Wilma: You slavering, panting, weak-willed little bitch! You haven ’t got your breath back yet, have you? I can hear you, whimpering way down in the back of your throat, That’s the difference between us. You let sex enslave you, I make sex work for me. It’s done its work well tonight. We’re here, alone, and nobody knows what we're doing here. Even you don’t know why I'm really here . . . I came here to kill you, that’s why! Yes, Glory, my rich, soft little lambling, I came here to kill you. But will I have the nerve? Will I be able to go through with it? Will I really be able to murder Glory in cold blood? And if I do, will I be able to keep my head, to do all the things that have to be done if I’m to get away with it? Or will I freeze up? Go to pieces? Be caught in a web of murder? No! Why should I? I’ve done a lot of things before and always I kept my head. . . . Seduction. Theft. Blackmail. And other things. None of them threw me. Why should this? But I’ve never murdered anyone before! No matter! Glory has to die! I’m going to kill Glory!
Moments later they made love again. Blonde curls tickling Wilma’s breasts, red hair flowing over Glory’s thighs, mouths searching in the darkness, hips arching to the touch of tongue and lips, minds gone blank to everything, to everything except the sound and feel and touch and smell of love -- woman-love gone wild. Bodies tense, they thrashed about on the bed until they were both thoroughly aroused.
Wihna rose momentarily from the bed. When she returned she had a large rubber dildo and a small jar of scented pink cream. The cream smelled like a mixture of jasmine and musk. There was fear in Glory’s midnight blue eyes as she watched the naked redhead with the small, bobbling breasts return.
“Don’t hurt me,” Glory pleaded, hands fluttering to her large breasts to cover the erect berry tips.
Wilma merely smiled. Her vagina burned hot with anticipation. Her nipples stood there out from her breasts like small, erect penises.
The redhead strapped on the dildo. The base of it fit neatly inside her, snug against her clitoris. She dug some of the cream out of the jar with her fingertips.
“Turn over,” she ordered Glory.
“No!” Glory moaned. “Please.”
Wilma merely looked at her. Glory turned over. Her small, compact behind stuck up like twin hillocks, delicious pink-and-white flesh mounds.
Wilma slapped it—not too hard -- with the palm of the hand that wasn’t holding the pink, scented cream. Glory writhed, the flesh of her backside rippling. A red spot appeared. Wilma struck again. And again. . . .
It hurt. Glory loved it. She hated it. Stop! Don ’t stop!
Turned on, Wilma’s vagina clenched tightly around the dildo. She spread the cheeks of Glory’s behind. What an ass! Made for reaming! And I’m gonna ream it ’til it bleeds! She spread the cream over the cleft. She worked it in more and more deeply with her fingers. Glory writhed and groaned some more.
“Crouch!” Wilma ordered.
Glory crouched on the bed, her head and arms low, her creamed behind sticking up in the air, gleaming, wide open.
Wilma mounted her from behind. She guided the dildo. First the twat! All of it! All the way up! Until she begs for mercy!
“It won’t go in all the way!” Glory was ill tears now.
I'm going to kill her! Brutally, Wilma rammed the dildo all the way in as hard as she could. First the snatch ’til it’s raw and red and bleeding! Then I’ll rip apart that asshole! And then I’ll kill her!
Pumping in and out, on top of her like a stallion, Wilma felt the dildo massaging her own clitty and she felt Glory’s pain and it excited her unbearably and she felt Glory start to come in spite of the pain, and then she was coming herself. . . .
Still Wilma didn’t stop. She pulled the dildo out of Glory’s vagina. (An outpouring of come-cream flecked with blood followed it.) And now she slipped it between the cheeks of Glory’s behind and started working it slowly up the narrow anal cavity.
Oh, God that hurts! Glory strained to widen the opening. But, Oh!, it feels so strange and so exciting too! I have to hold back, or. . . But when I do, it pulls it in deeper and it’s already so deep and it hurts and it feels so thrilling and Oh-Ooh-Oh! I’m coming again and so is Wilma. OW-EE! That hurt! When this is over, I’ll kill her!
That’s it, you bitch! Take it in the ass! Fuck like a dog! Fuck-Fuck-Fuck! Wilma rode Glory high and hard. Fuck-Fuck-Fuck! . . .
I will kill her! I will kill Wilma!
Glory, you cunt, you’re gonna die!
Finally they collapsed with their heads on the pillows again, mutually exhausted.
More time passed. Fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes. Then one of the girls got up. She went into the bathroom. There was the sound of a shower running. It stopped. Another few moments and she emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped turban fashion around her head. She sat down in the armchair, across from the bed. The other girl arose and went into the bathroom. Again there was the sound of running water. The girl with the towel around her head sat and reflected for a moment. Then, slowly, she got to her feet and started for the bathroom door . . . .
Yes! That was the recent past of this room. The “now”? One girl dead, the other brain-blanked in a state of shock. The future? Soon; indeed, it is almost upon them—the dead girl, and the one who lives.
But first, past more removed, history perhaps. And for this, it is necessary first to leave the room and later to leave Glenville altogether. Thus the focus spreads out in widening ripples. It will narrow again. It will spotlight the room. It shall return!
CHAPTER TWO
“Sex is a weapon. Use it!”
By the time Wilma Malden received this advice, she didn’t need it. She was only twenty-two years old, but she’d known sex was a weapon for at least half her life. She’d used it often—and always to advantage. Except once. Hearing the words now as they came from the suck-cherry-red lips of the woman who ran the brothel in which she was working, Wilma remembered the exception, And she remembered all the times that weren’t exceptions. . .
Eleven years old and in the bushes out behind her father’s barn. “I’ll give you a dime,” the boy said.
“Twenty cents,” Wilma insisted.
They compromised on fifteen. The boy pulled his zipper open and Wilma reached inside his pants. She pushed his underwear aside and took hold of his erect penis. It was so big! So hard! She moved her hand rhythmically. Then, suddenly, at a carefully calculated moment, she stopped and reached lower. She took his balls firmly in her hot hand.
“Twenty cents,” she said, exerting just enough pressure to make the boy see the light.
He gave her the extra nickel. She finished what she’d begun. He shot a lot of hot, sticky, thick cream all over her hand. She licked it. Sweet. Not bad. That was the first time. . . .
Another time. Wilma Malden, age fourteen, small-breasted, but nevertheless known as the sexiest girl at Glenville High School. She was only a freshman, but the seniors and even the teachers themselves were aware of her erotic appeal. Like Mr. Birdwell who taught her Algebra-1 class and had seated her in the front row so that he could occasionally glance at her long, shapely legs, the thighs of which he appraised to himself as “flushed and feverish.”