by Troy Conway
The old maid must have glanced at my tickets too, because she was waiting in the aisle for me. She said coldly, “I believe you have the window seat. It will be easier for you to sit down if I wait.”
I slid past her, then heard the silken rustle as she stepped after me, to plop her girdled behind down into 7-E. The sound really did surprise me, because with her lack of make up and her long dress. I had her tabbed for a dame who would wear a plain linen slip, not one made of silk or taffeta. Still, you never know.
She did not cross her legs so I could catch a glimpse of the slip. She pressed her knees together primly, and sat with her hands folded in her lap. No rings on her fingers, No bells on her toes, for that matter.
“My name is Damon,” I told the side of her face. “Proffessor Rod Damon. I teach sociology at the university.”
She still stared straight ahead; rather rudely, I thought Then she gave a little sigh and murmured, “I am Priscilla Saunders. Mrs. Priscilla Saunders.” She saw my start of surprise, because she held her hands out before her. “You don’t see a wedding ring. I—I have it in my bag.”
Her hands flew to her handbag clasp. Next moment she was showing me a plain gold band. There was a slight flush in her face as she lifted her eyes toward me. “My husband is a missionary in Red China. I’m—on my way to join him, to—to get him out, if I may.”
“The Red Chinese won’t let him go?”
“No. They claim he’s a spy for the C.I.A. It’s completely ridiculous. Gavin couldn’t spy for the Harper Valley P.T.A.! It’s of a line with the rest of the Communist propaganda.”
She sounded bitter and irrational. She put the gold wedding band back inside her plain leather handbag. “I don’t wear it when I’m not—when he isn’t here, while he’s still in jail. It wouldn’t be right. I’m not his wife right now, am I, with him a prisoner?”
“Well…”
“I mean in actuality, not just In name.”
This one was a kook. “Not really, I guess,” I said.
She settled her head against the chairback and closed her eyes. The stewardess came down the aisle to take up a position before the door into the big cockpit. She began h a lecture about fastening our seatbelts and not smoking until we were in the air, all that jazz.
Priscilla Saunders paid strict attention, did everything she was told to do. Her face was very white, and it dawned on me that she might be scared witless.
I said soothingly, “It isn’t so bad. The only sensation you’ll feel is when the jet is racing for take-off speed, when the acceleration will push you back into your chair. Other than that, it’s a piece of fudge.”
She flashed me a grateful glance, though her smile seemed strained. “I’ve never been anywhere,” she murmured. “I’m just an old stick-in-the-mud.” Her checks reddened, and she looked down at her hands, which she was twisting together. “I don’t know how I ever got the nerve to—do what I’ve done. But I’m going to see it through.”
“Good girl,” I said.
It was a change, talking to an old maid type who claimed to be married. Ususally I deal with women who are real dolls, honest swingers, members of the beautiful people. This one was a breath out of the middle west, corn-fed and pure as the falling snow.
The only thing that bugged me, was that silken rustle. She was not wearing a silk slip, nor even a taffeta one. It would call attention to her sex and Priscilla Saunders did not want anything like that to happen. She wanted to be a sexless nonentity.
I waited, I had plenty of time. She was on her way to Hong Kong, too, since that city is the entry port to Red China.
The VC-10 had made its nm across the tarmac and was turning for its takeoff. I told the woman to close her eyes and lean back, to let herself go soft, not to be so tense. The big jet rumbled forward, faster and faster. Priscilla Saunders gave a little yelp, then she was utterly still. Her face was white, and her lips seemed to turn blue.
Then we were airborne and she opened her eyes wide in surprise and pleasure. She gave me a grateful smile. “It really wasn’t so bad, it really wasn’t. And thank you for all the help you’ve been. I do appreciate it.”
Flying in a big VG-10 can be boring as hell. I was bored. I dozed and read. I ate the food the stewardesses brought me. I got out of the plane at San Francisco and bought a stack of paperbacks, then had me a few martinis. I got back in the plane and settled myself for some light reading.
Priscilla Saunders came running across the field. She was late. She held her hat with her left hand, her right arm clutching her plain leather handbag. I stared at her, thinking how much like an old maid she seemed, even with her wedding ring in her purse. I remembered her silken rustle too.
As she slid between the seats, her skirt got caught on the rack that holds magazines and reading materials. The hem pulled up to the middle of her surprisingly shapely stockinged thighs. I saw a garterclasp and pallid white thighmeat above it.
I saw no slip, not even a hint of one.
Now I was intrigued, because I heard the rustle as she pulled her skirt down. I guess she knew I’d seen her legs, she’d really given me quite an eyeful, because her cheeks went red and she sank down into her seat with a little cry of dismay.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, blushing all the more, “but I just couldn’t help it My skirt caught.”
I chuckled. “A micro-skirt shows ever so much more, and you can see those on any city street in America or England.” I leaned closer, whispering, “Your husband is a very lucky man.”
She stared at me with eyes in which there was surprise, but no anger. As I say, a woman who is complimented on her attractiveness never gets angry at her flatterer, if it is done discreetly.
Still, she seemed to go back inside her shell, all the way across the Pacific, to Wake Island and then Tokyo. We were scheduled to stop overnight in Japan, so I offered to show Priscilla Saunders the the sights.
“They don’t have a Yoshiwara district any more,” I informed her, “but there is the Ginza and you might enjoy visiting it.”
“No, thank you. I—I have a headache.”
The eternal feminine plaint. I shrugged, made my apologies, and left her standing there in the aisle with her mouth open. Maybe I should have argued a little.
We were staying at the Tokyo Hilton, a lush hotel complex as modern as tomorrow morning. After a shower and a little nap, I moved down into the lobby, trying to make up my mind whether to eat in the hotel room and then hit the sack for a long sleep in bed, or go out on the town.
Priscilla Saunders decided things for me. I saw her glancing around the lobby furtively as she came out of the elevator and angled her sensible Enna Jettick shoes toward one of the side doors. Well, now! This was interesting. What was the prim Priscilla doing, acting like a secret agent? I decided the answer might prove fascinating.
I followed her along the sidewalk, half expecting her to call a taxi. She was having none of it. My interest in Priscilla Saunders increased when I saw two Chinese gentlemen following her. My hand went into my open jacket, loosing the Luger in my shoulder holster.
Why in hell should two Chinamen follow her?
I had to learn the answer, so I kept trailing her into a rather dilapidated section of the city. Tokyo has its slums, like any other city, though theirs seemed clearer than most. Tokyo itself is a very clean city, despite its ten million people. In the distance I could see the red haze caused by the bright neon lights of the Ginza section.
Apparently the meager dwellings and the narrow .streets finally got through to her, because she started glancing .around nervously. The two Chinese men hastened their steps. I started moving faster myself.
Where the shadows were dense and dark, they caught up to her. One man grabbed her with a hand spread across her mouth, his forefinger and thumb pinching her nostrils. The second man caught her arm and bent one up behind her back. Then the first guy put a. hand under her skirt.
A rape!
But it made no sense. In T
okyo there are all kinds of places to go for sex. Bordellos, masseuse parlors, dance halls where you can select a partner not only for dancing but for later-on diddling. To rape a woman on the street, and most especially a foreign woman, made no sense.
Not only that, Priscilla Saunders wasn’t all that sexy. She was about as exciting as a wet mop. However, there are no accounting for tastes. If these Chinese found her so irresistible, that was their business.
And mine.
I stepped forward and drove the edge of my hand in a karate blow to the back of a yellow neck. The man grunted and slid forward, releasing his hold on the lady’s arms His companion whirled, his left foot came up in a savage kick, aimed for my solar plexus.
There is a defense against such .a. kick. It is to grab that leg and swing it hard to one side. Naturally the kicker is on one foot. As his leg swings to one side, the foot on the ground slips and he loses his balance. The hands of the defender must be faster than the kicking foot to accomplish the defense properly.
My hands fastened on his ankle and yanked. He went flying sideways, upside down. His head cracked into a fire hydrant with enough force to kill him. He lay there like a lump as I turned toward Priscilla Saunders.
“You all right?”
She could not speak. Her mouth was open and her eyes bulged, but all she could do was nod her head up and down. I caught her elbow, lead her down the street and away from the unconscious men.
“Want to tell me what that was all about?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Why’d they pick you to rape?”
“They weren”t?”
She bit down on her lip. Sol Rape was not the reason. But what was? What other reason would anyone have for molesting her? She did not seem like a rich girl.
“You got a lot of money in your bag?” I asked.
“N-no, of course not! It cost me almost all of my savings to make this trip.”
We walked on. All around us the sounds and sights of Tokyo began to take shape. Tokyo is one of the largest cities in the world, if not actually the largest. There is a mingling here of East with West. Tokyo has its subway system, and many of its young men and women affect the styles of western dress. While it is true that the Yoshiwara district is no more, there is the Ginza, that is an entertainment wonderland in itself.
We were on the outskirts of the Ginza, which reaches from Kyovashi Bridge to the Shimbashi Bridge. It is a street to rival Broadway with its lights and color. It is a row of shops, of theatres, of any number of entertainment palaces.
My hand on her arm to guide her, I could feel that Priscilla Saunders was trembling in reaction to her experience. I decided she needed a bout of recreation to go with her scare.
“Do you dance?” I wondered out loud.
She gave me a quick glance, half suspicious, half thankful. “Why, yes, I do. Although I haven’t danced for a very long time. Martin—that’s my husband—doesn’t exactly approve of dancing.”
“Well, I don’t want to—”
“No, no,” she exclaimed. “I think under the circumstances, Martin might approve. Is isn’t Sunday, you know—he’s very much set against any form of fun on Sundays—and we’ve just been through a very terrifying experience. At least, it was terrifying to me. And so…”
She let her words trail off, embarrassed. I could take the hint. Priscilla Saunders would dearly love to dance. She had been held down so long by her puritanical husband that any form of social camaraderie looked real good to her.
There were coffee shop and bars scattered here and there in this Yurakucho section of the Ginza. I figured a coffee-shop would be a little easier on her puritanism than a bar, where girls sometimes do a combition strip-tease and frug inside a birdcage affair suspended on chains.
I guess I was out of touch with my Tokyo coffeeshops, because no sooner were we in the door than a pretty Japanese hostess hip-wagged her way toward us, giving us both a toothy, friendly smile. Her black hair was done up with rhinestoned combs that gave a sparkle to the tier on tier of hair she had arranged in geisha girl fashion. She wore western shoes with high heels. In between the combs and the shoes was a black nylon dress that reached from her throat to her toes. The only thing was, the nylon dress was all she was wearing, and the nylon was transparent.
Priscilla Saunders gave a little gasp, then a rueful laugh. “I have been a stranger in the world, it seems. My goodness!”
I figured she would turn on an indignant heel and walk out of the establishment. Instead she gave me a big smile and nodded her head. “I would never dare tell Martin this, but I’m having a good time. And if you ever meet him, don’t you tell on me.”
I vowed silence as we followed the chubby buttocks of the hostess to a small table. I slipped a tip of a thousand yen into her palm. Instantly she was all attention. Her hand signaled a waitress as she bent to beam on my companion.
“Coffee?” she breathed.
I nodded. “Two, please. And a sweetbun or two if you have them.”
Japanese coffee is a lot stronger than our American brand. It is slow-dripped and made of a carefully selected blend. The cream and sugar are mixed slowly, so that you get a drink that is almost a hot liqueur as the finished product. An American visitor tends to choke and gurgle after the first couple of mouthfuls, the way Priscilla Saunders did, but then the coffee really goes to work inside you and perks you up the way a drink or two can.
It perked my companion up, putting a faintly lopsided grin on her mouth and a spark in her black eyes. She nodded when I asked if she was enjoying herself. I noted that she kept staring at the waitresses who wore mini-skirted versions of the black nylon gown sported by the hostess. Her eyes kept getting biger and prettier, the more she looked.
It began to dawn on me that I might be able to discover what she was wearing under her severe dress that rustled like silk. I hadn’t the fainest intention of this when I stepped into the coffeeshop, but her reaction to the semi-nudity of the waitresses lit the bonfire.
“Are you positive you don’t know why those men accosted you?” I pressed, leaning forward and putting my hand over hers. Her flesh was quite warm. Well, maybe her blood was getting hotter.
“No,” she murmured, staring at the tablecloth. She did not pull away her hand.
I said, “All right, we’ll forget it then and chalk it up to experience. Where were you going when they stopped you?”
Her black eyes lifted, silently pleading with me not to go on questioning her. I think in another moment, she might have been crying. So I came up with a suggestion she really liked.
“Why don’t we try dancing?”
She was out of her seat before I could push back my chair. There was a small open space in the middle of the tables that could be used for dancing, and it seemed like it was being used with a couple per square inch. They crowded you in like this on the Tokyo and New York subways during rush hours. Men and women were plastered belly to belly and buttocks to behind, moving lazily to the rhythm of a dreamy waltz.
I came up against Priscilla Saunders gently. I didn’t want her to get ideas about me. The crowd took care of that part of it, however. Somebody rammed me from the back just as another couple nudged into her. We came together from knees to bosom. I could feel every square inch of her body plastered to mine.
She had few undergarments on under her plain dress. A brassiere and a pair of panties was my guess, and a garter-belt because she was wearing stockings. Other than that, she was naked under her frock. I heard a muffled gasp even as I was aware that her soft belly and rather large breasts were moving against me.
“Sorry about this,” I murmured to her heavy black hair, since she was some inches shorter than the old professor. “If you’d rather sit it out?”
“No,” she whispered, “I haven’t danced in so long. …” She had a habit of letting her words trail off. We were shoved together like a mustard plaster on human flesh. Her thighs worked as she made dance steps, in such a way that t
hey were inadvertently caressing me where I did my thing. My manhood is too responsive to such stimulation for me to ignore that subtle stroking. I enlarged.
Priscilla Saunders felt my male excitement. I held my breath, waiting for some sort of explosion. To my surprise, she put her head on my upper chest and squeezed even closer. My hand ran up and down her back. I heard the silken rustle again. She was too preoccupied by my arousal to pay any attention to what my hand did. Within limits, that is.
So I searched out her garments and her fleshy back with gentle fingertips. A brassiere-strap, a narrow affair that suggested something naughty in the way of a bra, and then, between the bra-strap and her panty, I came upon another garment. It was halfway down her back, it rustled, and it was not a slip.
I puzzled over the mystery of this silken what-not. It hung like a window shade behind-her. It did not go all the way around her body.
My palm went down her back to her curving hip. Under my hand I felt warm flesh and the silken object. I drew a deep breath. I had to see how far down the thing went. I already knew that it was stitched to the back of her dress. My hand slid out onto a soft buttock.
She figured I was getting intimate; I honestly believe she hadn’t the fainest idea of what I was up to; she gave another gasp and rammed her pelvis into me. Her thighs were slightly parted at the moment, in a dance-step. Then she felt a big part of me wedged between her inner thighs so that when she closed them, she had a grip on me.
Priscilla began to shake. She stumbled. A part of her was compelling her to keep that tight hold of me, but when she danced, she had to separate her thighs. She gave up dancing, just clung to me. It was easy on that postage-stamp dance floor, with all the men and women on it. Half of them were rubbing together the way we were, anyhow.
My hand slid across her buttock. She shivered. I ran a finger up and down her buttock crease and heard her moan. I honestly don’t believe anybody had ever been this intimate with her body before, despite the fact that she was a married woman. And she loved it, in a dreamy, unreal way.