Karim al-Zib - Wild in the country book three

Robin stopped. "DesirЋe married? I don't believe it!"

"It's true, Robin, but she's still around and I'm sure she'll be happy to give you lessons. You and she were always close friends, not so?"

Robin nodded. DesirЋe, though only a few years older than she, was Robin's idol, her quintessential ideal of feminine perfection. Though it was unlikely that Robin's singing voice could ever equal DesirЋe's in natural talent, she did hope to rival her one day in piano. Robin also played the violin and harp. And her lithe body gave her an advantage in dancing that DesirЋe, with her heavy, round breasts, could not hope to better.

Not that there was a real rivalry between the two girls, for their friendship and mutual affection were above any kind of selfish jealousies.

Robin, still amazed at DesirЋe's marriage, went into her summer quarters, hearing Uncle Jim close the door quietly behind her. The hired hand had already brought in her bags and left them there. She should unpack, but first she would take a shower and wash off the road sweat from her journey.

Jim Devereaux breathed deeply as he closed the door. Last year, Robin had been an insecure high school senior moving into college. This year she was changed, matured into the next stage of womanhood. He wondered if she had any idea how her looks affected men. Her ripening sexuality was like a deadly weapon, with the power to turn a strong man into a whimpering weakling. He wondered what she looked like under those clothes. For years he had resisted the mild impulse to find out, to feast his eyes on the pulchritudinous reality of his brother's daughter's body. But now the temptations were exceeding the bounds of familial propriety. If brother John was stupid enough to send this tender little squab here for the summer, that was his problem. Jim Devereaux knew what women were for and, since the death of Priscilla's mother, had made sure that he kept in practice.

Devereaux found the closet, entered, and slid the section of wall aside, behind a two-way mirror he had installed himself, revealing a view of a bathroom just as the unsuspecting young girl walked into the field of vision. He watched her move with the light and slender grace of a dedicated dancer, seeming to slither sensually out of her skirt and blouse. Devereaux caught his breath at the sight of her body, so nicely matured this last year, so well turned out. He had been watching her the last few years, watching as she gradually ripened into a beauty that had been foretold by her childlike, pouting face that he knew so well, the cupid's bow lips, the dimpled chin, the high, rosy cheeks, and long and graceful neck. Her broad shoulders and tapering back.

Though she needed no bra, she wore one, and the lacy panties covered a plump pubic mound of rich promise. Robin looked in the mirror a moment, brushing some imaginary blemish from her perfect cheek, tossed back the glossy chocolate locks from the oval of her face, and then reached up behind herself and unsnapped the bra, sliding the cups away from the peachy softness of her breasts. The pink aureolae and small nipples drew Devereaux's eyes to them immediately and his mouth watered with desire for a taste of them.

As he stared at her through the mirror, she seemed to be looking directly at him as he stood there in the darkness, ogling her incredible beauty, which rivaled even that of the superb DesirЋe Denning. Devereaux had to restrain himself from knocking down the mirror and climbing through the small aperture through which he was conducting his illicit examination. Her pretty hands brushed down over her belly, over the small and dainty dimple of her navel, and the thumbs hooked under the sheer material of her panties.

Again Devereaux had to restrain himself and found himself unzipping his pants to relieve the pressure of his swelling penis. With burning eyes he watched her draw the elastic waistband down, down, down, until the thick, rich, brown pelt of her pubic hair swelled into view, like a muffin rising in the oven. He could make out the warm crease beneath the puffy labia and he felt he would go blind with arousal when he saw her slender fingers first pat, and then gently rub that warm and enticing pad of moist hair. Closing her eyes, she allowed her middle finger to dip into that warm vaginal slit where it played briefly in a way that caused her lovely tits to rise and fall to a new rhythm. Just for a moment, and then she drew her finger clear, glistening and wet with her secretions.

Turning she went to the toilet and sat down. Grabbing impotently at his crotch, Devereaux watched a pale stream of warm pee flow from her pussy into the bowl, before she picked up a Vogue magazine from the soft bag she had brought with her.

Fifteen minutes later, after daintily wiping herself and flushing the toilet, she stood up and went to the shower. By then, Devereaux was almost beyond insanity.

She had a headache, as she often did on Mondays, for the last two months, which was not helped by the episode with Sid Buchanan, nor by the blackmailing phone call she had had from the evil Priscilla before leaving. In short, things were pretty miserable. Mark was still standoffish, and she wondered if he really remembered what he had seen through clouded eyes. He had commented that that night he had had a dream that she and Buchanan were having sex beside him in bed, and she knew that that was a subliminal memory of what he had truly seen. Apparently the recurring mental image had put him off sex again and he had spent the last three nights fitfully staring at the opposite wall while she burned for his attentions.

Perhaps that was the source of her headaches, the lack of affection and loving attention. And sex. There was a nagging idea in the back of her mind – there had been for two weeks – to call Dr. Hemmings and see if he could remedy what ailed her.

DesirЋe picked up the phone and dialed his number. The receptionist, who only worked three hours each morning, made her an appointment for that afternoon at three. She wondered if she should tell him about Buchanan, what the awful man had done to her, and if she should have an examination. She shuddered at the thought that she might be pregnant by him, and wondered how he would find out – as he had sworn he would – if Dr. Hemmings found out. Was Hemmings on Buchanan's payroll somehow? She supposed that was possible, but she would have to trust the pastor. Even if she were pregnant, she doubted that she could even allow herself to consider an abortion, the only remedy, for she had to admit to herself that, though it had started technically as a rape, she had responded willingly out of her own weakness. She could never punish a poor fetus for her own sensual weakness.

"Come in, DesirЋe," Dr. Hemmings bade her as he opened the door to the waiting room. He ushered her in to his consultory and she sat before the desk. Sitting across from her he folded his hands on the desk and looked at her benevolently.

"What seems to be the trouble?"

"I don't feel at all well." Her lovely face was unable to hide her distress as she said, "I think I might be pregnant."

Hemmings, behind his mask of benevolence, was scarcely able to suppress his reactions. He felt himself breaking into a hot sweat as the jealousy burned its way up his spine and into his scalp. Damn it to hell! She had reinitiated her sexual relationship with her husband. He tried to control his emotions, knowing that the situation, with respect to him, was as difficult as it could be. He, Hemmings, had a wife himself and was the pastor of the local Baptist Church and he well knew that these feelings he had for this luscious young woman, this girl, really, were hopeless. Still, knowing that anyone, even her politician husband, had had his penis in her filled him with a rage that was all but impossible to contain.