2,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Olympia Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Kanto with a tale of a private dick who roams past darkened curtains, through shabby hotels, and into bedrooms.
Das E-Book License To Prowl wird angeboten von Olympia Press und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:
Fiction, Erotica
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
Ähnliche
License To Prowl
Peter Kanto
This page copyright © 2014 Olympia Press.
http://www.olympiapress.com
CHAPTER ONE
His name on the hotel register read Raymond Lewis, Diamond Hill. A bellboy, a sharp looking kid of about sixteen, took his bag and briefcase. He walked behind the boy to the elevator, glancing around the hotel lobby. He saw only strange faces. The city was on the opposite side of the state from the small town called, for no good reason, Diamond Hill. He didn't expect to see anyone he knew.
He thought he could pick out a couple of traveling men in the lobby, neatly dressed, middle-aged men who acted as if they had nothing to do and had plenty of time in which to do it. He knew that problem well. He had been on the road long enough to know the feeling of loneliness which can come over a man with overwhelming suddenness in a motel room or even in a big city hotel. A man can be lonely while an entire city churns around him.
His room was a nice one on the fourth floor. It faced a side street. The bellboy put his grip on a bag holder, placed the briefcase on the small writing desk and bustled around turning on lights and opening windows. It was an in-between season, not warm enough for air conditioning, not cold enough for heat. The evening air pushed curtains inward, and he could hear faint street noises from far below.
“May I get you some ice, sir?” The bellboy stood expectantly in the center of the fairly new carpeting of the room.
“Sure,” Ray said, looking around, satisfied with the room. It was not unlike the dozens of motel and hotel rooms he had stayed in since going on the road for the Evernew Paint Company, manufacturers of inside and outside paints, roof and barn finishes, odds and ends for the building supply and hardware trade.
“Something to go with it?” the boy asked, knowingly.
“No, thanks.” He had a bottle of Old Bird-dog, ten years old, four-fifty a fifth, in his bag. Good booze, bourbon, at a reasonable price in the state-controlled stores. He had made a special stop to get it, aware that he might need an ice-breaker later on. One bottle would be enough. He didn't plan to get blasted, not tonight. A couple of drinks to get acquainted, that was all. Bourbon and water for himself. For her?
“Maybe you'd better bring some set-ups,” he told the bellboy.
“Yes, sir!” That knowing look again.
A little company tonight, Mr. Lewis? it said. Something to keep the bed warm, Mr. Lewis?
He had been known to tell them, “Yeah, bring me an electric blanket or a hot iron or an Australian sheep dog.” The last time he paid for it was in 1948, when he was in the Army. Girls were scarce around an Army town.
The last time. He thought about it. A stringy, flabby whore who came into his hotel room in a faded house-coat, threw the garment aside and prostrated herself on the bed, in a hurry to haul his ashes so that she could get along to the other G.I.'s waiting their turn with their ten bucks clutched in their hot little hands.
Ten bucks he had paid her. That was almost funny. It was going to cost him ten times ten tonight. More properly, cost the company, because he was going to squeeze the hundred clams into his allotment for customer entertainment. He didn't have an expense account, as such, but he did have the allotment, and he hadn't been using much of it lately. Most of his customers were too busy to be entertained, with business booming around the state. He might as well use the company's cash to pay Mrs. Lanett's girl.
He opened his bag, took out the fifth of bourbon, put it on the dresser next to the tray. He took off his tie, walked to the window and looked down. Funny how they built American cars to look better from the top than from any other angle.
Before he sensed a passage of time, the bellboy was back with the ice. He also carried two quart bottles of ginger ale. Ray tipped the lad a buck and said he might want sandwiches later on.
The bellboy gone, he broke the seal on the bottle and poured a half inch into a glass after removing the plastic skirt and tossing it into the waste-basket beside the desk. He paced the room and sipped. She was due at seven. She would be on time, too, from what he had heard about Mrs. Lanett and her way of doing business. It was just after six on a pleasant, late March evening in the mid-South.
He found a pair of never-press slacks and a fresh sports shirt, laid out clean shorts and socks, stripped. He was just under six feet. He was thirty-three years old and in damned good shape considering all that had happened to him, the loss of his business, the constant quarrels with Jean, his wife of eleven years, the steady worry about where the next pair of shoes were coming from for his growing children, a worry which was beginning to ease, thanks to the Evernew Paint Company.
He wore black rimmed glasses to correct mild near-sightedness, had a full head of shortcut, black, healthy hair. His face was slightly rounded, with dark eyebrows and a short nose and a mouth which appeared ready to smile. There was a hairline scar on his lower lip where a fist had pushed the flesh cuttingly against his strong teeth in a long ago fist fight, which he had won.
As he showered, he wondered how she would look. He tried to control his imagination. He didn't want to build up a sensational advance picture of her, but optimism was strong in him.
“Not a dog in the whole bunch,” Bill Smoke had told him when he ran into the nattily dressed hardware salesman in a small store downstate. He and Bill had been waiting their turn to see the owner of the store. They had sat on nail kegs and smoked and talked, and the subject, as always with the footloose bachelor salesman, got around to women. That was the first Ray had heard about Mrs. Lanett's enterprise in the big city.
“You even have to be recommended,” Bill said, laughing. “The old gal doesn't set one of her girls up with just any bastard. They're high class kids, all of them. You'll be amazed. They won't talk about themselves, but you'll be able to figure out that they're not real pros. The word is that they're housewives, college girls, secretaries, who are willing to take on a gig once in a while. Not as a steady thing, mind you.”
“Yeah,” Ray said cynically, “just once in a while, like just once a night.”
“No. Really,” Smoke insisted. “They're all clean kids. Mrs. Lanett won't handle pros. One gal told me herself that her husband was in school working on an advanced degree. I got her a little drunk and she talked. She said she kicked the loot she made into the family budget and told the college boy she earned it making lace doilies or something.”
“Sure, sure,” Ray said.
But the road is lonely. Ray missed home. He missed the friendly atmosphere of Diamond Hill. He missed his kids. He even missed Jean. In spite of the way things had gone with them in the past few years, in spite of the arguments and the coldness, he missed her.
He had held out a long time.
Arguments notwithstanding, he had slept with his wife regularly, two to three times a week. When his business started falling down around his head, sex seemed to be the only thing they could agree on. They'd fight like cats and dogs all day, and then they'd go to bed not speaking, and he'd feel her, warm and soft in the bed with him, and reach out to touch her, and she'd turn to him with a sigh and, sometimes still more or less angry with each other, they'd play the marriage game.
That part of it was still good, very good. It was so good that Ray didn't think his becoming a traveling salesman gave him a license to prowl. He didn't see himself as one of those traveling men who try to put the make on every secretary, every waitress. Hell, he'd been married eleven years. He'd been married so long he'd forgotten how to put the make on a girl.
Being married to a hot woman spoiled a man, made him lose the little skills a man has to have when he's starting from scratch.
With a wife, one like Jean, you saw her standing in front of the sink washing dishes, and you noticed that her legs were very good and that her rump was pleasingly rounded, and you put your hands on her, feeling her through a thin housedress, and said something like, “Hey, kid, why don't you and I take a little nap.” And if the woman was a hot one, like Jean, you did.
Of course, he remembered how it was before he was married, the long hours of necking, of maneuver and countermaneuver which went into a successful seduction. He couldn't stand that now. Hell, if he had to court a girl to get her into bed, it was a lost cause. Once in bed, he was all right. So here he was in a hotel room, dousing his fresh shave in after shave lotion, dressing in fresh clothes, waiting not too patiently for the appearance of a whore. Or, to make it sound more inviting, a call-girl, one of the fabled Mrs. Lanett's girls who, according to Bill Smoke and other traveling men, were something else.
In front of the hotel a taxi stopped. A small, trim brunette passed coins over the back of the seat to the driver. She got out of the cab, portable typewriter-case in one hand, a steno pad in the other. She stood on the curb, not much higher than the cab before it pulled away, a small girl at about five-three.
Her face was young, clean, innocent. She moved with a feline grace as she walked through the lobby. Male eyes turned, admired her finely tuned figure, her solid, outthrust breasts, the rhythmic sway of her hips as she moved, head high, dark eyes front, to the elevator.
“Four, please,” she said in a low, Southern voice. She looked straight ahead as the elevator mounted. Behind her calm face, her emotions were riotous. She felt as if she were taking an irrevocable step out into space from the top of a tall building, that at any moment she would begin to fall, that the fall would go on and on and never stop. She felt suspended in mid-air, lost.
The elevator stopped, jockeyed to line up with the floor. The door hissed open. She stepped into the carpeted hallway, glanced at a number above a door, turned resolutely to the right. She glanced up, checking room numbers, slowed, faltered in her purposeful stride. She looked back toward the closed elevator doors with an expression of uncertainty.
What if he's fat? What if he's gross and vulgar or has bad breath or is stinking drunk or wants to do some of the abominable things described in lurid detail by Mrs. Lanett?
She stood as if poised for flight, her eyes on the number above the door, a door which hid... what? She swallowed. She seemed to hear Mrs. Lanett's voice.
“Our clients”—proudly—“are usually gentlemen. They come to us on high recommendation from previous clients. We keep files on them, and if our girls find them too objectionable they are dropped. We have no file on this gentleman”—Mrs. Lanett never called them customers, never stooped to refer to them by any of the slang names used in the more commercial end of the trade—“but he comes to us on the word of an old friend. If you are ladylike, the chances are you'll be treated as a lady.”
Sure, she thought cynically, a lady whore! She was worth one hundred dollars on the hoof —no, on her back.
What if he were fat and horrid? She wouldn't be able to stand it. What if he were some kind of pervert? What would she do? It was a new world she was entering. Call the police? Not likely.
All right, girl, she told herself, in you go.
She knocked.
Silence.
Her heart leaped. For a wild moment, she thought he wasn't inside, that it was all some kind of mistake, that she would be able to turn, walk out of the hotel as clean as she was when she walked into it. She forced herself to knock again. She heard sounds, and when the door knob began to turn she knew it was too late. She was committed.
He was dressed neatly in slacks and a fresh sports shirt, a drink in his hand. He looked at her curiously.
“Mr. Lewis?” she asked in her soft, Southern voice. “I'm from the Lanett Secretarial Agency. I believe you want to dictate some letters?”
“Come in, come in,” he said, stepping back. She was not at all what he had expected. In spite of his daydreaming about Mrs. Lanett's girls, he had secretly been expecting someone along the lines of the stringy, flabby whore he had bought in a dingy hotel in an Army town so long ago.
“Let me take your things,” he said, reaching for the case. He put it atop his closed grip on the bag holder. She fingered her steno pad nervously. She tried to tell herself she was lucky. He wasn't bad at all, tall, not unhandsome, neither crude nor fat. The room smelled pleasantly of spicy after-shave lotion and she saw that the bottle on the dresser was nearly full. He wasn't drunk, at least not yet.
“I'm Carol,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Call me Ray,” he said. He shifted uneasily. Such a small girl, and so young. She couldn't be out of her early twenties. He knew, looking at her, why the Lanett girls commanded a hundred bucks.
He felt the age old urge to ask her what she was doing here, a nice girl like her. He stifled the impulse. He wasn't paying her to tell him her life story.
“Would you care for a drink?” he heard himself saying.
She nodded.
He made her drink, handed it to her. She looked at him over the rim of her glass. Why, he acted nervous. She thought that was funny. If he only knew how nervous she was! Was he a married man, feeling guilty about stepping out on his wife? What did he do for a living? Why was he, a nice looking man—she had decided that definitely as he made her drink— reduced to paying for love?
“Sit down, Carol,” he said, waving toward a chair. She smiled and took the seat, pulling her skirt primly down to her knees. He examined her legs, small, full, round. Her knees were nice. He could get a hint, under her short skirt, of the fullness of her soft, smooth thighs.
“I must confess I'm new at this,” he said. He hadn't meant to say that. But she was so young, so innocent. He felt like a dirty old man. He felt that it would be acutely embarrassing to both of them for him to reach into his pocket, pull out the ten ten-dollar bills, hand them to her, and say, “All right, let's get on with it.”
But that was what he wanted to do, get on with it. He was aroused. He hadn't realized how hard up he was. Seeing her, trim and neat and small and very pretty, standing in the door in her neat suit, he had felt a quick, physical attraction to her.
His words shocked her. He was new at it? What did he think she was, an old pro? She hid her confusion in her glass and smiled at him.
“It's a business transaction,” Mrs. Lanett had said. “First of all, get the money.”
“I believe you have something for me,” she said, not looking at him, her face burning red. He nodded, reached into his pocket and brought out a thin packet of bills. She took the money, rose, opened her case, put the money under her night things, which, rather than a typewriter, filled the case. She turned. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her with want in his eyes. She walked back to the chair, conscious of his eyes on her.
“Do you want another drink?”
“Yes, please,” she said. In her nervousness she had finished her first drink quickly.
“Look,” he said, “how long do you stay?”
“I have to leave before dawn,” she said. “Five o'clock, I suppose.”
He went back to the bed. He said, “Why don't we—uh—take a little nap.” It seemed to her that the words were difficult for him. “Then we can have a few drinks and get acquainted,” he added.
“All right.” She walked primly to her case, picked it up, moved toward the bath.
“I want — would you mind — undressing here?” he said.
“All right,” she said, her face flaming. She hadn't counted on that. She had thought she'd be able to at least undress in the bath, put on the little black thing picked out by Mrs. Lanett. She looked at him uncertainly. He smiled at her. He looked very human when he smiled.
All right, girl, she told herself, here we go!
She unbuttoned her suit jacket, removed it, put it on a hanger and hung it in the closet, moving slowly. He sipped his drink, watching her. She shrugged out of her blouse, put it over the chair, saying to herself, It's all right. It isn't the first time. You've undressed for a man before.
But not for money.
She wore a strapless bra. He watched avidly as she pulled the snap to the front, a familiar, very feminine gesture. He had seen Jean do it a hundred, a thousand times. Thinking of Jean, he felt a twinge of guilt.
What was she doing as he watched this young call-girl undress with building interest? Watching television with the kids, probably. One thing for sure, he knew, Jean wasn't fooling around while he was out on the road. She wasn't that kind. She had been taught, had always felt, that one man in a woman's life is enough. Why couldn't it be so simple for him?
He shrugged off the guilty thoughts, telling himself that it wasn't as if he were really being untrue to Jean. He was just buying release, buying sex in a cold, businesslike way made necessary by the very makeup of man.
Her breasts were twin globes of soft white, untouched by the sun, tender, tipped with rose-brown, sleeping nipples. His yearning increased.
She took a deep breath, unzipped her skirt, stepped out of it and turned to face him, her stomach drawn in, her hips hugged by white, lacy panties. She was small and dainty, yet fully female, lush, dark, beautiful. She stepped out of her ultimate garment and stood seductively, warmed by the glow in his eyes.
“You are a fine looking girl,” he told her.
“Thank you, sir.” She said it flippantly, as if he'd passed her a small, ordinary compliment. She reached into the case. “Excuse me a minute while I powder my nose.”
In the bath, she slipped into the black, flimsy thing, leaving it open. One breast peeked out perkily when she reentered the room. He was undressed, seated on the side of the bed, his maleness strongly evident. She felt like bolting for the door.
“Nice,” he said, rising. He met her halfway and she felt his hand warm, strong, masculine on her back, his lips on hers. He tasted, not unpleasantly, of bourbon and cigarettes.
To him, her lips were surprisingly sweet, soft, moist. He felt the trembling begin in his body as he held her close, feeling her natural warmth through the gossamer fabric. His hand found a lovely curve of bosom, squeezed it softly.
“We don't need this,” he said, pulling the negligee from her shoulders, letting it fall onto the floor in a crumpled heap. He led her to the bed, lowered her gently. He lay beside her, enfolded her in his arms and reached for the inner wetness of her mouth with his tongue.
He was shaking with desire.
She thought it was rather sweet of him to want her so much, and to be so gentle about it. Under different circumstances, her interest would have been genuine, not faked.
His hand pushed at the softness of her inner thighs. She let her legs open for him, a response which, passionate or not, did not have to be faked. Natural. Woman opening herself for man.
“I hope you don't mind if I'm in a hurry,” he said, laughing lightly.
Mind? That was what she was being paid for.
But it was a harsh, cold, loveless union at best. What the hell he thought. What could he expect for mere money? Deathless passion? He knew she would make it good, at least try. He didn't have long to wait.
She began to move her rump under him, taking him with upward lunges, jerking, moving her lower body in small circles. He felt as if it were being forced out of him as she worked. He was used to easing into it slowly, saving the big movements for later. She seemed hell-bent on taking it out of him forcefully, coming and pushing and going until the long, lingering joy had no chance to form in her haste.
Well, she thought, her mind moving slowly, slowly, so out of pace with her heaving body, it's done! She was what she was, a paid woman, a call-girl, a prostitute. Him in her made her that. Till that moment, she had been just a girl who knew the ins and outs of sex from a couple of torrid affairs and a very few casual matings. She was not promiscuous.
One of the men she had loved, the first. The second she had enjoyed with adult woman's passion, doing it for the sheer joy of it, her virginity gone forever in the heat of her first love. Her love had gone, leaving her for a few months desperately alone. She had had to force herself to live again, to show herself that there are different kinds of love.
The second affair was a glorious series of passionate meetings, and the others were, well, she counted them, giving her mind something to do as she accepted his thrusts and forced her unresponding body to imitate the throes of passions.
Three. Casual, tensions released, amiable, little interludes which meant nothing but a moment of closeness, a shared goodness of bodies and sex. Five men. Now six, and the sixth one made her a whore.
CHAPTER TWO
He pumped her rhythmically, long strokes, filling her, yet somehow not even connected with her. Some other girl's body being [...]
