The Widows of Sea Trail-Vivienne of Sugar Sands

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  I smiled at Roman. Someone was going to have a good time tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  In the pink I walked over to the computer. It had been a while since I had checked my email and I wondered if PeterPeterPeater had checked in. With all the emotions he had been dealing with the last few days I would have been surprised if he had, but I checked anyway. He had just sent an email not fifteen minutes ago.

  PeterPeterPeater: I have another chapter ready, but I require payment upfront. Send me a “naughty” picture. I want pictures of you. Intimate pictures. A part of your body I’d love to see, kiss, lick and suck. Dressed, Barely dressed, and then gloriously naked.

  Thinking he might still be working online, I responded. VaVaViv: Not really into photographs, and certainly not crazy enough to send them over the Internet. Send the chapter and I’ll pay the fee in person in the flesh.

  PeterPeterPeater: That’s not how it works. You can send something sexy without any identifying features. I just need to see a body part right now, and not your lovely face.

  I was wide-awake now and thoughts of that stupid story were circling in my mind. But I was not going to send him a picture of me over the Internet. No way.

  I sat in the chair for a few minutes just staring at the screen. Then I got this wild idea. And laughed myself silly while I processed it through. Yes, yes, it could work. I ran to my closet and grabbed my gaudiest sandals, my Yoga Toes, some polish remover and my digital camera. Then I took pictures of my feet. First with the sandals that had big plastic daisies attached to the thong, then with the Yoga Toes, then as they were with just the pink nail polish I had on, and then I took the polish off my toes and photographed them. I downloaded all four pictures to my computer and labeled them, “G-string thongs” for the one with the flowers, “Casual Wear,” for the one of my toes in the Yoga Toes, “Almost Bare,” for the one with my toes polished, and “Absolutely Naked” for the one sans polish. I was chuckling

  as I composed my message and attached the pictures. He’d said intimate, I’d give him intimate. I wrote a short paragraph about how men often made love to women’s toes, licking sucking, kissing, fondling . . . and clicked SEND. I sat back and waited until it left the outbox. I had a huge smile on my face. He could not refuse me. I had done exactly as he’d requested. He would have to deem these pictures sexy just by virtue of the sequence if nothing else. But if he remembered that incredibly sexy scenario at the Isles on our first date, where he’d practically made love to my foot under the table, he would have to admit that feet were extremely sexy body parts.

  The ding alerted me to Philip’s reply. PeterPeterPeater: Okay, that earned a chuckle and the next chapter. But you will not get off so lightly the next time. Peter

  Enjoy . . .

  He lifted the hem of my nightgown, uncovering me from the waist down. I was prone now so looking up at his face was hard to avoid, not that I tried. I watched as his whole focus centered on me . . . there. There, at the juncture of my thighs, where the dark triangle of hair covered my mound. Thankfully, I had ordered a bath as soon as I recovered consciousness and had sat in the hot scented water long enough to be assured no trace of Robert remained, save the bruise on my cheek and breast, so at least I wasn’t worried about being unclean.

  His hand reached out and as if in awe, he whispered, “I have never seen such a lush crop of pubic hair.” In wonderment, he idly stroked his fingers through it before realizing what he was doing and he visibly jerked his hand away. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot myself. I just have never . . .”

  I didn’t know whether to be pleased with his comment or not. How odd was my bush, I wondered. I knew the hair was thick and coarse, but then I’d assumed that everyone’s was.

  “Am I not normal?” I asked, timidly. His eyes flickered and he followed my body with his eyes until he met my face. I could not know that the “normal” he saw was women in various stages of childbirth, women with a pox of some kind, or women who had been savagely torn by brutal and uncaring husbands, lovers, or incestuous relatives.

  “You are well and beautifully endowed. A Venus.” His eyes shuttered and went back to where he had been staring. After a few moments he said, “Part your legs and pull your knees up a bit, then place your feet flat on the bed.”

  I bit my lip and closed my eyes, then I parted my legs slightly and put my feet flat as he’d instructed. I felt wanton and wicked, and completely exposed. He quickly compounded that by pushing my knees up toward my chest, spreading them wide apart and forcing my thighs as wide as they would go. Atrembling sensation shot through me at the intimacy, at the carnal nature of what I was doing, at the blatant display I was providing. I couldn’t believe I was allowing this. A stranger, a man I had met not fifteen minutes ago, was staring at my most private place. And I was letting him as if he had the right to view my body as he pleased and I had no choice but to succumb.

  I looked up at him and saw that he was mesmerized, looking down at me. No one spoke. I shivered, but not from being cold. Still, he stood staring. I felt, what we women refer to in our private moments as our cunny, clench, unfold and blossom. Yes, I felt something opening, gaping, nearly begging for his attentions, and I was mortified. My body was betraying me.

  Then he lifted the lamp from my nightstand and asked me to hold it on my abdomen so he could see better. Aclear sign that this was going to get a lot worse before it got better. I held the lamp as he directed and he bent and put his head between my legs almost laying it on the bed between my upper thighs. I could feel his hair grazing me there. Then I felt the fingers of both hands touch my labial lips and gently pull them apart and I whimpered.

  He dropped them, “Does that hurt?” “No,” I whispered. “It doesn’t hurt. Anything but.”

  He chuckled and resumed his examination, fingering my lips more familiarly, and coating me with my own juices as he probed first here, then there. He explained to me what he was doing for his movements were curious in their divine repetition. “If you are moist and supple, it will be easier for me to see inside. Now don’t get alarmed, I am going to insert my finger and touch the walls of your vagina, please let me know if I hurt you.”

  I felt him slide a finger to my opening, dab it, hold it there momentarily, and then ease it in. I looked down between my parted legs, past the bulk of the lamp, and saw the top of his head. The sight of it there inflamed me and sent a flood of wetness to my nether lips. His head rose and his eyes met mine. If I had ever thought myself ugly down there, I knew differently now. His delight was hard to mask.

  Just knowing where his finger was and that he was close enough to see every inch of me, all there was to know of me, made me even wetter. I was so slick that I now worried about my essence, for in truth; I could scent my own juices. I was afraid he could too. I heard him draw in a deep breath and knew that he had. He inhaled deeply two more times and then let out a long shuddering sigh.

  I felt his finger move in and out of me and was surprised that it felt so wonderfully good, quite amazing really. Then I felt his other hand press on my lower abdomen. He pushed down while his finger pushed up deep inside me. I thought he was trying to get them to connect as it seemed he was struggling so hard to make them meet. Then he slid his finger out of me.

  He had a thoughtful look on his face, and I didn’t want to ask the obvious. I knew Robert had not poked his penis inside me, but if I appeared intact, this blue-eyed Adonis would know that no other man had penetrated me there. I don’t know why it mattered, but it did—for some reason it was very important that he knew no man’s cock had been inside me. I realized then that I was no longer thinking of him as strictly my doctor, he was a man who intrigued me and I wanted to please him, offer him what no man had taken.

  Some crazy corner of my mind wanted him to know I was untried so he would see me as available. I wanted him to envision his own penis poised there ready to thrust into me. I closed my eyes and saw him naked, holding himself over me, his biceps trembling as he b
ent to kiss me before shoving his thick, hard cock inside me, burying it to the hilt. Involuntarily I squeezed the muscles of my vagina to welcome the two fingers he had just slid inside me. He gasped and looked up at me. I flushed and closed my eyes again. He had to know what I was thinking, he simply had to.

  Using both fingers, he scissored me, telling me he was stretching me so I could accommodate his instrument. When I raised an eyebrow at him he blanched. “Uh, not that instrument, this one will allow me to see inside you. I’ll be able to see your hymen with it.”

  He took the lamp from my hand, placed it on the bed between my spread thighs and while holding me open with one hand, inserted something from his bag into me with the other. It was cylindrical and long. I felt it fill me as it slid in. Then he adjusted something and put his head so close to me I could feel his breath on me. For long moments he looked through this thing, moving it this way and that, adjusting the depth and also the lamp. Finally, he slid it out and handed me the lamp. Then he took the lamp from my hand and replaced it on the night table. The strange piece of equipment was wrapped in a piece of linen and tucked back into his bag. I thought he would say I could close my legs, but he did not. Instead, he put his finger back inside me, turning it to coat it before removing it and spreading the slickness along my lips. I felt his thumb graze the top of my slit and I came out of my skin. But he didn’t stop, he rubbed circles over the tiny bundle of nerves that I felt growing and plumping until I couldn’t stand it anymore, and was forced to move against his hand. He moaned. I whimpered. His finger went back inside me and I arched my hips. He inserted another alongside while pressing his thumb on the top of my slit. I felt as if I needed something more inside me so I told him, “More, please more,” as I panted and arched off the bed. His fingers delved deeper, thrusting while he cupped me, pressing on that elusive nub at the top of my core with the heel of his hand. And like a spinning top with the string pulled, I unraveled, drowning in an oblivion of ecstasy. Every nerve jangled and throbbed and I felt a release such as I could not have imagined my body capable of. He removed his hand, bent his head and kissed me on that ultra sensitive button that was still shivering its pleasure. I felt his tongue flick out and taste me and I heard him groan. The next thing I knew his forehead was on mine, his eyes staring into my eyes. “Your maidenhead is intact, you are still a virgin,” he sighed and I smelled the faint essence of musk, my musk. I thought he might kiss me then, but odd as the thought was, it occurred to me that he did not want to share my taste, even with me.

  He helped me to sit up, closing my legs and pulling my gown back in place before covering me with the quilt. He patted my hand and I thought what an intimate gesture that was. Then I almost laughed for he had been much more intimate than that, and I had thoroughly enjoyed each and every tender caress.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “I tell your father you have not been breeched. He informs the magistrate. Mr. Harbrook gets his comeuppance for attacking you and you are forced into society to make a match before the rumors run rampant and ruin your chances for a good one.”

  “But I don’t want to get married.”

  “You will have to talk to your father about that. I heard him say that this was all his fault, that he should have let you go well before this. He blames himself for your attack.”

  “I do not need a husband.”

  “You appear to be a very passionate woman, a husband could you give you much pleasure in bed. And children. Surely you want children?”

  “Well of course, one day. I just don’t think I am ready to marry right now.”

  “I think your father has other ideas. I will report to him and I’m sure he will want to come see you—although it’s very late, he’s been very worried about you.”

  “I know. He is a dotingfather. Mostly because he misses my mother so much.”

  “Do you take after her?”

  “He says I look almost exactly as she did when she was my age. I think that’s why it’s been so hard for him to let me go.”

  “Then she was a great beauty and I can understand how deeply he mourns the loss of her. Her death must have devastated him.”

  “It did. And me, too.”

  “Of course, she was your mother as well as his wife.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “I wish the best for you. I’m glad you were not irrevocably harmed.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  He closed his satchel and ran his fingers through his hair. I knew when he was halted by the aroma of me wafting in front of his face, I could see that it almost brought him to his knees, but clearly he didn’t want me to know that, so he quickly turned the hand gesture into a wave and walked to the door.

  On the other side of the door the young doctor stilled, and holding his hand in front of his face he breathed deeply of the young woman’s fragrance, and he mocked himself. When was the last time a woman’s cunt had affected him like this, he wondered. He wasn’t sure one ever had. But he knew he would not be anxious to wash his hand.

  To be continued . . . Peter VaVaViv: I want more.

  PeterPeterPeater: That’s what they all say. But seriously, if you want more, you’ll have to earn it. Send another picture.

  VaVaViv: Of what?

  PeterPeterPeater: A body part that captures the essence of you, something intimate and risqué. VaVaViv: I can’t do that!

  PeterPeterPeater: Then no story. Think about it. I have the next chapter ready all I need is a very naughty picture of you.

  Not a word had been mentioned in any of our emails about the other story he had told me . . . his own story. I was slowly coming to the realization that email Philip really was his alter ego. Certainly his fun, playful side. Maybe a little too playful, I thought as I wondered how I could get that next chapter without totally shaming myself.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Kindred spirits The next morning I got up and fixed myself some frozen yogurt and mixed vegetables for breakfast and then went over to the beach. My heart wasn’t sore anymore, I had managed to justify Philip’s past, and I felt free and easy again. But I had to call Philip today. The poor man had to be beside himself wondering how I was handling what was basically his life’s story.

  The long walk to the mailbox gave me plenty of time to reflect on Philip and Cassandra. Their relationship had died the day he had callously shared her with another man, that it was one he totally despised made it somehow worse. He had known he had gone too far at that point, but he had finally accepted, in his own words, that he had been an “asshole.” The woman he had married, the woman he had come to think of as his, that he had owned in every sense of the word as if a prized possession, had disappeared inside herself, leaving only her beautiful shell for him to examine, admire, and display. And she had died rather than keep living that way. She had been disgraced by the man she loved, and it had soon become tragically clear that she couldn’t live with that. The worst part was that she had died never knowing how much he had loved her. How much he still loved her.

  Which led to another thought. In time, could he ever love me like that?

  When I got to the mailbox I saw a young girl writing frantically in the notebook that was propped on her lap. Something about the way she was curled around herself, hunched as if hiding, drew me to her. When I got close enough to see how young she really was, I saw tears running down her face.

  “Jazzy?”

  She looked up, fear in her eyes. Then when she didn’t recognize me, she blinked and sat back.

  “Uh . . . yeah?”

  “Hi. I’m V.”

  “Oh!” the notebook fell from her lap and she jumped up and ran over to me. Giving me a gargantuan hug, she sobbed into my ear. “She’s dead, she’s dead. I just know she’s dead. And it’s all my fault. I should have told my parents just like you said, I should have made her mother listen, she would have if she’d known it was me.”

  I set her away from me while I wiped at her tears and tucked her long blonde hair behind
her ears. “It’s not your fault. Crystal was seventeen, she knew better. You even told her what could happen. We all make choices. You cannot slay yourself every time someone gets hurt just because you had a small hand in it.”

  “I can’t stand the pain of this. It hurts too much. What if she is dead? How will I ever deal with that!”

  I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and walked her back to the bench. We sat while I shushed her, and she sobbed and read what she had been trying to write in the journal. When she was finished, I hugged her tight and patted her back.

  “It’s fine to write your feelings down, but don’t write poems of death right now. Don’t dwell on such a negative ending. She could be found tomorrow. There are so many people looking for her.”

  I didn’t mention that my zany mother and her equally zany brother were in Georgia right now on a hunch. And according to my last phone call from her, it was a hunch that required a lot of waiting. She said they were camped outside a drugstore in her car watching and waiting. But added that it wouldn’t be much longer now, sometime within the next twenty-four hours. How they knew this she would not divulge. She said it was one of Lester’s many secrets acquired from his over-the-top, over-developed sense of observation.

  When I finally got Jazzy calmed down, I walked her back to the beach access and we exchanged phone numbers. She promised to call and keep me posted on what was being done to find her friend and how she was coping with everything. I promised to keep in touch and that I’d be there for her if she just needed to talk. She said she had an appointment to talk to the coach the next day. I told her I was immensely happy about that.

  Driving back over the bridge I realized that relationships were challenging, no matter the age, and that all you could do was be there for each other. Right now, I had to be there for Philip.