Zyra and Lemi nodded. The sweat of their labors slickened their young sheens of skin. So beautiful, the Factotum mused. So young and full of voracity…
“Nor must we allow our servants to get out of hand,” he added then, and led them away in his frock to the next vault. Horrors prevailed, such wondrous deeds. A nude woman, chained to the floor, squealed in bliss as both orifices were penetrated simultaneously. They’d been feeding her; her mouth bulged with remnants of Lemi’s delights. “We must never forget what happened last time,” the Factotum finished on a portentous note which hung in the air.
Yes, things had definitely gotten out of hand that time. Desire was often hard to reign; they’d been too free with the liberties they’d overlooked. Some hierarchs had been slighted, even abused in the zeal of certain less-comprehending electees. Such things will happen, he supposed. Now, though, he hoped to earn back his fortune. He grew so weary of this pale and flavorless place. Back to my richest heaven, he thought. Soon, I pray.
All of eternity is a trial…
In the next grotto, several electees fed ravenously, while a third cawed, serving mammoth genitals to a blonde’s oral cavity. Yes, even infinity must have its graces.
He turned his smile to his underlings. “Tonight, we will begin our preparations. The indoctrination…”
««—»»
Talk about the boondocks, Paul dumbly thought.
The blue Pinto’s heater had all but crapped out; Paul drove with gloves on, and his heaviest winter jacket. To make matters worse, the roads were icing up. He’d bought a map of north county back at the quik-stop before he’d left town, hoping to use it in conjunction with McGowen’s address for Vera’s new place of employment, The Inn at Wroxton Hall. Not, he thought. The map proved all but useless; most secondary roads were either too small to read, or had been left off altogether. A minuscule perimeter of red dots outlined Wroxton Estates, but that was it.
Happy hunting, Paul.
State Route 154 unwound for what seemed forever, winding past outskirts of forest and infinite cornfields scratched barren save for the cut stems of last fall’s harvest. Paul had never seen such drab countryside. Even the sky seemed drab as mourning, leading him up toward the northern ridge of the county. Just northwest of Waynesville, he remembered from the map. He’d never heard of Waynesville, and he hadn’t noticed a single roadside indicating he was anywhere near it. This is the pits! I’m never gonna get there, and I don’t even know where I’m going!
Just as he began to fear he’d passed Waynesville, he found himself idling through some little corncob of a town. One main drag, a bar, a general store, a discount clothing shop, and a bank that looked smaller than most broom closets. No road signs had announced the little town’s title which, by now, Paul was not surprised by.
But at the next four-way stop (evidently stoplights were not deemed necessary here), Paul thought: finally! The last store in this one-hundred-yard berg sported a clipped sign reading: waynesville farm supply. At least I know I’m there. Paul felt grateful.
There came no confusion in getting back onto Route 154; the town offered no exits. Paul accelerated, the Pinto’s big 2.0 engine shuddering. The state route wound around a vast forest belt that looked like myraid skeletal extremities. If he’d been driving faster he’d have missed it, the puny wooden sign barely visible in the encroaching winter dusk:
THE INN
I’m here, he realized, nearly not believing it after the grueling journey.
Paul turned up the narrow, newly paved access, and wondered just what he was going to do once he got to The Inn.
— | — | —
CHAPTER THIRTY
Vera napped in annoying snatches. With The Inn closed, she decided it might be a good idea to catch up on her sleep, for certainly she’d gotten very little in the past months—at least not good sleep, sound sleep. The effort proved futile. Each time she lay down, she’d waken moments later pestered by lewd dreams. Par for the course, she thought. The fantasy of The Hands was always there, bristling, hot, erotic. Even after she’d awakened, she swore she could still feel their afterimage: roughly investigating her sex, kneading her breasts as if to squeeze out milk, fingers invading her rectum. Once she’d wakened to find herself masturbating so frantically, she’d rubbed her sex sore. Another time she’d alighted from her slumber to find herself sopped with a sheen of what she first thought was semen. But that was ridiculous. It must only be sweat. She’d been sweating a lot lately.
Upon each waking she sipped a shot of Grand Marnier, hoping the heavy alcohol content would soon drag her to full sleep. Twice she showered, to blast off the sticky sweat, but on both occasions she found that, as her hands coursed soap suds about her body, she’d wind up touching herself. She felt in a trance. Without even knowing it at first, her fingers teased her to paltry yet preposterously successive orgasms. Each climax felt like the next pearl on the string being extracted from her sex. The sensation seemed to never end, yet it never left her satisfied. It always left her longing for something more, something succulent and sating.
Goddamn, Vera. You’re becoming a compulsive masturbator! In the past she’d hardly ever masturbated at all. Paul, whether with his penis or his tongue, had always slaked her needs. But that brought up another dim thought. Paul.
She felt so confused about everything in her life now she wanted to scream. The only love she’d ever had in her life was him. Was she being gullible and stupid, as Donna had implied? Or was there something to his story?
When she looked at the clock, she saw it was past midnight, which came as a sharp shock. Had she really slept the entire day away? Had she become so maladjusted that she’d forget her responsibilities? Not that she had many right now. The Inn was closed. She still felt infuriated that she’d never been able to find Feldspar. And why would he tell her that he was using the last suite in the hall when the last suite in the hall clearly had never been occupied? So many things seemed to be adding up to a false figure.
She took a bath, sipped more GM, and slept again. Snow pelted silently against the panes of her window; the heat in the room felt smothering, and the vents ticked. Half drifting off, she could swear she heard the now-familiar thunking of the room-service elevators, but that couldn’t be.
The Inn was closed.
That’s what she’d been told. That’s what Kyle had told her, and Dan B. too. She’d even, earlier, looked out on the front door and read the apologetic sign: The Inn is closed due to unanticipated repairs. We regret any inconvenience.
Still…her dream.
When she plummeted to full sleep, The Hands were on her at once. They flipped her onto her back in the dark, one hand pinching a nipple as the other plied her buttocks. Simultaneously, a tongue which felt huge attentively laved her from anus to navel, then plodded into her sex. Her fluids seemed to gush. As turned on as she was, she felt an accommodating shame: The Hands roused to abuse her, pinching her nipples till she yelped, slapping her face. Then the large, warm body slid atop her. The tongue licked her open eyes while The Hands alternately girded her throat and yanked her hair. Her dream-suitor’s genitals sunk so deeply into her sex that she stiffened as if gored; its sheer size stole her breath. But at least now her satisfaction was at hand—the veined shaft pummeled her, each stroke finishing to nudge the bulb of her cervix. The mouth sucked her lips as if to eat them as handfuls of hair were seized and pulled. Vera came in a series of detonations, and when she could come no more, The Hands rearranged her and coaxed the stiffened genitals to her lips. She chuckled in her throat, delighted at the flavor of her own musk as she intently sucked upon a penis that felt almost too large to admit into her mouth. One hand stroked the unseen buttocks while her other cradled testicles that seemed like twin tomatoes on a vine. When the saline gobs emptied into her throat, she swallowed them greedily and without a flinch…