Number Three turned out to be a jealous, manipulative man who has tried more than once to take control of Bethlehem Motors away from Number One.
Looking around for a man who could build a BethlehemMotors sports car, to be called the Betsy for his great-granddaughter, Number One settled on a young man he had known since that young man was a child—Angelo Perino.
Angelo Perino had the engineering degree and he had the same commitment to building automobiles that Number One had. What was more, he had guts. He had spent five years as a racing driver, had once ranked number two in the world, and had nearly died in a crash. He also had money of his own and was willing to take risks.
To build the Betsy, it would be necessary to overwhelm the angry opposition of Loren Hardeman III, who would do anything to frustrate the project—out of jealousy, yes, but also out of a conviction that Bethlehem Motors must sooner or later get out of the automobile business and concentrate on the business that made far more money for the company: the manufacture of appliances.
The battle raged for three years. When Number Three saw he was losing, he went so far as to attempt to sabotage the experimental car. When that tactic failed, he actually hired thugs to beat up on Angelo Perino….
Number Three had sued Thurman, but the case had been quickly dismissed, which left him to pay the legal fees.
“Thurman tells too much not to have had an inside source of information,” said Betsy.
“That doesn’t make it me. I swear before God I never met Thurman, never talked to him, never corresponded with him.”
“You’ll never make them believe it. Watch out for them, lover. Never turn your back. They…” She shrugged. “To hell with it. We’ve got better things to think about.”
Betsy got up on her hands and knees and straddled him. She dangled her breasts over his crotch, swinging them back and forth against his cock. “Turn over on your face,” she urged in a throaty whisper.
He did. She spread his hinder cheeks with her hands, shoved her face into his anus, and began to probe with hertongue. He drew all the breath he could contain. The sensation was not orgasmic, but what her tongue reached tingled with a pleasure that became more and more intense and yet was not orgasmic. She worked at it for five minutes or so, then reached between his legs, found his rigid shaft, and began to stroke it. He came within half a minute: a deep, riotous, sustained orgasm.
“So…,” Betsy whispered. “I bet she never does that for you.”
Angelo smiled fondly at her and shook his head. He lied. Betsy didn’t need to know that Cindy did it, too.
VI
1975
1
VKP Galleries was located on Park Avenue a few blocks north of the Waldorf and on the west side of the street. On a Monday night in April, Cindy and Dietz presided over the opening of a one-woman show for Amanda Finch, a young artist Cindy had discovered through her sorority contacts.
Amanda Finch had never been a sorority girl, but Mary Wilkerson had. Mary, who lived in Greenwich, was enrolled in art classes at the Silvermine Guild, where Amanda was a figure model for classes in sketching, painting, and sculpture. The two women became acquainted when Amanda walked back among the easels to see how the students were portraying her. When Amanda offered a suggestion about Mary’s painting, Mary learned that Amanda was herself an artist and was posing as a figure model to earn a living in a nondemanding way that allowed her to devote most of her time to her own painting. Mary saw some of Amanda’s work and immediately invited Cindy to come to Connecticut and look at it.
Amanda Finch’s work fit into the realist category that VKP Galleries was still promoting. She painted with meticulous attention to detail, so that her paintings could, from adistance, be mistaken for finely focused photographs. The stamens and pistils in her flowers were scrupulously reproduced, as were the veins in the petals.
Looking around for a man who could build a BethlehemMotors sports car, to be called the Betsy for his great-granddaughter, Number One settled on a young man he had known since that young man was a child—Angelo Perino.
Angelo Perino had the engineering degree and he had the same commitment to building automobiles that Number One had. What was more, he had guts. He had spent five years as a racing driver, had once ranked number two in the world, and had nearly died in a crash. He also had money of his own and was willing to take risks.
To build the Betsy, it would be necessary to overwhelm the angry opposition of Loren Hardeman III, who would do anything to frustrate the project—out of jealousy, yes, but also out of a conviction that Bethlehem Motors must sooner or later get out of the automobile business and concentrate on the business that made far more money for the company: the manufacture of appliances.
The battle raged for three years. When Number Three saw he was losing, he went so far as to attempt to sabotage the experimental car. When that tactic failed, he actually hired thugs to beat up on Angelo Perino….
Number Three had sued Thurman, but the case had been quickly dismissed, which left him to pay the legal fees.
“Thurman tells too much not to have had an inside source of information,” said Betsy.
“That doesn’t make it me. I swear before God I never met Thurman, never talked to him, never corresponded with him.”
“You’ll never make them believe it. Watch out for them, lover. Never turn your back. They…” She shrugged. “To hell with it. We’ve got better things to think about.”
Betsy got up on her hands and knees and straddled him. She dangled her breasts over his crotch, swinging them back and forth against his cock. “Turn over on your face,” she urged in a throaty whisper.
He did. She spread his hinder cheeks with her hands, shoved her face into his anus, and began to probe with hertongue. He drew all the breath he could contain. The sensation was not orgasmic, but what her tongue reached tingled with a pleasure that became more and more intense and yet was not orgasmic. She worked at it for five minutes or so, then reached between his legs, found his rigid shaft, and began to stroke it. He came within half a minute: a deep, riotous, sustained orgasm.
“So…,” Betsy whispered. “I bet she never does that for you.”
Angelo smiled fondly at her and shook his head. He lied. Betsy didn’t need to know that Cindy did it, too.
VI
1975
1
VKP Galleries was located on Park Avenue a few blocks north of the Waldorf and on the west side of the street. On a Monday night in April, Cindy and Dietz presided over the opening of a one-woman show for Amanda Finch, a young artist Cindy had discovered through her sorority contacts.
Amanda Finch had never been a sorority girl, but Mary Wilkerson had. Mary, who lived in Greenwich, was enrolled in art classes at the Silvermine Guild, where Amanda was a figure model for classes in sketching, painting, and sculpture. The two women became acquainted when Amanda walked back among the easels to see how the students were portraying her. When Amanda offered a suggestion about Mary’s painting, Mary learned that Amanda was herself an artist and was posing as a figure model to earn a living in a nondemanding way that allowed her to devote most of her time to her own painting. Mary saw some of Amanda’s work and immediately invited Cindy to come to Connecticut and look at it.
Amanda Finch’s work fit into the realist category that VKP Galleries was still promoting. She painted with meticulous attention to detail, so that her paintings could, from adistance, be mistaken for finely focused photographs. The stamens and pistils in her flowers were scrupulously reproduced, as were the veins in the petals.
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