He felt as if he were being dragged along in a dangerous current, swept inexorably toward a decision that could destroy him. “Is there anyone else living here? A relative?”
“Just Richie and me.”
“Richie’s your husband?”
“That’s right.”
Last Friday, in Ultman’s Cafe, he had risked exposing the entire project by using the code phrase to play with that waitress who looked like Miriam. He had gotten away with it, but he knew he was a fool to allow his emotions to overwhelm him like that. As penance for his behavior, he was far more cautious on Saturday and Sunday than he needed to be. He used the code phrase two dozen times, interviewing the subjects in detail, searching for weak spots in their obedient mode; but he never approached one of them if there was the slimmest chance of discovery. Some of the women had been attractive, and he could have used them any way he wanted. But he had restrained himself. Having tasted total dominance when he opened Alice, that bitch waitress, with the code, he was anxious to make one of them undress and get down on the floor before him. Damned anxious. And this one, standing there in shorts and halter, seemed to radiate heat that evaporated his will power and his caution. He wanted to believe that, unlike the episode at the café, this situation contained no threat; and wanting to believe was the first step toward convincing himself.
“I am the key.”
“I am the lock.”
Relieved, he wiped his brow. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
He began to tremble, not with fear but with excitement. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“No. No one.”
“Is anyone expecting you? Were you planning to go visiting?”
“No.”
“Let me in.”
She pushed open the screen door.
He stepped past her into the air-conditioned foyer. There was an oval mirror and accessory table on the right, a small painting of a storm-tossed sailing ship on his left. “Close the door. And lock it.”
She did as she was told.
A short corridor, containing two more paintings of sailing ships, led from the foyer to the kitchen.
On the left the living room opened to the hail through an archway. It was neatly furnished. An oriental carpet. Two Crushed velvet sofas and a slate-topped coffee table arranged to form a conversation corner. Matching crushed-velvet drapes at the three windows. A magazine rack. A gun case. Two Stiffel lamps. To harmonize with the carpet, the paintings were of Western sailing ships docked in Chinese harbors.
“Draw the drapes,” he said.
She went from window to window, then came back to the center of the room. She stood with her hands at her sides, staring at him, a half-smile on her face.
She was waiting. ‘Waiting for orders. His orders. She was his puppet, his slave.
For more than a minute he stood in the archway, unable to move, unable to decide what he should do next. Immobilized by fear, anticipation, and the grip of lust that made his groin ache almost unpleasantly, he was nevertheless sweating as if he had just run the mile. She was his. Entirely his: her mouth, breasts, ass, legs, cunt, every inch and fold of her. Better than that, there was no need for him to worry about whether or not he pleased her. The only consideration was his own pleasure. If he told her that she loved it, she would love it. No complaints afterward. No recriminations. Just the act-and then to hell with her. Here, ready for the first time to use a woman exactly as he wanted, he found the reality more exhilarating than the dreams he’d had so many years to elaborate upon.
She regarded him quizzically. “Is that all?”
“No.” His voice was hoarse.
“What do you want?”
He went to the nearest lamp, switched it on, and sat down on one of the sofas. “You stand where you are,” he said. “Answer my questions and do what I say.”
“All right.”
“What’s your name?”
“Brenda.”
“How old are you, Brenda?”
“Twenty-six.”
He took his handkerchief from his hip pocket, wiped his face. He looked at the paintings of sailing ships. “Your husband likes the sea?”