Rough and Ready

  “And what is it with you and hogs? We ride a hog, we will be staying at a hog haven, and now we eat hog-ees.”

  He laughed and told her to open wide. When she did, he pressed the edge of the hoagie against her lips and said, “Bite.” She did, messily, but at least she understood.

  And he barely restrained himself from leaning over the table and licking the oil off her lips . . . maybe even her tongue, too.

  She liked the fries better, never having heard of potatoes before, and the milkshake . . . well, it thrilled her. Of course, she had never experienced ice cream, either, but when he explained that it would be like adding snow to sweet cream and adding flavoring, like strawberries, or his favorite, chocolate, she understood perfectly.

  Torolf found that he enjoyed showing off all these things to her, recalling how he’d felt when he’d come here more than ten years ago.

  “How did you like the ride?” he asked as she continued to sip on her straw.

  “I thought we would be riding a real hog.”

  “I know.”

  “You did not warn me that it was a self-pleasuring hog.”

  Torolf ’s jaw dropped. “What . . . did . . . you . . . say?”

  “What? Why are you gawking at me like that? Do not try to say that spreading your legs over a vibrating object did not pleasure you?”

  “Hildy, Hildy, Hildy.” He put his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm, staring. This woman had a knack for pulling the rug out from under him all the time. “And did you climax, there behind me?”

  “Nay, but I tingle.”

  Tingling his life away . . .

  By the time they arrived at Hog Heaven, it was one a.m., and Torolf had been sporting a hard-on since they’d left the diner.

  How could the witch tell him she tingled and then expect him to not think about that tingling . . . a lot? He was a man. When a lady tingled, a guy got turned on. Eve probably tingled a lot, just to tease Adam.

  Despite the lateness of the hour and the mostly dark trailers and RVs, Spike and Serenity were waiting for him. The eccentric biker couple, married for well over thirty years, had sort of adopted him for a short time a few years back when he’d suffered a head concussion and memory loss following a bike accident. Spike was a former Microsoft engineer who sold Harley parts on the Internet and did body piercings on the side. Serenity was a tattoo artist, with blonde hair accented by black roots hanging down to her leather-clad butt, eight rings in each ear, two gold studs in her nose, and tattoos up one arm and down the other. A match made in heaven.

  “Max.” Spike shook his hand. “Good to see you again.”

  “Maxie,” Serenity squealed and ran down the steps of their trailer to give him a huge hug. Then she leaned back and looked him over.

  He took Hilda’s hand and pulled her forward. “Hilda, this is a good friend of mine, George Morgan.”

  “You can call me Spike, honey.”

  “And this is his wife, Serenity Morgan.”

  Hilda was gaping at Serenity’s earrings and tattoos, not to mention her short-sleeved, red-lip-imprinted white nightshirt.

  Grabbing her in a big bear hug, Serenity hugged her warmly, saying, “Aren’t you the prettiest little thing, sugar? I’ve been waiting a long time for this boy to bring his lady here.”

  “Uh, she’s not really my lady,” Torolf started to explain.

  But Hilda jumped right in. “We are betrothed.”

  Oooh, I knew she’d get back at me for sayin’ that.

  “That is wonderful!” Serenity was practically jumping up and down, her big breasts bouncing. “We can celebrate your engagement at Spike’s big fiftieth birthday bash on Saturday night at the Stump Hollow fire hall. All the old gang is coming in. You two got here just in time.”

  Hilda glanced at him, waiting for his cue . . . for once.

  This nightmare just gets worse . . .

  “Your friend Cage called tonight, to see if you got here yet. I invited him and your other buddies to come, too.”

  . . . and worse.

  Hilda waited for him to respond, but a teeny, tiny smirk began to draw the edges of her lips up. Did I think her lips were nice? No, her lips are definitely not nice. Her Angelina Jolie lips are turning into Mick Jagger lips, right before my eyes.

  “Cage said to tell you he might bring along Gina, the CIA babe. I never met a CIA babe before. Have you, Hilda?”

  The teeny, tiny smirk became a full-blown smirk. Definitely good ol’ Mick.

  Then he put her in a box . . .

  They had settled into a small keep known as a trail-her at the end of the Hog Heaven estate.

  Hilda looked around her with dismay. It was so cramped she could scarce move. There was a small solar, an even smaller scullery, a bathing room, and two bedchambers that could hold little more than a bedstead in them.

  Hilda tried not to complain. Torolf had done his best to find a safe place for her till they rid themselves of the mad sign-tiss and she returned to The Sanctuary. Also, Spike and Serenity had gone to great bother preparing this dwelling.

  Now Torolf was in the bathing chamber showering his body. For the second time today! Viking men were cleaner than the average man, but even they usually bathed no more than once a sennight.

  She still had trouble comprehending a culture that had indoor privies and hot and cold running water. And rolls of paper just for wiping one’s arse. And mirrors in every household. There was even one in the bathing chamber that was so tall an entire body could be seen. What luxuries! Especially for such a small keep as this trail-her.

  Sitting in a soft chair, she stared at a black box with pictures flickering on it. It was a tea-vee. What she saw was so beyond Hilda’s comprehension that tears smarted in her eyes. How could she exist, even for a short while, in a country that put small people in boxes just to entertain other people?

  Just then, a loud ringing noise caused her to jump. It was Torolf ’s talking box. Another marvel she failed to understand, and did not want to. Sad to say, there was not another person anywhere in the world, not even the eleventh century, that she wanted to talk to. ’Twas the third time the phone had been ringing while Torolf bathed himself.

  Frigg’s foot, the man must be scouring his skin off, he’d been there so long. In truth, he was probably avoiding her. Ne’er had she been as waspish as she was around the lout. With cause, of course.

  “Oh, good, a Saturday Night Live rerun,” Torolf said, coming out of the bathing chamber where steam could be seen emerging. He was looking at the tea-vee where a man with hair combed to a ridiculous point and braies hiked up to his chest was dancing about like an idiot. Mayhap he was having a fit.

  But Hilda was not looking at the tea-vee. She was looking . . . rather gawking . . . at Torolf as he walked into the too-small room wearing naught but shorts.

  Hilda had grown up in a household of men, and she’d been wed three times, but ne’er had the male body held such appeal for her, not till now, knowing what pleasure such a body could give a woman. Or was it just Torolf’s body? She prayed not.

  I am sinking fast. Please, gods, send me a rope here. “Can you not put some garments on?”

  “Why? I’m just going to bed.”

  Because I like it too much. “Because it is not decent.”

  He grinned. “Hilda, you’ve seen all I’ve got. It’s a bit late for modesty, don’t you think?”

  “Well, do not expect me to flaunt my body like that.”

  “We’re stuck here for a few days. Enjoy the moment.”

  Is he suggesting . . . ? She threw her hands up with disgust. “Pfff! How like a man! Do not touch me again. I am warning you. Do not touch me again.”

  “I’ve heard that song before, babe, before you jumped my bones . . . again. By the way, any chance you’re still tingling?”

  She stood, outraged and embarrassed that he would throw her wanton behavior back in her face . . . not the tingling remark, but the reference to her newfound enthus
iasm for bedsport with him.

  He must have sensed her offense, because he reached out a hand to her, which she slapped away. “I’m sorry, Hildy. I was just teasing. I’m the one who’s always hot for you. I’m the one who’s always thinking about jumping your bones.”

  Her jaw dropped. Every time the lout said something like that, her defenses melted. In truth, he made her melt.

  Walking in front of her, he pressed a spot on the tea-vee that caused it to go black. The little folks had disappeared somewhere inside. Did they sleep now?

  “I’m going to bed. The bathroom’s all yours. You can have the other bedroom. Good night.” He picked up his weapon . . . a gun . . . and took it with him. Did he sleep with the thing?

  “Ga ntt,” she replied, but what she thought as he walked away from her was, “What a nice arse! ’Tis so hard it could probably be used as a whetstone.” She giggled then, and Hilda almost never giggled.

  Torolf turned at his bedchamber door and arched his eyebrows. “What?”

  “Nothing. I was thinking about stones.”

  This is how scientists go mad . . .

  “I’m this close to nabbing her. You’ll have her within the week.”

  Dick Phillips made this promise to Dylan Atkins, chairman of the National Center for Alien Research in its Washington, D.C., headquarters.

  “I don’t know, Dick. Maybe we should hire some professionals.”

  “No, no, no! I got a two-week leave from the hospital lab. I traced that guy listed as her contact for the hospital. Torolf Magnusson, a Navy SEAL. He’s at some biker trailer park in California, presumably with the target.”

  “Whaaat? We don’t want to be messing with any military, especially a Navy SEAL.”

  “I don’t intend to go one-on-one with the guy. I’ll get the specimen alone, drug her, and bring her back here for study.”

  “You can’t hurt her in any way. I don’t want any cuts on her or any signs of physical injury.”

  “I understand. I’ll be real careful. And, really, Mr. Atkins, this is going to be the biggest breakthrough for our cause. People won’t be laughing anymore when we mention aliens.”

  Mr. Atkins smiled and tented his fingers in front of his face. “I’ve already prepared some press releases, but we won’t issue them for several weeks, not till we’ve had time to dissect . . . I mean, study the specimen.”

  Dick frowned as a thought came to him. “What if she dies?”

  “Oh, she’ll undoubtedly die after all our . . . um, observations. First we’ll get our answers and documentation.”

  “Won’t the public be upset?”

  “No, because an alien isn’t a real person. It will be sort of like studying Bigfoot.”

  Dick was glad he’d said that. As excited as he was about finally catching an alien, he’d been a little wary about the dissection. This relieved him of any guilt. “Uh, I was wondering, dontcha think it would be kinda neat to know if alien women can have human sex?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Mr. Atkins answered with a little smile. “Under controlled circumstances, of course.”

  Dick felt a rush of blood to his cock at the possibility that he might be the one doing the experimentation.

  “Okay, you’ve got the chloroform, you’ve got restraints, you have the new van downstairs, all gassed up and ready to go. When can I expect to hear from you?”

  “Well, I went to this guy Magnusson’s apartment building in Coronado. Talked to a few people. I know he’s got to be back by next Monday for an assignment. I’m thinkin’ he’ll be leavin’ the alien at the trailer park while he’s gone.”

  “You’ve done a good job. We’re proud of you here at NCAR.”

  Dick beamed at the high praise.

  “Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

  “No, it’s better if I do it alone. Attract less attention.”

  Atkins nodded.

  They shook hands then.

  “The next time we meet, I promise I’ll be delivering an alien to you.” Or die trying.

  Chapter 17

  The best kind of wake-up call . . .

  Torolf awakened in the middle of the night, unsure what had disturbed his sleep. He glanced at the bedside clock. It was three a.m. He’d only been asleep for an hour.

  He got up to go to the bathroom and saw a light under the closed door. He went outside, barefooted, and walked to the edge of the woods where he pissed against a tree.

  When he came back in and washed his hands at the kitchen sink, he noticed the bathroom door was still closed and the light still on. But no sound of water or other activity. He checked Hilda’s bedroom, but her bed hadn’t been slept in yet.

  He tapped lightly on the bathroom door. “You in there, Hildy?”

  No answer. He opened the door a crack . . . and almost had a heart attack . . . or a dick attack.

  Her long hair, still wet from a shower, had been combed down her back in a wet swath. Hilda was sitting on the floor in front of the full-length mirror. Her legs were bent at the knees and spread wide. And she was hot-damn buck naked.

  Be still my heart! “What the hell are you doing, babe?”

  “Looking. Go away.”

  Not a chance! “At what?”

  “My nether parts. Go away.”

  When SEALs take a vow of chastity! “Why?”

  “You told me I should know my own body. Go away.”

  “Why are you frowning?”

  “Because I can’t find it.”

  I am almost afraid to ask. “Find what?”

  “My clete, you dolt.”

  Clete? Clete? Oh, my God! She means her clit. His you-know-what stood up and practically waved yoo-hoo. “I could help you find it.”

  “Go away. I told you not to touch me again.”

  “I could show you, without touching you.” Unless you ask me to, which is the plan, of course.

  She met his eyes in the mirror. Hers were dubious. His were hopeful.

  Before she had a chance to say, “Get real!” he sank down to the floor behind her, his thighs straddling hers. He felt her wet hair against his chest. He felt his erection touch her ass. “Okay, what’s the problem?” Other than my world-class boner.

  “I already told you. I can’t find it.”

  “That’s because you’re not aroused. Until you get your juices going, it’ll hide under a hood.”

  “You are not serious.”

  “Yeah, I am. But I can’t touch you. I promised. So, you have to do it yourself.” This has got to go down in history as man’s greatest fantasy.

  “Do what?”

  Oh, baby, come into my web, thought he, the spider. “Excite yourself.”

  “You mean self-pleasuring?”

  I may just have a heart attack and orgasm at the same time.

  Without asking for any further direction, she put both hands under her small breasts and lifted them. They were the size of orange halves with pink areolas and darker pink nipples.

  “Have I told you how much I like your breasts?”

  “Many times. Do not distract me. I cannot concentrate when you interrupt.” She was rubbing her palms over her breasts, then pulling at the even more turgid nipples. “Oh, I can feel that down below, and my heart is racing.”

  Mine, too.

  She caressed herself then, a dreamy expression on her face. She caressed her abdomen. Her belly. Her calves and thighs.

  He held his breath, waiting.

  And then she caressed her hair, which was golden and curly. “I think I can see it now,” she said in a whisper. And she sure as hell saw more of it as she began to stroke herself, creating a visible slickness.

  In an attempt to control his arousal, Torolf bit his bottom lip and thought about okra, a vegetable that made him gag. It helped a little.

  As Hilda began to touch her sweet spot, her thighs twitched, and she stiffened. She closed her eyes and arched her head back.

  He could actually see her orgasm coming. Mercy!

>   “Oh . . . oh . . . oh,” she whimpered, canting her pelvis forward. Then, “Ohmygods! Ohmybloodygods!”

  Her eyes were still closed, and she was whoofing out loud exhales, as her body tried to come back to normal.

  Enough of this shit! Now it’s my turn, babe. While her eyes were still closed, he reached into the pocket of his jeans, lying on the floor where he’d left them before his shower. Always good to have condoms handy. Torolf had found that if a guy had to get up and go look for condoms, it gave a woman that window of opportunity to change her mind. He wasn’t taking any chances here, not that Hilda had agreed. Yet.

  He shimmied back a little, shrugged out of his shorts, put the condom on, and took Hilda by the waist, lifting her so she was on all fours, him behind her, both of them facing the mirror.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice rather dazed from what she’d just done. “You promised not to touch me.”

  I lied. “This is for your own education, honey. For future reference.” Ha, ha, ha! “It’s women’s number-one favorite sexual position. Doggie style.” God, don’t strike me dead for the lie. Before she had a chance to challenge his contention, he pressed her elbows to the floor and entered her from behind, almost losing it when her tight muscles clenched and unclenched him in a second orgasm. Now he was the one grinding out, “Oh . . . oh . . . oh!” before he got himself under control.

  “I have ne’er heard of such a position. Is it a perversion?”

  “A good perversion.”

  “Are there good and bad perversions?”

  “Shut up, Hildy. Let me show you why women love this position. See, it allows the male to touch the woman’s breasts while he’s buried in her. And I can touch you here, too.”

  The sound Hilda made as he fluttered her and fucked her at the same time was a cross between a moan and a scream. He liked it. You know who liked it, too. A lot. His cock twitched. It’s probably giving me a high five.

  In too short a time, he was moaning, too, with a mind-blowing, toe-curling explosion of a climax. Hilda was probably climaxing, but who could tell with all that was going on down there? He collapsed on top of Hilda, who looked poleaxed as she stared at the two of them in the mirror, her a sandwich between him and the tile floor.