Archive Note: Yes, the hardcopy pocketbook had the contents listed under Roman numerals, but the chapter headings were done with Arabic numerals. [shrug]
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CHAPTER 1 Day Of Discovery
Janet's casual remark started the ball rolling. Our husbands were at work, and we, being neighbors, were having our usual morning coffee together. Janet was regaling me with the trite details of an argument she and her husband had had the night before. Suddenly she sighed, looked at me rather enviously, and said:
"Why don't you let be borrow that husband of yours, Doris? Just for a little while? I promise I won't break him."
"It's a deal, Janet," I retorted jokingly, "but if you get mine, I get yours."
"You know ... all joking aside ... that might prove to be a smart move. John takes me pretty much for granted. And I've heard you say the same thing about Charles, Doris. A change now and then might be good for them ... might be good for all of us." Then, after a shrug and an apologetic smile: "Just a thought, Doris."
A close look at her told me she was more than half serious. "You know they've got a name for what you're suggesting, Janet," I replied.
"I know, I know. Wife swapping, husband swapping," she took a hurried gulp of her coffee. "Who cares what they call it, Doris? If it works ... if it makes the husband or wife return home with a greater appreciation and understanding ... then it's good. I don't care what the moralists say about it, Doris. If it succeeds ... oh, well ... nothing succeeds like success."
A curious lump rose in my throat as I felt an impulse to confess something to her. "Well, Janet. I'll have to admit ... I've often thought your husband would be ... sort of fun in bed."
"Me too!" her face lit up and she nodded eagerly. "I mean I've thought the same about your husband. I'll bet Charles is a passionate guy ... isn't he, Doris?"
I nodded and grinned. "He's wild. Sometimes he wants to go all night."
"John, too! And the crazy things he dreams up! I shouldn't be telling you this, Doris, but ... the other night ... while we were eating dinner ... he crawled under the table and...."
"No! While you were eating?" I looked her in the eye to see if she were bragging, exaggerating or lying, but no, she didn't blink or waver. I knew she'd told the truth.
"Yes, really! He said he wanted me to enjoy two things at once," she shrugged and rolled her eyes.
"And did you?" I smiled.
"And how! I was eating chicken, and just as I bit into a drumstick ... my favorite piece ... I began to ... you know. And I almost choked. I tried to swallow that damned drumstick in one bite."
Feeling a disturbing warmth beginning in unmentionable places, I took a gulp of my coffee, then said, just as casually as I could, "So John ... ah ... -likes to ... er ... do you that way, eh?"
"Oh, all the time!" she nodded. "Doesn't Charles?"
"Yes," I replied, "but somehow I've never thought of ... you know ... John doing you ... like that. He seems kind of reserved."
"Ha! Reserved! He's about as reserved as an Indian on the war path! Listen, kid. If I were to tell you all the screwy things he does ... really crazy, I mean ... it would take a book to fill'em!"
"Well ... , " I smiled at her, "I do write short stories, you know. And I'd like to try my hand at a book."
"Oh, no," she shook her head and grinned impishly. "Not from Janet Evans. Not about my sex-life do you write any book. Unless, of course ... , " she shrugged, sipped her coffee.
"Unless what, Janet?" I urged her on. (Janet was given to unfinished statements.)
"Well, unless we did go ahead and sort of ... swap around. Naturally I wouldn't care then if you wrote a dozen books about it, Doris."
I nodded. I was becoming definitely interested. I poured us another cup of coffee, and then, trying to appear rather blase, I said, "I wonder what our husbands would say if they knew what we've been discussing ... think they'd be insulted or mad?"
"Not mine," Janet made a wry face and shook her head slowly. "He'd be all for it, I'm almost sure of that."
"Really? John? What makes you say that, Janet? Has he ever hinted or...."
"No, he hasn't hinted. He's come right out and admitted he'd love to get in your pants."
"Janet! Please!" I scolded her smilingly. But even as I did I felt a pleasant little thrill at her admittance. I lit a cigarette and my fingers shook a little when I held up the match.
"Well, it's true, Doris. Of course he was loaded when he said it, and we were having an argument. But you know how men are when they're drinking ... the truth slips out."
"And he ... does you that way, too, eh, Janet?" I repeated this rather absent-mindedly, blowing smoke into her eyes.
"What way?" she looked at me curiously, (or was it suspiciously?)
"Oh, nothing, nothing. I was just mumbling to myself, Janet." (I'd alluded to that "under the table" thing. I'd lied to her when I'd told her that Charles had treated me that way. Though I'd always wanted him to, he never had. Charles was very reserved.)
"How d'you think Charles would react, Doris?" she fumbled for my cigarettes, extracted one, lit it, squinted as she exhaled a billow of smoke. "I mean, what d'you think he'd do, what would he say, if he knew we were seriously discussing husband and wife-swapping?"
"I really don't know, Janet," I replied. (I hadn't missed that "seriously" bit she'd thrown into her question; I recognized it as a sign that she was "seriously" considering the whole idea.)
"Is it possible he'd go along with it ... that he'd agree to at least give the thing a sporting try?" her eyes were anxious.
I took a deep pull on my cigarette and, as I exhaled, nodded. "He just might. Charles is unpredictable, Janet. But if I were to merely put it to him bluntly he'd refuse. I'd have to think up some very ingenious way of ... well ... persuading him."
She looked me in the eye and nodded slowly. "It's none of my business, Doris ... but, how's he ... built?"
"You mean ... ? ? " I halted and grinned.
"Yes, exactly," Janet replied.
"Well, he's ... I don't really know, Janet. How can I say? I mean, I can't compare him with anyone. We were married right after graduation and ... , " I stopped and stared at her; she was holding both hands up and a certain distance apart (in the fashion of a man showing another man the size of a fish he'd caught).
"No, bigger," I said. She moved her hands farther apart and looked at me ... hopefully.
"Still bigger," I repeated (and for the first time in five years of married life I began to get the drift that my husband was a great deal more than just average; I could read the surprise and approval in Janet's eyes).
"There, that's about it," I said, after she'd finally separated her hands the length that my husband's private property seemed in my mind's eye.
"Really? That's about John's heft too. Believe me, kid, we've got two very unusual husbands. Very unusual! For your information, Doris, my little one-man-gal, that's nearly twice the heft of the average John Doe."
"No kidding," I shrugged, not overly interested in such statistics (my mind was still lingering on that "under the table" business). "And that other bit, Janet. Does John ... you know ... does he do you that way every time you have sex?"
That did it. I'd goofed. My tone and expression, and my stubborn pursuance of the subject had given me away just as surely as an open confession. Janet knew, then, that she had the upper hand on me ... that John was supplying her with a special something that Charles was not supplying me. And that I very much wanted that special something.
"Yes. Every time, Doris. He simply loves it, too! He takes his time. He's awfully gentle at it. He has such a nice mouth, John has. And he's dreadfully proud of his ... abilities. He starts out ... you know. . just barely kissing you. Using just the tip of his tongue. Then, after a long while, he bears down a little more and ... well ... you simply can't lay still. And he-likes to take one finger and ... gosh, I shouldn't be telling you all this, Doris!" she affected a sheepish grin and snubbed out her cigarette in contrived exasperation.
"No, go ahead. It's interesting," I told her, forcing a grin.
"Well ... he sometimes sort of pushes his finger ... back there ... and wiggles it around while he's at me. Nasty, yes. But nasty nice."
I nodded and shifted restlessly in my chair. Her deliberately colored explanation had actually aroused me; I squeezed my thighs together hard and sort of trembled inwardly.
"I wonder, Janet, if we could get the boys interested in a ... you know ... trial switch? I'll admit, the prospect is terribly tempting to me. I've been faithful to Charles and all. But I've wondered many times about ... well ... how it would be to have someone else for a change."
"That's it, Doris. Change! Everyone needs a change. You go on, day after day, year after year, with the same man. You get in sort of a sexual rut."
"D'you think most women feel the same way?" I asked her.
She shrugged and nodded. "I think so. The ones that are honest with themselves anyway. I know I often find myself looking at some attractive man and wondering how he'd be. How he'd look naked. How big he is. How many times he could go. If he-likes to ... you know ... like John the other night under the table."
"That's what I want, Janet," I blurted, a little desperately.
"Oh! But doesn't Charles...?" she halted, pretending to be astonished. Playing it coy.
"No. He doesn't. I lied to you. But I wish he would. Oh, Damn, Janet, how I wish he would!"
She smiled and nodded a little condescendingly. "Well, I can't say that I blame you, kid. It is divine. Gosh, it's hard to believe that Charles hasn't went ahead and...."
"I know," I cut her off. "And I've done nearly everything except shove him there. I simply can't understand it, Janet. And I've ... done him that way ever since our wedding night. It's not fair. I don't know ... maybe he thinks I'd object to it or something."
"Doris."
"Yes?"
She gave me a strange look, wrinkled her brow, blinked several times. "You know, kid ... there are ... well ... certain women who'd be ... you know ... only too glad to oblige you."
"Please, Janet," I laughed, "I said I wished Charles would do it. I didn't say I was desperate or anything. A woman! No thanks!"
Janet looked me in the eye for several seconds before she spoke. "Don't knock it unless you've tried it, Doris."
"You mean you have?" I gazed at her in distaste and amazement.
"I'll never tell," she laughed her hard brittle forced laugh and added, "But I'd certainly never criticize anyone that had. When you come right down to it, Doris ... sex is sex. It's a physical act that's performed out of lust and tension. We all feel lust at times. We all grow tense. It doesn't, when you think about it, seem so awfully wrong for two women or two men to join forces for a mutual relief of tension. Does it?" She looked hard at me, and I saw the amusement in her clear green eyes.
"I don't know, Janet. I've never thought about it," I answered her. "But I would like to see if we could arrange to swap husbands. Let's work on it. There's no rush. And who knows? If it works out ... it might prove to be a real turning-point in our lives."
When Janet left I felt forced to give in to a desire that our heated talk had generated. I hurried to my bedroom, and, snatching up my hair-brush, I used it for a grooming that it had not been manufactured for. And moments later, writhing and twisting on our bed, I snorted once, then cried aloud:
"Oh, Charles! Please learn to use your head!"
CHAPTER 2 Trial Arrangements
Once a week, sometimes oftener, Charles and I would join Janet and John for a quiet evening of bridge and a few martinis. And as luck would have it we got together the very next night after that wife and husband-swapping discussion.
Charles and John, both corporation lawyers, were sort of friendly rivals when it came to bridge; they both played a hard domineering game, and it was only during martini-lulls that we could get them to really let down and talk. It was during one such a lull that Janet, very discreetly, broached the subject of swapping:
"I was reading today that this marital-swapping business is becoming quite a thing. The psychologist who wrote the article seems to think that it's rather a favorable symptom ... he says that it's mostly highly intelligent people who are doing it and that it'll be an accepted practice in another five or ten years."
"Oh, really?" I nodded, looking properly impressed. "I doubt that it'll ever be an accepted practice, though. What do you think, John?" I asked Janet's husband.
John Evans wasn't what you would call an attractive man; his features were a bit coarse and his eyes too keeply set. But he had that warm masculine charm that seems to advertise a sort of jocular permissiveness, and you felt that he was extraordinarily passionate because of the way his eyes continually devoured you when you were talking to him. (And because of Janet's "under the table" confession, he'd caught me twice staring at his mouth as we played cards that night).
"Hmmmmm. What do I actually think about marital-swapping? Well, at the risk of shocking all of you, I think it's a good idea. Provided of course that the couples involved are advanced enough and mature enough for it. It wouldn't be everybody's game. There'd be too much jealousy for the average couple to contend with."
"Oh," Janet nodded, very soberly. "I take it then that you think you 're advanced enough for such a thing? You could carry it off without being jealous? Baloney, John! You'd back out of a deal like that so fast it'd make my head spin! Why, Charlie, there, for all his quietness and reserve, would be less jealous than you. I love you, dear. But let's face it. You simply are not mature enough to swap me for even one little night without calling the thing to a halt before it even started."
John was boiling that was obvious. He was holding the cards in one hand; he began to shuffle them and reshuffle them; then, after a deep breath, he said, "That's where you're wrong, Janet. I'm a reasonably intelligent man. I know just about what I can and cannot do. And I'm telling you right here and now that, given the right partner (and here he glanced quickly at me), I'd swap wives in an instant. I agree with that psychologist. As long as all parties are resolved and agreeable, I can see nothing immoral or evil about an occasional sexual holiday. It's a situation where both the goose and the gander have their outings. It's a fifty-fifty proposition. Everybody wins."
"I agree," Charles' laconic remark nearly stupefied me; I looked at him and blinked in utter amazement. (I hadn't dreamt he'd agree.)
"There! There's two of us who agree!" John exclaimed triumphantly. "How about you, Doris?" he looked at me hopefully. "Don't you agree that for some couples it might be a good thing to swap around?"
I shrugged noncommittally and said, "I suppose so. For some couples. But they'd have to pretty modern ... pretty broadminded."
"Well, aren't we modern and broadminded?" John lifted both hands as if to say "I rest my case".
"Yes. Certainly we are," Charles surprised me again by his rather careless admittance.
My husband was usually a very careful man; he'd risen fairly high in his profession by being cautious, and it was both his weakness and his strength. A good looking, well-built man of thirty one, Charles had provided me with nearly everything a wife could want. He was a terribly intent person; whatever he did he did with zest and determination. But he had his lighter moods, too. He could laugh as heartily at his own mistakes as anyone, and three martinis could turn him into a conversational clown.
"What are you people suggesting?" Janet gave us all a sort of nonplussed stare (what an actress!). "That we swap around? Why, I don't know what to say. Really! I'm surprised at you all! Fix me another martini, John. I really need a drink."
"See how it is?" John looked at us like a poor misunderstood husband. "She tells me I'd be jealous. She tells me I'm not advanced enough for such an experiment. Then ... when I convince her I'd really be willing to try it ... she's the one who acts shocked and disgusted."
"I'm not shocked or disgusted, dear. I just know you. You're trying to bluff me. If I acted enthused ... said I'd like to swap around, too ... you'd change your tune. Right now you're talking with your emotions, not your head. How often have you told me that, dear? That a good lawyer never lets his emotions control his thinking?"
"Oh, please, Janet. I'm not being emotional. I'm telling you ... once and for all ... and from my head ... that I'd really and truly like to give the swapping routine a fair try. Now I rest my case."
"Let's, then," Janet replied a little too swiftly perhaps.
"You mean ... really?" I looked at her as if I were slightly horrified at the suggestion.
"I wouldn't mind," Charles spoke up, adding an emphatic nod to his statement.
"But when?" I tried to sound blase, though my heart was thumping like a trip-hammer.
"Tonight? After our game?" John sounded a bit uncertain.
"Well," I said, "Tomorrow is Saturday. We could ... sleep in late and ... well ... it would be a good time to try it."
"So it's settled, then. Right?" Charles looked at each of us.
"Yes," John nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "Fine with me," Janet said.
I sighed, tried to look doubtful, and said, "Well ... okay. If that's what the rest of you want. Let's give it a try, then."
The next couple of hours passed very slowly. Our husbands kept sneaking looks at their watches; Janet and I kept tittering nervously and playing cards very badly. I caught Janet giving my husband several overt stares; I found my own eyes continually wandering to John's mouth. (His lips were full and sensuous, and when he laughed once at some dumb play I'd made I saw his wet red tongue sort of quiver and palpitate ... and I sort of quivered and palpitated too.)
As the time approached that we normally broke up our game and called it a night, I noticed that Janet was becoming terribly excited. Her face was flushed, and she kept laughing at every statement one of us would make a loud, strident laugh that sounded more like a squeal of carnal delight than anything else.
Janet, somehow, reminded you a successful lawyer's wife. She had a classical face; one that would have been hauntingly beautiful had she not been scarred in a bicycle accident as a girl (the scar ran diagonally across one cheek, and when she became emotional it flared up grotesquely). Her figure was mature (my husband had often said that she looked "rotten-ripe"). Her hips were strikingly contoured. Well rounded, quite deep. Men never failed to notice them. She dressed well. That night, for instance, she was attired in a very provocative hand-knit in two pieces; it was avocado green, and it enhanced the lines of her breast admirably, giving them an almost burgeoning flare and height.
(And I feel that I must explain here-so that what follows will not seem so out of character or confusing-that I had often found myself staring at Janet's breasts. There was something about their size and shape-something flagrant and aggressive-that had made me wonder how firm They were-how large their nipples were-whether she enjoyed having them played with; what she would do if I were to ... touch them? And once or twice I had been tempted to confess these thoughts-but I'd refrained, and had blushed scarlet and stammered some non sequitur, much to Janet's amusement. Her mouth, too, had given me several bad moments. She had a sexual mouth: Large, mobile, soft-lipped. And on several occasions I had been forced to actually exert my will to keep from surrendering to an impulse to kiss her. And I might as well admit right here-if you haven't already suspected it-that I have kind of a thing about mouths. I find myself staring at all sorts of mouths: young boys, young girls, famous men and women's. Watching an attractive man as he sings a song on TV, or watching a girl or woman eating a banana, or a boy licking an ice-cream cone, can plunge me into an intense state of agitation; I become as calescent as a well fed brood-mare.)
"What's wrong, Janet? You're as red as a beet," John's tone was both facetious and accusatory.
"You know very well what's wrong, John Evans," Janet's lip trembled (she appeared on the verge of tears, or possibly hysterics).
"Oh, I do?" John shrugged and smiled. (He was an inveterate tease.)
"Are you ... sorry about our bargain, Janet?" my husband asked her. His eyes were worried; it was obvious he was hoping she wouldn't want to back out.
"No! No, I'm not sorry about it at all. I'm just ... well ... anxious, I guess. I mean ... now that we've made our decision, it seems a little cruel to just keep sitting here playing bridge."
"I agree," Charles added.
"So do I," John said. "We're torturing ourselves. Let's get the show on the road." John's voice was low and level and I felt a warm flushing sensation below when I caught a glimpse of his tongue (it looked so lascivious and full of yeasty crawling life!).
"I'm ready," I put in, my voice breaking huskily.
"Who goes where?" Janet asked, her face twitching and her eyes moving from one of us to the other as if she were watching a tennis-match. We were at their house; we usually alternated for our games.
Charles cleared his throat and said, "I'll stay here with Janet. You can take John to our house, Doris."
We all rose; there was a long, strained silence; then John said, "Shall we all have a night-cap? I'll mix them?"
"Let's," I said.
We went to the kitchen with John and watched him make the drinks. We were all very polite, almost formal. It was almost as if we were four strangers, each trying to impress the other with his reserve and polite attention. I was dreadfully uncomfortable through it all. How it affected the others, I can only guess. But standing there, sipping that night-cap, smiling and nodding at the frivolous banter we were exchanging, I was sorely tempted to back out of the whole deal ... I didn't like our general attitude. If we were about to engage in an act of deliberate infidelity, I would have preferred that we not be so cold and clinical about it. I felt quite ready and resolved to admit that I was anxious for a night of obscene novelty. I was hot to trot. Everyone else acted as if we were about to engage in some benign, rather risque, tete a tete. What finally happened, though, exceeded my fondest expectations ... and plunged the four of us into the capricious varieties of harem life. Soon Charles and John became one to me ... and Janet ... well ... you'll see.
CHAPTER 3 A Roman Holiday
As Charles had suggested, John and I went next door, he and Janet remained where we'd played bridge (at the Evans' house).
John, as we walked into my front room and I was fumbling for the light-switch, sort of chuckled and patted my behind.
"Don't, dammit!" I snapped angrily (purely through reflex).
"What's wrong, Doris?" John's voice was barely a whisper. My silly outburst had frightened him.
"Oh, nothing, John. I'm sorry. I'm just not used to that and ....."
"Of course you're not. It was stupid of me," he was red-faced and his eyes were somewhat glassy. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe he regretted the whole idea. John was more openly flirtatious than Charles, but he loved Janet very much and it was more than possible that he actually was quite jealous of her. I noticed his mouth was quivering and, almost instantly, I wanted to kiss him. So I did. A quick, bruising kiss. And before I drew back I flicked my tongue over and around his lips.
"Well! Do that again!" he said.
I did. Hard. Long. Putting my hands behind his head. Running my tongue in and out of his mouth. Pushing my breasts against his chest. And before we parted I felt the rising badge of his masculinity prodding me between the thighs. Drawing back, my eyes on his wet lips, I said, "I love your mouth, John. And your tongue."
"You're ... you're beautiful, Doris," he put his hands on each of my shoulders and, holding me at arm's length, letting his eyes run boldly up and down my length, he added: "If only you knew how that body of yours can drive a man out of his mind! Your legs, your breasts, that bewildered expression of yours ... I feel like eating you up, Doris."
"I'd like that, John," I replied. Then, reaching out, I ran the tips of my fingers lightly over the bulge he'd built. His eyes opened wide; he drew in his breath sharply; he reached for the light-switch and flicked it off; he exhaled jerkily, then said, "We'll undress later. Right now ... lead us over to that couch."
I led him there; my knees were trembling; an exultant thrill kept flushing through my chest; I felt like I'd felt once as a kid-when I'd stood on a high diving-board, deliberating whether or not to dive. (But I knew that this time someone else was about to dive.)
"Lift your dress, Doris ... I'll pull'em down for you."
I did as he said. His fingers, as he drew down my panties, sent gooseflesh rippling up and down my thighs. I began to tremble violently.
"There! Now sit down, Doris. I want to sort of ... mess you up a little."
I sat. Leaned back. I felt his hands on my thighs. Heard him breathing heavily. Heard him sniffing. Heard him moan. Saw the dark shadow of his head lowering. Felt his hot breath. Closed my eyes and waited. Then:
"Oh, John! How sweet! How wonderful!" I hissed between clenched teeth as the wet warmth of his lips made first contact. And seconds later I was throbbing and palpitating and arching frantically as he increased the pressure with artful little stabs.
There was a wild sweet savagery to that first lip to lip merging that I'll never forget. My mind's-eye kept flashing me erotic images of John's mobile mouth, and the sounds that rose to my ears provided a salacious background reminder that I was finally realizing a long yearned-for ambition. Nor was I the least bit disappointed. I felt in full the strange, perhaps sadistic, delight that a woman feels when a man is subjugating himself before her. Not only were the physical aspects titillating beyond even my wildest vicarious dreams, but the knowledge that a handsome man (and another woman's husband) was debasing himself gave me the keenest possible pleasure. I entwined my fingers in his hair and chanted a lewd command over and over and over.
"That's it, John darling! You're home! You're home at last."
He moaned in agreement and picked up speed. I felt the soft explosions of distant satisfaction, and I began to reach for it with the same care and urgency with which an aroused sleeper reaches for an alarm-clock. Suddenly it was there! I loosed one loud filthy oath after another as a set of snare-drums began beating erratically within me, and John pushed a naughty finger in an unexpected place, shocking me pleasurably and adding to the complexity of that first mouth-made event. The waves were deliciously interminable. I felt like a squeezed sponge as the spasms drained me, and John's surprised whimperings sounded like the last straw-drawn drop of an ice-cream soda. As the last faint spasm jerked my shanks and John drew away with a sigh, I felt downright thirsty-actually dehydrated!
"Water!" I gasped, trying to laugh. I was panting hard.
"Yeah, I guess!" John exclaimed. "I didn't think you were ever going to stop."
"Neither did I. I've never had that before, John. I'll bet you're a mess and a half."
"Nice, though," he mused, running his hands up and down my parted thighs.
"Shall we go to bed. I'd like to return your favor and ... well ... everything."
"If you want," I saw his shadow loom above me as he rose. "I ... uh ... wonder what they're up to next door?" I was sure I discerned a certain wheedling note of regret in his voice. That irritated me. Men are always so anxious for off-key experience and adventure ... but they're usually insecure and desultory when their own wives are involved.
"I imagine they're in bed sort of having at one another, John," I retorted cruelly.
"Yeah, I suppose so. I'll tell you what, Doris. Let's sneak over and see. I'm curious. Aren't you?"
"Not the least bit, John. But if you are, let's go," I answered him, trying not to sound as disgusted as I felt.
We crept in the back way, and before we'd closed the door behind us we heard Janet's singsong whine of carnal agony. The back hall light was on. I looked at John to say something but his expression stopped me. His mouth was awry, and he was swallowing fast and repeatedly-he actually looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment. I put my hand on his arm and whispered:
"Let's go back, John. It isn't fair for us to be sneaking in on them like this."
"No. C'mon," he shook my hand off his arm and then motioned for me to follow him. Embarrassed, not knowing what else to do, I did follow him. By the sounds they were in the front room. And-by the sounds-Janet was getting the thrill of her life! I, too, began to feel the prod of rising curiosity. What was happening that Janet should be carrying on in such a wanton fashion? Charles was good. But he'd never aroused me to the pitch that Janet sounded as if she'd reached. Not quite at least.
Stopping in the hall we could see that they'd left a light on. (Which didn't surprise me-Charles liked to watch my face when we made love.) Very slowly, very carefully, John eased the door open. He was in front of me; for a second or two I couldn't make out what was going on. The commotion, though, was wild and rabid.
"Doris, look at them!" John whispered, and then moved aside so that I could see.
I sucked in a breath as if I'd been hit; then, grabbing John's arm for support, I swore softly and bitterly. There was my husband, in front of my eyes, kneeling, one hand on each of Janet's long flaring thighs, doing to her what, for five long married years, I'd yearned in vain to have him do to me. I bit my lower lip and choked back a sob. And I watched. They were both bare as newborn babes; from our position we could see Charles' works sort of swaying in the breeze as it were. The scar on Janet's cheek was afire, and her eyes were batting like two captive butterflies. She kept up this continual siren-like wail and her hands were fluttering over my husband's head and shoulders as if they were palsied. Charles was silent, except for an occasional grunt, and his head bobbed with the lugubrious regularity of a rutting pig. In spite of myself I felt a congesting flush below, and I eased against John to communicate it to both him and myself.
Never have I felt such desolate loneliness and regret and remorse. I was sorry about everything; I was especially sorry I'd given in to John's compunctions to "see what was happening". But John, I noticed, with a great deal of surprise and some chagrin, wasn't at all shook-up at actually seeing his wife in the throes of carnal ecstasy. Quite the contrary! He had my skirt up in no time and, without removing his eyes from his wife's anguished face for even an instant, he managed to supply me with a good bit of himself. I rammed back against him hard, wanting pain as much as pleasure, wanting to somehow punish myself for being where I was and doing what I was ... and yet ... and yet I was really aware of a terribly new feeling ... a new sensation ... born of self-pity and sexual need and anger and selfish desire. Suddenly a savage joy welled up inside me! I cried out: "Hey! Let's make it a foursome!" and I threw the door open so hard that it knocked a lamp from a table.
Charles leaped to his feet and whirled to face us. "What the...." he began; then, seeing John and myself standing there (glued together in togethernesses only real reward), his astonished features relaxed in a relieved grin. Janet, too, seemed relatively unconcerned about our sudden intrusion-she hadn't even bothered to close her thighs. We all began to laugh, then-even myself. Somehow it suddenly seemed better, more honest maybe, that we were together. But had we known, then, that the interest accumulating in group-dalliance compounds as fast and inexorably ad delinquent taxes ... we might've carried out a strategic retreat (though I doubt it). But we didn't. Blinded by the exigencies of the moment we plunged ahead. And if that first encounter with John had been so terribly memorable ... that first madcap episode with my husband, Janet and John together was a Roman holiday! A veritable sexual feast! So pay attention!
CHAPTER 4 Familiar Perversion
We passed from humor to elation. It was as if we were all tremendously relieved to be together again, and as if all stigma were magically removed by openly facing up to our desires. John and I quickly undressed and, just as quickly, the four of us banded together in a fraternity of the flesh that was as spontaneous and diverse as a four-ringed circus (and just as filled with thrilling acts!).
The one fly in my ointment dissolved when, embracing Charles, I whisperingly asked him why he'd never treated me as I'd caught him treating Janet.
"I thought you'd object to such a thing, Doris," he replied. "I've wanted to all these years, believe me. But you made a statement when we were first married that I must've misunderstood. Something about the French being nasty and...."
"Yes, I remember," I cut him off. "But I was referring to their community toilets ... the idea has always revolted me."
And so right then and there Charles began to make up for lost time! And for the second time in perhaps thirty minutes I was knelt before and treated in that royal fashion! No queen ever had it better. Nor before such avid-eyed, admiring subjects!
Janet and John stood over us, watching. And I, looking up at them through slitted eyes, found myself gazing at Janet's mouth. It was tristed grotesquely, so that she appeared to be sneering and smiling at the same time. I could see her front teeth, and just the very tip of her tongue. Her eyes were glued to mine and I felt the desiderate beginnings of that impulse I've mentioned, to touch her lips with my Own. It was delicious, af first. Charles was surpassing even John in his artful manipulations (lawyers have such gifted tongues) and I was blissfully enjoying those energetic first innings. And then to look up at Janet's full red lips ... and to sort of dwell on their mobility and the sensual implications of that grotesque leer ... was sheer pleasure; more, I felt the perverse delights that an unfulfilled wish can engender. To be reveling in my husband's first sweet nether-kiss, and to be dreamily gazing at the salacious mouth of an approving onlooker ... was really unbearably provocative. Without quite realizing what I was doing I sort of imprecated Janet's mouth to come down to my own by whispering (almost soundlessly): "Kiss me, Janet, Kiss me."
I saw the flicker of a shadow cross her face. She blinked several times. Then, nearly as imperceptibly as my request had been, she nodded. A moment later she withdrew from John's arms. "Excuse me, darling. Doris wants me," she said. And then, kneeling slowly, her eyes boring into mine with a smoldering intensity, she bent forward and glued her lips to mine.
I nearly swooned! Our tongues collided and then lolled one another like mating serpents! I moaned and closed my eyes and bit and sucked and puckered and made of my mouth a living loving symbol of the erotic raptures that were threatening to tumble me off into limbo. I felt hands at my breasts and I knew by their tenderness and by the strange foreign feel of them that they were Janet's. I closed my mouth tightly on her tongue then and I drew on it and sucked on it in an ardent and devouring frenzy. I heard John's harsh, surprised laugh above us. I heard Charles' snort and felt him suddenly become almost vicious in his lucubrations. I felt Janet's fingers on my nipples and then turn them like dials. I opened my eyes for a brief second and the distant drums of consummation began to pound-then I closed them tightly and waited. And then: VEROOM!! !
It was sublime. That's all I can say. I could cover pages describing all the ecstatic nuances of that tremulous peak ... but I'd fall miserably short in the process. How does one describe the ineffable? How does one tie mere words together and come up with the total sublimity encompassed by realizing two primal urges at once? But what happened next I can describe!
When Charles drew away ... all panting and wet-mouthed and grinning proudly ... Janet stayed. Sort of nibbling her way down from my mouth to my breasts, she stopped there ... for a while. Encircling my nipples with the tip of that lascivious red tongue, she kept moaning softly, even painfully. With my chin down on my chest I watched her. There was a slow deliberateness to the movements of her head that reminded you of a person in acute pain. She dropped one finger to my navel then and began running it in and out suggestively; that maddened me! Almost roughly I put both hands on her head and shoved down. She resisted for a moment; then, after a sobbing gasp, she sort of glided there. And for the third time in perhaps an hour I was given that selfsame tantalizing treatment.
"Well I'll be damned!" I heard John's astonished expletive, shortly followed by my husband's more eloquent: "At the right time, under the right circumstances, I've heard any woman will. But I've never believed it before this very moment. Those are our wives, John!"
My mind was in a whirl. I didn't dare open my eyes. I didn't want to face Charles. And Janet was so good, so consummate, so tender, so patient, so soft-lipped and eager-tongued, that I wouldn't've stopped her for anything right then. A feeling of yielding consideration and gratitude came over me, a feeling I'd never before associated with sex. I relaxed. I felt incomparably soothed. Have you ever lain in the sun until you sort of throbbed all over and it felt as if the heat were penetrating your very bones and melting every bit of strain and tension away? If you have, you'll know something of how Janet's attentions affected me. There was no anxious urge for the titillating trauma of climax; indeed, the idea of so poignant a finale never even entered my head. I was content to float, to bask in that ethereal warmth, to feel that consideration and rapport flowing from me like the juices of love themselves. I'm not exaggerating when I say that that feeling was more "in-depth" than the overtly erotic convolutions and tweakings afforded by Charles and John. Not that I'm claiming superiority on either side. I'm not. I couldn't. Not only would it be indelicate to do so, but to objectively compare them would be quite impossible. (There is pleasure and beauty in both sunshine and rain; one is as needed as the other; both are "best" at the time they are happening.)
The nudging warmth of a loving mouth was, I learned, as pleasurable psychologically as physically (or perhaps even more so). The condescending devotion implied is really almost spiritual. You feel lordly in your offering, and the soft surges of joy that emanate are largely the result of mental accord or rhythm. During Janet's visit, especially, I was pleasantly aware that there was no real selfishness or driving lustfulness involved. And with John and Charles it was give and take; there was an urgency with them that was absent in Janet-but all the while you felt you were being extended some specially human empathy and kindness. You didn't feel used. You were grateful. You were loved.
But, as I've said, my mind was all awhirl. After all ... it was a woman who was nesting in my husband's game reserve. What would he think? What would he do? Our bargain had been for a heterosexual swap, not for perversion! Not that I had any doubts about myself. No. My impulses regarding Janet had long before hinted strongly to me that I might enjoy an occasional foray over the ever changing topography of bisexualism. Intellectually, I'd always envied the bisexual. He led a fuller life in every way-simply because his perspective was dual. And then ... I opened my eyes ... and all my doubts were removed.
Janet was still ... there. But over one of her shoulders I spied a pair of feet ... and they looked suspiciously like my husband's. They were sticking out from behind a divan on the other side of the room.
"Janet," I whispered, pushing very lightly against her shoulders.
"Yes?" she looked up at me; her face was wet and shiny and even her nose looked a mess. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and she smiled vaguely.
"Our husbands," I motioned behind her with my head. "Let's go take a peek. They're behind your divan."
She nodded and rose; reaching down for me, grinning like a hoyden, she pulled me up. Holding hands, tip-toeing, we crept across to the divan and peered over its back.
We didn't speak. We didn't even make a sound. The only effect the sight had on us was a sudden tightening of our grips on each other's hands. And that, in view of the shock we both sustained, was quite remarkable. For there they were. Our husbands. Our virile "better-halfs". Embraced. And Charles was getting-though I suppose it's a matter of point of view-the worst of it. John was, as they say, riding high. And Charles, his face red with strain, was taking the assault gamely.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry ... or just keep watching. So I chose the latter. (Though let me quickly explain that my shock at seeing Charles so accosted was not due to chagrin or revulsion or disgust. It was the surprise! The astonishment! Charles had always been so devoutly masculine, so profoundly proud of his gentler and his sense of virile propriety, that to see him writhing in red-faced carnality beneath his good pal and buddy was ... well. . just a bit shattering.)
We watched silently. So engrossed were they that I'm sure we could've sneezed without them noticing us. Bending against the back of the divan, looking down at them with eyes that were still wide in after-shock, I heard the desperate panting their action was evoking and I caught the mephitic waftings of the most noisome stench imaginable. I glanced at Janet; she nodded, made a wry face and rolled her eyes.
John, as I've said, was propped rather high. His arms were nearly straight and his fingers were buried in the hirsute flesh of my husband's arms. Suddenly he began moving much faster; the muscles in his back corded sharply and you could hear him struggling with his breath to keep from panting noisily. Then, like an athlete exhausted from countless pushups, he suddenly dropped limply against Charles, and with swallowed snorts and subdued moans he writhed in the convulsions of completion.
"Having fun boys?" Janet's tone was both derisive and smug; she was, it was plain, quite pleased at having caught her husband in such a dingy dalliance.
John flushed to the ears and stammered, "Oh! Yeah! Well ... we ... , " then he gave up with a resigned shrug. Charles, at the same time, flashed me a bewildered and sheepish grin; then he turned away with an embarrassed snort. Looking at Janet, I smiled, shrugged, winked, and said, "And to think, Janet, how it was only the other day that Charles was telling me how he'd become such a successful lawyer. He told me how he'd started at the very bottom and how he'd been pinned down by lots of men before he finally made it to the top. I see what he meant now. But John! I'm surprised to see such an up and coming top man like you involving himself in such a dirty deal. Aren't you afraid you'll stain your fine ... uh ... reputation? Yes, sir, Janet! We have before us a couple of polished legal minds ... and both self-made men."
Janet began to titter; John's crooked grin turned into an honest smile; I laughed merrily; then, after much throat clearing and disgruntled mumbling and inhibited shifting about, Charles broke down and joined us. Soon we were all laughing uproariously, and when it finally died down we discreetly decided to call it a night. Charles and I went home. And truth to tell, it seemed awfully good to snuggle up against my own husband.
CHAPTER 5 An Erotic Visitor
And so the play had begun. The actors knew their parts. The show promised to have a long and successful run. And I, for one, felt smugly superior about it all. There we were, four reasonably intelligent adults, neighbors, good friends, and we'd blithely broken the sexual barrier of monogamy without suffering the dire after-effects threatened by moralists and other partisans of sour-grapes and the kill-joy life.
I was, naturally, a bit concerned at first as to just how the affair would affect our friendship. Would we harbor subconscious grudges? Would we, when together, feel guilty or ashamed or under a certain uncomfortable strain? My answer came when, some three or four nights later, we got together for one of our regular bridge and martini nights; the game proceeded as if nothing unusual had happened. We talked as usual. Charles and John played their usual hard, domineering game. Our martini-lulls were filled with the same joviality and good-natured banter. It was hard, indeed, to be really certain that my memories of that previous night were actually legitimate. There was scarcely a mention even of our fervid encounter (the one and only slip occurring when John unwittingly muttered something about Charles giving him a dirty deal). Our game broke up at the usual hour and, without any of us having uttered a breath of a sordid illusion, Janet and John went home ... together.
It was near noon the next day when Janet called me to come over for coffee. Her voice, though, wasn't her usual come-on-over-for-coffee voice. It had a quiver in it, and I knew she was either excited about something or ready to cry. Hurrying over, I was relieved, when she let me in, to see that it was definitely the former. Her cheeks were flushed. She had that very eager, conspiratorial look on her face that one usually associates with old-maid gossips who are just bursting to divulge some choice secret.
"Okay, Janet. Out with it, before you explode," I said, as I followed her to the kitchen. (She was wearing a very flimsy housedress and her bottom jiggled invitingly. I gave it an affectionate pinch just before we sat down.)
"It's John's niece, Doris. She's coming to stay with us. For a month. Her telegram just arrived and I'm to pick her up at the airport this afternoon. I want you to come with me, Doris. Oh, just wait'll you meet this kid, Doris! She's ... well ... she's the sexiest little dickens you've ever seen. And what an odd-ball!"
"You mean she's...?"
"I mean she's ready and willing for anything!" Janet interjected. "Oh. How old is she?"
"I don't know. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty,"
Janet shrugged. "But believe me, she's old enough! I met her two years ago when John took me back to his home town. And I don't think it was ten minutes before she was giving me the eye ... you know. And a little later, as she was showing me the house, and John was talking to his aunt ... well ... we were walking up the stairs and she was behind me ... and without the slightest warning she ran her hand up under my skirt. I turned ... you know ... right there on the steps, and stared at her. Sort of dumbfounded. I want you, Janet, and right now, she told me. Well ... I went on upstairs and ... she got right down to business. She was wild, Doris! I doubt if she would've stopped even if John had walked in on us."
"Is she normal? I mean, she sounds rather sick. Is she a lesbian?"
"No. I'm sure she's not. John told me later that they've had all kinds of trouble with her. Seems she seduced the school principal or something. I asked John if she'd ever made a pass at him. He admitted she had. And from the way he sort of jerked and got all flustered when I asked him ... I wouldn't be surprised if she'd completed her pass. She and John seemed, you know ... very casual together."
"She sounds like quite a character," I nodded, a little amused to see Janet so excited about it all. And now I knew what she'd meant by her "don't knock it if you haven't tried it" remark. Sipping my coffee, I looked at her curiously over the rim of my cup and wondered just how many times she'd tried it.
"That isn't the half of it, Doris! She graduated from high school at fifteen. She's a brilliant little thing. Always has her nose buried in some stodgy old book. And the ideas she has!
Half the time she's over your head. The other half she's giving you her unique views of the world and its problems. And it's her belief that some minds and constitutions, are superior."
"Is she pretty? A nice figure?" I asked, more out of politeness than interest. I'd never seen Janet go on so about anyone before; I felt, somehow, uneasy about it. "She's perfect, Doris. Her skin is flawless. Huge eyes. She's petite. Well rounded. A really breathtaking figure." Janet had lowered her voice as she gave me this last set of opinions. The level, serious inflections in it reminded me of those golf tournament narrations on TV.
"She sounds quite amazing," I said. "But why do you want me to come along with you when you pick her up, Janet? Are you ... afraid of her?"
"Yes. How'd you guess?" Janet's eyebrows were arched high as she stared at me; it was obvious she hadn't meant to let on she was afraid of the girl.
"Because," I said, "You're as red as a lobster, your voice is shaking and I've never heard you have so much to say about a person before ... at least not in such awed tones."
"Well, I'm not actually afraid of her. I mean, not in the sense that one really fears something. I suppose she frightens me a little because ... because of the way she sort of controls me. I don't know. But I wish you would come with me, Doris. I'm sure you'll find her terribly interesting and ... and...."
"And what, Janet?" I grinned at her.
"Well ... maybe you'll find her interesting enough to sort of...."
"Share her with you?" I filled in.
"Well, why not? It might be fun. And who knows ... she might teach us a lot."
"I'll go with you, Janet," I said. "You know me. I'm always willing to learn."
We picked her up at two thirty. Standing in the terminal, waiting for her, Janet was a nervous wreck. I saw her first. A petite, raven-haired girl in the crowd. She was looking around, an intent look in her bright dark eyes.
"Could that be her?" I turned Janet around and gestured towards the girl.
"Oh! Yes! There she is! Rebecca! Over here, Rebecca!" Janet's voice was hollow and unnatural.
The girl's face lit up like a soft amber light. (Indeed her flesh had an amber cast.) She walked towards us rapidly, smiling, as they say, from ear to ear. My first impression of her was that she was a very warm, ardent, friendly young girl; not the sort to arouse feelings of either antipathy or fear. Her smile was genuine.
"Janet! How wonderful! I was hoping that it would be you who'd pick me up," she glanced quickly at me and her smile seemed to deepen. (Her mouth was a bit large, I noticed, but her lips were marvelously full, soft and sensual.) Her voice was low and somewhat scratchy.
Janet introduced us. Rebecca's eyes dipped for a brief instant to my breasts. Then she looked me straight in the eye and held out her hand. I took it, and sustained a slight shock to feel how warm and wet it was; her grip, for so slight a person, was inordinately firm.
Driving towards home, she sat between us in the front seat. Going by Janet's description I was prepared to hear a running line of non-conformist monologue. But no. She said very little. Outside of a comment or two about how things had changed since her last visit to
Los Angeles, she spoke only when spoken to. I liked her perfume. It was evidently something quite special, for it seemed to rather blend with her looks. Then, as we pulled up in front of the house and parked, Janet's claims about her were suddenly driven home to me quite forcefully. Just as I was beginning to get out-with the door half open-she reached over and put her hand on my thing and said, "I'm truly glad to have met you, Doris. Excuse my hand, but I suddenly felt I wanted to touch you. Your leg is so warm and nice. You like my mouth, too, don't you? Would you like to kiss me? Go ahead, Doris, I'd like it."
I felt rather dumb. It was all so very ... so ... unexpected. "Well ... I ... I ... , " I felt my cheeks grow hot.
"She's teasing you, Doris," Janet spoke up. "Come on. Let's get out. I want to get Rebecca all settled before John gets home," Janet opened her door.
"I wasn't teasing her. I'll prove I wasn't," Rebecca replied; then, reaching for my chin, she tilted my head and planted her lips fiercly against mine! Her tongue was soft and slippery, and as vital and impudent as a young boy's phallis (how I know that I'll never tell). I kissed back at her; she made a strange sound and then broke away. She laughed, then-a low, derisive chuckle, and said, "We'd better get out. I'm anxious for Janet to tell me ... ha!-settled. But do come over as soon as you can. I'm sure the three of us can invent some fun things to do ... together. Has anyone ever told you, Doris ... that you have eyes like a snake's? Very sexy though. I like snakes eyes."
I went home in a trance; all evening, trying to talk sensibly to Charles, I felt dizzy and above all things. And (rather desperately) I deluded myself, thereby, that I was more fortunate than most. I, at least, knew where I was going ... and even a blind alley holds forth a rosier promise than the average person's nowhere ... or so it seemed to me then.
CHAPTER 6 Days Of Self Gratification
"Rebecca! Rebecca!" I repeated her name aloud to myself in bed that night. Charles stirred and mumbled: "What, dear?" I didn't answer him; he soon fell fast asleep again. "Rebecca, Rebecca," I whispered. I liked the exotic sound of it; the way my lips came firmly together on the B, then parted on the A. What a wonderful name: Rebecca! like a flower, a star, the scent of lilac!
I rose early the next morning. I showered, shaved my legs, creamed them, daubed perfume in the right places and deodorant in the right places, made Charles and myself a really magnificent breakfast, kissed Charles off to work afterwards, then brushed my teeth very energetically, gargled thoroughly, did my face artfully, my hair fastidiously, slipped into my darkest sheerest nylons, my darkest sheerest panties, my most provocative (according to Charles) garter belt, put on my highest heels, and then donned a black Riviera lace sheath, lined with opaque nylon tricot-and lastly a chic little jacket of the same material. Standing before my mirror I decided I looked svelte, felt svelte, was svelte. Then I went next door and rang Janet's doorbell. Janet answered, still in her robe, still sleepy-eyed and disheveled-she looked a bit done in.
"Oh, hi, doll. Come in. My! Don't you look ravishing for eight thirty in the morning! Lady Astor herself."
I walked in, feeling pleasantly distingue beneath her admiring gaze. (I am never so composed as when I feel well dressed and groomed to the hilt.) But just as I was turning to face Janet, Rebecca walked quickly through the front room and, tossing me a brief smile and a nod, disappeared into the hall that led to Janet's bedroom. And instantly my composure suffered a severe set-back. Rebecca had been as naked as a jay-bird!
"Don't mind her, Doris," Janet shrugged and flashed me a queer little grin. "John says she's always hated clothes. He says she runs around the house like that all the time at home. Even runs out for the morning paper without a stitch on."
"But here ... in front of John?" I said, hating myself in the role of behavior critic.
"Oh, yes. This morning she even came in and flopped in his lap."
"No! And you didn't say or do anything?" I felt my throat tightening.
Janet shrugged, and gave me one of those long slow looks that are somehow supposed to convey a whole world of hidden meaning. Then she smiled and shook her head.
My own head was reeling! That one flashing glimpse of Rebecca had revealed an amber tinted dazzlement of limbs and breasts and rounded bottom that was indescribably lovely and tantalizing. Little, taut, vital, she'd literally bounced across my line of vision like a firm rubber ball! Her hair had been down and it had framed her beauty like a moonless night sky frames a glittering star. And though I could hear her opening and closing drawers now in the bedroom, that front room was still vibrating with some essence of her presence. I could still catch faint traces of her scent: sweet, pungent, the odor of sexual excitement and slavering pubic hair.
"I wasn't really in any position to object, Doris," Janet's voice was low and level. "You see she ... she slept with John and I last night. No. I mean she spent the night in bed with us. We got precious little sleep."
"Oh ... I see," I nodded. And I was shocked and abashed to feel the unmistakable pangs of envy and jealousy:
"No, you don't see, Doris. She didn't do anything ... none of us did. She merely barged into our bedroom, mumbled something about being lonely and cold, and then crawled into bed with us. Between us, no less. First she'd turn on one side and cuddle up to me, then she'd turn and cuddle against John. Believe me, Doris, it was the most frustrating night of my life! Her body's like a moist kitten. I laid there like a hot wet towel and just oozed. Damn I wanted to ... you know. And from the mess on John's side of the bed this morning I'd say she had him pretty worked up too. He didn't touch her, though. She just kept snuggling up against us and sort of wiggling and she'd sigh now and then as if in some quiet way she was ... you know ... making it."
"She sounds like a damned little tease!" I snapped.
"Either that or she's a sadist!"
"I'm really both. And much, much more, Doris."
"Oh! Rebecca!" I gasped and one hand flew up to my mouth. "I'm sorry. I ... I didn't know you were standing there ... I...."
"Don't be sorry, Doris. I don't feel the slightest bit insulted, lam a tease. . I am sadistic. Every woman's a tease and a sadist. It's part of our charm. You look stunning this morning, Doris. You look dressed to tease. And if you don't come over here and give me a good morning kiss ... I'll think you're terribly sadistic."
I swear it-I simply do not remember walking across that room to Rebecca. But I must've, because, the next thing I knew, I was standing there before her and looking down at that sweet petulant mouth of hers.
"Kiss me now," she murmured. I bent, like a scolded child, and tenderly touched her lips with my own. She reached up quickly, caught the lobes of my ears and pulled down on them. It hurt. I started to reach for her hands to relieve the pain, but suddenly a strange thrill pervaded me and I jammed my mouth against hers savagely and tried to ram my tongue down her throat. She began to laugh. With my lips bruising hers and my tongue wallowing around in her mouth she began to laugh. I pulled away, flushed with anger and indignation.
"What's so funny, Rebecca?" I stepped back a pace and wiped my mouth hard with the back of my hand.
"N-nothing," she tittered. "I was laughing at myself, Doris. Yesterday, when I met you, I had you figured for falsies. But now, of course, I know they're real."
I looked at her, nodded, and my anger melted. She looked like some wood-nymph standing there. She'd put on a robe, but she'd left it unbuttoned. Her breasts seemed to be reaching out for me, and her nipples, I noticed, were exceedingly large and a purplish red. They were erect. I reached out with one hand, carefully (like a child places blocks one on top of the other), and drew a circle around one of them with my forefinger. She took a deep jerky breath; then, exhaling hard, she caught my hand and pulled it down. There! My heart gave one lurching bound. I felt faint. Giddy. I moved my hand around with the chary hesitancy of an electrician working near high voltage. It was like touching the tender blades of young grass after a heavy dew. Then: A low peal of laughter. And she stepped back, closed her robe.
"You are a tease," I said, and my voice sounded weird to my ears. Harsh and gritty.
"Sometimes, yes," she replied, and I had the somewhat dubious satisfaction of hearing her voice break with obvious excitement (that lawn hadn't been dewy without reason). "How come you're all dressed up, Doris?" she added, giving me an approving survey.
I smiled and shook my head. "That's a good question. But I suppose ... to be perfectly honest ... that I wanted to look my best to impress you. I don't know why, really. Except that you made a terribly strong impression on me yesterday."
"I'm glad, Doris. And Janet's told me about you already. That you love to love. So do I. And we will. The three of us. It's going to be a month we'll all remember. And, oh, yes! Janet's told me that your husband-likes to party too, Doris. That's wonderful. We'll have balls and balls! And don't worry, either of you. Men never fall in unreal-the way you feel when you're coming down with the flu or a bad cold or something. To say that Rebecca had made quite an impression on me would be a gross distortion of the truth! She'd more than impressed me! She'd given me a radically new criterion upon which to measure my ideas and ideals of sexuality! She'd given me (quite point-blankly) a taste of the hydra-headed sex that you and I have read about and thought about and dreamed about and viewed (rather dubiously) in avant-garde movies, but that we've never really even microscopically realized as flesh-in-blood human beings, qua individuals.
I had watched her as, arm in arm with Janet, she'd swayed up the front cobblestones to the house. My temples throbbing I'd watched that superb little bottom-to-end-all-bottoms kind of gyrate and ripple and undulate like two small plastic bags filled with Jello. Her waist had bent with each step like a steamed noodle, and the soft, pliant muscles in her calves had taunted and teased me like the succulent odor of one of my husband's prime-roasts during Passover.
My memory of her kiss was as sharp and poignant and real and tantalizing as the memory of my acute embarrassment; both blended as a schizophrenic fairy-tale that ended like after-the-fireworks on a memorable Fourth-of-July afternoon. I felt sucked dry. Gone. Burnt out. It was as if I'd been through some critical operation ... and I was waiting in semi-coma in the recovery-room for enough sense of direction and ego to pull the threadbare pieces of myself together for one really worthwhile last act of living. I felt as besmirched and discarded as a dirty hanky-but, as sometimes happens when one feels that lost, I knew just where I was headed and what I needed love with me. Nor I with them. I love only three things: life, myself, sex. And I hate only three things: flies, hard work, shallow people. There is only one sin. Shallowness. Well, I'll see you later. I hate like the devil to leave such stimulating company ... and I mean that ... but I didn't sleep very well last night. You know. Strange house. Strange bed. I've simply got to go and take a nap. Then, also, there's always this ... uh ... pressure that builds up in me every few hours. So I relieve it. It's really marvelous for removing tensions and pressures and making you feel calm again. Oh, but you girls know that. I can always tell by looking at a woman's eyes. They're like a snake's. like you two. Especially you, Doris. You're a chronic one, aren't you? That's wonderful. Well, see you later."
Janet and I just sort of stood there staring at one another. We heard Rebecca close the bedroom door. Heard the springs shriek as she laid down. Heard the sudden rippling thrill of her laughter. Then silence.
"What a gal, eh?" Janet finally spoke up.
"No kidding! D'you suppose she's really in there ... you know?"
"I'm sure she is," Janet nodded.
"Hmm," I hummed, looking as meaningfully as I could at Janet. She caught on. Her face lit up. She grinned and said, "You mean ... us ... together ... right now?"
"Let's! We've both got snakes' eyes. Especially me. And if I don't do something pretty soon ... well...."
"Okay. It might be fun. We can sit opposite one another and watch. Let's do."
I slipped out of my panties, lifted my dress, sat. Janet opened her robe and sat across from me. We were both blushing. We were both trying to act rather careless and nonchalant, as if we were about to indulge in a game of charades or the like. Janet's mouth was hanging slack and rather lopsided, giving her a fatuous, stupid look. Staring at her mouth I began; her eyes were glued to my calves and thighs as she began. It felt good. Deliciously good. And I found presence of mind enough to wonder how Rebecca has been clever enough to guess that I was indeed a chronic self-reliever. I didn't give a second's credence to that "snake's eyes" thing. Who would?
But then, as we both reached the fervid reward we were searching for, I was both startled and horrified to hear a low rich peal of laughter coming from the hall door. I twisted to look and-with my face contorted in pleasure-saw Rebecca standing there watching us. She pursed her lips and blew me a kiss and said:
"How charming! like two spitting cobras!"
But before I turned away I saw that she'd been scratching the same itch ... and that she'd spilled a bit of venom of her own. "Takes one to know one," passed swiftly through my mind; then, for many satisfying moments, I ceased to think. I acted. And Janet was hissing like a snake.
CHAPTER 7 Memories of Insanity
The very next morning Rebecca was indirectly responsible for a situation that embarrassed me almost to distraction. Never in my life-before or since-have I felt so utterly ashamed and small and wicked and humiliated.
I had spent a restless night. Rebecca's taunting laughter had kept waking me, mocking me, teasing me. And each time I'd wakened I'd listened to John's peaceful breathing and felt low and common to be having such thoughts about a mere waif of a girl (and an utter stranger besides). But trying to fall asleep again I'd found my mind wandering (like a vivisectionist's) to various parts of her: her hair (above and below), her eyes, those, nubile breasts, that succulent mouth with its wine-red lips and slippery, silken tongue, that harsh voice, the pungent effluvia of her libations. And I'd squirmed against by husband's warmth, feeling, no doubt, the same frustration an infant feels when, in lieu of a breast, he is offered a teething-ring.
When I say that Rebecca was "indirectly responsible" for what happened, I mean just that. For in actuality she herself was never even aware of it. I had risen late, showered and breakfasted in the slow-moving stupor that a restless night engentlers. John had made his own breakfast and left for work. After three cups of coffee I had decided to go back to bed and perhaps catch a few winks. I was in the act of drawing the blinds when I saw Rebecca. She was carrying a basket of .clothes. I watched her, a little listlessly at first, but then with growing interest, as she hung the clothes. She was wearing shorts and a halter and she was barefoot. When she stretched to reach the clothesline the muscles in her calves and thighs stood out prominently. The shorts were tight and brief and her bottom looked very sweet and enticing.
Pulling a chair up to the window I sat down and adjusted the blinds so that I could see her more clearly. I was wearing a shortie gown, so the task I set myself to was no trouble. Soon things were progressing splendidly. I took my time. I was in no hurry. The basket of clothes was piled high. I knew she'd be there for quite some time. With one hand resting lightly on my thigh, I used my other with the light careful strokes an artist uses to touch-up a fine painting. It was marvelous. I felt a luxurious sense of lassitude as I gently stirred my oils. I slumped in the chair and turned my toes up hard so that my calves flexed, and I let my lower abdomen pooch out, the better to indulge my sense of wickedness and languor.
Rebecca's every movement telegraphed itself to me with soft sensual throbs. She'd bend to pick up a piece of clothing and simultaneously I'd feel a delightful response. But I won't bore you with this. I'm not proud that I'd once again given in to such a lonely habit. I merely wanted to set the scene so that you might have a better idea as to my embarrassment later. Let me quickly get to my point.
It was perhaps ten minutes after I'd sat down that I finally achieved my purpose. And while I was achieving it I called out Rebecca's name probably a half dozen times. "Rebecca, Rebecca! You sweet, lovely little slut!" I cried out (among other things). And after a particularly ardent and obscene overture I heard a gruff, harsh snort of disgust-behind me. I jumped up, turned, and faced ... my husband. His expression was one of mixed loathing and scorn.
"Oh, Charles! I didn't hear you come in, I...."
"That's obvious, Doris," he said. "When you're quite finished, come out to the kitchen. I'm going to have some coffee."
It was an hour before I could summon sufficient courage to face him. I dressed. I brushed my hair. I stalled until I heard him banging angrily around and clearing his throat impatiently. He was pouring coffee when I walked in; his hand was shaking and his lips were set in the grim firmness of a man trying to stave off an emotional outburst. I felt timid, contrite.
"Who's the girl you were watching?" he asked not looking at me. "John's niece. She's staying with them for a month," I replied, my tone mousy.
"She's lovely," Charles nodded.
"Yes. Yes she is," I felt stupidly like a parrot.
"I ... ah ... came back home this morning because I was worried about you, Doris. You kept tossing and turning all night. I thought maybe you were coming down with something. Seems I was wrong, though. I walked in and heard you moaning and it really scared me. But when I found out why ... well ... I'm more concerned than ever now."
"Don't be, darling. It's just that that kid's a regular little sex-pot! I don't know what came over me ... but I suddenly felt I just had to ... you know."
"So, that's Rebecca, eh?" Charles' look was faintly ironic and meditative.
"Yes, you mean you've heard of her?" Charles nodded and that ironic look deepened. "Yes, John's mentioned her several times. He says she's really got quite a problem. If I remember right he mentioned something about her being over-sexed, a borderline nymphomaniac."
"I'm sure she is, Charles. Wait'll you meet her. You'll see. She fairly oozes sex. And she sort of ... well ... she communicates passion. No, I mean it! I know it sounds phony ... especially after what you've just seen. But that was part of it, darling! Really! Oh, I won't say that I was powerless to resist or anything like that. But what I was really doing in there, Charles, was sort of an echoe ... a repercussion ... that resulted from being around her yesterday. You'll see, darling. Believe me you will! I want you to meet her. That's the only way you'll ever understand. And Charles ... I'm sorry. Really I am."
"Yes," he said, "I know you are, Doris. You're sorry I caught you."
My husband, seven years before (two years before we'd married), had, without knowing it, cured me of a strange sexual quirk. Perhaps if I go back to that time and tell you about it, you'll be able to see why I was so terribly worried (let alone embarrassed and humiliated) about Charles having caught me in that scene. Not that it was the act itself that worried me (eighty five percent of all married women have the same habit)-but the fact that I'd been "peeking" at Rebecca did. I knew then that the lovely little girl had, practically overnight, become somewhat of an obsession with me. And Charles walking in on me like that had simply served to point up the fact in a distinctly sordid fashion. I was frightened. The "compulsion" I'd had seven years ago had threatened to ruin my life; I didn't want Rebecca to assume the role of another such sexual quirk. But bear with me while I flash-back....
My quirk? Following people. It started as a whim. And then it quickly developed into a full-blown kick; worse, into an utterly unbearable habit! I followed no one in particular; nor was there any predictable pattern to my tailings. Unless of course you consider the fact that I was always on foot, and that I kept (through a horror of discovery) a good distance from my subject. At times it would be a man, at times a woman (a clue to future bisexualism?). Once I found myself following a young boy and his girl. I trailed them to the outskirts of town where, in a wooded area, I hid behind some trees and watched the boy treat her in that "under the table" manner. I was fascinated. It seemed so ... .unusually ardent. So sweet.
Naturally I worried about myself. What was happening to me? Was I going insane? If not, why was I becoming the unwilling victim of such a strange and extraordinary compulsion? Where would it lead me? What was wrong with me?
How could I stop? How could I escape? These and dozens of other impossible-to-answer questions I asked myself as, night after night, I surrendered to my embarrassing urge.
Everyone seemed to think I was a lovely girl-though a trifle slim at that time. Fresh out of college I'd landed a job as a dentist's assistant, it was said that I had a marvelous personality: witty, charming, affable. There was certainly nothing in my outward nature to explain the why and wherefore of my nocturnal mischief.
Finally, becoming more and more frightened, I consulted our family doctor. I told him of my fixation, leaving out none of the details. The doctor, a snobbish anti-Freudian of the old school, advised me to "find a nice young man and get married and have lots of babies and to do so at once".
I disagreed. I told the old pill-pusher that while I appreciated his advice I thought that marriage (and babies) should come about through mutual affection and love ... not as a remedy for any psychological quirk. The doctor, his blue nose wrinkling unpleasantly, had replied: "Yes, that's all very well, but if you don't find yourself a man ... er ... a husband soon, you stand a good chance of winding up in some psychopathic ward."
"Gee thanks, Doc," I said as I rose to leave. "You've no idea what your advice has done for me. A husband and babies, eh? But don't you usually prescribe aspirin?"
It goes without saying that his "connubial advice" did nothing to allay my fears. Indeed I began to feel that it was only a matter of time before his dire prophecy would come true. Night became an absolute horror for me. I would come home from work, shower, have dinner, and then, sometime during the long evening, the urge would come. And there was simply no resisting it. I'd tried, believe me. I'd tried everything! TV, movies, bowling, dates, alcohol. Nothing worked. When the urge came (and inevitably it did!) I seemed utterly powerless to resist it.
Not that my perverse kick harmed anyone except myself. It didn't. I'd pick my subject at random, and then, without rhyme or reason, follow him (or her), walking a discreet distance behind; and keeping, ironically enough, in step with my subject ("victim" sounds ridiculous). Had not the habit become in a sense "an addiction", I would've been the first to laugh at myself (my sense of humor was never lacking). But arriving home, footsore and exhausted after having indulged my "impossible urge" far into the night, I would usually cry myself to sleep.
Finally, in utter desperation, I joined a woman's gym. I exercised hard and long, amazing the instructor (my future husband) who assured me he'd "never seen a beginner work so hard". And that night, for the first time in many months, my urge failed to assert itself. I slept like a baby and awakened next morning stiff and sore in every muscle, but immeasurably relieved. I'd won! I'd channelled what must've been merely excess energy into harmless exercise.
Months passed. Afraid to stop (or to even lessen the severity of my exercise) my slimness rounded out. My breasts, once rather inadequate, became high, upturned and full; my thighs and calves took on curves that made old men turn and yearn and young men stop and whistle. I had even quit smoking and was taking vitamins and eating a balanced diet.
Charles Clinton, the instructor at the gym where I exercised, had been watching my change closely. I even saw him pridefully point me out to potential pupils as "the perfect example of right diet and exercise". But I, in turn, found Charles distracting. He was attending law school and his job in the gym was only part time. He had a nice build, and I liked him well enough. But there was something about the way he looked at me (especially when I was bending over to pick up a weight) that made me terribly uncomfortable. And several times I'd caught myself staring at him, pleasuring in the supple ruggedness of his physique, wondering, as I admired the play of his arm muscles, if he was as firm and well built beneath his sweat-pants.
And then one evening, as I was leaving the gym late, fresh and tingling from the cold shower I'd taken after my workout, Charles approached me and said, "Why don't you wait a few minutes, Doris? It's nearly closing time. I'll walk you home."
"No thanks," I told him curtly. "I've got a date in half an hour. See you tomorrow night, Charles."
Why, I asked myself as I walked out, did I lie to him like that? Why didn't I agree to wait and let him walk me home?
The answer came when I left the gym and filled my lungs with the night air. It began low, the feeling, tugging at the inside of my thighs. Then it began to rise rapidly, first to my stomach and then to my breasts. I felt my nipples grow rigid. I felt a hot longing in my pelvis. Then I felt a sudden glad giddiness that I was helpless to resist. I was scared half to death ... but I knew what I had to do.
Walking into a department store alcove I waited, pretending to be looking at clothes. Soon he walked by, as I knew he would, strutting with that bouncy gait that men who exercise seem to affect. I waited until he was perhaps twenty-five yards ahead of me before I stepped out and followed him.
I was different (the sensations provoked by following Charles), I noticed that at once. There was no vague uneasiness; no hot flashings of guilt; no terror of discovery; no preview of humiliation and remorse. Only pleasure. I gained on him, striding with him step-for-step, oblivious of time or distance. Soon I was almost directly behind him-the click of my heels punched time with the throbbing in my temples. I drew closer. I could hear his breathing now: easy, regular. The rhythmic sway of his broad shoulders, the pumping of his arms, intensified my pleasurable sensations; I became downright vertiginous. A maddening desire to reach out and touch him, an ineffable urge to realize the swaying of those shoulders with my hands, became almost irresistible.
Suddenly he stopped in front of a building; there was a flash of keys, an opened door, and Charles standing there looking at me with a slight smile on his handsome lips.
"Come on in, Doris." His voice was low; his smile quietly reassuring.
I looked around, startled (as if I'd been wakened from a deep sleep). And then, seeing where I was, I gasped in open astonishment. We were in front of the gym. Evidently I'd followed Charles round the block! I hesitated, shrugged, nodded, then followed him in. He closed the door, turned to me, smiled (his mouth gave me a sudden twinge), and then took me in his arms and kissed me. It was a soft kiss, but I thrilled to it. And there was no mistaking the persuasive way his tongue played with my lips.
"Shall we have an after-hours workout?" he whispered.
"Yes, I think I'd like that," I answered him. "But tell me, Charles ... how did you know it was me behind you?"
"I didn't," he shrugged. "I got half way around the block ... near my apartment ... and remembered that I'd forgotten to turn off a valve in the steam-room. I heard someone behind me ... but thought nothing of it. And then ... as I opened the door...."
"There I was, eh?"
"Yes. Sorta," he smiled.
"Well, I'm glad you've a poor memory, Charles."
"And your date?" his question was very perfunctory.
"Forgotten," I said. "Seems we've both been blessed with poor memories."
But the next night, as I went through my' exercises, my memory was far from poor. I felt a fondness for the gym and its equipment I'd never felt before. The various benches were no longer only austere devices where I might recline and exercise ... now their upholstered contours brought back memories of intense pleasure. The mat, where now I lay to do my waist exercises, was no longer a medium for tightening my abdomen. I remembered the zest and "developments" my tumbling had evoked during last night's "after hours workout". And the vibrating hip-belt, where now I stood vibrating alone, brought back a memory of sensations so sharp and wild that I knew my strange compulsion had literally been shaken out of me forever!
And as I glanced towards the front of the gym, where Charles was putting a pudgy pupil through her paces, the flesh-in-blood image of my memories grinned back at me and winked. I was cured at last. I was in love.
That, as I've said, was seven long years ago. Charles, since then, had graduated from law school and made me his wife. I still loved him deeply. But now, after all these years, I could sense the same vague uneasiness in myself that I'd felt when that "following whim" had gradually turned into an addiction. Was it possible that (on such short exposure) I was in the process of becoming addicted again?
CHAPTER 8 Birth of Obsession
Janet and Rebecca dropped in on me the next morning; they were brimful of energy and good spirits and they wanted me to go with them to "show Rebecca the sights."
I went. And for three days straight we showed Rebecca practically every "sight" that Los Angeles had to offer. It was an exhausting tour. But I enjoyed it. Rebecca was tireless. She kept us running from one attraction to the other, and her enthusiasm seemed to grow with every passing hour. She had a keen curiosity. She'd cock her head to one side when we were showing her something or explaining something, and you could tell by her eyes that she was absorbing all of it. Her questions were never trivial, nor was she given to the usual platitudes, such as: "Isn't that magnificent?" or, "Isn't that amazing?" or, "What'll they think of next?" In fact she rarely commented on anything; she'd merely nod slowly, as if she were digesting the information by some silent inward process of her own.
But as we went from place to place, and I'd steal glances at Rebecca's graceful hips, or purposely bump against her when we were walking, or press my thigh against hers when we were riding, or touch her hand when we were having lunch, or catch her pungent redolence in an elevator, or look into her fathomless intense eyes over a cocktail, or deliberately stare at her breasts when I knew she was aware of it, or at her mouth when she wasn't aware, of it ... I realized that (like seven years back) I was once again bordering on obsession. The ubiquitous little gal was becoming my raison d'etre, my very reason for living.
Sitting across from her at lunch I would say something that would provoke her gay laughter; then I'd bend close and catch the gusts of her exploding breath and breathe them into me and hold them, reveling in even this tenuous absorption of her. I'd listen to her voice with the rapt awe of a music student listening to a Bach fugue. Or gaze at her calves with the fascination of an art lover perusing the original Blue Boy. Or watch her mouth when she talked, as avidly and attentively as a deaf mute. Or walk beside her step for step and feel a joyful empathy in our mutual rhythm and in the knowledge that we were moving together in like fashion. Or walk behind her and watch her hair bounce, and imagine my face pressed against that hair. Or touch things she'd touched (deriving a cogent thrill the second day when she'd been unable to finish a sandwich she was eating and had given it to me). I had lingered over it, chewing it slowly, masticating each bite until it dissolved to a mere paste and then swallowing it with regret. Crossing streets I would hold her arm and glare malevolently at motorists if they approached us too closely. I was her protector.
The odor of her was as provocative and fresh and pleasurable as freshly opened coffee. It was an exotic odor. The scent of faraway places and strange, forbidden concoctions and incense. At times, in close places, her scent was rather unpleasant. Pungent, like wormwood. But even then I breathed it in in masochistic reverence. And once, in the car with my thigh pressed firmly against hers, I caught the unmistakable acrid scent of aroused sexuality. I had been unable to talk for awhile; I'd answered several questions by nodding knowingly or shrugging stupidly. And Rebecca had recognized my state; she'd teased me by crossing her knees so that her skirt had pulled high. And she'd laughed mockingly.
During those three days I became as familiar with Rebecca's face and body as an artist becomes familiar with his model. Even though she was fully dressed (and I'd seen her before without clothes) I studied her outlines and hollows and contours with such an all-engrossed intensity that she might as well have been quite naked (my memory as well as my imagination combined and filled in details with the efficiency and exactness of a camera).
Her throat was a bit long, and yet as full and vital as a Mogdiliani subject. Her shoulders were of medium width, softly rounded, far back, giving her an erect posture and causing her breasts to jut out flagrantly. Her waist was ridiculously small. I've never seen a smaller waist. And it was as lively and pliable as a willow-branch. (It was the slimness of her waist that gave you the illusion that she was a bit too large in the hips and breasts.) Her breasts, as I've said, were exceedingly high and firm and large.
But they were far more than that. They had that jaunty air about them that made you really crave to take them in your hands and lift them and jiggle them and pinch them. Their shape had that taunting quality that caused even women to turn and stare quite openly (which irritated me beyond measure). They bounced just a little when she walked, and (though they weren't that large) they seemed forever to be on the verge of bursting right out of whatever she was wearing. Her hips had the most succulent flare ever! They were deeply dimpled and her skirts molded to their rises and hollows as smoothly as wet silk. Her thighs were large. Some would say that they were too large, even fleshy. But even through her skirts you could tell they were as firm and lean as choice ham-hocks. Her calves were large too. But here again there was none of the softness or flabby excess that one associates with largeness. They curved down into tight, small ankles, and her tiny feet added to their allure. But it was her mouth that my eyes turned to again and again! That sensual droop of lower lips! Those small, gleaming-white teeth! That red, lascivious tongue that kept peeking out at you and teasing you and making your own lips twitch with nervous need! When she'd laugh her upper lip would tremble and sort of pucker out at you. And when something displeased her the corners would draw down a little and her chin would tremble like a spanked child's. When she'd say "Oh," she'd pucker both lips way out, in the fashion that a young boy drinks soda-pop. And when she'd say "yes," you'd get the whole treatment: her lips would part, her tongue would flirt with you for a brief instant, her lower lip would stretch and widen and she'd look for the moment like a devious pixie. (It was towards the end of the third day that I saw her yawn; her mouth opened wide and rather crookedly; her lips pulled back over her teeth and quivered there for a spell; then she closed her mouth slowly and set her lips primly. And I reeled! I actually staggered! Suddenly that simple yawn had represented the epitome of oral sexuality and it set me back on my heels like a slap in the face!) We stopped at a drive-in a little later and ordered chicken-in-a-basket, and watching her bite into a drumstick and then quickly flick her tongue out to remove some crumb from her lips was sheer torture.
By the evening of that third day I knew that I was really dangerously near obsession. Rebecca occupied my every waking thought. I could pretend to be considering other things; when Charles talked to me I could focus my attention long enough to give him some sort of answer. But it was all pretense. A curious thing, though. Now that I'd admitted to myself that indeed I was becoming obsessed with Rebecca I no longer seemed to fear it. In point of fact I was smugly satisfied (even happy) that I had chanced upon such a delightful raison d'etre.
It's occurred to me since, that at certain points in our lives we welcome any vast change (even negative ones or terribly dangerous ones; such as, for instance, when a man runs off to war. Boredom is what kills us in the end, and we instinctively turn to any diversion (even perversion) to escape the noisome monotony of a seemingly meaningless existence. Rebecca, with her breathtaking loveliness and strange, compulsive personality, offered me release from boredom. And the physical fact of my bisexualism made it natural and easy for me to turn to her for the change I evidently sought.
Every need for change implies a discontent. Rebecca then was the "winner" of my discontent.
I've said that Rebecca had begun to occupy my every waking thought. And so she had. But I've neglected to mention that she haunted my brain in that lurid limbo land between wakefulness and sleep. Once asleep, fully asleep, I don't recall ever dreaming of her. But then I've never been an active dreamer. (At least I can seldom recall having dreamt when morning rolls around.) But in that drifting haziness that divides wakefulness from sleep my brain conjured up Rebecca and laid her out in every frame of sexual reference. Charles' sleep-warm form beside me was metaphorsed; I was with a wildly willing Rebecca, and we dallied as persons can only dally in day-dreams. By some perverse alchemy I was even able to change Charles' masculine odor into the acrid scent of Rebecca in heat.
My bacon and eggs of a morning were ingested with nebulous surds that whispered "Rebecca". I did dishes and then dusted and cleaned and all with a rhythm and beat that repeated "Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca". I saw her on TV; she was every lovely heroine and every lusty lass that commercial medium could vaunt. I injected her name into songs and sang them while I showered and moaned them while I ... something else. But had I known then, had I the slightest inkling, that Rebecca could be idolized or worshipped or loved only in the sense that a statue or other work of art might be idolized, worshipped or loved ... I would've perhaps had the sense to quit before I began. But I learned the hard way. And I learned ... well ... that's the rest of my story.
CHAPTER 9 Tension in Paradise
It was on a Friday afternoon (two days after our sight-seeing tour) that Rebecca and Janet dropped over. ... dressed for action. When I answered the door and saw them standing there in tight sheath dresses and smiling like thieves after a successful theft, my heart began pounding wildly and my knees went all weak and rubbery.
"Hi, Doris," Janet smiled. "Rebecca suggested we come over for awhile and. . join you."
Rebecca's ironic chuckle lifted the hairs at the nape of my neck as they walked past me. "Yes," she said, "and I really meant that, Doris. Both literally and figuratively. ... we'd like to get with you."
Well, as sometimes happens when something you've looked anxiously forward to finally begins, I was at a loss for words. I blushed like a school-girl and everything I said sounded either trite or downright foolish. Janet saved the day. She was familiar with my laconic lapses; she knew I was terribly excited.
"Let's all have a drink. D'you have any bourbon, Doris?"
"Oh, yes!" Rebecca exploded. "Mix us three bombs, Doris! That sounds like fun."
I mixed them. And they were "bombs", too. The activity gave me a chance to calm down a little, and it wasn't necessary that I talk. I silently thanked Janet for her presence of mind.
The bourbon made things right. I loosened up. Half way through a second drink I was in command again; I talked and joked and laughed effortlessly, and I looked forward to what I was sure would be a delicious experience with the easy aplomb of a tart about to take on her thousandth trick. (I was calmly excited.)
Rebecca seemed unusually talkative; I had the impression as I listened to her and watched her that she was as tense and tight as an over-wound watch. She gestured wildly with her hands on every point, and her eyes were so bright they actually glittered. But, as usual, I couldn't keep my eyes off her mouth. (Whenever the beauty of the female becomes irresistible it is usually traceable to a single quality. This quality, often as not a physical defect, can assume such unreal proportions that in the mind of the beholder her staggering beauty is doubled and tripled. One can become addicted to this "single quality" just as surely as if one were in the clutches of a dangerous narcotic.)
"Drinking makes Rebecca really talkative, eh, Doris?" Janet remarked with a smile.
"Yes, but I like to listen to her. She's interesting," I replied.
"Thanks, Doris," Rebecca looked at me. "Sometimes I say anything at all ... though in a way I mean it too. You understand, don't you."
"Perfectly," I nodded. "You're utterly spontaneous, Rebecca. That's one thing I like about you. You're spontaneous and ruthlessly truthful. It's an irresistible combination."
"It's my philosophy, that's all," she shrugged. "When I was fourteen I worked out an ideal universe, all on my own. It was very simple: no property, no money, no laws, no police, no censors, no government, no soldiers, no executioners, no prisons, no schools. I eliminated every disturbing and restraining element. Perfect freedom. A vacuum. And in it I've been able to explode in any direction my whims take me."
"Sounds wonderful," I said, noticing that she'd allowed one amber-hued thigh to emerge from the folds of her robe. I caressed it with my eyes. But when she spoke again my gaze flew back to her mouth.
"I think most of us are terrorized half the time ... I mean we terrorize ourselves. We exist under a kind of psychic pressure, a soggy wet blanket that smothers us from the time we're born. And because we hate our condition, our situation, we hate ourselves. So we invent morals. We make droves and droves of impossible to follow rules. We're sick, but instead of admitting it and trying to honestly deal with it we retreat deeper and deeper into comfortable ruts of conformity and tradition and precedent and all the other blind alleys that dishonest people hide in. We resort to cliches. To shibboleths. We're afraid of sex because we're really afraid of the very life force that made us. We've become so damned sophisticated and obsessed with education that our teachers talk coldly of sexual thrills without ever having experienced any themselves. We're artificial. A guy named Darwin taught us that we're really only animals, and we waste our lives and turn ourselves neurotic trying to make a liar out of him. Why? To protect our kids from becoming brutalized or perverted? What a laugh! We give them toy machine-guns and hand-grenades for Christmas and make heroes out of hired killers on TV and then turn around and blame sex magazines for turning them into sadistic monsters. Sex gets blamed for everything! Any kid who wants it bad enough can get ahold of booze or cigarettes or even dope. The booze can poison him and kill him. The cigarettes can give him cancer. But the moralists don't deal in plain facts. They feel dirty and corrupt about their own sex-lives, so sex in any form ... magazines, books, movies, whatever, is what they attack. They hate and despise corruption, they claim. Yet any competent psychologist can tell them that what they actually hate and despise is the inadequacy of their own mean little lives."
Rebecca's tension had increased as she talked; her neck was corded and her fists were clenched. In empathy with her I felt tense myself. And Janet's breathing, I noticed, had become fast and irregular and the scar on her cheek was a livid red.
"You should write a book, Rebecca," Janet ventured, but the smile she'd affected to lighten her suggestion was as devoid of levity as Rebecca's words.
"Why? Nobody would read it. Not unless I filled it with either violence of phony sex. I wanted to write once. I wanted to paint. I wanted to become an artist in every sense of the word. But after being told by several successful writers that their secret was to simply write conformist soap-operas with a dash of sex, I gave up the idea. There's enough of that stuff around now. I don't fit the pattern of the book-a-month-club writer any more than I fit the sex-in-its-proper place baloney devised by censors and moralists. It's the same with Painting. If I were to paint a nude of a man as he really is, I couldn't find a buyer for it anywhere. The consumers of art, with rare exceptions, aren't looking for honesty or truth. They couldn't hang it on their living-room walls, it might pervert the minds of their children. But who are they kidding? They know that kids are going to learn all about life and sex anyhow. But instead of teaching them through the examples of art and literature and beauty they let their kids pick it up as they have for many, many generations ... from the gutter ... through filthy, sadistic jokes. It's whispered furtively that self-love is evil, so ninety nine percent of our adolescents secretly imagine themselves to be debased. And when sex is taught it's treated with the sangfroid of an appendectomy. It's an operation, performed purely and simply for the results of conception. All its aspects of tenderness and beauty and creativity are twisted into mathematical calculations and laboratory statistics. No thanks, Janet. No writing for me. I'll pacify my creative urges by living my own life as freely and artfully as I'm able. I love life. I love the thing that gave me life. Sex. I'm not afraid of it. There is nothing evil or immoral about two persons or twenty persons getting together for pleasure. The only time that sex is immoral is when it's a forced issue ... when there's unwanted violence or force connected with it. As long as there is mutual pleasure and a feeling of sharing and cooperation there is nothing basically lewd about any act of sex."
"Let's act then!" I exclaimed. I was feverish!
The heat in Rebecca's words had radiated outward and I'd absorbed it as surely and directly as if I'd been standing before a blazing fire! Towards the end of her volatile monologue her voice had grown nasal and sing-song; the effect had stimulated me as a sexual fillip, and the words "Let's act then" had sprung from my lips with the spontaneity of a reflex-action. One quick glance at Janet told me I wasn't alone in my feelings; the scar on her cheek was purple now and she was breathing high in her chest. Her eyes were mere slits.
"Undress me then, both of you," Rebecca rose and stood facing us. "But take your time, please. We're in no rush. I love being attended. Toyed with. Made over. But do go slowly."
Janet's breath exploded as she rose; I was trembling like a dried leaf in the wind and had to catch hold of Janet's arm for support as I stood up. We reached for Rebecca with the hesitant eagerness of beggars reaching for alms. Her blouse. I managed the top three buttons. Janet the two lower. Her brassiere. Janet unhooked it. I lifted it from her and let it drop to the divan. Her breasts. I gazed at them and wet my lips and it was only by an extreme effort of will that I could restrain myself from burying my face between them and holding those massive nipples with my tongue. Rebecca smiled and touched them herself, running her fingers lightly over and around the nipples so that they began to move and crawl erect; in a matter of seconds they stood out like two large red erasers and my fingers fairly trembled to touch them.
Her skirt. Janet unbuttoned it and unzipped it. I slipped it down, letting my fingers trace the outside edge of one thigh as I did so. Rebecca stepped out of it. I bent to pick it up, and in so doing I caught a whispered hint of the vapor given off by nylons and garter-belt and ... Rebecca. I straightened quickly, my head swimming. She smiled. She knew what had happened. She stepped back two paces and said, "Look at me. Do you think I have a provocative body?"
She was teasing again; I'm sure Janet knew it too. But who cared? It was delightful being so teased. I devoured her with my eyes, aware (and not caring) that a gooey stream of spittle was beginning to run from a corner of my mouth and down my chin. I nodded and tried to say yes, but all that came out was a hiss; Janet cleared her throat and managed a garbled affirmation: "Uh-huh, you sure have, Rebecca."
"Shall we leave my nylons and heels on?" she asked.
"Yes, please," I said, "and your garter-belt too."
"How about these," she put her hands to her waist, "my panties?"
"I'll get them!" Janet's action suited her words as she quickly kneeled and slipped down Rebecca's panties, and then, like an adult administering an affectionate peck at the drooling lips of a child, Janet's face was hidden for a brief lip-smacking instant and, noncommittantly, Rebecca's strident chuckle rippled forth (like a series of cascading grunts).
"Now you two," she said. "It's your turn to undress each other. I'll watch."
We worked swiftly, mechanically. We'd both been titillated beyond endurance by Rebecca's heated monologue and by undressing her. Our minds were on Rebecca and Rebecca alone, and any unnecessary delays or detours were no doubt as odious to Janet as they were to me. A hot, pulsing chill-thrill passed through me though when Janet, drawing my own panties, repeated the same pecking tribute she'd given Rebecca. And I opened like a night flower.
As Janet and I finished undressing one another, Rebecca put one hand on each hip and stood with her thighs parted widely. The position was aggressive; even her expression was a bit scornful and domineering as she chuckled deep in her throat and said, "Okay, let's play. Help yourselves, girls. But be gentle. I don't like roughness. And I do so love to be kissed and kissed and kissed."
That's all I needed. I stood there for a brief moment and took her in: those nylon-clad thighs and calves, those high spiked-heels, that tiny waist with its puckered navel, those ripe breasts with their rose-bud nipples, those lovely deep-rounded buttocks, that sensual face with its intense dark eyes and full-lipped, succulent mouth. I felt a sudden visceral trembling. I saw Janet kneel and heard her moan once as she began. And then I began-and it was like no other beginning and no other end that I had ever imagined. I was in paradise.
CHAPTER 10 A Sadistic Overture
Most of us can, I suppose, remember some perfect day in our lives-some ideal period when life seemed almost unbearably sweet. There was no friction. Every moment was superb. Well, in my own memory that Friday afternoon with Rebecca and Janet stands out as such. I learned about love. I learned about pain.
Janet, as I've said, initiated the first dalliance. But I didn't mind. I felt blissfully patient, and Rebecca's mouth offered itself as an exciting and pleasurable preliminary. I kissed her. A light, lip-teasing kiss. She groaned slightly.
"Lick my face, Doris," she whispered urgently. "Everywhere! My eyes, my nose, my cheeks! I love being licked."
And so, with the tip of my tongue, I traced the lines of her cheeks and the hollows of her eyes and lingered long and ardently over her lips, forcing them apart with my tongue and sliding it in and out of her mouth slowly, sinuously. Her eyelids were faintly salty and her lips had the honeyed fragrance of ripe peaches. She moaned and sighed and, though she was probably responding more to Janet's kiss than to mine, I felt a surging acceleration of pleasure in knowing that she was pleased and happy and that I had evoked (at least partly) those ecstatic moans and sighs. Pulling her lower lip into my mouth I chewed on it and sucked on it; then up to her nose, biting it gently, sucking it greedily; then her ears, kissing their lobes, biting them, reeming them out with my tongue. I made love to her face! I licked every inch of it, gently, then hard, then hungrily, savagely. Nibbling down her chin I began to take small vicious nips at her throat. She seemed to like that. She put her hand to my head and caressed and stroked it as if I were a pet, an animal, a kitten. "You, now, Doris.
Change places with Janet. I want you to kiss me, Doris. There."
"Oh, yes, yes," I heard my terse reply, and it was the voice of an utter stranger.
We traded places. Janet, as she rose, was smiling that silly smile one sees on the lacuna faces of idiots. "Like a pot of honey," she murmured, and then I was out of ear-shot; indeed I was out of everything save the mindless bliss that my inchoate kiss engendered. Thigh enveloped, I was unable to resist a sort of gurgling cry of victory as lip met lip in that most arcane of fleshly contacts. "There" I was. Finally. I'd made it. I'd arrived. I nestled in and cooed like a homing-pigeon. Home. In labyrinthine quarters. Soft throbbing assailed me and I felt the gentlest most unaggressive tenderness that I've ever felt in my life. The words of a rather infamous Lesbian's poem wafted through my mind zepher-like:
The cradle of my woman's thighs, The lambent flame that lights her eyes, These attributes though fine and fair, Are secondary when I'm ... there. Her sighs, her flow, her delta's flare, Where I panting lay my head to rest, Are sweet and taunting, wild and rare. And down again to lordly sin To plumb the riches of that nest To seek the ravings of the blest. I was in no-man's-land and I traveled with the light-footed buoyancy of the contrite prodigal. I luxuriated like a sybarite. A ravenous gourmand I wallowed willfully and with the joyous zest of fulfilled yearning; my delights the delicious ones that are detonated by a realized desideration. The land of milk and honey. The scented undergrowth where dire and deadly vapors rose like steam from hot pavements and where melifluous mucilage libated like the lascivious sweats of a succubus. Excuse my poesy. But "tongue-tied" as I was then, my memories of that tryst demand I use mauve words. And then, as she began to speak to me (like an angel dropping words of encouragement to a lowly outcast), I felt that I was receiving the fondest compliment of my life (but I wondered why she didn't throw at least a crumb to Janet who, above me, was nibbling at Rebecca's breasts).
"You love your work, Doris. I can tell. Believe me, you're an artist. You were born to kiss. And you've been much on my mind, Doris. And I've been on yours. I can tell. That's good. We'll have adventures, you and I. We'll explore every devious path and try every so called perversion before I leave. Oh! Oh, yes, Doris! I love it when you do that. Bite a little. Yes. Oh, yes! No, Janet. Not you. Don't bite. My nipples are tender. Oh, yes, That's nice. You're both terribly sweet."
My ears began to ring and I was beginning to pant so hard that I became a bit uncomfortable. I couldn't seem to get sufficient air. Suddenly my head began to whirl and I felt drained of strength; I felt myself falling backwards. I reached for her thighs but my hands slipped. I felt the helpless lassitude and stupid weakness that one feels after a prolonged bout of laughter. The next thing I knew I was on my back and Rebecca and Janet were peering anxiously down at me. I knew I'd blacked-out for a second or two.
"Are you okay, Doris?" Janet was repeating solicitously. I nodded and sucked in several great draughts of air and my strength returned.
"You darling!" Rebecca's eyes were wide with reverence. "You let me nearly smother you! Are you sure you're all right now?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm fine."
"Good," she nodded. "Just take it easy for awhile. Relax. I'll come down there and ... do you."
An involuntary moan escaped my lips when I felt that first feather-touch of hers. The muscles in my buttocks and thighs contracted and I rolled my head from side to side like one undergoing some exquisite form of torture. And for a few tense moments I actually was in pain. The realization of what she was doing combined with the first tenuous touch of her lips and sort of turned me inside out. It was as if every nerve-end in my body had congested there and they were as over-sensitized as the petals of some fantastically fragile flower. I doubt if she was there more than half a minute before I felt the first faint pulsing of pinnacle. And from those first faint stabs to the gigantic jolts of journey's end was a trip of perhaps a mere ten seconds.
But during that evanescent span I experienced a lifetime of sensation! Every erogenous zone in my geography was tickled by ten-thousand feathers and my very teeth gnashed together in the biting, snapping convulsions where madness and sanity coalesce in blind brotherhood.
I screamed. I remember Janet's look of fear and resentment as I rent the air with my siren-shrill squeals of ineffable torment and joy. She looked at me as a woman or a child looks at a slimy reptile or as a prejudiced southerner looks at a Negro who has just cursed him obscenely or like one who has just bitten deeply into an apple and found it to be rotten and wormy to the core. I flinched inwardly.
"Good lord, Doris! The neighbors! They'll think someone's being murdered!" she cried down at me, frowning deeply.
"I'm sorry, Janet," I hissed. Then I closed my eyes and silently enjoyed my slowly ebbing spasms and I eased down into those soft after-pleasures of finality and relief.
As the last little twitches died away I opened my eyes in surprise and chagrin to see that Janet was crying. She was standing there over us, sobbing, and tears were flowing down the deep lines in her cheeks. She appeared dreadfully agitated.
"What's wrong, Janet?" I asked, pushing gently at Rebecca's shoulders so that I could rise.
It flashed through my mind that she was probably hurt or jealous; most likely because of Rebecca's obvious preference for me. But in the next few seconds she dispelled that doubt and it was my turn to look at her with vast surprise and dismay.
"It's because of what I want you to do. You'll both hate me for it," she shrugged, and then loosed several heart-broken sobs.
I had risen; so had Rebecca. I glanced at Rebecca and was further amazed to see that she was smiling. "I know what Janet wants," she said. "She wants us to spank her. Right, Janet?"
Janet's tear-filled eyes opened wide. "How'd you know that, Rebecca?" she asked.
Rebecca shrugged and smiled. "I could tell by your look when I was flattering Doris. You enjoyed being left out. You like being hurt, Janet. That's why you don't mind having me stay with you. You'd enjoy it if John made love to me in front of you. In short, Janet ... you're somewhat of a masochist. Oh, don't get me wrong. I approve. I myself hate being hurt ... but I do love to hurt others. I'd love to spank you, Janet."
To say that I was confused and astonished is putting it lightly. I had known Janet for nearly five years, and I'd certainly never suspected that she'd enjoy being-mistreated. And now-to learn that Rebecca (who'd said she hated force or violence) derived pleasure from punishing someone ... it was just too much to absorb all at once. I was more than a little shocked.
"You're both kidding, aren't you? I ... mean ... neither of you really like that sort of thing;" I looked at them, from one to the other.
Janet's face was beet-red. She nodded slowly and said, "Yes. I can't help it. I like to be spanked. John does it for me now and then. But ... I'm sure I'd enjoy it more from a woman."
I looked at Rebecca. "And you actually get a kick out of ... hurting people?"
She laughed. "Not just anyone," she said. "I need to sense that the other person wants me to.
You, for instance, Doris. You'd hate being spanked or hurt by any form of sadism. But somehow I've got this sneaking hunch that you'd enjoy helping me spank Janet right now."
"No," I replied. "I wouldn't. I'm sure I wouldn't."
Rebecca suddenly seemed to be regarding me with an almost supercilious distaste and irony. I shivered and looked away from her. She snorted. "How can you be so sure, Doris? What makes you think you really know yourself? None of us do, believe me. We're too close to ourselves to be objective. We're full of preconceived ideas about ourselves that are usually completely divorced from the real truth. I know you, Doris. I've met you before in other women. like I've said before ... every woman has a little sadism in her. You're a tease, Doris. Just like I am. The way you ... kissed me awhile ago ... I could've never made it and you knew it. You nearly drove me crazy, Doris. Oh, sure, it was good. It was fabulous! But it was a form of pure torture. Pure sadism." She paused and shrugged, then went on. "But that's okay, Doris. You'll see. Just watch me while I oblige Janet. Perhaps you'll change your mind, Doris. Come on, Janet. I'm going to give you a damned good spanking. I know that's what you want. You're panting for it. And I'm just the gal to give it to you. Come to mama," she beckoned to Janet, and I was reminded of the fable of the spider and the fly. (But what a ravishing spider! And what fun it had been being tangled in her web.)
CHAPTER ll Nudist Perfection
My thoughts were conflicting as Rebecca sat down and Janet lowered herself like an overgrown child across her lap. I was, as I've said, shocked to learn that the two of them could derive enjoyment from so seemingly brutal an act. But the fact that they appeared so pleased and anxious to begin the thing (for "thing" it was to me then) confused me more than it shocked me. What possible pleasure could one get from either absorbing or administrating pain? (I was, of course, terribly naive at that time.) But I learned. Very soon.
Janet's plump ass looked as vulnerable and soft as two pink balloons; she wriggled restlessly and then, in a voice I scarcely recognized, cried, "Swat me, Rebecca! Hurry! Spank me hard!"
Rebecca's usually warm eyes had grown cold as gems. Her mouth, I noticed with a twinge, was pulled grotesquely awry. She looked savage, mean, vengeful. But it came to me on the instant that I had never seen her look quite so much in character before. It was as if savagery and viciousness were her normal nature and that now, for the first time, I was seeing her fly her real colors. She was breathtakingly beautiful! That glint in her eyes lent an authority to her features and enhanced them (a look that was somewhat missing in her usual rather pliant, half-smile of acquiescence).
Rebecca raised one hand high to strike the first blow; Janet gasped and lifted her bottom as if to shorten the distance. Down came Rebecca's open hand! Crack! And the swat brought an immediate red flush to the cheek she'd hit. Janet loosed a growling moan from between clenched teeth and I saw a rippling spasm pass over that spanked rotundity. Crack! Crack! Wack! Three more blows fell, reminding me of the sounds a large book makes when it's closed hard in anger. And with each blow Janet jerked and moaned like a tormented cat.
On and on it went. Rebecca's hand would rise, hesitate for a moment, then come down in a blurred arch and make a resounding smack, and I would shudder and Janet would moan and Rebecca's eyes would glitter like a cat's in the dark and her mouth would twist in a savage snarl. It was madness! But a greater madness was soon to follow.
Suddenly Rebecca stopped. Both hands resting on Janet's sorely abused buttocks, panting heavily, she looked at me and said, "Does this really sicken you, Doris? Come, tell us the truth. Admit you'd like to get in some swats of your own. Come on. I'm sure Janet won't mind turning the other cheek. Try a whack or two, Doris."
"Well, I ... don't know, Rebecca. I ... I just don't know," I stammered foolishly and looked down at my hands.
"Yes you do, Doris. You're lying to us and to yourself. Come on. Just a little swat or two. I know you'll get the surprise of your life if you do. Be a sport."
"Yes you do, Doris. You're lying to us and to yourself. Come on. Just a little swat or two. I know you'll get the surprise of your life if you do. Be a sport."
I wanted to. And Rebecca knew it, too. A strange welling feeling had gradually set in as I had watched Rebecca's flailing hand. I had begun to feel that fearful excitement that you feel as a kid before jumping off something high on a dare. I'd recognized the feeling as a form of passion (or lust). But it was a weird sort of passion and it scared you as much as it pleased you. It tempted and frightened at the same time.
"Go ahead, Doris," Janet spoke up. "I'd love it if you would. Oh, please, kid. I'd do it for you if you asked me. Go ahead. Spank me, Doris! You'll be doing me a favor, believe me. Just try it once, please."
I walked up to them and Rebecca obligingly removed her hands. "Give it to her, Doris," she urged. "A nice swift swat. You won't be sorry."
I looked down at those upturned cheeks and saw how red and welted they were and a feeling of anxious pleasure surged through me. I knew she was in pain. Those raised welts must've stung like hell. But by some mysterious twist the knowledge and sight of those hurts combined to bring me joy and pleasure. My forehead felt cool and clammy with perspiration; my hands (seemingly of their own volition) opened and closed tensely, slowly. My throat became dry. I bent over slightly, raised my right hand, hesitated, then brought it down viciously against the reddest of Janet's quivering cheeks. Crack! The sound and the feeling of impact were one and the strangest sort of thrill went vibrating up and down my entire length. (I literally felt it all the way down to my toes.) It was sort of like the chill one feels after a bad scare, except that it left me feeling strong and anxious instead of weak and anxious. And in its wake there followed an emptiness that evoked a powerful hunger to feel it again.
"That's it, Doris!" Rebecca exclaimed triumphantly. "Now again! Give her hell! That's what she wants!"
Janet twisted her head and looked up at me; her eyes were bloodshot with repressed tears but she smiled and said, "That felt so good, Doris. Go ahead, now. Please, doll. Beat me. Give me all you've got."
"I'll help you, Doris," Rebecca said. "Come on, we'll alternate swats."
And so it was that a moment later I was whaling away at the already terribly bruised and lacerated bottom of my best friend. And my neighbor. (An energetic example of "neighborly love" in action.) And with each palm-stinging swat that strange thrill seemed to permeate my own flesh with every increasing intensity and pleasure. Janet was groaning loudly; you could hear pain and pleasure in the tone of it. Rebecca's hand, I noticed, was as red and raw as Janet's bottom. And my own hand was beginning to burn painfully. I ignored it though. Any pain was paltry compared to the sweet sweats of pleasure that my action evoked. And then, quite suddenly, I felt the beginning ticklings of peak. I reached for it by spanking harder and faster, and when I made it both Janet and Rebecca seemed excited beyond measure; they joined me, and the three of us snorted and squealed and groaned and hissed in an event that was precipitated entirely through the giving and taking of pain. And so acute were my own tweakings that my spanking arm went limp and I leaned over and plastered my mouth against Rebecca's. It was an electric kiss, that one. Our tongues fluttered together like the wings of a dying moth as we gibbered our climatic glee into each other's mouths..
Finally our kiss broke and I pulled away and straightened. Janet was still trembling and sighing; her bottom looked like raw hamburger. Rebecca smiled up at me and said, "You really got 'em, didn't you, Doris?"
"Yes." I said, feeling suddenly a bit uncomfortable. Somehow it was a little embarrassing to have achieved satisfaction in such a way. I wondered if it proved anything-that I had always been some sort of pervert but didn't know it? Rebecca read my thoughts.
"I know what you're thinking, Doris. And it isn't true. I mean you're not abnormal. You're just highly sexed, a bisexual, and Janet and I brought out your latent sadism. like I said though, Doris. Everyone has sadistic impulses at times. But it's Janet here who's really unique. There aren't nearly as many who like to be hurt."
"Oh, damn I'm sore!" Janet exclaimed as she slowly rose from Rebecca's lap.
We laughed at her. She looked so funny standing there rubbing her Ibottom: like an overgrown baby.
Not bothering to dress, I mixed us all another drink and we sat and talked. It was very pleasant to be sitting there that way. There was no tension or pretense. I suddenly understood the nudist claim that nudism increases rapport and the spirit of togetherness.
I was sitting across from Rebecca and Janet and I couldn't help noticing how much lovelier Rebecca's legs and breasts were than Janet's. Indeed, Rebecca's only imperfection was her voice-it grated too much and thereby lost a good deal of its feminine quality. I realized, though, as I let my eyes sort of drift over her delicious curves, that I was probably exaggerating everything through obsession. (No one could actually be as perfect as Rebecca seemed to me.)
But right then, oddly enough, Rebecca paid me a compliment.
"Your legs are marvelous, Doris. I've never seen legs that long have such lovely curves. They're perfectly dreamy."
"Aren't they something?" Janet spoke up. "Doris tends to underrate herself, Rebecca. John's always telling me how he thinks her legs are so sexy."
"Speaking of John," Rebecca began. "I'm all for us getting together with both him and Charles for an evening of ... you know ... kicks. You girls are fine ... but I'm sure you'll agree that we could think up all kinds of interesting fun and games if the five of us got together."
"Swell!" Janet exclaimed. "But give me a couple days to get rid of my soreness. Then I'll be raring to go. How about you, Doris. You're all for it, aren't you?"
"Me? Oh, sure. Of course I am. Sounds great. I'm ready anytime." I smiled and nodded emphatically.
But was I really ready? I asked myself. Somehow the idea of sharing Rebecca with three others didn't appeal to me. It wasn't so bad with just Janet. But with Charles and John there would be (inevitably) that selfish masculine element to contend with. Before my eyes she would be the willing victim of that rutting selfishness: moaning and writhing beneath one of the other of them in an act that would exclude me completely. It had been fun, a wild scene, that first night with just the four of us-it had lent spice to what was becoming somewhat of a dull bedroom routine with Charles. But now, now that Rebecca had entered the picture, I wasn't at all sure that I'd enjoy such a free-for-all romp.
Alone with her I'd reign supreme, And spill my treasure trove of love.
We'd kiss away the hours 'til'
What's down below would rise above.
Our thighs entwined we'd lie and be
Alone through all eternity.
Just me and she ... Rebecca.
CHAPTER 12 Shame Is Sickness
It was near noon the next day that a singularly strange thing happened. I had just finished showering and was in the act of drying myself when I thought I heard Rebecca's voice. Low, coarse, she sounded as if she were somewhere in the house calling me. "Doris. Doris," I distinctly heard her repeat my name. Twice.
I opened the bathroom door and called out, "I'm in here, Rebecca. The bathroom. I'll be right out."
And then, very low, but quite clearly, I heard her chuckle: that rippling ironic chuckle that you could never really fathom. (Was she laughing at you or with you?)
I dried quickly, slipped into a robe, went out to the front room. But no Rebecca. It seemed, though, that she'd been there and left, for I thought I still detected the faint aura of her fragrance. "Rebecca!" I called out. No answer. Goose-flesh chilled over me. (Why I don't know.)
I looked out a side window. Janet's car wasn't in the driveway. "They must be out shopping," I said aloud. But no sooner had I said it than, once again, faintly but clearly, I heard her call out to me. "Doris. Doris."
"What is it, Rebecca; Where are you;" I answered, and my voice broke with a sob of downright terror and my whole body suddenly went as limp and weak as if I'd been drained of blood.
No answer. A near silence prevailed. I could hear the ticking of our front-room clock, and from somewhere outside the distant peep, peep of a car horn. I went to the phone and dialed Janet's number, and I heard a sigh of relief when someone picked up the receiver.
"Hell," I said. "Is that you, Rebecca?"
No answer. But I heard breathing and I was sure by the rather husky tone of it that it was Rebecca.
"Dammit, Rebecca! Quit playing games with me! You've scared me half to death. I'll be right over. Is Janet there with you?"
No answer. I began to hang up, but just before the receiver closed the circuit I heard that low ironic chuckle. "Damn her!" I said, feeling a hot flush of blood rise to my face and neck.
Not even bothering to put on slippers, I barged out of the house and headed next door. I was mad. I've always hated being deliberately frightened; I've never been able to consider it the least bit funny. But just as I reached with a trembling forefinger to push their front door bell, I heard the sound of a revved-up motor behind me and I turned just in time to see Janet pulling in the driveway. And ... Rebecca was with her.
They both greeted me warmly as they got out of the car. And I, my knees shaking, tried valiantly to return their greeting with at least a measure of composure and friendliness.
"We've been grocery shopping," Janet said as they approached me. "Why don't you be a jewel and get that other bag, Doris," she gestured back at the car.
I got it, glad to be able to do something that would at least temporarily hide my nearly terror-stricken state. Following them in, setting the bag of groceries on the kitchen table, Rebecca turned to me and said, "Whatever's wrong, Doris? You look as if you'd just seen a ghost or something."
"It's nothing," I said, trying to smile but not quite making it. "Just a ... a mistake. I thought I heard you ... well ... calling me. My imagination must be working overtime."
Janet laughed. "As a matter-of-fact, Doris, we were talking about you just now. Rebecca was saying all sorts of nice things about you. And she said something about calling you to come over for coffee with us. We us ... wanted to discuss having that little party with Charles and John. How about Saturday night?"
I nodded and then dropped weakly into a chair. Looking up at Rebecca I was further confused and intimidated to see that she was smiling at me like the cat who has just swallowed the canary. Her eyes were half closed, and the levity in her gaze was as devoid of real humor as the meaning behind a sick joke. I looked away quickly-but I felt my cheeks and ears grow hot with shame that was an inexplicable as the voice I had heard calling me a scant five minutes before.
"Why, you're blushing, Doris! How charming! But whatever for?" Janet's outburst only served to deepen my blush (and my inexplicable feeling of shame).
"I ... I don't know," I stammered, half truthfully. Rebecca's response to that was immediate: an ironic chuckle; the selfsame ironic chuckle I'd heard when hanging up my phone.
I realize fully that imagination can play strange tricks on us; we often think we hear or see something that just isn't there. But I had heard Rebecca call out to me twice, and that heavy breathing on the phone followed by that low laugh was really a lot to accept as imagination or mere coincidence. There simply had to be an answer. Perhaps Rebecca had called me from some phone booth while she and Janet were shopping. But if that was the answer ... how had I heard her voice, once from the bathroom, and then again in my own front room?
As we sat drinking coffee I tried to avoid looking at Rebecca. I was afraid that if I did she'd chuckle again, and that, right then, might've sent me into a nervous tantrum. (As it was I could barely hold my coffee cup, my hands were shaking so badly.)
"So you thought you heard Rebecca calling you, eh, Doris?" Janet peered at me and grinned.
"Yes," I said, "and quite distinctly, too. 'Doris, Doris', she seemed to be saying. Right now I'm still scared half out of my wits. I was so certain I heard her."
I took a chance then and glanced at Rebecca. She didn't chuckle. She looked very solemn and serious as she murmured:
"He who knows the masculine and yet keeps to the feminine will become a channel drawing all the world towards it; being a channel of the world, he will not be severed from the eternal virtue, and then he can return again to the state of inimagine."
"What? What was that again, Rebecca?" Janet gave her an astonished look.
"Never mind, Janet!" I snapped. "Rebecca wasn't talking to you! She was talking to me!"
"Oh. I see, "Janet sort of flinched; then she reddened and took a hurried gulp of her coffee.
"I'm sorry, Janet. I don't know why I said that. I guess I'm still nervous from that ... that mistake," I shrugged and gave her a contrite smile.
But truth to tell, those rude words had sort of spilled out of their own volition. I didn't know what Rebecca had meant either, so I certainly don't know why I could've even imagined she was talking to me.
"I wasn't talking to either of you," Rebecca said quietly. "That was something I learned as a child from a little book called the Tao Te Ching. The Tao Te Ching is my Bible. I'm a Taoist."
"Oh," Janet nodded, flashing me a bewildered look.
"That's Chinese, isn't it?" I asked Rebecca.
"Yes," she answered laconically.
Then, to my immense surprise, I felt her foot rub against my leg in a slow caressing fashion. She'd kicked off her shoe. She was sitting across from me. The kitchen table was a tiny one and with her knees crossed as they were her stockinged foot reached well up beneath my robe. It tickled delightfully; I managed to open my robe so that I could part my thighs wider and thereby give her a higher vantage-point to reach and caress. Glancing nonchalantly at Janet I could see she was unaware of what was happening.
"It's curious, isn't it, that Rebecca was talking about you at the same time you claim to've heard her calling you, Doris," Janet ventured.
"Yes, I suppose it is," I replied.
"I can see why it would make you feel ... well ... a little insecure," Janet added.
"Security!" Rebecca's outcry really made me jump. "There's no such thing! The person who looks for security, even in the mind, is like a man who would chop off his limbs in order to have artificial ones which will give him no pain or trouble. Security's a form of death. The person who takes risks lives more in a week than a frugal careful person lives in a year!"
Her foot, while she'd been delivering this brief but vehement indictment against security, had moved far up between my thighs, and she'd sort of fluttered it around there, as if to accentuate her words by the action. It was terribly titillating! I evoked an image of that lovely-arched foot, and I tried hard to keep my eyelids from drooping and my mouth from twitching. Janet, though (I was relieved to see), appeared to be very much interested in what Rebecca had said; she was looking at the voluptuous little temptress and nodding slowly.
"I agree with you, Rebecca. People who take chances do have all the fun," Janet said.
"And there's so much to do!" Rebecca's eyes were wide open as she began again with fervor. "There's so much to see ... to feel ... to experience! Why, in the world of sex alone there are so many fine, beautiful positions and tangents and perversions that it would take the average person a lifetime to try them all! Take fetishes, for instance. Do you have any idea how many there are; No; Well there are thousands! Take your fairly common foot-fetish. D'you resize that there are untold millions of us who can reach complete sexual satisfaction merely through some kind of foot play?"
"I've heard that," Janet smiled. "But I find it hard to believe."
"Do you, Doris? Do you find it hard to believe?" Rebecca smiled mischievously as she. asked me this.
"Me? Oh, well ... I really couldn't say. I ... oh, oh ... yes! I do believe it! Yes ... I ... I ... really do."
Rebecca's toes had found their mark suddenly; she was wriggling them with remarkable control and I was beginning to find it more and more difficult to keep a straight face. Her toes were very warm and very personal and very, very flexible and exciting. My thighs began to quiver a bit and I began to squirm around on my chair as if I had ants in my pants. Janet still didn't notice, though. She was still gazing raptly at Rebecca.
"Liking to be spanked is a fetish, isn't it, Rebecca?"
"Yes. And so is spanking. And peeking. And then there are hair fetishes and shoe fetishes and all sorts of clothing fetishes. And they're all part and parcel of the same sex drive that made all of us. Think of the average man and woman, Janet. They're satisfied to turn out the lights and bang away like animals. Oh, once in a great while I suppose they get a wild hair and the woman climbs astride or some such. But mostly its pretty much of a wham bang affair with the man getting the best of it and the woman being expected to act as if she's just been treated royally and with consummate skill. If that's sex, no thanks.. That's why I'll probably never marry. Oh, I'm not knocking it. It's fine for some. You gals, for instance, have very unusual husbands. And that's why, while I'm on the subject, that I'm so anxious for us to have our little ... party."
"Party! Party! Party! Oh, yes, yes! Let's have it right away!" I clapped my hands and nodded energetically and jerked around all over the place in a frantic attempt to disguise what was happening to me. Rebecca's toes vibrated blissfully and it was all I could do to refrain from reaching down to grab hold of that precious pleasure-sending foot.
Janet looked at me as an adult looks at a naughty child. Rebecca's ironic chuckle filled the room. I groaned openly then and gnashed my teeth and rolled my eyes and nestled against that flailing foot like a starved kitten nestles against the hand that strokes it.
"I'd say something, Rebecca," Janet said, grinning, "but I'm afraid if I opened my mouth you'd put your foot in it."
Saturday night (three nights away) was set to be "orgy night". When I broke the news to Charles, telling him that Rebecca was going to "join us", he tried to act very blase about it; he nodded and smiled faintly and said "that's nice" and then adroitly changed the subject.
He didn't fool me, though. For the rest of the evening his voice was high pitched and kind of brittle, and he paid me several little compliments he hadn't paid me in a long time. He was unusually ardent in bed that night, too-and I thanked my lucky stars that Charles didn't fit Rebecca's description of the average "wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am" type at all.
But he wasn't Rebecca. Charles couldn't've sat across from me at a table and done what Rebecca had done; he couldn't excite me to near distraction by a glance or by his voice; his mouth (while very, very nice) couldn't bring me to the peak of passion by a mere kiss. Charles was still very much my husband, and I loved him, but Rebecca had by now become the one most important thing in my life. She was my need, my quirk, my fetish, my obsession. She filled my thoughts with the same nagging cravings that I suppose a heroin addict must experience. I was hooped on her. But to illustrate just how "hooked" I was, let me tell you of two incidents that transpired on the two days preceding our planned "orgy" with Charles and John.
It was mid-morning when the first incident happened. I was at Janet's watching her do Rebecca's hair. (I envied Janet; more, I was jealous of her. She performed the job as if it were a task-and I would have dearly loved doing it for Rebecca.) In the course of the operation Janet suggested cutting a bit of Rebecca's hair at the back. Rebecca shrugged and told her to go ahead. So she did. Two raven locks. And as they fell to the floor and lay there like two black wisps of silk, I felt an irresistible urge to possess one of them for my very own. Reaching out slowly with one foot I managed to slide one of them close to me; leaning then, as if to smooth my stockings, I picked it up and stuffed it in my blouse pocket. Then, making some excuse, I went home
Once there, the door closed and locked, I pulled that shock of hair from my pocket and put it up to my face: my nose, my eyes, my lips. I bit it. I licked it. I tickled my neck with it, my ears, my tongue. I felt myself becoming calescent; a tingling flush consumed my whole body. I undid my blouse, unhooked my brassiere, began stroking my nipples with her hair. Down to my navel, running that raven shock in and out and around. I squirmed ecstatically.
I removed my skirt next. Then I sat down on my sofa and slipped Rebecca's hair under the top of my nylons. I sat there staring at it. I began to undulate my hips. Raising up, I quickly slipped off my panties; then, clasping her hair tightly between my thighs (high), I began to thresh about on the sofa like a severed worm. It was madness and I knew it. But I didn't care. That shock of hair between my thighs was indescribably thrilling and titillating and I" gave in to every primal urge that it evoked. And in my fevered mind that small slip of hair became Rebecca herself, I began moaning her name in a very frenzy of lust. "Rebecca! Rebecca; You sweet little slut! Your hair and mine are one! Together! You're where you belong! Rebecca! Rebecca! Rebecca!"
Then an even greater madness suddenly seized me! I reached down and separated a plait of hair from the rest and jammed it into my mouth where I began to chew on it and suck on it hungrily, savagely! And when the throes of peak began their pulsing stabbings I arched like a contortionist and with one frenzied finger I poked that wisp of hair where I needed it most and where my libations could oil it with the balms of utter lasciviousness, depravity and lust. And I quivered there and lived the bittersweet torments of a fanatic who is enduring the intolerable itch of a rough hair-shirt against his tenderest flesh.
And then the second incident. Going out for the morning paper I discovered a pair of Rebecca's shoes. They were heels; she'd kicked them off the evening before while she and Janet had stood at the door for some time talking to me. As I recognized them a sort of lilting thrill (like you get in a swing or on a roller-coaster) flipped my stomach. I picked them up and carried them inside.
Lifting one of them to my nose I sniffed it. "Rebecca!" I cried aloud, as the pungent scent made my senses reel. I became giddy, actually giddy with a soft personal pleasure and excitement! I brought both shoes to my face and pressed them there and breathed in their odor as if there were something tangible or sustaining in it. I kissed their toes.
They were expensive shoes. Their leather was soft and flexible and their heels were terribly high. The curve between the soul and heel was deep and dramatic. They were a dull dark brown. I sat down, kicked off my own shoes, slipped on Rebecca's. They were a little tight but they felt good on my feet. I stood up, approached a full-length mirror, lifted my skirt high, turned my feet this way and that, delighting in the effect achieved, pleasuring in the way they enhanced my calves and ankles. I was breathing heavily now.
I sat down again. I removed her shoes. Shoving one of them up beneath my skirt I pushed it between my thighs and then clamped them tightly. The leather felt warm but the sole was rough and it scratched and hurt just a little. But I liked that. (It seemed a composite of the masculine and feminine.) I brought the other shoe to my face again and-loosing a long sigh of resignation and desire-began nuzzling it with my nose and lips, like a god nuzzling the shoe of his master. I felt abject as I did this: low, utterly debased and corrupt. There was something about making love to a shoe that was horribly revolting and self-destructive. But that element, curiously enough (wretched though it was), lent me a sense of cringing servitude that I welcomed and found morbidly enjoyable. It was as if an overpowering need to feel humiliated and depraved were being exercised to their utmost limits. I was the lowest of the low, and with my tongue lolling the instep of Rebecca's shoe, and with her other clamped securely between my thighs, I was soon swept with a most salacious reward. And as I got it I sank my teeth into the toe of that shoe as a rutting wolf might bite the nape of his mate's neck. I growled nastily. I snorted. I crushed down with my thighs so viciously that I felt the tough sole of that one shoe actually give and bend a little. When it was over I lay back with a tremulous sigh. I felt effete, satiated-but at the same time I felt far from used up.
Confusing? No doubt. But all I can do is try and report what I felt. Have you every been thirsty and seemed not to be able to quench your thirst; You drink glass after glass of water, you feel bloated and full, but you're still dry; Well, that's how it was after those two perverse incidents with Rebecca's hair and shoes. I was tired, exhausted even. But perhaps because her hair and shoes were such poor substitutes I still felt the pilot-light of passion burning steadily within. I wanted the complete Rebecca. Oh, how I wanted her! And the next night I'd have her too! Even though I would have to share her ...
When Charles came home that night and greeted me with a warm hug and a kiss I felt ashamed. And that surprised me. I couldn't understand it. Why, when I had been indulging in vis a vis deviations with Rebecca and Janet (and Charles and John), should a couple of simple fetish indulgences cause me shame? It didn't add up. As far as I could see my little games had been no more perverted or worse than ordinary self-relief. Rebecca's hair, her shoes, had simple been ersatz symbols of Rebecca herself, and I had used them as such. Shame, I decided, was a strange kind of sickness; it could come and go in the twinkling of an eye but it always left you with a bad taste in your mouth (as if your tongue were coated with hair or as if you'd been chewing on someone's shoe or something).
Feeling somewhat penitent, I induced Charles to initiate a front-room (in front of TV) affair that night. It was really wild and wooly! That reserve energy I mentioned came in awfully handy. We began on our sofa, migrated to a table, ended up in front of a mirror in an upstairs bedroom. And as usual Charles had me wear a pair of heels. I saw him looking at them rather hard when it was all over and we were preparing for bed. And I wondered, feeling a stab of shame again, if he had guessed they were ... Rebecca's.
I slept rather badly that night.
CHAPTER 13 Saturday Night Orgy
And so it arrived! Saturday night! Time for "neighborly love". Orgy time! Rebecca time] But I, for some obscure psychological reason, felt as nervous and doubtful as a brain-surgeon with the palsy. By the time the hour they were supposed to be over rolled around I was damned near hysterical; so, put of desperation, I had Charles mix me a double martini, which I gulped down hastily and which helped me a great deal. A great deal indeed!
They arrived promptly at eight thirty and I received a diminutive shock when they walked in. They were all in costume! And what costumes! John was wearing a skin-tight Devil's outfit that was made of some kind of loose mesh; you could see through it vaguely and it certainly wasn't binding in certain places. In place of a spear he was brandishing an ominous looking you-know-what, and its knobby end matched the vivid red of his costume. Janet, as soon as the front door was closed, threw off the robe she was wearing ... and I gasped, utterly astonished. Except for a pair of black high-heels and black elbow high gloves ... she was nude.
"What are you supposed to be?" Charles asked her, looking her up and down leeringly.
Janet smiled, held both arms above her head, stood with her feet wide apart, and said, "I'm the five of spades. I need to be dealt with."
But Rebecca! Her costume (if it could be called a "costume") looked like something from the cover of one of those sexy paperbacks! It looked as if it were made of thin black rubber. It molded the contours of her body marvelously and it lent her an aura of the lewd-if certainly enigmatic-sexuality. I particularly liked the rather old-fashioned, lace-up-the-side booties she had on; they were extremely high heeled and were of a soft dull black leather. They looked as if they were lined with some kind of fur. They fit the curves of her ankle and calves lasciviously, and all-in-all were the most provocative part of her apparel. Her hair she'd drawn back into a severe, archaic bun; it hardened her features a bit, but I approved of it because it exposed her delightful little ears. So pink and delicate!
Charles, who was in the process of mixing us an enormous batch of martinis, stood there and rather gaped at Rebecca. He'd met her very briefly one night during that hectic three day sight-seeing tour, but I don't believe he'd seen her since.
"Charles, you're staring," I nudged him and laughed. (A forced laugh, though. I found myself in the utterly ridiculous position of being jealous of my own husband's obvious approval of Rebecca-but for the perverse reason that I wanted the lion's share of her for myself.)
"Oh, sorry," Charles turned and gave me a rather sheepish smile. (But not at all apologetic.)
Despite the costumes and our plans and the seemingly expectant mood of coming fireworks, things progressed kind of slowly. Everyone listened politely and attentively to whomever was speaking; we all laughed the light sort of spontaneous laughter that is usually prevalent when something gay or dangerous or unusual is in the offing. But for an hour and a half that's about as far as it went. Had anyone been just outside a window, listening and watching us, they would've never dreamed that a veritable sexual bedlam was about to commence. Janet, for obvious reasons, had slipped back into her robe; Rebecca and John, in spite of their suggestive regalia, were sitting there as demurely as devout parishioners. We looked for all the world like five friends having an informal evening of discussion (discounting the costumes, that is).
I'm afraid, though, that I contributed precious little to the conversation. Outside of politely nodding and saying yes or no at the proper time, I was too disturbed mentally to manage an articulate conversation. Why disturbed? Because of Rebecca, as usual. But Rebecca-more than usual-because of her outfit: those high-laced boots, that rubber vest and tights, that old-fashioned hairdo that displayed those delicate (but rather arrogantly set) little ears. And then there was always her mouth! I couldn't be around her without staring at that perfect, full-lipped rose-bud of a mouth! I was as influenced by its sensual mobility, and by those occasional glimpses of her tongue, as a willing subject is influenced by a hypnotist's eyes.
She seemed full of energy and good spirits. Her laughter kept tugging at my groin when it bubbled forth with that husky, slurring contralto, and the way she'd throw her hands about to drive home a point was enough to make me cross and uncross my knees restlessly. I remember one of her points quite vividly because I'd agreed with it so completely. John had made some joking comment about how even a lawyer had to watch his P's and Q's nowadays and not say anything to rile up his corporation higher-ups.
"That's nonsense, John, and you know it!" Rebecca began. "If you hold back your true thoughts and opinions because you're afraid they'll be unpopular with your boss, then you'd better either change your opinions or get yourself a new boss. Every good idea that a man swallows out of fear is going to rot still-born in his belly, and if he does it often enough or long enough he'll begin to fester."
"Maybe so," John had grinned at her a little patronizingly, "but at least he'll eat well. If a lawyer doesn't butter up the boss a little, he'll soon have no bread to spread any on. A corporation lawyer anyway," he shrugged and looked at Charles for confirmation.
"I see," Rebecca nodded soberly. "I suppose you think of it as a form of diplomatic compromise, eh? That it, John?"
"Well ... yes ... I suppose so," John looked a bit annoyed now. And a bit uncertain. It was out of big corporation character for him to be bandying words with an opinionated slip of a girl-be she ever so ravishing.
"Hasn't it occurred to you, John, that constant compromise will sap you of your individuality? Your 'yes man', may, like you say, eat well ... but does he sleep well and dream well and love well? I don't think so, John. I'm especially sure he doesn't love well. How can he; He's castrated himself by giving his superiors all those condescending little half-truths."
"Oh, please, John, don't do that," Janet had broken in with her snorting laugh to clear the air.
And then they'd lapsed off on some other tangent and I'd said yes and no and nodded a few times while I'd continued to steal surreptitious glances at Rebecca.
(Her words had warmed her. She was holding a martini high and sipping it with a haughty air but I noticed that her fingers were trembling slightly. Her eyes were wide and very bright and intent. Her drinks had not glassed them yet. Her forehead was furrowed; you could tell she was either thinking deeply or becoming anxious about something. That luscious lower lip was drooping a little more than usual; it looked moist and tantalizing; I wanted so to suck it and chew on it. She had her knees crossed and her hanging foot was moving slightly with her heartbeat and she was describing slow little circles with the toe of that boot. The fingers of her free hand were curled in her lap; when someone would say something she evidently thought relevant she'd straighten those fingers for a moment and then they'd slowly curl again. I longed to feel the touch of that hand; I wanted it to caress every inch of me. When she turned to listen to Charles the light from a lamp behind her made one of those pink little ears almost transparent. I wet my lips repeatedly and imagined my tongue to be exploring the delicate dividers of that delightful auditory organ. I was entranced. I rose from my chair, walked over to her, knelt down, caught hold of one of those booties in both hands, lifted it a bit and began nuzzling it and biting it and kissing it did repeating the whole while, "Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca". I vaguely heard Charles say, "Doris, what's come over you?" but I paid him no heed; I heard Rebecca's ironic chuckle, and then, for I don't know how long, it seemed to me that I was falling into a wet, dark abyss composed of rubber and hair and mouths and thighs and the rancid oils of sexuality.)
When my mind cleared I saw that our party had obviously been under way for a considerable time. Looking around as one coming out of a deep sleep, I saw Rebecca smiling down at me. She was sprawled in front of me on the sofa. Her rubber suit was off; she was, except for those boots, quite naked. Her expression was soft, loving, appreciative-and definitely post-coital. I too was without clothes.
Hearing a commotion behind me I twisted around and looked. There they were. My husband. Janet. And John. And they'd built, so to speak, an infernal triangle. Janet was sandwiched between them and all three of them wore the expectant looks of persons on the verge of winning some hard-fought game. John was still wearing the top half of his Devil's suit; Charles was nude except for his socks; Janet was still wearing those heels and long black gloves. Suddenly I felt a strange stirring; I looked back up at Rebecca and said, "Would you get Janet's gloves and put them on, Rebecca? Please. I want you to ... touch me with them."
She nodded, ever so slightly, and rose. I watched her avidly as she peeled them off Janet's arms and hands. She was bent slightly, and the sight of her dimpled bottom made my temples pound. She slipped the gloves on as she walked back to me. She was smiling strangely. down, Rebecca. I'll stand here in front of you. I want you to touch me all over with those gloves. Don't ask me why. Suddenly I just got the idea that it would feel awfully nice."
"You needn't explain, Doris. I'll do anything you want. After what you did to me ... I owe you everything."
But what the dickens had I done? I wondered. Had it been some act of worship? Some masochistic debasement? I smacked my lips then and swallowed ... (and there was one scene I knew I'd played). But then I caught my breath as Rebecca began to lightly caress my calves-and my mind whirled to the present-the past was obliterated. Everything was now!
It was the most delicious sensation imaginable! And yet it was sheer agony! There was something about those long velveteen gloves clinging to the succulent fullness of Rebecca's forearm that disturbed me deeply. And as her fingers sort of palpitated up and down my thighs and around to my bottom and then up to my breasts and neck and face ... the stroking provided a tickling that was nearly unbearable. Waves of goose flesh chilled over my entire body, and whenever she'd touch my lower stomach the muscles there would twitch and threaten to cramp. She cupped my bottom tenderly once and pulled me towards her while she ran that wet slippery tongue of hers in and around my navel. I couldn't stand that; I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her away, and she looked up at me and winked wickedly and then loosed peal after peal of ironic laughter. I shuddered. She bent then and began to kiss me ... elsewhere.
My hands on her shoulders, I rolled my head back and moaned softly-and as I did so I looked in the mirror and caught sight of the fevered trio behind me.
Janet was kneeling. Charles was standing facing her and, like me, he had his hands on her shoulders. My eyes opened wide with astonishment when I saw the enormous quantity of him she was hungrily hiding. John was behind Charles; always the ambitious lawyer he was driving his point home brilliantly and decisively. Janet's eyes were crossed-evidently from the strain of her heroic absorptions. Charles was muttering something beneath his breath and a thin trickle of spittle was drooling down his chin. John's mouth was agape and his tongue was lolling like a rutting dog's; indeed with that top half of his Devil's costume still on and his hairy buttocks bobbing brutally he reminded me of those dogs one sees wearing a red vest on cold days.
I looked down at Rebecca and at the sight of her sweet face dipping so lovingly a profound feeling of tenderness overwhelmed me. I lifted my hands from her shoulders and poked a forefinger in each of her ears. She liked that, I could tell. She moved forward with a muffled groan and her gloved fingers dug into my bottom and squeezed as if she were kneading dough.
"Oh, Rebecca, Rebecca! I love you! I really do!" I whispered eagerly.
"Uh ... huh!" her muted reply was the dearest sound I've ever heard. It went straight to my brain! I nearly swooned with joy, and the soft, voluptuous raptures of culmination began their corybantic climb; soon I was caterwauling loudly and when Rebecca gave me an impudent and capricious prod with one gloved finger I plunged over the precipice and dove headlong into the limbo-land of love and lust. I dallied there long and leisurely; too long, perhaps. For, like a drowning swimmer, I went down for the third time ... and I was certain then that nothing short of a miracle could save me ... from Rebecca.
CHAPTER 14 Introduction To Fear
I'm not really sure which got me the more drunk that wild night-Rebecca or the numerous martinis I consumed. At any rate, according to Charles, I made rather a damned fool of myself over Rebecca. He refused to tell me exactly what I'd done ... but for him to disapprove (after what he'd done), it must've been terribly depraved (and embarrassing for him). He ignored me when I apologized.
I was worried. I was dreadfully worried. Rebecca was becoming the one and only subject and object that my mind dwelled on. I could no longer perform the simplest functions without relating them to her, without constructing a vicarious image of her mouth or eyes or ears or some part of her body. I'd pick up an ash-tray to dust it, and I'd immediately compare its color or finish with something I'd seen her wear once, or with some arcane part of her. I'd be shaving my legs, and I'd evoke an image of Rebecca's thighs and calves and I'd caress my own legs lovingly and whisper her name with that reverent, whining intonation with which the faithful call upon Allah.
Charles avoided me all day Sunday an I I brooded about the house like a lost soul, trying desperately to pull myself together. I felt, in truth, as if I were no longer Doris Clinton. I was losing my very identity. I had become so obsessed and infatuated with the little seductress that my very ego was growing weaker, less assertive. And when a stray thought did invade my mind, I would simply brush it aside very impatiently-regarding anything that took my attention from her with antipathy and contempt.
It was around four in the afternoon when something unexplainable happened. Something so strange and compelling ... and yet so wonderful, that I've never been the same since. Charles had left the house, mumbling something about Sunday afternoons making him sleepy and that he needed some exercise. (I'm not sure, I don't remember, but I think he went to play golf.)
I was in the kitchen; I had just made a fresh pot of coffee and was about to pour myself a cupful when-quite clearly, quite distinctly-I heard Rebecca's ironic laugh. A chill went through me. I knew she wasn't in the house because, for some reason, I had locked both the front and back doors after Charles had left. Putting down my cup, I quickly crossed over to a side window and looked out. No car in the driveway; no car in the garage. They were gone. And then I remembered Janet telling me that they were going to take Rebecca to see some relative, and that they wouldn't be home until late Sunday night.
I walked back over to the coffee pot, trembling all over, thinking I'd better hurry and drink some coffee to clear my mind. But as I was pouring I heard her again. Only this time there was no laughter. She called me:
"Doris ... come over ... come over ... I want to talk to you. Come over now, Doris."
"Yes," I replied in a loud voice, "I'll be right there."
You'll have to take my word for it when I tell you that I have absolutely no memory of walking next-door. I remember calling out in reply to Rebecca; I remember saying, "Yes, I'll be right there." But believe me I haven't the vaguest memory of walking out of my house or crossing next-door or of walking into the Evans' front room. But that's exactly where I found myself. Standing there. Scared stiff. Blinking stupidly. Hugging myself and trembling like one with malaria. I was more than scared! I was petrified!
But then I heard the unmistakable sound of water running. "The shower!" I cried out with relief. "Rebecca's home! She's in the shower! She must've been singing and called my name! Oh, Rebecca!" I shouted excitedly and hurried towards the bathroom.
The door was closed but I could see that the light was on. Twisting the knob I was relieved to find it unlocked. I flung the door open and shouted, "Rebecca! Is that you in the shower?"
"Yes," she answered, and with a long sigh of relief I sat down on the edge of the tub.
"Were you calling me a few minutes ago, Rebecca?"
"Yes. I didn't think you'd hear me though. But I'm glad you did. John and Janet aren't home and I'm lonesome I wanted to talk to you, Doris."
"What about?" The shower was full of steam but I could see her outline through the frosted shower-door. She was moving slowly and deliberately; it looked as though she were soaping her breasts. I was still somewhat shook-up, but the sight of her dried my throat immediately and made me fell all warm and anxious.
"About you and me, Doris," her voice, I thought, had turned a bit solemn.
"I'm listening, Rebecca. What about us?"
She didn't answer for some time. I saw her put the soap back in the tray and then lean back against the tile as if she wanted to take her time with what she had to say. I listened a little wistfully.
"You're not a lesbian, Doris. D'you know that? You simply are not a lesbian."
"Yes, I know that, Rebecca," I replied.
"But you're infatuated with me, aren't you?"
"Yes. I guess that's obvious. D'you mind, Rebecca?" I held my breath for her answer.
"I'm flattered, Doris. You're a lovely person. Very handsome. But I don't want to be adored or worshipped or even loved."
"Why? Why not, Rebecca? Everyone wants to be loved." I saw her move; saw her shake her head slowly.
"Not everyone, Doris. You see ... love is a form of responsibility. And not only for the lover but for the loved. It's an attachment, Doris. Oh, I know. Most of us want and need attachments. But I don't."
"What are you getting at, Rebecca? If it bothers you the way I behave around you just say so and I'll stop," I stood up, but when I saw my face in the mirror I sat back down.
"It's not that, Doris. You don't bother me ... not the way you mean. But I can feel your infatuation for me. It pulls on me like a magnet and it's always there. I can't hold myself intact that way. I'm not myself. Part of me drifts off ... to you. And that I don't like. I'm ... I'm a strange sort of person, Doris. I belong only to myself. Sex with you is marvelous. I love it. But please, Doris ... let's not complicate our sex. Let's keep it simple lust. That's enough. For me that's all it can ever be."
"But that's what it has been, Rebecca. What else could you call it?" I objected, beginning to feel an insupportable anxiety.
"No, Doris. Almost from the first I could tell that you were neurotically infatuated with me. I've been fighting it, Doris. But now it's become too strong. I came here to ... to help John and Janet. But now I'm involved with you. Let go of me, Doris. I'll love you with my body ... but leave ... that other ... alone."
"What d'you mean ... that other, Rebecca?" I stared at the shower door trying to make her out better.
"Go home now, Doris. Hurry. Please. Don't ask my why. Just go home. We'll talk about this later. Go home, Doris! Hurry! Hurry!"
I stood up and stared at her blurred outline. Her voice had sounded suddenly strange, unreal. like an echo. I could barely make her out. She wasn't moving. I could hear the water splashing against her body.
"Why, Rebecca? Why should I go home? Are you mad about something?"
"Go home! Go home!"
"Yes, I will," I said, "I'm leaving." I turned and hurried out of the room. I didn't want to hear her say that again; somehow I sensed that it would be profoundly dangerous for me to remain there with her another second.
I went home, warmed the pot of coffee I'd made, drank a cup of it, had another, and tried in vain to come up with some reasonable answer that would explain Rebecca's strange behavior. What had she meant by love my body ... but leave that other alone? Was she alluding to her ... soul? And why had she suddenly wanted me to leave? That puzzled me. But what puzzled me even more was the actual feeling I'd had that unless I did leave, and quickly, something dreadful would happen.
I must've been sitting there in rather a daze because I didn't even hear Charles walk in. I saw him, in fact, before I heard him. He was standing there in the kitchen door looking at me. And on his face was that pensive expression that one occasionally sees on the face of a tiny infant when it has just awakened from an afternoon's nap. As if to say: Who are you? Who am I? What's it all about?
"What have you been doing while I was gone, Doris?" he finally asked me (and his tone was as suspicious as a TV detective).
"Nothing. I've been right here all the time. Why?" I asked him.
"You mean you haven't been out of the house? You didn't go next door for awhile?" his expression now was almost sneering contempt.
I smiled and shrugged. He knew I'd been next-door, that was obvious. There was no use denying it. The only reason I hadn't told him about it right away was that it had seemed simpler not to. "Oh, yes. I went over and talked with Rebecca for a few minutes. Why, Charles; You're acting as if I'd committed some horrible crime or something."
"You say you were talking with Rebecca, eh?" Now his look was patronizing, with an element of pity in it. (Terribly desultory.)
"Yes. She was in the shower, I talked to her for, oh ... three or four minutes."
Charles shook his head slowly. "No, Doris. You simply went next door and turned on the shower. Then you came back here. You couldn't've been talking to Rebecca. Rebecca's been with John and Janet all day. They just pulled in when I did ... ten or fifteen minutes ago. Wait! Don't interrupt me, Doris. You were going to ask me how I knew it was you who turned on their shower. That's easy. They invited me in for a drink. But the house was full of steam and the hot water in the shower was on full force. It had to be you, Doris. No one else knows where they hide their key. And it was still in the door. Now why, why in the name of all that's holy or unholy did you do a thing like that? I'm worried about you, Doris. The crazy way you acted last night towards Rebecca. And now this. You've changed lately, dear. The way you're looking at me right now ... as if you were seeing a ghost. What's wrong, Doris? Can I help?"
"No, Charles. I'm perfectly okay. I'm sorry about last night ... and about that shower thing. I've been overwrought lately. But suddenly, Charles ... I'm beginning to feel a lot better ... a lot better. I think everything's going to be just fine from now on. Come here, darling. I want you to kiss me ... here."
CHAPTER 15 Weakness Of The Strong
The nightmarish aspects of my obsession (infatuation?) for Rebecca seemed to disappear after that weird experience. It was clear to me now that I had gradually built her into some sort of sex-goddess in my mind, and that my talking to her in the shower had been an hallucination my imagination had conjured up as a form of self-defense or escape. I had been exaggerating her desirability and my need for her to the point of near madness, and to escape that very madness I had imagined her as telling me to ease off and...." love her with my body ... but leave the other alone". It was clear to me now that-"that other"-referred to my addiction to her.
My sense of relief was exhilarating! I would still see her, we'd have sex, but now it would be simply "an act of lust". And that would be the extent of my involvement. Seven years ago I had been saved from an obsession (a fetish) by my husband; this time I had had the maturity to save myself. (One thing was obvious, though. Where "fetishes" were concerned, I was terribly susceptible; my sordid little interludes with
Rebecca's hair and shoes were evidence of that. I would have to watch myself carefully from now on.)
Charles and I went to bed early that night. I wanted more than anything to prove to him that I was still very much a responsive loving wife-and I'm sure I succeeded famously. It was after two in the morning when we finally gave up and turned out the lights-but before I did, I had the immense satisfaction of seeing Charles smile like a happy worn out little boy. I snuggled against him with a sigh, and soon drifted off in the dreamless sleep of assuaged guilt and satiation.
I knew Charles had forgiven me everything when I began to get up to make his breakfast the next morning. He insisted I stay in bed. He said he'd stop someplace and eat. I didn't argue with him. Our late, late romping had drained me and the prospect of a few more hours sleep was delicious. I drifted back almost immediately, and it was after eleven when the phone roused me with a start.
It was Janet.
"Come on over, Doris. Rebecca and I are entertaining a guest and we want you to join us."
"Oh," I said sleepily, "what sort of a guest? Man, woman or child?"
"Well ... I'd say he's a bit of the first and a bit of the last, Doris. A male ... but rather a child. You've seen him. The kid that does our lawn. He says he's eighteen ... but I'm sure he's closer to fifteen or sixteen. Really tender, Doris. He's having coffee with us ... and Rebecca's got him all hot and flustered. Hurry over."
"Okay, sounds like fun. I'll be there in a few minutes, Janet."
I took a quick hot shower, tapering the water off to cold. I brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, put on black-lace panties and a matching brassiere, put on my highest heels, and then a very flimsy robe. (I had "dressed for action", so to speak, because I'd somehow sensed that this might be a turning-point in my relationship with Rebecca. It would be a test. I would know, once and for all, whether I had indeed saved myself from apotheosizing Rebecca.) I crossed my fingers as I went next door.
He was young; He did look tender! Janet introduced him to me and he stood up awkwardly and blushed, red to the ears. Jerry Bergen was his name, and he somehow looked like a Jerry. Tow-headed, freckle-faced, his face was an adorable composite of urchin and dreamy-eyed poet. He was tall, a little underweight (but not too thin), and his hands were as long-fingered and supple as a musician's. His voice surprised me. It was full and rich and quite mature; it suggested a precocious virility. He was a pretty kid.
"We've been teasing Jerry a little, Doris," Janet told me as I sat down with them.
"Oh, what about?" I asked, glancing covertly at Rebecca. She was looking at the boy with faint amusement, but I thought I detected a hint of anxiety there too (around her mouth).
"About his love life. He insists he's never had a girl friend. Rebecca and I think he's kidding us. We've told him he's too good looking not to've had at least a dozen girls chasing him."
I looked at him and nodded. "I think they're right, Jerry. If I were your age I'd be chasing you." (And I meant it.)
He looked down at his hands and turned a deeper crimson. "Naw, girls'er nothing but trouble," he intoned. I
Rebecca's ironic chuckle had an impatient note in it; I sensed she was going to do something or say something right then that would either shatter the boy's defenses or strengthen them. Nor was I wrong.
"What d'you do for sex, Jerry? D'you play with yourself?" Her tone wasn't nearly as harsh as her words, and her expression denoted sober interest. I held my breath for his reaction.
He looked at her, blinked a few times, managed a sick smile, and murmured, "Sure, all the guys do, I guess. It's the safest."
"You're right, it is," Rebecca added, very matter-of-factly. "And it's perfectly normal too. I enjoy it myself. It's such a personal outlet. And so individual. It's becoming a lost art, though ... what with everyone's permissiveness with sex. A shame, really." The kid nodded, shrugged, and began fidgeting with his fingers. I was amazed at the way Rebecca'd broken the ice-so suddenly, so brutally, and then she'd followed through and made the break seem perfectly harmonious and even desirable. She was a wizard. I was curious to see what her next move would be. And I didn't have long to wait.
"You look as if you have strong hands, Jerry. Are they?"
"Yeah, I guess so," he held them up, looked at them and nodded. "I play a lot of basketball, and you have to grip the ball pretty hard sometimes. Makes 'em strong."
"Mm-m, I'll bet," Rebecca's tone and expression were ridiculously solemn. Then, looking at Janet, she added: "You know, Janet, I'll bet Jerry could rub out that Charlie-horse I've had all week.
"D'you think maybe you could, Jerry?" Janet furrowed her brow in a look of intense concern.
"Well ... maybe," he nodded slowly and then took a quick gulp of coffee. "I'll try, if you want," he added, putting his cup down and looking at Rebecca.
"Would you please, Jerry? I'll really appreciate it. The darn thing is a nuisance. I'm usually so active and all."
"Sure," he rose, "Where does it hurt?"
"Well, it's ... rather high on my thigh. We'd better go into the ... ah ... bedroom. I'll have to lay down so that you can ... get at it better," she rose with a small smile.
Rebecca led him to a front bedroom; she put on a limp as she walked and Janet and I, following them, were red-faced with the strain of holding back our laughter. Once there, Rebecca turned to Jerry and, smiling wanly, said, "It'll be easier if I take off my skirt. That is ... if you don't mind, Jerry," her eyes were wide and innocent.
The boy shrugged. He was trying to appear indifferent, but there were certain rising signs that the prospect of rubbing a beautiful girl's thigh was beginning to stimulate him. Janet saw the signs, too, and nudged me excitedly. I nodded back at her and winked.
I was relieved to see, as Rebecca stepped out of her skirt, that she had panties on. (It's more than possible that the boy would've bolted if she hadn't had.) With a sigh and a groan she reclined on the edge of the bed-on her back.
"It's here, Jerry. Right at the top of my leg ... on the inside," she drew up her knees and parted her thighs accommodatingly. Then she encouraged him with a pained smile.
The boy swallowed a couple of times and nodded, and a look of pious appreciation transformed his urchin features while he stared down at Rebecca's fleshy thighs. I couldn't blame him. I had never seen her look more enticing. Her panties were pink and there was a delicate lace around the legs and waist. She'd thrown her arms back over her head and her hair looked midnight black against the pillow that Janet had propped beneath her. I envied the boy.
He bent over slightly and, with both hands, encircled Rebecca's thigh and squeezed.
"Ah! Yes, Jerry! That feels good!" Rebecca sighed and closed her eyes-but at the same time she undulated her hips in a sort of slow upward thrust, a movement that was about as subtle as an earthquake.
The kid began to tremble visibly. His mouth was open and he kept licking his lips and swallowing. And those certain signs were no longer rising ... they'd risen! With one hand gripping the succulent flesh at the inside top of her thigh and the other wrapped around the flare at the outside, he was kneading and squeezing like a loving potter molds his clay.
"Oh, that feels so good, Jerry! Your hands are strong. But could you rub. . just a little higher? There. Right there! Ah! That's marvelous, Jerry," and so saying she began to agitate her hips in an up and down wiggle that was so pronounced it made the bed-springs squeak.
Jerry was actually beginning to pant! (And so was I.) Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead and his cheeks were so flushed they looked as if they had rouge on them.
Then Rebecca opened her eyes and said, "That's still not quite high enough, Jerry. Maybe if you ... slipped my panties off ....." she raised her hips obligingly and gave him a wistful half-smile.
He reached for them without the slightest hesitation and, catching hold of their waist-band, slipped them down; she lowered her bottom then and raised her legs and he pulled them completely off.
"Gosh! I ... I ... I ... mean you're sure nice'n ... nice'n white'n everything," he blinked rapidly and he was breathing so hard now that his mouth was nearly wide open. He looked foolish-but adorably so.
"But I'm not white everywhere, Jerry," Rebecca's lips formed a teasing pout.
He nodded, licked his lips and murmured, "You sure aren't. Shall I ... rub some more now?" he was fairly drooling.
"Please do, Jerry. But high. Right at the top. Yes. That's a boy. Now you're there! Oh, yes, yes! Ooops! Just my leg, Jerry, you naughty boy! Yes, there. Oh, yes! Oh, Jerry, yes ... go ahead then. I'll let you. Yes, like that. Oh, Jerry! Oh, that's lovely! Marvelous! What wonderful fingers! Oh, Jerry ... you naughty, naughty boy!"
Suddenly he stopped, straightened up, looked at me, looked at Janet. His eyes had the soft pleading look that one sees in the eyes of a cocker spaniel when faced with bewildering human authority. It was a tacit plea for help. It was a look of temptation bridled by fear of punishment or refusal ... or at least censure. And it was a look (last but not least) that invited both Janet and myself to become participants. And that, as you've no doubt guessed, was what we were eagerly waiting for.
"Go ahead, Jerry! She wants you to!" Janet suddenly cried, her voice brittle with desire. And she began to undress.
"Yes, and if you don't mind, Jerry, we'll sort of get with you. Three heads are better than one," I had my robe off before I'd finished talking.
Jerry gaped at us-from me (standing there waiting), to Janet (wriggling out of her panties), to Rebecca (undulating her fanny and leering like a wanton).
"Gosh! D'you mean...?" he swallowed and then rolled his eyes suggestively.
"Yes! Get with it, Jerry! Come down here to mama!" Rebecca's arms were outstretched toward him.
"Gosh! Okay!" he nodded, and began, rather ineffectively, to remove his clothes.
We helped him. Janet and I. And let me state briefly in passing that my feelings about the precocious tone of virility in his voice proved to be the most accurate pre-judgment I have ever made. He might've been only a boy in years ... but he was a man and a half where it counted to us right then! And Janet, who evidently placed higher value on such attributes than either Rebecca or myself, was ecstatic. She took him in hand immediately, fondling him with long drawn out ohs! and ahs! and other expressions of keen appreciation and delight.
Rebecca, though, had boiled his young blood, and so naturally she had him first. He crawled astride with the awkward eagerness of a toddler climbing aboard for his first merry-go-round ride. But once there he proved an adept equistrian; the muscles in his back-reassuringly enough-stood out boldly, giving him an indefatigable look that belied his slimness when dressed. ( A very pretty boy indeed!)
I wanted him. But truth to tell I wanted Rebecca more. Much more! I egged him on with nasty words of encouragement, the sooner to have at Rebecca myself. (I knew that Janet wouldn't stand in my way-she was wild to try the kid herself.) But I didn't have to egg him on long. In a matter of perhaps thirty seconds he was snorting and rearing-and those back muscles resembled the sharp curve of a bow just before it looses an arrow. He dismounted slowly, wearing one of those silly post-coital grins that one sees so often nowadays on TV during the laxative advertisements or some such. He was still timid as a toad, though, and I nodded at Janet to go ahead and help herself.
I dropped to the edge of the bed beside Rebecca, who had manifestly not had time to achieve the same relief as the overheated boy. I bent and kissed her on the mouth; she responded, but not as ardently as usual, and I sensed that something was wrong. I dropped to her breasts and was about to kiss them when she caught hold of my chin and sort of pushed me away. And rather roughly.
"We can't Doris," she said. "Look at them ... on the floor over there."
I looked. The kid was on his back and Janet was bent over him. The boy's eyes were rolling wildly; it was obvious that Janet was treating him in a fashion he'd never expected. Janet was moaning softly. She was getting what she'd wanted.
"What about them?" I said, looking back at Rebecca.
"They're enjoying an act of simple lust. A pagan pleasure. No emotional complications. I know now that it can't be that way with us, Doris. I thought differently yesterday ... when I talked to you ... from the shower. No, don't be frightened, Doris. There is much in this world that's beyond the understanding of all of us. I don't understand you. You're too much for me. Too possessive. Go home now and wait for your husband. He's good for you. You're weak, Doris ... but you have the selfish strength of weakness ... the weakness of too much strength. A riddle? Maybe. But there are greater ones. Perhaps in a day or two ... you'll know what I mean. Goodbye, Doris. And remember ... love your husband. He loves you."
I put on my robe to go home. I had to step over the woman and boy on the floor, and as I left the room I refused to look back at Rebecca. I had a terrible fear in the back of my of my head that if I did look back she'd chuckle ... and that would've driven me stark raving mad!
CHAPTER 16 The Irony of Truth
To say that I was in a quandary of doubt is putting it mildly. I had gone straight home after receiving that verbal shock from Rebecca, but alone in the house I felt utterly lost and frightened. When Charles arrived home I had clung to him and cried like a child-finally passing into a mild form of hysterics.
Janet came over around noon the next day and told me that Rebecca had suddenly decided she wanted to leave.
"Yesterday, Doris. It was right after our little ... party with Jerry. She suddenly decided she wanted to go home. I told her to wait until John got home and we'd take her to the airport. But she said she wanted to leave right away and that she'd take a cab. I told her to drop over say goodbye to you ... but she said she already had. By the way, Doris. Why did you run off like that yesterday? You should've stayed. We really had a party with that kid. And he asked about you. Said he liked your legs."
"I ... uh ... suddenly felt sort of sick ... a headache, Janet. So Rebecca's gone. Just like that, eh?" I snapped my fingers and managed a weak smile. I felt strange. Lonely. But at the same time ... relieved. Empty ... but wonderfully secure. It was over! I was free! I had a feeling like I'd had as a kid after Christmas-it was nice that all the merry-making was finally over, but I missed the warmth and excitement of it at the same time.
"Yes, she's gone," Janet nodded and shrugged. "She's quite a gal, isn't she?" Janet's eyes narrowed as she looked at me.
"Yes. Yes, she is," I nodded. "And extraordinary, too."
"You were pretty ... gone on her, weren't you?" Janet's smile was meant to be teasing. It failed. It was sickening.
"I suppose so," I replied.
"She left you a letter, Doris," Janet's voice was very low.
"Oh, where is it?" I tried to sound casual.
Janet undid a button of her blouse and pulled out an envelope. "Here. I didn't want to give it to you until I saw how the news of her leaving affected you. Charles came over last night ... told us he'd put you to bed with a sedative. Said you'd been hysterical."
"I've really been ... tense lately," I said, as I opened the letter.
Janet mumbled something about seeing me later then and left. I read the letter in that state of rather morbid apathy that one feels after an emotional binge.
Dear Rebecca:
I know you must be confused and frightened about all that's happened. Don't be. And don't try to figure it out because, believe me, you couldn't in a thousand years. Read this letter twice, and then throw it away. But remember what I have to say for the rest of your life. It's important.
Be yourself, Doris. Have no fear of consequences, or about what others will think. Be you. Let nothing or anyone stand in your way. To the extent that you compromise and spread yourself thin-you lose your true self-your individuality. When someone-a friend, your husband, or just anyone-says something or does something that goes against your grain, tell them. Set them straight. The only immorality is deceit. The only dishonesty is compromise. Get your lovely teeth into life and bite down hard and hold on with everything you've got. Taste life! Swallow it! don't be afraid. Don't hold back. When we're old and spent, we regret the things we haven't done far more than the things we've done. Remember that.
I've enjoyed being with you. But so would anyone, because you are so intense and flattering. I felt like a goddess in your presence. You gave me wings. You made me, in fact, much more than I am. But then this is your way. You're an exaggerator. You should've been an actress, you would have been superb.
Forget me now, Rebecca
I suppose it was to console me that Charles invited Janet and John over for bridge that night. He was worried about me, and he probably thought it would be good for me to get back in my old familiar pre-Rebecca role for the evening. And he was right. It did seem good. There was no mention of the past. No talk about sex. We had our usual martinis, talked our usual small talk, laughed a great deal (the last, I realized, was for my benefit).
But then, I suppose to show them that I was perfectly okay now and that they could let down and "be themselves", I very casually said, "I wonder why Rebecca was in such a rush to get home?" And then, looking at John, I added: "D'you suppose she actually went home? If she flew she'd be there by now. Why don't you call and see, John?"
John hesitated, glancing rather tensely at Charles.
"Go ahead, John," my husband nodded soberly. "It'll make Doris feel better if you do."
John shrugged, rose, walked over to the phone. We sat quietly while he was making long distance connections. It was obvious that everyone was a bit put out with me for bringing up Rebecca. But the reason I had, ironically enough, was because I'd been thinking about what she'd said in her letter about not being afraid to speak out. So ... she had been on my mind ... and I was curious to know if she'd arrived home safe ... so I'd "spoken up".
Then we heard John talking but the phone was too far away to make out what he was saying. There was something in his tone of voice, though, that told us something was amiss. He talked for quite some time-and in that same portentous tone. I grew tense and restless; we all grew tense and restless. The very atmosphere seemed charged with something ominous. Then John hung up and, turning to face us, we saw that he was as white as the proverbial ghost.
"What's wrong, dear?" Janet spoke up, and the sound of her voice made me jump and my heart began to pound.
"It's incredible! Absolutely incredible!" he said, walking slowly towards us. He was pulling at his collar in the fashion of a person badly in need of air. His eyes were glassy.
John looked at his wife, then at Charles, finally at me, and said, "They were furious because I called them. They called it a sadistic trick. Her mother called me a monster."
"But why?" I spoke up. "Is Rebecca home? Is she all right? Tell me, John."
John shook his head slowly, like a man in a trace. Then, covering his eyes with one hand, he said, "They told me that Rebecca died ... a month ago. They gave her a Chinese funeral ... she was cremated."
And. . just before I fainted ... I heard it ... that low ironic chuckle of Rebecca's...
