Snowflakes drove with wind-propelled force against the
sport-utility vehicle negotiating the winding two-lane
road leading to the main highway. The driver, a tall man
broad of shoulder and massive in bulk, slowed to an even
greater degree as the speed of the gale palpably increased,
and the visibility worsened. Muttering a socially unacceptable
epithet, he squinted against the all-enveloping whiteness,
glad at least that he seemed to be the only damned fool
driving through what he mentally classed as a blizzard,
but which the locals termed an early fall storm.
Even as he drew that conclusion, he spied movement. A
heavy-duty pickup truck appeared some distance ahead,
to his left. Topping the hill it just climbed, it increased
its speed. Fearing that the driver might skid out onto
the road he traversed just as he got to the intersection,
he slowed just a trifle, his eyes swiveling between the
road ahead and the other vehicle, rather than checking
out the thick stand of willows growing beside a ditch
just inside the barbed wire fence bordering the right
side of the road.
At that juncture, a huge black shape burst out of the
willows, cleared the fence, and plunged across the road,
directly in the path of the oncoming SUV.
Jamming his foot on the brakes, the driver felt the
vehicle skid, and then slam with sickening force into
the moose. The impact caused the body of the unfortunate
animal to leave the ground, and light on the hood. Its
feet struck the windshield, shattering the glass. One
forefoot penetrated, causing a shower of razor-sharp
fragments to implode into the interior. That foot withdrew,
but all four hooves again impacted glass and metal as
the frantically struggling beast slid off the slippery
surface to land with a dull thud on the snow-covered
road.
Restrained by his seatbelt, so that he escaped being
hurled against the disintegrating glass, the occupant
threw up a muscular left arm to protect his head, even
as he sought to avoid a collision with the pickup. Pain
stabbed him, as a spear-like shard penetrated his coat,
and slashed his arm. Blood welled from the cut, staining
the fabric. The vehicle slid to a halt before it reached
the intersection.
A luridly obscene expression escaped the man clamping
a huge right hand over his injured left forearm, despite
his relief at seeing the pickup stop dead in its tracks
at the junction of the two roads. As he watched, the
door on the driver’s side opened, and a slim figure
bundled in a down coat and a woolen hat leaped to the
ground, and raced through nine-inch-deep snow towards
the wreck.
On seeing the other driver approach, the injured man
rolled down the window, only to find himself facing
the business end of a 30-06 hunting rifle pointed straight
at his chest.
“Don’t move a muscle until I see who you are,” came
the sharp command uttered by the armed woman.
Mystified by her action, the traveler froze, relieved
to note that the hands holding the weapon nowise trembled.
Just as he prepared to reason calmly with her, she lowered
the barrel, and offered an explanation. “You’re not
who I thought you might be,” she asserted evenly, no
shade of apology in her tone. “But I couldn’t take a
chance. If you’d been listening to the local radio station,
you’d have known that three convicts just broke out
of the State Penitentiary—men who grew up around here.
The Sheriff warned the public that he expects the escapees
he knows to be armed, to show up in the County. But
they’re short and skinny—two sandy-haired brothers and
their equally scrawny blonde cousin. You’re as dark
as they’re fair, and twice the size of any two of them.”
Shock arising from this woman’s willingness to confront
three armed men mingled with wry amusement. She doesn’t
seem to find my aspect the least bit daunting, he ruminated,
conscious that his seamed face, brown as oiled hardwood,
added to an imposing size and a slight Castilian accent,
might well spark fear in a woman already on edge from
knowing that three escaped felons lurked in the vicinity.
Marching around to the passenger side of the vehicle,
where the moose lay feebly twitching, the woman put
a well-aimed shot into its head, killing it instantly.
Returning to the window on the driver’s side, the shooter
announced firmly, “What I just did violates state law,
but I couldn’t let the poor thing suffer. You’re supposed
to call the Department of Game and Fish, and wait for
one of their officers to arrive to put animals injured
on the road out of their misery. But I’ll bet my boots
that this road’s closed now between here and the highway
leading to town, so it might be several days before
one of them could get here. If any question arises,
I’ll take the blame—make sure they don’t try to pin
it on you. So. You’re hurt. Let me look at that arm.”
Yanking open the door, she inquired briskly, “Have you
got a first-aid kit?”
Incipient outrage generated by the woman’s imperious
manner swiftly gave way to admiration for her decisive
handling of a situation that would have caused a good
many women to grow hysterical. “It’s under the passenger
seat,” the traveler replied equably, his hand still
clamped over his slashed arm.
Snow pelted the man stepping out into the road so as
to remove his coat more easily. Tossing the garment
into the back of the SUV, he bared the forearm, which
he saw to sport a long, clean cut parallel to its length.
“You’re lucky,” the woman opined as she deftly cut
a short piece of adhesive tape, and snipped two triangles
from its center. After twisting the strip, she blotted
the blood from the wound, held the edges together, and
applied the two ends of the twisted tape to skin on
either side of the cut. “Butterflies will usually hold
two halves of a cut that runs along the muscle, but
one that cuts across always requires stitches,” she
informed him briskly. “You might have to wait a while
before you can get to the local sawbones.”
As she spoke, she fashioned a row of the clever substitutions
for stitches. “There,” she declared. “That slash looked
clean, but there’s moose manure on the hood. If it were
my arm, I’d opt for applying iodine before bandaging
it, but that’ll hurt. Not as badly as an infection will,
though.” As she spoke, she glanced inquiringly at the
man she aided.
“I agree,” her charge stated evenly. “Daub it on.”
Without further ado, the woman applied a liberal amount
of the antiseptic, noting that the brawny stranger neither
flinched nor went taut from the pain. Expertly, she
bandaged the arm, and then held the coat so that the
injured man could don it more easily.
Walking around to the front of the vehicle, the traveler
sighed as he observed the inert body of the moose, the
yellowish-green stain in the snow attesting to the draining
of the radiator, the crumpled hood, the dented fenders,
the shattered headlights and grill, and the destruction
wrought on the windshield. “I need to get this wreck
off the road,” he observed worriedly.
“Right,” came the instant reply. “I’ve got a tow chain.
Let me drag the moose off, first.” Frowning, the woman
added, “You’re an out-of-state hunter, judging by the
fancy rifle-cases on the back seat. This road’s likely
to grow impassable both ahead and behind, right suddenly.
I’d be glad to tow your outfit to my house, which is
at the foot of the hill, near the river. If this storm
grows to whiteout intensity, you could get lost trying
to walk to a ranch house, and freeze to death. Far better
that you wait it out inside where it’s warm.”
Touched by the neighborliness prompting that offer,
the stranger yet hesitated. “Would your husband prefer
that we ask him first?” he probed.
“I divorced my husband seven years ago,” the woman
stated bluntly. “This ranch belonged to my parents,
who left it to me. I’m free to do exactly as I please.
I wouldn’t even wish freezing to death on a blasted
crook sent up for robbing gas stations and convenience
stores, let alone on a visitor to the area. So don’t
worry on that score.”
So that’s why she so boldly approached the wreck: out
of neighborly concern for someone possibly severely
hurt, and in danger from the cold—whether or not he
turned out to be a criminal. His admiration taking a
quantum leap, the stranger smiled for the first time
since meeting the woman. His rugged face suddenly alight
with warmth, he nodded as he responded, “I’d appreciate
the tow.”
“I’m Alison Haldane,” the woman announced.
“I’m Manuel González,” the stranger affirmed,
studying the faintly lined face notable for a pair of
heavily lashed blue eyes that met his squarely. The
black hat totally concealing the woman’s hair, together
with the soft black scarf wound around her throat, created
an effect uncannily like the wimple of a nun. Attributing
that odd perception to this blunt-spoken ranchwoman’s
serene self-possession, he added, “Let me assure you
that I’ll not trespass on your hospitality any longer
than is absolutely necessary.”
Exhibiting the same efficiency with which she had dealt
with the cut, Alison pulled a heavy chain from behind
the seat of the pickup, wrapped an end around a hind
leg of the dead moose, and slipped the hook over a link.
Backing her truck to the proper position, she jumped
out, shaking her head at the man using one hand to hook
the chain around the ball hitch below her rear bumper.
“I can do it,” she protested. “Don’t pop those butterflies
open—please.”
Mollified by the “please,” the autocrat stifled the
flash of resentment evoked by her issuing orders. His
seamed face expressionless, he nodded.
When the carcass lay close to the fence, the woman
again jumped out of the truck. Seeing that Manuel used
only his right hand to detach the chain, she smiled
a trifle apologetically. “Better let me squirm under
the bumper to attach the chain to the frame of your
outfit,” she advised guardedly. “That’ll take two hands.”
Judging that she sought to strike a balance between
soothing his ruffled pride and assuring that his wound
stayed closed, Manuel stood back and let her carry out
her intent. When she jumped up, active as a cat despite
her bulky clothing, he again favored her with a smile.
“I’ll go slowly,” the rescuer stated firmly. “Stout
as you are, you’ll be able to steer with one hand. The
hill’s steep, but not icy under the snow. Even so, you
might run into me. Don’t sweat it if you do. My outfit’s
got dents galore. Just stay in contact until the road
levels off.” Turning, she climbed into the truck.
Amused by the woman’s refusal to let any eventuality
faze her, Manuel steered with his unhurt hand, roused
to admiration of the way the driver towing him prevented
any sharp jerk as she set his crippled vehicle in motion.
Finding that he could not avoid sliding into the rear
of her truck, he yet managed that the contact occurred
with hardly a bump. By the time the driver of the truck
came to a stop next to a pole fence surrounding a yard,
his admiration for her skill he conceded to have deepened.
Stepping out into a white blur of wind-whipped snow,
Manuel reached into the rear seat, and withdrew a duffle
bag, before obeying the hand gesture urging him to follow
his hostess. He noted that she bore the rifle in one
hand. Passing through a gate equipped with a spring
that set it closing behind him, the guest strode across
the snowy expanse of the yard, and advanced onto a long,
wide porch of a rambling, one-storied house built of
weathered logs chinked with clay. A neat stack of split
wood leaned against the logs.
Stepping through the door the woman opened, he saw
that he stood in one end of a long living room that
spanned the width of the house. At the far end stood
an obviously antique, marvelously ornate, exceedingly
large pot-bellied wood stove. Heat radiated from its
shiny black surface, and from the stovepipe rising from
its top to pass through the ceiling.
Shedding the coat to which powdery snow clung, the
guest saw that the area before the door served as an
open entry hall designed for taking off snowy or muddy
outdoor clothing. Having hung the coat on a hook, he
seated himself on a low wooden bench, unlaced his insulated
leather boots, and stood them on the linoleum forming
the flooring for this small area.
Glancing up at the hostess, who laid the rifle across
two wooden supports above the door, he watched as she
pulled off the all-enveloping hat to reveal a mass of
short, curly, light brown hair. Two inconspicuous touches
of gray showed just above her ears. Continuing to observe
as she unlatched her boot overshoes and pulled them
off booted feet, he silently acknowledged that she moved
with fluid grace. He also noted the modest swell to
her bosom, and the equally modest flair to her hips.
Slim and hard, she exhibited more athleticism than voluptuousness.
Having automatically cataloged those facts, Manuel
acknowledged that although she wore shrink-to-fit denim
pants tailored for men, her cowl-necked pull-on shirt
and multicolored woolen sweater seemed designed for
women. She wears what suits her, just as she says exactly
what she thinks, and unhesitatingly does what she considers
to be right, even when her view conflicts with a local
ordinance, he mused. Well, I can’t fault her for those
qualities, the autocrat admitted, his appreciation for
the woman’s hospitality subtly influencing his perception
of her.
“Damn, I clean forgot to get the mail out of the box,
which was why I ventured out in such putrid weather,”
Alison observed, her chagrin evident to her guest. “Well,
the bills can sit there. The mail truck won’t run until
the state boys plow the road, anyway. How about a cup
of hot coffee, Manuel?” Glancing at the clock, which
proclaimed the time as one twenty-five, she added, “It’s
past lunch time. You must be starved. Care for a bowl
of chili?”
Having graciously assented, the man ignoring the pain
lancing through his arm stood up, drawing the woman’s
attention to the feet wearing only socks. “Mmm—I don’t
have any slippers that’ll fit you,” she observed regretfully.
“Here—pull on these woolen socks over yours. They’re
the tube sort, so they’ll fit. These floors stay cold.”
Finding that remark no exaggeration, Manuel pulled
on the proffered socks, and followed her into the kitchen.
Half expecting to see a can opened, he instead watched
her take an enameled pot out of the refrigerator, and
ladle generous portions of its contents into ceramic
bowls, which she placed in the microwave oven. As the
chili heated, the hostess quickly made a tossed salad,
and cut thin slices of bread obviously home-baked, which
she toasted and buttered.
Seated at the sturdy wooden table, on matching chairs
well able to bear his weight, the guest discovered the
lunch to be as tasty as it was filling. “Delicious,”
he assured the woman relieved to see that the inclusion
of jalapeno peppers in the main dish generated no dislike.
“I got that recipe from the wife of a local man who
shoes horses,” Alison explained. “They’re both of Mexican
descent, and she’s famous for whipping up authentic
Mexican dishes. My grandmother taught me how to make
the bread, though. She came to this country in a covered
wagon.”
Finding that the reference failed to lead into a query,
veiled or blunt, regarding his own nationality, Manuel
silently applauded the hostess for rating courtesy above
curiosity.
Finding that the woman so imperious in her demands
during the emergency on the road to be gracious and
companionable over the hearty meal she served her guest,
Manuel silently owned to liking her. An initial suspicion
that the dissolution of her marriage might have come
about because she possessed an habitually abrasive manner
swiftly died. Finding that she conversed intelligently
about current events, national economic trends, and
how those affected the local economy, he privately admitted
that she displayed no hint of being embittered by whatever
caused the divorce, or daunted by living alone. Perhaps
she’s taken a lover, he mused, surprised to find himself
wishing that she would disabuse him of that notion.
When the pleasant meal ended, the hostess began clearing
the table. Somewhat to her surprise, the guest offered
to stack the dishes in the dishwasher. Favored with
a wide, friendly smile, he acquiesced as she urged him
to sit back and enjoy a final cup of coffee. “Thanks
anyway, but I’m used to how they fit,” Alison affirmed
with a smile. “My word, listen to that wind. There’s
an open place between here and the main highway, where
the wind whipping out of the west causes especially
bad drifting. Is someone expecting you in town? If so,
better phone them. I doubt that you can get to the highway,
let alone to town. The State highway crew won’t plow
the road you were traveling until after they do the
main drag.”
“I was headed for the airport,” Manuel confided. “I
called on my cell phone three hours ago, and told the
man piloting my helicopter that I’d be delayed. But
perhaps I ought to tell him I’m stranded, mm?”
“I think you’d better,” the hostess agreed, giving
no hint of surprise at hearing of the arrangement suggesting
that her guest must be well off financially. “The airport’s
out on a mesa five miles off the highway, but there’s
a motel with an adjoining restaurant right next to it,
so the pilot will be able to get in out of the storm.
You’re welcome to stay the night, Manuel.”
On seeing that not the slightest nuance of sexual innuendo
colored that invitation, Manuel judged that this native
of a land settled by hardy pioneers relatively late
in the nation’s history acted out of her certainty that
the storm raging outside could indeed kill an unwary
traveler. Certain that she would have made the offer
to any unlucky traveler, however unattractive, whom
she helped as she had him, he replied softly, “I thank
you, Alison. I’ll be no trouble to you, believe me.”
For a fleeting second, the shrewd observer thought
he spied a hint of wistfulness in the face that lacked
beauty, but appealed by reason of its vibrancy. The
ephemeral expression vanished, to be replaced by the
serenity that the guest judged habitual, rather than
assumed for the occasion.
Striking, this woman, Manuel reflected. She possesses
strong character…just as does Mercedes.
The black eyes riveted to the hostess, who at that
juncture turned and began stacking plates in the machine,
went opaque. A memory stirred, of visiting one of his
two closest friends. Musingly, he recalled Julian’s
proudly showing him around a ranch located some thirty-odd
miles east of Alison’s turnoff, and then inviting him
to share in the pleasurable task of raising the host’s
consort to transcendental bliss. Mercedes radiates happiness,
he admitted as envy clawed at him. And Julian seems
to harbor not the slightest regret at giving up a life
filled with action. Well…I can see why.
Wrenching his thoughts to the hunt that preceded that
visit, Manuel savored satisfaction at the memory of
killing a large bighorn ram with a single well-placed
shot from a four-hundred-yard distance, after a strenuous
hike through a particularly rugged stretch of the high
country. I’ve no suitable place to hang that trophy
head, he reminded himself, but I couldn’t resist letting
the outfitter take it to the taxidermist. Or…I don’t,
as yet. But with luck, I will, right suddenly.
Outside, the wind howled. Snow pelted the windows through
which the guest stared into an all-obscuring whiteness.
Rousing himself from his reverie, he pulled his cell
phone from a pocket, dialed a number, and spoke to the
pilot.
During the course of the afternoon, hostess and guest
chatted easily with each other in the living room, while
taking care to keep the fire blazing within the pot-bellied
stove. Manuel noticed that the woman refrained from
asking any prying personal questions. Intrigued, he
wondered whether indifference prompted that seeming
lack of curiosity, or whether it arose from tactfulness:
an unwillingness to pry into the private affairs of
a man forced by circumstances to impose on her hospitality.
More likely the latter, he surmised accurately. She
figured out right away that I’d been on a hunting trip,
but she’s not peppering me with questions as to the
success of that venture. Perhaps, after seeing no evidence
that I succeeded, she’s reluctant to force me to admit
to an embarrassing failure.
At five, the hostess retired to the kitchen, where
she fried small, round, breaded cutlets of venison,
which Manuel judged to have been cut from the loin.
Those she served with creamy whipped potatoes, steamed
greens, carrot sticks, and home-baked wheaten rolls
taken from an upright freezer, and heated in the microwave.
Complimented by the guest on the tenderness of the
cutlets, Alison nodded. “This meat comes from a fat,
dry doe,” she remarked. “I killed her with one shot,
and hung the carcass for an ample stretch of time. A
good many hunters don’t take proper care of their game,
and then complain that it’s tough and strong-tasting.”
Mastering his shock before it could show, the guest
acknowledged that the meal testified to her competence
as a hunter. Noting that no trophy heads adorned her
walls, he concluded accurately that she hunted because
she needed the meat, rather than for sport. She’s amazingly
self-sufficient, he silently admitted, his admiration
growing apace.
Her house seemed quaintly small to the giant used to
indulging his taste for spacious living quarters built
to accommodate a man of his height and bulk. As he headed
to the bathroom giving onto a hallway bisecting all
of the house but the wide living room, he saw that a
master bedroom occupied the space across the hall from
the kitchen. Two other rooms, their doors closed, flanked
the kitchen and master bedroom. Assuming those to be
unused bedrooms, he noted that another small room opposite
the bathroom functioned as an office. At the far end
of the hall, he beheld an exterior door.
Towards six o’clock, the wind died down, and the snow
ceased falling. “I’ll bet it turns mighty cold tonight,”
the hostess predicted. “I’m glad I’ve got wood stacked
on the porch.”
“Do you need help with any chores?”
“No, but I thank you for asking. I sell hay and pasture.
Dad sold his herd before he died, and I never replaced
it. I don’t own any stock. Not even a saddle horse.”
For the first time, Manuel saw bitterness surface on
the face normally so composed, but that fleeting expression
swiftly passed.
I suppose she lives on chiefly on alimony, the guest
surmised, grown conscious of wear on the couch and overstuffed
chairs, and on the linoleum in the kitchen. She’s a
thrifty sort, I’ll wager—not in the least extravagant
in her lifestyle.
Having risen to thrust a length of split pinewood into
the stove, Alison asked, “Would you care for a drink,
Manuel? I make a damned good hot toddy, and a chilly
night calls for those.”
“By all means,” the guest responded, a shade surprised
at the offer. She puts a deal of trust in a total stranger—especially
one she must realize could easily overpower her, should
he turn ugly after imbibing, he reflected. But perhaps
she’s a good judge of character, who trusts her intuition.
The thought that her offer might backfire did cross
the mind of the woman impressed by the courtly courtesy
displayed by this intriguing stranger whose accent,
while obviously Spanish, yet differed noticeably from
that of her friends of Mexican descent. Her intuitive
sense that he possessed good breeding overrode her momentary
fear. Rising, she retired to the kitchen. Returning
five minutes later with two steaming mugs, she handed
one to the guest.
A few tentative sips produced warmth deep within the
man finding the cinnamon-flavored, potently alcoholic
drink exceedingly tasty, and not cloyingly sweet. “Mmm,”
he purred. “Now, that hits the spot.”
“One of these relaxes me—does me good,” the hostess
declared, smiling. “Two tend to loosen the connection
between my legs and my spine, so I generally stick to
one. Big as you are, though, you very likely could drink
three, and show not the slightest ill effect.”
She’s right, the guest admitted, tickled by the frank
observation. Perhaps that certainty, rather than intuition,
prompted her to make the offer. Warmed as much by the
smile the woman shot him over the rim of her mug, as
by the strength of the whisky, Manuel leaned back in
his chair, and sipped appreciatively.
At six, the wind died down, and the snow ceased falling.
At seven-thirty, the moon rose, sending pale radiance
slanting through the windows. Given that the house lay
far from that of the neighbors, Alison made no move
to close the drapes. “Beautiful, that fresh, drifted
snow,” she commented.
“So it is—as much for the quiet, as for the moonlight
on the drifts.”
As if to belie those words, a raucous, unnatural sound
impinged on the ears of the two companions gazing out
over the snowy meadow through which the frozen river
wound. A snow machine driven by one occupant came into
view, followed by another on which the viewers could
see two figures.
Leaping to her feet, Alison darted to the window. “Those
men are trespassing on my deeded ground,” she asserted
angrily. “Now, who in hell…” Of a sudden, her face drained
of color. Turning to the guest who likewise sprang to
his feet, she gasped, “Manuel, three men! Trespassing!
No one would be out on a snow machine for pleasure after
a storm that closed most of the roads. I’ll bet that’s
the three escaped convicts!”
“If so, they’re armed,” came the calmly uttered reply.
“Would they know that a woman lives alone here?”
“They well might. The two brothers grew up not too
far from here. My ex-husband’s father employed them
as ranch hands at one time—before their city-bred cousin
got them involved in crime. He’s the worst of the three—the
one who shot an old man in the leg, when the poor soul
came out of his house to find the three escapees hot-wiring
his car.” A daunting thought struck the ranchwoman,
who asked, “Are those rifles in your SUV loaded?”
“No—and the shells are in my duffel. Get me the shells
for your 30-06.” Even as he issued that flat command,
the guest lifted the rifle from its supports.
Having noticed that the swarthy giant possessed a military
bearing, Alison now asked, “You’ve been a soldier, haven’t
you?”
“I’m a professional soldier. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure you do. This will serve you better, though.”
Dashing into the bedroom, Alison snatched the lone weapon
occupying a gun-rack on the wall. “Twenty-gauge double-barreled
shotgun,” she declared succinctly. “Here’s a box of
shells. Or would you prefer a 357 magnum pistol? That’s
the full extent of my armament.”
“Bring the pistol,” Manuel rasped, on seeing the two
machines cross the ice-covered river, and head for the
house. When Alison handed it to him, along with a box
of shells, he asked, “Is there some safe place you can
hide? A basement, perhaps?”
“I’m not about to hide, even if this house had a basement!”
came the outraged retort. “This is my home. I won’t
get in your way, but there are three of those bastards,
and only one of you. Believe me, I don’t get buck fever,
Manuel. I’ll keep my head—watch out the bedroom window,
and see what they do. Maybe they’ll just steal the truck.”
Anger surged though the man accustomed to being obeyed
both by the men he commanded and the women he pleasured,
but he mastered that emotion. If she stays in this room,
she might take a bullet, but if she retires to another
room, an intruder might conceivably take her hostage.
Damn! “Does the master bedroom have a closet?” he inquired.
“Yes—a good-sized one.”
“You’ll hide in there, armed with the shotgun. If one
of them enters, don’t show yourself. If he jerks the
closet door open, shoot him. Leave the light off in
the bedroom. They might well split up, and enter from
different points. Don’t shoot unless one of them opens
the closet door, or one or more of them survives after
dropping me, hear?”
“Closet it is—and I won’t shoot unless I absolutely
have to.” That assurance, uttered in a calm, resolute
voice, stirred the hearer to renewed admiration.
“Have you a roll of duct tape?”
Pulling out a drawer, Alison handed her guest a roll
of gray, two-inch wide tape, and an exceedingly sharp
folding knife.
On seeing the woman retreat into the dark bedroom,
Manuel reviewed the layout of the house, even as he
watched the two machines slow down as they approached
the open space beyond the yard where the wrecked SUV
remained tethered by the tow chain to the pickup. Stopping
at a prudent distance, the three men dismounted, and
stood talking, their eyes riveted to the dwelling showing
light only in the front room.
This south-facing living room spans the house, the
military professional reminded himself. The west wall
of the living room lacks windows, and the small window
in the bathroom is set high in the wall. Tall, three-foot-wide
windows offer easy entry to the kitchen, bedrooms and
office.
On the north side, there’s a back door between the
bathroom and the office. It’s a stout hardwood door
fitted with a sliding bolt, and that’s in place. Anyone
breaking in there will advance into a dimly lit hallway,
given that the lights are off in the bathroom, office,
bedrooms, kitchen, and hall. But if the intruders know
the layout, one will likely enter by the front door,
and the others through one of the large windows in the
kitchen, bedrooms, or office. Alison never locked the
front door, which has no bolt, and sports an old-fashioned
lock. Easy for a man bent on violence to force it. Leave
it unlocked.
On seeing the three men separate, one heading for the
main entry while the others tramped towards opposite
sides of the house, Manuel strode to the small, uncarpeted
square forming the entry. Swiftly, he swept several
coats off the row of hooks beside the door, and tossed
them onto a chair, leaving one bulky down jacket hanging
on the last hook. Below that, he positioned a pair of
tall rubber irrigating boots. Flattening himself against
the wall, with the coat hanging between his bulk and
the side of the door featuring the knob, he waited,
motionless as a statue, the 357 magnum pistol gripped
in his left hand.
A sharp knocking on the solid hardwood door assaulted
his ears, but prompted no movement on his part. After
a few seconds, the man outside turned the knob. Finding
the door unlocked, he pushed it with such force that
it swung in a 180-degree arc to bang against the wall
on the opposite side of the jamb from Manuel.
When the intruder brandishing a semi-automatic pistol
advanced three paces inside, the brawny athlete moved
with awesome swiftness to a position to the rear of
the entrant. Jamming the barrel of the pistol into the
man’s back, he barked, “Drop the gun, or take a bullet!”
When the weapon clattered onto the linoleum, he swiftly
gained a choking hold on the slightly built escapee.
A strangled cry diminished into a gurgle, and then into
silence as the miscreant slumped unconscious against
the man who swiftly wrapped tape around his wrists,
ankles and mouth.
When he rose to his feet, holding the unconscious intruder
upright in front of him, he heard the ominous sound
of breaking glass issuing from the master bedroom. Cursing
under his breath, he listened, braced to hear a blast
from the shotgun. When no sound whatsoever reached his
straining ears, his gut knotted. Desperately hoping
that Alison remained undetected, he nonetheless prepared
to deal with a hostage-taker.
To his vast relief, the man emerging from the dark
bedroom held a pump-action rifle, but no hostage. “Freeze,
and drop the gun,” Manuel barked. “If you shoot, you’ll
kill your accomplice, and I’ll drop you.”
Startled to behold a brawny giant armed with a pistol—a
formidable opponent shielding himself behind the limp
body of his cousin—the second man dropped the weapon,
and stood with his hands raised. “Walk forward,” came
the curt command. “Now lie face down on the rug, and
don’t move a muscle.”
Dropping the unconscious man onto the floor, Manuel
darted a swift glance at the south-facing living room
windows. Catching no glimpse of the third assailant,
he assured himself that the hall remained empty, before
taping the mouth, wrists and ankles of the conscious
miscreant while keeping his back to the windowless northwest
corner of the room. Just as he rose to his feet, he
heard a clear, assured, feminine voice drawl, “Stop
right there, buster. I’ve got a shotgun leveled at your
back. If you don’t drop that gun and raise your hands,
I’ll scatter you all over the hall!”
The voice issued from the bedroom. A second later,
a heavy thud accompanied the appearance of a pearl-handled
revolver skidding into the hall.
“Alison, stay put,” Manuel commanded. “You there—march
out into the hall. That’s right. Now, walk towards me,
keeping your hands raised. So. Lie face down, and freeze.”
Five minutes later, all three intruders, trussed with
gray tape, lay on the carpeted portion of the living
room.
“All right, you can come out now,” Manuel called to
the woman who had obeyed his order to stay put.
Striding out, shotgun in hand, Alison advanced, her
relief at seeing Manuel unhurt plainly evident. Laying
the double-barreled shotgun on the coffee table, she
surveyed his handiwork. “That first yahoo never searched
the bedroom,” she informed her guest. “When he saw that
the bed was unoccupied, he simply crossed to the door.
Not too bright, that lad. I figured you’d take care
of him. I expected the third man to break into the small
bedrooms, kitchen or office, but instead, the dumb clod
climbed through the window already broken. I thought
he might get the drop on you before you finished subduing
the one ahead of him, so I stepped out behind him.”
Incipient ire generated by his ally’s liberal interpretation
of his instructions dissolved in a torrent of admiration
for her amazing nerve. “You keep a cool head in a crisis,
little warrior,” he commended her.
“So do you, soldier. And am I ever glad I hauled you
home with me!”
Warmed by that patently sincere compliment, Manuel
silently conceded, This woman’s as tough as Mercedes.
No—more so. Damn, but I wish… Thrusting all thought
of his own problems from mind, he observed softly, “I
honor your courage, Alison.”
“Thank you,” came the breathless reply from the woman
aware of having earned a rarely granted accolade.
“I don’t suppose the road’s open yet,” the guest surmised,
staring at the three bound men in distaste.
“The state highway probably is, but the secondary road
where you hit the moose won’t be, and my road is undoubtedly
drifted full. I’ll call the Sheriff, tell him what happened,
and ask him if they’d please get someone, state or county
hand, to plow right up to my door, and collect these
crooks.”
Having found the Sheriff right willing to accede to
her plea, Alison hung up the phone. “Damn, I expect
he’ll want a blasted statement from both of us,” she
groused. “And I just want these jailbirds gone. How
about if we each type a statement on my computer, print
them, and sign them? We’ll hand them to Sheriff Carmody,
tell him we’ve put in a hell of a day, and plead that
we aren’t up to any recital. Or at least, I’m not.”
Absently thrusting five stiff fingers into her hair,
Alison wrought instant havoc on the curly mass.
“Good idea,” Manuel commended her, noting her pallor.
Sensing that as long as a crisis lasted, so would her
cool nerve, he yet surmised that once she knew the danger
to be over, she might well suffer a nervous reaction
from the severity of the stress. That possibility sparked
an upsurge of fierce protectiveness.
When both signed statements reposed on the kitchen
table, the guest tacked a sheet of plastic over the
broken window letting an arctic blast of air into the
bedroom he saw to be the one the hostess used, and hung
a blanket in front of the waterproof sheeting. “That
will help,” he opined to the woman gamely helping with
the temporary repair despite the frigidity of the room
exposed to the outside air for so long a time.
A grating noise accompanied by the throbbing of a diesel
motor signified the advent of a truck equipped with
a V-plow. “Here they come,” Alison remarked, her relief
obvious. “I’ll shut the bedroom door, and turn up the
heat from the diesel furnace. A body could freeze to
death in here, right now!”
As six deputies hauled the trussed fugitives out the
door, the Sheriff stared quizzically at the brown-skinned
giant. Glancing down at the typed statement, he observed,
“So you’re a professional soldier. Damned good thing
you were here. Did you hit that moose lying along the
road?”
“I did. Alison towed my vehicle here.”
“Manuel is staying the night,” the hostess interjected.
“I’ll tow his outfit to town, when he decides to leave.”
“Our community stands in debt to you, Mr. González,”
the Sheriff stated, his sincerity patent. “These statements
are all I’ll need. This crime, added to the others they
committed after breaking out, ought to keep them behind
bars for decades to come. As for the moose, thanks for
getting the carcass off the road.”
If Matt Carmody noticed that one of us put the poor
beast out of its misery, he’s not about to make an issue
of it, the ranchwoman deduced with relief.
Alone once again with her guest, Alison suddenly began
to tremble. “Manuel, I owe you my life,” she breathed,
gripping his arms. “Damn! but my knees are going wobbly.
Why now, after it’s all over?”
Folded against a muscular chest, the woman suffering
a violent reaction to the shock generated by the encounter
with dangerous felons clung to the man who chuckled
as he observed, “If you’d been alone, I rather suspect
that far from losing your life, you’d have shot those
three men dead. But I’m glad I could make you a return
on your hospitality.”
Warmed by his praise, comforted by his embrace, Alison
sought to address a practical problem, even as she shivered
uncontrollably. “I made my bed with clean sheets this
morning,” she informed the guest. “You can sleep there.
I’ll curl up on the couch. I never turn the heat on
the two small bedrooms, so they’re as cold as the one
with the broken window, and they’ve got narrow single
beds. Strange…I’ve lived here half my life, and I’ve
never known a moment’s fear…but tonight, every little
sound will wake me.”
“Alison, you trust me, do you not?” Manuel asked.
“Of course I trust you!”
“You’re not curling up on the couch. We’ll both occupy
your bed. You’ll sleep soundly, knowing that I’ll be
right there beside you. Any strange noise will wake
me, and I’ll take care of any new problem. I give you
my word: you’ll sleep in perfect safety. Will you believe
me?”
Staring up into eyes black as polished obsidian, Alison
sensed the magnitude of her guest’s concern. “Yes,”
she breathed, feeling at the end of her rope.
Lifted in brawny arms, the woman placing full trust
in this professional soldier she credited with saving
her life slid her arms around his neck. Only when he
stood her on her feet, and began to strip off her clothes,
did she stiffen. “Manuel!” she gasped. “What in hell…”
“It’s freezing in here,” her companion pointed out
calmly. “You’re shivering from shock. Surely you won’t
let an exaggerated sense of modesty interfere with my
warming you, mmm? I passed you my word, Alison.”
By now stark naked, the bemused ranchwoman made no
further demur as her uninhibited guest pulled back the
quilts, laid her shivering body in the bed, and pulled
the coverings up to her chin. Striding out, he stoked
the stove with wood, and turned down the damper. Satisfied
that the fire would last the night, he returned to the
bedroom. Having stripped naked, he slid under the coverings,
and gathered his companion into his arms.
Held against the nude body of the brawny giant, Alison
savored the warmth radiating from his bulk. Still shivering
from cold as well as shock, she melted against him,
her trust in his word absolute. Emotionally exhausted,
she slid precipitately into oblivion.
Sleep eluded Manuel for a considerable time. The pressure
of Alison’s breasts against his chest sparked incipient
desire: emotion he sternly quashed. His consciousness
that she trusted him implicitly further intensified
his sense of protectiveness. The liking he had conceived
for her over the course of the day he conceded to have
grown in the wake of his witnessing her astounding fearlessness.
Wryly, he acknowledged that although she had refused
to leave the handling of the situation totally up to
him, she had wisely taken pains not to hinder him.
Musingly, he considered the likelihood of her submitting
readily to the infliction of pain as a prelude to sensual
pleasure. A sigh escaped him. Hardly likely, he surmised.
She’d bristle at the mere suggestion. But…wouldn’t you
have judged Mercedes likely to spurn that idea, as well?
I’m so used to coupling with hired partners—so unused
to moving in civilian society—that I simply can’t predict
how any woman not already inculcated into the culture
of the Order would view submission to a demanding master.
Damn!
I could learn to like living in a place like this.
I felt infinitely at ease with that outfitter and his
guides. They’re top hands in a demanding profession,
and tough as any of the military personnel I’ve trained.
Likable men, I found them.
A new consideration wrenched a sigh out of the professional
soldier troubled by the uncertainty of his future. I
simply can’t live without at least some excitement,
he reflected bleakly. Nor can I live without the companionship
of at least one comrade who shares that need. A ten-day
hunt once a year won’t satisfy that craving. Nor could
I turn to so prosaic an occupation as writing, as Julian
has. Mercedes totally satisfies his need for companionship…but
then, he was always a loner. As is his brother Michael.
Well, I’m not. If I retire, I’ll sorely miss the company
of my fellow professionals. Hopefully, Hector and I
will be able to pull off the deal we’ve planned for
so long…but if I acquire a cherished companion, that’ll
cause a complication I’ll need to resolve right promptly.
Damn it, I can’t face a breach with Hector—I need him.
It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy days on end of Alison’s
company. It’s just that she can’t talk about the technical
aspects of my field of expertise. No woman can. I’ve
been a military operative too damned long!
But still…I envied Julian, when I perceived the strength
of his bond with Mercedes. They’re as deeply in love
as two people can be. Face reality, soldier. You’re
tired of sensual pleasure lacking any component of affection.
And this forthright, fiercely independent-minded, astonishingly
courageous woman lying in your arms intrigues you.
His mental distress no whit allayed, Manuel at length
managed to slip off into dream-shot slumber.
Alison woke to an awareness of warmth radiating from
her bedmate’s bulk. The memory of the prior night returned,
prompting her to sit up, and glance down at the man
still soundly asleep. Seeing that he had thrown back
the covers from his upper body, she made certain that
no blood seeped from the bandaging on his arm. Satisfied
on that score, she studied certain scars, which she
accurately judged to be wounds taken on the battlefield.
Glad that he escaped suffering any worse consequence
than sporting a few ugly reminders, she lay back down,
pulled up the quilts, and snuggled against his side.
One of her arms stole across his chest; her head came
to rest on his right shoulder.
Her movement woke Manuel, but aroused no precipitate
response on his part. Touched by her trust in his word,
he lay still, enjoying the closeness. “You’re awake
early,” he observed.
“Force of habit. Manuel, have you got a wife somewhere?”
“No,” came the reassuring reply.
“A girlfriend you care deeply about?”
“No.”
Propping herself on an elbow, Alison frowned as she
asked, “You love women and then leave them…all over
the world, perhaps?”
“No way.” Meeting her glance squarely, her guest stated
evenly, “When I desire sensual pleasure, I hire a courtesan—a
high-priced artist superbly skilled at erotic techniques.
My calling prevented my forming any strong emotional
tie to any woman, anywhere. I accept assignments on
very short notice, and go wherever the job takes me,
for however long it takes. No wife could put up with
a husband’s constant, prolonged absences, for decades
on end.” On seeing the blue eyes widen, he inquired,
“Does my patronizing hired partners shock you?”
Twin furrows deepened across the listener’s forehead
as she assessed her reaction. “A little,” she finally
admitted. “But on reflection, I admire you for being
willing to pay a stiff price so as not to leave a long
succession of emotionally damaged women in your wake.”
The bitterness so seldom evident again fleetingly showed
on the striking face of the divorcée. Mastering
it, she smiled wistfully. “I’ll miss you, after you
go, Manuel. And I’ll worry about you, knowing how dangerous
a life you’ll be leading.”
Might she… Hastily conceiving a plan of attack, the
professional soldier confided, “I’ve been considering
retiring, Alison. I went on that big-game hunt so as
to see whether civilian pursuits could generate at least
some of the excitement and danger to which I’ve grown
addicted. I came away still unsure…but I know what could
bring me certainty. Finding a woman able to accept what
I am…what I can’t change. But that’s unlikely to happen.”
That final assertion evoked a wide, amused smile. “Manuel,
surely you’re not implying that you’d find it hard to
meet up with a woman ready and willing to fall head-over-heels
in love with you?”
The seamed brown face turned bleak. “You know absolutely
nothing about me, Alison.”
“Yes, I do,” came the instant rebuttal. “You’re tough
as saddle leather, extraordinarily good at what you
do for a living, and you keep your word.”
Touched, her companion nonetheless retorted, “Beyond
those qualities, you know nothing about me.”
Smiling down at the stranger lying nude in her bed,
Alison asserted softly, “But I’d like to know everything
about you.”
Shock swiftly turned to elation, which proved short-lived.
She’d never…or would she? Should I run a major risk?
the master of erotic art wondered. Why not? She says
exactly what she thinks—pulls no punches. Why not match
her frankness?
Sitting up, the man launching on a chancy course drew
his hostess into his lap, cradled her in his arms, and
held her eyes with his own. “For my entire adult life,
I’ve pursued a career as a soldier,” he stated levelly.
“I’ve fought all over the world. I’ve seldom moved in
civilian social circles—here, where I based my business,
or in Spain, where I lived until the age of fifteen.
I enjoy double citizenship: my mother was an American,
my father a Spaniard.”
“That’s not to say that I lacked membership in any
non-military society. I’m a member of an order of men
of many nationalities who form exceedingly close ties
to each other. Our organization promotes no social,
philosophical, or political agenda. It does, however,
form an intriguing culture, and it inculcates a strict
code of ethics, although that code differs markedly
from those most often followed in this age.
“All of us are masters of erotic art, Alison. All of
us take pleasure in inflicting pain on a sexual partner,
as a means of raising her to a sublime height of ecstasy.
All of us demand total submission from any woman with
whom we couple, whether she’s a consort, a cherished
companion, or a hired courtesan.”
Staring intently at the face expressing profound astonishment,
Manuel felt his gut tighten painfully. To his surprise,
he beheld a series of swift changes, the import of which
eluded him. “That admission shocked you, didn’t it?”
he stated, rather than asked.
“The idea that some men derive sexual pleasure from
inflicting pain on a woman doesn’t shock me,” came the
totally unexpected reply. “I’ll admit, though, to being
a bit unnerved to find my stark naked self in bed with
a sadist. Manuel, you know nothing—absolutely nothing—about
me.”
Shocked himself, the man half expecting to be ordered
out of bed, if not out of the house, tightened his grip
on this hardy individualist whose behavior so seldom
conformed to his expectations. “But I’d like to know
everything about you,” he averred serenely.
That sly rebuttal produced a rippling, wholly enchanting
laugh. “If you’re in no hurry to leave, let’s rise,
shower, eat breakfast, call your poor, long-suffering
pilot, and tell him you’re again delayed. I’ll turn
up the furnace to an unprecedented height, so as to
bring this blasted bedroom to a tolerable temperature,
and then we’ll come back to bed and get really well
acquainted,” Alison proposed.
“Now, that’s an offer I can’t refuse.”
Over scrambled eggs, homemade venison sausage that
he pronounced exceedingly tasty, freshly baked biscuits,
and orange juice, Manuel meditated on the options opening
to him. Desire stirred, as he observed the glow of anticipation
animating the face of this woman so full of surprises.
Tantalized by her response to a revelation he fully
expected to shock and perhaps anger her, he found himself
wondering whether she might turn out to be a treasure
equaling Julian’s.
Frustration nagged at him as he contemplated his situation.
An earlier call to his headquarters drove home to him
that he simply must fly back there at the end of this
day. But if I make the breakthrough I’m hoping to make…what
then? Leave this chance-met treasure for three or four
weeks? I might stir her to such desire that she’ll feel
driven to take a lover, if indeed she hasn’t already.
Damn!
Resolving to muster patience, see what transpired,
and then decide on a course of action, he finished his
breakfast, and accepted a refill of steaming coffee.
A short time later, having stripped his hostess of
her down-filled bathrobe, and shed his pants and briefs,
Manuel doubled the quilts lengthwise, and rolled them
into a tight bundle. That he set on a chair. Sweeping
Alison up in brawny arms, he laid her in the bed now
lacking any covers, and drew her close. “Tell me all
about yourself,” he murmured in her ear.
A sigh floated out onto the ambient air. “Well…I married
Jeff right after I graduated from the University. We
met while competing in rodeo events. I won a buckle
for winning the barrel racing at the Fourth of July
Rodeo, and Jeff made all-around champion. That’s how
we got together. Charmer, he was…still is. A master
hand at wowing girls. He radiated sex appeal. I guess
that’s what I reacted to, mostly. I was as hot for him
as he was for me.
“Jeff’s grandfather, Bart Haldane, built a fortune
in land and cattle. A tireless worker, he knew the business
from one end to the other, but his only son, Randall,
developed the idea that inherited wealth makes you superior
to the ordinary bloke scratching out a living. Randall
married a woman with social ambitions. She persuaded
him to build a costly mansion, entertain lavishly, and
even enter politics. She and Randall pampered their
only son: Jeff. Spoiled him rotten, they did.
“We went to live on one of the finest ranches acquired
by Bart. I’m an accounting major—a CPA. I figured someone
needed to do the ranch bookkeeping, and Jeff wasn’t
interested. But I found that an impossible task. The
whole outfit was now a family corporation. Jeff spent
whatever he pleased, whether on needed improvements,
expensive pickups and horse trailers employed mostly
for hauling stock to rodeos, or fancy roping horses
that never got used to move cows. I kept track of expenses,
but when we shipped the calves, the check went to Bart.
“Well…I developed big misgivings about the way the
Haldanes ran the outfit, but I adapted. I bore Jeff
two sons that I tried to raise to be decent, honest
citizens with a good work ethic. And I succeeded—because
Bart helped me. But then…Bart died.
“His death coincided with a big drop in the prices
calves brought, and a series of droughts that caused
poor hay crops. Randall tried to cope, with only middling
success. He and Jeff argued a lot, and Jeff took to
drinking in the bars far more than he ever had before.
“Well…things went from bad to worse. I learned that
Jeff chased women…and caught them. He routinely woke
up hung over, and shirked work. I continued to do what
ranch wives typically handle—cooking, housework, bookkeeping,
fixing fence, working in the hayfield, moving cows,
putting out a huge meal for a big crew when we branded
the calves in the spring, feeding hay to the stock in
the winter. Most local women work beside their husbands,
but mine grew downright shiftless.
“I could have divorced Jeff for incompatibility, but
I figured that the Haldanes owed me for all the work
I did over twenty years, damn it. So I got proof of
his infidelity. But just as the suit went to court,
the corporation went bankrupt. The bank sold the cows,
the horses, the machinery, and most of the land. Instead
of getting what I figured was fair, I got a paltry cash
settlement. You can’t wring blood out of a stone.
“I invested that money, along with a modest legacy
left me by an uncle, and moved back here. Mom died fifteen
years ago, and Dad passed on before I left Jeff. I irrigate
in the summers, put up my hay, lease the pasture to
a neighbor, and earn considerable money from preparing
tax returns for local ranchers, between January first
and March first, each year.
“You know…they say around here that the third generation
always loses the land. I guess that’s true. Jeff’s now
living with a woman who owns a bar. Our oldest son guides
big game hunters in Alaska. The younger boy’s working
his way around the world. He’s currently employed on
a cattle station in the Australian outback. They phone
me often, but I seldom see them. After the divorce,
I resolved not to look back…feel bitter. For the most
part, I’ve succeeded.”
Impressed by Alison’s refusal to spew out angry, bitter
recriminations as much as by her sturdy self-reliance,
Manuel again developed a fierce sense of protectiveness.
That damned fool she married threw away a treasure,
he reflected as he drew her close, and stroked her hair.
Maybe his loss will be my gain.
Comforted by his wordless gesture, Mercedes stirred,
and spoke. “Manuel…let me assure you of something. Jeff
slept with a succession of floozies picked up in bars.
When I heard about a case or two of venereal disease
showing up in the County, I got myself tested. To my
relief, everything came back negative. I refused to
sleep with Jeff after I got proof of his infidelity.
I’ve not gone to bed with any man for the last ten years.
I get tested each year, but the results always come
back negative. I’m no danger to a partner.”
If she’s offering me that assurance, she must not shrink
from coupling with a sadist, the guest exulted. “Nor
am I, despite my patronizing professional artists,”
he declared equably. “I can offer you similar proof.
Now, confide in a man who’s an unabashed sensualist.
Tell me how you’ve achieved relief for the past decade.”
A flush rose in Alison’s cheeks. “You know how I do,”
she countered. “I play with myself.”
“Mm. Share with me just how you get off.”
On seeing the flush deepen, Manuel averred softly,
“Nothing you could possibly tell me will shock me. Surely
you realize that?”
Judging that assertion to be the truth, Alison resolved
on baring her soul to this worldly stranger: a man well
able to understand her. “I’ve always read constantly,”
she confided. “After I began living alone, I took to
devouring classical erotica—fiction and non-fiction.
Reading about certain alternative lifestyles fascinated
me. What I read sparked fantasies featuring a dominant
lover who delighted in inflicting pain on me.
“Jeff was good in bed, but he harbored no such tendencies.
Besides…he couldn’t stay in control of his own life,
let alone mine, and I guess I got mortally tired of
being the one holding everything together. When I returned
to living alone, I longed for a man able to dominate
me…to arouse me to fierce passion. When my ability to
fantasize faltered…I tried inflicting pain on myself.
That…plus imagining an erotic encounter…got me off swiftly
and effectively.
“But Manuel…it wasn’t much pain. And I never increased
it, or varied it. My secret ritual worked; that sufficed.
When I read about masters who practiced what I can only
view as torture, in the full view of strangers, in fetish
clubs, and the like, all I felt was revulsion.
“I can sense that you’re different. You radiate command…but
you’re not at all…crude…and I suspect…not a man given
to gross excesses. But you’re powerfully built, and
you’ve lived an alternative lifestyle for decades. If
I were to submit to you, and you got carried away…exceeded
what I could bear…that would prevent my coming, and
damage me, mentally. And I’ve taken enough emotional
damage already.” Raising a troubled face to the man
hanging on her words, she awaited what she suspected
might be an adverse reaction.
To her surprise and relief, Manuel smiled, his amusement
obvious. “So you long to submit, but only after setting
a limit on the pain your master inflicts, mm? That would
leave you in control of the encounter, little innocent.
That’s not submission. You’ve yet to realize that for
a naturally submissive woman such as yourself, there
can be no ecstasy without perfect surrender: eager acceptance
of whatever pain a dominant partner takes pleasure in
inflicting.
“I concede that a good many self-styled masters pose
a potent danger to the women on whom they recklessly
inflict permanent physical and emotional damage. We
of the Order, however, exert rigorous control over ourselves,
and stay within bounds set by ancient custom. We’re
civilized sensualists, Alison—partners worthy of perfect
trust. We’re also highly skilled at initiating a beginner—teaching
her to embrace a mode of sensuality wholly new to her.”
Frowning in perplexity, Alison digested that smooth
assertion. “I don’t know…” she whispered, her longing
to give herself to this man unlike any she had known
conflicting mightily with her fear.
“Show me what you use to inflict pain on yourself,”
came the command couched in a tone that brooked no evasion.
Flushing once again, Alison yet obeyed. Reaching into
a drawer of the nightstand, she withdrew an alligator
clip of the sort used by electricians, and handed it
to the man noting that its size approximated that of
the cunningly fashioned sculpture in a pouch in his
duffel: an object he used routinely on the women with
whom he copulated. “So. Where do you apply it?”
“Here.” Her cheeks scarlet, Alison pointed to her mound.
“Universal feminine craving, that which you satisfy,”
came the unexpected remark. “You trust me to keep my
word, do you not?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Will you consent to let me pleasure you, if I pass
you my word to inflict only the pain that object will
confer—to use it exactly as you do yourself?”
Puzzled by the seeming reversal of a fundamental philosophical
belief, Alison breathed, “Yes! But…you said…”
“One step at a time, little innocent. One lesson at
a time. I told you, I know how to handle a tremulous
beginner.”
“I believe you,” Alison affirmed stoutly. “And I trust
you. It’s myself I’m unsure of, Manuel. But…I need…what
I suspect you can give me.”
I’ll wager that’s a masterpiece of understatement,
the man experiencing a fierce onslaught of desire silently
concluded. Rising, he strode to the chair over which
lay his pants, removed his wallet, and took out a folded
sheet of paper. “Read this,” he ordered.
Having scanned proof of his perfect health, Alison
jumped up, took a similar report from a side pocket
in her purse, and handed it to her guest, who, after
a few seconds of reading, returned it to her. “I believed
you,” he declared evenly. “But proofs engender mutual
peace of mind.”
“Damned right,” came the unperturbed reply of the woman
relieved rather than offended by his wish to exchange
assurances. Returning to the bed, she lay supine, her
eyes dark with desire even as her slim, hard body betrayed
tension.
Controlling his lust to perfection, Manuel drew the
novice into a close embrace. “Go limp,” he directed,
sensing her fear. Stroking her back, he studied the
two long, jagged, prominent scars running parallel across
the outer thigh of her right leg. Wondering what sort
of accident produced those, he recalled that she never
evinced any fear of his inflicting a permanent reminder
of his passion. That possibility hasn’t dawned on her,
he surmised. Treat this potential treasure with care,
soldier. She needs skilled handling.
Having crossed a significant threshold, Alison cast
her doubts to the winds, if not her fear. When her partner
laid her flat on her back, and stretched out beside
her, she tried valiantly to relax.
Lying prone beside the woman whose agitation he sensed,
Manuel talked softly to her, his voice an aural caress.
“Go limp as wet silk, little stalwart,” he urged. “Abdicate
all control over your body. Offer yourself fully. Let
your trust transmute into surrender. For this hour,
you exist for my pleasure. Let the pain I inflict loosen
you, open you, set your juices flowing. Ahhh…that’s
better.”
Beguiled into obeying, Alison closed her eyes, and
gave herself up to whatever might come. Huge hands cupped
her breasts; thumbs massaged nipples that swiftly hardened.
The hands began a slow, languorous descent of her body,
caressing her, gentling her.
Shifting position, Manuel lay with his feet by her
head. Hooking his left arm around her left leg, he pressed
on the inner thigh with his palm, thereby spreading
her thighs. The fingers of his right hand toyed with
her clit, which instantly stiffened into rigidity. A
long middle finger slid into her cunt, assuring the
investigator that she responded with warmth, and wetness.
For a time, he offered expert genital massage, mimicking
what he suspected she did herself. Soft sighs of pleasure
greeted those efforts.
Desisting, he smoothed the crisply curling, light brown
hair thatching her mound, and pinched the skin, forming
a fold. Having opened the clip, he let the blunt, interlocking
teeth close on the fold.
Pain wholly familiar to her produced the effect Alison
expected. An intangible barrier in her mind fell, producing
intensified desire simultaneously with a relaxation
of the walls of her inner space. When moist fingers
rubbed both sides of her clit, offering stimulation
similar to that with which she pleasured herself, she
swiftly achieved orgasm.
A sharp intake of breath, accompanied by maximum fullness
of the organ so sensuously caressed, plus increased
hardness of the nipples reminding the viewer of pink
pebbles, accompanied that outcome. Expecting Manuel
to remove the clip and satisfy himself, she opened her
eyes expectantly, to see amusement reflected in the
rugged features of her lover. “Lie still,” he commanded.
Moving with feline grace, the athlete repositioned
his partner so that she lay with her head at a corner
of the double bed. Moving again, so that he faced her
groin, he spread her thighs wide, closed his mouth over
the clit gone soft once again, and offered expert oral
stimulation. At the same time, he toyed with the clip,
bending it first one way, and then another, pulling
on it, or pressing the two sides of the teeth, so that
they pinched harder.
A sharp increase in the pain assaulted the senses of
the novice simultaneously experiencing intense sensual
pleasure. Far from blunting that pleasure, the added
stimulus intensified it. Moisture again gushed into
the cunt into which a teasing tongue penetrated, forcing
a groan of sheer delight from the woman thus seductively
caressed.
Shifting tactics, Manuel lifted his head, and issued
an order. “Rise to your knees, with your back to me,
and drop your shoulders to the bed.”
As she hastened to obey, Alison briefly glimpsed the
size of the fully engorged cock about to make itself
free of her cunt. Far from unnerving her, that sight
served only to deepen the raw lust befogging her mind.
“Spread your thighs,” came the imperious order. A microsecond
later, his magnificent endowment drove into the ample
feminine depth of the woman whose hips he encircled
with his arms as he knelt behind her. Fingers again
fastened on the clip, pressing it against the flesh
of Alison’s mound. A series of deep, hard thrusts conferred
exquisite pleasure. “Oh…fuck me harder…no, faster,”
she begged. “Breed me…juice me…ohhhh!”
The climax that now overtook the woman whose pleas
grew inarticulate dwarfed the first in intensity. A
low, throaty cry betokening delight floated out on the
ambient air.
Withdrawing his still-hard cock, the master rose to
stand next to the bed. Having given her a bit of time
in which to savor her sensations, he lifted the woman
lying prone, and stood her on her feet. “Clasp your
hands behind your head, spread your legs, and don’t
move,” he commanded.
Bemusedly, Alison obeyed, noting that her lover’s magnificent
prick remained stiff as a steel I-beam.
Having laid the tightly rolled quilts along the edge
of the mattress, and placed both pillows over them,
the master of erotic art lifted his puzzled partner,
and disposed her unresisting body so that her rear rested
on the piled bedding, her legs hung down over the side
of the bed, and her shoulders rested on the mattress.
Pain radiated from the clip as the skin stretched more
tightly over the abdomen and mound of the woman whose
body arched steeply backwards.
Standing between the thighs he spread with both hands,
Manuel drove his rigid tool deeply into the cunt from
which moisture dribbled. As he thrust into the novice
exhibiting no slightest tension, his fingers pressed
the clip against the tautly stretched skin, in the opposite
direction from which it had lain during the prior coupling.
The resultant sharp pain blended with the exquisite
pleasure generated by the massive member targeting spots
not normally reached during intercourse. Moans issued
from the woman discovering that lying in so unorthodox
a posture accentuated her sense of relinquishing all
control over her body. Her awareness narrowed to focus
on the twin sensations of pain and pleasure. Rising
to a height of bliss unprecedented in her experience,
she cried out as she achieved a peak that sent her into
a state of near-trance.
Gauging accurately just when she would attain fulfillment,
Manuel relaxed the rigorous control he had maintained
until now over his own lust. When the contractions within
his partner’s cunt tightened on his prick, he ejected
the essence of his passion, his groans coinciding with
her shrill cry of delight.
Standing like a statue, the master of erotic art stood
for a time, savoring not only the rush of pleasure,
but also an upsurge of satisfied male pride. At length,
he removed the clip from the skin gone hot and red,
producing a sharp twinge of pain that failed to register
on his rapt partner. Lifting her, he supported her slack
body by an arm placed under her buttocks, as her breasts
pressed against his chest. Holding her much as a mother
holds a child when she needs a free hand, he tossed
the quilts and pillows to the floor, laid her in the
bed, and stretched out beside the woman floating in
a state of utter bliss. |
