THE QUAKE by Richard Laymon

Author:Richard Laymon [Laymon, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FIVE

When Stanley woke up, he knew right away where he was. Behind the Benson house, stretched out on one of the pool-side loungers.

He’d flopped on it after climbing out of the pool.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d meant only to lie there for a couple of minutes and rest while the sun dried him. Obviously, though, he’d drifted off. Drifted off and sunk into a deep slumber.

Now, he couldn’t move. He felt as if a huge, hot weight lay across his back, holding him down, pressing him into the cushion. It felt good, though, that weight. He knew it was only hot sunlight.

And the heaviness wasn’t in the light, it was in him.

In his skin and muscles and bones. In his mind.

Gotta get up, he told himself.

But he didn’t move.

He felt so heavy, so peaceful.

Vaguely, he wondered if anybody had found Sheila yet.

Doesn’t matter, he thought. She won’t get away. She’ll still be there. Or somewhere. I’d better get up, though.

He couldn’t bring himself to move.

Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep again.

I won’t.

The cushion under his face had a fresh, clean chlorine smell. He supposed it must’ve gotten doused by pool water during the quake. He wished it smelled like Sheila’s lounger pad—of sunlight and tanning lotion, sweat and beaches and cotton candy.

Cotton candy?

This is Sheila’s pad, he told himself. Let’s just say it is.

Yes. I’m on Sheila’s pad.

And he sees himself, as if from a distance, stretched out on the lounger behind the ruin of Sheila’s house. His hands are crossed beneath his face. His back shines with sweat. The flimsy remains of his pajama pants cling to his buttocks.

Now he feels the soft, moist pad underneath him.

Sheila’s pad. Soaked with her lotions and juices.

I’ve gotta get up. Gotta get back to Sheila before…

“What’s the big hurry?” she asks, her voice low and teasing.

Stanley knew that it was only in his mind. And so were her hands. But in his mind, her hands are big and warm on his back. They press him down, massage his shoulders.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” she tells him. “Not just yet.”

Then she is pulling at his shorts, sliding them down and off.

She climbs onto him. She lies on him, all hot, heavier than the sunlight. He feels her thighs against the backs of his legs. His rump is tickled by her soft nest of hair. Her breasts, just below his shoulderblades, feel big and slippery and springy. As she licks and sucks the side of his neck, he squirms.

Stanley squirmed, imagining it.

He needed to roll over.

Then he imagined a hole in the pad. A hole in the pad and in the lounger directly below his groin. As big as a softball, maybe. Big enough to fit down into. With the hole there, he wouldn’t be mashed and achy anymore. He wouldn’t need to roll over. The hole would let him feel all loose and free down there.

And then he thought how it would be to have Sheila under the lounger. She squirms in on her back until her face is below the hole.

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