Italian connection, p.6
Italian Connection, page 6
part #1 of Cherry Delight Series
I mean he was sloshed to the gills, and his tongue wagged as though on springs. I threw my arms about his neck and rubbed my breasts to his chest.
“Tell me more,” I cooed. “The Countess is known for her parties. I think she has outdone herself this time. Once in a while she’ll have a boy and a girl up from the village to put on a sex show for her guests, but tonight—ah, it’s as if she’d thrown financial discretion to the winds. And that’s a strange thing, too… .”
“Why is that? Isn’t she rich?” He was nuzzling my throat with his lips, kissing my shoulders where the evening gown bared them. “Everybody thinks so. I know better. I’m a banker, dear. It’s my business to know the financial status of my clients. And I number the Countess Colette de Vaux among those.”
My head was whirling, and not from the fact that his fingers were rumpling up my gown so that more and more of my bare legs and upper thighs were coming into view. First, the men with the binoculars. Now this revelation about la Comtesse. If she didn’t have the bread to give a party like this—who was supplying her with the money?
I asked the old goat about that, and he chuckled thickly. “Let’s go somewhere private, my love. You are getting me very excited. I haven’t been this hot in a long time.”
My left thigh did the walking for me along his front and found something that vaguely resembled a long thin stick jutting up from his groin. Well, well My boy friend wasn’t as old as I thought. My hand slid down between us, moved up and down his erection. I felt him buck and jerk against me as he started panting like a spavined horse.
“You will tell me what I wish to know?” I whispered.
“About the Countess? Eh, why not?” I let him turn me, lead me away from the pool and up the staircase. We passed a man crouched between the widespread knees of a woman, her stockinged legs uplifted, the myriad light from the pool gleaming on her pallid thigh-flesh as she squirmed and scrunched against him. I could hear the slurping sound of his male organ as it went in and out of her vaginal channel. To one side of them and up a few steps, a woman had opened her dress and lifted out a big, blue-veined breast which she was feeding to one of the naked young performers.
“Why?” I asked. “Why does the Countess give such parties? Yes, yes, they make her popular. I can understand that. But… …”
His chuckle was lewd. “She makes friends, hein? And friends tell her things she wants to know.”
Understanding hit me like a sledgehammer. Me, idiot! I should have doped this out myself. “Blackmail,” I whispered.
His shoulders made an elaborate shrug. “It is how I have figured it out, dolly. She learns things about you, about me—have you a husband you don’t want to know about this night, cherie?—and files them away somewhere against the need for francs. It must be that way, it can be no other.”
We ran side by side into the villa. My dirty older man had me ready for fun and games with a vengeance. My blood was pounding, I couldn’t think straight. His fingers were like electric wires running over my hips inside my evening gown, they slid over my quivering buttocks and then around to my front to tousle my pubic hairs and hunt for my erect clitoral bud. He knew his way around a woman, did this lecher.
The cantharides that had been in the first Blanca-chassis I’d had didn’t hurt, either. And the going—over by Donna was an added bit of erotica that was firing my nerve-ends.
I dragged my companion into a nearby room. I wondered where Bocca Carducci and Francesco Galuppo might be right about now, but the hell with the Mafia mobsters at a time like this. I had been working steadily for my organization ever since I’d gone into that coffin, so right now I was going to do something nice for Cherry Delight.
I pushed my companion into a straight-backed chair, panting. “We’ll try the dok el arz posture.”
He grinned up at me, watching me lift the black satin skirt of my gown. “Ah, you know the Sheik Nefzawi and his writings?”
My lips gave him a wicked smile. “Honey, I’ve studied the old masters until my eyes popped out. Nefzawi, Ovid, Aloysia, Sigea, Philaenis and Elephantine, you name em, I’ve read ‘em. You might call it a hobby of mine. Or an avocation. I have a good body, I enjoy sexual acrobatics from time to time if not all the time, and what I enjoy I try to make as perfect as possible.”
“An excellent credo, indeed,” he modded. I stood between his legs, pushing down the straps of the gown. I eased the bodice to my middle and gave my shoulders a little shimmy. My breasts danced up and down for his bulging eyes. My brown nipples were long and thick, my breast-flesh was smooth and solid.
“Like a milk shake, honey?” I giggled. I shook my love jugs for him, head back and my red hair starting to come loose from the pins and pearl-strands holding it. His whimpers and groans of enjoyment were music to my ears. Then I pushed the rest of the gown off and stood naked between his legs, wearing only my rhine-stoned Kimels.
I bent, breasts dangling, and put my hands to his zipper.
In another moment he was out there in the open, long and thin, quivering in his excitement. My fingertips went up and down his erection, lazily. My backbone bent a little more so I could brush his swollen penis-head with my bloated nipples. He whinnied like a stallion enjoying a cute little mare.
“You know, I don’t even know your name,” I breathed.
“Ma poupee cherie! At a time like this, you ask for names! Eh, bien. I am Etienne Montaigne. Now that that’s settled… .”
“I’m Cherry Delight. And since my name is Cherry, I like to ride a cock horse.”
He whinnied laughter, sobbing and panting in his desire for the body I was showing him, standing between his thighs. I lifted my left leg casually, telling him to put his knees together. He gave my wet labia a good long look before he did what I told him, so that I found myself straddling his trousered legs.
Then I sat down on him, slowly. He went in with a lazy lasciviousness that added to our mutual pleasure. I rested my behind on his shaking legs and—as I’d done with Joe Turessi—let my constrictor muscles ripple up and down. Etienne Montaigne sobbed as he shook to that cunnectasiac caress.
I set out to make a friend of this older Frenchman. He was a banker, he might even lend me money if I needed it. Remember now, I was on my own here on the Riviera, I wasn’t about to overlook any bets when it came to feathering my nest. You never know, in my line of work, where you’ll have to turn in an emergency. So I let myself post up and down on his rigid manhood, giving him a couple of additional thrills by leaning forward and letting him have my nipples for his pouting lips, one after the other.
I am an adept when it comes to sex. I’ve made a thorough study of the subject, going back to the days when I’d immersed myself in my father the doctor’s medical texts. At one time I’d even thought of studying medicine myself, but then I met Mark Condon and he talked me into becoming a member of the Mafia-fighting set.
My study of medicine and its corresponding knowledge of the human body stood me in good stead as a N.Y.M.P.H.O. girl, however. Like now, for instance, giving old Etienne Montaigne his Jack Straw jollies. My right hand went down beneath his scrotum and my fingernails played at spider’s legs with his testicles, in a little rogering refinement that heaped some extra thrills on his male love-nerves.
But I didn’t hurry him. Oh, my. No! There is a way to help the male last and last, if his female companion in the amorous arts is willing to play her proper part. When his penis swelled, I tightened my constrictor cunnae muscles on it, just holding it, while I ceased all movement of my thighs and hips. As the crisis passed, I let those interior muscles loosen, tighten, loosen, as I began once more to go up on and down on him.
“Ma colombe! Mon ange!” he sobbed, his body shaking all over in the delirious delights flooding it. “Mmmmmm, ca iral Je me sens mal… . ”
He whispered and moaned, babbled and blurted out love words in French that I followed well enough to know I was making the most fantastic impression on him. At that moment I could have had anything I wanted of the old guy. And he would be looking forward to a repeat performance by yours truly. You can’t have me just once, to paraphrase a TV commercial, once only whets the appetite. He would need some more of my pudendal pleasures when he recovered from this bout.
Which was as it should be. I needed friends on the Riviera.
But all good things have to come to an end. So I made it a most pleasant ending for Etienne Montaigne, doing a bump and grind and using those inside muscles of mine until he was jellying and shuddering and contorting under me until I began to think he was taking leave of his senses. His eyes opened once as he stared up at me in utter adoration. I was Venus and Astarte, Inninuinni and Isis to him, all the love goddesses of history rolled up in one.
“Tu es la plus belle fille du monde!’’ he breathed.
That was when he fainted.
I climbed off him after a few moments. He was still alive, he hadn’t pulled a Joe Turessi on me. I figured all he needed was a little catnap. I rearranged his clothing, then slithered back into my Givenchy evening gown. While he slumbered on, I thought maybe I could find out a little more about this villa Fouquet.
My feet carried me from the tiny reading room we’d made our own, out into the hall. The party was still going on, but by this time, a younger crowd had taken over, probably because the younger ones had more sexual stamina. There were naked couples banging each other in the shadows, on the big marble staircase, even using the chairs pushed back against the wall.
I skirted them, evading a hand here and a hand there that sought to drag me down and make a seance a trios out of what was now a seance a deux. I laughed and blew kisses and wandered up the staircase and along a carpeted hall between rows of oil paintings, past open doors through which I could see groups of men and women grappling together in various erotic entanglements.
I was sorely tempted to join a few of these groupings. There was one set of naked bodies where three men were enjoying one woman who was having a ball but who was obviously outnumbered. I watched them. One man lay on his back with the woman on top of him, a second man knelt behind her with his male tool thrust deep into her behind, while a third crouched before her face and working mouth. She needed help, but her happy groans told me she wasn’t asking for any.
I moved on, feeling my blood churning hotly. I didn’t find out where Francesco Galuppo was hiding himself, but I did discover Bocca Carducci. He and a blonde doll were silently writhing on top of a bed. Bocca was between her wide-flung thighs, sawing in and out of her moist femininity with an out-sized organ. I could hear his grunts and her bleats from the doorway.
My eyes took in her nakedness in a girdle and black nylon stockings. Her big breasts were outside a brassiere, held up by its rolled cups, while she had unfastened the garter-clasps of the girdle so her stockings wouldn’t ladder. She was a meaty dish, not fat but with plenty of good flesh on her bones. Her breasts were bouncing and her thighs were shimmying as she lurched and stabbed herself on the rigid shaft impaling her.
From their bodies, my eyes went to the window. I froze, standing motionless.
Those feral yellow eyes were out there in a tree, peering avidly in at the blonde Italian and his bed partner! I could hardly believe what I was seeing. If that voyeur had wanted, he could have walked right into the room and stood beside me, for all Bocca and the woman would care. They were deep in their carnal coupling, oblivious to the rest of the world. I had to warn Bocca about those field glasses. Maybe he would know more about the men using them than I. I didn’t want to yell the alarm, I wasn’t sure how the blonde who was banging her rump up and down on the bed-coverings would react. I had to be a little subtle about it.
Well, hell. I was a woman with the hots, right? What could be more natural than for me to want a little of what Bocca was giving the blonde?
I ran up into the room, bent to grasp the hem of the Givenchy gown. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a faint movement of the binoculars. Nosey-guts had seen me come in. I’d show him something else.
The gown came up, my nudity came into view. I tossed the evening gown through the air. Then I hip-swung over to the side of the bed. I stood there a few seconds, using my hands to lift and shake my breasts, to caress them, to pull the big brown nipples out and twirl them between my forefingers and thumbs.
It would seem perfectly obvious to the man with the binoculars that I was a woman with the hots, I was seeing another woman getting what I wanted from Bocca Carducci. I was playing with myself, working my con into a lather so I could join the couple on the bed and practice a little troilism with them.
I put a knee on the bed and a hand on Bocca’s bare back. He jerked at my touch and turned a surprised face toward me. I put my face toward his as though to kiss him.
But before our lips could meet, I breathed, “There’s a man with a pair of binoculars in a tree just outside the window of this room. Do you know anything about him?”
Poor Bocca couldn’t think straight. His glazed blue eyes told me he was in the throes of an oncoming orgasm. But my hand was dipping between his thighs, to grip his testicles. To prevent that orgasm, I gave his balls a hard squeeze.
Trust Cherry Delight to lend a guy a helping hand.
Chapter Four
Bocca Carducci turned an agonized face toward me. I gave him a happy grin and took away my hand, letting the fingernails play at spiders’ legs along his testicles to make up for the pain. I’d caused him. Beneath him the blonde woman opened her eyes, stared up at me disbelievingly.
“How about letting me in on the game?” I breathed.
“Qui es la?” asked the blonde woman. “A friend of mine,” grunted Bocca. “What’s the idea, Cherry?”
I lifted a bare leg and put it over the blonde lady so she had a terrific view of my private parts. Then I lowered myself right onto her face and tightened my inner thighs around her ears so she couldn’t hear a thing.
Her hands slid up over my thighs to my behind. Before she could push me off, I whispered to Bocca, “There’s a man out there in a tree with a pair of binoculars who’s looking in on us.”
His head turned, his eyes went to the window. From that angle, he couldn’t see the man. He growled, “You sure? I don’t like to make love in public.”
I told him about the man who’d been watching me down in the gardens. “Why, Bocca? Why should anyone be so interested in me? Or in you either, for that matter?”
He grinned, his eyes on my hanging breasts as I crouched over his lady fair. “So you’re a good looking girl, he likes to look at pretty women. And—” his shoulders shrugged in a typically Latin gesture, “— he likes to watch a real man in action.”
The hands in my buttock flesh had not pushed me off, as I’d expected. Instead, fingers were tightening in my gluteus maximus, were holding me to the mouth that was feasting on my con. I quivered as I felt a tongue titillate my rigid clitoris, grew excitedly aware of that tongue sliding back and forth on my labia. My hips jerked in a reflex motion.
Whether I wanted it or not, the Frenchwoman was drawing me into their vortex of pleasure. My senses swam, my eyes lidded and my mouth came open to aid my breathing. And then Bocca had to lower his head and nuzzle at my breast, to draw my bloated brown nipple between his lips.
His loins picked up the speed of his ramming, I could hear a slurping sound as his hard flesh went into and retreated from her wet flesh. She moaned—I could feel it in that private part of me—and her hips jounced and bounced.
They went at it hammer and tongs. She went at me lips and tongue. I yelled, I couldn’t help it. My excitement was too wild to keep smothered inside me. Pretty soon Bocca was grunting and groaning, his body shaking. The Frenchwoman was making sounds, too, but my con was smothering them.
Bocca slowed the movement of his hips. He wasn’t spent, not yet, he was getting his second wind. He rested a moment, his blue eyes burning into mine. I raised up a little, heard the blonde sobbing air into her tortured lungs. I waited in the frog position, my pulses pounding, my nooky nerve-ends quivering.
There was more to come, I knew it. Bocca was hardening again inside the woman. His faint grin told me that, as well as the slow pumping of his loins. The blonde moaned, I felt her tongue-tip stab up at me. That tongue slid around and around, lazily. Then as her lover started to move faster, her tongue dipped and darted with increasing speed.
I told myself to forget the man in the tree. Hell! I had forgotten him. Who could think at a time like this, when sensation was alive in my body, when soft lips suckled my nipples, one after the other, and a hard little tongue reamed at will where I was every inch a female? My hips picked up their beat, my buttocks looped and swung, and pretty soon I was resting on her open mouth and giving it all I had.
All good things must come to an end. We finished at about the same time, sobbing and grunting, panting and cursing. We clung to each other in the final throes of diddling dissolution.
I rolled off and lay on my back, staring blindly up at the ceiling. I may be a Mafia sex-terminator, but right now my body was just being me. Cherry Delight, in the pleasant throes of an amoral aftermath. A soft hand slid along my bare thigh, up to my red pubic bush, and fingernails tickled.
“That was wonderful,” a soft voice announced. “I’ave not ’ad such fun in a long, long time. C’est si on faisait ca d’une autre maniere?”
I raised up on an elbow. “Try it another way? Aren’t you tired?”
Her soft laughter rang out. “Cherie, I could go on and on. I can nevaire get enough of loving.”
She sounded like a girl after my own heart. I’m not exactly a nympho, but when goodies are offered, a gal has to be crazy to turn them down. My eyes went to Bocca Carducci.
“How about it, Bocca?” I asked. “Another go?”
“Wait,” he said. He rose from the bed and turned to face the window. He had a terrific body, lean and hard, with muscles bulging out all over him. His foremost muscle was not quite limp, it showed itself proudly, but there was a scowl on his face.
