'Oh.' It really didn't seem to matter. She continued to smoke, letting the lethargy she felt after the meal, the liqueur, and, peculiarly, the cigarette, take over her body.
'To get back to what I was saying,' Mark continued, 'the information the Minister receives has been filtered many times by who? By the same bureaucracy, by the same civil servants who have been there before him, before his predecessor no doubt. The Minister has no way of knowing what was discarded, what was emphasized. He may think he has a choice of three or four courses of action, but each of those courses has been plotted by his top civil servants, and they leave him little doubt about which course they think to be the best. Theoretically the Minister is in power, is free to reject that advice, but the fact is that he must always be dependent.'
'That's a very cynical approach, Mark,' Lena was saying.
To Sharon, her hearing was fading, for Lena seemed to be further away, as if speaking from the end of some long, narrow, echoing hall. She frowned and shook her head, trying to clear her mind, but it didn't seem to do any good. Moreover, she didn't really care. Everything was too pleasant, too relaxing to get excited over. She sunk still further in the feather-like softness of the couch and kicked off her shoes. Yes; it was too much trouble to keep up the pretense of correctness — she hiked her stockinged feet up and tucked them under her buttocks. Her dress bunched around her waist… she should pull it down, stay modest, if informal… but again, it was too much trouble. So much nicer just to stay as she was and drink her Grand Marnier and smoke the odd cigarette with the Moroccan grifti.
'Not cynical, Lena,' Mark replied. 'Just practical.'
'Practical,' Sharon repeated soporifically. She thought the word was fun and tripped it lightly over her tongue a few times, even humming a little tune along with it. There was a small, faint warning in the back of her head, saying: what's wrong? Why are you acting like this? But she didn't pay any heed to it. The room was so beautiful, more beautiful than she had realized, so full of colors and that tapestry hanging over the credenza seemed almost alive with hues and shades. She stared at the tapestry, soaking in every detail and thread of its woven Hunter-and- Stag design.
'Practical,' Lena was saying from far, far away. 'Practical like smoking marijuana, Mark?'
Marijuana… that was bad… very naughty to smoke marijuana… did things to people. Sharon smiled at Lena vaguely, not once relating the reference to the drug to her own condition.
'I'm always practical, my love,' Mark said. 'That way I get what I want.'
'You always get what you want, don't you?' Lena stood up and crossed to the wide leather chair in which Mark was seated. She seemed to take a century to walk to him, or so Sharon thought; such a slow walker… and now what was she doing? Leaning over, also in slow motion, I can see her lips puckered as though she was going to kiss him… how nice… kissing is a sign of love… I kiss Neal all the time… I'd like to have Neal with me right now, to kiss me hard as Mark is kissing Lena, to fondle my breasts as he is…
'And you want her, don't you?' Lena asked nibbling his ear. 'You want to fuck her as you have fucked me and all the other girls, don't you?'
Fuck… fuck, that's a bad word, isn't it? Fuck, fuck… mustn't use the word fuck. Why is Lena using the word fuck? Who is this other 'her' that she is talking about? Sharon saw then that Wafto was bending over her, his wicked grin making his face a contorted mask of lechery. She allowed him to remove the stub of the cigarette from her fingers, place another tube of Cannabis — of marijuana — in her mouth and light it. She sucked in the smoke as he refilled her liqueur glass…
'To my mind,' Mark said, 'the only thing wrong with the system is that we pretend that the civil servants, that the bureaucracy isn't running the show. I think that they should be recognized for what they are — professional managers.'
Mark Marlowe seemed to be talking to Lena, to continue explaining about the true happenings behind the scenes at Whitehall, to be exposing the workings of the inner circle of the British government — of, in actuality, any elective government. What he had to say was as important to understanding Washington, DC as is was the Conservative government in England, and perhaps at another time, another place, it would have been appreciated for the insight that it was.
But Marlowe was continuing for other reasons. His eyes were beadily fixed on the ever-more drugged young American wife near him, greedily watching her as she fell more and more under the hypnotic powers of the potent cigarettes… yes, he wanted to fuck her something fierce… his penis and testicles ached to slip inside the tender, palpitating cunt of the innocent beauty and spew his hot white seed deep, deep inside her proud womb. That, and other, more intensely exciting defilations of her body and soul. And Lena would help him, he knew, just as she always had, for she got tremendous enjoyment out of bringing lovely haughty young wives to their knees and seeing their helpless subjugation, their eventual change into debauched women of the flesh, and her own joining in the fun and games.
All in time. In good time, he realized, for he was, as the harlot wife of his best friend, Rodney Alvaro, had said, a totally practical man. Planning… that was the key, and so he droned on, making sure that Sharon Court was lulled into an unguarded position in which it would be easier to strike her.
He droned on, and all the while he had his hand up the frilly dress of the black-haired wife sitting in his lap. His fingers teased the inside of her creamy thighs, making them quiver, then his fingers tickled around the secretion band of her panties, feeling the outline of her fleshy, palpitating pussy, the wetness of her lubricious, excited state, the curly hairs of her pubic mound as they peeked out of the sides of her panties and grazed his hand.
'In short,' he was saying, his mind delving on the fun which he would have in a few more minutes as he would fuck the older of the two women within an inch of her life, conjuring the image of her firm, yielding flesh cemented to his hard, muscled body and the look of glazed enrapturement in her eyes as she cried out her passion. 'In short, the healthiest thing would be to cast out the fiction. Let the politicians remain responsible for the broadest policy, and let the permanent officials come out from behind their bushes and be ready to take public accounting for their management of our affairs.'
'Ohh… ohh… ohh…' breathed the now trembling black-haired female in his clasp. 'Ohh… I want you to fuck me, Mark… take me like some rutting beasts of the fields… give it to me… ohh…' She surged against his wandering fingers, which were now insinuated inside her panties and sliding into the slippery, pink vaginal opening of her cunt. 'Uhhhh…'
'But alas, I see no sign of it happening.' Mark still had his eyes feasted on Sharon Court, the naive wife who would never return to her old ways after the stay at his mansion, and he saw that the marijuana had now taken its fullest effect. She was sprawled most unlady-like on the sofa, her legs dangling and her dress nearly up to her hips. He could see up her legs, up to the little wisp of flimsy white nylon that separated him from his goal of her tender young pussy. It excited him, and his cock leaped into total erection, hurting to be released from the prison of his pants.
'I think she's ready,' he said to Lena.
'Ohhhh… I am… I ammmm… too.' Lena Alvaro was panting now, openly spreading her legs to his searching hand.
'Then let's get started. Right here, right in front of her. She's so doped up that she won't be horrified; only excited,' Mark chuckled obscenely, pulling his fingers from the older woman's vagina with a slight wet sluicing sound. 'Get up, my love. Get up and take your clothes off. I want to fuck you right here, right on the rug, right in front of Little Miss Sweetness. Hah. Let's see just now much of a goody-goody she is after she gets a taste of voyeurism, eh?'
The room was spinning for the beautiful young wife, Sharon Court. She had been drunk before, her surroundings revolving as if she was on a carousel; but it wasn't like that this time. No, it was if the colors and the objects were made of some pliable rubber which would alter and vary shape, size, and texture at will. A kaleidoscope of patterns which were dizzying and satisfying both, and gave new and deep meaning to the everyday items that they were. Sharon didn't understand what had taken over her mind, her body… but she didn't care. Nothing mattered except the song in her ears, the sight before her eyes, and the sweet pungency of the cigarette between her lips.
But what were Mark and Lena doing? Where were they? She tried to concentrate on the two people. They were… were on the rug…! And, and it seemed as though they were naked! Sharon shook her head again, her blonde hair whipping around, unable to believe what she was seeing. No… she clenched her eyes tightly together, then opened them wide. They were still there… and they were… Oh MY GOD! Sharon's heart skipped a beat.
Lena was lying spread-eagle before the fire-place, completely nude. Sharon felt as though she could have
