"The lady plays doctor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Milner Jerry)

CHAPTER TEN

"Take your medicine," said Dr. Morgan, and tilted the glass to Joyce's lips.

She drank again, and said, "I'd rather take a shower."

"You can do that later," he said.

Again she protested, and now Emily took her part, saying, "A shower is just what she needs. Our rape game is over with, and a shower might get our little blonde dollie out of that mood and ready for something else. Go take your shower, Joyce. I slipped out today arid got you some things. They're in the bathroom. Take your time, and come back all refreshed and ready for a little refined loving."

"And take another drink with you," said the

doctor. "That will relax you. Even after all this fucking and sucking, you look as nervous as a bride on her wedding night." He exchanged a wink and a grin with Emily Beresford, and he said, "But perhaps that's as it should be."

Joyce had to be helped up from the bed by the two people who had nearly buried her in an avalanche of sex. They assisted her to the bathroom and left her there with a large brandy over ice. The moment she was alone, she leaned back against the closed door and breathed a deep sigh of relief. She had done it again, she had let them gang up on her and overwhelm her and made her give in to their oversexed desires. Now, however, it was over with and she was alone. With the bathroom door locked, she could wash away the dried sweat and sex juices from her body and she could wash the crazy sex impulses from her head.

And those sex impulses were indeed crazy. Homosexual sex, sodomy, troilism, these things were perversions that simply were not part of her makeup. Using vile language, performing fellatio and cunnilingus, engaging in sex with practically total strangers, these things must stop or she would turn into the same kind of sexual animal those two in the next room were. They were brutes, not humans. Their sex was carnal, not loving. She had to get away from their lustful influence, and the first step toward that was the step she took toward the shower.

Joyce washed herself long and thoroughly, lathering herself liberally with the scented soap that had been placed in the dish. She thought of nothing but cleansing herself, and thus regained the feeling of calmness and self-confidence that had

been taken from her so unexpectedly when she'd entered the bedroom. Emerging, she half expected to find them waiting to pounce on her from behind the shower door, but she was still quite alone, and that was a relief to her. Her only companions in the room were the glass of brandy and a pair of ribbon-wrapped boxes that had been left on the tank of the toilet. She drank some of the brandy as she toweled herself dry, and she looked with disdain at the boxes. They were obviously gifts from Emily Beresford, and she needed no presents from a lesbian, no matter how beautiful that lesbian happened to be.

Joyce continued to sip at the brandy while she brushed out her wet hair before the mirror. Her face looked remarkably unchanged, despite the perverted sex she'd been subjected to. Her breasts looked larger. They were swollen and just a little sore from the mauling they'd taken. She grinned ruefully, thinking that they'd have to take a great deal more mauling than that to ever be swollen to the size of Emily Beresford's tits. She wondered how such a beautiful, ultra-feminine woman had ever become attracted to her own sex. She could almost forgive herself for succumbing to the lesbian's advances in the heat of passion, but Emily's case was far different. Here was a woman who actively sought out the embrace of a person of her own gender, and that was something Joyce could never do. As for Dr. Morgan, he was simply a highly oversexed male who would be far better off in a big city than in Roseville. In a big city he could indulge his sexual appetites indiscriminately. Here in Roseville, isolated with the oversexed lesbian, his sex life was very badly distorted. Joyce Carruthers was the only truly normal person of the

three of them, and in the future she would have to exert that normalcy despite the advances of the people she was working with. Be calm, be aloof, and turn aside their sexual attacks on her with patience. If they raped her again, she would just remain serenely unmoving through the attack. She would use mind over matter, and ignore them. Passive resistance, that was the thing to beat them. They'd soon grow tired of pawing and poking at a body that was entirely unmoving and unresponsive. It was the only course. open to her, short of carrying out her threat to report Dr. Morgan to the A.M.A., and Joyce felt certain she could successfully carry it off.

She found a hair drier in the drawer by the sink, and used it to blow warm air around her head while she fluffed out her hair. She proceeded at a leisurely pace, sipping the brandy, growing ever more confident that by the time she emerged from the bathroom Phil and Emily would be asleep.

"Put a satyr and a nymphomaniac bisexual together and they're bound to fuck themselves to sleep," she said with a giggle to her mirror.

The young intern finished the last of the brandy and prepared herself to make a quiet reappearance. Her hair was dry and fluffy, and her body was clean again, though a little sore. She found some cold cream in the medicine cabinet, and a little of that made her nipples and her cuntlips feel less chafed. Not that anyone would be permitted to touch her again that night in either place, but she did feel more comfortable when she'd rubbed the soothing cream in. There was a small bruise visible on her lip, which she covered with some lipstick from the drawer. Now she was all ready to face them with dignity and calmness-except that she

hadn't any clothes to wear.

A towel would cover her nudity, but it certainly wouldn't do anything for her dignity. She looked around in the bathroom drawers for something she might put on, but there wasn't an article of clothing in sight. There were those two boxes Emily had left, however. The one on the bottom was flat, like the kind blouses come in, while the other was small and square. Joyce sipped the last of the brandy while she considered opening a gift from a lesbian, no matter what had gone on between them in the past. If she was wise, she'd somehow bed down in the bathroom that night, but by then her stomach was growling for something to eat. It didn't care what her pussy had been fed so far and what might await it beyond the bathroom door. And the disgusting things her tongue had eaten that evening had not appeased the hunger of her stomach. At last she shrugged and picked up the flat box to see if it might contain something she could wear.

What she found in the box was a beautiful white negligee. It was all lacy and frilly and diaphanous, of a kind that she would never in a million years purchase for herself. At first she thought it was ludicrous, a typically ridiculous gift from a lusting lesbian. But as she held it up in front of her before the mirror, she couldn't help but admire its feminine beauty. For all its lace and sheerness, it was rather modestly cut. It was obviously expensive, and probably carefully chosen. It would be a shame not to at least try it on.

The negligee fit her to perfection. It had a high, Princess waistline that was lightly elasticized and fit up under her breasts very becomingly. The neckline swooped down rather low in a vee and

showed an appreciable amount of the swells of her little round tits, but it covered her nipples adequately unless she leaned too far forward. The bodice was pleated and made her breasts look a bit fuller than they actually were. It was just sheer enough to show the pinkness of her nipples through the pleated white nylon. It was sleeveless and very nearly backless. The negligee's skirt just brushed Joyce's bare toes. It was slit up the front to well above her knees and the edges of the slit were lace-trimmed, but they clung together nicely and only showed her dimpled knee when she walked or purposely bent her leg. All in all, it was truly a lovely garment. She looked quite chaste and maidenly in it, especially with her golden hair brushed out into shimmering waves about her demurely smiling face. The gauzy white nylon felt cool and smooth against, her skin, and she felt comfortable and relaxed in the negligee. She decided to wear it for her entry back into the apartment, and she also decided to open the other package.

This was French perfume in a crystal-stoppered jar. It was obviously as expensive as the negligee, and its scent was supremely exotic. It was too exotic and too expensive for a woman of Joyce's simple tastes, and she knew she shouldn't accept it. But she'd already opened the bottle and she'd already tacitly accepted the other gift from the lesbian, and so she began to dab the muskily sweet scent here and there about the warmest places on her body. At last, with the sweet perfume behind her ears, between her breasts and on her throat and on her loins, she squared her shoulders in the negligee and went to face Emily and Phil once again.

Darkness had fallen outside, and the apartment was dimly lit with candles. Though it was comfortably warm, Joyce felt as if she were in a haunted house as she went carefully forward with the folds of her skirt held together at her thighs. The rich aroma of well-prepared food drew her onward despite what fears were creeping up her spine. She moved cautiously, feeling as if she were being lured into a trap, with the low rumblings of her stomach and the watering of her mouth drawing her on.

There was a low, circular table in the little living room of the apartment and it was here that the candles were burning. Three of them stood whitely in a silver candelabrum, illumining an array of fresh fruit, cheeses, and stemmed champagne glasses set out on a gleaming-white linen tablecloth. There by the light of the flickering candles Joyce saw Dr. Morgan and his receptionist seated in a love seat, holding hands and smiling warmly at her. Dr. Morgan was wearing-of all things-a tuxedo, complete with black tie, and Emily was attired with equal regality.

The buxom brunette had on a white blouse that had full billowing sleeves and a mannish collar. A silver chain was around her waist, and she was. wearing a floor-length skirt of black velvet that was slit up the front to show her gleaming nyloned knees and her black patent leather high-heeled pumps. Her hair was piled high on her head and rhinestone earrings dangled From her ears and silver bracelets jangled from her wrists as she rose to greet Joyce. Her face was heavily but perfectly made up, and the candlelight effectively softened any masculine lines in it. When she came close to kiss Joyce's cheek in a sisterly fashion, her perfume

blended smoothly with the scent Joyce was wearing.

Joyce's hand encountered the confined softness of Emily's breast as she pushed away from the woman. She wanted food, not sex or even affection. A flashbulb went off, dazzling her. Many-hued lights flared before her eyes and she teetered back on her heels while they commented around her.

"She looked so beautiful in that gown that I had to get a picture of her, Miss Beresford."

"Do take some more, Philip, while you re serving us dinner. Come, Joyce. Sit down, dear. You must be as famished as I am."

The light from the flashbulb had temporarily taken away Joyce's equilibrium. She had to lean on the lesbian's arm for support. Dr. Morgan spoke her name, she looked up, and another rocket burst of white light struck her, completely blinding her.

"I don't want pictures of me like this," she said crossly.

"Of course you don't," said Emily at her side. "Philip, put that camera away and open the champagne."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, in subservient tones.

Joyce was helped into a chair, completely confused. The light from the candles was vague before her widely blinking eyes. She felt Emily Beresford sitting beside her, and she edged away from her. The big woman did not follow her, but she did clasp her hand and intertwine their fingers. Joyce pulled her hand away and said, "I just want a bite to eat, and then I'm going to bed."

"Of course, dear," said the woman at her side, patting her leg affectionately. "My butler, Philip, will serve us dinner, and then it's off to bed for

you.

It was another of their games. She wasn't dreaming this. Those two, Philip Morgan and Emily Beresford, had withdrawn themselves and their hypersexuality from the rest of the town for so long that they now engaged in any number of fantasies. Their after-hours lives were a series of play-acting, and now Joyce was a part of it. They were undoubtedly psychotic. Now that she understood them, it was a tremendous opportunity for Joyce to observe psychosis in action. They couldn't harm her. They'd already done that. Understanding them, she could move cautiously about the edges of their current real-life fantasy and learn a great deal about the warped human mind. Her rationality and her calmness were her defenses while she explored the behavior patterns and the motives of the male and female sexual degenerates. It was a fascinating opportunity for her, almost as fascinating as the food on the table and the aromas of more wafting in from the kitchen.

As a champagne glass was filled for her on the table, she saw that Dr. Morgan had completely entered into the role of butler. He had that somber, completely impersonal expression of the servant on his handsome face as he poured the sparkling wine. She wasn't quite sure what role Emily had taken other than mistress of the household, but that would surely develop in time.

The food was delicious, the wine refreshing. Dr. Morgan took a few more flash pictures of them as they nibbled and sipped by candlelight, two sophisticated ladies enjoying a late supper presented to them by a manservant. He said nothing beyond the words of the servant. Emily led the

way into a lively conversation on a variety of subjects. Cautiously relaxed, Joyce could make the woman laugh easily with her witty remarks. Joyce still had no true knowledge of the motives of the pair or the complete role Emily was playing, but she was relaxed with the food and wine and confident this knowledge would come.

Emily slipped her arm about Joyce's shoulders and said, "Did you enjoy dinner, dear?"

"Dinner? It was more of a feast than a dinner." "Yes." Emily's large eyes, aglow with candlelight, gazed deeply into Joyce's. "A feast. A nuptial feast for your wedding night, my dear."