He shut off the powerful engine, and was hardly out of his side of the car before he was opening the door for her. He offered his hand, and Melanie had a fleeting urge to refuse the proffered assistance, but then she took it and allowed the older man to help her out. They walked up the driveway to a crushed oyster-shell path which led around an outcropping of moss-covered rock. She could hear a soft trickling of water as a stream fell pleasantly over the rocks and flowed into a small Oriental pool. The path had a wooden bridge over the water, and then came to the front porch, where a massive wood door was recessed in green tiled framework.
Amos opened the front door, and Melanie followed him into the living room, where he switched on the overhead lights. The lamps were soft and warm, easing Melanie's small sense of apprehension, and she gazed around in wonder at the size and luxury of the room. All of the furniture except for a long white English lounge were of the finest Early American maple. One whole wall was glass, with sliding panels so that a person could step out onto the flagstone patio beyond. A large oil painting of the modernistic school hung prominently near a white porcelain fireplace.
"Sit down, my dear, and make yourself comfortable," Andersson said as he crossed the room to a maple console. "Slip out of your shoes, why don't you? I'm sure your feet must be tired after standing on them all evening."
"Thank you." Melanie answered, and she did as he suggested, removing her flats and then sitting down on the couch. She drew her bare legs up under her on the cushion, and primly tried to pull her short mini-skirt down as far as it would go.
Andersson leafed through a record album and said over his shoulder: "Would you like a little music while we're waiting?"
"That would be nice," she replied, dimpling. "Something soft and soothing, if you have it."
"I most certainly do, my dear." In a moment, violins and muted horns drifted across the room like a cloud of relaxing warmth. "Percy Faith, I hope you like him?"
"Oh yes, very much." She tucked her legs further beneath her as Amos Andersson came over and sat down on the couch. She was pleased to see that he didn't try to sit next to her, but actually sat a little further away than was socially necessary. She had been foolish, she thought to herself. Amos was a handsome, appealing man with a certain allure which fascinated her, and that was the only reason for her slight uneasiness. Herself! And certainly she wasn't going to do anything wrong!
"It is nice, my dear, it is indeed." Andersson closed his eyes and tapped his fingers on the arm of the couch as though the only thing in the room were the strains of the music. For all his aching desire to thrust his rapidly hardening cock up into the narrow slit of her tight little cunt, he knew that to suddenly attack her would be the worst plan he could follow. She would have been pawed half to death by school-boy dates and more than likely by that oaf of a husband of hers, and he figured correctly that before any physical conquest of her tender young flesh, he would have to lessen her mental barriers with a sophisticated approach. And he had just the thing to do it with, too…
He picked up a scrolled silver cigarette case from the table beside him and opened its hinged lid, selecting a thin brown cigarette from its contents. He held out the case.
"Have a cigarette, my dear?"
"No, thank you. I have my own in my purse."
"I noticed that you are just about out. Please try one of mine and see how you like them. They're as mild tasting as your filter-tips, only with more flavor."
"Really? What kind are they?"
"Mexican, my dear," Andersson said, and then to reassure her, he added: "The soil down there makes the tobacco look different."
"Well, I…"
He urged the case closer to her hesitating fingers. "Just take a few puffs slowly and see, my dear. Go ahead. If you don't like it, put it out, and I'll mix you a drink."
"All… All right," she answered falteringly, and took a cigarette, bending her head so that Amos could light it for her.
"Slowly, slowly," Andersson instructed her. "That's the way they taste better." Melanie watched him as he took a drag and inhaled very gently. She followed his example, and found a strange but not unpleasant taste. She inhaled deeper on the next puff and held it down a few seconds. After three or four inhalations, she could hardly feel it go down her throat at all, it was so smooth. She continued to smoke, holding the air down for as long as she could each time…
"Do you feel anything?" Andersson asked blandly as she neared the end of her first cigarette.
"Why yes, I do. I feel… feel very nice," Melanie said in a voice that didn't seem to be her own. She glanced at the man sitting beside her, and he suddenly looked to be miles away. "What… What kind of cigarette did you say this was, Amos?"
He answered with a soft chuckle. "Marijuana."
"Marijuana!" She had heard about the drug only fleetingly, and then mostly to do with its being smoked at wild parties. "Will… Will this make me do things I don't… I don't want to?"
"No, of course not, my dear," Andersson scoffed. "You smoke it because it doesn't make you dull and sleepy like alcohol can. It leaves you mellow and feeling smooth, that's all. Isn't that how you feel now?"
"Yes, Amos, yes it does…"
Andersson smiled back at her, passing her another thin brown cigarette to replace the one she'd smoked. Without thinking, Melanie pressed it to her lips and pulled deeply, feeling this one heightening the pleasant sensation the first had caused. She felt strangely and euphorically bodyless and liked it, and the longer she held the curling smoke in her lungs, the softer her world became. She noticed the lights of the room becoming fuzzy, but the thin, brown cigarettes had dulled any fears she had about what she was doing… or should be doing. She was beginning not to mind anything now with the delicious warmth of the marijuana filtering through her blood and mixing headily with the alcohol she had already consumed. She could feel her flesh tingling all over deep inside… deep down where she had never felt anything before in her life…
The corrupting movie-maker caught the almost imperceptible relaxing of Melanie Cartwright's natural defenses, and inwardly gloated with obscene delight. He continued to talk with her as he watched her smoke the strong marijuana, his tones as warm and calm as the music and the cigarettes. He was experienced in the sensing of the most subtle of moods, knowing perfectly when to retreat or advance, and he moved inexorably from innocuous subjects at first to other, more intimate discussions. He was well aware that even the mention of sexual things would produce a passionate response in the drugged soul of this innocent young woman and cause a sensual tingle which would fill her slender, firm body until she would not be able to resist it… Or him…
"How are you feeling now, my dear?" he asked, handing her a third marijuana cigarette.
"I feel so wonderful, Amos. I wish I never had to go home."
"It must be miserable, there all alone without a man."
"Even with Tim, it's…" Melanie caught herself just before she blurted out all her innermost troubles. She put the back of one slim hand to her mouth in a gesture of silence.
Andersson moved closer, sliding himself across the cushions of the couch until he was almost touching her voluptuous young body. "What is it, my dear?" he asked in a soothing voice. "Tell me, what is the problem. Maybe I can help you."