Carl Van Marcus - Lady Disk jockey

“Somebody should have,” he said curtly, wiping a trickle of blood from his left ear. Angry, he stood and then began pulling his clothes on quickly. “What did you do? Grow up in a convent?”

It was a shot in the dark, for Sally Sue had never told anyone connected with her job. Now she began to cry softly as she rolled onto her smooth belly, the firm conical mounds of her breasts flattening on the sheet. She was blaming herself, not the young studio engineer. He had only wanted to give her pleasure in a way she knew most people seemed to take great delight, and she had put him down. He was slipping into his sports jacket, with one hand on the doorknob when she turned on her side and softly called to him.

“Stan . . please don’t be angry. It was like . .. well, like too much too soon . . and feel lousy because I know it was for me and not you. Can I have some time to adjust, or do I get bleeped?”

He waited a long half minute before saying, “You’re worth some time, Sally Sue.”

“Thank you,” she said humbly. “Kiss goodnight?”

He kissed her, but only his lips touched her, and his tongue didn’t seek hers. And then he was gone, letting himself out. The front door clicked shut quickly as both the big dog and Cheatin’ Cheetah growled simultaneously.

For hours Sally Sue lay awake, despite her weariness, wondering just what was wrong with her.

Stan had been more than any woman could have hoped for in bed, particularly one as love-starved as herself. It had been pleasurable having his long thick cock filling her emptiness, yet she had been unable to reach the climax she desperately needed.

Yet, she could cum when the BMW was cranked on, throbbing and pulsing between her legs. Was this just a very expensive way of mechanical masturbation, or the death wish?

And in those furious minutes when his mouth had been glued tightly to her cum-filled pussy, sucking as his tongue laved her lewdly — SHE HAD FELT A WANTON, UNFORGIVABLE DESIRE TO LET HIM CONTINUE!

She was certain that in minutes, his deft tongue would have given her the renewal of her long suppressed sexuality that his admittedly magnificent penis hadn’t.

Sally Sue had been exposed to bits and pieces of psychology when in school and well realized that few things are as dangerous as having a little bit of knowledge. But now she wondered if subconsciously she was somehow connecting Stan Oakes with Bob.

There was a slight physical resemblance —both were tall and lean, and although Bob had been dark and Stan was sandy-haired, there was something of the same smoothness about them. Both lived beyond their apparent incomes, and Stan was just about the same age Bob had been when they were courting.

Sally Sue Bennett sadly decided in the dark of night she’d had one trip through hell and didn’t intend to buy a ticket for a second.

But the night had finally made her face the fact that she had to have a man.

One to whom she would be precious.

Someone young, perhaps, who hadn’t developed bad habits.

The morality of the case was something she would have to appraise when she saw the situation . . .

While there were fringe benefits to Sally Sue Bennett’s job, there were also fringe duties to be performed, none of which she particularly minded, as it gave her a chance to get out and meet people. She knew this was something she should do, because it was not healthy to be just broadcasting from a bar like the Trap and a pizza joint. Because of her raven-haired beauty she was the only public relations asset aging Harold Eaton had for his radio station. Sally Sue had not yet realized that if she quit, she would take about seventy percent of his sponsors with her. She had no idea of her own power.

She was called upon to do everything from narrating fashion shows to opening pancake houses or, properly attired in next to nothing, turn the first spade of dirt for a new freeway.

On this day, she was stuck with being auctioneer at a bring-and-buy sale for the benefit of the local animal refuge. Scores of people had brought useful items they no longer needed or wanted. Merchants had contributed everything from TV sets to Tiffany lamps and paperback books. Hundreds, possibly a thousand, prospective buyers crowded) the stage and pawed through the stalls, seeking bargains and looking for a free show.

Sally Sue Bennett gave it to them in the hot sun.

She appeared on stage in a micro mini, flashing her professional smile. To her left walked the huge Airdale dog. On her right, the cheetah. Neither were on leads, and some nervous spectators moved back to what they thought was a safe distance.

“Let’s hear it for the animals who’re going hungry!” she said exuberantly into the mike. “This is all tax deductible, you understand, so when the basket passes, be generous, please! Hey! Somebody’s AWOLooose, as they say in the Army! Come on, dirty bird!”

As Sally Sue spoke she slipped a heavy leather gauntlet onto her left hand and held it high, meanwhile spinning a thick’ chunk of meat on a leather thong over her head. Seconds later the red-tailed hawk dropped like a plummet from his orbit overhead, his steel-like talons clutching her wrist while he hungrily consumed the meat with a razor sharp beak.

Smiling, she held the bird aloft to applause, hoping the blood wouldn’t show. The hawk never missed, but she’d been careless in fastening the gauntlet and one of his talons had penetrated her wrist. But the show had to go on. And she was stuck with the semi-wild bird, because he wouldn’t go to anyone else.

Well, the show did go on. It was on radio and TV too. She would shut her mind to the pain, and if a little blood showed, maybe the people would pay higher prices. People liked to see blood, Sally Sue knew. She fixed the professional smile again.

“You can find thousands and thousands of goodies in the stalls, all donated by friends of the animals, and you can have any or all at a fraction of their worth! Now, ordinarily, we wouldn’t show anything like this so early, but here’s an old piano that came from a famous house I can’t really say home — in Virginia City, Nevada. It dates back to the days of the fabulous Comstock lode, and we’ve even got the last professor who played it while the cartwheels were dropping and the champagne was popping . . . haul that bear out of its cave, you guys!”

An ancient upright piano, gilded with silver was pushed on stage. Terry Claff was one of the pushers. Then a man who had to walk with the aid of a blackthorn cane followed, in derby hat, sleeve garters and high shoes. His body seemed to be arthritic until he sat on the stool, and then his fingers danced as, still holding the tightly clutching hawk, Sally Sue Bennett smoothly swung up to sit with dimpled knees crossed on its top. With an undistinguished but husky voice she sang some Gay ‘90’s songs, then switched to “You Made Me What I Am Today”.

To thunderous applause, which she honestly thought was for her legs rather than her voice, she bounced to the floor, with traveling mike in one hand and hawk in the other and started the hard sell.

“We have a minimum bid of a thousand dollars on this old pianner, people. That from the owner, who anonymously donated it . . . and the lucky high bidder will be buying a bit of Western history . . . now, we can’t spend all afternoon at this, because there are so many other goodies, so each offer will have to be in the amount of one hundred dollars or more! Do I hear fifteen hundred? I do. bless you, sir!” said Sally Sue pointing vaguely to the rear of the crowd. “How about two — do I hear two! I DO! Lots of history lovers here, I guess! You, the handsome guy in the second row, did you say twenty-five? No? Would you settle for twenty-four . . . come on, let’s pump it up for the puppy dogs and pussycats . . . and there’ve been a lot of pussycats parked on that piano . . . who’s that said three thou? Oh, thank YOU! Now all we need is Howard Hughes . . . Don’t throw beer bottles at the professor — he’s playing as fast as he can! You said what . . . What . . . thirty-four hundred dollars! Mister, you’re trying to buy on the cheap! Do I hear four thousand . . .”