Chapter 10
An hour later, Temple City's able Law Director needed God's help or someone's. His false veneer of respectability had vanished, and he had compromised with Rita's bourbon-tainted philosophy: If you can't be a good winner, at least be a good loser. This was political corn, of course, but saying it helped Henry Ridgewood to justify his downfall. And then he quickly added that this wasn't a 'downfall'; just a little harmless fun. And people had to have fun. And then more of his election hokum: All work and no play ... And what all this added up to, Rita reasoned, was just this: The righteous holier-than-thou bastard wanted to go to bed with the 13-year-old nymphet!
The realization of all this made Rita sick at her stomach. The effects of Dr. Grossman's pills had worn off, and she was again seeing Henry Ridgewood for what he was: A sick pervert with a pious front. And she could have ended Henry's overtures toward the little girl before they really started, but what was the use? She was no crusader; and the Henry Ridge-woods of the world would always find their little nymphets; and if it wasn't Betty Juneau, then it would be some other innocent young child.
So she did nothing to deter his progress with the girl. Besides, she thought, maybe there was something to be gained. The more evil she learned about this man, the greater advantage she would have over him.
Henry quite obviously did not guess Rita's contempt, being too occupied with the charms of her 13 year old guest. He couldn't believe that this delicious creature was a mere 13. And when she had waltzed into the room for the introduction, ventured a flirting smile, then promptly sat down on his lap and gave him a hello kiss, Henry was flabbergasted.
The rubber corset that Betty wore left little unsaid. Her pink bottom peeped out from the underside of the garment, and her juvenile breasts squeezed forth from the top. And when she climbed from his lap, performed a graceful pirouette, Henry's desires reached their zenith. His eyes bloated; he bristled with the expectancy of a young schoolboy.
Rita was pleased with the effect that young Betty Juneau had on Henry. With the sound tapes in her possession, she expected no real resistance from him; but, on the other hand, if he 'joined the club', so to speak that is: became a happy prey of the 13 year old then things would go all the smoother. And this was exactly the way it was happening. "What do you think of my little prot‚g‚, Henry?" He didn't answer immediately, being too preoccupied with the way in which the straps of the corset bit into the youngster's firm thighs. But now, with the nymphet standing in front of him, with her dark impish eyes fixed on his, he listened to Rita repeat her question, and he said: "I think she's the cutest thing I've ever seen."
"I'm jealous," she chided. "Downright jealous."
"And you should be," he said, taking Betty's hand and drawing her against his knee. "She's beautiful."
The 13 year old stammered out a "thank you", and with Henry's coaxing she returned to his lap.
Rita said, "You two get acquainted. I'm going to make some sandwiches and something to drink." And then she disappeared to the kitchen.
For a while at least, from what Rita could observe from the kitchen Henry behaved like the proverbial paternal grandfather. He held her to his lap, bound her with his arms, and they talked about school, about what she would become when she grew up.
To the outsider, it might have seemed a touching scene; but Rita knew Henry, his flair for perversions, his classic desire for the younger set; therefore, she wasn't surprised when the 'touching scene' became a 'touching game'.
From her outpost in the kitchen, Rita heard the young girl giggling; and when she glanced to the living room, she saw that Henry was discovering the girl's ticklish "spots", poking his curious fingers first in her ribs, then at her breast, and more boldly, between her thighs.
The young girl was not alarmed by the games he had devised; in fact, she responded by tickling him back in some of the very same places. Rita encouraged their game, conveniently providing Henry with more drink, and then conveniently disappearing to the kitchen.
When she again looked into the living room, Henry was on all fours', giving his precious nymphet a horsy-back ride. However, the half-naked child was scissored around his neck rather than straddled over his back, and the effect was ludicrous. Ludicrous until Henry lost his balance and they rolled over on the floor. His face ended up between her thighs; it came as no surprise to Rita when he then began to kiss that which was closest to his lips. Nor did it surprise Rita when the child suddenly stopped giggling, when the only sound in the room was her rasping, emotion-filled breathing.
It was obvious to Rita that the 13 year old was pleased with her new-found experiment with sex. But then, because she was young and coy, a devilish flirt, Betty squirmed from Henry's grasp, ran from him and dared him to catch her.
Henry was no match for the game of catch-and-tag. She skittered from corner to corner, ducking behind chairs, circling the divan, always being one step ahead of Henry's frantic grabs at space.
He finally captured her by leaping over the back of the divan, seizing her wrist and wrestling her to the floor. Amidst screams and giggling, he lifted her to his lap, and then they began talking in hushed tones; Rita continued with the sandwiches.
She set the sandwiches on a plastic tray, closed the cupboards. Suddenly, Henry burst into the kitchen. He seized Rita by the arm and guided her toward the back door. His eyes were filled with fright.
"For the love of heaven, Rita, why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"That girl, that's what." He ran his hands dejectedly through his hair. "Of all the goddamn situations to get into...."
"What is it, Henry?"
Henry smacked his forehead in exasperation. "My God, woman! Doesn't the name Betty Juneau mean one single thing to you? Are you that much of an idiot?"
Juneau? Juneau? What had it meant? Rita pondered.
"Her stepfather just happens to be Paul Juneau, and Paul Juneau, my ignorant little bitch, happens to be the Chief of Police of Temple City!" He gulped down a shot of whiskey, then another. "What the hell d'ya think is going to happen when he finds out about this?"
Rita's flesh prickled with alarm. Her face whitened. She shot an uneasy glance toward the young girl, seated on the living room divan; but then she remembered the tape recording confession, and she thought: 'Chief of Police, and he's a pervert. The biggest of all." Her eyes mocked Henry Ridgewood's trembling alarm. The frown she wore was displaced by a cunning smile. She said, "Don't worry about it, Henry."
"Don't worry about it? Rita, how can you...."
"You see, Henry, it's this way. Once upon a time there was a tape recorder...."
On the following day, Henry phoned Rita on at least six different occasions. He hadn't been able to sleep the previous night. His nerves were shot, he said; Paul Juneau was not a man to tangle with.
Rita was unimpressed. She had seen the Chief of Police when he appeared on a TV broadcast: a dark-eyed blimp of a man whose gross corpulence suggested a beer baron of the 30's. He did not excel as a public speaker, and in Rita's opinion his gruff semi-illiterate overtures sounded like the rumblings of a cheap hood. But Rita was not frightened by him, simple logic telling her: She would not bother him; he, in turn, would not bother her.
None of this was particularly consoling to Henry Ridgewood. His own shadow was a thing to be wary of, and his gloomy prophesy was that they were getting in deep water, that Rita and her crazy fashion shop would be their death knell.
Surged with an even grimmer determination, she spent the week interviewing and selecting more teenage girls. Having learned the value of a tape recorder, she recorded these interviews and dug for family skeletons. And by acting like a teenager herself, encouraging the girls with a few vodkas, she was able to learn which of them had fooled around with boys, and to what degree. She anticipated no trouble; the tape recorded "confessions" were simply additional insurance.
In the meantime, she allowed her apartment to become a hangout for the teenagers. If they didn't cut school and come there during the morning, then they drifted and collected there in the afternoon and evening.
Their presence made Rita feel younger. And she fitted easily into their crowd; it was no great task to comb out her long dark hair and act like one of them, to don short-shorts and bobby sox, to be a swinger, to smoke with them, drink with them even wrestle with them, if the occasion called for it; and it was no small wonder that they called her "regular" or "coo!" and jibingly referred to her as "mother".
Some of the gatherings grew noisy, and when the janitor finally had to complain, Rita settled their differences with a twenty-dollar bill. There was more where that came from, she told him; and then rubbing against him before she closed the door on him, she added: "...a lot more!"
On Friday, Rita decided to sponsor a party for her teenage friends. Her store would have its grand opening in just one more week; the party would be a sort of pre-opening celebration. She sent out invitations to her teenage models and suggested they might bring a friend, if they liked. She also phoned Henry, told him that things were going great.
"But they won't be," he said gloomily, "once you open that store."
She laughed. "Henry-Henry, quite contrary...."
"All right. You'll see."
She laughed again. "Rain bringer. Crepe hanger."
"Okay.. . okay."
"Lis'n, Henry. The reason I called is this: I'm having a real swinger of a party tomorrow night. Gonna hit the ceiling, if you know what I mean, and I thought that maybe you'd like to come."
"Thank you, no," be said coldly.
"But Henry, you don't know what you're missing.
I'm having all my little teenage models here, and their boyfriends ... and we're gonna eat and drink...." She decided to tease him. " ... and then we're gonna take off all our clothes ... are you listening, Henry?"
"You're out of your mind!"
"Be original, Henry darling. Everybody is out of their mind. But I'm gonna be out of my clothes ... and tomorrow night." She giggled. "Are you sure you won't reconsider?" And he was dying to, she thought
"Rita...."
"And I'll have the kind you like, Henry. Soft and young and tender ... oh, and one more thing: Willing."
"Rita, you're headed for a pack of trouble. What are you trying to prove?"
"Prove?" She laughed haughtily. 'Only that the flesh is weak, Henry. Would you care to test that theory?"
"Rita, for chrissakes!...."
"And if you're coming, Henry, stop at the drug store, huh? We wouldn't want Temple City's Law Director knocking up one of our little teeners, now would we?" Still laughing, she hung up. And now her wickedness took a turn for the worse. Pills that came from a dark brown bottle confidence pills brought evil in disastrous tides, led Rita to ruin.
By seven o'clock Saturday night, Rita was ready for hell. She had stocked a plentiful supply of gin, vodka, bourbon, beer for those who preferred it; there was also two cases of wash; cold cuts for those who grew hungry. They were too young to drink, but the drug had numbed Rita's logic.
She was bristling with excitement, humming while she applied make-up and worked with her hair; actually whistling when she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Some of her exotic clothing had arrived ahead of schedule, and for her role as hostess, she had decided to wear one of the dresses.
Examing the curvy excitement that the dress added to her body, she was filled with pride. Made of white satin, Oriental in flavor, it swooped to fetching depths at her bosom and was slit on both sides all the way to the line of her hips. The slits were held loosely together by thin bands of red sequins and as Rita turned, first one way and then another, she saw that great expanses of ivory thigh were exposed. The kids would really get a charge of out it, she thought. And maybe much more.
Frowning slightly, she wondered if she shouldn't have worn something underneath the dress, but remembering how tight it fit her, the battle it had been to get it on, she thought the hell with it. And if her breasts, unencumbered by a brassiere, jiggled when she walked, so what? The boys would get excited, they'd start goofing around with their girlfriends hell, the dress was better stimulus than any aphrodisiac.
At seven-thirty, the first of the teenage crowd began to arrive: Lee Patterson and her boyfriend, Joel Harris. They chorused their acclaim for her startling satin dress; Joel was hypnotized by her red patent shoes.
Rita led them to the kitchen for an initial round of drinks; and she swung her lush buttocks for Joel's approval: a slight case of contributing to the delinquency of a minor. But the curly-haired youth didn't mind. Not at all. He flashed her an eager smile and when Rita reached across the table for the olives, she could feel his intent gaze: dark eyes that raked the daring neckline of her dress and sought the rosy hue of her nipples.
Then, as if to confirm that he had, indeed, seen those nipples, he said: "You sure look cool, Rita. like wild!"
She thanked him, and not without deducing the tingle of jealousy in Lee's momentary loss of smile. But it would be nice to have him, she thought; to have his broad young body sweeping over her. And now if she could just get Lee occupied by another boy.. .
"I'll betcha you haven't got anything on underneath that dress," Lee whispered into her ear.
"And you're right!" Rita said out loud; and then appraising Lee's tight-fitting maroon slacks, she added: "But I'm not the only one, am I?"
Lee laughed, hugged herself to Joel's arm.
"Here's to a real blast," Rita said, lifting her glass; and the drinks were gulped down non-stop, there was another round, then another; and some two hours later, it was a "blast', indeed.
At least 20 teenagers had showed up for the party, and most of them, by now, were slightly 'smashed'. Even 13-year-old Betty Juneau had found her way to the gin bottle, and though her first few drinks had been hesitant ones, she was consuming the stuff now as though it were going out of style.
None of the other girls present had let the alcohol pass them by, either. 15 and 16 years old, they had reached various stages of alcoholic stupor and were game for anything. The first hour of the party had been devoted to merely getting acquainted, then it had swung to dancing and spin-the-bottle; but by now, sobriety was gone, and the boys and girls had paired off in different parts of the apartment to neck and fondle; resistance was now a nasty word.
Lee Patterson had sacked off in the corner with a newcomer to the group: a red-haired youth by the name of Tommy; and at the moment, Tommy was doing his best to divest Lee of her slacks. He had succeeded in lowering her zipper; his other hand was manipulating the warm mounds beneath her sweater.
Lee's boyfriend, Joel, was not to be left idle; He was being occupied by a tall bosomy, olive-skinned girl known as Lorraine. Joel had the girl pressed against the wall; the way he was squirming against her, it seemed to Rita that he might push her through the wall before he achieved his purpose.
The others in the crowd were of equal abandon: necking in great fervor on the divan, or seeking out the shadows beyond the center of the room; one couple had even deserted the rest for the privacy of Rita's bedroom.
Seeing all this orgy of excitement and the spending of passions left Rita weak with desire. And how ironic, she thought, that she who had sponsored this party was the only one without a partner. Even 13 year old Betty Juneau was now a participant, seated on some boy's lap, allowing the youth to feel her thighs, to raise her dress higher and higher, not caring in the least.
And there was Carlotta, a slim Italian girl of no more than 16 she was one of Rita's new models and who was currently modeling not clothes, but her body. This was being done in the narrow hallway that joined the front room with the kitchen, a dark vestibule that afforded two youth the chance to explore Carlotta's body at will, none of which seemed undesirable to her.
To Rita, who stumbled back and forth through their midst, this was frustration at its ultimate. Everywhere she looked, she saw young girls giving forth the charms of their bodies; moaning and sighing because it felt good, because they wanted more.
Carlotta's blouse and brassiere were off. One boy was licking one nipple; the other, a more demanding lad, was sucking the other breast most violently. The girl's eyes were closed; her hands were pressed to the backs of their heads.
Lee's slacks were now down to her knees. The red-haired boy was kissing her bare stomach. His kisses were going lower and lower.
Groans came from Rita's bedroom, but she was too hot with desire to look in on them. And there was enough here to see: Beck, a 15-year-old black-haired girl being disencumbered of her brassiere by a party-crashing youth named Vince; two other teenage girls, Nan and Vickie, having a contest for some boys: letting them decide which of them had the prettiest thighs; and Cora, a plump 14-year-old who had come, uninvited, along with Betty Juneau; at the moment, having her buttocks caressed by a boy, a dance that had no music and didn't particularly require music.
Rita's frustration became nervous agitation that, in turn, became anger. She stalked to the kitchen and swallowed two inches of bourbon. The sounds of fun and gaiety echoed from the front room, haunted her:
"Kiss me again, Ralph...."
"If you want me to take my bra off, please ask...."
"Ohhhbh, D-Danny ... D-Danny, don'tttttttt ... ohhhhhh!"
'We-are-thirsty. We-are-thirsty. We-are-thirsty...." I'll give you just 25 minutes to stop that...."
"I'm hot!"
Rita poured herself another splash of bourbon. She gulped it down. The hell with this, she thought. God helps those who help themselves. She stormed back to the living room. She looked for some sign of Joel Harris, the teenage boy who had earlier aroused her interest. She found him behind the divan, rising slowly from the dark-skinned girl: Lorraine. The girl's clothes were more off than on; Joel shook his head in disgust.
"Ain't that enough to tee you off!" he said, looking at Rita. "She passed out." He zipped up his trousers and stumbled to his feet. "Hotter'n a stray cat and she passed out."
Rita put out her hand for Joel's. "Which is just as well," she said. "I need some help in the kitchen. Wanna help?"
Joel was game. He stepped over Lorraine, came around the divan and followed Rita to the kitchen.
"One quick one before we go?" She gestured to the bourbon bottle.
Joel shrugged his massive shoulders. 'Why not?"
"Having fun?" Rita asked, pouring the bourbon.
The boy glanced forlornly back to the living room. "I was," he said "until jerky-ass passed out." His dark eyes licked the cleavage of Rita's dress. "What about you?"
Rita shrugged her shoulders dismally. "The party is for the kids not me," she answered. She forced a smile. "Bottoms up!"
Joel clicked glasses with her. They killed their drinks.
Rita said, 'Wow!"
"Potent, huh?"
"Kind of." Her eyes lingered on his broad young chest. "You ready?" she asked. "Where we going."
"To the basement."
Mischief danced in his dark eyes. "That sounds like a winner if I ever heard one." He grinned. "Mind telling me what we're gonna do in the basement?"
"Well...." She ran her hands through his dark curly hair. 'We are suppose to be going down there to look for more drinking glasses...."
"In the basement?"
"I've got a locker down there," she explained, "and I need somebody who's big and strong to help me carry the glasses back up. Savvy?"
"Yeah, I savvy." He grinned some more. His eyes played over the svelte lines of her body. Then, with the bourbon giving him added bravery, he said: "I always wanted to see your locker, anyway!"
Rita started to laugh, but a sudden wave of nausea spread over her. The enchantment caused by the drug was wearing off. She recognized the symptoms: a throbbing in her head and a sudden weakness in her legs. But the feeling would only be momentary, she knew; then the horrible drug would again take hold and her bubbling lassitude would return. But these moments, the temporary asylum to normalcy, left her weak and ashamed. She saw herself as others must see her: a shameless vixen who preyed on teenagers, who defiled them with her own evil lust
"Is something wrong, Rita?"
She gazed vacuously at the handsome teenage boy beside her. His dark eyes lurked at the bosom of her dress.
"No, Joel. Nothing is wrong." And as she said it, she felt the return of lassitude, the waning of concern. She was no better than the hopeless alcoholic, she thought; and like his kind, even knowing the harm of her weakness, she was powerless to do anything about it. The drug did this to her; it was doing it now.
"Are we still going to the basement?" Joel asked. She said: "And why not?"
CHAPTER ll
The pills might be a source of success, Rita reasoned, but they were also transforming her into a hopeless sex fiend: Now she wanted Joel.
"You got the flashlight?"
"Naturally. Only how come your crumby janitor don't fix the lights?"
They were in the basement. Rita was leading the way toward the lockers just beyond the wash tubs. "How do I know?" she asked.
"A guy could break his neck down here, in all this darkness." He was at her side, guiding the flashlight to a string of wooden-fenced lockers. "Which one is yours?"
"The one down at the end." She led the way and opened its creaky wooden door. Joel followed her inside.
His flashlight swept the box-littered eight-by-ten cubicle, came to rest on a dilapidated, porcelain-topped kitchen table. Rita pointed to the line of shelves overlooking the table.
"They're on the top shelf," she said.
He started to hand her the flashlight. "Which box?" he said.
"You'd never find 'em in a million years." She climbed onto the table. It wobbled under her weight "You'd better hold me," she whispered.
She stood up. Joel wrapped one of his massive arms around her calves. Rita felt a quick tinge of desire. She raised to her tip-toes, began looking in the cardboard cartons.
"That's no job for a girl," he hissed.
Rita didn't answer him. Being on the table was a part of her plan. Joel was far too inexperienced to simply make a pass at her, so she had to encourage him, stimulate him as it was; and her present position was calculated to do exactly that. Being on top of the table, bent forward at an awkward angle, the short Oriental party dress exposed plenty! And Joel didn't have to tell her that he was looking under her dress; the beam of the flashlight told the story a beam of light that probed the darkness between her parted thighs.
"You find 'em?" he said weakly.
Rita detected the change in his voice, and while she could have instantly put her hands on the glasses, she decided to tease him a while longer.
"I was certain I put them on this top shelf." She flashed a glance at the boy. His face colored; he re-aimed the flashlight.
"You want me to look?"
"No, I'll find em." She turned away before he could see her wry proud smile.
Now, and learning as far forward as she dared, she balanced herself on one shoe, assumed an arabesque-like stance a position that left nothing to his imagination, that exposed her in the fullest. One leg was straight, the other extended straight out and behind her. Her satiny short dress climbed several inches above her knees; Joel's befuddlement and excitement was at its peak.
"I found them," she said at last. "They were right in front of me." She handed Joel a dusty carton, waited until he had set them down, then extended her arms.
"Gonna help me down?"
"Naturally, naturally." He raised his muscular arms.
Rita descended to him like a cobra gliding down the trunk of a tree. She slithered against him, clung against his muscular hardness. The impact of the moment, the touch of their bodies, was electric in its response. Rita merely looked at him wistfully. She said nothing, made no effort to unlock herself from his embrace; and suddenly Joel bent his head down and kissed her.
Dr. Grossman's strange pills had unlocked part of Rita's dark desires; but now a 16-year-old boy unlocked the rest. And with his hot young mouth pressed against her and his lean muscular hardness surging forward, Rita gave vent to her tortured emotions.
In a slow, teasing undulation of hips and pelvis, she rubbed herself against the boy's body. He gasped and gasped again when Rita forced her tongue between his lips to reach the boy's. He crushed Rita with new awareness. And now his uninhibited love-making led Rita to even more lascivious abandon. She pressed closer, moaned when his hand dropped and touched the curvy softness of one breast
"Ohhhh, Joel! Joel, you shouldn't...." But she didn't mean it; not in the least
And the boy sensed it. He squeezed the front of her white satin dress. His fingers found and pinched her nipple. Rita moaned more loudly.
"Joel...." She had to stop him; an inner fear nagged at her, told her it was wrong. But now his hands had dropped behind her, cupped the chaotic, twisting churn of her buttocks, urged her against him.
She felt the strength of his lean hard body, his youth, the fire of his passion; slowly the resistance drained from her arms. She couldn't help herself; and she knew it was shameful: a 25-year-old woman and this teenage boy; but the tormenting desire was there, the moment, the darkness; and she let it happen.
Joel's hands ran up and down her body and produced a chain of hot thrills in her loins. He sought a fastener on the dress, moaned in anguish when he failed to locate it. Rita helped him, guided his hand to the zipper at the side.
"Ohhhh, Rita!" His hand sneaked through the unlocked zipper, found the hotness of Rita's bare waist.
Rita shuddered. Her desire was mounting by leaps and bounds. She ground her body against the youth: a pumping motion that defined her want.
The boy was equally impatient. His hand left her waist, traveled upward through the slit-like opening of her dress and squeezed down hard on her breast.
Rita could take no more. The dress was a hindrance. She backed the youth away and removed the dress. He heard the rustle of the satin. He sucked in his breath.
"I wish I could see you," he whispered out of the darkness.
Rita gazed at the dim outline of the boy. His features were vague; only the white of his T-shirt was plainly defined.
"I could let you turn the flashlight on," she said mischievously. And now the madness took complete possession of her: "But since you can't see me, Joel, you can still feel me...." She heard him moving toward her, smelled the animal of youth. "...and maybe feeling is even better than...."
He seized her from the darkness. His brute strength surprised her. Her breath was cut off by his violent embrace. His mouth was hot, demanding. Nipping kisses brought gasps of pain from her lips; yet she liked it. liked it and wanted more. And Joel gave it to her.
His biting kisses left their mark on the satiny warmth of her throat, on the trembling hollows of her neck; on the blossoming nectar of her breasts.
He went crazy when his lips reached her nipples: a boy salvaging all the delicious sweetness of love from this never-to-be-forgotten interlude of evil His tongue savored the pink hardness of her nipples; again and again, he squashed her splendid breasts against his perspiration-soaked face.
Rita was beyond caring. Never in her life had she been met with such frenzy. Never in her life would she have believed that a teenage boy could bring her such joyful and electrifying hotness. And while his eager mouth labored the lush fullness of her breasts, his hands were equally industrious with the rest of her anatomy.
Rita's passion carried her over into near stupor. The lad knew all the erogenous zones the forbidden ones, the practiced ones. Rita moaned. Her passivity gave way to aggression: She unbuttoned his shirt as fast as she could. In another minute, she was fumbling with his belt.
"Do you want to?" he asked.
His superfluous remark brought a smile to Rita's lips. She attributed the misplaced question to his youth. She said:
"Do you?"
"If you do."
The silence was awkward. Finally, Rita said: "Well, we've got all our clothes off and...."
"Where."
"Huh?"
"Where?" he asked. "Where can we do it?" Rita blinked at the darkness. She hadn't thought of that, and the floor was littered with cartons. She said, "The table."
"Huh?"
"On the table. It's better than nothing." She boosted herself to its cold porcelain top. The boy shuffled toward her. He fumbled with his clothing.
"Hurry. I'm cold."
"You'll never make me believe that."
"What?"
"That you're cold." He circled her waist, manipulated himself to the awkward stance that would make it possible. Rita helped him, at the same time suffered misgivings, the slight subsiding of passion. She felt guilt, remorse, considerable shame. But now it was happening; now it was too late.
He moaned loudly when the union of their bodies was complete; but Rita continued to experience misgivings, and the thought passed her mind: Why am I here like this? What in God's name is wrong with me?
"Is it all right?" Joel asked, and now he had stopped and his brooding eyes were searching for the expression in her face and because she hadn't gasped or moaned, said something nice, he was afraid that he was not enough.
Rita placated his doubts. She was glad that they were in such total darkness and glad, indeed, that he could not see the wincing that contorted her face. But she told him it was all right; yes, it was just fine.
"But hurry," she pleaded, and then she had to hope that he hadn't read the real meaning of those words that she wanted to get it over with, that she was just a little sorry it had ever started.
The boy checked his movements during their brief conversation; now, with his confidence restored, he again began the slow back-and-forth ballet of love.
Rita had looked eagerly forward to this moment: the boy and her; but now that it was happening a mechanical thing, at best she was disappointed by her inability to respond. Seconds ago, when they were just goofing around, she'd been hot enough to cook an egg on; now there was nothing, just his labored breathing, the sounds of love.
She blamed this response on a number of things: The cold damp basement, the hard table, the shameful gap in their ages. Nevertheless, she pretended excellently. She clutched at his naked back, raked her nails over his flesh, groaned and moaned, rocked to and fro to the sway of the table and the rhythm of his body.
A less experienced youth would never have guessed, but Joel been around and his seductions of teenage girlfriends must have been numerous. He said:
"What's wrong, Rita?"
"There's nothing wrong. Just hurry."
"But there is. You're not enjoying this. I can tell."
She didn't answer him. How could she tell him what was wrong when she didn't even know herself.
She said, "Please hurry. I need you."
He didn't argue. He came at her with new vigor, forceful thrusts that might have been calculated to hurt that certainly did hurt.
Rita muffled her scream, her pain. It didn't seem possible that a teenage boy could exert such force, such brute strength. She joined his movements, guided his hands to her breasts, felt the beginning of enjoyment; but each time that feeling threatened to engulf her, to take her to the sweet mysteries of erotica, something happened and the feeling faded. She was disappointed enough to cry, but she held it back. And Joel? Joel could hold nothing back not any longer.
He squeezed her buttocks with a fiercer determination. His breathing was broken. His thrusts were more savage.
"H-honey! Ohhhhh!"
"C'mon, Joel! C'mon!" she sought his mouth. "Honey?" The question: Was she ready. "Yes ... yes ... yes!! ! ! ! ! "
Misery and pleasure exploded. His bull-like strength swept her over on her back. The table rocked precariously, scraped and grated against the concrete floor. Rita locked her arms around the boy's neck. She kissed him. The boy let out a giant sigh.
"Ohhhh, Rita ... Rita...." And then he was silent, sprawled atop her, and silent.
Rita held the boy to her breasts: a mother comforting her young. She held him and rocked him gently, kissed his forehead, the feverish moistness of his face.
And then the commotion: Somebody hurrying down the basement stairs. Voices.
Rita pushed Joel from atop her. She slipped her dress over her head; Joel climbed into his pants.
"Rita ... Rita, are you down here?" It was Carlotta, one of the teenagers from her party.
"Be out in a minute," Rita called. She swept her hair into place, straightened her dress.
"Now I wonder what they were up to," Carlotta said to the youth beside her when Rita and Joel emerged from the locker.
"We were looking for glasses," Joel said with a snicker, tuning on the flashlight.
Carlotta smiled cynically. "Well I hate to disturb you, BUT...." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. ... there's a man on the telephone and he wants to talk to Rita and he says it's urgent"
Without knowing why, Rita felt a stab of coldness. Who could be calling her at this hour? And why was it "urgent"?
"Didn't he say who it was?"
"He didn't say anything. He just said it was important and to get you."
Rita didn't like it; she didn't like it at all. She hurried upstairs, the others behind her. An unexplained fear pricked her with goose bumps. But why fear? She hadn't known fear for weeks. Why now?
She picked up the phone. It was Henry.
"Rita. You've got to clear the place out. And fast."
"What?"
"Your party. Get everybody out of there."
"But why?"
"Don't ask questions now. Just do as I say."
"But...."
"NOW, Rita. NOWWWWW."
"Can't you tell me what's wrong."
"I'll call you back."
"When?'
"After everybody is gone. But get them out of there!"
Henry hung up. And now the fear was back. Fear and weakness. Fear, fear, fear...