Chapter 12
Palm Beach is an elegant stretch of land on Florida's coastline, a haven for the rich, and for those who fawn after the rich. The sand is clear and white, shimmering in the magnificent sunlight The ocean is always calm and smooth, like a glass mirror.
Palm Beach is a land of pleasure. It's an earthy place, a place where people with money come to enjoy themselves. It's the place where they go to get away from the pressing problems of high finance and government intrigue. The rich and the powerful leave the high tension of their New York skyscrapers, knowing that pleasure awaits them on the sandy beaches.
They know that women are always waiting. Girls who make their living pleasing the wealthy. During the week, these brown young fillies swim and sunbathe and spend their time playing with one another. They sing songs and they make love. On the weekends, they finish their games and they settle down to work. They must please their patrons. They've got to make 'sugar daddy' happy. He's the one who pays the bills with his hard-earned money. He's the one they've got to please.
They are willing to commit the most shocking perversions, engage in the most bizarre forms of sexual play. These are a new breed of women. Sex to them, is the same as washing their face, or eating a meal. They attach no moral connotations on the act. They have none of the hangup's which 'straight' society suffers from. They live for pleasure. Sometimes they die chasing after their elusive goals.
Originally Simons bought his beach house in Palm beach on the advice of a Texas friend. He used to secretly fly out there every weekend to engage in the sex-orgies, which are common fare in the homes of the rich. It was at one such party that he met his teenage bride Marianne.
Sitting in his privately owned DC-5 jet, he stared at his wife and at John and Selina, his weekend guests. He was a man in his early sixties, though he looked no older than forty or forty-five. He had a lot of money and he kept good care of himself. He didn't plan to die. As a matter of fact, he often toyed with the idea of paying off the angel of death. He certainly had enough money to do it.
He smiled to himself. The thought amused him. He watched John. There was a determined young man, a man who would rise to the top. He was a man with ambition. He was a man who would sacrifice anything. Even his own life.
What kind of man is he, Simons thought to himself. He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray.
What kind of man would sacrifice his wife? What kind of man would make a harlot out of her?
"A desperate man," he said out loud.
He looked at Selina, who was sleeping, curled up in her husband's arm. He poured himself a drink, his eyes wandering across her soft, nubile body. She looked like a nymph. Like a wicked nymph. He would certainly have a good weekend. Wife swapping always excited him. He would certainly enjoy fucking this delicious girl, who sat across from him. She would certainly give him a good balling.
He wondered if she would be as good as Marianne, who was staring out the window, looking at the clouds below. He wondered what she saw looking at them. She was certainly a strange one, this girl he had married. One minute she was bubbly and gay, and the next minute she was like a frightened fawn. He needed her. She was a spark of life which broke up the tedium of his dull existence. But why had she married him? Was it for the money?
Simons was not so foolish as to think that she married him for love. Of course it was because of his money. Of course that was one of the reasons that she consented to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather. But Simons liked to think that there were other reasons. He liked to think that she cared for him. That she loved him, even if it was only a little bit
Simons looked into her delicate blue eyes. They looked like shimmering rhinestones. They were wild eyes-exotic eyes. They were the flashing eyes of a cat in the dark. She looked frightened and evil, at the same time. She looked dangerous. She looked like she was about to spring out of her seat any moment
Simons remembered the first time that he had met her. It was at Carson's house. The famous television actor. He had gotten an invitation to the party, out of kindness, more than any other reason. The people at the party were all hip, and wildly dressed. They were young and active and terribly alive.
By contrast, it was two months after his wife had died, and he was solemn and morose. He was completely solemn and morose. He was completely down cast, on the verge of a serious attack of extreme depression. He had even toyed with the idea of going to a shrink. But he figured that by his age there was nothing anyone could do to change him. And that included the psychiatrists with their fancy sounding terminology.
Originally, when he received the invitation, he had planned to return a 'THANK YOU. BUT I CAN'T MAKE IT' note. But on second thought, he figured it would do him a world of good to go somewhere exciting. It would cheer him up. Make him forget about his problems, and about his sorrows. And he certainly needed something to get his mind off them. Lately he had been hitting the bottle pretty hard. For the past week he'd been going to sleep drunk. If that trend continued he'd soon become an alcoholic. Soon he would lose interest in his business and neglect the affairs of his company. He knew how the process occurred. He had known many people to whom it had already happened. The slow fall downhill. It takes place in steps. Gradually you forget who you are. And before you know it, there's someone who throws you into the street, like yesterdays newspaper. Simons was determined that this wouldn't happen to him. He was strong. He was too strong to be beaten by his own depression. He was too strong to be beaten by his own morbid self-pity.
Thus is was with the intention of finding some amusement, some mirth to detract him from his own problems, that Simons set out to the Carson house, on that warm August evening, almost two years ago.
He was dressed in a light blue blazer, and a pair of green Palmer slacks. A warm wind blew across the beach, filling the air with a salty sea breeze. The churning of the ocean would be heard for miles around. Birds cackled incessantly.
It was such a terribly hot night that Simons was constantly sweating. He was glad to step into the air conditioned mansion of his friend Samuel Carson. They hadn't seen each other in ages, and they exchanged cordial greetings.
"I'm sorry about your wife," said Carson, handing him a drink. "But don't let it bother you. We must forget about the dead, and enjoy ourselves while we're still alive."
"Of course," said Simons, raising his glass in a toast.
The exotic, glass and marble mansion was filled with all sorts of odd-looking people.
"They're friends of mine," said Carson to Simons, who seemed a bit befuddled. "Don't let the clothes fool you. They're all good people, out to have a good time. And the chicks are just great. The place is just crawling with good-looking broads who are ..."
"...ready, willing and able," interceded Simons.
"Yes," laughed Carson. "They aim to please. Pick anyone. She's yours."
"Maybe," said John, finishing his drink.
He mingled with the crowd for awhile, meeting a weird variety of people. They droned on and on, chattering foolishly. Simons appeared interested, smiling and chatting amiably. He found that the talk amused him. It took his mind off his personal problems.
After about an hour of loosening up, things started happening. Hash, marijuana and LSD were passed out freely. People were popping pills, and jumping around wildly. One girl slid out of her dark green, silk lounging pants and walked around in her cotton panties.
She was a pretty girl in her early twenties, with a honey white complexion, and a beautiful head of long blonde hair, which fell across her shoulders to her waist. Her name was Wendy and she was freaked out on some 'uppers'.
She slid out of her panties, and removed her blouse and bra.
"I'll take everyone on in this whole place," she announced at the top of her lungs.
She laid down on the brown sofa in the middle of the living room as the men poured down upon her. A line was formed, reaching clear back to the swimming pool. Wendy took them all on. Twenty-three men gang-banged her while the others watched the proceedings with curiosity.
"Any more of you guys wanna fuck me?" asked Wendy after finishing with the last one on the line. "Speak up or forever hold your piece."
A midget, he was about three feet, nine inches tall, walked over to Wendy and volunteered.
"But you're too small," complained Wendy, scrubbing her vagina with a wet handkerchief. She was trying to wash away the sticky scum which was caked between her legs.
"Come on," said the midget, "You said that you would take on all comers. Well, I'm a comer. I wanna get laid. I'll even pay you, if you want."
"No," replied Wendy, crisply. "My work is its own reward. I like getting laid. I don't do it for money. I do it for pleasure. What the hell do you think that I am? Some sort of whore or something?"
"Oh, no," said the midget, putting away his wallet. "But please, let me stick my cock inside of you."
"Well," replied Wendy. "If you want, I'll eat you. My pussy is all tuckered out. Believe me, it ain't easy to fuck twenty-three men. You need some sort of rest after a gang-bang like that."
"All right," said the midget, opening up his zipper and pulling out his small, miniature sized cock, "I will be satisfied if you eat me. I just want to request one thing."
"Shoot," said pretty Wendy, getting down on her knees and putting her mouth around the midgets genitals. "I'll let you do anything, as long as it's within reason, I mean. I'm no prude. I like anything that's exciting and that gives me pleasure."
"Well," said the midget, "can I smell your ass, and stick my finger up your pussy? Please, Wendy-won't you let me do that."
"Of course," answered Wendy, surprised at the mild request "Of course you can do that. You can do anything you want, my little man. Anything that your little heart has a desire for."
"Gee, thanks," exclaimed the midget He was in ecstasy. He was extremely pleased that Wendy has accented. But, then again, he should have known that Wendy would. Wendy is the type of girl who lets a man do anything to her. Wendy is meat for anyone's table. Wendy is the type of girl to whom all men go when they want pleasure. Secretly she looks for their love. She believes that she will receive it if she satisfies them. She doesn't know that men are very tight. They never give anything unless they have to. They know that Wendy will fuck them, even if they don't give her their love. Wendy is that type of girl. She's sad and she's lonely, but she always appears to be having a good time.
A crowd gathered around Wendy and the midget Simons was in the crowd. He watched as the nubile, young maid performed the act of oral intercourse upon the midget He watched as her carnal flesh heaved and swayed. She sucked carefully, applying just the right amount of pleasure. She was an experienced cock-sucker from early adolescence. When she had been only nine years old an uncle of hers had exposed his organ to her.
Wendy thought about this remote occurrence, while eating the midget's penis. She remembered how her uncle had forced her to come over and stroke the soft, furry snake which had been hidden in his pants.
"That's a good girl," her uncle had said, slipping his hands under her dress, patting her young, meaty rump. He had inserted his fingers into her soft, hairless vagina. Wendy recalled how she had screamed because it had hurt.
She kept stroking her uncle's penis, the way she would stroke a poodle. She remembered how it had excited her to fondle it.
"That's a good little girl," her uncle had repeated. "Now put it inside of your mouth and suck on it."
That had been Wendy's first experience. There had been others that followed in rapid succession. There was a time with her brother, and with the boys at a college fraternity. It didn't take long for the word to spread. Wendy is 'an easy lay'.
She started getting invited to all sorts of parties. She was a happy girl. She knew how to enjoy herself. She knew how to take care of a man. She was a party girl. That's a fancy name for a prostitute.
Wendy always collected her fee before the party started. Then she just slithered around and had a good time. 'Good Time' Wendy was her nickname.
She kept sucking on the midget's penis. She had taken his cock and balls right into her mouth. She ate them gently, and then harder. Finally he came. He shot his load right into her mouth. Wendy swallowed the salty-tasting semen. She liked it. She loved to swallow scum. Some of her girlfriends would spit it out Not Wendy. Wendy never spit anything out.
"Gee thanks, Wendy, honey," said the midget getting down to kiss her pussy. "You're the champ. You can give the best blow job this side of Delancy street."
He then nuzzled his nose between her buttocks, smelling the pungent odor which issued from between her legs with apparent delight.
The spectators had by now broken up. They were no longer interested in the antics of Wendy and the midget. It was getting boring. They all had their own stuff to do. They were making love on the carpeted floors, and out on the grass-covered patio that surrounded the swimming pool. A sweet marijuana smell, mixed together with the odors of wet vaginas and sticky cocks permeated the air. It was an enticing odor. It was a deliciously, erotic odor. An odor of orgiastic sex play.
Simons was drinking a scotch on the rocks, viewing the bacchanal which surrounded him with an air of indifference. A girl walked up to him.
"Wanna play, big Daddy?" she asked. She was wearing white jersey slacks, and a see-through blouse. Her breasts were large and inviting, capped off by nipples as pink as cherry plumbs.
"Well, big daddy," she laughed. "Don't keep your red hot momma waitin'. I wants me a little action."
The girls eyes were red and glassy, and Simons could see that she was stoned out of her mind. He got up from the seat where he was sitting and walked away. "Fuck you," called the girl after him. She then turned around and picked up someone else. A black man, who Simons recognized to be a television actor. She jumped into his arms, and he picked her up, patting her ass. He ripped off her clinging blouse, sucking and kissing her enticing bosom. She moaned with delight unzipping his pants, and sticking her hands inside. She grabbed his big, black cock with her fists and started whipping it with all her strength. She clutched it desperately.
"Wahoooo," screamed the black actor, slapping her across the behind once again.
He threw her onto the couch, and jumped in after her.
"Wahooooo," he sounded once again, ripping off the young white girls tight-fitting slacks and red silk panties. He spread her legs apart, and, burrowing his head between the sweet meat of her thighs, he sampled the carnal delights which she had offered so freely.
Simons got himself another drink.
At least that colored guy is happy, he thought to himself. He stood there for about fifteen minutes, nursing his scotch, when he decided that he had about had it. The party was getting him down. Everyone was so goddamn stoned. They were stoned clear out of their heads.
It's no fun getting laid when you don't know what's happening, or when your partner is high on drugs. Simons had come here looking for something else. He had come to the party looking for ... Well, he wasn't quite sure what it was that he was looking for. But, like so many others, he was sure that if he saw it, he would instantly recognize it. He would instantly know what he had found.
Maybe it was love that he was looking for? Maybe it was all those worn out clichés that Hollywood writers present as truth, that he was after? Who knows? But one thing he was certain of. The party had turned out to be a bomb. A lot of booze, drugs and cheap sex.
He didn't have to go to the party for that. He had enough money to buy those things, whenever he wanted them. Now he somehow felt disgusted by it all. He felt repulsed by all the perversion that surrounded him. It was all so dirty. It was all so terribly cheap.
He put on his coat, and was about to leave the door, when someone called after him.
It was a pretty girl, with bright red hair, and a slender, luscious body that was well displayed in the thigh-high Pucci mini-skirt which she was wearing. She was a full-bosomed, saucy maid, and Simons could see that she was beautiful. She attracted him, as none of the others had. She looked so good that he wanted to eat her right then and there. He could never remember having been so inflamed by a woman.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Home!" was his answer.
"Are you a very rich man," she asked, sliding over to his side. Simons could feel the swell of her bosom as it pressed against his arm.
"Well," she asked once again. "Are you a rich man?"
"Yes," he replied, "I'm quite wealthy."
"Then," said the girl, baring her breasts provocatively, "I want to go home with you."
Simons led and she followed. He opened the door to his limousine, and she stepped in.
"By the way," she said, "My name is Marianne, I'm seventeen, and I like to fuck and play tennis."
Two weeks later Marianne, and Simons were married at an Episcopalian ceremony in New Brunswick, New Jersey, the girl's home town.