Hernandez Villie

More love to come

CHAPTER ONE

Although the bedpost could have provided support for his venture, the skinny hairy man was too drunk to notice. He balanced on one leg and regarded the sock – his arch-enemy of the moment – curled enticingly around his toes. He grabbed for it, missed, grabbed again, finally managed to pull it up at least as far as his ankle, took that for a victory, put his foot back on the floor just in time to avoid a fall. He remembered the voluptuous girl on the bed, frowned at her, began the search for his other sock.

Judy Burton returned his frown with a smile, thought: You skinny fuck, just put the money on the dresser and get the hell out of here. The man ignored her telepathic message, continued rummaging around the room for his sock. Judy took a pull on her stale bourbon and soda. The money, she thought, just leave the money. The man had gotten everything he wanted, and more, the bruises on her thighs were testimony. Now it was her turn. She had to have that money, it was well that mattered.

Judy tried to forget the bruises on her legs, the tiny stinging welts on her back, the throbbing ache in her pussy. She tried, but she could not. She was still too new at this business, had not yet hardened her mind and body to the brutal mistreatment she was expected to take. In the course of just a few months every part of her had been violated, but she had never complained. She had no one to complain to, no one who would care.

Yes, she thought, this one had outdone them all. He looked so harmless now, so comical and silly, crawling drunkenly around her room, but just a few moments before he had been anything but funny. Judy's pain came roaring back as she remembered his gouging fingernails and rock-hard fists – she had been astounded that someone so skinny could hit so hard – and finally the savage penetration of his prick, without warning, a sudden, ripping spear in her still-dry and unprepared cunt. He could have at least waited until she was ready, could have fingered and toyed with her gently to get the juices flowing, but that was what happened when you made love, and love was not a part of this man's constitution. This man, or any man.

Judy wondered how anyone had ever come up with the phrase "making love". What this man had done, what all men did, they did out of hate and lust – love was nowhere to be found. When he had taken her nipple between his teeth and bitten so hard that blood had begun to flow; was that love? When he had brought his open hand, then his fists, crashing down on her body and face, was that love? And when he had entered her, tearing at her tight, tender flesh, forcing himself further and further in even though she had begged him to stop, to wait until she was ready; was that love?

No, Judy thought, there was no love in this business. "Making love" indeed!

The aching in her pussy continued while the john went on looking for his sock. He bad crawled under the bed, was bumping his head and swearing, causing little earthquakes in the mattress. Judy wished that he would leave, hoped that he wasn't so drunk that he would forget what he paid for and ask for more. She knew she would not have to submit to him again, even if he asked for it, even if he demanded, but she hated the thought of having to argue, having to force him to leave, or having to call Slackjaws to throw him out. Probably, though, she wouldn't have to worry – most of these johns were good for one brief go-around and nothing more, and there was nothing to indicate that this one was any different.

Tom, at least, had been better than that, even if he was a skunk in every other respect.

Tom. Before she had met Tom, Judy had been exactly like thousands of other eighteen-year-old girls, full in the body but hopelessly naive, dreaming her dreams of escape, trusting everyone, waiting for the man who would change her life in a day. Tom had changed her life, all right, but in a way that she never would have imagined. Tom had done this to her, Tom and that other skunk, Jay Snyder. She hated both of them.

Tom was always in her mind, even now, even while this puny trick stood in front of her with his prick caught in his zipper. No matter where she went, no matter what she did, it was Tom, always Tom who occupied her thoughts.

Her mind raced back to the little run-down theater in Bisbee, Arizona, the shabby marquee, the noise of hundreds of screaming brats waiting to get in for the Saturday matinee, the copper miners and cowboys who always stared at her as they bought their tickets, then made crude, back-slapping jokes as they walked away. She had hated that theater, had worked there only to make enough money so that she could get out of Bisbee and go to college in Tucson. She had been an excellent student in high school, had won a scholarship to the University of Arizona, but the scholarship was not enough to pay for everything, and her parents were unable to help her. So she had worked at the theater, hating it ("How many?" "Three, please." "Three dollars; show starts in ten minutes."), and had waited impatiently for the summer to end.

The U of A, she knew, was a rich boys' party school. She had been to Tucson, had seen the Cadillacs and Alfa Romeos and Ferraris parked outside the fraternity houses, had watched in amazement as trucks delivered cases of liquor to the back doors. On the campus she had stared at the tanned, blond boys and handsome bearded professors, so different than the grubby sons of miners she had known all her life. Once she got to Tucson, she thought, everything would be different. She would get to know those beautiful rich boys, those intelligent worldly men. She would…

But she had never gone to Tucson. Instead, Tom had appeared. She had not been in the habit of looking at her theater customers as they bought their tickets, but something in Tom's voice had made her look up. She had never seen anything like him before, not even in Tucson. He was tall, well over six feet five, not muscular, but big-boned and strong-looking. He had bright red hair, very long – she had never seen a man with long hair before – and a flaming red beard. His eyes were bright blue and incredibly clear, and his fingers long and slender. Immediately she had imagined those fingers moving along her back, up her thighs, around her nipples, all over her already-flaming body. All she could do was stare at him. She was in love.

"Aren't you going to give me my ticket?" Tom had said, smiling. He was used to this reaction from women, counted on it, in fact.

Judy stepped out of her trance. "Sorry," she said. "I thought you were someone I knew." She handed him his ticket and change, feeling the tingle down her back as their hands touched, ever so briefly.

"Sure," said Tom, and smiled again. He took his ticket and walked into the theater, not bothering to look back. He knew she was his if he wanted her.

There was a war epic playing, a long one, and Judy knew it would be at least three hours before she saw him again. She wondered, hoping against hope, if he had noticed her, if he would come talk to her when the movie was over. She had never seen such a man, had never felt such marvelous feelings of anticipation in her body.

And Tom had come to her, just as she had hoped. He had walked right up to the ticket booth, smiled at her, and asked her if she would be free when the show was over. Would she be free! For this man she would be more than free, she already knew that she would do anything he asked of her.

Tom had an old Dodge panel truck. Judy was disappointed when she saw it, beaten-up as it was, with chipped paint and rusted chrome and cracked tail-lights, but her disappointment changed to astonishment when she stepped inside. The back of the panel truck had been set up as living quarters, and it was as lush as any apartment she'd ever seen, even those that belonged to the rich students in Tucson. There was a stereo set, complete with headphones, and a small bar. The walls were paneled in rich dark woods and covered with beautiful bright-colored paintings. There was thick pile carpet on the floor, and on the bed ("a king-sized bed in a panel truck!" Judy thought) was a luxuriant fur bedspread. Judy ran her fingers through the fur, felt her body begin to tingle again.

As they drove, Tom talked in a soft, gentle voice. He was an artist, he said, from Los Angeles, just traveling through after a summer in New Mexico. Judy had never known an artist before; she was fascinated as he talked about a world that was totally foreign to her, a world of studios and models and galleries and rich women who wanted to buy much more from the artist than just his paintings. She had listened eagerly, trying to imagine what it would be like to be the wife of an artist.

They had parked in a lonely spot in the mountains, and Tom had gone on talking, about his dreams, his plans, his work. When he was through, they made love. Tom was as gentle as his voice, as fierce as his flaming red beard. She still remembered the dizzying shock she had felt when Tom came in her, the first time she had ever experienced a man's dick. By morning they had made love four times, and Tom had asked her to come with him to Los Angeles.

By then Judy had already forgotten about her parents, her job, her plans for college, had forgotten about everything except Tom and their new love. She wanted nothing but to be with him, to make love to him, to feel his delicious prick inside her warm wet pussy. She would go anywhere with him: Los Angeles, China, the moon; it made no difference as long as they could be together always. She withdrew the few hundred dollars she had saved, packed a few clothes, and set off with him for L.A.

For the first few months everything was fine, except that Judy often wondered why Tom never seemed to paint, all he did, when they weren't making love, was sit around sucking on a strange ornate pipe, which he kept refilling with a queer gummy black substance. When she asked him about his painting and about the pipe, Tom said he was resting, building up inspiration.

But Judy didn't really care. If Tom was resting that was fine with her, just so long as he didn't rest when they were in bed together.

Then Judy began to get sick. At first she thought it was just some minor ailment, something to do with the fact that her period was a little late. But when a month had passed and she still had not menstruated, she started to worry. Finally she went to see a doctor, who examined her and took a blood smear. A few days later the results came back: "Well, Mrs. Simmons," the doctor had said, sure that his news would be cheerfully received, "there's going to be a little one."

Judy had been dazed. Up till now she had not wanted to tell Tom about any of this, but if she were really pregnant, there was nothing she could do, she would have to tell him. Tom took the news calmly, even held Judy's hand and tried to soothe her. "It's all right," he said. "We'll just go ahead and get married. Now sit right here, don't move, and I'll go to the store and get you some orange juice."

The store was only two blocks away. When an hour had passed and Tom had still not returned, she began to wonder. After two hours she began to worry – maybe something had happened to him. It was only after the afternoon and early evening had gone by that Judy began to realize: Tom had left her. He had run out on her, left her alone to deal with the baby that was already forming deep within her womb. What was she to do?

Judy wanted no part of unwed motherhood. If there wasn't a man to take care of her, then there would be no baby either. She asked around, was told of a doctor in Tijuana. She took the bus to San Diego, walked across the border, had a quick, painless abortion. The operation cost her $150, all the money she had.

She returned to Los Angeles with no idea of what she would do with herself, with no feelings at all except raging hate for Tom, the bastard who had deserted her. She would find him, she thought, she would find him and make him pay. She searched all over Los Angeles for him, went to all his favorite bars in Hollywood and Venice, but no one had seen him, no one knew where he had gone.

Finally she had stopped looking. She was completely broke, had no job and no food, was too ashamed to go back to Bisbee and her parents. Then one night a friend had introduced her to Jay Snyder. Jay, she thought, another bastard. He had seemed very nice at first, and she had been impressed with his big gray Rolls Royce and fine clothes. He had taken her to his home, high in the Hollywood Hills, overlooking the city, and had given her food, something to drink, an odd-looking cigarette to smoke. Soon she found herself in his bed, dizzy from the drink and the strangely sweet-tasting tobacco.

When they were through making love, Jay had offered her a job. "How could I have been so stupid," Judy thought as she watched her john combing his long greasy hair. The job, Jay had assured her, was an easy one – all she had to do was set herself up in an apartment, which Jay would pay for, and wait for the men to come to her. All the men wanted was a little taste of her body, Jay said, nothing more, nothing unusual, and they would pay very well. "You can't really afford to turn it down, now, can you?" Jay had smiled.

So Judy accepted his offer. Quickly she had discovered that her customers did want something more than just her body, and that as often as not what they wanted was highly unusual, but the money was good and Judy found that she could satisfy any man almost without trying – some of them weren't even able to get an erection. But then there were others, like this bastard who had just walked out the door, the ones who abused her and laughed at her pain; and this type was appearing more and more frequently. Often she had asked Jay to release her, but Jay had always refused, saying that he would write her parents in Bisbee and tell them just exactly what Judy was doing in Los Angeles.

Judy wanted out, but all the doors seemed to be closed. Unless, she thought, unless someone would come along, someone stronger than Jay, who would get her out of this mess, some man…

Oh come on, Judy. Some man, sure thing. Just what you need, another man.

CHAPTER TWO

Smells of sulfur and grease mixed together as Tim Huntley lit his cigarette. The chef scraped the grill, leaving Tim's barbecued beef sizzling, an isolated heap in the center of the grill. It deserves to be alone, Tim thought, who else would want to eat in this dive?

Tim had been eating in greasy diners, and hating it, for as long as he could remember, ever since the night he and his cousin, both thirteen years old, had stolen all those carburetors. It had been Tim's first arrest, he still remembered the cold, disgusted look on the cop's face as he had shone the flashlight in his eyes, but certainly not his last. He often wondered who was really to blame for that night, for all the nights afterwards. He had done it himself, he knew, although it had been his cousin's idea, but his father's attitude had not helped. "What'd ya go and get caught for?" his father had said. "Christ, you don't even have what it takes to be a good thief."

Always Tim had had to prove to his father that he was good at something, that he was worthy to be called his father's son. When he brought home good grades from school, his father wanted to know why he hadn't been valedictorian, or at least made the honor roll. When he pitched a one-hitter in Little League, his father wanted to know why it hadn't been a no-hitter. The work he did around the house was never careful enough for the old man, the girls he brought home never pretty enough. Everything Tim did his father could do better. There was no satisfying him.

So finally, after he had tried everything else, Tim tried stealing. The carburetor theft, although unsuccessful, had made him a hero at school, and he found that all the praise and support he had been missing at home was available in the schoolyard. It seemed that every boy in school was eager to hear the story of Tim's caper, of the arrest and the overnight stay in Juvenile Hall. Girls he didn't know would point at him in the halls and whisper excitedly to one another, and Tim did not fail to notice the exaggerated swishing of their small, firm buttocks as they passed by.

He tried to keep his head, tried to get on with his studies so that he could someday escape those Brooklyn slums, go away to college and become a doctor. That way, he would be able to help other people and help himself at the same time. But soon after the theft he found that the good students shied away from him, that the only friends he could attract were those who, like him, were on their way to delinquency. Without quite knowing how it happened, Tim became the leader of a gang.

At first, the gang's escapades were more like childish pranks: they reached the limits of their bravery when they spent a Sunday throwing eggs at cars on the throughway. Soon, however, the stunts and pranks took a criminal turn. Under Tim's leadership the boys had begun to steal, first only small items shoplifted from the grocery and variety stores, then on to hubcaps, and finally to cars.

Tim was arrested many times. In the beginning the police treated him well enough, taking him to Juvenile Hall and releasing him after a night and a lecture, but when they saw that their moralizing was having no effect on the boy, they began to turn nasty. The stays in Juvenile Hall became longer, beatings more frequent, and eventually there came the day when the Juvenile Judge looked at him and said, "Son, it doesn't look like you're going to learn." The judge had sent him to the reformatory for six months.

The sentence jolted Tim. He began to think about his life, something he had not done since he had taken over leadership of the gang. He remembered his original goal, his desire to become a doctor. He studied hard in the reform school, took no part in the conversations and plans of the other boys, the endless boasting about thefts and drugs and girls, kept to himself. His standoffishness cost him a couple of mild beatings at the hands of his jealous peers, but they soon stopped antagonizing him and left him alone. His good behavior won him the respect and friendship of several of the staff members, who helped Tim all they could. He was released two months before his sentence was up.

The cook placed the barbecued beef sandwich in front of Tim. As he took a bite, he remembered back to those first few months after reform school, the months just before his seventeenth birthday. Despite his hard work at the reformatory, Tim had found himself far behind his classmates, and he had studied night and day to catch up. His father, as usual, was disparaging of Tim's efforts: "I don't see why you bother trying," he had said, "you'll never make it." Tim simply shut his father's words out of his mind and kept on studying. His teachers took some notice of him, but in general they were far too busy to care – there were seventy-five to a hundred students in each class, and the teachers had time only to grade papers and to discipline the troublemakers, who were almost a majority in every classroom.

But the worst part was the loneliness. Tim's former friends, the boys in his gang, wanted nothing to do with him – he had turned soft, they said, had become goody-goody. "Asskisser," they would whisper to him as they passed him in the halls. Having lost all his old friends, Tim had tried to make new ones, seeking out the best students, those who seemed to have some chance of escaping the ghetto, but the serious students mistrusted him as much as his old friends. It was strange, Tim thought: the people he wanted to associate with him saw nothing but the old Tim, while his former friends could see only how he had changed.

Eventually Tim gave up. The loneliness and lack of support was too much for him; he just couldn't do it all by himself, with no help from anyone. He returned to the gang, quickly asserting himself and regaining his leadership position. The boys were older now, and their criminal schemes became more elaborate, their techniques more sophisticated. Within a year they progressed from car theft and burglary to protection rackets and narcotics dealing, from pickpocketing to armed robbery, from knives to guns. On his twentieth birthday Tim was arrested for robbing a liquor store. An underworld friend of his bribed the judge to release him without bail, and Tim left Brooklyn the day before his trial, headed for the West Coast.

Tim's shrewdness and physical capability had attracted the attention of the Brooklyn syndicate. When he left for Los Angeles, one of the syndicate chiefs gave him five hundred dollars, and a telephone number. "When you get to L.A.," he had said, "call this number. Ask for Jay; he'll help you out."

The day he arrived in Los Angeles Tim called Jay Snyder. "I've heard about you," Jay had said. "Come around and see me at my office tomorrow morning." Tim had spent the rest of the day hitch-hiking around Los Angeles, going to the beach, even stopping at Disneyland. California was unbelievable, he had thought. There was ocean and sunshine and beautiful gentle mountains, trees and flowers everywhere. And the women! Every one of them, it seemed, was tall and tan and blond, with long golden thighs flashing out from beneath their mini-skirts. This, Tim thought, is definitely not Brooklyn. I think I'm going to like it here.

He took a room at the Beverly Hilton, went to see Jay Snyder the next morning. "They tell me you're smart and fast," Jay had said. "I'm looking for guys who are young and smart and fast. There's room for you here, absolutely." He had given Tim a job as a driver, promising him that if he did a good job and kept quiet he would quickly be promoted.

Within a few months Tim had found out all about Jay Snyder, all about his "organization". He fronted as a respectable businessman, owned several nightclubs on the Sunset Strip and several more in Torrance, was frequently seen on the society pages of the newspaper – "Jay Snyder Donates $50,000 to Symphony Fund", "Entrepreneur Jay Snyder and Mrs. Samuel Kruger at the Opening of the Kruger Pavilion", and so on. But behind this facade, Jay Snyder was one of the most vicious gangsters in America, and his specialty was white slavery and prostitution. He was particularly adept, Tim had discovered, at convincing young girls that he could help them get movie contracts, making them believe that if they just sold themselves for a few months, "to the right people, of course", that they would be assured of fat contracts and eventual stardom. In every case, of course, the months turned into years, and the starry-eyed girls turned into hardened professional prostitutes.

And Tim had fared no better. His salary as driver was small, almost pitifully small, and the promised promotions never came. When he threatened to quit, Jay had laughed at him, had told him that no one in town would touch him when Jay got through spreading the word. So Tim had stayed on, hopelessly, doing his job, living in a senior citizens' hotel in Venice, eating in run-down diners like this one.

The barbecued beef had grown cold. The cook stared at him: "Something wrong with your sandwich, buddy?" Tim shook his head. There bad to be a way out of this life, he thought. There had to be. He could never hope to become a doctor now, but at the very least he could quit Jay and get an honest job, save a little money, maybe find a girl and buy a house. Quit Jay? Tim laughed to himself. Just how was he going to do that? The gangster had him lock, stock and barrel. No, there was no way out, not with Jay around.

Not with Jay around…

CHAPTER THREE

Dinner was over. Mike Kramer got up from the table as his wife, Lisa, began clearing off the dishes. The news would be on in a few minutes, and Mike never missed a minute of the evening news. It was all part of being a cop, he told himself, keeping up with what was going on, not only in Los Angeles, but in the rest of the world as well: a good cop kept himself informed, current. Mike Kramer prided himself on being a good cop.

As Mike sat down to watch the news, Lisa passed through the living room on her way upstairs. Mike watched her, still admiring, after all these years, the grace of her walk, the firmness of her body. She had been and still was a very beautiful woman, a fine wife. They were just as much in love now as they had been when they first were married, over ten years ago, but now their love had matured, ripened, become firmer and more substantial.

Yes, Mike thought, she's a good wife. She kept an immaculate house, cooked food that was better than anything you could get in even the most expensive restaurants, always looked after his needs. She was constantly in good spirits, had a keen sense of humor, and was always ready to give her full attention to Mike's problems, listening with enthusiasm even though she never quite understood the real dangers of his job, never quite believed in its terrors.

In fact, their only point of disagreement had to do with Mike's job: Mike was a lieutenant, assigned to the vice squad, and he was perfectly content with his position – as a lieutenant he had enough authority to take part in decisions of policy and approach, yet he was not removed by rank from the real heart of any cop's job, the streets. The pay was good, and although the work was always difficult and sometimes dangerous, Mike enjoyed every minute of it. He would not have traded places with anyone.

Lisa thought that Mike should be interested in trading places, with one of the captains, for instance, or even an assistant chief. In the beginning of their marriage she had kept quiet while Mike had struggled up through the ranks, from patrolman to sergeant, and finally to lieutenant. It was only after Mike had been a lieutenant for five years that she had begun to ask why he didn't seem interested in promotion. Even at that, she asked only rarely, she didn't want to annoy him, because she knew that would only make him more stubborn.

"… and the well-known night-club owner, Jay Snyder," said the newsman, interrupting Mike's reverie. He sat forward to watch, all attention now. Jay Snyder was the object of Mike's personal crusade – he knew that Snyder controlled almost all the prostitution and illicit white slavery traffic in Los Angeles, and even if no one else believed him, he was going to put Snyder behind bars, put him behind bars or die trying.

Lisa came downstairs, saw Mike leaning forward in his chair, a look of intense concentration on his face. "Snyder again?" she said. Lisa thought Mike's crusade against Snyder a little ridiculous. How could Jay Snyder be a crook? She saw his name in the newspaper nearly every week, and always associated with some charity or other, or with the names of the wealthiest and most respected citizens of Los Angeles. Jay Snyder a criminal? Hardly.

"Yeah," said Mike, "Snyder again. I'm going to get that bastard one of these days."

"Mike," she said, "I know you know a lot more about this than I do, and I know you're sure you're right, but…"

"But what?" snapped her husband. He knew what was coming next; they had talked about it several times before. Lisa was simply too naive to believe that anyone who seemed so respectable could be involved in crime, particularly in prostitution.

"Well," she said, "are you really sure?"

"Yes, dearest," he said sarcastically, "I'm really sure." The only thing he disliked about his wife, the only fault he could find with her, was her naivete – she had grown up in a middleclass dream world, isolated and sheltered by her parents from the harder, meaner world of the streets, and he knew, although he tried to educate her, that she would never be capable of understanding the way organized crime worked. She simply refused to look at the facts.

It wouldn't be so bad, he thought, if she'd just keep her nose out of it, keep her head in the clouds where it seemed to want to stay and stop needling him about Jay Snyder. If she couldn't face the facts, then she should just forget it and leave him alone to do his job. But then again, she was his wife, and she bad a right to her opinions, even if they were naive and based on illusion instead of reality. When you got right down to it, Mike was secretly glad that she was at least concerned about him, about his work. Sometimes, though…

She kept at it. "I just can't see," she said, "how Jay Snyder could be involved in anything like prostitution. I mean, he doesn't even need the money, not with all those night clubs he owns. His clubs are famous, Mike. People come from all over the world to see his shows."

"You don't have to tell me his clubs are famous," Mike said. He was getting angry; she just wouldn't shut up about this. "But where in the hell do you think he got the money to buy those lousy clubs in the first place? Do you know anything about Jay Snyder's history? No, you don't. Well, I'll tell you a few things: Jay Snyder came out here from Chicago in 1940, without a penny to his name. You know what he'd been doing in Chicago?"

Lisa shook her head. "No, but…"

"Just listen for a minute," Mike interrupted. "Listen and maybe you'll learn a thing or two. In Chicago, Jay Snyder was a pimp, a scrounging, two-bit pimp who couldn't get anyone to work for him except old barflies and teenage girls. He got into trouble with the syndicate, big trouble, and they forced him out of town. Tie came out here without a dime, like I said, spent his time snatching purses and hanging around the track. He'd still be doing it now, if it hadn't been for Carolyn Ames."

"Carolyn Ames," said Lisa, frowning. "The actress?"

"The actress," said Mike. "She wasn't in such good shape herself – drank too much, took too much dope, and she'd lost her looks. She did have a lot of money, though. Snyder met her one day at the track and somehow managed to get friendly with her. Maybe he was the only thing she could find to screw."

"Mike!"

"OK, OK," he said. "Anyway, they got to be friends. Somehow Snyder talked her out of a lot of money, went out and set himself up in business again. But this time, with Carolyn's money behind him, he was able to buy some good girls, pretty ones, the kind who get a hundred dollars or more a night. So instead of being a low-class pimp; Snyder became a high-class pimp. His business kept on expanding – this was right after the war, when money was loose – and finally he got enough to buy his first club. From there, it was just a matter of time. The first club was a hit, mostly because Carolyn Ames helped him put his show together, so he bought another one, then another one. Carolyn kept introducing him around in high society – everybody thought his southside Chicago accent was cute, you know? – and that's how he made his contacts. What do you think about your Jay Snyder now? Still think he's 'respectable'?"

Lisa shook her head. "Oh, Mike," she said, "I just don't know what to think. It all sounds so incredible."

"True, though," he said. "Listen, Jay Snyder is a scummy bastard. As long as he's around, this is a scummy city. You want to raise kids in a place where people like Jay Snyder are running things? What if we had a daughter? What if our daughter got into trouble and figured she couldn't get help from anyone but Jay Snyder? What if she went to Snyder? You know what would happen then?" Mike didn't think any of that was very likely, but he had to get through to Lisa somehow, and maybe these shock tactics would work. Nothing else seemed to, that was certain.

Lisa was quiet. Mike's mention of children had made her stop thinking about Jay Snyder, had turned her mind to their own problems, hers and Mike's. They had been married for ten years and still had no children. They both wanted kids, Lisa as much as Mike, but they just couldn't seem to get together sexually. Lisa bad been a virgin when she and Mike were married, had never even experimented with sex, and she still remembered the shock of their wedding night, of seeing Mike's crude, massive prick underneath all that fuzzy hair, of feeling that thing come into her like a knife, tearing at her insides, hurting her, torturing her, making her writhe in pain. Her secret passages had hurt for days afterwards, and now she could not even think about sex without feeling the pain and shame of that night. She had a fine body, she knew that, with perfect ripe breasts and full rounded hips, and she kept her body in good shape, but somehow she could almost never bring herself to submit to Mike's urgings. Occasionally they made love, particularly when Mike fingered her while she slept, got her excited before she could realize what was happening, but the occasions were rare, and they never talked about it.

In fact, the whole subject gave Lisa a headache. "Mike," she said, "maybe you're right about Snyder, I don't know. Anyway, I don't feel too well. I'm going to bed."

Mike had guessed at what was bothering Lisa, knew she was thinking about sex and children. He imagined her in bed, with her blindfold on to keep the light out, her body stiff and immobile, unyielding. Then, for just a brief moment, he imagined a different Lisa, an excited Lisa, Lisa with her legs thrown in the air and her hips churning, her cunt streaming hot juices, her mouth twisted with sexual power.

The fantasy lasted for only a moment. "Yeah," said Mike, wearily, "guess I'll go to bed too."