Chapter 3

Doris took her time about dressing for dinner. "There'll be a guest," Mabel Williams had told her, and added: "Mrs. Wynton eats at eight."

She showered, then relaxed on the bed in her bathrobe, and wondered about the sudden spasm of sexuality that had flooded her body when she was undressing and teased her until she had succumbed to its urging and spread herself on her back on the bed and masturbated to a devastating climax.

Bruce! She murmured to herself. No more Bruce!

She thought about it for a moment, then remembered the bleak countryside that surrounded Romily Manor, and added to herself: No more anybody!

She had got used to the regular sessions of lovemaking that she had enjoyed with Bruce--and she had enjoyed them, enjoyed them more and more as their affair had progressed--and she wondered now, how she would manage without him.

Whatever his other shortcomings, Bruce had been a very satisfying lover.

There was always somebody, she tried to reassure herself, for every hungry girl there was a man--at least one man! But this wasn't populous New York, she had to mentally add. This was a remote part of Maine!

Doris sighed; dragged herself to her feet and started to get dressed for dinner. She should have considered this aspect of leaving New York before. It was a little late to worry about it now!

"Doctor Basil Marston," said Mildred Wynton, introducing Doris at the dinner table, "and this is my son, Willis."

Doris noticed the slightly defensive note in Mrs. Wynton's voice when she introduced her son, and she stared curiously at the odd-looking man-boy.

"How do you do--" Doris stretched out her hand diffidently.

"Hi'ya--" Willis mumbled; his long arm reached forward, and she stared with mingled horror and fascination at the huge hand, its back covered with hair, that seized hers in a strong grip.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Dainton," said Basil Marston, smoothly, touching her hand with his.

He was a handsome man, Doris decided, glancing at the deeply tanned, slightly saturnine face with its firm lips that curved now in a welcoming smile.

His eyes rested on her face with more than casual interest, and Doris wondered, absently but automatically, how old he was. Somewhere between forty and fifty, she'd suppose.

The dinner was served by Mabel Williams, and--Doris noticed with surprise--George Bateman.

"There's been a mild epidemic," said Doctor Marston casually, during the course of the meal, "at a village a few miles from here and everybody has to be inoculated against it--"

"Epidemic!" Doris sounded alarmed.

Basil Marston made a depreciating motion with his hand. "Nothing serious, Miss Dainton, I assure you--it's merely an Asian virus, very rare for this country--and I've brought the necessary vaccine--"

Mildred Wynton cut in. "I asked Basil to bring it over for you, Doris, then you could be inoculated like everyone else."

Doris blinked, thinking about it. She always hated having any kind of shots--but if everybody else had had them... She gave a small sigh of resignation and murmured, "I just hate having things stuck into me." Then she wondered why Willis sniggered into his soup.

She glanced at the malproportioned young man, noticed how he slopped soup and crammed crusts of bread into his mouth.

He eats like an animal! she thought, then: He looks like an animal, too!

Willis became aware of her scrutiny, and Doris saw his face flush brick-red. A piece of bread slipped from his hand, and he slithered down in his chair, groped under the table for it.

He was seated opposite his mother, on Doris's left, and after his head had disappeared under the table Doris imagined she felt something brush against the bare thigh-flesh above the tops of the full-fashioned stockings she had donned for dinner.

She started. Surely he hadn't touched the insides of my legs!

Willis's face seemed redder than ever when his head reappeared.

I must have imagined it, Doris told herself, I must have!

Willis was the first to finish his soup, and he sat, hands on his lap, waiting for the next course.

Doris became aware that he was staring fixedly at her; the rigid gaze from the dark, close-set eyes embarrassed her, and her napkin slipped from her nerveless fingers. She murmured something then bent under the table to retrieve it about to straighten up, something caught her eye that made her freeze. Willis wasn't sitting with his hands in his lap as she had supposed. His pants were unfastened at the front, and he was gently caressing the longest, thickest penis that Doris had ever seen!