Two Novels: Sin Unlimited and Harlot Master


by Jim Harmon



The redhead’s practiced hands explored his body intimately. “Take it easy,” Williams said, “or I won’t be good for much!”





Preston Williams sipped his pink lemonade and smiled at the plump middle-aged woman who stood before him chatting at full throttle. Wouldn’t it be nice, he thought, to be in a night club in Montreal, sipping bourbon and watching a stripper peel?

The mustached manager of the Niagara Friendship Club came over to Williams busily, and drew him aside from the anxious matron type.

“Mr. Williams, I think we have someone you would be interested in. Someone very special.”

“Someone special?” Williams asked.

“Yes, indeed,” the manager affirmed.

Williams followed the little man as he led him through the clusters of man-seeking women and women-seeking men. At last, it looked like he was getting somewhere.

After hearing all the stories of the real red-hot babes you could pick up at these “friendship clubs”, for “special” arrangements, the parade of middle-aged old maids and widows had been disappointing to him, to say the least.

But now as they entered a smaller inner office it looked as if Williams had made the breakthrough.

“I’d like to show you some photos of our special clients, Mr. Williams,” the manager said. “You’ve been coming here long enough that I know you can be relied upon.”

Inside, Williams was grinning. The passes that he had made at some of the better looking middle-aged broads should have convinced them that he could be relied upon for trying to get a woman into bed as quick as humanly possible.

“Would you like to meet some of our special, our young ladies?” the manager inquired.

“What do you think?” Williams asked with a slight smile, to tell the manager that his five weeks in the club hadn’t been spent just to hold hands with elderly ladies.

“Shall we go to my office?”

The manager led Williams into his private office, and made a show of examining Williams’ application. That done, he coughed, cleared his throat and blinked rapidly. “The price is two hundred and fifty dollars for the full introduction.”

Williams dealt out the ante in twenties and tens.

“This way, Mr. Williams!”

The little man opened another door out of his office and ushered Williams into a private studio. “Which of the girls do you want?” he asked.

“Estelle Lawrence,” said Williams.

“Oh, yes,” smiled the little man. “Our red-head. Lovely, absolutely lovely. And very talented if you know what I mean!”

Williams had a good idea of what he meant, and hoped the idea would become reality. He was not disappointed with her first demonstration of talent when she came into the studio.

“Well, honey, you paid for the first class course, so you get the works. Is this your first honeymoon for hire, or just your first time with me?”

Williams looked over his honeymoon partner with satisfaction. “I’m a brand new bridegroom,” he said.

“That’s the best kind,” Estelle said. “You want to get acquainted here first, or shall we head for the Falls and do the whole bit?”

“Which includes what?”

“Drinks, dinner, a ride on the Maid of the Mist, a trip through the Cave of the Winds, and then a cozy little honeymoon cottage for the night!”


“And me, honey. Me. All of little old me.”

“Suppose you decide,” Williams said.

“Well, ain’t you the sport? You’re the first guy that was nice enough to ever consider what I wanted!”

Estelle pressed her nude body close to Williams.

“Honey, I’m going to like you a lot.”

Preston slipped his hand up onto the redhead’s full, slightly sagging breast with its nipple as erect as a pencil eraser.

“You paid?” she inquired.

“Sure,” he said, “with me it’s business before pleasure.”

And wait, he thought, until she finds out my business.

But now, he thought, it’s time for pleasure. He gave her breast another squeeze.

“Try that again,” Estelle said, “and I’ll hold your hands.”

One of Preston Williams’ eyebrows arched slightly.

“That doesn’t stop me, honey,” she whispered. “The minute I saw you walk in, so big and good-looking, and thought what you were going to be doing to me, it happened to me. But I’m still ready!”

With that invitation, Williams threw the redhead to the provided cot and moved to claim her. She hugged him tightly, tightening and releasing her grip.

It didn’t last long, he thought as he sprawled weakly on her, but there would be time for more. Much more—on the “honeymoon.”


Later, standing at the observation point on the American side, so close to the tumultuous waters roaring over the Falls, Estelle slipped her arm around Williams. “Makes you feel we was really married, doesn’t it?”

Williams detected a trace of sincere longing in her voice.

As they walked away from the rim of the Falls and through the park, Estelle asked, “If you want to, we can go right to the cottage, honey. But I sure would like to take the trip through the Cave of the Winds. I ain’t never been there. Honest, the cheapskates a girl has to do business with! You can try as hard as you want to be nice, and all they want is to get you in a cottage as fast as they can.”

“The Cave of the Winds it is,” said Williams. And they went down the elevator to the foot of the Falls. There they dressed in the oilskin coats and hats, and the boots supplied, and joined the next group being led out onto the rickety wooden catwalk below the thundering cataract of water.

In the dim light of the rock cavern, Williams and Estelle moved slowly with the group, only half hearing the monotonous monologue being delivered for their enlightenment by the guide.

It was Williams’ first time in the Cave, and he found it difficult to put into words the sense of fantasy, for he was under the tons and tons of water which raced over the Falls day and night, under the awful majesty of power which pygmied all of man’s achievement.

Williams’ thoughts were abruptly shifted to less majestic but more imminent matters, as he saw Estelle slip a package out of the large pocket of her own oilskin and into the pocket of the raincoat of the man ahead of her in the line of people.

Williams stepped ahead of Estelle quickly and laid his hand firmly on the man’s shoulder.

“You are under arrest!” he said.

The man replied with a boot driven back into Williams’ knees. Williams reached for his gun as the man whirled and got off two shots, then shouldered his way past the startled tourists, fighting his way back toward the entrance of the Cave.

Williams could not shoot for fear of hitting one of the other people who now milled about in the first moment of panic as women began to shriek, and men stumbled about in confusion.

A hand held tightly to Williams’ raincoat as he started to run after the men. Williams turned to see who was restraining him and looked in the shadowed face of Estelle.

She was on the floor of the cavern. Her hands clutched at Williams. Her eyes were filled with disbelief and surprise. A trickle of blood ran from her mouth.

“He shot me,” she whispered in wonder.

Estelle’s head dropped to her breast. Her hands lost their hold. Williams felt for her pulse. Nothing.

Williams opened her raincoat quickly. The ugly tentacled stain of blood over Estelle’s blouse was even more convincing than the zero pulse. Estelle was very dead.

“Grab him!” One of the men shouted.

Williams bolted from Estelle. He slugged his way through the group. There was nothing he could do for the doll with the bullet in her chest, but there was a lot he wanted to do to the guy who had put it there.

And it would do no one any good for him to stick around until curious police showed up to ask questions that might make the fiasco even worse. It was bad enough having been seen by the murderer. To be identified as a constable of the Canadian Royal Mounted Police would completely destroy Williams’ effectiveness as a plainclothes investigator of the narcotics traffic.