Chapter 11
Upstairs a bedroom battle was raging. Donna's sultry expression had changed to one of furious hate. "I suppose you deny that you and that... that... slut!... of a cousin of yours had sex?"
"I don't deny it," Rod said calmly. "Do you deny that my cousin Jejune and you...?" His words were shut off as Donna angrily threw the contents of her cocktail glass into his face.
Rod suddenly reared back and slapped her so hard that she fell onto the bed. She lay there, shoulders shaking, weeping disconsolately. "Oh God," she moaned, "what did I ever do to deserve being married into a family of incestuous, rutting animals like you Morgans?"
"I don't know," he replied coldly, "but this much is certain: it was a hell of a lucky day for you. I give you all the cock you need, and Jejune gives you all the love you need." He laughed sarcastically, "To top it all off, now you've got Sue."
"And what am I supposed to get from her?" Donna asked, still face down weeping on the bed and clenching and unclenching her fists in frustration.
Rod thought about it. Finally, in answering, his thoughtful tone of voice made his wife look up in surprise, "I'm really not sure. She has a greater capacity for sexual things than you, Jejune, or even myself." Then feeling shame for losing his temper with her, he knelt alongside his wife on the bed. "Look, sweets. I'm sorry I hit you. It was an automatic reflex. But I've told you before, don't throw things at me, and don't strike me." He lifted her long dark hair and kissed the nape of her neck.
Mollified somewhat at receiving attention, Donna sniffed a couple of times. Then her natural bitchiness took over. "How was she?"
Rod was silent for a moment, then said simply, "She's a Morgan."
"Oh, God!"
"Yes, and I'm afraid that now I've found her -or better yet, now that she's found me-I'm afraid that we're just going to have to get used to more occasional company."
"I suppose she's married to someone like that beast Kirk DeLapp?"
"Kirk does have his points."
"Yes, and they're all at the top of his head. He's turned into a flaming faggot during these last five years. Can't you understand that? A queer!" She shuddered in revulsion, as the leering face of the sadistic forty-five-year-old engineer came to mind.
"Yeh. I know. Jejune and I were discussing him. She's going to let him go soon."
"Thank God." Then angrily she looked up. "Do you and your cousin discuss everything? Will the two of you have a seminar when it comes time to get rid of me?"
Rod patted her shoulder reassuringly. "No, darling. We both love you. We both desire you. I'm afraid we're both hopelessly stuck on you... in spite of your being a bitch at times."
Donna sniffed again. She simply couldn't understand why she put up with such inhuman treatment. Here she was, a graduate of the best finishing school in the United States, a member of Mensa, the genius-high I.Q. organization, and all of the right social clubs, and with a figure that had been compared favorably with Raquel Welch. Why... why she could have almost any man she wanted. All she had to do was cock her little finger and they'd come crawling on bloody hands and knees just to kiss the hem of her gown. All except Rod! It was a familiar argument she was having with herself, and she already knew how it would turn out. She was a captive of the two Morgans-a love captive- and she would fight to the death if anyone tried to take her away from either Jejune or Rod.
Rod cupped her chin in his hand and turned her face toward him. "Now listen, sweet. We're going to keep Sue here for a few days. Get on the phone, call the Lodge, and tell her husband to come here. Ask him to bring along enough clothes for the both of them to last three days. I want them here during the storm." He glanced at his watch. "He should be down from the slopes by now. Call him now."
Now the anger had returned to her voice. "And I suppose I am to share my bed with him?"
"Not unless you so desire, my pet." He grinned maliciously. "After all, you haven't put out for Kirk except once or twice."
"And it will be a cold day in hell before I ever do again."
Rod laughed good-naturedly. "I'm leaving the evening completely in your hands. Menu, entertainment, topics of conversation. Everything."
"Everything?"
Rod stared at her speculatively for a moment and then warned, "No tricks."
"Not even a discussion on games people like us play?"
Rod pondered it a second, then a wide grin split his face, "Why not? It should be interesting."
"You know, of course, that Kirk will crucify her husband."
"Cent la guerre."
"Every man-woman-for himself?"
"Of course," he laughed, and then Donna's laughter had joined with his. Of the two, hers sounded the most diabolical. And, abruptly, Donna's good nature returned. It was, she thought, going to be an entertaining evening, and none of them would ever forget it... if she had her way.
John had presented absolutely no problems at all. In a way he was glad of the invitation, mainly because he knew if he stuck around the Lodge very long that he was bound to get into trouble. There was more loose and obviously willing pussy around the ski area than he ever would have believed possible. It was simply fantastic! And extremely dangerous, of course. It simply wouldn't do to have Sue discover him making the pitch to a palpitating little collegiate cunt.
He hadn't been quite sure of what to pack, but he finally struggled through and tossed in two of Sue's sexiest nightgowns, a handful of her underclothes, and another pair of ski pants. The woman Donna-God, she had sounded rich and sexy over the phone!-had told him there was no need to bring dress clothes as they all practically lived in ski outfits.
There had even been a uniformed chauffeur sent for him, which caused his eyebrows to raise in appreciation. When the Spanish driver, Manuel, pointed out the chalet standing atop the hill, with the lowering clouds scudding over it, John's lips had puckered in a soundless whistle. There was money in the family, no doubt about that.
As he stepped out of the car, a sudden gust of wind blew dry, icy particles into his face. He brushed his hand across his eyes. When he looked toward the chalet again, the breath went right out of his body, just as if someone had kicked him in the groin. For one gut-aching split second he was sure the woman standing there must be Raquel Welch, but then on closer inspection he realized his mistake. He saw her eyes widen in what seemed to be approval as he came up the steps. God, what a delectable piece of ass, he thought.
When she spoke, her voice sent tingles up and down the length of his spine, the sensation coming to rest in his suddenly tightening scrotum. "You must be John," she said huskily. "I'm Donna Morgan. Welcome." She held out her hand, and John discovered that she had a grip as strong as most males.
He tried not to make his inspection of her too obvious, but it was hard to make his eyes behave. Her breasts-easily as large and as firm as Sue's-were braless beneath a thin white nylon shirt. He could actually see the brown areolas of the nipples. The rest of her figure was barely hidden by the ski pants which were so tight that it showed the cleft of her ass.
Docilely, he followed her into the front room. Behind him he heard Manuel clattering upstairs with his luggage.
Four people were lounging in front of a fireplace that was easily eight feet high. All were drinking.
"Darling!" Sue called out and put her cocktail glass down and ran to meet him. She threw her arms about him with what seemed to him to be an extraordinary display of public affection. She kissed him warmly, and abruptly all of his sensitivities were telling him that something was wrong. There was a subtle difference about his wife. He couldn't quite make it out, but there definitely was something strange about her. Finally he decided it must be the fact that she was with relatives.
Sue introduced him to her cousin Rod. John liked him; he recognized the type-playboy, rich and pampered probably, but really likable once you get to know them and are accepted in their circle.
"And this is cousin Jejune," Sue said, pulling him over toward the intense little brunette, who shook hands with him and said, "I am very pleased to meet you, John. Sue has told me so much about you."
Her statement brought a snort of derision from the fat, balding, pot-bellied, cigar-smoking, middle-aged man standing next to her. John caught Rod and Jejune's sudden narrowing of eyes, as if in warning.
Sue acted as if she hadn't heard anything. "Kirk, this is my husband, John Bigelow. John... Kirk Delnapp, Jejune's husband."
John held out his hand, but Kirk merely nodded his head curtly and said, "Hi. Welcome to Peyton Place-West."
Donna stepped between them. "What will you have to drink, John?" She stood so close that her breasts were brushing his sweater.
John glanced around to see what the others were drinking. It looked like a mixed bag, he thought. "Any Scotch?"
"Of course," Donna purred. "Come on... with me."
He followed her across the room to a long mahogany bar, complete with about a dozen black padded leather bar stools. "Any favorite brand?" she asked.
He smiled at her, once again fighting to keep his eyes off those beguiling tits. "House brand is okay with me."
"Fine. Royal Salute-Chivas-twenty-one year-old malt Scotch. Anything with it?"
John shook his head. "It would be a sin to mix anything with that." He found his disobedient eyes had fallen again on her breasts. When he looked up, he found she was smiling in amusement, almost as if she were acknowledging his tribute to her mammaries, almost as if he and she were sharing some secret that no one else knew about.
Donna had tried for almost an hour to get everyone out of the front room and in to dinner. Kirk obviously was well on his way to a nasty drunk; Jejune had confided to her that his two little boy friends had committed a gross act of betrayal by allowing Kirk to perform fellatio on them and then they had taken off just as he was preparing to bugger them. Unhappily, they had departed with his wallet containing about three hundred dollars in cash. Jejune had thought it hilarious; Donna merely felt it was just what he deserved.
Even Rod was getting drunk, and that was unusual. Ordinarily he did a very good job of holding his liquor. Donna finally decided that the weather was making everyone drink more than was good for them. "Thank God," she said to herself, "for Maria's good nature. A lot of cooks would just walk off the job if they had to hold dinner for over an hour while the guests got smashed."
Even Donna was feeling the effects of her booze. It must have been that, she decided, or she wouldn't have jumped up on the long banquet table in front of the fireplace and yelled, "Addling! Dinner is served. And I mean now! The bar is closed."
"What's wrong with her?" Kirk snarled.
"I guess it's time to eat," Rod answered, and then held out his arm for Sue. "May I, cousin?" Sue dimpled, made a parody of a curtsy and almost fell on her face. The effects of prolonged love-making with Rod, the strenuous skiing, Jejune's little performance, were taking their toll of her equilibrium.
Donna finally got them seated in the dining room and dinner was served by a coldly polite Maria. Rod raised his eyebrows at Donna in sympathy. The Spanish cook would be surly for a day or two before returning to normal.
Midway through dinner, with four bottles of rare vintage wine already consumed, people, including Donna, simply stopped eating and began drinking. A sudden gust of wind caused a storm shutter to slam with the noise of a gunshot, but no one jumped.
They gabbed and chortled and laughed about everything. Donna abruptly became aware that both Rod and Kirk were talking much too loudly, that Sue seemed to be far too intently interested in what they were saying. A malicious grin crossed her face. Sue obviously was finding something disconcerting and Donna knew what was disturbing her: both Kirk and Rod had their hands out of sight. Sue was being finger-fucked. Jejune's eyes glowed across the table at her, carrying a warning. Donna really didn't care. To hell with them all, she thought. Her plans for the evening were rapidly going astray, but that, too, was all right because when it came time to strip the shaky facades from these hypocrites, it would be just that much easier. She knew she was drinking too much herself; that was the only excuse she could offer for what she did next. John's hand had tentatively brushed her knee. She merely grabbed it and pulled it into her crotch. She almost laughed at the amazed look on his face. Almost immediately he began rubbing his middle-finger against her cunt. She purred deep in her throat. And that was the way the next twenty minutes went-loud talk that fooled no one- hands under the table... hypocrisy and more alcohol.
Outside, as though a thousand demons were attempting to join the party, the wind shrieked and howled. The demons went unheard, even though they banged and pounded at shutters...