Chapter 4
The Chicago skies turned thick with forecasts come true. White powdery flakes danced from darkened skies, skipping freely to earth in celebration of the first covering of the frost-bitten ground. Porch lights flicked on from house to house. Children whooped with joy, and some burned a log or two and snuggled up with lovers in expectation of a love-filled winter.
One man did not.
Jack Turner rolled over on the cold sofa and yanked the afghan to cover his chilled body. A dull throb above his right temple warned him precaution against one climactic hangover must be taken.
Wearily, he rose to his feet and padded nakedly toward the bathroom. Strange none of the lights were on in the house; Sherrie was a great one for running up the electrical bill.
Throwing down a couple of ten grain aspirin, he nudged his curly head between the basin and faucet and choked down the bitter tablets with a lap of the tongue. He raked his fingers through the mop of brown curls and closing the medicine cabinet, stared at himself in the mirror for an uncomfortable moment. Craning his neck, he examined the worry lines etched recently from the gouges of ill luck. Jack scratched his genitals, belched a bubble of beer and flicked off the light.
No emotions, no thoughts littered his mind. He felt nothing, remembered nothing. Negation: the best defense against self-denigration. It worked for a while.
A strange sense of foreboding struck him the instant his fingers touched the light switch; the threatening sensation of intrusion upon one's private domain made his heart quicken.
His eyes flashed about the bedroom, his psyche searching for the missing element. The bureau drawer had been carelessly left open with half its contents draped over the edge. So, too, the closet doors, yanked open wide to the end where Sherrie stored the luggage.
The luggage!
"Oh, shit. . . " He groaned and dashed toward the kitchen.
The cement step leading to the garage was freezing under his bare feet, but Jack didn't feel it. He flicked on the light. No car.
Jack collapsed on the closest kitchen chair to collect his thoughts. A vague memory of fighting with his wife sluiced through the clouds of his mind . . . and some ugliness.
"Oh, Christ!" he mumbled, slapping himself on the forehead. I raped her in the ass! My own wife.
Ah, hell, he reasoned, shooing away guilt and a thousand other negatives he hadn't the mental stamina to deal with.
Sherrie doesn't have the strength to go it on her own, he rationalized, slipping between the cold, empty sheets and reaching toward the lamp switch. She's probably bawling on her fucking father's shoulder about what an asshole she married. Wait until she learns the truth about her daddy dear, she'll find out who she should have trusted!
"Come in before you let in all the cold."
Sherrie heard the voice before she saw the woman it belonged to. The woman who greeted her at the door of the Crackerbox was hardly properly attired for a Sunday morning in God's country. Blood-red fingertips thrust shut the door behind the shivering stranger who, turning defensively at the finalizing bang, swung around to stare into dark, liquid eyes. A rakish, accusative glance took in the classic elegance of Sherrie Turner.
Hennaed hair the color of burnished autumn leaves was pulled back severely from a heart-shaped face. A coal black satin gown draped her mature buxom body; a tie belt accentuated the rich swell of her hips and waist. Thick smears of cherry red lipstick drew tight lines about her taut lips and something diabolical, almost mystical, sparked in her depthless eyes.
"I didn't hear your car drive up," she queried under arched eyebrows. "What can I help you with?" She stood firmly in front of Sherrie, as if deliberately blocking off views of the rustically decorated rooms beyond.
A cheek burning warmth from the stone fireplace visible over the black shimmer of the other's shoulder, should have warned Sherrie, and yet a biting chill centered at the nape of her neck lingered.
"I . . . I took the bus," answered Sherrie in a small voice.
Eyebrows on the powdered, roughed face arched higher. 'The bus. . . ? "
"Yes, from Chicago. . . that's where I saw your ad in the newspaper." Sherrie shrugged her shoulders, forcing a relaxed pose. "You do still have work available, I hope?" Beneath her heaving breasts, Sherrie's heart pattered anxiously. "Gosh. . . " and here green eyes rolled over the A-frame beamed ceiling. "This looks like a great place to work . . . I love the quiet of the countryside after living in Chicago."
A warm hand slipped into Sherrie's cold one. "We always have work for the right people, my dear." Myra noted the travel weary lines about the wide green eyes; instantly her own fell to the stranger's hand to look for the ominous sparkle that too often brought trouble.
"Have you eaten. . . ? " She paused, bit the fleshiness of her painted bottom lip, and cracked a rouged grin. "How rude of me, my name is Myra and I help Mr. Southworth take care of the establishment. He'll be along shortly to interview you, but until then . . . how about resting in a private room for a bit. A hot bath maybe, and breakfast?" She spread her ring-laden hands expensively, spreading the placket of her satin wrap-around gown. Sherrie's eyes could not help but settle on the Grand Canyon cleavage inches away.
"That would be lovely. I am a bit tired."
"Good. I'll have Anna send you up breakfast on a tray . . . and please, take a hot bath to ward away a chill. These northern woods can be terribly unfriendly if one's prone to pneumonia."
Sherrie sensed a cryptic message behind the tone of voice, but travel weary, famished and anxious to rest alone in a bed, she tripped after the blossoming hips swaggering up the steps. Myra's ring-heavy hand slipped along the banister until, at the landing which opened onto an L-shaped hallway, she plucked a key chain from the wall.
"Your room will be at the end of the hall," she announced with a finality that startled Sherrie.
What about the interview. . . ? And where were the guests?
The key slipped easily into the lock and with a quick twist, the door creaked open. The empty smell of dampness stung Sherrie's nostrils and the room wore the abandoned appearance of a never-used wedding dress: a dismal, depressive aura of disappointment.
"I hope you will be comfortable here." Myra clasped her hands in a sacrilegious prayer-like pose and swung the key chain from her little finger. Her depthless eyes studied intently the expression of the other's placid features. "Anna will bring up your breakfast shortly.
Drink the tea, it will be good for you. We don't want you getting ill first thing, now do we?"
Wearily, Sherrie set her overnight case on the bed and thanking the woman for her kindness, collapsed on the bed for a moment and stared up at the ceiling. Many miles and many hours had separated her from Jack Turner. She cared not to think about that and contented herself with counting the cobwebs on the A-frame beams overhead. Then, with a groaning sigh, she pulled herself off the bed and prepared a warm, sudsy bath.
Not until she lay supine in the bathtub with suds lapping at her dimpled chin, did Sherrie's thoughts make a quick U-turn for Chicago. And it hurt.
A flood of tears squeezed out of the corners of her tired eyes. A stabbing pain jabbed at her heart, pain not for herself, but for her father. Imagine how he'll feel when he finds out I've run away from Jack. . . . Dimpled chin trembled, creating sad little waves in the water. Jack's always tried to pit me against my fit her, always tried to belittle Daddy's generosity. . . just because he feels inferior to father. That's it, he's insecure about money, about his job, about his masculinity which is why he. . .
Abruptly, Sherrie shot upward in the tub, the melonous swells of her breasts floating like water balloons. Cocking her head to the side, she preened her ears for a strange noise emanating from the other side of the wall. A shrill cry like that of a hungry baby . . . or a woman crying? Occasional yelps peppered the hapless chorus of unhappiness. Now who could that be-and why were they crying?
Crawling noiselessly out of the bathtub, Sherrie wrapped herself in a long white towel and pressed her ear to the wall. Was her brain playing games with her weary senses, or was there a second voice? By the time Anna knocked on the door, she was standing in a puddle of soapy water.
Hardly decent, was it, to answer the door in a towel? Frantically, Sherrie fumbled through her overnight case in search of a robe to cover her creamy nudity. Fruitless. Padding barefoot to the door, she apologized through the wooden plank:
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but I don't have a robe to put on. Give me time to crawl under the covers, okay?"
A grumbled affirmative sounded through the door and by the time Sherrie had dashed for the bed and yanked the chilling sheet up to her dimpled chin, shivering with cold, the door opened onto a peasant-looking woman with graying hair pulled back into a tight pug. A lifeless pallor, ghost-like and indicative of weariness with life, stared her in the face.
"H-hello. I'm sorry to greet you like this," giggled the naked woman nervously, filling the uncomfortable silence. ". . .I forgot to bring a robe. Stupid of me."
A corner of Anna's taut mouth twitched. Low heeled shoes scuffed across the worn carpet to the bedstand; Sherrie noticed the limp in the woman's walk. Without a glance at the shivering, dimpled nudity offering gummy thanks for the flap jacks, bacon, eggs and tea, the veritable image of gloom turned on her heel, closed the door and locked it.
Locked it!
The tea cup rattled in Sherrie's hand. Her eyes flew to the door. Gulping down the mouthful of tea, she dashed nakedly for the door and rattled the knob. Locked! Now why would anybody want to lock her inside? There had to be another key. There has to! Of course. Her heart stilled. In the dresser.. .
She darted to the single dresser sitting flush to the wall. Trembling hands rattled open each warped, empty drawer and nervous fingers explored the dusty depths for the metallic feel to freedom. With a yelp of desperation, Sherrie's fist flew to her mouth.
No key!
Heart thundering in her chest, she threw herself in bed and cupping the warming teacup in shaking palms, forced herself to sip the herbal concoction. At least I won't get sick if I drink this bitter stuff, she rationalized.
Outside the window the howling winds whipped white powder accumulating on the frozen earth. Sherrie's fluttering eyelids rested mesmerically on the flurry of whiteness until numbness crept from the fingertips curled about the warm tea cup, down to the polished pink of her toes. With a languid sigh, she set the cup on the untouched tray and curled under the covers and fell into shadeless depths of sleep.
A languid sigh bubbled from Sherrie's lax, drug-numbed lips, as slowly a fog shrouded her mind, allowing wisps of memory to shine through. She was at home in Chicago, snuggled up in bed on a cold November eve. Outside the wind howled; she snuggled deeper into the bed and rolled the luscious curves of her naked body over onto her back. One lithe leg pulled up, opening the forested vee of her loins.
Almost imperceptibly, the doorknob turned and, safely slipping the key back into her pocket, Myra stole stealthily into the chilling room at the end of the hall. The morning sun, blotted out by sheets of snow, struggled to burst through the window. A pale, timeless light gave the room neither shadow nor sunshine.
Myra's eyes fastened on the dimpled face, child-like lying in the four poster bed. What dollish features, she has. What porcelain perfection! Swirls of auburn hair spilled over the pillow slip. Apple cheeks dotted the alabaster cream of Sherrie's skin. Rosy lips had parted laxly, submissively.
Myra felt a tight congestion in the pit of her stomach. Fighting down the temptation to investigate further the luscious creaminess of drugged female flesh, she tiptoed over the worn carpet and snatched up Sherries handbag. Deft fingers examined every slip of paper: driver's license, credit cards, address book. Satisfied, she stuck the contents back into the alligator handbag and sifted through the contents of Sherrie Turner's overnight case. Besides an extra pair of panties, scented delicately and a lacey brassiere, nothing of incriminating importance was stuck in the zipped flaps.
Last year a policewoman decoy had tried to play cute and, like this doll, had answered the ad in the paper. After a cup of Anna's special 'Sleepy Time Tea', the little bitch, as Myra recalled vividly now, tried to take photographs. Ah, but they'd found the camera-but the police department never found Barbara Collins!
A tight smirk creased Myra's mature features. Satisfied with her investigation, she straightened, thrust back her shoulders and drew a deep breath.
Fingertips delicately plucked the blanket's corner and slowly, pulling it back, unveiled the perfection that was Sherrie Turner.
Ahhh. . . ! Myra's struggled to control herself from devouring the luscious feast. Her eyes lingered on the milky mounds of naked breasts, their puffy nipples peeking out from the still damp towel immodestly wrapped about her belly. A soft belly, bowled and cratered with the dimple of her navel, winked salaciously up at Myra. She licked her lips as her eyes traveled southward to the fleeced nest of Sherrie's juicy cunt.
AHHHH. . . ! Myra could not stifle a sigh of pleasure. Hovering over her prey, the older women bent her head and fastened her soft lips to one puffy nipple. Gently, babyishly, as only a woman can san, she sucked the strawberry tip to hardness, laving the succulent, milky flesh with the underside of her tongue.
"Ummm. . . . " Sherrie stirred in her drugged sleep and humming deep within her swan-like throat, moved her arm up over her head and arched her back. The melonous mound of female flesh mashed against the voracious mouth. Jack . . . Jack is sucking my breast. . . "Yes, yes, baby. . . " she muttered and rolled her head to the side in a spray of henna waves that swirled over her apple cheeks. The length of her curly eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings, and for a frightened moment, Myra released her lesbian sucking, awaiting deepened sleep to overcome her victim.
And it did. . .
Sherrie's sleek body heaved with deep slumber.
Myra unpeeled the damp towel from the luscious curves and positioned her head above the sweet-smelling forest of Sherrie's naked loins. For a long moment, the woman studied the swollen folds, her nostrils wafting with the aphrodisiac scent of another female's genitals. Blood-red fingertips, trembling with incipient joy, parted the pink petals of Sherrie's pussy.
"Unnngghhh. . . ! " Sherrie sucked in her breath. It felt cold down between her thighs . . . cold and hot at the same time. Her heart pounded in her bosomy chest and languidly, her slender thighs fell apart of their own volition. She arched her back, tilting her pelvis.
Ah, yon sweet beauty, Myra cogitated wickedly. You are a precious jewel! The perfume of Sherrie's pussy filled her with lust. How she longed to fasten her sucking lips to Sherrie's pussy and drink the nectar of her womb . . . but not yet.. . no not yet. I will have my turn with you , my sweet . . . don't you worry.
The congestion in the empty pit of Myra's belly cried for fulfillment and, hissing between clenched teeth, she silently fell to her knees beside the sleeping form. With her nose and lips a tongue's reach lay away from Sherrie's nubby clitoris, Myra slipped her free hand under the hem of her black satin gown to the hairy patch of her seeping naked loins and thrust two fingers into the warm fissure. With slow, sluicing noises, she fingered herself, cupping the pouting mound of her pussy with the heel of her hand. With rubbing motions, she stroked the oily nub of her clitoris until gorged with blood, she fucked her fingers higher and deeper up into her cunt. Faster, faster.. .
She closed her eyes and fought back moans of delight. Languidly opening her eyes again, she drew a deep breath, filling her senses with captive female flesh and envisioned the blood-red tips of her fingers dripping and oozing with sticky cuntal juices. Her womb cried for relief . . . and soon it came.
I'LL torrents. Myra rocked on her haunches, fucking her fingers like a man's cock into her belly while the delicious feast of slumbering female flesh slept on.
In her hazy state of consciousness, Sherrie experienced only a vague disappointment. Jack's face faded into mistiness and the coldness between her thighs warmed.
The key turned in the latch, a click as ominous as the cock of a gun. Somewhere in Sherrie's mind it registered, for she woke with a start and bolted for the door.