Funland by Richard Laymon Page A

still shook his body had little to do with the chilly wind.
    “Take off the rest,” he said.
    In the moonlight he saw her smile. “Does this mean you aren’t spooked anymore?” she asked.
    “Just makes it better.”
    Balancing on one foot, she pulled off a shoe and sock. “I feel so daring, don’t you?”
    Baxter nodded. He glanced into the darkness. The icy fingers of his fear probed him and squeezed.
    Kim hopped, her breasts jiggling as she removed the shoe and sock from her other foot. “You just gonna stand there?” she asked, untying the knot at her waist.
    “Yes,” he said.
    Her sweatpants fell. She stepped on them to free her feet from the elastic around the cuffs. Then she came to Baxter, but instead of embracing him, she took the blanket. She carried it into the boardwalk’s shadow. As the darkness closed over her, the fear squeezed Baxter hard, too hard suddenly, no longer a lusting slut but a cruel hag hurting him.
    Kim shook the blanket open.
    “Not over there,” he said. “Let’s put it here in the moonlight.”
    “What if somebody comes along?” Kim asked. “This is a lot more private.”
    “I want to be able to see you.”
    “Ah-hah.” She came out, and Baxter’s fear eased its clutch. Kim turned her back to the ocean wind. She unfurled the blanket. Squatting, she lowered it to the sand. As she pinned down two of the corners with her shoes, Baxter caught the other end and held it down. He took his shoes off and used them as weights.
    Kim crawled onto the blanket. She lay down. She rolled onto her back and folded her hands beneath her head. “This is really great,” she said.
    “Is it too cold for the oil?” Baxter asked, his voice shaking.
    “I want it,” Kim said.
    He found the plastic bottle in his pocket. He tossed it onto the blanket at her feet, then took off his socks and sweatsuit. He knelt in front of her.
    She lay straight, legs tight together, and where her skin was tanned it was almost the same shade as the sand alongside the dark blanket, but bright compared to the shadow just beyond her head. Her hands were still pressed beneath her head, her elbows out to the sides. She squirmed slightly, as if relishing the feel of the blanket or impatient for the touch of his hands.
    Baxter popped open the bottle’s squirt top. He squeezed a line of oil up Kim’s right leg. She flinched and arched her back when the stream crossed her groin, and seemed to relax again as it drew a silver trail down her left leg. Baxter closed the bottle and dropped it. He slid his hands up her skin, spreading the slick film. Its sweet coconut aroma reminded him of cotton candy, smelled good enough to eat, made him want to lick it off her.
    Kim’s shaved shins were a little bristly, but her thighs felt like silk.
    She opened her legs. She moaned and writhed as he rubbed her.
    Baxter, leaning forward, roamed her with slippery hands. The look and feel of her were almost too much to bear, and so was the wind. It stroked the backs of his legs, swept between his legs and licked his groin, stole the heat from the cleft of his buttocks, scurried up his back, ruffled his hair.
    Hoping to calm himself before it was too late, he rested his hands on Kim’s hips and lowered his head and shut his eyes.
    She had said it would be neat.
    What an understatement.
    They’d already made love twice in the motel room before going to sleep. And countless times during the previous months. But it had never been like this.
    And they were only beginning. She hadn’t even touched him yet.
    Should’ve started with her back, he thought.
    He felt Kim’s hands. They covered his hands and slid them down between her legs.
    He lifted his head. “Eager beaver,” he said.
    She smiled and squirmed and stretched her arms out straight overhead.
    He stroked her with his thumbs.
    She gasped.
    That couldn’t have hurt her, he thought, and then she scooted away, thighs sliding under his hands, and he thought: How’s she doing