Sharon ran around behind the stacked furniture and looked at him over the top of it.
"Who are you?" she said.
"Carl Martin," he said. His voice was soft and very deep.
"What're you doing here?"
He closed the door behind him. "The same thing you are, probably." He took a step forward.
"Don't come any closer!" Sharon said. There was an enormous bulge in his pants, she saw with dismay. Although, of course, that was no more than might be expected. Most men, she'd noticed, got an erection at their first sight of her, even when she was fully dressed.
He stopped where he was, smiling. "I think I missed your name."
"Sharon."
"You are a parolee, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Same here," he said. "Joyce made you take your clothes off, didn't she?"
Sharon nodded.
"I thought so," Carl said. "And that whip routine? Did she put you through that, too?"
"Yes."
"Welcome to the club."
"You mean she'd use that whip on a man?"
He laughed. "Every time." He waved a hand toward one of the freshly plastered walls. "She's been making me do some work for her."
"I see."
"My parole officer lent me to her, so to speak," Carl said. "She had me filling in a hole in the wall over there. She'd had somebody else knock it out to make a doorway to the next room, she said. But she'd changed her mind. I ended up having to do the whole room."
Sharon felt a little sorry for him. He was trying to appear nonchalant – as if he walked in on naked young girls every hour of the day. But he was actually very ill at ease, she sensed – perhaps because there was nothing he could do to hide the bulging evidence of the effect she had on him. And the bulge was getting bigger, she saw. The front of his pants was sticking out like a tent.
Carl glanced about, as if anxious to find something to say or do to cover his embarrassment. Suddenly he walked to the wall and hit it a sharp blow with the hell of his hand. It gave back a dull thud, followed instantly by a chorus of muffled squeals.
"What was that?" Sharon asked.
"Rats," he said. "Dozens of them. The wall's full of them."
Sharon grimaced. She hated rats – hated even the thought of them. The filthy, unspeakable creatures had inspired fear in her ever since she was a child. She didn't even want to think about them.
"I wasn't supposed to do any more work until tomorrow," Carl said. "But I figured I might as well come today and get it over with."
"We'd better not let her find us in the same room together," Sharon said. "Especially with me nude like this."
"This is her late afternoon at her office," he said. "For the parolees that have to report to her after they get off work."
"How'd you get in?"
"She always leaves the back door unlocked."
"It's funny she'd trust parolees to be here while she's gone."
He turned back, toward her, smiling sourly. "That's just a little more of her sadism. She knows we'll sweat it out, for fear something will turn up missing. Because if it does, you know, we'll go back to a cell." He paused. "She knows none of us would make the first false move. Like taking a shower, for instance. Or helping ourselves to a cold beer. Or even having a glass of iced tea, for God's sake."
"She's a monster."
"And loves every minute of it."
"Are you going to work some more in here? I just finished cleaning up."
"Not in here," he said. "Down the hall. I just came in here to get a couple of tools."
Sharon glanced down at the bulge in his pants again. Normally, she had very little interest in men, and even less interest in what they had in their pants. But there were times – perhaps once very two or three months – when something came over her. There was never any warning. It might happen on a bus or in the street or at a party. It might occur at an ideal time in an ideal place, or it might seize her at an entirely inappropriate, even dangerous moment. She might be with someone or alone or wake to it from a dream.
But whenever and wherever it happened, it overwhelmed her completely. It was a compulsion stronger than any will she had ever been able to muster to resist it. And that compulsion had gripped her now, more strongly than ever before.
It was a form of madness, she knew; it had to be.
It was her sudden, wholly unexpected yearning for a prick. She had to have one, and have it right now. She had to have Carl's – bulging there so magnificently in his tight denim pants.
He was looking at her strangely now, and she knew he had caught the direction of her gaze.
But I can't do anything with him here, she thought to herself. It'd be too dangerous. What if Joyce came back and we didn't hear her… Maybe if we went somewhere else… But it had to be here, she realized. And it had to be now. She simply couldn't wait. The compulsion was too strong; it made everything else seem completely unimportant.
Carl had been watching her nervously. Now he bent down and began to rummage through the tools in the fiber case. "Well," he said hastily, "I guess I'd better get to work."
She came out from behind the protection of the stacked furniture and walked directly up to him.
"Do you really have to?" she said softly. He was holding a hammer. She took it from his hand and dropped it back in the case. "Do you have to right now, Carl?"
He moistened his lips, mild consternation on the handsome face. "Huh?" His eyes jerked from her breasts to her pussy and her legs, and back up again. "Do you think I'm pretty?"
"You kidding?"
"Would you really rather go down the hall and hammer some old nails or something than…" She let her voice trail off, smiling at him, feeling the first tickle of the juice beginning to seep from her cunt. She waited, head tilted a little to one side, smiling up at him.
He moistened his lips again, then held out his arms, and she moved close against him, surprised to find he was actually trembling.
When he kissed her, it wasn't much more than a goodnight kiss. Impatient, she put her hands behind his head, mashed his lips hard against her own, and sucked his tongue into her mouth. When he seemed to want to draw it out, she sucked all the harder. It wasn't that he was inexperienced, she knew; such a handsome man would have had any number of girls. It was just that nothing even remotely like this had ever happened to him.
The bulge in his pants was punching at her belly, just below her navel. She felt an urge to reach down and feel it, but she resisted. Now that she was determined to have it, she took a perverse pleasure in delaying actual contact with it.
Carl's hand came up to fondle a breast.
"Not here," she said.
"What?"
"We can't just stand up all the time," she said, running her fingertips up and down his broad back. "Can we?"
He turned and took her by the hand. "Across the hall," he said. "Joyce's bedroom."
In the other room, Carl started to draw her toward the bed, but she held back.
"No, Carl," she said. "Joyce would know. We'd leave traces." She sank down on the soft deep pile of the rug and pulled him down beside her. "This is perfect."
They lay side by side, Sharon's head cushioned on his shoulder.
"This can't be happening," Carl said, his hand busy on her breast. "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
"Am I?"
"Yes – or ever hoped to see. You're unbelievable." He ran the flat of his hand slowly down across her belly, paused briefly to knead the tender flesh of her thigh just above the top of her stocking, and then began to caress her leg from garter to knee, coming a little closer to her pussy with each upward stroke.
Sharon spread her legs, and finally his palm came to rest on the tiny black curls of her cunt. She felt her pussy raising to his hand, and a moment later a long, thick finger slid between the wet lips and found her clitoris. As he toyed with it, she slipped her tongue into his mouth and fluttered it against the warm, wet meat she found there. Then, as his finger left her clitoris and started up the tight, ridged walls of her pussy, she wrapped her tongue around his, drew it into her mouth, and sucked it all the way back to her throat.