“Back where?” I was still a little groggy.
“To the MAC…to the dorm. Paul’s still back there. He might cause more trouble.”
“You want to bunk on my couch?”
She nodded. “You want me to drive?”
“No. I’m okay.”
“Is it far to your place? You need to get out of those wet things.”
“No, it’s close. Hop, skip, and a jump.”
When I pulled in at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Vera’s hazel eyes grew huge. “You
“Sort of. I have use of a bungalow. We handle their security. Management likes having me around…. They have a clientele that needs discreet assistance, sometimes.”
“But those bungalows are expensive!”
“Well, I’m in one of the Howard Hughes bungalows. He rents four of ’em, at all times, but only shows up occasionally. And one is for security, so even when he’s around, I can stay put.”
“Howard Hughes? You know Howard Hughes? What is he like?”
“Nuttier than a fruitcake. But he’d go for you.”
“You think so?”
“Oh yeah….” He would take one look at this doll and start designing a cantilevered bra.
Soon I was walking Vera down a sidewalk bordered by palms and flowering shrubs, and she was commenting on how Clark Gable and Carole Lombard had supposedly started their romance in one of these bungalows. I had no reply—I was busy shivering in my wet worsted on this cool night.
Then I ushered Vera inside and she ooohed and aaahed at the marble fireplace, the French doors leading to the private patio, the French provincial furnishings, and the pale pink decor with the pale green touches. The console television, which was neither pink nor green, amazed her; she stared at it like a savage contemplating a crashed airplane. I told her the sofa—a comfy overstuffed pink-and-green floral number—was all hers.
I wasn’t planning anything. I was sore from the punch I’d caught and the fall I’d taken; maybe I was an old fart at that, because the lovely coed in the other room interested me less than a hot shower.
After which, soothed, and sleepy—though it was only around nine-thirty—I went to the bathroom closet and put on one of two Beverly Hills Hotel white terrycloth bathrobes hanging there, and draped the other over my sleeve, like a waiter serving a meal.
When I returned to the living room, the lights were off and the fireplace was on. Still in that powder blue ensemble, she was sitting in front of the flames, legs tucked under her, the spike heels off, staring at the dancing orange and blue, which reflected on her pretty features.
“Would you like to sleep in this?” I asked, holding out the robe.
She rose, took the robe, and asked, “Do you mind if I take a shower, too?”
“No. Go right ahead.”
I sat in my bathrobe on the sofa with nothing on but the robe. Still not planning anything, listening to the muffled dance of water needles seep through the bathroom door, I wondered if maybe Vera had something in mind.
She did.
Her brunette hair damp, bangs turned into gypsy curls, she returned smelling like Lifebuoy (no Camay in my soap dish, unfortunately) with all the makeup washed away, looking fresh and innocent. Or anyway she looked fresh and innocent until she dropped the terrycloth robe to her feet, a puddle of white she stepped out of, letting the flickering flames dance all over her.
But even in the glow of firelight, her skin was creamy, and her figure was astonishing—tiny waist, wide hips, perfectly shaped, pink-tipped breasts displayed like awards on a wide rib cage.
She slipped her arms around me and said, “Thank you for saving me,” and presented her pretty face for a kiss.
Who was I to argue? The full lips were warm and moist and her tongue flicked at mine; then she was tugging that bathrobe off me, and we fell onto the couch and necked in the nude like we were both teenagers. A few minutes later her damp hair was tickling my thighs as she suckled me, making giggling, gurgling sounds, like she couldn’t have been having a better time with a lollipop; and when she crawled around on top of me, so she could continue her oral indulgence while I returned the favor, nose deep in curls, I realized this Texas teen was not as wholesome as first I had thought. We took a quick time out for me to find a Trojan, and I sat on the couch and she sat on me, and rode me like a kid on a carousel, making delicious little sounds, squeals and coos, my hands on her rounded bottom as I nuzzled first one ripe breast, then another, inducing further girlish glee. She was so fun-lovingly feminine, she was almost a cartoon—but a cartoon in
Later she came back from the bathroom wrapped in the robe, saying, “That was a ball!”
Sitting on the couch in my own robe, I managed a nod. I felt like a truck had hit me—a 115-pound, well-stacked one.
“What do you want to do now?” she asked, plopping next to me, cuddling against me.
“Sleep?”
“No! It’s early. What about that place you own part of?”
“I don’t own part of anything.”
