The Erection Set

She had parked her car in the main lot and some of the others were pulling out when I shoved her into the Ford and got behind the wheel. I pushed her down, slumped in the seat and got out into traffic and made the circuit behind the others who were all going to Tod’s, and while I was making like I was looking for a parking place, backed into a driveway, turned around and swung back against traffic. I cut right into a deserted section, made a complete orbit, picked up the highway, headed toward New York, took the first intersection off and drove back into Linton on the old road.

It took a good hour and a half, but I finally found the right dirt road and turned the car into the area I was looking for and left the headlights on long enough for Sharon to see what I had to show her.

Leyland Hunter had hired a good crew. They had done a good job. Her old house was standing there sparkling white in the beam of my headlights with her old bicycle reconditioned and newly painted, leaning against the railing on the porch. A white envelope was tucked into the screen door and I knew what it was. I got out, walked around the car, opened the door and eased her off the seat.

She knew too, but she really wasn’t sure until she opened the envelope and saw the key attached to the deed.

“Yours, little bleachie.”

“Dog ...” I could barely hear her.

“All reconditioned. Like when you left it.”

“Why?”

“At least one of us has to have something to show for it all.”

She tried to say something, but the tears stopped her. She put the key in the lock and turned the knob. The door opened silently. When she reached for the light switch it flicked on and I heard her breath catch in her throat.

“I guess the counselor asked questions,” I said.

There was nothing pretentious about it. It was only an old-fashioned house so warm and comfortable you thought you could smell pies in the oven and hear kid voices from the yard while the older ones were slapping the cards down on the table with the women serving beer from pitchers and trading gossip in the kitchen. No place for women lib types at all. The paint smell still was there and the new carpet feel was underfoot and it was ready to be lived in if anybody wanted to live with all the nostalgia of a long time ago.

“It’s lovely, Dog.”

“You were lucky, honey. I wish I had had one like it.”

“But you had the big house on the hill.”

“Not me. I was a bastard.”

“Is ... upstairs ... ?”

I shrugged. “Go look.”

We went up the blue-carpeted stairs and when she opened the doors of each room she smiled and then she came to her own room. Where they had done their work only too well. Her eyes were wet and her mouth was wet and I had to leave her right then.

Outside it was totally dark and the target had to leave the congested area.

Very slowly, she turned around, looked at me a very long time and slid her jacket off. Just as slowly she unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall in a heap on the floor. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere at all and her breasts were full, pouting, and the tips of them perked up into delicious little knots.

“No, honey,” I said, and she hooked her fingers in her skirt so that it fell off too and all she had on was the little pair of bikini pants that lasted another few seconds before she was nakedly unashamed in front of me, her virginal pussy smiling with parted lips because it didn’t know any better, the brown hair in its delicious isosceles making fun of the blonde above and she lay down on her own bed where she slept as a child, legs spread in total invitation, but looking at her hands a minute before asking the question.

“Who are you, Dog?”

“You know me.”

“Nobody knows you, Dog. Not now. Maybe I know more than you think I do, but I want to hear you say it yourself.”

“Why? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“Take off your clothes.”

“No.”

“I want to see your dick.”

“Damn it, stop that!”

“Let me see your dick.” Her legs twitched and she smiled at me. My fingers started reaching for buttons and zippers.

“Damn it to hell ...”

“Dog ... don’t fret. I couldn’t help myself either.”

My shirt and pants were gone and I had a hard-on I didn’t deserve and she was lying there naked in the light with one hand stroking her belly down into the fuzz and I heard my ears ring and felt my stomach tighten and went over next to her where she could reach up and feel me.

“Sharon ...”

She wet one finger and ran it between her legs. “Who are you, Dog?”

“Listen ...”

“Start from the war. Tell me about Roland Holland.”

I reached down past my fucking erection and picked up the .45 where I had dropped it and tossed it on the bed beside the pillow. It was an outlandish situation and I had to think and that was all I could do.

“Roland Holland,” she insisted.

“A business genius,” I said. “I gave him my savings and terminal leave pay to start up a company. I took out ten percent. He is legitimate.”