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Erotic romance novels are stories written about the development of a romantic relationship through sexual interaction. The sex is an inherent part of the story, character growth, and relationship development, and could not be removed without damaging the storyline.
I’ve Been Sold from Scandal for Sale © 2005 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved
May 7 th
I have been sold.
My gut grinds as that thought works its way about my mind.
Judge Perdue and his wife took me to the auction house—I had no idea that such a place existed in the modern world. Whether it was a façade resurrected in a day, or something permanent, I can’t be sure; but the crude room at the top of the aging warehouse looked, smelled and felt authentic… as if hundreds of owned souls had been offered for sale, auctioned, purchased and transferred to their new owners inside the rough surroundings. Approaching the building from the street, a shudder of apprehension ripped through my being as I viewed the abandoned edifice. It looked like the next in line for bulldozers and wrecking balls, rather then a place of commerce. Inside, my quavering body took a scary trek up three flights of stairs and into a holding room just off the main arena. Some putrid smell wafted by my nostrils then disappeared. I looked around at my surroundings, seeing little but filth. No one had bothered to clean the wooden floor, dust the grimy surfaces or clear the stale air with a breath of fresh air from an opened window. All the windows had been boarded—I suppose years ago. A few cracks revealed the daylight outside, but otherwise the auction house belonged to another time, cloaked in darkness. I had only moments to survey the room before a blindfold dropped over my eyes, and I was hastily disrobed and pushed into my cage.
Inside my blindness, my hands probed the space around me. I was surrounded on four sides, hardly able to move inside the tiny prison. I could stand. I could flex my legs, but I couldn’t turn around. There were noises all around me, and hands that jabbed my flesh. I jumped and shrieked, feeling as if I was being probed with Billy clubs and canes. Someone’s hand pressing at my cunt found the folds slick with juice.
“Shall I get her off?”
“Not protocol, Griz.”
Other anonymous voices bantered back and forth at my expense, while the heavy weight of cutting nipple clamps caused my breasts to sag, and sent angry lines of pain screeching merrily through my body. A crude dildo was thrust into my dry anus.
“Lube it, Connor,” an exasperated female droned.
“It’s going in,” Connor answered back. In my imagination, I could see his mouth grinning evilly.
My head was yanked back against the bars, my hair twisted into a knot, tying it out of the way. Another pair of hands yanked on the clamps, yanked hard enough to pull them off. I screamed.
A firm hand on my chin shook my anchored head, while a seething voice hissed in my ear, “Maybe you want to be gagged, bitch.”
From above the din around me, I heard the auctioneer’s call as another slave was on the block, and the purchase was being finalized.
I endured the taunts, the jeers and the crude touch minutes more, then all that ceased. The hands withdrew, my head was freed, and the dildo in my ass was removed. I felt the bars of my cage opening, and a hand pressing down on my right shoulder. “Crawl,” the voice was as dismal as the mood around me.
A collar was slapped around my throat, tied off tightly at the back of my neck and then attached to a leash. Tugged forward, I made my journey over the dusty floor, grime and soot pressing into my hands and knees. When my head hit wood, I was pulled upright and prodded in the center of my ass with a stick.
“On your feet.”
Maneuvering blind is a grueling task. My muscles seemed to fight the move, to creak and groan in protest; but my will prevailed. Once on my feet again, someone yanked my collar from above and I stepped up to the platform, bumping my shins on the high steps.
Heat came at me from all sides, blistering my skin with fire. Then shouts commenced as the dais turned and my head grew dizzy. My mouth was dry, my palms sweat profusely, but there was nowhere to wipe them except on my naked thighs.
Some stray hand tugged at my pubic hair. Another yanked the hair on my head. I would have kicked the asshole in the leg, but that would have been a dangerous move. Common sense won out.
I heard the voices of the barter shouting numbers into the stifling air.
I teetered, thinking I’d faint; but someone noticed and shoved smelling salts at my nose, “Wake up.”
“Yes, Sir.” I answered the voice without thinking, seconds later wondering why I’d be so respectful of this ritual, and the men who auctioned me.
Behind the abuse, the aggravation and my anger, my belly burned with sexual intensity, flaring ferociously as each insult heaped on more humiliation. Thank God, I couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t peer into their eyes, and was too afraid to shout the thoughts that careened around my mind like cawing crows.
One minute, I was in the midst of this heated battle, wishing I could somehow fly away; the next, I was pushed from behind and stumbling forward into a pair of muscular arms, tossed over meaty shoulders and taken away.
Caged again, I sat in a different sort of contraption, a metal box with steel bars. Confined, curled up in a ball just to fit insides the tiny space, I waited while the focus turned from me to another slave who’d become the center in this festival of flesh.
“Lift her head.” I heard the words, but made no connection with the voice. My blindfold remained in place.
A stinging palm slapped me awake. Someone said I’d fainted.
Once drawn from the cage, a blanket was thrown over my shoulders and a guiding arm encircled my waist. I was taken from the building, helped down three flights of stairs and led into daylight, quickly shoved into the seat of a car—a back seat I presumed. I lay curled in fetal position during the long ride to my final destination.
It seemed like a century had passed since I was allowed the use of my eyes. Hearing my name, I opened them, finding them trying to focus on a face in front of me—a familiar face, though I couldn’t immediately remember where I’d seen these classically handsome and trustworthy features. Perhaps he just reminded me of someone.
“Your new home,” he announced. He was sitting on the bed where I lay, and gazed around at the simple but very pleasant surroundings. I glanced toward the window, seeing nothing but sky and suspected that we were on the upper floor of an apartment high-rise.
“The Greenery Building.” He’d read my thoughts.
I didn’t recall the building, but that hardly mattered now.
“I think the auction went rather well.” He was trying to be gracious. “You were lucky you weren’t whipped. Most properties are,” he smiled generously, “but I had all the information I needed without marring the merchandise. I’d rather whip you myself, as risk having your body damaged by some goon who doesn’t now how to punish without scarring.”
I still couldn’t put a name to his face, but I knew it well. The deep, rich, summer tan, the sincere, inquisitive eyes, the perfectly sculpted forehead, cheeks and jaw. A jaw with a purpose. This man was created for the modern day aristocracy—a politician, an actor… no, he was on the news—how could I have missed that face! He was the Channel 9 anchor for the six o’clock news, and now the owner of a female slave.
“Andy Kerrigan,” he introduced himself, “you’re S. R. Lourdes.”
“And this is where you live.” He pushed to his feet and strolled away from the bed to the windows, where an intense blue sky framed his silhouette. “Twelve stories high in my apartment. It’s as good a place for a slave to dwell as any I can think of.” His deep baritone was unmistakable. My crotch was getting wet, wondering how he’d look without his clothes. “I do plan to make some alterations.” I wasn’t sure what he meant. He turned back to me. “I have particular fantasies that have me quite intrigued. I’m told you’re moldable, so we’ll see. I am a bit of a sadist, but then your previous owner was, too.” A quick smile, and he continued with his monologue. “I’m sure that my streak of villainy will be no more difficult to handle than what you have handled before.” He sounded as if he was reading from a teleprompter.
“Will I have my personal belongings?” I timidly asked.
The question surprised him. He thought a moment, speaking extemporaneously this time, “Yes. There were a couple of boxes that accompanied you here. You can get them from the storeroom later today.”
He seemed amenable to questions so I continued, “How will I serve you?”
“I am working on that. I have a few ideas, but I don’t like to plan anything too far in advance. The element of surprise excites me. Hopefully it will excite you too.”
I was able to retrieve this diary from a sad-looking box of personal effects that Mrs. Perdue had gathered for me. Other than a few clothes, which at the moment it seems I won’t be wearing, there is little more that I cared to keep. Thankfully, Ma’am always respected my diary, and never asked to read it. I hope that Andy Kerrigan will grant me this much privacy. I don’t know how I can live without my words to comfort me—or worse yet, have them read and tampered with. The thought grates at my every nerve.
May 26 th
I’m very busy, hardly able to breathe. I am a slave here. Cook, housekeeper, accountant (I HATE this the most), dishwasher, seamstress, laundress. This apartment is enormous, master bedroom, three additional bedrooms, a living room, dining room, kitchen, study, TV room, salon, and slave quarters, just off the laundry room. So much—too much—for a bachelor and his slave.
My hands are raw from scrubbing floors—the old fashioned way. Andy loves the look of me naked on my hands and knees. He often pelts my ass with his belt as I try to work, which becomes terrifying and frustrating both. If I cringe or show the least bit of annoyance, his anger flares. I’m going to have to watch this owner more carefully than I did the Judge. He seems much more moody and volatile.
The benefits of Andy Kerrigan, however, may weigh in his favor. My groin seems to churn sexually whenever he’s around. Even his impulsive moods seem to heighten my arousal. There’s some mysterious chemistry between us that makes me forget his faults. His frequent slights increase the sexual tension and the tease. I seem to be obsessed by him, as if I were thirteen again. I remember feeling this way toward the Judge, for a time; but the dynamics were much different than I’m feeling now. He doesn’t have the same authoritarian manner as Judge Perdue; instead, a youthful, arrogant vigor that quickens my entire being when he’s near.
Andy can be very terribly conventional about some matters. While he can give me a good stinging wallop with a paddle or spanker, his idea of sex is, so far, very straight, even romantic. We make love in a very traditional sense.
Nearly every night when he returns after his last news broadcast, he comes to my room. No bondage, no restraints, or clamps, or gags, or leather. We make love.
Last night, he kissed me, ran his hands down through my hair, loving pulling it until I felt the tingle exhilarate every nerve, renew a long forgotten excitement. I realize that my lust is more than the gnawing ache of dark passion, spurred by my deep sexual fantasies.
He touches me tenderly.
I came on his hand, as his fingers teased their way about the delicate, roused slips of skin. When my pussy tightened hard on the probing digits, his hand was swathed in juice. Coating his cock with my cream, I opened my thighs for the thrust of his organ, finding the hefty thing filling the throbbing channel. I had not been taken so passionately in all my nights with Judge Perdue. Though the Judge’s routine mimicked the efforts of my new owner, Andy Kerrigan causes my entire body to quake deep, to feel reckless, abandoned. All control, all form seems to disappear when we are traveling toward our sexual ends. He wants me as fully aroused as he is; and I am. There is nothing automatic in my movements—our nights together turn me into the blushing schoolgirl in the morning when I serve him breakfast.
The chastity laces that the Judge found so necessary—Andy discarded them the first night, telling me that he wouldn’t be needing them. The tiny rings remain.
Last night, he studied my cunt carefully, making plans. He keeps saying that he has ideas in mind, but so far, we’re just frantically, passionately enjoying each other’s physical company.
June 20 th
We’ve started to talk more—which is a dicey business. But I do get bored with so much housework and very little mental stimulation. Newspapers, books, even the TV is locked in Andy’s study, far from my reach. My world is so carefully circumscribed that I almost leap on him when I have the chance and I think it’s safe to talk. There are rewards. And punishments for failures—if I read his mood wrong and pressure him. Occasionally, like this afternoon, our communication touches me intimately.
He told me about Leanne—his wife of six years. She died of cancer several years ago. He’s on several committees for cancer research, generously offering his smile and his name to money raising efforts. But these do little to appease the never-ending ache in his heart. Frankly, I think his heart turned to stone. Even my being here does little to open it. I imagine he’d have to open the deep wound of abandonment before he can love again, and for a man like Andy Kerrigan, that would be impossible.
He is a lonely man, locked inside a made-up world, vain about his appearance, particular about his clothes. Everything about him must be flawless when he leaves for work; even though he has dressers at the studio where they tidy him into perfection. I’m expected to take care of the details at home.
This morning, he flew into a rage when he discovered that I forgot to press the cuff of his pale blue shirt. Not that he couldn’t have substituted it for one of a half dozen other pale, blue dress shirts; this one failed him, and so had I.
He bellowed at me to come. I did, running from the kitchen.
As I entered the bedroom, I saw the danger inside and shrunk back. He held a doubled leather belt in his hand, the offending shirtsleeve rolled to his elbow, his eyes heartlessly burning cold. I would have run, but I had nowhere to go and my legs proved to be solidly fixed to the oak floor.
“I DEMAND PERFECTION,” he slowly enunciated each word so I wouldn’t miss his meaning. “This sloppy workmanship stinks, you hear?”
He glared at me as if I should understand without his telling me, and finally explained, “I’ve fired three housekeepers because they couldn’t put a pressed cuff on a cotton shirt. Need I explain more?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry. I’ll fix it right away.”
“No, you’ll get your ass blistered. Then maybe you’ll remember.”
There was no winning a battle of words with Andy Kerrigan. Besides, he didn’t give me time to try.
He strode three steps forward, grabbed my forearm, jerked me to him and hustled me to a chair by the window, where he sat down and I went over his lap. His leather belt pelted my ass in a frantic reign of smacks, delivered without mercy until I was sobbing and shaking. As quickly as the contest began, it was over, I was pushed to the floor and forced to stare upwards into his eyes for a final, thorough scolding.
“I live in a critical world where there is no room for dust on my jacket, a wrinkled cuff, a spot of spinach in my teeth, a single hair out of place. You live in that world, too. Don’t forget. One jot out of place, I’m doomed. Don’t doom me, or you doom your own existence.”
“Yes, Sir,” I spit back automatically.
He considered me more.
“I was thinking of allowing you clothes, but after this stunt, I think it’s best to keep you naked for awhile longer. Slave is no mere word in this household. It defines you. Get rid of any notions otherwise about your existence here. You’re here to serve me, to make me look good, to keep me sexually satisfied and take the edge off my long-standing resentment against the world. Have I made myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Sir.” Without question, equivocation, hesitation, ambiguity. I was clear. And clearly afraid of him.
My owner is truly a strange fellow. When Andy got home tonight, he made love to me as kindly as he ever has, with more tenderness, affection, kisses and caring. If he moves back and forth from loving me one minute, to blatant disregard for me the next, I do the same with him, from loving to loathing to fearing.
Shackles and Cuffs…
Excerpt from the novel Spontaneous Combustion by Lizbeth Dusseau,
© Copyright, 2014, all rights reserved. Ebook
I never thought much about shackles, though I’ve always loved that word – shackles. Better than ‘cuffs’ which doesn’t have that Old World feeling about it that shackles do. There’s something romantic in that word that makes me think of them fondly – reason unknown. And yet, it’s not the word I’ll use today when talking about my recent experience with my master. While shackles sound romantic, cuffs is a no-nonsense kind of word. And since he’s a no nonsense kind of master, I’ll call them cuffs for now.
The name doesn’t matter, it’s what he does with them that counts.
When he first talked about putting me in cuffs, I worried that my thin wrists would slip through the bands, as they often do with most wrist restraints. He was unfazed by my concern, and I soon saw why. He already had the issue covered; these cuffs were adjustable and could fit tightly around my small wrists with no room left to slip my hands from their confining grasp. How clever of him to understand the versatility of his choice when he ordered them – must have been years ago.
He’s a practical man, cuffs for any occasion, any slave. And now me, like I’m another in a long line of submissive females taken in by his unique authoritative charm.
Let me not forget to mention the ankle cuffs of the same design as those for my wrists, these just slightly larger. I feel doubly bound with hands and feet both locked in leather. The minute I put them on, I become aware how fully tethered I could be were I to be lashed to a tree, tethered to a cross or laid out on a bed with my body spread wide, and every part of me vulnerable to the master’s plans. I’ve never wanted this. Oh, maybe in a fantasy or two or three, perhaps. But those fantasies took place in real dungeons, with dark lords, despicable brutes masquerading as country gentlemen, or urban financial warriors with enough cash to have women panting, ready to be their sexy chattel when they take a break from work and need a place to slake their pent-up lust.
But never in a real time, real life sexual relationship with a man on top and me, a lifestyle submissive below, has this cuffed and shackled reality been something that particularly turned me on. It’s never been part of my kinky DNA. At least that’s what I thought not more than a few months ago.
Now’s different. Now cuffs are part of my reality, a permanent fixture in the master’s bag of tricks. I’ve had to reconsider a lot of pet beliefs about myself since being introduced to this man.
I’ve been turned into a play toy, my body naked – yes, of course, I’m naked. Is there anything other than a naked slave? Shackled, fettered, retrained, restricted, any of the adjectives will do since all of them take me down a rung to something elemental inside myself. A place behind a door, a secret passageway, a realm so obscure in me that until this master entered my life, I never knew it existed. I’m dizzy with the splendid truth that there are still mysterious places left in me to explore.
The experience is more than I expected. The locks clatter when I move, and the weight of them is not something that I can dismiss. The look of them, the feel, the sound, the smell of them, takes me into an altered state of arousal without his saying a word.
Once fitted properly, their noisy clatter works on my mind with every rash or subtle movement, with every jiggle, with every time a heavy lock hits hard against my flesh. Heat rises inside my crotch. Desire creeps into me from every angle.
I never imagined myself shackled for sex, that something so uniquely in tune with the strange set of sexual practices that, in general, I embrace, would become a regular routine with me. I always figured that cuffs were the province of those lifestylers more driven by the symbols of their kink than I have been. Never seemed all that important to me. And yet, I know that when our first sex date was over, and I had his permission to remove the cuffs, my mind instantly rebelled. I didn’t want them gone; and for several seconds, I couldn’t fathom what my life would be like without them, their smell, the feel, the heavy, awkward weight. Damn! It is uncanny what they do to me!
In his absence tonight, I took them out of hiding according to his orders, gently fondled the stiff leather and the hardness of the steel. I drank in the pungent aroma that I love then listened as the metal clattered when I put them on. The memories of our first hours together ran through my brain, all sexually charged. They collided inside my sex where it was wet, hot, wanting. I know he’s preparing me for this next arrival, when I imagine that the sex will once again stir up more unrestrained passion. Ah, but there’s a method in this master’s madness. I know that when I put them on, I’ll feel as I did that first time, and as I did tonight, that I have arrived in the place where I belong.
Oh! Why do I make so much of them? I shake my head in wonder. They’re just a toy… END
57 Chevy by Lizbeth Dusseau
She arises out of nowhere on a deserted stretch of road.
Where the dry land shimmers with heat, where you can see for miles the endless ribbon of hot asphalt stretched out in front of your eyes, he sees his first glimpse of her. He thinks at first it’s a mirage, the turquoise and white Chevy, with a blonde girl sitting on its hood. But he slows from an 85 mile an hour clip to a snail’s pace just to see if she’ll vanish as soon as he approaches. He stops his battered pick-up when he realizes that she is no mere apparition.
Like a phantom from his wet daydreams there she is, her long smooth legs dangling beyond the thin dress. Pale pink, peach and faded yellow flowers meander about the transparent fabric, while the dress barely covers her slinky limbs and her thin torso. In the light, he sees through the fine material how her large breasts are pushed against the flowers, how her waist curves, and how her hips blossom below. She parts her legs so he can see the outline of her cunt. There’s even a damp spot on the dress where she’s pressed her fingers to her hole and the juice has stained it.
“Car broke down?” he asks.
He squints facing the sun, raising his hand over his brow so he can see her better. Tanned arms reveal downy sun bleached hair, matching the windblown straw-colored locks that dangle in his face.
“I think so,” she says giggling, though she doesn’t make an effort to move. “You know something about cars?” Something sensuous about her lips, he wants to move right in and kiss them.
“Yeah, sure,” he says. He runs his hands through his hair, pushing it back, and startling blue eyes appear, framed by darker brows. His T-shirt hugs his chest, his nipples poking through as clearly as hers poke through her dress.
He can’t help staring down at her as she bends her knees up to her chest and parts her legs wide. Where her ass meets the hood of the Chevy he can see her bare pink cunt. Caught off guard he stares beyond his embarrassment, as the sun bounces off gold rings embedded in her labia. Six, he thinks, three on either side, and one wet hole between he sees glisten in the sun.
“You want me to look under the hood?” he asks. He hesitates, though not his cock that bobs against his denim blues. Hot—so hot he thinks it might explode.
She giggles again and shakes her head no.
She reaches between her legs, drawing the skirt up just an inch or two, and takes one ring-bedecked finger of her right hand and slips it into the small hole. Then she pulls at the piercings, drawing the labia aside so he can see the purple hue of her inner folds.
“You can fuck me if you like,” she whispers softly. In her eyes lust drips like water from a lazy old faucet. Slowly, languidly her limbs ooze with sexual intent, drawing him into her closer, a step at a time. She sways just slightly as if she’s keeping time to music only her crotch can hear.
“You mean right here? Right now?” He shakes his head and looks down the road. “There’s a motel…” he starts.
“Shush.” Her red puckered lips against her index finger quiet him. “I’m ready now.”
He hesitates, but she has him on the tether of her droopy eyes. At the bumper of the Chevy, he reaches out with his thick well-used hands to part her thighs further. He gazes down between them while she smiles.
His hands, more impulsive than his reason, reach out and grab her hips to pull them close. Fingers at his zipper open the fly and withdraw his cock. It bobs momentarily in his hand, the last bit of hesitation. With the nod of her head as approval, he throws away logic and presses himself into her opening—that small place expanding with eager welcome around the throbbing organ.
“Ah, yes,” she murmurs softly as she lies back against the hood of the car while he pulls her groin tight to his and begins to thrust. With her arms reaching out to either side of her like she’s grabbing bed sheets beneath her, she’s laid out for him like some vision of womanhood sent from the gods. He drinks in her sex as if he’s gulping wine. Her writhing moves in a languid rhythm. She moans, whimpers and jerks so hard he thinks she’ll jerk him out. She comes. He knows that by the way her inner muscles squeeze down hard. But she’s much too quick for him. He’s still on the rise about to feel himself splash over that erotic edge. He hopes she’ll let him finish but she opens her eyes.
“My ass,” she says, now more like a dragon breathing fire than the sumptuous siren rising from the desert. Drawing up her legs so that his prick pulls out, he sees the shiny metal rings that thread through her vaginal lips. He feels them because he’s never felt anything like it before—some mark of sexual power, or obedience—or both. Perhaps they’re one in the same. A tug at the forward rings and she cries softly. “My ass,” she repeats, and she turns her hips so she’s lying face down on the old Chevy’s hood, her ass bare, ready for him.
“In your ass?” he questions.
She hisses her reply and parts her legs, her feet on the bumper, so he can see the target easily, that puckering hole already wet with juice that was dripping from her cunt.
His fingers slide in first as he draws more of her dew from its fountain source below. When they slip easily in and out he moves in closer, pressing the hard head of his cock against what seems to be a tiny hole. He watches it expand as he forces the thick stalk beyond the opening door. Her backdoor scent, that odd perfume of earth and darkness and diabolical things, transports him back in time to his darkest sexual hours. He’s no longer in the desert screwing a curious enchantress, but in a place where lecherous men fuck reckless whores.
“Yes, god yes,” she cries in muted tones barely audible to his ears. Her pulsing rhythms draw him inside her, the sensation profound. More. She clamors for more, thrashing about on the hood of the car, demanding his prick go deep, demanding that he pick up the pace so that his balls slap against her ass, so that he must grab her flesh and hold on tight.
“My cunt,” she groans.
Her meaning clear, it’s his fingers that find the lips and hole and the dangling metal. It’s his fingers that tug hard, that jerk the rings and pinch her clit. But it’s his cock that feels the benefit when her body explodes for a second time.
She gasps for breath, exhausted, but unable to stop the rollicking gyrations. She squeezes hard and his own gut wrenches. With a final thrust, he shoots.
Laid out. Spread eagle. Face down on the Chevy. He sees her breathing in even measured breaths. He dabs his cock on the back of her thigh and then puts it back inside his jeans.
The transparent dress is bunched about her waist, while her wasted bottom remains in its lazy repose, showing signs of a good fuck—where he’d held her flesh tightly and kneaded it until it turned red. The color will fade soon, but for the moment, her bottom is a fine thing to look at. He parts her ass cheeks one last time with his fingers to see where he’d impaled her.
“Your car didn’t need fixing, did it?” he asks her.
“Hummm,” is the only sound he hears from her.
“Shall I go?” he wonders aloud.
“Ooo, no,” she suddenly finds her real voice. “Just one last thing.” She turns about. “Your lips,” she says pointing down to her pierced lower lips.
“My lips?” he questions, and she nods yes.
With a shrug and a smile he accommodates her again, his tongue doing a dance about the rings and flesh and warm wet hole, until she shrieks with her muted voice one more time and then goes limp. Falling back against the hood of the Chevy, she looks as if she’ll melt into the metal.
The sun, once so high above, droops low, as if it’s been hours that have past. He could swear that their fuck took only minutes, but the facts belie that. The shadows on the surrounding mountains have been altered by the time of day. So long, they stretch across the desert like sulking phantoms. He notes the hour hand on his watch, staring at it as if something has gone awry. It’s late, much too late. And yet, the second hand ticks off the seconds as it always has, and he knows that somehow he’s lost reality under the spell of the woman lingering on her 57 Chevy.
“Can I help you up?” he asks her.
She’s on her side, her long thighs pressed together so that he can barely see the glistening rings, though they still peek at him. With her blonde head resting on her thin white arm she looks at peace. A coy smirk reminds him how she greeted him, though now she’s naked. Her dress, somehow discarded, lies in the dust beside the car, as if it belonged there.
“No,” she answers him, “I think I’ll rest awhile.”
Any other lone woman on a lonely road, he’d never leave like this; but this one knows what she wants and he doesn’t argue. There’s little way to say goodbye. No thought of meeting again. He wouldn’t even know how to ask since she belongs to another world.
Walking back to the pick-up truck he climbs inside, all the while staring at her smiling face. Pulling into the highway, he drives by slowly for one last look at her silky white shape and the hint of gold between her legs. Lying there, as if she has nothing better to do than shag strangers in a barren desert, she waves him on with a happy grin. And he takes off.
A little remorse, a little pang of fear grips him in that first instant down the road. He’s left her too quickly. He should have made sure her car would start. A girl, any girl has no business on this deserted stretch of asphalt. He thinks the thoughts; sure he should turn back. But then all that concern disappears. One look in the rear view mirror, he sees the truth.
No turquoise and white 57 Chevy.
No girl, no cunt, no glistening gold, no sensuous limbs.
It hasn’t been minutes since he left her side, it’s only been seconds and she’s gone, disappeared into the ethers of the heat. Where? He’s not about to ask. Shaking his head, he moves on, guns the engine on the truck and heads off toward the purple sky.