He lifted the long white gown and moved up along her thighs and hips until he reached the immature pussy. He pressed his palm flat down on the exposed flesh, and felt the hot inner liquids. "Cry, baby,"
he consoled. "Cry into Harry's hand." And she let the passion that had been Phillip's trickle onto his open palm. "It feels wonderful. You feel wonderful to me." He felt the pain pouring into his hand, and watched her face clearing and growing calm and beautiful and passionate in the subtle moonlight.
He released the rod pressing out of his pants. His prick came up urgent to be devoured by the starving cunt. He lifted the billowing skirt up to her hips, and she threw her head back. He buried his head in her lap, kissing her thighs and belly and then the smooth vaginal lips. He narrowed his tongue into the running slit and chewed until she screamed, "I want you to fuck me!"
He lifted her high into the air, and sat her hard on the throbbing cock.
She sank over him, her cunt opening and absorbing him like a giant mouth. She moved up and down on the stiff, maddening, soothing bone. He clung to her hips and pulled her down after each free thrust.
Her head was high in the cool, secret evening, and they fucked until the dawn defined the surrounding trees.
CHAPTER XII
Harry stood in the warm sunshine, waiting at the convertible. He wore white flannels and felt like one of the college boys — a good disguise until there was something more important to do. Carol came running eagerly toward him, looking like the queen of the campus. The white tight-fitting shorts revealed her legs, long and slim and muscled.
She carried two tennis rackets, one in each hand and waved them cheerfully at Harry. When she reached him, she kissed his cheek like a chaste white virgin, and said, "Shall we make it doubles or singles? I think it's better if we play alone."
He smiled at her. "We must learn to be with other people," he said, and with mock domesticity, helped her into the car.
"I thought you'd never get up," said Carol. She got in behind the wheel and they took off quickly.
"What a way to get up. Someone shouting a phony name."
"Just because you didn't make it up."
They drove on more leisurely now, taking in the luxurious mansions that rested pompously in properly planted and seeded landscapes.
"Harry…" She sounded eager, and strangely nervous. He thought of the way her voice had trembled when she'd revealed her time-locked secret last night. "Who would have thought, two weeks ago, that we'd be here like this on our way to the courts?"
He waited for the real statement. Carol raced the car past the limit.
Harry gazed ahead, lazy, not resisting the scenery, letting it sift into him, his cigarette at home between his lips.
"See that monster over there," she spoke finally, pointing to a large estate on the crest of a hill. "That's where we're all going tonight. A very chic privilege."
"Why?"
"Well, that hovel belongs to the Llewellyns. Your Llewellyns, aren't they?" The truth sank mockingly into him. "They're hardly about any more," she continued conversationally. "They spend most of their time on their island now, or rather, your island." Her words trailed off. It was impossible to know that the man had heard her. But he had, she knew that, knew that these were words he'd waited to hear for a long time.
"The Llewellyns," he whispered, between a prayer and an obscenity.
"That's very interesting for you, isn't it, Harry? You see, I've got hundreds of delicious little secrets. You should just sit and listen to me all the time."
"I could almost believe that, Carol." He was bitter. Of course he was bitter. The angry little boy who found out that Mama knew who Santa Claus was all the time. Carol had feared this moment since Phillip told her, "Harry is after our neighbor's baubles."
"Which ones?"
"The Llewellyns."
"Are you going to help him?"
"My dear, I've never heard of the Llewellyns before."
"But when he finds out…"
"We may educate him by then."
But a man can't be educated to forget a dream.
Harry said nothing for a few moments. Carol gripped the wheel tight. Maybe he was finished with the dream. That was the chance, but she had had to tell him. The Llewellyns stood between them more mountainous than a jealous wife.
"Stop the car." His voice burned like dry ice.
Carol pulled blindly over to the side of the road and left the motor purring. She sat immobile, waiting to be sentenced. His hand was a steel band around her arm. The pain awakened her and she turned her face slowly toward him, her expression a mingling of tearful irony.
"Harry, I had to tell you."
"You know the Llewellyns?" He stared at her incredulously.
"How should I have handled this?" Her voice was desperate, pleading for compassion. "It's like loading the gun for a suicide," she cried freely. "Yes, we know them, we know them. They're bosom pals, they're equals, they're neighbors…"
"Turn the car around," he interrupted brusquely. "I want to talk to your dear father."
Carol pulled the car up to the house. She tried to stop him, clinging for a moment to his arm. Her tears fell on his hand, and he wiped them crudely against his trousers, as if a disease had touched him. He jumped out quickly, his face a frozen mask. He turned insultingly to her from the mansion steps. "Anyway, I play a lousy game of tennis."
Carol didn't wait for him to finish. She raced the car down the path until the white streak looked like a frightened rabbit.
Harry burst wide the library doors. Phillip stood motionless at the window, as if he had watched the brief scene before the house. He was cool and contained, the way old matadors are before the angry bull charges.
"Is there anything you ought to tell me, Phillip?" Harry stood fierce, fists clenched like a boxer's.
"About Carol?'
"Phillip, stop treating me like the village idiot."
"For a change, you're puzzling me, Harry," Phillip said coldly.
"You'll have to speak in complete sentences."
"You lied to me Phillip. You've been pulling your psychiatrist bit on me. You've known all about the Llewellyns, about their island, their ice. We're supposed to be working together. Or we were working together. Then you turn into a gentleman farmer. Crude Mr. Hatch even has to have a different name or he'll offend the servants. But this goes too far. The Llewellyns are mine. You should have told me, Phillip, it was the one time you should have played it straight."
"Harry," Phillip interrupted, "I will never help you with the Llewellyns. Never covet your neighbor's possessions, you know. Got to keep things at home clean, especially when to mess them up is suicide, insanity. You don't understand leisure. I am a man of leisure.
That means I have friends. Among them are the Llewellyns. So what?
What does that have to do with you? You're young, you're new.
They're an old part of me. I've known them as long as I've been in this house. They're a part of my life I don't wish to sully."
Phillip stared relentlessly at Harry. "If I had told you this immediately, we would never have accomplished anything. As it stands now we are fairly comfortable men, even wealthy. Yes, I can be a gentleman farmer and be equal to the Llewellyns. I'm not interested in their jewels when I can lead their lives. I can't help you if you don't know what to do with your life."
"Phillip, you know my story. You had to level with me."
"Level with you! Level! Do you know what the word means?
You're obsessed. You have fantasies; you steal for kicks. I'm a businessman, Harry. I've explained that before."