back before his childhood.
He felt the heavy beating of his heart, and knew that in a sense Carol had more courage than he — and that he could not speak now. She continued.
'One of the capital results of diphtheria is often a loss of hair. Well, I was a democratic child, so I lost my hair. All of it, do you understand? I was not a beautiful sight for Phillip to read to and caress, me lying there white and smooth and silent as an egg. Of course, I didn't realize then. The fever raged and I knew nothing. The doctors, however, were afraid the hair would never grow back. But as you can see,' — again the pebbles were behind her words — 'as you can see, it did. But not all of it.' She started to cry again. 'Not all of it. Not the most important part. Not the woman's enchanted forest. Do you understand? Am I clear, or shall I spell it out for you? Not my pubic hairs. My cunt stayed white and smooth, like my belly.'
Why wouldn't he move? She felt an agony of isolation. Why wouldn't he touch her and say it was all right, and that she was still a woman and beautiful? Because he didn't think so; because he thought now that she was something of a freak, some ugly little assistant that Phillip the magician dragged around the world with him.
'Phillip didn't care,' she accused. 'Phillip still thought I was wonderful.' It was the wail of a frightened child, not the cool Carol, of cool Femme. 'He could have me as if I were seven years old. And a father never wants his daughter to grow up, to grow older. That part of me remained a child, except inside. And once he was inside, Phillip didn't care if I was his daughter or son or the gas heater. I'm the same inside, Harry, maybe hotter to compensate for the lie of my cunt. But I'm the same as any woman.' Her sobs relaxed her and finally silenced her. She rested her head on the white leather seat and closed her eyes.
She was the Sleeping Beauty for Harry. He looked pensively at her, afraid to awaken her, not sure that the long sleep wasn't the best part of her life. But he was puzzled and still confused.
'Baby.' He finally caressed her arm. 'Baby, I don't understand. I had you, remember? I had you, and it didn't matter. I didn't notice.
You're bugging yourself and your cunt didn't look any different to me…'
'That wasn't my cunt you felt. Those weren't my soft comforting pussy hairs you rested on. That was my little masquerade, my twentieth century costume.'
She turned fully and held his eyes. 'It was a wig, a blond patch of hair, the kind vain men wear on their heads. It's a great thing, looks like a dead mouse when you hold it in your hand, but like sweet bristling hair on the cunt.'
She pounded the shoulder that would not hold her head. 'It's particularly good for lovers. They can take it to bed with them, drape it over a rare chunk of meat or a milk bottle and have a ball. You see,'
she shouted into the quiet dark night, 'Phillip is the only man who would have me. Phillip saves my life every time he fucks me.'
Harry reached out to hold her close, to transfuse her fear into his body. He felt so empty, like a god sent to wander on the earth and hear these stories, these hidden nightmares.
'Carol, baby.' He let her cling to his chest. 'Carol, why are you torturing yourself? We can make it both ways; we can have a ball.'
We! He spoke of them as two things that equaled one. 'Baby, we can fuck and pretend you're Little Orphan Annie, all naked and beautiful and untouched. Or you can put it on, or hold it in your hand, or stick it over your mouth. Baby there's a thousand ways to make it, and we can find a way. There's always a way. Phillip should have taught you that.
It'll be crazy. I can have a little girl or have you hot and hairy.'
She sobbed, hearing the words she'd waited so long for, hearing them echo around them in the still night. She was already hot between her thighs from hearing that he wanted her. She wanted to leave the car and stretch out in the black night and let him fuck her into nothing. She was out of the nightmare, entering the dream.
He lifted the long white gown and moved up along her thighs and hips until he reached the immature pussy. He pressed his palm flat down on the exposed flesh, and felt the hot inner liquids. 'Cry, baby,'
he consoled. 'Cry into Harry's hand.' And she let the passion that had been Phillip's trickle onto his open palm. 'It feels wonderful. You feel wonderful to me.' He felt the pain pouring into his hand, and watched her face clearing and growing calm and beautiful and passionate in the subtle moonlight.
He released the rod pressing out of his pants. His prick came up urgent to be devoured by the starving cunt. He lifted the billowing skirt up to her hips, and she threw her head back. He buried his head in her lap, kissing her thighs and belly and then the smooth vaginal lips. He narrowed his tongue into the running slit and chewed until she screamed, 'I want you to fuck me!'
He lifted her high into the air, and sat her hard on the throbbing cock.
She sank over him, her cunt opening and absorbing him like a giant mouth. She moved up and down on the stiff, maddening, soothing bone. He clung to her hips and pulled her down after each free thrust.
Her head was high in the cool, secret evening, and they fucked until the dawn defined the surrounding trees.
CHAPTER XII
Harry stood in the warm sunshine, waiting at the convertible. He wore white flannels and felt like one of the college boys — a good disguise until there was something more important to do. Carol came running eagerly toward him, looking like the queen of the campus. The white tight-fitting shorts revealed her legs, long and slim and muscled.
She carried two tennis rackets, one in each hand and waved them cheerfully at Harry. When she reached him, she kissed his cheek like a chaste white virgin, and said, 'Shall we make it doubles or singles? I think it's better if we play alone.'
He smiled at her. 'We must learn to be with other people,' he said, and with mock domesticity, helped her into the car.
'I thought you'd never get up,' said Carol. She got in behind the wheel and they took off quickly.
'What a way to get up. Someone shouting a phony name.'
'Just because you didn't make it up.'
They drove on more leisurely now, taking in the luxurious mansions that rested pompously in properly planted and seeded landscapes.
'Harry…' She sounded eager, and strangely nervous. He thought of the way her voice had trembled when she'd revealed her time-locked secret last night. 'Who would have thought, two weeks ago, that we'd be here like this on our way to the courts?'
He waited for the real statement. Carol raced the car past the limit.
Harry gazed ahead, lazy, not resisting the scenery, letting it sift into him, his cigarette at home between his lips.
'See that monster over there,' she spoke finally, pointing to a large estate on the crest of a hill. 'That's where we're all going tonight. A very chic privilege.'
'Why?'
'Well, that hovel belongs to the Llewellyns. Your Llewellyns, aren't they?' The truth sank mockingly into him. 'They're hardly about any more,' she continued conversationally. 'They spend most of their time on their island now, or rather, your island.' Her words trailed off. It was impossible to know that the man had heard her. But he had, she knew that, knew that these were words he'd waited to hear for a long time.
'The Llewellyns,' he whispered, between a prayer and an obscenity.
'That's very interesting for you, isn't it, Harry? You see, I've got hundreds of delicious little secrets. You should just sit and listen to me all the time.'
'I could almost believe that, Carol.' He was bitter. Of course he was bitter. The angry little boy who found out that Mama knew who Santa Claus was all the time. Carol had feared this moment since Phillip told her, 'Harry is after our neighbor's baubles.'
'Which ones?'
'The Llewellyns.'
