Chapter 6
"There's no limit to what a man can do," Patrick Doyle said as he tilted a glass of lemonade to his lips, "if he's right--and if he's sure he's right."
Larry Stevens was not quite able to see how this fit in with the current conversation, but he made no attempt to halt the flow of words. It was endlessly fascinating to hear the great man talk on matters of life, work and morals.
Their chairs afforded an unobstructed view of the play-deck and swimming pool, where the passengers were beginning to appear. Doyle had his cap tipped forward to shade his eyes but not far enough to impede his vision. Not a solitary pair of bare legs escaped him. For perhaps an hour they had been sitting and talking, but Larry couldn't erase the impression that something was eating at his companion. He wanted to ask what, but was aware that it was really none of his business.
"Of course," Doyle continued, "that doesn't give everyone a license to behave like a criminal--just because he thinks he may be right."
Then, with a sly grin, "Unless he can get away with it."
"I have no intentions of becoming a criminal."
"Larry, I'm sure you don't. My quotable bromide has to do with whether or not a man has the courage to face the opposition of the masses. If he's brave enough and if he's right, then nothing can stop him."
The sun grew hotter and its rays laved Larry's skin. He shifted on the deck chair, peering out from the protection of his dark glasses. This was just what he needed, this pleasant bit of lounging around. Too long had he been chained to the drawing board. Why, he had almost forgotten how nice it was to study the architectural lines of pretty women.
With certain interest he watched a trip of teen-aged girls loping by. They were in shorts and halters and sandals. Lithe and lean, with the bright-eyed optimism of kids with no problems. Young bodies, young minds, young hearts. An unbeatable combination. But they soon passed and he realized that his momentary diversion had let the conversation wane.
"Does that go for architects too, Mr. Doyle?"
The older man sighed in exasperation. "At times I suspect you of being deliberately obtuse, my boy. It goes for architects, painters, writers, musician--anyone who has the touch of madness that makes him pretend to be an artist. Creators, in a word. But I'm willing to be the first to applaud those who--addicted to eating --take the easiest and most lucrative path to success. That's fine, so long as they don't prostitute the things they really believe in. Essentially no harm is done just because a man wants to pick up a few dollars. But once an artist stakes a line he must follow it--and if he remains true to it then there is absolutely no doubt that he will come out on top in the end."
Patrick Doyle paused. "For example, look at me."
Larry looked at him.
"Don't be impertinent, young man. I was going to the trouble of pointing out to what heights a man can rise--if integrity is part of his arsenal."
"Integrity. That's true, I'll admit. But it's easy to have integrity when you have a million dollars."
"Aha!" Doyle shrugged to a sitting position and pushed his cap back. "That's the great fallacy of the poor. It's a spit-on-me-philosophy. It's a hell of a lot harder to remain honest when you know you can buy fame than it is when your have to work for it. Besides, to be more serious, such moral aspects as integrity, honor, faith and self-respect exist apart from money. And I think you know that, don't you?"
Somewhat chastened, Larry nodded. "I guess I do. I suppose I was just taking a potshot at you."
"Go right ahead," the man said airily. "I don't mind in the least. Take as many as you care to. Greater marksmen than you have tried to penetrate this hide and failed."
There was a silence as they regarded a long-legged creature who was undulating toward them.
Doyle sighed. "Speaking of marksmen..."
The creature was a woman--there was no doubt of that. On well-shaped feet with painted toenails she wore high-heeled thong sandals. The calves of her legs were like a dancer's. The thighs were covered halfway by tailored silk shorts. Then a most intriguing waistline, overshadowed only by the abrupt outward sweep of the firm, ample breasts.
"Observe the mammoth mammaries," Doyle whispered.
But Larry was observing the face and eyes-- and the eyes, in turn, were observing him. Little crinkles appeared at their corners. A bandanna covered the woman's hair, but enough was in view to show its reddish orange color.
Doyle formed his two hands into a telescope. "Methinks I spy a lovely hostage. Tell me, fair lady, could this be the famous Sabrina Moore? In the flesh?"
"I could be, Mr. Doyle," said a husky voice, "and yes, thank you, I will join you gentlemen."
"Won't you join us?" Doyle said tardily.
But she was already perched on the arm of Larry's chair. Larry was beyond movement. All he could do was gape. The woman represented utter carnality. She carried her body like a banner. And, although she wore more makeup than he cared for, projected a warmth of spirit that pleased him.
"My dear," Doyle murmured, taking one of her hands, "you look absolutely ravished."
"You've got the wrong tense. But thanks anyway."
"I never make mistakes in grammar," Doyle said, his eyes twinkling. "Larry, please introduce yourself to Sabrina Moore, but for your own sake don't discuss architecture and such. Stick to stocks and trusts and quarterly dividends."
For the next few minutes Doyle and the woman engaged in the typically insulting dialogue of celebrities who know each other. Larry only feigned interest. But his artist's eye raked over the red head more than casually.
Her proportions were magnificent. The revealingly clinging silken things she wore outlined and delineated every curve and indentation of her body. She sat with her legs together, but the sight of her bare knees was as exciting as an open invitation. The bands of whatever she wore next to her skin made ridges in the shorts, and Larry wondered how difficult it must have been for her to wriggle into them.
She held herself well--head up, shoulders back, spine slightly arched. A painted doll, perhaps, but she was a long way from being a streetwalker.
"How many?" Doyle intruded abruptly.
"Huh?"
"Inches. The number. Quickly now."
For three whole seconds Larry was stumped. Then he realized what the man was driving at. "Thirty-eight?" Focusing his eyes, he stared thoughtfully. "No. Thirty-nine."
Doyle nodded in approval. "Not bad, young fellow. It's really right in between. But I can't hold you accountable for that. The point is you reacted splendidly under pressure."
"Say, what's going on here?" Sabrina said.
"Just a little harmless fun, my dear," Doyle chuckled. "We were merely making wild guesses as to the precise measurements of those remarkably delightful glands of yours."
"You're getting to be an obscene old man."
"Tut-tut. What could possibly be obscene about anything so lovely? Obscenity lies in what a man thinks, not what he beholds. My young friend and I happen to consider the female bosom an object of beauty. And no one can make it otherwise. Obscenity is a word for censors and puritans."
"Praise be and amen," the woman said.
"But aside from that, my dear, tell me how things are with you. Enjoying the trip?"
"So-so."
"Only so-so?" he asked.
"Well, perhaps a little more than that. But I must say I've been on better ones."
"I'm sure you have. For that matter, haven't we all? But you haven't run into any trouble, I presume?"
"Not a bit. I can be quite charming when I put my mind to it. Amazing how some people like being charmed. This chap, for instance." She gestured toward Larry. "I wonder if he would be interested in visiting my place on the Riviera."
"Riviera?" Doyle echoed. "I'm interested myself."
"We could go yachting. It isn't much of a craft but big enough to play bridge on, anyway."
"Sounds quaint."
Sabrina Moore smiled and stood up. "But at the moment I'm going to be plebeian and frolic with the peasants in the sunshine. See you all later."
She glided away fluidly. Larry watched the magical weave of her hips until she negotiated a corner and vanished.
"Like that one?" Doyle asked.
Larry licked his lips unconsciously.
Doyle smiled. "I thought you would. All woman. Care to have me put in a good word for you?"
"I care. But would it help?"
"Certainly. I have influence, you know. However--knowing Sabrina as I do--I'm sure she wouldn't take it kindly if you didn't rank her as a prime target," he said.
"Prime target? I--I don't understand, sir."
"It's not that complex, my boy. Restrain yourself from seducing that innocent little Tricia Goode girl, and I'll do something for you with Sabrina. How does that strike you?"
"It--it strikes me," Larry said. Then, recalling the supple power of the woman's thighs. "As a matter of fact, it strikes me like a bulldozer."
Something close to relief passed across Doyle's features. "Fine. I'm glad we agree."
"Uh-huh."
It occurred to Larry that he had just been outwitted in some way, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Except that he had been switched from one woman to another as if they were horses designated by some racetrack tout.
He began to wonder if he might not be allowing himself to be detoured by both money and sex--in quantities beyond his comprehension. If so, then it meant he was liable to prostitute himself and his work. Was he being bought by Patrick Doyle?
Somewhat discouraged by Tricia Goode's plodding progress in the directions laid down by her own rules, Lee Jergens decided to find a suitable substitute. And with the practiced eye of an old pro, she wandered out to the playdeck where shuffleboard, table tennis and similar delights engaged and occupied the passengers.
She knew almost precisely what she was looking for, if not who. Having been aroused to an unbearable pitch by that near-thing with her roommate, she had to do something about it. Her entire nervous system was taut and tense, at the point of physical hunger. The symptoms were too obvious--she needed gratification.
On the deck Lee scanned the young passengers, spotting three attractive girls--and one struck a responsive chord immediately. The youngster was rather short and quite pretty in a handsome way, with close-clipped brown hair and a solidly constructed body that moved somewhat boyishly.
The trio was grouped around a blanket playing cards. The interesting girl was no stranger, in a way--Lee had seen her counterpart in several schools in the past. Intense, watchful, and yet a little detached. Now and then she would scrutinize her friends as if divining their thoughts. The other two were ordinary; they laughed and chattered unconcernedly.
Suddenly, the brown-haired one glanced in Lee's direction, her face emotionless. Lee didn't move a muscle in her direction, her face emotionless. Her hands were thrust in the pockets of her slacks as she leaned against the metal wall. But her heart throbbed heavily.
This was the girl...
In less than five minutes, the chosen quarry excused herself from the card game, picked her way over the assorted bodies soaking up the sunshine and walked straight to Lee. "You look familiar," she said softly. "Do I know you?"
"I don't know," Lee answered. "Do you?"
"A few years ago I went to a junior college in Pennsylvania. A school near Harrisburg. Maybe I'm wrong, but I have an idea I saw you there."
"It's likely. I taught at the place." A look of satisfaction crossed the girl's face. "My guess was right, then. You're Miss Jergens, aren't you?"
"Yes. Lee Jergens. And you?"
"Sue Trask. I took PE for a semester with you."
"Then I did recognize you."
"You sure did. But what gets me is how."
"There are ways. All kinds of ways. But they're too complicated to go into here."
"Okay--where?"
"You name it."
Sue Trask looked back at her friends. They had apparently forgotten her already. "Come on," she said.
Together they left the deck and walked through the corridors. At her cabin door the girl stopped and led the way in. Against one wall was a double-decker bunk. Across from it, under the porthole, was a single.
"Cigarette?" Sue said.
"Thanks, no. It's not one of my vices."
Lee's excitement was less than what she had felt with Tricia. It was like the thing with shoes. New shoes are always worthy of special attention and care, but old ones feel more comfortable and relaxing. Sue Trask was one of the old shoes.
"You know, Lee, I have always admired you in school. But you never even noticed me."
"Sorry. There were so many."
"Yes. I know. There still are, from what I hear."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-one--by the calendar. But between us girls, well, I'm just three--if you know what I mean."
"Uh-huh. You looked older."
"That's because I learn fast."
"How fast?"
"This fast."
The close-cropped head moved swiftly but not as swiftly as the hands. Nimble fingers parted shirt buttons and then were tearing fiercely at Lee's bra. An instant later burning lips were searing bare flesh.
"I should say you do learn fast."
"I had good teachers."
"Umm, that's obvious."
"Over here, huh? Let's..."
"All right. But you're so strong, Sue. Take it easy. Gently, please, gently."
"I can't be gentle."
Nor could she. Anxious fingers clawed at the belt of the slacks. The bunk came up and met Lee's back. Almost at once she was conscious of the endless rocking of the ship. Distantly the brown hair was alternately in sun and shadow from the porthole. All the desire and heat that she had built up for Tricia began to struggle for release, and she directed it toward this strangely competent, emotionless girl.
Girl? No, creature.
This was almost a biological necessity. It lacked the tenderness that Lee usually sought. It was like a man going to a bordello to find an outlet for the love he had for a well-bred lady. Unclean and a little bit shameful.
But she consoled herself. This once wouldn't hurt. And then she would really concentrate on Tricia.
From far away she heard spoken, mumbled, muffled words. She had to repress a momentary laugh. This weird kid was so like a rambunctious puppy-dog. Unafraid and anxious to make friends. And the difference in their ages didn't seem to make much difference. Sue Trask was years and years younger but she was behaving exactly as if it were the other way around.
Kind of cute, really.
Not as cute as Tricia though.
Hmm, now there was an idea. Simply delicious. Maybe the three of them should get together. Wouldn't that be fun? It would certainly make the voyage worthwhile. She would have to think about it. But not now. Later. Right now it was nice just to relax and enjoy the burrowing puppy-dog bent on delighting her.
How Lee had ached for a touch like this! She stretched voluptuously under the girl's hands. She smiled down at the top of the girl's head, her eyes brilliant.
The cabin room was heated against the ocean chill.
Her touch, the moving tongue made Lee hotter and hotter. Almost skillful were the fingers as they roamed. Now her breasts were held by warm hands, the rounded, swelling breasts that she herself had caressed in frustrated longing for Tricia just moments before. The girl held them firmly, squeezed them, always touching that delicate tongue to the more sensitive area below, licking it sweetly, her lips closing around the clit-bud, lifting it from its nest, and pulling, pulling at the aching clit until Lee pulled her head deeper into the velvety mouth of her cunt again. The girl's fingers began again, whispering over Lee's belly, digging lightly into the curving navel, then over the ribs, and down to the bloom of hair beside her own working mouth.
How sweet the caress of those firm fingers into the hair! Lower still, until she lifted her mouth for new breath, and the fingers tenderly parted the labia lips, and explored inward. The finger touched... and then stroked the hard but-ton-clit. Lee's hips arched up involuntarily. She was so hot, and now flashes of heat burned again and again through her thighs and belly.
It was more and more difficult to lie lax and not participate.
Lee's flesh burned with heat, her hips arched with joyful frustration, her legs parted eagerly, knees bent to permit more access.
Now the girl's two hands were working, one drawing at one lip, the other hand nudging at its mate until the slit was wide open, then one finger moving inside again, probing gently.
Oh, the deliciousness of the sensations of that finger--then the second finger joined it, rubbing inside. Both fingers slid further inside, making room for the tongue that was following them.
Lee could feel the warm liquid flowing from her insides, creaming her cunt, the fingers, the tongue.
Tonguing, teasing, fingering.
The little pointed tongue had taken the place of the two fingers, and the girl was thrusting at the cunt walls with such authority!
Hips more bowed than arched now, Lee moaned with the pleasure of it as the girl licked the cream up like a glutton, the tongue a fierce intruder now, the marvelous sensation rippling over Lee's breasts, belly, into her cunt, out again, grabbing at her asshole, streaking up her back.
Rapidness and haste was destroying the pleasure, but Lee didn't care. Let that tongue pull with youthful impatience!
She lay under the bobbing head and cooed at the feel of that tongue crooking and rubbing against the soft wet walls of her vagina, and Lee looked down to watch the girl's becoming alert with the signs of Lee's approaching orgasm.
The tongue suddenly became stiff and still, feeling the rapid contractions inside Lee's drool-ing-wet pussy.
Afterward, the girl lay on Lee's body, mound to mound, breast to breast, and squeezed up to help stay in place, and they rubbed against each other, hair to hair, both moaning in happiness.
Then, in the hour that followed, Lee taught the young girl much.