Chapter 13
On Wednesday, Paul rested. He rested all day in the office and after five o'clock he went back to his hotel and rested some more. After he'd gone out and had dinner he came straight back to the hotel and went to bed and slept eleven hours. Thursday morning, as his hard-on went down under a cold shower, he felt ready for the Olympics. If they had a fucking event in the Olympics, that is.
At the office, he spent most of the day going through proof books of Huggable campaigns, both present and past, and making detailed notes about what he thought was wrong with them and what could be done to make them right. In the cab on the way up to Kay Lennen's office, just before five, he realized that he'd left all his notes on his desk. The hell with them, he thought. He'd never paid any attention to his own notes, anyway, even in his public speaking courses.
Kay Lennen appeared glad to see him, in a cool sort of way. Not icy, just cool.
"I've thought over what you said about the models we've been using," she said, when he'd settled in a chair in front of her desk. "I hate to admit it, but I think you're right."
Paul didn't say anything. He was going through his ritual of searching for a cigarette.
"Do you think you could select the right kind of models for us?"
"Sure I could."
'It might not be as easy as you think."
"Why not?"
"Most models look that way. Chaste. Antiseptic. Virginal."
"That's the second time this week I've heard that word," Paul said. "Jesus, what a week."
"Suppose you couldn't find any models who looked the way you think they should look?"
I'd go out and find some. Some non-models. Some amateurs. Some girls who still do it for cups and medals."
"That sounds like quite an assignment you just dreamed up for yourself," she said. She was smiling.
"Isn't it? Scares me, a little."
"I bet," she said.
"It could get awfully expensive."
"Company money. The agency's, and Huggable's."
"I was just talking in the subjunctive," he said. There're probably lots of professional models who'd be just right for us."
Us. Get that, he thought.
"There aren't any," she said. "You're probably trying to carve out a little piece of heaven for yourself, right here on Madison Avenue."
"Third Avenue."
"You'd be operating on Madison. And operating is the word."
He didn't say anything. This goddamn woman was too bright for the poor people.
She leaned back in her chair.
"Why don't you tell me something about yourself, Paul?"
"Not much to tell," he said. He felt uncomfortable. "I have an idea." Ted me."
"Have you any more appointments today?"
"No."
"Why don't you let me buy you a drink, over at the Drake? It's a nice place." He'd been there with his mother. It was a nice place. Dark.
"Sure it's a nice place," she said. "But I was thinking of asking you up to my apartment so we could talk. The maid can make us a drink there."
"Well, thank you," he said. "I'd like very much to, later. But right now I'm still sort of on company time, and I think I'd feel more comfortable talking to you at the Drake. It's neutral territory."
She smiled again.
"You feel you're on enemy grounds, here?"
"Sort of."
"You're not. Maybe the others from your agency are, but you're not. You're a remarkable young man."
"Thanks," Paul said. Remarkable. She should talk to Mrs. Halsted. Or the Faculty Advisor who kicked him out of school. Or Vickie. There was a reference for you.
"All right," she said, and stood up. "Let's go to the Drake."
He ordered a Martini, straight up, to keep her company. What the hell, he thought He was hip deep in this thing now. He might as well go Madison Avenue all the way.
"You were going to tell me about yourself," she said, when the icy stemmed glasses were in front of them.
"I wasn't" he said, "but I suppose I have to."
He told her much the same story Wycliffe had told him to feed Bob Gelder. Kay Lennen let it all go without comment, and then started delving deeper. He didn't realize it at first, but after half an hour he knew suddenly that he'd told her an awful lot about himself. He felt tired.
"That's about enough interviewing, for now," he said. "Can't we just have another drink?"
"Of course," she said, leaning back. He motioned the waiter. It would only be their second Martini, and he didn't feel a thing.
"Why don't you tell me something about yourself?" he asked. "Up till now, this whole conversation has been a one-way street"
"Like what?"
"Oh, like, what's your proudest accomplishment?"
She thought for a moment. The waiter set the frosty, brimming glasses down on the table in front of them. Paul sipped. These could be habit forming, he thought.
"Well," she said, "I can install a new generator in a car, all by myself."
"That's a hell of a practical accomplishment, for a pretty girl," he said.
"So you think it's impractical. Why?"
"Because if you can get a new generator, wherever you get it there's somebody there who can install it for
"You're right," she said. "I never thought of that."
"It's about as practical as keeping two Spanish guitars in the house just in case a couple of Spaniards drop in."
She was laughing. It was the first time he'd heard her laugh. It gave him a different kind of goose bumps on his back. Her eyes were very warm.
"As soon as we finish this drink," she said, "let's go to my place."
"All right," he said.
Her apartment building was in the East Seventies, 'way over near the river. In the elevator going up he remembered Dingman saying something about her house in Westport.
"I thought somebody told me you lived in Connecticut?"
"Westport. I have a house in Westport. But I can't stomach the commuting."
"I understand a lot of people do, from Westport. I couldn't even do it from Scarsdale."
"That I can understand. On the New Haven line it's a different kind of disgust It's the Boola-Boola on the bar cars that gets to me."
He grinned at her.
"There're probably people who make the trip every day without ever going near the bar car."
"You mean there are other cars on those trains?" she asked, widening her eyes. She was very cheerful. The Martinis, or being out of the office, or something, seemed to have melted all the ice in her soul. Maybe she had two personalities, Paul thought, her office personality and her personal personality. What was the word? Schizoid. Damn good word.
"Anyway, I keep this little apartment in town. I come into the office from Westport on Monday mornings and go out again Friday nights, so I'm here just four nights a week."
The elevator doors opened and they walked down a long hall, past 4-N, 4-0, 4-P. At apartment 4-Q she stopped and started fishing for her keys. There's an apartment for you, Paul thought. 4-Q.
"It's really just a small place," she said, opening the door, "but it's all I need. And it sure beats Boola-Boola."
The apartment was not small at all. The living room was large, and doors at the far end opened onto a terrace. He walked to the doors and looked out, at the boats on the river and the myriad lights of Queens-he supposed it was Queens, anyway-but he didn't open the doors and go out. It was cold, for October.
When he turned, a tall angular woman with her hair dyed bright red, wearing a neat blue dress, had entered the room, apparently from the kitchen.
"Can I fix a drink or something, Mrs. Lennen?" she asked.
"If it's a Martini," Paul said, "I'll be glad to make them. I've had lots of practice. I've got an overdeveloped right forearm from stirring the things." He almost said, "for my mother," but choked it back in time.
"That'll be wonderful," Kay Lennen said. "Why don't you call it a day, Betsy? I can fix us something to eat later."
"Why, thank you, Mrs. Lennen," the woman said. She looked at Paul briefly, disappeared then reappeared, shrugging into her coat, and was gone.
So that's the way it is, Paul thought. Talk about fringe benefits.
As Paul stirred the third Martini in the apartment, he had forgotten all about Norman and Gelder and Huggable. He thought Kay Lennen was the most desirable woman he'd ever met. She had the longest good legs he'd ever seen, like Juliet Prowse only more so, and even under her suit her body looked more than promising. But it was her mouth that really got him. He brought the Martinis back into the room, set them down on the low coffee table by the couch, sat down beside her, and looked at her mouth again. His eyes had been mostly on her mouth for the last twenty minutes. It was entirely different from her tight, controlled office mouth. A schizoid mouth, he thought. It was wide and warm, the lips full, moist, parted a little even when she was not smiling. At one point she had gone to the bathroom and removed her lipstick, but it had hardly made any difference in the redness of her lips, their welcoming wet warmth.
He wanted to lass that mouth more than anything in the world, and for the first time in his memory he didn't know how.
"What are you thinking about, Paul?" she said into the silence, and the tip of her tongue appeared fleetingly between her parted lips. Paul controlled his voice, with a conscious effort "You must know," he said. "You're driving me right up the wall"
"I wouldn't want that to happen," she said. "The truth is, I wouldn't want you to have anything to do with anything vertical."
She leaned toward him. Or at least she seemed to lean toward him. He put his right hand on the back of her neck and, at last he kissed her. Deeply. Icy, he thought Icy as a blast furnace. She melted into him, and in the hot cave of her mouth her tongue licked his, lazily. Lingeringly. His prick swelled, pumped itself rigid, strained against his trouser legs.
Her hand brushed over it casually, as if accidentally, and abruptly she took her mouth away.
I'm going to get into something more comfortable," she said. "Why don't you?" She was looking deep into his eyes, and not smiling.
She got up from the couch and left the room, her hips swaying. Why don't you what? he thought Get into something more comfortable? He took off his coat and tie, hung them over a chair, and went back to the couch and sat down. He sipped his Martini. Habit forming, he thought. They sure were. But look at all the good they did in the world.
She came slowly back into the room wearing high heeled, fleecy mules on her feet. Nothing else. God, she was beautiful every long inch of her. Her proud high breasts, full, still young, jiggling slightly when she moved, were tipped with scarlet, startling against the snow-blinding whiteness of her skin. Her hips flared gently, then slimmed, flowing like cream into the endless, gently swelling line of her flawless legs. The long curve of her belly disappeared in the blackness of her incredibly neat, coiffured-looking, heart-shaped bush. She took it to the hairdresser, Paul thought inanely, every Monday and Thursday.
"I thought you were going to get comfortable, too," she said, smiling. She stood very erect, her breasts jutting, the nipples, like little scarlet rigid pricks, pointing in a slant toward the ceiling. She was proud of her body. Very proud. That changing of generators was a lot of horseshit, Paul thought
"Two minutes," Paul said, and stood up, unbuttoning his shirt.
"Leave your clothes in the bedroom, if you like."
It took him less than a minute to undress. He sauntered slowly, barefooted, back into the living room. His great long thick prick preceded him formally into the room, swinging, stiff, like the boom on a sailboat.
"Oh my God," she said.
"What's wrong, Kay?" he said.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Everything's absolutely right. Just bring it over here. Please. Please bring it over here."
She was sitting on the couch. Her eyes never left the enormity of his pulsing prick as he moved slowly toward her across the room.
As he approached, she spread her legs to bring him closer. His gigantic stiff cock, above the horizontal now, throbbing as if in a fury, pointed straight into her face. The squinted eye in the swollen, glistening-tight, purpling head, he knew, would be looking her square in the eyes.
"Oh, God," she said again, and opened her mouth wide.
Her soft mouth enveloped the entire head of his cock, effortlessly, and her moist lips embraced it around the neck. Her deft tongue slipped along the underside of his vibrant shaft, encouraging to enter her mouth more deeply. He put his hands around the back of her head and shuttled his shaft forward, gently, until he could feel the tip touching the soft palate, above her throat.
Her green eyes rolled up to meet his, and she seemed to be smiling, even though her mouth was a horizontal red "O" around his thick shaft. Her head shuttled back and forth, like a fart-strutting rooster's, as she licked and sucked simultaneously, somehow combining joyous abandon with consummate skill.
The girl's enjoying her work, Paul thought wonderingly. No matter what her work happened to be at the moment apparently she believed in maximum effort.
He didn't want her sucking to the end, but he could feel his hips beginning to pump involuntarily, and he didn't want to be selfish. Not with this girl. And it looked like a long night ahead.
"You're wonderful," he said, taking his hands away from the back of her head. "But that's enough for now."
She kept on sucking and licking, her mouth making wet slurping sounds now, one hand squeezing and jerking at the base of his shaft. Jesus, he thought, he didn't want to come this way. Not yet. He had a thought. A completely unselfish thought.
"Please stop. I want to do something for you."
Her woman's curiosity got the better of her, and with one long, last, lingering suck, her lips came together and terminated their trip at the wet, purple, pointing tip of his pulsing proud prick.
"What?" she said, and smiled up at him. She let the pink tip of her tongue protrude from between her wet red lips, stiffened it, and moved it up and down.
"I think you have the idea." He dropped to his knees on the rug in front of her.
She spread her dazzling, snow-white legs apart, slowly, and inched her hips forward toward the edge of the couch. Paul looked up at the delicious, inviting soft V of her thighs, from the open end of the V.
He had never seen a more perfectly formed cunt. It was as unflawed as the frame of coiffured black bush that crowned and surrounded it. Her long, generous twat lips swelled full toward the center, like the calves of a dancer's legs. They glowed dusky pink in the lamplight, with an aura of joyous good health. The lips were parted, only slightly, but the deep glistening pinkness between them seemed infinitely capable of both giving and receiving enormous, ecstatic enjoyment.
He kissed his way up her inner thighs as she spread her legs wider, then reached his arms up and around her outer thighs, reaching down again with his fingers to spread the soft perfection of her cunt mouth. With the tip of his stiffened tongue, he touched the tender twig of her swelling clitoris, then moved his tongue to-and-fro across it in a series of swift fluttering strokes. He heard a quivering sigh escape from her throat, and extended his whole tongue and began to lick, softly, up and down the entire moist opening.
"That's my man," she said. "That's lovely."
He probed deeply into her cunt channel then, licking and sucking simultaneously. Her hips began to undulate, slowly, as her inner cunt lips began a series of gentle squeezes on his stiff probing tongue.
She threw her knees wide apart and changed the angle of her cunt so his tongue was plunging downward. Her heels touched the back of his neck, urging his tongue deeper. He probed stiffer and deeper, extending his tongue to its full length. Then he withdrew his tongue from its deep penetration and began licking, swiftly, up and down in her wet gorge of pleasure, diddling and sucking her firm, swollen clitoris at the termination of each long lick.
"Oh, God," she said, "I've got to have you inside me. Right now."
She rolled away from his mouth abruptly, stood up, and ran swiftly into the bedroom. He followed, slowed by his swinging stiff boom of a dong, and when he got into the bedroom she lay on her back, her legs spread wide, in the middle of a mammoth double bed.
"It's the size of a tennis court, this bed," he said, getting into position between her legs.
"You play a game with balls on it," she gasped, "but it isn't tennis." Her heart was not in making jokes. With both hands, she was guiding the apple-shiny, apple-hard head of his furiously stiff prick to the wildly welcoming wet lips of her hungry cunt mouth.
His shaft imbedded itself and made the whole long trip to her twat depths in one delicious, plunging stroke. She was quivering as he withdrew the entire length of the thick shaft and plunged it home again.
"You're too much," she said through her teeth. "Too good to be true." Her hips rose, he hooked her heels behind his, and her cunt rose rhythmically to meet his plunging strokes.
After he'd fucked her for only a dozen or so strokes, her hips broke the rhythm, thrashing and fluttering erratically, and he saw from her contorted mouth that she was reaching orgasm, too quickly, much too quickly. He drove his cock into the ecstatic anguish of her cunt, and held the rigid shaft still while she thrashed and fluttered, impaled. Her mouth opened in a series of short, shuddering little screams, and then she lay back, her head rolling on the pillow, breathing deeply and exhaling in long, quivering, interrupted gasps.
"You are too much, Paul," she said finally, "for just a poor working girl. I just couldn't control myself after you slipped that wonderful stiff monster into me."
"It's still there, you know." His pelvis was jammed tight against the hairy pink morass of her twat lips, his surging cock pulsing impatiently in the warm, clutching cave of her cunt depths.
"I know," she said. "Oh, boy, do I know."
Her breathing was regular now. Her inner cunt lips started squeezing the shaft of his cock as her hips started to move, almost imperceptibly. This was going to be a long one, he thought. He'd make it a long one. He put a hand under one of her ankles and raised her leg up over his head as he leaned over and lay on his side, pumping his prick into her with long, slow strokes. Indian style. Side saddle, Eileen called it.
He fucked her for a long, long time that way, and she came twice more, each time with mounting intensity, a sort of delirium. When he heard her starting to gasp and scream for the fourth time, he pounded his cock home with a furious rhythm and came along with her, spurting agonizingly into the warm depths of her ecstasy, her shuddering screams loud in his ears. As the waves of her sensation subsided, he went to sleep, lying on his side, his slippery dozing dong still inside her, held in place by the soft warm embrace of her clutching cunt lips.
When they both woke up, an hour later, he fucked her again, a long, lingering, delicious fuck, and again she came three or four times before he let himself go into orgasm. Afterwards they took a shower and she scrambled some eggs and made coffee. They ate, completely nude, in the kitchen, not saying much. She smiled at him, often. It was a warm, gentle, loving smile. He found it hard, to believe this was the same woman he'd first met behind a desk, in her own big office. After they'd eaten they went directly back to bed, leaving the dishes for the maid in the morning.
By daybreak, he'd fucked her four more times-four times to his orgasm, that is. She'd reached a peak of quivering, shuddering, insane screaming enjoyment at least a dozen more times.
This woman, he thought, watching the early, hard sunlight slant into the room, is going to kill me. Or die in the attempt.
But she didn't look as if she were going to die. She was lying on her back, sound asleep, a look of complete serenity on her face.
Even in sleep, she was smiling, faintly.