Chapter 10

For almost three days, Hamp wondered where Wiffie was. Twice he called the telephone number of the abortionist; there was no answer either time. The bastard probably rented or borrowed apartments by the day or week, and changed quarters after every job. He was on the verge of going to the police and telling all, in the hope that she could be found by the missing persons division. But he ended up deciding against it; there were too many risks involved, and the embarrassment would be awfully hard on Wiffie.

Finally, thank God, she called.

"Where are you?" he asked anxiously. He was worried about her, though at the time he felt relief at hearing her voice at last.

"I'm staying with a friend," Wiffie answered. She sounded weary.

"Where? Give me the address and I'll come over and get you."

"No. I'll meet you. At the Forty-second Street Library at five o'clock, if that's all right with you."

"I'll leave work early. And Wiffie...."

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

"We'll talk about it later." she told him goodbye, and hung up, and Hamp was left with two and a half hours to spend in worrying and wondering where she'd had been for the past two and a half days.

They talked over supper, in a cafeteria several blocks west of the library. Wiffie described her experience briefly, shuddering as she came to the worst parts of her ordeal. Hamp had to pump her for some of the details, and at one point, when she was describing the anal attack, she broke down and cried.

An hour and a half later, she said that she felt tired and wanted to return to her friend's apartment. Hamp offered to accompany her, but she shook her head. "I'd rather go alone," she told him flatly, and she got up to leave. They kissed goodbye, perfunctorily; it was as though Wiffie was still afraid of physical contact, thanks to the horror of her experience. Could it be that she felt Hamp was somehow to blame?

When Wiffie caught the eastbound bus on 42nd Street, Hamp hailed a taxi and instructed the driver to follow. At Lexington Avenue, she got off the bus and descended the subway stairs. Hamp waited a few moments and followed, careful not to let her see that he was tailing her. He waited in the shadows at the far end of the platform; when the train came, he got on and walked up through the cars, peering through the window before entering each car, until he located Wiffie's

They got off at 14th Street, and Hamp continued to follow Wiffie as she walked south until she reached Seventh, where she turned and headed east, with Hamp not far behind. He saw her enter a tenement; he double-timed it to the entrance and went up the stairs one flight behind her so she'd think that it was one of the other tenants entering the building. He saw her knock, then enter an apartment on the third floor.

When Hamp knocked on the door of the apartment, he found himself confronted by a sensitive-looking man in his mid-twenties who was garbed in a sweatshirt stained with dirt and paint.

"Who the hell are you?" Hamp asked in a suspicious tone.

"I could ask you the same thing," the man replied. "Do I know you?"

"Apparently not." Abruptly, Hamp pushed the door open the rest of the way and stared inside. Wiffie wasn't in sight.

"Look, I don't know who you're looking for, but you've come to the wrong place. I think you'd better scoot along." The painter's tone was threatening, and Hamp felt an angry thumping in his temples as the man tried to close the door on him.

Suddenly there was the sound of an old-fashioned toilet being flushed; a moment later, Wiffie walked into Hamp's field of vision.

"Wiffie!"

"Hamp!"

"Do you two know each other?" The painter looked at each in turn, and smiled uncomfortably. "Hey, why didn't you say you were a friend? Come on in." He beckoned Hamp inside and closed the door, and Hamp let himself be ushered to a camp stool, where he sat down.

Peter and Wiffie sat on the floor, and Wiffie handled the introductions. She explained to Peter that Hamp was her boy friend from FBCC, and was still a dear and trusted friend. Then she told Hamp how Peter had befriended her and cared for her during the period of shock and pain that followed her ordeal at the hands of the abortionist. "I don't know what would have happened to me if Peter hadn't been so close by and ready to help." she said. "I was so frightened and stunned by it all-"

"And she was bleeding, too," Peter broke in, "All over. From her mouth.. .even from her cunt!"

"How do you know?" Hamp stiffened.

"Don't be silly, Hamp," Wiffie said. "He took care of me. I couldn't eat or take a bath on my own until just before I called you."

The conversation was cordially grim after that, and at eleven o'clock Hamp suggested to Wiffie that he'd better take her home.

"This is where I live now," she said as gently as she could. "I.. .I can't go back to the Home. I'm not pregnant any more, and anyway they'd want to know where I've been."

"You could tell them and let them call the police."

"I don't want to get the police involved," Wiffie insisted, shaking her head. "It would be too embarrassing. Besides, I just want to forget it all. Please let me forget, Hamp." She looked at him with pleading eyes.

In due time it was agreed that Hamp would move in with Peter and Wiffie, since he couldn't bear the thought of the artist and Wiffie being alone together in the same apartment night after night. While Hamp took a cab to his apartment to gather up his things, Peter visited the crash pad upstairs to borrow a pair of sleeping bags. At twelve-thirty in the morning, Wiffie went to sleep on the apartment's only bed, while Hamp and Peter lay uncomfortably in the thin bags on the hard, cold floor.

While Hamp was at work the next day, Peter asked Wiffie if he could do a painting.

"I don't know if I should," she answered. "You know; with Hamp living here now...."

"He's at the office all day," Peter countered. "Come on, let me paint you."

"Well, all right." She undressed quickly, except for her panties, and sat on a stool. Peter suggested that she remove the underpants to avoid getting paint on them, and Wiffie took them off. "But please don't paint me there," she reminded him. "It still hurts a little. Maybe you should stay above my waist."

"Sure, if that's the way you want it." He mixed his paints, and after a few minutes he began to daub Wiffie's shoulders with washable Day-Glo green. He painted silently for a while, and Wiffie was equally quiet, slumping forward slightly and closing her eyes. When she opened them several minutes later, her gaze fell on the fly of Peter's trousers and she saw the huge bulge there.

"Peter...."

"Yes?"

"You're stiff, aren't you?"

He didn't answer for a moment, then sighed and replied in the affirmative. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that you're so lovely and I get so excited when I paint you."

"It's all right." Wiffie closed her eyes again, and when she opened the bulge was still there. She reached out and touched it lightly; Peter gasped, and almost dropped his brush.

"You'd better be careful," he warned her. "You get me so turned on when you do that. And you don't want me to get too fired up, do you? Not with your being all sore down there."

"I don't know." She smiled and touched his cloth-covered penis once more. "You've been so good to me that I ought to do something for you in return."

Peter was breathing deeply, but did not reply. He continued to paint her, while Wiffie gazed at and occasionally caressed the bulge. Finally she grasped the zipper tab and pulled it down an inch.

Peter's legs stiffened. His breathing stopped for a moment, then resumed a shaky exhalation of air. "Be careful, Wiffie," he warned softly.

Slowly, she drew the zipper tab down the rest of the way. When the fly was completely open, she let her fingers move inside and slide through the opening in front of his boxer shorts. Her hand moved slightly to the right and settled on the quivering shaft of his tumescent, wood-like prick.

"Does it help when I do this?" Wiffie asked, moving a finger up and pressing the organ's underside just beneath the head.

"It...." Peter didn't finish; he merely gulped and drew in a deep breath.

"I mean, is it nice?" She continued to toy with the organ, letting her index and middle fingers curl around it while her thumb began to spread the prick's slimy secretions down from the tip to the sensitive area just below the rim. Peter's hips swayed toward her. He let his paints and brush drop to the floor, and with both hands free, he gripped her on either side of her skull. Wiffie pressed her face against the front of his trousers, then moved it to the open fly and buried her nose in his sweaty pubic hair. She took a deep whiff of his musky loins, then withdrew her face and gazed up at his smiling lips and closed eyes.

"You've been kind to me, Peter," she said softly.

She pulled his penis to the opening in the shorts and let it spring free. The cock stared her in the face, erect and swollen to its full eight and a half inches of length.

Wiffie continued her caresses with her right hand, she smeared its secretions all along the underside and sought out its areas of greatest sensitivity, while with the finger of her left she felt his testicles, and marveled at their size. like small hen's eggs, they were; large and full, and willing to be gently squeezed through the hair-strewn, leathery, wrinkled skin of his now-tightening scrotum. Her fingers let go of his balls and drifted back between his legs, playing on the perineal ridge behind the sac, then sliding farther back until they reached the junction of his buttocks. There were little curly hairs all along the path her fingers took. She stroked him gently there, tickling the perineal area with her left hand while squeezing and caressing his mighty prick with the right. Peter tightened the muscles of his buttocks and leaned toward her, gripping her head tightly, his fingers entwined in her hair.

Wiffie let the fingers of her left hand push back and inward till they reached the tight-muscled opening of Peter's ass. He spread his legs slightly, and she let her middle finger press in as far as it could, till it was on the verge of squeezing through the hole.

Suddenly, she remembered her recent rectal rape, and the memory caused her body to stiffen with revulsion. She withdrew her finger from Peter's anus and apologized softly, her face burning with guilt and shame.

"It's all right," Peter croaked, opening his legs still wider. "Put your hand back. Please."

Wiffie moved to obey, relieved by his interest and apparent pleasure. In a spurt of inspiration, she applied saliva to her finger before she put it back, then pushed it past the perineum to the anal cavity, and in one fast motion, all the way up. Peter rose on tiptoe and moaned deeply, then let his heels settle back to the floor and began to tighten his rectal muscles in a steady, unrelenting rhythm.

Wiffie's mouth drifted to Peter's penis and took it in, sucking with a fast, wet motion, letting her tongue lather it with saliva. She pressed her teeth ever so gently into the hardened spongy flesh of the shaft.

Peter groaned; he thrust his cock deeper into her mouth, as deep as he could make it go, and Wiffie responded by pulling back, at the same time sucking even harder, so that she was squeezing the cock tightly with her teeth and tongue when her lips reached the ridge beneath the knobby head. She pushed forward again just as he shoved forward a second time, and as she felt his hot, creamy liquid spurt into her throat, she moved her finger around in his anus. His muscles tightened around the finger, gripping it firmly, then relaxed as his ejaculation passed its peak and his penis began to lose rigidity.

Wiffie removed her finger and patted his behind. She let his cock fall from her mouth; it dribbled saliva and semen onto her thighs as she pressed her face to his groin. She sighed with the pleasure of giving him pleasure, and smiled as she felt his fingers begin to stroke the back of her neck.

She let him lift her from the stool and carry her to the bed. She lay relaxed, with a smile on her face, as he opened her legs and began, cautiously, to lick and caress her clitoris and inner lips, which swelled and opened to welcome his tongue while her love juices filled the air with sweet perfume.

In time she felt the tingling of her cunt give way to throbs of passion, and she shook with the sweet waves of pleasure which began to sweep over her, radiating from the whirlpool of her contracting vagina and suffusing her body with an excitement of such intensity that she could hardly stand it.

Afterward, she lay close to Peter, her hand resting lightly on his penis and her face snuggled into his neck. Later he scrubbed the paint from her body and together they changed the sheets.