Lynn was not sure how to explain her new affluence to her friends. She was ashamed to admit that she had fallen in love with her boss and had no intention of trying to carry out the original plan of blackmail. After making love to her, Tony had generously doubled her salary and delighted in buying expensive presents for her. She considered telling them that she was obtaining the money by rolling drunks at the hotel, but doubted that they would believe her.
It was Ellen who solved her problem for her and made it easy for her to confess that she was a backslider from the solemn covenant they had made to hate all men and take them for all they could get. She came into the house one day, the pockets of her slacks bulging, and casually began digging out bills and dumping them on the living room table.
"Auwe!" Kalola gasped. "You rob a bank?"
Ellen shook her head. "Un-unh. Those surfers I've been getting gang-banged by got their monthly checks from their parents, and I sold 'em most of the pot and other stuff I've been holding. I got over five hundred here, and a new surfboard. Now we don't have to worry about paying the rent."
"Ellen," Kalola said, "you make me ashamed for all the bad things I hollered at you the night you stood up Mike Fuda."
"Me, too," Lynn echoed.
Ellen shrugged. "That's okay. I didn't really want to be a blackmailer anyway. I'd rather just fuck and have lots of boy friends, and maybe sell some ass once in a while when some square slob like a tourist wants it. I'm not so mad at guys as you chicks are."
Lynn gulped hard and took the plunge. "I haven't been exactly honest with either of you," she admitted. "About Tony… well, I wouldn't want to do anything to hurt him. He's a great guy and I'm… well… I guess I'm pretty fond of him. But he's been giving me money and I've been holding out because I didn't want to tell you where I got it. Here." She opened her purse and contributed a stack of bills to the pile on the table. "I guess that about puts us out of the blackmailing business, doesn't it?"
"Not quite," Kalola said firmly. "I haven't got any money to put on the table, and I want to do my share. I haven't been lucky like you and Ellen, but I've got a naval officer, a commander, all lined up. I was going to meet him tonight and maybe bring him tomorrow evening. If I do, will one of you help me set it up to frame him… like we had planned?"
"I will," Lynn volunteered. "I can't see Tony tomorrow night, anyway. I did have a date with Buster Kahane, but I can call him and break it. Do you think you can take this commander for much?"
Kalola nodded. "Maybeso plenty. His wife is coming out here in a week. I betcha she'd like to see some pictures of her man with a Goddamned naked little native, hunh? If I get enough from him, I'll buy back my contract and then I can go to work again. Nothing is as no good as an unemployed hula dancer."
"I don't see why you don't forget all that hard work and just be a whore," Ellen said. "It's easier and a lot more fun."
"If I can't get out of my contract, I will," Kalola agreed. "Lynn seems to like it."
Lynn looked startled. "Hey!" she exclaimed, "that's right, isn't it? I hadn't thought of what I was doing as prostitution, but it sure is, now that you mention it. Well, what do you know? I've gone and promoted myself. Both for fun and profit, it beats teaching school."
The girls spent the rest of the day on the beach, swimming, sunbathing and watching Ellen struggle valiantly with the art of surfboarding. Kalola went to keep her date with the naval officer that evening and woke them up at one in the morning to report that all had gone well. After letting him kiss her and feel her legs, he had wanted to take her to a hotel room, but she had declined, saying she was too shy to do it anywhere but in her own house and promising that she would give in to him if he would meet her at the Outrigger Bar and bring her here.
Lynn spent the day setting her camera up so that she could shoot through an inconspicuous hole she made in one of the bedroom walls and hid with a trailing vine that grew from a planter.
Kalola went to keep her date and Lynn settled down to wait. Ellen was, as usual, in the cove with a bunch of surfers.
The appointed hour came and went and Lynn, hiding with her camera in the other bedroom, grew restless. She poured herself a drink and, as another hour passed, absently poured and drank three more. She was feeling very little pain when she heard a commotion in the living room and jerked erect with the guilty knowledge that she had dozed off. There were voices and, unless Kalola's commander was a ventriloquist, he had to be a least triplets. Getting unsteadily to her feet, Lynn opened the door a crack to peek out and behold Kalola in the midst of not one naval officer but three enlisted men. She was lying on the couch with her head pillowed on the lap of one and her legs across the lap of another. Her skirt was above her hips and her panties were on the floor. The third man was mixing drinks.
Lynn came out into the room and Kalola, seeing her, waved gaily from her supine position. "Hi, Lynn," she called, "have a drink and meet Jack, Bill and Ted."
"Wow!" the one named Bill cried, "dig the gorgeous, red-headed stuff!" He was the one who had been appointed bartender.
"What happened to the commander?" Lynn asked Kalola.
"He stood me up," Kalola replied. "The sonomobeech! Maybe his wife came from the mainland early. Anyway, who cares? I picked these guys up at the Outrigger Bar."
"But I thought you hated men," Lynn insisted with drunken persistence.
Kalola grinned. "I do… except sailors. It's the uniforms. You ever notice how a sailor's uniform smells different than other clothes? It's so groovy I can't resist it."
Lynn shook her head. "No," she admitted, "I never got that close to one."
"Well, now's your chance, Red," Bill offered gallantly. "You can smell me any time. I'll bet you smell pretty good yourself."
"Watch that guy Bill," Jack warned, wiggling an experimental finger into Kalola's pussy. "We hear he eats at the 'Y'."
Lynn looked puzzled, and all three sailors laughed uproariously. "He means at the crotch," Ted explained, "'Y'… crotch… get it?"
"Oh." Lynn brightened. "Sure, I get it. I get it every time I have a date with my boy friend. You hungry now, Bill?"
The young sailor blushed. "I never did it in public before."
"Chicken!" the other two shouted, and his blush deepened.
"Let's see how good you are," Lynn said, dropping into a chair, lifting her dress and pulling her panties off. "Come on, Billy Boy. Dinner is served."
He hesitated only another moment, then the sight of Lynn's beautiful legs and thighs was too much for him. He dropped to his knees in front of her and began kissing the soft, perfumed flesh. By the time he had reached her pussy it was moist and bubbling with passion. She locked her hands in his hair, pulling his face hard against her steaming crotch.
"I've never had the nerve to try that," Jack said, licking his lips and watching with envy.
"Aw, come on," Kalola encouraged him. "It don't bite."
He looked at her smooth, brown limbs and gaping, pink vulva surrounded by a halo of black hair, then impulsively bent his head and timidly touched her raw cunt flesh with the tip of his tongue. He became motionless with surprise. Then, with a groan of long suppressed desire, he began sucking and licking her greedily, if somewhat inexpertly.
Kalola turned her head on Ted's lap, unbuttoned him and took his cock out. "I get hungry, too," she laughed. "Fuck me in the mouth, honey."
They were in those positions when Ellen came in with two of her surfer friends. "Looks like quite a party," she declared. "Let's get in on the fun. Hey, what a bummer! The booze is almost all gone. Here, Danny, take some money and go to the liquor store for more." She went to the drawer where the three girls had hidden the loot that she and Lynn had accumulated and handed the young man two twenties. "Better get some grub, too." Then she removed her clothes and got down on the floor on her hands and knees so that the other one could kneel behind her and fuck her dog fashion.
Danny returned after a while with the liquor, some food and a dozen friends of both sexes he had found sitting on the sea wall along Kalakalua Avenue with nothing to do.
Kalola, who was temporarily disengaged from the sailors at the moment, was delighted. That the impromptu affair had grown to a full-fledged party tickled her happy Hawaiian heart.
"Why don't we have a luau?" she cried and was cheered by the enthusiastic response she received. Obviously the house was not big enough to accommodate a luau, so they took over the courtyard, around the perimeter of which were the shacks that made up the Pacific Paradise hotel. "We don't have time to dig an imu and roast a pig," she said, "but we can always get one catered from one of the big hotels." More people were dispatched with more money and instructions to bring back all of the ingredients for a first-class native feast. They were lucky. One of the hotels had held a luau earlier that evening and it had not been well attended. The chef was most happy to dispose of the leftovers, including most of a roast pig, pineapple, poi, limu, opihis, roast kukui nuts, sweet potatoes and mullet all wrapped and still steaming in the green leaves of the ti plant. Liquor had been purchased in copious quantities. Willing hands quickly set up the feast, and the happy crowd of revelers were joined by all of the inhabitants of the Pacific Paradise Hotel.
There was food, booze and babes and the word spread through the streets of that back-alley district of Waikiki known as "The Jungle". Guests began to arrive in a steady stream. They were clad in shorts, bikinis, muumuus, beach robes and even nightgowns. They brought ukeleles, guitars and bongo drums.
It was not a quiet party. Had Joe Moto been home, it would never have gotten started. Joe, however, chanced spending the evening with some Japanese friends. He had drunk much sake with them and had won quite a bit of money at the gambling game known as "Hana Fudd". So, as he turned from Lewer's Street onto Kuhio Avenue, he was in a mellow and even somewhat expansive mood.
"Someone having helluva party," he muttered as the sounds of wassail reached him. "Crazy Hawaiians always having a party. Oh, well, what the hell? Why not have good time?"
Accordingly, he was somewhat less shocked than he might otherwise have been when he reached his own property and saw that he had become the unwitting host to the celebrants in question. Still, his Oriental sense of dignity and propriety was offended and he ran among the crowd, waving his arms and demanding to know what was going on here. He received no coherent answer. A blonde, bikini-clad girl he recognized as Ellen Canfield thrust a glass into one of his hands and a piece of greasy pork into the other. She bid him a warm welcome to the party, kissed him on the mouth and squeezed his cock through the front of his pants, then disappeared in the crowd. Before he could sputter a protest to this assault, two other girls, giggling at his apparent bewilderment and discomfiture, drew him down to sit beside them. They urged him to drink up, refilled his glass and made him sit while one of them thrust her hand in through his fly and began playing with his prick and the other took his arm, put it around her and snugged his hand up against her bare breast.
Joe Moto tried to control his spinning senses as he attempted to remember a certain saying he had once heard, and which seemed to apply to this situation. It seemed very important to recall it exactly and word for word. Ah, so! Now he had it. It was: "If you can't strike 'em, screw 'em." No, that wasn't right. Maybe it was: "If you can't beat 'em, bugger 'em." No, that wasn't it, either. "Oh, fuck it!" he said aloud.
"Sure," the girl holding his prick agreed eagerly. "What fo' you think I got my dress up to my ass fo', hunh?"
Two blocks away, the manager of an apartment house that catered only to wealthy tourists, was annoyed by the noise that came from the Pacific Paradise Hotel. He called the police. By sheer good luck the officers dispatched to quell the riot happened to be men of mostly Hawaiian blood. They surveyed the wild but happy scene, reported back by radio that the complaint had been grossly exaggerated, then joined the party.
The feast was over, but the fun was just starting. The center of attraction was Kalola. Bare-footed, bare-assed and bare-breasted but for a lei of white plumeria flowers, she danced for the crowd to the accompaniment of ukuleles, guitars, bongo drums and shouts of drunken encouragement. She danced as she had never danced for the tourists or in any night club, for she was doing the old dances, the genuine, native dances of Hawaii. Her swiftly and gracefully flowing hands were telling a story that would have shocked beyond repair the missionaries who had so smugly supposed that they had succeeded in converting and taming the natives of Hawaii. Even a tourist could hardly have failed to interpret her gestures as she outlined her bouncing breasts, drew a hand up over her pussy and, making a circle with thumb and forefinger, ran the index finger of her other hand back and forth through it in graphic description of the act of intercourse.
When she sank to the ground, her dance ended and her brown body gleaming with sweat, a man grabbed her, flung himself onto her and stabbed his cock into her up to the hair.
That was the signal for the orgy. In a matter of moments, the courtyard was littered with a heaving, bobbing tangle of arms, legs and buttocks. The soft, tropical night was rent by screams and moans of delight, and the great, golden globe of the moon rose over the edge of the sea to bathe the scene in its ancient, mystic light.
Ellen was no longer homesick for the dirty pad in San Francisco. She was being passed from man to man at such a dizzying rate that there was hardly an instant when her cunt, her ass or her mouth were not full of cock. Semen ran down her legs and her chin to gleam on her nude body, and she was completely and wholly happy for the first time in her life.
Lynn was enjoying her favorite diversion in a fashion that satisfied her thoroughly. She had cornered six men and had them lined up on the ground. On hands and knees she went from one to the other, sucking cocks like an industrious bee sipping the honey from flower after flower.
Kalola, like Ellen, was being shared by everyone, including a group of four soldiers who had arrived too late for the feast but not for the festivities.
A young married couple from Iowa, out for an evening stroll, chanced to pass the Pacific Paradise Hotel and, attracted by the sounds of merriment, wandered in to see what was going on. They soon found out. Two muscular, half-naked natives whisked her away from her bridegroom, had her under a hibiscus shrub, had her clothes off and were taking turns with her before she could even set herself to scream. When she did get around to it, she was able only to mutter a muffled moan behind the sweaty hand that held her mouth while her white body squirmed in the moonlight and a long, smooth, brown cock was inserted into her cunt. It took her a while to realize that there was no escape and was going to be no rescue. It took her the same length of time to realize that what was being done to her felt very good indeed. When the first man was through and got up from her, the second one found it unnecessary to hold her by force. She smiled up at him and helped guide his prick into her throbbing slit.
Her husband, seeing his bride torn from his grasp, would have plunged after her, had not a foot entwined with his, tripping him and hurling him to the ground. Before he could regain his feet, he was attacked by a slender, nude body with flower-accented, tan flesh; a piquant face with slanted eyes and ruby lips was poised over his. He opened his mouth to protest and a tongue was thrust between his lips while eager fingers unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly. He was a modest young man and would not have dreamed of standing up with his cock hanging out, so there was nothing for him to do but remain there while a hot, moist vagina closed over his organ. He sighed then and relaxed. He remembered that the travel folder back in Sioux City had, after all, promised: "Exotic adventures will surely be yours in these romantic islands of the Pacific."
"I'll say one thing for you people out here," he told the girl who, astride him, was pumping vigorously up and down on his prick, "when you arrange a tour and make promises, you sure do keep them right to the letter. Wait until I tell the fellows back in…"
"No talk," the girl on him hissed. "Just fucky-fucky."
Dawn's hot, gilding light replaced the cool radiance of the moon. Even the Myna birds, which normally held court on the lawn and vocalized the daybreak with their shrill cries, were silent, stunned by the scene of utter devastation. The Dante-like debacle that spread before their beady eyes was the result of the damnedest luau Waikiki had seen since the days of King Kamekameha. There were remnants of food, empty bottles and numerous items of clothing scattered about all over the grass. There were also a few discarded bodies… discarded by all but their owners, that is. Under the shrubs that bordered the fence, face up in the flowers by the walk, draped over porch steps and rails, even lying grotesquely nude in the dry, concrete basin that had once been a fish pond, brown, white and yellow bodies of various sizes and descriptions festooned the courtyard. Mostly they were still and quiet, although now and then a fitful twitch of arms and legs, or a low, despairing moan gave evidence that life still lingered.
Over the entire scene, almost as tangible as a miasmic mist rising from a swamp, hung the rich aroma of that musk that emanates from the female body when in heat, and the ranker, richer scent of drying semen.
Within Number Four, the three girls slept peacefully and sweetly, Kalola on the living room floor with three sailors and two soldiers, Lynn on one of the beds with five native men and Ellen in the other bedroom with eight young surfers.
By noon, most of the revelers who had been left behind when the party broke up, had aroused from their slumbers and, grinning widely to themselves when they remembered what a hell of a party it had been, had trudged home or to the beach. The sailors, soldiers and surfers had awakened, been reminded of other duties and appointments, and had gone their ways, although some had lingered for one last bit of intercourse, sodomy or oral-genital love depending on each one's personal preference with the girls.
The girls, thus pleasantly aroused, took one look out of the front door, shuddered and returned to the living room.
"Has anyone looked in the cash drawer yet?" Lynn asked.
"I'm afraid to," Ellen answered in a low, guilt-ridden tone. "I seem to remember giving money to lots of people to go to town for booze and food."
"I looked," Kalola said. "We're broke again."
No comments were made regarding this announcement, but the three avoided each other's eyes in mutual guilt.
Ellen, still not saying anything, got up and went out.
"Oh, come on, Kalola," Lynn suggested at last, "let's take a shower. We'll feel better. Don't worry about it. I've got a date with Tony, and I'll bring home some money tonight."
They showered, put on fresh clothes and found enough leftovers in the refrigerator to make a meal. They had finished it and were again in the living room, discussing the party in low, awed voices, wondering whether their landlord would throw them out as a result and, if he did, who would accept them with no money, when Ellen returned.
"We don't have to worry about the rent," she said. "I just screwed Joe Moto out of it for another month. You won't believe this, but that little bummer of a Jap is a hell of a good fuck. And he isn't mad at us at all. He says we threw a party that will be talked about for years, and that the publicity will keep the old Pacific Paradise Hotel going for at least another season or two. Maybe we should be in the public relations business."