The Hunt

They entered a room that smelled of perfumed body oil and candle wax. At its center was a carpeted circle perhaps twelve feet across and on it were two large mats covered with yellow satin sheets. Around its perimeter were a dozen head-high candlesticks, which provided the only light in the room. Behind them, three tiers deep, were the loges, each with a full-length, thick-piled couch big enough to seat four. Eight to each tier.

The price for the one-hour show was a hundred dollars a person, payable in either American dollars or British pounds, enough money to feed a German family for a month.

A tall, lean hawk of a man in tails strolled among the boxes, greeting the patrons, his long, aesthetic fingers caressing the hands of the women as he brushed his lips across them. Conrad Weil was the owner of the club and had spawned the show that was to follow, a manifestation of his own corrupt fantasies. The Gold Gate was a private club, by invitation only, and the man who extended the invitation was Weil. He also could waive the rules at the door if you looked prosperous or important—or if he did not have a full house, since there was only one performance a night.

Drinks were provided by three men and three women, their bodies oiled and glistening in the gloomy light of a half dozen blue spotlights. The women, although heavier than Americans preferred, were young, voluptuous and handsome. The men were built like Charles Atlas and looked like they had a combined IQ of twelve. All were blond and wore loincloths. The women were bare-breasted.

They took orders and delivered drinks without expression, their robotic attitude ingeniously designed to separate them from the audience, to assure their inaccessibility and heighten the erotic expectation of the show that was to follow.

Vanessa immediately responded. Her cheeks flushed. Her breath came a little faster. Mesmerized by the promise of the evening, she was the perfect spectator, an affirmation of Weil’s perverse creation. And she did not escape his eye. The moment they entered the arena, Weil saw them, watched her as she walked to the couch and sat down, her dress twinkling, reflecting the blue lights like stars on a clear night. She sat with her chin up, accentuating the long, regal sweep o f her neck. She was keenly aware of her allure, flaunted it in fact, and Weil was hooked and reeled to her like a trout on line.

“Francis, an honor to see you again,”’ he gushed, without taking his eyes off Vanessa. And to her, “I am Conrad, your host,” as he kissed her hand.

“Conrad, this is Vanessa, a friend of nine from the States.”

“Ah, Fräulein Vanessa, what a marvelous distraction,” he said. “You will make life difficult for our performers. No one can take their eyes off you.”

She was properly dazzled by his schmaltz.

And Bert Rudman was dazzled by her. He sat across the room next to a heavy-set, Teutonic man with a thick mustache who slumped on the couch with his chin on his chest, nodding as if by rote as Rudman jabbered in his ear. Then Rudman saw Keegan. He looked at him with exaggerated surprise. And then he saw Vanessa and his mouth gaped.

Keegan smiled, first across the room at Rudman, then at Vanessa. When their eyes met, he realized the room and the anticipation of the show were having an effect on him, too. He wondered if the sudden hunger showed on his face.

The music began softly, built slowly’. It was Oriental, an eerie melody dominated by bells and drums. Its tempo, slow and sensuous, segued into a soft, steady beat and two blue spotlights faded on, each focused on one of the pallets. Three women and three men wearing yellow silk robes seemed to materialize from the shadows, emerging into the spotlight, standing back to back. They were all dark-haired, not an Aryan in the bunch. The women, more sensuous than beautiful, looked French. The men were more Mediterranean-looking, possibly Greek or Italian.

Weil had selected the cast of his erotic show personally. During a search that had lasted several months, he had assembled six women and six men for his show, rotating the members of the cast each night since only three couples were required for each performance. Weil himself had choreographed the exhibition, sitting in different places in the auditorium and giving directions as the sex-actors performed for him.

At first their moves were subtle. They began to sway slightly with the music. As the tempo picked up, their movements became more pronounced, more provocative. They brushed briefly against each other at first, barely touching, then moving away. In the soft light of the masked spots, they looked at first like a moving sculpture.

Vanessa stared at them transfixed.

They moved out slowly, widening the circle of the spotlight, and broke into groups rather than pairing up. Two women and one man, two men and one woman. The two men began stroking and petting the most petite of the three women, moving their hands lightly over the silken robe, touching every part of her body. She swayed with them and began to hum very slowly as they kissed her neck and shoulders, slipped their hands under the robe, burnishing her body with oil. Finally, they removed her robe. One of her partners stood behind her, glossing her stomach and breasts with oil. Her breasts swelled, the nipples hardening. The other partner used the oil to glaze the insides of her thighs, moving up slowly, slowly, higher, until .

A tiny cry slipped from her throat. She fell back against the other man while the one continued to knead oil into her with the flat of one hand, his fingers tantalizing her. Her knees buckled and they lowered her to the mat, never losing a stroke, always massaging her breasts and mound. The tempo of the music increased.

The other two women concentrated on their subject, who stared unblinking as their fingertips flitted across the silk.

One of the women opened her robe and moved against him, swaying to the music. The other girl dropped her robe off her shoulders and stood naked, caressing both their backs, also swaying in cadence with them. The first woman shrugged her shoulders and dropped her hands straight to her sides. Her robe slid down her back and fell away.

They removed the man’s robe slowly until it too fell away. It was obvious he was aroused. One of the women leaned down and took a bottle of oil from under the corner of the mat. Both girls oiled their hands, then began to spread the oil over his body, starting just under his chin and moving down to his fingertips, across the flat of his stomach and down to his groin. He closed his eyes and his head fell back and they lowered him to the silk sheet. Hands and lips seemed to devour him, stroking, kneading, urging him toward a climax.

“Seen enough?” Keegan whispered in Vanessa’s ear.

She opened her mouth but nothing came out, so she just shook her head, never blinking or taking her eyes off the sexual gladiators. The music grew faster and with the increase in the beat, the activity in the center of the arena became more frenzied. Vanessa’s fingers dug into Keegan’s thigh and she sank deeper into the down cushions of the sofa.

The two ménages a trois became totally impassioned, oblivious to the room full of voyeurs. The two women urged their male performer erect with lips and hands while he felt for each of them, touching them, arousing them until they stretched out beside him, one stroking, the other kissing him.

On the other silk pallet, the woman began to moan, rocking her hips slowly back and forth while the men kissed and petted and stroked her entire body. She arched her back, her breathing erratic and labored. Finally one of her partners lay on his side, lifted her leg over his hip and entered her. Her cry—half anguish, half joy—shocked the spectators. But only for a moment. She moved with him, head back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her lips trembling as the other partner kissed her body, first her breasts, then her stomach, moving down until all three were moving in concert.

“Oh my God,” Vanessa muttered under her breath. She moved tighter against Keegan, began to stroke his thigh with her fingertips. Keegan put his arm around her shoulder. She snuggled under it, her breasts crushing against his side. She was breathing heavily as they watched the performers reach their climax.

And it was over. Somehow, the performers were gone and the lights were up. The audience began murmuring.

“Now you know the secret of the Gold Gate,” Keegan whispered, but she was too entranced to answer.

They drove back to the hotel along deserted streets, the SA predators having finished their foraging for the night. She clung to him and he took her mouth between a thumb and forefinger, puckering it up and softly kissing the swollen lips. She responded with a moan, her tongue searching for his, her arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him to her.

“I want to see your room,” she whispered.

“It’s just like yours.”

“No it isn’t. Deenie isn’t in it.”

“You know, the Our Gang kids were right. Your father would drop dead on the spot if he saw us now.”

“Who’s going to tell?”

“How about Deenie?”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rip her little heart out and she knows it.”

A bottle of Taittinger champagne wallowed on its side in half- melted ice in a silver bucket. A towel was thrown casually over it. She poured a glass but there was not a bubble in it.

“Flat,” she moaned.

Keegan got a lemon from a plate in the kitchenette, pared six or seven inches of peeling from it, and dropped the yellow curl into the champagne glass. It began fizzing crazily the moment the peel hit the wine.

“How clever,” she said.

“I used to be in the business,” he smiled.

“I keep forgetting.”

“No you don’t. Not for a minute.”

She snuggled against him, put her hands in the small of his back and leaned into him, staring up, her mouth slightly ajar. She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her tongue across his chest and around his nipples. “They get hard, just like mine,” she said with surprise. She dropped the slender straps of her dress over her shoulders and wiggled out of it. It fell around her ankles. She was naked underneath, her body youthfully trim, her breasts full, and she stood on her toes and rubbed her hard nipples against his.

She reached up and put her hand gently behind his head, drew it down and kissed him, her lips soft and full. He wrapped his arms around her, lifted her slightly and, slipping his leg between hers, lowered her on his thigh.

She whimpered and looked at him through smoky eyes. “Oh yes. Oh yessiree, Francis.”

She moved his hands with hers, cried with joy every time they found the perfect spot, her response reckless and candid and open. She moved with her feelings, unhampered and uninhibited, embracing and coddling her own passion without a trace of modesty or conscience. She asked him what to do, followed his whispered instructions and then experimented on her own. And she transferred her joy to him. Stroking, kissing, touching, she finally rolled over on top of him, squirming to his touch until suddenly almost by accident he was inside her.

She was stretched out on her stomach beside him, propped up on her elbows.

“Frankie,” she said earnestly, “that was even better than I imagined it would be all these years.”

“You mean you coveted me as a child?” he said, feigning shock.

“I was thirteen. That’s not such a child.”

“I’m glad I didn’t know,” he said. “I probably would have had a terrible guilt complex.”

“Why should you have had a guilty conscience over the way I felt?”

He stared up at the ceiling for a moment and said, “That’s a good point. Something subconscious, maybe. I don’t think I care to pursue it.”

She laughed and ran her fingernail very lightly across his bottom lip and he almost jumped out of bed.

“Tickle?” she asked.

“My nerve endings are still twitching.”

“I know, isn’t it terrific! Want to do it again?” She suggested eagerly.

“Give me a little while to recuperate.”

“Humph,” she said, pretending to pout. She leaned closer to him and put her chin on his chest.

She lay across him, her legs straddling his, her warm body pressed against him, smelling of expensive perfume. He stroked the small of her back, caressed the perfect swell of her buttocks.

“No one’s ever made love to me like that before,” she murmured, suddenly.

“Made love to a lot of men, have you?”

“Two,” she confessed. “Little boys, always in such a hurry. I didn’t know you could make it last that long, or that it would get better and better . . . ‘n better .

She closed her eyes, squirming a bit to get comfortable. In a few moments her breathing was deep and constant and he felt her body soften in sleep.

He slid out from under her and walked to the window. The sun was ablaze at the edge of rooftops, throwing slender crimson shadows down the wet streets. The city seemed clean and innocent and silent, its solace disturbed for a minute or two by an ice truck that rattled up the street and vanished around a corner. Then all was quiet again.

He drew the drapes and took off his robe and slid back in bed beside Vanessa. She groaned in her sleep, slid one leg across his hip and cuddled up close to him. In minutes, he too was asleep. It was eight-thirty when the phone rang for the first time. It rang every thirty minutes after that but Keegan didn’t hear it. He was dead to the world.