Her stage name was Kalola Kalikimaka.
She was billed at The Polynesian Paradise night club as an exotic fire dancer from Samoa, daughter of a chief. She was neither the daughter of a chief nor a Samoan. Her real name was Mary Kulihi and she had been born in the Palmyra, the old tenement district of Honolulu where her mother, a stout, good-natured Korean woman, ran a home laundry, and her father, a fat, happy half-Hawaiian, sat on the rickety front porch in the shade of the bougainvillea and drank beer.
Kalola was a very good dancer, as she certainly should have been. She had started practicing when she was four. She was also a very homesick little girl, as are all natives when they leave the islands of their birth. But Kalola could put up with being homesick because she was in love.
Jimmy Murphy was an American sailor, five years older than Kalola's eighteen. He was stationed on Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay and, being a yeoman in the executive office, rated liberty every night, a fortuitous circumstance that made it possible for he and Kalola to live very happily together in sin. He tended to be a bit vague on the subject of marriage and their future, but Kalola never doubted for one moment that they would eventually marry. Until he had seduced her, she had been an entirely innocent girl and, in her heart, she still was, for a childlike simplicity and sunny disposition were a natural part of her mixed racial heritage.
Except for the annoying presence of Herb Drew, night club manager, she liked her job. Herb, a darkly handsome man of forty, considered all female entertainers at the club as primarily there for his personal benefit and enjoyment. He usually succeeded in bedding them, but his best efforts had been of no avail with Kalola. In desperation, he had even forced his way into her dressing room while she was changing and had held her by brute strength while fondling her breasts. Kalola had bided her time until he had relaxed his hold, then had brought a knee up forcibly into his crotch. For nearly a week after that, Herb had seemed to lose all interest in sex and had walked about backstage like a man riding an invisible horse, while glowering and muttering darkly at everyone he met. He had never bothered her again.
The drums rolled in a final flurry as Kalola completed her dance, her bronzed body glistening in the light of the two torches she dexterously twirled with such speed that they seemed hoops of fire. She ended by tossing them into the air and catching them as she ran from the stage. She returned to a prolonged applause to take a bow, then hurried offstage to her dressing room.
Carefully locking the door from the inside, she divested herself of the six flower leis she wore, the skimpy halter top and the short, imitation grass skirt. Then she removed her make-up with theatrical cream and quickly donned street clothes. She smiled happily at her naked reflection in the mirror, glad of the fate that had granted her skin as smooth as brown silk, breasts that jutted enticingly from her upper body and hips and thighs, developed from years of dancing into twin perfections of breathlessly lovely shape. She had long known that her seductively contoured form and piquantly beautiful face were great assets in show business, but now she was particularly pleased with her natural endowments because they pleased Jimmy. He praised her and petted her and could keep neither his hands nor his lips off of her body when they were together. And that made it an equitable arrangement, because she couldn't keep her hands off of him either. He had taught her to make love, and now she lived only for the hours when they lay together, white and brown bodies entwined as they struggled in the frenzied, panting, rapturous dance of passion.
Kalola left the night club by the back door and took a city bus to the apartment she shared with her lover in the Marina District. Jimmy met her at the door and swept her into his arms. She was glad he had just gotten there and had not yet had time to change from his uniform. She loved the feel of the dark-blue broadcloth with its contrasting white stripes, rating badge and single red hashmark. They kissed hungrily and he, as usual, dropped a hand to raise her skirt in back and caress the firm, rounded flesh of her buttocks. Everything was exactly as it had always been with them… and yet it wasn't. Kalola thought she detected a note of preoccupation, almost absentmindedness, in the kiss and in the caressing hands.
"Whatsa matta you, fella jimboy?" she asked anxiously.
"Nothing. For crissake quit talking pidgin," he responded irritably.
She was instantly and deeply hurt. It was the first time he had ever voiced an objection to the inland English she often used with him as a kind of lover's baby talk. She knew now that something real was troubling him, but she was too wise in the ways of a woman to let him see her hurt. She would wait and he would tell her when he was ready. She knew the kind of therapy he needed. She ran a hand down the front of his trousers, feeling for his cock through the tight material.
Jimmy stood tense and still for a moment, then he relaxed. "Gosh, Kalola honey, I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm just…" She silenced him with her lips on his.
"Undress me," she whispered around the corner of the kiss. "Take my clothes off, Jimmy, and kiss my titties."
He hesitated, seeming for a moment on the point of refusing, and then, with a groan, he unzipped her dress at the back and let it fall to the floor. She wore no underwear.
"Now you," she said. "Hurry, Jimmy." While he struggled to pull his jumper off over his broad shoulders, Kalola knelt and undid the thirteen buttons of his trousers. She pulled them down and his shorts as well, clasping her arms around his hips and pulling him toward her so that his stiffening cock was cuddled against her cheek. She showered avid kisses on the thick shaft of it, on his belly and thighs. She reluctantly disengaged herself from him only long enough to remove his shoes and socks, then they hurried, arm in arm, to the bedroom.
She lay back across the bed to let him lean over her and suck greedily at the dark brown of her nipples, his tongue and teeth sending thrills chasing through her that made her squirm with mounting desire. She closed her eyes and rocked her head from side to side, her long, black hair fanned out on the pink of the chenille bedspread, her knees bent and her heels hooked under the edge of the mattress.
He lowered his head from her breasts to the taut skin of her stomach, his wet lips and tongue leaving a trail of moisture across her brown hide.
"Now do it to me! Oh, do it to me good, Jimmy!" she pleaded.
He mounted her and thrust his cock into her open and receptive vagina as she cried out in ecstasy. As he fucked it into her, she pulled his face down to hers and sucked his tongue into her mouth. Her hips rose to meet his and she felt his long, hard cock probe deeply, the head of it bumping its way past the mouth of her womb until it hit bottom. He continued to push at her, creating a little thrill of pain with each lunge of his body. This was what she loved most of all, the bigness and the length of him and the fact that he filled her so completely that doing it with him was both painful and heavenly. Tonight he was particularly rough with her, as though taking his earlier flash of irritability out on her body, punishing her for loving him too much, for demanding and getting too much of him. She cried out in pain and passion and strained for more, willing him to give her a physical pain to erase the memory of the other hurt he had inflicted on her.
Jimmy Murphy was actually neither very experienced nor very adept as a lover. But Kalola in her innocence didn't know that. She thought he was the greatest fucker who had ever lived. On the occasions when he came before she did, leaving her aching and frustrated, she forgave him easily, supposing that such was her lot in life and all she could expect as her share of intercourse.
Her passion mounted, welling and growing in her like the froth on boiling waters, until her body lost all meaning except as a chalice for his prick and a capsule to contain the screaming nerves that had become her. It was one of her lucky nights. She was able to have her orgasm just before he did. Their locked bodies continued to writhe and twitch in unison with the fading pulses of dying sensation that still shook them in surges of decreasing power.
"Jimmy," she whispered, her dark eyes adoring him, "I'll bet no other guy in the world can make love like you."
Jimmy frowned and looked uncomfortable. "I've been keeping track," he said, not meeting her eyes directly. "You know how long it's been since your last period?"
"Hunh?" She looked blank and then startled and admitted she didn't know.
"Nearly two months," he told her accusingly. "You aren't pregnant, are you?"
Kalola's eyes became round with mild shock as this new idea penetrated her mind, then she smiled radiantly. "Gee! Do you think I might be? Wouldn't that be wonderful, Jimmy?"
His frown deepened. "You better not be," he told her threateningly, "or we're in a helluva mess. I just got orders today that I'm being transferred back East… Brooklyn Navy Yard."
He had just dropped a bomb into the middle of her life and blown it to hell. Yet he seemed unaware of what he had done. He couldn't understand her heartbreak and grew angry with her when she cried and begged. As if it explained everything, he casually announced that he was already married anyway and what the hell had she expected?
A sunny disposition was not the only thing Kalola's conglomerate, racial heritage had bequeathed her. Her slanted eyes narrowed to slits and her lips curled into a snarl of rage as she hurled herself at him with clawing fingernails and flailing feet and knees. He managed to barricade himself in the bathroom until her temper had cooled, then he wisely gathered up his uniform and fled, leaving Kalola sobbing and screaming on the bed.
He had been gone from the apartment for an hour when she sat up and looked around her. Her face was puffed from crying, but her eyes were now dry and her mouth was set in hard lines such as it had never before known.
"Okay, you Goddamn sonomobeech. I show you pretty damn good, hunh," she muttered aloud, lapsing back into the pidgin of her childhood in the slums of Honolulu. She went to the living room, fumbled through the phone book and found a number. She dialed it, and when a man's voice answered, she said: "Mista Drew? This is Kalola. You no mad at me fo' kick you in nuts? Okay. You still wanta fuck me, I come you house. Sure, I come now, I stay you house all night, you fuck me plenty, yeah?" She hung up the receiver on its cradle.
"I show you, sailorboy shitty basta'd," she said as she pulled on her clothes.
A bewildered Herb Drew met Kalola at the door of his apartment. He wasn't at all sure what he was letting himself in for, but the powerful yen he had developed for the little brown dancer was greater even than his still vivid memory of an aching scrotum. "Come in," he greeted her. "I'm glad you've changed your mind. Can I fix you a drink?"
"Sure. We get plenty drunk, hunh? And we fucky-fucky all night, too."
"Suits me," Herb agreed, "although I'll be damned if I can figure why you decided to give me a little at two o'clock in the morning." He poured her a double shot and watched her toss it off with no apparent effort, a thing he thought strange when he knew for a fact she did not drink.
"Come on," she said, "let's go sackside. You bring one bottle, fella. Okay?"
Herb shrugged and followed her into the bedroom, noting that she was unzipping her dress and stepping out of it as she walked. He undressed and they had another drink, then he lowered himself to the bed and drew her to him.
It was no part of Kalola's plan to enjoy herself with Herb Drew. What she was doing was strictly for revenge. What she had not counted on was the stimulating effects of the whiskey and that Herb was an accomplished roue, quite expert at his chosen avocation. She did notice, with more interest than she had intended to have, that his cock was much larger than Jimmy Murphy's. She had been sure that the sailor had the world's largest prick, but now she saw that he had been only a boy after all.
"I know a few tricks, baby," Herb said as he squeezed her breasts and regarded her shapely body with all the honest appreciation of the true connoisseur. "How do you want it?"
"I no give a damn," Kalola answered coldly.
"All right," he agreed. "In that case, honey, I'd like to suck your cunt. I've had a tongue hard-on ever since I first saw you dance."
She had not the slightest notion what he meant, but she watched with some interest as he slid down on the bed and put his head between her thighs. When his tongue shot into her, she still did not understand, but when he began expertly sucking and lapping her clitoris, she suddenly got the idea.
She lay there, a withdrawn and frigid statue, hating him because he was a man and white but hating Jimmy Murphy even more. She managed to maintain her frozen pose for nearly five minutes. But Herb's cunning tongue was not to be denied. In spite of herself, Kalola became aware of a very pleasant sensation that was tingling its way up through her nervous system. It grew and grew, blossoming with every passing second and with every stroke of the educated tongue. She fought against it, not wanting to like what he was doing and not wanting to like him. But the whiskey was her undoing; it had both stimulated her and lowered the bars of her inhibitions. In a matter of moments her hips were rotating in time with the beat of Herb's tongue and her hands were clenching and unclenching on the bedspread.
With her mind, Kalola was hating him, and hating herself for what she was doing with him, but she was being like the priest in the story who explained why he seduced the nun by saying: "From the belly button up I am a priest; from the waist down I am still a man." Her body was treacherously refusing to obey the dictates of her mind.
Herb Drew was enjoying himself and deriving much more than the normal satisfaction from this erotic love-play. Not only was he fulfilling a burning ambition, but in a way he was also revenging himself for the misery she had dealt him with her hard little knee. Time after time he brought her to the very edge of an orgasm and then slackened his efforts, only to start all over again the moment she began to relax. He managed to keep it up for an hour, reveling in the mildly sadistic pleasure of knowing that he had reduced her to a helpless, moaning lump of over-sensitized jelly, her nerves so finely drawn that every touch of his tongue or fingers drove her to the verge of screaming insanity. Only when his own desire had reached the point where he could no longer control it did he relent. He suddenly reared up from his position between her quivering thighs and thrust his massive cock into her with ruthless force. She did scream then, but as much from pleasure as from pain. He could have made her come with one or two well-calculated strokes, but still he held off, tantalizing her while treating her to more excruciatingly poignant sensations that she had ever before known.
"Beg for it, you beautiful, little brown bitch," he gasped.
Kalola looked up at him with wild eyes, her pride and her hate forgotten. "Yes!" she cried. "Yes, I beg. Do it. Make me come!"
He leered. "Say please."
"Please! Please, please, please!"
"That's better, Goddamn you. Kick me in the nuts, will you? I'll have you on the floor licking my feet before this night is over."
"Okay. Anything! But please make me come."
Grinning savagely, he increased the tempo of his plunging prick. When he felt her cunt begin to work convulsively, he let himself go, filling her with the viscous, sticky stuff.
She thought her strength gone, her body weakened from the strain of the hour in which he had tortured her, but when she felt him gushing into her, it was as though he were injecting her with new power. She arched her back so violently that she lifted him a foot off the bed. Her strong legs clamped his thighs with the strength of a maddened octopus, her heels drumming on his buttocks as she tried to drive him even deeper into her. Her orgasm was devastating, a thing of total, bodily involvement. She felt that she was melting in the heat of her own passion… melting and running like a river of fire into the white-hot chalice of her own cunt.
It was over and yet it was not. Herb would not let it be over. Where Jimmy had been content after screwing her to light a cigarette or roll over and go to sleep, Herb gave her not even a moment in which to collect herself or to enjoy the deep, somnolent pleasure of passion's afterglow. He withdrew from her and immediately began to suck her nipples while his fingers did a light dance on her sensitized body. When she protested feebly, he ignored her plea and began making a tour of her body with the tip of his tongue. He drew it across her stomach and her ribs, down the length of her leg to her feet and up the other leg. He even rolled her over to give her back the same treatment, kissing and biting at her buttocks, then spreading them to tantalize the brown button of her anus, licking it until she was in a frenzy of new excitement and even forcing the tip of his tongue into the tight orifice.
She couldn't imagine why he was doing such a thing, but she didn't care. She was pleading with him to fuck her again. She was not aware of his intention until he had pushed her onto her side, hunched himself up close to her back and had the head of his cock started into her asshole. She struggled, but he was too strong for her. She screamed in real pain as he thrust strongly into her. She would have fought him, but he reached over her hip and thrust his hand in her crotch, his fingers finding her clitoris and agitating it. She forgot the pain then, even relishing it and letting it help her toward another orgasm. He made her come three times that way, then began another long siege of teasing until she was again a bundle of agonized nerves and begging for release.
"Okay," he told her, "take it in your mouth and I'll fix you up. Otherwise, I'll keep you going like this all night."
"I don't do that. It's dirty."
"Suit yourself."
"Fuck me in the ass again. I liked that."
"No, I'm tired of it. Suck my cock or I'll go down on you and I won't let you come either."
"Okay, but you make me come soon, hunh?"
"After you swallow my jism, baby."
He turned around on the bed and, putting a hand behind her head, thrust his dripping, shit-flecked prick between her lips. Kalola dutifully sucked. It seemed a strange and nasty thing to be doing until he put his face to her crotch and began licking her pussy. Then, when her passion had again been aroused to an intense pitch, she began to like the feel and the taste of him in her mouth. When he came, she swallowed rapidly and milked the shaft with her hand to extract the last drop of semen. She continued to hold his cock in her mouth as he worked her clitoris and brought her to another wild climax.
"You better go home now, kiddo. You got a show to do this afternoon," Herb said sleepily at six o'clock in the morning.
"I don't want to go," Kalola rejoined. "Why can't I just stay here with you, Herb? Tonight, after work, I'll fix dinner for you. I'm a good cook Hawaiian style. Then we can go to bed and fuck and suck all night again."
He regarded her coldly. "I see you don't get the picture," he told her. "I never screw the same girl twice, honey. You're a great little piece of ass, but, frankly, seconds on you would bore hell out of me. Run along now. It was fun. Let's let it go at that."
Considering the scene she had made when Jimmy Murphy had rejected her, Kalola went very quietly. She went to her own apartment, called an airline for reservations, packed and took a cab to the airport. She was going home and she would never again in her lifetime come to the mainland never even want to hear it mentioned.
She got in line to validate her ticket behind a beautiful, red-haired girl and a pretty blonde dressed like a hippie.