Dirt

than once every eight or nine months. Perfect for Amanda.
    Henry was a pillar of Atlanta society, the husband of a retired opera singer and the father of two daughters whose social ambitions were relentless. Amanda had helped them meet
tout
Gotham while, unbeknownst to them or anyone else, she had established a highly erotic relationship with their father, who was a youthful forty-five. This weekend he was in New York, ostensibly for a board meeting, and he was waiting for her at the Trent, a small, elegant hotel in the East Sixties. They planned to be together until early Monday morning.
    The car glided to a halt at the Trent’s discreet entrance. Amanda looked up and down the block before she got out; she had no wish to run into anyone she knew. “No need to get the door, Paul Please meet me here after midnight on Sunday — say, two A.M.” “Two o’clock Monday morning,” Paul said.
    Satisfied that the block was empty of pedestrians, she slid out of the car and ran across the sidewalk, slipping on a pair of dark glasses. She paused for a moment in the foyer of the hotel and glanced across the little lobby at the front desk, where a man in a tailcoat was working. She waited until he turned away, then scooted across the lobby, unspotted, to the alcove where the elevator was. She pressed “P” for penthouse and waited while the car traveled upward for fifteen floors. When the door opened, she popped her head out to check that the hallway was empty, then walked out of the elevator and to the end of the hall, stopping before double doors.
    Glancing around once more to be sure she was alone, she stepped out of her shoes, then slipped off her panties. She was not wearing a bra under the little black dress. She took off her coat and unzipped her dress. Then, holding her coat, shoes, and panties in her hand, she rang the bell. Seconds later the door opened, and she stepped inside.
    Henry Bell stepped back to allow her to enter. He was wearing a silk dressing gown. He said nothing, but untied the belt and whipped it off, presenting a trim physique and a throbbing erection. Amanda dropped her belongings on the floor, wiggled her shoulders, and let the little dress fall off, revealing full breasts and a finely crafted body. She kicked the dress out of the way and stood there, wearing only black stockings and a black garter belt.
    “Hello, sailor,” she said, and went to him.
     
     
    Late Sunday evening, they sat propped up in bed, naked, next to the remains of a room service dinner on a tray. Henry dozed lightly while Amanda watched yet another of his endless collection of erotic Scandinavian videotapes. Henry had a little man in Stockholm who sent them to the Trent whenever he was in New York. Amanda loved them.
    This one was particularly intriguing, she thought, glancing at Henry. Poor baby, she had given him a real workout for the whole weekend. He deserved his rest; still … She reached for his penis and began kneading it gently. A small smile appeared on his sleeping face.
    “We’ve just time for one more round, sweetie,” she said.
    Henry didn’t open his eyes. “If I can,” he whimpered.
    Amanda rearranged herself slightly, then bent over and took his penis into her mouth. Henry gave a little groan and began to respond.
    At that moment, the doors to the suite’s bedroom burst open with a bang, and the room was filled with light.
    “Over here, Amanda!” a man’s voice shouted as a flashbulb went off.
    Amanda sat straight up in bed, her mouth open, her eyes wide. Her left hand still rested on Henry’s penis. “What?!” she screamed. There were all sorts of lights, those that flashed and those that burned steadily.
    “Get out!” Amanda screamed, shaking a fist at the lights.
    Henry sat frozen, dumbfounded.
    “Just one more, Amanda!” the man’s voice shouted.
    Amanda picked up a heavy clock from the bedside table and threw it at the light as Henry suddenly came to life. He started toward the intruders, but the bedroom doors were slammed in his face. He threw his shoulder against them, then howled in pain.
    Amanda did what she most wanted to do in the world: she screamed.
     
     
    An hour later, fully dressed but still trembling, Amanda fled the hotel, got into the back of the Cadillac, and was driven home. She looked over her shoulder but saw no witness to her leaving. She was in control again, and she had begun to assess the damage. It promised to be considerable.
     
Chapter 2
     
    Amanda