They haul people up before judges for what you're doing, Stu Post told himself. And sometimes the judges give them nice, long prison terms.
Oh, he managed to scare himself all right. He squatted behind the screen shrubbery, teeth chattering with fear; but the fear wasn't strong enough to turn his head away from the window. His eyes clung to the embracing couple, straining not to miss any nuance of movement that took place on the couch of the dimly lit living room.
The taste of self-disgust was strong in his mouth He knew even before he started the half turn to leave that he would stay to watch the man kneeling before the couch as he undid the last button of the woman's blouse.
After the blouse came off. Post looked while the strange man removed the black brassiere, and cupping one hand around each breast, he buried his face in the deep cleft between.
The woman closed her eyes and, putting her hands on the man's close cropped hair, pushed his head into her breasts more deeply.
Spontaneously Post's eyes closed and a deep groan moved in his throat.
CHAPTER ONE
They haul people up before judges for what you're doing, Stu Post told himself. And sometimes the judges give them nice, long prison terms.
Oh, he managed to scare himself all right. He squatted behind the screen of shrubbery, teeth chattering with fear; but the fear wasn't strong enough to turn his head away from the window. His eyes clung to the embracing couple, straining not to miss any nuance of movement that took place on the couch of the dimly lit living room.
The taste of self-disgust was strong in his mouth. He knew even before he started the half turn to leave that he would stay to watch the man kneeling before the couch as he undid the last button of the woman's blouse.
After the blouse came off, Post looked while the strange man removed the black brassiere, and cupping one hand around each breast, he buried his face in the deep cleft between.
The woman closed her eyes and, putting her hands on the man's close cropped hair, pushed his head into her breasts more deeply.
Spontaneously Post's eyes closed and a deep groan moved in his throat. He could only guess how the man in the window felt, but he knew his own manhood was throbbing violently. It had been such a long time, dammit. Such a long damned time that any release, even the dirty act of watching, helped.
When he opened his eyes again he saw the man had removed the rest of her clothes and was ardently kissing her bare stomach. That stomach deserved caresses. It was white as moonlight and as small and round as the full moon at night. Her legs had been hidden by the strange man's body but one of them came into view as they raised to receive his body. It was a long supple leg. Post could see the muscles work as it gripped her lover's body. He could see her back arch up to greet the man's downward thrusts. He watched her lips grimace with pleasure and wished he were the man filling her with pleasure.
Her naked body performing the exercise of love sent ripples of sharp sensation through his own body. So much so that he had to grab the bag of groceries and leave the spot in a hurry before he shamed himself completely.
Post stood for a moment on the pavement panting and wiping the sweat from his face, then turned, he thought bitterly as he inserted the key into his lock. This was her fault; she was all tease and no satisfaction.
Marriage, hah! June wore an identical copy of the simple gold band around the third finger of his left hand, scaled down, of course, for her small, slender finger. Post marveled at the way she could take the ring for granted, not even notice it was there half the time.
It disturbed Post, too, that June could, on this, the night of their first party, suddenly appear in a tight black shantung cress that stretched tightly across her buttocks and made no secret of her tiny waist and ample, pointed bosom.
Glancing down at his loins to make sure the last traces of excitement had vanished, he pushed open the kitchen door and saw Lyle Windover caressing June at the very point where the dress was the tightest, just at the hips.
"Grocery boy," Post said in heavy irony, swinging the large brown bag onto the drainboard.
"Hi, old sport," Windover said, in no great hurry to remove his hand from June. "I was just showing your wife where my wife is putting on a little flab. You're a lucky man. I don't think June will ever be flabby there."
"Thanks for the reassurance," Post said. "I thought you were going to have clam dip ready," he said to June.
"My fault," Windover said. "We were gabbing. I was telling June some of the better places to shop here."
Post moved to the refrigerator, angrily tugging at a tray of ice cubes.
"Why, Stu," June said in a low voice, "I honestly believe you're jealous."
He turned to look at her, wishing he could find some way to ignore the effect the dress had on him. June was not a tall woman, she was perhaps five one. Her face was a thin oval with high cheek bones. She wore black shell-framed glasses that came to an upsweep at the corners. The frames had just enough rhinestones to take the glasses out of the studious looking class and leave them distinguished without being gaudy. She had slender arms. The low scoop of her neckline revealed a delicate quality of bone structure that was carried to even more attractive extremes in her slim ankles.
Her bust was, in proportion to her body, large and firm, her hips flowed smoothly from a narrow waist and if there was any deviation from June's smallness and statuesque quality, it was in her lips. But even they, although they were somewhat large, appeared proper.
"Well, what the hell," Post said, pulling out the cubes, "he was standing right there, patting your fanny."
June had an impish smile. "He was not patting, he was rubbing. But you are very convincing in your sarcasm, Stu. I'm sure Lyle is convinced he'll have to be more careful in the future."
"Damn right he will," Post said. He began mixing the fresh batch of cocktails, angered by June's matter-of-factness and clinical acceptance of Lyle Windover. His proportions of gin reflected this disturbance and watching June, Post had the sudden flash of insight that he was not only jealous of Lyle Windover, he was jealous of June's first husband.
In the living room the FM radio was bringing in an all-night jazz program from a station in Long Beach. One or two couples, notably the Thompsons and the Rapports, were dancing up toward the picture window.
Lyle Windover was in the process of telling some joke to a group consisting of Joe Prantis and his wife Ethel, and Mike and Lou Regan.
Post blessed his exceptional memory in being able to keep them straight. But he could not, for the life of him, place more than three or four of them in their homes about the tract. He knew where Don Oakland lived with his wife, Pat-that was simple enough-next door neighbors. And on the other side were the Harts, Joan and Humphrey.
Post set the cocktail shaker on the buffet table and had an immediate customer, Francesca Abblebaum. She was a tall woman with exotically long black hair and an uncompromisingly erect spine. Small golden earrings dangles from her pierced lobes. She wore a flowery sun dress with a tight bodice that pushed her breasts into large, tight mounds and emphasized the cleavage between them. She wore a variety of soft-soled shoes that reminded Post of ballerina's slippers, including an intricate winding of ribbon that cross-hatched well above her ankles, calling immediate attention to her well formed muscular legs.
"We really haven't had the chance to become acquainted," she said, extending her glass. "But I'm told you have an interest in music-classical music."
"Why yes, yes I do," Post said.
Francesca Abblebaum's eyes brightened. "Wonderful. We must compare notes on our tastes sometime. I'm so glad to have someone here who appreciates things. It's fine to discover that, particularly living out here. I mean, you men get to go to the city every day. My biggest treat is a visit to the shopping center."
Lyle Windover descended upon them, refilling his glass with scotch and pausing long enough to tell a joke. Post pretended to listen politely, although it was a joke he classified immediately as thinly veiled sadism and a love of violence. And out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Windover's pudgy hand slide, as if in accident, across Francesca Abblebaum's bare shoulder. She moved perceptibly away from Windover and closer to Post.
It was fairly obvious, Post thought, that Wind-over considered himself the Romeo of Coolaire Heights and that he would literally put his hands on everything that looked good to him.
The punch line of the joke was not very funny. Windover, in an attempt to get better results, started in on another. "There was this guy who married a woman who couldn't get enough loving, see, and one night...."
The punch line to this one would have been revealing to a psychiatrist, Post thought. But it was not funny. Both he and Francesca laughed politely and Windover, spurred on by his success, grew bold enough to pat Francesca.
Post saw a look of pure hatred flash in Francesca's eyes, then die out under a deft covering of composure. "Will you dance with me?" she asked Post. He knew she was asking to be rescued from Windover. "Of course," he said.
They did not dance closely, yet Post felt an intimate impact from Francesca Abblebaum. Her hand squeezed his tightly; his other hand rested on her bare back with a feeling of pleasure.
"That man," Francesca said with disdain, "always pinching and patting and making suggestive remarks. He'd be the last man in the world I'd have an affair with."
Post's clinical interest prompted the next question, "Would you have an affair?"
She regarded him shrewdly. "We don't know each other that well yet, Stu, if we're simply talking supposition. And after seeing your wife, I can't imagine you'd be disillusioned with her yet. How long have you been married?"
"One year," Stu said quickly.
"If you were asking out of anything more than curiosity, I was raised in Europe and I accept sophistication, but not on such short notice." Although there was a gentle rebuke implied in her words, her voice was kind and gentle and the pressure on her hand was even stronger.
Post watched with more than passing interest as June appeared In the room, her dark hair done in a neat sweep that was pinned to the side of her head with a small, white flower.
The tantalizing waggle of her hips and her calmness, were getting to Post. He'd never seen her this way and he found himself wishing they didn't have those twin beds; it would make what he had in mind a lot easier.
He surprised himself thinking this way about June. He'd known her a year and a half and this was the first time he found himself with the irritating itching compulsion of desire for her.
"Strictly from a woman's point of view, Stu," Francesca said, "you have an extremely attractive wife. Not only that, she is quite charming."
Post mumbled something polite. Charming was not the word for it, at least not from a man's point of view. That black dress! He swallowed and forced himself to look away from June.
"You must have had an interesting courtship," Francesca said.
Post nodded. "The minute I saw her, I knew we were for each other." This was a damn lie and the words were beginning to assume an ironic ring for him. It was the same story he'd given to Pat Oakland when he'd met her at the supermarket shopping center, and it had been no problem then. June had not unwittingly brought things to a head in Post's mind by wearing that black dress or anything like it. It had been all slacks and sweat shirts and a minimal amount of makeup as June had begun instructing the movers about placing the furniture.
She'd placed things in the same, methodical way Stu had come to associate with her; including the lists she had on a clipboard, with notes on which drawer was for his sox, where the emergency fuse was, and which closet was for dirty laundry.
Stu looked toward June again. She was leaning over the coffee table, replenishing the clam dip. The outline of her hips seemed to be taunting him as the shiny shantung stretched tightly over the extended roundness of her buttocks. Her legs, seen from the rear that way, were perfect.
The perfect young host and hostess, Stu and June Post, giving their first party in their new, split-level home in Coolaire Heights.
It was all a goddamned lie. But watching June, seeing the attractive strut of her body as she moved across the room, Post wished it were true, he wished he really were married to June and that there was something he could do about it when all the guests went home.
He thought bitterly of lying there in the bedroom, only three feet from her in that silly, goddamned twin bed and he tightened perceptibly.
"What's the matter?" Francesca Abblebaum asked, "Don't you feel well?"
"It's nothing," Post told her. I guess I did too much sampling while I making up those martinis."
Her eyes found his, searchingly. "There's something that's deeply troubling you, isn't there, Stu?"
"Why should there be?" he said.
Her hand squeezed his again. "It's all right, you don't have to worry about telling me things. I'll wait until we're better friends. I'm sure that won't be long at all."
CHAPTER TWO
Post lay in bed smoking a cigarette, remembering how uncomfortable he'd felt talking to Joe Prantis while Ethel and June were cleaning.
The young couple were quickly showing signs of becoming close, valuable friends and Ethel had made no bones about her intentions of staying after the other guests had left to help clean up. Joe had meant it, too. After the offer had been made, Post caught the flash of a significant glance from June, meaning she knew the Prantis' wanted to be close friends.
It was another part of the subterfuge and now, in the light of his sudden awareness of June, Stu felt cheap about it.
He mashed out his cigarette and cradled his head in his hands, staring at the ceiling, wishing he'd turned out the lights, wishing he did not have to look at June as she came out of her habitual shower before retiring.
She wore a light, three-quarter length cotton robe over her favorite sleeping costume, a sheer, formless blouse and panties. So with her high-heeled mules, June's legs showed clearly just below her knees. Her hair was down, tied at the nape of the neck with a tiny ribbon. She was more than attractive, Post thought, she was desirable. She was supposed to be his wife, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do about it except lie here in the same room with her, not more than three feet away, for another three hundred and fifty-eight days.
June moved into the room with animation, sat on the side of the bed that was closest to Post and took one of his Camels from the nightstand.
"This was very good," she said. "We've accomplished a lot."
"It wasn't bad," Post said.
"You were sure the funny one, though. I mean, you can carry the jealous husband routine a bit too far and it might frighten away the Prantises. I wouldn't want to do that. I think they're just perfect for our closest friends. They're both very observant, very quick, very intelligent. I think we can pick up a lot of data from them."
"What kind of scent are you wearing?" Post asked.
"The same as always, Blue Grass. What a funny thing to notice."
"I don't think it's so funny."
"Why, Stu, you've got a crush on me."
"Jesus Christ, June," he said.
"Now it makes sense. You actually were jealous of Lyle Windover."
"Cut it out, June."
"Look, Stu, we've got a whole year of this. You knew what you were in for when you started it. There's too much at stake for you to go spoiling it now."
"Nuts," Post said. He turned on his side, showing June his back. He heard the rustle of her gown being removed and tossed at the foot of the bed. He was tempted to turn over, but he knew the sight of her in that flimsy sleeping costume would only add to the fire. He lay there stiffly, waiting until she turned out the light.
"Good night, Stu," she said.
"Good night," he said. He could see the coal of her cigarette, glowing in the darkness. He realized he was hungry for a cigarette. He lit one of his own.
"One more thing," June said. "We should have invited the Morganroths."
"How come?"
"She's eight and a half months pregnant."
"So? You've seen pregnant women before."
"You don't understand, Stu. Pregnant women aren't supposed to have intercourse for six weeks before delivery date and six weeks after. Ralph Morganroth is probably on his way to becoming a classic case of a male with a pair of antlers."
"I see," Stu said with sarcasm. "And you want to see if he'll be faithful."
"It's a good thought," June said. "I'll sort of see what I can discover. And you might try to find out who the vixen of the block is, you know, the one who waters the lawn wearing tight shorts and a haltsr the size of a band-aid."
"I'll take care of it first thing in the morning," he said.
June began laughing.
"What's so funny?" Post asked.
"I know why you're grousing. I didn't kiss you good-night." She made a smacking sound with her lips. "Good night from your little wife on Coolaire Heights."
"Nuts!" Post said. By the time he finished his cigarette, he could hear June's breath coming in regular cadence.
Post didn't know why he'd been picked for the job. Several people at the Institute had congratulated him on being chosen and had made the simple comment that he could be trusted to do a good job. He wasn't sure if that part about being trusted meant he'd leave June alone. What it boiled down to was being asked to live with June for a year, pretending he was her husband. It was being asked to make passes at some of the Coolaire Heights women if he got the chance, and make careful notes of their reactions. Nothing was said about following through. As far as the Institute was concerned, Post could touch the merchandise, pinch it to see if it was ripe, but no samples. Nothing like that for a year.
He was tall, an inch over six feet. His curly brown hair had a boyish unruliness about it when it was cut short. His background in sociology and adult counseling for the Institute were probably factors in choosing him for the job.
"We're going to make some extensive tests on suburban and housing tract living, Stu," Dr. Prique had said. "And we want to go into this as completely as possible, turn out something that would make the Stanford Research Institute jealous. We want moral implications, social pressures, group patterns, religious influences, financial pressures, the whole works. We've found the ideal spot. The place is Coolaire Heights. Most of the people are young, you'll fit in easily."
It had been that simple. A large cash stipend to the Institute from an unknown donor had made the study a reality instead of a dream.
June Harlon was to be his "wife." The real estate agent had actually believed he was selling a house to Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Arthur Post.
"You realize," Dr. Prique had told him, that there are no days off on this assignment. You'll earn a bonus and a handsome vacation when it's over, but the entire success of the study depends on your ability to convince the people of Coolaire Heights that you and June are man and wife.
In the beginning, the survey seemed like a real chance, a real challenge. He'd seen June Harlon about the Institute a few times and had even talked to her on occasion at some of the monthly staff teas. She was pleasant, if a little too stuffy and dedicated to objective detail. She could talk about a problem of sexual adjustment involving some of the Institute's patients about as calmly as he, Post, would discuss his hair cut.
But a week of living in Coolaire Heights with June, playing the game that they were man and wife, was beginning to have a not so subtle effect on her. She was slowly, surely becoming a warmer person, particularly when she was puttering in the kitchen.
And that black dress! Post knew she'd chosen it with her same feeling for objective detail. And she'd worn it at the party not out of any particular desire to please, but out of that same objective conviction that men, and particularly men at parties, liked to see a woman with an attractive bust.
Thinking about it Post had a difficult time getting to sleep and when he did, he dreamt.
He dreamt about the scene he'd spied on earlier in the evening. But in his dream he was the man in the apartment, not outside crouched in the shrubbery. The dream began with him knocking on the door. He must have had a date with her, something like that. In his hand he was carrying a large bunch of calla lillies. It seemed quite natural that he should be completely naked. He wasn't wearing anything but the lillies, and still he wasn't a bit embarrassed when she opened the door.
The woman, however, wasn't naked. She was wearing a black, shantung dress. It was tight across the breasts and tight across the buttocks but it reached from her neck to the floor and had long, tight sleeves.
As soon as she had the door open, she was in his arms kissing him passionately, her long, wet tongue flicking in and out of his open mouth. Urgently she drew him to the sofa and, lying down on it, made room for him to sit beside her. When he gave his hands over to the luxury of her breasts, she nodded her assent, and reaching for his naked manhood, indicated that she wanted this encounter to go beyond petting.
Post found himself most eager to oblige her. There were, though, problems. First, he didn't know her name and he felt awkward about making love to a nameless woman. Even in the dream he wondered how it was that she had no name. Desperately he sought for it. Secondly, the dress had no opening. Even more desperately his fingers searched for buttons at the neck of her gown or a zipper on the side. Nothing.
The woman grew desperate, too. She demanded that he make love to her. She berated him for teasing her this way. He could do nothing.
He gave vent to his frustration in violent and, probably to her, painful kneading of her breasts. All at once he knew. "Why you're June," he cried.
Her clothes melted away at his words and for a frantic moment his hands were all over her body. Ha could hear her voice, low and husky in his ear, murmuring, "Yes, Stu. More, more."
She guided his hands to the delta between her thighs. She was soft and velvety and warm and he could see ripples of pleasure pass across her skin as he touched her.
Suddenly they were together and the fast paced friction of love had him gasping for breath. In his dream June was no passive participant. She was eager. She was athletic. She saw to it that the physical demands of their enjoyment were no greater on him than on her.
"Let me, for a while, darling," she said. "I want you to feel it as much as I do." She needn't have worried. A wild exuburance flushed his body. Every movement they made, even the times they rested and were still, had him throbbing with pleasure.
Towering above her as he was, he felt strong and very sure of himself. Her black hair was splayed over the cushions on the couch. Her eyes were dilated and staring. He knew she was on the top of the rollercoaster ready to plunge down into release. He stopped the satisfaction he was giving her.
"Stu, don't stop."
"But I have stopped," he said, looking down at her sardonically.
"You mustn't tease me this way. I can't stand it."
"You've been teasing me. I did horrible things because you teased me."
"No more. I promise. I'll do anything you say. Anything, anything."
He began a slow rhythm of his thighs, like a dray horse in action and, like a dray horse, was soon in a hard pounding motion that carried them up the cliff of pleasure and then they were falling, falling. The last thing he knew was her scream in his ear.
The scream became the shrilling of the alarm clock and Stu discovered to his chagrin that he was glad they had decided he should make his own bed.
Breakfast was perfect. When the alarm went off, Stu fought away the cobwebs of a sleep that had come too late to do much good. He smelled the odor of perking coffee that June liked to grind fresh, each morning. He showered and shaved, noting how efficient she was about keeping a good supply of towels handy.
He estimated the temperature was in the high sixties, so he wore a drip-dry suit that had been he noticed, freshly pressed.
His first sight of her added to last night's frustration. She wore a simple cotton dress. But now that he was so aware of her, he found himself admiring the slight tilt of her breasts and the fresh alertness of her face. "Morning," she said, handing him a glass of juice.
"I see you're noticing the dress," June said, handing him a piece of buttered toast. "I noticed most of the women put on some kind of dress or slacks to give their husbands breakfast in. I think that's an interesting indication of this income bracket, don't you?"
Post wasn't thinking about income brackets at the moment. He was thinking about the prospects of a year of going to bed with a strong awareness of June, then seeing her like this in the mornings.
"Have you noticed any pressures yet?" June asked him.
Post choked on a bite of egg. He surely had. But not the kind June meant. The only pressure he'd noticed was his regard for her. Something was going to give.
"The only thing I noticed so far is that everyone thinks they should have a rock garden in their back yard. Lyle Windover had one put in last week. What say, we hold out until someone makes a comment?"
"Good idea."
"And one other thing. I had a chat with Joan Hart. She and Humphrey have sex relations about three times a week, which I suspect is about average around here, although Lyle Windover goes slightly overboard. Gail claims he'll go on binges; every night for two weeks, then a week to rest up. Gail usually appears most tired when Lyle is on the move."
"You're being careful about that, aren't you?" Post asked.
"Of course," June replied dryly. "You'd think I didn't know how to lead a conversation."
The doorbell rang. June got up to answer it, and when she came back Francesca Abblebaum was with her. "Dear," June said, "you take the Hollywood Freeway to work, don't you?"
Post nodded.
"Francesca wondered if you'd mind giving her a ride into town."
Post felt a stirring of apprehension. It would be a perfect opportunity to have a chat, perhaps to get some more information. But still, he felt uneasy. Perhaps, he thought, it was Francesca's exotic attractiveness, which was just as much in evidence this morning as it had been last night. Francesca wore a cool summer suit with a small jacket that covered her shoulders. The neckline took an abrupt plunge. The skirt was the new style, cut short to show off her handsome legs. Her wrists had several bracelets, but the effect was not gaudy.
"I'd be very happy to give you a ride," Post said. "I'll be leaving in just a moment."
He used Francesca's presence to accomplish something that was eminently on his mind. As they strolled to the back door, Post went into the garage to turn on the motor of the Falcon. Then he came back inside the house for his briefcase and to escort Francesca.
"Bye, dear," June said, pecking him lightly on the cheek. "Any preferences for dinner?"
"We can finish the roast," he said. Then he smiled at her. "What kind of a good-bye kiss is that?"
June looked surprised for a moment, but Post put both hands on her shoulders and pressed his lips firmly against hers. Her lips tasted good, better than he's ever known them to be. A pang of desire went through him as he felt her breasts burrow into his chest.
"And that," June said to Francesca, when she and Post had parted, "is what happens when you give a man too much meat for breakfast."
It was a neat parry. But as he left with Francesca, Post could see June watching him with a curious interest.
The traffic was not too bad that early in the morning until they reached the intersection of Sepulveda and Ventura. Francesca wanted the Western section of Hollywood, where her car was being painted, so he stayed on Ventura until he reached Laurel Canyon.
He was feeling pleased with himself for having kissed June so effectively. Perhaps she'd get the message or perhaps he'd have to make a more insistant campaign, but he knew he was going to do something. The kiss had convinced him.
Francesca Applebaum promptly broke his bubble of happiness. "I noticed it last night and I still see signs of it," she said.
"Of what, Francesca?"
"Something is bothering you. You have a very attractive wife, but there is something wrong."
Post's grip on the steering wheel tightened. Was Francesca sharp enough to notice something?
"Perhaps it's financial pressure," she said. "Perhaps you didn't think you were quite ready to take on something as costly as a home in Coolaire Heights."
Post felt better. Francesca's suspicions of trouble did not include the possibility that he and June were not married.
"No," he said, taking into account the prearranged patter about his work, "I'm pretty lucky, making a salary as big as I do, and since there are so many commissions coming in, it was my idea that we invest in something substantial, like property."
"Then it must be something else, perhaps something personal. I could see it in the way you kissed June. Is it this, Stu? Is it that she's beautiful and warm on the outside and cold on the inside? I hope, for your sake, that this isn't so. But the way you kissed her was pathetic."
"Pathetic, why?"
"You seemed so hungry. A man marries for love and because he can assume the responsibility of the relationship. If he does not have enough love...." her voice trailed off.
There was a moment of uneasy silence. The flow of air steam into the car lifted at Francesca's skirts, causing it to flutter about her knees, revealing even more of her attractive legs, sheathed in cinnamon colored stockings. She caught Post admiring them and smiled, making no effort to hold down the fluttering material. "I think it's ironic," she said. "Ted liked you immediately. He's usually quite jealous, but a few things have happened to change that. You see, he's never been to Europe and he has stronge notions about European women. I have finally convinced him that I am glad I married him and that I want to stay with him. This is important to him. Also important is the fact that I told him how much I wanted to have a child by him."
Post lit two cigarettes with the dash lighter and handed on to Francesca. Her frankness was disarming on a personal level, but on a professional level, he appreciated it. He could really learn something from her since he didn't believe she was the type to say things for shock value.
"You asked me last night," Francesca continued calmly, "if I would have an affair. For some reason. I spent a good deal of time thinking about it lact night. Ordinarily, I would have said no without thinking. Things are so different in America. But then, as I say, I had much to think about. I thought of you, for instance."
"Me," Stu said. "Why me?"
"Because. Stu, if I were to have an affair, it would be with a man like you."
"Thanks for the compliment."
"The thing you don't know is this: I am in a perfect position to have an affair; short, intense, and to the point. It will have to stop out of necessity, after a time, and it will not resume again."
"Why will it stop out of necessity?" Stu asked, becoming curious.
"Because, Stu, I discovered last week that I am going to have a baby. So you see, it is perfect. There is no chance of the worst possible thing happening, and soon, the affair will stop for rather obvious reasons; and the beauty of it is that Ted cannot possibly suspect unless we are completely foolish and without tact."
This took Post by surprise. Francesca was an attractive woman, all right, but he had not expected this. "You sound pretty sure it's going to happen. I mean, by the tenses you use, you seem pretty sure of yourself."
"Am I not attractive to you, Stu? I know you've been looking at me. I know you were interested in me last night. Very well, I find you attractive, too. What possible harm can there be from this? It can only do good. You will have your satisfaction and substance from it; it might well help your relations with June. I will have the pleasure of knowing the tenderness of someone I like very much. There is no danger, Stu, because there is no love. You will see; when it is over, we will become very close, very good friends. And don't try to tell me you are the type who thinks a man can only have other men for friends."
"Why no, but...."
"I'll tell you what, Stu. I have to pick up the car, visit the bank and do some shopping. Also, there is the doctor to see. How much time do you get for lunch, an houv?"
"As long as I please, if it's within reason."
"Fine," she said. "I will be having lunch at Diamond Jim's in Hollywood. I will be there at twelve-thirty. I will go with you to a motel."
She did not ask whether he would be there. This was something Stu liked about her immediately. Maneuvering over Laurel Canyon, he glanced at her occasionally, noticing the fine sheen of her legs, as a gust of wind took the skirt even further up her thighs, this time actually revealing the tops of her stockings as they clamped to her garters. Even these were unique. The tops of Francesca's stockings were embroidered with small flowers. The taut, firm flesh of her thighs was inviting. The rhythm of her breathing excited him as he watched her breasts rise and fall in graceful waves. He could not help imagining what it would be like to have her. It had been a long time since he had had a woman. He'd always managed to submerge the times when there was desire and no one available by furious spurts of work or reading.
But June had more than awakened desire in him, there was no question about that, and here was a woman, a very attractive woman, offering herself as an answer. There were no strings attached, nothing to fear. All Francesca wanted in return was tenderness and friendship.
Post felt himself beginning to perspire and this was not, he knew, from heat.
She wanted off at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and La Cienega. He timed it so that he would miss the signal, then he reached across to open the door for her. The scent she wore was subtle and spicy, reminding him somehow of apples. When she spoke, he could feel her breath on his ear. It was almost a whisper. "Until soon," she said, and then she was out of the car.
He watched her walk across the street. She moved with a well timed strut that had her breasts in motion, her buttocks moving slightly. It was suggestive without being vulgar.
There was no questioning the fact that Francesca Abblebaum was a very attractive woman. You did not get such uncomplicated offers from a woman like that every day, Post thought, if at all. He had a quick image of her smooth, tanned thighs again, under the silken sheen of her stockings. He thought of how it would be to caress them at leisure. And the breasts ... and the way she walked....
The horn of the car behind Post sounded impatiently, shattering his vision, but even then Post noticed he was sweating.
He had coffee and a brief chat with Dr. Prique. They discussed some of the observations June had made at breakfast. The doctor congratulated Post on the way things were going. "And just to keep them that way, Stu," Dr. Prique said, "I think we ought to have a few brochures printed with your name on the front page. Something to show your closer friends when they ask what kind of public relations copy you write. And it might be a good idea to drop in on a few of them at their jobs. Offer to take them out to lunch. Tell them it's on the expense account. That's something else I'm interested in, padding of expense accounts. See if you can get some leads on just how far they'll go. If they see you doing it, they might want to reciprocate. A few martinis to get them talking, a confidential tone of voice from you, and who knows what you might come up with.
Stu nodded. "I already have a lunch date with my next door neighbor, Don Oakland, for tomorrow."
"Fine. Fine," Prique nodded. "And what about women?"
Post was positive his face was flushing. "Well, we've already become extremely friendly with one couple in particular, the Prantises."
"Now you know that isn't what I mean, Stu."
"There's a woman named Francesca Abblebaum. Well educated, or at least, she's been around. European background. Her husband's a nice, steady, Rock of Gibralter type. She seems rather friendly toward me."
"Excellent," Prique said. "Excellent. I have a feeling, Stu, that you and June are going to turn in a fine report, something to make the Institute truly proud."
Post wasn't thinking of that. He was thinking how little justice he'd paid Francesca by his description of her. She seemed to radiate a tasteful but different femininity. It was knowing that she was close at hand that excited him, but when he was honest in his thoughts, he knew what lay directly behind them: June Harlon.
He arrived at Diamond Jim's five minutes early, gave his name to the host and went into the bar, actually beginning to tremble with the anticipation of what he knew was going to happen.
All the way in from Beverly Hills, he'd told himself he was simply going to talk to Francesca, to suggest that they be close friends. He even had the speech all prepared. "You're right, Francesca. I don't think it's fair to limit friendships to men. But I don't think it's fair to cheat on June, either."
But this stuck in his craw and he could not bring himself to play out this part of the game, not when it was so ironic, not when he believed there would be no chance of this happening if he truly could be with June.
Why not go through with it? he thought. Why the hell not? He was not cheating on June; he was cheating on Prique. To hell with Prique. It didn't really effect anyone but Ted Abblebaum, and Francesca could take care of that.
The knowledge that he would do it made him thirst for another Jack Daniels. He drank it off neat, then sipped at the ice water chaser. A sudden tingle ran down his spine, and a brief fraction of a second later, he smelled the tang of spiced apples. He turned to face her, his hands still shaking.
"I'm glad you're here, Stu," she said in that same, low huskiness she'd used when leaving his car.
"So am I," he told her.
Her hand felt smooth and reassuring on his wrist. "You're excited already, aren't you?" she asked, moving closer to him. He could feel the firmness of her thigh, pressing against him.
"Yes," he said, "I guess I am. Are you hungry?"
"Not particularly," she said, her eyes meeting his with a frank evenness.
"Me neither," he told her.
Her hand tightened on his wrist. "Then I haven't the vaguest idea what we're doing here, have you?"
CHAPTER THREE
Post drove toward Griffith Park, thinking to find a motel somewhere along Los Feliz Boulevard or even Riverside, but as they neared the Park, Franceses was sitting close against him, her leg brushing his, her arm about his neck.
He muttered a mental blessing for the person who had picked out and designed automatic transmission. His hand was free to rest on her knees, moving lightly over the silk sheathed warmth of her legs.
She reciprocated, running her hand over the inner part of his right thigh.
Post became so preoccupied and excited that he went right through a red light, causing an oncoming car to swerge and blast angrily with his horn.
After a brief moment of fright, he allowed himself the luxury of nervous laughter, but then Francesca's hand tightened on his thigh again. They exchanged a meaningful glance and then they both realized they would not be able to wait until they found a motel.
He swerved off onto Griffith Park Boulevard and followed the fork that led into the Park, itself. He drove with great anxiety, turning twice off the well traveled roads that led to the Planetarium and the golf courses.
Her hand was actively massaging his leg now. Post briefly stroked her knees, as if to reassure himself that she was still there and this was not a part of the nagging need that had been set into motion by June.
Post found a small plateau and pulled off the road, onto a dirt drive that took a sharp descent to a plateau somewhat smaller. They were at least ten feet below the level of the road. They could not be seen by a car passing above them. There was no access from below; all was a sheer drop for a hundred feet or so, followed by ridges and small gullies, dotted with clumps of vines and violet wildflowers.
The moment he applied the handbrake, Francesca reached for the ignition and switched it off. They met in an abrupt fury of an embrace. He felt her moist lips crush against him and in another moment, her tongue was probing expertly against his lips.
Post held her tightly by the shoulders for a moment, the kissing being prolonged and vigorous, but then he had the need to touch her, to run his hands along her sides, to cup them over her breasts. He was spurred on in his ardor by a long sigh of pleasure from her. Her hands moved along his inner thigh until she reached his manhood.
Now Post sighed involuntarily, but this had the same effect on Francesca. She tugged at his necktie, loosening it and working the buttons of his shirt open. She moved quickly in her passion, opening the side of her dress and sliding her arms free of the shoulder straps. Then she freed her breasts from her brassiere. They were large and round with delicate pink tips contrasting attractively with the natural tanness of her body.
Post cupped them in his hands again, kissing feverishly, working in slow degrees up her chest, toward her shoulders and throat. Her head tilted back, her eyes closed, her slender nostrils flared as her breath came in quick spurts. "Oh," she said, "I knew it would be good with us."
He tried to unsnap her garter belt, until he discovered that it did not matter. She helped him remove her lacy black underwear, which he tossed into the back seat. He looked at her for a moment, then at the back seat. She understood his meaning and shook her head. Right here would be fine.
She tugged at him gently until her hand moved further toward her side so that the steering wheel would not be in the way. And then Post moved hungrily to bring their bodies together.
When this happened, Francesca gave a gasp of pleasure and began a concentrated rhythm. Post held her tightly, feeling all the pent-up desire rise in him as he began experiencing the tingle of being a part of her.
Their movements were frenzied and urgent, Post realized what had happened: Francesca had been just as overcome as he by the anxiety. She'd had just as long as he-even longer-to think about it. And now, as it was happening and their bodies were surging together, Stu Post knew the slowness and consideration and tenderness must wait until later. This was strictly a matter of need, violent need. Comfort would come later. The important thing now was fulfillment.
The force of this need frightened Stu. He was afraid his driving thrusts would bruise Francesca. He opened his eyes to look at her and was immediately relieved. Her face had the beauty of a woman flushed with delightful expectation. Her lips were parted and her eyes were wide open, looking directly at him. Francesca's face was rosy and moist with exertion.
"That's just right," she said. "That's wonderful. You aren't afraid to be forceful. Somehow, I knew you wouldn't be."
Quickly they passed to a plane beyond words, beyond seeing, really. All their sensation was contracted into the one experience of pleasure.
And that came with a quickening pace and a surge of spasmic finality in which Stu caught himself crying out in release. As he did, Francesca gripped him tightly. They writhed against each other for several moments, the scent of spiced apples in Post's nostrils, the silky softness of her hair against his face.
She regarded him fondly for several moments while catching her breath. Then, at length, she spoke. "I know this sounds silly, but thank you. That was good. You are good."
Post was loathe to part with her hand. She understood and moved next to him so that he could encircle her shoulders with his arm. She guided his hand to her breast.
"Now I'm even surer of what I said this morning," Francesca said. "You have troubles with June. You needed me badly, almost desperately."
"It's your imagination, Francesca. You just happen to be an exciting woman."
"You can be honest with me, Stu. I have no claim on you except that I want to be your friend. I expect us to know each other a long time, even when our affair is over. That can't be possible if you're going to be shy."
"Okay," he said. "I'm crazy about her, that's the truth. I hadn't realized just how much I cared, until...."
"Until what, Stu?"
He'd come close to saying something revealing. He'd nearly said, "Until we started pretending we're married." That wouldn't help things, talking like that. He could still take Francesca up on the friendship angle and confide in her without spoiling the secret.
Francesca took his silence as reticence and she finished the sentence for him. " ... until she began cooling down a bit, and that made you realize you lost something. You have to expect little periods like that, Stu. Give her time to get used to Coolaire Heights. That's a sizable change in a woman's life. It made a difference to me, too. Give her time, Stu, and keep on being the way you are, attentive, considerate and, yes, even a bit jealous. A woman likes it when her husband is just a bit jealous. I've heard them complaining about it, but just see how much more they'd complain if they thought their husbands didn't care at all."
It seemed ironic. Only this morning, Francesca had suggested they have an affair. The two of them had just finished a passionate session of lovemaking. Now she was telling him to be patient with his wife. That, alone, would have struck him as amusing, had he heard it said about someone else. But add the factor of his not being married to June, and it did not seem funny.
They shared a cigarette before Post backed the car up onto the dirt road and headed toward Riverside Drive. He found a motel and angrily paid the extra two dollars the manager added to the price. Seeing Francesca sitting in the car, it had become patently obvious what was about to happen. And Post knew he was over a barrel. They'd already consumed forty-five minutes. He didn't want to be too late getting back to the Institute. There was still more material to go over with Dr. Prique.
The room was small and shabby. But it had an ironic luxury, a double bed.
"Does it bother you, being in a place like this?" Francesca asked him.
Post shook his head.
"I'm afraid motels are going to be our trysting places. I don't see how we could be together at either of our homes.
"This beats the front seat of a car."
"I don't know about that," Francesca said. "I can think of an accident in a car I didn't particularly mind."
Francesca's humorous allusion and tone had them both laughing. Post moved to her and pulled her down beside him on the bed.
"This is better," she said, when he began working at the buttons of her dress. "This is much better."
He paused for a leisurely kiss. Now that his initial urgency was over, Post took longer to admire Francesca. Slipping her shoulder straps down, over her arms, he fell to kissing her breasts again and caressing her back.
She seemed to sense how important it was for him to be the one to set the pace. He took to it pleasurably, kissing the entire length of her body, feeling contented and whole again, while she returned the favor.
He worked her up to passion by slow degrees, caressing the nape of her neck, kissing her at the temples and stroking her buttocks (a thing she indicated she greatly enjoyed). It did feel good, he thought, to see the desire and readiness move into such a warm, attractive woman by slow degrees.
The firming of her breasts enthused him, the delicate motion of her hips was even more satisfying to see and the heavy breathing and sighing whenever he touched her: they all made Post confident again. It was a confidence he enjoyed.
He felt a strong surge of pride, knowing at the same time that he was excited by her, anxious to be united with her again.
He felt completely masculine, scurrying his fingertips along the smooth swell of her breasts and seeing her react so enthusiastically. And then, when he touched her pelvic area, she began moving even more spiritedly, kissing him several times in a way that surprised and delighted him.
When they were ultimately united, Francesca's hands gripped him tightly, her long legs wound about him and he had the pleasurable sensation of being as much a part of her, as much in possession and touch of her as possible.
The build up had been at his pace and now that they were together, he experienced the even deeper pleasure of mastery. It was good to feel like a man, good to know you were giving such pleasure to such a fine woman, good to hear her gasp with surges of enjoyment, good to hear her call your name, slowly at first, then in an increasingly rapid tempo, until she reached a rapid tempo, crescendo of delight and satisfaction and took you along with her, surging to the ultimate feeling of pride and pleasure and happiness.
She moaned, and when he started to leave her, placed her hands on his buttocks, "Stay here for a while longer, close and warm and still together. For me the moments after sensation has splashed over our bodies is one of the most beautiful parts of lovemaking."
Stu had never heard a woman talking like this before. It gave him pause. He was new to the game of love but Francesca made him realize that, without being aware of it, he had hung on to the high school attitudes toward sex.
It was exciting to discover what a sharing, enriching experience the mutual flow of physical release could be for a man and a woman. Here in this dirty little motel room he understood for the first time that Dr. Prique had the wrong approach to sex. It couldn't be defined by statistics and dry facts. What was important was the effects it had on the lovers.
She shook her head at his offer of a cigarette. "I'm still catching my breath," she said. "You do a pretty good job."
"You make a man feel like doing a good job. You make a guy really feel like a man."
He laughed. "Now, I can see why Ted is always so easy going and sure of himself. He doesn't have to improve himself by being the life of the party pinching fannies like Lyle Windover. He's already aware of what he's got; thanks to you. And now, I think I've got some of that, too."
"I'd like to think so, Stu. I mean this didn't happen because I had hot pants or because Ted can't keep me satisfied. I think you know that.
Post kissed her lovely mouth. He knew all right. Francesca was a fine person, a fine woman. Holding her this way, he believed it was true: they would be good, close friends for a long time, and there would be no reason for Ted Abblebaum to know about this.
With his eyes closed, he rested his head against hers, his hands idly stroking the small of her back. Then his trained, counselor's mind began working. Look what Francesca had given him. Had he done anything to repay it?
He tried to analyze her motives. She was not the kind to go sleeping around. Why had she done this? It was not love. She knew how he felt about June. What, then? And then the answer came to him. Francesca wanted to be needed, to be appreciated. Being a woman, she simply wanted to hear what she meant to her man. She could undoubtedly see the effect she was having on Ted, but, perhaps, Post reasoned, she needed this affair as a reassurance, as something she could remember.
"You're quite a woman," he told her, a note of deep sincerity in his voice. "I really want you to know how much I feel that to be so."
Immediately, Post knew he was on the right track. He felt her arm go about his shoulders tightly. "You really think I'm good, Stu?"
"Hell, yes," he said, experiencing the sudden surprise of feeling her free hand probe his loins.
"Prove it to me," she whispered. "Just once more before we go, Stu. Prove it to me."
CHAPTER FOUR
Post arrived back at Coolaire Heights at five. He put the car in the garage and entered the back door with a jaunty step, actually eager for the sight of June.
She met him in the kitchen, wearing a neat, colorful Mexican print skirt and an off-the-shoulder blouse. Her legs were bare, her feet were in Japanese thong sandals, her hair tied in a casual upsweep. In spite of the heat outside, June looked cool and fresh.
She also seemed surprised to see him so early. Through the kitchen, Post could see Ethel Prantis and Joan Hart at the breakfast table, talking over coffee. Both women waved at him.
Post waved back and hooked his arm about June's waist, pulling her toward him. "Couldn't bear the thought of being away from you so long," he said, kissing her full on the lips, just as he'd done that morning.
And again, June flashed him that look, that curiosity, that expression he'd come to associate with her when he knew she was trying to figure something out. June was baffled and Post was filled with the flash of excitement at the contact of their lips and the brief pressure of her breasts against his chest.
"My God, but you're frisky," she said, but Post knew it was mainly for Joan and Ethel inside. "Maybe a nice, cold shower, huh? Then you can make us some drinks?"
Post took a playful swat at her fanny and moved into the breakfast nook. "So this is what we husbands work all day for," he said jokingly.
Joan Hart smiled. "I'm glad we've got some vital, young blood in the tract," she said. "I was afraid affection from husbands was a lost art, or anyway, reserved for the time when the late show on TV was just too boring to take."
Post wondered how much of her own particular situation Joan Hart was revealing. He had noticed the TV light on in their den at pretty late hours. "She puts things in my food," he told her.
Joan finished her coffee. "I'll have to get some of whatever it is for Humphrey. He sounds like the man in some of the commercials. He comes home dragging his tail behind him. All he wants to do is watch TV. I can't get him out of the house nights."
"You'd better get him out Friday night," Ethel Prantis said, running her hand through her short, fuzzy black hair. "That's our barbecue. Joe has killed the family cow. Anyone who doesn't eat at least two steaks can count on being snubbed for a month."
Post liked Ethel. She was perhaps thirty, but dressed and acted as though she were still going to an Eastern college for women. She was what Post liked to think of as a beautiful snob. She could make snobbery an art with some of her views and Post had no doubt that there was a small note of truth to her warning about guests at her and Joe's barbecue who did not eat enough.
Ethel looked at her wristwatch. "Oh, golly," she said, "I've only got forty-five minutes before the War Department comes homes. I'd better get hopping or he'll cut off my allowance. Thanks for the coffee and gabbing, June." Ethel gathered her purse and a magazine, touched Post's chin, smiled and moved off with her typically animated waggle.
Joan Hart waited until she heard the front door close. "That's going to get her in trouble some day," Joan said.
"What is?" June asked with an air of innocence.
"The way she wiggles when she walks. Maybe that's how they teach girls to walk at those Eastern schools, I don't know, but honestly, you should see her at a supermarket, and especially when she wears shorts. Yesterday, a box boy dropped a dozen eggs because of her."
"What was she doing?" Stu asked.
"Don't tell me you don't know, Stu Post," Joan said. "I saw you watching the way she walks. Every man does. Someday, she's going to do that in front of someone who isn't a gentleman and he's going to do a lot more than drop a dozen eggs. Really. I even saw her get pinched once. She pretended to be mad, but I think she was secretly pleased."
"Well," Stu said. "Whatever happens, it's interesting to watch."
"You see," Joan told June. "You'd better watch him."
Joan stayed a few minutes and accepted one of the martinis Post made before leaving. "Don't forget the hen party at my place," she reminded June. "If the men are going to have a stag, the least we can do is retaliate."
"I hope I don't botch things up tonight," Post said when Joan Hart had left. "I'm not too good a card player."
"Listen, Stu," June said, "I think you and I ought to have a little talk." She was standing quite erect, her hands on her hips. It gave her the illusion of added height and Stu had come to recognize it as meaning she had something to get off her chest.
He knew it was probably about the way he'd been kissing her, but he couldn't feel too disturbed about the probable consequences. Instead he noticed that she'd been spending some time outside in the sun. Her face had a reddish tan tinge to it. His eyes swept over the bareness of her shoulders, taking in the small firm breasts, liking the way she stood, drawn to maximum height, straining for the effect almost to the point of being on tip-toe.
The skirt fell out full from her tiny waist, cascading over her hips. Her bare legs shone. Post couldn't help it; he was completely taken by her. In spite Oj! what had happened with him and Francesca that afternoon, Post found himself feeling desire for June. The trouble was, when June inspired it, it always came so strongly that it was an ache.
"You know," he told her, "you're a very attractive woman, June."
"And that," she said, "is what I want to talk to you about."
Post knew what was coming.
"It's the way you've been acting lately, and you don't "lave to play dumb. This is a job, Stu, an important one and a difficult one. I like you, I think you're a nice person, but that's as far as it goes. I don't know where you got the idea that I'd take this game of playing house seriously. I'm just not interested. So calm down. You knew what it would be. Dr. Prique explained everything to you."
Post sat down and took a long pull at his cocktail. "It hasn't gone the way I'd planned either, June. You're very attractive. Things like this can get to a guy. And it isn't just because you're a woman. It's because you're June Harlon."
"And I'm going to stay that way, Stu. I had one run-in with the man I married. That was plenty. It was enough to last me a long while. Maybe in a few years, if I meet an older man, who is less troublesome, less demanding and more understanding, maybe then. But as far as anything goes right now, I'm dedicated to this job. And I mean that, Stu, do you understand?"
"I understand that you're deliberately trying to shut something out of your life."
June pouted, thought for a moment, biting at her lip. "If you're going to go pulling psychological rabbits out of the hat, Stu, let me remind you of something. One of the reasons you were chosen for this job, above and beyond your age and ability, is your own personality. The consensus is at the Institute you would adequately be able to forget about your sexual urge and do your job with some competence. To be brutally frank about it, Stu, they didn't think you'd be that interested in sex unless, of course, it was from the clinical point of view. If I've hurt your feelings, I'm sorry. But I want you to know how things stand. There's no reason why we can't be friends, but don't mistake friendship for anything else, Stu."
Post had the impulse to laugh. It was the comparison between what he was supposed to be like and what happened between himself and Francesca Abblebaum this afternoon. Not interested in sex. That was funny.
His reaction obviously bothered June. She did not know what to do with her hands. For lack of anything better, she removed her glasses and wiped them on her skirt, but when she noticed the avid interest with which Stu was directing toward her legs, she dropped the skirt hem angrily. "I'm going to have to start putting things in your food," she said.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Just look at this, will you, Stu? It's a damn outrage." Lyle Windover extended a popular quality magazine to him, his pudgy hands trembling with rage.
Stu took the magazine and scanned the title of the article to which Lyle Windover had been referring. The title leaped out at him in bold italics that caused him a moment of fright. "A New Trend In American Living and Morals." The article was about housing tracts.
They were sitting in Windover's rumpus room. Seated about the poker table were Humphrey Hart, Mike Regan, Sam Thornby, Dan Oakland, Joe Prantis and a young man Post didn't recognize. There were platters of pop corn, pretzels and crackers. In one corner of the room was a portable ice chest, filled with shaved ice and liberally loaded with tall cans of beer.
It seemed to Post that they were all watching him intently for his reaction. He knew there was no way they could have suspected him of anything, but nevertheless, he suffered a moment of doubt. Why would they be calling his attention to this? And why would they be looking at him so seriously?
"The things they say in there," Windover said, his bulbous face coloring, "just aren't true. To hear these guys talk, every man who lives in a tract has a mistress, drinks too much, and cheats on his income tax.
"Not only that," Humphrey Hart said, "but they imply some kind of pecking system where we all feel the need to keep up with each other. I mean, if Lyle, for instance, buys a new car this article implies that I feel the obligation to get a better new car."
"It's an outrage," Windover said. "I've had my car for two years."
"Me, too," Don Oakland said.
Post was still on unsure ground. "I'm not sure where I fit in, fellows."
"It's this way," Windover said, "we thought since you're in the business of writing publicity, you're naturally used to expressing yourself. So we wondered if you'd help us draft up a letter of protest. Not write it, mind you. We aren't lazy. Just act sort of as advisor."
Relieved and slightly amused, Post agreed. Room was made for him at the poker table and the game was on. After a few hands were dealt around, Post lost anxiety about being conspicuous. Humphrey Hart was just as naive and so, for that matter Windover, who bet on everything and stayed in every hand.
However he had trouble concentrating on the game. The conversation he'd just had with June haunted him. Her description of a satisfactory mate was something only a frigid woman would tolerate. She'd overplayed her hand. Granted that sociology, not psychology, was Stu's field, he was too hip from being around the Institute and too observant not to know that a really frigid woman would stand on her hands rather than let the fact be known.
Post had never come across a woman who wasn't vain. A frigid woman was an emotional cripple. And an unlovely one at that. No, June's line could mean only one thing. She had a hot nature. Too hot to stand off a long term seige. June's crisp efficiency had worried Stu. Now he began to tingle. Twice he folded with good cards in his hand to continue his day dream of June in the position Francesca had been today with her feet over his head, ankles tightly gripping his neck, moaning with pleasure as he plunged into her completely vulnerable body. Stu shivered.
He caught sight of Windover eyeing him peculiarly and snapped out of it. It was obvious that they were waiting for Gail to make her departure for the hen party. Then the bull would begin in earnest.
At one point, Post found himself out of a pot. He stood up and moved over to the ice chest, selecting a frosty can of beer. But there was no opener. Moving into the kitchen, he froze into silence as he saw Lyle talking to Gail. His gambit must be the same for all women, Post thought. Windover had his hand squarely on his wife's buttocks, massaging and grabbing.
"Lyle," she whispered. "Not now."
"Listen," Windover said, "you've been giving me that not now business all evening. Okay, not now, but when?"
"Later, Lyle."
"Yeah, I know. Later. You'll be tired."
She squirmed uneasily but made no motion, Post noticed, to move out of range of his hands. "I promise," she said.
Lyle squeezed particularly hard. Gail squealed. "That's my girl," Lyle said. "I can hardly wait."
"I know," Gail said with a touch of irony. But this did not stop her from moving the length of her thigh against Lyle and moving with a slow, circular pattern.
"That's just to give you something to think about."
Lyle laughed. "I've been thinking about it all day."
Gail -edged even closer to Lyle, insinuating her large bosom against him. She bit teasingly at his ear and Post saw the pink flesh of her tongue, flicking out. It was quite a professional job, Post thought. She had Lyle aroused. His excitement was obvious.
And in a moment, Post realized that he did not like Gail Hart. From what he'd seen and from June's report, she'd probably show up at the hen party, complaining about Lyle and his insatiable urge. It was probably Gail who was at the bottom of it all, responsible for Lyle's penchant for fanny patting and pinching.
"I've got to get back inside," he whispered.
Gail made no move to relinquish. She had him pushed against the sink, her hips still rotating against him.
"Jesus Christ, Gail," he whispered, "stop it, will you. Enough is enough."
But Gail did not stop.
Post saw Lyle's plight. His face was twisted with desire as Gail, a skinny, but handsome woman, continually eased her hip against his loin. "Stop it, Gail."
She took the beer can out of his hand and moved that hand to her breast, sighing at the contact. Lyle weakened perceptibly. Post felt a pang of pity for him. Gail was really working him up.
"Hey, Lyle." A voice came from the rumpus room called, "it's your deal."
"Pass me this time," Lyle replied weakly.
"Oh, oh," a voice replied. "Gail's working on a fur coat."
Gail was working on something, Post thought. Her hand was busy probing at Lyle's pelvis. Post saw Windover grit his teeth. "For Chrissake, if you don't stop it, I won't be able to control myself."
Post felt more than pity now, he felt determined to rescue Lyle. Deliberately, he made noises, saw Gail react, then entered the kitchen.
"Hi, he said, "I notice you didn't have a can opener inside."
Post was rewarded by an expression of intense relief from Lyle. Gail handed him an opener. If Post hadn't seen it, he wouldn't have believed it. Gail actually did not seem irritated by the interruption. "He never remembers where things are around here," she said. "If you want anything, please feel free to help yourself. There's cold salad in the refrigerator."
She went on chattering, but Stu paid no attention. Perhaps she was working on a new fur coat or a new car. But one thing was for sure, Post was now seeing the second part of a beautiful performance in the human female of pure bitchery.
"I'll leave you men to your devices now and go on over and join the girls." After Gail Hart left, the joke telling began, and so, for that matter did the more serious drinking.
Mike Regan told a story about one of the secretaries at his office, always managing to inspect her stockings for runs in front of him. "You know, fellows," he said. "Once or twice a day, okay, but she does it every time she sees me."
"Well," Sam Thornby said, "what are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"
"Have you ever cheated on Helen?" Lyle wanted to know.
"Listen," Sam said, "we have an agreement, so it isn't cheating. If she sees someone who interests her, okay. Just so long as she keeps the house going and the kid cared for and I don't find out. That's the thing. And my part of the bargain is, if I want to play around on the side, fine, just don't let Helen know about it. Does that answer your question?"
"Boy, I could never get away with a line like that on Gail."
"Don't tell me you haven't played around, Lyle, I know better." Sam Thornby turned to Post. "And you should see Humphrey Hart's setup. He works for a clothing firm. Models all over the place. I went up to have lunch with Humphrey a couple of times and almost flipped my lid."
"It isn't as easy as you think," Humphrey said.
Sam leaned forward. "I tell you something, Humphrey. It's as easy as you make it. How long have you been married?"
"Five years."
"Okay, okay. Helen is a good girl. I like her. I'm not saying anything against her, but don't tell me you don't have an itch to find a little something on the side. You wouldn't be human if you didn't."
"Well, I've thought about it...."
"Listen, Humphrey, it's a human thing. All the guys take a flier once in a while. That doesn't mean they don't love their wives. I mean, hell, isn't she the one they come home to?"
The young man Post didn't recognize, spoke up. "You guys want to hear something really good? You know Sue Short? Big, hefty blonde. Lives over on Hattaras Street. Now there's a real pushover."
To Post's surprise, Lyle Windover laughed knowingly. "All you have to do is feed her a steak then park somewhere secluded and let her have the works."
"Why the bitch," Mike Regan said. "She gave me a real song and dance. Told me she'd never done anything like that before. I bought her a new dress."
"You could have gotten off with a steak, I'm telling you."
Post took it all in, noting with wry amusement that the men were all admitting infractions of the same things that had infuriated them in the magazine article. He had never seen a supply of liquor depleted so quickly, nor heard so many confessions of how expense accounts were padded.
He finally introduced himself to the young man he didn't know: Carl Beard. "And here's something," Beard said. "That son-of-a-bitch neighbor of mine, Wilson, you know what he did? He's putting in a swimming pool."
"Oh, no!" Windover said. "I was afraid of that. I know damn well Gail will be over there. Then I'll start getting the pressure. She'd like a swimming pool. It's bad enough, she's been after me for an MG for weeks."
Post clucked his tongue out of pity for Wind-over. That explained Gail's treatment in the kitchen. She wanted a sports car and she was going to use her body to get it."
"And by the way," Lyle Windover said, "when are you going to get a rock garden, Stu, boy?"
"I haven't even thought of a rock garden."
"Why, hell, man, we've all got them. Good for the neighborhood. Increase the value of your property. I'd like to see you with one, Stu. You'll get a lot of pleasure out of it."
The poker game continued until midnight. Then, by common agreement, they cashed in their chips. Stu lost five and a half which didn't make him conspicuous, particularly not when Humphrey had lost fifteen.
Ted Abblebaum, whose presence had cost Stu some embarrassment, and Hart were the first to leave and Post noticed how quickly their respective wives were brought into the picture.
"Boy, that Francesca," Lyle Windover said, licking his lips. "There is a real dish."
"You can't get anywhere," Mike Regan said.
"I know. She was very nice about it, but I struck out."
"Just the same," Windover said. "If a guy is persistent ... what do you think, Stu? You got to see her."
Stu was nonplussed. For one thing he had an idiotic desire to punch Windover in the nose for talking that way about Francesca. He waited a second until he was certain he was in control of himself before responding. "She's nice, but I'm not about to try anything. If I have any opinions on that score, I think I'd be better off, keeping them to myself."
"Right," Joe Prantis said. "You guys sound like a bunch of catty women, the way you talk."
"I notice you don't particularly avoid Francesca." Windover said.
"I dance with your wife, too," Prantis said, "but that doesn't mean I'm trying to make time."
"Okay, okay," Windover said. "It's just a hunch I've got. I think the right guy could make time with her and I wouldn't mind being the right guy."
"More power to you," Mike Regan said. "I'll take my chances with Joan Hart."
"What do you mean by that?" Joe Prantis said.
"Just what I said. I happen to know that Joan is a push-over, but it takes a certain type."
"What kind of type is that?" Don Oakland said.
"Young boys, kids who aren't even twenty-one yet."
"That's a hell of a thing to say about a woman. How could that possible be true?"
"Because," Mike Regan said, "I saw her." You know that park over by the shopping center? It's got a small baseball field and some tennis courts. Well, I took the kids there one afternoon to get them out of Lou's hair. The kids were playing and I was debating whether to read the book I brought along or take a nap. Then I saw something that changed my mind. A familiar wiggle, if you like. Across the way, I saw Joan. I was so positive it was her, I even waved. Then I noticed she was with this guy who didn't look too much like Humphrey. I thought I'd just take a walk over and see what was going on, particularly when I see them heading into the thickest part of the bushes.
"Joan was wearing shorts, the kind that don't leave much to the imagination in the first place. And when she walks, it's like watching a cat in a bag.
"Well, by the time I got over to the bushes, I hear a sort of moaning. I was all set to call out, but then I got a funny feeling that everything wasn't right.
"I moved in quietly and then I saw them. As near as I can figure it, the kid is from the junior college, picking up a couple of bucks playing tennis and teaching. He had on shorts and tennis shoes and he had that tennis look about him. He was the one who was doing the moaning."
"What was she doing?"
Mike Regan wiped his forehead. "She had that poor kid going nuts. She was teasing the living hell out of him."
"How?" Lyle Windover asked. "What the hell was she doing?"
"Well, it gets sort of messy. I want you guys to promise that what you hear stays strictly in this room."
Mike Regan was given a round of quick assurance.
"Well, she had her halter off and she was making him give her a good workout. Then she began groping at him and making damn sure he was excited. The poor kid, I felt sorry for him. He thought he was going to get somewhere, but all she wanted to do at first was for him to kiss her breasts, not just lightly, either. It was like she wanted him to be a baby or something. Then off came the shorts, "he's got a damn nice figure and it just drove the kid wild. Then she told the kid she wanted him to kiss her in an unnatural way. It got pretty rough after that and I left. I couldn't take it, I felt so damn sorry for the kid. I felt sort of dirty about having even seen that much."
Poet knew exactly what Regan meant.
"But," Joe Prantis said, "that doesn't stop you from thinking about taking a try yourself."
"I tell you," Mike Reagan said, "if she wants to play, let it be with a man. It would be different if she were showing the kid some consideration.
She was strictly out for herself. I doubt if the kid ever got what he expected."
"Poor Hart," Don Oakland said.
"I mean it," Mike Regan said, "if she wants to play, okay, but if any of you guys say anything to Hart, you're going to answer to me."
"Maybe he ought to be told before something serious happens."
"Just let me handle it, will you? You all gave your word. If any of this leaks out."
Mike Regan's confession about what he'd seen between Joan and the boy seemed to provoke an air of thoughtfulness over the group. Post imagined they must all be experiencing a moment of silent fear that similar things would come out about their own wives. It certainly made them uneasy, he thought, and as if to forestall any more talk, there was a mass exit.
To Post's surprise, June was waiting for him when he got home. She still wore her usual sleeping costume and the filmy robe which was-tonight-tied tightly about her neck. She had a pot of coffee in the kitchen; Post couldn't help being pleased, and hopeful.
He smiled at her and sat at the breakfast table. But inside he felt himself tightening. It was going to be a long, hard year, living like this with June unless....
"I wanted to talk to you, Stu," June said, sitting down next to him. He couldn't be sure whether it was from force of habit or preference.
"I'm sorry about what I said this evening. I mean, it was cruel of me to say it the way I did. I'm flattered that you like me, Stu. Please, try to understand this. My marriage made me terribly overwhelmed that anyone as attractive as he could have the slightest interest in me. It suddenly seemed like the sweetest revenge for all those days when I wore braces on my teeth and heard all the remarks about how small I was.
"At first, Wally frightened me a good bit. The first time I went out with him, he tried to put his hand up my dress. When I stopped him, he didn't come back for two weeks. Believe it or not, I missed him, knowing it was wrong. No one had ever tried to do anything like that to me on a first date. I was secretly pleased.
"When Wally called again he told me he'd hardly been able to think straight. The reason was because he wanted to go to bed with me. He said he never wanted a woman so much as me. He was very honest, Stu. He said he was fond of me and thought he loved me. He wanted to kiss me and touch me ... everywhere. He wanted to make love to me. He begged me to let him.
"Well, I did. I was so flattered and excited I couldn't help myself. I must have known what it meant, because I wasn't surprised when he made love to me right there on the front seat of his car. In a way, Wally was very selfish. He never paid the slightest heed to making me happy, but at the time, it didn't really matter. He excited me so, it took very little to make me happy.
"For the first two weeks, Stu, we made love so often that I can remember moments when it actually hurt me to walk. Then it tapered off a bit, but it was still frequent. Then I thought I was going to have a baby.
"We got in his car and drove to Luma, Arizona. We could have gone to Tijuana, but Wally didn't trust Mexican ceremonies. He wanted this to be legal and binding in every sense.
"I cried when I found out that the baby was a false alarm. I was sure he would think I only told him that to make him marry me. But he said no harm done.
"But after a year, he said that married sex seemed stale. Months would go by and he wouldn't touch me. Then suddenly he would come home drunk and have sex with me in such a violent, degrading way, it would be days before I could leave the house.
"What started out as the most happy, wonderful experience of my life turned sour. Sex, even the idea of it, became quite mechanical for me. I came to feel like a machine, an abused machine. I'm afraid it won't ever be anything else for me again."
Stu took June's hand gently in his own. "Thanks for the background, Jane. But isn't what you really mean, you're afraid sex will mean something to you again?"
She didn't answer his question, instead she kissed him affectionately on the forehead.
He finished his coffee slowly, lingering over a cigarette, not wanting to torture himself with the vision of her removing her robe, kicking off her mules and swinging her legs up onto the bed and under the covers. He didn't think he could take that, not tonight.
The thought of June helpless and bruised on a bed while her husband did unspeakable things to her was almost more than Stu could stand. Even so, he knew that if a horse threw you the only thing to do was....
He took an unwanted shower, hoping she'd be asleep by the time he was ready for bed. But to his dismay, she lay in bed reading. She smiled at him when he entered. Her hair was neatly brushed and tied with a ribbon. Her cheeks had a warmth and glow to them. He could see the bared portions of her shoulders and, through the flimsy material of her jumper, the firmness of her breasts. And this made him all the more uncomfortable.
Perhaps her explanation had been satisfactory for her, even adequate justification for thinking that men meant nothing to her. But to Stu Post, it meant only a challenge.
"I wanted to tell you one more thing, Stu," she said, reaching over to turn off the lights. "I like living with you and keeping house for you. It's fun pretending to be your wife."
Post got an excellent view of her breasts as she leaned forward to throw the switch that plunged the room into darkness. The sight of them stirred him even more than he had been.
"Good night," she said. He replied, almost sharply. "Stu?"
"What?"
"What is it? Did I say something wrong?"
"No," he said.
"Then what is it? You don't go around snapping like that."
"It's nothing," he said, "just forget it. It's nothing at all."
But lyinj there in the darkness, the memory of those beautiful breasts and appealing body freshly etched in his mind.
He was jealous. Jealous of Wally Harlon, June's ex-husband.
CHAPTER SIX
"Of course, you don't have to play," Lyle Wind-over said. "There's no law whatsoever that says you have to play, and no one will think the less of you, Stu. I just had the impression that you were a pretty regular guy and wouldn't object to a little innocent fun. Why hell, your wife agreed to play. In fact, June said she thought it sounded like a good idea."
"Really, Stu," Humphrey Hart said, "it isn't as bad as it sounds. I mean, there are worse things."
"Wadda you mean, worse things?" Lyle Wind-over said. "You make this sound like a goddamn perversion or something. I tell you, it's just a little innocent fun."
"He's right, Stu," Joe Prantis said. "You can sit it out in here if you'd rather not, but you'll see, it's an amusing little game, a sort of study in the powers of observation."
Stu nodded. He hadn't expected to get such a reaction when he'd suggested that he and June might simply watch. And his real surprise had been Joe Prantis' ready approval of the game. "Okay," he said. "I guess I'm just shy by nature. If June said she was willing, why then of course you can count me in."
"Good," Lyle Windover said. "Very good. I'll go inside and tell the girls."
Post lit a cigarette and allowed Joe Prantis to freshen hi.; drink. Prantis was an excellent host. Post could still smell the embers from the hickory coals in the back-yard barbecue pit.
The pleasant taste of stripper steaks, cooked charred and rare, lingered pleasantly in his stomach and mouth. The tossed salad had been a masterpiece.
The drinks had been freshened frequently and plentifully. Even now, Post could see the ghosts of four bottles of Jack Daniels out on the porch along with a few empties of gin and vodka.
The collection of empty bottles had its reflection in the guests at Prantis' split-level, ranch house home. There was a uniform air of jocularity and anticipation.
"You get the idea of the game now," Lyle Wind-over said, returning to the kitchen where the men were congregated. "All the girls lay down on the floor and cover themselves with sheets. The lights are dimmed, it's no fair lifting the sheet. Sense of touch is the only clue you're allowed. "Got it?"
Stu nodded. "Got it."
"When you think you've found your wife, you call out her name. If it's her, she can sit up and remove the sheet. If you don't get an answer within ten seconds, that's the sign you're mistaken."
Post said, "I follow you."
"Just a hell of a lot of fun," Windover said, licking his thick lips in anticipation. "As for me, I hope I don't find Gail right away."
There was a knock on the door and Ethel Prantis appeared, looking pert and pretty in her flowery cocktail dress. "We have a new condition for the game," Ethel said. "To make things a bit more difficult when you all come into the room, you get ten seconds to look around, then all the lights go on."
"Hey," Lyle Windover said, "that sounds good. I'm all for it."
"And some of the girls have decided to lay on their tummies just to add more variety."
"Wait a minute, we could use that for a new game, heads the first time, tails the second, if you get me."
"All right," Ethel said, "I'll tell the girls. We'll be all set in about five minutes, so finish your drinks."
When she left, murmur of anticipation went up from the men in the kitchen. Post watched with interest, noticing how animated and self-conscious they had suddenly become. Most of them made a great show of bravado about the impending game and the harmless aspects of it.
He heard mutterings of "good, clean fun," and "this beats playing cards." Where we used to live in North Hollywood, all they ever did was play cards...."
But the thing Post realized was the hypnotic sense of obligation that went along with playing the game. The men had to assure themselves and each other that it was all right. Post believed, however, that they were all experiencing at this very moment, similar feelings to his. The idea of other men groping at June in the darkness was not a pleasant one, even though he and June were not actually married. And the doubtful privilege of being able to grope at other women did not seem to remove his apprehension.
The game began when Ethel Prantis called in to tell them the women were ready. Most of the men finished their drinks with a last gulp and moved into the room. Lyle Windover reached the count of ten, Don Oakland, stationed by the light panel, flicked the switch, throwing the room into darkness.
About the only clue offered was that of height. Post saw someone he thought was June, off toward the rear of the living room. At least, it seemed short enough to be June. It could just as well, Post realized, be Ethel Prantis.
Post immediately heard scramblings and saw shadowy figures of the men, moving about the prostrate forms of the women.
Post made his way past a few forms toward the one he imagined to be June. Deftly, he touched the arm and shoulder, but this gave him no clue. His hand moved toward the face, trying to get some idea of the configuration of the woman he was touching. He felt nothing but an excited motion of breathing. "June," he said hopefully, waiting.
No answer. He waited a bit longer, then moved on convinced that it was not June he had been touching.
He turned seeking another clue and saw Lyle Windover, on his knees, delicately clutching the breasts of a woman under a sheet. He touched them several times before Stu heard him venture a soft, "Gail?" After a moment, Windover laughed when there was no answer. He moved away, bumping in Post. Stu could not help wondering how the woman hidden under the sheet felt to have a man, not her husband and whose identity she could only guess at touch her so intimately.
Post moved on until he found another likely form. He touched the arms and felt them stiffen in apprehension. His hands moved to the face. Another figure moved next to him. It was Don Oakland. "That's no way to find out," he said. "You've got to do it this way." He touched the anonymous woman squarely at the breasts and shook his head sadly. "I'll tell you one thing, that sure isn't Pat." Oakland moved on.
Post steeled himself to touch the woman at the breasts. They were round and firm. He knew immediately why there was a certain amount of curiosity to this game. There was no doubt, whatsoever, in his mind that he was holding to the breasts of Francesca Abblebaum. He felt sad and nostalgic and something else. Could she know that it was he who was touching her.
He kneaded her breasts in a manner he knew she liked. There was no mistaking her reaction this time. She gave a spasm of recognition. Post patted her affectionately on the arm and moved on. There was no sense calling attention to his interest in Francesca.
He paused at the next form; Windover was already there, his hands moving quickly to the breasts and thighs, "Gail?" he whispered.
Gail Windover sat up, the sheet falling from her torso. "You guessed right, honey," Gail said. Post wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Wind-over give a sigh of relief.
He moved on, as though in a nightmare, trying to imagine what June would feel like under a sheet. Part of the nightmare was the growing excitement within him. He hated himself for it but could not repress the sensation that came over him when his hand cupped over round, feminine tissue. He touched a figure. The breasts were small and firm, as June's might have been. He got no clue from the face and shoulders, but returning to the breasts again, and then sweeping his hands across the thighs, he had the strong suspicion that he was caressing Ethel Prantis.
He called June's name and heard nothing.
The nightmare continued.
He moved in the dining area and found a figure. He caressed the chin and shoulders. It somehow fit the image he'd set up for June. He was nearly positive it was June, so positive, in fact, that he felt vaguely disturbed with himself for not calling out her name.
He understood something about himself, in that moment, that he did not particularly like. He had June at a disadvantage. It was like kissing her in front of someone. She would have to accept without comment. And now, as he touched her breasts, he felt a surge of excitement run through his hands. It was a hell of a way to admire someone you were fond of, cared so much for, touching her through her clothing and a sheet, touching her against her wishes. But he could not stop. The excitement had become a compelling surge of desire. There was even less doubt as he made sure of the small, plum-like breasts. None of the other women he touched had evoked such an awareness in him. He moved his hands over the flatness of her stomach, aching at the fact that his only contacts with June had to be this way. It seemed unclean.
What kind of man was he, anyway? Post thought. As the shame and anger at himself grew stronger, he hit on a plan that would, at least, save himself something in June's eyes.
He moved away from her, watching with a jealous sort of tension as Don Oakland began his survey of June. "That sure as hell isn't Pat either."
Post thought it would be safe to move back. He touched June about the shoulders and face. "June?" he whispered.
To his intense relief, June sat up. "I knew it was you the minute you touched me on the arm," she whispered. Then she put her lips against his ear to whisper even more secretly. "Thank you for respecting me. Thank you for not trying to touch me anywhere except the arms and face. I knew you'd be considerate."
Post felt like a heel. His subterfuge had worked and she'd been convinced that his earlier exploration had been at. the hands of someone else. But one thing was sure, he had touched her breasts, he had felt her thighs, even if his way of doing it had been sneaky, and he knew that the memory of that touch and excitement was going to make it all the more difficult, living with her, wanting her, but being only a friend so far as she was concerned.
From the other side of the room, they heard a sudden, intense moaning that caused a wave of fright to belt through the room. It was a woman moaning and, at first, Post thought it was from pain. Or perhaps someone had gotten too rough. He made his way to the light switch after he heard the moan again.
"Oh, God, help me. I'm sorry ... oh, oh...."
When the lights went on, there was a confused instant of blinking while their eyes became accustomed to the brightness. Everyone was watching Joan Humphrey, who sat in the middle of the front room, looking lost and forlorn. "Oh, Humphrey, Humphrey, come here, please, please, quickly. I'm sorry, I can't help myself."
Hart moved to her excitedly. "What is it, baby? What's the matter?"
"Hold me," Joan said, "please hold me. Oh, tightly, tightly."
"What is it, baby?"
"Just hold me, will you?"
Hart complied.
The scene was an awe inspiring one. Everyone watched in hushed fascination as Joan held tightly to Humphrey, her eyes closed, her breath coming in short spurts until she began to calm down. Then, both Joan and Humphrey appeared embarrassed.
"I'm sorry," Joan said. "I don't know whatever came over me. I mean, nothing like that has ever happened. I'm sorry."
She looked at Humphrey significantly.
"I guess we'd better be going," he said. Hart made his apologies to the Prantises with a certain air of confusion about him.
It had only been ten p.m. o'clock when the Hart's left. After several moments of awkward speculation, the game was abandoned. At Post's suggestion, Joe Prantis turned on the FM radio to a station broadcasting popular music. Prantis flicked a control switch that piped the music outside to the patio, where they all began dancing.
Post danced with June, holding her tightly to him. She did not seem to mind. He liked the feel of her hair, silky against his cheek. Her scent had a lilac odor to it. He was very much aware now of her shoulders and breasts. He'd touched them in subterfuge. He longed to do it again, the right way, with her consent.
She was a good dancer, much better than he. As he maneuvered them into a turn, he missed a beat and felt her thigh move directly against his. He felt his pulse quicken at the contact. She was so damned attractive, he thought. He refused to believe it had to be the way she said; that she really didn't care about love. A woman who moved as lithely as June was made for love.
"I think I'm on to something very interesting," June said softly into his ear. "While we were playing the game Lyle Windover went beyond the others in his investigation of my body."
"How do you know it was Lyle?"
"Who else would take such disgusting advantage?"
Post felt miserable. He knew, of course, that June was mistaken. It had not been Windover. It had been he.
"I'm going to ask him to dance with me. I want to see what he'll do. I'm going to try to get him over by the barbecue pit."
Post held her more tightly. "I wish you wouldn't."
"I don't mind, really. I can be quite objective about it. I want to see how far he'll go. You've got to try helping me. If you can keep Gail busy, it will be that much easier. Now promise you'll help?"
When Past moved away from June and started toward Gail Windover, his eyes met Francesca Abblebaum's. Her face was directed toward him, sweeping across his eyes with her own, showing a sign of encouragement for him to cut in on Ted. When he didn't, Post felt a twinge of guilt, particularly when he saw the look of sudden disappointment cloud over Francesca's face.
Gail Windover said, "I'd love to, Stu."
"Go to it," Lyle added.
After a few steps, Post noticed Windover heading toward June. Her scheme was working, but Post didn't like it.
"I've learned one thing about you, already," Gail said into his ear. "You're bashful." You don't have to be afraid to hold me close."
Post felt the sharp jut of her breasts boring into him. Gail, too, was a good dancer. She adroitly managed to keep him on the defensive, with her right leg moving tantalizingly against his groin every step or two.
"There was one man who touched me very reverently during the game, especially at the bosom. I tried to think who it could be, then I realized it must be you. You think I have an attractive bosom, don't you."
"It is very nice, Gail."
"Would you like to kiss it?"
"That's another story."
"You don't have to be evasive. You would, I know you would." Her leg moved against him with a deliberate cadence. She seemed quite amused when the song ended and a lively cha-cha-cha began. She immediately began a lively movement to the Latin tempo. "I'll let you, Stu."
"It's a bit crowded for something like that, isn't it?"
Gail laughed. "I love your sense of humor. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pretend I'm going in to the John. You dance with someone else first. Then drift away. Come to the door of the John and knock three times. I'll be waiting for you."
Post squirmed. He recalled how Gail had been working over Lyle. He knew he could expect at least equal treatment, if not even more teasing. He hated her for it. But he had to keep Gail busy. He'd promised June. "Maybe we'd better forget about that," he told her.
"No," she said. "You want this and so do I. That game always leaves me excited like this. You see what it's doing to you. You want to, you know you want to." Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "You know you do, Stu. You want to kiss me. You're dying to." She spun away from him as the record ended. "See you inside."
Post had no choice. He found himself next to Francesca Abblebaum and Pat Oakland. He asked Pat to dance because he knew there would be recriminations from Francesca and he didn't feel like talking to her now.
"You're a good dancer," Pat Oakland said.
"Do you enjoy the game?"
"I could do without it, but every time I say something, the others start calling me a prude. It was like that in my sorority at USC. For some reason, if you tried to remain a virgin, the other girls said the same thing."
"Who starts these things?"
"Well, this game is Ethel Prantis's idea. There are others, even more suggestive than this, but I draw the line at those. Gail Windover likes some of them."
When the song was over, Post thanked her and moved away. The door to the bathroom was closed and he saw a silver of light through the crack underneath. He closed his eyes for a moment and knocked three times.
Gail Windover opened the door for him, motioning him inside. The entire front of her dress was open and her strapless bra hung from the door in the stall shower. Her breasts were large, staring at him in firm readiness. She was light-skinned and he saw the soft blue pattern of veins, leading to the dull brown aureoles.
"Kiss me, Stu," she said. "Come here and kiss me."
He kissed each breast twice and was about to move away when he felt her arms encircle him.
In another moment, her mouth was against his, her tongue moving over his lips. Desire mounted in him, but he knew it was a false desire. He could not really believe that Gail had singled him out for her specific attentions or that there was anything considerate about this. "More," she said.
"kiss me more. Oh, please, Stu. I'll be nice to you."
In another instant, he was aware that she had him in precisely the same sort of trap she'd had Lyle in a few nights before. His back was pushed firmly against the tiled bathroom wall. He had a strong awareness of jasmine scented perfume as Gail moved against him, her hips undulating in a slow rhythm. Her breasts were attractive and he found himself drawn to them, wanting to kiss them again and again. When he touched them, he heard Gail sigh and he knew that this was, perhaps, the key. She enjoyed this part, being fondled.
"Tell me I'm attractive, Stu."
"You are."
"I mean, tell me I have a lovely bosom."
"I've never seen such a lovely bosom, Gail."
"Then act like it, damnit."
Suddenly, the entire thing was clear to Post. Gail was almost a classic case. Gail was reenacting the figure of a mother to men. She wanted to make men admire her breasts, she wanted to have them fondle and caress her, and then she wanted to be in a position to be able to put them off, to tease, if necessary; to make them dependent on her for this, then as the whim struck her to deny herself.
To test this theory, Post decided on a piece of fiction. "My God, Gail, you're lovely. When can we do this again? We'll have to get back soon or we'll be noticed, but we've got to do it again. Promise me."
"You mean it, Stu?" she said hoarsely. "You really mean it?"
He tried to sound desperate. "Yes, yes, please say that we can."
To his satisfaction, a look of intense pleasure came into her face. "I don't know," she said coldly. "We'll have to see. It won't be easy, you know."
Post pressed it a bit farther to sound convincing. "You've got to, Gail. I'll do anything you say, anything."
She patted him on the head. "We'll see," she said. "I'll have to think about it."
"Please, Gail. You don't know how lovely you are."
"All right," she said. "All right."
Now, Post was absolutely sure. She was a person with a neurotic problem.
"You'd better go back outside first," she said.
He did, but even as he returned to the patio unnoticed, Post wasn't happy. He'd still have to pay more attention to her. There was no trace of June and Lyle Windover. Lord knew what they were doing. And it was just this, the uncertainty of it that made Post uneasy. Jealous? Hell yes, he told himself. He was very jealous.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I'm probably going to be very black and blue in the morning. Lyle Windover is quite a pin-cher," June called out from within the dressing room.
"The bastard," Stu said. "I'd like to poke him. His sudden fury evoked the knowledge that Lyle Windover, for all his transgressions with June would feel the same way if he'd known what had happened between him and Gail. The irony of it was heavy with Post and he began laughing.
June peered out of the door of the dressing room, her gown held up over her chest. "What is it, Stu?"
I was just thinking of a very interesting follow-up to our survey on tract house living."
"What's that?" June looked interested.
We ought to do a survey into the nature and character of people who take surveys. Do you realize, June, that in a way, we're nothing but scientific Peeping Toms?"
"That's a fascinating way of looking at it, Stu, but I think you're painting a rather black picture of us."
"Am I?" he said, pulling off his other shoe. "Where else would you find two people who were so interested in snooping?"
June disappeared behind the door. A moment later, she returned with the thin robe over her shoulders. She slid into her high-heeled mules, making Stu aware for the thousandth time, what slim, attractive legs she had. She moved over to Stu, looking at him carefully. "I think you were hitting Joe's supply of scotch pretty hard toward the end, weren't you?"
Stu shook his head. "It vas the Jack Daniels, June, and I wasn't hitting it hard, I was clobbering it."
June sat next to him, her shiny knees invitingly close. "Was it because of what you had to do with Gail?"
Post suddenly understood that this hadn't been the reason why he'd tossed down six shots within half an hour and continued on a very dark highball until he and June had left. "No," he said, "it wasn't that at all. It was because of something I couldn't see."
"But what, Stu? What could you see?"
"What you and Lyle Windover were doing."
"But, Stu, that's so silly."
Post could no longer control himself. He suddenly put both hands on June's shoulders, experiencing as he did, that same flash of excitement from the contact. He drew her toward him and pressed his lips against hers, feeling the delicious contact with her mouth.
For a brief moment, she accepted this and then, to Post's intense surprise, she responded. She was actually returning the kiss. It was a subtle difference but he could feel it. And then her hands moved slowly to his shoulders, the fingers scurrying across his neck. And then, just as quickly, June stiffened.
"No," she said, pushing him away. "There'll be none of that."
"Why not?" he said. "You don't mind letting Lyle Windover do it. You don't even mind telling me about it in detail, about every little movement, about every place he puts his hands, in that maddening, objective detail of yours."
June was just as heated in her reply. "It's different with him, Stu. I don't like him, I care absolutely nothing about him. It's a matter of complete indifference to me if he puts his hand on my leg. But don't you see, I'm starting to like you, Stu. I'm very fond of you."
Post laughed bitterly. "That's great," he said. "You like me so much that you can't even stand it when I kiss you."
Her hand stroked his cheek. "I'm sorry, Stu."
"What are we supposed to do?" Post asked. "I know this is probably the corniest routine since the beginning of time, but I'm only human, June. I need you. I need you very badly. You're driving me absolutely nuts."
Her hand moved away. "Please, Stu," she said in a tortured voice. "Can't you see what you're doing to me? Every time you say that, you're just making it worse for me."
Discouraged, Post lit a cigarette and started to uncinch his tie. He got two buttons loose on his shirt when June spoke again.
"I'm not trying to be cruel," she said, "but please, do me a favor."
"Anything," he said. "Anything, June."
"I knew I could count on you. That's why I care for you so much. Please, just for tonight, Stu, will you sleep on the couch. I don't think I'd feel right with you in here tonight."
Post stood up, trying desperately to keep himself from saying anything more than, "Of course, June."
He'd been right. June had a hot nature. She was afraid of it. Because of that, because she'd forgotten herself and started to return his kiss, Post had to move out of the bedroom and inside to the sofa.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"I knew it was you touching me like that. I knew it and I haven't been able to think about another thing but this," Francesca moved closer to him, the entire length of her body pressing against him. Warmly. Urgently.
Post accepted the passion at once. He needed it. After last night, that aching night alone on the couch, the thought of there being no one made him shudder.
"It's all right," she said. "Try to relax."
But instead of relaxing, Post found himself kissing her feverishly, running his lips over hers, kissing her chin, gripping the firmness of her shoulders and letting his hands sweep over her sides.
"We can only take an hour," she said. "Relax so that it can be good with us."
"I don't think it works that way with us, do you?" He continued to caress her thighs, while his other hand touched at her earlobes, just below the point where they were pierced for the tiny gold earrings.
She responded with a sudden, breathless enthusiasm. "I see what you mean," she said.
"Francesca," Stu said hesitantly, "I wonder if you would mind something."
"What, Stu?"
"I'm so excited, so, well worked up. Could we make love the other way. It's...."
Stu didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Francesca smiled at him, the wisdom of men-wise Europe flashed in her eye and she bent her head and kissed him there. The touch of her lips brought a sensation so piercingly acute he bit into the pillow to keep from crying out.
She didn't stop with one kiss. Again and again and again he felt her lips move on him. Sweat poured from his glands. His body began writhing like a snake crossing a plain.
The moist friction stopped and his body cried out for more, but he was ashamed to ask. "I like to do this too," he heard Francesca say. "And this, and this. Her tongue, her teeth had also touched him. He sat up in bed gripping her tightly around the shoulders, "No more," he said hoarsely, "I'll lose control."
"No my dearest friend, it isn't losing control. You will experience the release you need. I know why you need this, believe me."
"You won't mind?" he whispered unbelievingly.
She didn't answer him in words. Her lips and tongue on him threw him in a whirlwind of pure feeling. Stu lost tract of what he was doing. His whole body became a receiver for the sharpest jolts of pleasure. When release came he shouted out loud and opening his eyes found himself on the floor. The bed was a shambles of torn bed-clothing.
They had come to the motel on North Sepulveda after meeting at the supermarket in the shopping center. It seemed like cloak and dagger stuff to both of them.
The owner had accepted the four dollars with a burst of homey philosophy. "Shame you people have to leave your nice homes to come to a place like this."
Post felt chagrined at having been so obvious.
Stu got off the floor and lay back down on the bed, Francesca had remade. He smiled his gratitude to her for what she had done. "You're a wonderful woman," he told her.
She took his hand and placed it over her bare breast. This simple gesture reassured him more than words could have done that it had really been all right with her.
Stu knew why he had asked that of her. June's frequent rejections together with the episode of last night created in him the need to know he was acceptable enough to someone to give him that kind of pleasure.
Strange how one woman can tear a man down and another can recharge him with confidence, he thought.
"I know," Francesca said, interrupting his thoughts, "that our affair is going to be over soon."
Post lay there, his eyes closed, his cheek resting against hers. "How do you know that?"
"I'm starting to gain weight, Stu. Pretty soon, it will be obvious that I'm pregnant. You'll feel strange about wanting to be with me under the circumstances."
He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about anything. He managed to lose himself in another investigation of her warmth and femininity. It always seemed to follow this pattern. There would be the frenzy, at first, of pent-up desires, followed by the more peaceful exploration and then the moment in which both of them were separate, distinct entities, lost in their own reflections that had been given energy and being by the force of what they had done together.
Lying there, stroking the softness of her pelvis, he was contented for a moment until he thought again of June and then the nagging need arose in him and, in less than a minute, the two of them were inflamed with their hidden needs, probing each other, moving together in practiced efficiency for that moment of warm loined, moist reassuring release that was, in itself, an irony.
"What do I give you that Ted can't?" IT had been on his mind to ask. But he knew she could have countered it with, "What does June withhold from you that I can give?"
And his anwer to it, if honest, would have to be this: This very act. Fraud, he thought. I am a fraud. And it surprised him that for a third time, he was hungry and eager for Francesca. This time when he took possession of her body, he remembered that it was filled with another man's child. He reacted curiously. Desire was as strong in him, but tenderness came too. Gently, very gently he probed her depths with his body. "Oh, that's good," Francesca murmured. "Softly and slowly, the way you're moving into me gives a different kind of joy."
They dressed in silence. Post found it enjoyable to watch her, now that his need of her had been sated. He could feel the inner rumblings, the inner knowledge of desire and know, almost smugly, that his own body could not be reasonably expected to respond, at least, for an hour or so, and by then he would be home with June.
He watched with interest as Francesca harnessed her attractive bosom in a light pink brassiere, then pulled sheer black panties tight over her round, shiny hips. Her buttocks pushed at the seat of her shorts, looking like two half moons. He was intrigued by the litheness of her body and the suggestion of muscle to her legs as she bent to tie the thong sandals about her ankles.
Their last kiss before parting: gentle, almost friendly, as though they'd met in a crowd of Coolaire Heights people and had not sought to reveal their intimate relationship.
CHAPTER NINE
Post hadn't realized he'd walked so far. But when he saw the park, he knew he'd come at least two miles. He whistled in admiration. Imagine walking two miles and not being aware of it, he thought.
But June had come up with an idea about Ethel Prantis that needed mulling over. And there had been a newer, subtle pressure between June and him. The reason, obvious enough, Post thought. June's emotional ice cubes were beginning to melt. And with it came a lot of pressure.
It was as though June had just become aware of the fact that theirs was, in spite of its limitations, a very intimate relationship.
He moved on, past the two flagstone cairns that held up the large plank of redwood with the letters burned into it: Cabrillo Park, Los Angeles County Dept. of Parks and Recreation. He found a bench just past the courts where two young girls were playing tennis. He sat down and lit a cigarette. In the waning summer evening, a game of softball was going on at the far diamond.
But his thoughts returned to June. Pressure, he thought. Little things. Little things that start arguments. Little things like June suddenly becoming jealous of Ethel Prantis for something that hadn't happened yet, something that might not come off at all.
Post told himself he was finally getting a true picture of marriage. This flare-up was unique, though, when he thought about it. It was the sort of thing that would happen between two people who were having a complete relationship.
He'd walked out rather than lose his temper. But now, puffing on a cigarette, he realized he'd traveled over two miles without being aware of it. All right, so he'd actually lost his temper, so what? He threw the cigarette away violently and immediately lit another. Then he heard the noises.
At first, it sounded like some animal, caught in a trap. But as it grew louder, he realized it wasn't an animal, it was a human, probably a small boy.
Post moved through a patch of tall grass, toward a thick clump of trees and shrubs. The voice was even more distinct now. It was a boy, all right and he was speaking in an audible moan. "Please," the voice said, "oh please, please. There was more of his moaning.
"Quiet, you little fool. Do you want someone to hear?"
"Please. Let me. Just once, Joan. Please."
"Can't you be quiet, you little fool?"
Post froze when he recognized the voice. It was Joan Hart. Mike Regan's story had been accurate.
"Just once, Joan, please."
"If you don't shut up...."
Post moved stealthily forward, freezing again when he heard a twig crack. He waited for a reaction, but heard nothing except a slight rustling of leaves. "Isn't what we're doing enough for you?" Joan Hart asked.
"You don't know what it's like feeling this way. I love you, Joan, honestly I do. Please let me ... please!"
"Do you, sweetheart? Do you really?"
"Yes, yes. Honestly. I've never felt this way before about a person."
"You poor thing, you've never been with a girl, have you?"
"Only the way we do it. Please, Joan. I love you."
"You're a sweet boy, Tim. Really you are. I'm going to do something nice for you. You'll see."
The boy began moaning excitedly, while Joan spoke. "Calmly, Tim. Just be calm."
"Oh, how can I be calm? Please, Joan, won't you let me?"
"You don't understand, sweetheart. If I let you, nothing will ever be the same for you. You'll always want a woman that way, and at your age, it isn't so easy to get women. I'm doing you a favor, Tim. Honestly. You've been very nice to me. I'm making it so easy for you, Timmy, really.' "Oh, please, Joan."
Post decided he'd had enough. Regan had been right in his description. It was rough. He didn't even have the curiosity to look, or to imagine the poor, frustrated kid, gripping at Joan's long legs and begging for the very thing she would never give him.
He started away, feeling disgusted. And then he heard her voice, louder and with a note of alarm. "Tim! What are you doing Tim! Tim! Stop that! Don't, Tim! Don't Tim! Oh, please, no. NO!" There was genuine fear in her voice. Post started back.
"No, Tim, you don't know what you're doing. Stop, Tim, you're hurting me."
Post heard a loud moan from the boy. He fought his way through the shubbery and then he found them. Joan's tennis shorts and pink, scalloped panties had been torn away. Her blouse was open-unbuttoned, Post noticed. Her brassiere lying on a mound of cut grass was next to her tennis sweater.
The boy was about sixteen. He had Joan pinned by the shoulders to the ground, one hand clutching tightly at her firm white breast. He had just insinuated himself on top of her, between her legs, beginning the motion that caused him to sigh from the unknown pleasure.
The next events came quickly, so quickly that when Post thought back on them, he could not be sure of his suspicions, in spite of what he'd heard.
But standing there for a brief moment, he could have sworn he saw Joan surrender herself to what was happening. Her legs actually moved to accommodate the boy, her hands gripped the back of his shoulders.
And then she saw him.
She kicked at the boy and raked his back with her fingernails. "Help me, Stu. For God's sake, help me. Don't you see what he's trying to do?"
The boy was dumbfounded.
Post grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled sharply, threw him off balance. He landed in a heap, a sigh of frustration and bewilderment escaping him.
"Oh, thank God, Stu. Thank God you came. You saw. You saw what he was trying to do. The little begger tried to rape me."
"I didn't," the boy cried. "It wasn't like that."
"He did. You saw, Stu. You saw what he was trying to do to me."
"Oh, God," the boy said. He looked like a cornered young animal. He peered nervously about him and bolted past Stu.
"Wait," Stu shouted.
"Let him go," Joan said. "You scared him away, that's all that matters."
Post looked at her, bewildered. "Are you all right?" He wasn't sure at the moment, how much force the boy had used. He knew that somewhere along the line, the kid had become excited enough to try.
"He ... didn't ... well, nothing happened. You got here just in time. In another moment, it would have been too late. I know it, Stu." She began crying, her body shaking, her thin shoulders moving in spasms.
Post gave her his handkerchief. He dropped to his haunches beside her and held her hand. The crying, he decided immediately, was no act. Joan was genuinely frightened.
Post brushed some of the leaves and flecks of the grass from her hair. She let herself lean against him, still racking with sobs. He took the handkerchief from her and daubbed carefully at the corners of her eyes, then swabbed at the patches of grass stain on her hips.
Her elbows were bruised, but not bleeding. Leaves and more of the dry, cut grass had worked their way inside her sweat sox. He brushed as much of it as he could.
Surveying her torn shorts and panties, he decided they were beyond repair. Carefully, he put her brassiere in his coat pocket, then tied her sweater about her waist, tight enough to hold the torn pants in place.
"Come on," he said. "Did you bring your car?"
She told him it was in the parking lot.
With his arms about her narrow shoulders, Post led her to her white Mercury coupe. He opened the door for her, then moved around to the driver's side. The keys were still in the car.
So was her tennis gear. He helped her place her brown camel's hair coat over her shoulders, then she began crying again.
"There's an Emergency Hospital in Reseda," he said. "We can make it in a few minutes."
"No," she said, tugging at his arm. "Please, it's all right."
The entire weight of her body was leaning against him. "You've got to promise me you won't tell anyone about this. Not even June. Please. I couldn't stand it."
"You're the boss," Post said, "but I still think I ought to insist."
"Promise me, Stu. Please promise me you won't tell anyone, not even June."
Post started the Mercury. "I will," he said, "but only on one condition."
"I'll promise not to say a word to anyone about what happened today, but you've got to promise me you'll see a psychiatrist-soon."
Joan gave a light, airy chorus of laughter and squeezed his hand. "Oh, Stu, you're precious. You think he might have caused me some traumatic shock." You know, fcr a minute I thought you were going to propose something else."
"What?"
Joan Hart tilted her chin and enjoyed more laughter. Post had to admire the performance she was putting on. "I thought you were going to proposition me, promise not to tell if I'd let you finish what that little beggar started."
"Okay, Joan. Let's skip the act. I know why you were there with the kid."
Her face became more determined. "Of course, you do, Stu. He was trying to rape me."
"Joan, I heard what was going on a few minutes before he tried to rape you. I'll grant you that's what he was trying to do, but only because you deliberately got him so excited he didn't know what he was doing. Can I make it much clearer than that, Joan? To put the clincher on matters, I still have your brassiere in my pocket. Why is it that it was lying there next to your sweater, folded very neatly, while your shorts were being ripped off?
"Okay," she said quietly. "You know. Now what?"
"I'll forget the whole thing if you'll go to psychiatrist."
"Just like that, Stu?"
"Just like that. No strings attached."
"But why?"
"Believe it or not, Joan, I sort of like you. Not the way you think but as a person. If it's any consolation to you, I'd keep my word. But there's no guarantee that Mike Began will keep quiet."
"So Mike knows, too."
"He saw you, Joan. You weren't very discreet."
"No," Joan said. "I guess not. But I can tell you one thing, Stu, it never went this far before. I never cheated."
Post felt his hackles rise. "I may sound like a damned puritan to you, but what the hell do you call what you were doing with that kid if it wasn't cheating? You're the one who used the expression."
"You have no right to play God with me, Stu. I'm a hell of a lot purer than the other women. And it isn't as if you're so lilly white, either."
Stu bristled. "Meaning?"
"Meaning that Gail Windover told me a few interesting things about you."
"Such as?"
"Don't play guessing games with me, Stu Post. We all do what we do out of our marriage because we can't find it in our marriage. Why do you think I'm seeing that kid? Because he's willing to give me something Don won't."
He'd learned quite a bit, professionally and personally in these last three minutes with Joan Hart. He'd learned that there was a minimum code the women would adhere to, without thinking it was cheating.
As for himself, well...."I'm sorry, Joan, I guess I did put myself on a pedestal."
She touched his arm. "And I was trying to take some female bitchery out on you. You see, Stu, Mike Regan has already approached me. He'd be very happy to take little Tim's place."
"The bastard," Post said. "The dirty bastard."
"Look, Stu, Humphrey seems to think he has to give me my thrice weeky duty loving. Do you think that's what I want, duty loving? The hell I do. I'm not that dumb or that hard to look at that I can't find a man who really cares. And for all my kicking up my heels, I've still never been intimate with another man the way I have with Humphrey. You still think I ought to see a psychiatrist? You still think I'm a neurotic, crazy broad?"
"I didn't say that, Joan. But maybe he can help you. I'm sure Humphrey can be approached, if you play it correctly."
"Sure. I tell him about Mike and he'll want to know everything. He'll pull the same old line and promise it won't matter, no matter how bad it is. Then, like a fool, I'll tell him and it will be held against me for years. No thanks, Stu. Maybe you can do that with June. But, not me."
"In that case," Post said, "maybe a psychiatrist is the best answer."
"All right," Joan said. "I will. That surprises you, doesn't it? But I will, damn it, I will."
"It was nine-thirty when Joan let Stu off in front of his house. He'd come to admire her deeply. And it was driven home to him, for perhaps the thousandth time, what a good, sincere woman can do for a man, any man, but especially her husband, if only he will let her.
The first and foremost thing on his mind as he fitted his key into the lock was Francesca Abblebaum. He was going to tell her. They were through. Whatever his problems were with June, he was going to face them by himself. But he was not going to be intimate with Francesca, not any more.
Opening her door, he saw June, sitting on the divan. She was dressed for bed. The moment she saw him, she flung her magazine aside.
Post was immediately smitten by her, she had a haunting aura of attractiveness. Her lovely legs, propped up by her high-heeled mules, glistened in the soft light. Her breasts were visible through the filminess of her gown. Her hair had a radiant, dark softness to it. Her face glowed with a quiet sensuality. Her womanliness prevailed and Post had the distinct flattering impression that it was because of and for him that she was like this now.
He gritted his teeth for the ironic comedy to come. What would she tell him this time? To sleep on the couch? That she cared for him even more? That she was sorry they'd quarreled?
He held onto his resolve that all was finished between himself and Francesca. He had to hang onto it tightly, because the sight of June had his juices running in him.
"I've been doing some thinking while you were gone, Stu," she said softly, patting a place next to her for him to sit.
He was tense enough to shout at her again. "Don't think so damned much if it's going to make you look this way."
He sat next to her, on the edge of the pillow. "What have you been thinking about, June?" he asked, instead of the explosive reply that had come to his lips.
"This was a crisis for us tonight. It was, in a very real sense, our first big fight. When you left, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I knew there was something I had to do. Now I know what it is."
"What?" he asked.
June tugged at the tie-string holding her robe together at the neck. "This," she said, letting the robe fall off her shoulders. Then she tugged at the ribbon that went about the neck of her filmy shortie shirt.
She deliberately lifted it over her head. Her breasts were exposed, small, firm and lovely, shimmering in the light.
"And this, too, she said, extending her hand to him.
"The rest is your job, all yours. But please," she added, touching his leg with her hand, "whatever you do, please be tender."
CHAPTER TEN
Post carried June into the bedroom and set her down on his bed. This was going to be more than right, he thought, this was going to set a prscedent.
He sat next to her, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her full on the lips. It felt good seeing how she responded to him. Her hands played over his chest and shoulders, working at the buttons on his shirt.
He couldn't believe his luck. She was actually responding to him, she was actually encouraging him, and he was not going to disappoint her.
Lying next to her he explored her body slowly, caressing the warmth of her hips until he knew her response was complete.
Post was so shot through with expectation that when he undressed, he didn't care where his clothes went. This was something he'd been waiting for a long time, too long. But it had been worth waiting for.
June's skin was pliant and smooth under his touch and when she began to sigh in rhythmic cadence, Post experienced a glow of happiness he hadn't known for a long time.
This wasn't a stop gap affair, something he did to relieve the damned up pressure so that he could think and function again. This was June. This was the woman responsible for the pressure. He looked at her and sighed with satisfaction.
June's face resolved into a vision of haunting loveliness. Her lips were slightly parted, her nostrils beginning to flare, her eyes somewhat narrowed to the point where Post was excited, just by looking at her.
It was no longer the face of a career woman, who could be quite clinical and objective. Her lips began quivering, her breath was warm against his face and she sighed with pleasure, there was no mistaking that.
Post couldn't resist the impulse to put both arms about her and feel the naked length of her body, pressing warm and lovingly against his. It was like being delicately tickled with a piece of fine satin.
"You do love me, don't you, Stu?" she said. "That's all that matters."
"You know I do," he said, with such conviction in his voice that her response was an even deeper sigh.
She began a friction of her hips against him, mounting in intensity. When Post moved his hand over her hips, it was as though he'd caressed every last bit of resistance away. She began moving with great animation, thrashing about, thrusting her body against him.
Post realized with great joy that his hunch about June had been right. She was a very sensual woman. Loving her was going to be fun, all of it, every bit of it, every time.
She wrapped her legs about him, squeezing tightly. Post was amazed by her strength. Her intensity spurred him on. Only with the greatest control could he continue this foreplay, keeping it tender and gradual out of consideration for her. He discovered, though, that as her excitement progressed, he was experiencing a build-up and glow he'd never known with a woman before.
June was not shy. She did not have to be coaxed now that she had finally let down the barriers between herself and love. As her fingertips lingered momentarily about his ear lobes, the undersides of his arms and the insides of his thighs, Post knew that June was well aware of her business. This only made it better for him, thinking how he would have a life of this.
He caused their bodies to merge and June let out a gasp of pleasure. Her movements became more intense and in a quick moment, Post lost all control of reality. He was aware only of the ache and longing he'd carried for her. Now he was united with her and it overcame her.
He quickly reached the pinnacle of release and, as he did, he noticed an abrupt change in June. She became suddenly limp, unexcited, as though that switch, that god-awful switch had been thrown in her mind. He sought, by his own movements to carry her along with him, but he knew after a second that it was futile.
"I'm sorry, Stu," she said, when it was over. "I guess it was a mistake to think it would be so easy."
"But why not?" he said, holding her tightly, desperately. It had taken so long, they'd been so close. He couldn't let it slip through his fingers now. "Why?" he said. "What's wrong?"
She touched him fondly on the cheek. "It wasn't your fault, really," she said.
"Yes, it was, if this is the result," he told her.
June shook her head. He noticed tears in the corners of her hazel eyes. "It just isn't any good for me, that's all."
"Whatever there was in me that was a potential, it was spoiled by my marriage. That's all there is to it. I know how much this meant to you. I tried, Stu, really I did."
She paused to mop up the wet streaks on her face. "You can see how it is with me. I almost think I really love you, and that's why we've got to stop and chalk this up as an experiment that failed. It would always be like this, and you'd know it. With another man, an older man, it wouldn't be so often. Perhaps I could even convince him it was all right, not being able to have physical pleasure with another man easier than I could with you."
He tightened his grip on her arm. "You were just nervous, June. We can do it, June, we really can, if you'll just try."
She shook her head. "You don't understand. It would only be worse. I know how much it means to you. Do you think I haven't seen how you've suffered? We've got to stop now before anything else happens."
There was nothing more to be said. June took her usual shower, and he could barely bring himself to pull the covers over his body and pretend to be asleep when she returned.
If it was any consolation, he heard June trying to snuffle the sound of her own crying during the night. But Post didn't know. He didn't know anything but the feeling of a big dull ache.
The memory of her was all pervasive. A whispy odor of her accented his unhappiness. The recall of their bodies, enveloped in each other was strong.
How much longer could a guy go on this way, work or no work? He had eleven more months of being with June like this. Eleven long, miserable months.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was T day.
Post knotted the sash of his light silk robe and placed a nasal inhaler in his pocket. He deliberately wadded lumps of facial tissue and stuffed them in a few of the more visible wastebaskets around the house.
On the nightstand next to the bed, he left a half finished glass of tomato juice, a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin.
He had deliberately not shaved that morning.
At noon, the phone rang and Post answered it trying to sound as nasal as possible.
"Stu, have you had your lunch yet?"
"No," he said.
"Well, your neighbor lady of mercy is bringing it over to you. June said she left the door open so I'll walk right in."
Post replaced the receiver. The trap had been baited and sprung.
He was only doing his job. This was what he was being paid for, but it left a bad taste in his mouth. You can't live in a neighborhood and learn to like the people, set traps to expose their secrets and like yourself he was discovering.
Ten minutes later, he heard the front door open. There were a few sounds from the kitchen and then the clack of high heels, moving through the hallway into the bedroo.
"Are you decent?"
"Come on in Ethel."
Ethel Prantis entered the room with a big smile. She had an armful of magazines which she sat on Stu's bed. "How is the invalid?"
"Not bad," he said. "I think I'll be able to make it back to work tomorrow. At least, there's been no sneezing today."
"Glad to hear it." Ethel moved over to fluff his pillow. "Men," she said. "What would they ever do without us?"
Post watched her closely. Nothing was said about June being away for the day, although he believed the way Ethel was dressed was an indirect reflection of this. He felt a rush of excitement at the knowledge that the experiment already was showing some signs of success. Ethel wore a tight linen skirt that stretched across her buttocks without a wrinkle, making her buttocks stand out prominently. For a blouse, she wore, a knit cotton short-sleeved jersey tight across the bodice. The two top buttons were opened and Post had no difficulty discovering she was wearing a white brassiere when she bent over to fluff his pillow again.
She left the room, walking with an inviting waggle. A few minutes later, she returned with a tray containing a bowl of rich, thick soup and a platter of sandwiches.
"Looks good," Post said. "As a matter-of-fact, so do you."
Ethel bowed her head demurely. "Thank you, sir. It's my theory that a sick man needs morale."
"Well, you're quite a bit of morale."
She sat opposite him on Stu's bed, watching him eat. Her skirt was so tight that it immediately hiked over her knees. Far from being self-conscious about this, Ethel crossed her legs, managing to show Post an intriguing profile. There was no question in his mind that she was showing off for him when she leaned across him to remove the soup bowl. Her breasts all but grazed his face.
She smiled as he moved back, then sat down, looking idly at some of his magazines. "This is a switch," she said, "the way you go from Atlantic to girlie books."
"I have to keep my mind busy in several areas," Post said with a smile.
Ethel laughed and reached for one of the magazines. A piece of paper fluttered out of it down to the bedspread. This was the moment he had been waiting for.
"Leave it," he said, deliberately putting too much emphasis on his words.
Ethel looked at him closely, then retrieved the paper. It was a picture of Ethel that June had stolen from Edward. "Where did you get this, Stu?"
He tried to make it sound as though he were passing it off lightly. "Well, my little secret is out. Neighbor Edward and I were comparing notes on photography last week and I saw this. It's the cutest damn thing I've ever seen. Very good of you, Ethel. Edward doesn't even know I've got it."
She looked at him suspiciously. "I didn't know you were interested in photography, Stu."
"Well, yes, sort of. I don't have as much equipment as Edward, but...."
"What kind of cameras do you have?"
Post named an inexpensive camera.
"That's all?"
"Yes. Nice little thing, too."
"Stu, be honest with me. Is that the real reason why you have the pictures?"
Post felt everything moving smoothly. All he had to do now was keep it this way, making it seem he was becoming progressively more flustered.
"Well, what other reason would there be, Ethel?"
"That's the very thing I wonder, Stu. Do you have any more of Edward's pictures?"
"Just this one."
"But why this particularly picture?"
"I told you, Ethel, because it's such a cute pose. It makes you look so nice and cuddly and all. I was thinking that maybe if I got good enough with my own pictures, you might pose for me, like this, of course, I mean in a bathing suit or something."
"Or something," Ethel said, her face coming to life with an impishness. "How would you like me to pose, Stu? Like this?" She stood up and assumed a pose that might have come from a photograph,' magazine. One foot was slightly extended, the buttocks stuck out audaciously in the other direction.
"Not bad," Post said.
Ethel dropped all pretenses. "Stu, I don't think that's why you have the picture at all. You stole it because you find yourself attracted to me, don't you?"
Perfect, Post thought, here we go. "Yes, Ethel, I do."
"Well, I won't say I'm not flattered."
"Then you aren't mad at me for stealing the picture?"
"No, Stu, I'm not. But do you think it's a good idea keeping it around? I mean, if June saw it...."
"She won't."
Ethel smiled and sat on the edge of his bed. "You really want that picture, don't you?"
"I told you," he said, "I think it's cute."
Her hand touched his leg. "Is that all, just cute? I mean, don't you ever think anything else when you look at it?"
Aha Post thought, the build-up is coming to a pay-off. "Yes," he said. "I think about touching you. I like the way you walk, Ethel."
"Do you? Do you really? Would you like to touch me now?"
"Very much."
"I don't think that's so wrong, I mean, it's just mature admiration."
Post had to choke back a laugh on that one. It was admiration, all right, but it was anything but mature.
"Would you like to ... now?"
"Yes."
Ethel swung her legs up on the bed and turned on her side, facing him. This was one of the times he wished he had more of June's ability to detach himself. He guessed men weren't made that way, however. Ethel was attractive. "Go ahead," she said. "You can touch me."
Post did. He placed his hand tentatively on the small of her back. She wriggled closer to him. "That isn't where I mean," she said.
He let his hand move a little lower. The flesh of her buttocks was firm and exciting to his fingers, but as Post began a slow, circular movement, he realized he could not possibly be enjoying this as much as Ethel was.
"You have a very nice touch, Stu," she said. "Does it please you to do this?"
He told her it did. As a result, she moved even closer. The tightness of her skirt forced her to turn in three-quarter profile to him to accomplish her next purpose, and that was exposing more of her buttocks. Her right leg lay across his and he could feel the steady friction of her thigh and pelvis against his. There was very little he could do to prevent her from knowing just how much he was enjoying this.
They lay together for nearly a half an hour while Post continued to massage her. After a while, he stopped, but she begged him to continue. Finally, he had to tell her he didn't see how he'd be able to.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "I understand. I feel the same way." Then she became quite animated, moving quickly, thrusting against him.
Post gritted his teeth and held on.
"Please, Stu," she whispered hoarsely. "Kiss me."
He did. It was neither difficult nor unpleasant. Ethel knew how to kiss quite well and this brought him to a pitch of excitement. His hand moved along her inner thigh. She jerked in a few quick spasms and then Post knew she had found release.
While this happened, she clung to him tightly, whispering endearments. Post felt a pang of tenderness for her and massaged her shoulders and neck. She kissed him in return for it. The kiss was moist and lingering, but Ethel did not use her tongue. And when they parted, Post had a strange vision of her, looking quite young and helpless. He touched her to reassure her, but the look of her face was so intense, Post knew he could have taken her.
It was a difficult battle to fight.
Ethel was not, in his eyes, beautiful, but she was cute. She had an impish face and now that the defense of her snobbery had vanished from it and left it only with naked need, Post was quite drawn, not to mention the raging that had been awakened by their being together.
Ethel watched him for a moment, then led one of his hands to her breast. With the other she gently probed at his loins. Post saw this was a time of crisis. It took every bit of teeth-clenching determination he could muster to lay there with her, caressing her and attempting gently to let her down.
After several minutes, Ethel began crying. "I'm not crying for the reason you think," she said. "Believe it or not, I'm crying because I'm happy."
"Happy?" Post said.
"Yes. You could have and you didn't. You saw how excited I was. You were pretty excited, too. But you didn't. And you didn't paw me, you were nice and kind. You really do like me, don't you? Don't you?"
"Yes," Post said feeling like a complete heel. "I do."
"It's never been like this, Stu. I've always felt ashamed afterward. I always think about Joe and then I feel guilty. I always mean to stop, not even to go as far as we did, but something happens and I don't stop. I get pawed and abused.
"But I'm not fooling myself," she said looking him straight in the eye, "I know it's my fault from the beginning. I knew what I was doing when I let Edward take those pictures of me. I take it, you've seen the others."
"No, just this one."
"Well, there are others."
"You don't have to tell me this, Ethel." Post's feelings of integrity as a person were getting the better of his desire to do a good job. In fact, slowly, but very really, he was beginning to hate his job.
"I want to," she said, a note of guilt in her voice. Ethel sat up to accept a cigarette from Post.
"As you can see, I'm not the most attractive person in the world. I'm not bad looking, but I couldn't stand up in a beauty contest with June or, say Francesca Abblebaum. It's like they taught us at school, be charming. All right, that's what I have. I also have an interesting waggle when I walk. It's like advertising, Stu. I'm just calling attention to something. But the main reason I do it is because I want to be noticed. It's flattering.
"I love Joe. He loves me and that's what hurts. I know what we are like and I'm willing to stake my life on the fact that Joe hasn't gone near another woman since we've been married. I wish I could say the same about myself."
Stu took Ethel in his arms, pushing her head down on his shoulder to give her as much silent comfort as he could.
"Unfortunately, Joe loves his job, too. I'm not jealous of the job in the usual sense, but Joe spends from ten to fourteen hours a day at it. Sometimes, he'll get fidgety on Saturdays and I can see he's itching to drive into town and get back to his drawing board. I miss him, Stu. I need a little attention once in a while. Damn it the house is filled with table tops in mosaics I've made. I read six books in the last two weeks and none of it was as satisfying as what we just did. You could have had me. I would have let you. Then I would have felt mopey and guilty-until the next time. My instincts tell me how nice you are, and I had a pretty good chance to judge for myself. But you could have taken me. And you know something, you still can."
Hearing her say that again, Stu lost the control he'd maintained so far.
He pulled Ethel to him, pushing his lips against hers. She fought for a moment, surprised, but quickly accepted what was happening.
She sighed. "You see, this is the only answer." And she moved her arms about him tightly.
This time, Post caressed her with an intimate knowledge of where she was the most sensitive, starting at the small of her back and working about the buttocks and thighs. He struggled with the buttons of her jersey while she probed at him, making quick work of arousing his manhood.
Ethel began undoing her brassiere but Post felt too inflamed to be patient. He lunged for her and they fell back on the bed together. His hands closed over her breasts and he closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy her kisses.
It was amazing, he thought, how much difference kissing made. Ethel was good. He wondered how she'd come to perfect such fine technique. Her lips would alternately brush his, then meet firmly with an occasional nibble or a flick of the tongue.
He saw how close to release she was and he deliberately brought this about by touching her hips and thighs. He enjoyed the sounds of her passionate moaning and as he held her tightly, he watched her trim body writhe in excitement.
Ethel sought to bring them together and when Post realized this, he knew he'd been drawn on by the intensity of Ethel's need. He'd been inflamed and aroused by it, just as he'd been touched by a note of pity for her.
"What is it?" Ethel said. "What's the matter?"
Post didn't know. In his mind, he'd made the choice. He was allowing this to happen, allowing his intensity to bring this passion on again, but now that the moment had come for completion, he felt a slackness inside of him, a numb, dulling note.
Her eyebrows went up in surprise. "Why?" she said. "You were the one who started this. You were all ready for it."
For a torturous moment, he actually willed himself to try, to participate. Ethel would be good, he told himself. But it was no use. She tried to help him, whispering softly and suggestively in his ear.
At length, Ethel gave up trying. She lay down beside him, still breathing heavily. "I know why," she said. "I'm sure I know why."
"I wish you'd tell me."
"You like me," she said. "I know that and I'm grateful. Iut you love June, that's why you can't. Men are strange creatures that way. They can be aroused by a picture. They can think about committing all kinds of infidelities, they can even believe it's possible for them. But when the chips are down and the opportunity arrives, only a few of them can go through with it."
"I like you, Ethel."
"Sure you do," she said. She pounded the pillow. "Sure you do, but you love June. Oh boy, I've learned something, learned it the hard way, too. I wish it could happen to me the way it did with you. Isn't it funny," Ethel said, "I love my husband. I try to be a good mother, and in between, I look for truck drivers or sympathetic neighbors. All I can say in my own defense is that at least I don't get rid of my need and loneliness the way Lou Regan and Clair Morganroth do."
"What do you mean, Ethel?" Post said, his sociological ears perking up in spite of himself.
"Well, they boast that they've never been untrue to their husbands. And they haven't, I admit that. And they boast they don't let other men paw them. That's true, too. But I think what they do together is worse than infidelity, it's perverted, that's what it is."
"Ethel, do you know what you're talking about?"
"You're darn right I do." She wouldn't look him in the eye and Stu couldn't decide whether it was because she was lying or embarrassed.
"One afternoon, couple of months back I discovered that I'd run out of cloves in the middle of cooky making. I ran over to Lou's, entering her house through the garage door, without knocking. Before I could call, I spotted her and Clair together on the couch. I don't think they heard anything. They were too involved. So I sneaked out of there and ran back home. Boy, it sure cured me of going into someone's home unannounced."
She didn't answer his question but continued to look at the bedspread and shook her head. "Never mind. I shouldn't have said what I did. I guess when you feel as guilty as I do you want to splash a little smut on everyone else. Please forget I said anything, Stu. They're nice girls, caught in the same trap I am. I just prefer my way, as much as I despise it, of handling the problem to theirs, that's all."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"What do you think, Stu?"
"I think this one is going to be your baby."
June stopped eating. "It's all in a day's work but frankly the idea disgusts me-and frightens me a little too. I like Lou and Clair. I don't relish trapping them into exposing that kind of thing about themselves."
Post smiled at her. This was a long way from steel cabinet Harlon, girl computer machine. "Ethel may have been lying and you don't have to follow through on it."
She shoved her plate impatiently away from her. "You don't think Ethel was lying and I'd better follow through on it, or quit my job. This is what we're hired for."
It wasn't until Post felt the let down of disappointment that he realized he'd been hoping that this time June wouldn't go through with a scheme to spy on their neighbors. She wants to be a woman and a friend, he told himself, she just hasn't found out how to do it yet.
He knew what was keeping him in this dirty business. It was June. If he quit now, he'd lose the chance of winning her love. It was the day by day intimate proximity, the make-believe marriage, that was slowly tearing down her defenses.
Much as he hated what he was doing, he didn't dare stop.
"There's only one thing, Stu," June said. I think we'd better take some tapes of this. Lesbians are notoriously shy about discussing their problems. On the off chance that one of the girls might go into the rationale for her behavior, we should make a permanent record of it for the Institute."
Post felt sick to his stomach.
"And," June continued, "in any case we'll get the patter of their seduction line."
Then she saw the look of disgust on his face. "I know just how you feel, Stu, believe me I do. But science has got to know about a disease before it can hope to treat it."
"I'm coming to think that's just a rationalization for nasty minded voyeurism. At least in Tijuana, the peepers pay a price of admission for the right to watch sex games in action."
June flushed deeply and left the table.
The next three weeks were a horror for Stu. She didn't talk to him except when others were present.
If they'd really been married, Post knew what he'd have done. He'd have given her cute little fanny the spanking it deserved and then turned her over and made love to her until her tears became sighs of pleasure and they could be happy together.
As it was he felt helpless. He couldn't feel like a man with June and he did feel like a louse with their friends in the neighborhood. When he went to the Institute, it was all he could do to be civil to Dr. Prique. While he was supposed to be working, he would catch himself day-dreaming his speech of resignation.
Post knew that June had been working on Clair and Lou. A couple of times, coming home early from the Institute, he found them, together and separately, in the living room with her.
Finally one Tuesday morning she broke the long silence. Her voice when it came was as chilled as a blast from an overactive air conditioner. "Tomorrow's the day, Stu. Lou's coming for lunch. I've got this all worked out. If you can't feel like cooperating, I'll be forced to report your dereliction to Dr. Prique."
Stu wanted to tell her what she could do with Dr. Prique. He also wanted to tell her he was beginning to think he had made a serious mistake in loving her. But reason and training told him that this was a last ditch defense of June's own sickness. Without being aware of what she was doing, part of her was deliberately trying to scare him off so there would be no chance of his making a woman out of her.
He waited until he could force his voice to be cordial. "What is it you want me to do?"
"I'll drive you into town on the pretext that I want the car. You'll come back with me, of course. But you'll crouch down in the rear where you can't be seen and sneak in through the garage door. Dr. Prique sent some men over with the proper equipment last week. It's all set up. The only thing you have to do is stay hidden in my dressing room and keep feeding tape into the recorder. Okay?"
"All right," he said. "Let's get started."
On the drive-June didn't go to the city, but turned into the hills as if she wanted to get back to the clean outdoors-he could tell she was nervous. He knew she secretly felt as guilty as he about what they were doing but this was more than that and it puzzled him. He caught her chewing her lip several times.
As soon as they were back home, June put him in the dressing room on the off chance Lou might drop in early. But she didn't and the waiting seemed interminable.
At last he heard the front door open. After a bit, the sound of clinking dishes drifted in through the dressing rooms walls and he realized he was famished but it was too late to think of that. It was quite a while later that the tapping of high heels and chatter of voices approached their bedroom.
"It was such a bargain, Lou, I couldn't resist it. I left it out expressly to show you. What do you think?"
Lou's voice, low with a breathless quality, answered. Stu clicked the tape recorder on and hoped that the mike strapped to the wall would pick it up. Or, maybe, he hoped it wouldn't. He wasn't quite sure. "I think it's darling but I'd like to see it on you."
"That'll only take a minute of accomplishment," June said.
There was a few moments of silence and then Lou's voice again, "You have a lovely body, June. Your breasts are like two cunning golden delicious apples. And that tiny waist! I find it hard to believe that your sex life is as blank as you make it out to be."
"Oh," June sounded hesitant. "It isn't that Stu leaves me alone. It's that Le can't. To be frank, Lou, he just can't satisfy me."
Damn her! Damn her! Damn her! Stu knotted his fist and soundlessly pounded his thigh. Why the hell did she have to say that. Because it was true! He hadn't been able to satisfy her. Couldn't she know how he'd feel, hearing her say that. Or did she plan it purposely?
"Strange you should say that." Lou's voice again, sounding a little eager, Stu thought. "I have the same problem with Mike. He means well, the poor darling, but tie's clumsy. A little too gross. I guess all men are."
"Oh, Stu's clumsy enough, all right." June's words came with a nervous rush. Post still could not imagine what had her so on edge. "He breaks at least one dish a week."
"I didn't mean that way, silly. I mean in the way they make love, they way they go about touching a woman. Look, here's the way a man would stroke a woman's arm and here's the right way to stroke it."
"What a world of difference!"
"All the difference between revulsion and desire. I know. I have the name difficulty with Mike."
Stu heard Lou give a tinkle of icy merriment and began disliking her on the spot. Mike was a good guy. He didn't desire a wife who made sport of him behind his back.
"Really, June, he's so funny. We'll be sitting together chatting while we're getting ready for bed. I'll have taken my dress off, the way you are now, and suddenly he'll get a peculiar look on his face and lunge at me."
"You poor darling!" From the genuine sympathy in June's voice Stu realized she was confusing Lou's excuses for her abnormalities with June's brutal treatment at the hands of her husband. Stu was amazed. He'd never known June to become so involved in an "interview."
"Yes, June, he practically tears my brassiere and panties off my body. How much better it would be if he'd take them off like this."
There was a long silence during which Stu shifted his weight uneasily. Was she actually removing June's brassiere? Why wasn't June bringing the "interview" to a head. What more could she want? They already had Lou's rationale: men are clumsy brutes. They had her approach: let me show you how it should be done.
Lou was speaking again. Her tone seemed a little more husky to Stu. "And this is how the panties should be removed."
Stu wished he could see what was going on in there. A flapping noise interrupted his speculations. The tape needed changing. As quickly as he could, and still be soundless, he stopped the machine, took off the old tape and hooked up a new one. While he was working, he thought he heard sounds from the bedroom but he couldn't be sure.
He heard the sound again. It was a moan.
Post began sweating. This thing was getting out of hand.
Then June spoke. "Oh, Lou, you mustn't do that. It's not right.""
"Silly, I'm not doing anything that your own mother didn't do when she used to wash you. June you're tense. I can feel how taut your muscles are. That lovely body won't stay lovely if you mistreat it this way. You need someone to gentle the strain out of it. Stu can't do it for you. Men don't know how and they're too damn selfish to learn."
Lou's contempt for men was out in the open now. Stu could visualize her, sitting on the bed, her nostrils flaring as she spoke and those evil hands on June's body.
"Look, June, your muscles are beginning to relax already. You know you want this as much as I do. Listen to your body, June. It's crying out with need."
The only reply was a deep gasp of pleasure.
There was another silence, the most hideous silence Stu ever experienced. He didn't know what to do. Desperately he wanted to storm into the bedroom and break that unholy rite up. But things had gone too far ... Now June would only be humiliated.
He was to blame for this. He'd known how confused June was about sex recently with the ambivalence brought upon by her own newly awakened cravings and her still existing fears. He should never have told her about Ethel's accusations against Lou and Clair. Right now she was primed for this sort of thing. He'd let this damned job harm Juney. God, if only he'd have the chance to make things right again. He sat crouched in the hot dressing room, his head in his hands, hoping this experience wouldn't leave permanent scars on June.
He heard her voice blurred with excitement. "Ohhh, it feels so good when you touch me there."
And more moaning.
Then June spoke again. "It isn't fair that I should be having all the pleasure." Her voice sounded shamed but compelled, almost hypnotized. "Let me take your clothes off, Lou."
"All right, darling, if you wish."
"Now what do I do?" June's voice, low and uncertain.
"Well, you put your hand here and your mouth there and then relax and let your body tell you what to do."
In the godawful silence that followed Stu imagined Lou's face smiling with triumph. She'd brought it off, damn her. He wondered how many women confused and hurt by temporary marital troubles she'd tricked into perversion.
The activity in the bedroom was growing violent now. Stu heard the bed springs creak, the rustling of the spread and heavy panting sounds.
"Oh, Lou, that feels good. It's wonderful. Do it again."
"June, you don't know how I've wanted you. I've been watching you ever since you moved in here. June, please, kiss me there."
More thrashing noises and grunts of excitement and then two feminine voices raised in a loud keening of pleasure. Something splashed on Stu's shoe. He realized he was crying.
There was another long silence. Then Stu heard someone moving quietly around in the bedroom. Finally Lou's voice soft but definitely victorious murmured. "I'll see you later. But don't worry, June. It'll be very soon."
He heard Lou's steps leave the bedroom, fade away and he heard a door slam. Stu continued to sit where he was. He didn't know what to do next. He wondered if he could look June in the face. He even wondered if he wanted to.
After a long time he slowly got to his feet and went into the bedroom.
June was lying on the bed, face up, naked, staring into the ceiling. Silent tears streamed down her face.
"I guess now we both know what's wrong with me," she said, her voice rough with self loathing.
Stu walked over to the bed and picked up June's nude body. He held her close without attempting to make love to her.
"Nothing's the matter with you, Juney." His feeling of protection toward her made him sound very definite and sure of himself. "You've done nothing that many girls don't do in their teens. You did it today for the same reason. You were torn between sexual desire and fear of men. Your body took what seemed to it at the time a safe way out. Those girls live to have normal, happy marriages and so will you."
When he got up and started removing his clothes he saw fear flicker across her face. "No, dear, I'm not going to try to make love to you now. Don't you see, Juney, we've a whole lifetime for that. We can afford to take our time, to go slowly until you're quite ready for it."
After he was free of his clothes he picked her up and carried her into the bathroom; shifting her weight in his arms so he could turn on the water faucets. She was docile in his arms. He set her down in the shower and, taking up a bar of soap, scrubbed down her entire body, even shampooing her hair. Then he washed himself.
He told her while he was towelling her off that they weren't going to try to forget this incident. It was a part of their lives, a part of their growing up. "Don't you see, Juney, I grew up, too, listening in the dressing room to you and Lou. I realized that in my egotism I had been pushing you too hard. I let my own needs blind me to your problems."
She didn't say anything but she took the hand that was drying her in her hand and kissed it. Her face had grown calm and untroubled. Looking into June's clear hazel eyes, Stu knew that today's events would always be a memory but that they would leave no scars.
For the first time in a long, long while, he was proud of both of them.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Post was somewhat edgy about the prospects of the evening ahead of them. Only two days had elapsed since the "interview" with Lou Kelly. June had stuck close to home as if she were frightened to trust herself yet in the outside world. Still, the invitation had come from their brand new neighbors, the Larks....
Phil and Aileen Lark had purchased their split level a few months back and had been moving in a few pieces of furniture at a time ever since. They had taken up residence the day of the interview and tonight were throwing a house warming, get acquainted party. Post had wanted to ask for a raincheck on the invitation but June begged that they go. "Aileen Lark is Japanese, Stu. I think it's important that we welcome them to the neighborhood. And frankly, I'm dying to meet her. I met some oriental girls in college but they never invited me to their homes. She says it's going to be a suklyaki supper. It should be great fun."
Professionally speaking, it was also too good to miss. Joe and Ethel Prantis were going to be there and the Edwards, whom Post was curious to know better.
Dinner began with a forced joviality and Post soon noticed that Phil Lark was going to great pains to nurse one cocktail through the preliminary chatting and nibbling of hors d'oeuvres.
Mr. Edwards was all about the house, admiring the Oriental paintings and jade statuary. Gail and Lyle Windover had both requested to see the Lark's son, Peter.
"The little fellow has a lot of his mother's characteristics," Windover said, causing another moment of tension.
The Prantises arrived a few minutes late and when Post noticed Ethel he felt uneasy. There was no mistaking the fact that her dress was expensive and well tailored. But it was tight. Ethel's bosom was erect, calling for an attention it deserved. The dress was tight across the hips, casting a long, smooth line from the curve of her hip to her knee with each step she took. When she sat, the hem of the skirt came above her knees, emphasizing the sleekness of her legs.
She was surprised to find herself outdone in this category by Aileen Lark, who wore the Hongkong brocade dress that hugged tightly about the bosom and hips, then came to an abrupt end at knee level. There was an additional styling of a slash at each side, running from just below the pelvis to the hem of the skirt, exposing a good portion of her thigh and leg with every step she took. This had a haunting effect. With her black silk stockings and white silk pumps, Aileen Lark's lovely legs were shown to perfection.
Post noticed Edwards licking his chops in anticipation and he wondered how soon it would be before he had a pleasant chat with Aileen, in which he proposed taking some pictures of her in this striking dress.
But Post also noticed that June's female dander had been threatened. She was not going to be outdone by Ethel Prantis. June wore a short skirt that hugged at her hips and a sheer silk cotton blouse through which one could easily see her flowery undergarments.
Post wished he wasn't involved with the professional aspect of this night. It should be an evening of fun, not work. Just as soon as he and June settled their problems, he determined to resign.
The dinner was served Japanese style, with the main dishes being suklyaki and a delicate fish dish Aileen called tempura. Post found himself seated between June and Ethel. Throughout the course of the meal, Ethel was quite attentive to him which seemed to annoy June considerably.
The food was good. The suklyaki had a rich, savory sauce tinged with ginger. Of the group, Lyle Windover was the only one who absolutely refused to try chopsticks.
Mrs. Edwards got giddy from drinking the saki, but the rice wine found great favor with the others. Dessert was served back in the living room, mandarin oranges that had been soaked in champagne.
After the dessert, Aileen Lark gave each couple an individual flagon of warmed saki, then placed a bowl of steamed napkins with herbs on the table.
When the napkins had been removed, Aileen Lark sat next to her husband. Post saw what was going to happen and was slightly amused.
The main form of entertainment now was to be conversation. The Larks were good at it. They began with questions about local politics and newspapers, drawing Joe Prantis and Mr. Edwards into interesting digressions.
Post began to feel truly comfortable with the Larks, particularly when he saw how skillfully they manipulated the conversation so that each person in the room had an opportunity to perform for a time.
Phil Lark told an amusing anecdote about silk importers. Aileen played an Oriental instrument, the sami-sen, just long enough to arouse everyone's interest.
But the entire conversational gambit electrified the group and by the time Aileen refilled the saki flagons, Post had the distinct impression that they were all enjoying themselves more than they had in several months.
When the second round of saki was out, the converations began breaking up into small groups. Aileen and Phil Lark had one interesting effect which got through to Post. They sat close to each other, actually holding hands. Their affection was obvious. And the effect, Post noticed, was that all the other couples followed suit.
Ethel Prantis, he noticed, was positively radiant when Joe impulsively kissed her on the chin. Post was amazed at how perceptive Ethel was about her own problems. She delighted in being able to pour more saki for Joe, to light his cigarette, to hold his hand. At length, Joe participated in a long conversation with Phil Lark, his hand resting on Ethel's knee. Post watched the effect on Ethel. She sat obediently next to Joe, taking in his every word.
The Lark's idea of entertainment had a far reaching effect. It was the first time Post had seen Coolanre Heights, people content not to be milling about restlessly, looking for something new to do.
At ten-thirty Aileen brought out a huge bowl of fresh pineapple and strawberries, encouraging everyone to help themselves.
Post was surprised to find June sitting on his lap. The Larks were dancing, which prompted Joe and Ethel Corwin to follow. Post asked June if she'd like to dance, but for an answer, she kissed him. He wasn't sure what it was. Perhaps she wanted to try again. Perhaps it was the saki and the champagne soaked fruit having their effect on her. Whatever it was, June was very ardent. In the darkness, she directed Post's hand to her breast. He fondled it for a moment, then kissed her. He could see the outline of Joe and Ethel Prantis, paused in their dancing to partake of a long kiss, their bodies pressed close together.
June whispered into Post's ear. "Tonight, the married folks seem to be awfully attractive to each other."
"Must be the atmosphere," Pos said.
"Must be the choice of mates," June said, a note of gaiety in her voice.
She snuggled closer to him. "There's an interesting magic in intimacy, Stu. All it takes is a touch to set it off. I'm glad I know so much about you."
Post tingled. He wasn't sure where the tingle came from or what it meant. On the surface, it was recognizable. June's dark hair had brushed his cheek. But then, her whispered voice had been tinged with playfulness and mischief, brought on, no doubt, by the saki she'd drunk and, as she'd said, the magic of their being close together.
He could not help thinking about kissing as he watched Joe and Ethel Prantis, nor could he avoid the thought when June brushed her lips against his cheek. Her arms wound about him. Post realized what was happening. He and June were necking.
His hands moved slowly over her back and shoulders. She sighed happily, shifting her weight to be more comfortable. He let one hand rest on her knee and they both sensed that this did not mean he was going to begin probing.
He felt comfortable and happy, touching his lips to hers, using his hand to stroke the lobe of her ear.
"Fun party," June said.
"Yes," he agreed.
"Fun husband, too. I love you, Stu."
The glow was even stronger with him. June began humming along with the music from the phonograph and Post knew she was at the state of intoxication best described as being tight. The barriers were down. She was like a small kitten who can trust its surroundings enough to sleep on its back with its paws splayed out to the side with no fear for its vulnerable belly.
It seemed to Post that only a few minutes had passed, but he knew it must have been much longer. Phil Lark evidently had learned some Japanese from his wife. He went to the center of the room and recited these words, "Kyo-wa otoko desu." He kissed Aileen and there was an appreciative round of applause from the other couples.
Post believed this was a way of announcing that the party was over and that Lark now wanted to be alone with Aileen. When he helped June up, he noticed that the Prantises, too, were ready to leave. Then, he suffered his first pang. There was no doubt in Post's mind what the Prantises would be doing. He was jealous. This gradual build up of awareness of June would be dissipated.
"I wonder how many babies will be started tonight," June said as they walked home.
The night was balmy. A warm Santa Ana wind came in from the desert. Trees rustled in the breeze and an occasional leaf clattered on the walk in front of them. The stars appeared frozen in the sky and of all of them, Venus shown the most brilliantly.
He walked with his arm about June. Her arm was about his and he thought how much like a bunch of teenagers they were, entranced with the magic of being together. He thought about all they'd had to drink and realized it had helped. June knew what she was doing and she wouldn't have acted this way with anyone else. The champagne and saki had simply removed the barriers.
Post wanted to prolong this delightful feeling of walking through the dimly lit street, past the other split-level homes, up the hill toward their own.
June weaved unsteadily, bumped into him several times. They paused to kiss under the glow of a street light. He felt her rub against him. "Oh, I do love you," she said.
When they reached their house, June was all over Post, kissing him and leaning against him while he fit the key into the door. His expectations had been gradually built up again, leading him to think that this, perhaps, was another chance. The time to strike was now, while June was like this, her guard down, her senses out in the open.
He led her quickly into the living room without bothering to flick on the lights. June sat on the sofa and began to giggle. June snuggled close to him. Their lips met in a moment of liquid warmth. "Please, Stu, let's try again," he heard June say.
He began unbuttoning her blouse. She responded with a murmur of pleasure. After a moment, she nudged closer to him and helped him remove her brassiere. He began caressing her and June's soft moaning became rythmic, almost a faint purr.
Post touched her legs and felt the quiver of happiness run through her. Spurred on by his vision of success, he unhitched the waitsband of her skirt. His hand moved in against the warm, bare flesh of the small of her back. He could feel the bony ridge of spine and the touch immediately evoked a vision of June's back, slender and attractive, the shoulder blades protruding just perceptibly.
The touch and the vision made him think of a word, used by a friend of his in a book. A four letter, Anglo-Saxon word. Post smiled. The language had a certain functional beauty about it. Frot. To render supple by rubbing. That was what was happening to June, all right. The feel of her warm skin, becoming supple under his touch excited him.
He closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder, his face brushing her hair. He inhaled the pleasant scent and experienced a long moment of pleasure and a feeling of protectiveness toward her.
He kissed the underside of her chin. June responded with a dreamy moan. Post lowered them to a reclining position and began stroking her thighs. June moved again. Post touched her pelvis. There was no response and for a moment, he was puzzled. But then he thought he must not expect too much. Meeting no resistance was enough, He touched her again, and then, witth searing, maddening certainty, he knew why there had been no response.
June was asleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Don't forget," Ethel Prantis said. "The minute it begins to get dark, we're expecting you."
"Not a chance in the world our forgetting," June said. "We've been looking forward to this for ages."
Ethel giggled. "I'm afraid it's gotten a bit out of hand." She cast a glance of mock reproof at Post. "And you didn't help matters any, Stu."
"What did Stu do?"
"Well," Ethel said, "your husband was the one who suggested the digging pit. Leave it to the Public Relations men to plant ideas that involve action, then they sit back and watch others do the work."
"Unfair," Post said. "I tried. They wouldn't let me in. They said the whole thing had to be a surprise."
"Joe and Phil Lark have been working on the fireworks display in secret for nearly a week. Today, they won't let anyone near our backyard until it's time to light the fuse. On top of that your husband had to suggest a pit, a barbecue pit in the ground for a roast pig," Ethel explained.
"In that case," June said, "wild horses couldn't keep me away."
"You haven't seen a Fourth of July celebration out here yet. We're on our third one. They get progressively more raucous. And I think it's a bit more than coincidence that the Regans have been here three years and have three children all of whom arrived in March. Simple arithmentic, my dear. Watch out, June."
"We'll just have to take our chances," Post said.
Ethel excused herself, leaving with the condiments she'd come to borrow. When she was gone June looked nervously at Stu. "Speaking of the Regans," she said, "Lou came over yesterday for more of the same. When I said no, she tried blackmail."
"Blackmail?"
"Yes, she said if I didn't ... cooperate, she'd tell you about our little tryst."
"Wouldn't that leave you free to go to Mike?"
"She claims Mike knows and approves," June said. "She says Mike married her for her money with the understanding that she could continue her homosexual flings whenever and as much as she wished."
"I'd be willing to bet that's a damned lie. Mike's not that kind. Oh, Lou may have come into the marriage with money of her own, all right, but my guess is that he knows nothing of his wife's predilections."
Post looked up to see June's shoulders shaking with anxiety. "Hey, you cut that out," he said, going over to put his arms around her. "Perversion is Lou's problem, honey child, not yours. You've just got a bad case of, if you'll pardon the expression, buck fever. And it's not going to last forever, either. One day, sooner than you realize, you'll have a shot at it and everything will be okay. Okay."
June smiled ruefully and silently nodded her agreement.
"What did you say to Lou?" Post wanted to know.
"I told her I'd have to think about it. She said she'd be back tomorrow."
"You mean today?"
"Nope. She said July fifth. Evidently she keeps the fourth open for heterosexuality."
"Ha, ha," Stu replied grimly. "Look, tomorrow she's going to face both of us. Then I'm going to try a little blackmail. If she doesn't see a psychiatrist, I'll threaten to go to Mike with the whole story."
June took Stu's hand, holding on to it tightly. "Do you think she'll agree?"
Shaking his head, "No," Stu said, "I think she'll agree to anything to keep Mike from knowing the truth about her. But I don't think it'll do any good. Lou's a vicious woman, June. I don't believe she's capable of loving a man."
He was silent a moment, then burst out angrily. "Damnit, June, they've got three kids. What're you going to do."
"I know what you mean, darling."
"All I'm really hoping for is that psychiatric treatment will keep this thing in reasonable bounds with her. Let her go to her own kind for satisfaction and stop seducing the neighbor ladies and then using blackmail to keep them available to her sexually. I suspect she wants normal women because she's jealous of them. Maybe the psychiatrist can rid her of that. This whole problem is too much for me."
He spread out his hands helplessly. "It's too much like playing God. If I hadn't become a professional sex peeper for Prique, we wouldn't be involved with this evil woman."
June had frowned at the words "professional sex peeper, but, after a few moments reflection, agreed. "I've come to lose faith in our work here, too. It's tough, Stu, facing up to mistakes."
They spent the better part of a couple of hours putting their house in order. Stu worked on the study and garage, June had some chores in the kitchen. By the time they were finished, the sun was turning a dull red and they changed into informal garden party clothes and sauntered over to the Prantises.
The party to k place in the Prantis' backyard and flowed over into the Lark's, where the rich odor of roasting pig came from the pit Phil Lark had been digging all day.
Stu took over the huge bowl of potato salad he and June had agreed to provide, plus several bottles of gin, purchased on special at the cut-rate drug store in the shopping center.
The come-as-you-are part was taken seriously, Stu noticed as he saw the occasional dress, but mostly shorts on the women and Bermuda walking shorts on tve men.
The unpredictable California weather-it had rained only the day before-bore down with a balmy summer evening that held the patio lights and glow from the fire in a soft, warm diffusion.
Stu and June had not had more than five minutes to greet the Prantises and be poured drinks when, it seemed to him, he was whisked away by a woman he'd only recognized vaguely. She was a tall blonde, in her early thirties; a big woman with large, appealing proportions.
Stu saw June's eyebrow lift in that characteristic sign of curiosity, and he knew it meant a bit more, it meant jealousy.
"I'm Lee Frost," the woman said. "We live over on the next block. Actually I don't know how to tell you any of this, but Joan Humphrey told me it might be a good idea to talk with you."
He followed Lee, not knowing quite what to expect. She was nearly as tall as he, with an expensive blonde dye job on her long, lanky hair.
She wore tight, white shorts and a bright orange blouse that was tied at the waist to reveal several inches of well tanned, sinuous stomach and back, and to make her large breasts stand out in proud beauty.
They moved to the rock garden and sat. Lee Frost took a pull at her drink, then peeled a few leaves from a fern. She tossed these into the pond.
"Look," she said, "I have a terrible problem. Joan said you might be able to suggest something, that you'd helped her out of a jam. I'm going to have a baby."
Post touched the wedding band on her left hand, wondering just how he'd become chief counselor for the neighborhood. "Then what's the problem? Surely, you can't be afraid."
Her hand clutched his knee imperatively. "I am," she said, "really afraid. The trouble is, I don't know who the father is. For all I know, it might even be my own husband."
"What am I supposed to do, tell you the name of a nice abortionist?"
"I don't know. I'm so damned nervous, Stu, that I can't think. Joan said you wouldn't preach. She said you'd listen."
"Okay," Stu said, "tell me."
"I'm three inches taller than my husband, Stu. I know that sounds silly, it doesn't matter to me, and for all he cares, I can wear six inch heels if I want. But I'm a big girl. I'm conspicuous. Bob and I get along very well together. We're extremely well adjusted sexually and anything goes, but other men won't leave me alone. I keep trying to tell Bob, 'Get them to leave me alone. Doesn't it bother you to see other men make passes at me.' And Bob just laughs it off. He says I'm big enough to take care of myself. He likes the idea, I think. He says I'm sexy and I just have to get used to the idea.
"It got me mad, Stu. It got me furious. I told Lyle Windover one night, 'if you were half a man, you'd come right out and proposition me instead of sneaking around the way you do.' "
Well, he did and I did. I was so mad, Stu, that it was good. That was the first time I ever did a thing like that to Bob. And when it was over between Lyle and me, he was so tired, so completely worn out that I felt I've won some kind of silly sort of victory. I began drinking. I got into one of those perverse moods. Dale Rapport tried something fresh while we were dancing and I told him the same thing.
"Well, Dale and I got as far as the broom closet. I told you I was perverse from the anger and the drinking. And to complete the story, after the party, when we went home, Bob accused me of behaving like a bitch. He said I was waving my fanny around like a wig-wag signal at a railroad crossing. I told him to do something about it. He made a fist. I was positive he was going to hit me. Then he realized what he was doing and smashed a lamp instead. I'd never seen him that way before. Bob said if it happened again, he'd take me across his knee and spank me. And then he did.
"I was black and blue for a week, Stu, but I loved him for doing it. He was really asserting himself. I apologized for the way I'd acted and one thing led to another and we both became excited and then it happened again, right there on the couch. It was the best it's ever been with us in nine years of damn good happiness that way. And ever since, it's been wonderful, but the horrible thing is, I'm going to have a baby from that night."
Post lit a cigarette. "What am I supposed to tell you, Lee?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe nothing. Maybe I just had to tell someone."
Post shook his head. "That doesn't make sense, Lee. If you wanted to get this story off your chest, you'd have told your family physician or preacher or even a girl friend. Why come to me, practically a stranger to you?"
Her breast rose and fell as she took a deep breath. "All right," Lee said. "You're right. You've got an intellect. You can reason well. I won't bother any more with that. I'll come right to the point."
"What is the point?" Post asked.
Lee moved her angular face closer to his. Post could smell her scent, a faint, jasmine cologne. Her hand rested on his leg. Nice hands, large, well proportioned. There was none of that sag of flesh at the wrists. She was a big, handsome woman. She oozed the sex appeal of a big, well formed woman. "I want you," she said. "I want to go to bed with you."
Post didn't know how to react. "Well," he said. "I'll be Goddamned."
"Don't you think I'm desirable, Stu? Wouldn't you like to have me wrapped all over you?"
"I'll be Goddamned," Post said.
"Stop being goddamned and answer me. Will you go to bed with me?" The look on her face was so intense, so filled with sensuality now that Post believed he was being given a preview of how she would look in bed, eager, alive and ready. She had that haunting appeal of a mature woman in her thirties and Post was quite susceptible to it, but almost without thinking, he heard the words come out of his mouth. "It's completely out of the question. There's someone I care for enough to make the idea absurd."
Lee's face clouded. "All right, Stu Post, you can't say you didn't have your chance. Opportunity won't knock twice." She stood up and left with a haughty display of her hips and legs, as though taunting him with what he'd missed.
Post cogitated a moment. Without pinning a medal on himself, it felt good to know that he was not quite so vulnerable that he could be considered prey for all the mixed up, frustrated females who happened to think him attractive. It was nice to have a reason. You cared for someone else so much it didn't matter.
He lit another cigarette and decided to go back to the Prantis' backyard for anthor drink. And then he heard the scream.
It was a high pitched, woman's voice, and it had none of the festivity or racousness in it that floated over the two yards.
The scream came again, filled with an intense fear that immediately set the two yards into an aura of tense, expectant silence.
And then the scream came for the third time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Post heard the sound of a woman sobbing nearby. He turned toward the direction, and then he saw her.
Aileen Lark, distraught and dissheveled, moved away from a clump of juniper bushes, tears streaming down her small, doll-like Oriental face. She wore her brocade Hongkong dress, which appeared to have been torn at the bodice. She took quick, decisive steps, her legs flashing attractively from the side slits.
Directly behind her was Lyle Windover. "Hey, listen," he was yelling, "you don't have to scream, Aileen. It isn't like that. It isn't like that at all."
Aileen moved even more rapidly and when she saw Post, she moved toward him gratefully. Windover followed, seeing Post, himself. "She got the wrong idea, Stu. It's a mistake."
"He tried to maul me," Aileen Lark said.
Post suddenly found himself in the position of hearing both their stories, quickly and simultaneously. Windover tried to convince Aileen Lark he meant no harm, but she shrank from his touch.
"Keep your hands away from me."
"Listen, Stu, I was only trying to...."
Gradually a crowd appeared. Ethel Prantis stepped through the hedges, and, in another moment, Gail Windover.
"So," Gail said, "you finally got caught."
"No, no, listen," Windover pleaded. "We were just talking. It was all very innocent."
And then Phil Lark appeared. When Aileen saw her husband, she moved to him quickly, clung to him for protection and support.
"What is it? What happened?" Lark asked.
Aileen told him.
Lark's reaction was instantaneous. He moved Aileen aside and went after Windover. He felled him with a punch to the stomach and then jumped down on top of him. The two men were grappling in the dirt with Joe and Ethel Prantis trying to separate them.
June appeared, standing next to Post, who was now actively trying to get Lark off Windover.
"The bastard, the dirty bastard," Lark said, wrenching free. It was only Post, standing between Lark and Windover that prevented Wind-over from receiving another rain of punches. Don Oakland took hold of Lark's arm, looking comical in his attempts to restrain the taller, bigger man. "Calm down, Phil," Oakland said.
"I'm trying to tell you," Windover insisted, "it was all a mistake. She didn't understand."
"She understands English better than you," Lark said. He pulled free from Don Oakland and went after Windover again. This time, it took Post, Don Oakland and Jot Prantis to separate the two men. Windover came away with a spurt of blood dribbling from his nose, splotching his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt with red.
"It serves you right," Gail Windover said. "I knew you'd get into trouble some day."
Aileen Lark stepped in front of her husband. "Please," she said, "no more fighting. It is enough that you are here."
Phil Lark glowered a moment, looking at the torn cleavage of his wife's dress. Her breasts were bared almost completely.
"Some misunderstanding that must have been," Lark said.
Lyle Windover was hustled off toward the Prantis' yard, still muttering about the innocence of his intentions.
Ethel Prantis spoke up. "We all need a drink," she said. "At least most of us do. I'm going to make the biggest batch of martinis ever concocted in Coolaire Heights."
She strutted toward the outdoor bar, shooting a meaningful glance at June. June got the hint. She moved over to Aileen Lark, put an arm around her and led her to the house.
In a few moments, the party was back to normal range of music, loud chattering and laughter. Ethel and June had removed the last traces of the incident.
Five minutes later, Post was back at the rock garden, a fresh drink in his hand. June sat next to him. Ethel Prantis lazed on the grass, her bare feet poking into the pond.
"Aileen says he got pretty rough," June explained. "He noticed the little Buddhist shrine out on the other side. He asked Aileen to explain it to him. She didn't suspect anything. He put his arm around her. She thought he was just trying to be friendly. That was her first mistake. She let him. He took that as a sign of encouragement. Then the party got rough."
"It had to happen," Ethel said. "Lyle has been asking for that for a long time. Gail had to drive him to the emergency hospital on Sepulveda. She thinks his nose may be broken." She sighed. "Ah, the joys of wedded bliss in Coolaire Heights." She finished her drink and stood up. "I have to go back and be a good hostess."
"Maybe, not wedded bliss for them, Stu, but how about us?"
Stu was completely caught off base. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean, I think we can do it. At any rate, I want to try."
Poetically, at that moment the fire work display began. Sitting thee, watching the elaborate bursts of light that formed pictures of flags and pagodas before they fell to the ground, Post could scarcely keep his mind on the entertainment, his mind was so busy trying to decipher the meaning of June's statement.
He knew he was eager to make a real start with her. And it was not all physical, either. Post realized that somehow, he'd been cheated out of one of the stages of courtship and thrown into a direct, intimate relationship that was, at times, too real for his own comfort.
There was something to be made up, whether it was just a matter of dating or going places. He thought of how it would be, of the weekend trips, of being places with June and knowing she was really his wife.
"Just look," Ethel said, "I don't see another married couple around here, leaning against each other and practically smooching, the way you two are. If things are that bad, no one will be hurt or disappointed if you decide to leave early."
June smiled. "Coming from the hostess," she said, "that amounts to a polite excuse."
"It is," Ethel said.
June nudged Post. "Things are that bad. The fireworks are wonderful but I think we need to be alone."
Happily, Post took her arm. They did not bother to say goodnight to anyone, but managed to slip unobtrusively out of the Corwin's yard and into the street.
June began running playfully. Post followed, knowing instinctively that what would follow would be good. He caught June at the door to their house and lifted her off her feet. He opened the door and kicked it shut behind him. The moment they were inside, June's arms went about his neck and she began kissing him.
As her moist tongue moved over his lips, Post felt his desire awakened completely.
In the bedroom, Post deposited her on his bed and sat next to her. Immediately, she began working at the buttons of his shirt. He kissed her and caressed the smoothness of her face. When his hands touched her breasts, he felt them respond with warmth.
"Oh, Stu," she said, "this is going to be good, because it's something I want."
She wiggled out of her shorts and in a few moments, her loins were pressing his, moving with an abandon and technique that amazed him.
When he brought them together, June let out a gasp of pleasure. "You make me feel that the most important thing is being a woman."
It happened quickly, more quickly than Post had planned, but almost instantaneously, June was writhing and thrusting against him in intense pleasure. He experienced a steady tingle of exhilaration and he knew what it was, the pleasure of being totally committeed to her and knowing it was returned. The softness and warmth of her skin was against him, the faint scent of her body and the silkiness of her hair all mingled to envelope him with pleasure and security. It was, he thought, the beginning of an even better thing for them. It was an answer to the boredom bred by the problems of tract house living.
When he found release, he was aware of June, whispering, "I'm so glad, Stu. I love you so much. I'm so glad." It was a blending of sensations, in which he was aware of everything about her. Any one of the things missing-her touch, her soft, whispered voice, her small, lovely breasts, pushing against him-would have made it incomplete.
After it was over, they lay together. June was completely unwilling for them to be apart. "I won't let you go until you promise to make an honest woman out of me," she said. "You've done pretty well so far. I haven't felt like such an honest woman in ages, but I want to be a legal wife."
"Will you mind being married to a man without a job?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" June wondered.
"Tomorrow I'm going to call the Institute and tell them what they can do with this filthy spy business, that is, if it's all right with you, June."
"It's perfect by me, darling. Tell them we're both quitting. From now on we'll be honest in every sense of the word."
The smoothness of her thighs, pushing against him, and this sudden, enthusiastic awakening of June aroused him again. As he began a slow, tentative movement, he saw that there was nothing detached or distant about her. She was participating actively. Her hands moved over him, touching, caressing. "I'm so glad, Stu. I'm glad because it's you. I'm glad because it's us."
Post accepted it gladly. He moved slowly, building up the enjoyment gradually. His reward for this was in her response. As she reached the plateau of her happiness, June looked more beautiful than he'd ever seen her before. He felt the commitment assert itself again and knew, once more, that he held the key-the responsibility-to June's happiness and to their future.
He didn't know just what he was going to do for a job. But now, as he lay next to her, warm relaxed and content in her presence, he knew it was enough to think of her and be with her like this.
They talked for nearly an hour, about inane things.
Where they would live. Who their friends would be. It had a strange haunting effect on Post. These things no longer seemed like part of a memorized patter or conversational gambit you used to convince people you were married. They were plans, his plans, June's plans.
He didn't know when he fell asleep, but he was conscious of dozing. And then he was aware of June's hands, lightly caressing his shoulders. Without opening his eyes, he rolled on his side and felt the length of her body press close against him.
That settled another thing. "When they got back from getting married, these twin beds were going to be chopped up for kindling wood.
"It's awfully nice to be able to think about wanting you and having you right there," June said, kissing him lightly on the chest.
"I was thinking just the same thing," he told her.
She guided his hands to her breasts and he felt them stiffen under his touch. "It's wonderful to be able to want you, too."
For an answer, Post kissed her.
"One thing I've learned from our experiences here," she said. "Keep your man interested. Keep him damned interested."
Post stroked her thigh. She sighed and moved closer to him. "I'm interested," Post said. "Very interested."
He felt June reach for his manhood. She caressed him in a way that imparted her new feeling of awareness and the joy of her possessing him this way.
"You'd better get used to this," she said. "We're going to be the most interested husband and wife in Coolaire Heights, or anywhere else we go...."
Post pushed June over on her back, nipping her neck as she fell, "Listen wench, I've been chasing you all around this damned tract house for months. If you haven't realized by now that I'm interests in you, and only you, you're not the intelligent woman I came to Coolaire with."
"I'm not the woman you came to Coolaire with, Stu. I'm entirely new and different and I like the new me better. The me, you made, darling."
They did a double take on that one and fell to giggling. All the tension and fears and doubts of the past few months fell away in their laughter. After a few minutes, the laughter changed into something else. Stu put his hand on June's bread; possessively.
"We've got a lot of making up for lost time," he said huskily.
