The Insiders (12 page)

Head back, letting the water stream down on her closed eyelids, her hair, her nose, Francie told Brant, in her little-girl voice, exactly what the guys had done, what they had said, and how she had reacted.

"At first, you know, I was scared shitless! I mean, no one had bothered to explain anything to me, for God's sake, and they said I was too young to date—you dig the irony of the thing? I used to wear these tight, tight dresses when Dave was away in town, and I knew even then that my body was pretty good, but I sure as hell didn't know what it was
for.
Until they showed me."

Francie laughed shortly and moved, letting the water have her back this time. Brant smacked her bottom sharply and saw that his fingers had left red marks over the weals she already sported.

"Ouch!" she yelled.

"Go on, your story's got me fascinated," he said.

Shrugging, she continued, doing a kind of sensuous dance step now, raising her arms over her head and swaying her body while she almost crooned the words.

Brant wondered idly if the hash she'd persuaded him to let her use earlier was acting belatedly.

"After the first guy, the first time, it didn't really hurt too bad, but oh, man, was I scared! So scared I peed in my panties and they joked about that when they pulled them off me. I was so damned terrified I kept struggling and trying to scream until they clobbered me a few times to shut me up, and then they took turns. While one was doing it, the others would hold me and feel me up—they hurt my boobs something terrible, I had bruises all over afterward. And I got screwed. I mean, well and truly! And you know what? After a while, I stopped fighting them because what was the point? There were four of them, like I said, and they told me they wouldn't hit me again if I let them do what they wanted. One of them, Lonnie, he was on the football team, a senior, big deal, and I'd always kinda followed him around, you know? I didn't think he'd even noticed me, and here I was, getting fucked by him. He was the one with imagination, and he thought up everything they were going to do with me next.

"That was some scene, I'll tell you! I used to dream about it afterward and wake up all wet. They even gave it to me in the ass, and man, before then I hadn't even dreamed that guys would want to use you that way— I mean, that
really
hurt! But Lonnie, he wanted it, and he did it to me after he'd smacked my butt a few times."

Frances paused, her body still gyrating slowly under the steamy-hot water—the bathroom was murky and cloudy with steam by now, and Brant felt, with a kind of surprise, his penis become rock-hard again.

Francie giggled, and he jabbed it up against her, between the plump, firm cheeks of her ass.

"You stupid little cunt. How did you survive a gang-rape? It's a wonder they didn't screw you to death."

She realized that she had almost succeeded in shocking him, and giggled again, bending slightly to give him better access to her.

"They weren't as big as you are, not any of them. You make it feel like the first time when you do that to me—ow!" Her delighted wriggles belied the complaining tone of her voice.

"Do you want me to go on? You do, I can tell."

She moaned softly because he was big and he filled her, making her feel as if she would tear any minute. But he was fucking her, hard, his hands slippery on her hips, and she loved it, even the pain. She came up to meet him halfway, pushing herself against him.

He didn't speak, but his breath rasped against her neck as he bent over her. She closed her eyes and let him do whatever he wanted. He was enjoying this— enjoying her. He wasn't bored any longer, and she was going to make sure he never became bored with her again. She loved Brant Newcomb, and she loved the thought of all his lovely money and the things it could buy. He could take her places, make her really free, if she played her cards right. No more brother David keeping her locked up, telling her it was her responsibility to look after the kids.

She remembered Dave's shocked, angry face when she'd come back home after the rape, and wanted to giggle again. Poor Davel He'd had to carry her up to bed, and he'd had to call a doctor because she was bleeding all over the place. All she'd done was sob hysterically and tell them both that it had been dark and the men were real tall and had worn stocking masks over their faces. She knew David wouldn't call the cops—reliable David! No scandal, he kept saying—for
her
sake, of course, and the sake of her future. And the doctor finally, reluctantly agreeing to say nothing, either—for
her
sake. Balls, she'd thought, even then. Dave just wanted to keep it out of the newspapers because of his job.

She
hadn't talked. And afterward, when she was back in school with a letter from the doctor to say she'd had the flu, she'd walked right up to Lonnie after the first day of classes, as bold as brass, asking him to drive her home in his new car.

And Lonnie? He'd done just that. Gone with her, leaving his girl flat. He'd taken Francie out into the hills someplace, and they'd screwed over and over, with her wild and willing this time, and eager to learn much more.

After that, it had been Lonnie, and his friends, and his friends' friends, too, as word got around. One of them got her a prescription for the Pill, and she had it made.

Remembering became all mixed up with the present, and the pleasure and the pain of what Brant was doing to her.

"Hurt me, give it to me!" Francie heard herself scream as Iris fingers dug deeply into her flesh and he seemed to swell inside her. It was better than it had ever been for her before.

Eve had not
been able to help noticing that Marti was getting quieter and quieter and drinking more. But now she did her drinking in the privacy of her own room or in the more fashionable gay bars, where she would go soon after her afternoon's work, returning home very late.

Sometimes Stella came over, and then Marti would smile again, but not for long, for Stella was seeing a lot of George Coxe these days, and not bothering to hide the fact any longer. Already in the society pages of the newspapers, their names were being linked. Tycoon George Coxe and attractive legal secretary Stella Ger-vin. Stella
was
attractive, especially in the new clothes that suddenly appeared in her wardrobe. There was a certain shy reserve about her that her new admirer found irresistible—he was used to women who succumbed to him easily, and this Stella would not do.

"I'm afraid I'm old-fashioned," she would smile. "After my unhappy marriage, I really haven't cared to date too often, George. If you want someone easy, why, I'm sure there are hundreds of women who would be more than glad to accommodate you."

George was finding out, though, that it wasn't the other, easy women he wanted—it was Stella. And the most she had ever allowed him to do with her was kiss her goodnight. She was frightened—he could sense that sometimes, when he held her too close or too tightly. She'd as much as admitted to him that her husband had been a sadist who had taken pleasure in giving her pain, beating her badly. How could he blame her for being afraid? The possibility that there might be a different reason for Stella's reticence had not even entered his mind.

She was not as reticent with David, who had become her confidant and adviser as the affair with George progressed. David had never liked Marti or quite approved of Stella's relationship with her. Now he encouraged Stella to keep seeing George, reminding her that here was her chance to make something of her life.

What started off one day as a routine dictation session ended up in the end as a kind of encounter group— for two.

"Stel, you're really a lovely woman; there's no reason for you to settle for life in the half-world.
Keep
George, and if you really want to, and can be discreet about it, keep your other women on the side."

Stella wondered fleetingly if this was David's own philosophy that he was quoting to her. It probably was. She knew, via Marti, that Eve was far from happy these days. And she also knew about Gloria.

"I—I really need someone to talk to, you know," Stella faltered, looking across at David. Gathering her courage, she admitted that the one thing that
really
scared her was how she'd react to George's embraces when the time came.

"He's been hinting about marriage. And he's being so darned nice to me, so sweet, that I can't keep him at arm's length forever. What shall I do? I don't know if I can make it with a man—or even if I'll be able to pretend well enough."

"There's one way to find out, if you don't mind my being blunt. Go to bed with a man."

Stella could feel herself blush. Did he mean what she thought he did? She found her boss attractive; she always had. And it had piqued her in the beginning that he hadn't tried to make a pass at her. He'd been friendly and informal, and she'd trusted him enough to tell him about Marti, even take him to the party where he'd met Eve. But why hadn't David shown some interest in her as a woman? And was he trying to make up for that now?

David got up and walked around the desk to her. Suddenly, Stella was glad that Gloria wasn't around that day. She and Howard had gone to Tahoe with friends and wouldn't be back until the beginning of the following week.

"Stella, I really meant what I just said, you know. It's something you should at least
try,
for your own sake. Christ, you don't need a psychiatrist to tell you that. You're an intelligent woman."

He put his hand on her shoulder, and she felt its warmth through her thin blouse. David was really a warm person, she felt. And he
was
interested in her; he had always been her friend. Of all the men she'd known, David came the closest to making her feel— Stella looked up at him and felt his hand tighten. He was so good-looking—there was no mistaking that. And she had the feeling that he could be very gentle and tender —and discreet. They both had a lot to lose if anyone found out.

"I—I think you're right, David. I have to find out."

They separated after work that evening. She left her car in one of the city's big parking lots, and he picked her up there in
his
car. His apartment was warm and friendly—like David himself.

Stella didn't feel any guilt when she thought about Marti, or even about Eve. Marti was acting kind of cold and withdrawn these days, anyhow; and Eve—Stella knew Eve went out a lot. Not always with David, either. But this wasn't the time to tell him.

This was the time to find out if she could respond to a man or not. She wondered how it would feel, how he would begin. But David, she discovered, believed in taking his time. And when it finally happened, what with the wine and his very gentle caresses that led up to what happened later, Stella couldn't imagine what she'd been afraid of.

The first time, before he entered her, he went down on her. And before that, he explored every inch of her body with his tongue and fingers, making her writhe and moan as she begged for release.

David himself enjoyed this part of lovemaking as much as he enjoyed the final explosion of himself in a warm, tight cunt. He had the gift of being able to detach himself and yet enjoy what he was doing—the squirming and the sighs and the opening up for him; the stage where a woman lost her reserve and control and let go, crying out with pleasure and begging for more.

Consciously and carefully, he acted as if Stella were a virgin, and was very slow, very cautious with her until she began to relax, and then at last to give in to her own body's reactions. She had a really lovely body, beautifully proportioned for her size, and he enjoyed making love to her, although he had to be very careful not to go too deeply into her because she was so small and tight.

The second time around, David taught Stella how to go down on him. By now, the wine they had been drinking had made them both high and very relaxed with each other. He found it terribly exciting to actually teach a woman
how
—God, he thought, had he ever had a woman who had never done this? He felt like some sort of a teacher as he explained to her that he had to be gentle, and told her what tricks could excite a man almost to bursting point.

After her initial reluctance, she proved a good pupil. She told him she hadn't read any of the sex manuals like
The Joy of Sex.
She knew how in theory, of course, but

"It's really not as bad as I thought it would be," she admitted honestly. And then, blushing again, "I mean...."

David laughed, pulling her back up against him. Still holding her gently, he began to excite her again with his fingers, enjoying the way she opened her legs for him after a while and began, quite involuntarily, to rub her breasts up against his chest.

"You're really a very sensual woman, Stella," he whispered to her. He turned her on her side so her back was to him, and then entered her again, lying spoon-fashion. This way, he could play with her breasts while at the same time his finger, pressing on her engorged clitoris, excited her so much that she began to tremble and then to move wildly on him.

Stella wondered why she had never before realized that a man's penis inside her could provide so much pleasure. Or that a man's hands could be just as clever and knowing as a woman's.

At the same time, she was sensible enough and pragmatic enough to understand that this thing with David was merely an experiment for both of them and hardly the beginning of a love affair. But she was also grateful to him for being so patient, so gentle with her.

Stella hoped that George, when she decided to give herself to him, would also be gentle and considerate. But now she felt more confidence in herself. David told her that she could manage George and teach him subtly how to please her—that older men were much easier to handle than younger guys.

She was glad she and David were friends. Perhaps some other day they would come' together like this. Why not? All she had to be was very discreet.

David had Stella back in her apartment by nine-thirty. She was expecting a call from George, who'd had to go out of town. He had a feeling almost of affection for Stella. Poor kid, she'd had a tough life, and she deserved a break. If that Marti female left her alone, she'd be much better off. Perhaps he could hint as much to Eve. He wondered, angry at himself, why just the thought of Eve could give him a hard-on, even after he'd been with another woman.

Damn Eve—why was she acting so stupid? She was turning into some kind of a tramp, and whenever they quarreled now, she'd try to put the blame on him. Why couldn't she realize that women's lib or not, the old double standard still existed? A guy could sleep around and no one thought the worse of him, but a woman who did was soon labeled. Why was he so damned jealous of her still?

He remembered suddenly that they'd had a tentative kind of agreement to see each other this evening, and wondered if she'd still be up, waiting. He stopped the car by a telephone booth and called her.

Her voice sounded as if she'd been crying, but she was mad, too.