Chapter 1
Vic Brighton turned off the shower, shook his head to clear his eyes of the water, and before doing anything else reached out for a cigarette and his lighter.
He wasn't ordinarily a nervous type, but this hadn't been an ordinary day. He had been building toward this night for a long time, and now he was going to make it pay off. He dragged hard, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs, but it didn't help very much.
He patted himself dry and slipped into a terry-cloth robe, and then went into the bedroom. Tonight's the night, he said to himself. He selected a blue cord suit from the closet, and a complementing pale blue shirt and maroon tie.
She'd go for that, all right. She'd tell him the blue matched his eyes, and that the maroon went well with his deep tan.
It was important that he look just right for her tonight-important as hell.
Tonight he was going to take her.
Vic couldn't understand why the thought should make him nervous. This wasn't the first time with a girl. Far from it. He'd had the first one when he was sixteen, and that was eight years and uncounted girls away.
Perhaps it had been his approach; that could well be it. He'd had to tell every one of his past girls some lie or other: I love you, I want to marry you, you have sexy eyes, I like the way your rear goes click-click when you walk.
Tonight was different. He'd grown sick of the lies. With Dana now he'd been straightforward, a real boy scout. Not gross, of course; he hadn't said "Look, baby, there's only one thing I want from you-your lily-white body." You could tell a woman that you wanted her without waving a red flag in her face. He'd told it to her like a gentleman, and when she asked for assurance, when she'd asked for love, he'd said, "I can't honestly say I do."
But there was something else too.
Something had happened that past afternoon at Sparling Drugs. Dana, who was personal secretary to Sparling himself, had buzzed him on the intercom. "Still angry?" she asked.
"Not a bit. I was never angry in the first place."
"You weren't exactly all smiles when you left my apartment last night."
"That doesn't mean I was angry."
"What does it mean?" she said.
"You can figure that out for yourself." She paused. "Frustrated?" she asked. He could picture her state of mind when she asked that. She was hopeful.
He didn't answer.
"Well, so was I," she said.
"What'd you buzz me for?"
"For business and for pleasure," she said.
"Business before pleasure. What's up?"
"Sparling wants to see you at eleven tomorrow morning. He says be there or he'll have you shot."
Vic leaned back and looked with a puzzled expression at the mute intercom. Then he said "He's never had me in his office other than our regular Monday afternoon sessions. What does he want?"
"I think he's reserving the pleasure of telling you for himself," Dana answered, "but I can give you a clue. Big pow-wow tomorrow with half a dozen other medicine men-competitors, that is."
"Strange," was all Vic could say.
Dana said "Well, that's the business end of it. Now wouldst thou know my pleasure?"
"Sure," Vic answered, not really giving it any thought.
In solemn tones Dana said "I've gone over what happened last night a thousand times in my mind. And ... Vic ... I'm ready."
Vic looked skeptically at the intercom. "You've said that more than once."
"No, I mean it this time. I can't take this ... this hanging in suspension any longer. I'm going crazy. Vic, you must come over tonight. I'll show you I'm telling the truth."
"We'll see," he said.
"Please."
"Would you like to go dancing first?"
"No. That won't be necessary. Just come over."
"We'll go dancing first. I'll pick you up at eight." He cut her off the intercom.
Vic took his suit off the hanger and stepped into the pants. Then he lit another cigarette and plopped into the chair near his bedroom and began to wonder about what tomorrow held in store for him. It sounded very important. Vic was head public relations advisor to Sparling Drugs. Usually he stayed out of Harold Sparling's hair and vice-versa. Once a week he'd present his ideas, layouts, and so forth to Sparling, and they'd talk the stuff over and be done within an hour. Vic had a free hand from there on in.
The fact of the matter was that Vic didn't really need Sparling's approval at all, only saw him once a week to get token okays. Sparling didn't really understand what Vic was talking about anyway. But he trusted Vic, and that's all that counted. Vic's influence had taken the firm right to the very top of the heap, so why should Sparling question his judgement? When Vic had arrived there three years ago it had been little more than a kidney-pill peddling outfit, with advertising techniques unchanged since the thirties. Employing a few shrewd devices, recent techniques, and instituting a couple of new drugs-reducing drugs, arthritis drugs, a new aspirin, and so forth-Vic had almost single-handedly pushed the sales record up to unbelievable heights.
At any rate, Sparling rarely called Vic in for any unscheduled chit-chats-in fact Vic couldn't remember it or when it had last happened-so tomorrow was shaping up to be what diplomats called an extraordinary session.
But then, one extraordinary session at a time. Dana tonight, Sparling tomorrow. Let's concentrate on the business at hand, Vic said to himself.
The business at hand was Dana. He'd held out and won. He had his integrity and the promise of her body at one and the same time. It made him feel strong. And why shouldn't it? He'd won out over tremendous odds. Not only those she put up against him, but those that he'd had to fight in himself. The physical need in particular. Until Dana, it had been simply a question of selling your integrity to satisfy that need. But that only left him empty, left the need unsatisfied. When he met Dana, he knew he'd have to have more.
He'd known for months that Dana had set her cap for him. You don't have to have very much concrete proof of these things, really. A look or touch that lingers just a moment longer than usual is more than enough to break the ice. Return the gaze or the touch and your future for the next few weeks or months-maybe, though rarely, even years-is irrevocably determined. Past experiences dictate the way it's going to be, and with a few allowances for individual quirks you can pretty well plot your course by dead reckoning.
Vic didn't remember the point at which he and Dana became aware they were involved with each other, but he did recall all the things that led up to it. Foremost, perhaps, was the time when she brought him a number of releases to look over. Rather than place them on his desk or hand them to him, she came around in back of his chair and held them in front of him. It was late August, very warm, and he was in shirtsleeves. She was wearing a tight white blouse, tucked in as tight as possible so that it formed a provocative, rounder triangle from her neck over her breasts and to her waist. It pressed her breasts somewhat flat, but hardly enough to alter the fact that beneath that blouse, straining against it, forcing the V neck open to expose an inviting hint of soft roundness, were two very full, rich, proud breasts.
As she leaned over his chair Vic became aware of their presence. At first they brushed against his back and shoulder. It was probably an accident, he figured. But it then occurred to him that this was like a delicate probe, a gesture, or a question that he could answer or ignore. He chose to ignore it. It was an accident.
Then it happened again, and he knew it was no accident. This time it was no mere flicker of blouse to shirt. This time it was a pressure. As she talked to him about the matter at hand her right breast touched the hairs on his neck and made them stand up. then she took a deep breath so that it expanded against the nape of his neck. He sat back just a little bit so that when she exhaled, it was still firmly against him. As she continued to speak she moved just perceptibly enough to allow the bulge of her blouse to caress his neck and spine.
The purpose of her visit ostensibly filled, she left the room unceremoniously. There was no need to draw-diagrams. She'd made her first offer and it was as generous as modesty permitted. But to somebody who knew what to look for, who was tuned to the same wave length on which she was sending out signals, the terms were very clearly stated. He still had the option to accept them or turn them down. But what man would turn them down?
All he had to do then was get the terms absolutely-clear in his mind. He'd have to erase the last trace of doubt that this little episode was unintentional on Dana's part. That wasn't as easy as it seemed. She wouldn't want to act forward by repeating her suggestive behavior. So that left the responsibility on him to maneuver himself into a position where he was making the offer and she was responding.
He found his chance the next day when he had to go to a floor-to-ceiling card file in the ante-room of Sparling's office, where Dana's desk was. He found her leaning over a file directly below the drawer he .needed. Rather than ask her to move to one side, he said, "pardon me" and stood right behind her, so that his thighs pressed lightly against her well molded buttocks. He felt her quiver, then move back just a shade, just enough to make the contact between them unquestionable. He stood that way until he found his card, and then, murmuring a polite "thank you," he quickly pressed forward against her rear end as he pushed the drawer shut. She held firmly. She knew what he was there for. He withdrew from the room as quickly as she had done the day before.
The first stop, the initial fleeting forays, taken care of, the next step was to work out a more intimate social situation. That's where everything came out in the wash. On a dozen different occasions they'd ended up angry and frustrated-he physically, she emotionally. He would not sacrifice his character for her body; she would not give him her body until he surrendered his character. It went on like that for too long. Then, last night, Vic called it quits and walked out on her.
And today, as he was wondering what new paths to strike out on, she had buzzed him and said "I'm ready for you, Vic."
The singer at the Arabesque Room of the Hotel DeWitt was a bore. Vic tossed off his drink and rose abruptly.
Dana shrank a little. "Where are you going? She isn't half way through with her routine."
"I know. It's a shame we've stayed this long. Lets go up to your place."
Her eyebrows raised at his directiveness. Up until now he'd been oblique with her. Never demanding, it had been "Do you want to" or "How would you like to" or something else that left the question up to her. But there was no doubt about this arbitrary "Let's." She gazed questioningly at him, not because she didn't understand what he was getting at, but because she wasn't sure she liked what he was suggesting. His meaningful look deeply penetrated any barriers she'd put up. She nodded and said "Sure. Sure, Vic."
He took her arm and escorted her to the car. On the way to her apartment she sat close to him, silently and comprehendingly. He felt the presence of her cotton-clad hip and thigh against his. She's like some docile animal leaning against a hostile one, out of fear, out of need for protection, submissive, resigned, Vic felt. The first move had been made by her, and up until tonight the initiative had been hers, with himself deferring. Tonight it was different. He'd grown tired of allowing her to call the shots. It was getting him nowhere. He'd grown tired of the pretense. He was ready to bring things to a head.
And he knew, as he felt her beside him, passive and expectant, that she was now ready to turn the initiative over to him. Maybe she was tired of the pretense too.
Maybe she was ready to admit how hungry she was for him.
Her apartment was larger than those of most single girls. It had a huge living room, furnished rather unimaginatively in modern style. A lot of teak and foam rubber and brass arranged in a casual way, simple and uncomfortable, sharp and harsh. A glimpse of the bedroom revealed pretty much the same thing, a little pinker and softer (the living room was green).
It all added up to the fact that Dana was an unimaginative girl, one Vic could never get terribly serious about, and one he could even feel sorry for if he wanted to. She'd been born in Brooklyn about twenty-five years ago. Her father was in the auto supply business, and no better than anyone else during the depression. Things started to pick up for him during the war, and by the end of the fifties he was thriving and able to join the suburban movement. Dana tried to put herself forth as a product of suburbia, beautiful, nobody could take that away from her. Her hair was blond and short, not fixed in any particular style, but natural and soft, and very appealing.
Her eyes were green, and while they sparkled healthily like those of any normal American girl, they also revealed the limitations of her spirit. The sparkle was after all only a sparkle, and not a rich glow. Her lips were sensuous and full of promise. But they were lips meant for kissing, not for speaking. All in all Dana was as robust physically as she was shallow emotionally, and the pleasures she promised had more to do with the body than with the heart.
Which was all right for Vic right now. He wanted more than that, of course. But really didn't expect it from her or from any other woman right now.
The moment they entered the place the air was filled with their mutual knowledge of why they were there. She locked the door-he didn't fail to notice that. Neither did he fail to notice her anxious glance into the bedroom to make sure it was straightened up. He knew she would resist him tonight as a matter of course. But her resistance would be a token, she was prepared to be taken by him.
For some reason, as soon as they'd had a drink she felt the need to ask him anyway. He was settled comfortably on the couch. She got up and walked to the window and peered out into the darkness. Without turning around, she said "Vic, what are you going to do to me?"
Vic stood and walked over to where she was standing. He stopped behind her, but didn't touch her. He just stood very close. "Don't you know, really?"
"Yes, I suppose I do. But I want to hear you say it."
"What will that do for you?"
"I want to know how. How will it be?"
He put his hands on her waist and pulled her gently around to him. Their bodies didn't touch. They gazed mutely at each other for a time. Then Vic said "I don't feel I can be very gentle with you."
She dropped her eyes. "I was afraid you'd say that."
"I'm being honest with you now. I haven't been very honest with you up until now, but for some reason I think you should know in advance how it's going to be with us if we go any further than we have. I like you, I even love things about you. But I don't want to marry you, and I very much want to take you to bed."
She winced. "I've known all this. But it's still difficult for me."
"I know," he said. "I'm giving you a chance to get out of it."
"I don't want to get out of it," she said defiantly. "I don't want honesty. I'm going to keep on hoping you'll be gentle with me, and that you love everything about me, and that you're going to take me tenderly, and that you're going to ask me to marry you."
"Don't hold your breath until then."
"I won't," she said, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him down to her lips. They were hot and dry and not as soft as he'd hoped. But they were active and wanting, and when he urged his mouth against them they parted. His tongue jumped at the touch of hers and responded cautiously, flicking the edge of her lips and exploring the sensitive corners of her mouth. Her tongue ventured out and teased his. He held back maddeningly, until she began to wrap her tongue around and pull it in deeper. At last he let himself satisfy the hungry pleading of her mouth.
She jumped when he responded so actively. Her buttocks tightened and pulled her hips involuntarily into his hard body, she gasped and began to breathe faster. Her hips began to sway and grind against his thighs. He could feel the slight bulge of her belly against him, and it aroused his instincts. He knew now how he was going to take her. It would not be a mutual act. No, he could not give himself fully to her. He would arouse her until she was half out of her mind, controlling himself in spite of the growing pressure in his loins. Then he would make his plunge, let her devour the only part of him he would allow this woman to devour.
As their mouths interplayed, they stood before the window locked in each other's arms, but there was no other movement. Now he removed his hands from her waist and dropped them to the hem of her cotton dress, while she took her hands from his neck and pulled away from him-their lips still firmly against each other-just enough to push between their bodies and loosen her belt in order to allow her dress to be slipped off easily over her head. As soon as she'd done this she put her hands out and touched his stomach. He tightened up. Her hands began to wander over his hips and thighs to tug at his belt. It came undone, and a deft twist loosed the button of his pants. She went no further for the moment. She would know when it was time to go further. She put her hands over his buttocks and pressed her nails into them while waiting for it to happen.
He was pulling her dress up over her hips, then over her belly, then up and over the heaving swells of her breasts. She raised her hands above her head, but he stopped short of pulling her dress off, and instead he let rest over the head. She stood there in bra and panties, the dress around her head, utterly helpless, her body tense as a violin string as she wondered what he was about to do.
Without actually touching her flesh, he reached around behind her and undid her brassiere. Her upraised arms caused it to pull up the moment the catch was released, and her breasts expanded in their new freedom. They were a light tan, the coffee-tinted nipples were smooth yet. They quivered in anticipation of the touch of his fingertips or lips. But he held himself back from giving her any of the satisfaction she craved.
His hands dropped down to the elastic of her panties, and she pulled her breath in suddenly as she felt his fingertips hover over her belly. But still he did not touch her. He pulled the elastic down over the swell of her stomach and hips, over the firm buttocks that held themselves in tightly, in anticipation of pleasure or pain.
The pants dropped to the floor and she stepped out of them, utterly naked except for the dress about her head which obscured her vision and prevented her from anticipating what would happen to her. She held herself in like a hostage before a firing squad who wonders when the signal will come and where he will feel the first bullet.
Like an artist he stepped away from her and observed her. It was almost comical how she stood there in front of him, her hands above her head holding her dress around her eyes. He felt contempt for her, and anger. Oh, he could be subtle and tender with her now. He could place a palm lightly over her breast and enfold it until it expanded and filled his hand. Or he could place his mouth over her nipple until it hardened and ripened under the urgings of his tongue. He could run his fingertips over her knees and lightly up the inside of her thighs and massage her tenderly.
But he felt she couldn't appreciate subtlety. She wouldn't understand the nuances of emotion that a man could produce in a woman, the spectrum of feelings that can exist between two fully alive and aware people. No, this subtlety was reserved for another woman, as yet nameless and faceless and without a body, but one who would accept all that he had to offer and offer all he needed to accept in return.
He stood away from her another moment, let his pants drop to the floor, loosened the rest of his clothes. When he was completely stripped he stepped toward her. He put his hands on her shoulders, pressed her down on to the rug. Her legs were apart, her knees up, her back arched and her breasts thrust up, her arms high above her head. He got down on his knees and gazed at her.
"Come on, Vic, come on, quickly. Are you trying to send me through the ceiling?" She pulled the dress over her head and off, and threw it away from her. Then, leaning on her elbows, she looked longingly into Vic's eyes. Reaching towards him with one hand she pulled him down on to her. He fell on her hard and his body struck hers with a suddenness that made her face contort in pain. Then, as he started to move rhythmically against her, the muscles of her face relaxed and a look of bliss came into her eyes. "Oh, Vic, it's better than I ever hoped it could be. Don't stop too soon. Let's be like this as long as we can." Her eyes rolled up and her head fell back, so that her body pushed up harder against him.
Vic held back and proceeded with a deliberateness that made her groan for more, for more-faster-for more-Yet what was reserve in him was total surrender in her, and he became aware of a swelling in her, the slow rising of her body, the lifting of her head as though she were trying to raise herself off the rug. "Oh God, Vic, it's lovely, it's lovely. Now!"
The pace quickened, the beat grew impossible to control. Suddenly her hands went powerfully around his waist, her nails fastened on the flesh of his spine, her lips parted to let her emit a sigh of ecstasy. Three waves in a row passed over her, each more powerful than the last. Then an explosion sent his body into a spasm that corresponded with hers and locked them firmly together.
They were together that way a long, long time, as Vic tried to savor every bit of the pleasure. He knew that for her the pleasure had been powerful but fleeting, and it was for her as if there were no beginning and no end to the act. Just an unbelievable potent middle. For her this was enough. For Vic the act must be in a sense a work of art from the first exchange of glances to the last touch of fingertips as they part for the night. He appreciated this, she was oblivious to it. But he would squeeze the last drop of pleasure from her body, no matter what or how little she was feeling and understanding for herself. And he knew from the muted response of her body that she was feeling little and understanding still less.