Act of Exposure (22 page)

His experience
of the world told him otherwise however. He was a purveyor of sin,
a sniffer-dog of vice. Abigail was falling, he told himself. She
was falling from grace and flouting the law.

He didn't
question the fact that there was no law to govern sexual interludes
in private. Lance was geared to reporting people's sex lives as
though they were the only ones that did it, and the only ones who
shouldn't be doing it.

As he sat
there thinking about her rolling around with Sigmund, visions of
her chastisement came to his mind. He would beat her. Yes. He would
beat her. But first, he would have her naked, her arms fastened
high above her head so that her breasts bunched together. Not that
bunching together would make them less vulnerable. The dog collar
would again be around her neck. Yes. He liked the thought of that.
And because he was always concerned about his mother's wellbeing as
well as her good opinion of him, he would gag Abigail's mouth so
her shouts would disturb no one.

Then he would
pick up his camcorder, get her on film so that each time she was
tempted to stray from him and from the path of righteousness, he
would run the tape through the machine so that she would tremble
and be in awe of him. Once she admitted her guilt, he would kiss
her all over, and like he had seen others do, he would have her
kiss his lips and kiss his penis before she begged him to take her,
to lay her down, spread her legs, and push himself into her.

Hidden by the
dark shadows of the city street, he touched the front of his
trousers, rubbed his fingers up and down a few times, then groaned
as his semen gushed into his well-scrubbed, well-pressed jeans.

The morning
newspapers were full of speculation about Carl Candel's death, and
Stephen Sigmund's part in it. Most of it was spread over the front
page, but taking up two thirds of page two was an article entitled
"OUT WITH IT".

Abigail stared
at the photograph of a smiling Carl Candel that was obviously taken
some time before his death and not too long after he had left
school or college. The photograph of Stephen was more recent.
Although it showed him with his head high, there was a hunted look
in his eyes. Outwardly, she groaned with the weight of his pain,
and inside, she had an irresistible desire to hold him to her, to
stroke his hair and whisper soothing words into his ear.

After reading
the first paragraph, the author's name caught her eye. Archibald
Newton Ringer. Having never taken an interest in Archie's life, she
had been unaware that he held such strong views on men in public
life not declaring their sexual preferences. The article in itself
she could easily have dismissed, but he was citing in print that he
himself had seen Stephen dressed as a woman. He would swear to
it.

Although
Abigail knew the precise reason why Stephen had been dressed that
way, the public, because of the manner in which the media presented
it, would take the view that where there was smoke there was
fire.

Regardless,
also, of transvestism not being evidence of homosexuality, Archie
was catering to the public's ingrained conception that the two did
go hand in hand. Anger made her cheeks burn, her chest heave. She
raised her hand, bunched her fingers. 'Archie! Why have you done
this?' It was hard not to hit her desk top with her clenched fist.
Her concern was too great to ignore.

Once her
heartbeat and her breathing were under control, she picked up the
phone. She had to speak to Stephen, if only to try her best to
soothe his hurt pride, his jagged nerves.

His voice was
soft as though recent events had taken something from it.

'Are the press
still hanging about?' she asked him.

'Yes, and
they're doing their best to make more out of it than there is. I'm
only glad you were with me when Candel got killed. Otherwise,
they'd be saying I killed him.'

'I'm glad I
was with you too.' Her voice faltered. 'Did you also see that
Archie Ringer said he saw you dressed in women's clothes?'

'Yes, but I
notice he doesn't mention me going off with a dancer by the name of
Carmel, does he?'

'No. I wonder
why?'

She wanted to
say more, much more; about how she wanted to be with him, to lie
naked beside him and enjoy the feel of his hands swooping up and
down her body, the look of his eyes as he hung over her, his member
deeply embedded in her flesh, the rough hardness of his thighs
against the softness of hers.

There seemed
to be enough in the words they did say, as though everything else
she wanted, he wanted, was automatically transmitted by telepathic
means.

'You know how
I feel about you,' she said at last. 'And because I feel that way,
I have to go. I have to ask questions. I feel obligated. It was my
idea that you go in disguise.'

He told her he
knew how she was feeling, told her that he appreciated all she was
doing for him, all she had done. She knew he meant her realizing
his favourite fantasy and providing a willing accomplice. She was
glad she knew Valeria.

'Will you
participate in another fantasy for me?'

'Anything.
Anything at all that will help lift your spirits.' She heard his
grateful sigh. 'Put your hand on your breast. Pretend it's my hand.
Will you do that?'

'Yes.' Her
answer was immediate, though the way she said the word was long and
slow.

Just like her
answer, she moved her hand slowly, cupped her palm over her blouse.
It was as though she were feeling the shape of her breast for the
very first time.

Her breathing
altered. She gasped at her own touch, then closed her eyes.

'That's it,'
he said in response to her gasp. 'Imagine it's my hand.'

She undid one
button, then two, let her fingers into the gap and touched the warm
smoothness of her breast.

'How does it
feel?' His voice was low, husky.

She sighed,
caught her breath before answering. 'Delicious. My fingertips are
cold. My breast is warm.'

'And soft?
Tell me it's soft. Please... Please...' His words rolled with his
hushed breath over the telephone.

Abigail
swallowed and because her breast was responding to her touch, her
legs responded also and gradually parted.

'My breast
feels soft, but firm. My skin is like satin. I am sliding my
fingers across it, tracing its shape. Now I am running them around
my nipple... Oh!' She said it suddenly, plaintively, wantonly. Hard
as a plum stone, her nipple grew beneath the lilting touch of her
fingers.

Stephen spoke
again. 'Is your nipple very hard now?'

'Yes. Yes, it
is!'

'Put down the
receiver. Put your telephone on speaker.' She did as he said,
flicked the "speak" switch, and leaned closer to it so that she
could keep her voice low and hear his better.

'Now what,
Stephen? What do you want me to do now?' Her body was quaking for
the need to hear his voice, for his directions as to how she should
pleasure herself, and at a distance, give him pleasure too.

'Are you
wearing stockings?'

'Of course.'
She always wore stockings. That way, the nakedness of her sex
seemed to extend halfway down her thighs.

'Are they
black?'

'They are
always black.' Of course they were. Black stockings accentuated the
white nakedness of her flesh.

'I want you to
pinch your nipples, to pull on, play with as I do.'

'I will. Yes.
Yes. I will.' She said it breathlessly, almost as if the words and
the moan that escaped from her throat were one and the same.

She heard him
groan too, heard him sigh, then take a deep breath. With that sigh,
that breath, she could imagine the hardness of his cock, his own
hand working on it as hers would have done if she had been with
him.

'Put your
other hand under your skirt. Run it up over your stocking. Stroke
your inner thighs with your fingers - but lightly - very
lightly.'

Murmuring
sweet mews of delight, she followed his instructions. As her hand
moved upwards, so did the hem of her skirt. Cool air touched her
flesh, and a soft throb began in her sex. Mounting desire urged her
to quicken her movements, to bypass her thighs and get straight to
her sex and tease the ache that hung so heavy between her legs. But
she would not do that. She would obey him. At this moment in time,
her hands were his hands, and his pleasure was her pleasure.

'Take your
fingers higher, but keep your other hand on your breast. Feel the
soft crease where your leg meets your body. Trail your fingers
across, then slide one - just one - downwards until it meets the
very tip of your divide. Are you doing that for me?'

Her hand and
her fingers followed his instructions. Her breath rasped from her
throat, but she managed to speak. 'Yes, Stephen! Yes!'

A loud sigh
tumbled like surf on the beach, then reformed as the sweet
sensations of arousal soared and dived around the movement of both
hands; the one on her sex, and the one on her breast.

'Hmmmm,' he
moaned long and low. It was wordless, and yet that sound told her
all he was doing, all he was feeling. On the other end of the
telephone, his eyes too would be closed, his hands too would be
exploring and giving him pleasure.

'Push your
finger further. What do you feel?'

Flesh slippery
with sexual juices divided as she obeyed him. She gasped before she
spoke. 'I feel the touch of my flesh, and the touch of my finger.
Both are feeling, both are giving and receiving pleasure. My flesh
is warm and wet, and clings to my finger. My finger is hard, yet
gentle as it travels onwards. My petals divide, I feel - it feels -
I...!'

Her words were
lost on a tide of sensation. Her finger had found her clitoris, her
clitoris was responding to the touch of her finger.

'Have you
found it?'

'Yes...!'

'Travel on,'
he gasped, his voice demanding, his breathing laboured with the
heat of his own desire. 'Travel on. Slide over your flesh, dip your
finger into your body. Do it!'

Regretfully,
for she had enjoyed the touch of her finger on her bud, the touch
of her clitoris on her finger, she did as he said.

As her finger
entered her vagina, she cried out.

'How does it
feel?' he asked.

'Ohhhh...
Good!'

'Push it in,
out. In, out. In, out!'

'I am. I
am!'

There was
urgency now in her voice, demand in his. Climax was coming to both
of them. Of course she could not see the expression on his face as
his semen travelled up his shaft, but she knew instinctively that
he was feeling as she was. She just knew it.

'Press your
thumb upon your clitoris. Tap it gently, firmly, then gently again.
Tease it, please it, and when you feel it coming, when you feel it
release its tension, plunge your finger into yourself more
fiercely, more quickly. Will you do that?'

'Yes!' she
cried. 'Yes. Yes. Yes!'

She was
coming. In one, spring-loaded spiral of sensation, her climax was
coming, twisting, spinning like a fast-turning top that whirrs and
whirrs until gravity grasps it, slows it and sends it soaring out
of control, shooting off in all directions until the spin slows,
topples, and eventually falls over.

Silence
followed. She heard him breathing. No doubt he could also hear
her.

'Was it good?'
she asked him. Basically, she knew it must have been, but were his
spirits any improved? Under the circumstances, it was a lot to
expect.

'Oh, yes. It
was good all right. It was almost as good as you being with me. Did
you enjoy it?'

'Yes.'

'Are you still
wet?'

She touched
herself before she replied. Residual sensations made her hips jerk
away from her hand.

'Very,' she
said, smiled, and hoped her smile was reflected in her words. 'You
have made me very wet, my love. Very wet indeed.'

He did not
answer. Not for almost a minute. When he did, his question took her
unawares.

'Is that what
I am? Your love?'

A vision of
him came to her head. The darkness of his hair, the velvet brown of
his eyes. That lopsided smile that made her melt, made her laugh.
Denial was impossible.

'My love.' She
said it softly, sincerely. And that, she said to herself, is why I
am laying myself open to the advances of other men and to danger -
for the sake of my love.

She told him
again that she had to go, that she had to make more enquiries. He
understood, wished her luck, told her to be careful.

Paul Bennet
was the first person she wanted to talk to. She had intended going
to the police station to see him. As it happened, he got to her
first. He telephoned, and that was something she was glad about.
She didn't have to see him, and he didn't have to see her.

He confirmed
that he had been keeping a watch on those toilets that night. It
was the usual pitch - there was nothing much else going on, and the
right time to catch some sleaze-balls.

'But did you
see Stephen Sigmund actually committing the act you are charging
him with?'

Bennet paused.
'He was in there, and the deceased - Carl Candel - was in
there.'

'But did you
actually see them committing the act, Inspector?'

'Not exactly,
but...'

'Did you go
into the toilets?'

'Yes.'

'So where were
Mr Sigmund and Mr Candel?'

'In the
gentlemen's toilets, and Mr Sigmund was dressed as a woman. I
recognized him at once. Mr Candel confirmed what they were there
for.'

Her confidence
took a nose-dive, but she quickly recovered. 'So you, yourself, did
not see an act take place?'

'No, but then
I didn't need to. Candel admitted what they'd been doing.'