Free When She Was Bad: A Thriller by Jonathan Nasaw Page B

turned around to face him again, she was no longer Lily—instead, she had turned into Dr. Al’s wife.
    Nothing too unusual there. Though she was in her midforties and starting to spread a little in the waist and rear, Cheryl Corder was still nice and bosomy up front, and had a sort of Martha Stewart ice-queen thing going: frosted hair, knowing eyes that crinkled at the corners, and a wry, crooked smile.
    Nor was there anything unusual about the way the fantasy played out at first. Stripped down to her panties, Mrs. Corder sashayed around the bed until she was standing directly in front of Lyssy, then cupped her breasts in both hands for him to nuzzle, kiss, tongue, and suckle.
    Most nights, that would have been enough to bring the furiously masturbating Lyssy to orgasm. If not, he’d picture her climbing onto his lap and lowering herself onto him—that would generally do the trick. But tonight, instead of waiting passively, he grabbed the woman roughly by the hair and threw her facedown onto the bed—not his own narrow twin, but a big double bed with satin sheets.
    Frightened now, whimpering, No, please, she tried to crawl away. Unable to stop himself—it was as if someone else had hijacked his fantasy—Lyssy threw himself on top of her, jerked her panties down roughly. His cock was huge, red-knobbed, and throbbing, a real two-hander. You like it rough, don’t you, he said as he spread her cheeks and thrust himself into her hard. She screamed; the more she screamed, the better he liked it. Humping, driving, crushing her down, feeling the dark tightness enveloping him as one scarred hand gripped her hair for control while the other snaked under her to play with her fat, white, heavy-hanging breasts.
    Gone was any semblance of control over his own fantasy—Lyssy wasn’t even surprised, when he turned his head, to see Dr. Al and young Alison tied to chairs at the foot of the bed, both naked, bound and gagged, forced to watch. Don’t worry, your turn’s coming, he hissed to Alison in a voice that was no more his own than was the fantasy. And you’ll get yours too, he confided to Dr. Al.
    And as he began to come, a succession of disconnected images flashed before Lyssy’s eyes—a knife being drawn across a throat, blood spattering a wall, a lolling head, a slumping body….
     

    Lyssy opened his eyes, found himself back in his own bed, frightened and ashamed, his hands sticky with semen. With a moan of horror he threw back the covers and hopped into the bathroom, where he scrubbed his hands with soap and hot water, roughly, obsessively, until the scar tissue stretched across the palms was red and raw.
    And though in the forefront of his mind he was repeating the same phrase over and over, like a mantra, as he scrubbed— it’s not my fault, it wasn’t me; it’s not my fault, it wasn’t me —in the back of his mind Lyssy was pretty sure he could hear dry laughter emanating from the dark place where he was never to go.

CHAPTER THREE

    1

    Lily awoke to the sound of an over-hearty female voice bidding her good morning through a speaker in the wall near the head of the bed. For a few seconds that seemed to last an eternity, she felt lost and frightened, totally disoriented. Then it all came flooding back: the airplane, her grandparents, and—oh God—the Institute!
    A moment later the room’s only door slid open, then closed behind a massively built young woman in white duck trousers and a tight-sleeved white polo shirt with the RCI logo over the left breast. Her light brown hair was cut in a mullet: shaved sidewalls, buzzed on top, hanging straight down to her powerful shoulders in back. PATRICIA BENOIT , PSYCH . TECH ., read the plastic name badge pinned to her shirt.
    “Hi, I’m Patty. Dr. Corder wants me to stick with you this morning, kinda show you the ropes, get you orientated, how’s that sound?”
    “I have to pee.”
    “You might want to try out the shower, too.” Patty wrinkled her nose.