Pleasure Thieves

She stripped off the rest of her clothing and tried to keep her hands off her body for a second. She stood in front of the mirror, naked, her wavy blond hair perfectly combed, every hair in place. She bent her head like a horse bucking and threw it back, shaking her head furiously, grinding her ass as in a primitive dance. Her hands cupped around the cheeks of her fleshy ass and she moved them deep inside the crack until the tips could play with her pussy, teasingly touching the rim of her opening, and now and again stuck her finger up her throbbing passage that pulsated against it like a worm squirming on the end of a hook.

It was time. She couldn't stand it any longer. She grabbed the little box wrapped in brown paper and ripped it open. There, inside, was a piece of hair, not as silky perhaps as the hair on her head, but almost as soft. She had debated with herself what the color should be and decided upon the exact tone and color of the hair on her head. After all, they couldn't possibly be identical. One area was always exposed to the world and the other never.

She held the small triangular piece of hairy blondness before her and shook it slightly in the air. Carol stood with it in front of the mirror and placed it over her hairless exposed mound, the small suction cups adhering to her skin. It looked wonderfully real. Genuine. No one would suspect that this was not her own pubic hair. It took a great deal of courage to expose herself in this way, but she got what she wanted.

When as a child she had diphtheria and all her hair fell out, everyone was concerned about whether her hair would grow back in, and it had, all except in the one private area. At first she felt great shame in not being like other women, but she certainly was not like other women in many ways. Then, of course, there were those who would be excited by the lack of the curly hairs intimacy. "But now it can be either way, as I choose. Perhaps I shall keep it only for me, although I'm sure it's guaranteed not to be chewed off." She laughed at her pornography, and placed the palm of her hand over her new pussy hairs. She felt the warmth of her flesh come through the hairs of her merkin.

Her head was tousled and wild from her previous abandoned movements. Her newest possession fitted perfectly over her hungry cunt.

She lay on her back, her legs parted wide on top of the dark green velvet spread of the studio couch, gently moving the hardened point on the top of her clitoris round and round. Her hips rotated automatically beneath her and she was breathing heavily. The mouth of her vagina began to open wider. She wanted to push the Empire State building in there tonight, but what was she to use? Her fingers were not enough, not now. She thought frantically of some object she could thrust into her that her cunt could suck satisfactorily on as she became hotter and closer to that moment when everything inside her would open forth and fall away deep inside, the indescribable sensation shaking her body with tremulous pleasure. Her hands were wet with her juices.

A plaster mannequin stood behind the couch, as naked as Carol. It was used for draping dresses during the day. She stretched behind her and pulled off its arm, smashing it at the elbow, and rammed the forearm up into her in time for the mouth of her cunt to lock stubbornly over it, as she came savagely.

Chapter III

The day Harry got out of prison, he stopped in at the office and picked up the two hundred and fifty dollars that Carol Stoddard had left for him. Then he put on a grey well-tailored suit, a pale blue shirt, paisley tie, hung a raincoat over his arm, took a waiting taxi to the train and got off at Grand Central Station looking like a slightly distracted, young but promising advertising man. The women watched him the way they always did, the prison pallor looked as if it had been achieved in congenially darkened bars. He was fit. Eight months of no drinking, early to bed and early to rise makes a man a better jewel thief, a better lay.

At Grand Central he caught another cab and directed the driver to a bar on Fifty Third Street. The bar was nearly empty. Harry looked at his watch and saw that it was four o'clock, time for afternoon tea. After the first bourbon and water, he went to the telephone and called the number Carol Stoddard had impressed on him. A young debutante voice said, "Good afternoon, Femme."

Harry looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. "Is this Plaza 5-7000?"

"Yes." The young voice was already annoyed. "Plaza 5-7000, Femme."

"I'd like to speak to Miss Stoddard." He felt helpless, a little angry, caught in a bad joke.

"One moment, please," said the voice, considerably more respectful.

It was as if he had said "Open Sesame." He called out for another bourbon from the phone booth, and could hear the buzz of the Femme office. Another young voice, a bit cooler if possible, came on the line.

"Miss Stoddard's office – who is calling please?"