Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,22

groaned aloud. Gillian continued to chat aimlessly for fifteen minutes despite his imploring hand signals. It seemed to be the smallest talk possible. From time to time he reached out to touch her, but she brushed him away. By the end of the call, he was doubled over on the bed again, muttering incoherently. As the thought of strangling her with the phone cord came to him, Gillian calmly hung up.

"Why didn't you hang up right away?" he asked.

"Am I answering to you already, rabbi?"

"Joshua," he said, "call me Joshua."

"Well, Joshua, that happened to be Mario Vella."

"The gangster fellow?"

"The same," she said. "I don't understand why he calls me, but sometimes he says he just wants to talk. And I don't think it would be particularly wise to hang up on him."

"But Mrs. Blake, Gillian, when a man and a woman are in bed…."

"…The world doesn't end," she finished it.

Turnbull looked at her for a moment. She was kneeling opposite him on the bed. He unhooked her brassiere, and this time Gillian offered no resistance. He removed it and bit softly at her breasts. They waved at him, pennants in the wind of lust, and he bit deeply into the acid of her dugs. Then he pulled off the black net panties – there was a cellophane sound as they were peeled past her thighs. They stuck at her knees. What he had hoped (and prayed, even) would be a smooth operation was spoiled as he had to fumble about her knees and she arched to let him finish slipping them off. Turnbull rose from the bed and then, clad only in his beard, rejoined her. He watched with the patience of the sages as Gillian removed the earrings and the bracelet.

Turnbull delayed it, made it last, stared at the naked woman waiting on the sheets for him. Then, as if making an elaborate bow, he took hold of her and pressed hard against her slightly parted legs. He sewed her body with a thread of bites and kisses, dwelling on the tight high pack of her working hips and patching them with little pink squares. Finally he rose up over her, shadowed her with the majesty of his manhood, noticed that her legs were still closed.

"Not yet, Joshua," she said. "Not yet. Kiss my knees first."

"Your knees?"

"My knees."

"Would you prefer the caps or the hollows?"

"Just kiss them, Joshua."

One nut-girl in this town, he thought, one lovely shiksa nut-girl and I had to pick her. Turnbull bent uncomplaining to his new labors. Gillian's knees were well fleshed and dimpled and certainly not unattractive, if one happened to be a kneeman. For ten long minutes he improvised on the knee theme – it wasn't his specialty, but he was always flexible in such matters – and he was rewarded by the sounds of irregular breathing and little growls. He felt her knees starting to part and he rose, but she stiff-armed him neatly.

"More," she cried out.

Oy, oy, oy. Trying to preserve his patience, the rabbi returned to the knees. The growls deepened. It sounded to Turnbull almost animal-like and, in some uncanny way, as though the noise was coming from behind him. A moment later, in horror, he realized it was coming from behind him. It was Rolf. The dog. The dog who had somehow escaped from the garage, from the lawn mower, and now he stood in the bedroom doorway growling at what must have been an incomprehensible sight.

During the instant of recognition, Turnbull, buttocks exposed, knelt frozen in terror. And that one instant was all he had. Rolf leaped. Turnbull felt a searing pain flash through his right hip. Then a clamped set of needles dug into his rump and held fast. Gillian at first felt the rabbi had been transported into a state of exultation that beggared her past experience, and it was only his wild bellowing that made her realize there was an intruder. She crawled around Turnbull, pulled Rolf by an ear and smacked him.

"Naughty dog!" she said, slapping him repeatedly. The beating did no more than cause Rolf to seek an even tighter grip on Turnbull's rump. Finally, tugging at both ears, Gillian managed to pry him from his prey. It must be said to the dog's credit that he did not loosen his grip. It was simply that a portion of the rabbi came free with the dog. Turnbull collapsed on his stomach, moaning, holding his wounds.

"Naughty, naughty dog," Gillian continued. "Now drop that."

Rolf