Chapter 5
"My mother would kill me," Dolly groaned, mouning the third and final flight of stairs with Steve.
"It's our little secret," Steve mumbled, feeling the scotch. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys, desperately trying to convince himself that he was drunk. Or why would he have maneuvered a gullible girl of eighteen to his apartment after three grasshoppers?
Dolly held her head while Steve opened the apartment door. "Gee, all those grasshoppers really got me!" she swooned. "I never drink that much."
Steve flung the door open and gestured for Dolly to enter. "This is home," he announced lightly. "Be it ever so humble and all that jazz." He reached in-side and flipped on the lightswitch.
Dolly froze. "You won't get me into trouble?" she asked. "You promised."
"And I promise again—I won't get you into trouble." Steve struggled to remain calm. Just exactly what did she mean by not getting her into trouble? Hands off completely? Or taking the necessary pre-cautions? Something kept telling him to leave well enough alone—put her in a cab and send her home.
"I shouldn't have come," she whispered, cringing near the entrance.
Steve tightened and restrained his urge to inform her that she was a big girl now and that she knew damned well what she was doing by accepting his invitation. But he sensed immediately the need for tact with Dolly. He couldn't work his usual routine—the one for females twenty-one and over—on Dolly. He'd need a new approach—a youthful, fumbling sort of approach.
"Do you like to dance, Dolly?"
"Love to!"
' "So do I," he lied with a straight face. "I've got a stack of good records. I'm not that great a dancer—but maybe you can teach me a few new steps."
"Gee," she gushed. "I guess there's no harm in dancing . . ." She moved slowly into the apartment, quickly gazing about the room-and-a-half. Steve closed the door behind her.
"Gee, you've got a swell place!" she beamed, completing her inspection.
"Its sloppy," he confessed, aware of the trousers, towels and underwear. draped over the backs of chairs. He suddenly smiled, grateful that she had not used the over-twenty-one approach that his apartment was in desperate need of a woman's touch. Eyeing her, his smile widened. Stay as naive as you are, Dolly, he thought. He crossed over to her and helped her remove her coat. He sensed her uneasiness and quickly moved away from her, placing her coat neatly over the back of a chair.
"Relax! What's so terrible about a man's apartment?"
She smiled, gradually broke out into a small, giddy laugh. "It's not as though I've never been alone with a boy before," she started. "Before I graduated from high school I used to babysit a lot and my boyfriend used to come over—"
"Aha," Steve cut in, "I've got competition."
"Oh, no, Jimmy and I aren't going steady—or anything like that. We just usta spend a lotta time together." She shrugged as though Steve should certainly understand.
Steve nodded, for what it was worth, eyeing the even flow of her ripe, young body. He swallowed hard, little Jimmy was nobody's fool.
"He was special, though," Steve playfully teased.
"Oh, Jimmy was nice," she replied seriously, evidently not aware that Steve was leading her on. "He was the only boy I'd ever let stay with me while I was babysitting."
"Oh?" Steve questioned, his mind racing lewdly. "I mean—he was the only boy I could trust to not get me into trouble. You know what I mean?"
Steve nodded that he did—but he didn't. Not fully, anyway. "Let's dance, Dolly," he said, deciding to quit while he was still ahead. He moved over to the stereo, then decided that the long-playing record al-ready on the machine would do. A recent recording of a selection of Benny Goodman classics. He flipped the switch, beckoned her with arms spread out. The slow dance music started.
"You're a smooth dancer," she sighed as he cupped her closer to him. Those luscious mounds were a pair of sentinels on guard, fixed at attention.
"You dance a lot?" she asked, her cheek awkwardly against the side of his chin. He nodded negatively. "If I try to lead you," she rattled on, "just stop me. In school, when I used to dance with my girlfriends, I always used to lead—and it's hard to break the habit."
He nestled her closer, thigh rubbing against thigh. The palm of his hand evaluated the graceful arch of her back, lingering precariously at the crest of her buttocks. He raised his chin, letting her bury her face alongside his neck.
All was going according to plan until he lost control of the sweaty palm at the crest of her buttocks and it moved independently, taking liberties.
She lifted her face anxiously, eyes meeting his. Be-fore she might speak, he gently flicked his lips to hers. She froze. He kissed her fully and she held her lips tightly closed.
Now he could hear the pounding of her heart. "Wow!" she started, prying away from Steve.
"Let's dance," Steve announced, attempting to sound as though nothing had happened.
Dolly freed herself completely, nervously smoothed her sweater and skirt. With great effort, a smile formed on her crimson lips. "Hey, do you know how to do the twist, Steve?" she asked, an amatuer at faking nonchalance.
"I like it nice 'n slow," he replied, reaching for her. She sidestepped. "You're not that old. C'mon, I'll teach you!"
"To that music?" Steve pained, pointing to the record on the stereo.
"Nq silly—" she shrilled breathlessly. She flipped off the record, turned on the radio dial and quickly sought a specific station. "There's one station that plays nothing but rock'n roll and twist music."
Steve folded his arms and let out a gush of air.
The radio warmed and instantly sounded in the midst of a jarring twist number, a vocal group shouting seemingly lewd instructions and encouragement.
"Watch me!" Dolly shrilled. "It's so simple. "
Steve's eyes widened, he restlessly unfolded his arms. Dolly had moved suddenly into wildly sensual gyrations. Her arms operating on one level, her breasts rolling one way, her torso rocking the other way. Without missing a beat, she kicked off her spike-heeled shoes, spiraling exotically as she did.
With every turn, Steve's eyes bulged, taking in every undulation of lushness. She moved momentarily away from him, her buttocks seemingly performing a separate dance that had nothing to do with the other parts of her body. She flayed her arms about wildly. Her sweater rode upward, parting from the waistline of the skirt, revealing a band of firm, milkwhite flesh. He could see that she wore a half-slip, and under that black sweater only a bra.
He quaked with the fire raging in his body, tensed with his want of the young prize innocently tempting him, hopelessly shattering his restraint.
She wheeled suddenly toward him, stretched her arms out and offered him her hands.
"C'mon," she urged. "It's real easy!"
He gripped at her hands, recklessly pulled her to him and sent his open mouth smashing against her lips. He prodded, but met the barrier of her teeth. He wrapped his arms around her, dug at her until the melon-like breasts were flattened against the hard muscle and bone of his chest.
He heard her moan softly and suddenly her mouth was open. His tongue anxiously sought hers and the low moaning sound grew to a stiffled cry within her. He lowered his lips, brushed them over her chin, sought the soft flesh of her neck—circling, flicking, nibbling.
The stiffled cry grew to a steady wail of torment. "Don't, Steve—" she pleaded. "Please?"
Sanity slowly returned to Steve. He eased himself, still cradling her body in his arms. The raging fire remained within him giving him no peace of mind, frustrating his choice of words. "Dolly, I can't help myself," he groaned.
"The way you kiss . . ." she sighed. "I'm afraid. . . ."
"You've been kissed before, haven't you?" he asked impatiently. "Didn't that boyfriend of yours ever kiss you?"
"Not like you just did," she moaned.
"Dolly," he started vaguely, his hands slipping under the sweater and caressing the bare flesh, "you can drive a guy crazy." The flat of his hands mounted her sleek sides.
"Oh, Steve, I'd just die if you got me into trouble!" Steve angrily bolted away from her. "Hey, what is it with you and this `trouble' bit?"
"You know what I'm talking about," she pouted, head down. "A girl who cares has to worry about when she gets married—'cause if her husband knows she's been fooled with—" She looked up, squared him. "A guy can tell!"
Steve slapped his jaw, incredulously. "Look, honey, I'd better put you in a cab. You go find your little schoolmate Jimmy—"
"You can still have a lot of fun without going all the way!" she angrily interrupted.
"Dolly, let's just chalk it off. Maybe when you grow up"
"I am grown-up!" she snapped, moving close to him. "And I thought you liked me, Steve."
Steve shrugged. He placed the flat of his hand flush on her bosom, stroked it as though it were a stray kitten.
"You do like me?" she asked. "Don't you, Steve?" He withdrew his hand.
"You're angry with me, aren't you, Steve?"
"Look, Dolly—" he flustered.
"You think I'm just a child," she pouted, close to tears. "Well, I'm not."
"I didn't say that," Steve protested. He bit his lower lip, but couldn't resist the temptation to get 46
back at her for firing him up in vain. "Your school-mate Jimmy must've taught you a thing or two," he wisecracked.
She angrily backed away from him. "We had fun making love! We usta turn the lights off and—" She cut it short, taking a grip on herself. "I think I'd better leave," she said quietly, moving toward her coat.
Steve moved quickly between the girl and the coat, suddenly intrigued by what she had revealed to him. "What happened then?" he asked pointblank, "after you'd turn the lights off?"
"You're making fun of me," she pouted. "Please let me go."
Steve stopped short, was forced to admit to him-self that he had turned it into a little game—a game from which he seemed to be deriving a certain, unexplainable pleasure. He studied the teen-ager's troubled expression. This encounter was in complete contrast to his head-on clash with Adele Crandon, he realized. Earlier that day, the worldly business-woman was playing games with him. And he had jumped through the hoops as though he were an awkward teen-ager.
Steve backstepped expertly to the lightswitch and darkened the room.
"Whatcha doing?" Dolly asked.
Steve quickly adjusted his vision to the meager rays of light trickling through the Venetian blinds, returning to his prey, ran the flat of his hands along the arch of her back. "We'll just pretend we're baby-sitting, Dolly. The lights are off—now what?" His hands encircled her sleek sides, mashed inwardly. "Now what?" he asked again.
"You're hurting me, Steve."
He drew her into him. Kissed her. Full. Hard and with determination now that he was calling the shots. Now that he wasn't whistling to Adele Crandon's tune.
"I'm afraid, Steve."
"I won't hurt you," he said, not certain of what he meant by the words he mouthed.
He felt her arms tighten around his back and he victoriously ran his hands down to her buttocks. Slowly he brought them up and under the black sweater, the velvety flesh warm to his touch. Her breathing grew heavy, her arms relaxed and he effortlessly peeled the sweater up over her head, off her arms.
His sweaty palms nuzzled the bra-cups; semi-circling, clock-wise, counter-clockwise.
She churned a deep, throaty cry. Her fingers nimbly undid the clasp of her bra. She anxiously tugged the elastic garment downward and the mounds of milkwhite flesh poured out.
Steve tautly stretched his fingers, strained to widen the palms so as to totally possess the firm young prizes. Frustrated, he jammed his face into the warm cleavage, his mouth open. He buckled under the sudden frenzy and he felt his legs grow rubbery. He grasped her taut haunches for support and stiffled his cry of urgency by lowering his open mouth over one of the firm nipples. His nostrils quivered with excitement.
He tugged her in the direction of the bed. She tightened her buttocks; her thighs tautly-muscled. His fingers moved to the clasp of the skirt to undo the zipper and he felt her clawlike fingernails restraining him.
"Don't stop me—" he pleaded, his breath coming in jagged spurts.
"No!" she cried, forcibly taking his hands and returning them to her bosom. "Keep doing that—like you were before!"
But the newness of the ripe, young bosom had worn off and Steve's hands tingled to explore the length of her. He moved his hands over the sleek flesh; her resistance firing him with angry determination. He lost his footing in the shuffle and toppled to the floor, bringing her down with him.
"I'm afraid!" she shrilled.
"Oh, honey, please—" he gasped.
"No," she insisted, wrapping her skirt tightly about her thighs.
Steve felt the sweat of frustration burning his temples and he let out a heavy sigh, loosened his grip on her.
"Steve," she started slowly, "don't be angry with me. I want you to make love to me—but not that. I just can't go all the way."
"Dolly," he shrugged hopelessly. "You can't place a dinner before a man, let him sample the vegetables and then deny him the rest!"
"Steve?" she questioned. "Don't you like me a little bit? 'Cause if you did" She let it hang there, suggestively.
He searched for some sort of reply within him, but he gagged on the words in total astonishment as Dolly busied her hands at his trousers. Awed, he searched her face, was instantly aware of the lewd suggestion on her crimson lips.
Steve pushed himself up off the rug, swaying on rubbery legs. Dolly wrapped her arms about his thighs. She looked up into his face, smiling somewhat childishly. Steve was numbed by her expression. An expression that seemed to say, It's only a game . . . don't be a sore loser.
Steve closed his eyes as he felt her force him to surrender. He steadied his stance as the lust she had suddenly aroused coursed through his body. The fire in him mounted and the pleasure she was giving him was unbearable, but still he felt degraded. He clenched his teeth and rode the crest of her frenzy until he felt almost on the point of collapse.
Steve steadied his breathing and jarred free of the teen-ager.
"When you're through dressing," Steve began tiredly, "just slam the door closed behind you." And he instantly stormed out of the apartment.
Racing down the stairs, an angry cry came from the very core of him.
"Damned females . . . teens, twenties, thirties, forties . . . they're too damned old—each and every one with her own special scheme. But all with one common goal: to play the game according to their rules. To make slaves of men!"
Once in the brisk air, he calmed himself and in that moment made his decision.
The game would now be played according to Steve Turko's rules. No more halfway measures. And no more penny-ante stuff. Only for the top stake.
Success.
He steeled himself, certain that he had what it takes to go the distance. He recalled Adele Crandon's words: "All you need is a little confidence in your-self."
And maybe—just maybe—Adele Crandon was the woman to instill it in him.
He hailed the first cab. "Sutton Place!" he roared. "The Cragmore Arms."