Chapter 8

I drove the florist's sedan several hundred miles until I got to Memphis. I registered overnight in a second-rate commercial hotel. After I had showered and looked fairly refreshed I went down to the combination cocktail lounge and restaurant. There I let a well-dressed, whoremaster type who was a farm implements salesman by the name of Harry Lane, buy me a drink. One drink led to another and before I knew it, my ass was up in Harry's room.

He was a thickset, powerful man and I was at the point where I needed some hard-cocked male attention to relax me.

"You're quite a salesman, Harry," I remarked as he took off my blouse and began to nuzzle my knockers hungrily. I get excited quickly when someone knows how to kiss my nipples the right way and Harry did. He had a big circumsized dick that was waving in a seven-inch curvy hardon, white drops of glad-come were glistening on its engorged head. He pushed up my skirt and licked his lips at the sight of my blonde bush. He decked me and as he cupped my buttocks I guided his throbbing prick within my well-moistened cunt-lips. Harry lunged that big cock of his into my hot pussy like a jackhammer and before I knew it my cunny was drenched with my come mingling with his boiling jets of spouting love-juice. His joined me in seconds, hard, ejaculating dong rammed into my cunny up to his balls as he gave a terrific final lunge and made long drawn out groans that frightened me until I realized he was just the noisy type. So I shoved my forefinger right up his asshole -I find this quietens them down.

Harry propositioned me to ride back to his home office in Chicago with him, and I jumped at the chance. I left the florist's sedan on the hotel parking lot. Harry got plenty of pussy for the ride in every motel stop we made between Memphis and Chicago, but it was worth it to me. I humped him goodbye in Chicago and took a jet to New York the same day. I don't know to this day whether the people I'd bopped on the head and robbed ever reported me, but I don't think they did, on account of all the while I was traveling I kept buying every newspaper I could and read them all through. And if they had reported me, it sure as hell would have made the papers. Not because I'd stolen all that much, but because it isn't every day that so many people get robbed in such a short time by a seminaked blonde.

So, by the time I hit New York I was feeling a lot less scared -though I was still kind of shaken and nervous, if you know what I mean.

From the airport I took a cab to Times Square and walked along Broadway for a while, taking in all the sights and the funny-looking people. Every now and then I couldn't help glancing over my shoulder to see if anybody was following me, which was kind of suspicious I admit, but I couldn't help remembering that, technically, I was a cold-blooded multi-murderess, liable to be arrested and executed at any moment.

After a while I got tired of walking and turned off Broadway onto the first side street I came to, West 46th Street it was, and almost at once I saw a sign reading Furnished Rooms For Rent. I rented a room without any trouble, telling the landlady I was twenty-one and from Syracuse, New York and had come to New York to get a job as a typist.

The landlady, who was a real old whorehouse madam type with dyed red hair and rouge on her cheeks, showed me to a room and took my money and then started laughing. Though the way she laughed it was more like a bitch yowling.

I asked her what was funny.

"You," she said. "Nothing personal, understand. I mean, you may be from Syracuse, girlie, but you sure as hell aren't twenty-one. And if you came to New York to get a job as a typist, why, I'll eat a whole box of condoms.

"What -what makes you think that?" I asked.

"Experience," said the landlady. "I've seen hundreds of big assed babes like you in my time. What you came to New York for was to get a job on the stage. Which you won't get. After that you'll try and get a TV job. Which you won't get." She cackled. "'Course, you won't admit this, aven to yourself. You'll tell yourself it's only a matter of time before you get a big TV or stage job." She cackled again. "And'meanwhile you'll decide that the sensible thing to do is support yourself as best you can."

She looked me up and down. "Which, if those boobs of yours are real, and I guess they are, you ought to be able to do just fine. But not in this house, girlie. Not in this house."

"I -I don't understand you," I said. Untruth fully.

The landlady -Mrs. O'Toole, her name was -cackled again. She sure had a real hideous cackle.

"Don't go high-hat on me, girlie. You may be young -what are you, sixteen, seventeen? -but you ain't no blushing virgin cunny. I can tell." More cackling. "Ought to be able to. "I'm eighty-three, girlie, and I ain't been a virgin in seventy years."

"Congratulations," I said. What else could I say? Ask her when she got humped last?

"Thank you," said old Mrs. O'Toole. "Understand," she went on, "it ain't nothing personal when I tell you that you can't -heh, heh, -use that blonde pussy of yours to support yourself as best as you can in this house. I haven't ever been a fanatic when it comes to morals." She cackled fit to bust. "No indeed! I've let them screw like jackrabbits and looked away . . . I've been too lenient with girls I've rented to in the past." She sighed. "The vice squad in New York isn't anything like it used to be. Not anything. Mind you, they aren't nasty -just strict. Awful strict. Strict but nice, you might say."

"Is that right?" I said, just to be saying something.

"Absolutely right," said Mrs. O'Toole. "Take Sergeant Farrel who was here last week. 'Mrs. O'Toole,' he said, 'I know you have a heart as big as the police file on you downtown -but enough is enough. I know you have a lot of girls staying in your rooming house,' he tells me, 'and I know girls will be girls -God love them. If the girls you have rooming here want to frig with their boy friends, even overnight, why, that isn't police business. But only one boy friend fucked and sucked a night, T¯Trs. O'Toole. I catch any more of your female roomers entertaining fifty or sixty stiff dicks in one night and that's it. One boy friend screwing one girl per night we figure is human nature. More than one is a cathouse -and we bust the joint.' Those were his words."

I gave her a real frosty look. "Mrs. O'Toole," I snapped, "I have no intention of screwing men for cash, now or later." I stood up real tall and haughty, thinking of the diamonds I had in my pocket. "I happen," I told her, "to be independently wealthy."

Well, I thought she'd have a stroke, she cackled so hard her dried up old tits jumped up and down. "Is that a fact?" she cackled. "Well, I guess that explains why you took a room in a cheap dump like this in order to find a job as a typist." And with that she closed the door on me and hobbled down the corridor, cackling as she went.

I sat my ass down on the bed, which was kind of hard, and felt kind of foolish.

A minute later, Mrs. O'Toole was back. "Here," she said, "You may be, heh, heh, independently wealthy -but you look like you could use a drink. Take this. Compliments of the house." And off she went -leaving me with a bottle of gin one third full. I decided she wasn't such a mean old witch after all.

I took a long swig of gin, locked the door so Mrs. O'Toole wouldn't barge in again, and then lay down on the bed. And shook. At first I shook from what you might call delayed panic -when I remembered how close I'd come to being cut open or killed or arrested for murder in the last few days. And then I shook from relief at having gotten away free and clear.

After that I just lay there and shook all over on general principles. Then I got up and had two or three more swigs of gin and felt a lot better.

I got out the little cloth sack I had the dia monds in and, after making sure nobody could see me through the window or the keyhole, poured the diamonds into the palm of my hand.

Fifteen beautiful cut stones. Half a million dollars worth.

I began to cry with happiness. I was rich. Filthy lousy, rotten stinking rich. Or was I?

I put the diamonds back into the little cloth sack, took another pull of gin, and then -after taking off all my clothes, on account of I thiT.ik better when I'm naked and can scratch my bush and maybe put a finger in my pussy.

Since the diamonds were worth five hundred thousand dollars, and there were fifteen of them, that meant each stone was worth -how much? I got up and hunted around the room until I found an old pencil and a piece of paper. It took me ten minutes to work it out, since arithmetic isn't one of the things I'm good at, but eventually I figured that each diamond must be worth thirty three thousand three hundred and thirty-three dollars.

In theory, all I had to do was walk into the nearest big jewelry shop, plunk a diamond down on the counter and walk out with thrty-three grand. Or maybe thirty grand, since jewelers never give you exactly what a jewel is worth.

In theory I didn't have a thing to worry about, since the stones weren't hot at all. Naturally, seeing as how they'd been smuggled into the country in the first place. Sure, the guy who'd double-crossed the diamond smuggling syndicate in the first place

-only to end up crashing his plane into the river

-this guy had technically stolen the stones from the crooked people he worked for. But it was a cinch the diamond smugglers hadn't reported the theft to the police -they couldn't.

But that wouldn't prevent some jeweler from getting suspicious in the first place. And while none of the diamonds were hot -maybe I was hot.

I could just imagine the whole thing. I'd walk into some fancy jeweler's. A snooty-looking fairy type would stroll up to me and say, "Yes, miss?" in a half-sneering tone, on account of he obviously figured a young broad like me wasn't about to spend much. And then I'd tell him I had a jewel to sell, and hand him one of the diamonds. At which point his eyes would bug open when he saw what a big stone it was.

"Uh, yes," he'd say. "Uh, would you mind waiting in this back room a few minutes, miss, while I, uh go to the bank for some money?"

And I'd wait in the back room, shaking with nervousness until the door burst open -and there'd be two detectives.

"Mind coming down to headquarters with us, miss?" they'd say, putting handcuffs on my wrists. "Just a few routine questions."

And down at headquarters I'd sit in a cell for a couple of hours, shaking with panic. And then a whole lot of tough cops would walk in grinning and one would say, "Your diamond ain't hot, girlie -but you sure are. You're wanted for cold-blooded murder down south. Okay boys, let's start working her ass over with the rubber hoses."

I shuddered all over at the thought.

No, I didn't dare try and sell any of the diamonds until I was absolutely certain the cops hadn't tied me in to the three moonshiners I'd killed more or less in self-defense, even when I shot off the last creep's cock and balls.

I got up and paced back and forth in my room, almost weeping with frustration. Here I was alone and without a job iji a strange city, running kind of low on money -and with a fortune I couldn't get my hands on. It made me think of this story I'd read once, about a guy who starved to death in a snowbound cabin even though he was surrounded by cases and cases of canned food -on account of he didn't have a can-opener.

What an awful predicament I was in. Surely there must be some way I could sell the diamonds. Or some of them. A fence? I didn't know any fences -or how to go about finding one. Also, from what I'd heard, fences only pay you a few cents on the dollar. And it seemed downright outrageous to get swindled by a fence -seeing as how the diamonds weren't even hot in the first place.

No, what I had to do was sell them to a legitimate jeweler -but in such a way that they didn't get the least bit suspicious. How? I thought hard. And pretty soon I came up with an answer. The only trouble was, it was an answer that would take time -and money.

Here's how I figured I'd work it. First I'd have to make some money. Quite a bit of money. Then I'd buy some very fancy, very expensive clothes, rent a Rolls Royce complete with chauffeur, and have the chauffeur park in front of a swank jewelry shop. I'd stroll in, my rented mink coat flung casually across my shoulders, swiveling my ass like a society bitch, and buy some expensive trinket -like a five-thousand dollar watch.

They'd figure right off I was some rich guy's kept cunny. Which would make them particularly glad to see me on account of, aside from wedding rings, sixty percent of all jewels sold in this country go to kept twat -or so I'd read.

It stands to reason, too -I mean, if diamonds are a kept lay's best friend, naturally kept cunts are jeweler's best customers.

Anyhow, I'd buy some expensive trinket and go off. Then I'd come back a week later in even fancier clothes, smile, and say, "Did you fix the clasp on my ruby necklace?"

They'd look blank. "Oh dear," I'd say, "I guess I left it at another of the fancy jewelry shops I patronize." I'd frown. "Where did I leave that silly old hundred thousand-dollar ruby necklace? Oh well, I'll remember eventually."

And off I'd go, with them begging me to come back soon. Which I would do. With one of my diamonds. "Would you set this little old stone in a ring?" I'd ask. "You bet," they'd say. "Come back in a week." And in a week I'd come back and pay them. What would they charge for setting a diamond in a ring. Five hundred? A thousand? Two thousand?

Well, whatever they asked I'd pay them. Which would give me an A-l credit rating with them. Then a couple of weeks later, I'd walk in dabbing at my eyes, like I'd been crying. "My, uh, husband and I broke up," I'd say. "His wife found out -that is, well we broke up." They'd nod sympathetically. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time before I find a new, uh, husband," I'd tell them. "But meanwhile I'm a little short of cash. How much for these trinkets?" And with that I'd sell them the watch plus the diamond ring. Most likely I'd have to take a loss but not too much of a loss, on account of they'd figure that before long I'd have a new cunt-lapper and be back buying more jewels. So they'd want me to feel friendly toward them.

Then I'd pull the same stunt with fourteen other jewelers. If I worked it right, I'd probably wind up with between ninety and ninety-five percent of what the diamonds were worth -namely four hundred and fifty or four-hundred and seventyfive thousand dollars. Which wouldn't be bad. Which would be fine, just fine, in fact. And best of all, it'd be safe.

But it would take money. Five hundred for the watch. Up to two thousand for the ring. Plus money to buy the fancy clothes and hire the chauffeur. Say four-thousand dollars to be on the safe side.

Well, it shouldn't be all that hard to earn four thousand dollars. Not when a girl had cunt ability like mine, and likes to get laid anyway. I got up and looked at myself in the full-length mirror in my room. I hefted my tits, patted my lush blonde bush, slid my fingers over my ass cheeks. No, I ought to be able to make four grand without much trouble, if I used my pussy in the right way.

But what was the right way? By which I meant, the easiest and safest way. The easiest way, of course, would be to just rent my cunny out to men who were hardup for a piece of tail. Become a prostitute. To my way of thinking, getting screwed for money is not only easy but fun. It isn't, however as safe as you might think.

Like if you just put on a tight dress with a low neckline and walk down the street swinging your handbag and winking at men, you're just about bound to get picked up by the cops. Or if the cops don't get you, the local vice syndicate will. Vice syndicates don't take kindly to the idea of a girl peddling for pussy on their turf. They catch you at it, they beat you up something awful. Sometimes they beat up a girl so bad her ass-hole and cunt-hole are out of shape for months. If not for life.

I was beginning to run out of possibilities for a fast, immoral but safe buck. With my lush tits, ass and juicy twat I'd make a good stripper or belly dancer in a night club. Then I remembered that entertainers in clubs in New York have to get licenses from the police department, which meant being fingerprinted and giving them other vital statistics. That ruled out that, since I was giving the police as wide a berth as possible.

In walking around the Times Square area, I noticed loads of movie houses that were running nudie films, just barely inside the law so to speak. There were also lots of little shops that sold sets of nudie photos. My body was a lot sexier, my breasts, buttocks and naked pussy and other things were more attractive than these broads. I'd be a star attraction in a business that peddled movies or stills of naked female ass.

I made up my mind to become a nudie model, no holds or positions barred ... I'd even let them take a close-up of my asshole.