Drug Slut
(M+/ff, teen, drugs, anal)

by Kysa Braswell
www.kysaonline.org

In the Nip Room there wasn't even elbow room, but no one seemed to mind. There were many other attractions. There was noise, confusion, smoke (not all of it from tobacco) and the pungent smells of unwashed bodies, stale beer, cheap wine and vomit. There was long, unkempt hair, beards, bare bellies above crotch-swaths and bare thighs below abbreviated miniskirts. There were many dirty feet, both bare and sandaled, and many grimy hands.

In one corner, where it squatted like the insane, plastic monster it was, a jukebox taxed its mechanical lungs and electric vocal cords to the utmost, bellowing out the frenzied beat of a rock group to make itself heard above the witless, jabbering din that rose in a mad cacophony from the crowd. The final touch to this man-made inferno was supplied by multicolored, wildly unsynchronized laser lights that were programmed to dance on the floor and ceiling. No torture chamber devised for the specific purpose of driving its hapless victims to madness could have compared in devilish ingenuity of the Nip Room.

To 5'4, 105-lb. D-cup 16-year old Claire Wren, however, it was all very exciting. It was her first experience in a place if its kind and, although she felt both out of place and somewhat frightened since she was underage, she was enjoying herself immensely. She turned to convey this information to her escort, only to discover that he had managed to slip away from her unnoticed. She thought she could see the back of his blond head through the haze of smoke and was temporarily reassured. She supposed he was trying to squirm his way through the densely packed crowd to get drinks from the bar. Vaguely she worried about where he would sit when he returned. The space he had occupied on the bench at the long table beside her was now taken by another person; whether man or woman she could not be sure, for all she could see was the back of a head with its shoulder-length, brown hair. He solved the matter of his sex by turning toward her, revealing a bearded jaw and dull, glazed eyes of pale blue on either side of a jutting, angular nose.

"Here," he said, "take a hit." He offered her an inch of crudely rolled cigarette, the end soggy from many lips.

"What is it?" she asked, drawing away and wrinkling her nose at the acrid smoke. She thought she knew but couldn't be sure. She had never before seen marijuana. At least she was certain it did not resemble the neat, filter-tipped cigarettes she smoked.

"Whadaya mean, what is it?" the man demanded indignantly. "It's a joint. Whatcha think it is, marijuana?"

She hesitated, revolted by the thought of that sodden butt between her lips, yet afraid of offending the one making the offer. She shifted uncomfortably when he took his first good look at her, and his eyes widened, then narrowed.

"Well, I'll be dipped in shit!" he exclaimed. "Damned if it ain't Miss Uptown herself. Whatcha doing down here, baby doll... little slumming trip?"

Claire blushed. Under the flashing strobes it probably was not noticeable, but she felt her flesh become hot, as though a blowtorch had been turned on her. The intensity of the hot flash rendered her speechless and made her a little sick. There was a terrible moment in which the noise, the stench and her own fear hit her like a blow to the solar plexus. She wondered if she would faint.

The bearded man sneered knowingly. "You fucking squares are a pain in the ass," he said disdainfully. "Come down here to see how the weirdos live... like going to the zoo to look at the apes. Then you get all shook if one of us speaks to you. Whatsa matter, baby, you figure I got leprosy or something?"

"I'm sorry," Claire stammered drawing as far away from him as she could, trying not to show her disgust or fear. "I... I didn't mean any harm. I've never been to a place like this before, and I've never smoked marijuana. My boy friend brought me here. He's gone for drinks... I think," she ended lamely.

The bearded man grinned, but it was not a friendly grin. His eyes, sparking now with interest, started at her feet and moved with slow and calculated insolence up her nylon-sheathed legs to rounded thighs visible below the hem of her miniskirt. They rose to the slight curve of her stomach and the contours of a sweetly crafted torso, revealed in abundant detail by the form-hugging fabric of her knit dress. They lingered appraisingly on the twin bulges of her breasts, then rose to her face, baby-round beneath the heaped meringue of her champagne-blonde hair. He read the unmistakable fear in her blue eyes and in the nervous trembling of her soft, red lips. "Whenever I see a chick like you," he said with toneless menace, "all starched and ironed and strapped into place, I get the damnedest urge to mess her up. So you dreamed you went slumming in your Maidenhead bra and in your Playsex girdle, did you? I gotta notion to pull them to hell off of you and see what you look like with your titties flopping and your bare cunt hanging out."

Claire gasped in shocked horror. "You wouldn't! You wouldn't dare! This is a public place! My escort will be back. He'll... he'll..."

The bearded man laughed unpleasantly. "You just said the wrong word, you goddamned phony, antiseptic, perfumed bitch. Nobody dares Max Kern. Hey, look what I got here," he said to the others at the table. "Smart-assed cunt needs a lesson. Watch for that blond square she was with while I show this chick how we do it on Cool Street."

"No! No!" Claire screamed as Max Kern's long-fingered dirty hands reached for her. "Help me!" she appealed to a hard-faced girl her own age who sat across from her. The girl curled a pale upper lip and, to Kern, said: "Why doncha take her down under the table and fuck her, Maxy? We'll cover for you. When her boy friend comes back, we'll tell him she split on him."

Claire screamed again. Not a head turned in her direction. Screaming was the normal method of communication in the Nip Room. She tried to fight, but her efforts were futile. Not only was Max several times stronger than she, but by this time she was so nearly paralyzed with terror that all power had deserted her arms and legs. He easily held her arms pinned to her sides while his free hand went under the hem of her dress to claw at her panties. She felt the elastic give and then he had drawn them down to act as a hobble around her kicking ankles. Despite the fact that she held her legs clamped as tightly together as possible, he thrust hard fingers into the tender flesh of her inner thighs, violating for the first time the sacrosanct cleft of her crotch, roughly parting the hairy lips of her pussy.

She continued to scream, even though she knew it was useless. Those around the table were laughing and leering at her. Those in the rest of the place ignored her. As she felt Max Kern begin to slide under the table and drag her with him, her sanity left her; she was bludgeoned temporarily numb by the impossibility of what was happening to her. She was from a small town, and certainly no smarter than the average of her sex and she knew - just as she knew that there is a President of the United States, that the sun rises in every morning, and that Walter Cronkite comes on every evening - that one does not get raped in a public place among seventy or more people. She knew that, but it was happening anyway. Her mind, therefore unable to cope with the impossible, withdrew from the nightmare that was taking place, leaving her only enough awareness to feel pain, shame and horror.

They were on the floor under the table. Bare, willing feet found her arms and held them with cruel pressure against the cement floor. Her resistance was instinctive but feeble and futile as her dress was tugged and pulled until it was bunched under her armpits. Her bra surrendered to a savage jerk that tore the snaps loose and her panties were snatched the rest of the way off of her weakly thrashing legs. The cement was cold and hard against her bare back and buttocks. She had stopped screaming and only cried in a continuous, sobbing bleat of mindless terror.

"How is it, Max?" A bearded face appeared upside down under the edge of the tablecloth.

"Don't know," Claire's attacker grunted. "I ain't fucked her yet. But, man, she's got one hell of a body. Dig them big boobies."

"Yeah," the upside down one agreed. "You gonna suck her cunt, too?"

"Naw, not now. She ain't in no condition to appreciate the finer things. Maybe after I've broken her in I'll take her up to my pad and give her the full treatment. Depends on how she acts."

"How about me taking seconds on her when you're through?"

"Sure. She'll need a lot of screwing to tame her down. We got all afternoon. Tell the rest of the guys, too. Pussy just ain't much good unless it's been gangbanged. Keep a watch out for the guy she was with." As he talked, Max had been dropping his trousers. He wore no underwear. He held his long, hard cock in his hand, fondling it lovingly as he knelt between her legs and studied her hairy slit.

"Okay, baby doll," he muttered as he lowered himself to her, "here's where you get it... right up to the balls!" He addressed the dripping, throbbing head to her opening and settled himself, his bearded lips quivering with lust and his pale eyes glowing in anticipation as he hesitated one last second to savor the creamy expanse of her beautifully molded torso and the swelling mounds of her breasts with their pink and brown nipples, the softly rounded contours tremulous with the agitation of her sob-shaken body. He pushed the broad, purplish head of his 10-inch prick into her until it was lost to sight. Then, with a long, almost anguished "ahhh" of pleasure, he thrust down with all his strength, driving the bone-hard instrument into her, relishing the exquisite sensation of her flesh parting or tearing as it was shouldered aside by his ruthlessly rapacious root.

Claire screamed again, but the hard-eyed girl who had been across the table from her was bending down so that she could watch. Expecting the scream, she effectively muffled it by putting a bare, dirty foot in Claire's open mouth. She kept her foot there for a while, then transferred it to one of the exposed breasts, roughly massaging it and sometimes pinching the nipple with a prehensile big toe. As she peered under the uplifted edge of the tablecloth, her face was flushed; and her eyes shining, her breath coming in convulsive gasps. One hand was under her skirt, her fingers frantically manipulating her clit.

Had Claire looked about her, she would have seen not only the shapely limbs of the hard-eyed girl, trembling to one self-induced orgasm after another, but that the men at the table, inflamed by the vicarious thrill of what they knew to be taking place right under their feet, had unzipped themselves and were stroking their cocks. They also cried encouragement to Max.

"Fuck her, man!"

"Stick it to her, Maxy!"

"Ram it clear up into her goddamned fucking guts!"

But Claire was not aware. She knew only pain and, dimly, that she was naked on the floor while a man raped her, that the virginity she had cherished for 16 years was being ravaged and destroyed, and that her oneness with herself as an entity distinct from all others was being annihilated. Mostly she was aware of the plunging, piston-like prick and the ruthlessness in which it battered her inner body, each thrust as agonizing as though performed by a hot poker. But even pain must finally reach a plateau, must suffer a surfeit of itself until it fails from overproduction. It lessened. She opened her eyes to the forest of legs, feet and dripping pricks as seen through the fringe of Max's rancid-smelling beard. As a child she had had nightmares, but none to compare with this atrocious and impossible scene. She had two choices... either go completely insane with fear, or withdraw in a kind of stunned indifference and patiently await the moment when this phantasm would end.

Too tough-minded to go crazy, she lapsed into state of semi-catatonia in which what was being done to her body became a dim, unreal and distant thing. Her mind, detached from both pain and the shame of involvement, was free to consider her surroundings with curiosity. She saw the foot that massaged one of her breasts and followed up the slim, unclean limbs to parted thighs and gaping vulva where busy fingers agitated the clit hidden beneath the moist, pink flesh. Claire was familiar with masturbation. She had experimented with it during her twelfth year, but it had been her favorite sport only until she learned to play tennis. She tore her eyes from the performance of this rite to look from one to another of the men who were playing with the pricks under the table. Only once before in her life had she seen a man's prick, and that had been just before leaving home. She had walked in on her brother while he was in the bathroom. He had been busy urinating, and she had stared at his exposed organ for a second in both dismay and fascination before blushing violently and fleeing from room. That night she had dreamed that he carried a large snake coiled between his legs and was chasing her with it.

She next looked down to see Max's white buttocks bobbing above her hips and realized with astonishment that he had a cock just like those other men and that he was industriously sloshing it in and out of her. He was no longer hurting her. Her body, having turned numb, had rejected the pain.

Claire did not know when her boy friend came back from the bar, a bottle of beer in either hand. The ones at the table informed him seriously and sympathetically that his girl had gotten sick, had said she was going home. The closely pressed bodies about the table prevented him from seeing what took place beneath it and Claire had stopped screaming. She was no longer even crying. The young man's face turned red and he cursed. As he put the bottles on the table and began elbowing his way toward the door, the conspirators laughed, nudging and clapping each other on the back as they congratulated themselves on the success their deception.

At that moment, Max had his orgasm. The cadence of his probing increased, and he grunted loudly, emitting other animal noises as Claire felt his hot sperm shoot into her and slush out to roll down her thighs. She watched with mild interest as he withdrew, noting that his cock was smeared with his own semen and red from her blood where he had torn her hymen.

"You ain't a bad fuck," he admitted, panting, "only you got a lot to learn. I'll let some of the other guys help break you in and then maybe I'll take you to my pad tonight. You act right and I'll let you stay with me until I get tired of you, but you got to start dropping acid and smoking pot like the rest of us. Hey, Joe, give me a tab of 'L'."

He accepted something from an anonymous hand that appeared under the table and he told Claire to open her mouth. She did and felt a small, white tablet being inserted by a grimy finger. She was instructed to let it melt on her tongue. "When that hits you, you'll be on a helluva trip," he promised. "I'm gonna let Benny screw you now. He's kinda queer, but he likes chicks, too. After Benny, some of the other cats will take a crack at you. How you dig getting fucked, hunh? Cool, ain't it?"

She regarded him dumbly and didn't answer. She was in a state of shock, her body and mind no longer able to respond to either pain or fear. Had he told her she was free to get up and go home, she would not have stirred from her place on the floor. Only a part of her mind remained active, but her thoughts were remote, barely connected to body.

Max shrugged indifferently, pulled his pants into place and slid out of her range of vision as another bearded man, a somewhat younger one, took his place.

"Boy!" Benny exclaimed, viewing her with awe. "You're sure a lot prettier than the chicks we usually get around here." He bent to kiss her on the mouth, the soft, blond hairs of his beard woolly and somehow comforting against her face. He roughly pushed aside the girl's foot, which still rubbed Claire's breast, and cupped the mound with his hand. Then he felt down over her ribs and hip to caress her white, rounded thighs and touch her semen-moist vulva.

"I'm gonna suck your cunt," he declared, his face twitching with excitement. "I'll bet you'll like that." He turned around so that his head was even with her hips, then reached back to adjust his cock so that it rested above her breasts.

"I guess you ain't used to sucking cocks," he told her, "but you can hold it and play with it for me while I'm going down on you. Hey, you cats, get your feet off of her arm." He knocked the dirty feet away and Claire, for the first time, was able to relax from the awkward position she had been in. She made no protest when he took her hands and cupped them around his prick. Because he told her to, and because she had no will of her own, she continued to hold his member tightly as he lowered his mouth to her crotch. The lapping of his tongue was so mild a feeling compared to being punched and torn by Max's big cock that at first she was hardly aware of it when he began titillating her clit. His hips moved and his prick, already dripping and smeary, slid easily back and forth in her tight grip.

He took his time, and she didn't mind. Now that the feet no longer pummeled and imprisoned her, she was fairly comfortable and his licking and sucking at her vulva was soothing. Furthermore, something new was happening to her mind. She was beginning to be affected by the drug she had taken. It was like drunkenness and yet not like it. There was a dizziness and a lightness, almost as though she were floating, and a gradual increase of sharpness and clarity in her perception of everything about her. It was, she thought with dull curiosity, as though she had donned glasses that magnified everything. Her face was only a few inches from the young man's thighs, and she suddenly saw each hair and pore in vivid, microscopic detail. Her other senses were also greatly increased. The rich, mingled smells of semen and sweat assailed her nostrils, and his prick was like wet, slick satin to the touch of her hands.

As he continued to lick her clit, she felt the first, faint tingle of returning sensation to her lower body. She was sore from the brutal way in which Max had assaulted her, but the richness of feeling inspired by the eager tongue of her new lover was driving away remembrance of pain. Her mind still refused to tolerate the shame and humiliation of her position. It blocked it out as a thing too awful to bear and, as she began to derive pleasure from this new thing that was happening to her, she concentrated on that to keep from thinking about the fact that she was being raped in public. To save her sanity, she surrendered her body, the powerful dose of cocaine she had taken helping her make this adjustment.

The slobbering attack on her sex organ was accomplished with ravenous hunger and much enthusiasm, but not without expertise. Benny Morely had practiced the art extensively on both men and women. At twenty-one he had achieved his ambition to become a complete degenerate, living only for sex... any kind of sex, and for dope... any kind of dope. Oddly enough, he was a sensitive and generous person who would eagerly share himself or anything he had with someone he liked. He liked Claire, so he gave to her in the only way he knew how to give. He employed all of his cunning to the pleasurable task of sucking her clit and was childishly delighted when he felt her straining body begin to respond to his efforts. He would really have preferred sucking a man, but licking Claire's cum-filled cunt was almost as good as sucking Max's cock and, of course, there was the fun of doing it with someone new.

The tingling sensation grew to a flooding warmth of passion that spread out from the one focal point to Claire's entire body. She felt it in her thighs and in her groin, knew it in the hardness of her nipples and in the straining muscles of her back as she arched herself to his mouth. It wrapped her in a pink mist that shut out everything else, and she gave herself to it gratefully. She even enjoyed the sensuous feel of his cock sliding back and forth through her hands.

When her passion had reached a height she would not have thought possible, it suddenly soared beyond that and then her hips were jerking convulsively, her pretty, white legs thrashing madly and her body pulsing with a paroxysm of lust as she came to her orgasm.

At the same time, Benny's prick swelled, strained, and then began to spurt, the hot, slippery stuff squirting onto Claire's lower face and neck. Their cries of pleasure, too intense to bear in silence, went unheard above the din of the Nip Room.

"Hey, get your nose out of it, you queer bastard!" another voice was saying and Benny was pulled roughly away from her as another man took his place.

Claire, still in a daze of post-coital lassitude, made no resistance when her legs were spread and another cock was thrust into her body. It hardly hurt at all, and she accepted the burly, sweat-smelling weight on her chest and belly, wrapping her arms and legs around him and lifting her hips to meet his lunge, her whole being concentrated on trying to recapture the exquisite sensation she had just experienced with Benny.

They kept her there under the table all afternoon, taking turns with her until all of the men in the group had been with her at least twice. They let her rest only long enough to take frequent drags from marijuana cigarettes. By evening she had passed out, but they didn't mind, continuing to sate themselves with use of her inert body. She was not aware when the girl with the hard eyes slid under the table to make love to her just as Benny Morely had done.

Claire awoke in the small hours of the morning. She was lying on the filthy mattress in a strange room beside Max Kern, who snored like the distant whine of a power saw into his beard. They were both naked. She sat up and saw a candle in the dim light of the room. She found matches and lit it, staring at the yellow spearhead of flames as she let memory invade her mind, bit by bit until all of the astonishing facts were present and accounted for.

The one thing she saw with absolute clarity was that her adventure had changed her life utterly and irrevocably. She knew there was nothing to prevent her from getting up, dressing and going home to her apartment. There she could bathe, have breakfast, put on clean clothes and report to work as usual. No one would ever know. Oh, but they would! She would know! Claire Wren would no longer - could no longer - be the Claire Wren who had smugly thought of herself as a nice, virtuous, 16-year old girl from a respectable, small-town family. The only thing that amazed her was that she could find within herself not even the tiniest spark of regret for the demise of that other Claire Wren.

She looked at Max's thin, knobby-kneed body sprawled beside her in the steady light of the candle. She remembered again what he and all of his friends had done to her under the table in the Nip Room. Her hips moved and she felt the nipples of her breasts harden with returning excitement. She took his limp cock in her hand and began stroking it. When it was hard, she tugged on it to awaken him.

"Hey, Max," she said, jerking at him, "wake up and fuck me again."

Shari Charles picked up the newspaper from the coffee table where her brother-in-law, Sam Dryerson, had dropped it the evening before. It was an act of desperation. She normally avoided reading newspapers. She turned to the comics, then the women's section. She was about to toss the paper back down when her attention was caught by a picture of a young girl. She was an amazingly pretty girl, Shari thought, even though she had done her best to disguise the fact with long, straight hair, flowered, bell-bottomed pants, a sweater so tight it made her look like a tart, and a medallion that dangled in such a way as to call even further attention to her large bust. It was a human-interest story about what the reporter had called a "hippie love-nest tragedy." It seemed that one Maxwell Kern had died from an overdose of drugs, and a sexy picture of his teen-aged mistress could be calculated to sell a few newspapers. The girl, Claire, had refused to cooperate by looking either tragic or regretful. She merely looked bored.

"At least she's alive," Shari muttered aloud, "not half-dead and stuck in a no man's land like this."

The no man's land was the rather modern and comfortable home of her older sister, Shirley Dryerson. Her own "half-dead" condition was a slight exaggeration. She was simply bored, lonely and, in general, full of discontent with life. At twenty-six, Shari had taught school for five years and had been married for three. On the day her divorce had become final, she had been notified by the school board that they did not intend to renew her contract as a teacher for the coming year. When Shirley and Sam had offered to take her in while she made the adjustment to her new, sharply reduced status, she had accepted gratefully. Now she found herself wishing she had done almost anything else than run scared through the first door opened to her.

The trouble was, she conceded bitterly, that Shirley and Sam both worked days and had no social life evenings. That left Shari exactly nowhere. The rest of the trouble was, she admitted, that she, Shari Charles, was a sissy who didn't have the nerve to go to a cocktail lounge, get herself picked up, taken to a hotel room and thoroughly screwed, which, of course, was what she really wanted and missed most of all.

"Goddamnit!" she cursed in a way that would have shocked the school board as much as her divorce had shocked them, "what the hell does a divorcee with hot pants do anyway?" It was a good question and Shari wasn't the first grass widow to ask it without receiving any ready answer. It was midmorning. She had washed the dishes and cleaned the house. What now remained as a means of passing the next six hours until Shirley and Sam came home to eat the dinner she would prepare and then watch television until the late-late show? Shari hated television as much as she despised newspapers. She could, she supposed, take a bath. Hardly an exciting prospect, but it would kill an hour.

She undressed in the bathroom, performing the unnecessary ritual of weighing herself. While the tub was running, she studied her nude reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She was a redhead who had miraculously escaped the redhead's curse of freckles. Her skin was a golden bronze all over, for, on the few fog-free days of the San Francisco summer, she took full advantage of the Dryerson sun deck at the rear of the house. She had green, slightly slanted eyes and a mouth that made up in sensuality for its somewhat overly generous proportions. She was tall and slender, but it was a healthy thinness, not the emaciated slenderness of a fashion model. Her breasts, while not large, were ideally shaped, the magenta nipples delicate and small. Her waist was narrow, her body flaring below it to womanly hips and tapering again to sweetly rounded thighs at the juncture of which was an arrowhead of auburn hair.

"Not bad," she murmured, "but what the hell good is it to me if I don't use it? Somewhere in San Francisco there must be a man who would dearly love to get my clothes off, play with all my goodies and then stick his big, fat, lovely cock in my pussy and bang hell out of me until I yelled for mercy. They have college courses in home economics, the modern dance and even karate. Why don't they have one on how to get fucked?"

She sighed and stepped into the tub, settling herself in the sudsy water. She allowed the warmth and the quiet to induce a lassitude that soon verged on sleep and made no effort to dispel an erotic fantasy that began to weave its way through her half-awake mind. She snapped back to consciousness when she became aware that in the midst of her imaginings she had allowed one hand to drift to her crotch and that she was gently massaging her clit.

"Good grief!" she gasped, sitting upright in the tub. "I haven't done that since I was fifteen! Oh well, what the hell? It does feel good, and if I'm going to be an old maid I might as well go the whole route." She lay back down and again put her fingers to her pussy. With the other hand she touched one of her nipples and experimentally rubbed it with the tip of a finger. Not like having a man's hand or mouth there, but better than nothing.

Shari was so preoccupied with the new method she had found to entertain herself that she failed to hear the front door open or the sound of masculine feet on the carpeted floor of the living room. She was not aware that she was no longer alone in the house until the bathroom door was shoved open.

"Oops!" Sam exclaimed as he hastily backed out. "Sorry, Shari, but the door was unlocked and I had to go."

"It's okay," she called out. "What are you doing home this time of day?" She was startled but not particularly embarrassed. Nothing but her head and knees had shown above the soapy water, and she was thankful that he had not been able to see that she had been masturbating. Nevertheless, she was trembling a little as she got out of the tub, hastily dried and wrapped a towel around her body. "All clear," she said.

"I came home for some business papers," Sam said as he started to pass her. "I should have..." His voice dwindled, and he stopped in front of her. His expression changed abruptly at sight of her standing there, unclothed but for the towel. His face registered shock and the beginnings of desire.

"Shari, I... I..."

She was as shocked as Sam, but mostly at the wild, unprecedented thoughts that were surging through her mind. She blushed furiously. Nothing would have happened had she not, in turning to slide past him, let the towel slip so that it fell to one side.

He took it as an invitation. Looking back on it afterward, she couldn't blame him, couldn't be sure that some subconscious impulse had not caused her to drop the towel. She struggled in his arms, though, telling him to stop and that they couldn't do this because he was married to her sister.

"What the hell has Shirley got to do with it?" he muttered, kissing her and holding her tightly, one hand falling to her buttocks. "I want you, Shari. Damnit! I've wanted you since the day you first came here. Shirley will never know."

"We mustn't," she insisted, but despite herself she found that she was grinding her hips against him, feeling the hardness of his cock through his pants and knowing that she was so weak from desire that she could never resist him. When he bent his head and took one of her nipples in his mouth, she was lost... lost beyond any hope of recovery and she didn't give a damn. Nothing mattered now except having him.

Her bedroom was across the hall, and he took her there with no resistance on her part, took her there and fell across the bed with her. He kissed her breasts, her stomach and her thighs, fumbling all the time with his belt until he had his pants down. Then he mounted her, punching his hard prick in ineffectual haste at her crotch until she took it in her hands and guided the head of it to her opening. It went in as smoothly as though they had been doing it with each other every day. She wrapped her long, lovely legs around him, pulling him even deeper into her.

"Now fuck me!" she commanded, her whisper hoarse and urgent. "Oh, fuck me, Sam! "

"Yes," he agreed, "this is what I want, Shari. Oh, Shari, honey, I've thought about you all day, every day for months. When I make love to Shirley, I'm screwing you."

"Hush," she told him. "Just fuck me. I love your cock inside of me."

"Suppose I get you pregnant?"

"I don't give a shit. Just fuck me, damnit!"

They did it quickly and convulsively. Both were in such a rage of sudden passion for each other that they came, almost together, in a matter of moments. The roaring beat was like the crashing finale of a great orchestra, and their movements on the bed were wild and jerky as they strove with mad desperation to merge their bodies. She nearly fainted with delight as she felt his hot cum fill her, and her own orgasm was a tearing, rending, destructive thing that seemed to demolish her as though a bomb had exploded in her womb.

"My God!" Sam exclaimed when he lay exhausted and shaking on top of her. "I never knew it could be like this. I had girls before Shirley, but they were nothing compared to you - and neither is she."

"I thought you loved Shirley."

He shrugged. "I suppose I do. At least I'm used to her. Frankly, Shari, Shirley and I bore hell out of each other. She's a dud in bed. I'd like to experiment around a little, but she's a damned prude. I've never done anything out of the ordinary but, for Christ's sake, I know there's more to it than just screwing. She won't even talk about it."

Shari was interested. She had read some books on the subject, but had been unable to arouse an equal amount of interest in her own husband. She suspected that, like Shirley, he was a prude. "Tell me about those things," she urged Sam.

He looked embarrassed. "They're hard to talk about. If you're willing, we could just go ahead and do them. Are you willing, Shari?"

"Why not? No use worrying now about whether what we're doing is right or not. We might as well live it up. Do you have to go right back to the office?"

"No, I can think of some excuse later. I'm getting another hard just talking about... you know what. I want to kiss your pussy. I've always wanted to do that to a girl, but I've never had the nerve before to ask."

"Be my guest," Shari said with a nervous laugh, "but shouldn't you get undressed? I'd like to see the rest of your body."

"All right." He stripped off the remainder of his clothes and returned to the bed. He petted her, letting his hands learn the excitingly sculptured contours of her thighs. She, in turn, took his cock in her hand and stroked it, loving the slippery feeling of precum.

"Now," he said. "I hope you like this, Shari."

"Don't worry about me. I just hope you like doing it to me. It must be a lot like masturbation. That was what I was doing when you came in the bathroom. Your timing was terrific, Sam. That was why I was so hot I couldn't say no."

"I'm glad," he murmured as he slid down on the bed and turned around to bury his face in her crinkly patch of auburn hair.

She spread her legs for him, excitement mounting in her as she felt his mouth and tongue on her vulva. "Oh, yes!" she cried, "it is good. It's a lovely sensation. Suck my clit, Sam. It's so wonderful I can hardly stand it!" Her head was pillowed on his leg and she had her hand on his cock, its blind face with the tiny, gaping mouth only inches from her nose. She could smell her own body musk, a strangely compelling perfume. Impulsively she moved forward so that the round, reddish head touched her lips and then, urged on by a compulsion she had not anticipated, she opened her mouth and let the next thrust of his hips shove the satiny shaft between her teeth. Once it was in her mouth she sucked eagerly to engulf more. She was not satisfied until the head of it was at the back of her throat.

Sam's efforts, while somewhat inept, lacked nothing in enthusiasm. He drew the soft, membranous flesh into his mouth and licked furiously at her clit, his hands delighting in the spongy flesh of her buttocks as he drew her closer to him.

Shari knew that she had been right only in part - it was like masturbation, but a thousand times better. His avid tongue was driving her toward another quick orgasm, and she didn't want it that way. She wanted it to last and last because she wanted to go on sucking his cock as long as possible. My God, she thought. What I've been missing! To hell with living here like a damned troll in a cave. Tomorrow she'd go out on the town and suck every cock she could find!

She held back from the impending orgasm, but that only served to increase the inferno of passion that stormed in her, the strain on tortured nerves and on a body that longed for release. Clutching each other tightly, they twisted and turned, undulating on the bed like an oddly shaped monster with legs on both ends, and they uttered blubbery sounds as of anguish. Then she felt his prick swell in her mouth and knew that he was about to cum. She let herself go, wanting to scream with the sweet agony of it, yet not able to because her mouth was full of cock and was filling faster than she could swallow with the ambrosial stuff that gushed from him. She nearly choked, but managed to get it all down her throat; then it was over. Still they clung to each other, neither willing to admit that it had ended. As their bodies jerked in ever diminishing spasms of dying lust, they continued to suck each other hopefully until at last they realized that they could expect no more.

Sam sat up and turned around, and they lay with their arms about each other, murmuring endearments and kissing.

"I'll get a divorce from Shirley," he told her. "You'll marry me, won't you?"

She looked at him, startled. "Of course not! I'm not in love with you, and I wouldn't think of breaking up my sister's home. What we're doing is bad enough without that."

"But I can't do without you. All right then, if you won't marry me, at least live here with us always, and we can find chances to do this. After having you, I can't stand going to bed with Shirley."

Shari shook her head. "No, Sam. This has been fun, and it was just what I needed, but we can't get away with it forever. She'd be bound to find out before long. Besides, I'm not going to be true to you. I want other men now... lots of other men. I'd like to suck all the cocks in San Francisco!"

He was shocked and said so. They argued awhile, but then the lure of each other's bodies proved too great, and before long they were back at it again, sucking each other greedily. It took them longer and left them more exhausted than before, so tired, in fact, that they went to sleep that way.

A sedan pulled into the curb a block from the Dryerson home. The man at the wheel turned to the blonde girl beside him and would have put his arm around her, but she moved away from him.

"Not here, Bob," Shirley Dryerson said. "Some of the neighbors may be watching. You're a glutton. We've done it twice since we left the office. I love these afternoons when the boss goes to see his mistress and we can sneak out early, but let's don't spoil it by getting caught."

He laughed. "Yeah, I love them, too, but they aren't enough for me, Shirley. Christ! I can't ever get enough of you. When are you going to divorce that guy and marry me?"

She shrugged. "Don't be impatient, honey. Sam won't be easy to divorce. I don't think he's got enough guts to do anything to give me grounds. I've got my sister staying with me. You should see her, Bob. She's beautiful and so hot she'd screw anything with a cock. And do you think that stupid husband of mine makes passes at her? Hah! He acts like she was part of the furniture. Would I ever like to catch them together! I'd take him for the works, believe me."

"Okay," Bob replied grudgingly, "but don't make me wait too long. Nobody can see this. At least, goddamnit, let me get another feel." He put his hand under her thigh and worked it by the leg of her panties to touch her moist, warm crotch, and then slid it further under her and into the cleft between her buttocks to run his middle finger its full length up her ass.

"Don't, Bob!" Shirley gasped. "You know what that does to me. Quit it or I'll make you take me back to that motel and fuck me in the ass again." Her body was tense and her face showed the strain of the lustful emotions that rampaged through her. "Tomorrow night!" she whispered fiercely. "I'll try to get away for a while tomorrow night! I'll try to think of some excuse. Oh, Bob!" He still had his finger in her ass and had bent his head to her lap, pulling aside the nylon of her panties and running his tongue into her vulva until it touched her clit.

"Now stop!" she commanded sharply and pulled away from him again. "Meet me at the usual place tomorrow night." Then she slipped out of the car and trotted up the sidewalk. She looked back once to see the grimace of chagrin and frustration on his face before she hurried on to her house.

The front door was unlocked, so she went in without knocking and was on her way to her bedroom when she heard a noise that caused her to look in the open door across the hallway from the bathroom. She stopped, stunned with surprise at what she saw. Shari and Sam lay naked on the bed. Sam snored gently into Shari's crotch and his limp cock was in Shari's mouth. Shirley gazed upon this entrancing scene for several moments, a wide smile on her lips. It couldn't, she decided, have been more perfect if she had staged it herself. Then she wiped the smile from her face and, setting herself for the effort, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

"It's better this way," Sam told Shari at the airport the next day. "You go on to Honolulu until Shirley cools down. She'll want a divorce, of course, and getting it all settled will be messy. I'll join you there as soon as I can. That's your flight they're calling. 'Bye, darling. See you soon."

She kissed him lightly and turned to the counter where an airline employee was validating tickets. The girl ahead of her in the line seemed vaguely familiar, but Shari supposed she must be mistaken. She had to admit, rather regretfully, that she didn't know any hippies. Then the girl turned and Shari saw her profile. Of course! This was the girl in the newspaper... Claire something-or-other. What a coincidence that they should be going to Hawaii on the same plane. She wondered if they would sit together.

Her stage name was Kalola Kalikimaka.

She was billed at The Polynesian Paradise night club as an exotic fire dancer from Samoa, daughter of a chief. She was neither the daughter of a chief nor a Samoan. Her real name was Mary Kulihi and she had been born in the Palmyra, the old tenement district of Honolulu where her mother, a stout, good-natured Korean woman, ran a home laundry, and her father, a fat, happy half-Hawaiian, sat on the rickety front porch in the shade of the bougainvillea and drank beer.

Kalola was a very good dancer, as she certainly should have been. She had started practicing when she was four. She was also a very homesick little girl, as are all natives when they leave the islands of their birth. But Kalola could put up with being homesick because she was in love.

Jimmy Murphy was an American sailor, five years older than Kalola's seventeen. He was stationed on Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay and, being a yeoman in the executive office, rated liberty every night, a fortuitous circumstance that made it possible for he and Kalola to live very happily together in sin. He tended to be a bit vague on the subject of marriage and their future, but Kalola never doubted for one moment that they would eventually marry. Until he had seduced her, she had been an entirely innocent girl and, in her heart, she still was, for a childlike simplicity and sunny disposition were a natural part of her mixed racial heritage.

Except for the annoying presence of Herb Drew, night club manager, she liked her job. Herb, a darkly handsome man of forty, considered all female entertainers at the club as primarily there for his personal benefit and enjoyment. He usually succeeded in bedding them, but his best efforts had been of no avail with Kalola. In desperation, he had even forced his way into her dressing room while she was changing and had held her by brute strength while fondling her breasts. Kalola had bided her time until he had relaxed his hold, then had brought a knee up forcibly into his crotch. For nearly a week after that, Herb had seemed to lose all interest in sex and had walked about backstage like a man riding an invisible horse, while glowering and muttering darkly at everyone he met. He had never bothered her again.

The drums rolled in a final flurry as Kalola completed her dance, her bronzed body glistening in the light of the two torches she dexterously twirled with such speed that they seemed hoops of fire. She ended by tossing them into the air and catching them as she ran from the stage. She returned to a prolonged applause to take a bow, then hurried offstage to her dressing room.

Carefully locking the door from the inside, she divested herself of the six flower leis she wore, the skimpy halter top and the short, imitation grass skirt. Then she removed her make-up with theatrical cream and quickly donned street clothes. She smiled happily at her naked reflection in the mirror, glad of the fate that had granted her skin as smooth as brown silk, breasts that jutted enticingly from her upper body and hips and thighs, developed from years of dancing into twin perfections of breathlessly lovely shape. She had long known that her seductively contoured form and piquantly beautiful face were great assets in show business, but now she was particularly pleased with her natural endowments because they pleased Jimmy. He praised her and petted her and could keep neither his hands nor his lips off of her body when they were together. And that made it an equitable arrangement, because she couldn't keep her hands off of him either. He had taught her to make love, and now she lived only for the hours when they lay together, white and brown bodies entwined as they struggled in the frenzied, panting, rapturous dance of passion.

Kalola left the night club by the back door and took a city bus to the apartment she shared with her lover in the Marina District. Jimmy met her at the door and swept her into his arms. She was glad he had just gotten there and had not yet had time to change from his uniform. She loved the feel of the dark-blue broadcloth with its contrasting white stripes, rating badge and single red hashmark. They kissed hungrily and he, as usual, dropped a hand to raise her skirt in back and caress the firm, rounded flesh of her buttocks. Everything was exactly as it had always been with them... and yet it wasn't. Kalola thought she detected a note of preoccupation, almost absentmindedness, in the kiss and in the caressing hands.

"Whatsa matta you, fella jimboy?" she asked anxiously.

"Nothing. For crissake quit talking pidgin," he responded irritably.

She was instantly and deeply hurt. It was the first time he had ever voiced an objection to the inland English she often used with him as a kind of lover's baby talk. She knew now that something real was troubling him, but she was too wise in the ways of a woman to let him see her hurt. She would wait and he would tell her when he was ready. She knew the kind of therapy he needed. She ran a hand down the front of his trousers, feeling for his fat 9-inch cock through the tight material.

Jimmy stood tense and still for a moment, then he relaxed. "Gosh, Kalola honey, I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm just...." She silenced him with her lips on his.

"Undress me," she whispered around the corner of the kiss. "Take my clothes off, Jimmy, and kiss my titties."

He hesitated, seeming for a moment on the point of refusing, and then, with a groan, he unzipped her dress at the back and let it fall to the floor. She wore no underwear.

"Now you," she said. "Hurry, Jimmy." While he struggled to pull his jumper off over his broad shoulders, Kalola knelt and undid the thirteen buttons of his trousers. She pulled them down and his shorts as well, clasping her arms around his hips and pulling him toward her so that his stiffening cock was cuddled against her cheek. She showered avid kisses on the thick shaft of it, on his belly and thighs. She reluctantly disengaged herself from him only long enough to remove his shoes and socks, then they hurried, arm in arm, to the bedroom.

She lay back across the bed to let him lean over her and suck greedily at the dark brown of her nipples, his tongue and teeth sending thrills chasing through her that made her squirm with mounting desire. She closed her eyes and rocked her head from side to side, her long, black hair fanned out on the pink of the chenille bedspread, her knees bent and her heels hooked under the edge of the mattress.

He lowered his head from her breasts to the taut skin of her stomach, his wet lips and tongue leaving a trail of moisture across her brown hide.

"Now do it to me! Oh, do it to me good, Jimmy!" she pleaded.

He mounted her and thrust his cock into her open and receptive pussy as she cried out in ecstasy. As he fucked it into her, she pulled his face down to hers and sucked his tongue into her mouth. Her hips rose to meet his and she felt his long, hard cock probe deeply, the head of it bumping its way past the mouth of her womb until it hit bottom. He continued to push at her, creating a little thrill of pain with each lunge of his body. This was what she loved most of all, the bigness and the length of him and the fact that he filled her so completely that doing it with him was both painful and heavenly. Tonight he was particularly rough with her, as though taking his earlier flash of irritability out on her body, punishing her for loving him too much, for demanding and getting too much of him. She cried out in pain and passion and strained for more, willing him to give her a physical pain to erase the memory of the other hurt he had inflicted on her.

Jimmy Murphy was actually neither very experienced nor very adept as a lover. But Kalola in her innocence didn't know that. She thought he was the greatest fucker who had ever lived. On the occasions when he came before she did, leaving her aching and frustrated, she forgave him easily, supposing that such was her lot in life and all she could expect as her share of intercourse.

Her passion mounted, welling and growing in her like the froth on boiling waters, until her body lost all meaning except as a chalice for his prick and a capsule to contain the screaming nerves that had become her. It was one of her lucky nights. She was able to have her orgasm just before he did. Their locked bodies continued to writhe and twitch in unison with the fading pulses of dying sensation that still shook them in surges of decreasing power.

"Jimmy," she whispered, her dark eyes adoring him, "I'll bet no other guy in the world can make love like you."

Jimmy frowned and looked uncomfortable. "I've been keeping track," he said, not meeting her eyes directly. "You know how long it's been since your last period?"

"Hunh?" She looked blank and then startled and admitted she didn't know.

"Nearly two months," he told her accusingly. "You aren't pregnant, are you?"

Kalola's eyes became round with mild shock as this new idea penetrated her mind, then she smiled radiantly. "Gee! Do you think I might be? Wouldn't that be wonderful, Jimmy?"

His frown deepened. "You better not be," he told her threateningly, "or we're in a helluva mess. I just got orders today that I'm being transferred back East... Brooklyn Navy Yard."

He had just dropped a bomb into the middle of her life and blown it to hell. Yet he seemed unaware of what he had done. He couldn't understand her heartbreak and grew angry with her when she cried and begged. As if it explained everything, he casually announced that he was already married anyway and what the hell had she expected?

A sunny disposition was not the only thing Kalola's conglomerate, racial heritage had bequeathed her. Her slanted eyes narrowed to slits and her lips curled into a snarl of rage as she hurled herself at him with clawing fingernails and flailing feet and knees. He managed to barricade himself in the bathroom until her temper had cooled, then he wisely gathered up his uniform and fled, leaving Kalola sobbing and screaming on the bed.

He had been gone from the apartment for an hour when she sat up and looked around her. Her face was puffed from crying, but her eyes were now dry and her mouth was set in hard lines such as it had never before known.

"Okay, you goddamned sonomobeech. I show you pretty damn good, hunh," she muttered aloud, lapsing back into the pidgin of her childhood in the slums of Honolulu. She went to the living room, fumbled through the phone book and found a number. She dialed it, and when a man's voice answered, she said: "Mista Drew? This is Kalola. You no mad at me fo' kick you in nuts? Okay. You still wanta fuck me, I come you house. Sure, I come now, I stay you house all night, you fuck me plenty, yeah?" She hung up the receiver on its cradle.

"I show you, sailorboy shitty basta'd," she said as she pulled on her clothes.

A bewildered Herb Drew met Kalola at the door of his apartment. He wasn't at all sure what he was letting himself in for, but the powerful yen he had developed for the little brown dancer was greater even than his still vivid memory of an aching scrotum. "Come in," he greeted her. "I'm glad you've changed your mind. Can I fix you a drink?"

"Sure. We get plenty drunk, hunh? And we fucky-fucky all night, too."

"Suits me," Herb agreed, "although I'll be damned if I can figure why you decided to give me a little at two o'clock in the morning." He poured her a double shot and watched her toss it off with no apparent effort, a thing he thought strange when he knew for a fact she did not drink.

"Come on," she said, "let's go sackside. You bring one bottle, fella. Okay?"

Herb shrugged and followed her into the bedroom, noting that she was unzipping her dress and stepping out of it as she walked. He undressed and they had another drink, then he lowered himself to the bed and drew her to him.

It was no part of Kalola's plan to enjoy herself with Herb Drew. What she was doing was strictly for revenge. What she had not counted on was the stimulating effects of the whiskey and that Herb was an accomplished roue, quite expert at his chosen avocation. She did notice, with more interest than she had intended to have, that his cock was much larger than Jimmy Murphy's. She had been sure that the sailor had the world's largest prick, but now she saw that he had been only a boy after all with a mere 7-incher between his legs.

"I know a few tricks, baby," Herb said as he squeezed her breasts and regarded her shapely body with all the honest appreciation of the true connoisseur. "How do you want it?"

"I no give a damn," Kalola answered coldly.

"All right," he agreed. "In that case, honey, I'd like to suck your cunt. I've had a tongue hardon ever since I first saw you dance."

She had not the slightest notion what he meant, but she watched with some interest as he slid down on the bed and put his head between her thighs. When his tongue shot into her, she still did not understand, but when he began expertly sucking and lapping her clit, she suddenly got the idea.

She lay there, a withdrawn and frigid statue, hating him because he was a man and white but hating Jimmy Murphy even more. She managed to maintain her frozen pose for nearly five minutes. But Herb's cunning tongue was not to be denied. In spite of herself, Kalola became aware of a very pleasant sensation that was tingling its way up through her nervous system. It grew and grew, blossoming with every passing second and with every stroke of the educated tongue. She fought against it, not wanting to like what he was doing and not wanting to like him. But the whiskey was her undoing; it had both stimulated her and lowered the bars of her inhibitions. In a matter of moments her hips were rotating in time with the beat of Herb's tongue and her hands were clenching and unclenching on the bedspread.

With her mind, Kalola was hating him, and hating herself for what she was doing with him, but she was being like the priest in the story who explained why he seduced the nun by saying: "From the belly button up I am a priest; from the waist down I am still a man." Her body was treacherously refusing to obey the dictates of her mind.

Herb Drew was enjoying himself and deriving much more than the normal satisfaction from this erotic love-play. Not only was he fulfilling a burning ambition, but in a way he was also revenging himself for the misery she had dealt him with her hard little knee. Time after time he brought her to the very edge of an orgasm and then slackened his efforts, only to start all over again the moment she began to relax. He managed to keep it up for an hour, reveling in the mildly sadistic pleasure of knowing that he had reduced her to a helpless, moaning lump of over-sensitized jelly, her nerves so finely drawn that every touch of his tongue or fingers drove her to the verge of screaming insanity. Only when his own desire had reached the point where he could no longer control it did he relent. He suddenly reared up from his position between her quivering thighs and thrust his massive cock into her with ruthless force. She did scream then, but as much from pleasure as from pain. He could have made her cum with one or two well-calculated strokes, but still he held off, tantalizing her while treating her to more excruciatingly poignant sensations that she had ever before known.

"Beg for it, you beautiful, little brown bitch," he gasped.

Kalola looked up at him with wild eyes, her pride and her hate forgotten. "Yes!" she cried. "Yes, I beg. Do it. Make me cum!"

He leered. "Say please."

"Please! Please, please, please!"

"That's better, goddamned you. Kick me in the nuts, will you? I'll have you on the floor licking my feet before this night is over."

"Okay. Anything! But please make me cum."

Grinning savagely, he increased the tempo of his plunging prick. When he felt her cunt begin to work convulsively, he let himself go, filling her with the viscous, slippery stuff.

She thought her strength gone, her body weakened from the strain of the hour in which he had tortured her, but when she felt him gushing into her, it was as though he were injecting her with new power. She arched her back so violently that she lifted him a foot off the bed. Her strong legs clamped his thighs with the strength of a maddened octopus, her heels drumming on his buttocks as she tried to drive him even deeper into her. Her orgasm was devastating, a thing of total, bodily involvement. She felt that she was melting in the heat of her own passion... melting and running like a river of fire into the white-hot chalice of her own cunt.

It was over and yet it was not. Herb would not let it be over. Where Jimmy had been content after screwing her to light a cigarette or roll over and go to sleep, Herb gave her not even a moment in which to collect herself or to enjoy the deep, somnolent pleasure of passion's afterglow. He withdrew from her and immediately began to suck her nipples while his fingers did a light dance on her sensitized body. When she protested feebly, he ignored her plea and began making a tour of her body with the tip of his tongue. He drew it across her stomach and her ribs, down the length of her leg to her feet and up the other leg. He even rolled her over to give her back the same treatment, kissing and biting at her buttocks, then spreading them to tantalize the pink button of her ass, licking it until she was in a frenzy of new excitement and even forcing the tip of his tongue into the tight orifice.

She couldn't imagine why he was doing such a thing, but she didn't care. She was pleading with him to fuck her again. She was not aware of his intention until he had pushed her onto her side, hunched himself up close to her back and had the head of his cock started into her ass. She struggled, but he was too strong for her. She screamed in real pain as he thrust strongly into her. She would have fought him, but he reached over her hip and thrust his hand in her crotch, his fingers finding her clit and agitating it. She forgot the pain then, even relishing it and letting it help her toward another orgasm. He made her cum three times that way, then began another long siege of teasing until she was again a bundle of agonized nerves and begging for release.

"Okay," he told her, "take it in your mouth and I'll fix you up. Otherwise, I'll keep you going like this all night."

"I don't do that. It's dirty."

"Suit yourself."

"Fuck me in the ass again. I liked that."

"No, I'm tired of it. Suck my cock or I'll go down on you and I won't let you cum either."

"Okay, but you make me cum soon, hunh?"

"After you swallow my cum, baby."

He turned around on the bed and, putting a hand behind her head, thrust his dripping, shit-flecked prick between her lips. Kalola dutifully sucked. It seemed a strange and nasty thing to be doing until he put his face to her crotch and began licking her pussy. Then, when her passion had again been aroused to an intense pitch, she began to like the feel and the taste of him in her mouth. When he came, she swallowed rapidly and milked the shaft with her hand to extract the last drop of semen. She continued to hold his cock in her mouth as he worked her clit and brought her to another wild climax.

"You better go home now, kiddo. You got a show to do this afternoon," Herb said sleepily at six o'clock in the morning.

"I don't want to go," Kalola rejoined. "Why can't I just stay here with you, Herb? Tonight, after work, I'll fix dinner for you. I'm a good cook Hawaiian style. Then we can go to bed and fuck and suck all night again."

He regarded her coldly. "I see you don't get the picture," he told her. "I never screw the same girl twice, honey. You're a great little piece of ass, but, frankly, seconds on you would bore hell out of me. Run along now. It was fun. Let's let it go at that."

Considering the scene she had made when Jimmy Murphy had rejected her, Kalola went very quietly. She went to her own apartment, called an airline for reservations, packed and took a cab to the airport. She was going home and she would never again in her lifetime come to the mainland never even want to hear it mentioned.

She got in line to validate her ticket behind a beautiful, red-haired girl and a pretty blonde dressed like a hippie.

It required only two hundred miles of cottony white clouds, as seen from several miles above a sparkling blue Pacific, for the three girls to become acquainted. Seated together on the starboard side of the aircraft, they made an interesting study in contrasts with Kalola's dark, exotic beauty, the blonde prettiness of Claire Wren, and Shari, the vivid and vivacious redhead.

By the 400-mile point, they had begun to tell each other their troubles.

"I saw your picture in the paper," Shari sympathized with Claire. "How terrible for you for your... her... husband to die that way."

Claire regarded her blankly. Then her lazy, pretty mouth curled into a smile that was half sincere. "You mean like the papers said, from an overdose of 'L'? Bullshit, darling. Maxy fucked himself to death, and don't start thinking what a lucky girl I was either. The son of a bitch didn't screw himself into the next world on me. He got tired of me after the first week. All I did after that was hustle for him to keep him in bread."

"Men are dirty bastards," Kalola put in, her eyes slitting and her lips forming a hard, bitter line. "I will never be nice to another man. I will take them for everything I can get from them... after I have made them screw me, of course."

"My own experience with them has not been so good," Shari confessed. "My own husband divorced me for no better reason than because he happened to catch me playing with his best friend's cock. Now, mind you, we hadn't done a thing. It was at a party and we'd all been drinking. I'd been dancing with this man and he got a hardon, and all I did was take it out and stroke it a little."

"And they think they're so superior," Kalola snorted, "the narrow-minded, nasty, selfish bastards!"

Claire nodded in sympathetic agreement.

"What will you do in the islands?" Kalola asked her.

Claire shrugged and looked vague. "I don't know. I hear there's a nice hippie colony out on Oahu. Max had two kilos of pot stashed away. I sold it for enough to get a plane ticket. I still got a half a kilo and a dozen tabs each of cocaine rocks, mescaline and speed. That'll get me by for a while."

"You're better off than I am," Shari said. "That cheap brother-in-law of mine gave me only three hundred dollars. I guess I'll have to find me a little grass shack on the beach and live off of bananas."

Kalola looked at her pityingly. "Boy, you malihini wahines sure got plenty to learn. If you find a grass shack anywhere, it will be on top of a high-rise apartment building and cost you two hundred bucks a month. They catch you swiping bananas they put you in jail and forget they got you in there."

"What is a malihini wahine?" Shari asked.

"Wahine is girl," Kalola replied, "and malihini is newcomer... like tenderfoot or greenhorn. You'll be lucky to find an apartment at all. I've got friends who live in what we call 'The Jungle.' That's the poor people's district off the main street in Waikiki. Sometimes you can get an apartment there for a hundred a month... you pay the gas and lights."

"Why don't the three of us try to find one together?" Shari suggested. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Sure," Kalola agreed, "but I don't know what we'll do for a living. You don't know anything but teaching school, and I guess I can't get a job dancing... not after walking out on my contract in San Francisco."

"Why don't we all turn pro?" Claire asked. "Seems to me, with all the rich tourists and other squares there, we ought to make out okay by whoring."

"Probably have to," Kalola agreed.

"I wouldn't mind," Shari said. "But maybe there's a better way. I have a very good camera with me, and I'm something of an amateur photographer. We can probably rig up a darkroom to develop our own pictures. What I had in mind was blackmail. We pick out an important man and one of us brings him to the house. When you both have your clothes off and things are getting real interesting, one of the others can take the pictures. With infra-red film you don't even have to have light."

The other two looked at Shari with suddenly increased respect.

"Maybe you're not so malihini after all," Kalola said. "Okay, I'll go see Joe Moto when we get to Waikiki. Maybe he's got a house for us."

It has been said that the most charmingly Polynesian part of Oahu is the International Airport at Honolulu. That this atmosphere is deliberately and not too subtly contrived detracts not one whit from the validity of the statement, for the rest of the island is even more commercial, more of a tourist trap, and even phonier.

Not that this meant a thing to Kalola. She was used to it and expected nothing else. From the time the plane came in sight of the crater of Haleakala on Maui, and then swung north to pick up Diamond Head, she was happy because she was home. She didn't need to hear the canned strains of "Beyond the Reef" to become misty-eyed. The familiar scent of plume ria or pikake was enough to strum the strings of her sentimental heart.

Claire glanced disinterestedly about her with that bored and blase attitude she considered most proper and becoming to a hippie.

Shari, on the other hand, was full of "ohs" and "ahs" and behaved in the normal, rubberneck fashion of the typical tourist. She had to be steered firmly by souvenir stands offering koa ashtrays, ersatz grass skirts, ukeleles and numerous other items... most of which had been made in Japan.

They took the airport bus to Kalakaua Avenue and were in the heart of famed Waikiki, although all they could see of it were the fronts of huge hotels, apartments, stores and honky-tonk spots.

"Isn't there supposed to be an ocean around here someplace?" Shari asked, disappointed.

"Oh, sure," Kalola replied. She waved a hand to the west. "Somewhere out there beyond the hotels... if some mainland real estater hasn't drained it and started a new sub-division. Come on. We go find Joe Moto." She led them down Lewers Street and turned on Kuhio Avenue, stopping in front of an ancient frame building with a faded sign on its porch. The sign depicted a sick-looking palm tree. Beneath this time-worn cutout could be seen the name, "Pacific Paradise Hotel." The grounds were shaded by kukui trees and the moist, warm air was cloying with the sweet scent of frangipani. Behind the office they could see, half hidden by the lush, tropical growth of shrubs and flowers, a number of small shacks that leaned awry on crumbling foundations.

A bandy-legged, squat and swarthy man with squinted slits of eyes and a bald, bullet-shaped head, came out at Kalola's call. He stood on the front porch, picking his teeth with a match stick and regarding the three girls dubiously. "You come back, hunh?" he greeted Kalola. "You want house now. Who these other wahines?"

"Friends of mine," the little dancer told him. "Come on, Joe, fix us up with a place. We plenty damned tired."

"I dunno," Joe said. He was eyeing Claire, taking in her flowered pants and the medallion hung between her large breasts. "We don't want no hippies. Big trouble from cops alla time."

"Boy, you sure dumb," Kalola rejoined scornfully. "All rich tourists from mainland dress hippie style now. Anyway, Claire no make you trouble. She damn good, hard-working whore."

"Oh," Joe Moto said. "Why didn't you say so? Okay, take number four. It ain't locked." He started back into the house. "Rent went up again while you was gone," he said. "You pay one-twenty a month now."

"Jap sonomobeech!" Kalola muttered under her breath as she led the two girls to number four. The two bedroom house was permeated by the musty smell of mold and of rotting timbers. It was permanently occupied by countless cockroaches, cane spiders bigger than the inside of a tea cup and small lizards of all colors.

"Is it a house or a goddamned zoo?" Shari asked plaintively as she looked for a spot free of insect life where she might deposit her suitcase.

"You'll get used to 'em," Kalola assured her. "Let's go swimming."

They changed into bathing suits and walked the shaded streets to the beach, a small semicircle of sand between two hotels and crowded with people. They swam in the warm water and played in the almost negligible surf, then stretched out on the beach to take the sun.

"Who should we start on?" Shari asked as she wiped suntan lotion on her gleaming thighs. "I mean where do we start looking for a blackmail victim?"

"Wouldn't just whoring be simpler?" Claire questioned, but Kalola ignored her. Her forehead was wrinkled in thought.

"Hey!" she exclaimed, "I bet I know who we can take. Mike is running for state senator. He's got a thing about blondes. With election coming up, he'll be a cinch. You want to try him, Claire?"

Claire shrugged. "Why not? The islands seem a funny place to be making it with an Irish politician... but what the hell."

"He's not Irish," Kalola explained. "His name is Mike Fuda. He's jap. I can introduce you to him."

"Let's go home then," Shari suggested. "I want to see about turning that closet in my bedroom into a darkroom, and I have to figure out where I can hide and get a shot of him and Claire."

"You chicks go ahead," Claire said lazily. "I'm gonna stay on the beach awhile."

"Okay," Kalola agreed, "but be right here where we can find you later. Soon as Shari gets everything set up, I'm going to call Mike Fuda and make a date for you. Mike goes for blondes like a monkey goes for peanuts. He'll start at your toes and eat you up."

Claire shrugged. "I don't mind getting eaten. There was a queer kid in San Francisco who'd come up to the pad every day to eat my pussy, until that damned Max started charging him."

After the other two had left, Claire slept for a while. She awoke and sat up to light a cigarette and stare dreamily out at the flat, shimmering expanse of blue that was the Pacific. She felt no particular thrill at the knowledge that she was in the Hawaiian Islands. To her, a beach was a beach and an ocean was just a hell of a lot of water. Had Max not upset her life by dying, she would as soon have been back in the dark, familiar confines of the room they had shared in the building a block off of Haight Street, San Francisco. When she thought of the many friends, of both sexes, who had come there to make love to her on the semen-stinking, urine-soaked mattress, she grew homesick and wished she had not come to the islands in the first place.

She had no illusions concerning her chosen role in life as a hippie girl. She was well aware of the fact that she was not a real hippie and that the crowd she had met in the Nip Room were nothing more than a group of moral degenerates who had found it convenient to dress and talk like hippies as a cover for the constant round of dissipation that had become a way of life for them. Among those who had accepted Max as a leader, she had never heard a discussion on any subject more serious than the high price of dope, or how to stay stoned and sexually debauched without working. She had mentioned moving to the hippie colony, but doubted that she would be accepted by them. It suited her purpose to remain with the two girls she had met on the plane. If they wanted her to hustle for them, that was all right with her. She thought that being a professional prostitute was the best job in the world, and remembered with scorn her previous life as a virginal secretary in an insurance office.

A young man, blond-haired and husky, came out of the water before her. He stooped to retrieve a surfboard, tucked it under his arm and came up the beach toward Claire. He stopped in front of her and stood there dripping, an appreciative grin on his face.

"Hi," he said. "You must be a new arrival. I haven't seen you before. Do you surf?"

Claire shook her head, her long, blonde hair rippling across her back in the sunlight. "No. Is it fun? Why don't you tell me about it?"

He sat down beside her and accepted one of her cigarettes. He told her his name was Dan McCraken and that he was on summer vacation from college on the mainland. "Surfing is groovy," he assured her, "but not so good when the waves aren't up. Like that out there." He waved his hand to indicate the listless, two-foot-high surf. "That's strictly a bummer. What are you doing here? Are you vacationing, too?"

Claire smiled and failed to answer. She was quite adept at not answering personal questions until she was ready. "You smoke pot or drop acid?" she asked instead.

Dan hesitated a moment, then admitted that he had tried it a few times.

"I thought you might have some friends who'd want to buy," she said. "In case you do, I'm holding."

"I might," he replied cautiously. "How about a date tonight? We could go to a show."

Claire regarded him intently. She saw that he was less mature than she had first supposed. Still, he was big enough and old enough. He was apparently dumb and innocent, but he had a good, muscular body and, to her, cock was cock.

"Okay," she agreed, "but let's get everything understood between us from the start. You'd like to fuck me, wouldn't you? You figure if you take me to the show, and maybe buy me a hamburger, you can talk me into giving you a little. That right? Well, why don't we save ourselves some time? I don't give a shit about shows or hamburgers. I just like getting laid. So, if you want to screw me, never mind the rest of that crap. Okay?"

Dan's prominent Adam's apple jerked up and down and he blushed deeply under the peeling red and brown of his recently acquired tan. "Gosh! I never met a girl like you before. Yeah, if you want it, I sure do. You're the prettiest chick I've ever seen."

"I don't want to wait until tonight, either," Claire declared. "There must be some place on this beach where we can do it."

"Sure," he said eagerly. "Up toward Diamond Head, there's a little cover. Hardly anyone ever goes there. Wait 'til I leave my board with some friends of mine." He rose and took his surfboard over to where a group of youths his own age lolled on the sand. He talked with them for a minute, then returned.

It was quite a long walk, but on the way Claire confirmed her belief that it was probably going to be worth it. As soon as they were out of sight of the crowd, she slipped her hand inside Dan's bathing trunks to feel his prick, ascertaining to her satisfaction that his cock was fully man sized, and that it was already hard as stone and throbbing with readiness.

She calculated that they would be gone no more than two hours. Surely it would take Kalola and Shari longer than that to get the house fixed up the way they wanted it and arrange the date with Mike Fuda for her.

The cove was as isolated as Dan had promised and was the prettiest spot she had yet seen on the island. He led her to a natural bower formed by red ginger and hibiscus. As they dropped together to the warm, white sand, she was already taking off her bikini top and Dan was staring in slack-jawed fascination at her pink-tipped, creamy breasts as he fumbled to remove his own shorts..

Claire laughed. "You never see any tits before? Suck 'em, buddy boy, they're vitamin enriched."

Danny did. He thought she was the strongest, boldest girl he had ever met, but although she embarrassed him, she also inflamed him with desire. She was certainly unlike any of the scrawny, flat-chested, sun-bleached girls who ran with the surfing crowd in California.

"Wipe the sand off of your cock and stick it in me," she ordered as she tugged to make him roll over on top of her. "I haven't been fucked since I left the mainland and I'm burning up. Ah, yes! That's it! Goddamn, how I like having all that meat in my cunt! Ram it to me, baby!"

Dan was fumbling and inept. She was only the third girl he had ever done it with, although he talked big among the other boys and bragged about imaginary couplings. Encouraged by her urging, he let himself go, jamming his cock in and out of her hot, grasping cunt with what he considered brutal force.

Claire was disappointed. He came quickly, before she could, pulling out of her to leave her frustrated and still passionate. She sighed, realizing he didn't know any better. She would have to pretend it was all right and try to get him ready again. The second time would be different. He was grinning down at her, obviously proud of himself and believing he had shown her a good time. She kissed him and wiggled her hips suggestively. It was no use. They'd have to wait.

At that moment a shadow fell across them, and she looked over his shoulder to see another boy standing in the entrance to the bower. She recognized him. He was one of the surfers with whom Dan had left his board. Behind him were four others.

"What the hell you guys doing here?" Dan demanded angrily.

"We just thought we'd see how you were making out, little buddy," the one nearest the entrance said, grinning wickedly. "We thought you might need a little help."

"He sure does," Claire replied for Dan, pushing him off of her. "Line up, fellows. Better yet, if one of you wants some ass, I'll take you on two at a time."

Ignoring the protesting Dan, they crowded into the bower and one stripped off his trunks, getting astride of her with no need for further invitation. She let him enter her, then made him turn on his side so she could raise one leg. "Come on," she said to another of them, "do it in my ass. I like being double-decked."

She squealed with delight when the boy began working his prick into her ass and the first one started humping her. She imagined she could feel the two cocks almost touching each other within her body. This was living, she thought exultantly. To have hard, male bodies, smelling of sweat and salt water, filling her and hammering at her, hands and eager mouths mauling and sucking at her breasts, to know that this was happening while others watched, waiting their turn while they stared with burning eyes at her naked limbs, seeing the cocks tunneling into her... this was the only time she really came alive.

She saw that even Dan was getting another hardon. She rolled toward him. "Put it in my mouth," she told him. "Let me suck it for you." Now she was complete, every body orifice fully utilized, the three different kinds of sensation building in her all at once. She began to cum, going a little crazy with each climax that followed one after the other in nearly continuous procession, each one more poignantly ecstatic than the last. Then her cunt, her ass and her mouth were suddenly full of cum, the slippery, hot stuff flooding her as the boys grunted and cried out in the wonderful agony of passion. Claire came a final time herself.

She was limp and weak when they pulled out of her, but only for a minute. She called to the others, "Take me now... the same way. Hurry, don't let me cool off." They willingly mounted her and fucked her with fresh enthusiasm. She looked up at one of the boys who had just left her body. "If you know more guys, go get them," she begged him. "I want a real gangbang. Please!"

He pulled his trunks into position and trotted off on his errand. He knew where he could usually find at least a dozen of the surfer crowd hanging out.

It was two o'clock in the morning when Claire walked into the house on Kuhio Avenue. She hoped the other girls would be asleep, but they were not. They were sitting in the living room, glaring at her and tapping their fingers on chair arms. An empty bottle and two glasses were on the end table between them, but they weren't drunk... just furious.

"I know... I know," Claire sighed wearily, holding up a hand to forestall their attack. "I know I'm a cop-out and a bummer, but I couldn't help it. You see, I met this surfer and it turned out he had a bunch of friends and... well... the first thing I knew it was too late to keep a date with Mike Fuda and..."

Joe Moto stirred uneasily and came awake. He listened to the commotion for a while. "I knew it," he scolded himself. "I knew them three cunts would be nothing but big trouble. Lucky if someone don't call the cops. Maybeso tomorrow I throw 'em out on their asses." But he knew he wouldn't... not as long as they paid the exorbitant rent he was charging them. His Oriental soul would have known no peace had he, through petulance, allowed his temper to cause him to miss the chance to make a profit.

Kalola awoke to a sense of well being. The raucous chatter of myna birds had awakened her. From a distance came the sound of a riveting gun, indicating that another high-rise apartment was being erected. These were the sounds of Waikiki, and she smiled with contentment at this proof that she was home.

She considered her situation and decided it could easily be worse. It was true that, after paying one month's rent in advance, plus a cleaning deposit and a light and gas deposit, they were nearly broke. They had a month in which to raise more rent money, and when the time came that three pretty girls couldn't make out well enough to eat regularly, then Waikiki would really have changed.

She thought about her newly acquired friends and decided that they were plenty maikai... even if they were white and from the mainland. In her present, expansive mood, she was quite willing to forgive Claire for goofing off with a bunch of surfers and forgetting her date with Mike Fuda. Still, there was the fact that something must be done about the state of their finances. She wrinkled her forehead and concentrated on the problem.

"Hey!" she exclaimed at last, "I betcha I know!" She threw back the sheet that had covered her, scrambled out of bed, her naked brown body gleaming in the soft light of morning, and ran to the other room where Shari and Claire slept. She found Shari nude and sleeping on top of the bedspread, and she paused a moment to admire the white beauty of the redhead's seductively formed limbs and perfectly shaped breasts. "Yep," she said half-aloud, "she's just the one to pull it off. Shari! Hey, Shari, wake up!"

The red-haired girl stirred and opened her eyes.

"I gotta great idea," Kalola said excitedly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I just remembered about Tony Nunez. He's a Portuguese guy who owns a big hotel out Pearl City way. He's got a big thing for white chicks with red hair. Any redhead can go ask him for a job and he puts her to work, no matter how dumb she is. Then, if she won't sleep with him, he fires her and hires another. They say he's got a Jap wife who gave him five kids and then crossed her legs when she caught him screwing one of the hotel maids. Come on, get dressed and we'll go to Pearl City. When you get him all set up, you bring him here and we take pictures... like we were gonna do with Mike and Claire. How about it?"

Shari raised an arm to look at her wrist watch, then turned sleepy, green eyes on Kalola. "At nine o'clock in the morning?"

"Sure," Kalola agreed heartily. "Like you guys on the mainland say: 'Early worms are for the birds.' Come on, get up."

Shari groaned and arose.

It took them two hours to dress, have coffee and ride to Pearl City on a bus that detoured leisurely down Hotel Street and the Kalihi District. The "big" hotel referred to by Kalola when she first mentioned its owner, Anthony Nunez, turned out to be a rather disreputable, third-rate establishment, but Shari was not unduly discouraged. She had already been in Honolulu long enough to realize that rent being what it was, owning any hotel could be considered tantamount to owning a gold mine.

They crossed the faded carpet of the lobby to the desk where a fat Hawaiian woman, dark as any African, regarded their approach with silent suspicion. She admitted, although reluctantly, that Mr. Nunez was in his office.

"If you're looking for a job," she told Shari with open animosity, "don't worry about it. He'll hire you, all right. You'll be the third one with red hair he's hired this month. I hope you remembered to bring your diaphragm."

"How sweet of you to remind me!" Shari replied. "I suppose that was what you hotel girls used back in your day. Well, it's the Pill now, deary. But, of course, you wouldn't know about that."

Kalola giggled as they turned away from the desk. "Gosh, Shari!" she whispered admiringly, "I'm going to learn a lot from you about being bitchy. This is the office. I'll wait down the street in the coffee shop. Good luck."

Shari's knock was answered by a gruff "Come," and she opened the door to face the biggest, blackest man she had ever seen. That he was Portuguese she had no doubt. It showed in his classical features, his curly, black hair, and a certain Latin air, yet it was equally obvious that several other racial strains, all of them very dark, mingled liberally with the European blood line. She introduced herself timidly, overawed by his impressive bulk.

"I suppose you heard I hire redheads?" It was a question.

Shari blushed. "Yes."

Nunez chewed thoughtfully on the dead cigar that jutted from a corner of his mouth. "And you figured you'd get next to me and then find a way of taking me." It was not a question. "Don't lie about it. They all got the same idea. You know what happens to them... those others who try that?" He laughed. "I give them jobs, fuck 'em and then fire 'em. If you want to play that game with me, it's okay. I'd like to fuck you, but don't get the idea you can make a sucker out of me. I'm too smart for you. Well, what do you say?"

Shari didn't know what to say. She reasoned that she ought to be getting mad at him, but she wasn't. Kalola's scheme would have to be abandoned, that was certain, but what would she do right now? And yet she was reluctant to leave. Nunez was standing beside his desk, and she could not avoid noticing the growing bulge in the front of his pants. She wondered what it would be like to have his great bulk on top of her, and the thought brought an involuntary pelvic reaction that made her hips squirm.

"I won't deny that I had something like that in mind," she told him, "but I know when I'm beat. I'm broke and I need a job. I'd like to work for you."

He laughed, the booming sound of it filling the small office. "By God, you're all right!" he cried. "Okay, you got the job. You want to start tonight?"

"Oh, is it night work?"

He laughed again. "You better believe it." He handed her a key. "That's to Number Fourteen," he said, "on the top floor. Be there tonight at eight. Have your clothes off and your legs spread. I don't like to waste time. What's the matter? You think I was hiring you to scrub floors or something?"

"Nooo," Shari admitted. "It's just that I'm not used to...."

"You'll get used to it," he interrupted. "Come here."

She took the two steps that brought her within his reach.

He didn't take her in his arms. Instead, he slowly and deliberately reached down for her skirt and drew it up around her waist, cocking his head on one side to study her exposed, lower body. "Yeah, that's what I like," he said with evident satisfaction, "good legs and hips. Turn around." He patted her on the fanny. "Nice ass, too. If I wasn't busy, I'd take you upstairs right now. Look here at this. You think you can take that much meat, huh?"

Shari turned around to see that he had unzipped his fly and exposed the longest, blackest, biggest prick she had ever even heard of. It arched stiffly up, its circumcised head flat and broad, the shaft seeming to her as big as a beer bottle. She gasped at sight of it, her sharp intake of breath as much from surprise and interest as from dismay. She didn't want to touch it, but she couldn't help herself. Her hand stole timidly to the massive organ and cradled it gently, the slender, white fingers contrasting vividly with the velvety black flesh. She felt its warmth and the pulsing life in it and her crotch ached with sudden longing.

"I can try. A girl friend of mine is waiting, but she wouldn't mind an hour or so if you..."

"Sorry," Tony Nunez said. "Like I told you, I got business to take care of. You be here tonight. I'm a three-night-a-week man and I'll pay you a hundred bucks a week. Okay?"

Shari nodded and reluctantly surrendered her grip on the ponderous penis. She accepted an advance and went out of the hotel in a kind of dreamy daze.

"I got the job," she told Kalola, "but we can't expect to do anything with him for a while. It will take a long time to gain his confidence ... I think." She had no intention of telling Kalola the truth, which was that at the moment she could think of nothing except that massive, masculine body crushing her and that pachydermous prick plunging into her throbbing cunt. What the hell! On a hundred a week they could pay the rent and even eat a little, despite the prices she had seen in the windows of grocery stores along Kalakalua Avenue.

She took extra care with her bathing and grooming that evening, although she judged from Nunez' brusque, businesslike attitude that he would hardly be the type to notice. From her small wardrobe, she selected a mint-green dress that complemented her eyes and hair and clung with revealing sheerness to her figure. She had trouble doing her fingernails. She was trembling and she realized that it was from eagerness and anxiety.

Shari was at the hotel at precisely eight. The night-shift desk clerk was a Hawaiian as fat as the woman who had been there that morning. He leered at her as she started up the stairs and called her over to the desk. "You the boss' new redhead, hunh?" he inquired, licking his thick lips and grinning knowingly. "You some doll. Maybeso when Tony get tired of you, you come see Buster," he said. "That's me, Buster Kahane."

Shari smiled at him. "Maybeso, Buster," she said and went on up the stairs. She found the room surprisingly neat and well furnished. Contrary Tony's instructions, she did not undress, but she did kick off her heels and make herself comfortable on the bed, arranging the dress as though it had fallen carelessly around her hips to reveal the length of her bare legs. She wanted her undraped, lower body to be the first thing he would see when he came in. She was aware that the nylon crotch of her panties was soaking wet with the musk-scented body fluids that had been draining from her all day, for there had been no moment of that time when she had been free of the mental image of Tony Nunez. She was so hot that she felt all she would have to do was barely touch her clit with the tip of one finger to make herself go into a violent orgasm. It was a temptation to do so, and she wished he would hurry.

The door opened and he entered. He was wearing white trousers and a blue aloha shirt. For all his weight, he walked as lightly and gracefully as a dancer across the room, the lust already lighting his face as he eyed her lovely, open thighs.

"You're some piece of stuff," he declared. "I've had some good-looking chicks, but damned if I don't think you top them all. If you can fuck as good as you look, I might keep you around quite a while." He stripped out of his pants, shirt and shorts, and she saw that he was not at all as fat as she had imagined. His body was overlaid with smooth bands of muscle under the satiny sheen of his nearly black skin. His dangling cock was already half-hard as he sat beside her on the bed and leaned over her to kiss her on the mouth.

Shari had expected brutality, or at least a casual sort of roughness. She was amazed at the gentle touch of his lips on hers and the soft, light flow of his hand as it explored the contours of her thighs. "I'll get undressed for you," she whispered, her voice strained from growing passion.

"No hurry," he murmured. "I'll get your clothes off a little at a time. More fun that way." He disrobed her as he petted her, making a slow ceremony of removing each garment, and he studied the revealed flesh as though each part of her was a new miracle more wondrous to behold than what had been bared before. He toyed with each of her breasts, his fingers teasing the nipples into erection, before he bent his head to honor them with his wet, sucking kisses. When she was at last nude, her clothes a heap on the floor, he made a production out of covering her entire body, from forehead to toes, with tender, provocative kisses, neglecting neither the bubbling well that was her pussy nor the quivering, pink rim of her ass. While he thus paid tribute to her beauty, her hands were eagerly stroking his cock and carefully fondling his ballsac.

"Oh, my God!" she cried, her voice nearly a thin scream of agony. "Fuck me now, Tony, honey! I can't stand more of this."

"Patience," he cautioned her. "Make it last. It's better that way." He continued to pet her and kiss her. Then, when he was ready, he warned her that he was big for her and that it might hurt.

"I don't give a damn!" she sobbed. "Just do it."

"Okay." He mounted her and began working his cock into her as carefully as possible. He had been right. It did hurt. From the moment the head of it entered her, the pain began and it grew steadily worse. It felt to Shari as though someone was driving an iron post into her crotch, splitting her body inch by inch. Strangely, however, the pain did not diminish her passion.

"You going to be able to take it?" he grunted.

"Yes! Yes! Give me all of it, Tony. I want it all, I don't care if it kills me!"

He shoved the 10-inch prick home, and the pain immediately subsided. There was left only the marvelous sensation of being filled, of being complete. When he began gently to rotate it and work it in and out, she felt every part of its surface in contact with the walls of her pussy. She clenched her legs around his huge thighs and surged upward with her hips, wanting even more. She impulsively set her mouth on his and ran her tongue between his lips. The erotic kiss seemed to inspire him. He increased the tempo of his plunging prick and Shari began to cum. She sensed that she was approaching a climax of far greater power than any she had yet experienced, and the impending force of it frightened her, as though she expected her body to be consumed in the blazing inferno of her own lust, or her mind to snap from the tension of her tortured nerves. Yet it was irresistible, surging up from her loins like a great wave intent on sweeping all before it. She surrendered to the will-crushing might of the sensation and let her sanity and her humanity fall away like a burden too heavy to carry. She became all animal, a thing of primitive and unrestrained lusts. She was a body, tortured beyond all endurance and responding with naked savagery. She was a rasped nerve that cried for relief, a writhing, twisting, inhuman thing that was all feeling. In the throes of her madness, she bit and scratched the smooth, dark skin of her lover. She screamed like a wounded tigress when her orgasm finally came.

Before it was over, she felt the hot blast of his sperm deluging her inner body. The combined efforts of their frantically and spasmodically jerking muscles flung them around on the bed as though they were having a mutual convulsion.

Tony continued to fuck his own cum back into her until their frenzy of lust began to fade. His motions slowed until he lay quiet but for an occasional twitch of his buttocks.

After several minutes had passed, he raised his head to gaze down at her with dark, sleepy eyes still filmed with the shadow of his dying lust. "You did it," he murmured. "You sure as hell did it! Now you know why I never kept any of the others around very long - they couldn't take it. You're the first woman I ever got it all into, and the first one who ever gave me a decent hump. I'd marry you, if I could get rid of my wife. She won't divorce me, and if I boot her ass out, some of her relatives would get me for sure. I'm a strong man, maybe one of the strongest in the world, but I'm not bulletproof. She's got a brother who is a bagman for the Syndicate here, so you can figure how long I'd last."

"Don't take any chances like that," Shari whispered. "I don't want to lose you. We'll just be lovers. Maybe someday something may happen to her."

"All right," he agreed. "I'm sorry I treated you so rough in the office this morning. I love you, Shari."

She kissed him warmly. "I love you, too. You weren't really rough. You're the gentlest man I've ever known. After we've rested awhile, will you make love to me again? Can we stay here all night?"

"No. I'm sorry. If I'm not home by midnight, the little bitch raises hell and threatens to turn her brothers loose on me. You can sleep here if you want. I don't think I should screw you again, honey. Your pussy needs a rest after having me in it. But I want to suck you off. Do you like having your cunt licked?"

"I'd love it!" Shari replied with enthusiasm. "I'll suck you, too - if I can open my mouth wide enough to take it. I wanted so much to suck it this morning when I had my hands on it. I'd have done it right then, gone down on my knees and sucked it, if you'd let me."

He shook his head. "I'm stupid. I wasn't that busy."

They lay side by side, kissing and caressing each other with hands and lips that grew steadily more avid. Shari returned the compliment he had paid her earlier by making the grand tour of his body with her mouth and tongue, just as he had done to her. When she came again to his crotch, she gave herself the pleasure of kissing and licking at his ass, his balls and the shaft of his cock. It was now erect and throbbing to the tune of his increasing fervor, a dribble of whitish fluid oozing from the slit. She licked it clean, then opened her mouth to its widest. She found that the head and only an inch of the shaft was all she could accommodate without choking. She licked and sucked greedily while her fingers played with the rubbery flesh and hair of his ass. He pulled her hips closer to his face and, parting her thighs, thrust his tongue into the opening of her pussy. His tongue was large, long and very strong. It was almost like being fucked, she thought happily, but she was not disappointed when he shifted his attention to the small lump of her clit, agitating the sensitive gland expertly. She knew she was discharging heavily again, for the room was redolent with the fragrance of her musk, and she heard him gulp repeatedly as he swallowed mouthfuls of her body fluids.

She marveled at herself. Until her brother-in-law had taught her this, she had never thought she would want to become a cocksucker. Now she knew she was hooked, completely addicted to the erotic art. She loved Tony and would marry him if ever he gained his freedom from his Japanese wife. But she doubted if she would be true to him when there were so many cocks to be sucked in the world. She had loved her husband, too, but had not been able to resist the temptation to play with another man's cock at a dance. When she thought of all the fun she could have had in high school, she wished she had learned the trick earlier in life.

Tony's clever tongue was driving her closer and closer to the point of orgasm, so she redoubled her efforts. She was rewarded by feeling his muscles tighten and his bodily tension increase. Just as the first throb shook his prick, her own climax came about; then she was cumming wildly as she jerked her hips in short, frenzied strokes to rub her cunt over her lover's face, yet not quite losing the contact of his tongue on her clit.

His hips shuddered convulsively as his pulsing prick began to shoot gobs of cum into her mouth and down her throat. She sucked and swallowed with all her might, loving the taste of him and as fiercely joyful that she had made him cum as at the wonderful sensations that emanated from her clit.

Their mutual orgasm was somewhat more restrained than it had been the first time but, in compensation, was even richer in feeling and more prolonged. When it was over, they were finally and completely exhausted.

Tony left just before midnight, but Shari was so sleepy she was hardly aware when he went. She had been sleeping soundly for several hours when she awoke because someone was sitting beside her on the bed and had the sheet pulled down. A soft hand was fondling her breast.

"Don't get scared. It only me, Buster Kahane," a voice whispered. "I got hot nuts fo' you, baby, but I think mo' bettah I wait 'til boss gone home long time. You give me fuck now, hunh?"

Shari opened her eyes to see the fat desk clerk looming over her, his hands busy with her body. "Sorry, Buster," she said, "but you'd have a hell of a hard act to follow. What do you think you could do for a girl who'd just been made love to by a man like Tony Nunez?"

Buster sighed. "Yea, all wahine say same thing. I no bigshot lover like the boss, but I got damn good prick. Whassa matta nobody want my prick, hunh?" He had pulled the sheet farther down and now had two fingers in her pussy. With his free hand he unbuckled his trousers and let his cock stand up. "Whassa matta my prick?" he repeated plaintively.

Shari eyed the fat, smooth organ in the dim light and felt the saliva begin to run in her mouth. She licked her lips.

"Not a damn thing wrong with it, Buster," she said. "You just slide over this way so I can get it in my mouth... and don't stop fingerfucking me. I love it."

Shari was not sure how to explain her new affluence to her friends. She was ashamed to admit that she had fallen in love with her boss and had no intention of trying to carry out the original plan of blackmail. After making love to her, Tony had generously doubled her salary and delighted in buying expensive presents for her. She considered telling them that she was obtaining the money by rolling drunks at the hotel, but doubted that they would believe her.

It was Claire who solved her problem for her and made it easy for her to confess that she was a backslider from the solemn covenant they had made to hate all men and take them for all they could get. She came into the house one day, the pockets of her slacks bulging, and casually began digging out bills and dumping them on the living room table.

"Auwe!" Kalola gasped. "You rob a bank?"

Claire shook her head. "Un-unh. Those surfers I've been getting gang- banged by got their monthly checks from their parents, and I sold 'em most of the pot and other stuff I've been holding. I got over five hundred here, and a new surfboard. Now we don't have to worry about paying the rent."

"Claire," Kalola said, "you make me ashamed for all the bad things I hollered at you the night you stood up Mike Fuda."

"Me, too," Shari echoed.

Claire shrugged. "That's okay. I didn't really want to be a blackmailer anyway. I'd rather just fuck and have lots of boy friends, and maybe sell some ass once in a while when some square slob like a tourist wants it. I'm not so mad at guys as you chicks are."

Shari gulped hard and took the plunge. "I haven't been exactly honest with either of you," she admitted. "About Tony... well, I wouldn't want to do anything to hurt him. He's a great guy and I'm... well... I guess I'm pretty fond of him. But he's been giving me money and I've been holding out because I didn't want to tell you where I got it. Here." She opened her purse and contributed a stack of bills to the pile on the table. "I guess that about puts us out of the blackmailing business, doesn't it?"

"Not quite," Kalola said firmly. "I haven't got any money to put on the table, and I want to do my share. I haven't been lucky like you and Claire, but I've got a naval officer, a commander, all lined up. I was going to meet him tonight and maybe bring him tomorrow evening. If I do, will one of you help me set it up to frame him... like we had planned?"

"I will," Shari volunteered. "I can't see Tony tomorrow night, anyway. I did have a date with Buster Kahane, but I can call him and break it. Do you think you can take this commander for much?"

Kalola nodded. "Maybeso plenty. His wife is coming out here in a week. I betcha she'd like to see some pictures of her man with a goddamned naked little native, hunh? If I get enough from him, I'll buy back my contract and then I can go to work again. Nothing is as no good as an unemployed hula dancer."

"I don't see why you don't forget all that hard work and just be a whore," Claire said. "It's easier and a lot more fun."

"If I can't get out of my contract, I will," Kalola agreed. "Shari seems to like it."

Shari looked startled. "Hey!" she exclaimed, "that's right, isn't it? I hadn't thought of what I was doing as prostitution, but it sure is, now that you mention it. Well, what do you know? I've gone and promoted myself. Both for fun and profit, it beats teaching school."

The girls spent the rest of the day on the beach, swimming, sunbathing and watching Claire struggle valiantly with the art of surfboarding. Kalola went to keep her date with the naval officer that evening and woke them up at one in the morning to report that all had gone well. After letting him kiss her and feel her legs, he had wanted to take her to a hotel room, but she had declined, saying she was too shy to do it anywhere but in her own house and promising that she would give in to him if he would meet her at the Outrigger Bar and bring her here.

Shari spent the day setting her camera up so that she could shoot through an inconspicuous hole she made in one of the bedroom walls and hid with a trailing vine that grew from a planter.

Kalola went to keep her date and Shari settled down to wait. Claire was, as usual, in the cove with a bunch of surfers.

The appointed hour came and went and Shari, hiding with her camera in the other bedroom, grew restless. She poured herself a drink and, as another hour passed, absently poured and drank three more. She was feeling very little pain when she heard a commotion in the living room and jerked erect with the guilty knowledge that she had dozed off. There were voices and, unless Kalola's commander was a ventriloquist, he had to be a least triplets. Getting unsteadily to her feet, Shari opened the door a crack to peek out and behold Kalola in the midst of not one naval officer but three enlisted men. She was lying on the couch with her head pillowed on the lap of one and her legs across the lap of another. Her skirt was above her hips and her panties were on the floor. The third man was mixing drinks.

Shari came out into the room and Kalola, seeing her, waved gaily from her supine position. "Hi, Shari," she called, "have a drink and meet Jack, Bill and Ted."

"Wow!" the one named Bill cried, "dig the gorgeous, red-headed stuff!" He was the one who had been appointed bartender.

"What happened to the commander?" Shari asked Kalola.

"He stood me up," Kalola replied. "The sonomobeech! Maybe his wife came from the mainland early. Anyway, who cares? I picked these guys up at the Outrigger Bar."

"But I thought you hated men," Shari insisted with drunken persistence.

Kalola grinned. "I do... except sailors. It's the uniforms. You ever notice how a sailor's uniform smells different than other clothes? It's so groovy I can't resist it."

Shari shook her head. "No," she admitted, "I never got that close to one."

"Well, now's your chance, Red," Bill offered gallantly. "You can smell me any time. I'll bet you smell pretty good yourself."

"Watch that guy Bill," Jack warned, wiggling an experimental finger into Kalola's pussy. "We hear he eats at the 'Y'."

Shari looked puzzled, and all three sailors laughed uproariously. "He means at the crotch," Ted explained, " 'Y'... crotch... get it?"

"Oh." Shari brightened. "Sure, I get it. I get it every time I have a date with my boy friend. You hungry now, Bill?"

The young sailor blushed. "I never did it in public before."

"Chicken!" the other two shouted, and his blush deepened.

"Let's see how good you are," Shari said, dropping into a chair, lifting her dress and pulling her panties off. "Come on, Billy Boy. Dinner is served."

He hesitated only another moment, then the sight of Shari's beautiful legs and thighs was too much for him. He dropped to his knees in front of her and began kissing the soft, perfumed flesh. By the time he had reached her pussy it was moist and bubbling with passion. She locked her hands in his hair, pulling his face hard against her steaming crotch.

"I've never had the nerve to try that," Jack said, licking his lips and watching with envy.

"Aw, come on," Kalola encouraged him. "It don't bite."

He looked at her smooth, brown limbs and gaping, pink vulva surrounded by a halo of black hair, then impulsively bent his head and timidly touched her raw cunt flesh with the tip of his tongue. He became motionless with surprise. Then, with a groan of long suppressed desire, he began sucking and licking her greedily, if somewhat inexpertly.

Kalola turned her head on Ted's lap, unbuttoned him and took his cock out. "I get hungry, too," she laughed. "Fuck me in the mouth, honey."

They were in those positions when Claire came in with two of her surfer friends. "Looks like quite a party," she declared. "Let's get in on the fun. Hey, what a bummer! The booze is almost all gone. Here, Danny, take some money and go to the liquor store for more." She went to the drawer where the three girls had hidden the loot that she and Shari had accumulated and handed the young man two twenties. "Better get some grub, too." Then she removed her clothes and got down on the floor on her hands and knees so that the other one could kneel behind her and fuck her dog fashion.

Danny returned after a while with the liquor, some food and a dozen friends of both sexes he had found sitting on the sea wall along Kalakalua Avenue with nothing to do.

Kalola, who was temporarily disengaged from the sailors at the moment, was delighted. That the impromptu affair had grown to a full-fledged party tickled her happy Hawaiian heart.

"Why don't we have a luau?" she cried and was cheered by the enthusiastic response she received. Obviously the house was not big enough to accommodate a luau, so they took over the courtyard, around the perimeter of which were the shacks that made up the Pacific Paradise hotel. "We don't have time to dig an imu and roast a pig," she said, "but we can always get one catered from one of the big hotels." More people were dispatched with more money and instructions to bring back all of the ingredients for a first-class native feast. They were lucky. One of the hotels had held a luau earlier that evening and it had not been well attended. The chef was most happy to dispose of the leftovers, including most of a roast pig, pineapple, poi, limu, opihis, roast kukui nuts, sweet potatoes and mullet all wrapped and still steaming in the green leaves of the ti plant. Liquor had been purchased in copious quantiti