Another thing began to irritate me. For no earthly reason, I found myself resenting the men in the place, all of them, every lusting son of a bitch. How could any hairy-legged male understand or appreciate the aesthetic smoothness of those shapely feminine limbs? Or the beauty of those bewitching breasts, now being laid bare by a flurry of tenderly solicitous fingertips? Such purity was too precious to reveal to anybody, much less a roomful of lecherous brutes with dirt under their fingernails. Or if the divine creature couldn't perform in solitude, well, why not an audience of women only? Attractive women, though, with a sprinkling of sweet young girls to help balance out the glut of sleek matrons. And why not make nudity the rule rather than the exception? Nude women all around. Women of grace and delicacy, of smooth skin and softly lyrical curves to enhance the flawless masterpiece in the center as the many leaves of a flower enhance its single blossom…

No such luck. But I had enough to satisfy me for the moment. Even the combo sounded just fine now, the rhythm honed to a precise edge that matched the unabashedly naked undulations of breast and belly and hip. My thighs felt damp and sticky, and I wasn't even aware of how long ago they had started this business of rubbing and chafing against each other, prickling like a pair of hot and horny porcupines. It didn't matter. Help was on the way. As though he had read my mind, or put a lie detector on my libido, heaven forbid!, dear old Jerome was reaching for me under the table with those nice soft hands of his.