feel better after a shower.”
She looked down at herself and giggled. “Heavens, even my underwear is dirty! I’m really quite revolting, aren’t I?”
“That should cheer you up,” I said. “Revolting is what you want, isn’t it… My God, what did you do to your arms?”
I hadn’t really looked at her directly since I’d started peeling her, not wanting to remind her that she was alone in a hotel room with a strange man who was taking her clothes off. Now I saw that her bared upper arms were faintly striped, mostly behind, with fine pink lines that had obviously once been considerably redder and angrier; in another few days they’d be healed to the point of invisibility.
Amy Barnett regarded me for a long moment; an unreadable look. She bent down and caught the hem of her slip and pulled the garment off over her head and let it fall. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panty hose—it occurred to me that I’d finally got the answer to that question, at least. She looked down proudly.
“Wow, I really fixed my hose, didn’t I?” She laughed at the startling appearance of her legs. “You can see I’m not a movie heroine. Their stockings never even get little runs, and here I’m positively in rags… Ooops.”
I had to steady her as she swayed and support her as she worked the nylon wreckage downward and stepped clear. She freed herself from my grasp and, straightening up quite nude, looked at me soberly for a moment. Then she turned away without speaking to display her back, and buttocks and thighs, all crisscrossed with the same fine, fading lines. I found myself remembering being very sarcastic about her healthy and unblemished appearance, earlier—and all the time she’d been carrying these marks under her clothes.
I cleared my throat. “You seem to know some nice people, Barnett. Unfortunately, I can’t do a thing for you. I forgot my little whip, and S-M isn’t exactly in my line, anyway.”
“S-M? Oh, sado-masochism. But sarcasm is still very much in your line, isn’t it, Mr. Helm?” Amy licked her pale lips. “Do you think I’m crazy, to let somebody do that to me?”
I was aware of a disturbing, change in her. Naked, she was no longer the almost sexless object of pity—or contempt, if you felt that way about drunks—that she’d been in her soiled and crumpled suit and disintegrating stockings. I couldn’t help noticing that she had very lovely breasts. Not that I’m a bosom freak. Slim ankles and pretty faces do a lot more for me. Anyway, I told myself disparagingly, she’d never make it in the big-boob sweepstakes. However, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I’d put my money on her in the tender-tits division anytime—and I knew that I was being crude about it in my mind simply to keep from admitting to myself that I was affected. Well, all right, attracted.
I cleared my throat again. “What’s crazy?” I asked. “Let’s discuss your psyche tomorrow, Barnett. We can take up the subject of sex and rape at the same time. Right now it’s time for a little pure shut-eye, unless you want to take that shower first.”
She’d picked up the fallen slip and the blouse I’d laid aside. “I’m too filthy to get into a clean bed,” she said quite steadily. “I seem to be sobering up a little. Maybe it’s the coffee. I really would like to shower and wash out some things, if you don’t mind. I think I can manage without falling on my face.” A little malice came into her voice: “Do you think I’m pretty like this, Helm?”
“Go take your damn shower,” I said.
She laughed softly. “I guess that’s an answer. Do you have something clean I can use to sleep in, please?”
“I’m all out of satin nighties, but one of my T-shirts might serve.”
It did.
9
It was close to noon when I got back to the hotel room next morning. She’d been sleeping heavily when I left, but she was up now, sitting in one of the big
She looked down at herself and giggled. “Heavens, even my underwear is dirty! I’m really quite revolting, aren’t I?”
“That should cheer you up,” I said. “Revolting is what you want, isn’t it… My God, what did you do to your arms?”
I hadn’t really looked at her directly since I’d started peeling her, not wanting to remind her that she was alone in a hotel room with a strange man who was taking her clothes off. Now I saw that her bared upper arms were faintly striped, mostly behind, with fine pink lines that had obviously once been considerably redder and angrier; in another few days they’d be healed to the point of invisibility.
Amy Barnett regarded me for a long moment; an unreadable look. She bent down and caught the hem of her slip and pulled the garment off over her head and let it fall. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panty hose—it occurred to me that I’d finally got the answer to that question, at least. She looked down proudly.
“Wow, I really fixed my hose, didn’t I?” She laughed at the startling appearance of her legs. “You can see I’m not a movie heroine. Their stockings never even get little runs, and here I’m positively in rags… Ooops.”
I had to steady her as she swayed and support her as she worked the nylon wreckage downward and stepped clear. She freed herself from my grasp and, straightening up quite nude, looked at me soberly for a moment. Then she turned away without speaking to display her back, and buttocks and thighs, all crisscrossed with the same fine, fading lines. I found myself remembering being very sarcastic about her healthy and unblemished appearance, earlier—and all the time she’d been carrying these marks under her clothes.
I cleared my throat. “You seem to know some nice people, Barnett. Unfortunately, I can’t do a thing for you. I forgot my little whip, and S-M isn’t exactly in my line, anyway.”
“S-M? Oh, sado-masochism. But sarcasm is still very much in your line, isn’t it, Mr. Helm?” Amy licked her pale lips. “Do you think I’m crazy, to let somebody do that to me?”
I was aware of a disturbing, change in her. Naked, she was no longer the almost sexless object of pity—or contempt, if you felt that way about drunks—that she’d been in her soiled and crumpled suit and disintegrating stockings. I couldn’t help noticing that she had very lovely breasts. Not that I’m a bosom freak. Slim ankles and pretty faces do a lot more for me. Anyway, I told myself disparagingly, she’d never make it in the big-boob sweepstakes. However, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I’d put my money on her in the tender-tits division anytime—and I knew that I was being crude about it in my mind simply to keep from admitting to myself that I was affected. Well, all right, attracted.
I cleared my throat again. “What’s crazy?” I asked. “Let’s discuss your psyche tomorrow, Barnett. We can take up the subject of sex and rape at the same time. Right now it’s time for a little pure shut-eye, unless you want to take that shower first.”
She’d picked up the fallen slip and the blouse I’d laid aside. “I’m too filthy to get into a clean bed,” she said quite steadily. “I seem to be sobering up a little. Maybe it’s the coffee. I really would like to shower and wash out some things, if you don’t mind. I think I can manage without falling on my face.” A little malice came into her voice: “Do you think I’m pretty like this, Helm?”
“Go take your damn shower,” I said.
She laughed softly. “I guess that’s an answer. Do you have something clean I can use to sleep in, please?”
“I’m all out of satin nighties, but one of my T-shirts might serve.”
It did.
9
It was close to noon when I got back to the hotel room next morning. She’d been sleeping heavily when I left, but she was up now, sitting in one of the big
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