26 Nights

A Sexual Adventure


By Penthouse International

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The hero of this story must bed twenty-six women across the alphabet, from Abigail to Zelda to win the wager. He beds divas and debutantes, playgirls and politicos, evangelists and entrepreneurs, throughout a great American ‘sin’ city.



"Just one thing, ladies," I said. "Uh…

could we do it one at a time, perhaps?"

"One at a time?" Vinnie said.

"Separately?" Winnie said.

"Yes," I said. "Separately. Just for a change.

Call it an experiment."

"Oh, we couldn't do that," Vinnie said.

"We would never do that," Winnie said.

"We do everything together," Vinnie said.

"We're sisters, you know," Winnie said.

"Twins," Vinnie said.

"Identical," Winnie said.

"Yes," I said. "I get the picture."



















Penthouse ® is a registered trademark of Penthouse International, Limited.


Copyright © 2001 by General Media Communications, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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First eBook Edition: June 2001

ISBN: 978-0-7595-2458-3

Chapter 1

AMBROSIAL IS THE SCENT OF WOMAN. AS always, even before I was fully awake, I knew by the scent that she was there beside me. It is indescribable and, to some, undetectable—too many men of my acquaintance have told me they are unaware of it, except under obvious circumstances, which seems to me very sad—but it is the scent of heaven, and on those rare mornings when I awaken to its absence, I am possessed by a terrible depression, combined with the need to experience it again as soon as possible.

This morning, however, it was not absent. Gratefully I reached out for the sweetness beside me, not yet awake enough to recall who it was. It didn't matter. The scent told me it was female, and my hands soon confirmed that conclusion. Soft it was, and warm, with smooth skin, with yielding breasts, round behind, sweet tender thighs …

"Good morning," came a throaty voice, and then I remembered. Phyllis. Blond, pretty, kittenish … and married. But with a husband who traveled. Very convenient. The trip that had taken him away this time was not the first one of which Phyllis and I had taken advantage. There was something else about Phyllis—something I strove to remember. I pride myself on my memory of these things, somewhat encyclopedic, if I do say so. Ah yes—it came to me. Phyllis liked to be touched in a certain way. High up between her thighs … just at the lower end of the vaginal opening … just … there … like this …

"Ohhh!" Phyllis gasped. "Oh Jesus … Oh Steven …" And she slithered across the bed to me and pressed her estimable body hard against mine. And wiggled. My fingers did that thing again, and then explored a bit further. "Jesus …" she said again, and her leg came across me, and then she was pulling herself on top of me, straddling me and grasping my cock (which had been hard since before I was awake) and sliding herself down over it.

My appreciative groan and the ring of the telephone came simultaneously.

"Oh God …" Phyllis said breathlessly. "Oh no …"

"It's only Miss Greenglass," I said. "Not to worry." Without moving enough to dislodge her, I reached for the phone on the bedside table.

"Don't answer it," Phyllis said, but I merely winked at her.

"Yes?" I said to the phone.

"I'm here, Mr. Walling." It was indeed Miss Greenglass, my secretary, who came to my house every weekday morning at a ridiculously uncivilized hour, a practice from which neither pleas nor threats could dissuade her.

"I'm busy, Miss Greenglass," I said. Which was true only in a sense, for I wasn't doing a thing other than lying there while Phyllis of the bouncing breasts and sweetly flexing legs was moving rhythmically up and down.

"I'm sure you are," Miss Greenglass said, with just a hint of sarcasm. Perhaps Phyllis's rather heavy breathing had made itself heard through the phone; or perhaps it was just that Miss Greenglass was accustomed to my being busy at that hour. "I'll make a start on those contract figures, Mr. Walling, shall I? Until you are … free."

"Fine," I said. "Thank you, Miss Greenglass." I hung up just in time to prevent Miss Greenglass from hearing a series of cries from the ever-orgasmic Phyllis, which would surely have confirmed what she already knew. Phyllis threw back her head, spasmed her way through a splendid climax, and then collapsed on top of me.

"Don't worry about Miss Greenglass," I said. "She's used to waiting." And rolling her over—very carefully, so as not to break our pleasurable connection—I proceeded to partake further of the matchless joys of the female body.

"Have you quite finished, Mr. Walling?" Miss Greenglass asked as I joined her in the room that serves as my office.

"For now, Miss Greenglass. For now. Mrs. Dilsey is rather tuckered out, and as there don't seem to be any other females around at the moment … Unless, of course, you would unbend enough …"

Miss Greenglass just looked at me in that particularly bleak manner of which only she is capable. My proposition was not new to her; indeed it was broached, with increasing hopelessness, virtually every day, invariably followed by her rather disdainful refusal. "I am sure," she said now, "that you will have no trouble finding adequate prey before the day is out. Shall we get to those figures now?"

The figure I was most desirous of getting to was hers, as she well knew. That figure was as tantalizing as any I have seen, and her severe and businesslike manner of dress only made it seem more alluring. Her dark hair was generally gathered and pinned neatly behind her head; I longed to see it loose and swinging about her very attractive face. But alas, after six months in my employ, working in my house five days a week, I had not even been allowed to address her by her first name.

"Prey?" I said, assuming a wounded air. "I assure you I do not think of the ladies I am fortunate enough sometimes to … let us say …"

"Dally with?" Miss Greenglass quickly supplied.

"Thank you. I do not think of them as prey. I may hunt them, in a sense, but I don't shoot them, I don't wound them, I don't cause them distress in any way. I merely give them pleasure, and they return the favor."

"How generous," Miss Greenglass murmured. "Shall we get to work now?"

"As a matter of fact," I said, "I am going out. I have an appointment at Brooks Brothers to be measured for a new suit. I happened to stop in there yesterday, and there is a lovely young woman working there as an assistant. You know, I can remember when there were no ladies at Brooks Brothers. Sometimes the times change for the better."

"The designated target for the day, I take it," Miss Greenglass said.

"You insist on using such sinister imagery. But the thought has crossed my mind. Her name is Abigail. I've always liked that name. There's something prim and old-fashioned about it, but at the same time it's got a kind of little-girl quality. Abigail. I'm partial to names beginning with A, you know." Miss Greenglass's first name is Anne.

"You are fond of names beginning with any letter of the alphabet from A to Z," she said sweetly. "Providing they are female."

"Come to think of it, that's true," I said. "And I suppose I must have gone through all the letters at one time or another. Well, perhaps not X … no wait, there was a rather luscious lady a couple of years ago whose given name, I believe, was Xanthippe—she was the daughter of a classical scholar. Didn't really use it, though. Called herself Tiffany, actually. It was only by accident that I found out …"

"What you should do," Miss Greenglass said, in that Greenglassian tone of hers, "is go through the alphabet in order. It would provide more of a challenge, I should think, than mowing them down indiscriminately."

I thought a moment. "Actually," I said, "you may have something there. It would be a challenge. Beginning with Abigail—assuming she is amenable, of course—I could then go on to, say, a Barbara or a Betty, then a Carolyn or a Christine, or … You know, if I managed one a week, I could get through the entire alphabet in six months!"

"How in the world," Miss Greenglass inquired, "would you ever limit yourself to one a week?"

"Oh, well I could have others in between, of course …"

"No, you could not," Miss Greenglass said. "That would be part of the challenge, you see. You must limit yourself to the alphabetical succession until it is completed. And if you haven't completed it within the six months, you should consider that you have failed."

I looked at her curiously. "I didn't realize you were making the rules here," I said. "Do you by any chance think I couldn't do it?"

Miss Greenglass favored me with her inscrutable gaze. "I do think it would be rather difficult," she said finally. "Even for you."

"Would you," I said slowly, "like to make a little wager on the matter?"

"A wager, Mr. Walling?"

"A wager. That I can sleep with twenty-six women whose first names begin with each letter of the alphabet, in succession, within six months."

"And no others in that time?"

I shrugged. "If you insist. That will inspire me to proceed more ardently."

"And what would be the stakes in this wager?" Miss Greenglass inquired. Her voice was cool as ever, but I thought I saw a very slight flush on her cheek, indicating that she had an idea of what my answer would be—or at least part of it.

"Well," I said, "if by some chance I should lose—as you obviously think I am bound to do—I will, let us say, double your salary. Hell, I'll do better than that—I'll triple it. How's that?"

"That is certainly tempting," she murmured. "Extremely tempting, Mr. Walling. And if you win?"

I looked straight into her eyes, and I must give her credit for returning my gaze in kind. "If I win, Miss Greenglass," I said deliberately, "I will then expect to start the alphabet all over again—with Anne Greenglass."

"I see," she said. And still she didn't look away from me. I didn't really expect her to accept. Which shows that although in some ways I may know more about women (I say immodestly) than any man alive, in other ways I know nothing about them, and neither does anyone else. "All right," Miss Greenglass said. "I accept the wager."

I nearly fell over. "You do?" I said stupidly.

"Yes," she said. "I do. Now are you leaving immediately, or can we do some work on these figures first?"

"It has long been a fantasy of mine," I said to Abigail, "to make love to a woman in one of the little dressing rooms at Brooks Brothers."

"Really, Mr. Walling!" Abigail blushed prettily and turned away to straighten a stack of pin-striped shirts on a display table beside her. In spite of the blush, I had the feeling that the lady was not quite as shocked as she pretended to be. Young ladies (and the winsome Abigail was surely still in her early twenties) are seldom sheltered maidens these days. A woman who earns her own living—even in a staid environment like Brooks Brothers—is hardly sheltered; and sweet-looking and diffident though she was, Abigail, I was sure, was no maiden.

But she was obviously not to be had at the drop of a fantasy. "Oh well," I said cheerfully. "If the dressing room is out, I'll have to settle for taking you to lunch. What do you say?"

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Walling, but I don't think—"

"Just lunch," I said, putting up my hands to show my innocent intentions. "A friendly lunch, in a public place. Anywhere you say."

Her fetching brown eyes turned to me. They went beautifully with her soft shoulder-length hair. "Anyplace?"

"Name it."

Was there a hint of mischief in those wide eyes? "I've always wanted to eat at Lutèce," she said.

Lutèce! The girl had expensive tastes. But then it has always seemed to me that money has no better use than to be put to the service of love. Or lust.

"I like a lady who knows what she wants," I said. "Lutèce it is. Shall we go now?"

Her eyes widened further. "But—but don't you need a reservation? How will we get in?"

"For me," I said, "they'll make room."

Which, of course, they did, thus further impressing my lovely companion, who appeared a bit awed by the elegance of the surroundings, the smooth solicitude of the waiters, and the superb delights of the meal itself. A perfect situation for a seduction, one would think; and yet despite my best efforts, I could see that I was not making any noticeable progress in the direction of that dressing room. Abigail was friendly and, after several glasses of wine, even a bit flirtatious, but though I was sure I could get to her eventually, a protracted wooing was not in the cards at this point. If I were to win my bet with Miss Greenglass, I had to get the show on the road, so to speak. I wondered what would happen if I were to tell her about the bet—lay the aforementioned cards, as it were, on the table. I decided it was worth a shot; if it didn't work I would be no worse off, and I could get back to Abigail sometime in the future.

"Abigail," I said. "I want to tell you about a wager I made recently."

I told her everything. Well, almost everything. Of course I was wise enough to hasten to assure her truthfully that I had been attracted to her long before the wager was even thought of—indeed that my attraction to her (first name and all) had been the genesis of the wager, and not its result. But I did prevaricate a bit about the stakes—and also about the other party to the bet. I implied that it was with a business acquaintance, and purely for money. Less colorfully romantic than the truth, perhaps, but, as calculated, safer. Abigail was shocked again—or pretended to be. "You actually … You said you would … You intend to …"

"Yes," I said. "I did, I said, I do. And it's all your doing, Abigail. If you weren't so lovely … or if your name didn't begin with A …"

"Really, Mr. Walling." She drank some more wine. "You can't believe I would—just like that—"

"I was hoping you would," I said softly. "After all, when a man sets himself an arduous task, he likes to start it off as pleasantly as possible. My future labors in this endeavor would be made so much easier if only I had you to look back on. And," I added shrewdly, "to look forward to again when it's over."

"You are a terrible man!" Abigail said. She finished her wine. And then she said, "Right there in the dressing room?"

The dressing rooms at Brooks Brothers are larger than those in many other establishments, but still not what you might call capacious. Fortunately, the doors lock from the inside, and though for two people to lie on the floor, let alone conduct any strenuous activity there, might be somewhat impractical, the rooms are furnished with narrow wooden benches on which one may place one's clothing. Abigail and I did not use ours for that purpose; the clothes we discarded lay on the floor, while we occupied the diminutive bench ourselves, I seated on the hard wood, with Abigail seated on me, with her back to me, bent slightly forward and clutching at my legs for support, with my arms around her, my hands covering her fine round breasts and my rampant cock deep inside her sweet, pulsing vagina.

In this position we could both see ourselves in the full-length mirror opposite the bench, and I must say that the sight of Abigail's delectable body slowly rising and falling against me did nothing to diminish my ardor. Abigail enjoyed it too, and the first time she came I had to put my hand over her mouth to stifle her cry. By the second time she had turned around to face me and we were kissing passionately, so that the sound of her climax was muffled against my mouth. As was mine against hers.

Afterwards Abigail, anxious about getting back to work, and I think a little scandalized at herself for what she had done, dressed herself swiftly and left with hardly a word. I resumed dressing—more leisurely, feeling quite contented and trying to recall the women I knew whose names begin with B.

Chapter 2

BECAUSE MY DELICIOUS (IF UNUSUAL) WAGER with Miss Greenglass, which I was determined to win at all costs, stipulated that I limit myself to the alphabetical succession, thus prohibiting me from pursuing my normal habit of finding pleasure with any agreeable female who crossed my path, my search for the next lady in line (or as I humorously thought of her, my B-girl) was to my mind quite urgent; not because I had only an average time of one week per woman if I were to fulfill the terms within the allotted six months, but because I was accustomed to experiencing the joys of copulation nearly every day of my life. To me it was as necessary as the drink to the alcoholic, the drug to the heroin addict—with the difference that my addiction did no harm to my body, but on the contrary was most beneficial, perhaps even essential, to my physical and spiritual well-being.

Thus, as I said, even as I was donning my clothing in the Brooks Brothers dressing room after my pleasant encounter with the winsome Abigail, I was searching my mental Rolodex for ladies I knew whose first names started with B. I had a quite fond and not too distant memory of Belinda Reynolds, the socialite and former editor of one of the high-fashion magazines (I can never keep them straight); but alas, she had recently gone with her husband to live in Monte Carlo. I could, of course, simply have hopped on a plane, but surely there were more convenient alternatives. I thought of Bonnie Packard, a slender and pleasingly passionate gallery owner with whom I had spent a night six months ago; but though I had enjoyed her pliant and eager body, her incessant chatter before, during and after our lovemaking had gotten on my nerves to the point of giving me a headache. No … I would think of someone else—or even better, find someone new, as a fresh experience is always more intriguing and stimulating for me than a repetition of past pleasures.

As it turned out, my need was resolved (or so I thought) in a very simple and unexpected way. As I emerged from the dressing room and was making my way to the front door, Abigail came up to me, blushing quite noticeably, but smiling in a way that did wonderful things for my ego. "Mr. Walling," she whispered. "I was just—"

"My dear Abigail," I said. "Surely after the past hour you might call me Steven, don't you think?"

She blushed harder. "Steven … I was thinking … about your bet … and how I might help, maybe …"

"You already have, Abigail," I said. "And most enjoyably, too."

"Well …" she said, looking away from me. "I—I have this friend …"

"Oh?" I said. "Have you indeed?"

"She—she's very pretty," Abigail murmured. "And she likes … well … she likes men …"

"Excellent qualifications," I said. "And her name is …"

"Her name is Betty," Abigail said.

"Betty!" My luck was holding. "What a fine, sweet lady you are, Abigail. And how can I get in touch with this Betty?"

Abigail handed me a slip of paper. "This is her number. I just talked to her. She's expecting your call."

What a girl!

"Not that she—" Abigail said hastily. "I mean, she didn't say she'd—I mean, I don't know if—"

I smiled benignly. "I understand," I said. "Don't you worry, Abigail. You just leave that to me."

As it turned out, what had caused Betty—who was not, as she told me, generally fond of blind dates—to be receptive to the idea of meeting me was Abigail's mention of the lunch she and I had had at Lutèce. During our phone conversation she mentioned it twice, making it quite obvious that she would not be averse to beginning our proposed evening together by dining on those elegant premises. I, however, avoided making a definite commitment on that score, as I find eating at the same restaurant twice in a row to be an even less exciting prospect than sleeping with the same woman on successive nights.

Thus, despite the fact that Lutèce might have had the same salubrious effect on Betty as it had had on Abigail, I decided to take a chance and surprise her with the unexpected. Accordingly, I showed up at her door that evening attired in impeccable evening dress—and bearing a large brown paper sack filled with cartons from a local Chinese take-out establishment.

Betty turned out to be an attractive redhead, perhaps a few years older than Abigail, with a friendly smile and a pleasingly voluptuous figure. If she was a bit taken aback at first by the unorthodoxy of my dinner plans, she was also, as I had hoped, at least as intrigued as she was disappointed. Soon we were sitting side by side on her sofa, the little white boxes scattered before us on her coffee table.

Romancing a woman is second nature to me, and while I will not go so far as to say that my charm is invariably successful, long experience, steady application and beneficent gifts of nature have given me a certain confidence not unwarranted by my track record, as it were. It was not long before Betty and I were feeding each other tidbits with the cheap wooden chopsticks that had come with the meal; and it was but a short step from there to the nibbling of choice morsels from each other's lips. This type of gourmandizing being conducive to a certain amount of dripping and spilling, we naturally found it expedient to remove our clothing.

I am always open to new experiences, and there on Betty's sofa I discovered some quite pleasant ones. Never before, for example, had I had my erect phallus wrapped tightly in Chinese sesame noodles, which were then eaten away by soft lips, sweetly nibbling teeth and hungrily slurping tongue. I also discovered how spicy a woman's nipples taste under a thin coating of hot Oriental mustard, as well as the tangy flavor imparted to female flesh by a bit of soy sauce on the torso as one licks one's way down. I needed no condiments, however, to enhance the essence of the lady when my mouth reached the juncture of her beautiful thighs. Nothing on earth can improve the taste of woman herself … nothing on earth or, I am certain, in heaven either. After some time we repaired to Betty's bedroom, where without further benefit of Oriental viands we spent a long delicious night feasting only on each other's flesh …

Miss Greenglass was already hard at work when I arrived home the following morning. As I looked into the office with a cheerful (if somewhat sleepy) greeting, she regarded me with faint disapproval in her fine, dark eyes. Those eyes may also have held a tiny glint of amusement, but with Miss Greenglass it was difficult to tell.


On Sale
Jun 1, 2001
Page Count
352 pages

Penthouse International

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