Chapter 6

At police headquarters, I put Diane in a cab, sent her packing to the mansion, and trotted upstairs, to find Crowder in a black mood. "Since when do we haul lays around in an official sedan?"

"Lieutenant, you've been looking out windows again," I growled back at him.

I explained Diane Bowers, who she was. "And?" he said.

I shrugged. "She says Polar was in bed last night with another dame. Not Michelle Rivers."

"But you're not sure you believe her." I shrugged again.

"Boy, you sure got it on hard for this Polar when all we've got to do is get Archie Table to admit he killed the girl."

"He's strictly squirrel, Lieutenant."

I told Crowder about finding Table in Tommy Polar's bed. He grunted, picked at the seat of his pants. So I told him about the other men who had been at the party.

"You still like that idea about the girl being dead before Table took her for a ride, don't you?"

"It seems logical to me," I said.

"Well, apparently Polar is alibied. So who are you gonna take on next?"

"Let me do some nosing. How 'bout giving me a free hand?"

"Matt, this isn't a private detective agency."

"I know."

He scowled on me for a few seconds before he waved a hand and fired up a new cigarette. "Yeah, yeah, okay, nose around-but get results, hear?"

I wasn't sure where to nose. I went downstairs and used the phone book again. I got a number for Fran Nature. I dialed. No answer. I cruised out to the address; it was on the way to the tennis club. I had to get Polar out of my system. I had to get him absolutely alibied before I could clear my mind to take on new suspects.

Fran Nature lived in a condominium. I used the lobby phone and got an answer this time. "Hey, where are you?" she bubbled.

I asked her about Tommy Polar and the previous night.

"I don't answer questions over the telephone," she said. "Where are you?"

"Downstairs," I said reluctantly. "Then come up," she chuckled.

I rode a self-service elevator and made a vow during the ride that I would not go inside Fran Nature's apartment. No more traps this day. Cora Ayers still waited for me-I hoped.

When I stuck a thumb against the door buzzer Fran Nature called out from inside, "Come on in. It's open."

I opened the door cautiously, pushed it wide. It would not have surprised me if a horde of naked female bodies swooped down and whisked me inside. But all I saw was the confines. A plush efficiency. Chamber music came from a stereo.

"Come on in."

The voice came from behind the door off to my left. I stepped inside carefully. There was a louvered sliding wall panel to my left. The panel was three-quarters shut. Through the opening I could see the head of a double bed. The bed looked neat and freshly made.

"There's a beer in the refrig," Fran Nature said from somewhere behind the panel. "Dig out two, okay?"

"I'm working," I said.

She giggled. "You were working this afternoon, too, remember?"

I winced and closed the door behind me. Fran Nature and I seemed to be alone. "Go on and get the beers," she said. "I'll be with you in a sec."

I went to the refrigerator in the kitchenette and dug out two bottles of cold beer. I shook myself down. It was time for Matt Law to start running the show. The hell with these naked females who always seemed to be reaching for my body. I could take them or leave them. I had a murder to investigate. The investigation was primary.

And then I turned and Fran Nature was with me. She wore a red garter belt and red hose. Nothing more. And she stood about three feet away from me, her head cocked slightly and a crooked grin twisting freshly painted lips. Her eyes were alive with mischief. "I was getting ready to go to another party at the Rivers place, but now I don't have to dress, do I? I mean, you're here-and we can have our own little private party, right? Do you realize that I have never had you alone?"

"Put on some clothes," I snapped.

But all she did was laugh softly and reach out and take one of the beer bottles from me. Her nipples were alive. She reached down with her left hand and patted my trouser front. "I want that-all for myself for a change."

"Get dressed."

"Oh, don't be such a bear," she said, leading me into the front room by my trouser front. She turned me and put me in an overstuffed chair. Then she curled her knees and sat down between my thighs before I could clamp them. She put a cheek on my leg and looked up at me.

"I like to be close to my work," she giggled. A hand moved up the other thigh and her fingers played idly.

"Baby, I'm here about Tommy Polar," I said.

"What about him?" she asked with about as much interest as she had in putting on a bra. She drank beer.

"I want to know about you and him last night."

She looked surprised. "What about us?"

"Were you with him at the Rivers place?"

"A good share of the night," she nodded. "Why?"

"I thought he might have been hung up with Michelle Rivers."

"He was early in the evening." Frank drank. "They probably went to bed or something. I don't know. I was with someone else during that part of the evening."

"Someone named Peter Barry?"

She looked surprised again. "How do you know about Peter?"

"I have big ears."

She seemed to digest that, and then she grinned mischievously and fingered me again. "Along with something else that's big, huh?"

I removed the roving fingers and she laughed gently. "Peter and I are friends," she explained. "I went to the party with him. But he became a drag. He wouldn't go down on me. He said he wasn't in the mood. He told me to go find Michelle or Nanette. His mood pissed me. I wanted a man right then, not another woman. There's a difference, you know?"

I wasn't sure I did, but I didn't press it. I said, "And did you see Michelle any time after she had been with Polar?"

"Sure. She was running around naked as a statue. She wouldn't put on clothing. She wanted everyone to get naked."

"Did they?"

"Some freeloader did. He went out on the grass with Michelle. But no one else bothered."

"Did you watch Michelle and the freeloader ... er, on the grass?"

"What do you think I am? A voyeur?" She chuckled, drank beer. "I couldn't care less about Michelle Rivers and her kicks, lover. I had a chemical or two stirring around inside my own body, so I went hunting for Tommy and found him. We went to bed together and had a ball for hours. Then he started to go a little kinky on me. He wanted to use his belt. I said nix to that shit. I don't need welts. Besides, I don't like pain."

"So you and Polar split."

"It was like lightning hit us."

"What time was this?"

"What time was what?" she frowned. "When you and Polar split?"

"Oh, hell, how do I know? Who watches clocks?"

"Did you see Michelle again?"

"Sure."

"After she had been with the freeloader."

"Yeah, after. She was giving Archie Table fits."

"How?"

"You know, teasing him."

"No, I don't know."

"Michelle liked to tease fags-and Archie is a fag. Michelle liked to play with him, taunt him into trying to go to bed with her."

"That must've made her popular with Archie."

"He didn't like the teasing."

"So maybe he became angry and killed her."

"No." Fran Nature shook her head. "Not Archie. Archie won't even swat flies."

"Maybe he cracked, went off his nut. Maybe he-"

"No." Fran continued to shake her head. "No one is going to make me believe that about Archie. Not even you, Mr. Law."

I changed the line of questioning abruptly. "Okay, so when did you hear about Michelle being dead?"

She frowned briefly. "When the cops came around, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, some of last night is still fuzzy in my mind. I mean between the time I left Tommy and when I heard ... what I really mean is, I got drunk as hell for a while. I don't remember-"

"You got drunk as hell-just for a while?"

"Someone pitched me into the swimming pool. My head cleared in the water."

"Who pitched you into the pool?"

"I think it was William."

"Rivers?"

"There's only one-and it's his pool."

"Then yon saw Rivers at the party."

"Certainly. Why wouldn't I? It was his party."

"Somehow I have the impression he sometimes has other interests during his parties. I have the impression he is not always on the scene."

"Sometimes he isn't, but he was there last night. I remember him playing with my breasts. He likes my breasts and ... well, I know it was William who threw me into the pool."

"And when you came out of the pool, you knew for the first time that Michelle Rivers was dead?"

"There were cops all over the place."

"You did what then?"

"I sat on the edge of the pool with Nanette until everyone sort of disappeared."

"Sort of?"

"People just seemed to drift away. After a while Nanette and I found ourselves alone. Then you came on the scene."

"Didn't the cops talk to you?"

"Sure, but what could I tell them?"

"Who do you think killed Michelle?"

'I'm not even sure she was killed. Maybe she died."

"She was killed."

"All right, so I don't know who killed her."

"And don't care."

Fran Nature shrugged, finished her beer. "Why should I?"

"I think it was Polar."

"I don't know why Tommy would. He and Michelle were good with each other."

"No battles between them, huh?"

"None that I know of. Ever."

"So if it wasn't Polar, and it wasn't Archie, who might be next in line? Rivers?"

"He was Michelle's father."

"Fathers have been known to kill daughters."

"William and Michelle were not close, that much I grant, but William wouldn't kill her."

"It's my understanding he once told Michelle she wasn't his daughter, she'd been sired by another man. I also hear that William Darby Rivers had a yen for the girl, that he-"

"Damn, you do have big ears, Sergeant."

"Well?"

"William Rivers is a lot of things, but he's not a killer."

"Not even by accident?"

"Well...." She frowned, let the word hang. She contemplated for several seconds, and then she looked up at me and moved both of her palms into my groin. She rubbed. "Let's knock off this conversation."

It was time for me to depart, but she lifted a knee and dropped her right hand onto her juncture. Her fingers toyed with the pubic hair. Her eyes, unblinking, hung on me, and her lips parted slightly. I saw the tip of her tongue dart across the fresh lipstick. It was as if she was tasting herself. The fingers on me remained busy.

"You're getting hard," she breathed. "You don't want to go."

The fingers in her juncture began to dig and probe. She took her hand from me, turned on her bare hips until she was facing me and braced herself, the right hand remaining busy on her own triangle.

"Baby...."

Her eyes remained large, unblinking. "Sometimes I like to play with myself," she whispered. "Don't you want to watch?"

She lay back on the carpeting and both nyloned knees were high and spread. She dug in with her heels as she moved her hands over her body. Her head went back and she arched slightly as she palmed and fingered her nipples. Her fingers drifted down over the flatness of her belly and dipped to the inner softness of her thighs. They danced along her skin, up the red nylon to her knees and back down.

I watched her open. I couldn't move. The petals of her triangle turned out, became pinkish as she continued to draw her own fingers lightly over her body. She quivered all over suddenly and then her right hand shot down into her juncture and she rubbed savagely.

"You, too!" she hissed, coming up on an elbow. She sprawled cocked and twisted, her face muscles beginning to twitch in her own passion.

I yanked open my trousers and her eyes widened as I clasped myself. "Yes, yes...." she hissed.

Her knees went wide and her finger worked swiftly, her hips bouncing against the carpeting as low sounds began to spill from her throat. I went up on the edge of the chair and working furiously, she suddenly bent forward and her mouth enclosed me. I clasped the back of her head and she groaned and bounced and became a frenzy of movement on the carpeting as I strained into her.

The sensation inside me moved swiftly. I felt it building and then it was shooting forward and I lifted myself to follow. Fran Nature suddenly clamped the back of my legs and gurgled as I came. She lurched with the flow." Her head whipped from side to side, but she did not free me, and it was as if all of my insides were pouring into her.

She took me from the chair and down to the carpeting. I lay twitching and writhing and gasping for breath as she fed. And then she was twisting her body around and I felt the nylon sliding across my face. She went up on her knees, her mouth continuing to be busy, and I was now staring up into the mons Veneris. She lowered herself, not quite touching. She was moist and smelled of woman. I shot my tongue against her and she jerked. Then she settled with a fresh murmur of pleasure and I felt the new fires building in me as we became locked. I fed hungrily while she drank....

We remained on the carpeting, relaxed now and breathing normally. I lay at a right angle to her, the back of my head propped against her fiat belly muscles while her fingers absently toyed in her juncture hairs.

Finally she said softly, "I needed that, Sergeant Law. I needed to have a man feed on me. Nanette is good, but she is not a man."

I said nothing.

"Kiss me," she said.

I didn't move.

She pushed my head, lifted the fingers from her hair. I kissed her, stared up at the ceiling again.

"Good," she breathed. And then she sat up and pushed my head down to her thighs and bent forward and fastened her mouth on mine. Her lips were soft and damp and full and her tongue teased slightly, but it was a good kiss, long and with messages.

When she finally lifted her mouth from mine, she kept her face close and her eyes looked deep inside me. "If I could have you for myself...." she began. She clamped her lips and shook her head. "But it will never happen," she said. "No man wants a two-way street."

"Quit knocking yourself," I growled.

"It's how I am inside." She shook her head. "I don't understand, but I know I never would be good for a man. No man. I couldn't remain faithful to him. Sooner or later, I'd see a woman I want and...." She clamped the lips again, remained silent.

"Perhaps if you gave a man a good try?" I ventured.

"I have tried. I could with you. But it wouldn't work. There's something inside me that doesn't click with a man. It clicks only with another woman."

"Have you always had it?"

"As long as I can remember," she nodded. "Oh, there was a time in my life I didn't understand what it was, and then a high school ... well, there was a phys ed teacher and one day she showered with me at school and that's when I found out about my true self."

"On the other hand, you like sex with men."

"I love sex with men-but every so often I have to have a woman."

"No man would understand that," I admitted. "I know."

"So you run with the Nanettes."

The Nanettes are not easy to find, Matthew. Men are."

"Before Nanette?"

"Yes, there have been others. There was even one I would have married."

"Married?"

"Lesbians have their own little ceremonies, you know."

"I just figured they moved in together."

"Not at all. And I think I would have been happy with Barbara. She wasn't dominating."

"What happened to her?"

"I don't know. She ran away with a youngster. A fifteen year old girl. I think they went out to California."

"So she wouldn't have been good for you."

"No, I suppose not in the long run, but I would have liked to have been married to her."

"How about to Nanette?"

"No. Nanette has William."

"It doesn't seem to me she's too damned interested in William Darby Rivers."

"She's interested in his money."

"Tell me about him. What kind of a dude is he? Is he man, fag, voyeur, transvestite, hermaphrodite-"

"He believes in total sexual freedom. That's why he and Nanette live together. They think a-like, know the same pleasures, never bother to question the ventures of the other."

"Something keeps them together."

"With Nanette, it's William's wealth. With William, it's Nanette's total abandon. Nanette will do anything sexually with anyone at any time or place. She will stand on a dining room table in the middle of dinner and masturbate with a candle while twenty guests look on-if William tells her to do it. He has, and she did. I was there."

"They're cute," I said, unable to keep the sneer out of my voice.

"Any different than you and me five minutes ago?" she shot at me.

I stood. She caught my trouser leg. "Hey, where are going?"

"Out to find a killer," I snarled. "Now?" she was surprised again. "Now," I said flatly.

She went back on the carpeting and lifted her legs and planted her heels against my chest. I stared down red nylon straight into her juncture.

"Quick dip?" she said with lifted eyebrows.

I caught her ankles and put her legs aside. She rolled up onto her feet and giggled. Then she stepped into me and curled her arms around my neck. Her breasts were large mounds against my chest and her pelvis rubbed gently against me. She kissed me savoringly and lifted a leg. "Please?" she said softly. "I need it."

I put her off and she pouted. "Sometimes you're all bastard, Sergeant Law."

"See yuh 'round, doll."

"Where are you going?"

"Out to the Rivers place."

"How 'bout a ride?"

I hesitated, then said, "If you can find a dress."

She found a red mini and wriggled into it. She didn't bother to put on a bra or panties. She arched at a bureau mirror and repainted her lips. Patting abundant hips as she quickly surveyed the finished product in the mirror, she winked at my reflection. "Is it as much fun to watch a girl dress as it is to watch her disrobe?"

"Let's roll," I said.

She sat with her hip against me all the way to the Rivers mansion. One hand remained in my lap where she fondled. I attempted to put her off a couple of times but all she did was giggle and bring her hand back to me. When I braked the sedan in the large parking area in front of the mansion, she remained plastered against me. Her lips came up to nibble my earlobe. "I still need a good screw," she breathed. "Out, cat."

"We really didn't have to come here, you know. We could've stayed at my place."

I left the sedan. She scooted after me. She had trouble sliding between the steering wheel and the back of the seat and by the time she got her legs outside the mini was in her lap and her cunt was snapping at night air. She stood, shook the dress down below her hips. "Boy, I don't understand you," she pouted.

I looked around the parking lot. It was stuffed with shiny automobiles. Light came from every window in the mansion and music drifted across the quiet night. "What kind of a clambake is this supposed to be?" I asked.

"Like any other night, I suppose," Fran Nature said with a shrug. "Everyone does his own thing. If your bag is drinking, you get drunk. If it's pot, you get high. If it's sex."

"Where will I find Rivers?"

"He could be anywhere. The house, the pool, in bed. You'll have to play detective, I guess."

We entered through the front door. No maid or butler greeted us. We walked into the vast foyer. The stairway was straight ahead. Off to our right was the wide entry into the acre of front room that was crowded with furniture and dotted with people. I did not recognize anyone. Then a young blond dude with a bush mustache broke away from a pale red-haired girl and brought his drink to us. He was athletic in construction, handsome in face, and suspicious in eye. The eyes whipped over me before flashing to Fran Nature.

"I've been wondering where you were," the blond dude said.

Fran smiled. "Peter Barry, Matthew Law."

We shook briefly. His grip was hard as marble. "Where have you been?" he pressed, almost ignoring me.

"Getting screwed." She hesitated. "No, that's not quite the truth. Actually, we were-"

"Barry," I broke in, "do you know where I might find William Rivers?"

His eyes were like twin snake heads.

"Matthew is a cop," Fran offered.

The eyes changed. They bugged briefly, and then they began to lose some of their venom. He used a finger to flick at the mustache. Either he didn't like cops, became nervous in the presence of one, or it was okay in his book if it was a cop who had humped his girl. I didn't find out because he said, "Mr. Rivers is out at the pool, I think."

I left Fran with him to angle through strangers who did not pay any particular attention to me. I went through open French doors and out onto the pool apron. The crowd there was thicker, but I spotted someone I recognized. Nanette.

She lifted a hand in a wave and whisked toward me, dragging along a wheezing fat man who had a bald dome and wore dentures that had not been properly fitted. Nanette danced up against my front end gave me a quick kiss and a chuckle as she slapped her pelvis against me and rubbed. Then she introduced the fat man. His name was Bernard Oshman. His handshake was like grasping Jell-O and his manner was worse. He wiped his hand on his trousers, as if wiping away snot, and he tittered. "Imagine meeting a genuine policeman! I don't think I ever have until this instant!"

I attempted to remember what Diane Bowers had told me about Bernard Oshman. He had a wife and he lived next door to the Rivers place. He had had a yen for Michelle, but he sometimes experienced difficulty when it came to readying himself for a sexual plunge. There was a streak of voyeur in him. He liked to watch a Negro man hump his wife.

"Weren't you at last night's party, Mr. Oshman?" I asked with false politeness. He was puzzled, but he said, "Yes, certainly."

"Then how come you haven't met a cop until now?" Nanette took over. She caught my arm, pushed her breasts against my bicep's. "You're being nasty, Matthew," she chided. "Bernard went home early last night. He became ill during the evening."

"That right, Mr. Oshman?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Was that right after you killed Michelle?"

"Wh-at?"

Nanette steered me away from him. "You shouldn't have," she admonished. "Bernard is a sensitive man. And he has a bad heart. Now tell me, to what do we owe the honor of your presence? Not that it isn't nice to have you around-it is. But I have a stinking hunch-"

"I'm looking for your husband."

"Why?"

"He has some questions to answer."

"Why?"

"Because I have questions to ask him."

"About Michelle's death?"

"About."

"Are you picking on William, Sergeant?"

"Now don't go protective on me, baby. It isn't your nature."

"William didn't kill his own daughter."

"You say."

"I know. I asked him. He told me he didn't."

"Where is he?"

"Somewhere in the house, I suppose. But can't we forget him? How about if you and I-"

"No." I turned back toward the mansion.

"Don't tell me Diane took everything out of you. I thought you were the man who never went soft."

She had surprised me, and the surprise must have been on my face when I looked at her. She was grinning. She took my arm again, pressed her body against me. "Diane told me she was with you earlier tonight. Is my daughter really good, Matthew?"

"She has a big mouth."

Nanette laughed gently. "Does she do that, too? My, she certainly is growing up. Well, I'll say one thing-you pooped her or something. She came home and went straight up to her room. She wasn't even interested in the party. What did you do to her?"

"Maybe she's getting tired of certain people, a way of life. Maybe she's realizing that away from here, out there in the sane world, there's-"

"Ho-ho, we suddenly have a moralist in our midst, huh?"

I left Nanette Rivers. I was suddenly angry all over again. I stomped past Bernard Oshman and a squat, chunky dame of sixty who was clinging to a huge Negro. Oshman nodded and acted as if he wanted to say something, the dame inventoried openly, and the black turned after me. I stopped. He crashed into my back, and then he stepped away.

"My name is Sim," he said, stone-faced. "I understand you have been asking about me."

"I have?" I matched his stoniness.

"You're Law, aren't you?"

"I'm Law."

"Diane Bowers said-"

"Did you kill Michelle Rivers?"

"Cut it, man."

"Carry on a little hanky-panky with her?"

"Oh, boy, you're nosy."

"Force her to go down on you?"

"Let me ask you one, man. You ever put a leg of lamb before a starving cat?"

"I never have," I admitted. "No force to get the cat to eat. Get it?"

"Got it."

"The cat dug lamb."

"Last night?"

"Not last night."

"Then I wasn't asking about you."

"Good. I don't like people asking about me."

"See yuh 'round, Sim. Incidentally, you got any ideas where I might find William Darby Rivers?"

"He doesn't want to see you."

"Why not?"

"He's busy."

"Doin' what?"

"Showering."

"At this hour?"

"There's five showers upstairs. He owns 'em all. But you're not going to see any of them."

"I'm not?"

"Keeping cops out of his showers is one of the reasons I live here."

Sim should have remained with acting. He was not a good tough. Very inexperienced. He was wide open in the crotch. Which is where my knee landed. With force.

Sim doubled forward with a howl that snapped off all chatter around the pool. My fist coming up under his meaty jaw chopped off the howl. Sim was down and groveling. I waved to the people, grinned at the startled Nanette Rivers, and went into the mansion and upstairs.

I stopped at Diane Bowers' closed door, reached for the knob. I was tempted. I put an ear against the wood, heard nothing. My fingers were on the knob, but I did not turn it. I went on down the hall, listening for the hiss of shower water as I wondered about Diane. I remembered her words, her mood as we had returned from the riverbank to the car earlier that night. Her flippancy had been subdued. She had seemed different. It had been as if our session on the grass had opened her eyes to something. Could it be she was coming to her senses, realized there could be a depth to sex?

The sound of the shower water was faint. I opened the bedroom door cautiously, prepared for anything. The room was bathed in lamplight and empty. Male clothing was piled neatly on a double bed. Two sets of male clothing. I scowled and went to the bath door. The only sound coming from the other side was the splash of the water. I opened the door-and I gaped.

William Darby Rivers stood in the bathtub. The shower curtain was open. William Darby Rivers was naked and lathered in soap. Facing him, a man named Harold Boswell was also naked and lathered in soap. Two jutting stems of erections stood out of the lather like sticks protruding from carnival cotton candy. The heads of the sticks dueled as William Darby Rivers manipulated Harold Boswell and Harold Boswell manipulated William Darby Rivers.

Boswell looked as if I were his father who had walked in on him. He gasped and attempted to cover himself. But Rivers smiled on me without breaking the rhythm of his administration and said, "Join us?"

In the bedroom, I was torn between violently breaking up the bathtub sex game and bolting. I could bring swarms of cops down on the mansion. But by the time they got there? And who would believe, no matter how loud I shouted? Rivers, pleading innocence, would deny, then crucify me and the department.

I bolted.

I stomped out of the bedroom and along the corridor. It took a strange chanting sound to stop me. I froze and I listened hard. The chant came from behind a closed door to my right. I had never heard anything like it in my life. And before I realized what I was doing I had turned the knob and was using gentle fingers to push open the door.

It might have been a bedroom scene on stage of a legitimate theater, and they could have been actors caught up in their roles. They were engrossed, and they were oblivious to an audience. Fran Nature sat in a barrel chair facing me, but she did not see me. Her head was thrown back and twisted hard to her left as Bernard Oshman, his fat belly heaving, stood at her head. His trousers were open and Fran was feeding hungrily on him.

Oshman's eyes bugged as he stared across the room and on his wife, who was flat on her back on a large bed with the hem of her dress pushed up against her breasts. Between her fat legs the large black man worked furiously, pumping hard while her chubby fingers clutched and dug deep into his black buttocks. The kick had not incapacitated him.

Fran's knees were spread wide, the red nylon of her hose glinting in the lamplight. And between those spread knees, his shoulders holding her thighs apart, Peter Barry was on his hands and knees and acting like a starved man at a feast while behind him, squatted and riding his hips, a Negro girl named Kit had encircled his waist with her left arm while her right hand, under him, moved swiftly in Peter administration.

The chanting sound came from a shadowed corner. The girl was the redhead I'd seen downstairs. She was on the carpeting, her shoulder blades braced against the angle of the two walls, her eyes closed and her face contorted. Her knees were up high and wide and her feet were planted in the carpeting, a white dress riding her bare belly as she worked her juncture with both hands.

I guessed I was staring on Hertha Clarke, the masturbating addict.

Kit was tempting. She remained squatted and rode Peter Barry hard, a yellow mini caught across the under edges of her black buttocks. Her leg muscles were strained and her thighs clamped and released Peter in rhythm. I stared on the play of her loins while the chant of Hertha Clarke filled my ears. And the room suddenly smelled of sex. The smell penetrated and lit fires inside me.

I went to Kit and rolled the yellow mini up over her hips. She wore narrow white panties. They were stretched taut against her flicking black buttocks. I put my hands on her.

"No!"

I snapped my head around. The cry had come from the corner. And now the redhead over there was staring at me wide-eyed as she hunched on her heels and her buttocks toward me.

"Me!" she hissed. "I'm so hot I'm dying!"

I debated. Hertha Clarke begged with her eyes and her cunt. But Kit was back against me now, her flexing buttock muscles capturing and releasing my stiffness.

"Me!" pleaded Hertha Clarke, her hand frantic in its administration.

The black loins were too tempting. Thumbing the white panties aside, I entered Kit and pumped hard, sliding into her rhythm. We flowed. And under us Peter Barry made animal sounds as he fed on Fran while arching to the pleasure of Kit's deft fingers. Kit lurched and bucked against me, her black buttocks, sweaty and slick. And I felt the heat building swiftly inside me. I exploded. Kit reared. And then she went up and over Peter Barry's back with a long ratde as Fran Nature gurgled around Bernard Oshman and began to spit.

I rolled from the black girl and staggered, unable to control my quivering legs. Bernard Oshman was on his knees on the carpeting now, gasping and wheezing, while Kit peeled from Peter Barry's back and became a heap of wet wash.

Fran's legs came up to curl around Peter's neck and her hips took on frantic pounding inside the chair. I felt something tugging at my leg, and I looked down. Hertha Clarke had straddled my feet and was staring wild-eyed up at me as her hand continued to flash.

"Please," she gasped, "do it to me! I'm burning up!"

I went down on my knees and mounted her. She didn't even bother to lie back. She spread wide and wrapped her arms around my shoulders and clung to me in the sitting position, her hot juncture swallowing me. Her legs curved and she locked her ankles against my spine. She climbed against me, the chanting sound once again mounting in her throat. Then she lunged against me in one final thrust and I could feel the warm juices flowing out of her.

She sagged slowly, became a dead weight in my arms and against my thighs. I let her slip down to the carpeting. She lay back, keeping her knees high and wide, straddling me.

"Oh, god," she breathed, "you don't know how good that felt."

"Yes, I do, honey," I told her truthfully. "And I'm still hot," she sighed, her hand returning to her snatch.

I looked down on her hand and made a licking motion with my tongue. She lurched. "D-don't," she stuttered. "Why not?"

"You'll make me ... do it again." I repeated the licking motion.

"Goddamn you...." she hissed, coming up on an elbow. She began to rub vigorously. "See what you did. Look what you're doing!"

She clutched at me, but I moved out of range. I stood, towered over her. Her eyes began to change and the chant began to mount. She attempted to bring me down on her, but I stepped away.

"You bastard!" she cried out.

I left her to her ministrations and looked around. Kit was sprawled and relaxed, perhaps even half asleep on the floor, the yellow mini high and the white panties pushed halfway down her thighs. Bernard Oshman was still on his knees, but jackknifed forward now, his forehead against the carpeting. Peter Barry had sagged against Fran Nature, his mustache quivering, and Fran remained in the barrel chair, cradling Peter's head as she stared off into space. Only on the bed was there activity. Sim had put Mrs. Oshman on top of him. He looked at me out around the corner of her right hip and snarled. But he didn't stop what he was doing.

Then I heard a chortle in the doorway. I turned. Nanette Rivers stood there in a blue evening gown. She held a large turkey leg in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. She was grinning as she took in the scene.

"Anybody need help?" she asked innocently, taking a bite from the turkey leg and downing it with a pull from the champagne bottle.