Id rather fight than swi.., p.4
I'd Rather Fight Than Swish, page 4
“Well?” he challenged.
“It will never get booked at Radio City Music Hall. No love interest.”
“If this master plan goes through,” he said acidly, “there may never be a Radio City Music Hall. Think about that, funny fellow.”
I didn’t have to. I stopped making with the jokes.
“I did see something unusual. You notice all those suntans those fellows had? That kind of windburn—” I went on to elaborate and his eyebrows shot up. For a long second, he frowned. Then he smiled.
“Really, Damon. All your worth is not in your pants. You are absolutely right. I saw that too—but I didn’t pay any attention to it as you did. I imagined I was seeing Russians and I took their shade for granted! Moscow winter and all that. Splendid, dear boy. Splendid!”
“Will you stop sounding like an English movie?” I growled. “What are you going to do with me?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I wanted you to see this film. I want your ideas on the subject.”
“Good. I’ve got a couple.”
“May I hear them?”
“If you don’t, I’ll collapse into tears.”
“All right, all right,” he lowered his voice. “Out with it. What have you come up with in that tricky mind of yours?”
“Just this. Ask all our allied agencies to help with the problem. The works. The CIA, the G-Men, the Secret Service, Interpol—all of them. Ring up Europe and Russia and toss everybody into the pot. That way you’ll have thousands of eyes on the lookout. How does that sound?”
“Commendable. We’ll have to do exactly that, really. I can’t see how it’s avoidable. They’ll cooperate too. Nobody wants a nuclear holocaust. And your second thought?”
“That strange windburn. I don’t have to go to Russia, do I? What can one man accomplish in somebody else’s ballpark? Keep me here. Let me work on that angle right from the university. I have an idea how to set up a proper spy ring—all those students of mine. They’ll think of it as a lark and nobody would ever suspect them. Besides—” I said icilv, “I do not want to freeze my nuts off in that Godforsaken icebox.”
He chuckled and shook his head.
“Even for a Coxeman like you, that plan is, to say the least, unorthodox. But——”
“Say yes and I won’t make any more bum bon mots.”
“You always break your promises. Your stiff penis has no conscience. Or character.”
“Never mind that. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” be hedged. “For the time being, at any rate. I had no cogent idea as to what to do with you in this enterprise anyway. At least, you’ve come up with something. I have not. I’ll take the consequences.”
“Bully for you,” I said, extending my hand. “You’re all heart.”
“Please.” He shuddered. “What an opening.”
I ignored that, got to my feet and stretched. I almost poked his eye out. With an arm, I mean. He glowered and fingered the scruff of his favorite hairpiece.
“I beg of you,” he warned. “Just be discreet and careful. And remember how important this is.”
“You’re a grown man. You don’t have to beg. And haven’t I always done the job?”
“Yes, you have,” he admitted. “But don’t you dare tell me you haven’t had a ball, Damon. My God—when I think of the Olympics, Sarmania, Puerto Rico and that Venus woman and the Academie Sexualité—you have gone to the well many times, my friend.”
“Well?”
“Oh, get on with it,” he growled. “Call me when you get your hands on something—I mean when you have a piece of—” He gave up, spreading his arms. “When you know something, I should like to hear it.”
I grinned. “Scout’s honor.”
“No,” he said. “I want your word as a Coxeman. You are not a Boy Scout.”
“As a Coxeman,” I said stiffly. “You have my undying pledge.”
“Mmmmm.” It was all he said.
I left him then, with his blue funk, his film footage and his very busy mind. He remained in the chair, snaffling his moustache. I quietly left the movie room.
The film was over, the assignment was on and I had some plans of my own.
But I never was one to rush things.
Particularly when I have rolling in the hay in mind. Russian spies, world peace and swollen immigration quotas and strange suntans could wait at least another twenty-four hours. I am still an instructor and a professor in the field of sexology.
And there was still a world-full of hungry, eager-to-learn students ready to surrender their fresh young minds and bodies to my knowledge.
As I left the Foundation Building on my way back to the university, I put in my thumb and pulled out a plum from my mental pie. It was still too early to collar Rita Cortez but there was a Clovis Lee awaiting and apining. Rita was supposed to come after dark, in the evening.
Clovis Lee.
I would be her General Grant. She could surrender to me all over again. Her backside had been a valley of fun and games and a ball but now I was rather anxious to attack the problem from the front. Visions of red hair, freckles and peaches-and-cream flesh danced in my head. I whistled a happy tune on my way back to the classroom.
Not that I felt afraid.
How could I?
The King and I were one and the same person.
And you always see us together. . . .
Behind the locked door of my special suite of rooms at the university, Clovis Lee stood naked in the center of the room. The slight interlude in the locker room had not deceived me. She was a strawberry roan all the way. Long, wide flanks, hilly haunches, an upsweep of two breasts that would knock anybody’s eye out. She had her eyes open and was standing at attention. Arms flat along her thighs. She was built like a deluxe, streamlined hourglass. With sands that shifted and filled out with each tremor of her body. Willowy she was but sturdy.
I circled her warily. I was bare-assed naked too.
After all, I don’t learn something and then discard it so easily. That is not the role of the true seeker of knowledge. I’d gotten an afternoon pass for Clovis Lee so that she could study privately with me until sundown. Or as long as I wanted her to. The university yields to me in all things. After all, I put die place on the map.
“Professor,” she moaned softly. “Do we have to wait? I’m kind of anxious—”
“Me too. But I want to try something.”
“Try!” she moaned. “Try!” She was writhing, poor kid. Small wonder. The eighth wonder of the world was in view and the fact that it would be all hers any second now had kind of staggered her.
“Be patient I must kiss you first.”
“Where? Where?”
“Don’t move your head. Stand perfectly still. Don’t touch me. I won’t touch you. Not with my hands anyway——”
Her tongue was already hanging out. Shades of me and Rita Cortez. I felt sorry for her so I began. Rushing it just a little. I didn’t want her fainting on me and she looked close to the edge already.
So I kissed her. First on each mammary, rolling a wide arc up to her throat and then around to her ears. When I bit into the lovely lobe of her left ear, she cried out in real pain as if I had knifed her. She swayed. I looked her over. A field of glorious goose pimples had stippled her gorgeous flesh. Her pelvic cage was bumping and grinding into outer space, longing for contact. But the kid was a trouper. Not once did she spoil things by trying to grab me. Her body changed from gooseflesh to dampened, throbbing, vibrantly torrid skin. I lowered my mouth to her navel and began to slide down, keeping my own hands locked behind my back and my armament away from the glory hole.
It was too much.
For both of us.
I was as bored now with experimentation as I had been with Walrus-moustache’s movie. I didn’t want to prove anything in particular. All I really wanted to do was get laid.
So—I laid her.
Or rather, her resolve broke, her control skipped out the window and she went berserk. She got me first. Before I could unlock my hands or take up a stand.
She murmured a low growl, like a tiger in the bush, and lowered her own head and charged. I don’t know how she did it but before I could say Howdy Doody, she had scissored her thighs apart, meshed gears and swallowed everything I was putting on the table. In one swift, flooding sensation of glory and majesty, we were melded into one whole. Face to face, chest to bosom, cheek to cheek. She gave one awesome grind and bump, closed around me like a clam, and standing there in the center of the room, we both must have rocked the building. I am used to many things, many beds, chairs, doorways, all kinds of positions but seldom had I enjoyed juicily and joyously, the old familiar stand-up quickie jet-job which dates back to the London streetwalkers of World War Two. After all, those blackouts due .to nighttime bombing raids by the Luftwaffe opened up a whole new field of research. War, damn its existence, does bring out the best from the worst sometimes. Look at Penicillin, sulfa drugs. . . .
Clovis Lee bombarded me good and hard. And often. She didn’t get tired either. The way she should have. Standing like that is awfully wearing on the backbone. Not to mention the forebone.
But she didn’t care. She loved me, like she had said.
“Kissing’s all right,” she huffed and puffed, “but it will never take the place of this . . . oh, Rod Damon, darling . . . I love you, I love you!”
For each declaration of deathless love, she rewarded me with one shocking orgiastic deluge of herself. It was like the flood and my ark held its own. She could never sink me and she knew it. That was why her eyes were so deliriously happy.
I pinned her flanks with my fingers, boring further into the marshy recesses of wonderland.
“There’s a big wide bed inside,” I said. “Would you like me to show you the Australian Method?”
“Anything,” she crooned. “Anything.”
“It’s a crawl. Like in swimming. Then there’s the Host Style where you are my guest and—” I began to fling her toward the bedroom, still attached to her as it were. She closed her eyes, sagging against me, her buttery, warming body a part of me. That’s the way it goes when the going is always good.
“Host style, crawl-style, dog-style—I don’t care!” she screamed. “Do with me as you want. I’m your, slave. Your love slave, Professor!”
Women. Ah me. I must confess, boys and girls, that is the way it is with all ladies and females and women and tiger lilies and sweet wholesome Wandas the world over. Sue, Tina, Mary, Alice, Ruth—you name it. You please a woman in the sack and no matter who she is or what she is, or how young or how old, or what she says and what she doesn’t say—she’s all yours!
Maybe those characters on television will walk a mile for a Camel, but a woman, any woman, will do much more to get her ashes hauled properly. The man who can satisfy a tomato that wants to be pickled has the key to the city. All the cities. Even very great ladies who should know better have never been able to turn down the chauffeur or the flunky once she finds out he has the stick that does the trick. If you don’t believe me, tough.
But let me ask you.
The next time you see a beautiful dame in the company of one enormously ugly man and the slob isn’t rich, just ask yourself what the Princess is doing out with the stable boy.
At night all cats are gray, they say.
But there’s a big difference in cats too. The cat who can out-Tom the other ones is the cat that will be remembered.
Clovis Lee must have been reading my mind.
By the time I had stretched her tall, limp loveliness out on the big bed and climbed aboard, beginning the Australian Method which starts at the painted toenails, she was purring like a tabby.
A big sweet beautiful pussy of pleasure.
“Professor . . . ?” This as I worked my way artfully from right field.
“Yes, Clovis honey baby darling.”
“Do you think I’m a wanton?”
“The idea!” I began to surround the burning bush. She sighed and moaned some more but her mind was still on something. I waited only a moment longer.
“I mean—please, tell the truth. I’m so young and you’re so experienced . . . and I’ve got the pills and all the devices back in my room and all the books on the subject . . . but darn it, Professor, I’m just hot . . . all the time. I want it nearly everytime I can think of it. Is that bad?”
“Only if you don’t give in to it You want to get headaches and aching kidneys and nausea and frustrations that will turn your food to acid? Nonsense. Being like this —free, eager and responsive—you will lead a happy life. I, Damon, tell you this.”
Her thighs twitched as she felt the probing tip of the instrument of desire searching for a resting place. Her breasts did a rhumba of delight, her hands came down trying to hang onto my scrotum again as a sort of guide and escort into the inner sanctum. I let her.
“Gee, Rod . . .” She sighed and kicked her legs until she had me signed, sealed and delivered. I was swelling like a balloon. “You do understand. What a man you are. It’s so nice to meet you properly after only seeing you in the hall so many times. I’ve wanted you until my breasts ached!”
“Clovis—” I had reared back for a second, ready for that tremendous first all-the-way plunge that has rolled lady eyeballs from New York to Bangkok. “What color are my eyes?”
“Gee—” The question threw her. “Blue, I guess?”
“They’re brown,” I said. “Satyr-brown. And you make my testicles twitch. And any woman that does that gets the full treatment.”
“The full treatment?” Her voice quavered with delight. She tried to sit up. “What’s that? I’ll do anything with you like I said but you could give me a little hint—”
“No. I’m going to give you a big hint.”
“Oh,” she said and subsided back against the pillows, lovely thighs arched wide, ready, willing and waiting. And entirely able to take the full payload. She was built like the Panama Canal.
It’s not always easy on them. The first time. Suddenly finding themselves, literally invaded as it were, by the choicest tenderloin in the male league, does have its shock value. Some of them are just too small—in the beginning.
“Clovis, count from ten to one. A countdown. Ten, nine, eight . . . you know.”
She did as I told her. Breathlessly, quickly, a little rasp in her voice like she was having a hard time breathing. The old anticipation ploy. By the time she got down to one, she was all aquiver with expectation and squirming like a lovely eel. It works most of the time. Milady’s imagination is the biggest help of all, sometimes.
I went in, thrusting like a rocket booster, shooting, propelling a missile as guided as anything they have down at Cape Kennedy. The moon shots are just as good and just as perfect and yet not nearly as nice as far as boys and girls are concerned.
Clovis Lee went into orbit. She skyrocketed, trailing sparks.
I followed, putting aside for a few hours, the gory mess of Walrus-moustache and his worries about the spies who had come to take over America.
This was my kind of coming.
It was just as well that I made my arrangement with Clovis Lee. Rita Cortez never did show up that night. Oh, not that she chickened out or changed her mind. Maybe I’m stronger medicine than even I think.
A note was slipped under my front door about six o’clock. That was while Clovis Lee was in my shower, washing down her prime body for some more instruction from the head of L.S.D. The honey was insatiable and I was too happy to fully care about broken appointments. I’d practically forgotten about the torrid lady from Puerto Rico. Until the note brought me up sharply.
It was brief and very much to the point:
PROFESSOR DAMON:
WILL YOU GIVE ME A RAIN CHECK POR FAVOR? I HAVE COME DOWN WITH THE HONG KONG FLU. I WOULDN’T WANT YOU TO CATCH IT CONSIDERING WHAT AN IMPORTANT MAN YOU ARE. THE CLASS WOULD NEVER FORGIVE ME. TILL WE MEET AGAIN? I’LL BE LOOKING FORWARD.
RITA CORTEZ
Well, there was some measure of balm in that, after all. The class was bound to think that a mere sampling of Damon had unnerved the poor young thing. I didn’t care. There was always mañana when it comes to affairs of the body.
Whistling, I tore the note into tiny shreds and went back into the bathroom to help Clovis Lee pick up the bar of soap she had dropped.
There is nothing slipperier than a bar of soap when you are jockeying for position in a porcelain tub.
“I dropped the soap, Professor.”
“Pick it up.”
“I’m trying to—it’s so slippery.”
“Try again. I’ll steady you, Clovis.”
“All right—” She giggled and bent down.
I steadied her.
Her slender fingers closed over the elusive bar. It skidded once more. She squealed and reached further over for it. When her grasp finally had the thing pinned and trapped, I complimented her the best way I knew how.
I fixed my position and lost my head again. Man, but that woman was glorious from behind.
“Ohhhhhh, Professorrrrrr!”
Like I said, she had everything going for her.
“If you’re a real nice girl,” I said. “I’ll wash your back.”
I did.
And she washed mine.
And I washed hers again.
And then we repeated the whole routine.
I can’t talk about sin and morals and the corruption of the youth of the day on any actual critical basis but I’ll tell you this much—Clovis Lee and I had to be the two cleanest lovers in the whole damn world.
Where there’s life, there’s hope.
Where there’s kicks, there’s soap.
CHAPTER FOUR
As carefully as I select for experimentation in the sexology field, I was even more choosy the next day. Walrus-moustache had given me the green light on my idea of tracking down the too-many-spies affair. So I was on my own. He had gone back to the Foundation to arrange his own matters. I had the university at my disposal. I had thought hard all night long, despite being kept busy by Clovis Lee, who hungered to know all the methods in the book. Came morning and my mind was made up. I had settled on the choices of seven particular students. Five girls and two boys. I decided on some men to help just in case some muscle would be needed. There are times when not even two big tits can match two big fists. You can never be sure in matters of espionage.
