Chapter 5

For the first time that Dr. Roger Harper could remember he did not feel like an outcast at a party. For the first time, he was almost the life of it. The liquor helped a lot. So did the sight of beautiful female bodies flitting back and forth amid the many rooms of Dorry Glenn's lavish home. Some of the bodies were nearly nude, for all the merrymakers were very, very drunk. Then, too, even without drunkenness as an excuse, many of them would be without parts of their clothing anyway. It was the way things were with people who worked in hospitals.

Roger sat on the floor in a corner of one of Dorry Glenn's three libraries. His back was braced against the wall, a nearly empty glass in his hand. His eyes were bleary, and they tried for more acute focusing every time someone passed him, especially when that someone was a girl.

He finished his drink and sat the glass on the carpet next to him. He looked around, wondering where Susan Crisp had disappeared to. Where, and with whom. He grinned foolishly, thinking that his revolt had begun with Susan, that somewhere during the time that he thrust to her jutting buttocks as she bobbed in orality to his friend, Jack Belton, he had been fed the seed of revolt. It had taken hold, too. With Susan and Jack, all things had converged upon him to change him. Hospital work, the fatigue of internship, the confusion of Riverdale, and his disdain for its administrators, all grouped and formed an attack to corrupt him. And it had worked. During a single act of crazy perversity, his principles, hopes, and idealism had been quickly dissipated, and he, like most of his peers, turned to the moment, the pleasure of it, the intensity of thrill that the moment could bring.

Some of the crowd had disappeared from the room. A few couples still remained in corners, on couches, in chairs, boldly caressing and kissing without regard for their exhibitions, perhaps even taking a little pleasure from it. Roger looked around and smiled. He wanted another drink. He looked at the bar, one of several scattered throughout the house, that sat in the corner of the room. He wanted to go to it and make a new drink. But he could not. He was too tired and unsteady. And, he was much too satisfied and comfortable right where he was.

Soon, his vision blurred again for a second. Then it quickly cleared as the scent of a light perfume and the rustle of a dress started to move past him. He looked up. It was Dorry Glenn, grateful former patient of Riverdale, radiant and wanton hostess of the party.

"Hey, there, hold it," Roger said, reaching his hand up and catching Dorry by the wrist.

"Why, Roger Harper, whatever are you all doing down there on the floor?" she said, the slight hint of a southern accent furring her words.

"Why, I'm just a-sittin' here and a-waitin' for you all, honey-chile," Roger said, the words slurring as they tried to mimic her.

Dorry laughed, then said, "Now I know my party's a success. Why, you-all didn't even pay any attention to me when I was in that awful hospital for that terrible operation. And now, why, honey, now you're all sprawled out all over my floor as drunk as all of us."

"Yeahhhhhh," he breathed, winking at her.

He jerked on her wrist to bring her down beside him. Dorry needed very little encouragement. She went immediately to her knees at his side, tossed the glass she had been carrying to the carpet, then caught his face in both her hands and raised his mouth to know the hot sting of her lips and tongue.

Roger held her very tight. His head spun crazily as Dorry swamped him with her tongue, as her hand wandered from his cheek to his shirt where it paused, undid a button, sneaked inside, then touched at all of his hard, bare chest. Dorry drew her tongue back, rested a moment, but kept her hand busy inside his shirt, moving, moving, constantly moving, dipping downward, too, coming always nearer the waistband of his trousers. Roger opened his eyes and saw her closed eyes as her lips continued to press against his. It was very interesting watching parts of his own kissing episode, he decided. He could see a blur of Dorry's nose as it moved in and out of his vision as she moaned and moved her head gently from side to side, adding excitement and vitality to her lips. And Roger could see strands of her platinum hair as it whisked in front of his face. It was very exciting for him. It stirred him greatly, especially when he remembered the full vision of Dorry Glenn, as he recalled the short, emerald-green cocktail dress that she wore and the way the front swooped downward in a wide vee that did not finally end until it was well beneath her navel. He remembered the shortness of the mini-dress, too, the way it flared out in a bell-shape many inches above her knees, showing hints of her thighs and all of her long, lean, and very shapely legs. Roger remembered their bareness, sound evidence of the absence of underclothing.

Roger closed his eyes and intensified his hold around Dorry's waist. Now, he did not need memories of her body as stimulation. It was not necessary. Nothing was, for he could feel the crush of her large breasts, feel her hand at his waist trying to sneak down beneath the restriction of his belt, and he could feel the lower half of her body pressing, pushing, insisting upon a positioning that would bring her closer into contact with his loins where the effect of her closeness was overwhelmingly evident.

Roger groaned, brought both his hands from

Dorry's back to her buttocks, then boosted her atop him as he rolled to his back.

Dorry whimpered a happy sound. One hand went from Roger's neck up quickly to entwine fingers into his tight, black curly hair. She gripped him hard and as their kiss resumed, Dorry shot her tongue deeply into Rog's mouth and he took it to draw upon it. He felt the slow withdrawal of her other hand that could not creep inside his belt. He missed its touch. But only for a moment. Then he knew it again as it moved between their bodies, cupped the hard tent that the strain of his masculinity had caused and squeezed hard.

Rog gurgled a throaty sound into his mouth. Dorry answered it with a sweet-scented breath carrying a hum. Then she released her fingers and locked them upon him again. Now, sounds from both their throats met together within the channel of their locked mouths. And in a moment, the sounds got wilder as Dorry worked her hand feverishly, then suddenly stopped to lift her fingers to the top of his zipper tab.

But Roger was not at this moment to know the thrill of a woman withdrawing him for loving. He was not to know it because at that very moment a voice from above sounded, causing interruption. They both turned and looked at their intruder.

It was Dorry's husband.

Wayne Glenn was very drunk. He stood above his wife and Roger, looking down at them, smiling, not the least upset at the tangle of their bodies, not at all perturbed by the position of Dorry's fingers that still rested on the intern's zipper tab. Nor did Wayne seem to have any husbandly concern for her breasts, both of which were two-thirds exposed with one even showing the hard point of its end. Wayne seemed not to mind at all, and Roger, looking at him through newly blurred vision and feeling even more drunk than before because of the interruption, thought that Wayne seemed like the jolliest person in the world. He was short and rather stocky and there was a sense of wealth about him that made people think him more attractive than was rightfully his due. Wayne's smile interested Roger, too. It was as if the man always smiled. It was as if his grin would have widened had his wife continued her involvement with Roger right down to the very end.

"Cripes, I'm sorry to disturb you, honey," Wayne said to his wife. "But there's one hell of a piece of entertainment going on and everybody's been asking for you."

"Of course, Wayne," Dorry said. "I just stopped with Rog here for a second to see how he's getting along."

"And how is he getting along?" Wayne asked, glancing at Roger.

"Oh, he's all a-makin' it just fine, honey." she said. "He's a-coming along longer and longer and--. "

Wayne Glenn laughed hard. His body giggled, rippling creases at each side of his tight fitting dinner jacket.

Roger pushed up to a sitting position. He grinned up at Wayne Glenn and asked, "Did you say something about entertainment?"

"Yes. Seems that one of your medical men is exploiting his chosen-specialty?"

"Huh?" Rog said, cocking his head to one" side. "That big fellow-Cory what-ever-his-name-is-hell, he's got the place swinging."

The drunken fog cleared sufficiently for Roger to recognize the description of Cory Matthew, a fellow-intern who hoped to become a psychiatrist.

"Ole' Cory," Rog said. "He's the guy who can do it, too. What's he up to-playing head-shrinker."

"Yes. And with demonstrations," Wayne answered, smiling luridly.

"Man-I all just have to see this little ole' thing," Dorry said, scrambling to her feet, then extending her hand toward Rog and adding, "Come on, honey, mama'll give you a boost."

Rog clutched the offered hand and half-pushed, half was pulled, up to his feet. He grinned inanely at Wayne, looking down at him for Roger towered at least a half-foot taller. And for a moment, as Wayne looked up at the intern, it appeared that the shorter man had become aware of the contrast between them, especially that contrast that emphasized Roger's dark, handsome looks, the olive-brown-ruddiness of his complexion split by a flashing white smile, and the black, curly hair. But, if Wayne Glenn felt any remorse for the comparison he had made, he did not show it.

Dorry gripped Roger's arm and cuddled close. "Come on," she said. "I'm just all a-flutter to see what's going on."

"You two go ahead," Wayne suggested. "I have some drinks to make for some people. See you later-maybe. That is, if I don't see one or both of you before that goddamn audience that this Cory character's gotten into the act."

Dorry giggled. Roger smiled. Wayne laughed, then turned from them and moved toward the bar at the other end of the room.

Pressing her breast hard against his arm, Dorry led Roger out of the room, through several others, and finally guided him expertly into the large living room where it seemed that most of the guests had gathered in a large circle. Most of them were sitting on the floor. Many stood behind the sitters. And in the middle of the circle there was Cory Matthew, psychiatry-aspirant, sitting in nothing but his undershorts on a straight backed chair.

Dorry and Roger halted at the outside of the rim of people. She glanced around, smiled at many who nodded or called to her, then cuddled tighter against Roger, so tight that he could feel the hot jab of her excited nipples.

"All right now," Cory Matthew called out. "We're just about to go into a new phase of psychiatric development-a phase that's called 'acting out'. "

"Acting out?" a girl's voice called from the crowd. "Just what are we going to act out, baby ? "

"You'll see," Cory told her. "What we in psychiatry want is that everyone should feel perfectly at ease in acting out their repressed fears and desires."

"I'll act mine out right now," one of the interns exclaimed. In a moment there was the shuffle of bodies and the excited giggle of a nurse who was sitting next to him as he tried to force her flat on the floor.

"All right, all right," Cory said patiently. "Now, let's start." He paused, shifted his eyes around the circle until they touched on everyone. Then he said, "This is a medical crowd, so we can be perfectly frank with each other. And we know that all of us are just filled with all kinds of repressed sexual desires-I repeat, sexual desires, whether they appear to you that way or not."

"Now just what in the hell does that mean?" a girl from the crowd wanted to know.

"It means that no matter what you think of, it's somehow connected with sex."

"That's stupid," cried the girl. "It's stupid because right this very moment I had a flashing thought of a rough, turkish towel and I'd like to know how the hell that's connected with sex!"

Dr. Cory Matthew leaped to his feet. He jumped up and down like a madman, crying, "It worked it worked-it worked free association, it worked, I'll be a sonofagun, it worked and I'm going to make Freud look like a punk."

"Man-I know what's working for you," a male voice shouted. "It's the bughouse!"

"No, no, no," Cory exclaimed. "Where's that young lady-the one who had the fantasy about the towel."

"Right here," a young, female voice said.

Roger looked in the direction of the voice. In a moment, he saw one of the first session student nurses stand up. She looked incredibly young, probably only seventeen, Roger decided, then he thought how funny it was that a girl of seventeen-undoubtedly one who had been so superior through high school that she was accepted for nurses' training at the very minimum age-how odd it was that she should be the first to present herself as Cory Matthew's obvious subject of experimentation. Then Roger looked closer and knew the motivation behind the young girl's precociousness. She was very drunk, even a bit more drunk, Rog guessed, than anyone in the room. And the little student nurse showed the signs of what that drunkenness had already cost her. She wore what had once been an expensive dress, kind of a best dress for a dressed-up high school girl. It was torn at the bodice. One of her bare breasts, large and round and extremely firm, it seemed to Rog, was partly revealed while the nipple was fully revealed through a rip, giving it the impression of an evil window-peeper. The dress was ripped at its hem, too, practically sheared from her body as the rip ran diagonally up her from below her right knee to her left hip. Only flesh flashed from beneath it, making it obvious that undergarments had either not been worn, or more-likely, had been worn, then removed from her body for awhile before the dress had been donned once again. Her lips were without lipstick, yet the stain of it was still there. Her blonde hair was a mess-an erotic mess as if it had known the tangle of male fingers. The girl's eyes looked watery and quite far away. She wore a smile, a bit faded, but very curious, and it appeared that she was very pleased with the attention for herself that she had created.

"Will you step up here, dear?" Cory Matthew said, his voice going deep as he continued to play the role of psychiatrist.

"Sure, watch me," the girl replied.

She moved forward from the crowd, swayed a bit, nearly fell, then, when an outstretched hand righted her, she moved forward, still swaying and looking rather small and helpless.

"Ahhh, fine," Cory said, greeting the girl as she stepped in front of him.

"What do you want with me, Doctor?" she asked.

"Hum, silly child," Cory answered, raising his eyebrows in a comic way.

The girl swayed dizzily and Cory caught her by the forearm. Then he said, "All right, little girl. I'm going to show you that it's not at all silly that there are sexual associations to the towel you thought of, even show you that a towel itself is very sexual."

"Come on, let's get with it, head-shrinker," somebody called out.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah-I'm gettin', " Cory answered. "All right, somebody toss me a towel up here."

"Is the one I'm wearing all right?" a girl asked.

Roger looked at the girl. So did the rest of the audience. She was, indeed, wearing a large, turkish towel-that and nothing more.

"That one will do very nicely," Cory said.

The girl undid the tuck of the towel that she had made at the side. She whipped it from her body, then tossed the towel to Cory. There were sounds of approval for her naked body. She smiled, then giggled, and then with a very minimum of embarrassment, rejoined the man with whom she had been standing.

Cory handed the little student nurse the towel. She took it, looked at the intern, then shrugged her shoulders.

"So, we've already seen one example of the sexual relationship of a towel-it was being used by that young lady as a sarong," Cory explained. "Now, you take the towel and do what you want with it."

The nurse took the towel. She looked around at the crowd, then to Cory said, "Well, when I think of a towel I always think of stepping out of a shower."

"Fine. Step out of a shower, my dear."

"Right here?"

"Of course. We're all friends. And this is a dramatic session of psycho-drama, and in such a psychiatric demonstration most of us lose our inhibitions. So-lose yours, eh?"

"Well-all right."

Cory grinned. The audience grew silent. Roger felt Dorry Glenn's hand sneak around his waist. Then he felt her hug him to her body. And then she was whispering into his ear.

"Does it excite you, darling?" Dorry asked.

"Everything excites me," he answered.

"Ummmmm, good. Maybe later you'll let me really show you some excitement."

"You better believe it," he said.

The girl with the towel looked perplexed for a moment. Then inspiration lighted her eyes. First, she raised the rough, turkish towel to her cheek, then she rubbed it there, cuddled her cheek to it like a child snuggling up to a favorite stuffed toy. Then she brought the towel down. Then she raised her other hand and very quickly pulled upon her dress, making a final tear of its hold upon her as a ripping sound echoed throughout the room. She dropped the remnants of her dress to the floor and to Roger it looked like the relinquishing of childhood for, nude, the girl looked even younger. For a moment, the girl paraded back and forth in front of Cory, seeming less drunk now, yet filled with some new excitement for the naked, daring picture she made for the others. She stopped and faced the audience, standing next to Cory. Then she lifted her head high, strained it back a bit, and brought the towel up to her neck where she gently rubbed.

Roger saw the young girl tremble when the first contact of towel to flesh was made. And strangely, crazily, he felt a reaction run throughout his own body. He wondered if it came from the sight of the girl or because of the nearness of Dorry Glenn. Then he watched as the girl lowered the towel and in turn rubbed it over each of her breasts. Then he knew that his excitement was surely caused by the display of the student nurse, that, all that he now felt was a result of the things that had been building within him for weeks, that he had joined all the others, had become a part of corruption and gross sexual drives, that he was now public and no longer private. And he didn't give a damn, couldn't care less as he considered that life was really easier when it wasn't encumbered with principles and stupid idealism.

The student nurse lowered the turkish towel from her breasts to her small, white stomach. She circled it there in an ever-widening sweep, raising the towel to her breasts, then lowering it to the very topmost parts of her thighs. Around and around and around she played the towel upon her body. And her face showed the effects of her massage. With her head still strained backwards, the girl's eyes half-closed and her puffy-lips parted, showing the tiniest bit of white teeth through them. And lines of strain furrowed on her forehead, giving the impression of immense concentration. Her stomach muscles tightened and furrowed in almost the same pattern that her forehead showed. Her thighs started trembling. Her dimpled knees knocked together for a second, paused, then knocked again. And then she lowered the towel and rubbed it at a place that, despite her nudity-despite the luridness of the party-brought an erotic gasp from the audience.

Roger's body alerted. So did Dorry next to him. Her hand kneaded at the flesh of his waist. And he swung his arm around her and cuddled her close, much as if he needed the support of her nearness for the things that were to follow. What immediately followed, was unexpected.

With a heavy sigh, the girl stopped her action and let the hand that held the towel drop to her side.

"It's no good, head-shrinker," she said. "The towel doesn't do a thing for me-not a thing except to get me excited."

"Uh huh," Cory Matthew said, lilting the words enthusiastically. "That's good."

"Good?"

"Of course," he continued. "It shows me the way to your responses."

"It does," she said dumbly.

"Yep. You see, by you banishing the towel, giving it up, and starting to talk about it, you've demonstrated by association that you are highly oral-very oral, indeed, and that you will respond to certain perversions where a towel is used. Now I say perversions reservedly. To psychiatry there are no sexual perversions-everything's normal."

"Yippeeeee," a girl shouted. "Now I don't have to worry about being in love with Audrey anymore."

"As if you ever did," a man laughed at her.

"All right, children, quiet down now," the pretend-psychiatrist, Cory said. Then, to the student nurse he said, "Now, my dear, if you'll just lie down on the floor here as if it were my couch."

"Man-now this psycho-drama bit's getting worthwhile," a girl giggled.

The student nurse smiled rather blankly out into the audience. Then, as if presenting herself as an actress in a skit, she turned in a small circle, displaying her naked body in a more wanton pose, shimmering her buttocks, letting her bare breasts bounce happily, even showing the rub of her thighs as they kissed together as she walked in an exaggerated way. Then she moved in front of Cory and stretched on her back upon the floor, assuming a position that placed her head near where he sat, much like that of a psychoanalytic patient prone before her therapist.

"The towel please," Cory said.

The girl raised her arm and reached the towel behind her.

Cory took it. He looked down at the naked girl. There was a hush and lull amid the audience that gave the impression that they had identified with Cory, that each of them by transference had placed themself in Cory's position of dominance over the beautiful young girl.

Roger felt it, too. He felt that stir of his manhood strengthen again and he recognized that he was very tense, very much a part of the proceedings and especially a part of the next moment.

The next moment presented Cory with the towel, twisting it into a loose length as he looked down at the girl's partially opened mouth. He moved off the chair where he had been sitting. Roger saw that the intern had become excited. His arousal pressed against the thin material of his shorts. A slight quiver was discernible in the hand that held the towel.

Cory kneeled next to the girl on the side of her that was furthest from the audience. Again, he glanced at all of her naked body. Then his right hand trailed a path down all that his eyes had viewed, touching at her neck and shoulders, at her breasts and belly and finally at her thighs where he lingered a moment, gently cupping and un-cupping his hand over her love mound. Then he brought that hand up to her hair. He wound his fingers into the thick blondeness of her hair. Gently, he tugged her head back a bit. Then he raised the towel with the other hand and brought it to her lips. The girl shot him a frightened look, but it quickly faded. She looked away from him, stared straight ahead, then opened her mouth.

A sound like a gasp rose and fell from the audience as Cory stuffed the end of the towel into the student nurse's mouth. Then it was silent except for the exerted breathing that began to issue from Cory's throat. He worked a little faster. He stuffed more of the towel into her mouth, then crammed it deeper until he paused, gathered more of the rough turkish material into a ball, and crammed again. Gurgling, choking noises sputtered from the girl's throat and mouth but she made no move to turn away from the constant descent of the towel.

A part of Roger Harper wanted him to turn away from the evil scene. But another, new, part of himself forbade it. He stared straight ahead, still feeling the effects of drunkenness, still feeling the closeness of Dorry Glenn beside him, yet finding neither delight or repulsion in the scene of the seventeen year old girl's gagging.

Cory made a mighty twist with his hand, jamming most of the towel deep into the girl's throat. Her eyes rolled. Her breasts heaved and her stomach stammered. But when a flush scorched at her cheeks, Cory, brutally, jerked the towel from her mouth.

The girl's head raised with it, then snapped back to the floor. She continued to stare straight ahead and her mouth remained open, almost anxiously open, it seemed.

Working faster now, Cory stuffed the towel into the girl's mouth, gathering the material quickly with his fingers, balling it together, then crashing it within her. And again, after most of the towel had been concealed in her mouth, Cory waited a second, then jerked it clear.

He repeated the action again and again. And with every withdrawal of the towel, the girl seemed to react with increasing excitement. It was as if the stuffing and its release, so that she could breath again, was some mad replica of the act of love itself. And as her eyes rolled in response, so did her body begin tiny, convulsive movements that were indisputably those movements of mounting thrill. Her nipples hardened. Her flesh at thighs and belly quivered madly. Her toes pointed and her hips began to bounce lightly upon the carpeted floor. And, as if there was a sharing of the same thrill, Cory began to react too. Perspiration dotted his forehead. The bulge at his shorts became immense. And his efforts became enormous as he stuffed, crammed, jammed, pushed, clogged and twisted, then released the towel, then did it all over again in constantly mounting sequence. And very soon it was like a single motion that gave, then took away the rough towel.

Roger was sure that everyone in the audience, himself included, had never experienced such a dryness in their own throats. And he was sure that they, like himself, felt that the girl could stand little more of the rough gagging. And finally, when it appeared that she would surely suffocate, she emitted a tiny, dry cry and struck her arm out to the side.

The student nurse's hand closed upon the protrusion of Cory Matthew's shorts. His body nearly convulsed because of the touch. And it was the signal for the finale, for his last jamming efforts with the towel. He crunched all of the towel into her mouth, let it remain there while he jammed his hand atop it and tried to force a swallow, a complete, impossible taking of the towel. And while he held it deeply in her throat, the girl's hand moved, bunched man and cloth together in her own crunching manipulation of his body. Suddenly, while Cory nearly slumped from exhaustion and from the thrill of the girl's moving hand, he jerked the towel from her mouth a final time.

All of the girl's body arched as the towel was extracted from her throat. She bent like an Indian bow even as her body convulsed, as her hips spun and pounded in this lower response to the climax of the gagging. She shook as if she had been terror-struck. Her hand moved as if life itself depended upon it. And from its movement, Cory knew his own orgasm, his own finale to the scene he had invented and played until it could be played no more.

When Cory pitched forward and fell to the floor next to the girl; panting, mumbling; his sounds mixing with the heavy, exerted, after-sounds-of-love that she muttered, the audience sighed as if every one of them had played a major, even if subconscious, role in the drama that had taken place. And then it was deathly quiet and remained that way until Cory finally rose from the floor, straightened his soggy shorts, and turned to face the audience again.

He glanced back and forth across the first row of the audience. He did not smile. He looked very serious and his voice was deep and serious too when he said, "I guess we'll never stop being astounded by the emotions that are in us-the emotions that yearn for expression."

The words had extra meaning for Roger. Lately, he had learned for himself of the very personal emotions that sought, often demanded, expression. And he knew that they could change a life, divert it from seriousness of purpose to a squander of energy and talent. But at least in the squandering of these things, he thought, there is the joy of a few minutes forgetfulness for all that was wrong and sick in the world.

"Now," said Cory, a little strength and confidence returning to his voice. "We have just demonstrated the purpose and execution of this particular phase of what we call 'psycho-drama'-that is, the acting out of our repressed wishes. So, now, is there anyone else who would like to step up here and demonstrate their own secret wishes ? Anything goes-anyone and everyone can play the game because repression of sexual yearnings is a part of every man, woman, and child in all the world."

Cory stopped and again slowly turned, letting his eyes touch at every face in the room.

When Cory had turned so that he faced directly at Dorry and Roger, Rog felt the girl's body stiffen. Then he sensed, but did not see, the quick glance that she tossed at him. The grip of her hand upon his waist slackened a bit as if undecided about something. And still Cory Matthew stared at the platinum-haired hostess making Roger think that there passed between them some signal of experience each had for the other. In a moment, Dorry's hand dropped from Roger's waist altogether. Then she stepped a pace away from him.

Roger turned and looked into Dorry Glenn's eyes. They were filled with some slowly-creeping emotion that Rog placed someplace in the middle of fear and desire, or, better put, as fear of a desire, he thought.

"Who would like to act out their repressions?"

Cory Matthew stated flatly, looking straight at Dorry.

There was a pause. The audience's hush continued. And then it was broken.

"I will," said Dorry Glenn.

All eyes turned to her. She hesitated a moment, then breathed deeply and hurried through the crowd to stop before Cory Matthew.

Cory smiled. "Thank you-or perhaps, you should thank us." Cory made a deep bow, holding his hand out to the audience in the manner of a master of ceremonies presenting an act. Then he stepped back.

Dorry turned and faced the audience.

She cleared her throat once, then said, "This may sound a little absurd-it sounds that way to me, too, when I put it into words-but, Iwell, ever since I was about ten-I'm twenty-nine now, so that makes it nineteen years-anyway, ever since I was a small girl, I've-liked to be-to be beaten."

She paused. There was a nervous cough from the audience but other than that it remained quiet in the room.

"You see, it's a little different for me, however," Dorry continued. "You see, I like all sorts of things-and I'm different than other terribly repressed people too because I pretty damn well act out most of my desires."

There was a murmur of amusement from the crowd, killing the silence, returning everyone a little closer to a party-mood.

"So, it's that simple. I like to be beaten. I get a real charge out of it. Then, when the scars get too bad, I take a little visit to a hospital and have the damage repaired. I'm repaired now, so if there is anyone here who-who-likes to be on the other end of a thrashing, well-I'm-I'm willing-willing and available."

She stepped back a pace as if making room for a partner who would soon appear.

For perhaps three full minutes, no one moved. Then there was a slight commotion from one end of the room and a tall, very young looking intern, stood up and began to weave through the people seated on the floor.

Rog looked at the boy. He knew him well. His name was Lane and Roger reflected, as he often did, on the professional data concerning this particular intern. Roger recalled that Lane was considered a brilliant medical student, perhaps only second in the hospital to himself. He remembered too that both Lane's father and grandfather had been doctors. Lane's interest in specialization was intense. Orthopedics was to be his field. Roger shifted his position uneasily and watched as Lane, staggering considerably, finally stopped before Dorry Glenn and gave her a sick smile. Rog flinched, thinking of bones and orthopedics and the obvious sadism that had moved Lane to the front of the audience. Then he flinched more severely as he fantasized some future that might find a man such as Lane setting, or re-setting, or re-breaking a bone of a helpless patient, perhaps even doing so without the benefit of anesthesia.

"Welcome," Dorry said to Lane. "I'm-I'm at your service and I guess you're at mine too."

Lane blinked, smiled, then said, "Yeah, it kind of looks that way doesn't it." Roger observed that Lane was very, very drunk.

It seemed that he could hardly remain upright, yet he did. And it seemed that Lane, with his innocent look, the baby blue eyes and blonde hair that seemed not yet to have departed from childhood, was hardly the type one would expect to come forward to express sadistic tendencies.

Before the thought had left Roger's mind, he was jolted to alertness for Lane, suddenly lashing out, crushed a hard fist into the middle of Dorry Glenn's stomach. She gasped and bent over as her face turned sheet-white. But even before the sick sound had died, Lane struck her again, this time with his other fist and fully on her right breast. Dorry straightened, gasped again, then slumped to the floor.

Lane started to breath hard. He stood above Dorry, looking down at her, contempt crossing his face and sending the innocent look scampering. Then he reached down with both hands and jerked her to her feet. He took a pace backwards and paused. Dorry swayed. Her face was still as white as death but she made no move to leave the scene of her beating.

Suddenly, Lane uttered a mad cry and leaped at her again. This time he shot both his hands to her breasts. He held them for a moment, then crunched them hard. Dorry stammered a cry. But it was nothing compared to the one that issued from here when Lane, as if he were turning giant knobs, brutally twisted her breasts, each in an opposite direction.

Roger heard excited breathing near him. He turned. There was nothing to indicate its source. Then he listened very hard and discovered that the breathing was his own, that he panted hard, much as if the exertion that Lane displayed, that and the pain Dorry received, was a part of himself.

Lane released his hold upon Dorry's breasts. He stepped back.

Dorry, gasping now, straightened and faced her tormentor. Her chin lifted high and her mouth opened slightly. Then she straightened and thrust her hurt breasts forward like defiant moons.

Lane approached her. Now, he moved more slowly. But the expression on his face had turned more evil. He stepped close to her, then, very carefully reached one hand out, locked it within the bodice of her frock and gave it a terrifying jerk.

Dorry was flung forward with the tearing dress. She crashed against Lane's body, then stumbled a pace away from him as her cocktail dress split from her body and fell on the floor. She straightened. She looked like some irresistible she-devil as she faced Lane, completely nude except for the high, spikeheeled shoes that she wore. They glistened from the lights of the room. They looked very smooth and were apparently made of some type of extremely smooth leather. They, like the banished dress, were an emerald-green color.

Roger's eyes raced over Dorry's body. He saw a cruel bruise at the pit of her stomach and at the side of one breast. He could not help reflecting that she probably already suffered a fractured rib or two.

Dorry, as if she were suddenly proud of her nudity and the various scars, new and healed, that it revealed, began to strut in a small circle in front of the intern, Lane. He watched her, smiling. She looked very tall, very desirable, for her breasts bounced as if they had not been molested, and her buttocks rippled wickedly. Her skin was very white and it was difficult to determine if it was emphasized this way because of her platinum hair, or if the hair had that angel-fluff cast to it because of her complexion.

Dorry paused and faced Lane. He took a step nearer her. He paused. Dorry smiled and breathed deeply, kind of presenting a longer stretch of herself for his inspection. His eyes traveled her body, then held directly at her thighs. His smile widened. He raised both hands and hooked the fingers inside his belt at the front, looping them over a vicious looking, metal belt buckle. Then his smile faded. He began to fondle his belt, then, abruptly stopped when a man's cry issued from the audience.

Roger looked to the other side of the room. Then he saw a young intern, dressed only in shorts and still uttering weird sounds from his throat, rush forward, half-falling, staggering, nearly collapsing but always righting himself until at last he reached the front and stopped in front of Dorry.

His body trembled madly. His eyes watered and stared at Dorry with the most intense pleading that Roger had ever seen. Then, with another, kind of final cry, the man fell to his knees in front of Dorry and lowered his mouth to her right shoe.

A mumble of confused, very soft conversation started among the audience. Then it stopped as the man worked his mouth over Dorry's high-heeled shoe, kissing at all the smooth leather, mouthing at it, then drawing back a bit in order to allow his sharp, moving tongue to loll over the toe. It worked feverishly. It flicked at the toe of the shoe. It rolled around the sides. It ran up and down the long heel, even touched beneath the heel and beneath the sole, always working, constantly moving, never stopping, flicking around all the leather again and again. And as his tongue caressed the shoe, as his hands gently lifted it and reverently held it, he seemed unaware of the long, white flesh that Dorry raised in order to make all of the shoe available to him. And soon, he paused. He groaned and glanced up at Dorry, proclaiming his gratitude to her with his doe-like eyes. Then he lowered her foot and switched to the other shoe. He lifted it and held it as he had the other. Then he imparted new, hotter kisses to the shoe, working his tongue over the leather as if it were a small, searching serpent following an unceasing path throughout its life.

After the intern had covered the shoe with his tongue several times, after he had licked and mouthed and whisked at every part of it, his body began to stammer convulsively. From his bent position over the shoe, the stretch of his masculinity was easily seen. Suddenly, with a new cry, he mouthed the entire toe of the shoe and began a violent sucking motion upon it, moving forward and back at the same time that he brought one hand down to grip himself. His fingers squeezed in a clasping motion and very quickly, with utter finality, he mouthed the toe of the leather shoe a final time and gripped himself even harder in climax.

His gurgled cry of release was eerie. But when it ended, he simply lowered Dorry's shoe to the floor, then rose, glanced at the audience before him and quickly returned to his place among them.

There was a buzz of whispers. There was silence.

Dorry smiled out at the audience, but made no comment. Nor did Lane who was still facing her and fondling his thick, heavy-buckled, leather belt.

The smile returned to Lane's face as he unhooked the buckle of his belt and slowly drew it through the belt hoops and free of his body.

Dorry raised her chin a bit higher. It trembled. But it was from excitement, not fear. Lane grasped the end of the belt and drew it back. The heavy buckle made a dull thud on the carpeting. Then in a lightening motion he drew it back and lashed it forward. The buckle caught Dorry on the side of her left breast. An ugly welt immediately arose. Then Lane withdrew the belt and lashed it forward again, striking Dorry again and again, driving her back with its fury as it sliced at her belly and breasts, cutting deep into flesh, making blood ooze and dribble down her bare body.

Lane stopped his beating for a moment. Dorry straightened her body, retaining erectness from the slumped position she had assumed. Lane was breathing very hard. His excitement was enormous and so was the sign of that excitement which bulged at his trousers. Belt in hand, he approached Dorry. She looked into his eyes, smiled, then turned to the side and bent far over, jutting her buttocks upward, centering them in a position before him that left no doubt as to what was intended for them.

Roger leaned forward, staring hard at Dorry's buttocks. He saw the outlines of fierce scars that were crisscrossed with the marks of repairable plastic surgery, with the tiny, network of lines that, to him at least, represented years of struggle and work, more years of internship and residency training, then still more years of surgery for some able doctor, years of standing beneath hot lights, years that made legs ache from weariness, years that made unsure hands steady and grow skilled, years that turned hesitancy into sureness and confidence. All this Roger saw and felt as he looked at Dorry's jutting buttocks as they glistened beneath the light.

The intern, Lane, looked at them too. Then he stepped back a pace and gave them a terrific whack with the belt buckle. Dorry, bending over, her breasts hanging toward the carpeting, jolted. But she maintained her position as Lane brought the belt crashing to her buttocks again and again. But then he suddenly stopped. He looked at her. Then, as if taken with an entirely new, much more brutal desire, he moved toward her.

He paused directly behind her. He doubled the belt up as if momentarily putting it to rest. Then with a lunge he leaped at Dorry, caught her left wrist with his right hand and jerked it behind her in a kind of arm-lock. Her eyes widened as Lane yanked the arm upward, relaxed it, then yanked again. Her mouth shot open and her eyes bugged, but she offered no resistance to this new pain that was brought to her. She seemed to welcome it. Lane yanked brutally again, then let the arm drop limply to Dorry's side. The arm dangled. She remained bent over.

Now, Lane seemed to become very excited. He took a short grip upon the belt, doubling the strength of the leather in a way that offered more heaviness and strength to the metal buckle. Then he drew it back and gave a vicious slice against Dorry's buttocks. A new welt arose and when Lane struck her in the same place again, it burst open and blood seeped, then streaked down her body. And then he hit her again and again in a violent attack upon the very places of her buttocks that had been surgically repaired. Old cuts reopened, puffed and turned blue-black, and oozed with new blood. And Dorry seemed to love it. Her buttocks could not be vanquished: They jutted even more audaciously. Her eyes narrowed and her tongue pinked out from her lips as if it had been plopped there by her hard breathing Her breasts, hanging downward, were heavy and appeared to be growing, taking new heat and passion within them. They were topped by nipples that looked close to bursting, like hard cherries a day late for picking. But it was in her face that the true effects of her beating showed: It was there that all the signs pointed to her approaching climax.

Roger looked closely at her expression. Then he shifted his eyes to the blood-smeared buttocks. He felt sick: not because of the sight, nor even because of the beating that marred her. He felt the clutch of nausea because of the careful surgical work that had, within moments, been undone. He felt a stammer in his body that was even more pronounced than that which either Dorry or

Lane knew. He felt filled with resentment-a strong violence of his own, a hate and force of his own that he did not understand, an urge for the expression of all the things that bubbled within him. His fists clenched. He felt a jamming sting in his chest, a cramp at his stomach, a tenseness of all his muscles. He felt, too, the new surge that his manhood made. It was as if this alone offered him the way of expression for the things he felt; for his sorrow at surgical work defeated, for his anger and for the strange confusion that had possessed him for so many weeks.

Lane crashed the belt again and again to Dorry's buttocks. The hard, metal buckle struck and cut her again and again until all of the white of her had become a smear of blood. And still he besieged her with blows from the belt, still he persisted in his brutality. And still Dorry seemed to desire it for her thighs quivered and her stomach muscles rippled in a new sign of increased passion, a signal of its approaching outlet.

And suddenly, Roger Harper could stand it no longer. He yelped a cry that seemed a mixture of vengeance and sorrow. He leaped forward, pushed through those people who were in front of him until he arrived in front of Dorry and Lane.

Shock, plainly showing on their faces, Dorry and Lane looked up at Roger. Lane let the belt lengthen loosely as he dropped his hand to the side. Dorry glanced at him. Then her eyes made a plea. He could not tell what she asked. Nor did he care. He was too filled with the confusion of his own thoughts to make any determination of her desires, whether they had changed, or whether they remained the same.

Lane's face poured sweat. It glistened when he smiled and held out the belt to Roger, offering as a surgeon would to his fellow.

Roger slapped it from his hand. Then, when Lane's expression changed and he stepped forward, Roger struck his hand out in a rough stiff-arm, catching Lane at the chest and sending him reeling backwards. He stumbled in front of the chair, then sprawled amid its splintering wood.

Dorry started to straighten, but Roger slapped one hand to the middle of her back and returned her to her bent, subservient position. Then, with the other hand, he fumbled at the front of his trousers. And suddenly he was free, free and driving forward, pouring all of his strength to her, oblivious of the audience, oblivious of everything except the wounds before him, the blood, and his intense will to heal them through an expression of love. It was as if his manhood was both a killer and a healer, as if the two were confused and might remain confused forever. And, it was as if he deemed to try to alleviate one of the two impulses, as if the one must be subdued before the other could be fulfilled.

Roger steamed all of his strength to Dorry Glenn, lurching violently, pouring it to her, hurting her yet loving her as he caused the hurt.

And Dorry seemed to catch hold of some new emotion within herself. She began to mumble soft words of desire and love. She seemed somehow, as if by medical magic, to have broken through her threshold of pain-oriented pleasure, to have broken through it in order to know the more exhilarating thrill of man's crushing lust.

Roger yelled a mad, orgasmic call and lurched to her a final time. Dorry duplicated his yell, even surpassed it with a mystery-shriek of some insane delight. And then the sound from both their throats slowed and softened as their bodies went weak and soft and quiet and they rolled to the floor together.

For a long time, there was only the sound of their mixed breathing. And then, suddenly, as if it had come from hell, there was another sound, the sound of a faint, feminine, but greatly hated voice.

"Well, Dr. Harper, how amusing you are," the voice said.

Roger raised his head, then jerked to a sitting position when he recognized the soft, purring voice-the voice that was usually crisp and mean-the voice of Mona Fiken.

Roger looked at her and although she appeared differently than he had ever seen her, he hated her voice, the slur of her words that indicated that she now had a hold upon him.

"Did you really cause all that, Doctor?" Mona asked, glancing toward Dorry's bloodied buttocks, and, at the same time indicating that she had only now arrived upon the scene.

Roger did not answer.

Mona smiled, then said, "Well, it doesn't matter, Dr. Harper. We've come to the party for pleasure. And-under the circumstances, I'm sure you'll be delighted with the little guest I've brought you."

Roger didn't understand her meaning until Mona turned, made a beckoning motion, then stood aside as Patty Pen stepped forward. Her eyes bubbled with excitement. Her body quivered in expectancy. And Roger, shifting his eyes from the teenaged girl to the supervisor of nurses, knew that he had become entrapped, that he had suddenly been made a partner in something that was against everything he had once cherished.