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Part of the Deal

PART OF THE DEAL by Menagerie

“Wow!” exclaimed Melanie. “We’ve never been here before!”
It had been a long, two-hour drive upstate to the northern reaches of New York’s
Finger Lakes. The congestion of Manhattan had given way to neat rows of suburban
houses, and then to the countryside and more spacious settings. By the time
Melanie and George reached their destination, things were downright sparse;
rolling hills, an occasional house intermingled with pastureland and lakes and
ponds of all shapes and sizes.
Melanie was worried her new, strapless gown was going to look wrinkled after the
lengthy stay buckled into George’s Mercedes. She looked down, frowning, then
glanced at the mirror in the visor. “Do I have time to fix myself up?”
“Certainly, my dear,” said George; he was wearing sunglasses, contrasting with
the expensive Armani suit. He glanced sideways at the tall, leggy blonde. “But
you look lovely, as always.”
Melanie was carefully tracing her full lips with gloss, puckered them a couple
of times. “Do I know any of these people?”
“Oh, you’ve met my friends,” he said, turning onto the quarter-mile driveway to
the resort. “At the Club. Phil and Jake will be there, and Jim Craddock…”
“He’s always so cute,” said Melanie, daubing on rouge. “Do you know, last week,
he pinched my ass!” She smiled playfully at George, who was watching her
reflection. “I was afraid you two were going to have to have a duel.”
George laughed. “Perhaps in my younger days.”
A valet was waiting at the top of the hill. A magnificent, three-story structure
beckoned; smoked glass doors were emblazoned, The Odondock. “The party will be
just beginning, in the ballroom,” said George. “We’re fashionably late. Good
morning, Edward.”
“Hi, Mr. Wilkinson,” responded the young, smartly groomed valet, holding the
door open for Melanie. She tried to catch his eye; he was a good-looking kid,
but he wouldn’t even look at her. “Your guests are waiting.” He came around to
the driver’s side, took George’s keys and a ten-spot, and headed the Mercedes
around the circular drive with a vroom. “My bags!” Melanie exclaimed.
“Edward will bring them,” George said. He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
She took his arm; catching their reflection in the dark glass of the doors,
Melanie again thought about how odd they must look together. The sixtyish
George, short and stumpy, and his big, bosomy girlfriend, half a head taller and
less than half his age. But then, all of George’s friends also seemed to have
cute young things around them; must be an older guy thing, she decided. Besides,
he’d always been so nice to her; she stole a glance at the tinkler on her
arm—twenty grand, easy—and the rings dotting nearly every finger. All of that,
just to hang with the lonely old guy a few times a week, meet him at the
luxurious, secret apartment her kept her in downtown—comes with the territory,
she decided. Part of the deal.
Through the smoked glass, she saw the outline of a doorman hustling to greet
them. Melanie frowned at her reflection; she’d gained a few pounds. Her hips
strained at the fabric; her bosom was spilling out of the abbreviated bodice.
The hem barely stretched inches below her panty line; the sheer nylon that
encased her long legs was as tight as a second skin. All of those filets and
lobster tails; she’d quit her job as a hostess at the nightClub, even though the
money was good. George took such good care of her, working was the last thing
she needed to worry about…but the soft life, she was starting to fret, was
making her too soft.
“He said, ‘Your guests’,” she said as they entered. “Do you own this place?”
The lobby was huge, opulent, maybe a bit rococo. Gargoyles leered out from the
corners of the high ceiling; ornately carved woodwork lined a genuine fireplace,
birch logs piled at the ready. “No,” George answered. “Members of the Club rent
The Odondock for our private parties. The building dates from the Twenties,” he
continued as they headed across full-shag carpet to the clerk’s desk. “Used to
be one of the first stops on the vaudeville tour.”
“Were you around back then?” Melanie teased him.
George laughed. The clerk, an older man, had his key waiting. “Good to see you
again, Mr. Wilkinson.” Again, Melanie looked his way; again, he wouldn’t even
acknowledge her. She’d gotten used to that. Her best friends were the other
men’s girlfriends; they would gossip together at the Club’s pool about who had
gotten the nicest jewelry, or a new car. All of them were young and beautiful,
with skimpy bathing suits that showed off year-round tans. They could talk
amongst themselves, but couldn’t tell anyone else about their affairs, not even
their parents; that was part of the deal. In exchange for a life of luxury and
not too many demands, that was easy enough to accept.
Once in a while, one of the men would drop a girlfriend, replace her a few weeks
later with another one; Melanie had tried to keep in touch, but found she
couldn’t track the jilted girls down. She was told George had had other girls,
too, and she probably wouldn’t be his last; privately, though, she dreamed that
he’d leave his wife for her, and it would be her in the big house on Staten
Island, instead of that stuffy old apartment.
A long, dimly lit corridor led to the ballroom, electric lights crafted to look
like lanterns emitting their flickering glow every few yards. George puffed as
they climbed a short flight of stairs. “Poor baby,” cooed Melanie wickedly; she
loped up the steps, giving George a peek at her full bottom as the hem of the
fancy gown he’d just bought her flopped over the tops of her long legs. George
staggered up the remaining stairs, looked at her as he caught his breath, and
politely opened the door.
A few steps into the big, overdecorated ballroom, Melanie got her first shock.
All of the men were there; they cheered and raised their glasses as she and
George entered. But they were with older women—their wives, she decided. The
women, all even more expensively dressed than she was, seemed delighted to see
her. The men grinned; tall, gaunt Phil Pendleton limped up. “Hey, Georgie, Mel,”
he shouted. “Join the party.”
“Where’s Nance, Phil?” Melanie asked, looking around the room as Phil and George
vigorously shook hands, clapped each others’ backs.
“Oh, you know how it is,” he said, vaguely waving a hand. “The wife wants a
vacation, and we had this party coming up; Delores,” he said to a stately,
heavyset woman in a purple floor-length dress who had joined them, “this is
George’s friend, Melanie.”
Delores smiled, broadly. “Of course; so glad you could join our little outing.
Hello, George; how’s Vivian?”
Melanie looked anguished. “George—I need to talk to you; can we step outside?”
A waiter brought George a Seven-and-Seven; he took a gulp. “There’s nothing to
talk about, Mel,” he said. “It’s just a party; everybody knew you were coming.
Vivian is fine, Delores; you look wonderful. Come on, let’s say hi to the other
guys.”
They headed toward the hors d’oeuvres and punch bowl; she bent down, whispered
in his ear. “It’s just that—I didn’t expect wives! I feel so out of place. And
how does that make you feel, if they keep asking about your wife?”
He stopped, took both her hands, and looked directly into that pert, pretty
face, those blue eyes. “Just fine,” he proclaimed. “Fine and dandy.”
Melanie suddenly realized—all of the women were staring at her. Not at them;
directly at her, in her tiny dress. She was becoming more and more
self-conscious by the moment, and tugged nervously at her hem, trying to get it
to cover another inch of thigh. Another of the women crossed what apparently was
a dance floor to greet them. “Mabel!” proclaimed George. “Melanie, this is Mabel
Craddock.”
The slender woman, dark hair and several layers of makeup, extended a hand.
“Well, Melanie, we’ve heard so much about you! George, you’ve certainly brought
us a prize.”
Melanie forced a smile, took her hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Please; it’s Mabel. We’re all friends, here.” She smiled mischievously. “My
James tells me he’s been pinching your bottom. Naughty, naughty! Are you trying
to steal him from me?”
Melanie gasped, thought about Jim’s girlfriend Susie. “Oh, no, ma’am—” she
began.
“Relax, dearie; I’m just teasing you,” the older woman laughed. “James says he
likes the feel of your bottom, by the way.” Abruptly, Mabel Craddock reached
around behind Melanie—and grabbed a handful of her rear end! “And he’s right!”
she said delightedly, letting go as the tall blonde whipped her butt back and
forth. “This should be quite a party.”
I guess so, Melanie thought, falling silent and staring at the floor; a deep
flush spread across her cheeks. “Now, Mabel, behave,” said George mock-sternly.
“Yes, sir!” she said, still laughing. “Good to meet you, young lady; hope to see
a lot more of you this weekend!” As Mabel walked back to the punch table,
Melanie heard the titters and applause of a dozen women. “George,” she said
quietly, “I want to go home.”
“Now, come on, dear; they’re just being playful,” George scolded her. “We’re
going to have a very nice time. Come on, let’s greet the others.”
The remaining introductions were much the same. As George’s old buddies stood by
grinning, their wives teased Melanie, commenting on the size of her breasts, the
thickness of her legs and buns. Jake Arnsen’s wife said, “Plenty for everyone!”
and the others roared at the joke Melanie didn’t understand. She felt like she
was on display. She whispered to George, “Is there going to be an orgy, or
something?” She didn’t believe it herself; George’s pals had always been so
gentlemanly, so dignified. “No,” he laughed, “of course not. Jake needs to let
Patsy out of the house more often.”
Melanie felt humiliated, and a good cure for humiliation is anesthetization. The
punch tasted like it was about fifty percent Cutty Sark; she inhaled one
extra-large glass, then another. George was off mingling with others; she was
almost ready to join him when a familiar figure limped up behind her. “Feeling
better?” boomed Phil Pendleton.
She smiled at him, her eyes getting a bit glassy. “Oh, sure, Phil,” she said. “I
was just hoping to chat with Nance at the party.”
“Maybe next time,” he said, and looked down, then back up again. “Delores says
she really likes you.”
“Does Delores know about Nance?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” said Phil. “We have no secrets from our wives. Delores knows
there’s a lot of pressure from my export business, what with the dollar and the
Asian economy; she doesn’t begrudge me a little extra-curricular fun.”
Nance was a tall, willowy redhead, legs too long for her body; she was nothing
like Delores. She had told Melanie about making love to Phil, him falling asleep
on top of her. “He’s seventy,” Nance said, “but he’s fun, and he’s loaded.” They
had gone one weekend to Spain; with the exception of a couple of hours tending
to Phil’s needs, she had stocked up on the latest fashions in Madrid while he
tended to business. “The perfect relationship,” the redhead had snickered.
Remembering her own trip with George to Rio, she wasn’t about to scold Nance, or
Phil. “Well,” she said, brightening, “this sure is good punch.” She giggled, and
then started to hiccup.
A spoon clanged against a glass; Mabel Craddock was calling for everyone’s
attention.
“Well,” she announced, her voice echoing against the walls of the vast ballroom,
“I hope everybody’s had the opportunity to meet Georgie’s friend, Melanie.” A
murmur went up. “Tell me,” the slim brunette went on, her voice keening ever
higher, “What do you think?” The women exploded into whistles and applause; the
men clapped, half-heartedly. Mabel turned to Melanie; there was a glint in her
eye that made the blonde distinctly uncomfortable, and she hurriedly downed the
rest of her third glass of punch. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mabel, raising
her own glass high, “This party is dedicated to Melanie and George!” Cheers went
up; the conversation got louder.
Melanie was unsteady on her heels as she served herself a fourth glass of the
high-octane punch; George sidled up to her. “My dear, the guests have asked that
I show you the facilities,” he smiled. He pointed toward a door behind a huge
dining table. “Shall we start there?”
Melanie took his arm, peered around; all of the guests, male and female, were
eyeing her intently. Inches from her face, Mabel Craddock purred; “Good-bye,
Melanie; we will see you later.”
The blonde, a bit wobbly, took another gulp and lifted her glass. “’Bye, Mrs.
Craddock; see you, too!”
Mabel cocked her head and smiled, saying nothing and watching as George ushered
the tottering Melanie away. “I’ve never seen a table this big!” the girl gushed
as they passed the solid oak piece of furniture; it was a good thirty feet long,
eight feet across, with elaborate china settings widely spaced. “Will we be
eating later?”
“Yes,” he said, steering her around the table and toward the door. “Much later.”
The others watched the unusual couple pass through the fancy door; when it
closed, the chatter began anew.
“Reminds me of Felicia,” Delores Pendleton told Phil.
“Big like that,” Phil admitted, taking a swig of his Rob Roy.
“When are you going to put some meat on Nance’s bones like that, Phil?” teased
Jake Arnsen.
“She’s not a big eater,” said Phil. “I only just got her to quit her job last
week; I think she’ll soften up.”
“That was quite a rump,” smirked Mabel Craddock, turning to her husband. “Don’t
you wish I had a rump like that?”
“Susie already has a rump like that,” Jim retorted.
“And Susie will end up like Melanie,” said Mabel, and the women laughed
heartily.
“Susie’s already kind of chubby,” said Phil. “Maybe this fall, eh, Jimbo?”
“Take it easy, Phil,” answered Jim Craddock. “I don’t have the money to throw
around like you do; it took me a long time just to scare Susie up.”
“Just go back to the barrio and get another one,” said Mabel; as the wives all
roared again, a silver-haired woman, regal in her bearing, swept into the room.
“Vivian, dear!” cried Patsy Arnsen. “Perfect timing; they’ve just gone.”
Vivian Wilkinson strode across the floor; an original gold lame dress flattered
her still-trim figure. “My dears, how have you all been?” she called in a husky
contralto, the words carrying across the parquet. “Yet another splendid affair
at The Odondock.”
“Getting to be old hat for you, Viv,” said Delores Pendleton as the waiter
quickly brought Mrs. Wilkinson a Bloody. “Third time you’ve hosted.”
“George can afford it,” she said, smiling thinly. “Which reminds me, whose turn
is it next fall? How long have you been going with that little trollop you met
at the casino, Richard?”
A bald, fleshy man pursed his thick lips. “Judy? About a year now?”
“She’s fabulous,” said his wife, short and pudgy with a bleached pageboy. “All
cute and curvy. She would be perfect for the summer gathering.”
“I’ve not even seen George’s latest,” said Vivian. “I trust his taste; how is
she?”
“Long and luscious,” answered Mabel. “We’re in for a treat.”
George re-emerged from the door behind the table. Alone; his hands in his
pockets. “I’m here, George,” his wife said.
George nodded. “This is the toughest part, isn’t it, old man?” said Phil
Pendleton, sympathetically.
“Not really,” he shrugged. “She used me; that’s the way it goes. She’s all
yours, Viv.”
The silver-haired woman walked briskly around the table—opposite the side
occupied by her husband. She knew the route; through the door, down the
corridor, then the double-doors leading to the kitchen…
“Mrs. Wilkinson,” nodded the chef; he was on the phone. He gestured past a large
cutting table, pots and pans hanging overhead; sacks of potatoes, a cooler, and
a large oven. There was a small, wooden door, no window, a sign reading, KITCHEN
PERSONNEL ONLY. “She’s in there—yeah, Mike, a case of ’67, would you please…?”
Vivian stepped slowly into the small, bare room, lit only by a single bulb
hanging from the ceiling. A wooden block stained with blood was in the middle of
the room; an axe leaned against a wall. A large drain was at a low spot in the
floor. On the cold concrete floor, between the block and the drain, was Melanie.
She was nude; her fancy gown, ripped from her, was in a pile against the wall
with her pumps, her nylons and panties. Her wrists and ankles were tightly
fettered behind her in a hog-tie; tape was over her mouth. The fancy jewelry,
the twenty-thousand-dollar tinkler, all gone. Lying on her side, still
half-drunk and not fully comprehending, Melanie looked up as Vivian entered.
“Hello, Melanie,” she said softly. “I’m Vivian Wilkinson.” Melanie swallowed,
began awkwardly fighting her bonds anew. Vivian looked her over; the long, lush
legs, the plump bottom, a trim blonde bush. She had just a hint of a tummy; as
she struggled helplessly on the floor, Vivian saw her breasts flop to and fro.
“You’re just what I expected,” she continued. “I know what my George likes.”
Panting, the naked girl rolled over onto her belly, still straining at the
ropes; out of shape and drunk, Vivian decided, smiling faintly to herself. This
would be easy.
“You are George’s third mistress, you realize, to be invited to our party,” said
the older woman, walking casually toward her prostrate prey. “Jenny was an
actress; came here from Kansas to be in one-act plays until she was discovered.
Yvette moved here from Canada; Phil met her on a business trip, introduced her
to George.” She bent over, fondled Melanie’s inner thigh; the young blonde
sobbed audibly through the gag. “Both much like you; tall, well-built, prone to
putting on a little weight.” She paused, all the while continuing to examine the
firm flesh of her voluptuous captive, kneading her belly, her breasts, her
shoulders. She suddenly drew a hand back, slapped Melanie so hard her head
struck the concrete floor as she rolled back onto her side, her scream reduced
to a squeal by the gag. “All of you golddiggers,” Vivian spat. “All of you
looking for a free ride.” Eyes wide, Melanie vigorously shook her head, the
tears now flowing freely, her soft, full shoulders heaving as she gasped for
breath.
Vivian looked around the tiny room, clucked tsk-tsk. “Not as spacious as the
apartment George kept you in in New York, but it’ll have to do. Yes, I know all
about that. I know everything. You see, it’s all part of the deal.” And with
that, she grabbed Melanie’s long, blonde tresses and lifted her head onto the
block.
With surprising strength, Vivian kept an iron grip on her husband’s mistress as
she reached for the axe. Ignoring the younger woman’s muffled pleas, she
inquired, “I don’t suppose you’ve figured out the rules of our Club, yet, have
you?” The girl just stared, her eyes widening. “It’s very simple. We indulge our
husbands their little harlots, with the understanding that the affair ends at
The Odondock. Sometimes after a few months, sometimes it takes a couple of
years…but ultimately, you and your friends always end up here, in the back
room.” Melanie’s sobs were audible through the tape; she writhed, her breast and
ribs scraping the edge of the block, as she tried to escape her tormentress’
grip. “The kitchen staff, the hotel crew…all highly paid, all do as they’re
told,” she continued. “And after this chore is completed, the gentleman in the
next room who secured you for me will prepare you for our grand banquet tomorrow
evening.” Melanie gasped, whined loudly through the gag; her efforts had become
frantic, her plush body making slapping sounds as she rocked against the wooden
platform.
“After all,” Vivian said coolly, dragging the axe toward her with one hand and
putting one high-heel shod foot on the girl’s head, “our husbands enjoy the
pleasure of your bodies; why shouldn’t we?” And with one practiced move, she
released the hair, gripped the axe handle with both hands, and raised the blade.
Melanie flopped like a fish, eyes closed tightly and tears leaking from the
corners, as her lover’s wife brought the axe down across her neck. Blood
spurted, spattering the gold lame. Melanie’s head dropped, rolled a couple of
feet; her nude body spasmed, jerking a couple of times against the ropes, then
was still.
There was a pause. “My goodness,” muttered Vivian, looking down at her dress.
“I’ll have to change…”
Sunday dinner was a sumptious affair. A few delicacies, artichoke hearts and
shiitake mushrooms, would grace the Club’s plates…but Melanie was the main
course. Her headless body was roasted to a deep sepia hue; long legs and arms
curled beneath her, knobbed, charred bones protruding where her hands and feet
had been severed, she was still steaming as she was served on a colorful bed of
red cabbage and shaved carrots. As the chef plunged his serving fork through the
girl’s crisp, brown skin, fat ran in rivulets down her broad, meaty back, and
from the tops of her plump buttocks to her thick haunches. He carved slabs from
the girl’s loin and thighs and passed them around the huge oaken table; the
wives dove in with gusto…their husbands, less so.
“Why, George,” said his wife, a forkful of Melanie’s meat poised between plate
and mouth, “You’ve barely touched your steak. You love tenderloin.”
“Eat up, old man,” Phil Pendleton said around a mouthful of rich flesh. “No
doggie bags around here!”
A laugh echoed around the table…the prosperous and their wives, a laugh at the
expense of the luckless young woman they were devouring because it had been her
turn to die. George had been thinking about the apartment; he picked up his
knife and fork, sawed off a slice of his girlfriend. “Seen that waitress at the
CafĂ© Del Rosa yet, Phil?” he asked, popping the savory morsel in his mouth.
“Already working on the next one,” scolded Mabel Craddock. “Shame on you, George
Wilkinson; enjoy the one you’ve got in front of you, first.” She washed down
some of Melanie’s fatty buttock with the ’67 champagne. “And besides,” she
continued, “if you keep bringing them in like this,” gesturing to the carved-up
carcass gracing the center of the table, “I’ll have to go on a diet!”



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