Nudist Camp by Orrie Hitt - Chapter 01

1957 Genre: Vintage Sleazes/ Nudie Cuties

DOUBLE

EXPOSURE...

DELLA knew what it was to worship nature. After all, where she came from, it was considered quite proper to swim or sunbathe unclad. She decided to welcome this strange sect that wanted to camp on her property—thought she might even join in the fun and games...

It was all so lovely, so innocent—until voluptuous Ada Holden, a girl completely without scruple, began to love nature a little too passionately. Under such circumstances, few men could withstand deliberate temptation. Certainly not Ricky, Della's husband...

It was then Della realized a she-devil had entered paradise. She fought back with the only weapon she had—her own glorious body!

CHAPTER 01

DELLA stepped out of the shower, water dripping from her skin and forming tiny pools on the pink tile. A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door.

Della rubbed herself with a heavy towel. "I'll be out in a moment."

Ricky, she thought. No, not Ricky. Ricky wouldn't be guilty of coming home so early and, even if he did, he wouldn't knock on the door. He'd try to batter a hole in it with his foot.

"oh, that's all right, Mrs. Farland. It's just me, Jennie. I only wanted—"

“I said I'd be right out, didn't I?"

There was a brief silence.

"Yes, Mrs. Farland," Jennie finally said. "I'll wait.” Della sighed and pulled the red bathing-cap from her head. There was no doubt about what Jennie wanted.

Permission to go to town, of course. She was getting pretty sick of Jennie running off every night. If the poor thing needed a man so badly why didn't she pick on Jack, the gardener? He was only in his forties and strong enough for anything. Or one of those farmer boys, especially that older one, down the road. Della sighed again. Maybe Jennie had found something in town that she liked. She certainly talked enough about her Sammy!

Della finished drying and tossed away the towel.

Then she got another towel from over the sink and worked it down across the mirror on the door. Ricky probably was the most useless husband outside a cemetery but there was one thing Della had to admit—he sure as hell knew how to build a house for his wife. Full-length mirrors, that's what a girl needed. Full-length mirrors everywhere so that a girl could take a quick inventory of her assets whenever she pleased, assets which her husband claimed were frozen tighter than American dollars on deposit in the Bank of Iceland.

Della Farland stepped away a little from the mirror and smiled at what she saw.

Twenty-two, she thought, or was it twenty-three? No, twenty-two. For heaven's sake, what was the matter with her, almost jumping a year like that? Maybe Ricky was right, maybe her nerves were on edge. And maybe it wasn't living up here in the mountains that was doing it: maybe after all there was something to what Ricky said, that they shouldn't have separate rooms.

To hell with him, she thought. To hell with Ricky Farland. A wedding ring didn't give him the right to sleep with her after he'd crawled over half the willing flesh in North Landing.

She threw back her head and laughed. She'd driven him to it, he had said.

"I'm not a machine," he had told her one night, trying to push past her door. She had felt his eyes going down over her negligee, pulling it off her body. "Della, I'm only human! You don't know what you do to a man!”

She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. She knew well enough what she did to men. She had known it as a young girl in Iceland, even before she had come to the States and taken that two years of school on an exchange scholarship. But she'd been even more aware of it by the time she had gone back and, if there had ever been any doubts in her mind, these had soon been dispelled by the Americans who worked at Keflavik, the big air base. She had, she felt, bargained well Ricky had given her a beautiful home, he kept her bank account above the five thousand dollar mark, and he made love to her every chance she gave him. A girl, she supposed, could hardly ask for more.

The face that looked back at her from the mirror was not in any sense a cosmetic-counter face. Della's lips were naturally full and dark and the bright red of her cheeks had been inherited from her father, an Icelander.

Her sea-blue eyes and soft golden hair were endowments from her mother, who had come to the island as a girl from the Danish mainland.

Her glance moved from her face down over the full, ripe lines of her body. Her breasts were high and pointed, the nipples fiery red and swollen.

"You ought to wear a brassiere," Rikey had told her once. "A guy with only half his sight can see through that blouse.” That had been during her second week in the States, almost a year before, when they had gone to a dance down at the Landing.

"I'm sorry," she had said. "I didn't realize."

After that, whenever she had gone out, she had worn a bra but she hadn't ever been able to get used to the things. She wondered, too, still looking into the mirror, how American women could get themselves into those tight little girdles. Why, she was only twenty-four inches around the middle and she'd feel like somebody was strangling her if she had to put one on. The way some women dressed they could pass themselves off for statues in a park, they were so stiffened up.

"Mrs. Farland," Jennie said from the other side of the door. "Please, Mrs. Farland, Mr. Abbott came with the eggs and he said, if I hurried, I could—"

"Oh, all right. Della's rounded hips and long, slim legs flashed in the mirror as she went to the door and jerked it open. "What is it you want?"

The girl's eyes focused on the nude figure before her and her mouth widened.

"I'd like to go to the Landing tonight,” Jennie said.

Her voice was desperate. "I—I have to go, Mrs. Farland"

Jennie was in her early twenties, had straight black hair—and unreadable black eyes. Her round face was always sad and worn, as if she were constantly chasing something uphill. The lines of her body, however, even under the ill-fitting green uniform, were attractive and generous.

"You've been going to town almost every night," Della reminded the girl. "When I hired you, the arrangement was for two nights off a week. Do you remember that?"

Jennie looked at the floor. "Yes, Mrs. Farland.”

"That's because I don't like to be alone, Jennie. And with Mr. Farland away so much, I have to depend on you."

Tears filled Jennie's eyes.

"I know all that, Mrs. Farland. But—well, just tonight—oh, Mrs. Farland, I just have to get down to the Landing tonight! I honest have to!"

Della came out into the bedroom and closed the bathroom door. She crossed to the dresser and picked up a cigarette. She knew, without looking, that Jennie's face was flushed a bright red. She always seemed to embarrass Jennie when she walked around without her clothes on. She smiled and lit the cigarette, blowing the smoke at her reflection in the mirror.

"Tell me," Della said, turning slowly. "What's your trouble, Jennie? This boy you've been seeing? This what's his name?"

"Sammy," Jennie said solemnly.

"'You're in love with him?"

Jennie shook her head. her eyes dull and distant.

"Then he's in love with you?"

Jennie started to cry, silently, and nodded her head.

"I thought so," Della said, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray. She walked toward the girl. "You're going to have a baby. Is that it, Jennie? You're going to have a baby?"

For an answer the girl let out a little frightened cry and stumbled toward the door.

Della grabbed her by the shoulders, "I asked you a question."

"Let me got" the girl pleaded. "Please!'"

"You don't have to be afraid," Della said, her voice suddenly gentle. "If that's what it is, I'll help you, Jennie. I'll do everything I can."

She felt the tenseness go out of Jennie's shoulders, saw the quick smile as the girl swung around, choking against the tears.

"You will, Mrs. Farland?"

"Of course."

Jennie's eyes were huge and grateful "You'll help me with Sammy, Mrs. Farland? You honestly will?"

"I don't know about Sammy," Della said. "I'll talk to him, if that's what you mean. But you don't have to worry about a place to stay, or your job. You can stay right here, Jennie. Just don't worry. You have to take care of yourself now, you know."

Jennie nodded and moved to the door.

"It's all right, then, if I go down to the Landing with Mr. Abbott?"

"Certainly, Jennie.”

"Thank you." At the doorway the girl hesitated, looking scared again. Then, suddenly, the words came out in a rush. "You aren't what they say at all, Mrs. Farland.

You aren't what I thought, either. You aren't hard and—cruel You're good—nice. I don't care if some people do think that you're mean to Mr. Farland, I think you're—you're a lady!"

Della turned back to the mirror, smiling, listening to the pound of Jennie's heels going down the rear stairs to the kitchen. Hell, she thought, I'm no lady. I'm just an Icelander who knows how to treat people when they get into a jam. In Della's native country there were no bastards. One baby was as a good as another, whether the father admitted to him or not. It wasn't a question of being a lady. It was, in Della's opinion, simply a matter of treating trouble in the only way that it could be treated.

She sat down at the vanity table and examined her face in the mirror. She had enough of her own problems with Ricky these days, in spite of the beautiful face she saw in the mirror, and she couldn't waste all night thinking about Jennie. Besides, Ricky had called on the phone a few minutes before she'd gone into the shower, and had said that he would be home shortly, that he wanted to talk to her as soon as he got there. She wondered, idly, whether he would be drunk or sober.

The phone rang just as she was about to slip dutifully into her brassiere—the black net thing that let the skin show through—and she answered it.

"Hi, Della," Sally Berringer breathed. "Is Ricky in yet?"

The bitch, Della thought. When would she wake up to the fact that she had lost him, that Ricky was married just as solidly as though his feet were set in concrete?

Or was Sally like the rest of the girls Ricky knew, trading something that they had for anything that money could buy them? No, Della decided, Sally wouldn't be like that. Sally was a doctor's daughter, she was pretty and smart and she would only play for keeps. In a way, Della supposed, that was the thing that bothered her.

Maybe Sally was still playing for keeps.

"You still there, Della?"

"Yes."

"I was asking about Ricky.”

"He isn't home yet."

"Oh, darn!"

"Anything I can do?"

"Well—yes, would you give him a message? Ask him to call Roger Adams, down at the Landing, and put in a good word for me, would you? Della, I've got a terrific chance with them for a wonderful job and Ricky's word might help. I mentioned Ricky to Mr. Adams and he seems to like Ricky and—“

"All right," Della said impatiently, "I'll do it. When and if he gets home." She picked up a powder puff and ran it lazily across her jutting breasts. "I'm just surprised that you're out job-hunting, Sally. Your folks have all the money in the world. Besides, I thought you and that young fellow—the one who does advertising—might make a match of it."

"You mean Ed Loring?"

"Yes."

"Oh, heavens, he can't even support himself, Della!

You know how it is with these advertising fellows; they get fifteen percent and half the time that fifteen percent is figured on nothing. So please, ask Ricky to give Mr. Adams a buzz, will you?"

"I promise."

"And maybe I'll stop around later this evening.” Don't break your back doing it, Della thought, hanging up. She guessed she could get through one Saturday night without—having Sally on hand to fall all over Ricky every chance she got.

Saturday night. Saturday night at Raven's Nest on Lake Sorrow. Della went to the bedroom window and pulled aside the curtain. Slightly below and to the right of the long rolling green lawn lay the lake, its glass-like surface reflecting the red fire of the late June sun. Lake Sorrow, the natives called it now, but before, a long time ago, the Indian name for it had been the Lake of Tears.

Della sighed, closing the curtains, and went over to the bed. She sat down, stretching her long legs, looking at them. They were nice legs, smooth and tan. Lithe, soft legs meant for a man. She laughed again and patted her white stomach. She wished that her stomach and breasts weren't so white, that she could get tanned all over. In Iceland, where she had been brought up, men and women lay in the sun without any clothes on and thought nothing of it. And they went swimming, together, without wearing bathing suits. There was nothing irregular about it. It was the way they lived.

She lay back on the bed, still thinking about it. There was no prudery in Iceland, not like there was here in the States. If you didn't know what it was all about and you wanted to take a look, you took a look. It was like having to go to the bathroom when you were riding on a bus. In the States you gritted your teeth and hoped to God the driver wouldn't hit a hard bump. In Iceland you simply asked the driver to stop, got out, walked around in back of the bus and took care of things.

Della broke out of her reverie. She stepped into a pair of brief net panties, a half slip of the same material and then, on impulse, cast the brassiere aside. For a dress she chose a deep yellow cotton with plunging neckline, and when she finally glanced at herself in the mirror she decided that it had been a good selection.

She didn't know why Ricky thought the neckline too low—all a person could see was a little of her cleft and the rising mounds on either side—but, of course, she didn't bend forward and examine the dress the way Ricky had examined it.

Saturday night, she thought again. Saturday night and she ought to go down to the kitchen and make sure that Jennie had set out the picnic stuff. But she wouldn't. She didn't give a dam. She was getting sick and tired of this every—Saturday—night rumpus.

"Nothing like eating out in the open," Ricky would say.

Indeed, Della thought, there was nothing like it.

Ricky would be half drunk and he'd want to do the cooking and the hamburgers and the steaks would either fall in the fire or get wiped across the ground before they were eaten. Nobody would eat much, anyway, but they would drink a lot and maybe Ricky's sister, Gladys Anderson, would get sick on the beer and the liquor and her husband, a doctor, would say that the food had been left out in the heat and that it was spoiled.

And that Sally Berringer would show up— "I just happened to be passing" —and she'd make it her business to hang around Ricky and the fire. Of course, the road up to Raven's Nest was a dead-end affair but that didn't matter—Sally was just going by. Sometimes she brought somebody with her and they were usually real drips, except for the one fellow, that Ed Loring, and he had been all right. Dark hair and dark eyes and long and lean, he'd asked Della to dance with him. She hadn't wanted to, not really, but Ricky had been getting impossible—" I married an Icelander and I can't get her thawed out, but..." and she'd accepted Ed Loring's suggestion. He was a good dancer, moving easily and not holding her too close and once, when his lips had accidentally brushed her forehead, she had felt different, almost free.

"You have a beautiful command of English," he had told her. "One would never guess that you'd been born in a foreign country."

"Some day," she had said, "English will be more universal in Iceland than Danish. You see, much of the foreign trade is carried on with the United States and there are Americans on the island all the time. Most all of us learn it and, for some reason, we are able to learn it without an accent. A few, like myself, come to the States to finish our education in one of the colleges."

Later that night, after everybody had gone, Ricky had followed her to her room.

"Let me in, doll."

"Not tonight, Ricky."

He had kicked at the locked door, sending crashing sounds all through the house.

"What the hell's the matter with you, Della?"

Silently she had undressed and crawled into bed, wishing that he wouldn't act like this.

"Damned women!" Ricky had stormed, still kicking at the door.

He'd said more, called her other names, but she hadn't listened to him. Her pillow had grown wet with tears, just as it had grown wet with her tears on other nights.

"Ricky," she had told him once, during the early days of their marriage. "Don't laugh at me, Ricky. But I'm—scared."

"Scared? What of, baby?"

"My mother's dead. And my father's dead."

"Yes."

"And there's just the two of us, Ricky. I don't have anyone else. Nobody. No one at all."

He had laughed at her then and she hadn't confided in him anymore, hadn't ever told him about how she worried over bis constant drinking, or of how frightened she was to be so alone in a strange country. She had wanted to explain how important it was for her to have a baby—not someone to cling to ·her but someone she could cling to„only she hadn't been able to do a very good job of it. Every time she mentioned it to him, at first, he'd laugh at her and want to know why she wanted to ruin her swell figure getting big with a kid.

"Hell, you don't want to get yourself fixed up like that, baby. We're young and the world's brand new.

Let's have fun. Kids will come later."

"Well, don't call me baby, then."

"Why not?"

"I don't like it. Save it for our real child."

"To hell with you, then. You think you're going to jump on me every time I open my mouth just because I don't see eye to eye with you on this? You're my wife, baby, and I'll call you any name I want to. You hear me? You can either like it or you can go back to Iceland and marry some fish-head-eating-mojack. Maybe you'd like that better, huh, baby? Maybe you'd like that better than a thirty-five-thousand-dollar house and a dame to pick up the dust after you."

That had been their first, and most serious, argument.

She had been left terrified and speechless by it and when Ricky had struck her across the mouth with the flat of his hand, she had run from their bedroom. And she had never gone back. She'd taken the room at the end of the hall, hoping it was for just one night or a week at the most.

"Okay, save it," Ricky told her, one evening. "You think you're any different from the rest of the dames?

You think a guy can't relax with some classy company whenever he feels like it?"

“I'm sorry, Ricky. Forgive me."

She had let him into her room that night and afterward, she had felt worse than a common prostitute.

He'd been drinking heavily and had said things to her that no man had ever said before. Later, she had heard him sick in the bathroom and then she had been sick and she hadn't let him into her room again for a month.

It had gotten worse, she thought now, much worse.

Sometimes she wished that Ricky's father hadn't left him all that money, that Ricky had to go out to work and earn a living. The seemingly limitless funds bought new cars and fine clothes and even finer women. Sometimes, when Ricky was staying away overnight, either at the Landing or at Port Jervis, he would" call her on the phone and in the background she would hear a girl's laughter. Mocking laughter. Laughter for Ricky—at a price.

She walked around her bedroom, thinking about it.

Things couldn't go on this way, not forever. They had to end sometime, somewhere, somehow. It wasn't a matter of love anymore; it was a matter of survival.

Either Ricky would destroy her.

Or she would destroy Ricky.

It was as simple as that.

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