He sank lower on my body, licking my tummy, inserting the tip of his tongue into my belly button, and then down he went, licking the hairs of my quimmy, and then inserting his maddening tongue into my fold.

  I nearly fainted. Never had I known such a marvelous sensation. It was so far superior to my own fingers in the bathroom that there was no comparison. It was a whole new world, the world of adult sexual delights. He took my little clitty in his lips and kissed it passionately. I squirmed my hips and opened my legs wide baring to him that which heretofore I’d always taken great pains to hide. I had an orgasm right in his face, but I didn’t realize it was an orgasm—I thought I’d gone to heaven for awhile.

  “I’m going to take you with my tongue,” he breathed between my legs. “I think that’ll be the best way.” And he proceeded to insert his long intelligent tongue into my quimmy. The sensation made my head swim, but then he came to the part where I was tight, the part that protected my virtue. He pressed his tongue against it, and it began to hurt a little, but I could imagine how intense the pain would be if he were using his big monster. He pressed harder and harder, working his strong tongue corkscrew fashion, and then suddenly a ray of light shot through me and his tongue slid in all the way. We lay still for a few moments, adjusting to each other.

  Then I spread my legs wider to give him more room, and he worked his tongue in and out, out and in, back and forth, round and round, tasting every surface of my vulval area. Nobody ever told me anything about it, but somehow I knew that I should start rocking back and forth, and so for the first time in my life I was fornicating a man’s tongue. It wasn’t long before I had the second orgasm of my life, and it was even bigger and more glorious than the first.

  He lay with his handsome head between my legs for awhile and we rested, gathering energy for the next round. Then he lay beside me, took my hand, and put it on his monster.

  “Are you afraid of it?” he asked.

  “A little.” I ran my palm up and down its bottom. “It’s so big.”

  “So are you.”

  “Oh no. I’m very small there.”

  “That’s what you think. Touch it here.”

  He placed my fingers on the soft bulbous head. Some cream oozed out its eye, feeling greasy and nice. I rubbed it all around the head, and more cream came out. I decided I wanted a closer look at this weapon.

  “Do you mind if I look at it?” I asked.

  “By all means do.”

  I got on my hands and knees and perched over it. It was stiff, leaning a bit toward me. I grabbed it by the root and wagged it around. I realized that relative to one of my fingers, it was very big, but relative to a sword, for instance, it wasn’t so big. And it was kind of soft and nice. Cute even. I wrapped my fingers around it at mid-point and massaged it up and down a few times. Boris fornicated my hand, and I felt the hard inner shank go up and down inside the soft outer skin. More cream dribbled out the top. I bent closer for a better look.

  In the moonlight I saw the flaming vermilion head of his beautiful tool. I covered it with my other hand and worked both my hands up and down. He, a grown man and a fearless soldier, was writhing and squirming at my ministrations, and I was only a teenage girl. I realized that I was learning an important lesson about the relative superiority of the sexes. I saw that even the most powerful man could be reduced to a quivering helpless child by a woman who knew what she was doing.

  The Great Staracci taught me that, and I’ll always be grateful to him for the lesson.

  Anyway, suddenly, and to my great surprise, the head of his penis began to swell up. I was afraid I was doing something wrong, and removed my hands, but he cried out: “For God’s sake—don’t stop now!”

  So I put my hands back and kept doing what I was doing. The head swelled more and more and I was afraid it would burst. He was moaning, his eyes shut but his hips fornicating my little hands madly. Then suddenly his whole staff shrank an inch, and commenced firing. A great gob of cream shot at the ceiling, and was followed by another, and other. I grabbed the throbbing head with both my hands and soon they were soaking wet but I kept jerking him off. The juice made his staff slick and shiny and it felt just delicious. It looked delicious too. A mad urge took possession of me and I bent over, opened my mouth wide, and stuffed the pulsating throbbing monster in.

  It was the best thing I’ve ever tasted, slightly salty, but meaty and carrying with it the very essence of masculinity. I thought I was doing something vile and that he would hit me, but I didn’t care, I was intoxicated with the tastes and feelings I was having. Then he ran his fingers through my hair and whispered, “You darling girl,” and I knew everything was all right. I moved my lips up and down and sucked him dry, and he ran his fingers back and forth in my quimmy until I came again.

  Exhausted, I fell on my back. Breathing heavily as a bear, he mounted me. I spread my legs, and he squeezed his monster into me. It didn’t hurt hardly at all because by that time I was completely relaxed and quite greasy down there. And as I already told you, he’d very cleverly broken through my maidenhead with his tongue already.

  I wrapped my legs around him and he pumped me vigorously. He came at me from every possible angle, and my mind drifted from orgasm to mild faint to ecstasy to joy to the most wanton kinds of behavior. If it was possible to feel it in bed I felt it that first time with him. He turned me over and took me from behind He made me stand up and bend over, holding my hands to the bedposts, and worked me that way. He even put it between my boobies and we did it like that for a long time until he shot right in my face and I licked myself clean.

  Finally he put it up my little dirt road, and I squealed with delight. Ultimately, close to dawn, we lay exhausted in each other’s arms.

  I was no longer a virgin.

  I was no longer a girl.

  I was a very happy, very well satisfied young woman at last.

  Chapter Ten

  It was six in the morning, and the dawn was growing brighter. I lay cuddled in his strong arms, my cheek against his manly chest.

  “I’ve got to go home,” I said sadly.

  “We’ll meet again, don’t worry.”

  I got on my elbows and looked at him. “Where?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But we will. I know it.”

  I held his shaggy head in my hands. “Tell me something. Do you do this in every town where you go?”

  “Yes Cherisse, but not like this. One seldom meets one’s cosmic lovers.”

  “Please take me with you!”

  “I can’t and you know it. I’ll be thrown in prison and you’ll have to return home in disgrace.” He pushed me away. “No Cherisse, you’ve got to go home, and you’ve got to go now.”

  Sadly I rolled off the bed and started getting dressed. The birds were cackling in the cages and the rabbits were hopping around. Our two empty cups of tea were still on the table, and I wanted to cry. He got up and wrapped himself in a black and purple robe.

  “Please give me something to remember you by?” I asked when I was finished dressing.

  He laughed in a fatherly way. “But I’ve already given you something to remember me by.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “And you know what I mean. Now stop pouting. Come here and kiss me good by.”

  I fell into his arms and he clasped me to him. His mouth on mine tasted like wine.”

  “Now go,” he said, “and don’t look back, because if you do I’ll lose my reason and that’ll be the end of both of us.”

  “But…”

  He spun me around and walked me to the door. Opening it, he kissed my neck and whispered, “Till we meet again, my sweet.”

  “No… wait…” I turned toward him, and saw fear on his face.

  “If you love me, get going!” he cried.

  “But…”

  He pushed me forward and slammed shut the door. I landed on my hands and knees on the grass. It gave me great satisfaction to know that he loved me so much he was scared to spend any more time with me. And I felt deep sorrow because I couldn’t be with him anymore.

  In a daze, I made my way home, managing to sneak into the house before my family awoke. I showered, shampooed my hair, and re-lived over and over my night with the Great Staracci. At breakfast I realized I didn’t feel tired at all despite not having slept a wink all night. It was then that I knew that good sex can be good for you.

  I went to school like a normal high school, although suddenly my classmates seemed like a bunch of giggling kids to me. I didn’t even want to talk with them. I became anxious to go to college, and then get on with a career. My boyfriend the football star put his arm around my shoulders in the cafeteria and I looked at him coldly and told him I never wanted to see him again. I guess I broke his heart, but once you’ve had a Great Staracci, you can’t go back to high school football heroes. At least not immediately.

  After school that night I went to the part of town where the carnival had been, but all the tents and wagons had gone. A few paper cups and cigarette butts on the ground were all that was left of the most beautiful night of my life. I wondered where the Great Staracci was and whether we’d ever really meet again. I wondered if the whole thing hadn’t really been a dream, a figment of the turgid imagination of a school girl.

  But as I meandered home, a certain sensation between my legs told me that it had been no dream. My hands clasped behind my back, I continued on my way home, a sadder but wiser girl.

  Chapter Eleven

  Well now you know why I fainted when I realized who Gubishov was. I mean, it’d been a long time. I can’t say that I’d completely forgotten him—you never forget the guy who got your cherry—but since I never saw him again he became sort of a wonderful dream that I had once a long time ago when I was a little chickie.

  And you also know why I was no longer interested in killing Gubishov. I mean, you don’t want to kill the guy who took your cherry when he took it as beautifully as Gubishov did. I can’t help thinking that the healthy attitudes I’ve developed about sex are the direct result of losing my cherry to a fantastic man like Gubishov. It should happen to every girl, but unfortunately it doesn’t. There’s too much lousy sex in the world and I believe that’s the principal cause of wars.

  I believe in the sexual theory of historical determination, I guess you’d say.

  Anyway, I rose to consciousness in the office of Aldo Cavarini, owner of the Gypsy Palace Hotel. I was lying on a sofa and he was peering into my face. Over his shoulder, a doctor was staring gravely at me. The doctor looked like a prune, as most doctors do.

  “Are you all right?” asked Cavarini.

  I shook my head and sat up. “Of course I’m all right.”

  “What did you do to Gubishov?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I guess you must’ve fainted before it happened. He’d just started gambling when you showed up, and after he saw you he cashed in his chips and left. And he didn’t go to any other casino either. Our information is that he went directly home.”

  “Very interesting,” I said. I looked at the doctor. “Could you bring me a glass of water, please?”

  The doctor got a glass of water and brought it to me. I took some vitamin pills and various other pills out of my shoulder bag, tossed them into my mouth and washed them down.

  “Tell me,” Cavarini implored, “what did you do to him?”

  “I didn’t do anything to him.”

  “Then why did he leave?”

  “I think because he recognized me. We used to be old friends, you see. We had a magic act once.”

  Cavarini smiled happily. “That’s wonderful. If you’re old friends, that’ll make it easy for you to kill him.”

  I got up and stretched. “Well, it’s time for me to get back to work, Cavarini. Thanks for the use of your sofa, and I’ll be seeing you around.” I headed for the door.

  He came running after me. “But what’re you going to do?”

  “Do I ask you what you’re going to do? Mind your business.”

  I walked out of his office, across the lobby, and down the front steps to the Ferrari 308GTB. Getting behind the wheel, I turned on the engine and zoomed out of the driveway. I turned left at the strip and took it far as Route 93, which I got on and headed for Lake Mead. Route 93 is an open highway, and they don’t pay much attention to speed limits in Nevada. I slammed the accelerator down on the floor and the Ferrari leapt forward like a hungry raging beast. The speedometer climbed to one hundred and thirty miles an hour. The wind ran its fingers through my hair as I headed for the lair of Sergei Gubishov, also known as the Great Staracci, and also the guy who got Cherry Delight’s cherry.

  I was a little fearful, because if he had the powers I knew he had, he probably knew I was in town to kill him or otherwise stop him from breaking the banks of Las Vegas. A good sign was that he didn’t kill soon as he saw me. Evidently he still felt a little sentimental about the high school girl he seduced in his cruddy trailer about fifteen years ago. That’s all I had to trade on, because when it came to the potential to destroy, I was nothing compared to him. He was, after all, a real sorcerer. And all I was, after all, was a real sex degenerate with a lot of guts, certain fighting skills, and a cool head usually.

  At a gas station near Lake Mead I tanked up and asked the attendant where Gubishov lived. He gave me directions to a mountain known to the local Indians as the Mountain of High Sorrow. It was just north of the easternmost tributary of Lake Mead. Down the road it was my great good fortune to find a pizza stand. I hadn’t eaten anything since the half of a dinner I had with Vanello. I ordered a whole pizza with mushrooms, sausage, and anchovies, and while it was in the oven I smoked a cigarette and wondered what Vanello was doing right then. I hoped he was worrying about me and lusting after me, the bum.

  When the pizza was ready and paid for I put it on the seat next to me, covered my bust with napkins, and drove off. When I hit a hundred and thirty miles an hour in the next twelve seconds, I commenced to dine. It wasn’t a bad pizza, but certainly not up to New York standards. But then, nothing in the world is up to New York standards. When finished, I washed the pizza down with two bottles of pop, burped, wiped off my mouth, and stuffed all the garbage under the seat because I’m not a litterbug and you shouldn’t be either.

  My itinerary led me to the end of a paved road, and I continued my journey on a dirt road. Far in the distance atop the Mountain of High Sorrow I saw lights. That was the lair of Gubishov. That’s where I would have my showdown with him and I could hardly wait. I didn’t know what I’d say to him, but I couldn’t let that slow me down. I was rumbling over that dirt road at a hundred miles an hour and poor old Vanello was going to need a new set of Pirellis pretty damn soon.

  A half hour later I approached the Gubishov mansion. I approached cautiously because I wasn’t sure of his feelings toward me. He might’ve reached the decision to zap me dead, for all I knew.

  His mansion was surrounded by a steel fence twenty feet tall. I drove around it a few times wondering how the hell to get over it. Then I stopped near the front gate and looked at the lock. It was a very formidable steel lock and I didn’t think I could shoot it off. Neither did I think I could pick it. On a whim I turned the knob, and the gate opened.

  It wasn’t even locked, and it just goes to show you how paranoid you can get sometimes. He probably never locked it. With his mental powers he could zap anybody who came skulking around. I just hoped he wouldn’t zap me.

  I got back in the Ferrari and piloted it over the circular driveway until I came to his mansion, which was designed something like an old Spanish estancia with thick adobe walls, oval porticos, lots of palm trees for decoration, and all that jive. It was very large and could’ve made the cover of an architectural magazine if it hadn’t already.

  I stopped in front of the front door and got out of the Ferrari. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I walked to the front door and pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened so I pressed it again. And again. The door opened and a guy who looked like Digger O’Dell was standing there in a black butler outfit.

  “Miss Delissio?” he asked, clasping his hands together and smiling.

  “That’s what they used to call me,” I replied flippantly.

  “Please be so kind as to follow me.”

  He led me through the vestibule and into a large living room that looked very Spanish estancia with lots of heavy wooden furniture and paintings of bullfighters and gauchos on the walls. The living room was empty. We went down another corridor and came to a thick oak door.

  “He’s in there,” the butler said, pointing to the door.

  “Should I just go in?”

  “Yes. He’s expecting you.”

  I opened the door and there he was, sitting in a big chair, still in his tuxedo. He wore a red rose in his buttonhole. Sitting beside him was his spaced-out blonde chickie. The room was dark, there was a desk, and dusty bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. In one corner there was laboratory equipment on a table. Beside him on the floor was a hookah, and he put the end of the tube in his mouth. He inhaled some smoke, exhaled it through his nostrils, and said, “Hello Cherisse.”

  “Hi Boris.”

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  He pointed to a chair opposite him. I sat in it and crossed my legs.

  “How beautiful you’ve become, Cherisse,” he said.

  “Thank you, Boris.”

  “And you’ve come to kill me, isn’t that so?”

  “I could never kill you, Boris. I loved you once and I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

  “Then why do you have so many weapons in your shoulder bag?”

 

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