Edward Lee - The Chosen

He swallowed his shock, then, when he moved his mouth to the right nipple, which had long-since been bitten off.

It made him happy, nevertheless, that she had given in to him, that she was dismissing her inhibitions and letting him excite her.

I know, he thought next, remembering the advice of his old buddy Dave Kahill. You gotta go down on ’em, man. Lee decided he would—yes, by God, he’d do it. He’d make this stifled, odd woman have an orgasm if it killed him. He, of course, realized the potential consequences. First off, she was no cute pixie that was for sure. Second, and worse, given her upbringing, her social standing, and the sad lot that life had paid her, he doubted that she was a example of high hygienic standards. Performing the act of cunnilingus on her, in other words, would probably be no picnic. But that didn’t matter; Lee was forthright in his determination, and besides, she couldn’t be any stinkier than the Good Humor Girl of years ago. No, no way, he cheerily told himself. He doubted that anything on earth could be stinkier than that.

He unbuttoned her housedress fully now, letting it fall to her sides. The tragedy of scars and sadism followed the trail of his tongue down her quivering front. He licked the inside of her navel and found it as toughened by needle insertions as her nipple. More old burn-marks became apparent when he stroked the insides of her thighs. Down, down Lee’s mouth went, over the warm, excited flesh. Her legs parted to receive his attentions, her hands gently grasping his head, urging him further. His finger traced the wet entrance; she shivered in pleasure, then his mouth found its target, to which she immediately cooed and wrapped her legs around his head. Lee, of course, didn’t know exactly what he was doing—Dave Kahill had been great for advice but not so great for detailed instruction. He must be doing it right, though. Judging by her reaction, in fact, he must be doing it very right. Her hips gyrated under him, her finger laced in his hair and her back arched. Lee was pleasantly overwhelmed. Her pubis was completely barren of hair, soft and smooth as silk. Furthermore, she tasted nice—she tasted sharp and vivid and clean, and there was not a trace of the dead-catfish-in-the-sun odor he grimly recalled from his unfortunate liaison with the Good Humor Girl. This was actually fun, and more fun still in the proof that she was enjoying it. His tongue prodded her clitoris diligently up and down, and in periodic circles for diversity, and soon she was going subtlety nuts in the bed. Her big thighs clamped against his ears like a warm vice, she was panting in repressed shrieks and rocking her hips back and forth quite vigorously. I guess she’s having an orgasm, Lee reckoned, head rolling to and fro in the clenching embrace of her legs. This went on for a considerable period, such that Lee was beginning to wonder if it would stop before his next shift. But that was fine, that was even better. The more pleasure he could give, the happier he would be…

The protracted climax simmered down later, all her tensions draining at once, and her heels slowly running up and down his back. Her sated smile was bright enough to light the room when she pulled him back up to her and kissed him. Lee was exhausted. Next time bring a snorkel, he thought. But it was fun, it was delightful. He would do this every time from now on, finally adding some mutuality to this bizarre relationship. He’d no longer have to feel guilty about taking advantage of her. Now, the pleasure she gave him he could return in spades.

Her hands were at him again, all over him in their newfound enthusiasm. Lee speculated that it had probably been a long time since anyone had treated her as anything more than an S&M pincushion and whipping post for someone else’s sick fantasies. Lee was probably the first person to ever do anything solely for her. And he would do more! Why not? Her caresses enlivened him; old Uncle Charlie was raring to go again; he was hopping. The woman made to fellate him again, but he pulled her back. “Let’s go all the way this time,” he said. Oral sex was great, but there were other things too, and it was high time they’d moved on to those things.

Suddenly, she slumped in frustration, or despair.

“What’s wrong now?” Lee asked. “We can do it. I even have rubbers.”

She didn’t tell him what was wrong; she couldn’t, and perhaps this only added to her flattened frustration. She couldn’t tell him—

So she showed him.

She grabbed his hand, placed it between her legs, and pushed his middle finger into her sex.

Hooooooooly shiiiiiiiiit, Lee thought.

His finger was not able to penetrate her deeper than an inch. He didn’t need to see, he could feel it, he could easily feel with his fingertip what some sick sadistic monster had done.

A dozen stitches of heavy gauge suture had sewn her vaginal passage shut.

— | — | —

CHAPTER TWENTY

“How about discount coupons in the local papers?” Vera fairly insisted. “It would up business a little at least.”

“No, no,” Feldspar told her in his white silk shirt and tie. Gold cuff links flashed as he raised the champagne flute to his lips, sampling a bottle of their Perrier-Jouet order. “Ah, like sipping from a glass of rainbows,” he smiled. “Why stock DP at all?”

God, he’s infuriating sometimes! Vera thought. “The discounts, Mr. Feldspar. How about it? We’ll run a $19.95 special, choice of entree, appetizer, dessert. It worked great in the city.”

“Really, Ms. Abbot. You worry too much.” Next he poured a snifter of the new Remy, twirling it. “And you forget all I’ve informed you of regarding The Carriage House. It’s only use to Magwyth Enterprises is that of a subordination.”

“So you’ve told me.” Vera slumped behind her desk. “It just doesn’t make sense to me. Why lose money when you don’t have to? With a little ingenuity, I could put The Carriage House in the black, or at least cut down its loss margin.”

“I’ll tell you why I don’t want you to do that, Ms. Abbot, and I would’ve thought that it could have been easily deducted from all I’ve related to you thus far. We don’t want The Carriage House to make a profit. For it to make a profit it would have to attract an influx of business—”

“Yes!” she wanted the shout. “And I can do that. I can get customers in here if—”

“And I reiterate,” Feldspar cut her off. “That’s what we don’t want. I’ve told you time and time again, haven’t I, we intend for The Inn’s profits to be generated from a very exclusive and select clientele. An amplitude of outside restaurant business might only sully The Inn’s overall reputation in their eyes.”

Vera frowned good and hard at that one. Select cli entele, the words drifted. What Feldspar meant was he didn’t want townspeople crowding the restaurant for fear that one of his rich, hoity-toity select clientele might see them. It seemed almost a bigotry, Feldspar’s refusal to allow his secretive, wealthy guests to mix company with the middle class. This is useless, she dismissed. One day I’ll learn not to argue with him.

“So, how are things going otherwise?” he inquired next, running a stray, ringed finger along the dark goatee.

“Fine, I suppose. I’m still getting some funny complaints though. Unfriendly housemaids, noisy elevator doors. Some of your suite guests must be partying a little loud. I had some reservations in my rooms, and they complained about noise.”

Feldspar merely shrugged. “Can’t be helped. As they say, you can’t please everyone.” He chuckled slightly, sipping his Remy. “I’d rather your guests be the ones complaining than room service’s.”