Chapter 2
Paula didn't make a hit as quickly. Two of the judges were in the drug store when she entered. One was a grim looking man of around thirty who struck her immediately as one of those people who take themselves too seriously. His mouth turned down at the corners and he barely noticed her, so intent was he upon the magazines he was picking out. She decided he was going to his room to read and jack himself off, pegged him as a cheap bastard who wouldn't even want to buy a girl dinner. Or else his wife had come along to the convention.
The other one was buying some sleeping pills. He had a prescription from his doctor back home in Vermont, which Paula read with ease from under her long dark golden lashes. She picked up some interested vibes from him, but a quick glance at his clothes told her he couldn't afford her price. They were shabby and shiny in the seat and at the elbows. She knew she could be wrong, that some very rich men are careless about their appearance, but she had a tendency to operate on instinct. Still, she gave him a nice little innocent glance when he turned toward her. He might be a fifty-dollar trick, but she doubted it. He smelled more like twenty-five, and she wanted a hundred.
He smiled. She didn't. "A bottle of Jergens hand lotion, please," she said to the clerk.
"My mother always used that," said the judge. He moved closer to her. She saw his fingernails and moved away, pretending faint alarm. His fingernails were not clean, and she doubted if he'd ever had a manicure in his life. They were all jagged. Not worth her time.
She paid for her purchase and left the drug store, which opened into the lobby. Two more judges were entering the store. One decided to play games. He stepped to the right when she did, and stepped to the left when she did. They danced around, side-stepping and smiling at one another while the other man went into the drug store, calling over his shoulder, "Come on, Harry. Goddammit, you're actin' like a teenage kid."
Paula smelled a very expensive cologne and appreciated the cut of the clothes. She laughed out loud, appearing to enjoy the game although she found it stupid. A glance at his name tag told her he was Harry Frame from Doolittle, Georgia. A whiff of his breath and his high color as well as his bleary eyes told her he was very, very drunk.
Paula preferred drunk tricks to sober ones. They were easy for her to manage, easy to convince they'd been laid when they hadn't, and sometimes didn't bother with anything more than a casual kiss and a few feels once they had a girl inside their room. Sometimes they even passed out cold once they hit the bed, which made it easy to lift a couple of nice-sized bills from their wallets in exchange for nothing.
"What are you up to, you little dickens?" Old Harry was a card, she thought nastily as she gave him a bright smile.
He came very close to her and looked at her tits, with his eyes all bugged out in appreciation. In a hoarse whisper, he said, "You got some kind of titties, sugarpants. I bet you never did have them titties sucked real nice in your life. Bet I could do it for you, though."
Just then the other man came and grabbed Harry by the arm. "Harry, you old fucker, you, we got our wives with us on this convention!"
"Shit, I plumb forgot all about them frumps," answered Harry with a decidedly disappointed look in Paula's direction.
"Please excuse him, little lady," said the other man. "He don't mean nothin' by whatever it was he was saying to ya."
Her carefree, girlish laughter rang out. "Oh, he reminds me of my daddy. I didn't think anything of it, sir." But her soft, tender throat tightened with anger as she tripped across the lobby, very conscious but not showing it, of the eyes that followed every line of her luscious body.
The elevator operator gave her a wise look. She went up in the elevator alone except for him. He didn't open the door for a second after he reached her floor. Instead, he said in a thin voice, "Doll, you want to pick up some change?"
She realized he'd seen the two-step business in the doorway of the entrance from the drug store. Feeling frozen, she looked at him haughtily, hoping desperately that she was coming off the way she wanted to. He was probably pimping for a few regular girls who were hustling the convention and she didn't like to think about what sometimes happened to girls who trod on turf that was clearly defined as somebody else's territory. "I don't think I heard you correctly," she said with a veiled threat in her voice. "At least, I hope I didn't."
"Come on." His shirt was wilted and a mass of ingrown hairs caused pimples under the collar. They looked purplish against his too-pale skin. "Don't hand me that. Some of these judges got it to burn. They asked me about girls, some of them."
"Oh!" She backed up against the wall. "You're horrid! I'm going to report you to the manager. Let me out of this elevator this instant!" Two tears rolled down her cheeks, one from each eye.
"Sorry, chick," he said. "I guess I was mistaken." And he opened the door.
She took out a nice clean handkerchief from her purse and wiped at her eyes as she got off and started down the hall. On the inside she was seething. The encounter with the wise-ass could screw her up if she didn't watch it. And screw Margaret up, too. At the moment, she didn't dare to risk another trip down the elevator. Waiting until midnight, when people had to take themselves up and down, didn't appeal to her greatly either.
Luck loomed up in front of her in the shape of a man in a gray suit. She'd been too busy with her thoughts to bother looking around the hallway, and past experience had taught her that halls weren't very good for making contacts anyway.
He looked like an undertaker instead of a judge, and he talked like one, too, she thought as she read his name tag under the fan of light from the wall sconces.
The Honorable
Archer M. Smith-Turner
Wheeling County, Wisconsin
"Beautiful lady," he began with a bow that almost ended on the floor he'd just picked himself up from. "Allow me to slay the dragon that caused those beautiful eyes to fill with tears." He gave her a very drunken smile that almost made her laugh out loud, because it was so full of morbid woe and tinged with the same kind of phony sympathy she'd recently encountered at a funeral. "I am at your service, my dear." He straightened up from his bow and fell against a hall table. "I'll slay your dragon as soon as I can stand up, anyway," he muttered.
"That elevator operator insulted me," she said.
"The cad." He blinked owlishly and fell over sideways. She caught him, propped him up and said sympathetically that maybe she should get help since he didn't feel well.
"I've had a bit too much to drink, dear," he answered. "But drinking never affects my speech. Just my legs. And balance."
A burst of loud laughter, the kind that erupts after somebody has told a blue story, came from the room they were closest to. She offered to get help again. He said he preferred not to have anybody see him in his condition, that he was a highly respected and respectable judge. Could she let him lean on her ever so slightly until he could find his room? If so, he would thank her graciously, and when he recovered he would thrash the boorish elevator operator soundly for insulting a nice girl like she obviously was. "I saw you and your friend down in the lobby, and I said to myself that you were certainly two of the nicest girls I'd seen in a long time."
"She's my cousin," said Paula. "We came to New York to buy her wedding trousseau."
"Upon my word!" The honorable Archer M. Turner-Smith fell to the floor again. "I think somebody put a mickey in that last drink. Or else we're having an earthquake."
He crawled along on his hands and knees in a crab-like manner while she asked him to tell her his room number. She was relieved when he said it, because they were right there. Happily, he hadn't locked the door, either. She dragged him inside and offered to get him a bromo-seltzer or run down to her own room and get some coffee. "Or we could call room service."
"I don't drink coffee," he said as he fell across the bed. "My dear child, it would please me greatly if you were not such a gently-bred young creature. What I need right now is a really good whore."
"Oh, dear." She didn't bother to gasp or pretend to run away, because she thought he was too far gone to notice her acting ability.
"If I could just get my cock sucked, I think I'd be all right," he announced as he rolled his head back and forth. Then he looked unhappy and apologized for what he'd just said, if he'd said anything impolite.
"I'll run down the hall and see if I can find you a nice girl who'll do just that," she said breathlessly. And run down the hall she did, to her own room, where she threw on a short, curly brown wig that gave her an impish look. It seemed prudent to slip out of the pristine white suit too, so she peeled out of it quickly and threw on Margaret's little pale yellow cotton housecoat. It didn't take long for her to dash back down the hall and slip into the bed with him.
He was snoring. She looked around for his billfold, hoping he'd left it in the unlocked room, but he hadn't. Sighing, she began to talk to him, one hand reaching inside his unzipped pants, the other fishing around for the billfold. "Suck it, honey," he mumbled.
"Sure, lover."
He'd left a lamp on in the room. A jar of vaseline was on the night table. Never one to pass up a good opportunity, she dipped her fingers into the vaseline and massaged the flaccid, pulpy head of his cock.
"Don't bite it, sugar," he said.
"I won't."
He opened his eyes. "How can you talk so plain when you've got your mouth on my cock?"
She didn't say anything, because she didn't know how to answer that one. Apparently he didn't see her when he opened his eyes, because he closed them again and moaned in ecstasy. His cock began to take a mild interest in the action.
"Prettiest little cock-sucker in Wheeling County," he said.
She didn't say anything, but she wondered whom he thought he was talking to.
"I always said, goddam it to hell, you've got lips that were made for sucking cock."
Her hand moved faster. She used her palm and curled her fingers expertly, which created, with the help of the vaseline, a sucking sound.
"When I've shot off and get it up again, sweetheart, I'm going to fuck you in the ass. Always wanted to, you know."
"Mmmm," she said against his belly, knowing he'd think she was talking around his cock.
"Prettiest little ass in Wheeling County."
"Mmmm," she murmured in a different key, lower and more delighted.
"Touch my balls a little, angel."
The hand that wasn't working over the head of his cock snaked obediently down to his balls and began stroking them gently. But she wasn't going to stop the hand action, because his prick was lurching and thumping, suddenly rock-hard. It was enormous, which didn't surprise her, because she'd seen his big feet. Size fifteen, without a doubt, which usually meant a whopper. She stopped stroking his balls long enough to wrap the fingers of both hands around it, and wasn't surprised to see a good four inches sticking out from the top.
"Put your pussy up here in my face, darling. I have to have that sweet little cunt on my tongue."
"Oh, shit," she breathed, but yanked off her bikini panties and let him have it, the quicker to get it over with. Right away she wished she hadn't, because he chortled with delight, his voice coming muffled from under her slit, but very clear. Clear enough to make her think he was either not as drunk as she'd thought he was, or that he was recovering quickly. His body language was suddenly more alive, too. His long legs stiffened and his feet curled.
"Baby doll! You finally did it! Think of it! All these years I've been wanting to taste your adorable little cunt, and you have to wait until we come to New York to let me!" His tongue snaked in between her pussy lips and she moaned with a pleasure she didn't feel.
"Beautiful," he muttered, his nose rammed against her clit. She was on top of him, her own head several inches away from his cock, but he didn't know the difference. Obviously, he was in ecstasy, and before long it occurred to her that he must think he was with his wife. He kept saying in between dives into her cunt, things like, "I knew it'd be heaven! Just knew it!" And, "Twenty-two years and you never let me eat your pussy before."
She laughed, but held it inside, knowing that if he noticed at all he'd think she was jerking in the throes of passion. What tickled her was the idea of some middle-aged housewife back there in Wheeling County who had been married all those years and never let her husband eat her out-then the husband thinking he did when he was drunk. Wisconsin was a long way from New York. Then a mind-blowing idea caused her to almost stop all the action. She didn't know the bastard's wife was back in Wisconsin. Things would get sticky if the wife happened to walk in.
A quick look at his cock told her he was about to gush, and she'd spent a lot of effort on him. So she hurried things along by sneaking a middle finger into his asshole and twirling it around. His orgasm was quick, just as she knew it would be. His hips thrust violently and his ass hammered hard against the bed. He shuddered and shot, an agonized scream of pleasure on the lips that went loose against her clit. Under her body she could feel his heart thumping as his shudders simmered down to little jerks of limbs and torso. Finally, he was breathing normally, and she wanted to get off, get the fat wallet that she'd taken from his back pocket and dropped onto the floor, get her money and leave. But she wasn't sure he was sleeping, so she waited.
In the next room a deep, hearty and jovial voice asked whoever was listening, "You ever hear the one about the Christmas package?"
Male laughter followed the question, along with a few drunken requests. "No, we never heard it, Howard, go ahead and tell it."
One of the men spoke sarcastically. "You already told that fuckin' story."
What sounded like about ten other men said no, Howard hadn't told it, and for Mike to pipe down. "Go on, ole buddy. Tell us about the Christmas package."
Paula remained very still, waiting for His Honor underneath to go into the deep breathing or snoring of heavy sleep. She hoped it would be soon, because her legs were getting cramped.
"Well," began the jovial, happy-drunk voice from the next room, "seems there was this man who went into a department store looking for something special for Christmas. For himself. By God, it was Christmas and he didn't have anybody to give anything to, see, and nobody to give him anything. So he was going to get himself a present.
"So there was this clerk who said he had something really special. Clerk told him to reach his hand in this little box he had and take a feel. Customer did, and said it felt like pussy.
"Clerk said, stick your nose in there, ole buddy, and take a whiff.
"Customer did and said, 'By God! It smells like pussy!'
"Clerk said, 'Now stick your tongue in there and taste it a little."
"The customer rammed his tongue inside that little box and-by God! Said, 'It even tastes like pussy.' See, it was warm and wet and had all the things going for it that-"
"Just tell the story," yelled one of the men. "Get to the fucking punch line!"
Howard sounded injured. "I'm going to. Give me a chance, will you? So the clerk said that little package cost fifty dollars. Customer said, 'I'll take it!'
"Clerk said, 'You want me to wrap it for you?' " 'No,' said the customer. 'I'll just eat it here.' " Uproarious laughter sounded from the other room.
Paula moved ever so slightly. Under her, The Honorable Archer M. Smith-Turner remained limp and still. He started snoring. She hoisted one leg over his relaxed body and pivoted around on one knee so she could look at his face. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. The snores increased in volume and a weird whistling sound came from deep in his throat when he exhaled. Satisfied that he was out of it, she dropped lightly to the floor, threw on the pale yellow housecoat that belonged to Margaret and reached for his billfold, all in one fluid movement.
Her fingers expertly extracted two one hundred dollar bills and she was in the process of stealthily opening the door that led to the hall when a small woman of about forty pushed the door inward, her voice raised in greeting. "Arch, honey, I'm back! The Rockettes were-" Her mouth opened as she took in Paula, short housecoat unbuttoned, dark brown wig slightly frazzled, bikini panties in hand, and her husband passed out naked on the bed. "Who are-what are you-oh! You're a whore! Oh!" Her small hands reached out like a couple of claws, fingernails long and capable of slashing.
Paula gave her a push toward the bed and fled. She was grateful that the suite of rooms she and Margaret had was not far down the hall. As she ran, she heard the woman screaming, and before she was in her own suite she knew the men in the room next door to Archer Smith-Turner and wife were rushing to the woman's aid. Their voices were raised in a hubbub of startled sound that she could still hear even though she was inside, panting, her back against her closed door.
After a while she was able to leave her position against the door to walk rubber-legged to the dresser and a bottle of gin. She tipped up the bottle, swallowed, gagged and shuddered before she sat down in a chair to think things over. Wearing the wig was a good idea, she decided, as soon as her senses simmered down enough to help her decide anything. A quick glance into the mirror assured her that none of her own honey blonde hair had escaped from underneath. Another shot of gin made her feel more secure, because by then she realized that Smith-Turner's wife would probably not raise a big stink. After all, her husband was a judge! She could hardly afford to complain to the hotel authorities.
The two hundred-dollar bills were still crumpled tightly in her fist. She dropped them in her purse, yawned, removed Margaret's little housecoat and decided she'd worked enough for one night. After a long, hot tub bath, she tried to sleep but couldn't because she kept seeing the violence in the violet eyes of that woman when she'd come at her with those long, sharp fingernails. She needed to take her mind off the incident, so she turned on the set in her bedroom and stretched out to watch television. After a while she began to feel pretty good about the incident. Margaret came in, obviously prepared to bathe, change and go out for another session.
"You'd better get up and get at it too, Paula," she said as she applied rosy lipstick. "The halls are swarming with horny judges, and they're only here for three days."
"I don't feel like it." Paula told the other girl about the incident in the Honorable Smith-Turner's room. Margaret listened quietly. When Paula was finished, she said, "You just aren't careful enough. You should have asked him if his wife came to New York with him."
"I just figured something out," said Paula. She giggled. "No wonder he kept thinking I was his wife. At the time, I was too busy getting away to really think about anything but getting out of there, but you know, that woman looks a lot like me. She wears her dark hair in a short style and there's something about her features that-of course, she's shorter than I am, but just the same...."
Margaret went to the window and opened it. Then she threw her pale yellow housecoat down on the street. "Just in case," she said as she turned around, "the wife remembers what you were wearing. Wonder what's going on in that room along about now? Well ... I'm glad I'm tall. Nobody would ever mistake me for you."