Chapter 3

We went inside to air-conditioned coolness. It was an L-shaped building, the front part being a lunchroom. There were some booths to the left of the doorway, and counter with a row of stools in back of the window that looked out on the highway. Swinging doors behind the counter led into the kitchen. There were mounted tarpon on the wall on either side of the swinging doors, and another above the doorway on the right that led into the bar. Two truckers were drinking coffee and talking to the waitress.

The bar was a longer room, running back at right angles and forming the other part of the L.

At the rear, toward the left, were a number of pine booths, a jukebox that had gone silent for the moment, and a telephone booth. I glanced at the latter. It could wait.

In one of the booths a man in a white cowboy-style hat and a blue shirt sat with his back to me, facing a thin dark splinter of a girl who looked as if she might have Indian blood. Two more men were perched on stools at the end of the bar. They looked up at us as we sat down, and one of them nodded to the taxi driver. There was another mounted tarpon, the largest I'd ever seen, above the back bar mirror.

The bartender came over, glanced idly at me, and nodded to the driver. "Hi, Jake. What'll it be?"

"Bottle of Regal, Ollie," Jake replied.

I ordered the same. Ollie put it before us and went back down the bar to where he'd been polishing glasses. He appeared to be in his middle twenties, and had big shoulders, muscular arms, and a wide, tanned face with self-possessed brown eyes.

I took a sip of the beer and lighted a cigarette. "Who was Strader?" I asked.

At the sound of the name, the bartender and both the men down at the end turned and stared sharply. Even after all this time, I thought.

Jake looked uncomfortable. "That was the craziest part of it. He was from Miami. And as far as they could ever find out, he didn't even know Lang."

One of the two men put down his glass. He had long sideburns and the sharp and meddlesome eyes of a troublemaker. "Maybe he didn't," he said. "But he could still have been a friend of the family."

The bartender glanced at him, but said nothing. The other man merely went on drinking his beer. The ugliness of it hung there for a moment in the silence of the room, but it was something they didn't even notice anymore. They were used to it.

"I ain't sayin' he wasn't," Jake protested. "All I'm sayin' is that they ain't never been able to prove he knew either one of 'em."

"Then what the hell was he doing here?" the other demanded. "Why was he registered over there in that motel three times in two months? He wasn't on business, because they never found nobody in town he come to see. Besides, you don't reckon he'd be crazy enough to try to sell Miami real estate around here, do you?"

"How the hell do I know?" Jake asked. "Man crazy enough to try to gun Calhoun might do anything."

"Nuts. You know as well as I do what he was up here for. He was a ladies' man, a regular stud. He was a no-good with a big front and a line of baloney, and some woman was supportin' him half the time."

It was a charming little place, I thought sourly. She stood trial for murder every day-over here, and in all the other bars in town, and every time she pushed a cart down the aisles of the supermarket. I wondered why she didn't sell out and leave. Pride, maybe. There was a lot of it in her face.

Then I reminded myself I was going off halfcocked, and that it was none of my business anyway. I didn't know anything about her; maybe she had killed her husband. Murder had been committed by people who couldn't even tell a lie without blushing. But for the sordid reasons they were hinting at? It didn't seem likely.

"And ain't she from Miami?" the other went on. The way he said it, you gathered being from Miami was an indictment itself.

"Dammit, Rupe," Jake said with sullen defiance, "stop tryin' to make it look like I was taking up for her. Or for Strader. All I'm sayin' is, there's a lot of difference between knowing something and provin' it."

"Proof!" Rupe said contemptuously. "That's a lot of bull. They got all the proof they need. Why you reckon Strader went to all that trouble to try to make it look like an accident?"

I glanced up. That was deadly. And it reminded me of something that had been bothering me and that I'd intended to ask if I ever had the chance.

"Was that the reason for the two cars?" I asked Jake.

I had been momentarily forgotten in their argument, but now abrupt silence dropped over the place, and the chill you could feel had nothing to do with the air-conditioning. Jake gulped the rest of his beer and stood up. "Well, I'd better be hittin' the road," he said. "Thanks, mister." He went out. The others stared at me for a minute, and then returned to their own conversation.

I ordered another beer. Ollie uncapped it and set it before me. He appeared to be the most intelligent and least unfriendly of the lot. "Why two cars?" I asked.

He mopped the bar, looked at me appraisingly, and started to say something, but Rupe beat him to it. The shiny black eyes swung around to me, and asked, "Who are you?"

"My name's Chatham," I said shortly.

"I don't mean that, mister. What have you got to do with this?"

"Nothing," I said. "Why?"

"You seem to be pretty interested, for it to be none of your put-in."

"I'm just studying the native customs," I said. "Where I grew up, people accused of murder were tried in court, not in barrooms."

"You're new around here?"

"I'm even luckier than that," I said. "I'm just passing through."

"How come you're riding a taxi? Just to pump Jake?"

I was suddenly fed up with him. "Shove it," I said.

His eyes filled with quick malice, and he made as if to get off the stool. The bartender glanced at him, and he settled back. His friend, a much bigger man, studied me with dislike in his eyes, apparently trying to make up his mind whether to buy a piece of it or not. Nothing happened, and in a moment it was past.

I fished a dime from my pocket and went back to the telephone. The dark girl and the man in the cowboy hat had apparently been paying little attention to us. The girl glanced up now as I went past. I had an impression she was scarcely eighteen years old, but she looked as if she'd spent twice that long in a furious and dedicated flight from any form of innocence. Her left leg was stretched out under the edge of the table with her skirt hiked up, and the man was grinning slyly as he wrote something on her naked thigh with her lipstick. She met my eyes and shrugged.

I stepped into the booth, and the instant I closed the door, I knew I'd found it. The fan came on with an uneven whirring sound caused by the faulty bearing. I thought swiftly. From the lunchroom in there, he could even have seen her drive in when she returned from town; that was the reason he'd called almost immediately. But the maid had said he'd called twice before while she was out. Well, that meant those were from somewhere else and that he was moving around. The chances were a thousand to one against his being any of the three out there now.

I went through the motions of making a call, and as I left the booth I shot a glance at the literary cowboy. He could have been anywhere between twenty-eight and forty, with a smooth, chubby face like that of an overgrown baby, and had the beginnings of a paunch. The shirt, I noted now, wasn't blue, as I'd thought-at least, not all over. It was light gray in front, with fancy piping, pearl buttons, and flaps on the breast pockets, and was stained in two or three places in front as if he'd spilled food on it. His eyes were china blue and made you think of a baby's except for some quality of yokel shrewdness and sly humor you could see in them as he patted the dark girl on the leg and invited her to read whatever it was he'd written on it. He was probably known as a card.

I went back to my beer. From sheer force of habit I sized up Rupe and his friend, but they were as un-likely as the humorist. Rupe was thin, swarthy, and mean-looking, the one you'd always expect to find at the bottom of it any time there was trouble reported in a bar, but he appeared normal enough otherwise. The other was a big man with thinning red hair and a rugged slab of a face that could probably be tough but wasn't vicious or depraved. He wore oil-stained khakis, and had black-rimmed fingernails as if he was a mechanic.

Asking any questions was futile. The call had come over two hours ago, to begin with, and the air of coldness and suspicion the place was saturated with told me I'd get no answers anyway. I pushed back the beer and started to get up.

"I thought you said you was a stranger around here." It was Rupe.

I scooped up my change. "That's right."

"You must know somebody. You just made a phone call."

"So I did."

"Without looking up the number."

"You don't mind?" I asked. "Where you staying here?" I turned and looked at him coldly. "Across the street. Why?"

"I thought so."

Ollie put down the glass he was polishing. "You leaving?" he asked me. "I'd started to," I said. "Maybe you'd better."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Simple economics, friend. He's a regular customer."

"Okay," I said. "But if he's that valuable, maybe you'd better keep him tied up till I get out."

Rupe started to slide off his stool, and the big redhead eyed me speculatively. "Knock it off," Ollie said quietly to the two of them, and then jerked his head at me. "I don't want to have to call the cops."

"Right," I said. I dropped the change in my pocket, and went out through the lunchroom. The whole thing was petty and stupid, but I had a feeling it was only a hint of what was sub merged here, like the surface uneasiness of water where riptides run deep and powerful far below, or the sullen smoldering of a fire that is only waiting to break out. I wondered why the feeling against her was so bitter. They seemed convinced she was involved in the murder of her husband; but if there was any evidence in that direction, why hadn't she been arrested and tried?

I crossed the highway in the leaden heat of late afternoon, and again was struck by the bleak aspect of the motel grounds as they would appear to the traveler who had slowed and was considering turning in. The place was going to ruin. Why didn't she have it landscaped, or sell out? I shrugged. Why didn't I mind my own business?

She was in the office, making entries in a couple of big ledgers opened on the desk. She looked up at me with a faint smile, and said, "Paper work." I was conscious of thinking she was prettier than I had considered her at first, that there was something definitely arresting about the contrast of creamy pallor against the rubbed-mahogany gleam of her hair. Some faces were like that, I thought; they revealed themselves to you a little at a time, rather than springing at you all at once. Her hands were slender and unutterably feminine, moving gracefully through the confusion of papers.

I stopped inside the door and lighted a cigarette. "He called from the booth in the Silver King," I said.

She glanced up, startled, and I realized I had probably only made it worse by telling her he had been that near.

"How do you know?" she asked. "I mean, have you been-?"

I nodded. "The fan. I checked them out around town till I found the noisy one."

"I don't know how to thank you."

"For what?" I said. "I didn't find him. He'd probably been gone for hours. But you can pass it on to the sheriff, for what it's worth."

"Yes," she said, trying to sound optimistic, but I could tell she had little hope they would ever do anything about it. I was filled with a sour disgust toward the whole place. Why didn't somebody bury it?

I went across to my room and poured a drink. Taking off my sweaty shirt, I lay down on one of the beds with a cigarette, and stared morosely up at the ceiling. I wished now I had belted Frankie while I had the chance. Stranded in this place for at least another thirty-six hours.

You're in sad shape, I thought; you can't stand your own company, and you've got a grouch on at everybody else. The only thing you can do is keep moving, and that doesn't solve anything. You'd feel just as lousy in St. Petersburg, or Miami There was a light knock on the door.

"Come in," I said.

Mrs. Lang stepped inside, and then paused uncertainly as she saw me stretched out in hairy nakedness from the waist up. I made no move to get up. She probably thought I had the manners of a pig, but it didn't seem to matter.

I gestured indifferently toward the armchair. "Sit down."

She left the door slightly ajar and crossed to the chair. She sat with her knees pressed together, and nervously pulled down the hem of her dress, apparently ill-at-ease. "I-I wanted to talk to you," she said, as if uncertain how to begin.

"What about?" I asked. I raised myself on one elbow and nodded toward the dresser. "Bourbon there, and cigarettes. Help yourself."

You're doing fine, Chatham; you haven't completely lost touch with all the little amenities. You can still grunt, and point.

She shook her head. "Thank you, just the same." She paused, and then went on tentatively, "I believe you said you used to be a policeman, but aren't anymore?"

"That's right," I said.

"Would it be prying if I asked whether you're doing anything now?"

"The answer is no," I said. "On both counts. I have no job at all; I'm just on my way to Miami. The reason escapes me at the moment."

She frowned slightly, as if I puzzled her. "Would you be interested in doing something for me, if I could pay you?"

"Depends on what it is."

"I'll come right to the point. Will you try to find out who that man is?"

"Why me?" I asked.

She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "Because I got to thinking about the clever way you found out where he called from. You could do it. I can't stand it much longer, Mr. Chatham. I have to answer the phone, and sometimes when it rings I'm afraid I'm going to lose my mind. I don't know who he is, or where he is, or when he may be looking at me, and when I walk down the street, I cringe-"

I thought of that farcical meathead, Magruder. Nobody had ever been hurt over a telephone.

"No," I said.

"But why?" she asked helplessly. "I don't have much, but I would be glad to pay you anything within reason."

"In the first place, it's police work. And I'm not a policeman."

"But private detectives-"

"Are licensed. And operating without a license can get you in plenty of trouble. And in the second place, just identifying him is pointless. The only way to stop him is a conviction that will send him to jail or have him committed to a booby-hatch, and that means proof and an organization willing to prosecute. Which brings you right back to the police and the district attorney. If they're dragging their feet, there's nothing you can do about it."

"I see," she said wearily. I detested myself for cutting the ground from under her this way. She was a hell of a lot of very fine and sensitive girl taking too much punishment, and I could feel her pulling at me. What she was, showed all over her, if you believed in evidence at all. She had courage, and that thing that horseplayers call class, for lack of a better word, but they couldn't keep her going forever. She'd crack up. Then I wondered savagely why I was supposed to cry over her troubles. They were nothing to me, were they?

"Why don't you sell out and leave?" I asked.

"No!" The anger of it surprised me. Then she went on, more calmly. "My husband put everything he had left in this place, and I have no intention of selling it at a sacrifice and running like a scared child."

"Then why don't you landscape it? It looks so desolate it drives people away."

She stood up. "I'm aware of that. But I simply don't have the money."

And I had, I thought, and it was the kind of thing I was perhaps subconsciously looking for, but I didn't want to become involved with her. I didn't want to become involved with anybody. Period.

She hesitated at the door. "Then you won't even consider it?"

"No," I said. I didn't like the way she could get through to me, and I wanted to get her and her troubles off my back once and for all. "There's only one way I could stop him, if I did find him. Do you want to hire me to beat up an insane man?"

She flinched. "No! How awful-"

I went on roughly, interrupting her. "I'm not even sure I could. I was suspended from the San Francisco Police Department for brutality, but at least the man I beat up there was sane. I would assume there is a difference, so let's drop it."

She frowned again. "Brutality?"

"That's right."

She waited a minute for me to add something further, and when I didn't, she said, "I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Chatham," and went out and closed the door.

I returned to studying the ceiling. It was no different from a lot of others I had inspected.

Failure....

I'd always wanted to be a cop, and I'd been a pretty good one for six years. And now I was washed up, and had to start over at thirty-one because I'd lost my head for a few minutes. No, I thought; losing my head hadn't been the cause. It was merely another symptom, the one that had finally made me realize I didn't belong in police work, that I'd lost the level-headed impersonal attitude it required. I was no longer a pro; I was a crusader, a fanatic. Nan had seen it coming. She'd tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen. I'd lost her. And now I'd lost the job that had broken us up.

It was dope. Not taking it; hating it. And hating the people who pushed it. Two years ago I'd been assigned to a narcotics detail, and almost immediately it began to get to me. I didn't know why. It was a dirty business, but then so are lots of things a policeman comes in contact with in his daily work. Maybe it was kids, and what it did to them; a teenager trying to walk up the walls of Juvenile Detention in the agonies of withdrawal isn't a pretty sight. Neither is a sixteen-year-old girl being forcibly treated for VD picked up in trying to finance a thirty-dollar habit.

I went into town for supper that evening. When I got back, I saw a slim form silhouetted by the light over my door. I didn't recognize her until I got up close. It was the skinny, Indian-looking kid I'd seen in the place across the street, the comedian's girlfriend.

"You looking for me?" I asked.

She shrugged. "You worth looking for?"

"This is my room," I said, trying to move past her.

"Mine's down there," she said, nodding toward a cabin down the line and laying a hand on my arm to restrain me. "Want to take a look at it?"

The invitation was clear enough. She wasn't all that skinny, and she wasn't all that much of a kid, that I felt like turning her down. I allowed myself to be led back to the cabin she had indicated.

She didn't say anything as we walked. I studied her face, a smooth bronze mask with two deep pools of ink for eyes. Her raven hair was in thick braids. She wasn't wearing a bra under her flimsy muslin blouse, and her tits were high and firm. I had been wondering what people did around here for fun at night. It looked like I was about to find out.

"I got a friend," she said unexpectedly as I reached for the door.

"What kind of a friend?" I asked, suddenly wary. Maybe this crazy town had taken it into its head to punish me for consorting with Ida Lang. Maybe this was a trap.

"Take a look."

I stood back and kicked the door open. Another girl, not much older than the first, sat on the bed, staring at me in surprise. She was blonde. Not fat, but there was enough of every thing to grab hold of. I could tell that right away, because she wasn't wearing a stitch.

"Jesus, are you that horny?" the blonde demanded when she recovered from her surprise. "What kind of an animal did you bring, Lulu?"

"A big one," Lulu said, kicking the door shut behind her.

"You big enough for both of us, stud?" the blonde asked, her composure completely returned as she stretched her arms lazily above her head to put her big jiggly tits on display.

"Try this for size, kid," I said, unzipping my pants and flipping out my tool. It had swollen up for action at my first glimpse of the nude blonde.

Lulu reached down to fondle it with the expert interest of a connoisseur. "Not bad at all. Which one of us do you want to do first, big boy?"

"You haven't even introduced me to your friend yet," I said, jerking my thumb toward the blonde. "And you seem kind of overdressed."

"That's Brenda," she said, immediately taking steps to remedy my second complaint. She wiggled her snaky hips out of her tight jeans and cast her blouse aside. There wasn't much to her, but what there was, was perfect, a slim bronze spear of flame in the lamplight.

Taking Lulu by her tight little ass, I led her over to the bed and sat her down beside Brenda. Standing in front of them, I gave them each a thorough survey as I stripped for action. From the greedy stares of their hot eyes, the way they licked their lips at the sight of me, I knew I was in at last for a night of fast and furious fucking.

Before I could make my choice, Lulu leaned forward and seized my cock in her mouth. Watching with the interest of a true voyeur, Brenda kept her eyes on the action and absentmindedly began fingering her pussy. I rocked back and forward on the balls of my feet, sliding my long hot shaft in and out of Lulu's cherry-painted, hotly puckered lips.

"My turn," Brenda said, shoving her aside when she could stand merely to watch no longer.

Next thing I knew, Brenda was gobbling my dork, lavishing all of her considerable talents on its thick length. But Lulu, now that her appetite for cock had been whetted by a taste of mine, refused to be left out of the action. She leaned down to lick my balls while Brenda sucked my dick.

They soon worked out an interesting routine. They did it so smoothly I got the impression that they'd had plenty of practice. This must be what they did for kicks every night, instead of their homework.

First Brenda would suck my dick while Lulu licked my balls and tongued that portion of my tingling tool that the voluptuous blonde couldn't fit between her bee-sting lips. Then they would switch, with Lulu sucking and Brenda going down to titillate my testicles and the surplus of my immersed pecker. Sometimes they would alternate in rapid-fire succession, each one taking a quick suck before relinquishing my dick to her partner. It was a class act.

Then they tried a new variation. Each girl flicked her tongue up and down one side of my dick, giving it constant stimulation without actually sucking it. They moved so fast and so deftly in their intricate tongue-twisting that it was almost as good as having my prick sunk to the hilt in one or the other of their mouths.

It was so good, as a matter-of-fact, that I suddenly realized I was losing control. "Argh!" I cried. "Somebody, one of you-for Christ's sake-suck it!"

"You have to decide," Brenda mumbled, not missing a beat of her tongue-tickling witchery as she spoke.

"You choose," Brenda urged.

I don't think I made a conscious choice. There just wasn't time. I thrust blindly, and my rampaging prick wound up in the mouth of Lulu, the sultry Seminole, at the very instant that it erupted creamy torrents of gism. I rammed it all the way home, burying the head down in her throat and suffocating her with a nose full of pubic hair, riding her down onto the bed while she grunted beneath me.

Uncomfortable though it must have been for her, she was a cocksucking maniac, and she managed to take it all and suck it hard. She seemed to pull the hot spurts all the way up from my balls with her determined suction, finding more semen than I thought I had in me.

"Shit!" Brenda cried. "Lulu always gets them to cum in her mouth."

"Honest," I gasped as I finally unshipped my wet red tool from the depths of Lulu's ravaged gullet,"

"she was closer, that's all. If I knew it meant so much to you, I would have cum in your mouth."

Brenda still grumbled, but Lulu instantly mollified her by rolling over on her belly and slithering her head in between the blonde's big rounded thighs. Hardly pausing for breath after taking the full length of my cock and its explosive charge, she was busy at work eating Brenda's pussy.

Such a show never fails to grip my full interest, and I lay back on the bed and lit a cigarette while I watched the two succulent chicks at play. At first Lulu did all the work, but before long Brenda had completely gotten over her attack of the sulks and stretched out at full length on top of the ravishing redskin, eating Lulu's cunt while Lulu did a thorough number on hers.

All I needed to make my pleasure complete was Ida Lang herself, accompanied by Josie, the devastating black maid, and the five of us could suck and fuck and feel and fondle and lick the night away. But I realized that it was foolish to lie around wishing for more pussy when I'd barely scratched the surface of the possibilities that were wide open to me. The instant my dick began to tingle with renewed vigor, I snuffed out my half-smoked cigarette and gave the situation a thorough survey prior to choosing my next target of opportunity.

The welter of struggling limbs, bronze and rosy white, the number of available holes within reach of my swelling prick, gave me pause, but only for a moment. The quivering white cheeks of Brenda's big ass seized my interest above all else. Her cunt was plastered right down on Lulu's lecherous mouth, but I figured there was room to squeeze in there.

I knelt behind the big blonde and angled my prick, now stiff and hard as ever, down beneath her ass to the compressed opening of her cunt.

Lulu saw me coming, and she moved lower to work on Brenda's clit and give me room to enter. While she sucked on the blonde's lovebutton, her big dark eyes stayed fixed in lustful fascination on my prick. When finally I slid the head into Brenda's box, the shaft squeezed right alongside Lulu's cute little nose.

"Oh, God, yes, that's what I need!" Brenda squealed. "I forgive you for coming in her mouth-just as long as you give me the kind of fucking I need!"

Brenda might have said more, but the impatient aborigine grabbed her by her hair and shut her up by ramming her face down into her crotch again. Soon Brenda was hard at work on Lulu's cunt again, with only her moans and whimpers of pleasure indicating how much she liked the inward, squeezing thrust of my big cock.

Brenda's cunt was a little too crowded for comfort, I soon discovered. My balls barely had room to scrape past Lulu's face on each inward stroke. Matters were complicated by Lulu's eagerness to lick my dick, now that it was within licking range, and Brenda would squirm and wiggle with impatience whenever the other girl took her mouth away from her cunt to do it.

I decided to go where it was less crowded. I pulled my cock out of her cunt. It was all slimed with her pussy-juice, a perfect lubricant to ease the task I had in mind. I pressed the head firmly against her tight pink asshole and began to grind it inward.

"Get outta there, you-muff!" Brenda cried, or tried to, because her last words were cut off by Lulu's thighs as they gripped her head and pulled it down once more into her snatch.

"Do it!" Lulu mumbled around her mouthful of cunt. "Give her a good butt-fucking-nobody's done it to her yet, and I think it's high time she found out what she was missing."

It didn't matter what either of them had to say on the subject. My itching cock was doing my thinking for me now, and its only thought was to explore the innermost limits of Brenda's virginal bung-hole. I gripped her big fleshy ass firmly in both hands and twisted and thrust to corkscrew my prick deeper and deeper inside.

Pausing for breath, I knelt upright to take a good look, and found that all my efforts had succeeded only in burying the swollen head of my prick. Around its engorged girth, the ring of Brenda's asshole was shiny and purple with the strain of being stretched so far.

But I didn't stop, even though it was beginning to hurt me as much as it did her. The film of slimy pussy-juice that coated my cock was beginning to dry in the open air, and I would need its full lubrication to succeed. I forced my way inward, inch by slow inch, clawing at Brenda's buns for leverage until they burned bright red under my clawing fingers.

Seeing my difficulties, Lulu abandoned her efforts on the blonde's cunt and devoted all her attention to my prick, lapping at it with her saliva-coated tongue at the point where it was disappearing into Brenda's anus. That touch of delicious wetness was all the lubricant it needed, and soon the work went easily.

Brenda still struggled and bucked, but slim little Lulu was a hell of a lot stronger than she looked. The grip of her wiry thighs never slacked on Brenda's head, and her slim but muscular arms locked around the other girl's back in a vise-like grip. Brenda was meat on the hook, an irresistible piece of meat, while I kept pushing the hook deeper and deeper into her cherry ass.

At last I succeeded beyond all my expectations. My balls were squeezed up tight against her cunt, my pubic hair was nestled deep in the crease of her ass, and my cock was buried, every last possible inch of it, in her asshole. Lulu continued to lick my balls, the only parts of my genital equipment that she could now reach.

"God damn it, I feel like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey!" Brenda growled when Lulu at last slackened her grip and gave her a little room to breathe.

She sighed with relief when I began to remove the stuffing, but I was doing it only so I could put it back again, and she groaned once more as it began its inward slide. But before long she began to relax her uptight sphincter and learned to admit it as easily as she could to her cunt. She even began to enjoy it, and Lulu was able to ease her restraints and get back to the interrupted business of tonguing and sucking the blonde's pussy.

Even after she had relaxed thoroughly, Brenda's asshole was still tight and hotter and dryer than her pussy, so I was forced to move much more slowly than I would have liked. It seemed I went at a snail's pace as I fucked her in the ass, when I would have liked to gallop. But even that gave an extra little thrill to the task, so that when I finally let fly a load of cum into her rectal passage, it was one of the most satisfying ejaculations of the evening.

There were many more. I lost track and dozed off somewhere toward dawn, tangled in a heap with the two sexy girls. I was awakened sometime that morning by Josie's blood-curdling screams.

I disentangled myself, dressed and left the two girls to their dreams.

It seemed that someone who had registered during the night had wrecked one of the rooms with acid. When I called the police with his license number from the motel registration card, I discovered that the license number was my own. The vandal had apparently stolen my license plates.