Bestial (17 page)

“Oh, God, Harry, that’s good, so good,” she said huskily. She panted for awhile as she clutched his hair, then clenched her teeth and growled, “Suck on my clit. Suck it hard.”

Cross lifted his head and Rochelle looked down, saw his face smirking up at her through the little canyon between her breasts.

“You’re an animal,” he said with a chuckle.

“You bet I am. And I want you to fuck me like an animal. You hear me, Harry?” She pulled on his hair. “Come up here and put it in me.
Fuck
me.”

Her black-and-red half-bra had been tossed aside on the bed, and her clothes were scattered over the floor with the deputy’s. She kept her lingerie in her closet tucked away in a garment bag that had a lock on it. Mike had never noticed it, so he’d never asked about it. Typical of him. When she’d left the house, she’d told Mike she was going to drop by and see her mother, then do a little shopping. The only reason she’d stopped by her mother’s house was so that her story would hold up. It had made her feel deliciously dirty to sit there in her mother’s living room talking about her brother masturbating while she wore crotchless panties, a tiny half-bra, garters on the black stockings beneath her plain-jane slacks. The slacks were her Good Rochelle disguise. It had been Bad Rochelle who had left the house that evening, moist with anticipation, eager to meet Harry as they’d planned. It had been Bad Rochelle who’d visited her mother in disguise so that the story she’d told Mike would hold up, Bad Rochelle who had reached down between her legs and pressed her fingers hard to her crotch as she drove to this little motel just outside the town’s northern border.

Harry slid her legs off his shoulders and crawled up her body with a lascivious grin, his erection bobbing between his legs. As he settled between her thighs, she reached down and put the head of his cock to her opening, then slapped her hands on his ass and dug her fingernails in.

“Now fuck me, Harry” she said. “
Hard
.”

A squeal escaped her broad smile as he pushed into her and began to thrust hard and fast. He squeezed her left breast as he made low, animal sounds in his chest. Rochelle closed her eyes and drank in the sensation. She lifted her hips off the bed and met his thrusts, clawed at him with her nails, muttered obscenities as they moved together, enjoying uttering the filthy words and phrases like an adolescent girl talking dirty to herself while no one was around. After awhile, they rolled over so she was on top of him, and she rode him like a mechanical bull. In the back of her mind, she knew she was being loud and that people in the rooms on each side could probably hear her, and she didn’t care, hoped they could, hoped they enjoyed it. Then they changed position again so he was on top of her, which was how she liked it, her legs high in the air while he pounded into her. She reached down and roughly fingered her clitoris hard, uninhibited, thinking about how exciting it would be if the people in the other rooms could
see
them, if they were watching them fuck, getting excited and breathing hard and masturbating as Harry slammed into her and her fingers moved at a blur between her lips.

He growled—she loved it, he was actually
growling
as he panted, like a rutting animal, and she laughed loudly. He pushed himself up on his arms, locked his elbows and glared down at her. The corners of his mouth pulled downward in a brutal sneer as his chin jutted and something silver glimmered and flashed in his eyes—

Tears?
she thought.
Are those tears, is he actually
crying
while he’s
fucking
me?

—and then she lost her focus on his face as the soles of her feet began to burn as if they were one fire, a sign that she was about to come. She babbled and shouted and clutched at him as she went off inside and lost his face in the violence of the internal explosions that made her body disintegrate into nothingness, leaving only her pounding vibrating pussy as it flashed blindingly inside her head like a star going nova.

He growled again, louder this time, and she felt his hand on her, pawing at her, even hurting her a little as the explosion cleared. But even as the nova died, another flared more intensely and she cried out harshly, her voice catching in her throat and breaking through in sharp, staccato sounds. He swelled inside her as he pounded harder, and her hands flailed through the air, fingers stiff and splayed as that nova grew to fill the universe and swallow up everything.

As he came inside her, Harry roared like a bear and slammed into her so hard that her body rocked and jerked on the bed and her teeth clacked together as her breasts slapped violently up and down, and it seemed that he kept swelling, kept coming, kept slamming, and as that last universe-engulfing nova began to recede and fade, she felt as if she were about to fly apart like an abused doll.

Soon, the only sounds in the room were their gasps for breath. She felt sweat trickle over her body, found his skin wet with it when she touched him, her arms and legs weak and trembling, her breasts aching slightly from the fierce jostling they’d received. He lay limp on top of her for awhile, then started to move.

“No, wait,” she said, hoarse and breathless. Her voice dissolved into a whisper as she said, “Don’t take your cock out yet. I want it inside me as long as it’s hard. Just keep it there. Filling me. Yeah. I like that.” She closed her eyes and let herself float on the buzz that remained from her orgasm. “Yeah... filling me... filling my cunt... filling me with... with... “

But she let the word hang in the air as she wallowed in the humming, cushiony aftermath, too drained to give any thought to exactly what it was he’d just filled her with... blindly ignorant of what he’d just put inside her... with no inkling of what had just been done to her.

CHAPTER TEN

Convergence: ER

Bob sat on the hood of the old station wagon, slowly chewed a stick of Juicy Fruit that was growing stale and sour in his mouth, and stared out through the night at the ocean. A cool breeze brushed against his face and whispered through the trees along the edge of Beachview Road. Before him, the ground sloped down to the vast expanse of flat, sandy beach below. The ocean murmured to the shore, its voice rising and falling at regular intervals.

He hadn’t been to this spot in years. He used to come a lot, to do exactly what he was doing that night—to sit and stare and think, to be alone when he couldn’t tolerate being in the house with his family for another moment. He’d last been there—
how
long ago? At the time, he’d actually had a job driving a van for a medical supply store. He’d been looking for an apartment, planning to move from his mother’s house and finally get out on his own and start his life—
finally
. Fifteen years ago, at least. Then Grandma had gotten sick and had decided she could no longer live alone. She had no one but her widowed daughter-in-law to turn to, and Mom had decided to take her in. But she’d told Bob he couldn’t leave, not with Grandma moving in—she would need help, she couldn’t handle the old woman by herself. He
had
to stay, he was
obligated
. They were
family
. They’d been throwing the words “obligated” and “family” at him his whole life, telling him how useless he was, how hopeless his future was, how nothing awaited him but disappointment and defeat and a lonely old age that would only end in death—why get his hopes up? What was one more obligation to his family?

After Grandma moved in, Bob’s responsibilities became overwhelming—he had to do everything for both of them, had to answer their every beck and call. They ate up his time and began interfering with his job. He got to work later and later, and his boss began to complain. But Mom and Grandma complained louder. He’d ended up losing the job. The day he was fired, he’d heard a loud sound in his head that rang with finality: the thunderous slamming of an enormous door. He’d been in the house ever since. They had been his life.
 

When he was ten, his dad had driven his car at high speed into a concrete abutment. There had been no reason for it. Witnesses said he hadn’t lost control, traffic was light, there had been no pedestrians in the way, no animals in the road. He’d simply sped directly into the abutment in an explosion of crushed metal and shattered glass that had sent him shooting like a missile through the windshield and head-first into the concrete. He hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt. Dad had
always
worn a seatbelt, and he’d insisted everyone else in the family do the same. He wasn’t insistent about many things—in fact, the man had hardly spoken in the nine years Bob had known him—but he’d insisted on that. He’d left no note, but it was obvious to everyone that his death had been intentionally self-inflicted. Obvious to everyone but Mom and Grandma. A cat had probably run in front of the car, Mom had said. Maybe a wasp had flown in through the window, Grandma had said. But Bob knew better. The man had simply had enough and had seen no other options available to him. Bob had understood that in an abstract way back then, at the age of nine, but now it was as clear to him as the moon in the sky that night.

He stared up at the moon for a long time, then lowered his gaze to its rippling, undulating reflection on the surface of the constantly moving water below. Fog was starting to move in, but it hadn’t gotten thick yet. He knew he had to get out somehow. No cancer could possibly eat at his insides as viciously as the misery caused by living with Mom and Grandma. The constant humiliation and denigration, the shouting, the judgmental finger-pointing, the self-righteous condemnation, and the baths—sweet holy Jesus Christ on the
cross
, his mother’s hot, steamy
baths
. It was all killing him as surely as if he’d been drinking a small dose of lethal poison each day.

The more he thought about it, the more claustrophobic and enclosed he felt. Even there, looking out at the endless ocean under the endless stars, he felt strangulated, trapped, encased like a mummy in a sarcophagus. He hopped off the hood of the station wagon, paced in front of the car for awhile, the ground crunching under his feet. Then he stopped, stared down at the ground, took a deep breath. Suddenly, he felt very tired. Exhausted. He wanted to go to bed.

Bob got back in the car and started the engine, flicked on the lights. He turned the radio on and caught the voice of a San Francisco talk show host snapping with annoyance at a caller. Bob made a U-turn and headed back the way he had come.

On his way to his old meditation spot, he’d passed the Sand Dollar Coffee Shop, and next to it, the Lighthouse Motel, both aged establishments that were showing their years. The motel was a little U-shaped arrangement of rooms with the office to the right of them. It looked battered by time and weather, the paint peeling, the roof shabby, and the courtyard in the middle had not been kept up in ages. Beachview Road had been widened twice over the years and the little motel now stood on its very edge. A porch light glowed beside the door of each room, and a sodium vapor light cast a sickly glow over the courtyard. The coffee shop next door was in even worse shape—Bob was surprised it was still open for business.

As Bob drove by, observing the low speed limit on Beachview, movement caught his eye and he turned to the left to look at the motel. Two figures were leaving one of the rooms. In an instant, Bob took in the two dark figures, then did a double-take. At first, he wasn’t sure why, but on the second look, his eyes were pulled directly to the figure on the left. Both were backlit and he could see no details, but the figure on the left grabbed his attention. The shape, height, the gait and movements—they were very familiar. And then he’d driven by and they were gone.

Frowning, he checked for traffic in both directions, then went into another U-turn. He drove back to the motel and stopped on the opposite side of the road.

The two figures stood by an SUV now. The one he’d recognized was female, and in a heartbeat, he knew it was his sister. But what was she doing at the Lighthouse Motel? And who was her companion?

The male figure opened the door of the SUV. The light inside came on and spilled out the door onto the two of them. It took Bob a moment, but he soon realized that the man was Deputy Cross, the object of Rochelle’s girlish attention at church that day. It didn’t take a PhD to figure out why Rochelle was with Cross and what they’d been doing there, but as if to make it even easier, Rochelle and Cross embraced in the splash of light, kissed for a long time, then separated.

Bob’s hands gripped the steering wheel so hard, his arms trembled and his knuckles ached. The hot anger he’d felt earlier when he’d left the house began to rise in his throat again like bad food on its way back up.

Rochelle was so self-righteous, always telling Bob how sinful he was, what a lousy Christian he was, how he was going to burn in the lake of fire in the end. She went to church every Sabbath, prayer meeting on Wednesdays, she participated in all the church activities and made Mike and Peter do the same, sent Peter to an Adventist school, wouldn’t let him watch much of anything on TV, strictly controlled what he read and wore and did with his spare time—

And here she is screwing a cop in a sleazy little motel while her husband thinks she’s shopping for shoes,
Bob thought as he watched Cross get into his SUV a Rochelle get into her silver Jetta.

Rochelle and Cross started their vehicles. Bob turned off his lights, but let the car idle. He was in the dark and knew they wouldn’t see him on their way out. He waited as they backed away from their motel room, then pulled out onto Beachview, first Rochelle’s Toyota, then Cross’s SUV. He looked into his side view mirror and watched their taillights fade, then disappear around a curve.