Chapter 9
When Cynthia awoke it was with a start, and she lay for several seconds while her heart pounded wildly. She lay still, fighting for breath, afraid she was going to have a heart attack. Slowly, her pulse subsided to the point where she could think, and when she thought, her flesh began to crawl.
How, how could any girl conceivably get herself into the situation she found herself in? How? One night, everything was fine. She was lonely and eager for friendship, that's true, but, still, how could she do the things she had done!
With a start, she sat up. She was in bed, at home!
She held her head in her hands and tried to think. It was so hard for her to do, admit the previous evening and the orgy she'd had with three strangers and Dan Hoagland, the movie star. She almost smiled, for she thought that if she told her story, no one would believe her; everyone would think that she was a terrible liar. And yet she knew she had committed unspeakable things with the four men. The last thing she could remember before she had totally passed out was lying on her stomach while Buck and Maury spread her legs wide and Dan did something to her buttocks. There was a sharp pain and that was all she could remember.
Yet here she was in her own apartment unable to remember how or when she got home. Chet! If she was brought home, Chet was the only person at the insane, unreal party that could have known where she lived. If Chet knew what she had done and ever told Mike! If Chet even had an inkling of what she had done, what would he think of her and would he ever speak to her again?
Chet was quite happy with what he knew of the previous evening. It had been an unqualified success and very profitable for him to boot. Only Dan had given him a little trouble. Toward dawn, when everyone was exhausted and ready to give up, Dan Hoagland had pulled on a pair of pants and prowled the house, looking for Chet. He found him at the TV console.
He came across the room with that tight little smile on his face and caught Chet by the lapels before he could react. "You film that?" he asked, shoving his boozy face into Chet's.
Dumbly, Chet nodded.
"You have any film of me, I'll break both your legs. I'll break them bad so that you'll never walk again. Understand?"
Again Chet nodded.
"Okay," Dan said, sitting down and looking around for a cigarette, "not bad. Run me what you got, just to make sure. Jesus, can that kid fuck! You're getting a tip tonight if there's no film on me."
Cynthia staggered under a lukewarm shower and slowly soaped her body. Surprisingly, few bruises showed on her body. It was her muscles that were sore. And her heart. How could she have behaved in such a way? A thousand excuses flew to her lips: she had too much to drink, she had been forced to smoke dope, she had been literally forced to do what was asked of her once she was wild enough to dare a movie star. It had been such a stupid thing to do! If only she hadn't taken the dare, if only she had known, if only she hadn't had too much to drink, if only she hadn't gone in the first place! The two words, "if only" rang in her mind like mocking reminders that Cynthia was not the good wife, she was not true and loving. Cynthia was a whore, a harlot, a slut.
As she stood under the shower with the spray coming in needle points, exciting her skin as she soaped her huge breasts, her hands slipped and slid over her nipples and she felt them grow hard and taut. Then that rich glow began deep in her loins and she knew she'd love to have an orgy again. Her hands wandered to her vagina and she thought, I don't give a damn, I'd just like to do that one more time. I'd love it!
And she found herself in the shower with her legs apart, her soapy hands on her cunt with a finger probing up inside as far as it could while another finger ran teasingly over her clitoris, exciting her so that her breath came fast and sharp and she had another quick orgasm that made her moan and shiver with delight when she felt the cum in her pussy, making it creamy and making her wish for a cock.
Outside, drying herself off and lighting a cigarette, she sat down to do some serious thinking. For the first time since she had awakened, she allowed herself to relax a little and she realized that she had drunk far too much and she was hung over.
Out in the kitchen she put on the water for coffee. While waiting for it to come to a boil, she fled to the bathroom where she mixed herself a Bromo Seltzer to settle her stomach. Her head was still throbbing. Unused to drinking, leading the life of a recluse since Mike had gone to Vietnam, she had no idea how much she had drunk or even what she had drunk. She remembered taking a drink whenever it was offered and plenty had been offered.
Her thoughts led her back to "If only..." again and she bit her lip against the welling tears. What would happen if Mike ever found out? She could never tell him of such an incident and expect him to believe her or have any respect for her. She would have to live a lie with Mike for the rest of their married life.
She was also going to have to come to terms with herself and her desires. In twenty-four hours, one Cynthia had died and another was born. What to do with her new self was the all-important question. Chet. Her eyes narrowed as she thought of him. Was his story entirely true? Did he really do undercover work? She couldn't remember hearing anything that sounded political. Dan Hoagland certainly was considered to be a conservative, and the others, Buck, Maury, and Bill Chambers, certainly weren't radical and anything like the cloak-and-dagger character Chet pretended to be.
Then there was the question of how she got home, into her own bed. Only Chet would have been able to bring her home unless he had told Dan or someone where she lived. She searched the apartment for a note or some clue. In an ashtray she found a ground out filter-tip cigarette. That told her someone had brought her home, since she always smoked plain cigarettes.
The whistling from the kitchen told her the water was boiling. She returned and made herself some black coffee, then sat down to drink it, strong and hot, and think about her situation. What could she do? The first thing, she vowed, was to disassociate herself from Chet completely. Eventually, she would have to be responsible for her actions and take the blame. Essentially, Cynthia felt she was to blame, but Chet sure made it easier for her to get into trouble. He talked about or alluded to sex all the time. She would be better off without him. She decided to write to Mike about him and try to get more details.
Suddenly, in the cold gray of dawn, with a remorseful and relentless hangover, so much seemed fishy. His being two different people and doing all that glamorous "undercover" work seemed like a story that was so hard to believe, once it was viewed from her on an objective angle. Chet, when she saw him again, was going to have to answer a lot of questions.
Chet didn't show up for a whole week, giving her plenty of time to recuperate and reflect over what had happened. Cynthia spent her time alone, cleaning the apartment and writing to Mike every day, being careful never to bring Chet's name up until she checked out his status. After all, if he was pretending to be an officer in the army, that was a federal offense and Cynthia wanted to be pretty sure of herself before bringing charges against anyone.
Besides, she didn't know how much Chet knew of her conduct that night. With any kind of luck, he wouldn't know anything beyond the fact that she had gotten drunk and he had helped her home or she had been helped home. Hopefully, none of the men she was involved with would know or talk to Chet. Hopefully. The more she thought about it, the less hopeful she became.
When the phone finally jangled and tore into her nerves, she knew it was Chet. One week had gone by; one week of sleepless nights when she'd tossed and turned, torn between desire and guilt. Chet was casual on the phone, suggesting he drop by for a drink on his way to an appointment.
"You going to another one of those parties?" she asked sardonically, suddenly realizing that she had asked the very same question exactly a week earlier and for a quite different reason.
"As a matter-of-fact, yes. This is one I'm afraid I can't take you to, no matter how much you threaten or beg. This one is going to be rough."
"Oh?" she answered, not knowing what to think. She was immediately torn, part of her with desire, part of her guilty and afraid. Another thought flashed through her mind: why hadn't she heard from Dan? The least he could do was call up and ask how things were going.
Over the phone, Chet commented, "Yeah. You had a little too much at the last one, remember? Or maybe you don't. Anyway, it was some job getting you home."
"What did I say?" she asked warily.
"Nothing much. Kept mumbling something about going back or doing something over again. How's your head?"
"That was a week ago, remember? I haven't had a drink since."
"Well, I've got a bottle of Scotch. How about if I drop by on my way, okay?"
"Okay. I'll be waiting for you."
The first thing Chet said when he came in was, "Hi. Don't ask me where I'm going tonight and don't even ask what kind of a party it's going to be.
As he skillfully mixed the drinks, talking smoothly all the while, Cynthia noticed how he loaded her drink and watered down his own. He kept bringing up the party, baiting her with, "Don't ask me who's going to be there." He was leading her on! He had done it the last time without her even being aware of it!
Suddenly, Cynthia decided to play her trump card. "Who are you?" she asked, looking him right in the eye.
To her surprise, he sighed and gave a little laugh. "The question isn't who I am, but who you are."
The answer in the form of a question completely caught her off guard. "What do you mean?"
Chet raised his glass in a toast. "To you, the star of tonight's party."
Cynthia could only stare in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"
"About my business. You see, I got these two groups in from Wyoming and New York City. Now I've promised them a good time and part of that good time is a show and you, baby, are going to be the star of that show."
"You must be insane."
"You might be right. At least the army would agree with you. Anyway, tonight, you're going to star in a little show."
"I'm phoning the police!" Cynthia said in a cold rage as she went and picked up the telephone.
"Do that," he snapped back. "I have some pictures of you with me that they would be delighted to see. If they asked me why I had such obscene pictures of you, I'd just say that I was your pimp. I can just see you explaining that one to Mike!"
She slammed the phone down. "Who are you and did you really ever know Mike?"
"Oh, I know Mike," he laughed. "And Mike knows me. Hell, I got girls for him and his friends. That's how I found out about you. That's how I saw your picture and knew where you lived. I met Mike right before the army caught up with me and said I was crazy and gave me a dishonorable discharge."
"Who are you?" she demanded, "I mean, really?"
"To you, I'm Chet, and I want you dressed in a slinky outfit which I'll bring up from the car. Too bad I've got to do this the rough way. I was hoping I still had you conned."
"I'm not going anywhere with you, you rat."
"That's one," he warned, holding up a finger. "Now, while I run down to the car, here's some still shots of a movie starring you. Don't look for any trace of Dan. We got a deal. Plenty of you and Maury and Buck and Bill. Take a look." He took a packet of pictures from his coat and tossed them on the coffee table and left the apartment.
Cynthia snatched at them and saw her gorgeous naked body entangled with the men, saw herself on her knees sucking their pricks.
Chet was back in no time with the outfit, chewing gum, an easy smile on his face. "I've got lots of copies of those. In a matter of weeks, I could have them all over the country and I'd sure as hell make sure that Mike and all his buddies over in Vietnam got some nice color prints. You show up better in color, don't you think?"
"You bastard! You filthy son-of-a-bitch! You rotten bastard!" she railed at him.
He waved a reproving finger, clucking his tongue. "You can do better than that. I've heard you."
"I'm not going!"
"Oh, yes, you are."
"No, I ... I can't. You wouldn't!"
"Wouldn't what? Force you?" He came to her with a smile, taking her by the shoulders. "That's exactly what you'd love for me to do to you, you little bitch, force you. Come on, I've seen dozens of broads like you. Little numbers that will do anything when someone forces them. Well, I'm forcing you, see? Look, I've got no time to fool. Either you get in this dress and go or, I promise you, pictures of you will go off to Mike and every man in his outfit, including his commanding officer."
"He'll kill you!"
"If he can find me. Remember, to you I'm Chet. He never knew any Chet. He can only guess at who I am and I'll be long gone and he'll have you to take it out on, baby."
"You are a bastard."
"Maybe. Maybe I'm a lot of things. I know what you are, baby, and I know how to make money off girls like you."
"What do you mean?" She tried to sound indignant.
He walked across the room with a cynical smile on his face. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, "You don't know it, but I saw you over closed circuit TV. That house is wired up like a minefield. I got everything but Dan Hoagland on film. like I said, we've got a deal. Now, if you're smart, you'll make a deal with me. If you're not, you'll ruin your life."
"What do you mean?" she asked, her eyes narrowed.
"Just this. Perform for me tonight, one more time, and you can have the negatives and all the prints. I swear to it."
"You liar! How can I trust you when I don't even know your real name?"
"A rose by any other name, sweetie. Look, yes or no?"
"NO!"
Chet whirled to the coffee table and began picking up the pictures.
"No! Wait!" she said, her voice high and tight.
Chet relaxed and smiled. "Thatta gal, I knew you'd come through."
"Just this once?"
"Promise."
"And I can have all the pictures?"
"Sure. Look, it makes sense. After all, I can only run this racket so long before it becomes dangerous. Honest, this is the last time for you."
Cynthia licked her lips. "What do I have to do?"
Chet motioned at her drink. "Better have a couple of good belts before we start discussing that."
"I want to know."
"A little dance, a little mingling with the men."
"All that stuff about undercover was a lot of bull?" she asked.
He nodded. "It worked. You believed it. You'd be surprised how many times that one works. You service wives are an easy mark. I make a specialty out of service wives."
"And I have to wear that dress there and just do a little dance and fool around? When do I get the pictures? You can con me."
"You can have all the prints now and you'll get the negatives this time tomorrow right here. Then I'll move on up the coast to L.A. for some pickings that are ripe and easy. I've already started writing to some chicks up there, finding out what's happening with their men in Vietnam."
Cynthia took a deep breath. "Okay, once more, but that's all. I swear, you try to double-cross me and I'll kill you!"
Chet put his palms up. "I'm going to lead a long life and die in bed a dirty old man. Tomorrow, this time, right here, you'll have the negatives."
"Okay. Wait here while I change," she said, picking up the outfit and taking her drink with her.
Chet grinned to himself. This was going to be easy. She took her drink with her, which means we'll have another by the time she's dressed, and I'll have her half smashed before we get there.
Besides, the little bitch-likes it. He knew, because she'd left the door ajar again.