Of course, he was always somewhat excited when the prospect of a sexual evening presented itself, but never to this degree. In the years he had spent enjoying his hobby, he had tasted so many pleasures and devoured so many delights that the edge was gone from his appetite. The appetite itself was still there, demanding satisfaction, but it took something more than mere satiety to quiet his hungers. Like an epicure about to dine at an unfamiliar restaurant, he approached each experience doubting if the cuisine could completely satisfy his tastes.
Tonight, however, would be different. At least he hoped it would. He hoped so fervently that it would, he found himself in a turmoil of expectation. He was as excited as a young man on the brink of losing his virginity.
When something could affect Burton Small as strongly as that, it had to be pretty unique.
He remained by the telephone for some minutes after completion of the call, mentally repeating the co-ordinates to himself until he was sure he had them memorized: Bliss Place and Eugene Street she’d said.
Bliss Place. He smiled to himself, and couldn’t help wondering if she’d picked the address for the name.
After several minutes of happy contemplation, he lifted the receiver and dialed another number.
“Eureka Limousines,” said a voice.
“Is that you, Charles? This is Burton Small.”
“Hi,” said the man. “What’s up? You need a car?”
“Yes, my friend. I’m taking a trip to Staten Island tonight.”
“Staten Island?” He sounded incredulous. “What the hell’s happening in Staten Island to drag you over there? Listen, if you’re taking the trip just for a look-see, forget it. Staten’s too sleepy for your kind of fun.”
Small laughed. “No, Charles—I have a special reason for making the trip. It will be worth my while.”
“Yeah?” He began to get interested. “What is it—there a whore house over there, or something? I always thought there wasn’t any action on Staten at all, but maybe I’m wrong. Is it pro territory, or . . .”
“Now, Charles—I’m afraid I can’t reveal the nature of my mission at this time. Afterwards perhaps—I might be able to give you a line on something rather unique.”
The man chuckled. “Mr. Small, if you say it’s unique, I don’t know that an ordinary bird like me could stand it.”
“The address is Bliss Place and Eugene Street,” said Small. “Are you familiar with it?”
“Never heard of it. Just a second—lemme check the map.” There was a rustling of paper. “Yeah—here it is. Way over west, near Jersey. That’s a long trip, Mr. Small.”
“How long would you say, Charles? An hour?”
“Yeah, about. No more than that, anyway. What time you want to get there?”
“Midnight,” said Small. “A bit earlier than that, if possible.”
“Okay. I’ll make the pick-up for ten forty-five. That ought to be about right.”
“Will you be free to drive me, Charles, or will you assign one of the other men?”
“Oh, I’ll be free, Mr. Small. You can bet on that. I wouldn’t give one of your assignments to any of the other guys. My gosh—you’re the most interesting customer I have.”
“Why, thank you, Charles. Very kind of you to say so.”
“Sure. Don’t mention it. I tell you what—if this thing on Staten turns out to be anything, let me in on it—huh? I mean, I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Small.”
“Charles, my friend—if it’s half as good as I think it will be, I shall personally treat you to a go-round.”
“Hey, thanks, Mr. Small.”
“Don’t mention it, Charles. See you at a quarter to eleven.”
“Right.”
Small hung up and sat grinning for a moment. Then he stood up, threw on a hat and coat, and left his home.
There was quite a bit of time to kill before his evening began, and he knew he would go mad with waiting unless he occupied himself somehow. His sexual energies were rebuilding, but he wanted to store them for the evening ahead, so spending the afternoon with a prostitute was out of the question. The elimination of that left only one pastime open to him.
He hailed a cab and rode downtown into the Times Square area.
There were bookshops all up and down Forty-Second Street, and many more on Sixth Avenue. They sold back-date magazines, novels, souvenirs of New York, and all manner of stuff, but their principal business orbited around a single commodity.
Sex.
All of those stores sold magazines containing pictures of naked women. None of the magazines could be described as obscene, although some of them were pretty graphic. Sale of these items were brisk, especially to embarrassed young men.
Most of the stores sold spicy paperbacks. These novels all bore cover-paintings ripe with promise, but few of them lived up to that promise inside. Nevertheless, the paperbacks could be quite entertaining to anyone who had never tasted the pungent spices of hard-core pornography.
Many of the stores also sold photographs—glossy prints, varying in size, of nude females. Some of the girls were pretty, some were not, but all were naked, and posed to reveal the absolute maximum allowed by the law. Sale of these items was especially brisk; the photos were unretouched, and occasionally a merely human photographer would misjudge an angle, and present the viewer with a peek at something quite illegal, and therefore delightful.
A few of the stores—a very few—handled a variety of books and photos which could not be displayed above the counter. A customer couldn’t just walk in and ask for such things. Unless the proprietor knew the person’s face, he would turn him away. After all, the stuff in which he dealt was frowned upon by the law, and one couldn’t identify a cop by his face.
A customer had to be recognized in order to be served in such an establishment.
They all knew Burton Small.
Small had a routine in these shopping tours, hitting the stores in rotation until he had visited them all. He instructed the cabbie to let him off on Sixth Avenue, and walked into a tiny shop.
There was another customer in the place ahead of him, so Small didn’t greet the proprietor. He wandered Klong the racks of books and magazines, pausing now and then to examine an item or two. He was lost in the perfectly-legal but delightful pages of a Swedish nudist magazine when he heard the man behind the register call his name.
“Okay, Mr. Small. We can talk now.”
Small returned the nudist periodical to its place and walked over to the counter. “James,” he said cordially, extending his hand.
The man took it. His palm was wet and warm. “How’re you doing, Mr. Small. Ain’t seen you for a while.”
“Busy, busy,” replied Small with a grin. “How have things been with you?”
“Same as ever. You know—business stinks.”
“Perhaps you should advertise, James.”
The man laughed. “Yeah, sure. That’s a good one.”
“You have something for me?” asked Small.
“Yeah.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting a policeman to be standing behind him. “Some new stuff—from the Coast.”
“Los Angeles or San Francisco?” asked Small. “There's quite a difference in the quality of the product from those cities.”
“This is from a place called Berkeley, Mr. Small. I never saw any stuff from there before. It's kind of crazy.”
“Oh?” Small’s eyebrows lifted. “Indeed? Bring it out, man— let me see it.”
“I got it right here—it’s a deck. You know, a deck of cards.”
Small waited impatiently while the proprietor fished under the counter. He owned several hundred decks of cards—action-decks, they were called. Like ordinary cards, there were fifty-three of them in each deck—fifty-two plus the joker—and they bore the customary marks of number and suit. But only at the edges.
The center area of each card contained a photograph. And these photographs had nothing to do with card games.
&nb
sp; Small owned decks depicting relations between naked men and women two by two, two by three, six by eight—every conceivable combination. Some of the scenes contained so many people in such complex positions as to be epic in their scope, and the small format of the action deck sometimes thwarted the complete appreciation of these. But there were other decks to make up for it—sets of cards showing relations between women, between males and females of various exotic nationalities, between people who were interested not so much in sexual pleasure as physical pain, between men in weird costumes and girls strapped and belted in outlandish underwear.
The deck he was given to examine now, however, was something quite new to him.
“It ain’t photographs, Mr. Small,” said the proprietor. “They look like photos at first, but if you peek real close, you’ll see they ain’t.”
“Engravings,” said Small, thumbing through the pack. “Steel engravings.”
“Yeah—that’s right. Like the engraving on money.”
“Exquisite,” said Small. His eyes scanned from card to card in growing fascination. “Whoever executed these plates is a true craftsman.”
“I thought you’d like ’em, Mr. Small.”
Small was no longer listening. The scenes on the cards depicted a Greco-Roman landscape, filled with classic buildings and people dressed in togas. Or undressed. Their bodies were drawn to follow the perfection of ancient statuary, and represented with an attention to detail that made them almost photographic.
Most of the cards concerned themselves with various forms of sexual pleasure, but a number of them had a somewhat different topic.
Pain.
A nubile young girl, sprawled on her back, her face distorted with fear. Above her, crouched ready to spring, a goat-footed satyr, his eyes flashing, his mouth grinning, his face distorted with lust. In his hand, a many-tailed whip. On the girl’s innocent flesh, the dark stripes of that whip.
That was one of the less vivid scenes. There were more—many more—and as Small went through the deck, his fingers began to tremble.
“You like it, Mr. Small? I got it in for you special.”
“I want it,” said Small.
“Yean, right. Only . . .’’ The man paused.
Small’s head bobbed up quickly. “Only? What’s the problem, James?”
“Well—it’s an expensive item, Mr. Small. You gotta understand—things like this don’t come along just every day of the week.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that, James. How much?”
The man cleared his throat. “Fifty,” he said, with a rising inflection that made it sound almost like a question.
Small nodded. “That is steep, James. Nearly a dollar a card.”
“Yeah. Like I said, it’s a one-of-a-kind number, Mr. Small. It cost me through the nose to lay hold of it, and I gotta make my profit, right?”
Small smiled. “No question about it, James. Can you change a hundred?”
The man stared at him for a moment, then nodded vigorously. “I sure can, Mr. Small. I sure as hell can.”
It was robbery, and Small knew it. But he didn’t care. Money wasn’t nearly as important to him as time, and he refused to waste minutes haggling over the price when he could be settled in the comfort of his own home, enjoying the pleasure of examining this new acquisition.
He left the store, flagged a cab, and rode back uptown. In the house, he went promptly to the third floor, and into the room reserved for photos.
He spent the next few hours going through the cards, over and over again, his eyes bugging and his mouth working wetly.
Pain and pleasure, he thought—torment and passion. Torture so terrible it was almost lust—lust so awesome it was almost death.
Did The Climax which Madam Fury had promised have anything to do with those concepts?
* * *
Pain and pleasure were also in the thoughts of Lillian Peale that Saturday.
She had awakened shortly past noon with those ideas circling in her brain. Even before she opened her eyes, she remembered with startling clarity all the events of the evening before, as well as the activities planned for the evening to come. She recalled most vividly her conversation with the woman—Madam Fury—and the thoughts of revenge she’d taken with her down into sleep.
She also remembered wondering if she’d feel the same way in the morning. Well, the night was past now, and nothing had changed. If anything, her desire to inflict upon someone the sort of pain she had suffered herself was stronger than it had been last night.
She arose, made herself a quick breakfast, and dressed hurriedly. There was an urgent feeling to the day, as if many things had to be done before the evening’s enjoyment could begin. She didn’t try to examine the feeling, but simply dressed and left the apartment, following her instinct.
Outside, the day was mild and balmy, almost like spring instead of late fall. She stood in front of her house for a while, sniffing the air, wondering which direction she ought to take. Finally, she decided one way was as good as another and began strolling at random along the streets.
A beautiful day to be alive, she thought. And it was going to be an even more beautiful night.
Pain and pleasure. The pain of some poor innocent girl, some unblemished and unused kid—and the pleasure of Yours Truly, Lil Peale. The pain fed the pleasure, and the pleasure would feed the pain, and the two opposing feelings would blend and merge into a Single feeling, more powerful than either.
Strange thoughts. Lil couldn’t recall ever having thought along such lines before. She had the feeling she should be frightened at herself for entertaining such weird concepts, but the fright refused to come. It couldn’t get past the satisfaction, or the anticipation, or the growing tingle of passion which was invading her.
Strange thoughts—but who cared? Not Lil Peale. Lil was determined to be herself, just as she had always been; and if basic changes had taken place in her personality during the night, why there was no course open to her but to follow them.
Last night, she had been a frustrated lesbian. This morning, she was an amateur sadist. Lesbianism and sadism were similar in that they were both perversions.
She was lost in thought when she heard the sound of the auto horn.
“Hi, there,” called a voice.
She turned. There was a red convertible a few feet away from her, with a smiling young man behind the wheel. His face was as open and empty as a soap bubble, and normal enough to have appeared on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post.
“Want a lift someplace?” he asked.
The customary angry words of rejection sprang to Lil’s lips, but she bit them back. An idea came suddenly into her head, and she decided to stall until she’d had time to examine it. “Why did you speak to me?” she asked.
The young man looked baffled. “Why?” He scratched his head. “Well—because . . . You know, that’s a hell of a question to ask a fellow. Why does any guy speak to a beautiful girl?”
“You tell me,” said Lil.
“All right. Because you looked pretty, and because you were walking alone—and because you were smiling.”
“Smiling? Was I smiling?”
“You sure were. You looked like all your dreams had come true—like a princess out of a fairy-tale. I couldn’t pass something like that by without stopping to say hello.” He gestured at the seat beside him. “And offering you a lift.”
The idea in Lil’s head was taking shape rapidly. “Are you going anyplace in particular?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. That’s why I stopped.”
“How about tonight? You doing anything tonight?”
He laughed, showing all his even teeth. “That’s supposed to be my line. You’re cheating.”
“I want to know. Are you doing anything tonight?”
“Well—now that we’ve broken the ice—no, I’m not doing a damned thing. Are you?”
“Yes,” she said.
The young man looked puzzled, then
disappointed. “Oh. You are? I thought. . . .”
“Would you like to come and do it with me?” Lil asked.
His face cleared, and the healthy smile broke across it again. “I get it. What’s it going to be? You invited to a party, or have tickets for a show, or what?”
“A party,” she said. “Sort of.”
He looked around. “Listen—why don’t you hop in here with me, and we’ll take a ride someplace and talk this over. I think maybe we could get to know each other a little better that way.”
Lil smiled. “All right.”
He held the door open for her as she slid in. His eyes flicked from her face to her breasts, then down to her knees. She pretended not to notice.
“Where to? Anywhere in particular?”
Lil shrugged. “Just drive. I don’t care.”
He nodded and put the convertible in gear. Lil leaned back in her seat as the car began moving. Her plan was fully-formed now, and she was pleased with herself for having thought of it.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lil Peale,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“Bill Henry,” he replied. “You’re smiling again.”
“Am I? I guess maybe I’m looking forward to the party tonight I think maybe we’ll have some fun.”
“Could be. I wouldn’t be surprised if we did. Whereabouts is this party going to be?”
Still smiling, Lil closed her eyes. “Staten Island,” she said.
CHAPTER 9
HE WAS TAKING off her clothes.
Ginny could feel the urgent motion of his fingers, fed the whisper of the garments against her skin. She could hear his hoarse breathing and the filthy things his voice was saying. She could sense his agitation, feel the heat of his lust like the glow of a furnace above her.
The sensations were curiously distant, but very immediate as well. Even as she felt it happening, she couldn’t quite believe it.
She had been unconscious, but not for very long. Her time sense was distorted, but she remembered where she was and the identity of the person whose hands were pawing her. The sand was cool underneath her back, and when she opened her eyes she could see the gray slats of the Boardwalk overhead with bright ribbons of sunshine running between them.
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