The Jaded Sex

by Fletcher Bennett

  She got out of bed, picked up the dress, then sat down in the chair and began picking handfuls of coins from the pocket. She separated the nickels, dimes, and quarters, and made three stacks on the night table. The pocket was really filled with change, and as the piles on the table grew she began to see just how profitable the evening had been.

  It pleased her, and she smiled. The lonely feeling started to evaporate.

  She was almost down to the bottom of the pocket when her fingers touched the card. She drew it out, and looked at it. The memory of the watcher came flooding back to her, and with it came the feeling of being alone, more intense than ever.

  After a moment, she frowned. Benny had said the watcher had been a woman. She remembered now, and also remembered wondering how that could be possible. Why on earth would a woman watch her so intensely that she could feel it? She expected such things . from men, but from a woman—it made no sense.

  And this was the woman’s card. Like any other card, with name, hours, and phone number. And the words: Private—Personal.

  Ginny stared at the card for a long while, and odd thoughts moved through her mind. It was nearly three-thirty when she went back to bed, leaving the change on the table uncounted

  She switched off the light, drew the covers over her bare breasts, and relaxed. The lonely feeling was gone again, but another feeling had come to replace it—a completely; new feeling.

  She couldn’t explain it—but somehow the woman who had been watching her, the woman name on that card, seemed almost to be in the room with her.

  Ginny wasn’t alone any more.

  As she fell asleep, she wondered if the change was going to be for the better.

  * * *

  With the fascinating card clutched in his chubby fingers, Burton Small headed for the nearest phone.

  Halfway there, he spied a young dark-skinned girl coming. down the street toward him, a girl wearing a wide print skirt, a peasant blouse, and no stockings; a girl with one of the most monumental set of breasts Small had ever seen.

  And he’d seen plenty.

  The sight astonished him so much, he stopped in his tracks, forgetting about the card for the moment, stuffing it into the watchpocket of his vest. He stood staring as the girl approached, his eyes fixed on her monstrous breast-fruit, and before she even reached him, his skilled gaze had discerned the amazing truth.

  The girl’s breasts hung in front of her like two-thirds of a pawnbroker’s sign, swaying easily against the blouse with every motion of her shoulders. In the dead centers of these thrusting spheres was a smaller thrusting—the twin buttons of tense nipples making little mounds in the cloth.

  Huge swaying breasts and firm pointing nipples—to Burton Small, they added up to one inescapable fact.

  No bra.

  And if she were wearing no bra, it meant that the high roundness of those voluptuous globes belonged entirely to her, that their proud angle was a gift of nature rather than a trick of elastic straps, that their amazing conical tips were fashioned of flesh and not of foam rubber.

  The girl’s front was almost too good to be real. But it was real.

  Seeing that, Small knew he’d never be satisfied until he had the use of it.

  So his mind dismissed the promise of the card/ and concentrated on the promise of the ballooning flesh of the girl as she came up to him. He was about to speak when she stopped, turned, looked up into his face, and smiled brilliantly.

  “Hi, sport,” she said. Her voice was warm as honey, and spiced with only a trace of Spanish accent.

  “Hello, my dear,” said Small, returning her smile. “Are you occupied at the moment?” He saw no point in pretending the girl was not a whore, when his reason told him so obviously that she was. As usual, Small was absolutely right.

  “No,” said the girl. “Right now, I’m not doing nothing”

  Her grammar made Small wince slightly, but another glance at her breasts helped refresh him. “Allow me to suggest, my dear, that you and I retire to my apartment for a time. Would you be agreeable to that?”

  She thought for a moment. “Depends a lot on how much it’s worth to you,” she said.

  “Oh, money,” said Small with a wave of his hand. “Fifty dollars? Will that suffice?”

  The girl’s face went slack for an instant, then rearranged itself into a happy grin. “I’m with you,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Small took her arm, hailed a cab, and they went.

  The Small home, which was located in uptown Manhattan, was anything but small. A full-scale town house, it sat on a piece of property now worth a king’s ransom, although it had been reasonably priced fifty years before when Small’s father had purchased it. The building was in three stories, with connecting stairways in front and an elevator in back, and added up to over twenty rooms, not counting the basement.

  Burton Small had the whole place to himself. Since both his parents had passed away years ago, leaving him as the only surviving relation, he also had all their money to himself, and surviving relation, he also had all their money to himself, and it was quite a pile. He’d never worked a day in his life.

  The cab let Small and the lush-bosomed girl out in front of his home. He threw the driver a twenty, and took the girl up the steps to the door without waiting for change.

  The girl was staggered when she found out the building was a single home, rather than a set of apartments. She was amazed when she got a look at the furnishings in the downstairs hall and the living room. She couldn’t believe her eyes when Small led her to the elevator at the rear of the house. And she couldn’t forgive herself the error of not holding out for more money, when her turn was obviously in possession of all the money in the world.

  Small himself never gave money any thought. If the girl had asked for a hundred, he would have given it to her. If she’d asked for five hundred, he would have thought it over, and then given it to her. Small had so much loot that he simply didn’t give a damn, which is why he continued to maintain the home of his parents even though it was far too large for one person, and why he paid for weekly maid service to take care of the first floor, which he never used, and the second floor, which he used only for sleeping.

  The third floor was Burton Small’s true home, and no maid had ever seen it. But quite a few other young ladies had. Few of them ever completely recovered from the experience.

  From the door of the elevator, the third floor hall stretched clear to the front of the house, where Small’s elaborate sexual bed room was located. A series of doors went along the right wall, opening into room after room of Small’s trophies—the accumulated acquisitions of over twenty years of his hobby.

  The first room contained a collection of pornographic books that would have astounded a Frenchman—several thousand of them, including hundreds of famous rarities, and all bound in gilt and vellum. The next door opened into the photo room, which was lined with albums of photographs, row upon row, page upon page of the most graphic, photographic, pornographic scenes imaginable; including one entire book devoted to pictures of movie stars, world figures, and other luminaries, revealed as the public had never seen them.

  A room beyond was Small’s knick-knack collection—china figurines indulging in exquisitely detailed sexual play, reproductions of obscene murals from Ancient Greece, Rome, and the Orient, clever models of various portions of the human body, life-size and perfectly accurate—and one full-scaled, lovingly-molded, detail-perfect, real-as-life, rubber woman.

  Small walked the ogling girl past all these rooms, and also past the bathroom, which contained a sunken tub big enough to hold a sea battle. In its time, that tub had played host to just about everything but a sea battle.

  He brought the girl into the bedroom—a well-named room, since all it contained was a bed. But what a bed it was. Twelve feet by sixteen feet, canopied, a mattress over two feet thick resting on a set of springs tough enough to support an automobile; the bed had been made especially to Small’s order
, and had cost almost five grand. Small considered the price worth it. The bed had served him well.

  “Would you be so kind as to help me with my clothing, my dear?” He smiled at the girl, who still acted numb over her surroundings. “I think it would be best if we removed our clothing now and got to it. Don’t you agree?”

  She agreed. It didn’t take her long to remove every stitch from Small’s body. She was very skilled at it, and Small enjoyed the way her fingers managed to stimulate and caress him while they undressed him.

  When he was naked, he went to the bed and sat down gratefully. “Ahh,” he said. “What a relief to be off my feet at last. But—in your profession—I suppose you must suffer often from aching feet.”

  The girl nodded absently. She was examining Small’s nudity, and discovering as so many girls before her that Small, fat as he might be, wasn’t soft. His body was hard as a rock. His skin was too thick to show any muscle on the surface, but one look at him proved beyond doubt that muscle was there.

  It took the girl a few seconds to adjust her thinking. She’d come with Small expecting to entertain an ordinary fat man, and there was nothing ordinary about Small. In fact, the girl began wondering if she would be able to entertain him at all.

  “Don’t you think, my dear, that it’s time for you to remove your clothes?”

  “Oh, sure,” said the girl. “Sorry.”

  “Perfectly all right,’’ said Small.

  She stripped, starting with her skirt. She wore only panties beneath it, and they were gone in an instant, leaving her bare from the waist down. She crossed her arms, grabbed the hem of her blouse, and pulled it over her head.

  Her breasts hung free, round as fruit, and each damned near as big as her head.

  Small was charmed.

  The girl’s globular front proved to be every bit as delightful as Small expected. With her sprawled beside him on the bed, he explored every inch of her yielding bosom, testing the shape and firmness of her with his fingers, teasing the rosy breast-s caps into pebbled arousement, tasting the warmth and spice of her flesh with connoisseur’s lips. Occasionally, his hand wandered down her back to pet a buttock or a thigh, but he concentrated most of his attention on her breasts.

  After several minutes of this, the girl realized he was interested only in her front. She arranged her bare limbs comfortably and allowed him to do anything he wished with her breasts while she relaxed and enjoyed herself. It wasn’t often she got; an opportunity, to lie on her back—most of her customers wanted her to do all the work, and some of them even wanted full-scale acrobatics. But this one seemed to want nothing but the use of her breasts; and at fifty dollars, or twenty-five dollars apiece, she was content to let him have her.

  Burton Small had a marvelous time with the girl’s breasts. He squeezed, he pushed, he jiggled, he weighed, he pinched and prodded and even mouthed. In short, he did just about everything to them that could possibly be done with breasts.

  Eventually, the girl started to get in the mood herself. Small’s attention to that one portion of her anatomy produced a strange effect—she enjoyed the touch, and she didn’t usually enjoy sex at all. But Small was a champion, and the girl was finding this out in the most vivid and pleasurable way imaginable.

  And so, when Small finally tired of doing things to her breasts, she forced him onto his back and did things to him with her breasts.

  She dropped her torso across him and rubbed her shifting flesh all over his chest, working her shoulders and her back rhythmically as she moved slowly downward. The hard coins of her nipples left tracks of sensation along his flesh‚ firm little points, inching along, surrounded by vast swelling warmth. He couldn’t recall any woman ever having done this precise thing to him. He soon became aware that he was experiencing a new sensation. The pleasure wasn’t intense enough to completely satisfy his connoisseur’s taste—but it was pleasure, and it was new, and he was very grateful for that.

  At one point, the hard little tip of one breast poked into his navel while the other flattened against the down-curve of his bearded belly. He liked that.

  He liked it even more as the girl continued to work down, rubbing her breasts along his flesh until they reached the tops of his thighs. She shifted herself, settled on her belly between his knees, and raised up on her arms to look at him. He looked back, and saw her grinning over the hill of his abdomen. Her breasts hung pendulously between her arms, the tips of them out of sight past the crest of the hill.

  She let herself down. He felt the tensed nipples graze his thighs. He felt the hanging masses begin to flatten against his loins. Then-he felt the warmth of her bosom settle tightly against him, enclosing him in the ripe valley of her cleavage. Her face came to rest against his belly, her hair tickling his skin. She grabbed his hips with her hands, and wriggled her shoulders wildly causing the sweet flesh of her to shift and move maddeningly where it held him.

  Wonderful, thought Burton Small. Not altogether new by any means, but enough of a variation to provide at least an evening’s entertainment.

  It comforted him to know there were some new sensations to be had, although he was aware that the untried pleasures were dwindling for him every day. The little man in the cigar store had been absolutely right—sooner or later, the time would come when Burton Small had tasted every delight there was to be tasted.

  And after that—well, he thought glumly, there wouldn’t be any after that.

  It is said that when Alexander the Great had mastered the entire world, he sat down and cried because there was nothing left for him to conquer.

  Burton Small knew just how Alexander felt.

  Something was nagging at the back of his mind. In spite of the pleasure the girl was providing for him—and that was pleasure indeed—a small thought kept drawing his attention away from the delight of the moment.

  Now what on earth was it? Something about new amusements—something the little man had told him—no, that wasn’t it. The little man had been no help at all. It had happened after that, after he left the cigar store and before he’d met this uninhibited and fruit-bosomed girl. Something . . .

  The card.

  He remembered it all at once, and felt a second’s panic because he couldn’t remember what he’d done with it. The pocket of his vest—that’s where it was. He could recollect putting it there just after catching sight of the girl.

  Tomorrow would be time enough to follow that lead. He still didn’t altogether believe in the promise of that card. It sounded like his sort of thing, but it might turn out to be something quite innocent, or something filthy but ordinary, and disappointing.

  It could wait. He was receiving all the pleasure he required at the moment, and his investigation of that card would have to wait until his sexual appetite had rebuilt itself.

  He forgot about the card. Because the girl was moving her globed flesh against him now in a cuddling snuggling frenzy, and her efforts were starting to get results. He felt it begin inside him, and concentrated all his awareness on the sensation as it built and built, flushing him with lustful enjoyment.

  Isn’t life wonderful? thought Burton Small, as the ultimate pleasure overwhelmed him.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE YOUNG MAN’S breath smelled of beer. “You a natural redhead, doll?”

  Lil sat at the table smoking a cigarette with artificial calm. She didn’t answer. She refused to look up at him.

  “Come on, now,” he said. “Be nice. All I ask is you be a little nice. You be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you.”

  She still didn’t answer. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the fellow’s body. He was wearing a cracked leather jacket, and corduroy trousers held in place with a garrison belt. The buckle was rusty, and there were stains all over the front of his trousers.

  “Be nice. Is that asking so much? I just want to know if that red hair of yours is natural.”

  The line of her jaw tightened. “Go away,” she said.

  “It ta
lks. Well, well . . . the beautiful red-headed thing actually talks. I was beginning to think you were a statue, or something.”

  “As far as you’re concerned, I am,” She raised her eyes from the coffee cup, and glanced past the young man at the front of the shop. The view was the same as it had been since her arrival several hours ago. The tables near the door were filled with people, and there were other people coming and going in and out of the shop, and the streets beyond the smudged glass windows were thick with still more people, strolling and laughing, enjoying their Friday evening in the Village.

  People by the score, wherever she looked—but no sign of Sam among them anywhere.

  “Well,” said the young man. “Now that the ice is broken, maybe we can get somewhere. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Not at all. The toilet’s in the back.”

  “Hah. That’s pretty good.” He drew out a chair and sat down opposite her. “You’re pretty sharp. I guess you must be a natural red-head, because my old Daddy used to say that natural red-heads were naturally sharp, and Daddy was a real bird. How about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “That color your own?”

  “None of your damn business. Buzz off.”

  “Dad was a bird,” he went on. “But he knew his women. He knew how good red heads were. I like red-heads.”

  “They don’t like you,” Lil said.

  “I bet that’s your own color.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I bet you’re red-headed all over,” he said.

  Lil turned stiffly to look at him. The young man’s eyes were u bright. His face was long and thin, and there was moisture at the corners of his mouth. He was resting his elbows on the table, leaning his upper body forward at a peculiar tense angle.