Vanishing Laura

"Tell you what. I'm off duty in a couple of hours and I've waitressed in my time. If Gail isn't in by eleven, give me a call on my cell, and I'll come pitch in with you for the lunch bunch."

"You're a doll, Reba. And I think the reason you've come in this morning is waitin' for you in booth three back there."

And, indeed, when Reba walked back to booth three, the beautiful young strawberry blonde who had pulled up beside her in a car in front of Fenwick Gifts early Saturday afternoon was sitting, looking nervous—and a bit concerned.

"Thanks for coming," she said, as Reba slid into the booth across from her. "I'm Libby Hinton. Did you make that call to the NYPD?"

"Sure did," Reba answered. "I see what you're after. How can I help?"

An hour later, Reba was "helping" the strawberry blonde by kneeling on the carpet at the foot of the young woman's hotel room bed, the strawberry blonde's left leg hooked on the cop's shoulder and Reba holding her shapely right leg raised and spread, while Reba sucked on the moaning and writhing woman's labia before moving her mouth up to tongue and suck and teeth the woman's clit until she felt the first shudder and explosion. Rising up over the strawberry blonde's trembling body, Reba let her lips ascend over the belly, spend some time suckling the nipples, kiss the star tattoo on her left breast, and move to possess a welcoming mouth.

The woman's eyes bulged and she emitted a deep groan as she felt the tip of Reba's nightstick press in between her folds.

* * * *

CeCe lifted her head at the sound of the car with a muffler that demanded attention pulling up outside her gift shop. It was a silver Corvette convertible. She drew in her breath and felt herself go tense, warm, and electrified all at once. Cal du Pont had had the effect on her each time he'd come into the shop—which was three times now, if he was here to see her. The first time he had just been in to browse and she'd gotten the distinct impression he was browsing her more than the merchandise.

The second visit had been to bring the charcoal nude drawings to see if she'd take them on consignment—which she did, already having sold two. She couldn't even look at those drawings without going all melty inside. They were as sensual as the man languidly unfolding himself from the sports car was sexy.

He knew it too. He knew the effect he had on women. And he was direct in taking advantage of that. On the second visit, he'd wasted no time in learning that she wasn't currently married or in a relationship; he'd conveyed that he was attracted to redheads, including her auburn coloring in his "likes" department; and, in both stance and innuendo, had let her know he wanted to fuck her.

And, lord knew, she wanted to be fucked—had gone much too long without what she liked and had been taken care of quite well in that department in her life. And she wanted him to fuck her. It's not that she hadn't been bedded by a man in recent years—and even by a younger man. But none had given it to her as rough as she liked it. This Cal carried himself like he would conquer and vanquish, take no prisoners.

She'd been the one to call him to come over this morning. Monday was a dead day in the gift shop.

"I have money for you. Two of the drawings . . ." she had almost called them "nudes" but already was too much on the edge of need to do that ". . . have sold. I can take more of you if you have more."

She knew that hadn't come out right, but before she could correct it, she heard him snicker over the phone and say, "Ma'am, I've got all of me you want to take. You got a lot of business going today?"

"Not on a Monday," she answered. "Mondays are dead around here except in high season. We should be all alone." She bit her lip. Why was her mouth betraying her like this?

"Alone is good," he answered, giving another little laugh.

And then, while she was still taking in her breath, he said, "I'll be over in a few minutes, and yes, I've got a couple more nudes for you."

He sauntered into the store like he owned the place, a knowing grin on his face. Nervous, CeCe found herself smoothing down her tight skirt, conscious of how form-fitting both that and the pullover sweater with the deep neckline were that she'd put on this morning, not conscious that she was dressing for possibilities, even when she decided against a bra, and thinking of the sizzling sexy hunk that was Cal du Pont all the time she was dressing. In her mind, she had dissected his movie star looks, with the strong, chiseled facial features, the lazy hazel eyes; the blond, curly hair, with the lock insisting on dipping onto his forehead; the muscular chest and biceps under the tight, plaid buttoned shirts; the scuffed cowboy boots; and, possibly most of all, the tight, worn jeans, so tight they clearly defined the curve and thick line of . . .

"Here are two more, darlin', fresh from the charcoal dust."

"Arresting," she said, pulling herself up from a melt to the floor on just watching him walk into her store. She hadn't had a confident and forceful man for too long. She wanted to say something like "sexy or sensual," but she was panting too hard inside to take the chance. "Why that's . . . I think that's . . ."

"Yes, it's Gail from the diner across the street. Guess it's a good likeness if you recognized her so quickly. I didn't see that you peeked first."

"Peeked first?"

"Yeah, I give them their names. You didn't notice with the others? There, on the back, down in the corner, I put her name."

"Ah, yes. Gail Stanley. Stunning. And she had no trouble . . ."

"No trouble posing in the nude for me? No, darlin', she was happy to do it. They always are."

"It's so expressive. It looks almost like, well, I don't know."

"Like she's just been fully satisfied?"

"Yes," CeCe said, but it came out in a small squeak. She looked wildly around the shop and beyond, through the window out onto the street. She knew what she wanted. Was there anyone approaching out there that could save her from this? Not that she really wanted to be saved.

"That's because she had just been fully satisfied. Like I said, they always are."

He came close to her and drew her to him. She felt the heat of him as he drew her face close to his, encircling her waist with a beefy arm and running the other hand through her luxuriant auburn hair.

"I'm a sucker for redheads," he said. When he came in for the kiss, she closed her eyes and opened her lips to him. She felt the hardness of him pressing into her all the way down to his groin. She could feel the moan coming up from the quick of her and knew she was going moist.

He knew it too. He knew it because he had a hand up the hem of her skirt and was palming her mound. Her panties were wet. He knew it was for him. She was letting him fondle her, press a finger inside her through the flimsy material of the panties. He knew she'd let him fuck her. She was of that age that, no matter how sexy—and she definitely was sexy—she would accept any fuck as possibly the last good one she'd ever get.

They were standing, plastered against each other, close to the door to the street. Anyone walking by could have seen them. But no one was walking by.

"I want to satisfy you and draw you too."

"Do you?" she murmured.

She heard the lock on the door click. He'd extracted his hand from the curls and moved it behind to turn the lock. He was holding the open sign. "OK for me to turn this to closed?"

"Yes."

"OK for me to fuck you?"

She sucked in her breath. He was arousingly direct."Yes. Here. Now. But wait, not right here." He'd already pulled the sweater over her head. He already had his lips on one of her taut nipples. His wet hand—the one slathered with the essence of her—was pulling the zipper at the side of her skirt down."In the back. In the workroom."

He stripped her down to where she was completely nude as he bent her on her belly over a desk in the dimly lit back room, covered in a tangle of goods not yet needed for the main shop. Other than opening his shirt to a bare chest and unzipping his fly, flaring his jeans, and letting his cock jut out magnificently, he remained dressed.

The first time he fucked her with no preliminaries, like a rutting animal. She loved it, meeting his thrusts with counterthrusts of her buttocks as he covered her from behind, one hand cupping a breast, the other cupping her chin. He went right for the cunt with his sheathed cock, slamming up inside her in a thrust that nearly took her feet, still slipped into red stiletto heels, off the floor and made her cry out. Manipulating her body with his by alternately cupping her chin and fisting her hair, he put them into a wild dance of hard thrust and jerk back until he was almost squatting before plunging forward to nearly bounce her head off the surface of the workbench. And periodically revolving his hips, literally corkscrewing his cock into her.

Never in her wildest dreams had she thought a man would fuck her this hard, this wildly. And never in her imagination would she have guessed that she'd love it this much.

He pumped her relentlessly, but not to his completion before she'd already exploded a couple of times. Before coming close to ejaculating, he withdrew from her vagina, more slowly worked his way into her ass canal—with assurances from her that she could and would take him that way, and slow pumped her to a jerk, a shudder, and the filling of the bulb of the Trojan Maxim.

"Thank you darlin'. My favorite way," he whispered into her ear. "I'll do it again."

Flipping her over on her back on the surface of the work table, he kissed his way down her body to her V, where, while he recovered a hard staff, he feasted on her clit and labia as she purred and moaned, soared over the clouds again and again, and clutched his curly haired head to her.

Recovered and resheathed, he crouched over her again, holding her shapely legs up and out, thrust inside her, and slammed her so hard again and again and again, that he repeatedly had to grab her hips and pull her back to him on the table top as she writhed under him, flailed her arms, and screamed out at never having had it so rough and good before.

Afterward, laying on top of her as both cooled down and both concentrated on the sensation of his cock going soft inside her, he whispered, "I want to draw you."

"Yes," she murmured back.

"But not here or now. Not enough light. I don't have my charcoals. You will come to my house after you close the shop?"

"Yes."

"You will close the shop as soon as I finish doing you here."

"Yes."

"You understand that I draw after sex? So tonight . . ."

"Yes, yes, yes." Oh god, she thought. He was going hard again. He was going to fuck her again, right there, right then. God, he was a stud and a half.

Yes he was going to fuck her again right then. He withdrew, rolled her up on the small of her back, and started working his cock inside her ass channel. She lay there, sprawled out on the table, too exhausted already to struggle against more anal sex, even if she had wanted to, just groaning heavily as he worked the thick cock inside her and, starting slow but picking up speed, fucked her deep.

When he was done with her, taking her in the ass both from the front and turning her to pump her from the back as well, he pulled out and took a few steps back, leaving CeCe turned and plastered, belly down on the table, riding far enough up on the surface of the table that her dangling feet didn't reach the floor, but hovered over her red, spiked heels, the last items of clothing that had fallen away from her now-fully nude body.

He stood there, proudly full frontal to her, a slight sneer on his face, as he rolled the spent condom off his cock, took up the other two he'd already used from the floor, and glanced around—and found—a trash can to drop them in. Slowly, the smile still in place, he stuffed his dick back into his briefs, hopping slightly from one foot to the other to let it nestle into place; zipped up his jeans; and buttoned his shirt closed.

Arms still flung out, white-knuckled hands clutching at the edges of the table, where she'd taken a grip to hold herself in place against the strength of his thick thrusts; eyes glazed; mouth slack and blowing soft bubbles, an exhausted and lightly panting CeCe watched him arrogantly take in the result of his assault on her naked body and adjust his clothing.

"Drive over to my place on Bunting when you pull yourself together," he said.

"Yes," she replied in a low, weary, but fully satiated voice.

"It's just toward the ocean from here. I'll leave the Corvette out front so you'll be able to see it—an old bungalow between two mid-rise condo buildings. You know I'm going to draw you. That I'm not done with you—that I've just begun."

"Yes," she said.

"I'm going to fuck you in the ass again."

"Yes."

And then she was alone. She didn't try to move for more than ten minutes. She could just go upstairs and lock the doors and refuse to answer him if he came back or called on the phone. But she knew she'd follow him to the oceanfront bungalow.

* * * *

What Libby Hinton had to say to Reba after they'd had sex in Libby's hotel room both frightened and satisfied Reba. The woman's scheme was crazy and dangerous, but after what she'd done with Reba, what she'd let Reba do to her, the policewoman was willing to ignore the procedures she knew she should follow and to give into what Libby wanted help with. She couldn't stay long with the strawberry blonde, though, even though she ached for a second scene, because she needed to make her late-morning rounds of the neighborhood assigned to her beat. She needed to get that over with and get back to the Island Diner, as she had agreed to take on the last part of Gail's waitressing shift if Gail didn't show up.

That made going to Gail's apartment to see if she could roust the young woman out the first order of business. The apartment was on the bayside of 144th below the Old Lighthouse Road causeway, the southernmost limit of Reba's beat. But it wasn't too far to walk, so that's where she went first. No Gail. The young woman didn't answer the door and no one Reba talked to could remember seeing Gail around that day or the previous one. They all were quick to say that wasn't unusual, making sure that Reba understood that it wasn't out of the ordinary for Gail to go off with men for days at a time.

On the way north again, Reba decided to check in with CeCe Collins at her Fenwick Gifts shop. Reba didn't at all like the way CeCe talked about the sexiness of Cal du Pont and of CeCe's need for sex. It was something Reba would be quite happy to provide to CeCe, but there hadn't been a spark there—at least not yet. Hope springs eternal, though. This didn't make Reba like Cal du Pont any better. She couldn't deny that he was a woman magnate. And the thought of this inflamed Reba's ire and worry as she approached the store. Cal's vintage silver Corvette was parked in front of the store and there was a "Closed" sign on the door. The gift shop should be open by this time on a Monday.

Reba walked around the store, looking in the windows, but couldn't see anything. There was a black curtain over the storeroom window at the back. And CeCe's Sebring convertible was parked in back. Reba went up the exterior stairs to CeCe's apartment above, but she got no answer there either. CeCe did occasionally close the shop during the week to go someplace, but she usually had told Reba of her plans sometime during their near-daily chats. Reba couldn't remember anything having been said about the shop being closed today.

It was time to get back to the diner, though. She reminded herself to check back at CeCe's store after helping Phyllis with the lunch rush at the diner.

The rush crowd was heavy, and it was only near the end of Phyllis' shift—which would be the end of Gail's shift too, if Gail ever had shown up—before Reba had much of a chance to talk to Phyllis.

"I'm a bit worried Gail hasn't appeared," Reba said. "Is her going off like this normal?"

"I'm afraid it is," Phyllis answered. "And I can't say I'm surprised. The girl has no sense of time and little regard for anyone else; she never arrives on time for work. There was a real hunk that came in here on Saturday, and I could tell that Gail went gaga over him. She was working on some other dude when this guy came in—all tricked out like a movie cowboy—and she dropped the first guy like a hot potato. This is pretty much what Gail is like. She's always looking for the next best chance."

"A good-looking guy dressed up like a cowboy? Ever see him in here before?"

"Nope. I would have remembered if I'd ever seen him before. Any woman would. Even you and I would."

"Did you see any fancy sports cars parked out front when he came in?"

"Yeah, there was a jazzy silver two-seater out front."

"Gotta go," Reba said, as she jerked off her apron and headed for the door. "Sorry. Shift's just about over anyway and the crowd seems to the thinning out. Keep the rest of my tips."

Phyllis would have thanked Reba for her help, but the policewoman was already out the door. Reba tried calling Gail again on her cell phone as she walked briskly up the street, without success. She could see even from the diner door that the Corvette wasn't parked in front of Fenwick Gifts anymore. But when she got there, the closed sign was still on the door and it was locked. CeCe's car was gone too. CeCe's cell phone was pushing messages to Voicemail.

A fast trot over to Bunting on the ocean side of the Coastal Highway revealed that both the Corvette and the Sebring were parked in front of Cal du Pont's oceanfront bungalow.

Reba was sorely tempted to knock on the door and ensure that CeCe was OK, but she had to admit that her friend's car wouldn't be parked right there out in the open in front of Cal's bungalow if she wasn't there on her own volition. And it was her right to be there—to be enjoying Cal, which, to Reba's ire and frustration, most certainly was what she was doing. Reba knew if she showed up now, full of suspicions and jealousy—yes, jealousy—she'd never have a chance with CeCe in the future herself.

That didn't stop her from hating Cal du Pont or from making another phone call—to Libby Hinton's hotel room.

* * * *

"Ouch. What is that doing there?" Cal had finally convinced CeCe to move, nude, out onto the deck of the oceanfront bungalow to do a semi-recline on the patio table against the deck railing with the start of a reddish sunset over the ocean in back of her. He said he thought her hair would closely match the deep reds of the sunset. The first thing she'd done coming out onto the deck was to trip over a shovel propped up outside the sliding-glass doors from the dining area.

"Oh, that," Cal said, coming up to lean against the frame of the sliding-glass door, naked himself, sketch pad in one hand and a box of colored charcoal sticks in the other. They had both been naked from the moment they had arrived at the bungalow—he meeting her starkers at the door in all his magnificent glory, as she had stayed behind at the store several moments to collect herself following his total—but quite satisfying—ravishing of her body.

She didn't love this man—not by any means. She didn't think she even liked him. He was an arrogant, demanding bastard. He frightened her and had taken her brutally. But she was in lust for him. He was exactly what she thought she needed at this time—if only for a day or two. And his body was beautiful, his fucking a total victory over her defenses, such as they were. He was a younger, virile stud, taking her with no holds barred. She couldn't count on many more assignations like this in life.

He had stripped her again immediately and fucked her from behind, holding her in a standing grip of broad, strong hands under chin and palming her belly and pistoning her relentlessly in both cunt and ass. As he worked her, she was staring up into the drawing over the fireplace of a strawberry-haired beauty with the star tattoo on her left breast, who she now knew had also experienced Cal right before the drawing had been made. The walls of the room were lined with drawings of other such women—all some shade of redhead—all of whom had had Cal's cock working deep and fast inside them just as she now was experiencing—knowing that she would join them in charcoal, her experience of Cal to be immortalized forever. She already was thinking of purchasing the sketch for herself rather than putting it on sale for the world to see.