Bill Trumball took pride in personal accomplishment and this-his plan-was downright clever. Everything was in perfect readiness.
Yesterday, using an assumed name, he had rented a sleeping room in the outskirts of Queens. That was step number one.
In subsequent phases of the operation, Bill had driven his white Thunderbird out there this morning, parked it on a deserted side street and reached the office by way of the Eighth Avenue express.
There was only one remaining step to his plan. He would have to convince his boss, Mr. Sinclair, that he was ill and needed the rest of the afternoon off. Sinclair would cry-the office was behind on their quotation prices for incoming queries-but what the hell could the old man say?
And with that done, Bill would hurry down to 34th street, get his secret package out of the bus station locker, and then board the subway train back to Queens.
He was not worried; confidence was the essence of success. He had but one thing to fight. That was his own growing sense of guilt...
* * *
He ate a light lunch at Howard Johnson's and returned to the office at one-thirty. Clara, the young switchboard operator, had left a memo on his desk advising him that his wife had phoned while he was out.
Bill was neither surprised, nor disappointed. After 3 years of marriage to Edie, he could safely predict the time of her daily call. And in a voice that was laden with sweetness and melancholy, she would tell him that she was lonely, implore him to come home, and then tease him with a graphic description of how they would make love after he arrived.
Her sultry pleadings never failed to excite him, and several times-not only to please her, but also to release his own damning excitement-he had gone home early.
But not today.
Today, there were other plans.
And his guilt continued to grow.
He lit a cigarette, decided that he would keep their conversation to a minimum and, of course, provide himself with an excuse for coming home late.
He dialed and after the initial 'hello's', Edie explained that their 2-year-old daughter, Karen, had eaten lunch and gone in for her nap.
"That's what I'd like to do, Bill. Go to bed."
"Why don't you?"
"I mean with you, silly."
He dragged nervously on his cigarette. "Tonight. Okay?"
"But I need you now." The game.
"I know," he answered.
"Then why don't you leave early?"
He didn't reply.
"Do you know what I've got on?"
He envisioned Edie her misty blue eyes, soft flowing blonde hair that teased the tips of her shoulders, and a mouth that was full and eager and sensuous. "So what are you wearing?" he asked.
"Short-shorts. Those blue ones that you like."
"Mmmmmmm."
"And if you come home, we'll go to the bedroom, and you can lay on top of me and put your hands up the leg of my shorts, and I'll let you undress me, and then I'll undress you and...."
"Edie?"
"...and then you can start kissing my breasts and feeling me all over and...."
"Edie?"
"...and later, I'll get on top of you, and I'll rub my body back and forth on yours, and back and forth and back and forth...."
"Dammit, Edie!"
"Are you coming home, darling."
"You keep that up," he said, "and I'll be coming right here."
Edie laughed mischievously. "I'll do anything you want, Bill. Anything."
Bill mentally appraised all that that would include, but it only added to his increasing sense of guilt. "Look, honey. You know I'd love to be home right this minute, but...."
"I know," she cut in. "You have another woman waiting for you...."
He gave Edie a nervous laugh. She had joked her way dangerously close to the correct answer. "The reason I can't come right now...." He brought his voice to a whisper and told Edie that he was going to pretend illness and get the rest of the afternoon off. "...so that I can go shopping and buy you a birthday present," he finished. "Now are you satisfied that you found out?"
"I love you, I love you." Then, like an anxious child: "What are you getting me, Bill?"
"That's my secret, so if I'm a little late getting home...."
"I do love you, Bill. Bushels and bushels and bushels."
"I know," he said, thankful that she could not see his worried expression.
"And do you know what."
"What?"
"If you're going to have a present for me, then I'm going to have one ready for you. I'm going to take off all my clothes and...."
"You stinker...."
"And I'm going to make love to you like its never been done before. I'm going to...."
And Bill groaned and let her describe the frenzy of what she had planned. He could visualize it as if it were happening now-her naked lusting body crawling all over him, bringing him to a wild summit of excitement, drawing thrills from his body that were the offerings of Satan and the fruits of heaven.
"And the sooner I get out of here and go buy that present," he interrupted, "the sooner I'll get home and we can...."
"Hurry, Bill. I need you."
"I know," he said, and paying her a 'good-bye,' he sounded a kiss, cradled the phone and then stared vacantly at space.
Her birthday present? No sweat, he thought. It was in his desk drawer. He had purchased the gift three days ago...
* * *
By four-thirty, Bill had reached the sleeping room up in Queens. He locked the door, drew the shades and let out a heavy sigh. He was deserving of self-praise. Thus far, everything had gone exactly as planned.
Old man Sinclair had beefed-most unhappy that Bill wanted the rest of the afternoon off-but with his usual grumbling, he had finally acquiesced.
And then, in planned sequence, Bill had picked up his strange package at the bus station locker, caught the Eighth Avenue uptown express to Queens and arrived here at his Eden.
He had taken all the necessary precautions to insure that he was not followed-not much-likelihood of that, he thought-and leaving nothing to change recognizance, he had worn dark glasses and kept a hat pulled low over his face.
But that part of it was over.
Now came the fun. Weird fun.
And in consuming, breathless excitement, Bill Trum-ball began to tear off his clothes.
When he was finally naked, he noticed that he had forgotten to secure the door's chain lock. He immediately did so. He didn't want that nosey landlady bursting in on him. She had given him the fish eye when he rented the place, and if she came in on him when he was naked...
He broke off his thoughts and opened the package. He was nervous, but why not? He had never done anything like this before and it seemed like another person who was doing it now. And then-as if to impede his evil acts before they took place-he reminded himself that he was Bill Trumball, the rising young cost analyst for the Sinclair Specialty Company. He had a brilliant future ahead of him and he was all man, but this other Bill Trumball...
Bill removed the delicate pink panties from their wrappings. He pressed the gauzy briefs to his cheek and caressed their dainty silkiness. They were Edie's-a pair that he had secretly removed from her dresser-and if she ever found out...
He mustn't think of that. That would spoil it. That would spoil everything.
He blotted his fears from his mind. He kissed the panties lingeringly and felt the imagined warmth of Edie's soft white thighs. His excitement was building fast, and as the hot desires grew and grew, the moral implications of his behavior became locked in the depths of a mind below a mind.
He was not Bill Trumball.
He was a beautiful, desirable young girl.
And in minutes-mere minutes-he would be Edie...
* * *
Bill's outward physical transformation from man to woman was startling in its credibility. Standing before the mirror that backed the closet door in the sordid sleeping room, Bill appraised the end product of all his efforts.
Since he was short and of light stature, his size had presented no problem. A blonde wig that he had rented from a Fifth Avenue coiffeur was both realistic and alluring. His make-up job, aided with artificial eyelashes, was agreeably convincing. However, the real woman-maker was the dress.
He had purchased the dress in a theatrical supply house in Times Square-a slinky patent leather thing with long tapering slits at its hem, black, with an array of matching colored sequins at its oval neckline, and lent added eye appeal by the false bra that he wore beneath.
Shiny patent leather spike heeled shoes set off his legs, and he had the rest of the paraphernalia-black mesh hose, a connecting panty girdle, a purse, and he had even remembered to bring an appropriate perfume.
Over it, and for street wear, Bill donned one of Edie's light spring topcoats. It was one that she had asked him to drop off at the dry cleaners, but with a frown, he noted that it was much too short in the sleeves.
Well, he'd simply drape it over his arm. Besides, the men wouldn't be looking at his coat. They'd be looking at other things.
* * *
When it grew dark, Bill slipped out of the sleeping room and hurried downstairs. A light rain was falling and had emptied the streets, but that made it all the easier.
The bar he had selected was about six blocks away, and from previous observations, Bill had noted that it was patronized by factory workers who spilled from the nearby manufacturing plants.
Some of his earlier nervousness had returned and it served to remind him that he could still change his mind. But, no. His sexual fantasies had led him this far and he was not going to back out now.
Minutes later, he entered a tawdry cafe, noting as he did, the sign outside which read: Ladies Welcome.
Passing through the swinging door, he was immediately conscious of the stares of male patrons. The spike heeled shoes caused his entrance to be somewhat awkward, but he managed to maintain his calm and found an empty booth along the side wall facing the bar.
The place was like others of its kind-dimly lit with barren floors, smelling of urine and stale beer, exhibiting a juke box that played loudly if not well.
Shortly, a gray-haired waitress arrived and Bill ordered a gin collins. Effecting a woman's voice was the most difficult part of his masquerade, but he was careful to use restraint and a minimum of words. His tone was soft with measured sultriness, and the waitress-too rushed with other customers to suspect, or care delivered the drink and presented him with a check.
His initial nervousness disappeared and, inserting a cigarette in its holder, lighting it, he leaned back in the wooden booth to consider the men who so hungrily watched him.
His confidence in the masquerade grew. He could almost read the men's thoughts. An unescorted female, hot stuff and could she be made?
Bill let his sexual daydream run away with him. He was now Edie, and her skirt had risen recklessly to reveal the lush promise of her dimpled knees and gartered thighs. And the men were getting hot. He could feel it. They were getting hot and looking between Edie's V'd thighs.
And then he held himself back...
He mustn't be garishly obvious about the exhibition. That would detract from the tease. Rather, he thought, let it happen slowly. Let it seem accidental, as though the revealed warmth of Edie's silken thighs was the most casual unaffected show in the world. And it worked...
The men were obviously hot, squirming uncomfortably on the red-leather stools, stealing glances at Bill's (Edie's) exposed undergarments, and one of them-a coarse-looking dock worker clenching a glass of beer-unashamedly stared.
Knowing that he had caused this much agitation in the men at the bar produced an equal effect on Bill. He felt the unmistakable stirrings of manhood, and in the peculiar man-woman role that absorbed him, he now felt the pounding need for sexual release.
He paid a passing glance at the young unshaven dock worker. The man was openly staring under the table of Bill's booth. Bill shifted and caused the patent leather dress to rise still higher.
The dock worker's hands tightened on his beer mug. Even in the dim light of the ramshackle cafe, he could not fail to see the glowing invitation before him.
Bill's excitement mushroomed. Edie never sat like this, he thought. At least, not before other men. But this living fantasy that Bill had created had no shackles. He was Bill and, yet, he was Edie, and if he wanted to spread his legs, invoke vicarious thrills for those who watched, there were no moral codes to bind and hold him.
To reinforce that conviction, Bill ordered another drink. Then a third. He let the patent leather dress rise higher. Then higher.
Suddenly, the dock worker climbed off his stool and approached Bill's booth.
Bill felt the spreadings of alarm. He had only meant to tease. That was as far as he had planned it to go.
"Looking for company?" the man asked.
Bill did not look up. He was aware of the glassy-eyed, unshaven youth in the rough work clothes. The problem now was how to discourage him.
"Whatsa matter? You too good to talk to someone?"
Bill kept his eyes trained on his drink. He didn't want trouble, but if it started, he was ready for it.
The youth studied him for another minute, then ambled sullenly back to his bar stool.
Bill breathed a sigh of relief. He'd gone further than was wise, he realized. What had started originally as a passing thought, had in the months that followed, swelled to a maddening obsession. He had wanted to dress as a woman to see if he could excite men, and the passing episode had very nearly been his undoing. If the scene had erupted into a fight and the police had been called and Edie found out...
Bill promptly got up, paid his check and left. He felt the shame of his experiment. A thing like this could ruin a marriage, his career-everything. He must have been out of his head.
He tried to swallow his guilt and now quickened his steps against the rain and the darkness. A few minutes, he thought, and he would be back at the sleeping room for a hasty change, then on to the Thunderbird and home.
And then he heard the footsteps behind him...
Bill glanced over his shoulder. It was the stupid dock worker from the bar. He was about a hundred-feet back, hands stuffed in his pockets, and gaining on Bill with every step.
Bill attempted to quicken his gait but the damning spike heeled shoes hindered him.
"Hey, you!"
Bill crossed the wet street and hurried along to the next block. The idiot punk gained on him. "Hey, you!"
Bill went between two parked cars and ran across a deserted side street. The punk caught him when he stepped up on the opposite curb. He seized Bill by the arm and pressed him toward a darkened alleyway.
Bill saw what was coming. He lashed out with his fist and exploded on the punk's jaw. The youth stumbled backwards and fell against a brick building. His eyes bulged in surprise. He leaped at Bill.
Bill was prepared for him. He sent his fist wrist-deep into the punk's gut. He folded over like somebody with the heaves. The follow-up blow was even harder than Bill contemplated. It caught his attacker's face with blinding, deadly impact. The punk's head rocked back. His skull cracked against the brick wall and he sagged to the wet pavement like a string-less marionette.
Bill bolted out of the alleyway. He knocked a woman down and spilled her groceries all over the sidewalk. The woman screamed.
Bill hobbled, half-ran across the street. He neared his Thunderbird. Two small boys coming out of a drug store saw him, pointed and laughed.
Bill jumped into his car. He searched through his purse, found the keys and put the giant engine to life.
An instant later, he sent the white bird hurtling into the night, and only when he was a safe mile away, did he pause to examine his hands.
They were covered with blood...
CHAPTER TWO
In less than an hour, Bill had regained his identity and was pressing the Thunderbird along the expressway back to Manhattan. He had returned to the sleeping room long enough to change clothes, scrub off his make-up and rid himself of any incriminating evidence. The woman's clothes lay at the bottom of a sewer basin and the wig that he had rented was locked in the car's trunk. He would return it tomorrow. The only immediate problem was his hands.
There were some cuts on his knuckles-souvenirs from the punk whose teeth he had knocked out-and those cuts were going to take some tall explaining. But he'd think of something. He always did.
Dressing up as a woman, getting off a few kicks, had been foolish, he supposed-nothing that he wanted to analyze for its significance. But-what the hell!-he had always wanted to pull something like that, he had, and now it was over. He wasn't going to fret about it, or less, worry about the punk who had run into his fists. Right now, he was just plain hungry.
Presently, he reached a drive-in restaurant. He maneuvered the sleek, white Thunderbird into a stall and flicked his lights. The swanky car never failed to impress teenage girls, and the dark-haired car hop was no exception. She was about 16. When she saw the car, her dark eyes burned with sudden interest. She wiggled toward him with an anxious, dreamy smile.
"What would you like, sir?"
Bill hastily appraised the cuteness of her figure and decided that there were several things that he would like. Her uniform-saucy and a real come-on-consisted of flame-colored hipsters and a monogrammed white vest that was scarcely long enough to hide her bra. From the underside of her swollen breasts to the exciting swell of her provocative hips, she was completely bare.
"What have you got?" Bill smiled. His eyes lingered on her exposed belly button.
"Just about anything you want, sir." She nibbled on the eraser of her pencil.
Bill decided to tease her. "Anything?"
"All right, youuuuuu." She joined him in the joke. Her cherry red lips were torn between a smile and a laugh. "We've got hamburgers, cheeseburgers, hot dogs, French fries...."
"I'll take one of those." His eyes rested merrily on her blossoming breasts.
"One of what?" And she knew what he meant.
He grinned impishly. He supposed that it was time for the game to end, not that she wouldn't be willing to carry it further a whole lot further. With a car like this hell, she'd probably scramble into the back seat in nothing flat.
"Bring me a hamburger, French fries and a chocolate shake."
She scribbled the order on her pad. "Be back in a jiffy."
He watched her leave. She wasn't wearing a damn thing under those hipsters, shaking her tight little rear end all she could and wanting him to know how nice it might feel.
He closed his mind to her body. Easy, or not, it was still jail bait. He had been in enough trouble for one night. There was no use tempting more.
Several minutes later, she returned with the tray and fastened it to his door. Bill paid her.
"If there's anything else you want, sir...." Her dark eyes swept the classic lines of the Thunderbird. She gave him a wink. "...just flash your lights."
He told her he would, and watched her wiggle from sight. Plenty hot and plenty nice, but also, he thought a little sadly, plenty dangerous.
Forgetting her, he dove into the hamburger. Suddenly, a jalopy full of young toughies pulled in next to him. The youths began blowing their horn and flashing their lights.
The young girl who had waited on him came to their heap. She knew them. Bill could gather that much from their conversation.
"...mmmmm, how I dig those swivel hips!"
"You creeps want something?"
"Get her! Do we want something." He laughed. "Hell, we want you, baby. You don't think we drove all the way out here just to sample your lousy garbage, do you?"
"Lis'n, guys. I don't have all night and if the boss sees me...."
"So we'll take him in the back seat, too."
They roared. They thought that was a real funny.
"Jake, I gotta go."
"Why don't you cut out? Tell that jerk boss to cool his job and jam it."
"Jake, for chrissakes!...."
"So what time d'ya get through?"
But Bill couldn't hear the rest of the conversation. Their driver started the jalopy and raced the engine. Puffs of blue smoke filled the drive-in. The girl waved to them and the car dragged out.
The rest, of it what would happen later that night was something Bill had to speculate. The youths would return, then they'd drive to some deserted back road and give her the gang-banging that her young body pleaded for.
Visualizing that possibility, he wondered if Edie had ever worked in such a place. Just as suddenly, the passing thought blossomed into a full-fledged sex fantasy. He was able to envision Edie, attired in high heeled patent leather shoes, tantalizingly tight short-shorts, strutting up to a carload of teens.
The sex drama ran away with his imagination. He saw Edie being coaxed into a car by the same toughies, going quickly to the back seat and letting them remove her clothes.
His excitement swelled.
He imagined a young boy putting his hand inside Edie's bra and thrilling to the hot swell of her pink-tipped breasts. Edie moaned.
Now another boy moved into the mental picture. He slid Edie's panties off. She surrendered completely. She wanted it. She wanted the boys.
And now they were turning her over on her bare stomach. One of the boys said that she'd been naughty. She would have to be spanked. And then. ...
Bill blinked the mental pictures out of his mind.
What the hell was the matter with him?
He was trembling.
Was he going out of his cotton-picking mind?
* * *
During the long drive from Queens back to Manhattan, Bill had tried to purge himself of the sexual daydreams which had become a greater and greater part of his conscious thinking. He couldn't understand the reason for the mental images, but they were always the same imagined scenes wherein Edie was exposed to faceless strangers, being undressed by them, and then after minutes of hot, fervent embraces, going anxiously to bed.
In the daydreams, and of late the haunting pictures had become sharper and sharper in their intensity. Bill could visualize Edie and the faceless stranger indulging in every shameful, wicked perversion imaginable. Sometimes, Bill had even been able to envision the wild tide of their intercourse, and on such occasions, the lustful daydreams swept him to the edge of climax.
It was maddening, really, and a damned good thing that no one could read his thoughts. They'd probably lock him up. And then he grinned at himself in the rear view mirror.
What the hell? It was only a daydream, wasn't it? There was no harm in that.
The trick yes, the trick was to make certain that it remained a daydream. ...
* * *
It was after ll o'clock when Bill guided the Thunderbird onto Columbus Circle and approached the last few blocks to his apartment.
The place that they rented was in the upper 60's above Central Park. Fashionable and expensive? The answer was yes. But Bill made good money, the location was convenient to his job, and since both he and Edie were undecided on a more permanent living site, the apartment suited them well.
Bill eased the car into the apartment's underground garage. He took the self-operated elevator and zoomed to the 15th floor. Edie would be fuming by this time. He could hardly blame her.
He walked reproachfully, slowly, down the carpeted hallway, framing the excuse he would offer ardent kisses weren't always the perfect answer.
He put his key in the lock and swung the door open. The apartment was in total darkness.
"Edie?...."
The whole world blew up under him. Pain blinded him. Edie screamed. Then the floor came up and smashed his face. ...
* * *
He was stretched out on the living room floor when the fog cleared and consciousness returned. His head throbbed with the sudden impact of light. Edie was bent over him with a wet wash cloth. She was crying.
"What ... what happened." It was only a mumble.
Edie fell across him and sobbed. "Thank God, you're all right. Oh, Bill...."
He managed to raise himself up to a sitting position and held her in his arms. "Edie ... Edie, what happened?"
Her body shook with sobs. "It was terrible ... he
"Who?"
"I don't know, Bill. I don't know." She shuddered. She was clad in only a slip. Her arms were like ice.
"Edie, for chrissakes! Get hold of yourself."
She cried some more and he held her and consoled her. Finally, after her long cry was over, still trembling, she began to spill it out.
"It was about 30-minutes ago ... he ... he knocked at the door. I ... I was dressing. I thought it was you. ... and then I opened the door. There was this man and he asked for you...."
"And you don't know who he was?"
"I never saw him before." She paused. Her eyes were enlarged. "Then he just burst in and ... he had this hammer ... Bill, do you know what he was going to do? He was going to...." She burst out crying and fell into his arms.
He patted her gently.
She stopped. "He said if I didn't do exactly as he said ... and then he turned out the lights and grabbed me ... and then you came and...."
He held her comfortingly. He stroked the coldness of her arms. "It's all right, honey. It's over now." He helped her to her feet, feeling slightly unsteady on his own. He felt the throbbing lump at the top of his skull. "Good thing I've got such a hard skull," he said, trying to manage some humor.
She blinked away the tears and squeezed his wrist. "I'll call the police."
Bill watched her swing for the telephone. No one could match her in high heeled shoes and sheer hose. Her legs were perfect. And then the suspicion began...
Something else was perfect, too. Too perfect.
Her hair-do.
Not a single strand of hair was out of place, and if...."Edie."
"Yes, Bill."
"Did ... did he?...."
Her cheeks were moist with tears. Her lips quivered. "No, Bill ... he didn't." She picked up the telephone and called the police.
* * *
The wait was a stony silence. Edie had put on a robe and they sat at the kitchen table solemnly sipping on cups of instant coffee.
Bill dreaded his suspicions, but did Edie believe he was a complete fool? That blow with the hammer had been no more than a light love tap just enough to knock him out. If it had truly been delivered by a maniac bent on rape, the nut would have smashed his brains in.
And Edie's hair. There'd been a struggle, she said, but it was unmussed. How did she explain that? He looked to her face for an answer. Her eyes were tense, but her expression was impassive and told him nothing.
Was it possible to be that wrong about a woman?
And then the police arrived...
Bill admitted them two officers from the Central Park district precinct. They were young and polite, taking notes as Bill and Edie offered their separate stories.
One of the men the shorter one made a cursory search of the apartment. It was routine. He found nothing.
In the meantime, Edie afforded the other officer a vague description of her alleged attacker. She sketched him as being middle-age, medium height, weighing about 150-pounds and having dark hair.
The officer shook his head. "And that fits about one-million New Yorkers. We'll keep an eye open, but about all we can tell you people is to get a chain lock installed on your door. Don't open it until you're certain who's there."
The shorter officer examined Bill's scalp. "Using a hammer, it's a wonder he didn't smash your skull open."
Bill turned to Edie. "Yes," he said icily. "It's quite a wonder."
"If anything else comes up," the officer said, "give us a call." They stepped out into the hallway. "And don't forget what I said about chain locks on doors."
Edie nodded weakly.
And then they were alone.
Very alone.
Bill lit himself a cigarette. Edie made herself another cup of instant coffee. Neither of them spoke. Bill was choked up. After two drags on his cigarette, he stubbed it out.
He walked to the window, looked out at the twinkle of lights below. How had it been, he wondered. Had they been standing in the darkness behind the door, petting and straining against each other's bodies? Had he come home before he was expected? Was knocking him out a ruse to hide her unfaithfulness?
"Edie?. "
"Yes, Bill." Her tone was faint. "It was close, wasn't it."
"What?"
He turned to face her. "The man ... I mean, in another minute he would have had your clothes off, wouldn't he?" He came slowly toward her. "He'd have had you pinned down on the floor and been on top of you and feeling your titties and...."
"Bill!"
He pulled her into the front room. He yanked her robe off. "He'd have had you down...." He pressed her to the divan. "...and then he would have been inside you...." He opened the front of his trousers. "...and then he would have been going back and forth, and back and forth...."
"Bill!" Edie screamed.
But it was too late to stop, too late for everything. He was rough and crude. He threw her slip above her waist, tore her panties down to her ankles and came at her like a brute stranger.
She screamed again. She fought him.
Bill only laughed. Then he found the opening for his confused passions and bore savagely between her hose-clad thighs.
There was no tenderness, no sighed words of love. It was a physical thing, savage revenge for an unanswerable suspicion. And in the bitter-sweet climax that followed, midst her tears and protests of pain, there were neither caresses, nor endearments.
And now it was finished.
Bill Trumball had raped his own wife.
And there was no sense of victory, nor of elation. Instead, there was only the utter loneliness of defeat.
And too that bugging, damning question: Who was this other man?
CHAPTER THREE
Naked sunlight streamed through the bedroom windows and brought him to a slow head-throbbing consciousness. Without looking at his watch, he knew he was late for work. He cursed, threw back the covers, and padded slowly to the bathroom. Edie was asleep on the living room divan and, with a fresh return of last night's anger, he thought the hell with her!
Twenty minutes later he had showered, shaved, and dressed. He took additional time to glance in on little Karen. She too was asleep. He bent over her crib, kissed her lightly, then tip-tced back up the hallway.
In the living room and before he left the apartment, Bill paused and let his dark brooding eyes fall on the still figure of his wife. She lay on her stomach, head turned toward the back of the divan. Her thin housecoat was pulled up. Bill's eyes narrowed. His glance swept the creamy roundness of her naked buttocks. Familiar stirrings in his loins urged him to touch her; he didn't move.
Momentarily, his mind drifted back to childhood. He'd once come upon his older sister this way, stumbled into her bedroom while she was still asleep. He'd been too speechless to act; he'd simply stood there quietly enraptured with her wanton display of nudity. It was the first and last time that he ever saw her that way, but so that he could remember the wonderful minutes of that experience, he had later stolen a pair of his sister's panties. He took the panties to bed with him, they became a symbol of his erotic longings, and when the house was empty really empty he would frequently undress and put his sister's panties on. The heavenly feeling that then surged in his body was indescribable.
He felt that same surging of excitement now. A Peeping Tom. He inched his way closer. His fingers twitched. And then she stirred and the feeling died.
He stepped backward. He felt his mouth sag. He knew the reason for his sudden disappointment. For one wild daydreaming minute, that had been his sister on the divan not Edie.
Now, and with the acceptance of reality, he felt the return of jealousy. Bitterly, he remembered a stranger who had stepped out of the darkness last night to slug him. Fresh anger boiled inside him. His fists tightened and he stormed angrily out of the apartment.
He took the elevator to the street and stood confused and angry in a deserted lobby. He couldn't think clearly; Edie's cheating was like the death of someone dear: There was this coma-like interim of disbelief, then the slow passing of shock, and suddenly he was face-to-face with it with grief, the ugly knowledge that it was over.
He had been conned most expertly, he thought. The angelic, faithful, ever-loving wife that was the role she played. But for how long had she been slipping lasciviously into bed with her secret lover? A year? Two? And those innocent afternoon shopping trips of hers yes, how stupid he had been not to recognize the signs. The gullible husband.
Angry with himself, he shoved through the revolving door and met the blistering August sun. His insides churned. He thought of those anxious days before their wedding. And a conventional wedding? Yes, of course. And afterwards, a conventional honeymoon, and a conventional Columbus Circle apartment, and conventional furniture and conventional friends. Couldn't be unconventional. Edie didn't like it. She'd spurn wild parties and flatly deny wearing the exotic and often revealing clothes he bought her. Her body belonged to him that was the cock-and-bull story she had fed him so she couldn't possibly wear anything low-cut in front of his friends. And we must be conventional. Yes, yes, yes.
So it had been that way, he thought. He had submerged his own identity to please her. Might have been fun to watch Edie parade around in a revealing dress at one of their office parties, see the guys eyeing her over and getting hot, but not Edie. Edie was too pure for such nonsense. But, he reflected miserably, not too pure to get in bed and screw the hell out of her new-found boyfriend. Yes, that was all right.
He swallowed his pride and bitterness, and stormed toward the subway. He didn't feel like driving; he didn't feel like anything. And old man Sinclair the cruddy bastard he'd be fuming because he was late for work, and the hell with him, too.
Later, in a Times Square eatery, Bill toyed un-interestedly with a platter of scrambled eggs. He didn't care whether he went to work or not. When he left the restaurant, he browsed the windows of two book stores, saw titles that didn't register and prices that had no meaning. He needed a drink, a bracer, and he entered the first cafe he reached.
The cool darkness was refreshing. He sat down, nodded to the bartender, and ordered a double bourbon. While the drink was being readied, he surveyed himself in a vending machine mirror. His dark almond-shaped eyes might have been pleased by the youthful, handsome exuberance that had been there on other days, but this morning his eyes were shadowed and troubled. Neither a contrived smile, nor the athletic brawn of his young face masked the growing bitterness he felt. When the bourbon was delivered, he gulped it down and ordered another.
The drink hit him like a bomb. Unaccustomed to stiff, early-in-the-morning eye-openers, his usually business-like Princeton composure was rapidly shattered. A numbing warmth spread through his innards, he downed the second bourbon, and then recklessly ordered another.
He gave no thought to the clock; instead, he envisioned his half-naked wife asleep on the living room divan. How nice it would have been, he thought, to have removed his belt and lashed the hell out of that soft, cute behind of hers. She'd scream, plead for mercy, and his answer would come as another stinging lash of the leather belt. He'd bring that sexy hind end of hers to a lobster red, make her describe the naughty things she'd done behind his back, and force her to crawl at his feet.
He had several more drinks, stopped before he became completely stoned, and his closing thought was: I'll get even with her if it's the last thing I do.
Ten minutes later, a taxi brought him to the lawn-fronted offices of the Sinclair Metal Stamping Company. He dropped a five-dollar bill in the cabbie's lap, moved unsteadily up to the curving walk. If that sonofabitchin' Sinclair said one single word...
Bill pushed forward into the air-conditioned, oak-paneled reception office. His eyes fell on the company's newly-hired receptionist, Claire Nelson. Young stuff according to her employment application just 19 and if one believed in rumors, Claire was supposed to be a hot and easy lay. Bill had shot her some speculative glances when he heard the rumors and if big tits were any criterion for measuring a girl's sexual desires, the rumors were most certainly true. Today, and more than ever before, he was deeply interested.
When he approached her desk, she regarded him lightly with her moist green eyes. Her young sensuous mouth formed a pout. She examined her watch.
"The hell with time," Bill said too loudly. He drew closer to the half-moon oaken desk. "That's the trouble with everyone. Always worried about time." He stared boldly at the thrust of her blouse.
She patted her red hair in a gesture of uncertainty. Familiarity between the office help and the higher-ups and Bill was at least that was frowned upon within the firm. She didn't know how to answer him, and she had apparently smelled the bourbon, Bill thought, because her green eyes had grown suddenly wary.
"And don't look at me like I just raped the farmer's daughter. I had a few drinks and...." His gaze fastened on her breasts, big ones that caused a four-dollar blouse to brim with riches. "...Claire, you're an eyeful. You know that?"
The compliment drew a flustered smile from the wet redness of her mouth. A high schoolish "thank you, Mr. Trumball" came out, and he was glad that he had flattered her. She'd be easy, he thought. He had never played around before, but this one was young and innocent and gullible; maybe this would be a good way to get even with Edie.
He sat on her desk and office decorum went out the window. She was too young and unsophisticated to realize that he was on the make, gushing over because an executive was suddenly paying her tributes; moreover, staring fondly at her breasts.
None of this was any effort for Bill. The drinks had really socked him; his wayward aggressiveness came easy. And did she have large nipples? he wondered. Or were they pink and soft and maidenly small? He decided to find out at the earliest opportunity. His wait was a short one.
Claire reached forward to straighten a stack of correspondence, and her loose-fitting, white cotton blouse fell away from her chest. Bill found himself staring approvingly down to the dark valley between her breasts. Was she purposely exhibiting herself, for chrissakes? Suddenly, the young girl straightened up. Bill struggled to recapture the vision he had just seen: Hot young breasts bared to his eyes. Then, to mask his feelings, he asked Claire if old man Sinclair had been pitching a bitch because he was late.
"Mr. Sinclair isn't here. He phoned in. Said he wouldn't be in until sometime this afternoon. I can reach him if you want."
"Don't bother." Bill suddenly wished he'd had a few more bourbons. While the cat's away, the mice will ... He scooted closer to Claire, affording himself a more advantageous view of the opening in her blouse. Claire looked good damn good and the reception office was cut off from the rest of the building, and those breasts of hers...
"Claire," he said suddenly, "I think I'm gonna tell that old bastard Mr. Sinclair, that is that I need a private secretary." He leaned over, close enough now that he could smell the cologne that lay nestled in the auburn silkiness of her hair. "Furthermore," he went on, casually dropping his hand to her thigh, "I'm going to ask for you." It was the bourbon talking; he was only baiting her, but the young high school graduate ate it up.
Her face lit with excitement. "Golly, Mr. Trumball." She squeezed her hands together. "Could you really arrange that?"
"Honey, I can arrange anything." He gave her thigh a meaningful squeeze. Nice, too. Ample, but not plump. Just right. His eyes again licked the warmth of her breasts. "Can you take shorthand and type?"
She said that she could.
He fed her more bait. "Naturally, you'd have to sit on my lap now and then." He grinned warmly and watched the reaction in her face.
She wanted to appear worldly for him, teacher's helper goofing off with the instructor. With childish exuberance, she said, "But natch. Private secretaries always sit on their bosses' laps. It's more fun that way."
His hand became more familiar on her muscled thigh. He felt the strap of her garter belt biting into her flesh. "We'd have to have lunch together."
"Of course."
"And an occasional drink in the evening."
"Why not?"
"At your apartment?"
"Where else?" she replied. Her legs spread slightly under the growing boldness of his hand. Her mouth was wet and red. Bill felt like kissing her but held back.
"What if it storms real bad while I'm at your apartment?"
She shrugged. "Guess you'd have to spend the night there," she said matter-of-factly.
Bill felt a volcanic tremble between his legs. The damn kid was going along with everything he suggested. She was so green, so unseeing of the gag, that she'd probably lay him right here in the office anything to get a better job. And wasn't that the way of all women? If the price was right, the meat was neat. Con 'em and you could lay 'em; play it honest and you were kicked in the face.
"Do you really think Mr. Sinclair would transfer me to your office?" she asked, making her game better known.
"There's a good chance," he answered, "if...." He let her know that he was looking down the open vee of her blouse. "...if I say the right things to the old whale."
"Would you?" she asked, following him with her wide eyes when he stood up and walked slowly behind her.
"I kind of think I will," he said, giving each word a slow, rhythmic enunciation. Then his fingers found the warmth of her shoulders and he commenced a gentle massage.
"Oooooo, does that ever feel good."
"A lot of things feel good, Claire." He leaned over the top of her head and gazed upon the quivering white hemispheres of her breasts. He saw that she wore a lacy half-bra, one of those French ditties that allowed the pink of her nipples to show. His blood warmed. He increased the tempo of the massage. His hands glided forward, swept over the hot bareness of her shoulders, then down.
She pressed her moist palms to the backs of his hands and stopped him. "Naughty boy."
"I was only practicing for your new job," he explained, knowing that that would make her stop and think. He let his remark sink in. Now his hands went forward, then down. This time she didn't stop him; he went all the way. His hands found the hot tautness of her nipples. She giggled, he rubbed her nipples more insistently. A real dumb yak-yak of a kid, he thought, but he felt no guilt. He pushed her blouse down the gleaming white of her arms. He cupped her generous melons in his hands and squeezed.
She seized his wrists and made him withdraw his hands. She pulled her blouse back up. "Somebody might come in," she warned.
"What about my office? I'm not going out for lunch," he hinted, and flashing her a boyish grin, he added, "Maybe I could familiarize you with some of your new duties that is, if you're interested."
She spun the swivel chair around affording him a glimpse of her dark nylon-clad legs. Her black skirt was less than a knee tickler, permitting him a view of her gartered stocking tops. She knew he was looking but she made no effort to lower her skirt. She said, "I could send out for some sandwiches."
His gaze was still riveted on the hint of flesh above her stockings. His palms were moist. "Sounds like a winner," he said and, licking his lips, he knew that what he wanted to eat did not come between slices of bread.
When Bill entered the main office, no one paid any attention to his tardiness. Cal Nobel, the company's chief materials man, was pouring over the latest steel quotes when Bill passed by. The shop manager, lanky Skip Jacobson, was on the long-distance wire discussing a blueprint deviation with one of the company's more troublesome customers; and the office girls there were seven in all were busy typing, mimeographing or filing.
Bill closed his frosted-glass private office door, sank heavily into a swivel chair behind his desk, and closed his eyes to the mountain of work before him. Blueprints and letters of inquiry were stacked a foot high in his wicker basket. Telegrams to his right told of order increases and awaited processing. In addition, there were several inter-office memos denoting calls to his office while he was out. He took one tired glance at this wall of work and thought the hell with it.
He leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled on his desk, hands clasped behind his head. Was Edie up yet? he wondered. The hell with her too, he thought abruptly. More fun to think of that young high school chick out in the corridor. She looked like a hot lay, and she was willing to trade her virtue if she had any for a five-buck raise.
Suddenly, and for no particular reason, he wondered what it would feel like to put on a pair of leather underpantys and stand in front of her. Crazy! And he'd bought a pair of them once for Edie, a leather bikini-styled pair of panties that girdled her white flesh and made him hotter than a bull in heat. She'd never worn them again, and Bill wished that he had them here at the office. Claire would wear them; she'd do anything to get her ass in that secretary's chair. And it would be fun to do the unusual. He'd caged himself to Edie's conservative ways for too long and for what?
His mind went back to Claire. He closed his eyes and visualized the bold thrust of her breasts. She probably didn't need a bra; the high school variety never did, and he wondered how many boys had crawled between her moist, hot thighs. The speculation drove him crazy. He envisioned a young boy clasping Claire's bare behind, pinching her, sucking her breasts, ramming himself in and out of her body like some uncontrolled stallion. The more he thought about it, the more eager he became. By noon he was in a state of erotic madness.
There was a slight rap at the office door, Bill said, "Come in," and she stood in the open doorway, more blissfully young than he had at first realized. She closed the office door and dropped the bag of sandwiches and coffee on his desk. "As you ordered, sir."
He contemplated that aura of innocence that she emanated. Did he dare go all the way with her? Suddenly he remembered Edie's affected innocence. "C'mere, Claire."
She unpacked the paper sack. "In a minute." She removed the last container of steaming coffee. "Now what can I do for you?" she asked, coming closer.
"Over here," he said, motioning to a blueprint that he'd spread open.
"Is it safe?" she asked.
"Hell, no!" He grinned. "But if you want the job...."
She was quickly beside him; the blueprint was only a hoax, something to add substance to the job he had proposed to her.
Noting that the blueprint was for one of the metal products that they manufactured, he explained in slow, careful detail the operational steps leading through to the finished part. She nodded with each pause in his explanation, acknowledged the blueprint as though it were a thing understood and he knew it wasn't and when his left hand stole slowly under the back of her dress, caressed and squeezed the hotness of her thigh, she made no withdrawal; nor did she proffer him with a jaundiced eye that asked; What do you think you're doing? She knew perfectly well what he was doing; he was feeling her up and getting them both hot.
He continued with his industrial discourse, keeping his voice tonelessly business-like, giving her the same operational spiel that he had expounded for hundreds of prospective customers.
Naturally, it was all mud to her, but she nodded agreeably to everything he said. He described the shearing of material, the blanking and piercing processes, and lent fine detail to the narrow tolerances that were maintained during the forming operations. All the while, he let his hand glide further and further up the warmth and smoothness of her leg.
When he began kneading the titillating flesh of her thighs, she grew unsettled. He sensed the change in her breathing. She was probably debating whether to stop him. She wanted the job so badly she could taste it, but...
His hand reached the moist seat of her panty girdle. He felt the involuntary muscle contractions of her body. He rubbed the area more vigorously. She frowned. Then moaned. She was hot. He pulled her down on his lap. He slid her skirt up over her stocking tops. His hand found the seat of her emotions, the physical triangle that caused marriage triangles. He teased her with renewed vigor. "Do you find the stamping business intriguing?" he asked. His other hand was at her breasts.
"It ... it's fas-fascinating." She moaned loudly. Voice control was shot. She was sinking fast. He tore her blouse open. The French bra wouldn't hold a marble safely; getting her hot breasts to spill out of their lacy container was no task. And then he drove his wet tongue into her ear, breathed gently, and she was done.
"Mr. Trumbullll...."
"Are you ready for lunch," he whispered.
"I ... I'm ... please don't."
He worked his fingers into the crotch of her panty girdle. "Don't you want to hear more about the stamping business?"
"Mr. Trumball...."
"Yes?"
"I ... I never did anything like ... like this."
"Do you want me to stop?"
She pushed her pelvis against his finger. "Stop? Noooooo. Don't stop. Do it for me." She grabbed frantically at his trouser front. "Nowwwww!"
And Bill obliged.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a helluva wild lunch hour. The sandwiches and coffee grew iceberg cold. Maybe Claire was an inexperienced high school kid, Bill thought, but she had the sexual instincts of a seasoned whore.
They pushed blueprints, quote sheets, and the like to the floor. Bill's ornate, glass-topped desk became the vehicle for sin. But wonderful sin it was. Claire received and gave the cue lines all in their proper place. She sat atop his desk, helped Bill hastily unfasten her clothing. She then aided him in doing the same to himself.
He assumed a standing position, clasped her about the waist, and there was neither time nor need for any of the expected preliminaries. He entered her while she clawed at his back, and when he hunched over to feed on the bouncing, pink tips of her breasts, she scissored him with her legs and drew him in deeper.
Things came off fast. She wanted it badly; his own need was equally fervent. In the idiom of the wild west, he gave her both barrels, but it was scarcely enough. She wanted more when there was no more, dug her nails beseechingly into the flesh of his bare back; drew blood, sighed and moaned, panted and cried.
When he finally withdrew from her, she slid off the desk and came into his arms. "I've been bad, Mr. Trumball. Punish me."
He squeezed her affectionately. "Honey, you were the sweetest thing that ever was. What do you mean, saying you were bad?"
"But I was." She clutched his forearm. "You know I was."
"Honey...." And suddenly he understood. She wanted to be whipped, needed it.
"Please...." She squirmed against him. The friction of her naked body, her sobbed pleadings, aroused him. He fell into the swivel chair and pulled her down hard across his body. She inched forward across his naked thighs. Her voluptuous naked buttocks quivered with anticipation. Sweat grew on his forehead.
"What are you waiting for?" she moaned.
He didn't know; he had always wanted to do something like this, but he never dreamed that a young high school girl would furnish him the opportunity. He let go with his hand. He hit the target with deadly accuracy. She screamed, and the scream excited him even more than the physical contact. He smacked her bare rump again. The rosy imprint of his hand bridged the constricting cheeks of her buttocks. "More...."
He hit her again. And again. "Harder!"
He smacked her with all his might. She leaped with every blow. Her piteous cries pierced the office silence. He couldn't stop if he wanted to. And he didn't. The spanking of that cute, bare bottom filled him with a weird arousal that he had never before experienced. He didn't elude it; he didn't try.
When he was spent, when her backside had become a blistering red, she fell to her knees and began kissing the insides of his thighs. Her hot, flicking tongue tickled him with desire anew. Helpless, trapped by the fascinating abandon of her mouth, he sat stoically inert and let her do as she desired. He had thought himself incapable of another session so soon after the first, but Claire's greedy mouth proved otherwise.
Her nipping, teasing kisses rose higher and higher on his legs. He clenched his fists, waited. Her hot, frolicking tongue ventured closer and closer to its mark. Bill clasped her shoulders. She paused, looked sadly into his eyes. Humbly, she murmured, "I've been so bad, Mr. Trumball. Make me do it to you. Make me."
He put his hands to her head and forced her down. She didn't struggle; it was what she wanted. Her hot moist mouth encircled his throbbing wants and plunged him into a rapturous world of ecstasy. Involuntarily, he pushed upward to greet her hungry mouth. Her tongue licked him to the edge of unconsciousness. And then he couldn't stop her, didn't want to, and the damn pump exploded, and she didn't release him until the last drop had been drawn from the well within.
Much later, he had gone across the street and refreshed himself with some hot black coffee. He had a dinger of a headache; the sex bout with Claire had left him as limp as a summer chocolate bar. She was a real kook about the whipping stuff, but he felt a little sorry for her. In the aftermath of their sex circus, she had told him how she became that way. The story wasn't new. Mother died young, raised by a slightly twisted stepfather. Enjoyed himself by pulling her panties off and whipping the hell out of her. Afterwards, he would fondle her, make her do perverted acts with him, and when it was over, then he would cradle her in his arms and love her.
"It was the only way I ever got any real loving," she had said. "I guess after a while I just connected pain with ... well, you know ... love." And then she asked, "Am I some kind of nut, Mr. Trumball?"
And of course, he had said no. At least she was honest about her fetish, which was more than he could say about most people. And she didn't pretend-not like Edie. And then, with his bitterness returning, he finished off the black coffee and went back to the office.
For the remainder of the afternoon, he was less than the picture of industry; but he did manage to get out several quotes, answer two telegrams, as well as make several trips to the water cooler. His mind was not entirely on his work; he expected Edie to phone, she didn't, and he was more confused than before. He had thought she'd feel remorse for cheating on him, turn on the sweet act and beg him to forgive her. He was evidently mistaken, but he was determined not to call her. If there was going to be a first move, let it come from her.
At four o'clock, a little after, Claire rang him on the intercom and said that Mr. Sinclair was in his office and would like to see him. She added an emphatic: "At once!"
Bill prepared himself for a chewing out. Sinclair never invited anybody to his office for the blue-ribbon routine; it was always why did you do this, and why did you do that. Bill straightened his tie, left his office and, with a slight rap, entered Sinclair's. He took a seat while Sinclair thumbed through a manila folder.
Sitting there, Bill-likened Howard Sinclair to a coroner who had witnessed too many violent deaths. He wore a constant pained expression, his face was pale and emaciated; he had the ulcer bit that comes with success, possessed white hair and watery blue eyes; and to hear him tell it, he was Horatio Alger without the wife. Started his stamping business during the pre-war years, he did. Began in a garage with salvaged equipment; built the business from the ground up, showed what a man could do if he put his nose to the grindstone.
As for women, the old man would frequently boast that he didn't need them. Nevertheless, one of the office girls discovered that he kept his desk drawers well stacked with girlie magazines and nude photos.
With the manila folder suddenly laid aside, Sinclair cleared his throat, hunched forward, hands clasped in front of his face. "Bill, what would you say to a couple of weeks' vacation?"
Bill came to the edge of his chair. "A vacation?"
"I think you need it, Bill. I think you've been overworked and that means falling efficiency." Sinclair reopened the folder.
"What brought this on?"
"This, for one thing," Sinclair said, pulling a quotation sheet from the folder. "That copper switch unit we made for the Parker firm-you underquoted our costs by nearly nine-hundred dollars."
Angrily, Bill snapped, "We'll re-quote it, then."
Sinclair screwed up his face. "You know we can't do that. If you advise a customer that you're going to manufacture his part at a given cost, then you have to stick to your bargain. You re-quote, and you lose customers."
Bill gave Sinclair the usual arguments. You bid low to secure the job, to make certain that competitors are squeezed out, and occasionally your bid is too low. You didn't win them all; sometimes you had to accept a beating. Sinclair, of course, didn't adhere to that policy. He wanted a fat net gain on every single job that was processed.
"Winning arguments won't lessen the mistake, Bill. This boo-boo with the Parker firm was a bad one. We lost our shirt and, in my opinion, you need a rest."
He felt anger flushing his cheeks. He gripped the sides of the chair. "Look...."
"Put it another way, Bill. You deserve a vacation. You've done a fine job, there's always room for improvement, and maybe with a few days of rest...."
Bill rose angrily to his feet. "Is this a form of temporary suspension?"
Sinclair waved him back to his chair. "Don't get your Irish up. It's nothing of the kind." He threw the folder back down. "In fact.. . " A rare smile worked its way into his expression. "...If I had the chance, I'd take a few days off myself." He rose, went to the liquor cabinet, and brought out the eight-dollar Scotch that was generally reserved for select new customers.
Bill didn't want any Scotch, but when Sinclair came on with the slap-on-the-back routine, proffered him a handful of fifty-cent cigars, Bill felt obliged to accept the drink.
Minutes later, Sinclair put a second Scotch in his hands and, soon after, a third. The stuff had no noticeable effect on Sinclair, but Bill had had plenty earlier in the day; this second dose hit him with deadly precision. His speech thickened, his vision blurred. Formalities disappeared, they became loud and boisterous; inevitably, the subject became sex. Sinclair could never get over his surprise, he explained, at the many, many shapes of women's breasts. They discussed the pear-shaped versus the conical; balloons versus marbles. And it was only natural-especially, after a fourth Scotch-that Bill should draw Edie's breasts into the comparisons.
"She's got 'em, Howie. Knockers that would put your eye out."
Sinclair couldn't hide his interest. His eyes widened, he clenched his drink more firmly. "I never paid that much attention, Bill. I know she was in the office here a few times, but. . . "
"That didn't tell you a thing. You saw her in a tailored suit." He swirled more of the Scotch into his mouth. "When you want to see her is after she steps out of the shower." He watched Sinclair try to grasp the mental picture. Sinclair let out a giant sigh.
"Shouldn't be telling tales out of school, Bill. The Missus might not like it."
He shrugged it off. He didn't care what Edie liked; right now he was more fascinated by Sinclair's growing interest. "Why keep big tits a secret, huh? She's got 'em, ain't she?"
Sinclair was flustered. Rarely at a loss for words, he couldn't seem to find the right ones now. "Bill ... I. . . Well, I didn't mean that she didn't have nice ... well, you know. I didn't want to be disrespectful, you know...."
"Howie, get off my back, will you. The last time Edie was down here, you just about fell over the wastepaper basket getting yourself a good look."
"Now wait a minute, Bill...."
"C'mon, don't con me."
"Honest, Bill."
"Sure, sure, sure." He gulped at the Scotch. "Tell you what, chum. I wouldn't like it if you didn't look. In fact, I'd be highly insulted. You know what I mean?"
"Sure, Bill."
"The hell you do! You know how I feel? like the Eskimos. I mean a man comes into your home and he's your guest. Am I right?"
"Well, sure...."
"And an Eskimo always shares his wife with his guests. Did you know that."
"I read something like that once, but...."
"Well, that's the way it oughta be," Bill cut in. "You come to my igloo and I say, 'C'mon in, Howie. This is my wife and if you want to go to bed with her, what the hell are we waiting for?'"
Sinclair wiped the perspiration from his brow. "Wait'll I get my dog-sled unhitched." He laughed heartily.
"You think I'm kidding?" Bill said.
"Well, no, Bill ... only...."
"She's a hot piece, Howie. Knows how to wiggle and squeal. Kind of drives you nuts." And then he was telling Sinclair his innermost bedroom secrets, extolling the most intimate spots on Edie's body, explaining in careful detail what she liked, what she didn't.
Sinclair became thoroughly aroused by the conversation, generously re-filled Bill's empty glass, then sat avidly alert to Bill's every word.
"And if she were here right now," Bill finished, "I'd prove just how good she is."
"Not in front of me?" Sinclair said incredulously.
"And why not?"
"She wouldn't let you."
"The hell she wouldn't," he snapped back.
"You mean she'd take off everything and...."
Bill lied and said, "Hell, yes!"
Sinclair again wiped his brow. He gulped at his Scotch. Bill joined him.
"You make a man damn hot, talking that way."
"Maybe we oughta do something about it," Bill suggested. He mentioned Claire, the new telephone receptionist.
"She's only a kid."
"Kid, hell!" He told Sinclair about his interesting lunch hour.
"But I've never fooled around with my help, Bill. Makes trouble."
"You wanna get screwed."
"Well...."
"You'll miss the goddamn train, just sitting there with your tongue hanging out." He reached across Sinclair's desk and pressed the intercom and contacted Claire. "Honey, this is Bill." He paused. "Lunch hour Bill." He grinned. "You remember, I hope." She did. "Listen, would you mind staying over for a few minutes after everyone leaves ... yes ... in Mr. Sinclair's office ... fine" He flicked the switch off and turned to his boss "It's all fixed."
"Bill, we could get in trouble over this."
"For chrissakes, stop worrying."
"I'm not worrying, it's just that...."
"Get another glass, will you. We're gonna get this chick so drunk she won't know her own name."
Promptly at five o'clock, Claire joined them. Bill quickly persuaded her to have a drink. To his surprise, she handled it as though it were apple cider, thirstily asked for another.
By five-fifteen, she was silly. At five-thirty, she was staggering. Bill led her to a leather couch; Sinclair removed his suit coat and watched the performance from atop his desk. Bill stole a few kisses get her hot, he thought and Claire's defenses melted away with the Scotch. Her black skirt crept up her nyloned legs; Bill helped it creep still further.
By six o'clock, he had succeeded in getting her blouse unfastened, he and Sinclair had both felt her up between kisses, and Bill had persuaded her to stand up and show off her legs.
"If you're gonna be a sexy secretary...." He winked at Sinclair. "...then you gotta have what it takes."
Claire spilled part of her drink on the carpet, then set the glass down. "What d'ya want me to do?"
"Show the gams, honey." He made her stand by the window, pull up her skirt and walk slowly toward them. She staggered, but she didn't fall. Bill steadied her, then stepped back to Sinclair's side to watch the show.
Her legs were good. Long and full, curvy beyond the tops of her nylons, so soft-looking that it was a temptation to run toward her and grasp her between the legs.
"What do you think of our girl?" he asked Sinclair. "Has she got it, or has she got it?"
Sinclair was drunk. He supported himself against Bill. "She's got it, all right. Only...." He belched. "...does it wiggle? Huh, Bill? Does it?"
He answered, "How the hell do I know." Then turning toward Claire: "Hey, honey. Go back to the window and try it again, only this time make it shake. Okay?"
She shrugged and found her way back to the window. Bill coaxed her to raise her skirt above her panty girdle. "Now give," he commanded.
She did. It was wild. like a snake, really, with erotic, undulating movements of her young hips and sensuous buttocks that set them afire. Sinclair glanced down at Bill's trouser front. "You, too?" he motioned.
"And how!"
Claire looked at the two men. "Do I get the job?" she asked.
Bill said, "Well you have to show more than that."
"How much more do you want to see?"
"Honey," he said, stumbling toward her, "the sky is the limit." He pulled her bra down and began playing with her breasts. Sinclair grabbed at himself.
The girl put up a token resistance, but she was no match for the hundred-proof Scotch, nor for the persistent fumbling of Bill's hands. In a matter of seconds, he had found the moist path between her legs and worked her into a fevered anguish. She moaned and rubbed against him, and he was surprised by her quick response. She wanted to give, and she wanted to take.
Bill drew her skirt over the lascivious taper of her hips. He motioned Sinclair to approach her from behind. Sinclair was agreeably compliant, pressing his weight against her bare buttocks, sandwiching her in a dual role that promised to drive her crazy.
They removed her clothes; then their own. Bill mouthed one of her ruby-tipped breasts and pressed his maleness between her legs. Sinclair fondled her rear. Both men squirmed against her. She sucked in her breath, lost all touch with sanity. She was crushed between the piercing hardness of two men, throbbing forward to meet Bill's attack, then thrusting backwards to feel Sinclair's own greedy invasion.
"Double or nothing," Bill moaned. Sinclair was too busy to answer. He was giving her a real ride, and Bill could feel the impact of his unbridled attack. Bill matched their rhythm. His maleness surged to deeper depths of Claire's love. A tumultuous moan escaped her lips. Her fists were squeezed into tiny balls. Her eyes closed. The explosion drew near.
Claire gasped. She choked back sobs of ecstasy. "Billll ... ohhhh ... more ... more...."
They rammed her in true togetherness. The resulting blast was equal to the detonation of a three-megaton bomb. Nobody died. But almost...
A smoke period followed, a time of breath-catching when they sat around in the nude and exchanged dirty jokes. Claire moved to Sinclair's lap; she insisted that he resembled her stepfather. Bill threw him his belt, added: "She-likes it that way." Then he began to dress.
They called him a party pooper, but it didn't change his mind; he wanted to leave, he had had enough. He waited until they started again, however, and when Sinclair began chasing Claire with the belt, when he had driven her into a corner where there was no escape, that was the moment that Bill chose to leave.
He reached the door, Claire was screaming, Sinclair was lashing her bare buttocks, and then Bill froze in his steps. A feeling of mind and body that he couldn't understand, took hold of him. He turned slowly and stared at Claire's panties on the floor. He moved toward them, glanced guiltily at Claire and Sinclair. He scooped them up and started for the door.
Claire had seen him. "Hey, he's got my panties ... Bill!"
He shot her a frightened glance. The panties balled up in his hands seemed unreal. His eyes bulged.
"Bill, what's the matter with you?" Sinclair said. He dropped the belt and approached him slowly.
Suddenly, Bill turned and fled from the office. He ran for the street. The precious pink panties were stuffed in his pocket. Night swallowed him up.
CHAPTER FIVE
He was like a frightened rabbit running from a would-be captor. He hurried up Broadway as fast as his legs would carry him, looked furtively over his shoulders at every intersection, ran until tears came to his eyes, until his lungs ached, until there simply wasn't another step left in his straining body. Then he sagged against a brick building up on Seventh Avenue and asked himself: What the hell is wrong with me?
There was no answer for that one, and when he had regained his breath, when his hand crept to the inside coat pocket where the panties were nestled, he told himself that there was nothing wrong. So he had stolen her panties; so what? He wasn't the first man to obey a weird compulsion of mind, nor would he be the last. He grinned at the chilling darkness. Didn't kids steal things from dime stores, and just for laughs? His hands were trembling. He lit a cigarette. That's what he'd tell Sinclair. Did it for laughs. Had to see the look on her face when he ran off with her panties. Bet she threw a real bitch. He took another long drag on his cigarette. Slowly, he moved back into the lights of the theater marquees, back to Broadway.
When he was a block from home, he threw Claire's panties away. He'd buy her a new pair, of course. Almost have to. And maybe she would let him help her get them on. Maybe they'd both put them on; that would be fun. And too bad Edie wasn't that permissive. What the hell was so terrible about putting on a pair of panties, goofing off in women's clothes, as long as he derived a thrill from it? Edie, if she saw him that way, would have him hauled off to the boobie hatch. Claire, and maybe a lot of girls, they'd get a charge out of something like that. He dwelled on the comparisons and by the time he reached the apartment, his attitude was just as antagonistic as it had been early this morning. If she said one lousy word about his being late for supper, he'd tell her off and good!
Oddly enough, she didn't say anything offensive; in fact, she was even sweeter than usual. She greeted him with a kiss, helped him off with his coat, then handed him the evening paper and ushered him to his favorite chair. Supper would be ready in a few minutes, she promised; did he want a highball while he was waiting. He said no, of course, gave her another kiss when she swept down to him, then tried to fathom the sweetness-and-darling role. Her motives were fairly obvious, he thought. She probably felt cheap about last night, she's worried as to where she stands, and now she wants to make up for it.
He decided on an air of detachment. Let her guess, he thought. Let her worry; it'll do her good. He scanned the headlines, took a shower, hoped that it would take the edge off his hangover. When he had dressed, returned to the living room, Karen crawled to his chair. He pulled her to his lap, cuddled her affectionately. Edie came in. Supper was ready.
He put Karen down and lumbered stiffly to the table. He wasn't hungry not after all that drinking and sex but it was there: Pork chops, steaming home fries, and a side order of apple sauce; and he put himself to the chore of at least nibbling.
Edie poured two coffees and sat across from him. She looked pretty, something he couldn't deny not even on those ragged days of the curse. She wore a thin summer frock tonight, one that he was especially fond of; it was white, adorned with embroidered blue bells and garlands of forget-me-nots.
The talk was small. Did he have a busy day, was it cold outside, were the pork chops done enough. He said they were pretty busy, it was cool, the pork chops were just fine. He found himself studying her face from time to time, wondering at the innermost thoughts that were hidden beyond that angelic face. Had she seen her lover today? Did they go to bed together?
"Is something wrong?" she asked suddenly.
"Wrong?"
"Yes, you were staring at me, and you had the oddest expression on your face."
"Did I."
"Yes."
"I guess I was daydreaming." He forced himself to take another bite of the pork chops.
"You don't seem very hungry, either."
"I guess I'm just tired," he said.
She pulled closer to him. She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I know what's wrong," she said. "You're mad at me. You're mad because I didn't phone you today like I Usually do."
He grunted.
"You were such a grouch last night, though. And this morning," she went on, "you didn't even say 'goodbye'! or anything."
He didn't want to wake her, he explained. No, he wasn't mad. And then: Yes and no and yes and no and blah, blah, blah. He finally had enough of her conversation; he didn't feel like talking and he pushed himself away from the table.
She followed him into the living room, squatted Indian fashion in front of his chair; Karen crawled close by and attempted unsuccessfully to imitate her.
"How tired are you?" Edie asked.
"Very tired."
"Too tired to take me shopping."
"Tonight?"
"The stores are open 'til late. They had these shoes on sale and...." She broke off abruptly, then said, "Bill, did you remember to drop my coat off at the cleaners?"
It hit him like a thunderbolt. The goddamn coat! Christ, he'd left it in that bar last night! He'd come into the bar with it, dressed up like a woman, he was; then he had left, and the coat...
"You're going to have to get a new coat," he said without looking at her.
"Why? There's nothing wrong with that one."
"You don't have it anymore."
"I what?"
"Somebody stole it. I thought I had the car locked when I parked it...." He picked up the newspaper to hide his face. "...but I guess it wasn't and...."
"Bill, that coat was practically brand new."
"I know."
"And I liked it. It fit so well and everything." And then she was making a damn federal case out of the stinking coat, bringing the crazy episode back in frightening clarity an event that he would now be happy to forget.
Finally, to silence her, because there was no other choice, he agreed to take her shopping. Edie rushed to the phone and called the babysitter.
Darla Winters never ceased to amaze Bill with her suggestive and womanly outgrowth. He had never known a 15-year-old girl with such alluring proportions; she had babysat for them for nearly two years. Bill admitted her to their apartment; Edie was doing some last-minute magic with her make-up.
There were cheerful 'hello's' followed by Bill's interest-sparked smile. He couldn't take his eyes off her rump when she bent over to pick Karen up; she was sugar and spice, and everything nice. She wore tight-fitting stretch pants, a green of summer apples. The apples upstairs weren't bad, either, covered in part by a white pullover that boasted a low, scooped out neckline. Her pony tail was as black as night.
He urged her to sit down and make herself at home, wished that he too were a 15-years-old. Once it had been last summer he and Edie had gone to a movie. It had been dreadfully hot, Darla babysat, and because the movie was such an impossible bore, they returned home unexpectedly early. Darla was stretched out asleep on the living room divan, clad in only panties and bra. She had bolted for cover when she awoke, but not before he had caught an informing glimpse of her young behind and the bouncing cups of her deliciously juvenile breasts. He had never forgotten the excitement of that moment; he was thinking of it now.
Unaware that he was looking down the front of her pullover, the 15-year-old was bent over in front of Bill, bouncing Karen up and down. She had big ones, all right. Might be nice to get a handful, he thought, and he wondered if she had any boyfriends and whether she allowed them to touch her there. Edie entered the room and broke his thoughts; she gave Darla some last-minute instructions, and then Bill was being led to the door.
The evening was an effort for him. Trafficking through crowded department stores in search of a new coat was more than his troubled stomach could stand. He cursed himself for the stupidness of losing her coat; by buying her a new one he was, in effect, practically rewarding her for having a secret lover.
Between department stores, they had coffee in a small luncheonette. Edie prodded him with conversation; he was moodily silent. During the day, he had been able to push Edie's cheating out of his mind and, by his own deeds, achieve a certain measure of revenge. But now, now that she was beside him, now that her cloying perfume assailed his nostrils and her warm thigh was pressed against his own, the ugliness of her infidelity came home to haunt him. He was bitter, hurt.
Half-way through the coffee, he told her that Sinclair was giving him a week off, a sort of impromptu vacation, and Edie wondered what they would do.
"Same thing as always," he said sourly. "Nothing."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He remained silent, played vacantly with the spoon in his coffee. In the past, he thought, doing nothing had somehow been sufficient. They had each other, there was TV, the theater, an occasional ride in the country; that had been enough at least, for Edie. Oh, Bill had approached her often about a party, told of the wild office parties that he wanted to take her to, even sampled her opinion on some of the harmless wife-swapping that sometimes went on. Naturally, Edie declined. Said she was a member of that nearly extinct breed the old-fashioned housewife one who thought a wife's proper place was in bed with her husband not somebody else's. What a preposterous laugh, he thought grimly.
"Bill," she said, breaking into his thoughts, "I asked you a question."
"I guess I just get bored with things," he said without looking at her.
"You mean with me, don't you?"
"I didn't say that, did I?"
"No, but it's what you meant."
"Well, you know, it wouldn't hurt if we did have a few friends, or went to a party, or...."
"I thought that was it," she second-guessed. "What would you like to do? Have one of those wild sex parties you're always talking about? Would you like me to take off my clothes and walk around naked in front of other men? Is that what you want?"
"Edie, for chrissakes, we're in a public place."
She went on, determined to learn what was troubling him. "That's why you acted like a damn cannibal last night, isn't it? Someone at the office told you about one of their wife-swapping adventures, you felt sorry for yourself, and now you're going to take it out on me."
"Edie...." He dropped a quarter on the counter and led the way out of the luncheonette. "Let's forget it."
She caught up with him in front of the revolving door. "I don't want to forget it, Bill. If you're not happy...."
"I didn't say that, dammit. I didn't say a damn thing about wife-swapping. All I said...."
"You'd like it, though, wouldn't you? You'd like to watch other men doing things to me. I know."
Why in the hell couldn't she shut up? he wondered. "Edie...."
She pushed him through the revolving door. Outside, she took him by the arm. "You know how I know?" she continued.
To quiet her, he said, "No, how do you know?"
"Remember how you used to ask me things at night ... I mean when we were in bed?"
He remembered. Silly, he supposed. He'd ask her about the fellows she dated when she was in school, whether they tried to make out with her, how far she had allowed them to go. She had at first thought he was jealous; later, he explained that it excited him to hear her describe the details of her dates. When she understood this, realized it was a hungry prelude to the act of love, she made up stories, fabricated imaginary boys and imaginary seductions.
"That was different," he said, now that she was bringing it to his attention.
"But you would like to do that I mean for real. I can tell."
He decided not to answer her; she'd rather do those things behind his back, he thought angrily. She'd rather cheat and let him continue to believe she was that coy, devoted, angelic, pure, and true. The bitch!
She searched his face for a smile. When he finally looked down at her, she tendered him her most loving smile-a skilled art with her, and she said, "Grouch."
He found a smile for her and although nothing was really settled between them, he sensed her insecurity, her blind anxiousness to please him. Right now she'd do anything he asked. His darkest wish would be instantly obeyed, and those wishes, he mused secretly there were so very many...
In the next department store they fought their way through, Edie discovered the coat that she wanted an autumn shortie, textured with pale pink angora. He bought it for her, and as they strode through the store after the purchase, she said, "Are you going to make love to me tonight? I feel like it, if you do."
He told her he didn't know. He wasn't sure, really, if he could go another round, or not.
"I'll take everything off," she said, trying to excite him, "and if you want, you can even take pictures. How would that be?"
He masked his interest with a shrug of indifference. She was trying damn hard, he thought. Posing nude before his Polaroid would be her supreme sacrifice. True, she had reluctantly permitted him to take pictures before, but she always insisted on tearing them up soon after; she was afraid he would show them to his office buddies.
"You aren't answering me, Mr. William."
"I'm out of film."
"Tsk, tsk." She turned toward him; she moistened her lips. "Then I think you'd better buy some tonight."
"You'll just tear 'em up."
"How do you know, Mr. Smarty?"
"You always do."
"All right. Tonight, I won't. You can do whatever you want with them."
He almost fell over with surprise. If he could show one of Edie's nude photos to old man Sinclair ... Christ, the old boy would fall flat on his aged ass.
Edie gave him a gentle nudge toward the photo supply counter. "Well...."
He stepped up and bought three packs of film. He offered her a timid smile, wondering as he did, why he wanted to show the pictures to Sinclair. He didn't fight the question, though; he simply rationalized that showing the pictures to Sinclair would be for kicks.
Later, in the lamp department and from a few paces back, he caught himself appraising the soft curve of Edie's behind. Nice, he thought. Not too big, not too small. And when she turned to examine a lamp, he saw other things that were also nice: her breasts. None of her features were harsh, though. Her femininity needed no accent, no artifices. She was fine the way she was soft and cuddly, an appealing girl-woman with constant beauty. How sad, he thought miserably, that she was also a cheat.
In the hardware department, Bill suddenly realized they were being followed. It was silly, really two shabbily dressed boys, perhaps 12 and 15, were following closely behind, giggling and whispering to each other, maybe finding erotic amusement in the wiggle of Edie's buttocks. Whatever the attraction, they were not to be easily eluded.
Bill pretended not to notice them, and Edie, agog at every counter display, was impervious to the pleasure that she was bringing two callow youths.
When they left the hardware department, Edie led the way upstairs; she wanted to see those shoes that were on sale. Bill followed her and the boys lurked cautiously up the stairs after them. Just before they reached the top steps, Edie stopped suddenly and pointed to a display that had been built into the wall. Several pairs of women's shoes were mounted within the case: metallic blues and browns, spike-heeled exotics, the very latest in French imports.
Edie was exuberantly entranced with the spike-heeled ones black leatherettes with rhinestone strappings, heels that were at least five-inches high. "I wonder how much they are?" she said excitedly.
Bill shrugged. His mind was directed to the two boys standing below, clutching at the banisters, looking up, seeing everything that Edie owned.
A sudden boiling of passion took him in its grasp. He knew he should nudge Edie upward off the landing, take her away from the prying eyes of the two youths, but some incredible black demon within him rendered him powerless. He even delayed her when she started to leave, asked foolish questions about the shoes, gave the boys precious seconds of added observation. He knew that they could readily see the milky white of her thighs; perhaps, also the pink of her panties and the darkened triangle within.
He was hot hot, knowing that the two small boys were also hot, and when it became apparent that the show was over, Edie climbing the last few remaining stairs, he looked down at the boys and flashed them a knowing wink. The boys exchanged puzzled glances, then followed quickly after them.
Bill led her to the women's shoe department. She wouldn't buy those spiked-heeled shoes the coat had been costly enough, she said but she just had to try them on. Did he care? Absently, he said no.
While they were in the shoe department, the boys stationed themselves behind a pillar and out of sight. The shoe clerk brought Edie the model she was interested in, then excused himself to attend another customer.
Edie, and obviously for Bill's benefit, made a considerably wanton display of herself putting the shoes on. Bill was standing opposite her, gazing at the sheer panties she wore.
"Are you getting an eyeful?" she asked, deliberately working him up.
Bill thought of the two boys somewhere behind him. "Would you like to get raped right here in the store?" he asked.
"That might be fun," she said, cramping her feet into the leather skyscrapers. She stood up and her legs looked more marvelous than he had ever remembered. He was as awed as the two boys clutching excitedly at their trouser fronts.
"How would you like me to wear these and long black hose, and nothing else?" She smiled mischievously.
"Damn you!"
"Am I getting you hot?"
He answered her by purchasing the shoes. Down in the street, his excitement was driving him crazy. He had forgotten his earlier bitterness and let his hands brush the warmth and bounce of her buttocks. He rushed her toward their car, intent on only one thing: Getting his hot hands under her dress. The two small boys ran quickly behind them.
CHAPTER SIX
Those first minutes in the car were frantic. He threw the packages in the back seat of the Thunderbird and swept her demandingly into his arms. He kissed her as though she were being taken away from him, as though this were their final parting embrace. Her lips were as hot as his, pulsating with desire, surging over with a craving madness that said: Lets do it.
His hands were all over her, squeezing the pliant softness of her breasts, digging between the hot moistness of her spread thighs, and it was only when she broke from him, gasped, "Honey, we're in the middle of New York City," that he restrained himself and paused to catch his breath.
She made a vain attempt to push his hand out from under her dress; he stubbornly held it there. He pushed her panties aside.
"Bill!" She squirmed free of him.
"I'm hot."
"Well, so am I, but...."
Suddenly, he saw the two boys. They had hunched over and crept up to the car. She saw the direction of his glance and started to turn. He drew her back into his arms, pushed her dress up. Again, she broke free. "Bill!"
"Scared?"
"No, but I don't need an audience, either." She nodded toward the two youths. "In case you didn't know it, we're contributing to the delinquency of you-know-who."
"Can't blame 'em. Pretty girl, pretty legs...."
"All right, lover boy," she said with a mocking smile. "Start the car. I think you and I have some homework to do."
The ride home was a good one almost like old times. They bantered double-meaning jokes back and forth, he played with her legs, and she threatened him with: "Just you wait 'til I get your clothes off." He wasn't sure he could wait, and he was surprised by his willingness to forgive and forget the nightmare of these last few days. He supposed it was love; love was the cure for everything somebody had fashioned that advice and it wasn't too hard to take.
They reached the apartment shortly after ten. Darla said that everything was fine, Karen had fallen asleep right after they left. Edie wanted to double-check. "Ever since that prowler broke in here...." She flashed him a worried glance, then tip-toed down the hallway.
"What prowler?" Darla asked, her eyebrows suddenly raised.
Bill shrugged. He didn't care to discuss it. "It's nothing," he said quietly. "Don't worry about it."
Edie came back. "She's all right. I guess I'm just nervous." She glanced at Darla. "Bill, maybe you ought to drive Darla home, huh? I mean...."
"I think it would be better," he answered, and then turning to Edie, he said, "Is there anything you want at the store while I'm out?"
She motioned him into the kitchen. "Maybe you'd better pick up a bottle if you can. There's not much bourbon left...." She opened the top button of her dress. "...I'll be already for you when you get back," she whispered.
He tried to peek into the dress.
"When you get back," she said, flouncing away from his gaze.
"I'm ready now."
"That's what I'm afraid of." She pushed him toward the living room.
"Okay, for you," he said joshingly. "If you don't love me anymore, I'll just have to get a new girlfriend." He put his arm around the babysitter and pulled her toward the door. "C'mon, Darla. Let's go where we're appreciated."
"G'bye, Mrs. Trumball," the girl gushed.
"Goodnight, Darla."
Bill glanced over his shoulder. "Goodnight, Mrs. Trumball."
"Lunkhead," Edie grinned. She blew him a kiss.
Going down in the elevator, he felt he owned the world. He was on equal terms with Edie that made a tremendous difference; the prowler story was fake, of course he was sure of that but he'd had his revenge with the office girl, so he was happily willing to bury the axe.
When they reached the street, he was whistling, giving Darla playful jabs in the ribs. He opened the door of the Thunderbird. "Honey, if you weren't sweet 15...." He gazed longingly at the bumps beneath her white cotton pullover. "...I sure wouldn't be taking you home this early." He winked at her and she winked back.
He came around to the other side of the car, taking a deep breath of the warm, languid night, telling himself that everything was going to be fine yes, just great. And then he saw the piece of paper fastened beneath the windshield wiper. A parking ticket? He opened it. A note. He held it to the streetlight, saw the crude, hastily scrawled message. His hands trembled. Anger blazed in his eyes. The note read: Ask your wife when she's going to do it again. Ask her if it was fun.
The crazy sonofabitch, Bill thought. The bastard had screwed Edie, and now he was bragging about it. He balled up the note and flung it toward the gutter. He jerked the door open.
"What's the matter?" Darla asked.
His hot stare burned into the girl's curious eyes. "Nothing. Not a thing." He crawled in beside her. "Darla?"
"Yes."
"Are you in a hurry to get home."
"No. Why?"
"Would your folks mind?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think so. Anyway, I don't have to tell them, do I?"
"Won't they phone if you're not home right away?"
"What for? They know I'm babysitting. Besides, they went to a show."
He started the car. "I've got to get something. You might as well go along for the ride."
She thought that was fine. She also thought the car was 'super' and could it do a hundred. He told her it would. And then she babbled on about school, how she wished they had a longer vacation, small talk that annoyed him and failed to dispel his growing anger over the anonymous note.
"You don't talk very much," she noted. "In fact, you act like you're mad at me about something. Are you?"
He felt ashamed of himself. He had made her uncomfortable with his silence. "I'm sorry," he said. He put his arm around her, a gesture of friendliness rather than a pass, and he added, "How's my best girl?"
Darla snuggled up beside him. "She's just fine."
He kissed her hair and a warm sense of paternalism stole through him. Some of his loneliness disappeared. "You're all right, Darla. I kind of like you." He said it because it felt good to express those words to someone; he hadn't meant to be sentimentally drippy, but she instantly chose her own interpretation. She placed her small hand in his lap and rested her head on his shoulders.
"I kind of like you, too," she said. Her leg was pressed against his.
He felt a rapid awakening. A warning bell told him how easy she'd be, how nice her bumps were, and how quickly she would agree to park and neck. But 15 ... Christ, she could make him a barrel of trouble. She could even send him to jail.
"Do you have any cigarettes?" she asked.
He jockeyed the Thunderbird onto an expressway that would take them to Brooklyn. He fumbled for the cigarettes. "I didn't even know you smoked," he said.
"You weren't supposed to know. I don't tell everything I do."
The remark was intended for him, he thought. She was reassuring him, saying there was nothing to worry about, that he could do whatever he pleased and she wouldn't tell. He gave her a cigarette, lit it for her. Then he pulled her close again. She enjoyed it, let him have a drag on her cigarette, and when his hand ventured up from her rib cage to cup the virginal warmth of her young breasts, she acted completely unconcerned about it, as though it were the most natural gesture in the world. He maintained his exciting grasp all the way to the roadhouse.
"Can't I come in with you?" she asked.
He explained that he'd only be a minute. Walking into a gin mill with a 15-year-old girl would be courting trouble, he told himself, and that was something he could do without.
However, he was longer than a minute. He had three double bourbons before he approached the bartender about slipping him a bottle, but there was no problem. The bartender handed him a paper sack containing the fifth, he paid for it and then hurried to the darkened parking lot and the girl.
He felt horny, maybe the bourbon could be blamed, but she looked so lushly inviting when he returned to the car, and without thinking seriously of the consequences, he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
She stiffened, but she didn't fight it. He felt encouraged. His hands strayed to the hotness of her pullover. He played with her breasts and she purred like a well-fed kitten. The stiffness went out of her body. Her tongue slipped between his lips, and with increased daring, he took new liberties with her breasts.
She loved it. She put her hands over his and urged him to press harder. He did. Then she guided his hand under her sweater.
He should stop now, he thought. In another minute, he would be pulling her stretch pants down and they would be crawling in the back seat. She pressed his hand onward to her bra. The hardness of her nipples throbbed against his moist palms. Why shouldn't he? he wondered. She wanted it; why not give it to her?
Suddenly he freed one hand from the hot fruit inside her bra and began stroking the forbidden land of her thighs. She slumped lower in the seat. Her legs parted, everything was "go".
His breathing grew irregular. He forced her down on the seat, and it did not occur to him what would happen if a police cruiser suddenly drove up beside them; he was too hot to know or care. In blind abandon, his hand plundered to the vertex of her stretch pants. He rubbed her body. Suddenly she seized his wrists.
"I can't," she cried.
He didn't argue; it wasn't smart. He slid back behind the wheel. The girl rose to a sitting position. "I should have told you," she said. "I mean...."
He didn't immediately grasp what she was trying to say not until she added: "It's that time of the month."
He smiled good-naturedly. "Forget it."
"But I won't. I shouldn't have let you get all excited and everything." She moved her hand across his lap.
"I could still do something for you...." she was close to home base. Very close.
"...I mean...."
He removed her hand, gave her another tight little smile. "You don't have to."
"I will if you want me to."
"It's not necessary. I'll live." He started the car.
"You're not mad?"
He told her he wasn't.
"I'll make it up to you," she promised.
"You don't have to."
"But I want to," she insisted. "I really, really want to."
He felt a quick return of devilishment. "You want to what?"
She curled next to him, put her hand brazenly between his legs. "You know."
"No, I don't."
"You do."
"Tell me."
"What I want to do."
"Uh, huh."
She whispered hotly in his ear. "I want you to love me!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
"What took you so long?" Edie asked when he returned.
He closed and locked the door and set the bourbon on the end table. Necking with the babysitter had enabled him to blot away some of his earlier bitterness; instead, he felt guilt. He decided to make a joke out of it. "I was necking with the babysitter. What else?"
"Naturally you went to a motel," she said, picking up the joke.
He continued with the banter. "Didn't have time. She wanted to do it right away, so I pulled down her pants back of this roadhouse...."
"Liar." She grinned.
"I am not," he said, and because it amused him to talk this way, he went on, saying, "And she has the prettiest boobies I ever laid my eyes on."
"You mean your hands."
"And my tongue."
Edie picked up the bourbon bottle and carried it into the kitchen. He followed, removing a tray of ice cubes. "I'm sorry," she said, "but you're not a very convincing liar." She rubbed against him while he emptied the ice cube tray. "Furthermore, I'm sure that I can do you more good than a snotty-nosed kid. Agreed?"
"She wasn't bad," he said, wondering if he was irritating her. "A virgin?"
"Not since 12. Said a brush salesman broke her in."
Edie dismissed him with a grin, then removed her robe. "How do you like my outfit?"
"I'm speechless," he said, and he was. She wore black spike-heeled shoes that startled him with the beauty they enhanced to her legs. He had a bug about shiny patent leather; she could walk all over him with those shoes and the feeling would be ecstatic.
"What about the rest of me?"
He gazed at the three-quarter length nylon bed jacket she wore. A pronouncement of evil surged in his loins. Edie wasn't usually this wanton, but he liked the change in her. "Nice," he purred. "Real nice."
They moved to the living room. He lowered the lights and turned on the stereo. Sitting beside her, he wished that she were this wild more often. It wasn't that she didn't satisfy him in bed she did but it was with smiling compliance rather than the hot animalism he so much preferred. But she was determined to please him tonight, a sex bitch out of the darkened Amazon, and he decided to utilize her mood to the fullest possible advantage.
They gulped down several drinks, and then he suggested taking pictures.
"Whatever you want?" she said.
He brought out the Polaroid, loaded it, and plugged in the floodlights. She giggled over her fourth drink. "Are these going to be obscene or vulgar?" she asked.
"How can you talk that way about art?"
She giggled some more. "I feel this drink."'
"You're supposed to." He set the dials on the camera.
"How do you want me to pose?"
He thought briefly, then said, "We'll try for a silhouette shot." He instructed her how to stand in front of the lights.
"What about my hair?"
"It looks good the way it is." He leveled his camera.
"Should I take off my bed jacket?"
"Not unless you're ready to be raped." He looked through the camera's viewing window. The pose was hot stuff. With the lights behind her, the black-on-white silhouette was breathtaking. Her breasts, not monstrously enormous, were delicious mouthfuls. They stood up proud and erect. The light filtered between her slightly parted legs and the corn silk femininity that was there; it drove him to new passions.
He snapped the picture and, a minute later, viewed the result. She joined him in his inspection. "Not bad," he said proudly. "Some more?"
She gulped her drink recklessly. "Why not? We've got all night, no work tomorrow right so let's have a ball."
For the next hour, he captured every pose imaginable. He clicked close-ups of her bare breasts, lewd face-fronts with nothing on all of them too naughty for commercial acceptance. Nothing that he dreamed up was in the least bit objectionable to her if it was, she hid her distaste most expertly, he thought.
When the last of the film was used, he set the camera aside and undressed. He had two more quick drinks more in the desire to forget her cheating than in the anxiousness to imbibe and then he pulled her roughly into his arms and they danced.
The music was slow and dreamy and he told himself that perhaps he could recapture the magic of their love; but there was no re-kindling of that feeling, nor bridging of the gap that her cheating had created. What he felt, instead, was raw lust. Her breasts bounced against his naked chest like two squirming apples. The rhythm of the music was completely lost in the orgiastic, drunken shuffle; endearments were nil.
He dropped his hands from her back and seized her buttocks with punishing roughness. She stifled a small cry, writhed against him, and made him ready. Then she broke from his grasp, stood several feet away, and commenced a slow undulating motion with her hips.
An unlit cigarette dangled loosely from his mouth. He was speechless. He had never seen her do anything like this before. Her tease was maddening and the visible throb of him was ample evidence. He advanced on her and she backed away. She wanted to tease him further and he let her.
Her ritual matched the slow sleepy rhythm that came from the stereo. All she wore was those wildly exhilarating patent leather shoes, and her dance was intercourse without a partner, the kind of self-abasement that a teenager might bring to herself in the privacy of her bathroom. She caressed her body, sent her hands gliding up the flat white of her stomach, up and up until they came inches short of her beauteous breasts. He ached to see her touch her breasts; instead, her hands reversed their movement and traveled downward to the provocative taper of her hips.
She continued this for several minutes, then, demonstrating that she had to bring carnal satisfaction to herself that she couldn't hold off any longer, she cupped the pink-tipped fruits and squeezed. Her eyes swam, her lips parted. Bill touched himself. Edie did-likewise, dropping one hand, seizing herself and driving her hand deeply between her legs.
He had to have her and now. He came beside her, drew her down to the carpet and stretched over her. His lips found the sensitive hollow of her throat and, soon after, the erogenous depths of her inner ear. And while his mouth teased her to glorious feelings of excitement, his hands were also busy; his fingers twining themselves through the vaporous hair between her legs, exerting pressure where pressure belonged.
There was no love. Love was gone. Last night he had punished her with sheer brutality; tonight he reviled her in shame. None of it was intended to satiate lust; instead, it was calculated to deliver vengeance.
Though she frowned, he forced her to assume a position on all fours and rode her to the very brink of climax. He pulled roughly on her breasts, she moaned in both pain and pleasure. If her role as a female dog disturbed her and he was certain it did she was careful not to express it.
But this was only the beginning of her defilement, and his excitement made it all the pleasanter. He pulled her to her feet.
"What now?"
He led her to the window, turned on the lights. She backed away. "Bill...."
He grabbed her roughly and held her close. In front of the window, in a standing-up position, he plunged inside of her and hoped the whole City of New York saw her. She wanted to get away from the window but the pressure of his body made it impossible.
"Bill, you're hurting me."
He shoved it deeper.
"Bill. ... "
But he didn't stop. And then maybe because she wanted to get it over with she stopped fighting and let herself enjoy it. Her hands raked his back and she pumped herself up and down on his stabbing maleness.
He almost lost the ballgame, but once again he was able to stop her short of her goal.
When he withdrew, she flashed him a look of hurt. He smirked.
"Bill, why are you acting this way?"
He didn't answer her. He pulled her down across his lap. This had been fun earlier in the day with the office girl and now ... He smacked her buttocks with the flat of his hand. She screamed and tried to roll off his lap. He gave her another whack. Her bottom turned a blushing pink. "Bill, for chrissakes!"
He gave her another one, a resounding slap that stung him as much as it did her. She clawed loose and slapped him in the mouth. He liked it. He slapped her back. Her eyes enlarged. He stood up and pushed her down to her knees.
"Bill...." There were tears in her eyes.
He seized the sides of her head and pressed her face against his groin.
"Bill?...."
"Do it, Edie. You know...."
"Honey, can't we do it the regular way? Can't we?"
He flashed her a contemptuous smile, then reached down and guided her mouth toward the pulsating flesh of his body. "This is the regular way," he said, and then he sank himself deeply into the hot wetness of her mouth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a helluva morning: Gray skies, dreary unseasonable coolness, and his head was bursting. He expected a belligerent indifference from Edie he had treated her like an animal last night but she was remarkably cheerful, and when he emerged from the bath and entered the kitchen, she greeted him with a warm kiss and a breakfast fit for a king.
"What's all this about?" he said, gesturing toward a platter of still-sizzling bacon, eggs and home fries. "I thought...."
She pressed the morning paper into his hands and pulled out his chair. "You're on vacation, remember?"
He managed a smile, slumped heavily to the kitchen chair. He complained of his headache; she promptly supplied him with aspirins and water.
During the breakfast, she chatted endlessly; but when he lit a cigarette and sailed into the morning paper, she became considerately quiet. All this royal treatment was wasted effort, he thought. He wasn't so dumb that he couldn't see what she was up to, and her obsequious sham only annoyed him. To escape it, he waited until Karen finished slopping through her morning cereal, then he volunteered to take her for a walk.
They headed for Central Park and he was glad to be away from Edie for a while. When they reached the park, he and Karen fed the pigeons, but it was too cool for a prolonged visit. Karen cried; she wanted to remain, and Bill pacified her with the purchase of three balloons, one of which was instantly swept skyward by a brisk wind.
When he returned, Edie was vacuuming. He dumped Karen on the sofa, told Edie he was going down to the library for a spell.
In the business section of the library, he thought he would refresh himself with the more current export trends; however, the study was less than fruitful. He examined several metallurgical pamphlets dealing with new alloys, but his absorption of the material was poor. He knew why. There was the inner gnawing problem of Edie, the mounting insecurity of his marriage how could he possibly digest the academics before him?
He left the library and went to a bar, tried to lose himself in the bang-bang of a juke box and the witless conversation of a bald-headed bartender, but he failed.
Finally, disconsolate more than drunk, he left the bar and again faced the bleak gray skies of afternoon. He did not want to return to the apartment, but there was no place else to go. He did, ultimately, sit through 20 minutes of a movie, but bored and sleepy, he walked slowly homeward.
When he reached the apartment lobby, he removed the single letter that was in their box. It was addressed to him and the handwriting looked oddly familiar. He tore it open.
Hot anger boiled inside him. It was another message from the creep, a sadistically tainted single sentence that asked: Did she enjoy what she did?
Angrily, he jammed the letter into his coat pocket. He shoved through the revolving door and hurried to the elevator. He'd confront her with the letter, dammit. Let her decide whether she enjoyed it.
He came out of the elevator and walked swiftly to their suite. Music played inside. He unlocked the door, Karen tumbled toward his feet.
"Edie!"
"Be out in a minute," she shouted. The shower was running, supper was cooking: Pork roast, but damned if he was hungry. Karen cried and he picked her up.
"Edie!"
"I said in a minute."
"Well, hurry."
Five minutes later she emerged from the bathroom in a green terry cloth robe. His hand went to his coat pocket, the letter. Almost at once, Edie began to rattle on about the company they were going to have this evening. "They just moved in ... the Bradfords, and I asked them over for cocktails, so we'll have to have a fast supper...." She pursued a pan on the stove that was boiling over. "...and you'll have to go out and get some wash...." She plugged in the electric percolator, removed a quart of milk from the refrigerator, and locked Karen in her high-chair.
Bill started to ask her about the letter.
"You'll need something for snacks, too," she said, placing a bagful of empty bottles in his arms. "Just get anything."
"Edie...."
"And hurry, because supper is almost ready."
The Bradfords arrived at eight o'clock. Bill had deferred the letter business; he'd ask Edie when they were alone, pretend gaiety at least for the Brad-fords who, it developed, turned out to be incredibly disappointing.
Tom Bradford had descended and that was the word he employed on New York to take over the managership of a Manhattan shoe store. In Bill's muted estimation, the man's sloppiness would bankrupt the store. Bradford came in coatless, lumpish around the middle; he wore thick-rimmed glasses, possessed a round boyish face, kinky red hair, lips that were Negroid in their thickness. He was shorter than Bill, demonstrated a fish-like handshake, and evidenced an avid, juvenile interest in Edie and her short white nylon dress.
His wife, Alice, was a flop and a slob. Fat and ungirdled, her tight black dress betrayed all the lumps and bumps of her chocolate-stuffed body. She'd spent precious little time with her pale brown hair; a vivid splash of orange lipstick comprised her make-up. In the close-up of introductions, Bill saw that her skin was bad, rather greasy, and she was too loud and hoydenish to be feminine. Her first gesture after flopping to the sofa was that of removing her shoes. Her feet were most unattractive.
Achieving the semblance of a host's smile, Bill decided to make the best of the worst. He riddled himself with straight shots of bourbon, hoped that Father Time would hasten the evening's end. He was not, however, quite so fortunate.
Tom Bradford delighted in talking about himself, distasteful bragging that seemed directed to Edie. Served in the Navy, he had. A two-year hitch. Good training, made a man out you. And got in the shoe business early. Came up through the ranks. Showed the brass how to zoom the sales. Naturally, that accounted for his current promotion.
Edie proved a good listener. Shoes were a pet weakness with her; she was dazzled by the ever-changing styles. Bitterly, Bill thought the hell with her.
Alice Bradford, on the other hand, never heard a word of the shoe conversation or perhaps she was brighter than he'd been willing to give her credit for being. She chewed her way through two packs of jelly candies that Edie had placed on the cocktail table, then picked desultorily at a dish of peanuts nearby, rinsed the entire mess down with bourbon highballs. She was occupying herself with a copy of Life, was seemingly unaware that the position of her legs had afforded Bill a generous view of her fat, but not unattractive, thighs; belched twice and then continued with the magazine.
In the zero status of drink bringer and general Mr. Nothing, he was forced to endure Tom Bradford's endless proclamations of self-importance. Edie was gullibly attentive and this caused Bill to do a slow burn. She was never that interested in metal stampings; furthermore, whether she knew it or not, she was giving Tom Bradford a shoe salesman's view of her enticing thighs. She wore no stockings; her legs were alluring enough without them. Twice, she made a feigned effort to pull down her dress, neither attempt being wholly successful.
After the fourth round of drinks, Bradford came on with some party jokes far too raw to be amusing however, Edie found them uproariously funny. Alice Bradford, meanwhile, had shed the Life magazine and boldly called for another drink. Bill welcomed the chance to escape to the kitchen.
Later, when the last of the bourbon was drained away, Bill presumed that Edie would come on with the snacks, and soon after that, the evening would draw to a thankful close. He was disappointed on this score; Edie thought it fitting that he and Tom go out after another bottle. Bradford quickly seconded the motion; Bill never had a chance to speak.
They took his Thunderbird, Bradford proved a garrulous driving companion, and his conversation was all sex. He detailed, and at great length, Alice's ripe qualifications as a bed partner. "You can't judge a book by its cover," he said, vainly trying to compensate his wife's inadequacies. "Alice might not look like much, but when she's had a few drinks, she's the hottest lay in the land. And I was in the Navy, pal ... so I know."
Bill was unimpressed, silent.
"All you have to do is play around with her nipples," he said, making it sound like a home-instruction course, "and she's a gone goose. Climbs on you like a tigress."
Bill spotted a cafe and they pulled over. They went inside and had some drinks; Bill attempted to change the subject. He was unsuccessful.
"That wife of yours, Bill ... and don't mind my saying this, fellow ... but she's all right. Makes a guy feel right at home."
Bill admitted that Edie was a companionable hostess.
"And nice, huh?" He wore a foolish smile. "I mean ... and don't get me wrong, fellow ... but like they say in the Navy: built for speed."
He wanted to smash this bastard in the mouth. He had a growing aversion for this tulip not simple jealousy, either; but the sonofabitch was so glowingly obvious. He wanted Bill to go beddy-bye with Alice, and then he an obliging bastard would then crawl between the sheets with Edie. It was a half-assed bargain at the very best.
After a few more drinks, Bill purchased a fifth of bourbon, and they left. He was surprised at the sudden effect of the drinks; he'd begun to think of himself as one who could really hold his hooch. He was obviously wrong, the stuff had socked him; he even found himself acting more amicable toward Tom Bradford, so he must be drunk.
He drove slowly and cautiously, and Bradford diddled around with the radio and brought in a love ballad. Bill quickly changed to another station; he didn't want to think about love, because love was a joke, something to make a sap out of a guy and bring the phony out in a woman. Bradford loudly concurred with this philosophy, reducing women to their basic urges. Women were for screwing and if you fell in love with them, they screwed you. He laughed then he thought he had told Bill a real corker.
"The hell with them," Bill muttered.
"Right," Bradford chorused. "Only first we take 'em to bed, and then the hell with them." He laughed loudly.
Bill maneuvered the Thunderbird around a comer. He rolled the window down to get some air. That bourbon...
"You know, pal," Tom said with a slap at Bill's thigh, "when we get back to them females, we oughta get something going. You know, make 'em prove they're women."
Bill fought off his grogginess. "Who the hell cares what they are?"
"That Alice is a hot customer, Bill. You wanna be where the action is, then try Alice." He gave Bill another jovial slap on the thigh. "Why if she took you to bed...."
Bill caught the picture. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have given Alice Bradford a second look, but the flood of bourbon and Tom's continuingly suggestive remarks now served to arouse him.
"What's she like, Tom?"
"Alice? Hell, she wiggles like a snake. Can't get enough, you know. Pushes herself up and begs for more. Crazy."
Bill felt the swell in his trousers. Maybe that fat bitch would be good, he thought. Christ, she had to have something good. And Edie well, she already had one lover; what the hell was so wrong about her having another?"
They finally reached the apartment, the girls were sacked out on the sofas. Alice's black dress was drawn halfway up her thighs, and when she came stiffly awake, she made no effort to pull it down. Bill saw her black panties, and he stumbled drunkenly toward her. He helped her off the sofa, Bradford did the same thing for Edie, and the four of them went to the kitchen.
Bill and Edie mixed the drinks. Tom busied himself with Alice's body, pulling her down on his lap, pushing her dress up, fondling her thighs. She looked a little sappy about the whole thing, Bill thought, or maybe drunker than he had supposed. She made no effort to stop her husband, giggling when he occasionally touched home plate, widely Ving her legs, dropping any and all barriers of modesty.
Bill pretended not to notice the display that Alice was affording him. Not bad for a fat girl, he thought, but it wasn't Alice alone that excited him; it was the lewd exhibition, Tom Bradford's look-at-this winks that aroused him. Suddenly, he pulled Edie into his arms. She flashed him a surprised look. He kissed her before she could protest, and then his hands were busy pulling up her dress and caressing her buttocks. He looked over her shoulder, his eyes smiling into Bradford's.
They had a few more drinks and the party moved to the living room. There the smooching continued. Edie was more restrained than the others until the drinks hit her then she let Bill do as he pleased.
He drew her dress up above her silky legs. He stroked the smooth hot flesh of her thighs and weakened her further with tongue kisses that caused her to squirm. He pushed her dress up still higher, exposing now the lush pink of her tight little panties.
Tom Bradford, meanwhile, was doing the same thing to his wife, Alice. His thick hand merged in and out of her conveniently spread thighs, her panties were pulled aside, and she joined the rapid rhythm of his finger. Neither man was fooling the other neither cared. Bill had drawn Edie's dress up merely to excite Tom Bradford; Bradford was doing exactly the same thing for Bill.
Both women were hot and drunk. Edie had begun to moan, now was grasping for his fly. Alice was equally hot. Her lips were parted, her eyes half closed. Bill winked at Bradford. Then he began to pull downward on Edie's panties. She was too drunk to help him, but he managed to tug them down to the edge of her shadowed triangle. Suddenly, she grasped his wrist and asked him to stop. She pushed him aside and staggered to the kitchen. Angry, he followed after her.
"You gonna poop out on us now?" he asked.
She fought for some semblance of sobriety. "Hasn't it gone far enough?" she asked. "Don't you think it's time we stopped?"
He fell against her body and forced his hand between her legs. "Stop? Christ, honey, we haven't even started!"
Her eyes darkened with anger. She pushed his hand away. "Let's not have a scene, Bill. We've had enough of that already."
He sobered briefly, found a smile, then promised her he would behave. No use fighting her, he thought; he'd never have his fun that way, but damn if he hadn't almost laid her and right there in front of Bradford.
"Shall we have one last drink?" he asked her.
"I don't know...."
"Please?"
She touched his hand gingerly. "AH right. Just one." She whispered the rest of it. "Then our friends are going to be politely told to leave."
He agreed. Placate her, he thought. Get her smiling and off the defensive, then bomb the hell out of her with this last drink. Once he knocked her out hell, he could do anything with her.
A minute later, he handed her the highball a real torpedo all the way. She might say something about it being so strong, but then it would hit bottom and wow.
He stood in front of her now and proposed a toast.
"To what?" she asked.
"To us. Is that corny?"
"Very," she said. "But I'll drink to it."
"Straight down," he said.
"Straight down."
She finished the drink and he watched her closely. The desired effect was quick in coming. Her eyes glassed, she blinked foolishly at him, then fell warmly into his arms. He stood quietly at the sink with her, letting the drink bomb the hell out of her insides, watching unconsciousness come slowly but surely.
She was soft and pliant in his arms, out cold on her feet at least, very nearly. He pulled her dress up and rubbed his lower body against her. She moaned helplessly in his arms, resistance was gone. He supported her against his body and worked her panties down her legs. When Bradford stumbled into the kitchen, Bill was massaging her bare buttocks. Alice was suddenly ill and ran for the bathroom.
"Hey, now that's all right," Bradford said thickly. "A real little bit of all right." He slumped in one of the kitchen chairs. "Or maybe you want me to leave."
Bill vehemently shook his head. "You can't leave now," he said excitedly. "The show is just beginning." He turned Edie around so that she was facing Bradford. His hands worked her dress up. "How does it look, pal? Nice, huh?"
Edie murmured something indistinguishable. Bradford inched forward to the edge of his chair. He wet his lips. "Some guys have really got it made," he said enviously.
"You wanna handle the merchandise, maybe?" Bill teased.
"Don't tempt me, pal."
Bill struggled with the dead weight of his wife. He managed to draw closer to Bradford. He pulled her dress up to her waist. "Go ahead, ol' boy. Softer than mink. Touch her."
Bradford's hand moved unsteadily toward the curly shadow between Edie's legs. Suddenly there was a scream from the bathroom.
"Alice!" Bradford exclaimed. He helped Bill lower Edie to a chair. They ran for the bathroom. Alice was on the floor, out cold; there was a cut on her forehead, something she had evidently received when her head struck the wash basin.
"Some people just can't take their drinks," Bradford bemoaned. He slopped a cold wash cloth over her face. She came to, said she was sick, and wanted to go home. At the same time, Edie had slumped over at the kitchen table, and the sexual momentum had come to a disappointing halt. They agreed that it was time to break up, Bill assisted Bradford in carrying his wife home, then he returned to undress Edie and help her into bed. He was about to climb in beside her when the phone rang.
It was crazy. Three o'clock in the morning and a phone call. He cursed and stumbled back to the living room to pick up the receiver.
"Mr. Trumball?"
"Speaking."
"Did you ask her if she had fun."
"Who is this."
"Did you ask her."
"Dammit, who is this?"
"You ask her, Mr. Trumball. Ask her if she enjoyed that sadistic little circus of hers."
"Who are you?" The line went dead. "Hello?" Silence.
"Bastard!" He slammed the phone down in its cradle. "Edie!" He stormed into the bedroom. "Goddamn you, get up!"
CHAPTER NINE
He failed to wake her up; worse, he couldn't sleep. For a while, he smoked away the last of the cigarettes, then he rummaged around in her purse and her dresser drawers, hoping to find a strange phone number. He found exactly nothing.
The next morning he was resolved to get at the bottom of this mess, but Sinclair phoned quite early and wanted him to hurry down to the office. Said it was urgent. Bill promised to be there within an hour.
He cleaned up, threw down a cup of black coffee, and Karen and Edie saw him to the door. "Any idea when you'll be home?" she asked.
He gave her a vacant glance, said he didn't know.
"I wanted you to watch Karen for a little while."
"Why?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.
"I just felt like going downtown, that's all. They have some lamps on sale and ours are so shabby...."
He couldn't see anything shabby about their lamps; she just wanted to get out alone that was it. "I don't know when I'll be back," he said, opening the door.
"I suppose I could get Darla to baby sit," she ventured.
He looked back at her eyes puffed, lips pale and he said, "You really have to go, don't you? Those lamps are suddenly the most important things in the world."
She gazed at him as though he were a stranger. A frown creased her forehead. "You're mad about last night," she reasoned out loud.
"Am I?"
She held his coat sleeve loosely in her hand. "I'm not used to that kind of thing, Bill. I know there were things you wanted me to do, but ... honey, it'll take time. Give me a chance."
"Sure," he said coldly. He started to leave.
"Bill? Can I get those lamps?"
He looked at Karen, who was doing some da-da-da-da. He said, "Do what you damn please," and then slammed his way angrily out the door.
Howard Sinclair was in his private office when Bill arrived. He was drinking coffee from a paper container and mulling over a stack of telegrams. "Sit down, Bill." He swilled some more of the coffee into his mouth. "This wasn't very thoughtful of me, dragging you down here like this."
Bill explained that it was all right, Sinclair hadn't interrupted anything important.
"I still feel like hell about it. You put a man out to pasture, give him a rest, then you turn around and pull him out of bed."
"Don't worry about it," he told Sinclair.
Sinclair smiled. "I like your attitude, Bill. It's too bad the company doesn't have more men of your caliber."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now...." He threw the paper cup in the waste-paper basket. "...this so-called emergency ... I had a phone call from your boy, Grant Harrigan."
Bill leaned back and lit a cigarette. The name Harrigan always swelled him with a certain importance; Harrigan was the chief purchasing agent for Olson & Meadows Electronics, one of Sinclair's more profitable customers. Harrigan forever insisted on dealing directly with Bill, which was why Sinclair called him "his boy".
"He's coming to New York, Bill. Bringing his son along. I thought you could host them around for a few days."
"That doesn't sound like a business crisis."
Sinclair grinned. "Well, there's more to it than that. Harrigan threw a few hints...." He lit a cigar. "...he has a whole series of new jobs in the offing, Bill. Wants some prices on 'em. They're dogs, but the way Harrigan tells it, the jobs could be the juiciest plums we've ever had. So ... if we could agree on price...."
"When is he coming in?"
"Sometime tomorrow. Said he'd send me a wire, so if you could meet him, sort of mother him around a little bit...."
Bill said that he would.
"I'll make it right for you, Bill. You know that."
Another way of saying a bonus, he thought. He stood up to leave. "You'll call me?"
"The minute I hear from him." Sinclair rose to his feet. His expression became suddenly grave. "We don't want to lose this one, Bill. It's big."
Bill reassured him that there was nothing to worry about; he knew how to handle the man, the jobs were as good as theirs. Sinclair was all smiles. He saw Bill to the door. "The family's all right?" he asked routinely.
"Fine," Bill answered, wishing that he had remembered to bring some of those Polaroid shots along. "The wife, too?" Sinclair asked. "Never sassier."
"You take good care of her, you hear."
"I do," he said with a wink.
"I'll just bet you do." He opened the door for Bill. "Maybe one of these nights we'll get together and have a few drinks."
"Sounds like a winner," Bill said happily, and then went out the door.
Out on the street, he felt great; Sinclair had a lot of respect for his abilities, but why shouldn't he? Harrigan represented maybe a million-dollar contract, and who was better suited to bring the bacon home than him? He glowed with an inward pride, the sun was out, he felt on top of the world. He thought the hell with Edie; she'd made her bed let her sleep in it. And he was in no particular hurry to get home; if she wanted lamps and that was a laugh let her hire a damn babysitter.
He dined at Dempsey's, a treat well-deserved, he told himself; ordering filet mignon, baked potato, tossed salad, and all the trimmings. He cocktailed before and after the dinner, luxuriated afterwards with two cups of coffee and a fifty-cent cigar. When he finally arrived back at the apartment, it was after two o'clock.
Darla let him in. "Your wife said...."
"I know," he cut in, "went to look at lamps."
She smiled brightly and fell carelessly to the sofa. She wore a plaid skirt, a purple sweater, and gold sandals. The color combination was atrocious, but she looked cute. The sandals, he loved. "Where's Karen?"
"Napping." She flung her pony tail over her shoulder. "If you want something to eat before I leave, I could fix you a sandwich or something."
He told her that he'd already had dinner, but that he'd like her to-stick around for a while. Sinclair might call earlier than planned. "You don't mind, do you?"
She didn't mind at all. School started next week, the extra time would give her more clothes money. She picked up a magazine, and Bill went to the kitchen and made himself a drink. Darla, meanwhile, made a mad dash for the bathroom. When she returned a few minutes later, flounced herself down on the sofa, he noticed that she had applied fresh lipstick and shadowed her eyes. It was a bit overdone, he thought, and he wondered how much she remembered of the other night.
"Whatcha drinking?" she asked suddenly.
"Bourbon and water."
She made a smacking sound with her lips.
"That wouldn't be a gentle hint, would it?"
She laughed lightly. "Kinda."
"I could go to jail for this," he said, after he had made her a drink. "I won't tell."
"You better not," he warned, "and if my wife comes...."
"I know. Down the sink." She bummed him for a cigarette, then plopped back down to the sofa. He, in turn, threw several toss pillows on the floor and stretched out at her feet. He was only inches away from her gold sandals, fascinated by them, so much so that he reached out to stroke their soft leather.
"They only cost three dollars," she said, suddenly crossing her legs.
Her body hammered with excitement. He had caught a momentary glimpse of her panties, and now her skirt was hiked up and he could see the soft underside of her thighs. The gold shoes became all the more thrilling to touch. He caressed their velvet-like warmness and yearned to kiss them. "You have the tiny feet of an Oriental maiden," he said suddenly.
She laughed; she thought that was funny. His lips drew closer to the dreamy goldness of the shoes. He eased up on one elbow and kissed the tiny warmth of her foot.
A tinkle of laughter broke from her lips. "You're the first one that ever kissed me there."
He wanted to kiss the shoes again and again, but she would think he was crazy. He said, "You have such pretty little feet...."
Suddenly, she jumped up. "Would you like your drink freshened up?"
She was standing over him. Sunlight filtered through her thin plaid skirt and lit the shadows between her legs. He could even see her panties. He let his eyes linger hotly for a moment, then he said, "Good idea." He handed her his glass, then watched her swish to the kitchen. A crazy thought entered his mind: How wonderful it would be, he mused, to be completely naked, to have her walk over him with those sweet, wonderful golden sandals. He could see under her skirt, feel the exciting, excruciating pressure of the shoes on his body and ... He blotted the picture out of his mind. He must be mad.
She returned with his drink and he noticed that she had also re-filled her own glass. He'd have to watch that; if she went home drunk there would be hell to pay. She plopped lazily on the sofa, drew one leg up on the couch, seemingly unmindful that her panties were plainly visible to him.
He gazed longingly at her gold sandals, at the flowered panties she wore; finally, his eyes settled on her shadowed, heavily-lidded blue eyes. It was there in his lap, he thought. All he had to do was reach out and take her; she was like a million other teenage girls wanting to make it with a married man, wanting the chance to brag to their girlfriends that she'd gone the route with somebody's husband. But this was the very thing he was afraid of, that she would talk, that the whole neighborhood would find out.
Suddenly, he reached up, grasped her ankle, and brought her foot to the floor beside the other one. "Didn't your mother ever tell you about keeping your skirt down?"
She looked at him over the rim of her glass. Her eyes danced with mischief. " 'Fraid to look?" He cleared his throat. "Maybe."
"You weren't afraid of anything the other night."
"I was drunk."
She replaced her foot on the sofa. Her skirt fell back. He saw the lush swell of her thighs just above the elastic edging of her panties. "Why don't you get drunk again?" she suggested.
He gazed at her with a mixture of exasperation and excitement. "I wish you were about five years older."
She shrugged. "Scared I'll tell?"
"You might."
"I'm not that dumb."
He was silent. His hands rubbed the cushiony softness of her shoes.
"Do you wanna?" she asked suddenly.
His voice was frozen. He clenched and unclenched the highball glass.
"I won't tell. I promise."
He set the glass down, came slowly to his feet. Her eyes beckoned him. He sat beside her. His hand fell to the shiny warmth of her bare thighs. He pushed her skirt up and kissed her mouth. She ground savagely against him, numbing all his senses of right or wrong. Her hot darting tongue found its way into his mouth; logic dissolved to dust.
His hands fumbled with the warm resiliency of her breasts. She purred like a kitten. "Ohhhh, does that feel good," she whispered. Then: "I could take it off."
"Maybe you'd better not."
"Why? She won't be back right away."
"How can you be sure?"
" 'Cause she left just before you came in." She smiled vainly and pulled her sweater over her head. "Lock the door."
"Darla...."
"Quick. Lock it."
He did, and when he returned she had removed her bra and was zipping down her skirt. The lush enormity of her young breasts surprised him. They jiggled and bounced and the pink aureoles that defined their centers reminded him of miniature carnations. She bent over to climb out of her skirt, and he felt a mixture of excitement and fright. "What if my wife comes home while you're...."
"I can run to the bathroom. You can say I'm taking a shower." She took his hand. "C'mon."
"If you tell anyone...."
"You think I'm crazy, or something?"
"No, but...."
"Do you want to, or are you chicken?" Oh, he wanted to. The point was could he get away with it?"Of course I want to. It's just that. . . "
"Do you want me to help you off with your clothes."
"My clothes?"
"Well, you can't do anything with your clothes on, nutty. Golly!" She unfastened his belt. Then her small hands worked feverishly at the buttons, now the zipper.
He was speechless. Clad only in thin panties, bobby sox and the gold sandals, Darla was completely matter-of-fact about the whole thing; and it was he who felt juvenile.
"You men are so helpless," she said, letting his pants fall and going to work on his shorts.
Suddenly, he swept her into his arms. "Don't get rushy."
"I don't want to wait," he said. He kissed her mouth, fondled her breasts. "Would you do something for me?" he asked, breaking from the embrace.
"What?"
"You won't laugh."
"It depends."
He stretched out on the floor, gazed up at the golden spectacle of her body. Her breasts loomed over him like two pink-shaded clouds. He caressed her shoes. "Walk on me," he sighed.
"What!"
"Please."
"That's kookie and spooky and everything."
"Would you."
"It's nutty."
"Please," he begged. "Just once."
She shrugged. "I heard of girls that walked all over their guys, but I never thought this was what they meant." She placed her golden sandal on his stomach. He braced himself.
"Both feet," he said.
She shrugged again and balanced herself precariously on the flat of his stomach. "Down further," he ordered. "I'll hurt you."
"It's all right. Go ahead."
"But...."
"Go ahead. Hurry." And then the insane craving was suddenly overwhelming, a new thrill that he'd never experienced, with those wonderfully feminine golden sandals tramping down on his throbbing maleness. He screamed in pain and ecstasy. He came to his feet, lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom. He then excused himself momentarily, and she was sophisticated enough to know what he meant.
When he returned, she was sprawled obscenely across their bed, panties off, arms and legs outstretched, waiting for him. Her eyes dropped. He had removed his shorts and she seemed pleased by what she saw.
"I sure hope nobody comes," he said, still frightened.
She was undaunted. "Nobody is coming but us." She giggled. "C'mon, chicken." She hoisted her buttocks up, inserted a pillow. She drew her knees up. "I'm waiting, chicken."
Suddenly, he pitched forward and gave her the damn chicken the head, the wings, everything but the damning telltale egg. He fell between her hot scissoring thighs and surrendered his maleness to a bushy Venus fly-trap that was both heaven and hell. She clamped her legs around him, a lock of no escape.
The clinical match of their bodies was perfect. Though only 16, she knew through experience or blind instinct, more than most married women. She knew when to wiggle her buttocks to encourage him deeper, how to pillow her back so that he might simultaneously suck her breasts, and how to claw his back, bringing pain that was pleasure as well. She wanted him to take his time, even whispered that they could stop for a while and change positions; but time was his enemy. Edie might come home at any minute, and he rushed and merged and battled his way into the teenager's body as though these were his closing seconds on earth.
She realized she couldn't stop him or hold him back, and then she told him to go ahead, that it was all right. He clasped her smooth ripe buttocks for greater leverage. His fingers dug into her hot flesh.
"Faster, honey ... f-faster," she moaned.
He pounded down on her. She met him and fell back. He brought her up again, the wave of hysteria drew near.
"N-Now." She sobbed. "C'mon, honey. Now!" Her words drove him insane. He sent the shaft of passion hurtling deeper and deeper, faster and faster. "Honey...." She gasped. Her eyes swelled. "Darla!"
"Now," she squealed. "Make it nowwww!"
He did. Everything let loose. And she pumped her little body up to drain the last drop of his fury. Then she fell back and let out a tumultuous sigh. "Ohhhh, Bill. That was so gooood!"
He kissed and stretched out beside her. He still twitched, but languor was closing in on him in another minute he would fall asleep. Realizing this, he stole one more sweet kiss; he wanted to eternalize this minute in infinity and space. Then he came off the bed.
The girl pouted. She wanted more. "You're not gonna get dressed ... not already."
"My wife...."
"Scaredy-cat." She twitched her nose at him.
"I'm just being sensible," he said, "and you might try being the same way about this." He hurried to the front room and dressed. She followed him, but it took some angry persuasion to get her clothes on; it was almost as though she wanted to be caught.
When she was finally dressed, he placed a ten-dollar bill inside the V of her sweater. Her eyes widened. She whistled. "Wow!"
"That's to keep those pretty little lips of yours closed."
She pushed the ten to the inside of her bra. "Man, for ten dollars you just christened a new Sphinx."
He unlocked the front door for her.
"And anytime you need me," she smiled, "just give me a buzz. Okay?"
"I'll do that. Maybe I'll even give you two buzzes."
She winked, blew him a kiss, and wiggled her sassy behind down the carpeted hallway. He watched her until the elevator doors glided open. Suddenly, he was certain that an angel sat on his shoulders as the young girl walked into the elevator, Edie smiled and walked out.
The lipstick on his mouth! He turned and fled for the bathroom.
CHAPTER TEN
"How come the bed is mussed?" she asked. "I had a headache and sacked out."
"What time did you get back."
"An hour ago."
"And Darla was here all that time."
"I told you I didn't feel well. That's why I had her stay. Do you mind?" he said irritably. "Just asking."
He lit a cigarette. Maybe he should ask her a few questions. For instance, where were the lamps she just had to buy? And why the imagine knit suit she was wearing?
Seemingly, she read his mind. "Those lamps they had on sale looked worse than ours." She removed her suit and slip, disappeared briefly, returned wearing shorts and a blue and white striped slipover. She sat beside him. "Miss me?"
"Uh, huh."
She smiled tenderly and sought his eyes. "Look at me." He did. "Love me."
"Uh, huh."
"Say it."
"I love you." And it was pathetically contrived. She knew it, too.
"What's wrong with us, Bill?" She rested her hand over his.
"Is something supposed to be wrong?" he said, avoiding her questioning gaze.
"You know it is. For the past few days, we've been like strangers to each other. Why?"
He was silent. His eyes were fixed on the floor.
"I can't be the way you want me right away, honey. It'll take time. I told you."
"What are you talking about?" he said coldly.
"You know ... like last night. I mean ... you'd like it if I let myself go more...."
"Edie...."
"No, let me do the talking."
"But...."
"The next party we have," she said, clasping his hand tightly, "I'll do anything you want. I promise."
. He started to tell her that that wasn't it, but the phone rang. It was Sinclair.
"Bill, I hate myself a million ways for having to call you again, but...."
"What's the problem?"
"Is the Missus there?"
"Yeah?" he said suspiciously. "Why?"
"Then we can't talk about this now," Sinclair said worriedly. He paused. "Look, could you go to some outside phone and call me?"
"I suppose. What's it all about?"
"Tell you when you call. Will it be long?"
"Five minutes."
"Good."
He hung up and went out to the bar. He dialed Sinclair's number, but the line was busy. He had two drinks, dialed again. This time the call went through.
"So what's the problem?"
Sinclair cleared his throat. "You," he said.
"Me?"
"Yes." He paused, then went on. "Bill, that Olson contract means quite a lot to our company. You know that. And tomorrow Harrigan is flying in and...."
"What are you worried about? You know I can handle Harrigan."
"Bill, there was a detective down at the office this afternoon. He was asking for you."
"A detective?"
"Are you in some kind of trouble, Bill?"
"Hell, no," he snapped. "Is this some kind of a joke or ... wait a minute. I know." His eyes lit up. "The other night...." He told Sinclair about coming home, being slugged, later phoning the police. "They're probably checking to see if we've had any more trouble."
Sinclair sighed heavily. "That's a big load off my mind, Bill. For a while there, I thought I was in danger of losing you and ... boy, I don't want anything to queer this deal with that Olsen firm. We need their work."
"So you can relax," Bill said, wiping his brow. "There's nothing to worry about. I'm not a fugitive. By this time tomorrow, Harrigan will be eating out of our hands."
He went back to the bar and had a few more drinks. Shouldn't be drinking this much, he told himself. Ought to be clear-headed for tomorrow Harrigan coming but hell, he knew how to draw the contracts out of the man. No sweat. Have another drink.
Reaching into his suit coat pocket for some bills, he felt something silky. He pulled the pocket wide. Panties! The babysitter's panties! How in the hell? ... There was a note.
"You want to pay for the drinks now, Mac?"
Absently, Bill reached for his wallet and flung down a five. He read the note. It read: "So you'll have something to remember me by...."
He grinned. The crazy kid. And when had she put the panties there? He'd only left her alone long enough to go to the bathroom and put on ... that was it. The monkey had slipped off the bed and...
Suddenly, Bill climbed off the stool and went to the john. Have to get rid of the damn things. Christ, if Edie discovered them...
He closed and latched the door. He held the panties close to his face. So lovely, so soft, so ... the feeling was coming back. The panties...
A strange compulsion swept over him. He acted without conscious thought, as though under hypnosis. He lowered his pants, his shorts. His trembling hands brought the silken panties to his flesh. His eyes rolled. Then, as though caught in the shame of what he was doing, he came abruptly to his senses. What was the matter with him? Acting like a nut, he was.
He fastened his clothes and flushed her underpants down the toilet bowl. Christ! His face was perspiring; he was acting like a damn kid. A drink, he thought. Calm himself down.
He hurried out to the bar and ordered another bourbon. What had possessed him to do such a thing? he wondered. Why in the hell did it excite him to such a pitch when he did something like that? And that night that he had dressed up like a woman the passion of the act was maddening; was he turning into a goddamn queer?
"Gimme another one, bartender."
The bartender shrugged. "You drink that like it was water."
"That's what it tastes like," he said sarcastically. "Plain old water." He drank it down in a single gulp and went to the phone booth. He called Edie. Why? He didn't even know.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Getting drunk."
"Why don't you come home and do it."
"Why should I?" he said, feeling the need for belligerence.
She accepted it calmly. "Well, for one reason, I love you. For another, we're having company for supper."
"The Bradfords?" he said tiredly.
"Just one Bradford, thank you. Alice has to fly back to Boston. Her mother is sick, so...." She paused. "...honey, I felt sorry for Tom all alone there tonight, so I asked him to have dinner with us. You don't mind, do you?"
He saw himself stripping her down before Bradford's astonished eyes, making her do things against her will, bringing her shame and degradation. Excitement grew in his loins. "Why should I mind?" he asked. "Maybe we'll have a sex party just the three of us."
She sensed his mood and tried to please him. "I'm all for it," she said gaily, "and if you don't get home here, we're gonna have a sex party without you."
Don't you always? he thought.
"Have you been drinking?" he asked her.
"A couple. And I feel real, real good."
"Is Bradford there now?"
"Naturally. How could we have a sex party if he wasn't here?"
He was silent for a minute, thinking how unnatural she sounded.
"Are you coming home?" she asked again.
"I'll be there."
"You'll hurry?"
He said he would.
" 'Cause I don't know if I can hold off on Tom, or not." She giggled. "I mean if he puts his hand under my dress just one more time ... please hurry."
He hung up. She was playing a game with him, of course. Bradford wasn't there, but she knew it excited him to hear such talk; she desperately wanted to please him. She did this quite frequently in bed at night, teasing him about her high school dates with other boys, supplying him with the kind of answers he most wanted to hear:
"Show me where he touched you."
"Down here."
"I'll betcha you got hot, didn't you."
"Sure I did."
"Where else did he touch you."
"Here."
"Say it."
"My breasts."
"The other word, damn it! Titties. He touched my titties."
"And then you started playing with him, didn't you?"
"I had to."
"Sure you did. And you liked it, didn't you."
"Uh, huh."
"And you wanted to do it with him."
"Uh, huh."
"Say it."
"I wanted him to do it to me."
"Again!"
"Oh, honey. Lets do it. I don't wanna talk about it anymore. I just wanna do it ... with you."
And then he would take her, and remembering those scenes so vividly now, he quickened his steps in the long trek toward their apartment.
She was setting the table when he arrived. She explained that she was only joking about Bradford he had guessed as much but Tom was dining with them, Alice had flown back to Boston, and dinner would be served in approximately 30 minutes.
"I suppose I shouldn't work you up that way," she said, closing the cupboard doors, "but it was the only way I could think of to get you home." She kissed him lightly.
He smelled the gin she had been sipping on. "So now we have two drunks in the family."
She lifted her gin highball off the counter-top and held it to her lips. She flipped the steaks over that were in the broiler. "If you can have fun," she said gaily, "so can I." She drank some of the highball. "Besides, if we're going to have a sex party, I might as well get prepared."
He snickered, and once again he felt the need to say something sharp; however, the drinks had numbed his speech and he ambled wordlessly to the bathroom and closed the door.
He remained there for quite a while. A cold shower put him back on solid ground, but it did not rid him of his miserable headache. Dressing was an effort, his lethargy was unshaken by her announcement that Tom Bradford was here, and the thought of food distressed him even more. He shouted up the hallway that he would be along in a few minutes, that they could go on ahead with the dinner, but Edie argued that they would wait.
He finally did emerge from the bathroom, and upon entering the kitchen he was greeted with a unison of applause. He played the clown, performed a crude bow for them, followed this with the rudiments of a smile. Bradford waved a hearty 'hello', and Bill drew out a chair and sat down.
The dinner was outstanding; the choice steaks had been expertly broiled to his liking, and halfway through the dinner, he began to feel better.
Edie was all smiles, more captivatingly lovely than he had dreamed possible. Her hair was swept up on top chic was the word and she wore the red velvet dress he'd bought her two birthdays ago. It was the first time that she had ever worn it before anyone else too revealing she had declared yet tonight she wore it with supreme indifference. The back of the dress was cut away; the front was tailored with a laced bodice, dipping low to reveal the half-moon risings of her breasts. There was a long, beguiling slit in each side of the dress; something to reveal the creamy white of her thighs.
He told her how lovely she looked, called Bradford's attention to the peep show that was so accessible to the eye; thereby drawing an embarrassed smile from her and an "All right, you two," when they both looked under the table at her legs.
When the steaks had been put away, they sipped quietly on an imported after-dinner wine. Bill had grown increasingly playful and slipped his hand under the table and under Edie's velvet dress. Her thighs were warm, a look of happiness stole into her eyes, and for a dreamful lingering moment, he nearly forgot that her saccharine smile was manufactured for the sake of appeasing him.
Bradford caught the by-play between them, and he leaned back heavily in his chair and said, "If you two lovebirds want ol' Tom to take a walk...."
Bill withdrew his hand. "Just feeling her up," he said with a laugh.
Edie colored. "Anyone for coffee?"
Both men said yes. She climbed away from the table and Bill gave her a playful slap on her buttocks, noticing in the same instant that she wore no girdle.
At the sink, she unplugged the electric coffee maker an effort which caused the short velvet dress to go riding up the backs of her legs. She had on the spike-heeled shoes.
"What d'ya think of those shoes?" he asked Bradford.
Bradford whistled. "Real humdingers! Turn a minister into a sex fiend." His eyes swam up the smoothness of her legs.
Edie pretended not to hear their raucous comments; she concealed her embarrassment with the clatter of cups, bending over their guest to pour the coffee. The wide V of her cocktail dress revealed the bulging imprisonment of her superb breasts. Bill licked his lips; Tom remained red-facedly silent.
When she came to Bill's side of the table, he ran his hands up and down her bare legs and watched the expression on her face.
"Would you like this hot coffee right in your lap?" she said with a giggle.
He moved his hands all the way up to her silk panties. She dodged away. "Damn you!"
Both men laughed.
"Edie, you're uncooperative," Bradford said.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "A man wants to know if his wife is wearing underpants. It's his inalienable right."
She set the percolator down. "Did you find out?" she asked.
"As a matter-of-fact, I didn't." He started to press his hands under her dress again, but she stepped backwards and sat down.
"We could watch TV for a while," she suggested after they had finished their coffee. But neither man thought much of her idea.
"Do either of you know how to play pinochle?" Bradford asked.
"Strip poker sounds like more fun," Bill answered, then he paused to look at Edie, comfortably secure in the knowledge that she would now say: "It's too cold," or something like that.
She sat stiffly silent, returning his gaze with a studied intentness such as he had never known. Her eyes were dark, brooding; her mouth insensitive, still. Then abruptly the expression changed, she smiled. Her eyes were warm, lit with mischief, and she said, "You know, that's something I always wanted to do. Play strip poker."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He set the card table up in the center of the living room, brought chairs from the kitchen. Edie helped him; Bradford had to go to the John. She hovered close to Bill.
"Happy?" she asked.
He gulped at a fresh highball and looked at her in wonderment. "Why shouldn't I be?" he said harshly.
"You really want to play strip poker, don't you, Bill?"
"Don't put the blame on me. It was your idea."
"If you don't want to...."
"Who said they didn't want to?" He finished off the highball, threw the cards down on the table. She came pleadingly into his arms.
"I'm worried about us, Bill. Worried sick."
He ran his hands up and down her body. She wanted affection, but that was for suckers. "What are you worried for?"
"Y-you're different ... like a different person...." She paused and then rushed on. "Bill, honey, I wanna do what's right for you and...."
"You talk too much." He coarsely fumbled with her lower body, then pushed her into a chair. Bradford was back. Edie lowered her eyes. The men sat down.
"You sure you wanna go through with this?" Bradford said hopefully to Edie.
She looked up. Her eyes were wet. Her mouth was suddenly hard. "Deal the cards." And from that moment on, she was intent on two things: Getting drunk, and removing her clothes.
On the alcohol bit, she was modestly successful, consuming at least six highballs in no more than twenty minutes. As for removing her clothes she was astonishing lucky in winning, and it was the men who were forced to undress. She filled inside straights, topped their hands with full houses, flushes, and one occasion, even came up with four aces.
"I think she's stacked the deck," Bradford said.
"You wanna quit?" she asked, gathering together the pile of clothes in front of her.
Both of them declined her offer.
"I've heard of men losing their shirts in a card game," she laughed, "but this is the first time...."
"Quit yakking and deal," Bill snapped.
She shot him a cold glance and shuffled the cards. Both men were down to shorts and T-shirts now and as they picked up the cards she dealt them, Bradford said, "I sure hope I win this hand. I'm getting cold."
Bill remedied the situation with more drinks for everyone, then succeeded in finally winning a hand. Bradford laughingly removed his T-shirt; Bill reclaimed one of his shoes.
On the following hand, Bradford turned up with three queens. He won again, a hand later, then Bill bounced back with two pairs; Edie's luck, however phenomenal, had taken a turn for the worse. She suggested they could cut out and do some dancing if they liked; she was promptly vetoed. A succession of losses then reduced her loot to nothing, and she had to part with both of her shoes. Bradford kissed the shoes, caressed the gleaming patent-leather said that was for good luck.
Bill watched the expression on her face. Any minute now she would back out and want to quit. He'd refuse her, of course.
However, to his surprise, she did not beg out. Furthermore, she lost the next hand, and haughtily said, "And I s'pose you think I'm afraid to take it off?" Her remark was meant for him, and he watched her stand, look at him coldly, then slowly bend over and grasp the red velvet dress by its hem and lift upward.
The splendor of her body never failed to arouse him, but sharing that magnificent sight with another man was like no thrill he had ever enjoyed in his entire life. Half the thrill, he thought, was seeing the speechless awe on Bradford's face. He was looking at her with such intentness, such a fury of excitement, that Bill thought the man would come out of his chair and suddenly sweep Edie into his arms.
"Is the underwear satisfactory?" Edie said sarcastically.
"I dunno," he said. "Lemme feel the material." He made a grab for the wispy panties she wore. She dodged back.
"No fair," she said. She pulled up on the tiny bra, so tiny it barely concealed her lush pink nipples.
"Let's finish her off," Bradford said eagerly. He dealt the cards. Bill excused himself and hurried to the kitchen to mix another round of drinks. When he returned, he reached over her shoulder and bent down to squeeze the powder-puff softness of her thigh. She pushed his hand away and wiggled out of the chair. A second later, she fell roughly into Tom Bradford's lap.
"Protect me, Tom," she said in mock fright. "That mean old man wants to touch me." She pressed her breasts against Bradford's bare chest. He took advantage of the situation and put his arms around her.
"I don't know how much protection you'll get from me, but...." He hugged her. "Mmmmmmm...."
Dumbly, Bill set the drinks down. She was getting quite loaded, he decided. A few more and she would get really reckless. "Are you gonna play, or are you gonna neck?" he asked.
"We're gonna neck," she said. "I can have you any time," she teased. "Now Tom here...." She squirmed against him. "...tonight, he's my boyfriend."
Bradford was embarrassed; he pushed her off his lap. "Jealous husbands I can do without."
Edie chucked Bill under the chin. "Oh, he's not jealous. He-likes me to do things like that with other men, don't you, honey?"
Bill was silent. He watched her kill the better part of another drink, then he dealt the cards. The hell with her.
Bradford brought home another winner: Two pairs, king high. The two of them stared at her. Without a second's hesitation, she reached behind her and unclasped her bra.
Bradford choked on his drink. He desperately wanted to look at Edie's breasts, but concern for Bill kept his eyes trained in the other direction. However, when she giggled drunkenly over her new found nudity, the tension disappeared, everybody laughed, and Bradford stared gluttonously at her softly upturned breasts.
"It seems to me," Bradford said, the bourbon renewing his courage, "that the winner oughta have the privilege of taking off the panties. What do you think about that, Bill?"
"I'm with you, pal." The drink had thickened his speech. "The winner wins-the winner takes 'em off."
Edie threw them a pout. Finally, she said, "Okay, whoever wins my panties gets to take them off."
Bill took a huge swallow straight from the bourbon bottle. Edie and Bradford proved that they were equal to the same stunt. Bourbon dribbled down Edie's chin. Bradford wiped it away with the back of his hand. At the same time, his glance fell to the tantalizing pink of her nipples. Every movement of her body caused the breasts to bobble; the effect on Bradford was glowingly noticeable. Bill dealt the cards.
Once again, Bradford emerged the winner, this time with a straight flush. Edie jumped up in front of Bradford. "I'm ready if you are."
Obviously, Bradford hadn't expected to really earn the chance to remove her panties. His eyes glassed. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.
"Well," Edie said, "what are you waiting for?"
Bradford sent Bill a beseeching glance.
"Go ahead, boy. Take 'em off."
It was all that Bradford was waiting to hear. His small pudgy hands found their way to the waistband of her panties. He slid the wispy red panties down over the flaring of her hips, paused briefly, then urged them the rest of the way, letting them fall to her ankles. She kicked the panties into the air. Bill caught them.
"Hey, how 'bout that one?" He stood up, pulled his shorts off, and climbed into her panties. He wiggled his pelvis. "Well, how do they look?"
They laughed. They thought he was a real nut. Bradford, however, was more anxious to gaze at Edie's wanton nakedness. When she fell into his lap again, he swarmed with passion. She was completely commonplace about being in his lap, addressing herself to Bill. "Frankly, Mr. Smarty, I think they look better on me." She stubbed her toes at the carpet.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Bill said. He clowned his way around the room. He put his hands on his hips, forced his feet into Edie's patent leather shoes, and cleverly affected the girlish wiggle of a young high-schooler. He strode to the chair that Bradford and Edie were, jokingly pulled Edie off of Bradford's lap, then took her place. He wiggled his rump against Bradford's body.
"That's no fair," she complained. "You're infringing on my territory, now." She pushed him off and again sat on Bradford's lap. Bradford circled her waist and clasped her to his body. Her fingers found his shorts. "And how come you've still got clothes on?"
"Damned if I know."
"Bill, make him take his shorts off."
"You."
"C'mon, take 'em off."
Bradford refused. Edie struggled to remove them but she was no match for Bradford's strength. Bill came to her assistance. Bradford broke away from them and ran down the hallway. Bill and Edie stumbled drunkenly after him. Edie cornered him, Bill pulled him to the floor.
Bradford screamed and giggled. Edie pinned him down, her breasts pressed against his bare chest. Bill dispossessed him of the shorts and ran back up the hallway waving them like a flag. Edie followed after him. Bradford joined them in the living room. He was hunched over, a bit cold, he said; and he wanted his shorts back.
"And you can't have 'em," she said, snatching them from Bill and sitting on them. She gazed at his arousal. "Besides, you're cuter without them."
Bradford sat down and covered himself with a toss pillow. "I refuse to budge another inch unless someone brings me my shorts, or else a drink."
So they brought drinks. Drinks and more drinks. And it rapidly turned into a sex circus gone mad. Bill found a pair of Edie's elbow-length dress gloves and added to his clowning masquerade. He even coaxed Bradford into dancing with him.
It was wild. Edie roared in drunken laughter. The two men danced at close quarters. Bill rubbed his panty clad pelvis against Bradford's nakedness. To his surprise, Bradford became visibly excited. Bill pressed harder. Edie then saw the result. She cut in on the two men. "My turn," she said, and she seized Bradford's hands.
Bill stumbled to the kitchen and poured himself another drink. When he turned to re-enter the living room, Tom and Edie were locked close together, but their was no movement to their feet. The dry fish. Standing close together, squirming and rubbing at each other-no rhythm necessary. Then the crazy goddamn phone rang.
Bill cursed. It was like a curfew-someone saying that the show was over, let's go home. Edie broke abruptly from Bradford's embrace. The three of them gazed speechlessly at each other. The phone rang again. Bill figured it was Sinclair; he picked it up but the line was dead.
"Wrong number," he said, dropping the phone back to its cradle. He turned around and Edie had taken refuge on the sofa; Bradford excused himself and stumbled to the bathroom. Edie suddenly wore a strange expression-had it been the blank phone call? he wondered. He came beside her and asked her what was wrong.
"It's just good that that phone rang when it did, honey." She sighed and leaned against him. "I was ready to give in, to let him do it to me." There were tears in her eyes.
"Honey, it's only a party."
"No, it isn't, Bill. It's worse than a party. And I don't want to do anything with anybody else. I'm yours. I belong to you ... not him. Just you." She pressed her arms around his neck.
He eased himself gently out of her embrace. "Honey, don't be that way. Let your hair down. Have fun." He tried to find his drink, but couldn't.
"Bill...."
"C'mon, honey." He wiped the tears from her eyes. "Please don't make me do it." She clutched his arm. "Don't make me do something with him. Please."
"Honey, I'm not."
"But...."
Suddenly, Tom staggered back to rejoin them. Edie grew sullen. He tried to encourage her to dance with Bradford, but she declined, said she felt ill.
"A wet blanket is more like it," he said coldly. "A party pooper."
Pleadingly, she searched his eyes. Bradford joined her on the sofa. "Something wrong, Edie?" he asked.
Bill went down the hallway toward the bathroom.
"Bill...." she called.
He turned around, grinned. "Be back in an hour," he shouted, "and if you don't make hay while the moon shines...." He closed the bathroom door and turned off the light. He waited a few minutes, then he opened the door softly and stood cloaked in the shadows facing the front room. He was able to see the whole show.
The thrill of being a watcher was indescribable. Tom was murmuring softly to her, trying to break down her resistance. His hands went slowly over her breasts. She moaned and tried to fight the curse of her body. It was no go.
Tom kissed her; his hands mashed down on her nipples. She fought off his hands and squirmed away from his kiss. He whispered something in her ear. Her face became wrought with anxiety. Now he kissed her again.
Unobserved, Bill moved deeper into the shadows of the hallway. The wild, exhilarating feeling of watching her succumb out of this world, he thought. He clutched at Edie's soft, silky panties, felt them hug the hotness of his skin. From the front room, he heard Edie moan, knew that the collapse of her defenses was near at hand.
He inched closer and saw Tom work the nipples of her swollen globes into distinguishable hardness. Gently, he pushed her down on the divan. His mouth went searchingly down the sweetness of her body and engulfed on the hardened pink nipples. Suddenly, Edie's arms went around Tom's neck in a spasm of uncontrolled passion.
From his hiding place in the hallway, Bill wanted to explode. He saw Tom's hand go darting between her thighs. She clamped her legs together, fighting him and fighting herself. But the battle was lost. Tom's flicking tongue had set fire to her nipples; his busy hands had broken the last struggling line of her resistance. The gates of hell were now open. She was his.
He took a deep breath and leaned against the hallway wall. Her thighs parted, spread wantonly for the entrance of Tom's hand. His fingers disappeared from sight. She let out a surging moan. Her arms tightened on his neck. She thrust her hips and pelvis up to meet the rhythm of his hand.
Suddenly, Bill couldn't stand any more of it; he had to share the thrill, the ecstasy of helping her succumb. Breathlessly, he came to the edge of the living room, then walked the remaining few steps and fell beside them on the sofa. He winked at Tom, then began playing with one of Edie's breasts.
Sensing him there, she emerged from her delirium to protest. She attempted to push their heads away from her breasts; her pleas fell on deaf ears; they only sucked the nipples all the harder.
"Bill ... Bill, p-please...."
His jaws drew and closed on her throbbing nipple. He strained to see the contortion of her expression. Her eyes swam; she was in a comatose state of reeling senses and forgotten inhibitions.
In another minute, the two men walked her, half-dragged her to the bathroom. They giggled drunkenly and Edie cried and tried to break away from them. Then the three of them tumbled to the bed.
They quickly aroused her to insane desire. They licked and pinched her soft, pliant body; covered her with hot kisses and intimate caresses, forced her down a road with no return. The combined stimulating effect of two men upon one woman was too much for her to bear. She finally had to surrender to her feelings, lose her identity in a tide of overwhelming passion.
She carried on like she was infused with Spanish fly. She clutched both men simultaneously, fondled their maleness, brought them to a peak of excitement to match her own. She sobbed all the while, rolled her head dumbly from side to side, fervently wanting satisfaction, but still struggling vainly against it.
Bill whispered and urged Tom between her legs.
"Oh, noooo...." She cried. Now it was too late; Tom was there.
Bill was delirious with excitement. He watched her eyes roll, saw the sharp intake of her breath. She squirmed, but there was no escape. She was helpless. Her mind had been betrayed by her body, and now she pumped anxiously to meet the inward thrust of Tom's drunken, quivering pleasure.
They rolled sideways away from Bill. Bill clasped her buttocks and pushed her toward her partner. He felt the return force of Tom's thrust. Her backside pressed against him, but he nudged her back to Tom. Then again. And then he was riding with them, clutching at the silk panties he wore, joining them in animal grunts, riding to hell and bursting with sin.
"Tom...." she moaned. "Stop now. Please." But her body begged for more. "Oh, f-faster...."
Bill stole between their closely pressed bodies and groped for her breast.
"Tom ... Bill ... I can't ... I can't hold back. I c-can't...."
"Don't, honey," he whispered. "Let it happen. C'mon."
"Ohhhh ... Tom ... Tom ... oh, Tom g-give it to me. Hardddd! As hard as you can ... yessss ... yesssss!"
And then it happened. Tom and Edie. Going together, and in the mad spasm of exploding passions, Bill fell over on top of the both of them, pumped his silk clad thighs against their naked bodies and burst with the warm liquid of forbidden love.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He awoke with a blinding, scorching, screaming headache. The apartment was a sickening mess in shambles; Edie and Karen were gone, and the phone was ringing. He stumbled through the empty apartment and found the phone. It was Sinclair.
"Christ, Bill, I've been trying to reach you for the past hour. Harrigan is at the airport. Where in the hell have you been?"
He blinked his eyes and tried to come fully awake. He didn't want to say that he'd overslept, that there'd been a drunken orgy. "I was out"
"Well you'd better get your motor racing. Harrigan is having a fit. He just called."
Balls, he thought. He leaned on an end table for support and groped for a cigarette. "Relax, will you?"
But Sinclair could not relax. "Too much hanging in the balance," he said.
"So I'll page the airport and calm him down. Quit your worrying."
"I have a right to worry."
Short on patience this morning, Bill decided there was no use in arguing with the old bastard. He started to hang up.
"And by the way," Sinclair went on, "that detective was here again. "Detective?"
"You know ... the one I told you about."
"Oh."
"Everything is all right, isn't it, Bill?"
"I told you it was. Do you want a signed statement?" he said rudely, then hung up and ran for the bathroom.
After he had vomited, he showered and dressed, phoned Harrigan and apologized for the mix-up. Harrigan was politely good-natured about the whole thing; said he was enjoying the view meaning the airline stewardesses and he agreed to meet Bill on the southwest corner of Times Square within the hour.
He arrived early for their meeting, and he was glad of it. It gave him a chance to run to a nearby drug store, swill down some black coffee.
With two cups down, he felt the nuts and bolts returning, giving him back self-confidence and poise; however, he was still worried about Edie and decided to phone. There was no answer. Where in the hell had she gone? he wondered.
He returned to the Times Square building, wishing that he had dressed with a little more care. His suit was baggy, could have stood a pressing. But he reminded himself that Harrigan was a casual man and also a casual dresser. Besides, it was a warm, humid day.
Five minutes went by and Harrigan still hadn't showed up. He went to an outside phone booth and tried Edie again. Couldn't take Harrigan up there with the apartment looking such a mess, and he cursed himself for not forewarning Edie. Again, no answer. Then he saw Harrigan's taxi and ran to greet him.
In the noisy clamor of midtown New York, of beeping taxis and crowded sidewalks, the two men shook hands warmly, and Bill was introduced to Harrigan's son, Keith. The boy was about 16 and, un-like his father, short, sallow-complected and soft of voice. His close-set dark eyes swept Bill's in a cursory glance. Then, with robot-like precision, he fell unobtrusively to the background.
On their way to a 46th street restaurant, Harrigan did most of the talking; not un-like the man, Bill thought. Harrigan had a golden tongue fit for oratory, a large man with a hearty handshake, one who looked considerably less than his 45 years. By way of confession, he preferred sport jackets to business suits, beer to Scotch, and he claimed that big tits were better than big business.
At the restaurant, they polished off sausages and eggs. Harrigan had already checked in at a hotel, so there would be no sweat about accommodations.
He was quite pleased with the food, didn't go for those airline preparations just the hostesses. And had a nice one aboard, he added. Dark hair and nice breasts the presence of his son didn't seem to curb his comments and she had an ass that was fittingly tailored to travel by jet.
"Built for speed." Harrigan grinned. "And which brings us to the present, Bill. Are you getting anything strange?"
Bill shot an uneasy glance at the boy, who seemed unaware of what they were saying; then he offered his stock-in-trade reply: "If I get anything at all, it'll be strange."
Harrigan laughed, and this was the whole secret of winning him over, Bill remembered. Keep sex uppermost in the conversation and signed contracts would take care of themselves.
With this in mind, he guided Harrigan through a string of the latest dirty jokes, ably described the hot shape of their new office girl, and suggested that Harrigan come to their annual Christmas office party. Harrigan gleamed like a new automobile; he was game for anything.
Midway in the final cup of coffee, Bill excused himself, saying he wanted to call home. He could, he supposed, take Harrigan down to the office, or even go to Harrigan's hotel suite; however, he was depending on the homey touch to put Harrigan in the right mood. Besides, if Edie looked cute, flirted a little bit with the man all this would help the cause.
He reached the phone, dialed, and to his immeasurable relief, she was there.
"Where were you?" he asked.
"Went for a walk. Karen woke up early. I thought if I got her out of the house, you'd be able to sleep."
It was thoughtful of her, a consideration not beyond her, but surprising after last night's orgy all at her expense. Feeling cheered, he said, "I should have mentioned this before, honey...." He told her about
Harrigan and the boy. "...I didn't want to bring them up there with the place such a mess...."
She told him not to worry. Give her 30-minutes, she said. She'd fix everything.
"You're a darling," he burst out.
She was quiet and he thought that she had hung up. Then, very solemnly, she said, "I've always tried to do what you wanted, Bill."
He felt embarrassed. The suggested sentimentality of her remark left him groping for words. Finally, he said, "I know, Edie. I know that."
"Last night, too," she added.
He was silent.
"I did what you wanted last night, Bill." She waited. "You did want me to, didn't you?"
He stuttered. "Y-you were fine, honey. Just fine." He wanted to hang up.
"You're not mad?"
"Of course not," he said quickly.
But she had more questions: Did he still love her? Why hadn't he said so? And did he feel strange about last night?
He assured her that nothing had changed. Yes, he loved her. He didn't know why he hadn't told her; and, no, he didn't feel strange about last night.
Walking slowly back to Harrigan's table after he had hung up, he was more certain than ever that she had been cheating on him. She'd been obviously afraid that he had discovered the truth, and now mistakenly convinced that he knew nothing, she was basking in glee. How wrong she was, he thought. How very wrong, indeed.
"Blonde or red head?" Harrigan asked, as he sat down.
"Both," he replied, and then he shot the boy another awkward glance. Keith Harrigan, however, was unconcerned. The youth had brought a rumpled girlie magazine from his coat pocket and was idly thumbing its contents.
Noting Bill's surprise, Harrigan explained, "They don't teach him a damn thing in those exclusive eastern academies. Have to make sure he learns some way, so...." He pointed to the magazine. "Better that way than on some street corner." He draped his arm around the boy. "How 'bout it, Keith?"
The boy said nothing. He covered his embarrassment with the flip of another page.
"He's a good kid," Harrigan said. "Takes after the old man."
Bill jokingly suggested that that was too bad. And then there were more jokes, sassy observations on the restaurant's swivel-hipped waitresses, and it was finally time to leave. Edie should have the apartment ready, he thought; they would tackle those new jobs, get the worry monkey off of Sinclair's back.
Bill picked up the tab had to argue with Harrigan on that one and then they were out on the street hailing a taxi. He was happy about the way things were shaping up. Harrigan was in a good mood; so was Edie. The two of them had never met, but their meeting was bound to influence the cause. In fact, any round ass in New York would help the cause; and a little proudly, Bill thought of Edie's as the roundest of all.
When they arrived at the apartment, Bill smiled approvingly at the bang-up job she had done with her housecleaning. He was also pleasingly startled by the revealing pink short-shorts she wore; even more startled by the crimson pullover a lustful creation that bound her tight enough to reveal her nipples. And her white kid leather boots were the very latest in women's fashions.
He finally commenced with the introductions, feeling a mixture of pride and embarrassment the embarrassment being for the young boy, whose eyes were blankly fastened on the wide V of Edie's sweater.
Harrigan was visibly impressed, though more sophisticated in his admiration than was his son. "Bill, you've been holding out on me." He shot Edie a flirtatious smile. "Mrs. Trumball, your husband's been telling me that you're fat, had buck teeth and wore horn-rimmed glasses." He smiled warmly. "I'd call that false representation." His eyes ran up and down her body. "I'd say he's the luckiest man in New York."
Edie glowed. "Thank you, Mr. Harrigan, but it's really the other way around." She took warm possession of Bill's forearm. "I'd say I was the luckiest woman in New York."
Harrigan called them lovebirds, said it made him nauseatingly envious, and if they didn't stop cooing for each other's benefit, he was going to catch the next jet back to Chicago.
Eventually, after some cold beers, they assumed possession of the kitchen table. Harrigan opened his attach' case and brought out a stack of blueprints. Edie, meanwhile, excused herself a bath for Karen, she explained and the boy, Keith, went to the living room to watch TV.
Harrigan unfurrowed a master assembly print. Bill's eyes lit with interest, and he listened to Harrigan's enlightening description of the job. They were coming out with an electrical stapling gun, something new in the field, an instrument that would require some 75 component parts. These parts would be stampings, Harrigan explained, "And the tolerances are damn close, Bill. But we know you fellows can do the job. Our problem, though, is time." And he wanted to know how soon they could expect sample parts, and when those samples were approved, how much longer would it take for the full-scale production run.
Bill hedged on delivery dates. He'd have to appraise the blueprints more carefully; there was also the undiscussed question of costs.
"I'm not worried about costs as much as I am delivery dates. Besides, cost has never been a barrier before, has it?"
Bill laughed, but it was a hollow laugh; price hadn't been a barrier because it was often ridiculously low. However, this time Bill sensed an urgency for the parts and maybe Olson Electronics would be willing to pay through the nose. Harrigan wouldn't disclose that fact, naturally; but Bill sensed that a good business screwing was now in order.
Edie thoughtfully delivered fresh beers can't drive a car without fuel, she said and neither man debated the merits of her proposal.
When she set the beers down, he sensed that something was different about her; however, he didn't guess what it was until he followed the direction of Harrigan's stare. Edie had removed her bra. Her breasts were practically spilling into Harrigan's lap.
Bill motioned his disapproval. There was no need for Edie to flaunt herself in front of Harrigan; the man was already an easy sell, and her flirting would only stall the processes. However, Edie failed to grasp his eye signals and flirted even more. She purred back and forth past their table, shook her hind end in Harrigan's face and continued to display her wicked short-shorts and the fetishly stimulating leather boots.
Unfortunately, her efforts diverted Harrigan from the blueprints, and that was exactly what Bill had feared. Frequently Bill found himself talking to space, while Harrigan gazed fondly at Edie's sweeping motions back and forth through the tiny kitchen.
Hiding his annoyance, Bill studied the blueprints by himself. New tools would have to be made, special punches and dies machined out of their tool room time-consuming when time was precious. However, at a slightly added cost, it could be rushed with special handling, some overtime.
"The parts won't come cheap," he warned Harrigan.
Edie passed through the room. Harrigan smiled at her, then absently, he said, "We need parts, Bill. No reasonable estimate is going to be refused. Bear that in mind." And then Harrigan's gaze was swept away; Edie was bent over him, administering a fresh beer, the rosy pink of her nipples plainly visible for his admiring eyes.
Bill felt a mixture of jealousy and excitement, and then suddenly he had an idea better, a superb brainstorm. He could shaft Olson Electronics and make them like it. He'd set the cost much higher than necessary. Harrigan wouldn't argue; he wanted parts. And with Edie's cute little nipples knocking the hell out of the man's business acumen, he'd stand still for any estimate that Bill set forth.
Hurriedly, he scratched out some figures. The usual marginal profit on any job was ten percent. If the job turned out to be gravy, the company made a killing. If, as was sometimes the case, the job developed production problems, then the company was forced to absorb a loss. With this in mind, he set the marginal profit at thirty percent. A triple killer, really, but Harrigan gave him no arguments on the first three jobs he quoted.
Bill could hardly contain his excitement. He had drawn Harrigan into the throes of a king-sized swindle. A fish, he thought, and this project would become a gold mine. Sinclair would become wealthy; his own bonus would be most rewarding.
In the next hour, Harrigan gave but little attention to Bill's further computations. His eyes were enraptured with Edie's lithe movements around their table; he seemed genuinely disappointed when Edie announced that she was going out for a spell, had to do some shopping for supper.
"I won't be gone long, honey. And if Karen wakes up before I get back, just give her a bottle. Okay?"
Bill agreed.
"She's a lovely girl," Harrigan said, when Edie had left. "Huh?"
"Your wife. I said she was lovely." Bill nodded absently; he was intent on the screwing that he was delivering to Harrigan, his words failed to register. He sank over another blueprint, one that was a real dilly. Six operations, one a deep draw. He could shaft 'em good on this one, he thought. Right up the middle.
Only it didn't work. Edie was gone and Harrigan was expertly on top of every calculation. Was the material really that expensive? And wouldn't stock tools perform the job just as effectively as special ones?
"I'm not hedging on costs, Bill, but we do want to be reasonable about it, don't we?"
The bastard, Bill thought. Smiling, telling him that costs weren't important, just a short time ago; now the sonofabitch was splitting hairs.
"Well, I suppose we could pare it down a little," he said, faking a smile. He put a new figure before Harrigan. Harrigan winced. Bill cut the figure anew. Now Harrigan grinned his approval.
After checking that part off his list, Bill reminded himself that price-cutting wasn't a good practice, but dammit if he wouldn't make it up on the next job. Unfortunately, it didn't work.
Harrigan tightened the purse strings. Wanted to know if two operations couldn't be combined with the right tooling and be performed as one.
Reluctantly, Bill had to agree with him. The bastard was sharp and, once again, the profit was nibbled away to nothing. Disgustedly, Bill suggested a rest. He threw Harrigan the all-work-and-no-play bit. Made dull boys. Harrigan agreed; they couldn't and mustn't become dull boys.
Bill switched Harrigan off from beer to bourbon. He made the drinks punishingly strong; had to do something with the man. Any ass could quote lowly and get the jobs; the trick was yielding a substantial profit. He'd simply wait until Edie returned. Let her again prance around Harrigan in her short-shorts. That was the secret for selling him the moon, and it was no wonder that large companies spent thousands of dollars annually to entertain their customers. Sex was the bait; once hooked, you could sell them anything.
Switching the conversation to sex, Bill described a few of his more wicked high school experiences. A hay-ride during which he had lost a girl's panties. Then a birthday party: He had screwed two girls downstairs in the coal bin. A real mess, and Harrigan roared.
"Once when I was just ten-years-old . . . " He told Harrigan how he had stood guard while a gang of neighborhood boys, all older than he, had gang-banged a ripe-and-ready girl of no more than 14. Watching her pant and wiggle and get hot had been more fun than doing it, he said. Harrigan's eyes were as large as saucers.
"Sounds like you led a pretty interesting youth."
"And still try to," Bill added. He described his new neighbor, Alice Bradford. "Not much of a looker, but the way she sits around here with her dress pulled up...."
Harrigan wanted to meet her.
"I just might be able to arrange that," Bill hinted. "Maybe we could have a party, or something."
"Hey, that's it. A party!" He rubbed his hands together. "like you say, Bill, all work and no play...." He laughed at his own funny. "...what about her husband?"
"Tom?" He shrugged his shoulders. "If he behaves, maybe we'll let him watch."
Harrigan was visibly excited, and that was exactly what Bill wanted. Give him a good case of hot pants, make him spin like a top, then shove his nose back at those quotes, and he'd be too damn distracted to argue.
He watched Harrigan closely, then decided to bait the hook even further. He mentioned nude pictures. "If we get this Alice drunk enough, maybe she'll even pose for us. I've got a Polaroid, you know."
"What about your wife? She won't stand still for something like that ... will she?"
Bill waved it off. "Edie's no prude. If she gives us a hard time, then we'll strip her, too."
Harrigan was thrilled. Bill could read him like an open book. He was visualizing a scene like that two women naked in front of him he was going crazy.
Suddenly, Bill went to the bedroom and brought back the Polaroid pictures that he had taken of Edie. "She-likes to pose, herself," he said. He dropped the pictures in Harrigan's lap.
Harrigan whistled. His eyes darted to the door. "What if she finds out?...."
"That I showed them to you?" Again, he shrugged. "She wouldn't care. Anyway, they're only pictures."
Harrigan shot him an incredulous stare. Bill told him to go ahead and look. Harrigan did. His eyes were about three inches away from the snapshots, and he wasn't interested in photo techniques, either. He was hooked on the sight of Edie's voluptuous naked breasts.
Suddenly, Keith came through the archway to the kitchen. He had evidently overheard some of their conversation and now wanted to see the pictures. Harrigan told him to go back to the living room and sit down. The boy frowned.
"Go ahead," he commanded. "Do as I say."
Reluctantly, the boy turned and walked slowly away.
"Curious little pip-squeak," Harrigan said with a slight grin. "Wants to learn everything in one day."
Harrigan grunted. His eyes were again on the photos. 'Think maybe I'd better buy one of those cameras."
"You can always use mine," Bill pointed out "All you need is the film."
"And the model."
"And there she is," Bill said, nodding to the pictures.
"Your wife?" His eyebrows were raised. "She might not be a prude, but she'd never agree to a thing like that."
"Care to make a little wager?" Bill asked. Harrigan was speechless. He was also hooked.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Edie returned while he was collecting the pictures to put them away. She set the groceries on the kitchen sink, saw the snapshots, and her face colored.
"I was showing off my etchings," he grinned.
Her face colored more brightly. She scolded him. "I'm sure Mr. Harrigan didn't fly I,000 miles just to look at nasty pictures."
"They're not nasty."
"They are so."
He turned to their guest. "Do you think they're nasty?"
Harrigan covered his embarrassment with a gallant smile. "I thought they were rather nice," he said.
"And you're both a couple of naughty boys," she said, sweeping from the room.
Harrigan said, "Is she mad?"
He brushed it off. "Heck, no. I told you she's no prude."
"But...."
"To the blueprints, okay?" He stuffed the photos in his shirt pocket and re-opened the master assembly print. Harrigan was lost, slightly confused, putty as Bill had supposed he would be. The man was probably wondering if Edie really would pose in the nude, wondering whether there'd be a party, whether Alice Bradford was as naively uninhibited as Bill had promised. And girdled by sex fantasies, Harrigan was no match for Bill's carefully laid plans to shaft him clear to the hilt.
Edie furthered the cause. She donned a pair of skintight rubber Capris; she obviously wore nothing beneath them. Harrigan's mouth hung open like a kid yearning for ice cream.
"And she never wore them before," Bill blatantly pointed out. "So you must be special."
"I only put them on because they're comfortable," she said, unloading her groceries.
That was hard to believe. The rubber Capris were too tight to be comfortable, but nice ... wow, they were nice! Her buttocks were enticingly revealed; every line was defined and nothing was left to the labors of imagination. In addition, she wore the spike-heeled shoes that Bill had bought her. They afforded her a bewitching dominance that held Harrigan spellbound.
Bill was so elated by his success with Harrigan that he was tempted to phone Sinclair and give him the good news. The contracts weren't signed, sealed and delivered as yet, but Harrigan was in the bag.
And then Sinclair saved him the trouble; it was he who phoned. "How are you doing with Harrigan?"
"Great!" he answered.
"Maybe you're not doing as great as you think," Sinclair said gravely. "What do you mean?"
"I mean there's trouble down here at the office."
"Trouble?"
"That detective again. He's here. Says he wants to see you. And right away, too."
Bill was irritated by the petty annoyance of the detective. He flexed and relaxed his fist. "Tell him I'll see him tomorrow."
"I tried. I told him we had this big thing going for us ... Bill, he won't listen to reason. He wants to come out to your place right now, but I persuaded him to let me phone you first."
"What the hell does he want to see me about that's so important and can't wait until tomorrow?"
"I don't know, but...."
"Trumball?" It was another voice, a gruff one, the detective's. "Speaking."
"You don't get the pitch, do you? I said I wanted to see you."
He disliked the rough tone. An insolent bastard, the kind who threw his weight around. "There's nothing to see me about. We haven't had any more trouble with prowlers...."
"Who the hell said anything about prowlers. This is about your wife, Trumball."
"My what?"
"Your wife, sweet potato. She's in trouble. Lots of it. So you better get your hind end down here so we can talk about it. Or would you rather I come out there?"
"N-no. No, I'll come down there." He flashed Edie a worried glance.
"Yeah, you look like you just saw a ghost," Harrigan chided.
"It's nothing. A little business complication." He brushed past Edie. "They need me down at the office for a few minutes. I don't like to do this...."
"Go ahead, man." Harrigan began folding up blueprints. "This can wait."
"I won't be long," he said worriedly.
"What about supper?" Edie asked.
He told her he wasn't that hungry. "You guys go ahead without me. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Twenty minutes later, he was at the office, ushering Detective Joe Nuzzo inside, closing and locking the door so that they would have some degree of privacy.
In person, Nuzzo was no less repugnant than he had been on the telephone. He insisted on keeping his hat on, sat at Bill's desk as though he owned it, and squashed out his cigar on the freshly polished tile floor. His dark piggish eyes fed on the wall murals, then came back to needle Bill. He was in his forties, small, but a real bastard.
With his chair occupied, Bill sat on the edge of his desk. Then, almost afraid to ask, he said, "What's it all about?"
Nuzzo played his cat-and-mouse game to the hilt. "You in a hurry?"
He withheld his temper, explained as nicely as possible that he was pressed for time.
Nuzzo was unimpressed. He picked at his fingernails, grinned. "You ain't in no hurry, Trumball. You got all night."
"Now look here...."
"You look here," Nuzzo shot back. "This is official police business. It's a serious matter and until it's settled you're not moving one stinking foot toward home."
A slow rage built up inside Bill. He came off the desk. "Then suppose you tell me what it's all about."
Nuzzo smirked. He lifted a paper sack off the floor, something he'd carried into the office with him. "Ever play grab bag, Trumball?" He held up the brown paper sack. "Ever try to guess what was in the bag ... like this one, for instance?"
Bill's eyes narrowed. What was the sonofabitch getting at? "You said my wife...."
"Your wife is a bitch, Trumball. The kind that I spit on."
Bill lurched toward him. Nuzzo sprang out of his chair and seized Bill's lapels. "Don't try it, bright boy. Don't even think about it."
An icy silence fell between the two men. Nuzzo shoved him roughly away.
"You have no right...."
"...to call her a 'bitch'?" Nuzzo finished. He laughed. "I have every right in the world, friend." He dipped into the paper sack and pulled out a photograph. "This is reason number one." He pushed the photograph into Bill's hands.
Gingerly, Bill held and examined the photograph. It looked like ... like. It was the picture of a man's skull. There was a jagged wound at the base of the skull, most of the hair was matted with dried blood.
"Would you believe your wife did that, Mr. Trumball?"
"My wife!...."
"You look so surprised. Does she fool you that much?"
Bill was speechless. Edie had fooled him, but...
"Two nights ago this was a dishwasher," Nuzzo said, dropping the photograph back in his paper sack. "An out-of-work dishwasher, but still a human being...."
"If you think my wife...."
"I don't think, Trumball. I know she did it." He picked and polished at his fingernails some more. "She went into this bar, Trumball. She was looking for trouble, looking for something. Anyway, she sat in this booth with her dress up around her ass and tried to put the make on this guy. She left, the guy went after what he thought was coming to him, only he didn't make it. Maybe she had brass knuckles ... I dunoo ... but she knocked the piss out of him. Right now he's in a coma."
The pieces had fallen sickeningly into place. Bill was horrified. This was him that Nuzzo was talking about; he had masqueraded as a girl that night and...."How do you know it was her? How can you be so sure?"
Nuzzo grinned, tore open the paper sack, and pulled out Edie's coat. "This is hers, isn't it."
"It was stolen."
"Off my back, bright boy. Two kids saw her running and jumping into her Thunderbird. They got scraps of the license number, described the car, and the rest was simple." He continued his grin. "No jury is gonna argue with evidence like that."
Bill was silent, wondering what he could say, what he would do.
Nuzzo dropped the coat back in its sack. "That's why you received the anonymous phone calls, friend. I was testing her. I wanted to see if I could scare her into coming down to the station house...."
Suddenly, Bill saw himself being washed up at the Sinclair Stamping Company maybe through the entire industry. He saw his marriage falling apart ... should he tell the truth? "How bad is he? ... I mean this man she hit?"
Nuzzo continued to evade the ash tray; he spilled cigar ash on the floor. Then coming to his feet, he said, "He'll live." He said it almost sadly.
Bill felt a wave of relief. He tried to hide his smile.
"But that doesn't end it, Trumball." He walked slowly to the window. "There'll be charges. Assault."
"It was self-defense."
Nuzzo gave him another hollow laugh. His mouth was cruel, his words biting. "That stinks, lover boy. Your wife wasn't defending her lousy honor. She doesn't have any. She went into that bar and deliberately provoked somebody into following her." He drew deeply on his cigar. "There's a name for them kind. They get a sexual kick out of beating some guy's brains in."
"She's not that kind."
"Don't con me. I've seen too many of 'em. Sadistic bitches. Get their rocks off from beating some poor bastard to a pulp. And there's only one cure for 'em, Trumball, you know. You have to give 'em a taste of their own medicine." His lips twitched, his fists were balled. "Strip them down and beat the crap out of 'em."
"But...."
"That's what I'm gonna do to her, friend. Beat the crap out of her."
Had Bill heard him correctly? His eyes widened, a slow expression of scorn came into his eyes. "What the hell kind of cop are you? Why, you're...."
"I'm one of the club, Trumball."
"A sadist!"
Nuzzo laughed. "You got your guts calling me one. You sleep with one. You're married to her."
Bill fumbled for a cigarette. He couldn't find a match and Nuzzo did not offer him one. He flung the unlit cigarette to the floor. "Just what is it you want, anyway?"
"Five minutes with her, pal. Five goddamn minutes."
"And why don't you go to some crappy whorehouse for your kicks. Why?"
Again, Nuzzo laughed. "Why should I give some worn-out chippy twenty-bucks when...." He scratched the back of his head. "...your wife is much sweeter, friend. Sweet and young and ... I saw her, friend."
"You stinking pervert!"
Nuzzo bashed him along the side of the head. He fell to the floor. Nuzzo towered over him. "Get your ass off the floor!"
Bill struggled to his feet. He clutched at the edge of the desk and pulled himself up.
"We better get one thing straight right now, Trumball. You're gonna fix it up, see. I don't give a damn how you do it, but you're gonna make it free and easy."
"like how?"
Nuzzo rapped a vest handkerchief around his knuckles. "Tell her I'm a friend." He scratched his head again. "Then tell her you have to go out and get some smokes, or something. Just beat it."
"What are you gonna do to her?"
"You won't have to watch."
"But I wanna know."
Nuzzo grinned. "Kind of nuts about her, aintcha?"
He had been, he thought. But now...."I don't want her to get her teeth kicked out."
"They won't, chum. Maybe some marks on that sassy rear end of hers ... yeah, I been watching her. Juicy."
Bill fought back the urge to swing on the bastard.
"Only when I get through with her...." He made a fist with the balled-up handkerchief. "...it won't be so juicy."
Silence. Then: "When?"
"You name it, pal."
"What about the guy in the hospital?"
"What about him?"
"The assault charges."
Nuzzo came on with more of the grin that Bill found so sickening. "Didn't I tell you, Trumball? I'm the judge and jury. We have our little play session and ... I won't remember a thing. Amnesia." He laughed cruelly.
"I'll need some time," Bill said uneasily.
"You got it. And...." He put the handkerchief back in his pocket. "...don't try to phone me. I'll phone you."
Bill swallowed. He started to pick up the paper sack, Edie's coat. Nuzzo snatched it out of his hands. "Maybe I'd better keep this for a while. Just in case."
Bill didn't argue. "Do I have a few days?" he asked.
"No more than that," Nuzzo warned. "Three days. That's it." Then he turned, and with the paper sack clutched in his hand, he walked slowly out of the office. He didn't say 'goodbye', nothing.
Bill slumped down behind his desk. He rubbed the swollen area where Nuzzo had struck him, then he put his head down and tried to think.
He sat this way in lonely silence for the next hour. There was a single buzz on the intercom Sinclair wanting to know if everything was all right.
Dejectedly, faint of voice, he said, "Yeah. Everything is just great."
And, yes, wasn't it great? He had just traded off his wife's body to a sadistic sex pervert, saved his own hide by rendering Edie's. How much worse could things get?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Things couldn't be worse and yet they were. He was leaving the office when the phone rang. It was Edie.
"I'm leaving now," he muttered. "Bill?"
"Yes."
"You're going to be mad at me."
"Am I?"
"Bill?"
"Yes."
"Do you love me?"
Love? Such a funny meaningless word. "Shouldn't I?" he said.
"Maybe I don't deserve it, honey."
"Why?"
"Bill, I did it," she blurted out. Coldly, he asked, "Did what."
"You know."
His mind told him what she was trying to say, but he refused to believe it. "Edie...."
"Bill ... Grant and I ... honey, we started drinking ... oh, Bill." She broke off, weeping.
"Edie?"
She slowly regained her voice. "Honey, I couldn't help it. I just lost control of myself and ... he sent Keith to a movie and then we were dancing and...." She wept again. "...he was rubbing against me and he had his hands all over me ... honey, I lost my head ... I ... Bill, are you listening?"
"Yes," he said sadly. "Still listening."
"Bill, we went to bed. We did it." She was silent, fighting for the rest of the words, trying desperately to excuse what had happened, but no excuse was possible.
For a minute, he was utterly silent. He had taught her this, he supposed; and now that it had happened, happened without his being there, who could he really blame but himself?
"Bill?"
"Still here."
"Are you mad?" she said timidly.
He said no, but still it hurt. Tears burned in his eyes, and what he felt was a strange mixture of resentment, jealousy, and inward excitement. He felt cheated; cheated because he had not been present to watch and he knew this was wrong, but he was powerless to combat it. Secretly, he supposed he had always wanted to watch her do something like that with another man; he didn't want to lose her, he simply wanted to have the thrill of watching her.
Once again, she told him how sorry she was; he told her not to worry. And then it was ridiculously out of place, but the remark slipped out before he could stop it: "Was it good, Edie? Was it?" He waited an interminable period, one that seemed like forever, and then she answered, "Yes, Bill. It was real good." She was silent. Then: "Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"I don't really know," he said softly, and then he hung up.
He walked slowly from the building, lost in thought, lost in time. He felt more lonely than ever, and he had made her this way, he thought. His private Galatea, shaped in the way he as Pygmalion, had designed her; shaped to make other men hot, ultimately entice them to the fruits of love, to lie with them and love them. And wasn't this the very thing he wanted?
Wanting to forget, urgently needing to, he entered a nearby beer joint and drank quickly and often. Push back the hurt to where it belongs, he thought. Drown the bitterness of love with the bitterness of liquor. And it worked.
After a few drinks, it became easy to tell himself that he had not made her this way. Hadn't she cheated on him behind his back? Didn't he stumble on her secret lover the other night, get himself slugged in the bargain? Why the hell should he take the blame? Put the blame where it rightfully belonged on her! And then, of course, another drink. Drinks convinced him that he was right, and he was. And he couldn't blame Harrigan. He'd helped Harrigan along by showing him Edie's nude pictures. Harrigan had lived it up, and from now on, so would Bill. Yes, the hell with everything. And if this perverted flatfoot wanted to get some kicks, knock the hell out of her why not?
It was just one more lover that she could add to her growing list.
He threw down another drink, then stumbled blindly back to the apartment.
Supper was finished when he arrived; Edie wanted to warm it over, but he explained he wasn't hungry. What he wanted was a drink. And then another, and another.
Harrigan shot him some guilt-ridden glances; Bill eased the situation, however, with jokes, laughter, a hearty spirit of unconcern. Edie begged him to take it easy on the drinks, but why should he? Tomorrow you died; tonight you lived.
So he drank more than was necessary Keith still hadn't returned from the movie-and he gaily suggested they take some pictures.
Edie drew him aside. "Haven't you punished yourself enough for one day. Or didn't I?"
"Who's punishing?" He swallowed more of another drink. "I'm living it up, baby. You did."
She evidenced the hurt of his remark. She lowered her eyes. "I had that coming, didn't I?"
He put his arm around her. He was blind with drink, but he sagely said, "I didn't mean it that way, hon. What the hell ... Christ, I'd have done the same thing. He just warmed you up and ... c'mon, where's the camera?"
For the next hour, Edie answered every sick request his drink-stupored brain commanded. She brought out all the fetish undergarments he had always wanted her to wear; evil rubber panties, imprisoning leather corsets, mesh hose, high heeled shoes that made him wild with desire. He photographed her in every conceivable angle, had Harrigan help him with the lights.
One of her most exciting outfits it took some coaxing to make her put it on consisted of a French maid costume. Her red panties were scanty and sheer; an exquisite tiny French apron of luxurious nylon, cut provocatively low in front and sweeping down and around to reveal her pretty bare back, caused Harrigan to whistle. The costume was richly complemented by sheer hip length hose and spike-heeled shoes. The French maid cap was of imported lace.
Bill snapped several pictures in this costume; Harrigan again feeling his drinks and oats, clowned and became a part of the pictures. He put his arms around her, glimpsed at her pear-shaped breasts trying to push over the top of her apron, and laughingly called for 'room service'.
Bill laughed and drunkenly brought the Polaroid up to his eye.
"Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes," Harrigan said, clasping Edie even tighter.
"You mean the pinks of their nipples, don't you?" He laughed and snapped the picture.
There were more drinks and suddenly Edie seemed to join in the fun. "How about something like this?" She bent over at the hips, exposing her blushing pink nipples. Harrigan stared boldly down the front of her French apron. His hands were trembling.
In another minute, she reversed the pose, aimed her buttocks at Bill's camera. The elastic edging of the skimpy panties bit into the soft flesh of her buttocks. Both men were speechless. Harrigan finally said, "I think she wants a spanking."
"So do I," Bill agreed. His gaze was riveted to the back edge of the red panties, where they separated from her dark hip length hose. He jerked his belt out of his trousers and flung it to Harrigan.
Edie frowned. "You're kidding ... I hope."
"Hell, no, we're not kidding." Bill shot her a menacing glance. "You were bad, weren't you?"
"Bill...."
"Give her a crack," he yelled to Harrigan. He aimed the camera. Harrigan sent the belt zinging through the air. It landed squarely on the cheeks of her bottom.
She yelped, Bill snapped the shutter release, and the picture was a corker.
Edie naturally thought they were out of their minds. She told them so.
"Insubordination," Bill ruled. "Calls for more punishment. Right?"
Harrigan said, "Right."
Against her protests, Bill ordered Edie to bend over a chair. She started to go through with it, then straightened up. "I won't do it."
His eyes grew dark. He drew closer. "D'ya hear that, Harrigan. She won't do it."
Harrigan made a lunge for her. He seized her around the waist and pulled her down onto the chair. Edie squealed. "Bill! Bill, stop it!"
"Pull her panties down," Bill shouted. He brought the camera up to his face.
"Bill!"
Harrigan struggled with the wispy nylon panties. His face grew beet-red. He jerked downward on the panties and raised his hand. She screamed. Harrigan's slap was violent. The resounding smack measured the impact of his blow. The soft ripeness of her ivory buttocks twitched with pain. Harrigan struck her again; and over and over and over, Bill whispered to himself, "You're bad, you're bad, you're bad...."
"You're both terrible," Edie cried when it was over. She came to her feet and pulled up her panties.
"We thought it was fun," Bill said, and Harrigan boisterously agreed.
"Wanna double your pleasure?" he asked.
"Hell, no!" she said, and then ran for the bedroom.
Bill and Grant Harrigan started after her, but someone knocked at the door. It was Tom Bradford, and after introductions and more drinks, Harrigan suggested a party.
"We'd need more females," Bill hinted.
"Alice is coming over in a few minutes," Tom said. "She just got back."
Suddenly, the party idea sounded good to Bill. "I could get our babysitter over here for your boy," Bill said to Harrigan after Keith returned. "She's young and ripe...." He winked at Harrigan. "...and not bad."
"If she's that good," Harrigan laughed loudly, "I'll take her."
"And who the hell am I going to take?" Tom Bradford put in broodingly.
"You can have Edie," Bill answered. He shouted toward the back bedroom. "Hurry up, honey. We're gonna have a party." He turned to the rest. "You know who'd get a bang out of this? My boss. Sinclair. That old bastard is hornier than hell." He went to the phone. Somebody put a drink in his hand. Two buzzes and then he reached Sinclair. Could he zoom down? A party. Right now. A wild one. Sinclair said five minutes.
He came away from the phone just as Edie rejoined them. He told her about the party while Harrigan shoved her a drink. "Can you get Darla over here?" Bill asked.
She frowned. She didn't think it was a good idea. "Bill, it's kind of late, you know."
"What d'ya mean, late? It's only nine o'clock. Tell her we need a babysitter." He laughed. "As a matter-of-fact, we do."
"Okay, but I don't think it's such a good idea," she said, reaching for the phone. "If you wolves are planning what I think you're planning...." She began to dial.
"So if we go to jail," Bill said raucously, "we'll just continue the party behind bars. How 'bout it?" And then he laughed not at them, but at himself. He felt ridiculous, drunk, bitter, hurt. He no longer cared what happened. Live today, die tomorrow. The hell with everything.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was an orgy in B-flat minor. A symphony in sex. A party with no holds barred. A party without an end.
Alice Bradford was the first to arrive. She was surprised to find a party in progress, but lecherously game for anything. She'd worn a bright orange dress too tight and garish to diminish her girth but with the quick consumption of drink, its poor taste was the least concern of the men. Sinclair, in fact, vociferously proclaimed to Bill that he preferred women with large buttocks, because: "It gives a man more to hold on to." He grinned. "And her titties ... did you notice when she bent over that cocktail table?"
Bill staggered under the impact of a fresh drink. He said, "Sinclair, ol' boy...." He hiccupped. "...you haven't seen anything, yet."
And then Darla arrived. 16-years-old, kissingly sweet, embarrassed by the sea of strange faces, but quickly taken in by the warm greetings and the hasty approval of the men.
"I didn't know you were having a party," she said shyly. "Mrs. Trumball just said you needed a babysitter."
Edie interceded. "You are going to babysit, honey." She put her arms around the teenager. "And these are your babies," she said, nodding toward the men.
Darla laughed uneasily. Bill gave her a wink. "You gonna change my diaper?" he asked. Everyone laughed in unison.
"I feel funny ... I mean if I know'd you were having a party ... well, look at what I'm wearing."
Bill appraised the short hip-hugging blue skirt she wore. "It looks pretty good to me," he said, with a glance at the prominence of her cute rear. Then his eyes rose to short-sleeved powder-blue blouse she wore. Between the buttons, he glimpsed the shadowed underside of her breasts; the little hellcat wasn't even wearing a bra! "You look good enough to eat," he said, his eyes still boring into her breasts.
Shyly, she drew back. Harrigan swept the teenager to his side. "Not so fast, Bill. If you eat her, she'll be all gone ... we don't want that, do we?" He kissed the top of her head, then as an afterthought, he said, "Maybe your parents won't go for this, huh?"
More in keeping with their desires, she shrugged and said, "I don't tell them everything, you know."
"You better not tell them anything," Harrigan said with a slight twitter.
Again, she shrugged. Alice Bradford handed her a drink. "Honey, if you're gonna have a good time...." Then, too drunk to continue, she stumbled off without finishing whatever it was that she had been about to say.
Finally, they introduced the teenager to Keith. His eyes shone with immediate interest. Darla returned his smile and after a short conversation, the two youngsters departed to the kitchen, carrying a portable record player between them.
Meanwhile, Alice Bradford, still under the impression that she was behind in the drink marathon, had more and hastened herself toward oblivion. She consumed a water tumbler of bourbon in three maddening swallows. She declined another glass and stumbled dazedly into the living room.
Here, Sinclair guided her into a dance. Bradford added to the affair by taking Edie. Bill sagged to the davenport to watch the spectacle, and it was quite a show. Sinclair was having the time of his life. He held Alice Bradford in a death-like hug, rubbed his shirt front against her heavy breasts, allowed his hands to drop lower and lower; finally, reached the swell of her gargantuan buttocks. She swooned against him, too drunk to thwart his advances; anxious, in fact, to have him become even bolder.
Edie and Tom were dancing equally close, and Bill had never seen Edie look more dazzling, more vivacious. She'd worn a silver sheath made of glistening satin. The dress shimmered with every movement she made and hugged the hot litheness of her body like a second skin.
Watching her dance with Bradford, his mind cried out in protest at the possessive way in which Bradford held her. But another part of his body, something from hell, yearned for the maddening pleasure of seeing Tom Bradford or any man, really covet her, to become obsessed with desiring her. He didn't understand this feeling, nor did he really try. Instead, he thought of himself as a small boy who has discovered the miraculous gratification of self-touch: It felt good; don't try to figure it out.
When the dance was finally concluded, Bill staggered onto the floor and cut in on Sinclair and Alice Bradford. Alice was pleased, Sinclair frowned. Another record dropped on the turntable of the stereo, and Bill danced her away. She instantly melted into his arms and rubbed suggestively against him.
"We should have done this a long time ago," she whispered, with her face in the hollow of his neck. "A long, long time ago."
Bill responded. He ground his pelvis against her. She returned the movement. "Feel good?" he asked.
She answered, "That last drink ... I feel dizzy."
Suddenly, he dropped his hand to the hotness of her rear. "You feel good, too. I'd like to feel more if...."
"Why don't you?" she said thickly.
And he did; and no one cared. His hand slipped between their bodies and cupped the abundant hotness of one of her breasts.
"That feels good," she giggled.
He squeezed harder. She made a face. "Did I hurt you?"
She missed the tempo of the dance badly, leaned back in his arms and looked into his eyes. "I like to be hurt," she cooed, "if ... if it s the right kind of hurt." She shoved her pelvis against his.
He started to make another pass, but suddenly Sinclair cut back in. "I'm the guest," he said smilingly, "and the guest always gets first choice." He pulled Alice into his arms and waltzed away with her.
With a disgruntled sigh, Bill shuttled off to the kitchen. On his way, he looked over his shoulder and saw that Edie and Bradford were locked up in a no-motion dance, and looking quickly away, Bill continued his path to the kitchen.
Darla and Keith were at the kitchen table, sullenly sitting miles apart, both of them framed in awkward silence.
"That's a helluva way to sit," Bill said with a generous grin. He drew Darla's chair closer to Keith's. "He hasn't got yellow fever, you know."
She grinned. The boy colored.
"And you," Bill said, grinning widely at Keith, "you're s'pose to make with the hands." He placed one of Keith's hands high on Darla's leg. Keith quickly withdrew his hand. His complexion turned to a deep crimson.
Bill shrugged, reached down and pushed Darla's short skirt up high on her thighs. She smiled demurely, but made no motion to push it down. Bill looked at the boy, then at Darla's bare thighs. "Have fun," he said, and then stumbled back to the living room.
The scene that greeted his eyes filled him with excitement. Sinclair had Alice down on the sofa. He was kissing her, running his hands under her orange dress. Edie and Tom Bradford were cloaked in the darkness of a corner, locked in a kiss, rubbing against each other, finding their way slowly to hell. Edie was struggling, but only to get closer.
Bill sprawled himself on the floor and turned to watch how Sinclair was making out with Alice. Alice's orange dress was drawn above her knees. Sinclair's hand was pressing upward between her thighs. She groaned, and Bill felt bubbles of hotness building inside him. He could see Alice's pretty white panties, hear her moan softly to Sinclair's touch, and for a crazy minute, he imagined that he was Alice, that
Sinclair was groping up his leg, reaching ultimately for the moon.
Up and up, went Sinclair's hands; finally, he reached the zenith of their mutual excitement. Suddenly, her legs spread widely. Now Sinclair pulled her panties aside.
"Peeping Tom!"
Bill looked up sharply. Edie and Tom had been watching him from the corner. They were smiling at him; Edie's lipstick was smeared over her chin. Her dress was sliding off of one shoulder.
"If I wanna watch," he said drunkenly, "I'll watch." He turned on his buttocks to face them. "And if you don't mind, I think I'll watch you two. Think you can do any better?" he said, motioning toward Sinclair and Alice.
"We can sure as hell try," Bradford said gleefully. He twisted Edie back into his arms and guided her hand to his trouser front. She started to withdraw her hand, then changed her mind. She grasped him and moaned, instead. Bradford, in turn, kissed her, slid her dress upward from its hem, then ran his hands lovingly over her bare thighs.
Suddenly, Bill had to have a girl in his arms. He jumped off the floor and pulled Sinclair off Alice. "My turn," he yelled.
Sinclair grimaced, climbed off and stumbled toward the kitchen. Bill quickly filled the vacancy; Alice left her dress stranded where it was: to the visible lower line of her cotton panties.
"I'm hot," she complained.
"You're supposed to be," he answered, pushing her dress up still further. Then he looked over his shoulder to watch Bradford making out with Edie. And was he; oh, was he! And Edie was eating it up. Her arms were secured around Bradford's neck, her legs were spread in wanton abandon; and Bradford found the smooth path between her thighs, upward to the last defense: those shimmering, buttock-hugging panties.
From another part of the apartment, Bill heard Harrigan stumbling around in search of the bathroom. He was sick; he also wanted another drink.
Bill returned his attentions to Alice; to his disappointment, she had passed out. It was a king-sized disappointment at that; he had managed to get her panties completely off, thought she was ready for blast-off, but then she'd blown a picture tube and lost consciousness.
Crawling from her, he paused to gaze at the passionate nightmare that Edie had fallen heir to. Bradford's hands were inserted in the waistband of Edie's loving panties. She craved the slow circular massage of her buttocks; Bradford obliged. Completely.
In the kitchen, Darla was demonstrating the Watusi for Harrigan, his son, and Mr. Sinclair. The drinks had made shambles of her inhibitions; her pony tail was combed out, flung wildly over her shoulders; her hips gyrated as though a man were inside her; and her breasts threatened to bounce and jiggle right out of her thin blouse. The male audience was awed.
Bill chased Harrigan and Sinclair out of the kitchen. Had to leave the youngsters some privacy, he muttered. How the hell were they gonna learn the facts of life with everybody bothering them? Then, he coaxed Darla to sit on Keith's lap. "Now kiss her," he ordered Keith.
The boy did, and Darla retuned the kiss in wanton demand. Bill stood back and grinned. He reached between them and felt the teenager's breasts. No bra! She pushed his hand aside.
"Heck, I wanna have some fun, too," he said. He again squeezed his hands between their bodies and began rubbing the young girl's throbbing breasts. This time she did not push his hand away. He fumbled with the buttons, unfastened her blouse. He felt her nipples, sensed them harden under his touch. Then Keith's hand joined in the fun. His hand entertained Darla's left breast; Keith's, her right one. She groaned in ecstasy. "Mmmmm, does that feel wonderful." She kissed Keith more ardently.
Again, Bill stepped back to examine the product of his urgings. The two kids were really going at each other's bodies now. Keith was giving her blushing young bubbies a real play; his other hand had found the warmth of her bare legs. He pushed her skirt higher. Then Darla's hand went to work. She sought the boy's zipper; her tongue flicked out in Keith's ear. Proud, very proud of his efforts, Bill stumbled back to the other half of the party.
Someone had lowered the lights. Sinclair was back on the divan, had succeeded in arousing Alice from her morphia. She was removing her dress when Bill walked in.
Minutes later, the two of them Alice and Sinclair were completely naked, thrashing at each other's bodies. Bill fell to his knees to watch the spectacle; if they knew he was watching, they didn't care.
Sinclair was a world beater and an Alice beater. He joined the unholy rhythm of her body and gave it his most. Bill was wild with excitement; he had to fight with himself to keep from touching them. And then suddenly, he wondered where Edie and Bradford and Harrigan had gone to.
He found the three of them in a back bedroom. Edie was sitting up on the bed, naked. Bradford was pouring a drink into her mouth. Harrigan was running his hands all over her body, across her breasts, down the smooth flat of her stomach, finally to the bushy darkness between her legs. Edie was so drunk that she didn't know what was occurring. They pushed her gently and she fell back on the bed.
Bill quickly tore his clothes off and joined them. Harrigan and Bradford also removed theirs. The three of them came at Edie's lovely naked body like hungry parasites. They fed on her breasts, nipped the delicious insides of her thighs, coveted her with kisses that were born in hell.
In mere minutes, it became a French circus; a wild, uninhibited tangle of naked bodies that defied the most perverted of dreams. Harrigan forced himself between her outstretched young thighs. Bradford, meanwhile, rolled the pair on their side and crawled close to the promising darkness between Edie's buttocks. She was helpless to the surging passions within her body and, sensing it, Bill straddled her face and coaxed her to kiss the most treasured parts of his body. And suddenly, he did not have to coax. Her hot liquid mouth engulfed him, sent him into heated spasms of wonderful delirium. But a moment later, he passed out...
When he came to, much of the party had died. Sinclair was in the living room, attempting to revive Alice Bradford; but it was to no avail. Edie and Harrigan were both asleep on the bed; Harrigan's lips were resting placidly on Edie's left breast. They were snoring.
First splashing some cold water on his face, Bill ventured into the kitchen. He had thought that the two youngsters would be making out like crazy. He was wrong. Darla had passed out on a hassock in the corner; her clothes, except for her blouse, were still intact. Keith, a little groggy, sat sullenly quiet, stared blankly at space.
"You make her?" he asked, trying to shake him out of his doldrum.
The boy shook his head dismally. "She fell asleep. I didn't get to do anything."
Bill attempted to rouse her. She gave him a glassy-eyed empty stare, a wordless smile, then twisted irritably away to rest her head on the table. He shook her but she did not respond. He even went so far as to push up her skirt and playfully rub the narrowing of her panties, but she never moved. "Too much to drink," he said. "Can't handle it."
The boy stared longingly at her still-exposed panties. He drew his knees together, reluctantly locking away his desire. "Well, I guess everybody else had a good time," he brooded. "Everybody 'cept me."
Looking down at Keith, he felt a keen sense of pity for the lad. His mind searched for an idea. Then: "Well, you're not going home 'til you do have a good time." He fought to remain upright and, still hazy, he led the boy to an unoccupied bedroom and told him to wait.
In another minute, he returned lugging Edie in his arms. She was naked and he dumped her on one of the twin beds. She never stirred.
Keith shot him a questioning glance. He backed away. "Hey, that's your wife!"
"Who the hell did you think she was?"
"I dunno, but...."
Bill staggered against the youth, blinked his eyes, and regained his balance. "Pretty, ain't she?"
The boy was too embarrassed to answer. He wanted to leave. Bill held him. "Take your pants off."
"But she's your wife."
Bill grinned drunkenly and began to unfasten Keith's trousers.
"Honest, Mr. Trumball, I...."
"Don't argue," he said. "Just get your clothes off."
"What's she gonna think?"
"She's not gonna think anything." He pointed to her. Moonlight spilled across her breasts. Her legs were spread wantonly in wait. "She's too drunk to remember anything."
"But...."
"Just get ready. I'm gonna get Darla and...." He staggered back to the kitchen, propped the teenager on her feet, and led her slowly back to the bedroom. He let her fall across the other of the twin beds. Keith was still reluctant to remove his clothes. Bill surged against him and pulled the boy's trousers down. He pushed the lad toward Edie.
"Honest, Mr. Trumball, I don't think we should...."
He wouldn't listen. He yanked down the boy's shorts, shoved him roughly toward the bed. The boy turned to make a final plea, and Bill noticed how surprisingly well-built he was. He'd be good for Edie. Real good.
Giving Keith another shove, he turned his attentions toward the unconscious babysitter. The boy seemed immensely relieved that he wasn't watching; his guilt feelings vanished under the spell of his desires; he went at Edie like a hot young bull.
A minute later, Bill had succeeded in undressing the prostrate teenager. He lay between her silken thighs. From the darkness across the room, he saw Keith springing up and down on his wife. The excitement of watching was tremendous. Unconsciously, he began to imitate the boy's movements, thrusting himself in and out of the young girl's body, going faster and faster, faster and faster.
In sleep, Edie and Darla responded with soft moans. Involuntarily, their sleep-ridden bodies twitched with pleasure. And now it was faster, still. And deeper. And suddenly the immortal rhythm of forbidden love was blackness; and blackness was a cloak of alcoholic anesthesia. He was falling through space. Falling, falling, falling. ...
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was noon when he awoke. The hangover was a killer. Edie brought him black coffee, helped him off the bedroom floor, assisted him into bed. He discovered he was wearing the teenager's panties, her bra. He tore them off.
"Do you enjoy wearing girl's clothes, Bill?"
He was in no mood for silly questions. Angrily, he glared at her. "Just gimme the coffee."
She shook her head sadly, handed him the coffee, then sat on his bed and slowly filled in the missing links. Alice and Tom Bradford had gone home during the onset of dawn; she wasn't certain of the time. Sinclair awoke soon after; he had apologized, dressed hurriedly, and left just before the milkman arrived. "What about Harrigan?"
She explained that he and his son were still asleep. She had led them to Karen's bedroom. "And I drove Darla home myself," she said.
"Her parents p.o'ed?"
"They weren't happy. Said I should've phoned if she was gonna be all night."
Bill swirled down some more of the black coffee. He was going to become ill; there was no way of preventing it.
"How was she, Bill? Nice."
He shot her an angry glance. She had her nerve with that question. "Did I ask you how you made out?"
"You didn't have to. All you did was watch."
Hotly, he flung back the covers. "I didn't watch," he snapped.
"Well, don't get mad about it. But I know how you like to watch ... it gets you in the groove, doesn't it, Bill?"
"Go to hell!" He stumbled to the bathroom and vomited.
During the afternoon, he and Harrigan finished off their quotes and blueprint problems. He invited Harrigan to spend another night with them, but Harrigan was anxious to get back to Chicago, called the airport and made reservations. Bill drove them to the field, then he phoned Sinclair and gave him the good news. They made a killing; Harrigan had been most generous with the cost approvals. Sinclair was elated. He promised Bill a fat bonus. "And you can have another week off. How does that sound?"
Emptily, Bill told him that was fine. He didn't feel like coming back to the office for a few days; there were things to work out. Edie was one of them; Nuzzo was the other. Strangely, he felt neither victorious, nor happy. And Edie didn't help the cause, either. Since they'd had words, she had been cool, detached, coming and going from the apartment as though he didn't even exist.
When he returned from the airport, the apartment was empty. He found a note on the kitchen table saying that she was at the Bradfords'; he started to go over and then changed his mind. Edie was probably sitting on Bradford's lap; Bill had had enough of that last night.
He slept poorly that night, and the following morning Edie was even colder toward him. He ignored her finally; she would get over it; she always did.
He was mistaken, however. During the afternoon she went out, leaving him to watch Karen. She didn't say where she was going, and he didn't ask. Probably to see her secret lover, he thought, and the bitterness welled up inside him. When Nuzzo phoned, Bill's bitterness had reached the point of unreasonable anger.
"I'm not waiting forever, chum," Nuzzo said. "I want those five minutes."
"I told you I'd fix it."
"When?"
"Tonight."
"This on the level?"
"I said I would, didn't I?"
"What time?"
"About eight. I'll tell her you're a business associate. Then I'll take a powder."
"Don't cross me up," Nuzzo warned. Bill hung up. And now to fix it. He'd have to get on the good side of her again, butter her up, even if it killed him.
She returned at about five o'clock, and he immediately swept her into his arms and kissed her. She fought the embrace, but the affection took hold, she let the kiss linger, and suddenly she flung her arms around him and held him close.
"Oh, honey," she sighed.
He kissed her again. Tears stained her eyes. Her lips quivered. "I thought we were through, Bill. That's why I went out. To think."
He gave her a warm hug. Con her, he thought. She had conned him, hadn't she?
"Bill," she said suddenly, "could we go away somewhere? Just the two of us."
"Where?"
"Just away. A drive, maybe a day at the beach. Could we?"
He told her about Nuzzo. "He's an important customer, honey. He's coming up here tonight. At eight." He watched her eyes lower. "But tomorrow ... tomorrow we'll go anywhere you want." He paused, then rushed on. "Honey, this Nuzzo is damn important. We've got to treat him nice and...."
"How nice, Bill?" Her eyes were cold, empty. Her skin seemed gray.
"Aw, honey."
"How nice?" she repeated.
"Just show him a good time," Bill said casually. He told her about the fat bonus Sinclair had already promised him. "And now with this Nuzzo, there might be another bonus."
"Bill, I'm not a whore. I wouldn't care if you were given a million dollars, but I wouldn't go through another night like that one. I just won't."
"Aw, honey."
"I'm serious, Bill."
He squeezed her, drew her close. "Did anybody get hurt?" he asked. "Honey, you've got to go modern. Everybody has."
"Well, I'm not everybody. I don't like to do those things, and the only reason I did them was for you."
He concealed his anger. She could play around behind his back, slip out of the apartment to have sex with other men, entertain a secret lover in her own home; yet she could play the prude. He forced a smile. "Look, all I'm asking is that you be a good hostess. Is that asking so much?"
Some of her brightness returned. "No funny stuff?" she asked timidly.
"No," he lied.
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, a picnic. Anything you want."
She was satisfied, nestled herself in his arms. Oh, she'd have a few drinks, she promised; maybe even wear something a little revealing that was smart business, wasn't it? but there would be no hanky-panky.
He spelled out his promises for her, and then he took her to the bedroom and made love. Strangely, it was an effort.
Nuzzo arrived promptly at eight. Bill led the introductions and they sat down to a tray of bourbon stingers. The conversation was thin, strained; Nuzzo insisted on retaining his raincoat, constantly shot Bill short glances that said: "Move, man. Lake take a walk. Get some air."
Bill waited briefly, then remembered that he was out of cigarettes, something he had carefully arranged to happen.
"I could run down for some," Edie offered.
"Naw, I can go. You can keep Mr. Nuzzo company. Maybe he'd like another drink."
Edie sent him a short frightened glance. "I'll go if you want me to."
Again, he told her no. Then without looking back, he turned and fled from the apartment. His walk through downtown New York was aimless. But kill time, he thought. Give Nuzzo a chance to get his kicks, and suddenly he hoped that Nuzzo wouldn't be too rough on her. He'd probably just slap her around a little; he wouldn't dare inflict serious harm to her; it would jeopardize his position on the force. The bastard.
Bill fell into the stream of traffic and crowds. Ten minutes now. Give him five more. But how would he explain this to Edie? What if she wanted to call the police? How would he tell her?
He entered a drug store and purchased two packs of cigarettes. Let the mind alone, he thought. Don't strain. He'd think of something, and tomorrow well, tomorrow they'd go to the beach just as he had promised.
Suddenly, he was seized with an idea. Buy her a gift. A remembrance. Something she might like. And instantly, he thought of lingerie. She loved silly little lace panties, imported underwear. Maybe he could find something with a monogrammed initial.
He hurried to a department store that was still open, went straight to the lingerie department. He stood at the counter, absently fingering a pair of silk panties. His hand slipped inside the panties, and suddenly his mind ran away with him.
The material ... the wonderful warm silk. Christ! And then he saw himself parading before a mirror, wearing the pink panties, exciting not only himself, but an obscure face in the background: his boyhood pal.
He remembered days long ago when he and his pal was it Ronnie? had stole into his sister's bedroom while she was taking a bath. They peeped though the adjoining bathroom door and saw her loll in the tub. It was the first time he had ever witnessed a naked girl. Remembering it now, he saw them huddled close to the peephole, each of them squirming for another look. A warmness spread through him. The boy had reached down and touched him in his secret spot. It felt crazy good, and then Bill was doing the same thing to his friend; and later, when they had moved away from the keyhole, they brought exciting relief to one another's growing curiosity.
He had stolen the girl's panties that day, taken them secretly to his room, slept with them on that night and many others.
Frequently, when everyone else was asleep, he would remove the soft silk panties from their hiding place, and rub them against his body. It drew wild thrills from him, a crazy kind of feeling that had followed him into adulthood.
Yes, even when Edie was out of the apartment, just for kicks, he'd sometimes dressed in her clothes, felt the wild abandon of youth returning with fresh vigor. Then when Edie came back, they would make love again and again. And fortunately, she had never discovered this fetish. "May I help you?"
Dumbfounded, he stared at the elderly sales clerk. Then he turned and fled. She called after him, but he kept running. He never stopped until he reached the apartment and let himself into the enveloping darkness. He switched on the light and heard Edie groan. She was in a back bedroom, naked, sprawled out on the floor. Karen was in her crib, crying.
He bent down and lifted her gently onto the bed. She began to sob. Her left eye was black and swollen; there was a nasty gash on her lower lip, ugly dark bruises over most of her buttocks and thighs. He felt sick inside and fell close to her, held her, comforted her.
She sobbed for nearly an hour, then she was still. He thought she was asleep, but when he raised up to look at her, he became the immediate target of her blank stare. "You knew, didn't you, Bill? You arranged it, didn't you?"
"Honey...."
"I'm leaving you, Bill."
"Honey, you don't know what you're saying."
"Yes," she said softly, "I do. I'm going away and I'm not coming back."
"Honey?"
"We're through, Bill."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He didn't fight it; there was no use. Now was not the time, he told himself; and he stood above her and watched her sob herself to sleep. Tears squeezed out of her darkened eyes, rolled slowly down to the bloodstained corners of her mouth. He covered her with a quilt, made Karen a bottle, then returned to sit at Edie's side.
She never spoke; it was as though he did not exist. But he did what he could: cold compresses for her swollen face, hot tea, and then an extra quilt because she was shivering.
He remained at his vigil for much of the night, occasionally looking in on Karen, pausing to tidy the kitchen, but always returning to Edie's side to look beseechingly at the blankness of her stare.
She finally fell asleep and when she awoke, several hours later, he made broth and brought it to her side. She didn't want it, she said. Not anything. Just leave her alone. And he did.
He didn't sleep; he didn't want to. He couldn't lose her, he told himself. She meant more than he realized, and if she had cheated behind his back; well, had he been any better? But how could he reach her now? Communication between them was lost perhaps, for keeps.
And nothing changed in the next few days. She remained in bed, except to care for Karen; and she refused to see the Bradfords when they dropped by for a visit. Through it all, she was drawn immeasurably closer to their little one, hugging her closely, saying, "Mommy is sick, honeykins. But in a few days...." And this only amplified his growing hurt and loneliness. And finally, he could stand it no longer. He fell at her bedside, put his head down and cried without shame.
"Bill...." She sat up, doubled over him, and pressed her face to his. "Bill, stop it."
But he couldn't. The thought of losing her ... And then he told her everything. Broken sentences that rambled on with his pitiful confession: Dressing up like a woman, getting trapped by Detective Nuzzo, making a deal with the lousy bastard to save his own skin. "I didn't want you to find out," he sobbed. "I was so ashamed. Edie...."
And suddenly she was off the bed, bent beside him, consoling him, seeing the terrifying ramifications of his secret shame, telling him yes, everything would be all right.
He was gloriously happy. He took her in his arms, held her close, held her dearly. Tears that had robbed him of masculinity and self-respect were slowly blinked away. And then warm coffee was brewed, they sat closely together; and the silent glance of returning affection was worth more than a million words of humility and love. And in bed, long after the lights were switched off, he lay in her arms and tried to find sleep. And the peace of sleep, of well-being, arrived only after she had whispered, "I changed my mind, Bill. I'm not leaving. We've got to try, don't we?"
He whispered 'yes' and closed his eyes.
The following week was like a second honeymoon. They didn't discuss the events that had led up to the break. Better to forget. Better to start anew.
It seemed destined to work. Bill talked Sinclair into giving him another week off; Sinclair amicably told him to have fun.
They did, too. They spent the mornings in Central Park this was Karen's time and they romped with her, Bill providing the piggy-back rides, Edie running down to the lake with her so that she might see the swans.
They breakfasted in Columbus Circle: pancakes and hot steaming syrup; or sometimes bacon and eggs with platters of sizzling home fries. And one morning, breakfast in bed; he the joshing cook, she the smiling, put-to-bed heiress.
In the afternoons, they shopped or took in a matinee; and in the evenings, they sat alone in front of the TV, held hands, re-discovered a love almost lost. He soon found it difficult to believe that they'd ever fallen out of love, and the events of the past an incredible nightmare that had never happened.
So the banter between them became more and more frolicsome, and it became easier and easier to forget. And then he completely forgot.
Edie fell naked over him on a warm August morning. She wiggled suggestively against his loins a wonderful way to be awoken. She said, "What, may I ask, ever happened to that picnic at the beach you once promised. It seems to me...."
The maleness of him buried itself between her hot thighs. He smiled mischievously. "So we'll go to the beach." He had managed to unite their bodies. He groaned with the ecstasy of her movements. He pinched her nipples. "And if you're nice to me," he said with another groan, "maybe I'll show you the breast stroke."
She giggled and pressed against him. "Just make me float," she whispered huskily. "D'ya think you can do that?"
"I don't even need water for that," he said, and he proved it.
Later, they were readying supplies for the picnic at the beach. Darla was going to take care of Karen; Edie preferred to spend this day just with him.
"Why don't you wear that bikini I bought you last year?" he suggested.
"The bikini?" she said doubtfully. "Bill, there's hardly anything to it. I mean...."
He shrugged and continued packing the picnic basket. The bikini wasn't that big a thing, he thought, but he'd like to have seen it on her. And it never occurred to him that there was anything wrong in his request, nor that the insidious cancer of his mind, dormant for the last few days, was now again alive. No, he didn't think of it that way; not until that passing moment in the bathroom, when the picture of her flashed through his mind her in the bikini, the guys at the beach gawking at her and wanting her, imagining how soft and hot her tits were...
He frowned. He tried to blot the crazy thoughts out of his mind.
"Almost ready?" Edie asked suddenly.
"Huh?"
"Daydreamer. I said are you ready."
"Sure. Sure, I'm ready."
She smiled at him. "And I have a surprise for you when we get there," she said. "What?"
"I'm going to wear that bikini, darling."
They discovered a tiny inlet down the road from Jones Beach, a deserted stretch of white sand that seemed far removed from the mad cacophony of New York City. He opened up the beach umbrella while Edie slipped out of her Capris and blouse. She'd worn the green latex bikini beneath her clothes, and he gaped now in stunned disbelief. She was lovely.
"Hello, sexy." His dark eyes coveted her body.
"I feel naked." She glanced nervously up and down the beach. They were alone.
"Do you like the suit?" he asked.
"Of course. Only there's not much to it." She bent over and examined the wispy triangle of latex that bound her pelvis. She yanked up on the halter a flash of green that scarcely covered her nipples and she frowned. "Are you sure it's my size?"
"You wouldn't want it any larger. It looks good."
"To you, it would," she said cynically. "As long as it shows everything."
He slapped her fanny. "Aw, quit your grouching." He shot her a smile and tried to draw her into his arms. She slipped away and ran for the water.
"Last one in is a monkey," she shouted.
He pulled off his trousers and sandals and came after her. He tackled her just as she reached the ocean's edge, dunking her under. She spurted water in his face when she came up, laughed, and swam away. He gave chase, again pulling her under. When she surfaced, he was waiting for her, seizing her roughly, drawing her into a long tempestuous kiss.
She finally kicked away from him, rolled on her back floated briefly, then submerged. He waded ashore, toweled himself, and stretched out on a blanket to watch her. She was an excellent swimmer, and as he gazed at her, watched her frolic against a backdrop of foaming white caps, it occurred to him how lucky he was to have her. A strange contentment filled his body, a complacency with the world; and the idyllic warmth of the afternoon lulled him to the edge of slumber.
When she finally came ashore, he was startled by her unexpected presence. He came to his feet and draped a towel around her shoulders. She shivered, and he toweled her down, bringing her skin to a warming pinkness. "That better?" he asked.
"Wonderful." They stretched out under the umbrella. His hand roamed to the soft flesh between her thighs. She pushed his hand away. "All right, youuuu."
"But it feels good."
"I know. That's the trouble."
He propped himself up on his elbows, gazed fondly at her, his eyes sweeping the majestic curves of her body. It was as though this were the first time he had ever seen her body; perhaps, also the last. So he wanted a greedy look, a long one.
"Don't get shook up, Mister Husband."
"And why not?"
"Because you can't do anything about it."
"Why not?" He grinned.
"Because, in case you don't know it, we're getting company."
He followed the direction of her glance. Some fifty yards away, a small group of boys had gathered to swim. They were in their late teens; they had been staring at Edie's bikini until Bill returned their gaze. Now they turned away.
Bill shrugged. "Guess we'll just have to wait until we get home." He flattened himself beside her and let the sun warm him to laziness.
In a few minutes, Edie fell asleep; for him, sleep was not this easy. He was too swept up in the admiration of her lovely body, wanting to touch her, yet fearing that she would wake.
For a while, he occupied himself with watching the youths play handball. They had moved closer, he thought. Probably itching to see more of the pretty lady in the sand. Probably itching to see a lot more. And then the cancer of sin was full-born again. He wanted to give the boys a peek, just a peek, and what the hell was the harm?
He didn't know exactly how to go about it. He didn't want to awaken her, but ... He gazed thoughtfully at her halter, held together in front by just one little bow. Could he? did he dare? He looked back at the boys, then gently eased the halter down, loosening the bow, letting her beautiful breasts tumble out for all to see. The boys hadn't seen him, and with Edie's breasts revealed to the sky, Bill settled next to her, closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
His wait was a short one. One of them spotted her bare breasts; the others crept carefully closer.
"Dig those knockers!" one of them whispered.
Bill lay perfectly still. An excitement sprang forth in his loins.
"Wish she had everything off," one of the youths whispered.
Bill cursed himself. He could have arranged that; there was just a little draw-string at the side of the bikini; he could have loosened it so easily.
"Maybe we could help her off with the rest of it," a new voice suggested.
"Lets!"
"Yeah, lets!"
Bill sprang up. Two of the toughies surprised him with their strength and bowled him over. Edie screamed. Four of the boys were at her, pulling off the last wisp of her suit, toppling over her body eight hands groping over her hot young flesh. "Bill, help!"
He kicked at his captors. Something struck him a blinding blow at the base of his skull. The sea spun, his legs collapsed. Then it was dark...
When he came to, his hands were bound behind his back, his ankles were also tied, and there was a gag in his mouth. The kids were having a riot with her: two-at-a-time, or so it seemed; and all she could do was writhe in apparent agony. The others either held her, or stood nearby handling themselves. All of them were naked; Edie was helpless.
"Give it to her, Tony. Make her reach for the sky."
"All the way sweetheart...." He sank deeply between her thighs. Her forehead wrinkled, but her resistance was gone. Now her body was disobeying her mind. She was responding, hating herself, first because it was happening; but worse, now because she was starting to enjoy it.
He was on his back, watching them, too entranced by the spectacle to struggle with his bonds, or call out for help. Yes, she was getting gang-banged, he told himself. Getting the works, getting hot in the bargain, sailing to the moon. And it was happening to him too, he thought; he was hot and the same damning sex dream had gripped him again. He wanted it to happen, surged with inward joy, wanted to see her explode and then it happened.
It was too much for her to cope with. Two boys playing with her nipples; another tickling her buttocks; a fourth one engaged between her legs, thrusting himself in and out; and the remaining two standing there fondling themselves inches from her face.
She pumped her body up to meet the savage thrust of the young hoodlum. She had to have it. Had to. And more, and more, and more.
Bill heard her moan, felt her ecstasy, felt the dizzying approach of climax. And then it was again and again. Another boy, another thrust. And then another, and another.
They finally ran, disappearing in the brush on an overhead ledge; and she looked at him and whimpered. He broke loose from the bonds they weren't that secure tore the gag from his mouth and ran to her side.
"Are you all right?" His hands stroked her naked breasts, ran slowly down to the bushy softness between her legs. She mumbled something he couldn't understand, and then the frightening, possessing sex mania gripped him again. He straddled her; she looked up in frightened surprise.
"Bill?"
"I can't help it, honey. I can't help it." He throbbed inside her.
"Oh, Bill...." She broke out and cried.
He wanted to stop, but couldn't. Thrill after thrill rode through his body. Crash the gates of hell. In. Out. In. Out.
"Bill...."
But there was no stopping him. She had been raped by six boys. He was the seventh....
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
She left him that same evening, and he was not surprised. It was done without a scene, without the sobbing dramatics; he went out for a walk, and when he returned she was gone. It was as simple as that.
The note that sealed his fate she'd scrawled on a piece of blue linen stationery was resting on the top of his night stand. It read:
I guess this is something that was bound to happen. I can't take any more. Don't worry about Karen I'll take good care of her. We'll get our clothes later.
E.
He read the note over and over; his mind refused to accept the terrifying truth the fact that she was gone but when the finality of her act finally did reach him, he crumpled to the bed and sobbed.
He did not sleep. He spent an all-night vigil in the living room, jumping to his feet when the elevator doors opened, holding his breath and desperately hoping that it was her; then a moment later knowing it was not, sagging morbidly back to the couch.
He slept in little dozes the following day, paced the apartment, drank himself to a stupor, but nothing eased his growing spell of loneliness. The apartment was never so quiet; an hour never so long. He didn't shave or eat, he wore the same clothes for three days and three nights; by the fourth day he looked like a Third Avenue wino, and he couldn't care less.
There was much time in which to think, but recriminations wouldn't bring her back. The rape scene down by the beach was still firmly etched on his mind; he remembered the awkward silence in the long drive back to town, the desperate search for an explanation to his deeds, a humble apology when words would no longer suffice. And now she was gone. Probably at her mother's, up in Utica. So easy to phone, he thought But what, what in hell would he say? Would he say come home, I won't rape you again? Is that what he would say? Could words erase the shame of his deeds? No, there was nothing. Nothing would bring her back; he had to accept the bitter truth.
He drank heavily not that it helped but at least he found unconsciousness and sleep. When he awoke, he became ill; and this was the pattern of the days and nights without her.
During the second week had it really been that long? Nuzzo phoned.
"Thought I'd call and see how that cute Little wifey of yours is?"
He called Nuzzo every sonofabitch in the book, then slammed the phone down and had another drink. Later, Sinclair phoned. How was everything? Would he be back to work soon? The company missed him, Finally, how was the Missus?
He handled it as diplomatically as possible: Everything was fine, he wasn't feeling well, however; needed some more time off. And the Missus? Just great. And he hung up and cried.
He didn't leave the apartment not for a minute because if she was coming back for her clothes, he wanted to be there, wanted that one final plea, that one lasting sight of her. It wouldn't accomplish anything, he supposed, but if there was a chance, even a small one ... yes, if.
The following day, the phone rang several times, but each time he answered it the line went dead. That sonofabitch'n Nuzzo was going to lose teeth. A lot of them. And then more drinks. Drinks for the world, drinks for a marriage that died. But it was her fault too, he told himself. Her and her cheating. She hadn't fooled him. A lover feeling up her body in the darkness, slugging him when he came home unexpectedly early! He wasn't that naive. And then leaving him, leaving him because he wanted a few kicks of his own. No, it wasn't all his fault; it was fifty-fifty.
There was a knock at the door. His senses reeled. He stumbled out of the kitchen, tumbled through the darkness of the riving room and flung the door open. Two police officers framed the doorway.
"Mr. Trumball?"
Panic seized him. Something had happened. "Y-yes. What. . . what's wrong? Is it. . "
The taller of the officers smiled. "Nothing wrong, but we need your wife downtown. We've caught that prowler that was breaking into apartments here in the neighborhood. We'd like her to identify him."
"Prowler?" He gaped at the two officers.
"He's already been picked out of the line-up by two of the victims. We thought your wife ... well, the more we can pin on this bastard, the longer we can put him away. Is she here?"
Dumbly, he explained that she was out of town for a few days.
"Will you have her come down the minute she returns?"
He said that he would, then he quietly closed the door. The simple truth had been there all along, he thought. If he had been rational, if he had thought out the logic of his assumption, then he'd known that Edie could never have cheated. But it was something that he had seized upon to believe, something that would give him a wedge to use against her, an excuse to embroil himself in wild sex orgies, to be comfortably able to put the blame on her.
The phone rang. A dead line again. And again, an hour later. Also dead. And then it dawned on him what the phone calls might mean: Edie! Edie trying to learn whether he was at the apartment. She wanted to get the rest of her clothes, wanted to do it when he wasn't there. That was it; that had to be it.
He waited, and at ten o'clock it rang again. This time he let it ring. He counted 12 rings. Ten minutes later, the process was repeated. He let it ring. Finally, it stopped.
Twenty minutes later, he heard the key being inserted in the lock. The apartment was dark; he held his breath. Suddenly the door swung open, a shaft of light cut his eyes, she saw him and screamed.
He leaped at her and drew her inside. She clawed away from him.
"Leave me alone!"
"Honey...."
She ran to the bedroom, switched on a lamp, and began pulling out suitcases. He stood in the doorway and watched her.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know you were here, and I'll get out as quickly as I can."
"I don't want you to leave, Edie. You can't."
"I can, and I am. There's nothing to talk about. You have your life and I have mine."
"Can't I at least have my say?"
She stuffed lingerie hurriedly into a red suitcase. "There's been too many words already, Bill. And they don't do any good, so what's the use?"
He came to her side, told her about the two police officers, the prowler. And finally, he told her of his suspicions, her supposed secret lover.
"Something else your sick mind dreamed up."
"Edie?"
"If you'd have asked me, I'd have told you. There was never anybody else but you. You should have known that."
"Now I do."
"And now is too late," she said coldly, and there was an appalling finality to the snap of her suitcase.
He followed her into the living room. "I suppose you didn't like those things we did," he said, suddenly belligerent.
She whirled and snapped at him. "I did them because you wanted me to. Because I loved you."
"But you enjoyed them. You know you did."
"What did you expect me to feel when you shoved me into another man's arms? Did you think I was incapable of feeling something for somebody else? Did you think I was a Sphinx?"
He tried to grab her. She dodged away and went to Karen's bedroom. She flung dresser drawers open.
"Edie...."
"I don't want to talk about it any more, Bill. I wouldn't come back to your kind of hell for all the money in the world."
"You don't love me?" It sounded wooden.
The word 'love' stopped her. She turned slowly, her eyes suddenly filled with compassion. "Yes, I love you. Even now. But that doesn't say I want to go on this way. I just can't."
"But...."
"You need help, Bill. Professional help."
Her words struck him like a bomb. He swallowed, gripped the door jamb. "You mean...."
"I mean you need a doctor to straighten you out. You're sick. Sick inside and out." She moved past him to the living room. Three suitcases were packed; there was only one more left.
"Suppose I went to a doctor," he said, taking her by the coat sleeve.
She pulled away from the touch of his hand. Coldly, she said, "That's up to you, Bill. I can't tell you what to do."
"But suppose I did. Would it make a difference?"
She was halfway down the hallway and she stopped. He stood quietly behind her. "Would it, Edie? Would you...." He placed his hands lightly on her arms. She was trembling. "...darling, I'll do anything. Anything!" He sensed her stiffening again. "Edie, I love you." He led her to the living room.
He found the phone book and sat beside her. "If I call a doctor, Edie...."
"Bill, how do we know it'll work? What if it doesn't?"
"Can I try?" he asked searchingly. "Can I?"
She lowered her eyes and hid the tears. She shook her head. "I don't know, Bill. I just don't know."
"But isn't it worth a try? Isn't it?"
"What am I supposed to say?"
"Don't say anything now. Just let me try." He thumbed through the phone book. Find a psychiatrist, he thought. Someone to help.
"Oh, Bill...." She sagged against him.
He held her, dialed the phone with one hand.
"And you look awful," she said. Her hand felt the stubble of his beard.
He gave her an anxious glance, listened for a response to his phone call. He tried two more numbers.
"You aren't going to find anyone in their office this time of night."
But he did. The fourth one he called. "Dr. Sutton? This is a Mr. Trumball ... yes with a T' ... I'd like to make an appointment...." He gazed at the warmth in her eyes and felt a sudden welling in his throat. He clasped her small white hand in his. "...tomorrow at two? ... yes ... tomorrow will be fine." He hung up and brought her into his arms. "Tomorrow will be fine, honey. Tomorrow and all the tomorrows from now on."
