HCC 115 - Borderline Read online

  She called to him again. This time he went over to her, carrying his glass of beer with him. He set the beer down on the top of the bar and seated himself upon the stool at her side.

  “You look like a nice guy,” she said. “Minute you came in, I said to myself, there’s a nice guy.”

  He did not answer her. He was sizing her up now, trying to decide whether or not she would do. Actually, he thought, she was too old. He would have preferred a young girl, someone around the age of the honey blonde he had seen at the hotel. But the blonde was gone. He couldn’t have the blonde tonight, and this woman was presenting herself, ready for the razor. She would be easy.

  “Want to buy me a drink?”

  He signaled the bartender. The woman was drinking rye and ginger ale. The bartender poured a shot of rye, filled a water tumbler halfway with ginger ale, dropped in a pair of ice cubes, and poured the shot in. He stirred the drink with a plastic swizzle stick and gave it to the woman. Weaver paid for the drink.

  “Here’s to a hell of a nice guy,” the woman said. She raised her glass and nodded her head slightly at Weaver, then sipped her drink. She put the glass down and put her hand on Weaver’s thigh. She patted him gently and smiled at him.

  “You want to know something,” she said. “You want to know something. I like you. I honest to God like you. Minute you came through that door, I said to myself, I like that guy.”

  “That’s nice,” Weaver said.

  “I’m not kidding, either.”

  “Good.”

  Her hand stroked his thigh. “My name is Audrey,” she told him. “You got a name?”

  “Mac,” he said. “You got it right before.”

  “You mean it? Your name’s Mac?”

  “That’s right,” Weaver said. “Mac Johnson.”

  “No kidding,” Audrey said. Her hand, working cleverly, stole inside. She touched him and his own hand went at once to his pocket. He held the razor in his hand, clutching it for support.

  “Mac,” she said, “I got a swell idea. Why should we pay bar prices for liquor? Instead we can go up to my room. I got a bottle there and we can drink for nothing.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. She touched him, skillfully and excitingly, and his grip was tighter on the razor.

  The razor. The razor.

  He pictured it in his mind, bright and shiny.

  The blade flashed in his mind.

  Flash.

  Flash.

  Flash.

  Suddenly the white flash of the razor blade became the white roundness of her breasts.

  A white circle.

  Then the white circle of her breasts became the moon.

  The moon grew in size and got larger and larger.

  Then the color of the moon changed. It became a harvest moon as the white changed to yellow and the yellow changed to orange.

  Then the orange became red.

  Red.

  Bright red.

  Bright blood red, and the red began to drip off of the moon.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  The blood had all run off now and the moon was white again.

  He stared at it.

  Stared and stared.

  Stared so hard the white moon became two white moons.

  He blinked and the moons became her white breasts.

  A voice.

  A voice had spoken to him.

  He blinked again and looked up at the face.

  It was a moon and he talked to it.

  “That’s a good idea,” he said. “Let’s go, Audrey.”

  * * *

  Ringo took a cigar from his breast pocket, bit off the end, spat, put the cigar between his lips, and lit it.

  A good crowd tonight, he thought. A good hot crowd watching a good hot show. Chita and Pancho had gone over nicely, especially the finale, which always got a rise out of the house. And Chita had received a healthy play during the intermission. The suckers were paying through their noses.

  Ringo chewed his cigar. The intermission was just about over now. Time for Cassie and the new broad to do their stuff. He wondered how it would go over. Probably pretty well, he decided.

  He walked to the dressing room, knocked on the door.

  “Girls,” he cooed, “you’re on.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  When the house lights dimmed rapidly to black, Lily hurried to take her place upon the stage. A Mexican stagehand was busy rearranging props and he patted her playfully on the behind while he worked. She ignored him and moved to the proper position. The pale red spot hit her directly and she went into her routine at once.

  The stagehand placed a coat-rack by the side of the bed. Lily stood near it, smiled daintily and innocently at the audience. She made a small-girl curtsy. Then, with disarming nonchalance, she removed the pink and white dress. She took her time disrobing, but there was no suggestion of a strip-tease in the performance. She was simply a young girl undressing for bed.

  Under the dress she wore a pale red bra and matching panties. Her underwear was just right for the particular spotlight focused upon her. She gathered up her dress, hung it neatly upon the coat-rack. She removed the bra with her back to the audience and hung it with the dress. She turned slowly, revealing her large firm breasts to the audience. Her hands stroked her breasts carelessly, then dropped to the elastic waistband of the red panties. She pushed the panties down and stepped out of them. She put them, also, on the rack, and once again she caressed herself with the casualness of a child.

  Quite a production, she thought. If she had known she had such a load of acting ability, she would have gone down to L.A. with Jodi Wells to try out for the Playhouse. Hell, you’d think the cats out front would be happy enough just watching a little sex. But they had to have drama with it, for Christ’s sake!

  Naked now, she knelt at the side of the black-sheeted bed. She folded her hands on the sheet. She lowered her head and stared with amusement at her breasts, which pointed prettily at the floor of the stage. In a clear, childish voice she piped

  Now I lay me down to sleep

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep

  If I should die before I wake

  I pray the Lord my soul to take.

  Too much, she thought. They even had to drag God into the act. She wondered which of Ringo or Cassie had written the script for the goddamn show. Maybe, if it went over big in Juarez, they would take the show next to Broadway. Maybe they’d even sell film rights.

  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 yo
u, 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 di
rty.

  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.