Chapter 20: Her Terms

For three weeks I heard from her only by mail.

Every Friday there was one line in Box 114, on lined paper, in her round hand.

The first said: I read the lawyer's papers.

The second said: Mama's tree has leaves now.

The third said: Friday. Six o'clock. Bring nothing.

I drove to town with my hands wet on the wheel.

I knocked on Room 2 at six exactly.

"It's open," she said.

She stood in the middle of the room in a thin cotton slip, barefoot, with her hair down.

I had not seen it down in three weeks, and it fell to her waist, gold in the window light.

She had pushed the bed out from the wall.

Her long green scarf lay on the quilt.

"Take off your clothes," she said.

I took off my boots and shirt and jeans.

I stood naked in front of her with my cock already thickening.

She looked at all of me, taking her time.

"You've lost weight."

"I haven't been eating."

"Good," she said, and I could not tell if she meant it kindly. "Lie down. Hands over your head."

I lay on the quilt.

She wound the scarf around my wrists and tied them to the iron rail of the bed.

She tied it well, and I could not have said who taught her.

"Too tight?"

"No."

"Tell me if it is."

"I will."

She stood over me and drew the slip up over her head.

She was bare underneath, tanned and long and lovely, and she climbed onto the bed and knelt over my chest.

"I have questions," she said. "I never knew how to ask them. You're going to answer every one."

"Yes."

"And I'll decide what you get."

She slid forward until her knees were on either side of my head.

Her pussy hovered over my mouth, pink and wet.

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