Chapter 2
The blue eyes in Burt Nestler's ruggedly handsome face were concentrating on sipping up the last of the rum collins the maid had smuggled to him. It was the only sensible thing to do at high noon, when the breezes stopped and the sun beat down mercilessly on St. Lazure, the resort island 300 miles east of Puerto Rico. He shifted his virile, muscular body on die comfortable wicker couch. The blank paper in his typewriter stared at him accusingly.
He had been able to knock off promising, off-Broadway plays in his Village garret in the States easily enough. Maybe being a bought and paid for prick, to put it bluntly, was slowing him down to nothing. Instead of making his way by pounding a typewriter, he was making it by a different kind of pounding-in a cunt.
Still, it was better than no place at all. Here on this little map-speak called St. Lazure he didn't have to worry about scrounging money for room rent, anyway. Or food, either. He was well provided with all the necessities of life and most of the luxuries, he had to admit. No, his only worry here on St. Lazure was the provider herself. The woman owned him especially his cock and balls. Brenda.
Oh, she didn't exactly own him, of course, but Burt wasn't fooling himself on that score. Until he finished his book-if he ever finished his book-his body and soul belonged to Brenda Kenyon. To do with as she wished.
Not that Brenda cared much one way or the other about his soul. It was his body that she was paying for. His very tangible body. His 29-year-old body with the huge prick and balls to match that could make her scream in rhythm with the jouncing bedsprings. It was hers to command and even though she wasn't the commanding type, he was well aware of who outranked whom in their relationship.
Actually though, Burt had no real cause for complaint. Brenda was picking up the tab and she had every right to the companionship, plus fucking that her money was buying. Without her backing he wouldn't have been nearly as far along on the book as he was.
Only there was a difference between sponsorship and ownership that Brenda just didn't care about. In recent days her demands upon his hump energy had been exorbitant. Brenda Kenyon-one hundred and forty pounds of middle-aged female cunt-was a real ball-buster if ever there was one. How could a fellow find creative inspiration with a pecker-draining old bag like that hanging over him?
Now, for instance. She would be coming in soon. He knew what she would look like. If he closed his eyes he could see her against the backdrop of his eyelids. Tan. Plump. Hair the color of blonde silver. Mountainous breasts and solid legs. Broad hips that wagged when she walked, proclaiming a never-ending need for fulfillment. She walked as if she'd like to be screwed.
Brenda always looked like she'd like to be screwed.
In all fairness, though, she wasn't really ugly and it made Burt feel just a bit disloyal to think about her so disparagingly. She was getting older, true enough, and was carrying more poundage than she should have. But her weight was nicely distributed and it gave her a certain carnal appeal.
What bugged him, actually, was the fact that Brenda never knew when to stop in her frigging demands. Or even slow down. And too much of anything was bound to get dull after a while. That was the trouble with Brenda. Too much of fucking....
"Burt?"
Okay, so she was here now and he'd better cut out all this wailing and moaning and gnashing of teeth. The time for work had ended and now it was time for play. Although there wasn't much difference, considering just how exhausting Brenda's kind of frigging play often was.
"I'm in here," he called.
"May I come in, dear? If you're working hard, I don't want to disturb you."
Burt made a face. As if he could keep this cock-crazy dame out. If his typewriter had been clacking there might have been some excuse. But sharp-eared Brenda had probably been listening downstairs and she knew he had been loafing.
"Come on in."
The connecting door between their bedrooms opened and he smelled her perfume, spicy, sexy, mixed with the woman-scent of sensuality. His body went momentarily rigid as her fingers toyed with the hairs on the back of his neck.
"I've got something for you, Burt. Look. A nice cool rum punch just for you."
"Oh? Thanks."
She placed the glass on the desk and sidled around to stand beside him. "Are you going to keep on working?"
"No, I guess not"
"Good. Let's chat awhile, huh?"
He watched her lean back against the desk, just a big piece of ass in a loose wrapper type of garment The flimsy material didn't conceal much. And besides, he was only too well acquainted with whatever was out of sight The heavy torso and the meaty thighs. The jutting breasts with the dark-circled nipples that seemed to stand up and call for attention. He knew that gross body as well as he knew his own.
"Chat? About what? Brenda, you know I'm not interested in island gossip. Anything that goes on in St. Lazure can't be very exciting, can it?"
"Oh, don't be so blase, dear. As a matter-of-fact, there is something new. The old Villa Pleasance estate has been sold and it's being renovated."
"Villa Pleasance? Sounds like a book I once read."
"Don't be silly. It's over on the other side of the island. And it's the biggest piece of property in all St. Lazure. The house must have a dozen rooms at least."
"Okay, so who bought it?"
"A woman named Paula Jardine."
"Rich, huh?"
"Of course. She might even have more money than me.
"Oh?" Burt grinned. "You mean you might lose your social status? You figure shell take over?"
"Hmph! Let her try. Just let her try. I'm the number one hostess in St. Lazure and everybody knows it."
"Hey. Calm down. Brenda, what are you getting yourself in a stew about? Sure, you're number one. Between you and Michele Duval you've got the whole island wrapped up."
"Michele...." Brenda sniffed disdainfully. "How dare you class me with that woman! She's just a tramp who happened to strike it rich, that's all."
"Could be. But that nightclub of hers is the only interesting place on the island."
"Nightclub-oh, sure. It's nothing but a high-priced whorehouse, that's all. Nightclub indeed. Anyway, Michele doesn't have much to do with our social life except in a commercial way, of course. But that Jardine woman is a different story. She's important in New York, from what I understand. Gets her name in the gossip and scandal columns a lot."
"Well, that's nothing to gripe about. Maybe she'll give a shot in the arm to this old palce. Brenda, how long will it be before she gets here?"
"Not long. Around Christmas time, I think. Why? Are you anxious to meet her?"
"Oh, not in the way you're making it sound. But it will be nice to have some new faces around. And it's my opinion that you ought to be friendly to the woman. The island is too small for social rivalry."
"I suppose you're right. Everybody will be bowing and scraping to her, I'm sure. Just because she's new."
"Oh, you're taking it too seriously. Why should-"
"Burt, listen, I've got an idea. Oh, a wonderful idea. Do you remember my telling you about Diane Gaylord?"
"The movie star? Sure. You were buddies, weren't you?"
"Not exactly. But I did do her a favor when she was down and out, and we've kept in touch ever since."
"Okay. But what-"
"Don't you see? I'll invite Diane for the holidays. Shell come-unless she's tied up making a picture, of course. But if she can get away, shell come. She owes it to me. And with a famous Hollywood star as my guest, nobody will pay much attention to that Paula Jardine person."
Burt shrugged. It was evident that Brenda was getting pretty worked up about this thing. And it was hardly more than a tempest in a teacup. But he was all for it. The island could use a little action. A society playgirl and now a movie star. Why not? It might be fun.
"Brenda, that's brilliant. A great idea. Why don't you get a letter off right now?"
"Now?" She smiled lewdly. "It can wait till later."
"But you ought to-"
"Shhh. Drink your rum punch, darling. You may be needing the strength. I've felt kind of restless all the time you were working. And now that I've decided what to do about Paula Jardine, well, let's take care of my restlessness with a soothing application of your cock shall we?"
Burt gulped his drink and realized that Brenda's one-track mind was back on its track again. Or its well-worn groove, rather. Even the scent emanating from her body had changed now. She smelted like a jungle animal in heat.
"Uh ... Brenda. Shall we go into your room?"
"No. Let's stay right here."
He swung around in his chair and she stood in front of him. Her hands moved rapidly, touching a button here, a hook there, and the garment she was wearing crumpled to the floor. Nothing more had to be done. Brenda was stark naked.
Burt's head went dizzy. As often as he had seen that body, it still affected him. In spite of himself, he wanted it. Sweat broke out on his neck, there was a clogged feeling in his throat. That naked body was sheer cunt personified.
And it was a trap.
It would devour him, he knew. Her twat would crush him and sap his strength and finally destroy him. But he was helpless against its obscene wiles.
He reached for her.
"Not yet, Burt. You haven't finished your drink."
Again he gulped the liquor. She was standing close to him, almost touching him. From her warm skin the musky cunt-fragrance was rising and making his nostrils flare and twitch.
His fingers itched to seize her. To dart out and pounce upon those enormous tits. Untouched as yet, the nipples had already stiffened remarkably. Her waist and hips swayed slightly and he recognized that she too was finding it difficult to keep her desire for his cock in check.
He finished the drink quickly. "All gone. Now I'm full of energy and rum and getting a horny hard-on!"
She bent, leaning against him and gagging his mouth with the softness of her tit. At the same time she took his empty glass and set it out of the way. Then-quivering at the pressure of his lips-she began to pant and undulate and wriggle as if a motor had been started inside her.
The breasts held him captive. He struggled to lift his head and at last succeeded. The slash of her mouth was a crimson smear. Her eyes were misted over. He could almost see the steamy passion that had her in its grip.
"Brenda ... now?"
"Ummmm?"
"The bed? Now?"
"Ahhh...."
And he was up out of the chair as she yanked at him, raising him, practically carrying him. They reached the bed and tumbled down upon it in a frenzy.
Somehow, even in moments like this, he hated her. Or perhaps it was always in moments like this. He felt stifled, defeated, vanquished and yet it was only his mind and not his body. His work. His play. His lack of money. His dependence on her. Those were the things that made him suffer.
Suffer"!
Oh brother! There were hands on him, hands tearing at his clothing. But they were more like claws, predatory blood-tipped claws, and the few clothes he wore didn't have a chance as the sharp nails shredded them.
And there was a blood-red mouth.
A tongue too, hot and moist and pointed like a poniard stabbing his vulnerable flesh. For a little while he went limp and gave himself up to the ravages of that tongue. And wherever it touched him the limpness vanished. Then the mouth attacked him, the loose-lipped voracious mouth, and it closed upon his flesh as if it might never let go.
Until-at last-Brenda heaved a ponderous sigh and rolled over on her back. Brenda's hands boldly began to caress his superb, throbbing cock.
She parted her full thighs as Burt decked her. Then wildly lustful as she felt his muscular embrace, she bent a knee with practiced ease and engulfed his maleness in the super-heated, yearning moistness of her thighs ... Burt's loins thrust with a steady, pounding drive as he met the challenge of her grinding hips and belly.
"Give it to me, lover-all the way," she gurgled lewdly.
Burt's sandy hair shook out of his eyes as he jerked his head back in a deep groin. His loins convulsively lunged forward in a final thrust and his whole body trembled as gasts of ecstasy whipped welcome release through him. Brenda shrilled happily as her hips writhed in a frenzied joining of peak Miss with Burt.
"OOh doll, do you have talent!" she cooed gleefully, as she clung to his quivering muscles.