Marked for Murder

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“It’s all right, you know—I mean, if you can’t. . .”

The young man tried feverishly—as he had for the past fifteen minutes—to stimulate himself. But the longer and more frantically he tried, the less likely it seemed that he would maintain or even attain an erection. And, before he’d begun, she had spent another quarter of an hour trying to help him. She’d used every means she knew. And she knew them all.

Nothing.

“Believe me, honey,” Louise Bonner assured him, “it happens to everybody once in a while. It’s nothing to get upset about. Tomorrow you’ll probably have a hard-on all day.”

“I can do it.” His teeth were clenched as he thrashed about. “Goddammit, I’ve done it all my life.”

“Yeah, sure, honey. But this is your first time with a woman, right?”

He flushed deeper as he continued his effort.

All his life. Louise suppressed a smile. All seventeen or eighteen years of his brief life. She had a mental image of him in his room, alone. On the walls, photos of females, nude or in various stages of dishabille. And there he would masturbate the night away. Then the fateful day—today. He’d saved his money. Or his father gave him ten bucks, told him to find a whore and become a man.

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