Big bankroll, p.1
Big Bankroll, page 1
part #22 of Cherry Delight Series
Cherry Delight
Cherry didn’t mind a little kinkiness, until it led to killing.
BIG
BANKROLL
by Gardner Francis Fox
Written as Glen Chase
Originally printed in 1975
Digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel and Akiko K.
2020 for the Gardner Francis Fox Library
Cover Illustration by Kurt Brugel 2020
Copyright © 2020 by The Gardner Francis Fox Library.
The Gardner Francis Fox Library has given Kurt Brugel the right to reprint Big Bankroll.
All inquires please contact gardnerffox@gmail.com
Gardner Francis Fox (1911 to 1986) was a wordsmith. He originally was schooled as a lawyer. Rerouted by the depression, he joined the comic book industry in 1937. Writing and creating for the soon to be DC comics. Mr. Fox set out to create such iconic characters as the Flash and Hawkman. He is also known for inventing Batman‘s utility belt and the multi-verse concept.
At the same time, he was writing for comic books, he also contributed heavily to the paperback novel industry. Writing in all of the genres; westerns, historical romance, sword and sorcery, intergalactic adventures, even erotica.
The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels. We are proud to present - - -
Kurt Brugel (1969 to Now) is the Custodian and Illustrator for the Gardner Francis Fox Library. Kurt is a lifelong resident of Wilmington, Delaware. All illustrations for this book were done in scratchboard. He considers the Howard Pyle tradition his greatest influence.
www.kurtbrugel.com
Table of Contents:
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELEVE
PROLOGUE
Johnny Orrendo was in a rage.
Where in hell was that damn dame?
He stalked up and down his living room, pausing only from time to time to stare out the huge picture window at the lights of the George Washington Bridge, seeing the lights like brilliant eyes against the backdrop of the New York night. There had been a restlessness in him all day that had begun building into this rage.
He was a big man with jowls that seemed always blue, no matter how many times he shaved. His hair was bluish-black, very thick and wavy, and his dark eyes—with which he glanced occasionally at his watch—were bright and sly. He wore a striped strawberry sports coat and dark red slacks. Freeman loafers, highly polished, reflected the few lamps that gleamed from Saarinen end tables.
He glanced at the bottles on the portable bar, at the glasses waiting to be filled, and felt a surge of fury. Where was Betti Flowers?
That little hole knew he would be anxious to see her, to get about their business. She would have some sort of excuse, she always did. Johnny Orrendo chuckled to himself. Sometimes he thought Betti was deliberately late so as to make him madder than he was. She was a good kid, in her own way. She was his favorite of all the girls he called to come to his pad.
He heard footsteps in the hall and took a few steps toward the door. He listened. The walker went on, not pausing at his door. Slowly, his hands balled into hard, hairy fists.
High heels. A girl’s heels. Almost running.
Johnny Orrendo grinned to himself. The bitch was almost running. Then, he heard the chimes of the doorbell.
Let her wait, goddamn her!
But there was impatience in him as well as anger. He moved toward the door, put a hand on the knob, and turned it.
She was standing there, looking scared.
What a hell of a little actress she was. Even in his fury he had to admire the way her lips pursed, her wide eyes, the little shiver that ran down her body. Her hands clutched the bag she carried, twisting it in her nervousness.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You goddamn well ought to be,” he snarled.
He stood back and she came in with little mincing steps, letting her buttocks roll. She was a little thing, almost childlike in her contours, except for her breasts and that behind. She wore a chiffon blouse without a bra so he could see her tiny nipples, and a petal-tiered skirt to the knees. The outfit made her look almost like a little girl.
“There was bad traffic,” she whispered, seeing how furious he was. “My taxi got stuck in it.”
“You call that an excuse? I’ve been waiting close to an hour for you.”
“I know, Mr. Orrendo. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? You don’t know the meaning of the word. But you will. Oh, yes.”
He moved past her to the portable bar. He knew she liked Rob Roys, so he built her one of Ambassador scotch with a mixture of dry and sweet vermouth. He carried it to her.
She had not moved, just stood there and watched him with those big eyes. Her golden hair fell to her shoulders. She knew he liked it like that, without curls or anything else, the way an eleven year old girl might wear her hair.
Betti took the glass from him, waiting until he filled his own glass with scotch and water before touching the rim with her lips.
The liquor always helped with Johnny Orrendo. He was not as kinky as some of the other men she serviced but there was something more deadly about him, as though he were some kind of wild animal, that always put gut-fear deep inside her slightly curving belly.
He waited until she had finished her drink before he said, “Show me.”
She put the glass down on the bar and went to stand behind a high-backed chair. Her hands went to the petal-tiered skirt and lifted it, showing off her shapely legs in blue pantyhose and then the lower swells of her buttocks.
“More,” he growled.
The skirt came up to reveal her buttocks inside the blue nylon. They were rounded, smooth, very white skin that showed like milk behind the pantyhose
“Bend over.”
She bent. She knew what his next command would be and raised her hands to hook them in the elasticized band.
“Show me.”
She drew down the blue nylon slowly, showing the full white moons of her bottom cheeks. They were like magnets to the man’s eyes drawing him with a force that shook his entire body.
He moved toward her. With his left hand, on which glittered a huge gold signet ring, he stroked those buttocks, very gently. It had been two long weeks since Betti Flowers had let him see her ass that way and desire flowed into his body like a bolt of electricity, stiffening him, making him open his mouth to breathe more easily.
I needed this, he told himself.
It was a way of escape, of relaxation from the stresses of his daily life. He had come up in the world since he had been a youth in Little Italy, eyeing the Mafia men, adopting some of their mannerisms. Now the kids copied him when they saw him emerge from his Rolls Royce to eat at one of the many restaurants that dotted the sidewalks around Mulberry Street and Canal.
Now he was a leader in The Family. He had more power than any of the capo di tutti capi. The boys hung on his words, on his pronouncements. Nobody did a thing until Johnny Orrendo gave the okay.
All this responsibility took a lot out of him. It was easy to be a hit man—which he had been—some years back. All you had to do then was line up a guy in your sights and press the trigger, then walk away to collect your killing fee.
But the decisions he had to make! These were what got him down. The decisions had to be right. All the time. There was no margin for error. He and the Mafia played for high stakes. He didn’t get his cut of the loot for playing tiddley-winks.
That was why he needed Betti Flowers and girls like her. They eased the unrelenting strain, the constant pressure, from the split-second decisions that must never be wrong.
Staring at her white buttocks, imagining what he was going to do to those cheeks, and afterward when he had been roused to a passion so intense he moved as in a dream world.
Between forefinger and thumb he caught a little of her buttock meat and pinched, twisting the flesh savagely.
Betti screeched, quivering.
“That’s only a sample,” he panted.
He slapped his big palm hard against her behind. Her entire body jerked and she fell forward into the chair-back
“Come on, come on! I’ve waited long enough.”
It was her signal to straighten, to drop the skirt she had been holding up, and to turn to him. A flush tinted her cheeks, her eyes fell as if ashamed before his glare.
“I’ve never done anything like…
Her words faded out. It was a game they played, these two. The girl knew what the man wanted, and since he was paying the tab, she had learned a long time ago to give him what some sadistic streak in his nature demanded. She was his favorite of all the girls at Sexual Services, Inc.—a very hush hush organization—and she was glad of it, she guessed, because he always paid so well.
She lifted her eyes to his flushed face. He was very excited by her. He always got hot with her, but tonight was like a special occasion. She felt her nipples become erect and knew that she was not unaffected by what was to take place.
“Don’t give me that,” he sneered.
“It’s true,” she panted, widening her eyes. “Nobody’s ever seen me—you know, without my clothes.”
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/> She was a little girl in his eyes. She wondered when he had developed this kick for young girls. Probably from something that had happened a long time ago, to little Johnny Orrendo. He had never spoken of it, he kept his business to himself, but Betti was sharp enough to understand that these weirdos always could go back to some sexual event in their early lives that had much to do with how they behaved when they grew up.
His tongue came out to moisten his lips. “You going to keep me waiting much longer?”
Her hands went to the buttons of her blouse. Slowly she began to undo them, head lowered, eyes on the floor, as though she were in reality an eleven year old virgin about to show herself for the first time to a man.
It excited him, this slow stripping down to her naked flesh. Her hands opened the blouse, letting him see her breasts, very pallid and dotted with tiny red nipples, standing up now in her own excitement. She did a little shimmy and her breasts danced. Then she slid the blouse backward off her arms.
The sheer shirtwaist fell to the floor and she was naked to her middle. Johnny moved toward her then, hands lifting to stroke her hard breasts, to take the nipples between forefingers and thumbs and squeeze them.
He turned his hand suddenly and pressed the big gold ring with its ornate O on it against her bare breast. “If this were red-hot, I’d brand you with it.”
“I wouldn’t care for that,” she whispered.
“Who gives a damn what you care about?”
He said this in a calm voice but his eyes burned down at her. His fingers gave a sharp tug to those nipples, then he dropped his hands to his side. Waiting. Waiting for her hands to catch her skirt and drop it.
She bent over as she did this so that her breasts hung before his eyes. They trembled and quivered and Betti Flowers told herself she was earning every cent of the hundred dollars he always slipped into an envelope for her. The fact that she enjoyed this part she played did not detract from her business sense. This was a job, no more and no less to her, and she knew instinctively that Johnny Orrendo needed her playacting just as badly—perhaps more so—than she needed the century note that was his tip.
The petal-tiered skirt was on the floor. Betti stepped out of it, her legs still encased in the blue nylon pantyhose, askew across her middle, baring her belly and a trace of golden pubic hair.
This was where she turned around as though ashamed to reveal her complete nudity to him. Again she was the little girl, staring at him bashfully, letting her eyelids drop so that her lashes lay against her cheeks.
Bending again, she slid the pantyhose off her thighs and down around her ankles. One by one she removed her shoes and pulled off the blue nylon.
Then she was naked.
“Let me look at you,” he exclaimed hoarsely.
Betti Flowers turned slowly, one hand across her pubes, in a mimicry of September Morn. She was not a call girl now, she was a little virgin alone with a man, desperately embarrassed. She even managed to flush somewhat by holding her breath.
His eyes roamed her flesh, seeing the smooth shoulders, the deep-set navel, the lovely thighs narrowing to her knees. She stood flatfooted on the carpet, leaning forward slightly, her hands still in their protective position.
Johnny Orrendo knocked her hands away so that she stood with both arms at her sides.
“Please,” she whispered.
He smiled much as might an indulgent father. “You shouldn’t have done it, you know. It was very naughty of you.”
She stared at him. “But you said—”
“Don’t you have a mind of your own? Do you do everything that a man asks of you?”
She seemed startled. “Not just every man. Only you.”
“You really must be punished.”
He said it in a casual way, with regret in his voice for her error. It was as though he was sorry she had obeyed him, but everything between this man and woman had led up to this moment. It was what they both were waiting for.
He gestured her ahead of him, toward the archway which would take them into the hall and then the bedroom. She went obediently, as she always had, her bottom jiggling enticingly.
Johnny Orrendo watched her stop beside the bed, then put his hands to his strawberry sports jacket, sliding out of it. He undressed slowly, relishing the moment. When he was naked he moved past her and sat on the edge of the bed.
“You’ve been very naughty, you know,” he said. “You were late, and then you took your clothes off in front of me. Tempting me. Making me want to do things to that sweet body of yours. You know all this, don’t you?”
She nodded, as she always did, saying nothing.
“Then lie down, here across my legs.”
She did as he asked, her white buttocks upturned to his eyes. She felt the bar of his erect manhood pressing into her flesh. She wriggled a little, apparently to get more comfortable but actually to caress his erection. Johnny Orrendo liked it this way she had learned over the many times she had come to him. Betti Flowers always obliged, it was part of her stock in trade.
For a few seconds he stared at those white moons of flesh, anticipating the pleasure he was to derive from them. His hand rose and fell. A red mark streaked the buttock closest to him.
He spanked slowly at first, then more swiftly until his blows came with the rapidity of machine-gun fire. He lost himself in this delight, as he always did. The strains and stresses of his life began to melt away, forgotten in the flood of desire that shook him.
Ah! This was life. This was why he lived, why he threw himself so wholeheartedly into The Family’s affairs so that he would have plenty of money with which to indulge these pleasures that meant so much to him.
Under his big palms the pale buttock-flesh reddened, became crimson. The girl wailed, wept and sobbed, kicked her legs and sought weakly to escape the arm that held her in position. It was part of her act. She had discovered what most pleased this kinky man. Tears ran down her cheeks, she moaned and keened, and knew it added to his enjoyment.
In time the spanking ended. She slid from his thighs to land on the floor where she huddled into a ball of weeping humility.
He leaned above her. “I had to do it, to punish you. You must know this.”
Her sniffling stopped. She nodded and risked a look upward at him. His face was suffused with blood, his organ was swollen and throbbing.
“I know,” she sobbed.
“But we aren’t finished yet.”
She shook her head so that her golden hair swept back and forth. As though strings pulled her wrists and ankles, she got to her feet. She moved past him to the bed, stretched out on it, on her back.
Johnny Orrendo rose to his feet, watching as she slowly parted her thighs. With a muffled groan, he fell upon her, his patience at an end. Deep into her he plunged, deep.
The girl closed her eyes, lost in her own joy. These spanking bouts not only did something to the man, they affected her as well. She had begun to enjoy these meetings with Johnny Orrendo, what he did to her. They added a fillip to the sexual encounters she had begun to miss with other clients. She almost would have come to him for nothing.
Their pairing lasted a long time. Betti Flowers lost track of the minutes in the engulfing sea of sensuality. Her hips rose and fell, pumping. And Johnny Orrendo was as powerful as a bull—heaving, thumping, driving. He was pouring out all the agonized moments when he was required to voice a decision in Mafia affairs, knowing deep down that a wrong move might cost him his life.
They clung tightly, shuddering, convulsing. Their bodies moved more slowly, their harsh panting slowed. For a few more seconds they held on to each other. Slowly the man’s arms eased their grip. He rolled off her and onto his back.
His eyes were closed. He was exhausted.
In a moment he would be asleep, deeply, soundly. But in this moment of utter tiredness he breathed, “Take what you want, kid. You were good tonight. Real good. You deserve everything I got. Help yourself.”
He lay breathing steadily, arms out-flung, legs sprawling. Johnny Orrendo would not wake for many hours. It was a habit of his, the girl knew. In the early days she would lie beside him waiting for him to wake and want her once again, but he never did.
