Chapter 3
CHUCK LOOKED UP AND SAW HIMSELF in the mirror in back of O'Leary's Bar. He saw a medium-sized, nondescript sailor with two red hash-marks on his arm. Getting up, he moved a few seats further down the line where he couldn't see the mirror.
Five years since he had run off and he still didn't know whether or not he'd made the right move. Every once in awhile after a few beers it would all come back to him, hitting him like a Mack Truck. He would feel like going out and hunting up Kathy and begging her to take him back. He should never have run off on her, not that way anyhow, without talking it over with her.
Still the kind of life she wanted just wasn't for him. She was better off without him. By now she must be married and settled down, maybe even with kids. It was hard for him to think of her that way. God, those first few months!
A year back he'd done a damn fool thing on his leave. Taking a train back to Davis, he walked over to the street where the apartment had been. The school had moved its campus and the old Quonset huts were torn down, leaving a blank, empty lot where they'd been. The lights in the apartment were out and he stood across the street, watching and remembering. Then the lights in the kitchen flashed on and he saw a young woman, wearing a robe, looking back and smiling at somebody in the living room. Wheeling around, he walked quickly back to the main street and took a cab to the school.
His intention was to look up Strang. He wasn't certain whether he wanted to talk to him or slug him, but Strang was one of the few people in the world who might understand why he'd done what he did. However Strang too had left Davis.
It seemed that the president of the college found out that Strang was giving his (the prexy's) seventeen year old daughter an extra-curricular course in Advanced Sexuality the previous spring and had had him expelled from the faculty. When his long-suffering wife finally left everybody who had been antagonized by Strang which meant the entire faculty and most of the student body rejoiced in his downfall.
However he'd disappointed them by landing on his feet, getting a job at three times his professorial salary where his absolute contempt for the human race was an asset, not a liability.
He was now writing television copy on Madison Avenue.
Ordering another beer Chuck grinned, thinking of
Strang. He'd have to look him up sometime. Then Eddie Chase came into the bar. Spotting Chuck, he walked over to him.
"Hi, civilian! How do you like being out?" Chuck asked.
"Hello, Chuck. What are you wearing that monkey suit for? I told you I'd treat you to a real high class binge, didn't I?"
"This outfit is OK with me."
"Hell, we're not cruising for Eighth Avenue stuff now. What are you drinking that beer for? Hey, bartender, let's have a couple shots of bourbon here!"
"You're in a hurry, eh, Eddie? What have you been doing with yourself since yesterday? Get laid?"
"Sure did."
"That's the way to start off. Where'd you get it?"
"Oh, just some pig I picked up in Trader Sorn's. I'll have to keep away from that neighborhood, by the way. I smashed old Sorn up a little bit this morning."
"You did? What for?"
"Well, I got drunk there last night, see, and I spent something like fifty-odd dollars. Now when you're a sailor you're more or less expected to do something like that. But I'm a civilian now and I can't see letting anybody pull something like that on me. At least, not hustling me and then laughing about it."
"So you smashed up Sornstein. What else have you been doing with your time?"
"Well, I had a little fracas at the gate over at the RecSta with a gyrene."
"Hell, was that you? I should have known! You got the whole place in an uproar. Let me buy you a drink for that. I hear that Marine is a mean bastard when they have him running the brig."
"I'm only sorry I didn't use my feet on him. I wish I could have clipped that officer, too," Eddie said, beaming with pride and lighting a cigar.
"Down she goes, Eddie," Chuck said after they downed a round of Old Overholt. "Say, I'm going to have to take it easy, drinking bonded stuff on top of beer. You're off to one hell of a start, Eddie. Two fights, one woman and a drunk in your first day. You might just be tough enough to make it as a civilian."
"You ain't seen anything yet. I'm just getting started."
"What do you figure on doing?"
"Oh, I guess I'll stick around New York for a couple of weeks then visit my folks. I'm not too certain about what I'll do after that. I was hoping you'd give me some leads."
"Who, me? I'm the last person in the world to ask for advice on how to make out as a civilian."
"Yeah, but you were out for a couple of years and you did go to school. You ought to know something about what the score is. How come you didn't stay out, Chuck? I don't see a smart guy like you staying in the Navy."
"That's a long story, Eddie. I came back because I didn't like what I saw myself getting into. Tell me, what do you figure a guy wants when he's a civilian?
I mean a college graduate like I was trying to be."
"That's easy. Money."
"You're half right. Money and what they call status. A guy'll spend his life brown-nosing and slaving away on a job he hates, hoping that his neighbors'll be impressed with his car and his house and his wife. Now I, as a sailor, carry all my status on my right arm. Anybody can take a look and see where I stand. In about five or six years, I should make chief. That'll be enough status for me."
"I just don't see it, Chuck. You put your whole life in the Navy and what do you have when it's over?"
"A pension when I'm forty. Then off to Mexico. That's the country to go to. They know what death is down there and they know how to live, too. Or maybe I'll go back to college. What the hell, by that time I should be old enough to get something out of it."
"That ain't for me, Chuck. I got more ambition than that," Eddie said, shaking his sharp-featured face over his drink.
"Sure, I'm not saying you should stay in. You know what you ought to do, Eddie? Try going to college yourself for awhile."
"Go to college? Are you kidding? I'm not interested in any of that stuff. Besides, I barely got out of high school."
"That doesn't matter, there's plenty of small schools around that'll take just about anybody who has the tuition money."
"But hell, I just got through wasting four years. I want to make me some loot now, not pinch pennies for another four years."
"Try it just for a semester or so. That way you'll have some idea of how a college grad acts. That'll come in handy if you ever have to try and con somebody for a good job."
"Naw, I don't see that. I want to start making money now, while I'm young enough to enjoy it."
"Suit yourself. What the hell, you can worry about what you're going to do when your stake runs out. That's what most guys do when they get discharged. You want to hang around here or go someplace else? I'm kind of sick of Eighth Avenue, myself."
"Same here. Td like to score with a broad that ain't selling for a change. How about Yorkville?"
"That sounds good. Even if we don't connect, well be able to drink some good beer. Hey, wait a second! I just thought of a guy I know who might be in town. If I can get hold of him, we'll have a time you won't forget."
"Yeah? Who's that?"
"A crazy professor I used to know at Davis. He got canned for slipping it to the president's daughter."
"No kidding? Think he'll know where there's some women?"
"This guy always knows where there's women."
Finding the Manhattan Directory next to the telephone booth, Chuck searched through it until he found Harold Romolus Strang, Jr. of fifty-five Erwin Street. Erwin was in Greenwich Village. It figured.
Dialing the number, he heard it ring four times, then Strang's voice precise and clear.
"Professor Strang speaking. Yes?"
Chuck hung up the receiver. It would do Strang good to sweat out having an angry husband or father on his trail. Damn it, but it would be good, seeing that snotty bastard again. Say what you would about Strang, he was a hell of an interesting guy. In the back of Chuck's mind was finding out if Strang knew where Kathy was now.
"Your boy in?" Eddie asked.
"Yeah. Come on, we'll hop a cab down to his place."
"OK, Chuck. Where's he at."
"Down the Village."
"The Village? Hey, that's Queersville, ain't it? I don't know about you, Chuck, but I'm looking for broads tonight."
"Don't sweat it, there's plenty of good looking heads down there. Straight stuff, too. You just have to put on a little if you want to connect."
"OK, I'll give it a try," Eddie said, following him out into the noisy, bright-lit street. "What do you mean by putting on? Should I make like I'm some kind of executive or something?"
"Hell, no. Push the culture bit. Say that you're a sculptor. That way nobody can ask you for a sample of your work. If anyone says anything about sculpture, just tell them they don't know what the hell they're talking about. They'll figure you're a genius like themselves."
"Sculpture? What the hell do I know about that?"
"OK, then tell them you're a pro fighter. Say you're a light-heavy just in from the west coast. Those little college girls in the Village will eat that right up."
"They will, huh?"
"Sure. Say, there's a racket you can think about, fighting. You were pretty good when you fought in the Navy, weren't you?"
"Fighting? There's no money in it now unless you've got an in. Besides, I'm not good enough to go pro."
They flagged a cab and went down through the garish streets. They passed Penn Station, and soon were in the twisted, winding streets of the Village. Tourists, hop-heads, beatniks, queers, dikes, students, Negroes, Puerto Ricans, would-be artists and people who just lived there walked around the narrow streets in clusters, enjoying the night air.
Fifty-five Erwin was a tired-looking tenement in the middle of a dingy, crooked street. Five stories high, it seemed to sag against the buildings on each side. Garbage cans were lined up in a row in front of the entrance.
"I thought you said this Professor Strang was loaded," Eddie said as they left the cab.
"That's what I heard. Don't let the outside fool you, some of these tenements are in good shape inside."
As they walked through the vestibule they found it as unimpressive as the exterior. There was one light which cast dim rays over a double row of mailboxes, and that was all. The unwashed stairs led up into pitch blackness. When Chuck examined the mailboxes to see if he could find Strang's name listed, a large, fat roach waddled hurriedly over the blank name-plates.
"You say this guy is doing good? I'd hate to see where he'd be living if he was doing bad," Eddie said.
"I guess old Strang has slipped a little, though it would be just like him to live in a dump like this even if he was holding heavy. He's a perverse bastard. Come on, we'll have to check every damn door in the halls."
"Look, why don't we just go to some bar and call him again. This place gives me the creeps."
"No, I want to see him. I hope he is on the skids, I'll get a kick out of riding him. If we meet him in a bar he'd probably try and put on a. routine about how good he's making out, but in this hole he'll have to admit that he's a flop."
Reluctantly Eddie followed him up the dark stairs. This character Chuck was so eager to see sounded like a real creep and Eddie didn't feel like wasting the evening yakking to some broken-down ass. The air was fetid and close. Lighting a match on the first landing, Chuck examined the doors, looking for name-plates, but they were all blank. A sliver of light showed at the bottom of one of the doors. First he tried ringing the door-bell, then rapped loudly against the frame when the bell remained silent.
Soft footsteps hurried to unlock the door. The match Chuck was holding burned down to his fingertips, and cursing he let it drop down to the floor. They heard the door unlocked and blinding white light flooded the hall when it opened about a foot, held back by a chain. A young woman's face looked questioningly at them over the links.
"Yes? What is it you want?" she asked. As their eyes grew accustomed to the light, they could see that she was a striking brunette barely out of her teens. A paint-daubed man's blue work shirt pulled over dungarees that were rolled up over her calves showed that she was a painter.
"I'm looking for Professor Strang's apartment. I understand he's someplace in this building," Chuck said.
"Oh, you must be going to that party he's giving. He's up on the top floor."
"OK, thanks," Chuck said, starting to go. Eddie kicked him in his shins.
"Say, if there's a party, how about coming up with us?" Eddie asked, moving forward. This kid looked damn good to him and if she was living in Greenwich Village she must go for that free love business.
"I was up there earlier but I had to come back and go to work. Besides, I really don't care much for Strang or the crowd that hangs around him."
"I don't blame you, I don't care too much for him myself," Chuck said. "It's just that I used to be a student of his and I'd like to see how he's doing."
"You were a student of his? Then that story about his being a college professor is true! I always thought he was lying when he talked about it."
"No, Strang really was a college professor. A pretty good one, too, except he was so sarcastic."
"Well, that's one mannerism he hasn't bothered to change," she said with a little laugh.
"Look, I'm not interested in this Strang character. He's Chuck's friend, not mine," Eddie said. "How about letting me stay here while he goes up and yaks with him about old school days? I've never seen a real artist working. That's what you are, aren't you?"
The woman looked at him steadily for a moment, then released the chain and opened the door.
"All right, you can come in if you want to. But remember what I said, I'm working now."
"Don't worry, I won't disturb you. I'll be down here, Chuck," Eddie said, winking and walking into the bright apartment.
"OK, I'll see you later," Chuck replied, turning and climbing the stairs.
The apartment consisted of one large room and was bare of furnishings except for an army cot, tiny refrigerator and stove along with several chairs and a table. Two fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, bouncing eye-blurring brilliant illumination off the white-washed walls. An easel holding a sketching pad stood under the lights, facing a wooden box with a plaster cast of a man's hand. Finished drawings, charcoal sketches, paper-back books piled in foot-high stacks and framed canvases cluttered up the room.
"Quite a lay-out," Eddie said.
"It's not too bad except it's noisy as hell when the people next door start fighting," she said, locking the door. He hadn't been able to get a good look at her figure outside, but he could see now that it was more than adequate. Even in her unflattering outfit, she had an attractive shape that would have been a credit to a chorus girl, though she seemed a little thin.
"I'm Eddie Chase, by the way."
"Hello, Eddie. I'm Selma. Grab a seat somewhere if you can find one. Do you drink wine? You'd better, that's all I have in the place," she said, taking a nearly empty bottle of cheap wine out of the refrigerator.
"That'll do though bourbon's my real drink. How about me picking up a bottle of Old Overholt downstairs?" Eddie asked, wandering around and looking at the sketches. Things were sure going smoothly. It looked as if it would be easy sailing.
"Bourbon! Mmmmm. Not right now, though. I still have to do some work."
"Work? Oh, you mean drawing."
"Oh, I suppose you don't consider painting work?" she asked, her tone of voice lowering the temperature considerably.
"Now, Selma, I didn't mean that. It's just that I'm not used to beatniks like you and things like this," he said, using the one word that was certain to antagonize her.
"Beatnik! Why you thick-headed, illiterate, conceited baboon! I let you come into my apartment and you have the brass-bound gall to call me that!" she shouted, her blue eyes shooting off sparks. She went to the door and opened it.
"Come on now, Honey. What the hell are you getting so mad about? Hell, you are a beatnik, ain't you?" Eddie asked, honestly bewildered by her anger.
"Get out, you thick-skulled lout! Get out of here before I let loose a scream that'll bring every cop in New York," she yelled, holding the door open.
"Now wait a second!"
"Get out!"
"No. Not until you tell me what I've done," Eddie said, folding his arms across his chest and watching her. Lordy, he thought, she sure was a spitfire!
"What you've done! Say, you're not kidding, are you? You honestly think that anyone who tries to be an artist is nothing but a beatnik, don't you?"
"Well, I've never given it much thought but I guess that's about it, Selma. I honestly don't know why you're so mad."
"Because I'm not a beatnik! Because I'm an artist. Maybe not a good artist, not yet, anyway. At least I'm willing to work at it, and that's more than those phony beatniks will do! Come over here and take a look at my stuff, then see if you want to call me a beatnik." She closed the door and walking over to where her drawings and paintings were stacked.
Silently handing him a sheath of nude drawings, she leaned against the wall, feeling vulnerable as only an artist can who is watching somebody examine his creation. Though not first rate, the sketches showed a great deal of promise. She had a good sense of line but her knowledge of anatomy was still rudimentary. Eddie, who wasn't used to seeing the human figure portrayed so graphically, was impressed although he noticed several things that seemed wrong.
"Say, these are pretty good. Who's the guy?" he asked.
"The model? I don't know, I drew those at the League. That's the school I went to."
"A regular school, eh? He's built pretty good but he looks like he'd be too slow in a fight. More of a wrestler than a boxer. The ones of the woman look better to me. See, you got his shoulder wrong somehow."
"That's pretty noticeable, isn't it? Damn it, I wish I could have kept going to school! I need a lot more work in anatomy. See, you can tell by this drawing I made yesterday."
Rummaging through a pile of finished sketches, she brought out a drawing of a drunken derelict lying against an alley way in a dirty puddle of his own making. An over-turned garbage can was behind him and his sunken-eyed, scrawny face was turned up.
"Whew! That's ugly," Eddie said.
"It was meant to be. The trouble is, he looks just like a pile of dirty clothes. I wanted to suggest, in the drawing, that he was still at least part of a man. Somehow, I wasn't able to do that."
"Yeah, I see what you mean. Let me see some of your paintings."
Most of her paintings were mediocre student efforts but there was one that seized his attention, a street scene showing a bunch of people hurrying through the city among dark, glowering buildings that loomed over their heads. The figures were distorted, their down-turned eyes big and frightened, each separated from the others and alone in the crowd.
"This one, I don't know, I don't think people are like that," Eddie said, scratching his black thatch.
"It is to some people. Wait until you've been around this town a little longer, you'll see."
"Well, Selma, I guess I owe you an apology. You're not a beatnik. I'm sorry I called you one."
"That's all right, I'm sorry I flew off the handle that way. It's just that, well, it's annoying to throw up everything and work like a slave and then have people call you a dilettante."
"Then we're friends?"
"Yes, Eddie, we're friends. Sit down and let me pour you some wine," she said, picking up the jug.
"I'm still a little confused about beatniks," Eddie said, holding out his glass.
"Oh, I guess they're all right, but the ones I've met are more interested in just talking about what they're going to do," she said, taking a seat on a stack of magazines.
"Is that all you do? Paint, I mean? Have you sold anything yet?"
"That's a question you shouldn't ask around the Village, Eddie," she said, laughing. "No, I get a little money from home once in awhile and I do a little modeling when I get the chance. I have an application in at the League."
"Yeah? Maybe I'll sign up for one of their courses."
"You'd be disappointed if you did, Eddie. It's really pretty stale unless you're serious about drawing."
"I don't think so. Hey, if you're modeling like that, why don't you hook up with one of those men's magazines? That ought to be an easy way to make a buck."
"You mean like the center page in Revel? That's a last resort, I just don't like the idea. Besides, you have to have an in with somebody to get good prices."
The wine was sour in his throat as Eddie tossed it down. So this was what they called Bohemia. It was all right with him. That Bohemian just across the table had what seemed to be a very nice pair. All through their conversation, he'd watched them dip and bob with every motion she made. No bra, either. The nipples made little points through the fabric of her shirt. They were nice little handfuls, all right. She knew where he was looking, too.
"You're a funny kind for the Village, Eddie. You look too normal," she said, looking up at him.
"I've never come down here before. All I ever heard about it was that it's loaded with queers and I don't go for those jerks."
"Queers are a big thing here in the Village. Anything that's weird and off-beat is."
"If I knew there were sharp-looking babes like you around here, I'd have come down long ago."
"You're not a bad guy, Eddie, even if you are a little square. I don't mind squares, though. I'm more than a little fed up with the hipsters and would-be hipsters who infest this area. It's good to be with somebody for a change who isn't always putting it on about Life and Art and Zen and all the rest of it. You don't dig that intellectual stuff, do you, Eddie?"
"You mean reading and things like that? Naw, I just take things as they come."
"That's the best way. How do you take me, Eddie? Do you like me?"
"Hell, yes."
"What is it you like about me, Eddie? I'd like to hear you say it. I miss hearing men saying nice things to me."
"I like the way you look, Selma. The way you fill up those pants and the way you bulge out that shirt. Your face, I like that, too. Black hair and eyes, the same as me. I like being able to talk like this to you just after we've met."
"We're alike, Eddie. We're both the same way. When we see something we want, we're not afraid to go for it. Eddie, how'd you like to spend the night here with me?" she asked, her serious dark eyes looking directly at him.
Eddie let his wide grin answer her. Damn it, he thought, this was A-OK! Just meet a girl, and a few minutes later you've scored with her. No fiddling around, either. Not a beat-up tart like what's-her-name the other night, but a real good-looking babe with firm young breastworks. Leaning over, he put his hand along her smooth cheek and caressed it.
"I want you too, Eddie, but it'll cost you something," she said.
Eddie felt as if he had been doused with cold water. She was just another chippie, selling it. Somehow, he hadn't thought of her that way. Still, chippie or not, she was a good-looking head. If he had to pay to get that hot little body under him, it'd be money well spent. He slid his hand down to her shoulder.
"How much?" he asked.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm not a whore and it isn't money that I'm asking you for."
"No? What do you want, then."
"I want you to model for me."
"What?"
"I told you I need more work in male anatomy, and you've got a good build for a model. You're some kind of an athlete, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I've done a little boxing."
"I thought so, I can see that your nose has been broken. Where'd you fight?"
"In the Navy. I just got out. I don't know, this modeling, I've never done it before," he said, scratching his head again.
"There's nothing to it. All you have to do is hold a pose while I sketch. Unless you're inhibited or something?"
"No, I guess I'm not. OK, I'm game. Make sure that door's locked, though. I'd look stupid as hell if Chuck should come walking in here."
"Don't worry about it. Just undress and stand over there by the window. You can pull down the shade if you want to although most of the people in this neighborhood don't bother."
Feeling kind of foolish, Eddie stripped. Taking a cigar out of his shirt pocket, he fired up and walked over to the wall. Lord! If the guys on the Amagansett ever saw him now, he'd never live it down!
"OK if I smoke?"
"Sure, but there's something about a naked man smoking a cigar that's incongruous," she said, amused.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Just strike a few poses and hold them for a minute or two while I get warmed up. Make believe you're punching a bag or something," she said, setting a pad of newsprint on the easel.
This is a hell of a silly situation to get myself into, Eddie thought, assuming a stance. But what the hell, it figured to be worth it. He might have been an ancient gladiator except for the fuming cigar jutting up out of his mouth.
"That's good, hold it," Selma said, sketching in short, swift strokes.
Eddie was a good model, his thin skin barely shrouded his long muscles. But Selma found she wasn't doing as well as she could. It was different in school. The male models wore jock straps for one thing. For another, she'd never drawn a man just before he was going to climb into bed with her.
It was disconcerting.
For both of them, it turned out. Eddie quite obviously had the same thoughts as she. Try as she would to concentrate on his arms or legs, her eyes kept veering back to that area of his body she soon would be most concerned with.
The pose was really ridiculous, she decided. He looked like a cigar-smoking bare-bottomed boxer who couldn't decide whether he was going to fight or make love.
"Maybe you'd better turn around the other way," she said. He did and for five minutes there was no sound except the scratching of the charcoal.
"Hey, how long are you going to take? I can't keep this up for much longer," he said.
"If the pose is too hard for you, try another one."
"It ain't the pose I'm talking about."
Her drawing stank, she saw. The hell with it, they could take another try at it tomorrow morning. He couldn't see her so she decided to kid around with him.
Loosening her dungarees, she let them slide over her bare hips and stepped out of them. The shirt next joined them on the floor. Naked except for her sandals, she crept up behind him. Her body was trim but well-curved, only the ridges where her ribs showed betrayed the meals she'd missed. Silently, she stole up on him on her shapely legs, her white arms outstretched.
"Hey, you finished back there yet?" he asked, still in the John L. Sullivan pose.
Then two arms snaked around his waist, grabbing him underneath his navel, while two warm soft breasts pressed into his back. He dropped his cigar.
The art lesson, he assumed, was over.
"You're full of surprises, ain't you?" he asked, starting to un-clasp her fingers.
"You haven't seen anything yet," she said, wriggling herself against him.
"Get around where I can see you."
"OK. What do you think of me?" she asked, slipping in front of him, all curves and fresh white skin.
"Wow! You ought to go around like this all the time."
"You'd get bored after awhile," she said, pirouetting in a mock-ballet step before his bulging eyes. Her sleek, smooth body was finely drawn but active-looking, there was a wicked glint in her eyes and a lecherous little smile on her lips.
"What a knock-out you are. Hell, I can put my hands almost around your waist," said he, doing so.
"Miss as many meals as I have and you'd be thin there, to."
"You're not too thin around the back," he said, grabbing a buttock in each hand and pulling her close. Leaning her head on his chest, she giggled and rolled her hips while he fondled the soft half-globes of creamy flesh.
"like that, do you?"
"Hell, yes."
"I like this too."
"Yeah, so I see."
"It's been such a long time! You know how long it's been since I've had a man? Three months!"
"Three months! Why, that's a sin, a girl as good-looking as you! What's the matter with the characters around here?"
"Oh, I just got tired of being involved with people all the time. It's good, now, having a man again."
"It's going to get better, too. Stand back a second, I want another look at those fine boobs of yours," he said, tweaking each ruby-tipped point. They covered and filled the inside of his hands nicely, the nipples swelling and growing hard under his tender manipulation. When he felt them rise, he bent his mouth to one and bit it lightly, then brushed it with his tongue.
"Oh, Eddie, I've been wanting that so long!"
His free hand stroked her gently curved stomach all the way down to each heated thigh then rose again and explored the base of her belly, making her quiver there with excitement.
"I'm about ready now," he said hoarsely, lifting his head.
"Me to. I've never been so ready!"
They kissed, her supple curves snuggling against him, and still locked in each other's arms moved toward the cot.
"I don't think that cot'll hold the both of us," he said, eyeing it over her shoulder.
"We'll have to take the blanket off and use the floor. Mind?"
"I can take it if you can."
He released her, she snatched the old army blanket off the cot and spread it on the floor. They were on it almost before it settled, his arms clasping her while he maneuvered between her out-spread thighs. The cold, bare floor was hard and uncomfortable and somehow made their coupling more urgent, more explosive. l
"Go on, go on, Eddie! That's it, Oh, that's it!"
He was part of her almost immediately, meshing his body to hers, urging her onward with goading thrusts. Her heels were digging against the floor, seeking purchase against his compelling desire, her shoulders sliding back beneath him, her fingers clutching his sides.
His legs rubbed against her inner thighs, the old floor-boards beneath them creaked with each convulsive movement, the rough blanket was damp from the co-mingled sweat from their straining bodies.
In short, jerking movements he edged her back off the blanket onto the floor. The bright light reflected off the white walls combined with the uncomfortable support to make it all seem strange, as though they were performing in some scientist's laboratory. The setting, the discomfort, nothing mattered to them save the feel of each other's lust-ridden bodies.
Again and again he searched and thrust at her with his aching need, making her groan and gasp in ever-mounting ecstasy. The white ceiling over his shoulder seemed to expand into infinity as her body loosened and burst free and she was one with the light, shooting higher and higher, still locked to him, impelled further and further by his deep-driven passion.
Her thighs responded to his ever-increasing urgency, eyes closed, she met and matched his torrid pace. She was hot and damp and wildly alive, her belly moving and heaving in frantic unison to each stroke.
"Oh, Eddie," she gasped.
Her body shook with quick tremors. Clutching at him, she felt his whole body go hard and stiff. For a breath-stopping instant the floor seemed to open beneath them and they drifted down to the center of the earth in a sea of yielding flesh....
They lay motionless and relaxed, the sweat on them growing clammy and their hearts beating slower and softer. Rolling away, he turned her face up to him and held her by the back of the neck. Her white teeth showed in a wide smile and she opened her eyes, looking at him.
"That was OK," he said.
"Glad you liked it."
"It'll be better tomorrow, though."
"Nothing can be better than what we've just had."
"Oh yes it can. Tomorrow, I'm buying you a bed. A double one."
"That'll be nice. Until then, though, I guess we'll just have to struggle along here on the floor, eh?"