Phoebe raised her eyebrows, and then said, "Do I get to dress up?"
"Probably be better to wear something really casual that comes off easily."
--0—
Harold was on time when he picked up Phoebe in his new Hummer, which was already bashed and dirty. Doug marveled that anyone would pay sixty thousand dollars for something to crash around in the desert when an old pickup would work just as well. But Harold had the money and didn't give a damn about his stuff.
He was in a race with the sun and fidgeted nervously until Phoebe was ready. She looked great, of course, but it was kind of funny that she would take so long and appear wearing so little—just a miniature top with spaghetti straps that barely covered her small but well formed breasts, a short denim skirt that emphasized her firm and tanned legs, and sandals with only a few tiny straps on her pretty little feet.
It was late April and the days were nearly hot and the nights mild and dry. The desert was in full bloom from the winter rains. It promised to be another beautiful sunset with a few clouds scattered across the big sky. Harold would not notice any of it as he hurdled through the traffic and out of the city. The choreography would be spoiled if they were not in place to have the sunset lighting the scene.
When Doug got to the Tom Mix rest area, the sun was low in the sky, but still retained plenty of desert intensity. He parked his Cadillac behind the picnic tables and the covered ramada at the edge of the paved parking area. He was facing an old barbed wire fence that had been climbed so many times that no strands were tight and the lower two were lying in the powdery path where so many feet had trod. He briefly considered going into the desert the same way, but on closer scrutiny he could see that the path didn't really pick up on the other side. It was no more than a commonly used access to the desert where travelers could quickly piss and return to their journey on one of Arizona's picturesque blue line highways.
Instead, he followed Harold's instructions. But first he needed to check that he had packed all the necessities: a bottle of water and two beers in a six-pack cooler. He also had a small backpack with a poncho for ground cover, binoculars, a night visions scope, and his old Shofield .45 revolver with the seven and a half inch barrel. That barrel was always getting in the way, but he could generally hit what he was aiming at—long as it was not too far away. And whatever he hit got really messed up with those big slugs.
He had been driving in his socks, so he pulled on his high-legged western boots and stepped out of the car. Feeling the pockets of his camo jacket to be sure he had his keys before locking the doors. His once blond hair had turned a brilliant white requiring a camo cap that he adjusted by pulling the bill low to his eyebrows, and then he turned south and walked toward the wash.
The desert presented a formidable barrier of thorns and hostile flora struggling for the few extra drops of moisture that occasionally ran off the blacktop. So he skirted the edge of the park and walked next to the two-lane highway the short distance to the wash.
There was not an actual bridge over the wash just a series of culverts, and the easiest way into the wash was to jump the five feet or so into the center of the dusty dry streambed. There was a time when Doug would have taken a flying leap over the edge, but now he considered whether or not the drop was too much, and ended up sitting on the edge of a culvert and scooting off. The bed at the downstream spout of the culvert was a collection of pebbles and coarse sand. He landed easily and adjusted his glasses before moving down stream toward the setting sun.
In just a few minutes he was beyond any hint of civilization. He could no longer hear the highway or see any man-made structures. It had been years since he had walked in the desert, but he knew the dangers and moved cautiously.
A half-mile or so down the wash the unmistakable wide tracks of a hummer appeared dropping down from a desert track into the center of the wash and disappearing into the distance. There was no dust in the air and no smell of diesel, so he figured to be more than a few minutes behind them.
By the time Doug got to the convergence of the Saltbrush wash, he had long been able to see all the landmarks Harold had mentioned. Twenty yards before the Saltbrush wash he moved up the steep bank cut into the desert by the occasional flood. At the top of the bank he found a grove of Palo Verde heavy with green ripe bean pods.
He knew that this offered pleasant shade in the daylight, but when night falls this grove will be the garden market for desert rodents that will come by the dozens—and with them will come the snakes that eat the rats and mice. Rattlesnakes are never a problem unless you get too close, and then they'll give you a good warning—most of the time.
But for now it was a pleasant grove, and he pulled a few of the green pods from the lower branches and tasted their slight sweetness. There were only a few sounds: a desert wren in the distance, the soft breeze slipping through the branches, and the pleasant murmurs and giggles of a woman talking not too far away.
He set the six-pack cooler and his pack in the shade--but not near the trunk of the largest Palo Verde where the ants were busy working. He picked a few of the plumpest bean pods, chewed them slowly enjoying and spitting out the fibrous cud that remained. The slightly bitter aftertaste was a pleasant blend with the quietly opened Pacifico beer.
When the time seemed right he moved in a crouch toward the sound of his lovely Phoebe. He hadn't gone far when he spied Harold's Hummer across the Saltbrush wash in the shade of a pair of Desert Willows. It was no more than 50 yards across the small wash, and he could see them clearly. Harold was facing him. His thick black hair was combed straight back away from his bushy black eyebrows. His thick body was sitting uncomfortably on the ground in contrast to Phoebe's gracefully stretched body as she leaned against a picnic cooler.
He could hear them as well—actually he heard Phoebe who, as usual, was talking while Harold said nothing. She was telling some story about Debbie. Harold probably wished she would shut up.
Doug listened for a while then rolled onto his back to look at the desert vista. It was a pretty place Harold had chosen. The Saguaros were in bloom, and the banks of the wash were covered with bright yellow Brittlebush flowers dotted with red Desert Paintbrushes. But he knew that the desert's beauty was laced with thorns and poisons, and that care has to be taken with every step.
He selected a position behind a series of Cholla cacti with its glowing fuzz of jumping thorns. There were flat padded Prickly Pears on either side with plump purple fruit. Clumps of still green desert grasses that were growing close to the ground obscured him from every direction except from his rear. He was satisfied that he would be able to see almost all the Saltbrush wash through a visual tunnel through the underbrush to the south--and yet not be seen by either of the players.
Doug heard the clink of a wine bottle against a glass. He heard the tearing of paper. He heard Harold offer her something, which she enthusiastically accepted. Silence followed for a few minutes, then he heard her say, "I can feel it coming on now. Mmmm, I love this stuff."
Doug faced the sun as it dropped into the Estrella Mountains and the sky erupted into its display of golden pinks, roses and purples. Phoebe's voice became a murmur like a distant brook while he looked into the sky and thought about how he and Phoebe came to be here.
He called up memories of his first wife, who over the years of their marriage had managed to have sexual relations with almost all his friends and even some of his relatives before he found out about it. His rage of jealousy and betrayal ended their 20-year marriage—although now he understood her better.
After a span of years of living alone, having many sexual partners, and observing the lives of his colleagues, Doug came to the conclusion that most people cheat, and that especially attractive people cheat the most. So if you want an attractive wife, you should expect her to continue to attract men. He had resolved that since his next wife would be pretty and attract other men, he would not try to stop the inevitable, but participate in it by actively sharing her with men that he selected.
When he met Phoebe she was a young single mother. Although she was 30 she looked a frail and thin 25. She was more than 15 years younger than Doug, but she needed a protector.
Doug knew that she had been unfaithful to her first husband, because he had been among those who had sampled her forbidden pleasures. And he had not kidded himself to think that she would always be faithful to him either. He knew that younger men would be hitting on her, and that even happily married people sometimes get bored or lonely. So early in their relationship, when he knew that he really loved her, she promised to obey him and let him do anything to her. His demand was simple: if she truly belonged to him, then she was his to share.
With tears in her eyes, she said that she belonged to him, mind and body. He then began selecting, from time to time, those who would be allowed to give and take her pleasures.
At that time Doug was 45, at the peak of his strength and power, and surging with lusty energy. Phoebe became the focus of his sexual energy, while Doug became Phoebe's fatherly protector whom she willingly obeyed and called him "Master" in their quiet bedroom fantasies. Now their attributes have reversed. She was now 45 at the peak of her vitality, while he was 60 and growing weaker.
In the beginning Doug "kept" her in an apartment where he was a frequent visitor but when her child, grew older they moved into Doug's sprawling ranch house on the edge of the Superstition Mountains, and eventually they married.
In time the sexual excitement began to wane with the familiarity of daily routine, and in search for stimulating adventure they visited a swingers club over in Phoenix. As the aging process took effect on Doug, Phoebe's lusty desires for sexual gratification continued to grow. With both their children grown, swinging gave them the action they needed--and strengthened their bond.
Doug still had total access to Phoebe's charms, but he was less interested, and certainly had less energy to pump into her needing body. Many of their visits to the club has had Phoebe entertaining several men while Doug watched or strolled about the club's back rooms enjoying a cocktail and quiet conversation with other party goers. Watching Phoebe was vastly interesting to him, and when he took his turn—sometimes after they returned to their own bed—his enjoyment of her sopping wet pussy was heart pounding and breath taking.
