BODACIOUS Read online

Jimmy Singer was handsome, a popular young administrator with the university. He and Sara had graduated together. He stayed on with the school, Sara went to work on the local newspaper. Eventually Jimmy asked her out for a Coke.

  They went out several times, necked and petted in his car. He didn’t press for more when he took her back to her rooms over the garage at her parents’ house at night. The subject of sex didn’t come up until spring when they went on the picnic to Glassic Lake.

  It was warm in the sun. Couples in various stages of undress lay necking on blankets and towels all along the shoreline. Sara forced herself to relax and concentrate on breathing slowly, evenly, as Jimmy spread their blanket. He knelt and put his hand on her back. She sorted and rearranged the food in their picnic basket.

  He lay down, stretched out an arm and beckoned her. She smiled, dropped down beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. Sara thought it was odd when he covered their bodies with a beach towel, leaving their arms and legs exposed. She didn’t ask about it.

  Jimmy kissed the side of her face. He pulled her blouse free of her shorts, unbuttoned and laid it open, her exposure hidden beneath the towel. He ran his warm hand over her stomach, unsnapped the front closure on her bra and fondled her breasts as he had done before. Dread knotted her stomach.

  She lay unmoving as he unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts, something he had not done before. Trying to relax, she tensed even more.

  Kissing her, distracting her, he pulled her shorts and panties down to her knees, then did the same with his own shorts and underwear. She hoped to feel some kind of joy, excitement, anything but this consuming terror. She didn’t.

  Jimmy rolled her onto her side, facing him. There they lay chest to breast, their nakedness hidden from other people along the beach by the towel draped over them. Sara trembled, feeling exposed as he shifted beneath the towel. He put his hand on her behind and pressed her against him.

  She felt his cock hard against her thigh. Jimmy was perfect, she told herself. It would never get better than this. She wanted to want him. She tried to cooperate, as he attempted to insert himself into her, but her body resisted. She took a deep breath, gritted her teeth, and braced herself.

  He said, “Everything’s all right, sweetheart. I’m wearing protection.” She shivered. “You don’t have to say anything, Sara. You can’t want this any more than I do.”

  He had misinterpreted her shiver, but it didn’t matter. She was determined to make this work.

  She was dry as he entered her. Involuntarily, she clamped her legs together then clenched her teeth, trying not to resist. The torturous cock penetrated. A dozen thrusts later, Jimmy groaned with pleasure.

  Watching him, wide-eyed, Sara felt no passion, no pleasure, only a morbid curiosity. Her only wonder came from having given him such consuming satisfaction while she had lain there more observer than participant.

  They had sex many times that summer, always partially clothed. Sara endured each encounter, grinding her teeth against her humiliation.

  Disgusted by her own inadequacy, Sara began to despise his always reliable pleasure in the sex act. Here she was, twenty-five years old, successful in her chosen profession, making her own living, in her dating prime, and she hated sex. God, she hated being frigid.

  She tried to side-step circumstances which would provide them opportunities for intimacy, pretending, hiding her dread each time Jimmy began the ritual.

  Modest, frequently rushed, Jimmy preferred to remain partially clothed for sex. He said it was less trouble to remove only the essential clothing, then dress quickly again, and get on with other plans. The only redeeming factor for Sara was that Jimmy’s sexual satisfaction came quickly. Her misery was always blessedly brief.

  Finally, one afternoon late in August, in her rooms over the family gaage, Sara balked.

  “I just don’t want to,” she said as Jimmy began the familiar preliminaries.

  “Why not? We’re not doing anything until three. Come on.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Are you mad at me about something?”

  She shook her head.

  “You trying to punish me for looking at other girls? It’s innocent, Sara, I promise. You’re my girl. You know that.”

  “Jimmy, I don’t like sex.”

  He snapped his head back as if recoiling from a slap in the face. “What d’you mean? Sara, sex is the one way we are totally compatible. We’ve had great sex all summer. What’s wrong with you? Come on. What’d I do?”

  She winced. “I thought we knew each other well enough by now that I could finally be honest about this.”

  His face flushed and twisted with annoyance. “You want to be honest? Who’s asking for honesty? Not me, honey. If you think we’re at a place in our relationship to start discussing each other’s shortcomings, I have a few suggestions of my own.”

  Sara stared at him. “How could you have any complaints? We’ve done exactly what you wanted to do, when you wanted to do it, for the last three months.”

  “Yeah, and the doing it has been good. But you’re a pouter, Sara. You sulk for absolutely no reason. I all but stand on my head to try to make you happy but nothing seems to work. We used to have fun.”

  “That was before we became intimate.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t like sex.”

  “Do you mean sex with me or with anyone?”

  She felt the blush wash up from her neck into her face. She averted her gaze. “I don’t know.”

  Jimmy stared at her. “Well,” he hissed finally, “we sure don’t want to pester you with any more of that nasty old screwing.” He stomped out.

  He called three days later, apologizing, wanting to patch it up.

  He went to her rooms and they talked. The conversation deteriorated to the same argument and he left angry again. They repeated the same scene again and again.

  After he left for graduate school in California in September, Jimmy called. He missed her. He wanted her back. He was ready to take the plunge--they could get married, if that’s what she was angling for.

  * * *

  Remembering Jimmy--what a fine, handsome man he was--Sara struggled to her feet in the cool darkness and paced across the shed. She should have fallen in love with Jimmy. He was everything a woman could want in a husband. Yet she never experienced inner stirrings with him, no butterflies, no unexplained tingling, no palpitations, nothing. What was it then that caused the electrical current Bo ignited?

  Just seeing Bo that afternoon in the woods felling the tree, her heart jumped, her pulse raced, and she blushed furiously. And that was when she still thought of him as old.

  When he put his arms around her to knead the biscuit dough, she had all those same responses plus an odd prickling sensation in the most private parts of her body. Why was that? What was it?

  Tonight as he walked dripping from the river, she felt a rush of heat. She had willed him to survive the river, had wanted to run to him, to feel his arms around her when the ordeal was over.

  Sara was roused from her musing by a noise.

  The board securing the shed’s door creaked as someone outside slid it from its brackets. It wasn’t Bo. He always knocked twice before coming in.

  She heard the heavy beam thud as it hit the ground. She crouched in the dark and waited, frightened, curious to know who was entering the shed so stealthily.

  Chapter Ten

  Sara didn’t recognize the outlined form of the person who stepped into the shed, closed the door, turned on a flashlight and shot it around the chamber until it illuminated her.

  Covered by the worn cotton nightshirt, which extended well below her knees, she still grabbed a quilt to cover herself. Her visitor hesitated, then diverted the light beam to the floor.

  “Come on,” he rasped finally. “Quick, ‘fore he hears.”

  Blinded by the light, she grabbed a handful of clothing and scrambled to follow as the figu
re turned, doubled over, doused the light, and disappeared out the door. This was her chance.

  But who was this?

  What did it matter? He was here to take her home.

  She followed. “Who is it?” She fell into step behind him as they hurried to the ridge. He dropped to his knees, turned and flipped the light quickly on and off in his own face. “Franklin.” She whispered the name and a tremor shivered through her.

  “Shhh!” He stood, bent from the waist, and again scurried toward the ridge. Sara remained where she was. “Come on,” he hissed. Still she didn’t move. “Cappy sent me to fetch ya. He ‘as gonna rescue ya but he ‘as too scart to come git ya hisself.”

  “Where is he? In the truck?”

  “Nah, he’s waitin’ for us down at Melon’s Walk. Come on, now. Ya wanna get outta here or don’t ya?”

  She shivered. Yes, she wanted to leave, but not with Franklin. A person couldn’t choose her rescuers. On the plus side, he was alone, and he wasn’t much bigger than she was. Could she keep him at bay, physically, until she could outsmart him? She bit her bottom lip. That shouldn’t take long. If he didn’t cooperate, she’d take his truck. She’d make sure it was returned, after she was well away from there.

  He mumbled. “You comin’ or not?”

  Ignoring her better instincts, Sara clutched the quilt and the handful of clothing to her and followed.

  They scrambled over the steep terrain, slipping and skinning their way to the flat area below where the truck waited, the same rattle trap which had ferried her away from civilization all those days ago.

  “Get in.” He spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sara darted to the passenger door, which was partially open. She climbed in and slammed the door shut. Franklin cringed at the sound and cranked the engine. It fired on the third try. He floor-boarded the truck, squealing tires, and throwing gravel as they fishtailed around and away.

  He careened down the mountain without speaking for several minutes, checking his rear view mirror every few seconds.

  “He can’t run this fast.” Sara wanted him to slow down on the curving, narrow mountain road which quickly improved from cattle track to gravel road to asphalt.

  “He’s got that big black machine that’ll catch this ‘un in a heartbeat.”

  The motorcycle. She didn’t know it even ran. “I didn’t hear it start up. Where’s Melon’s Walk? How far is it from here?”

  Franklin cut his eyes and allowed a nasty smile. “’Fore that, I’m taking you to another little place I know.”

  “You said we were going to Melon’s Walk to meet Cappy.”

  “We’ll get there.” He licked his lips. “Cappy’s awful lathered up about diddlin’ ya. Not wanting ya to disappoint the boy, I thought I ought to prime ya for it first, so you’ll know what’s expected.”

  She eyed him carefully. Franklin was too excited, a little “lathered up” himself. This road was good enough. She could get herself back to civilization from here. A hairpin curve danced in the headlines. Franklin slowed the truck. Sara jerked the handle and rammed the passenger door with her shoulder.

  The handle fell off in her hand. The door held fast.

  Franklin smirked. “That handle don’t work. There’s a special way. You gotta know it.”

  She cranked the window lever.

  “It takes two fellers to open that winder’ and that when she’s standin’ still.”

  He turned off the asphalt onto a dirt trail that spiraled down, down into a canyon, a well of darkness.

  Sara fought her growing panic. She had to keep her head. She could handle him. At the first opportunity, she’d steal the truck and take off.

  After several minutes driving down into the gloom, Franklin stopped in the middle of a single-lane path, cut the engine but left the lights on, and turned to face her. He stretched an arm on the back of the seat.

  “Come on, Missy, you think we’re a bunch a’ hillbillies, but we know about city women and their whoring. You take any man you can get. I seen you doin’ it in the magazines, in the picture shows, and on the TV.” He slanted her a crooked look. “You city gals knows tricks, things you could learn me.”

  Sara shook her head stricken by his incredible stupidity. She regarded his narrow shoulders, his scarecrow arms and legs. He probably had a painful little shaft to match. She tried to shake off that thought.

  Franklin slipped something out of his pants pocket. With lightning quickness, he looped a cord around her left wrist and gave it a yank.

  She snatched at it with her free right hand which he snared, then bound the two wrists round and round with the cord. The quilt slid from her shoulders as Sara jerked her hands up and threw her body against him. Stronger than he looked, he put a filthy hand in her face, shoved her back and tied her hands off with a knot, leaving a long end of rope still coiled in the seat.

  This strange little gnome had a penchant for tying her up, and her wrists had barely healed from their last encounter. Maybe it wasn’t just her. The leer in his eyes told her exactly what he was thinking. That was not going to happen. She’d castrate the little idiot, if he wasn’t careful. The words desperate times, desperate measures flitted through her mind. She would not let him rape her. She would die first.

  While she pondered the unthinkable, Franklin leaped from the truck and pulled the end of the cord out with him. He yanked Sara, wrists first. She slid across the seat. Her hip bumped the steering wheel as she skimmed it. She saw the keys dangling from the ignition. When she got loose, she’d run for the truck, get in, and drive. Her mouth set in a grim line. That’s exactly what she was going to do.

  Both feet firmly set, Franklin grabbed Sara’s arms and pulled. Her body followed. She also swept out with her the extra pieces of clothing she had brought along. They scattered, swept by the wind. Smaller pieces billowed, carried aloft on updrafts.

  Staggering, trying to keep her feet, Sara lunged out of the vehicle to stand teetering next to Franklin who jittered nervously, looking around. His beady little eyes stopped when he sighted a massive live oak nearby. The tree, directly in line with the headlights, had expansive limbs, some of which swept low, the shadowy ends touching the ground.

  Sara took a deep breath. He was too excited. She had to be calm, try to calm him.

  “Is this where we’re supposed to meet Cappy?” She asked the question slowly, quietly, as if the struggle in the truck had not occurred.

  “No.” Franklin didn’t look at her. He was regarding the oak seriously as if visualizing something. Without warning, he yanked her forward as he stomped to the tree, his short legs taking choppy little steps over the uneven trail.

  He had a long body but incredibly short legs. If the length of his legs had been proportionate to his torso, he would have been well over six feet tall. To Sara, he looked as if his body were a salvage job, a mixture of castoff parts taken from a random selection of people.

  Science might come to that someday, building a human who resembled Franklin, Sara thought. Obviously, however, this man was as he had been formed in a mother’s womb. No wonder he had to tie women up to get a date. Even the mountain girls weren’t desperate enough to go out with him.

  As he was, Franklin was five-foot-eight or nine, only slightly taller than Sara. From his narrow shoulders extended long, spindly arms and small hands. But his hands were strong--very strong. She’d bet he was sensitive about his shape.

  Franklin was stupid, but sly, and treacherous. She was smart. What about the man might work to her advantage?

  He had a coward’s mentality; had to tie a woman to subdue her. He did it efficiently. Practice, no doubt.

  He ignored her as she stepped up beside him and swelled to her full height. Suddenly, she jabbed both her fists into his face and drove her heel into his foot. He screamed and backhanded her, knocking her sideways, but he didn’t release the rope. Sara stumbled, tried to catch herself but hit the ground with a jarring thud and rocked back. Her right hand slid out
of the cord but her left remained secure in the loop, the tether firmly in Franklin’s grip. She rolled onto her side, catching herself with the free hand, splaying it in the dirt in front of her.

  “You stupid idiot.” She hissed the words.

  Franklin sneered, baring ugly yellow fangs dangling at either side of the empty gums in the front of his mouth. “If I’m so stupid, how come you’re the one trussed up like a sow about to get her head bashed?”

  He set one foot, then ground the other one into her hand braced in the dust. She groaned and tried to yank her hand free. He shifted more weight onto the grinding foot. His mouth closed behind thin, angry lips and he peered down, bullying her with his stare.

  “If I smash this hand, you won’t never play the piano again.” He hesitated. “D’you play the piano?”

  She didn’t answer as a gnawing fear nibbled at her anger. He set his jaw and put more pressure on the hand. “Like that, do ya?”

  “No.” She yielded. “Yes. I play the piano.”

  “It don’t matter. You ain’t gonna be playin’ no more no how.” He put his full weight on her hand and ground it back and forth. She screamed into the night, a resounding shriek, and the sound carried, echoing through the mountain hollows.

  Franklin leaped sideways off the hand. “Shuddup!”

  Trembling, Sara lifted the crumpled hand. She whimpered when he grabbed it, binding her wrists again, this time more tightly.

  The hand which had been under his foot was tender when she tried moving it, but it didn’t feel broken.

  This couldn’t be happening, she told herself, following quietly as Franklin stomped to the tree, tossed the length of cord over a high branch and pulled, hoisting her arms so she could prop her hands on the top of her head. It was a ridiculous position. She felt frightened, vulnerable.

  When she was secured, he returned to the truck for a bundle which appeared to be a sleeping bag. Keeping her eyes on him and using her thumbs, she worked on the knot binding her to the overhead branch as she thought. He was much stronger than he looked. She’d underestimated him--or overestimated herself. Maybe she should forget the truck and just run.