Andrew Laird
Young girl sex club
CHAPTER ONE
In the Hip Room there wasn't even elbow room, but no one seemed to mind. There were many other attractions. There was noise, confusion, smoke (not all of it from tobacco) and the pungent smells of unwashed bodies, stale beer, cheap wine and vomit. There was long, unkempt hair, beards, bare bellies above hip-huggers and bare thighs below abbreviated miniskirts. There were many dirty feet, both bare and sandaled, and many grimy hands.
In one corner, where it squatted like the insane, plastic monster it was, a jukebox taxed its mechanical lungs and electric vocal cords to the utmost, bellowing out the frenzied beat of a rock group to make itself heard above the witless, jabbering din that rose in a mad cacophony from the crowd.
The final touch to this man-made inferno was supplied by multicolored, wildly unsynchronized strobe lights that were strung along the low ceiling.
No torture chamber devised for the specific purpose of driving its hapless victims to madness could have compared in devilish ingenuity of the Hip Room.
To Ellen Canfield, however, it was all very exciting. It was her first experience in a place if its kind and, although she felt both out of place and somewhat frightened, she was enjoying herself immensely. She turned to convey this information to her escort, only to discover that he had managed to slip away from her unnoticed. She thought she could see the back of his blond head through the haze of smoke and was temporarily reassured. She supposed he was trying to squirm his way through the densely packed crowd to get drinks from the bar. Vaguely she worried about where he would sit when he returned. The space he had occupied on the bench at the long table beside her was now taken by another person; whether man or woman she could not be sure, for all she could see was the back of a head with its shoulder-length, brown hair. He solved the matter of his sex by turning toward her, revealing a bearded jaw and dull, glazed eyes of pale blue on either side of a jutting, fleshy nose.
"Here," he said, "take a hit." He offered her an inch of crudely rolled cigarette, the end soggy from many lips.
"What is it?" she asked, drawing away and wrinkling her nose at the acrid smoke. She thought she knew but couldn't be sure. She had never before seen marijuana. At least she was certain it did not resemble the neat, filter-tipped cigarettes she smoked.
"Whadaya mean, what is it?" the man demanded indignantly. "It's a joint. Whatcha think it is, hashish?"
She hesitated, revolted by the thought of that sodden butt between her lips, yet afraid of offending the one making the offer. She shifted uncomfortably when he took his first good look at her, and his eyes widened, then narrowed.
"Well, I'll be dipped in shit!" he exclaimed. "Damned if it ain't Miss Uptown herself. Whatcha doing down here, baby doll… little slumming trip?"