Chapter 2

The St. Martin's Church Committee was in session. The chairman, a Mrs. Smythe, was holding forth in her usual domineering manner:

"Now we have decided on the formation of a Youth Club in the old Church Hall, and now sufficient funds have been raised for this venture, the question arises who shall run it? Every member of this Committee will have an opportunity to put forward their suggestion and it is my intention to state my own preference now," she paused majestically.

Most members of her Committee knew her suggestion was not far short of a Royal Command. The funds referred to had been supplied by her husband and Mrs. Smythe considered her wishes should be deferred to. The subservient committee, although privately resenting it, would automatically vote for her nominee, unless she made some really outrageous suggestion, when there might be a mild protest. They were pleasantly surprised when she put forward the name of Mrs. Jean Buller. They nodded their heads enthusiastically. What a relief to be able to vote for a really suitable candidate!

Mrs. Smythe continued: "I have known this young lady since she was a child. She comes as you know, from a most respectable family who are faithful members of this church. She has been married for three years to a pleasant young man whose parents are also known to us.

Although it is true she dresses in what we may consider a very advanced fashion, she is not too young to take on this responsibility. She is a young woman of a good character, pleasant mannered and good looking. She also has the advantage of being childless and therefore, I assume, will have enough leisure time to devote several hours a week to the organization and running of the Club. I consider her very suitable."

A murmur of assent traveled around the table. Mr.. Huxtable, who was often a spokesman for the less articulate members of the Committee, glanced around at the pleased faces, cleared his throat and said portentously :

"I believe it is the opinion of the Committee that Mrs. Buller would be most acceptable. Shall we take a vote on it, Mrs. Smythe?"

The lady could not suppress her satisfaction at such a quick victory, but the conventions must be observed:

"I am so glad to hear you agree with me. But perhaps we ought to consider other suggestions?"

A quick glance around the table revealed, twelve blank faces and so a vote was taken. Mr.. Huxtable was particularly pleased at the unanimous choice. As Treasurer of the newly formed Club he would be in contact with the Youth Leader frequently, and the prospect of it being Mrs. Buller was a pleasant and exciting surprise. He also had watched Jean flower from a gawky child to a ravishing beauty and his covetous eyes had often roved over a slim ankle and a nicely rounded buttock as he watched her at church every Sunday. She had often figured in his masturbatory fantasies with most pleasing results. The idea of being closely associated with her for legitimate reasons sent a thrill of anticipation through him and stimulated his flaccid and elderly penis so that he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was momentarily distracted from the business in hand as his imagination developed unlikely situations for seduction. Mrs. Buller was his one deviation from an unswerving devotion to teenage girls which had occupied him in a most rewarding manner most of his adult life. The discretion and cunning which he had applied to his seductions would have long since made him a rich man if his interests had lain in that direction. As it was he merely amused himself by altering his firm's books, but this was also an aid to seduction, since teenage girls were inclined to have expensive tastes nowadays, a fact which he deplored. And then again as he grew older he found them more and more reluctant to accommodate him. Mrs. Buller promised to be an interesting subject on which to concentrate his wiles.

He returned from his thoughts just in time to catch the information that he was commissioned to visit Mrs. Buller and ask whether she would undertake the running of the Youth Club. It was suggested he visit her immediately after the Committee meeting, which had been called this Sunday afternoon, to the considerable inconvenience of its members, for the sole convenience of Mrs. Smythe, who was leaving for a winter holiday first thing in the morning.

The Treasurer accepted his task with carefully concealed enthusiasm and the meeting was brought to an end with a short prayer from the Vicar, who was an ineffective and unimportant member of the Committee.

But Mr.. Huxtable was unlucky. The lovely lady was visiting a friend when he called and her husband ushered him into the sitting room and listened attentively to the message from the Committee.

"I see," said Martin dubiously, "of course Jean has no experience of anything like that, although now I come to think of it, she used to be something high up in the local Guides at one time."

"Well, I'm sure that must have taught her many useful things in the handling of youngsters Mr.. Buller. We want somebody youthful and, of course, anyone as charming as your wife would have a great influence on some of the more unruly members."

Martin doubted it, but didn't say so.

"It's entirely up to Jean, Mr.. Huxable. I'll tell her all about it when she returns. I'll ask her to phone you."

Martin wandered back to the sitting room and thoughtfully poured himself a stiff whiskey. He hated Mr.. Huxtable, nevertheless the Committee's recommendation was quite an honor. He did not see how Jean could possibly accept, however, considering the uncertain state of their affairs. And then suddenly the thought of his wife being in constant contact with the greatest temptation of his life . . . teenage girls . . . sent a tremble of fear, premonition, excitement and guilt through him.

The youngsters would be calling at the house for one thing or another and be a constant temptation to him. Oh God! . . . the hot flush of his cheeks and the quick beat of his heart! He jumped to his feet and began agitatedly walking up and down. It was impossible . . . no . . . no . . . he mustn't let her do it . . . he mustn't . . .

He clamed down when he remembered be was getting excited about a situation which might not arise. She had taken him up on his suggestion of the previous night and gone to see Dorothy this afternoon. He was somewhat disappointed at her promptness, but she explained it would be a good idea to get it over with. If she returned and told him she was going to live with Dorothy in Paddington then that would be the end of their marriage and there would certainly be no question of starting Youth Clubs.

It was no use sitting here brooding. He decided to go to the cinema.

Jean's long blonde hair attracted many wolf whistles in the Paddington street where Dorothy lived. Jean didn't think much of the district, having lived all her life in suburbia The tall shabby, peeling houses of this slum made her feel depressed and uneasy. The colored people lounging around their doorways struck her as sinister and she hurried past, glancing doubtfully at the almost-obliterated numbers on the dirty transom windows.

Jean wondered why her friends had chosen such a sleazy area. Dorothy came not only from the same suburb as herself but from a similar family background solid, respectable, narrow-minded citizens. Why should she hide herself a-way in the most ever-crowded, multi-racial district in London? Was there some masochistic streak in her which found it necessary to degrade herself or was it just that she sought anonymity? She recalled her last agonizing meeting with Dorothy. Up until then their relationship had been romantic, even if their sexual experiments had been awkward and fumbling and always followed by outbursts of guilt from Jean. She would cry and Dot would comfort her and say they'd just been a bit naughty, but it wasn't like doing dirty things with boys and getting into trouble, now was it? Jean would admit it wasn't and the next time when Dot's hands explored her breasts or pried into that wonderfully exciting region between her legs she would give herself over wholeheartedly to sensation and voluptuous pleasure only to weep once more from guilt afterwards. But the last meeting had put an end to it all. Dorothy had seemed to take a malicious pleasure in explaining to Jean exactly what Lesbians were and that undoubtedly she and Jean were inverts: "You'd better face up to it Jean, why don't you come and live with me in Padding-ton? You know how fond I am of you. Come and be my wife!"

Oh the shock of that disgusting invitation! Jean could still go cold and hot inside at the very thought of it. She had vehemently denied that she was 'one of those' as she put it. "How dare you

Dorothy? I know we've been . . . well . . . naughty but its ridiculous to suggest it any more than that. You're just jealous because I've been going out with Martin, that's all. And you're perfectly normal yourself, Dot, you just imagine being different!"

She could smile ruefully at her own ignorance now. How long had it taken her after marriage to know that Dorothy was right? About three weeks! After that it was agony when Martin wanted sex. It was then she had gone to the public library and furtively read about Lesbianism from a medical book. She had not written to Dorothy and apologized, or even explained the tragic outcome of her marriage. But Dorothy had ignored her obstinate silence, sending her Christmas and birthday cards and the odd small present.

As she mounted the broken concrete steps to number 159 she wondered if Dorothy knew from any source that she and Martin were not happy. It was possible. She studied the collection of battered bells and a note which said: Miss D. Shaldo . . . Apply Basement. She descended into the area and discovered that this part of the house was cared for. The steps were scrubbed clean and the paintwork was new. A window-box overflowed with greenery and the door was a cheerful scarlet.

She hesitated, wondering what her reception would be, but apparently she had been seen through the window for the door burst open and there was Dorothy, looking almost unrecognizable but certainly friendly and welcoming.

"Come in come in! I knew you'd come and see me one day, Jean. You look marvelous. Well come in, its cold . . . I'll give you a drink straight away, you look frozen!"

Jean was overwhelmed by the exuberant welcome, but it covered her embarrassement and, smiling, she entered the basement flat. It was a surprise inside. Everything was strongly popery a riot of orange, black and purple with exotic flowers everywhere, growing out of a chamber pot and trailing up the wall, half hidden in a piano with no innards.

"How do you like it? Bit of a difference from Mom's aspidistra, eh?" laughed Dorothy. Her mother's favorite potted plant had always been an object of hatred and contempt to her, even as a schoolgirl.

Dorothy folded back the side of the piano and revealed a well-stocked bar, "What'll you have?"

"Whiskey please," said Jean looking around with interest. She didn't particularly like the atmosphere, it was too brashly modern and eccentric and did not give the feeling of comfort and repose which she associated with a living room. Dorothy chattered on in a bottle, flippant manner and Jean studied her. Three years had made more difference to her friends appearance than her own. The untidy black hair was now cut close to her head in a Napoleonic manner accentuating her aquiline nose and deeply sunk eyes. She was dressed somewhat like a Spanish gypsy, in tight fitting black trousers into which was tucked a full white shirt with flowing sleeves and a standup collar. The effect was strikingly sexless despite the feminine breasts concealed in the shirt. She noticed also the supercilious expression of her face and the fixed casualness of her manner, which were new to Jean.

She became aware that Dorothy had noticed her scrutiny and she looked away, momentarily confused.

"I suppose I've changed in three years, Jean darling, but so would you if you'd been through what has happened to me. But you . . . you look pretty much the same, but there's a great change in you all the same . . . what's happened to the old chatterbox I used to know . . . you've hardly opened your mouth since you arrived."

"Well, I suppose it was a bit difficult to get a word in edgeways," smiled Jean, the old mischievous twinkle returning to her green eyes for a moment.

Dorothy sat beside her on the couch.

"You've matured Jean, and it suits you. Maybe you're not such a scatterbrain as you used to be. And how's your husband Martin isn't it?"

Jean hesitated . . . what should she say? It was more difficult than she'd realized it would be. There was so much to say and it was all so intimate, and it did not seem right to talk about it to a stranger, as Dorothy now seemed to be.

Dorothy, whose quick brain had made several observations and deductions since Jean's arrival, was quick to take advantage of a situation she had long anticipated. She laid her hand on Jean's knee and said quietly:

"Tell me all about it darling, I've guessed that something's wrong and you know I'll do anything to help if I can. Here have another drink and get it off your chest. Uncle Dot is all ears."

The flippant substitution of the usual 'aunty' for uncle had a jarring effect on Jean and suddenly the whole misery of the last three years and the upheaval of this weekend descended on her. She burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.

Dorothy promptly took her into her arms and smoothed and petted and murmured to her. Rocking the sobbing girl backwards and forwards like a baby, she patted her head and mopped up the tears with a large but spotless handkerchief. The protection and sympathy of those arms she had yarned for so long was too much for Jean she laid her head on Dorothy's breast and gave vent to a torrent of tears and explanations, mixed with admonitions and reproaches. Dorothy sorted it all out with a little difficulty and, suppressing a desire to say 'I told you so,' continued to sympathize and comfort Jean. Inwardly she was delighted with the situation. She had counted on something like this happening because she had always been convinced of Jean's inversion.

But the Dorothy who had left for London three years ago was not the same person as the one who held Jean in her arms, for Dot had become part of the cynical society of blatant Lesbians who frequent the West End of London.

The hand which had been stroking Jean's gleaming hair near her temple now continued its motion the whole length of the blonde tresses, passing over the up-thrusting bulge of her breasts.

Jean quivered beneath her touch. Again and again the gentle hand stroked from head to breast, awakening the memory of half-forgotten caresses in Jean who slowly became aware of the exciting proximity of Dorothy's long remembered body. Jean turned impulsively, capturing the roving hand as she did so and pressing it urgently against her breast.

"Oh Dorothy I've missed you so terribly . . . I've dreamed about you night after night . . . oh Dot we were so happy together and I didn't know then that I really loved you. I can remember everything we used to say . . . and what we used to do . . . oh Dot . . . it seems so long ago!"

Dorothy smiled wryly: "I can remember too, my dear, but I remember how you used to cry."

Tears came into Jean's eyes again and she nodded: "But I was only a kid Dot, I didn't really understand what it was all about. I mean . . . I used to think we were naughty and I was a-shamed."

Dorothy took Jean's chin in her hand and turned the blushing face so she could look into the green eyes. She was captivated by the uncertainty and confusion in the girl's face. There was still an air of innocence there and Dot was overwhelmed by several conflicting emotions . . . tenderness . . . pity . . . excitement . . . and sheer animal lust for this lovely girl who was fumbling towards understanding her inner self and patiently in Dot's hand like a ripe plum ready for eating.

Her mouth suddenly swooped down on

Jean's. She kissed her long and passionately. Their arms entwined around each other, pressing breast to breast in a convulsive hungry embrace. Dot's tongue insinuated itself between Jean's lips and she instinctively opened her jaws to receive the lecherous searching point which stabbed immediately into her mouth, sending a tremor through her heart, she responded with her own tongue, actively thrusting and retracting it into the wet welcoming cavity. This was something Martin had forced on her and she had never responded, but how different it was when Dot did it how exciting! She felt her whole body melting with acquiescence.

Those firm demanding hands of Dot's, whose memory had lingered for three years guiltily, were roaming her body freely. One cupped a breast and squeezed it gently, the other caressed her thigh and abdomen, pressing the palpitating flesh beneath till she tingled with desire. She writhed voluptuously beneath Dot's hand, indicated to her the extent of her pleasure and inviting still more caresses.

Now Dot's exploring fingers had gained entrance through the buttons of her blouse and were slipping into the tight enclosure of her brassiere, uncupping one flawless orb of honey-colored flesh. Her fingers delicately tickled the rosy nipple, which responded quickly and erected its miniature length in gratitude, standing stiffly up from the brown aureole, mute testimony of her mounting excitement. Dot squeezed the nipple fiercely and Jean squirmed against her, involuntarily clasping her tighter and pushing her tongue even further into Dot's mouth.

Then Dorothy dragged her lips away, bent her head and closed her mouth over the urgent point, her other hand grasping the straining bulge of the other breast. Jean was momentarily embarrassed by this sudden movement, but as she looked down at the dark cropped head at her bosom and felt the delicious prickling caused by the sucking mouth she lent her head against the back of the couch and gave herself up to the exquisite sensation. Dot quarried in the plastic resiliency of her breast, nuzzling, sucking, nibbling, pulling out and pushing in like a dog with a delectable bone. Her other hand had succeeded in un-tipping the other breast and soon she transferred her ministrations, continuing to squeeze the neglected nipple.

Jean's breath was coming so fast that her mouth hung open as she panted. Dot returned to fasten her lips once more on her willing, receptive lips, her fingers not ceasing to tantalize those nipple-encrusted mounds. Now Dot was smothering her face with kisses, nibbling her ear lobes, running her tongue along the delicate down of her cheek, nuzzling against the clean cut pillar of her magnificent white neck. One hand began to explore her thigh again, pressing across her belly and then thrusting itself between her legs. The firm finger ran up the nylon-covered thighs till they reached the delicate flesh above the stocking-tops where they lingered, massaging and squeezing for a few minutes.

Jean was so roused that her hands reached out for the small firm breasts beneath the white shirt. Dot had also enjoyed them being touched when they were schoolgirls and she saw no reason to suppose she wouldn't still like it. But Dot paused long enough to brush her hand away. Apparently she no longer wanted it. Jean relaxed, her lips still pressed against Dot's, still receiving the full pleasure of a French kiss as she felt the inquisitive fingers prying their way into the leg of her panties. She held her breath, heart pounding. Then came the sensation she had almost forgotten, the touching of her clitoris by a woman's gentle hand. She opened her legs wider, pulled up her skirt with a free hand and lay open and quivering to the gorgeous voluptuous sensation.-

She had, for the very first time in her life, a feeling of freedom. She did not experience that awful stultifying guilt she used to struggle against. It had gone and in its place was an urgent desire to enjoy Dot's love-making to the full with no regrets. Dot was entranced by this opening up gesture of surrender; if there was to be no struggle or even persuasion there was no need for them to be hampered by their clothing.

"Darling," she whispered, "I still love you and I want you desperately. Let's do it properly without our clothes, eh?" and as she spoke she pushed away from Jean and began to undo her own skirt, looking elsewhere in case Jean was embarrassed. But Jean's hands went automatically to her blouse and soon it had been dragged away, her brassiere following. She undid the hook and zipper on her skirt and stood up to let it fall over her slim hips to reveal a flimsy pair of pretty black panties which quickly followed the skirt to the floor. She stood now, her tall slim body revealed in a tiny frilly suspender belt.

Dot looked up from her undressing to catch her breath at the astounding mature beauty standing before her. The years had rounded Jean, the magnificent breasts stood out perkily from the smooth-skinned torso and her greyhound thighs tapered to a flat belly and the dainty waist. Exciting too was the way her long fair hair tumbled over her shoulders and fringed her breasts like a tawny curtain.

"That's enough," said Dot shakily, unable to wait for the removal of the belt and stockings and knowing they added provocatively to Jean's allure. They sat down on the couch and once more they were locked fast in a furious embrace. This time moist skin touched moist skin and each was intensely aware of the touch of the other. Dot repeated her manipulation to Jean's breasts to bring her back to heat again and then her hand explored the depths between her thighs.

Jean was lost in a sea of sensations, which swept over her yearning sex-starved body in uncontrollable waves. She did not attempt to restrain herself, not even when Dot slid down her body and she felt the warm tongue, which a second before had been in her mouth, thrust between the lips of her palpitating cunt. Once more she opened her legs wide in a welcoming gesture. She was intent on enjoying this seduction to the full. It was wonderful to feel a woman's tender soft body against hers how she hated the hairy masculinity of her husband how she cringed at his too boisterous and sometimes frantic embraces. He seemed too bony and angular, lacking in graceful movement, too eager and uncontrolled. Poor Jean; she had been encountering a man driven half mad with unrequited desire.

In the delirium of her enjoyment she pressed Dot's neat black head between her legs, half suffocating her. The inner membranes of her vagina were now being explored by a darting stiff tongue. An involuntary, indrawn, shuddering breath marked the invasion of that tongue into the opening which, last time it entered, had been virgin. The busy tongue had almost brought on her climax when Dot broke away and once more brought her mouth to Jean's Her hands were pushing Jean's legs apart and suddenly she was astride Jean's, both hands now down at her own cunt-lips between their bodies. With two strong fingers she hooked the lips apart and brought her mound down firmly against Jean's clitoris. The touch of wet flesh on wet flesh galvanized Jean into a wild thrust upwards into Dot, which completed the sensation needed for her climax. She thrust again and again with all her strength digging her elbows and heels into the couch and driving Dot into an ecstasy of lust so that she began to shudder against Jean, grasping her tightly at the hips and levering her body backwards and forwards.

"Jean darling . . . I knew I'd fuck you properly one day . . . oh darling . . . you luscious wanton bitch . . . fuck me . . . FUCK ME!"

Jean had already passed her climax when she heard that word. It had always shocked her when Martin used it but now she listened in trembling delight. Yes . . . she had been fucked by Jean at last! The trembling stopped. Dot fell shuddering on the prostrate body beneath her hiding her face in the mass of perfumed hair, pressing her breasts into Jean's breasts while their cunts gave out the dregs of their mutual desire, one into the other. They lay panting and murmuring for several minutes and then subsided into voluptuous silence.

Jean had almost drifted off into a doze. Her satiated body was relaxed and rid of all the tensions which had been with her so long. Suddenly there came the sound of clattering feet down the outside area steps! Dot sprang up, alarm in her face, but it was too late, a key was turned in the door and immediately someone burst into the room. Jean was so startled and frightened she could not move, she lay sprawled, legs open, vacant arms outspread, her mouth gaping in surprise. Dot stood facing the young girl who entered, guilt and embarrassment all over her face.

"You bitch!" yelled the intruder, "you bloody bitch so this is what would do while I'm at work? I thought I might catch you at something, but this oh you filthy bitch!" and she rushed at Dot, handbag raised to hit her. Dot had no trouble in fending her off, she was much stronger and heavier. She grabbed the girl by the wrists and held her secure for a moment. Turning her head she said hurriedly to Jean:

"Take your clothes and go in there," she nodded towards a door, "And I'll calm her down."

"Calm me down! You cow . . . you stinking Lesbian . . . I'll murder you . . . I'll . . . "

But Jean didn't hear any more, she was up, grabbing clothes and through the door in a few seconds. She had never felt such a bloody fool in all her life. Once on the other side of the door and the door safely locked, she stood there with beating heart listening to the furious row on the other side.

She was humiliated. That this should have happened at the first time in her life when she had accepted a woman's lovemaking openly and without guilt was terrible to her. Was it, perhaps, a sort of punishment, she wondered in agony, trembling from head to foot from shock. All the old moral objections came flooding back. The shame and the guilt and now the sordidness of this affair overwhelmed her. She hated Dot for making her feel soiled.

She dressed with clumsy trembling fingers. Her body was goose-fleshed and as she dressed it she felt sullied, vile, ashamed, violated. The tears ran down her cheeks unchecked. She was shivering with the shock now and was grateful to see a bottle of whiskey half-full on a bedside table. With shaking fingers she helped herself to half a tumbler and gulped it down, coughing and spluttering with the rawness of the spirit. But it calmed her down.

The noise from outside had subsided to muttering but she dared not re-enter the living room. She hoped she would not have to meet that coarse-mouthed common little slut. Part of her revulsion was because even at such a moment Jean had been aware of the working-class origin of the girl. Her garish cheap clothes, her vulgar jeweler. How could Dot associate with such a creature? It filled her with horror that Dot had probably caressed the coarse body of the girl just as she had Jean's. She poured another tot of whiskey.

This was a nightmare. She wished profoundly she had not come. And how was she going to get out? She looked around the room with seeing eyes for the first time. There were two single beds. So the girl in the living room was Dot's mistress! What else could you call her. Perhaps there was a word, but she didn't know it.

There was a knock at the door. Jean went close to it, cautiously.

"Who is it."

"It's me, Jean. Will you come out now it's alright."

Jean grabbed her bag, finished off the whiskey and unlocked the door. She came out briskly, saying:

"I'll go right away. Where's my coat?"

But Dot's girl was standing in front of her and said aggressively:

"Oh no you don't not just yet. You sit down for a minute."

Jean looked despairingly at Dorothy but she was smiling enigmatically and merely nodded at a chair. Feeling helpless, Jean went and sat down, noting as she did the position of her coat and the door to the area stairs, in case she needed to make a quick exit.

Dot was approaching her with yet another drink and she took it. Her hands were still trembling. She looked over at the girl. Even now that some of the anger had disappeared she was, to Jean's eyes, very common looking. But she was handsome in a sluttish way, with big breasts and a wide generous mouth which was now set in a grim line. She was also quite articulate.

"Dot told me who you are. I've always known about you and that one day you might come here. But how was I to know it was you I thought you were a mystery from Alf's place Dot had picked up."

This was gibberish to Jean. She was merely waiting for the girl to finish talking so she could escape. She didn't understand why Dot had ever mentioned her to such a girl.

"Well now you're here, I've got something to say. I've been here nearly three years see, and I'm not just going to move out without a fight even though I knew you were coming. I've got my rights see, and this is my home."

Jean stared at her openmouthed.

"I don't understand," she stammered.

"What Judy's trying to say," said Dot, quite calmly, "Is that I always warned her that one day you might come and then all this would be finished. She agreed to it but now its happened she's chosen to be awkward,"

"But Dot . . . I still don't understand . . . why do you have to turn the girl out just because I've visited you?"

There was a short silence.

Jean was staring fixedly at Dorothy.

"Aren't you going to stay Jean move in with me? You can. I've always expected you . . . I've never forgotten you."

"Oh yes . . . the beautiful Jean! The marvelous blonde cow! Oh yes, we've heard all about you. Selfish cat! Just typical of your class to walk in and turn someone like me out into the street," spat out Judy, her eyes flashing fire . . .

"Just a minute! Now let's get this straight. I have no intention whatsoever of moving in here. I'm sorry Dot . . . not now . . . maybe if this hadn't happened . . . but I just couldn't . . . not now . . I'm terribly sorry."

Somehow she felt she had to placate Dot who had waited for her but had not hesitated to bring a mistress into the very place she expected Jean to share with her. She felt quite revolted at the lack of sensitivity Dorothy had shown.

"I don't see why you should be so choosy," said Dot, obviously feeling humiliated herself now, "You've spent three years wallowing in a man's bed and dreaming of me at the same time so what's the difference between us?"

Jean felt sick, nauseated. It was all so horribly unpleasant.

"Personally," said Judy, "I don't see why we can't live here. There's another bedroom. After all Dot's pretty virile and we might get along alright. There are some things I'm pretty sure you don't know about . . . I'll bet you've never seen a dildo in your life. She'll be wanting me as much as you."

Jean jumped to her feet, she couldn't bear another minute with these two degenerate people.

"No! No . . . no . . . " she mumbled, frantic in her desire to get away from this disgusting scene. She put on her coat hurriedly, "No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . " she repeated, as Dot stood up and showed signs of trying to restrain her, "No . . . I'm going . . . goodbye . . . "

She rushed for the door, banging it tumultuously behind her and clipped up the area steps as fast as she could. At the top she encountered a crowd of lounging colored people who didn't take kindly to her pushing rudely through them and cat-called after her as she ran headlong down the street.