Karim al-Zib - Wild in the country book three

She was sure that he was used to having his way with any woman and that she was not the first woman he had taken in the way he had her, for he had seemed an expert in that form of 'seduction', but it had been a very sophisticated form of rape. The problem was, if she sought to have him prosecuted as he deserved, that she had absolutely no hope of a favorable judgment. She could have no proof even that intercourse had taken place unless she somehow got to the police and had a specimen taken within the next twelve hours. Even so, the presence of sperm was no proof of rape. Could the authorities possibly believe that all this had happened in bed with her husband present in some drunken stupor? Such a revelation, believed or not, would destroy public Mark's career. How could anyone vote for a man who had lain supinely in bed while a financial fat-cat had fucked his young, lovely wife to multiple orgasms for an hour?

This morning, awaking and remembering the event of the night before, feeling Sid's seminal slime draining from her sore vagina onto the sheets, she had run to the bathroom, catching the flow in the cup of her palm and sitting over the toilet until the residue had left her body. She knew that, if she was in that dangerous time of her cycle that would lead to pregnancy, it was already too late to prevent what Sid plainly hoped would happen. The thought of bearing his child caused her to shudder and she had spent the longest time in the shower trying to wash off the filth of her experience, all the worse for the way she had been caught up in it and, yes, enjoyed it to her very core until the time when he had left her.

So, while she fed her hunger with this evil man's food, she kept her resentment buried, knowing that she would have to let him escape the consequences for what he had done to her. Perhaps, though she doubted it, she would someday find a way to avenge herself on this vile rapist who cloaked himself in the respectability of the politicians he promoted.

Buchanan watched her eating. He suppressed a grin at the way she seemed to be stuffing herself with food in a way she had not done the night before at dinner. The aphrodisiac she had consumed included Cannabinol, which stimulated the appetite even as it did hormones. She was a luscious and loveable young woman, and he had decided he would do anything to keep her near him, even if it meant backing her self-righteous, straight-arrow husband. He wanted her body again, and again. Had she been single, he would have married her, just to keep her close. He would have given half his fortune just to have her in his bed at night, though, from her attitude toward him the night before, even while she writhed in pleasure at the cock-drubbing he was giving her, he doubted that she would ever consent to that.

Buttering some toast, Buchanan spoke to Mark with a smile. "Mark, I'm proud and happy to say that I've decided to back you for the state senate, with an eye to promoting you for the US Senate in four years." He took a bite, casting his oily eyes in DesirЋe's direction, watching the nervous heaving of her creamy, firm breasts. "The state job is virtually yours, provided all things remain copacetic. The Federal job is still a matter of a tooth-and-nail battle, but as long as everything sings the way your pretty wife did last night, you'll have the support of my extensive resources."

Mark's face seemed to light up like a 150-watt bulb. "I can only give you my sincere thanks, Mr. Buchanan."

"Call me Sid," the big man said, and then, glancing at DesirЋe, he added, "You've earned the right."

DesirЋe cringed at hearing those words, remembering when she had last heard them. Take me home, Mark. Please, take me home now!

That very same morning, Robin Young was a lovely young college freshman in the full bloom of her youthful virginity when she came to Pickford's Meadows to visit her cousin Priscilla Devereaux for her summer break. Actually, she had come to visit her Uncle James Devereaux, for she adored the strong and confident man with the sense of humor that kept her in stitches through the whole time when she came to see him, but the excuse was to spend time with her rowdy cousin.

Priscilla, if the truth were told, never ceased to rub Robin the wrong way. The younger girl found her selfish, abrasive, malicious, and, from what she had gathered, promiscuous. In private, Priscilla's speech never ascended to anything above parties, sex, and her obsession with the married man, Mark Denning, now irrevocably united with the lovely young woman DesirЋe, nee Mitchell. Frankly, Robin had heard enough of Priscilla's hatred for DesirЋe, whom Robin liked and admired, having seen the beautiful, blonde piano teacher sing in church and having talked amiably with her on many occasions. Though only a few years younger than DesirЋe, Robin had found herself hoping to emulate her in many ways.

Like DesirЋe, Robin was a girl without guile or ill-will for anyone. Though she felt she lacked the musical talent to equal DesirЋe's, she had taken up a voice class and a violin class at the university, and she was definitely opposed to living off her parent's wealth, indolently, in the way Priscilla seemed quite happy to do. Robin was studying to be a doctor.

She was a lovely girl, with thick, straight, silky brown hair that just brushed the tops of her shoulders, flowing like liquid chocolate, the way the elegant lines of her dancer's body flowed from one perfect feature to the next, from the full but not-too-heavy, wide-based, cone-shaped breasts, to her tiny, supple waist and hard, flat belly, to her gently-curved, girlish, dancer's hips running into long, perfect, slender legs.

Yes, she was a lovely girl, innocent in the way most girls were until corrupted by an overwhelming love for some animalistic man. She had never had a real boyfriend and even the few chaste kisses she had had were few, dry, and far between. Watching DesirЋe, from over a year before, when she had still been in high school, she had formulated a tentative plan for her life, that was, physical and mental fitness and moral rectitude, like her uncle seemed to lean toward and which Priscilla seemed to have rejected.

Hearing Priscilla talk about men and sex was often more than faintly nauseating to Robin, who had always been fairly regular at church and straight about her love life. Yes, too straight sometimes, she admitted to herself when she thought of the feminine instincts growing daily in her healthy loins. To dampen those impulses she had thrown herself with ever more energy into her studies.

Her Uncle James Devereaux met her at the door when the middle-aged driver who had met her at the airport dropped her on the wide veranda of the mansion.

"It's so good to see you, Uncle Jim," she cried, throwing her arms around his strong neck and feeling the rasp of his afternoon shadow of beard on her tender cheek. His was a comforting avuncular embrace, the feel of his body, in spite of his wealth hardened by his activities on his ranch, pressing his strong, paunchy belly against her own lean form. Their kiss of greeting, always before just a brief peck, lingered a trifle longer than was comfortable for her and then broke. Robin peeled her arms away from her favorite uncle's shoulders, and stepped back.

"It's good to see you, Robin," he said, leading her inside. "Hope you enjoy the summer. But it looks like you're getting a bit too big for kid's games." His creased, blue eyes devoured her fresh, new sexual maturity for just a moment before turning away.

"Oh, I'll be fine, Uncle Jim. Do you know if DesirЋe Mitchell is still giving piano lessons? I'd like to study some with her again this summer."

"I can't tell you about the piano lessons," he said, leading her toward the guestroom, "but her name isn't Mitchell anymore. She got married a month or so ago."