Elayne let him unbutton her shirt, wondering why she didn’t feel like resisting. He exposed her black bra and seemed pleased with it. “Sexy,” he said, and unbuttoned her pants. “Black underwear, too. I like your taste in lingerie, anyway.”
Elayne remembered that her husband had always liked her underwear, too, though she still couldn’t remember who he was. It was significant, because she didn’t wear bikinis or hipsters. She always wore the underwear that went up to her waist and down to her thighs, the kind men usually said they hated because it was like their mother’s. But Elayne wore that kind because she hated visible panty line.
Terry loved it. He left her in her bra and panties, taking his own clothes off piece by piece. She noticed that he was wearing one of those old-fashioned undershirts without the sleeves, like Mafia men wore in the movies. While they were relaxing and playing cards.
When he was naked, he stood before her for a moment, proudly, showing off his lean, muscled body. “You like the way I’m hung, baby?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she said, and wondered if it was time to feel guilty yet. She was married; she ought to be thinking of her husband and feeling bad. But her mind couldn’t grasp his image at all, it just wasn’t there.
Terry took her in his arms and pressed her down on the bed. His body felt warm and smooth, good against hers. He worked one of her bra straps off her shoulder and nudged it down over her nipple, taking his time.
“Yeah,” he murmured into her skin, “I really like your underwear.”
“It’s a Bali bra,” she said inanely, and wondered why she thought he would care that Bali made the perfect bra for big girls like her, sturdy underwire things that supported her in comfort without gouging deep grooves in her shoulders. Meanwhile, he bit and sucked on her nipple.
“Sweetheart,” he said. He unhooked the bra and pulled it off slowly, enjoying himself. She enjoyed it too. “God,” he said, “You look just like one of those Playboy models.” He pulled her panties off, then arranged her on the bed and sat back to enjoy the view.
“How old did you say you were?” he asked.
“Thirty-three.”
“You ever been all the way with a boy?”
“With a boy?”
He laughed. “If you want to stick to that thirty-three story, that’s your business. Are you a virgin?”
“Of course not!”
“Okay. Have it your way.”
He crouched over her and gently pushed his penis against the opening of her vagina. It was odd, but her body seemed to resist the entry, just like when she was—
“Ready?” he asked. “Here goes.”
He thrust all the way inside her and she screamed, clawing handfuls of the bedspread as the pain ripped through her. She lay gasping in astonishment while he kissed her face and made comforting noises.
“You asked for it, sweetheart. You had to act like you knew what you were doing.”
“I did know!” she gasped. “I did know!”
“All right, all right. Don’t cry. We’ll go slow.” He started to move inside her again, obviously trying to be gentle, but still hurting her. She gritted her teeth and held onto the bedspread. After a few minutes, the pain started to diminish and it felt more like it was supposed to.
“That’s right, baby,” he said. “Here we go now.”
The pain was gone. Now it was all pleasure. She let go of the bedspread and put her arms around him, thinking that nature had a way of making these things work out.
But if nature was so goddammed smart, how come it invented the hymen?
“Elayne!” he said, and they climaxed together.
Elayne didn’t remember falling asleep. She woke up with a terrible headache in a bright motel room, alone.
“Terry?” she said, and winced at the sound of her own voice. He didn’t answer. She looked at the bedside table. His gun was gone too.
And so were her clothes. The only thing she had left was the Mickey Mouse watch, which was still around her wrist. Mickey’s hands said ten o’clock.
Elayne crept to the window and peeked out. The Chevy was gone, but she thought she saw someone standing just beyond the window. Someone dressed just like Kal or Ross in the weird jumpsuit they both wore. That was funny, she hadn’t noticed how they were dressed yesterday, but now she remembered.
The motel room was funny, too. Old-fashioned. She remembered staying in motels like this one when she was a kid, the ones with the prints of cowboys and Indians on the walls. This place was obviously a cheap one; it didn’t even have a TV set. But it was very neat and clean, and the sixties-style furniture looked brand new, as if it had been in a warehouse somewhere for thirty years.
Elayne sat down on the bed, and the door burst open. Terry came in with some packages and shut the door behind him, grinning at her.
“You even look good in bright light,” he said. “I’ve got something nice for you.”
“What happened to my clothes?” she demanded.
“I didn’t like them. I got you something new.”
He set the packages down on the bed and opened them one by one. Out came a long-sleeved, knee-length dress, black undergarments, a garter belt, stockings, and pumps.
“I got some toiletries for you too,” he said. “Come on, get dressed. I want to see how you look.”
Elayne looked at the bra. It was like the kind her mother used to wear, the kind she had loved to play dress-up in when she was a girl. She had stuffed scarves into the cups and pretended to have breasts. It was sturdy, covered with black lace, and was boned on the side. Unfortunately, it had seamed cups, but they were lined with a soft material that would keep the seams from putting welts in Elayne’s skin.
The underwear was part of the set, really very much like the pair she had worn the day before, only made out of heavier material. She pulled the lingerie on while he watched, avidly.
“Perfect fit,” she said as she adjusted a bra strap. “How did you know what size to get?”
“You told me your measurements yesterday,” he said. Now try on the garter belt.”
“Why didn’t you get pantyhose?”
“What?”
“You know, hose with panties attached. You’ve seen them on TV, right?”
“Never heard of them.”
“Well, let’s see if I can figure this out.” She fastened the garter belt and struggled to fasten the hose. They only went halfway up her thighs, which felt weird. “Is this how they’re supposed to look?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said, his voice thick. “You’d better put on that dress before I jump you.”
She did. It was almost a perfect fit, though a little snug for her tastes. The scooped neckline almost touched her cleavage.
“Green is your color,” he said. He sat in the chair and leaned his elbows on his knees, giving her a close inspection. His coat fell open and she saw the gun.
“Did you get toothpaste?” she asked him.
“Yeah. In the bag.” He pointed at a small paper bag on the bed.
Elayne carried the toiletries into the bathroom. There was a toothbrush, a small tube of Crest, complexion soap with a girl who looked like Grace Kelly on the package, some Ban roll-on deodorant, and a hair brush.
She confronted her bleary face in the mirror and began to wash up. The cold water and soap felt good on her skin. She took off the dress and gave herself a more thorough washing before applying the deodorant and brushing her teeth. It wasn’t until after she had rinsed her mouth and started to get dressed again that she noticed what was different.
Her face and neck were too smooth. She had nice skin, sure, but like most women, she knew where every single character line was. And they weren’t there. She looked maybe—twenty? It was hard to say. That was why Terry had thought she was a virgin.