Mandy Lang-Jones: “The Lower Depths”

Mandy Lang-Jones is fucking the brains out of Tommy Bassach!

Tom Bassach thrust his hips up, drilling his cock in deep. But Mandy, straddling him upright, raised herself on her knees, just enough to control his shove and keep his cock at the lips of her cunt.

Mandy Lang-Jones is fucking the hell out of this dumb television grip!

“Shove down, shove down, goddammit, I'm about to come!” Tom Bassach sex-groaned.

“Not yet!” Mandy raised herself another essential inch and abandoned his despondent cock; a tear appeared on its tip.

He jabbed at her. But she put her hand over the fluff of her legs, feeling the warm moisture—and shut out his straining cock. With her other hand she slapped his readied erection.

“Ouch!” he said; his discouraged cock surrendered to the smarting slap.

“Don't come yet.”

“Where'd you learn to do that?” he asked her, watching his deflating organ. “I was about to come. You already came,” he accused.

“Once,” she said. “But you weren't ready then.” Mandy Lang-Jones is going to fuck the cocky fuck out of Mr. Hotstuff!

She lay back beside him on the unadorned tanned sheets she preferred, her hands behind her head.

She was even prettier than she appeared on television. When she did her special reports, she insisted on makeup that added seriousness to her face; then—and only then—she had her lips painted thin, to subdue their sensuality and increase the grave concern she needed to project to her growing audience—“fans,” they were beginning to say at the station—and the show's sponsors. She had large, dark brown eyes, and a nose that seemed just about to tilt and didn't. Her brown hair was straight except for a sudden assertive inward swirl at each side of her neck.

She was thirty-four, and her body was superb, with curves that flowed like a series of linked S's; firm curves unmarred by fat; thighs that arched to a lithe taper. For Mandy the “ideal” woman's body was one that strengthened “femininity,” not one that altered it; she disapproved of women weightlifters, who were increasingly converting their bodies into ugly knotty muscles parodying men's—the way some women, but not her, thought trans vestites parodied women; she herself admired their gutsiness. In action—roaming the city for her “specials,” or swimming—firm arms and legs creating a sinuous flowing line—or playing tennis, jogging, fucking—in all of which she excelled—Mandy's body moved in feline harmony with her limbs; her flesh did not sag or bounce. The nipples of her round breasts remained boldly pointed, proud to be there and asserting that pride.

Now in bed she stretched her body, displaying its radiant sexuality. Light wisps—silky breaths—of hair curled between her legs and glistened with sequined moisture in the reflected light of the hot moon flooding in through an invisible wall of glass.

Tom Bassach, too, stretched his body, emphasizing his greater length. He was twenty-seven years old and on the thin, wiry side—a lanky, long, hairy body; strong slender limbs and impressively ridged abdominals; a basketball player type. He had a thick, dark, aggressively prominent moustache. It was like a patch of his pubic hair!—that's what Mandy thought when she saw him naked and touching it and his groin at the same time.

She reached over his chest and retrieved two cigarettes from a package on a table on his side. She inserted one in his mouth, held the other in abeyance for herself, and proceeded to light his. “I don't smoke,” he told her. He took out the cigarette and inserted it between her lips. His fingers patted the possibily ruffled moustache. She smiled, an ambiguous smile. She lit the cigarette he had handed back to her.

“I smoke only between orgasms,” she said.

For about two weeks, she had seen Tom Bassach at the television station or on location, always coiled in electrical wires or pushing equipment; he was a cameraman's assistant, a grip, something like that. His shirt was always open at least three buttons, showing off puffy dark chest hair. He flirted constantly with the giddiest girls—secretaries, assistants; they obviously welcomed his attentions. “A skinny John Wayne,” Mandy had heard one of them describe him. Mandy fixed her with a petrifying look. Soon, Tom Bassach started coming up to her and asking seriously whether he could be of any “help”—never defining the area of aid. Obviously he wanted to approach her more directly, and personally. He was not shy—that was clear from the way he acted with the other females. So, Mandy assumed, he was reticent with her because, after all, she was a star—a demistar, for now; not the star Eleanor Cavendish, the regular coanchorwoman, was, but getting there, getting there, and soon! He had been holding a coiled orange electrical wire when he asked her, again, whether he could “help.” “How about coffee after the show?” she suggested. Her directness caused him to tangle on the long wire. “Better still,” she said, “if you can get out of that coil, why don't you come over to my house for a drink after dinner? Tonight.” She gave him one of her private cards.

Here he was!

On Mandy's queen-size bed.

“You've got a great body,” he said to her. He felt his cock preparing for a new incursion; it gave a shivering flutter. He began to play with the hairs between her legs.

“You're not half bad yourself,” she said. She was proud of being able to “relate” to all types of men—poetic types, intellectual types, jocks—once she'd made it with a Mr. Universal—who actually flexed his biceps when he came. A bad fuck. “You cooled off now?” she asked Tom.

Okay—so she was enjoying it so much she wanted to extend it. Nothing wrong with that. And she'd already come—he'd already made her come, Tom revised.

Now Tom was a popular man with women. He had one main girlfriend of several off-and-on years' duration, Liz, who called him “my cat's meow.” But for all his sexual experience, he'd known this encounter with Mandy Lang-Jones would be “different” the moment he walked in earlier and she asked him what he wanted to drink—“Wine?” “Bourbon?” “Beer?”—and added: “before we fuck.” That aroused the hell out of him. Yes, he was impressed that she was a star—well, almost, actually very close—but he would soon start the necessary leveling process. He was younger, but with a woman like Mandy that could turn into a plus or a minus. Maybe—this had been at the back of his mind, perhaps midway there and now it moved forward—there might be more in this for him than just a good lay.

Mandy Lang-Jones lived in an attractive rented house in a cul-de-sac off Sunset Boulevard. One of two bedrooms, the room they were in opened invisibly through sliding glass doors into a very green garden. No flowers. A long swimming pool shimmered under the sweaty moon and, when the wind floated over the water, it crinkled like tinfoil in the silver light. Large, comfortable, the house did not bear a trace of Mandy on it—except by the very fact that it did not. The owner had had it decorated, and she had moved in and left it exactly as it was, with one exception: she had hired a gardener—a horticulturist, he called himself—to remove puddles of cute flowers about the pool and in pretty bunches about the lawn; they had reminded her of the beribboned tufts on quivery little poodles. Mandy didn't like to be “owned by things,” especially anything living, like flowers. Grass was different—it was mowed down regularly.

“Tommy,” she said intensely, “do you— …?”

“Tom,” he interrupted her. The moment he corrected her, he realized he hadn't really minded the endearing diminutive—hardly anyone ever called him that, not since he was a kid.

She didn't revise her designation. “You know what Tantra Yoga is?” she asked him.

“Yoga? Sure,” he said proudly. “I was into it for a while. I still practice it, but only to do vacuums for my stomach. Keeps it flat,” he pointed out the obvious. “Like this.”

He stood up, on the floor, at the edge of the bed.

Mandy leaned on one elbow.

“You exhale, every bit of air.” He blew out in profound puffs. Then he placed his hands on his upper thighs—and exhaling audibly once more, drew in his stomach, so that it almost touched the wall of his spine. He worked the isolated abdominal muscles like moving knots. He inhaled a great gush of air. “Like that,” he said. He pushed his hair—but not too seriously—from his face and did another vacuum.

“You're a vain little thing, aren't you?”

He puffed the air out. There it was again—the enigmatic smile of hers. “I've never been called little before,” he said.

“What I mean is sex yoga.” Mandy Lang-Jones patted the pillow next to her, so he would join her back in bed. He did. “Orgasms,” she clarified.

“Oh, I—uh—have to admit that—well, I don't— …” He hated to admit he didn't know what she was talking about—because he was a sophisticated man, knew how to relate to women, especially “the new woman.” With Liz he had gone to a women's meeting once—he was by far the sexiest man there, most of the others were kind of small and squishy—and he got hearty applause when he agreed that, hey, men had given women a “bum deal” for too long. Liz was very proud of him; but that was the same night that he tried to— … “I know about the vaginal and clitoral orgasms,” he offered in substitution.

Dumb grip. “In Tantra Yoga, there's the valley orgasm as opposed to peak orgasm,” she said. “When you have a ‘valley’ orgasm, you go slow and easy, you relax, stretch it all out, flowing into orgasm, nothing urgent about it, just flows— …”

Was she making a judgment on his style? He listened attentively; it was important to let women know that a man listened.

“A peak orgasm—that's what accounts for premature ejaculation.”

He winced. “I didn't ejaculate pre— …”

“You didn't ejaculate at all,” she said. “But I don't mean you. I mean, men in general; it's especially important for men to learn to relax, otherwise it's all over—wham!”

Hell, he could come three times in a short period. That certainly impressed Liz, especially since she never came—though they definitely had a good—a very good—sex life; she said it wasn't important, her coming. He was about to tell Mandy about his orgasmic ability. Instead, he said—starting the leveling, “I don't think I'd like meditating while my cock's in— …”

“Tantra Yoga makes you learn how to really enjoy sex.” Mandy disregarded his remark. “Great for men because a woman can have multiple orgasms, a man can't.”

His cock lay limply in its dark nest.

“Actually,” she said, “there's no such thing as a vaginal orgasm and a clitoral orgasm—just good and bad ones; it all depends on the fuck.”

“I think for too long men have told women what women feel,” he said in a deep, serious voice. That's what he'd said at the meeting with Liz, when he got another round of applause. He was proud of his liberated observations. His hand between her legs, he touched his moustache—which was much thicker than the hair on her crotch.

She stroked his cock. Turning sideways, he curled one long leg over her thigh. She thrust her lips against his and pushed her tongue in. He shoved it back and pushed his into her mouth. She thrust it back and continued her incursion into his.

Mandy Lang-Jones is just getting ready to ball Hotstuffso the giddy secretaries won't even recognize him! Forming her thoughts into precise words excited Mandy when she was having sex. It was like in a documentary, where the voice-over enhances the action—her own inner voice commenting, complimenting, goading.

Tom Bassach made a surprise attack—one rough stab of his hips. But Mandy intercepted it. She reached under and guided his cock so that it slid from her crotch and up on her stomach.

“Slo——ow,” she reminded him. “Tan-tra Yo-guh!” she said as if pronouncing a mantra.

Okay. Slow. He moistened his fingers and drew narrowing circles on her breasts, until they enclosed the nipples.

“They're dry now,” she said.

“What!”

“Your fingers—they're dry now, and it felt real good when they were moist.”

He moistened them again. This time he concentrated on the nipples. With one hand, he grasped her left buttock—so firm! —and located the bud of her ass—so sensual! Pulling her lips away from his, she aimed the enigmatic smile at him. She retreated just enough so that his cock poked at her belly, the moving causing his hand to slide off the opening at her ass. She clasped his cock between her legs, letting him pump that way. Then she released it, and it slid on her silky flesh, up, down, up, down, moving from between her legs toward her navel. “Floooow— …” she said. His sliding movement increased.

He could come like this, and— …!

“That would be a waste.” Her hands, clamped over his back, stopped his motions.

“Sure would,” he said. He rolled over, facing up. Another drop of moisture had gathered on the head of his cock. She glued it to the tip of one finger, and tasted it. He thought he read her signals—and he reached for her neck, rubbing it, encouraging it downward, his fingers gliding over her fleecy crotch, inching lower, toward her buttocks.

“I'm really hot,” he said. “Could keep going.” He was about to tell her he could come three times, easy.

“I've had up to fifteen orgasms in one night, and I could have gone for more, but the man I was with— …” She made a face, reached again over him for another cigarette, the first had mummified in the ashtray, puffed on only once.

He was glad he hadn't told her he could come three times.

“Encounter groups, est, primal, Rolfing, going sane, psychoanalysis—I've been through all of them,” she said. “You?”

“Never felt I needed any of that,” he parried. Yes! Oh, that tone sure changed the smile on her face.

“You know what they're all about?” she asked.

“Getting to know yourself,” he recited. “Hey, that's what it's all about, sure.”

“No—it's all about good orgasms or bad orgasms.”

He pondered that. Nodded. He started, “Hey— …” and didn't know what to add.

“It makes you creative—and it sharpens your humanity.”

“Huh?” He wished he had uttered something other than that sound—which annoyed him when Liz made it.

“Did you see my series, ‘The Lower Depths’?”

“I worked on most of it with you, remember?” He felt chagrined; was she pretending? It was true that when she worked, she worked!

“You think I could have so much empathy for the people I interview on my specials—really get to know what they're all about—if I was worrying all the time about sexual fulfillment? Did you see the segment on those street kids—the malehustlers on Santa Monica Boulevard?”

Tom remembered that vividly—and the interview with an incredibly beautiful blond youngman in cutoffs.

“You know what made that a great show?”

“A good orgasm,” Tom tossed at her. Oh, he was moving on, moving on! He'd allowed her too many. He had to catch up—getting closer to that needed balance, then a slight tilt in his direction, and then! His cock began to stretch.

Mandy leaned confidentially on her elbow. “When I kept asking that kid how much he made hustling the streets and he wouldn't tell me, I knew why right away—because he'd go for whatever he could make.” Her breasts didn't even tilt, not even slightly. They were so close to Tom's mouth he reached out and dabbed at each of them with his tongue.

“Ooooo,” she said. And went on: “I got him to say he made a thousand a week; remember when he said that?”

“Sure—and that's a lot of money for a kid.”

“I knew it wasn't true,” she said. “So did the cop who talked about those kids afterwards on the show, he told me; sometimes they don't even have a dime to call anyone when they're busted. But I understood that kid. All his friends were standing there. He wants to be a big star; this is his one big chance to be noticed—maybe by someone big. I'd driven up that street; I saw some of them—real cute, too—waiting for hours. I knew how little they'd go for. If that kid had told the truth, he would've been just a little chippy. I gave him an opportunity to triumph!”

For a full week radio and television spots had shouted, “Young boys earning one thousand dollars a week selling their bodies to older men; watch it all on the news with Mandy Lang-Jones.”

“You knew it wasn't true, and yet you used it?” Tom was surprised by his uncool eruption.

“What is truth?” Mandy repeated the famous viceroy's question. “You know what truth is? Truth is what we put right there.” She pointed to the large, blank television screen a few feet away. “That's what makes reality. You think anyone would care about a kid making five bucks a night selling his body? Cheap stuff. Figures! Lots of kids, lots of customers, lots of perversion, lots of corruption, lots of bucks—and lots of viewers!” Again she pointed to the dormant television. “Truth is in there, the moment I turn that set on, it pours out truth, it makes truth; and if no one sees it, it's not there. Like the tree falling in the forest; nobody hears it, there's no sound.” The passionate asseveration cooled. “Besides, it was a public service; it brought lots of attention to those poor street kids—how else would they get that kind of attention?”

He wasn't sure what he felt. She had coaxed that kid to lie.

“Now you take child laborers in the fields—right here in the groves of California. Good story, right? Lots of pathos, lots of human interest, pictures that would break your heart. Great story!”

“Right!” he said enthusiastically. He'd work on it with her. Associate producer— … And on location he'd give her all the good orgasms she needed for empathy. “Great story,” he underscored. “You could even start with— …” he started to contribute.

“No story at all,” she said. “Sure it tears you apart, right? —kids doing stoop labor in the fields—and illegally—but that doesn't make a story there.” She addressed the television. “People who watch TV, really watch—the ones who give us our ratings or turn us off—their kids could run away, end up on the streets peddling their asses, and if it's for a lot of money, there's got to be a lot of threat. Great story. Now those same people's kids—they're not going to end up in the fields doing stoop labor—so, no story!” She mused, “I learned that right away when I did my first special—on the Mexican women, mostly illegals, who work in the garment district sweatshops, sewing. Exploited? Damn right! By the employers and the Immigration. And I had no ratings at all. Nothing for the TV viewer to relate to. You know the ratings we got on ‘The Lower Depths’? Wiped all the others out. And we accomplished good” she insisted. “Some people really cared about those kids on the street. Who knows?—that one kid might even be able to charge one hundred dollars a trick now.” She paused intently. “I might win a prize for that series. … Ready?” She faced him sexily and cuddled his cock.

“Always.” He crooked his smile. A hairy leg hugged her.

“Lean back,” she told him.

He did.

Her tongue drew a T on his chest, extended the lower part downward, curved the line into a circle enclosing his cock and balls. Then she sucked his cock into her mouth.

When a woman went down on Tom, he liked to push her head down, rumple her hair, pretending force. Liz hadn't wanted to go down at first, but he'd persuaded her and that excited him; now she did it routinely when they first started having sex. Not that he'd tried, but she'd told him she didn't want him to go down on her—she knew it would “tickle uncomfortably.” That was all right with him, because he wasn't really into that.

Depending on whom he was with, Tom liked to think or even say words like “cunt,” “pussy”—he'd stopped saying “bitch” that was risky. With Mandy now, his usual routine floundered. Only tentatively, he put his hand on her head—not pushing, not rumpling. She raised her hand, removed his from her head, and held it pinioned at his side.

The smile again. “Relax, Tommy, I'm doing it.” She looked up at him. Mandy Lang-Jones has your cock in her mouth—but she's in total control!

He felt the cum gathering. His breathing began to knot. He'd prefer to come in her cunt. Shoot my fucking wad in Mandy Lang-Jones's fucking cunt-pussy! But if he broke the connection, she'd withdraw again, and so he would ride— …

He tried to slide sideways so he could play with her cunt while she blew him, but she did not allow the movement, kept him pinioned. One more stroke of her mouth and he would shoot! She pulled her lips away. “Okay, I'll fuck you,” she said.

That fucking smile of hers!

Straddling him, she spread her great legs, pulling in his cock as he pushed. Up and down, up, down. His hands grasped her breasts. She felt his spilling orgasm, hers reached for his, he thrust his head back, she flailed hers to one side, both came.

His long body quivered, relaxed, rested. He waited for her approbation. She reached over him. “Fuck—no more cigarettes,” she discovered.

“That was great,” he said. Now he waited for her to echo him.

“You know Freud's bullshit about penis envy?” she said.

“Hey! That's been disproved entirely,” he knew to say.

“No—he was right.”

Tom felt as if he had rejected a victor's laurel, without knowing he'd won it. “Well, I have always, maybe deep down, felt that he might have had a— …” he started.

“But not about women he wasn't right,” Mandy said. “Women don't envy men's cocks. Men envy each other's cocks. Size doesn't matter that much to women; it does to men.”

He squinted at her. He was no Jimmy Steed, but he was much more than just adequate.

“Don't worry,” she assuaged him, “you're fine; just fine. It was just a general observation.” She got up and left the room, to search for cigarettes. She returned with one between her lips. She stood near the sliding glass panels. The reflection of the moon in the pool hugged her lovingly, the curves outlined in luminous kissing light. A mirror captured the silver silhouette, front and back at the same time.

She really did have a sensational body! Tom Bassach knew he'd be ready for her again.

Still standing there, “You ever tried anal sex?” she asked him.

When he had tried—with Liz—not even telling her, just letting his cock slide away from one opening and toward the other—she cried when she discovered what he wanted. He denied it, said he hadn't meant to push hard, there. He had fucked one of the receptionists at the studio that way, and another time he— … “Yeah,” he said, man of the world.

“Did you take it or give it?” Mandy asked him.

“What?”

“Did you take it up the ass or put it there?” she enunciated as if he hadn't heard.

“Listen,” hysteria tinged his voice, “I just fucked you, I made you come twice, so I assume you know I'm not a fag.” He had thought her strange smile was gone permanently. But it either returned now or never left.

“I know you're not,” she said. She shrugged. “I've tried it; mostly a man's trip, though.” This time she took a third puff from the cigarette. She continued to stand, as if trying to decide something important.

To let him try? The tip of his cock stirred. And to ask him to spend the night? Go for sixteen orgasms! he thought with amusement, excitement, and apprehension. Or would this be a one-night fuck? Whatever her new TV special, it would have to be spectacular to top “The Lower Depths.” He wanted to be a part of it. Christ, she could help him, especially if she did replace Eleanor Cavendish—and he'd heard a lot of criticism about Eleanor. Her makeup took one hour each day, and she was always arguing with the lighting men. And Kenneth Manning wasn't getting any younger, and so— …

“Suck my cunt,” Mandy growled. She stood at the edge of the bed, near his head.

“What?”

“I said, Lick my cunt,” she growled again even more sexily.

“I just came— …”

“Squeamish?”

“It's just so soon after.”

She lay beside him, and buried the cigarette with the other dead ones in the ashtray. She reached for his head. Resisting its pull, he burrowed it between her breasts. His hands slid under her buttocks, spreading them, and he felt excited again, yes. Actually, his orgasm had been one of those strange long ones when, finally, he didn't fully shoot; that happened when he waited too long. But: “Let's wait just a while,” he said, to avoid the push of her hands on his head.

“Okay,” she said. Each time she smiled—“that way”—he felt she was signaling a private victory, hers, unknown to him.

“Where did you learn so much about women, all about vaginal and clitoral orgasms?” she asked him.

“Hey, you know, I like to be up on things; read a lot—stay current. Opens you up, you know? I went to a meeting—a women's meeting with Liz—just a girl I know; we signed a petition for equal— …”

“Does she come—Liz?”

He coughed. “Sure.” He was about to touch his moustache, but didn't.

“Good orgasms?”

“Sixteen peaks, sixteen valleys,” he sparred with her.

“Gotcha,” she said. “You pick up quickly on the raps, don't you, Tommy?” She didn't wait for his answer; she said, “I'll tell you something you won't learn at those meetings, something about real liberation—something those chanting women at demonstrations don't know: Liberation is inside, deep, deep inside— …”

“In the lower depths,” he tossed.

Her sudden look bored into him. “And in men, too,” she said. Her words were carefully enunciated; tinged with vague warning? “Mass killings,” she said.

“Huh?” That hated sound again; it just flew out of him. He never used it—Liz did.

“Mass killings—my next special,” she said.

“The Nazis— …” he started, trying to move ahead of her.

“I don't mean war,” she said. “You get into all kinds of problems there, issues—the right, the left, the up, the down. Nazis, Viet Nam, Hiroshima—stuff like that, that's war. I'm talking about mass slaughter—Starkweather, that guy on the tower in Austin, Manson, the Skid Row Slasher, the Lovers' Lane Ripper, the Hillside Strangler; explore what makes— …”

“Could be terrific!” And it could, he knew. “You could start with an overview of— …”

“Right,” she dismissed him. She reached for the remote-control device on the table on her side of the bed. She turned the television on with a click.

There was Eleanor Cavendish. Mandy propped herself on a pillow and stared at her. “One more good story and you're mud, Eleanor,” she said, “and then I'll go after Ken.” Eleanor was telling Ken about the growing danger of fires as the Santa Ana winds increased. Yes—and a potentially major fire had already erupted in one of the outlying canyons, Ken told her. The screen showed red flames pouring down a hill. “Sam Bernheimer has a live report— …” Sam Bernheimer appeared among firetrucks and smoke-smudged people evacuating the area but pausing to be seen by the camera.

“I'm not doing fires any more,” Mandy said victoriously. “No more fires, I told them, unless it's the whole city! And I mean it. … I'll have to go a long way in my next series to reach ‘The Lower Depths.’ I know that, and so does Eleanor.”

“That mass murder idea could be great if— …” Tom started again.

She held her finger on the remote selector, sliding over images of faces, fires, cowboys, a man falling, a can of beer, a girl skating, a child eating bread, a ballet dancer, police surrounding a house, a woman chauffeured to— …

“….—four! There shall be four! And on the other side: There! will Satan face them!” Sister Woman gasped.

“Those fake evangelicals and their bullshit,” Tom Bassach said.

“It's not bullshit,” Mandy said, watching intently.

Tom sat up, startled. “Cummon, you don't really believe— …”

“Of course not!” Mandy snapped, watching the screen. “But the following she's got, and her power—that's not bullshit. She knows television better than any of us. I learn from her, a lot—no, I'm serious. About how to convince. You know, she actually makes up scripture, quotes it as her own—or just mixes it all up so she's got her own ‘word of God’! And those idiots don't care.”

“At the Great Gathering of Souls Sunday, I promise: something awesome!” Sister Woman covered her eyes, as if momentarily blinded. Then she removed her hands; the colorless outlined eyes stared forward. Now they were black, reflecting black.

“Notice how she creates suspense,” Mandy said. “Four—that's her secret number. Never explains, uses it over and over; and then it's ‘something awesome’—mysteries and secrets and vague promises, to get all those creeps to call and— …”

“And send ‘love donations,’” sneered Tom.

“Nine million dollars' worth—that's how much she raised; she's aiming for ten. People leave whole estates to her, instructions in their wills.”

“Shit,” Tom looked at his cock. That spooky Sister Woman wasn't going to help this situation.

“And nothing can touch her, not criticism, not ridicule, not scandal. The Enquirer ran what it claimed was documented proof that her rich mother and father were brother and sister and committed suicide together—and their readers, who love to read that stuff, threatened to boycott the paper even though there were no threatened suits or rebuttals from Sister Woman. Now that is power!” Mandy said admiringly.

“But will they surrender to Satan, Sister Woman? Though his power is temporary, it is terrible to behold, terrible in its mighty persuasion!” Brother Man bemoaned.

“He looks like a fag.” Tom cupped his groin securely.

Sister Woman shook her head. Her eyes seemed to melt into tears. “God always wins. It is sinners who lose.”

“Cummon, Mandy, turn the fuckers off.” Tom reached for the remote control.

Mandy grasped his hand, stopping him. “Just look at her!” She shut off the sound. In pale lavender chiffon, Sister Woman wove her invisible web with her hands. “Great! She's just great!”

Tom looked from the face on the screen to Mandy's. “You're really serious about learning from her?” He tried to make it both question and statement.

“I told you—yeah.” She clicked off the television. “She knows mass communications.” She faced him in bed. “Have you ever thought about what that means? Hear it: mass … communications. Mass— …”

“Religious, too,” he said. “Lots of resonance. Mass communications,” he repeated.

“You'd make a good weatherman,” Mandy said.

This time, one hand touched his moustache and the other connected it to his crotch. For a moment he liked the outlaw image she had evoked of him—the way she saw him—but then he had second thoughts, “Look, I'm a liberal guy, but not a radical. I hope I haven't said anything that gave you the idea that I'm— …” It wouldn't help for it to get out at the station that he was an extremist, for God's sake. “And I was just a kid when they— …”

“I didn't mean that kind of weatherman.” She laughed. “I meant those cute guys the stations hire now to tell the weather. Even if it's going to flood, there they are, all sunny smiles.”

He liked the outlaw better. “I sure the hell don't see myself that way,” he said.

“You're not. Believe me, you … are … not.” She spread her legs, offering them to him. “I've got some sweet honey dew for you, stud, just for you,” she said.

“Honey dew melons.” He cupped her breasts. Oh, he was ready—and astonished and turned on to hear her talk like that, actually kittenish.

She guided his mouth to her breasts. He licked. She moved his head until she located his tongue on the exact spot she wanted aroused, just slightly to the left of her right nipple. “Stay there,” she said.

His cock was erect; he was hotter than before. Now he would do this—on his own—wouldn't really do it, just tease her. … What a body! He slid his head right to the edge of the triangle of pubic hair. He held her thighs closed, pretending to caress them. She flung her legs open. “Eat it!” she commanded, and he dove hungrily into the lightly furred moist opening. She held his head firmly down, but he was not resisting, not at all. He was licking willingly, lapping at the opening, tongue dabbing, darting, exploring, entering, pushing into the dewy folds.

Then she raised his head. “Let's fuck,” she said.

He was hot! And she was waiting for him now! Look at her!—leaning down and forward! her hands propped on the bed! her ass toward him! He knelt behind her. One of his hands grabbed one of her breasts, the other grasped her slim waist. His cock brushed her ass. She squirmed. Holding his cock, he moved it down, toward her cunt, rubbing it into her hairs. Tentatively, he returned the eager cock to the nearer opening. Was she inviting, coaxing him to fuck her in the ass? Oh, yeah! The head of his cock touched the tight knot. She allowed it to remain there. Now with both his hands he parted the buttocks, he aimed his cock and— …

She slid down, flat on the bed, turned her body over quickly, facing him. His body fell on hers. She opened her legs, and his cock slipped into her cunt. Her legs curled about his shoulders, slid down his back. He pushed in, then out, then almost totally out, at the very mouth of her legs, in, out, then again almost, almost completely out, only to lunge back in one hard thrust. Deep! Deep! Deep!

Her hands reached over his shoulders, slid down to his back, farther down to his waist, down, down to his narrow buttocks. She grabbed the slender mounds of flesh, spreading them open, kneading them. He pushed in and out of her. She felt his hard cock in her liquid warmth.

Now! She pushed her finger into his ass, forced it deep, deeper, shoved another finger in. Deep!

“Ouch!” And he came and came and came.

He rolled off her, onto the bed. She had not come. He looked at her. Her smile—that smile—branded him this time. She puffed once on a new cigarette, and put it out, as if not to interrupt the growing smile. In a moment it might issue laughter.

“I think I'd better go.” He sat up. That abruptly. Angry.

“Did Mandy wear Tommy-boy out?” she asked. There was a cold meanness in the studied, taunting tone. Where had he heard it before?—that tone of mean triumph? He looked startled at Mandy Lang-Jones. He had heard it in his voice when he was with Liz, when he was with the others, when— …

Even more furious, he dressed. Was there anything to gain now from her? He wanted to say something that would crack her hardening smile. He looked at her and said, “With all your bullshit, Mandy, you're not liberated—not in any way, not even in your— …” Yes! This was it! He took sure aim: “… —no, not even in your very, very lowest depths.”

The smile didn't crack. It widened, preparing laughter.

He wanted to go on—to tell her she was dishonest, disdainful, cruel in her life and mean in that high-rated precious series of lies she might get a prize for; wanted to tell her she wasn't even honest about her dishonesty, still had to rationalize it now and then, call it a public service; he wanted to tell her that she— …

But he wouldn't say any of that, and her unrelenting smile told him she knew it, and why—because both knew he would have done—would do—the same or equivalent things in the world they shared. The only difference was that she had been in it—that world of lies—longer than he had. And yet— …

And yet what he hated her most for was that she had given him the best fuck of his life.

Smoke from the cigarette concealed her expression. He heard her calm voice.

“Fag-hags—that's what gays call women who pretend to know all about them. Well, I've got a name for men like you, with all your bullshit about women: Tommy-boy, you are a cunt-runt!”

Softly—and she knew he would do it that way, softly, and even call out, softly, too, “Goodnight, Mandy, see you soon, huh?” and she might, she just might—Tom Bassach closed the door—softly—as he walked out of her house.

Mandy touched the soft brush between her sculpted legs, touched her flat stomach, her round breasts,—soft, firm. With a sharp stab in the direction of the television screen, she fired the remote control, hopping from station to station as the dark screen unbunched into a soundless picture of Eleanor Cavendish, her lips moving.

Mandy said, “No more fires for me, Eleanor—and Ken! No more fires!”