ISBN 1-58939-475-5.
Softcover. 248 pages.
$13.95.
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The next morning Johnny had an early class. He was relieved that it wasn't with
Angelique's group. Though she was constantly either in or not far from his
thoughts, he needed some time to assimilate what had happened the previous day
before seeing her again.
He dropped the children at school and was one of the
first teachers to arrive at the psychology department. Not expecting much in his
mailbox, he checked it anyway. In fact, there was only one item: a rose-colored
envelope with his name printed in large letters. It was marked "Personal and
Confidential" in both French and English. Vaguely thankful that Isabelle hadn't
arrived yet, he slipped the unusual-looking envelope into his briefcase and
headed for his office. A second thought made him detour into the washroom.
Locking himself in one of the stalls, he sat on the stool and took out the
envelope. He had a strong hunch he knew who the sender was.
Inside there was no word, only a photograph. Johnny caught his breath at the first glance.
It was a black and white photo, perfectly clear and contrasty, showing two figures
arrayed on a divan.
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One was lying face up, dressed in a black nun's habit, her
hands partly shielding her features. Towering above her, with one knee on either
side of her head, knelt a young man, totally naked. He was completely bald, with
no trace of hair anywhere on his slim, muscular body, and his stark, white skin
glistened in the photographer's floodlight. The striking ravisher was looking
down at his quarry, his face mostly concealed by the camera angle, and from his
genital area protruded a prodigious prick, sticking straight up, in a stupendous
erection. The nun's head was turned towards the camera, and though her hands
modestly covered much of her face, Johnny could detect a lascivious smile, and
one intriguing eye looked out through the spread fingers. In a riveting second,
that smile became Angelique's, and her peeking eye was peeking straight out at
Johnny Begoode.
Mounting panic started his hands shaking, but he couldn't tear
his eyes from the photo. He sat staring for a long moment, his legs now trembling
and stomach churning sickly until the thought erupted in his brain: "MY GOD
SHE'S INSANE!"
He burst from the bathroom. Isabelle was just opening the door to
the secretary's office. Isabelle see Johnny. Startled. Worried look. What wrong,
Johnny? Johnny feverish, panting. I sick. You go home, Johnny.
Isabelle's smile of greeting quickly turned to a worried look.
"Are you alright, Johnny?" she asked with concern.
He passed a trembling hand on his forehead. "No, I . . . I
don't feel well at all, Isabelle. Can . . . can you reschedule my class this
morning? Meet them and tell them I'm ill?"
"Sure, Johnny, no problem. You go home
and go to bed," she replied sympathetically.
The drive home was oneiric. Thoughts flooded through his boiling brain:
"How sick she must be! To consent to
a pornographic photo like that! And to send it to me?"
But thoughts of the photo
inevitably took another turn. Burned forever into his brain was the image of that
boy and his splendid staff of young manhood, with that beautiful, youthful nun
under his assault. He began to wonder whether that colossal cock had shortly been
destined to find itself slipping between those sensual lips, those same sweet
lips that Johnny had tasted the day before. Or indeed whether that marvelous
missile was soon to be buried between those firm, soft thighs the warm pressure
of which he could still feel against his own. Or even whether that wondrous
weapon would have found its way between those beauteous, taut, tear-shaped
buttocks that, clad in skin-tight jeans, had so enticingly titillated him.
By now on the motorway out of the city, Johnny had to pull into a rest area to have
another look at the photograph. It wasn't in his shirt pocket so he must have put
it back in the briefcase. A quick search of the latter revealed nothing but his
class notes, and panic began mounting again. Oh God, where photo? And envelope?
MY NAME! Bathroom? Isabelle found? Jean-Pierre? JESUS CHRIST!!!
And buried deep in that fevered brain, and now working its way inexorably to consciousness, was
that mad thought which had been troubling Johnny Begoode for years, and which
lately seemed to be surging with regularity: "DID IT REALLY HAPPEN!?"
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