Chapter 4
"Hi, Mrs. Baker. I'm Bud Sloan. Mr. Hedling sent me to firm up costs and . . . " His eyes widened in surprise. "Well, I'll be darned! It's Trudy! Trudy Arnold. Remember me? I'm--"
"Of course, I remember you, Bud!" Trudy interrupted, pulling the door wide to welcome a face from the past. "You're Buddy Big Shot Sloan and why do you remember me? You were two years ahead of me and basketball captain and mister big shot in every way."
Grinning sheepishly at her happy accusation, he stepped into the foyer, then exuberantly flung his arms around her waist in an impetuous bear hug. "How do I remember? You're kidding. How does a long shot artist forget who cost him the pros?"
"I cost you? You didn't even know me." She broke the embrace.
"No? Who was the super stack with the long platinum and the short shorts cheerleading Section Twenty? Who was the Trudy who kept get-tin' in my line of vision when I was settin' up a shot and spinnin' my head."
"You're kidding!" Trudy eyed the six-foot-seven lankiness of the handsomer-than-ever Sloan. "Why didn't you ever even say 'Hi' to me then?"
"Shy," admitted Bud. "And don't forget that was ten years ago. I was twenty-one and my re-bound average was sliding; my free shots slid! Heck, you were already trouble enough without my saying a word."
"I'm sorry. Truly I am. I kept hopin' all season you'd speak. But I'm not sure I believe you one bit about spoiling your shots. Coffee?"
"Love it." He tucked the roll of blueprints under his arm and followed Trudy to the kitchen, studying her figure as she walked ahead. "I gotta say it one time. Ten years certainly have made the rear view better than ever."
She sniffed. "So, now I know you didn't know me. We always cheered with our backs to the crowd. You players saw our fronts, not our rears."
Bud chuckled softly as he took the offered cup. "That was the hell of it. Remember Frannie Johnson?"
"Our cheerleader captain."
"Well, she had the great idea for gettin' the crowd psyched for a win, turnin' you all face out to yell at the players . . . puttin' you in those skimpy costumes."
Trudy giggled. "It was Frannie's great idea. Show all your good points and the guys'll get points."
"All I know is the day the Knicks scouted me, you gals wore neat I'll ole nothings and I got all the points but the right ones." He smacked his fist in his palm in disgust at himself. "Think I racked up a total of thirteen against a season average of thirty-seven."
She was silent for a minute, pensive at the thought that ten years had passed since Bryan University days and her carefree single years. "And so you became an architect. Are you happy, Bud?"
"Not an architect yet. I'm getting there. I fooled around and learned drafting and estimating and kept up basketball to stay in shape."
And you did stay in shape, too, thought Trudy, letting the forgotten magnetism for a long ago hero take her again. She could see Bud Sloan, number 75, fleet, sleekly tapered from too wide shoulders to overlong legs. How-many times watching him play had Trudy wondered if he was overlong in another place!
"You're married." She glanced at his ring and felt the contempt in his almost imperceptible shrug. "Lots of kids?"
"Too many. Six."
"What's your wife's name?" She pushed from the breakfast bar stool to go for the coffee pot and felt his eyes on her tail again.
"Well . . . Frannie, I--"
"You married Frannie Johnson? I hadn't heard."
"Yeah. Sometimes I wonder if she has. She's gone mother of the world on me. Wants six more kids. Wants everything but marriage."
Trudy felt instant rapport with the one-time man of her dreams. Trying to ignore the tremor teasing her vagina, she reached for the blueprints at his elbow, shaking her head despairingly. "And I almost believed you about how I cost you the pros. All the time you were watching Frannie."
Bud slapped the side of his face in self-reproof. "No such thing! I was so darned shy, it was Frannie who made the overture and I didn't think you'd even ndtice the string bean with the pimples and the cowlick."
"Why are males so hard on themselves?" Trudy bent across the breakfast counter and scrutinized the drafting sketches of the wide dormer windows for the second floor. "Ohhh, I like. They're nice and long. C'mon, let's go look where we'll be putting them." She pushed him ahead of her to the service stairs that lead up from the kitchen. "Men aren't the only ones who enjoy rear view." She felt kittenishly like the cheer-leader of once upon a time at Bryan University.
Neither heard the shuffling sound in the passageway that paralleled the service stairwell and the upstairs hall. A nervous Mel had heard the distant drone of conversation but when he decided to make his exit and moved through the dark tunnel to the ground level, the voices were suddenly distinct and close. Without visibility and only stringy cobwebs to keep him company, the trespasser was stopped in his escape by the arrival of Bud and Trudy at the top of the stairs.
Immediately beside his position in the tunnel, he heard paper unroll and recognized the voice. It was that draftsman Sloan who Mel had himself shortly before he retired from practice and sold out to Hedling. What a hell of a twist!
"Where exactly would the cut for the window begin?" Trudy asked.
"Hmmmmmhh." Bud seemed preoccupied as he stood facing the outer wall of the hall, back to her. When he turned she thought she understood. Clear, dramatic bulge against the front of his slacks which the jacket failed to conceal. He was turned on. She shivered. She was turned on even more.
"Look, something's wrong. Least to my naked eye there is. I'd swear there was a false front on this hall." Bud turned to the inner wall, keeping his back to Trudy and obviously self-conscious about his arousal. "Do you have the original floor plan for your home?"
"Are you kidding? This house is 225 years old. I've seen the drawings though. They're in the safe deposit." She moved casually to his side and looked at the flushed face. "I can tell you how wide the original specifications say the hall should be." She caught his arm and hefted it to her shoulder. "Mister Big Shot Sloan's four-foot arm, right?"
"Right. Plus the other, plus the shoulders makes eleven feet. How wide's the hall supposed to be?"
Unexpectedly she twisted him right angles to the wall and grabbed the other arm, ignoring the drama at his crotch. "Should be nine feet. Hold your arms up, silly! See? It can't be even seven. There is a false hall wall!"
Hidden the passage's blackness, Mel Camp-bell shivered. His great secret tunnel was going to be discovered. Not daring to breathe, he listened intently.
"You've got a secret in this house," muttered Bud, dropping his arms self-consciously but having no way to turn way to hide his embarrassing bulge. "Think someone put in an escape route when it was built."
"I like secrets," murmured Trudy.
"Huh?"
"I like secrets," she repeated, stepping forward almost touching close to his rampant cock and unfolding the roll of blueprint. "Where do you sup-pose the secret goes?"
"Maybe here." It happened. very quickly. Bud's arm reached across the crinkling paper to point and Trudy's hand dropped under the blueprint to grope for his phallic bulge.
"I think it's nice for a house to have a secret, don't you, Bud?"
He felt her fingers tighten on the fierce flesh of his erection. She simply squeezed without saying a word and wild messages sizzled from her fist through his slacks, deep into his groin.
"I like houses with secret tunnels," Bud said when he could trust himself to speak. "Mind if I try to find yours?" His arm circled her waist.
"You better." Her fist relaxed its bold clasp of his stiffened penis and she sighed. "I've just had one secret almost answered for me and that's the truth."
"Tell me." He "turned her slowly, toward the bedroom as his fingers found the top button at the back of her blouse.
"Believe it or not it was Frannie who said 'Big feet means big pete.' She was right."
"My wife said that?" He slid the satin blouse from her shoulders, gawking down across the smooth perfection of flawless flesh, unblemished, just as trim as Bud had remembered. Hard not to compare Trudy with the way Frannie had let herself go.
Bud sensed the fact of crisis in the life of Trudy. He remembered her shyness. He knew her niceness wasn't dumped when she left Bryan University. Her brash mood covered something hurting way down under. The come-on could do a U-turn in seconds. Now or never time to act. Maybe even help.
He found the bra snaps, and as the last one sprang free, he stepped close to her back and circled her waist with his arms, stooping to clasp her tightly. "Always thought the Bryanettes should have been a topless cheerleading team." His hands cupped under the drama of her breasts.
"That would have really helped your scoring average." She danced away from his clasp and pirouetting lightly, lifted her arms high as she turned for his inspection. "Would this have helped?"
He gaped in light-headed excitement at the tempestuous breasts, hard-nippled, high flung, tantalizing in their invitation.
"Been only one score I'd have wanted!" he gasped, grabbing for her waist but catching the curve of her buttocks. Another fabulous part of her, thought Sloan, finding her miniskirt zipper and peeling it deftly from her hips.
She was oddly quiet for a moment as he held her, feeling the heat of his erection pulse through his slacks against her navel.
"I used to think about where you'd come on me when I'd watch you play," she said, moodily fiddling open his shirt and squirming a mild protest when his hands pulled her panties from her hips.
Seconds later he was naked before her and she before him. "You are far-out!" groaned a passion-possessed Sloan. "Trudy, there's lots more happenin' here than I know about, but lady, you gotta let me." He caught the girl fiercely around the waist and dragged her sizzling nudity hard against his bared penis. As she felt the horny hugeness of her-college idol grinding its demand, she wiggled tantalizingly against the cock to take him totally out of control with himself.
"Know what I used to wonder when I'd see you dancin' on the sidelines leading the cheering? I'd wonder how you'd feel dangling on the end of my sex, right while I played." His pelvis drove for-ward to leave no doubt of the part he meant.
Her arms scissored tightly around his hips. "Why not find out now? Betcha can't even walk me into the bedroom hanging on the end of you, like you say."
Behind the wall Mel felt a storm of envy. He'd been Trudy's neighbor more than five years and in less than five minutes the youngster he'd hired had her in his arms. Turning carefully, he inched along the dark tunnel toward what would soon be the perfect viewing point.
"Come here, cheerleader." Bud was flat on his back on the hall carpeting, arms extended. She stared at the stallion thrust of his cunt-frantic cock and wilted into his arms, letting him position her directly over his erection. He held her as if she was no weight at all.
It was a beautiful feeling of powerlessness to a yearning Trudy. After ten years she was in the arms of the guy she'd drooled over through her years of training as dental hygienist.
"Be no way to stop me, once you're a bug on a pin," he warned, his pupils dilating with frenzy as he held her extended arms length for maddening seconds.
"Oh, I hope not," she whispered, worming excitedly in his powerful grip. The impudence was on the tip of her tongue to tease him that he'd chickened out on her dare to do it walking, but she decided to keep silent. Their illicit play was too beautiful to make any fun over.
The knobby bluntness of a thunderhead prick cap pressed suddenly through her pussy flesh, stretching and distending the yielding labia with gentle firmness. The orgasm lightning took her savagely. Her clitoris, crushed by the impaling corona, was instantly in spasm, fluttering, tingling, and out of control as her vagina felt the cramming demand of the cock.
She came furiously, her body convulsing with the come. "Bud . . . Bud! Oh God, yes!" She arched against the delightful stuffing of her vagina and her animated breasts were proud and outspoken before Sloan's inflamed staring. Then the crest slowed and she began to rock slowly against the possessing prick still buried only half its length in her body. Bud forced upward to a sitting position and she locked against him, her cuddly femaleness his to do with as he willed. Trudy was a totally surrendered sex slave.
A hundred nights of dreaming after long ago basketball games, surged back to Sloan as he staggered to his feet, cupping powerful arms around her back to support her gently as he stood.
"Don't know how many times I wanted to score this way with you than with the damned baskets," he grunted when he was fully standing, spread-legged and arrogant. "Now you're going to feel how."
He was a brazen dominant male as he urged his willing victim into a deep bend, forcing her to drape away from his front and down his legs. Her calves tightened a snug scissors grip at the small of his back, and feeling the stud power that jammed her cunt tunnel with more penis than she ever believed she could take, Trudy let go and let it possess her.
His. hands tightened, demanding at the rounding of her hips and he was dragging her up-ward, filling more of her vagina as he took first steps. "No going down, no matter who wants to!" he gasped, stumbling as he reached the edge of the master bedroom and catching the door-frame just in time.
His darling burden of cock-maddened female dangled in a gentle pendulum, her body swinging slightly out from his legs as he caught himself. Long silver, tresses tumbled freely, dragging across the dark green wall-to-wall carpet as he moved.
That she was helplessly his needed no proving to an ecstatic Bud Sloan, fighting now to stave off his own coming. He gaped down at the straining wonder of the golden body . . . saw her hands leap to claw at her breasts as she hung from his cock, and Bud knew he was feeling a rapture not his before with Frannie or any female.
So was Mel Campbell at his post behind the camera. His head swam to the animal beauty of the scene he was catching at every swaying step. The athletic frame of his one-time employee locked to the sizzling succulence of Trudy. Her body, inverted from its point of joining to Sloan's, was a jungle-driven feline thing, breasts leaping, torso straining wildly against the sensation she was taking. Her yearning for more and still more of the horny barrel filling her vagina was plain from the want moans spilling from her lips. As if to help her end-over-end climaxing to even greater heights, she was strumming her nipples in passionate self-stimulation as her body welcomed her playmate deeper and still deeper.
At the edge of the bed Bud spun in a slow half turn, carrying his frenzied burden with him and meeting her orgasm with his own just as they spilled onto the crimson satin of the bedspread.
"Ohhh . . . yeses! Yes, you must!" squealed Trudy, feeling a rain shower of warm semen charging deep into her body. "Oh, Bud, fuck . . . fuck . . . FUCK MEE!"
A moment later ',they were coiled together in a snug bundle of spent male and female. Tender little after-spasms sent her gratitude rippling against Sloan's gut and he murmured gratitude in her ear.
"Wild!" he breathed when finally she lay curled in the hollowing of his arm, her lips warm and moist, a breath away from his cheek.
"There's very much of you," whispered Trudy, tilting her head to look up into his face. "Doesn't matter what angle, I'm always looking up if I want to see your eyes."
He grunted. "Here's one guy who looks up every time he thinks about you."
"You're sweet." But she wondered if he would respect her tonight when he thought about her later. All at once she realized it didn't really mat-ter to her any more.
"Hey, I thought of something. The guy who hired me back about three years ago was a fellow named Campbell. Melvin Campbell. He used to be part of your husband's development out here. You know him?"
Eavesdropping Campbell felt the sudden chill of how deep into trespassing he'd come. How fast he could be more than a casual inquiry with the wrong move.
"Mister Campbell? Of course I know him. He's our closest neighbor. He's sweet." Trudy sat up quickly as if to leave the bed, but a resurgent cock stiffened from its momentary softening and stopped her move.
Mel watched their sexual wildness unfold again, but this time, forgetting his camera; he acted out his own fantasy with the girl in the bed pumping in concert to their copulation thrusts. She had called him "sweet" and that was the first indication to Mel he was more than just a neighbor. He'd long wondered if his antics of voyeuring from his bedroom window ever had been seen, whether he or Ariadne had been tagged by Trudy as creep types. Now he knew. "Sweet" could have just as easily been "strange" or "weird," if she had other feelings. If Trudy was anything, she was honest. Honest to just exactly what she was feeling.
"Let's look at what we're going to have to do to make this house a nice mix of past and present."
They had dressed and now moved out of the bedroom and out of line of vision of a spent Melvin Campbell. He had had quite a day. Left the house as soon as Ariadne headed off for her bridge brunch, hurried to his madcap breaking into the Baker house on the side where he knew no neighbors could see. Then he'd set up camera, laid the half-dozen pillows in a snug nest in the passage's blackness and waited.
A wild phone exchange with one of her patients, frenzy with that lucky character Sloan now walking down the hall at her side, all had left Mel shot down. Twice he'd gotten it off and that had to be some kind of waste motion, with all that beautiful female only a few yards away while he masturbated.
"Get me my chance at her, by God," he growled under his breath, glowing in what he considered his greatest show of courage ever. He'd turned into a second story operator and with luck, it might even continue.
"So, we agree that's a false wall here." Bud Sloan's voice reached back from the hallway to a dismayed Campbell.
"Funny, but I don't think Jack has the slightest idea it's there."
"Then I can tell you he never grew up in this house, because any nosey kid would have figured out what most adults miss. Maybe I ought to get my claw hammer and peel open a strip. You might have bodies back there. Or . . . or maybe even buried loot."
"No. Let's not look today. Maybe later." Trudy's mind was leaping through a dozen possible reasons to keep the tunnel from Jack's knowledge. "Let's just show me where the dormers will go and how much of a guest room it'll make when we enlarge."
Relief surged through the dusty blackness of the passageway as Campbell listened to the decision not to break into his hiding place. Reprieve for the day, at least, but probably not for long. He sagged against the pillows to rest. It had been a traumatic day, but one-hell of a lot of fun for the bored retiree. Given a break sometime soon, he was going to take his own shot at the platinum bombshell of Baker estates.
He fiddled idly with his camera as the sounds of conversation faded from the second floor to the first. A while later he heard the sound of a car starting and shortly after the sound of another. That had to be one of his better breaks, thought Campbell, folding the tripod and waiting. Both of them gone. He was home free. If ever a man had a reason to keep after what he'd started, it was Mel Campbell, he gloated happily, making his way down the rickety planking of ancient timbers.
His access to the Baker mansion was better than the egress had been for the family that built the tunnel years before. It exited in a potato and apple storage underground halfway down the slope toward Baker Creek. What everybody else wrote off as a relic of civil defense days, Camp-bell's curiosity had shown to be something else. There, flush mounted with the cap rock granite at the back of the storage cellar, he'd found the narrow tunnel entry. From there it had been simple. In and out of the mansion at will. Just as long as that forgotten inner passage stayed forgotten.