Cannes d'Eau




"You wanted to see me, ma'am?"

Madam Ruth put the account ledger aside and looked up at Ludie standing
before the desk.  Obviously the speaker had only recently risen from 
bed; her eyes were puffy in a twentyish face that was still pretty.  
Long black hair straggled unkempt around her shoulders.  She wore a 
creased wrapper and smelled strongly enough of man for the madam to 
identify that odor despite its prevalence in Cannes d'Eau.

"Yes, I did.  When did your pair of auctioneers leave?"

The woman shrugged.  "In the wee hours."

"I'm curious.  Did they auction you to each other?"

Ludie grinned.  "No, but they bragged a lot.  Their commission on that 
wharf sale is how they afforded me."

"I suppose it did.  That was an expensive property.  Talked all night, 
did they?"

"Maybe.  Guess I fell asleep."

"And slept through breakfast."

"Yes'm."  She rubbed her belly.  "Feels empty."

"At last!" agreed the madam tartly.  "I want you to eat a big one.  
Razor will still serve you.  Then go back to bed.  While you're eating 
Clancy will set up a second fan to blow directly on you.  Get all the 
sleep you can until seven o'clock.  At nine o'clock I want you bathed, 
painted, perfumed and well rested."

"I know it's Saturday night."

"It's not just Saturday night.  It's convention night in the party 
room."

"What night?"

"The Temperance Party is holding its state convention here this week."

"In our party room?  That's nice."

Ruth chuckled.  "Not the whole convention, just the fun part, for a 
dozen or so johns.  They're politicians: big time whores spending other
people's money on small time whores.  And you're one of the lucky small
timers who'll help them do it."

"I am?"

"You could clear $100 after the house cut."

"That much!"  Animation appeared in Ludie's face.  "God damn!"

"Eventually, perhaps."  Ruth cocked her head.  "Let's talk about three 
nights ago: Wednesday night.  Was that a fluke?"

"Huh?"

"With that beer swiller from Baton Rouge."

"You mean ..."  Ludie swallowed.

"Tanging him."

"Ah, uh, _tanging_?"

"Isn't a john's piss tangy in Cincinnati?"

"How'd you know about Wednesday night?"

Ruth's eyes flashed in confirmation.  "Well, I didn't.  We don't spy on
our girls except in the Party Room.  But Jones from Baton Rouge stops 
here often.  I know what other girls say about him.  He told Clancy he 
wanted to see you again when he comes back.  'She really likes it,' he 
reportedly said.  How much of the truth is that, Ludie?"

The woman made a face.  "Like it?  I can stand it all right when a 
john's full of beer, and that one drunk a pitcher."  She smiled 
slightly.  "The truth is, I guess I do like it a little, like a fountain
in your mouth."  Her lips clenched.  "But it's awful, makes you sick as
a dog, if he ain't drunk lots of beer."

"That attitude will add to your account, Ludie.  The fee for tanging 
is 100 bucks, when you remember to tell Clancy."

"Damn, 100 bucks! ...  So tangers gonna be in the party?"

"The organizer, Congressman Josiah, after he's drunk half a pitcher or 
so, is known for that letch.  I'm going to put you in his lap and if you
please him I guarantee you $100 for the night."

"My god, Miss Ruth!  But ... you think he'll go for a new gal?"

"Men love new girls, Ludie.  And you paint up pretty.  When you think 
he's drunk enough, tell him you'd like a little tang."

"He knows what it means?"

"He knows."

The woman thought a moment.  "I caught the overflow in a washbasin 
Wednesday.  Okay to use that tonight?"

Ruth nodded.  "The maids will be circulating with washbasins.  Call one
over.  And if you spill it, don't worry.  They're accustomed to 
scrubbing that carpet."  She cocked her head.  "'The overflow,' you 
said.  Do you swallow it, Ludie?"

"Sometimes."  The woman shrugged.  "It don't hurt nothing."


* * *


"Come in," Ruth intoned in response to the knock on her office door.  
Her eyes lit when it opened to admit the senator.  "You're just in time
for supper."

"Am I?"  He grinned, approaching her desk.  "I don't know which I enjoy
more: your company or Razor's cooking."

"Miles, you wonderful man, you say the nicest things!  Dinner's on the 
table.  Go in with me, soon as I file this receipt."

"Thank you.  But first I have some private news."

She looked up from thumbing through the folder in her desk drawer.  
"Nothing bad about your health, I hope!"

"Not this time.  I have an answer from Cincinnati."

"About our new girl?"

"About Mary Ann Davis, the name her mother gave her."

"Who's that?"

"Also known as Rhoda Grainger in the Green Lantern House, Rhoda Willet 
on the _Colonel Smith_ and now Ludie Harden."

Ruth blinked.  "All the same girl?"

"All with black hair, snapping brown eyes and a pale complexion."

"Lots of girls fit that description."

"Girls who ended up whoring for the crew on a tugboat?"

"Well ..."  She chuckled.  "Whoring is hardly distinctive.  Most women 
do it one way or the other.  As does anyone who provides a service for 
money, such as doctors, lawyers, policemen, all professional men and 
especially politicians."

"Hmph!  I believe I've also expressed that sentiment.  But we're talking
about Ludie.  Her father, Jerome Davis, is a lay preacher."

"Miles, _are_ we talking about Ludie?"

He sniffed again.  "I tell you, we've traced her back to the reverend 
Davis.  It's solid."

"A preacher, was he?  Not at the, ah, Green Lamp, one supposes."

"The Green Lantern, a waterfront bawdyhouse.  She worked there three 
years, starting when she was 19.  First she married John Grainger, a 
pimp later shot to death because of a scheduling problem.  She ran away
from the bawdyhouse with a man, could have been Cowboy Jackson, as she 
said, and showed up nearly two years later, listed as Rhoda Willet, 
cook's helper on the twin-screw tug, the _Colonel Smith_."

The madam digested that.  "So she's older than 20."

"By five years.  She was born in 1881."

"How did she get to be Willet?"

"That's not clear, but this much is interesting.  A pimp by the name of
Robert Jackson, who claimed Kansas City as his birthplace, was found 
shot dead by a small caliber weapon in New Orleans in ought-three.  He 
was known for winning dick wagers with his eight-incher."

"And where is Rhoda Willet now, according to your informants?"

"No one knows.  She jumped ship, probably at night as they passed some 
little town.  One crewman hinted that she and the captain, one Joseph 
Marble, left together."

"Oh?  What do you hear about Captain Marble?"

"He left the tug for personal reasons, they said.  Nothing about his 
death.  It's not uncommon for bodies fallen into the Mississippi to 
never be found."

She sat in pensive silence for a moment before looking up.  "Small 
caliber, eh?"

"Yes.  Lots of women carry them."  He chuckled.  "One thing is certain:
Ludie had no revolver when she came ashore here."

"Three weeks ago tomorrow.  How'd you get all this so fast, Miles?"

"Good detectives.  The Secret Service uses the Edgar Brothers too, which
is how I heard about them."

"That must have cost you!  Why such interest?"

"Put it down to an old man's curiosity.  And I can afford it.  One of 
these days I'm going to rent Ludie for a while and cross-examine her.  
That girl has enjoyed quite a life!  There's even paper on her.  She's 
wanted for questioning in Jackson's murder."

"I take it you have confidence in these detectives."

"I told you: the Secret Service uses them.  Why do you ask?"

"Because she revealed quite a different history to Harry.  You say her 
father was a lay preacher.  According to her she's an orphan bastard 
whose mother drowned when Ludie was ten or so.  She then took up with a
gang of boys known as 'waterfront rats,' who made her their captive 
playtoy."

The senator gaped and chuckled admiringly.  "Which neatly explains how 
she learned to swim so well."  He shook his head.  "But I prefer to 
believe my detectives.  One of them talked to the reverend Davis, who 
admitted his Mary Ann was a wild little thing who far preferred male 
company."  He chuckled again.  "I've heard this kind of story before.  
If you demand a house tart's history, she'll give you a good one -- 
though heroine and incidents be fictional."

Ruth nodded.  "A good one but seldom original.  It's usually a composite
of other stories in the house.  Either could be true this time.  Ludie 
definitely likes the men -- and what they have.  She's agreed to tang 
for Congressman Josiah tonight.  Are you coming to the party?"

He shuddered.  "Not _that_ party!  A tanger, is she?  Thanks for telling
me: more grist for the interview.  That's a subject my curiosity is 
unlimited on."

"Tanging?  Have you never used a woman so, Miles?"

"That's the wrong end of the question."

"What do you mean?"

"I cannot for the life of me imagine why one human being would sit still
and let another piss in her mouth!"

Ruth stood up with a sly grin.  "Hold that thought and let's go to 
dinner."


* * *


The entree was roast wild duck, well marinated in a Creole sauce that 
imparted tenderness and heat.

"Razor, you've done it again!" declared the senator admiringly after 
swallowing his first mouthful.

The face of the tall black man, a skinny exception to the rule that good
chefs must be fat, was wreathed in smiles.  "Thank you, senator, thank 
you!  If _you_ says it's good, I don' kyer what the rest says!"  He went
whistling back to the kitchen.

Ruth cocked her head.  "That's true of many things, Miles."

"Which explains why Cannes d'Eau gets my custom."

She chuckled.  "Do all your compliments bounce back and forth like 
that?"

He grinned.  "I'm a reflective sort of fellow."

"Yes.  I noticed that your earlier remark, even interpreting it that you
enjoy Razor's cooking more than my company, still compliments me for 
choosing Razor."

"Yes, it does: especially when no one would give him a chance, despite 
his Chicago references, because he's black.  I've wondered about him.  
Why did he come south anyway, against the current?"

"To avoid a lynching, he told Carlotta."

"In Chicago?  Come, come.  A concrete overcoat is more the style there."

"Not for a black man with the guts to lay a white woman."

"I see.  And I trust he understands they'll burn him alive for that 
here.  I'd hate for you to lose him...  Ah, Carlotta?"

"She was a maid who quit last year to get married."

Clancy, one of Cannes d'Eau's two husky guards, sat down in the empty 
seat beside Madam Ruth.  He was already dressed in the black formal 
clothes that amounted to his evening uniform.  "Excuse me for 
interrupting, ma'am, but it might be important."

"Miles, excuse us, please."

The senator waived his arm.

She said, "Go ahead, Clancy."

"I just spoke to Abrams.  He passed by on his way to work."

"Abrams?"

"Houseman at McAlisters.  He says his madam and the others want to have
a meeting.  You'll be invited."

"A meeting?  For what purpose?"

"To fight the Boston laws."

Ruth sniffed.  "Did he say how they propose to fight?"

"By organizing like the unions, he said."

She laughed and shook her head.  "Thanks for telling me, Clancy."

The man rose and departed.  Ruth grinned around at the senator.  
"Organizing!"

He chuckled.  "They intend to invoke the Lysistrata defense, no doubt."

She blinked at him.  "Am I supposed to know what that means?"

"Excuse me.  I need to keep in mind that women are educated 
differently."

Her eyes narrowed.  "Damn it, Miles ..."

"Okay."  He spread his hands peacefully.  "It's a reference to ancient 
Greek comedy.  Lysistrata organized the Athenian women to refuse sex 
until the men called off the Peloponnesian War."

She sniffed.  "Yeah.  That would be funny -- assuming they could still 
eat.  We couldn't."

He shook his head.  "I'm not sure what you all could hope to accomplish
by organizing.  Lysistrata cornered the market.  Of course that was 
farce."  He snickered.  "Maybe the madams could corner the blow job and
brown markets."  His snicker became a bark of laughter.  "Farts as 
farce."

"Miles!"  She shook her head but smiled despite herself.  "The whole 
idea is a pipe dream.  Organizing, indeed!  I assure you any good madam
would prefer getting screwed individually."

He blinked and grinned slowly.  "I assume that's a joke."

"Not at all!  Otherwise the accounting becomes impossible."

He laughed with her.  "I'm curious about something.  According to 
Clancy, McAlister has a 'houseman.'  Why don't you?"

"If I had would you like me better?"

"I know you have at least five men in your employ, but you don't call 
them housemen."

Her eyes glinted.  "Clancy and Jake are _guards_, Miles.  They agreed 
when they came to work here to defend Cannes d'Eau with their lives.  
The two doormen have a similar obligation.  They keep out the 
riff-raff."

"Who can't afford to bribe them."

She tossed her head.  "I suspect you're right, but so what?  That's a 
selection mechanism too, and they let enough in.  I believe in 
descriptive titles.  _Houseman_ is ... well, it sounds worse than 
house_wife_."

His eyes glowed.  "I have always admired your directness."

Her face softened.  "More than my boobs?"

"Well, no.  There's a pair of natural wonders!"  He cleared his throat.
"Speaking of them, when are you going to let me bring in my 
photographer?"

"Definitely sometime after tonight.  I don't believe we want any record
of _this_ party!"


* * *


Senator Heatherford often made it his business to sit in the Cannes 
d'Eau parlor in the evening.  The antics of the gathering clientele, 
along with the posturing of the girls, were usually entertaining.  It 
was a huge room with two man-high fireplaces, now cold and screened, and
two entrance foyers that reduced heat loss in the winter, one opening to
each porch that fronted the intersecting streets.  The room's walls 
encompassed both floors of the house, producing a ceiling 20 feet high 
from which dangled two elaborate electrical chandeliers.  A wide 
staircase ascended to a balconied mezzanine that occupied one end of the
room, below which doors opened into the coat room, now used only for 
gentlemen's hats, and the "staging" room.  Other doors in the parlor 
opened to the long downstairs hall, doors on the mezzanine to the 
upstairs cross-hall.  The walls were decorated high with large 
paintings, mostly well done of nude women smiling in artful poses, and 
low with plush velvet settees, stuffed chairs, potted plants and a few 
small tables.  Similar furniture sat back-to-back in the center of the 
room, creating an oval promenade area around it, where the senator 
preferred to take his station.

The sultry girls seated along the walls were fewer than usual tonight.
Presumably most were attending customers in the party room.  Several 
well-dressed men had already entered and been conducted directly into 
the downstairs hall and on to the party room, though arriving earlier 
than the announced ten p.m. start time.

The senator's pipe was not drawing well.  He had almost decided to take
it to Sheeba for cleaning when an old acquaintance came through the 
Miller Street door, surrendered his hat to the maid, caught the closest
girl from behind and while squeezing her breasts, spotted the senator 
over her shoulder.

He was ex-congressman Dennis Josiah, a strange looking, squat and rotund
fellow.  Large buttocks protruded from his rear to compliment a 
bounteous paunch in front.  He stood slightly stooped, and his full 
muttonchops were in the fashion of an earlier generation, as was the cut
of his suitcoat.  Grinning, the senator rose to his feet as the man 
approached.

"Dennis!" he boomed.  "What brings you here?"

The congressman had obviously recognized his former colleague.  He 
pushed the girl away with a pat on her ample fanny.  "Miles!  I should 
ask you the same question, though it's purely rhetorical, of course.  
We're both men of a certain age who require special coddling.  How's 
retirement treating you?"

"Quite nicely, thank you.  You might try it yourself, especially after 
that last election."

"No, no, my friend!  Duty calls, and the urgent cause is temperance.  
Demon rum must be put down!"

"The last time we met -- in Washington, I think -- you were a free 
silver Democrat who was known to lift a few.  What brought you into the
temperance movement?"

"It's a vehicle, Miles.  After that last election I lost all standing in
the Democratic Party and had to find a new constituency.  Temperance is
the wave of the future, and I intend to ride it to renewed victory."

The senator surpressed a grin.  "I'm sure it's aggravating to be defeated 
at the polls by a man widely known to be dead.  I must say, though, that
the people of Missouri do have a sense of humor."

"Humor!  It was the Wobbly agitators!  They're the ones who blew it all
out of proportion.  Missouri was mine until those anarchists started 
spreading rumors about my supposed sex life."

"Supposed sex life, Dennis?  Do you imply that you don't have one?"

"You know what I mean.  When I proved I was never found in bed with a 
dead girl, they changed the story to a live boy!  So after I was 
defeated and my victorious challenger was not alive enough to serve, the
Republican governor was able to appoint one of his effeminate pals to 
fill out the term."

"Too bad for the State of Missouri, Dennis.  You'd have been quite a 
spectacle in the U.S. Senate."

The congressman glowered, then pulled a flask from an inner pocket.  
"Want a snort?"

"Not just yet.  But I thought you were a temperance man."

"I'm not a fanatic, Miles.  Like I said, the temperance movement is just
a vehicle back to power.  Besides, an occasional dram is good for the 
digestion."

The senator nodded toward the far end of Cannes d'Eau where several 
temperance politicians had already disappeared.  "Are your colleagues as
easy going about drink?"

Josiah understood the nod.  "That bunch for certain.  The prissy ones 
are back at the hotel with their wives.  We're a special core within the
movement, if you know what I mean.  Tonight we're going to drink and 
whore around."

The senator rubbed the side of his nose with a knuckle.  "I understand 
there's a special show for you this evening."

"Indeed!  The reputation of this bawdyhouse is what convinced me to 
attend this god awful convention.  I hear it's better than any 
establishment in Havana, and that's saying a lot."

"I recall hearing that you visited there just after the war."

"Yes."  The tubby man chuckled.  "It was a congressional fact finding 
tour, and I can tell you we found out everything about Cuban 
whorehouses.  Those dusky beauties squeal in Spanish at the right time,
and a man can actually believe they're enjoying it.  It's a crime we 
weren't able to keep that island after we won it fair and square."

"We liberated it, Dennis.  The problem was that the Cubans and most of 
the American public thought that liberation meant freedom and 
independence."

"Stupid!  And despite that wonderfully propitious sinking of our 
battleship!"

"But we got the Philippines."

"Yes, and a lot of crazy Moros who are still causing trouble.  I'm been
there too, Miles.  Their brothels are pathetic.  All the girls have bad
skin and they're kind of dumpy.  I'd trade those islands for Cuba any 
time."

The senator grinned broadly.  "You've always had a wide strategic grasp,
Dennis.  It's a shame you're no longer in Congress."

"I'll be back!  As I've said, Temperance is the wave of the future."  He
looked past the senator's shoulder to the hall door where a companion 
was waving.  "We're about to start," he announced.  "Want to join us?"

"No, thanks, Dennis, though I may look in later."

"What's the matter, Miles?  I don't mind showing off my little pecker in
a crowd."

The senator chuckled.  "Actually I have no reason to be shy in that 
regard.  I'm just an old fashioned guy."

They shook hands.  Watching the man hurry to join his companions, the 
senator shook his head, sighed, tapped the dottle from his pipe into an
adjacent ashtray and wondered if a nap in his boarding house might be 
more interesting than further dalliance in Cannes d'Eau's largely 
depopulated parlor.  Then he recalled that Sally had promised to return
his copy of _Jane Eyre_ tonight and to express her opinion on it.  With
a smile of anticipation he turned toward a foyer door.


* * *


"You missed it, Dennis," declared Roger Bailey, the short and earnest 
assistant who tugged the ex-congressman along the hall.  "Hoodie shot 
all over his girl's tits as soon as she hauled out his dick."

The congressman grimaced.  "I had to stop and grease Heatherford.  That
old fart still has the best connections in the state.  But no shit!  
Right in front of everybody?"

"You bet.  She let him play with them while the drinks were coming 
around.  Guess it fired him up."

"Heh!  Reckon we'll have to call him 'Fast Gun Hoodie.'  Not that I'm 
surprised.  His wife's been cold shouldering him for a year."

A muted roar came from behind the heavy door.  When Roger threw it open,
the sound struck them in the face: shouts, screams, laughter high and 
low, giggles, all merged into a raucous howl.  Mostly naked women 
adorned the laps of men who had already begun to shed their own 
clothing.  Black women in maids' uniforms circulated with trays of 
drinks and hors-d'ouevres.  On a low table, centered in the section of 
raised floor that comprised the stage, the naked warm-up couple was 
demonstrating languid coitus, the woman superior, large breasts waltzing
on her chest.  At the rear of the stage big Clancy glowered in evening 
clothes with arms crossed on a barrel chest, his tally board dangling 
from one hand.

A woman, standing out from the others because of the age signs in her 
face only partly covered in paint, and because of her full-dress formal
gown, bustle and jewelry, drew close.  She said in a contralto voice 
pitched above the roar, "You are Congressman Josiah."

The newcomer bowed.  "Once and future congressman.  You must be Madam 
Ruth.  I am honored -- that is, very pleased to make your acquaintance,
and I have this for you."  He slipped a thick business envelope from his
coat pocket into her hand.

"This is the deposit?" she asked.

He nodded.  "A thousand."

"Does my man settle up with you?"

"Or this young man, whom I presume you've met, in case I'm under the 
weather."

She and Roger exchanged cool nods.  She said, "Very good, congressman.
And here is someone I'd like you to meet: Miss Ludie Harden.  Ludie, 
this is Congressman Josiah."

The congressman found himself facing a buxom and pretty young woman with
an ivory complexion and coal black hair rolled into two Spanish buns, 
each pierced by the stem of a yellow rose, dressed in a shimmering 
yellow peignoir.  Red lips smiled widely below sparkling brown eyes.  
She gushed, "Oh, I am so pleased to meet you, congressman.  You're my 
kind of man."

He smiled in response, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.  
"That's mutual, my dear.  You are so _lovely_ -- obviously my kind of 
girl!"

The madam caught his eye.  "You'll find that her tastes do coincide with 
yours."

He blinked from one woman to the other and his smile widened.  "That's 
very promising, Ludie.  Then you love beer."

"Yes, sir.  I have a cold pitcher waiting for us right over here."

"Capital!  Please excuse me, Madam Ruth."

"Certainly, sir.  I hope you enjoy what the Cannes d'Eau have to offer."


* * *


Having serviced three men in rapid succession, Maybelle left the party 
room for a quick douche and sponge bath to remove the copious first 
semen from pubes and thighs.  Returning immediately, she paused just 
inside the door to locate "her" men, for whom she always felt a 
brief but special responsibility.  They lounged mostly naked with drinks
in hand, conversing with each other.  The maids circulating with 
washbasins had already sponged them off.

The party had quieted somewhat after the initial burst of sexual 
enthusiasm, although a few attendees were still at it, one reaming a 
girl from behind and another lying back on a couch in vacuous 
introspection while a girl suckled his manhood.  An ensemble of
mixed instrumentalists had replaced the warm-up couple on stage.  The 
new music, reportedly invented in New Orleans, was helping to soothe the 
frenzy.  Around the room many feet, in stockings or bare, were twitching 
in time to its syncopated beat.

Her eyes came to rest upon an old man, fully clothed in formal evening 
dress, who sat alone sipping bourbon in the back of the room.  She tied 
the belt around her frilly peignoir and headed toward him.  His white 
goatee reminded her of William Cody.  She had noticed him earlier
and now intended to learn the reason for his presence here without a 
clinging girl.  Was he only a voyeur?  She liked old men.  Usually 
friendly, they were often grateful for a young woman's attention.

"Enjoying the sights?" she asked before sitting uninvited on the couch 
next to him.

He smiled at her.  "Oh, yes!  They remind me of my youth.  I was a wild
one back then."

She clasped his thigh.  "Maybe you've lost your youth, but I doubt 
you've lost a man's pleasure in a girl.  I'm Maybelle, and I want to 
please you."

"Jason.  Jason Carstairs.  I'd surrender half my fortune if you could 
really do that, Maybelle, but I'm sorry to say my equipment no longer 
works."

She leaned against him, a large breast pressing his arm.  "Maybe all you
need is a little encouragement from a woman with the right skill."

"I sure wish that were true, pretty woman, but the equipment isn't just
broke.  It's missing parts."

"Missing?"

"I got shot up bad at Manassas and haven't been the same ever since."

She was aghast.  "It was blown away?"

He grinned.  "The pole is still there, for what's it worth, but I lost 
one marble and part of the other."

She tilted her head back to assay him.  "You seem to take it lightly, 
Mr. Carstairs.  I would assume a man in such condition would be at least
a little bitter."

Snorting a laugh, he palmed her cheek.  "I was at first, of course, but
it's been over forty years now and I've gotten used to it.  The amazing
thing is that my wife never left me.  Thank god we already had two kids.
Oh, and please call me Jason."

Maybelle snuggled to him.  "So now you visit bawdyhouses just to watch 
the action?"

"No.  In fact I haven't been in a place like this since I was wounded.
But my wife passed on last year, and when the boys suggested this party,
curiosity got the best of me.  I've never seen a whorehouse this 
elegant."

"Madam Ruth offers the best and upholds the strictest standards -- like
that band up there on the stage."

At that moment the black ensemble began a new tune.

"Good, are they?"

"The best."

"I always liked darkie music," Jason observed.  "But what these play is
... new to me.  What's it called?"

"The blues.  Or jazz.  New Orleans Negroes did it first.  These boys are
from there.  Madam Ruth found them on Beale Street just after they 
arrived.  The old man with the cornet is Bunk Johnson.  He's supposed to
be the best."

The band was playing a lively ragtime number.  Jason paid rapt 
attention.  "You can't dance to it," he remarked, "at least any dance I
know."

She stroked the man's thigh.  "Jazz is a great background for places 
like this.  Would you like to take off my gown?  A man can still enjoy a
good feel, even if he can't, you know, do much."

He palmed her cheek again.  "I'd like that, Maybelle.  Perhaps we could
both get undressed and pretend we're doing it, that is if you don't mind
seeing what I'm lacking."

"We can do all kinds of stuff, Jason.  You name it."

With steady hands he undid her belt, opened the gown, then pushed it off
her shoulders.  She was a well-padded woman with large, drooping breasts
and sumptuous thighs.  He lowered his head to suckle a dark nipple.  
Looking up at her, he said, "This is fine.  I could spend the entire
night snuggling to you."

"That can be arranged, you know, although Clancy will charge you more."

"I have no trouble with money, sweetheart.  With no sex urges to 
distract me, I became very successful in my business.  But if you don't
mind I'd first like to get naked and let you suck on me for the other 
boys to see.  They think I'm over the hill."

"Sure, Jason.  Stand up and take off your clothes.  Want to go up on 
stage with the band and let everybody watch?"

"No, no.  Nothing so blatant.  Let's do it here on the couch."

"I can make you look like Buffalo Bill."

He laughed.  "Wouldn't that be something to brag on!  The trouble is, if
I got a reputation, I might not have such an understanding sweetheart for 
my next performance!"

She helped him remove his garments.  Naked, he stood with his back to 
the stage, from which wafted the sounds of lilting syncopation, the 
cornet soaring with dulcet tones.

"You got a nice dangle there, Jason.  Want me to suck it while you're 
standing?"

"No," he replied, sitting next to her again.  "Just lean over and  slurp
on it like I was an ordinary fellow."

She did as instructed, engulfing the flaccid, four inch penis.  He 
looked around the room and smiled when he noticed a couple of his 
acquaintances watching.

"That's right, darling!" he exclaimed.  "Suck it pretty!"

Her lips made smacking sounds.  Covering the organ with her hands, she 
raised her head and declared loudly, "What a nice one, Jason!"  Again 
she gulped him in and began to bob over it.  Soon she noticed a definite
stiffening.

She looked up with a twinkle and murmured, "Thought you said it 
didn't work."

He sniffed.  "It's working better now than it has in years, but that's 
all it'll do."

"Don't give up so quickly."

"Even if you can make it work right, I don't want it to happen like 
this.  Suck a little longer."

Shortly he grimaced, grunted loudly and pretended to climax with 
fingers entwined in her hair.  He nodded to the onlookers and sighed as 
if in gratification.  They raised their glasses in a toast.

Maybelle released him with a pop.  His manhood stood proudly and 
respectably erect.  No one else was close enough to note its dry eye.
She grinned at him, sharing the fun of their sham performance.

"Let's go upstairs to your room now," he suggested.  "I want to lie on 
top of you.  I want to lick on you as well.  My wife never allowed 
that."

They rose and gathered his clothing.  She waited at the door, listening
to the joyously blaring band, as he slipped a gold coin to big Clancy.  
She was pleased to see that her three men had each found a second girl.


* * *


Along with a proliferation of window fans in the girls' rooms, Madam 
Ruth had installed forced air circulation into the building for the 
parlor, the party room and her own office, driven through wide ductwork
by powerful electrical motors.  Usually at midnight the outside air 
temperature had fallen enough to make using them worthwhile.  Tonight a
mild thunderstorm had added further cooling, so much that the celebrants
cheered when the deep thrumming began in the attic and blessed coolness
wafted over sweating bodies.  Thick blue tobacco smoke cleared as if by
magic.

Cannes d'Eau's identical twins were prospering in their first season.  
Across the low table, now removed from the stage, their naked bodies 
gleamed in good health.  Lettie with the identifying blue ribbon 
adorning her bound up hair crouched atop red-ribboned Pettie, who lay on
her back, arms around Lettie's buttocks, sisterly heads buried between 
sisterly thighs.  This pose, dubbed "the 269," was a specialty of theirs
for which their fame was spreading.  The "2" included any two men, one 
stationed at either end of the pair, putting alternately into mouth, 
vagina or sometimes anus, though the latter, about which the girls were
markedly less enthusiastic, required special negotiation.

Several pairs of men had already availed themselves tonight of this dual
amusement.  Pettie, on the bottom, appreciated the cool air 
particularly, which she could at least feel with arms and legs.  At that
moment the penis at her head end was pistoning violently within the 
vagina above her tongue, suggesting that its climax was near.  Having 
recognized the signs as the cooler air renewed her energy, she slithered
hand under sisterly thigh to grasp the flopping testicles and protect 
them from the pain some men reported from gonads bouncing on a hard 
forehead.

The penis froze at full thrust, convulsed several times and at last 
withdrew.  Its seminal excess flowed into her mouth.  She caught the 
organ with the same hand and guided it momentarily between her lips.  
The owner trembled and cursed.  Releasing it, she smiled up between her
sister's legs as he withdrew.

"God!" he exclaimed above the blaring music.

"Part of the service!" she called with a smile.

He bent down close to her head.  Though viewing his face upside-down, 
she understood the intensity of his expression.  "That was _sharp_!" he
declared.

She decided it was a compliment.  "Thank you."

"Why did you grab my balls at the end?"

"To keep 'em from getting hurt on my forehead."

"I thought that was it.  I want to tip you for it.  Where can I put 
money?"

"Give it to Clancy."

"Who?  The big guy leaning on the wall?"

"Yeah.  Tell him it's for Pettie, and thank you very much."

"Was that part of the service too?"

"Sure."  She leered.  "And also 'cause I like to handle a man's parts."

His eyes widened.  "God!" he repeated.

"Hey, Rolly, you finished?" asked a different male voice above him.

Shortly another penis presented itself to her mouth.  This one was only
half-erect and already tasted of woman, the faintly licorice flavor of 
Candice's absinthe.  Pettie set herself to enlarging the organ but froze
momentarily as a large one stabbed into her at the other end, presumably
having first enjoyed its own re-erection in the sisterly mouth.


* * *


"How's it feel, George, in an asshole?"

A naked woman was bent over the back of a couch while George, standing 
bald-headed with a thick moustache, wearing only knee garters, shoes and
stockings, plowed her indolently from behind.  A second man, similarly 
naked but with chin whiskers, peered around him at the junction and 
expressed his curiosity.

"I was just thinking about that," answered George with a grin.  "It's 
more like a mouth than a cunt."

"A mouth?  You mean an asshole can suck?"

"No.  Like a mouth with tight lips but no tongue or anything.  Hop 
around up on the couch and give it to her, Bill.  She'll soon get you 
hard enough to try."

"You'll stand aside?"

"Sure.  We'll take turns and see who she can fetch first."

But Bill hesitated in front of the couch.  "Her head's down.  Is she 
asleep?"

"Pick it up by the hair.  She'll suck."

Bill frowned but took tentative hold of the pinned up blonde tresses and
lifted the head.  The heavily painted face was still attractive.  Blue 
eyes flicked up at him once, the only recognition she afforded.  He 
leaned forward and presented himself.  At the touch her lips parted and
sucked him in.  Her tongue began to work.  Bending further, he reached 
around behind her arms and squeezed the sagging breasts.

"See?" said George.

After a bit Bill's curiosity reappeared.  "I wonder how this feels to 
her."

That produced a laugh.  "You could take her place except for the tits."

Bill joined the laughter defensively.  "Guess I don't wonder that much."

Candice hardly noticed either man.  Lying docilely over the couch back,
she had re-attained her preferred state: immersed in the dream-life 
Sally's father had promised before his wife shot him down.


* * *


"In most American cities the bawdyhouses are all squeezed into one area,
called the 'tenderloin' or the 'red light district,' from the German 
practice.  Yeah, I know the Cannes d'Eau is by itself in the 
neighborhood, but then it's a special place in several ways.  My 
information is that Boss Twill holds the city government tight in his 
fist, and Twill and Madam Ruth are like _that_."

Congressman Josiah held up two fingers side by side.  He lay sprawled on
his back on a couch, head resting between Daisy's plump breasts, 
shoulder in her soft lap.  Ludie knelt between his legs, her knees on a
pillow, alternately handling and mouthing the penis that stood mostly 
erect under the overhanging belly despite having discharged into both 
women in the course of the evening.

"In that respect the Cannes d'Eau is more like the joints in Havana, 
which are scattered throughout the city."  He had been comparing 
American and Cuban brothels, often to the former's disadvantage, since 
his last orgasm.  "Even New Orleans, the only place in the country where
whoring is legal, has its Storyville."  Daisy twitched.  "What, you 
didn't know it was legal in New Orleans?"

The woman smiled vacantly.  "Whatever you say, honey."  In fact her 
movement had meant only to redistribute his weight, which was pinching a
roll of belly fat against her hipbone.

The man frowned.  "Did you know it or didn't you?"

"I knew it," said Ludie, looking up over his paunch.  "I lived there off
and on.  Alderman Story made it legal in '97."

He blinked at her.  "You're too young to've been there in '97 -- pulling
on dicks, at least."

"Two or three years ago I heard some guys arguing about it.  They said 
legal didn't make no difference."

He chuckled.  "None at all, eh?"

"Except a girl could get arrested if she just left Storyville."

"Well, so would you here if you went on the street dressed like you are
now."

She grinned.  "I reckon so!  I wonder what _would_ happen."

"Try it tomorrow and see."

Her eyes brightened.

"No, no!" he protested.  "Forget I said that, Ludie.  You've been too 
sweet to me to wind up in jail ... or worse.  Aha, there's the girl with
the washbasin!  Wave her over here, will you, sugar-lump?"

The band was still playing, though less gaily now.  Many of the men, 
less accustomed to late hours than the women, had progressed to 
somnolence.  Most of the conversation was in the feminine register, 
banter among the girls beside whom or in the laps of whom the men lay.
Ludie had to call the maid only once to get her attention.  "Just leave
your basin and washcloths here, Bessie, and fetch us another pitcher of
beer."

"The _fourth_ one?" confirmed the girl, whites of her eyes gleaming.

"We've been thirsty," Ludie said with a wink.

She aligned her knees partly under the couch and set the basin upon her
legs between couch and belly.  She depressed the penis toward it and 
looked up into the man's eyes.  "This is what you want, ain't it?"

"Part of it."  His face was solemn.  "Madam Ruth said you and I go for 
the same stuff."

"I heard her."

"What else have you heard?"

"I heard of tanging."

"Have you!  Do you know the difference between it and just watering?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Show me."

"You know how much it costs?"

The man sniffed.  "Let _me_ worry about that!"

"Whatever you say."  She paused, lips nearly touching the glans that her
hand had exposed, and grinned.  "I like to do this, you know, when the 
man's drunk lots of beer."

"Then I'm your man."

"Wh-what --" began Daisy, suddenly paying attention.

Ludie bent further forward, opening her mouth and accepting the first 
inches of flesh.  Congressman Josiah sat a little straighter, allowing 
Daisy to do the same.  Almost immediately a watery liquid overflowed 
Ludie's bottom lip and coursed down her chin to rattle into the 
washbasin below it.

"Good god!" exclaimed Daisy.

"Ah-h-h-h," breathed the congressman, face wreathed in a relieved smile.
Ludie's eyes sparkled up to his.  Her lips reformed on the shaft, which
seemed to strengthen the flow into the basin.

"He's pissing in your mouth!" declared Daisy in tones of horror.

The man grinned smugly around at her.  "They say it tastes like 
champagne.  Let me get the pressure off and you can try it too."

"Gah-gah--"

"What's the matter, honey?  Don't you like champagne?"

He was grinning into her eyes over his shoulder when the worst happened.
She erupted explosively.  A pale yellow stream, mostly undigested beer,
wide as the output of a fire hose, arced from her gaping mouth into his
face, on down his chest and over his paunch, splashing all the way into
Ludie's hair.


* * *


Hand covering his mouth, the senator asked, "Didn't you recall Daisy's 
weak stomach?  Hell, even a little jism has been known to bounce in her
throat."

Ruth glowered at him from her seat behind the desk.  "Of course I 
thought about that!  She begged to attend because she needs the money, 
she said.  I warned her to stay away from Josiah."  Ruth took a deep 
breath.  "Unfortunately I didn't tell her why -- and as fate would have
it, Josiah took a shine to her right off.  His cock went into her almost
as often as Ludie."

The senator nodded.  "Yeah, Daisy's the kind he cottons to: docile
and uncritical."  The nod became a chuckle.  "Until he offered to piss 
in her mouth.  I wish I'd seen it!"

"Just as well you didn't.  Clancy reported that Josiah was angry enough
as it was."

"As the kids say, he was a bit pissed off?"  The man laughed aloud.

She didn't smile.  "I called on you to help me assess the consequences."

"What consequences?  Dennis won't repeat that story, I assure you!"

"But his friends will."

"Oh yes.  I can see it now: 'Citizen expresses true feelings about 
congressman.'  Too bad the newspapers can't publish it."

"I mean the consequences for Cannes d'Eau."

He shrugged.  "I don't think you need to worry, my dear.  I predict when
he cools down, he'll be back, asking for Ludie.  Tangers aren't so 
common.  Did you charge him the fee?"

"No.  Clancy felt it was wise to forego anything beyond the deposit."

"But it wasn't _his_ money, Ruth!  You should've loaded it on."

She grinned slowly and shook her head.  "Clancy doesn't have your balls,
Miles."  The grin faded to a sigh.  "And neither do I.  Time will tell, 
I suppose."

"As always.  How did Ludie take it?"

The madam's eyes lit.  "Wonderfully well!  I promised her a hundred and 
made sure she got it.  Do you know, that girl must have been tanging 
for a long time.  She warns that Josiah is sick and predicts him dead
in five years."

"All that from tasting his piss?"

"Exactly.  She says it's like sugar water.  When Harry comes in I'll 
have to ask him about it."