Chapter 3
The Hotel Modern boasted a vintage elevator large enough to hold about one and a half normal-sized persons plus a small suitcase, but it had broken down in June and the electrician had not yet arrived to repair it. A few days ago, the bare bulb illuminating the stair case had burned out, and although the desk clerk could easily have replaced it, he had no intention of undertaking this minor chore. The electrician was coming sometime next month, and no self-respecting Frenchman would put himself out to do someone else's work .. . especially considering that he was stuck here in the city while the electrician and hotel manager and his girl friend and at least two million other Parisians were enjoying their annual monthly holiday.
Monica, handicapped by the stinging tears which kept misting up her brown eyes, was unable to see the signs designating which floor she was on and was far too distracted to realize she'd climbed up one flight too many. Half-stumbling, she hastened toward the door at the far end of the corridor to the left, then came to an abrupt halt when she spied the crack of light under the door. How on earth could she have possibly been so careless? Wasting electricity-or anything else, for that matter-was a paramount crime in the Blakesley home, and she'd been so well-conditioned in habits of thrift that it seemed incredible she'd leave the lamp burning. Still, with all the excitement of finally being in Paris, she must have done so.
All excited. . . and for what? To be mauled and insulted like a common streetwalker, that was what! Monica's full lips tightened into a bitter line as she fished the oversized room key from her purse and inserted it in the rusty lock, and fresh tears pricked at the edges of her eyes.
The key went in, but it wouldn't turn. Monica tried again, exasperated because she was loath to face the desk clerk who'd given her such a curious stare when she'd come in, and then twisted the handle in case it had somehow jammed. It turned easily, but before she'd opened it more than an inch, she heard a sound that made her freeze in shock.
"Ooohhhh, Christ, Arlene, that's outta this world!" the eavesdropping Sunday school teacher recognized the voice of Spike Soderberg, although all she could see of the youngster was a pair of well-muscled legs shod in filthy sneakers. "You suck my prick so good I can't stand it!"
The reason Monica couldn't see Spike was that a completely naked young brunette was crouched over his head and torso in the most obscene posture the spying chaperone had ever imagined. From where she stood clutching the door jamb for support she had an alarmingly vivid view of Arlene Hixson's frizzy dark curls dancing up and down upon the tautened tendons of his upper thighs and of her lipstick-smeared mouth straining open to accept the boy's burgeoning penis. The girl's cosmetic-layered eyes were tightly shut, and her plump-pudding face twisted as though in the throes of some incredible frenzy.
The older woman knew that she either had to say something to stop this disgraceful display of unchristian indecency, or else shut the door and beat a hasty retreat; but a strange paralysis had seized her muscles, and they refused to move in response to the commands of her conscience. If she let this immoral depravity go unchecked, she'd be sinning by omission and would be at least as guilty as the corrupt couple in the eyes of the Lord .. . more guilty, even, since she was older and had been delegated the responsibility for their spiritual well-being. On the other hand, if Arlene should happen to open her eyes and find herself staring straight at her chaperone, every child in the tour group would be whispering that Miss Blakesley was a peeping Tom.
Of course I'm not a sick-minded voyeur, she told herself frantically as she made another unsuccessful effort to budge her traitorous limbs. I don't want to see this ugliness! I don't! And in fact, the twenty-two year-old virgin was so innocent that she honestly didn't understand the significance of the dampening patch in her panty crotch band or the churning sensation in the pit of her belly.
"Oouugghhh!" gurgled the incorrigible adolescent in a cock-muffled voice. "Yeah, yeah, like that! Kiss my cunt, Spike! Lick it! Liiiiccckkkk it deee-eppppppp! Oooohhhhhhhh!"
No! It wasn't possible! Monica's shock-stiffened face blanched white as chalk, then blushed a fiery shade of scarlet as she realized what the purpose behind their peculiar posture really was. Not only was the fifteen year-old schoolgirl sucking Spike Soderberg's erected phallus deep into her wide-stretched mouth, but she was allowing him to do unspeakable things to her own most private flesh.
The most amazing thing of all was that the little girl obviously loved every minute of this bestiality!
"Little girl" . . . what was she thinking, anyway? When she herself had graduated from Orchardburg Junior High, she'd certainly been a mere child, breasts the size of two half-lemons, hips as flat as a boy's, and long, spindly legs with knobby knees protruding above the woolen knee socks Mother had insisted she wear to school in the winter. Even the girls in her class who'd already developed womanly figures hadn't gone beyond the stage of crushes on movie stars, or at most playing Spin the Bottle at occasional boy-girl birthday parties. Nothing else would have been tolerated in the largely Fundamentalist community, and it was only when the sixteen-year olds won their drivers licenses and gained some degree of freedom that the "wild crowd" could begin experimenting with sex. Monica had never really known just what the "bad boys" and "fast girls" were up to, for she wasn't a member of their gang.
But these kids were a different breed, that much was blatantly obvious. When she'd read about oral intercourse in the Family Health course which was required for Education majors at college, she'd been so embarrassed that she'd skimmed through the short section without her normal conscientious note-taking. After all, normal people surely didn't do things like that . . . just uneducated slum dwellers, or perverted sex maniacs. Now, watching the fifteen-year-olds lick and slurp delightedly at each other's obscenely exposed genitals, the astounded Sunday school teacher felt as though two generations instead of a mere seven years separated her from her students.
Even as these turbulent thoughts careened through her boggled brain, Monica-though she'd never have admitted this for the world-found her initial revulsion gradually being replaced by a certain prurient curiosity. This was the first time she'd ever actually seen a male penis except in scientifically sterile textbook illustrations, and she was simultaneously appalled and fascinated by its thick-veined girth and by the two heavy testicles bouncing rhythmically against the girl's saliva-speckled chin. If a young teen's thing was this enormous, what was a grown man's thing like? Suddenly she thought of her boyfriend, Gene, and blushed again, for somehow she'd never thought of him in that way before now.
"Aaahhh . . . ooohhhh . . . uuuhhhh . . ." Spike's groans were growing more and more inhuman by the second as the girl's ovaled lips pumped furiously from the mushroom-shaped tip of his cock all the way down to his swaying balls. It was impossible to catch more than a brief glimpse of what he was doing with his mouth because Arlene's ripe-melon breasts were blocking the view, but from the way her cosmetic-smeared face contorted in pleasure it was obvious she was experiencing sensations more powerful than the watching woman had ever dreamed of.
Was this the sort of thing those two vile strangers in the cafe had wanted to do to her . . . ?
Remembering that humiliating incident suddenly brought Monica to her senses and she shuddered in shame for having stood here so long gaping at this sinful debauchery. She started to shut the door, but before it was closed she heard Spike's frenzied scream and peered in again for one last look.
"Aaarrggghhhh! Oh, shit, I'm there! I'm cum-ming! Aaaaggghhhhhh!"
Thick jets of cream-white sperm splattered over the moaning schoolgirl's cock-swollen cheeks, even though her Adam's apple worked up and down furiously in an effort to swallow his spurting male seed, and from the grotesque noises she was making it sounded as though she were gagging on the endless flow of cum. Unable to take any more, she slid her mouth from the exploding penis with a lewd slurping sound and let his semen splash over her eyes, her forehead, her throat, her tangled chestnut curls. Monica pulled the door closed with hands that shook like leaves in a gale and leaned her burning forehead against the wall of the corridor. For the second time that evening, she wondered if she were going to faint.
Surprisingly enough, the Hotel Modern's paint-peeling walls were practically soundproof. All Monica could hear now were muffled mewls and whimpers, sounds so inaudible that only someone who'd seen the salacious spectacle inside would have noticed them. She had witnessed the children's crude carnality, however, and the faint noises hammered at vicious volume inside her throbbing temples.
It seemed hours before her bones stopped feeling like unset jelly and the obscene echoes faded from her head. Suddenly she remembered her Duty, and guilt swept over her in tidal waves of demoralizing self-disgust. Those nice, dedicated Chritians back at the World Worshipers office in the States were paying her-and paying her rather well, too-to keep a judicious eye on the spiritual health of these innocent adolescents--and here she'd let them down on her very first day on the job! It was her responsibility to nip Spike and Arlene's outrageous immorality in the bud, but instead she'd stood there gaping like a sick-minded peeping Tom.
"But I can't go back in there!" Her breath caught in a constricted sob as she whispered aloud to the empty corridor. "After seeing the nasty things they did, I just can't face them . . . and what if they're still naked or doing something even dirtier?
On the other hand, she couldn't j ust go to bed with this on her conscience. There was only one solution; mortifying though it would be, she'd have to ask tour leader Alan Dubois to deal with this serious breach of Christian propriety since she herself was incapable of handling the situation.
Still trembling, still suffused with a strange heat, the conscientious Sunday school teacher propelled her reluctant loins down to the far end of the hall and rapped softly on her superior's door. She more than half-hoped he wouldn't be in ...