On the veranda itself a woman was sitting alone with a large English sheepdog. The woman was middle-aged, although well formed and very stylishly dressed. She was wearing a long, flowing evening gown. It took me a minute to realize that the part of the sheepdog I was looking at was the rear. The head was some place under the flowing gown.
I tripped going up the steps to the veranda. I was about to make a comment -- ask a question -- I don’t know what. But Peggy was moving too fast for me. There was no chance. I recovered my balance and half jogged after her, following her into the main room of the party.
People were dancing. People were eating. People were drinking. People were fucking.
What was that?
People were fucking! They really were! Demurely. . . .
Huh?
Like not blatantly. Not exactly sneakily either, but not obviously. . . That’s it. They were fucking not obviously.
As the Man from O.R.G.Y., of course, I wasn’t shocked. Surprised maybe, but not shocked. What I mean, it’s not too usual to have just a few people going at each other at a party while the majority of the guests are nibbling the chopped liver, or sipping the bubbly, or tripping the light fantastic. So I was surprised. But I am the Man From O.R.G.Y. So I wasn’t shocked. I don’t think I was shocked. . . .
“Peggy.” I took her by the elbow and slowed her down.
“Aye?”
“That couple over there . . .”
“Where, mon?”
“Under the hors d’oeuvres table.”
“Ah!”
“Peggy, what’s going on?”
“It’s a wee bit hard to tell. The tablecloth is blocking them.”
“They’re making it, Peggy.”
“Oh, that. Aye, that they are. I thought it was the specifics you were asking me aboot.”
“But people can see them, Peggy. As a matter of fact, the way their legs are sticking out, people can trip over them. I’ve already seen a few do exactly that.”
“What’s your point, Karl?”
“My point?”
“Aye. What is it that you’re asking me.”
I thought about it. I didn’t quite know myself. In any case, before I could straighten it out in my head and ask another question, I was distracted. The cause of the distraction was a very large chandelier swinging quite violently over my head.
Craning my neck, I looked up at it. Its agitated movement was the result of the exertions of the couple precariously perched on it. Legs crisscrossed to lock them into position, they were bare from the waists down and -- technically—having intercourse. I say “technically” because, of necessity, more of their concentration had to be going into keeping their balance than into the sex act itself.
“If ye hae no more questions to bother me wi’, then come along, Karl.”
“Where are we going?”
“In the other room. That’s where the orgy is.”
That was where the orgy was? Then what did she call what was going on here, in this room? I asked the question.
“Foreplay, mon.” That was the answer.
“Foreplay—” I gave Peggy the benefit of my expertise “— means precoital techniques.”
“Some folk,” she told me rather coldly, “get a wee bit carried away. But we are no here to judge them.”
I was beginning to wonder just what it was that we were there for. “When do I get to meet with the Lilliputian?” I asked Peggy, getting back to the business which had brought me there.
“Is that your taste?” She shrugged. “All right, then. He’s upstairs. Come wi’ me.”
I followed her to a large hallway with a broad staircase rising up from it. We mounted the stairs. We walked down. another, narrower hallway, and Peggy came to a stop in front of a door at the end of it. “He’s in there,” she told me.
“The Lilliputian?”
She nodded.
“And will he be able to arrange things about the girl I'm interested in?”
Peggy scowled. “I suppose so.” She seemed to be disappointed about something.
I knocked at the door.
A man’s voice called to come in. I couldn’t tell whether it was the same as the voice on the tape or not. Peggy didn’t come with me as I entered the room. But she did close the door behind me.
A midget in a white dinner jacket was seated in an armchair facing me. He was a very good-looking midget of early middle years, his skin well cared for, his teeth white and even, his hair black, worn not too long, and straight and shiny. He looked up at me inquiringly.
“I’m Karl Powers.” I stammered as I spoke the name.
The reason I stammered was the other element of the scene before me. Across the lap of the miniature gentleman in the armchair was a plump young lady midget, blonde and squealing. She was lying across his knees with her head hanging down. Her dress was pulled up and tucked in around her waist. Her panties had been pulled down and were at half-mast, hugging the backs of her knees. Her bare backside stuck straight up in the air. Like the little lady herself, it was very plump. It was also very pink, as if it had recently been struck.
It had. The Lilliputian was in the process of spanking her. My entrance was a distraction, but it didn’t stop him.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Powers?” He smacked the jiggling bottom. The blonde midget squealed delightedly. The flesh reddened momentarily, then faded to pink.
“You can tell me where Alicia is!”
“Probably downstairs somewhere.” He waved his small hand vaguely, then brought the palm down on the dancing derriere. The tiny blonde squealed again and writhed energetically.
“She’s not a prisoner?” I was surprised.
“Oh. One of those. Well then, I suppose you’d better look in the basement. That’s where the dungeons are.”
“She’s in a dungeon?”
“It seems likely.” The little man was concentrating much harder on spanking the blonde than he was on our conversation.
“What do I have to do to have her released?”
“Talk to Manuel about that. It’s his department.”
“Where do I find Manuel?” I asked.
“Do you know Peggy?”
I nodded.
“She’ll take you.”
“Thanks.”
He didn’t acknowledge my gratitude. He was too busy applying the palm of his hand to the naked posterior. She was bouncing like a Mexican jumping bean as I left the room.
Peggy was waiting outside.
“Where do I find Manuel?” I asked her.
“Down in the dungeons,” she told me.
“Can you take me there?”
“Later.”
“Why not now?”
“Because,” she informed me, opening her raincoat and cupping her naked breasts, “the orgy will no wait for us.”
There was no mistaking Peggy's meaning. The orgy was indeed at hand!
Chapter Six
While it had spread over the house and grounds, the main focal point of the orgy had become the playground. That’s where Peggy led me. To a swing. Two swingers swinging on a swing. That was the idea. I sat down on it. She sat on my lap facing me. “Pump, mon!” she said. She meant the swing.
I pumped. As we soared higher and higher, my eyes lit on first one and then another of the scenes forming the erotic panorama spread out over the playground. For somebody in my business—sex research—-it was a gold mine!
A black man, young and built like a boxer, wearing a dashiki and very tight pants, was seated at the foot of one of the sliding ponds. His pants were opened, his penis exposed. It was—alas! a stereotype!-—very large and very long and very hard. He held it by the base and moved it from side to side as if aiming it up the sliding pond.