Chapter 7
Sally had no idea how she found her way through the darkened house and into the cool air of the outdoors. She only knew that it was a relief after the horror of what she had experienced-the shock of seeing her own husband performing vile, lewd-and yes, perverted-acts with the young Danish au pair girl. A gentle wind blew across her face, and she wandered out across the lawn to the swimming pool. She sat on the edge of it for awhile, trying to force her mind to go blank. But it was no use; the sight of her own husband thrashing and bucking in his climax, as he spurted his seminal juices deep into that young girl's throat seemed graven indelibly on her tortured brain; the sound of his animal-like groaning assaulted her ears continually.
She felt, indeed, like a wounded animal, and a sharp stab of pain seemed to split her being, as a bolt of thunder splits the mighty oak in two. There were times, sitting there on the cold, impersonal tiles, when she wondered whether her life was still worth living, when she decided it wasn't, and when she-vowed to throw herself into the murky waters of the pool in front of her. Yet the last vestige of her inner strength restrained her. She had been hurt and humiliated, God knows, she had already born more than any one woman should have to bear in a lifetime. Yet the final humiliation of death at her own hand, the ignominy of suicide would have been the final disgrace. No, she would live.
But how? Where? Sally looked at the huge dark hulk of it, looming behind her, shuddering at the thought of her husband and the young blonde, their bodies still entwined in some lewd clasp of copulation, on the bed in the upstairs room. She would have to go somewhere. The faint blush of pink stretched across the eastern sky told her she would have to go soon. She rose to her feet, and began to circle the pool, cudgeling her brain, trying desperately to sort things out.
She grew a trifle cold, and hugged her thin cotton dress around her, and when she still shivered, she took refuge from the nipping wind in the shelter of the patio. She paced back and forth there, listening to her dull, plodding footsteps that seemed, incredibly, to come from far away. With a start, she realized she was in her stocking feet, and then she remembered that she had kicked her shoes off when she entered the house in such haste, remembered, with a bitter, mocking laugh, that she had thought Mike dead. "And Kirst, too," she told herself, with a wry grin.
She thought of creeping into the silent structure, climbing the stairs to gather up her highheeled pumps. She might even rummage around there for some of her own clothes. But her clothes were in that chamber of horrors, that evil enclave where life as she had known it had been destroyed. No, she decided, she would never return to the scene of her husband's lewd, blatant infidelity.
If not, then what could she do?"
She sat down heavily on a wicker chair, forcing herself to face some sort of reality. Well, first things first, she decided. And the first thing to do was to get away from here. So far, so good, she told herself, with a little tinge of pride at her inscrutable logic. Second thing? To decide how. She felt in her pocket and found the key to the car, as well as to the house, although she had no recollection of dropping them there. Fine! She would drive off into the night. As to where she would go, well, there would be time to decide that once she'd started. With a glance over her shoulder, she saw the moon still high-she had made her final decision. She would go now.
She picked her way across the lawn, caught her stocking on a rosebush, heard the sound of tearing nylon, felt the eerie tickle of a stocking popping, heard herself say "Damn" and then began to laugh hysterically at her concern over a run in her stocking when she had so much else to worry about. She was still laughing uncontrollably when she reached the car and opened the door.
Once inside, and in front of the steering wheel, she sternly admonished herself to stop such silliness. "Now is no time for nonsense," she said aloud, and then, nonsensically, began to repeat the words, turning them into a little tuneless song. The words floated on the air, and then Sally, with a sudden change of feeling, became serious again. She was in the car, now, she told herself. She must go somewhere. Where that would he was still impossible to decide. Nevertheless, with a determined sense of purpose, she started the car, drove forward a few yards, turned into a driveway, backed out and headed away from the house-"forever" she told herself.
At the corner, Sally stopped, wondering which way to go, shrugged indifferently and then spun the wheel to the right. When she found herself in the center of town, she speeded up the little car; no sense in being seen around here, at this time of night-or was it morning? Yet who would see her? The streets were deserted, the shops and offices dark and shuttered. Still, there was always the off-chance that someone would recognize her car, wonder about her. It was best to drive through as quickly as possible, ducking her head, too.
Beyond the town, and on the highway, a terrible feeling of drowsiness began to overcome her. It occurred to her that she'd gone without sleep for hours, days perhaps. And the terrible events of those days-Mona's accident, the shocking scene of Mike and their new au pair girl locked in a lewd, naked embrace that still seared her mind-weighed her down with unbearable fatigue. In spite of herself, she began to nod; she managed to keep her eyes open only by the greatest effort. She would have to get some sleep; that was all there was to it.
She thought of pulling up to the side of the road, but decided against it. What if she were discovered there? The thought came to her, then, of a motel, on the outskirts of the next town; she headed the car in that direction.
As Sally approached the Midway Motel, she saw that their sign was still lit, and that under it was the twinkling red neon which read "Vacancy." She breathed a sigh of relief. What if the place had been full?
But as she turned the car into the parking lot, her eyes swept over the others there, vaguely noting the license plates. All seemed to be from this county, or the neighboring one, and Sally realized, with a little shudder of revulsion, that few, if any, travelers slept behind the closed shutters, beyond the double-locked doors. Guests at the Midway Motel, she understood, were the straying businessmen of the local communities, out for a night on the town, catering to their carnal instincts, relishing the obscene word-fucking. The place was filled with a lot of dirty old men, screwing their secretaries. Just the way Mike had been screwing the au pair. Well, she certainly wasn't going to stay here!
With a screech of tires, a revving of the motor that she hoped would throw the fear of God into all the wicked creatures thrashing about beneath the heaving bucking bodies of equally evil creatures, Sally backed the car out and turned it down the highway again. She drove through the next town, which was small, and where she was afraid she was known, and on to the largest one in the valley, where she was less likely to be recognized. She stopped the car in front of the Larson Hotel first, with its dignified, imposing facade that might have been stodgy but proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the place was respectable. She sat in the car for a full five minutes, peering at the gray stones, the arched windows, the heavy oaken door. She'd come here several times with some of the friends she played bridge with every week. They'd only gone into the dining-room, but still, they'd had to walk through the ornate gilt lobby to get there. And might not some bellboy, some elevator operator lounging outside his empty car recognize her, even come over to say, with a bewildered expression, "Good evening, Mrs. Hole." No, Sally thought, she couldn't risk this place.
Then where, she asked herself, could she go? She thought of another hotel in town, less plush, but just as respectable, and decided against that, too. And then it occurred to her that there was still a third place, down near the railroad tracks, a grimy, almost ramshackle structure, with a couple of soiled leather chairs, seats split, springs sagging, for the few down-at-the-heels traveling salesmen, the vendors of cheap knicknacks who sometimes stayed there. Sally shuddered a little at the thought of spending the rest of the night there herself-what if there were fleas? or bedbugs? and yet she knew that she had to go somewhere, had to rest for a few hours. Her nerves were cracking, her body aching with fatigue. She had no other choice.
She drove through the narrow, rubbish-choked streets of the town's poorer quarters, found the hotel without difficulty, and parked her car in the lot behind the building. She noted with satisfaction that there were few others there. Anyway, she assured herself, no one she knew would be coming here; no one would recognize her car.
She stepped from the car and closed the door softly, furtively, feeling guilty, and a little afraid. She must look a sight, she told herself, clothes crumpled, probably grassstained, too. And she had no luggage! What if she were refused a room, what if the desk clerk became suspicious, seeing her like this, and called the police? What would she do then?
She was on the verge of tears again-she couldn't go on, she just couldn't-oh, dear God! why hadn't she thrown herself in the swimming pool as she'd wanted to?-and then she remembered that in some hotels you could just pay in advance, if you had no luggage. That way, no one questioned you, and when she glanced again at the squalid place she'd chosen, she was sure it would be all right. If only ... She checked her wallet. Yes, it would be all right. She had plenty of money to pay for a room, and money to buy a couple of drinks, too, or even a bottle of whisky to take to her room. Certainly they would have a bottle of whisky here, and she most certainly could use it.
She turned back to lock the car, and caught sight of her small overnight case wedged under the seat. How on earth had it gotten there? She couldn't remember putting it in the car, but, on the other hand, she couldn't remember that she'd even taken it out, when she'd gone to Mona's. Well, it didn't matter. It was there and it would certainly make things easier for her.
She opened the door, picked up the case, slammed the door and locked it. That she went into the hotel.
It was shabbier than it seemed from the outside, with walls caked with dirt, the floors seemingly unswept, the curtains tattered. But there was no other place for Sally to go-and anyway, she thought, I don't look so hot myself. She threw her shoulders back and smoothed her dress, and padded across the floor in her stocking feet-why hadn't she opened the overnight case? Maybe she had another pair of shoes in there. In any case, she told herself, beginning to giggle, it was too late to do anything about that. Better brazen the whole thing out.
At the desk, she put down her suitcase and cleared her throat to attract the attention of the young man slumped behind it. He gave a start and looked up, blinking at her behind his horn-rimmed glasses like a daytime owl, then shoved a registration form at her. Sally thought for a moment before signing it, then wrote in large clear handwriting, "Mrs. A. Fox, Bakersfield, Ca.," hoping there was an Bakersfield, Ca., hoping that the man wouldn't ask to see any credit cards, any driver's license. She felt a little giddy when he said, "I hope you'll like your room, Mrs. Fox," confident enough to say, "I wonder if I might get a drink around here. Oh, I know your bar is closed ... " she looked around, and saw, as she suspected, that there wasn't any, "but perhaps I could get a bottle."
"Sure can, Mrs. Fox," the clerk said. Just then he glanced down and noticed that she was shoeless.
Sally giggled. "My feet hurt so, you know. New shoes. You know what it's like. Blisters on my heels," she wheeled around, pointing towards her ankles. "Please excuse me." She opened her handbag, took out her wallet, withdrew a twenty dollar bill. "Blisters sometimes get infected, you know," she said. She felt the nervous tension rising within her again, knew that she would soon break down once more in hysterical giggles, knew that she had to-had to-get away-get upstairs, calm herself with quantities of Scotch if, hopefully, that was what the hotel would provide. The desk clerk disappeared; when he came back he had a bottle of Scotch-thank God, Sally breathed-in his hands. He handed it to her, as she gave him the money. He started to look for change, but Sally wiggled her head magnanimously at him, said, just as magnanimously, "Keep the change," and picked up the bottle in one hand, the overnight case in the other, and headed for the elevator. "I can find my way," she called back. "Don't worry about me."
"Oh, that's okay, Mrs. Fox," the clerk called after her. "You just get a good rest. And thanks," he said, waving the bill in his hands. "Thanks very much."
Sally found the room without too much trouble, opened the door and went in. It was pretty awful, she told herself. But it could have been worse. She put her case down and went into the bathroom. That was pretty bad, too. Still, there were fresh towels, a cake of soap, and when she turned the water faucet, plenty of hot water.
She found her toothbrush and brushed her teeth, passed a washcloth over her face, and then, without the energy to search through her small bag for her nightgown stripped to the skin and crawled between the sheets.
The bottle of Scotch stood on the night table beside the bed; Sally reached for it, twisted the top off, and poured a couple of fingers-Hell, she thought, that's a whole hand-into the tumbler she'd brought from the bathroom. She drank it quickly-it felt so good, so warm, so loving going down, poured herself another, then began to sip at it more slowly.
She leaned back against the pillow, not bothering to turn off the bedside light. The whisky made her perspire-it must be at least a hundred in here, she thought-and so she pulled the top sheet back and lay on the bed, reviewing everything that had happened in the past few hours.
She saw the whole sordid scene again-was it the hundredth time she had watched it in her mind?-that lewd, lascivious fucking of the young Danish girl, with Mike sprawled on top of her, sucking her insanely-or even worse, Mike's rigid cock plunging deep into Kirst's widely ovaled mouth as she sucked him. She gulped down the rest of the drink and poured herself another. Her head began to swim, which didn't seem strange, since it had been making a habit of doing that, but this time, Sally felt a queer sensation in her body, too, a warm, blissful tingle that spread, featherlike, throughout her, descended on little cat feet to her vagina below. As she saw again, in her mind's eye, and with unabated horror, the whole obscene picture she had witnessed such a short time before, as she saw her own husband, her own dear, devoted Mike ease his blood-gorged penis into the hungry, widely ovaled mouth of the young au pair girl, a twitch of excitement rippled through her own body. She felt drops of sticky fluid oozing from her own softly pulsating pussy, filtering through the gold silk of her pubic hair to trickle down between her thighs. A warm throbbing ache sent small waves of pleasure darting through her blood. They made the tiny bud of her clitoris tingle, and Sally, without realizing it, touched it, tentatively at first, and then began to stroke it deliberately.
At the desk, the night clerk scratched his head. "Well," he said to himself, "I've seen some real kooks in my time-some real weirdos-but boy, this one sure takes the cake." He scratched his head again, muttering "Blisters on my heels! No shoes, for God's sake, and she says she's got blisters on her heels." He pulled at his ear, wondering where she'd come from, what she was doing here. "Not bad looking," was the next thought that crossed his mind, and then it occurred to him that she had been well-dressed-except, of course, that her clothes were as mussed as if she'd been sleeping in them. "Probably has," he told himself. But where?
The thought began to gnaw at him, like an aching tooth, an exposed nerve. God damn, it wasn't any of his business, was it? He looked at the register that Sally had signed. "Mrs. A. Fox," he read. Now what the hell kind of name was that? And how the hell did she think it up? Something pretty strange was going on here. Maybe he ought to go up and investigate a little, find out what was going on. Wasn't that what he was here for? Not just to hold down the desk, take care of formalities, but to make sure that nothing happened in the hotel, either. Jesus, he'd better go up right away! No mistake about that!
On tip-toe he climbed the stairs, crept down the hall to Sally's-"Mrs. Fox's"-room. Dropping to his knees before the locked door, he put his eye to the keyhole.
Sally went on, almost mindlessly at first, stroking the small, tingling bud of her tiny pink clitoris. Suddenly, in a moment of anguish and guilt, it came over her what-just what-she was doing. Hot, scalding tears sprang to her eyes, and she moaned, "Oh, dear God! What's the matter with me? I'm just as wicked as they are!" She muffled her sobs in the pillow, blubbering "I'm evil and vile and filthy. Oh, dear God, I'm even worse than they are." Yet she was no more able to stop herself than she had been able to walk away from the bedroom where all this ... this ... awfulness ... had taken place. "I'm evil and vile," she told herself again, but the dull, tantalizing ache of her pussy maddened her, and she went on and on, stroking and teasing her tiny, sensuously pulsating clitoris into a steel-like hardness. Electrifying bolts of pleasure seemed to shoot through her at her own magic touch, and she felt herself quivering like a violin string tuned too high.
Watching through the keyhole, the desk clerk dropped his slack jaw wide in amazement. Jesus! He'd been right. Something sure was going on here. His squinting eye took in the magnificence of the woman's nudely reclining body, spread out across the bed like a patient on an operating table. Those tits of hers were sure something, he told himself, milk-white mounds, big and firm and bouncing now against her chest. And that lusciously curved ass of hers, too! Boy, it would be great to get his hands into the soft, pink flesh, knead them and squeeze them and cup them in his own huge hands. He'd like to run his fingers up and down her hot little cunt too, maybe even play with her asshole, maybe ... ! His limp penis seemed to come to life at the obscene thought, to jerk into a hard, twitching rod inside his pants. Jeez, he thought, running his tongue over his thick, slobbering lips, she's getting me all excited.
On the bed, Sally moaned quietly as her fingers moved of their own accord against the tiny throbbing tip of her clitoris. Her blood raced now, pulsed with a pleasure new to her. And, her mind added, irresistible, and her other hand roamed across the nakedly sensitive flesh of her thighs, up, up, up, tracing the gentle, curving landscape of her belly, to reach the full, firm roundness of her breasts, to come to rest at last on one taut, blood-red nipple. Totally lost, enfolded in a cloak of pure sensual delight, she let her legs so slack, and they parted slightly so that the man at the keyhole saw, with lewd pleasure, the thin golden triangle of pubic fleece between them, the milk-white, sensuous skin of her inner thighs. Christ, he thought, drawing in his breath with a low, lewd whistling sound, this bitch was something. Better than he'd ever seen before, at least in a flea-bag like this!
Something startled him-was someone coming?-and he jumped up, glancing anxiously over his shoulder. But there was no one there, and he sank to his knees once more, once more fastened an eye to the small aperture in the door.
Sally started too at the sharp, sudden sound. Oh, my God! Was someone there? Was someone watching her fingering herself-wicked, vile, vicious Sally Hole? The words flashed through her tortured brain yet she knew, somehow, that she didn't care. Let them watch! She was lost, thoroughly lost, as evil as any or all the others, and since that was so, nothing more mattered than extracting every ounce of pleasure from her tense, aching body.
Her legs splayed farther apart, so that now the pink, fleshy lips of her openly throbbing cunt were clearly visible to the desk clerk, the narrow, hair-lined slit laid out before him like some sensuous, sexually blossoming flower. Then Sally parted the pink, wetly glistening edges there, and an exploratory finger wormed slowly into her moist, throbbing cuntal passage, as her pleasure mounted to an almost unbearable ecstasy. She slipped another finger into the hotly burning cavern, then a third, and the moist, tender flesh up between her legs closed greedily around them, sucking and swallowing them eagerly up inside, while at the keyhole the desk clerk at his vigil, froze with vicarious pleasure at the depraved exhibition presented to him through his tiny window.
A shudder of ecstasy racked Sally's lust-incited body, and then she felt a sudden gush of warm, moist liquid flooding from deep inside the narrow sheath of her vagina, seeping forth over her lewdly impaling fingers. She groaned heavily and grinding her buttocks around crazily on the mattress, moved her open cunt lips back and forth on them, back and forth, in and out, deeper and deeper. With a sudden, depraved impulse, she tore her hand from the button-hard nipple of her breast, plunged a finger into her mouth to lick and lubricate it briefly, then trailed it down her sides. She reached around under her full ripe buttocks to the narrow valley between the two whitely trembling cheeks and found at last the tiny puckered hole of her anus. With a little grunt of lewd abandon, she inserted her finger into her tightly resisting rectum, withdrew it at the pain, tried again, this time burrowing in slowly until the small rubbery ring surrounding it seemed to pop open, sucking her finger hungrily up into its spongy depths.
Almost mad now with the excitement of her vile abuse of her own body, Sally rocked back and forth between her deeply imbedded fingers as she stimulated the sensitive flesh of her vagina and anus with the twinly driving probes of her hands.
"Oh, God!" she thought, as her lust-drenched body quivered beneath the double assault. "I can't stand it any longer. I CAN'T! I'M GOING TO EXPLODE!" Her wail of shock and wonder split the air: "Aaaaaaagh I'm making myself cum! Oh, my God! I'M MAKING MYSELF CUM!"
She strained her dually absorbing passages hard down against her rhythmically fucking fingers and then everything seemed to snap and her back arched in a quick lewdly grinding convulsion and the exquisite joy of fulfillment crackled through her, sending sparks showering like fireworks wildly racing through her blood. They hovered there for a long instant, burning with a pleasure so intense it was almost pain, and then slowly, lingeringly, the flame subsided. Sally lay back, drained of all strength as her passion ebbed, and a deep contentment settled over her. Later, as she came back to reality, a shudder of horror shook her slender body, and sharp, heat-rending sobs convulsed her. "Oh, God!" she moaned. "What have I done? What ... WHAT?" She shook her head and rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand, brushing away a scalding tear. And why, she asked herself. And WHY?
She could find no answer, and at last, weary to the point of complete exhaustion, she turned over and fell asleep while outside the peeping night clerk struggled to his feet, a lewd grin on his rat-like face, and hurried rapidly down the hall to relieve himself with his already hotly itching palm....