Wild in the country book three
The pretty and shapely, thirty-year-old blonde slammed her front door and stood with her back to it, panting with fright. Always so sophisticated and worldly compared to the local populace of Pickford's Meadows, Liz Clark now found herself in a situation with which she could not deal. Peeking through the curtains that now stayed permanently drawn over the living room window, she saw the big, menacing form of John Proctor standing there with the axe handle swinging in his hand. She wondered if she should call the police, but that would only mean trying to summon Clete Anderson, her hard-hearted erstwhile lover who still bore her a terrific grudge.
John Proctor was a forbidding-looking person at the best of times and his chubby, pouting, middle-aged wife had nothing to be liked either, but as long as the burly farmer was not bothered, he was as harmless as any bull in a pen. But somehow, one of the free-roaming dogs that ran with Lobo, or perhaps Lobo himself, had appeared too near the old harridan and frightened her, and the dog-pack hysteria that was gripping the country town and surrounding farming community had settled on Emma Proctor as well. In this formerly secure and peaceful town, women no longer walked the streets during the night, and only cautiously during the day. There were rumors of women and girls being set upon, though no one had yet dared confess that she had been sexually assaulted by these dogs, who had acquired a definitely mystic and ghostlike quality. Being dog-raped was not something one liked to broadcast throughout the conservative Christian community of Pickford's Meadows.
Yes, Liz had trained Lobo, and taught him the techniques that had made him such an excellent standby lover. She had never intended that he should rape human females, but it was after all the town's brutal police chief that had turned the loyal animal renegade.
Liz stood there trembling for a long time, then was struck by the injustice of having to cringe terrified in her own home from a man without any good reason to threaten her. Throwing back the curtain, she lifted her fist to the angry Proctor and made a show of picking up and dialing the phone. She pretended to be talking boldly and angrily, in a voice loud enough to carrying faintly through the window, and the farmer's resolve seemed to weaken. After hanging up, she stood there smiling at him with her hands on her hips, until Proctor turned, tossed the axe handle into the back of his pickup truck, and took off with an angry spinning of the wheels.
Apparently, he knew nothing of the tension between her and Clete. So much the better.
Up until the last couple of months, before Nancy's rape by Lobo and the beating by Clete that had turned the dog renegade, Liz had enjoyed living in Pickford's Meadows very much. She had had many friends and a lovely life. But now she couldn't walk the streets with her head held high. She found herself ostracized by people who once had been quite friendly and now it seemed that her only friend was, again, Lobo.
Lobo had begun to visit her again. Liz's house backed onto the woods ringing the small town and it was easy for him to come and go unseen. She usually left her bedroom window open so that he could come and go at will, and it was a pleasant surprise, just last week, when he had shown up with three more dogs, his young offspring through his mating with a bitch in the next valley. They were Dusty, the clever one, Sam, the swift one, and Bruno, the giant, whose huge inhuman cock exceeded even Lobo's in size. She often fed them, sometimes enjoying their maleness on lonely nights, and heaven knew there were quite a few of those since Nancy Pace's experience with Lobo.
Liz was jerked out of her reverie by a knock on the door. After making a check through the window that it was not Proctor returning to harass her, she opened to a young couple on the porch, a lovely, dark-haired young woman and a blondish and slender young man who sported designer stubble and a hand-held tape recorder.
"Hi," said the young man, handing her a card. "My name is Rodney Foster and this is my wife Tanya. I'm a freelance writer working on a story and I was told you could help me."
Liz stood there, eyeing the visitors with hostility. Just what she needed, more curious, gawking, finger-pointers.