Message-ID: <45343asstr$1068851405@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: kellis X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Fri, 14 Nov 2003 13:56:40 -0500 (EST) Subject: {ASSM} Cannes d'Eau: Impersonated Recruit {Varkel} (Nosex) Date: Fri, 14 Nov 2003 18:10:05 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: RuiJorge, dennyw Cannes d'Eau Episode 5: The Impersonated Recruit a Series by Varkel Fall, 2003 By god, it _was_ a lady sitting on the ground! Senator Heatherford (Retired) stepped up his pace and soon reached the park bench. A woman sat just beyond it, for all the world as if she had slipped off it and found the recovery too much trouble. She wore a blouse of high neck and full sleeves, despite the summer warmth, and a long skirt, both of rich material, both streaked with thin deposits. Her knees were drawn up under the skirt, enclosed by her arms and supporting her chin. Her hair, though frazzled, was tied up in multi-colored ribbons. A bonnet lay on the grass beside her. A later generation would call her outfit that of a "Gibson girl." The senator had seen Charles Dana Gibson's drawings in _Collier's Weekly_ and recognized this woman's fashionable taste, despite the high improbability of finding a Gibson girl sitting on the ground. "Madam, is there a problem?" he asked. Her face tilted back to squint owlishly up. He received a shock. Despite smeared mascara and the present scowl, this face was beautiful -- and not unknown to him. "What do you want, sir?" asked the woman in a contralto voice. She hiccupped before he could answer. "I am addressing Mrs. Martin Witherspoon, am I not?" "Ange ... _Angela_ Witherspoon -- I mean, Smith, if you don't (hiccup) -- if you don't mind!" He bent and took her under the arm. "Come, Angela, let me help you up on this bench." "B-bench?" She looked around blankly. He rocked her forward until she was centered over her drawn up feet. When he lifted forcefully, she assisted herself to rise and plopped, obedient to his guidance, on the park bench. He smelled whisky, woman and something else. Stale semen? "I, I think ..." she began, studying him almost fearfully. "I think I know you." He bowed. "Ex-senator Miles Heatherford, at your service. Please wait here, Angela, while a hail a taxi." "Oh, god, Senator He-Heatherford!" she mumbled. "Don't try to go anywhere. I'll be right back." The one-block city park, across Miller Street from Mrs. Barker's boarding house where the senator presently roomed, had been willed to the public as an undeveloped property. The city had cleared the underbrush, installed a few benches, paved a path across it and occasionally mowed the grass. The senator strolled through it daily in clement weather, his only concession to exercise. Miller Street was not heavily traveled. He hurried to its intersection with Beale Street. An empty hackney, as it happened just passing, turned into Miller at his whistle and wave. "Follow me," he directed with a gesture to the driver on his high perch, and led the vehicle up the street to the bench. The woman rose, glassy-eyed, at his urging. She caught the side rail on the cab but hesitated. Her head turned to regard him, blinking. "Where are you taking me?" "Home, Mrs., ah, Smith, where you'll be safe." "Home!" Her eyes enlarged in horror. "S-senator, I can't ... I can't go home now. Marty's there!" "Well, you can't sit here on the street." "T-take me somewhere else." He pulled her back from the cab. With his other hand he retrieved a coin from his pocket and tossed it up to the interested driver. "It seems we don't need you after all." "Whatever you say, mister." The man clucked at his horse and rolled away. "Take my arm and hold on tight," the senator advised her. He led her across the street. She stumbled at both curbs, lurching against him, but made no protest. When they reached the steps to Mrs. Barker's, she leaned far back and stared along the porch, empty at this hour of late afternoon. "Where's this?" "I have a room here." "Oh." She grinned around at him. In fact, he realized, it was a leer. "Oh, goody!" He put an arm around her back and assisted her up the flight of stairs. For a premium in rental the senator enjoyed ground floor rooms. He guided her along the hall and opened his door for her. Instead of sneering, as he expected, at the thinly decorated "sitting room," she asked, "Can I use your, your facilities?" "Of course." He led her through the connecting door and his bedroom to the open door of the bath, closing it after her, then pulling the nearby bell cord. When the servant knocked, he ordered coffee service for two, took out his pocket watch and grinned at the black girl. "This would be tea time in England. Bring us a couple of slices of last night's chocolate cake, if you have any left." She had returned, set up her service on the sideboard and again departed before he heard anything from the bathroom except a flushed toilet. He knocked on its door. "Are you all right, Mrs. Witherspoon?" The door opened suddenly. The woman stood glaring and licking her lips. The odor of whisky was strong. "Don't call me Wither-- Don't call me that!" He backed up and gestured. "If you'll step this way, Mrs. Smith." She followed him halfway across the bedroom before stopping. "The bed's right here." Her eyes lit. "Can I spare my skirt this time?" He caught her arm. "Come along, Angela. I have coffee and cake waiting for us." "Coffee? I'm not thirsty." "No, I suppose not. But come along anyway." Holding back until the pressure on her arm was irresistible, she finally stumbled after him into the sitting room and allowed him to guide her into a plush chair at the table, set with coffee pot, sugar and cream, cake slices, forks and large cloth napkins. "I think you should drink the coffee black," he said gravely while pouring a cup full. "Tha's how I like it. Huh! Are you try-trying to sober me up?" "So you can go home to Marty." "Marty!" Her voice rang with contempt. "That son of a bitch." "Now, now, your language, Mrs. Smith." "This afternoon my language is nothing." Her eyes grew flinty. "Marty called me a slut when I wanted him to lick, to lick me. Well, I guess I showed him." "Apparently not," the senator suggested. "Well, no." She grinned. "He doesn't know about it yet." "Then Marty didn't do this to you?" "Not dear old Marty." She hiccupped strongly. "I can't wait till he hears how I got licked today." "Did you enjoy it?" "It was heaven. You wanna be next?" "What I want is for you to tell me how much you've had to drink." "Besides that white stuff?" She fumbled in her ample bosom and produced a pint bottle of bourbon. The brown glass was transparent enough to reveal about an inch left in the bottom. She studied it owlishly. "This much." With a pop she pulled the cork and took another swig. She grinned and wiped her mouth fastidiously on the napkin. "You ever notice, notice how much better it tastes when you're halfway down the b-bottle?" "Yes," he agreed dryly. "That white stuff too." "You _are_ talking about --" "What comes out of a cock." "Semen." "S-semen. Oh yeah. I forgot. The second semen tastes better." "Or jism, if you want the slang." "Jism. Thank you. How about yours?" "Mine? Rather tasteless, as I recall." "I mean, can I, can I have it?" "To add to your collection? Please, Angela, drink this coffee." "Don't want coffee." She leered hugely. "I want cock!" Suddenly her eyes rolled up. "Oh!" she breathed and sagged sideways in her chair. He sprang up in time to catch her. Pushing aside her cup and plate, he draped her torso over the table. After thinking a moment he pulled the bell rope and shortly readmitted the same black girl. "You already finish--" she began, then rolled her eyes at the figure flopped on the table. "I want you to help me with her, Sheeba." "What'chou gonna do?" "Undress her and put her to bed." "Oh. You sho' you wants my help?" "She's out cold, Sheeba, drunk most of that pint bottle." "White ladies shouldn't drink that stuff." "I agree. If I didn't know what she's been up to, I'd wonder how she got it. But come on. You get her other shoulder. I'm not the man I used to be. We'll have to let her feet drag." Sheeba was husky and strong. Between them they positioned the sodden woman upon the senator's turned down sheets, on her side at first to reach the many buttons in the rear of her clothing. The bottom slip, when exposed, showed heavy yellowish stains in the crotch area. "That's curious," mused the senator. "Sheeba, how many men would it take to produce that, along with a mouthful or two?" "Huh!" The dark eyes flashed. "Takes a good man to make more'n a couple of tablespoons. That looks like half a cup to me. Smells like they's piss in it." "You think so?" "She's gonna soak yo' sheets." "That's all right. You'll change them for me." The girl laughed sulkily. He added, "We can't leave her soaking in that slip. Hold up her shoulders." Soon the woman was naked. The senator pushed her legs open and spread the labial lips. "What'chou doing?" "Look at that!" His tone contained awe. "Red and wet, but no white. Assuming half a cup of jism leaked out of her, wouldn't you think some of it would show in her cunny?" The girl sniffed. "Cunnies sop it up." "I guess so." He straightened the woman's arms and legs, pulled the sheet up to her chin and stood above her in contemplation. "She'll be out till morning," the girl prophesied. "Probably piss your bed too." "Then you'll get to change the mattress." "Yeah." This time she didn't laugh until she caught the man's thoughtful eye. "Bad luck for you, senator. Need some special help?" "No, thank you, Sheeba, not that kind just now, at least. I've got a lot to do." He redonned the white jacket removed as protection from drunken drool. "The Chinaman around the corner ought to still be open. How about running Mrs., ah, Smith's clothing down there and getting it cleaned? He was bragging the other day about a new process that takes out stains without water. Tell him I need them back, dry, by eight o'clock." "_Tonight_? She ain't going nowhere. Oh, you means tomorrow." "No, I mean tonight. She won't go anywhere but her clothes will." "Huh?" "And how about checking on her a few times? I'll be back after supper." "I do what you say, senator. Don't you worry about nothing. I ain't forgot how you got me clear over that stolen necklace." "Very good, Sheeba. I'll see you later." With an anticipatory smile, he bounded down the hall, out of the house and along the fifty yards of sidewalk that separated the boarding house from the Cannes d'Eau. The low sun still lit treetops in the park across the street but the senator hardly noticed. He rushed up the steps, nodded in acknowledgment to the girls on the porch, passed through the foyer and the splendid parlor into the hall that ran the length of the house. A pubescent girl, currently acting as charwoman but determined soon to be employed on her back, came out of the staging room as he reached the door. He caught her arm. "Sally, is Madam Ruth in her office?" "If she ain't gone to supper." The girl smoothed out her apron, stood straighter and remembered her manners. "Good evening, senator." He grinned. "And a good evening to you, my dear. Ruth hates for me to barge in. Would you run ask her if she'll see me? Tell her it's urgent." "Urgent." The child darted away. He followed her into the backstairs room that opened into the madam's office. After a moment Sally reappeared. "She says it better be urgent. She's hungry." He laughed. "Were you supposed to tell me that, Sally?" The girl grunted. "Maybe not. What she said at first was, 'So the old fart woke up from his nap with a hard-on!'" Her laughter replaced his. "Thank you, Sally," he said dryly and passed her a coin before proceeding through the door left open. He closed it carefully behind him. Madam Ruth's huge desk hunkered before the rear wall under westward windows through which the orange sun cast nearly horizontal rays. The woman who sat behind it was of plump middle-age with a face still beautifully proportioned despite crows' feet and a tangle of broken veins across nose and cheeks. Hennaed hair glowed around her head. The unwavering blue eyes revealed her responsible position. He hurried across the room and leaned on the desk front. "No hard-on, which I know disappoints you, but wonderful news nevertheless." "That girl! She loves to tease you as much as I do." "She does?" "Neither her life nor mine is exactly full of safe men, Miles. What's this wonderful news?" He stood straight, grinning from ear to ear. "Councilman Witherspoon's wife is asleep in my bed next door as we speak." The effect was most satisfactory. Ruth's mouth literally fell open. "Angel -- _Angela_ Witherspoon, wife of the most righteous bastard on the council, is asleep in -- What did you do, Miles: knock her out?" "Not I. In fact she's dead drunk, out cold, and soaked in jism." Ruth's eyes narrowed. "Probably not her husband's, then. Yours?" "Definitely not, either way. She soaked herself to _show_ him, she said before she passed out." "What's her condition? Cuts? Bruises?" "Sheeba and I stripped her. No sign of that, except I think she'll have some bruises on her inner thighs tomorrow." "From knobby knees. Good god, Miles! Witherspoon will raise holy hell when she doesn't turn up. When he hears where she spent the night, he'll come gunning for you. Are you asking for a shootout? What kind of a dumb masculine game are you playing?" "Maybe not so dumb. I have an idea. I want to hire Holly Bird's services all night. That is, _we_ -- meaning you and I -- want to hire her." The woman stared. "I met Angela Witherspoon at Twill's wife's funeral. Holly Bird would look a lot like her, in the right clothes." The blue eyes narrowed. "What exactly do you have in mind, Miles?" "Do I understand correctly that Holly Bird graduated from a Virginia finishing school?" "Attended, I believe. Are you planning some kind of impersonation?" "I've thought of two possibilities. One isn't very pleasant. It would have Clancy or Jake, or both, photographed _in flagrante delicto_ with Holly Bird wearing Angela's blouse with the monogram turned just so. The bite is that Angela couldn't be certain it never happened. Ha! She'd probably be chagrined at not remembering it." He took a regretful breath. "But useful as that would be, it's not my style. Here's what I propose for Holly Bird. I'm fairly certain Angela stormed out of Martin's presence this afternoon. Holly Bird will give Angela a defensible reason for being absent all night. I propose for her to get down to the train station about eight-thirty and buy a sleeping coach ticket for St. Louis on the nine o'clock train. Let her go to St. Louis, look around and take the train that gets her back here about noon tomorrow. She can tell Angela what she saw, though I expect Angela's been to St. Louis, and we'll get Angela home in a cab by one o'clock, ready to forgive her husband after she's had time to think things over." Ruth blinked at him. "You want the punched tickets to be her evidence. And the ticket agent. But what about matching the clothing?" "Angela's clothing is going to the Chinaman's as we speak." "He advertises 24 hour service." "He told me last week he has a new process that can give _one_ hour service." "That I want to see!" Ruth sat with chin in hand, thinking it over. "It's iffy but it might work, if the Chinaman comes through and if Angela cooperates when she wakes up with a hangover. I can help you there, with Harry's hangover cure while pointing out the facts of life. But why, Miles? What's in it for us? I'll confess, underhanded as it is, I like your first plan better. Think of what Martin Witherspoon would do to suppress those photographs!" He shook his head. "Not much, if he's driven his wife to drink and lie with men off the street." "Off the street?" "Who else would drop her, drunk, in the park? That's where I found her, sitting on the ground beside a bench." "You do have the damnedest luck with women!" "Don't I! No, I'm afraid those photographs would only give Marty the chance to play the wounded cuckold, deserving of sympathy, riding ever higher on his hobbyhorse against the vile harlotry that ruins our beloved wives and daughters." Ruth's lip curled. "Too bad it wasn't Martin you found. But you haven't answered my question." "This afternoon Angela was a belligerent adventuress, the vengeful woman scorned. But I think that was anger plus booze. When she wakes up tomorrow, I expect to find a very different woman. Admittedly any payoff is a long shot, but who does it harm to cover up for her? It's not as if she robbed the bank." "What payoff?" "Gratitude, perhaps? If she reconciles with Martin, she could influence his vote on establishing a Red Light district next year. You know it's coming; too many other cities are adopting the Boston laws. Even Twill can't stop it. But here's the payoff for us: we can give Angela arguments why the district boundaries should be drawn to include the Cannes d'Eau, arguments that seem to favor the prohibitionists. And even a bad husband hears his wife." The woman nodded slowly, her expression changing to approval. "So we could! I love it, Miles, but we have to act fast." She jumped to her feet. "Wait here and help me instruct Holly Bird." * * * "Oh, god, my head!" Angela Witherspoon rubbed both eyes with the palms of her hands and peered through her fingers. "Where am I?" "Safe," said Madam Ruth, sitting beside the bed in a crisp ruffled blouse and full skirt. Angela squinted around the room, wincing at curtains brightly backlit by the sun. She grimaced. "I think I'm going to be sick. And my bladder ..." Ruth stood. "Let me help you into the bathroom. The servant has already drawn you a warm bath, and I have something here for your headache and nausea." The younger woman struggled erect in the bed, casting off the sheet. Her eyes widened as she discovered her nakedness. Her nose wrinkled. "Oh, god!" "Yes, you're a bit high," Ruth commented, taking her arm, "but the bath will restore you. Believe me, I know." Five minutes later, having passed relief through all orifices, Angela slipped gingerly into the steaming enameled tub. "Oh, god!" she breathed in a distinctly more appreciative tone. Ruth uncorked an unmarked bottle. "Drink two or three large swallows of this." "You think I can keep it down?" "I think you'll be surprised." The contents were a thick yellow. "This isn't whisky," said Angela, holding the bottle doubtfully. "What is it?" "My doctor's concoction for monthly cramps. And hangovers." "Oh god! That's what I've got, isn't it?" "Of course, as you very well know." "How beastly common!" Ruth laughed shortly and shook her head. "The sooner you drink, the sooner you'll get relief." After a sigh Angela drank from the bottle as directed. She returned it to the madam, tasting her lips. "Laudanum?" "Among other things. Now just lie back and relax. Here's a waxed pillow to throw your hair over." Angela's hands went to her hair. She shuddered, feeling its matted condition. "Oh, god. It's full of ..." "Yes, I know. How many men did you entertain in one afternoon?" Stricken, Angela looked up at the older woman, then her concern incongruously faded. She sighed, tucked the proffered pillow under her long hair and leaned against the cool back of the tub. "Oh, god," she murmured, relaxing. Ruth lowered the toilet seat and sat upon it. After a minute or two she said, "You recognize me, I gather." Angela's eyes remained closed. "You're Ruth Bodkin. Is this a room in your house?" "No, dear." Ruth sniffed. "None of my bedrooms have attached baths. Trust Miles to find one." "Mine doesn't either. Miles who? Do you mean I awoke in a man's bedroom?" "Miles Heatherford, the ex-senator. You know him too, I believe." Angela laughed incredulously. "How in the world did I ... did he ..." She looked away. "He rescued you. And he's still in the process." "In the ... process?" "In the process of creating your alibi. At this moment you are on a train returned from St. Louis, where you went to think things over. Your train will arrive at twelve o'clock, two hours from now. I hope you'll agree to take a cab home and reconcile with your husband." "My husband!" Her lip curled in obvious contempt. "What do you call a man who doesn't like his wife?" Ruth grunted. "Typical, I'd say, but think whom you're asking that." "_Typical_?" "More than half my customers are married men?" "Is my husband one of them?" "Now, Angela, you mustn't ask that." "I don't see why not. He _is_ my husband, such as he is." "I'll tell you this much. Most of my married men don't think of their wives as fully available sexually." "I ... don't understand." "Shall I speak more frankly? Did you ever suck your husband's cock, Angela?" "N-no." "Why not?" "Well ... well, I'd heard of it of course, of the practice among perverted men. But a woman has such a better -- The idea just never occurred to me. I was so surprised yesterday! And then ..." "What surprised you?" "It was actually fun!" Ruth chuckled. "Yes, an indirect kind of fun. Made you wet, did it?" "Very! Why do you suppose Martin never suggested it?" "I'm sure he believed it would offend you grossly. I don't suppose he proposed anal sex either." "No. And that was another surprising thing yesterday." "My god, Angela! What bunch of old lechers did you encounter?" "They weren't old." Angela smiled slightly. "I'd heard about the whistles and catcalls from that open cafe where the guitarists practice. I just sat down, ordered a coffee and doughnut and smiled at a table of musicians. In no time they were all around me, feeling my boobs." She looked away and shook her head. "The proprietor came to my table, said he didn't allow my kind of woman. I think most of his customers left with me. Do you know the place? It's called _The Fiddlehouse_, though I heard no violin." "Yes, I know of it. I get little trade from those young men. They can hardly afford to eat. You must have seemed manna from heaven." "They were most enthusiastic. Such a welcome change!" "You went in there to find lovers, did you?" "Not exactly." Angela scowled. "After what my husband told me, I went in there to prove that men could still find me attractive. And if you want the full truth, to get my cunny licked." "And did you?" "Oh yes. Many times, I don't know how many." "Along with some other letches, I expect." "Letches? Oh. I went along with everything they suggested. It was so exciting! I was finally learning of things that heretofore had only been hints. One of the young men had a new pint of the most awful whisky, which he gave me, as he said, to get the taste out of my mouth. It certainly did that!" "Where did they take you?" "To an abandoned house they've been squatting in across Miller Street park." She sighed, looked around herself and sighed again. "I don't think I took off any clothing during the whole ... affair. It must be ruined." "Not at all. The Chinese laundry on Hargett Street has a new dry cleaning process. Miles had your clothes cleaned, pressed and returned before eight o'clock last night." "Wonderful! Then where are they?" "On the way back from St. Louis, becoming properly wrinkled." "Good heavens! You have someone impersonating me?" "Obviously, since _you_ didn't go to St. Louis! She resembles you enough to fool a stranger easily." "My god! But then I suppose you have girls of all types." Ruth grinned. "All the standard types." The young woman looked away then back. In a low voice she asked, "Would you like one more?" "One more what?" "Girl. Working girl. Of a standard type." The madam's eyes narrowed. "Who?" "I." Ruth shook her head. "Angela, are you deranged as well as hungover?" "I found out something about myself yesterday. I absolutely _love_ what men do to me and what they have to do it with. If that's derangement, then yes, I'm deranged." The madam studied her. "My dear, did you never have a sexual climax before yesterday?" "Only with the palm of my hand." "How old are you?" "Twenty-eight." "Married how long?" "Ten years." "And no children." "I lost one at four months. As you saw, I have no mother's marks. It now seems that my husband does not want children. But I yearn for one, Ruth, and I don't care who the father is. I don't suppose it's possible for a child to have more than one father, but I'm willing to try for it." "Few of my girls get pregnant," Ruth said after a moment of silence. "My doctor thinks that venereal disease is the reason. He keeps the girls free of the common ones, but as he says, we know very little about the microscopic world. It's an old truth of bawdyhouses: if you don't catch in the first 18 months, you probably won't, regardless of how many johns give you the chance." "It's a better chance than I have now. I'm serious about the offer." "I'll think about it. We'd obviously have to make uncommon arrangements to preserve your ... Hmm. I have an idea. Were those musicians crowding around you?" "I never felt so many hands in my life! It was creepy at first, until I thought how they admired the feel of me. My clothes ended up mostly around my waist. I think they licked everywhere else, even under my arms." "Didn't that tickle?" "Not after I washed out my mouth a few times." "I see. Did you have more than one cock in you at a time?" "As many as three, I think. It was most confusing. Do you know, I believe there's something about so much attention, so much of that kind, that ... well, I think it wipes all critical thought from the mind. The simple truth is, I was in paradise." Her eyes fixed intently upon the older woman, who nodded. "Yes, it can feel like that. The point is, you enjoy many men together, and that settles it, as far as I'm concerned. I saw no identifying birthmarks on you. If we tape an opera mask on your face -- _tape_, so it can't be accidentally removed -- you could be the star of my Saturday night show." "Your ... show?" "Most weekends I stage a couple hours of entertainment in my party room." "Sexual acts and actors?" "What else in a bawdyhouse?" "Several men?" "In your case I think it would be two other players, plus the high bidders from the audience." "The audience!" "Oh yes. That show alone provides a quarter of my revenue. Wealthy men will pay to see it, pay more for comely partners while watching it, and still more to participate. Some of them." "Wealthy men! I suspect I know most of the wealthy men in this city." "But they won't know you in your mask and paint. They'll never suspect that it's Councilman Witherspoon's wife whose ass their cocks are up." "My god!" "Or down whose throat they ejaculate, or between whose nether lips two pass at the same time." "Oh, my god!" "Masks are also furnished to the amateurs but not taped on. You'll still recognize them, of course. Not that they care what my girls know. Those who wear the masks want them, I think, for the illusion of remaining incognito to their peers." Angela licked her lips, eyes far away. "My god, Ruth, I don't think I could ever do anything like that." "Couldn't you, after yesterday?" The madam chuckled wrly. "What exactly did you have in mind to do here, my dear? You could hardly sit in the parlor and execute a credible come-on." "Ha! It's not hard to understand what that means. Flashing the boobs?" "And the pubes. Maybe if you were masked? No. The johns study my girls minutely. One might recognize some mannerism." "Sit in the parlor? Must your girls do that?" "Or on the porch of a warm afternoon. They must be seen for the johns to select them." Angela shivered. "I couldn't sit in the parlor." "No, for my protection as well as yours." "But how would they select _me_?" "They wouldn't. They'd have to trust my judgment, which they will. An orgy-on-one is different, you see. An anonymous woman is the better player, so long as her body is attractive, which yours is, and her behavior complaisant, which apparently describes yours, at least after a few drinks. I think what the men are doing is fucking each other by proxy, so to speak. Masked women are better draws. So think about starring in my show. It pays 25 dollars for three hours' work." Angela grinned. "I forgot about the money. My maid earns three dollars a week, plus room and board." "You're generous. Are you feeling better?" The young woman blinked and smiled. "Much better. A bit muddled-headed, which I guess is the laudanum. Your doctor is to be congratulated." "Yes, he is. You can tell him so if you decide to work for me. He'll be the first man to see you." "I presume you mean only in a medical sense." "Not _only_. One of his duties is to gauge your complaisance: your scruples, if any." "I ... see." "A modern bawdyhouse must have a good doctor of women, and we have the best. Are you ready to step out of that bath? I'll call the maid to wash your hair." "Yes, please. Suddenly I'm ravenous." "I'll send Miles with your breakfast. Ask Sheeba for one of Miles' robes. He'll find you charming in it. Do you need help there?" "No, I see the towels and I can manage now, thanks to you and your good doctor. Perhaps the senator will tell me over breakfast how I came to be here." * * * "I believe that's the first time I ever knocked on this door," said Senator Heatherford, setting his tray down carefully on the table before Angela. "You didn't have to," she responded, wearing his lounging robe and sitting with her head thrown back for the black maid to dry her hair. "It's your sitting room, after all, senator. I'm grateful for your courtesy and unspeakably grateful for ... your efforts to rescue my reputation. Do you mind if I eat immediately? Sheeba, keep rubbing, please." "Yes'm," agreed the maid, taking up a fresh towel from the stack on her cart. The senator chuckled, uncovering the food. "You think you can hit your mouth with the fork despite that toweling?" "I'm ravenous. I'll certainly try!" She succeeded by holding her head rigid against the vigorous towel strokes, murmuring over the heavily buttered eggs and sausage. "Oh, wonderful! Someone is the most marvelous cook." "A fellow called Razor Williams, absolute monarch of the Cannes d'Eau kitchen. To give you the idea, paper thin ham instead of gaping throats earned him that soubriquet." "Could you pass along my compliments?" "With pleasure. I'm glad to see you in such fine fettle this morning, Mrs. Smith." She blinked. "Thanks largely to Madam Ruth, but why do you call me that?" He shook his head, unsuccessfully suppressing a smile. "What is the last thing you remember yesterday?" "It _is_ rather funny, I suppose." She sighed heavily and seemed to look inward. "I'm not sure. I'm very hazy but seem to recall that my ... playmates had to meet someone about a musical engagement. I meant to wait for them in Miller Street park." "Which is where I found you." "Tell me about it, please. And don't spare me. I think Sheeba already knows the story." "I don't talk to nobody," said the black woman stoutly, gathering up longer strands of the thick brown hair. He took out his pipe, lit it and told her the story while she ate and the maid rubbed. When his voice fell silent, she continued eating, eyes far away. Slowly a smile appeared on her lips. The senator grinned. "Apparently the idea is not entirely hateful to you." "No, it isn't," she agreed, casting him a roguish glance. "I can remember most of the good parts." They laughed. She shivered. "I'm sure it was the most physically stimulating time of my life." "Are you comfortable with that?" She tossed her head. "I'm supposed to condemn it -- and have in the past. But now I understand that the women who do so have no idea what they're talking about." At Sheeba's request, Angela felt of her hair and agreed that it was dry enough to be formed into a chignon, which service the maid executed competently and quickly before gathering her towels and departing. Shortly afterwards a knock on the door caused the senator to rise and admit the young woman who stood there. Drawing her forward before the table, he said, "Mrs. Smith, this is your impersonator, Holly Bird." The newcomer grinned widely and said only, "Hello!" "Your manners, Holly Bird," warned the senator softly. "You expect me to curtsy to someone wearing nothing but a man's robe?" But Angela overruled him. "She's quite right, senator. Not only a plausible impersonator, she's my sister in more ways than mere appearance. She seems to be wearing ..." "Your clothing," the man completed, adding to the newcomer, "I assume you have your own in that bag." "Yes, sir." "Have you finished your meal, Angela? Drink your coffee while Holly Bird disrobes. We need to move fast if you're to get home in reasonable time after the train's arrival." He extended a hand to the standing woman. "The purse with the change from your trip, please." She produced a small coin purse from her bag. The man laid it on the table before Angela. "In case anyone delves deeply into the details, you started with 200 dollars in gold. Would that be plausible?" "Oh, yes. I could have saved it from the household accounts." Angela chuckled self-consciously. "You know, the need for money never occurred to me when I left home. You are so marvelous, senator." He smiled. "It seems that the legislature agreed with you, at least." "For three terms in congress, wasn't it, until your heart attack?" "How extraordinatry: a lady who pays attention to politics!" "Well, after all, my husband is a politician." Both of them watched the younger woman strip off the borrowed clothing and hang it neatly on the back of a chair. When nude, she produced substitutes from her bag, but the senator stopped her as she was shaking out a petticoat. "Put that down a moment, Holly Bird, and show off for us." She turned inquiringly with empty hands. The man made a twirling motion with an upraised finger and she performed a smooth pirouette on a bare heel. He said to the clearly fascinated Angela, "This young lady is one of Ruth's finest, as you can plainly see." "Thank you, senator," murmured Holly Bird. "Come sit on my lap and give me a kiss?" "I need a bath, senator." "Perhaps you do, but I am a man who appreciates the natural woman. Come." With a shrug, Holly Bird plopped her plump buttocks upon the man's thin shanks. One male hand steadied her shoulder while the other caressed her full breasts. "Give us a kiss," he enjoined. While she complied he peered past her cheek to Angela, watching wide-eyed from across the table. "Thank you, my dear," he said when their mouths parted. "Now get dressed and go for your bath and lunch. You have done very well." "Oh, thank you!" she responded, standing with a smile. "It was fun, senator. I'll go wherever you say anytime." She dressed quickly and paused at the door to wink. "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Smith." She was gone without waiting for the response. "It's like being remarried," murmured Angela wryly. "This is important, my dear. You saw how Holly Bird behaved. Could you do that: sit naked on a stranger's lap, smile indulgently as he squeezed your breasts and make him think you enjoyed kissing him despite his beard -- all cold-bloodedly without prior anger at your husband?" The woman's lip curled. "You and she were hardly strangers." "I assure you Holly Bird's behavior would not have been discernibly different for a man in the street -- or one of your musical playmates." "Touche." She took a deep breath. "Of course you know about my offer to Mrs. Ruth." "She told me." "I owe it to myself to try, senator." "Call me Miles, Angela." "Thank you, Miles." "Now please get dressed. Should I ring for Sheeba?" "Perhaps you'll help me with the buttons in back." "Certainly." She stood up and threw off the robe, staring into his eyes. "You and Sheeba undressed me, you said." "Yes. And the bruises I expected are now evident on your inner thighs. Try not to show them to your husband." "They won't matter. I'm accustomed to receiving him in a dark bedroom." "Very good. You're a pretty woman, Mrs. Smith, and you have a fine physique. I'm sure demand for you will be high." "Do you think so? My playmates of yesterday were all so young!" "High among all ages, madam. They'll have to make appointments." She came around the table, leaned over and kissed his cheek. "You won't, Miles." * * * "You sent for me, ma'am?" Ruth looked up from the sums she was tallying. Holly Bird stood across the desk in a wrinkled wrapper, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She yawned hugely behind one hand. In the blue morning skylight her resemblance to Angela Witherspoon was superficial. "A hard night?" "No, ma'am. Not hard. Little Roy was full of hot air, not jism. He keeps trying to talk me out of here. I thought he meant to stay for early breakfast but he finally left at first light." The young woman chuckled. "He doesn't want anyone to see him leaving. It might get back to his wife, don't you know." "He paid for all night?" "Oh, yes, ma'am. You can check with Clancy." "Then I'm sorry. What I want could wait till you have more sleep." "It's all right." "But since you're here ..." Ruth turned an opened newspaper around on her desk. "Read the circled report." "Is this the St. Louis _Tattler_?" asked Holly Bird apprehensively. Settling on the masthead, her eyes widened in evident dismay. Ruth said dryly, "You already know its reference, I suspect. But read it and confirm you're the cause of that petition." The young woman scanned back and forth rapidly down the page. "Oh, Jesus!" she murmured. Her eyes rose to Ruth's in horror. The madam took the paper back and read a passage aloud. "'... Is proud to offer a signature petition, originated by the following St. Louis wives, demanding that the state require special patrols on railroad cars, especially sleeper cars, to detect and apprehend lewd women masquerading as respectable ladies. This grass-roots movement apparently derives from an incident occurring on the New Orleans-Chicago Express during the night of the 7th last.' You were on that train that night. What incident?" Holly Bird wrung her hands. "I didn't mean ... mean for it ..." "Start at the beginning, my dear." "Right after the train pulled out, I thought the dining car might still be open, and it was. I couldn't believe what happened. I hardly sat down and then Clifford, my Thursday night regular, sat down across from me. Well, of course we were glad to see each other. He bought me champagne and I told him my berth number. But he must have whispered it to a lot of other men. I'll bet a dozen knocked on my curtain, all the way to St. Louis." Ruth stared into the woman's eyes, slowly shook her head and sighed. "Did you collect any presents?" Again the young eyes widened. "N-no. I didn't think of that?" "And Clifford was the only one whose name you knew, right?" "Yes, ma'am." "I think I'll hand him the bill for a dozen quickies. Holly Bird, you disappoint me." "I'm s-sorry, ma'am. Without Clancy I didn't think of it." Ruth waved her hand. "Not over the money. You have education and training. I expected you to have the sense not to accept men in the company of their wives." "I didn't notice any wives!" "Which they failed to mention, of course. But look at the three names on top of that petition. The second one is Mrs. Clifford Wincher." "Is that his last name? How do you know it?" "He pays us monthly by check. Were these dozen men up to our standards, Holly Bird?" "Well ... they all wore neckties." "I want Dr. Baines to check you anyway." "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, Madam Ruth. I know you said not to attract attention. I swear I didn't encourage Clifford to call his friends." The madam nodded. "Well, I only hope a certain councilman doesn't read the St. Louis _Tattler_. Though why should he?" Her focus returned to the anxious Holly Bird. "In some sense you girls are hot-house flowers, innocent in your own way. But I don't know what to do about that. Go back up to your beauty sleep." The young woman's eyes brightened. "Oh, no! Now that I'm awake I want Razor's eggs benedict. He has finally mastered Hollandaise sauce." She spun and trotted across the room but paused as she reached for the door knob, hearing behind her, "One last question." She turned back inquiringly. "Was the trip fun, my dear?" "Golly, Madam Ruth: I _love_ to screw on a sleeper!" END Varangian: ludmax11@hotmail.com Kellis: kellis@dhp.com NOTICE: Email to Kellis must have a "subject:" line containing {kellis} asstr or the title of any story by Varkel or Kellis. Otherwise no human eye will ever see it. --Kellis -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderators: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at Hosted by | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+