Chapter 3
"They're all bitches, all of them," said Burt Conroy. "It's just that some of them got better bodies than others."
The bartender nodded. Like most of the men around the camp, he had mixed feelings about Burt Conroy. For one thing, Burt tried too hard to be one of the boys. And his success with the women, in spite of his vicious treatment of them, made everyone jealous.
But Burt had money, lots of it, and he spent it freely. The bartender figured that he took in three dollars for each of the innumerable whisky sours that Burt drank. Since all Burt did was drink and screw, the bartender made a lot of money on him. He found himself wishing idly that he got three dollars every time Burt screwed a woman.
Burt felt better now, with a few drinks under his belt. He was the only son of the owner of prosperous company that made zippers and other fasteners, and he had learned easily that his father, who doted on him, could be wheedled out of practically anything. As a result, Burt had great quantities of possessions. He had a beach house at Malibu, a cabin at Mammoth, a Lincoln Continental for going to the theater, a BMW for motorcycle touring, and a Harley Davidson Sportster for sitting on down at the beach, waiting to find a girl that he could take for a ride.
None of his possessions satisfied him. Almost as' soon as he got them he stopped using them and felt a profound letdown to find himself again discontented, again restless. It was all his father's fault for making everything too easy for him, and his mother's for being a bitch like all the other women in his life.
So he did a lot of drinking and a lot of screwing, moving from one woman to the next just as often as the woman he was with fell hopelessly in love with him. That way he could hurt her when he left. He had done this often, and the experience had always satisfied him. A few times he had even fallen in love himself, but things hadn't worked out. As the girl became interested in him - it always happened that way, always - he once again gained control, and then he was in a position to hurt her, to leave her suddenly, to dismiss her.
And they always suffered the way they had to suffer, the way they made him suffer.
He noticed suddenly that Shirley Wilson, a stunning redhead with full breasts, had hunched up onto a barstool at the other end of the bar and was not looking at him. She was making herself available; it was obvious. Her skirt was hiked up so that he could see the creamy flesh just below the panties. Burt grinned to himself. Shirley would wait for a while, then, when he didn't approach her, would approach him. They would fuck all evening, and drink till dawn. Then he would spurn her.
Why can't everything happen the way I want it to, he thought plaintively to himself. I'm talented, I'm good at my job. I'm a hell of a good salesman.
In this Burt Conroy was right. He was not a clever man, even if he himself thought so, but.
he was of a breed of men whose narrow insistence on their own way, whose eager pursuit of their goals, makes them successful where brighter, more talented men would fail. Burt made thirty thousand a year as a salesman of his father's products, and it wasn't merely his father's weakness that kept him working: He had a kind of buoyant friendliness, a genial manner that made it hard to resist him, for men and women alike. And his personal presence was almost hypnotizing. He had no close friends, but countless acquaintances, most of whom thought that he was actually an executive in his father's company, rather than a mere salesman. And that was something else he had against his father.
He noticed that Shirley kept looking over in his direction. Smiling to himself, he hunched over his drink and ignored her, keeping his face expressionless, neutral, for he knew from countless sessions in front of his bathroom mirror that he looked best when he neither smiled nor frowned, but looked abstracted, thoughtful.
Time dragged on slowly. Shirley would be another half hour, maybe even an hour, making her approach, but it had to be that way. And anyway, Burt had to figure out why it was that he kept thinking of the same thing. Why it was that he kept thinking of that stupid bitch, that child, this afternoon.
Ellie Brighton. He said her name to himself. Ellie Brighton. She had arrived alone for her vacation, probably not knowing that the girls outnumbered the men two to one at the camp.
Now it was just a matter of time before she got hot pants for him and he rolled her in the hay, out at the pony corral, or took her down and fucked her good up at Spindler Creek.
Because that act this afternoon hadn't fooled him even for a moment. He could see that she was in heat: sloppy thighs, a naked body, a hungry look on her face. It all added up to one more good fuck, and maybe even a virgin this time. He liked that. He liked that real good. He liked to settle his cock in the virgin thighs of a young girl, saying soothing things, and then, with a sudden jolt, blast it deep inside the girl, slicing through her cunt, opening it up, making her bleed a little. Then the girl would be his, just as long as he still wanted her.
He noticed Doc Reynolds at the other end of the bar, and suddenly he had an idea. Doc Reynolds, fifty-five years old, was a psychiatrist who had a prosperous practice in Glendale and who came to the camp each year to relax. During the year, occupied by his practice, he did not drink at all, but on his vacation he did little but drink and talk to the young, pretty girls about their problems. And eat hard-boiled eggs at the bar. He would hold up a dime for the bartender to see. The bartender would bring him an egg, and then Doc would bang it once on the bar, crunching the shell, and then, in his melancholy way, roll it back and forth until the shell was broken all the way around. Then, peering at it closely, he would pick off the pieces of shell methodically and finally hold the naked egg in his hand and stare at it for a moment before reaching for his knife and cutting slices from the egg. Each slice he would salt and pepper carefully before eating. In between eggs he would drink a martini. Then another egg, another martini, and so forth. Doc Reynolds knew all about Ellie, because Burt had seen them talking to each other the last few days.
He moved down the bar. Doc Reynolds was holding up a dime and looking at the bartender. Burt clapped him on the shoulder. "How are you, Doc?" he said. At the other end of the bar Shirley was hiking her dress up just a bit.
"Can't complain."
The bartender fetched an egg for Doc Reynolds.
"You been making time with the girls, Doc?"
It was the wrong thing to say, and Burt realized it when Doc Reynolds turned to him and looked at him steadily for a moment before turning back to the egg in his hand. He examined it for defects.
"Ah, I know. Just kidding, Doc. I guess they get a lot of free advice out of you, don't they?"
Doc Reynolds smacked the egg on the bar a little harder than usual. "I guess so," he said.
"That Shirley's sure some looker," said Burt. He glanced back at Shirley. The hem of her panties was now visible. They were blue.
Doc Reynolds rolled the egg on the bar. Crunch crunch crunch.
"Say," said Burt, suddenly disconcerted. "You know Ellie Brighton, don't you?"
The crunching sound ceased. Doc Reynolds looked at Burt closely. "Yeah, I know her.
She's a nice girl, Ellie is."
"Uh huh. What's she talk about with you?"
"A psychiatrist, my dear Mr. Conroy, is not. at liberty to discuss his patients' problems."
"Yeah, well, she's not really your patient, is she? And anyway, I was just wondering what kinds of things she likes, what kind of girl she is." He glanced back out of the corner of his eye and noticed that Shirley had a petulant look, and that a full two inches of the blue panties were now visible.
Doc Reynolds flaked away a bit of eggshell before answering.
"Not your kind, Mr. Conroy," he said finally. He flaked away a large piece of eggshell.
Burt Conroy turned red. He sat there for a moment feeling the blood rush to his face, trying to think of a snappy answer, angry at this insulting rebuff. This old jackass could talk to him like this! He wanted to mash that egg right into his eye. Because he knew what the doc was saying, that the doc was commenting on his way of life, criticizing it. How he wished that he could hit him! How unfair it was that he had to take this kind of contemptuous remarks in his stride!
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, trying to get the doc to say something really insulting. Then he could maybe pinch his arm, or spill his drink on him - he thought furiously about ways he could get back at him.
The Doc had peeled the egg. Naked, it lay in his hand as he peered at it. It was quite perfect, and he picked up his knife after a moment, sliced off one slice, and salted it. Then he peppered it and put it in his mouth before answering. "I mean", he said, as he chewed methodically, "that Ellie is a good girl. She deserves a good man." He paused and sliced off another piece from the egg. "And by a good man I don't mean a degenerate who rapes thirteen-year-old girls and brags of having buggered his mother and beats women and in every way tries to hurt the people around him. I don't mean a fat and sassy fellow who's thirty years old and acts like a fourteen-year-old. I don't mean somebody whose idea of a successful life is lying and cheating and hurting people; whose idea of sex is whipping and kicking and buggering; and whose idea of friendship is slapping a man on the back until he gets what he wants, and then stabbing him in the back when he gets the chance. I don't mean - "
"Stop -!" Burt's voice was hoarse. He was trembling and clenching his fists. "Stop, goddamn it! I'll get you for this, you bastard!" He was shaking and his face was hot; tears formed in his eyes, tears of anger, of violence. It was so unfair - that this old fart could speak to him, Burt Conroy, like this!
"And that," said Doc Reynolds, slicing off a piece of the egg with a sudden, vicious movement, "is why I wouldn't tell you or anyone like you a goddamn thing about Ellie. Or about anybody else. Bartender!"
"I'll get you for this, you son of a bitch, I'll get you, you just wait. It won't be long, either.
And I'll get that bitch of yours, I'll take her down and do things to her you never even heard about. You're going to wish you never said a thing to me, not a goddamn thing!"
"Another martini," said Doc Reynolds to the mystified bartender.
"I'll get you for this, I swear to God I will." Burt took hold of Doc's arm, held it tight. He was going to pinch him, to make him yelp, but at that moment they were interrupted. "Doc, Burt, how are things?"
It was Mike Taylor. He looked at them inquiringly.
"Can't complain," said Doc. He took the martini carefully from the bartender. "Can't complain, now that Jimmy's learned how to make a martini. A lot of gin, just a hint of vermouth, and a piece of lemon peel twisted over it."
"Aw, Doc," said the bartender. Burt Conroy stood there with his eyes bulging and his fists clenched. Mike watched both of them, puzzled.
"But he sure do know how to boil| an egg right," said Doc.
"Come on, Doc."
"And if I could only teach him to keep the damn olives to himself. Never did like olives.
And you figure, a bottle of them olives costs about fifty cents, and let's say there's - what?
- twenty, thirty olives in a bottle? That's over a penny a piece for the olive alone. And that's why a martini costs so damn much."
Burt Conroy turned and walked toward Shirley at the other end of the bar. He was walking slightly unsteadily and had a forced grin on his face as he thought about how he would fuck her.
The next day he and Shirley were in a meadow some twenty miles' away from the camp.
Burt had brought his Sportster to the camp in a trailer, and he had ridden it up to the meadow over a dirt road, skidding around the corners and taking the straightaways at high speeds. Shirley had clung to him, shrieking, half with pleasure, half with anxiety. Burt enjoyed the throbbing, irregular beat of the Sportster; he enjoyed being seated on it, leaning back and feeling a thousand cubic centimeters of power throbbing beneath him.
He enjoyed having a woman clutch him fearfully as he cracked the throttle and listened to the sobbing, howling beast underneath him. He felt powerful, invulnerable. His thoughts turned to sex; he thought of Ellie, of her lovely face, of her sinuous body, and he imagined himself naked, above her, spewing out a stream of milky semen on top of her while she and Liz fought. And he thought of Doc Reynolds. Whenever he thought of Doc Reynolds he gave a sudden jerk on the throttle, involuntarily, and the motorcycle jumped forward viciously.
Then they were at the meadow. Thick grass grew there, lush and soft, and a tiny stream ran through the middle of the meadow, with a few brook trout that darted under rocks when you approached. He took Shirley to the far end of the meadow. No one would disturb them there, for scarcely anyone even knew where the meadow was.
"I guess you've made love to a lot of girls, Burt, haven't you?"
Burt said nothing.
"I'm not that kind of girl, though. I mean the kind that does it with just anybody. I have to respect a man before - "
"Cut the shit, sweetheart."
"I beg your - "
"I said cut the shit. You and me both know why we came up here. We came up here to fuck, to play the two-backed beast. You and me both know your snatch is bubbling right this minute. We both know you've been hot to hop for as long as you've been here, waiting for your chance. And I'm going to give it to you, right now."
He reached out and touched her breast. She recoiled, gasping.
"Burt," she said in a quavering voice. "I don't want it this way."
"Sure you do., honey. Sure you do. You want to feel that thing between your legs, bucking up into your cunt. You want to feel the juice boil out of it, feel your cunt squishing with the stuff." He touched her breast again. This time she pushed his hand away. "You want it the way all you bitches want it," he said, his voice low and tense. "You want to be taken hard, to be thumped until you're black and blue." He grabbed her breast hard. Sobbing, she tore herself loose from him and ran across the meadow. "Come on back, you bitch!" he screamed. "Come on back and I'll give you what you want!"
He ran to the motorcycle. Shirley was halfway across the meadow when he kicked down hard on the kick-starter and the engine throbbed into life. Gunning the engine, he kicked the machine into gear and let go the clutch. The motorcycle roared across the meadow. In a moment he had reached the girl, who turned, gasping, and then jumped sideways when Burt made no attempt to swerve. She landed hard on the ground, in the spongy grass.
Burt came around on the unwieldy machine, gunning the engine, his face contorted in a violent leer. This time Shirley ran blindly, not looking back. She just ran as hard as she could, and when Burt came up beside her she was hardly aware of what was happening.
He reached out and grabbed her blouse, then gunned the motorcycle. The blouse ripped away. Shirley, jerked off her feet, lay stunned on the ground, looking from side to side and blinking her eyes. Her long, lovely breasts bulged in her bra. One strap was over her shoulder; the breast hung half out. Burt pulled up on the motorcycle and watched her, thin-lipped, angry. He liked this; he liked it very much. He wondered what Doc Reynolds would say if he knew about it.
'Take off the bra."
"Burt, please. Please take me back, please." She begged, lying there on the ground. He wheeled the motorcycle toward her.
"Take it off. Take off the shorts, everything."
"Pleaseƒ_""
"Shut up! I didn't tell you to talk, I told you to take off your clothes. I meant now, and I'm not going to ask you again."
He thought of Doc Reynolds and imagined himself beating him. Doc Reynolds would find out about this and he wouldn't be able to do a goddamn thing about it. Not a thing.
Because it was just his word against Shirley's, and no juryƒ_" especially if there were women on itƒ_"would convict a man of rape when it was established that the woman had gone along with him, and when it was proven beyond a doubt that she had had intercourse with any number of other menƒ_" something Burt knew he could do because he had the money to do it.
He lifted the Sportster up on its kickstand. As he approached Shirley she was shaking her head dully, trying to speak. He grabbed hold of her bra, wrenched at it.
"No, Burt, please - " With a vicious jerk he broke the fasteners. Shirley's breasts rolled out, long and full and golden, slack like sacks of sugar, with large areolas and plump nipples. Burt stood there for a moment watching her, then he spoke again. "The shorts, bitch. Take them off. Now."
"No, Burt. I won't do it. You're no man. You're a cowardly, miserable excuse for a man.
You're sick, and you don't even know it. If Mike were here - " He hit her hard in the mouth. "Mike! You know what I'd do with Mike? I'd bugger him the way I'm going to bugger you, you bitch, you slut, you whore -!"
He yanked at the shorts. They came away in a moment. Naked, Shirley cowered in front of him. She watched him shrug off his shirt, then pull down his shorts. His cock, huge and tumid, was a deep reddish-purple in color, in the bright sun, and he milked it down with one hand while he pointed the other at her face.
"Now, bitch, you're going to taste this, you're going to suck me off and gag on my wad.
And then you're going to lick my cock all over, so you don't waste even a drop of the stuff."
"Burt - "
"Do it!"
By now he was all but incoherent. His face was red in the bright sun; his muscles were tight. He made a sudden feint at her and grinned coldly to see her cower away from him.
But still she made no move toward him; still she refused to do what he said.
Then something in him broke, something crucial to his -sanity. He began to beat her hard, to pound at her naked body while she lay there whimpering. He beat again and again on her buttocks, until they were red. He beat harder when he saw the fluff of red hair curling between her legs. Then he grabbed at it, jamming his thumb into her liquid vagina, and twisted brutally until she shrieked with pain.
"Stop, oh God, please don't do it any more. Please - " But Burt was thinking of Ellie. He remembered standing over her and Liz; remembered spurting forth a clot of jism that coiled and slopped over Ellie, over her hair, her shoulders, her breasts, while Liz grappled with her furiously. And the thought made the tense, quivering muscles of his penis contract.
Then the familiar feeling of readiness was there. Enraged, he came around on Shirley.
She was laying there motionless, either because she had fainted or because she thought that he would not hurt her if she didn't resist. He had only a moment before his cock would erupt, before the jism would spurt out. Grabbing her head, he forced the head of his pulsating cock between her lips. Her teeth were clenched. He held her lips apart and held his cock directly to her mouth, waiting for the eruption of hot jism.
Then it came. With a bursting, gushing rhythm the hot juice poured out. Shirley came to life. She gasped, opening her mouth, and the hot liquid spat into it. Gagging, she tried to escape, but Burt held her by the hair while his cock continued to pour forth a heavy load of slopping, boiling semen that soaked her face and ran in heavy lumps to the ground.
Finally he was finished. He sat on her for a few moments while his cock sagged briefly, then came to life again. Guiding it with one hand, he pushed it up against her anus.
Shirley still lay motionless. Burt began to rotate his cock slightly, from time to time dipping it down into the liquid secretions which, against her will, formed in her cunt. Then he would again plunge his heavy cock against Shirley's asshole and work it patiently into the stretching, narrow opening.
When he had most of the head in, he jammed it the rest of the way with a sudden humping forward of his hips. Shirley screamed.
"Playing possum, sweetheart?"
"Oh, God, Burt, it hurts, it hurts. Burt, for God's sake, I can't stand the pain. Take it out, please!"
He hunched forward on her, his cock slipping in easily now, past the tight sphincters.
"You like that, don't you, sweetheart? Don't you?"
"Burt, please. Please, I can't take any more. Oh!"
With a sudden, vicious thrust he had slammed his cock deep into her, and her startled reaction to the excruciating pain - she cried out and sobbed uncontrollably - excited him beyond endurance. The semen burst forth hot from his cock, bubbling up into her, in a rhythmic spouting that seemed as if it would never end.
He flopped back onto the grass. Shirley screamed once more when his cock pulled loose suddenly, then was silent. After a moment Burt got up and walked over to the stream, about a hundred yards away. He felt exhausted, yet triumphant. Out here in the meadow, where a cool breeze blew and dried the sweat on his body, it was so splendidly comfortable, so profoundly satisfying to fuck a woman out here, where you could smell the woods and the woman both, smell the pines and the musky, animal smell of a woman's sweat and a woman's cunt.
He squatted in the stream, washing himself off. It felt good to splash the cold water over himself. As exhausted as he was at the moment, he knew that within a few minutes he would be ready for another go at Shirley. It would be her mouth this time. He was too jaded, too bored, for any normal fucking, and he seldom even bothered to jam his large cock into a woman's cunt. A woman's mouth could do more things; a woman's asshole was tighter. And when, like Shirley, his woman was reluctant, he liked to give it to her both ways, to split her asshole first, then make her take his cock in her mouth and gag on the rich liquid that flowed from it.
He felt satisfied, squatting there in the stream making plans for Shirley. He felt satisfied right up to the moment when he heard the throbbing engine of the Sportster. Shirley had come down on the kick-starter with both feet - almost tipping the motorcycle over - and the engine came into life on that first kick. He looked up and saw her jump onto the bike. His reactions were slow, as if he couldn't figure out for a moment what she was trying to do.
He stared, standing there knee-deep in water. Then, bellowing loudly, he ran across the grassy surface toward the motorcycle. He heard the clunk of the gear-box as Shirley kicked it into gear, the roar of the engine as she yanked back on the throttle. Running hard, stumbling on hummocks of grass, he saw the motorcycle lurch out in front of , him at low speed. Shirley was low on it, clutching the handlebars, her knuckles tense. She glanced over her shoulder and jerked on the throttle. Something white fluttered from the handlebars of the Sportster.
Panting, sobbing with rage, he screamed at her.
"Goddamn it, I swear to God I'll kick your fucking ass inside out, you bitch!"
Then he saved his breath to run. He couldn't see what it was that was draped over the handlebars of the Sportster, only that it was white and fluttered in the breeze. Sobbing, he felt himself grow faint at the thought of being stranded out here, twenty miles from the camp, without shoes. He would have to walk back barefoot if he didn't catch her.
But Shirley was driving slow, obviously terrified of the huge motorcycle. Burt had shown her how it started, how it was thrown into gear, but he had not let her ride it herself, and now she had no idea of how to shift into the next gear. At that, on the grassy meadow it would not have been a very good idea, for the motorcycle was lurching heavily this way and that even in first gear, and Shirley was able to go just fast enough in first gear to keep well ahead of Burt.
He ran for a long time, his gaze fixed on the fluttering cloth that hung from the handlebars.
Realization was late in coming. Then he hollered, "My clothes! Goddamn it, you bitch, come back here! Come back here with my clothes! You bitch you bitch you bitch!"
Stumbling in the grass, he lay there, exhausted, and screamed at Shirley. The motorcycle reached the edge of the meadow and struggled up the grassy slope onto the road. Shirley looked back once before she steered the motorcycle around the bend, still in first gear.
Burt heard the throbbing sound of the motorcycle as he lay there in the grass, naked, his lungs hurting from his sprint across the meadow. He pounded his fist against a clump of grass, swearing at the top of his voice. Fantasies flickered in his mind; sudden visions of revenge came to him. His hands clenched involuntarily as he imagined himself smashing his fist into Shirley's face, slamming his knee into her ribs, seeing her breath explode as he beat her. He would kick her, whip her with a belt until the blood oozed from her lovely buttocks. He would "beat her and beat her and beat her. He would beat all the women who had scorned him. Shirley first. Shirley and - And Ellie. He remembered Ellie suddenly, that prissiness of hers, that good-girl act, and hated her the way he hated Shirley. But he would get back at them both.
He limped over to the road and started the long walk back. His hands clenched and unclenched as he thought of the two girls and how he would punish them. They would suffer for this.