HCC 115 - Borderline (12 page)

A collective gasp from the audience let Lily know that Cassie was on the stage. The
redhead came out behind her, stark naked, while Lily remained in praying position
at the side of the bed. Cassie moved closer, until Lily felt the redhead’s hands touch
the back of her neck, stroking tenderly. Still she herself did not move. She breathed
deeply and held her position while Cassie’s hands travelled over her back, massaging
her shoulder blades, coursing over her back until they cupped her plump buttocks.

Cassie fondled her buttocks, flexed them. Her fingers probed, and Lily began to feel
the initial stirrings of excitement in spite of herself. Cassie was a skilled technician,
an accomplished little dyke. She knew what to do and how to do it, and it worked.

Besides, Lily thought, there was a certain amount of kick in knowing you had an audience.
A little power, like. All those cats were out there, getting horny as hell just watching
her, and she was grooving on stage and driving them out of their heads. No, it wasn’t
bad at all. It was a brand new kind of kick.

Now Cassie’s hands moved again, slipping to Lily’s waist, moving upward to grasp Lily’s
pendant breasts. The redheaded girl was bending over now and her own tiny breasts
brushed up against Lily’s back. When Cassie gripped her nipples and tugged at them,
Lily let out the little moan that the script called for. And it wasn’t just a matter
of sticking to the script. She was getting warm as hell.

“Hello, little girl,” Cassie said.

“Hello,” she answered.

“I’m going to do things to you, little virgin. I’m going to have fun with you.”

“I’m afraid,” Lily said; that was supposed to make her seem more like a child, to
introduce a hotter element into the game. Cassie didn’t say anything now but went
on caressing her breasts. Her fingers made circles around the pale tan aureoles which
surrounded Lily’s pink nipples. Next, Cassie put the tip of each index finger to a
nipple and pressed as though she was ringing a doorbell.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling, Lily thought.

Cassie’s hands caught the undersides of Lily’s breasts and hoisted them. Lily moved
forward, clambering onto the bed, her back still to the red-haired, flat-chested girl.
Lily felt Cassie’s hands on the backs of her thighs, stroking them gently and tenderly.
After a few seconds of this, she rolled over onto her back, her legs extended toward
the audience. There was a black pillow beneath her head and she spread her silky blonde
hair over it with one hand while she rubbed her own stomach with the other.

Cassie joined her on the bed, leaping over, brushing Lily’s lips with a quick kiss.
Still Lily played her part—the pure and innocent little thing, enduring caresses without
responding. She lay motionless while Cassie continued to work on her breasts.

Staying motionless now was not especially simple. Cassie licked her breasts with a
warm tongue, moving in on the nipples, tormenting the soft skin with sensuous caresses.
Then Cassie caught a nipple between her bloodless lips and sucked hard on it. A rush
of excitement shot through Lily’s body, a flood of warmth that made it hellishly difficult
to stay still.

To hell with the script, she thought. She put one hand on the nape of Cassie’s neck
and fondled the redhead there, pressing Cassie’s face hard against her breast. She
felt one of Cassie’s hands, high on the inside of her thigh.

Lily wondered how the audience felt now. Chita and her brother Pancho had given everybody
one hell of a jolt, and all they’d shown was some fairly straight man-woman sex. But
this was lesbianism, and with a twist—one of the actresses was playing the part of
a child.

I’ll bet they’re going nuts, she thought. I’ll bet we get a hell of a lot of business
tonight. Every stud in Juarez would be heading for her room.

She smiled secretly. Cassie was kissing her other breast now, working on it like a
maniac. And all Lily could think was that she was going to have hit that Ringo cat
for a raise.

* * *

Audrey looked better in the dark. She was holding Weaver’s arm now as they walked
along Perry Street, heading away from the bar where he had picked her up. Now, out
of the glare of the lights, her face was softer, her age several years less in appearance.
She wasn’t perfect, he thought. But you couldn’t expect to get a perfect one every
time out. You had to settle for what you could find.

“Nice night, Mac. Don’t you think?”

He didn’t answer her. His right hand still held the razor. He was trying to decide
where to do it. The streets were dark enough, but it was still too early to count
on safety from an interruption. She had said they would go to her room. Well, maybe
that was the best idea. He could wait, and have his fun in her room.

Yes, that would be better.

“Something the matter, Mac?”

“No, nothing’s the matter.”

“You don’t talk much.”

To reassure her, he put his left arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug. Still,
though, his right hand held onto the razor. It was as though the razor was the essence
of his maleness and he was terrified to be caught without it.

“I live just the next block,” Audrey said. “It ain’t much. Just a lousy room on the
third floor.”

“Is it quiet?”

“Sure it is.”

“And private?”

“Oh, I’ll say it’s private,” she said. She giggled. “Don’t you worry about a thing
on that scope, Mr. Mac Johnson. It’s as private as you could want it. We won’t have
no interruptions.”

That was important, he thought. She had no idea how important it was. He looked at
her now, thinking what a sloppy thing she was, and it suddenly occurred to him that
he was doing her a tremendous favor. What was she, anyway? Just a no-account tramp
who would never amount to a thing. She was a nobody, just as he himself had been before
he killed the girl in Tulsa.

But now she would be important. Now, because of what he was going to do to her, Audrey
would have her name and picture in all the papers. She would be a somebody, not so
important as Weaver, maybe, but a damn sight more important than she was now.

He smiled.

“Something funny, Mac?”

“I was just thinking.”

“What?”

“That I like you,” he said. “That you and me’ll have a good time.”

This seemed to please her. She stopped in front of a three-story frame building with
a sign out front advertising rooms for rent. The front door was ajar. He walked inside
with her and followed her up two flights of creaking stairs to her room on the third
floor. Once inside, he saw that the place she lived in managed to make Cappy’s look
like the Ritz. The double bed sagged and the dresser was ready to fall apart. She
didn’t even have a fan, for God’s sake.

He decided it was a shame a woman had to live like this. Well, he would be doing her
a favor, all right. There were no two ways about it. He would be taking her away from
this hovel, from a life of bringing home men to stay alive. And at the same time he
would be making her famous, putting her picture and story in the newspapers so everybody
could feel sorry for her. He was doing her a real favor.

She turned to him, waiting to be kissed. He didn’t want to kiss her but he did anyhow,
so she wouldn’t get suspicious. Then she took a slight step backward and gave him
a huge smile.

“Mac,” she said, “I hate to ask you. But could you spare about ten bucks? Reason I
ask is I’m broke. I hate to ask.”

Five, be thought, would be about right. But what difference did it make how much he
gave her? He could take the money back, along with whatever money she had around the
dingy room. So he took out his wallet, found two fives and gave them to her. “You’re
a sport, Mac. Thanks.” He watched her put the two bills in her top dresser drawer.
Then she smiled again, and then she took off her clothes. He just plain stood there
while she took everything off. She didn’t have a bad shape, he had to admit. Her breasts
hung down a little but there was a lot of nice flesh there. And her legs were still
good.

“Well, come on, Mac.”

He said, “You forgot something.”

“What?”

Smiling, he pointed behind her. She looked around, no doubt wondering what she had
forgotten. And, with all his strength, he struck her on the back of the head.

The first blow only drove her to her knees, but when he hit her a second time she
went down like a tree in the forest, with a crash.

She was a big woman but he was strong that night. He got her on top of the bed, on
her back. With his razor he cut her dress to strips. He used the strips to tie each
hand and each foot to a corner of the bed. When she was neatly spread-eagled he cut
a fifth piece of cloth and gagged her so that she could not utter a sound.

Then he took off all his own clothing. He held the razor in his hand, a smile on his
lips. He had not hit so terribly hard. She would come to very shortly.

Then he could begin.

* * *

Cassie was shaking like a leaf. Lily lay on the black sheets before her, her blonde
hair brilliant on the glossy black pillow, her eyes closed, her breasts gleaming with
the moisture of a few million tongue-kisses. Cassie stared at her, her own heart beating
wildly.

Men had never meant much to her. She had lied slightly to Lily, telling the blonde
girl that she was bisexual, that men and women gave her an equal charge. It didn’t
work that way. Men were something you put up with, something you balled with strictly
for bread. That was why the show had always dragged her. She didn’t mind making it
with a man for money, in a room with the door closed. But she hated like hell to ball
a guy with other studs watching. It seemed dirty.

This, strangely, did not. Now, when she was making love to Lily, all the men and women
in the audience seemed to disappear entirely; she was alone with Lily, and Lily thrilled
her tremendously. Her excitement at this moment, with a whole room full of people
staring at her, was greater than when she had been with Lily in the privacy of their
hotel room.

Again her hands reached out, holding Lily’s breasts and playing with them.

Then, her hands still on those perfect chunky breasts, she let her body slip down
from the bed a little. Her mouth was now level with Lily’s belly. She continued caressing
the blonde’s breasts while her lips darted out to glide like a serpent over Lily’s
belly. She kissed the indentation that was Lily’s navel. She rubbed her cheeks against
Lily. And, all the while, her hands were busy.

Lily was hers now. Lily loved what she did to her and Lily liked to do it back to
Cassie, and it was perfect. Cassie remembered how it had been with Didi, before Didi
took up with Paul. It had been fine, they lived together and balled all the time and
it was like heaven. Then that mother Paul had to come on and turn Didi straight again.

Well, that wouldn’t happen with Lily. Lily was all hers and she was going to stay
that way. She was what Cassie wanted, and the redhead would kill any man that went
near her. Except for the paying tricks, of course. They would both take on men for
bread, and they would take on each other for the fun of it. And they would groove.

She moved lower now. Her pulse raced and her blood pounded.

Here we go, she thought. Around the motherloving moon and straight into orbit.

* * *

It was like the picture, Meg thought. It was like the picture, the one that showed
the two lesbians. Except that it was better than the picture, because the picture
was black-and-white and this was in living color. The picture was a still shot and
this was action, terrifyingly vivid action. The picture was small, four inches by
five inches, while this was larger than life, going on right before her eyes. It was
better, much better, than any picture could possibly be. It was Cinemascope and 3-D
and Cinerama and Vistavision and stereophonic sound, even Aromarama. It was, in short,
phenomenally exciting, and she was phenomenally excited, to put it very mildly.

The redhead—the one who was doing everything to the blonde. Meg looked at the redhead
and her mouth watered. She watched the redhead’s hands, the redhead’s lips.

Not a very well-constructed girl, that redhead. Almost hipless, and even more than
almost breastless, with scrawny shanks and hollow eyes. And yet there was something
compelling about the redhead, and something very very compelling about what the redhead
was doing to the blonde.

The blonde, now—the blonde was beautiful, simply beautiful, and on that point there
was no question at all in Meg Rector’s mind. The blonde had a baby face and big-girl
breasts and huggable hips. The blonde was lovely, and Meg watched what the redhead
was doing to her and began to quiver more fiercely than ever.

She was high now, high up in the air, high with tequila and marijuana and sexual excitement.
And Marty was next to her as high as she was, his hands hot flames searing her body.
She grabbed him, held him, touched him. She put a hand to his face and stared into
his eyes.

“Marty.”

“What?”

“What she’s doing,” she said. “What that girl is doing to that other girl. What she’s
doing, up there.”

“What about it?”

“Do it to me.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Later,” he said, dreamily. “Not now.”

“Now! Now, so I can watch it and feel it all at once. Now, damn it. Now, Marty!”

She said this last batch of sentences without looking at him. She was watching the
redhead and the blonde now. The blonde had reversed her position on the bed, and her
face was now at the foot of the bed near where Meg was seated. The redhead had moved,
too, and was lying further up on the bed. The redhead’s legs extended past the top
of the blonde’s head.

Meg knew what was going to happen next.

“Now, Marty. Please!”

He did not argue with her. He left his chair and slipped under the table, kneeling
like a slave in front of her. She felt his hands slip under her skirt, finding her
panties and pulling them downward over her legs and off, leaving them bunched on the
floor. She felt him come to her, close to her, and all the while she watched the blonde
and the redhead.