Chapter 36

It was after dark when Desirée finally arrived at the Buchanan property. All the way up she alternately cried and pouted about what had happened today. She felt so filthy because of what the men had done to her, and she felt even worse because she had responded with her whole being, had welcomed their cocks and their hot ejaculations into her tender pussy. She had let them and she had enjoyed it. So she cried and hated herself and sobbed and streaked her make-up. And then she remembered that Mark had not made love to her lately and that if he had given her the love she needed she wouldn't have responded that way to those three evil men this afternoon. Yes, it was partly Mark's fault. So she pouted.

And then she cried again. She had done something terrible, as bad or worse than what she had done at Clete's office, on his hard desk, with that horrible, disgusting videotape playing. The tape she had stolen and destroyed because it could be used to destroy Mark's political career and her life with him.

But now, there was another tape, or tapes, and those young men had them, and the danger was renewed. Of her, fucking wildly with two men at once that could definitely destroy Mark, and she was frightened to death that Buchanan would find out. She was a liability to her beloved husband now and if Buchanan found out somehow it would put everything in the toilet. She went over all the possible ways of dealing with the situation. Mark could not know, no way. No way could he find out that she had had sexual intercourse with two young men at once and then with Clete as well. But if he found out how she had been unfaithful, he would demand to know all the details, which were much too nauseating to contemplate.

However, perhaps Sid Buchanan, the fixer par excellence, or his wife Helen would be able to help. He would not demand details and she was sure that he would consider it expedient to help cover the matter up rather than expose it to Mark. No, as a political manipulator, he would not do or say anything to break up the young couple. Yes, he would be a friend to her.

Had she had total recall of what had happened last time she had been in this house, she would never have considered bringing her problem to Buchanan, but her own doctor's secret hypnotic suggestion had wiped clear memory of her last experience here from her mind. She had no memory of that that came to her mind right now, so she rationalized that she could trust him.

Desirée drove up the circular drive and parked in front of the wide verandah. The scarlet bougainvillea entwined around the latticework. The statue was of a small, brightly clad Negro jockey, forever offering a ring to tie one's horse's reins to. Desirée passed the statue and stepped to the front door.

Buchanan's third wife Helen answered the door. She was dressed in a striped silk sheath with a white leather belt around her slender waist. She was so elegant and held a cooling drink in her hand. She said, smiling, "Come in, Desirée. So good of you to come."

"Thank you, Helen." Desirée stepped in the house.

"The festivities are in full swing out in back," Helen continued, walking down the hall. Desirée followed, clutching her purse nervously. They went from the hall through a sitting room filled with furniture of the Empire period, then through a pantry and out into the backyard. All around, people of wealth and power were enjoying themselves with food, drink, and conversation.

The backyard was mottled with shafts of sunshine intermingling with areas of shade. The courtyard behind the huge mansion was covered with more lattice, hardy grape and honeysuckle vines growing around and through the slats. Helen sat down in a lawn chair and waved her hand to the one next to it, indicating for Desirée to sit down as well. The glass-topped table before them had a platter of canapés on it, a condiment dish piled with pickles and olives, and an earthenware pitcher filled with wine.

Desirée first looked at the food. She wasn't at all hungry, but she knew that she would have to eat so as to not offend Helen. Then she looked out on the broad expanse of lawn and thought how peaceful, how serene and healthy it was. Not at all like the sickness that pervaded her inner being at that moment and made her quiver with a desire to die. She was suddenly brought back to reality by a gentle touch of fingers on her shoulder.

Startled, she looked around at Helen, who was frowning slightly with concern. The wife of her husband's boss was saying, "... haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?"

Miserably, Desirée shook her head. "I'm... sorry, Helen."

"You haven't been yourself since you arrived. Aren't you feeling well? The flu perhaps?"

"No... no," came the choked response. "I'm fine. Really."

"No, you're not. I can tell, Desirée." There was a long pause, then, a silence that was louder than shouted words. Desirée didn't know what to say, how to begin, or if she even dared. She had had the courage to come, and she knew that Helen was indeed the friend she had hoped she would be, but now, confronted with the awful confession, she wasn't sure she had the strength. Helen was obviously baffled and unsure of what to say, but finally, the woman leaned forward and placed her manicured fingers over Desirée's and said:

"I think you've got something you want to talk to me about. It's weighing heavily on you, Desirée. Tell me. Get it off your chest. It'll do you good."

"I... I," stammered Desirée, "I've been with another man."

"Really?" Helen sat back. "Another man, hmm?"

Was that a smile Desirée saw forming on Helen's lips? No, it couldn't be... but even if it was such an unexpected response, Desirée couldn't have stopped the torrent of words that now tumbled from her throat. The dam had been broken, and from her tortured soul came all of the gruesome details about her seduction. She left little out as she poured forth her agony to the other woman, and wept copious tears openly as she confessed.

Desirée could only refer to Clete as the sheriff, unable to speak his name much as ancient Jews were not allowed to utter the name of their god, the Nameless One. It was as if to name the man would bring him forth from the shadows of the evening. Nor could Desirée detail what perverted acts she had been forced to do with the two young abductors, glossing over it quickly. Above all, she was completely silent on the subject of her own arousal, of her apparent enjoyment of the systematic rape of her purity.

But everything else she placed before Helen Buchanan, like a horribly sculpted gargoyle complete of substance and shadow. The sex... the filming. Especially the filming, the rolling video cameras recording it all. Everything kept revolving, kept returning to the uses--the abuses--of the video camera.

When she was done, she dropped her head in a symbolic act of supplication, of awaiting judgment. Her blouse and skirt were wet with her tears, and her golden, bell-like voice was almost hoarse with her wracking sobs.

The first thing Helen did was to pour Desirée a glass of wine. "Here, drink this," she commanded, and even though the distraught young wife refused, she persevered and finally Desirée haltingly swallowed some of the ruby liquid. It did make her feel better, she had to admit, as she set the glass down.

Then Helen looked Desirée in the eye and said, "One thing more. Did you enjoy it?"

"Helen!" Desirée was taken full aback, her eyes wide with horror.

"I must know in order to get a full, clear perspective of the situation, Desirée. Forgive me for being so blunt, but it's only between us girls." She leaned forward. "Now... did you? Even a little bit?"

Blushing a color as scarlet as the bougainvillea out front, Desirée Denning first stared with frozen shock. Then, trembling and biting her lower lip, she squeezed her eyes shut and nodded affirmatively. There was no use trying to cover it up, no way in which she could bury the awful truth about herself, and it was harder to admit it to herself than to Helen.

"Yes," she moaned. "At... at first I loathed their... attentions. But... but in all honesty, I have to confess I... began to like it." She twisted in her chair, then looked at Helen, wetness blurring her vision. "But only a little bit, Helen," she lied. "Only a little bit, and when it was over and I'd collected my senses, I was sick about it!"

"Yes, yes, I understand," Helen said in a soothing voice. She then poured herself a little more wine and sighed. She thought of the best way of handling the matter, of trying to calm the near hysterical girl so that a greater crisis would be averted. She could almost picture the scandal it would cause if it was publicly known, and she had the inherent knowledge of a shrewd woman that such publicity could easily spread to herself and Sid, and Sid's political machine, for Desirée being in the frame of mind that she was in, could break apart and tell everything. Everything, including the business about Mark's association with Buchanan and their involvement in politics.

"Listen to me, Desirée," she started to say, then sipped the wine as she thought carefully of her next words. "I'll be frank, for I'm sure that's what you want me to be. Why you came to me."

"Yes, yes, that's right, Helen."

"First of all, you were forced into what you did. You had no other choice. You were lured into it and forced, and no matter what you may think of what you did, you had no other way out. You did the right thing."

"But my--"

Helen held up her hand. "Your feelings, right? What's really bothering you is that you became excited, right?"

Desirée again nodded, mute, and twisted the little napkin in her lap.

"Well, pardon me for saying so, but I don't think any woman could have avoided becoming excited. Any full, loving, responsive woman, that is. Now neither one of us is frigid, Desirée; both of us make love to our husbands with every cell in our body, and we like to. That's the key to understanding what happened to you, Desirée--the fact that we naturally, physically like sex. How could you help not to get hot when their hands were caressing you, their... penises were hard inside you? Hell, I couldn't have, I know that."

"Really?"

"What it boils down to is this: you're a woman first, biologically. Half your body, and mine, is tied in with sex and procreation. Our feelings, emotions, and physiology are regulated by its rhythmic chemistry, and no matter how you try to, you can't deny that fact. You're a wife second, which is an artificial social discipline which is learned, not instinctive. You did what was natural, what your body was intended to do--and while most of our country would not approve nor condone it, you must chalk it up to an unpleasant happening. A mistake, at the most, but never as a sick, warped evil thing."

"But what am I going to do?" wailed Desirée.

"Do? Why, you're going to do nothing, Desirée. Nothing at all, though I think Sid should know about it so he can make sure there are no political repercussions. You know what I mean."

"Mark--"

"Mark shouldn't be told. Men don't understand about such things, Desirée, and might do something rash." She shook her head. "No, best to let things lie as they are. You still love your husband, I'm sure, and while it's been a mental shock, it hasn't hurt you physically. You can respond to your husband and his love just as well as before, and of course, that's what counts in situations such as these."

"You... you really think so?"

"Trust me, Desirée," Helen said. She went on for a little while longer, soothingly and with confidence, instilling some reassurance back in the shattered wife, pouring a little more wine, and finally getting Desirée to have a sandwich. By ten, Desirée Denning was perked up as much as possible. The heavy weight of her sin was like lead between her shoulders, but at least she was able to carry the load now, and not collapse as she was in danger of doing before.

Yes, Desirée thought as she moved around the big rooms among the guests, yes, I was right in coming to see Helen. She certainly was a great help, being forthright and blunt, and at the same time showing me that she really was concerned. She was correct in what she had to say, and I will follow her advice.

She was wearing her new summer dress and the guests, those that knew her and those that didn't, were drawn to her lovely appearance as she wandered through the house, looking for Mark. Where was he? It was a pretty dress, a frilly pale-blue sheath with no sleeves or belt, but a matching jacket for evening wear-- which she now had on. The hemline was daringly high for her, just below the current "mini" style, allowing her to show off her slim, wonderfully toned legs. At first she had been uncomfortable in the dress, for she didn't have a slip she could wear with it and her only underclothing was her bra and panties, but when she saw herself in the mirror at the clothing store, saw how childlike and innocent it made her look, she couldn't resist it.

Helen Buchanan had been right, Desirée once more reminded herself. Telling the older woman her problem had helped. It certainly had. But, she still had terrible upheavals of conscience. Then the comforting words of Helen Buchanan would replay in her mind. You were forced... you did the right thing... no woman could have avoided becoming excited... do nothing... do nothing... they will never come back.

"I love you Mark!" she said to herself as she looked around the huge mansion for him.

The party had been planned on the flight from New York, after the meeting with the cadre of Arabs who were supporting Buchanan on this big deal. They were going halves, and the stakes were enormous. But so were the rewards. Sid had paid bribes to many, many inside men and he had things lined up in volatility and derivative trading. Over a billion dollars controlled by the investment chief for the Palestinian Liberation Organization Khalid Al-Mazkum, were to go into this move to corner markets and manipulate the stock exchange in America, to tip the hand of the huge country against Israel and in favor of the PLO. With a death lock on so much American wealth and influence, the forces behind the Arab terrorist organization could change the face of American politics. It was a tremendous coup, and Mark Denning would go into the US Senate at the next election as their man in place. Al- Mazkum had been in an expansive mood.

All the organization men hoping to land a piece of the action, Sid Buchanan knew, and their assorted wives and girl friends were at the party now, and it was a swinging affair. Good Ol' Khalid, the head man over the PLO banking organization, tossed liquor down his throat and laughter resounded in abundant profusion, belying his plump, round-shouldered brooding appearance. Sid was pleased to be allied with the money and power that Khalid controlled.

Khalid liked Sid's house, which was a replica of a southern plantation home, complete with widow's walk and white pillars along the broad, wide front. It looked like a set out of a grand, cinematic epic, right down to the outbuilding and the horse stables. The garden, about the size of a football field, was more modern: swimming pool and cabana, two tennis courts, and a pond and stream where Sid raised his prize race horses.

Not tonight, though. Tonight Desirée was going to stay until the Buchanans put her and Mark to bed. Until the last dog is hung, until the last drink was--

"Marhaba!" came a booming voice, and Desirée nearly jumped a foot in the air. "Ahlan wa Sahlan!" Gruff hands went around her waist and a wine-heavy breath seared her neck as al-Mazkum kissed her. "Haw! Haw! I finally meet Denning's beautiful diva wife!" he guffawed, his laugh reminding Desirée of a bowling ball bouncing down a flight of stairs. She tried to smile and act as though his kiss had been fun... but it hadn't been. His rubbery lips, his sudden grasp had been too vivid a simile to the Arab's unfamiliar touch.

Desirée waited impatiently, for she wanted some sangria; wanted a lot of it, in fact, to dull the building pressure in her head. This party was going to be terrible until she could find Mark, that she could see--but not as terrible as the silent nightmare that had thrown a shadow over her happiness.

Mrs. Stone--"Just call me Vickie"--delivered two brimming tumblers of the ruby liquid and Desirée drank deeply. The sangria was pleasant tasting, very refreshing, with a combination sweet- tart taste hard to identify. A fruit punch? No... the fruit taste was in the background, Desirée thought as she ran her tongue around her lips. A wine base, plus... what? She finished her glass in three more swallows, excused herself to find Mark--where was he!?--and the Stones who were both listening intently, and walked over to the large cut-crystal punch bowl.

Samira Al-Mazkum was behind the sangria bowl, busy looking pretty and exotic in her gold and silk Arabian finery. She was an impressive woman, statuesque, with a large figure gained from many years fine food and idleness in a villa in a country where Filipinos and Pakistanis were imported to do all the labor the rich Arabs would not stoop to. Her breasts were well buttressed in a corset, standing out like the Continental Shelf, and her whole bearing was one of imperious condescension as she looked over their tops. She was, however, a pleasant and friendly woman, and unlike most of the other females, knew something of the world. Desirée's husband had once said of her: "She must have been one lovely little virgin one day long ago."

She was most pleased to see the ravishing young wife of Buchanan's candidate-designate for the State senate; her own husband being quite aware of Mark's prospects and coming ability and having mentioned the young man to her. Desirée felt warmly toward the woman, and after getting a refill of sangria, they started chatting amiably. Samira Al-Mazkum was discussing with Desirée the recipe for sangria. Desirée had thought that Arabs did not drink, but she supposed everyone had their own mode of living.

"It's a red wine base, a good and hearty wine like Burgundy. Seven parts of it to two parts brandy and one part Cointreau, add a little Vodka if you want--I did--then a bottle of some carbonated lemon drink, slices of orange and lemon and some cherries, stir like hell and serve. Voila!" The older woman chuckled and winked, though never losing her decorum. "Be careful with it. It's very potent!"