Everything was going to be all right. He could tell.
The eighteen-piece band blared a mambo and Harry walked coolly into the center of the guests. A middle- aged mamboer smiled at him lasciviously, and Harry, completely at ease, accepted the glass of champagne from the munificent butler.
Carol said, 'Phillip, I want something to drink.'
'Not now, darling,' Phillip murmured.
'My mouth is dry,' she whimpered.
He covered her mouth with his, and moved his cunt-coated tongue on hers. She sucked timidly at his tongue, unwilling to concede the growing heat in her pussy.
'Drink, baby, quench your thirst. Suck me, darling, I'll give you something to drink.'
'Yes,' she said, slowly coming back to life in Phillip's arms, wanting to touch and smell and taste. 'Yes, Phillip.' Carol lay flat on the bed and Phillip straddled her head with his knees. His forehead rested on the satin- covered backboard of the bed. Looking straight up, Carol could see the dense hairs that surrounded his hanging balls. His prick was rigidly pointing at her mouth. He lowered his buttocks to her chest, and his cock pressed against her closed lips.
'Open up, Carol,' he commanded.
She parted her lips slightly, and his penis popped against the fleshy inner lining of her mouth. She nibbled, almost daintily, at the swollen head of his erection. It tasted good, familiar and filled with life. Her mouth clung hungrily to his prick, and her tongue was pointed at the pinpoint hole hidden in the crown of his cock.
She opened her throat wide and let the cock sink deep, deep inside her head. She wanted more, and she lifted her head to swallow the sacks that swung smotheringly over her face. She gagged and choked on the bone, but wouldn't give it up.
Phillip moved up and down, using her throat like a cunt, not caring that she was gasping beneath him, just feeling the come swelling inside his prick. 'Faster, deeper,' he ordered.
She sank into the pillows and opened her throat wider. She gave herself up completely to the blinding body sitting on her breasts. He pounded against her chest, mashing the creature beneath him, getting it out of his swollen rod. Her tongue and mouth were wet and nervous around the cock.
Then he shouted, 'Drink, Carol, drink,' and poured the hot white fluid into her mute throat.
Harry walked, glass in hand, past the admiring women, toward the rear terrace of the mansion. He crossed the terrace to the open French doors leading into the high, thick-beamed ceiling. He studied the room, the position of servants, the doors and windows. He walked past a group of people lunching quietly and talking, remembering the last Llewellyn festival.
Maybe something would happen. Mrs. Llewellyn hated tea parties.
Harry looked vague and abstract, and somebody named Freely walked over, bubbling words and offering a limp hand. Harry said, 'A pleasure. Please excuse me,' and crossed the room.
He went beyond a tremendous jutting fireplace that broke the room's contours, and finally was alone. The tension was mounting inside him.
He put down the drink, wiped the glass with his handkerchief, and slipped through the door into a long hall.
He moved swiftly up two short flights of steps which angled down from a broad and luxurious landing. He crossed silently to a door, pulling on his gloves. It was silent in this part of the house. Nothing, not even the distant guests could be heard. He hesitated, studying the doors on the landing and then sprinted quickly and noiselessly to a door diagonally across the hall. It cracked open imperceptibly and he looked in. Then he swung it open decisively, entered, and closed it behind him in a single motion.
The room, a spacious, fussily decorated bedroom, opening onto a terrace, was empty. There were two closed doors on the wall to the left. He swung open the first, to a large, windowless dressing room.
He crossed swiftly to the other and threw it open.
There it was. Mrs. Llewellyn's little black swimming pool. A huge, semi-sunken, roman, black-tiled bath. The bath was eight feet long and six feet wide, big enough for Mrs. Llewellyn to wash her pretty toes, or for Mr. Llewellyn to wash any of the guests' backs.
On three sides of the bath were leaded mirror-mosaic panels which cast Harry's image — broken and distorted as he searched desperately for the safe. He fingered the drain, the knobs and the mirrored squares of the wall.
Standing inside the black-tiled pool, he swept the towels from the rack. He pulled open the drawers that receded behind the rack. The first held a conglomerate of jars and lotions, the next a display of manicuring tools and powders. The first drawer wouldn't open. He closed the others and pulled tenaciously at the top rack. It felt cemented deep into the wall, impossible to move. Leaning forward, he studied the tiles behind it closely, searching for a crack or joint that would mean another drawer, another hiding place.
He caught his reflection in the mirrors, sweating and intense. There was something obscene about the room, black and shining, and too voluptuous for plump giggling Mrs. Llewellyn. What the hell did she do there, besides hide her jewels and come to admire them every Ascension Day.
He pulled frantically at the top rack. That had to be the place. The walls were flat and expressionless. They told him nothing. He fingered the tiles. That had to be the safe, and there had to be a lock release. None of the tiles moved against the pressure of his fingers.
His hand moved up into the recessed niche over the leveled squares of mirror that lined it.
Suddenly, miraculously, one tilted inward and the rack pulled out from the wall. Against a blue-black velvet lining rested the fabulous Llewellyn collection.
Carol said, 'Phillip, fuck me, get into me. I feel empty. I'm scared.
Fuck me, fuck me.'
Phillip paused for a second, stared at her cunt and then thrust his brand new shiny erection into the center of her terror.
Harry froze for a second, reverently staring at the sparkling display.
He reached in for them, eagerly and big-eyed, like a child in a penny-candy shop. He gathered up handfuls of the precious gems, stuffing them into an inner pocket of his jacket. He had them. The drawer was emptied in a few seconds. He adjusted the weight inside his coat and smoothed it flat.
Then he stared a long time into the mirror, a long, dangerous time.
He turned on one of the taps and wiped his face. He was exhausted. It was almost too much to for him to think of moving quickly to the boat.
The diamonds were heavy — heavy and comforting on his chest. He closed the bathroom door behind him and swiftly retraced his steps to the terrace.
Mrs. Llewellyn smiled curiously at him as he crossed the garden to the dock. Surely she had seen the exquisite man before? How nice that she'd invited him to her party. She moved to greet him, but Harry was already at the harbor.
It all began to break down, with his heart pressing against the diamonds, when he saw the cabin blocking the exit of his boat. Mrs.
Llewellyn was still looking after him. He stared hopelessly from the boats to the parked cars, from the harbor to the cars. He glanced back at Mrs. Llewellyn, feeling the diamonds like a dying child on his breast.
He peeled off his gloves, and in a few swift movements was over the terrace railing. He dropped to the ground below, landing quickly on his feet. He crouched there, half unconscious with his hysterical pulse.
The attendant, with a large muscled Doberman on a leash, rounded the corner. The dog was on him in a flash, making deep guttural sounds — much like those Mrs. Llewellyn would make when she found the bathroom cleaned out. Harry stared rigidly and wildly at the attendant.
'What are you doing here? What's wrong?' the attendant demanded.
Harry pointed desperately in the direction of the harbor and yelled,
'Get that dog out of here! Get him off me! I've lost my poodle,' he shouted, his words surreal but effective
