Or longer.
The longer the better, he thought.
Stay in there forever, for all I care.
Feet dangling off the end of the bed, Owen eased down onto the mattress. The instant his head and back met the bed, his aches and soreness started to melt and flow away. He filled his lungs and sighed.
Don’t get too comfortable, he warned himself. Still have to get up when Monica comes out.
Have a cream soda with her.
Change for bed, wash, brush my teeth...
He fell asleep, but not for long.
The clink of an ice clump dropping into a glass woke him up.
He raised his head off the mattress, then propped himself up on his elbows.
Monica, standing at the dresser, had her back to him as she popped open a can of cream soda. Her hair was wrapped in a tower of pink towel. She wore the black nightgown that she’d bought especially for this trip, that she’d modelled for him last night.
It left most of her back bare. It draped her buttocks and surrounded her legs like a veil of smoke. She wore nothing underneath it.
Owen felt a squirm in his pants.
As cream soda gurgled into Monica’s glass, he pushed himself up to his elbows.
“How was the shower?” he asked.
She swiveled toward him, smiling and giving him a side view of her right breast. Though covered by the nightie, it appeared to be cloaked in nothing but a shadow. “It was grand,” she said. “I feel so much better. You should try it.”
“I don’t think I can stand up.”
She eyed his groin. “Something is.”
He blushed, then sat up so his bulge wouldn’t show.
Smiling, Monica turned away long enough to set her can on the dresser. Glass in hand, she faced Owen. After a glance at his lap, she met his eyes. She raised her eyebrows high. Then she turned her face aside, raised her glass and tilted back her head. As she swallowed cream soda, she shifted her stance, thrusting her hips to the left and standing mostly on her left leg.
Posing.
Keeping her eyes away from Owen.
Keeping her arms out of the way so they wouldn’t obstruct his view.
From where Owen sat near the edge of the mattress, she was almost close enough to touch. Her breasts swelled out at him, looking as if they might burst through the frail material holding them in.
The gown drifted in front of her groin, caressed her thighs, concealed nothing.
As Owen gazed at her, she glided her right foot forward and sideways. Then she lifted her right knee. Bare toes pressing against the carpet, she swayed her leg lazily from side to side. The motion drew Owen’s eyes to where she obviously wanted them.
“What’re you looking at, Owie?” she asked, her voice a teasy sing-song.
Blushing again, he quickly raised his eyes. “Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing, huh?” Monica lowered her glass. It was empty now except for some small clumps of ice. Reaching behind her, she set it next to the soda can. Then she eased backward against the edge of the dresser. She sat on it, put her arms down straight by her sides to hold on, and stretched out her legs. Then she smiled languidly at Owen.
“I bet I know what you want,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. She spread her knees, opening herself wide to his view, then swung them back together.
Owen smiled. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She opened and shut her legs again. “What makes you think something’s going own?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You don’t usually ... act this way.”
“Don’t I?” Instead of spreading her legs, she swiveled her shoulders. Her breasts, confined only by her flimsy nightgown, lurched heavily from side to side.
“What’re you doing?” Owen asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
Her shoulders stopped, but her breasts didn’t. The rough lurching came to an end, but they continued to swing from side to side, gradually slowing to a gentle sway before Monica stopped them with her hands. Holding them, she looked into Owen’s eyes.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“And how’s this?” she asked. Fingers hooked, she clawed the wispy fabric down, ripping it from her breasts, breaking both shoulder straps.
“Jesus!” Owen blurted.
As Monica’s hands returned to the edge of the dresser, the gown drifted into a pile below her waist.
Owen gaped at her.
She’s lost her mind!
“You gonna just sit there?” she asked.
Owen shook his head. He felt a little breathless. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding, his penis hard and achy. “Are you okay?” he asked.
She smirked at him. “Do I look okay?”
“You look great,” he said.
“Do I?”
“Yes.” And she did look great. Except for her eyes and smile. Something wrong there. Something mocking and haughty and a little frantic.
“Am I the fairest of them all?” she asked.
The question made something squirm in Owen’s bowels.
“Sure you are,” he said.
Monica pushed at the edge of the dresser, lifting herself. No longer trapped under her buttocks, the nightie slid all the way down her legs and pooled around her feet.
“Are you sure about that?” she asked, sitting down again.
“Huh?”
“Who’s the fairest?”
“You are.”
Her smiled died. “Fairer than Dana?” she asked.
The name slammed through Owen.
“Who?” he asked. He knew he must look shocked. He felt sick.
“Dana,” Monica said. “Your precious Beast House guide.”
“Huh? I don’t even...”
“Oh yes you do.”
“The guide on the bus?”
“Dana!”
“Huh? Do you mean the big one? The blonde?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Owie. I know you way too well. I see right through you.”
“I don’t even know her.”
“But you lust for her, don’t you?”
Shaking his head, he tried to smile. “I lust only for you.”
“Sure. Like I believe that. I saw how you were looking at her.”
“This is ridiculous. She was just there. So what if I looked at her? If I hadn’t looked at her, I might’ve bumped into her.”
“Ha ha. Not very funny.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing. I don’t know her. I don’t care about her. I’ll probably never even see her again.”
“Probably?”
“There’s a pretty slim chance of it, don’t you think?”
“Do you want to see her again?”
“No. Why should I?”
Monica smirked and made a snorting sound. Then she pushed herself away from the dresser. Standing straight, she reached up with both hands and unwrapped the towel from around her head.
Eyes on Owen, she rubbed her hair with the towel. “Why would you want to see Dana again?”she asked. Her breasts jiggled and hopped with the motions of her arms.
“I wouldn’t,” Owen said. “Can we stop talking about her now?”
Monica lowered the towel. Her hair was a dark, wild tangle. Tossing aside the towel, she stepped toward Owen. She bumped against his knees, so he moved them farther apart. She halted between his knees and started to unfasten the buttons of his shirt.
He reached up for her breasts.