Evan Hunter - Candyland

The door opens suddenly, startling him.

Cindy comes into the room first.

"I hope you waited for us," she says, pretending to scold him. "Six hundred, please," she says, "I hate to ask," and extends her hand to him, palm upward. He slides down to the end of the bed, and reaches for his trousers where they're draped over the seat of the chair. He removes from his wallet six hundred-dollar bills, and hands them over to Cindy. "Let me take this downstairs," she says. "You two get started, I'll be right back." She licks her lips, winks at him, and leaves the room again. He wonders how long she'll be gone this time. He wonders whether all this coming and going is on the clock. Wonders if he'll get time off for good behavior.

"So I hear you have some ideas," Fatima says, sitting beside him on the bed.

She is not smiling, She sits on her heels beside him on the bed, hands flat on her thighs, studying him with those pale blue eyes of hers. He feels himself growing hot under her steady gaze. He feels himself growing hard.

“I hear you want to forget tomorrow,” she murmurs, and nods at his cock.

The nod frightens him.

"I have some ideas," she says.

He is angry with his cock for betraying him, annoyed at himself for not being more in control of his emotions, sitting here ridiculously and visibly hard under Fatima's steady gaze, exposed to her view, vulnerable to whatever ideas she may be entertaining. He thinks he knows what those ideas might be. He has met this woman in fantasies on one or two occasions before in his lifetime, three or four, has met Fatima during half a dozen daydreams, a dozen perhaps. He knows what vile and unspeakable acts she might ask him to perform, knows that if he allows this dumb fucking rigid cock of his to control him, he'll do whatever she orders him to do, right this minute, now. What's wrong with me? he wonders. What the hell is wrong with me?

She is rising to her knees on the bed now, her hands moving from her thighs to her crotch, her fingers spreading her lips for him. He has imagined this dark and merciless gaze before.

"So how about it?" Fatima asks. "You want to lick my cunt?"

Above the bed, the Gypsy Girl smiles lewd approval.

"Let's wait for Cindy," he says.

"Sure," she says, and sits beside him again, and casually takes his cock in her hand. "Where you from, Michaels?" she asks. Stroking him. Casually.

"Los Angeles."

"Nobody's from Los Angeles."

"You mean originally? Mamaroneck."

"Is that your real name? Michael?"

"Sure."

"Sure," she says. "The way mine is Fatima."

He's tempted to ask what her real name is.

"What do you do, Michael?" she says.

"I'm an insurance adjuster," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah Marine insurance. There are lots of boaters in L.A. Lots of boating accidents, too."

"I'll bet. So what do you do, you investigate boating accidents?"

"Yes."

“You're full of shit," she says.

"I know," he says, and smiles.

She does not return the smile. He notices that she never smiles.

"Okay,” she says, “so don't tell me."

"I'm an architect," he says.

"Okay, that's possible," she says.

"It's true."

"So what do you design?"

"Houses, churches, buildings."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You married, Michael?"

"Yes."

"You got kids?"

"One. A daughter."

"How old?"

"Twenty-one."

"You ain't that old yourself."

"Ho-ho," he says.

"Ho-ho," she echoes.

But does not smile.

"That why you like fucking young girls, Michael?" she says.

He looks at her.

"Cause you got a twenty-one-year-old daughter?"

He does not answer her for a moment.

Then he says, quite seriously, "I don't know why I fuck young girls."

Or older girls, too, he thinks. Or mature women. Or even a sixty year-old grandmother one time at the Bel Air in Los Angeles.

Her thighs are very white above the black elastic-topped stockings. There is a purple bruise on her right thigh. He wonders if she has a pimp who beats her. He didn't think these places were run by pimps. The Mafia, he thinks. He imagines the Mafia running weekly ads in New York magazine. She keeps stroking him almost idly.

"What's your real name?" he asks.

"Why? You wanna get married?" she says. But does not smile. "Josie, okay?" she says.

"Should I call you Josie?"

"No. Here, I'm Fatima."

"What do you do when you're not here, Fatima?"

"Why? You wanna go out sometime?"

"I'm just curious."

"You wanna go out with a whore, Michael? Is that it? Take me to dinner? Take me to the movies?"

"Is that how you see yourself?"

"No, I see myself as a brain surgeon."

"Where'd you get the name Fatima?"

"Who knows? Where'd you get the name Michael?"

"My best friend's name was Michael."

"Did he die or something?"

"No, no. I knew him when I was six."

"Fatima suits me, don't you think?"

"It's more exotic."

"Like me, right?"

"You do look exotic."

"I know. People think I'm from Morocco."

"I thought Arabian or something."

"You know where I really come from?"

"Where?"

"Brooklyn. I was born in Brooklyn. How old are you, Michael?"

"Forty-three."

"You don't need Viagra, though, do you?"

"Not yet."

"All you need is a young girl, right?"

"Not necessarily."

"How old do you think I am, Michael?"

"I have no idea."

"I'm not as young as your daughter, that's for sure. But how old do you think I am? Seriously."

"Tell me."

"I'm thirty-two."

"You look much younger."

"I know."

"You really do."

"It's because I'm so thin."

"You are thin, yes, but…"

"I'm too thin, right?"

"No, I wouldn't say that."

"My tits are okay, though, don't you think?" she says, and drops his cock suddenly, and cups both firm breasts, and looks down at them. "For someone as thin as I am? I mean, they're proportionately right for my body, don't you think?"

"Yes, they're very attractive."

"And my nipples are great," she says. "I really have terrific nipples." She suddenly releases her breasts, shrugs, grabs his cock again. "What's your real name, Michael?"

"Well, I don't think we really want to get into that, do we?"

"What do we really want to get into, Michael? Tell me what you'd like to do when Cindy gets back."

"Well, we'll just have to figure that out, won't we?"

"Cause zee clock she will be ticking. Comprende, amigo ?"

"Where is she, anyway?"

"She'll be back. Let's just keep this nice and hard for her, okay? How come you picked the name of a six-year-old friend?" she asks.

"He was seven."

"Are You still friends?"

"I haven't seen him since I grew up."

"But You use his name."

"Sometimes."

"When You come to places like this, huh?"

"I guess."

"That's very interesting," she says. "Lie down on the couch and tell me about it." She is not smiling, she never smiles. 'I'll sit on your face while you talk. Would you like me to sit on your face, Michael?"

"Well. "

"While Cindy blows you?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I taste of cinnamon wine, Michael," she says, and licks her lips.

"Really? What's cinnamon wine taste like?"

"Like me," she says. "Or would you rather fuck me in the ass? A hundred-dollar tip and you can stick this big thing in my ass, Michael, would you like that? Do you like to fuck young girls in the ass, Michael?"

The door opens suddenly, and Cindy rushes into the room, seemingly out of breath. "Big crowd downstairs, all at once," she explains, "We'd better get started here." She glances at his cock in Fatima's hand, nods appreciatively, and says, "Not bad for a beginner." He doesn't know if she's talking about him or Fatima, who now slides off the bed, her pale blue eyes searching his as if confirming a pact they've already made. She turns away at once, removes the peony-patterned robe, and tosses it over the back of the chair. Cindy glances at him more intimately than Fatima did, seeming to measure his cock with her eyes. She tosses her own sheer black robe over Fatima's. As if by signal — but he has seen none — the girls move to either side of the bed, Rockettes performing a rehearsed maneuver, blond hair and black, bookends in reverse. Cindy wriggles her red panties down over her knees, steps out of them, leaves them on the floor. Both girls stand akimbo, legs widespread in frank and open invitation.