Chapter 5
Barry pulled to a stop in the gravel parking lot of Lester's by the River, got out and opened Lorraine's door. She stepped out and surveyed the place; she had seen it before, coming up to the camp, but had only had the chance to catch a glimpse of it before rounding the curve and passing it.
There were several sections to the establishment-it was actually much more than just a restaurant. To the far end, down the road, was a small gas station (two pumps) and a gift shop. Then there were a series of cabins, available for rent, that overlooked the river which rushed by behind them. Then there was a banquet hall, a bar, and finally the restaurant itself.
Across the street was a coffee shop and a picnic area, along with a small general store. "Everything you could ever need," Barry said, mimicking the neon sign.
"I suppose," Lorraine agreed. "Are you coming to the party?"
Barry shrugged. "I wasn't told of any party. But then again, I'm under eighteen."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"It means I can't drink, so I don't get invited to parties at Lester's. But don't worry. I have something to occupy my time."
"What's that?"
Barry blushed a little. "I've got a girlfriend down in the town." She knew he meant Lancer, a small town about another 10 miles along the road. It's principle industry was tourism, and there were more sporting good stores there than there were gas stations and restaurants combined.
"Well, have a good time," she said. She was about to ask if perhaps he wasn't a little too young to have a girlfriend, but stopped herself in time to keep from making a fool of herself. He was, after all, only five or six years younger than herself.
And she, after all, had a girlfriend of her own.
Her bowels turned to water and her knees to jelly as she thought of it with shame. Yet there was no getting rid of the fact that she had enjoyed it-immensely. She could still feel those massive globular breasts jutting against her own, the steel-point-like nipples digging into her flesh, and the flat of Grace's hand buried lengthwise in the slit of her pussy.
She shook the memory off and watched Barry drive away. She hadn't been paying attention, but he had said something about being there to pick her up at eleven, and if she wasn't there, he'd assume somebody else had given her a lift.
When Barry's car had disappeared, she turned and went into the restaurant. The sun was still peeking above the mountaintops, and the darkened dining hall was deserted except for a few waitresses running about setting tables.
"Excuse me," she said, but nobody noticed her and she had to repeat herself with greater volume. Finally, one of the waitresses saw her and came over to her.
"We don't serve dinner for another hour yet."
"I'm with the party from Camp Bernhardt," she said.
The waitress nodded. "There's always a party from Camp Bernhardt, but nothing's scheduled tonight that I know of. Check the bar."
Lorraine was about to ask something, but the waitress was called away, and Lorraine was left standing alone. Mildly confused, she shrugged and left the restaurant, blinded somewhat by the bright sunlight after having been in the dimly-lit restaurant.
She walked along a boardwalk to the bar, the entrance to which was a set of saloon-like doors. She pushed through them, and tried to readjust her eyes once again to this new darkness. There seemed to be about a dozen people in the bar-certainly no party from camp. She was about to turn away when she saw Bob Shuster at the end of the bar, concentrating on a brownish-colored glass. He didn't seem to have noticed her.
He was the only Bernhardt person in the bar, and if she was to find anything out, he would have to be the one she asked. Something inside her begged her not to, but she was stranded here until at least eleven, and if there was no party, Shuster might be her only way back. Had Grace gotten the day wrong?
Gingerly, she approached Bob, not wanting to startle him out of his reverie. She stood behind him, watching him, but he only lifted the glass-scotch, it looked like-to his lips, and sipped, then set the glass back down and returned to his daze.
She tapped him on the shoulder, and he started, then turned around. "Why, Mrs. Kemper," he said cordially. "What a surprise. What are you doing here? Oh, pardon my manners, won't you sit down?"
She didn't want to, but he held his hand out to the bar stool that sat vacant beside him. She slipped into it. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Please," she said, since she didn't know what else to do. "Gin and tonic, please."
"A real drinker," he said admiringly. "So, tell me, what brings you to Lester's while your husband's away?"
"Grace Garcia said something about a party here." The bartender appeared, and Bob ordered her drink, making it a double, then ordered himself a fresh one. When the bartender had gone to mix the stuff, Bob said, "Yeah, there was supposed to be a party, but it was cancelled. I guess nobody got word to Grace, since she couldn't have made it anyhow."
Lorraine hung her head in disappointment. She also worried about how to spend the time between now and eleven. "Are you going back to camp?" she asked, hoping he was.
"Not until later," he said. "I'm planning on having dinner and then a few more drinks, then I was thinking of sitting by the river for a while. Sort of a Thursday routine with me."
"Sounds nice," she said. The bartender set their drinks before them, and Bob hastily polished off his last one.
"Cheers," he said, holding his drink up and clicking her glass, which she lifted with some reluctance. She swallowed some of the drink, and knew instantly that it was much more gin than tonic, but it felt good as it burned down her throat and warmed her insides. She took another long slip then set it down.
"I guess I'm stuck here," she said.
"How's that?"
"Barry Jameson gave me a lift here, but he went on down into Lancer," she said. "He's not picking me up for hours."
Bob sipped his scotch. "A lot of the guys hitchhike around these hills, but you're not a guy, so I wouldn't recommend it," he said. "Perhaps you'd care to join me for dinner."
"Oh, no, I couldn't.. . . "
"It would be my pleasure," Bob said. "And my treat. As long as you have to stay anyhow."
"Well. . . " She didn't want to, really, but what else was she going to do for several hours? Besides, it seemed her initial impression of Bob Shuster was wrong. He wasn't crude at all, he was, if anything, very gracious. She felt slightly lightheaded from the drink, since she had had little to eat, and dinner-a steak in particular-sounded excellent. "Okay, you're on," she said.
Bob smiled. "Great! You about ready for another drink?"
"Oh, God, I haven't even made a dent in this one."
"That's all right. Better stock up. Jack!" he called to the bartender. "Another round."
He turned back to her, and asked, "How do you like Bernhardt so far? Or Heartburn, as we who have been here several years call it?"
"It's just beautiful," she said, her tongue loosening as she swallowed more gin. She wasn't truly much of a drinker, and on those rare occasions that she did have one or two, they hit her like a ton of bricks. "But it is a little boring," she said. "You know, Gary's off doing his job, and Grace has.. . . " she paused as the image of Grace formed in her mind, but she forced it out just as quickly. "Grace has meals to cook most of the time."
"And a hell of a cook she is, too," Bob said, lifting his glass.
"But I figure it's only for the summer, and it is so lovely in the mountains. I've been hiking and swimming. I've never been fishing before, and I'd like to try that."
"I have a rod and reel you're welcome to borrow any time," Bob said.
Lorraine admonished herself. She was talking more now than she had intended to, more than she wanted to around this man she did not know or trust. But she sipped her gin, her liquor intake increasing like a wheel spinning downhill, gaining ever more momentum and unable to brake to a stop.
"Have you ever been here before?" Bob asked. She shook her head, drained her glass, and started on her second double.
"It's a great old place. You ought to walk around, look at the walls."
She turned on her stool, and looked at the walls. They were covered with display cases, filled with antique memorabilia of eras gone by in the region. "Oh, my!" she said. "I think I will. Watch my drink for me, okay?"
"Okay," he said, and he caught her by the elbow as she stood and toppled a little, dizzy and giddy from the booze.
"Watch yourself," he said.
"I'm fine," she insisted, pulling her elbow away. She didn't like the way he had held on to it. But she forgot that as soon as she began looking at the display cases. They were filled with pistols and rifles, stuffed animals, Indian diggings, photographs and diaries of pioneers who had lived there. Occasionally, she glanced back at Bob, who was smoking a cigarette now, and he would nod and smile at her.
She wondered only once why he wore his mirrored sunglasses in such a dark place, and wrote it off to either habit or macho. Probably a combination of both.
She circled the bar, and returned to the stool and plopped into it. "Whooo," she said. "I.. . think . . . I'm . . . getting . . . drunk!"
"That's one of my favorite ways to be," Bob smiled. "Drink up," he said, indicating her awaiting gin and tonic.
"You know," she said, not meaning to, "you're a nice man after all."
"Yeah," Bob said. "Drink up."
She hoisted her glass in the air. "Here's . . . mud in yer eye," she said, laughed, and drank. It tasted different than the last one, and she looked through her inebriated gaze to see if the bartender had changed. He hadn't. Oh, well, she thought. Must be that you're drunk. Still, she had never tasted so bitter a drink before.
"Something wrong?" Bob asked.
"What could be wrong?" she said. "When do we eat?"
He looked at his watch, smoke from his cigarette drifting up and mirroring itself in his glasses. "Restaurant opens in ten minutes," he said. "I've only got a reservation for one, but I'm sure they can accommodate us."
"I hope so," she said, and laughed. She drained that drink, too, and when she set the glass on the bar top it fell over and the ice cascaded onto the vinyl. "Ooops," she giggled. "I made a mess."
"Don't worry about it," he said.
"Okay. How about another drinkie?"
"No, I think you've had enough," Bob said in a friendly tone.
"You're mean," she pouted. "But I guess I'll just have some wine with dinner."
"I think we can arrange that," Bob said happily. "Why don't we mosey on over to the restaurant now?"
She never made it that far. They went out of the bar, and twilight had fallen over the sky. She stepped carefully, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. After about five steps, though, that became impossible, and she felt as though somebody had stolen all of the bones from her body. She collapsed.
Bob caught her, saying something like, "Whoa, watch your step," and guided her away from the restaurant, toward the cabins.
"Hey," she mumbled, "the restaurant's that way," and she jerked her thumb over her shoulder, but Bob ignored her. She saw him unlocking one of the cabins and tried to get away, but she had no strength, no willpower. She let him close the door behind them, lock it, and set her down on the bed.
"Hey," she said, and giggled involuntarily at the sound of her own voice. Deep inside, she was petrified.
And she knew that bitter taste she had tasted was more than alcohol. Her had done something to her drink. For she was surely more than just drunk now.
She looked up at him from the bed; he seemed to tower a hundred feet above her, the effect of whatever it was he had slipped in her drink. He was reaching down to her, in slow motion; it seemed to take forever for his hand to get to her blouse, but it finally did, and he tore it away. She felt that in slow motion, too; the agonizingly long time it took for her body to roll, the rip as her blouse gave way seemed to last an eternity, and then she watched as he yanked the material away from her, like a magician's handkerchief, ceaselessly passing by.
Then it was gone, flung to the floor, and his long, long arms reached to her again, and his hands formed the shape of her breasts over her mounds, still encased in a brassiere of lace and satin. He rolled the softness of her breasts in the palms of his hands, and she felt something like disgust when she saw him licking his lips. But the disgust faded as she felt his paws on her, sliding her tits up and down, rolling them, kneading them, squeezing them. He seemed to have such expert hands. Against her own will, she arched her head back, and felt her eyelids droop shut. She moaned, surprising herself.
Something tugged at her back, and she tried to open her eyes, but couldn't. It took her a minute to realize he was pulling at her brassiere from the front, trying to break the snap in the back by sheer force. She lay still and let him pull, thinking it was ridiculous to try. But when the pressure against her back died away, she knew he had succeeded. She felt cool air against the soft, white skin of her firm breasts, and realized they were free; the brassiere was gone. Her nipples hardened against the chill in the air. "Do it," she whispered, then tried to remember exactly who it was that was going to do it.
Bob's hands were back on her breasts, and he had caught hold of her distended, pebbly nipples between his massaging fingers. Lorraine was gyrating now on the bed, no mind left of her own at all. Everything she knew was sensation, touch, feel. There was no right and wrong, good and bad. Bob Shuster could have been Gary Kemper, Grace Garcia or even Barry Jameson for all she cared. All she wanted was to feel, to experience.
Every motion of Shuster's hands was new to her, something she had never felt. As his thick fingers squeezed her alabaster breasts, they sang with electricity that shot down to her bowels, squeezing them, then zinging up her spine and bursting like a keg of powder in her brain. Her nipples were particularly sensitive, buttons to be pushed. He pushed them often, and she felt her inflamed pussy begin to rage with genital heat.
Bob fumbled with the button of her pants, and she nearly screamed from impatience. Actually, he had only been trying for a few seconds, but all was slo-mo to Lorraine, and it seemed an eternity. She pushed his hands away and undid her own pants, pushing them down over her knees and then kicking them off. She was ravenous for Bob's attentions, and she managed to open her eyes to see him, sunglasses finally off, his small, beady eyes locked on her slippery cunt. Through the waves of her blurred vision she saw the bulge in the crotch of his pants, and reached for it. But her depth perception was askew, and it was farther away than she thought; she groped futilely.
"You're cock-hungry, ain't you?" Bob said.
"Yesss," she hissed. "Give it to me, give me your cock."
"It's all yours, baby," he said, reaching down to his own button.
Even the sounds she heard were now intensified, with echoes behind them, and in synchronization with the speed with which she saw things happening. She heard the button of Bob's pants pop out of the fabric hole into which it was fitted, and then the slow, loud dragging of the zipper as he pulled it down, one painful notch at a time. The sound amplified even more as he pulled his pants down, the rustling of the jeans against his skin nearly deafening her. Then he dropped the lighter, softer boxer shorts, to reveal his stiff, blue-veined member, pointing like an accusing finger at her.
She wasn't sure if it was the aphrodisiac he had administered to her, the gin, or reality, but Bob's throbbing cock looked huge, larger than anything she would dare take inside her tight, small, little-used pussy. It moved in small jerks as Bob's excitement mounted, and she watched the sperm-bloated balls dancing beneath the base of the shaft, dropping out of a patch of thick, brown hair.
But Bob wasn't interested in putting his massive penis inside of her cunt. He reached over, his arm stretching toward her as though made of rubber, and then his hand was closed over a thatch of her hair, and pulling her toward the other side of the bed. She knew he was being rough, but it did not hurt; instead, it seemed she floated on a pillow of air, or on a cloud, toward his cock. It loomed like a telephone pole in front of her eyes, and she realized she was supposed to put it in her mouth.
Could she do it? It was so large, so thick. But she opened her mouth, trying if possible to unhinge her jaws, and felt the hot, pulsating meat against her lips. It seemed to sizzle against her own flesh, and she could feel the tight skin of his shaft crawling in response to the touch of her warm, wet, full lips.
She was laying naked on her back, and Bob stood above her, the length of his meaty shaft settled on the pillows of her lips. The underside of his cock was in her mouth, and she ran her tongue along the length, back and forth, then lifted her head and did her damndest to swallow the spear-like muscle.
Bob held her by the ears as she took more and more of his length inside her, sucking and nibbling as she went, careful never to hurt him, but anxious to have it all.
She found she was playing with her own tits. Her hands were massaging the soft muscles, pulling at the nipples and rubbing the two breasts together, filling her with sparks and flame.
She was surprised when she felt the thick meat being pulled from her mouth, and wondered if it might not be some sort of hallucination.
Then she realized Bob was pulling it away, readying it for a thrust into her throat, for which she would most certainly have to be prepared. His cock was not as big as it had seemed, but it was big enough. She left one hand to continue massaging her tits, and held his heavy, curling testicles with the other, partly because it felt good, and partly because she wanted to know when he was going to shove his cock into her.
The hand massaging her tits had a mind of its own, and she found it rubbing her belly, then moving down to the downy curls of her pubic vee. It rubbed there, feeling the damp, velvety hairs, and teasing at the inflamed cuntal lips. She ached to have her pussy satisfied, but she waited, to make it feel as good as it possibly could.
Two fingers crawled between the tender lips, and turned like a drill as they entered her. She stiffened as she felt it, and groaned; the sound vibrated against Bob's erection, and he forsook delicacy and ground his fingers in, deep. She arched in her back in response, and his cock slipped easily down her throat. She gagged, but did not feel or notice it; she was thoroughly numb but for the sensations of her sexualness.
Her teeth nibbled along the length of his stroking shaft, and her lips applied and released pressure as though she knew where lay every nerve in the long, meaty shaft.
She wrapped her fingers around the cheeks of his tight, muscular buttocks, and took only an instant to gingerly locate the puckered ring of his anus. He gasped as she pressed against it with her fingertip, and redoubled her cocksucking efforts.
He felt his penis begin to burn, and he knew if he did not withdraw from her mouth, he would come there and he was too drunk to be good for just one shot in her mouth. He wanted all of her, and knew he would not be satisfied until his cock had been wrapped in the turgid folds of her tight pussy. His will was sapped, though, by the treatment she was giving him.
He mustered strength and pulled his cock away, and she bent her head forward to keep sucking until he had it pulled away far enough that she could no longer reach it.
She began to sit up to go after the meaty member, having grown used to his warm hardness between her lips, on her tongue. He turned her completely around on the bed, dragging her mostly with the fingers in her cunt. She sucked in air and held her breath until he had her in place, and then he roughly pushed her legs apart by the thighs, his hands placed just below the hairline of her lower pussy.
He fell on her. The quivering head of his cock found Lorraine's spread pussy lips as though a magnet drew it there, and he was inside her, tearing apart the walls of her cunt, pushing the pink curls of vaginal flesh aside as it dug its way to its maximum depth.
Once there, he lifted his ass and plunged again. Lorraine screamed, a piercing shriek and her nails raked his back, drawing four fine lines of beaded blood as her hands dragged along his skin.
The muscles in his body tightened as he reacted to the sharp knifelike pains. "Bitch," he said, but a smile was on his face, and he contracted the muscles in his buttocks when he thrust into her, and he felt his spongy cock head met resistance at the ceiling of her vaginal cavern.
She was lost in a wonderland of sensation, not even aware of who she was, or even that there was a world existing outside. All that existed was her burning cunt, and the penis that filled it.
He was bigger than she was; as he fucked her, his body covered her, but she had found hidden strength in her raging passion, and her jerking movements rocked him, and he almost slipped out of her once or twice despite the impressive length of his penis.
She did not await orgasm, for the entire experience was one long orgasm, or short climaxes heaped one atop the other. Yet when he came, long, gushing spurts of his viscous male sperm, her body tensed, then shook from an earthquake epicentered in her ecstatic clitoris.
The orgasm wound down, and Lorraine wound down with it. When the climax ended, she was asleep.