See, Miriam? I am somebody.
“What are you, Brenda?”
“I am the lock.”
“What else are you?”
“A bitch.”
“I can’t hear it often enough.”
“A bitch.”
“In heat?”
“Yes, yes. Please!”
Poised to enter her, dizzy with excitement, demoniac, electrified by the power he held, Salsbury had no illusions that his orgasm, deep within the silken regions of this woman, was the most important aspect of the rape. The spasmed outpouring of a tablespoon or two of semen was only the punctuation at the end of the sentence, at the conclusion of his declaration of independence. During the past half hour, he had proved himself, had freed himself from the dozens of bitches who had messed in his life all the way back to and including his mother, especially his mother, that goddess of bitches, that empress of ball-breakers. After her came the girls who were frigid and the girls who laughed at him and the girls who whined about his poor technique and the girls who rejected him with unconcealed distaste and Miriam and the contemptible whores to whom he had been forced to resort in later years. Brenda Macklin was only a metaphor, written into his life by chance. If it hadn’t been her, it would have been someone else this afternoon or tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. She was the voodoo doll, the totem with which he would exorcise some of those bitches from his past. Each inch of prick he jammed into her was a blow to the Brendas of years gone by. Each stroke — the more brutal it was the better — was an announcement of his triumph. He would pound her. Bruise her. Use her until she was raw. Hurt her. With every blade of pain he sent through her, he would be cutting each of those hated women. By mounting this lean blond animal, by battering relentlessly into her, tearing her apart, he would be proving his superiority to all of them.
He seized her hips and leaned close. But as the tip of his shaft touched her vagina, even before the head of it slipped into her, he ejaculated uncontrollably. His legs gave way. Crying out, he fell on her.
She collapsed against the pillows.
Panic took him. Memories of past failures. The sour looks they gave him afterwards. The contempt with which they treated him. The shame of it. He held Brenda down, weighed her down. Desperately, he said, “You’re coming, girl. You’re climaxing. Do you hear me? Do you understand? I’m telling you. You’re coming.”
She made a noise, muffled by pillows.
“Feel it?”
“Mmmmm.”
“Do you feel it?”
Raising her head she said, “God, yes!”
“You’ve never had it better.”
“Not ever. Never.” She was gasping.
“Feel it?”
“Feel it.”
“Is it hot?”
“So hot.
“Coasting now. You’re coming down.”
She stopped squirming under him.
“Drifting down. It’s almost over.”
“So good…” Softly.
“You little animal.”
With that the tension drained out of her.
The doorbell rang.
“What the hell?”
She didn’t react.
Pushing away from her, he swayed to his feet, tried to take a step with his trousers around his ankles and almost fell. He grabbed his shorts, jerked them up, then his trousers. “You said you weren’t expecting anyone.”
“Wasn’t. ”
“Then who’s that?”
She rolled onto her back. She looked sated.
“Who’s that?” he asked again.
“Don’t know.”
“For God’s sake, get dressed.”
She rose dreamily from the couch.
Obediently, she scuttled after her clothes.
At one of the front windows, he parted the drapes a fraction of an inch, just enough to see the porch. A woman was standing at the door, unaware that she was under observation. In sandals, white shorts, and a scoop- necked orange sweater, she was even better-looking than Brenda Macklin.
Brenda said, “I’m dressed.”
The doorbell rang again.
Letting go of the drapery, Salsbury said, “It’s a woman. You better answer it. But get rid of her. Whatever you do, don’t let her inside.”
“What should I say?”
“If it’s someone you’ve never seen before, you don’t have to say anything.”
“Otherwise?”
“Tell her you’ve got a headache. A terrible migraine headache. Now go.”
She went out of the room.
When he heard her open the door in the foyer, he parted the velvet again in time to see a smile touch the face of the woman in the orange sweater. She said something, and Brenda replied, and the smile was replaced by a look of concern. Filtered through the walls and windows, their voices were hardly more than whispers. He couldn’t follow the conversation, but it seemed to go on forever.
Maybe you should have let her come inside, he thought. Use the code phrase on her. Then screw them both.
But what if you let her come in and then discover she’s got a weak spot in her program?
Not much chance of that.
Or what if she’s from out of town? A relative from Bexford, perhaps. Then what?
Then she’d have to be killed.
And how would you dispose of the body?
Under his breath he said, “Come on, Brenda, you bitch. Get rid of her. ”
Finally, the stranger turned away from the door. Salsbury had a brief glimpse of green eyes, ripe lips, a superb profile, extremely deep cleavage in the scoop-necked sweater. When she had her back to him and was going down the steps, he saw that her legs weren’t just sexy, as Brenda’s were, but sexy and elegant, even without nylons. Long, taut, smooth, scissoring legs, feminine muscles bunching and twisting and stretching and compacting and rippling sinuously with each step. An animal. A healthy animal. His animal. Like all of them now: his. At the end of the Macklin property, she turned left into the searing afternoon sun, distorted by waves of heat rising from the concrete sidewalk, soon out of sight.
Brenda came back into the living room.
When she started to sit down, he said, “Stand. The middle of the room.”
She did that, her hands at her sides.
Returning to the sofa, he said, “What did you tell her?”
“That I had a migraine headache. ”
“She believed you?”
