by Edward Lee
This is outrageous! They’re like dogs in heat!
The busiest scenes, though, were the ones in which all three participated at once; Rob would adjust the camera from a stable position and join in. He lounged back, laughing—“Am I the luckiest man in the world or what?”—as Grace and Donna fellated him at the same time. Both tapes were a kaleidoscope of earthy sexual frolic: hips thumping, breasts bouncing, heads whipping back and forth. Buttocks were groped, legs were thrust apart, nipples were plucked, tweaked, and sucked. It was carnal pandemonium. In many of the scenes, Rob climaxed first but this was not a problem for Grace and Donna. They’d finish each other off with the translucent green vibrator.
“That was a bit much,” Clare muttered aloud when the tapes played out. She couldn’t imagine people being so out of control, and she was particularly surprised by Donna Kramer’s conduct. Clare remembered Donna as being fairly straitlaced, conservative even, but the last video image of her had shown the polar opposite: sprawled out nude on the floor—this floor—with her legs wrapped around a man’s head and a woman using her face for a place to sit.
So much for straitlaced.
A bunch of sex maniacs…and the place I’m living in used to be their love shack. They’d obviously filmed their exploits as an erotic curio, the same way regular couples sometimes did—something arousing to watch in the future, a passionate remnant of their three-way affair. Clare wondered how she’d react if she ever ran into Donna Kramer again, how she might compose herself if she ever met Grace Fletcher. The prospect—now that she thought of it—wasn’t even that remote. They’ll have a friggin’ cow when they realize they left these tapes here. It made sense that someone would come back for them. Who would leave tapes like these with a stranger?
Now that she’d seen the tapes, her curiosities were slaked. There was still one question, however: Where’s the third tape? The set came in a three-pack, but there were only two. Was the third tape at the cottage? Who cares! she yelled at herself. Forget about it! It’s not important! She put the tapes back in the shoebox, was about to take it all back to the bedroom, but she just slid over, limp. Her fatigue ambushed her; suddenly sleep was dragging her down right there on the couch. At least drag your butt back to bed, she thought, but, no, that wasn’t going to happen. The long soft couch was too comfortable. Ordinarily it might have bothered her—did she want to sleep on something that people were having group sex on not so long ago? Too tired to care… The soft hum of the air-conditioning lulled her to sleep in moments.
She didn’t dream of her rape, thank God. Instead, she dreamt of the videos, of Grace, Donna, and Rob, a replay of what she’d just watched, only the dream version was silent. No lewd giggles, no waves of moans or climactic shrieks. Just silence and movement, all that sweat-shiny skin converging, loins splayed, tongues roving. It was the orgy all over again. Did they come here and do this every night? The three of them seemed addicted to each other, their ecstacy desperate.
What was that like?
Grace was on hands and knees, while Rob took her hard and steady from behind. Donna lay beneath them, inverted, her toes curling in the carpet. Her gleaming thighs viced against Grace’s head, which was buried between her legs. When Donna orgasmed, she writhed on the floor, shuddering, and moments later, in the aftermath, Grace’s head lolled aside. She looked right up into the camera and grinned.
And it wasn’t Grace any more. It was Clare.
At once, the faces didn’t matter anymore—just the bodies, the naked, tensing, hyper-sensitive bodies that converged in this overflow of lust, that cringed for more. Clare was one of those bodies now, naked and wanton as the rest. It was Clare’s buttocks being splayed, Clare’s breasts being pressed together and squeezed, Clare’s tongue gliding over clitoris and penis alike. Everything that had been done in the videos was now being done to her.
She came repeatedly, from a multitude of operandi. From behind, she felt skewered by a rising spike of pleasure, the V of two fingers sliding hotly back and forth over the outer folds of her sex, while the inner folds were plowed into. When the buzzing vibrator tip squashed the nub of her clitoris, it might as well have been a button that was pushed, and there she went again, the string of climaxes breaking like a wall that had finally fallen against a great, opposing weight. The orgasm felt devilsh, the pleasure so rich it could’ve been inhuman. Her loins bolted and quaked. Her nerves seemed to pulse like arteries, but the blood that filled them was raw selfish primitive pleasure.
She rolled over and collapsed on her back; for a moment she was too exhausted to move. She could feel herself purring deep in her throat, and all she could think was more, I want more… Her companions descended, just as selfish. Now that Clare had been done to, it was time for her to do…
And that was just the beginning, the beginning of the dream that would go on for hours…
(II)
“Jesus,” Joyce sighed.
“I know,” Rick agreed.
Spent now, totally exhausted, they lay propped up against each other in the security truck, both bare from the waist down, their shirts hanging open and their boots kicked into the back. They’d just made love ferociously, and this was the “afterglow” part: bugs buzzing and inferno-like heat. It was an hour past sundown but the heat and humidity seemed to flow into the truck like broth…along with mosquitoes. They’d parked on one of the old logging roads that had been closed since the ‘40s; Joyce didn’t want to take any chances of being seen by Clare.
Can’t let her know about me and Rick.
Maintaining that concealment was getting harder and harder lately.
Lately, their passions for each other seemed insanely intense. An hour wouldn’t go by without Joyce thinking about him, craving him.
We’ll just have to be careful. REAL careful.
She loved this job and she needed it, and with the job market the way it was she needed it a lot more than she needed all this fooling around with Rick. But the Air Force hadn’t set her up for much in the civilian world. Police work was out; these days most good departments practically required a masters in criminology just to get into the academy. This security job was a blessing.
Don’t blow it.
But she just couldn’t figure the craze of feelings for Rick. Did she love him? I definitely don’t think so, she answered herself. She’d been a tomboy for as long as she could remember; she wanted to discover her world and her life with herself, not with someone else tagging along. In other words she was not a lovey-dovey touchy-feely kind of girl, and those tomboy sensibilities prevailed, which was just the way she wanted it. In the future, sure. I might live with a guy, I might get married, I might want to get involved like that. She shook her head. But not till I’m real old, like thirty-five at least.
Her thing with Rick was purely physical—it was just the way that she craved him sometimes that sort of bothered her. He’s just so…GOOD! And as for being an inveterate tomboy: I guess I’m a tomboy who’s also a sex maniac. Joyce knew where she stood but did he? God, I hope so. I’d never want to hurt him…
They both half-sat and half-lay across the truck’s bench seat, Rick with his arm around her, her head against his slick, muscle-ridged chest.
“I-I’ve never felt like this before,” he whispered. His hand tightened over hers.
Oh, no, she dreaded.
His hand squeezed tighter. “I…”
Don’t…
His fingers lovingly strayed through her hair. “I’m pretty sure I—”
Joyce gritted her teeth. Don’t say it!
“To hell with it,” he resigned. “I’m just going to say it. Joyce, I love—”
“Rick, please! I’m not ready for all that! Please don’t say that!”
Rick leaned up abruptly, lit a cigarette. “What are you getting all bent out of shape about? I was just going to say that I love living down here in Florida. Don’t you?” Then he grinned and started laughing.
She slapped her open palm hard against
his chest. “That’s why I like you, Rick. You’re an asshole and you don’t mind proving that fact often.”
“Damn straight.”
Joyce chuckled herself now. Yeah, I’ve got nothing to worry about. He knows the score, and he’s just like all men. All he wants is sex.
“I guess we can lay here all night and whisper sweet nothings,” Rick pointed out, “or we can put our clothes back on and get back to work. Clare’ll be relieving us before long. And last night she came on duty early. With our luck she’ll do the same thing tonight and see us.”
“Don’t worry. I drove by her cottage before I picked you up. Her lights weren’t even on.”
“Yeah, but that was two hours ago,” Rick pointed out.
Joyce quickly sat upright. “What? You’re kidding!”
“Nope.”
It seemed impossible. It seemed like only ten minutes. “You mean we’ve been—”
“Fucking for two hours,” Rick finished.
Shit! Joyce was suddenly frantic. “We’ve got to get dressed, get back on rounds. Knowing her she will come out early. Our gooses are cooked if we get caught!” She was on her knees now, leaning over into the back. When Rick turned his head, all he could see was her beautiful bare bottom jutting out.
“Oh, honey, you can’t be showin’ me that right now. I’m tapped out—”
“Get dressed!” she yelled back.
He got back into his trousers. “Hey, my boots are back there too. Could you get ’em?”
flump!
She fired his boots into the front seat, missing his face by an inch. Rick pulled them on but couldn’t take his eyes off the naked rump that was still bent over right before his eyes. “Hey, Joyce? I hope this doesn’t sound too romantic, but your ass would start a riot in a monastery.” He couldn’t resist; he ran his hand up the flawless curve of flesh. “Hell, it should hang in the fucking National Gallery of Art.” Then he brought his hand around the inside of her thigh…
“No! We don’t have time!”
Rick couldn’t believe it. He was already aroused again. “Aw, come on. Just a quick one? It wouldn’t take long.”
“No! And where’s my—damn it!”
Joyce plopped herself back in the front seat, only one boot in hand.
“Where’s your other—”
“It’s not back there! I must’ve kicked it out the window by accident. Be a sweetheart and go get it.”
Rick made a face. “What am I, your personal manservant?”
Joyce looked right back at him. “Yeah.” Her beautiful bare breasts seemed to look right back at him too.
“Ah, well. Just so we have that fact properly established,” Rick replied, and got out of the truck. He tromped around behind it, looking down for the boot but all he could think about was—
Joyce. Christ. So beautiful… The moonlit image of her body was like a tiny vertigo behind his eyes. Her sleek bare butt sticking out, those big perfect breasts beseeching him through the open blouse. It didn’t matter that their lovemaking had exhausted him; suddenly he wanted more of her, needed more.
Rick was from South Dakota, arid cattle land and a pretty low notch on the social scale. The cows were more attractive than most of the local women. After his discharge, he’d come here just to check it out, and now he just shook his head at the incredible quirk of fate that had dropped Joyce into his lap.
I am one lucky son of a bitch to be rolling around with her.
“Rick, hurry! We’ve got to go!”
Her boot, he had to remind himself. He’d been too caught up just thinking about her. He really did love her, though, but he knew it would be a giant mistake telling her that. He could read her gauges pretty well; she wanted no big attachments, so that’s how Rick would play it, act like it was just casual. And if she wanted to date other guys, that was fine with Rick too, because if she did—
I’ll just have to give it to her better than them…
He was pretty confident about his ability to do that.
She’d come right back to him after her one-night thing with Adam Corey, hadn’t she? It was all Rick’s fault; he’d taken her out to the bar and they’d both had a few too many and got into a big argument. It had been Rick who’d said: “Hey, if you don’t like it, it’s not like you’re tied to that bar stool. You’re the one who’s always saying how we’re just friends and you don’t want commitments. That’s fine with me. You can walk any time you want.”
Yeah, BIG mistake that night. Have another drink, Rick.
Joyce had walked, all right. She’d walked right out of the bar and right into the bar across the street, a big redneck place called the Slappy Beaver, a pick-up joint for locals who were paralyzed from the neck up. And about an hour later, he’d seen her leave with that park service schmuck Adam Corey.
Rick hadn’t pitched a fit over it; that wasn’t his style. Of course, it wasn’t his style to peep in windows either, but in this case he felt he had no choice. On a scale from one to ten, Joyce scored in the negatives when it came to first impressions. She could be pretty naive—especially with a few Killians in her. On the other hand, though, Rick could tell just from one look at the guy’s face that Adam Corey was a walking whack-job. Rick could see right through that shucksy smile and the bronze blond nature-guy look—behind all that, there was something disturbed bubbling like a pot of water on full boil. The guy was a perv.
That’s why he’d followed them. It was one thing he could never tell Joyce, of course—not ever. Then Rick would look like the perv. But he’d done it for her own protection. In case Corey tried to pull something demented, Rick needed to be there to save her dumb behind.
It never got to that but it probably would have if Joyce hadn’t had the common sense to leave when she did. Rick had snuck around to the back of Corey’s salt-box bungalow on Sunset Beach, but he didn’t have to peep through that back window for long before his suspicions were proven in spades. Corey and Joyce were making out on the bed, pretty normal stuff at first. Then Corey stood up and dropped his pants. “Thought ya might want to check out my rig. Chicks dig it.”
Joyce didn’t dig it. In fact, she took one look at it, screamed, and ran out of the place. She was in her car and gone in thirty seconds.
Rick had nearly shouted aloud himself, half in revulsion and half in hilarity. He’s got more stuff in his dick than I’ve got in my tackle box!
Adam Corey could’ve been the poster boy for genital piercing. Rings, studs, and pins of various sizes adorned his private parts to the extent that they shimmered. It was all chrome, and the intricacy with which these things had been fixed into his flesh was astounding. Some of the studs looked like small rivets, and from them tiny silver chains seemed to hang. Chrome bb’s ringed the foreskin, while the scrotum dangled pendulum-like from all the weight of the trinkets that pierced it. The glans was the worst thing of all to view, though:
I don’t believe it! The guy’s got a fuckin RING hanging out of his peehole!
Rick didn’t tarry; he was out of there nearly as fast as Joyce, and the vision of Adam Corey’s armored genitals was not a vision he’d soon forget. Yeah, Joyce sure learned a lesson that night, he thought now, still searching for her lost boot. She’d come back to him the next day, in tears and begging his forgiveness. And though he’d never told her that he’d been watching, she eventually told him everything that had happened, and included detail about the ranger’s “rig.” From that point on, Rick often referred to Adam as “Ranger Jingles” and “Lightning Rod.”
“Rick! Are you waiting for the Devil Rays to win a game?” Joyce complained. “Come on! Find my boot so we can get out of here!”
Here’s the damn thing. The boot lay further out than he thought, the sock next to it. He scooted them up, was about to go back to the truck—
Then he saw something behind a palm tree.
I’ve seen these at the clinic, he thought at once. What sat behind the tree was a large white-plastic bucket. Floor wax for the jani
torial staff came in this kind of bucket; he’d signed in the deliveries himself.
But it wasn’t floor wax inside.
Rick didn’t have a flashlight but he could see well enough. The bucket was filled with something light-colored and granular in texture. It was not quite as fine as sand, and it felt gritty when he touched it. Soap or something? he considered. Detergent?
But what was it doing out here?
Looks like someone just left it here.
“Jesus CHRIST! Where ARE you?” Joyce yelled.
Rick jogged back to the passenger window. “There’s a bucket full of soap or something, right over there behind a tree.”
“So what! We’re in a hurry, remember?”
Rick scratched his head. “Well, I don’t know what it is, and it shouldn’t be there. Should I bring it?”
Joyce gaped at him. “Why?”
“You know, to report it.”
“Did you put your brains in the kleenex the last time you blew your nose? This road is closed. No one’s supposed to be on it because it’s a sinkhole hazard. What are you gonna tell Clare, Einstein? Oh, Clare, we were out on that closed logging road, you know, the one that no one’s supposed to drive, because we needed a place to hide so we could FUCK for two hours, and we found this bucket full of soap—”
“Got’cha,” Rick said. “Didn’t think of that. So I’ll just leave the bucket?”
“Forget about the damn bucket.” She reached out, grabbed her boot out of his hand.