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Subject: KERRY'S KEEPER 11/12 (n/c, s/m)
Date: Sat, 08 May 1999 21:45:22 GMT
From: pamela7@juno.com
Organization: Netcom
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
*****************************************************************************************
NOTE: I DID NOT WRITE THIS STORY. IT WAS PUBLISHED MANY
YEARS AGO. I AM SIMPLY PASSING IT ON BECAUSE I LIKE IT.
*****************************************************************************************
KERRY'S KEEPER
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sally Carnaby was amusing herself. She sat in the front row of
math class, her tight skirt high on her long, olive thighs, and
crossed and uncrossed her sensuous legs, first one way and then the
other. On occasion she also raised her arms over her head, stretching,
which caused her breasts to jut out like weapons under her tight
sweater.
These things were amusing to do because of Mr. Barnett, the
math teacher. Mr. Barnett got terribly upset when Sally displayed
herself in front of him, and occasionally made mistakes. His jaw got
tight and his eyes got glassy, and he forgot how to add and subtract
properly. Mr. Barnett was a bachelor, twenty-eight, and could
reasonably be described as seducible.
Mr. Barnett, unfortunately, was about the biggest thing in
Sally's sex life these days. The threat to Jimmy Osborne had been
enough to keep him away for good, and Connie Shealy still grew pale
when the passed in the halls.
More important, Johnny hadn't come around. Sally couldn't
understand it. There she was with that sweater again, and he still
hadn't come around. She didn't think for a minute that Connie would
really keep quiet about what had happened, and she certainly didn't
think Johnny was the type to say live and let live. But she didn't see
any way she could approach him. When they passed in the halls, which
was infrequently, he just nodded curtly, as if she were some distant
acquaintance, and walked on by. So she would just have to wait. That
skinny little job couldn't keep him happy for long. He would get
hungry again for the real thing one of these nights. And when he
did...
In the meantime, there was only poor, confused Mr. Barnett,
who even now was saying, "Miss Carnaby, could I please see you for a
moment after class?"
Sally waited in her chair until the last student had gone. She
sat there, lounging indolently, looking with her teasing eyes and
mocking smile at Mr. Barnett, who was evidently having some trouble
deciding where to begin.
"Uh, Miss Carnaby..."
"Yes, Mr. Barnett?"
"Miss Carnaby, I've been noticing..."
"Have you, Mr. Barnett?"
"Miss Carnaby, about your clothes. Has anybody ever said
anything to you about them?"
"Said WHAT about them, Mr. Barnett? Aren't they clean? I try
to come to school looking clean."
If anything, Mr. Barnett was even more flustered than before.
"Oh, no, they're clean, all right. They're just about the cleanest
clothes I ever saw."
"Oh. Well, then, Mr. Barnett, to answer your question, no,
nobody says very much about my clothes. When us kids get together we
usually talk about other things." With slow deliberation, she crossed
her legs in the opposite direction, and let the top one swing slowly
back and forth.
"There!" said Mr. Barnett, pointing and starting to sweat.
"THAT'S what I mean."
"What, Mr. Barnett? I'm not sure where you're pointing."
"Your leg. It's swinging back and forth."
"So?"
"I wish you wouldn't do that any more. Either that, or I wish
you wouldn't sit in the first row."
"You sat me there, Mr. Barnett. Alphabetically, remember?"
"Yes, that's right, so I did. Well then, you'll just have to
stop swinging your leg, that's all."
Sally stopped swinging her leg. Then, in a very low, husky
voice, she said, "You said you wanted to talk about my clothes, Mr.
Barnett. You haven't been talking about my clothes at all. You've been
talking about me."
"Yes, I suppose I have. Well, that's all, Miss Carnaby."
She stood up, slowly and easily, which left her standing
directly in front of him, her large, arrogant breasts no more than two
inches from his chest. "Is it?" she asked softly.
"Yes," Mr. Barnett said, sweating and more flustered now than
ever. "Yes it is. I said it was."
"Could I ask you a question, Mr. Barnett?"
"Of course, Miss Carnaby."
She took a step forward, and he took a step back. She took
another step forward, and he took another step back. The backs of his
legs came in contact with the edge of his desk, and he had to put his
hands out behind himself to keep his balance.
Sally looked down into his tortured face, smiled her mocking
smile, and said, "You said you wanted to see me after class, Mr.
Barnett. Tell me. How much of me did you want to see?"
"Now just a minute, Miss Carnaby, I..."
"What I mean, Mr. Barnett, is, do you have a thing for me?"
"Miss Carnaby, I'm sure I have no idea how the conversation
took this incredible turn, but..."
"I mean, you're still a pretty young fella. Maybe we could
have some fun, you and me."
"Miss Carnaby, you don't understand..."
"I understand perfectly, honey. Don't you worry about a thing.
You know what? I'm going to let you see something I bet nobody ever
let you see after class."
And Sally Carnaby took her sweater off.
Her full, opulent breasts sprang free, and stared at Mr.
Barnett like mocking eyes.
"You want to touch them, honey?" She ran her tongue over her
lips. "They feel just as good as they look."
Mr. Barnett never had a chance. He reached for her and pulled
her down to him and buried his face in her breasts. She undressed him,
driving him crazy with her hands as she did so, then shucked out of
her skirt and locked the door to the classroom. Then he took her--or
rather, she took him--on the top of his desk, her full, strong
buttocks working a rhythm of desire against the hard wood.
"I didn't mean that to happen," he said when it was over.
"You will the next time, honey," Sally said.
It was really marvelous. It was more than Sally had ever had.
Johnny had been a good lover, and Jimmy had been as easy to manipulate
as a tricycle, but this thing with Mr. Barnett was a really splended
arrangement.
Because she held all the cards. Having had her once, he was
crazy to have her again. And having had her again--this time in the
tiny room with separate entrance about three blocks from the school
that he rented from an old deaf lady--he was hooked. Hooked good and
solid. He had never had anything as young and skilled as Sally in his
life, and he wasn't going to give it up.
What made it extra fun for Sally was his guilt. He had a
strong streak of Puritanism, and he knew what he was doing was wrong.
Further, he knew that the slightest hint that he had even touched
Sally would cost him his teaching job, a job he had moved here from
another town to acquire. And thirdly, he knew that she was under age
of consent. She was jailbait, statuory rape time, an accredited
twenty-year ticket.
Now Sally, being Sally, used all these circumstances to
torment him. One of the milder things she did had to do with the fact
that he could never call her up. And he had no phone, and he was not
about to ask Miss Carnaby to stay after class too many times, for fear
of rousing the suspicions of Miss Carnaby's classmates. So it was Miss
Carnaby's option. All she had to do to avoid seeing him was leave
class early, before he had a chance to talk to her. Since she was in
the front row, this was comparatively easy to do. All she had to do
was engage her seat neighbor, Bobby Baxter, in some kind of
conversation, and walk out the door with him. This maneuver served the
additional purpose of making Mr. Barnett jealous, since Bobby Baxter
was a pretty good-looking boy. And it also enabled her to keep Bobby
Baxter himself on a somewhat extended string, where he might be useful
in the future.
So what she did on days when she felt like tormenting Mr.
Barnett, which was often, was to sit in the front row with her dress
high, and give him clear agonizing looks at her, and move her mouth
with taunting suggestiveness, and then leave class before he had a
chance to speak to her, giving him a lot to think about overnight.
Sometimes, it was scarcely more enjoyable for him when they
were together. Especially when she chose to torment him by seeing him
for just a few minutes after class, but not later that evening.
"How are you today, honey?"
"Fine. Fine. What do you find to talk about with that Baxter
boy?"
"Oh, school stuff. You know."
"What do you mean, school stuff?"
"Homework, parties, things like that."
"Parties? When did you go to a party with him?"
"I didn't say I did. He's asked me to one, though. Sounds like
it might be fun."
"If you go to a party with him, I'll..."
She put a hand on him. "What will you do, honey?"
"I don't know, I'll..."
"You won't do anything, honey. Do you know why? Because if you
do anything, you won't see me again for a week. Remember the last
time? It was only three days, but you didn't like it very much."
And his resistance would crumble, and he would curse himself
for being so easily led, and he would say, "Will I see you tonight?"
"I don't know, honey. Maybe I'll be by. Don't stay home if you
decide you want to do something." And off she would sway, leaving him
needing her and cursing her.
Being Sally Carnaby, she always let him know who cracked the
whip. She made him buy her things. Sometimes she made him buy her
things she didn't especially want, just because she knew he didn't
have much money, and the conflict he went through before his
inevitable acquiescence amused her.
But what amused her most of all was his complete sexual
helplessness before her. She could get him on fire without even
touching him, but he always needed her to start things going. He never
initiated anything unless she wanted to, because he was too afraid of
her boredom and refusal.
Sometimes she liked to lie naked on his bed, her dark,
voluptuous body stretched in casual abandon on his sheets, while he
stared at her with desperate eyes and she decided whether she would
let him have her or not.
When she didn't, she aroused him to a wire-tight pitch with
seeking hands and scalding mouth before deciding it was time for her
to go home. When she did, she made sure it was with all the skill and
cunning at her command, made sure it was an experience that would bind
him even closer to her than he had been before.
She made him paint her toenails and she made him kiss her
feet. She found all sorts of subtle little degrading things for him to
do, and other degrading things for her to do to him. She attacked,
challenged, mocked and denied his manhood, while using that manhood to
enslave him still further. She was having a truly marvelous time.
What started out to be the best night of all was the night she
made him buy her champagne.
She started out by working him up in class. She found an
imaginary bite on the inside of her thigh, and spent a good deal of
time massaging it with her hand. The process aroused him so much that
he alloted himself the rare pleasure of saying that he wanted to see
Miss Carnaby after class. Not a pleasure, really, but a necessity,
because Miss Carnaby, fully aware of what her performance had done to
him, was walking out of class without speaking to him.
The obedient student turned and said, "Yes, Mr. Barnett?"
"You've got to come see me tonight," he said, as soon as the
other students had gone.
"I've GOT to, do I? How do you figure that?"
"I mean I want you to. Please."
"Well, now, that's a little better. I mean, teachers ought to
respect their students, don't you think?"
"My God, Sally, please get your claws out of me. I can't stand
it any more."
"You want to quit? You want to drop it? You don't need me to
come to your room to tell me that. You can tell me that right now."
"I don't mean that. You know I don't."
She gave him a look of utter contempt. "But maybe I do. It's
not much fun for a growing girl, you know, having an older man snivel
and whine after her all the time."
"Please, Sally, not here, not like this. Come to my room
tonight and we'll talk about it."
"Maybe."
"PLEASE."
"Well, gee, Mr. Barnett, I'd like to, but you see, Bobby
Baxter's having this party, and..."
"Please, Sally. I'm begging you."
"All right, I'll tell you what. If I'm going to miss a party,
I ought to get something in exchange. I've never had any champagne.
Get a bottle of champagne, and maybe I'll come. Imported."
"But I can't afford..."
"Then let me know when you can, and I'll come then."
"All right. All right, you win. I'll get the champagne."
"That's fine, honey. See you later."
She wore her killer's uniform that night. The black turtleneck
sweater and the pale tight blue jeans with the wide black belt, and
her boots. A skilled natural psychologist, she knew that a man who
subconsciously needed her dominance responded to her more acutely the
more dominating she looked. She wouldn't have put it that way, but the
result was splendid. And of course, she came late. Give him a little
time to stew, a little time to start the anxiety juices working.
He leapt to the door after her first knock, and said, "You
came."
"You sound like a lousy movie, honey."
He reached for her and tried to take her into his arms and
kiss her, but she pushed him away. "Not so fast, honey. Let me see the
champagne."
He showed her the bottle. It was the best they'd had, and he'd
filled his waste basket with ice for the occasion.
"I guess that'll do," Sally said.
He tried to hold her again, and again she pushed him away.
"Now come on, tiger, you said you wanted to talk."
He sat wearily down in his chair with his head in his hands.
"All I want is for you to get your hooks out of me. Be nice. Be
friendly. We could have fun, if you'd just let us."
"Fun?" she laughed. "That's funny. That really is. What kind
of fun are you, keeping at me all the time, asking me where I go,
asking me who I see, telling me I drive you crazy, telling my I'm
destroying your career, never taking me anywhere except up here to
this dinky little room and then nagging at me and whining and accusing
me of things. Oh, yeah. You're a lot of fun, you are. You're a regular
three-ring circus."
"Then why do you come?"
"Because it's fun watching you fight with yourself. Deciding
whether you'll be a man or not. Maybe one day you'll make it. It's not
so hard. Johnny Porter's a man already, and you're almost twice his
age."
He leapt out of his chair, face dead white, fists knotted in
rage. He was shaking uncontrollably. "Damn you, I ought to..."
"You OUGHT to hit me," she said calmly. "That's what you ought
to do. But shall I tell you what you're GOING to do?" She sat down on
the edge of his bed, long legs stretched out in front of her. "You're
going to take off my boots. Now come here and get at it."
Hating himself with a soul-destroying self-loathing, Mr.
Barnett did as she said. He walked over, and kneeled down at her feet
and took off her boots. As he did, she looked at him with mild
amusement, leaning back on her elbows, and said, "I'm going to show
you quite a time tonight, honey. We're going to do things you never
even heard of."
When he had taken her boots off she told him to kiss her bare
feet, and he did, holding them and caressing them feverishly.
Then she unbuckled her belt, and told him to take her jeans
off. And he did. But she didn't raise her hips and help like she did
with Jimmy Osborne, she ground her buttocks down into the bed and
twisted and shifted position and used her strength against him, so
that he was sweaty and shaking when he was finished.
Then she told him to go over and sit on the chair, and he did.
He sat there and watched her walk toward him, naked from the
waist down, wearing nothing but the powerful kick of her hips and
thighs and buttocks, the smooth, slow flow of her calves as she swayed
toward him across the room.
She stopped no more than an inch in front of him, spread her
long powerful legs apart for balance, placed her hands arrogantly on
her hips, the emasculating prize he hated and craved right before his
eyes, and said, "Do you know what to do now, honey, or are you so
stupid I have to tell you?"
He wasn't that stupid. He clenched his hands into her strong
buttocks and he did it. He did it for a long, long time, until the
splendid legs shook and the strong body spasmed and she said in a
long, slow sigh, "Okay, honey, now I'm going to do something for you."
And she did. First she undressed him. She made it take a very
long time, and she touched him with professional skill as she did it,
touched him slyly in the secret places she knew so well how to arouse.
When he was naked, nearly twenty minutes later, he was a panting,
screaming animal, wild with need, groping desperately for her, but
always finding her slipping away from his grasp.
"No, honey," the mocking voice whispered. "You're gonna do me,
I'm gonna do you."
She kept it up for what seemed hours, but was actually only
minutes, finding ways to touch and caress him, pressing herself to
him, using her lips and tongue and her cunning hands and her
black-clad breasts and her hips and strong thighs.
With innate and incredible skill she brought him to just the
precise point, just this side of the edge, so that he could neither
find release nor completion or relax back down the slope into
quiescence, and she kept him at just that point for a very long time,
shaking in his need and frustration.
And then she stopped. Suddenly and abruptly. Just like that.
Mr. Barnett, too dazed for reason, only sensed that somehow
the hands were not on him, and the thighs were not pressed against
him, and the kisses were not sliding over his face.
He brought his drugged eyes into focus to see Sally Carnaby on
the other side of the room, her back to him, sliding her splendid
olive legs into her tight faded blue jeans.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"I'm getting dressed and going home, honey."
"You can't do that."
Sally laughed, a cold, ruthless laugh dripping with scorn.
"Sure I can, honey. I can do whatever I want. And what I want to do is
go home and leave you sweating in your little bed. You'll have a lot
to think about, honey, because you're never going to see me again,
except in class. I've had it. I'm through. You're not man enough for
me. You can look at me every day in class, honey, but you'll never get
your hands on me again. Think about that. I'll leave you the
champagne, honey, you might need it. What do you say, teach, did I
teach YOU something?"
She laughed again, thinking of the wonderful days ahead, when
he would stare at her with dumb longing across his desk, and beg her
with his eyes, and she would tease him and reject him and never let
him come near her. She had finally done it. She had finally beaten a
man completely. She had condemned him to seeing her mocking and
unattainable every day, with nothing he could do about it.
It was a happy thought, and the last one she had before the
necktie tightened around her throat. Her hands few up to get it loose,
but she could not. She said, "please" but no one heard her, and then
the knee slammed into her back and the crushing weight was on her as
she lay on the floor and all her breath was gone and she died.
Mr. Barnett cried for a long time before he broke the
champagne bottle and cut his wrists with it.
*****************************************************************************************
NOTE: I DID NOT WRITE THIS STORY. IT WAS PUBLISHED MANY
YEARS AGO. I AM SIMPLY PASSING IT ON BECAUSE I LIKE IT.
*****************************************************************************************
CHAPTER TWELVE
Frank drove her home. She wore the same
white off-the-shoulder cocktail dress she had
worn the night before, when they brought her to the
place where Martin Calley now lay dead. She carried
her shoes on her lap. She didn't say a word on the
ride, just kept giggling to herself in a mindless sort
of way.
But behind the giggles, her mind was going at a
wild pace. She was out of that house. She was alive,
and was out of there. Terrible things had been done
to her there, and there were scars on her soul that
might never be removed, but she had gotten out. In
less than twenty-four hours. With the wild humor of
hysteria, she wondered how many other women had
been kept prisoner in that house, and how long it
had taken them to get out, and if she held the record.
Later, there would be time to laugh about that.
What was on her mind now was Frank. Frank had
gotten her out, was driving her home Ñ or was he?
She remembered the time that Jimmy Osborne had
offered to drive her home. But not Frank. Frank
would not do that. Frank would drive her home, as
he said he would.
But then Frank would want to collect.
Frank would want what he had been promised.
And Kerry Marshall had absolutely no intention of
paying off.
How could she? She didn't love him and she
didn't want him, but even if she did she very prob-
ably would not have gone through with it. She had
worked too long and too hard to reach her present
position to let it be jeopardized by someone like
Frank. The people she knew in the circles she
moved in were quick to spot things like that, quick
to disapprove of a socially disadvantageous liaison,
and Kerry could be out of the running for the big jobs
and posh parties before she realized what happened.
How could she go to places like that with Frank?
Worse yet, how could she mingle with his friends,
whoever they might be? Thugs and hoodlums, prob-
ably, with maybe a killer or two tossed in for good
measure.
A killer. The man beside her driving the car was
a killer. He had killed for her, less than an hour
ago. And more than likely, he had killed before.
And sooner or later, the police would find out
about that dead man. She knew that at least one
person, the person who had told the dead man where
to find her last night, the person who had told
who she was, might possibly connect her with the
dead man. But she would worry about that later, too.
What was on her mind now was Frank, and how to
get rid of him.
It occurred to her that she didn't even know
the dead man's name, who he was, or what he did.
She did not think that she would ask. More than
likely, the papers would supply her with the infor-
mation in a few days.
Soon, the moment she longed for and dreaded
arrived. Frank drove up to her house. She had longed
for the moment because she was home. But she
dreaded it because Frank was with her, and now he
would have to be dealt with.
"You're home, honey," he said.
She tried the first thing that came to her mind.
"Frank, honey, would you mind terribly if we didn't
go inside together? I mean, I'd like to be alone, just
for a while. I'm sure you can understand what I've
been through, and I need a little time to rest, to
relax, to sort things out. We can start everything
tomorrow. We'll have breakfast together, and start
a brand new day and a brand new life."
Surprisingly enough, he fell for it. He was a big
dumb slob, just like the dead man had said. He said
he understood, and kissed her lightly, and said he'd
be by at ten in the morning, and drove away.
Once inside, she gave herself up to a fit of
hysterical laughter. She laughed so hard she fell down
on the living room rug, and lay there shaking with
laughter. He fell for it. He really did. She couldn't
believe it. It took her several minutes to stop laughing
and pick herself up off the floor.
When she did, she started to think about what
she had to do. For a person who had been through
the torment that she had, her mind was working with
amazing clarity. But then, the survival instinct is
strong, and survival now seemed to her like a very
precious thing.
At first, she thought the thing to do was to get
out of town. But then she realized that wouldn't be
necessary. All she had to do was hide out for a few
days where Frank couldn't find her. And he would
be arrested for the killing. And never be able to
bother her again. If he tried to implicate her, she
would get out of it easily. If she told even a milder
version of the truth, no jury in the world would touch
her. Not the way she would look in the courtroom.
As soon as the papers were out and she knew who
had been killed, she would make an anonymous phone
call and give the police Frank's description. He
shouldn't be hard to find.
Now, she made another phone call. She called
her answering service and asked for messages. There
were some, of course: from her agent, from the
photographer and client she should have worked for
that day, from a few friends. She told the service
operator to please return all the calls for her the next
day, to say that she would be out of town for a few
days Ñ family emergency Ñ and would return all
calls personally on her return.
Then she called the Beverly Hills Hotel and made
a reservation for herself. As Constance Shealy. Even
if someone recognized her, it was her legal name,
Then she poured herself the biggest, stiffest
Scotch she had ever drunk in her life.
Then, and only then, she permitted herself the
luxury of a bath. She drew it hot and deep, and set
another large Scotch on the edge of the tub.
She lowered her lovely, tanned, brutalized body
into the tub and began to let the water ease the pain
away. She smoked a cigarette and sipped the Scotch,
and leaned her slim shoulders against the back of the
tub and regarded her body with some detachment.
The body that had been her talisman and her curse.
That had gotten her everything she ever wanted, and
that, in the effect it had on others, had caused her
mind-numbing pain. The long, slim, smooth legs, the
flat, supple belly, the small waist and full, challeng-
ing breasts. They had been pampered and they had
nearly been destroyed. But now they were hers again.
She lay in the tub for over an hour, and by then
she felt as relaxed and calm as she had any reason
to expect she might. She climbed, slow and sated,
out of the tub. Choosing an enormous thick towel,
she dried herself thoroughly, taking her time about
it, caressing away the hurt as she did.
Then she dressed, simply and comfortably. Slim
white slacks, white ballet pumps, a light blue short-
sleeved cashmere sweater, and a blue scarf to match
for her hair. A lovely young girl, casually but per-
fectly dressed, off to spend a relaxing evening alone
at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
She packed quickly and simply, enough for three
or four days. Then she sat on her bed and smoked
another cigarette, surprised to find that her hands
were beginning to shake again.
Had she forgotten anything? She went over the
list again carefully. Messages attended to. Reser-
vation made, under her own name. That was all.
She had done it. She had come through this.
Although she had tried not to think about it,
the thought entered her mind what Frank would be
like when he came at ten tomorrow morning and
found her gone. She would lock the door, of
course, but that wouldn't stop him. Would he go
into a dreadful rage, like the one that had possessed
him when he killed the man, and destroy everything
in her lovely little house? Perhaps she should call
the police and make sure they were waiting at ten
o'clock. But that would be tantamount to implicating
herself. She would think about that later. At the hotel.
And then, even more unbidden, the thought came
to her of what might happen if she ever saw Frank
again, anywhere. The muscles remember pain even
when the mind does not. Her stomach muscles tight-
ened, she felt nearly ill, and the filmy sweat of fear
stood out on her forehead.
Thinking of Frank jolted her into action. She
put out her cigarette, checked to make sure she had
packed everything she would need, turned out all
thee lights in the house, made sure no cigarettes were
left burning, picked up her suitcase, and walked
outside.
She locked her front door and carried her suit-
case over to the car. Unlocking her trunk, she put
the suitcase inside, and locked the trunk again.
And there it was. Done. Nothing left to do but
get in the car and drive away.
She took a moment, standing there behind her
car to look at her house, sitting in the darkness.
She loved that house. She owned it and everything
in it. It represented everything she had been able
to salvage from a violent youth and a scratching,
ambitious adulthood. If, in a few days, she was able
to return to that house and never have to fear any-
thing again, it would all have been, in a strange
way, worth it.
There is a certain cold comfort in knowing that
the worst, most terrifying and degrading thing that
is ever going to happen to you in your life has al-
ready happened, that you have come through it whale
and alive and still functioning.
And only moments away down Sunset Boulevard
was the Beverly Hills Hotel, splendid and luxurious,
where nothing and no one could touch her. Where she
could rest and relax and swim and take the necessary
steps to put her life back in order again.
Smiling, even strangely happy, she opened the
door to her car.
A huge, powerful hand reached out of the inside
of the car and held her wrist in an unbreakable grip.
"You goin' for a little drive?" Frank asked,
mildly.
She would have screamed, but she was too numb
with shock and fear to utter any sound at all. She
just stood there staring at him. Of course he would
have done it this way. To test her. And she had fallen
right into his trap, thinking all the while that she had
tricked him. Frank was right. He wasn't as stupid as
she thought.
He spoke again, and this time his voice was
hard and cold. "I asked you if you were goin' for
little drive."
The cold anger in her voice was not feigned.
She spoke in rage and desperation. "Frank, take your
hand off me. I swear to you that if you don't take
your hand off in two seconds I'll scream so loud
they'll hear me in Malibu. I've been handled all I
intend to be handled, and you'd better do what I
say or I promise you'll be sorry."
She would have screamed, but he was too quick.
He jerked his arm, and pulled her toward him into
the car and clapped his hand over her mouth, all
before she had time to make the slightest sound.
Then he twisted her around somehow. He was seated
on the right hand side, and this left her bent beck
across the front seat, legs dangling outside the car,
arm twisted far up behind her back. His other hand
covered her nose and mouth now and bent her neck
back, pressing the beck of her head into his cheat.
She was as helpless as a crippled child, and black
terror coursed through her.
"I killed for you," he said, "and you were going
to run out on me."
She tried to make an explanation, but her des-
perate words were smothered against his hand.
"Don't bother to tell me," he said. "I wouldn't
believe it. We're gonna talk inside, anyway."
He shoved her out of the car ahead of him,
half pushed, half dragged her toward the door. Re-
leasing her arm, he still held her prisoner with the
hand over her face, keeping her body bent back
like a taut bow. He dipped into the pocket of her
slacks and found the house key, opened the door,
and pushed her into the house ahead of him. He
shoved her into a chair and stood behind her, his hand
still over her mouth. It bad all taken only a few
seconds; no one could have seen.
"I'm gonna take my hand off your mouth now,"
he said, "because I want to talk to you. I think you're
too smart to scream. I think you know you wouldn't
get it out."
Kerry's first thought plunged her into even
worse despair. She had told her answering service
she would be out of town. The Beverly Hills Hotel
expected someone they had never heard of.
Frank took his hand off her mouth, moved around
to stand in front of her. She sat in the chair looking
up at him in the darkness, sitting limp as a stuffed
doll.
"He was right," Frank said. "He said you didn't
love me, and he was right."
She searched her mind, but she couldn't come
up with a plausible explanation. What could she say
that he might possibly believe?
"You packed your bag," he said sorrowfully.
"You were going away."
She just stared at him; didn't say a word.
What he said next, he said with sincere puzzle-
ment. "What kind of person are you, to get me to
kill somebody for you and then run away?"
That question, in context, was so astonishing
that she couldn't have thought of an answer for it
even if she were operating at her usual capacity.
Which she definitely was not.
Frank answered his question for himself. "I think
you're a bad person," he said. "You think you can
get away with anything just because you're pretty.
You make your living being pretty, letting people see
how pretty you are and taking pictures of you. And
you don't think it matters what kind of person you
are inside. And maybe it doesn't, because people don't
look inside. They think you're pretty inside because
you're pretty out. You can fool them. You fooled
me. It works that way for me, too. I'm not pretty
at all. So people don't bother to find out what I'm
llke. I could be a much better person than you, and
no one would ever know. I think I am a better person
than you. I mean I killed somebody but I did it for
an honest reason. You made me kill him and you
did it for a dishonest reason."
His own explanation angered him, and he reached
out and grabbed her by the hair and pulled her
face close to his and forced her to look into his
eyes. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you,
you witch?'
"Yes," she said, because she did.
He released her with contempt, and she fell back
against the chair.
"Now I gut this problem with you," he contin-
ued. "You made me fall in love with you. You wanted
me to fall in love with you, and I did. You did it
pretty good. You did it for a bad reason, but it's too
late for me to worry about that, because you sure
did it good. You did it easy, because you're pretty,
and I guess I fell in love with how pretty you are
instead of with you. So now I got this problem." He
paused a moment, trying to articulate difficult
thoughts, and then he continued. "What you really
deserve is to not be pretty any more. That's what
should really happen to you, you know? That would
serve you right. And I could do that."
The thought excited him, and he grabbed her
hair again. "You know I could do that, don't you?
Wouldn't take more than a couple of minutes. I prom-
ised you what I'd do if you teased me, remember?"
He let go of her hair, and placed his forefinger on her
nose. He pushed her head back into the chair. "Re-
member when I did that? I did that the night we
met. I told you I'd mash your nose into nothing.
Don't you think it's romantic of me, now that I'm
in love with you and all, to remember the night we
met? But anyway." He kept the finger on her nose,
a constant threat. "We talked about what you de-
serve, now we're going to talk about what I deserve.
"I deserve you, because of what I did for you.
I think that's only right. Now we've pretty well
proved that you don't love me, but it doesn't mat-
ter any more what you want, just what I want. And I
want you. You accomplished that yourself, so you got
no complaints. Now my problem is this. I want you
pretty, you know? I like to see you pretty, but you
don't deserve to be. But that's my problem, not
yours. Of course, if you had no nose, there'd still
be enough left for me to work with. And maybe
you'd be easier to handle, treat me nicer and all, if
you weren't so pretty. What do you think of that?"
he said, and pressed her back further into the chair
with his finger.
"Please don't do it to me," she said, in a voice
from which any life force was completely absent.
"Well, I don't know," he said. "It's a problem.
I really shouldn't decide right away. It all depends
on you, you know? If you treat me good enough
pretty, I won't have to make you not pretty. I think
you understand what I mean." He paused again, as
though reflecting this. Then he removed his finger
from her nose, and rubbed his hands together like a
businessman hungering over a deal. "Now you know
what we're going to do? We're going to help me make
up my mind. You're going to take your clothes off so
I can remind myself of how pretty you are, because
I haven't seen you for a while and I forget things
easy. Then we're going to go into the bedroom Ñ
your bedroom, this time Ñ and we'll see how happy
you can make me while you're pretty. While you're
still pretty."
He waited a moment, and she made no move at
all, so he snapped his fingers impatiently, and said,
"Okay, witch, let's get with it!"
Her voice was still lifeless. "Please, Frank, I
beg you, don't make me do this. Not now. Not
after all the other. Later, whatever you want, but
not now. I know I've done the wrong thing, but have
a little mercy, please."
He laughed, and there was no humor in it at
all. "Mercy? What kind of mercy did you have when
you turned me upside down to get what you wanted?
But I'll tell you what." His smile had turned crafty,
but it was too dark for her to see. "I'll offer you a
compromise. What do you say to that?"
"Yes," she said, and there was a slight lilt in
her voice again at tne undefined ray of hope. "Yes,
honey, we can compromise, we can work something
out. What is it?"
In the softest, gentlest voice in the world, Frank
said, "I got ways to make you do what I want and
keep me happy without marking you up at all. Things
we haven't even tried. You'd still be pretty, and I
guarantee you'd want to please me. What do you
say to that?"
She got up slowly and stiffly, like a robot that
has not been used in years. She took the little blue
scarf out of her hair. She pulled the beautiful blue
cashmere sweater off over her head. She kicked off
the little white ballet pumps. She skinned out of the
slim white pants. She wore no brassiere, only the
sheerest little white panties, and she took those off,
too. She stood there in front of him, meek, submis-
ive, beaten.
He turned on the light. He appraised her from
every angle, as if she were a horse he was considering
buying. Smooth, slender flanks, like a racehorse.
Marvelous tan coat. Stunning white mane. Strong,
functional hindquarters. Flat belly. Deep chest. Prob-
ably responded well to obedience training.
Kerry Marshall, the lovely Hollywood model,
walked back to her very own bedroom of her very
own house, the little house that she loved so much,
holding the hand of the man who loved her.
THE END
