Gringa by Sandra Scofield Page B

and Hoot and Charlie were a tableau in motion. Without frenzy, they moved in on us. Charlie and Hoot knelt beside Chip and put a hand, each of them, on his shoulder. Chip as good as disappeared before our eyes. He lifted his hand off of me, and moved away. Natty, making deep noises like cat’s purrs in the back of her voice, noises like a lover crooning, knelt in front of me. I couldn’t make a sound; my head went slowly back and forth, pleading. Natty moved carefully, the soft noises from her throat rising like froth, her tongue clicking faintly. She put her hands on me just above the knees, and I knew, as if it had been announced from a sky split open for this purpose, that there was nothing I would do to stop her. That, whatever she wanted, I would do. Our little scene had become a ritual. It was no longer a game; it was a force that made a new space in my world. I forgot about the naked boys, the male eyes fastened on me in horrified elation. Natty ran her hands in soothing strokes down the lengths of my legs, again and again, slowly, strength and tenderness mixed, and then she began to stroke harder, kneading my flesh. I remembered how she had touched me, on the floor of her tacky bathroom in Hadicol Camp, and I began to whine. Natty shushed me like a whining baby. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I love you, sweetie. Don’t you know I can make you feel good?”
    She took my shirt off over my head and undid the bra that sprang up and flapped softly over my breasts and then lay still. She kissed each nipple, and then she stretched out on top of me, her naked groin against my jeans, while she stroked my arms and hair and face, crooning and shushing and purring. I shut my eyes. I might have been dead as she unzipped my jeans and pulled them off and tossed them aside. Even with my eyes closed, the sun was a white fire; the sand, and the boys now kneeling in the sand, floated.
    How long did it take? Could any of us have said? When Natty had stroked me everywhere, had kissed me and reassured me, until I rose onto the cloud of heat under the bare white sky, she began to slide away from me. I felt the pressure of her body ease. And from someone—it was me of course, but I did not know how it could be from me—came a tiny moan, and the moan, and the easing of Natty’s weight on me, made me move a little, as if something stirred in my thighs. Then Natty was away, and there were no sounds except for breathing, no birds or animals in the sand. I heard Natty’s voice as she bent toward my face. “It’s going to be okay, honey,” she said. On a hot burst of breath she added, “Now, you guys.”
    One of them spoke, incredulous: “What!” and Natty said again, “Now.” She had moved so that she was above me. I felt her hands on my shoulders, pressing me hard. I still had not opened my eyes. “They won’t hurt you,” she lied. I opened my eyes and screamed. “Give in,” Natty said beneath my cry. “Give in!”
    â€œFor God’s sake!” Chip said nearby. “For holy sweet Christ!” he uttered as Charlie Jamison climbed on top of me. In a moment Charlie slid away, sighing, and Hoot took his place. One of them put a hand on Natty’s breast. “Not me, sport,” she said in an ugly way. “I’m just directing this show.” I felt the heat more than the pain. I thought: I will die, after all, and it was such a sweet relief!
    They packed everything up and went back toward the car. Chip helped me dress, and I staggered after them. We took our same places in the car. Chip tried to hold my hand, but I pulled it away. The boys in the front looked shifty-eyed and scared. Charlie said, trying for a casual tone, though his voice cracked in the middle of his words, “Guess nobody is going to tell about this, huh?” Nobody said anything, and Charlie’s head swung around so that he could see me, and