Chapter 7
When at last their sudden and unexpected passion was spent, they separated, drenched with sweat and the effusions of their unexpected mating. Only then did Phyllis become really aware of what had happened and a sudden shaft of panic and embarrassment replaced the shaft of flesh that had so recently sent her to heaven and held her there.
Naked and panting from the exertion of her prolonged lovemaking, she pulled away from Tim Buckley and cowered in the far corner of the sofa, seeking to cover her nakedness with the blanket. All she could think of to say was an idiotic, "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. You must think I-"
He cut her off with a kiss, a gentle lip caress, soft and swift, then said, holding her chin cupped in his hand, "I think you're the loveliest creature that ever raped me."
"Don't make fun of me," she pleaded. "I must have walked in my sleep, and I haven't done that since I was thirteen. I thought it was a dream, and..."
She hesitated, unable to say anymore.
He said, "It was no dream, darling. And I'm not making fun of you. You are the loveliest creature that ever raped me."
His gentleness restored her shattered ego. She was able to look him in the eye and say, "I'd have to see the competition to know whether that's a compliment or not."
He smiled at her, said, "That's more like it," kissed her again, this time more firmly.
She responded and his hand slid over the ripe full curve of her left breast and a resurge of passion took place. All feelings of guilt and embarrassment vanished, inundated by the reawakening of senses she had felt, mere seconds before, were fully satiated. Her hands groped for his manhood, to see if he was undergoing the same feelings she was, found his phallus already half erect, felt its delicious stiffening within the cylinder of her fingers and palm.
"Jesus Christ!" she murmured, her lips still against his, "You, too?"
"Me, too," he whispered, then hoisted her upright and led her, his arms still about her, to the bedroom. During their passage, she continued to grip his manhood and, as soon as they reached the bed, she lay flat on her back and opened herself wide and manually inserted it into her waiting orifice of delight.
As it slid into her, she wondered briefly how she had been able to endure its absence for even the brief period of their respite. She suddenly gloried in being a woman once more, in being possessed by a man and possessing him. Eagerly, she thrust herself upward and thrust again and again to meet his stout charges and contain them to the fullest possible extent.
When at last they were done with this more comfortable and prolonged bout of passion, they lay side by side on their backs, fondling one another and resting. Now and again, she kissed Tim's bare, sweat-salty shoulder-at which he would lift himself and kiss her breasts, slowly one by one, then test with a fingertip the renewed rigidity of her nipples.
"Careful," she warned the third time this happened. "Unless you're ready for another."
It was insane, it was crazy mad, but it had happened and Phyllis was far too realistic not to desire to get the most out of it while she could. After her prolonged sexual starvation diet, she had fallen into a feast-or rather a feast had fallen into her-or was "fallen" exactly the word she wanted?
At any rate, she thought, she might as well let her body lead her with its new release from bondage. It was her body that had led her from this bed to the living room sofa where Tim Buckley lay asleep, her body that had demanded of him the fulfillment it had for so long been denied. Fuck Freddy! No, not that. . , not ever again. Fuck marvelous Tim Buckley.
Tim Buckley, Tim Buckley ... The name ran through her mind like a refrain-yet, mere hours before, she had never even known he existed. What manner of man had she flung herself at so brazenly. She lifted herself up on one elbow and studied him as he lay there beside her on his back, his eyes closed, resting.
He was not exactly handsome, his nose was too short, his chin too square, his body sturdy rather than gracefully long. Was he real or was he another figment of her sex-starved imagination. He was utterly unlike Pres, who had been long of limb, was board lean of belly, hawk-rakish of feature. He was unlike any man she had ever been drawn to. If he was a dream, what long-hidden depth of her subconscious had dredged him up?
She thought, I'm going crazy ... and was suddenly seized with urgent need to touch him, to discover if he had solid substance. Hesitantly, she laid slender fingers upon his solid abdomen, with its thin line of brown hair running from just above his navel to the thicket above his pubes.
He was real. His eyes opened and he turned his head to look at her and said softly, "I was just wondering if Phyllis Prescott were a figment of my imagination."
"Oh, darling!" she cried in a sudden access of excitement over the fact that he had been sharing her same feelings and thoughts. "I was wondering the same thing about you!"
Gratefully, she moved low over his body and bent and picked up his still limp phallus and took it into her mouth. This was something she had done only with Pres, and the remembrance of holding a man's cock within her mouth, of kissing it and licking it clean of sweat and sperm and her own fluid's traces, came flooding back and she felt as if an electric charge had passed through her.
She began to work on the sweet morsel and the shock was repeated as she felt it stir and then grow behind the barrier of her teeth. She pulled on it until she could no longer contain more than its upper half-no Deep Throat she-and then, with a little cry of renewed excitement, she had the first time and uttered a small sob of satisfaction and relief as again it slid into the depths of her body.
"You don't mind that I didn't finish?" she asked him anxiously, suddenly frantic with desire to please.
"Honey," he said, smiling up at her. "I'm happiest when it's exactly where it is."
This time, things got started more slowly. Phyllis felt a delicious languor rather than a pressing urge to achieve climax at the earliest possible moment. They took their own sweet time, after a while rolling over on their sides as they thrust slowly, gently, and with infinite easy variations at each other's pubes.
It couldn't last, of course, but it was happy time for both of them. And then his hands slid down the arch of her back and cupped her buttocks and his blue eyes looked into her gray ones and asked a silent question as he put gentle pressure on her bottom, thus pushing himself fractionally deeper into her. She responded by holding him closer until her breasts were mashed flat against the hard cage of his ribs. Their lips met and merged and their tongues danced an erotic dance of their own together and Phyllis stiffened as she began to crest a peak.
Then Tim slid his right arm under her left thigh, hooking it within the curve of his elbow and lifting it high, then thrusting upward as he pulled her down upon his phallus. No man, she thought before consciousness fled to a neutral corner, had ever penetrated her so deeply, and the peak that had caused her to stiffen briefly became a Matterhorn and than an Everest and she was plunging and straining against the restraint of his arm holding her thigh, at the same time praying that he wouldn't release it.
If their first two matings had been big with pleasure and fulfillment, this third one was a monster of ecstasy and rapturous delight-a marvelous monster whose very existence Phyllis had all but forgotten. Nor, as she realized in a fleeting moment of reality, had she ever crested quite so high with Pres.
She had thought Pres the perfect lover, but this stranger was better, more knowledgeable of a woman's needs, more willing to serve them and take his pleasure from theirs than Pres had ever been. In fact, she thought frantically as rationality vanished again, he was almost too much.
But she wanted more, and more, and more, more, more.
The mid-October dawn was groping its way over the gold-domed crest of Beacon Hill when at last they slept the sleep of exhaustion. Evidently, Tim was even more tired than Phyllis, for it was she who was finally roused from love-drugged slumber by the muted ringing of the telephone in the living room.
Her first impulse was to let it ring. But slowly, recollection of the causes of her being here in Lem Weldon's snug pied a terre penetrated the mists of drowsiness and, with a single resounding Anglo-Saxon four-letter word, she dragged herself out of the sex-tumbled bed and staggered drunkenly to answer the ringing, guided by the night light in the short hallway.
She picked up the handset and uttered a sleep-thick, "Hello-who is it?"
She heard a click as whoever was on the other end of the line hung up-and was left standing there in the semi-darkness, staring stupidly at the instrument in her hand. She uttered another hello, held it to her ear just in time to be greeted by the irksome drone of the dial tone.
"Bastard!" she said and reeled back to bed. As she slid under the covers, she noted that it was seventeen minutes past six by the phosphorescent dial of the small alarm clock on the bedside table.
She was awakened by the ringing of another bell, this one on the clock. It was sunlight then and the time was eight-thirty and a puffy-faced Tim was extending a muscular naked arm to shut it off. He yawned, looking stupid, worked the residue of slumber from his eyes, then looked at her and said, "Hello."
She said, "Hello," and he squinted at the clock in the sunlight that streamed through the half-opened window. She became aware of something only her subconscious had registered during the night-that her new lover, unlike Pres and most other men she had known, did not smell sharp when he sweated.
Then his arms were around her and he was kissing her and then he released her and said, "If you weren't still here, I wouldn't have believed it. But since you are, love..."
Without further preliminary, he pulled her down on the bed, mounted her and entered her with a rod that felt as hard as steel. At first, Phyllis was still too numbed with sleep to react to his thrusts, but the very violence of his attacks soon dissipated the mists of slumber and she began to react as she had the night before to his lovemaking.
There was nothing of dalliance in their matinal mating. He took her like an animal, employing rapid, hard-driving strokes which punctured her to the core and took their inevitable effect. By the time she felt his offering within her womb, she was giving as good as she got.
He pulled out of her rather abruptly, gave her a pat on the pussy and said, "Thanks, darling. Best setting-up exercise in the world."
"Why, you bastard!" she said, ready to burst into tears or hit him or both for his flippancy at such a moment. Then she saw his eyes crinkle and realized that he was laughing at her, and she laughed, too, and then they fell into each other's arms. It was a good half hour before they finally reached the shower.
They were barely dressed when the telephone rang and, because she was nearer, Phyllis answered. It was Lem Weldon. He was about to drive in from Kitteridge and would stop by with her things within three quarters of an hour. She thanked him, told him she was fine, then he asked to speak to Tim.
She went into the bedroom and completed doing her hair as best she could with only masculine equipment. She felt wonderfully free and loose and awake now, despite certain aches and abrasions that suggested she had not been using certain parts of her body as nature intended her to use them for too long a time. Let the old thing ache, she thought. Every pang, mild or sharp, was a joyous reminder of how well it had been earned.
When she got back, Tim was still on the phone. He looked up as she entered, said, "Hold on another moment, Lem." Then, to Phyllis, "Anything you want to tell Lem before he hangs up?"
She shook her head, then remembered the silent caller that had first roused her from slumber. She said, "Ask him what the idea was of calling us a little after six this morning?"
Tim stared at her as if she had gone crazy and she said, "Go on-ask him. Somebody certainly did."
Tim repeated the question, listened, said, "I thought not, but Phyllis says somebody did.
I'll ask her." He turned back toward her and said, "Who was it?"
"John Doe," she said. "He hung up the moment I answered."
Tim repeated this to Lem Weldon, then said, "I don't like it either. Sure it could have been a random joker or a wrong number dialer. But I still don't like it."
Another pause, then, "Okay, I'll do just that. See you later, Lem."
He hung up, scowling. Then he rubbed his square chin and said, "I don't like that phone call."
"So I gather-and so, I gather does Lem-or doesn't, whichever."
"I'm not trying to be funny," he said. He came over and gripped her upper arms and looked as if he wanted to look down on her-which was difficult since he was a good two inches taller than he. He said, "For God's sake, darling, you could well be in serious trouble. And I don't want anything happening to you now that we've found each other."
"I'm sorry." She felt touched and contrite at his concern. She said, "I'll try. But it still seems like a crazy dream. I mean, if anyone wro ,e it as fiction, who'd believe it?"
He said, still cross with her, "Haven't you learned yet that truth is not only stranger than fiction, it's usually lousy fiction? Honey, this is very, very much for real and there's a hell of a lot of money and power at stake and one man has been murdered right in front of your house."
"Poor Gerry was a Mann in name only," she replied. She couldn't help it, she enjoyed getting under his skin a little, since she had made it so easy for him to get under hers a lot.
"I swear," he said, low pitched, "I think I'm going to have to kill you."
"Not even you are man enough for that," she told him.
"I give up," he said, releasing her. Then, all but pleading with her, "Phyllis, I've got to go out for an hour or so. It's an errand Lem Weldon just laid on me. And I want you to do just one thing while I'm gone and until either Lem or I gets back here."
"What's that?" she asked.
"Nothing-we want you to stay here and keep buttoned. Make sure the door is locked after me when I go and then double bolt it. If anyone tries to get in, call the police. They'll get here before the door will give away. If you want to make any calls, go ahead, but don't tell where you are. It's not unlikely any of your friends would have the call traced, so go ahead. But stay buttoned up tight. Got that?"
"Got it." Phyllis felt she ought to click her heels and salute him, but didn't. He looked adorable when he was serious and half angry.
She said, "But what's so alarming about the early phone call?"
He sighed and shook his head at her stupidity. Then he said, in a primary schoolteacher's singsong, "Suppose-just suppose-somebody who doesn't want you around read a paper or listened to the newscast we heard last night. Suppose he read you were under protection of Lem Weldon and he found out you weren't in your usual haunts. Suppose he found out about this place and wanted to know if you were here ... What better way than to call up and see who answered?"
"How would this man-I suppose it is a man-know it was my voice?"
Tim shrugged. "Maybe he wouldn't recognize it. But maybe just hearing a woman answer would be enough."
"What if you'd answered, darling?"
"Dammit, I wish to hell I had. I don't usually sleep through phone calls, but last night...."
He let it hang. Phyllis said, "What difference would it have made?"
"A lot. If he heard my voice, he'd known you weren't alone here. Chances are he'd let you along-for now."
"This is all awfully damn iffy," said Phyllis.
"Sure it is-but I still don't like that call-or the fact you answered it."
"I've got an alibi. I'm innocent, I was framed." Then, seeing the honest hurt in his eyes, she relented and kissed him and said, "I'll be good, darling-honest I will. I won't stir out of the joint, I'll double bolt the door, I'll call the cops if anybody tries to break in."
"Okay," His smile was reluctant but it finally appeared. "That's good enough for me, darling. Sit tight. It won't be long before one of us is back."
He was gone. Phyllis dutifully double locked the door, then sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. She was bone tired clear through, she ached all over, and she hadn't felt as wonderful in years. Suddenly she sat up ramrod straight. Through the angle of the hall door, she caught a glimpse of the thoroughly sex-tumbled bedding. Lem Weldon was on his way in, and if he saw it like that, he'd know at once what had happened last night. And, for some reason-perhaps because both men were marvelous and too new in her life-she didn't want that.
By rights, she knew she ought to strip it and put the sheets in the laundry-but she had no idea what Lem Weldon's domestic arrangements were for this apartment. She decided to put the bed together, replace the spread and give the room a good airing to at least alleviate any suggestive after-aroma of sex.
It wasn't as bad as she expected, but she felt relieved when it lay smooth and reasonably fresh-looking beneath the candlewick spread. She looked in every cupboard she could find for a spray can of air purifier to make detection even less unlikely, but found none. She decided to open the window wide.
The phone rang, detouring her. It was Tim. He sounded relieved to hear her voice, said, "Honey, I'm going to be another forty minutes on this little chore. So tell Lem to hold on till I get back."
"Hold on to what?" she countered, unaccountably and joyously happy to hear his voice.
"Your left tit," he replied, and she gurgled with laughter. She was happy because she knew he had called up to make sure she was all right. So he cared, he cared ... and why in hell shouldn't he, another part of her spirit added, after the love she had given him last night?
She returned to the bedroom and opened the casement windows wider, leaning out to make sure the catch would hold. As she bent farther forward, something ugly and invisible whined over her scalp, missing her by mere inches before it thocked into the plaster on the far wall of the room at her back.