When the elder Flemings returned to their suite, they both deeded to shower again. Ever since their visit to the Salon farmhouse, the whole family seemed to be unable to bathe enough. As she watched her husband towel himself Ann wondered if the bathing obsession might not be a subconscious desire each of them had to wash away some other fixation.
She climbed into the shower he had vacated – it had taken her longer to undress – and tried to asks her own feelings. Had she been able to break the morbid train of thoughts the last time they poured into her mind? Yes, but it hadn't been easy.
She'd gone in to wake Tommy this moming, and found that he was in the shower. On the way out, she noticed the dampness on his sheets. As she leaned over and the magnetic semen scent rose to stir her, she bent down and started to lick the meager remnants of the boy's dream.
She'd pulled herself away and walked unsteadily from the room. She'd beaten it. But it took several minutes of deep breathing exercises to get up the ambition to join the others at breakfast.
She climbed out of the shower and toweled herself dry, then put on the robe she'd brought in with her. Chuck had gone without his, but he would sleep naked, anyway, and probably was in bed right now.
But he wasn't there when she went in. She moved around the suite until she found him, standing just inside Darla's door, looking at the sleeping girl. Sleeping in the raw, like her father.
Fleming stood a moment after she spotted him, then he silently closed the door and turned. He was startled to find Ann so close.
"She's a pretty big girl to peep in on at bed check, isn't she?"
"Maybe so," he replied. "But something about her's been worrying me. I just can't put my finger on it."
"The thing about her that worries me you'd better not put your finger on!" Ann answered. "Would you mind explaining that?"
"We were married before I was as old as she is, now. And she has yet to get interested in one boy enough to go steady. After the wild stirring her juices got, she's going to be hot-pantsed as hell until she starts getting laid regularly. I see enough of me in her to know that."
"That's it," Fleming said. "She's been fidgeting around a lot since we got back in the hotel. Can't sit still. And I remember now that I got the impression she was rubbing herself under the table at breakfast. Does it get that bad?"
"Not usually," Ann laughed. "But I know what's causing that particular discomfort. She told him about the bites Darla had gotten from Guiyesse, and explained that they were healing now, and very itchy."
"For crying out loud! You never told me about that when it happened."
"I suppose there are a number of things that happened at that place which we haven't discussed in detail around the dinner table. Some of them might well be left alone. But I'll compare notes with you here in the privacy of our bedroom."
"Okay. For openers, what do you think about Le Boeuf?"
"I think that I hope he doesn't get caught."
"That's not what I mean, Ann. And you know it. Why did Darla stick up for him so strongly – before he saved you from Guiyesse?"
"I think that she has the knack of sensing when people are basically right or wrong – good or bad."
"Too bad her clairvoyance didn't extend to sensing the extra key Le Boeuf had made in Marseilles and kept on him."
"That's your opinion. Darla and I both think that he had good reason to have that extra key made, and we're glad he did!"
"Why did he do it, then?"
"Because, if you believe the initial premise that he told the truth about Gerault's having something on highland Darla and I do – it's a short step to believe that he could expect anything from Gerault, including locking up Le Boeuf in those cuffs. He just prepared himself for the possibility."
"Well, your judgment of him – or Darla's might be proved by his stopping on his way to freedom to save you two. But how about his deserting his comrades in crime? Does that make him look good?"
"It surely does. If he'd been forced to go along with Gerault's operations, then finally decided to get away from Gerault once and for all, he wouldn't turn loose the very man whose sadistic tendencies he hated. And he'd stop on the way out to prevent similar tortured."
"Okay. Really, I'm sort of playing devil's advocate about all that. I'm just as relieved the Moroccan's still free. But I wanted to be sure it wasn't just Darla's overzealous approach to French civil rights, or because she was hypnotized by his enormous cock, or something."
"What is it about you men that makes you uncomfortable when you think a woman likes sexy things? You think a monstrous cock is so sexy?"
"No. You were the one to suspect Darla of being hooked on the Moroccan's equipment. Remember? I'm trying to find out why such a fascination should bother you, if it were true."
"I'm not sure that it would. Look, why this 'Battle of the sexes' approach? I think I'm pretty liberal single standard and all that."
"I'm going to see if you are. For a long time, you've made it clear that you like to eat my pussy. You've almost made poems about it. You're always telling me how the smell of my cunt excites you, and how you like the taste of it. Now, you didn't expect me to be upset about it, did you? Didn't you think that perhaps I should accept it as a compliment – a token of your overall feelings for me?"
"Naturally! So…"
"So, Mr. Single Standard, for years I've tried to get you to go off in my mouth, and I've succeeded only a few times. So, tell me why the objection. Especially since I happen to be crazy for your cock, and I love the smell of your semen and the taste of it in my mouth. So do you think less of me now that I've admitted that, or will you accept it as a compliment?"
Fleming was nonplused. He looked at his wife with a crooked grin, and scratched his head.
"I know this is silly, but it takes some getting used to. I do see what you're driving at: the old bit about a man wanting a hot pants mistress or party girl, but a wife that's a virgin. Not exactly that, because you know I'm glad you love to screw."
"Maybe it's part of Momism, something that's got us believing, subconsciously, all our lives, that you females the nice ones, the ones we marry, and our daughters, and all – are somehow better than men – belong on pedestals, and all that. And while we can love the cream that flows out of your gorgeous pussies, we are repelled by the semen we ejaculate, and don't want to 'contaminate' you with it."
"But you know, it is silly. If you like what comes out of me when you've excited me and made it come out, it should be exactly the same as the thrill I get from making you cream your panties and then enjoying the smell and taste of your hot little cunt, flowing all over for me. Honey, I'm getting horny! Did you start this conversation, or did I?"
"I don't care who started it. Are you horny enough to let me steal your precious juice from you? I want to eat you, Charlie Fleming!"
"Jeez! What the hell are we waiting for? I've got a hardon that won't quit."
"I know. I've been watching it. I've been sitting here creaming my nightie over it. In another minute I'm liable to suck your balls right out through the end of that gorgeous thing!"
"Ha! I've got a picture of you killing the eggs that lay the golden goose!" He turned pale. "Oh my God! The pictures! We never got those dunned photos they took of us. How in hell could I have forgotten about them?"
"Because you were worried about your family's physical and emotional condition. That's what drove the blackmail bit out of your mind. But us girls took care of it for you. They're all just little bitty pieces floating in the sewage somewhere."
"You're a doll. What would I do without you?"
"Like hell I'm a doll. I'm a real, live female, and the question is what are you going to do with me?"
"Well, what I had planned will be delayed a little. That photo thing scared away my bone."
"I think I can take care of that," said Ann.