"Hey," Marc said. "You just wait a minute!" His voice was no longer the waterfront tough's; it sounded like a female impersonator doing Edith Piaf or someone. Another blow shook his body, and he fell back, his rod going limp as his falling body, tumbling backward off the bed, pulled it free of Nan's tortured and violated throat. She gasped for air, looking up. Marie-Helene stood over the bed, fully dressed in her beach outfit, her beach bag dangling from one hand, stuffed full-Nan suddenly realized-with all the baubles the French girl had insisted on putting on her that evening. Of course! Of course! What better way of getting her to show them all her valuables? So that they could steal them? She looked up at Marie-Helene with glazed eyes.
"Get dressed," the girl said to Marc now. "You guys have been getting all the fun while I do the dirty work." She looked down at Nan now. "Merde," she said, a sour look on her face. "He's really got that thing up your ass, hasn't he, my dear? Hramm…You know, that's making me hot. You…Damn it, Marc! Get dressed! She's got time to eat my box while you get your damned fairy panties on. Loulou?" she said to the man behind Nan, who was beginning the slow back-and-forth motion again. "Oh, all right, bugger the bitch. But then you get your little sailor suit on and get out of here." She smiled a mean, hard smile down at Nan Mikell, dropped the bag, and hiked her skirt up above her waist; she wore nothing beneath it. And now she climbed upon the bed, belly up, before Nan and kicked her naked legs high, waving the rouged lips of her hairless slit in Nan's face-heavens! She'd rouged the entire length of her little clit, which stood up proud and aroused-and held herself wide open for Nan's attack, with her little brown fingers.
"Okay, baby," she said in English, deserting for the first time in hours the. gutter Marseilles argot the three used among each other, "lick me out And you, Loulou-keep it up. Let's see if it does anything for her tongue work…"
Still resigned, Nan Mikell bent to her task. And, strangely enough-it must be the champagne-found herself warming to the job. That red little clit before her was so tasty-looking…so tempting…She put her tongue to it just as Louis' battering-ram prick rammed her heavily from the rear. A tearing pain shot through her bottom again; she screamed feebly; the blow rammed her entire face into the wide-open, shaven-clean-as-a-baby's vaginal cleft before her, smearing the girl's juices all over her eyes and nose and mouth and cheeks. A savage shiver of some utterly new emotion went through her as the girl below her screamed with passion. And, her eyes bleary with rage, she dived on the red and straining clit sucking wildly on it licking it, worrying it with her lips the way a dog worries a bone with his front teeth.
Marie-Helene went crazy beneath her. Her high-pitched screams sliced through the night air as Nan renewed her furious, fiercely aggressive assault on the girl's vagina. The sight and the sounds evidently excited Louis; his attack on Nan's rear increased in velocity and brutality; his own hoarse moans and groans of passion became audible even through Marie-Helene's screams; and the moment Nan could feel his cock pulsing with seed, ready to come inside her, she dived on the girl's hairless slit with renewed ferocity. And the bursting package of blazing-hot sperm that tore into her insides was met at almost the same instant by an orgasm in the brown girl on the bed, who shrieked like a banshee and kicked her bare legs like a madwoman…
They went out the window a scant fifteen minutes later, leaving Nan tied, naked, smeared with the juices of all three as well as her own blood, to a chair. She was bleary-eyed with drink, but the entire experience was getting clearer, not dimmer, in her mind with every passing moment as she struggled feebly to get free. She'd learned a lot
"Lesson two," she said bitterly to herself through the silk gag in her mouth, "all men aren't necessarily men."
But another thought was forcing itself into Her mind, unbidden. There may, she was thinking, be one more lesson from this, one having to do with women and whether or not they were necessarily women. The thought was, in a way, more shocking than the entire rest of the experience.
She, Nan Mikell, had come herself, at precisely the same moment when Marie-Helene had…
Chapter 6
The disquieting thought took root in her mind and bothered her for some time after that. She'd cut short her holiday then, and flown back to the big Bal Harbour house in a glum and introspective mood. Was she turning? Was she undergoing some odd sort of sea change into a woman whose desires were primarily turned toward…other women?
What was happening to her? Was she only to be attracted, from now on, to men who cared nothing for her and whose disdain for her body and its needs would further add to her sexual and personal frustration…until she would inevitably be driven to the arms of another woman for comfort and solace? Was this, in fact, what she really wanted? Was she deliberately seeking out ways of making sure her contacts with men were frustrating and unattractive?
These thoughts bothered her all the way back home on the big plane to New York. They dogged her footsteps on a brief shopping trip through New York (in which she quite deliberately avoided any opportunity of meeting either men or women on anything but the most mundane level), and they spoiled her subsequent plane ride back to Miami
Now, finishing her morning coffee alone in the upstairs sitting-room, she turned to the morning mail, left on a silver tray by the taciturn private secretary, Mills. But, sitting with the letters and the opener in her hand, she stopped again, as she had done so many times in the last few days, to think.
The house, the old routine-she couldn't go back to them. She felt, quite frankly, strangled by the web of Ed's old life every time she returned to the Miami beachfront home. There was no place there for Nan Mikell to be Nan Mikell, herself; there was only room for the widow of Ed Mikell, who had responsibilities, social commitments, something to Live Up To.
But where to go?
Could she trust herself, starting out somewhere new-even provided that she could find the sort of anonymity she sought anywhere? Would she get into the sort of trouble that had dogged her footsteps in France-letting the strange new personality inside her take over, getting into embarrassing, even dangerous, scrapes like the ones in Nice and St. Tropez? Would the perverse devil that shared her body with her keep leading her into bad associations? Into some sort of terrible, frightening sexual morass from which even Ed's money, eventually, could not extract her?
It was a strange and terrifying question. She simply didn't know who she was any more. She simply couldn't have imagined herself doing the wild and undisciplined things she'd done since that strange, fateful afternoon by the pool…
No, she had to get away from Miami, from the whole structured life she was in. But it had to be somewhere where she could work out her problems in a calm atmosphere, without having either the old structure or the new temptations to inhibit her growth and (there was no other word for it) her rebirth.
Thus thinking, she turned to the letters in her hand again. She scanned the return addresses, wondering which to open first: bills, bills, a couple of obvious solicitations from charities…and, near the bottom, an odd, rustic-looking, obviously hand-printed letterhead envelope (the legend added in tiny characters "Printed on Recycled Paper") from some sort of place in Studio City, California, called WomanSchool. Another sob story from a charity? She opened this letter first, on impulse.
The letter read in part:
Annie!!!
You can't IMAGINE how delighted I was to hear from you!!! As you can see from the name, I'm once married, once divorced…and I took the settlement money and put it into this place. I'm having a marvelous time now-why didn't anyone ever TELL me it was so much fun to be single?