Chapter 2

When Rod reported for his first night on duty, Mack Calabrio was waiting to greet him. It was the most physical greeting Rod had ever gotten. He was gone over from stem to stem by the educated hands of Olga's watchdog, and when Mack was sure that Rod's suit concealed nothing but his skin, he was allowed to enter.

"Listen, Bud," Mack growled, "this routine happens every time-and I'd hate to tell you what happened to the last guy who tried to slip a mini-recorder past me. So don't ever get any wise ideas, see!"

"Don't worry," Rod replied, "I got plans to live a long time, and something tells me I'm going to need my health on this job."

Calabrio plodded before him. "This way, kid. I'll give your friend Holman a buzz." Halfway down the hall he led Rod into a small cubby hole of a room. Going to an innocent appearing stretch of wall, he touched a concealed lever, and a panel in the wall slid open to reveal an elaborate control board sporting a myriad of switches and buttons and glowing lights. He pushed one of the fourteen or so buttons on the panel, and turned to Rod. His tone full of the patronizing quality only the very stupid can adequately affect, he said, "So long's you're here, I might as well tell you about some of this stuff."

"Do that little thing," Rod quipped, feigning an insouciance he didn't really feel. In fact he was very nervous and uncertain of himself. There was a sick excitement in his guts, he felt his legs shudder at spasmodic intervals. And he cursed himself for a fool. Come off it jerk. Get hold of yourself. You act as if this was first time you ever fucked a woman.

But the bluff didn't work. For he knew that tonight was going to be different from anything he'd ever done before. It would be the first time he'd ever sold his prick to a woman. To a high class society tart at that. It would be different, all right. Very different.

"You ain't listening, Bradley," Calabrio interrupted. "Pay attention. Now get this. You've got room eight. See, here's your button."

"Cute little devil, isn't it?"

"Don't be wise. Miss Innstrom said I had to show you around, but that don't mean I have to take lip from you. Now listen. When you got a broad up there you've gotta let us know. There's a button up there you push. It lights up here. When you and the tramp's finished with your screwing you gotta push this other button. You listening?"

"Yes, I'm listening."

"When you push that one a light goes on in every room in the house. That's a warning for everybody else to stay in their rooms, that you're showing a customer out. These cunts are damn fussy about that. They don't want anybody to see them. So those halls have to be empty, you gotta have Cruz or Tony on hand to jockey them back to their pads or to their own cars, whichever way the tramps want it. Is that clear?"

"I think my brain can assimilate that devilishly complicated information."

"Smart guy." The brute's hand went back to the panel. "Here's my button. Number one. Whenever you want to let somebody out, or go out yourself, you gotta call me. So don't get any ideas about coining and going as you please."

"The dames don't want to be seen," Rod challenged, "but you get to see every one of them."

"That's what I'm paid for. I been around, I can smell trouble a mile off. So I watch the doors. We never had no trouble since I came." He seemed childishly proud of himself. "Miss Innstrom trusts me."

Abruptly a red light flashed on the control panel. "Your friend, Holman," Calabrio said. "He's coming down. He can take you up, show you the rest of the layout."

At that moment a smiling Kenneth Holman, a thin, yet athletic appearing man, roughly six-feet tall, his blond hair cut in a boyish crew cut, broke into the room. In boisterous greeting, he put out his hand, said, "Hi, Rod. Welcome to the club. Glad to see you. I see you passed the tests with flying colors." He winked.

"Clear the panel," Calabrio snapped.

"Clear the panel," Holman mocked him. "Yes, Mother Calabrio." He advanced, pushed the proper button and the light went out. "Jeez, what a worry wart."

"Miss Innstrom said that I was..."

"Miss Innstrom said..." Holman mimicked in a high falsetto.

"Watch it, buddy," Calabrio menaced. "Unless you want all those pretty teeth smashed in."

"Get lost, creep." Holman shot. "Before I tell Miss Innstrom on you."

Grumblingly the man let himself out of the room, disappeared, "God," Holman said, "What a character. You'd think he owned this joint the way he acts. A regular mother hen.

"Harmless, is he?"

"Hardly. Once you know him you'll find out just when to quite needling him. He'd as soon break your head as look at you. Real mean. But he does a job. Now and then he comes in handy other ways."

"What're you getting at?"

"Sometimes Olga puts him to work upstairs. Some of the girls dig it rough. They don't make them more he-man than that animal."

Kenneth smiled smugly. "How'd it go this aft, pal?"

"You dog," Rod slapped his shoulder. "Why didn't you warn me?"

"I should have. But, hell, man, that would've spoiled your fun. Cute, huh?"

Rod shook his head slowly. "What about that weird dame? What's with her? Fill me in."

"Later, Rod. You're gonna have loads of time to find out, all about little Olga. For now we'd better get you upstairs, show you the ropes. Olga mentioned a nine-thirty. You must have made a good impression if she'd let you handle an entirely new client. You watch your step with this Mrs. Gabriel."

"I will. Since when do I need advice on handling dames?"

Ken's smile was tinged with curious pity. "Boy, you really got an education in store for you. These dolls aren't like any you've had before. When they want it so bad they pay two-hundred and up for it, look out?" He shouldered Rod toward the door. "Upstairs, pal."

Upstairs was hardly what Rod expected at all. For as they mounted the stairs, the transition from style to modem as in Olga's part of the house, was instantaneous. And not merely stark modernistic, but extravagant modernistic as well. The carpet in the long corridor was rich and deep, a muted white. Fabulous Danish chairs, couches, table, and lamps were spaced along the wide hallway. Furniture that would never be used, that was there merely for effect. For once a woman mounted those stairs, she definitely wasn't in the mood to linger in the hall.

A slow-moving mobile, a copy of a famous original floated in space halfway down the hall. The walls were done in an erotic mauve, the stuccoed ceiling a match to the carpeting.

"Man," Rod breathed, appreciatively.

"Really gets you, huh? One thing you can say for Olga, she's really got taste. Planned this all herself. But wait'll you see the room. That's where she went all out. After all, if these rich doll types are going to get fucked, they want to be fucked in style."

But now, as they came further into the hall, Rod stopped suddenly, was frozen in his tracks. "Hey, Ken! Those doors!"

Holman laughed. "I thought that'd get ya. Cute, huh? Every door a different color. That's so when the customers call Olga, they can ask for whatever color they like, take the guy that goes with the door. And for the gals who can't make up their minds, for the gals who like to live dangerous. Olga's got a color wheel downstairs. Every spin's a gamble."

"You're kidding me."

"Hell I am. That's the honest to God scoop. I'm here in number three, the green door. You're in number eight, the blue door."

For a long time Rod stood looking at the twelve closed, pastel-tinted doors, his face a mask of bewilderment. And finally; "Any special significance to the blue door?"

Ken chuckled. "Yeah, there is. The new boys always get the blue door. You know, just like the blue booties when you're first born? Lots of the gals ask for the blue door. They want to sample the new guys right away."

Rod continued to look around dazedly. "And the other doors? What about those colors."

"Nothing special. Only Ed Johnson's door. And Vince Fletcher's. The black one and the orange one."

"Black? For a door?"

"Yeah. Ed's a colored boy. A real big prick. We get lots of calls for Ed's cock. I guess every dame that ever comes here gets around to asking for him sooner or later."

"And the orange one?"

"Vince Fletcher's a specialist, sort of. If you know what I mean. Doesn't care what he does-suck, fuck, ram'm'n the ass or whatever."

"Some gals, more than you'd expect, dig that too. But then Vince really's got no corner on it, we've got a couple other of those jockeys around here. Only Vince's the real artiste. He's kind proud of the way he makes those women howl."

"Keep it up. You'll be turning my stomach in a sec."

"You asked, didn't you? Hell, we're in business, we've got to cater to everything under the sun. From whipping right on down to something as simple as voyeurism. You'll run into all of 'em before the week's out."

"Nope," Rod said firmly. "There are certain things I draw the line at."

"That's business. Only remember this. The specialists draw down extra loot. If those babes dig it strange, they're only too happy to pay a bonus."

"And you?" Rod asked.

"Oh, I'm straight as hell," Ken grinned mischievously. "But I've been thinking." And he made great show of licking his lips.

"C'mon." Ken said when they stopped laughing. "I'll show you your new home."

They stood before the door, and Ken indicated the buzzer. There was no other marking whatsoever on the door. "Another gimmick," Ken murmured. "You, never bring the dolls up here. They come along. The way Olga tells it, they dig that long walk upstairs alone. They dig ringing that buzzer, waiting to see who's gonna answer the door. It's like they get all worked up inside with a dirty spoon. Puts 'em in a proper frame of mind."

Ken Holman flung open the blue door, switched on the lights. "'Here we are. Home, sweet home."

"Holy cow!" Rod gasped. "You weren't kidding, were you? Man, what a layout!" Ken said nothing, gave his friend time to examine the fabulous room. Which carried out the blue motif to an almost ridiculous extreme.

The carpet was a pale blue, the walls were pale blue, the bed and bedspread done in a deeper shade of blue. And in between, varying shades of white and black, gradations of blue. Again the decor was extremely modern, the dim lamps in the room giving it an aerie, infectious unworldliness, providing a setting where everything else but the most erotic work at hand could be completely forgotten.

There was a compact sitting area with chairs, tables, a davenport. Again in blues and blacks. To one side Rod saw a small, but extravagantly stocked bar built into the wall Here another mobile sailed, a squashed, ellipse of plastic hung from the ceiling, gave muted light.

Then, of course, the bed, the most important piece of furniture in the room. "Sturdy devil, isn't it?" Rod said pushing experimentally at the mattress.

"Made to last," Ken said. "Still, from what I hear they're replaced every year. All beat to hell." Now he moved to the wall, showed Rod were all the switches and push buttons were, at the last flipping a brown dial to the right. Instantly the room was flooded with soft, soothing musk from a hidden speaker. "Olga has it piped in. Some of the dolls like it."

Then they were in the bathroom, again done in blue tile; stool, tub, sink, everything. Even the toilet was done in a pastel blue. "Lord," Rod said, "she thinks of everything, doesn't she?"

"Righto, Rod." Kenneth moved to the medicine cabinet. "Here's your other samples in case the client doesn't care for the rubber there. After you've fucked certain ones you'll know what they prefer. Don't be shy. About that time you can ask 'em point blank, and they'll tell you without batting an eye." He held up a diaphragm. "I kinda think your Mrs. Gabriel will go for this."

"I'll make a note of that."

They were in the sitting area; Ken was mixing them some Scotch and water. "Drink a little while you're waiting, Rod. It'll slow down your reflexes, you'll be able to make the fuck last. When these babes are paying, they don't want you like a jack rabbit. Besides, some of the gals will be pigs, they'll turn your stomach the things they'll do. Booze helps then, too."

He sipped his drink slowly. "Oh, yeah, Rod. One more thing I gotta show you. Step out in the hall a minute. Close the door. Then listen."

Rod did as he was told. For a minute he stood there, staring and listening. Hearing nothing.

"What'd you hear?" Ken asked when he reentered.

"Nothing. Was I supposed to?"

"Nothing? I was standing in here yelling my head off. Calling you ever dirty name in the book. These rooms are soundproofed like no rooms in history have ever been soundproofed. So if your lady friend begins to holler, let her enjoy herself. Nobody'll ever hear a whisper."

"Man," an amazed Rod Bradley breathed. 'Talk about your functional plants. Now I've seen everything."

Holman smirked. "No you haven't. Not yet. But there's plenty of time." He glanced at his watch. "Nine bells. I'd better blow, give you a chance to collect yourself." He paused at the door. "Later, pal. Don't forget, watch your lights. Especially with Gabriel."

"Thanks, Ken. I'll do that little thing." Ken was just going out the door when Rod called him back. "Oh, Ken. One more detail."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"That deal with Olga today. She sorta dropped a bombshell on me. Something I thought nobody knew. What's she got on you?"

"Oh, that," Ken smiled shamefacedly. "She does that to everybody. She's got to cover herself, I guess. There ain't a boy in the house who hasn't got his back marks."

"And you, Ken?"

"I got involved in some stag movies once. I hit an all time low. She got hold of a copy. It goes to my folks if I ever get out of line." He looked at Rod. "You?"

"I hijacked a truck once. Bonded booze."

"Yeah? Well," he shrugged. "Like I said before, welcome to the club."

Then Kenneth was gone. And a highly disturbed Rod Bradley was left sitting in his chair. Thirstily drinking courage. And perhaps forgetfulness. As he waited for Mrs. John Gabriel to arrive.

He was a trifle light-headed when his buzzer finally sounded. Almost immediately he was back to normal, the impending mail-order love event looming monstrously in his mind. He rose, checked the room, his own suit. Then, his heart hammering, he went to open the door.

There was a tense, frightened look on the woman's face, it seemed to Rod she swayed slightly as he opened the door for her. "Hello," she said timidly, sending a last furtive look the length of the hall, before she stepped inside. She stood in an awkward pose, barely clearing the door to let Rod lock it, the fumes of gin an unmistakable testament to the fact that Mrs. Gabriel had been sipping courage also. For a long time, from the look of it.

"I do hope I've come to the right room," she said hesitantly. Olga-Miss Innstrom told me the blue door. This is my first visit..."

Almost mechanically Rod pushed the button on the wall, signaled downstairs that room eight was now in use. From somewhere he recalled neglected gallantry, Olga's instructions a out names. "And I certainly hope it won't be your last. Vivian, isn't it?"

"Yes. And you're Rod?"

"That's right. Won't you sit down? Perhaps you'd like a drink, we could get to know each other better "

"That would be very nice... Rod.' Her look turned slightly coquettish, and in her intoxication she revealed her extreme delight in Rod's handsomeness and savior faire. It's worth it after all her expression read. This isn't going to be difficult at all.

Rod Bradley was surprised and pleased. The woman was hardly what he'd expected. Granted, she was on the downhill side of thirty, but he'd been anticipating something much more grim. In her pinched, lusterless way Vivian Gabriel was even pretty. Her body was too thin, her breasts small, but dressed to the nines as she was, there were compensations. Her blonde hair was beautifully coifed, her legs exciting in smoketoned hosiery, her feet encased in dainty pumps, the toes and heels dagger sharp. All in all, a vision of trumped up sexuality, her efforts to make herself desirable partly pathetic and partly inflaming. That she wanted a man that badly.

Yes, Rod repeated inwardly, it looks like quite an evening. She won't be hard to take. Not by a long shot. And for a hundred and a quarter.

"Martini?" he said.

"Yes," she smiled, her eyes boring even more boldly into his, "that would be nice."

Rod brought the drinks, sat down beside her on davenport, feeling an almost benevolent delight as he slid close to the woman, felt her stiffen in delicious expectancy. He handed her the martini, then dropped his hand onto her knee, gently began to slide the silky material along her nyloned knees. "Here's to your health," he toasted.

He could all but feel Vivian squirm with joy as he tightened his hand on her leg. She tensed and went limp in slow pulsings. "Thank you," she chirped, raised her glass in salute, a lecherous gleam igniting her eyes. "To you. Especially to yours."

The martini blended very nicely with the previously consumed Scotch, and Rod felt more and more at ease began enjoying himself tremendously. And for this I get paid? The thought of making love to the love-starved woman, of giving her ecstatic delight, become as intoxicating as the liquor.

Now she giggled softly, slumped, let her shoulders lean on his. "I suppose you think I'm an awful thing-a bad woman-to come here, to you like this. To pay for affection like I'm doing. I... it's just that..."

"Please," he shushed her, deserting her knee, putting his arm around her shoulders, drawing her even closer. "Don't talk about it, Vivian. You're here, and that's important. Your reasons for coming here are of no concern to us. We're glad to have you, and that's that. Unless it makes you feel better to talk about it. I'm here to listen, to give you any comfort I can."

Comfort, he thought. Boy, that's a word and a half.

"You don't think badly of me? Really? It's-well, wrong for a wife to seek another man's cock." She shook her head, her face tensed in anger. "But what if the husband doesn't love his wife? What if he hasn't fucked her in over a year? John never was a demonstrative man, it was like he had ice water in his veins instead of blood. It was as if the things-I mean fucking was repugnant to him. He always acted like he was in a hurry to screw and get it over with. And some nights, when I needed his prick so terribly, he'd just fall asleep."

She fluttered her eyelids rapidly. "If only just once... he'd have fucked me like I was a woman."

"Don't Vivian." His grasp tightened, and he put his lips in her hair. "Don't talk if it hurts you."

"He's a good husband otherwise. I shouldn't blame him. But there are times I could just scream for needing fucking so much." She shuddered. "If only he weren't so indifferent."

"Stop dear," Rod soothed, playing his role to the hilt. "Don't think about it. You're here now, you've taken the step. And we're interested in you, I'm interested in you. Very definitely. Like this."

And very carefully he raised her head, lowered his lips to hers. It was like an electric current had ripped down her spine. As she fought herself tighter to him, pressed and ground her lips hungrily to his, as she slammed her breasts against him, caught him around the neck with a clenching, almost suffocating grip. Her pitiful, animal whimpers all but turned Rod inside out. And he returned her embrace, worked his lips into hers, again swamped with the sense of self-sacrifice. If he was bestowing delight.

They held the savage, throbbing kiss for what seemed forever, the woman's face wet with tears by the time she finally released him. "Oh, dear," she quavered, "oh, dear. If only John had ever kissed me like that."

She gulped down the rest of her martini, turned on Rod again, her eyes wild with lust now. Immediately she was clawing his head down, was devouring his lips. "To hell with John." She gritted, her tongue sallied forth, timidly at first, as if expecting rebuff. But when Rod welcomed it with his own, it was like someone had set a match to her, and her tongue wound and bunted and probed with pagan frenzy.

A firecracker, Rod thought, a torpedo. Who'd have thought it? This from a mousey little blonde like this? A pillar of Manhattan Society?

And he reached behind and touched the strategically placed mercury switch, extinguished all the lights. Except for the small globe lamp that hung over the bed. Then as the woman sighed and went limp, her lips never losing their hold on his, he opened her jacket, began to fondle her breasts, to twist and knurl the nipples through her blouse and lingerie. "Yes, yes," she gasped, letting her lips slide, bury themselves in his throat.

"Oh, Rod, yes. Do that. I like it. I do."

She collapsed in his arms, her teeth nipping his throat as he opened her blouse, slid his hand inside her brassiere, cupped her breasts, caressed, made them hard. Then, finally, when his hand wandered downward, pulled back her skirt and slip, she raised herself to accommodate him. She sighed a long, wailing cry as his hands reached out and caressed her asscheeks.

And despite the fact that this was to be a purely professional affair. Rod couldn't help but feel his own desire balloon his prick to its full ten inches. God, he cursed himself, talk about your damned amateurs!

Still the sobbing, sibilant gasps kept breaking from her throat, changed to animalistic whines and barkings, and indication of her peaking, deranging need. Her teeth nipped him repeatedly, her tongue slid silkily along his under jaw, surrendered in wanton abandon.

Until she could stand no more. All at once, a final gasp escaping her, she was up from the couch, she was gulping the remainder of Rod's own martini. Then she was pulling him up, dragging him toward the bed.

"Oh Rod, you darling, forgive me. I can't wait. Fuck me! I need you to fuck me so!"

But when they came to the bed, and Rod moved to undress her, she pulled away. "No," she hissed, an insane glint in her eyes. "Let me. I'll do it." And the black jacket was thrown aside, the white, prim blouse was pulled from her skirt simultaneously. "You'll watch, won't you. Rod?" she pleaded, the urgency in her tone pitiful. "You'll watch me undress? John would never watch, even when we where first married. He thought it was immodest. You'll let me undress for you, won't you?"

A prickling, stinging sensation shot down the back of Rod's head. What the hell? he thought. What kind of kicks are these? Then he remembered his job. "Of course, Vivian. If that's what you want me to do. I'll watch."

Watch he did, as the entranced woman went through a long and erotic removal of her clothing that would have made a hardened Miami stripper shake her head. She showed the limits of her long frustrated sexuality by twisting and exposing herself in acrobatic frenzy. As she proudly displayed the exotic lingerie she'd worn expressly for this purpose-an ensemble of heavy, black, opaque silk with sheer panels.

Had he not been so aroused, so amazed, the display might have embarrassed him. But as it was, he merely huddled on the edge of the bed, watched right to the end. Until the moment when she was totally nude, when she fell back on the bed beside him. He drew his lips down to her breasts and began to suck the cherry hard nipples his hand tweaking and rubbing the nipple his mouth was not engaged with. The only sounds in the room were of his sucking the nipples and her whimpering moans. He moved his hands down to her asscheeks and thighs.

Again he was surprised and pleased. For though thin the woman's body was still firm, still velvety, still surging with carnal impatience. "Soon," she slurred, "oh, darline soo... "

But when he moved to douse the light preparatory to undressing, she pulled him back. "Please," she breathed, "let me watch you. I let you watch me."

Baffled beyond recall now, Rod struggled to his feet, slowly undressed before her restless, persistent and idiotically adoring eyes. Never had Rod, felt so much like a God as he did during those moments. As the woman all but worshipped him with her eyes.

"My beautiful darling," she intoned as his undershorts fell away, as he turned to face her. "You're such a handsome... such a gorgeous man. And you're going to... fuck me... It's too good to be true."

She shuddered, tipped on the bed, half rose. "Come here, dearest," she commanded. "Close to the bed."

He did as she said. And there, while he stood in trembling dismay, her hands came out. A fiery light exploded in her eyes, and for a moment Rod thought she was going to pull his cock off his balls as she massaged.

But she didn't. Instead she tore herself away, fell back on the bed. "The lights now, darling," she purred. 'Turn them out."

She pounced on him like a carnivorous, starved animal when he came to her, again brought his head down to her breasts for the pleasure sucking of her nipples. She went into paroxysms of rapture as the pleasure and yearning kept shooting through her, building, building. And a rapid, compulsive change took place within he. The supposedly fined and reticent woman unleashed all the carnal repressions she'd caged up inside her throughout her strated life, became a snarling, curse-spewing wanton. As he graphically described her building sensations, using every four letter word Rod had ever heard, and a few that were improvised in her frenzy.

Until she could wait no longer, tore herself away, proudly guided his prick to her cunthole.

"Fuck me... You don't know how long I've waited for this."

Then it was happening. As slowly, very slowly, taking great satisfaction in tormenting the woman, he brought his huge cock to her pussy hole, ramming it in her cunt, pulling out, pausing, starting, pausing again.

Until she was screaming at the top of her lungs, cursing him for his prolonged treatment. But then there were no more curses. Only long, hoarse sighs.

"Oh, oh," she groaned. "You darling, you darling! John was never like this. Never. Not even when he was young. Oh, Rod, Rod. Please, darling, please. Fuck me now. Don't make me wait any more. I can't stand it."

Rod Bradley didn't make his client wait any longer. For now, with single-minded purpose, concentration and skill, he attended to her clawing needs. He rammed that huge ten inch prick into her cunt until it was almost in her womb. He rammed like a stallion oblivious of the refinements. He fucked her with the abandon that she craved. Her hole was stuffed with his hard cock and she came-once-twice-three times. Between comes he would suck and play with her nipples, making her yearn for more fucking. Now four comes-five-six...

She was screaming in deafening harshness, telling him everything, using the coarsest of gutter language as she released her seventh orgasm. It was then that Rod caved After all, duty went just so far.

It seemed a giant hand was pinning him, lifting him twisting him like a wet dish-mop. Then it was flinging him heedlessly, far out in space. And he was turning rear over tea-kettle. Over and over. Falling, falling. Choking out his fear. And yet not quite fear. Fear mixed with an awesome stunning delight.

While a proud, squirming Vivian Gabriel, with a real man for the first time in her life, was helping him shoot his load, draining him, wringing him.

"My angel, my angel," she sobbed, her arms around him like steel bands. "You were wonderful, so wonderful. I've never been fucked like that... never before in my whole life... ever had a come more than once." A wishful longing infected her voice. "Do you suppose... after a while? I can stay until midnight and get fucked once more?"

He chuckled, muzzled her breasts with his nose. "Of course, once more. Twice more if you want. You haven't get some hair-triggered jack rabbit here, you know." He guided her hand to his prick. "Right now. If you want to help out a little."

She shuddered sensually, savoring the offer. "No, darling," she said. "I understand. I can wait."

But she lied. Because, a scant five minutes later, she was begging to get fucked again and he was ready for her pussy.

It lasted an eternity this time. And Mrs. John Gabriel, for the first time, had the fucking of her life.

"Here," she said, pushing a hundred dollar bill into his hand just before he escorted her downstairs. "This is for you. For treating me so well, for treating me like a woman." She smiled, the beatific gratitude on her face Something to see. "If only I'd known about this place before. Things could have been so different. I'll be back darling. I'll ask for you again. Again and again."

He kissed her once more, thanked her. "I'll be looking for you. You really know how to use a man."

She laughed coyly. "I was all right, wasn't I? For a beginner?"

"You were great, just great."

"Think what I'll be with just a few more lessons." She fluffed her hair. "I've got to go now. John will be expecting me home soon."

Rod flipped the proper switch. A red light replaced the white one. Cruz was waiting. They started down.

Rod had barely regained his room when the blue, bedside phone rang, startling him. "Yeah?" he said.

"It's Olga Innstrom. I've got a surprise for you. Trudy Shaw just called. She wants you at one-thirty."

"Oh, no..." he groaned. "But, hell, I just finished screwing."

"Never mind. Trudy's got ways of taking care of burned out pricks. She specifically asked for the blue room. That's you, dear. Take off now, go visit Kenneth. I'm sending, Bella up. Beside, Trudy asked for Kenneth too. You'll be alternating each other. It's going to be a marathon. Kenneth can fill you in on the details."

"I don't think I understand what's expected of me-and who in blazes is Bella?"

"Bella's the maid," Olga replied. "Ken will fill you in on the rest of the night's program. How'd you like Mrs. Gabriel?"

"Oh, she's just a living doll," Rod replied.

"Well, you must have given her the screwing she wanted, she's reserved you for her next time," Olga laughed suggestively as she hung up.

What did Ken get him into, Rod wondered. The situation was getting wilder and wilder-he prided himself on his fucking ability, but just how long did they expect him to keep screwing without even a coffee break?