For an instant he thought she was pushing him away, then realised she was trying to engineer a change of position. He eased back from her and she turned half on to her stomach so that his erection was prodding the twin crescents of her backside. An exploratory prod was met by muscle-clenching resistance.
Not sure what she wanted, he let his hand roam over her buttock and thigh and around to her front where it slid through the luxuriant tangle of her pubic hair and into her moist opening.
Now she responded with force, ramming her bottom back into his lap, and pulling upwards so that his tip ran down the tight groove of her bottom to the deep indent at the top of her legs. And then he knew what she wanted. While with practised touch he worked on her with his fingers from the front, his penis sought her body from behind and when it found it entered with well-lubricated ease.
It was the best he had ever had. Her hand guided his, pressing him to the soft yielding places between her tight-clenched thighs while he strove to make every second count as he thrust and withdrew and thrust again to use every available inch in her body.
When he came he lost control, pumping first deep inside her, then pulling out and feeling the release as he finished on the backs of her legs.
Expecting her to make a fuss, complain at what he had done, as he pulled away he sought for a piece of rag or handkerchief to offer. But she didn’t, turning on her back and pulling up her underclothes and then smoothing down her skirt. ‘You were good. You made no demands.’
It was the first time a woman had ever said that to him, Dooley didn’t know quite how to take it. In part it was certainly a compliment, but the rest? To hell with it. He’d had a good one, a fucking good one, and so had she, she’d said so, as good as.
And now reaction set in. There was no strength left in him. It would have been good to lay with her, exploring her body with hands and tongue while she did the same for him, until they were ready to do it again, but he was too tired.
‘Now it is my turn.’
He didn’t believe what he’d heard. ‘You’ve got to be joking. You’ve just sucked the life out of me.’
‘And it was good for you, I was pleased you did it the way I wanted, but this time you do it just for me. It does not matter whether you come or not.’ She put her hand up her skirt and did something to herself. ‘Some of what you did is on my clothes, if I scream who would your officer believe?’
‘You cow. Just don’t blame me if I’m no good.’
‘Oh, I will help you.’ Going down on her knees she unfastened Dooley. ‘See, already it is almost possible, just a little more…’
Her hands were at him, rubbing, kneading, pulling. It occurred to him that this is what it must be like for a woman, being used. He couldn’t help himself, he was going hard.
‘Good, now you are ready. Oh, come on, join in, you will enjoy it.’ Backing him against a tree she ground against his body, hoisting her skirt to feel the tip of his penis against her wet underwear.
She wasn’t pulling them down, just aside, and as she guided him in the lace-trimmed hem cut into the base of his erection. His shoulders ached as she gripped him, pulling herself up and down, going faster and faster as she strove for her climax. As it reached a stage where he really thought he could take no more she changed to short deliberate strokes and the intolerable roughness of the action was replaced by flooding damp as she achieved her orgasm.
It took an age, as she drew out the sensation, almost pulling off him then sliding down once more and gasping and groaning as other spasms of pleasure coursed through her.
Finishing at last, she pulled away, straightened her clothes, and without another word or sign walked off to rejoin the others.
Dooley tucked himself back in, finding the stickiness left by her body distasteful, rubbing himself on his clothing to remove it.
He’d done it so many times himself, and now something like it had happened to him, and he didn’t like it. But at least the woman had let him come. A lot of times with his women he’d only satisfied himself, taking no account of their needs, not even considering them, not even thinking of them. Under other circumstances he would have strolled back, getting ready to boast of yet another conquest, but this time he didn’t feel he could… didn’t want to.
What had happened was not of his doing. He had just been an instrument, an animated vibrator and he did not enjoy thinking of himself in that way.
So what the hell, he’d just forget it, push it to the back of his mind. But when he bent to pick up his rifle the cold damp tackiness in his pants and the aching soreness told him it would not be that easy.
Shit, the fucking woman had turned his world upside down, he would never be just the hunter again. In future it would always be in his mind that he might be the prey, and even when he could be sure of the relative relationships, when he had a woman over whom he had total domination, then what it was like for her would still be creeping into the back of his mind, and he would not be doing it just for himself.
He sat with his back to a tree in sight of their transport. It was possible to make out the huddled forms of the women, most of whom had stayed here, rather than going back to their Land-Rover.
Perhaps they didn’t trust Revell, or more likely they were just scared. It would have taken a lot of courage in the first place to put the abandoned vehicle back into working order and provision it for their escape to the West That would have taken weeks, months, perhaps a year or more, while they tried to acquire spare parts without raising suspicion and, putting a little of their meagre ration aside each week, accumulated a supply that might last them the journey.
To anyone who had not been in the Zone it was impossible to visualise the difficulties of travel within it, especially for those without permission to do so.
The refugees were ruled with an iron rod by the Russians, had to stay put, fend as best they could within the prescribed area about their camp. For the Communists the civilians were simply another form of camouflage, to be moved and rearranged as the need arose.
And for those who did make the break, who tried to reach the West, simply evading the Russian patrols was just the start. Minefields, ground surveillance radar linked to machine guns firing on fixed lines; areas where persistent toxic chemicals still lingered and territory heavily irradiated by atomic air bursts, all those had to be avoided, with movement limited to the hours of darkness. The wonder was not that some made it to the West, but that any ever tried.
The group they had met up with, they would have been through all that already, and now after days of hunger and constant fear they were near the limit of their endurance. Their abortive attack on what they’d thought to be a Russian patrol had been their last fling.
What would his last fling be? Dooley had never given it a thought before. Maybe he’d just had it. When the repairs were completed they would be off again, driving fast towards whatever nastiness the Russians had in store for them next.
His eyes felt heavy, and his head dropped forward on to his chest. He knew he was falling asleep, could feel it stealing up on him, and didn’t resist. Letting his mind drift it came back time and time again to the recent experience with the woman. She had used him… that worried him… he didn’t want that to be his last fling…
‘Fat stiff.’ Burke had seen Dooley follow the woman from the trees, and now as he reassembled the water pump saw him nodding off. He felt like throwing something. ‘How come everything always goes his way? Look at him, he doesn’t have a bloody care in the world. Christ, you wouldn’t think he was in the ruddy Zone would you?’