Free Goodbye, Janette by Harold Robbins

would make me watch him while he took his thing out and jerked off into them. When he was finished he’d give them back to me, slap me hard across the face and say, “Slut! Wash these filthy rags! And walk out of the room.” She turned to Marie-Thérése. Her friend’s mouth was open, her eyes wide and round. One thing she couldn’t tell her. The intensity of the orgasms that swept through her when Maurice slapped her face left her so weak and drained that she would sink to the floor until her legs regained the strength to carry her.
    “That’s all he did?” Marie-Thérése asked. “Nothing else?”
    Janette laughed. “You know better than that. He’s the most famous queer in Paris.”
    “Still?” Marie-Thérése wondered. Her voice was hushed. “Is it true what I heard? About the size of his thing. I mean?”
    Janette nodded. “It’s big all right.”
    “Bigger than Donald the flasher?”
    Donald the flasher was an English boy at the school across the lake in Switzerland whom they met at the weekly dances. He was always getting the girls to go outside with him so that he could show it to them and tell them how big he was. Janette laughed again. “It made his look like a toy.”
    “My God!” Marie-Thérése breathed. She began to rub herself. “I think I’m going to come. Let’s get on the bed and do it to each other.”
    They moved toward the bed and began to masturbate each other to a climax. It wasn’t the first time they had done it. But this time somehow it seemed even more exciting with the poster of James Dean scowling down at them from the wall.
    “Finish packing then,” Janette said into the telephone. “And I’ll come over after dinner and we’ll go to a movie.”
    “No chance,” Marie-Thérése said. “The night before I leave for school I always have to stay home with my parents.”
    “Okay, then,” Janette said. “I’ll meet you at the train seven thirty tomorrow morning.”
    She put down the telephone and turned to find Maurice standing in the open doorway to her room. She glanced at her watch. Five o’clock. He was home early. Usually he never got home before seven.
    “Who were you talking to?” he asked suspiciously, coming into the room.
    Her eyes fell and she looked down at the floor. “Marie-Thérése.”
    “How can you find so much to talk about with such a stupid girl?” he asked.
    She didn’t answer, her eyes still cast downward.
    “Where’s your mother?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” she replied.
    “Hasn’t she come home yet?”
    She shrugged her shoulders.”
    “Why don’t you look at me?” he demanded.
    She raised her eyes, feeling the flush creep into her face.
    “Has she called?”
    “I haven’t spoken to her.”
    His lips tightened in an angry narrow line. “The slut’s probably fucking away the afternoon with one of her gigolo friends,” he snapped. “She’s never around when something important comes up.”
    Her eyes fell again. She didn’t answer.
    “If she calls and you should speak to her, tell her it’s important that I see her.”
    She nodded.
    “Important. You understand. I must speak to her.”
    She nodded again without looking at him.
    Angrily, he slapped her across the face. “Look at me when you answer me!”
    She looked at him, feeling the trembling in her legs.
    He slapped her again. “It’s important. Do you understand?”
    “Yes,” she whispered, her voice tight in her chest. “I understand.”
    He stared at her balefully. “Someday you’ll all have to pay for what that whore has done to me.” He turned and went out of the room, slamming the door angrily behind him.
    She sank trembling into the chair, the beginning shudder of her orgasm sending the wetness down her shivering legs.
    ***
    Jacques Charelle saw her as she came through the doors of the Relais Plaza. The room was crowded at cocktail hour, the hum of conversation filling the room as if a swarm of bees were passing. He got to his feet,