Kitty Spencer - Three-way weekend

The subject of money had not been openly discussed again. Now as they sat in the little garden behind the cafe, Elaine opened her purse and palmed a twenty dollar bill. Unobtrusively, she put her hand under the table and touched his leg. When his hand came to hers, she passed him the bill.

The waiter brought the two glasses of cognac which they had ordered. Nino gave the twenty to the waiter.

"What shall we toast to," she asked, raising her glass.

Nino raised his glass, touching hers. "To… to tonight," he answered, a wide smile spreading across his expressive features.

Elaine hesitated a moment. She knew what the Italian boy meant by the phrase "tonight"; and it was obvious that soon, before tonight, she would have to make a decision as to how far she could let their friendship go… if the decision hadn't already been made by her love-starved body. Finally she answered, "To tonight." When she raised the glass to her lips, the young blonde noticed her hand was trembling.

They were still drinking an hour later, both of them sitting pensively in silence… occasionally moving to take a sip of their sixth cognac. The garden seemed suddenly empty without the constant chatter. The other couples in the cafe had gone; the lone man still sat drinking steadily, quietly absorbed in some alcoholic world of his own.

Elaine snuggled closer to Nino. He smiled. The cognac was doing its work… enveloping her body and mind in languid sensuality. He slipped his hand to her ripely firm thigh, so wonderfully warm even through her thin summer frock. She glanced down at his hand but made no move to remove it.

His hand reached her knee, then slid underneath her cotton dress. She felt his fingers probing her inner thigh.

"Tonight, we will go to my apartment."

Nino's statement was blunt. Elaine felt she should refuse, but abruptly she also knew she could not! She did not want to refuse.

His words became more coaxing. "We will eat dinner there. It will be nicer at the apartment."

Elaine nodded, durably. Neither of them was thinking of dinner. She looked at the youth's fine Italian features as he bent his head toward her. The steady look in his dark eyes sent a stab of excitement shooting through her belly. Swiftly, he leaned close and flicked his tongue between her lips. Then he straightened up and gave her his hand. She staggered slightly as she rose.

When they went from the cafe up the hill toward California Street, they walked slowly… their arms wrapped around each other's waists.

As Carlo walked toward the apartment he shared with Nino, he reflected on the afternoon's tour. As he had expected, it had proved fruitful. Of the eighteen girls he had quickly picked out two: fourteen-year-old Sharon, a slender blonde with a boy's hips and small pointy breasts; and sixteen-year-old Connie, a precocious redhead with the full figure of a mature woman. The rest had been easy.

As the tour had progressed, it became clear that Sharon and Connie were the leaders of a small clique of six or seven girls. They were very interested in Carlo, almost suffocating him with their attention. Dutifully he had droned on with information, pretending not to notice the frenetic flirting. He had been pleased to see that the girls were obviously piqued by his apparently disinterested attitude.

But his opening had not come until they were back at the hotel. As he was leaving Mr. and Mrs. Clark's room after planning the next days tour, one of the hallway doors opened and a finger beckoned. Carlo recognized the giggle coming through the half-opened door. It was Connie.

Eight girls were sprawled around the room. They were in varying stages of undress, supposedly getting ready for dinner. It seemed that Connie had been elected spokeswoman for the group.

"Carlo," she said as soon as he entered the room, "we want to ask you something. Can you tell us where we can go to have some fun in this dump? We're sick and tired of this ten o'clock bedtime deal. Anyone would think we were kids! Aren't there any nightclubs or something?"

Carlo lounged against the door, looking slowly around the room. Then he started talking. The situation was tailor-made for him.

Making the necessary arrangements with the girls had been easy. His only problem had been holding them back until the next night. They'd wanted to go right away. But now it was all laid on the line. The following evening, the girls would pretend to go to bed as usual, after dinner. Once they were sure Mr. and Mrs. Clark were out of the way, they'd sneak out of the hotel. Carlo would be waiting for them outside. He had promised them a party they would never forget…

The party though would take considerable planning and there were many telephone calls to be made. He would make them from the apartment, even though this was Nino's night.

He quickened his pace, knowing he had to reach the apartment before Nino. According to their agreement, Carlo had no right to it tonight, should not even be near it! It was one of their strictest rules, one he, himself, had absolutely insisted on. Now he was going to be the first to break it.

But it's important, he argued with himself! If I don't make the calls immediately, it will be too late. I must speak to Marceau tonight. And the Count. And everyone else. The apartment is the only place I dare use.

And anyway, he mused, Nino would probably be late. The way his friend went about working an a girl, he might not get her to the apartment until after midnight. Meanwhile, all that was necessary was a half hour on the telephone. Nothing else!

As he walked, Carlo wondered whether he might not claim one of the school girls for himself. They were attractive, sexy little things. They knew how to arouse a man. At that age they did it instinctively and were exciting in bed without being blase about it.

The pleasure of taking a young girl was something Carlo had not experienced for many months. Not since the summer before, in fact. There had been hundreds of other women in the interim, naturally, almost all of them older than Carlo. There had also been several men, but a job is a job.

The party he was about to organize should be very interesting. The Italian youth was entirely absorbed in his plans by the time he hurriedly opened the street door and strode swiftly through the hall, taking the stairs three at a time. He was so anxious to get to the telephone that he completely forgot to check on the prearranged signal – the open mailbox door which showed whether the apartment was already occupied.

It was not until he reached the apartment landing that he remembered he hadn't checked the mailbox, but by that time he was already inside the door. It was dark in the narrow hallway, but the worried youth didn't need the light. There were two doors leading off the corridor, one at the far end and one on the left-hand side. Both were shut, and no light filtered into the passage. Carlo breathed a sigh of relief. Nino and his girl had not yet arrived.

In two strides, Carlo reached the door on the left, opening into the kitchen. He went straight to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of beer, snapped off the cap and poured out a glassful. He drained the beer in a couple of gulps, then refilled the glass. He felt hot and thirsty.

The kitchen was large, simply furnished and had the bleak look common to rooms that are seldom used. A wooden table and four chairs stood under the window. Carlo could not remember a meal ever having been eaten there.

Carrying his glass of beer in one hand, Carlo went back into the hall and then through the second door. This led into a room twice the size of the kitchen, it was furnished as a living room but also served as a bedroom. A double bed was concealed in a piece of furniture that looked like a sideboard and book-shelf unit. There were also three small easy chairs, two large leather armchairs, a velour-covered divan, a bureau, two leather hassocks, a couple of occasional tables and a massive, highly polished wardrobe that dominated one entire wall.