Chapter 4
Taylor Robbins, D.Sci. Cal Poly, '48 brilliant research scientist and president of the company he had founded, Research and Development Corporation, based in Seattle, sat with his wife, Tina at the plush bar. Tina's dark, brunette beauty stood out from the common crowd, even in Las Vegas, where female beauty was a plentiful commodity. Her flashing black eyes were angry. She had already downed three martinis in quick succession and was beginning to show the effects of the alcohol; her speech was slurred, coming to him over the muted sounds of the casino that drifted in to them ... the soft click of the wheels and the chanting calls of the stickmen all blending into the general background hum.
"All right," Taylor said, finally, in exasperation. "You can have another five bills ... but that's all! If you lose that... go see a show ... or go back to the room ... understand?"
Tina was petulant, acting the part, almost, of a spoiled child. "No, Taylor... I don't understand... ! Aren't we here to have some fun ... ?"
"For Christ's sake, Tina! You've already dropped over two thousand! I'm not made of money! ... Besides, I'm here on a business deal... And you horned in on the trip!"
"O.K. . . . then, you take care of business ... and I'll take the fun," she said, brightening and putting her hand with its long, slender, well-manicured fingers on his own big, strong-fingered hand.
She gave him a suggestive, lascivious look, her eyes smoldering, smokily, at him in the subdued light, as she continued, "... And, maybe, we could have some fun, together ... later ... eh?"
Her delicate fingers made a lewd symbol of their joined hands on the table top. Taylor jerked his hand away from her and grunted, "Do you have to be so Goddamned vulgar... in public?!" he seethed.
Taylor may as well have slapped his wife's face. She was startled, shocked. She dropped her eyes, the long lashes fluttering as she fought for control. Never, ever, would she allow him to make her cry in a public place; despite her deep hurt, she looked up at him, her black eyes burning into him.
"What's happened to us ... Taylor?"
"Not a damned thing that you couldn't solve!" he grated, his anger rising in him.
"Meaning ... ?" she queried, raising an eyebrow.
"Get the hell off the sauce ... and quit twitching that beautiful behind of yours at any and every sonof-a-bitch that comes down the pike!"
"Very specific ... Mr. Robbins!" she taunted. "Why don't you crawl down off your cross!?"
"At least, I can be discreet! That's something you never are!" he hissed, almost apoplectic, now.
"And, can you be honest... darling?" her voice harsh, dripping with sarcasm.
Taylor stood to his feet, removed his wallet from his inside breast pocket, took five one-hundred dollar bills from it and flung them to the table top.
"Have fun!" he said, grimly; then, with finality, "But, that's the absolute limit!"
"Thanks! Thanks for nothing . . . Shylock ... or is it Don Juan ... ?" she jeered, gathering the bills and stuffing them into her handbag with trembling fingers.
Reaching for her empty martini glass, she raised it to her lips to drain the last drops from it, "Order me another one of these Mothahs before you go to meet Mata Hari!" she demanded.
He curbed a sudden desire to slap the insolent, knowing look off her face; instead, he leaned down, putting his face up close to hers and breathed an angry so to voce command, the threatening tone undisguised even in the whisper.
"Don't you ever say anything to anybody about why I'm here ... or who I came here to see!"
Straightening up, he signaled the cocktail waitress to him and ordered the martini for his wife. She sat in shocked silence, aware that she had really stepped out of line, this time. He was angry with good reason, now, and fearfully, she expected he would punish her in some way. He always had!
Finally, she said, "Taylor... I-I'm sorry ... truly sorry."
"I'll find out how sorry you are ... later!" he growled.
Seething with anger, Taylor left his wife in the bar and entered the casino. The roar of sound, the frantic activity soon relieved him of his anger. He looked around, noting details, absorbing sounds and enjoying his present role as spectator.
Nothing ever changes, here, yet the whole place is in a constant state of dynamic change; people come and go, several hundred new faces replacing those who are just leaving, and pitifully few of those leaving ever leave with more money than they brought with them; similarly, faces change, as employees come and go, the croupiers and stickmen are different, yet are all of one mold. He realized he was drawing generalities, as he gazed around the multi-million dollar carpeted temple of wager, alcohol and blatant sex. Yes, nothing ever really changes, he decided.
The clientele seemed to be mostly week-enders he noted, the dinner crowd still catching the nine o'clock show, but the tables were jammed shoulder to shoulder with ardent gamblers.
Along the walls, row upon row of slots added their mechanical din to the roar of human voices, the louder, cutting tones of the stickmen rising above all the cacophony as they chanted their litany in response to the rolling dice.
He recognized the frantic, clarion call to him, inherent in the wild, fabulous action that was The Strip in Las Vegas; however, the calculating, finely trained, scientific mind of Taylor Robbins told him exactly what the odds were - everything was in favor of the house - and he was having no part of this scene ... as far as gambling goes. He was there, he reminded himself, to make a business contact; the gambling he would have to do being only an image he would project for as long as necessary ... and no more. God! How he wished he could get across to Tina that it was impossible for her to win any real money in Las Vegas! She'd probably lose the five hundred he'd just given her in a matter of minutes!
The good, solid sound of two-beat Dixie, a famous headline belter dishing it out over the wailing horns came to him from the stage in the adjacent lounge, her imploration for Bill Bailey to please come home interspersed with the rhythmic click of the roulette wheel, the croupier's voice droning, "Sixteen on the red," while at the nearest craps table the stickman chanted: Six! Six a number! Let's have odds the hard way. Come on, get 'em down... Field your bets! Here we go! Shooter's coming out! Four! Four... six the number. Looking for a six. Sir! A six'll do it for you! Let 'em roll! Roll! It's seven! Seven's the loser! Next shooter! Coming out, Sir? All bets down. The dice are coming out! Let 'em roll...,!"
Taylor wandered, casually, from table to table, heading for the far corner where he was to meet her. He mused to himself that his meeting was like some old-fashioned melodrama or bad cloak-and-dagger, James Bond-spy-thriller type as seen on television or the movies. Glancing at his watch, he noted that it was almost time.
All right, men, synchronize your watches! Let's see. .. she said, exactly 10 o'clock p.m. in the main casino of the Flamingo in Las Vegas, Nevada on Saturday, June 28th... the far comer table... and she answers to the name of Wini Brent. Well, here I am... in the right place ... the right time... and I damn well hope I'll see the right person. Miss Wini Brent... Taylor Robbins... number sixty-nine reporting! God! This is real corn! Maybe Tina is right... she may turn out to be Mata Hari... reincarnated!
Standing on the fringe of the crowd around the table he studied the faces clustered, intently, around the play of the cubes on the felt, his analytical mind sorting them out, eliminating the obvious tourist housewives, the hardened gamblers, the too-perfect showgirls, narrowing the choices until he was fairly certain that the petite redhead with the pixie-face framed in a feather cut, dressed in a mini-mini thing that had shrunk from both directions; from where he stood he could see the expanse of breasts, deeply cleft the white, translucent skin innocent of sun-tan in this Mecca of roasting epidermae. As he watched her, closely, he convinced himself that she had very little, if anything, on under the pale green mini-dress. He looked around, again, weighing the evidence, coming to the conclusion that the only other woman at this table who might possibly qualify was the fully mature, statuesque brunette over to his left, five spaces down.
The redhead was almost directly across the table from him, and he concentrated on watching her for a few moments. Satisfied of his ground, ninety-nine percent positive, now, in his own mind that she had to be Wini Brent, he extracted a C-note from his wallet and worked his way up to the table.
The money man pushed a stack of five-dollar chips at him. He left half the stack on the pass line. In so doing he attracted the attention of the flame-haired girl who looked up at him, levelly, her impish face breaking into a slight smile that told him she was pretty sure of him, herself. He looked away from her to the shooter, the big brunette, and watched as she crapped out, a vulgar oath referring to a specific oral-genital sex act ripping from her in regular barracks style, as she tossed down another five-dollar chip. Taylor moved the remainder of his chips to the pass line and watched the brunette roll an eight.
The stickman chanted: "It's eight, easy eight, lady..." Picking up the dice, the big-bosomed brunette held them between her palms, prayerfully; Taylor looked over at the redhead, and she gave him another encouraging smile, her eyes boring into him. He noticed that those smoldering eyes were green. She put a twenty-five-dollar chip on the pass line.
Again, chanting his litany, the stickman brought out the brunette: "Eight a point. . . four. Eight a number. . . Six! Six, the hard way, six. . . Eight a number. . . and a five! Eight! Eight a point. . . Two! Snake-eyes! Pay the field. Eight's the number, lady. . . Twelve! Pay the field, again! Eight's her number. . . Let 'em roll! Seven! Seven's the loser! Next shooter. Bets down . .. Shooter coming out!"
Now, the little, pixie-faced redhead looked at him with sorrowful eyes, as she cocked her head to one side and surveyed him, carefully. Taylor produced another hundred and brought twenty-five dollar chips, moved them to the line and picked up the red cubes. He grinned over at her as he tossed a natural, looking at her for a reaction. She pursed her lips into a kiss and tossed it to him, then moved a stack of her own chips to the line. He let his all ride and rolled a five-deuce, again!
"Seven, the winner!" the stickman intoned. "Pay the front line! The shooter's hot! Get your bets down . . . He's coming out, once more! Will he or won't he ... ? Same lucky shooter. . . coming out. . . " When Taylor looked up, she was gone; then, suddenly, she was beside him, the light, heady perfume she wore thick in his nostrils. He glanced down at her. She was a vision of loveliness, as he looked down the cleft of those perfect breasts, almost all the way to her navel, noting at the same time that the dress creation she wore had peek-a-boo cut-outs along the sides, dipping almost to the waist.
"Drag some of that, Mr. Robbins... and we'll go on a sightseeing tour... O.K.?" she murmured, throatily, in his ear.
"Miss Brent... ?"
"Wini... Wini Brent," she affirmed, smiling up at him, disarmingly.
The stickman prodded: "Here we go ... Shooter coming out! Same lucky shooter! Sir? Coming out now... ?"
He left a single chip, picked up his winnings and backed away from the table, someone behind him taking his place, immediately. She stood beside him as he pocketed the chips.
"You were hot!" she said. "Maybe I should have let you make a run ... ?"
"Accident..." he allowed. "It's only money... Where shall we have our little conference ... ? Drink ... in the bar?"
Wini took his arm. "My car..." she suggested, firmly, and with finality.
She led the way, treating him to a view of her behind as she walked, just ahead of him, toward the parking lot. Taylor controlled his desire to reach out to those undulant orbs to feel their smooth muscularity as they worked. The outline of them under her dress was invitingly sexy, and by the manner of her walking she projected a sensuous, almost salacious effect.
Damn! That's sexy as hell! I'd just love to get my hands on those! She's got nice tits... too! God! If I play it right... I might be able to get her into the sack with me... tonight! Christ! I'm already getting the hots for her!
Wini drove her new Jag; Taylor, belted into the other seat, admired her quick, sure handling of the powerful car as she churned out into the desert, turning off the highway, shortly, onto a secondary road and, finally, entering a dirt track, she braked to a halt and extinguished the headlights.
A cold, pale moon cast its light into the car and Taylor could see her, plainly, her small, pixie features looking a little mysterious in the half-light. The scene, the situation was not lost on him; he felt the familiar signs in his loins, a slow building of desire, the crawling sensation in his scrotum, his penis becoming tumescent and beginning to throb, slightly, as he began to build sex fantasies around her.
She turned to him, full face. "We can talk, privately, here," she said.
"No bugs ...?"
"Only the crawly kind," she affirmed. "That's why I came out here."
"In my position... I can't be too careful..." he began.
"Trust me, Mr. Robbins ... This is a perfectly safe place," she said. "Now ... why do you need my particular services?"
Taylor parried, "And, your services, Miss Brent... What do they include ... ?"
"I can enter and leave any building ... open any lock ..." she said.
"But, you're a woman ... and so tiny ... " She smiled. "Sometimes, being a woman is an advantage . . . And I'm in top physical condition."
"Most plants have security guards..." he offered.
"I can take care of myself... believe me Mr. Robbins. I studied Karate in Japan ..." she said, matter-of-factly. "Now, really... I must know what you need me for?"
Taylor paused, before giving her an answer. "I want the research data on a new product that's being developed at Northern Chemical and Research," he stated, flatly.
"And, the nature of it... ?"
He waited again, looking at her, measuring her, finally deciding he could trust her, as she gazed back at him, levelly, her intelligent green eyes showing great interest in what he had said.
"A material ten times better than Teflon!" he said.
"And, I suppose you've already tried ... What have you done ... so far ... ?"
Taylor's answer was candid. "I tried to buy it from the young chemist who is developing it."
"A bribe ... ! And ... ?"
"He turned it down cold!" he answered, ruefully.
"So . . .he couldn't be bought! How much ... ?" Again, Taylor studied her and decided to give honest answers. He said, "One hundred and twenty-five thousand!"
Wini was interested. "What's his name?"
"Phil Grey."
"Married ... ?" she queried. "Yes."
"Children ... ?"
"No, I don't think so ..." he answered.
"I'll have to have a hundred and fifty thousand," she said, casually.
Taylor's breath caught in his throat; he hadn't expected her to ask that much.
Going on, Wini said, "Half now ... half after I deliver ... O.K.?"
Breathing deeply, he said, "It's a deal... but I don't carry cash ..."
"Naturally ... Monday morning deposit a certified check in the downtown branch of Wells Fargo . .. made out to The Cinderella School of Beauty and Charm," she instructed.
"Some kind of cover ... ?" he queried.
"No, it's for real... You'll be making an endowment..."
"Are you for real... Wini?" he asked, reaching out to put a careless hand on her nylon clad knee.
"Yes ... Mr. Robbins ... I am ... but sex is not one of my ... services!"
His hand moved, surely, gently, smoothly up the inside of her thigh.
"Nonsense ... You use sex ... all the time ... in your business!" he ventured.
"Not with clients!" she snapped.
Moving constantly, his hand was now up under her dress and his fingers slipped under the wispy leg band of her nylon panties and probed in the softly curling hair to the warm, softly palpitating slit below her pubic mound searching for the sensitive clitoris in its soft, protective canopy of flesh. He felt the electric shock in her body as he found it, her pelvis, suddenly, sliding down and tilting upward, her thighs splaying out offering him full access, invitingly, a low moan escaping her lips as she leaned toward him.
"Goddamn you, Taylor!" she swore, her lips avidly searching for his. "Why... did you ... have to do that... ?"
"Simple ... I like sex!"
"So do I... too damned much!" she moaned. "It's a weakness of mine ..."
Her searing lips worked on his, her tongue snaking into his mouth, sending him sensual messages, his mind-body interpreting them while his prick came jerkingly alive in his pants.
Boldly, knowingly, her tiny hand moved down to his crotch, expertly opened his zipper, delved inside and came up with his cock, bringing it out into the car, liberating it... making it available.
The touch of her hand on his hardening, fleshy rod caused it to jerk in her hand, expanding and growing, even as she worked the foreskin back to reveal the bulbous head of it, blood-engorged, shining smoothly, redly ... filled with lust for her. She fondled and caressed, her fingers, finally, attempting to encompass its thickness; failing this, he felt her agile hand measuring him in hands-breadth, her delicious tremor of excitement communicated to him through her undulant pelvis as her loins were ignited with an even more intense fire.
She broke their kiss, suddenly, and gasped, "There's a blanket behind the seat . . . These cars aren't made for this!"
Taylor felt behind the seat, found the blanket, got out of the car and spread it on the ground a pace away.
"Not quite the Beverly Hilton," she said, getting out of the low-slung car. "But, be my guest..."
Wini came around the car to him from behind, just as he straightened up; she reached around him, began to undo his belt and unbutton the single button at the waistband. His trousers dropped to his ankles and he stooped to remove them over his shoes; then, he removed the rest of his clothing as she turned from him to remove her own things. He tossed his clothes onto the seat of the Jag, turning completely nude, at last, to find her standing naked before him, waiting. She had removed everything but her shoes.
He was stunned by her beauty. In the pale moonlight, her body shone like translucent Italian alabaster. The twin mounds of her upthrusting breasts were thrown into sensuous high relief, the pink nipples hard and pointed. Her flat stomach showed the undulating twin ridges of muscle rippling smoothly under the skin. A tiny, wasp-waist blended into perfectly swelling hips, the darker triangle at the cusp of her thighs was a mass of softly curling red hair. Even in the cold, half-light of the Nevada desert moon, he could see that she was a true redhead.
Dropping, suddenly, to the blanket, she lay down on her belly, spread-eagle, and her hips began to move, sensuously, the perfect, milk-white, half-moon orbs of her buttocks hollowing and dimpling with her salacious movements.
Quickly, Taylor lay down on top of her, the throbbingly needful ache in his cock becoming more painful with each passing minute. His rod slipped easily down between the rotating cheeks of her working behind, running on down into the moist, warm furrow, the blood-engorged head coming to rest on the tiny, tremblingly erect clitoris enshrined there.
Lying on top of her, he ground his hips down onto the gyrating buttocks beneath him and heard the mewling pleasure-sounds emitting from her throat, as the hard contact of his blood-engorged shaft with the warm, pulsing flesh of her slit struck sparks of sexual passion in her.
He kissed the back of her neck under the carefully feather-cut red hair, then began to move farther and farther down her body, kissing her soft shoulders and back, sliding off her, finally, to kneel between her widespread legs; in the same way, he paid homage to her buttocks and thighs with lips and tongue. Now, he used both hands on her waist, pulling her up to her knees; she came easily up, the white, smoothly sculpted thighs spreading, naturally, as she rested on knees and shoulders, her head turned sideways on her hand, underneath. Her rounded, twin-moon buttocks were raised high, wig-wagging in the air before him, and the viscous moistness of her cunt glistened like pearls of dew in the pale light of the moon.
Crouching down behind her, he used his hands, one on either side of the hair-lined softness of her fleshy female cleft, his thumbs slowly drawing the inner lips apart, revealing the tight, trembling passage to her innermost being. He moved his head forward and placed his lips firmly between the coral lips of her nether mouth and flicked his tongue deep into the velvety smoothness of her vagina. The quick, sucking intake of her breath, the nerve-shock in her body, told him that she loved it... wanted more of it, as her hips pressed back against his face, grindingly. He moved his tongue in circles against the sensitive walls of her pussy, the excitement of it growing in her as she began to moan in ecstasy.
God! She's a hot little bitch! Hot as a firecracker. . . and she's really got a short fuse!
Her breath came in jerky gasps. "Oh, God! Taylor! That's wonderful! Eat me! Eat me ... some more!" she groaned.
His searching tongue contacted the tip of her tumescent clitoris and licked it, her bottom dancing with salacious undulations, the whimperings and mewlings becoming increasingly louder and incessant, seeming to come from deep in her throat, animal-like in their wailing croon of sexual arousal and throbbing need.
Behind her, his mouth working, lewdly, Taylor's pulse pounded hard in his veins, his prick throbbed, achingly, and from the orifice in the tip of the red-cowled head he could feel thick, viscous droplets of preparatory lubricant oozing out. He was ready! God! He was more than ready!
"Put it in, now .. . Taylor!" she moaned back at him.
Rising to his knees, he moved up close in back of her, his rock-hard shaft of man-flesh standing out before him. He could hardly wait to get it into her. The agony of his need had been building steadily within him, and he could feel the acid-like burning in the root of his cock that told him it would not take much more excitation to bring him to a spewing ejaculation.
As he moved in closer behind her, she reached back behind and between her legs, grasping his massive cock in her tiny hand and guiding it the last inch to the seething, hungry wildness of her moistly prepared pussy.
The bulbous, blood-engorged head went into the wet, satin-lined cuntal opening, and as he pushed and prodded, the resilient flesh of her passage expanded and moved before it in wavelets, the elastic muscles of the portal stretching, cruelly to accommodate him.
"Oh, you're big and nice!" she gasped. "Fuck me good with it!"
Wini pushed back against him, helping him, making his entrance into her easier, her hips wriggling and gyrating; literally screwing herself back onto him, impaling herself on his ever growing and expanding cock; then, with a final effort, he flicked his hips forward, driving with the strength of his legs, to drive the last punishing inch of his giant cudgel inside her, and he could feel the fluttering internal muscles as she worked them to milk at him. He grunted in satisfaction when he felt his pelvis smack into her backside, his balls swinging free below, grazing the pubic hair of her loins, tantalizingly.
Her hand was there, still, her fingers caressing his testicles, the deliciously lewd sensations arcing across his nerve endings. He paused with his cock buried to the hilt up inside the warm, clasping, vaginal vault and expanded the head, flexing it outward, the entire length of him in moist contact with the softly pulsating walls of her sensate cunt.
Reaching out to her hips with both hands, he began to move in and out of her, slowly, at first, ramming his prick home full-length and pulling out until only the head remained in the dewy exudation of her clasping furrow. He began to squeeze and knead her full, firmly rounded buttocks, the smooth, cool flesh plastic under his strong-fingered manipulation.
Now, he felt the load of his semen, blocked by the cofferdam of tumescent flesh - somewhere back behind the root of his cock - begin to burst. He slammed into her faster and longer, the smooth strokes hammering into her with demon-like force. She thrust back at him with equal fury, absorbing him to the fullest with every stroke and reveling in the magnificent power of his great, rampaging cock fucking into her.
Her breath was coming in one continuous whine of pleasure. The urgency of her need convulsed her body and he knew that she would soon be reaching the brink of her climax. She was moaning in an increasing crescendo, incoherent animal sounds coming from her in an unceasing flood of sound.
"OOOOooooh! God! I'm ready ... to cum!" she squealed, her hips pushing back at his plunging cock, frantically, and suddenly, explosively, she was there!
"It's sooooo good! AAAAAAaaaaaaggghh! Oh, Christ, Fuck me! FUUUUUuuuuUUUck meeeee!"
Wini reached back behind him, pulling his hips into her, tighter as he fucked into her for several more agonizingly pleasurable strokes, just on the verge of ejaculation, burning like acid in the base of his prick, before his semen jetted from him, surgingly, hosing the white, hot, viscous fluid through the lust-filled length of him, squirting from the nozzle to spray, thickly, all over the inside of her wildly clasping vaginal passage.
They collapsed together onto the blanket, their breathing harsh in their lungs from the effort. After a few moments, she stirred under him and he rolled to his side as she turned on her side to face him, her red hair framing her pixie-like face; she had her breathing under control, now. She smiled impishly at him.
"That's a lesson in how to spoil clients ..." she said.
"I'm paying enough ... Spoil me some more ..."
"Later ..." she agreed. "I'm a working girl, now ... I've got to catch an early plane back to L.A. I'll call you in a few days ... but don't try to call me ... O.K.?"
"O.K ... ?"
He reached out to her, taking one of her breathtakingly beautiful breasts into his hand to stroke and knead, rolling the nipple to erect hardness with thumb and forefinger.
"Could you take a later plane, Wini?" he asked, then.
"Yes . . . but let's get more comfortable ... My bed at the Flamingo is a lot softer than the rocks out here on the desert.