looking forward to a night of joyous abandon with no premonition or presentiment of evil to mar my lightheartedness.
Carlota's skirts were up over her knees, revealing a brief extension of flesh which glinted ivorylike in the soft light and was accentuated by the black sheen of her silk-clad legs. The metallic clasps which engaged the tops of her hose, holding them smooth and tight about her legs by means of elastic garters which ascended upward and disappeared under filmy garments sparkled like jewels as the movement of the car caused the light to vibrate against them.
An inquisitive hand, lured on, no doubt, by the seductive disarray of garments, fell upon her knee and began an insidious exploration upward, its movements contributing further to the disorder of her clothing and the revealment of more ivory thigh. Of the hand itself soon nothing was visible but portions of a white cuff, the rest of it being lost to sight among the filmy undergarments.
Carlota giggled nervously and pressed her legs together, by virtue of which maneuver the invading hand was firmly imprisoned between walls of warm, living flesh.
With my head resting on Monty's shoulder, I watched this lascivious play with half-closed eyes. What a pity, I thought, that Carlota was not always jolly and happy. When she was like this, she was really beautiful. What pretty legs she had, too, so slim and graceful and softly curved. When girls had legs like hers no wonder men admired them. Mine had been like that when I was younger, but during the last year or two they had filled out, become more solid, more suggestive of maturity.
I straightened my own legs out and contemplated them pensively.
“What are you doing, baby? Admiring your legs?” murmured Monty.
“No; I was admiring Carlota's, and comparing mine with them.”
“Oh, envy! Thy name is Woman! Do you think Carlota's legs are prettier than yours?”
“Yes,” I said, candidly. “I do. Mine are getting too matronly.”
“Bosh,” answered Monty, and he plunged his face between my breasts and set me to giggling by blowing hot, whiskey-scented breath through the cloth over my bubbles. “You're just fishing for compliments, and out of pure obstinacy, I refuse to bite.”
“The only time to properly judge a lady's legs,” expounded Zippy solemnly from his corner, “is when they're around your neck. I maintain that Carlota has the nicest legs in the world.
Monty and I burst out laughing and Carlota jerked upright in pretended indignation.
“Oh! What an insolent inference! I never had my legs around his neck in my life.”
“In my dreams, my dear, in dreams! A man has a right to dream anything he wants to, hasn't he?”
“No! Not such defamatory dreams as that! If you want to dream about me, dream something decent! And… o-o-oh!.. take your hand away from there! Stop!.. stop!.. you're going to make me wet my panties!”
The sudden slowing of the car, followed by two long and two short blasts of the siren warned us that we had reached our destination and Carlota, escaping from the fervid embrace, straightened out her clothing preparatory to leaving the car.
As it rolled to a stop, apparently in accordance with prearranged plans and in answer to the signals of the siren, the figure of a man materialized from the fog-enshrouded night to guide us to the rendezvous where the entertainment was to take place,
We were conducted to a room improvised to represent a theater in a crude way; a few chairs, a small platform elevated two or three feet above the floor, and back of this a white curtain. The projection machine and operator were hidden from our view in an adjacent room whence the pictures would be flashed through a small round hole cut in the intervening wall. There were no other spectators present as Zippy had arranged for an entirely private showing.
The exhibition lasted for about an hour and a half and consisted of several different films, some of them allegedly taken from real life among the apaches of Paris and which ran the gamut of every imaginable sexual indulgence and perversion. Another, based superficially on the question of whether or not it is a physical possibility for a man to be raped against his wishes, had as its theme the sequestering of a young man on his wedding day by a group of jolly, fun-loving friends.
Snatched from the side of his bride of a few minutes, he is carried away, stripped of his clothing, and chained against a wall in an upright position with his arms elevated and his legs separated.
Under these undignified circumstances he is turned over to the mercies of a bevy of girls who, with lewd acts, dances and other artifices, endeavor to make him have an erection. For a while this modern St. Anthony is able to subjugate any erotic reactions and successfully resists the wiles of the sirens. But alas, the flesh is weak, and despite his determination to withstand the impure temptations, Satan, in the guise of a beautiful young girl with nimble fingers, forces his cock to awaken from its lethargic slumber and raise its head in obeisance to the powers of Evil.
With this disaster, the battle is practically lost, for once a man's cock is turgidly erect not even the chaste determination of a Galahad can control its subsequent actions nor stay the course of lascivious Nature.
Raising her dress, the temptress turns around and stooping over, with her hands on her knees, backs her round, white bottom up against the rigid spike. Closer and closer she presses, until the treacherous obelisk, following the narrow road downward between the plump cheeks, reaches and penetrates the natural haven between her thighs, and naught remains to complete the victory of sin but the slow, weaving circular movement of her bottom. “By hand frigging, by sucking, and by other lascivious arts the unfortunate victim is subjected to further depletions of his sexual vitality as the sirens, one after another, drain him to exhaustion, until at last his cock is reduced to a state of unconsciousness and inertia from which no seductive feminine enticements on earth could arouse it, and when this is apparent, the luckless (?) groom is released and permitted to go on his honeymoon.
The entertainment terminated with a horrific exposition of a girl and a diminutive Shetland pony. It was incredible, unbelievable, but the evidence was there, clear, distinct and indisputable in the moving photographic reproduction upon the screen.
When the show was over we returned to the car and half an hour later were at a restaurant where a small private dining room had been reserved for us. We enjoyed a nice dinner, followed with exquisite wines, over which we lingered, joking, teasing, and otherwise enjoying ourselves. After the dinner, we would part company, Monty and I going our way and Zippy and Carlota another.
But it was very pleasant and comfortable in the little dining room. We were all in the roseate state of semi- intoxication in which everything is just right and everything that is said excruciatingly funny. So we dallied, telling naughty stories, rumpling each other's clothing, and indulging in all kinds of lascivious nonsense, while Monty and Zippy continued to drink until they had passed the half-way stage of intoxication.
“On an occasion of thish nashure,” declaimed Zippy, taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, “ish an invariable, not to shay an inviolable cushtom for each guesh to relate in hiah own crude way the chircumstances and detailsh of hish or her firsh sexual experiensh.”
“What he meansh,” interrupted Monty, condescendingly, “ish: everybody tell about their firsh fuck!”
“I believe I… hie… made myself clear without… hie… the necesshity… of an… interpreter!” protested Zippy with great dignity.
“You're half intoxshicated!”
“I resent that insinuation! I insist that I'm not half intoxshicated. On the contrary, I'm half sho… sho… sober!”
“Shut up, both of you! You're both intoxicated! If you start any arguments, Carlota and I are going to beat it!”
“What wosh thish argument about in the firsh playsh?” interrogated Monty, scratching his head in perplexity.
“Oh, Zippy had an idea for each of us to tell about our first sex experience, and you interrupted him.”
“That wosh a good idea. I mosh humbly beg hish pardon for my intrushion. It would be mosh interestin' to learn under what unforshunate chircumstances you two young ladish losh your maidenheadsh. I nominate you to tell the firsh story.”
“Oh, no!” I protested, laughing, “it happened so long ago I can hardly recall the circumstances. Let Carlota tell hers first. While she's tellings hers, I'll try to remember mine! That is, if you two men will stop drinking. There's no fun telling stories to people, who are too drunk to listen.”
