Alison Kaine: Tell Me What You Like Part 17

And there was a shot of Tamara Garrity, easy to recognize because it was a close-up. She was pouting, posing and the light flashed off the dangling earrings that Carla had described. Alison put the sheet down, feeling sick. She would have to get the photos blown up if she wanted to see anything. It probably wouldn't be worth it.

Liz, for all that she'd had several drinks and was wearing two curled paper streamers in her hair, was quick to catch on.

"Can the leafletting be stopped legally?" Alison asked anxiously.

"Sure. Tomorrow. Just like I told Trudy."

"What?" Had she heard right?

"Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you." Stacy was still looking pleased with herself. "I checked with Trudy when I saw her earlier. She said that the new phone numbers were definitely not theirs."

"You told her this theory?"

"Oh, yeah, she was real p.i.s.sed."

"And she hauled me off the dance floor," said Liz. "All of a sudden I'm not leatherslime, I'm free legal aid. I'm trying to come on to some hot young thing and I keep ending up outside or in a corner."

"What did she say to you?" Alison asked. "Is she still here?"

"Nah, I saw her get her coat a while ago."

"What did she say before she left?"

"Well, she said, 'what can you do', and I said, 'nothing until tomorrow,' and she said, 'we may be talking about women's lives here,' and I said, 'that might be what you think and it might be what I think, but all we're talking about legally is fraudulent use of the phone system,' and she said, 'isn't that enough?' and I said, 'not to get a judge out of bed and get a warrant at night,' and she said 'don't you care what's happening', and I said 'I don't make the laws'. And then I said, 'why don't you call the detectives on the case and talk to them?'" Liz stopped to take a deep breath.

"You've got a good memory," complimented Alison.

"I'm a lawyer," Liz said. "Having a good memory is what being a lawyer is all about. Anyway, she said, 'somebody else could get killed tonight and the police don't care. They don't care about women, and they especially don t care about d.y.k.es. That number has to be closed tonight, and if anything gets done it's going to get done by the women, not the cops.'"

Stacy and Alison looked at one another.

"If someone knew where that phone was located," said Stacy slowly, "couldn't they cut the wires to the house? Isn't that fairly easy? I see it all the time on TV."

"J.J. used to install phones, and I saw her head out with Trudy. But how could they get the address just from having the phone number? The phone company won't give that kind of information out."

"You could call it. You could have them come to pick up a rider. And then you could follow them home."

Alison was dismayed. "Do you think they did that?"

Liz interrupted, "Have I not painted a clear enough picture here? Do the two of you realize that back on the dance floor there is a woman waiting to fall into my arms? Is free legal aid over for tonight?"

Alison nodded absently, too engrossed in her own thoughts to thank her. "Do you think that's what they did?"

"It would be like Trudy. She's real into civil disobedience and doing whatever she thinks needs to be done, whether it's legal or not. She's been in court a couple of times for vandalizing p.o.r.n joints. Hey, you want to know something funny? It's Carla that Liz is trying to pick up."

Alison hardly heard the gossip. "But that could be dangerous. Suppose they're the killers? Did she even think of that?"

"Well, we didn't talk about that," admitted Stacy. "Just that the group has ha.s.sled d.y.k.es before and possibly done some 'deprogramming'. Actually," Stacy looked a little sheepish, "I kind of ran at the mouth. I mean, this is the first time that Trudy has treated me like anything but s.h.i.+t for a long time."

Alison was too engrossed to be sympathetic. "Great. So what if they pop off the decoy as soon as they get her out of the parking lot? It's not going to do her much good if the back-up team is in a car behind."

"But they'd surely send in a woman. Trudy wouldn't get in a car with a man after she was warned. So there'd be one woman, maybe two at the most. Suppose they had one woman call but three got into the car? 'Hi, our car won't start. We all live at the same place.' There's no way, in that situation, that they could knife anybody. Just lean over the seat and say, 'Excuse me' politely? They'd have to stop for help, and once they stopped, the tailing car would be right on them. Plus there's the fact that the killer, even if it is somebody from the Crusaders, seems to be choosing specific women, like we talked about. I'll bet this is nothing more than a little nonconsensual evangelism, a case of seizing the opportunity. Which is a drag, but not deadly. And Trudy's not a fool. Did you see the organization in the parking lot? She wouldn't go in alone."

"And what if they lost the tail? What if they are the killers and they prefer using knives but happen to have a gun besides?"

"What if a woman calls that number tonight and is found dead tomorrow? They didn't need your permission, Alison. Not to be insulting, but I think that Trudy was right about this case moving really slow, and I think she's right about protecting ourselves. They had to decide what to do for themselves."

Alison bit at her fingernail. "s.h.i.+t. Now what do I do?"

"Why do anything?"

"Because vigilantism happens to be illegal. Because we might already-"

"We as in the rest of the boys and girls in blue?"

"Technically the jerks in the three piece suits. They might already have the Crusaders staked and this would f.u.c.k up a legitimate operation. What if somebody gets killed? What if they kill somebody?"

"Forget it," advised Stacy. "You don't have a corner on controlling what people do. You don't even know what they're going to do. You don't know that they did anything. For all we know Trudy is back out on the dance floor or at home with a good book."

"Right. I just know she's mixing it up with those people. People think that they can just go into situations like this totally untrained and everything will just work out fine. Doesn't it occur to them that there's a reason we have to go to school?"

"Alison," Stacy said firmly, "you are obsessing on this."

Alison could not believe that she had heard correctly. She opened her mouth, but Stacy cut her off. "No, don't tell me that of course you are and it's a worthy thing to obsess about. I know that. I know you are a caring, concerned woman. But obsessing is obsessing, and it is obsession when you're driving yourself crazy about something you can't do anything about. Suppose you decide that it is best for everybody if you call up the d.i.c.ks and get them out of bed. What are you going to tell them? 'We think that maybe this one group was misrepresenting themselves over the phone to maybe do something bad and maybe these other women called them and now maybe they're the ones who are doing something they shouldn't? They're somewhere right now. Maybe.' It isn't going to fly, Alison. What has been these guys' att.i.tude when you had something solid to say? Wasn't it a variation of 'go away, little girl'? I'll bet you money that if you call those men and if they believe you and think that it's important to do something now and not wait till tomorrow, it will not be the Crusaders who are arrested. It will be Trudy and her gang. And where is the f.u.c.king justice in that?"

Alison closed her eyes. Her head was swimming, and suddenly she felt tired. Much too tired to make even simple choices, let alone have life and death decisions resting on her shoulders. She leaned against the shelves.

"Why don't you come home with me tonight?" Stacy asked gently.

"Yes," Alison said, so softly that she could barely hear the answer herself.

Fourteen.

"I'd like a quick shower," said Stacy as they stepped through the door. Alison nodded. Her mouth was dry. She went into the living end of the work room, thinking that she would read a magazine. But she found it impossible. All she could think about was Stacy in the shower, soaping herself. There were three candles on the mantle of the fireplace and she lit them. Then she turned out the light and just sat. Finally she heard the water cut off. Then Stacy stepped through the door.

Her robe was the same emerald green as her s.h.i.+rt. It was cut full and the material, though Alison knew it was probably really a polyblend, draped and fell like silk. She was still wearing her long earrings. They caught the candlelight as she stood for a moment by the door, just looking at Alison. Alison said nothing, but she was aware that her heart had speeded up, that it was pounding in her chest.

Still without speaking Stacy crossed over to the stereo. She didn't have to search for the tape that she wanted. It was already in. In antic.i.p.ation of me, wondered Alison, or left over from someone else? Stop that, this isn't going to work if you get obsessed. 'Obsessed.' Stacy's word. Was she really obsessed with the murders? Now wasn't the time to a.n.a.lyze, now was the time to keep her eyes on Stacy as the music filled the room. Please, not Bolero, she thought, and stifled a nervous giggle. But it was something entirely different, something light and inviting that her country/western background had not prepared her to name.

Stacy stepped into the room and took a slow twirl, the skirt of the robe flying out around her. Visions of ballroom scenes, shots from old movies, flew through Alison's mind and then out again, leaving room only for watching Stacy cross over to her. Watching, as if she were a third person, Stacy pull the other woman-herself-to her feet, hold her close and sway with her for a moment. Part of her was feeling the cool touch of the fabric beneath her fingers, bunching it in one hand near the small of Stacy's back, but another part was watching. This part was creating the lesbian scene that had never been shown in all the old cla.s.sics late at night. This part approved of the candlelight and the music and the flowing robe, and wished that Alison were dressed in something a little more romantic, perhaps full tails, a c.u.mmerbund that matched Stacy's green, or maybe a robe of her own, full and swirling around behind her as the music changed and Stacy began to waltz.

Alison followed smoothly; she had been to enough family weddings. But never had she gotten this feeling of heady excitement or abandon from the nice young men her relatives pushed her way. She tilted her head back so that she could gaze into Stacy's dark eyes, and the watching director approved, loved the way that the candlelight caught in their depths, just as it had on the jewelry that she wore in her ears and around her neck.

Stacy brought her hand slowly up Alison's back to her shoulder, her neck, her head. Still dancing, she drew Alison's face to hers and pressed one soft kiss on her lips. Then she was kissing her neck, her eyes, her ears, while Alison's mouth grew even more dry with desire and the hidden director nodded yes, take your time, make her want it, make us all want it. Alison's hand was on Stacy's shoulder and without being aware that she willed it, found it suddenly in Stacy's dark hair, found herself clutching a handful of the curls close to the scalp. Slowly, but relentlessly, she pulled back, pulling Stacy's face away from hers and then forcing her out of her arms, down on her knees. She was thrilled by the little gasp of excitement that escaped Stacy, followed by a moan low in her throat. She was frightened, too, that she was behaving awkwardly, making a fool of herself, that at any moment Stacy would shake her off and leap to her feet, saying briskly, well, that's enough of that. But the pa.s.sion overcame the fear, and she pulled Stacy's face hard into the crotch of her loose pants, rea.s.sured by how eagerly the other woman pressed her mouth against the thin fabric.

For a moment she stood still, memories, fantasies, flowing through her mind, overlapping and weaving into what was happening now, the feel of Stacy's mouth against her. The moment she had first touched another girl's breast and miraculously the nipple had hardened beneath her hand. Standing with her back to the door of the playroom, her hand slid beneath Stacy's robe.

Alison pushed Stacy away from her, keeping her on her knees. Slowly she began to pull her own s.h.i.+rt off over her head. Normally, she was not this dramatic. She wasn't that overjoyed with her body, particularly her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which were large and pendulous, too large, she thought, for the rest of her body. But she felt beautiful tonight, a woman in a movie, a real woman at whom the hidden director nodded approval, stretch marks, large b.r.e.a.s.t.s, thirty-three year old stomach and all. None of those plastic Hollywood model types for her d.y.k.e love scenes. Alison stood for a moment with her arms upraised, teasing Stacy as she had been teased, and then she tossed the s.h.i.+rt on the floor. She bent just a very little from the shoulders. Stacy was tall enough that, on her knees, she could take Alison's nipples in her mouth, and she did so, eagerly, greedily. Sucking and licking and switching from one to another like a child who cannot decide between two luscious treats, and then finally pus.h.i.+ng them together with her hands so that she could take both at once. Alison stood motionless, her hands resting lightly on Stacy's head, her own head thrown back, her mind empty of all but the rush of sensation. She hardly knew when Stacy tipped her backwards onto the couch. Only when she stopped did her head clear for a moment. She looked down in confusion.

Stacy was kneeling between her spread legs, her elbows on Alison's knees. She was grinning wickedly, a woman sure of conquest.

"Do you want to play?" she asked softly, and went on in a tone so soft and s.e.xy that she could have been mouthing meaningless monosyllables and still Alison's blood would have risen. "You know what I'd like to do with you?" she asked, a question not meant to be answered. "I know you like to be f.u.c.ked, I know you really got off on having that big d.i.l.d.o of Carla's in your c.u.n.t. I'd love to lay you on your back and f.u.c.k you. Maybe with your hands tied, just a little vanilla bondage. But first I'd really like to f.u.c.k your a.s.s. I know you'd like it, and it would make you so hot for that d.i.l.d.o."

Alison felt her pupils constrict to pinpoints, so that for a moment she could see nothing in the dim light. Her throat did the same, shrinking tighter even than when she'd had strep last winter and had first feared, then prayed she would die. Her breath was coming in hard pants. Speaking was not possible. But she did not draw back when Stacy took her by the hand and pulled her to her feet. Not once did she feel the floor as she was led to the bedroom. At that door the hidden director vanished; she filmed only romantic interludes.

"Give me a safe word in case-" Stacy stopped, all business just for a moment.

Alison gulped back her antic.i.p.ation and managed a whisper. Stacy repeated the word to make it clear she understood.

As Stacy pushed her down onto the bed Alison was aware of many candles already lit, and that Stacy was being cautious, allowing her plenty of time to back out, and though part of her was grateful, another part wanted to scream, wanted to tell her not to hold back. She held it in check, sure that if she got what she asked for, that within a few minutes she would be retreating. Stacy ran her hands gloating down her torso. When Alison raised her own hand to touch her face, she flung it back down on the bed.

"My game, now," she said, in a voice that sounded delightfully wicked. Alison remembered what she had said, that the women who came to her came for drama. It was easy to see why, for Stacy had become a villainess, and herself the innocent at her mercy. She felt as if she were in one of her mother's Harlequin novels, only this one was beginning where the others left off. Only if she wanted it to, she reminded herself when a flash of panic rose. Only if she wanted it to.

"In fact, if you're going to try that...." Stacy bent across her, but suddenly Alison knew that it was not Stacy any longer, but Anastasia the wicked s.e.x G.o.ddess for whose favors women paid, Anastasia who sat up and trailed a long silk scarf across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Anastasia who pulled her hands above her head and wound the scarf loosely around her wrists.

I can get out of this any time. Alison had not thought it possible for her heart to beat faster, but now she was feeling the pulse pound in her temples, her throat, the pit of her stomach as it did when she ran. I've got a safe word, it will work like magic. Only what the h.e.l.l was it? For a moment her mind went blank and she could not remember her own name, let alone the word she had whispered to Stacy. She almost rose up on the bed in panic, fighting blindly. Then she remembered to breathe and with the rush of breath everything returned-her name, the word, the feeling of excitement. Now that she remembered it she didn't need to use it.

Anastasia paused in the middle of tightening the scarf to glance at her face, and Alison knew that she had felt that bolt of panic, was checking to see if she was all right or paralyzed, freaked out. Alison departed from her role of terrified governess (unknowingly her mind had provided her a whole plot and background) to smile rea.s.suringly. Anastasia winked, then so fast that it might have been imagined, her face returned to its beautiful but cruel set.

There was a terrible cry from the back of the apartment, and both women were jerked out of character as, simultaneously, they turned their heads towards it. An awful thought began to form in Alison's mind, but before it could even be completed another cry followed the first, and this one had enough of a yowl in it to make it clear that it was the kitten, not a human.

"d.a.m.n it all." Stacy had returned. The s.e.xy and wicked Anastasia had disappeared without a trace, it not being her job to deal with earthly things like kittens. She turned to Alison apologetically. "I know just what he's done. He's crawled through a hole in the back of the kitchen cupboard, and now he can't find his way out. He's going to keep that up until I come and get him."

"It's okay," Alison rea.s.sured her, and though she could scarcely get the words out, so dry was her mouth, it was true. The excitement was too strong to be broken. Even if Stacy were called away for an hour it would only prolong things. She would still be wet when she returned. She could actually use a break now to calm her heart.

"Thanks." Stacy pulled the scarf loose before she stood up. "I don't want my widdle baby kitten to think I don't wove him." Over her shoulder she added, "Help yourself to the soda there."

Good planning. That was the professional at work, remembering every detail. Gratefully Alison picked up the can, still cool, from the headboard, popped it open and took a long swallow.

In the kitchen she heard Stacy say, "Come on, you little s.h.i.+thead!" There was a crash of pans. The kitten continued to yowl.

A very old desire crept up on Alison. It had been over eight years since Mich.e.l.le had nagged her into giving up smoking, but she had never lost that odd craving for a cigarette during s.e.x. She sighed and turned to set the soda down. As she replaced it she noticed that Stacy's clutch bag was also sitting on the shelf. She remembered how, at the bar, it had spilled open and Stacy's 'prop pack'-a term she had not understood at the time-had fallen onto the floor with her wallet. She was sure that Stacy would not mind if she smoked one. Of course, she wiggled her toes in antic.i.p.ation, Anastasia might, and she might be angry. Alison reached out to pull the bag to her, but the zipper was turned away and she did not realize that it was open until she had spilled the contents over the pillows.

Cursing, she began to retrieve them, stopping long enough to light a cigarette off one of the candles. A pocket flashlight slid down by the frame to nest beside a bottle of Advil; a pen hid beneath a pillow. About the same kind of things that Alison carried in her own purse, though Stacy must not have used this one recently, for it contained neither her wallet, her checkbook nor her keys. Alison did that too-switched back and forth from her purse to her daypack to her briefcase. Come to think of it, she had not seen Stacy with this one since that first time at the bar, after the soccer game.

She thought that she had everything now, and she replaced the bag on the shelf. No, behind the second pillow was a crumpled sheet of paper. She picked it up and smoothed it out. Actually, it was two pieces of paper stuck together. The second looked like a check. Carefully, because there was nothing else to do while she waited, she pulled the two apart. Neither tore. Apparently the brown substance that dotted them was sticky when wet but did not bond as it dried.

"So."

Alison dropped the paper on the bed, and it was with great difficulty that she refrained from doing the same with the cigarette. For the wicked Anastasia, mistress of the isolated house on Storm's Head, had returned. She was bound to be angered by such a show of indulgence by the poor helpless governess. (Poor relation/companion, corrected Alison's mind. She didn't want to have to worry about the kids waking up during a bondage scene.) "So," repeated Anastasia. She walked slowly towards the bed, her hands on her hips. She had taken the time to change while she was out of the room. She was wearing a pair of leather pants, tapered at the cuffs over short black boots, and the same purple tuxedo s.h.i.+rt Alison had seen the night that she had dressed in the kitchen. Over her shoulders was draped a short cape made of some rich, black material that flowed down her back and ended at her waist. She looked like a h.e.l.l's Angel biker chick dressed for the opera. Alison's heart, so carefully calmed, shot right back into fourth gear.

"This is what you do when I leave you alone for a minute?" Anastasia reached over and took the now dead cigarette from between Alison's trembling fingers. On her hands were a pair of sleek black leather gloves with the tips of the fingers and thumbs cut off. She tossed the b.u.t.t over her shoulder, but not, Alison noticed, before she pinched it to make sure it was out. Anastasia might not deal with earthly things, but enough of Stacy seeped through to make sure no one burned the house down.

"I am definitely going to have to punish you," she said in a tone of mock regret, underlaced with glee. Before Alison could reply she found herself turned onto her stomach. Her hands were bound swiftly behind her back, but even though it took only a few seconds, she was aware that there had been a quick flexing and measuring to make sure her arms were long enough for this contortion. Anastasia pulled the pillow from beneath her head and slipped it under her hips, and again Alison was aware of that quick scan, the check to see that everything was away from her face.

"What a bad girl." Anastasia was peeling her pants down her legs, though in her mind Alison had given herself a full-skirted gown of dull gold. A hand-me-down from the mistress, far too expensive for a poor relation to afford. She trembled as it was pulled up and her poor undergarments, totally inadequate for what was to follow, were exposed. (In her mind Alison ran a quick reality check, trying to remember if she had put on one of her three decent pairs of panties. Dammit, she distinctly recalled putting on a cotton pair that was not only stained, but ripped. Well, Mistress Anastasia was just going to have to remember that she only gave a pittance for an allowance.) There was a ripping sound and Alison turned her head to see what was left of her underwear following the cigarette b.u.t.t. Oh. She felt the leather of Anastasia's gloves caressing her bare a.s.s and flinched away from it just a little.

"Very bad," said Anastasia, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, Alison felt an open palm, the smack of leather hit her a.s.s. A gasp of air was jerked out of her chest, and again she located her safe word, not to use yet, but just so that she knew it was there. Anastasia slapped her again, and she let out a little moan because, after all, her character-who she suddenly knew was named Prudence-was not expected to be very brave. In fact, that was one of the things that the Mistress of Storm's Head liked about her, how easily she squirmed and moaned. Again Alison felt as if she were existing on several planes. There was the part of her that was just Alison, Vanilla s.e.x Queen, clutching her safe word like a talisman, and with a tendency to a.n.a.lyze every feeling. Then there was the part who had become Prudence the s.e.x-slave, helplessly yielding before the punishment that was making her wet, knowing that far worse was to come. The hidden director, too, had reappeared, deciding that after all, it was the nineties and she could film bedroom scenes. Alison could see the slaps that the director was picking up on her soundtrack, and the red hand marks which she contemplated with a nod.

Suddenly the spanking stopped, and again Alison strained to see. Anastasia pushed her head forward firmly. With nothing to look at but the headboard Alison noticed that the flier and the check had both drifted down and gotten lodged between the mattress and the frame of the bed. She felt a sudden cool sensation as her a.s.s was spread, and involuntarily she tightened.

"Oh, that's not a good idea," crooned Anastasia, as she spread the lube over the tight outside of Alison's a.s.shole. Her fantasy made it into chilled b.u.t.ter; the wicked Mistress had decided to punish the poor, unfortunate Prudence right at the dinner table. Possibly with the rest of the staff watching? At least the beautiful cook and the scullery maid, who would probably suffer at the hands of the wicked Mistress themselves later.

"I mean, you can tighten that sweet little a.s.shole all you want, but I'm going to f.u.c.k it anyway, and it will just make it go harder on you." She inserted just the tip of one finger inside as she spoke. It was not the first time Alison had been b.u.t.tf.u.c.ked, and almost against her will she opened up in pleasant antic.i.p.ation. Old memories of Sandy kneeling behind her came flooding back, superimposed over a close shot of her a.s.s spread and being explored. The director experimented with a soundtrack of intense cla.s.sical, then slipped back into something a little more building.

"Ah!" Prudence, who in her sheltered upbringing had never experienced such violation, was not able to suppress a sound as the Mistress, who must have slipped off her glove, shoved in one well lubed finger all the way.

"You like that, don't you?" asked Anastasia triumphantly, and she didn't know what to answer, for yes, they all liked it. Alison on the bed, Prudence bent over the dining room chair with her skirts up over her back, the director, Alison in memory with Sandy's hand slapping against her as she pumped, all of them liked it, loved having their a.s.s f.u.c.ked and loved it even more when Anastasia slipped in a second well-trimmed finger, beginning to move it in and out in earnest. Already, too soon, unwanted, Alison could feel an o.r.g.a.s.mic tension building inside her, and she tried to think of something else, tried to ignore the full length picture being presented by the director; herself bound, face down while a beautiful woman in leather f.u.c.ked her b.u.t.t-hole unmercifully.

Frantically she cast around for something on which to fix her attention, but before she could start in on the multiplication tables the pumping suddenly stopped. The fingers were withdrawn, though she clung lovingly.

"Oh, you've had your a.s.s f.u.c.ked before, haven't you?" Alison dared look back again, and this time Anastasia did not stop her. She was carefully peeling off a thin latex glove, which also went back on the floor for Stacy or Lawrence to deal with later. Alison realized she wanted her to watch as she picked up a slender object off the bed. In the candle light she saw a silhouette more than anything else, a shape like a short sword in that it had a hilt and a handle, but far too fat and round. Back at Storm's Head the maid presented the Mistress with a silver tray full of s.e.x toys, some of them smooth silver themselves, and she picked through them carefully before finally choosing one and, just as Anastasia was doing to Alison, lubing it slowly in front of Prudence's unbelieving eyes. The director pulled back for a moment, wondering if she had gotten in over her head. But it was far too late to be squeamish, and so boldly she showed a close-up of the a.s.s plug slipping through Anastasia lubed fist, and then slowly followed it as she lowered it and parted Alison's a.s.s once again.

"Ah!" Alison felt a flash of pain that was really more Prudence's than her own. The cook and the maid likewise were not able to keep from gasping as they watched the b.u.t.t plug being shoved into the virgin a.s.shole. Then the scene faded back to Alison, and the feeling was overwhelmingly intense. Her a.s.s was fuller than it had ever been, being f.u.c.ked harder than it ever had before, and it was intense and exciting and, every four or five strokes when Anastasia plunged deeper, it was just a little bit painful, just enough so that Alison couldn't relax and become complacent in the rhythm. She was crying out with sounds that she would not have recognized as her own, and the camera pulled back from its close up of the d.i.l.d.o being shoved up her a.s.shole to show Anastasia's face, her eyes glittering with excitement.

Again Alison felt the o.r.g.a.s.m building up far too soon. As if she had read her mind Anastasia said, "Don't you dare come yet! I love to f.u.c.k girls like you in the a.s.s, and I want to do it for a long time. You're not to come until you've got this big d.i.l.d.o in your c.u.n.t." Alison couldn't see the toy that she indicated, but Prudence's eyes widened as the huge instrument was indicated on the tray, and she both despaired of taking it and craved it.

Alison struggled to obey. She came easily, but she was not multio.r.g.a.s.mic. Once she came she knew that she would want to use the safe word and be held, too sensitive to be touched further. She didn't want to come now, she wanted to prolong it further, wait till it was a block buster, until she had a d.i.l.d.o both in her a.s.s and c.u.n.t, until she was being f.u.c.ked so hard that she simply could no longer stand it. She tried to fix her mind on something else: Presidents' names, the chart of elements. The papers which had fallen from Stacy's bag caught her eye, and gratefully she latched onto them. The leaflet was for an autumn festival. Alison read the details, cost, and as she did so Prudence tried to figure out the weaving pattern to the cook's dress, both of them being f.u.c.ked so hard from behind that it was making them gasp. The cost was forty dollars overnight, and it included meals. Oh, G.o.d, she couldn't stand it much longer, she was going to have to come soon.

"f.u.c.k my c.u.n.t," Alison begged, and Anastasia gave a triumphant laugh. Prudence, who did not have the words for what she craved, had to content herself with moaning, "Oh, please," and the camera cut down to focus on the hot juices pouring out from between her spread legs. The handle of the silver b.u.t.t plug still protruded from her a.s.s as her Mistress beckoned once again for the silver tray.

Anastasia was not so merciful asking, "Do you think you're in charge here?" The f.u.c.king became a bit less relentless, enough so that Alison was no longer teetering on the verge of o.r.g.a.s.m, but it did not stop. "I'll put a d.i.l.d.o in your c.u.n.t when I'm good and ready," she teased, running the tips of two fingers along the opening. Alison tried to slow her breathing, tried not to think of the feeling that was building inside her. It did not help that back at Storm's Head a fat, smooth, golden d.i.l.d.o, its handle decorated with the same rubies that encircled the neck of the wicked mistress, had been selected and was now being slowly and needlessly lubed in front of the moaning Prudence's eyes.

"I love to f.u.c.k hot women," said Anastasia, "and you are the hottest I've met in a long time. Maybe you should just get ready for a marathon, baby, because I might not get to your sweet p.u.s.s.y for hours."

An annoying little part of Alison's mind that had managed to stay separate from both fantasy and screenplay, wondered to whom exactly she was being compared, and tried to wonder if it was just a line that Anastasia fed to all of her girls when they were helpless. But it was shoved out by an extra deep thrust into her a.s.s, and once again Alison found herself fighting coming. Desperately, she tried to fix once more on the papers five inches from her face. The check had a picture on it-a sailboat with a bright striped sail that was tilting sharply into the wind. At Storm's Head the golden d.i.l.d.o had been thrust, all at once, up to the hilt into the wet c.u.n.t of the trembling Prudence. She cried out, though this opening was not as innocent as the first. Though she would never have admitted to such a shameful act, Prudence had experimented more than once with the ivory handles of her Mistress' hairbrushes. The dark eyes of the Mistress of Storm's Head shone with wicked excitement as she withdrew and thrust again deep into the innocent girl. Anastasia was crooning, but Alison was not listening, trying to concentrate on the written words before her face. The account was for either Melanie Donahue or Krista Jo Day. It was dated for the fourth of the month.

Anastasia had reached beneath Alison and pulled her up so that she was no longer lying flat, but on her knees with her shoulders down. The director ordered a close-up of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s hanging down to the bed, of Anastasia's long fingers rolling and pulling the nipples. The amount of the check was filled in, but the long line in the middle was blank. It was not made out to any name. At Storm's Head the Mistress had withdrawn both the d.i.l.d.o and the b.u.t.t plug and beckoned to the servants. While the cook washed the instruments lovingly in a basin of warm water, the maid brought out a harness of supple brown leather, trimmed on the sides and back with jewels. Carefully she helped the Mistress fasten it securely over her long emerald gown. (There was some little problem as to the actual mechanics of this, but Alison did not ponder over it. It was a fantasy, and anything she wanted could happen. Of one thing she was sure, and that was that the Mistress of Storm's Head did not lift her skirt to f.u.c.k anyone.) The line on the check that was labeled 'memo' was also blank, but it had been signed by Melanie Donahue. Anastasia was dipping the tip of the big d.i.l.d.o in her c.u.n.t, just the tip, while she continued to f.u.c.k her open a.s.s. The director showed a shot of Alison's straining, panting face next to the apprehensive face of Prudence as she waited, anxious, afraid to turn around and look. The fourth was the day that Alison's vacation had started. It was the day that she should have awakened at Colleen and Nancy's, but instead had gone over to Stacy's studio. The cook fastened the two toys, the smaller above the larger, into the padded rings on the front of the Mistress' harness. The candlelight glinted off them as she snapped her fingers commandingly. Obediently each servant took one in her hands as the Mistress knelt gracefully behind the pa.s.sive body of Prudence.

Without warning, Anastasia pushed the d.i.l.d.o deep into Alison's p.u.s.s.y, and Alison could not hold back a cry. The director daringly showed a close up of the move, of her wet lips stretching to take its girth, the handle of the b.u.t.t plug jerking as she tightened with excitement. Not once, but several times, so that Anastasia's hand thrust it in again, and again, and again. Alison could come now if she desired, both holes being f.u.c.ked with abandon, just as she had craved. But something, one little thing, was occupying a corner of her mind, stopping her from giving it over. The fourth was the first day of her vacation. The fourth was the day she had gone to the bar with Stacy after the soccer game. The fourth was the day that Melanie Donahue had died.

The servants had guided the d.i.l.d.os into Prudence's tight a.s.s, into her open c.u.n.t, ignoring her pleas for mercy. Now the Mistress was beginning to thrust against her, pulling almost all the way out and then slamming back in. She opened her mouth and the cook, ready for the signal, began to spoon into it bites of chocolate eclair, filled with a rich custard.

Alison was totally filled. The director had fixated on one image, the two d.i.l.d.os being thrust in and out in tandem. But though there was really no reason to wait longer Alison still held back. She needed to think. Stacy had a check from Melanie Donahue dated the day she died, but she had never mentioned seeing the woman before the moment that she had pushed out into the alley. She had spent the day with Alison; Alison had followed her to the soccer game. That left the early morning or... Suddenly Alison remembered how she had waited at the bar for almost half an hour before Stacy showed, long after the other players arrived. Alison could feel herself peaking, it was the matter of a minute at most. Krista had said that Melanie had arranged for this extra meeting with her counselor only on the morning of the appointment. Melanie had been found not far from the bar where she was not a patron. There was no reason for her to have been there unless the 'counselor' had arranged for an emergency session, for something quick, say, in the back seat of a car. Melanie always paid cash for her sessions. But if she had been short wouldn't she have just left the check blank, and trusted Stacy to have it cashed somewhere she was known? She could have filled in the name of Womynbooks, for example, or the little grocery store across the street.

Almost by surprise, o.r.g.a.s.m overtook her and her mind was emptied of all thoughts, concentrating on the feeling that, from childhood, had always been represented by a burst of color, an exploding star. She could hear her own voice mingling with Prudence's in a kind of wail that was so high that the kitten, locked in the bathroom, joined in. Her whole body was convulsing and Stacy, who had thankfully reappeared, was holding and caressing her, murmuring wordless comfort into her ear. Alison felt tears on her cheeks.

"You," she managed to whisper after a moment, and never had she been so grateful as when Stacy whispered back.

"No. Later. In the morning. You go to sleep now." Obediently Alison curled fetally, letting Stacy cover her gently, spoon her from behind. At Storm's Head the Mistress was beckoning imperiously to the cook, motioning her to kneel beside Prudence, who had fainted in ecstasy. Well, they were just going to have to play that scene themselves. Already, Alison was drifting. But, after Stacy had blown out the candles, Alison roused herself for just one more moment. Just long enough to reach up and, with the tips of her fingers, tuck the check down securely so that it was hidden between the mattress and the frame.