed beside him.
“Would you like to massage me?” he asked softly.
“I’m not much good at that.”
“Every little counts.”
She sipped her randy-making drink again, face slightly flushed already. “Where?” she asked politely.
He grinned, began removing his shirt. Her eyes blinked, staring unkindly. He quickly explained: “You can’t massage weary muscles through a shirt.”
She accepted his excuse and waited until he lay along the bed. He was muscular, with no unsightly fat on his young body. Her hands went unerringly to his shoulders and began to knead the flesh. He groaned in simulated ecstasy.
“Lovely, Lois. I could have this done to me all night.”
“Not by me!” Her hands temporarily ceased their ministrations.
He sat upright and finished his drink. Gesturing for her to follow suit he poured fresh supplies – making the second one stronger still. Seated beside her he raised his glass, drank half in one go. He had, apparently, never heard of moderation. “Want to massage me again?”
She felt slightly woozy. “Only for a minute,” she said.
Flat on his stomach with her tender hands sliding over his skin Joe sensed the moment right for that lull. He moaned. “Thanks, Lois. You’re sweet...” Another line from the book. He twisted around to face her. “Have you ever had a massage?”
She sampled her drink. “Once. After a Turkish bath.”
“Did you like it?”
“Smashing!” She giggled. “I’m getting sloshed, Joe.”
“On two drinks?” he asked.
“They’re strong.”
“Don’t you drink much?” He knew she didn’t.
“Not much,” she confessed. “And I haven’t eaten yet.”
“We’ll go out for dinner, eh?”
She nodded. “I think we should – and soon.”
He avoided saying when they would eat. “A friend of mine taught me how to massage,” he said nonchalantly. The campaign was reaching a crucial stage.
“Oh!” her eyes suggested interest.
“Would you like me to show you?”
“Do I have to take my blouse off?”
“But not your brassiere,” he joked.
That seemed to satisfy her sense of decency. Without a word she removed the blouse to reveal breasts barely concealed in a half-cup bra. It was all he could do to refrain from taking those beautiful orbs from their exciting cups and showering them with lustful kisses.
“On your tummy,” he commanded.
When his fingers began to knead her silken flesh he deliberately hooked himself into her brassiere straps several times before saying: “I can’t get the right sweep to this with that on.”
She rose on an elbow, took another drink. “Joe...”
“I promise no tricks, Lois,” he said hurriedly.
“Oh, hell!” Her hands came back and unhooked the offending straps. She held the front cups tight against her breasts and sank back on the bed.
Slowly, he massaged her spine... up, down, around. Like a spider spinning a web he covered her entire back, moving in the direction of her sides, on to the lovely surface of those exciting breasts, under her armpits.
“Like it?”
She moaned. “Lovely.”
“If I could get to the base of your spine...Without thinking she writhed, unzipped her suede skirt and pushed
that and her tights down to reveal the thrilling curves of her gorgeous buttocks. The top of her brief panties showed and in seconds his fingers worked them down... down... until all her bottom was uncovered.
The final attack was due!
His fingers curled round her exquisite curves... probing regions not normally included in the masseurs’ attentions. Her gentle undulations encouraged him; her gasping sent him into a tizzy of uncontrolled brashness.
“Lois...” he panted turning her onto her back, hands now demanding as they pushed the offending clothing down... to reveal in entirety.
Her chestnut hair had loosened and spread to frame her face. Her eyes closed, her mouth pleading for his hot kisses.
Watch this! Joe mentally told the old biddy across the street. He tore his clothes from him, flung himself down on the bed with Lois surrendering to his adventurous gropings. His tongue darted into her open mouth, his fingers curled into her tights and panties as her legs came up to facilitate the completion of her abandonment.
In those precious seconds before he mounted her, Joe thought: She’s better than anything I’ve ever had... and then her flesh held him in a vice, her desire a seething, boiling mass which could not be denied...
CHAPTER NINE
Like a king in residence in his castle Joe marched from room to room and luxuriated in the knowledge that his deflowering of Lois had not been without its compensations. She had been terrific. He understood now why some men insisted on having a virgin to bed when the experienced world of professional women was always available. But there was more to Lois than mere sex although that had been quite a thrilling lesson in the “unknown”.
Lois had society tastes which he could not begin to understand. She had helped him select the average flat for an up-and-coming young executive without knowing that his income was strictly derived from illicit activities. The amount his office paid would furnish a bedsitter in Balham, nothing more.
It had been four weeks since he last bedded Lois. After the initial ritual she had grown less attractive, less interesting. Her notions of security, marriage and children scared the hell out of him. Anyway, he never had any intentions of sticking with her. Her virginity had been the prime target. Once that went, so did his desire to count her amongst his “friends”.
He frowned at an Empire mirror with twin candlestick sconces. What friends did he have? Since going “inside” he had been alone. There had been Terry and, of course, Lois. But they had not been friends. They were people to be used. Mrs. Hale tried to befriend him, but unless she could offer something sexual she would remain a means to an unending source of quick loans.
He was friendless!
He was nature’s castigated soul!
Laughing as he strolled from master bedroom to lounge he again marvelled at the compactness, the luxuriousness of this elite flat. Sixteen guineas per week for what should have cost twice as much. Lois had been invaluable. An associate of daddy’s had informed her of a place he wished to rent. Naturally, as a close social acquaintance he would let it go for less than market value! Naturally! Half-price yet!
God, what bleedin fools these upper-class people were! How the hell did they ever make the money they had when the old school tie governed their every move?
On the open market the flat would easily have fetched £40 per week inclusive. Joe knew. He had studied the ads in the Evening Standard. Places less than a street away went for sixty per week. Exclusive, too. And this one was tastefully and completely furnished.
Lois had demonstrated her “in” with snobland. No references. No guarantees. Just a simple lease and a fifty quid deposit against undue wear-and-tear on the furnishings. One week’s rent in advance and – hey, presto – he had arrive in style! What a place compared to his Plaistow home!
In every way he ruled supreme. Authentic antiques as against Co-op furnishings of the cheapest variety. Spacious rooms and wall-to-wall carpets when he had been used to cramped surroundings and threadbare rugs trying to cover ugly floorboards. A modem American-style kitchen with all the latest gimmicks. His mother still cooked on an ancient gas stove and used utensils so thin on the bottom they could almost be used as sieves.
He went to the front windows – plural. From one he could see Marble Arch. From the other an expanse of expensive flats above elite shops. The windows had lace curtains and heavy velvet drapes to match the decor of the lounge. The fireplace was large and suitable for burning yule logs fifty-two weeks in the year. There was even an extractor fan in the room and fan heaters which blew cool air in summer or hot in winter if lighting a fire proved too much of a chore.
According to the owner, the porter collected the garbage every second day and a maid was available if one wished to shell out an additional £1.50 per week. Joe didn’t bother with the service. He had a vacuum cleaner and could do that much for himself. Or would until Dame Fortune smiled more benevolently on him! His money would not last forever. With the coppers hot in Soho he had been lucky getting a quick one-shot sale for the drugs at a rock bottom price, bringing him £375. And stupid bastards like Terry did not grow on trees. Not in Brooklyn or in London!
He grinned at the leather-bound bookshelves. He had got that title from the owner’s penchant for reading best-selling novels. The flat was a junior library. He reckoned there were more than six hundred books in it – every room had its private bookcase; its personalised reading. The kitchen contained volumes on cookery; the lounge Encyclopedia Britannica, Shakespeare and poetical works with a scattering of Tolstoy, Marx, Hitler, Browning, Byron, Pope, Milton, Macaulay, Burns, Scott and Hemingway; one bedroom devoted entirely to Chandler, Moffatt, Runyon, Fleming; the master bedroom exclusively reserved for erotica and witchcraft.
His “fortune” was disastrously low now. His salary barely covered current expenses. He had coaxed Totter to suggest he deserved a higher stipend than starting pay and been agreeably shocked at receiving an extra four pounds a week. On reflection, he agreed with their new assessment of his worth. He had managed to pick up quite a lot of know-how. Totter could take sick or fade away any time and he would be able to carry on for a short period without help.
I wish the old bastard would die, he thought. I could make a bomb from cooking those books!
He shrugged off the thought. Totter could last for another decade at least. He was one of those dried-up old prunes who show their wrinkles but don’t get older. Not mentally where it counted in accountancy, anyway! The infrequent slip-up was minor – certainly not a capital mistake like Joe hoped to come across.
With what he had salted away and what he got each week he could manage. Just! It meant dipping into ill-gotten gains but he did have an exclusive pad, a decent wardrobe, a swish address. He was all set up and rarin’ to go...
*
Marissa Stone was celebrating her forty-fifth birthday alone. She knew the terrible frustrations of spinsterhood. At night, she lay in bed writhing in untold agony wishing a man – any man – would burst into her room and rape her. Her only sexual memory was the vicar near Oxford and even that had been discoloured by his wife’s ghostly presence and the organ-loft trysting place which did not remotely resemble her pre-conceived idea of a nuptial bed. She had found the floor hard, unyielding. She had not been keen on baring her limbs to centuries old dirt nor to having her virginity taken in the midst of tolling bells and swelling organ music.
For all the enjoyment she felt there were a hundred displeasures to counteract the briefly concluded memories shared.
She had no comparison to judge her vicar by. She read startling modem novels and often attended the cinema where bare bosoms and panting cut-short scenes suggested more to sex than she and her vicar had ever experienced. She wished to know the full scope of emotional permissiveness yet lacked the gall to offer her flesh for just any young blood’s lust.
In her search for fruition she had thrown herself body and soul into youth club activities. As a Sunday School teacher she felt she had accomplished enough
to teach the youth of today where they had detoured from the “true path”. Yet, she did not honestly understand where the same path took one. She was a lonely woman wandering in the tracks of a celibate Son when all she wanted was the hot-blooded encounter with a Devil’s Apprentice.
Marissa did not consider herself a hypocrite yet she was the acme of hypocritical disillusionment. She loved speaking of God’s commandments but, in private, she absolved herself with nightmares voicing their disapproval of her chaste spinsterhood.
The club held nightly meetings in a former warehouse not far from Marylebone station. After two years operation, the trustees had managed to discourage certain Edgware Road types from venturing into their sanctum sanctorum. At first, brawls had been commonplace. More than one local alderman had demanded that the club be closed. But, with perseverance and a slow weeding-out process, they now enjoyed praise, support and approval.
In her capacity as a senior counsellor, Marissa Stone came into contact with every member. She formed friendships with those willing to take her advice yet not once had she dared to exploit those associations. Many a time she wished she could kick over the traces and have an affair with some of the athletic youths she dreamed of nightly. Always, though, decency forbade her the ultimate intimacies of man-woman relationships.
In a sense, she knew that some of the boys would have taken her to bed had it not been for her stern, uncompromising attitudes when more than a friend-in-need emotion began to raise its lovely-ugly head. Truthfully, she was scared stiff of getting involved. Those lonely hours spent writhing in bed could not make her waking self condescend to having physical contacts with any of the young, virile, panting men. Much as she wanted them, there was a conscience-created barrier denying her fulfilments so extraordinarily sought after in the dark privacy of night.
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