“Tha-yut is bet-ter.” I could hear her breathing heavily. “It is my du-ty to in-form yew tha-yut it is a-gay-yunst the law for un-aw-thor-ized per-son-nel to use ob-uh-scene lan-goo-age o-ver the te-le-phone,” she informed me. “If yew persist, thi-yus caw-ull wi- yull be tra-yussed.”
“Good! Now we’re getting somewhere. Trace the call! Inform the police. They’re the ones I’m trying to call anyway!”
“Yew can di-yal the po-lice di-rect-ly, sir.”
“I can’t dial them directly, dammit! I’m tied hand and foot! I want you to get them for me! Hell, I don’t even know their number.”
“Di-yal faw-er-one-one for in-for-ma-shun. They wi-yull look up the num-ber faw-er yew, sir.”
And——you guessed it!—the line went dead again! I was impotent with despair. And the flaccidity, it seemed, must doom us. However, as before, Liberty came to the rescue.
“When I was a teen-age girl, I was in this movie theater once and this man sat down next to me and put his hand on my knee.” She was speaking urgently, rapidly, but her voice nevertheless managed to be filled with sensuality. “I was in a horny mood that day; I didn’t protest; I didn’t move away; instead, I let my own hand fall into his lap. . . .”
I suddenly realized that Liberty was making it up as she went along. I banished the thought from my mind. I concentrated on making it real.
“. . . He put his arm around my shoulder. I was wearing a low-cut blouse, and his hand dipped right into it. He pushed the bra aside and squeezed my nipples like he was playing marbles. It made me squirm and wriggle; I felt like I was on fire. Where my hand was in his lap, it was rock hard and jumping around like crazy. . . . He put his hand up under my skirt. The honey was flowing, thick and warm. He pulled down my panties. Three fingers . . . I was beside myself. I unzipped his fly. It was immense! . . . He made me sit on his lap, facing him. When he shoved it up inside me, I thought I’d break in two. His fingers were poking my behind, his teeth were biting my breasts hard, and I was sliding up and down on that gigantic thing for dear life. . . .”
She’d done it! Old Peter was standing at attention again! Fair frothing at the mouth, too! Obediently, he punched out four-one-one.
“In-for-ma-shun. May yi hel-lup yew?”
“. . . reaming me with that giant prick and sucking my titties sore and playing with my ass and . . .” Liberty kept right on with her fantasy.
“I wi-yull con-nect yew with the sew-per-vi-sor in char-ruge of ob-uh-scene te-le-phone caw-ulls.”
“No! Hold it! I want Information! I want the police! . . . Psst!” I hissed at Liberty. “You can stop now. I’ve got Information.”
“. . . tongue in my mouth . . . fingers pinching the nipples of my breasts . . .” She was oblivious.
“Di-yal ni-yun-one-one for police headquarters,” Information told me—-and hung up.
“. . . pounding my ass . . . rubbing up my clitty . . . overflowing my vagina. . . .”
My mind clung to the picture Liberty was painting. The erection was sustained. I willed it to spring. Nine!
“. . . hot . . . Wet . . . sucking . . . panting . . . hurting . . . moaning . . .”
One!
“. . . scratching . . . pinching . . . biting . . . ramming . . . clawing . . . slapping . . . squeezing . . . splitting . . .”
One!
“Police Headquarters. Sergeant Padd speaking. Please state your name, address, phone number, and the nature of your business in that order.”
“My name is Steve Victor.” I read off the number of the executive telephone. “There’s a Mafia gambling syndicate and it’s about to blow up. . . .” I knew I was babbling, but I couldn’t help it.
“State your address first.” Sergeant Padd was annoyed. “Then the nature of your business.”
“I don’t have any address. I don’t live in Seattle.”
“No known place of residence. Uh-huh. Well, then, state the address from which you are calling.”
“I don’t know the address here. I’ve never been here before.”
“Look, Mac—the police are here to help you. But we can’t help you if you don’t cooperate with us.”
“Dammit! There’s a bomb about to go off!”
“Where?”
“I told you! I don’t know the address!”
“All right. Calm down. I’ll connect you with the Emergency Bomb Squad,” Sergeant Padd told me.
The wire crackled. . . .
“Emergency Bomb Squad. We are sorry, but all circuits are busy at this time. Your number will be obtained from Headquarters’ switchboard and a member of the Bomb Squad will call you back imme—”
“NO! NO!” I screamed. “DON’T CALL BACK! If you do, you’1l set off the bomb! Whatever you do, DON’T CALL BACK!”
“This is a recording. At the sound of the ‘beep,’ you will be disconnected. However, repeat, you will be called back immedi—”
“NO! PLEASE, NO!” I begged.
Beep!
Go reason with a recording! Again I’d been disconnected; again the line was dead. I looked at the phone sitting there.
Just sitting there waiting for Death to return the call!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When I was a puberty-ridden kid, I used-to think there was something wrong with me. Then, around the age of sixteen, I stumbled on the works of Dr. Kinsey (a circumstance not unrelated to my subsequently ta ing up O.R.G.Y. as a career), and realized I wasn’t all that unusual. I wasn’t the only male around who reacted to the emotion of fear by sprouting an uncontrollable erection.
With adulthood came more control. Ordinary fear no longer prompted sexual arousal. Only in situations of extreme panic did the syndrome recur.
Now, with the chances of the phone ringing our death knell having doubled, just such an extreme panic seized me. That which in my guilt-tilled teens had been an embarrassment, now promised to be a life-saver. It was abetted by Liberty’s still ongoing litany:
“. . . tongue to tongue . . . breast to chest . . . groin to groin . . . heat to heat . . . flesh to flesh . . . lust to lust . . .”
Long and steel-hard with anxiety, forged by the realization that time was running out, my panic-inflated penis managed one more effort. It sprang to my bidding! Three times—Nine! One! One!
“Police Headquarters. Sergeant Padd speaking. Please state your name . . .”
“This is Steve Victor again!” I yelled into the speaker. “Don’t hang up! And if you do hang up, don’t call back!”
“You were told the Bomb Squad would get back to you,” Sergeant Padd grumbled. “There are certain procedures that have to be followed in police work, you know.”
“I’m sorry! Just don’t hang up! This is an urgent situation!”
“. . . being raped . . . grunting and shoving . . . forcing and loving . . .”
“Sexual assault,” Sergeant Padd deduced. “I’ll connect you with the Vice Squad.”
The speaker snap-crackle-popped. Then a new voice came over it. “Vice Squad. Lieutenant De Sade speaking. State your name, phone number, address, and the nature of the assault you are undergoing—oral, anal, or simple genital -- in that order.”
“. . . forced fellatio . . . cunnilingus . . . sodomy . . .”
“A little slower, please,” Lieutenant de Sade re- quested. “I’m trying to get it all down.”
“. . . tonguing my titties . . . titillating my tush . . . tickling my tickler . . .”
“Just the facts, ma’am. . . .”
“Listen to me!” I shouted over Liberty’s recitation. “We’re being held prisoner by a Mafia gambling syndicate, and any minute now—”
“You want the Gambling Squad. I’ll transfer the call.” Buzz! Grackle! Grunch! Buzz-zz!
“Gambling Squad. Inspector Greeknik speaking. . . . The winner of the third race at Pimlico paid five-sixty to win, four-forty to place, and two-eighty to show. Old Denture ran second, paying . . .”