The tires squealed in the gravel as Jerry turned from the highway. Sandra braced herself against the door for a moment. Then as the car settled into the ruts of the narrow road, she opened the side vent and leaned back. The rushing wind cooled her flushed-warm face. From the comer of her eye, she saw Jerry loosen his tie.
The night was filled with cricket-sounds, and bugs hummed in the dense undergrowth. The headlights seemed strange in the tunnel formed by the dipping trees. Sandra heard splashing sounds in the water that now lay only a few feet from the road. Frogs croaked steadily. She moved closer to Jerry. It always scared her a little to come out here at night.
"Christ, I can't wait for something cold to drink," Jerry said.
"You'd think it would have cooled off by this time of night," Sandra said. She leaned forward into the wind and felt the sweat matting her blouse to her back.
"This damn swamp holds the heat in," Jerry said. "I hate coming out to this hole. There are half a dozen better after-hours places around."
"But this is the most exciting one," Sandra said. She wondered what her father would say if he could see her out here.
They rounded a deep curve, and the lights from the small building startled her. The parking lot was filled with old cars and pick-up trucks. Jerry parked next to a battered green truck whose doors were held on with bailing wire. He pulled his tie off before getting out.
"A hundred people from the dance are at decent honky-tonks, and you insist on coming out here to spend Saturday night drinking with these farmers," Jerry said. He climbed from the car and slammed his door.
Sandra watched him stalk around the car. As he opened her door, she slid across the seat a couple of inches, and her skirt slipped high above her knees. She looked up and saw Jerry staring at her legs. He really was attractive, she told herself. Tall and blond. Crew-cut and tanned. He looked like he would have been a star in the interfraternity football league in college, but hadn't been interested in going out for varsity ball.
"I've always had a weakness for farmers and lawyers," she said, sweetly, as she climbed out. She flicked his nose with her finger.
"I hope you remember that later," he said, and took her hand.
They walked through the parking lot, and Sandra kicked at large pieces of gravel. The garbled talking sounds were loud. The jukebox blared on, and, over the guitars and saxophones, someone was singing.
Sandra glanced at the swamps all around. Something squealed and it cut through the talk and music.
"This seems the end of nowhere," Sandra said, squeezing Jerry's hand. "And yet, the old air base is only a quarter mile through the swamp."
"But it's ten miles on the road," he said. "Of course, if you're so bored with your life you like coming out here to Hank's, we could walk to the air base through the swamp later. You should find that different."
"There may be lots of things different later tonight," she said.
Jerry stopped outside the door. "Look, let's just pick up a bottle and leave," he said.
"I've been looking forward to coming here," Sandra said. "And I can stay out late, because Daddy is away tonight. Please be patient with me just a few minutes, and then we'll be alone." She put her hand to his cheek and circled his lips with the tip of her finger.
Jerry kissed the finger, then took her hand in his. "Alright, Sandy," he said. "You're worth being patient for. You look great tonight." He took a step back and stared at her. "The way that outfit accentuates your body. No wonder you were Miss University last year."
Sandra smiled and squeezed Jerry's hand. "I wish you'd talk to me like that more often," she said.
"Just wait until we park later," he said. Then he pushed open the screen door.
The talking stopped as they walked in. They stood by the door a moment. Smoke hung thick and low, and all four booths, and the stools at the counter were filled. Sandra saw the men in jeans and overalls staring openly at her. For a moment, she wondered if she should have come out here to this place in such a tight skirt and blouse.
Then Hank said something to a man at the bar. The man stood up. "Got a seat for you," Hank called.
Jerry led Sandra through the men, and she sat down on the tall wooden stool. Jerry stood behind her. The men started talking once more.
"Nice of you folks to drive way out here," Hank said.
"Especially on a hot night like this. What'll cool you off best?"
Sandra glanced at Hank a moment. He stared back at her, his thin face showing no emotion, his hard blue eyes unmoving.
"I guess we'll stick to gin," Jerry said. "Is that okay with you, Sandy?"
"That's fine," she said. "And lots of ice."
"A fifth of gin, Hank," Jerry said. "Couple of sodas and a bowl of ice."
"Coming right up," Hank said. He set a fifth of gin on the bar.
Sandra turned and smiled slightly at Hank. To her surprise, his usually expressionless face rippled with a slight smile.
As Jerry mixed their drinks, Sandra looked around at the tall, greasy jars of pickled pigs feet and sausages and pickled eggs on a shelf behind the bar. There was a string of colored Christmas lights with a few strands of silver icicles. A huge, old silver cash register. And a ten-year-old calendar with a girl in a bathing suit.
There was a cracked mirror above the cabinet, and Sandra stared at her reflection a moment. At first, her image was caught in the crack, and her face was distorted and twisted, one eye slanting upward, her lips curling into a grotesque snarl. She shifted her head slightly. The large brown eyes looked back at her. Her short-cropped chestnut hair glistened. She saw herself nibble an instant at her full lips.
Sandra smiled at her vanity in admiring what everyone said was a beautiful face. Then she looked down at a gaudy punch-board on the counter. It offered boxes of candy for the lucky punches. When Sandra looked up, she realized the man who had given her his seat was staring at her.
"Thank you for the seat," she said.
"Always glad to give a seat to a lady," the man said.
Sandra smelled whiskey on his breath. He moved a step nearer to her. For an instant, she felt uneasy. But she knew both Jerry and Hank were there.
"You must be from town," the man said.
"Yes, I am," Sandra said. She looked at the man. He was tall and thin. His blond hair was grey-streaked, and hung over his ears. He needed a shave. Watery blue eyes peered at her.
Sandra felt Jerry's hand on her arm. "Here's your drink," he said. He stepped around, so that he was nearer the man.
"Didn't use to, no folks come out from town," the man said. "Maybe to stop by the window out back and buy whiskey, but not to come in and drink. But then I been gone a long time. Guess things change."
"I guess so," Sandra said. She picked up her drink and took a deep swallow. It was so cold it made her teeth ache. She drank again.
"My name's Jessie," the man said, leaning closer to her. "Jessie Reddoch."
Sandra did not look at him. She wished he would leave them alone. But he had given her his seat.
"Look, buddy," Jerry said.
Sandra glanced at Jerry. "It's alright," she said. She turned again to the man. He was staring at her so intently it startled her. She swallowed.
"My name's Sandra," she said. "And this is Jerry."
"Well, I'm pleased to meet you," the man said. "You know, I used to work in town long time ago. Had good job. Was all set up. Then had me some bad luck and got chased away. Might know your folks, though. What's your daddy's name?"
Sandra sipped the cold gin, and savored its taste for a moment before swallowing it. She sighed. Jerry must be getting furious, she told herself.
"My name's Sandra Blake," she said. "Paul Blake is my father."
"Paul Blake!" the man shouted. His mouth fell open, and he seemed to gasp.
Jerry stepped between him and Sandra.
"Paul Blake's girl sitrin' right here, Hank," the man said, as he turned to the bar. "You remember what Blake done to me all them years ago."
"Don't you start a fuss in here, Jessie," Hank said.
The man turned back to Sandra. "Your daddy got me run out of town," he said. "Cost me the only decent job I ever had. I come back here after all these years to even the score with him."
The man's lips were shaking, and he seemed unsteady on his feet. The place was deadly quiet, and Sandra knew everyone was watching her.
"You settle whatever you have to with Mr. Blake," Jerry said. "Leave Sandy alone."
Hank came around the end of the bar, and put his hand on Reddoch's shoulder. "You've had too much to drink," he said. "You get on out of here. You're not going to start any trouble in my place."
"What you runnin' me off for, Hank?" the man asked. "These here's my folks. What right these town people got out here? Her daddy got me run out of town all them years ago, now she gets me run out tonight." Reddoch took a step toward Sandra, and she shrank backward, her stomach drawn into a knot.
Hank punched Reddoch in the stomach, a hard blow that caused him to gasp. Reddoch turned and staggered slowly from the bar. Hank followed him a few feet, then watched as he stumbled to the door.
The men in the booth watched him, too. And a couple of them glanced back at Sandra. Jerry put his arm around her.
Reddoch stopped at the door. Leaned against the wall and breathed deeply. "Hank, you done broke a rib, or somethin'," he said. "That fist of yours is like a club."
"You come back tomorrow and I'll give you a drink and we'll forget all about this," Hank said.
"We'll forget it 'tween us," Reddoch said. "But I ain't forgettin' 'bout the Blakes." He grabbed his side, pushed open the screen door and went outside. The door clapped shut sharply.
Sandra and Jerry drank silently for a moment. Sandra's heart was pounding so hard she thought it would leap from her chest.
Hank came back around the bar. "Don't let Jessie bother you, Sandy," he said. "He always was just plain sorry. Always been a troublemaker." Hank stared at Sandra a moment, a funny sort of look that nearly made her blush. "But don't you worry," he said. "Nobody is going to hurt you while you're here in my place."
"I know, Hank," Sandra said. "But what did he mean about my father doing something to him a long time ago?"
Hank shrugged. "Don't really know," he said. "I don't mess in what goes on in town."
"How 'bout some bologna and cheese, Hank?" someone called from a booth.
"Excuse me a minute, folks," Hank said.
Sandra watched him walk toward a door at the side of the bar. She always thought of Hank as being slim, but she noticed he was actually well-built, his muscles hard and wiry.
Hank disappeared into the other room, which was a small grocery store. It was Hank's "legal" reason for being in business.
Sandra sipped her drink without enthusiasm. Why did people always have to blame her for things her father did? She knew he was ruthless and needed no one. But she could not help that.
"Let's get out of this damn place," Jerry said. He finished his drink, and put some money on the bar.
"Yes, let's go," she said. "I'm sorry this happened, Jerry. But you know how often people come on to me about my father."
Jerry ordered a sack of ice and a half dozen sodas. Hank put the stuff and the bottle in a sack. Jerry picked up the sack, took Sandra's hand and led her from the bar.
"Always glad to see you folks," Hank called, as the screen door banged behind them.
They walked silently to the car. Jerry opened the door for her and she got in. She looked through the window and saw Jessie Reddoch leaning against the green pick-up with bailing wire. He was staring at her.
As Jerry got in and flicked the starter, she started to tell him Reddoch was there. But Jerry was already upset with her, and they would be gone in a minute.
Jerry rammed the gear into reverse and shot the car backward. Then he threw it into low and gravel flew from beneath the car as he dragged toward the swamproad.
Jerry threw his cigarette from the window and kissed Sandra again. She opened her lips, but did not respond.
She felt his hand on her shoulder. Then the hand moved down, and squeezed her breast through the blouse. With his other hand, he was rubbing over her knee. Up the inside of her leg. She shifted slightly, and moved one leg over the other, to keep his hand from her thigh.
His tongue was licking at hers, and without enthusiasm, she flicked her tongue back and forth. She twisted her breast slightly into his grasping hand.
Once more, he tried to open her blouse. She did not stop him this time. His fingers trembled slightly as he unfastened the buttons. He pulled the blouse from her skirt, and she felt cooler as he tugged the blouse off.
He turned and laid it on the seat beneath the steering wheel. Sandra sighed, and heaved her breasts. She glanced down at the stark white bra accentuating her deeply tanned skin.
As Jerry moved to her again, she leaned forward. He slipped his hands behind her, and rubbed her sweating back for a moment. Then he skated his fingers over the moist, smooth skin to the tight bra straps. He had trouble with the fastener, and she felt him tugging desperately.
Then the snap gave. The bra fell open, and her breasts surged forward. He peeled the flimsy white band off, and the breasts spilled out, huge, pale mounds contrasting with the tanned skin. For a moment, he merely stared at the breasts, licking his lips slowly.
Sandra shifted slightly, heaving her breasts at him. She smiled at the comers of her lips. She sometimes thought her breasts were too large for her slim figure. But boys always went crazy over them, especially the too-large, round, red nipples.
Jerry lowered his head, and his lips were warm and wet on a nipple. She moved her breasts against his lips, and the nipple swelled in his mouth. She took a long swallow of gin, and threw the paper cup from the window.
His fingers tickled slowly up the inside of her leg. Over the warm thigh. He moved up from her breasts, and ground his lips against hers in a sucking kiss. His hand replaced his mouth, and he cupped and squeezed her breasts.
She returned the kiss, teasing the top of his mouth with her tongue. His fingers trailed up her thigh, and rubbed along the bottom of her panties. As he tried to pry beneath them, she twisted lazily, moving one thigh over the other to block him. He traced along the panty rim to her buttocks. Tried to pry beneath again. But she twisted back, and shifted her legs.
His breath was warm on her face. He was playing with her breasts with both hands, and kissing her fiercely, and she bit his tongue gently, and heard him gasp.
She petted with him mechanically now, using the techniques she knew so well from years of experience. She liked the way her breasts felt when he nuzzled her nipples. Liked for his fingers to tickle her thighs. She had such control over herself from her experience, that she could let herself enjoy the petting to whatever point she wanted, then stop it.
Jerry was nearly gasping for breath now, and she thought it funny that his loud, steady breathing blended with the bug and cricket sounds in the swamp a few yards away.
Once more, she twisted her legs to keep his hands from beneath her panties. He moved his lips from her breasts. Sat up.
"Dammit, Sandy," he said. His face was white and sweat stood on his forehead. "Don't you ever stop playing these petting games? You graduated from college two months ago. You're not a child anymore."
"I need a drink," she said.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, and leaned back over the seat. In a minute, he gave her a paper cup.
She took a deep swallow. Made a face. There was too much gin.
"Why, I believe you're trying to get me drunk," she said.
"Would that make you act more like a woman?" he asked.
"Don't start that again, Jerry," she said. She took a couple of quick, nervous sips. "You know that makes me angry. You're just like my father at times."
"Your damn father," Jerry said. "He's a convenient excuse for everything. I get tired of having to put up with him and you."
"Then, why have you wasted all summer dating me?" she asked. She drank the gin again, shuddering at the taste. Suddenly, she felt terrible. Out at Hank's, she had thought she might go all the way with Jerry tonight. But the evening had turned out as it always did. He got excited, and angry. And he made her angry. She finished the drink in a long, terrible swallow, which almost did not go down.
"Another," she said, and handed him the cup.
"Don't push me, Sandy," he said. But he took the cup and fixed her another drink.
He sat silently, gasping out his breath, as she finished the drink in deep swallows. She had been foolish to think of going all the way with Jerry, she told herself. He reminded her of her father. But he was not strong like her father.
Maybe her father did not need her or care anything about her. But out here in her world, parking and drinking and petting, she didn't need anyone. Out here, people needed her. If Jerry had talked to her, or been tender with her, well, she might feel differently. But he had dated her all this time just to add her to his list of conquests.
She threw the cup from the window and turned to him. She put her arms around his neck, looked directly into his eyes and ran her tongue around her mouth.
He cupped both her breasts and squeezed so hard he hurt her. But she enjoyed the pain in a strange way, and did not make him move his hands.
"I'm going to make a damn woman out of you," he challenged.
She smiled. A strange, small smile on the comers of her lips. "Daddy says I'm not a woman either," she said.
He pulled her to him, and mashed his lips against hers, and worked his tongue in her mouth. He was rough with her breasts, and stroked the tight, sore nipples with his fingernails. She moaned and streaked her nails down his back.
For fifteen minutes, he hurt her breasts and kissed her desperately with sucking lips, while she drove him frantic with her tongue and teeth and lips. Her fingers were everywhere. His back. His hair. His ear. Then suddenly, rubbing up the inside of his thigh.
And she moved her legs and thighs to keep his hands from her panties. He was in a frenzy, and she knew he could hardly breath, and was caked with sweat. He had challenged her to be a woman, and she would show him how much of a man he was. Then something choked in her throat, and tears swelled in her eyes. She tore her lips from his, and put her head on his shoulder, hugging him.
"Oh, Jerry," she said. "I don't want to hurt you. I'm sorry. Oh, please, Jerry. Don't just want to make love to me and hurt me and not care anything about me."
"I don't understand you, Sandy," Jerry said. His breathing was so heavy and irregular, he could hardly talk. "You go from one mood to another so fast I can't follow you. Surely you don't think I'm only interested in making love to you. But we've dated for weeks, and you're driving me crazy with the way you pet. It's natural for us to make love. We're not school kids any longer."
"But not tonight, just not tonight," she said, sniffling. "I promise you that next time, I'll try. I really will. I wanted to try tonight, but then we met that man and I got upset about my father and all, and well I'm afraid you don't care anything about me."
"Hell, let's go home," he said, and tried to pull away from her.
"Just a minute, Jerry," she said. She sat back, and wiped at her tears. She tried to smile. Not the enigmatic smile, but an open, sweet smile. "I won't make love to you tonight, but please don't take me home hating me." She took his hand. Guided it to her thigh. "Do what you want to, as long as you don't expect me to go all the way," she said.
He stared at her a moment, then ran his fingers beneath the panties. He kissed her, and she responded. His hands worked desperately beneath the panties, and in a minute, he was gasping for breath again. It always overwhelmed boys when she let them do this. Alright, she would give him five minutes, and be gentle with him if he got excited. She would just never be ruthless like her father.
She heard the bugs and crickets. She wondered if she would ever be able to let a man have her. Perhaps she was too far gone, felt too safe with her petting. The gin was uneasy in her stomach and she was sweating. She did not want him to hurt her. She felt so terrible she wanted to die. Just get out of the car and walk into the swamp and never come back. But she petted mechanically, and told herself that soon she would be home in bed.
CHAPTER TWO
Sandra picked nervously at her food as her father finished his second helping of shrimp Creole.
"Best damn Creole I've ever had," he said. "Maybe we should get rid of Nettie and let you do all the cooking."
Sandra blushed and felt foolish. "Thank you, daddy," she said. Sunday was the cook's day off, and Sandra had fixed the shrimp, her father's favorite dish, as a surprise.
He poured more wine for them. She ate a couple of bites more, but she was not really hungry. She still felt a little queasy after all the gin last night.
She stood up. "I'll get coffee and dessert while you finish your wine," she said.
"What are we having for dessert?" he asked.
"Strawberry shortcake," she said.
"That's perfect," he said, sipping his wine.
Sandra hurried into the kitchen. Poured coffee from the electric pot. Fixed two portions of shortcake. A huge one, heaped with fresh whipped cream for her father, and a small piece for herself. Her father had finished his wine. He watched her intently as she served him, and she realized she was nervous.
"Your mother would be proud of you," he said, as she sat down.
"Thank you," she said. She felt good. In the ten years since her mother died, he had only said that to her a few times.
She sipped the coffee, and picked at the dessert as she had at the dinner, watching her father as he ate his shortcake in huge bites, and drank the coffee in deep gulps. All his movements were excessive.
She stared at his face. He was handsome, but even his features were excessive. His face was full and long, with thick lips. His hair was still black and bushy black brows bulged over his eyes. It was the eyes that dominated the face. Large black eyes that seemed bottomless. Eyes which seemed to burn into someone when he talked to them.
"Daddy " Sandra said hesitantly as he finished. "Last night I met a man named Jessie Reddoch who said he had some trouble with you a long time ago. I know you don't like to talk about that sort of thing, but well, he was drunk, and he upset me, and I just wondered...."
"Forget Reddoch," he said, and stood up. "He was a drunken fool. I've told you before that when you've had to fight as hard as I have to get to the top, you make lots of enemies."
"I'm sorry I upset you," she said. "Do you want me to bring some coffee into the den?"
"No, I've got to go out," he said, pausing at the door.
"Oh, Daddy," she said. "I had planned to spend the evening at home with you. We haven't had an evening together in a long time."
"I've got to drive over and see about the new subdivision we're building," he said. "I told you earlier I had to go out tonight. This was a good supper, Sandra. You've been acting more like a responsible young lady lately.
Tell you what. Why dbn't you go uptown and buy a new dress?"
"Thank you, Daddy," she said. She told herself she should have known his business was more important than she was. When would she ever learn not to be weak or seem to need him? He could not stand weakness.
As he walked from the room, she heard the phone ringing. She sipped at her coffee. It was tepid.
"It's for you, Sandra," her father called.
She walked slowly to the hall phone. It was Eddie. He wanted to take her out. She had turned down a date with Jerry, hoping her father would spend an evening at home after she fixed dinner for him. She hesitated.
"Come over to my house about nine," she said, finally. She hung the phone up. Walked back to the dining room and sat down and picked at her shortcake. She might as well let Eddie come over. Anything would be better than a night at home alone. She threw her fork down, and choked back a sob. Bolted from the table and down the hall thankful her father did not see her as she ran up the stairs to her room.
Eddie held Sandra tighter and twirled her around as the record ended. He moved his hand down and rubbed over her skin-tight shorts. Sanrda felt his heavy breathing on her face.
"Let's get a drink," she said, softly.
He pulled from her, and they walked from the terrace, through the French doors, into the den.
"Sit there on the couch," she said. "And I'll be bartender."
He sat on the couch and she went to the small bar. She took out gin and tonic and ice and lime. As she mixed the gin and tonics, she shifted her weight to one leg, and noticed that Eddie's brown eyes were staring intently at the way her buttocks were thrust out and accentuated by the tight, white shorts.
She smiled to herself as she watched him from the comer of her eye. As she poured gin over the ice, she remembered the last time she went out with him, when he got so excited.
She put the lime into the drinks, and walked slowly to the couch. He leaned back a little, and licked his lips as he took his eyes from the shorts. She handed him his drink, and stood in front of him and took a deep swallow.
He drank deeply also, then put the drink on the coffee table. He ran his huge hand softly up her leg. His hand was wet from the frosting glass. She took another swallow. The wet fingers felt delicious on her warm thigh.
She looked down at him. Sweat glistened on his arms and beads of moisture matted his forehead. She noticed how his thick, wavy brown hair was neatly in place, and remembered how careful he always was about his physical appearance.
She let him kiss her, and teased the tip of his tongue with her tongue. He was trying to pry beneath the shorts. But they were much too tight. He ran his hands around and pinched the front of the shorts, and sucked clumsily at her lips.
The phone rang and he jerked from her. She smiled. He licked at his lips. "Maybe it's your father," he said.
"We'll ignore it," she said, tracing her finger around the rim of his ear. Poor Eddie, she thought. He wanted to pet with her desperately. Yet, he was so afraid of her father.
"But if you don't answer, he might come back," Eddie said.
"He won't be home for hours," she said. She liked this game. Having her date right here at her father's house.
The phone finally stopped ringing, and Eddie grabbed Sandra. But she twisted away.
She smiled to herself, and took his hand. "Let's go down into the garden, and I'll show you the rose bushes I've been working on," she said.
He squeezed her hand as they moved from the house. The night was cloudy, and they had to pick their way carefully among the flower beds and small flowering bushes. When Eddie squeezed her hand again, she laughed to herself. Really, she told herself, she should not date guys her own age. They were so clumsy. And so afraid. Even big football heroes.
The rose garden was behind a huge weeping willow, beside a lake her father had built a couple of years before.
He kissed her awkwardly. She did not respond, but did not pull away. She let him grab her breasts. But stopped him when he tried to unbutton her blouse. He pressed against her, and scratched at the skin-hugging shorts with his nails. When she flicked the roof of his mouth with her tongue, he gasped.
"I used to play house under that willow when I was little," she said. "Here, I'll show you."
They walked to the willow and brushed aside the dripping, thin leaves. They stood enclosed by the leaves. He squeezed and mashed her breasts as he kissed her. She let him open her blouse. He fumbled a long while and finally had her bra off. His lips trembled as he kissed her breasts. He sucked the nipples and cupped her buttocks awkwardly, then rubbed each mound and crevice through the shorts.
To hell with her damn father, she told herself, as she idly ran her fingers through Eddie's thick, wavy hair. Why did she try to cook supper for him and spend time with him and be weak?
Eddie bit her nipple, and she twisted violently from him. "Leave me alone," she snapped. She heard his irregular breathing. Hated his panting weakness. His uncontrollable need of her. She was disgusted at the way his usually calm, handsome face was twisted.
"Please, let's don't stop, Sandy," he said, nearly whining.
She would be like her father. If people were weak, they got stepped on. Eddie was weak, and she would make him pay.
"I'm sweating too much to enjoy anything," she said. "Do you think you could kiss me without biting me?"
"Sure, Sandy," he said. He swallowed. Licked his lips.
She relaxed against the trunk of the tree. He bent down and licked her breasts. The nipples. They were pointed and hard. This game excited her, as all his childish petting and kissing had not. He sank to his knees, and kissed her warm, moist stomach.
She would never give herself to a man. They were either whining boys like Eddie, or big ladies men like Jerry, who just wanted her as another trophy to brag about.
Eddie was squeezing her buttocks. Licking at the top of her shorts. Then he bent lower. Her nipples bulged larger at the touch of his warm tongue on her intimate, warm thigh, and she took a deep breath. Eddie would do anything for her now. She could make him pay, for the way her father had treated her.
"Take my shorts down," she said, and a new, warm excitement played over her.
He rubbed his hand around, and tugged at the zipper.
She heard him wheezing as he pulled the zipper down. For an instant, she thought he would tear the flimsy shorts off with his massive hands. But he hesitated a moment, then worked them down her legs, and she stepped from them.
She leaned back against the willow trunk again, posing her body. He was still on his knees, and stared at her, his lips quivering. His brown eyes seemed glazed. Sweat poured from his forehead and face now, and she saw that his hair was all mussed up.
She looked at him without expression, but her heart was pounding. He inched nearer to her, and she allowed herself a glance down the length of her body. The brief, white panties nearly glowed on the copper-tone skin.
He moved to her again, and she rubbed her hands palm-down over her stomach and panties, and smiled slightly at the comers of her mouth.
As he hooked two large fingers inside the top panty-rim, she ran her fingers through his hair, and shifted her legs. He tugged the panties down, working them carefully, almost delicately, over her smooth, moist thighs and down her slim legs. She stepped from them.
She tensed as his lips touched her burning skin. His lips and tongue worked desperately, and she suddenly felt funny, and she shoved his head from her body, and twisted her thighs.
"Please, Sandy," he said.
"Dammit, leave me alone," she said.
He did not move. He stayed on his knees, his face flushed, and gasped for breath. A shudder played over her body as she looked down at him.
She wanted to hit him. Scream at him. But there was a thickness in her throat. She felt weak. Utterly drained. And she hated her weakness as she hated his.
She cleared her throat. "Eddie, get out of here, and let me get dressed," she said. "Wait out by the rosebushes."
He hesitated a moment, then scrambled to his feet and disappeared through the willow leaves. She bent down and picked up her bra. Brushed bits of wood from it. She enclosed her breasts in the thin, white band. Then she leaned down for her panties. They lay in a knot. She picked them up and brushed leaves from them, and worked them up her legs and over her thighs and hips. The panties were wet with sweat, and were strangely cold-damp on her burning skin.
Quickly, she finished dressing. She was calm now. But when she heard the sound of a car on the street, she froze a moment. The car did not stop. She pushed through the slim willow limbs, and inhaled the deep, sweet rose-smell.
Eddie walked to her. He was calmer now, but his breathing was still forced. "Sandy, I'm sorry," he started.
She took his cheeks between her fingers and squeezed. Shook her head. "No, Eddie, don't say anything," she said. "Let's just go back to the house and get a cold, strong drink."
"Alright, Sandy," he said. He took her hand, and they walked back to the house.
She and Eddie danced as Frank Sinatra sang. She snuggled up tightly against Eddie, and felt his continuing excitement and heard his labored breathing. He held her tightly. She let him nibble at her ear and grind his body against hers. But she would not kiss him.
They danced and drank like this. Each time he tried to speak, she would tell him to be quiet. She did not care about him now. Not enough to deliberately excite or humiliate him. If he worked himself up with her body, she could not care less. He was weak and beneath her con tempt. She just did not want to be alone. She wanted someone there who needed her desperately.
After the fifth drink, she knew she was so tight, nothing mattered, and the soft music continued, seemed further away now, and she whirled around, and closed her eyes. Only the music and Eddie's wheezing interrupted her. She dreamed, and drank, and his arms enclosing her body seemed natural.
She knew something was wrong a long time before she could react to the feeling. There was no music, and Eddie was no longer holding her. She shook her head to clear her vision, and took a sip, but the ice had melted, and the gin-water was weak and tepid.
She shook her head again, and then she gasped. Her father was standing in the doorway from the hall.
"What the hell are you doing here this time of night?" he said, as he moved toward Eddie.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Blake," Eddie muttered, putting his drink down. "We got to drinking and dancing, and well, I didn't realize the time. I'll be going now. Goodnight, Sandra."
"Goodnight, Eddie," she said, wanting him to go quickly before she had a scene with her father. She stared at the empty door a long moment, heard his footsteps down the hall. Then the front door slammed.
"My God, you're drunk, Sandra," her father said. "I come home from a hard night of work to find my daughter drunk and nearly naked with some guy draped around her."
"Daddy, please don't talk like that," Sandra said. "We were just dancing. I guess I did have a little too much to drink."
"What do you mean having a date in an outfit like that?" he asked. "Those damn shorts look like they were pasted on. They're disgusting. You're no longer a child, Sandra. You're supposed to be a young lady now. That outfit belongs on some cheap teenager, not on my daughter.
Sandra brushed a tear away. "Daddy, please," she said.
"You come down to the bank tomorrow morning. I'll be busy tomorrow and tomorrow night, but I want us to have a long talk, and get some things straight, young lady. Now do as I say. Get up to bed."
Sandra stared at her father. Bit at her lower hp. She searched desperately for something to say. But she warned herself that in her condition, she would only break down and be weak, and he would hate that worst of all.
So she stumbled from the room, and slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She felt the full impact of the gin now, and hurriedly got into her pajamas, and collapsed into the bed. She was asleep in a couple of minutes.
CHAPTER THREE
Sandra was apprehensive as she picked her way through the crowded bank. She spoke to people she knew did not like her or her father. A teller came around and opened the door for her, and she walked slowly down the hall to her father's office. Miss Williams told her to go right in. Her father was talking to someone on the phone, and motioned for her to sit down.
She sat down and lit a cigarette. She puffed nervously, and glanced idly around the office. It was finished in dark wood paneling, and always gave her the creeps. Her father's desk was a huge oak thing, and he had a large, brown leather chair.
She inhaled and listened to her father a moment. He was arguing with someone about a contract for cement for the new housing subdivision he was building. Things like that bored her to death. She took another puff and mashed the cigarette out in the ashtray on his desk.
Her father hung the phone up. "Damn, Sandra, you can't depend on anyone these days," he said, and sighed.
She tried to steel herself, as she remembered how upset he was last night. She expected him to launch into her.
"Daddy, I'm very sorry about last night," she said. "Really I am. I'm terribly embarrassed."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Sandra," he said. "As you could tell, I was quite upset last night when I walked in and saw you like that. But after you went to bed, I sat a long time and had a couple of drinks myself, and tried to look at things clearly. And I realized that part of my reason for being so angry had to do with something that happened earlier. Some unpleasant dealings with someone. Oh, not that I wasn't angry to find my daughter with some guy draped around her, while she staggered about the room. But I think we're both in better condition to discuss it now."
Sandra could not believe how his attitude had changed. She leaned forward and smiled. "I'll really try to be a proper young lady from now on," she said. "And not act childish and irresponsible. I promise, Daddy."
"Good, then we'll drop the matter," he said. "And I have a surprise for you. I realized last night how much I've been neglecting you lately. I know we haven't had much time together. So, why don't we take a trip to the coast this weekend? We can rent a boat, and fish, and get the sun, and drink beer, and just talk."
She stood up. "Oh, Daddy, that would be wonderful," she said. "Just the two of us. I haven't been so excited in a long time."
"I'll take care of things," he said. "We'll leave Friday afternoon. Go buy whatever you need. Bathing suit. Beach towels. Anything."
She scurried around the desk and leaned up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "Oh, Daddy, let's talk about it some more," she said.
His thick lips broke into a smile. "Later, Sandra," he said. "I'm still running a bank. And there are people waiting to see me now."
She walked back around the desk. "I forgot you were busy," she said. "But we can talk about it tonight. I'll call Jerry and put my date off."
His smile faded so suddenly, it startled her. "I told you last night I had things to tend to this evening," he said, in a cold, brisk tone. His voice softened. "You go and have fun on your date. We'll have our time together this weekend."
"Alright," she said. She turned and walked from the office. Nodded at the men and Miss Wilhams. She passed quickly through the bank and out to her car. She really felt good about the trip. But she would never understand her father, and the way his moods could change so quickly. She guessed he must have some really important and unpleasant business to be so affected by it.
Blake walked to the front door of the fishing cabin and looked out again. The trail back to the road was dark and silent. He drained the beer can and crushed it in his hand.
Goddam her, he said to himself. He threw the can into the garbage pail, opened another beer and drank deeply. He looked at his watch. Nearly an hour late already.
He walked back out onto the porch. Inhaled the pungent air. Smelled the pine needles. A thin breeze rustled the leaves of the bushes. Frogs croaked down in the pond.
He gulped the beer down, and watched a firefly circle in front of him. He remembered when he had this place built. How he had thought that by this time he could come here, when he had reached all his goals, and be content and alone. He did not even allow Sandra out here.
He poured the cold beer down, and thought of the scene with Sandra last night, then the talk in his office earlier today. She should have more sense than to wear shorts like that and drink so much when she was alone with a boy. Yet, he had been ignoring her lately. And last night, he had only snapped at her the way he had because of things that had happened earlier.
He snorted out a laugh, as he thought of lecturing his daughter for being cheap or careless. He poured down the last of the beer, and told himself not to think about it. He had turned to go back into the cabin when he heard the car. Then he saw the lights cutting into the darkness of the tree-lined trail. He put the can down on the window ledge. He stood with his feet apart, and his hands opened and shut at his sides.
The rock and roil music blared from the radio as he watched Naomi park the old Ford. She revved the motor several times before switching it off. Then she climbed from the car.
"Where the hell have you been?" he said, as she came up the steps.
She paused on the top step and cocked her head and smiled up at him. Then she shrugged. "We were busy at the drive-in," she said. "I had to stay late. And then I had trouble with the car. I told you last week you wouldn't have to worry about me being late if you let me get that green Ford they got down on the lot."
"Hell, I called the drive-in an hour ago," he said. "They told me you were already gone."
She did not answer. He stared down at her as he squeezed his huge hands into fists at his sides. Her white, nylon uniform hugged her voluptuous body, rippling at her flaring hips, stretched tightly where her breasts bulged. Sweat matted the thin white material to her body, and Blake swallowed as he saw the clear outline of her panties.
"Where were you?" he demanded. She stepped onto the porch, smoothing her uniform over her hips. "I worked a while," she said, in a matter-of-fact voice. "Maybe they thought I was gone. Then like I said, the damn car gave me trouble. Look, don't give me a hard time. I could have gone dancing in the new honky-tonk. You don't own me."
Blake swallowed again. Took a deep breath. Her perfume was strong and sweet. He felt warm all over, and as always, it infuriated him that she could arouse him so easily. He warned himself to be careful. He must never let her know how much he wanted her.
She stepped to him. "Look, let's don't fight, sweetie," she said. "It's a hot night and I'm beat after eight hours of pounding the asphalt at the drive-in."
She wiggled against him, and put her arms around his neck. He felt her breasts thrusting against his chest, and the warmth shoot through his body.
He grabbed her hair and pulled her face back, then ground his lips into hers. Her bright-red lipstick was sticky, and tasted like the cheap, too-sweet perfume. He pulled his mouth from hers.
"Can't you wear lipstick that doesn't have that goddamn taste?" he asked.
"Hey, knock it off, sweetie," she said. She stepped from him. "If you don't like the way I dress or look, then you got to give me more money to get new makeup and stuff. 'Cause the other men I know like me fine just like I am."
She put her hands on her hips and wiggled slightly, and smiled. Ran her tongue around the full, sticky-red lips.
Blake took a step toward her, then stopped. "Let's go inside," he said. She nodded, and he followed her through the door.
She walked slowly, deliberately moving her rounded buttocks beneath the damp uniform. She moved directly to the small, plastic radio on the shelf above the bed. Switched it on. In a moment, rock and roll music boomed out. She swayed her buttocks at him, and pivoted and hunched a couple of times to the music.
He stalked past her and switched the radio off. "You know I can't stand that crap," he said.
She shrugged, walked across the room and looked into the shelves, then pulled open the refrigerator. She slammed it and turned to him.
"Just beer," she said, shaking her head. "Why don't you keep any whiskey out here? Other men I know buy good booze for me."
He walked over to her. Grabbed her arm. "Look, Naomi, you probably get more money from me than any ten men you've ever known," he said.
"Hey, Paul, you're hurting me," she said, and twisted from his grasp. She backed away. Smiled. "Look honey, I don't want to fight you, okay? I'm just tired and hot. You don't know the trash comes 'round that drive-in. You don't know what I put up with. It's nice to be with a real gentleman, like you."
She reached around suddenly, and unzipped the uniform. She tugged it off, and it fell to the floor. Enormous breasts nearly spilled over the inadequate cups of her shiny red bra. And her fire-engine-red panties were easily a size too little, and a small roll of skin hung over the top rim.
She turned, posing herself, as she ran her fingers through her dirty-blond hair. He licked his lips. Drank in her body as the warmth flashed up and his forehead went hot. A cheap, pale-white body, a pound too heavy here and there. But a young, tantalizing body that aroused him more than any woman he had ever known.
He moved his gaze up the body, over the bulging breasts, to the too-red lips. There was not a blemish in her lovely, round face. She had a slightly pug nose. Her blue eyes, beneath the heavy, dark shadowing, shone brightly. Even eagerly.
He reached her in a couple of giant strides. But he paused for another instant to drink in her cheap, young sexiness.
"Honey, don't hurt me," she said, staring up at him with her blue eyes wide. "I had lots of men, I know. But you're big, Paul. And rough. And lots older. I ain't been out of high school but a year now."
"You don't have to bring that up," he said, licking his parched lips. "I won't hurt you."
She grabbed him around the waist suddenly, and rubbed her body against his, her huge breasts crushing into his chest. He ripped her bra off, and pressed her breasts into his chest. They kissed a long time, an artless kiss of sucking, wet lips and tongues and biting teeth, and worked their bodies together. He cupped her full, rounded buttocks and crushed her harder against him. She wrapped a leg around his leg, and they fell to the bed.
She moaned slightly as his massive body fell with hers. He licked his lips down from her mouth, and buried them in the enormous white breasts. He sucked and licked the breasts, lashing the long, hard nipples with his tongue, then nibbling them with his teeth. She bit his ear, and kissed it with warm, wet lips.
He skinned her panties down her flaring hips, over her large thighs, then ripped them from her legs. He moved up, and they kissed while she helped him fumble from his clothes. They were both breathing in gasps.
"See, I don't want to fight with you, sweetie," she said. "I want to make you happy."
He grabbed a handful of breast, and twisted, then rubbed back and forth. He moved his lips to her mouth, but she turned her head slightly.
"So, let's don't fight no more," she said, as she shifted her legs, and he groaned.
She bit his ear, then streaked his back with her nails. He shivered and groaned.
"All the girls I was in high school with, they all getting married," she said. "I got to have something to show for all this time with you, Paul. I know you. not going to marry me, Paul. We wouldn't have no trouble if I had a decent car, and could get out here on time."
"Listen, Naomi," he wheezed out. But she moved her lips to his, and rammed her tongue into his mouth. Rubbed her body against him.
He was kissing her desperately when she pulled her lips away. "You a big, wealthy, middle-aged man, honey," she said. "You got to show you care something about me."
"Alright, Naomi, you can get the car tomorrow," he said.
"You're good to me," she said, adjusting her legs beneath him. She became all movement, her nails streaking his back, her lips and teeth and tongue ransacking his mouth, her breasts, and huge, hard nipples piercing into his chest.
He moaned and worked intensely with her now, faster and harder, as she drove him wild with fingers and breasts and teeth and tongue. She nearly blinded him with painful pleasure. He was lost in some other world, in which all that mattered was this young girl's body, and the way he now possessed it and it possessed him. Then the world exploded, and he gasped and groaned, and lay panting and content.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jerry took the curve without slowing down and the car nearly lurched from the gravel road into the swamp. He banked it down, cursing under his breath. Used the brake and gears skillfully, and finally had it under control again.
Sandra moved closer to him, and put her hand on his shoulder. "Stop a minute, Jerry," she said.
"Here, on this damn trail?" he asked. But he slowed the car and stopped, and shifted into neutral.
The swamp-heat smothered them instantly, and the bug-sounds and frogs suddenly sounded louder. They were enclosed by black all around, except for the thin light-beams, which lit an old cypress tree whose twisted, gnarled roots were pulled from the swamp floor and laced with thick vines and grey moss. Sandra felt a shiver play over her.
"I know you're angry with me for insisting we come out here again," she said. She rubbed his neck. Twisted around to half face him. Her tight skirt was pulled up over her knees. She did not straighten it. "But don't fuss at me. Try to understand that it's important to me."
"I'm not angry," he said. "I just think I'm out of my mind. I try to understand you, Sandy, but sometimes, you drive me crazy."
She saw him glance down at her legs, and she twisted slightly so that her skirt was pulled up to her thighs. He rubbed over the legs, turned to her and kissed her lips gently. She opened her lips for him, and rubbed her tongue on the roof of his mouth. He slid his hand up her leg. Stroked the warm, intimate thigh. She did not stop him. If he would just be nice to her, she would go all the way with him. She could not stand another terrible night of petting. She would let him have her here, if he was tender and understanding with her. After seeing her father this morning in the bank, and realizing he did care for her and wanted to spend the weekend with her, she wanted Jerry to care for her, too. She did not want to be mean to him.
She shifted her legs. She felt good, and each movement of his fingers on her thigh excited her. He was pinching the thigh now. Then tickling. Then rubbing along the rim of the panties. She wanted him to talk to her. Say anything.
But he only kissed her deeper, moving his tongue against hers, and squeezing a breast with his free hand. She felt wicked, and her excitement mounted. Right here, on the trail, so close to Hank's. She was soaked with sweat which stuck her clothes to her body like wet tissue. The swamp sounds were louder, and things squealed as he unbuttoned her blouse. He thrust his hand beneath her panties. She stared at the hulking cypress starkly lit in the lights. Something slithered faintly down a huge, brown root, and he was rubbing under her panties, and she shivered with excitement.
The car seemed to be moving forward a bit, and she started to say something. But she felt so good, she did not want to stop him and break the mood. He got her bra unhooked, and jerked it down. Her breasts surged out, cooler now. He mashed a breast, rolling the tight, round nipple in his fingers. She glanced out the window, and saw that the car was rolling forward. The cypress tree was in the shadows, and the lights glared on some green-slimed logs in a small bayou, and she saw a long snake move into the stagnant water and disappear beneath the wide, flat lily-leaves.
Again, she started to tell Jerry, but he stroked her thigh, and twisted her nipple, and she groaned softly and closed her eyes an instant. When she opened her eyes, the lights had shifted to a thicket of thorn-bushes. The car was rolling faster now, and she twited her breast from his grasp, and said softly, "Jerry, the car's moving." Then they were shaken abruptly and he shoved her away and grabbed for the steering wheel while his foot desperately sought the brake.
The tires threaded the edge of the trail, missing the bayou by an inch. Sandra was suddenly terrified, and bit her hp so hard she tasted blood. Jerry fought the wheel. Thorn bushes slapped the side of the car, and the right front wheel bumped off a log. Finally, Jerry had the car back into the ruts of the road.
"Goddamn," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his face.
Sandra relaxed. Tasted the blood and licked at her hp. "Let me have your handkerchief," she said.
He looked at her. "Are you hurt badly?" he asked.
"I just bit my hp," she said. "Nothing serious."
He took out his handkerchief and dabbed the blood from her lips. As he put the handkerchief into his pocket, Sandra watched him stare at her. She still sat with her skirt over her thighs, and her breasts bare.
"Maybe we should get into a more comfortable position," she said.
Jerry still stared at her breasts. He licked his lips. Wiped at his forehead. "Look, Sandy, this is impossible here, so close to Hank's," he said, slowly. "Let's go out to the air base."
"Please, Jerry, let's stay here a few minutes," she said.
Jerry seemed hypnotized by her breasts, and he leaned down and kissed them and circled the big, sharp nipples with his tongue. Sandra pressed the breasts harder against his mouth, and raked his back with her nails. She tasted the blood again, and then his hands were moving her thighs.
She lay back, half against the seat and door. He sat up and kissed her lips, and thrust his hand under her panties. He pulled his hand from the panties, and grabbed the elastic at the top. The heat coated her, and she felt air cool her hot skin as he pried the soaking panties from her buttocks, and slid them off her legs.
There was a sound on the trail and he bolted up. They listened a minute, but there was nothing further except the throbbing, small swamp-sounds.
"This is crazy," he said. He was breathing heavily, and though Sandra could not see his face clearly, she knew it was flushed warm. He slid back over to his side of the car. "We're going to the air base," he said.
Sandra sat silently a moment. Damn, she said to herself. "Not the air base yet," she said, slipping into her bra. "Hank's first, as we planned." She buttoned her blouse. Tucked it into her skirt. She picked up her panties and put them on, then slid over to the door and sat quietly.
He shifted gears, and the car moved slowly forward. "Hank's for a few minutes, then the air base," he said. "And you won't forget where we left off, will you?"
"No, I won't forget," she said. "I just need a couple of good drinks at Hank's." She licked at her lip. Let the metallic blood-taste linger in her mouth a moment before she swallowed.
She had tried to give herself to him. He had not even talked to her. And having her had been so unimportant, he would not risk having someone drive by. They turned the deep curve and she saw the lights from Hank's. She exhaled. Swore to herself that tonight she would be as ruthless as her father had ever been. Her father was strong, but he cared for her, enough to take time off and go to the coast with her. Jerry was not strong like that, and he did not care anything about her.
There were only a couple of trucks outside Hank's. But one of them was the green pick-up held together with bailing wire. She had seen Jessie Reddoch standing by it when they left last time.
She and Jerry did not talk as they got out of the car and walked through the gravel to the small building. Sandra wanted something cool and strong to drink. She was hot and felt her nerves stand on edge. When the screen door clapped shut behind her, the sharp sound cut into her.
Two men in jeans and khaki shirts were drinking beer in a booth. And Jessie Reddoch sat alone at the bar. He stared at Sandra as she and Jerry moved to the bar, and she was uncomfortably aware of how her tight skirt and blouse accentuated her damp body.
Hank leaned over to Reddoch and said something, and Reddoch nodded. Sandra and Jerry sat down at the far end of the bar.
"Another hot one tonight, folks," Hank said, as he went over to them.
"What do you want, Sandy, a beer?" Jerry asked.
"Gin," she said.
Jerry leaned closer to her, and lowered his voice. "But Sandy, gin and ice and all are so damn much trouble when we're parked."
"I thought I might be worth at least a little trouble," she said, and looked past Jerry to Reddoch. He was drinking whiskey, and there was a pile of bologna and crackers and hunks of yellow cheese on the bar in front of him.
Sandra realized that Jerry was still breathing heavily. And the sweat poured from his forehead and face. They did not talk. Hank brought the gin and set-ups, and Jerry started mixing the drinks. She knew Jerry was calculating how long he would have to put up with her before they got out to the air base.
She turned from Jerry, and stared across the bar. Hank was ripping open boxes and icing beer. Sandra sipped her drink and stared at Hank. He worked quickly, his wiry hands moving beer cans from the boxes to the battered icebox. She realized again that Hank, though not tall or obviously big like Jerry or Eddie or her father, had a firm, lean body that rippled with muscles.
She remembered the last time she was here, when for an instant he seemed to drop his expressionless face, and smile slightly at her. She took a deep gin-swallow. She knew little about Hank, only that everyone said he was tough and unfeeling. She had heard that his wife had been killed in an automobile accident several years ago. And she watched his hard, blue eyes and his set mouth, and thought of his smile, and she wondered what it would be like to have a man like this, seemingly unfeeling and tough, to want and need her as a woman.
Sandra drained her drink, and looked from Hank. She felt Jerry's hand on her neck. But still, he did not say anything to her. She was about to ask him for another drink, when she saw Reddoch slide off his stool and walk toward her.
"How you folks doin' tonight?" Reddoch asked, as he stopped beside Sandra's stool. "Not again," Jerry muttered.
"I warned you not to start trouble, Jessie," Hank said.
"I told you I'd be polite to the lady," Reddoch said. "I just wanted to 'pologize 'bout the other night. That was the whiskey talkin', Miss Blake. I'm usually quiet, and wouldn't cause no trouble."
Jerry had stepped around, and stood between Sandra and Reddoch. But Reddoch leaned closer to her, and she smelled the whiskey-breath.
"Alright, you've apologized," Jerry said.
"Thank you for your apology, Mr. Reddoch," Sandra said. He had a haircut now, and was clean-shaven. He did not look so old, or disreputable. But his blue eyes were watery, and his thin face was slightly lined with wrinkles.
"Listen here, Miss Blake," Reddoch said. "How'd you like somethin' to eat? I got all sorts of stuff. Bologna. Cheese. Crackers."
"No, thank you," Sandra said. She noticed he was weaving slightly.
"Well, then, how 'bout some of them pickled things Hank's got?" Reddoch asked. "Them's pickled pigs feet and pickled sausages and pickled eggs."
"Look, Miss Blake thanked you, but she doesn't want anything," Jerry said. He looked down at Sandra. "Let's get out of here," he said.
"Alright," she said. The man was making her nervous. There was something frightening about the way he looked at her. Jerry ordered ice and sodas from Hank, paid him and picked up the set-ups and the bottle of gin.
Sandra and Jerry walked away from the bar. Reddoch was rocking back and forth. Then he lurched towrd them. Jerry spun to him, his hand doubled into a fist.
"No, Jerry," Sandra said, grabbing his arm.
Reddoch stumbled back. "I'm just drunk and sort of fell," he said. "No cause to hit me."
Jerry grabbed Sandra by the arm, and she nearly tripped on the rough wooden floor as they went out. She had difficulty keeping up with him on the gravel, and she twisted her arm from his hand.
"Did you forget I'm with you?" she said, as she stopped.
"Dammit, let's get out of here," he said. "I'm tired of your childishness, Sandy. Let's go out to the air base and see how much of a woman you can be."
"Who was childish and scared on the trail a few minutes ago?" she asked.
"Hell, you only led me on there because you knew it was impossible in the middle of the road," he said.
Sandra took a step toward him. The anger flushed warm over her and she started to hit him. But she walked past him and got into the car and slamming the door. Jerry climbed in and threw the car into first, and mashed the accelerator down. Sandra huddled in her comer and fought back the tears. She would make him take her home and she would never see him again, she told herself.
She was rocked back and forth as the car lurched along the gravel ruts. She closed her eyes a moment. She hated Jerry. She just wanted to die. He did not give a damn about her. He only wanted to have her one time. She opened her eyes, and looked out at the black swamp. She was being weak, she warned herself. Jerry had turned her down, and hurt her, and challenged her. Well, she would accept his damn challenge. She wouldn't let someone like Jerry think she was weak.
Jerry slowed the car as they rounded a curve, and stopped before turning onto the highway. "I guess you want to go home," he said.
"Oh, no, Jerry," she said, sweetly. "I want to go to the air base with you."
"You're not angry?" he asked. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said."
"I deserved it," she said. "I want to go out to the air base so you can show me how to be a woman."
She moved around, and her skirt was pulled over her thighs, and she twisted so that her breasts were thrust forward. Jerry stared at her a minute, and she smiled. As he turned slowly onto the highway, she heard a truck on the gravel road behind them.
Jessie Reddoch leaned forward and squinted. He gripped the steering wheel of his old truck rigidly. He thought he had lost them. Hard to keep up with that fancy car, he told himself. 'Specially with his lights out. And there were miles of roads in this air base.
He squinted harder. Lord, they done stopped, he told himself. He eased down on the brake and pumped. The truck rolled to a halt. He saw the lights on their car go out.
He took the bottle of whiskey and opened it. Poured the whiskey down. It spilled over his quivering lips. He put the top on. Wiped at his chin.
He was shaking slightly as he untied the wire on the door. He put the bottle in his back pocket and eased the door open. He crouched down and ran along the old runway a few yards. The moon came from behind a cloud, and he cursed. Stepped off the runway, and picked his way through the bushes and vines.
His heart was beating ninety to nothing, and he stopped and gulped the whiskey. He moved forward again. Finally, he could hear their voices, but he could not under stand what they said. He licked his lips. Wiped the sweat from his face.
He squinted. He could make out their forms in the front seat. He crouched lower. Moved a few yards closer. Suddenly, the door opened, and he fell to the ground, cut himself on a thorn bush, and cursed. Then he looked up.
Lord help me, he said to himself, and his lips fell open. The Blake girl was sittin' there with her skirt up over her legs. And them breasts of hers was out. That man was squeezin' them breasts, and runnin' his hand on her leg and they was kissin'.
Reddoch crawled nearer. The girl moved and the man took his hand away. He had never seen breasts that good. And with big, round nipples. Now the guy was kissin' them nipples, and he was pantin', and her skirt was up higher. She was rubbin' her hands in his hair. Reddoch swallowed, and took a deep drink of the whiskey. He was burnin' up. He squirmed around. His arm hurt. He rubbed at it.
He looked back up. The Blake girl was still rubbing his hair and he was kissin' them breasts and now he could see her fancy pants. God, that guy was rubbin' right at her fancy pants. Reddoch moved forward, and made a faint whining sound. The girl twisted, and the guy couldn't get 'neath the fancy pants.
Then Reddoch looked at the girl's face. Goodness, that guy was kissin' her and rubbin' her and pantin' and slobberin', and she was sittin' there like nothin' was happenin'. That look on her face would wither a billy-goat.
"Do you hear something?" the girl said.
Reddoch realized he was whimpering. He bit his lips shut and cursed.
The guy moved his mouth from her breasts. "Just your imagination," he said. And Reddoch heard his heavy breathing.
"I guess so," the girl said. Then she turned to the guy. "Show me how to use my tongue when I kiss," she said. "Like a real woman."
Reddoch gasped. Slipped the whiskey out and took a deep swallow. Then he was sucking air. Damn, he was out of whiskey. He could not stay out here with no whiskey. And he was afraid they would see or hear him. He inched back several yards. Then he crouched, and ran back to his truck.
He stood by the truck a minute, breathing in deep gulps. He was shaking so bad he had to hold onto the door. He looked down the runway at the faint outline of the car. Looked past the car to a small grove of pines that dominated the low swamp-trees. My God, he said to himself. Them was the pines where the trail from Hank's come out of the swamp in the air base. Why, he knowed that trail through the swamp like it was the back of his hand.
He climbed into the truck, started the motor, and drove slowly off, without lights. He could go through the swamp, and watch them, and they would never know he was there.
He gripped the wheel as he felt himself shaking worse. He switched on the headlights. Leaned forward and squinted. He had to have some whiskey. Now he knowed what he would do. He could come through that swamp from Hank's. Get that Blake girl somehow. Drag her back into that swamp and do what he wanted with her.
"Yessiree," he said, as he tried to hold his shaking body rigid. He thought of them breasts and them fancy pants, and he knowed now this was the best way to make Paul Blake pay for firing him all them years ago.
Sandra felt his lips trembling on her taut nipple, and she moved her breasts slowly around his mouth. He grabbed her moist thigh and squeezed. Worked his tongue against the nipple.
Sandra ran her fingers around the rim of his ear, then pinched the edge of the ear. He gasped.
She was excited now. But the excitement was because of the game she played with Jerry, not because she was sexually aroused. She dug her fingers into his hair. He bit her nipple. She pulled her breast from his mouth.
"Stop hurting me," she snapped.
"I'm sorry, Sandy," he said, moving his lips to hers.
She brushed past his mouth, licking at his lips with her tongue. She kissed his neck. Nibbled at his ear.
She thought again that she heard a noise outside. But there was obviously no one out there. She wet her lips and rubbed them in Jerry's ear. Heard him moan.
"Tell me again how to be a woman," she said.
"I'm sorry I said that, Sandy," he whined.
His hand was sliding up her thigh. She let him rub under her panties a moment, then twisted from his fingers. He lowered his head toward her sweating breasts. Sucked her nipples.
"Please make love to me, Sandy," he begged.
He caressed her stomach, and she felt his hot breath gasping out, "Poor Jerry," she said, rubbing his neck. "Such a big man to beg a little girl like me."
The excitement flashed through her as Jerry kissed her stomach. Down to the panties. He licked along the top rim of the panties, and grabbed her buttocks and pumped at them with his hands.
"Tell me how to please you, to excite you so you'll love me," he gasped. "I'll do anything to have you."
He scrambled to the floor of the car. Shivers shot down Sandra's back. He kissed at the bottom of the panties, hooked his fingers in the top rim and tugged the damp, sheer cloth down over her thighs. He tugged them desperately off her slim legs. Then he pressed his face against her.
Sandra dug her fingers into his hair and jerked his face up from her body. He was not through groveling. She would make him describe each thing as he did it.
But when she looked down into his eyes, saw the desperate, helpless look on his face, she could go no further.
"Get up," she said, and shifted her position.
He climbed into the seat, and pawed for a breast, but she knocked his hand away. "Leave me alone," she said, turning from him. "Take me home. I feel terrible. I'm tired of your clumsy whining. You've shown me what kind of man you are."
She pulled her panties on. Picked up her bra and put it on. As she got into her blouse and adjusted her skirt, he slid across the seat. He was still breathing in gasps. He sat silently as she dressed.
Then he turned the motor on and drove away. Sandra sat limply. She wondered how she could possibly have been excited enough to let herself enjoy what she did. She wasn't ever going to park and pet again. She did not need to, now that things were going well with her father.
She sighed. Bit her hp nervously. Tasted the blood. She just wanted to get home and go to bed, and think about the coming weekend.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sandra was cutting roses when she saw her father coming down the terrace. She snipped a yellow bud and put it into the basket, and turned to him. She was so excited about the trip, she could not wait to discuss their plans, and tell him what she had bought. Especially the matching beach towels.
"You're home early," she said. "I wasn't sure what time you'd be home, so I was just fixing to call Jerry and break a date for the dance tonight. Let me tell you what I bought. First, I got us two huge, fluffy matching beach towels, just the shade of blue you like."
"Well, Sandra, you don't have to put off your date," he said. "I came home early especially to talk about the trip, because I'll be out again tonight."
"Yes, I noticed you didn't come home last night," she said.
"What do you mean, you noticed?" he snapped.
She was startled at the edge on his voice. "Why, nothing, Daddy," she said. "I mean, you were out when I got in and you weren't at breakfast, so naturally I assumed you stayed out at your fishing place to work like you do sometimes, when you don't want to be disturbed. Why, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said.
She could tell he was trying to calm himself, but he was not succeeding. What in the world could be the trouble? And now, he was clinching and unclinching his hands at his sides.
"Shall we go back to the house?" she asked.
"No, it's pleasant out here," he said. "Nettie is bringing drinks down." He walked over and examined a rosebush. "You should spend more time gardening and doing things around the house. You're a young lady now. You shouldn't be dating and partying and running around all the time, all hours of the night. You're the woman of the house now."
"But, Daddy, you're never at home at night," she said.
He stepped to her. "What business is it of yours what I do?" he said. "Don't you forget how hard I work to earn all the money you enjoy spending so much. Don't talk to me about being home. When I was your age, I'd have been quite happy to have a house like this to live in, and would have been content to stay in every night."
She looked away from his eyes. "Daddy, please, something's wrong," she said. "Why are you fussing at me? I'm so happy about our trip, and we can spend the afternoon talking about it. Please don't spoil that. I'll stay in every night, if you like."
He started to speak, but checked himself. Nettie was walking down from the terrace with a tray.
"How are you this afternoon, Miss Sandra?" the old Negro woman asked.
Sandra took a gin and tonic. "I'm fine, Nettie," she said. She sipped the gin, thankful for the break in the conversation.
Nettie served her father, then turned to her. "Your roses are coming along fine," she said.
Sandra reached down and took half a dozen yellow roses from the basket and gave them to her. "Thank you," she said. "Take them home to Amos."
"Why, he'll be pleased, Miss Sandra," Nettie said.
"We were discussing something important, Nettie," her father said.
"I'm sorry, Mister Paul," Nettie said. She turned and walked quickly away.
"Daddy, that wasn't nice," Sandra said.
"Don't tell me how to treat the servants," he said. "That's what I mean about your not accepting responsibility. We hire these people and pay them, and you make a mistake to treat them as you do."
"Oh, Daddy," she said, and turned away. She took a deep swallow of the cold gin. Stared at an ant bed beside a rosebush. Looked up into the huge weeping willow, and remembered the night beneath the willow with Eddie. She gulped her drink.
"I'm sorry, Sandra," her father said. "This business thing has been keeping me on edge," he said. "And just last night, I found out that, well, I'll have to be around this weekend. I'm afraid we'll have to postpone our trip."
She spun around. "Oh, Daddy, please, no," she said. "I've been looking forward to it so much. I really need it. Even just one day, not the whole weekend."
He shook his head. "I can't get away at all this weekend," he said. "Of course, we're just postponing the trip, not canceling it."
"Of course," she said, and nodded. She finished her drink. The gin fell into a stomach suddenly hollow. She looked up at her father an instant. He really was a huge man, she told herself. Big, and utterly independent of anything and anybody. He didn't need her, as he had not needed her mother. Or anyone else on earth.
"You do understand?" he asked. "Really, Sandra, I feel terrible about this."
"Yes, I understand perfectly," she said. "Quite perfectly." She felt she wanted to cry. "I don't feel well" she said. She turned and ran up the terrace.
"Sandra," her father called.
But she did not stop. She put her glass on the table on the terrace. Then she ran into the house and up the stairs and threw herself across the bed, and her crying shook her body.
Naomi rolled over and stretched her body out on the bed. Blake turned from the phone and stared down at the luscious body out-lined in tight jeans, and the thrusting breasts beneath the tight, purple sweater. Then Naomi looked over at him and smiled. She pulled the sweater off, then reached behind her and unfastened the straining purple bra. She wiggled her breasts out of the bra.
Blake was fascinated by the pale white mounds that poured from the purple cloth. He licked his lips as he stared at the long, red nipples. But the whining voice on the phone pulled him away from the breasts.
"Dammit, Johnson," Blake said. "A sick wife is no excuse for not finishing that job on schedule. You're in business, man. You made a deal. If you lose money, I can't help it."
Naomi shifted her ripe body, and ran her hands over her bare breasts and smiled at Blake. "Calm down, honey," she said.
Blake silenced her with a wave of his hand. "I can't talk any longer, Johnson," he said. "Come to my office tomorrow morning at ten."
He slammed the phone down and looked back at Naomi. She stretched her legs lazily, and smoothed her hands over her thighs straining beneath the jeans. Her body so filled the jeans that Blake could see that the seams were pulled to where the white thread showed. Blake let his eyes examine her body a moment, every curve and dip and crevice.
But he turned from her, walked over and took a beer from the refrigerator. As he took out the opener and pressed it into the metal, he saw her scramble up and flick on the radio. He threw the opener on the table and gulped down the cold beer as rock and roll blasted through the cabin.
He walked to the door of the cabin. Paused and breathed deeply. Gulped the cold beer. Sick wife, he muttered to himself. He would never be where he was today if he had paid attention to his sick wife. Doris had been a good woman in many ways, but she was always complaining that he only cared about business and getting ahead, and not about her.
Blake drained the beer in a long swallow as he silently cursed the loud, pulsating music that cut into him. He threw the empty can across the room, and hit the garbage pail. The clang it made sounded very much to him like the sounds coming from the radio above the bed.
He walked to the bed. Naomi was lying down once more, hunching her broad thighs to the music, her eyes closed, her hands in the air. Blake turned the radio off.
She opened her eyes. "Oh, honey, why'd you do that, huh?" she asked.
He looked directly into her young, round face. Why would a pretty girl want so goddamn much makeup on, he asked himself. He shook his head, and sank onto the bed beside her.
She took his hand and moved it to her breast. Eagerly, he cupped the huge, white breast, grinding his hand into the flesh. Instantly, a flash of warmth flooded his body, and he fell to the breasts with his lips, lashing and sucking, and pulling at the long nipples with his teeth.
He pulled himself away and ripped off his clothes. Then she raised her arms, and fell into her embrace. He smothered her lipstick-sweet mouth with his lips, and rolled his body with hers. He kissed at her over-painted face, and nibbled the tip of her pug nose. Then he sought her lips again, grinding his tongue into her mouth. He reached down and grabbed a massive, white breast, and felt the nipple harden in his fingers.
She scratched his back with her nails, and squeezed him with her thighs. He was breathing hard now, and felt flushed. He reached down and moved his hand between her thighs, against the tight jeans.
Her tongue was lashing the roof of his mouth as he slid his hands over the front of the jeans to the side. His frantic fingers sought the zipper.
Then he found it, and froze an instant. It was unzipped. He pulled his lips from hers. Anger flashed through his frenzied body as he remembered one night he had gone to the drive-in, and watched her working in jeans instead of her uniform, and had seen her let some guy unzip the jeans and poke his hand in.
He raised himself off her body. "What the hell is this?" he said, and was startled at how the words panted out.
She shrugged and lay away from him. "What difference does it make at a time like this, honey," she said. "Come on, I was enjoying things."
"Answer me, dammit," he said. He reached down and unsnapped the button that held the jeans in place. He squeezed her thigh until she groaned and tugged at his hand. "What bastard did you let have you this time?" he asked.
"You don't own me, honey," she said. "What I do on my own time is none of your business. Don't you think I like to spend time with guys my own age, guys who take me dancing and all, and guys I can talk to?"
"Listen, Naomi," he started, upset at himself for letting this get to him.
Suddenly, she reached down and skinned the tight jeans off the wide thighs and hips, and down her full, white legs. He licked his lips as he gazed at the purple panties which didn't cover what they were supposed to. She ran her hand over the front of the panties, and circled the panty-rim.
She twisted her head and smiled. "You want to yell at me?" she asked, her voice taunting and confident. "Or do you want to make love?" She smiled deeper.
Blake inhaled and let his fingers wander over the expanse of white thigh just below the tiny panties. Then he slid his fingers beneath the thin, purple cloth. He lowered his mouth to her red lips, and ground his lips against hers. Her tongue tickled his. She took her lips away and bit his ear. He crushed his chest into her breasts, and reached down and tore her panties off. Then he was still, and let her work. Hell, this was what he gave her money for. It gave him a different kind of excitement.
She contorted her young, full body in unbelievable ways, and moved a thousand muscles. He kissed her and gasped and then moaned. He pulled from her sucking lips and she squeezed him to her. He worked with her now, faster and harder. Then he was lost in a blinding sensation of pain and pleasure.
They lay wrapped together in silence for a long time, their labored breathing slowly easing. Blake felt better, and much of the tension had drained. His eyes were closed, and he was enjoying the soft, warmth of Naomi's body as he buried his face in her dirty-blond hair.
He knew that much of his tension came because he felt guilty about putting off the weekend trip he had promised Sandra. He knew he was ignoring her. Yet, he gave her everything in the world, and she should be happy with that. He had worked damn hard all his life. He had had no time as a youth to enjoy voluptuous girls like this one nestled about him now. He'd be damned if he'd let himself feel guilty about his affair with Naomi. He wanted her badly, and had the money to keep her, and he would not let himself worry about it.
He felt her body stirring, pulling slightly away from him. Then her full, damp lips pressed over his ear. The flick of her warm tongue-tip sent shivers down his spine.
"I really dig the green Ford I got, honey," she said, softly. "And I'm really going to make sure you ain't sorry you let me get it, either. There won't be no more times like finding my pants unzipped. I ain't going to let none of that drive-in trash mess with me no more."
He grunted but did not answer. He did not want to get started on the subject again. She took her lips from his ear, and bit playfully at his shoulder.
"Wasn't that good just now, honey?" she asked.
He grunted again, and felt her fingers tickling down his thigh. He turned over and grabbed her, mashing his lips against hers. But she twisted her lips away.
"Just a minute," she said. "Just a second, honey. I got to talk to you."
"Alright, what the hell is it?" he asked, content for the moment to fondle her fleshy breasts and crush the long nipples in his fingers.
"Well, it's about my staying out here with you all weekend," she said.
"Don't give me any trouble about that," he said, taking his hands from her breasts. He grabbed her hair and tilted her face up. "I've got everything set up, and it was a lot of trouble for me. And I've already given you all the damn money you're getting this week."
"Sure, honey," she said, curling her leg and running her knee up his thigh. She was obviously delighted as he groaned slightly at the sensation. She smiled and circled her lips with her tongue, but turned her face down when he tried to kiss her.
"Sure, sweetie, you been real good to me," she said. She traced her fingers around his ear, and touched his chest with her breasts. "But I want to look good for you, you know, honey. I'm tired of coming out here looking like trash, in that old uniform or jeans or one of my old dresses. They got this dress uptown. Honey, I'd look good in it. It's green, and all shiny like."
"Goddamit, Naomi," he started.
But she crushed his words with a wet kiss. Her tongue exploded in his mouth, was everywhere, licking and teasing. Then she bit his tongue and he gasped.
"Alright, I'll let you have the dress," he rasped, pulling away from her lips. "But that's the last thing."
"Sure, honey," she purred.
This time he worked desperately, ravishing her young body. She squeezed him and worked with him, faster and harder, clawing and kissing and moving her incredible body. She worked each part of her flesh-ripe body against him in an increasing rhythm that finally burst, and left him weak and gasping, staring into her over-painted, girl-blue eyes. Then he lay quietly once more, and slowly drifted off into sleep, with her arm around his shoulder.
CHAPTER SIX
The orchestra swung into another chorus of When The Saints Go Marching In. Jerry took Sandra's hand and led her back onto the dance floor, and twirled her around. They danced faster and faster, and in a couple of minutes, Sandra thought she would collapse. Only a few couples were dancing now, and the other people stood in a circle and clapped and shouted, "Go, go, go!"
A saxophone player strutted from the bandstand and marched around the room, bobbing his horn and head as he played. The pace quickened, and Sandra's head was spinning as she danced faster and faster. Finally, the orchestra stopped, and she fell into Jerry's arms, gasping for breath. He was breathing heavily also, and they stood there a minute. Then she felt his hand on her back, rubbing slowly down. She pulled away. He should know better than to do that right in the middle of the country club.
He took her hand and guided her through the milling couples and down the stairs to his car. Sandra was weak from the drinking and fast dancing. She had not been still a moment all night. She felt she would stand up and scream if she let herself start thinking about the abrupt way her father had put off their trip together. She and Jerry had talked little, and when he talked, he had been generally nasty.
He opened the door and she climbed into the car. As he walked around to his side, Tom Scott stopped him and they talked a minute. Then he got into the car.
"Everybody's going over for Chinese food," he said. "Are you hungry?"
"No, Jerry," she said. "I'm afraid I couldn't eat a bite."
"Well, hell, what do you want to do?" he asked.
She sighed. Shook her head. "I don't care," she said.
"Do you want to go home?" he asked. "You've been brooding all the damn night. What did your father do this time?"
"Yes, take me home," she said.
He started the car and gunned down the drive and onto the highway. He mashed the accelerator to the floor.
"I'm sorry you wasted another evening on me, Jerry," she said. "For someone with your reputation, I must have been a terrible waste altogether." The gin was uneasy in her stomach, and she was so hot she was nearly sick. She couldn't feel any worse, and she just dared him to give her trouble.
"It's my own fault," he said, bitterly. "For getting involved with a girl who won't ever be a woman. A girl who's only capable of high school petting."
Damn you, she said to herself. She felt she was smothering, and the gin seemed to roll in her stomach. She thought of going home to the empty house, and knew she would sit in the den and drink and feel sorry for herself, or cry herself to sleep.
"Jerry, dear," she said, with an edge on her voice. "Making love is a two-way proposition. Did it ever occur to you that I might have refused to go all the way with you because you did not excite me? I can stay out late tonight. Let's go to the air base. I'm all yours. Let's see what you can do with me."
He snorted. "I accept your challenge," he said. "You're playing out of your league now, Sandy."
He slowed the car. Turned into a road and backed out. He drove back past the country club. Floor-boarded the car.
"I guess you want to get something to drink at Hank's," he said.
"Oh, not tonight," she said. "I want us both to be sober." She told herself he must have blotted out what happened last time they were parked. He had been drunk then. Tonight, he would not be able to blot anything out.
The highway through the swamp was deserted. It was level and Jerry kept the accelerator down. He and Sandra did not talk. She sat on her side of the car, looked at the pitch-black swamp, and listened to the frogs croaking. She swallowed. Tasted the gin. The heat smothered her. Jerry slowed the car, turned onto the narrow, blacktop road, through the gate into the air base, and down the runway to the edge of the swamp. He turned the motor off. Cut the lights. The bugs were loud, and something splashed in the water.
"Cigarette?" he asked.
"No, thank you," she said, turning to him. She curled her legs up on the seat between them.
He put his hand on her knee and leaned forward and kissed her lips. She opened her mouth slightly. He was still breathing heavily, and she realized how calm she was. He tried to move close to her, but her legs blocked him. She knew he felt awkward. He tried to move her legs around. But she would not move them.
He ran his fingers over the stocking-smooth legs. Leaned forward, and kissed her harder, his hand on her neck. She did not respond. He tried to force her mouth open with his tongue, but she kept it closed. He grabbed a breast. She twisted her lips from his, and laughed quietly.
She pulled his hand from her breast. "Jerry, do try not to be so awkward," she said. "I know you've had lots of experience with real women, but sometimes, you're so clumsy it's embarrassing."
"No, Sandy, I'm no good at playing your childish games," he said. "It's been too many years since I dated little girls. If you weren't afraid, I'd show you how to be a woman."
She pouted into the small lip-smile. "I seem to remember you were teaching me to be a woman last time we were out here, but nothing seemed to have happened," she said.
"I was drunk," he snapped. "And so were you."
"Of course," she said, in a little-girl voice. "But tonight, we're both sober."
"What's it going to be, baby?" he asked. "Games again? I'm sick of this."
She twisted lazily around and put her feet on the floor. She smiled deeper. "Does that make my body available enough?" she asked.
Jerry slid close to her. He put his arm around her and squeezed her breast. With his other hand, he rubbed her leg. The fierceness of his kiss surprised her. She opened her mouth slightly, but did not respond further. She remembered the "lessons" he had given her before, and smiled to herself.
He tickled her thigh at the top of her stockings. Pushed his tongue through her lips. He fondled her breast.
Suddenly, he pulled from her lips. Took his hands from her body.
"I'll be damned if I'll let you put me through this petting again," he said. "It's starting off like it always does."
"Would you take my dress off, Jerry?" she asked, softly. "It's new, and I don't want to wrinkle it."
She watched him lick his lips. She leaned forward while he unzipped the dress and helped her take it off. She folded it neatly, and put it over on the seat under the steering wheel.
"We should get into the back seat," he said.
She smiled. "Yes, we need more room," she said.
He leaned over her and opened the door. She stepped out, pausing just a second with her buttocks bent toward him. She laughed to herself. She peeled her slip off as he climbed out. Handed it to him.
"Please fold it and put it with the dress," she said.
He climbed back into the car with the slip. Sandra tensed her body. Then relaxed. Stood with her feet apart. She felt quite naughty here in her heels, stockings, panties and bra. She knew she looked damn provocative. She smiled deeply as he turned to her and stared at the way her body was displayed.
A strange sound at the edge of the swamp made her go cold, and she looked over her shoulder. "What was that, over by those pine trees?" she said.
Jerry came to her. Put his hands on her waist. "Hell, just some swamp noise," he said. "Some animal."
She looked up at him. "It sounded nearly human," she said. "Like someone panting for breath."
He squeezed her waist. "You're a lovely girl, Sandy," he said. He rubbed down over her thighs. "Best body in town."
"Why, thank you, sir," she said. She reached up and flicked the tip of his nose with her finger. He was breathing unsteadily, and his face was already flushed.
She pressed her body hard against him and heard him gasp. She teased his mouth with her tongue. He stroked her thighs, and fondled the buttocks through the panties.
Sandra heard the funny sound from the swamp once more. She moved her lips free. "It scares me," she said. "I've never heard an animal make a sound like that." She felt strangely cold despite the heat.
"It's nothing," Jerry said, moving his hand up and unfastening her bra.
She let him take the bra off and drop it to the ground. But then she stepped back. "Do you want me, Jerry?" she asked, the faint, mocking smile on the comers of her lips. She had never felt more wicked or womanly. Or more sure of herself.
"Don't start teasing, Sandy," he said. "We're through with those games."
"I'm hardly teasing," she said, and stood with her hands on her hips. She laughed to herself as she saw how hungrily he looked at her breasts. "But you must excite me before I love you. You can do that for me, can't you? Please, Jerry, try to excite me."
He grabbed the breasts. Squeezed. Mashed. Rubbed. Took the nipples in his fingers and twisted slightly. Harder. Licked his lips. Swallowed. Lowered his head and put his hands on her waist, and fastened his mouth on the breasts. Between them. Kissed with his warm tongue. Kissed the nipples with sucking lips. Nuzzled with his teeth. Bit slightly. Ran his hands around her, resting them on her buttocks.
She mashed her breasts against his lips. Moved them back and forth. Grabbed a handful of hair and pulled until he gasped and dug his fingers into her buttocks. When she heard the strange sound from the swamp once more, she ignored it. She took her hand from his hair. Pulled her breasts from his sucking lips. Took his clasping hands from her buttocks.
"Maybe it will be easier for you if we sit down," she said.
"Listen, Sandy," he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
But she walked past him toward the car. Walked slowly, wiggling her buttocks slightly, glad the sweat had matted the brief, sheer panties to her skin.
She sat down and stretched her body lazily. She did not have to worry now. She knew enough about men to know he would do anything to have her. He climbed into the car. Sat beside her and grabbed for a breast and moved his lips to hers. She twisted her breasts from his hand and brushed her lips past his. She kissed his ear.
He hesitated a moment, then lowered his head. Kissed each breast. Gasped his hot breath out. Rubbed his hands up her stockings. Tickled her wet, smooth thigh. Up to the panty-rim. She moved her body to keep his hands from beneath the panties.
He moved down from the breasts, back and forth over her stomach, trying desperately to get under the panties. She moved her thighs around and crossed and uncrossed them in ways that always let him get almost there, then moved just out of reach.
He climbed down to the floor of the car. He was panting and slobbering as he kissed her bare thigh between the stockings and panties.
"I worship your body," he panted.
He caressed the smooth, intimate thigh, around the panty-rim. Sandra looked down at him without expression. This time, she would not stop him. She'd make him humiliate himself in a way he would never forget. This is the way it would be with men for her from now on. She would never want a man to love or want her. She would make men grovel and humiliate themselves, and satisfy her in ways that degraded them.
She took his fumbling hands from her breasts. He looked up at her with glazed eyes. "Take my panties off, Jerry," she ordered.
He rolled the panties down her legs and reached for the garter belt, but she shook her head. He started to climb up and put a hand on her thigh for support. But the hand slipped from the sweating thigh.
She shoved him gently back down with her hand, digging her fingers into his hair, and jerked his head up.
"Talk to me, Jerry, dear," she said, in the little-girl voice. "Tell me each thing you do to me while you do it."
"I worship you," he said. "I want to worship all of your body. I'm kissing your thigh."
She shifted her legs. Tears swelled in her eyes. She sat with hands clenched into fists now. Tears rolled down her cheeks and fell onto her heaving breasts. She moved her thighs....
Sandra stumbled across the living room and into the den. She poured gin into a glass and added ice and tonic. Gulped the drink down, and nearly gagged. She mixed another drink and bolted it down.
She fixed a third drink, and dragged herself to the couch and sank down. The cold gin numbed her tense body a little, and she settled back and closed her eyes and thought of what happened with Jerry.
Now that it was over, she felt terrible. Yet, she could not deny she had enjoyed doing it to him, teasing and provoking him, and making him degrade and humiliate himself in ways that sent tingles all over her body.
She thought of the desperate ways his lips had sucked at hers, his near-punishment of her breasts and nipples as he sought desperately to excite her, yet was only arousing himself to a fever pitch.
He had pumped and pulled and pinched at her buttocks and thighs. He had been like an animal, really. And when they set down in the car, he was hers, to do with as she wanted.
She took a sip of gin. Then she pulled her skirt up ran her hand up the inside of her thigh, to the bottom of the brief, white panties. She told herself she might feel guilty now, and cruel, but she pictured him kneeling there uncomfortably on the floor of the car, sweat pouring from his handsome face, his blue eyes glazed, worshipping her body. She knew it had given her more of a thrill than anything that had ever happened with a boy.
Maybe she was too far gone, to change. Maybe this was really what she wanted, she told herself, as she poured the gin down. She stumbled over to the bar. Oh, but this was not what she wanted. It couldn't be. It was terrible. Why hadn't he taken her? Forced her? Why couldn't some man be really strong with her, yet have some feeling for her?
This time, she did not put in any tonic, just gin and ice. Surely, her life with men would not always be like this. Couldn't she find one man as strong as her father, but who just cared a little about her?
She drank again. She just had to find some man like that. Because she knew she enjoyed sex, enjoyed the feeling she got from having a man excite her body. And if they were like Jerry and Eddie, then God only knew what would happen.
She felt she wanted to scream. Why couldn't her father be home just tonight, just this one night? She told herself she should think of going away somewhere. Anything would be better than this petting and drinking routine every night.
She staggered back and sank down onto the couch. Sipped the gin. She could not think now. She just wanted to drink herself to sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sandra watched Jessie Reddoch stagger out, still looking over his shoulder and muttering about some appointment later tonight. She sipped her drink and sighed. The way he leered at her made her nervous. Oh, she knew Hank would not let anything happen to her here at his place. But still, it upset her when Reddoch drank and muttered and stared at her as though she should know what he meant.
Guitar music burst from the jukebox. Sandra shifted on the hard, wooden stool. Sipped her drink again. Eddie was still talking to some man at the bar about hunting. Hank was busy opening beer and waiting on the men in the booths.
The din of talking was increasing, and there was sharp, drunken laughter which came over the loud music. Friday night was always like this at Hank's. She finished the drink, and shoved her glass away. She felt she was taking part in some ritual. Another night of drinking at Hank's, then parking and petting. But the weary ritual was better than sitting at home alone, or playing bridge with girl friends at the country club, as she had tried the past couple of nights.
The men's voices were louder now, and she realized they were arguing about something. Suddenly, a man with shaggy, black hair jumped and swung at another man. But Hank grabbed the first man so quickly it seemed impossible. He yanked the man from the booth, then stepped back a couple of paces.
A stark silence cut through the bar. Eddie got up and put his arm around Sandra. But she hardly noticed. She stared at Hank. She saw the veins stand out white in his tanned, slim arms, as he held his hands in half-fists. He stood with his feet apart, warily watching the man he had jerked from the booth.
The black-haired man was tall, and had broad shoulders. He doubled his huge hands into fists. "This here is private, 'tween Billy and me," he said. "You keep your damn hands off me, Hank, you know what's good for you."
Hank did not move. "You know I don't allow any trouble in my place," Hank said. "You've been warned before, Buster. Now you sit down and drink quietly, or you leave. Or you and me going to have trouble, and I'll rack you up."
The big man licked his lips and stood still a moment. Then he turned and stalked from the building. No one moved or made a sound. In a minute, a motor whined on outside, and a truck moved away, its tires squealing in the gravel.
The silence hung a moment more, then the men were talking, and someone played the jukebox, and saxophones and guitars rocked happily out. Sandra saw Hank relax. Then he turned quickly and walked back behind the bar. He came directly to her.
"Sorry about that, Sandy," he said.
"I understand, Hank," she said. "I wasn't worried."
"Why don't we get out of here, Sandy?" Eddie asked.
"Oh, not yet, Eddie," she said.
"Eddie might be right," Hank said. "Buster's a mean one. He might go up the road and have a few and come back here to settle things. Maybe it's best if you run on for now."
"Alright," she said, softly.
As Eddie bought the liquor, Sandra stared at the battered old cash register and the cabinet, and then she looked at herself in the cracked mirror. She put her finger to her lips, and thought that soon Eddie would kiss the lips. She twisted her face slightly, tilting it at an angle. She wondered why boys like Eddie would let a girl tease and humiliate them. Why didn't they force her? They were big and strong and supposedly men. She sighed, and looked away.
"Sandy, I'm running you off, because I think it's best," Hank said. "But I hope you come back tomorrow night."
She turned and walked to the door, and realized the men in the booth were staring at her. She stopped at the door, and Eddie pushed it open, and they went down the rickety wooden steps.
They walked briskly to the car, and Sandra thought without enthusiasm of the petting ritual for which she was headed.
Sandra took another sip of gin from the cup, then shrugged Eddie's grasping hand from her thigh. For several minutes, she had performed the petting ritual, responding to his kisses, flicking her tongue against his, but keeping his hands from her breasts, or his fingers from trailing up her thighs beneath her skirt. He was breathing heavily already, and his breath was warm on her flushed face.
As he pressed his mouth into hers, nearly sucking, she was startled at a sound near the car. She started to pull away, but his tongue streaked hers, and she responded, darting her tongue into his mouth. She let him rub his hands up the inside of her thighs.
She was twisting her thighs from his fingers when she heard the sound again. She realized it was the same panting sound she had heard a few nights earlier when she was parked out here with Jerry.
She tore her lips from Eddie's, and tried to twist out of his arms. "Eddie," she gasped. But he pulled her roughly to him and tickling fingers up the inside of her thigh sent slight shivers over her body. She turned to him again, and they kissed and she teased his mouth with her tongue. She let his fingers trace the bottom panty-rim, but moved her thighs to keep the fingers from beneath the panties.
Suddenly, the strange, panting sound was loud and near. Sandra looked around.
Her scream split the quietness as she looked into Jessie Reddoch's leering, twisted face. He pointed a shotgun through the window. Sandra leaned back against Eddie, and he put his arm around her.
"Don't try nothin', you hear me," Reddoch said. "This shot in here'd blast you both to hell and back 'fore you could do nothin'."
"Don't panic," Eddie whispered. "I'll take care of you."
Sandra looked at Reddoch's face, contorted in the dim moonlight. Her hands moved to the buttons of her blouse. But Reddoch thrust the gun at her.
"Don't touch nothin'," he said. "Now, I'm goin' to open this door and you two goin' to get out here, nice and easy."
Reddoch opened the door, holding the gun carefully with his other hand. Sandra hesitated, but Eddie told her to get out. So she slid slowly out, and Eddie followed. She stood with her arms across her bra.
Eddie took a step forward. He towered over Reddoch. "Listen, buddy," he started.
But Reddoch motioned with the gun. "Don't you say nothin'," Reddoch said. "And you won't get hurt. Just both of you turn around and face the car."
"Do as he says," Eddie whispered. "He's drunk."
As they turned, Reddoch suddenly lurched forward, and swiped Eddie across the back of the head with the butt of the gun. Eddie sank to the ground. Sandra screamed and fell beside him. She moved her hands to Eddie's head.
But she felt Reddoch's hand on her shoulder, and she gasped and shrank from him. Her heart was racing and blood pounded at her temples. Slowly, she looked up. Reddoch stood over her, with the shotgun pointed at her face.
"You know what a barrel of this here would do to that pretty face?" he asked, quivering his thin lips into a snarl. "They wouldn't be no face left." He laughed. "Now, you stand up, you hear me."
Sandra told herself to be calm. If she panicked, he might kill her. The worst thing she could do was lose her head. She put her hand on the car, and forced herself up, on legs so rubbery they nearly buckled. She glanced around, but there was no sign of another car. Reddoch motioned with his gun toward the black swamp.
Sandra gasped. Stepped back. She put her hand on the fender of the car to support her wobbly legs. She looked frantically around at the dark, silent air base, then down at Eddie.
Now, you get on along. 'Cause, you ain't got no choice, fancy lady. I can knock you cold, too. Or tie you up."
"Why couldn't you settle your trouble with my father?" Sandra asked, her words feeble and pleading. Desperately, she tried to think of something.
"I ain't tellin' you again," Reddoch said. He stepped forward, and nudged the barrel of the gun at her stomach.
She jerked, then turned and walked slowly toward the dark swamp, with Reddoch a couple of feet behind her. She started trying to button her blouse. But Reddoch made her stop.
She walked numbly over the ragged old runway, nearly stumbling in the potholes. The throbbing swamp sounds came louder now, and she heard crickets and frogs distinctly. There were moving sounds in the deep growth ahead, and water lapping, and then something thrashing wildly. She stopped, and nibbled her lower lip. But Reddoch prodded her with the gun and she moved off the runway and into the thick growth, beneath the bare trunks of tall pines that grew high above the swamp-trees.
There was a narrow trail, and Sandra picked her way along, as thorn vines slapped at her, and she ducked under leafy, low-slung hmbs of squat water oaks. She heard Reddoch's panting breath behind her as she walked along a slimy bayou. In the meagre moonlight that filtered through the thick leaves, she saw a long, brown snake arch its body up, and break the stagnant water in several places, then slither down and disappear.
She shuddered, but forced herself on, past a grove of grotesque cypress trees, whose up-pulled roots were covered with stringy grey moss. Strangely, she felt calmer now. She had forced the calmness, calculating to herself that she must not resist him now, and take a chance on being tied up or knocked out or even killed.
She thought back to sessions in the sorority house at school, when she had discussed with other girls the best thing to do if you were attacked. They had all decided it was best to seem to give in, then when the man was involved, to hit him over the head with something.
She nearly stumbled over a mossy log. Then a thorn vine slapped her calf, and points of sharp, pain prickled the calf as she came into a small clearing, around which curled a fast-rushing stream.
"Stop right there," Reddoch said.
Sandra stopped, and turned. Reddoch had taken a bottle from his pocket and was gulping at the whiskey. Sandra looked around. The surrounding swamp was pitch black. She was scared again, and a coldness ripped up her sweating back. She stared at Reddoch, and realized she was completely at his mercy. He finished the whiskey, and threw the empty bottle into the stream. It bobbed, then was dashed downstream.
Reddoch stepped toward her, and she shrank back, telling herself to be calm. She stared into his faded blue eyes, which peered at her from thin slits. At the long, blond-grey hair. Reddoch was not big, but she realized that, like Hank, he had a certain wiriness, a lean, angular strength. She continued to look at him, and saw he stared at her flimsy white bra. She put her hand over the bra and took a step backward. Calm, she told herself.
"You move back again, you goin' to be in the water and don't reckon you want a bath," he said, then laughed. "That so, Miss Blake? Or what they call you? Sandy? You don't mind if I call you Sandy, do you, huh? Like them guys always pantin' and pawin' and kissin' you?"
Sandra did not answer. But this time, she did not move back when he stepped toward her. But she stiffened as he touched her blouse with the gun.
"Take it off," he said.
Sandra hesitated. Then she took the blouse off, and dropped it to the ground. She shivered in the swamp-heat, and drew her body in toward itself. Instinctively, her hand moved toward her bra. But she checked herself. Don't provoke him yet, she chanted to herself, still looking into his leering face.
She flinched as Reddoch touched her bra with the gun. Again, she hesitated, and noticed his thin nostrils had flared slightly. Then she reached around and unsnapped the bra. Reddoch's thin lips trembled as her breasts poured free. She could not help but twist her body from his devouring gaze.
But Reddoch raised his hand as though to strike her. So she faced him, and stood ramrod straight, her large breasts and huge, round nipples thrust forward. Her calf hurt, but she ignored the pain.
She was amazed that her calmness had returned. When he pointed to her tight skirt, she did not hesitate, but unzipped it, and pulled it off quickly. She even posed her body now, one foot slightly in front of the other. She stared at his thin, slightly twitching face, as the sweat stood on her tanned, slim body, and the thin, white panties were matted to her thighs and hips with moisture.
She realized that she was not merely calm, but sort of excited in a strange way, and a warmth replaced the icy ripple down her spine. She did not move as Reddoch stepped to her and put his thin fingers inside the top of the panty-rim. She let him rip the panties down, and off her legs, and even stepped out of them.
Her stomach tightened as he grabbed her thigh and squeezed. He slid his hand up her thigh, tickling and stroking. She exhaled sharply, but still made no move. His breath jerked out in desperate gasps. He dropped the gun to the ground. She smelled his hot, wiskey-breath as his thin fingers worked her thighs. With his other hand, he cupped her buttocks, and squeezed.
They stood only inches apart, and she kept her body stiff as his hands probed and stroked and fondled her thighs and buttocks. The swamp-heat was smothering her now, and she felt funny. Her stomach tightened again as he moved a hand up and grabbed her breast. He gasped, and twisted the breast, then rubbed and mashed it.
She bit her lips, but strangely her nipple responded to his hand, and swelled in his frantic grasp. She jerked backward a bit when he moved his head down. He kissed her fiercely as he continued to fondle her body. She relaxed a little and opened her mouth. He was grunting as he kissed her, and she let his tongue wander in her mouth. Both his hands moved around to her buttocks. He ground the savage kiss into her mouth, and squeezed her buttocks and slammed her body against his and held her there.
Then he roughly put both hands on her shoulders and shoved. She resisted for an instant, then sank down onto a soft bed of decayed cypress leaves. He fell down with her, sucking at her breasts, then nuzzling her taut nipples with his teeth. A hand poked about her thighs, stroking and pinching. She lay still, breathing heavily. Once, she glanced over and saw the gun only a couple of feet away, within easy reach.
Reddoch bit her nipples, and a mild, stimulating pain shot through her breasts. Her thighs moved slightly. He slid up her body and mangled her lips with his, and she opened her lips and let his tongue rub hers.
He started fumbling to get free of his clothes, then he was at her, and she felt his naked body, wiry and muscular. A hand cupped, then twisted a heavy breast. An other hand shot to the thighs. He kissed her, and this time, she moved her tongue into his mouth. Slowly, she rubbed her hand down over his back. She hugged him to her, crushing her breasts against him, the pointed nipples sharp with good, bursting pain.
She clamped her nails into his back, and bit his tongue. They worked together. Faster. She kissed and tongued him, rubbed her breasts against him, and streaked his back with her nails. She bit her lower lip and tasted blood.
He worked a moment more, then gasped and seemed to collapse. She was gasping for breath, and with the air she pulled frantically in, she smelled the pungent, decayed leaves. She kept her eyes closed, and did not open them when she heard him scrambling about. Her body was sore, she realized, as her breathing eased. And her lips hurt.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. Reddoch was disappearing down the trail. She bolted up. "Don't leave me here alone," she screamed. She scrambled to her feet. But he was gone.
She shuddered and looked at the ominous darkness all around. Something rustled in some vines. A squeal, high-pitched and full of pain, cracked from the darkness. The water rushed past. Swamp-sounds throbbed steadily.
Sandra nibbled her puffed-bruised lips and tasted dried blood. She started shivering, and the dull pain flowed over her sweating body. There was a thrashing sound on the ground near her. She scooped her panties up and quickly stepped into them. Then she got her bra and tugged it on. She put on her skirt, and threw on her blouse and buttoned it and stuffed it into her skirt.
She inched to the edge of the water, repeating over and over to be calm. She could get out of here if she did not panic. She remembered they had passed first a bayou, then this stream, so she could follow them back. She picked her way along the water's edge with quick, careful steps, stopping at each sound that hurtled from the enclosing darkness. Finally, she saw a break in the wall of growth, and ran out onto the runway.
She stopped, her legs swaying, and buried her face in her hands, and warm sobs racked her body. She heaved forward and almost fell, but kept her balance. Her breasts and thighs and lips all hurt, and the vine-cuts throbbed hot pain in her calf. She was shaking. She took her hands from her face, and steeled her body.
She thought of Reddoch. The shaking came again, raking her body. She had not even resisted him. She had enjoyed his abusive lust!
She steeled her body again and moved toward the car, stumbling with each step. She had not even tried to resist. She remembered the ways she had kissed him and given him her body. She shuddered.
Eddie still lay beside the car. There were no other cars in sight. Sandra knelt down and took Eddie's head in her lap. There was a huge knot on his head, but he was not bleeding. And he was breathing regularly.
She nestled his head in her lap and rocked gently back and forth. The swamp-sounds pulsated inside her head and her temples felt they would burst. Suddenly, she wanted to scream. She gasped, and nausea flooded her body, and her stomach seemed to be full of heavy, oozing mud.
Then Eddie stirred, and she was pulled from her near-hysteria. Slowly, he regained consciousness. At first, he was still stunned, and only sat numbly beside her, rubbing his head.
Then, abruptly, he seemed to snap back to reality. He looked at Sandra. "Are you alright?" he asked with hazed words. "My God, Sandy, what did that bastard do to you?"
Sandra swallowed. Tears swelled in her eyes. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and tell him what happened. Tell him how terrible it was. But how could she? Why, she had enjoyed what Reddoch did. What would Eddie think of her?
"I'm alright, Eddie," she said. "He's gone."
"Did he, well, did he attack you?" Eddie asked.
"No, he didn't attack me," she said, and a bitter laugh caught in her throat.
"Let's get out of here, then, and get the police," he said. He stood up, and pulled Sandra to her feet.
"No, please take me home, not to the police," Sandra said. "My father needs to know about this first. He'll know what to do."
"Well, I don't know, Sandy," Eddie said. "But I guess you're right to want to tell your father first. And from what I know of him, he'll take the right action."
Sandra put her hand on his cheek, and forced a smile. "I feel terrible," she said. "Please take me home."
They got into the car, and Sandra collapsed on the seat. Eddie drove rapidly, and she knew he was still a little hazy, because he kept blinking and shaking his head.
She sat weak and rigid, propped against the seat, with her eyes closed, and tried to think what she would tell her father. If she told him, he would find out that she had been going regularly to Hank's, then parking near the swamp with every date she had. What would he think of her then? He would think her disgustingly weak, and he despised weakness and people who could not be strong and take care of themselves.
Eddie parked outside her house, and again tried to talk to her. But she just kissed his cheek and told him to take care of his head, and ran crazily over the deep carpet of grass, staggering as though drunk into the house.
She stopped in the hallway and heard Eddie drive off. The house was silent. She looked in the den. It was empty. She climbed the stairs. Her father's room was empty. She went back downstairs, and walked slowly into the den.
She felt sobs heaving in her throat, and she ran to the bar and poured a glass half full of gin and put in ice, and drank the straight gin down as though it were medicine. It settled uneasily on her queasy stomach. She poured another glass, and drank it down, also. She took a third tall glass of ice and gin, and sank into the couch. She felt woozy. Her head spun. Her body convulsed slightly as she remembered Reddoch in the clearing, and the way she responded to him.
She thought desperately of trying to find her father. But she slugged down the gin. She knew her legs would not take her so far as the hall phone.
When he cancelled the trip, he had indicated he would be working late all weekend, she remembered. She would have to wait for him to come home. Somehow, then, he would know what to do, to make everything right. All she could do was wait. She sipped the gin, and shivered, and closed her eyes. She felt herself slipping from consciousness, and let the glass slide from her fingers onto the couch. She felt the cold liquid soaking through her skirt and panties, wetting her burning skin. It was the last thing she remembered, as she sank into heavy sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The deep purple dusk was fading as Sandra dragged herself down the stairs. Long shadows fell across the dining room as she sank down into her chair at the table.
Nettie came bustling from the kitchen. She set a tall glass of fresh orange juice in front of Sandra. Sandra picked up the glass with both hands and sipped the juice slowly.
"What you want to eat?" Nettie asked. "Lord, look at you. Don't you look a sight. What happened last night, Miss Sandra? Find you sleeping in the den this morning, looking like a ghost, your leg all cut, your lips all bruised and puffy."
Sandra shook her head. "Don't lecture me, Nettie," she said, wearily.
"Well, alright, Miss Sandra, but you worry me something awful," Nettie said. "Now, what you want to eat? You must be starving."
"No, I'm not hungry," Sandra said. "Just some toast and coffee."
"I won't have that," Nettie said. "You got to eat something that sticks to your ribs."
"Dammit, leave me alone," Sandra said. She finished the juice and put the glass down.
"Alright, alright," Nettie muttered, and walked away.
Sandra looked around. "Nettie, where is my father? she asked. "I must see him. It's urgent."
Nettie shook her head. "Miss Sandra, I don't know where he is. All I know is he said he'd be out working and might not make it back home all weekend. Don't you worry. You know how your daddy throws himself into his work."
Nettie disappeared through the door into the kitchen, and Sandra turned back to the table. Her body still ached, and but not too badly, and the chilling stomach pains she had felt earlier were gone. She had dim and horrible memories of Nettie waking her up some time early this morning, and helping her to bed.
And in all this time, her father had not come home. Sandra looked out through the blinds, at the garden which sloped down to the pond in the back of the house. The purple was gone now and the sky dark. She saw fireflies flitting about. Crickets sang gently.
The huge, old clock at the far end of the room started striking, and the bonging notes vibrated through her. She huddled her body up against itself, and snorted out a sharp laugh. She had been raped last night. She had been forced into the swamp, and made to undress. Then this horrible man had raped her. Except, she had not resisted.
She felt strange, sort of weak, and her stomach was queasy again. She had not only not resisted, but had responded in a way she never had responded to a man in her life.
My God, she said, half aloud. The panic came again, and she started to jump up. But she heard Nettie coming from the kitchen, and she forced herself to remain seated.
Nettie put a plate of scrambled eggs and grits and ham and toast in front of her. A cup of steaming coffee. Sandra looked at the food and shuddered, but she was too weary to fight Nettie about it. Nettie did not say anything. She just turned and walked back to the kitchen.
Sandra poured sugar into the coffee, then sipped it carefully. It was hot and burned her bruised lips and tongue, but she drank it anyway, and its warmth helped calm her.
She idly picked up a piece of toast and nibbled a comer. Then she dabbed at the eggs and ate a bite. They tasted good. She cut a piece of ham, then ate more eggs. In a couple of minutes, she had eaten everything on the plate. And she did feel better after eating. Her stomach was quieter.
She relaxed and sipped the hot coffee. She stared down into the coffee. Watched the white steam swirling off.
She choked back a sob, then put the coffee down and stood up. Dammit, she needed her father, she told herself. And she was going to find him. She ran out to the upstairs phone. She called the bank. There was no answer. She tried the country club, then the homes of all her father's friends and business associates. But the calls were all futile. No one had seen her father.
She went back to her room, and climbed from her pajamas. Went into the bathroom and washed her face. She combed her hair quickly, and dabbed on some lipstick. She peeled on a pair of brief white panties and got into a white bra. She paused a moment to stare at her body in the mirror. The body she had given to Jessie Reddoch. There were faint bruises on her arm and the inside of her thigh, and a jagged row of scabs along her calf.
She walked from the mirror to the closet and pulled out a dark blue skirt and a powder-blue blouse, and put them on. She tucked some money into her pocket and ran from the room. She did not even tell Nettie good-bye as she went out to her car.
She backed down the driveway quickly. Then she mashed the accelerator down and the car shot down the street. She drove rapidly, taking comers on two squealing tires.
She just knew her father would be out at the new subdivision he was so concerned about. They usually worked late, and her father would stay out there and make sure they followed the plans to the letter.
She was excited as she turned onto the final street. But the complex of half-completed buildings was dark and deserted. She stopped in front of the watchman's shack, and blew the horn. A wrinkled, stooped old man hobbled out, wiping something from his mouth.
"I'm Sandra Blake," she said. "I'm looking for my father. Have you seen him tonight? It's important."
The old man shook his head. "No, ma'am, ain't seen him in two, three days," he said.
"Why, wasn't he out here last night?" she asked.
"No, he ain't been out here at night in a couple of weeks, I reckon," he said.
"Alright, thank you," Sandra said. She shifted into gear and drove slowly from the dark buildings. That's strange, she said to herself as she stopped at the highway. She had assumed it was because he had to be out here every minute that he had put the trip off.
Well, there was only one other place he could be, she told herself. She turned onto the highway, and floor-boarded the car. He had forbidden her to ever disturb him when he was working out at his fishing cabin. She did not even know the unlisted phone number. But she guessed being raped was reason enough to disturb his work just one night.
The buildings were fewer and further apart as she sped down the straight, level highway. Now there were only occasional service stations, and a couple of honky-tonks, garish, battered old buildings beneath pale pink neon. Then there were no buildings, and she drove through a thick pine forest, the trunks bare of fohage for forty feet, then topped with massive pine-needle clusters.
The pine forest bled off into meadow land, thick grass broken by small clusters of pines, or huge water oaks, their leafy limbs dipping to the ground. She started slowing the car and leaned forward, looking for the turn-off.
Then she saw the narrow, blacktop road. She turned onto the road, past a sign: ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING. She drove slowly along the twisting road, beside a barbed-wire fence. She stopped at a gate. Two slats of metal barred her car. She shifted into park, and pulled the emergency brake up, then climbed from the car.
The gate was locked. But there were lights up in the cabin. So he was there. She thought of blowing her horn. But she looked again at the gate. She could easily climb through it.
She pulled her tight skirt up and worked herself between the two slats. She straightened her skirt, then walked slowly up the dark road.
There were two cars outside the cabin. One was her father's long, black Cadillac. The other was a green Ford, with double exhaust pipes, outside mirrors, and a fox-tail hanging from a mirror.
Then Sandra heard rock and roll music blaring from the cabin. She stopped. Her stomach tightened. Something was wrong. She hesitated. But she moved toward the cabin again.
The music was loud, and she could hear voices, but could not make them out. She paused again at the steps. She heard her father. Then she heard a woman's voice. Something told her to turn around and run back to her car and leave.
But she inched up the wooden steps. Her heart was racing as she walked softly to the open door. She stopped abruptly, and put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Some terrible, cheap-looking girl was doing a kind of burlesque dance to the blasting music, rolling her large buttocks back and forth. And her father sat on the edge of the bed, his face flushed white, sweat beads standing on his forehead. His deep, black eyes burned at the dancing girl. The girl wore a gaudy, green dress. It was so tight, the rim of the panties showed as she bumped toward the bed. Her father reached out for the girl, but she laughed and moved backward.
Sandra stood hypnotized as the girl turned slightly. When she saw the girl's face, she swallowed hard. The girl was only a teenager. Why, she looked as though she was a high school girl. Except that she had on bright brick-red lipstick, too much rouge, and black, thick eye makeup. Her hair was washed-out blonde. The girl reached behind her and unzipped the dress, as her father strained forward, nearly panting.
Sandra thought her heart would leap from her chest, and the blood flooded to her temples. She told herself to run away, now. But she stood watching the way her father stared at the girl. Now the girl was skinning the dress over her plump hips and thighs.
Sandra nearly gasped again. The terrible little girl had on red panties and a red bra. Then her father stood up, and pulled the girl to him, and grabbed her buttocks. He smothered her red lips with a desperate kiss. He fumbled for the bra hook, unhooked the bra and tore at it. The girl pulled from his lips. She shrugged the red bra off, and huge, white breasts with long, pointed nipples fell out. Her father wallowed his face in the fleshy, white mounds. He was gasping and moaning slightly.
But the terrible little girl had no expression on her face. Except a slight, chilling smile of scorn. Her father reached for the red panties, but the girl shoved his hand away.
"You ain't said yet I could have them other new clothes, for staying out here with you this weekend," she said, and hunched her body at him. She turned the top rim of the panties down a fold, and smiled.
Her father stood there, panting. "Don't push me, Naomi," he gasped out. "I've given you plenty for staying out here." He grabbed her arm and jerked her to him. She did not resist but she did not respond. They fell backward onto the bed. He ripped the red panties down her fleshy, white thighs, down her legs. Then he fell to the floor.
"Be nice to me, huh, honey," the girl said. "If you're good to me, I'll be nice and make you groan and moan and all. Huh, honey?"
Her father was pulling his clothes off, and smothering her white breasts with his lips.
"Alright, you can have all the clothes you want, Naomi," her father panted out.
The girl smiled, and twisted her body. "You're so good to me, Paul," she said, as she hunched at him.
As her father started making groaning noises and sucking clumsily at her red lips and pumping his hand on her white breast, Sandra pivoted and fled down the steps, and ran blindly to the gate. She climbed through, and got in and started the car. Backed around and turned, and floor-boarded the car. It lurched along the narrow, twisting road, and she did not stop at the highway, but turned away from town and drove faster and faster. Her heart pumped and her temples throbbed. Her stomach was tight, and her nerves felt they had been rubbed raw.
The car shot down the deserted highway. The meadowland gave way to thick forests. Then the car tore across a bridge, over a wide current of dull, brown water. The forests were thicker, with water on each side of the highway now. More bridges, over fast-moving streams.
She kept seeing her father there whining for that cheap little tramp. Panting and slobbering, and doing what she wanted. The girl was so young, and such obvious trash. This was why her father could not go to the coast with her. Because he had to spend a weekend at his cabin with that trash. All these nights, he had been out there, whining with that teenager.
She drove over a wide expanse of watery marsh land. Drove faster. She thought of just driving off one of the bridges. What difference would it make? And who would care? Certainly not her damn father. Certainly not her strong and independent father. He did not need her or anyone in the world. No one had seen Paul Blake need a living thing.
No one but a floozy, teenage tramp, who made him whine and pander to her. Sandra shivered in the hot night, and wanted to cry. But she shook her head and sniffled.
"To hell with you," she said into the darkness of the car. To hell with you, she repeated softly to herself.
She relaxed a little, and took her foot off the accelerator. The swamps were thick now, growing up to the highway, and she heard the swamp-sounds. She had to do something quickly, or she would go crazy, she told herself. She could not go back home and be alone. And she did not want some guy pawing over her the way her father had pawed over that girl.
Dammit, she was going to Hank's. It was the only place she ever felt good. And if Reddoch was there, she would tell Hank what he did to her. Hank would take care of her.
CHAPTER NINE
Sandra pulled up outside Hank's. Her heart pounded as she switched off the motor and lights. The parking lot was crowded with old cars and pick-up trucks. She glanced around. She did not see the battered, green pickup with bailing wire on the doors.
She put her hand on the handle, but paused. What if Reddoch was inside? What would it be like to face him again? If he was there, she would tell Hank, and he would take care of him.
She twisted the handle, and stepped out and slammed the door. She told herself she had rather face a dozen men like Reddoch than witness that scene again between her father and that little tramp. She hurried across the parking lot. The damp swamp hovered around, and the humidity was smothering. She needed a drink. Lots of drinks.
She paused again at the steps. She realized she had never been out here alone at night. But she smiled bitterly to herself. There had been lots of first times for her in the past few days.
She walked up the rickety wooden steps and shoved the screen door open. It slapped shut behind her. The loud din of talk and laughter stopped abruptly and the men in the booths and at the bar turned to stare at her. Electric guitars whined from the jukebox, and a tall floor fan by the door sucked out the warm air in a steady humming sound.
Sandra stood still a moment. She looked at the faces straining around at her, but she did not see Reddoch. She started across the rough, wooden floor, looking straight ahead. It seemed the looks of some of these men would burn right through her tight blouse and skirt.
Hank watched her with his thin, expressionless face. His blue eyes were set and did not even seem to blink. Maybe he did not want her out here alone, she told herself. Maybe she was more trouble to him than she was worth. She stopped at the crowded bar, careful not to look into the eyes of any of the staring men. She swore she would go and throw herself into the nearest bayou if Hank did not let her stay.
There was a long, terrible moment of nearly total silence as the record ended and the fan whirled. Then she could hear the breathing of the men. Finally, Hank leaned across the bar. And he actually smiled at her. She was so thankful to him for that slight smile, that she felt like hugging him.
"Glad to see you, Sandy," Hank said. He motioned to a man on a stool. "Give the lady your seat, Homer," he said.
The man stood up. Sandra smiled and said, "Thank you." She looked at him a moment. A medium-tall man with long grey hair, and a pot belly hanging over his wide, brown belt. As she slid up onto the seat, she remembered the last time a man out here had given her his seat.
The men were talking again now, and someone laughed. The jukebox came back on.
"Well, what'll cool you off best, Sandy?" Hank asked.
She nodded. "Give me a pint of gin, and set-ups, with lots of ice," she said.
"You want a whole bottle?" Hank asked.
"Sure, why not?" Sandra said. "I can handle my liquor."
"Well, I can just mix you a couple of drinks out of a bottle I keep open back here," Hank said.
"Alright, Hank," she said. "I would appreciate that." She leaned forward toward Hank. "Do you think Jessie Reddoch will come in tonight?" she asked.
Hank shook his head. "You don't have to worry about Reddoch disturbing you any more," he said. "He scooted out of town some time last night, and somebody told me they saw him tearing off in that truck of his, like the Devil was after him."
Sandra had the impulse to lean closer to Hank, and tell him what Reddoch had done to her. But she thought of the way she had responded, and she swallowed, and settled back onto the stool.
"Hey, Hank, how 'bout some beer?" someone yelled from a booth back up by the door.
"Coming right up," Hank called. "Just a minute."
Sandra watched him make her drink. She noticed he did not put in much gin. She leaned over the bar. "Please, Hank, make it strong," she said. "I'm not a child. I know how to drink."
Hank looked up at her with his hard, blue eyes. Again, he smiled slightly. "I know you're not a child, Sandy," he said. He poured gin into the glass.
Sandra settled back onto the stool again, and felt herself blushing slightly. Hank gave her the drink and then busied himself with taking frosting cans of beer from the ancient icebox.
Sandra picked up the glass and took a deep swallow of the gin. Then another. It was so cold and tasted so good. She drank again. As she set the glass down on the bar, she saw that a couple of the men at the bar were staring at her. The fat man with grey hair was gone. But a tall, heavy man with bushy black hair and a round face set with hard wrinkles was looking down at her legs. She glanced down. Her blue skirt was pulled slightly above her knees. She started to smooth the skirt down. But she stopped herself. The blue skirt looked good against the deeply tanned skin.
She twisted around on the stool, and the skirt crawled higher above her knees. She sipped her cold drink in gulps. She was through caring about anything in the world. She finished the drink with a deep swallow and shoved the glass across the bar. She took a couple of bills from her pocket, and put them beside the glass.
Hank looked up from the icebox. He glanced at the empty glass, then at Sandra. Then he mixed another drink. This time he poured in lots of gin.
"Thanks, Hank," she said, as he handed her the drink. She shoved the money toward him.
"That's alright," he said. "These are on the house, since I ran you off last night."
"Why, thank you, Hank," she said, and smiled. Then she realized Hank was staring at the way her bra pressed against the tight blouse.
"Glad to see you tonight, Sandy," Hank said. "But you take it easy out here. First time you ever been out here without a date, and these men, they drinking a lot, and you're about the best-looking girl they've ever seen."
"Do you want me to leave?" Sandra snapped. "No, I'm glad to have you out here, you know that," he said. "But you're in a funny mood, and starting to drink like it was going out of style. I reckon something's wrong, from the way you look. I just don't want you to stir up trouble for yourself."
"I'm glad you're concerned," she said, surprised at the sarcasm in her voice. She took a quick sip of the gin. Then a deep swallow.
She saw that her skirt was pulled higher now, way up on her golden thigh, and several men were staring. She thought of what Hank had said. But she did not pull the skirt down. She remembered the way Hank had stared at her. After all, he was a man, too. He seemed quiet and tough. But, maybe he was like her father. She guessed all men were like her father. Weak and whining with a woman. She had seen enough boys willing to do anything to have her.
She poured down the cold gin, and looked around the bar. She was conscious of the way the blue blouse was stretched across her breasts, and she did not look away when she saw men turn from their talk and drinks to look at her.
She sighed, heaving her breasts slightly against the thin, blue blouse. Then she poured the gin down, and watched Hank go into the other room. The big man who had been sitting beside her went to the jukebox, then walked back and stood beside Sandra. "How 'bout dancin' with me?" he asked.
Sandra looked up into his rugged, lined face. She took a deep swallow of gin. She was feeling a little looser now. She glanced back at the bar. Hank was still gone.
She smiled and slid off the stool. "Sure, I'll dance with you," she said. The big man took her hand and led her a couple of steps, then pulled her against him and enclosed her with his big arms. He whirled her around, crushing her breasts into his chest. Sandra saw that every man in the place was watching them as they twirled around the rough, wooden floor.
"My name's Howard," the man said. "What they call you?"
"My name's Sandy," she said. She felt his hand sliding down over her buttocks. But she did not say anything. She even worked her breasts slightly against his chest.
Dancing made her warm again, and the cold gin was uneasy in her stomach. She felt kind of funny. Maybe a little tight, she told herself, as Howard rubbed her buttocks and twirled her around. But she wanted to get drunk and forget everything.
The men were talking and laughing and pointing at her now. "Howard, that's too much for you to handle," a man with red hair yelled. "You better stick to corn-fed girls." Everybody laughed. Several of the men drank whiskey straight from the bottle.
Howard was breathing harder. He cupped her buttocks, and mashed her slim body against him. A couple of the men were clapping and whistling. When Howard whirled her around again, she saw Hank standing by the bar, looking at her. She quickly looked away.
The record ended, but Howard still held her. She had to tear herself from his grasp. A couple of men in a booth stood up.
"Hey, how 'bout joinin' us, if you're not too fancy to drink whiskey 'stead of that gin," one of them said.
She glanced at Hank. He motioned to her. But she looked away. She could do as she wanted. Hank had no right to tell her what to do.
She looked at the men. "Sure, why not?" she said. The booth was crowded, and as she sat down, the men pressed against her body.
She was just a little scared, and she licked her lips. "I'll show you how fancy I am," she said. She picked up a bottle of bourbon and twisted off the cap. She put the bottle to her lips and drank the whiskey. It fell burning down her throat and dropped like a weight into her stomach. She shuddered, but kept drinking. When she set the bottle down, the men clapped.
"Let's see who can drink more in one swallow," she said. She sounded confident and knowing. But she was fighting to keep the whiskey down. Her head started swimming just a bit, and she felt terribly warm.
Howard sat down on a chair at the end of the table. He picked up the bottle. "What'll I get if I finish all this in one swallow?" he asked.
Men from other booths crowded around. Sandra felt she would smother. The warm bourbon rolled uneasily in her tight stomach. And a man beside her had put his hand on her knee. She shifted her knee from his grasp, and looked at Howard. She forced a provocative smile, and twisted half around so that her breasts were thrust against the blouse.
"It's worth a kiss," she said. She knew she looked provocative, but she only felt queasy and hot. But she didn't care. A girl who let someone like Reddoch take her in the swamp should not hesitate with a whole room of men. She tried to laugh, but it choked in her whiskey-raw throat.
The jukebox blared on now, saxophones whining. The fan whirled. The men breathed heavily and when she felt the hand again, she did not move it. Howard took the bottle and drank the bourbon. He tilted the bottle higher, and kept drinking. A few drops fell from his lips, and he made choking sounds. But when he finally put the bottle down, it was empty.
He looked leeringly at her, as he wiped the whiskey from his lips. Sandra felt the man's fingers tickling up her thigh. She moved her legs slightly to keep the hand from her panties. But she did not move the hand.
She leaned toward Howard, across the table. He put his hand on her neck and pulled her mouth roughly to his. She smelled the bourbon on his panting breath. He hurt her bruised lips as he mashed them against his lips. But she did not pull away. The hand on her thigh was brushing at her panties, and she shoved the hand away. Then she opened her lips and let Howard's tongue tear into her mouth. She shut her eyes, and teased her tongue with his. She tried finally to pull away, but she could not move his huge hand from behind her head. So she ground the kiss against his lips, savoring the pain from the mashed, puffed lips.
Then a man in rimless glasses, who sat on the other side of her, pawed at the inside of her thigh. She let him get a grip on the warm, moist skin, then she shook her head, and lifted his hand away.
Sandra picked up another bottle of bourbon, and slugged down a terrible, warm swallow that rode an instant in her throat, then went down.
"Okay, Howard, let's see you drink a whole bottle," she said.
"I seen him do it once," a man leaning over the booth said.
Howard picked up the bottle. "What's the prize this time?" he asked. He reached out and grabbed a handful of breast.
Sandra froze a moment. Then she forced a smile on the comers of her lips. She pulled his massive hand from her breast, and put it on her thigh. Then she tugged the hand away.
"Drink the whiskey and take your chances," she purred. She wondered how much of a man this hulk really was. Probably more of a man she expected, than the boys who usually whined over her. Or more of a man than her father.
Howard put the bottle to his lips. Suddenly, Hank shoved a couple of men aside, and jerked the whiskey from Howard's hands.
"Sandy, get out of that booth and go back to the bar," Hank said.
Howard pushed the chair back and stood up. "Keep your goddamn hands off me, Hank," he said. "She wants to set here, ain't no reason why she can't. She done give me everything but a handwritten invitation."
Hank looked past Howard to Sandra. "Go to the bar," he said. "Move, dammit."
Sandra scrambled from the booth, pushing at the man on the outside until he stood up. She walked slowly to the bar, her head hung, and collapsed on the stool. She was a terrible girl, she told herself. As cheap and easy as that little tramp she found with her father.
She looked back at the booth. Howard towered over Hank, but Hank had not moved a step. He stood with his feet slightly apart, his hands in half-closed fists. The veins stood tight on his slim, muscular arms.
"I want her, and I ain't takin' no crap from you," Howard said. "I don't care if this is your place, Hank."
"You listen, good," Hank said. "You so much as touch Sandy again, and I'll kill you, Howard. Now make your choice."
The big fan whirled and there was quiet for a long minute. Howard looked uneasily around. He licked his lips. Finally, he sat down. "Hell, I didn't know you felt that way 'bout the little bitch," he muttered, and took a long drink of the bourbon. He leaned in toward the men, and they started talking again, a low hum of garbled words.
Hank stalked back to the bar. "Watch behind the bar for a few minutes," he said to the man with the pot belly.
"Sure, Hank," the man said, and waddled around the bar.
"Come with me, Sandy," Hank said.
She did not move. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her from the stool. He dragged her from the bar, into the small grocery store room, and slammed the door.
She stared into his lean, tanned face beneath the short, brown hair. At his steel-blue eyes, and the hard-set lips. She could not tell what he was thinking. But she knew he must consider her an awful girl, after the exhibition she had put on out there. She heard the men laughing. They were laughing at her.
Still Hank didn't say anything. She nibbled at her lower lip and winced slightly at the pain. She walked away from Hank, over to a long, linoleum-covered counter, with rolls of bologna and hunks of yellow cheese on it. She heard Hank come up behind her. She pivoted. Looked up at that damn face of his. That damn face that she could not see beneath.
"What difference does it make what I do?" she demanded.
"Calm down, Sandy," Hank said. "I want to talk to you. I want to help you. You're in a funny mood. Why don't you tell me what's wrong? What happened?"
"You never talk to me," she said. "All I know about you is that your wife died a few years ago." She put her hand on his arm. "I can't tell what you think of me, Hank. How can I talk sincerely to you when you never show any emotion?" She ran her fingers up his arm, over the lean, bulging muscles. She rubbed his cheek. It was warm. "I do want to talk to you, Hank," she said. "But only if I know you really like me."
He took her hand from his cheek. "Sandy, this is a tough business, this bar business," he said. "And I've become tough doing it. It's the only way. Most of the people who come in here could live or die, and I wouldn't lift a finger, long as it didn't hurt business. Outside my relatives, you're the only living soul I'd raise a hand to help."
Sandra moved a step closer, and again rubbed his cheek. Slid her fingers down to the tight muscles of his slender neck. She leaned up until her breasts touched his chest, and she felt him stiffen. She put her moist lips to his ear. "Like me very much, Hank," she whispered.
He put his hands on her waist. "I've been watching you come out here lately, Sandy," he said. "You're asking for trouble. With the boys you date. With these men. With your drinking. You're not like that, Sandy. With you, it's not real."
His fingers tightened on her waist. She nestled up against his chest. "Do you really care what happens to me, Hank?" she asked, pressing her lips against his ear.
"I care an awful lot," Hank said. He moved his hands to her back, and rubbed softly. She snuggled into his arms, as he kissed her nose. She tilted her head slightly as his lips sought hers. His kiss was gentle, only a touch.
She opened her lips and kissed him desperately, running her tongue into his mouth. She ground her body against his. The laughter and talking and music from the other room seemed far off, and unreal.
He cupped her buttocks, and lifted her off the floor and backed her to the counter. He sat her on the edge of the counter. Then he vaulted onto the counter, and pressed her down. She smelled sharp cheese and greasy bologna.
He was kissing her firmly now, expertly using his lips and tongue and teeth. She had never been kissed quite like that, and she returned the kiss, and clawed at his back through the shirt. With a free hand, he unbuttoned her blouse, and pulled it from her skirt. He raised her up slightly, and unsnapped the bra. There was nothing hurried or unsure about his movements. He tugged the bra off.
The touch of his gentle, callused fingers was feather-like on her burning, bruised breasts. He stroked the breasts, pinching the nipples until they swelled to a pointed hardness, and ached wonderfully.
He continued the steady, knowing kiss, and the massaging and pinching of her breasts and straining, hard nipples. With his other hand, he tickled gently down her stomach, until it jerked slightly from the light, callused fingers. He took the skirt off, and she felt the fingers wandering across the panties, and down to the thighs, where he tickled, then pinched, then rubbed. A steady rhythm of tickling and pinching, that made her tingle all over.
She felt warm with the cold tingles, and she poured out hot breath, and pushed her breasts into his hand. Finally, he took his lips from hers.
He stared down at her, then he smiled, a deep, open smile. "You're a real woman, Sandy," he whispered. "One of the finest I've ever seen. Don't ever sell yourself short."
She wanted to answer, to tell him she liked him, or something. But those fingers on her breasts and thighs made her squirm, and she reached up and pulled his head down and kissed him, raking the inside of his mouth with her tongue.
The fingers were gone a moment while he got out of his clothes. Then they were back. Up to the panties. Beneath the panties. The tickling and stroking drove her wild, and she dug her nails into his back, and gyrated her body against his in every possible way. He rolled the brief panties down, and pulled them off her legs. She tried to work quickly, desperately, sucking at his lips and clawing his back. But he worked slowly and steadily. Faster, but steadily.
She gasped and rocked her body back and forth. The excitement built up and she moaned and scratched, and bit his shoulder again. Contorted her body. Raked her nails across his buttocks.
Then he was working rapidly and she moaned and tensed and fell limp, panting for breath.
They lay still a long moment, pouring out hot, desperate breath. He stroked her brown, boy-cut hair. Ran a finger around her brown lashes, and down the tip of her nose. Rubbed across her full, puffed lips.
"Hungry?" he asked, with a touch of playfulness she had never heard in his voice.
She stared into his blue eyes. "Hungry?" she asked.
He reached over and picked up a piece of cheese and put it between her lips. "We don't even have to get up to eat," he said. "We have everything we need right here on the counter."
They both laughed. He kissed the tip of her nose and she swallowed the bit of cheese.
A shout from the other room caused Hank to bolt up. There was the sound of a chair falling. Someone else shouted.
He jumped off the counter. Climbed quickly into his clothes. But he turned back to Sandra. She felt strange and ludicrous and good and womanly, posed naked on her side on a counter amid cheese and bologna. He took her hand a moment, and leaned down and kissed her lips tenderly.
"You better get dressed and get out of here," he said. "Use that side door. Seems I'm always running you off. But I always want very much for you to come back." He smiled and pulled his hand away, and eased out the door, shutting it behind him.
Sandra heard more shouting and scuffling from the other room as she climbed off the counter. She dressed quickly, slipped out the side door, and ran to her car. The bar was quiet as she drove from the parking lot, onto the narrow road. The humidity smothered her, and the sounds were loud and menacing from the swamp. She drove slowly. Her body hurt and she felt her stomach quivering. The whiskey and gin were wearing off, and she could already feel the beginning of a deadly hangover.
She turned the vent and inhaled the rushing, humid air in deep gulps. She tried to keep from thinking, but the past week flooded through her mind. She had spent the first part of the week making boys humiliate themselves for her body, and last night she responded to a man who raped her. The time with Hank, his way of making love, had seemed wonderful there in the little room, but now with the gnawing stomach, in the hot, hollow loneliness of the pitch black swamp-road, it just seemed a part of a pattern of life that she could not endure another day.
And then there was her father, with that little girl. She swallowed, and tasted bourbon. It was all she could do now to get home and to bed. But as she stopped at the highway, she swore to herself she would not stay with her father. She could not continue this terrible life. She was going to leave town.
CHAPTER TEN
Blake buttoned his shirt and watched Naomi struggle into her tight, green dress. She looked around and smiled, as she put a couple of extra wiggles of her broad buttocks into the dressing act. Then she straightened up and zipped the dress.
She leaned over and turned the radio up as the announcer said, "Welcome to another Sunday morning of religious music by Ernie Swann, and his Blue Sky Playboys." Electric guitars rocked out an old hymn, and Naomi turned the volumn higher.
"Dammit, we're leaving," Blake said. "Couldn't you wait and listen to that stuff on your car radio?"
Naomi puffed her bright red lips into a pout. "Oh, honey, I listen to that every week," she said. "I think everybody should listen to religious music on Sunday morning, no matter what they been doin' on Saturday night." She laughed.
Blake stared at her voluptuous young body straining beneath the green dress. The dress seemed painted on, the way it hugged every dip and rise of her flesh.
He tucked his shirt in his pants, as he stalked over and flicked the radio off. "Come on, let's get out of here," he said. He was suddenly fed up with her, and wanted to get home.
They walked outside. He locked the door, and watched her sway down the steep steps. Then he followed her over to her Ford, and opened the door.
She turned her face up to him. "You ain't forgettin' 'bout them clothes, are you, honey?" she asked.
Blake dug his wallet from his pocket. He took a couple of bills and gave them to her. She squeezed his hand, then leaned up and kissed his lips. He breathed deeply, but only inhaled the perfume. After so much sex with her, he was completely sated now. And he somehow detested her and everything about her.
But he knew he would desperately want her again soon. He swallowed. What was worse, was that she knew it, also.
"I'll call you at work," he said.
She shrugged. "Alright, sweetie," she said. "But I ain't sure when I can see you again."
"What the hell do you mean?" he said.
She pressed her enormous breasts against his chest, and ran her red nail along the rim of his ear. She smiled sweetly, her childish face nearly grotesque in the heavy makeup. "I got a life of my own," she said, pouting. "I been out here all weekend with you, honey. But don't you worry none. Like I said, I'm goin' to be real good, 'cause you treat me nice. Don't you worry 'bout nothin', even when you don't see me. I ain't lettin' no guys run their hands under my jeans, or nothin' like that."
She pecked at his lips, then slid down into the seat. He slammed the door so hard her small car rocked slightly from side to side. As he walked back to his Cadillac, he heard the gospel music blast on.
He drove slowly to the gate, and she followed. He pulled off to one side. Climbed out. Unlocked the gate. She waved, and drove past, the twin exhausts barking as she pumped on the accelerator. He watched the car disappear around a curve.
He drove slowly to the highway and turned toward town. The morning was already hot. He opened the side vent and let the rushing air cool his face. He licked his parched lips and tasted the sweet, sticky lipstick.
He was anxious to get home. To be in his own house, away from everything connected with Naomi. To have breakfast with Sandra, and talk to her. He realized how obsessed he was with Naomi. And dammit, she knew it. He had to be careful, he warned himself. But so long as he kept her separate from the rest of his life, it would be alright. So long as he had a lovely daughter at home, to whom he could talk and feel like a father, a decent human being, then he would not sink into Naomi's world.
He moved into heavier traffic now, people going to Sunday School or mass. He drove slower, and nodded at people he knew.
Christ, he deserved Naomi, if that was what he wanted. He had come to this town with nothing. He had clawed and worked damn hard to get to the place he was today.
He turned the last comer, and felt better as he saw his home behind the spacious expanse of grass. He turned into the driveway, and parked behind Sandra's car. As he walked across the porch, he reminded himself that had he not cancelled the trip, he and Sandra would be on the coast this morning.
He told himself he must make up for ruining her weekend. She had mentioned that she wanted a new car. Maybe this morning at breakfast he would tell her she could have one. The little sports car she wanted.
He walked into the long hall, and heard Nettie humming in the kitchen. Then he smelled coffee. He inhaled the strong aroma, and his stomach told him he was hungry In the dining room sat down at the long table, in front of the huge clock. As he was putting his napkin on his lap, Nettie came in from the kitchen with a pot of coffee. She poured him a cup, then put the pot down on a thick coaster.
"Wasn't sure you'd get back in time for breakfast, Mister Paul," she said. "But I had the coffee making, just to be sure. How things goin' with your work?"
"Alright," he said, as he put a teaspoon of sugar into the steaming coffee. He stirred vigorously, then took a careful sip. It was scalding hot, so he set the cup back down in the saucer. "Sandra not up yet?" he asked.
"I want to talk to you 'bout Miss Sandra," Nettie said. "I'm 'fraid somethin' terrible's been happenin'."
Her voice carried obvious alarm. Blake looked up at her. "What's wrong?" he said. "Where is she?"
"She's upstairs," Nettie said. "Said she wasn't comin' down for breakfast. Friday night, she came home some time, and went into the den, and was drinkin'. When I came yesterday morning, I found her sleepin' on the couch. I got her up and took her upstairs and put her to bed. She slept all day. Finally, she came down here, lookin' like somethin' the cats drug in. She said she had to see you. Said it was urgent. Later, she ran out of the house. Don't know what time she came in last night. But she got her door locked, and won't come down."
Blake sighed, looked away from Nettie, and stared into the black coffee a moment. "I'll talk to her, and find out what's wrong," he said. "You fix breakfast. Some eggs up, ham, grits, juice."
"Alright, Mister Paul," she said, and walked back to the kitchen.
Blake got up and walked quickly from the room. Took the stairs two at a time. He listened a moment outside Sandra's room. There was no sound. He knocked gently. Waited. He knocked louder. There was still no sound. He knocked again, then tried the handle. It was locked.
He knocked a final time, then went downstairs to the dining room, and settled back into his chair. As he sipped the coffee, he told himself she was probably just upset because he had put the trip off. Well, he would have a long talk with her later. She had to understand she could not have everything her way.
Sandra held her breath as her father knocked again. Then she heard him going down the stairs. She exhaled. Walked over to the dresser, and stepped out of her pajamas and stared at her body in the mirror.
The bruises had faded. And she looked much better. The color was back in her face, and her lips were no longer puffed. She turned and stared at herself sideways, at the way her breasts and buttocks stuck out. How did boys put it? In just the right places. She turned and faced the mirror. Tensed up on tiptoes, and then relaxed. She ran her palms over her breasts, her smooth stomach, down over her thighs.
She twisted a slight smile on the comers of her lips. What a week her body had had, she told herself. Eddie and Jerry had slobbered and licked over every part of it. Jessie Reddoch had ravished it, with quite a bit of help. The men at Hank's had stared and grabbed and pawed. And then Hank had placed her among the bologna and cheese, and made love to her.
She twisted the faint lip-smile into a frown, and walked into the bathroom. She ran cold water in the lavratory. Cupped her hands and poured the water into her face. She shivered slightly. But she felt better. She brushed her teeth quickly. Then she went back into her bedroom.
She could hesitate no longer. She had to go down and face her father. She had spent all morning forcing herself to be calm and rational. She did not want to accuse him. She did not want a bad scene. She simply had to tell him she must go away for a while. To New York City, because her cousin Alice was living there now, and had invited her up.
She hurried to the chest of drawers, and took out her clothes and dressed quickly, then went to the dresser and combed her short, brown hair with a few brisk strokes.
She walked to the door and unlocked it. But she paused with her hand on the knob. Her pulse raced slightly, and she swallowed. She felt her heart pace itself a bit faster.
She shoved the door open. Walked slowly down the stairs. She smelled ham, and realized she was hungry. But she could not eat a bite. And she could not sit for an eternity at that table and stare at her father.
She walked into the den, and out through the French doors onto the patio. The sun was burning-hot, and there was not a cloud in the sky. She looked down the terraced lawn to her rose garden. She would have to talk to Nettie and be sure she took care of the garden. It was a cinch her father would be far too busy with his little friend to worry about her flowers.
She stretched lazily, and tilted her face toward the sun. She was trying to decide whether or not to lie down on the patio, when she heard her father's heavy footsteps coming down the hall.
She walked back and stood in the French doors as he came into the den.
"Well, good-morning, Sandra," he said. "I didn't hear you come downstairs. Didn't you want any breakfast?"
She shook her head. "No, Daddy, I don't feel like eating, I'm afraid," she said. She stared at his face, and those pit-black eyes. He seemed so damn calm now, and self-assured and utterly independent. She tore her eyes from his face, and took a couple of short, nervous steps, then stopped. "Daddy, I want to talk to you about something important," she said. She stepped to one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and looked idly at the books, tracing along the jackets with her finger.
"That's good, Sandra," her father said. He walked over to the couch and sat down. "I was wanting to talk to you. Nettie tells me you've been a bit distraught this weekend. I'm sorry I wasn't here to help, but you know how business is. Now, what's the trouble?"
Sandra bit her lower lip. The blood shot upward into her head. She went tense, and a coldness jabbed up her back. Business, she snorted to herself.
"Daddy, I'm not feeling well, and I want to get out of here for a while," she said. She spoke the words slowly and carefully, forcing an unnatural clamness into each word, while her insides screamed. She did not dare look at him again.
"Sandra, what's the trouble?" he asked. "Tell me the truth now. There's nothing so bad we can't discuss it and work something out. Is it that boy? Did you...? I mean, are you, well, just tell me frankly and honestly what happened."
"It has nothing to do with any boy," she said. Again, she forced calmness into her clipped, precise words. "You know Alice has invited me to visit her in New York, and I've decided I want to go."
"Alright, if you want to go up and visit a few days, I don't mind," he said.
"Not for a few days, to stay and live," she said, too fast. She nibbled at her lower lip.
He stood up. "This has gone far enough, young lady," he said. "You're obviously not going to go up there and live. Now, stop stalling and tell me what's the matter. Whatever is troubling you, I can take care of, one way or another. Though, I must confess I'm disappointed in you, if it's what I suspect."
She whirled and glared at him. Sniffled. Saw him whimpering for that tramp. She took a step toward him. "You're disappointed in me," she said, her words pouring out, the pitch rising. "You're disappointed in me! You think you can take care of whatever is troubling me? Where the hell were you when I needed you Friday night?" Her heart pounded and her face flushed. She felt the hysteria in her tight, high voice now, but she didn't care.
He walked to her in three giant strides, and she saw his black eyes deepen in intensity. "Don't talk to me in that tone of voice, young lady," he said.
She did not look away from the eyes, but stared back at them. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
"Calm down, Sandra," her father said. "Don't be childish and say something foolish." He put his hand on her arm.
She jerked her arm away, and backed away from him.
She swallowed and cleared her throat. Tears swelled in her throat. She felt herself shaking.
"I was raped!" she screamed. "I was raped! Because of something you did to some man years ago." The sobs burst out, and she brushed the tears away. She sought her voice again, and held her trembling body rigid. "I was dragged out into the swamp at gunpoint and raped!"
"My God," he said. "I didn't know. It was that Reddoch, wasn't it? I'll kill the bastard. When did this happen?"
"You didn't know?" she screamed. "Of course you didn't know. You weren't here to know."
"Sandra, I'm sorry I was away," he said. "I sincerely am. I know it must have been terrible. But try to calm yourself. Did he hurt you badly? Have you seen a doctor? I swear, I'll kill Reddoch. My God, if I had just known."
"You make me sick," she said, her voice breaking. "I don't ever want to see you again, do you understand that? Don't concern yourself about me now. Or about Reddoch. He's already left town. Do you know how I despise you, and how hypocritical you are, always seeming so strong?"
"Sandra, you're hysterical and don't know what you're saying," he said, and she detected a note of panic in his voice.
"I know only too well what I'm saying," she said. Her voice was calm now, with a deadly edge to it. "You spoil me with money and clothes and a car, and don't care what happens to me. You can't even take one damn weekend to go somewhere with me. I'm raped in the swamp, and needed you desperately, and you're nowhere to be found, too busy with your work."
She paused, but he did not say anything. The sobs were gone, and she no longer shook. "Daddy," she said, in a flat voice. "After I was raped, I thought that maybe just this once, something had happened that was important enough for me to interrupt your precious, private work at your fishing camp."
"Sandra," he said. "Before you say anything further...."
"Daddy, I saw you groveling and panting and slobbering for that cheap tramp," she said. "That teenage whore with the gaudy green dress and the fat white body and all the makeup, and I heard her work you around her little finger and I heard you whine and promise her anything, and I got sick and left."
For the first time in her life, she saw her father's black eyes seem to dim. He blinked rapidly several times, started to speak, but checked himself. He looked away from her, and walked over to the bar. He poured out a double shot of scotch and drank it down. Then he turned back to her.
"Sandra, I think we better continue this discussion later, when we're both in a rational state," he said.
"I'm quite rational now, Daddy," she said. "I see things very clearly. I simply am not going to stay here any longer. I'm going to New York. You can't stop me. I'm legal age. I have enough money in my savings account. I'm going to call Alice, and get the first available plane. Daddy, I've been going to pieces with my life here. What happened this weekend just capped things off. I'll go crazy if I stay here."
He poured another shot, and gulped the bourbon. His usual rugged, ruddy face was tinged with a strange grey, and his eyes were unsure.
"Sandra, try to understand about that girl you saw me with," he said. "I have to have a woman just like any other man. I've been thoughtless about lying to you, particularly about putting the trip off. But I've worked hard all my life. I never had time for girls when I was younger. I can't explain away what you saw me do with the girl, but...."
"Don't give me that I've-worked-hard routine," she said. "You always used that as an excuse to step on my mother, and on me, but not any more." She walked to the door, and paused. "Because, you see, Daddy, I don't care now. What happened is over. I saw what you did, and what you really are, and what you think of me. So lead your life as you want. Whimper for all the fat trash in the county, for all I care. You've been this glorious, bigger-than-life enigma of strength for me. Now the enigma has been ripped open, and it's hollow."
Sandra walked out as he poured another drink. She heard him calling her. But she walked slowly and deliberately up to her room, and closed the door. She went in and turned on the shower. Stripped her clothes off. Stepped under the hot water. The sharp prickles burned into her skin, and made her feel better. Eased the tenseness that gnawed at her. As she turned and faced up into the sharp spray, she told herself to concentrate on ah the things she had to do before leaving.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Blake wheeled his long, black car onto the steaming asphalt of the Stardust Drive-In, and drove away from the knot of cars around the pink-shingled building. He parked at the rear of the lot, in a grove of tall pine trees. He switched off the motor and lights, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
He leaned forward and stared at the girls in tight jeans moving among the cars. Then he saw Naomi. She was putting a tray on the window of a blue pick-up truck. Blake blinked his parking lights off and on. But she ignored the lights, and leaned through the window of the truck.
He wiped the sweat again, and cursed to himself. He had called Naomi a dozen times in the past two days, but had not been able to reach her. He blinked the lights again, then pumped his horn several times.
He blew the horn louder. Finally, she pulled her head from the window, and started across the asphalt to his car. She swayed her hips as she moved, and Blake saw a man lean out the window of the truck and stare at her buttocks.
Naomi smiled as she came to Blake's car. She stopped a couple of feet from the window. "Hi, honey," she said.
"What brings you to a dump like this on the hottest night of the summer?"
Blake saw that her red lipstick was smeared. And the top button of her tight, red blouse was unfastened. "I've been trying to call you," he said.
"Honey, they don't like for us girls to get calls out here when we're workin'," she said. She stepped to the car, and leaned down. "I done spent a whole weekend with you. I just left you yesterday morning. Honestly, honey, you got to understand I got a life of my own."
"Like having guys in trucks kiss and handle you," he said.
"I ain't goin' to let you talk to me like that," she said, and started to walk away.
But he caught her arm and jerked her back. "Something has happened, Naomi," he said. He inhaled her sweet perfume. Stared into her young face. Looked down at her breasts straining against the thin, red blouse.
"Hey, you hurtin' me, honey," she said, pulling at his fingers. "You can't cause no trouble, or you'll get me fired. And what'll it look like, a big, important man like you causin' trouble at this dump."
He relaxed his grip on her arm, but did not release her. "Naomi, will you get into the car just a minute?" he said. "I want to talk to you. It's important."
"Oh, honey, I got customers, and I'll lose tips if I don't get back," she whined. "I always get lots better tips when I work in jeans 'stead of that white uniform."
Blake took a bill from his pocket. He released her arm, and gave her the bill. She stuffed it into her pocket, and smiled at him.
"Okay, honey, I'll talk to you, but just for a second, okay?" she said. She went around the car, and he leaned over arid opened the door for her. She got in and slid across the seat and pressed her hips against his. The perfume was staggering and he felt himself flush warm as he gulped it in.
The tenseness that had permeated him since the scene with Sandra yesterday morning now exploded into a desperate lust. He cupped a heavy breast, squeezing desperately, and lowered his lips to hers. An electric shock raced through his body as he tasted the sticky lipstick, and felt her tongue teasing the roof of his mouth.
But she pulled her lips from his, and moved his hand from her breast. She frowned. "Really, honey, you can't do that kind of thing right here," she said.
"I want you to come out and stay with me in the cabin tonight," he said.
"Now, honey, you been awful good to me," she said. "But I'm supposed to go roller-skating tonight."
He dug into his pocket and handed her a couple of bills. She smiled sweetly.
"Sure, honey, if you really want me, I'll stay with you," she said. "It's too hot to go roller-skating, anyhow."
She kissed him, but would not open her mouth for his tongue, which wallowed against firm lips and clenched teeth. She blocked her breasts from his grasping hands. Warmth flooded him, and he reached for her thigh. He rubbed down over the thigh, and felt the panty-rim beneath the skin-tight jeans.
He found the zipper and she did not stop him as he tugged the zipper down. He slid his hand beneath the jeans, and onto her damp, hot thigh.
As he stroked the thigh, he told himself he would use Naomi to forget what had happened. Forget the scenes with Sandra the past couple of days. For the first time in his life, he had to admit he could not handle the things that faced him. Sandra's attitude had utterly unnerved him, along with his terrible guilt feeling for her having been raped. Now she was leaving home. He told himself Naomi's lush, young body would help calm him. Then he would get rid of Naomi, and throw himself into his business, and feel like a decent human being again.
Naomi moved her thighs for him a moment, then she blocked his hand. "Come on, sweetie, control yourself," she said.
He took his hand from her jeans. She slid across the seat. "See you when I get off," she said. "And listen, sweetie, how 'bout gettin' some decent whiskey, okay?"
She climbed from the car, and he saw two round spots of sweat on her buttocks. He sat panting, his tense body nearly shaking, as he watched her sway back across the asphalt, and he realized she had not even zipped the jeans up.
The humidity hung in thick waves across the dark swamp-road, and Sandra felt she would smother. She took out her handkerchef and dabbed at her sweating face and forehead.
Despite the intense heat, she drove slowly, savoring this last trip through the swamp to Hank's. The swamp sounds were heavy and things splashed. Her car lights cut strange patterns out of the blackness, eerie, slithering forms among the roots of cypress trees, or thrashing in the green slime of bayous.
But she did not feel frightened. As she drove along the twisting, corduroy road, she realized how much she liked this swamp, despite all that had happened to her. And she knew that being in Hank's this last time, and saying goodbye to him would be the most painful part of her preparation for catching the plane to New York tomorrow morning.
She rounded the final curve, and drove across the gravel lot, and parked by the steps. There were only a couple of other cars. No sounds came from the small building.
This was all that was left to break all her ties here, so she could start a new life in the city, she told herself. But this was the most difficult. She knew she had to go in quickly and tell Hank goodbye, and leave.
She got out of the car, and walked up the rickety wooden steps. The jukebox came on, and someone sang. She paused at the top step. Then she pushed the door open and went in.
She hurried across the wooden floor. There were only three men in the place, and they sat at a booth in the front. She did not even glance at them. Hank stood behind the bar, watching her with his expressionless face. She climbed up onto a stool. Stared at Hank, at his thin, tanned face, the cold-blue eyes.
She thought of his tenderness when they made love, and felt her heart pounding. Hank smiled slightly, and she blushed.
"I need a drink, a really cold one," she said. "I'm smothering in this heat."
"Coldest drink in town coming up," Hank said.
The jukebox went silent, and Sandra heard the huge floor-fan sucking out the air, and she heard the low garble of the men's talking. She noticed Hank put a lot of gin into her drink. She took the glass and gulped the gin, still staring at Hank's faint smile.
"I was hoping you'd be out here tonight, Sandy," he said.
"Hank," she started, and looked from his eyes, down to the brightly colored punchboard on the bar. She sipped the drink. The jukebox played again.
"Sandy, you never did get around to telling me what was troubling you the other night," Hank said. "If you feel like talking, I'd still like to hear."
She looked back at him. "It's not important now, Hank," she said. "What is important is that you wanted to listen. Wanted to help me." She sipped the drink. Sighed. "None of it matters now, Hank. I've decided to go away, to New York City."
"I see," Hank said.
He took a bottle of Old Crow, and poured a glass half full, and drank it down. She had never seen Hank take a drink in all the times she had been out here.
"Hank, I wanted to come out and tell you that this is really the only place I've enjoyed being lately," she said.
"I'm glad, Sandy," Hank said. "When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow morning," she said.
He shook his head. "Well, I'll say one thing for you," he said. "When you make up your mind, you don't waste time."
Sandra heard the men in the booth getting up. "Night, Hank," they called.
He waved at the men. "Excuse me a minute, Sandy," he said. He went around the bar and cleaned the beer cans off the men's table.
Sandra finished her drink in a deep swallow, as Hank put the cans on the bar. He walked over to her stool. Put his hands on her waist. She leaned up and kissed his lips gently. Then she embraced him, and put her head on his shoulder.
"Honestly, this place is all I'll miss," she said.
He tightened his grip on her waist, and she slid off the stool and snuggled into his arms. She felt him stiffen at the touch of her breasts, and she mashed her breasts harder again his chest. He grabbed her buttocks and caressed them, sending her body sharply against his.
She rubbed his neck, and put her lips to his ear. "And I'll miss you, Hank," she whispered.
They heard a car back up on the road. Hank pulled away from her. He hurried to the door, and closed and locked it. Then he switched off the fan, and the lights. He came back and took her hand and led her behind the bar. They stood silently while the car pulled up outside. In a moment, it turned around and headed back up the road.
Hank cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her lips tenderly. She forced the kiss, and their tongues met, and he worked his tongue against hers in ways that made her squirm. She hugged herself to him, and clawed at his back. He ran his hands down and under the back of her skirt and panties, and rubbed her buttocks, his callused fingers gentle and maddening.
She took her lips from his and in gasping words, as her tongue darted at his lips, she said, "Hank, let's go in and get some bologna and cheese." She panted and laughed, and squirmed at the touch of his fingers moving around between her thighs.
He laughed, too, as he moved one hand up and unbuttoned her blouse. "We just went in there last time, because this room was full of people," he said. "Actually, there's a small bed back behind those shelves."
He pulled her blouse from her skirt. She smothered his lips in hers as he slid his hand around, and unfastened her bra. He tugged the bra off and her huge breasts poured free. He gently rubbed a breast, and with his other hand, he slid down under her skirt, and cupped the front of her panties, and squeezed. She moaned, and her legs went weak. She pulled her lips from his, and bit his neck.
"Easy," he said, softly, and took his hands from her feverish body, and led her behind the shelves to the narrow bed. As he took his clothes off, she stumbled from her skirt, and skinned her brief, white panties down her legs. She stood naked, her copper-toned skin gistening in the meagre light from the moon that streaked through the narrow window. Her breasts heaved with each breath, and the large, round nipples stood pointed and hard.
As he stepped out of his shorts, she attacked him. Slammed her breasts into his chest. Sucked and tongued his lips.
They fell onto the bed, and he twisted her nipples until they ached, then bit the nipples as he stroked her thighs. She lashed about. Clawed his back. Bit his shoulder. Mashed wet, trembling lips into his ear.
She ran her fingers down and rubbed the inside of his thigh. He moved up and kissed her, a full, deep, sucking kiss of lips and tongue. Then he bit the tip of her tongue. And all the while he rubbed her thighs and twisted the rock-hard nipples, and she felt her body would explode at a hundred taut, tense nerve-ends.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. He worked steadily and fast, and she closed her eyes, and tensed her legs, as her body trembled. She sank her teeth deep into his shoulder.
She worked with him now, and kissed at his warm face, and moaned, and pressed stiff fingers against his buttocks. Then she felt him tense, and she gasped aloud, and jerked, and fell back onto the bed, wheezing her steaming breath out. He collapsed, and rested a long minute. Then he kissed her forehead gently.
"Don't go away tomorrow, Sandy," he said.
"I don't want to, Hank," she said. "I really don't. Maybe I could wait a day or two."
"No, that's not what I meant," he said. He took her chin between two fingers and turned her face to his. He smiled and kissed her nose, then leaned back and looked into her eyes. "I don't want you to go away at all," he said. "I'm in love with you. I want you to stay and marry me."
Sandra swallowed between gasps for breath. She kissed his cheek. "I think I love you, too, Hank," she said.
"I'll take care of you, Sandy," he said, rubbing her hair. "Nothing will ever happen to you while you're with me. I'll take care of you, and love you. And I'll need you."
She ran a finger down the damp, wiry muscles of his arm. She nodded. "Yes, Hank, I do love you," she said. "And I want to marry you and live with you."
"On our wedding night, we'll close this place down, and go in, and make love on the counter with the cheese and bologna," he said, and smiled.
She laughed, and traced her finger from his arm onto his stomach, and smiled wickedly as she felt him stiffen an instant. When he kissed her, she lay back and closed her eyes, and flicked her tongue against the roof of his mouth. As her nipples tightened just a bit, she ran a finger around the rim of his ear, and laughed to herself as she wondered if they might not still be busy here on the bed on their wedding night.
