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Jazz Age Ch. 01

By: JocelynJoyce



Chapter One: Just A Kiss In The Dark

In the year 1928, for some reason unknown to anyone, the weather turned warm again in the middle of September. The temperature in Manhattan rose to 95 degrees Fahrenheit.

On Fourteenth Street, Mrs. Elizabeth Uliano, her three daughters Helen Uliano, Mrs. Tessie Balletti and Mrs. Marie Giordano, and her granddaughter Elsie Frontali were all arrested and fined for scuttling through a department store like a pack of rats, stealing whatever they could lay their hands on.

Mr. William V. Dwyer, known as the King of Bootleggers, was elected treasurer of the New York Hockey Club exactly one week after his release from federal prison.

Governor Al Smith, the Democratic candidate for President, was in Omaha talking one more time about the wonders of rahhdio.

A drugstore clerk on Maple Street in Omaha heard the afternoon speech on the store radio and wondered what rahhdio was.

In Manhattan nobody wondered about anything. It was much too hot.

* * *

On East Sixty-fourth Street a woman pushed a button to summon one of her maids. The woman's name was Claire Belfield, Mrs. George Belfield on the salmon-colored stationery that she often used.

When the maid came into the room, Claire said: "Have a pot of tea ready when Mrs. Plunkett arrives."

The maid nodded. "Yes ma'am."

Then Claire turned her attention back to the magazine in her lap and the maid left the room.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon and the heat was truly awful. Claire looked at the open windows and she wondered if the window screens had any holes in them. She hated flies. She also hated Alice Plunkett.

Oh, I do hate that woman, Claire thought.

She'd known Alice Plunkett since she'd been a girl and she'd hated her all that time.

Claire was thirty-two. She had bobbed hair and she used enough rouge to give her cheeks a pink flush. When she wore a sheath dress she looked younger than her age and more like a boy than a woman. The flat profile was still in fashion and Claire often wore one of those brassieres specially seamed to flatten the bust.

Alice Plunkett's father had owned the bank where Claire's father had worked as a clerk. The Plunketts had always had more money than the Wheelers. Now Alice Plunkett and her husband had moved from Boston to New York and she was visiting her old friend Claire for the second time.

And she's late, Claire thought. What an annoyance it was to have people arrive late when you didn't like them in the first place. Claire leaned her head against the back of the chair and she wondered how she might discourage Alice Plunkett from visiting her again. No you won't, Claire thought. Alice Plunkett might decide to get even somehow. The Plunkett family was too well known to start anything with Alice.

Then the doorbell rang. Claire remained seated. She wanted one of the maids to get the door. Then Alice would come in and ask about Claire and the maid would say yes Mrs. Belfield is in the living room. But Claire decided that was too extreme and she finally rose and walked out into the vestibule.

"Alice darling," Claire said.

"Dippidy doo dah," Alice said. "It's much too hot, isn't it? I thought I was finished with summer and now it's here again."

Alice was a thin blonde and she always appeared nervous about something, always upset about one thing or another. Claire had tea served in the living room and Alice's current trouble quickly came to the surface.

"He's having an affair with a girl in his office," Alice said.

"Who is?"

"My husband of course. Don't you think Harold's the type?"

"I've only met him once," Claire said.

Alice fidgeted in her chair. "I suppose he gets from her what he doesn't get from me."

Claire said nothing. She had no idea what to say, so she just watched Alice fidget in her chair.

And then Alice went on to describe how she was always cold in her husband's arms. "Never a moment of pleasure from it," Alice said. "I guess he's found a little slut who likes it. That's what they want, isn't it? They want the woman to like it as much as they do."

"I don't know," Claire said.

"How is it with you and George?"

Claire turned her eyes away. "I don't like to talk about these things."

A moaning sound came out of Alice's throat and she started crying. "Oh damn it, I'm so unhappy."

Claire was embarrassed by the outburst of emotion. She tried to comfort Alice, but she had no advice to give her except to say that Alice ought to do her best to hold her marriage together. "Maybe he'll come to his senses," Claire said. In the back of Claire's mind was the old hatred for Alice and the Plunketts. Maybe it's God's justice, Claire thought as she looked at Alice's troubled face.

But an hour later when Alice left, Claire considered her own marriage and she decided that maybe she wasn't that much better off than Alice was.

"Where's the nurse?" Claire said to one of the maids.

"She's with the children, ma'am."

"Tell her to take the children to the park. I'll have a nap in my bedroom."

"Yes ma'am."

Claire went to the bedroom she shared with her husband, peeled her dress off and lay down on her bed in her satin slip. They had separate beds, two matched beds she'd picked out herself at Finley's. George's bed was near the windows and her own bed was near the adjoining dressing room. Between her bed and the door to the dressing room was a vanity table made of blonde lacquered wood. The top of the table supported a small tilting mirror and in front of the mirror was an array of lotion jars and perfume bottles.

Through the open bedroom windows, the noise of the traffic on Park Avenue could be heard.

After a few minutes on the bed, Claire decided even the slip was too much to bear and she pulled that off over her head and lay down again. Now she felt much better. She wore nothing but silk step-ins and stockings and the heat in the room was more bearable. She thought of rolling the stockings off, but she'd only need to put them on again later and she decided it was too much trouble.

In any case she liked the feel of the silk stockings on her legs, even when it was hot like this. The fine silk made her feel sensuous, and in her private moments that was a feeling she always enjoyed. The feeling was even stronger now because of Alice Plunkett's talk about her problems.

Alice's talk had started a train of troubling thoughts and memories and erotic imaginings in Claire's mind. The question returned: Was she better off than Alice? Claire analyzed the jumble of thoughts in her head and decided that whatever passion existed between herself and her husband was too small to be recognized.

It's a bore, Claire thought. It's a bore and I don't love him that way.

No, she didn't love him that way. And if she had to be accurate about it, she'd say no she didn't love him that way or this way or any way at all.

She hadn't married George for love, she'd married him because he had rich relatives in Boston and New York and because it looked like he'd be rich himself some day, and because she wanted a man who could provide a comfortable and secure life for any children she might have with him.

What had happened was that she was now admitting to herself something that had always been there in the back of her mind. And all because of Alice Plunkett whom she'd hated for years and years.

It's awful, Claire thought as she lay there in the heat on her bed. She had a husband and two children and a comfortable home and a secure life and now Alice Plunkett had succeeded in upsetting her.

Don't think about it, Claire told herself. Don't think about it if you want to be happy. She closed her eyes and she touched her breasts. She tried to imagine her husband kissing her breasts like he sometimes did. She imagined his face and his eyes and finally his mouth on her nipples. Then abruptly his face became a blur and vanished and in its place was the face of John Barrymore.

Dear God, Claire thought. A groan escaped her lips as she imagined she felt John Barrymore's cleft chin rubbing against her breasts. Between her breasts. Over her nipples. Between her breasts again. She slid her right hand down over her belly and then between her legs. Yes do it. She pressed the silk of her step-ins against the lips of her sex. Her cunt. Merely thinking of the word always made her quiver. Her fanny, her husband called it. Yes do it, she thought. With her eyes closed, she groaned again as she began rubbing herself through her step-ins. It was an old habit and she'd long ago abandoned all hope of giving it up. Do it do it do it. She kept her eyes closed. She would have to change the step-ins later because the crotch was now drenched with her juices. She thought of removing them, but she liked the feel of the satin against sex. Her clitoris felt so stiff. She stopped rubbing herself a moment and she sniffed at her fingers. You're a minx, she thought. Then she slipped her hand down to her belly again, and this time under the waist of her step-ins to get her fingers directly between her thighs. The lips were swollen and the wetness was everywhere, her pubic hair sticky. After painting her clitoris with her juices, she started vigorously rubbing herself again. She imagined her fingers were John Barrymore's fingers. She imagined one of his thick fingers slowly pushing inside her opening.

In a few moments she groaned and rubbed her cunt in frenzy as a great shudder passed through her body.

* * *

The heat wave in September lasted a week and then it was gone. Before long September was finished and the month of October arrived. Al Smith was still telling the people of the country about the marvels of rahhdio, but at least the fall season was here and the people who enjoyed fall seasons were relieved.

One rainy day Claire Belfield found herself at an afternoon cocktail party in the Desmond house in Gramercy Park. Charles Desmond was a Wall Street attorney who sometimes handled a case for George Belfield's company. George sold marine insurance and these days he was very successful at it. Claire knew nothing about marine insurance or how it was sold or what George actually did to sell it. George always assured her that marine insurance was terribly complicated. He'd been working for the same company ever since their marriage two weeks after the Armistice in 1918. The company was owned by one of George's uncles and George's future seemed guaranteed.

George was now in Baltimore on a business trip. An invitation to the Desmond party had arrived the day before he left and he'd urged Claire to go there alone. "Desmond is an important man," George said. "And anyway it's a party and you like parties."

Did she like parties? Yes, she did like parties, even if she knew hardly any of the people in the Desmond house. She stood alone for a moment near one of the tall rubber plants that seemed half dead with thirst because no one had bothered to water it. Some of the other people in the room glanced at her. She knew some of them and there were others she didn't know. They stood scattered in groups of two or three and nearly everyone had a glass of something in one hand.

Claire had a glass of ginger ale in her right hand, but there was no alcohol in it. She'd already had enough alcohol and she didn't need any more.

The rain seemed to be falling again on the windows. It was still a gray day outside, the rain falling on the streets of Manhattan.

Better here than outside, Claire thought. But she wouldn't be outside anyway, she'd be at home.

Then Nancy Desmond came in through a doorway, and when she saw Claire she walked over to her.

"Darling, you look bemused," Nancy said.

"What?"

"You look bemused, darling."

"I do? I don't feel bemused."

Nancy laughed, a gay laugh that revealed her sparkling teeth. "Well then have some more Scotch, won't you? Or there's champagne if you like. I much prefer Scotch in the afternoon, but there's plenty of champagne somewhere. Charlie's very clever at finding good champagne."

Claire lifted her glass of ginger ale. "I'll finish this first."

"Is that Scotch?"

"No, it's ginger ale."

"Where's George?"

"In Baltimore."

"Poor darling."

Claire allowed herself to be led away by Nancy to a group of men and women she knew only vaguely. Claire decided it was better to stand in a group than to stand alone. At least when you were in a group the other people had no reason to stare at you.

She listened to the others talking and she smiled when she thought it was necessary to smile. She told herself the party wasn't much of anything, just a great deal of drinking and laughing about nothing worth laughing at. You're feeling blue, she thought. The fact was that for the past three weeks, ever since Alice Plunkett's visit, Claire had been feeling miserable. Maybe she did need a real drink. But she decided against it, decided she'd leave soon. She listened to the idle chatter as she looked around the room at the other guests. A man standing with two other men caught her eye and stared at her. He wasn't anyone she knew and she quickly looked away.

Then a moment later she looked at him again and she found him pleasant to look at. He was now busy talking to the other men and he was unaware of her attention. Yes, he was pleasant to look at. He had dark hair and he was handsomely dressed and he looked forceful. She found herself wondering what his wife was like, then she laughed at herself and she decided it was time to find her coat and say goodby to Nancy Desmond.

"Why don't you stay?" Nancy said when Claire appeared before her wearing her coat.

Claire smiled and shook her head. "I promised the children I'd be home by five." She thanked Nancy again and she left the room.

She's a bitch, Claire thought. She hated Nancy Desmond because of the way Nancy put on airs about the money the Desmonds had. Charlie Desmond was much more successful than George. They had all kinds of money and it seemed like they had a party in their house all year round. They were too disgusting about this old townhouse in Gramercy Park, always talking about who lived next door and who lived over there and how nice it was to have a private park in the middle of Manhattan. You don't have to like them, Claire thought. It's all right to accept an invitation to the Desmonds without liking them.

It was still raining outside. As Claire came out of the house on the edge of Gramercy Park, she frowned at the rain that was falling and wondered if she'd have trouble getting a taxi. A man with an umbrella was standing at the edge of the curb, and when he turned to look at her she recognized the dark-haired man she'd seen at the party.

The man smiled at her. "Enjoy the party?"

"Oh yes," Claire said.

He smiled again. "I'm Frank Tucker," he said.

"And I'm Claire Belfield."

"I could drive you home. I'm waiting for my car."

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary," Claire said.

But then his car arrived, an enormous black Lincoln limousine with a uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel. This time, when Frank Tucker again asked if he could drive her home, Claire said yes. "All right, why not?"

"My pleasure," Frank Tucker said with a laugh.

The chauffeur came out to open the rear door and Claire climbed inside. Frank Tucker climbed in after her and the chauffeur shut the door and returned to the driver's seat. In a few moments the big car was heading uptown in the rain on Park Avenue.

In the rear of the large Lincoln, Claire sat in the right corner and Frank Tucker sat in the left corner. He talked about himself without hesitation. He appeared to know the Desmonds as a friend and he seemed to have made a great deal of money on Wall Street. He said he was now divorced from an actress wife who had returned to California. "She never liked the East," Frank Tucker said. "It was just one of those things."

Claire thought Frank Tucker was impressive. She guessed he'd come out of a humble background to triumph by force and cunning over men with better connections. She thought how odd it was to be sitting there alone with him. He seemed so different from her husband. He had such large hands, strong hands. And his face looked strong too. He seemed to have so much confidence in himself. His manners were good and Claire decided he was thoroughly appealing. You're acting silly, she thought. But she wasn't acting at all. She was doing nothing but listening to Frank Tucker and she liked every moment of it. She thought of Alice Plunkett and Alice Plunkett's husband and then about George and what she'd realized about her own marriage.

When at last they arrived at the building where the Belfields lived, Claire said: "You've been very kind, Mr. Tucker. Thank you so much."

"My pleasure," Frank Tucker said. They smiled at each other one more time before she climbed out of the Lincoln to be escorted by the doorman to the building entrance. When she turned to look at the car again, it was already moving toward the traffic on Park Avenue.

"Are my children home?" Claire said to the doorman.

The big Irishman nodded. "Yes ma'am, they came back with Mrs. Molloy an hour ago."

Claire thanked him and then she walked down the hall to the elevator. She felt reimmersed in the ordinary problems of living now. She pushed Frank Tucker out of her mind as she rode the elevator up to the tenth floor. This evening she'd have the children on her hands a few hours, and then after that she'd fall asleep reading in bed. Dear God, it's horrible, she thought. It's so bloody horrible.

At ten o'clock the next morning, Frank Tucker telephoned and invited her to have lunch with him.

"Yes," Claire said. "Yes, I think I'd like that very much." 

* * *

She met him in the restaurant he'd suggested to her, a place called Banion's on West Forty-sixth Street. As soon as she walked inside, she was relieved it wasn't the sort of place her husband might frequent. Even if George was in Baltimore, or more exactly on his way home by now, she felt secure knowing he'd never make an appearance here. Not in this place. These people were different than the crowd in Wall Street, the attorneys and stockbrokers that George called his friends. The people here were of a different class, more sweaty and more noisy than the people she and her husband knew. Claire told herself Frank Tucker had chosen this place in order to be discreet. Well, you ought to be pleased, she thought. He'd reserved a table in a corner, and as soon as she had her coat off and sat down she felt comfortably anonymous.

She was close to him now. They sat side by side on the same velvet-covered bench and she could smell his cologne.

"You look beautiful," Frank Tucker said.

"Thank you," Claire said, and then she blushed as he continued looking at her.

She wore a felt cloche hat and a mauve blouse with long tight sleeves. The blouse had a low neckline and Frank Tucker's eyes lingered a long time on her throat. Then he pulled his eyes away and he began talking about the menu.

She was now happy she'd chosen a blouse with a low neckline. She found the way he looked at her exciting. It was almost as if his eyes made her clothes transparent.

She thought he did have a lovely manner about him. He wasn't like the others in the restaurant. He was certainly better dressed. And she doubted anyone at the other tables had a limousine and a chauffeur waiting outside. She hadn't seen the car, but she assumed it was there somewhere.

As he ordered their lunch, she had a momentary fear she'd meet someone she knew, some casual acquaintance who just happened to frequent midtown restaurants.

"The best beef in the world is from Argentina," Frank Tucker said to her.

Claire smiled. "I didn't know that."

"I was in South America last year."

"Oh really? How marvelous."


Jazz Age Ch. 01



"Do you get to travel much? I mean you and Mr. Belfield."

"I'm afraid not. George talks about going to Europe again and of course I'm dying to go. I'm hoping he'll find the time next summer."

"I understand you're husband is in the insurance business."

"Marine insurance."

"Ships," Frank Tucker said.

"I don't know much about it."

They both laughed. His eyes were on her throat again and it made her quiver inside. She wore a necklace of small white pearls, but she knew it wasn't the necklace he was looking at. She felt daring. It's the first time, she thought. In the ten years of her marriage, this was the first time she had dined alone like this with a man who wasn't her husband. She wondered what Frank Tucker expected of her. What does he expect? A sudden bolt of fear passed through her as she thought how dangerous it would be if George walked in through the front door of the restaurant. Don't be silly, she thought, it's not possible. And in any case she'd wanted this. She'd been so delighted when Frank Tucker had telephoned her.

During the main course he continued talking about his travels. Then she suddenly felt something on her left knee. Frank Tucker sat on her left side and she was shocked when she realized he had his right hand on her leg.

Her first impulse was to push his hand away, but instead she did nothing. She was too surprised. Then she told herself she had no reason to be surprised. He was a forceful man, a divorced man, and she was certainly no starry-eyed virgin.

She did nothing about his hand on her knee. She continued eating and listening to him talk. She decided she liked the feel of his fingers on her kneecap. Occasionally he removed his hand in order to do something with it on the table, and each time his hand returned she was happy to have it back on her leg.

How easy it is, she thought. She'd never realized how easy it was to deceive her husband.

When Frank Tucker's hand moved away from her knee to stroke her thigh, she was prepared for it. She expected it. She wanted it. Oh yes, she did want it.

The waiter walked by, but he glanced at them only briefly. The long white tablecloth prevented anyone from seeing what was going on under the table. Claire looked at the crowd, at the people making noise, at the people laughing at other tables. No one seemed aware they existed.

Frank Tucker's hand was insistent. He rubbed her thigh through the silk of her dress, his fingers gripping her flesh, then relaxing, then gripping her again. She felt a wave of excitement wash over her, and for a moment she thought she would cry out. Her face felt flushed.

"Put your hand in my lap," Frank Tucker said.

"What?"

"Put your hand in my lap."

She hesitated, aware that this was the Rubicon. Then she did what he wanted. She dropped her left hand under the table and she slid it toward his belly. He found her left hand with his right hand and he brought her hand directly over the hard protuberance between his thighs.

"Oh God," Claire said.

"That's what you do to me," he said. Leaving her hand in his lap, he returned his own hand to her thigh.

"It's too dangerous," Claire said.

"Don't worry, no one can see anything."

She could no longer help herself. She clutched his penis through his trousers. Then she relaxed her fingers and she explored it. The size of it seemed huge. She could even feel the shape of the head. His glans. What a cock he had. The fact was she'd never touched her husband this way, never touched him like this through his clothes and certainly not in a public place. Frank Tucker's organ seemed so incredibly stiff. And hot. She could feel the heat of it through the cloth. The daring of it, the wild daring of it to do it like this in a restaurant made her dizzy.

Finally she pulled her hand away and she said: "We'd better stop this."

Frank chuckled. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we could go somewhere after we leave here."

Claire shook her head. "My husband might be returning home today."

Frank looked disappointed. "I understand. What about a drink? I know a classy speakeasy just a few blocks away."

"I'd love to, but I really can't," Claire said with a smile.

He shrugged and gave up.

On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, she was surprised to see him hail a taxi.

"Where's your lovely car?" she said.

"It's in the repair shop. You'll be all right in a cab, won't you?"

"Oh yes." She smiled at him. "It's less conspicuous, isn't it?"

"Another time?"

"If you like."

"I'll telephone you."

"In the afternoon around two."

"That's good."

When she arrived home in the taxi, she learned from the doorman that her husband had returned.

* * *

"Had a boring time on the train," George said. It seemed he'd met a fellow who passed two hours telling him how the Republicans were ruining the country and how important it was to get the Democrat Al Smith elected president.

"They're both damn fools," George said.

"Who is, darling?"

"The fellow on the train and Al Smith. We'll have Hoover for president and that's that."

After dinner the children were sent off to bed and George sat with Claire in the living room while he read his newspaper. Claire turned the pages of a magazine, but all she could think about was Frank Tucker and the exciting time she'd had. Remembering how she'd fondled Frank Tucker under the table made her heart pound. George would never believe it, she thought. He'd never believe her capable of it.

Later, when it was past ten o'clock and the two of them were in bed, Claire was surprised that George seemed so wide awake. She thought that after the long train ride from Baltimore he ought to be tired. But he didn't seem tired at all, and she suspected he intended to start something once the lights were out.

She was right, of course. As soon as the two lamps were switched off, he started fiddling with her nightgown. He fondled her in the dark, one of his hands squeezing her breasts as he pressed his body against hers.

"What are you doing?" she said.

"You know what I'm doing."

"Don't squeeze them so hard."

"All right."

Then he pushed the covers down. She could barely see him in the dark as he rose up to get out of his pajamas. After that he walked over to the bureau to find the box of Trojans in one of the top drawers. In the darkness, she could see the gleam of his pale body, his back and buttocks. She pulled her nightgown up to her waist and waited for him. She raised her knees and opened her thighs. She wanted to touch her sex to find out if she was wet enough, but she already knew she was. That was one thing that always happened no matter what.

She thought of Frank Tucker again and what they had done in the restaurant. She remembered the feel of his hard penis through the cloth of his trousers. His cock. She asked herself if it was so awful thinking of another man at a time like this. George was over there getting ready for her and she was thinking of Frank Tucker. But she couldn't help it. She couldn't stop thinking about Frank Tucker. You're an awful woman to be thinking of Frank Tucker now. She imagined it was Frank Tucker who would come to her in a moment and get between her thighs and fuck her. He'd come between her thighs and then a moment later she'd feel him pushing inside her. He'd hold her legs up and push inside her and she'd be supremely excited by it. She always liked it.

When George climbed onto the bed again, he moved directly to the space between her legs and mounted her. She closed her eyes as he pushed inside. No, it wasn't Frank Tucker, but it felt good anyway. This part of it always felt good. She bit her lips as the pole of thick flesh slid into her body. She raised her knees a bit more as his penis pushed all the way inside her. He began thrusting. His face was down beside hers and she felt his breath against her right ear. She could hear him panting. The bed shook with his movements. Then the panting became stronger and soon he was grunting and groaning as he came inside her, inside the condom. He waited a moment, his weight pressing down on her, and then he finally rolled off. She turned away to get off the bed on her side, and she walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

She turned on the bathroom faucet, hiked her nightgown up to her waist, and planted one foot on the closed seat of the commode. Using the flat of her hand, she started rubbing herself hard. It didn't take long. At the end she ground the heel of her palm into her clitoris and groaned.

Later, when she came out of the bathroom, she found George asleep. She lay down on the bed in the dark and she stared at the blackness above her head.

Somewhere in the street a siren wailed. It was loud for a second or two, and then whatever it was turned a corner and the sound diminished.

My life is nothing, she thought. It's nothing and it's horrible.

* * *

Two days later Claire met Nancy Desmond by accident in a shop on Fifth Avenue. After they left the shop, they went to a tearoom on Fifty-seventh Street. They chatted awhile, and then Nancy smiled at Claire and said: "I've been meaning to ask you if Frank Tucker behaved himself when he drove you home after the party."

Claire was taken aback. She felt the pounding of her heart and she wondered if it showed in her face. She had no idea that Nancy knew that Frank Tucker had driven her home. "The rain was awful," Claire said. "He was very kind to take me home."

"Does that mean he behaved himself?"

"He was a perfect gentleman."

Nancy laughed. "He can be an oaf sometimes. He's also a great liar. Did he tell you all about his travels?"

"He talked about South America."

Nancy laughed again. "He's never been there, you know. He's never been anywhere except France, and that was during the war and I suppose it doesn't count. He just lies and lies about everything."

Claire turned her eyes away. "We didn't talk much about anything."

"He's a fraud," Nancy said. "Charlie calls him a poseur. He's lost most of his money and he never had that much anyway. He pretends to have money, but there really isn't any. All that bluff with a hired car and a chauffeur. My husband knows everything about him, everything there is to know about Mr. Frank Tucker."

"I thought he was a friend of yours, of yours and Charles, I mean."

"He's not a friend, darling, he's an amusement. Charlie and Frank did business together once, and Charlie says he feels sorry for him. I don't mind it as long as he doesn't get too drunk when he visits us. Is George back from Cleveland yet?"

"He was in Baltimore."

"Oh yes, Baltimore. Silly of me."

"Yes, he's back," Claire said.

She was happy when she and Nancy said goodby on the sidewalk outside the tearoom. Claire watched Nancy climb into a taxi and she thought: God how I hate that woman. Did Nancy know anything about her and Frank Tucker? No, she couldn't. If Nancy had known anything she would have said more than she had. Nancy wouldn't miss an opportunity to cut her to pieces just for the fun of it.

* * *

Claire waited for Frank Tucker to call her. Another two days passed, and then finally the telephone call came at exactly two o'clock in the afternoon. She agreed to meet him at Banion's again the next day. This time they had an ordinary table with chairs and there was no chance to fondle each other under the tablecloth. Just before the dessert arrived, Frank casually mentioned that he'd reserved a room in a small hotel around the corner. "We could relax and have a few drinks," he said.

Claire looked at him before she responded. His face was flushed and she guessed he'd been drinking before he arrived at the restaurant. "Yes, why not?" she said.

Once they were inside the hotel room, Frank had the bellhop bring up ginger ale and cracked ice. After the bellhop left, Frank poured the ginger ale and then some rye over the ice in two glasses. He mixed the drinks and then he handed one of the glasses to Claire. "Here's to us," he said as he raised his glass.

For the first time she noticed he was leering at her. His face was flushed again, the skin of his forehead pink and covered with a film of perspiration. Why does he have to be so horribly common? she thought. He was coarse, wasn't he? She'd thought he was more polished, but he wasn't. She trembled with regret as she sipped the drink. She'd already had some of Frank's liquor in the taxi, and now she was feeling it. It occurred to her she could easily get drunk and pretend to be sick. She could pass out on the bed and maybe he'd call the hotel doctor and she'd be saved.

Frank put his drink down, and then he made her do the same. He took her into his arms and he kissed her. When he pushed his tongue between her lips, she finally gave way and she opened her mouth. As he kissed her, he slid his hands down to squeeze her buttocks through the her clothes. The feel of his big hands on her ass made her quiver.

He pulled his mouth away from hers. "Let's undress," he said.

"All right."

"I'll undress you."

She felt the heat in her face as he began working at the buttons and hooks of her dress.

"Does it go down or up?" he asked.

"Down," she said.

He pushed the dress down and she held onto his shoulders as she stepped out of it. The pink slip had to come off over her head, and for a moment she was blinded by it as it covered her face. Then at last it was off and she stood there in her flesh-colored brassiere and step-ins and stockings.

"I'll do it now," she said.

She sat down on the edge of the bed to roll the stockings off first. Then she peeled away the brassiere and step-ins and she tossed them onto the chair near the nightstand. She trembled as she looked at him. No man except her husband had ever seen her completely naked like this.

"Jesus, you're beautiful," Frank said.

"Thank you. And now it's your turn."

She lay down on the bed on her side and watched him as he hurried to get out of his clothes. He was a big man, big in the chest and shoulders and much hairier than she expected. He had curls of black hair all over his chest and belly and thighs. His penis was erect and it looked like a huge club sticking out of a patch of dark hair, the shaft extending straight out and the dark tip glistening with wetness. His balls looked huge, the skin of the scrotum tight and unwrinkled, and as she gazed at his body she squeezed her thighs together hard as she imagined that magnificent cock pushing into her.

He walked over to the edge of the bed with his penis bobbing from side to side. "Take it in your mouth," he said.

She looked at it. It certainly looked succulent, the head fat and dark with blood, but the idea repelled her. She looked up at his face. "I've never done that. Do I have to?"

He seemed amused as he gripped his cock with his hand. "No, you don't have to. You can do it some other time."

"You need to use something."

He showed her the condom in his free hand. "Safety first," he said with a chuckle.

She watched him roll the condom over his swollen penis. She thought he was like a hairy bull, all that black hair and the huge cock and the bloated balls. The balls excited her as much as the cock. She thought of asking him to kiss her again, but she decided not to.

And then he came onto the bed and she opened her thighs to receive him. He fumbled a moment, but he soon had the knob of his penis wedged inside her sex. He groaned as he pushed forward, and then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he began thrusting. He was much bigger than George and she found it exciting. She could feel his balls slapping against her ass each time he made a thrust at her. But before long the bed was creaking too much and it bothered her. She guessed in a better hotel the bed wouldn't creak like this. She remembered what Nancy had said about Frank losing all his money. He's awful, Claire thought. She was angry that he hadn't taken her to a better hotel. Was he trying to be discreet again? Then finally he started making noises in his throat and she knew it would end soon. She held onto his arms as he finished. He lifted the front part of his body and she was able to watch his face at the end, the twisting of his flushed face as he spent himself. As usual, she was at a high pitch of excitement but without an orgasm.

In she small bathroom, she did what she usually did and she climaxed that way. The fucking on the bed had excited her and it happened quickly. She thought of his big balls as she rubbed herself hard.

Afterward, as they dressed, she asked him if it was true that he had no money.

He turned to look at her. "What do you mean?"

"Someone told me you don't have anything and you tell lies."

Frank scowled. "Who told you that?"

"That's not important. I just want to know if it's true. Were you really in South America last year?"

"You're a bitch."

"There's no need to talk like that."

"You're a bitch, aren't you? You're just a silly litte bitch."

He finished dressing in a hurry, and then he walked out and slammed the door.

She stood there a moment near the bed. Then she turned and she looked at the almost empty bottle of rye on the dresser. She walked over to the dresser, filled a glass with some of the melting ice and the last of the rye that came out of the bottle he'd brought.

"I'll go to the Plaza," she said aloud as she raised the glass. She would go to the Plaza and have one of their Mexican salads.



Jazz Age Ch. 02



The Jazz Age Chapter Two: The Love Nest  

Charlie Desmond, the husband of Nancy Desmond, had a great faith in the future of America. Along with most of the men he knew, he thought the business of America was business and that was that. The business of America was business and the future of business looked good. No, he thought it was better than that. The business of America was business and the future of business looked smashing.

In the year 1928 that darling of the business community Mr. Bruce Barton announced to the country that Jesus Christ was the greatest businessman who ever lived. Hadn't Jesus brought together twelve top salesmen to sell religion to the world? Jesus would understand, Barton said. Jesus would understand, all right. Jesus would understand that business was something good. Business was the business of America. People had to understand that promoting American business was not only patriotic but enobling and virtuous.

Give of thyself to thy brethren by sharing in the consumption of what this great land produces. Salesmen were whipped into a fervor to get the people to buy, no matter how, get the first installment and a contract for the rest of the cost. Get them to buy. Get in the door and sell, sell, sell. And it worked. People bought. One company after another grew fat with profits. And there was cash aplenty, all the cash any business might need. Gold poured in from abroad in payment of loans to foreign countries and the banks were awash with cash. The bankers of America quickly loaned the money out to the American businessman to pump up the business boom even further.

Stock market speculation was now feverish, broker loans to investors greater than ever before in history. The country seemed headed for unlimited prosperity, the number of millionaires doubling each year, paradise just over the horizon. The Secretary of Commerce Mr. Herbert Clark Hoover proclaimed: "We in America today are nearer to the final triumph over poverty than ever before in the history of any land. The poor-house is vanishing from among us."

In the meantime Charlie and Nancy Desmond's townhouse in Gramercy Park was anything but a poor-house. Charles Earnest Desmond achieved his dreams of success in the five years between 1923 and 1928. He was among the first of the new generation of Wall Street attorneys to specialize in consolidations, mergers, malgamations, and absorptions of American corporations, the fusion of property, ownership, and management of business concerns. He chose well. By 1925 American business was already showing signs of merger fever, mergers and more mergers of corporations and public utilities and banks resulting from the enormous amount of cash available. By 1928 Charlie Desmond was a senior partner in the law offices of Haskins, Mason, and Shibley, and at the age of thirty-eight he had a net income of nearly eighty thousand dollars a year. In 1928 that was enough to make a man feel rich. That was enough money to buy ten fully equipped Lincoln towncars. In addition to the income from Charlie's law practice, the Desmonds had by way of Nancy's money substantial stock in the Chrysler Motor Company. In 1928 the stock was worth twenty times what they'd paid for it in 1923.

Now at the end of a long day in the middle of October, Charlie was in his office thinking about relaxation. His desk was clean and in ten minutes the driver provided by the firm would have the Cadillac waiting for him on Broad Street. Charlie pulled the telephone toward him, lifted the receiver and dialed a number.

"Garage," a voice on the line said.

"This is Mr. Desmond. Tell Dugan I'm using a taxi this evening. Tell him I'll see him in the morning as usual."

"Yes, Mr. Desmond."

And that was that. Charlie felt better now. Once a decision was made he always felt better about it. He left his briefcase on the desk because he knew he wouldn't be needing it tonight. He put on his coat and hat and a few minutes later he was down on the street waving his arm at a cab.

"220 West Forty-eighth Street," Charlie said.

He checked his pocket to make sure he had the key. That was one key he never kept in his key-case.

*  *  *

The building had a doorman, a clean lobby, and two elevators. Charlie rode one of the elevators to the eighth floor and then he walked down the corridor to the door he wanted.

He pushed the buzzer and waited, and when he decided she wasn't home he used his key. He opened the door, walked inside and closed the door behind him.

"Rita?"

Just to make sure she wasn't in the bathroom or asleep on the bed. But after a quick glance into the bedroom, he was certain she was out. Maybe shopping or at the hairdresser. This was one of the days she expected him and he had no doubt she'd arrive soon.

He slipped out of his coat and he hung it in the hall closet. Then he brought some ice out of the refrigerator and he carried it to the living room to mix a Scotch highball. He sipped the drink and he felt better. When he visited Rita the first drink always made him feel better.

The furniture still looked good. She'd been in the apartment six months now, but she took care of things. She was a neat girl, no sign of a mess, no ashes in the ashtrays. He'd bought some of the furniture second-hand, but it looked good as new and Rita said she liked everything.

He took his jacket off, and then he removed his tie and opened his collar. Then he heard the key in the door, and when he turned around the door opened and Rita came in.

"Charlie honey."

"Hello kitten."

She slipped her coat off and smiled at him. She wore red lipstick, a necklace of black beads, a red dress with a pleated skirt and red shoes with high heels. She was a dark-haired girl with a big bust and long legs, just his type. Nancy had no bust at all, but Nancy was his wife and he didn't mind it. Rita was something else.

She came over to him now and she leaned forward to kiss his lips.

"I love Manhattan," she said.

She'd arrived in New York two years ago from Easton, Pennsylvania.

"I guess you had a nice time today," Charlie said.

"I'm getting an audition at the Harem Club."

"You're not serious."

"No, I mean it. I have a friend who works there and she's fixed it for me."

"Well, that's fine. We can drink to that."

After she poured some Scotch into a glass, they drank a toast to the audition at the Harem Club. He'd been in the place once or twice, and he remembered the chorus girls didn't wear much when they came out to do their number.

"Will you come to see me if I dance there?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you'll come to see me."

Then she came into his arms and he kissed her. She pressed against him and he could feel her breasts against his chest. She still had her heels on and she was a little taller than he was. He put his drink down on the closest table and he kissed her again. Her mouth had a sweet taste and he always liked it. He ran his hands over the curves of her ass and then he squeezed her buttocks while he had his tongue in her mouth.

She pulled her mouth away and tickled his ear with her lips. "I think you're hot," she said.

"You can find out."

"I already know it."

"I can't stay long."

She pouted at him. "You always say that."

"Well it's true."

She touched him then. She passed her right hand over his fly and pressed against it. "I hope I get that job at the Harem Club."

"Maybe you will."

Her fingers worked at the buttons. Then she slid her hand inside his fly and she brought his penis out in the open. "Mmmm, he's ready for it, isn't he? Let's get some of your clothes off. You just sit down on the sofa."

He sat down and watched her while she removed his shoes. She was a sweet girl and he liked the way she treated him. He wasn't that happy about the Harem Club. She'd be out there dancing half naked and maybe soon he'd find himself with competition. He had enough competition downtown and he didn't need it here too.

After the shoes were off, she pulled his suspenders down and then she pulled his trousers off his legs. And then his undershorts. Now all he had on was the white shirt and the black socks held up by garters on his calves. His cock stuck out like a pink flagpole. She smiled at it, used two fingers to pull the foreskin down to expose his glans, then lowered her face to get the knob in her mouth.

Nancy did it once in a while, but she was never as good as Rita. When Nancy did it there was always a reason for it, something she wanted from him, a promise about something. It was never money because she had money of her own and she could buy nearly anything she wanted. Whatever it was, she never told him about it until later, maybe the next day, and then he would learn what it was and why she had done it in the first place. With Rita there was never something he was going to find out tomorrow. She did it because she knew he liked it. He paid the rent and he gave her money to live on and he'd put the furniture in the place and if he liked it she would do it. They never talked about it but they both understood it. It was honest, wasn't it? Maybe it was more honest than what he had with Nancy.

Rita gave a last lick with her tongue and then she rose up. "You always taste so delicious. Now it's me that's hot."

"Well, come on," he said.

"Here?"

"Sure, why not?"

She giggled. She was hot all right. He could tell it by the sparkle in her eyes. She pulled her dress up and dropped her step-ins, stepped out of them and tossed them away. She wore flesh-colored stockings held up by pink garters. The tuft of dark hair at the joining of her thighs didn't do much to cover anything. She came forward to straddle his knees, and as her thighs opened he looked directly at her cunt.

"I think you still like me," she said.

"Can't you tell?"

"Yes I think so."

Then she sat down on his cock. She used a hand to get him inside, and then she pushed down and the warm glove of her vagina gripped his penis.

"Charlie sweet..."

"Keep moving."

"I'm never going to stop."

At the end he closed his eyes and he just let go of everything. He felt as if all day had been nothing, just something leading up to this. He came inside her with a long groan, let go of everything, and then she climbed off him and he stretched out on the sofa and he went to sleep.

Later, when he opened his eyes again, he heard her singing in the bathroom. He lay there on the sofa and he looked at the yellow ceiling. Stupid color for a ceiling, he'd never liked it. Maybe in a month or two he'd have them paint it again. His left hand was wedged between the sofa cushion and the back of the sofa, and now his fingers felt something. Whatever it was, he pulled it out and held it up to his face. What he saw was a gold cufflink. He looked at it and looked at it and he knew damn well it wasn't his.

*  *  *

A few days later a man called Malone sat in Charlie's office with his right leg crossed over his left leg. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Go right ahead," Charlie said. He pushed the ashtray out to the corner of the desk where Mr. Malone could reach it.

Charlie was standing at the side of the desk and he could see Mr. Malone's scuffed black shoes. Mr. Malone wore a starched white collar that looked to be a size too small for his neck. He had an open notebook in his lap and a cigarette in his mouth. 

Charlie sat down behind his desk and now, thank God, he could see less of Mr. Malone.

"Confidential," Charlie said.

Mr. Malone nodded. "You know me, Mr. Desmond. I've worked for this firm a long time."

"This is personal."

Mr. Malone nodded again. "I've done a few of those here. Sometimes people think they need a man they haven't used before, but it's always better to work with someone you know."

"That's what I've been thinking."

"I'm very good with personal stuff."

"No talk about it to anyone, Malone."

"You have my word, Mr. Desmond."

Charlie sighed. "It's not my wife."

Malone nodded again. His face was blank, a blank red face, a round head, the dark hair combed straight back and plastered down with Vitalis.

"It's not my wife," Charlie said again. "It's a woman I know."

Malone pulled a fountain pen out of the breast pocket of his jacket. He uncapped the pen and he held the pen poised in his right hand over the open notebook on his lap.

"Her name is Rita Marascho. M-A-R-A-S-C-H-O. She uses the name Rita Murray when she works as an entertainer. Dancer, chorus girl, whatever. She's not working at the moment. The address is 220 West 48th Street and I'm the one who's paying the rent."

"I get the picture, Mr. Desmond."

"In confidence, Malone."

"You have my word, Mr. Desmond. What is it you want to know about her?"

"I want to know who visits her when I'm not there."

Malone nodded as he wrote something down in his notebook. "Do you want just the visits to her place or the whole show? Maybe she's the one who does the visiting somewhere else."

"The whole show."

"Okay."

"Fine."

"Do you have a photograph?"

"No, I don't have a photograph."

"That's okay, we'll get one ourselves. No problem, Mr. Desmond, it'll take maybe a week or ten days. Unless you want more than that. On a job like this I use three people, so it can get to be expensive if it runs past a week or two."

"Never mind the money, just get me the information."

"Don't you worry, you'll get it, Mr. Desmond."

*  *  *

Malone was back in eleven days.

"Close the door and sit down," Charlie said.

Malone closed the door. He sat down in the same chair he'd sat in eleven days ago and he opened the manila envelope he'd brought in. He pulled out a stapled sheaf of onionskin pages and he put the pages on the desk.

"That's the report, Mr. Desmond. We've been on her for ten days."

Charlie ignored the report. "And what did you find?"

Malone shrugged. "Nothing much. She's got a few people that she sees. Sometimes they come to the apartment and sometimes she meets them in a speak on Eighth Avenue. Most of them are women. There's no boyfriend that she sees, not in the past ten days. There was one guy who came to the flat, but he came with a girl and he was the girl's husband. Seems they were visiting from out of town. As far as I can tell, there's nobody else but you."

"At least in the past ten days."

Malone nodded. "At least in the past ten days."

After Malone left, Charlie sat there staring at the closed door to his office. Then he reached for Malone's report and he put it back inside the manila envelope Malone had left on the desk. Maybe sometime later he would look at it, but not now.

What now? he thought. She wasn't working, the audition at the Harem Club had turned out to be nothing. He'd had the cufflink looked at by a jeweler and it was solid gold. Someone in the apartment with solid gold cufflinks. Maybe he visits her only once or twice a month. Or maybe she's honest, Charlie thought. Maybe she was honest and there was no one.

*  *  *

The Desmonds were having another party.

"The Driscolls won't come," Nancy said.

Charlie looked in the mirror over the bureau and straightened his tie. "Good riddance."

"I thought you liked them."

"He's a dunce."

"Oh my."

"Don't you think so?"

Nancy laughed. She kept her eyes on her face in the dressing table mirror. "It's her I don't like."

"You never did."

"No, I never did. I don't know why we ever invite them here in the first place."

"The first time was business."

"Yes, darling, you said the first time was business, but then why the second time?"

Charlie turned to look at her. The blue silk evening dress she wore showed nearly all of her back between her shoulder blades, the expanse of smooth skin broken only by the string of white pearls at her neck. "You're thinking it's because of Lily."

"Well yes."

"You ought to be more trusting."

"Should I?"

"I should think so, yes."

An hour later they were downstairs in the middle of their crowded living room. It was more a ballroom than a living room, but they called it a living room anyway.

The party was large enough to have the liquor served by a bartender hired for the evening. Two waiters from a catering service were at another table handing out the hors d'oeuvres. The four-piece band was at the opposite end of the long room. They were now playing *What'll I Do?* and some of the guests were dancing.

A woman near one of the tall windows laughed in a high pitch as a man whispered something in her ear.

Charlie glanced idly around the room, and then his eyes fell on Claire Belfield. She was standing with George Belfield and another couple, some people who looked familiar but whose names escaped him.

She looks blotto, Charlie thought.

He was surprised because he couldn't remember ever seeing Claire Belfield like that. Not cockeyed. She had a flushed face and she appeared to be giggling drunk. He liked the way the dress she wore showed the sleek lines of her body. Lucky George to mount a filly like that. You're cockeyed yourself, Charlie thought. He'd lost count of how many glasses he'd filled.

* * *

At one o'clock in the morning Charlie lay on his bed and watched Nancy undress. He could tell she knew he was watching her. After twelve years together he could tell everything about her.

She stood before the vanity mirror as she slipped the dress off her shoulders and dropped it below her hips. She wore nothing on top and only step-ins and stockings below her waist.

She raised both hands to the back of her neck to unclasp the pearl necklace. At this point she would either go into the bathroom to finish undressing or drop the step-ins in front of him. If she dropped the step-ins in front of him it meant she wanted him to do something in bed.

She dropped the step-ins in front of him.

She stepped out of the panties and stood there facing the mirror wearing only her stockings. She had the stockings gartered in the middle of her thighs and it occurred to him she was like one of those French postcards he'd bought in Paris in 1917. She had hardly any breasts in front and firm little buttocks in the rear. You couldn't tell by looking at her that she'd already had three children. There was no sign of it in her figure. Maybe she was a little wider in the hips than when they'd married but it wasn't much. Rita had bigger hips. He thought about Rita again, Rita laughing, laughing at him maybe, Rita's ass when she teased him in her bedroom. He didn't care what Malone said, he knew damn well she was two-timing him.

"I'm looking at you," he said to Nancy.

She raised her arms again, this time to pat her hairdo. "I'm aware of that."

"Come to bed."

"Do you want this light off?"

"No, leave it on."

She left the small lamp burning on the dressing table and she came to the bed. Charlie switched off the lamp on his side of the bed as she pulled the covers down.

He was already naked. He always slept naked after a night of drinking. Nancy lay down on her belly and rested her head on her folded arms. Charlie rose up on his knees and crawled around to get between her legs. He pushed her legs apart and then spread her buttocks open with his hands.

"Can you reach the oil?" he said.

"No, I don't want that tonight."

"Why not?"

"I just don't want it. Do it the other way."

"With a pillow."

"All right, with a pillow."

She pulled one of the pillows under her belly to raise her hips. She had an exciting ass, round and firm, the skin as smooth as silk. Leaning forward, supporting himself with his left arm, he used his right hand to wedge the head of his cock into the socket below the split between her buttocks. He had a fierce erection now, and as he pushed inside her he told himself never mind, it didn't matter, one place was good as the other, but she was a bitch wasn't she? a nasty bitch and she did know it.




Jazz Age Ch. 02



When he was completely inside her, he lunged forward to get the last purchase. "How's that?" he said.

She lay with folded arms and her eyes closed. "Just fuck me."

* * *

Nancy on Saturday and Rita on Wednesday.

"I don't go anywhere," Rita said.

"Where would you like to go?"

"I don't know. You could take me to dinner. Or maybe to a Broadway show. There's a George M. Cohan musical that just opened."

"You know I can't get away in the evening. It's too dangerous."

"Oh Charlie."

"I'll get you two tickets and you can go with a friend. What's the name of it?"

"Billie."

"That's easy to remember."

She kissed him. "I'd rather go with you." She kissed him again.

He felt tired. He slid his arms around her waist and kissed her back. When she opened her mouth, he ran his tongue over her teeth. She was getting to him, all right. The feel of her body pressing against him always got him going. She knew it, didn't she? She teased him by rubbing her breasts back and forth across his chest. In a moment she began pulling at the knot of his tie.

"Am I blue?"

"What?"

"That's the name of a song," she said.

"Well I know that."

"I'm just teasing." She put her hand on his fly. "Mmmm, what do we have here? I think the gentleman has a cannon in his pants." She giggled and pinched him through his trousers.

"In the bedroom," Charlie said. He dropped his hand from her waist and he squeezed her ass while she walked with him. He wondered why he was so tired. What did he do today? He hadn't budged out of the office. Well maybe that was it, he always felt better when he moved around some. The exercise was good for the blood. Christ, what an ass she had.

In the bedroom they undressed first, and then he lay naked on his back and she crawled over him and sat on his knees.

"You look tired," she said.

"I work too hard."

"Making all that money."

"There's nothing wrong with money, is there?"

Rita laughed. "I hope not."

She had large nipples, not too dark, more a light brown than a dark brown. Her breasts were heavy enough to droop a little. He put his hands on her breasts, a hand holding each breast while he stroked her nipples with his thumbs.

"Won't you take me out to dinner tomorrow?"

"Maybe next week. Maybe an early dinner next week."

She shifted her body backward and she dropped her head down to take his penis in her mouth. Charlie sighed and craned his neck to look down at it. He watched her red lips move up and down on the stalk of his cock. At one point she looked up at him, her mouth stuffed by his flesh as she rolled her eyes at him.

What does it cost? he thought. Two hundred a month for the apartment, another two hundred for her. He guessed it wouldn't be long before she asked him for more money. He watched her mouth move up and down. Then she pulled away and he watched her as she took him inside her. She began bouncing on him. She lifted her head and looked at the ceiling and held her breasts in her hands as she bounced up and down on his lap.

He thought of the cufflink again, the solid gold cufflink. Maybe it was more than one man. Never mind what Malone said, Malone had watched her only ten days and it didn't mean anything. She had decent clothes. She hadn't been too unhappy about not getting the job in the Harem Club, at least not as far as the wages were concerned. If she had three men paying her two hundred a month she wouldn't need any job on a chorus line. Of course some of them liked to work in the clubs and that could be it. He'd met her in a club, hadn't he? Maybe she just liked the chorus line. Maybe she wanted a career. He doubted she had enough talent for that, but of course she'd never believe it. None of them ever believe that. Maybe she had three men on a string and she just liked the chorus line.

He watched her again. He watched her cunt moving up and down on the shaft of his cock. He could see everything, the stretched cunt-mouth, the hair, the cunt swallowing him up each time she dropped down on his lap. She was very hairy down there. Maybe that's the way they grew them in Easton, Pennsylvania. In those coal towns they grew the girls with lots of hair down there. The sex-lips were too long and the hair was almost black. She was a hairy girl from Easton, Pennsylvania and now she was in New York and she had him paying for the apartment and she had two other men on a string. Maybe he ought to get another detective. 

Forget about Malone, get another detective and do it all over again. Have her watched for a month this time. Have her watched for two months this time. Get another detective and do it all over again.

-- End -- 




Jazz Age Ch. 03



Chapter Three: Sometimes I'm Happy

Late in the morning Frank Tucker sat in Longchamps nursing a hangover that he hadn't quite chased away yet. He had no idea why he was in Longchamps. He remembered coming out of his hotel about an hour ago with the idea of getting some fresh air. He'd walked south on Fifth Avenue until he thought it might be a good thing to eat something, and now here he was in Longchamps of all places.

Then a slight twinge in his head reminded him that he'd be better off not thinking so much about where he was sitting. What difference did it make if he was in Longchamps or some other place? Longchamps was perfectly respectable, wasn't it? He'd had some scrambled eggs and bacon and now he was drinking his coffee. This was maybe the fifth cup of coffee he'd had this morning and he wondered if the coffee did him any good.

He thought of the night before. The memory of the night before came back slowly. He'd started remembering earlier that morning, but when he first awakened after a night on the town his memory was always dim. Now he could remember more. He'd fallen in with a party of Yale boys and two floozies from Jersey City. They sang songs in the street. They had a drink in a speakeasy, sang a song in the street, then ducked into another speakeasy and had another drink. The Yale boys called him Old Man and they made him tell them stories about his days in New Haven before the war. Well what could you say about Yale before the war? Yale before the war was just about the same as Yale after the war. Of course he'd never finished at Yale, but he didn't tell them that. He knew as much about the damn college as they did anyway. He told them stories about the war and his days in Paris. Oo la la Gay Paree. After the war he never returned to Yale.

Jesus Christ his head was hurting again. It's a punishment, Frank thought. He was being punished once again for the mess he'd made of his life. The country was in the middle of a great boom and everyone he knew was making loads of money, but all he had to show for it was a nearly empty account at one broker and a sizeable debt to another broker. The fact was he was almost broke. Not quite but almost. The only consolation was that he was certain in a short time the boom would go bust and some of his rich friends would be in the same position he was in. He had the distinction of arriving early, that's all. Too much margin at the brokers, too many bloated bonds, too much faith in the German steel industry, too much interest in all the hot tips being batted around town. Three years ago he'd had nearly a hundred thousand dollars in cash and now his assets amounted to little more than a wardrobe of decent clothes and a broken down Lincoln limousine that needed a chauffeur he couldn't afford.

The bust will come, Frank thought. All the Yale boys would be crying. The men like Charlie Desmond that he'd known at Yale would be crying along with the boys. Or maybe Charlie was one of the clever ones. Yes, Charlie was one of the clever ones and he'd manage to avoid catastrophe. Then Frank shuddered as it occurred to him that if a bust did come he'd be worse off than he was now. Well maybe he'd go to live with his old aunt in Albany. He had no one else. Maybe he ought to visit her one of these days just to make sure there was an open door there for him if he ever needed it. Albany wasn't that bad. Oh hell, he hadn't seen his aunt since he'd said goodby to her before he left for France. He couldn't live in Albany anyway. How can anyone live in Albany? No one in the world can live in Albany since living in Albany is impossible. He looked around the room, this large room in Longchamps, and he wondered if anyone was here from Albany.

He did see one person he knew, a woman sitting with another woman at a table near a window. He'd thought she was in London. Her name was Mrs. Reginald Wingrave and he thought she'd moved to London after the death of her husband a year ago. Was it really Mrs. Wingrave? He stared at her as she sat talking to the other woman. He could see only part of her face, but he was certain it was Charlotte Wingrave. She might be living in London and only visiting New York. People do get homesick, don't they? No doubt Mrs. Wingrave had returned to New York to visit some of her friends. Yes, that was Mrs. Wingrave all right. She had the same hairdo, the same brown hair streaked with grey, the same aging pink face. He had no idea how old she was, but she had to be past fifty. She was a handsome woman and before the war she'd had some success as an actress.

Well what of it? Frank thought. He felt a twinge in his head again. He stared at Mrs. Wingrave because there seemed nothing else worth looking at. He didn't know her that well. In fact Mrs. Wingrave would probably say that she didn't know him at all. But he did know her. He'd met her at more than one party in the Desmond house and he did know something about her. What he did know was that she'd inherited a small fortune from her dead British husband.

You won't succeed, he thought.

But he continued to stare at her and before long it was clear to him that he'd make the attempt. He'd make the attempt because he was at the end of his rope and he had no idea that seemed better than this one.

* * *

That evening Frank went to the Rendezvous Club on West Fifty- second Street. He found Tony Provo, the man who ran the club, at his usual table near the bar.

"Well look who's here," Tony said. "It's my friend Mr. Tucker."

"Hello Tony."

"Hello yourself, Mr. Tucker. Why don't you sit down and have one on me? Hey Mike, bring us a double Scotch for Mr. Tucker. Sit down, sit down."

"Nice to see you again, Tony."

"And it's nice to see you. How've you been? Everything copacetic? You look good. I wish I could wear clothes like you wear clothes. You wear clothes like a movie star."

Frank chuckled. "I wish I had a movie star's money."

"Like Jolson, huh?"

"Yes, like Jolson."

"Jolson's money and Ruby Keeler and that big car. Did you see that picture in the paper? Hell, I don't like the guy anyway, he don't sing nothing Italian."

"Maybe you ought to ask him."

"Ha ha. That's a good one."

"Speaking of money, Tony, I've come to ask for a favor."

"What do you need? If it's money it's no problem."

"I need five thousand."

"That much? Well okay, why not? How about ten per cent a week?"

"Oh boy."

"All right, you're a gentleman I'll charge you five per cent a week."

"Thanks, Tony."

Then the club hostess, Texas Guinan, came by with two chorus girls. "Well if it isn't tall dark and handsome," Texas said.

"Hello Texas."

Texas Guinan smiled and turned to the two chorus girls behind her. "Girls, I want you to meet Mr. Frank Tucker, the Sheik of Park Avenue."

The girls giggled.

"Hello Mr. Tucker, I'm Carol."

"Hello Mr. Tucker, I'm Sally."

He looked at Sally. She looked back at him and blushed.

"Sally what?" he said.

"Sally Rich."

"I'll remember it."

Texas Guinan laughed. "See, what did I tell you? Introduce him to a girl and she's already in his tent."

* * *

Frank had no trouble learning that Mrs. Wingrave was staying at the Plaza. At noon the next day he was in the lobby waiting for her when she came down in the elevator from her suite.

"Why Mrs. Wingrave, how nice to see you again."

She turned and looked at him. "I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

"Don't you remember me?"

"Oh I do know you, don't I?"

"Frank Tucker."

"Yes of course, Mr. Tucker. We met at the Peabody house, didn't we?"

"The Desmond house."

"Oh yes, the Desmond house. Nancy Desmond's house. Yes yes, I do remember you. Will you have some lunch? I was just going inside to have some lunch."

"What a nice idea, Mrs. Wingrave."

In a few minutes they were seated at a table in the hotel grille. They both ordered madrilene and lobster thermidor. After the waiter took the order and left, they talked about the Desmonds, and then about some other people they knew, and then about Mrs. Wingrave's absence from New York. She finally smiled at him and said:

"Well, it's nice to have someone with me at lunch. I don't like eating alone."

"You shouldn't ever. You're too attractive to eat alone."

"Bosh, I'm not that young any more."

"But still attractive. In fact, extremely attractive."

Mrs. Wingrave smiled. "I think you're flirting with me."

"Am I? Please forgive me."

"No I won't, you silly man, I like it. Do you make a habit of flirting with women old enough to be your mother?"

"You're not that old."

"I should think I am."

Then the food arrived and for some time the conversation remained as bland as the soup. It was only after the main course was finished that Frank again played his hand. After a comment or two about some of the new speakeasy clubs that had opened, he boldly invited her to a night on the town with him.

Mrs. Wingrave seemed amused. "Oh dear," she said.

"You've done it before, haven't you?"

"Of course I have. With poor Reggie."

"Well then."

She gave him a long look, her eyes searching his face.

"Come have tea with me tomorrow."

"Where?"

"Upstairs in my suite, of course. I'll expect you at three."

* * *

Mrs. Wingrave received Frank with a smile the next afternoon at three o'clock. She had a corner suite, an enormous living room and an adjoining bedroom. A vase filled with red roses sat on a table near one of the windows.

"It's comfortable," she said. "Thank goodness it's high enough to make the traffic in the street bearable."

She wore a pale blue silk negligee with a black velvet collar, the negligee tightly belted in a way that emphasized the ample curves of her bosom and hips. Her figure was more appropriate to the fashion before the war, but she seemed unconcerned by that. The hem of the negligee almost covered her ankles. She wore dark blue slippers and on the front of each slipper was a pale blue pom-pom.

Frank found himself wondering if she was naked under the negligee. Except for the stockings, of course. Her ankles showed the stockings, dark stockings of the finest silk.

He could smell her perfume. Maybe there was too much of it. She chattered at length about some people they knew, but all he could think of was the smell of violets.

"Call me Charlotte, won't you?"

Her eyes were never steady. She looked at him, looked at the room, looked at the windows, looked at him again. She was nervous, of course. He expected she wasn't certain of his interest in her. A woman her age hated to make a fool of herself.

The negligee had no fastenings below the knees, and as she sat beside him on the sofa and shifted her body occasionally, her legs became visible, her ankles and calves, first one leg and then the other, her legs sheathed in the fine dark silk.

He glanced at her legs from time to time as they talked. She had pretty legs and he guessed she enjoyed having them looked at. Then look at them, he thought. He looked at her legs and he looked at the rings on her fingers.

The rings were also something in fashion before the war. He wondered what the largest diamond was worth.

Well you're a rogue, he thought. Yes he was. He was an awful rogue.

They drank more and more of the Scotch he'd brought. She talked about her life in London as he moved closer to her on the sofa. The scent of violets was now much stronger.

"Oh my, I'm getting cockeyed," she said. "Do I look awful?"

"You look marvelous."

He leaned toward her and kissed her mouth.

"Oh you lovely man," she said.

He kissed her again, this time holding the kiss until she opened her lips. He felt her quiver as he slid his tongue inside her mouth. She made a sound in her throat as she moved a hand to the back of his neck and returned his kiss.

He touched her breasts for the first time, one of his hands on the front of her negligee, the hand roaming over the silk and the curves beneath it. Then he slid the hand inside her negligee to fondle one of the large globes. Her breasts were naked under the negligee, the skin warm beneath his palm.

She pulled her mouth away from his.

"You're the first man I've been with since my husband died."

He lightly pinched one of her nipples. "That was a long time ago."

She sighed. "Yes, I suppose it was. Wait, darling, let me unhook this."

She unhooked the front of the negligee and pulled it away to each side to expose her breasts to his eyes.

"Kiss them, won't you?"

He bent his head to take one of the large nipples between his lips.

He held the breast with his hand as he sucked it. Then he moved to the other breast and he did the same. She said something and moaned. He continued sucking her breasts one after the other, biting her nipples and pulling at them with his lips.

She trembled violently as he did it, and then finally she pushed his face away from her breasts and she rose up from the sofa.

"In the bedroom, darling. Let's hurry to the bedroom."

He followed her.

As she entered the bedroom, she slipped the negligee off and tossed it over a chair. He saw her naked body from the back first, the broad curves of her buttocks, the heavy white thighs above her blue garters and dark stockings.

Instead of turning to face him, she remained standing where she was until he came up behind her to kiss her neck. She groaned as she pushed her buttocks back against the front of his trousers. She moved her hips from side to side, grinding her ass against him.

"Oh Lord, I can feel it there."

"Let me undress."

"Yes! Please yes."

He stepped away and she turned to watch him as he quickly removed his clothes. She held her breasts in her hands until he was naked, and then she dropped her breasts and she came forward to grasp his stiff penis.

"Perfect. It's quite perfect."

"And you too."

She smiled, gripped his penis more firmly and then released it. Then she turned to the bed and she knelt on the counterpane on all fours.

"I suppose you can use some of that cold cream on the nightstand."

"Cold cream?"

"Yes, I want you to bugger me. Reggie always did it and I've missed that more than anything. You don't mind, do you?"

She knelt on the bed with her head and shoulders on the counterpane as he carefully smeared the cold cream over his penis. Her knees were wide apart, the pouch of her sex visible, the large lips in a mat of brown hair, and above her sex the small brown opening between her buttocks.

She cried out when he pushed himself inside her. But the cry was a cry of pleasure and not of pain. His entrance into the small passage was easy enough to convince him it was well travelled.

Well prepared by poor Reggie, he thought. Well prepared and well received.

He stopped thinking now and he devoted himself to the pleasure of it. He kept his eyes fixed on the shaft of his cock as he slid it slowly in and out of the stretched opening, her anus opened like a stretched gasket. He tried to imagine what it felt like to her. It was obvious she liked it. He gripped her hips with his hands and kept his cock moving at an even pace. Good, he thought. So far so good.

* * *

They did the speakeasies that night: the Chateau Rouge, the New Yorker, Leon and Eddie's, the Marlboro Club, the Tree Club. The only place he kept Charlotte away from was the Rendezvous Club. He did not want Tony Provo to see him with Charlotte. As far as anyone else was concerned, he didn't care one way or the other. They met some people he knew. They met some people Charlotte knew. She seemed to enjoy herself immensely as they moved from one speakeasy to another until it was five in the morning and time to stop it.

During the next two weeks he passed some time with her nearly every day. They went to dinner at one expensive restaurant after another. They visited the nightclubs after dinner: the Stork Club, El Morocco, the Sutton Club, Ciro's. It was always Frank who paid. He paid for the restaurants, the nightclubs, and he bought her expensive presents: a watch, diamond earrings, a fur stole. He didn't mind at all. It was what he wanted.

And in the intimacy of her bedroom at the Plaza, Charlotte's needs were always the same. She wanted what her husband had liked. She wanted to be buggered like poor old Reggie had buggered her. Frank didn't mind that either. The entry was easy and he was intrigued by how completely decadent she became once she had her clothes off.

One evening he took Charlotte to a party at the Desmond townhouse. She was discreet enough not to let on that they were anything but casual friends. But Charlie Desmond wasn't fooled and he showed his amusement when he caught Frank alone:

"You can't fool me, dear boy. Don't let the lady wear you out."

In the following days it seemed like she was trying, all right. She wanted the buggering done with more variety. Sometimes on her back. Sometimes with her clothes on. Sometimes with her sitting on him. Her face flushed, her teeth biting her lower lip, she would take the entry with her eyes closed.

"Oh Lord, you're so much like Reggie."

He enjoyed watching her face while they did it. One moment there was passion in her face and the next moment a look of calm acceptance as if what they were engaged in was quite ordinary. In the living room of her suite she sat on his lap with her bowels fully penetrated while she fed him eggs Florentine from a silver tray on a rolling cart.

But his money was dwindling. The money he'd borrowed from Tony Provo was almost all gone. It was time to consider his future.

* * *

The next afternoon in her suite she came out of her bath and she found him seated on the sofa with a pensive look on his face.

"You seem unhappy," she said.

"I do?"

"Yes, darling, you've seemed very unhappy all afternoon. Don't you want to tell Charlotte?"

"I've had some problems."

"Oh dear. What sort of problems?"

Frank sighed. "It seems I've lost a great deal of money at the Stock Exchange."

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Reggie never liked Wall Street. He said the people on Wall Street were all highwaymen or something like that. Do you know what a highwayman is?"

"A robber."

"Yes, that must be it. He said they were all robbers."

"Whatever they are, I've lost nearly everything."

"Oh dear. No wonder you seem so unhappy."

"I can't go on, Charlotte."

"No, you don't mean that."

"Yes I do."

"But that's not sensible, is it? How much money do you need? I'll lend you some until---"

"No, I don't want that."

"Darling, please."

"It's not right. Not from you. It just isn't."

Five minutes later he accepted a loan of twenty thousand dollars.

* * *

The next evening Frank caught the last act at the Rendezvous Club and he persuaded the chorus girl Sally Rich to take him home with her. They drank Scotch in the taxi all the way to the Village. She lived in a small third floor apartment that she shared with another dancer.

"Just make yourself comfortable," Sally said. "Oh, I'm plastered. I almost tripped."

"What time will your friend be home?"

"I don't know. Maybe in the morning. Maybe she won't be home at all. Who knows?"

There were three rooms, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room. The furniture in the living room looked about twenty years old. He pushed some newspapers off the sofa and he sat down. When she came out of the bathroom she smiled at him and he looked at her legs.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"I'll make some coffee."

He'd repaid the loan to Tony Provo. Of course Tony had been amused to receive back his five thousand dollars with interest in only a few weeks. "That makes me happy," Tony said. "I'm always happy when the money comes back."

Now Sally was half out of the kitchen and half out of the living room, moving back and forth as she undressed at the same time. When she had her dress off, she pranced around in her bra and panties and stockings. He'd already seen her wearing less at the Rendezvous Club. She had small breasts and firm little buttocks, almost a boy's body. Maybe the best thing she had was her legs. They were perfect, the perfect legs of a chorus girl with a pretty face. More perfect than Charlotte's legs. Charlotte's thighs were too heavy. Oh stop thinking about Charlotte, he thought.




Jazz Age Ch. 03



Sally knew he liked her legs and she teased him by walking back and forth in front of him as if she was on the stage at the Rendezvous Club.

"You're teasing me, aren't you?"

She gave him a coy look. "I'm not doing anything. I'm just walking around in my underwear."

"Do you like working at the club?"

"Sure, but I want to do more than that. What I want is a job in a Broadway show. You wouldn't know anyone who could give me a job, would you?"

Frank laughed. "I might."

"Really?"

"Maybe."

"Oh, I'm sure plastered. I can't walk straight."

She put a record on the Victrola and wound up the machine.

"The neighbors will complain," Frank said.

"The hell with them, they're all bums."

In a moment Helen Morgan's voice came out of the Victrola horn singing "Baby Face".

Sally brought the coffee out of the kitchen and into the living room, but instead of sitting down with Frank she started humming along with Helen Morgan and dancing. She stripped her underwear off piece by piece, first the brassiere and then the step-ins. She continued dancing with nothing on but her shoes and stockings. The patch of hair on her mound was carefully trimmed and the same dark blonde color as the hair on her head. He wanted to see more of the slit, but he decided to save that for later.

He thought of Charlotte again as he watched Sally. Mrs. Charlotte Wingrave. He thought of all that money Charlotte had. He thought of all the money the rich women in New York had. He hated all of them. He hated Charlotte and he hated all the other rich women in New York. Well you're cockeyed, he thought. Yes he was cockeyed and he hated all of them. When Sally came by, he grabbed hold of her wrist and he pulled her onto his lap. He kissed her lips and he pinched her nipples. Sally giggled and said, "You're the Sheik of Park Avenue, aren't you?" 



Jazz Age Ch. 04



Chapter Four: Am I Blue?

What Sheila Dugan liked best about Park Avenue was the cleanliness, the clean sidewalks, the clean awnings, the clean doormen standing in their clean uniforms at the entrance to each clean building. The dirt of Manhattan seemed never to penetrate Park Avenue, at least not Park Avenue north of 42nd Street and south of 100th Street.

It was almost eight o'clock in the evening and she was on her way to an appointment in the Seventies. The cab driver was doing his best to get a look at her legs through the rear view mirror, but she didn't give a damn about cab drivers, at least not this one, because he was old enough to be her father. And anyway cab drivers weren't rich, were they? There weren't any cab drivers living on Park Avenue, not down here there weren't. When he pulled up in front of the address she'd given him, a doorman in a maroon uniform and white gloves came briskly out of the entrance to open the door for her. She paid the driver and tipped him a quarter. "Have one on me," she said.

The sweaty looking driver turned his head to look at her. "Thank you, miss."

She wondered what part of Ireland he came from. Oh hell, she thought.

Inside the building, she announced herself to the man at the desk. "Miss Dugan calling on the Caldwells."

He rang up, spoke her name on the phone, and then after a moment he put the phone down and he nodded at her. "Twelve-C, miss. Elevator's down the hall."

She felt his eyes on her as she left the desk, but she doubted if he guessed anything. Nora always said she could pass for a Park Avenue girl any day in the week. "You've got the carriage, dearie. You don't ever want to lose that, do you?"

No, she didn't ever want to lose it. She rode up the elevator to the twelfth floor, then stepped down the hall to apartment 12-C. The door opened immediately after she knocked, a tall thin man nodding at her.

"Mr. Caldwell?" she said. "I'm Sheila."

He nodded again. "Please come in."

The rug was so deep, she had to walk carefully because of her thin heels. He led her down a long hallway lined on both sides with old paintings, and finally they entered a large living room in the center of which stood a tall blonde woman wearing a blue silk dress.

"This is my wife, Diana," Mr. Caldwell said. "And this is Sheila."

Sheila smiled, but all the woman did was stare at her. Then finally Diana Caldwell held her hand out and Sheila took it.

"So nice to meet you," Diana said.

The Caldwells were both past forty, maybe even close to fifty. Sheila thought Diana Caldwell looked beautiful, as cold as an iceberg, but distinctly beautiful. She was tall and slender, and the way she wore her hair tied up in a chignon gave her a regal look. Like a duchess, Sheila thought. If she could look like that in twenty years, she'd be happy.

"Call me Stewart," Mr. Caldwell said to Sheila with a friendly smile. "We don't want to be formal, do we?"

No we don't, Sheila thought. We certainly don't want to be formal.

Stewart poured some champagne from an open bottle and he handed the glass to Sheila. Diana already had a glass, and after Stewart retrieved his glass, he lifted it and offered a toast: "To an enjoyable evening."

Sheila wondered if he'd toast the King next. But he wasn't British, was he? He looked British, but he was definitely an American.

They chatted about the weather, about the new musicals on Broadway, about a new speako the Caldwells had visited. Diana seemed on edge, as if she had no idea what to say next. Sheila did her best to keep talking, keep the atmosphere relaxed. She hadn't realized they'd be so uneasy about everything, but here it was.

They sat down finally, and Sheila felt more confident. She teased them with her legs, keeping the hem of her dress back far enough to show her silk-clad knees. The stockings were sheer, the best that money could buy, and her legs were good enough to always draw the eyes of people.

Diana's blue silk dress was long enough to almost completely cover her calves even when she was sitting. She looked at Sheila's legs with the same interest as her husband. Go on look, Sheila thought. She was now wondering what would happen, how things would develop. Would it be her and Stewart, with Diana just watching them, or would Diana want more than that? Sheila told herself she wouldn't mind; she wouldn't mind Diana at all. She was a lovely woman, wasn't she? Old enough to be her mother, but still smashing.

"Well, what should we do?" Sheila said finally.

Stewart looked at his wife.

Diana smiled at Sheila. "Whatever you like, I suppose."

"Is it all right if I undress?"

"Yes, please."

Sheila put the champagne glass down on the table beside her chair and she rose to her feet. She walked a few steps away from the chair, toward the far side of the room, and there she began removing her clothes without looking at them. She'd learned the best way was to make this part a bit impersonal, let them look at her from some distance as if she were part of the floor show at a speako. The short silk dress she wore came off easily, and she took her time gathering it up and draping it over the back of an armchair near the bookshelves.

She was twenty-four and she had a good figure, plump breasts that refused to be flattened by the current fashion, a round bottom and long shapely legs that now looked lovely in the sheer stockings she wore. When the slip came off the Caldwells had a surprise: she wore nothing under it except a black French waist- cincher with a lace half-bra built into the top. That and the stockings. Her bottom and belly were completely bare, the tuft of auburn hair on her mound exposed in all its glory.

Now she looked at them for the first time, smiling at them as she ran her fingertips lightly around her exposed nipples. "Would you like everything off, or is it all right if I remain like this?"

Stewart coughed. "Just as you are, I think."

It was Diana's reaction that interested Sheila. The blonde woman seemed immobilized in her chair, her face expressionless, her eyes fixed on Sheila.

She's done it with girls, Sheila thought. Her intuition told her that Diana Caldwell had bedded women in her life. Mrs. Caldwell might look cool and puritanical, but she'd known a hot time or two with members of her own sex.

Her fingers at her nipples again, Sheila smiled at them. "Doesn't anyone want to join me?"

Diana remained motionless, but Stewart made a sound in his throat and he rose up. Sheila immediately approached him to encourage him, leaning forward just enough to graze his body with her own as she helped him slip out of his smoking jacket. She had her back turned to Diana, and Sheila knew the blonde woman was getting an eyeful of her ass at this close distance. She wiggled her hips just a bit, not enough to be silly, but enough to tease Diana if she was indeed looking.

Sheila thought Stewart would want to leave some of his clothes on, but to her amusement he stripped everything off until he was naked. He had a long thin cock, not completely hard yet, but so pale and smooth it was lovely to look at. The sac that held his balls hung low under his organ, the wrinkled skin only a shade darker than the skin of his thighs.

She took hold of him, her left hand cradling his testicles, her right hand gently stroking the length of his member. "You're getting a stiff one," she said with a giggle.

She turned to the side so Diana could watch her fondle Stewart's noodle. It wasn't long before Sheila's fingers brought his penis to a complete erection.

Sheila crouched down then, balancing herself with one hand on Stewart's thigh as she brought the tip of his penis to her mouth. She took the glans between her lips, closed her eyes and began sucking it. Was Mrs. Caldwell watching her? Holding the knob in her mouth, Sheila turned her head slightly and glanced at the blonde woman. Yes, Mrs. Caldwell was watching her, all right. Diana's face was flushed, her eyes riveted on the junction of Sheila's mouth and her husband's penis.

Stewart seemed to be whistling through his teeth. Afraid he'd spend too soon, Sheila pulled her mouth away, playfully patted his cock and rose up again. "There's no rush, is there?" She smiled at Mrs. Caldwell. "Don't you want to undress?"

Stewart slid his hand down Sheila's back to fondle her buttocks as he looked at his wife. "Diana?"

"Yes," Diana said. She rose to her feet, stood erect with her eyes on Sheila's body as she began unfastening the hooks of her dress.

"Want me to help?" Sheila said, and when Mrs. Caldwell nodded she pulled away from Stewart and she stepped over to Mrs. Caldwell to help her disrobe.

As slender as she was, Diana was old-fashioned enough to still wear a corset. It took a bit of doing to get her undressed, Sheila doing most of the work as though she were a lady's maid, but at last Diana had everything off except her chemise. "I'll keep this on," Diana said.

Sheila smiled, wanting to see more. "Are you sure?"

Holding his penis in his hand, Stewart urged his wife to undress completely. "You said you wouldn't be shy."

Diana finally yielded, allowing Sheila to help her get the chemise over her head.

She had a lovely body for a woman her age, her breasts and buttocks small but firm-looking, her belly sloping toward a surprisingly thick bush of dark blonde pubic hair.

"You're beautiful," Sheila said with a laugh. She had an urge to suck one of Diana's pink nipples, but she decided to wait until Diana made the first move.

Their eyes met, and a shudder seemed to pass through Diana's slender body. Then she stepped forward, moved close enough to Sheila to pass her hands over Sheila's breasts.

"You don't mind, do you?"

Sheila made a sound of pleasure and pulled her shoulders back as she looked down at Diana's hands. "I like it."

Yes, she did like it. She quivered as Diana's slender fingers gently stroked her nipples. The tips were out, stiff little spikes that tingled under Diana's lacquered fingernails.

Her left hand still toying with Sheila's breasts, Diana now dropped her right hand down to the joining of Sheila's thighs. Sheila closed her eyes and trembled as Diana's tickling fingers stroked her slit, then pushed between her labia to find her clitoris.

"You're a pretty girl," Diana said.

Sheila quivered. "Thank you."

The blonde woman's fingers moved like tentacles over Sheila's sex, her index and middle finger finally penetrating Sheila's vagina.

Sheila moaned softly, her excitement intense, her response to Diana's caresses as complete as possible. She realized now that Mrs. Caldwell was more experienced than she'd imagined.

And a bit cruel too. Diana curved her fingers while they were deep inside Sheila's vagina, the digits pulling at Sheila's sex until she had to open her legs further to relieve the pressure.

Then Diana's fingers suddenly relaxed and they slipped out of Sheila's sex completely.

"Suck my husband again," Diana said.

This time Stewart sat on the sofa and Sheila went down on her knees in front of him. She took his penis in her mouth again, her fingers stroking the shaft as her tongue bathed the tip and around the edge of the glans. Mrs. Caldwell's caresses had aroused her enough so she could feel the wetness between her thighs. She wondered what they would do together, she and Mrs. Caldwell. She knew they would do something. Diana seemed so eager for it, Sheila trembled with anticipation.

In the meantime she had the husband's tasty cock in her mouth, his testicles heavy on one palm, his breath coming in gasps as she used all her skills to give him pleasure.

Diana finally crouched down beside Sheila and she ran a hand over Sheila's back and down to her buttocks. Sheila pulled her mouth off Stewart's penis.

"Why don't you do it to him?" Sheila said to Diana.

Diana smiled and shook her head, her hand still caressing Sheila's buttocks. "Not now."

Stewart groaned. "Let's go to the bedroom."

Sheila didn't mind. She was tired of crouching on the carpet. She allowed Mrs. Caldwell to take her hand and lead her out of the living room.

"You have such a pretty body," Diana said.

"Thank you," Sheila replied. "You're not so bad yourself."

No, she wasn't bad at all. The more Sheila looked at Diana, the more she wanted to do something with her.

The bed in the master bedroom was large enough for all three of them. Stewart lay on the bed between the two women with a hand on each sex. Sheila wondered how often the Caldwells did this. They seemed more at ease now that they were on the bed, as if having her between them made a difference.

She was excited now. Her excitement in the beginning had been only mild, but now it was more intense. She wanted something to happen between her and Mrs. Caldwell. The blonde's body looked so sleek, so completely stylish. Diana's pink nipples were stiff, but otherwise she seemed as unruffled as ever. Sheila wanted Diana's mouth on her cunt. She imagined herself returning the favor, her lips on Diana's breasts and belly. She wouldn't mind licking her. It was only rarely that she enjoyed licking a woman, but she thought she'd enjoy it with Diana.

In the meantime Stewart's hands were becoming more insistent, his fingers digging into Sheila's cleft and into his wife's cleft at the same time. He'd lost most of his reserve now. His face was flushed, and when Sheila looked at him she could see how excited he was.

Then Diana spoke to Sheila. "How often do you do this? with a couple, I mean."

Sheila looked at her, but there was nothing in Diana's face, no expression of disdain. "Not very often," Sheila said.

Keeping two fingers in Sheila's vagina, Stewart was now tickling her anus with another finger. She pulled her knees up to make it easier for him, and in a moment Diana sat up and she looked at it.

"Stewart's being nasty," Diana said with a chuckle.

Sheila found it exciting to have Diana watch it. She didn't mind what Stewart was doing. He had fingers in both holes now, two fingers in her pussy and a third finger sliding in and out of her anus. She closed her eyes and squirmed her buttocks on the mattress as his fingers excited her.

Then Diana said: "She ought to be on her belly, Stewart. Make her roll over on her belly."

When Stewart pulled his fingers out, Sheila did what they wanted. She rolled over and then raised her hips by supporting her weight on her knees.

"That's much better," Diana said. "What a lovely bottom she has." Then the blonde leaned over, kissed Sheila's neck and whispered in he ear. "You're a fast little girl, aren't you, darling?"

Sheila understood the role they wanted her to play, but it didn't matter because she was wild with excitement anyway. Maybe it was Mrs. Caldwell who excited her so much. Or maybe it was Stewart. His fingers were moving inside her again, thrusting in and out of her cunt and ass and making her crazy with pleasure.

"Make her spend," Diana said to Stewart.

Stewart chuckled. "Why don't you do it, Diana? Do something to her and make her go off. Maybe you can suck her bottom."

"Shut up, Stewart."

"Go on, do it."

Sheila wondered if they were both drunk. She groaned as Stewart pulled his fingers out, and then a quiver of delight went through her as she felt Diana moving between her legs. In a moment she whimpered as she felt Diana's face pushing between her buttocks.

They made her roll over on her side. Then Stewart slid his head down to get his mouth on Sheila's wet sex, and Diana pushed her face deeper between Sheila's buttocks to get her lips on Sheila's anus.

God, I love it, Sheila thought with a shudder. Aside from the cleanliness on Park Avenue, the next best thing was how the people behaved when they had their clothes off. She giggled silently as she felt the two tongues tickling her everywhere. She reached back with her hand to pull her ass open for Mrs. Caldwell. 



Jazz Age Ch. 05



Chapter 5: Rio Rita 

In New York in 1928 the speakeasies were everywhere, in the basements of mansions, in penthouses off Park Avenue, in Greenwich Village cellars, in Wall Street office buildings, in brownstone rooming houses, in tenements, in two-flats in the Bronx, in Bay Ridge hardware stores.

Sometimes they were called clubs and when they were posh and had entertainment at night they were called night clubs. The carriage trade had its pick of the swank drinking resorts, places where all that was needed was the proper password and the price. The night-life crowd wanted entertainment with their drinking and the better speakeasies featured women torch singers and piano players and sometimes an orchestra and chorus girls and the best solo and duet dancers in town.

Rita Marascho was still looking for a night club or theater job as a chorus girl.

Charlie Desmond had dumped her and she no longer lived in the apartment on West 48th Street. She had a room in a Greenwich Village rooming house, and each week when she paid the rent she was very much aware that her savings were running out. Rita told herself she had to find a dancing job soon or else give up the idea and look for something else. She was afraid to think of what the something else might be. She wondered if she was good for nothing but being in bed with a man. She'd always thought she'd have a career as a dancer, but now she wasn't so sure any more. But she kept trying. Nearly every day she rode the subway uptown to bother people that she knew in the clubs about a job. She went out on dates with other girls and always the first thing she wanted to know about a man was what connections he had in Manhattan. There were hundreds of girls working as dancers in New York and Rita was determined to become one of them.

One day a girl named Harriet told Rita about a job opening at the Rendezvous Club. "One of the girls quit," Harriet said. "Maybe if you get over there right away you can get the job."

"Oh, you're a honey," Rita said. "Who runs that place?"

"His name is Tony Provo."

"I'm going there now."

"Listen, I'd better tell you about Tony. He likes to feel the girls up whenever he has the chance. You know what I mean?"

"Yes, I know what you mean."

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

Rita kissed Harriet's cheek. "I can take care of myself, don't you worry."

After that Rita hurried over to the Rendezvous Club on West 52nd Street. The man at the door let her in without any trouble, and when she told the bartender she wanted to see Tony Provo about a job as a dancer, he winked at her and had one of the cigarette girls take her to Tony's office.

Tony looked at her when she walked in. "Yeah, what is it?"

"I heard there's an opening for a chorus girl."

Tony Provo looked at her again. Then he told the cigarette girl to leave. "Close the door," he said to Rita.

He sat behind the cluttered desk with a cigar in his mouth, his eyes on her red dress. She was happy she'd worn red today. She thought red was her best color.

Tony puffed his cigar and the blue smoke rose over his head to the ceiling. His eyes looked half closed, as if he were thinking about something. "What's your experience?"

"I did a few things on Broadway. Just little things, you know?"

"Like what?"

"Well, I was a stand-in in Desert Song."

"Oh yeah?"

"Did you see it? Wasn't it terrific?"

"What are you good at?"

"I'm very good at the tango."

"The tango?"

"Yes, that's my specialty."

"Listen, right now we don't need nobody doing a tango. What we got room for is another girl on the chorus line. One two, one two, you know what I mean?"

"That's just what I want."

"Okay, let's see what you look like. Take your dress off."

She smiled and made a half-turn away from him and then she lifted the dress and pulled it off over her head. She wondered what kind of a look she ought to give him. He still had the cigar in his mouth and she could hardly see his face because of the smoke.

She decided to look demure. She held her hands in front of her body as she turned to face him again. She pushed one knee forward and to the side to give him a better view of her legs. The flesh- colored stockings were held up by straps attached to a garter belt. The skimpy brassiere didn't do much to hide her full breasts.

Tony kept his eyes on her. He took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at her, then stuck the cigar in his mouth again. Keeping the cigar in one corner of his mouth, he said: "Turn around."

Rita turned around to give him a back view.

"Nice," Tony said. "You're a pretty girl."

She turned to face him again and smile. "Thank you."

"You want the job bad, huh?"

"Yes I do."

"Maybe we can work something out. It depends how bad you want it."

"Very bad," Rita said.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you can take off the brassiere."

She unhooked the brassiere, peeled it away and put it on top of her dress on the chair.

"That's better," Tony said. "That's much better. Come over here and let me get a squeeze. I wish we could show the girls naked on top, we'd get a lot more business."

When she went around the desk to stand in front of him, he reached up with both hands to squeeze her breasts. She forced a smile as she looked down at his face.

Then he dropped his hands and he made a gesture at his lap. "You want to do something for me, you take care of the lollipop."

She tried to keep the unhappiness out of her face as she knelt down on the floor between his legs. She unbuttoned the front of his trousers and she brought out a stubby penis that was still soft. Tony grunted as she took it in her mouth.

One is the same as the other, Rita thought. Once you had it in your mouth there wasn't much difference between them.

Tony patted her head and said: "You can start tomorrow night. You come around in the afternoon and you work out a little with the girls."

*   *   *

Well I'm here, Rita thought. The first night she danced in the Rendezvous Club her excitement was intense. Her head was filled with the music of the small orchestra and she felt as though she could dance forever.

There were twelve girls in the chorus line. They did one routine after the other, working in perfect synchrony, kicking their legs and twisting their bodies as though they were one person. Even their faces looked similar, the same shade of lipstick, the same dab of rouge on each cheek, each girl wearing the same sequined costume. For the first time Rita was convinced she was as good a dancer as anyone, certainly as good as any of these girls on the stage with her.

As usual the club was crowded, all the tables filled at midnight. Half the people in the club looked like rich Park Avenue swells and the rest looked like gangsters of one sort or another. The liquor was served in coffee cups and the waitresses were kept busy carrying bottle after bottle of champagne and Scotch and rye and gin to the tables.

Between appearances on the stage, the twelve chorus girls crowded into their small dressing room. After dancing with the girls in the afternoon, Rita was friendly with some of them. She listened to the chatter of the girls as they fixed their makeup in front of the mirrors. The air was filled with face powder. One of the girls came over to Rita and smiled at her. Her name was Ingrid and Rita had already decided that Ingrid was a lesbian.

"Well, how do you like it?" Ingrid said. "How do you like being a performing sardine?"

"I love it."

Ingrid laughed. "You're good. You're better than some of the others here."

"Thanks."

Ingrid's eyes were on Rita's breasts. "And you're pretty too. Why don't we have breakfast together after we finish here?"

"No, I think I'll just go home and sleep."

"Afraid of me?"

"Why should I be afraid of you?"

But Ingrid was already walking away with an expression of annoyance on her face.

*   *   *

That year the dancer George Raft was one of the rages of midtown Manhattan. He was billed as "The Fastest Dancer in the World." Fred Astaire caught Raft's act at the El Fey Club and he said Raft did the fastest, most exciting Charleston he'd ever seen.

Raft was a great favorite of society women. He'd started his career as a dancer in Manhattan tearooms, dancing with women for money, many of them rich women who took Raft to bed to enjoy his other talents. After he became well known on the night club and speakeasy circuit, the Park Avenue women continued to pursue him.

Apart from his life as a dancer, Raft was also a friend of some of the more prominent bootleggers and gangsters in New York. Some of them were old friends from Hell's Kitchen, the neighborhood where he'd grown up, and others were friends he'd made as an entertainer in speakeasies. He danced most often at the El Fey Club, but he also did brief engagements at other clubs around town, and in the afternoons he did matinees on the Broadway stage.

Rita was at the Rendezvous Club only a short time when George Raft was booked for one week as a featured performer. She watched him dance as often as she could and she thought he was wonderful. When he wasn't on the dance floor, he was the sharpest dresser she'd ever seen. He wore stylish suits with wide lapels, a black shirt with a white tie, high trousers and spats and pointed shoes with a mirror polish. His black hair was slicked down with Vaseline and the women would start panting for him as soon as he started dancing.

One night after his performance, Raft stopped Rita in the dank corridor outside the dressing rooms. "I watched you kicking when you were dancing," Raft said.

Rita blushed. "You did?"

"Yeah, you're not bad. You're new, aren't you?"

"Just a few weeks ago."

"They could do worse. You're one of the better dancers out there."

"Gee, thanks."

"And you've got the looks too. You're a knockout. What's your name?"

"Rita Murray. My real name is Rita Marascho."

"You're better off with Murray."

"I think you're a great dancer, the best dancer in New York."

Raft grinned. "Only when Fred Astaire is out of town."

"You remind me of Rudolf Valentino."

"And you remind me how nice it is to be with a pretty girl. Let's go somewhere after you finish here."

"I'd love to."

Later in the dressing room, some of the chorus girls teased Rita about her date with George Raft.

"He likes them rich, honey. You don't have a chance unless you've got a bundle in the bank."

Rita didn't care. She was thrilled at the idea of going out with him. It could always lead to something. She thought of them doing a duet together, dancing a tango at the clubs. She imagined the critics raving about the new dance team Raft and Murray. Why not? she thought. It's New York and anything is possible.

*   *   *

After the last show that night, Rita left the Rendezvous Club with George Raft. She was proud to be seen with him and she imagined that any women who saw them together would be envious of her. Well now it's my turn, Rita thought. She had a new job as a dancer and here she was stepping out with George Raft.

They had breakfast in an all-night place on Broadway. Raft seemed to know everyone and he had an easy smile for anyone who said hello to him. He looked so handsome in his grey suit and black shirt and white tie. Rita told herself she could fall in love with him.

After they had breakfast, Raft suggested they have champagne at his apartment. "There's nothing better than champagne in the morning," he said. "How about it?"

"All right," Rita said. "I love champagne."

Raft chuckled as he hugged her shoulders.

In the taxi he told her stories about the El Fey Club. Sooner or later everyone in New York who was important came to the El Fey Club and Raft had met them all.

Then they arrived at the building where he lived. They left the taxi and rode up together in the elevator. Raft amused her by doing a soft shoe dance. Rita laughed as she watched his pointed black shoes slide around on the floor of the elevator.

He hummed a tune as he led her into a large clean apartment. She felt like waltzing. She thought the living room was lovely. The cream-colored furniture was like something off a movie set. She bubbled with excitement.

Raft put a Helen Morgan record on the Victrola. He brought out a bottle of champagne, opened it and laughed as the cork popped. He had the most gorgeous teeth Rita ever seen in a man.

They drank a toast together, and when she sat down on the sofa he laughed again as he looked at her legs. "Beautiful," he said. "You're a beautiful girl."

Rita blushed.

As he sat down on the sofa beside her and leaned forward to kiss her, she closed her eyes and fell into his arms. He was so different from the other men she'd known. He was so polished. He slid his tongue inside her mouth, his hands moving over her body. She quivered as he fondled her breasts.

"I feel like ripping your clothes off," he said.

"If you do that I won't have anything to wear."

"Then take them off. Take everything off."

"Ooooh."

"Ooooh what?"

"Then I'll be naked."

"That's right you will, won't you? Come on, do it for me."

"All right."

Her legs felt wobbly as she rose up, and she wondered if he was as cockeyed as she was. Probably not. The way he looked at her, he didn't look cockeyed at all.

She teased him by undressing slowly. She peeled off her dress and then her slip and her brassiere and her panties. He told her to leave her shoes and stockings on. "You've got the greatest legs in New York."

"No I haven't."

"Sure you have."

"As good as Clara Bow?"

"As good as Clara Bow. You even look like her."

"Oh, you're teasing me."

"Come on over here, cutie."

When she walked over to him, he made her turn around and then she giggled as she felt him kissing her buttocks. She looked over her shoulder at him, at his slick black hair and at what she could see of his face pressed against the globes of her ass.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't you like it?"

"What do you think?"

"How about this? You like this too?" He pried her buttocks apart and licked her anus, his tongue fluttering on it and around it.

"You're driving me crazy," she said.

"You've had it here before, haven't you?"

"You shouldn't ask that."

"Answer me."

"Yes I have."

He rose up. "You stay right here, I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"Just don't move."

She watched him leave the room. She reached down to get the glass of champagne, and she sipped the champagne as she listened to Helen Morgan's voice. Rita could feel Raft's saliva between her buttocks. God I love him, she thought. Then she told herself she was crazy drunk and she giggled out loud.

When Raft came back he had a small jar in his hand. Rita blushed when she realized it was a jar of Vaseline.

"What's that for?"

He grinned at her and kissed her. "To make everything perfect."

"I shouldn't let you."

"Why not? I've been thinking about it all night and it's making me nuts."

She felt his fingers between her buttocks. "Oooh."

"That's better."

"Aren't you going to take your clothes off?"

Raft chuckled. "You bet I am."

Then he pulled away from her and she trembled with excitement as she watched him undress. When he was naked he made her bend over the sofa and he pressed against her buttocks to get his penis in her ass.

"Easy does it," he said.

"Be careful, will you?"

"I'm the best, cutie."

She felt some pain now, but it was only a slight burning sensation that quickly passed. She thought she was relaxed enough to take anything he had and anyway she did want it. He continued pushing forward until he had every inch of his hard cock in her rectum.

After that he began a marvelous movement, slowly at first, and then the pace increasing as he thrust his cock in and out of her ass with more vigor. He was pumping her now, almost doing a dance behind her, thrusting in and out of her with deep lunges, pulling back gently, then pushing forward again.

"How's that?" he said.

"Oh God, don't stop moving!"

He snickered. "You're wide open, honey. It's beautiful."

It was everything she'd hoped for, everything she'd been craving all evening. She started rubbing her clitoris with her fingers while he did it, and soon she was having one orgasm after another. She had the most violent climax of all when she felt him spending in her bowels.

Later, when he was asleep in the bedroom, she looked at him and she wondered if he'd ever take her out again. She guessed he wouldn't. He had hundreds of women running after him and she was nothing to him but a one night stand. She didn't care about George Raft. She didn't care about the way he did it to her in the living room. She told herself she didn't care one way or the other. She wondered where they'd be in ten or twenty years. She wondered where George Raft would be and where she would be. Maybe I'll get a break, she thought. All it takes is one break and you've got everything. All it takes is one break and you're on top of the world.

-- End -- 



Jazz Age Ch. 06



Chapter 6: Tonight You Belong to Me

Claire Belfield's husband, George, was in a sweat as he climbed the stairs in a brownstone on West 24th Street. He hated climbing stairs. Was she home or was she out? Maybe she wasn't home yet. He always liked it better when she was home. If she wasn't home he'd have to wait for her, and any time he spent alone in the building always unnerved him. He felt like an outsider, an interloper, even the smells from the various kitchens seemed totally strange to him.

Now he arrived on the landing of the third floor and he approached her door with hesitation. He was thankful he hadn't seen anyone on the stairs. It wasn't much past six o'clock, and at this time in the evening there were usually a few people climbing or descending the stairs that ran up the center of the small building. But not this evening. He knocked on the door. After a long moment the door opened and Irma stood there smiling at him.

"Hello, George."

He mumbled at her. "Hello, Irma." He walked into the foyer, and then he stood there waiting while she closed and locked the door behind him.

"And how've you been, George?"

"Very well."

"Did you have a nice week?"

She always liked to talk about his week, ask him where he went and what he did, all the details of the life he had that was so totally different from her own. She wanted to hear about the Park Avenue parties. She loved hearing about the Park Avenue parties.

She poured some Scotch into a glass and handed it to George. He took a few sips of the Scotch, and after that he started removing his clothes. Irma sat down on the sofa and held her glass of Scotch as she watched him. He removed all his clothes except his shorts, and then he sat down on the carpet at her feet.

She smiled down at him. "Comfy, George?"

"I'm fine, Irma."

He didn't like to look up at her when he was sitting on the floor like this. It was too difficult, because then their eyes would meet and he'd feel silly. He felt silly anyway, he always did at the beginning of it, but looking at her face would make it worse. He felt silly and at the same time he felt excited. Sitting almost naked at her feet while she was still dressed always thrilled him and he could already feel his penis getting stiff.

When she wiggled one of her feet, he leaned over and kissed her shoe. There was no need for her to tell him to do it because they both knew the routine. She was wearing pretty black shoes with high heels and thin ankle straps. He kissed the point of the shoe and then her instep. The feel of the silk stocking against his lips excited him tremendously, and as he moved his lips up to her ankle, his excitement increased. Irma pulled back the hem of her dress to expose her calves, and this was a welcome sign to him that she wanted more leg kissing.

He kissed the calf and shin of one leg, and then he moved his lips to the other leg and he did the same. While he did this, he held her ankles with his hands, his fingers gently rubbing the fine bones.

Irma pulled her dress back even further, and now her thighs were exposed above the tops of her stockings. Another tug at the dress, and then she opened her thighs wide to reveal everything. She wore no panties, nothing at all to cover her belly and sex. The stockings were held up by garter bands, the tops of the stockings rolled over the bands to keep the stockings in place, and above that the milk-white skin continued upward until the joining of her thighs appeared. She had a large hairy sex, and the way her thighs were splayed open now exposed everything. George shuddered as he looked at it. He felt a definite tension in his penis as he stared at the dark hair, the hairy lips and the arrangement of pink and red between them. Irma had an unusually prominent clitoris, and as he looked at it now it appeared to twitch several times.

She slid her pelvis forward a few inches, and once again there was no need for her to tell him what to do because they both knew the routine. He leaned forward to press his face against the hair and the warm sex. At first he did nothing but sniff at it, his senses overwhelmed by the heady smells, the mixture of cologne and sweat and feminine flesh and a hint of urine on the hairs. He had his nose pressed against the top part of her clitoris and that's where he kept it. Irma closed her thighs against his ears, not enough to make it difficult for him to breathe, but just enough to keep his head securely in place.

He felt the upper part of her body moving, and in a moment he heard the radio come on suddenly. She'd reached over to the table at the end of the sofa and she'd switched it on while she kept his head imprisoned.

He heard a voice out of the radio. Who was it? Then he recognized it. It was Walter Damrosch babbling something about Wagner. George kept his face pressed against Irma's sex and he ignored the radio. Was she actually listening to Damrosch? He knew so little about her. She worked as a saleswoman in one of the Seventh Avenue department stores, but he wasn't sure whether she sold ladies underwear or ladies dresses. Anyway, what difference did it make? All he cared about at the moment was the feel of all the hair on his mouth and cheeks. He started licking her now. He kept his nose pressed against her big clitoris as he worked his tongue around the soft flesh between her labia.

As he sucked Irma's juices, he thought about Claire and his marriage. He wondered what Claire would think if she saw him now. Would she roll her eyes? Would she faint? Or would she simply nod her head and declare that he'd gone mad? What a ridiculous thing it was to be more familiar with Irma's cunt than with the cunt of his own wife. In all the years of their marriage, he'd never done to Claire what he was now doing to Irma. He was certain Claire would refuse if he ever tried to do it, and if she did allow it just once she'd hold it against him forever. He imagined the way she'd sneer at him with her eyes. Claire had a way of doing that: she knew how to change the appearance of her eyes so they sneered at you.

He kept his tongue moving. Irma had once told him he was no good to her down there if he did nothing but sniff it and kiss it. She told him she wanted to feel his tongue everywhere, especially on her clitoris and inside the hole. So he did that now. He licked the knob of her clitoris, and then he moved his tongue lower down to lick the opening of her vagina.

Then Irma spoke to him: "I'm expecting a friend to arrive any minute."

George froze, his body motionless, his mouth still pressed against Irma's sex. She kept her thighs closed around his head and there was no way he could move even if he wanted to.

"Her name is Helen," Irma said. "I'm sure you'll like her, George. In any case, it's what I want, isn't it? Go on then, don't stop what you were doing, George."

He started licking her clitoris again. This time she used both hands to hold his head, and as his tongue moved up and down in her furrow she pushed his head around in circles. He had done it this way often enough to know that when she had both hands on his head it meant she'd reach a climax soon. He licked harder, his nose rubbing her clitoris while his tongue tickled the hole, and before long she raised her knees up and groaned as she reached a crisis.

She kept him there, kept his face pressed against her wet sex as the spasms made her body shake. He continued licking her cleft with his tongue until finally she placed a foot on one of his shoulders and she pushed him away. "That's enough, George." He fell away on the carpet on his back, his erect penis sticking out of the fly of his shorts. Irma kept her thighs wide open, and as he looked at her he could see the drenched slit of her cunt not quite hidden by the hairy gaping lips.

Irma smiled as she looked down at his stiff penis. "Look at that. You're excited, aren't you? Come closer to me, George. I can't do anything to you if you're lying there so far away from me."

He shifted his body on the carpet, sliding closer to her until she could get her feet on him, her pretty shoes with the high heels and thin ankle straps. He thought his wife had shoes like these, but he wasn't sure. In any case, these were Irma's shoes and not Claire's, and it was Irma who had her shoes on his body.

The first thing Irma did was push the toe of one shoe at his mouth. He'd expected it, indeed he was waiting for it, and as soon as the toe of the shoe touched his lips he opened his mouth to accept it. Irma muttered something as she pushed more of the shoe inside his mouth, and when he turned his eyes to look at her belly he saw that she had her hand between her thighs.

He sucked the toe of her shoe awhile, and then she pulled the shoe out of his mouth and she placed her foot directly on his erect penis. She flattened the organ against his belly, rolling it from side to side with the sole of her shoe while she smiled down at him.

"Are you hot, George?"

"Yes."

"You'll be nice to Helen, won't you?"

"Yes."

"She's a dear friend and I've told her all about you. Don't worry, she'll keep our secret, George. But you're going to do what you're told, aren't you?"

And at that moment the doorbell rang and George realized that Irma's friend had arrived.

"Just stay where you are," Irma said, pulling away from George and then rising from the sofa.

He lay there trembling, more uncertain of things than ever before, and also more thrilled. The idea of a complete stranger being privy to his secret life with Irma was an exquisite shock. You want it, he thought. Irma certainly knew a great deal about him. Or maybe she didn't and she just didn't care one way or the other. He was merely a toy that she used to amuse herself, and now she wanted her friend to share in her amusement.

He obeyed Irma and he remained stretched out on the carpet. When Irma and her friend approached him, he looked up and he saw an attractive woman who appeared to be Irma's age. The woman smiled down at him. "Hello, George. I've heard a lot about you."

Then her amused eyes shifted to his groin, and George blushed when he suddenly realized his penis was still protruding from the opening in his shorts.

"That's a cute dingus," Helen said with a laugh.

The two women moved away from him, and George lay there and listened as Irma poured some Scotch out of the bottle for Helen. They talked quietly, the words indistinct, but he was certain they were talking about him. Once again a quiver of excitement went through him as he realized he was now in the power of two women instead of just one. And he did like Helen. She was definitely as attractive as Irma, and he couldn't help wondering what she looked like without clothes.

But he was also uneasy. Irma was more or less predictable because he'd spent a dozen or so evenings with her and he had an idea what to expect. Helen was something new. And there was also the possibility the presence of Helen might make Irma act differently toward him. He decided it was too confusing and the best thing was not to think about it. Whatever Irma wanted, he knew he would do it anyway. He looked at the cuckoo clock on the wall opposite him and he was thankful it was still early enough for them to do things. As usual, he'd already telephoned home while he was at the office and he'd told the maid it would be a late evening for him.

Irma led Helen back to the sofa, and they sat down near George while they continued sipping their drinks. When he looked at them and saw the Scotch in the glasses, he guessed it must be their second drink. Irma's third. Or maybe it was also Irma's second. Irma's second and Helen's second. You're nervous, he thought. You're too damn nervous.

Now Irma smiled down at George. "Comfy again, honey?"

"Yes," George said.

"Do Helen," Irma said. "She wants to see if you're any good at it."

He shifted his body around until he crouched in front of Helen. She seemed to be laughing at him as he took one of her feet in his hands and ran his fingers over her shoe and ankle.

Her shoes weren't as pretty as Irma's, but she had dainty feet and beautiful legs. He heard her laugh softly as he bent his head forward to kiss her instep.

"Oh, I like this," Helen said.

Irma chuckled. "I thought you would."

"I think I'm drunk."

"It's good Scotch, isn't it?"

George kissed Helen's legs, first her shoes and ankles and then her calves and knees. Irma leaned toward Helen and whispered something in Helen's ear and Helen giggled. Then Helen pulled her dress back far enough to get her hands on her panties, and she lifted her buttocks and pushed them down to her knees.

"Don't sit there gawking," Irma said to George. "Help her get them off."

George obeyed her, his hands trembling as he pulled Helen's panties off her legs. She still had her dress pulled up to her waist, and now she giggled again as she opened her thighs to expose her sex.

George felt his heart pounding as he stared at it. She wasn't as hairy as Irma and the hair was a lighter color. He thought her cunt looked prettier than Irma's, but maybe that was because Helen had such lovely plump thighs. George had never been impressed with the current craze for skinny women. He liked Helen's type the best, pretty legs and solid thighs and a large bust. It was easy to see she had more bust than Irma, and he hoped he'd have a look at her breasts before long.

Irma slipped an arm around Helen's shoulders. "Slide forward, dearie. Put your legs on George's shoulders and he'll have a go at you."

Helen chuckled as she slid her pelvis forward on the sofa cushion. Her stockings were held up by garters attached to a girdle, and now the garters stretched as she raised her legs to get them over George's shoulders.

"How's that?" Helen said.

Irma stroked Helen's shoulder with her fingers. "Go on, George."

George was already overcome by the perfume and feminine scent wafting up to his nose from Helen's crotch, and now he closed his eyes and he leaned forward to get his mouth directly on her sex.

Helen made a whimpering sound of pleasure. George pushed his face against the softness, and in a moment he was delighted to feel how wet it was. Irma usually took awhile before her fountain started flowing, but Helen was already soaked enough so that some of it immediately dripped on his chin.

"You can bet I like it," Helen said with a laugh.

"I told you," Irma said.

"Oh yes."

George kept his mouth pressed against Helen's sex as the two women continued talking and drinking. Now that the ice was broken, he felt completely comfortable with Helen. He wanted to please her the way he always pleased Irma. She was Irma's good friend, wasn't she? After a while he lifted his eyes to see what they were doing and he was shocked to see the two of them kissing. It wasn't just a kiss of two friends, it was a kiss of two lovers. George had never seen anything like it except on a French postcard and he couldn't take his eyes away from them. His excitement became more intense as he watched Irma's hand move over the front of Helen's dress to fondle Helen's big breasts. Was this the first time for them? George continued sucking Helen's wet cunt as he watched Irma and Helen kiss and fondle each other. He had a fierce erection, his penis sticking out of the front of his shorts and twitching out of control.

Then suddenly Helen moaned against Irma's lips and she started spending on George's mouth. She closed her thighs around his head the same way as Irma always did it, but then she opened them even wider than before and her hips began bouncing up and down on the sofa cushion.

George held on, his mouth clamped to Helen's wet sex, his lips sucking at the plentiful syrup that seemed to gush out of her cleft.

When Helen was finished spending, Irma pulled away from her and she looked down at George with a flushed face. "Stand up and strip," Irma said. "Come on, George, hurry up."

His face wet with Helen's secretions, George stood up on the carpet, unbuttoned his shorts and dropped them down to his feet to step out of them. Helen giggled and immediately leaned forward to take hold of his genitals with both hands. She gripped his penis in one hand and his testicles in the other hand and she turned her head to smile at Irma. "What should I do?"

"Nothing now," Irma said. "Let's get our clothes off first."

So Helen released George's genitals, and he had to step back to make room for the two women as they rose up to undress. Of course all his attention was devoted to Helen because he'd already seen Irma naked so many times. When they had their clothes off, Helen revealed a ripe body with pendulous breasts and heavy buttocks. Irma's breasts were much smaller than Helen's, but the lush growth of hair at the joining of Irma's thighs was an adequate compensation.

Irma said she wanted George to suck her. She sat down on the sofa in the usual position, and she ordered George to get to work immediately. He hurried to obey her. She was obviously drunk, and when Irma was drunk she could sometimes be mean. She'd never been too mean with him in the past, but he was always afraid it might start sometime.

After George sucked Irma awhile, he was told to move over to do the same to Helen. Helen's pubic hair and the insides of her thighs were still wet from the first time, and George's excitement was intense as he buried his face in her sex. This time she was completely naked, and each time he lifted his eyes upward he had a delicious view of her large breasts and long nipples.

Helen spent again under George's mouth, her body shaking as much as it had the first time. When she finally pushed his face away from her cunt, she laughed and rolled her eyes at him. "You're good, sweetie."

Irma kicked George with her foot. "Get the broom and the oil, George."

George trembled. He'd been afraid all along she'd get to that. He felt extremely uneasy about doing that sort of thing with Helen present because he hardly knew her. But he could tell by the tone of Irma's voice that she wouldn't allow him to refuse, so he rose up from the carpet and he hurried to the kitchen.

When he returned to the living room, he had a broom and a bottle of olive oil in his hands. While he'd been gone, Irma had been kissing Helen and feeling her breasts again, and now she pulled away from Helen and she took the broom and olive oil from George.

"Now George gets what he needs," Irma said with a laugh.

Helen smiled as she looked at George. "You don't mind me watching, do you, George?"

He shook his head. He was terribly nervous. Now it wasn't Helen presence so much as it was Irma's attitude. Tonight Irma seemed drunk enough to hurt him, and that was the one thing he always feared.

Irma unscrewed the handle from the broom, and she held it between her legs as she poured some olive oil out of the bottle on one of her palms. She then proceeded to smear the oil over the rounded end of the broomstick. "Down on the carpet, George."

He dropped to his knees and elbows, his buttocks facing the two women and his body now visibly trembling. He closed his eyes and he waited, and soon he felt Irma pushing the oiled end of the broomstick against his anus.

"I always try to be careful," Irma said with a hiccup. Then she laughed. "We don't want to hurt poor George, do we?"

George kept his eyes closed as Irma slowly pushed the broom handle inside his rectum.

Irma spoke: "Go on, Helen. Why don't you do it if you want."

So now it was Helen who had her hands on the broomstick. George heard her giggle as she began sliding the wooden handle in and out of his body.

"God, I love this," Helen said.

Irma laughed. "Careful, dearie."

George's penis was stiffer than ever, swollen and palpitating as it dangled from his belly. He reached back with one hand to take hold of it, and he started masturbating as Helen continued sliding the broomstick in and out of his anus.




Jazz Age Ch. 06



It didn't take long. It never took long when he had the broomstick in there. A guttural sound came out of his throat as he squirted his juices on the carpet under his belly.

Helen squealed as she watched it. "He's ruining your carpet, Irma."

"Don't worry, he'll clean it up."

Irma was right, of course. After the broomstick was pulled out of George's bowels, Irma made George get the rag from the kitchen sink to wipe the carpet clean. George was exhausted as he did it, and when the carpet looked clean enough he stretched out on his back beside the wet spot to rest a bit.

The women talked again as George lay there with his eyes closed. He wanted to run away from them now. His instinct was to flee the madness, get out of the room, out of the building, hail a cab in the street and hurry to the safety of his family and his Park Avenue apartment. But he felt like this at the end of every visit to Irma and he knew it would pass.

Later, when it was time for George to leave, the two women watched him dress while they sat naked on the sofa with their arms around each other. Then Irma rose and she escorted George to the front door of the apartment.

"Back next week, George?"

"Yes," George said.

After she kissed his cheek, he walked out of the apartment wondering if he ought to look for a taxi in Madison Square or on Sixth Avenue. Sometimes it was easier in Madison Square and sometimes on Sixth Avenue. He was never certain which direction to go when he left Irma's place, and so this evening he did the usual thing and he tossed a coin.

--End of Chapter 6-- 



Jazz Age Ch. 07



Chapter 7: What'll I Do?

"What about those two over there?" Ethel said.

Marjorie Ambrose followed her friend's glance. They were sitting in a speakeasy on West 49th Street and for the past few minutes Ethel had been teasing Marjorie about picking up some men to make the dull hot afternoon more interesting. Marjorie thought it was just teasing, but she wasn't sure.

Now Marjorie glanced briefly at the two young men at the bar and then she looked at Ethel again. "You're not serious."

Ethel chuckled. "You're wrong, darling. I mean it."

"Ethel, I've got a husband."

"And so do I. We both have husbands and we've both been married long enough to be bored. Don't tell me you haven't cheated on Stanley before."

"I haven't and that's the truth."

"But I bet you want to."

Marjorie felt uncomfortable. Yes, she did want to. Sex with Stanley was so boring these days. When she could get it at all. He was always so busy with his friends, he never had much time for her. The idea of going to bed with some stranger was exciting, but she wasn't sure she had the nerve to go through with it.

"Ethel, I just can't."

"Oh, yes you can. One of those romeos is walking over here now and we're going to invite them to sit down with us."

So there it was. Marjorie remained passive. The young man who came over to them now was maybe twenty three or twenty four and he stood there smiling down at them with amusement in his eyes.

"My friend and I would like to join you."

Ethel smiled up at him. "What's your name, honey?"

"I'm Bob and my friend's Fred."

"If you promise to behave yourself, you can sit with us."

And so it began. In a few moments the two young romeos were sitting with them, Bob on one side of the table beside Ethel and his friend Fred next to Marjorie. They began talking, and before long Marjorie relaxed and told herself maybe she deserved it. Having the attention of the man beside her was pleasant and even thrilling. Yes, thrilling. It was thrilling just to pretend that something would happen between her and Fred.

After a while Fred's arm slipped around Marjorie's shoulders. They were into the second round of drinks before she leaned against him and quivered as he kissed her neck.

"Please, don't do that."

"Why not?" Fred laughed.

"I don't know. It tickles."

"Hey, let's get out of here and go someplace else," Bob said.

"To do what?" Ethel said.

Both men laughed. "Have a party, I guess."

Ethel shook her head. "Not the four of us together."

"Well, all right, then two and two."

Ethel looked at Marjorie. "Are you okay?"

Marjorie hesitated a moment and then she nodded. "Yes, I'm fine."

Ethel giggled as she leaned against Bob's chest. Marjorie couldn't see it, but she suspected Ethel now had a hand in Bob's lap.

"All right, I'm ready," Ethel said to Bob. "Take me out of here and make me happy."

The four of them left the speakeasy together, but outside on the sidewalk the two couples broke apart and said goodby.

"Be nice to my girlfriend," Ethel said to Fred with amusement in her voice.

"Don't worry, I will," Fred said.

Marjorie quivered as Fred's hand casually dropped to stroke her buttocks through her thin summer dress. Oh God, what am I doing? she thought.

"Where are we going?" she said.

Fred shrugged. "What about my place?"

"And where's that?"

"Up in Yorkville. You don't mind, do you?"

She thought Yorkville was low class and she wanted to say she did mind, but maybe that would hurt him and she didn't want to do that. He seemed pleasant enough. If she was indeed cheating on Stanley, she wanted to do it with someone who was pleasant.

Fred was gallant enough to take her to his apartment in a taxi. Once they were seated in the back of the cab, he pressed against her and slid a hand over her thighs. "You're beautiful."

Marjorie blushed. "Do you really think so?"

"You bet I do."

A quiver went through her as she looked at him. "You move in on a girl pretty fast, don't you?"

He seemed amused. "Look at this. Look down here."

She looked down at his lap and she blushed when she realized she could see the outline of his penis through his trousers.

Well, he's not the first, she thought. She was a married woman and she'd seen them before.

"Be careful, the driver's looking," she said.

But Fred only squeezed her thigh and laughed. Then he spoke softly in her ear. "What do you think Bob and Ethel are going to do?"

"I don't know."

"Come on, tell me. She's your friend, isn't she? Will she go all the way with him?"

"I told you I don't know."

"Do you like Clara Bow?"

"Mmmm."

"You look like her, you know. I like brunettes. Do you think she's a real brunette? Maybe she has fixed hair and she's dark on top and blonde down there. You think that's possible?"

Marjorie laughed. "Does it really matter?"

"I told you I like brunettes."

She knew he was teasing her, but the racy talk soon had its effect on her. Then she gasped as he pulled the hem of her dress back until her thighs were exposed.

"Don't do that!"

He whispered at her. "The driver can't see anything."

Maybe it was true. The partition that separated the front part of the automobile from the back seat was high enough so their legs were probably hidden from the driver's eyes. In a moment she leaned against Fred and moaned as she felt his fingers stroking her sex through her step-ins.

Fred chuckled. "You like me, don't you?"

"Yes."

She did like him. She liked the way he smelled and she liked what his fingers were doing to her. She was now in a hurry to be alone with him.

Twenty minutes later they were in a cluttered little room with two grimy windows overlooking York Avenue. Marjorie was already out of her clothes, naked as she crouched down in front of him to get his trousers opened. She was still feeling the liquor she'd had, and now that she was committing adultery she was determined to enjoy it. At the moment she had no concern for Stanley; all she cared about now was getting what she wanted from Fred.

She brought Fred's cock out of his fly and she smiled as she looked at it. He had a nice one, thick and pink and already wet at the swollen tip.

"It's like a banana," she said.

"No, it's like a wurst."

"You're German, aren't you?"

Fred laughed. "This is Yorkville, isn't it?"

He brought his balls out, two big eggs in a smooth scrotum, and then he moved his hips to get his cock swinging. Marjorie knew what he wanted, and she giggled as she pressed her lips against the red glans. He held himself still as her mouth touched his penis, his flesh hot against her lips, hot and throbbing and the soft skin like velvet. She held the root of it with her fingers as she extended her tongue and fluttered it over the tip.

"Hey, that's nice," he said softly.

Maybe he was wondering about her, wondering how come she was married and yet here with him doing this. She didn't care. She was beginning to have a good time with him.

As she licked his penis, she pressed her fingers against the underside of the shaft and she squeezed it. She forced a drop of clear fluid out of the tip, gathered it on her tongue and drew it inside her mouth. The taste of his cock made her hungry for more. She licked the glans again and then she looked up at him and she blushed. "Am I doing what you like?"

His eyes were hot as he looked down at her. "You sure are."

Then he said he liked her breasts. He said he liked a woman's breasts to be big enough to hang a bit. She blushed again at the way he talked. He was so arrogant now, not at all like he'd been in the speakeasy. She felt funny now being naked while he was still dressed. She wanted him with all his clothes off, but first she wanted the feel of his cock in her mouth. Once again she told herself that as long as she was cheating on Stanley she might as well enjoy it as much as she could. She opened her mouth wide and she leaned forward to take Fred's cock between her lips. His penis seemed to grow another inch as she sucked it, the organ swelling in her mouth. Her lips stretched around its girth, her mouth pushed forward until his glans touched the back of her throat.

He groaned, muttering something about how good it was, telling her not to stop, to keep doing it, urging her to swallow everything.

Of course she couldn't swallow his cock, but she did manage to get the glans partway down her throat. It was something she liked to do to Stanley when she had the chance. Which wasn't often enough to suit her. She'd always loved sucking a penis, but if Stanley knew it he never seemed that interested in her doing it to him.

She massaged Fred's penis, rubbed it with her lips and tongue. She sucked the stiff organ while she made her lips into a tight ring around its thickness. Her tongue slid back and forth as she tried to take more and more of it down her throat.Each time she pushed forward, she held his penis there a moment, clutching his glans with her throat muscles, squeezing his member as she briefly swallowed around it.

He was moaning now, talking to her, urging her to keep doing it, urging her to gorge herself on his rampant flesh, taunting her because she liked it so much.

Yes, she did like it. She moved her head the way he wanted, pumping his cock with her lips, feeling it grow hotter and hotter in her mouth, hot and hard and his glans jabbing at her throat and sometimes making her choke. The swollen knob hit the back of her throat each time she pushed forward.

Soon it was Fred who did the moving, holding her head with his hands as he slid his cock in and out of her open mouth, his testicles slapping against her chin. Realizing he's spend in her mouth if they didn't stop, she suddenly pulled away from him. "No, not this," she said. "I want you to do it to me."

She lay naked on the bed while he hurriedly stripped his clothes off. Then when he climbed onto the bed, she opened her legs and she begged him to lick her sex. "Please, honey."

He teased her. "You want that, huh?"

"Please!"

He laughed as he knelt between her wide-spread thighs, his hands holding her legs to keep them apart. He planted wet kisses along the insides of her thighs, and each time his mouth moved close to her sex she trembled and moaned and begged him again.

Before long he'd worked his head close enough to her sex so she couldn't see his face any more. She saw nothing but the top of his head now, his thick curly hair and his eyes and part of his nose. She heard him mumbling into her mound, his hot breath against her labia. Did he like women who were as hairy as she was? Her husband sometimes teased her about being so hairy down there. Or maybe it wasn't teasing and he just didn't like it. Well, the hell with Stanley, now she had a young romeo nuzzling her sex and he did seem to like it.

As if reading her mind, Fred pulled back to look at her cleft. "It's beautiful, Marjorie."

A bolt of pleasure shot through her as she heard the words. Then his face dropped down again, and she cried out as she felt his tongue directly on her clitoris. He rolled his tongue around the tiny organ, teasing it and whipping it until she started trembling again.

She wanted him now. She lifted her pelvis, pushed it at his face. He laughed against her sex as he explored the wet folds of her cleft. His tongue fluttered from her clitoris to the mouth of her vagina and back again, a steady lapping that drove her wild with pleasure. He seemed in no hurry, his tongue pushing inside her vagina, churning her juices as he sucked her flesh between his lips with a slurping noise.

She loved it. She loved hearing the noise when a man did it to her. Stanley didn't do it that much, and when he did do it he never really let himself go. She could feel her cunt seething around Fred's tongue, twitching with a hot need for more pressure. She knew he was teasing her, making her desperate for satisfaction. Her vagina ached to be filled with his cock now and she knew the ache would soon be unbearable.

Then he pulled away and he smiled at her. "I'm getting damn hard just tasting you."

She lifted her pelvis again, pushing her cunt at his face. "Do it me now. Please!"

But he teased her some more, tickling her clitoris as he licked around her sex. Then at last he pulled his face away and he backed off. "Okay, let's do it now. My God, you're hot for it, aren't you? I guess you don't get enough at home."

"Don't talk about that."

"Your husband must be a dummy."

"I said don't talk about it."

Perched on his knees, he lifted her legs to his shoulders and then he leaned forward to get his cock inside her. She closed her eyes and groaned as she felt it going in, and then when he started moving and she felt the sliding of his organ she grabbed hold of her knees and she opened herself even more to his thrusting body.

Go on, screw me, she thought. Keep doing it and don't you ever stop it.

*  *  *

When Marjorie arrived home, Stanley was dozing on the sofa. As soon as she closed the door behind her, he opened his eyes and stared at her.

"Where you been?"

"I was out with Ethel."

His eyes were bloodshot.

"Ethel?"

"You know Ethel."

"Sure."

"What would you like for supper, Stanley?"

"I got fired."

"Yes, I know."

"What does that mean?"

"Stanley, if I come home at four in the afternoon and find you on the sofa, it means you got fired, doesn't it? Doesn't it mean that?"

"I was about to quit anyway."

"I said what would you like for supper?"

She walked into the kitchen and she opened the drawer to find the matches. She didn't care anyway. She felt good, her body glowing all over, her nipples tingling whenever she thought about the time with Fred. It's not too bad, she thought. If you know how to manage things, it's not too bad.

--End Chapter 7-- 



Jazz Age Ch. 08 - 11



8: Hot Lips

In a ten room apartment just off Fifth Avenue on 65th Street, Mr. Phelps Phelps was leaning forward to touch his wife's chin with the fingers of his right hand. Mr. Phelps was standing and Mrs. Phelps was sitting just in front of him. Mr. Phelps wore a dark suit, a gray silk tie, a white handkerchief in the left breast pocket of his jacket. Mrs. Phelps wore a red silk dress with a large bow at the lowest point of the neckline.

Directly behind Mrs. Phelps was a large rubber plant and beyond that the tall windows overlooking Sixty-fifth Street.

Mr. Phelps moved his forefinger back and forth under his wife's chin. "Don't look so sad."

"I never see you any more."

"Darling, you know how busy I am. Always on the run and all that. Busy busy."

"Even the children miss you."

"I'm always thinking about them. And thinking about you too."

"Promise?"

"You know it's true. Just wait till after the election. We'll have a lovely little vacation, just the two of us. Won't you like that?"

*   *   *

Mr. Phelps Phelps was the grandson of the late William Walter Phelps, the U.S. Ambassador to Germany from 1885 to 1893. Phelps Phelps was originally named Phelps von Rottenburg. His father was a Count von Rottenburg whom his mother met and married while living with her father (the Ambassador) in Germany. Then there came the war between the United States and Germany in 1917 and a divorce between the Rottenburgs. The Countess von Rottenburg chose to assume her maiden name of Phelps and her son's name was therefore changed from Phelps von Rottenburg to Phelps Phelps. This name or that name, the Count von Rottenburg subsequently died and left his American son an income of $70,000 a year. Mr. Phelps Phelps was known to be suave, generous, and shrewd. The rumor was that after his election to the U.S. Congress he expected to eventually become the Republican boss of Manhattan and maybe New York State. "I intend to serve the interests of New York City in Washington," Mr. Phelps said. "I think my entire life up to this point has been a preparation for this momentous job."

*   *   *

Mr. Phelps Phelps was no longer on 65th Street. He was now on West 52nd Street with another gentlemen and a young lady. Both men wore top-hats and white silk scarfs and black overcoats with white carnations in their left lapels. The young lady was dressed in a long evening gown, an evening coat over the gown, a white stole wrapped twice around her shoulders and neck so that nothing of the bosom of her dress could be seen. They stood in the small space at the side of a stone stairway, at a basement entrance shielded by a large black metal door. Mr. Phelps Phelps stood back with the young lady as the other gentleman leaned forward toward the hole that appeared in the door, toward the bright light and the face in the square hole.

"You got a card?"

"A card? Yes I do have a card, don't I? Now where is it? Well here it is. Is this what you need?"

He showed the card to the face in the hole. A moment later the door swung open. The gentleman with the card stood aside to allow the young lady to enter. Then he waved an arm at Mr. Phelps Phelps.

"You go on, Phel."

Mr. Phelps Phelps clapped him on the back. "I wish I had your girl tonight. She's a beauty."

"Oh no you don't. Not tonight you don't."

They laughed together as they walked one after the other through the open door. In a moment the door slammed shut and the space in front of it was once again in darkness.

*   *   *

A few days later Mr. Phelps Phelps was making a speech. He stood in front of a small lectern in a large room in the Ritz Tower Hotel on Park Avenue. He wore a dark blue pin-stripe suit and a dark blue necktie with diagonal white stripes. A carefully folded white handkerchief protruded from the left breast pocket of his jacket. His right hand was raised, his fingers extended in a gesture to the audience.

"Let there be no mistake about my attitudes. I'm running for Congress on the Republican ticket in support of Herbert Hoover. It's clear to me, as it's clear to many of you, that Herbert Hoover is a great example of the manhood of America. The more I see of the national campaign, the more I feel that his election is of supreme importance to the country. I want to be there in Congress to help Herbert Hoover solve the problems we're going to face during the next few years. I assure you that if I'm elected you'll have a man in Washington who knows what's good for his district."

The audience applauded. Mr. Phelps smiled. The applause continued and he smiled again.

*   *   *

At the Ritz Tower Hotel Mr. Phelps Phelps was now at the reception following his speech. He stood with Claire Belfield, but she hadn't yet introduced herself. She wore a cloche hat with a narrow brim and a large feather attached to the hat on the right side, a long graduated glass bead necklace and long suede gloves. Her blue silk dress had a square neckline.

Mr. Phelps was leaning forward slightly, the bulk of his figure tilted toward Claire. Behind him was a wall covered with an ornate silk wallpaper, part of a gilt mirror that showed the crowd in the large room. The noise of the crowd, people chatting, laughing, the tinkling of refreshment glasses, rose and fell.

Mr. Phelps now had his eyes on Claire's bosom. "Can I offer you a cigarette?"

"Why yes, thank you."

He opened a silver cigarette case. Claire chose a cigarette, slipped one end of it between her lips and Mr. Phelps lit it with a silver cigarette lighter.

"Well I hope I can count on your vote."

"Oh yes. My husband and I will certainly vote for you. I don't like that Pratt woman."

Mr. Phelps chuckled. "She's a bit off the track sometimes."

"I think you might know my husband."

"Really? Who is he?"

"George Belfield. I'm Claire Belfield."

Mr. Phelps hesitated. "Well I might know him. He's in the insurance business, isn't he?"

Mrs. Belfield laughed. "Very much so."

"I'm certainly grateful for the support of your family."

"Oh yes, George and I will certainly vote for you."

"That's wonderful."

His eyes were on her breasts again.

*   *   *

On East 65th Street Mr. and Mrs. Phelps Phelps were about to retire for the night. Their bedroom had twin beds. They sat facing each other, Mr. Phelps on one bed and Mrs. Phelps on the other bed. Mr. Phelps wore blue silk pajamas and Mrs. Phelps wore a long white nightgown with a lace collar. Between the beds was a small table supporting a dim yellow lamp.

Mr. Phelps rubbed his neck. "Tomorrow's another full day. My God, I'll be glad when it's finished."

"Poor darling. I wish I could help you."

"If it wasn't for that Pratt woman I'd be in without any trouble. She's calling me a Tammany Republican now. What do you think of that? Me, a Tammany Republican."

"She's awful."

"She's too smart for her own good."

"Do you think it's because she's a widow? If she had a husband I expect she wouldn't run at all."

"I've got to win this damn primary."

"You will, darling, you will."

*   *   *

"What a lovely party," said Mr. Phelps Phelps.

There were thirty people in the room, but Claire Belfield ignored them. This was a West End Avenue political party, a West Side party, and no one in the room except Mr. Phelps had any idea who she was. She'd found the invitation on her husband's desk. On the East Side she wouldn't have dared come out to a party like this without George. But she'd had a week of sitting at home doing nothing while George was in California and she couldn't stand it any more. She told herself George would understand. Anyway she was already cockeyed. And if George didn't understand, the hell with him. No, that wasn't quite nice. If George didn't understand she would pray that understanding would come to him. Oh, you're drunk, she thought. She still had Frank Tucker to feel guilty about, didn't she?

Mr. Phelps already had his eyes on her. She'd seen him as soon as she'd walked into the large room, and it was no more than a few minutes before he approached her to say he remembered her. He was on the West Side as a favor to a friend. How awful that her husband was so far away in California. Mr. Phelps seemed totally unsurprised that she wasn't at home or at least with an escort. 

She was wearing a pastel blue evening dress, and as cockeyed as she was she was still fully aware that he couldn't keep his eyes off her breasts. Well wasn't that ducky? Oh nerts, she thought. That was one of Nancy Desmond's expressions, wasn't it? She wondered how old Mr. Phelps was. She wondered about his wife.

Claire said, "Is your wife here?"

"Oh no," Mr. Phelps said. "She doesn't like these political parties."

He stared at her breasts again. Then he offered her a cigarette. He stared at her breasts as he lit her cigarette with a silver cigarette lighter.

Claire smiled at him.

*   *   *

"Please, Phel, the chauffeur."

They were in the back of his limousine as it moved slowly through Central Park.

Mr. Phelps said, "He can't see anything."

He kissed her again, his mouth pressed against hers, his tongue pushing between her teeth. Claire felt like giggling. He had such a large tongue. Oh you're plastered, she thought. She kissed him back. She kissed him harder as he handled her breasts. She liked it. She wondered how much they could do in the back of a limousine. She couldn't remember ever doing anything in a limousine in Central Park. Not even with Frank Tucker. It's almost like Paris, she thought. It's almost like the Bois in Paris, but she'd only read about that and she hadn't done anything there. Oh God I'm drunk.

Then, as Phelps kissed her, he pulled her hand into his lap to feel his erection. When she made no move to pull her hand away, he left the hand there and he moved his own hand back to her breasts. Her breasts excited him. They were like two large pillows under the dress, large and yet still firm enough to be resilient. The brassiere she wore was a nuisance, but he did his best to get inside it and at last he succeeded. The moment his fingers touched her thick nipple, he felt her shudder against his mouth.

In the meantime Claire had her fingers closed around his stiff penis and it thrilled her. He felt so hot and hard beneath his trousers. She squeezed the cock, wishing she might have it out so she could feel the soft skin and the hard muscle underneath it. Then his fingers pulling at her nipple almost made her spend. He was so forceful, such a lovely forceful man!

But Phelps wanted more than her breasts. He pulled the hand out of her bodice and he dropped it down to her knees. Claire instinctively opened her legs as his fingers slid between them. This was more serious than a hand fondling her breasts. His palm moved under her dress, along the inside of her thigh and over one of the garter straps that held up her stocking. He lingered on the inside of her thigh above the top of the stocking, his fingers stroking the smooth skin, tickling her, caressing her, teasing her with intimations of delights yet to come.

Another kiss, this one even hotter than the last one. Their lips fused together, he explored her gums with his tongue. The intimacy of it made her shudder, and her fingers gripped his penis more firmly. Her legs trembled as he stroked the insides of her thighs.

Then the hand under her dress moved higher, his fingers reaching the edge of her panties, sliding over the edge into the warmth at the joining of her full thighs. Now he stroked more firmly, his fingertips pressing against the bulging lips of her sex, rubbing them through the silk undergarment.

George had never done this to her. In all the years of their marriage, George had never stroked her like this while she was still fully dressed. She tried to remember if Frank Tucker had done it. Yes, he had, but just once. She was certain her fanny was drenched and that Phelps could feel the wetness with his fingertips.

His fingers moved again, now slipping back to insinuate themselves under the edge of her panties, the fingertips searching like tentacles for the hairy cleft of her sex, finding it, gliding in, separating the lips, stroking her again, finding the clitoris and tickling it.

She wanted to cry out, but his mouth still covered hers and all she could do was groan against his lips. She closed her legs on his hand as the orgasm struck, as the hot ripples passed through her belly and made her legs tremble again.

"Oh God!" she gasped.

He continued rubbing her sex, his fingers massaging her clitoris, her labia, and the softer tissues around the opening to her vagina.

She was in a frenzy now. She wanted to do more but she knew it was impossible. Her fingers continued squeezing his penis, rubbing it through the cloth of his trousers in a vain attempt to make him spend the way he'd made her spend just a moment ago. As his fingers continued stroking her sex, she felt the second crisis mounting, and this time she did cry out, her head back against the upholstery, her lips open as she groaned in a loud voice.

She looked at the chauffeur when she recovered, but he seemed oblivious to what was going on.

She groaned again. "Phel, we can't!"

"He can't hear anything."

"Please, no more."

When he removed his fingers from her sex, she thought it was finished, but then she quivered as he pushed her hand away from his lap in order to open the fly of his trousers.

"Phel, please..."

"Just your hand."

She leaned against his shoulder as he brought his penis out, her eyes mesmerized by the hot cylinder of masculine tumescence. He pulled her hand to it and made her close her fingers around it.

"Go on," he said, forcing her hand to move up and down in case there was any doubt in her mind about what he wanted from her.

She moved her fingers up and down, stroking the shaft of his penis, continuing to stroke it as he dropped his hand away to allow her to do it herself.

The feel of his hard cock in her hand, hot and velvet-skinned and at the edge of a crisis, took her breath away. She kept her eyes on it, on the swollen tip and the tiny slit that she knew before long would erupt in a geyser of sperm.

"That's marvelous," Phelps said. He calmly brought a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and he held it over the end of his penis. Claire was sorry because now she wouldn't see the spouting. But she continued pumping it, her hand moving up and down with a steady rhythm, and before long she heard him grunt and her fist moved more rapidly to finish it for him.

She felt happy as she watched his body twitch. She milked his penis, once again wondering about his odd name. Phelps Phelps. Quaint, wasn't it? Then a thrill went through her as she realized his organ was sticky in her hand because some of the sperm had dripped on her fingers. You're awful, she thought with amusement. Claire Belfield, you're an awful woman.

Chapter 9: Burning Kisses

On November 7th of that year Herbert Hoover was elected President of the United States. The Democratic candidate Al Smith managed to get only 87 electoral votes against Hoover's 444. The people of the country felt secure that the Republican prosperity of Calvin Coolidge would continue. Charlie Desmond said: "Well, we're all saved, aren't we?"

He planned a nightclub celebration, a small party for himself and Nancy and his most important client Arthur Littlewood and Littlewood's wife and daughter.

Nancy was appalled. "I can't bear them."

"He's the hottest investment banker in New York. That makes him bearable."

"They're awful."

"I thought you liked Mrs. Littlewood."

"She talks too much. And their daughter is too arrogant."

"Well, if you get bored you can watch the floorshow."

The floorshow would be in the Casanova Club, and on the evening of the party the Desmonds and the Littlewoods and the young man escorting Caroline Littlewood occupied a large table in the midst of this nightclub frequented by a mix of high society and affluent gangsters.

Arthur Littlewood was a man in his sixties with a pink bald head and a fringe of white hair around his ears. He never said much. He listened to Charlie Desmond and he watched the doings in the club. Mrs. Littlewood was more talkative. She was a well-groomed woman with a sharp tongue and she liked to drink. This evening she was drinking gin and White Rock and the liquor seemed to go down in a continuous flow without any effect on her. Her daughter Caroline, maybe to show how different she was from her mother, refused to drink anything except Coca-Cola. She was an attractive twenty-two year old who seemed to enjoy taunting the college boy she'd brought along as an escort.

Nancy Desmond disliked all of them and she kept her eyes on the floor. At the moment George Raft was doing a double-jointed Charleston. He usually danced at the El Fey Club, but the Casanova Club appeared to have borrowed him and tonight he was the featured attraction. Nancy had seen George Raft before and as usual she thought he was a slick dancer. And probably slick at everything, she thought.

"Oh boy, he's good," Caroline Littlewood said to Nancy. "He's good, isn't he?"

Nancy smiled at the girl but she said nothing.

"He looks cheap," Caroline's escort said. His name was Dudley and he had the vapid face of a Princeton crewman.

"Nerts to you," Caroline said.

Nancy ignored them.

After George Raft finished his number, a girl came out to sing a song. She was introduced to the room as Libby Holman, and in a few moments she began singing a torrid torch song called "Hogan's Alley".

Nancy knew the song. It came from the musical "Merry-Go-Round"; she'd seen the show when it first appeared on Broadway.

Libby Holman knew how to sing and Nancy was impressed. The girl had slit-hazel eyes, a bee-stung mouth painted dark red, and dark red fingernails. She looked like a young witch, a dark-eyed houri both sensual and demure at the same time.

She's wonderful, Nancy thought.

She was spellbound by Libby Holman. She kept her eyes on the girl, on her seductive face and willowy body. Nancy hardly heard the song any more. Then the song was finished and Libby Holman started another one called "I Want To Be Bad". She seemed to be looking directly at Nancy as she sang it.

She's turning me into jelly, Nancy thought.

It wasn't the first time. There had been a female teacher at Bryn Mawr who had turned her into jelly, and then after that a girl Nancy had roomed with in Manhattan before she married Charlie. And after she married Charlie there were occasionally other girls, secret trysts in secret hotel rooms. They all turned Nancy into jelly and now it was happening once again.

Would that darling girl on the stage have any interest in it? Never give up without trying, Nancy thought.

*   *   *

A few nights later Nancy said to Charlie: "I'd like to go back to that nightclub."

"What?"

"That nightclub. The Casanova Club. I'd like to go back to hear that singer."

"That girl."

"Libby Holman. Let's go tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, let's go tonight. We can catch the last show. Just the two of us. Don't you think that would be fun?"

She convinced him.

Then she convinced him again the next night and the next.

Charlie thought she was crazy but he humored her. Each night when they came home after a few drinks at the Casanova Club, Nancy was like a wildcat in bed.

The fifth time they were there, Nancy went to the back of the club alone to visit Libby Holman in her dressing room.

"I'm Nancy Desmond and I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your singing."

Libby Holman looked her up and down. "You've been out there four nights in a row."

"No, this is the fifth."

"All for me? Well I'm flattered. I guess you do like my singing."

"I adore it."





Jazz Age Ch. 08 - 11



The dressing room was cluttered with odds and ends and not at all clean-looking. A photograph of Helen Morgan hung at an angle at the top of one of the dressing table mirrors.

"You must have money," Libby said as she sat before the mirror repainting her lips.

"Money?"

"Yes, you must be rich. The champagne in this place is twenty- five dollars a bottle. Is that your husband out there? He's not a gangster, is he?"

"He's an attorney."

Libby laughed. "Maybe that's the same thing."

Nancy managed a nervous smile. "I think my husband is honest."

"Sure."

"You know a lot, don't you? I mean for someone so young."

"I'm twenty-four and that's not so young, is it? Anyway, I don't mind about your husband. I don't care that he's a rich lawyer. I don't care one way or the other. Last weekend I went to a party in Connecticut and the people had a house with twenty-six rooms. Now that's big, isn't it?" She turned and looked at Nancy, her red lips pouted into a perfect Clara Bow mouth.

"Yes," Nancy said.

"You don't mind if I undress, do you? I hate to be in a dressing room with my clothes on."

She rose up and she peeled out of her dress as Nancy sat and watched her. Nancy thought she'd stop at the underwear, but she removed everything, even her stockings. Nancy was stunned to find herself so quickly confronted by Libby Holman's naked body. She had ripe pear-shaped breasts with dark nipples, round hips and long beautiful legs. At the joining of her thighs was a nest of dark hair, raven-colored and full enough to jut outward.

Libby noticed where Nancy's eyes were fixed, and as she stood there naked she laughed softly:

"Hey, you're looking at me."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't mind it. If I minded it, I'd keep my clothes on. You can look at my little puss all you want."

"You're a beautiful girl."

Libby smiled and turned to look at herself in the dressing table mirror. She cupped her hands under her breasts and lifted them to point her nipples at the ceiling.

"A bit heavy in the upper story."

"No, they're perfect. You have a perfect body."

"And in a minute you're going to try to kiss me."

Nancy's heart pounded. "Yes."

"I think I knew that when you walked in here. Well, don't do it. We can't do anything here because somebody might barge in on us."

"Have lunch with me tomorrow."

"Mmm, yes."

"I'll reserve a table at Sardi's."

"Yes, I love that place."

"Twelve o'clock?"

"Yes, twelve o'clock. Maybe you'd better go now. I guess your husband is waiting for you."

Nancy rose up and kissed her. She trembled as she tasted the dark lipstick on the girl's full lips. She briefly ran a palm over one of Libby's full breasts.

Libby smiled and pulled away. "Tomorrow. Let's save it all for tomorrow."

*   *   *

The next afternoon they met at Sardi's. They chatted awhile, and then Nancy quivered with excitement when Libby suggested they go to her apartment in Beekman Place.

Libby wanted to walk but Nancy insisted on a taxi.

"Oh, all right," Libby said with a laugh.

When they walked into the small apartment, Libby said: "I hope you don't mind the mess." She smiled at Nancy, batted her dark eyes at Nancy as Nancy offered her a cigarette out of a silver cigarette case.

"It's a lovely little apartment," Nancy said.

"The hell it is, it's a dump. I just hope someday I'll have something better than this."

"I'm sure you will."

Libby cleared some clothes off the tattered sofa, and then she went to a cupboard to find a bottle of Scotch. Nancy sat down on the sofa and she glanced around the room at the pictures on the walls. Helen Morgan again. Helen Morgan was all over the place. There were also photos of Ruth Etting and Helen Kane. But Helen Morgan seemed to be Libby's favorite torch singer.

Libby came back with two glasses of Scotch. "There's no ice."

"I don't mind," Nancy said.

"Here's to the girls."

Nancy smiled. "Yes."

"I don't mind men, but most of them are boring and they don't know much about female anatomy."

"Yes, I agree."

Libby snickered as she sat down on the sofa. "But you do know, don't you?"

Nancy blushed. "You like to speak frankly, don't you?"

"Why not? Don't you like it?"

"Yes, it's refreshing."

"Refreshing."

"Yes."

"Well all right, let it be refreshing."

"You're teasing me."

Libby laughed. "I shouldn't do that because you're older than I am."

"Ten years older."

"Not old enough to be my mother."

"No."

"And if you were, it wouldn't matter anyway, would it?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Kiss me, will you? I can see you're dying to kiss me and it makes me nervous when you just sit there."

Nancy moaned as she fell against the girl. Nancy hadn't been this aroused with a woman in a long time. She pressed her mouth against Libby's until Libby made a sound of amusement and pushed her away.

"Easy, darling."

"I think I'm drunk."

"Well I am too."

They laughed together.

"Guess what." Libby said.

"What?"

"I took my panties off in the kitchen."

"Oh dear."

"Curious?"

"You're a hussy."

"How's this?"

"Perfect."

"You saw it just last night in my dressing room."

"Yes, but not like this. This is much better."

Libby looked down at her exposed belly as she ran her fingers through the dark nest.

"I haven't had as much experience as you think. I'm just a girl from a small town in Ohio."

Nancy trembled, her eyes on the hairy fig between the girl's thighs. "Oh, you're much more than that." She leaned forward and kissed Libby's mouth again.

"Come on," the girl said softly. "Why don't you do me now? I'll finish your drink while you do me."

Nancy was on her again, this time with her face between Libby's widespread thighs. She kissed Libby's belly and the insides of her thighs and then the slit of the dark-haired sex. She nuzzled into it and started licking at the wetness.

Libby muttered her approval as she fondled Nancy's head.

After awhile Nancy used her fingers the way she'd been taught by her teacher at Bryn Mawr. Libby leaned her head back on the arm of the sofa and she cried out with pleasure.

"Ecstasy," Libby said with a laugh when she recovered. "You're sure good at it."

"Thank you."

Libby seemed happy and they drank some more of the Scotch. Before long Libby coaxed Nancy to an encore and Nancy's head was once again between Libby's thighs.

Libby raised her legs and spread them wide and shouted at the ceiling: "Oh God, I love it!"

***

They saw each other nearly every day during the next few weeks. They'd usually meet somewhere in the afternoon, most often at the English Tea Room, and then before long they'd hurry to Libby's apartment in Beekman Place. Nancy bought her presents, clothes, jewelry, a new Victrola for the apartment. She met Libby's friends, the actors and singers and dancers that Libby liked to be with.

Libby came to two parties at the Desmond house. She sang, of course. She came to the parties with some of her friends and one of the friends would play the piano while Libby sang song after song. She drank heavily at the parties. She liked to tease Nancy and sometimes the two women would be openly affectionate toward each other, Nancy with an arm around Libby's waist, Nancy kissing Libby's cheek. Nancy's husband seemed unconcerned. If Charlie noticed anything, he said nothing to Nancy about it.

When Nancy and Libby were alone together, Libby was always the one who controlled things. It was Libby who decided what they would do and what they wouldn't do in bed. Libby did only what pleased her. "I'm not a lesbian," she said. If Nancy enjoyed doing things to Libby, that was fine. Libby was willing to lie back and offer her body to Nancy and take pleasure from it. But Libby had no interest in doing anything to Nancy. She had no interest in Nancy's body. She was amused by Nancy's tiny breasts and narrow hips. "Jesus, you could dress as a boy," Libby said. She teased Nancy, kept Nancy at bay when Nancy was dying to have Libby on the bed or on the sofa. She'd suddenly change her mind about what she wanted and how she wanted it. She was a hard drinker, and when she was with Nancy she never stopped drinking, not for a moment. She would drink while Nancy made love to her and Nancy came to accept it. Sometimes Nancy would have her face between Libby's thighs for an hour while Libby finished one drink after another. "Just keep licking my puss," Libby would say.

The affair put Nancy's mind in a whirl. She tormented herself. Was she in love with Libby? The girl was constantly in her thoughts. The only part of the day or night she cared about was the time she spent with Libby. The affair with the girl had brought a marvelous excitement into her life.

And when they were together Nancy feasted. She couldn't get enough of Libby. She lavished mad kisses on Libby's mouth, on her breasts, on her sex. Nancy's joy was to push Libby over the edge, to make Libby have orgasm after orgasm in response to her mouth and fingers.

But then at the end of three weeks Libby went away to an estate on Long Island for the weekend and Nancy received the first inkling that Libby's interest in the affair was flagging. 

Nancy telephoned Libby on Sunday, and when after a long delay Libby finally came to the telephone, she made it clear to Nancy that she didn't give a damn one way or the other about how much Nancy missed her. "You don't own me," Libby said. "Nobody in this world owns me."

*   *   *

Nancy had a night of turmoil. She kept thinking about Libby and what Libby had said and she was unable to sleep. In the morning she rose up determined to see Libby and set things right again. She waited until the afternoon and then she went looking for Libby at the Gallo Theater. They were dress rehearsing a musical called "Rainbow" and when she walked in Libby was on the stage singing "I Want a Man".

Nancy was immediately caught up in the excitement of the theater. She recognized the young Oscar Hammerstein down in the front row. Once again she was captivated by Libby's voice, by the girl's sex appeal. The show was a Civil War drama and Libby looked ravishing in a black 1860's dress.

After Libby went off-stage, Nancy went back to find Libby's dressing room. She was thankful Libby was alone. "You don't mind, do you? I've been very unhappy."

"Unhappy about what?" Libby said.

"Unhappy about us. I couldn't sleep last night after that awful telephone call."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have called."

"I'm sorry."

Nancy found a chair and sat down. Libby was still in her 19th century costume, her ripe breasts bulging out of the low cut neckline. She saw where Nancy's eyes were at and she made a clucking sound of amusement.

"You're always hungry for it, aren't you?"

Nancy blushed. She thought she could patch it up now. "You know how I am."

Then Libby said: "Listen, nobody owns me. I don't want to be owned by anyone. I told you that, didn't I?"

"Don't you care about me?"

"All I really care about is my career. I told you that too, didn't I?"

"Yes you did."

"Then believe it, won't you?"

As Nancy looked at the girl, she was no longer certain what she felt. Was it love or lust? Libby was right when she said she was always hungry for it. "You make me feel awful."

Libby sighed. "I've got to get out of this dress, so why don't you help me?"

Now Nancy was in good spirits again as she helped Libby unhook the dress and step out of it. Libby wore only a thin slip as she sat down at the dressing table to remove her makeup.

Nancy kissed the top of Libby's head as Libby sat at her dressing table. "Are you going on stage again?"

"No, I'm finished," Libby said.

"Come out with me. We'll go anywhere you like."

"I wish I had a drink now. You don't have anything with you, do you?"

"We'll get it outside."

Then someone knocked on the door and Libby called out and a tall blonde came in. "Am I breaking anything up?"

"Nancy, this is Louisa Jenny," Libby said. "I was out at her place over the weekend."

She was a strawberry blonde with bobbed hair, tall and beautiful, dressed in a tailored suit with a cut that made her look almost like a man.

Louisa smiled at Nancy and then walked over to Libby to kiss Libby's mouth and possessively stroke Libby's shoulders. "Hello, love. I got the boat in Palm Beach like I said I would. I had to promise Daddy I wouldn't smash it up."

Libby laughed and looked at Nancy. "You should see that boat, it's a block long. Her father could buy Manhattan if he wanted to. And her mother is a du Pont, what do you think of that?"

"How nice," Nancy said. She was too stunned to say any more, and soon after that she walked out.

*   *   *

"What a lovely tureen," Mrs. Littlewood said.

This evening the Littlewoods were dinner guests at the Desmond house. Grace Littlewood touched the large silver tureen with her fingers. "This is new, isn't it?"

"Yes," Nancy said. "This is actually the first time we've used it."

"It's lovely. Don't you think it's lovely, Arthur?"

Arthur Littlewood mumbled something.

Caroline Littlewood sat between her father and Charlie Desmond. Caroline had come without an escort this evening and she seemed pleased about it. "I don't like silver that much," Caroline said.

Mrs. Littlewood frowned. "You're too young."

"Mother, I'm old enough to know what I like. It's a beautiful tureen, but I just don't happen to like silver."

"Oh dear."

Nancy gave an embarrassed laugh. "I think I'll give the tureen to Caroline as a present."

"I didn't mean to be offensive," Caroline said.

"Oh, I know that."

"It's just that Mother and I have different tastes."

"We certainly do," Mrs. Littlewood said. "These days I refuse to go to the theater with Caroline."

"You won't see a musical with me."

"I don't like these new musicals, I just don't like them. I don't like to see disgusting things done on the stage."

"Libby Holman is in a new show again."

"Who's that?"

"Oh Mother. That's the girl we heard singing at the Casanova Club when we were there with the Desmonds."

"Oh yes, that one. Well she's not Nora Bayes, is she?"

Caroline laughed. "I think Libby Holman is smashing."

Nancy said nothing. She spoke to one of the maids and she had the empty soup tureen removed from the table.

Chapter 10: Pagan Love Song

During the first week of December of that year, President Coolidge went to an Army dispensary to check on his teeth by having his teeth X-rayed. The Presidential Physician James F. Coupal reported that the presidential teeth were in excellent condition.

During the second week of December a son was born to Irving Berlin and his wife the heiress Ellin Mackay. The boy was named Irving Berlin, Jr.

During the third week of December the Littlewoods of Park Avenue hired a new chauffeur.

"It's too long," Mrs. Littlewood said.

"What's too long?" Mr. Littlewood said.

"His name. His name is too long."

So the new chauffeur, Finnegan, had his name shortened to Finn by the Littlewood family.

In addition to large summer houses on Long Island and Cape Cod, the Littlewoods had twelve rooms on Park Avenue, two Swedish maids and an old French poodle. The two maids shared a room off the pantry. The poodle slept in the kitchen or sometimes behind one of the sofas in the living room. It was understood that Finn would sleep at his home somewhere in the Bronx and arrive at the Littlewood apartment at six o'clock each morning to begin his duties.

Arthur Littlewood was sixty-five years old and he was a native of Pittsburgh. He'd worked first in the railroad industry and then in banking in the state of Pennsylvania. At the age of twenty- five he'd inherited one hundred thousand dollars from his maternal grandfather and he invested the money in railroad stocks. At the age of thirty-seven, in the year 1900, he arrived on Wall Street with nearly one million dollars in cash in his account at the Chase National Bank. He bought himself a minor partnership in a small investment company specializing in munitions exports. At the age of forty he married twenty year old Grace Millar of Philadelphia. They had a daughter named Caroline three years later in the year 1906. By 1920 Littlewood's fortune had grown enough to allow him to purchase a serious piece of the large investment bank Dawson Petrie and Company. He stated at that time that he would not shift his capital again, and by 1928 he had not yet done so. Messrs. Dawson and Petrie were in fact considering adding the name Littlewood to the name of the firm.

Mr. Littlewood gave the new chauffeur, Finn, precise instructions concerning his job. He was to wear at all times the customary black chauffeur's uniform with a visored cap. He was to arrive at six o'clock each morning at the Park Avenue garage where the Littlewood car was kept and have the car standing in front of the Littlewood apartment house at 6:15. He would drive Mr. Littlewood to Wall Street and then return to Park Avenue to have the car and himself available to Mrs. Littlewood. In the evening Mr. Littlewood would be driven home in a company car and there was no need for Finn to return to Wall Street. When Mrs. Littlewood had no more need of the car, she would indicate this to Finn and he would return the car promptly to the garage and go where he wished. On special occasions he'd be asked to work in the evening and he'd be paid extra for it. He would have free days on the second and fourth Sunday of each month.

The car was a 1927 black and grey LaSalle limousine. The car had been chosen by Mrs. Littlewood and it was understood the car and the chauffeur were to be at the service of Mrs. Littlewood any time she needed them.

"She's an active lady," Mr. Littlewood said. "My wife is an active lady."

"Yes sir," Finn said. He enjoyed the idea of driving about town in an almost new LaSalle limousine. He did not yet know what else was involved.

*   *   *

Finn the chauffeur quickly learned the various routines of his job. He'd have the morning run down to Wall Street with Mr. Littlewood in the back of the LaSalle. Then he would drive the LaSalle back to the Park Avenue building in which the Littlewoods lived and either park it on the street nearby or in the garage around the corner. Mrs. Littlewood would usually not come down until late in the morning and that meant Finn had a few hours free every weekday. Of course if Mrs. Littlewood had an appointment somewhere and she wanted the car earlier, she could always telephone the garage and ask him to have the car ready. Finn passed the morning hours in the garage playing penny poker with several other chauffeurs. When there was no telephone call to Finn, his orders were to have the car waiting in front of the Littlewood building at 11:45.

The first few weeks that Mrs. Littlewood came down to the car were uneventful. She was always well dressed. She would nod and smile at Finn as he held the rear door of the car open. Each day he had a whiff of her perfume and a glance at her silk- covered legs as she climbed into the rear of the LaSalle. She was the richest lady he'd ever worked for and he guessed the mink coat that she wore cost more than he earned in two years.

Nearly every day Mrs. Littlewood had a luncheon date somewhere with a group of lady friends. Sometimes after lunch he would take her to a museum, either the Metropolitan on Fifth Avenue or one of the old historical museums downtown. Mrs. Littlewood would be inside for one or two hours while he waited outside in the limousine.

Finn ran errands on occasion. He'd be ordered to pick up a package at a shop and bring it to the Littlewood apartment. He sometimes walked the dog when the doorman of the building had no time for it. Mrs. Littlewood would give Finn a dollar when he returned with the poodle.




Jazz Age Ch. 08 - 11



The Littlewood daughter was a high-strung defiant girl, but she was never any problem for Finn. She never used the car alone and when she was with her parents she paid no attention to him. Finn thought she was nothing but a spoiled rich girl and he was happy to avoid her.

One afternoon just before Christmas Mrs. Littlewood came down the steps of the Metropolitan and climbed into the car as usual. But this time before Finn closed the car door she spoke to him.

"Do you have a family?"

"Just my mother," Finn said as he continued to hold the door open.

"Then you're not married?"

"No ma'am."

He couldn't help looking at her legs. The way she sat on the deep seat had caused her skirt to be pulled back over her knees. Her right leg was closest to him and he had a glimpse of the dark band at the top of her flesh-colored stocking. If she noticed what he was looking at, there was no sign of it.

"I thought you were married," Mrs. Littlewood said.

"No ma'am," Finn said again.

"All right, take me home now."

Finn wondered why she'd asked about his family. He had some aunts and uncles and cousins, but his old mother was the one he lived with. He was thirty-six years old and he thought maybe he'd get married when he was forty. He thought forty was a good age for a man to get married.

Christmas came and passed and Finn received a twenty dollar bill and was thankful for it because he'd worked for the Littlewoods only a short time. He bought a new radio for his mother and a bottle of bootleg Irish whiskey for himself. He was happy.

During the week between Christmas and New Year's, the Littlewoods were busy with family relations and Finn had to drive for them nearly every day and sometimes in the evening too. He didn't mind it. He liked the work. He looked after the chains on the tires and when there was snow on the ground he had no problem with the big LaSalle. The front of the car was warm enough when he had his heavy coat on. It was certainly better than driving one of those old town-cars that had the chauffeur sitting out in the open to freeze.

One morning when Finn was waiting in the car in front of the Littlewood building, the doorman came out and said Mrs. Littlewood wanted Finn upstairs in the apartment. Finn went around to the service elevator and he rode up to the tenth floor.

One of the maids opened the kitchen door to the Littlewood apartment and said: "It's just to move one of the tables. She's waiting for you in the living room."

Mrs. Littlewood was dressed in a dark blue peignoir. "You can help the girls move that table from here to there."

"Yes ma'am."

Finn and the two Swedish maids moved the large table from one part of the room to another.

After that Mrs. Littlewood said she had some packages in her bedroom that she wanted Finn to bring down to the car. When Finn followed her into the bedroom he found himself in a large pink room, pink walls, pink curtains, pink upholstery on the chairs and on the large headboard behind the bed. He started gathering the packages on the bed while Mrs. Littlewood stood before her dressing table touching a comb to her hair. Then Finn glanced at Mrs. Littlewood and at her image in the mirror and he was suddenly paralyzed by what he saw.

The front of Mrs. Littlewood's peignoir was hanging open as she combed her hair, the two sides of the peignoir falling far enough apart from each other so that her breasts and belly and thighs were clearly visible in the mirror. She was naked except for stockings, sheer dark stockings rolled at mid-thigh and maybe held up by hidden garters. Finn could see only the inner slopes of her large breasts, but he clearly saw the patch of brown hair at the joining of her full thighs.

Finn couldn't move. He stood there with the packages in his arms and his eyes on the mirror.

Then Mrs. Littlewood shifted her body slightly. She lifted her head and their eyes met in the mirror.

For a moment neither of them moved. Mrs. Littlewood still had her right hand raised to the side of her head, the comb in her fingers. She continued to look at Finn in the mirror, and then finally she dropped her right hand, put the comb down on the dressing table and used both hands to close the peignoir.

Finn cradled the packages in his arms and he hurried out of the room.

*   *   *

The daily routine continued as before and Mrs. Littlewood made no mention of what had happened. But soon after that Finn was told that on weekday mornings after he returned from Wall Street he might come up to the kitchen to wait for Mrs. Littlewood. Finn gave up the penny poker game at the garage and he began passing his mornings in the Littlewood kitchen. He would chat with the Swedish maids awhile, and then when Mrs. Littlewood was ready to go out he'd ride down the elevator with her.

It wasn't long before Finn was aware that Mrs. Littlewood was looking at him more carefully these days. She looked at him as though she were inspecting his uniform, her eyes travelling up and down from his black shoes to his black peaked cap. But Finn made a point of dusting his uniform each morning before he put it on and he was confident she could find no fault with it.

What had happened in Mrs. Littlewood's bedroom was never far from Finn's thoughts. Now when he looked at her legs as she entered the car, he would think of what he'd seen in the dressing table mirror, her belly, her white thighs, the tuft of brown hair.

One day Finn drove Mrs. Littlewood and two other ladies to a luncheon on Central Park West. The two ladies seemed to be old friends of Mrs. Littlewood. They chatted about people they knew as the big car moved along the winding road through the park. Finn drove them to a building on 65th Street and then he sat in the car waiting for them. He'd brought a wrapped sandwich with him, and now he ate the sandwich as he watched the traffic on Central Park West.

When the ladies came out of the building again, it was obvious to both Finn and the doorman that they were all drunk. The doorman rolled his eyes at Finn as the two men helped the ladies enter the rear of the LaSalle.

Finn took the two lady friends of Mrs. Littlewood to their apartment buildings on Park Avenue, and then he drove Mrs. Littlewood home.

"I've had too much to drink," Mrs. Littlewood said. "I'll need your arm to help me get up to the apartment."

"Yes ma'am."

Mrs. Littlewood held onto Finn's arm, her hand clutching at his bicep, her fingers squeezing the muscle again and again. They rode the elevator together and then they entered the apartment through the front door. Mrs. Littlewood walked with Finn past the maid who had opened the door. She walked with Finn into her bedroom and there she closed the door and fell into Finn's arms with a groan:

"You're very strong, aren't you?"

"Ma'am?"

"Kiss me, you fool. Kiss me before I change my mind about it."

Finn kissed her. She moaned against his lips. He could smell her perfume and he had the taste of her lipstick in his mouth. She pressed against him, her eyes closed and her face lifted as the kiss continued.

Then suddenly she dropped a hand down to the front of his uniform and she groaned as she grabbed at his penis through the cloth of his trousers.

"My God, it's like iron," she said.

She held him tightly, squeezing his penis with her fingers, measuring its length and thickness. She made a sound of approval and then she abruptly pulled away from him.

"You can't stay here. Wait in the car for me and I'll be down in twenty minutes. I just want to freshen up. Will you do that?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Oh, look at it. Look at the way it sticks out like that. I'm sure the maids will see it. Carry something, will you? Carry that newspaper."

"Yes ma'am."

*   *   *

Finn waited for her in the limousine. She came down at last, and as soon as she was settled in the back and he was behind the wheel again, she said: "I've reserved a room at the Netherlands. Room 620. You take me there now and I'll go up first."

He drove straight to the Netherlands Hotel and she left the car to walk through the entrance. He found a garage for the limousine, and then he walked back to the hotel entrance with his peaked chauffeur's cap in his pocket.

He walked through the hotel lobby to the elevators and he rode an elevator to the sixth floor. When he found room 620 and knocked on the door, he heard Mrs. Littlewood call out: "Just a moment." Then she opened the door to admit him inside.

"Close the door," she said. "Quick, close the door."

Finn closed the door.

"This is much better, isn't it?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Well, take your coat and jacket off, won't you? We're not going to do anything while you're dressed up like that."

Finn slipped his coat off and put it on a chair, and then he unbuttoned his tunic and laid it down over the coat.

"And the shirt," she said. "I want to see what you look like."

He slipped his suspenders off his shoulders and then he pulled his woolen undershirt off and put it on top of the tunic.

She stared at the mat of dark hair that covered his chest. "That's better," she said. "My, you look strong. You're fit, aren't you?"

"I'm healthy, if that's what you mean."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-six."

"Now you can kiss me again and we don't need to worry about the maids."

He looked at the windows.

"It's only the park," she said. Then she laughed and she came forward to kiss him. "Don't be afraid of me. Are you afraid of me, Finn?"

"No ma'am."

"We're not going to do everything. We'll do certain things but not everything. I want to have you in my mouth and for the time being that's all I want. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Do you mind? You'd better tell me now, because if you want everything I won't allow it."

"I don't mind it, ma'am."

"You can call me Grace if you want. While we're together like this you can call me Grace. Now let's see what we have here. Is it hard again? Oh yes it is. How lovely."

She gripped his penis through his trousers as they kissed again. Then she pulled her mouth away from his and she looked down at him.

"I want to see it now. Before we do anything else I want to see it."

"What about you?"

"Not now. Please hurry. You do want to please me, don't you?"

Finn quickly stripped the rest of his clothes off until he stood on the carpet in front of her wearing only his black socks.

Her face flushed, Mrs. Littlewood stared at Finn's white body a moment and then she came forward. She lifted his balls in her left hand as she closed the fingers of her right hand around the shaft of his penis. She carefully fondled him, one hand squeezing his testicles while the other hand stroked his erect organ.

"Yes you're fit," she said. "This is a handsome thing, isn't it? My poor husband is too old now. Much too old for me. I'm only forty-five, you know. Did you think I was older than that?"

"I thought you were younger."

"Oh nonsense, you're trying to flatter me. Let's move over here to the bed."

He thought she'd lie down on the bed, but instead she sat on the edge of the bed and then she made him stand in front of her. He suddenly understood her intention and a moment later she carried it out: she leaned forward and took the knob of his penis in her mouth and started sucking it.

Even if she'd warned him it was what she wanted, it was still a surprise. Her face down there was a surprise, the face of a Park Avenue woman whose mink coat was now thrown across one of the chairs. It was something only whores had done to him, and that not often since he could rarely afford the price they asked.

Mrs. Littlewood gorged herself. She held his balls with her left hand while she filled her mouth with his thick organ. He stared down at her face as though hypnotized, his eyes on her stretched lips as they moved back and forth over the length of his cock.

Then he was shocked when he noticed that her right hand was under the hem of her dress and between her thighs. It was obvious that she was fingering her fanny while she sucked his cock, and the idea that she would do that so openly set his mind ablaze. He raised his head up and groaned as he discharged in her mouth.

Mrs. Littlewood continued sucking and swallowing his sperm. She held just the knob of his penis in her mouth and sucked at it as he continued spurting. When he was finished, she pulled her lips away with a wet sound and licked the corner of her mouth with her tongue.

"Oh yes, you're fit," she said with a laugh. "You're as fit as can be."

*   *   *

During the weeks that followed, the routine of Finn's job continued. He spent each day with the car, each weekday driving Mr. Littlewood to Wall Street, then driving back to the Littlewood address on Park Avenue.

Every two or three days Mrs. Littlewood rented a room in advance at the Netherlands or the Plaza. She would leave the car and go to the room to wait for him. Finn was always afraid of the eyes of the desk people as he entered the lobby and walked to the elevator. He kept his peaked chauffeur's cap in one of his pockets in the hope they'd think him just another guest. But if they noticed or remembered him there was no sign of it. He wondered about the other well-dressed women in the hotel. How many of them were on their way to a tryst with someone like himself? No, it can't be, he thought. There couldn't be any like her, not like Mrs. Littlewood.

Inside the hotel room she always had the same insatiable hunger to suck his cock and have his sperm in her mouth. She said he had rich sperm for a man of thirty-six. She said it was a sign of good health and he ought to be thankful for it. She always did her best to drain him completely. She would suck on his penis until he finished spurting and then she'd use her hand to get some more out of him. He was surprised at how little it weakened him. Five minutes afterward he'd be dressed and on his way to the car to wait for her.

There were times when he was annoyed because he thought she treated him like a prize animal. After he undressed, she liked to feel his balls first. Then she'd push his foreskin back to look at the glans of his penis. This happened only every week or so and he guessed she was making certain that he hadn't contracted a disease somewhere. She seemed to know a great deal about male anatomy.

It was nearly a month before she undressed completely so that he could look at her. Her breasts drooped, but not as much as some other women he'd seen. She let him look at her fanny all he wanted and she was amused by his interest in it.

Whenever she sat on the bed and sucked his penis she had a hand between her open thighs. When she was naked he could see everything, her naked belly, her fingers rubbing her sex. She had no modesty about it. She told him it was the only way she had her pleasure and he could watch it all he wanted. She asked him if he ever did it to himself and then she laughed when he wouldn't say yes or no.

When they were away from the hotel rooms, when she was getting in and out of the car, or when he sometimes saw her in the kitchen of the apartment, he couldn't look at her face without thinking of her doing it. He would look at her face and think of her mouth on his cock, or think of how flushed her face always was after she got what she wanted out of him.

Sometimes, in one of the hotel rooms, he tried to get her to do something else. He wanted to lie on her and put his penis inside her in the ordinary way. He asked more than once but she always refused him. She said he ought to be happy with what she did. "Don't be a fool and spoil it," she said.

What happened was that he started hating her. He hated her because he knew that he meant nothing to her. He hated her because she was the one who had the money and that meant he was only a servant.

One day in a room in the Netherlands Hotel he forced himself on her. Instead of standing in front of her so that she could suck his cock, he pushed her down on the bed on her back. He forced her legs apart and he tried to enter her.

"I won't have it!" she cried as she tried to pull away from him.

"Let me do it the ordinary way."

"No, I won't have it. I don't want that. I told you I don't want that."

When she realized he intended to force her, she clawed at his body with her fingers. She was in a cold fury. She struggled against him, a violent struggle that succeeded in preventing him from entering her sex.

He had an urge to strike her, but he could not strike a woman. It was something he could not do. Even if she deserved it, he could not do it. He finally moved away from her and he gave it up.

"You're a bitch," he said.

"You fool! Don't you call me that!"

She lay naked on the bed, taunting him with her body, her legs wide apart to expose the hairy mouth of her sex. "Get out," she said. "Get dressed and get out of here."

He put his uniform on and he went down to the limousine to wait for her.

He sat there thinking about her as he watched the people leaving and entering the hotel. Once again he wondered about the women, the ladies wearing furs and jewelry. How many of them were like Mrs. Littlewood?

When at last Mrs. Littlewood came out of the hotel, he opened the rear door for her as usual. She said nothing to him. He closed the door and he walked around the car to climb into the driver's seat. Before long they were heading north on Park Avenue, another chauffeur and another well-dressed New York woman returning home.

The next morning Mr. Littlewood told Finn that his services were no longer required. He would get two weeks pay and a reference if he needed it. He could leave the car in the garage after he drove back from Wall Street.

"I'm sure you'll find another job," Mr. Littlewood said. "Everyone seems to want a chauffeur these days."

Chapter 11: Crazy Rhythm

Another month passed and it was now March. The evenings in New York were still cold. Downtown the lights of the shop windows caused a glow in the faces of the pedestrians on the sidewalks. 

On the corner of 34th Street and Seventh Avenue a woman in a red hat pulled the collar of her coat closed to cover her throat. The women were now wearing tight-fitting hats, the front part of the brims turned up. The men wore fedoras and bowlers, the hats sometimes tilted at a jaunty angle to give a bit of dash to the appearance.

Never mind the dash: During the first week of March it rained cats and dogs in Washington while Herbert Hoover was sworn in as President of the United States. Was it a portent?

In the evening in New York, a man named Jack Bishop turned from 34th Street into Seventh Avenue, a gray peaked cap tilted forward on his head, his body warmed by a black overcoat, his hands in his coat pockets. He walked slowly, stopped, walked again, stopped at a shop window, turned to gaze at the displayed merchandise, mens overcoats, ulsterettes, popular patch pockets, double breasted belted, form fitting, $29.95, $39.95, $49.95, four mannikins in the window, the second from the left with his left hand raised, a gloved hand holding a second glove, the other hand behind his back, his forefinger touching his thumb as if to point or pull at an imaginary thread, his teeth exposed in a smile or a grimace, the white collar, the carefully knotted dark blue tie, TESTED MERCHANDISE IS DEPENDABLE MERCHANDISE...

Jack thought: the one on the right 50 bucks, makes you look like a successful business chap, a man going places, all wool with a satin lining no doubt. But he didn't need an overcoat, he already had two coats, how many coats could a guy wear at one time? Take off one, put on the other one. He wouldn't mind being rich, but why does he need three overcoats? Yes this one on the right would be fine, that happy smile on his face, the way they do it in wood then paint it over, the glowing skin, the healthy teeth, this one on the right goes home at night to a pretty little thing from Coney Island, a girl who wears one of those tight wool bathing suits in summer, a bathing beauty way back in 1919, the wool suit showing everything, her breasts, the swell of her hips, her thighs, her calves only half covered by those bathing stockings they wore, her arms outstretched as she poses for the camera la di da here I am Charlie take my picture...