As soon as I walked away, I felt I'd made a mistake inviting Randy to come by. I'd acted on impulse and now had to somehow deal with it - carefully. After I'd jokingly asked if he had any more of that Goulash he'd spiked earlier, we'd laughed and then he'd said, "How about just a drink?" I had foolishly agreed and now regretted it.
In the back of my mind, I did want to find out how much of that raunchy night he remembered. A lot of it had been vague for me, and I hoped it was for him as well. Every time I remembered something else we'd done that night, my face would burn with shame. I was a young married woman. For four years I'd been fateful to my husband and now stood the chance of throwing it all away. It wasn't my fault, but who would believe me?
We'd agreed upon 6:00 PM, four hours away. By late afternoon I was a bundle of nerves. My encounter with Randy had sparked more images of that night, and several times I had to collapse into a chair to quiet my shakes. I didn't know if I could do this, but I really wanted to discover if Randy was a potential threat to my marriage. I hoped he wouldn't want to cause trouble for me. I loved Stu and would do anything to keep what we had together. The doorbell jolted me back to the present. Randy was right on time.
He was sloppily dressed in pleated slacks, tennis shoes and a Grateful Dead tee-shirt, a roll of fat pushing against the front and sides of his cotton shirt. I shuddered, wondering how I could've possibly let him touch me. No, I knew why. It'd been whatever he had put in our food. Somehow, that didn't make me feel much better.
My heart pounded inside my chest as I said, "Sit."
I went to the kitchen to retrieve two glasses and fill them with red wine. I came back to find him sitting on the sofa in the same position I had, that last night he was here. Randy nervously took the glass I offered, smiling sheepishly. I sat in the large chair across from him, noticing that he checked-out my legs as I sat down. I was wearing a short sun dress with straps over the shoulders. I curled my legs under me to limit his view.
Boring asshole. "You could go to jail for what you did, you know?" I was pretty sure I looked angry. I couldn't help it.
His pale face turned a little paler. "I didn't do anything," he muttered.
"You asshole! You doctored my food!"
He jerked his head up, staring at me. "Prove it."
After a short staring contest, I finally just sighed. "I'm married. I don't want any trouble. I just want to ... know what ... you know ... what happened."
My voice trailed off at the end, but he heard me, smiling thinly. "That's it? Okay, I'll tell you." His smile grew wider as he said, "Were you sore the next day?"
Remembering my raw anus and vagina, I felt my face burning. "Yes," I muttered.
"Me too. My dick was so sore from you chewing on it all night that I could barely stand to touch it for two days."
I didn't respond, so he continued. "You really liked it. Everything we did. When I bent you over the couch that first time, you howled like a Banshee when you got off." He seemed to be enjoying telling me about it. "Then you sucked my cock like it was a candy cane, swallowing every drop I shot into your mouth. You loved it."
"I didn't," I protested softly. My gut was churning, heart pounding away inside my chest. I had difficulty breathing, too.
He laughed. "Yes, you did. You took it up the ass like a pro, shoving it up to me, moaning. Never even knew a woman could cum from being butt-fucked -cum hard too. You came like you were going to shake to pieces! Was your little ass sore the next day? I dumped a load in it."
When I just glared back, he finally managed to look a little contrite. "Look, I knew I'd never get a girl like you. You're gorgeous, and look at me. I know I'm a slob. I used to see you walk through the condo complex and wonder what it would be like to make love to someone like you. That day I helped you move in and you asked me to stay for lunch, was the only chance I'd ever have with you. If I go to jail for it, that one night was worth it."
I wanted to demand he leave right then, but I just sit there, lewd images flashing behind my eyes as I fought back the urge to squirm in my chair. If Randy just wasn't so damned repulsive, I thought. I drank the last of my wine, holding the glass out to him. "Get us some more wine," I said. "It's in the frige."
Trying to control my breathing, licking my dry lips, I listened to the glass clinking as he poured us more wine. You know what you're doing? I thought in panic. You know he's probably doctoring the wine right now, don't you? More images flooded my mind, of Randy pounding into me all night.
By then, he was back with the wine, smiling.
"What was the stuff you put in our food," I asked.
He sat down in the same place, staring at me. "It's called 'love dust,' but it has some foreign name. I get it from a Pakistani who works at one of the hotels. He smuggles it into country, a teacup at a time. Makes a fortune, too. All the cooks around here know about it. They buy it from him. It's not a real drug. Comes from the pollen of a flower that grows high in the Hindu Kush. It won't harm you. If it did, I wouldn't take it."
I glared at him as he went on averting his eyes for a moment. "I probably used too much the last time in our soup. The guy said that was what caused us to blank out off-and-on throughout the night. Less is often better, I was told. He said it sensitizes the nerve endings so much that if you took it and didn't have sex for fifteen minutes, I could just rub the back of your neck for a moment and you'd explode with a wild orgasm."
I actually shivered at the image, still licking my dry lips. After observing my glass for a moment I said, "You put some in this?"
"No. I wouldn't do that." His unsteady voice told me he was lying.