“Then he likes paintings of the sea.”
“No. He doesn’t care for them.”
He had only been talking to pass time while he decided how he wanted to proceed with her. Now, her unexpected answer confused him. “Then why the hell do you have all these paintings?”
“I was born and raised in Cape Cod. I love the sea.”
“But he doesn’t care for it. Why does he let you hang these damned things everywhere?”
“He knows I like them,” she said.
He wiped his face again, put the handkerchief away. “He knows if he took them off the wall, you’d freeze him out in bed. Wouldn’t you, Brenda?”
“Of course not.”
“You know you would, you little bitch. You’re a pretty little piece. He’d do anything to keep you happy. Any man would. Men have been running to do your bidding since you were old enough to fuck. You snap your fingers, and they dance. Don’t they?”
Puzzled, she shook her head. “Dance? No.”
He laughed bitterly. “A game of semantics. You know I didn’t really mean ‘dance.’ You’re like all the others. You’re a bitch, Brenda.”
She squinted. Frowned.
“I say you’re a bitch. Am I right?” Her frown vanished. “Yes.”
“I’m always right. Isn’t that true?” “Yes. You’re always right.”
“What am I?”
“You’re the key.”
“What are you?”
“I’m the lock.”
He was feeling better by the minute. Not so tense as he had been. Not so jittery. Calm. In control. As he’d never been. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “You’d like me to strip you naked and screw you. Wouldn’t you like that, Brenda?”
She hesitated.
“You’d like it,” he said.
“I’d like it.”
“You’d love it.”
“I’d love it.”
“Take off your halter.”
Reaching behind her back, she slipped the knot, and the polka-dot cloth fell to her feet. The flesh beneath was white, in stark and erotic contrast to her dark tan. Her breasts were neither large nor small, but exquisitely curved, upthrust. A few freckles. Pink nipples not much darker than her untanned skin. She kicked the halter out of her way.
“Touch them,” he said.
“My breasts?”
“Squeeze them. Pull on the nipples.” He watched, found her movements too mechanical, and said, “You’re horny, Brenda. You want to be fucked. You can’t wait to have me. You need it. You want it. You want it more than you’ve ever wanted it in your life. You’re almost sick with wanting it.”
As she continued to caress herself, her nipples swelled and turned a darker shade of pink. She was breathing heavily.
He giggled. He couldn’t suppress it. He felt terrific. So terrific. “Take off your shorts.”
She did.
“And your panties. You’re a real blonde, I see. Now, put one hand between those pretty legs. Finger yourself. That’s it. That’s good. That’s a good girl.”
Standing, her feet wide apart, masturbating, she was a stunning sight. She threw back her head, golden hair trailing like a banner, mouth open, face slack. She was gasping for breath. Shivering. Twitching. Moaning. With her free hand, she was still caressing her breasts.
The power. Good God, the power he had over them now, would always have over them, from this day forward! He could come into their homes, into their most sacred and private places, and once inside do whatever he wished with them. And not just with the women. Men too. If he ordered it of them, the men would mewl and crawl to him on their hands and knees. They would beg him to screw their wives. They’d give him their daughters, their girl children. They wouldn’t deny him any experience, however extravagant or outrageous. He would demand every thrill, and he would enjoy each of them. But on the whole, he would be a benign ruler, a benevolent dictator, more like a father than a jailer. No jackboots in their faces. He laughed at that last thought.
Ten years ago, when he was still conducting lecture tours and writing about the future of behavior modification and mind control, he was subjected to extensive ridicule and vehement condemnation from some members of the academic community. In lecture halls, all but forcibly detained at the end of his speeches, he had listened to countless self-righteous bores droning through homilies about invasion of privacy and the sanctity of the human mind, They quoted hundreds of great thinkers, epigrams by the score-some of which he remembered to this day.