Chapter 4
It was a helluva wild lunch hour. The sandwiches and coffee grew iceberg cold. Maybe Claire was an inexperienced high school kid, Bill thought, but she had the sexual instincts of a seasoned whore.
They pushed blueprints, quote sheets, and the like to the floor. Bill's ornate, glass-topped desk became the vehicle for sin. But wonderful sin it was. Claire received and gave the cue lines all in their proper place. She sat atop his desk, helped Bill hastily unfasten her clothing. She then aided him in doing the same to himself.
He assumed a standing position, clasped her about the waist, and there was neither time nor need for any of the expected preliminaries. He entered her while she clawed at his back, and when he hunched over to feed on the bouncing, pink tips of her breasts, she scissored him with her legs and drew him in deeper.
Things came off fast. She wanted it badly; his own need was equally fervent. In the idiom of the wild west, he gave her both barrels, but it was scarcely enough. She wanted more when there was no more, dug her nails beseechingly into the flesh of his bare back; drew blood, sighed and moaned, panted and cried.
When he finally withdrew from her, she slid off the desk and came into his arms. "I've been bad, Mr. Trumball. Punish me."
He squeezed her affectionately. "Honey, you were the sweetest thing that ever was. What do you mean, saying you were bad?"
"But I was." She clutched his forearm. "You know I was."
"Honey...." And suddenly he understood. She wanted to be whipped, needed it.
"Please...." She squirmed against him. The friction of her naked body, her sobbed pleadings, aroused him. He fell into the swivel chair and pulled her down hard across his body. She inched forward across his naked thighs. Her voluptuous naked buttocks quivered with anticipation. Sweat grew on his forehead.
"What are you waiting for?" she moaned.
He didn't know; he had always wanted to do something like this, but he never dreamed that a young high school girl would furnish him the opportunity. He let go with his hand. He hit the target with deadly accuracy. She screamed, and the scream excited him even more than the physical contact. He smacked her bare rump again. The rosy imprint of his hand bridged the constricting cheeks of her buttocks. "More...."
He hit her again. And again. "Harder!"
He smacked her with all his might. She leaped with every blow. Her piteous cries pierced the office silence. He couldn't stop if he wanted to. And he didn't. The spanking of that cute, bare bottom filled him with a weird arousal that he had never before experienced. He didn't elude it; he didn't try.
When he was spent, when her backside had become a blistering red, she fell to her knees and began kissing the insides of his thighs. Her hot, flicking tongue tickled him with desire anew. Helpless, trapped by the fascinating abandon of her mouth, he sat stoically inert and let her do as she desired. He had thought himself incapable of another session so soon after the first, but Claire's greedy mouth proved otherwise.
Her nipping, teasing kisses rose higher and higher on his legs. He clenched his fists, waited. Her hot, frolicking tongue ventured closer and closer to its mark. Bill clasped her shoulders. She paused, looked sadly into his eyes. Humbly, she murmured, "I've been so bad, Mr. Trumball. Make me do it to you. Make me."
He put his hands to her head and forced her down. She didn't struggle; it was what she wanted. Her hot moist mouth encircled his throbbing wants and plunged him into a rapturous world of ecstasy. Involuntarily, he pushed upward to greet her hungry mouth. Her tongue licked him to the edge of unconsciousness. And then he couldn't stop her, didn't want to, and the damn pump exploded, and she didn't release him until the last drop had been drawn from the well within.
Much later, he had gone across the street and refreshed himself with some hot black coffee. He had a dinger of a headache; the sex bout with Claire had left him as limp as a summer chocolate bar. She was a real kook about the whipping stuff, but he felt a little sorry for her. In the aftermath of their sex circus, she had told him how she became that way. The story wasn't new. Mother died young, raised by a slightly twisted stepfather. Enjoyed himself by pulling her panties off and whipping the hell out of her. Afterwards, he would fondle her, make her do perverted acts with him, and when it was over, then he would cradle her in his arms and love her.
"It was the only way I ever got any real loving," she had said. "I guess after a while I just connected pain with ... well, you know ... love." And then she asked, "Am I some kind of nut, Mr. Trumball?"
And of course, he had said no. At least she was honest about her fetish, which was more than he could say about most people. And she didn't pretend-not like Edie. And then, with his bitterness returning, he finished off the black coffee and went back to the office.
For the remainder of the afternoon, he was less than the picture of industry; but he did manage to get out several quotes, answer two telegrams, as well as make several trips to the water cooler. His mind was not entirely on his work; he expected Edie to phone, she didn't, and he was more confused than before. He had thought she'd feel remorse for cheating on him, turn on the sweet act and beg him to forgive her. He was evidently mistaken, but he was determined not to call her. If there was going to be a first move, let it come from her.
At four o'clock, a little after, Claire rang him on the intercom and said that Mr. Sinclair was in his office and would like to see him. She added an emphatic: "At once!"
Bill prepared himself for a chewing out. Sinclair never invited anybody to his office for the blue-ribbon routine; it was always why did you do this, and why did you do that. Bill straightened his tie, left his office and, with a slight rap, entered Sinclair's. He took a seat while Sinclair thumbed through a manila folder.
Sitting there, Bill-likened Howard Sinclair to a coroner who had witnessed too many violent deaths. He wore a constant pained expression, his face was pale and emaciated; he had the ulcer bit that comes with success, possessed white hair and watery blue eyes; and to hear him tell it, he was Horatio Alger without the wife. Started his stamping business during the pre-war years, he did. Began in a garage with salvaged equipment; built the business from the ground up, showed what a man could do if he put his nose to the grindstone.
As for women, the old man would frequently boast that he didn't need them. Nevertheless, one of the office girls discovered that he kept his desk drawers well stacked with girlie magazines and nude photos.
With the manila folder suddenly laid aside, Sinclair cleared his throat, hunched forward, hands clasped in front of his face. "Bill, what would you say to a couple of weeks' vacation?"
Bill came to the edge of his chair. "A vacation?"
"I think you need it, Bill. I think you've been overworked and that means falling efficiency." Sinclair reopened the folder.
"What brought this on?"
"This, for one thing," Sinclair said, pulling a quotation sheet from the folder. "That copper switch unit we made for the Parker firm-you underquoted our costs by nearly nine-hundred dollars."
Angrily, Bill snapped, "We'll re-quote it, then."
Sinclair screwed up his face. "You know we can't do that. If you advise a customer that you're going to manufacture his part at a given cost, then you have to stick to your bargain. You re-quote, and you lose customers."
Bill gave Sinclair the usual arguments. You bid low to secure the job, to make certain that competitors are squeezed out, and occasionally your bid is too low. You didn't win them all; sometimes you had to accept a beating. Sinclair, of course, didn't adhere to that policy. He wanted a fat net gain on every single job that was processed.
"Winning arguments won't lessen the mistake, Bill. This boo-boo with the Parker firm was a bad one. We lost our shirt and, in my opinion, you need a rest."
He felt anger flushing his cheeks. He gripped the sides of the chair. "Look...."
"Put it another way, Bill. You deserve a vacation. You've done a fine job, there's always room for improvement, and maybe with a few days of rest...."
Bill rose angrily to his feet. "Is this a form of temporary suspension?"
Sinclair waved him back to his chair. "Don't get your Irish up. It's nothing of the kind." He threw the folder back down. "In fact.. . " A rare smile worked its way into his expression. "...If I had the chance, I'd take a few days off myself." He rose, went to the liquor cabinet, and brought out the eight-dollar Scotch that was generally reserved for select new customers.
Bill didn't want any Scotch, but when Sinclair came on with the slap-on-the-back routine, proffered him a handful of fifty-cent cigars, Bill felt obliged to accept the drink.
Minutes later, Sinclair put a second Scotch in his hands and, soon after, a third. The stuff had no noticeable effect on Sinclair, but Bill had had plenty earlier in the day; this second dose hit him with deadly precision. His speech thickened, his vision blurred. Formalities disappeared, they became loud and boisterous; inevitably, the subject became sex. Sinclair could never get over his surprise, he explained, at the many, many shapes of women's breasts. They discussed the pear-shaped versus the conical; balloons versus marbles. And it was only natural-especially, after a fourth Scotch-that Bill should draw Edie's breasts into the comparisons.
"She's got 'em, Howie. Knockers that would put your eye out."
Sinclair couldn't hide his interest. His eyes widened, he clenched his drink more firmly. "I never paid that much attention, Bill. I know she was in the office here a few times, but. . . "
"That didn't tell you a thing. You saw her in a tailored suit." He swirled more of the Scotch into his mouth. "When you want to see her is after she steps out of the shower." He watched Sinclair try to grasp the mental picture. Sinclair let out a giant sigh.
"Shouldn't be telling tales out of school, Bill. The Missus might not like it."
He shrugged it off. He didn't care what Edie liked; right now he was more fascinated by Sinclair's growing interest. "Why keep big tits a secret, huh? She's got 'em, ain't she?"
Sinclair was flustered. Rarely at a loss for words, he couldn't seem to find the right ones now. "Bill ... I. . . Well, I didn't mean that she didn't have nice ... well, you know. I didn't want to be disrespectful, you know...."
"Howie, get off my back, will you. The last time Edie was down here, you just about fell over the wastepaper basket getting yourself a good look."
"Now wait a minute, Bill...."
"C'mon, don't con me."
"Honest, Bill."
"Sure, sure, sure." He gulped at the Scotch. "Tell you what, chum. I wouldn't like it if you didn't look. In fact, I'd be highly insulted. You know what I mean?"
"Sure, Bill."
"The hell you do! You know how I feel? like the Eskimos. I mean a man comes into your home and he's your guest. Am I right?"
"Well, sure...."
"And an Eskimo always shares his wife with his guests. Did you know that."
"I read something like that once, but...."
"Well, that's the way it oughta be," Bill cut in. "You come to my igloo and I say, 'C'mon in, Howie. This is my wife and if you want to go to bed with her, what the hell are we waiting for?'"
Sinclair wiped the perspiration from his brow. "Wait'll I get my dog-sled unhitched." He laughed heartily.
"You think I'm kidding?" Bill said.
"Well, no, Bill ... only...."
"She's a hot piece, Howie. Knows how to wiggle and squeal. Kind of drives you nuts." And then he was telling Sinclair his innermost bedroom secrets, extolling the most intimate spots on Edie's body, explaining in careful detail what she liked, what she didn't.
Sinclair became thoroughly aroused by the conversation, generously re-filled Bill's empty glass, then sat avidly alert to Bill's every word.
"And if she were here right now," Bill finished, "I'd prove just how good she is."
"Not in front of me?" Sinclair said incredulously.
"And why not?"
"She wouldn't let you."
"The hell she wouldn't," he snapped back.
"You mean she'd take off everything and...."
Bill lied and said, "Hell, yes!"
Sinclair again wiped his brow. He gulped at his Scotch. Bill joined him.
"You make a man damn hot, talking that way."
"Maybe we oughta do something about it," Bill suggested. He mentioned Claire, the new telephone receptionist.
"She's only a kid."
"Kid, hell!" He told Sinclair about his interesting lunch hour.
"But I've never fooled around with my help, Bill. Makes trouble."
"You wanna get screwed."
"Well...."
"You'll miss the goddamn train, just sitting there with your tongue hanging out." He reached across Sinclair's desk and pressed the intercom and contacted Claire. "Honey, this is Bill." He paused. "Lunch hour Bill." He grinned. "You remember, I hope." She did. "Listen, would you mind staying over for a few minutes after everyone leaves ... yes ... in Mr. Sinclair's office ... fine" He flicked the switch off and turned to his boss "It's all fixed."
"Bill, we could get in trouble over this."
"For chrissakes, stop worrying."
"I'm not worrying, it's just that...."
"Get another glass, will you. We're gonna get this chick so drunk she won't know her own name."
Promptly at five o'clock, Claire joined them. Bill quickly persuaded her to have a drink. To his surprise, she handled it as though it were apple cider, thirstily asked for another.
By five-fifteen, she was silly. At five-thirty, she was staggering. Bill led her to a leather couch; Sinclair removed his suit coat and watched the performance from atop his desk. Bill stole a few kisses get her hot, he thought and Claire's defenses melted away with the Scotch. Her black skirt crept up her nyloned legs; Bill helped it creep still further.
By six o'clock, he had succeeded in getting her blouse unfastened, he and Sinclair had both felt her up between kisses, and Bill had persuaded her to stand up and show off her legs.
"If you're gonna be a sexy secretary...." He winked at Sinclair. "...then you gotta have what it takes."
Claire spilled part of her drink on the carpet, then set the glass down. "What d'ya want me to do?"
"Show the gams, honey." He made her stand by the window, pull up her skirt and walk slowly toward them. She staggered, but she didn't fall. Bill steadied her, then stepped back to Sinclair's side to watch the show.
Her legs were good. Long and full, curvy beyond the tops of her nylons, so soft-looking that it was a temptation to run toward her and grasp her between the legs.
"What do you think of our girl?" he asked Sinclair. "Has she got it, or has she got it?"
Sinclair was drunk. He supported himself against Bill. "She's got it, all right. Only...." He belched. "...does it wiggle? Huh, Bill? Does it?"
He answered, "How the hell do I know." Then turning toward Claire: "Hey, honey. Go back to the window and try it again, only this time make it shake. Okay?"
She shrugged and found her way back to the window. Bill coaxed her to raise her skirt above her panty girdle. "Now give," he commanded.
She did. It was wild. like a snake, really, with erotic, undulating movements of her young hips and sensuous buttocks that set them afire. Sinclair glanced down at Bill's trouser front. "You, too?" he motioned.
"And how!"
Claire looked at the two men. "Do I get the job?" she asked.
Bill said, "Well you have to show more than that."
"How much more do you want to see?"
"Honey," he said, stumbling toward her, "the sky is the limit." He pulled her bra down and began playing with her breasts. Sinclair grabbed at himself.
The girl put up a token resistance, but she was no match for the hundred-proof Scotch, nor for the persistent fumbling of Bill's hands. In a matter of seconds, he had found the moist path between her legs and worked her into a fevered anguish. She moaned and rubbed against him, and he was surprised by her quick response. She wanted to give, and she wanted to take.
Bill drew her skirt over the lascivious taper of her hips. He motioned Sinclair to approach her from behind. Sinclair was agreeably compliant, pressing his weight against her bare buttocks, sandwiching her in a dual role that promised to drive her crazy.
They removed her clothes; then their own. Bill mouthed one of her ruby-tipped breasts and pressed his maleness between her legs. Sinclair fondled her rear. Both men squirmed against her. She sucked in her breath, lost all touch with sanity. She was crushed between the piercing hardness of two men, throbbing forward to meet Bill's attack, then thrusting backwards to feel Sinclair's own greedy invasion.
"Double or nothing," Bill moaned. Sinclair was too busy to answer. He was giving her a real ride, and Bill could feel the impact of his unbridled attack. Bill matched their rhythm. His maleness surged to deeper depths of Claire's love. A tumultuous moan escaped her lips. Her fists were squeezed into tiny balls. Her eyes closed. The explosion drew near.
Claire gasped. She choked back sobs of ecstasy. "Billll ... ohhhh ... more ... more...."
They rammed her in true togetherness. The resulting blast was equal to the detonation of a three-megaton bomb. Nobody died. But almost...
A smoke period followed, a time of breath-catching when they sat around in the nude and exchanged dirty jokes. Claire moved to Sinclair's lap; she insisted that he resembled her stepfather. Bill threw him his belt, added: "She-likes it that way." Then he began to dress.
They called him a party pooper, but it didn't change his mind; he wanted to leave, he had had enough. He waited until they started again, however, and when Sinclair began chasing Claire with the belt, when he had driven her into a corner where there was no escape, that was the moment that Bill chose to leave.
He reached the door, Claire was screaming, Sinclair was lashing her bare buttocks, and then Bill froze in his steps. A feeling of mind and body that he couldn't understand, took hold of him. He turned slowly and stared at Claire's panties on the floor. He moved toward them, glanced guiltily at Claire and Sinclair. He scooped them up and started for the door.
Claire had seen him. "Hey, he's got my panties ... Bill!"
He shot her a frightened glance. The panties balled up in his hands seemed unreal. His eyes bulged.
"Bill, what's the matter with you?" Sinclair said. He dropped the belt and approached him slowly.
Suddenly, Bill turned and fled from the office. He ran for the street. The precious pink panties were stuffed in his pocket. Night swallowed him up.