When Tony Zecca awakened in the morning, he was surprised to find that Nan was not in the bed beside him. This was unlike her, since she was usually asleep when he left for the restaurant. Although, several times, he remembered, she had risen before him to do some shopping for the house.
Zecca dressed hastily, without further concern about her absence, because he had arranged to be at his office early to interview two more applicants for the temporary job as cashier. Then he would return in time to take Nan to her doctor and have it out with the bastard.
Once dressed, Zecca had gone into the dining room, calling out to his housekeeper in the kitchen that he was ready for his breakfast.
Sitting down at his place mat, he folded the morning paper to the sports section while Hilda appeared with his orange juice and hot coffee. He was finishing his orange juice and reading the box scores when Hilda reappeared with his eggs, bacon, and toast.
Attacking the eggs and bacon, concentrating on the sports results, he asked Hilda absently, "What time did my lady friend have her breakfast?"
"She didn't," said Hilda, disappearing into the kitchen.
Zecca banged down his fork, then twisted in his chair. "Hilda, goddammit, come back here!" He waited for his overweight German housekeeper to return. Seeing her materialize in the kitchen doorway, he barked, "What in the hell do you mean, she didn't have breakfast? She never goes out with no breakfast."
"Who says she went out? I didn't see her go out. She must be around somewhere."
"Yeah, that's it," agreed Zecca. He shoved what remained of his eggs into his mouth, pushed away the sports section, and left his chair. He meant to head straight for the restaurant, but then he remembered he had planned to return to the house to pick up Nan and drive her to her phony doctor for a showdown. He'd give that phony doctor a piece of his mind, and then some, and once and for all make him stop stalling Nan along and interfering with their normal love life. He didn't know the time he was supposed to meet Nan for her appointment, and he decided he'd better find that out before he went to work.
Nan's bathroom door was closed. Zecca yanked it open and barged inside. No one there. Then for sure the bitch was in her dressing room. Why those fucking women always took so much time dressing up he didn't know, when all you wanted with them was to have them bare ass.
Zecca jerked open the door to the dressing room, shouting out, "Nan, goddammit!"
No answer. The dressing room was empty.
Zecca spun around. Something fishy. Her clothes rack was empty. He pivoted all round, and his eyes fell on the note Scotch-taped to her mirror.
He strode to the mirror, tore off the note, and tried to make out her shaky handwriting. Something real crazy about leaving him. Leaving him! He held the note closer and read each word carefully. He had it now. She'd walked. The bitch had walked out on him, something no woman since Crystal had ever done or even dared think about.
In a fury, Zecca crumpled her note, balled it up, and crushed it in his huge fist.
Anger wrestled with bewilderment. Why would she have done a cuckoo thing like that? He'd been good to her, given the homeless nobody a home and a job, yet she'd walked off. How come? She had nowhere to go, nowhere on earth. She knew no one else, far as he knew, except . . .
Except the fucking doctor she'd been seeing almost every day.
That knowledge and the recollection of their talk yesterday when she so desperately tried to keep him from seeing her doctor fitted together and told him the whole story.
Nan had thrown him over, left him to shack up with her doctor, who'd probably been screwing her regularly from the first day.
Well, goddammit, Zecca told himself, neither of them would get away with it. He'd find that hot-nuts doctor and punch him out so he'd never forget not to fool around with anyone else's woman. Then he'd get his mitts on Nan and drag her back where she belonged. That was it. His course was clear.
Only one roadblock.
Who in the fuck was her fucking doctor? He had to know who deserved a beating before going to wherever they were shacked up and dragging her back with him.
Who in the fuck was her doctor, dammit?
She'd never told him, clever bitch, as far as he could remember. And he could kick himself in the ass for never having bothered to ask her. He just hadn't bothered, and now his fury mounted once more at her cheating on him.
He tried to think. To go to a doctor, you had to pay him. Therefore, there should be bills around. But he always kept track of her bills and filed them at the restaurant office for his accountant and the IRS. Yet he'd never once seen a receipt, or a bill, from her so-called doctor. Obviously, she paid in cash always, out of the small savings she'd had when she'd moved in, or out of her earnings or whatever she skimmed off her household allowance.
No bills, not one.
Wrong. There had been one bill, he remembered, one bill on an M.D.'s letterhead way back in the beginning. It had slipped through before she got smart. And Zecca had it, and if he remembered right, it had been on the doctor's letterhead stationery.
He snatched up Nan's telephone, dialed his restaurant, and got his head waitress, who was also his floor manager.
"Marge," he said, "I'm coming in, but I have no time for those interviews with the temporary cashiers. Cancel them out for today, and let that bimbo we have stay on and keep robbing us until I throw her out. I'm coming in on something else, a tax matter, so I'll be in my office and don't let anybody bother me."
Leaving the bitch's dressing room, Zecca tore out of the house, jumped into his Cadillac, and was on his way to sweet revenge.
A half hour later, in the rear room cubbyhole office of his restaurant, he'd checked when Nan had started working for him, knowing she'd gone to fix her snatch with the doctor sometime after that.
Ten minutes passed before he had the doc's receipt in hand. He felt triumphant.
Dr. Stanley Lopez—a spick yet—and his charges for the first overall checkup.
The only receipt. No others either because she paid him in cash or, more probably, because he paid her for banging her. Some shots she was getting!
Receipt in hand, with Dr. Lopez's address on it, Zecca turned his Cadillac toward the downtown district of Hillsdale.
Fifteen minutes later he slowed in front of a six-story medical building with a parking lot underneath. Zecca drove down the ramp, left his Cadillac with an attendant, found Dr. Lopez's name on the directory beside the elevators, then took the first elevator going up.
He got off at the fourth floor.
The frosted glass door just to the right of his elevator read: Stanley M. Lopez, M.D. Zecca pushed open the door, balled up his fists, and almost bounded across the fancy reception room to where some kind of good-looking Latina gal was busy over some paperwork.
Her expression was startled when she saw Zecca.
He guessed it showed on his face, how he felt, so he tried to contain himself.
"Yes?" the receptionist asked.
"I want to consult with Dr. Lopez about my—my wife."
"She's a patient here?"
"A regular."
"Her name, please."
"Zecca," he said automatically, and then he corrected himself. "No, actually she likes to use her maiden name. Her name—my wife's name is Nan Whitcomb. She was coming in to see Dr. Lopez today."
The receptionist furrowed her brow. "That can't be, I'm afraid. Dr. Lopez had no appointments today. He has to conduct a seminar at USC. You're sure your wife is a patient who comes here regularly? I just can't seem to place her name."
"I'm sure, all right," said Zecca grimly, digging into his jacket pocket for the receipt he'd brought along. "Have a look. Here's your receipt for a bill she paid."
The receptionist took it, stared at it, puzzled, then slowly got up and made her way to a file cabinet behind her. She knelt down, pulled out the bottom file drawer, fingered through the tabs, and then pulled out a manila folder. "You're right, sir. We have a file for 'Whitcomb, Nan.' Let me have a look."
Walking slowly back to the counter, the receptionist had opened the folder and was studying the contents inside. Suddenly, she raised her head, smiling at Zecca. "I think it's all clear now. I was actually right. Your wife isn't Dr. Lopez's regular patient. She just visited him the one time for a physical checkup. She was a referral from Dr. Freeberg. He always has his patients come to Dr. Lopez for a checkup before working with them. Dr. Freeberg's the one you want to see for any consultation."
"Dr. Freeberg? Nan never mentioned him."
The receptionist stammered, looking up at Zecca's glowering face. "Maybe because she's shy. Most wives are, when it comes to this."
"Comes to what?"
"Visiting a sex therapist. Dr. Arnold Freeberg's a sex therapist who runs the Freeberg Clinic on Market Avenue. About five minutes from here. Your wife must be a patient there. I'm sure Dr. Freeberg will be pleased to arrange a consultation with you."
"Yeah," said Zecca, "I'm sure he will. Dr. Arnold Freeberg, you say?"
"Dr. Arnold Freeberg. When you leave our building downstairs, turn left, then right at the first block. That's Market. You can walk it in ten or fifteen minutes. If you're driving, five minutes. I'll write out the address of the Freeberg Clinic for you."
Jamming her card into his pocket, Zecca mumbled his thanks and left the reception room.
Waiting for the elevator, Zecca boiled with inner rage.
So Nan, his little cunt, was living it up with a sex therapist, whatever that was. He didn't have to guess. He knew. Dr. Freeberg, a kike for sure, was sticking it to her daily. And Nan was loving it. Some treatment.
Well, he told himself, as the elevator arrived, he had a more lasting treatment for both of them when he got his hands on them. He'd make mincemeat of the doc. And he'd bring Nan home on a leash and keep her there on her back where she belonged until she appreciated what she had.
The first thing to do was to find out where this Freeberg had his Nan stashed. He had to catch them in the act together. Then he'd know what to do next.
Leaving the elevator, he already knew what to do next.
Making Freeberg into mincemeat was too good for the fucking bastard. He should waste the son of a bitch—or have one of the boys who owed him do it for him.
That was the solution. Waste him.
An eye for an eye, like the Good Book said.
The telephone call from Roger Kile, who had introduced himself as Dr. Arnold Freeberg's attorney-at-law in Los Angeles, had come to District Attorney Hoyt Lewis in Hillsdale at eleven fifteen this morning.
Lewis had speculated through the week whether the call would come from Dr. Freeberg himself or his lawyer . . . and what Freeberg's decision would be. Now he knew that Freeberg had hired a lawyer to make the call for him. And now Lewis would know what decision Freeberg had made.
"I'm calling you," Kile was saying, "to discuss the ultimatum you've given my client, Dr. Arnold Freeberg. As Dr. Freeberg's attorney, I am empowered to discuss the matter on his behalf."
"Mr. Kile," said Hoyt Lewis coolly, "I'm not certain there is much to discuss."
"Perhaps not," said Kile. "At the same time, to be positive my client has your ultimatum right, I would appreciate it if you would repeat the terms of your offer to him. I'd like to hear, in your own words, what you told Dr. Freeberg when you visited him."
"I'll be glad to oblige you. I presume you intend to record exactly what I conveyed to Dr. Freeberg?"
"I do, sir."
"Very well. In my one meeting with Dr. Arnold Freeberg, I informed him I had investigated his practice of employing sexual surrogates, mainly female, to cohabit with males for pay. I told him that, from evidence available, his present role as a therapist fell under a California statute that regards pandering as a crime. I told him that his female surrogates fell under the section that regards prostitution as a crime. I told him that if so charged and convicted, he was liable to a prison sentence of up to ten years, and the single sex surrogate I selected as an example to be charged could, on conviction, serve a prison sentence of a half a year."
"And then you offered my client a compromise," stated Kile.
"Yes, a compromise out of a spirit of generosity. Actually, Dr. Freeberg possesses no criminal record. This is a first-time offense—excluding his run-in with my counterpart in Tucson—and in the belief that Dr. Freeberg had misunderstood the law of California, I offered him another chance. Quite simply, Mr. Kile, I told him he could avoid any charges or prosecution if he ceased his use of sex surrogates and confined his practice solely to that of being a licensed therapist. On the other hand, if he elected to ignore my offer, but persisted in operating, as he has been doing, I would have him arrested, arraigned, and prosecuted."
"Let me interject something right here, and be frank about it," said Kile. "When I first undertook defending Dr. Freeberg and his surrogates, I was a bit uncertain about his work and about the law. I knew Dr. Freeberg was legitimate and sincere, and was directing his surrogates, but one possibility niggled my mind. That he was covering himself with his advice and his directions, and that the surrogates might be prostitutes masquerading as surrogates. When I began my researches, I talked to a number of sex surrogates. I learned quickly that there was a qualitative difference between a sex surrogate and a prostitute. Today I am satisfied, to a moral and legal certainty, that there is no question at all that the surrogate and prostitute are qualitatively different beings. Freeberg and his surrogates are healers. The pimp and his prostitutes are nothing but exploiters. Obviously, every other district attorney in California and New York acknowledges this difference, and that's why there has never been, in twenty-five years, a legal action against a therapist and a surrogate."
"Mainly because the moral climate in this country had not deteriorated to its present low ebb," said Hoyt Lewis. "Now it's reached a new low, and I want to put a stop to it. The process of cleansing has to start somewhere, and I've decided it should start here. I repeat, I can't see a clear distinction between a pimp and his prostitutes, and a sex therapist and his sex surrogates. This test case will prove there is no real distinction, and when I'm through, not a state in the Union will permit the use of surrogates."
"But you must acknowledge," insisted Kile, "that a vast difference in motivation and behavior separates a female surrogate from a common prostitute?"
Hoyt Lewis's voice hardened. "I acknowledge no such thing. I am familiar with the arguments. Dr. Freeberg presented them to me most eloquently. To my mind, they don't hold up, and they won't hold up in a court of law. A female sex surrogate is as unlicensed as a streetwalker—"
"Mr. District Attorney," Kile interrupted, "I see the surrogate as secondarily licensed under the law. She is, after all, serving with the continuing guidance of a fully licensed therapist and serving in the capacity as an adjunct or assistant to him."
"Sorry, Mr. Kile. I disagree. Dr. Freeberg's sex surrogates, at his instigation, are performing lewd sexual acts for hire. They are prostitutes in disguise. I won't have that in Hillsdale." He paused. "I see no purpose served in continuing this debate. I have given Dr. Freeberg a fair choice. Freedom to continue his practice in Hillsdale without the use of sex surrogates, or prosecution for pandering and prostitution if he persists in using surrogates. I assume you've called with his decision?"
"I have."
"What is his decision?"
"I am empowered to state, as Dr. Arnold Freeberg's attorney-at-law, that because we are certain he is behaving within the law, he will continue his practice and his use of partner surrogates."
District Attorney Hoyt Lewis had not anticipated with any certainty that this would be the decision. He had guessed that Roger Kile had presented his feeble arguments on behalf of his client to make Lewis think twice about prosecution, and that, when the chips were down, he would back off into the compromise. This was better than he had hoped.
"Dr. Freeberg is going on with the sex surrogates, you say?" Lewis repeated. He felt strangely elated. "That's definitely the decision?"
"Definitely."
Lewis wanted to say, "Your funeral," but aware that he was being taped, he refrained. He said instead, "I'm sorry. I guess there's nothing more to add except—I'll see you in court."
"If you have a case," said Kile mildly.
"Mr. Kile, I assure you, I very much have a case."
An hour later, District Attorney Hoyt Lewis had the Reverend Josh Scrafield across his desk from him.
"I hated to break in on your day, Reverend Scrafield," the district attorney began. "I know how busy you are, but since this concerns the matter of Freeberg and his sex surrogates—"
"There's not a thing that concerns me more than that matter. That quack doctor is polluting our community."
"I'd offered Freeberg a compromise, as you know," said Lewis. "His lawyer just phoned me with his decision."
"And?" said Scrafield eagerly, coming forward in his chair.
"Dr. Freeberg has elected to ignore my offer. He intends to continue his use of surrogates."
"He's going on with his foul practice?" said Scrafield, with delight in his voice. "He's going to continue?"
"And so are we," said Lewis calmly. "We are going to prosecute to the full extent of the law."
The Reverend Scrafield wet his lips. "Pandering and prostitution," he said, half to himself. "Mr. District Attorney, you can't lose. We'll beat the drums for you the minute you give the green light. You'll win the case and enjoy all the benefits and advantages to be derived from the victory. This is the greatest thing that could have happened to us. The case against Freeberg is open-and-shut."
Hoyt Lewis nodded. "I believe it is—that's why I'm proceeding. But it all depends on the star witness you brought me."
"Chet Hunter? Never mind about him. He's enrolled as a patient with Freeberg, busy every day at that clinic or somewhere with a young chippy named Gayle Miller."
"They're going at it?"
"Chet Hunter assures me they are. I haven't seen him since we were all together, but I speak to him regularly on the phone."
"I'm sure," said Lewis, "he's keeping some written record of his daily—uh—activity?"
"He is. A day-by-day record, a journal. It's all on paper."
"Excellent," replied Lewis. "Now is the time to see Hunter again and find out what he has for us." Lewis rose behind his desk. "There's still that one thing to nail down, the one truth I must have." His tone underlined what followed next. "That they are actually engaged in sexual intercourse," he said. "That's the key. After they do that, we're on our way. I'll serve Freeberg and Miss Miller immediately. Until then, we'll hold off. As soon as Hunter tells us that intercourse has taken place, he's to deliver his tape recording of the payoff session to us. He will be using a tape recorder, won't he?"
"Of course. He knows all about it."
"I'll require that corroborative evidence on tape to support Hunter's verbal testimony in court." Momentarily, Lewis worried, "Can he get away with it? How'll he do it?"
"He uses a miniature voice-activated recorder in his research work. Keeps it well hidden in the vest pocket of his jacket. It'll pick up every word, every sound, while they're going at it."
Lewis seemed relieved. "That's all I'll need to proceed. Once Hunter has the intercourse session in his journal, and backed up by the actual tape, he should inform you, and then you should inform me. When that's done, I will then arrest and arraign Dr. Freeberg and Miss Miller. So contact Chet Hunter as soon as possible and find out where he stands."
The Reverend Scrafield was on his feet, grinning and winking. "If Chet's home I'll see him immediately. Congratulations, Mr. Lewis. As you put it, we're on our way."
A half hour later, the Reverend Scrafield had settled himself into the dilapidated uncomfortable armchair in Chet Hunter's apartment and surveyed the cramped quarters with distaste.
"This is where you see her?" said Scrafield.
"See her?" repeated Hunter from his chair opposite the clergyman. "Oh, you mean Gayle Miller."
"Freeberg's little whore you're involved with. Does she come here?"
"No. She rents a house—more a cottage, actually—about twenty minutes from here."
"I think maybe you'd better give me her address so Hoyt Lewis will have it handy when he's ready to haul her in."
Reluctantly, Hunter jotted down Gayle Miller's address on a slip of paper and handed it to the clergyman.
Scrafield considered the address. "Where do you do it? In her bedroom?"
"Not in her bedroom. In her therapy room."
"In her what?"
"An extra room she has to demonstrate the exercises, sort of half office, half social room with a large couch and a floor mat to lie down on."
"Have you laid her?"
"Well . . ." Hunter hesitated. "Why don't you read what I've been doing?" He reached for the carefully typed sheaf of papers on his desk and gave it to Scrafield. "I've been keeping a sort of play-by-play record of our activities together. Every time I've finished an exercise, that evening I write an exact report on what happened. In fact, I also typed three more pages this morning, so those twenty-one pages you have are right up-to-date. I'd suggest you look them over, so you know—"
"All I know," said Scrafield, "is that our district attorney has ants in his pants waiting for you to finish the job. He's itching to get going, and he delegated me to meet with you and find out where we stand."
"Well, that journal of my daily encounters with Gayle Miller will give you and the D.A. a comprehensive picture of exactly what's going on."
"All right, let me read it."
"I can get us some coffee while you're reading."
Scrafield was already going over the typescript. "Yes, coffee'll be fine."
Hunter went into his pantry-like kitchen and puttered about making coffee, feeling uneasy about Scrafield's reading and concerned with the clergyman's reaction.
At last he brought the coffee out into his living room, setting Scrafield's cup on the end table beside him and placing his own cup on his desk. Scrafield had ignored his coffee and was concentrating on the journal. Hunter drank his own coffee, pretending not to watch for his visitor's reactions.
Another ten minutes went by before Scrafield finished his reading and put Hunter's journal on his lap.
He fixed a cold eye on the researcher. "Chet, I've got to tell you—this is a pile of crap."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, it adds up to zilch. I'll give it to you like A,B,C. I once read in some book that only one crime counts. Not stealing the jewels or embezzling . . . The only crime that counts is murder. The same goes here. When you're out to prove prostitution, it's not diddling around that counts but only sexual intercourse. I don't see any sexual intercourse here."
"Well, all I've written about is part of it," said Hunter defensively.
"Not to me, it isn't, and not to Hoyt Lewis, either." Scrafield picked up the typescript once more and began to leaf through it. "What have we got here—hand caress, facial caress, back caress, body imaging, a shower, some feeling around but not touching breasts or genitals, then feeling around the genitals, and so on and on. What does it all add up to? A crock of nothing. In court, there'll be only one question. Did you lay her? Well, why haven't you? Why don't you?"
Hunter felt the perspiration on his forehead. "As you know, I got into this therapy thing by saying I had a problem."
"There's no problem a good fuck can't solve. You mean you can't get it up with her?"
"I can. I have."
"Then what's holding you back?"
"Well, Reverend Scrafield, I'm trying to follow the rules. There are rules in therapy, and you've got to follow them."
Scrafield was plainly disgusted. "Who gives a damn about rules? You've got this good-looking woman—you say she's a looker—in the nude, on her back, and instead of putting it to her, you're diddling around. She's used to having men go inside her. That's clear . . . It's her business. So get down to business!"
Hunter was sweating profusely now. He didn't want to tell Scrafield that he had tried, and it had been a fiasco. Nor did he want to discuss the squeeze technique that Gayle had found necessary to use with him.
"We're making progress," Hunter said lamely. "I expect I'll have sexual intercourse with her tomorrow."
"You're sure?"
"That's next on the agenda."
"Can you promise me?"
Hunter gulped. "Sure, I can promise you."
Scrafield's stony expression had cracked into the resemblance of a smile. He jumped to his feet. "That's more like it, young man." He waved the sheaf of typed pages. "You go right out and make a photocopy of this and drop it off for the D.A. Then, when you deliver it, reassure him he'll also have the taped evidence in hand any minute now."
"By the day after tomorrow."
"All right. The minute our D.A. has your sworn statement that you will testify in court, we'll move, and get Freeberg and Gayle Miller in custody." He patted Hunter on the shoulder. "Long as you're at it, be sure you enjoy yourself tomorrow—before we put her out of circulation."
Undressing in his bedroom, as Nan Whitcomb sat naked on the bed with her adoring eyes on him, Brandon could not concentrate on what was immediately ahead for him. His mind was totally filled with Gayle and his stupid behavior last night in walking out on her. He felt riddled with guilt and with the fear that he had ended their budding relationship and lost someone he was truly in love with. He wanted only to get to a telephone in private, call Gayle, and find out if she would see him once more.
Meanwhile, his clothes were off, and he knew Nan was awaiting his next move.
Brandon knew what his next step should be. Penetration.
He stood unmoving, afraid to proceed. For one thing, with his mind on Gayle, he worried slightly that he might not achieve an erection with Nan. But meeting her eyes, he knew that was not what he really feared. He really feared the adoration in her eyes, and her newly acquired relaxation in his presence. He feared that if he successfully coupled with her, and they both enjoyed the experience, Nan might misread it for love. If so, that would create a real problem.
"Something on your mind?" Nan asked cheerfully. "Just thinking what we should take up next."
"What is next, Paul?"
Should he attempt a stalling tactic until he could have more time to decide how to handle what intercourse with her might lead to?
Instinctively, he wanted more time to think out how he should handle her.
"Actually, Nan," he found himself saying, "I think it would be best for both of us if we repeated our last exercise, just once more, to see how we both feel."
Nan was unable to hide her disappointment. "We'll do the genital touching again? Wasn't there supposed to be something new?"
"Not necessarily. It wasn't bad last time, was it?"
"It was wonderful, Paul," she quickly assured him. "I wouldn't mind."
"You can let go, possibly have an orgasm again. It's not our goal, but there's nothing wrong if you feel like it."
"I'll feel like it. But I'll feel like it more if you'd have an orgasm, too. Last time, I'm afraid I shortchanged you. I'd like to make you happy, too."
"We'll see," he said noncommittally, joining her on the bed.
They moved to the middle of the bed, then turned face-to-face, their eyes open. Taking up a bottle, he applied a light oil to her body, avoiding her vaginal mound, and then he handed the bottle to her and asked her to apply the oil to his body. She did so industriously, making a careful detour past his genital area, but by the time she had covered him with the oil, he could see her breasts rising and falling more rapidly. He had wanted this to be a slow, extended session, but her obvious desire to be touched by him told him it would not last as long as he had hoped.
"Okay, Nan," he said, "let's go ahead with the exercise. Do you want us to pleasure each other simultaneously, like we did last time, or do you prefer we sensate focus on each other separately, taking turns?"
"Taking turns," she answered at once. "I can concentrate better. You can do me first, and after that, I'll do you. Do you mind?"
"Not at all," Brandon said. "Actually, it is preferable to do this in sequence. You lie back, close your eyes, and really make way for your feelings."
"Good," she said.
She was on her back, her eyes tight but her arms and legs limp.
Bent over her, he went for her head, his fingers running through her hair, then dancing over every crevice of her face, and playing along her shoulders. Her breasts were heaving when he reached them, and the nipples were points.
As he stroked her stomach, there was an almost inaudible sound. He thought it might have been a moan. His fingers touched her pubic hairline and glided over the visible bud of her clitoris. Her knees came up, and her legs spread, and he knew he would never get to her thighs.
"I want to come . . ." she sighed.
He had meant to get to her thighs, but he would never make it. After all, this was genital pleasuring, and Nan did not deserve to be deprived of it.
His fingers were going from her clitoris to her vagina and back again, and abruptly she raised her hips well off the bed.
"Paul, Paul," she cried out, and then she exclaimed, "I'm coming!"
He knew, and helped her all the way over the top.
When the prolonged orgasm ended, she sank down on the bed limp, trying to catch her breath.
Then he got to her thighs at last, caressing them, and after that her legs. Throughout the remainder of the exercise, she lay motionless, and he told himself that she was too exhausted to pleasure him the same way, which in a sense was a relief. Because he didn't want his body to subvert his determination not to get too involved with her.
Suddenly, to his surprise, she was sitting up, her eyes open. "Thank you, Paul," she said, and leaned over and kissed him. "You wanted me to have feelings," she added. "I had them, very much."
He was afraid to ask what they had been. He did not answer her.
She pushed him backward. "Now, my turn," she said. "I'm going to do it to you. I hope you have the same feelings."
He continued to avoid making any reply and dutifully lay down and closed his eyes with misgivings.
He was encompassed by the touch of her hands on his cheeks, throat, chest.
"You're gorgeous, sweet and gorgeous," he heard her whisper.
He made believe it was Gayle speaking to him . . . He could see Gayle nude and magnificent as she had been last night . . . And then he knew it was happening to him.
His swollen penis was rising, standing straight up.
There was no containing it. He was helpless now.
Her hand had curled around his rigidity, very practiced, perfect, perfect, perfect.
He did not know how many minutes had passed. Maybe five or six. Maybe more. But it seemed an eternity of delight, and he wanted only release.
"I—I—I . . ."
Her hand moved faster. "I know, my darling," she whispered.
Her hand covered the top of his penis, and he came and came and came.
The next thing he knew was the satiny feel of her pliant body. She was lying close to him, he realized, and embracing him.
Her eyes were on him.
"You were marvelous," she said, 'just marvelous."
"You, too," he said weakly.
"I felt closer to you than ever."
"I hoped you would."
He stared at the ceiling, and she was silent awhile, staring at him. At last, she spoke. "Paul, there's something I want to tell you."
He was not sure he wanted to hear. He wondered what it would be. He nodded.
"I left Tony Zecca," she said as if she were giving Brandon a present. "I couldn't take it anymore, so I walked out last night while he was asleep."
Brandon was alert now, propped on an elbow. "You left him?"
She released Brandon. "Like you once suggested."
"But I—" He didn't know how to respond. "Where did you go?"
"I called you to ask if you could suggest a hotel, but you weren't in."
"No." He remembered being with Gayle . . . and walking out on her. Oh, God, what idiocy.
"So I phoned Dr. Freeberg at home, and he was kind enough to get me a room at the Excelsior Hotel, not far from the clinic."
"I'm glad." He sat up, and then she sat up. "What are you going to do for money?" he asked.
"I've got enough for a few weeks. After that, I'll have to find a job."
"You'll find one," he said, troubled. He began to get out of bed.
"Paul . . ."
He turned toward her. "Yes?"
"If you'd like, I could stay with you here tonight. Would you like that?"
"Of course I like to be with you," he replied unhesitatingly, "but it's not allowed, Nan. I'd lose my job if Dr. Freeberg ever found out. Even if I wanted to break the rules, I couldn't tonight. I have another—another appointment."
"Oh." Her disappointment was evident.
"I'm sorry, but we'll be seeing each other tomorrow afternoon for the next exercise."
"That's right. I won't forget." She seemed considerably cheered up. "What will it be?"
The word came out with difficulty. "Penetration," he said, and quickly added, "if you think you can do it yet."
She smiled. "I can do anything with you, Paul, anything." Within minutes after Nan had dressed, hugged him good-bye, and left his apartment, Brandon was on the telephone, hoping he would find Gayle at home.
To his good fortune, she was home.
"It's Paul," he said to her, "hat in hand. Gayle, I want to apologize for my behavior last night. I was a stupid ass."
"I'm glad you called," she replied seriously. "I was thinking about us all day. I almost called you. I don't think I behaved very well, either. I wasn't very sensitive. I wanted to tell you that."
"Gayle, when can I see you again? The sooner the better."
"Yes, I want to see you, too. Why don't I come up to your place?"
"When?"
"Not until after dinner. I promised to have a bite with two of the other surrogates. I could make it around ten o'clock. Or is that too late?"
"It's never too late."
"I'll be there. Give me your address. I look forward, Paul. I really do."
Arriving at his apartment, Gayle was greeted by Brandon with a hug and kisses.
Stepping back, she surveyed his living room. "Not bad," she said, "for a struggling male sex surrogate. I like those Giacometti lithos on the walls."
"I try to think thin."
"Are they real?"
"Who can afford real? They're reproductions. I'm so glad you're here, Gayle."
She dug into her purse and extracted something.
"I brought you a present, a peace offering," she said, smiling. "I think we've made our peace, but I'd like you to have it anyway."
"What is it?"
Handing it to him, she said, "A key to my house. When we have our next date, and you get there before I do, you can go inside and get ready for me." She took him in. She gestured to the terry cloth bathrobe he was wearing. "I see you are ready. What's underneath?"
"Just me. No camouflage."
"I'd better catch up with you." She pecked a kiss at him. "Show me your bedroom."
He led her off to his bedroom.
"Be it ever so humble," he said.
She studied it. "Do you use the bedroom here?"
"For what?"
"For your patient. I use a special therapy room. I reserve my bed for the likes of you."
"Yes, this is where we do the exercises."
Gayle started unbuttoning her blouse. "How are you doing with her—whatever her name is?"
"Nan."
"Are you making progress with Nan?"
"I hope so. She was suffering from vaginismus. I have the feeling she's relaxing somewhat."
Gayle pulled off her blouse. "But you don't know yet."
"I should know after our next session."
"Penetration?" asked Gayle quietly.
"Yes. But there's a problem that makes me a little nervous." He wrinkled his brow. "I'm not sure how to handle it. . ."
"What's the problem?"
"Well, to be honest, I believe my patient is falling in love with me. She left her boyfriend—no loss, he was a bastard —and today she offered to move in with me."
"That's a no-no, Paul."
"I told her so."
Gayle reached behind to unhook her brassiere. "I mean, the rest of it, too. You can't allow a patient to fall in love with you."
"I'm not encouraging it, believe me. Still, I can see it happening. It's making me uncomfortable. She's a nice woman. I don't know how to deal with her."
"Maybe you're not being professional enough?"
"I'm trying, Gayle."
"Maybe not enough. Maybe you're sorry for her and got too involved." She paused. "How come your Nan left her boyfriend?"
"I can't say I objected. In fact, I may have encouraged it. From what she tells, he's an animal. He could be the cause of her trouble. Anyway, she turned her back on him."
Gayle had not taken off her bra yet. "Because you encouraged her? Paul, it doesn't sound like you're handling her right. Maybe this is something Dr. Freeberg should know about."
"What could he do?"
Gayle said firmly, "He'd take you off the case. Knowing Dr. Freeberg as I do, he would never permit a surrogate to become seriously emotionally involved with a patient."
"I'm not the one who's involved," said Brandon patiently. "Nan is."
"Then it's Nan, okay. But you let her fall for you without taking steps to prevent it. Dr. Freeberg would not allow that to happen or certainly would not let it go on. Have you told him about this?"
"No."
Gayle stepped nearer to Brandon. "You must tell him. It's your duty to tell him."
"You think he'd actually take me off the case?"
"In ten seconds flat."
"But the therapy isn't completed."
"He'll find someone to complete it."
"Gayle, I'm the only male surrogate in his stable."
"I guarantee, he'll find your Nan another one."
Brandon shook his head. "I don't like it. My quitting, someone else coming in—it could hurt her deeply."
"Dr. Freeberg would know how to manage it. You owe it to yourself, to Freeberg, and to her to report the whole thing."
Brandon shrugged. "I guess you're right. It makes me a little sad to have to do this, but I will."
"That's better," said Gayle cheerfully. "Well, here's something that'll maybe cheer you up."
She drew off her bra, and her breasts almost jumped out at Brandon.
With one arm immediately around her, he bent to kiss the nipples of each breast. "You're fantastic," he exhaled. He started kissing and tonguing her breasts again, and as he did so he pulled her up against him.
She clung to him a moment, then pushed away. "Hey, mister, I don't feel anything. From you, I mean. Take off your robe."
He complied, and they both looked down at his flaccid penis.
"Dear one," Gayle said, "what gives? Don't you feel like it?"
"Of course I feel like it. I—it's just that—"
Gayle was eyeing him carefully. "Just what, Paul?"
"Well, I won't lie to you. The fact is I had an orgasm earlier, but give me a little while . . ."
Gayle's hands flew up to her breasts, covering them.
"You had an orgasm—when you were with Nan?" she said incredulously. "With Nan?"
"Let me explain, Gayle. We were doing non-demand genital pleasuring—"
"Some non-demand!"
"And we were stroking each other. We were just following the rules, and it got a bit out of control . . . I mean, she'd orgasmed when she was with me yesterday, and she wanted me to, so—"
"So you let her get you off!"
"I didn't want to. I couldn't prevent it."
"The hell you couldn't. What you wanted was the girl who loves you to make you happy, because maybe you love her."
"Gayle, stop it. You're way off base, I swear. I don't care for her . . ."
Gayle snatched up her bra and was putting it on. "And as for me, I don't care for you. You allow another woman to get you off, and now you expect me to line up and follow her." She pulled on her blouse. "No way, my friend! Not in a million years!"
Brandon grabbed her arms. "On my word of honor, Gayle, there's no one to be jealous of."
"Who's jealous? I'm just an old-fashioned monogamist. One man, one woman. That's the way I intend to live my life. I don't need a polygamist to mess things up. As for you, tonight you can play with yourself! Good-bye!"
And with that, Gayle Miller stormed out of the bedroom and out of the apartment.
For Gayle, it had been a bad night.
Once she had returned to her house and bedroom, and gone to bed, she had been unable to sleep. Fantasies about this affair—she could only imagine it as an affair, not therapeutic sessions—that Paul was having with the woman named Nan filled her mind. Gayle had no idea what this Nan looked like, or how she behaved, but repeatedly she conjured up a picture of a young woman more attractive than herself and more spontaneously giving.
Lying in bed, trying to find sleep, Gayle was enveloped by the fantasies. Nan's genitals were beautiful, perfect, more lovely than her own. Paul worshipped them. Nan's orgasms were probably better than her own, as was the orgasm he enjoyed that had been induced by her, and there was no way Gayle could compete with such love.
As the night wore on, Gayle tried to banish the fantasies and replace them with reason. This Nan wasn't a normal woman like herself. Nan was there with Paul because she had to be treated for things that were wrong with her. Gayle did not have those things wrong with her. Paul liked Nan, was caring about her, as he should be, but he had unreservedly professed his love for Gayle herself.
Her fantasies had been senseless, she decided. She knew better than that. Love and commitment were not in the crotch but in the heart. Paul loved her from his heart, as she loved him. The problem was not Nan, nor Nan and Paul, but her own jealousy. Yes, Paul meant enough to her to make her feel jealous if he gave any part of himself to another woman. From her earlier sessions with Dr. Freeberg, Gayle knew that jealousy came from a basic insecurity, a therapeutic issue she had thought she had worked out. To expect a totally monogamous relationship was unrealistic. Because total monogamy couldn't exist. Men looked at other women, and women looked at other men. Were flirtatious, and even more. But this did not invalidate their dominant love for one mate. Paul could be allowed his minor side thing with Nan, yet keep Gayle close in his heart as someone he cherished the most.
Having thought that out, she felt more at ease and drowsy. And finally, before dawn, she slept.
When she awakened to the bright sun from behind her curtains, and she saw the hands on her bedside clock, she knew that she had overslept. Not by much, but she was an early riser. Once her head had cleared, she was glad she had caught up on her sleep. She needed rest because she needed all her strength.
There was a trying day that lay ahead of her. First, Adam Demski in the late afternoon. Then, Chet Hunter in the early evening. With each of them, the scheduled exercise was initial penetration. It was crucial and important.
But, she reminded herself, what was also important was to straighten things out with Paul Brandon.
He was, she knew, usually a late sleeper. So the odds were that he might still be home.
Gayle sat up, took the telephone in her lap, and dialed Paul.
Happily, after a few rings, he answered the phone. His voice was fuzzy, but he was there.
"Paul," she said, "it's Gayle. Did I wake you up?"
"Yes. I'm glad you did. I—"
"Let me say something right away, Paul. I am abjectly apologetic. I behaved like a fool last night. Now I can admit why. I was jealous. Green, unalloyed jealousy. I think I was wrong to be. Was I?"
"Gayle, I love you more than anyone and anything on earth."
"The same for me. Paul, will you come over here tonight? Let me make it up to you."
"Can't wait."
"Nine thirty," she said. "I can't wait either."
They were stretched out on the broad mat together, both nude, and Gayle propped herself on an elbow and decided to be direct with Adam Demski.
"If you're wondering what's next, Adam, it's penetration."
She saw concern cross his countenance.
She went on easily. "This will not be the only attempt, Adam. There'll be another—maybe two more. I don't want you becoming nervous and starting to look at yourself as a performer."
"Do you think I can do it?"
"I feel you can. That's why we're going to undertake the exercise. I'll be the dominant partner, the one on top. The exercise is called stuffing and quiet penetration."
"Stuffing?" he said. "What does that . . . ?"
"Let me explain, Adam. Most men think that to achieve intercourse they have to have an erection that is rock hard. Well, that's not true, not true at all."
"It isn't?"
Gayle resumed earnestly. "I'll let you in on a secret, Adam. Intercourse can be accomplished with an almost flaccid penis. If you get only five percent swollen, not one hundred percent, it's enough. Most men prefer the missionary position, themselves on top, because it's more macho. But with this exercise, with me on top, I'll be better able to direct and control what follows. With myself above you, I can use gravity, instead of working against it. We'll start with this soft penetration. Next time or the time after, we'll do the harder penetration, with the male superior and thrusting. But for this time it is me on top."
"I don't know . . ."
"I know. I know you've solved your impotency because I've seen it. I know you can feel pleasure, feel sensuous, and make me feel good, too. Let's not be grim and serious. Let's be playful, have fun. I'm going to ask you to kiss my breasts and run your hands over my body, and then I'm going to caress you all over, including your genitals. I'll tell you when you're ready."
Resignation left Demski's face and made way for interest and curiosity.
Gayle fell back against the pillow. "Adam, touch my breasts, kiss them and the rest of me."
He half rose and began to oblige her.
After minutes of this foreplay, Gayle gently pushed him down on his back and began to run her fingers over his face, his chest, allowing them to play across his upper thighs. Then at last she began to play with his testicles and stroke his penis.
She could feel his penis enlarging, not to a fully erect position, but definitely enlarging.
It was enough, she decided. "Lie quietly, Adam, and don't move."
Gracefully, she mounted him, taking his barely swollen penis in the fingers of one hand and directing it to her vagina. Slowly, easily, she began putting the penis into her vulva, and she could feel his small shaft inside her. "Remember The Clock, Adam? When you used your finger inside me? Now it's your penis inside me."
"I'm not sure I'm in you."
"Okay, I'll prove you are." Astride him, Gayle tightened her inner vaginal muscles. "Did you feel that?"
"And how!"
"No moving, Adam. No thrusting or trying to perform. This exercise should accomplish no more than prove to you that you can get inside me. The real purpose is not to perform but to get you used to being potent enough to enter me, to have your penis in a woman's vagina in a non-threatening, non-demanding situation. The whole idea is to let you know that you can get enough of an erection to enter a woman and to sustain that erection inside her. How does it feel?"
"Good, very good."
Although she tried to teach her patients not to be detached, Gayle made herself become detached in these moments. She wanted to be a spectator to his reaction.
They had been motionless for some time, and inside her vulva, she could feel him softening and receding slightly.
So as not to let him lose what had been gained, not undermine his confidence, she whispered, "Okay, Adam, you can move a little if you want to."
"I want to."
"Go ahead. Back and forth a few times. It may make you come. If it does, don't worry. That would be natural."
Her thighs closed on him as he began to move inside her. For an instant, she felt his penis grow more rigid, and he moved faster, and then he came, gurgling with pleasure.
Later, when he was showered and dressed, and she had her robe on, she saw him to the door.
In the doorway, he turned and pecked a kiss at her. "I think you made me do it. Or sort of do it."
"Oh, you did it, all right. You got a solid passing grade. Definitely a B plus." She kissed him in return, lightly. "Next time, look for something much more."
"An A?"
"Adam, I promise you an A."
After she had douched and bathed, Gayle slipped into a fresh robe, in time to show Chet Hunter inside.
As they walked through the hallway to her therapy room, she could see that Hunter was more nervous and tense than usual.
Settling on the mat while he undressed, Gayle asked him if he had done his homework.
"Just like teacher told me." He took off his jacket carefully and placed it on the couch. "It's not much fun alone."
"Immediate fun is not the purpose," Gayle told him, "but it'll get you ready for fun."
"I hope so."
"Well, did it work?"
"Sure it did. I got myself to an erection, and when I felt I'd ejaculate, I stopped and squeezed. I did it maybe four or five times."
"Very good," said Gayle.
Hunter had taken off all his clothes. "What I want to know is, when does the real thing happen?"
"Now."
His grim expression disappeared. "You mean right now? You mean we're going to have sexual intercourse?"
"Penetration," Gayle corrected him. "What we call soft penetration—meaning not that you'll be soft, but we'll go at it slowly, to get you used to being inside me but holding back."
"Great."
"As long as you can hold off from prematurely ejaculating, we'll continue the squeeze technique together. You'll see how effective it is."
"I'm ready when you are. Can we start now?"
"Certainly. Let's lie down together and take turns caressing each other until you get an erection."
"That won't take long, honey." He was staring at her breasts. "Once I touch those boobs, I'll be sky-high."
"Fine. Then you remain on your back and let me get on top."
"Wait a sec! I'm not used to having a woman on top. What's the idea?"
"The idea is to make it easier for you to hold back. Less chance for you to move and ejaculate."
"I don't see that," he protested.
"You will, Chet, believe me. Once you have your erection, just stay put while I straddle you. If you feel you can't restrain yourself, let me know at once. I'll apply the squeeze and retard your ejaculation, and then I'll caress you until you're ready again."
"That doesn't sound much like penetration to me."
"We'll get to your kind of penetration when I tell you. For starters, after you're inside me, and you feel like having an orgasm, let me know, and we'll keep applying the squeeze technique and letting you penetrate until you can stay inside me for five minutes. Remember, once inside me, if you feel like ejaculating quickly, don't wait—tell me, and I'll prevent it."
"Whatever you say."
Gayle took him by the arm. "Now, let's lie down together and touch each other, taking turns."
Once they were side by side on the mat, Gayle began to stroke him, moving her fingers past his genitals to avoid exciting him too soon. After a while, she lay back and indicated that Hunter could caress her.
When Hunter's hand reached her breasts, and as he had predicted, his erection was instantaneous. She could feel it against her.
She peered down. Full erection. No problem there. What happened next would confront the problem. But Gayle was experienced with such cases, and confident.
"All right, lie back, Chet, and let me do the rest."
Obediently, he dropped into a supine position, and Gayle rose to her knees and gently mounted him. She inched closer to him until the top of his penis brushed her pubic hair.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
His eyes were shut, his expression distorted. "Like coming . . . I feel like—"
Immediately, her hand darted down to the head of his penis, catching it between three fingers and pressing.
"Dammit," he said as his penis went limp, "I could have made it."
"You wouldn't have," Gayle counseled him. "But you will."
"When?"
"Be patient. Tonight. Now, let's start over."
Still astride him, Gayle's fingers fluttered around his face, neck, chest. Automatically, he reached up for her breasts over him. At once, his penis began to swell and rise.
Again she directed his penis toward her vagina, and once again he warned her he was about to ejaculate.
She caught him and squeezed and retarded his orgasm.
The process started all over again and went on for at least ten minutes. Each time she brought him closer and closer to her vagina, and each time she prevented a premature ejaculation.
Lying there, she could feel him relax, his muscles loosening. "I'm about wiped," he said. "I'm beginning to think I can't—"
"You can," she interrupted quietly. "You will, Chet."
Slowly, she caressed and stroked him once more. This time it took longer to revive his flaccid member. After ten minutes, after massaging her breasts, he began to grow larger below.
When he had achieved a full erection, she lowered herself on it, let his shaft glide completely into her vagina. She could almost hear the seconds ticking by . . . Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. "Don't move," she whispered, "and be sure to let me—"
But that moment, he moved, and his body began shaking and trembling beneath her, and she sat still, feeling his orgasm explode inside her.
When it was over, and he stretched beneath her, spent, she slipped to his side and she smiled. "Well, I'd say it was a good start, Chet."
"I was actually in there all the way, wasn't I?"
"Penetration for real."
"But not long enough. I got too excited—I couldn't hold back, didn't have time to tell you."
"Still, you did what you couldn't do before."
He looked up at her. "Sexual intercourse."
"Yes, and it will get better, be of greater duration, if you continue to do your homework."
Sitting up, he asked, "What's our goal, Gayle?"
"The average male—the average—usually has intercourse before orgasm for five to seven minutes. We're going to keep on until you can do ten minutes. After that, you graduate. You'll make someone very happy."
"Yeah, someone," he said, nodding, "someone'll be very happy, that's for sure."
At nine thirty that evening, after there had been no response to the doorbell, Paul Brandon used his key to enter Gayle's house.
Going into the bedroom, he found Gayle in bed and sound asleep. He bent closer to her to make sure, and heard her shallow breathing. She was gone for the night.
After studying her beautiful face in the innocent repose of sleep, Brandon shook his head. It was hopeless, he told himself, being in love with a female sex surrogate. Why couldn't it have been someone average he'd fallen in love with, like a woman spy or a marathon runner or another man's wife?
Why a female sex surrogate, of all things?
She spelled only trouble.
With a sigh, he put down the box of candy he'd brought her, left, and went out into the darkened night.