Mavis O'Roak is excommunicated from Boston. She was mistaken that her anthropologist husband was too busy to notice she was having a torrid affair with her trainer Iron Man Jackson. Charles murdered Jackson and then brought beautiful Mavis to the isolated hills of Point Dume, high above the rocky edge of Claymore Canyon, where their new mansion had few windows and something in the scum-covered pool.
In the plush bedroom suite of an expensive tri-level, Timmi Norris screamed out, “Oh, Charles!" She twisted her body in ecstasy on an oversized water bed. The heavy face make-up made the sixteen year-old look like a twenty-one year-old painted to work the streets. She heard the door open on the lower level. There were muffled voices. She jumped up from the master bed; her thin body tripped forward and fell headlong against the bedpost. A large, red knot formed immediately on her forehead.
An oversized bra, stuffed with panty hose, hung, from her frail neck, creating the illusion of two gigantic breasts. She stepped into the jeans that lay crumpled on the floor. She grabbed a light, plaid shirt from the base the bed. For her escape, she ran into the open closet and closed the door behind her. Inside the closet, Timmi slid open a panel in the back of the closet then stepped through.
Timmi stepped from an opening at the side of the house. Her ankle twisted and threw her body inches too close to the edge of the sheer cliff that ran along the side of the giant tri-level house. Timmi recovered her balance and stood trembling on the cliff’s edge. “Twisted Body of Beautiful Teen Virgin Found in Claymore Canyon,” she said. “Breasts Smashed Beyond Recognition,” She recited to the soft, billowy clouds that hovered over Claymore Canyon. The oversized bra slipped from Timmi’s slim shoulders and revealed a much smaller bra underneath. The clips of both bras welded together like a Chinese puzzle. After she threw a long, frustrated tantrum, Timmi looked down and watched the bra hooks fall apart like some magic trick. She threw the oversized bra over the edge of the canyon. The bra floated down toward the canyon floor a thousand feet below. The bra landed on one of many trash piles humped in the desert sand. A tattered, broken-beaked gull tottered up to the bra. He pecked at it, then turned his evil head sideways and looked up toward the tri-level high on the top of the Hill.
Mavis O’Roak, beautiful, sexy, and in her mid-thirties, stood admiring the tight fit, of her new shorts, in the reflection of the mirrored dining area wall. She turned and pivoted and then contoured her hips with her hands. She turned from the mirrors and looked toward her husband, Charles. She pivoted one more time. “Think I’m beautiful?” she said.
“Of course,” he said.
Mavis continued to look at her image in the mirrored wall. “Tell me!”
“I just did,” her husband mumbled.
Mavis looked frustrated then flipped her middle finger at her husband’s bowed head.
She turned directly toward him and clamped her hands on her hips. “I mean, tell me I’m beautiful, without my asking. Cosmo says that men who live with beautiful women and don’t find time to tell them that they are beautiful have married only to acquire a trophy to parade in front of their male peers. The need to prove themselves to other males is proof of some homosexual leanings. You should . . . .” Charles removed a large, green-gray, soapy-noduled egg from the crate he had been prying open. Mavis covered her nose. “That smells like rotting flesh.”
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