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EXPOSURE by James Wood Perspiration slid slowly down her right breast, across a bare pink nipple, before dropping gently on to a long, slender thigh. Her companion in the sauna -- a swarthy middle-aged man with dark hair covering his body and the backs of his pudgy hands -- leaned across and sensuously towelled the sweat off her body, letting his hands linger on the more intimate parts. 'Too hot for you?' he drawled. Erica smiled with her lips but not her eyes. 'It's never too hot for me. You should know that by now Frankie.' And she bent over and lightly kissed the spot where his bull-neck joined hairy shoulders. The effect was immediate and very obvious. He reached up to grab her long, blonde hair, but she playfully avoided him, stood up, and escaped through the sauna door to the outdoor pool. The coldness of a late November evening temporarily dampened her lover's ardour as he stumbled after her, leaping into the pool, shrieking and splashing like a young kid. He was not a good swimmer and barely managed three or four strokes before his hairy body started to sink beneath the tepid water like half-submerged seaweed. Erica allowed him to catch and caress her before she swam back to the steps that led out of that private pool and back to the overheated sauna. The sudden change of temperature was supposed to stimulate the senses, but Frank Kendrick's senses were already stimulated by a combination of lust and hard drugs as he lay down next to his latest mistress with his large, round head cradled in the bare softness of her lap. He enjoyed the soft feel of a woman, that special smell of female flesh, just as he enjoyed the other little luxuries of life -- an eight-bedroom house complete with tennis courts, swimming pool, gym and ten-acre garden in the more expensive part of the stockbroker belt. But Frank Kendrick was no stockbroker. His wealth had not come from the financial markets, although there were several young businessmen hooked on the drugs that he peddled and the call-girls that operated under his protection. But Erica Johnstone was not one of them. She was a well-educated, well-spoken, boarding school type with diplomas and good manners to prove it. At thirty-three she was old enough to understand the ways of the world yet young enough to be attractive to someone who was tired of brainless teenage bimbos. It was her 'style' that first attracted Frank Kendrick. Although he never denied the tough, inner-city background that had made him what he was -- hard, remorseless, cruel, successful -- he preferred now to associate with "a bit of class" as he put it. It was about the only thing missing in his life. He joined the right clubs, followed the smart set to Rome, Cannes, Monte Carlo, and enjoyed having his photo taken with famous actresses, sportsmen and politicians. But his last venture into 'society' had ended in disaster. The young, under-age daughter of an international financier had fallen off his luxury yacht and drowned before anyone realised she was missing -- or that was the story he told the police, with a dozen influential witnesses to back up his statement. For a few months after that he kept a low profile. It was a temporary inconvenience. But he soon forgot the incident and the girl. She was just another long-limbed plaything with a freaked-out head. But Erica Johnstone was different. More mature. Self-assured. She refused his offer of drugs. Said she didn't need to get her enjoyment that way. Said she preferred to take her pleasures fully conscious. They had met, oddly enough, on the golf course that formed part of the private estate where he lived. Not that he could play particularly well, but he got a perverse enjoyment listening to the boring tales told by self-important golfers with massive egos and massive overdrafts at the bank. And he recognised the faces of many of his 'clients' among the members of this revered and ancient club. His introduction to Erica Johnstone first took place when he heard a very positive female voice shout 'Fore!' from somewhere behind him as her golf ball sailed over his head. Naturally she apologised and naturally he accepted her apology on condition that she agreed to play a round with him, followed by lunch at the club. 'I don't usually play around with strangers,' she said with an amused glint in her eye. 'And I don't usually have to avoid foreplay with such an attractive striker of the ball,' he answered. Lunch then developed into dinner, followed by drinks at his house, with both of them knowing exactly how the game was to be played over the following weeks. Which was why they were now sitting completely naked in his private sauna with his head resting on her lap as he snorted the mind-bending white powder which left him floating somewhere between nirvana and oblivion. 'Why do you do it?' she asked. He grinned, loosely, and his tongue had difficulty forming the words. 'Makes me feel good - powerful. Power over the little people.' 'Like who?' 'Like those idiots at the golf club. Like the toffee-nosed bitches who enjoy a bit of rough when the angel-dust gets up their noses. The so-called smart set who'll sit up and beg me for it.' 'Don't you ever feel sorry for them?' 'Why should I? No one ever felt sorry for me.' 'What if they overdose?' 'That's their problem.' He paused, then gave a malicious laugh. 'They don't do it twice, that's for sure.' He turned his face into her lap and put his sweaty hand around her waist. She let him lie there for a moment, feeling his hot breath blowing across the tops of her thighs, knowing exactly what that fuddled, lustful mind was thinking as his hand slid slowly downwards. Laughing suggestively, she stood up, opened the sauna door, looked back at him, winked, then stepped out into the coldness of that November evening. She knew he would follow. Just as she'd known he would make a play for her that first day on the golf course. He couldn't resist the challenge of bringing everyone down to his level; proving that all men -- and women -- are created equal; equally greedy, equally sly, equally lecherous. As she ran through the frosted grass and dived into the tepid water, the icy shock took her breath away. Thrashing her arms about to stimulate the circulation, she swam towards the furthest and deepest end of the pool. She watched him stumble out of the sauna, his eyes barely able to focus on things around him -- the garden furniture, inflated beach balls, the covered barbecue set. Like a child learning to walk, he lifted one foot and put it down carefully, then the other foot equally carefully, tottering slowly towards the pool and the naked shape he could vaguely make out in the distance. He fell, rather than dived, into the water and lay submerged with his face downwards for at least ten seconds. Then his mass of black hair rose so that his eyes were just above the water level, and he stumbled forward until he was out of his depth, flopping those ape-like arms in a ridiculous caricature of a swimmer. She let him get closer, tempting him with bare breasts that bobbed gently up and down like tiny white islands promising safety and paradise. He was well out of his depth now, breathing hard from a combination of fatigue and mind-numbing drugs. He flopped and floundered towards her, never quite reaching her, as she slipped past him and swam towards the other end of the pool. Climbing out she ran towards the shed that housed the machinery controlling the flow and temperature of the water. The temperature switch had already been turned down low by her an hour earlier. Now she switched it off completely. With a look of savage triumph she glanced at her prey floating semi-consciously in the deep end, then she activated another switch and listened with satisfaction to the sliding, scraping noise as the thick plastic cover moved automatically over the surface of the pool, just above the water level. It was a very effective device for stopping unwanted objects getting into -- and out of -- the pure, unadulterated water. It had been installed by the man who was now struggling hopelessly against the covering, trying in vain to break through the specially toughened plastic as it slid over him. His head was pushed upwards against the plastic sheeting in a desperate attempt to keep his mouth above water, but his mind and body had been weakened by the stupefying effect of the drugs. For ten minutes Erica watched his frantic efforts, imagining the equally frantic efforts her god-daughter must have made when she fell into the sea from Frank Kendrick's luxury yacht and was left to drown in those icy waters. Shivering at the thought, Erica eventually turned away, ran back to the house, dressed quickly then returned to reverse the switch controlling the plastic cover. As it moved slowly back across the pool it revealed the naked body lying low in the water, with tufts of dark hair floating like black gossamer from his bare back. She stared at him without remorse or pity. Pulling her topcoat closer around her body, she hid her face inside the large, windproof collar, and walked slowly away from that placid, clear water. A heavy frost had been forecast for that night and the public had been expressly warned to expect ice forming on exposed water. The End © James Wood 1993. All copyrights reserved |
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