Chapter 38

Priscilla watched Lightning paw the ground and give a tug at the reins, which she had tied to a branch, while she carried on with her target practice. She didn't know why she was so obsessed with practicing hitting little beer cans when she would only need to hit a warm body from a few feet away. Yes, five or six shots into Desirée's vitals at point blank would put her well and painfully out of the picture, so why was she going through five boxes of fifty practicing? She supposed it calmed her, but the noise was doing nothing for Lightning, who was excitable at best.

The girl kicked the empty boxes aside and holstered her weapon. She already knew where she was going to do it and how, and she had the grave already dug, ironically on the southeast corner of the Mitchell property. If they ever found the body, it would not be on Devereaux land.

She had done some investigating about guns and ballistics. She knew that to keep her gun from being linked to the killing, she had only to remove the barrel, clamp it in a vise and twist it off with a crowbar or something, just a very small thing to have to bury deep somewhere in the great outdoors. Of course, a shotgun was untraceable and would make a real nice mess, but it was much too large to conceal, if anyone should see her before the act that would expunge Desirée from the landscape of Priscilla's future with Mark Denning.

She was set to start renewing her relationship with Mark, when he returned from the capital, so that when his wife disappeared, she could be the first to console him. He was a real catch now, with his political star rising through his close association with the super-capitalist Sid Buchanan, and her father Big Jim Devereaux could never call him a no-account small-timer now.

Mark Denning, US Senator! That was in the offing, she had read, and from there, could it be the White House? He was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, a Clark Gable without the false teeth, a John Kennedy with infinitely more principle and without the uncontrollable lechery. But of course, when Mark belonged to her again, she would control his lechery and keep it all for herself, with the blonde bitch Desirée in the ground in some unknown spot out in the hills, while her dashing husband thought she had run off with another man. By the time everyone had begun to see through that falsehood, the trail would have gone long cold and they would not dig up her bones until a hundred years from now when Priscilla's and Mark's own great-grandchildren decided to build a shopping center there.

Priscilla reloaded, aimed, and sent a tin can flying.

Nigel Harmsworth, Buchanan's English butler, stood by the bedroom door with the portable cordless phone and listened to the commotion coming from inside. Things were getting rather wild in there, by the sound of it, and he hated to disturb his employer, but Harry Wickes had stressed the urgency of the message, demanding to talk to Buchanan without fail.

But peeking through the crack in the door and watching the action on the bed, he wondered if he dared interrupt. The sight was erotic in the extreme as Mr. Buchanan lay there, his flabby body quivering while his massive penis pointed straight up from his belly, disappearing and reappearing into the pink-lipped vagina of the girl humping up and down over him. Nigel strained his eyes to see, for while he was very proper to all outward appearances, while no one was watching, he was just as interested in sex as the next man, and he enjoyed the occasional session of voyeurism. The girl's pink, tender, inner pussy-flesh clung to the withdrawing shaft, vanishing back inside as her plump, creamy, round buttocks descended. Each time the lovely cheeks rose, they parted and revealed the delicious, tight dimple of her anus and its surrounding, pale halo. From this angle, he could also see a bit of the taut mounds of her breasts as they swung over the man's face while he licked at the pink nipples.

The girl's husband, Nigel knew, was this afternoon locked in an important, protracted meeting with Khalid al-Mazkum, and if he knew his employer, the next thing on the agenda would be another long meeting with Buchanan while the Arab took his place with the girl.

But Harry Wickes had been very insistent, and Nigel was afraid not to at least give his employer a chance to talk to the stock broker. He rapped gently at the door, and through the small gap saw the lovely blonde girl's hips freeze in position on the downstroke.

"Yeah," came Buchanan's breathless reply.

"It's your stock broker, Harry Wickes, sir," Nigel called in his precise British diction. "He says it's very important."

Desirée looked at Buchanan, and he looked back at her. He saw the look of alarm on her face when he called back to Nigel, "All right, come on in."

She made a move to jump off him and hide beneath the sheets, but Sid reached up and gripped her hips, pinning her to him with his throbbing cock, now near to coming, thrust full-length in her belly.

Trying not to look at the lovely, lewdly-exposed and quivering young woman, Nigel walked over to the side of the bed and handed Sid the phone, and the prone man looked up and mouthed the words "Go, baby, go," to Desirée, using one of his hands to guide her back into her up and down fucking motions. After a short hesitation, she began moving again, making embarrassing wet sounds that Nigel could hear as her sweet vagina glided back and forth over the big man's cock. She was terribly embarrassed, but the fires of arousal burned in her belly and the butler's untimely interruption had not quenched them. Now, as Sid urged her to move again, his massive, joy-giving presence inside her made her gasp with a rekindled passion.

Sheepishly, she glanced up at the butler, who was looking down his nose at her, saw his gaze switch briefly to the point behind and beneath her where Sid's cock was entering her. Her hands on his broad chest, she tried to listen as Buchanan put the phone to his ear.