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Three-Way Weekend by Kitty Spencer

Chapter 1

The two young men strolling along Sutter Street might have been
brothers. Each was tall, each had the same lightly tanned, dark-haired
good looks, and the same Italian ancestry showed in the boned modeling
of both faces. But Nino and Carlo were unrelated by direct blood ties.
They considered themselves to be business partners.

They walked with easy strides toward the rows of cafe tables that lined
the garden court restaurant, ignoring the San Franciscians and tourists
who strolled past them. Typically, Carlo was half pace in the lead.

"Let’s sit here," he suggested, reaching for a chair at a back row
table. They sat down and lit cigarettes, each taking from his own pack.

Nino produced a pair of sunglasses from the breast pocket of his jacket
and put them on. It was April; the sunshine was already bright.

Carlo clicked his fingers in the direction of a white jacketed waiter
who immediately gave a nod of recognition.

"How goes it, George?" Carlo greeted the waiter as the man hurried to
the table.

"I survive," George grinned. "What’ll it be, gentlemen."

"Coffee, amico." Nino ordered the same.

The two young men leaned back in their chairs, each taking in the scene
around him with a practiced gaze. Only a third of the outdoor tables
were occupied, for the tourist season had hardly begun. There were
still more pigeons than people in the court. Simultaneously they caught
sight of the girl walking across the patio.

She was not beautiful, exactly, but she was attractive in a strangely
exciting way. Shining in the sunlight, her straight blonde hair hung
almost to her shoulders. She walked with a languid, long-legged gait,
unhurried and graceful. And her figure superb.

Twenty or twenty-one, Carlo estimated. More importantly, he could tell
at a glance that although she was casually dressed, her clothes were
undoubtedly expensive. And she possessed that air of impeccable
carelessness that belongs only to rich men’s daughters!

"Nino, my friend," Carlo murmured, leaning across the table, "Nino—
you’d better get to work. Business is already beginning to look good
this year …"

"Did you fix up about the apartment?" Nino asked. The sun blazed
momentarily from Nino’s dark glasses as the boy turned toward his
companion.

Carlo nodded.

"It’s all arranged. I checked everything with the landlord. Including
the rent. It’s ours for the season."

"How’d you get the place so cheap?" Nino’s lower lip formed a
suspicious pout.

"The landlord is a friend of mine …" Shrugging, Carlo let his voice
trail off.

Nino’s petulant expression changed into a satisfied smile. Carlo had
more "friends" in San Francisco than anyone else Nino knew. Of course,
in Carlo’s line of business, one either had friends—or one starved.
There was no middle course.

For the official record, Carlo was a tourist guide. In reality, he was
a highly versatile procurer.

Their coffee arrived, and Carlo and Nino began discussing the tourist
season as they drank it.

"Christ—but I hope it’s better than last year," Nino muttered as he
glanced toward the table where the blonde-haired girl sat. "I nearly
broke my back on those women, and not one of them turned out to be
worth more than a week’s keep."

"When one aims high," remarked Carlo, "one must be patient. This year,
maybe you’ll find your dream girl. The dream girl who’ll be young,
beautiful, rich—and very, very stupid."

Carlo grinned maliciously to himself. Nino glanced at him, annoyed, his
mouth setting in a pouting sulk. Even with his eyes hidden behind the
sunglasses, his features were expressive. Nino had long been aware that
women found his mobile features distractingly charming.

"Is Benito going to share the apartment with us?" he asked, changing
the subject.

"Probably. He’s supposed to meet us here to let us know definitely."

"I wouldn’t have thought he needed an apartment. Those rich old gals he
gets always have luxury suites in the best hotels. Or else they rent a
plush apartment."

Nino’s voice betrayed jealousy. He sometimes wished he were less
fastidious but, much as he worshipped money, he couldn’t bring himself
to court and sleep with older women. "It offends my sense of the
aesthetic," he had tried to explain to Carlo on more than one occasion.
"It’s almost like a perversion, but in reverse. If they’re older than
thirty, l can’t screw them no matter how beautiful. It won’t come up
properly." Carlo’s response had always been both lewd and
unsympathetic.

"Maybe Benito just wants some place to relax," Carlo suggested, his
tone, as it frequently was, bored and noncommittal. "His mother’s an
overpowering woman. He needs some freedom."

Two o’clock was chiming from the nearby clock tower when they saw
Benito hurrying across the patio toward them. His short, stocky figure
moved along briskly with quick, neat movements, his light brown hair
ruffled slightly in the faint breeze. He gave the impression of an
overfed bird.

"Ciao," he greeted as he dropped into a chair between Carlo and Nino.
Then, in the next breath: "Can’t stop long. I’ve got an important
appointment."

"Already?" Carlo raised an approving eyebrow.

Benito nodded. "The first of many, I hope," he smirked. "At the
Fairmont. Not bad—only a small suite, but her luggage looks
promising."

"Are you planning to include the luggage in your sex games?" Carlo
asked. The thought intrigued him momentarily; within the limited scope
of Carlo’s interests, bizarre sexuality ranked high. Benito grimaced
and helped himself to a cigarette from Carlo’s pack.

"About the apartment …" he began, as if Carlo had not spoken.
Immediately, the atmosphere changed. This was business. Carlo sat
forward in his chair.

"Yes. Here’s the deal …"

After his short explanatory statement, the three men discussed the
project community rental. At first, Benito balked at the price, then
reconsidered and finally agreed to join in, signaling his agreement
with a jabbing nod of the head.

"Done," he said. He held out his hand. Carlo clasped it briefly; so did
Nino. Benito stood up. In the next moment, with a hurried "Ciao" tossed
over his shoulder, Benito was away and halfway across the court. The
other two men gazed speculatively at his rapidly disappearing figure.

"I wonder if Benito cums as fast as he does everything else," mused
Carlo. "I should think those older women of his would hardly have time
to spread their legs before Benito’s all through."

Nino gave a short laugh, but his attention was centered elsewhere. A
group of four girls was being seated at a table only a few yards away.
There was much breathless giggling and whispering as they settled down.
Without being obvious about it, Nino appraised them with expert speed:
they were all in their late teens. He shrugged. They weren’t worth
bothering about.

Still, a practice run always smoothed his vanity. Nino laughed again,
this time throwing his head back and displaying his perfect set of
white, even teeth. The girls looked toward him.

"When can we start using the apartment?" he asked Carlo, still playing
his side-line game. He leaned back and made much of lighting another
cigarette, spinning the spent match toward a bunch of pigeons. The
birds fluttered off, regrouping a few yards away.

"Next week. D’you think you’ll be using the place much?"

"Who knows?" Nino shrugged elaborately. "Every night, God willing …"

"For me, it will be useful mainly as an office," Carlo remarked. "Of
course, there may be an occasion when I need the place for a night. But
I will usually make other arrangements. Otherwise, you and Benito can
work it out between the two of you."

"Do we use the same arrangement as last year? To let the other know
when the apartment’s being used, I mean."

"Whoever wants the place calls the other two, to make sure we don’t
clash. If our … uh, schedules clash, whoever had the apartment last
has to miss a turn."

Carlo paused slightly before adding: "And, to make sure there are no
accidents, as you go through the downstairs lobby, leave the mailbox
door flapping open. In the first place, it’s a signal to the other two
that you’re in residence. Secondly, checking the mailbox makes it seem
right to the woman with you, as if you really lived there."

"Bene." Nino’s gaze drifted, as if by chance, to the table occupied by
the four young girls. "The one in red is pretty," he commented, "but
they look as though they’ve come off some cheap tour. They’re probably
counting every dollar they have."

"They’ll get a shock when they see their bill," smiled Carlo. "Unless,
of course, they find someone foolish enough to pay for it."

"Not enough tourists around. Only another tourist would bother with
them."

"There’ll be plenty soon. The season’s beginning to warm up." Carlo
drank the last of his coffee. "I’ve a couple of tours lined up already
for this week. And next week … it sounds promising. I have a batch of
teenagers on my hands for three whole days. One of those educational
trips."

"The Count will be delighted to hear the news."

"Yeah. They’re just his type. Fifteen and sixteen. Although I heard
he’s been diddling a kid of thirteen—the daughter of his housekeeper,
or so the rumor goes "

"So young?"

"He needs them younger every year. The Count’s reaching the point
where, as soon as they grow hair between their thighs, he loses
interest."

Supplying the Count with suitable bed material was indeed becoming a
problem, thought Carlo, pouring himself a glass of water from the
carafe on the table. He drained the glass in a single swallow.

As he was setting the empty glass back on the table, he caught sight of
the blonde-haired girl again. "Nino, my friend," he said, rising, "I
think I’ll leave you to your work."

Nino’s brow knitted. Then following Carlo’s gaze, he smiled. "Ciao, my
friend …"

Chapter 2

After leaving Carlo and Nino, Benito headed for the Fairmont. He did
not stop to wait for a cable car. With his trotting walk, he could get
there faster on foot. To avoid the solid mass of tourists blocking the
street which led from the cafe to the hotel, Benito ducked through a
series of alleyways so narrow that they remained in almost permanent
semi-darkness. They smelled of cafe kitchens and cats.

Christ! Benito thought, glancing at the gold watch he had recently
acquired. Nearly two-thirty, and he’d promised to be at the hotel by
two. Hannah would be angry with him. He couldn’t help admiring the way
the watch looked on his wrist. The solid gold bracelet band showed up
well just beneath his shirt cuff. As he almost ran through the narrow
alleys, Benito held out his left arm momentarily to admire the effect
again. It occurred to him that he could do with a gold signet ring.
Carlo had a beauty that looked very impressive. A businessman needed a
signet ring, really. He’d have to explain about it to Hannah.

Benito did not check with the desk clerk at the hotel. The hotel staff
all knew him by now. The first couple of times he had come in he had
asked for his women clients by name, but he no longer bothered. As he
ran toward the elevator, Benito saw out of the corner of his eye that
the desk clerk had lifted the house phone. He would be telling Hannah
that Benito was on his way up.

"Honey, whatever took you so long?" Hannah Stanford’s voice did not
quite succeed in concealing her irritation.

"My landlady asked me to help her. She wanted furniture moved," Benito
lied quickly. He always told his women friends that he had a landlady.
He never told them about his mother; it would not have seemed decent.

"You silly boy! You let people take advantage of you—you really do!"
The older woman sounded happier already. "Now then, be an angel and get
your poor Hannah a nice, long drink. I’m nearly dying of thirst. The
gin’s over there. And go easy on the ice cubes."

Benito handed the drink to her and noticed for the first time that she
was dressed only in a lace negligee, her voluptuously preserved curves
almost completely visible beneath it.

Oh God! thought Benito, she wants it now, and, man, am I tired!

"Come and sit beside me like a good, sweet lover-boy," Hannah said,
patting the sofa.

Obediently, the chubby youth perched beside her. Although the shades
were half-drawn over the window, enough sunlight filtered into the room
for him to see that Hannah wore nothing underneath the flimsy garment;
one of the woman’s pink nipples was plainly visible pushing up through
the expensive lace.

Suddenly he stood up and walked over to the window. From there, he
said, "We shall be late. I wanted to take you to lunch in Tiburon
today."

"Lunch, smunch! Who cares about food?" She waved her arm in the air and
some of the gin slopped over onto the sofa. "Stop pacing about all the
time, lover! You make me dizzy. For God’s sake, come and sit down." Her
voice took on its familiar whine. "Come and give poor Hannah a kiss."

With a quick, bird-like step, Benito was across the room and bending
over to kiss the woman on the cheek. She clutched at his shoulders as
he leaned over and forced his head around so that his lips were pressed
against her mouth.

"There, that’s better, isn’t it?" she said in a satisfied tone, and
then put a ring-burdened hand on Benito’s leg. An upward movement, and
then her hand began rubbing his thigh. For a moment, Benito
disinterestedly watched her fingers massaging his flesh, and then the
sparkle of the diamond rings reminded him. He took her hand in his and
lifted it to his lips.

"You have beautiful hands," he said smoothly.

"Yeah, Art used to tell me that, too."

Benito had been told all about Art. He had been Hannah’s husband for
what she referred to, from the smugness of widowhood, as "twenty-five
truly felicitous years." Mention of her husband’s name made the youth
nervous because it invariably started Hannah thinking about bed. Art,
according to Hannah, had been able "to give it to me as often as I
wanted it, and I always wanted it plenty!" And poor Art had died at
forty-six, Benito reflected gloomily …

"I would like a signet ring, I think," he said bluntly. With the older
woman in such a mood, he knew he was wasting his time being
circumspect. "It would suit me, no?"

"You may be right. Show me your hand."

Benito held his hand out for her inspection. She stared at it for a
moment.

"You could be right," she repeated. Then, without warning, she seized
his hand and pressed it down hard between her thighs. With her other
arm, she pulled the boy down hard on top of her.

"Take me, take me," she moaned into Benito’s ear. "Like this, now!
Quickly!"

Pulling himself away, he asked, "Don’t you want to go into the
bedroom?"

In answer, Hannah moaned even more demandingly, and her voluptuously
mature body started to writhe beneath him. One of her hands groped at
his fly.

"We can go into the bedroom later," she gasped, her face flushed and
perspiring slightly as her fingers fumbled with Benito’s clothes. "I
can’t wait for that now! Give it to me, Baby, give it to me!"

Moments later, he was free of his clothing and she eagerly pulled him
to the sofa. Her body was lost in the fire of the moment and every
muscle was tensed as she strained her loins upward in an effort to
capture the virile long shaft of flesh that pressed so tightly against
the soft skin of her thighs. The nakedly chubby youth levered her legs
up onto the cushions so that she lay full-length on the couch, then
pried her thighs far apart and climbed up between them positioning his
body over her eagerly writhing form.

Hannah could see the boy hovering over her through her lust-glazed eyes
and she felt the hugeness of his fleshy hardness lying against the full
length of her impatiently quivering vaginal slit. The lurching head of
his stone-hard cock was hot between her wide-spread buttocks, and was
insinuating itself up and down the desire-moistened crevice in a lewd,
teasing little motion that sent her hips twisting upwards in a
desperate attempt to capture the hard, lust-engorged top that would
fill her aching need. Her belly was screaming to be filled—she had to
have it in her!

At last, in a panic of frustration, she reached her hands down between
their bodies and grasped the full length of the rampantly searching
prick. Her tightly-closed fist stroked up and down the thick hard shaft
for a moment, feeling its heaving pulse against her soft palms and the
warm sticky fluid that seeped in tiny white driblets from the blood-
inflated head. Then, she guided it into her cuntal crevice, carefully
positioning it between the moisture covered lips of her vagina. She
steadied it there with one hand and placed the other on the youth’s
buttocks, drawing with all her strength to pull it into her and let it
drown the gnawing hot heat that burned out of control in her belly. Her
eyes closed in ecstasy as she felt its first soft electrical contact
against the sensitive ragged edges of her moistly hungering pussy, then
she held her breath for what seemed like an eternity as she lay in
utter wantonness beneath the youth, waiting for him to impale her on
his massive rod of rigid, pulsating flesh.

"Oh God, hurry, baby! Hurry!" she pleaded, splaying her legs even wider
to give him greater access to her open cunt.

In answer, Hannah felt her soft pubic hair and the lips around her
throbbing vagina being pressured open by the thick head, and she moaned
softly at the contact against the tight elastic opening of her cock-
hungry pussy.

"Aaaaaaagh," she gasped as the huge tip slipped through the tight
opening, stretching the vertical little mouth until she was certain
that her thighs must be splitting apart from the relentless outward
pressure.

"Ooooooooooah, oooooooooh!" she cried out. "It’s too much.
Noooooooooo!" Her eyes jerked open in fear and she saw his lust-
contorted face. The Italian youth was lost in the rapture of her body
and did not realize how much he was hurting her as he ceaselessly
pressed his long hard penis into the warm softness of her painfully
stretching vagina.

Suddenly, his no longer innocent-looking face twisted into an evil leer
as he looked down and saw the older woman helplessly spread-eagled
beneath him with the pulsating head of his cock disappearing into the
soft curling hair of her pussy. He fell forward, his weight smashing
her full rounded breasts tightly back against her chest. He rammed his
hips forward at the same time with all the strength in his thighs and
buttocks, and his long thick cock slid into her cunt like a driving
piston, pushing the soft moist flesh of her vaginal walls in tiny
rippling waves before it. There was no stopping it until with a loud
slap his balls slammed heavily down on the cheeks of her tightly-
clenched ass. Her legs jerked out wide on either side of his young
muscular body, splaying out over the side of the couch and kicking
futilely into the air as her deeply split buttocks screwed themselves
deep into the cushions in a frantic attempt to escape the sudden
impalement.

"Oooooooooooh! Oooooooooooooh!" she wailed beneath him. She had never
felt so completely filled in her life and his heavy, rock-hard cock
felt as though it had torn her vagina into a million tiny shreds as he
had speared into her narrow passage. The fiery plunging rod felt as
though it was coming up out of her throat as the lustfully inflated,
mushroom-shaped head pressed hard back up against her cervix, the thick
lengthy shaft filling her belly to the bursting point. There was not a
single tiny ridge of flesh on the rock-hard, heavily-veined cock that
she could not feel as the walls of her cunt clasped around the shaft as
tightly as a hot moist glove. She lay trembling for a moment beneath
him, trying to adjust to the presence of the monstrous intruding cudgel
in her belly.

Then the young boy suddenly began a slow rocking motion between her
wide-held thighs. As Hannah groaned helplessly beneath him, Benito
could feel the narrow stretched pussy channel widening slightly with
each short smooth stroke. He looked down and could see his curly pubic
hair tangling tightly with hers each time the length of his thick
fleshy rod burrowed deep into the pinkly throbbing furrow up between
her legs. He could see the tight little lips of her cunt stretched
almost to the bursting point, the rubbery outer pink rim clasping
tightly around his wetly glistening shaft as it slowly plunged in and
out of her.

Hannah twitched beneath him as her body rapidly became accustomed to
the huge skewering prick and began to react to the slow, hypnotic
rhythm of his cock pistoning into the sensitive opening of her vagina.

Benito felt her begin to thrash and fuck back up beneath him, and he
quickened his thrusts, grabbing her flailing legs behind the knees and
shoving them roughly back against her shoulders until her ankles locked
tightly behind his neck. Her body was bent back almost double and the
wetly gleaming pink plane of her pussy was presented up to his driving
lunges. Staring down between their bodies, he slowly withdrew the
deeply embedded instrument until just the tip of the head rested within
the swollen wet lips of her pussy then rammed forward with all his
youthful energy, driving the full, throbbing length of his lust-incited
member deep into her helplessly exposed vagina. Then again, and again;
each wet, flat smack of his hips thudding against her pelvis resounding
through the room. His hands insinuated themselves between the cushions
and the white full cheeks of her ass, and the young Italian cupped them
in his spread fingers and palms, kneading the warmly soft flesh,
pulling the white rounded globes far apart. His muscular shoulders
pushing against the back of her full rounded calves kept her locked in
that helpless position while he rammed his long fiery rod into her
moistly dilated pussy, sweeping her buttocks wider and wider apart with
each powerful forward lunge of his young straining loins.

Hannah groaned defenselessly beneath him, her flushed face showing a
mixture of feelings- pain and pleasure. She was powerless to move as he
buffeted her helpless body along the couch cushions, driving her up
toward the arm of the sofa with every pounding lunge. Even her arms
were pinned down at her sides by her own updrawn legs and she could
feel the giant blood-filled head sliding up and down inside her warm
viscous passage like a well-oiled piston. His sperm-bloated balls
slapped loudly against her anus each time he crushed his loins down
into the valley of her buttocks, and wafts of cool air rushed
maddeningly between her wide-spread thighs every time he withdrew. His
hands cupped her full heaving breasts, twisting and squeezing and
tugging at the hard pink nipples until the older woman thought that
they would surely burst from the youth’s wild manipulation of them.

Suddenly her face contorted into an unrecognizable mask of wild
abandoned passion. Her womb flared and the tightly resisting lips of
her hair-lined vaginal furrow flowered open to receive the delicious
ravishment of her secret genitals. She desperately forced her hands out
from under her pinioned legs and wrapped them around his flexing young
buttocks as her rotating hips slithered wetly upward to devour his
lust-hardened penis. His heavy testicles smacked into the passion-
drenched crevice of her buttocks, making the whole sensitive area
tingle and contract in response to the strange delightful sensation.
Her nails clawed a red streaked path along his back as she pulled him
deep and thrust her belly up harder to skewer herself completely on the
driving hot flesh of his pumping shaft. Her body began to match his
driving thrusts with her own rhythmic thrashings, and the straining
spring of the couch squeaked loudly in time to the two tightly entwined
bodies struggling wildly against- each other. The guttural sounds of
deep panting grunts and groans filled the hotel room, mingling with the
wet noises of sweat soaked flesh smacking sharply against sweat soaked
flesh … and the moist viscous slurp of Benito’s pile-driving cock
fucking madly in and out of her wetly sucking cunt.

"Oooooooh, yessss, ooooooooooh, yesssss," Hannah chanted over and over
to herself as the boy ceaselessly slammed his throbbing, expanding
prick deep into her white rounded belly with long hard lunges. The
youth could feel the cum boiling inside his heated balls as they beat
wildly against her upturned ass. He grunted savagely and quickened his
stroke, grinding hard and deep until his massively pulsating cock bored
far up into the hidden, untouched recesses of her womb. Her breasts
heaved and quivered up against the pressure of his chest, the hardened
nipples digging into his skin.

Nothing mattered to her now but the delicious waves of stormy feeling
in her cunt as his thick impaling shaft drove in and out of her vagina,
ramming in all the way until the blood-engorged head began bouncing
repeatedly off her cervix.

Suddenly, the rich widow shivered under him! "Oh, God! … Yes,
yesssss, I’m cummmmmming. Oh, God, I’m cummmmmmmmming, nowwwwwww!" With
a deep-throated groan, her ripely mature body stiffened and began
vibrating uncontrollably, wet white cum oozing from the throbbing
passage and drowning the Italian boy’s long impaling member with its
sticky warmth.

Benito paused for a moment, then went berserk as she grunted out her
climax against his matted pelvis, her body jerking spasmodically up
against him. His harshly kneading hands pulled the wide-spread cheeks
of her white globular buttocks hard up against his grinding pelvis, and
he rammed his exploding cock all the way to the hilt into the velvet
depths of her softly twitching cunt.

Hannah thought her insides were about to split as she felt the head of
the deep-sunk penis flex and flare into a hugeness that threatened to
tear her belly. Then, suddenly, he erupted, his thick hot liquid
shooting deep up into her widely stretched womb, mixing deliciously
with the juices of her own sensuality. Her mind whirled in a seemingly
endless orgasm as the burning, powerful squirts surged deep inside her,
filling her to overflowing with its hot sticky whiteness. The hot
drenched walls of her cunt clasped and unclasped, working and sucking
around his still driving prick, spilling down into the soft, excitedly
clenching crevice of her buttocks and flooding over his own testicles
and the base of his cock as he continued to fuck relentlessly into her.

Reaching frantically under her squirming buttocks with both hands, she
began to desperately milk at Benito’s dancing balls pressed into the
split of her behind. Her legs jerked out quivering insanely into the
air around his shoulders. The giant prick still continued to throb and
flex, jerking its completion in hot white spurts, filling her womb and
soaking the soft matted pubic hair it was buried in.

"Oh, God, don’t stop, don’t ever stop," she pleaded dazedly. The
starving pores of her cunt sucked at the lurching cock until it finally
gave one last spasmodic jerk and lay limp, far up inside her quivering
belly.

Panting, Benito collapsed wearily across her body, feeling her insides
still gushing forth around his rapidly deflating prick. At last, she
too gave a final jerk and trembled to stillness, her legs splayed
obscenely on either side of his heaving body. Her firm, sculptured body
felt drained of everything, her belly filled to the bursting point with
their hot, sticky-white juices.

Benito lay still for a moment, trying to recover his strength, then
slowly pulled himself off Hannah’s still form, his cock sliding slowly
out of her battered cunt with a lewd wet sound. He could see the wet,
matted furrow of her sex glistening in the fading afternoon light. The
insides of her thighs were heavily smeared with the juices of love that
had run in tiny rivulets out of her vagina to form a pearl-colored pool
between her still wide-spread thighs. Smiling, Hannah looked up at
Benito’s satiated face.

"Now we can go into the bedroom," she sighed, devilishly.

Chapter 3

For the first time in months, Elaine Craig felt relaxed. She sat,
becalmed, in the sunshine-bathed plaza; it was almost as if disaster
had never touched her. On the table in front of her stood a cool gin-
and-tonic. Between sips, the attractive young blonde scribbled brief
messages on the postcards she had bought.

"Now I know why San Francisco is called "Baia de Magnificencia
Tremenda" she wrote to her parents. "This is the most peaceful spot on
earth. I love it."

That would please her mother and father, she thought. They were so
desperately anxious for her to be happy again—and their anxiety both
irritated and oppressed their only daughter.

"I’ve lost my heart—to San Francisco!" Elaine scrawled largely across
the back of another card. That card she addressed to Edward L. Towers,
Jr. And let’s hope that this time, she told herself, dear Edward L.,
Junior takes the hint. Unless of course, he was really determined to
make a lifetime career out of being the man she was least likely to
marry. Stifling a giggle, the girl reached for another card.

She addressed the last of her cards, idly speculating on how long it
would be before she saw any of those people again. She suspected that
it might be quite a while but the thought did not bother her.

She had arrived in San Francisco the week before and had done little
except bask in the sunshine and the easy-paced atmosphere. She was
booked in at a small hotel that overlooked Union Square and had
drooping fuchsias growing out of its window boxes. Sometimes Elaine
wondered when she would have to wake up again.

A fluttering of wings made her look up. Two tourists, a man and a girl,
were feeding a flock of pigeons. She turned her head. To her right sat
a group of teenage girls, laughing, whispering and eating ice cream.
She looked around to her left; a middle-aged couple were sipping
experimentally at cups of espresso. Elaine couldn’t help noticing that
both of them were very good looking.

The realization suddenly came that she was the only person sitting
alone; that didn’t bother her a bit! A pretty girl on her own attracts
attention’ and Elaine Craig both expected and enjoyed it.

She leaned back in her chair, letting the warmth of the spring sun
suffuse her body closing her eyes against the glare. Behind the thickly
lashed lids, Elaine’s eyes were clear blue, set deep in a distinctively
boned face. Her heavy blonde hair, streaked by nature and the swimming
pool, swung down straight almost to her shoulders. Although she was not
conventionally pretty, she possessed an off-beat, sensual kind of
beauty that captivated men and mystified other women.

Voices, right beside her, jerked Elaine out of her reverie. She opened
her eyes and looked around but for a moment she could see nothing in
the dazzling light. Then she realized that the voices were not
addressing her, but belonged to a group of sight-seers settling down
noisily at the next table. If the group had been aware of Elaine, they
would have noticed that her smile, as she turned away, was one of
relief.

Leaning forward in her chair, the young blonde reached for the tall
glass on the table in front of her. Her gaze wandered to the far end of
the patio.

It was then that she saw him, coming through the colonnades.

Elaine froze! Her outstretched hand turned into a furiously clenched
fist. It’s Warren! was her sole, panic-filled thought. The shock of his
sudden appearance held the startled girl rigid in her chair.
Immobilized, she sat and watched the approaching figure of her ax-
husband, dully aware of the pounding in her head and throat.

It was soon over! "Warren" came to within a few feet of where Elaine
sat—and kept right on walking. And he had not been Warren, after all.
The man was just another camera-slung tourist crossing the patio at a
leisurely pace.

But the stranger was tall and loose-limbed, as Warren had been. He had
crew-cut hair and he looked to be about the same age—twenty-eight —
that Warren would be. He even had the same jawline and the stand-out
ears. But he wasn’t Warren. He wasn’t her husband—her ex-husband,
Elaine reminded herself. She must remember that. The man she had once
been married to was thousands of miles from San Francisco.

Elaine’s hands were damp. She was exhausted, almost shaking, the
turmoil inside her a mixture of rage and fear. She wanted a cigarette
badly, but she was not able to open her handbag and take one out of the
pack. The tense rigidity of the moment had gone; the immobility
remained.

How long had it been since the last time she had suffered the illusion
of seeing him? A week at least—perhaps longer.

Warren’s "appearance" had been one of the most distressing symptoms to
follow the divorce. Wherever she went, Elaine kept seeing her ax-
husband. The "divorce syndrome," she had called it in a painful attempt
to laugh it off.

She felt the color returning to her face. Her flushed cheeks and over-
brilliant eyes were the only outward signs of the reaction setting in.
The same reaction that always followed, as night follows day. Every
time Elaine "saw" him, she drowned in angry humiliation all over again.

She remembered that afternoon, not so very many months ago, when she
had picked up the telephone in her brand-new home in Connecticut.
Looking back, Elaine could recognize that time as having been her last
moment of innocence.

She also remembered her surprise at finding it was the police who were
telephoning her.

"Mrs. Craig? This is Sergeant Reiley. We have your husband here at the
station. We’d like to talk to you …"

The memory blur had started there-the blur created in self-defense
against too many unpalatable facts, too many truths stripped of their
covering, too much reality rushing in until it seemed she would choke
…

Chapter 4

The police had been very considerate toward her. They tried to break
the news gently. A policewoman sat beside Elaine in the office, smiling
encouragingly from time to time. None of it helped! Outside, the New
England countryside blazed with bright autumn color. She remembered
thinking about that even as she heard her life explode.

After the routine questions, Elaine was told that her husband had been
apprehended while engaged in committing an indecent act. The words
jumbled together for Elaine as fact and emotion grated within the blur.
But, through it all, came clarity. Elaine was given all the facts.
Warren Craig, her husband, had stood on a quiet suburban street near
the local school and exposed his penis to a group of little girls. He
had tried to entice them closer to him, but after whispering among
themselves, the children had run off. Warren had followed them a short
way, his trousers still open and his penis out.

He had remained in the area for almost an hour, eventually working his
way to the school’s then-deserted playground. By that time one of the
children had run home, told her mother what had happened, and the
tearful mother had called the police.

When the patrol car arrived at the playground, Warren was sitting on
one of the swings. Two ten-year-old girls watched him, giggling, while
he pulled his penis out of his open fly and then stuffed it back inside
his pants again. The girls had come to the station as witnesses when
the police brought him in.

For Elaine, ordeal followed upon ordeal. Talking to the psychiatrist
had been worse than being told what had happened by the police. "If
there’s anything you can tell me, anything at all, Mrs. Craig, that
might help …"

What was she supposed to tell him? That she’d always suspected her
husband … that she’d known he had a desire to expose himself to
little girls?

"Were your sexual relations with your husband quite normal, Mrs.
Craig?" The doctor’s voice was firm and decisive. There was no escape
for Elaine then, no way out into tears of rage or self-pity. "It’s
important that you cooperate with us as fully as possible."

The tone had become gentler, but the questions continued.

"Now tell me … did your husband ever ask you to engage in any sexual
perverted acts?"

God in heaven, Elaine thought, when they phrase things so clinically,
they somehow manage to make everything sound dirty.

"What kind of thing?" Elaine asked. "If you ask me questions, I suppose
I can try to answer them." She could not hide the petulance in her
voice, nor did she even try to do so. She felt tired and ill-used. She
was the real victim of the situation, she thought, yet no one seemed
concerned about what she might be suffering.

"Fine," the psychiatrist said encouragingly. "Well, now, would you
describe your husband as impotent?"

It was the first time Elaine had openly admitted the truth, even to
herself. She nodded.

"Was he always impotent?"

"Nearly always, she said in a low voice. "We slept … I mean, we had
sexual relations only a few times during the whole of our marriage."

"How long have you and your husband been married?"

"Just over a year."

"Is it possible for you to tell me what you thought was your husband’s
difficulty? In other words, on the occasions when you did engage in
sexual activity, can you pinpoint the factor that made it possible for
your husband to do so?"

Elaine felt herself growing almost hysterical under the questioning.
She wanted to giggle and say, "That’s a fancy way of asking me how
Warren managed to get an erection," but she suppressed the desire.
Already stripped of her dignity, she struggled determinedly to retain a
few shreds of composure.

Elaine knew what she must tell the psychiatrist, but some innate
reticence held her back momentarily. Reticence … and pride. From the
beginning, she’d had to battle for her marriage to Warren. It had begun
with her parents’ opposition. Elaine had won, as she had known all
along that she would, but from the first she had found herself forced
into a stubbornly defensive position where her husband, was concerned.
After the wedding, she had hidden her disillusionment out of false,
nineteen-year-old pride. And, having successfully hidden her
humiliation for so long, she could hardly bear having it uncovered and
pried apart then.

"Where did you and your husband meet?" prompted the psychiatrist,
noticing Elaine’s withdrawal and trying to ease her out of it.

"At a friend’s house in Vermont. I’d gone for a skiing weekend and
Warren was there, too. We fell in love right away. It sounds strange to
say it but, at the time, we seemed so right for each other."

"How long was it before you married?"

"A year. I was only eighteen when I first met him. My parents were
upset about the whole thing. I’m their only child and … they didn’t
want me to leave college—all the usual stuff. But I got my way in the
end, and we were married. My mother and dad gave us a house as a
wedding present."

There was a pause. At that moment, the telephone shrilled on the desk
and the psychiatrist murmured, "Excuse me," as he reached to answer it.
Elaine sat and wondered how she could find the right words to explain
her marriage. It would be best to start at the beginning, she supposed.
With the wedding night … Well, first she’d have to tell the
psychiatrist about Warren’s fetish for physical fitness, about his
muscle-making routines, his frequent workouts at the gym. He had
believed in body-building exercises … morning and night.

That was how she had come to spend part of her wedding night standing
naked, lifting bar bells in front of an open window. Warren wanted her
to exercise with him. Afterwards, aching and exhausted, Elaine had
stretched out on the huge bed in the hotel’s luxurious honeymoon suite.
He had moved quickly to the bed where he had lain on top of her,
without preliminary love-making of any kind. He just lay there, kissing
her face lightly with closed lips and balancing his body on hers as if
he were performing yet another muscle-control exercise.

Finally, he had rolled over onto the sheet saying, "You must be tired,
honey. I won’t bother you tonight." After that, he’d fallen asleep
almost immediately. Tired though she was, Elaine could not ignore her
growing uneasiness. She had lain awake for hours, staring into the
dark. It had been the first of many such vigils.

During their courtship, Elaine had admired Warren’s old-fashioned
approach to sex. She was not a virgin, but after the crude behavior of
some of the college men she had known, his apparent chivalry had
appealed to her. But in the still darkness of her wedding night, she
wondered if possibly she had not idealized the situation. Instinct told
her that something was wrong. Her own limited sexual experiences
confirmed the thought. So did the days that followed.

During their honeymoon, she found out that there was only one method by
which he was able to achieve an erection. And, as with all impotent
men, the method involved a lengthy routine. The routine was more like
an obscure tribal ritual, with Elaine, naked, carrying out a series of
complicated and exhausting physical exercises, while her husband barked
out staccato commands, urging her on to greater and greater effort
until she all but collapsed.

She felt herself grow hot with resentment as she remembered the scenes
that had taken place between herself and her husband. The oddly excited
look on his face as he stood watching her frantic movements while she
tried to follow the ever-increasing tempo of his commands, came vividly
to her mind; so did the shame she had felt at her own unwitting
response to the sight of her husband ’s stiffening organ.

With a distressed moan, the ashamed young wife buried her face in her
hands. By the time the psychiatrist completed his phone call, she was
sobbing. It was a little while before she was calm enough to speak
clearly. Once the interview was over, Elaine felt drained of all
energy. But she had enough strength left to accept the fact that her
marriage was finished. The sham was over! There was nothing left to
pretend about anymore.

For more than a year, she had stubbornly tried to keep up a facade of
being happily married. She’d behaved instinctively, protecting both
herself and her husband. It had taken the psychiatrist less than an
hour to destroy that facade in a way that made it impossible to piece
together again.

Strangely, it had been Warren, himself, who had finally confirmed the
destruction. Once, in the beginning he had begged her never to leave
him, had asked her with tears in his eyes to bear with him and remain
his wife. But after the arrest a different Warren faced Elaine, a grim-
faced and monosyllabic man who only spoke to tell her, in halting
phrases’ that everything was her fault, that if it had not been for
her, he would not be in such a predicament. Fortunately, he was led
back to his cell before she started to scream.

For a time, Elaine had returned to her parents’ home in Baltimore. She
decided … and her parents agreed … that divorce was the only
possible solution. The young blonde had been twenty when her husband
had been arrested; her twenty-first birthday took place a week after
her divorce became final.

But the divorce was not enough. It provided no escape from those who
knew what had happened and whose knowledge was a constant humiliation.
She felt continually sullied by the publicity Warren’s case had
received. He had received a light sentence; and what had happened
between the two of them was a secret she could have borne … forever,
if need be. His public disgrace was another matter.

It was her father who had suggested a trip. His suggestion came on a
day when Elaine had imagined, during a downtown shopping trip, that she
had seen Warren twice. She had seized upon her father’s words
gratefully.

"It would be nice if one of your girlfriends could go with you,"
Elaine’s mother added. "Liz, perhaps, or Marcia?"

Over my dead body, Elaine thought silently. Aloud, she said, "It’s a
wonderful idea, I’d love it. But I’d prefer to go alone. I need to be
alone for a while." She knew that her parents would never be able to
refuse her appeal.

Two days later, the troubled young girl boarded the jet for San
Francisco …

Chapter 5

Through eyes blurred with sudden tears, Elaine looked around the plaza.
Well, she’d taken the trip! She was in Union Square, in San Francisco.
And, damn it, she was enjoying it.

She fumbled clumsily for a much-needed cigarette, and she dropped her
handbag. The contents spilled out over the ground. Elaine knelt hastily
to collect them … a change purse, her lighter, two lipsticks, her
compact, a comb …

"Is this yours?"

The voice came from above Elaine’s head. She looked up, squinting
against the sunlight. A young man stood beside her, holding a silver
dollar in his out stretched hand. He was tall and he wore dark glasses.
He spoke with a marked accent.

"Why, yes. Thank you." Elaine straightened up and took the coin. It was
the one she always carried, her lucky dollar. Flustered, she began
putting her belongings back into her bag. As she dropped her compact
into place, she felt a tear roll down her cheek. Another followed it.
She was angry at having made a fool of herself.

The voice spoke again, warm with sympathy.

"Please. You are crying. You must sit down. Let me order you a coffee."

It was a relief to do as she was told. Elaine sat down. The young man
sat down opposite her. He snapped his fingers at a waiter and within
seconds a large black coffee appeared on the table. She drank it
gratefully.

"Please, I wish to present myself. My name is Nino."

Elaine looked at him. She recognized him as one of the boys who had
been sitting a few tables away from her. She glanced around. The other
young man had disappeared.

"I’m Elaine," she said. "Elaine Craig."

"I’m glad to meet you," the handsome youth said. He removed his
sunglasses. Dark, serious eyes looked into her face. "I hope you feel
better now?"

"Yes, thank you, much better. It was kind of you to help me. I don’t
know what …

Her voice trailed away on the lie as she neglected to complete the
sentence. She had no intention of explaining what had happened to her.

Nino smiled his understanding. Elaine considered his face thoughtfully.
She found it interesting. It was not merely that he was handsome; he
had exceptionally fine bone structure. She imagined him to be a highly
sensitive person. She wondered if he came from one of those very old,
aristocratic families one heard about.

"Is this your first visit to San Francisco?" Nino asked.

"Yes."

"Are you staying long?"

Elaine paused for a moment. The boy’s eyes watched her carefully as he
waited for her reply. Finally, she said: "Why, yes. I hope so."

Nino did not answer. He simply sat in the sun and smiled …

Chapter 6

Carlo was due to pick up his tour group at two-thirty. After a glance
at the watch lying on the bureau, he reflected, for the umpteenth time,
that the season had all the earmarks of a real money-maker. The flow of
tourists was already promising.

His group for the day was booked in at a second-class hotel in North
Beach, only a short walk from the apartment where he lived with his
family. While his mother and younger brothers took their customary
after-lunch nap, Carlo showered and changed.

The afternoon was cooler than yesterday. Carlo wondered whether or not
it would be worth wearing his silk suit. The suit was expensively
tailored, and he knew it looked well on his tall, athletic frame. Did
guiding a school-group for the afternoon rate the silk suit?

Carlo shrugged. He might as well wear it. You never knew.

He checked his appearance in the bedroom mirror. Although it was still
spring, he already had acquired a light tan. He thought with
satisfaction that it made him look vigorous. Good. He combed his dark-
brown hair and then tucked the comb into the breast pocket of his suit.
Last came the cologne. He poured a little of it into the palm of one
hand and massaged the back of his neck, taking care not to soil his
fresh white shirt. As always, Carlo’s attention to detail was
meticulous.

He took a final look in the mirror. His narrow eyes— amber colored
and long, like the eyes of a cat—studied every detail of his
reflection. Apparently reassured, Carlo moved away from the glass and
sat down on the iron-frame bed.

He picked up a bunch of papers and flipped through them. It took him
only minutes to check the schedule for the afternoon. One of the
travel-office clerks had written out the pertinent information in an
untidy scrawl. Rendezvous: two-thirty p.m. at the hotel. Number of
persons in group: twenty. Eighteen girls—ages fourteen to seventeen–
-and two adult teachers. The teachers were a Mr. and Mrs. Horace Clark

Carlo hummed to himself, softly. The setup suggested inviting
possibilities.

The tour’s schedule read: "Take group by bus from hotel to Fisherman’s
Wharf. Visit Maritime Museum. Take four p.m. Harbor Cruise. Upon
return, tour Fisherman’s Wharf. Group to be back at hotel in time for
dinner (this means seven p.m.).

A routine deal, Carlo had lost count of the number of times he’d done
it before.

Quietly, he let himself out of the family apartment. On his way to the
hotel, he considered the afternoon’s prospects. He was confident he
could handle the teachers and, out of the eighteen teenage girls, he
estimated he could pick out at least half a dozen nymphets. In fact, if
these girls were anything like the last group he’d handled, he would be
more likely to have trouble dumping those he didn’t want.

No, there wouldn’t be any trouble with the girls. Which meant he had to
decide how he could best make use of them. The Count? The Count de
Andros would be interested, of course, but perhaps he wasn’t the right
man to approach in the first instance. It might be better to make the
first approach to Marceau. Marceau Verner III: Middle-aged, rich,
former international playboy, now confined to his sumptuous mansion
with gout and—it was hinted—something rather worse by way of
sickness. Marceau liked young girls. Mostly, he liked them two or three
at a time, playing special games he had invented for his own diversion.

Carlo smiled to himself. He would give Marceau a call that evening …

Chapter 7

The walled garden behind the small cafe was cool in the early
afternoon. Vines covered the walls and the overhead trellis; a light
breeze blew through the leaves. Fog silently slipped through the Golden
Gate.

Elaine Craig shivered slightly, and Nino immediately put his arm around
her. His fingers traced a pattern on her bare forearm; and somehow the
young blonde divorcee felt comforted by his touch.

"You are cold?" Nino asked, his expression full of concern. It was one
of the things that she had found so appealing about him during the past
few days: he took their friendship so seriously. It seemed a long time
since a man had been concerned about her thoughts and feelings. Too
long, in fact. She was accustomed to being spoiled.

Everything about Elaine seemed important to Nino and the girl
luxuriated in his interest, telling him all about her Baltimore
childhood and endlessly detailing her likes, dislikes’ and opinions on
practically every subject under the sun. The Italian boy had been
sympathetic when she told him she was divorced-and that she didn’t wish
to discuss the matter, ever. He had understood. He seemed to understand
so many things about her. She smiled up at him.

"You must have a cognac," Nino said. "It will warm you up."

His arm tightened around her and she felt his fingers into her flesh;
his animal warmth seeped through her light cotton dress.

What is the matter with me? she wondered. What is there about this man
that arouses me?

As Elaine speculated, the darkly handsome youth slipped his arm further
around her, letting his fingers brush lightly across her breast. Then,
for a brief second, he held its firm fullness cupped in his hand.
Immediately, she pushed his hand away. But it was impossible to conceal
her involuntary reaction. At his touch, her nipple grew hard; its
outline could be clearly seen pressing against the thin material of her
dress.

She flushed, seeing Nino’s hot downward gaze. The boy’s tongue
moistened his lips, and Elaine imagined she could feel his soft warm
mouth close around her breast and sense the pull as he sucked on it.
She shuddered! When she looked into his eyes, she realized that he had
been thinking of exactly the same thing.

"I’ll have that cognac," she flustered, trying to cover her sudden
confusion. Her voice came out more huskily than usual.

Nino signaled the waiter for two cognacs. As they waited for their
drinks in an uneasy silence Elaine remembered that she had not given
him any money. She glanced around the garden. There were only three
other people there—a very young couple and a man, the latter drinking
steadily—but she did not like giving the bill to Nino in front of
them. Or in front of the waiter.

It had been difficult to persuade Nino to put their friendship on a
reasonable basis.

"No!" he had exclaimed on their second date when Elaine had offered to
pay for herself. "You make me feel ashamed."

Elaine had been patient in her argument. She had also been determined
to win and finally she had gotten her own way, as usual.

"I appreciate your sentiment, Nino," she’d said. "But this is
different. Us, I mean."

Without saying it outright, Elaine managed to convey that she
understood Nino’s financial difficulties. He had told her he worked as
a tourist guide and his salary was abysmally low. After her first date
with the young Italian, the young divorcee had decided that she wanted
to get to know him better. Besides, she would have her very own tourist
guide. And she was quite certain in her or mind that she did not want
to spend her time in cheap bars, which would be the only places he
could afford.

While Elaine had been arguing her point, the boy had sat staring
moodily into his empty coffee cup. She had not been sure whether he had
understood her reasoning, but she was perfectly sure that he shared her
desire for them to be together as much and as often as possible.

"Your husband—he gives you money?"

The blunt question had come unexpectedly, and she had recoiled in
surprise. She had not expected him to ignore her expressed desire to
avoid talking about her husband (her ex-husband, she reminded herself).
But, on second thought, she supposed Nino’s sudden callousness stemmed
from his embarrassment about the money situation. She decided to be
brisk and businesslike.

"No. I receive no alimony. My father gives me an allowance." Elaine’s
voice was very cold and her tone successfully fended off any more
unwanted questions.

Suddenly, his hand had covered hers as it lay on the table.

"I’m sorry," he’d said softly. "My poor, beautiful Elaine …"

So he had understood after all! That night, Elaine paid exactly half
the cost of the dinner and drinks.

On their next date, the young blonde had slipped several bills into the
youth’s hand and told him to pay for everything out of it. When he
tried to return the bills, she’d pushed him away. Nino had stood firm;
their argument developed into a physical struggle.

Fighting apparently aroused him. In the middle of their hassle, he had
grabbed her and kissed her so roughly that her lips had been bruised.
They had been standing in shadow, oblivious of passers-by in the
street, a few feet from Elaine’s hotel, and the girl could not help
wondering what might have happened if they hadn’t been in such a public
place. She hadn’t realized before how strong he was, nor how quickly
and easily inflamed.

Later that same night, she had lain in bed in her high-ceilinged room,
restless and unable to sleep. She could still feel the boy’s virile
young body thrust itself demandingly against her. Her own desire
swelled as she remembered it, and her hands moved of their own volition
to trace the memory across the curve of her stomach and down. She
rolled over onto her side, her body shuddering spasmodically. It was a
long time before she drifted into uneasy sleep.

The subject of money had not been openly discussed again. Now as they
sat in the little garden behind the cafe, Elaine opened her purse and
palmed a twenty dollar bill. Unobtrusively, she put her hand under the
table and touched his leg. When his hand came to hers, she passed him
the bill.

The waiter brought the two glasses of cognac which they had ordered.
Nino gave the twenty to the waiter.

"What shall we toast to," she asked, raising her glass.

Nino raised his glass, touching hers. "To … to tonight," he answered,
a wide smile spreading across his expressive features.

Elaine hesitated a moment. She knew what the Italian boy meant by the
phrase "tonight;" and it was obvious that soon, before tonight, she
would have to make a decision as to how far she could let their
friendship go … if the decision hadn’t already been made by her love-
starved body. Finally she answered, "To tonight." When she raised the
glass to her lips, the young blonde noticed her hand was trembling.

They were still drinking an hour later, both of them sitting pensively
in silence … occasionally moving to take a sip of their sixth cognac.
The garden seemed suddenly empty without the constant chatter. The
other couples in the cafe had gone; the lone man still sat drinking
steadily, quietly absorbed in some alcoholic world of his own.

Elaine snuggled closer to Nino. He smiled. The cognac was doing its
work … enveloping her body and mind in languid sensuality. He slipped
his hand to her ripely firm thigh, so wonderfully warm even through her
thin summer frock. She glanced down at his hand but made no move to
remove it.

His hand reached her knee, then slid underneath her cotton dress. She
felt his fingers probing her inner thigh.

"Tonight, we will go to my apartment."

Nino’s statement was blunt. Elaine felt she should refuse, but abruptly
she also knew she could not! She did not want to refuse.

His words became more coaxing. "We will eat dinner there. It will be
nicer at the apartment."

Elaine nodded, durably. Neither of them was thinking of dinner. She
looked at the youth’s fine Italian features as he bent his head toward
her. The steady look in his dark eyes sent a stab of excitement
shooting through her belly. Swiftly, he leaned close and flicked his
tongue between her lips. Then he straightened up and gave her his hand.
She staggered slightly as she rose.

When they went from the cafe up the hill toward California Street, they
walked slowly … their arms wrapped around each other’s waists.

Chapter 8

As Carlo walked toward the apartment he shared with Nino, he reflected
on the afternoon’s tour. As he had expected, it had proved fruitful. Of
the eighteen girls he had quickly picked out two: fourteen-year-old
Sharon, a slender blonde with a boy’s hips and small pointy breasts;
and sixteen-year-old Connie, a precocious redhead with the full figure
of a mature woman. The rest had been easy.

As the tour had progressed, it became clear that Sharon and Connie were
the leaders of a small clique of six or seven girls. They were very
interested in Carlo, almost suffocating him with their attention.
Dutifully he had droned on with information, pretending not to notice
the frenetic flirting. He had been pleased to see that the girls were
obviously piqued by his apparently disinterested attitude.

But his opening had not come until they were back at the hotel. As he
was leaving Mr. and Mrs. Clark’s room after planning the next days
tour, one of the hallway doors opened and a finger beckoned. Carlo
recognized the giggle coming through the half-opened door. It was
Connie.

Eight girls were sprawled around the room. They were in varying stages
of undress, supposedly getting ready for dinner. It seemed that Connie
had been elected spokeswoman for the group.

"Carlo," she said as soon as he entered the room, we want to ask you
something. Can you tell us where we can go to have some fun in this
dump? We’re sick and tired of this ten o’clock bedtime deal. Anyone
would think we were kids! Aren’t there any nightclubs or something?"

Carlo lounged against the door, looking slowly around the room. Then he
started talking. The situation was tailor-made for him.

Making the necessary arrangements with the girls had been easy. His
only problem had been holding them back until the next night. They’d
wanted to go right away. But now it was all laid on the line. The
following evening, the girls would pretend to go to bed as usual, after
dinner. Once they were sure Mr. and Mrs. Clark were out of the way,
they’d sneak out of the hotel. Carlo would be waiting for them outside.
He had promised them a party they would never forget …

The party though would take considerable planning and there were many
telephone calls to be made. He would make them from the apartment, even
though this was Nino’s night.

He quickened his pace, knowing he had to reach the apartment before
Nino. According to their agreement, Carlo had no right to it tonight,
should not even be near it! It was one of their strictest rules, one
he, himself, had absolutely insisted on. Now he was going to be the
first to break it.

But it’s important, he argued with himself! If I don’t make the calls
immediately, it will be too late. I must speak to Marceau tonight. And
the Count. And everyone else. The apartment is the only place I dare
use.

And anyway, he mused, Nino would probably be late. The way his friend
went about working an a girl, he might not get her to the apartment
until after midnight. Meanwhile, all that was necessary was a half hour
on the telephone. Nothing else!

As he walked, Carlo wondered whether he might not claim one of the
school girls for himself. They were attractive, sexy little things.
They knew how to arouse a man. At that age they did it instinctively
and were exciting in bed without being blase about it.

The pleasure of taking a young girl was something Carlo had not
experienced for many months. Not since the summer before, in fact.
There had been hundreds of other women in the interim, naturally,
almost all of them older than Carlo. There had also been several men,
but a job is a job.

The party he was about to organize should be very interesting. The
Italian youth was entirely absorbed in his plans by the time he
hurriedly opened the street door and strode swiftly through the hall,
taking the stairs three at a time. He was so anxious to get to the
telephone that he completely forgot to check on the prearranged signal-
–the open mailbox door which showed whether the apartment was already
occupied.

It was not until he reached the apartment landing that he remembered he
hadn’t checked the mailbox, but by that time he was already inside the
door. It was dark in the narrow hallway, but the worried youth didn’t
need the light. There were two doors leading off the corridor, one at
the far end and one on the left-hand side. Both were shut, and no light
filtered into the passage. Carlo breathed a sigh of relief. Nino and
his girl had not yet arrived.

In two strides, Carlo reached the door on the left, opening into the
kitchen. He went straight to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of
beer, snapped off the cap and poured out a glassful. He drained ‘he
beer in a couple of gulps, then refilled the glass. He felt hot and
thirsty.

The kitchen was large, simply furnished and had the bleak look common
to rooms that are seldom used. A wooden table and four chairs stood
under the window. Carlo could not remember a meal ever having been
eaten there.

Carrying his glass of beer in one hand, Carlo went back into the hall
and then through the second door. This led into a room twice the size
of the kitchen, it was furnished as a living room but also served as a
bedroom. A double bed was concealed in a piece of furniture that looked
like a sideboard and book-shelf unit. There were also three small easy
chairs, two large leather armchairs, a velour-covered divan, a bureau,
two leather hassocks, a couple of occasional tables and a massive,
highly polished wardrobe that dominated one entire wall.

Light came into the room through the long windows in the far wall. A
red velvet curtain hung in one corner; behind the curtain another door
led into a gold-tiled bathroom.

A magazine lay on one of the small tables; several ashtrays needed
emptying. The cushions on the divan were rumpled. The room was
definitely not tidy. Yet, cluttered as it was, it did not really look
as if it were lived in. It had the atmosphere of temporary usefulness.

Carlo glanced at his watch. Christ! It was seven-thirty. He would have
to hurry if he was to get out before Nino arrived. Pulling a key ring
out of his hip pocket, he selected the smallest key and fitted it into
the lock of the bureau. After taking a leather-covered notebook from
inside, he carefully relocked the bureau again.

He sat down beside the cane table on which the telephone stood.
"Verner, Verner," he muttered, as he thumbed hastily through his
notebook. "Ah." He started dialing a seven-digit number.

"Hello?"

Carlo recognized the voice of Nick, Marceau’s valet.

"This is Carlo," he announced himself. "Is Marceau there?"

The valet told him to wait, and it was a full five minutes before
Marceau came on the line. Carlo had counted every precious minute on
his watch. The conversation began with polite inquires about health,
followed by a rundown on the latest San Francisco gossip. The anxious
youth contained himself patiently. After several more minutes of social
chitchat, he felt the moment was appropriate to broach the subject of
the young girls.

"It’s a little difficult for me to arrange the party here," Marceau
objected at once, as Carlo had known he would.

Carlo ignored the objection.

"There is a young blonde," he murmured softly. "She is barely fourteen,
so slim and fair and so fragile …"

"But tomorrow night?" Marceau grumbled pettishly. "Couldn’t you have
given me more notice?"

"She is a virgin," Carlo went on. "There are others, too. One with hair
to her waist and the figure of a child …"

There was a pause. Marceau spoke again, in a slightly thickened tone.

"You realize it’s not convenient for me." He cleared his throat, "A
blonde did you say? Ah! I need time, you understand. I’ll call you
back. You seem to th