Judith Krantz (14 page)

“Do you know what I think, Sam?” Fernanda said in her teasing, little-girl, secret-telling voice. “I
think that in bed at school, you imagine a woman, a woman who’s only wearing a tiny pair of panties, so transparent that you can almost see through them, almost but not quite, but you can see that there’s a darkness between her legs. And then you let yourself imagine that this woman is pushing her panties down, very slowly but very deliberately, so that you can get a really good look at the wonderful hair, blond hair, like mine, so soft and secret between her legs, and then you get harder and harder and you can’t stop yourself from putting your hand on your own cock and rubbing yourself, just a little at first, and then more and more, and then you let yourself imagine that the woman pushes her panties all the way down and kicks them off so that they don’t hold her legs together. She’s completely naked now but she doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t make a sound, she just lies there with her legs spread a little bit apart and she’s moving her ass around on the bed, she can’t help it, Sam, because she’s so hot knowing that you’re looking at her and seeing that you’re getting more and more ready for her, oh, so hard, Sam, so ready and then you finally can’t help it either, you imagine yourself reaching over and putting your fingers on her pussy and the woman still doesn’t say anything but she can’ stop squirming, trying to lift herself up toward you and then she puts her own hands on her pussy, right over your fingers, and ever so slowly she opens her legs so that you can see what the hair is hiding and you know that now, now you can stick it inside her—oh, my goodness … Sam, I’m going to have to take that big cock of yours out of your pants or you’ll be in trouble, won’t you?” Fernanda whispered.

She leaned over quickly, deftly unzipped his fly. took out his straining, painfully tumescent penis. “Oh, it’s so big, so beautiful and big,” she said and held it in her palms, not moving her fingers. As she spoke the boy, goaded beyond any restraint, reared backwards and fell onto the bed, biting his lips together to stifle his cries. He flooded immediately into her cupped hands in quick, huge spurts and with each spurt he bit
his lips harder so that no sound escaped him. Finally his penis lay heavily in Fernanda’s palms. She let it fall forward onto the quilt while she leaned over to the towel on the bed, and wiped her hands dry. The boy pushed himself back onto the bed, clutching his trousers, his eyes still firmly closed, panting in relief. Fernanda bent over him and realized from his expression that he still didn’t dare look at her, that he was embarrassed by the quickness of his spasms.

“Oh, Sam, you did just what I wanted, exactly what I wanted you to do,” Fernanda assured him. “You’re going to come again and again, until you think you can’t come anymore. I’
m going to milk you dry.
”

“I don’t get it,” he said breathlessly, almost sobbing. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Why did you do that to me? You made me come so fast, those things you said, you knew I would, I couldn’t help it. You treated me like a toy!”

“Listen, Sam,” Fernanda said, in a low but relentlessly carnal tone, “I’ll let you do and see all sorts of things you’ve dreamed of and some you haven’t—and if that’s not good enough, you can leave. We’re just beginning, that was just a sample. You don’t want to leave now, do you? Wouldn’t you rather stay here with me, Sam?” While she was talking to him she was unfastening her halter and unzipping her deerskin pants so that they slid to the floor. She stood totally naked in front of him and he rose up on his elbows, gaping in astonishment, too stunned to say a word.

“Now, Sam, just watch, don’t you dare move,” she warned him as she let her hands wander down her body, lifting and cupping her marvelous breasts and squeezing them enticingly together, and then smoothing herself caressingly over her slightly rounded belly and her delicately full hips until she brushed her hands enticingly over her pubic hair, her thighs parted a few inches. “Ah … yes … I knew I couldn’t trust you,” Fernanda said, even as she displayed the softness and shape of her body, fingering herself shamelessly. “You’re getting hard again, Sam.”

She had no intention of letting the boy touch her until he was so spent that he’d be ready to take her directions. She licked her fingers and teased her nipples until they stood up hard and firm and pale brown on her rosy, lush breasts. The cadet began to breathe with difficulty. “Take your clothes off but don’t get off the bed,” Fernanda told him. She watched him as he struggled quickly out of his clothes, her hands never leaving her tense nipples, breathing deeply as he revealed his lanky but powerful naked body. “Now lie back on the pillows and say, ‘I’m your slave,’ say it out loud.”

“No!” he protested.

“If you don’t say it I’ll leave. Say it and play with your cock while you say it. Rub yourself the way you do when you’re all alone, show me how you do it.”

“Oh God!”

“Say it!”

“I’m your slave, I’ll do anything, just let me put it in you.”

“Oh no, no, not yet. You still have to do what I want, Sam. Don’t worry about it, just look at me, watch what I’m doing, and keep playing with your cock. I want to watch you do it. Don’t stop, don’t stop and don’t try to touch me no matter what I do.”

Fernanda stood close to him as he lay on the bed, so that at eye level he could see her sucking the middle finger of one hand and putting it between her legs. She rubbed it back and forth, returned her finger to her mouth, sucked on it and then put it back on the fattening, succulent bit of flesh.

“What are you, Sam?”

“I’m your slave,” he moaned through dry lips, feeling his penis fill and rise under his rapidly moving fingers.

“What am I doing, Sam?”

“Touching … yourself. Oh God, let me stick it in you, please, just once,” he implored.

“I’m all wet inside, Sam—but you can’t put it in me, you can’t touch, you can look but you can’t touch. Keep playing with yourself.”

“No,” he said unsteadily. “I won’t. I’m not a baby.”

“Then I’ll have to do it for you,” Fernanda said ruthlessly, leaning down so that her hair brushed his testicles. She took the jerking, rearing, meaty penis in her hands and with sure, swift, merciless strokes massaged it up and down, with a knowing, dominating rhythm, until he fell back on the bed, giving himself up to her without resistance, moaning for her not to stop, not to stop, not ever to stop. He came in seconds, not flooding into her hands with the ease of the first time, but spurting separate convulsive contractions that were so powerful that he could do nothing to keep himself from uttering cries of abandon.

“Good, Sam, that was very good,” Fernanda praised him as she wiped her hands on the towel. “My slave, that’s exactly what you are. And you’ve finally learned to obey me.”

She lay down next to him on the bed, and looked at the boy. The cadet was utterly limp, almost as if he were unconscious, every muscle, every joint, every tendon of his young body relaxed, his head and his body turned away from her, as he lay on his side.

Yes, he was the nameless, faceless, devoted slave she had fantasized about for so many years—or as close as she was ever going to get. He was exhausted, all desire gone. In a minute she would allow him to touch her, make him follow every direction she gave him. When he finally got hard again, he’d know that he had to wait until she was ready. He belonged to her, he’d learned his lesson, she’d trained him. Why had she never tried a boy before, a slave boy, Fernanda wondered dreamily, and for a few minutes she drifted off to sleep.

She woke to find herself pinioned under Sam’s body. His penis, enlarged with the almost impossible growth of a man aroused for the third time, was pulsating at the entrance to her vagina and her legs were spread apart by his knees. With a grunt he pushed the swollen tip roughly into her, grinding it forward until he filled her completely.

“So I’m your slave, am I? I’m fucking you good, you cock-tease. Can a slave do that?” he asked ferociously. “I’ll show you what kind of slave I am.”

“Stop! Stop or I’ll scream.”

“I don’t give a shit. You’ll take my cock and you’ll like it.”

“Sam, I’ll tell your mother!”

“Oh sure. How did I get to your room? Shut up. You want it, I know you do.”

“I don’t!”

“Yes, you do!” He fell silent, gritting his teeth as he pulled his penis back violently so that he could shove it forward with all his strength, grinding it into her body with the crazed, untutored power that only a very young man has. His breathing was uneven, he didn’t touch her with his lips or his hands, all his frenzied concentration was on his penis, and although Fernanda fought in an effort to stop him, it was as if he had jammed a rod into her. Faster and faster he labored, thrashing about on the bed, as unconcerned about the woman he was in as if he were in a whorehouse. Finally he rode her into his racking, torturous, short orgasm. He lay heavily on her, still swollen, until finally, as she pummeled him, he pulled out, falling away from her without a word.

Fernanda jumped up, trembling with fury and shock, ran to her closet and hastily put on a robe.

“Get out of here, you filthy little bastard!”

“Christ, give me a break. You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Whatever it was. I’ll bet you don’t get it like that every day, either.”

“Just get out!”

“Sure.” He stumbled about, putting on his clothes, so weak that he could hardly stand. “Wow, when I think of the things I imagined—nothing came close. Say, Fern, O.K. if I take the Jeep? I’ve got to get back to my car.”

“Take it,” Fernanda mumbled. “Hurry.”

“I’m going. Listen, don’t worry, I won’t tell. Nobody’d ever believe this anyway. How lucky can you get?”

“It was one of the best Fiestas I can remember,” Jazz assured her father, after the last of the guests in the hacienda had finally taken themselves off to bed toward three in the morning.

“You still look as if you could stay up all night,” he said, “but not in that dress.”

“No, Cousin Casey finished off this one too. I would have changed again, but I didn’t have anything except jeans to wear, and if I had had another dress, who knows what he might have done to it? I couldn’t risk it.”

“He didn’t do it on purpose,” Mike Kilkullen protested, sitting relaxed in one of the two armchairs in his bedroom, where he and Jazz had retreated while Casey moved his luggage from Jazz’s room to the guest room that would be his for the year.

“Freud says there are no accidents,” Jazz said, her eyebrows high in amusement.

“Total bullshit,” he answered lazily.

“You tell him, Dad.”

“So you and Casey made friends, after all?”

“The guy can dance, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, you two danced all night.”

“So did you,” Jazz answered tartly. “With Red.”

“So I did. I hadn’t thought you’d noticed.”

“Nothing escapes my eye. Listen, Dad, I’m going to bed. I have to go back to L.A. tomorrow morning, damn it.”

Jazz got up from her chair and bent to kiss her father on the top of his head. As she turned to leave his room, she saw the picture she had taken of her mother that always stood on his night table. For one instant it was like looking at a picture of herself, and then quickly it dissolved into the familiar enlarged snapshot that was one of the first photographs she had ever taken. Jazz had inherited the precise set of her mother’s eyes and the shape of her eyebrows, nothing more, but in a quick glance that was always the first thing she noticed. Strangers sometimes noticed it
too, but the differences between her coloring and Sylvie Norberg’s, the differences in the shapes of their mouths and the ways their hair grew, often made them miss the resemblance.

Did her father ever sit and gaze into the eyes of that photograph, she wondered, or was it just habit that made him keep it there, the only photograph in the room?

Sylvie Norberg arrived in California in January of 1959. The Swedish drama student, who was not yet twenty, had been discovered by Hollywood after she appeared in an Ingmar Bergman film. She was the only child of a pair of Stockholm intellectuals, her father an art critic and her mother a set designer of repute. They lived an intense bohemian life that was centered on their daughter. The Norbergs had consistently nurtured Sylvie’s early evident talent and encouraged her strong, inborn sense of selfhood.

Her parents had given Sylvie the kind of personal power that only comes to someone who has never known what it is to need or to seek approbation. Approval had always surrounded her, unnoticed and totally accepted and expected, taken for granted like the law of gravity.

Sylvie Norberg had a flawless confidence about the choices she made for herself, a confidence that would be rare in a mature woman. Throughout her childhood and girlhood, her free-thinking parents emphasized that her obligation was to exist in the way she felt was right for her. Sylvie Norberg was so quietly certain of her decisions, and so winning in her imposition of them, that no one ever questioned her entitlement.

She became an international star in her first American film, the kind of star who becomes, quite simply,
inevitable
, as soon as she is properly presented on the screen, just as Audrey Hepburn was in
Roman Holiday
. Sylvie accepted stardom with a luminous and supremely modest grace, no more awed
or surprised by this turn of events than would be a young princess who has known since birth that she is destined to wear a crown.