Chapter 6
JOANNA KINSOLVING MOVED IN A DARK, BROODING trance for the next two days. There were times when she seriously considered going to her hotel window, throwing herself onto the pavement below. Physically sick, morally sick, thinking herself mentally imbalanced at those moments of lowest morale, she refused to talk to Aimee when she called, she was remote with her husband.
All of a sudden she was sick of Paris, she wanted to flee its depraved confines, she yearned with all her heart, for her safe, insular existence in Peoria, Illinois.
The most crushing thing about the cul-de-sac she now inhabited was the fact that she'd cut herself off from those who might have helped her rationalize at this so desperate time. She certainly couldn't confide in Mayo, tell him the rotten things she'd done. And since she wouldn't talk to Aimee De Fonseca, let her provide alibis, justification for that vile evening together, she had, to all intents and purposes, burned all her bridges behind her.
She could, as the cliche goes, only stew in her own juice. She could fret, pace the floor, drink too much, relive those ugly scenes endlessly. She could never, when Mayo questioned her sudden dissatisfaction with Paris, tell him the truth.
And since there were still slightly less than two weeks left of their stay in Paris-
She vowed never to step out of line again. If only she could be redelivered to their snug home in Illinois once more, if she could just crawl into her shell, become a dowdy, secure housewife again. If she could just coax
Mayo to let her have the babies she'd always yearned for-the babies he'd denied her, promised to conceive when they were more settled, when the rat race had slowed somewhat.
"When ... " his excuse had gone, "I'm well-fixed enough to give my kids all the things I was denied as a child."
Somehow she'd manage. She had to. It would be feeble enough hold on him. But it would be a hold.
And now, this afternoon of the second day following that most recent backsliding at the male bordello, just having refused a second pleading call from Aimee, her brain dull and weary, Joanna sat drinking again-martinis now-she fought away those disturbing memories.
The effect of those recollections undeniable, stronger than she might expect after this much time, she wished that Mayo was here. She would have loved to have lain in his arms, huddled to his strength. And perhaps, when her emotions overcame her, to have him make love to her in his dull, unimaginative way. Even that would be satisfactory now.
She drank faster, stared blankly into space, tried to quell the degenerate pictures that kept flickering before her mind's eye. Pictures of those men at that house-those beautiful, massive animals-pictures of the things they did to those little women. Her pulse raced, that eternal heat mounted deep inside her. Now she went further, let her mind rebuild an image of herself looking through that peephole, seeing Aimee and the man named Antonio, seeing them locked in that deviate's knot again.
And where her stubborn refusal of the man named Auguste usually seemed the only redeeming feature of that night, she was, at this moment, guiltily regretful she hadn't accepted him. Even as she fought the thoughts, hated herself for them, she wished she'd let him confer that love he'd so glowingly-and vulgarly-described.
She shook her head, drank harder. She seized upon any excuse, no matter how feeble. God knows Mayo was no good to her that night. Drunk, reeking of perfume, he'd fallen into bed, hadn't even spoken to her.
Nor had he approached her with even the slightest love overtures since.
What's happening to me? she raged inwardly. That I should be so dissolute, so weak? What was this aboriginal city done to me?
Why can't I be consistent? Why am I hating those things one moment, glorying in memory of them the next? Why do I burn inside, why do I ache? Am I becoming a nymphomaniac? Am I really and truly going insane?
It was at that moment-Johanna having showered an hour ago, dressed now in just her flimsy negligee-that her robe drifted away from her hips, exposed her naked, glowing body there. The oblique October sun caught in those golden threads of herself, strangely excited her.
The sexual urgency undeniable all at once, she finished her drink, dropped the glass to the carpet.
And commencing something she'd never done before, she let her hands completely undo her negligee sash, she began to finger her own nipples. Shortly, partially reclined on the chaise lounge, she let her timid fingers wander downward on her body.
Forgive me, Mayo, she thought maudlinly as that first electrifying pain began, forgive me. I'm sorry I'm so bad, that I'm not the chaste, pure, restrained woman you want. I'm sorry, I'm-
But brief moments later she wasn't sorry. She wasn't sorry at all.
Mayo Kinsolving arrived home at 6:10 that afternoon, found his wife on that same chaise, fast asleep, a small, happy smile on her face. Her negligee hung loosely about her, granted negligible modesty. He was irritated at first. Then, as he looked at his wife's lush, clean body, his mood changed. He suddenly found the lovely woman maddeningly desirable.
And moved by an overriding lust, he put down his briefcase, threw his hat aside. It has been a while now, he thought, Joanna had been acting strangely the past couple days. He sat gently on the edge of the chaise, leaned to kiss her slightly parted lips.
It was at that moment that Joanna awoke, saw her husband, was instantly assailed by guilt. If he even suspicioned her wanton behavior of an hour ago-And quickly, by way of smoke-screen: "Darling," she raised her arms to him, "I've been waiting for you." She kissed him hungrily. "Do you love me? Am I beautiful? Do you want me?"
She let her tongue dart into his mouth. "Mmmmm, lover. I'm getting that way. How about a quickie before dinner? Hurry, go shower. I've been waiting, thinking about you all afternoon. Mayo, baby, I burn inside."
Which was the truth. In that instant, torched by her wanton words and actions alone, she did want her husband. Even if only to dispel remembrance of her recent self-abuse and surrender. What did reasons matter? She wanted Mayo-a man. And now!
A strange thing happened to Mayo. Where, only seconds before, he'd wanted Joanna with a wrenching need, he was now repelled. He'd wanted to work his wife up gradually, seduce her, win this timid, reluctant treasure. But now, when she'd become so brazen, had reflected that hussy change dominating her so much of late-
This was all part of the weird ambivalence in Mayo's sexual nature. He couldn't explain the sudden repugnance and coldness any more than Joanna could. Something about the way she acted, seemingly wanted to consume him-
This wasn't the way a woman-a wife-should act.
He pulled away. "Just a kiss, baby. I'm not up to the whole bit right now. I'm beat. Later tonight, maybe."
The brusqueness of his rebuff cut Joanna deeply, sparked an enraged stubbornness deep in her psyche. "Please," she asked, controlling her fury. "Darling, just for me? Because I'm asking you? Because I've been sitting here thinking about you, wanting you all afternoon?" She let her fingers brush his front in hoyden invitation. "Don't be mean to me now."
Mayo frowned. "I don't know what's got into you lately."
Joanna purposely meant to shock him. "Maybe it's what hasn't got to me lately. C'mon, honey. Take me into the bedroom, give me a royal...."
"Stop that kind of talk this instant!" he grated, his eyes furious. "What is the matter with you?"
"Nothing's the matter with me. I'm a woman, possessed of a woman's needs." Venom coated her words. "A woman married to a prissy, old man. To a damned weirdo!"
"Watch what you're saying, Joanna. Unless you're looking for a split lip."
"Go ahead," she taunted. "Hit me, Mr. he-man. That's the way he-men act, isn't it? How come your cave man stuff doesn't carry into the bedroom? Then you come on like some timid twerp."
"Joanna," he gritted, his face florid with anger. "I'm warning you...."
"So warn me. Do we or don't we? I'm asking you a last time. Are you going to take me to bed, give me a real tumble? You going to prove you're a man?"
"I told you before. No. I'm tired, I'm not in the mood. Besides, we've got to get dressed. We're expected at the De Fonsecas' for dinner at eight."
"Maybe I don't want to go to dinner at the De Fonsecas'. Maybe I'm fed to the teeth with those two vultures."
"Knock that kind of talk off too. We've got a deal, remember? A deal that means everything to me, should mean as much to you."
"Deal, deal ... that's all you think about, all you've got time for. I ... your wife ... don't rate." Purposely she switched on the chaise, let the robe fall completely open, exposed herself from head to toe. Her nipples tingled, turned crinkly. "Even if we do go, there's still time. No finesse, Mayo. Just a quick jump." His face twisted in disgust. "I said stop that rotten talk!"
"You'd find time if it was Vicki asking you though, wouldn't you?" Joanna's rage finally boiled over. "You'd shuck out of those clothes so fast you'd singe the seams."
His face collapsed, he froze in place. His lips moved but no words came out. Then, finally: "Vicki? What'n hell are you talking about?"
"You know damned well what I'm talking about. I'm talking about all those chippy girl friends of yours. The ones who get the bonded stuff. While I get the watered down version. You think I don't know about those pigs of yours, you think I haven't heard you whimpering their names in your sleep? For all I know you've already found another tart in Paris already. How about that stag show the other night? Did you go without that night?" Her voice became an animalisic growl. "Just how stupid do you think I am?"
Mayo stood in numbed shock. His eyes darted, came to rest everywhere except on Joanna's face. "You're talking nonsense," he bluffed. "There are no other women, there never have been any. You're only imagining...."
"Stow it!" she spat. "I know, I tell you. As well as I know my own name. And I've put up with it, hoping that someday you'd change, that you'd let me be woman enough for you...."
"Don't start on that again. Don't act like a tramp!"
"No, I shouldn't. But those other sluts can. Did you ever think I might like some of that high-voltage stuff?"
The disgust in his expression became more pronounced. "Joanna! Stop this minute!"
"You know what's the matter with you, darling?" she grated. "You're sick. Sick to the core. You should find yourself a nice, friendly headshrinker."
He wheeled, headed toward the bathroom. "I'm not going to listen to any more of this crude talk."
"Mayo" she stopped him. "For the last time. Bedroom? Do I get mine? Yes or no?"
"I told you before, no! No, no, no!"
Joanna's words came slowly, deliberately. Each was a barb on a length of barbed-wire, the total being pulled with maddening pain through her heart. "All right. I'll remember that. For a long, long time, Mayo. Only don't forget. We're through. Don't ever come sniffing around me again. Don't ever try pawning off your sissy-boy seconds on me again...."
It was then that he slammed the door in her face.
Her eyes glazed with tears, she leaned forward, lurched up from the chaise. She rubbed the blindness away, headed for the bottle of gin, the cocktail mixer that sat atop the bookcase.
She was dull, woozy, when they arrived at the De Fon-secas' Faubourg-St. Germaine home. Mayo had caught her barely in time, had taken the remaining booze away from her, had sobered her as best he could, had made her get dressed, see their social commitment through.
A wall of solid ice easily fifteen feet thick, forty feet high had been built between them by the time they reached the De Fonseca front door. Neither spoke to the other, their glances were darting, furtive, malevolent.
The mood was instantly recognized by both Aimee and
Roul. They immediately exchanged greedy, conniving glances, pounced upon the rift, encouraged it, poured raw gasoline on its destructive flames.
"Martini," Joanna said, falling back heavily into her chair, eyeing Roul salaciously as he took their cocktail order. "I feel like tying a good one on tonight."
"Wonderful," Aimee chirped from across the room where she sat overly close to Mayo, her strategy instinctive, her knowledge of marital tiffs, the resulting hysteria, dictating her next move. "I think I'll join you. I've been blue all day too. We'll make this a real party."
"Joanna," Mayo warned softly.
The look she sent him would have bored holes in a battle-wagon's armor plate.
Aimee smiled, nodded guardedly at her husband.
They had three drinks each before the maid finally announced dinner. Roul hovering close to Joanna, attending her constantly, sympathizing, prying, giving the ingenue to understand that he was available should she be interested in some quiet revenge, he saw that she didn't drink too much. He had designs, he wanted to see that she would survive the long haul. He wanted her drunk, but not too drunk to function.
Joanna never noticed that her drinks were weak, she was flattered by the man's attention. A vengeful fire was ignited within her. If Mayo could play, if he could flirt, carry on with countless other women-
Why should she be left out?
While across the tete-a-tete corner Aimee used similar methods on Mayo. And if he noticed that his drinks were of a "catch-up" potency, he never let on.
The evening rolled on.
Dinner was dragged out, the food serving as oil on stormy waters, Roul De Fonseca masterminding every move perfectly, each wine, each cordial, the after-dinner drink acting as grease for the proverbial skids. Both he and Aimee paced themselves beautifully, watched with Machiavellian cunning.
After dinner the maids, the kitchen help was dismissed. The house was left to them alone. There was music, more conversation in the living room. And most important: More liquor-Scotch, a very mild and deadly cognac.
Things began to blur for Joanna about eleven. She seemingly lost track of great gobs of time, drifted in and out of touch with the group, she wondered how she'd got so loaded in so short a time.
Even more puzzling, she wondered if she imagined things, or was the room actually becoming progressively darker? Was someone putting out lamps when she wasn't looking?
There was a distinct feeling of separation. She was on this side of the room with Roul, Mayo was with Aimee on the other wall. She felt almost smothered by Roul's persistent attentions, his smiles, his accidental touches.
But were they so accidental? Once she snapped up from a dazed drifting to find him gently, soothingly massaging the back of her neck and shoulders. Another time she swore she came awake to find Roul stroking her nyloned legs, she had strong impression that he'd had his skillful, soft fingers up under her skirt.
And then, losing complete track of things-
"No, please ... " she murmured softly as she broke away from Roul, realized that she'd been permitting a prolonged, searching kiss . "Don't ... I ... we shouldn't...."
She wondered at his mocking, small smile, at the shift of his eyes. Her glance followed his and she stared stupidly, her mouth agape, saw Mayo and Aimee wrapped up in a writhing knot on the davenport across, their mouths locked, their heads twisting, pressuring, both oblivious to the presence of their mates.
She turned back, her expression frantic, baffled, a howling rage growing in her heart and mind. She saw Roul's cynical shrug, his "When-in-Rome" smirk.
Now, when he drew her into his arms, she surrendered quickly, eagerly. Her breath came fast, she felt a torturing heat in her nipples, in her loins. Suddenly her knees were trembling, she pressed her thighs hotly together to quell the wildness, to control her limbs.
Her heart raced, an evil hand twisted her guts as Roul's mouth closed, devoured, ground into hers. She whimpered deep inside when his tongue dove into her mouth, when the hard-pointed member began to swirl, fence with her own.
Her conscience heeled over hard, was instantly devoured by hungry waves, went down without a ripple. A humming began in her ears. Then she giggled, felt a primordial wickedness as she drove her tongue to Roul's, as she purposely, greedily worked her breasts into his chest.
The heat ballooned in her, bloated her, virtually melted her. She sighed, clung to Roul, welded her lips to his as he lifted her from the davenport, began carrying her up the sumptuous, winding stairs.
The things that happened to Joanna after that, within the dimly-lit boundaries of that exquisite bedroom, were understandably vague. The excesses she wantonly gave herself to were glorious in one light, depraved in another.
She remembered laying on that bed waiting for Roul to return with the bottle of cognac, the two glasses. She remembered being propped with pillows, sipping more of the sense-robbing liquor, all the while watching Roul undress in preening show before her. She was reminded of another such show she'd recently witnessed.
Only Roul didn't quite compare with those specially recruited brutes.
But in retrospect-the consideration that the expert use one makes of his attributes is much more important than those attributes themselves.
Along these lines Roul was fantastically talented.
Joanna was to remember lying in that blissful torpor, not moving a muscle, watching Roul as he hovered over her, undressed her in that thrilling, beautiful way of his. The way she savored his touch, his words, his constant, deranging kisses. And though she wondered at the fetish-bound man's preoccupation with her lingerie-and was glad she'd worn something special, a red, lace-encrusted ensemble-she gloried in that adoration just the same.
"The rest?" she squeaked when he'd peeled her to her brassiere, panties, garter belt, stockings and heels.
"No, my darling," he hissed. "Not yet. Let me admire you, adore you. You're so beautiful ... your body is so young, firm, vibrant...."
His hands had roved over her breasts, over her tummy, his fingers had spread her thighs apart, had flitted over her there, had seemingly overturned a nest of hornets inside her. She had sighed, squirmed, had felt like she would explode at the snarling wildness bloating her.
But this had only been mild forestate of the hell-and paradise as well-that was yet to come.
For hours seemingly his lips had coursed up and down her silky legs, they had tantalized her feet, had flirted with her thighs and knees. She'd ached inside, her legs had jittered nonstop, she'd been possessed of the most primitive desires. Things she'd never yearned for in all her life.
Joanna was to recall the way he'd removed her undies one piece at a time, made a lengthy rite of each divestiture. She recalled the way he peppered her body with kisses, with caresses as each item came away. The way his lips tormented her nipples as the bra glided off her arms, the way he captured both tips simultaneously, actually made her whimper with ecstasy at the attention.
The stockings came next. Each was worked down in butterfly whisperings, her shoes were removed, put aside) gently. Then his lips had careened across her velvety flesh, the sensation even more unhinging then. He had turned her on the bed, had kissed the backs of her legs, had roved up and down her spine.
But the worst-or the best-still waited. For as he peeled off her panties, undid her scarlet garter belt, arranged her, totally nude now, on the sheets-she was again reminded of that circus performance she and Aimee had witnessed. He-was going to-do-those same things-to her
She made feeble attempt to dissuade him, to hold his head. But sexually aroused as she was by then, her body a quaking, spasming ball of fire, she had little heart for impeding him. Especially when his lips began to swirl on her tummy, when they carved searing trails along her hips, down her thighs. Quick puffs of desire broke from her, she instinctively brought up her knees in twin spires, she let them slowly topple in unmistakable welcome.
And when she felt that first touch of his fingers, that preparation-when she knew that first hot, torrid kiss, that tentative flicking-
She began to moan like a wounded animal.
"My God, my God ... " she choked. "Darling, darling. You shouldn't ... we shouldn't...."
"Shall I stop?" he taunted, pausing momentarily, his brief desertion panicking Joanna.
"No, no ... " she wailed, her hands reaching for him, trying to bring him back, "never stop, never, never...."
But there was a time to stop. For then, Joanna, driven to a mindless limbo by alcohol, by sense of revenge against her husband, by the spine-kinking thing Roul was slavishly doing to her, could endure no more of that awesome adoration. She would go out of her mind, she would babble like an idiot if he-didn't stop soon!
Roul, master lover that he was, sensed as much. And content that he'd brought Joanna to a sublime peak, that further preheating was wasted effort, he broke away from her, righted himself on the bed. "Baby," he seethed, "my exquisite, beautiful baby. Here. Here I am. Yes, like that. like this. Yes. Oh, you precious angel...."
Joanna had gasped, had taloned her nails into his back, had clamped and wound her legs as he'd come to her. She'd growled in primitive rapture as she'd harbored him completely. Almost immediately her body had commenced to bob and writhe and sway. She'd done the things she'd longed to do all her life, And, inhibition routed, a female animal beside herself, beyond conscience now, she'd exhorted him to love her, to use her, to thrill her. She'd used language she'd never known she knew. She told him in plain, direct words just what to do, she described her sensations, her delight with his presence vaingloriously, shrilly.
His reactions liquor-dulled, his age a contributing factor, he worked over Joanna for what seemed an eternity. Not that she was complaining. The liquor taking opposite effect on her, making her that much more wild, she prayed that this transfiguring love would last forever. Seemingly the heavens kept exploding behind her eyelids, great shattering super-novas that blinded her, left her momentarily debilitated and stricken.
There were explosions elsewhere, and she pursued them avidly, proudly announced each, counted them off loudly. She gathered each fireball, strung it on a golden thread.
She compared this man to her feckless husband, she found this ecstasy surpassed anything she'd ever known before. And where with Mayo she was lucky to seize one or two releases at best. With this glorious lovemaster-
"Six," she'd chanted.
Then: "Seven."
Then: "More, please more ... Never stop. Go for ten." She'd encouraged, screamed, cursed, cajoled.
Even twelve wasn't enough. "A baker's dozen," she'd groaned in drunken transport. "Be unlucky for me. Be lucky." Luck became altered somehow then.
And she was cheated. Scream and squirm though she might. Roul had climbed his mountain, was starting down now.
While in the room across the hall, Aimee's room:
"Yes, Mayo," she was wheedling. "Do that. If you want Aimee. You have to love her there. Go ahead, you won't find that so terrible."
Mayo, drunk, wild with lust, fought her. But she was too strong for him. And finally. "All right, damn you!" he growled.
He began.
"Good boy, my good little boy," she whined. "Oh, chert. Magnifique, tres magnifique! More, more...."
And shortly she was wrestling with his body. "Together, mon amoureux," she gritted. "Let me reward you. Yes, yes." Her words came in garbled flow. "Like this, mon etalon vigoureux. Be still. Let me, let me...."
Mayo let her.
Paris, City of Light?
Or-
Paris, City of Satanic Darkness?