Chapter 12
ON Monday morning, Wes, Dean Moon and the local police chief sat down to plot their strategy Wes listened as the chief revealed his plans.
"Mr. Parker, we won't move into position around the bungalow until all of them have arrived. Then we wait for your signal."
"Right," Wes agreed. "And remember, don't come in until I do signal. We want to get them dead to rights. The timing has to be perfect, or they could pass it off as just another cocktail party."
"You don't figure they'll suspect anything, do you?" the chief asked 'You could be in a bad spot if they do."
"I'll keep my fingers crossed." He lit a cigarette and watched the chief's eyes rove back to Phylis Moon's crossed legs. Wes had heard that the chief was a fat old lecher himself, and that he gave women prisoners certain privileges for their favors. He didn't doubt that.
"I wish this was over," Phylis said.
Not half as much as I do, he thought. When it was, his appointment as dean of Jane Richmond would be assured.
By the time he arrived home that afternoon, Sue had left the house. There was a note on the table that said she was shopping for a new dress and might be late. She would grab a sandwich in the tea shop in town, and his dinner was m the ice box. That was all right with Wes. He mixed a stiff drink and took it into his den. He wasn't hungry at all. The sense of anticipation had killed his appetite. He looked at his wrist watch. Still two long hours to wait. It made him feel exactly as he had felt on the invasion barges at Inchon, during the Korean War, waiting for H-Hour.
But at last the witching hour arrived. Wes donned a new tweed sport coat and went out to his car. Sue had the other car, a beat-up Chevy. He whistled as he drove leisurely out to the bungalow. Janet had instructed him how to find the place, but had refused his offer to drive with him.
"Nobody arrives together, or it would spoil all the fun. You'd know who I was, then," she had said.
The business of the masks intrigued Wes. He wondered who had thought it up. A genius of sorts, a depraved genius. He found the place easily and turned into the drive. There was a wooded clearing out in back, where more than a dozen autos were parked. He glanced at a Jaguar parked beside him and saw a pair of lace panties and a brassiere rumpled on the seat. He smiled. Now there was an eager wench!
He was surprised, but not unduly so, when Connie Beach greeted him at the door. She was, after all, the cleverest girl in the college, just the type of keen intellect that would conceive of the mask gimmick to spice things up.
She smiled. "Welcome to our group therapy sessions, professor."
Wes had a bad turn. Maybe Janet had hoodwinked him. "Group therapy?" he asked uncertainly. "I thought "
"That this was an orgy club?" she asked him. "There are some of the girls, immature of course, who prefer to think of this as an orgy club. I prefer not to. It's so unsophisticated."
Wes was relieved. "I agree. 'Group therapy' is just the term." He entered the vestibule. "I assume that you, then, are the president, Miss Beach?"
She looked pained. "I am the chief therapist."
"And a very lovely one." He peered at the vee of her black dress, admiring the plump, firm mounds that filled the filmy bodice. "Do you join in the festivities, dear?"
"Oh, I do, now and then, but you won't know me when I do. I'll have on a different dress and my mask."
"Ah, yes, the masks." With interest, he followed her into the make-up room. "Quite an array," he said, fingering one of the rubber masks that littered the table.
"Who do you feel like being tonight, professor? Rock Hudson? Burt Lancaster? Paul Newman? No, he's been taken, I see."
Wes saw it immediately, the one he wanted. It was stamped with the rakish countenance of the late Errol Flynn. "That's for me," he said.
As he adjusted it, she studied him curiously. "I must say, I was a little startled when Janet brought up your name, professor. I don't make a habit of encouraging faculty members to participate in our sessions. You never know when they might have ulterior motives."
He felt a twinge of anxiety, but his voice was great and casual. "What kind of ulterior motives?"
"They could be finks. Spies."
Nothing to do now but beard the lion, he decided. "That's very true," he admitted. "Tell me, Connie, why did you make an exception for me? I could be a fink."
Her smile was enigmatic. "You could. But I don't think you'll blow the whistle on us, professor."
"Why not?"
She laughed. "You have an honest face."
When his mask was in place, he followed her into the main room, where the party was in full swing. Men and women, all wearing the bizarre masks, were mingling animatedly, talking and laughing. It was just like any other party, he thought with some disappointment. She read his thoughts.
"Don't worry, things haven't warmed up yet. A few more drinks and we'll all be in the mood." She pointed to the table with the liquor. "Help yourself to anything you want."
"Anything?" He ran his hand over the circumference of her delectable buttocks. She, was warm and pliant.
She did not object. "That's the spirit, professor. You do whatever you feel like doing. No holds barred. The rules are that no one can deny or be denied. That works out quite well."
Wes rubbed his hands together and looked around. "I like your kind of therapy, Connie. I must recommend this to my friends."
Her eyebrows arched. "Maybe some of your friends are right here in this room."
"That's true!" The idea startled him. Who knew? They were in for a big surprise this night. Male and female, they had cast off all inhibitions, and could revel in the vilest debaucheries under the cloak of anonymity provided by the masks. But they wouldn't be anonymous very much longer. He could hardly wait until the unmasking, after the police raid.
"Patience, Wes," he told himself. The evening was young, and he was not going to 'blow the whistle' as Connie had phrased it, until he had thoroughly enjoyed himself.
Connie excused herself, and he wandered over to the refreshment table to pour himself a Scotch and water. From this location, he inspected the females in the room. All of them were well stacked. No dogs. He spotted a Marilyn Monroe mask. The girl who wore it was uncannily like the departed actress in appearance, big melon breasts straining at her sweater, hips and buttocks that were skirt-splitting, curvaceous legs.
His gaze went to the woman in the Liz Taylor mask, busty and voluptuous. She bent over to brush lint from her skirt, and he could see clear down her cleavage. She was naked under the loose blouse, and her boobs were like two honeydew melons on the vine.
There were Tuesday Weld, Gina Lollobrigida, Sue Lyon, Ava Gardner, Sophia Loren, many more than he recognized. Wes was not a movie fan. The girl who had on the Sue Lyon mask was standing tense in a corner. She seemed very young and very frightened. Wes walked over to her.
"Hi, what's the matter?"
Her voice trembled. "I that is, this is my first time here."
"Mine too," he said gaily. "Relax. Nobody is going to bite you," He laughed and put a hand on her tanned, bare arm. "Or maybe they will, at that.
The sky's the limit, so I understand."
The girl gulped. "I think maybe I shouldn't be here at all."
Wes was curious. "Did you know what this was all about?"
"Yes."
"But you still came?"
"Connie convinced me this would be good for me. I met her in Dr. Marx's office."
"Dr. Ruth Marx?" Wes was interested.
"Yes, I was a patient of hers."
"I see. What is your problem?"
He couldn't see her face, but even her arms grew red with embarrassment. "I I prefer not to say."
At that moment, Connie came over to them. "Good, I see you've met. Well, Sue, are you ready for your first treatment?"
The girl's voice was thin. "I don't think I can go through with this, Connie."
"Yes you can." Connie smiled, but her voice was firm.
"Not in front of all these people."
"But why not? They don't know who you are. They couldn't care less. We're all here for a good time and an effective catharsis. You know that's what you need, dear." She looked to Wes. "This child has a common problem, a bad case of adolescent hunger."
"Oh, Connie," the girl said miserably. "You shouldn't have told him."
"Don't be childish. As soon as you get a real lover, your troubles will be over."
"No!" The girl headed for the door. "I'm going home."
"Oh, no, you're not!" Connie grabbed her arm and swung her around roughly. She lifted her voice to the crowd. "Attention, everyone, gather around!" They formed a circle around Connie and her victim.
Wes felt a twinge of pity for the girl. She sounded and looked about sixteen, and she was badly scared. She was a small, fragile girl, but not skinny. Her breasts filled her sweater nicely, but they were not, as yet, fully developed. She had a good body, but still retained a measure of baby fat. That added to her appeal, Wes decided, as did her juvenile bobby-socks.
She began to whimper as lecherous eyes leered at her from the eyeholes of the grinning masks around her.
"This is one of the big events of the evening," Connie announced. "Our little virgin, our nymphet. All right, take off your clothes, honey, so the boys can get a good look at you."
"No!" The girl pulled away from her.
Connie nodded to two men who were standing behind the girl, and they grabbed her arms. While they held her, other eager hands began to pluck at her clothing. She howled as they removed her sweater and her skirt. She was wearing a short slip, and that went next. She cringed from the eyes that ogled her in her bra and panties.
Wes joined the fun by unsnapping the catch on her brassiere. Appreciative laughter went up as her little boobs sprang loose. They were the size of tennis balls and just as bouncy. Another man reached out and tweaked one of the pale pink nipples, which stiffened and reddened.
"Atta girl I" Connie cheered her on. "You like that, don't you?"
Another man tugged her snug panties down over her legs. The girl pulled one hand loose and covered herself shyly.
She had an adorable rear. Wes could not resist the temptation to run a hand over her. She was soft as down, and his desire leaped. She was young, but every bit a woman, ripe for the experience that was about to overtake her against her will.
She was still blubbering as the two men holding her pulled her over to a studio couch and forced her down. She was naked, except for her bobby socks. Wes hoped they would not take them off. Somehow, they added spice to the occasion, her little-girl's socks.
"Who wants the honors?" Connie asked, looking from one man to another.
"I do," came back a thunderous chorus. Only Wes remained mute. He would have dearly loved to take this little virgin, but he held back. That would not look good in later testimony.
They finally agreed who would get first crack at the girl. She was resigned to her fate now, lying with her feet locked tightly together, to hide herself as well as possible. Her saucy breasts pointed into the air, and, from the erect state of her nipples, Wes judged that the fever was beginning to infect her. Once she got over her stage fright, she would be just fine.
There was a round of applause as the chosen man cast off his clothing. The girl's eyes widened as he approached the couch. She gasped as he touched her, and her heart was about ready to leap out of her mouth. He was a skilled artisan, and did not immediately forge to his goal. Instead, he bent and kissed her breasts.
Gradually, her fright subsided and she began to respond. After that, everything went surprisingly easily. There was a sharp moment of pain, and then he released her arms and she clutched her lover fiercely around the neck, drawing him closer, mashing her hard little breasts against his hairy chest.
A cry began deep in her throat and rose steadily, as the pace increased. Wes took a deep breath and turned away.
A woman joined him as he mixed another drink. She was quite a dish, in a strapless cocktail dress that showed off her satin-smooth, sun-tanned shoulders and the upper hemispheres of her breasts. She wore an Ava Gardner mask, and Wes admitted that she had the equipment to go with that. Her sheath skirt was so tight that she telegraphed every twitch and quiver of the flesh beneath. Brazenly, she reached out with her hand and inspected him in a most delicious way. Well, what have we here?"
He grinned at her. "If you don't know, you're at the wrong party."
She giggled and withdrew her hand. "I know what you mean. Look, I'll be glad to take care of any problems for you."
"I'd like that fine," Wes said. "But this is my first time, and I'm a little bashful."
"Of course. We can use the bedroom if you prefer. Just this first time, though. Connie says private therapy is too inhibiting."
"Let's not stand here, then. Where's the bedroom?"
She took him into the room with the one-way mirror, knowing that, before long, all the people in the other room would be clustered around the flip side of the mirror, witnessing their performance. It was truly exciting to have an audience, she decided.
Wes pulled her to him and kissed her. Sparks of electricity leaped between them. Her breasts were so swollen that they finally spilled over the neckline of the dress. They appeared to him as enormous creamy globes of foam. The nipples were blood red and stiff as thorns, stinging his hands as he caressed them like a miser trickling gold coins through his fingers. He parted from her, momentarily, as he flung off his jacket and shirt, and she took off her sheath dress. He watched her avidly, standing there in her half slip and panties, with her boobs dangling invitingly as she bent to loosen her garters.
He pushed her down and she lay on the bed with her long, graceful legs high in the air, so he could remove the nylons for her. The flesh of her legs was firm and round and warm to his nervous fingers. He rolled one stocking over her knee and down her leg, all the while feasting his eyes on her black lace panties. Hurriedly he rolled down the other stocking and flung back her slip to get at the waistband of the panties.
"Don't rip them," she warned him. "I wouldn't want my husband to wonder how that happened."
Wes snorted. "The devil with your husband!"
She lifted her bottom so that he could roll the taut material away. He teased himself, rolling the panties down ever so slowly. Then he could not contain himself any longer, and dragged the panties down over knees and legs so urgently that he almost pulled her off the bed. She laughed wildly and snatched at his clothes. He let her strip him as he had stripped her.
There was some kind of alchemy between them that super-charged their passions, as they had never been charged before. He sensed that. She sensed that. They were ravenous for each other's flesh. When he was naked, she contemplated him with depraved reverence. He was gorgeous, she thought, sturdy as a gnarled oak. She threw her arms around him and embraced him, raining kisses.
"Oh, baby!" Wes rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "What you do to me!"
"You don't know half the things I'm going to do to you, lover," she purred.
He lay down beside her and took her in his arms. "Tell me about them."
Wes thought he had heard everything there was to hear about the varied styles of making love. But this unique creature described pleasures they would share that made his hair stand up. She was the most delightfully dissolute woman he had ever met. He could scarcely wait until the time arrived when he would rip off that silly mask she was wearing. What did she really look like? Was she, perhaps, ugly as sin? Tt would make no difference to him what she looked like. Her charm was all from the neck down, anyway. After this party was all over, he would cultivate a relationship with her. He was determined.
"Where did you learn all these depraved things?" he joked, when she had finished her thesis.
She laughed. "I lie awake at night and invent them."
Then, literally, they attacked each other with hands and mouths. He bit her until she had to roll over on her stomach to prolong the pleasure. Snarling, he fell upon her exposed buttocks, gorging his hands greedily with the abundant, sweet flesh. The imprints of his nails covered the pink globes like a rash. He thought she was the most volatile female he had ever gazed upon.
At the same time, she was delighting his tormented flesh with her avaricious kisses until he was one big ache from head to foot. She did things to him that no woman had ever done before. Her hands teased him in ways no woman had ever thought of teasing him. He responded to the challenge, and carried her along with him on the towering crest of an inhuman desire that they both sensed would never be matched again by either of them.
This was the moment that every man and woman who ever lived and knew the pleasures of the flesh always dreamed of someday achieving. Utopia. Always beyond reach, until this night I
In the end. it was she who could no longer dally. That was as if she were in the cockpit of an airplane in a high-speed vertical dive, with the force of gravity building up, and building up, until the force made the body collapse underneath its own exorbitant weight.
She lifted her body from his grasp. "Take me! Now! Before I explode!"
He crowed with laughter, and moved to take her.
But she reached out and directed him with her hands. "I like this" she tittered.
Wes was shaken. There was no limit to her depravity, he thought. Rut the gauntlet had been flung down, and he would not shy away.
That was more difficult than he would have thought, especially since she kept on squealing like a pig. "Well, I've tried everything now!" he thought.
When her culmination happened, she carried on like a madwoman, pushing him all over the bed with her in frantic leaps and hounds. His own finish was uniquely tumultuous.
"You were magnificent," she complimented him as they dressed.
"I had a magnificent teacher," he returned the favor.
Her voice was wistful. "I'd like to see your face. I keep wondering what you're really like."
He smiled. "Maybe that could be arranged." He walked to the window, pulled up the shade and took out his cigarettes. "Smoke?"
"No," she frowned. "You shouldn't do that in front of the window. Somebody might see you."
He shrugged and flicked his lighter. "That's the point, my dear."
She gasped. "What did you say?"
He turned and removed his mask with a swift motion. "There. Your wish is fulfilled. Are you disappointed?"
She backed off, with one hand clenched in fear to her contorted mouth. "Oh no! You shouldn't have!"
"It makes no difference, my dear. You see, this place is surrounded by policemen. Now, let's have a look at you!" He started toward her.
"No!" Her voice was so full of terror that it hit him like a physical blow.
At the same instant, there were screams and shouts from the main room. A police whistle blew. There were sounds of furniture being knocked over, glasses breaking. Momentarily diverted from his purpose, Wes went to the bedroom door and opened it. He saw a swarm of uniformed cops rounding up the bewildered revelers. Many of the men and women were naked or partially undressed. The fat police obief was enjoying himself thoroughly. Under the pretext that he was preventing a naked, buxom blonde from escaping, he had his arms wrapped around her, his thumbs wiggling against the balloon breasts. Wes grinned ruefully.
"Everything under control, Chief?" he asked, after the police officer regained his composure.
"You bet." The chief tittered. "You should have seen some of the things these characters were doing when we broke in. I'd give a year's salary to have a movie record of them. I've seen salty pictures in my time, but this bunch makes all of 'em seem like they was out of Sunday school texts." He ogled a slim brunette who was trying desperately to step into her panties.
When the miserable men and women were lined up, the cops began to rip off their masks. Connie Beach hissed at Wes. "You think you're pretty smart professor, but wait! The last laugh is going to be mine!" She actually began to laugh.
Wes regarded her with bored indifference. Suddenly, he remembered the woman in the bedroom. "I have another one in here in the bedroom, Chief." He turned to the half open door.
The chief's eyebrows lifted. "In the bedroom, heh? You're a sly dog, professor."
Wes smiled. "All for the cause, my dear chap." He poked his head into the bedroom. "Hey, Ava, you can come out now!"
His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes flared. The room was empty! It was then that he saw the open window, with the shade blowing. "What the ! " He raced to the window and peered out. About a hundred yards away, he saw a running figure trying to reach the woods in back of the house. At the same time, he heard the shot ring out, loud and terrifying in the night.
The figure twisted and threw its hands over its head. It collapsed in an inert heap. Wes leaped through the window and joined the policemen who were converging on the fallen victim.
It was her, all right. When they rolled her over, he saw she was still wearing the Ava Gardner mask. He was disappointed. If the darned fool hadn't panicked, the two of them could have had a good thing going for them once the fuss died down.
"Is she badly hurt?" he asked a cop.
The officer pointed to the spreading crimson stain on the front of the dress. "Don't look good."
"Let's find out who she is," Wes said. He stooped and removed the mask.
The shock of recognition almost caused him to faint. It was his own wife. It was Sue.
"Oh, God! No! It can't be." His voice cracked.
She was still alive. Her eyes flickered open and fixed on his face. A weak, wry smile curled up her mouth. "Surprise, darling," she said.
He shook his head. "This isn't real. No! His fingers touched her face. "It's some kind of trick. You're wearing another mask." He tried to take off the non-existent mask. Two cops came up and pinned his arms.
His eyes were mad, wild. "But it can't be! You and I, before, in that room" What we felt, what we did. that was never like that with my wife! No! You're lying. You're not Sue!" He struggled in the grasp of the policemen. "Lemme go!" He began to howl at the sky "like a wild dog.
Sue was fading fast and she knew it. She felt no animosity against Wes, only pity. Pity for both of them. And sorrow for what might have been. The joy they had given each other on this last night was a cruel joke of the fates.
One of her breasts had slipped out of the dress, and glistened like a jade globe in the soft moonlight. It was the last thing she saw as life departed from her body.
She didn't see them bundle her husband up in a strait jacket and carry him to the ambulance, still howling at the moon.
Wes Parker's words to her, earlier, had been prophetic. "The devil with your husband!" he had said, when he removed her panties.
And that is just where he had gone.