Chapter 11
Fake snakeskin boots looking just like real... a skin-tight tee-shirt embellished in silver with "Hell's Angels" ... one lock of black shiny hair draped just so above the rims of Easy Rider style black sunglasses . . . crotch-clutching black leather pants which emphasized the manly swell of his seam-straining cock . ..
Bernard Cretin regarded his image in the mirror of the hostel's communal shower room with considerable satisfaction. Even though he'd given up the idea of shaving his acne-pitted face in cold water, he thought he looked impressively masculine. In any event, no matter what his appearance, he'd already proved himself so clever that nothing could dampen his elated spirits.
How many guys would have been quick enough to size up the situation in a glance when he spied his debonairly-dressed boss swaggering toward the reception desk with an armload of roses and champagne? How many would have unobtrusively sidled over to leaf through the free offerings of brochures and maps, ears cocked and eyes alert? And how many would have had the sense to check the phone book for the number he'd given the bored, almost pretty blonde and discover it belonged to a Hotel Modern here in Cap d'Ail? Bernard was positive there weren't more than a handful of fellows in the whole of France who'd have shown such shrewd intellect, and he only wished those teachers who's said good riddance to bad rubbish when he'd quit school at fourteen could see how blind they'd been.
Luck had been on his side too, of course-but then, why shouldn't it have been, all things considered. He'd still been lounging around the desk, watching that fat-assed Alan Dubois swagger out with his florist-wrapped bouquet and fancy flask, when the phone rang again. Monica Blakesley's fiance-who would have guessed that vengeance should come his way so easily? With his quick wit he'd set up a situation which would prove most awkward for that stuck-up bitch who'd had the nerve to treat him like a worm even after she'd been begging for his cock two days ago in the truffle field. Shit, the sexy blonde hadn't even con- descended to so much as look at him. Well, she'd be sorry! In fact, the whole damn world would be sorry that Bernard Cretin had never been given his fair share of the cake!
"You know, you could be anything!" he told his reflection, with the supreme confidence of one who is twenty-two and newly convinced of his male prowess. "One hell of a good detective... or a movie actor-and they do lots better than those idiot truffle farmers . . . or-"
This self-satisfied soliloquy was rudely cut short by a youngster's taunting hoot of laughter.
"Hey there, Cretin-creep-you gone right off the deep end now, talking to yourself in the mirror! I always knew you were psycho!"
Bernard whirled around to face the smirking face of fifteen-year-old Spike Soderberg and was furious to find his face burning in embarrassment. Shit, he'd thought all the brats had gone to the hostel-sponsered beach party. What was this kid doing here?
"Maybe you're practising your lines for your next movie?" tittered Soderberg. "Butcha better shave off that stubble before they turn the spotlights on ya, Cretin-creep!"
"All right, smart-ass," Bernard attempted to bolster his abruptly vanished self-assurance by snarling at the impudent in his best surly Parisian style and using his best American slang. "How come you ain't down at the kiddie party with the rest of your gang?"
"To tell you the truth, Cretin-creep, I was looking for you. Remember those Danish photos you showed us the other day? Could I borrow a couple of them, just for tonight?"
"What for?" Bernard's tone was still belligerent, but his thin chest puffed out in renewed self-importance. "You gonna jerk off down on the rocks or something? What happened to your girl friend?"
"I'm changing horses," Spike said airily. "Any guy with two balls can make it with dumb old Arlene. I want a chick with more class who's not screwing everyone who winks at her. Like Cordelia, for instance."
Cordelia Culloden had been one of the first teens the sex-crazed bus driver had noticed, first because of her copious quantities of luggage, but very soon because of her air of innocent seductiveness. In fact, the fifteen year-old schoolgirl looked a lot like Miss Blakesley; same fine-boned features, fair hair, and sculpted model's legs. Her breasts were still undeveloped lemons, but she emphasized them by going without a brassiere and wearing the kind of tee-shirts which looked positively slutty on buxom classmates such as the infamous Arlene. Bernard wasn't envious of Spike, but he would have been if he hadn't had exciting plans of his own for this soft southern night.
"Cordelia's cool," Spike leaned against one of the wash-basins, staring at his image in the water- spattered glass with casual pride while he spoke. "But she's uptight, y'know. Like Miss Blakesley- same type. Hey, Cretin-creep, didja ever get into her panties like you were big-mouthing about? Didja ever even try?"
Bernard felt as though he were six-foot-five instead of five-foot-six. It was the proudest moment of his life, except perhaps for that time he'd come in first in the bike rally last autumn.
"Of course I did," he shrugged with studied nonchalance. "She's a hell of a good lay. As a matter of fact, I got her cherry."
"You WHAT? Oh, come off it, Cretin-creep! No one in their right mind's gonna believe that crap, not in a thousand years! Shit, you really are a nut case!"
Nut case? What exactly was that? Cretin wondered. Not that it mattered, for no insult or snub could touch him now. He shrugged again, disdainfully.
"Don't believe it, then-it's all the same to me. And I suppose you don't want to hear about how she was screaming and begging for more of my cock, do you?"
"I'll bet she was! I'll just bet!" sneered the prep school sophomore. "You're so full of bullshit I don't believe it!"
"You really wanna bet?" Bernard's colorless eyes slanted into greedily glinting slits as he recalled the kid's fat roll of traveler's checks-there were so many twenty and fifty dollar bills that they couldn't fit into his Levi pocket. "Do you?"
"You're crazy, Cretin, but sure, I'll bet. How much've you got to lose when you can't prove you're not full of bullshit? And I mean prove it, man- I wanna see her screaming and begging, just like you claim!"
"Of course! You'll see a show like nothing you ever dreamed of!"
The bus driver wasn't quite sure how the logistics of this obscene operation would be arranged, but he figured that luck was on his side and something would work itself out. Blackmail, if necessary, or maybe the knife again . . . whatever was most expedient. At the moment he was too excited to bother about such petty details.
"And after the show," he continued, breathing harshly, "you'll owe me a Harley-Davidson. A brand-new Harley-Davidson!"
The fact that the bus driver sounded dead-serious didn't worry young Soderberg; it merely confirmed his suspicion that the man was half-witted. "Sure," he laughed. "Sure, Cretin-creep, if you lemme see you screw the living daylights outta Miss Blakesley, and make her like it, I'll buy you a big shiny Harley-Davidson. What color do you want?"
Bernard ignored the sarcasm. "Black," he said shortly, glancing at his watch. By now, Dubois should already be at the Hotel Modern. The finance should be biting his nails in a traffic jam on the way from Monaco to Cap d'Ail. There was no time to be lost.
"You got a camera? Good-go get it. And hurry up!"
"Right now? You gonna lay Miss Blakesley tonight? 'Cause I got this date with Cordelia, and-"
"Hell, bring her along too. She'll get more turned-on watching Blakesley get fucked then by looking at Color Climax magazines. But hurry!"
"Slow down, you guys!" whined Cordelia. "I can't keep up! What's the big idea anyway, Spike? How come you're dragging me out here with this guy?"
"I told you. We're gonna see a show."
"Well, I don't want to walk any further! My feet hurt! And these damn weeds keep snagging my new dress! Let's go back to the hostel, okay, Spike? C'mon! That beach party wasn't so bad-they had some good records. C'mon, please!"
"Oh, shut up, Cordelia!" Spike's voice was sharp with irritation, for he was beginning to have strong misgivings about that bet. "If you weren't wearing those crazy high heels and that floppy dress you could walk fine."
Cordelia tossed her flaxen curls back over her slim shoulders and looked down her aristocratic little nose at her four-inch heeled sandals and full-skirted white dress. Well, it had been white, now, after this stupid hike along the narrow cliff-edged promenade beside the rocky shore, it was stained with grass and mud and spattered with seaspray besides.
"How was I supposed to know you wanted to play boy scouts tonight? I wish I'd gone out with Tony instead. Yes, I really do!"
"And I wish I'd asked Arlene along instead of you. At least she keeps her big mouth shut."
"And her big fat flabby thighs wide open!" Cordelia retorted with a haughty toss of her head. "You know what, Spike Soderberg? You make me sick!"
"Shut up, you two!"
They glared at each other, but obeyed him; the bus driver was acting weirder, more over-excited by the moment, and by tacit agreement they figured that the less they did to upset him, the better. Following their gaze in the direction of his pointed finger, they saw a steep stone staircase cut in the side of the cliff which led up to a narrow road running between the sea and the railroad tracks. Although the moon was full, this area of wide-spaced villas and thick foliage was dark and serene almost as the middle of a forest.
Cordelia glanced helplessly first at the stairs, then at her shoes. "Oh crap!" she began again. "Why the heck didn't we just walk down the road? This is crazy! My feet-"
"Shut up, girl!" Bernard snapped.
He was carefully scrutinizing the big windows of the old-fashioned pastel pink building just above where they stood and wondering what exactly to do now. Miss Blakesley was, he knew, in room number sixteen-another piece of luck. The idea of walking in the front door past a reception desk didn't appeal to him at all, nor did that of trying to sneak in the back way and getting caught by some vicious watchdog or surveillant servant; but perhaps they could manage to maneuver themselves up onto the balcony . . .
"Hey, isn't that the Renault Al Dubois rented this morning?" exclaimed the girl when they'd climbed up high enough to see the road clearly, "What did he park it way down here for?" There was no answer save a low snicker from the bus driver. "Hey, what's going on here? What's so funny? Spike, I want to go back to the hostel! It's too dark and creepy here."
"Go on, then!"
Cordelia cast one shuddering glance down the long unlighted lane and followed the two males. Onto a grassy ledge leading off the staircase... up a stony embankment ... up the trunk of an aged oleander shrub covered with fragrant pink blossoms. Her trendy sandals having been prudently discarded at the bottom of the big bush, she was able to swing up onto the large balcony with a bit of assistance from Spike, and by now she was so caught up in the mood of something deliciously, thrillingly forbidden that no one had to caution her to keep quiet.
When they crept forward to the inch-wide crack in the white lace draperies and peered inside, however, she'd have cried out in astonishment had Spike not had the foresight to clamp a hand over her open mouth. As things were, she almost stopped breathing.
Miss Blakesley-prim, proper Miss Blakesley who was so uptight she dressed and undressed in the cramped WC rather than expose her naked body to the teenaged girls-was sprawled on her back on the bed with nothing covering her magnificent figure except a sheer lace white negligee which was all tangled up around her neck. Her eyes were closed, her legs spread impossibly far apart... and between the milk white fullness of her thighs knelt tour director Dubois with his huge thing slamming in and out of her tiny curl-fringed pussy hole.
"They're fuckingl" she hissed in Spike's ear, as if he couldn't see for himself. "Mr. Dubois and Miss Blakesley are fucking!"
His arm snaked round her shoulders to fondle the mound of her budding breast, and for once she didn't haughtily tug herself out of his reach. "Yeah, they're fucking," he whispered back. "Pretty good show after all, huh, Cordelia honey?"
Bernard smiled to himself. The show was going to get much, much better before this evening was over!