Vanishing Laura

She wondered how many of them had so willingly allowed him to fuck them in the ass. It was, she thought, some extra hold she had on him that she took it—not just the rough sex but the ass play—and genuinely enjoyed it.

He hadn't allowed her to dress afterward, saying he wanted to see her move in the nude—that it would inform his drawing. He wanted to draw her later, near sunset. This meant she moved around in the nude all afternoon—as did he. She increasingly became comfortable doing so. That he did so only kept her in perpetual lust for him. It was like she'd won the lottery big to have been rewarded with such a young, hard-bodied hunk.

"You say, though, that you like to have sex with your models just before doing each drawing," she said, drawing herself back into a discussion with him, because, god forgive her, what she really wanted was to have him inside her again. "Does that mean—?"

"Yes, darlin', it means I will fuck you again before sunset. And I'll fuck you after doing the drawing. I'll fuck you all night. You give me what I like."

A shudder of anticipation went through CeCe's body. She didn't bother to feel any shame in wanting what he promised, what he'd already demonstrated he could deliver. It was just a fling. And she needed the sex so much—the type of sex he was giving her. She had been so afraid that she's never again experience being totally taken by a man.

Cal moved out onto the deck, putting the box of charcoal down on a patio chair set just outside the glass doors and extracting a stick of black. "I was out digging for clams on the beach yesterday," he answered casually in response to her question about the shovel.

"That's not the right tool to use to dig for clams," CeCe said, with a tinkling laugh. "We have a special rake for clams. It's nothing like that shovel."

"Which is probably why I didn't score any clams," he answered, with a broad smile. "Put your hair up for me with those two combs. And, yes . . . hold there like that. Arch your back and let your breasts jut out toward me. You've got great tits, some of the biggest aureoles I've ever seen. The red coloring makes them stand out. You no doubt have gotten by now that I like the color red in a woman. A man could revert back to his suckling stage for those tits."

His crudity—especially his crudity—was fresh and arousing to CeCe, who was too used to refinement and sensitivity in her men. "I think you did revert to that earlier. But I bet you say that to all your models."

"No, I don't. Well, all tits are great on a woman, big or small. But yours have character."

"Maybe that's why I named them Pride and Glory," CeCe responded, with her tinkling laugh. Her voice took on a more serious note then as her mind went back to the age difference between the last woman he'd had and her. "Gail doesn't have much in the way of tits, or you weren't impressed with them enough to emphasize them in your drawing of her."

"No, but they suit her body style. And she gives great head."

"She's given you a blow job?" This was new. He hadn't demanded this of her yet.

"No. Blow jobs. Plural. And she knows how to give them good. If you think you can do better, we can give it a try. Hold like that just a little longer, please. I've almost got the basic contours in. The contrast to the sunset will be great if I can just get the colors right. I was wrong. The reds aren't the same. Even better, though, they are complimentary."

"The model for most of the drawings on your walls inside has nice breasts," CeCe said to change the subject. She'd sucked man's cock before, but that was when she was really young and foolish. Still, if Cal wanted her to . . .

"Most of the drawings?"

"Yes, you have at least four drawings of the same model in there. The one over the fireplace is my favorite. She must have been a favorite model of yours too for you to draw her so often."

"That isn't just one model. They were twins. Identical twins but in one regard. You didn't see the difference? The tattoo of a star on the breast of one?"

"Ah, now that you mention it, I remember that difference. But I thought maybe that was just something added on a whim in some of the drawings."

"No. I don't embellish. However, I am finished with the drawing—at least with what I want to do with it at the moment. I have something else in mind for now."

"I can tell," CeCe said, with a laugh. And she could tell. He had gotten very hard. And he was very thick.

"Yes, I want you to go down on me."

He moved to her. They were nearly in darkness now. He'd turned off the lights in the living area after he'd put the drawing and charcoal down, and darkness had fallen. Anyone strolling the beach at this hour would probably know what they were doing from the sound, but they wouldn't be able to see much through the thick boards of the deck railing in the shadows of the late evening.

When he reached her, he ran his hands into her hair, pushing the combs out and away, and letting her luxuriant auburn tresses fall about her face. One hand went to cupping the back of her neck and the other slid down her breasts and belly, through her trimmed pubic V and into her folds. His lips stifled the sounds of her moaning as he kissed her deeply and rubbed her clit with the heel of his hand, his fingers plunging inside her as far as they could go.

He moved up onto the patio table on his knees, placing them on either side of her thighs.

"Show me," he whispered as he pulled his lips away from hers.

"Show you?" she murmured.

"Show me you can suck me off as well as Gail can." As he said it, the hand he had wrapped around her neck was gently pushing her head down toward his groin. So much in control of her was he, that she didn't resist the movement and opened her lips to slide over the bulb of his cock as she was drawn down to meet it. Pausing only briefly to put pressure on the bulb with her lips, she continued sliding her lips down the shaft until she had deep throated most of it. She encased his balls in one hand, squeezing gently, and let the other glide up his belly and chest to press on one of his nipples.

It wasn't a case of her never having done this before—or ever having gotten a complaint when she did it.

If this was what it would take to keep this young hunk interested in her, this is what she'd do. He'd already taken care of her five times today—three times roughly and with vigor—taking her both in the cunt and the ass—in the back of her shop; the fourth time in front of the fireplace, forcing her to look into the eyes of the drawing of a previous conquest; the fifth time, there in his house, on his bed, languidly and bringing her to and over the brink repeatedly with his head buried between her thighs before fucking her hard and then bringing her out on the deck to sketch her.

He had given her so much oral; there was no reason why she should hesitate to please him that way too.

He let out a long, low groan as he leaned forward, grabbed the railing of the deck on either side of CeCe's head, and began to move his hips forward and back. "It's already better than Gail could do," he murmured. "Oh, yes, baby. Fuck, baby, yes. Oh, fuckin' shit yes!"

At length, he cried out, "Now. Now. pull off of it now." She barely had time to before he slathered her face with cum. Cum and all, he lifted her face to his and gave her a deep kiss. It had been well worth it, she decided. He obviously had enjoyed it and would want more. Yet one more weapon to hold him with as long as she wanted to—as long as she could.

* * * *

CeCe was gripping the rungs of the headboard above her in the dim, wavy light bathing the bed through the open sliding-glass door out to the deck from the reflection of the moon off the restless ocean beyond. The sounds were of waves breaking gently on the beach, mixed with her soft moans and Cal's heavy breathing. Cal, his knees pressed into her armpits and his hands gripping hers at the headboard over her head, pulled his cock out of her mouth, where she had been helping him work himself rock hard.

There seemed to be no barriers to what she would do for him; she only hoped that kept him performing and wanting to do it with her. What she had been thinking of as just a one- or two-night stand was now begging for a longer stay. She'd never been so fully satiated or dominated before. None of the men in her life in the last decade had known what she wanted, needed. Cal did. Who knew she'd feel so powerful, so much in control, so needed and wanted, with a man's cock in her mouth?

She remained gripping the rungs of the headboard, arching her back, and leaving her mouth open in a prolonged, silent groan, as he worked his lips down her body, the bulb of his cock dragging ahead of the attentions of his mouth, until he was below her, his tongue lapping her clit and then dragging down between her labia and pushing inside her. She cried out as he nipped her clit with his teeth and then the folds of her labia. Then panting hard, knuckles white as they clung to the headboard rungs, she struggled, fruitlessly, deliciously, against him as he held her totally prisoner with the hands gripping her hips in place and ground her pelvis against his feasting face. A cry and an explosion; another cry and a deeper explosion.

He rose over her body, his hands going to her throat, forcing her head back to where she was looking at the headboard, fingers digging into her throat under her chin, make her gurgle and her eyes to water and bulge. Her hands went to his, tearing at them, trying to pull them away from her throat. Not a chance in hell. He was too strong—and possessed.

His knees pushed between her thighs, forcing them apart. The first deep thrust inside her nearly lifted her hips off the surface of the bed. A full withdrawal and then another deep thrust. And another. A revolving, cork-screw entry, deep, that was a hallmark of the man. Another deep thrust. Building to another explosion—greater than any of the others. Eyes bulging, glazing over. Can't breathe. Can't . . .

"Shit! Fuck!" Cal abruptly released his grip and rose from the bed. CeCe lay there, inert, eyes bulging and glazed, trained on the headboard above her, mouth slack, breathless.

Cal had heard the music again, cutting through the sound of the ocean.

"You know the feeling of something half remembered, of something that never happened, yet you recall it well. You know the feeling of recognizing someone that you've never met as far as you could tell; well: Laura is the face in the misty light; footstep that you hear down the hall; the laugh that floats on the a summer night, that you can never quite recall. And you see Laura . . ."

She was out there, on the sand, in the moonlight, just standing at the surf line, not walking by, as before. Naked, voluptuous, the remembered figure, the flowing strawberry blonde hair, the star tattoo. Just standing there, looking, mockingly, up at the bungalow, across the beach, the sand dunes, the deck, into the bedroom. Reaching out for Cal.

Laura.

With a cry, Cal bounded, nude, off the bed and out the open sliding doors, onto the deck, where he paused only long enough to grab the shovel, before plunging off the deck, across the wooden walkway floating over the sand dunes separating the house from the open beach, and out onto the sand.

Coming up almost to what he'd assumed was only an illusion—a guilt-plagued twist of his mind—he stopped abruptly with the realization that the figure wasn't ephemeral. She was real.

"Laura. It can't be. You are . . ."

"Dead?" the woman filled in, with a low, smoky voice. "Dead by your hands?"

"You can't be."

"And yet I am. And I've come for you, Cal, my love."

"I . . ."

"Killed me in anger, in blind, uncontrolled lust? Strangled me and left me for dead? Apparently not. Apparently, you didn't get the job done."

"But I didn't mean it. And this can't be. The newspapers . . ."

"Dutifully reported the death of Laura Hinton. I know. I arranged that. I'm Libby now, my twin. You know, the woman you were two timing me with? The bitch who bragged about taking you away from me."

"But that means . . ."

"Yes, it's Libby who has died in my place. The bitch shouldn't have thrown you up at me."

She had kept her voice low to that point, covered by the sound of the surf beyond a couple of yards. And, as if controlled by her voice, Cal had been speaking low, as well. But now, dropping the shovel to the side, he cried out, "You're the bitch. It was always you who were the bitch. Scheming, possessive, evil bitch." He sprang forward and wrapped his hands around her throat, driving both of them to their knees in the sand.

Instantaneously, the beach was swarming with policemen, arising from the beach equipment storage bins at the top of the beach on the condo building lots on either side of the bungalow's beach section.

Reba reached them first, grabbing Cal's arm and pulling him up and away from Laura.

"None of that. Calvin du Pont, I arresting you for the murder of Laura—"

"I couldn't have murdered Laura Hinton; she's right here. She's the murderer."

As if she hadn't even heard him, Reba, rushed on. "And for suspicion in the murder of Gail Stanley. Where did you hide her body?"

"Gail? Hide her body? That's crazy, bitch." He was looking wildly around—seemingly for an avenue of escape. Reba thought otherwise. She saw him looking toward the high dunes separating the deck of the bungalow from the top of the beach. She looked down and saw the shovel on the ground beside them.

"You've buried her body, haven't you? In the dunes over there. And CeCe Collins. You have her here—had her here. What have you done with her? Have you murdered her too?"

Attention now focused away from her, Laura rose, turned, and grabbed the shovel. On her way up, she took a mighty swing at Cal's head, but the shovel swept past his cheek as he saw it coming and jerked his head back.

Cal reached up, gripped the stock of the shovel as it swung past him, and twisted it out of Laura's hands. She went down in a heap on her backside. Cal raised the shovel high above his head, his eyes full of venom, staring down at the woman crouched below him—the demon he'd tried to exorcise, that he'd tried to rid himself of at last to the point of escaping New York to hide by the ocean, the woman he'd just learned had murdered her own sister out of lust and hate and revenge. The death she was trying to pin on him. He felt the energy and strength surging up into his arms, giving him the power for a killing thrust.

In the instant Reba had to act, she had two options. The stun gun on her left hip or the gun on her right. Consumed by hatred of the man for the sexual threat he represented to her no less than what she was sure he had done and would do to the woman she'd just made love to if she let him, Reba pulled the gun and shot Cal dead with two bullets to the back.

The echo of the bullets fired merged with the screams of the woman—CeCe Collins—from the deck of the bungalow.

* * * *

Reba smiled wanly up at Phyllis, as the waitress filled her cup at the crack of restaurant opening the next morning at the Island Diner. The policewoman was exhausted from a fruitless night of all-hands digging into the dunes at Cal du Pont's rented bungalow in search of a body. She didn't regret at all her decision to shoot Cal rather than stun him. In another instant, he would have split Libby's head with that shovel. It was a clean kill; a justified kill. That she hated him—and the reasons why she did—could be tucked into the back of her mind. No one need ever know.

He was a fiend and deserved to die. He had killed Libby's sister. OK, he hadn't killed CeCe as Reba had believed at the time—but she still fervently believed he'd murdered Gail and that they'd find her body in those dunes eventually—and that he would have gotten around to killing CeCe as well. Maybe that probability could be put at an advantage in her campaign for CeCe's affections.

She needed Libby to fill in some blanks in all of this, though, before she started filling out the paper work. Libby had promised to meet her here this morning as soon as the diner opened. She had wanted to take Libby back to her hotel the previous night, under the ruse of making sure she was safely tucked away and had calmed down. But it was more because Reba wanted to make love to the luscious strawberry blonde again.

But Libby hadn't shown yet. Reba had called the hotel to learn that Libby had checked out, so she should be here by now. But she hadn't shown yet.

Showing at the door to the diner just then, though, was CeCe Collins. She looked a wreck, which Reba could fully understand she should. Her foolish last-ditch grasping at a man, no matter how dangerous, had nearly gotten her killed the previous night. She had two matted drawings under her arm as she approached Reba's table, a look of worry and determination on her face.

"You should be at your apartment now—resting," Reba said to her friend as CeCe stood beside the table, trembling. "You've been through a traumatic experience."

"There were two of them. Twins," CeCe said in a breathless voice. "The woman last night. She's Laura Hinton, not Libby Hinton. You kept saying Cal was wanted for murdering Laura Hinton. He couldn't have murdered Laura Hinton. She was there. Last night."

"What are you babbling about?" Reba said. "Come, sit down, calm down. Phyllis. Coffee over here for CeCe, please."

"I don't want coffee, Reba. I want some answers to all of this. You shot him dead last night. You said he murdered Laura Hinton. He didn't kill Laura Hinton. She was there last night."

"What in the hell are you talking about, CeCe?"

"These drawings. Cal told me he put the name of the model on the back of each drawing. The police can certainly track those other women down and check that out. He put my name on the back of the drawing he did of me yesterday. Here, look, see. Surely you can see that the woman last night is the same in this drawing. And this other one is her sister. They are twins. But only Laura Hinton has that star tattoo on her breast. Here, look at the names on the backs of the drawings. Star tattoo—Laura Hinton. No star—Libby Hinton. The woman last night has a star tattoo.

"There probably are damn few people who knew about the tattoo," she continued. "Not the police investigating Laura Hinton's claimed murder. Cal knew, though. Cal's art knows. It wasn't Libby Hinton there last night. It was Laura Hinton. So, how could Cal have murdered Laura Hinton?"

Reba was thrown for a loop, but she dug her heels in. It was a good kill. She had to cling to that. When all of this had been sorted out, it would still be a good kill. Her resentment of Cal and how easily he'd taken CeCe after all of this time that Reba had been trying to do so came to the fore to add steel to her belief. "OK, we'll send that up to New York, to the police up there. They'll sort all of this out. And Libby's coming here this morning. She'll have an explanation."

But, of course, Reba knew that Libby Hinton wouldn't be coming here this morning—that she wasn't even Libby Hinton. But there still was Gail Stanley.

"There's still Gail," she said stubbornly. "He still is on for killing Gail. And you yourself said he nearly choked you to death last night. He probably would have—he probably would have killed you last night, used you up and killed you—if Libby's scheme to lure him out with music connected to her sister and to trap him in Laura's murder hadn't taken hold in time."

"That wasn't Libby Hinton last night, Reba. Damn it, it was Laura Hinton. Wake up and start looking at what happened here."

"There's still Gail," Reba doggedly repeated.

"There's still Gail what?"

The voice had come from near the door to the diner.