Quickly, Leila scrambled to her knees on the bed. She rested on her elbows so that her head was a good deal lower than her provocatively protruding posterior. Her eyes gleaming, she looked at me over one shoulder and tossed her head in a way which invited me to assume the obvious position.
Grasping her hips, I plunged into her from behind. At the same moment Leila shoved backwards and the sheath of her womanhood grasped me firmly and with rippling muscles. Then her plump derriere started to rotate again — slowly at first, then faster—and the sensation was both a goad and a thwarting which urged me onward at the same time that it prolonged the action.
My hands slid up from her hips and cupped her breasts. Beyond being considerate now, I squeezed them roughly. Leila slipped forward until she way lying flat, her head dangling over the side of her bed, her legs tightly together. I was stretched out on top of her. The movement wasn’t violent now, but subtle, slow; it was a passion-building position rather than one designed to fulfill our lust.
Then Leila rose again to her former position. I was balanced on my toes and fingertips behind her, but still locked firmly. We moved together in a deep, sliding rhythm that mounted until we were slamming together with more and more force. Deep inside her, I could feel that I was hitting just the right spot. It was what the Arabs call the two-humped beast—the two-humped beast galloping to glory!
There was a final, wrenching movement, and we froze together—almost as if suspended in midair. No outer movement now; it was all happening at the joined source of our passion. We stayed that way for a long time -- an eternity. I could feel explosion after explosion deep inside Leila. And my own release at the same time seemed to go on forever. I don’t know where it all came from . . .
Finally Leila fell forward again, exhausted. I slumped atop her, contact lost now, but too drained to move my weight off her body. We stayed that way a long time, passive, inert, satisfied.
But when I did start to move, Leila reached behind her and stayed the motion. “If Mr. Victor will stay at table,” she informed me, “there is yet another course to be served.”
I doubted it. I was sated. That’s what I thought. But I was wrong.
Slowly, Leila was beginning to move that impossibly talented derriere again. She maneuvered the plump cheeks as if they were hands. My manhood was gripped by them, its length grasped, squeezed, enveloped.
Very slowly now-—it was hardly as if she was moving at all-—and using only the genius of her rump, Leila caressed me back to lust. With exquisite control, she pushed slowly higher and higher so that we had resumed our former position almost without my being aware of it. Using the muscles of her derriere, she guided my hardness to an alternate target from the one it had assailed before. Her hands reached behind her to separate those luscious cheeks and provide easier access. Very slowly she manipulated the impalement until I was firmly encased in that impossibly small space. Then she took her hands away and her cheeks locked at the root of my root.
Leila took one of my hands in hers and guided it around her thigh to her straining clitoris. When I stroked it, she moaned deep in her throat and began that long, sliding rhythm again. It was even better than before because the pressure was so intense.
I had started out being careful, afraid of hurting her. But as my lust mounted, as I felt the clitoris grow and move under my caress, I lost control and pounded at her wildly. Quake after quake shook the fount of her femininity, and when I finally climaxed a second time, she screamed her accompaniment and fell forward in a faint.
I was concerned, but she came out of it right away. She turned over and looked up at me with smoldering eyes. “Now let us rest,” she suggested.
“I’ll buy that.” I stretched out beside her and closed my eyes. Immediately I was asleep.
It was dawn when I awoke. Leila was stretched out beside me, naked. Her face-veil was still in place. She looked like a depraved angel, lascivious even in her peaceful sleep.
I took the sealed envelope from the nightstand and opened it. There were two slips of paper inside. One had a phone number written on it with instructions to call the number when I completed the first assignment. The number, I was informed, would put me in contact with a private line to Paradise Island. After calling it, I would be contacted by a representative of the Sheikh who would receive my “merchandise” and give me my next assignment.
The other slip of paper contained the description of the first girl to be supplied. I read it, and then turned over and went back to sleep.
I’d need my rest. Tomorrow the scavenger hunt for pulchritude would begin. I dreamed about it.
But my wildest dreams couldn’t approach the realities of what was coming!
CHAPTER FIVE
MAYOR RICHARD J. DALEY WELCOMES YOU TO CHICAGO
I was all choked up at the sight of the banner strung across the width of the terminal at O’Hare Airport. It was darned hospitable of the Mayor. I wondered how he knew I was coming.
He didn’t. In August 1968, just prior to the start of the Democratic National Commotion——I mean Convention! —the signs were everywhere in the Windbag—Oops! Windy—- City. The words leaped out from billboards, storefront posters, handbills plastered on telephone poles, even movie marquees. The greeting was repeated to the point of overkill—and all in the name of the municipal head.
(“Would you define ‘municipal head’ as the city crapper?” I asked Randolph P. Austin shortly after we arrived in Chi.)
The bathroom magnate and I landed in Chicago on Sunday, August 25, the day before the donkeys’ conclave got underway at the International Amphitheatre9 . We were there in response to the first assignment handed down by Sheikh Ali Khat:
“A bona fide American hippie girl between the ages of fourteen and twenty-one.” That was the first requirement; obviously the Sheikh had no hangups relating to Lolita complexes. “Long-legged and accustomed to wearing miniskirts,” the memo continued. “Minimum bosom requirements, thirty-six inches, C cup. May be experienced with drugs, but not addicted. Must be a true blonde,” the specifications concluded.
“Doesn’t sound so tough,” Austin had said when we discussed the task back on Paradise Island. “It should be easy to persuade one of those hippie chicks to join a harem for five grand.”
“Nix,” I told him. I’d spotted the clinker. “Forget about offering the five G’s. Any girl who accepted it would be automatically disqualified.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I explained, “she wouldn’t be a true hippie. Love, to a genuine hippie, isn’t something to be sold. If she showed any concern with money, it would raise doubts as to her hippie status where the Sheikh is concerned. True hippies are non-materialistic. She might accept the money afterwards, but if she dickered for it beforehand, it would belie her allegiance to the hippie philosophy.”
“I see.” Austin had nodded. “Well, I guess we’d better make a beeline for either New York or San Francisco, huh? Isn’t that where the hippies congregate? The East Village or Haight-Ashbury10 ?”
“Lots of cities have their hippie neighborhoods,” I told him. “But you’re right. New York or Frisco is logical. Too logical. That’s where the competition will be looking. But I have a better idea. The Democratic Convention’s about to tee off, and according to the papers, hippies from all over the country are flocking to Chicago. That’s the place to go.