Chapter 1
Janet and Marci stepped off the train into the brisk mountain air. It was late morning, but the ski resort seemed to be still snoozing or taking an early siesta.
"Christ, honey," Janet muttered to her slightly chubby friend. "Is this your idea of a swinging singles community? We could've stayed in Louisville for this."
Marci's lower lip jutted out in what she presumed was a sexy pout. Janet cringed.
"Will you stop it?" Marci wheezed. "I'm sick and tired of your always being so negative. How do you expect us to ever have any fun or to meet anyone with you bitching all the time?"
Janet sighed and looked up and down the platform. Not a man in sight. Well, Marci had done it again. Why in the name of God did she keep listening to the little butterball?
Deep down inside, though, she knew. Marci, for all her excess poundage, always attracted men by the droves. Janet had never particularly liked her, since the day they started working together almost two years ago. But Marci did attract the humpiest and sexiest men, and there was always at least one left over.
"I'm sorry, honey," Janet said sweetly.
"That's OK," Marci replied, not seeing through the sweetness.
God, she's so dense, Janet thought. Maybe that's why men like her so much. Not that there was much Janet could do about affecting the same sweet attitude, even if she'd wanted to.
As they maneuvered their way down from the platform to the damp cobblestone street a level below, the two shapely young women were completely unaware of the rather strange looking couple in a vintage black Cadillac watching them from the parking lot.
"Oh my, Elmer," the thin wisp of a woman sighed with great relish. "That blonde is quite nice. Quite, quite nice. I think Jimmy will be pleased. I think he will be very pleased indeed."
Her companion grunted his approval. "Why yes, Abigail. I think you're right about that. I think those tits could be taught to make our Jim-Boy very happy. Oh, I think he'll like those tits. I can just see him going after those tits and teaching them a lesson."
Abigail Crimpton-John smiled narrowly. Her brother was a little simple—always had been, it's true—but he was her brother. And they did enjoy themselves, she and Elmer and Jimmy. With whomever they happened to choose. And Abigail did enjoy the fact that it was almost always she who did the choosing. And if she did say so herself, her taste was impeccable.
"Do you think they're headed towards the lodge?" Elmer asked, licking his lips and squirming ever so slightly on the black leather seat.
It was a rhetorical question, and Abigail regarded it as such. Where else would two hot-to-trot young pussies be headed? Abigail thought to herself, delighting as ever in her own profanity. Old Blood and Thunder would be so angry and irritated (she was smiling her tight, prim smirk again) if only he knew-wherever the hell the old bastard was.
"I said," her brother began again, "that I wonder if they were going to be—"
"Shut up," Abigail said, not unkindly. "Of course they are, Bubbles. Of course they are."
No one save his dear sister Abby would dare to call him Bubbles. But Abby could.
The grey-haired spinster flicked on the old Caddy's ignition.
"But, Abby," her brother said as she backed from the parking lot. "Aren't we going to offer them a ride? There's not a taxi cab in sight."
"I know, Bubbles, I know," his sister said, a mischievous gleam in her eye. "That's exactly what that cunt needs. And deserves. Believe me, honey. I know that type. That's exactly what she deserves."
Abigail wheeled the car around in reverse, then switched gears quickly and peeled off down the road. Elmer turned to catch a last glimpse of the two young lovelies, still standing at the foot of the platform.
"Well, shit," said Janet. "What do we do now, bird-brain?"
It wasn't that Marci enjoyed Janet's berating her-not exactly. It was more a question of her getting used to it. She'd never admit that she enjoyed it. But she did put up with it. And she sometimes wondered why. Janet never really showed her any kind of real appreciation. Never even said thank you. And never bought her any of the little presents and mementos that Marci was always buying her. Janet was downright selfish, in fact, Marci had to admit. But being with her was important, almost to the point of being compulsive. At times Marci imagined that she would do anything to please Janet, to keep her happy. And yet all she did was bitch and complain. And steal her boyfriends.
"Maybe we can call a cab from that little coffee shop across the street," Marci ventured. It seemed like the only possibility at the moment. The street in front of the railroad station was completely empty now that a little old lady in the black Cadillac had hot-footed it down the hill.
Lugging their luggage with them, the two women crossed the deserted street. Actually Janet lugged only her cosmetic case and the smaller of her two bags, leaving Marci to fend with her large suitcase as well as her own two bags. It didn't occur to her to do otherwise. Marci had always carried the bags, the same way she had always taken care of the tipping in the lounge if, God forbid, they ended up going home alone. And that had been a bit more frequent than suited Janet's taste of late. Damn men, she muttered under her breath. They're never there when you needed them, the fucking pigs.
The coffee shop was more of a greasy spoon. The redhead behind the counter looked like a truck-stop waitress who had gotten too old to even give truck drivers blow-jobs any more, Janet thought. God, what an ugly old bat.
"Hi," Marci giggled as they entered. Janet cringed. She really hated it when her bird-brained buddy started talking to strangers. That's one thing she certainly thanked her Aunt Beatrice for-teaching her to never speak until spoken to. Never to be forward like that.
"Nice day, isn't it?" Marci continued. God, would she never stop.
The red-head didn't seem to think much more of Marci's friendliness than Janet did. "Nice, hell," she grunted, plopping a single menu down in front of the two women. "What d' ya want? The specials ain't ready yet. Not till noon."
"We don't want a damn thing in this joint," Janet sneered. "Except to use your fucking phone. So that we can get out to the lodge."
"Oh, what hot shit you are, sweetie," said the waitress, her hands going automatically to her thin hips. "Miss Hot Shit from the city, yeah, I can see that. And goin' to the lodge are you, my pretty? Well, more power to you. You'll likely get exactly what you deserve out there! Ha!" The woman let out a loud cackle, exactly like the witch in "Wizard of Oz." She turned on her heel with a spin, looking back over her shoulder to repeat, quite nastily, "Exactly what you deserve, bitch."
With that she disappeared into the kitchen.
Janet felt a strange tightness stir in her thighs. She blushed deeply. No one had ever talked to her like that, even Aunt Bea after she began to lose her marbles. "Let's get out of here," she begged Marci. "Before I kill that old battle-ax."
"Are you sure you don't want a cup of coffee at least?" Marci asked, but it was too late. Janet had already exited, slamming the glass door behind her. And leaving Marci the heavy bag, as usual.
Outside once again, the two friends looked up and down the street. There was a real nip in the air, but Marci knew that Janet would never be talked into going back inside again. There was a telephone booth back across the street at the far end of the train station, so once more the two friends crossed the deserted roadway.
Just as Janet slipped Marci's dime into the slot, a creaky taxi-cab turned onto the street and made its way slowly towards the two friends.
"Want a taxi, girls?" the driver, a mean-looking old codger in a cowboy hat, asked. Marci nodded enthusiastically, and Janet followed her, leaving Marci's dime behind in the machine.
"To Alpine Village," Marci said sweetly to the driver, who nodded without comment and waited for them to load their own bags into the cab. He pulled out into the road and cruised the nearly deserted streets at what seemed to Janet a very slow pace.
"Where is everyone?" Marci asked, balancing her well-filled skirt on the edge of the dirty plastic seat.
"Ain't exactly season yet," the driver replied, still tight-lipped.
"Oh," Marci pouted, turning on her charm, "That's too bad. We're here for—uh—vacation, you see."
The driver nodded, warming up a bit to her obvious come-on. "Oh, yeah," he said. "What kind of—uh—vacation were ya lookin' fer?"
Marci giggled—much too loudly for Janet's taste—so Janet glared at her with real warning in her eyes. Marci chose to ignore the look. "Oh, you know," she flirted. "To meet some men and all. Some nice young men, out here to—uh—vacation, too."
"Better be careful, young lady," the driver said, no longer smiling. "Some young gals who come out here all hot-to-trot sometimes get more than they bargained fer."
Marci giggled again and Janet kicked her. The driver didn't smile and remained silent for the remainder of the ride. Alpine Village was a fairly large ski resort located half-way up Green Mountain. They left the town of Overton behind and headed up the road to the lodge.
Janet noted the blue smoke swirling out the main chimney of the lodge. At least they've got a fireplace in the bar, she thought. If this place is as deserted as it looks like it might be, I can still curl up with a good book.
As she thought about the old cabbie's rather silly warning, Janet felt her nipples tighten inside her tight blue sweater. He's probably full of shit, she thought to herself. But a little excitement would be a change of pace, especially after the past six months.
She remembered Rodney with a mixture of irritation and regret. She'd met him, as she met lots of men, through Marci. She presumed, in fact, that they'd been fucking pretty regularly, though it was difficult to get any of that kind of information out of old bird-brain, who for all her loud-mouth babbling was very tight-lipped about what she did in bed. And to get any information whatsoever, about anything, out of Rodney had, of course, been impossible.
Dark, brooding, secretive-Rodney had been all those things, as well as the most handsome and probably the best-hung guy Janet had ever slept with. Slept with, she laughed to herself now, driving up the mountain in the cab. What a ridiculous euphemism that was—particularly as far as Rodney was concerned.
Their first night had been as sleepless as it had been peculiar. Rodney was one hell of a lover, but he was, in a word, a tease. Janet usually had no trouble coming—usually three or four times while she was being fucked-but Rodney kept her hanging on the edge, right on the verge of climax, pushing her to the point over and over again, with his tongue, with fingers, with his long, hard, truly incredible cock—and then pulling out, pulling back, leaving her unfulfilled. But the incredible thing was that his teasing her didn't leave Janet frustrated, not in the least. If anything it turned her on more than ever. The more he left her unfulfilled, the more fulfilling it was, so much so that she began to enjoy his pulling it out more than his putting it in. Somehow, with his incredible sense of timing, Rodney kept her in that heavenly state of almost (but not quite) coming for hours on end, often all night long and far into the morning.
More often than not, he would not come at all, and even if he did, it was always without making her come. Occasionally when he exploded, filling her whole cavity with what seemed to be gallons and gallons of his hot, boiling gism, she thought she could push herself over the edge as well, making them come together in one absolute, ultimate orgasm, but she could never quite get there, never make herself explode.
Then he began to shame her, to tell her she was a cunt, a bitch, a worthless piece of shit, a despicable amateur in the love-making department. "You lousy cunt," he would yell at her so loud that she was positive the neighbors could hear, "you lousy bitching cunt, you can't even come when I fuck you!" Then he would draw back his fist as if he were going to smash it into her face. For a moment, he would lie there, towering over her, ready to hit her really, really hard, but he never did follow through with that blow. A kind of shiver would convulse his whole body, and without another word, he'd jump up, dress and leave.
Usually it would be three or four weeks before she'd see or hear from him again. Then, out of the blue, he'd call or just show up one night, ringing her doorbell. They never had regular dates, never did anything together like going out to dinner or to a movie or disco. Nothing was ever planned. Even in bed, there was no real foreplay. He'd just start in, pumping and tonguing and jamming. They practically never even talked, in fact, except for the times when he'd berate her after he came.
The times when he didn't come were almost as bad-or as wonderful, Janet now blushed to admit. Rodney always had a little black briefcase with him, and on the nights that he left her and carried that bag back into the bedroom with him, Janet knew that he was not going to come—at least not inside her. On these nights, he would force her to fellate him, forcing her head roughly down on his cunt-lubricated cock and keeping it there by grasping her hair roughly at the nape of the neck. He didn't talk to her while she sucked him like most men did, and his eyes in fact seemed to roll back into his head as if he were fantasizing some wild magnificent sex scene that had nothing to do with her at all. He would push her gasping mouth down on his throbbing dick further and further and faster and faster, and more than once his fast and heavy breathing convinced her that he was about to shoot his load deep into her throat. But that longed-for load never came.
For that was when he reached beside the bed and opened the black leather briefcase. At least, Janet assumed he was opening the briefcase, because prior to this Rodney not only turned out every light in the room, but made sure that not even the tiniest ray of light could come in through either the window or the door. He had made her install photographers' darkroom sheeting over the window for just that purpose, though she had been totally perplexed by the request originally. At any rate, it was totally dark, and only the sound of the zipper opening had let Janet knew the next phase of their wild and deliciously lewd lovemaking was about to begin.
Even now, Janet couldn't be positive of what Rodney kept in the black briefcase. She knew the objects only by touch. Some were cold and pointed, like scissors or knives; others were hard and blunt, like rubber. Rodney would stick these things—and there were all sizes of them—inside her, into her mouth, her cunt, her ass. At other times, his own sighs and moans seemed to indicate to her that he was sticking them inside himself, or at least rubbing himself with them. Once—and once only-he got so excited while doing that to himself that he shot all over her, covering her whole abdomen and breasts with his amazingly hot, sticky come. That time, too, he left quickly, without speaking to her or offering any explanation. She had lain there for hours, letting his wonderful come cool and cake on her body, remembering, remembering, relishing every moment of the dark masquerade.
Often Janet had thought of reaching down with her own hand and finishing herself off, but she never had. Somehow it was more perfect, more complete, the way it was the way Rodney decreed it should be. Partly it was Aunt Bea's horrendous tales of how she would get syphilis and die if she played with herself. But mostly it wasn't that. It was Rodney's wish that she not come, that she be left perpetually unsatisfied. That was somehow law to her—and somehow holy.
"Well, here we are!" Marci announced in her over-enthusiastic baby talk voice.
Janet snapped herself out of daydream. Here they were indeed.