She kept smiling at me provocatively——it was half a sneer—as she first caressed herself, and then pinched her tender flesh with increasing self-cruelty. She repeated the maneuver with the other breast. Then the top of the skin-tight yellow dress was hanging around her waist and both her breasts were swinging wild and free. She moved them frenziedly, then slowed down again for an instant. One of her breasts began to rotate. The rest of her body was completely still now. Then the other breast began to spin in the opposite direction. Faster and faster they moved in an incredible display of muscular control.
Now her hands were at her waist, pushing down the skirt until her belly was revealed. It was softly curved and well under control. Her breasts became motionless and her navel started to move as if with a life of its own. The deep cleft of her belly began pulsating, opening and closing in an erotic invitation.
The music sped up. Ophelia moved in an uninhibited frenzy. She went into a series of bumps and grinds that hiked the skirt up just to the point where the dark red curl-covered fount of her womanhood was playing hide-and-seek with the hem. I caught a glimpse of the mouth of her sex opening and closing, seeking a prisoner. Its tongue quivered, bright red, stiff and moist. She moved closer and closer toward me . . .
I was too aroused now to be satisfied with only watching. I grabbed her and flung her down on the rug. I pulled up her skirt and turned her over on my lap. I began spanking her as hard as I was able. It drove her wild with lust, as I’d known it would. Her fingers scratched at my pants until she found the zipper. She yanked it open and freed my manhood. Then, still stretched out on my lap, she managed to raise herself up and capture her victim. Her bottom was bright red now. But I kept pummeling it rhythmically. She caught the rhythm immediately and began to rise and fall with it. “You lousy bastard!” she screamed, and I felt myself caught as in a vise. My hand cracked down on her again, hard, and I felt her womanhood erupt in a series of ecstatic explosions, one after the other. I scrambled over her then, still held tight by her erupting sex, and began a series of sadistic thrusting motions that drove her wild. She hit the real peak then, screaming and thrashing. I reached it with her, and as our passion exploded simultaneously, I slapped her face as hard as I could.
Masochistic bitch! I thought a moment later, drained.
“Wow!” she said. “That was really something. You’re damn good. You know?”
“I know.”
“How are you on seconds?”
“Ready, willing and able.”
“Okay. But first, how about a few items to really make it a wild scene?”
“Anything you say. Just as long as you remember who’s going to be beating who.”
“I know, master. I know.” There wasn’t any sarcasm in the way she said “master” now. She picked up the telephone. “Room Service,” she requested. “Hello, Room Service, let me have Juan.” There was a pause during which she smiled at me and licked her lips. Then “Hello, Juan? Ophelia. I have a special. You know what to send? Right.”
A few moments later there was a knock at the door. Ophelia threw on a robe and answered it. A waiter wheeled a cart into the room and departed. Ophelia removed the white tablecloth covering the cart to reveal a whip with a long, slender lash, a heavy leather belt at one end of which was a cruel metal buckle, a pair of high-heeled boots, a domino mask, a short leather loin-cloth and two pieces of prune danish.
“All this just to whip the prunes?” I quipped.
“No. It’s just that Juan’s such a doll. He remembered that it always makes me hungry. And I’m wild for prune danish. I hope you like it, lover, because we’re going to work up an appetite.”
She was right. By the time I got through catering to her whim, my arm wasn’t the only thing that was sore. And I did work up an appetite. The prune danish wasn’t bad at all.
“I guess I’d better be going,” I said as I licked the last of the prunes from my fingers. “I want to snatch a few hours’ sleep.”
“Will you come down to the Naked Grotto and catch the show tomorrow night?”
“I sure will. And maybe we can go out after you’re through.”
“Swell,” Ophelia agreed. “I’m going to go soak in a hot tub for a while and then get some sleep myself. I’ll look for you tomorrow night.”
“It’s a date.” I left. But I didn’t go to my room. I went downstairs and strode up to the head of the hackline outside the hotel. “Do you know a joint called the Naked Grotto?” I asked the driver.
“Sure.”
“How late does it stay open?”
“Right through until morning. It’s an after-hours joint. They got an arrangement with the bulls.”
“Take me out there.” I got into the cab. I’d decided to look this place over before I met Ophelia there. The sex games we were playing were all very well, but I had to keep sight of the real game I was playing and her part in it. And her part was more than a lover—even a sado-masochistic lover. Her part was dangerous—dangerous to me—-and I wanted to case this joint before she lured me there. It was just a hunch, but I had the feeling that she knew more about what I was really up to than she’d let on-—maybe even more than I knew yet myself.
“Watch yourself in there, buddy.” The driver braked the cab under a darkened marquee. The place looked closed.
“You sure it’s still swinging?” I asked as I paid him.
“I’m sure. But keep a tight hold on your wallet. This is a real clip joint. Them B-girls in there—-they thrive on guys with hot pants.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” The front door was open and I slipped inside. There was a small hallway with another set of swinging doors at the other end. I went through them.
It was almost pitch-black. Only a few candle-flames illuminating the gargoyles on the walls pointed the way to the bar. I fumbled my way to a stool and sat down. My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. I could see now that the place was done up like the inside of a cave. There were lewd rock carvings of nudes ringing the walls. The Naked Grotto! Well—named, all right! The place looked like a sex-mad spelunker’s nightmare!
I ordered a Scotch. As the bartender set it down in front of me, there was the sound of a drumbeat tatoo from the bowels of the grotto. A moment later a spotlight shot out from somewhere in back of me. It pinpointed a frightened-looking young blonde up on the stage at the far end of the room. She was naked behind a motheaten pair of feather fans, one in each hand. Somebody dropped a record on a turntable and she began to move behind the fans. Pretty soon, there was more blonde visible than feathers.
The light-spill from the spot enabled me to get a better look around the place. Booths were set into the walls between the bar and the stage. Three or four of them were occupied by men sitting by themselves. They were staring at the blonde. Their hands were suspiciously busy in their laps. The regulars, I judged, the creeps who knew the score, who came for one thing, got it, and came back again. The broads who hustled the place had probably long since pegged them and wouldn’t waste time on them.