William Davis - The Polaroid club book II

"Buddy, listen," Taylor cut in. "You got a pint bottle of something around here?"

"Sure, I guess so. Old Tennessee bourbon, I believe, in my study. If Binnie ever found it, it would be my balls, I…"

"I want it. Now."

Lathrop shrugged and the two of them started across the living room to his study. "Mind telling me why? Binnie's sangria gotten to you?"

Taylor grinned, his grin a fiendish look of devilment. "The sangria is great, Buddy. No, this is to help me collect a bet I made with you a while back."

"A bet you made with me?" Lathrop still was confused, but went to his desk, a wide and ornate Victorian roll-top. He opened one of the drawers and fished around in the back. "I don't follow. Ah, here it is." He brought out a barely used pint of bourbon and handed it to the manager.

"Remember when you bet me a hundred dollars that I'd never make it into Cindy Jamison's pants?" Taylor said.

Lathrop laughed heartily. "Sure I did. Why, I'd pay you another hundred if you got me a crack at it, too."

"Well, tonight I'm going to collect that first hundred for sure."

Lathrop's eyes boggled. "No! I don't believe you. Nobody can get into that naive little bitch."

Taylor snickered. "If you're real nice and are serious about that second hundred, I might just arrange for you to grab a little of it, too."

"Tell me more," Lathrop said, suddenly very interested. He was almost as much of a swinger as his manager was, going after women whenever he could get a chance of avoiding his steely-eyed wife. Christ, just the idea of nailing that tender little pussy of Howie Jamison's wife made his cock tingle with lewd preparations. "What are you going to do, feed her Spanish fly?"

Taylor shook his head and lifted the bourbon bottle. "Nope. Just this… and the old Ralph Taylor touch, heh, heh. Now listen, Buddy. I'm going out to her car, see; she's already there, waiting for me."

"My God, I'd have never believed it," Lathrop said in new-found awe of his employee. "Waiting for you, no less."

"Right, and I can't keep her waiting for long, heh, heh. In about fifteen minutes, you sneak out very quietly. I think you might get a little view well worth your trouble, heh, heh."

"Yeah, but what about my…"

"Your turn? Have to play that by ear." Taylor turned to leave the book-lined, walnut paneled room. "But I damn well want to have that hundred bucks for winning the bet we made first, and at least I'll prove that much to you."

"Ralph…" Lathrop was licking his thin lips, a gleam in his eyes.

Taylor was by the door. "Yes?"

"You set it up so that I can fuck that Cindy Jamison, and I'll raise your salary." A rash statement, the general manager thought as soon as he said it – but on second consideration, he was ready to raise the ante still more. That young beauty with all her wide-eyed aura of virginity had been on his mind a long time. And now… if Taylor could, well by God no price was too high. "Hear me? I'll raise it, Ralph."

Taylor chuckled obscenely. "Worry about raising that cock of yours, then. Cindy Jamison is going to get screwed like she's never been screwed before!"

He walked briskly to the front door, eagerness already swelling his testicles, bloating them with the sperm he was going to pour into that tight, hardly touched cunt of his star salesman's young wife. This was going to be great he gloated to himself, a piece of the finest tail in Morriston, a bet that will put a hundred dollars in my pocket, and a raise besides.

Now all he had to do was to play his cards right…

Cindy Jamison slumped against the door, shuddering as she sat in the passenger side of the Volkswagen Variant, her face buried in her hands. She cried plaintively, weeping her tortured emotions into her palms as one might wash an infected wound. The sangria she had consumed to dull her sensitivities had, if anything, only loosened the barriers holding them back, and now, fully surrendered to the alcohol, she allowed her pent-up emotions release.

She had purged her soul once, to Norma Taylor… but the intervening days when she had been forced to act the part of a carefree, loving housewife to Howard, her husband, had once more built the raging storm of her torment to cyclone proportions. It had forced her to this party, had been the leading cause of her not eating and then of drinking heavily – and was, with the help of the potent sangria, completely controlling her mind. She was nearly delirious, almost psychotically hysterical, and there wasn't even the sanity of sobriety to fall back upon.

Her only prayer, her only hope was Ralph Taylor; or so her benumbed mind thought. The one thing that had kept her from dashing out of the house and fleeing to where? Anywhere – so long as it was far, far away – was the comforting words that Ralph Taylor would help her. Perhaps if she hadn't partaken of the sangria so heavily, if she didn't have a head spinning so madly, she might have considered that it had been the sales manager's opening words: Norma told me about the postal clerk which had sent her into such a mental tailspin.

As it was, when her husband's boss opened the other side of the car and climbed in beside her, she looked upon him almost as a savior, an angel who could save her from the depredations of her actions.

"Thank God, Ralph," the pretty young housewife moaned. "I was afraid you weren't going to come." She started crying again.

"Everything will be all right, Cindy," the manager said, and he put his arm around her, as a father might his errant daughter. "Of course I was going to come. You don't think I'd let you be like this, do you? So upset and everything…"

She leaned against him, clutching to him for dear life. "It… it was terrible, Ralph," she blurted. "I… I sent for some pictures from the Polaroid Club… like the ones you gave to Howie… only wanted to surprise him…" and she went on to pour forth the total story of her humiliation by the postal clerk, breaking into sobs of agony frequently.

As she talked, Ralph was only half listening. He knew the story already, had Norma repeat it to him until he knew every detail. Instead, he looked around and saw that the back of the station wagon was empty, and that the rear seat had been folded down. Good, good. Plenty of room back there to fuck… can't do it here, not with these bucket seats and gear shift… Now to figure out a way of getting her back there…

He pulled out the pint of Old Tennessee, uncapped it and gave her the bottle. "Here, Cindy. Take a swallow. It'll help."

She took it gratefully and drank heavily. The liquor burned a path to her stomach, but she was too wrought up and too drunk to notice… she drank again, came up for air and continued telling her story…

"Then… he made me get up on my knees and he… he did it to me from behind… I've never done that even with my husband before… he… he even did it to me in my mouth… Oh, God, Ralph, it was just awful," she sobbed.

He interrupted her with an urging to take another swallow, which she did, and then he said: "Would you like to lie down, take a rest? Wouldn't that be better?"

"Yes…" The combination of the sangria, Old Tennessee, and her now purged soul had made her lethargic, dazed, and she had to fight to keep her eyes open. Her muscles seemed to be plastic and her bones like sawdust. "But I don't want to go back inside yet, Ralph, not until you talk to me about what you can do for me… I need your help…"

Her voice was slurred and thick, as though her mouth was full of pebbles – or she had taken too much liquor and was very, very drunk. The auto executive smiled and said, "You can crawl over the seat and stretch out in back if you like."

Cindy looked up from Ralph's chest. "That would be nice," she replied dreamily. "Help me…"