"Skin summer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Griffin Ann)

CHAPTER FIVE

Linda Mock stood looking down at the bed, then pulled the sheets back and began to undress. She piled her clothes on a chair, then stretched out on the sheets. A moment later, the door opened and Sam Walker came in. He closed the door, turned, saw her for the first time. He looked at her a moment, then said, "I don't think I can tonight. I have a huge headache and my stomach is tender. I got a bug or something."

She sat up in bed, and watched him as he went into the kitchen and came back with two cups of coffee. "Maybe a little ride is exactly what you need to make you feel better."

He looked her over, smiled wanly. "If any broad could cure a man with her body, it's you. But I'm afraid I don't believe in faith healing."

"This would be sex healing." She sipped her coffee.

"Sorry."

"Damn!" she said, slamming down the cup.

He looked at her, saw that he was losing her. "I could eat you, if you want. Though I know I couldn't get hard. Not the way I feel."

She sat up and drew her clothes from the nearby chair, struggled into them. "No. It's less fun when you don't make it. I don't want to be a bore."

"I want to," he said.

"I know," she said.

When she finished dressing, she came to him, bent over and kissed him. "You take care of yourself."

"Yes, ma'm."

"Take some Anacins."

"I have. I'll take more."

She walked to the door, turned and looked at him with a new expression on her face. "A headache?" she asked.

"That's what I said."

She watched him a moment longer.

"What's the matter?" he wanted to know.

"Nothing," she said, and left.

He watched the closed door for a long time after she had gone. He knew what she had been thinking as she stood there. She had suddenly wondered if he had been with Brenda Markwell again and couldn't get hard for her because there wasn't any juice left in him. If she only knew how right she was!

He finished his coffee, washed the cup and put it on the drying rack. He had eaten ravenously at supper, but he was still hungry. He made a Dagwood sandwich with the fixings he had in the half-sized refrigerator, ate that with half a bag of potato chips and a bottle of cola. When he was finished, he went in for his evening shower and calisthenics.

When he finally fell into bed, naked between the cool sheets, he was more exhausted than he had been at any time in his life. His prick, depleted, had shrunk pitifully between his legs until it was little more than a button. He rolled over only twice, then fell into a sound and velvet sleep.

Though there were dreams.

Dreams…

All sorts of them.

They danced behind his eyes.

Little scenes that washed across his mind, eddied a moment or so to be looked at, then were carried away by the following wave which brought yet another scene…

They started out very pleasant, then alternated from happy to sad to frightening.

And it seemed, as the night wore on, that the percentage of frightening dreams grew and grew, until he finally woke with dregs of a nightmare clinging to his tongue. But to start with, they were pleasant…

A Dream: He was very small, perhaps as young as three. There was a man at the house, a man who had been coming quite regularly for some months, the first father-figure Sammy had ever known. He was a big man, tall and blond with wide shoulders. And most interesting of all, he had a mustache, the first Sammy had ever seen on anyone he knew. He liked to sit in the big man's lap and play mustache, tweak it gently until the big man – pretending – cried out that he was being hurt and begged Sammy to spare him any further suffering. The big man used to bring him gifts. Little things. But to a boy unused to gifts, they were the brightest moments in his life. A picture book, a box of candy, a toy truck. Anything that cost more than a quarter seemed like one of the most valuable riches of the ages. Sammy's mother, Helen, seemed to dislike the attention the big man paid the boy, but she could not – even whining – get him to completely ignore her son in favor of herself. Nice days…

A Dream: A black dream. Bordering on nightmare. Sammy woke one morning, a Saturday, and went downstairs to get something for breakfast. He was four, going on five then. His mother would be sleeping, he knew. It was barely nine o'clock and she would not rise until just before noon. He poured himself juice and took it in the living room to drink; there he saw the overcoat and hat he associated with the mustached man. He ran from room to room downstairs, looking for his friend, but could find him nowhere. Finally, he decided to disturb his mother to find the mustached one, even though he knew that Helen would be angry at being bothered for something she would consider so trivial. At the door to her room, he paused, doubtful now about the wisdom of waking her to ask about the man's whereabouts. Then his excitement won over his fear. He pushed the door open and went into the room. At first, he grinned, for the mustached man was here in this room. Then the full scene came to him, and he was frightened. The man was on top of his mother, both of them naked. The man was supporting himself with his hands, flat palms open on the mattress, one on either side of Sammy's mother. Sammy could see the thing between the man's legs stabbing his mother. His mother was gurgling, clawing at the man, trying to fight him off. The man wouldn't let her. He stabbed and stabbed. Sammy screamed. And again. And on and on for almost twenty minutes before they could calm him.

A Dream: This scene was later in his life, but just as hazy and colored as scenes from his childhood. He was fifteen now, and had long since sampled the joys of the female body, knew what had happened in his mother's bedroom long ago when she thought she was being stabbed. It was a Friday night, and he was fifteen. His mother had a date for dinner and the movies, and Sam brought home the girl he had been making it with, a red-haired chick with tiny breasts, a hugely hairy crotch, and fine, milky white legs that were strong, could almost crush him when she wrapped them around him. He undressed her in the living-room, had her stretch out on the couch. He greased his prick with saliva, and probed her love tunnel from the back. Her ripe ass pressed up into his stomach as he slammed into her. Then they turned, and took the standard position. He slogged her soupiness until she gurgled, cried out, and came, clutching at him, calling his name. He had not come, and he pulled out so that she could go down on him. She was settling on her knees by the couch to work on him when there was a sharp intake of breath behind them. His mother had not gone out. The man who had been supposed to take her had had a last minute business appointment. She stood now in the archway to the stairs, looking at her naked son and the lithe body of his lover. She started shouting at them. She slapped the girl, kicked at her, called her rotten names. When she turned to strike Sam, lie stood before her, naked, and his prick still jutted before him. She looked at, then slowly up to his eyes. He saw what was happening and knew that he should use it. He took his organ in his hand and slowly milked it, watching her. After a moment, she fled upstairs again…

A Dream: He was a young man now. He was buried in Susan Calderwood-Logan's soup. Up in her soup. Up tight in her. Way up there. And she was slamming her hips at him. And she had not climaxed, but he was going to. She kept asking him to wait… He couldn't. He shot… She cursed him… He had failed her…

A Dream: Susan undressed before him, and he shot without touching her. His cream splattered on the floor. Only looking had done it…

A Dream: The mustached man, stabbing his mother. His mother screams… She tries to get up. The mustached man takes his weapon and stabs her in the mouth… She dies…

A Dream: Susan lying naked before him, and he is limp. He milks it, but it stays small. She sucks, but can not help it… He has lost the use of his body… He is unquestionably impotent. Forever… He screams…

A Dream: In this scene, he is stabbing his mother. In her mouth…

A Dream: His mother bites him off. He has nothing to give Susan Calderwood-Logan…

A Dream: He is lying on a bed, a large white bed in the middle of nothingness. There is no floor beneath him, no walls around him. There is no earth nor sky. There is only his body, the bed – and the women. There is Linda Mock and Brenda Markwell, and his mother, Helen. There is the little red-haired girl he has forgotten. And here is Susan, her perfectness more than any man should be able to stand. But his prick is limp. He works on it, watching them, watching their naked breasts, their fur patches. But none of this helps. The red-haired girl takes him in her mouth and sucks him, but it is no use. His mother massages his organs, but to no avail. Then, abruptly, Jenny Sansom pushes her way through the crowd, comes to the edge of his bed. She is dark, wiry, not much of a female. She too is naked. She tells the girls that Sam is useless. He tries to argue, but she shouts louder than he can. She tells them she can do more for them than he can. He says that is untrue. She takes Linda onto the bed and eats her cunt. Linda moans and calls love names to Jenny, begs her for more. As does his mother. And the red-haired girl. And Brenda Markwell. And… And Susan. And he can do nothing. And Jenny comes after him, saying she might as well bite his cock off if he can't use it. Just extra baggage… He tries to get away, but there is nowhere to go beyond the bed. Her teeth are very sharp. She is grinning… The others… The others are cheering her on…

Sam woke, gagging, sweating, almost out of bed. He was tied up in the sheets, testament to the fact that he had been tossing and turning, fighting against the imaginary Jenny Sansom for some time. He pushed out of bed and went for a beer from the refrigerator. He often had dreams such as these, only with different characters. They always led to the final nightmare wherein someone wanted to cut or rip or bite off his rod. Had he wanted to think about it afterward – which he surely did not – he would have realized that this nightmare was a sign of his own unhealthiness. Life, to him, was nothing more than a sexual game through which he could gain what he wanted. He had never tried, since he was a small boy, to reach another human being for sheer companionship. Other people – men and women – were to be used, as he saw it. Used to gain what he wanted. Sex, therefore, was a tool to him. It brought him physical gratification – but it also made tools of anyone he wished, bound them to him so that he might get whatever he wanted at that time. He had never loved. Perhaps that was it. He did not see sex as a sharing of affection – only as a sloughing together of genitals.

With that kind of outlook, he would eventually strike rock bottom.

Unless someone came along who could not be bought and enslaved by his sexual virility.

He had already met that someone.

In another cabin, Susan Calderwood-Logan slept peacefully, with fond memories of the afternoon, of what had been shared. She did not know she was expected to be a tool. She wasn't the type, anyway…

Linda Mock sat in the easy chair while Jenny the panties down her legs, then began to massage the big girl's luscious thighs. Jenny was also naked. The contrast of bodies was odd. Where Linda's breasts were magnificent, Jenny's were almost boyish. Linda's hips were full; Jenny's were bony and narrow. Linda's legs were long, healthy, showgirl legs; Jenny's legs were of the Twiggy type, not unshapely but thinner than the legs of the Playmate of the Month.

The little woman burrowed her head into Linda's crotch, chewed on the dark, springy hair there. "You smell good," she said.

"I love you, Jenny," the big girl said, caressing the smaller woman's head.

"Then get rid of that beast."

"Please, Jenny."

"Get rid of him. He's causing trouble here. You know he's causing trouble. How do you know he wasn't with the Markwell girl again?"

Linda writhed, trying to press her warm box to Jenny's face. "Because he promised me there was nothing going on."

Jenny laughed. "Helluva lot of good his promises are. I tell you, darling, he's hustling some of these mixed-up kids."

"Really, that's absurd," Linda said.

"Then why did the Markwell girl go into town to cash such a large check? What does she need money here for?"

"That's none of your business."

"Isn't it?"

"Jenny, please. Let's drop the subject. I need you very much, darling." As evidence of this, she pressed her pretty crotch up again, begging to have it loved.

"Promise me you'll at least think about getting rid of him," Jenny insisted.

"Jenny, you can't hate every man…"

"Promise!" Jenny said, her voice sharp now.

Linda hesitated. "Okay, I'll think about it. But I don't know where I'd get another handyman at this late notice. I'll think, nothing more. If he gets into major trouble, if you can ever prove any of these things you tell me, then I'll bounce him. I'd have to. But he's all right, Jenny. Believe me."

Jenny Sansom made a gruff noise of disbelief.

"Eat me, Jenny."

She used her tongue to part the girl's labes and began a thorough cunnilingus that had the big blond ecstatic in relatively short order.

"Ooohhh, Jenny, Jenny," Linda moaned, writhing in the chair, her body breaking out with sweat against the black leather.

"I'm better, aren't I?" Jenny asked, looking up.

Linda pushed her head back to the wet, pounding cunt.

"Aren't I?" Jenny demanded.

"Jenny…"

"Damnit, tell me I'm giving you a better fuck!"

"Yes, yes. You're better, Jenny. Much better. Tongue me, sweetheart. Eat me, please. Please…"

The little woman went back between her legs and brought her to a furious, throbbing climax that left the big girl happy and more than ready to return the favor with her own tongue and teeth. As she ate the dark woman's love-box, she thought about how much she liked sex – all kinds of it. She could make it with a man or a woman. It didn't matter. She could go for straight on fucking, for cocksucking, for licking a pussy. She had no hangups whatsoever. She felt a sadness inside her for people like Jenny Sansom who were so disturbed, who could not ever know the joy of a man inside her. But she also found sadness in the people who could not enjoy homosexual relations as well as heterosexual relations. Both were exciting acts for different reasons. To go through life without making love to both sexes was a major crime. A girl should know what a man feels when he eats her, should make love to another girl to find out. And a man ought to understand what a girl feels when his prick was lodged in her mouth, when he shoots down her throat. When she was younger, in her teens, she had thought she was sick, mentally ill. Society had told her that these kinds of things were wrong. But with education and maturity, she came to understand that it was society that was sick, not her. She was mature. Society was still in its infancy. Now, she could enjoy herself with anyone she had affection for.

She tongued Jenny harder.

The little woman erupted.

Linda felt her velvet passages getting wet as Jenny's own began to lubricate, and she knew their ecstasy was not yet ended. They would roll together, enjoying the feel of their bare skin, exploring each other's recesses, kissing, caressing, licking the silken flesh of private, secret parts. At last, they would fall exhausted into bed, Jenny's head nestled in Linda's big breasts, their crotches pressed at different places on each other's bodies. And the perfect night would end in sleep.

In his cabin, Sam Walker was asleep again.

And dreaming again…

Pleasant dreams at first.

Then he began to toss about in the sheets.

And to moan.

His dreams were becoming nightmares!

Bad ones.

The same old ones he knew from other nights.

He pitched, kicked the sheets. He would wake before dawn…