It was twenty minutes to eleven, and Cherlynn Beckert was all packed and ready to leave: Check out time was eleven sharp. She collected her things and placed them all neat and orderly next to the door, then went back into the room and carefully went through each and every drawer, just to make sure that there was nothing she had left behind. The drawers were empty, but she still couldn't escape the feeling that she had left something behind. Perhaps what she was looking for she could never find.
The trig home, like all trips home, would be tiresome and uncomfortable, and, in planning for it, she had originally decided to wear an old cashmere sweater and. amp; pair of worn, faded jeans. For a reason she could not quite yet fathom, she had instead worn her most expensive, formal evening gown. She felt vaguely absurd as she swished around the dimly illuminated room.
And, even more bizarre, she found herself wearing every piece of jewelry that she had brought with her. While she was packing she was overcome with a desire to see and touch each piece, and she dumped her jewelry box out on the bed. After she had put the gown on, she found herself putting the pieces of jewelry also on. Every ring, every bracelet, every necklace, every string of pearls, every pin, and every pendant she owned, until she clinked and clanked like something mechanical when she walked.
She studied her reflection in the mirror, aware that she was looking at a mocking parody of herself in' the reflection. She opened her makeup kit and dumped its contents on the dresser top. She picked up her lipstick and painted, in dark, heavy lines, a mocking red mouth across her lips. Then she smeared circular red smudges on her cheeks, and made her eyes up so heavily that it seemed as if she were wearing a mask. She put shadow under her eyes as well as above them. She looked again at the mirror. A strangely sad, symbolic clown stared back at her.
Swishing and clattering, she made her way over to her suitcases, found the one she required, opened it, and removed a battery powered cock-shaped vibrator. She turned it on, rubbing it against her face as it hummed softly in her hand.
Slipping on her mother's fur coat, Cherlynn considered it the final absurd gesture, yet she didn't feel foolish. All she felt was sad.
Walling, swishing, glittering with jewelry, she walked over to the king-sized mattress and sat down on the edge, lifting the hem of her gown. She was wearing a pair of lacey white panties, through which she could see the dark threads of her pubic hairs. She pulled the panties down to the middle of her thighs, and lied back on the bed. She put the vibrator between her thighs, inserting it in the topmost flap of her cuntlips, just above the bud of her clitoris. She could feel the vibrations rippling down into her body, and knew before long she would be coming.
She lay there thinking, humping herself against the cold edge of the dildo-like vibrator, the gold rings of her bracelets sliding down her arm, humming against her flesh, causing her rings to thump against each other. Sweat was coating her body, collecting under her arms, sliding down her back, staining, ruining her expensive dress.
Her mood was one of nagging disappointment. The weekend was over, and she was still unmarried. True, she had exchanged telephone numbers with Les Evans, and they had vowed to get in touch with each other, but so often such arrangements had a way of never materializing.
Something always seems to go wrong, she thought, arching her back, screwing her cunt down around the prod of the vibrator. I wonder why?
Before she had a chance to find the answer, she began to come.
Robin Schafer had a window seat on the bus, and she stared out, watching the highway slip silently past her, a dull, monotonous blur that every once in a while broke into a spectacular mountain panorama. The scenes registered only marginally upon her awareness, for she was lost somewhere deep in her own thoughts, and, for as much as she cared, the world outside of her mind might not have even existed.
She could see herself on the bus window, her large empty eyeglass eyes staring back at her, like some mysterious ghost which never moved as the drifting horizon rushed eternally past her. She looked at herself, as if she were seeking some answer that could be found in the delicate, unbeautiful features of her birdlike face.
The woman next to her coughed self-consciously, as if she were trying to get Robin's attention. Robin ignored the attempted communication, pretending that she hadn't heard. She had too many things on her mind, and the last thing she wanted or needed was to share these last few silent moments she had before she got home with a total stranger. There were too many things to sort out, and she knew, once she did get home again, her perspectives would alter, and this great moment of truth which was dawning upon her would have slipped forever away. So she ignored the woman.
The woman, however, was persistent. She tapped Robin on the shoulder, and said "Excuse me," in a clear, unwavering voice.
Robin turned, sighing with exasperation, allowing the woman to understand her company was an imposition. "Yes, what is it?"
The woman, Robin saw, was not really a woman at all, but a young girl, in her early twenties, perhaps even younger. She was thin and frail-looking, with sand-colored hair that hung limply to her shoulders. Her eyes were a faded blue, hidden behind thick, rimless eyeglasses, and her pale, colorless face was marred with red pimply eruptions of a lingering adolescent acne. She was a rather plain looking girl, not at all pretty, the kind who get a reputation as being bookish, simply because she had nothing else to do with her time other than lose herself in the fantasies of reading.
"Ah, I hope I'm not being rude," she began, her voice an insecure whisper.
Robin smiled out of guilt. "No, of course not. I was simply daydreaming. What can I do for you?"
"In case I fall asleep," she said, her hollow cheeks coloring red, "would you wake me up? I live in the Bronx, and that's the first stop once we get back into the city. I went away one time, and I fell asleep, and I missed my stop. I didn't wake up until the bus was all the way back downtown at the terminal. I had to take a taxi all the way back up to my home. It cost me nearly five dollars, and I just can't afford that, especially after this weekend. I saved for three months just to be able to get away, so I'm on a very tight budget…"
Robin had a feeling that she would have gone on endlessly, if she hadn't stopped her.
"All right," she said, staring at the strange, pale looking girl. "I'll wake you if I'm able to; if I'm awake myself."
The girl smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "That will be okay, I guess. Thanks."
"That's quite all right…"
"My name is Annie. What's yours?"
Robin stirred uncomfortably. 'Ah – Robin."
"Robin? Oh, that's such a pretty name. I hate my first name. Annie. God, it's so common. You stayed at Mount Shangri-la, didn't you? Yeah, I thought I recognized you from up there. What did you think of it? Did you like it? I personally thought it wasn't t worth the money -"
Robin cut her short. "I thought you were going to go to sleep?"
"Oh, yeah," the girl said softly, her eyes down cast, her cheeks coloring deeper. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. I get to talking a lot sometimes. I live alone in the Bronx, and I don't get much of a chance to talk to any body. So I kind of sometimes make up for it. I guess I'm lonely or something. I'm sorry."
Alone? Robin thought, picking out the single word from the young girl's explanation. Her thoughts turned immediately sexual, and she felt a sudden dryness in her mouth. Memory brought back flashes of Brigitta Hansen. Did she say she lived alone? Oh, Jesus Christ.
"I'm sorry," Robin said after a moment, her thought preoccupied. "I shouldn't have been so rude. I didn't mean it. I guess I'm just tired."
Annie smiled at her. "Oh, that's okay. I understand. I know how it is. Besides, I am tired."
"You're sure? I mean, I hope I didn't -"
Annie touched Robin's arm, her fingers lingering there a moment too long. "It's cool. I understand. I really, really do." She smiled again, moving her hand finally. "Thanks, Robin. You're a good person. I really appreciate this."
She closed her eyes, and a moment later, Annie was asleep.
Robin stared at her, her heart pounding in her breast, her blood racing. Her eyes found themselves tracing slow pattern across the gentle swell of the young girl's rising and falling breasts. Without wanting to, she found herself thinking: She lives alone. Alone in the Bronx. She's lonely and she lives alone. Oh, my God… Oh, my God. What have! become?
For the guests, Sunday was a kind of easy, casual day, especially after check-out, and they had settled their weekly bill, with nothing much to do, and nowhere else to go until after lunch, their last paid-for meal, when they would each bid their goodbyes to Mount Shangri-la Lodge, to begin their various journeys homeward.
For the staff, however; it was a bitch of a day, for they were on the other end of the perspective. For them, Sunday was not a day of goodbye, but the day all the new guests arrived for the next week's stay at the lodge. Sunday meant extra work, double work, hustling around, and going through the seemingly endless process of orientation for the newly arrived patrons.
For Derek Foster, Shangri-la's ski instructor, Sunday was an especially bothersome day, especially in the summer months. In order to remain at the lodge year-round, he had to double as a tennis instructor when there was no snow on the ground, and his special talents were not required. Not that he really minded all that much, for he was a better than average tennis player who could have easily turned pro when he was in his prime. And he didn't mind the classes so much because they afforded him countless opportunities to meet a new batch of women each week; women from whom he would make his weekly selection, finding the one he would grace with his limitless charm and hard, throbbing cock. The thing that bothered him the most about Sunday was Saturday night.
On an average, Saturday was the night he made his big move; the night the woman he had selected would be ripe for his seduction. Unless he moved especially quickly, it was Saturday night that took such a drain out of him, fucking them furiously, getting them and himself drunk, hardly sleeping the whole night through, and frequently putting up with their guilty hysterics after the deed was done, and they realized what they had done. No, Saturday night was a bitch, but it wasn't until Sunday morning that he really felt like hell. It was a rare Sunday morning that Derek Foster felt in the mood to face a mob of strange faces with a smile and pleasant wit and all the charm he could muster.
This was not one of those rare Sunday mornings. He had to drag himself out of bed, his mouth tasting like his tongue had died and decayed during the night, his body aching with fatigue, his cock limp and pained from the enthusiastic humping he had given to Lee Davis. The cold shower didn't help much, and by the time he stood in the lobby, by the recreation desk, gathering the men.and women who had signed for his class, he might have looked fit and able to perform, but he was far from it.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he said, reciting his introductory speech, desperately attempting to infuse it with a thread of spontaneity after so many tiresome Sunday mornings. "I'd like to take this opportunity to extend to each and every one of you the warmest personal greetings from the management of Mount -Shangri-la -Lodge. My name is Derek Foster, and, when I'm not a ski instructor, I teach classes in tennis. I'd like to add my own welcome to that of the management, and hope that your stay with us will be a pleasant one. Naturally, if you have any questions at all about the Lodge or anything in general, feel free of course to ask them. I'm only too glad to help."
After a brisk ten minutes when he answered the general barrage of questions, cracking a few tried and true jokes to set everyone at ease, Derek Foster led his class toward the outdoor tennis field where he would begin his general introductory lesson.
He walked slowly and casually,, his fatigued arms swinging at his sides, his clipboard of names clutched in his hand. He was halfway there, when one of his students stopped him with a question.
"Do you ever give any private instruction§?" she asked. She- was a tall swell-looking blonde woman, well-preserved, flashing deep blue eyes and a diamond ring that reminded him of an ice cube. Her breasts were soft and big, straining at the material of her jersey. Her legs were thick and shapeless, but she wore -hot pants regardless. They always did far some reason.
"Oh, yes," he answered, consulting his clipboard. "Yes we do, Mrs. -"
"Barclay," she said. "But you can call me Madge." She smiled seductively at him, running her pink tongue across the edge of her lips.
Jesus, he thought bitterly, feeling the trap closing over him again; the never-ending cycle of making love to rich, middle-aging women was beginning again.
"Well, Madge," he said, resigning himself to his fate, "I think you and I are going to get along together just fine. I'm always available for private lessons…"
The sleek forest green sedan slipped like a blur down the endless ribbon of highway, weaving in and out of the sparse Pennsylvania traffic. Following diligently behind, trying to keep up, was a small gray compact; scurrying like a. summer bug across the countryside.
"Are they still behind us?" Eileen Graham asked, leaning toward Michael as he steered the big green car. She looked in the rearview mirror.
"Yup," Michael Williams answered, nodding distractedly, taking his eyes from the road for an instant to consult the mirror. "They're right behind us. A couple of car lengths back."
"Don't you think you should slow down a little?" Eileen asked. "It looks as if they're having trouble keeping up with us."
Michael laughed. "In more ways than one, baby."
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't you see their faces? I don't think either one of them was overjoyed with your suggestion that we play our swapping game until we get home. Not your husband or my wife. Their reception to the idea was decidedly cool, don't you think?"
Eileen snuggled over on the front seat, pressing her body against Michael's side. "Well, I don't care. Re. ally, I don't. I liked the idea. I liked it very much, and after all these years, I'm not about to give it up so easily." She placed her hand furtively on the inside of his thigh, just below the end of his cock. "How do you feel. about it, darling?"
Michael laughed briefly. "Me? Christ, I think it's a fantastic idea. I've been wanting you for a long time, baby, and, as far as I'm concerned, last night was only the beginning. Tin going to have you again, Eileen, regardless of how they feel."
Playing between his legs, Michael's cock began to stiffen, and Eileen slipped her fingers around the pulsing shaft, playing with him through his trousers. Michael's breath sucked in, and he began humping himself against her squeezing hand.
"How do you feel about it?" Michael asked when she didn't say anything.
"I think I'd like to suck your cock," she answered. "Right now. Does that tell you how I feel?"
"Jesus Christ! Does it ever. Well, don't let me hold you back. Go ahead and do it."
Eileen put her hand on his zipper. "Do you really want me to do it? I mean, right here, right on the highway? While you're still driving?"
"Christ, what do I have to do? Get you an affidavit?"
Eileen opened the zipper, prodding his erect cock with her fingernail, poking at it through the open pants. "Tell me what you want," she teased. "Say the words, and then maybe I'll do it."
A shudder of excitement went through Michael; he couldn't believe how horny he was for her! "Jesus Christ!" he moaned, his cock throbbing against her caresses. "If I wasn't driving this damned car -"
Eileen giggled. "Oh yeah. What would you do?"
"I'd grab you and fuck the piss out of you."
"Too bad!" she said, shaking her finger at him teasingly. "Too bad. I guess you'll just have to wait until we get home."
"What do you think I'm hurrying for?" Michael asked.
Eileen's attention was drawn again to his cock. She put her hand into his pants, and pulled his hardon out. It stood stiff and straight in the air, her fingers pink and small around the pulsing red column of the finely veined shaft.
"You never asked,me to do it to you,-" she reminded, lowering her head until her lips were open wide above his cock. She blew hot. air at him with her pursed lips; watching his cockhead swell when he felt the warmth. "Ask me, baby. Ask me nice and I'll do it for you."
"Jesus Christ!" Michael moaned, beside himself with excitement. "Will you suck it already! Please, Eileen, please – suck my cocky!"
"With pleasure," she whispered, and her head lowered, her lips parted, and she began to suck Michael's cock. Her lips closed over the head of the shaft, and she licked her tongue against him, tasting his excitement, tasting his warmth, tasting the manliness of his sweat. She sucked up deep and hard, drawing the shaft all the way into her mouth, until she could feel him scraping against her teeth, the head of his shaft pounding gently against the wet opening of her throat. She screwed her face around until her lips were nuzzling at the hair-covered base of his joint, and the full length was buried deep in the wet, licking cylinder of her mouth. Eileen began to bob her head up and down.
A moment later, Michael began to come. His cock opened up and sperm began to spill into Eileen's sucking throat. When she felt the wetness, she rolled her tongue across the tip of his shaft, lapping up the spewing goo that was gushing from him. She sucked on his cock as if it were a straw, and she drained it of every drop of sperm. Only when his cock was limp between her lips, and her mouth was clean of his sperm, did Eileen release him. She sat up and cleaned her lips with a tissue, fixing her hair with one hand, staring in the rearview mirror.
The small gray compact was.still behind them.
Myra Ross sat on the edge of her bed staring at the wall directly ahead of her. The curtain was drawn, and she was staring out of the window at the bright clear summer Sunday morning. Outside the window came the sounds of laughter and voices, and tight clusters of men and women strolled past, suitcases in hand, rushing to meet the eleven o'clock checkout deadline. Her own suitcases were packed and stood mutely by the door for the journey home she did not want to make.
She was dressed in a sleeveless pink blouse and a burgundy crushed velvet skirt that was pulled up to the middle of her thighs. A neglected cigarette rested in the ashtray next to her on the bed, and absently, preoccupied with her thoughts, she fished another cigarette from the rumpled package, and placed it in her mouth. She lit it with her lighter, then placed it in the ashtray, next to the dead cigarette she had forgotten.
He must be still at breakfast, she thought reassuring herself. That's it. He had a late night last night, and he slept late this morning. That's all. Simple explanation. Should be back by now. Of course he is.
She looked at her wristwatch. I'll call him now, she told herself.
She picked up the telephone on the night table at the side of her bed. She hesitated for a moment, then dialed the numeral seven before she dialed Kevin's room number. She waited patiently for the call to go through. A moment later it was ringing.
He'll answer now, she told herself confidently. He's certain to be back by this time.
The phone rang.
After all, she thought, remembering last night, I did keep him awfully busy. Memory flashed instantly across her brain: she remembered the feel of his cock in her cunt, the heat of his orgasm, the way his tongue licked through the lips of her pussy, the great weight of his cock when she took it, still wet from her cunt, into her mouth. Christ, she couldn't remember how many times he'd made her come. She lost track after ten or twelve.
The telephone rang again.
God, he was so big, she thought feeling a sinking heaviness in the pit of her belly. So much bigger than Paul. And so much better a lover. So accomplished. Fantastic technique.
The phone rang a third time.
Maybe he's in the bathroom, she said, swallowing the dryness in her throat. That's it. He hears the telephone ringing, but he just can't get to it at the moment. I'd better let it ring a few more times just to make sure. I know how it is when I'm in the bathroom; you pray that the telephone won't stop ringing until you get to it.
Myna Ross let it ring ten more times, then hung the receiver back onto the telephone.
She looked at her wristwatch again. She seemed to be doing that a great deal this past week. It was five minutes to eleven.
Of counsel she told herself, kicking herself for her stupidity. It's so obvious, I can't understand why I didn't realize it before. It's late. Kevin must have gone to checkout first. He's probably on his way over here right now.
She got up from the bed and walked confidently over to the door. She opened it and stepped out onto the walls. Summer heat touched her face. The walk was crowded with hurrying people. None of them were Kevin Elliott.
Her telephone rang, and Myra Ross sobbed with joy. Leaving the door open, she ran across the length of the room, and had the telephone against her ear before it exploded into its second ring.
"Hello, darling!" she said breathlessly.
"I have a long-distance call or you, Mrs. Ross," the telephone operator said to her, her nasal voice twanging like an echo in her ear.
"What?" Myra said numbly, not understanding. "Who?"
"A long distance call from a Mr. Paul Ross…"
"Paul. Oh. Oh, yes. Yes. I'll accept the call, operator. Thank you."
There was a sound of switches as the connection was made. Paul's voice, like a ghost from her past, spoke into her ear. "Hello, Myra. It's me."
Myra Ross rubbed her lips nervously with her hand. She tried to sound happy, but her voice died in her throat. "Oh, hello, Paul. How are things?"
"Fine, fine. All right, I guess."
She didn't know what to say to him suddenly, after twelve years. "And the children? How are they?"
"They miss you."
They miss you, she thought. Not I miss you. She said: "You surprised me, Paul. I didn't expect your call. Is something – wrong?"
He sighed tiredly, and she sensed it was as difficult for him as it was for her. "Well, it's Sunday. And – uh, I was just wondering if you… were going to come home today or not." His voice trailed off. "For the lids, you know. They wanted to know."
"Home?" she echoed, the word sounding strange on her tongue. "Yes, Paul. I'm coming… back today." For some reason, she couldn't say the word. Home. Home.
"Have you… worked out your… problems yet?" he asked hesitantly.
Myra thought of Kevin Elliott. "I can't talk now, Paul. This is not something we can discuss over the telephone."
"You want me to meet you?"
Myra shrugged. "I… I guess so. The bus gets to the terminal at five." She shrugged again. "I guess I'll see you then."
"Fine, fine. Myna…"
"Yes?"
"Nothing. Forget it. I'll see you later."
With her head swirling, Myra Ross dialed the -front desk the moment the telephone was free. Her hand was trembling, and she struggled to keep her voice steady.
"Hello. This is Mrs. Ross in room 877, and I'd like to ask you a question… I've been trying to reach a… friend of mine all morning on the telephone, but I don't seem to be having much luck… Thank you, that would be a great help. The name is Elliott. Kevin Elliott… His room number? Let me think a moment… Oh yes. Room 651. That's correct, Kevin Elliott… Thank you. I'll hang on while you check… Yes?… Oh. He did. He – checked out this morning… Could you tell me when? About what time?… That early? I see. Yes… yes, of course. I understand. Yes… Oh, could you tell me whether or not he left any… messages?… He didn't. You're sure. I see… No, that's all right. I understand. Of course. Thank you… thank you very much -"
Myra Ross hung the receiver up and sat silently on the edge of the bed.- She felt hollow and empty inside, as if her intestines had been ripped out. Her week away was over, and nothing was resolved. Her problems with Paul still existed, and she knew no more now how to solve them than she did when she first came to Shangri-la. She was still as confused and dissatisfied with her life as ever.
She looked over at her luggage across the room from her. She was all packed and ready to go. But where could she go?
Ray Cooper leaned across the bed and plugged the extension wire of the telephone into the jack. It was an old-fashioned heavy black instrument that they'd had around the house for years, but it suited his purpose: it worked.
Lowering the music spilling from his stereo, he stretched across the bed, lifted the receiver, and dialed the long-memorized number of Mount Shangri-la. Lodge. He cradled the heavy piece of equipment under the sideways tilt of his head, humming absently along with the music as he waited for the call to go through.
"Room 317, please"
"Hello?" an uncertain voice answered. He recognized it right away. It was Sandi.
"Hey, Sandi. It's me. I hope you don't mind that I called?"
Her voice was warm with giddiness. "Oh, not at all. I was hoping you were going to call, in fact. I've been sitting here just waiting…"
Ray smiled knowingly, and rubbed his cock through his tight-fitting jeans. It never fails, he told himself proudly. The pussy-stretcher strikes again!
"Hey, can you talk?" he asked, unzipping his fly and pulling his flaccid cock out. He played with himself while he talked to her. "I mean, can you really talk?" "Sure," she answered. "For a little while, anyhow Mom and Dad are at the pool."
"Fantastic," he said, his cock stiffening suddenly into an erection. The memory from last night, and the fantasies of how he would spend today were exciting him. He was really getting in the food. "Hey, you know I had a really great time last night…"
"Oh, you're terrible!" she giggled.
"No, seriously. I really did. I mean, for a girl your age, you're really great." The memory of her incredibly tight cunt made his cock stiffen even harder, and he moaned softly, under his breath at the pleasure of his hand moving against him. "I mean – you were really great. Dynamite."
He could almost hear her blushing. "You were pretty good yourself," she said softly, embarrassed with the frankness of her own words. "I… I've never had a guy as… big as yon. His… uh… thing."
The tempo of his pumping fist increased, and he toyed momentarily with the idea of coming while he was talking to her on the telephone.
"Really?" he asked, assuming a false modesty he didn't believe in for a single instant. "I'm not all that big."
"You're big enough. For me at least."
"Hey!" he exclaimed, pretending the idea had just come to him. "Say, what are you doing this afternoon? Maybe we could get together again, or something."
The. disappointment was clear in Sandi's voice. "I wish we could. I meant to tell you last night -"
"What?" he asked, sitting up, concerned. "Is something the matter?"
“We're going home today," Sandi said despondently. "I wanted to say something last night, but-I didn't know how. I was afraid I'd lose you…"
"Oh, Christ!" Frustration quickly turned to anger, and his cock lost interest. "That's a bitch: I was looking forward to seeing you today, too."
"I was looking forward to seeing you, also," Sandi whispered romantically, totally misunderstanding Ray's words. "Are you very upset?"
"Well, yeah – a little," he said, muttering under his breath.
"Well, rd still like to see you, Ray," Sandi said. "We could spend a little time together. I could give you my address, and you could give me yours. We could make an arrangement or something to see each other again…"
"Yeah, sure. Sure." He stuffed his limp cock back
Into his pants and rezippered them. "That's a good. idea. Yeah."
Sandi was overjoyed with his thin agreement. "Oh, wonderful, good! I was so afraid that you wouldn't want to-but never mind that. Where could I meet you?"
"Oh… I don't care Anywhere. You pick a place.'
"The game room?"
Ray suppressed a yawn. "Yeah. Why not? One place's as good as another."
"God, I'm so excited. How soon before you can be there? No, don't even answer. I'm going there now. I'll meet you there as soon as you can get here. All right?"
"Yeah, sure. Sure."
"Hurry, darling, please. We don't have much time, and I have so much to say to you. Hurry, please; I can hardly wait!"
"Yeah, sure. See you in a little while."
Before she had an opportunity to answer him, Ray slammed the receiver down, and cursed loudly. He pulled the plug from the wall with a savage yank. He sat thinking on the bed for a few moments, then got up and locked himself in the bathroom to jerk off. He came into a tissue, and flushed it down the toilet.
When he came out, he returned to his room, pulled out his books, and sat at his desk studying. A while later, his mother knocked on the door of his room.
"Aren't you going out today?" she asked espying the books.
"Naw, I've got too much homework to do. Goddamn summer session is a pain in the ass."
"Raymond, please! I don't know where you get language like that. Certainly not from your father or I."
He shrugged his shoulders. Tin sorry, Ma. I guess Pin just in a bad mood. Studying doesn't agree with me, especially on a Sunday. Believe me, if I had anything better to do, rd do it."
"You're not going over to the lodge today?"
"Naw. Sundays over there are a real drag. Nothing at all to do. All everybody does is check out and go home. A real bummer."
After his mother had gone, Ray shook his head, admonishing himself silently.
Boy, you've got to watch your ass, he thought. You are going to fuck yourself out of a good thing. You're just damn lucky that you didn't give her your full name or telephone number, or you'd really be in a jam. You've got to be careful next week. One slip like that, and you're going to fuck yourself right out of a good thing.
Lunch was almost over, and Gail Culver was ecstatic. She was raking in money like it was going out of style. Of what she had counted, she had almost eighty-five dollars. She still had three or four envelopes that she hadn't gotten a chance to open yet. Most of her tables had been generous, giving her what the card had suggested, and sometimes, even a little more. Only one table had been a bitch about it, and had left her only ten dollars for four people, after she had served their meals all weekend long. Christ, if she had been a waitress in a restaurant, and she had served them three meals a day, for three days, and they's left her only fifty cents a person, she would have made out better.
There was a time when she would have been hurt or angered over such lack of consideration, but she had learned over the course of the summer that you can't expect the world to be fair. There would always be a table like that table, and regardless of how well she had treated them, she'd always wind, up getting shafted by them. That was one of the irrefutable facts of life: certain people were unequivocal pricks, and there's nothing you can do about it. Fortunately, most people were fair and generous, and, in its own way, that kind of made up for all the mother fuckers of the world.
"Excuse me, Miss. Could I have another cup of coffee, please?"
The request had come from her "problem" table, the one that had been responsible for Gail having gotten to the party so late last night. They had come late for lunch also, as they had for breakfast, as they had for most of their meals all weekend long, in fact. And the woman who had asked for the coffee was, in Gail's opinion, the one most responsible. She was an older woman, in her late forties, with dyed black hair, and a middle-age spread that she had stuffed into a pair of skin-tight out-of-style slacks. She was the slowest, pickiest eater that Gail had seen all summer.
Gail smiled at the woman, shrugging philosophically to herself. Sure the old bitch was a pain in the ass, but so what. Almost everyone was a pain in the ass, so that was no big thing. Besides, Gail was in a good mood today, and she wasn't about to allow anything so petty as that to bring her down. She had a great deal of money in her pocket, the summer was drawing to a close and she would be back in school before long, and Peter, the boy she met at Peggy's party last night, was not only a damn good lay, he was truly a beautiful person, as well.
"Certainly," Gail answered, finding a small consolation even in the extra work. They were going home after lunch, so, at best, this was the last time they could ever make Gail late again, for anything.
She poured the coffee into the woman's cup. "Does anyone else want any more coffee? Sanka?"
The man across from the troublesome woman, her husband – a middle-aged man in a loud sports jacket-looked into his half-empty cup. "I think I will, young lady," he said. "If it's not too much trouble."
Gail beamed at him, walking around to his side of the table. "No trouble at all, sir," she said. She filled his cup with steaming black coffee. "Can I do anything else for you, sir?"
He was the jovial kind; easy – to talk to, always cracking jokes or playfully kidding. Gail liked him.
"Yes, little lady," he said, his shiny apple, cheeks and balding head qualifying him as being "cute." His eyes were a lively, intelligent blue, and the twinkle of a practical-jokester lurked behind their tired, middle-class solidness. "As a matter of fact, you can do something for me. You can answer me a question. What's your name? I've been calling you "little lady" all week long, and it's getting a little tiresome even to me."
Gail laughed because he was an easy person to laugh with. "Gail," she said. "Gail Culver."
"Gail, my name is Sam," he said, half rising, extending his hand. "Sam Sharp, and this here's my wife, Evelyn. And I just got to tell you, Gail, that we think you've done one hell of a job. One hell of a job."
Gail flushed happily. "Why thank you, Mr. Sharp."
"Sam, Gail. My name is Sam. Now, I want you to remember that."
Gail nodded. "I will… Sam."
"One hell of a job," he repeated. "Ain't that right, Mother?"
Evelyn Sharp smiled at Gail. "He's quite right, you know," she explained. "We have been admiring you all weekend. You do your job really well. You're quite conscientious."
"Why, thank you. That's very nice.'
Sam Sharp put a match to a long green cigar. "It does my heart good, Gail, to see youngsters like you. Clean living, working hard, saving money. Christ, I wish my kids could see you, then they'd know what I was talking about all those years. Especially my son."
"Sam!" His wife shot him a stern look across the table.
"Well, damnit, Mother, it's true. Marvin's s a bum. You know it and I know it."
Her voice was full of ice. "That's no reason to let everyone know it" And, before he could respond, she turned toward Gail and asked: "Do yon go to college, dear?"
Gail nodded. "Yes, I do. I'm just doing this to make a little extra money. You know, for tuition and stuff. To help my parents."
"See, Mother, see!" That's wonderful, kid. Wonderful. To help your parents. My Marvin wouldn't work if he was starving."
"Sam!"
"Don't pay any attention to her. You're doing just fine, Gail. You've got a head on your shoulders, and you're going to go far someday. You're not lazy like some people we know." He shook his head in silent disgust. "A hippie, that's all he is. A bum. Taking drugs."
"Marijuana is not drugs!" Evelyn Sharp corrected, repeating their old, unresolved arguments.
"It doesn't make any difference what it is. If he's got to take it to get out of the real world, then it's a drug!" He used his cigar like a baton, jabbing it toward her to make his point.
Realizing she was never going to convince him, Evelyn turned her attention back to Gail, smiling as if the exchange with her husband had never happened. She got back at him by looking at Gail while she was addressing him:
"But it seems to me, dear, that we've forgotten the real reason we called Gail over, haven't we, dear?"
"Huh? Oh, yes! The envelope." He reached his hand into his loud sports jacket.
Later, after they'd gone, Gail examined the contents of the envelope.
Twenty-five dollars! she exclaimed. Twenty-five dollars just for the weekend. Wow, that's fantastic. She thought back to the Sharps, nodding her head in unmasked admiration.
They are really generous people, she thought. Jeez, why couldn't my parents have been like them?
"Your mother says the kids are fine," Tracy Hamilton said to her husband, Steve. He was struggling to snap the lid of their overstuffed, borrowed suitcase closed. She said: "Freddy peed on her living room rug."
Steve looked up. "How'd he do that?"
"She left him in his training pants, and when she checked him and saw that he was dry, she pulled down the. pants to take him up to the bathroom. That's when he peed on the rug."
"Jesus," Steve said, suppressing a laugh. "What did she say?"
Tracy shrugged. "What could she say? It was her own fault. She never should have taken the training pants down in the living room. She should have waited until she had him in the bathroom. That would have been the sensible thing to do."
Steve knew better than to say anything to Tracy when she was talking about his mother, so he concentrated on closing the suitcase. It closed with a sudden snap.
"What about Lori?" he asked, referring to their seven-year, old daughter.
"She didn't pee on the rug, but she misses us."
Steve hefted the suitcase over to the door, setting it down next to the half-empty gallon of Italian wine hidden inside of a shopping bag. Also there were the two other shopping-bags filled with souvenirs for everyone back home, mementos of their weekend vacation.
"Ah, I feel sorry for her," Steve said, saddened momentarily by his daughter's sadness.
His reaction bothered Tracy. "I do too," she said, feeling miffed at her husband's insensitivity, "but I'm certainly not going to feel guilty about it. We earned this vacation. It's the first one we've taken in three years, and the first one ever without the kids. That's more than eight years, and I'm just not going to feel guilty about it."
"Hey, hey. I didn't mean anything. I was just kind of feeling sorry for her." He looked at his wife. "You're not angry, are you?"
Tracy tried to contain her feelings. "Well, yes, damnit, I am. I mean, we have some rights too, don't we? I enjoyed this weekend alone together, and I don't want you to go and ruin it for me. I really enjoyed talking to you, getting to know you again, being alone with you. That may be romantic and female, but I enjoyed it. I was hoping that you would have enjoyed it. to."
Steve walked quickly over to his wife, putting his arms around her shoulders. "Hey, hey, honey. I did enjoy it"
"It didn't sound as if you did," she said, petulantly refusing to look at him. "I'm sorry if I've bored you."
"You didn't bore me, silly. I enjoyed this weekend. I enjoyed being with you spending all this time with you. It was like a second honeymoon. I love you, Tracy. We've had such a good weekend, no fights or anything, let's not end it now on a bad note."
"Well," she said, refusing to give in all the way, "you shouldn't have said what you said."
Steve nodded firmly. "You're absolutely right I apologize. I was insensitive."
She looked up at him tentatively. "Do you really mean that? Or are you just saying that to shut me up?"
"Of course I mean it, darling. I love you. I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings. I'm truly, truly sorry. All right?
A grudging smile broke across Tracy's face. "Well, in that case, then, I forgive you."
"Thank you."
"And you were right," Tracy added, gloating. "You were insensitive."
Steve pressed his body against hers, rolling his stiffening cock across the broad vee-like mound of her cunt. "I'm not all that insensitive."
"Why you dirty old man," she said, giggling playfully. She rolled her hips tightly against his groin. "Why it's broad daylight."
"The better to see you with, my dear."
Tracy relaxed in his grip, snuggling up close to him. The idea excited her, and she was impatient to see it happen. Sex in the daytime was almost impossible with children in the house,, and spontaneous sex was so rare it might as well not have even existed. But here she was being offered the possibility of both at the same time: the idea made her wet with anticipation.
"Do you think we have time enough? It's almost eleven."
"We'll make time," Steve said, kissing her tenderly on the lips.
Tracy began to melt. "What if they should say something?"
"I'll tell them I'm sorry, but I was fucking my wife."
Tracy's cunt throbbed. "Oohh, that was dirty."
"And if they don't like it, well, then, that's too bad Let them charge me for another day. But I am not," he said, snuggling his lips against her slender neck, "going to leave this room before I make love to you one more time."
Tracy kissed his mouth, slithering her tongue in and out of his lips. She ran her pink wet tongue all around his biting mouth, teasing him erotically.
"Only one?" she whispered, her fingers working excitedly down the buttons of Steve's shirt He was naked under it, and she slid her hands in around his chest. She loved to feel hair against her cheek.
"For a starter."
"Hhhmmm. Do you know what I think? I think you're trying to seduce me."
"I am."
"Ooohh, yesss!" Tracy moaned, sealing her lips across Steve's mouth. Her tongue snaked in deeply, licking wetly, excitedly, slithering almost down his throat. "Let's go to bed."
Topping the mood off, Steve bent low, and scooped his wife up in his arms. Kissing her wetly on the mouth, he carried her over to the bed, and set her gently down. Then, without breaking the kiss off, he stripped her stark naked, and he fucked her on top of the bed. His strokes were deep and sensual, and after a very short while, he brought them both to a mutual, simultaneous orgasm.
As she came, Tracy Hamilton's mood was one of blissful happiness, touched with moments of wistful sadness. She was happy for the pleasure of the moment, yet, at the same time, she saw the moment for what it truly was:
A respite, she thought, from the everyday hassles of married life. Tomorrow it will go back to the ward it was before, to the way it has always been, to the way it will always be. The vacation, the romance, the second honeymoon was over, and it will be bills and work and the children all over again. Back will be the guilt and the blame and the petty little arguments.
But, goddamn it, it was worth it! It was good to know that, once in a while it could be as good as anyone could ever imagine it to be! It gave you the strength to carry on. For a little while longer… for a little while anyway…