So, she knew his name?
She must have.
And the others?
We’ll never know how much she knew. But it would seem after this much time has passed—it’s been over thirty years—that she won’t be surfacing with her story.
Unless this interview—the true story—jogs her memory enough to make her talk.
It could. But she didn’t say squat when Pygmalion Whore was published. At least, Emerson didn’t hear a word. I think by then, she had too much invested in her life to make that kind of stunning disclosure. The way the media pounces on that kind of thing, would you want the publicity? There’d be no point in it for her.
Unless, perhaps, she is finally so haunted by the memory—a posttraumatic stress sort of thing—that she needs to excise the demons. I really don’t see her that way, but I could be wrong.
How would you know?
She has a career as an actress. She’s not in the spotlight much, but she’s been successful enough that I doubt she’d risk the public scrutiny. I keep tabs on her from time to time. And what I see in her is a lovely woman, with vitality, spirit, and a peaceful sense of herself. It might be just a facade, but I don’t think so.
No, I believe that what Emerson hoped for took place. He instigated her career for a purpose, and it worked to our advantage. But I think in a broader sense, she came to terms with her captivity, and not in a negative way. Brutal as it was, it did go straight to her sexual core and allowed her an awakening that suited her character, and would never have happened otherwise. At any rate, this is what I believe.
But you didn’t feel this way to begin with…
Oh, no! I wanted to, of course. I wanted to believe that day in basement she made peace with me. But I was scared for years that we’d suddenly find ourselves in jail. There were milestones where I expected it…like when the book was released. But time went by and the world moved on and so did she.
And the others in the Writers’ Club. Do they no longer see her as a threat?
I’m not sure. But they know about this interview, I wouldn’t have done it without their permission. Of course, you didn’t think I was actually using their real names, did you?
By evidence of her expression, she hadn’t realized it until now.
I told them I’d be telling the whole story as I saw it, using fictitious names, and with that, they were perfectly content to let me speak my mind.
What can you tell me of them now?
Let’s see…Penelope lives abroad. For her Veronica X was one of many extraordinary things that have happened in her eventful life—there’s a book right there, if you need new material. I don’t see her but once in a blue moon, and that’s just as well. She’s not changed much in her ability to annoy people. And she still smokes like a fiend.
Kathy Ann, on the other hand, has been writing romance novels for some time under several pennames. And Zack… well Zack initially followed Veronica. At first just to see if she planned to go to the police. When it was clear that she wasn’t running off in tears to blab her story, his impetus to check up on her became less necessary. She seemed from the outset to settle herself and move on with her life. She looked up the agent on the business card Emerson gave her and put him to work—it obviously paid off.
But Zack, even when he didn’t need to follow her anymore, he did stay close. He wanted her badly. He told me a few years ago that he once got close enough to begin a real relationship. He spoke with her several times; there were even some casual dates, but he never could quite make the leap. Every time he started to make a move, he lost his nerve and backed away. The truth about who he was would always prevent him from having her as he wanted. He’s traveled the world as a correspondent, written for many major newspapers and magazines. He’s had a life many men would love. But he’s never had a decent relationship with a woman. I think Veronica X played a part in that… and still does. A few years ago, I talked to him, urged him to move on. He always says the same thing… ‘my life began and ended there and I can’t help that.’
Sounds like a modern tragedy.
Oh, no! Don’t go down that road. We were not then, nor are we now, heroic enough in our character to make a tragedy of this. I think it’s more like we put into motion with Veronica X events that would reverberate through the rest of our lives. We can’t get away from her. She’s there, like a parent, a child, a close friend, someone we deal with—privately.
We know what happened to Emerson, but what about Bo?
She smiles warmly. Bo, my dear, gentle friend… He died while on assignment in Vietnam. I have no doubt that his involvement with the seduction of Veronica X was responsible for his death. Her face pales and she take a deep breath. But I’d rather not talk about that.
So that leaves you? What happened to Daphne after Veronica X. You seemed to have bonded with her differently than the others did. I know that your marriage to Emerson Gray didn’t last much after that season, and you’re married again. But I know nothing else.
***
Emerson drove a yellow VW Beetle convertible to the door of the stone cottage. The tiny house sat in the open near the shores of Lake Michigan, in the middle of sand, shore grasses and scrub trees. Nearby were pine forests, the beachfront and a few other stone edifices—some still as sound as the cottage; some were in ruins. The most remarkable of those still standing was a stone chapel with a vaulted roofline and what was left of a stone spire. The first time Emerson laid eyes on the curious compound, he knew he had to bring Daphne here. She’d love it.
“So this is the place,” Daphne said, as she climbed from the car and gazed toward the cottage and the other scattered structures, her eyes visored with her hand. “You’re right, it’s beautiful.”
“And you’ll write here,” her husband said with some certainty, almost as if it were an order, not an observation.
“Yes, I probably will,” she cautiously ventured. “Just as I would have written in the apartment in Boston and the row house in Philadelphia and that cute little house in New Haven.”
“But this is better. There’s a freer air here, Daph. We need that.”
“Maybe.” She did look as though she belonged here. Her blond hair billowed in the breeze, while her white sundress caught the wind and fluttered enough to make her hold it down. She seemed as youthful and beautiful as when he met her, as much like an ethereal spirit as she was a flesh and blood woman.
She turned to him. “But you’re going to leave me,” she said with some despair.
She knew this without him saying so. He’d behaved this way for the last year and a half, running, not from a ghost who didn’t care about following him, but from his own inner stirrings—and from those who might have loved him. The last time he let his anxious disquiet speak, he’d perpetrated a heinous crime against an innocent virgin. But that risky business resolved nothing inside his psyche, except that he knew after it was over that he would not saddle anyone else with his dangerous schemes again. He couldn’t even talk to Zack anymore; with him, his fear was the worst. Zack just might be the one foolish enough to listen to him again. Of course, the others had split, all but Daphne. And Daphne was his wife. He had to make her safe, which was another of his schemes.
But it was a good scheme this time. One that would take care of her forever. He saw it happening clearly the day he drove by the stone cottage and noticed the ‘For Rent’ sign in front. He’d stopped the car, surveyed the unique landscape and sought out the man who owned the place. Once his eyes rested on the owner, McGill, everything came clear as glass inside his mind. He rented the cottage for the summer, for Daphne.
“I have work, darling. You have work. And it can’t be in the same place, at least not right now. We both know that.” He moved close, stared her in the eyes and put his hands on her shoulders so she’d be sure to focus on his every word.
“I am not so sure of that, Emerson,” she said. Her gaze wavered.
“I am. Trust me. Look at me, please,” he gave her a gentle shake. “This is a really good place for you to pound away at the typewriter and get that novel finished. I’m counting on you. You’ll do it, I know you will.”
He stared at her long enough to believe his message was sinking in.
“Tell me you’ll do your best to make this work.”
“Of course, I will. That’s what I do—follow your every order.”
He smiled. “That’s my girl.”
Having her promise in place, Emerson let her go and moved quickly, as he always did, depositing suitcases and boxes in the cottage kitchen, while Daphne aimlessly followed him into the building. She gazed around surveying the small homey kitchen—a table, range, refrigerator and the heating stove by the far wall. A pile of freshly chopped wood was stored in the corner.
“There’s a sitting room, a bedroom and bath. Go look,” Emerson nodded toward the far door.
Daphne took a quick tour of her new surroundings, finding it perfectly adequate for her essential needs as well as her romantic spirit. She didn’t write romance books, as Kathy Ann would likely do, but she could see the ancient stones, the simple design and the unique location already magically calling up the muse that sometimes had trouble surfacing amidst her worries.
Emerson watched her closely, seeing the uneasy look on her face change enough to give him hope. It would take a day or two for her to settle but she would. He’d thought about staying to see her start writing again—he worried over her writer’s block—but he knew she’d get out of it soon with the fresh lake air to breathe, and the wonderful winds… the sunsets, even the stone efficiently surrounding her, keeping her safe.
“You look like you belong here, Daphne,” he said, smiling.
She raised her eyebrows, glanced around the kitchen again, then laid a hand on a box of her favorite books. “We’re not going to stay together, are we?” she finally said, with little emotion.
The question was one he didn’t expect. He waited a moment to answer, and was surprised himself by what he finally thought to say, “You think we really should?”
Her face immediately twisted into a wounded grimace. “What does that mean? I still love you, Emerson. Even after everything. But I’m not sure you return that love anymore.”
“I fuck you, don’t I?” he shot right back, obviously annoyed.
This statement floored her. She slapped her hand to her forehead, demonstratively. “Oh, Emerson! You ass, you bastardly ass!”
“See? That’s what I am, Daphne? I can’t help myself.”
“Yes, a bastard is what you are now, because you won’t stop long enough to be anything else.” She sighed, wearily; being angry wasn’t worth the trouble.
“I’m not yet ready to settle down, Daph. I’m sorry. I can’t. I worry. I worry a lot…” It was the most that he would ever admit.
“Then go, Emerson. Leave me be, and if you want to be married, just come back. I’ll be here.”
“But Daphne, understand, you don’t have to wait for me. I’m not asking you to.” He was almost pleading with her.
“I’ll do what I need to do, Emerson. And I’ll be here.” She gazed around a bit smugly now. “I think I like this place. You chose well.” There was no logical explanation for why she wanted to wait for him, but she couldn’t imagine herself doing anything else.
Emerson could think of nothing else to say. Instead, he impulsively grabbed her arm, leaned in and kissed her cheek and then her mouth. His smile was terse, troubled, just as it had been for weeks. A moment later, he was out the door and headed to his car.
Daphne moved from the table to the sink, and looked out the window, where white curtains trimmed with red embroidery, not new but freshly cleaned, swayed in the gentle breeze. She watched as Emerson climbed into the yellow beetle and drove off down the road, kicking up dust, his blonde hair blowing. It was significantly longer than it had been even six months ago. He was a little more in step with the times when it came to his physical appearance, but inside his turbulent soul, he remained the same agitated being, driven by forces that Daphne would never quite understand.
***
Her feet wet and covered with sand, she moved up the beach path to the stone house, spotting a man hovering around her cottage. Daphne’s heart leapt anxiously but she kept on moving. The man was wearing faded jeans, and a denim work shirt tucked in at the waist. The sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He was tall and lean, with powerful shoulders and bare, tanned arms that hinted at the muscled workingman beneath his clothes. It had been some months since she’d felt the familiar pulse of her nether regions calling up the sexual desire she’d so flagrantly abused the previous summer. But her body stirred now, seeing the big man move in an easy gait. His firm ass drew her focused attention and produced such carnal images in her mind that she had to forcibly stop her imagination from taking flight. She hadn’t seen Emerson in weeks; she was horny, yes. But she was still a married woman and she had no idea who this man was.
“Sir?” she halting spoke once she approached. He was digging with a shovel at the base of house, in a flower garden that was overgrown with weeds. She was almost afraid to speak. He hadn’t heard her, so she spoke a little louder, “Sir?”
Hearing her this time, the man stood up straight and turned around. A pair of keen brown eyes gazed down at her. He had a mustache, a full beard and longish hair that skimmed his shoulders. She met his eyes with a feeling of awe and stepped back.
“I’m Daphne,” she said. “May I help you?”
“McGill,” he nodded. “And I know who you are. I’m looking after you for your husband.”
“You are?” This seemed strange. Although she knew that the man McGill was her landlord, she’d been at the cottage for three weeks and hadn’t yet laid eyes on him until now. “Yes, Emerson Gray asked me to keep you out of trouble.”
“He did now, huh?” This amused her. But thoughts of Emerson quickly disappeared with her attention riveted on her landlord. He made her jittery inside, weak…as if a gust of wind had just passed through her body. His feet, and not just his feet, his whole substance, his physical and emotional energies were set firmly in the dark earth he stood on, as though he sprung from it like a tree, wholly made. He was in his thirties, maybe older; but because his face was untroubled, he seemed ageless. He was handsome, but not exactly handsome… not like Emerson and Zack were handsome, but handsome in a mature and knowing way. She stared at his large, gritty hands, wondering if they were rough to touch. His hands and powerful forearms held her focus, until she again had to forcefully bring her attention back to the moment.
“You deny you need to be looked after?” he asked. She thought she saw some amusement in his eyes, certainly there was a gentle smirk on his lips.
“No, I don’t deny that at all. But I suppose it should be my husband taking care of me.”
He nodded, agreeing. “Not a settled man, I’m afraid,” he said of Emerson.
“It’s been a rough year.”
“Well, you’re here and whether you see me about or not, I have my eye and hand on everything that happens on my property. You’re safe here.”
“Thank you.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. The moment was marked for Daphne by a reawakened longing that was both terrible and thrilling. How sad for her, she thought, that the first man she lays her eyes on after her husband leaves turns her body into mush.
“I really should go,” she finally said, “it was nice meeting you.”
He didn’t try to stop her, but watched her thoughtfully until she disappeared around the side of the cottage.
McGill and Daphne ran into each other infrequently over the next several weeks—and never because she chose to. She liked to walk the beach and through the ruins, but always looked for her landlord before she stepped out of the cottage. If she saw him about his property, her shyness, and that rumbling force he seemed to generate in her, kept her inside until he finally disappeared from sight. She ventured out cautiously, hoping to avoid him. Sometimes she was successful, on other occasions, and more frequently as the days passed, she stumbled upon him and could not politely avoid speaking.
One sunny July afternoon, Daphne watched outside the kitchen window as McGill’s truck pulled away from his stone house and traveled down the road and out of sight. Feeling unusually free of worry, she left the cottage and moved toward the stone chapel some fifty feet from her own home. She had initially assumed that the building was either locked up, or too unstable to explore. McGill informed her otherwise, suggesting during one of their brief encounters that she might want to explore the old edifice. “It has a unique character you might appreciate.”
“And was it actually used for church services?” she’d asked him.
“Not in the formal sense. No priest or minister has ever used the chapel for regular worship. Like all the other buildings on my property, it was part of an estate. The main house was located over there.” He pointed to a rise in the landscape where she could imagine a substantial fortress of a building once sitting.
“What happened to it?”
“I tore it down.”
“Why would you do that?”
“My father built it for my mother. We lived here one year and knew nothing but sadness in that house. My stillborn sibling was delivered there, and my mother went a little mad after that happened. She left, my father died… I went to live with my aunt until I was grown. When I inherited this land, I tore the house into rubble—built the wall that lines the property to the north with the stone. Too much unhappiness crowded into one space.” He shook his head sadly as the memory returned to him.
With permission granted to freely explore the other buildings on the property, Daphne indulged, like indulging in extravagant chocolates. Exploring just one building or ruin a day she moved through the hut, the shed, the campsite and the beach house. She privately named each one. She made herself stand inside the stone walls, or what was now just an embankment and feel the earth beneath her feet. She breathed in the surrounding air as if the events that took place in that spot would suddenly come to her out of the ethers, appearing in her mind so clearly that she could live them in her imagination. She stayed clear of the rise where the house had stood, thinking it was likely spooked, and bad luck. She saved the chapel for last. Other than her own cottage, it was the most significant structure on the property. McGill’s house, while built of the same stone, was trivial in comparison—she couldn’t imagine the tiny abode was more than one room.
Daphne spent weeks meditating in the rough gardens amidst the stone structures, her bare feet mingling with the sandy dirt. Once she felt comfortable in one spot, as if she’d learned everything there was to learn there, she moved on to another. As soon as she’d explored all of the other buildings and ruins, she was ready for the chapel.
Seeing McGill’s truck disappear, her excitement peaked realizing that it was finally time for this last special adventure. Moving briskly from her cottage to the edifice, she wanted to run but managed to walk. Reaching the heavy oaken door with its rounded top and austere ironwork, she stopped, breathed in to calm herself, which was a pointless act, and finally took the handle and opened the door.
She stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind her. Facing forward, her eyes took in the sight and she felt a cool draft of air tickle her skin. It was a hot muggy day outside. Inside the air was easier to breathe and there was no sun. But a strange oppressive force made her move cautiously. She tiptoed in, finding with every step, her body thirst increased. A desperate longing rose up in her like an angry creature on the loose.
The chapel was not a brightly decorated temple to any fancy God. The God who lived here was a plain one, and like Him, there were simple wooden pews, a crude baptismal font near the door and toward the front of the chapel was a simple communion rail and altar. From a small stained-glass window to her left, where outside the sun beat down against the stone, a fiery light bled through with shadows of blue and ochre and red staining the floor with their color. McGill had been misinformed. This was a house of God, or sanctity, and she felt like a heathen inside the sacred chamber.
Her face became flushed, her pulse rose steady. A fire burned in her crotch she could not explain.
It had been many nights since her hand had strayed between her legs—she too often thought of Emerson when she did, so masturbating made her sad. But this was very different. Oddly, Emerson was nowhere to be found inside a mind filled with images of punishment. She journeyed back to the Dark Ages, before reason made self-flagellation perverse. If there had been a scourge to use, her back would have been bloody by the time she left. But instead of acting out the punishments of another era, she sank to the hard stone floor, banging her knees enough to bruise, and lifted her sundress. Her fingers quickly found her center wet. She rubbed lightly, and a torrent of bodily desire burst from her groin. She moaned, feeling relief and pleasure and shame wash over her. More rubbing and the pangs inside her belly sharpened.
“Ohmygod, yes…” she exclaimed, ever so quietly, over and over again. Her pussy began to forcefully buck against her invading fingers until an orgasm brightened inside the flesh about her pubis, her thighs and her belly. She wrenched to feel the hot warmth of her desire finally sated and then sank back on her heels in a near faint, feeling wasted and dirty. The temple of any God should not be used for sin.
The obsession fed on itself. The chapel seemed to be the only place she could get off not thinking of Emerson and Veronica X…and Bo, and Zack and Penelope and Kathy Ann. Days passed when she remained chaste. But when she saw McGill leave his property, her physical need rose up, fierce as a lion in heat. Impetuous, dark and rampant, the desire cast off her reason, her will, her own rational power of thought. Only one choice remained for her.
Sometimes after dark, with McGill snug in his tiny house, she’d wait in the shadows by her bedroom window to see the light extinguished inside his four walls. She’d wait for an hour with the energy building inside her, then would force herself to wait another hour more, until she could be certain her landlord was asleep for the night. Only then would she slip from the cottage. Possessed by her need, she’d make her way in the dark to the chapel for the same savage experience of carnal release she required to soothe the terrible ache. Her fingers flew to the task. It would take just minutes with her fingers exploring the juicy portal between her thighs for the spasms to begin. Two, three, four fingers pushed brutally into the steamy hole and fucked it so hard it hurt. Surrounded by the simple religious icons in the tiny church, she flaunted a voracious and unrepentant lust, always wondering when it was over for one day or night, if she could ever break this cycle of debauchery.
One afternoon, a few weeks after the torrid masturbations began, she was recovering, kneeling as she usually did before the wooden altar, when she heard the sound of the chapel door opening behind her. She practically jumped a foot then instantly scrambled to her feet.
McGill appeared in the opening, surrounded by a halo of light behind his body, so she couldn’t see his face and could hardly make out his large form. Regardless, she knew it was McGill; she had studied every nuance of his physical movements in the past two months. She knew his body in her imagination. Knowing who it was, she shuddered now feeling like a trapped rat, ashamed of herself for taking such liberties in a house of God.
McGill stared at her, saying nothing until he stepped inside the chapel and closed the door. As the light from behind him vanished, his physical form emerged from the darkness and she didn’t have to strain her eyes.
“I-I was just …” her tongue felt cottony; her mouth just wouldn’t work. Her brain was far too flustered to spit out any reasonable explanation, even though it was likely that he hadn’t seen her kneeling before the altar with her hand inside her crotch.
Still, she couldn’t explain herself now. She’d always been a terrible liar.
“I told you you could come here,” he reminded her.
“Yes, I do, sometimes,” she answered nervously.
“You like to meditate?”
“Yes, exactly,” she was relieved to agree with the explanation he offered her.
He stared at her with knowing eyes. “But…” he cocked his head as his mind worked, “I think you need my chapel for other reasons, don’t you?”
“I-uh…don’t know what you mean.” She started to blush.
“Something weighs heavily on your shoulders, Mrs. Gray.”
“Mrs. Gray? Oh please don’t call me that.” She fidgeted nervously with her hands, not knowing what to do with them.
“Marriage not going well?”
“You know how my marriage is going. He’s never here.”
“Pretty much like what he said.”
“Did Emerson tell you he wasn’t coming back?”
“Not exactly, but he told me that as far as he was concerned, you were a free woman.”
She gazed down despondently, nodding.
Over the course of the conversation, they’d moved progressively closer, until now, they stood no more than three feet apart. Her entire body was hot and flushed. Sweat from her brow ran in rivulets along her hairline. She looked down, making sure she wasn’t naked—her entire secret seemed written into the pores of her skin. And if not that, the sultry air screamed the truth. Thankfully, she was still wearing her dress—even in the middle of the night she’d not been bold enough to remove her clothes. Not that the desire to masturbate naked hadn’t occurred to her. She pressed her hands against her thighs to smooth the winkles in the paisley granny dress, then shifted from her right leg to her left and modestly pulled a straying dress strap back up on her shoulder.
McGill moved another step closer and reached out, placing his hand at her neck. His skin was warm, and this gentle touch traveled though her body with lightning speed.
“You have a powerful pent up need, Daphne Gray.”
“You can tell?”
“I can see it, feel it, almost taste it.”
She breathed deep, wanting to make up the two small steps between them. She hadn’t the courage, and it took McGill firmly drawing her to him to make her petrified body move.
“The first time, I’d rather take you in your own bed,” he said.
Oh, my! How easily he skipped from conversation to talk of sex! But she hadn’t the courage to question him or resist. He played to every desire that owned her—lust, security, mystery, darkness. He filled all her needs in a single man. This she finally realized at the moment he made his proposition. But then, it wasn’t really a proposition, was it? It was a statement of what he would do … She wondered when.
Daphne looked up, into his eyes, shivering, feeling bizarrely cold on this Michigan summer afternoon. There was no reason for the cold except fear.
His hand moved to her hair, tangling his way inside it, tugging it, testing it. Every tug, every yank ripped free another spasm of desire.
“We’ll take care of this shortly…your need to be here,” he nodded to the spot where minutes ago she masturbated. “But I have some things to take care of first.” He let go of her hair and then stepped aside, indicating that she should leave the chapel. Dazed, she walked away from him, stopping only when she reached the door. She looked back, seeing him still standing there, eyeing her. She bit her lip to feel the pain, to bring back reality, to feel her body again. Lifting the door latch, she fumbled a moment, nervously, snuck a final look at McGill and slipped out the door.
The sun didn’t set until well after nine o’clock. It was a cloudless night with stars popping out of a dark blue heaven. She sat in the rocker outside the cottage door and looked toward a setting sun, the color of baked pumpkins, hazy and about to vanish from the sky.
She heard the crushed gravel on the path crunch. Was he coming to her now? She hastily moved inside and waited by the kitchen table. He opened the door without knocking, and as in the chapel, he covered the doorway with a darkness that emanated from his being in a profound swoosh that had Daphne loins fluttering in a maddening frenzy.
He came to her without asking.
His first kiss was swift and rough, generating an instantaneous pounding in her groin. Then his hand went for her left breast, fondling it crudely. He had none of Emerson’s sensuousness, but he had his own erotic ways. She might need to grow to love it; as this was hardly what she was used to. But for now, his rough style was what she wanted more than she wanted the charming polish of Emerson and his kind.
When he suddenly broke the clench, he pushed her toward the back of the cottage, to the bedroom and the bed. They fell to the sheets without saying a word, with his arms going around her body, devouringly. He bit into her neck and breasts in a flurry of urgent kisses, then pried her legs apart, with his hand moving under her dress and searching in the nest of curls between her legs. He found her clitoris sensitive to even the slightest touch.
Finally, he backed off long enough to tear her dress away and stare like a conquering warrior at the treasure he’d just claimed. Coming down on her again, his erection stuffed her full, while his big body pressing on her chest made it difficult to breathe.
After so many dry and lonely weeks, she relished the feeling of being smothered by a man who knew exactly what he wanted. Her body seemed to liquefy within his embrace.
She stopped being afraid and being tentative, as the ticklish flutterings in her belly and crotch grew vicious. It had been too long between men. His earthy aroma, the smells of dirt and coffee and a bit of whiskey were better aphrodisiacs than most. Her legs opened wider as any reservation fled. And he banged her harder just as she hoped he would.
“Ooph, gawd, yes, yes…” she cried without holding back. “Oh, my, yes!!”
The pummeling was rough and abrasive. His beard scratched her skin. Places that had never been opened in her turned wild. She impulsively bit his shoulder and he slapped her face. She bit him again; he slapped her again.
Yes! She was starting to come, Yes! Yes! She was ready, was there, was over the edges, spasming crashes going off again and again in her belly, her thighs, her brain, while her pussy sucked him in deeper, deeper, to milk his big muscle with her clenching cavern.
She could feel his end coming quickly, and the bright burst of energy passing from him to her when he finally shuddered and gave up his body to a grunting, animal climax.
She quivered; her back arched and the rage within her burst inside her in bright, bold spasms.
McGill fell away from her body to the cool sheets, while Daphne lay beside him having nearly fainted. Neither talked for a long time as if they’d said everything they had to say in the last raunchy half-hour.
And yet, the longer the silence, the more uncomfortable she became. Her mind turned back to the confrontation in the chapel as pangs of guilt and shame clouded her thoughts. What had he seen? Did he know she used his chapel for her unholy masturbations? What kind of woman did he think she was? She prayed that he would speak first, but when the silence began to scream in her ears, deafening all sane thought, she couldn’t stop herself from saying:
“I’m sorry about all that.”
“Sorry about what?” he came right back.
“I mean in the chapel. I feel like I’ve desecrated your private place.”
“Sex is as sacred to me as food and drink and worshipping God. Why not use my chapel to satisfy your physical need?”
Oh, my, he must have seen her! She was terribly embarrassed. “How did you know?”
“Know of your pleasuring? I’d be a fool not to guess the truth, Daphne Gray.”
She couldn’t look at him, but could feel the hot blush rising on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I’m terribly self-conscious about private things. I should never…”
“You’ll do it again if that’s what taps your sexual core.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t now.”
“And I say you’re lying. You’ll get over your embarrassment with me. I suspect there’s a good deal more inside that needs a good confessional.”
“But I could never!”
He turned to her, pulled her his way and forced his eyes on hers. “You’ll do what I tell you to. Make no mistake about that.”
Fear leaped on her like an angry bear.
“No, no! This is all wrong. I am still a married woman. I love my husband and I’m waiting here for him.”
“And you’ll wait a long time, I’m afraid. You may love him but he doesn’t love you. A man like that probably never did.”
“Oh, but he did!” She started to cry.
He drew her naked body into his and held her close. Their heated groins pressed together in a passionate unison that raised their sexual heat again. She felt his erection throb against her thigh, demanding, goading, ominous. She tried to push herself away, but he refused to allow it and his hand came down on her bottom with a terrific smack. The force of it reverberated through her body.
“He gave you to me like he’d give away a worn out coat.”
“No. He couldn’t have!” Her face contorted with pain.
“Do you really deny it?”
She wanted to. She wanted to believe that Emerson would come for her, but she could feel truth all through her body. The months and weeks of their shared life as Mrs. and Mrs. Gray flooded into her mind, the memories vivid, from the wildness of their courtship to the odd wedding, to the weeks of Emerson’s craziness as the author of the Writer’s Club, to their profound crime and the desperate aftermath as they ran and ran with no place to settle. She knew the truth from their first vicious moments in bed to their last colorless attempts at sex. She was worse than Kathy Ann believing in her love for Zack. There was never anything in Emerson but lust. It was never real mutual love. It took a long three minutes of memories to reacquaint herself with the truth.
Daphne finally revived. Her eyes were shut tight; McGill’s were too intense to look at.
“No. I don’t deny what’s true. To do that would be denying something basic about me. I just hoped…kept hoping,” she opened her eyes at last… “that I might be wrong, that maybe Emerson just needed a few weeks away. But the longer he’s gone, the less I care if he comes back.”
McGill’s hand rested on her ass cheek; his fingers fondled the flesh with some force. She’d never known a man like him. Part of her wanted to tear herself away; the rest of her wanted to stay in his arms forever.
She shook her head, “I can’t now. I just can’t. I’m not ready to be with any man. Obviously not Emerson, and certainly not you.”
“You’re talking gibberish.”
“You haven’t been where I’ve been in the last two years.”
“Well, how about you tell me what that means,” he stated flatly.
“Tell you!” She was horrified. Of course, she couldn’t tell him.
McGill shifted on the bed enough for Daphne to extricate herself from his grasp. She pulled to her feet. Grabbing her robe from a nearby chair, she clung to the two sides, too petrified to do more.
“You have to go now,” she said.
She watched the man slowly rise up and sit on the edge of the bed. From there, he wordlessly grabbed his pants off the floor and lazily put them one, then finally stood up. He held his shirt in his hand and stared at her.
“You’ll get used it. You’ll get used to me. But if you think I’m going to let you have your way, Daphne, if you think I’m going to buy a pack of silly excuses for pushing me off, you’re a foolish wench. You’re afraid. I’ll give you that. And I’ll give you some time to sort this out. But you will be confessing to me whatever it is that has you so spooked. And once we’ve handled that, I bet you’ll be ready to continue what began here.
She stood in the corner of the room, speechless, clutching her bathrobe, shivering in the hot room as if it were twenty below.
When he left the cottage, she could see him out across the property, striding toward his small house without looking back.
***
Two days later, Daphne was attempting to make a cake in the tiny cottage oven. She had a craving for chocolate, specifically chocolate cake. She had a lot of cravings now.
She heard a noise in the drive and moved to the kitchen window, looking out, and saw the Emerson’s yellow VW pull up and stop in front of the house.
***
“It’s all spelled out here, Daphne,” Emerson said as he held the papers open. “I think the alimony is generous, considering. I mean you’ll have your own income shortly with the novel and I haven’t made a dime in two years. I’m thinking of accepting that professorship at Berkeley, although I’m not keen on being in the middle of all the protests going on right now. But I figure I can insulate myself from it and this war won’t last forever. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll agree, we can’t take the marriage any further…” He was too uncomfortable to say more.
“You just need to sign right here,” he pointed to the bottom of the page. “If you want, you can go over it in detail, but I don’t think there’s much point. It’s pretty standard. We do have to appear in court. But that will be later. I just wanted to get the ball rolling. No contest is the best way to go.”
She stared at him expressionless. “In a rush to marry, a rush to divorce. It’s always that way with you.” Her lips moved into a terse smile. “But I understand how right it is. I’m glad to be done with the problem.”
Emerson looked surprised by this sudden change in her feelings. He’d been afraid that she would lay some emotional trip on him, which was what kept him from coming to her weeks before. Now, without argument, she took the pen and leaned over the table, while he watched her sign the papers.
“So, you have a new boyfriend?” he wondered aloud, as she flipped through the document.
“No.”
He seemed a little surprised. “Well, yes, you’re right. Probably not a good idea so soon.”
“What? You think I need to get over you more before my next lover?” she countered him. “I’m actually looking forward to having a man in my life.”
“Good. Yes. And you deserve one who loves you the way you need to be loved.”
“I do, Em. But then that really never was your concern, was it?” She didn’t mean to rude. She rarely ever felt this way. But it felt good to her now.
Emerson was the uncomfortable one when it was finally time for him to leave. While he tried making small talk, she virtually ignored him. When the timer on the stove suddenly buzzed, she turned to pull her finished chocolate cake from the oven, not bothering to look back or say goodbye.
The urge to cry was strangely absent. Maybe she was suppressing the need for later, but she had the odd feeling that her grief about the failed marriage was already over.