"The Polaroid club book II" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis William)

CHAPTER THREE

The darkened room with the drawn blinds looked strangely unfamiliar to Cindy when she awoke. It was her own bedroom, no question about that; there was her dresser, her white ruffle-lined vanity, the cane-backed chair next to the full-length mirror… She stretched her hand along the bedcovers, feeling the soft material with her fingertips. Yes, it was her bed in her own bedroom in her own house – but in another sense, it wasn't.

It wasn't because the love, the marital bond which had united this lovely young wife with her husband had been broken here, right here on this bed. It wasn't because no longer did these four walls enclose a sanctuary of wedded harmony, no longer was there the presence of emotional ties. Her bedroom had become just another bedroom; her bed just one of many.

She might just as well have been in a third class hotel.

Cindy moved and felt an excruciating pain just over her left eye. She sunk back, groaning aloud. Her head felt oddly thick and it was difficult to think. Every muscle in her body seemed to be tied in tiny knots. She lay still, then recalled the horrible dream she had had last night.

The obscene, sickening debauch of her mind and being by some lewdly grinning man the piteous wife could still picture the bullet-shaped, microcephalic head and the little, beady, blood-shot eyes gleaming lasciviously, and his croaking voice demanding… demanding that she… that she…

The impact suddenly hit her.

"My God, it had actually happened!"

In spite of the pain, Cindy sat up quickly. She stumbled from the bed and lurched heavily to the bathroom mirror, looking into it quickly.

"My God," she moaned, "it did happen. It wasn't a nightmare!" Heavy lines marred her fresh, young skin. Her eyes were sunk deeply into her head as though she had aged years since yesterday. She sagged against the washbasin for a long minute, literally torn apart now with her inner torment magnified tenfold, feeling as if millions of tiny, invisible, execrable creatures were slithering across her skin, dirtying it, defiling her body so that she would never be able to make herself clean again. She stood naked on the throw rug next to the shower stall and looked down at her breasts, at the fresh bruises which centered around the nipples. Then she looked down her smooth curve of stomach to her raised pubic mound, at the dried and alien sperm matting the soft triangle of hair, at the still-inflamed cunt lips which that man – that beast – had so abandonly manipulated into desire with his hot, hard penis and later with his thin, swirling tongue. She thought how the postal clerk had fucked her, sodomized her (as she thought of his probing cock buried in her anal channel, she automatically tightened her sphincter muscles, causing her to moan, for her whole backside and anus were sore beyond belief) – how he had forced her to participate in every lewd act imaginable. And worse, far worse, was the indelible, terrifying suspicion that she had enjoyed it! That the drug, the liquor, the intense sexual frenzy of the government employee had eventually made her respond with wild abandon, as though she was with her own husband, her loving Howard, and not that evil-incarnate and his blackmailing threats.

She thought about all of this as she stood and looked down at her nubile nakedness, and the filthy, unseen organisms seemed to scurry faster and faster along every conceivable inch of her velvety surface.

A low, barely audible moan escaped from Cindy's lips. Frantically she twisted the lucite handles on the shower unit built into the tile wall of the stall, bringing forth a thick stream of water. She adjusted the shower head until the spray became needlepoints of water, cool at first, then hotter and hotter until clouds of vapor began to billow upwards, making the bathroom seem like a hazy, humid sauna. Cindy stepped into the stall, gasping as the scalding water beat against her skin and turned it to a bright crimson hue. But she made no move to leave, to escape the burning cascade; instead she stood fast, her mouth open and her eyes shut, enduring the pain as if it were some divine punishment, some taste of hell, for her transgressions.

For five minutes Cindy withstood the torrent, blanking the pain from her mind, soaping her abdomen and her rectum and her vagina in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the crawling things. Only when the water heater emptied and the spray became cool again did she step from the stall. She stood once more on the circular throw rug, this time dripping wet. Wet – but not clean. Oh, God, would she ever be able to feel wholesome again?

Briskly, almost as if she were heaping further punishment upon herself, the agonized young wife dried herself with a large fluffy jacquard towel. Her body, tingling from the abuse of water and cloth, glowed a burnished red. She padded naked back to the bedroom and dressed quickly, choosing a light green blouse which buttoned at the throat, and a full, wide skirt which her husband had once described as "innocent-looking" and "totally lacking in sex appeal".

Still her head throbbed. Rubbing her forehead, she went to the kitchen to make some coffee and try to think. Think… and as she concentrated on her guilt, shame, and of the reasons causing her remorseful actions, her head ached still more. It was impossible, she realized. The situation was beyond her ability to handle. She couldn't cope with the postal clerk and his demands, couldn't fathom her own aroused nature, couldn't untangle the spiraling whirlpool of events which had been happening since the gift of the Polaroid. She became dizzy as her brain spun around, casting before her mind's eye quick glimpses of all that had taken place lately, much as a carrousel parades a kaleidoscope of ever changing animals as it turns before an uninvolved bystander.

She had to do something, that she knew. She couldn't let it be forgotten; neither her own mind nor her conscience would allow that. She had to talk to someone, to purge her sickened soul, to seek advice and comfort. Her husband? Yes, yes, he must be told, Cindy thought. Howard is strong, he would understand…

Her hand reached for the kitchen telephone extension, then paused. What could she say? He was in the middle of a convention, talking business and his mind totally filled with facts and figures and automobiles. So say she was able to locate him, to get him on the phone long distance. So then? She tried to compose her words in her mind, becoming almost ill as the bitter memories stirred within her. Each time she thought of things to say to him, she realized that what she truly wanted to tell still would not come.

Howard would never understand, she finally had to admit ruefully. She was incapable of properly explaining long-distance that her desire to help their marriage had resulted in her renting the post office box and sending for the Polaroid Club pictures. How her actions had betrayed her, how the postal clerk had forced her to do his bidding… and how her own body had betrayed her. No, it wasn't fair to her husband to suffer a moment because of her failings. She still loved him as before, perhaps more now, with the burned-in knowledge that she, alone, should suffer for her transgressions. As she lowered her hand, she was determined to protect Howard, no matter how it might hurt her.

She knew that never again could she curl up in his lap and playfully nip at his ear with girlish innocence without thoughts of the horrible previous night. This would be her penance alone to bear and the scar would last as long as she lived. Time might dim the memory but could never erase it.

That much was settled. Howard, her unsuspecting, trusting husband would never know her secret. But she was still faced with the torturous problem of what to do about her predicament. Who could she turn to? Who among her friends and acquaintances could she trust to understand? Understand and have the experience to be able to guide her through these troubled paths? Marsha? Pauline? Gladys? No… they were good at bridge and gossiping, but not at advice of this nature. There was no one.

Wait there was one woman, a woman who outwardly was more brazen than Cindy cared to think about… but who upon many occasions had shown friendship and sympathetic, earnest support. Norma! Norma Taylor, her husband's boss' wife. Yes, after that get-together weekend at the mountain cabin retreat, Cindy was positive that the lovely woman was interested in her, in spite of the fact that Ralph's different social sphere prevented them from being close friends. She would know what to do, Cindy knew. If anybody would know what to do, Norma Taylor would.

Quickly Cindy thumbed through the little phone number book beside the regular directory, locating the Taylor number and address Howard had penciled in when first he had been hired by Auto Circus. She feverishly dialed the number, impatiently waited as the phone on the other end rang… and rang… and rang. Wasn't Norma home? Oh, God, she had to be! Please, she had to…

"Hello?"

"Norma? This is Cindy Jamison."

"Cindy?" The voice was low and gentle, obviously full of warmth. "Good to hear from you. I was just thinking of calling you and inviting you over for lunch some time this week."

"You were?"

"Certainly. Our husbands being away and all…"

"Could… could you make that luncheon date for today?" Cindy asked hopefully. "It… it would be appreciated. I have… something to talk to you about."

"Of course. I have some leftover roast beef, and I'll make some sandwiches and we'll have a nice chat. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful!" Cindy said, breathing almost with relief. "What time?"

"Mmm, in about an hour. Say at eleven."

"I'll be there!" Cindy promised, and hung up.

The Taylor home was in another section of town. It wasn't in the finest area, but neither was it in a tract development as was the Jamison residence. It was in the lush, green hills bordering the western edge of Morriston, catching the morning and noon sun, but having a cooler late afternoon and evening than the majority of flat, fertile land around it. Cindy drove her car – a Volkswagen Variant 1600 – through Morriston and up the winding, narrow streets, pulling the sun visor down as the sparkling rays blinded her eyes.

The Taylor home was an older one, built around the middle twenties when the national economy was booming and no end was in sight. The chicken was in every pot, optimism that the world was without further war and the country was forever prosperous overshadowing the gathering dark clouds of the future. As a result, the original owner had gone all out to build a house sturdy enough to last long after he was gone – prophetic enough, for he committed suicide a few years later, on that Black Tuesday in October, 1929. The house weathered the Depression with a succession of owners, and then later the Second World War, Truman, the Korean conflict… and as designed, it looked as warm and comfortable as when new.

Oh, the kitchen had been remodeled twice, and the cellar redone and paneled into a game room, and the backyard gazebo removed and a swimming pool installed, but basically it was the same sturdy home it had always been. The Taylors had bought it shortly after they'd been married. It was then far out of their price range, but Ralph had gambled on his ability and as a result he was happily ensconced in an ever growing real estate investment. He had no desire to move. It had all the things he wanted of a house. It was in a fashionable, well-kept neighborhood; it was surrounded by well-grown trees and shrubs which provided privacy; the people on his block were of the kind without children and with connections; and it gave him and his wife an aura of being respectable, settled citizens of the community.

Cindy drove up the circular drive and parked in front of the wide verandah. The scarlet bougainvillea entwined around the latticework, and a yellow and black butterfly flitted among the green shrubs, finally landing on the head of a metal statue. The statue was of a small, brightly clad Negro jockey, forever offering a ring to tie one's horse's reins to. The butterfly took to the air as Cindy passed the statue and stepped to the front door.

Norma answered the door. She was dressed in a striped silk sheath with a white leather belt around her slender waist. She was barefoot and held a cooling drink in her hand. She said, smiling, "Come in, Cindy. So good of you to come."

"Thank you, Norma." Cindy stepped in the house.

"I was out on the back patio," Norma continued, walking down the hall. Cindy followed, clutching her purse nervously. They went from the hall through a sitting room filled with furniture of the Empire period, then through a pantry and out into the backyard. The screen door gently closed behind them, the pump brake on top of it hissing slightly.

The backyard was mottled with shafts of sunshine intermingling with areas of shade. The patio was covered with more lattice, hardy grape and honeysuckle vines growing around and through the slats. Norma sat down in a metal lawn chair and waved her hand to the one next to it, indicating for Cindy to sit down as well. The glass-topped table before them had a platter of sandwiches on it, a condiment dish piled with pickles and olives, and an earthenware pitcher filled with wine.

Cindy first looked at the food. She wasn't hungry, not at all, but she knew that she would have to eat so as to not offend Norma. Then she looked out on the broad expanse of lawn and thought how peaceful, how serene and healthy it was. Not at all like the sickness which pervaded her inner being at that moment, made her quiver and want to die. She was suddenly brought back to reality by a gentle touch of fingers on her shoulder.

Startled, she looked around at Norma, who was frowning slightly with concern. The wife of her husband's boss was saying, "… haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?"

Miserably, Cindy shook her head. "I'm… sorry, Norma."

"You haven't been yourself since you arrived. Aren't you feeling well? The flu perhaps?"

"No… no," came the choked response. "I'm fine. Really."

"No, you're not. I can tell, Cindy." There was a long pause, then, a silence which was louder than shouted words. Cindy didn't know what to say, how to begin… if she dared. She had had the courage to call, and she knew that Norma was indeed the friend she had hoped she would be, but now, confronted with the awful confession, she wasn't sure she had the strength. Norma was obviously baffled and unsure of what to say, but finally, the woman leaned forward and placed her manicured fingers over Cindy's and said: "You told me on the phone that you had something you wanted to talk to me about. It's weighing heavily on you, Cindy. Tell me. Get it off your chest. It'll do you good."

"I… I," stammered Cindy, "I've been with another man."

"Really?" Norma sat back. "Another man, hmm?"

Was that a smile Cindy saw forming on Norma's lips? No, it couldn't be… but even if it was such an unexpected response, Cindy couldn't have stopped the torrent of words which now tumbled from her throat. The dam had been broken, and from her tortured soul came all of the gruesome details about her seduction. She left little out as she poured forth her agony to the other woman, and wept copious tears openly as she confessed.

"… The clerk was the one I rented the post box from… I sent away for some pictures… arrived, and he brought them over… the clerk threatened me with exposure, with jail even… Howie would lose his job… the clerk… the clerk…"

Cindy could only refer to Samuels as 'the clerk', unable to speak his name much as ancient Jews were not allowed to utter the name of their God the Nameless One. It was as if to name the man would bring him forth in the slanting light of the backyard sun. Nor could Cindy detail what perverted acts she had been forced to do for the government employee, glossing over the lewd acts quickly. Above all, she was completely silent on the subject of her own arousal, of her apparent enjoyment of the systematic rape of her sanctity.

But everything else she placed before Norma Taylor, like a horribly sculpted gargoyle complete of substance and shadow. The marijuana… the liquor… the pictures. Especially the pictures. Everything kept revolving, kept returning to the uses – the abuses – of the Polaroid camera.

When she was done, she sunk her head in a symbolic act of begging for mercy, of awaiting judgment. Her blouse and skirt were wet with her tears, and her voice was almost hoarse with her wracking sobs.

The first thing Norma did was to pour Cindy a glass of wine. "Here, drink this," she commanded, and even though the distraught young wife refused, she persevered and finally Cindy haltingly swallowed some of the ruby liquid. It did make her feel better, she had to admit, as she sat the glass down.

Then Norma looked Cindy in the eye and said, "One thing more. Did you enjoy it?"

"Norma!" Cindy was taken full aback, her eyes wide with horror.

"I must know in order to get a full, clear perspective of the situation, Cindy. Forgive me for being so blunt, but it's only between us girls." She leaned forward. "Now… did you? Even a little bit?"

Blushing a color as scarlet as the bougainvillea out front, Cindy Jamison first stared with frozen shock. Then, trembling and biting her lower lip, she squeezed her eyes shut and nodded affirmatively. There was no use trying to cover it up, no way in which she could bury the awful truth about herself – and it was harder to admit it to herself than to Norma.

"Yes," she moaned. "At… at first I loathed his… attentions. But… but in all honesty, I have to confess I… began to sort of like it." She twisted in her chair, then looked at Norma, wetness blurring her vision. "But only a little bit, Norma. Only a little bit, and when it was over and I'd collected my senses, I was sick about it!"

"Yes, yes, I understand," Norma said in a soothing voice. She then poured herself a little more wine and sighed. She thought of the best way of handling the matter, of trying to calm the near hysterical girl so that a greater crisis would be averted. She could almost picture the scandal it would cause if it was publicly known, and she had the inherent knowledge of a shrewd woman that such publicity could easily spread to herself and Ralph, for Cindy being in the frame of mind that she was in, would break apart and tell everything. Everything, including the business about the Polaroid Club and their own involvement. Howard wouldn't be the only one whose job would be in jeopardy…

"Listen to me, Cindy," she started to say, then sipped the wine as she thought carefully of her next words. "I'll be frank, for I'm sure that's what you want me to be. Why you came to me."

"Yes, yes, that's right, Norma."

"First of all, you were forced into what you did. You had no other choice, just as this… clerk said. You were forced, and no matter what you may think of what you did, you had no other way out. You did the right thing."

"But my…"

Norma held up her hand. "Your feelings, right? What's really bothering you is that you became excited, right?"

Cindy again nodded, mute, and twisted the little napkin in her lap.

"Well, pardon me for saying so, but I don't think any woman could have avoided becoming excited. Any full, loving, responsive woman, that is. Now neither one of us is frigid, Cindy; both of us make love to our husbands with every cell in our body, and we like to. That's the key in understanding what happened to you, Cindy – the fact that we naturally, physically like sex. How could you help not to get hot when his hands were caressing you, his… penis was hard inside you? Hell, I couldn't have, I know that."

"I know, but…"

"What it boils down to is this: you're a woman first, biologically. Half your body, and mine, is tied in with sex and procreation. Our feelings, emotions, and physiology are regulated by its rhythmic chemistry, and no matter how you try to, you can't deny that fact. You're a wife second, which is an artificial social discipline which is learned, not instinctive. You did what was natural, what your body was intended to do – and while most of our country would not approve nor condone it, you must chalk it up to an unpleasant happening. A mistake, at the most, but never as a sick, warped evil thing."

"But what am I going to do?" wailed Cindy.

"Do? Why, you're going to do nothing, Cindy. Nothing at all. I doubt that this clerk is ever going to call you again. He got what he wanted, a fresh conquest. I'm sure that's what excited him – the battering down of your defenses – and now that he has done that, he has no reason to bother you again. So I'd suggest that you dry your tears, have a sandwich, and start forgetting the whole matter. Go downtown and buy a dress or a new hat. I always do when I'm blue."

"Howard…"

"Howard shouldn't be told. Men don't understand about such things, Cindy, and might do something rash." She shook her head. "No, best to let things lie as they are. You still love your husband, I'm sure, and while it's been a mental shock, it hasn't hurt you physically. You can respond to your husband and his love just as well as before, and of course, that's what counts in situations such as these."

"You… you really think so?"

"Trust me, Cindy," Norma said. She went on for a little while longer, soothingly and with confidence, instilling some reassurance back in the shattered wife, pouring a little more wine, and finally getting Cindy to have a sandwich. By one thirty, Cindy Jamison was perked up as much as possible. The heavy weight of her sin was like lead between her shoulders, but at least she was able to carry the load now, and not collapse as she was in danger of doing before.

Yes, Cindy thought as she drove away from the Taylor home, yes, I was right in coming to see Norma. She certainly was a great help, being forthright and blunt, and at the same time showing me that she really was concerned. She was correct in what she had to say, and I will follow her advice. I'll maybe even go shopping, as she suggested… a new summer frock might help me for get a little bit.

Yet, for all her buoyancy, there was a nagging, ever-present dread in the back of her mind. Like a black wad of some malignant evil, it kept repeating over and over that perhaps she hadn't heard the last of the matter. That maybe tomorrow or the next day, or the next week, she would hear the phone ring or a knock on the door, and it would be Samuels, the ever leering postal clerk, come to collect again…

The dinner was long over, the dishes were washed, and now it was time for bed. Norma had on nothing but a thin transparent nightgown, knowing that the hint of her fine, lithe body underneath excited Ralph as she walked around. It had, too…

Ralph Taylor had come back from the convention bushed, his face and manners showing how dog-tired he was. But after a couple of drinks and the fine food she'd prepared and the semi-nude parading all evening – especially the latter – it was obvious to her that her husband was bubbling with life. His pants were tightly bulged, and as she bent over him to kiss his lips and interrupt the movie on TV, his hand came up underneath her gown, pushing the hem abruptly up her thighs before she could resist.

"Oh, you beast!" she jumped forward trying to escape the playful fingers coursing their way along the sensitive parts of her legs. "Stop, it, Ralph, please!" She giggled, knocking the cup of coffee she was serving him. "Ooohhhhh, God, Ralph!"

Ralph grinned and continued his rummaging between his wife's legs, laughing aloud at the same time. "Hell, it's been almost a week since I last laid you, my pet. Heh, heh, they had some fine pieces of ass at that convention, but nothing like you!"

"Ralph," she crooned softly, "be careful. We've got to plan out what we're going to do about the Jamisons, remember?"

Ralph grinned his broad grin again and placed his hand on her buttocks, massaging the soft, tender flesh. She looked at him coyly as he continued the teasing ministrations. Norma gritted her teeth as she felt the old feeling drifting slowly through the tips of her nerves. She was lucky to have Ralph as a husband and he took good care of her, in spite of his flamboyant crudeness and periodic streaks of cruelty in his sometimes overzealous sexual demands. Not that she minded the latter, she mused; she was almost as bad as he was. He didn't mind at all what she did as long as she didn't hide it from him and was there when he wanted her. But, by the same token, he did whatever he liked in the same way. In fact, it had made their marriage more exciting and brought them closer together. Yes, by common consent they had their little affairs but had never let them get beyond the physical stage. It was kind of like having your cake and eating it too, and she never wanted it any other way.

"Oooohhhh," she moaned again as her mind returned to reality. Ralph's hand was running the full length of her soft, white vaginal crevice, sending chills of sensation rippling across her skin. "Are you crazy, man? You want to be eaten alive?"

"Eaten, yes, baby, but not alive," the manager joked, twitching his finger again into the slightly squirming slit. "But don't get impatient. We'll come to that."

"Well, you just stop it then and tell me what you're planning. I told you everything about that postal clerk and that racket he was working on Cindy. You said it gave you ideas." She smiled with sparkling eyes at her husband. "I'm always interested in your ideas, lover. Especially about the ones for bridging the social gap between us and your star salesman."

"And his wife, don't forget her," chuckled Ralph lewdly.

"You bastard. You can't wait to get that mouth of hers around your fat cock another time, can you?"

"No more than you want to show your maternal instincts on Howard's prick again." He laughed. "But don't you worry, my little pet. I've got it all worked out. Been thinking about how to do it since that night at the cabin. Christ! I'd give a month's commission to get a set of photos with that luscious blonde doing all the tricks. And preferably with me on the receiving end. Well, your little story about that clerk answered my prayers, Norma. It's as good as being in the bag."

"Ralph," Norma smiled demurely, now almost panting from her pent-up excitement, "let's talk about it in the bedroom, shall we?"

"Why, you little whore!" Ralph grinned, but rose and followed his wife down the hallway. "You're about the most selfish thing alive. You always come first." He knew it was a game she was playing, this first-no-then-yes coyness, and they played it often. He was ready now but knew she liked to be coaxed a little before the action started. "But I have to tell you my plans first, remember?"

"Mmmm," she replied, letting the long gown fall and stepping out of it seductively. "I'm all ears."

"The hell you are," he leered at her. He went toward her, figuring the plan could wait. There were more pressing matters to take care of. He said, "Fuck it, Norma, you can wait to hear the Goddamn details. All I want to know is can you find out the name of this clerk?"

"Sure, baby," she cooed. "Anything you want." She made a mental note to start on finding out the identity of the postal clerk who had caused such distress to Cindy Jamison the first thing tomorrow. But as she reached her hand down and touched the swollen bulge in her husband's pants, she knew that there was going to be a long, delicious night ahead of her, and she wasn't going to be sidetracked from enjoying it to the fullest.