The Hidden Journal, Copyright © 1999, Kellis

 

Frazier Haven

File D9104200.ZEN

Friday, October 5, 1973

“Why do you always sit there?”

I looked up from my Traveler’s Companion in surprise.  The voice belonged to the woman in the window seat beside me, a low contralto, barely audible over the rumble of the bus and the conversations in other seats — pitched to be so, I realized.  She also held a book, one of those that have the chapter names at the top of each page instead of the title.  Unlike me she continued to read.

I decided she was mumbling to herself.  Something from the book?

But when my head dropped, she repeated, “Why always beside me?”

I cleared my throat.  “Excuse me, ma’am.  Are you talking to me?”

“I don’t think anyone else can hear me, do you?”

“I …  Would you prefer for me to move?”

“No, of course not!  I don’t own the seat.”

Every day that I swing on the bus I find the seat empty beside her, not always the same seat on the same row, but always empty.  And in fact something about her heart-shaped face has attracted me.

I shied away from personal remarks.  “It happens to be the first empty seat I find.”

“Not always,” she countered.  “It wasn’t first yesterday.”

“I think …  Perhaps you seemed familiar.”

“Familiar!”

“I mean, from the day before.”

“Oh.”

The bus turned a corner so that the late afternoon sun swept over her face from the far side, limning in gold the soft fuzz on her upper lip.  She still hadn’t looked up.  Her dark hair was swept back and gathered in a pony tail behind a gold clip.  It was her only jewelry:  no ring on either hand, no bracelet, no ear ring.  Her ear was not even pierced — on this side.  She wore a short-sleeved blouse, shiny as satin, and a knee-length navy skirt, belted in black.  Her book was perched atop a black purse in her lap.  Her feet were tucked out of sight beneath the seat.  I guessed from the unwrinkled neck but slight crows-feet that she was thirtyish.  That is, I’d guessed it on Monday when I first sat there and gave her a long look.  That was a warmer day and her shirt, worn under a jumper, had been opened lower.  Her tits intrigued me.  They were wide but shallow mounds.  No nipple impression was evident, even under today’s thin blouse, but the line of cleavage was visible high in her chest.

I thought she’d lost interest in me.  I returned to my book, something about people observing private behavior through a peep hole.

“My father used to read those.  It’s from that publisher in Paris, isn’t it?”

I looked up again, more startled than before.  But she remained fixed to her reading, eyes actually scanning the lines.

I answered carefully, “Maybe he read this one.  According to the copyright, it was published ten years ago.  But tell me, how did you know what it is?”

“They all have plain green covers.  Any other paperback is more colorful.”

“Have you read any of them?”

I tried to keep the wonder from my voice but must have failed.  Her lips turned up in a grin.  She actually chuckled.  “I know what you’ll think of me if I admit it.”

“Then you have, haven’t you?”

“My father enjoyed them a lot.  He kept two or three in his briefcase.”

“I’m surprised.  That couldn’t have been so long ago.”

At last she looked up.  It was the first time her eyes had ever locked with mine.  They were watery blue, glowing in the slanting light.  She cocked an eyebrow.  “Are you trying to flatter me, sir?”

She wore lipstick, lightly applied, but no eye shadow, nothing on the lashes.  Her eyebrows were dark but thin.  I couldn’t decide if they were more plucked or penciled.  I took a breath.  At this range she was … beautiful.  It’s the right word, one that I award sparingly.  I said softly, “If so I should do a better job.”

Her eyes widened slightly before she turned away to her book.  She said, no longer looking at me, “Flattery is deliberately misleading.”

“Let me say it differently.  I was trying to compliment you.”

“By implying that I’m too young to have seen them often in Father’s briefcase.  But you know very well I’m not.  That was many years ago.”

“Surely not so many!”

“Almost fifteen.  You’re thinking that only a child would rifle her father’s baggage.  But I always packed it.  I was his secretary, too.”

“Then you’re about my age.”

She looked me up and down.  “Maybe.”

“You no longer serve your father?”

“No.  That is, yes, I don’t.  He died five years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.  What’s the title of that one?”

I flipped the book so that the front cover was visible to her.  She nodded.  “I remember it.  It’s conclusion is silly.  No one should go through life just playing the observer.”

“Is that its conclusion?”

“Justified as less risky.  I’m sorry.  I’ll spoil it for you.”

I chuckled politely.  “Hardly that.  You don’t read these things for their philosophy.”

“Don’t you?”  She flashed her blues at me.  “I thought that was exactly why they were read.  Father said as much.  If they didn’t portray unrestrained lewdness no one would waste his time on them.”

Point conceded.  I coughed and said, “Your father understood them, eh?”

“He said they nearly cornered the market for such stories, that putting them in plain covers was a stroke of marketing genius.”

“He was right.”  It seldom hurts to agree when a woman praises her father.  I couldn’t resist asking, “Did their lack of restraint attract you?”

She grinned.  “I thought they were funny.”

“Funny?”

“Ridiculous, in fact.  That’s the right word for most of the female characters.  No real woman would behave that way.”

I cocked an eyebrow.  “What makes you so sure?”

She frowned.  “You want to argue that point?”

“Not really.  But I can name a class of real women who do behave pretty much like the ones in these books.”

I had her attention now.  Her eyes narrowed.  “I think I know who you mean.  But they do it for money.”

“Yes, of course.”

“In those books they do it for the love of it — pain, humiliation and all.  And that’s ridiculous.”  Her eyes were animated, sparkling on mine.  She snorted.  “I can’t believe it.”

“Well, neither can I, for that matter — just long enough to enjoy it.”

“No, no!  I mean I can’t believe I’m talking about lewd books to a man I met five minutes ago.”

“Actually we haven’t met.  My name is Harry Stone.”

“Belinda Frazier.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Belinda.  A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

She frowned and dropped her eyes.  “Please don’t do that.”

“It’s not flattery, Belinda.”

“It’s not true, either.”

“Our first disagreement.”

She looked up at me sorrowfully.  “I thought you were more intelligent than that.”

“Really?  Do you think intelligence would fail to see the beauty in an intelligent woman?”

That’s a good line.  I must remember it for future use — though god knows when the opportunity will recur!  This time it worked.

Her face softened.  She observed, “Men don’t care for a woman’s intelligence.”

“Not true.  And in this case more than intelligent — unique!  I never so much as heard of a woman who studies the Traveler’s Companion books.”

She smiled.  “Not so unique.  I found them educational until Father explained how unrealistic they are.  He enjoyed picking them apart.  And I always enjoyed any conversation with him.  I studied them — I admit it now — to hold up my end of the discussion.”

“I still say ‘unique.’  Maybe you don’t know how unusual it is for father and daughter to discuss such things.”

“Yes, I do.  Father had to teach me about the birds and the bees.”

“No mother?”

“She was killed in a car crash when I was a kid.”

“That’s horrible!”

“Yes, it was.  But my father saved me.”  She shook herself and closed her book.  It’s title became evident:  Time Enough for Love.  Interesting.  I trust it advocates plenty!

“Maybe we ought to change the subject,” she suggested.

I grinned.  “So long as you’ll keep talking to me.”

She glanced up and smiled.  “Oh, I’ll do that!  I’ve never known a man who reads them, either, besides my father.  Have you read many?”

“Umm, yes, I guess so.  Many books are published in this genre, but few are as well written as these.  Not all of them are about too-ready women.”

“No,” she agreed.  She cocked her head.  “Do you recall As the Twig is Bent?”

“‘The tree’s inclined,’” I completed.

“Not the quote:  one of the companion books.”

“I don’t …  Give me a hint.”

“It was the autobiography of a pedophile.”

“A pedophile?  I didn’t think they printed any of that kind.”

“Only the one, I think.”

“I’m pretty sure that —  Wait a moment!  Yes, I do seem to recall …  He learned his tricks at his mother’s knee — well, not her knee, but you understand.”

“Yes.”  Her lip curled in a crooked smile.  “And went on to manage an orphanage.”

“And in the meantime taught his daughter a few tricks, too.”

“That’s the one.  What did you think of it?”

I shrugged.  “Too much emphasis on avoiding detection.  I’m sure that’s realistic.  The punishments are pretty severe.  But it detracted from the —” I smiled at her with a wink “— unrestrained lewdness.”

She chuckled.  I added, “Should’ve been set in the Middle Ages, when people weren’t so protective of kids.”

“That’s a point.”  She grew serious.  “How do you feel about sex with children?”

Again I shrugged.  “If coercion isn’t a factor, I guess I don’t mind it overmuch.  But it’s a sensitive issue.  Some people would call me a monster for not being horrified at the idea.  Hope you’re not one of them.”

“No, I’m not.”

“If a child learns from a caring teacher, what’s the difference with algebra or history?”

“Demonstrative biology?”  I saw that she was grinning.

“Sure.”  I warmed to the subject.  “Children need to learn and demonstration is a good way.  Sex is one of the most important subjects for anyone to learn.  To a degree they can also teach their teachers.  Children bring at least one highly valued quality to such lessons.”

“Hmm.  Close attention?”

“That, too.  But I meant novelty.”

“Well!  You’ve actually thought about this subject, haven’t you?”

“Yes, a bit.”  Quite a bit, thanks to Estri, but I could hardly mention her!  “Of course,” I hastened to add, “I couldn’t teach it.”

“Why not?”

“For me nothing compares to the mature female.”

“I see.”  Her smile remained.  “What’s your explanation for society’s complete intolerance?”

“Well, there you’ve got me.  I’ve seen how people react.  You can hardly find a newspaper without reading on a back page that some disgusting pedo has drawn 40 years in the slammer.  Oh, it can be horrible, I guess, if the kid is forced.  But otherwise I don’t understand such condemnation.”

She mused, “The penalties for it are about the same as violent rape.”

I added, “Which may explain why so few girls survive being kidnapped.”

“You may be right about that.”

She strained upward and pulled the stop-signal cord.  I straightened and looked around outside the windows.  “Uh-oh.”

“Missed your stop?” she asked.

“Yes.  This intersection is unknown to me.”

“I’ve seen where you get off.  It’s two blocks back.  I’m sorry I didn’t think to warn you.”

“Oh, it’s not your fault.  I got on my soap box.”

“I like your soap box.  Harry, get off with me.  It’s not far back.”

“Thank you.  I will.”

When she walked up the aisle and stepped off the bus, I had my first view of her in other than a sitting position.  I expected her to be shorter than I, and she is, but only a few inches.  Her buttocks fill her skirt thoroughly and her calves are shapely.  She’s far from skinny as I already knew from her bare arms.  Voluptuous is the word, I thought, and suddenly I wanted to see her nude.

She stopped, turned about as the bus pulled away, and appraised me, too, eyes sweeping from toe to crown.  She said, “Are you in a hurry?”

“No.  Nothing planned but dinner, then hit the books.”

She cocked an eyebrow at my briefcase.  “You’re not a student!”

“Temporarily.  I’m with NSI.”

“The computer company?”

“That’s it.”

She stood still, looking at me, seeming to bite her lower lip.  “Darn it, Harry.  You’ll think I’m bad, but I hate for you just to walk away.”

“Hardly bad — and that’s my line!  Let me walk you home, then.  It’s not far, is it?”

“Middle of the block to the right.”

She turned away and I fell into step beside her.  The sidewalk was lined with apartment houses, each with its concrete staircase, many peopled with refugees from the hot rooms inside.  They watched us pass.

“This Indian Summer, as we call it at home, is pretty nice,” I observed.

“We call it that, too.  Don’t you find it warm in a coat and tie?”

“Regulations,” I said, grinning weakly.

“I know about regulations!  So you’re from out of town.  Where exactly — and what is a temporary student at NSI?”

I told her all that.  She glanced at my hand.  “Married?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“So far something always interferes.”

“You do like girls, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes.  Exclusively females!  How about you?”

“Oh, I’m fond of girls, but not that way.”

“No.  I mean, are you married?”

“I knew what you meant.”

“And you’re dodging?”

She shrugged.  “I’ve never been asked.”

“Incredible!”

“It’s true.”

“Then I guess I should ask if you like men.  You do, don’t you?”

“Men?  No.  Just a few of them.”

She was grinning at me.  I pointed out, “Women don’t wait to be asked these days.”

“Don’t they?”  She cocked an eyebrow.  “All right.  You’re educated, a rising star in the newest technical field.  You’re very eligible.  And you’re broad-minded.  So will you marry me?”

I chuckled.  “Not so fast, Belinda.  How do you know I don’t have a wooden leg, false teeth or disgusting habits?”

“Well, do you have a wooden leg or false teeth?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.  Do you masturbate?”

“Ah … yes.”

“So do I.  Does that cover it?”

I pretended to consider.  “Let’s see.  You’re a voluptuous woman — my favorite kind — beautiful with a beautiful name and broad-minded yourself.  All right.  We’re engaged.”

“Thank you.”

She murmured experimentally, “Mrs. Harry Frazier.”

I cleared my throat.  “Correction:  Mrs. Belinda Stone.”

“What if I don’t care for ‘Stone?’”

I shrugged.  “Well, you asked me!”

“Because you insisted.”

“I did?”

“The one who accepts ought to be the one whose name changes.”

“You think so?”  I shook my head.  “Frazier, eh?”

She frowned.  “Darn it, it’s just not the same unless the man does the proposing.”

“An old fashioned girl after all!”

“Who can cook, clean house and make beds.”

“Well, I can eat, litter the house and …  It’s probably best not to mention what I can do to a bed.”

“Right.  That’s better seen than said.  I can also scrub your back and spend money.”

“I can make money and, ah, scrub your front.”

She nodded.  “Lots of marriages have started with less.”

“I suppose.  I think I ought to kiss the future bride.”

“Do you!  And what would you do next?”

“Whatever she wanted.”

“That’s a lot!”

“We could work up to some of the scenes in the Companions.”

“Oh, no!  You’re not into red-hot pokers, are you, Harry?”

“Nor chains nor whips nor anything painful.  I didn’t care for that stuff in the Companions, either.”

She glanced at me.  “Chains don’t have to be painful, exactly.”

Was she raising our playful ante?  I thought of a retort.  “Neither do red-hot pokers.  It depends on how you use them.”

She stopped, no longer smiling.  Her eyes were level on mine.  Indeed she was raising more than I could call.  “Harry, have you never had a woman chained down, unable to resist anything you wanted to do to her?”

“No, I haven’t.  Frankly, Belinda, it never occurred to me to want such a thing.”

“You should try it.”

“You mean some one-nighter?”

“Not necessarily.”

“It would have to be, wouldn’t it?  You’d have to keep living with anyone else.”

She grinned slowly.  “What in the world would you do to her, Harry?”

“God knows!  Don’t tempt a man with that.”

“The danger is part of the charm.”

“How’s that?

“Which may be something only a woman can appreciate.”

She turned around and gestured.  “Here we are.  Won’t you come in, Harry?”

We had reached a set of steps wider than the others.  A sign above the double doors announced Frazier Haven.

“A safe spot for Fraziers?” I wondered, grinning at her.

“It was my father’s.  I’ve kept it going for him.”

“An apartment house?”

“Of sorts.  It started out as an orphanage.  Harry, will you join us for supper?”

I chuckled.  “Thank you.  You’re very polite.”

She frowned.  “That sounds like a refusal.”

“Belinda, you’re not serious!”

Her hand clasped my arm.  “Yes, I am.”  Her eyes twinkled.  “I want to show off my new fiancé.”

That did it.  I’m afraid my face sobered.  She stared at me and suddenly burst into laughter.  “Oh, Harry, I wish I had a mirror!”

“Do I look concerned?” I wondered.

“You look terrified!”  Her grasp tightened.  “Please come in.  I promise you the engagement will remain our secret.”

She said it smiling but with an odd emphasis.  I responded, “It’s a mistake to joke about something so important, isn’t it?”

“Who’s joking?”  Her eyebrows fluttered at something she saw in my face and she laughed again.  “Okay, spoilsport.  The engagement’s off.  But come in and have supper anyway.  You’ll like it.”

A voice above us demanded, “What engagement?”  It originated from an older woman standing in the open doorway at the top of stairs.  Her ginger hair was untidy.  She sported a blue halter that left most of a sweating chest exposed above full middle-aged breasts.  At first I thought she was wearing a dirty white skirt but realized that it was an apron over blue shorts.  Her calves were marbled by broken veins.

Belinda grinned.  “Harry and I were briefly engaged to be married.  Harry, this is Annie.  Annie, Harry Stone.”

“How do you do,” I intoned.

Annie stared at me.  “Engaged!” she breathed.  “I don’t believe it!”

Belinda chuckled, cocking her head to look at me.  “Now, Annie, he’s not so implausible as that. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

“Oh, he’s beautiful,” the woman explained.  “I meant you!”

Belinda shook her head at me.  “You just can’t get good help these days.  Annie, I’m about to persuade Harry to take supper with us.  Set another plate, will you?”

So I put my foot in it.  “In case the subject comes up again, Annie, what’s wrong with Belinda?”

Annie sniffed, “She needs a dozen men.”  With that she turned away and disappeared into the building.

Belinda was watching me speculatively.  I asked, “To pay the bills?”

Her lip curled in a slight smile.  “Annie tends to concentrate on what Frazier Haven needs.”

“It needs more men?”

“We do have an abundance of women, just at the moment.”  She shrugged.  “Women always need men.  Come on, Harry.  Annie’s Irish but she married an Italian who made a fine cook of her.  Lasagna is tonight’s dish.  She makes a rich, triple-cheese lasagna.”

“I love lasagna,” I admitted.

“Then come on.”

I let her lead me up the steps.  As we passed inside she pointed to a telephone on a stand in the foyer.  “You can call from right there if you have to break a date.”

 “No date and no school tomorrow.”

She paused and regarded me thoughtfully.  “That’s right.  It’s Friday night.  We always celebrate Friday night.”

“Catholics?” I asked.  Don’t they skip red meat on Fridays?

She shook her head.  Her eyes twinkled.  “We play a game.”

The foyer continued as a hall after opening on the left into a large living room, spotted with couches, overstuffed chairs, coffee tables, end tables and a grand piano in the far corner.  The room was late afternoon dark except for one table lamp.  A blonde woman sat under it with a book.  She rose to her feet as we approached.  Like the cook she wore shorts and a halter.  Unlike the cook she was slim, almost skinny, and young.  She had a long, plain face with faded lipstick.  A pack of cigarettes was stuck in her halter, matches under the cellophane.  The ashtray under the light was overflowing.  The title of her book was Wednesday’s Fool.  Wise on other days?

Belinda introduced her as Jane.  The blonde extended a hand with her acknowledgment.  I shook it on the principle that you never ignore the chance to touch a female.  The hand was cool.  If she had presented it palm-down I might have kissed it.  It was Eunice that taught me to be sensitive to such things.

Belinda said, “Jane, Harry is joining us for supper.  Tell him all about us, will you, while I go powder my nose?”

The almost invisible eyebrows went up.  “All?”

Belinda grinned.  “As much as he’ll believe.  Excuse me.”

The blonde cocked her head at me appraisingly.  “How much will you believe?”

I smiled.  “I’m very credulous.  Wild parties?”

“Oh, yes!”  She leered at me.  “You’ll see.”  She gestured at the chair on the other side of her lamp.  “Won’t you sit down?  Have a smoke if you wish.”

As we sat she hitched her chair around out of line with the lamp.  She glanced down at my briefcase.  “In business?”

“I work for —”

“No!”  She raised a hand.  “I shouldn’t ask.  You can tell us all that at supper.  Belinda said to answer your questions!”

“Is she in charge?”

“She owns the place.  Her father left it to her.  Maybe you heard of him?  He did well on the street.”

“I don’t think so.  She said this used to be an orphanage.”

The girl nodded.  “In a way it still is.”

“What way do you mean?”

“Every adult who lives here was once an inmate.”

“What of the children?”

“We still have them, but they’re not orphans exactly.”

I thought it over.  “That’s an interesting point.  How does a place cease to be an orphanage?”

“Without closing down, you mean?  But we have closed down.  Belinda gave our license back to the city.”  She gestured around her.  “Frazier Haven is only an apartment house these days.”  She grinned.  “It’s still full of orphans, but now they’re all adult.”

“Voluntarily staying on, I gather?”

She nodded.  “One big, happy family.  All the malcontents left.  The rest of us like each other and this place.  It takes care of us and we take care of it.”

“Then it’s more than an apartment house.”

“Well, yes.  Three squares a day and all the entertainment you can stand.  It has financial advantages, too.  We buy lots of things in discount quantities.  The rent is low.  We’ve even got our own doctor.”

“Really!  How many are you?”

“I … I’m not sure.  More than 20.  And everyone contributes.”

“I take it most have outside jobs.”

“Right, even Belinda, though she won’t admit it.  Do you wonder how I can be loafing in the parlor?”

“Well, of course it’s none —”

“I’m a waitress.  Thursday and Friday are my days off.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re loafing.”  I nodded toward her book.  “What’s the problem with Wednesdays?”

Jane snorted.  “A man, of course.”

“Who she only sees on Wednesday?”

“Right.  She’s a waitress, like me.  He only comes in on Wednesdays.”

“Well, she’s got six other days.”

“That she spends pining for Mr. Wednesday.  She keeps spurning the others.  She’s stupid.  Some of the others are cute.”

“You wouldn’t make that mistake, would you?”

She shook her head.  “Every girl wants a man she can fall for all the way.”  She smiled wryly.  “My mistakes are more the other kind.”

“Short falls?”

“And too often.”  She grinned at me appraisingly.  “I love ’em all.”

I returned her grin.  “A generous woman!  That’s the best kind.”

“As long as they don’t want money.”

If I’d thought of a smart retort to that we might have explored her idea of generosity more fully.  I said, “That piano in tune?”

“Could you tell the difference?”

I went to it and struck the two B-flat octaves at either end, then ran a three or four octave F-diminished arpeggio.  It sounded good to me.  Typical of a grand, the bass B-flat was crisp.  Why not?  It was a Steinway.

When I turned around, Jane was lighting a cigarette.  She cocked a thin eyebrow at me over a puff of smoke.  “Guess you can.  It gets tuned every couple months.  We have three musicians living here.”

I might have showed off a bit more if she hadn’t said that.  I asked, “Professionals?”

She grinned.  “They do other things, too.  Want a cigarette?”

“No, thanks.  I quit a few years ago.”

“Really?  What made you?”

I had to grin.  “Made?”

She nodded.  “Nobody ever quits unless something makes them.”

She had a point.  “You could call it exasperation.”

“Hmm.  Would it work for me?”

“It might.  I ran out in a place where none was available.  You know how that feels, don’t you?  It was exasperating that anything should have such a hold on me.  So I broke it.”

“Simple as that, eh?”  She shook her head.  “Lot’s of things have holds on me.  I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“One at the time.”

She grinned slowly.  “But I like things to hold me.”

Though a bit thin, she’d probably be nice to hold.  “Bet the things enjoy it.”

“Some seem to,” she admitted.  “Do you dance, too?”

“A little.  Whenever I find a girl with two right feet.”

She grinned.  “That’s cute.  But wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Wouldn’t she need two left feet, the same as you?  Unless you only dance behind her…  I hear Belinda, so it’s time to ask how well I’ve done my duty.”

I grinned back.  “You’ve entertained me, if that’s what you mean.”

“Gave you everything you wanted?”

I faked surprise.  “Was that your duty?”

She didn’t smile.  “Yes,” she said solemnly.

Belinda stuck her head in the door.  “This is ridiculous, Harry.  My ex-fiancé, and I don’t even know what you like to drink!  But you must be very thirsty.”

“I am!  Anything cold and wet will do.”

“Good!  Then you’ll like this.”  She advanced into the room, bearing a tumbler in each hand.  Ice tinkled.  One went to Jane, one to me.  “Excuse me again.  We’ll eat in about ten minutes.  Jane will show you where to freshen up.”

“Thanks!  You’re very thoughtful.  Maybe I should reconsider.”  I took a sip as she snorted and swished out of the room.  “Lemonade?” I wondered to Jane, busy crushing out her cigarette.  Then I tasted the juniper.

“And about a quarter gin,” she grinned, taking a generous slug.

“Refreshing,” I admitted and attacked my thirst with large swallows.

Jane was staring at me.  “‘Ex-fiancé?’”

“We were briefly engaged while we walked here from the bus stop.”

She has a habit, I think, of forming a grin slowly as she thinks something over.  This time it became a leer.  “She’s easier than that.”

“You think so?”

“We all are.”

“Is that characteristic of orphans?”

“Anything for a hug!  Why did you back down?”

“How do you know it was me?”

“Because I know Belinda.”

I shrugged.  “Too serious a joke.”

She chuckled, grinning at me speculatively.  I stood up.  “Where’s that place to freshen up?”

She stood with me and took my empty glass.  She led me to the next door down the hall and pushed it open, disclosing a large carpeted room with a couch, two matching overstuffed chairs, a coffee table — and a queen-sized bed whose counterpane matched the drapes.

“This is our guest room, one of them.  Consider it yours.  Leave your stuff here.  Nobody will bother it.”

“Nice,” I remarked, following her in.  She closed the door behind me, crossed the room and opened another door.  “Has its own john.  Excuse me a moment.”

She disappeared inside and closed that door.  I turned to look at a large painting on the wall — print actually — of many children swimming in a rustic water hole, done in Currier and Ives style, except old C&I would never have published this.  These children were unabashedly naked, boys and girls together, gender only too readily distinguishable.  One boyish figure stood on the pond bank, leaning back and pissing proudly into the water, while a couple of girls stared curiously.  The title, on a small brass plate, was July Frolic.  The painter’s scrawled name was illegible but it was dated 1913.

Speaking of piss, the unmistakable sound of it falling into water emanated from beyond Jane’s closed door.  Casting back, I decided the last woman to urinate so detectably near me on such short acquaintance was a Vietnamese whore, and in that case the acquaintance, though brief, had already been thorough.  Was Jane sending a message?  Or was this merely the easy informality of someone accustomed to well mixed company?

A toilet flushed and Jane emerged while the tank was refilling.  She grinned at me, hand on my arm apologetically.  “I’d been putting it off.  Hope you’re not hard up, too.”

“Ah, no.  It’s all right.”

“I hear the others gathering.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait for you and we’ll go to dinner.”

It’s possible for a careful man to piss silently into the dry front of the toilet bowl.  On this occasion I spouted noisily into the center.  I outlasted her, of course;  a man’s stream is thinner.

Jane grinned at me when I rejoined her.  “You did have to!  Are you one of those guys who typically runs all day without a stop?”

“Maybe.  I never thought about it.”

“Men have so many advantages!”

“Women have some, too,” I countered.

“Only with a man’s help.”

“Careful!” I warned sardonically.  “The feminists will take away your union card.”

“No feminists here, Harry.”

I had to grin.  “That’s right:  you said all the malcontents had left.”

She chuckled.  “You got it!  Come along and meet the other orphans.”

I followed her down the hall to an obvious dining room.  It was at least 40 by 20, with a long oaken table down the middle but offset toward one end, leaving a third of the room curiously unused.  Several people were already seated or in the process of taking seats.  Bantering voices rose all around it.

The table was set with china plates, silverware wrapped in paper napkins and tumblers of ice.  Short-stemmed wine glasses appeared alongside several plates but not all.  Moisture-beaded pitchers of lemon-laced iced tea stood near either end, along with opened wine bottles.  As I arrived Annie and another woman were delivering a steaming lasagna tureen as the centerpiece.  A spicy, cheesy aroma filled the air.

Conversation quickly died away.  Everyone turned to look at me as Jane led me toward an end of the table.  She grinned around and said smugly, “Look what I caught!”

“Atta girl!”  “Way to go!”  Several shouts greeted that announcement, all women’s voices.  I counted four men and lots of women, at least a dozen.

“To tell the truth —” Jane would have continued but was interrupted by, “Why do that?” and “Show us your hook!”

“Actually, Belinda caught him.  I just reeled him in.”

They tittered appreciatively.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Frazier Haven, may I present Mr. Harry Stone, likely but so far unverified —”

She paused for effect, which generated a roar of laughter and “Well, check it out, girl!”  Damned if they all weren’t leering!  I discovered that my secret delight in the “hairy stone” pun does not survive public scrutiny.

Jane laughed with the rest, then added, “I can’t tell you much about him — yet.  Belinda invited him.  She gave me the high sign to make him one of us.  I didn’t ask him a lot of questions.  He has to tell all only once.  But I did learn one fact that you ought to know, confirmed by Belinda as well as Harry:  he is Belinda’s ex-fiancé!”

The speculative looks increased ten-fold.  “Ex-fiancé, did you say?” asked several voices.

I raised my hand for silence and they gave it to me.  “Belinda’s not in here to defend on that charge.  It’s true that I accepted her proposal while we were walking from the bus stop, but after such a long engagement — until we reached the steps outside — she came to her senses and offered me supper instead.  I do love lasagna!”

My speech fell flat.  Frowns outnumbered smiles on the female faces.  Apparently marriage is no joking matter to these women — except Belinda.

“Annie makes the best!” declared one of the men, reaching for a wine bottle.

“That’s a fact,” seconded another.

Someone took my elbow.  It proved to be Belinda.  She said loudly, smiling broadly, “Of course we get a chance to change his mind.  Full introductions after we eat!”  Lowering her voice, she advised, “Sit next to me, Harry.”

Belinda took a seat at the head of the table, guiding me to one on her left, next to a black-haired woman with flashing, black eyes, hairy eyebrows and a hairy mole on her chin, still a looker despite that, with well padded white skin clothed in what I think the women call a “sun suit:”  a two-piece halter and shorts.  Her lipstick was almost exactly the color of her tongue.  “Call me Sophie,” she directed, looking me up and down, adding, “You’ll do better to take off that coat and tie.”

The four men were wearing short sleeved shirts, open at the neck.  I shrugged, stuck the necktie in my pocket and hung the jacket on the back of my chair.  She was right.  I would do better.

The lasagna was everything they claimed:  in a word, delicious! — so good, in fact, that for several minutes nearly all the noise at that table derived from silverware contacting plates.  I would’ve eaten enough to put me immediately to sleep if Belinda hadn’t finally rapped on her wine glass with a fork.

In the ensuing silence she said, “Jane introduced our guest briefly.  I’ve sounded him a bit deeper and I liked what I found.  I believe he’s the kind of man we ought to invite more often, if we could find more like him.”

“Where’d you meet him?” demanded a brunette across the table, a woman who had smiled at me so far every time my eye met hers.

“On the bus home.  He’s been sitting with me all week.”

“How romantic!” cried another, perhaps sarcastically.

“I thought so!” Belinda averred.  “Harry, tell us a little about yourself, please.”

I cleared my throat, took a sip of the sangria I’d thought was iced tea, and gave them the basics:  full name, age, occupation, marital status as single — though Estri would disagree — weight, education, military experience, finally that I was in town to study NSI’s new networking investment.

Sophie commented, “Which you can’t talk about, right?”

I snorted.  “Believe me:  you don’t want to hear about it.”

She nodded, then smiled.  “But what do you like, Harry?”

I looked around.  They were all waiting expectantly.  I’m known for putting my foot in it at opportunities such as this, but I started out playing it coy.  “Lasagna,” I declared.  “This lasagna!”

That received mixed snorts and chuckles.  Sophie cocked a dark eyebrow.  “Is that all?”

“Well, women are high on my list.”

“After lasagna?”

I pretended to consider.  “Willing women are special.”

I swear the brunette across the table licked her lips.  They were all staring silently.

Belinda said with a grin, “See what I mean?”

That produced a tolerant chuckle.  I added, “Jane has already given me to understand that this place is full of them.”

“Oh, it is!” Sophie asserted.

The man who had first praised Annie looked askance at the woman beside him.  “Sometimes altogether too willing!”

In response she threw her arms around his neck, pulled his cheek against hers and cooed, “Want me right now, Davey?”

A bark of laughter rewarded her.  Women on both sides of the other three men swarmed upon them.  Their shirts were opened in no time, hairy chests bared long enough to be covered in female hands.  I can’t remember ever before seeing such interest in male nipples.  Sophie laughed.  “Wish you could see your face!”

I tore my gaze away long enough to ask, “Why?  What do you see in it?”

“Fascination!”

Belinda rapped again on her glass.  They do take notice when she asserts authority, even in the midst of enthusiastic fondling, some of which had gone below the table, that left all players flushed and the men, I thought, embarrassed.

“We have Harry at a disadvantage.  It’s only fair that he hear from us.  Let’s start with Sophie and go around the table.”

So they introduced themselves:  sales clerks, waitresses, secretaries, a female dentist, two school teachers and a practical nurse.  I asked her if there was such a thing as an impractical nurse.  She admitted there was but claimed darkly that impractical doctors were much more common.  A young man two seats down commanded, “Stet, Nurse!”  Her chin lifted.  “Stet, my ass!”  To which the man retorted, “Ah, Jessie, you’re so impatient!”  It drew a spattering of laughter.  Must have been an in-joke.

The smiling brunette called herself Patsy, the stripper.  Wide smile.  Of paint for a furniture reconditioner.  More laughter, apparently at something they saw in my face.

After the doctor, an authentic General Practitioner, according to Belinda, despite his relative youth, two of the men claimed to be attendants at a zoo.  “Harry, get them to tell you about the monkey that stole the panties,” suggested a school teacher.  Jane snorted.  “They got the blame for it!”

The fourth man was a salesman — of women’s clothing.  “That ought to be a useful occupation,” I suggested.  “Oh, it is,” one of the clerks admitted, grinning at him.  “He gives us great discounts.”  He grinned back at her.  “Ready to earn your next fur coat, Marjorie?”  She winked at me and asked him with a leer, “Ready to play rabbit, John?”  I didn’t ask what they meant, though I could guess.  It also got a laugh.

Several claimed to be students, mostly at the main city university.  Their paying jobs were temporary, so they said.  I wondered if they would leave Frazier Haven upon graduation but forbore asking.

The turn had come around to Belinda.  She grinned at me.  “As you can see, we’re all gainfully employed.  All except me.  I’m the one who loafs.”

No one contradicted her.  I asked, “Do you spend your afternoons riding the bus?”

“Only the late afternoons.”

Sophie demanded, “Aw, tell him what you do, Bel”

Marjorie added, “We know you’re not ashamed of it.”

Belinda squared her shoulders.  She stared at me.  “I push condoms on teenage girls.”

Everyone was silent.  They were all looking at me.

“Girls?” I wondered.

“Girls.  Teenage boys tend to use them as water balloons.”

“You work for the schools?”

She shook her head.  “The city.  I’m a volunteer, Harry.”

I studied her.  “A controversial job, I take it.”

“Yes, it is.  I’ve been threatened with assault.  They say I encourage their daughters to have sex.”

“Which she does, of course,” declared John, the clothing seller.  “Shut up!” chorused several women.

“They’ll screw anyway,” Belinda retorted.  “Teenage pregnancies in this town are out of hand.  I’d put them all on the pill, but the city says that’s too expensive.”

“‘Out of hand!’” chortled another man.  “That’s exactly the problem!”

“‘Too expensive!’” I repeated, sticking in a foot after the general snort of pretended disgust.  “I happen to know the pills are twenty bucks a month and are good for any number of, ah, encounters.  The last I heard condoms were a quarter each but a lot less certain, both of deployment and reliability.  You need to get city hall to study the economics.”

One of the women, a secretary with short black hair, raised her chin and declared, “My boss thinks the city is nuts either way.  He says the girls will mostly forget to use them.  I know young girls and I think he’s right.  Let’s save the taxes.”

Belinda noted, “It’s a federal grant.”  She smiled at me.  “You see why I didn’t want to mention it.  You’re right:  it’s controversial, even here in Frazier Haven.  We’ve argued about it before.”  Her smiled widened.  “But tell me, Harry, how it is that an eligible bachelor knows the price of birth-control pills?”

In anticipation of Estri turning up hymen-less, I didn’t say.  I smiled archly back and said, “It’s a very interesting subject, Belinda.”

Sophie snorted.  “You wouldn’t be pushing them on teenagers, would you?”

She’s only twelve, again I didn’t say.  “Not teenagers, no, but otherwise every chance I get.”

The men chuckled.  Belinda cocked an eyebrow.  “You do know they only work when taken regularly.”

I admitted I did.  “Too bad they don’t have a next morning pill.”

“Isn’t it!”  She leaned back in her chair.  “So what do you think of us, Harry?”

I looked around into expectant faces.  “Frankly, I think there’s a lot you aren’t telling me.”

“Such as?”

“Well, Jane claimed you have three musicians among you, but so far no one has admitted to that vice.”

She grinned and turned to one of the zoo keepers, a short guy with a young face but incongruously bald crown.  “What about it, Paul?”

He shrugged.  “I play fill-in trumpet in a gig now and then, mostly for the fun of it.  A lot of us play the piano.  Mr. Frazier made sure we all had the opportunity to study it.  Robert is the only one who makes a living at it.  He’s on the road right now.  Jane, who else did you mean?”

Jane took the cigarette from her mouth and said, “Me.”

Paul grinned.  “If anyone considers your bag of wind a musical instrument.”

Jane tossed her head indignantly.  Belinda smiled.  “Jane plays the bagpipes — despite her clogged lungs, would you believe.  Whenever the local Scots have a parade, she’s in great demand.”

Paul added, “So long as she practices in the basement.”

But Jane was not insulted.  She leered at Paul.  “Thought you liked the way I blow!”

Damned if he didn’t blush!  They all laughed.  Sophie called, “Just what is it that you practice in the basement?”  Several voices rose with speculative answers.

During the show and tell, Annie, assisted by several diners, had cleared the table.  We had been offered peach cobbler but most, including me, declined.  Now a large coffee pot was making the rounds.  As Belinda passed it to me, she said quietly.  “Irish coffee, Harry, very fresh and heavily reinforced.”

“Sounds interesting.”  I sighed.  “Unfortunately I never learned to enjoy coffee.”

 “Want something cold?”

“A coke would be great, if you have it.”

“How about rum and coke?”

“Wonderful!”

She beckoned to Annie and issued the order.  It appeared almost immediately.  “Thank you,” I told Annie, then repeated it to Belinda, adding, “You certainly take good care of your guests.”  She grinned at me.  “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Harry.”

“Rum with a little coke” would have described it better, with a dollop of crushed ice.  It was laced with cinnamon, an interesting touch.  I drank it all and chewed the remaining ice.  The coffee pot continued to circulate.  I noted that Annie substituted a refill whenever an old pot completed its round.  When I put down my empty glass, a full one replaced it within seconds.

Belinda raised her voice.  “It’s Friday night, you know.”

There was a chorus of yeas, then silence.  She continued, “Friday night is traditionally fun and games, Harry.  We have a rotating queen of games.  Tonight our practical nurse, Jessie, is it.  Take it away, Jessie!”

The woman who’d declared doctors more impractical than nurses stood up and smiled at us.  She had short dark hair and looked thirtyish.  Her cheeks were bright pink with rouge.  She wore a shapeless gray short-sleeve dress with red piping on collar and sleeves that made me presume it a uniform despite the carelessly unbuttoned neck.

She said, “It’s customary to make a little speech to get folks in the mood.  When I decided to do something else, I didn’t know Belinda would invite an outsider.  But she knows what we do on Fridays;  she’s done as much of it as anyone!”  Jessie was looking directly at me.  “She must think we won’t shock you too much, Harry.  I hope she’s right.  Music, Maestro!”

Paul raised a trumpet from his lap and blew a fanfare, but all eyes were on Jessie.  She backed away from the table, bent down and grabbed the hem of her uniform, then jerked it over her head in one smooth motion, throwing it behind her.  She stood forth in a toothy smile, a red-ribboned black corset supporting sheer black hose, and nothing else — except the patent black high heels she must have been wearing all along, though unnoticed by me.

Everyone at the table clapped for her, even me, if belatedly after noting her full breasts with large, crinkled nipples red as her cheeks, doubtlessly for the same reason, and lushly uncropped pubic hair.  Amid the chorus of catcalls and cheers most faces grinned around at me to see my reaction.  I made sure to clap and cheer loud as any, but Sophie’s wry smile told me I hadn’t fooled everyone.

I learned then that the dining room was equipped with a public address system.  Loud and frenzied strains of Offenbach’s Cancan flooded the air.  Jessie began to bounce and kick in time to it.  I think my mouth fell open.  Clothed or not, I’ve never seen straight-legged high kicks done better.  There’s nothing shapelier than a well-fleshed female leg seen from underneath.  And I hasten to report that a red-mouthed pussy detracts not a whit from the charm of it!  Nor did the heavy boobs waltzing all over the corset top.

Sophie bent close and shouted into my ear, “That’s how it’s supposed to be done!”

“My god, yes!” I shouted back.  “But she’s great!”

“She used to be a Rockette.”

I could believe it, though I doubted Radio City taught her to match rouge shade to pussy interior.

Her performance was inspiring.  Several women leapt to their feet, throwing clothing right and left, and aligned themselves with Jessie.  None kicked nearly as well, but I heard no complaint.  What a spectacle of bouncing tits and gaping pussies!  Paul abandoned his trumpet, shrugged out of his clothing, and joined the end of the line.  He kicked fairly high, but a flopping dick appeals only to the absurd, though the remaining women cheered harder for some reason.  I realized that no one, at least none of the performers, had brought underwear to this dinner.

The recording concluded with its smashing crescendo.  A lot of gasping women, red-faced with exertion, returned to their seats, along with one man.  Jessie leaned forward, hands braced on the tables, long breasts drooping, and grinned at me.  She stopped panting long enough to ask, “What about that, Harry?”

“Bravo!” I called, raising clasped hands.  “Great kicks!”

“Thank you.”  Her eyes flashed at Belinda.  “Our directress’s judgment proves sound once again.”

Once again!  I wondered briefly who sat here last!

Not only a PA system, this room was also equipped with lighting SCRs, I discovered, as the chandeliers dimmed.  Everyone settled down.  Belinda rose long enough to turn her chair around.  Aha!  Something was about to happen in the unused third of the room.

The lights went all the way down to pitch black.  Enough filtered in from the hall to barely make out Belinda’s profile and a hint of moving figures in the open area.  Music began, very soft at first but easily recognized:  Ravel’s Bolero.  Slowly the lights came up to expose a couple dancing close in each other’s arms.

As it brightened they were revealed as fully nude except for satin ballet slippers:  the ones with fat, blocked toes that let the dancers perform comfortably en point.  I don’t know much about ballet, except a few phrases such as that one — fortunately, as they were up on their toes most of the time.

The ballet I’ve seen impressed me with the dancers’ grace and the emotional power of their poses.  But the ballerinas are usually so skinny and titless — for which no doubt the men who hoist them are grateful.

I would not have picked Bolero for a ballet, but what we saw was not your ordinary pas de deux.  In the first place, this was no skinny woman.  Thin, yes, but respectably tittied-out.  My god, I suddenly recognized Jane, the one-girl welcoming committee, the well-blowing bagpiper, the human chimney! — now proven to be a natural blonde.  When had she left the table?  The man was the quieter zoo-keeper, now seen to be the same height as Jane.  Did he wrestle gorillas?  He seemed hairy and muscular enough!

They parted and executed several separate pirouettes, at the end of each rubbing their bodies together sensuously, all well-timed with the music, gradually growing louder.  Finally as they came together, she leapt up onto his bent knee and from there to his shoulders, as graceful and well executed a gymnastic maneuver as I ever saw.  She turned around to face in the same direction and dropped to her knees, still on his shoulders.  He caught her hips and lowered her, head down, along the front of his body, smoothly, all in the same motion.  Her legs and feet straightened horizontally into an upside-down double arabesque, if there is such a thing, and he buried his face in her muff.

Up en point he went and began a very slow pirouette.  God, how could his toes bear both their weights?  As they turned in profile, she was seen clearly sucking his dick, jaws working, elbows pressed to her sides, hands flat in his thighs, lifting his balls.  This was a vertical 69 — except in ballet I guess you have to call it soixante-neuf.

His pirouette whirled faster, wobbling a bit.  He stopped, again in profile to us.  His hands slid down her back to her shoulders.  Slowly — god, how slowly! — her hips and legs arced away from his wet face.  Her feet came together.  As she neared the horizontal plane her legs bent at the knees, all very slowly.  Her feet reached the floor en point.  Her arms rose to wrap his.  Otherwise her nipples were the highest points of her body.  Her head, now bent far back, remained upside down, his dick still in her mouth, jaws still working.

An arm went around my shoulder and warm breath tickled my ear.  Sophie said barely loud enough to be heard above the rising music, “Are you trying to catch a fly?”

I snapped my mouth closed to her chuckle.  She confided, “They both are seconds in the metropolitan ballet.”

I turned to look at her dancing eyes.  “Waitress and zoo-keeper!  Is everyone here so much more than they admit?”

“Not everyone.  I, for example, am just a librarian.”

“Thought you were a secretary!”

“Oh, is that what I said?”  She grinned.  “Since I retired as a call girl my tongue hasn’t kept up.”

“God, I don’t believe it!”

“But I was!”

“No, I mean — his dick’s hard!”

In front of us the dancers had separated long enough to demonstrate that fact in brief separate pirouettes.  Not just hard, this one was long!

But sticking straight out, its own little arabesque, after all that?  Sure, she’d been sucking like a vacuum cleaner, but so much weight — balancing on his toes, spinning them both around in front of a crowd …  I shook my head, would’ve taken my hat off if I had one.

Sophie snickered.  “Eight and three-quarter inches hard.  Can you top that?”

“No!” I retorted shortly.

She patted my shoulder.  “Fortunately that’s not usually so important.”

The dancers were back together, face to face.  Each lifted the right leg in a mutual attitude, pirouetting together.  It was apparent that he had entered her.  Here his length was important.  Only a near nine-incher could hope to maintain the penetration.  They leaned back, holding each other’s upper arms, which no doubt helped.  Bolero had reached its fastest tempo.  So had their hips.  By god, he was fucking her at full gallop, so to speak!

Suddenly her legs came up and wrapped his buttocks.  His hands caught her hips.  She leaned back slowly, reprising her earlier maneuver, until her hands were flat on the floor.  This time her pubes were the highest points of her body.  Now flatfooted, he fucked her like a berserk pile driver as the music crescendoed.

His hips stopped and they held the pose for the last few seconds.  When silence fell, she rose up briskly with his help and stepped away.  They turned side-by-side to face us as the lights swelled to full brightness.  His circumcised dick head glittered.

I was shouting and clapping with the rest of them.  The two dancers bowed several times, obviously pleased with the response.  Jane grinned at me smugly and said something to her partner.  He slipped behind her and lifted her easily with his hands under her bent knees.  The pussy gaped and dropped a white blob on the floor.  The crowd went wild.  What a man!  It seemed he’d even managed to come.

Thinking it over now, I guess she could’ve faked it by squirting something into her snatch as the dance ended, which would be quite a coup itself.  Where could she have hidden the squeeze bulb — in her shoe?

The dancers resumed their seats at the table, drinking thirstily from dark iced pitchers.  Sophie filled me a glass.  Sangria again, but with more kick.  I said to her, “If I drink another of these, I’ll never find my hotel.”

She smiled.  “Tonight this is your hotel!”

Jessie stood and rapped on the table.  When most of the commotion subsided, she said with a grin, “I think we’re in the mood!”

She was repaid with a chorus of catcalls.  She grinned at me.  “Harry, have you fallen into a den of iniquity?”

I knew the right answer to that one.  “If not, where do I jump?”

That drew an approving bark of laughter.  Jessie pointed to Belinda.  “She’ll tell you where.”

Belinda smiled.  Her glance swept the table before returning to me.  She said, “You’ve got a wide choice.”

There was a chorus of soprano yeas, flattering but oddly disquieting.  I felt my face heat up.  Sophie grinned.  “What a pretty blush!”

Jessie raised her voice.  “Which brings us to the next part of our program.  Ethel, you got the blindfolds?”

An otherwise naked woman at the far end of the table held up some black cloths.  “Right here.  Let’s make Davey first.”

I turned to see how Davey reacted but found Belinda’s hand on my arm.  She leaned close.  “Harry, let’s talk.”

“Isn’t it a bit noisy?”

“More than a bit.”  She stood up.  “Come on.”  She pointed to someone down the table and gestured to follow.

I stood with her, wondering how the considerable booze I’d taken on would affect me.  Thankfully everything remained steady.  Jessie turned away from mediating some dispute about Davey to call, “Jump hard!”

I grinned foolishly, letting Belinda lead me away. Patsy, the smiling paint stripper, now naked even to bare feet, was rounding the table to follow us.  Sophie called, “Come back soon.”

I waved to them as we passed the door.  I’d forgotten my coat and tie.

We didn’t go far, only to the guest room where I’d left my briefcase.  Belinda said, “Excuse me a moment,” and disappeared into the adjoining john.  I looked at Patsy, taking better notice.  Her brown hair was full around her neck.  She was a tall woman, full bodied with drooping breasts and huge brown nipples.  Underbreasts and belly were etched with bluish mother’s marks.  She blushed at my scrutiny and turned her face away, but her brown eyes flashed back to me.  She said, eyes dropping demurely, “I’d like to see you, too.”

I grinned.  “It’s not nearly so attractive a sight.”

She corrected me, “I used to be attractive.”

That hook will always catch a compliment, true or not.  “‘Used to be!’  You still are, Patsy.”  In this case it was true enough, despite the creases — which I’ve always considered badges of honor anyway.  “What’s your full name?”

“Patsy Frazier.”  She grinned.  “Didn’t you know?  We’re all Fraziers.”

“Is that right!  Do orphans typically adopt the name of their orphanage?”

“I don’t know about other orphanages.  We did.”  A hand went to her pubes and lifted.  Anxiety appeared on her face.  “I hope Belinda hurries up.”

“While we’re waiting, do you know the name of this painter?”  I indicated the waterhole scene.

She shook her head slowly.  “I’ve heard but I don’t remember.  Do you like it?”

“Well, its subject matter is … unusual.  And, yes, it’s sunny and bright.”

“There’s a lot more upstairs.”

“By the same painter?”

“Yes.  Kids fooling around.  Mr. Frazier liked that, too.”

I protested hastily, “I didn’t say —”

Belinda burst out of the bathroom, leaving the toilet flushing.  Patsy pushed past her hurriedly, turned around and plopped onto the seat, staring at me without bothering to close the door.

Belinda backed up to me.  “Why should I strain?” she asked.

I wondered, “Is it possible you want me to undo your buttons?”

“Of course.”

“With pleasure.”  But it wasn’t, except intellectually.  Her satiny blouse was fastened with tiny pearl buttons every inch or so along one side of the join.  The other side was furnished with matching loops of cord instead of buttonholes.  I discovered that each cord had been twisted once before passing over its button.  Women do like to make things hard!  Unfastening them required both hands and careful twisting.  Long fingernails would have been useful.  I remarked, “Not so easy to get you naked, milady.”

She retorted, “That’s why I wear a skirt.”

Well, yes, still the same clothing I’d first seen on the bus.  She wore a brassiere but no other underclothing.

“Guess it’s cooler without underpants,” I suggested.

“Think so?”  She grinned crookedly.  “For your information, I left them in your john.”

Patsy emerged from that room with bath towels to drape over a chair.  Belinda was removing her bra.  “Help the slow poke,” she directed, disclosing breasts larger than I’d suspected, with small dark nipples thrusting from heavily crinkled areolas.  Did she have a penchant for exhibitionism?

Patsy reached for my shirt buttons.  Because of the starched shirt front she had nearly the same trouble.  I let her worry them while removing everything below the waist myself.  At last the shirt came off.  Her fingernails tickled my ribs as she raised the T-shirt over my head.  It was all very natural, as if these women and I had been undressing each other for years.  I felt no awkwardness, no strangeness.  Must’ve been the booze.  Yet I remember it blow-by-blow.

I had wanted to see Belinda nude.  She was everything I’d imagined and more.  She may well be the shapeliest woman I ever saw:  narrow waist, broad hips and shoulders, tapering legs, velvet skin, not a bone visible anywhere.  No mother’s marks on this one!

Both women pressed against me.  Belinda turned her face up.  Patsy was nearly tall as I.  All I could think to say was, “Thought you wanted to talk.”

“Talk!” Patsy gibed with a grin.

“I did,” Belinda admitted.  “And we will.  Kiss us first.”

The royal us?  But, no, when I bent my mouth to hers, Patsy bent also.  My hitchhikers had taught me about three-way kisses.  Powerful stuff, even without using tongues, but unmatched playfulness and darting surprise when you add them.  Opportu­nities to practice are seldom, because in my experience women compatible to each other at that game are rare.  I suppose a woman wanting to indulge could claim it even stronger about two men.  The hitchhikers had been compatible and obviously so were these two.  It stiffened me.  Patsy felt it and took me in hand.

Belinda was the first to pull away.  “Oh, I love that, Harry!”

“So do I!”

“We can tell…  Harry, I’ve got a problem.”

“Not a headache!”

“No.  Worse.  It’s my time of the month.”

“Wh-what?”

“That’s why I asked Patsy to join us.  It’s obvious she’s smitten by you.  And Patsy is special.”

“I, uh —”

“Let her tell you why.”

The tall woman pressed firmly against me, her arm about my waist pulling my hip into her belly.  She said softly, “I’m a submissive, Harry.”

“A submis—”

“Sex is different for me.  I feel it all over from the least touch of this sweet thing.  I love everything you do to me, even if it hurts, when you use this.  I can give you everything that other women won’t.”

I lifted one of her huge nipples.  “How many children have you born, Patsy.”

She looked at my hand.  Lumps suddenly appeared throughout the areola.  Her eyes studied me as she admitted, “Seven.”

Belinda sniffed.  “She said she was submissive!  What did you expect?  But seven is enough, even for her.  She had her tubes tied after the last.”

“Did each of them nurse here?” I asked, fingering the prominent nipple.

“Oh, yes!” she breathed.

Belinda grinned.  “A romantic, are you, Harry?”

“I admire the female body,” I admitted, “and femaleness in general.  Giving suck to a babe is … impressive.”

“Want to play babe?”

“Eh?”

“Show him, Patsy.”

Her hand enclosed my fingers, increasing the compression.  A fine white spray jetted from the nipple.  She chuckled at my wide eyes.  “I’m still nursing my last,” she confided.  “Taste me.”

“I wouldn’t want to deprive —”

“I’ve got plenty, Harry.  He’s about to be weaned anyway.”

Human milk is thin but sweet.  Patsy’s flowed easily into my sucking mouth.  I felt the vibration in her flesh and heard her murmur, “Oooh!  He pulls hard.”

Belinda asked curiously, “You still like it, don’t you?”

“Yes …  But it’s not sexual.”

“You mean —?”

“Holding his prick is sexual, even in just my hand.  But this feels good another way.”

“What way?”

“I don’t know how to tell you.  Bel, if you want to find out — and every woman should — you’ll have to get off the pill.”

“Who’d run this place while I was playing mother?”

“Jessie might, or even Sophie — the day-to-day stuff.  You owe it to yourself.”

“Maybe.”  From the corner of my eye I saw her grin.  “But not just to give suck to a man.  I’d rather suck him.”

She knelt before us and half-swallowed my dick.  Patsy didn’t relinquish it.  She only flattened her hand, finger and thumb around the base, to give the other room.  Sucking — and getting a mouthful — while being sucked was an interesting and unique experience for me, though nothing special in regard to sexual tension.

Belinda knows something about dicks.  She felt the slight premonitory swelling and backed away with a chuckle.  “This one is ready to pop.  Your turn, Patsy.”

The tall woman inserted a finger between my lips and the soft curve, deftly breaking the suction as she has doubtlessly done many times for all seven of her children — as well as every man in Frazier Haven, I suspect.  She immediately knelt beside her mistress and swallowed the whole thing:  the third deep throat of my experience after Eunice and Anelda.  I haven’t tried it myself but surmise that only long practice overcomes the gag reflex;  Eunice and Anelda admitted practicing for years.  Even my dick is too long not to pass the uvula and strike the sensitive back of the throat.  It does strike it — I can feel that — and goes beyond.

On the deepest strokes I can feel it pass another gentle constriction.  Looking at anatomical drawings doesn’t reveal it.  I’ve thought it might be the pharyngeal muscles, used in true swallowing, but they’re beyond the epiglottis, the flap that closes the windpipe.  How could anyone stand penetration so deep as that?

Patsy took every scrap of my average instrument, and then some.  Her nose crushed into the pad above the dick while her tongue licked behind my balls.  I had to be choking her!  Her head bobbed swiftly back and forth but no more than half an inch.  Such shallow pistoning at such deep penetration was new to me.  Even less could I imagine how she tolerated the fast repeated choking.  Of course, she didn’t have to bear it long.

She withdrew completely after the first spurt and popped the head into Belinda’s gaping mouth.  The second spurt never saw the light of day either.  Belinda pushed it back to Patsy for the third.  Too late.  It painted their adjacent cheeks.  Thereafter they passed it back and forth, both giggling.  Belinda’s mouth was last to close over it.  She cleaned it off, her rasping tongue forcing me to shudder and back away.

They both grinned up at me, my ejaculate glistening around their mouths.  A blob of it dangled from the end of Belinda’s nose.  Two such faces is a sight I haven’t seen since Vietnam.  These weren’t whores, though for such one-sided joy payment of one kind or another is always required.

“God!” I exclaimed.

Patsy chuckled.  “He’s a juicy one.”

Belinda asked, “Been a while, Harry?”

“You know it.  Patsy, you are a marvel!”

“Thank you.  I love to give head.”

“You give the best,” I admitted.  “Guess you have to love it, to do it so well.  But why?”

“I told you.  I love wherever it touches me, but in the mouth is special.”

Huh!  As if she thought that explained it!

Both of them stood up.  Belinda retrieved a towel to dry their faces.  Her eyes flashed at me.  “Patsy has made a study of it.”

“A study?”

“Someday she may write a book.”

“About what?  You don’t mean giving head!”

“But I do!  Called The Art of Fellatio.”

Thinking it over, I had to nod.  “You’re right, it’s not so simple as people think.  Tilt your head back, Patsy.”  I leaned toward the tall woman, spanned from her lips to the middle of her throat with pinkie to thumb and held up the results.  “About five inches,” I guessed.  “I’m longer than that, Patsy.  How the hell did you do it?”

Her eyes sparkled.  “It’s not hard.  Anyone can.”

“Can they?  According to one of the Roman writers, a slave with a clean finger was available at banquets to help guests prepare for the next course by emptying their bellies.”

Belinda grunted.  “Should’ve used his prick.”

“I mean, the gag reflex is well known.  Why don’t you have it, Patsy?”

“I did at first.”  She smiled.  “I started out practicing with a banana.”

Belinda asked, “Didn’t you ever hear of sword swallowers?”

“I thought they were fakes.”

“Fakes?  You mean, blades that slide into the handle?”

“Sure.”

“Maybe they are.  But Patsy can swallow all of Davey’s, too.”

“The ballet dancer?”

“All nine inches.”

I guess it depends on who measures it.  I shook my head, then asked Patsy, “Do you ever demonstrate?”

“Oh, no!” she cried, eyes widening.  She actually shuddered.

Belinda chuckled and laid her hand on the other woman’s shoulder.  “Patsy is a very shy person.  She’ll do anything for you, but only in private.”

Patsy’s eyes glittered at me.  “You think I’m horrible, don’t you?”

I always learn the rules the hard way.  I declared, “No, dear, I’ve already told you:  I think you’re marvelous.”  I slipped my arm around her shoulders, pulled us together and kissed her flaccid lips.  In a moment they firmed up.  She was smiling again when I released her.

Suddenly I had to ask.  “Why did you practice with a banana?”

“To win the prize,” she answered promptly.

“And the attention,” Belinda added.  “Why are we standing here in the middle of the floor?  Let’s get comfortable.”

We could hardly be more comfortable in regard to clothing.  I quickly discovered that she meant horizontal orientation.  She and Patsy jumped on the bed ahead of me.  For an instant Belinda’s butt was turned up to me and I glimpsed the little blue tag in hairy nether lips.  They turned on their backs and I slid between them, meaning to pull a feminine head onto either shoulder.  I succeeded with Belinda but Patsy had another plan.  She rotated her body to lie on her belly, shoving her legs straight out to the side, and bent over my hip.  Her brown hair mounded on my belly and thighs.  A wet dick gets cold as it shrinks and dries.  Suddenly mine grew warm again as a tongue demanded its attention.

Belinda kissed my chin.  Her breast lay against my arm as her hand stroked my chest.  She said conversationally, “By now you should be curious about the real Frazier Haven.”

I grinned at her and kissed her forehead.  “Isn’t that where we’ve been?”

“No.  What you’ve seen is just the safety-valve.”

“The what?”

“We have a lot of people living here, Harry, in very close proximity.  They don’t have to live so close;  this old place has plenty of room.  They do it by choice.”

“Jane said all the malcontents have departed.”

“That’s essentially correct.  What’s left is as compatible a group as you’ll find, I’m convinced, anywhere on the planet.  But we do have a problem.”

“For which you need a safety-valve?”

“No.  Everyone needs a safety-valve.  And it needs the chance to pop.  My father recognized it long ago.  He established the institution of Friday night as the time anything goes — so long as you don’t break skin or furniture.  We’ve stylized it a bit over the years.  It’s evolved into an orgy, as you saw — a somewhat organized sexual free-for-all.  If you develop the hots for pretty Sally during the week, Friday night is your chance to indulge them.  Jane was right in that, too.  All our Sallys are willing for almost everything.  And if one isn’t, Patsy is.  But it serves another function, too.  If you have a problem and want everyone to help you consider it, you’re welcome to raise it then.  Friday night is the only time all of us make an effort to sit down at dinner together.”

“What happens during the week?”

“Typical married life, Harry.  As I said, the real Frazier Haven.”

“Married!  You people are married?”

“Most of us.  All very legal — on paper, at least.  Did Jane tell you that all of us have the same last name?  That was Father’s doing, too, though everyone was given the chance to change at age eighteen.  The ones who remain, the compatible ones, of course wanted to keep it.

“In fact we’re all married to each other.  It’s a form of group marriage, also called ‘complex marriage.’  You may have heard of the Oneida Community.  We practice their kind of marriage:  that is, every woman here is the wife of every man, and every man the husband of every woman.”

“Who’s on the Procreation Committee?”

“The what?”

“You’re right:  I’ve read about Oneida Community.  Noyes was very emphatic that it didn’t practice free love.  They had a committee that decided who got to screw.”

She nodded, grinning.  “I remember it.  Our people would never stand for that.”

“Then who decides?”

“They do!”

“Then who referees the fights?”

“That’s where the compatibility comes in.  You’re exactly right:  that’s the big reason we’ve lost people.  Somebody wanted to screw but the chosen partner didn’t.  Or didn’t want the partner to screw somebody else.  That seldom bothers us any more, thank heaven!  They’ve settled down to more or less constant partners.  Patsy, how’s your survey coming?”

The brunette released my dick long enough to answer, “They said I was too pesty.  I gave up.”  She popped it back into her mouth, almost full sized again.

“Survey?” I asked.

“Patsy wanted to record who went with whom and how often.  Too bad, but they complained to me, too.  What information she got suggests that they rarely stray.  Except on Friday.  All the men get royally screwed on Friday.”

“You only have four?”

“Six.  One is in a traveling orchestra and Ernest is minding the kids.  By choice, would you believe!  That tells me something.”

“That he likes kids a lot!  Wait a minute:  what kids?”

She smiled.  “You haven’t seen our kids, Harry.  We have 27 at various ages and four others expected.  Didn’t you notice?  One of Jessie’s Cancan assistants had a belly out to here.”

“That’s why she didn’t take her skirt off!”

“Well, she held it up.”

“Hmm.  Paternity must be complicated here.”

“Oh, it is!  But, do you know, the anthropologists claim that babies start off resembling their fathers’ families more than their mothers’.  That helps a lot, because that’s just about the only clue our women ever have.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it,” she agreed.  “But let’s get back to Ernest.”

“Minding the kids by choice.”

“On Friday night.  That tells me he gets too much attention.”

“I guess.”

“You know it, Harry.  We don’t have enough men.”

“Or you’ve got too many women.”

“It amounts to the same thing.”

“Well, why don’t you have enough?  More girl orphans than boy?”

“That’s how it is now, but it started out just the opposite.  When most of us were teenagers, we had twice the boys.  It seems that adopting parents prefer girls, which always annoyed Father.  He preferred girls, too, and went to great lengths making the little boys pretty on selection day.  But it didn’t work.  Visitors would take one look —  Harry, what’s the matter?”

“P-Patsy has one hell of a tongue!”

Belinda snorted impatiently.  “Well, turn over, you two, and screw right.  Patsy may have something to say, too.”

We rearranged ourselves, the women lying side-by-side, myself between Patsy’s legs.  In the process I managed one long pull on the tit I had earlier neglected, but my head, the one with the hair on it, wound up lying between Belinda’s small-nippled pair.  She stroked my back.  Patsy bent sideways to reach between us.  Her fingers worked in my balls while our hips oscillated slowly.

I asked perversely, “What do you have to say, Patsy?”

“I’m c-coming,” she stuttered.

I raised up enough to study her.  “You are?”  Indeed her face was pinker than before.  I realized that the thumb rubbing the top of my shaft was also massaging her clit.  I guessed she was feeling what the women call “little ones.”  She’s not so different as she claims.  Eunice Hollowell admitted to continual low-level orgasms.  Of course, she had the advantage of her vestibular ring.  So far as I know, Patsy doesn’t, which makes her one sex-loving broad — the very best kind!

“She’s always coming,” Belinda remarked deprecatingly.

“Don’t be jealous,” Patsy retorted, smiling despite closed eyes.

Belinda grinned at me.  “Guess I am a little, especially right now.  This is liable to make me gush.”

“You don’t have to clean the sheets,” Patsy pointed out.

“So I won’t worry about it.  Harry, what do you love besides sex?”

“Not much when I’m in the middle of it.”

She chuckled.  “I suppose not.  Got a girl friend?”

“Y-yes.”

“Several of them?”

“No.  For sure not like the guys here.”

“Hobbies?”

“Astronomy.  Reading fiction, sometimes a movie or concert.”

“Sports?”

“Not much for organized sports.  A little softball sometimes.  Guess mostly I work.  God!  It’s hard to … speak coherently.”

Belinda snickered.  “Is she squeezing your balls too hard?”

“I’m not complaining!”

“Patsy’s a little crazy about male genitals.”

“Am not!” the tall woman protested, but her gripping fingers eased.

“She’s one of the reasons we need more men,” Belinda added conversationally.  “She’d love to play with three or four at once.”

Patsy shuddered and withdrew her hand.  She twisted closer to the other woman.  I felt her tongue on my shoulder and underarm.  She pulled up her knees, raising both our buttocks.  Her heels bounced on the back of my thighs.  Her hips rotated faster, inviting me deeper.  I sank into hot, eager mush, in the center of which her sphincters clipped me.

Belinda’s chest began to vibrate.  Her expression was a grimace, eyes clenched shut.  I surmised that she was rubbing her clit.  I’ve never known a woman to do that when menstruating, but why not?  Come to think of it, I’ve seldom known women to masturbate under any conditions — no more than I would do so before them.  It’s too close to the ultimate rejection.

I raised up enough to turn their faces together and kiss them simultaneously again.  Probing tongues did the trick.  Nasal moans erupted from them with the lesser second seminal shot from me.  When all the grunting and gripping was finished, I turned over and wriggled my way between them, depositing a female head on each shoulder at last, my arms around their backs to hug them close, their tits in my sides, their legs over mine.  Patsy’s hand immediately grasped the wet dick.

Snug, I declared, “God, that was great!”

“You’re a good poke,” Patsy sighed.  I record it with relish;  women are so sparing of sexual compliments!

We lay in quiet contentment for a while.  Finally Belinda took a deep breath and said, “About our disparity …”

I squeezed them tighter and declared myself tickled with the current disparity, which drew tolerant chuckles from both women.  Belinda asked, “But how would you feel if there were four or even six women in this bed?”

“Hmm …”

“Week after week, with you expected to bring them all off?”

“As unlikely as it seems at the moment, that would probably get a little old.”

“That’s why we need more men.”

“I see.”

She sighed.  “In fact that’s only part of it, Harry.  Despite Father’s theories, I’ve reached the conclusion that the monogamists are right:  every woman needs a man of her own to depend on, fuss over, anchor herself to, even if he strays once a week.  Life is incomplete without it.  I guess it comes down to this:  we want able men for the orgy, but most of all we want men to love us … unconditionally, as we would love them.”

Her voice was soft.  She looked up at me earnestly.  I asked, “What’s your average age?”

She grunted.  “Approaching thirty, you cynic.”

“Cynic?  No, I agree with your sentiment.  Men need the same, most of them.  As you say, it’s a major part of life.  But people don’t seem to notice it until they ‘approach thirty.’”

“I think women notice earlier,” she insisted.

“Meaning that you did?”

“No, Harry.  I’m nearly the only woman here who never legally married.”

I thought it over.  “All right, I understand you have a problem.  What are you doing about it?”

“Several things.”  Her eyes twinkled.  “One is keeping an empty seat beside me on the bus while holding a book with a suggestive title.”

I stared at her.  “You didn’t!”

“Oh, yes, I did!  I laid awake for hours last night deciding how to inveigle you into conversation, since you seemed so shy.”

“You what?”

“Then you showed up with a Traveler’s Companion, which gave me all I needed.  But I’m surprised about something.  I thought all technically inclined people read Heinlein.”

“But I do!”

“Then I’m even more surprised you didn’t want to talk about my book.  It’s his latest.”

“No kidding!  I didn’t know it.  I have another treat in store for me.”

“Another?”

“After Patsy and you.”

Patsy squeezed my dick.  “You’re sweet.”

“You’re the sweet one,” I retorted, squeezing her breasts against me.  “So, Belinda, you’re saying you planned this whole evening for my benefit.”

“Not entirely.  Jessie would’ve done her thing regardless.  But I’m glad it worked out on Friday.  You saw us at our worst.”

“Huh!  If this is your worst, I’ll never stand your best.”

“Thank you … I think.  Harry, one thing on our stroll this afternoon was very ironic.”

“Hmm.  Our engagement?”

“Exactly.”

When she offered no more, I asked, “You’re saying it was serious?”

“No.  That one was only facetious.  The next will be serious.”

I took a deep breath.  “You don’t marry for sex or even love, not alone.  What’s Frazier Haven’s financial situation.”

“Effortless.”  Her voice firmed.  “My father left me wealthy, Harry.  Just the return on his investments would easily support this place.  But it only has to make up the difference.  All the orphans contribute.”

“Then you own the building outright?”

“Frazier Corporation owns it.  I own all the stock in Frazier.  What about your situation?”

“My salary is 40 grand a year, plus bonuses, and I have investments, too.  Has any other man — ah — married into the group before?”

“No.  You’d be first full member who wasn’t an orphan, wasn’t raised here.”

“You have less-than-full members?”

“The staff.  Annie Parccelli is one.  They’re salaried employees…  We’d want you to move here, Harry.”

I grinned.  “You certainly have strong inducements!  But that would be a problem.”

“Your job?  Your company has a branch here.”

“More than that:  its headquarters.”

“Well?  Couldn’t you swing a transfer?”

“I might.  Belinda, are you the only recruiter?”

“No.  But I am the one with the last word.”

“Do you have many candidates?”

“How many so far, Patsy?”

“Three,” said the tall woman, who then yawned against my chest.

Belinda explained, “Patsy is big on the welcoming committee.”

“I believe it!”

“She gets next-to-last word.”

“Oh, yeah?  Do I pass?”

“Didn’t you hear her judgment?”

I admitted I had.  Belinda raised up.  “Patsy, I’ll bet Samuel is whimpering about now.”

The tall woman released my half-hard dick slowly.  She sighed, “Probably,” slid away from me and sat up.  “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” I replied, glancing at my wristwatch.

Her eyes widened.  “God, Ernest will be furious!”

She jumped to her feet and ran out the door naked.  Of course, she’d been stark naked on arrival, too.

Belinda smiled down at me from a sitting position.  “Ernest is her legal husband.”

“What will he find so infuriating?” I wondered with more than idle curiosity.

“A neglected baby, if in fact it has been.”  Her eyebrow cocked in response to my expression.  “As to that, he’ll approve someone else feeding her appetite.”

“She seems to have plenty.”

“‘Bottomless’ is the word!  Harry, I don’t expect you to decide right away.  Some Frazier Haven business cards, really just social cards now, are on that end table.  Put one in your briefcase.  The phone number reaches me at night and on weekends, and you can leave a message any time.  How long will you be in town, by the way?”

“I have an exam Monday morning, flying out that afternoon.”

“So soon!”

And a Tuesday devoted to Estri, I didn’t add.  “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Well, think about it.  You’ll have more questions, I’m sure.  I want to answer them, Harry.”

“Obviously I am very flattered.”

“You should be.”  Her eyes narrowed.  “From what I’ve seen of society, I think we offer unique opportunities for a young man.”

“So do I,” I admitted.

“More than that.  You’re an engineer, aren’t you?  Frazier Haven would back you in business.”

No doubt my eyes widened.  She smiled.  “In the meantime, I hope you’ll spend the night, the whole weekend with us.  An exam, eh?  Well, as long as you can.  I personally assure you:  it won’t be boring.”

She got to her feet, turned around and grimaced at a hand-sized red stain on the bed.  “I have to go change this tampon.  Darn it, Harry, your timing could’ve been better!”

“I agree.  I’d love to love you, Belinda.”

She leaned down, smiling, and kissed my forehead.  “Well, as we say in Frazier Haven, one girl’s bad luck is another’s good.  We have a code you ought to know.”  Her smile widened into a leering grin.  “All you have to remember is, ‘I’ve got a headache.’”

“Uh-oh!”

She laughed, gathering up her clothes.  I hurried into the bathroom.  When I came out, Belinda was gone.  Two naked once-orphans were changing the sheets on the bed.  I was not surprised to recognize Sophie, who grinned at me and winked over swinging tits.  The other, a nearly titless blonde, I recalled from the dinner, though not her name.  She looked at my dick and ostentatiously licked her lips.  Melting ice tinkled in a tray of drinks on the end table.

Strong inducements indeed!