Bonnie Sheridan awoke that Sunday morning to the poking friction of someone tweaking her vagina. When she realized the guilty invaders were her own fingers, she yanked her gummy pinkies upwards and soundly bit them each in reprimand. Naughty little devils, she thought dazedly, what would your landlord say if he ever saw such flagrant trespassing? Then, with a yawn, she turned on her side to glare with some astonishment at her husband's towering erection. High fat steeple of a Sunday morn? ... or cock-at-bay in the post-dawn? Hmmm ... where have I seen that face before? she wondered, gazing at the sunset glow that inflamed the tip. And when was it ever displayed to me in such oblivious, stiff repose? Never, that's when.
Her mouth still dry from the muteness of sleep, Bonnie licked her lips and tasted last night's Scotch, remembering the big pseudo-bash she and Bart had given for some visiting Hollywood narcissists. It had been a hot and steamy affair, full of the elegant stench of lilting, cheap chatter and exotic deodorants, since the Bay Area was staggering through one of its uncommon heat waves and no one ever thought to install air-conditioning. "Why bother," whined the seasoned snob commuters, "when these hot spells never last more than a day or two?" Which was precisely why local natives felt the heat more than New Yorkers or sun-bleached Hollywood nymphs, thought Bonnie, wondering when the God-blessed fog would come wafting through the Golden Gate to cool things off.
Fully awake now, Bonnie gave her naked master a more lucid appraisal. Handsome, trend-setting Bart Sheridan, her sandy haired TV tycoon of a husband, was drooled over by lady fans and fags from coast to coast. But she had him. Or was it vice versa? The answer to that was an unqualified yes, because if there had ever been any vice involved in their marriage it had been only "versa" from the word go. Bart Sheridan produced and MC'd a syndicated talk-show that beamed out of San Francisco every Saturday evening and was aimed very self-consciously at the "Now Generation." In order to buy his bride a pretty pink palace in San Mateo, he also taped a nightly disc jockey show on local radio. "Gotta keep my child-wife in diaphragms and jellies!" he was fond of explaining to anyone who would listen, much to Bonnie's chagrin. At forty, Bart looked about thirty-two, which was due to daily workouts at his club. He had recently become obsessed with physical culture, which Bonnie attributed to the usual egomania of ex-football players turned professional charmers, to say nothing of Bart's childish conviction that all his most salient values had been hung on him externally. "Gotta keep up the old facade, baby. That's what puts the toys in your playpen!"
Bart had kicked the sheets off during the night and Bonnie gazed at his body with grudging pleasure. How damned tawny and enticing he looks like that, she thought, her eyes tracing the golden-brownish hairs that dappled downwards along his belly. She wasn't surprised to see his penis so bulging and militant, although she couldn't remember when, if ever, she'd gotten such an undisturbed look at it while Bart was still asleep. During their ten years of marriage the only chance she'd had to view his mammoth accoutrement was either before or minutes after he'd plunged it traditionally into her from above.
Then Bonnie recalled all the liquor her husband had tucked away the night before, plus taking two Librium's upon retiring-against her advice, of course, because that was a mini death wish if she'd ever heard of one. She'd tried to remind him what had happened to Kilgallen and Garland, but he said he'd never caught their act and all he wanted was to zilch himself into a ten hour slumber-fest unaccompanied by the ambivalent tortures of his career.
He's beautiful, unconscious and he's mine, thought Bonnie, feeling a little drunk with power as she eyed his soldier-straight cock that looked so independently alive and pulsing. And then it hit her, the battle plan, the sound of her stifled inner voices shrieking out their war cries, telling her to attack, that it was now or never: Bonnie Sheridan's first act of revolution. Her husband was helpless, his big, bloated pleasure tool no longer a guarded fortress for his own manipulation, but usable, vulnerable, hers for the taking! For once she could digest this man for her own enjoyment, instead of dedicating her life, liberty and cervix to his. Oooh, that delicious autocratic bastard, she'd feed him Librium like peanuts if it would give her this advantage over him in the mornings. Oh, to be the first to awaken and ensnare her beloved, instead of having him crush her into submission by sheer girth! The big, damned, sensual lout outweighed her two to one, so it was never fair! She felt evil and rapacious and so excited she began to tremble and leak a little, kneading her huge melon-slumped breasts as the fantasies gripped her, to take a man instead of being taken by him, to become her own woman at last, just the way they preached it in Cosmopolitan.
Bonnie slid noiselessly out of bed, and after peeling off her baby-doll nightie, she scampered into the bathroom for her diaphragm. She was so frantic she accidentally greased the thing with Preparation H before realizing she had the wrong tube. When it was finally lodged she breathed a sigh of relief. After all, she already had two children. What she needed now was euphoria.
She climbed back in bed. Nude, tit-wobbly, stealthy, sly lady-rapist about to terrorize the sleeping giant ... oh lookee here, you soul-sisters, watch me sit on it! Bart's full sensuous lips were parted, but he was breathing so lightly Bonnie put a hand over his face to make sure he wasn't dead, which of course he wasn't, else how could rigor mortis have set in only along his genitals?
Oh golly, it's really going to happen, she thought, the first voluntary sex act of my life. It had taken Bonnie many months even to think in terms of theoretical rebellion, let alone attempt this daring sexual coup in her own home. In secret she had recently written an expose about her husband that was to be published in a local avant-garde magazine in a few weeks. She dreaded his reaction when he read the piece, and hoped what she was about to do might pave the way.
She knelt very close to her burly captive, then straddled her pretty legs over his thighs, peering carefully at his flaring cockhead in order to navigate her bottom right on target. When she was certain she was as felicitously aimed as she'd ever be, Bonnie said a little prayer: "Now I lay me down to Liberation!" And with one hungering thrust she sank homeward, slicing Bart's throbbing stiff weapon as deeply up her marauding cunt as she could get it ... Squish and crunch and, oh golly, how it stabbed her, thumped upward like a hot stone monument ... Let it do me an injury, she thought ecstatically, let it crowd my belly to bursting! Oh hey world, get a look at Bonnie Sheridan! ... she's right on top of the situation! She tossed back her golden tresses in a spasm of ardor and conquest, balancing her arms in the air like a circus equestrienne, riding her trapped breadwinner in a cowgirl frenzy, galloping and bouncing madly up and down on the enormous bludgeon of her mate ... ooh bang-bang, you're dead, oh keeper of my flame! ... Bonnie wet and oiling now, Bonnie loving it, jamming it all up in there for her private stolen joy, thinking that she'd never before had so much of him inside her, telling herself about this moment, hanging a placard on it. It's like Bonnie's First Fuck all over again, that's what the good news is today! She gazed downward to watch her own cock-swallowing progress, but saw instead her husband's eyes on her, open and incredulous yet fierce with denial even though he moaned compulsively and gripped her splayed-out thighs and jerked his ass higher for her meaty pounces. "Jesus, Bonnie, you off your rocker or something? What the hell're you doing up there?"
"I'm coming alive, Bart, that's what I'm doing! For the first time in my life I'm ... I'm ... oooh yes, now now ... right this minute, I'm ... COMING ... don't move, hold it! ... just like that, shoved up deep and thick ... ooh darling I'm well and alive and I'm coming without your permission ... now!" She shuddered and gasped, half fainting from the lacerating sting of joy that shot through her body as she sat very still and speared his cock deep into her belly, her cunt bubbling downward into endless sticky gushes of married creams, Bonnie sealing the victory with her very own private orgasm ... and for once, who the hell cared about his?
Bart cared, that's who, cursing and thrashing as his cock dripped and drowned in the vat of her. "Goddamnit, you know I can't make it this way!" he howled. "It's giving me claustrophobia, you bitch, and you know I can't come 'til you turn over ...!"
"Don't be silly, Bart, I'm all finished with you now, so you can head straight for the tubs while I go give myself a Peppermint Douche."
She started to climb off his buried shaft, but with a growl Bart reached up and seized her about the shoulders, then twirled her body in a revolving somersault until their positions were swiftly reversed. Bonnie struggled wildly, swearing and grunting, "Damn you, let me up, Bart, I'm sick of your bestiality! You're not a king, you know, you can be replaced!" But he was too much for her, and a second later he was on top and in charge, pummeling and slotting his prick in and out of her like every good husband should. "Me still Tarzan, honey, and you still Jane! And what's more, this is what you live for, Bonnie, and you know it!" He kept driving it thickly into her, alternately fast and breathless, then slow and easy, just the way he'd trained her when he first corralled her back in Tucumcari, New Mexico, at age sixteen. He'd popped this baby's cherry ten years ago, and if there were to be any variations on that theme, he would be the one to design the choreography and clock all the cues.
"I hate it!" she wailed up at him. "I feel so damned plastic when you fuck me like this ... pounding and smashing my identity like some Mongol war lord ... slamming and ... oooh God wait, Bart ... no, please, not so fast ... not like that ...!"
"What's the matter, Kitten?" He crammed it furiously into her, flinging her legs up over his shoulders, making her his own flesh-bundle to invade, his balls hot and feverish as they bounced against her crotch. He watched her lovely fat knockers flopping every which way. "Are you juicin' up again, baby, huh? ... even though you hate it so much?"
"Tyrant!" she squealed, and then, chuckling dirtily, he slotted it sideways for a few distorting strokes. With a wet-lipped groan Bonnie pulled him down hard on top of her as he rammed it and sludged it, running her fingers through his shaggy-styled hippie mane, sucking and kissing the pompous turbulence of his mouth. Ooh the smug bastard, so sure he'd conditioned all her reflexes and so damned right again in the ugly-sweet delight of this moment, Bonnie hearing his warning cries as she felt the surging sprays of his orgasm, letting loose with her own, clawing his back, adoring the scent and clutch of this man, the unique aroma of "male in heat", "male in command". Goddamn him, he's trained me like a poodle-how long will I go on wagging my tail for more?
Bart lowered his head and softly sucked her swollen nipples, glorying in her unleashed moans and frenzies, celebrating this return to domestic sanity in his bedroom. He pulled slickly out of her, almost going hard again from the suction; then he hovered near with the gentle kisses he'd taught her to revel in as their hunger abated. "How about it," he murmured, tonguing her pouty underlip, "am I still Commander-in-Chief?"
She sighed and turned her face away from him. "Let's just say you're stronger than I am, Bart. You've got a lot of muscle on your side. But I've got more determination than you've ever given me credit for."
Bart chuckled comfortably as he reached to the night stand for his cigarettes. "Ah, sweetie face, sometimes I wonder if you'll ever grow up."
Bonnie cringed as she heard the old patronizing tones. "Don't be ridiculous, Bart. I could win the Nobel Prize and you still wouldn't treat me like an adult."
Still chuckling softly, he lit cigarettes for them both, handing her one. They smoked silently for a moment. "Silly little muffin," he said. "My Bonnie gets so many little bees in her bonnet."
"I know, I know," she said, feeling as if she were wading in goo every time he mouthed these endearments. "To you I'll always be 'Daddy's Little Girl'. Really, Bart, I think you're suffering from a father image syndrome in reverse."
"Meaning what?" he asked with a disinterested yawn.
"It's as if you'd always wanted a little girl of your own, so you married one."
"That's a lie, Bonnie," he said sharply. "Anyone would think you were about ten years old when I married you, but you were sixteen and fully developed."
"I'm not saying you were a child molester, Bart, it's just that you've tried to keep me sixteen for the past ten years. I mean, my God, if you wanted a wife with brain damage why didn't you canvass some of the psycho wards?"
She felt his quick resentment with this remark and loved it. Very calmly he said, "That's neither funny nor relevant."
"Oh please, Bart, don't "relevant' me to death. You're not conducting one of your chic interviews now. Honestly, you and that schizoid image of yours-Bart Sheridan, flaming progressive liberal on the air, but a fascist demagogue at home."
Bart heaved a sigh of impatience. "Jesus, that sounds like you joined another book club. Bonnie, I swear I don't know what's gotten into you this past year. You've been reading yourself into a stupor; which in your case only proves that a little education can be a dangerous thing."
"Please remember, Bart, that it was because of you that I never finished high school. So now I'm trying to catch up, is that a crime?"
"Look, Bonnie, it didn't matter to me that you were both a dropout and a country bumpkin when I met you, because by that time I'd already had my fill of hip swingin' chicks."
"And yet, what you refuse to recognize is that I am hip now, Bart, and I have been hip for some time."
"Just because the boys are getting too old to coddle, you suddenly feel rejected by society."
"That is not the answer!" She shot up in bed and glared at him in a fury. "I know you'd prefer to think that what's troubling me is something comfortably old fashioned, like a silver cord complex. Sure, I suppose you could cope with that and still remain superior and smug and on top of the little woman's vapors. But it so happens I never planned to smother those boys in motherly affection for the rest of their lives. I knew there'd have to be other roles for me to play once they found interests outside."
"Now listen, honey, so what if the kids like to go out and play touch football or little league? That doesn't mean they hate their Mommy."
"Will you please get off that kick!" she said. "Frustrated motherhood is not one of my hangups. I want those boys to leave the nest. Just because you've stunted my growth doesn't mean it has to happen to them. But dammit, I also want a role of my own to play after they cut out."
"Christ," Bart rolled his eyes heavenward, "Tad is eight and Jeff is nine. You'd think they were about to freak out or get married any minute."
"Bart, the issue you're evading here is that I don't care what they do. I mean, I'm reasonably certain that whenever they're ready they'll choose nice, normal, healthy outlets. But whenever that happens, I don't want to be left at home, helpless and inane, without a function or a goal ..."
Bart seemed to mull this over for a moment. Then, "Hey, whatever happened to all that needlepoint you used to do, Bonnie? Hell, you even won some prizes, didn't you? That stuff was beautiful."
"Hah!" she spat out. "Substitute the words 'basket weaving' for 'needlepoint' and I think you've just proven my point."
"Shit," said Bart, and then, rather violently, he crushed out his cigarette. "You know, this is what happens when housewives give up Faith Baldwin for The Feminine Mystique."
"You're out-of-touch there too, Bart, it's Sexual Politics."
"Sexual WHAT?"
"I'm only trying to tell you it's Kate Millett who's in now, not Betty Friedan."
Bart turned and gave her a long appraising look. "Bonnie, tell me, what is it with you anyway? You want to grow a prick? Is that what this is all about?"
"I might have expected that from you, Bart," she said, her face going livid, "because you're so goddamned phallic-oriented! Every time you score a bull's eye in your career it's like extending that big fat wang of yours one more inch, isn't it? Well let me tell you something, Mr. Glamour-Stud, I don't have any designs on that cock of yours except maybe now and then to see how it feels when it's applied for my pleasure as well as yours. But instead, what do you do? You brandish it over me like some whip of chastisement every time you're in the mood to unload some sperm!"
"Unload some sperm!" he tried to laugh off his outrage. "Goddamnit, any more talk like that and I'm goin' on a book burning campaign in my own house."
"I wouldn't be surprised, Herr Fuehrer, but they're all library editions-so you'd better cool it."
They grew surly and silent for a moment. The tension hung between them like an impasse. But Bart knew better. His lovely fluffy-brained ing�nue of a wife had gotten hold of a lot of chic naughty words and wanted to show off in front of him. She did the same thing whenever she bought a new hat or a dress. "See what I got, Daddy!" she'd proclaim. But no, come to think of it, she hadn't called him "Daddy" for some time now. Why hadn't he noticed that before, along with all these other unhealthy developments? When the hell had she started calling him by his given name, instead of "Daddy-Bear" or "Papa", or sometimes, when they were making love, "Big Chief Rain-in-the-Cock?" When had the infiltration first begun? It seemed like more than a year, now that he thought about it.
And yet, one thing was certain-words weren't in the least involved with what Bonnie felt for him. That was chemistry and had nothing to do with logic or current events. Bart reached over and gently cupped a hand over her breast, squeezing and caressing the lush babbled feel of it, remembering that she'd always had these hefty lady-tits, even in her teens. He'd try a little tenderness on her now, plus that old tried-and-true ploy of self-abnegation. "What's wrong, sweetheart, you in love with another guy? Some kid down the block maybe, someone nearer your own age? After all, there're fourteen years between us, so old Dad'll understand if ..."
"You can hold it right there, Bart," she interrupted him, gripping the hand on her breast. "You don't believe that for a minute, so I refuse to let you cloud the issue by even suggesting it. There's no one else. Never has been. My responses to you haven't changed, and I don't love you any differently. It's just that I ... well, I've fallen out of love with the way you love me."
"Hmmm, I think we'll need some English titles for that one," he laughed, then gathered her in his arms for a long smoldering kiss on the mouth. "This is how I love you, Bonnie," he said, moving his lips down along her throat, licking the white smoothness of her shoulders, then lower to taste the steamy shaven flesh of her armpits, and still lower as his hands bunched her pretty breasts together into a succulent bouquet, his lips soft and hot as they nuzzled back and forth from one nipple to the other. Bonnie relaxing now and giving in to the old fantasy sighs, the whimpers, trying in vain to recapture the vital themes of her debate, but losing all words and slogans as she watched the moist roundness of his mouth on her breast. She was slipping away now, into him and out of herself, the pattern as before, his full fleshy lips trailing slowly down her body, kissing, nibbling. It was a ritual they both adored, Bart's oral declaration of ownership during which he preferred that she lay spread-eagled and open, arms and legs flung apart, while he devoured her obsessively and she, as programmed, gratefully drizzled for him. Barnacle Bart at the helm once more, steady as she goes and lap her into port, hooking her to him with the artful application of his tongue as it flicked against her clitoris. The beast, she thought, writhing with these lashes, when had he first learned how much she loved that? Nursing on her clitoris the way a baby pumped on a nipple ...
"Ummm it's getting wet and tasty in there, Bonnie," he murmured, his fingers spreading her wider there as he urged his lips in deeper.
"Ohhh yes, like that, honey ... don't stop now, want your tongue in there forever, Daddy, so wet and hot ... so good ...!"
Aw thank God she'd called him "Daddy" again, thought Bart, and began to suck that soupy subjugated cunt with all the expertise and lip muscles at his command. Damn, this was his bought-and-paid-for meat he was chewin' on and how this cookie loved being a ten course meal for her old man! He was driving her out of her buggy little mind, turning her into a pet again, not some dikey brainy shrew he couldn't even recognize. He knew what she was, this dizzy little dumpling ... hell, didn't he have the squashy soul and core of her right in his mouth this very minute? He jabbed his tongue in deeper, giving her the old erratic fever thrusts and moaning between sucks to hear her gasp and sob for it as she flung her crotch against his face and half swallowed his streaming chin and mouth with her cunt. Bart guzzled up the honey-sips as he seized her by the ass and served her even higher for his feast. When he tasted her heralding moistures he pushed her knees up against her breasts and sucked his swabbing fill from that holy wifely cup of her ... Ummm baby give it all to me because this is your identity, you sweet flowing bitch, every last motherin' drop of it oozing down my throat! "It's stinging again, Bart, stay in there ... ooh kiss and fuck and kiss and fuck and let it happen ...!" She reached down to clutch his kingly head in her hands as with one last writhing convulsion of her buttocks she gave him what was left of the day's devotion. Bart was lost in his hurried swallows, breathless and thirst-crazed as the hot torrents splashed between his lips, little moppet squirting down deep into her Daddy's well to give him the reward he'd so vigorously drained from her. And then, replenished, he raised up and licked his lips with pride, recalling to himself old edicts: A man's home is his castle, so those're MY juices in there and by God, I'll take 'em whenever I'm ready ...!
CHAPTER 2
Bonnie gazed with pleasure at Bart's tanned healthy features as he grinned down at her, his mouth all wet from the sprays of her. "That was so lovely, my carnivorous one," she murmured. Then impulsively she pulled his face down to hers, hungry to taste his lips like that before the moment was lost to her.
A little surprised at such an unprecedented gesture, Bart laughed nervously and pulled away. "No, no, baby, wait till I go brush my teeth. You don't want to taste all that jazz I've been feeding on. That's my fuel, not yours."
He started to get up, but she tightened her hold on him. "No, Bart, I want to suck what you suck. If it's such a vital part of your desire for me, I want to share in it."
"Now listen, you crazy kid, we never kiss right afterwards. Such a thing as hygiene, remember?"
"I don't want to remember that, Bart. All I can think of now is the way your mouth felt inside of me, so soft and tough and sensual all at once, and I want to kiss that feeling while I'm still fresh and wet between my legs ..." Before he could budge, she jerked forward and planted a kiss full on his cunt-seasoned mouth, holding him fiercely as she nibbled and sucked on his cushiony underlip, Bart grunting and gasping, his mouth an open wet entrapment within hers, Bonnie moaning with delight as she licked up the traces of what he'd sucked from her ..."There now," she said when she released him, "at least I know what it tastes like, the combination of hot male saliva and my own juice." She gave him a triumphant smile. This round belonged to her and she knew it.
Somehow Bart managed to smile in return, after which he sank back down in bed, licking his bruised lips in petulant fury, but clenching his fists to keep from roaring aloud with irritation. Damn her! it had all been so gorgeous and perfect a moment ago, then she had to come along and louse up the works with some crummy innovation! If that's what she called "sexual politics", he wondered where a Normal American Male could go to vote against it ...
"Oh Bart, don't you see, I can love you even more if you let me do things like that. I feel closer to whatever it is about me that excites you. And you know, darling, that slogan 'equal rights for women' can be more than just a theory. I mean, if you really care about my happiness, Bart, you'll let it work for us in bed too." Now Bonnie paused and took a deep breath, for it had been years since she'd brought this subject up, and Bart's reaction the last time had been so traumatic for her, she hadn't dared mention it again. But now was the time. It was 1970 and women were coming into their own. "Bart, I'm your equal, so if you want to go on sucking my cunt you've got to let me suck your cock. Fair's fair."
"NO!" he howled, with such vehemence that Bonnie was a bit shaken for an instant. Then she recalled that women all over the country were waging war on such bigotry in the home, so she pressed on.
"Bart, as God is my witness, I've been wanting to suck your cock for ten long years, and for me your mid-Victorian denials have taken on all the horror of a Chinese torture, can't you see that?"
"You'd better go back to needlepoint, Bonnie, I'm warning you," he said through his teeth, wanting to sock her a good one for trying to smear the image he'd always had of her, and on Sunday too, for Christ's sake! Aw, don't leave me, Bonnie ... stay bright and shiny like a good-luck penny and shut your fuckin' mouth ...!
"I've always loved looking at it, Bart," she was saying, "your cock, I mean. But you always kept it out of sight somehow, so it was either inside of me or your jockey shorts where I couldn't get at it or taste it, which is what I've wanted, you know-to get the feel and flavor of it inside my mouth because it's so big and beautifully sculptured, darling, and I've actually had dreams about sucking you. You, Bart, not other men, only you. Aren't you proud?"
"Shit no, I'm not proud! If I want a blow job I'll go to a whore, not my own wife ..."
"Well for heaven's sake, if that isn't hypocrisy, I don't know what is! Why should whores have all the fun while I sit home deprived? I'm your wife! Don't I deserve more enjoyment than some syphilitic strumpet you scrape off the streets?"
"Oh God, Bonnie! ... Honey, Jesus, please don't talk like that, I don't give a shit where you read it, I don't want to hear crap like that out of your mouth, baby. I mean, everything was so nice and homey a minute ago, can't we just let it lie ...?"
"Oh honestly, Bart, it's like trying to drag one of the boys to the dentist to get you to let me suck your cock ..."
"Don't SAY that!" he bit down hard on his underlip as if he could somehow gnaw this blurred picture back into focus. Please, Lord, he prayed, not a gutter-tongued Bonnie, not after he'd planted that Good Housekeeping Seal up her twat all those years ago.
"Darling, listen, it isn't just to prove a point that I want to suck you off, but for no other reason except that I know we'll both love it, so why not listen to reason?"
"No deal," he shot out. "In fact, this whole idea's beginning to get me pretty nauseous, Bonnie, so knock it off. It's Sunday, you know, we have things to do, and the kids'll be racing in here in another half-hour. So ... let's stop playing smartass and plan our day."
"Tell you what, Bart, I'll compromise with you. You can toss me a fifty dollar bill right after you come in my mouth-or exactly what is the going rate you pay your hookers, sweetie?"
Bart gave her a ferocious glare and she gloried in it, for she had never found him so sensually appealing as she did now in this disturbed and brooding state. It was such a novelty for her to see him shattered and off-balance, and such fun!
"I won't even bother to answer that, Bonnie. Right now I'm going to get up and needle-shower this whole damned nightmare out of my system. Then a few pushups, breakfast, some calls I have to make to the city, then I'll read Variety and Billboard, and later there'll be golf and sunshine and friends." He started to rise.
Bonnie seized him by the wrist. "Bart, if you don't lie back down and let me suck you to climax, I'll never again let you do the same to me. After all, dear, remember your Bible: do unto others."
" ... as you would have them," he muttered lamely and then stopped, wondering when he'd ever heard her speak in such decisive tones. Jesus, what if she means it, he thought, slowly reclining on the bed again. There were too damned few creature-comforts a guy had left in this fucking rat-race of a world, and that luscious Prune-Danish taste of Bonnie's pussy was worth a million Librium's any day of the week. It was his equalizer, his sanity! Without it nothing would ever fall into place again, nothing would jell. Other guys smoked pot or shot speed or had the gamblers' itch, but he sucked his wife. So why should he kick it? Where's the harm and who got hurt? Oh man, it'd be like the beginning of the end without it. The next stop, anarchy!
He gave her a sidelong glance, arranging his mouth in a roguish smile. "You really mean that, Bonnie?" He lurched forward and softly brushed his lips against a nipple, then pulled back, grinning as her eyes went wistfully to his mouth. "You'll never let me lick your poopy again, baby? Never's a long time."
"Nevertheless, Bart, it will be the end of an era unless you let me do everything to you that you do to me."
"Hardly everything, honey," he gave her one of his soft sexy chuckles, hoping to laugh her out of it. "There is such a thing as physical logistics, you know."
"If you're implying that I'd never be able to fuck you, you're quite wrong, darling. There are such things as dildoes too, most of them every bit as long as that quivering tusk you've been pushing into me."
"Dildoes," he mumbled, a bit dazed for a moment, until a really rotten picture took form in his mind. "You mean you'd ..."
" ... I mean I'd fuck you in the ass, darling, right after you fucked me in the cunt. That's tit for tat, Bart, that's equality!"
"That's bullshit, dammit, so will you stop spitting out all those filthy words, Bonnie? It doesn't even sound like you. It sounds positively butch, and you're anything but that, so who're you trying to snow? You're like a little girl trying to imitate her elders, and it just isn't coming off."
"Oops, you just said the secret words, Bart: coming off. Now lie down there and let me show you what I mean, or I'm warning you, you'll have a kissless cunt on your hands from this day forward."
Muttering a few more oaths, Bart fell back against the pillows. "You'll hate it!" he snarled up at her. "I've met cocksucker types before, Bonnie, and you're not even close. It's not your bag, in fact it's lousy tasting. What's more, this is your first time and I'm built so big you'll probably gag and throw up all over my balls and I won't even get a hard-on anyway."
Bonnie wasn't listening. She was planted between his sturdy thighs and staring closely at the semi-hard dangle of his penis, the closest view she'd ever had of her husband's wherewithal, and to think she'd had to use blackmail even to reach this minor pinnacle. How haughty and unconcerned it looks, she thought, so arrogantly detached from the rest of him, which, hopefully, meant she could lap it back to life against his will.
"I won't get hard," he muttered again, "I just know it. In fact, I may throw up myself, just thinking of you with my cock in your mouth ... ugh ...!"
"Close your eyes and pretend I'm a whore. You're perfectly welcome to your own fantasies, as long as you let me have mine."
"It's WRONG!" was his last comment before Bonnie dabbed the tip of her tongue along the bulky base of his cock and slowly licked the full length of the fleshy member. When her tongue tapped the flaring cock-knob she slid the thick glossy head between her warm full lips and began to suck on it, lashing her tongue back and forth across the lush spongy resilience, rubbing her thighs together and going wet again, her mouth on fire with its new and throbbing discovery. The deeper she sucked her husband's cock the more ravenous she grew for the oral assuagement, the molten ease and the contentment, thinking how right and companionable it felt against her tongue, and, ummmm, how round and fat and necessary. Suddenly she let out a muffled groan of joy and revelation as she felt the hot ballooning sensation of his cock starting to expand in her mouth, felt the tremors, the involuntary bloating until she had to stretch her hungry lips wider, sucking and pumping up higher so she could feel that corpulent cockhead swell up miraculously against her palate. Bonnie moaned wildly as she sucked that pulpy bulb and ran her tongue along the slit of it much as Bart licked her clit, and there was the feeling of magic in her mouth now, matter and flesh changing form right in the middle of her devourment, until now Bart's cock was so stiff and tall Bonnie had to pull back and swing into another position in order to handle it all. She heard some stifled groans escape his lips and grew more daring, playing with his hefty testicles, drunkenly inhaling those humid manly crotch scents so long denied her, her pretty cheeks hollowing as she gobbled the lovely sheath that filled her mouth to over-flowing.
"Oh Christ, I can't stand it!" Bart wailed, covering his eyes with his fists so he wouldn't have to see her like that; not his sweet baby-pink Bonnie, sucking his cock like a hot-lipped pushover and damn her, loving it! ... groaning as if she were growing a little insane with the fat horny taste of his meat. "Don't do it, Bonnie, please ... you're killing all my respect. Goddamnit, bite me so I'll hate it ...!"
Bonnie knew what these words meant: he was going to come against his bullish better judgment and she had a pregnant cock in her mouth that was about to explode and give birth to a spermy geyser ... some husband juice at last to oil the cockles of home and hearth. Bonnie sucked faster, panting, gulping, ingesting every inch of it now and half-gagging from the dear commitment of it all; then she remembered a bit of porno-info she'd recently read in The Story of O and jabbed her forefinger up his tight adhesive anus and sucked wildly up and down on his turgid shaft, lost in an euphoric haze of mouth-guzzling desire, her lips aflame with his burning palpitations, her mouth no longer that virginal receptacle for sweet toying kisses.
"Jesus, get your finger out of there, Bonnie, please!" he cried out. "No, baby, no more of it ... stop moving your tongue around like that 'cause I'm gonna shoot it! For God's sake, pull away, Bonnie, don't drink it, honey, it's not for you, no no not you, baby ... stop sucking before it happens ...!" But she noticed he was doing nothing physical to push her away, and realized he was having the biggest erotic thrill of his life, if she could only get him to admit it later. Then, just as she wondered what it would taste like, she found out. Bart let out a crucial writhing howl and flooded her mouth with gobs of hot sticky semen, Bonnie's lips streaming and agape to welcome this milk of human kindness, these juices of an enemy turned comrade, lord-and-master-cream, gushing rivers of it splashing against her tongue and down her throat.
As she swallowed the musky foam, Bonnie glanced upwards and saw the grimace of ecstasy on her husband's face, and for one fleeting second saw him stare intensely at her cock-blossomed mouth just before he closed his eyes again and let go with the last spurting trickles of his passion ... He saw me sucking and loved it, she thought, feeling as proud of herself as a debutante who'd just come out. After slowly disengaging herself, she squatted happily between his legs. When Bart opened his eyes, she greeted him with a glittering smile. "Hooray for my team!"
They stared at each other. "Did you swallow it?" he asked her.
She nodded. "To the very dregs."
He hung his head, sighed.
"Does that mean you'll sue for divorce, Bart? What will you tell the Judge? 'She blew me, your honor, so I want out.' Silly man."
He stared up at her some more. "Oh hell, Bonnie, let's just not talk about it anymore, okay?"
"Okay." She kept smiling at him, his eyes, his mouth, his still-wet member.
"What did it taste like?"
"Cream of Wheat that's been very highly seasoned."
"That's disgusting."
"Oh? Then why are you staring so hypnotically at my mouth?"
He turned away. "You'd better go gargle some Listerine. What if the kids should smell your breath?"
"If you're implying the boys would be able to identify such an aroma, we are in trouble."
He glowered at her. She watched his prick deflate. "I ate that," she said merrily. "It felt hot and alive in my mouth and it throbbed there. I think I liked the throbbing part best. It was as if your cock muscles were actually communicating with my lips as I sucked you. Like a glandular telegraphy, you know?" Bart watched her eyes on his meat, glanced at her glistening mouth again, so damned fat and sassy, but now ravished, now debauched ... o where had all the petals gone? He wondered if a good slug mightn't end this whole knotty problem right here and now but thought better of it. Instead, he'd give her one of his manic silences. Make it last a week this time. Talk to everyone but her, the servants, the kids, the neighbors. No fucking either, in any position. In his home that kind of discipline was really so simple-when Baby misbehaved, Papa spanked.
Bonnie sprang out of bed and dashed to her vanity table, where she stared obsessively at her mouth in a hand-mirror and blew kisses at herself. "My lips look different now, Bart. Fuller, rounder, stronger. I can neck with GIANTS now!"
Bart made a mental note to check her medicine chest as soon as he got into the bathroom.
Bonnie kept kissing her soft puckered image. "Ummm you mouth you! ... you cocky cocky mouth! You know, Bart, from now on I think I'll be able to articulate all my convictions with great style and aplomb, for today I have broken the yoke ...!"
"And laid an egg," Bart snorted, rising and heading towards the bathroom, slipping into his robe as he moved. When he reached the door, he turned for one last parting shot before he went incommunicado on her. "I guess you think blowing me was a big 'first' for you, huh, angel?"
"Umm hmmm," her eyes twinkling. "Score one for Bonnie."
"Well I've got news for you, Bonnie, it was also a big 'last,' because I'm telling you right here and now it'll never happen again!"
"Wanna bet, Herr Commandant?" she hurled at him just before he went into the bathroom and slammed the door. Bonnie turned to her mirror again and ran a tongue over her liberated lips, tasting her first full flush of marital victory. She recalled the outrageous article she'd written about Bart that would soon be out on the stands. She'd done it on the spur of the moment, and then, acting out another of her husband-induced fits of pique, she'd sent it to this new Sausalito Commentary Quarterly called Female! Not only had they accepted it, but the militant lady editor, who had the misfortune of thinking like Jane Fonda and looking like John Wayne, had telephoned Bonnie to say she had a style that was so deceptively innocent, she should do other pieces with the same healthy Women's Lib man-chewing flavor.
"Underneath your creampuff approach, Mrs. Sheridan, we see swords blazing! And frankly, we've been dying for a piece like this aimed at a well-known local personality with whom the layman can identify. Do we have your permission to use your real name? Before you answer, let me warn you that an article like this could snowball you right into the divorce courts; in which case, of course, you could donate your property settlement to our Witches For Freedom drive. Only kidding, dear, ha ha! that was Theodora's funny for the day. But tell me, Mrs. Sheridan, are you game?"
"Why not?" Bonnie had replied at the time, not believing one iota of the bravado she'd managed to muster. But now she believed it. After the first willful oral intercourse of her life, hadn't she at last asserted herself as an individual? Damned right! Which meant that she was henceforth committed to self-development. How she longed to see Bart's sexy-pompous face when he read her article. The title alone would drive him psychotic: My Life With Genghis Khan-or The Story Of An Emasculated Housewife by Bonita Sue Sheridan. She felt the timing was superb, in view of what she'd achieved this morning, for this was what she needed in her marriage right now-Le Beeg Scandale-Former Thumb-sucking Baby Doll Turns Cock-Draining Warrior! Insipid little Bonnie Sue from Tucumcari plunging in cold turkey for the greatest prize of her life, a real co-op marriage, share as you go ... you eat me and I'll eat you, and darn it, baby, that's love ...!
As she showered a little later, Bonnie thought of what a pudding-headed little drip she'd been at sixteen, so idiotically ripe for everything Bart had wanted in a wife. He could have gotten the same model from Sears & Roebuck, or bought an Erector set and built his own wind-up doll: press all the right buttons and she cries "Daddy" and wets herself! How gracefully he'd managed to seduce her, that thirty year old lecher who'd been randy and promiscuous since age twelve, so what did he need with a wife whose passions matured as she grew older? A soft cushy toy with a hole in the middle, that's all he'd ever wanted-and got. What a simpering little dingbat she'd been to let him put those chains on her id, to say nothing of her libido, brainpan, clitoris, nipples, lips, anus and tongue. But now all the selfhood, the soul he'd milked from her would come surging back to her in spades. It had taken Bonnie ten years, but at twenty-six she was, at last, a match for her bull-hung husband.
CHAPTER 3
At sixteen Bonnie was so tall and voluptuous she could have passed for twenty, an impression however, which most people found to be rather a paradox since she acted about twelve. Although it was the maturity of her body that first attracted Bart Sheridan, it was her inner childlike qualities that sustained his heated interest later. In 1960 Bart had roughly ten years of broadcasting and peripheral show-biz activity behind him. He'd been a speech and drama major at Stanford, then attended a school for radio announcing. His parents ran a small liquor store in San Leandro, which didn't leave too much left over for higher learning costs. But like his younger sister Monica, who was later to become a successful San Francisco lawyer, Bart was willing to work to fulfill his ambitions-waiting tables, chauffeuring, modeling for local artists, both nude and otherwise, as well as doing part-time stud duty in stag films. He'd always known that his good looks and sturdy body could, if necessary, grease him through the tight spots. But he tried to use such attributes sparingly, since he'd always had too great an affinity for sexual endeavors ever to let them turn into a career.
In those early days, if anyone asked him, he'd say he was shooting for the big time, whatever that meant. Possibly his own network show, or international acclaim as a world star. He hadn't figured it would be something as basic as geography that would be the deciding factor in his ultimate climb to the top. After radio school, where he'd amplified the velvet timbre of his speaking voice, he started out doing spot commercials on tape. Then, gradually, he was given his own disc jockey show, which was still the most listened-to in the Bay Area. Despite his somewhat flashy success via talk show syndication, Bart kept a tenacious hold on his DeeJay status. "UHF-TV may peter out some day," he reasoned, "but AM Radio will live forever." So he kept spinning those platters, out of loyalty, superstition and greed.
At Stanford his extracurricular kicks had been football, little theater and exhaustive fucking jousts, the latter occurring mainly when he was most fatigued scholastically. Bart had developed an early penchant for long-winded fucking that was hard for him to shake. For him such heavy sensual appetites had always been a conflict. He figured any guy with his big ambitions shouldn't let himself get so distracted by the pursuit of orgasms. But what could he do when sex was on his mind even when he thought it wasn't? Sometimes right in the middle of an intense study period he'd have to go to the john and pull himself off just because of some horny pussy-dripping daydream that had struck him without warning. In those days he masturbated every morning, religiously. He figured that took a lot less time than nightly tail chasing. He usually shot it in the sink to keep his pure-sheets image constant with the House Mother. He was always fascinated to watch his own propulsion, not to mention all those milky mangled bubbles of kids that might have been. He used to wonder how many lost dynasties had flown out of his cock since he'd first begun to play with it. Unborn babies clogging up the sewers along with the rest of the pollution.
Bart made up for this excessive self-abuse on weekends. He dug group encounters then. Still would if it weren't for his marriage and brutally tight schedule. He loved to screw with mirrors too, always trying to capture the look on his face when he came, or exactly how a knocker looked when it slid in and out of his mouth. A born performer, Bart, plus having an intense compulsion to record and chronicle the "now" of things. By the time he got out of college he had an impressive Polaroid collection of his own orgasms. Sperm For Posterity, he labeled these albums; hotly captured moments of cock-plunged cunts and lips, guys and thighs and girls and crotches all banging historically together. Beautiful times that filled his mouth and mind and memory.
Then, suddenly, after a quick hitch for dear old Korea, all the fun stopped for Bart. "Hoist with my own petard" was how he referred to it later. He fell fantastically, wildly, weepingly in love for the first time in his life. She was a sadist and a bitch and an actress and he married her. She called herself by two first names-Wanda Gloria. On the night he first professed his love for her and proposed marriage, Wanda's only reply was to laugh for an unbroken three minutes, then hungrily suck his asshole for an unbroken twenty. Rationalizing this behavior by deciding they were both anal personalities, Bart bought her a ring the next day. They were married at City Hall, which turned out to be the first and last civil ceremony of their alliance.
"Listen, Big Prick, my career happens to be in Hollywood." She always addressed him by this genital endearment, never Bart. "So Hollywood's where we're gonna live."
"But I hate Hollywood, Wanda. It's uncreative, stultifying, gaseous and hostile."
He let her drag him there anyway, by the balls, around which she clamped her jaws as fiercely as a bulldog. He lasted a year. Considering what a groveling lackey she made out of him, Bart later found it rather ironic to recall that she had done most of the ass licking. Rimming was at the top of a long list of Wanda's hangups. She said she'd spent half her life searching for that rarity to suck: a hairless male anus. Most men were so damned hirsute there were precious few of these jewels to go around. But she'd found Bart's dimpled nubbin as bald and tender as a baby's mouth. This was one of the prices he had to pay before she'd let him fuck her in his preferred position: her tongue quicksilvering up his ass as Bart licked the soupy cohesion of her cunt while waiting for better things. Not exactly the romantic type, the only times Wanda let him kiss her were right after she'd been dining on him rectally. This appealed to the latent voyeur-narcissist in Bart, so he sucked her mouth voraciously on these occasions, loving her, hating himself, getting lower on the ladder with every lick. He used to look in her scoffing eyes and see his own asshole, lipstick-red, imprisoned between his jungle teeth. It got to be like a prediction of his own death, what he saw in Wanda's eyes, like a gutting.
She made other demands of him. Like being queer for urine, mostly her own, as she stood above him and watched it sprinkle against his lips while she warbled a revered old standard: Isn't It A Lovely Day To Be Caught In The Rain ...? At such times Bart tried to concentrate only on her breasts and face, which were breathtaking. When she wasn't sapping him in bed, she "wore" him at parties and premieres because he was such a stunner in a tux. She used him like a lump, like a physic. On the night their marriage blew up there were flying fists and disgust and a broken collar bone-Bart's. They were at a party and Wanda wanted to ingratiate herself with a top-flight casting director who was widely reputed to be a homosexual. She offered him Bart for the night. "He's got eight thick inches and he's sex-crazed, darling, so take him home and devour. And if you want to show your gratitude, phone my agent in the morning and tell him you want to test me for the part of the lesbian in your new picture."
For Bart, that tore it. He felt his spine would turn to jelly if he didn't take some action, so something snapped and he went berserk, started roaring and sobbing and socking faces, battering his way towards the casting director who'd been staring with great interest at his crotch. But the casting director was a Karate expert, so Bart went down fast. Down and out.
He went to Juarez for a quickie divorce. Uncontested. Then he returned to San Francisco and built a career for himself. Made out like a stud farm whenever he was hot for it. Recaptured his pride and lost aggressions. Loyally visited his folks once a month across the Bay, and lunched frequently with his career-minded sister Monica, who had already tucked her first divorce under her garter belt. In rapid succession Bart got ahead, laid and appreciated. Got mentioned in all the columns as that bright charismatic bon vivant Bart Sheridan who could puncture any pussy that took his fancy. Broads were queued up outside his condominium by the carloads, holding pictures of him in one hand and their diaphragms at the ready in the other. Bart Sheridan, champion cockhound and cunt pleaser. By the time he was thirty, he felt he'd sucked, fucked and gangbanged enough for a man of fifty. But his career had reached a plateau. He was the most popular disc spinner in California at one hundred thou a year, which included his residual take for commercials. But that was it-staticsville. Now and then he did a nightclub turn, because he was a pretty funny guy for such a Brooks Bros, beauty type. "Too conventionally handsome to play the clown" was how some of his critics put it. "The audience wants an underdog to laugh at," his agent told him, "and you're Steve Stunning." None of this really bugged Bart too much, though, for he hated the atmosphere of club work, which threatened to turn him into an overnight lush, and Bart was too geared to the Health & Strength bit to find that very attractive. So what was left for him? Did he want to be a movie star a la Cary Grant-hyphen-Jack Lemmon? Or maybe another Johnny Carson? Never! Not if such pursuits took him away from San Francisco. And since everyone told him that San Francisco was the most beautiful city in the world to live in, but no place to make out show-biz-wise, there was that old plateau again. Standstill.
Then one summer, by the craziest fluke, Bart found himself down in Tucumcari, New Mexico, for a couple of weeks. An old radio buddy of his by the name of Roy Marshall had gotten married several years earlier and had ditched the scourge of civilization for the simple life. He had a well-paying engineering job, plus a wife, a kid, and one on the way. The Marshall's invited Bart to spend his vacation with them, and Bart had to agree this would certainly constitute a drastic change of scene. For once maybe he'd actually rest during a vacation instead of carouse through the gin mills of Vegas or New York.
That was the summer Bart found Wee Bonnie Dimples and love. She brought him nothing but luck. In the last ten years the talk show craze mushroomed madly, plus the growth of the UHF-TV channels, meaning there was a great deal more air space and time for guys like Bart who had nothing to sell but charm. And with Bonnie's morale-boosting faith in him, to say nothing of her puerile adoration and steadfast loyalty, Bart beamed his personal magnetism all over the land.
Then he had two healthy kids in a row who looked like such perfect replicas of himself he got a little sensually self-involved every time he looked at them. Two new "Barts" warming up on the assembly line, with their Daddy's physiognomy and their Mommy's naivete.
With blessings like these, plus a wife who retained her innocence like an ingrown chastity belt, Bart was more his own man than he'd ever been. At last he'd found his bag: a twentieth century female who was content to let him do all the decision making, in bed or out of it, who knew that the term "wife" was synonymous with words like "cleanliness, obedience and humility," who had no rivalrous ambitions of her own, and who wouldn't know what it meant even to compete with another woman, let alone the man of the house.
Maybe in his circles Bonnie was thought of as an anachronism, but she was his anachronism and he'd preserve her in alcohol or have her bronzed and stuffed to keep her from changing. A girl-type woman. A yummy little dinger, with a lot of giggly vanity, maybe, but no ego, except as it reflected his ambitions, his appetites. Subservience like that was the next-best thing to marrying a Geisha. They weren't partners or buddies, but were man and wife in the purest, most atavistic sense-male and female who, intellectually speaking, had practically nothing in common, which of course was why they never quarreled.
Through Bonnie, Bart was at last able to recover from that ball-breaking maneater he'd married, in whose festering memory he still masturbated to this day, the filthy tigress with her tongue up his ass ... that's how he'd always see her because it was the only way he could really dismiss her: Wanda Gloria, slobbering gut girl and superstar, with his ass in her mouth! Man, he could really level her with a vision like that, and then, in the sunshine of Bonnie's smile, forget her forever. Except, of course, sometimes late at night when he was overtired from too many taping sessions and grabbed a quick whore from the Tenderloin. The dirt clung then, but was never permitted to follow him home; always the outside secret, sanely hidden and sucked below. Meanwhile, back at the castle, sat Bonnie, waiting to wash his sins away with the antidote called love.
* * *
As for Bonnie herself at sixteen, was she ready for the dashing Bart Sheridan? Not even a little bit. Hadn't even prayed for him. Instead, that summer she'd had a heartbreaking crush on her English teacher, fatally smitten by the idyllic aroma of Mediterranean tobacco and bibliographies whenever he entered a room. This was a mellifluous gent in his mid-thirties who barely knew she was alive, even though she stared maniacally at him during every lecture, and wrote him never-to-be-mailed love-sonnets that she pressed between the pages of her National Geographic and Photoplay. The man's name was Hector Scott, and that year he was the reigning matinee idol at Tucumcari High.
It was at a picnic that Bart first met, and, in sequence, deflowered this untapped fledgling. He'd been the Marshall's house guest for about a week when Mrs. Marshall, a toothsome young bread-baking-type lady by the name of Jessica, suggested that he join them at the annual Fourth of July picnic and taffypull being held out at the Fairgrounds.
"It'll get you away from this sleepy neighborhood for awhile, Bart," Roy urged him. "Not that we don't enjoy having you around, but for a swinger like you there hasn't been too much action. From what I hear, you're bound to grab yourself a little recreation out there today."
"And he's not talking about bocce ball either," Jessica added slyly.
"Oh ho! Then I'll be able to catch Miss Middle-America with her sagebrush down, right?"
"Something like that," said Roy. "It's an annual free-for-all, Bart, so get in on it."
During the first hour of the picnic Bart got his primary kick as a detached spectator, observing the endless roundelay of beerfests, laughing jags and bucolic games of sweaty competition. He wished he'd brought a tape-recorder along so he could capture some of this pungent dialect. Sounded like a cross between Okie and Hillbilly with maybe a dash of Dallas thrown in. But he soon discovered it was in the surrounding thickets where the main events of the day were being conducted. Here the local teen-agers held undulant sway beneath the trees and bushes. Managing to evade his friends, Bart strolled sneakily through the foliage and mapped out a voyeuristic stakeout for himself. He was amazed to see these kids making out in such frenzied style, and wondered if it were customary for them to be allowed all this freedom. If so, it certainly proved you didn't have to be a San Franciscan to know when to pull out the cork and let 'er rip.
When Bart realized these grappling youngsters were oblivious to all passers-by, he strolled deeper into the trees. He'd never watched anything quite like this, a veritable carnival of hot yeasty youth caught in the flux of puppy lust. Listen to the horny noises they're making, he thought, getting charged up by all their moist steamy sighs and suck-sounds now mingling with the bird calls of summer. None of them was completely bare-assed, just making out with fingers, hands and lips. Guys tongue-swabbing fever-tipped titties while girls dreamily jagged boys' stubby peters with their sachet-smelling hankies. Man, what a taffy-pull! ... Bart going tense and sweaty about the crotch now, his cock a thick bursting bloom inside his briefs as he walked and ogled and listened. He saw one young girl's curly head bobbing furiously up and down as she sucked her playmate's prick, the lad's head thrown back, mouth slack, a look of pure idiocy in his eyes as he rolled them Godward. Jeez, what a sight! Thought Bart, and not much more than fourteen either. Beautiful. And so magnificently fuckin' innocent you could cry over it. He arranged his jockey briefs so his wang curved upward and lay flat against his belly, though it still bulged out like a smuggled banana bunch when he walked.
He saw a deserted clearing up ahead and breathed a sigh of relief. Good place to unwind and cool it, or maybe beat his meat for safety's sake, then take a nap. The hot day, coupled with the mouthwatering junior orgy he'd just spied on, was something he'd better recover from fast, unless he wanted to be detained by the local constabulary for going on a rape spree. Christ, it had only been a week or so since his last medicinal bangathon back home, and here he was, walking through this sylvan paradise with a flaming hard-on, just like some goosey stink-balled creep out of Tobacco Road.
Then he saw her. Baby-blonde princess lying on her tummy, ass gift wrapped in tight Capris, two luscious orbs pouting upward. Bart drew in his breath and licked his lips-then wondered what to do with his jutting erection.
CHAPTER 4
Bonnie was sprawled out under the sheltering branches of a eucalyptus tree, scribbling verse in a loose-leaf notebook. Since Bart had approached her from behind, he knew she hadn't heard him. What he saw first was her loose-flowing blonde hair, not tightly lacquered in some elaborate bouffant, just natural blonde ripples of fluff and heaven. Then he saw her ass, but waited, held his breath. She'd get enough of a jolt when she saw him suddenly appear, but if she also caught that stiff protrusion in his jeans, she'd probably scream so loud it'd be lynch time all over the county in a very few minutes.
For thirty seconds Bart tried to think about as many sexless topics as he could summon up in order to deflate himself. He concentrated on food and money and the roller derby and hockey matches and enemas given by ugly nurses and soon he felt the slow unbending sensation and his cock went down.
"Hi there," he said. "I don't mean to startle you, but I seem to be lost."
Bonnie swirled quickly around, lurching up on her elbows. "Oh golly Moses, you scared the daylights out of me!" Then, when she saw him, Bonnie gasped with the wonder of it all. Why, the resemblance was uncanny. Not only that, but the coincidence, since right this very minute she'd been composing a sonnet to Hector-and then to have this stranger appear, practically his spitting image ... Same tall broad-shouldered frame and sandy tousled hair and full wide mouth, except the grin was more boyish somehow, the brown-flecked eyes more penetrating. But of course they'd be more penetrating, she told herself, for when, if ever, had Hector Scott even looked in her direction?
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to stare," she said, "but for a minute I thought you were someone else. Someone I never expected to see, not here anyway."
God, what a kicky accent, he thought. And a lisp yet! A girl with fat rosebuds for lips and a lisp to top 'em off. This was too much for Bart, having a whole picnic full of suckling teenagers put him in heat, and then to run across a girl with such hair and buns, and a mouth that begged to be kissed every time it curved out a syllable. "Mind if I sit down for a while?" he said amiably. "I'm a newcomer here, so I guess I've taken a wrong turn somewhere ..."
"I'm sure I don't mind where you sit," she said, then giggled a little to show she wasn't being rude, because, crimminies! it was like having Handsome Hector himself pay her an undreamed-of visit in this forest primeval and she couldn't take her eyes off him. "It's nice and shady here. I can't stand all that heat and sun back at the Fairgrounds. Those people are crazy anyway, I mean, to be doing all that running and cutting up, don't you think?"
He smiled and sat near her, absolutely entranced by the angelic perfection of her face, short straight nose, azure blue eyes, so full of youth and promise. "Well, you know what they say about mad dogs and Englishmen."
"Pardon?"
"Noel Coward. Or maybe I'm dating myself. He hasn't done that tune in ages."
"Well I'm sure I know all about Noel Coward. He's a brilliant English playwright, and he wrote Blithe Spirit, which I saw in the round one summer when my Daddy took me."
Man, if he could only get her to say "Daddy" again, just once ... then suck her flicking pink tongue right in the middle of the second "d". Christ, what was happening to him? Had he turned into Huckleberry Finn on just one lousy Fourth of July picnic?
"I guess you're waiting here for your boy friend," he overtured.
"Indeed I am not waiting for any boy friend," she said indignantly, "if by "boy" you mean one of those rasslin' anthropoids back there in the underbrush. I don't cotton to people my own age anyway. Maybe that's because I was always very solitary as a child and I read a lot and didn't cultivate great gangs of people, regardless of what their pursuits might be. But goodness, listen to me talking so much, and here I don't even know your name."
Bart told her, then added, "I'm from San Francisco, just visiting for a week or so."
"You're NOT!" she gaped at him.
"Scout's honor," he gave her his warmest grin.
"No, I'm not doubting your word, for heaven's sake, it's, it's just that I can't get over where you're from. Why, you're my very first ... uh ... I mean, this is the first time I ..."
"You mean I'm your first San Franciscan, right?"
Oh wow, look at her blush! Cheeks like bright red apples and he wanted to lick 'em both and shake her branches for more.
"I'm Bonita Sue Jardine," she said primly. "I don't believe I told you my name. And you really are from the ... the city by the Golden Gate, and is it, oooh! just everything they say it is?"
"Oooh like what?" he chuckled, staring harder, smitten deeper.
"Like ... well, it's just all full of gorgeous scenery and hills and sin and vice and a lot of very smart people, half of them terribly rich and the other half beatniks' who drink wine and smoke opium and live on cheese and art and scratch wherever it itches."
He laughed. "That's gotta be the pithiest thumbnail description of my city I've ever heard."
"Pithiest?"
"Yeth," he murmured, eyeing her lips, not realizing he'd lisped too.
She turned away. "You're making fun of me. I know it must seem silly for a girl my age to have a speech impediment, but I've been working on it. I mean, my goodness, I've even stuck marbles in my mouth and sucked on them while I talked."
Oh baby, he groaned inwardly.
"But you should have heard me when I was fifteen. I absolutely sprayed! So I'm getting better. It's all in knowing where to point your tongue when you enunciate."
"That must have been all of three of four years ago," he said, trying to get her to stop talking about her tongue before his cock went hard again. "When you were fifteen, I mean."
She glanced quickly at him. "How'd you know I was nineteen going on twenty?" she lied with delicious abandon.
"You look about that," he said; especially around the shanks, he thought, and from what I can see of those dangling fat boobies you've got caged up in that tight middy blouse.
"What sort of work do you do back in San Francisco?" she asked. "Are you in the arts like everybody else there?"
Bart, thinking fast, glanced briefly at the scribbling she'd been doing in her notebook. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I'm a writer." Hell, twice a year, when he toured with his nightclub act, he did write his own gags, so that wasn't too much of a whopper. "And a part-time performer too," he added, wondering when he'd ever scored so many points so fast.
"A writer and an actor? I can hardly believe it. I mean, because I'm interested in writing too. You know, poetry and real dramatic verse, mostly about the futility of love that has never reached a ripe fruition."
"That sounds like you're either on the rebound, or you've been very disappointed in someone."
"Neither, really," she said, and decided that's all she would tell him. It certainly wouldn't do to tell him she had a crush on her high school English teacher, especially since he must take it for granted she was at least a college freshman. "But I've learned to stop mourning the past and build for the future. I know there'll be compromises I must make. First, of course, I've got to get out of Tucumcari! My goodness, maybe I'll even go to San Francisco and read my poetry on the stage." She laughed and blushed. "No, don't listen to me. I'm only funnin' ... must be the heat. I always say crazy things when it's hot, don't you?"
"Sometimes. But tell me, Bonnie Sue, are you here with your family?" Bart was determined to check out this scene security-wise before he made his first reach.
"Heavens no, my Daddy died two years ago, and my Momma remarried and moved to Houston. I live with my married sister, Thelma Lou. She's got three kids and it's pretty noisy, but I do have my own room, and Thelma Lou's a real lovable human being. I know you'd like her. Of course, she's got herself a real grouch for a husband, but I manage to ignore him. So things are pretty comfortable for me. How about you, your wife back in San Francisco?"
"I'm not married."
"Oh? Well." She smiled primly. "I just took it for granted you were. I mean, you have a kinda fulfilled look about you, like a big old tomcat who's just swallowed a whole mess o' cream, know what I mean?"
He nodded. "You think I look satisfied, but that's very misleading, because I'm not. I was married once. Not now, though. Actually, I'm quite lonely." Bart was astonished to hear himself confess this aloud. Back where he came from it was like admitting he had something terminal. But here it sounded so natural and honest.
Bonnie stared down at her notebook. "The way you said that gives me goose pimples. You have such an actorish voice, so husky and deep."
"Combination radio training and real emotion."
"Radio? You act on radio too?"
"Frequently, when called upon."
They both fell silent for a moment. Then she turned and met his eyes. Bart said nothing. Stared, then swallowed. "You're so beautiful," he said, wondering why these words sounded so sad.
"Oh," she said, not blushing this time, but lowering her eyes. "Nobody ever told me that before."
"Then you've been alone too much, Bonnie. In a crowd you'd hear it from everybody, how very beautiful you are ..."'
"Golly Moses, you sure talk nice. I could watch you ... I mean listen to you talk and never get tired ..." her eyes on his mouth. "Say some more, something pretty ..."
He nudged in closer. "Bonnie Sue," he said, licking his lips, eyeing the honey dew push of her breasts inside her blouse, trying to make out the nipple-tips, wondering if they were going rigid the way he was again down below. He rolled over on his belly and temporarily flattened his persistent erection: (down boy!). "Bonnie Sue," he said again. "That's something pretty, to hear as well as look at."
She twisted around and sat up, squatting daintily right before him, and he knew she'd made this move so he could see how her knockers hung when she was upright. Catching his stare, she inhaled deeply, then stretched a little. Aw honey, that's perfect, he thought. Much too big and bunchy to be chic, but he was so fuckin' fed up with those chic sleek overdieted broads he was used to buttering up back home. Let him swing on a couple'a big dairymaid slabs like these any night of the week.
"My, it's so very humid and sultry, isn't it, Mr. Sheridan?"
"Yes it is, and call me Bart."
"Would you like to go for a swim? I know a place."
Oh man, here it comes ... she wants it! "A place?"
"It's kind of an old Indian stream that not many people know about around here. I like to think of it as my very own special watering hole."
Jesus, she's got a watering hole! "Swimming just happens to be my favorite sport, so let's go." He rose to his feet. The bulge in his jeans was noticeable now, and it was too late for him to do anything but stand there and let it bloom. Bonnie kept gazing nobly upward at his eyes, his interesting hairline. But he could tell by the color of her cheeks that she knew exactly what was going on between his legs.
"I'm wearing my swim suit, of course," she said, "underneath, I mean. How about you?"
"Right. Me too." I'll show you what I'm wearing ... even let you chin yourself on it ...
She led him through a tangle of intertwining paths that were heavy with overhanging branches and undergrowth. She said nothing, as stealthy and fleet of foot as a jungle nymph. It was a good ten-minute hike and they could each sense the aura of expectancy that linked them, their throats tight with what lay ahead for them, flesh's first discoveries gone new again and fraught with danger. At one point he took her hand and the head of his cock twitched as he felt her nails dig into his palm and heard her quick sigh.
Then, "Here we are, Bart. Just us, and maybe a couple of old bull frogs over on the other side." It was, indeed, a secluded stream. Remote and wild. Although it was deep enough for diving, it was too narrow for anything more ambitious than a romp.
Bonnie began slipping out of her clothes so quickly, Bart knew she hadn't been lying about wearing a swim suit. It was a black two piece affair, quite proper but so intimately revealing, Bart could only gape at her for a moment. Creamy-smooth midriff with that gorgeous tit-plateau throbbing out above. She seemed taller and statelier than he'd at first thought, longer legged, more lithe of hip. A little incongruous to see all that woman topped off by such a melting baby face, but it was an arrangement that met perfectly with Bart's most ardent specifications. Here, at last, was the child-woman he'd been sobbing and jagging for all his life ... submissiveness without masochism, passion without dirt. And look where he'd had to go to find her, back to the beginning of things ... Rima the Bird Girl ...
"Well come on, Bart!" she said, pointing at the stream. "It must be a hundred, even here in the shade. Don't you feel it?"
"Yes, Bonnie, I feel it." She stood only a few feet from him and he decided to undress. Just like that. No apologetic fumblings, no quick scurrying behind a bush. She'd know soon enough that he'd been lying about wearing trunks, so why not give her some shock therapy right between the eyes? Cold-cock treatment. He took his shirt off. No T shirt, so he was already half there. She looked gaily at his massive chest structure.
"My, you sure do keep yourself fit," she said. And then, even more gaily, she began to hum a tune and shift her eyes here and there. Bart sensed she was onto his lie and it was making her a nervous wreck.
He removed his shoes and socks, and then, in a single dual gesture, he dropped his jeans and briefs, kicked them off, then stood there, all manly-hard and thrust out for her, his prick flopping into view like a lowered gangplank. He gave her a grin and flexed his pectorals.
Bonnie stared, her hand fluttering to her throat as she sighed and gasped, then boldly stared some more. "Well, I do declare! Look at you in your birthday suit!" She tried to giggle but choked on it, swallowed, couldn't tear her eyes away from the fatly curved glans of his cock which looked so angry and compassionate all at once. "I've never seen a naked man before, exceptin' my Daddy one time, but he was just loose and kinda hangin', not like that."
"If you're offended I can put on my briefs."
"Goodness no, I'm not offended. In fact, if this had to happen I'm just so glad it's you. I mean, think who it could have been ... someone really awful, maybe, and then I'd be scarred for life by a brutal memory."
He grinned and nodded. "Yes, you're lucky it's only me, Bonnie." Then he waited as her eyes remained glued to his cock, wondering if he'd see fear as she caught the full size of it. But all he saw was a dewy kind of awe in her eyes that was so full of Christmas morning delight he began to lubricate a little. To have a girl who looked like that be cowed by his cock before it had even touched her-man, that was heady! Or maybe she was lying about never having seen an aroused nude male before. For a nineteen year old girl that had to be a rarity, even in Tucumcari.
"Is it always like that, ready to charge and plunder?"
He laughed. "Hardly, honey. It'd get to be a little cumbersome to carry around, to say nothing of the problems it might pose for my tailors."
"It looks so strong and confident. But soft too, and loving. Oh yes, I like to look at it, and I like being near it too." She reached behind and unfastened her halter, dropped it to the ground, her round pendulous breasts flouncing into full view, aureoles a sunset lavender, nipples rose tipped and rigid. Then she dropped the bottoms and stood naked for him. Bart tongued his dry thirsting lips as he saw the downy pink nest of her cunt, meaty girlish slit lurking beneath a dark blonde pubic bush.
"Exquisite," he breathed heavily as he ogled the rest of her dips and ovals, soft creamy mound of a belly, deep navel cleft, then the enticing cleft below, which Bart knew had to taste like nothing on this earth he'd ever sampled before. "Bonnie Sue, you are something to see."
"Do you want to know a secret, Bart?" They hadn't touched yet, prizing and tormenting only with their eyes. "I'm a virgin. And until this moment, I never wanted to be anything else. Never even gave sex very much thought, although I've read a lot about it for purely clinical reasons. And yet, when you appeared the way you did today, the idea didn't seem clinical to me anymore. Instead, it seemed like my time had come, my time for experience. I guess I always knew it'd be a stranger who would come and do it to me some day, not anyone familiar or ordinary." She slipped her hand in his. "Come on, let's swim ... let's make our bodies wet and free."
They ran to the stream and dove. And it happened very fast for them that first time, all lush fluid crushes and milky jabs. Happened before she knew it, so there was no dread anticipation for the girl, no time for hysterical muscle clenching or girding herself for the breadth of his plunging instrument.
When Bart launched their initial fusion, Bonnie was swimming above water and he was swirling below her, subterranean silhouette, his ass whitely gleaming as he gauged the moment for his ascent. His underwater cock was a stiff slicing pole, now a throbbing aimed arrow as he saw her wriggly wet vagina and moved with her, writhing below her belly and hanging tit-flab's. Then he twirled over on his back and, like a shark angling in for the kill, he shot smoothly upward, seizing her by the shoulders to halt her in the middle of a breast stroke. Then he said a little prayer for luck and lunged his buttocks diagonally upward ... and holy Christ, he hit it dead-center first time up, and felt it! ... that dear wet gooey tight cunt of a girl he'd caught beneath the stream, lips now parting like oozing hot flanges to receive the surging thickness of his cock.
Then, wetly, Bart hurled it all up and into her and felt that jellied heat and clutch of elasticity as Bonnie thrashed and squirmed and impaled herself underwater on the first cock of her life. He fucked her magnificently now, the two of them half drowning and revolving in their aqueous madness, his prick tearing and squashing damply in and out of her. The miracle achieved like that, with such unmonitored grace and ease, was the most romantic goddamned fuck of Bart's life, more tender than a first kiss, even though as yet he hadn't even touched his lips to hers.
They managed to surface for air once or twice, but she flung her arms and legs around him and hooked him in deeper, the two of them sinking underwater again, rolling, kicking, splashing in their stabbing exultance, Bart slamming it right up to the hilt now and noticing the trickles of blood rising to the surface. By God, he'd split himself an honest virgin here, no lies, no put-ons, a real flower-assed I Love You Truly girl, belly-suckin' his cock like she wanted to wear it forever up inside of her ...!
Bonnie gasped and tore at his hair, until finally they half swam, half fucked their way onto the matted shore, the girl still joined and flesh-gulping beneath him, flinging her legs high and wide and moaning like a stricken pup. And now at last they kissed, and Bart felt that lispy sexy tongue sliding deep into his mouth and tasted tears on her face, her body crazily throbbing and convulsive ... she's gonna come, he thought, little baby's getting ready to spill over, and Jesus maybe for the very first time!
With this thought in mind he fucked her faster, sliced his history-making cock deep and thickly in and out and sideways as he sucked the soft pout of her lips and heard her aching sobs. Gleaming wet with sweat and half demented from the strain of trying to hold back his load and savor and prolong this burning rare moment of his life, Bart felt the quick shuddering spasms of her body, first one, then another. Jesus, she came twice! ... twin blasts like that-little ass hotter than a pistol. Bart held her for the shock waves, gripped her moist moss-covered buttocks in his hands and fucked her steadily and relentlessly under the trees, longing to keep it up forever, but knowing he couldn't hold back another second. He was gonna do it, shoot it into her, right up her pink squirty cunt, his thick spurting semen ready to explode where no man's jism had ever gone before, sweet new hole giving his prick squatter's rights. Ummmmm, here she comes, up your adventure, baby, up your purity and innocence ... Oh Christ, how that feels ... NOW! Then he heaved a groaning sigh and let the randy creams fill her, more and more of it, the two of them shaking, rollicking, rolling, bodies all earth-moist and gleaming. They stayed linked like that for the kisses they'd not yet tried, for their first long teen-tasting necking session, experimenting and toying with their mouths like Post-Office-playing kids in the dark. Bart's tremulous stiff member remained within her, lodging there, at home, until a moment later the fevered rhythms resurged again, his cock a slashing sabre reswallowed in the gulpy pit of her, the tempo more smooth and languid now, Bonnie's emancipated cunt oiling and flexed for it as she quivered and sobbed and learned about surrender ... and formed the habit.
* * *
Bart saw Bonnie three more times that week, but always in secret, usually in his rented Thunderbird which she insisted he drive miles out of town. He was so crazy in love with her by this time, he grew impatient with her curious need for privacy and mystery. He wanted to date her outwardly, introduce her to his friends, or at least take her to a motel.
"What is it with you, Bonnie, you ashamed to be seen with an out-of-towner?"
"Don't be silly, Bart, I just want you all to myself for a while ... don't want to share you, or even see you anywhere except very close to me. You're more real to me like this, alone and hidden and mine. Even if it doesn't last, I'll remember you better this way."
"But Bonnie, I'm in love with you, and I want to be with you everywhere." He held her at arm's length for a second. "I don't go in for lighthearted summer romances, if that's what you're thinking. I've reached the age where permanence begins to look pretty important. But maybe that's it. Maybe it's my age that's hanging you up."
"No, honey, you've got it all wrong. I mean, it is a question of age, but not yours. Mine. You see, I lied to you about being nineteen. I'm ... I'm just sweet sixteen and never been ..." she giggled, "and now that's a lie too, isn't it?"
"Sixteen?" Bart said, his mind a racing whirl. Legally, this might have some bearing on their relationship. Other than that, nothing had changed for him. He still wanted her, even more desperately now that he realized how very untried and tender she really was.
"You thought I was older, Bart, and I was flattered, so I let you believe it." She sighed sadly. "But now you know you've been playing around with a kid, so I guess you'll be leaving town any minute."
"No, Bonnie, you might have been a kid a week ago, but not now. You're a baby, of course, and that I love. But you're no kid."
"You're only saying that to be gallant, afraid I'll cause trouble for you. Don't you think I know I'm out of your league, Bart? Why, I haven't even finished high school, and what's more, I still have a favorite old doll I take to bed with me. But YOU! Oh golly Moses, I know what you're used to! San Francisco! All that glamour and mink and French food ... Why, they make movies about it, and I've seen what those women look like. How can a little ninny from Tucumcari ever compete with a world like that?"
"My God, you sound like reruns of Our Gal Sunday!" he laughed, hugging her to him. "Oh honey, don't you see, it isn't glamour I want, it's love, and I want it from a girl who's sweet and uncomplicated enough to live for nothing but love. Besides, I lied to you too. I'm not really an actor or a writer. I'm just an ordinary disc jockey."
"Ordinary?" she said. "In Tucumcari a disc jockey might be ordinary, Bart, but my goodness, look where you're doin' it! It's still big time and it scares the livin' daylights out of me. So ... you just fly yourself back home, Bart, and with no regrets. I'll understand. It's fate. Two ships that have passed in the night. And maybe in a few years, when I've matured and blossomed and finished my education ..."
"... No, Bonnie, I don't want you to finish your goddamned education or turn yourself into some assembly line smartass of a broad. What I want is what you are right this minute, so by Christ, you're gonna marry me, Bonnie, and I don't give a red hot fuck if you do still play with dolls. For all I care you can take 'em to bed with you forever as long as I'm there too!"
She smiled and patted his hand. "Now Bart, really, you don't have to say all this. It was just a summer idyll, we'll always have that."
"When you stop spouting all that soap opera, I plan to kiss you into submission." Which he did an instant later, holding her close and kissing that luscious lisp of a mouth until they were breathless. "You're going to marry me, Bonnie, but first tell me whose permission we have to get."
"Oh golly, I do believe you mean it!" She cuddled deeper into his arms and acted out the jolt of this revelation by giving him a lot of tugging kisses and warm genital-tweezes, sucking his tongue and knuckling the swarming commotion between his thighs. "Oooh, the big grown up Tiger of a man wants me! ... just the way I am ...!"
"All right, let's save some of these goodies for our honeymoon," he laughed, pulling her pinkies out of his crotch. "Should we tell your sister, Thelma Lou, or wire your mother, or what?"
"No, no, Bart, we'd better not tell anyone or it'll never happen. You have no idea the way my family regard me, like I was some kind of hot-house flower. It's not so much that sixteen is too young to get married, it's just that to them my sixteen is more like eleven. They don't think I'm blossoming the way other girls do, except physically, of course. They say I'm too naive and trusting and ... well, maybe even a little retarded."
"That's a shitty attitude for your own family to take," he said, feeling a warmer glow than ever as he held her to him protectively. "Poor kitty cat, it's just that you're something very rare for this hopped-up century, and they don't dig it."
"Then we'll have to elope, Bart. If we don't, I know Thelma Lou's husband will find some legal way to put a stop to it. He's one of those feisty union leaders and he's not happy unless he's bossin' half the town. But once I'm married, he can't touch us, because I'll be gone then, so what can they do? After all, it's only I who am underage, not you, Bart, which is perfectly legitimate, isn't it?"
"I don't know, honey, but you can be sure I'll look it up. After we're married."
Bonnie left scented little bye-bye notes for everyone. Even sent one to her fondly forsaken English teacher who, from long habit, simply graded it "C-minus" and put it in his out basket.
In San Francisco, and married only a few weeks, Bonnie discovered she was pregnant. That, plus the probing fingers and instruments of the gynecologist, to say nothing of her very first rabbit test and skipped period, proved to be just the shock she'd needed to lose her lisp forever. Bart missed it sorely, even longed for it in the middle of their kisses, his tongue searching, mourning.
But Bonnie Sue didn't change in any other way. Not for a very long time.
CHAPTER 5
After receiving Bonnie's first epoch-making blow job, Bart Sheridan didn't know where to turn. His wife's scummy little oral debut was having an effect on her that was positively psychedelic. He'd never witnessed such a swift and drastic change in anyone, and began to wonder if an average swallow of his sperm contained some mystic mind-altering ingredients he'd never suspected. One big gulp of him and she was a raving megalomaniac. It was as if having his cock in her mouth had also given her a pair of balls, because from then on that was the only way Bart could describe her behavior-ballsy! Little did he know that the butterfly he'd married ten years ago would go back into her cocoon and come out as a top-sergeant-and a fruity one to boot!
His decision to give her the silent treatment for the next week or so fell flat, mainly because Bonnie wasn't around often enough to know he was freezing her out. Where the hell was she going all of a sudden? Meetings and seminars, she said, and meaningful demonstrations, she said. All of it so damned untypical of her it would really had been laughable if he hadn't been so pissed off. If only she would realize how she was rupturing her psyche in order to turn into somebody she wasn't.
Luckily, the new fall school season had just begun, so, as yet, the kids weren't being too neglected. And, thankfully, they were at an age where they could take a little maternal truancy without flinching, especially since the primary figures of female authority in their house had been a formidable English governess and a taciturn German housekeeper-cook by the name of Anna. Now that he thought of it, Bonnie'd had very little to do in the rearing of her sons, except to give them a lot of love and affection. But then, she'd never shown any interest in becoming a disciplinarian, which was why he'd taken such burdens off her shoulders.
Bart's schedule at the studio had always been chaotic and tense, so it wasn't as if he could complain about Bonnie's sudden absences at dinner since he was so rarely present for the evening meal. He usually lunched, and often dined too, with whichever guests he was interviewing on the following Saturday night's talk show, with two afternoon hours rigidly set aside for taping his radio show. Frequently these career-connected dinners mushroomed into long strident show-biz parties, so it was sometimes pretty late by the time he got home. Upon reviewing this pattern, it seemed as though he'd been neglecting Bonnie for years, so to anyone who didn't know all the facts it might seem a bit ironic that he was suddenly accusing her of doing the same to him.
But damnit, wasn't that what women were for? Hell yes! to stay home and knit and hatch while their men went out and slew the dragons. In Bonnie's case, it was little enough to ask in payment for the sumptuous life he'd given her. God knows what would have happened to her if he'd left her down there in Nowheresville. No doubt her family would have had the dizzy little twitch committed by now. Which, for one gleeful instant, gave Bart the glimmer of an idea-chough only passing, for how could any wife of his be a blithering idiot? Talk about his faltering public image that would really hang a hex on it, so that he'd soon be coming on like the heavy in Gaslight, or maybe Diary Of A Mad Housewife. Bart decided to make very certain that whatever Bonnie was about to do to their lives he could never be thought of as having "driven her to it."
Somehow he'd just have to play the waiting game and stick it out. Which was a laugh too, because he didn't even have to do that in the early morning hours when he awoke to the sensation of her freshly learning lips reconfiscating his somnambulant hard-on. Man, she was really hooked. He'd feel a helluva lot happier if she started dropping acid, the little jism-head, pumping away on his manhood as if every flick of her tongue reconfirmed her independence all over again. But Bart didn't move a muscle when she sucked him, pretending to be sound asleep despite his glandular betrayal. And when he couldn't hold back a choked groan during an enforced orgasm, he turned it into a quick snore to make her think he was coming in his sleep, maybe having a wet dream that had nothing to do with her. If only he'd had the presence of mind to yell out "Sophia!", or "Raquel!" when he shot it ... but he never thought of that until later. At least he remembered not to say one word to her after it was over. Which wasn't too effective either, since Bonnie usually fell blissfully back to sleep right after she blew him.
After a couple of weeks, the combination of domestic hostility and daily blow jobs cast a peculiar spell over Bart. There was something both sinister and enthralling about getting habitually Frenched by someone you weren't even speaking to. It gave their relationship a covert sort of anonymity which was totally foreign to everything else they'd shared together.
One morning Bart decided it might break the pattern if he started talking to her again. Sure, why not lick one orality attack with another? It seemed reasonable that he'd get her out of the mood if he started relating to her on familiar terms once more, reminding her she was a mother and a housewife right in mid-suck. Maybe then she'd revert to bright sunny Bonnie again, instead of a crawling gurgling stranger, which, eventually, would lessen the frequency with which he was subjected to the frantic jollies he so reluctantly experienced every morning. Bart's main hangup was that he couldn't reconcile his idealistic image of Bonnie with that of a groveling cocksucker. (Girls who look like angels do not suck!) And yet, after the first few days he'd completely blocked out that shimmering old image and let this new gal, whoever she was, milk his unflagging cock until it burned whenever he peed. As a result he'd grown weaker, less able to resist ... grown to love it, really, and that had to stop. Not only was it unhealthy and sanity-threatening, it was a passive role, an indignity which Bart had hoped to kick forever when he'd dropped his ass-licking first wife. But here it was back again-The Bloodless Position: lying still, spread-eagled and prone while a woman devoured him.
That morning Bonnie had just popped his bulky cockhead between his lips when Bart, determined to kill this urge with homey type chatter, started to speak, "Good morning, Mrs. Sheridan. I've been meaning to ask, how did the kids' first day of school go this year? I've been so busy, haven't had time to talk to the boys about it."
"Mmmmm!" Bonnie managed to nod her head affirmatively while she kept sucking him. Then, briefly, she slid his stout member fully out of her mouth and gave him a cozy grin, continuing to fondle and tongue-tickle his prick as she spoke. "It was the first year we let them go off by themselves, Bart, and they were utterly enchanted. Permissiveness is the answer to everything these days," licking up one side of the shaft, down the other, "and I know it made the boys feel for the first time in their lives they actually had some freedom of choice, that going back to school was their decision instead of the result of any stern parental authority." Digging the tip of her tongue into the cleft of his glans, "I'm so proud of them, Bart. And to think, this is where they both began!" Then she opened her mouth wide and sucked fully down on him again.
Shit, it's not going to work, thought Bart, gritting his teeth and trying to hold back a gasp, thinking it was even worse this way because he was looking right at her and could actually see her sexy mouth like that, so damned round and sensually full of him. "Uh ... we gotta remember the trouble Jeff had with the New Math last semester, hon . ." trying to make his voice sound comfy and sexless, Old Dad on the hearth with pipe and slippers and the evening paper ..."yep, we gotta bear that in mind, dear, maybe even bone up ... I mean, do some research ourselves so we can help him."
"Ummmm!" sucked Bonnie, seconding all his motions.
"... And ... uh ... hey, how's that new gardener doing? I thought the marigolds looked rather limp the other day."
She slid up again, mouth agleam. "It's time for marigolds to be going limp, Bart, what with fall coming on. But the life span of this stem is something else again." and regobbled him devotedly.
Then, in quick succession, Bart spewed out a jumbled compulsive monologue in which he hit on every homespun non-libidinous topic he could dream up; covered the servant problem, rising food costs, rising salaries for guest stars on his show, inflation, health insurance, his not always superb physical condition, especially the constipation and knotty piss problems he'd been having lately-that oughta do it! But nothing deterred the mouth of this new degenerate in his bed, and Bart shot out another long creamy load right in the middle of a discussion about whether or not they ought to paint their breakfast room buttercup yellow.
Defeated again, he crawled out of bed and watched how contentedly she snuggled back into her pillows, remembering the insidious blackmail trick she'd used to get him to consent to this corruption: threatening never to let him suck her again unless she could have her way with him, which was just about as petty a reaction as you'd expect from someone with the mind of a child! But wait a minute, maybe he could reverse that process now by behaving in the same way. At least it was worth a try. Safely enshrouded in his robe now, he pointed an accusing finger at her. "Listen, Bonnie, you keep this up and guess what I'll do ..."
"I give up," she sighed satedly, "what'll you do?"
"I'll let this become the full extent of our sex life, you follow me? I mean, if you're suddenly so hot for oral copulation, you can just forget everything else on the menu. How does that grab you?"
She gazed up at him, smiling archly. "You mean no more Fucky-Wucky?"
"That's right, Bonnie, so you'd better make up your mind and stick to it-which way do you want to fly?"
"You beast, you're trying to limit me and inhibit me again, aren't you?"
"I'm only telling you what's gonna come off around here, so you make the choice." He found he could actually smile at her now, and like a man too, not a deflated syringe.
"How would you choose, Bart-as a man, I mean?"
He stopped smiling. "I don't follow you."
"What do most men do when their wives chronically refuse to fulfill their sexual obligations?"
Bart just stared at her, feeling the new furies rising, churning ...
"They search in greener pastures, don't they, Bart? They go and seek elsewhere ... they PLAY AROUND! Well, why shouldn't women have the same opportunity when they're frustrated at home? Why shouldn't wives go to bars and pick up studs the way philandering husbands pick up hookers?"
Bart tried his damndest to look superior and amused. "You silly bitch, you just try that and you'll have every whore in San Francisco picketing you as unfair competition. I mean, Christ, is that what you Women Libbers want, the freedom to turn NYMPHO? What do you want for Christmas, sweetie, a jockstrap?" Not trusting himself to say any more, he turned and hurried into the bathroom.
"Equal rights, Bart," she called after him, "remember? That's what to give the woman who's had nothing all her life!" Then she giggled as she thought how infuriated he'd been, the pungent tastes of him soothing her back to sleep ... Bonnie sighed and licked her husband-wet lips with great relish ... little power-swallower slaying the giant again with her slingshot of a tongue ...
* * *
Another week passed, during which Bart felt more dethroned every day, often having to thwart his wife's repeated attempts to cock-slot him within her from the female dominant position. He'd wake up to see her seated quite comfortably above him, his member gummily imprisoned up her snatch. But one hefty heave under her armpits and schlullpp! ... out popped his prick, free and his again, the head of it a little spermy maybe, but unbowed. Then he'd dash out of bed, taking his ravished equipment with him as he headed towards the bathroom, Bonnie blazing and indignant, hurling threats at him. "Bart, I'm warning you, one more denial in my own bedroom and I start cruising the Berkeley campus in my car. I'll pick up some raunchy hippie and bring him home, right here in the afternoon, on your bought and paid-for sheets, Bartholomew! I mean it, I'll fuck and suck a hippie ... maybe even set him up in an apartment. You wouldn't believe the money I've saved from the household allowance for this rainy day, darling, for this reckoning ...!"
Later that day, in desperation, Bart telephoned his worldly-wise sister Monica and begged her to talk to Bonnie, that she was going through some weirdo phase and needed the advice of an older woman.
"But what seems to be the trouble with her, Bart? Can't you give me some specifics?"
"Oh hell, Monica, I don't know. Maybe it's early change."
"At twenty-six? My God, that must be world's record."
"I tell you I don't know what's ailing her, but I think maybe she resents the fact that I'm so involved with my career, and she's beginning to feel left out. You see her and tell her I still love her Monica, that my work is one thing, and she's another, but it's all part of my life and damned important to me." Hell, he and his sister had never been that close, so he didn't want to give her any more details than he had to. After all, Monica was a woman too, and thus a potential enemy. But she was also his one and only sister, so he hoped loyalty would come before her own personal cynicism regarding love and marriage.
"Bart dear, if you've been laying around and deceiving that perfectly adorable child, so help me, I'll ..."
"I haven't been laying around, Monica. I gave all that up when I married Bonnie, you know that. I'd had my fill of the fleshpots."
"Hmmm, I don't know if I like the sound of that either. After all, in her own guileless way Bonnie's a fleshpot too, Bart. I mean she's human."
"Look, Monica, just see her and tell her how much I love her. I think she thinks I don't any more, and I don't want her to think that. So ... you talk to her, okay?"
"Well, all right, Bart, but I'm hardly an expert on patching up sick marriages. In fact, lately my career has taken another turn entirely."
"Yes, I know all about that, Monica, but I'm not appealing to you professionally now. I'm relying on you as a thirty-five year old career woman who's been on her own for a long time and knows how tough it can be."
There was a tense pause at the other end of the wire. The sharp peal of laughter. "You mean I'm to serve as a shining example of why girls should not run away from home?"
"Nothing of the sort, Monica," Bart said impatiently, "it's just that Bonnie needs some guidance and I feel you're the one to give it to her."
"All right, brother dear, I'll phone her and arrange to see her for lunch as soon as I can swing it."
Two mornings later Bonnie received a call from her sister-in-law and agreed to meet her in San Francisco that afternoon. Bonnie had just opened her mail a few minutes before Monica's call, finding an advance copy of Female! Magazine that had been sent to her by the editor, so at the moment she was in a state of great agitation. She decided to bring the magazine with her and get Monica's opinion, because now that her article was actually out, she was suffering a horrible case of stage fright and felt she needed another woman as moral support. "All right, Monica, I'll meet you at the Fairmont at one. And by the way, dear, I'll have some exciting news for you."
"Exciting news?" asked Monica, wondering how the girl could sound so ebullient after the way Bart had described her current mood. "Oh darling, you're not pregnant again, are you?"
"Yes I am, Monica, but only with ideas this time. See you later!"
CHAPTER 6
Bonnie found San Francisco's lunch hour throngs more stimulating than ever as she sat in the Crown Room, high atop the Fairmont Hotel. Monica was late as usual, but Bonnie couldn't really care, for it gave her more time to drink in the healing glitter of the Bay view. There was something about gazing at grouchy old Alcatraz in the autumn haze that seemed to ease some of the apprehension she'd been feeling. She thumbed through Female! again for the thousandth time, and there it was in black and white: My Life With Ghengis Kahn. Oh God, that title! And perhaps she should have used a pseudonym after all. She felt she was tottering on the edge of a precipice, waiting to be pushed off, a sensation that made her feel oddly brave and lonely all at once. What I need is a staunch disciple, she thought, or a follower, or at least an audience!
As if on cue, she heard a familiar voice behind her. "Hi, sweetie, am I that late? You look like you've had one Dr. Pepper too many." It was Monica Vinson standing above her, looking brilliantly svelte and satiny. Bart's sister was a ravishing woman to look at, a statuesque, full-bosomed redhead with mocking green eyes, long snaky hips, and an angry flourishing stride that made everyone in her path eager to go to hell for her. Monica was one of San Francisco's most forceful lady attorneys, to whom liberation had ceased to be a problem long before the word became chic. Getting free of her, however, had been a considerable feat for her ex-husbands.
"Hi, dear," said Bonnie, giving Monica a quick but sincere hug and kiss.
"Bonnie, you're the only female I'd let maul me like that," she said, taking her seat, "but handle with care please, I've been in orbit all morning."
"Nonsense, you look radiant."
"Then you've gotta be astigmatic, baby, because the Court of Domestic Relations is out for my ass." Monica now specialized in divorce cases, since she had gone through three of them herself. "I spent nearly two hours cross-examining this scaly little teen-aged junky babysitter, and just as I was getting her to blanch over, this really kinky looking White Militant dashes into the courtroom, screaming something about the Anti-Pollution Crusade, waving this huge placard reading: DON'T BURN YOUR GARBAGE, MAIL IT TO AGNEW! I mean it was sheer anarchy ... the judge fell right off his gavel!"
Bonnie laughed, gazing with unabashed pleasure at her bright successful sister-in-law. Golly, why hadn't she realized until this very moment that Monica was everything she'd ever wanted to be but had long ago given up? The very model of female rebellion had been nestling right in the bosom of her own family all the time!
As their waiter approached, Monica let her hard earned sables droop to the floor, saying: "Two shots of Scotch, separate, please, and then some soda."
"An Old Fashioned for me," Bonnie said out of habit.
"It figures," Monica's laugh was warm with affection. "Even when you lush it up, you're still Mary Poppins, aren't you, doll?"
Hearing this, Bonnie went alert and struck one of her new attitudes of battle. "No, Monica, you can forget that Mary' Poppins bit from now on. Waiter, I've changed my mind. I'll have a double bull-shot on the rocks."
Monica gave her a look of surprise, waiting for the waiter to depart before saying anything. "Isn't that a man's drink, dear?"
"Precisely," Bonnie said firmly.
"Mercy, what's gotten into you?" Monica suddenly remembered her brother's appeal for help. Was this part of that "weirdo phase" he'd mentioned? But surely not alcoholism, she thought, not Miss Goody Two Shoes herself! Then she spotted the magazine lying near Bonnie's purse. "What's that you're reading, dear?"
Bonnie held it up.
"You subscribe to Female!?" Monica exclaimed. "That's quite a switch from Humpty Dumpty, isn't it? What's been going on in that Dresden head of yours? Not that I don't think it's a perfect riot of a magazine. I get it myself and have a ball with it. PENIS ENVIERS OF THE WORLD, UNITE! Those broads are really too much ... as if we haven't been castrating our men enough for the past forty years, and loving it, I might add. Of course, they can't be serious."
"But they are serious, Monica," said Bonnie beginning to wonder if her sister-in-law would be an ally after all. "It's perfectly all right for women like you to scoff at their efforts because you've always been free and unshackled, and you never had to fight male supremacy to get where you are."
Monica laughed. "I don't know if I've just been complimented or called a bulldyke."
"No, dear, that was just my clumsy way of telling you how much I've always admired you, Monica and wished I could be more like you."
Monica gave her a quick flinty smile. "Don't envy me my toughness, darling, it would look like hell on you."
"No, I don't believe that, Monica, because you have proven that being both tough and beautiful can get a woman practically everything she wants. So all right, I know I'm pretty enough, but now I'm going to work on the rest of it." She flipped a few pages until she came to her article, then held the magazine up again. "You see that, Monica? I wrote
"Baby, you wrote something?" For Monica, this was one shock too many, coming too fast, since, until today, she hadn't even suspected that Bonnie read anything. The waiter brought their drinks as Monica promptly went into hysterics over Bonnie's literary debut. "Oh my God, has Bart seen this?"
"No. I've been planning it as a sort of surprise. And officially, it's not even out. Won't be for several days."
Monica elegantly tossed back her shot and read on, fascinated as she imagined the kind of phone call she'd get from her brother after he'd read this slashing profile. Then she laughed out loud again. "Oh Bonnie, you must be kidding with this bit about him living like a bachelor and treating you either like a sex slave or a ward of the state." Then she stared shrewdly at Bonnie. "Come on, tell me, who put you up to this? Not that I don't think it's a mad delicious prank, darling, but it's not you. I can't even see you thinking this, much less writing it."
"Well, it's me now, Monica. In fact, it has been me for some time. I've been doing a lot of self-required reading on secret today and the resentments have been building day by day." Then, in candid detail, Bonnie told her about her one woman conjugal revolt in the bedroom. Monica laughed so uproariously her lashes started to melt and she had to down her second shot fast to clear her throat.
"You did that, to him? To handsome, sought-after, drooled-over Bart Sheridan? Aw, poor Ghengis, I know he wasn't ready for that kind of a performance from you." Then, as if reminding herself of the mission her brother had assigned to her, she soberly added, "But listen, Bonnie, you're just giving him a bad time, aren't you? I mean, you don't really wish your hubby any harm, this is just a gimmick to get him to notice you more, am I right?"
"If you mean have I stopped loving Bart, Monica, you're right, I haven't. But I don't think a woman has to turn into a vegetable to prove her love for a man, so all I've really stopped being is passive. From now on I mean to take part in the world Bart moves in, and if he won't let me, I'll create one of my own. Why should he corner the market on all that sophistication and glamour he deals with in his career? Why can't I get in on some of that, and strictly under my own steam?"
Monica reached over and took her hand. "You're really crazy if you think Bart means to shut you out of his life, Bonnie. He simply wants to keep you special."
"Yes, I know-like a butterfly collection, embalmed, under glass."
"Now listen to me, you foolish girl, Bart's career is a daily rat race and he doesn't want you touched by it. That's really rather sweet, if you could only see it like that. Slightly paternal, perhaps ..."
"Exactly! Which happens to be why I'm so damned sheltered at my age. Why, even my own son calls me a ... a retrogressive wetback."
"I think that's 'throwback', dear, and what on earth has that child been reading?"
"Well anyway, if Bart suffers so much every day, I want to suffer right along with him, or at least get equally as involved just to find out how he does it."
Monica flicked her cigarette ashes impatiently, suddenly torn between two loyalties: sisterly devotion and an innate allegiance to her own sex. "Bonnie, exactly what is it you think you want, Bart's job or his balls or his hormones? Be specific, for God's sake, and stop making noises like a campus agitator. I mean, if you're going to rebel, rebel for something, not just against."
Bonnie gaped at her in confusion for a moment. "But I am for something, Monica-personal freedom and ... and dignity, and a unique identity of my own."
"You know something, dear, you sound very much like some of my clients when they're angling for a divorce. Is that really what you're after?"
"Heavens no, I told you I still love Bart. But I want him to start seeing me as a mature individual, not just a concubine."
"A mature individual, eh? By that I presume you plan to look for a job. If so, what can you do, dear, besides embroider and crochet? Can you even type?"
"Oh honestly, Monica!" Bonnie tossed back the rest of her drink, then choked and sputtered a bit, having forgotten how strong it would be. "If I thought you'd take this attitude, just because you two happen to be blood kin ..."
"Blood has nothing to do with it, darling, I'm only being realistic. I want you to be sure of what you plan to do with all this freedom before you choose up sides."
"Well, I don't have to take a job in order to establish my ... my emotional independence. All I want is to crawl out of my shell and meet people, and maybe tell other women how I'm winning my war in the bedroom, because that's where it all starts, you know-sexual rivalry, that's the nucleus. And furthermore, being a wife needn't be a Nineteenth century concept, and when prevailing sex roles are thoroughly revised, more men will see that and maybe we women will become something else besides male-occupied territory!"
"Oh wow, you really have been boning up on this, haven't you, dear?"
"Monica, for the past year and a half I've been reading everything I could get my hands on, literally devouring material that was relevant and reflective of the times. Why, do you realize the entire decade of the Sixties went by without even giving me a second look?"
"I should have been so lucky! Oh honey, I could show you scars ..."
"And when you consider how fast the changes have been, look at all I've missed, Monica-I was so busy diapering my babies and memorizing Family Circle, I didn't even know there was a sexual revolution till it was almost over."
Monica smiled at this, but inwardly she was re-evaluating her brother's reasons for asking her to speak to Bonnie. She now felt sure he'd set her up as a terrible example of female self-reliance, so that all Bonnie needed was one quick look at his sister's "victorious detachment" and she'd forget all about trying to liberate herself. I've been chosen as an object lesson, not a confidante. The brute, she thought, maybe he deserved everything Bonnie planned for him. And maybe she could help? No, that would be evil, unprincipled. And yet ..."Bonnie, I hope you're not forgetting that you happen to be married to one of the most confirmed-even notorious-Male Chauvinists on the West Coast ..." chuckling softly, "although I'm fairly certain Bart would never admit to such an image, considering how it conflicts with the Great White Tolerance he sprays on TV. What I'm saying is you may be biting off a lot more than you can chew in having chosen such a rabid extremist to overthrow. Bart married what he thought was a yummy passion-flower. Now look what he'll be getting. Aren't you afraid of what an enemy a man like that could become if he's foiled in his own home?"
"No, I'm not afraid, Monica, and do you know why? Because I'm right, and I feel right ...!"
Monica laughed, admiring her, but fearing for her too, thinking, whose side am I on? ... quick, pick a favorite, cast a vote ...! And then Bonnie said something that firmly cinched her decision.
"By the way, Monica, I got a call from Theodora Wilder just before I left the house."
"Who's that?"
"The editor of Female!"
"Oh? Theodora, eh? Ten to one they call her 'Ted.' "
"Don't be flip, Monica, she says only the nicest things about you."
"About me?"
"She called to invite me to a cocktail party she's giving in my honor Sunday afternoon. This issue will be on the stands Monday morning. Anyway, I said yes to the cocktail party, of course, but told her I had to rush because I was lunching with my sister-in-law Monica Vinson, and she said, not the brilliant divorce attorney, and I said yes, so now she insists I bring you along on Sunday. How about it, Monica?"
Monica coolly appraised her manicure. "Who'll be there, Bonnie, a bunch of mustached Amazons wearing tweed panty-hose and beating their breasts for the revolution?"
Bonnie laughed. "Now you see, whenever you mention Women's Lib these days that's the typical impression everyone gets-butch ladies. But you're wrong, Monica. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Wilder says there'll be men there too. It's more of a literary bash than anything really militant, and she says there'll be a lot of accomplished Bay Area men in attendance, mostly writers and artists, all of whom will be treating us as their equals."
"Hmmm," Monica muttered sardonically, although she'd already made her choice, "I'm always wary of a man who treats me as an equal. It could mean all his past sex experience has been with other men and he'd rather have an asshole buddy than a sweetheart."
"All rightie!" Bonnie giggled. "If that's your final judgment, I take it you're not interested."
"No, on second thought, maybe I'd better tag along, Bonnie. As a chaperone, if nothing else. And, of course, for dear Bart's sake. And so it shouldn't be a total loss, for mine too, just in case there's an available male there who doesn't happen to be a transvestite."
Bonnie laughed, then gave her a look of fierce admiration. "Oh Monica, you're so wonderfully predatory about men, the jaunty way you go out on the prowl and track them down without a single girlish qualm. Now you see, that's one of the roles I've never played, and part of the larger battle I'm trying to win now; so perhaps if I watch you in action, and then ... go do likewise?"
"Oh please, darling, all this talk of war is getting me hungry. So first let's order some lunch. We can always lay our battle plans over dessert."
CHAPTER 7
Bonnie found it incredibly easy to get away from the house on Sunday. The boys had a softball game going in the neighborhood playground, and Bart's weekly golf game regularly took him away in the afternoon, weather permitting. When she told him she wouldn't be joining him at dinner, she had only to add, "Monica's taking me to a literary tea," to win Bart's blessings.
As soon as he got the chance to be alone, Bart phoned his sister and thanked her for taking such quick action on his behalf. "As long as she's under your wing, I know she'll be safe, Monica. At least she'll realize she's not as strong as she thinks when she watches how efficiently you manage everything. Who's giving this little party, by the way?"
"Oh, some artsy-craftsy freakouts in Sausalito," replied Monica, feeling a bit relieved she wasn't actually lying, but suffering some faint echoes of guilt, too, as she recalled Bonnie's inflammatory article and what a jolt it would be for Bart. However, if she, Monica, didn't make out at that party, she'd swing all her support right back to her brother. Blood was blood.
Bonnie had gone on a special shopping spree for the afternoon's festivities and wore a long flowing midi-dress of electric blue, white leather boots, and look Ma, no bra! She'd always felt-and rightly so!-that her breasts were by far her best features. At twenty-six, and after two insatiably suckling babies, they were still as high and firm as ever. But now as she walked they seemed to move and undulate like live throbbing organisms waving a fond adieu to Maidenform and Playtex.
She drove her Volks station wagon into town to pick up Monica at her Telegraph Hill duplex. Monica looked smashing in a rakishly styled red velvet pantsuit, her gleaming auburn hair teased up madly high and lacquer-frozen, a coiffure which Bonnie thought looked about as seductive as Mount Rushmore, although she didn't let on. "It's a modified Afro," said Monica, catching her in mid-stare. "Doesn't make me look like an albino, does it?"
"Of course not, you look scrumptious. Now let's hurry, we're already about twenty minutes late."
In another half hour they were in Sausalito, a small artists' hamlet (i.e., tourists' trap) across the Golden Gate Bridge often referred to as San Francisco's answer to Fire Island, except that it was smaller, not an island, and, like its eastern counterpart, not nearly so fraught with flaming faggots as its publicity implied.
Theodora Wilder greeted them at the door with a couple of hearty handshakes that left them wincing.
"Ah, it's Mrs. Sheridan! But how superb of you to look so Basic Girl! That'll throw them off the scent, won't it, the sonsofbitches! ..."
"I'm here too, Mrs. Wilder," put in Monica. "Remember me? Clarence Darrow in drag?"
"Of course, Miss Vinson, and how marvelous that you could come. We've been following your career for some time, you know. In your own way you've contributed greatly to the causes of liberation, freeing all those tortured females from the psychical entombment of a tyrannical marriage."
Monica gave her a leering smile. "Thanks, Mrs. Wilder ..."
"Call me Teddy!"
"... but if the truth were known, I've probably freed as many men as I have women."
Theodora's smile went a bit glassy with that, but, nevertheless, she hugged the two women fiercely to her rockbound breast. "What a lovely study in opposites you two make. One butch, one fem, like lovers, eh? Ha ha, I'm only teasing! There are a few members of the AC/DC Lib Movement here today, so I'm afraid some of their methodology has slopped over on me. But come with me, my dears, let me expose you." She led them into the living room, which was already congested with people, talk and smoke.
For Bonnie it was the sort of apartment she'd have to pinch herself to believe. A rambling glassed-in affair nestled high in the hills above the town, the motif of which could only be called "Funk Art," a weird stylistic mutation of old Western and High Camp. Over the fireplace hung a huge watercolor of Ginger Rogers gowned for a dance sequence with Fred. There were many other signs of the 1930's Art Deco style in evidence. Silken piano shawls that dripped with tassels, magenta colored electric bulbs in all the lamps. The overall result was spookily attractive in a belfry kind of a way.
Monica and Bonnie appraised their hostess from behind. Theodora was close to six feet tall and quite powerful looking about the shoulders and neck. She wore black tailored pants and a man's white shirt, open at the throat. Her hair was straight, black and long, and she wore it in the true "set me free!" fashion of the day-she just let it hang there.
When Bonnie caught her first glimpse of the other guests, she was mortified to see she was the only woman present wearing a skirt. If only she'd had Monica's instinct for this sort of thing. Even in her madly chic midi she felt about as militant as a warmed-over June Ally son. There were eight women and four men in the room, although Bonnie felt she'd need notes from their mothers to determine which was which. All members of all sexes seemed to be wearing tightly tailored pants and had long hair.
"Take a deep breath and flex your pelvic muscles, darling," whispered Monica, "unisex is upon us."
"It's a little like getting used to seeing in the dark," murmured Bonnie, "and after awhile I'm sure we'll be able to distinguish the boys from the girls."
"Not to mention the fags from the stags, dear heart; that could be the thorniest problem of all."
"Will somebody please turn off that Goddamned amplifier?" Theodora howled above the rock music. "Our guest of honor has arrived."
There followed an abrupt and deadly silence as all heads turned to the new arrivals. A woman named Jill, a beautiful creature with perfectly unmade-up features and rather bushy eyebrows, walked up to Monica and handed her a cocktail. Monica noticed she was wearing a huge identity button proclaiming her membership in AC/DC Lib, complete with a slogan etched in red ink: BI-SEX IS MY SEX! "Don't tell me you're the wife of Bart Sheridan? Jill eyed her blatantly up and down. "Good God, and I heard he'd married a baby!"
"He did, dear, and she's standing right behind me." Monica took Bonnie's hand and led her front and center. "Curtsy pretty for the people, Bonnie."
And naturally everybody had, although from their attitude Monica rather got the idea they considered her a bit of a sellout.
"You're one of our many bones of contention, Miss Vinson," said Geraldine, a lovely blonde girl with hair down to her navel and thick low-slung breasts, "because you never preach what you practice."
Monica knew what she was getting at: her repeated refusals to join the lecture-tour circuit. "It's only because I'm so busy with my flourishing equal-opportunity career that I don't have time to join you girls when you're agitating." Deciding that hadn't come out at all right, Monica quickly added, "But don't worry, soul-sisters, I believe, I really do believe!"
"I'll drink to that," said Bonnie, feeling it was time she got into the swim of things.
Everyone stared at her. Bonnie winced, wishing someone would play that raucous revival music again, and also wishing she were back home tending her garden and reading about these movements instead of jumping into them heart first, because golly, everybody seemed so cold and remote. Then a huge lumbering man burst into the room from the outdoor terrace. He gave Bonnie a quick smile of recognition, and she thought at least he had no trouble in spotting her as the controversial firebrand who had written My Life With Genghis Khan. He strode swiftly towards her.
"Bonnie Sheridan! By God, I knew you'd look like this! The traditional Iron Butterfly, all freshly dug up for this moment in history. That's what you broads've been needing, a real girl-type cunt waving the torch for a change, instead of a bunch of diesel-dyke impersonators." Then he pulled Bonnie into his arms and planted a passionate open mouthed kiss full on her startled lips. "Mmmmm, and I also knew you'd taste like this, you little she-devil, biting the cock that feeds you, eh?"
Bonnie wondered how he'd ever guessed that bit of information, since her oral involvements with Bart were so recent and had certainly not been mentioned in her article.
"Mrs. Sheridan, may I present my husband, Leonard Belkamp," said Theodora. "He has the apartment directly above mine, so he always makes his entrance like this ... P.T. Barnum sliding down the banister, if you follow me."
"Your husband?" Bonnie murmured, going a little loose in the knees. She felt terribly gauche when she realized this was the first time she'd been kissed by any man other than Bart. Her lips still tingled from the rough sensual caress of this man's mouth on hers. She glanced fleetingly at Monica, who was staring with great interest at Leonard Belkamp.
"Separate names, separate apartments, right?" Monica inquired.
"On the button, gorgeous," said Leonard Belkamp, "who the hell're you?"
Monica wasted no time in introducing herself. She walked brazenly up to the man and took his hand, not to shake it, Bonnie noticed, just to hold it in hers and snuggle close to him. "You smell so rustic, Leonard, like a corncob pipe."
"That's grass, baby, grass!"
"You bragging?" asked Monica.
"Sure, and I'm also sharing, if you like ..."
"I like, I like!"
Oooh, that girl's so brave, thought Bonnie.
Leonard also wore a plain white shirt and black tailored trousers, and while his hair was as long as his wife's, his had been beautifully styled in a Mod men's salon, giving him a fuller, tawnier look. He was also the only man in the room with a burly handlebar moustache, and, since Theodora's was much paler, this, too, set him off.
In another minute Bonnie was handed a drink. Then she and Monica were escorted about the room by Leonard, holding Monica's hand, and Theodora, holding Bonnie's, each of them receiving elaborate introductions to everyone present. There was one very tall and rangy blond young man whom Bonnie felt had to be the most stunning male she'd ever laid eyes on, despite his rather cutesy Carole Lombard bob and ruffled Edwardian shirt. It was the area from his ruffles on down that most piqued Bonnie's curiosity.
"This is Jay Lassiter, part-time vagrant and artist," said Leonard Belkamp. "You might have heard of him or even been to one of his showings, most of 'em in lofts south of Market Street, of course."
Bonnie took the boy's hand, and as she lowered her eyes she couldn't help but notice that Jay Lassiter was wearing something that had to be called see-through bell-bottoms. All his vital forces were revealed to her in transparent bas-relief, equipment thickly pink and nestled between his thighs, like an open casserole, so to speak. My goodness, she thought, maybe this is his manly answer to women's see-through bras! She grew tremendously excited by this idea, but tried not to stare downward again.
"Jay paints nothing but nostrils," said Theodora.
"The most heartbreakingly poignant nostrils you'd ever want to come up against," said lovely Jill.
"That's my statement this year," said Jay Lassiter, staring boldly at the outline of Bonnie's loose, heavy breasts. "With pollution on the rampage, I feel that breathing will soon become extinct, so I want posterity to remember what it was like, dig? All my nostrils are very full and flaring so that you can almost see the air breezing in and out of them. That's my statement, Bonnie Sheridan, what's yours?"
"Well, you've read mine," said Bonnie, taking a goodly sip of her cocktail and longing to stare down at his revelations again. Then Theodora and Leonard pulled her away for more introductions, but Bonnie kept thinking of Jay Lassiter ... beautiful nostril artist walking around in his bottomless pants ...
Bonnie accepted her second cocktail, sipping down half the contents before remembering she wasn't used to martinis. "I guess you saw what I saw a minute ago," Monica whispered.
"You mean the artist?"
Monica nodded. "If ever I saw a girl falling in love at first sight, it was you. And I don't blame you. That's exactly how I felt about Theodora's husband when I saw how he rushed in and kissed you. I want that man, darling, and even if I have to slay that old dragon he's married to, I mean to get him!"
Bonnie stifled a gasp. "You're kidding!"
"Never! So honey, if this is that artist's week for girls, you can drag him to my apartment, if you like; I'll give you the key."
"Nonsense, Monica," said Bonnie, straining to regain her drunken senses, "I'm here to establish my new identity, not to commit adultery."
"Did I hear you mention the word 'adultery', Mrs. Sheridan?" asked the militant Bi-Lib girl named Jill. "I think that's so campy-archaic coming from you, because after reading your article one would assume that's the only solution you've found to alleviate the torture of your domestic penal servitude."
"How many lovers did you have before you finally decided to mutiny?" asked Jay Lassiter, who had angled in quite close to Bonnie without her knowing it.
But Bonnie was dumbfounded by what they were saying. "Now really, where does it say in that article that I've been having extramarital relationships?" Appalled to hear how old-fashioned that sounded, she quickly laughed. "Ha ha! not that I haven't, mind you, it's just that I didn't realize I'd made it so ... so transparent." With this word she felt Jay nudging even closer and she blushed.
"There was a lot of delicious funsy humor in that article, Bonnie," said Jay, Bonnie shuddering a little as she felt his crotch-mound pressing against her hip, "but we all assumed your motivation was deadly serious. You're out to destroy your husband's image and build a new one for yourself-right? "
Bonnie shot Monica a desperate look, but Monica's eyes were dancing back and forth from Jay Lassiter's see-through care package to Leonard Belkamp's massive shoulders. "I don't think it necessarily follows that you must destroy one thing in order to build another," Bonnie said lamely.
"But your husband is madly liberal on the air," said flaming Geraldine. "He's even interviewed Theodora, did you know that?"
"No, I ... missed that show."
"And what's more, he gave her complete freedom to say whatever she chose," said one of the boys. His trousers were not transparent, so Bonnie had forgotten his name.
"And I wasn't bleeped once," added Theodora. "How about that for a non-educational network?"
Bonnie had the feeling they were ganging up on her, all of them moving subtly closer as they spoke ... and vaguely she began to wonder why Jay Lassiter was the only boy present who was dressed so uniquely. "Well, everyone knows that controversy is the policy of Bart's show," she said. "It's good for the ratings."
"And yet, at home you say he's a feudal tyrant, does everything but chain you up in the attic every day," said Jay. "That's gross hypocrisy, Bonnie. Don't you think his fans should know what a phony he is?"
"Or are you afraid he'll want a divorce once he reads your article?" asked Theodora.
The word "divorce" seemed to snap Monica out of her leering revery. "Oh really now, must you all be such asses? Bart won't want a divorce. On the contrary, he'll be proud that Bonnie had the courage to take a stand against him. She's out to prove that women don't have to agree one hundred percent with their husbands in order to stay married and compatible."
"Bravo, gorgeous! that's the answer we wanted," said Leonard.
"Yes, but from Mrs. Sheridan herself, not her lawyer," said Bi-Lib Jill.
"I'm not here as Bonnie's lawyer," Monica pointed out to them, "I'm her friend. She certainly doesn't need me for a mouthpiece. Wait till you see her when she warms up, eh, Bonnie? Go on and tell them, darling, isn't that why you're here?"
Bonnie took another sip of her drink and squared her shoulders, simultaneously wishing Jay Lassiter would not stand so steamily close with his display window of goodies. "Monica's right, everybody. It's true that my article was done as a gentle spoof, to get my husband to give me all the freedom he demands for himself. However, my intentions were not in the least humorous. In fact, they were ... uh ... Right on!"
"Right on, Bonnie!" wailed Leonard Belkamp. "Aw, we're with you, pussycat!"
"Forgive these third degree tactics," said Theodora, "but we've got to know where your head is if we're to map out the right campaign for your tour."
"My tour ...?"
"Don't spring that on her yet, Teddy," said Leonard. "Let her get used to being liberated first."
"That's right," said one of the boys, "let's loosen this girl up a little bit."
"Tell us, Bonnie," said flaming Geraldine, "what are your thoughts on erotic equality among the sexes?"
"Oh I'm for it," said Bonnie, suddenly feeling very warm and flushed.
"Then come on," said Leonard, "let's all sit down on the floor and you can tell us all about it." He took Bonnie by the hand and led her to the center of the living room. To help her join him on the floor without wrinkling her skirt, he gingerly lifted her skirt up around her waist with one hand-high enough to give everyone a glimpse of her pretty pink panty-hose-then yanked her down on the floor with him. Bonnie landed on his lap. "Golly, everybody's so informal here!" Then she felt Leonard's involuntary erection pressing beneath her posterior, so she squirmed quickly away from him, Monica peering intensely between the big man's thighs as soon as Bonnie vacated the area.
With Monica in their midst, all the others sat down in a circle, placing Bonnie in the middle. It began to feel like a kiddie's game, but in her heart she knew it wasn't.
They're giving her the hot seat, thought Monica, wondering if this were going to turn into a Black Mass or a gang bang.
"Of course, you know what I mean by erotic equality, don't you?" said Geraldine.
"Naturally," said Bonnie. "That means women should have the power of choice when it comes to picking out a lover, just the way men do, and that women needn't stand on ceremony anymore and wait to be courted. I mean golly, that's so old hat!"
"Precisely, Bonnie!" said Theodora. "That's why you're going to show us how you would go about choosing a lover, now that you're free."
"Show you?" Bonnie said shakily.
"Yes," said Leonard. "Suppose there was a man in this room right now to whom you've felt sensually attracted. Now in the olden days ..."
"... Like 1967 ...!" put in Theodora.
"... you'd have to wait until he asked for your phone number, then plan some clandestine meeting ..."
"... not to mention the time you'd waste coyly pretending you weren't hot for him," said Jill.
"But now a woman can cut all those culturally sterile corners," said Leonard, "by simply reaching out and groping."
Bonnie glanced quickly at Jay Lassiter who was squatting and grinning directly in her line of vision, his thighs suggestively spread apart, his genitals fully visible beneath the skintight transparency of his jeans, his face too beautiful for a man's, mouth full and ripe, chin dimpled, eyes a piercing blue.
Catching this interchange, it suddenly occurred to Monica that Jay Lassiter had been employed as bait, and that he'd been carefully instructed to dress for the occasion. Considering this was Bonnie's first fling, Monica wondered how the poor girl would withstand such an initiation. Now if only Leonard Belkamp would light up his vitals in neon, she too might have a beacon to lead her!
"Come on, Bonnie," said one of the boys, "get busy and seduce!"
"Pick your target and strip him down!" said Geraldine.
"Well, theoretically speaking, I guess I'd choose Mr. Lassiter over there." Oh God, how daring those words tasted in her mouth! "I mean, everybody must agree he's very attractive."
"All right, then, go get him!" asked Theodora.
"Here and now? I ... I thought we had business to discuss."
"Freedom is our business, Bonnie girl," said Leonard, "so if you want big-hung Jay over there, you show us how you'll go about taking possession."
Bonnie glanced at Jay again and saw the slow fat rise of his erection-cock-in-ascendance-first time she'd witnessed such a phenomenon that wasn't immediately adjoined by Bart. Everyone followed her eyes and hungrily gaped along with her, as if they were all watching TV together. And what a picture tube!
"Isn't that beautiful?" said Jill.
"And couldn't you just eat him alive?" asked Geraldine.
"That boy can light all our fires by just sitting there and getting hard right before our eyes," said Theodora. Then she reached for her husband's zipper and pulled it slowly down, while inwardly Monica applauded: atta girl, peel that big bruiser down and then take a hike!
Stiffly, Bonnie rose and walked towards Jay. Then she sat down on the floor again right alongside of him. She put her hand on his warm thigh. "Hi there," she said. Jay's only reply was a slow sensuous grin.
"He's not going to say or do a thing," Leonard told her. "It's all up to you, you're in full command. But you've got to be honest, Bonnie, and tell him what you want of him."
'You're ... uh ... very appealing, Jay, and I like your body."
"Go on, go on!" they urged her.
"Mention specific parts of his body ... give him the language! ..." the group starting to interrelate now, touching and prodding as they ogled and panted.
"And ... I'd like to see you completely naked," said Bonnie, "your ... your penis and everything and find out what you're like, sexually speaking."
"All right now, put your hands on him, don't wait any longer ...!"
Bonnie began to perspire and knew that she'd never in her life felt such throbbing tension between her thighs, fresh vaginal moistures whipping up undreamed-of hungers. To undress a strange young man in a group of strangers, and a man who looked like this! She reached out and started to unbutton his shirt.
"No, wait a minute!" said Jay, surprising them all. "Before I agree to let you compromise me, I want to see what I'm getting into. So first you take off your clothes, Bonnie. Then, if you pass inspection, I just may let you have what you want."
"An audition, Jay!" roared Leonard. "Oh, that's wild!" Leonard was breathing heavily now as his wife tugged his enormous cock out of his trousers and began to knead it, Monica going bug-eyed and scrambling closer. "That's what I call equality in action ...!"
Bonnie decided that if this were really going to happen to her, the quicker the better, because she'd be damned if she'd turn striptease artist for them. She rose and unzipped and tugged, her dress falling off in a few seconds. When they caught her braless state, everyone applauded and peeled off a few more garments of his own. Then, her gestures a little slower now, Bonnie gritted her teeth and squirmed out of her panty hose. More applause, plus a lot of appreciative gaping from Jay Lassiter. He was a breast man from way back, and when he saw Bonnie's happy globes tumble free, he began to salivate, speculate and lubricate.
"Okay, Bonnie, you just passed the acid test," Jay said, "come get your diploma."
She bent down and unbuttoned his shirt, then stared down at the bulging flesh-glow of his stiff cock, hurriedly pushing him backward on the floor, eager to have him lie flat and prone for her undraping, her lovely breasts rising and falling as she panted and licked her lips, going impatient to feel him in her hands. There were sighs and groans all around her now. Monica, who had managed to half crawl into Leonard's lap while his wife depantsed him, now let out a gasp as that free-loving spirit slipped his hand inside her bodice and found her rising nipples. Theodora, lusting and awry, didn't seem to mind Monica's intervention, and now nudged thick fingers up the lady lawyer's unzipped crotch while playing with Leonard's hefty balls.
Jay was fully naked now, all eyes going from his prick to Bonnie's eyes, the atmosphere growing heavier with obsession and need. Bonnie played with his thick wedge of a cock, ran her fingers through his soft pubic curls, palmed his healthy testicles. Only twenty-four, she thought, and in such fantastic shape for an artist. No consumption or hormone deficiency here! The first man she'd ever touched who was under thirty. Was this part of her new freedom? The end of stifled fancies, the beginning of inner release?
"Tell me what you want, Bonnie," said Jay.
"Fuck ..." she murmured, "want you to fuck me ..." spitting out the filthy words, but instantly wanting them back in her mouth again, thinking of Bart, his censure, his obstinacy.
"But what if I'm too lazy to fuck you?" his eyes on her expanding nipples, his tongue lazily licking his jutting underlip.
"Then ... I'll do it myself!"
"How?" asked Leonard, who had Monica completely topless now, tongue-swabbing her breasts while Theodora, gross and wild eyed, feverishly sucked his balls.
Bonnie gazed about at her audience, excited by their grappling nudity on the floor, responding more deeply to their heated interest in her. "Watch me, everybody! I'll mount this beautiful boy ... like this!" Loving their eyes on her, although she wondered how she'd ever be able to face Monica again despite her ecstatic involvement at the moment, Bonnie remembered how willfully she'd taken Bart just a few days ago and proceeded to duplicate that feat. She flung her legs across Jay's tan lithe hips, and with a slick whoosh! and a thump, she sat right down on the boy's towering skyline of a lap and sent his throbbing hot cock zooming straight up her cunt. With a squeal of pain, Bonnie spread her thighs and ass cheeks crudely apart, then nestled her bottom down harder.
Oh golly, how it hurt to do it like this (it did with Bart too!), but how she loved the feeling of depravity, the openness, and the incredibly naughty sensation of being fucked and sex-flogged in the public square!
A few in her naked audience began to copy her every gesture. Bi-Lib Jill topped one of the boys now and, writhing on him, imitating the star of their ritual, stared eerily at Bonnie, chanting, "This is the way we eat our men, eat our men ... eat our men! come on, Bonnie, bounce faster!" With a groan, Jay pulled Bonnie's body down on top of his and plunged her plump breasts against his face, sucking her tits like a starved jackal, incensed with the taste of her flesh, for here was a boy who'd rather suck than fuck, although he pretended it was her hot gulping cunt jazzing up and down on him that was giving him his wildest kick.
Bonnie watched the others rolling closer to her as they fucked and devoured, a sight that was so heady that she let out a surprised squeal, sank Jay's rampant cock violently up her belly, then sat quite still and trembled with the start of the most shattering orgasm of her life. Eyeing her, Jay knew what was happening, so he hurled her off his cock, then pivoted her whole body around until she was positioned upside down over his face, his full soft lips widely parted and jammed against her spouting cunt just in time to sop up every buttery spray that flowed like honey against his tongue. "Ummm ... liberation-juice!" he moaned, lapping, swallowing, Bonnie taken by surprise, her voice mewling and whimpering from the rush of ecstasy his mouth had brought to her. After the boy thoroughly drained her pussy, he held her taut silken buttocks in his two hands and began to lick her asshole.
Monica, meanwhile, let out a wildly appreciative sigh when she saw this happen, but yelped even louder when Leonard pulled her pants down around her ankles and hurled his face between her out-flung thighs, delving his tongue up her cunt while one of the other boys rendered her quickly topless and began sucking her portly knockers. But Jay was moaning the loudest of all as he made a feverish feast of Bonnie's rectum, his whole boyish face clamped to the seat of his pleasure as he sucked that throbbing anal bud like a gypsy fiend, the poor girl half-fainting from this fresh sensation, for it was the first time anybody's tongue had poked inside that precious tunnel. Although Bart adored having her cunt in his mouth, for some perverse reason he'd always been allergic to anything resembling an oral-anal approach, but now here was this shaggy blond, big cocked nostril artist trying to swallow her asshole ... Ummm, such fantasy, youthful hot blooded lips making love to her crotch.
Theodora, as naked as the others in the group, her body a bit craggy for a lady, but endowed, left the room for a moment-then returned with an eight inch dildo strapped to her pelvis. "All right, Leonard, show everybody what your favorite position is while you're so happily sucking a cunt."
Leonard, who was busily sucking Monica closer and closer to a writhing climax, shot around and got up on his knees, his big manly ass sticking up in the air. Then his wife fucked him soundly with the dildo, shrieking out an accompanying libretto that sounded faintly Wagnerian, as Leonard grunted like a stuck boar while he gobbled up the pussy of Bonnie's beholden sister-in-law. With a mischievous giggle Bi-Lib Jill suddenly seized one of Monica's ample breasts and began sucking it feverishly, while one of the boys entered her vagina from the rear.
"My God, it's Body Language!" wailed Monica as she streamed and gushed between big Lennie's pumping lips. "Ooooh, shove that big handlebar moustache up where it belongs, honey, it's tickling me to death! ... Ummm more, more ... drink the hell out of me! ..."
Bonnie let out a shrill scream as Jay bit into her ass like a ravaging coyote. "Wait a minute, Jay, you're biting me!"
"Then bite me back," he snarled at her. "Hurry, baby, chew up my cock!" And something told her he meant that literally. Bonnie peered closely at the round cushiony head of his prick, so pinkly fat and pulpy; then she took it in her hand and bit down hard on the glans as if she was attacking a ripe squirty grape. "YeeeOWWW!" She heard his cry of pain and grew more avid for the feast, for his anguish gave her a strange new power. At last she was free to torture any man she chose. Bonnie, reeling from this sensational thrill of giving pain to someone so young and sensual, was further stimulated by the idea that he wanted her to bite that luscious thick confection, sensing it had always been her hidden desire to bite Bart's cock too, although she hadn't wanted to hurt him, no, not the landlord! She felt Jay's teeth on her asshole again and bit down harder on his yummy knob. With a crazed roar, Jay flung her ass up and off his face, and before Bonnie could scream or get her bearings, he had sent his cock digging up her tongue-moistened rectum. The tight pulverizing friction of her asshole, plus her agonized cries, really did the trick for this boy, and with a cruel laugh he shot his load up there in jig-time, up those sucked virgin chambers, up Milady's keester, spurting all hot-blooded his sperm, and then at last releasing her.
Bonnie lay back flat on the floor, thighs and arms spread in total abandon, her body blissfully bruised and spent, her nerve ends vibrating with the mingled stings of pain and joy ... The other men crawled close now and began to kiss and lick her members, open sores waiting for new mouths to heal them ... boys fiercely sucking her nipples and belly as Monica gaped at this scene and came inside Lennie's hungry swabbing mouth, Lennie shooting his load on the rug just as his wife hurled her dildo deep and hard against his colon ... Bi-Lib Jill diving between Bonnie's legs to suck up what was left of the girl's recent orgasm, frantically fingering her own cunt and reaching a climax as she watched the boys' beautiful mouths stuffed full of Bonnie's fat knockers ...
* * *
Afterwards they all dressed and ate ravenously. Natural organic food for the most part. "I think they like me," Bonnie told Monica while munching a parsley sandwich, her rectum still fanning out and quivering, but so wondrously alive, every time she sat down she let out another squeal of newfound identity (the hub of my very senses opened up at last!), reminding herself that from now on she was the New Bonnie and could never go back to those arid pre-infidelity, pre-sodomy days, oh the wasted years!
"Yes darling, you've made quite an impression," said Monica. "'If you're not 'in' after a purge like that, you should sue for damages. In fact, if this is what they mean by liberation I do believe I'll sign up as your mascot. Of course, it's a little boring that Theodora's so willing to share her husband, but him I could be happy with even without a fight."
"But you mustn't play favorites, Monica, spread yourself around! That's, of course, if you can fit it all into your busy schedule."
As Bonnie drove home later that evening she couldn't shake all those gamey calisthenics from her mind, so many new tasty treats in one afternoon ... wanting quick repeats of every lick and plunge. She kept thinking of the excitement of reaching out for a strange young man and stripping him in public. She wondered how often she'd have to perform this valiant act to prove her fearlessness.
But later that night, as she crawled rather penitently into bed with Bart, Bonnie felt misgivings swarm over her. After all, transgression was so new to her, and she hadn't really planned on being unfaithful to Bart, for the threat alone had been titillating enough. Actually taking on other men had seemed like a side issue. But now she'd gone and done it and couldn't wait to do it again.
Bart woke up and lazily pulled her close. "Hi, sweetie face, you and Monica have a good time?"
"Yes, dear."
He started to slide over in the old missionary position and she knew she was going to let him do it ... yes, she was going to lie still and prone and spread-eagled and let the dear soul have his king-of-the-hill way with her. She held still for it, respectable husband fucking in the night, thinking of her dire tomorrow when that article would be out, wanting at least to give him this small triumph to ease some of the embarrassment.
And as Bart's cock wended its way home in her, it did not escape him how very submissive and compliant his darling was being for him once more. Oh wow, that Monica! What an organizer! He didn't know what had happened today, but whatever it was it had worked magic. He had his baby girl back again, even looser and more pliable than ever. Then Bart held onto her like a big bosomy bouquet and shot his load into her, the way he liked it. Situation normal. Conjugal conquest by the lordly male now complete. All duties comfortably redefined, and, with the appropriate wedlock sighs, sleep ...
CHAPTER 8
Bart's Monday schedule was comparatively relaxed. He usually had a business lunch in town, then taped his regular radio show in the afternoons. Frequently he'd have to join Ralph and Muriel Spicer for a conference about prospective guests on his Saturday night TV show. Bart had known the Spicers since college, Ralph now serving as co-producer on his show and Muriel filling in as talent coordinator. The show itself was taped before a live audience every Friday afternoon, but since Bart's radio show aired seven days a week, he taped two of these sessions every Saturday afternoon, which at least left him free on Sundays.
However, this was one Monday when Bart had no conferences scheduled, so he was looking forward to an early trek homeward right after taping his afternoon radio gig. He'd been thinking about Bonnie all day, trying to evaluate her renewed docility in bed last night, hoping it would last. He thanked God her one-woman revolution had been short-lived and she was once again the Bonnie he had married: devoted and on call whenever he needed her.
When Bart finished his taping session he was just about to leave the studio, but was detained when one of the engineers tapped on the glass and indicated he had some visitors. Then Ralph and Muriel Spicer burst into his booth a minute later and Bart felt a twinge of impatience, hoping he wouldn't have to remain in town after all.
"Jesus, Bart, I've been trying to get you to pick up this phone in here for the past hour."
"Now Ralph, you know I leave strict instructions not to be interrupted when I'm taping."
"Of course we know that, dear," said Muriel, "but we did hope you'd make an exception just this once. All hell's breaking loose ...!"
These two were an attractive pair, both of them Bart's age. Muriel had been a bright but flirty little belle when Ralph married her in their sophomore year at Stanford, and she was still quite fetching, despite a mild weight problem. Ralph was thin, angular and frenetic, and the only "hip swinger" Bart knew who still hung on to his crewcut. Looking at them now, it was difficult for Bart to connect them with the feverish group sex encounters they'd all indulged in during their salad days. He even had some choice Polaroid shots of these two in action. It was odd that he could think of them in nostalgic sexual terms when they seemed so full of emergency at this moment. And yet, if they were such harbingers of doom, what better way to reduce their power to alarm than to recall how they'd looked when they were nude and sprawling?
"Must you two always come on so dramatic just because you never get the chance to do anything on camera?" He tried to get a smile out of them.
Ralph and Muriel exchanged quick grimaces.
"Bart, have you ever heard of a militant feminist magazine called Female!?" Ralph asked.
"Vaguely. I seem to remember talking to someone remotely connected with it."
"Vaguely, he says," Muriel said to her husband.
"Look, Bart baby, you can stop with the vague and the remote," said Ralph, "because you interviewed the editor Theodora Wilder on your show about six weeks ago ..."
"... and in no uncertain terms you let her know you were one hundred percent FOR equal rights for women," Muriel added.
"So what? That sounds like me, doesn't it? I mean, you guys should know more than anybody what my stand is on these shows: permissive as hell. How else can we keep those angry cards and letters coming in? It's what's known as 'Microwave Incitement To Riot', and it's been building our ratings like crazy, so what's your beef?"
"Bart, to me it seems fantastic you don't even have an inkling what we're driving at ..."
"... especially when you consider how well we know both you and Bonnie," said Muriel.
"What the hell's Bonnie got to do with this?" Bart demanded. But suddenly it all came jeering back to him again, Bonnie's nonsensical speeches about freedom, the perverted games she'd tried to introduce in their bed.
"Bonnie wrote an article for Female!, Bart," said Muriel, "and it's out on the stands today."
"And it's all about you, Mr. Permissive," said Ralph, "and what a funny old-fashioned husband you are, how you practically chain her to the bedpost every morning when you drive off to work."
Then Muriel told him the title, Ralph told him the subtitle, after which he handed Bart a copy of the magazine and let him read random excerpts.
"Hey, wait a minute," Bart kept saying as he read, flopping down on his desk chair, reaching for a cigarette. Muriel obliged him with her lighter. Ralph just stared at Bart, his complexion sallow, eyes intent, "Now wait just one fuckin' minute here."
"I'm waiting, Bart," said Ralph.
"So am I," said Muriel. Jesus, even in a crisis these two gave him teamwork. How compatible could a show-biz couple get? Bart's first thought was that Bonnie did not write this piece and that she-and possibly he, too-should sue for slander whoever did. Then he remembered her subjugation the night before and knew he was wrong. She did it, all right, the silly bitch! Last night was her way of telling him she had second thoughts.
"Bart, tell us you knew about this piece," said Ralph, "that you knew about her attitude, and that you gave her clearance to write this hatchet job for the sake of humor and publicity, because I'll tell you something, boy, it is funnee and full of yoks. If only it hadn't been published in the most militant Women's Lib Cunt-Rag on the West Coast!"
"That's right, dear," Muriel said more gently, "in that magazine it's not so funny. Every laugh is a razor slash dig against you and your airtime image."
"But listen, kids, it's publicity, isn't it?" Bart was in a daze, but felt he had to say something even though his brain wasn't functioning right yet. "All it'll do is create even more controversy for the show, and that's good, isn't it?"
"Oh sure, Bart, it'll be beautiful. It'll jazz up our ratings a thousand fold, but only if you come right out on the air and publicly confess that Bonnie is right in her comments about you ..."
"... and that through this article you've been made to see the light," Muriel joined in, "made to see the folly of your ways, but that from now on you will give her the freedom she demands-as an equal, as a separate individual, and not just Bart Sheridan's hidden suburban frau."
"Are you ready to eat that kind of crow in public, Bart?" Ralph finished off the duet.
"No," Bart said softly, and wanted to throw up at the mere mention of the idea.
"Then there goes the whole premise of our show, darling," said Muriel.
"And in a nutshell," said Ralph, "there goes the ball game."
"Oh hell, I don't believe it. I'll ... just ignore the whole shitty mess. After all, look at Johnny Carson. He refuses to discuss his private life on the air and so will I! ..."
"Don't give me Carson, for Christ's sake, he runs an entertainment show, but ours is built solely on the wrath and ire of the public. Why, without the fury of all those right-wingers out in Duluth we'd all be on Unemployment Insurance."
"Of course, Bart," said Muriel. "Part of the show's power is the fierce political stand you always take, most of which is far left, which wins you the love of the ego-crazed in-group on one hand, and the hatred of the rabid Birchers on the other."
"But none of that is me, and you both know it. I go along with all these fear-and-hostility trends because it's commercial. But at home I'm a soft-spoken conservative, not any kind of an extremist, which happens to be nobody's goddamned business but my own!"
"All right, Bart, supposing we tell that to the press," said Ralph, "that in real life you don't give a shit about anybody's freedom or liberation?"
"'No comment'!" Bart roared. "That's all we have to say to the press."
"Oh sure, honey," said Muriel, "maybe today you'd get away with a quick 'no comment,' but we've got a whole staff of PR men on our payroll, remember, and tomorrow they'll have to come up with something else ..."
"... and something strong," said Ralph. "Bart, here's what we're trying to say: if your viewers even suspect what your personal opinions have been all this time, they'll label you a monumental hypocrite, and there goes your image for honesty and ruthless candor on the air."
"So baby, no matter how you may have to haggle with yourself," put in Muriel, "eventually you'll have to stand one hundred percent behind Bonnie and her views, or the whole show will fold."
"And hey, Bart, think of us, you know? Me and Muriel? How long we been in your corner now? Don't answer that. I feel lousy enough. But we shouldn't have to remind you how hard we've worked to get you sixty-two syndicated spots in just a few short years."
"And key cities, Bart," said Muriel, "KEY!"
"Right," said Ralph, "which makes you so close to being Network you can almost taste it. And since you insist on operating out of San Francisco or not at all, that's something we could never swing again."
There was a stony stilted silence.
"Think of all that, Bart," Muriel said quietly. "That's all we ask."
"No, no," Bart murmured, as if thinking aloud, "the trouble is I can't really think clearly about anything right now. So please, both of you, don't push me for big decisions. Not right after I've been hit. I'm a casualty, for Christ's sake, let me bleed awhile. Give me time to plan. I'll give you a call first thing in the morning, I promise."
The Spicer's exchanged another glance of unison, then nodded. "All right, dear," said Muriel, "but a word of warning: go out the side exit. Reporters have been waiting for the end of your taping session for the past hour and a half, and they're in the reception room."
Bart thanked her for the tip-off and started getting into his jacket.
"One more thing, Bart," Ralph said, "you be damned careful how you approach Bonnie with all this. Right now your whole career depends on how much respect you two'll have for each other when you get in the ring, so play it cool."
"Oh Jesus, knock it off, Ralph! You think I'm gonna beat her up, is that it ... is that what you're hinting at?"
"No, Bart," said Muriel, "don't be silly."
"Or maybe you two really think I am a sadistic tyrant at home ..."
"Look Bart, I think we've known each other too long for us to have to answer such a stupid question. Just call us tomorrow. And good luck!"
After they left, Bart mopped the sweat off his forehead. He thought of the reporters waiting to pounce on him, thought how quickly a guy's whole way of life could be threatened by one delicious scatterbrain of a wife who suddenly got bored playing house and wanted power. Dammit, why the fuck should he be forced to defend himself at his age? He was a pro, which meant that his career was for show, but his home life was on another planet entirely, private and removed. What's more, he wondered how many broadcasters really believed the kind of horseshit they had to spiel out these days in order to remain eternally "in" and "where it's at." Only vice-presidents felt secure enough to tell the ugly truth on the air. Since they didn't have any sponsors or censors to kissass, they didn't care what bigoted buffoons they made of themselves in public.
Later, as he was driving home on the Bayshore Freeway, having successfully eluded the press, Bart called himself the names his viewers would pin on him. Hypocrite. Copout. So all right, I'm a two-faced opportunistic bastard who works both sides of the street, and, callow cad that I am, I can't dredge up the slightest bit of guilt or self-hatred. What I want in a wife has absolutely nothing to do with what I want for a career. They are two concepts diametrically opposed and one need never infringe on the other. Maybe that makes me some kind of a schizo-freak, but I'll be damned if I'll let some dizzy little dropout from Tucumcari take charge of me at this late date.
It was a little after five when Bart arrived home that afternoon. It was still quite warm for October, and his two boys were playing handball in the front yard when he drove his Mustang into the driveway.
"Hi Tad, Jeff!" he called out to his bright-eyed sturdy youngsters, both of whom resembled him very closely, although they had their mother's pristine coloring-blond hair, blue eyes, and the same ingenuousness of expression Bonnie had shown when they had first met.
"Look, Jeff, it's Dad!" cried Tad, both of them forgetting their game and rushing to greet him as he got out of the car. "You haven't been home this early in months, Dad. I guess you must have heard the news too."
Which sure travels fast, Bart thought dourly, if the kids were already in on it. "Is your mother home?" he asked them, strongly doubting it even as he put the question.
"Oh wow, is she ever home!" said Jeff, the elder of the two. "And pretty uptight too. She's been taking all the phones off the hooks."
"But we managed to get to the one in the kitchen," said Tad. "That's how we found out what happened. Mom wrote a history composition on the life of Genghis Khan, Dad-and she actually sold it to a magazine.-"
"Are you ready for that, Dad?" asked Jeff. "Imagine Mom turnin' into a big time scholar when she was always too stupid even to help us with our homework."
"Mustn't talk about your mother like that, Jeff," said Bart, thinking: God, the perfect vision of children!
"Did you know she had this thing goin' for Genghis Khan, Dad?" asked Tad. "She musta been doin' research on him for years."
"Yeah, but what gave her the idea to write about an old dinosaur like him, way out here in San Mateo?" wondered Jeff.
Just as Bart was painfully trying to equate the term "old dinosaur" with himself, conversation was halted when they heard the front door slam and saw Bonnie appear on the terrace. "Boys, have you forgotten you've both got a full hour of homework to do before dinner?" And to Bart: "Hi, darling. Nice to see you home early for a change." Then once again the brisk authoritarian: "Boys, did you hear me?"
"Oh, all right," they said sulkily, Jeff whispering to his father, "Listen to how she yells at us, Dad, like maybe she's gonna clobber us if we don't do just what she says right this minute. Man, she never used to bark at us like that."
"You've got to remember she's a published author now, Jeff, so I guess we've got to expect a little temperament," said Bart, escorting the boys across the lawn and up the few steps to the terrace. Their house was a two-story five bedroom Georgian affair, built to last, and unmortgaged.
"Dad knows all about you and Old Genghis, Mom," said Tad.
"But he's not jealous," said Jeff, "because he came home early to congratulate you, huh, Dad?"
"Up to your rooms, both of you," Bonnie quickly interjected. "And don't forget to wash before you come down to dinner."
They all entered the house together. After the boys had gone upstairs, Bart gave his wife a long careful stare, saying nothing.
Bonnie smiled sunnily at him. "Would you like a cocktail now, dear, or would you rather go up and shower first? Dinner's at seven. Anna's fixing a nice leg of lamb, which is rather chancy this time of year, I suppose, but in the kitchen I'd trust that woman with anything." Bonnie was babbling, fretful, eyes darting everywhere.
Bypassing her perfunctory chatter, Bart set his attach� case down on a table and said, "Tell me, Bonnie, when was it you first noticed that 'Mongol Streak' in me?"
Bonnie heaved a little sigh and glanced down at her nails.
"I want to know why, Bonnie ... why did you do it to me?"
"That means you know all about it, I guess." She kept avoiding his eyes. "Who was so anxious to give you the news? First, I mean."
"Ralph was anxious, for one, and quite understandably too, since he owns part interest in the show."
"I fail to see what your show has to do with anything so trivial as this very gentle prank. Bart, believe me, I did it mostly out of boredom, and for fun too, to get a rise out of you here at home. You may not be aware of it yet, but most people think it's very funny, so why are you taking it so seriously?"
Bart stared at her again, his lips tightening. Then, in silence, he picked up his attach� case and strolled through the entrance hall towards the stairs. Bonnie followed him, oddly infuriated by his wounded brooding attitude. How dare he play the injured party when this was the very first blow she'd struck for freedom, and after ten long years of being nailed by his totalitarian typecasting! "Dammit, you answer me, Bart! Didn't you think my article was funny? People've been comparing me to Dorothy Parker, and after all, you've Mr. Show-Biz, so you ought to know what makes people laugh, and ... and that's why I wrote the bloody thing, Bart, for LAUGHS!"
He turned on the stairs and gave her a weary stare. "Then why are you shouting, Bonnie? If you wrote that girlish trifle just for laughs, why didn't you send it to MAD Magazine? Why Female!, for Christ's sake, which practically never prints anything but the grimmest, most slanted editorials, all of which advocate the overthrow of the male American population, and by force if necessary!" Despite his efforts to control himself, Bart's voice boomed louder with every word. "Goddamnit, if you had to become a Beguiling International Wit at my expense, why did you have to do it this way, boxing me into a corner where I'll have to take some public stand or lose my show? Jesus, what a lamebrain! While you were planning all this, weren't you even bothered a little bit by words like 'treachery,' or 'disloyalty'? I mean, does it give you some kind of a sexual charge to tear me apart on such a grand scale? Christ, if you wanted to thumb your nose at me, why couldn't you do it at HOME?"
Bonnie glared at him, her face going pale, hating herself now for the way she'd let him use her again last night, let him take her body because she'd felt contrite and had pitied him. But listen to this pitiless lout now, listen to the sounds coming from him, reverting to type, just as she'd predicted.
Anna came rushing out of the kitchen-big stern mountain of a woman-and just stood there staring at them for an instant, alarmed, but not speaking. Bonnie managed to smile at her. "It's all right, dear," she said. "Mr. Sheridan's a bit overtired tonight." Anna nodded glumly and waddled back to the kitchen.
"How dare you speak to me like that in front of Anna!" Bonnie lashed out at him.
"Oh wow, now that is funny!" Bart stared down at her. "In a few days you'll have the whole country seeing me as the most brutish sadistic wife beater since the Stone Age, but I mustn't insult you in front of a servant. Rocks, Bonnie! That's what you've got in your head-ROCKS!" She started to open her mouth, but he stopped her. "Now look, don't say any more to me right now. I'm going upstairs to shower. Then I'm going to lie down and relax and think. By the time we're finished with dinner, maybe I'll have a plan. And if I do, Bonnie, then I'll want you to listen to me-not talk or effervesce or bubble, just listen! Have you got that?" Not waiting for her answer, he bounded up the stairs and left her standing there.
"Well, I like that!" Bonnie said aloud, then gazed about the room and felt a little foolish that there was no one around to hear her.
For the next hour and a half Bonnie was determined to be very patient and bland. Instead, between bouts of nervous diarrhea, she sat in the living room find fumed. She tried to wade through her dog-eared copy of Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex, which she found impossible to comprehend without companion copies of Freud Made Easy and her Housewife's Instant Guide To Adjectives And Adverbs. The French certainly have a word for it, she thought, and even in English that word is suspect. She told herself she'd do exactly as Bart had asked, simply let him have his say without interruption. But if his attitude remained as opinionated and bullying as it had been, she had no idea how she'd react. She switched on the six o'clock news and watched the nightly color spectacular of riots and cult murders. Then she got caught up in the benevolent, fatherly image of Walter Cronkite, who always made her feel so vitally informed on matters she was certain would never touch her personally, and therefore easier to commiserate with. Of course, she didn't find it too diplomatic of him that he never seemed able to mention Women's Lib without a chuckle.
She thought about Bart again and realized she was actually afraid of him for the first time in her life. Having to admit to such a fear disgusted her, but it was there, and because of it she knew she'd have to fight him even harder. Which angered her further, because she'd been prepared to placate and comfort the injured beast tonight, not do battle.
Bart had a shower, then a couple of Scotch slugs from the stock he kept handy in his night stand. When he came down to dinner he seemed considerably subdued. Both Tad and Jeff could sense the creeping tension at the dinner table, and later Jeff told Tad they were suddenly living in the middle of a two career marriage so they'd have to expect a lot of rivalry and warfare from now on, an observation which filled both boys with gleeful suspense. As might be expected, however, they both bet on their Dad to come out on top.
Later, Bart and Bonnie were seated comfortably in the living room, their two dachshunds Rudi and Taffy curled up nearby. A scene of affluence and tranquility. And a scene of hidden rot, thought Bart.
"All right, Sire," Bonnie said sweetly, "I'm waiting humbly to hear your proclamation."
Bart gave her his first smile of the evening. "Sarcasm won't get us anywhere, Bonnie, especially since you happen to be very bad at it, no matter who's been trying to teach you. But you see, dear, I am now taking your vast inexperience into consideration, which is why you'll notice that my tone of voice has become very soft and modulated. So ... this is what I've decided-"
"Aren't you first supposed to say: 'Now Hear This!?" she said, then giggled rather hysterically.
"All right, if it'll make you feel more secure. Now Hear This: First of all, it's my guess you sent that article in on the spur of the moment, acting out a silly reckless impulse, and that you really didn't set out to ruin me. Am I right so far?"
"Of course you are, Bart," she said more gently. "I wrote that piece merely to entertain, not to destroy or humiliate anybody. I can't understand why you'd want to exaggerate the effect it will have on your career."
"Bonnie, I'll say this just once: if we let it, the publicity resulting from your article could kill me as the moderator of an aggressively liberal talk show. But we won't let it, you and I, will we?"
Already she wasn't too fond of his tone. Quiet maybe, but superior undoubtedly.
"Now this is my plan, Bonnie. You will be the one and only guest on next week's show, and together, right on the air, we will arrive at a compromise that will save the day for both of us." She opened her mouth to speak, but he waved her back to silence. "You and I will chat together in an intimate family style, like right now, for instance, aren't we intimate? Shut up and remember your promise to listen. Now, in the course of our discussion on the air I'll admit that now and then, due to the rigorous demands of my work, I have been unintentionally remiss as the world's most perfect husband. I'll also admit I've been rather bossy and even domineering at times, that I've deliberately kept you uninvolved and sheltered, hoping to spare you some of the pressure and anxiety that plagued me. In turn, you will admit how grossly you exaggerated the conditions of our marriage in your cute 'Genghis Khan' piece, that the whole concoction was done as a trivial burlesque, a zany little caricature of things as they really are between us. You will, in your most charming manner, tell the viewers that you played it all for laughs, that the last thing in your mind was to give anybody the wrong impression of our home life, and that our relationship is a fifty-fifty proposition and always has been. After that, and with the not inconsiderable aid of my PR staff, we will gracefully let everything simmer down. Soon the fickle public will forget you ever had anything published, much less this precious diatribe against the husband you adore. Then, dear Bonnie, it will all blow over and we will revert to normal."
For the past few moments Bonnie had been clenching her fists so fiercely that her nails dug into her palms. "Bart Sheridan, if you think for one minute that I'll ..."
"Wait!" he stopped her again. "I haven't finished yet. You've got to know that I'll agree to make this compromise under only one condition, that you agree to give up all further involvement with Women's Lib, and that, in particular, you break off with those lady mastiffs who publish Female! Magazine ... and become the dutiful wife and mother I bargained for when I married you."
Bonnie stared lividly at him, trying very hard to keep from hurling something at his head, either a vase or one of the dachshunds. "Are you quite finished now, Bart?"
"Yes, I think that covers everything."
She rose and stormed out of the room.
"Where the hell're you going now?"
"First I'm going to put all the phones back on their hooks, Bart, and I hope they ring all night long if only to remind you of the New Era that has just begun in our house!"
He rose and quickly caught up to her, seizing her by the arm and whirling her around to face him. "Now wait a minute, you dingaling, is that supposed to be some kind of answer to what I've just said?"
"You're damned right," she said, wrenching free of him. "Until you made that appalling little speech, I was ready to ignore all the attention I've been getting today. I was going to be selfless and let it all blow over, sacrificing all claim to fame or notoriety, just to spare your feelings. Oh but now now, my dear. No, now I'm ready to jump into this whirlpool headfirst. I'm going to lap it up and become my own woman, not just a home appliance, a hunk of property. How dare you give me such ultimatums! You want to bury me forever in mediocrity, leaving me only one image: your dutiful, simpering, imbecile-wife eternally waiting in the wings, content to bask in the reflected glory of a raging egomaniac. Well, it's not going to happen, Bart ... and instead of ever guesting on your show, before this is over I may have a show of my own in which my article may only serve as the starting premise. Sure, why not a series called My Life With Genghis Khan"? Wilder things than that are happening these days. And furthermore, Bart Sheridan, let me say this: you don't know me, and you never did!"
Bart was momentarily stunned by this outburst. He'd never thought her capable of such irascible vehemence. Could a kitten turn into a tigress overnight? Or was she on some kind of drugs? If so, he couldn't hold her responsible; the poor baby wasn't operating with a full deck.
"Bonnie, when you stop being hysterical you'll realize that what you've been saying is that you want a man's life. And honey, that I'm not buying. Why, the mere sight of a mouse still makes you pee in your panties. Don't you think you oughta conquer that fear before you go out on the warpath?"
"Sexist!" she spat at him, then turned and headed towards the stairs. The phones started ringing. "I just remembered, I'm late for an appointment, something I was fool enough to cancel earlier, but I know they'll still welcome me. It's another discussion group over in Sausalito, and I'm sure Monica will be dying to join me."
"What the hell's Monica got to do with this?"
"Your sister happens to be one of the most liberated women in San Francisco, and getting freer every minute. If you didn't even know that about her, you're more of a pompous throwback than I thought." Bonnie dashed upstairs to answer her phone. It was someone asking to interview her tomorrow in the offices of Female!, promising her a three page spread in an underground newspaper. Bonnie graciously consented, then got ready for her second coming-out party within twenty-four hours.
Slowly, Bart sank down onto the divan, the two dogs scampering lovably into his lap. "Oh Jesus, Monica too! The fuckin' leeches, ganging up on me like this ... And for what? What the hell did I do to them? I'm innocent! I love women, for Christ's sake, my life wouldn't have been worth living without them. But now I'm their enemy ..."
Bart slept in the guest room that night. But he needn't have bothered, since Bonnie spent the whole night in the clambering arms of Jay Lassiter, boy nostril artist and hedonist, who repeatedly asked her to bite him in his most sensitive erogenous zones and later handed her a whip and taught her how to use it. And, after enough vodka and her first experimental pot whiffs, Bonnie played the role-teeth gnashing, hair flying, as she flogged her arrogant husband in absentia, and grew more deeply involved with the profligate Mr. Lassiter than she knew.
CHAPTER 9
For Bart, the next two weeks were a nightmare of face-saving press conferences and chicken-shit appeasement. It wasn't easy for a man with his ego to show millions of television viewers how he looked with his tail between his legs. After several grueling sessions with Ralph and Muriel Spicer, during which the three of them tore mercilessly at each others' defenses, it was decided that Bart should make the necessary self-deprecatory admissions on the air, and that somehow they'd have to make this work without Bonnie's "in-person" cooperation.
"Bart, in general your attitude will run something like this:" said Ralph, " 'I've been a naughty old Daddybear, but I really love my brainy wife, and I am now prepared to give her all the freedom she deserves.' "
"And just so you keep any threat of divorce out of the picture," said Muriel, "you should be ready to add such sentiments as: 'Bonnie and I have become like two free spirits ever since I read her illuminating article. How else could I have known about my lamentable shortcomings if she hadn't so cleverly brought them to light? But now that these grievances have been aired and thrashed out, we're at last able to share our new found independence together." Muriel saw the nausea on his face as she spoke. "I know how vomitous that sounds, Bart, but you'll be amazed at the people who'll believe it."
"Especially if such statements are accompanied by strategic little plants in all the right columns," Ralph added with a stab at cheerfulness that didn't quite come off.
Bart nodded grimly. "To me it sounds like the first transsexual operation ever attempted on the air. Ladies and gentlemen, we give you the New Bart Sheridan! Is he Man or is he Eunuch? Step right up and wave bye-bye to his balls as they drop into the ether!"
The whole caper galled so hideously, Bart developed stomach cramps, migraine and intermittent skin rash. But what was an over-forty superstar to do-lose all the hard-earned headway he'd gained in the last twenty years? The Spicer's assured him, after the first few weeks there'd no longer be any necessity to keep mentioning Bonnie or his marital capitulation on the air, that it was only during this brief transition period that he need fink out on himself in order to reinforce his popularity.
Special secretaries were hired to answer the mountain of letters they'd received from angry militant groups, so that gradually Bart's reputation as the champion of all American liberation movements was firmly re-established. His gagwriters also inserted winning little jokes about Women's Lib in his monologue to prove Bart hadn't lost his famous sense of humor. And too, when many of his show-biz buddies kidded him ruthlessly about Bonnie's "debut", Bart was ready to kid them right back with a solid punch line, although a solid punch would have been closer to what he preferred. After a while he wondered if he'd come to believe all this propaganda himself, like all a guy had to do to forget his feelings had been hurt was to pretend to the whole world that they hadn't been. Like auto-suggestion? No, he thought, just an emergency freezing of all nerve centers to deaden the pain.
Bonnie was persuaded not to refute Bart's on-camera statements when she was being interviewed by the press. However, that was all she would agree to. She said she was quite willing to let him keep his old image, provided nobody asked her to give up her new one. Among her many activities, Bonnie was now studying diction and voice control, as well as weekly classes in Karate and other forms of self-defense. To communicate articulately and to protect herself from the threat of Male Dominance, these were two vital steps towards liberating herself from dehumanizing sex role definitions. "Once we elect a woman President, this country's machismo problems will be greatly minimized!" She said this during one of the many speeches Theodora had written for her, although she didn't have the faintest idea what the word "machismo" meant. When she tried to look it up, Theodora said: "No, dear, you'll be much easier for us to mold if you stay away from higher education entirely."
Soon Bonnie was wearing nothing but sleek, boyish pants suits, and her elaborate bouffant poufs had been severely straightened so that now her hair hung with an indifference that was as supreme and slovenly as Theodora's herself. She and her husband Leonard co-authored all of Bonnie's speeches and, with the proper publicity and handling, Bonnie was drawing enthusiastic crowds wherever she appeared. Despite her exterior alterations, she came on as a very pretty girl in the old-fashioned sense rather than the sharp provocative broad she was trying to emulate. Perhaps it was the faulty pronunciation of some of Theodora's murkiest dialectics that gave her away. At any rate, once she learned how to project her voice correctly, her stage presence proved quite winning. Whenever Bonnie balked at the lack of humor in her material, Leonard secretly collaborated with her and together they interwove a few cutesy puns and ad-libs which Lennie described as being "pure Bonnie."
There were times during the question-and-answer sessions when someone would invariably ask, "Mrs. Sheridan, is it true your husband has undergone a complete personality change since your article appeared?" Bonnie's carefully rehearsed answer would be brief and to the point. "Yes, it's true. There is now a perfect balance of freedom in our home. Next question?"
Bart's diplomatic comments on the air, plus the fact that the much expected announcement of an impending divorce had failed to materialize, convinced many women that Bonnie's one-woman revolt had been so successful that they, too, were inspired to take up the gauntlet. Consequently, it became an advantage for both Bonnie and Bart to keep their growing estrangement a secret. To all intents and purposes they were still the Golden Couple, while in reality they went their separate ways, neither, as yet, taking time out to evaluate what they truly wanted from each other.
Except that Bart missed her as he lay between the too cool sheets in the guest room, waiting for her to see how biologically wrong she was for the new life she was straining to live. He missed her warm-bodied nearness at night. Not only that, but it had been ten years since he'd slept alone, and after all the furor of her article died down, Bart soon discovered that celibacy was for monks and missionaries. He'd already had his ego shot down in flames. Was his libido to be next?
* * *
One late Friday night towards the end of October, Bart had remained at the studio to do a full replay of the show he'd taped earlier that evening. He'd recently installed an expensive new videotape process which made it possible to see immediate results and decide what to cut before the show aired the next night. It was as close as tape TV would ever get to the movies daily rushes. It had been the third and, he hoped, last "appeasement oriented" show since Bonnie's explosive article first appeared. He decided the time had come to start ignoring his marital condition on the air and push it gently but irrevocably into the background. However, he still meant to keep answering the endless flow of letters by writing the agitating militants everything they wanted to hear, spreading the hip mystiques: tolerance, permissiveness, iconoclasm, the whole schmear.
Bart felt particularly tired and beat this night. And lonelier than he'd ever admit to himself. He and Bonnie rarely saw each other anymore, which was still something he didn't want to analyze. Leave the status quo. Don't jar the picture or your equilibrium will go along with everything else. But whoever said man's sex needs began to diminish at forty certainly must have had a low hormone count. In fact, he'd always been at his horniest when he was most pooped, a condition that had only intensified with the years.
As he was about to turn off the videotape machine and close up shop a few minutes later, the door to his office slowly opened. At first he was startled, thinking it might be some anarchist nut intent on a reprisal due to the tough line of questioning he usually did on the air. He'd assumed he was the only one left in the studio. Then he saw the girl stealing softly into the room. And remembered her at once. Who wouldn't, with a body like that? One of the extra secretaries they'd recently hired. Just a kid, really, he thought. Not more than eighteen. A dark Latin type with the juiciest looking pair of cream puffs he'd ever seen fill out a sweater.
"Mr. Sheridan? Are you angry at me for being here ...?"
"Uh ... I don't think so."
"I have been waiting for hours in the ladies' room, which is shameless of me, I know, but I had to be sure everybody was gone so that I could see you alone and tell you ..."
Her accent was a strange combination of Southern and Spanish, and Bart rather thought there might be a little Afro in her too, despite her creamy olive skin. "I do seem to remember you," he said, his nervous fatigue bringing on quick tremors of arousal as he eyed the dewy fullness of her hips, the velvet black of her eyes. "You're Miss ... uh ... Miss ..."
"I am Nicole Sanchez," she said with a shy smile. "My mother was a French Negress and my father a Mexican Indian."
Holy Toledo! he thought, three hip minorities all wrapped up in a package that looked like this? The Good Lord certainly knew what he was doing when he loused up this gal's genetics.
"But I suppose on your show you would refer to me as a black girl," she was saying, "even though the color of my skin is a kind of coffee beige all over."
All over, he thought. Key words if he'd ever heard any.
She moved deeper into the room and he saw she was wearing a bright yellow micro-mini. Bart tried to visualize the jewel that was lurking softly only a few inches higher, imagining what a blessed rest it would be for his eyes if he could have but a single look. "For the past two weeks I have been taking dictation from you, Mr. Sheridan, and loving it. To me, this is what a man is for-to dictate to women."
"Oh?" He gave her a searching look. "You really mean that?" To hear such words from any woman these days sounded like the most flagrant brand of heresy, and when he spoke again, he found that he was whispering like some hunted espionage agent. "You're not putting me on, Miss Sanchez, or just playing at being a nonconformist ...?''
"No, I am telling you the truth!" Now she was whispering too, but with great passion and intensity, ! circling slowly around his desk until she stood above him. Bart inhaled her perfume and his balls ached. But he remembered his manners and stood up. So did his cock, sweltering and encased inside his briefs. "I have overheard some of your conversations with your staff, Mr. Sheridan, and you can fire me if you want to, but that is how I know what you have been going through. And don't you think I know how very unnatural it has been for you to say such insipid things on the air, pretending that your she-dog of a wife has broken your will and your spine, when I know better? You have the primitive urges of a strong, normal man, and you must never try to suppress them just to please your public. You are a dominating life-force, Bart Sheridan, and that is why I have waited to get you alone tonight. I want to prove to you there are still women alive today who long to be overpowered by men like you." She took a few pins out of her hair and it fell cascading down her back. Lush, black, shiny. "Don't move or speak," she cautioned him. Then she slipped out of her sweater and stood motionless for an instant, watching his eyes go to the bursting mounds inside her bra.
Bart opened his mouth, dizzily ogling the voluptuous twin treasures that seemed ready to spill out and wobble in the air. He tried to say something, hoping it wasn't too late to sound safe, noncommittal. "Miss Sanchez, it's so late, and I ..."
"Nicole," she murmured. Then, with a few fast tugs, her skirt dropped to the floor, and while she smilingly watched his face, she peeled off her panty-hose. Jeez, what have we here? he wondered, his eyes arrowing downward at her gleaming black crotch. What we have here is a naked eighteen year old temporary secretary. Except for that bulging bra. "Look at me, Mr. Sheridan!" she demanded, although he feared he'd bore new holes in her if he stared any harder. "Can't you tell at a glance that I am not your equal? A man like you, my God, how big you are! ... with such broad shoulders and a chin so firm and strong ... and when, in this world or any other, shall I ever approach the power that lies hanging between your legs?" She pointed at the evidence in question, the knob of which flexed involuntarily. "You have the universe down there, you know, all zipped and caged. While I? Hah! I am lower than the lowest, so far beneath you I am astonished you can even see me from your lofty peak. An underling, that's what I am. And mostly, your inferior."
Christ, he'd heard of brown nosing before, but this kid went back to Kelly Girl next week, so what did she have to gain?
"The only rights I want to fight for are the native born rights of any real woman, and that is to be dominated by one of the few truly straight men left in this queen-city of San Francisco. Ah, you're at a premium, Bart Sheridan, and before you lose any of your unique power I want you to squander some of it on me, want you to use me and make me know why I was born. Come on, hurry now ... please! ... take what you want from me. You don't have to be kind or gallant, just grab what you see and then twist and bend and fuck and use me, oh please use me ...!"
Bart wet his lips and swallowed a couple of times, dazedly wondering why she'd left the bra on. Then, instinctively, knowing why. "Aw, you doll, you still wear a bra because you want to give some guy the pleasure of taking it off, right?"
"Yes, that is one of the liberties I want, the freedom to be manhandled and manipulated in your rugged arms. Rip it off now, hurry! ... these are for you." She wriggled them for him, which was all Bart needed. With a groan he reached for her and pressed her hot squirmy body against his, unfastening the bra hooks in back. Then he pushed her from him to watch as the garment fell to the floor. Her yeasty melons tumbled free, and he began to play with them gluttonously, his dick hard and burning inside his sweaty briefs, thinking what groovy timing to have Heaven send her down to him tonight of all nights, a big charge of female electricity to jolt his doubting loins and give them hope again.
"Squeeze my breasts, don't be afraid ... pinch them!" she begged him. "If you're gentle with me it'll mean I don't excite you, and you see, I am your property, designed only for your pleasures and cruelties. That is why I draw breath, to bring joy to men like you, the dying race, ahh, the tall and angry stalwarts, why must they become extinct when we need them so? I have been watching you, Bart Sheridan, studying the tortured hungers on your handsome face, watching your dear starved eyes and mouth ..."
She threw herself into his arms and drew his head down to hers. Bart swallowed her soft tart mouth with all the pent-up heat and tension of the past few weeks, shuddering as she jabbed her searing tongue between his lips and explored the inside of his open mouth, tightening her hold on him as she shoved her naked black bush against his palpitating crotch. Bart sucked the girlish flavors of her tongue and moved his hands down around her lovely ass. Christ, the round young feel of her skin ... and man, the throbbing youth of her! Eighteen or nineteen and look at him, still winning at forty, having something thrown at him that was even younger than Bonnie, nearly a whole generation younger! Yeah, Bart winning again, but in secret now, making it his, trapping it.
He pushed her away for a moment to gaze greedily up and down her sinuous little body. Short and cuddly, a little top heavy in the tit department for someone built so pert, but holy mackerel, just feel this tight ball bearing ass of hers! He pulled her close again, cupping, squeezing her buttocks ... aw, callipygian cleft, I'm gonna split you apart!
He ran to the door and bolted it, tearing out of his clothes as he moved, going breathless for it now, his heart pounding, slipping off his shirt, trousers, then rolling off the swelling briefs, his cock an aching tong of fire as it flopped out into view. Nicole gasped at the sight of it. "Ahh, see the beautiful dagger! Man's weapon and executioner, my resurrection ... come on, darling, tear out my heart with it, reduce me to a quivering pulp for the joy of you ...!"
"Wait, baby, wait, gotta turn off this videotape machine." When he did so, another idea hit him. Something rare was about to happen here tonight, so why not get it on tape? Then the two of them could play it right back afterwards, and watch themselves in action. Oh man, how young that made him feel, like his voyeuristic college days all over again. Bart aimed the small videotape camera down towards the floor, for where else would they be performing? Seeing what he was about, Nicole nodded eagerly.
Bart shoved two chenille scatter rugs together, right in the eye of the camera. Nicole crept down on her knees before him, staring raptly at his turgid cock, then up at his face. "Look, I'm on my knees to you!" she said. "Tell me what you want me to do. I am a woman, and to me that word is synonymous with "slave," so order me!" She moved her head forward so that her moist parted lips were only an inch from the drizzling head of his cock. Bart knew that all he had to say was "suck it!" and he'd find out what it felt like to have his prick buried inside that fiery cauldron of a mouth. But no sale, he thought, because the whole idea reminded him of Bonnie as he summoned up that degrading vision of her with his cock in her mouth, reviling all he'd felt for her ... and even though he wanted this juicy firecracker to eat him alive, he felt inhibited by memories of Bonnie doing it to him. "Cocksucker!" he muttered aloud, his member flaring with fury as he recalled his wife's self-debasement.
"Yes, yes," said Nicole, "say that again ... call me names! Cocksucker! Bitch ... I am all these things, and I will do for you ...!" Nicole lurched forward and sent his rampant cock lunging down her throat with one suck, and then writhed there on the floor, squeezing her breasts and groveling like a whipped animal as she gobbled and licked and intermittently stared at the recording camera.
"Aw no, wait, I didn't mean you!" Bart gaped down at her, irresistibly studying the cock-filled curve of her gulping lips, his knees buckling from the slick saliva feel of her lashing tongue, and man, what artful pumping and nuzzling ... this baby knows how! But no, not this ..."Hey stop, I don't want to shoot it like that, it's too easy." He pulled it out and the sexy, sucking smack almost made him want to cram it right back in again.
"Then hurt me with it, I beg you ... stab me with it!" Suddenly she flung herself on the floor on her belly, then popped upwards on her knees, her ass an entreating display of dual delights. "Make me your dog, Bart Sheridan ... do it to me like this, like some yelping bitch in the fields ... hurry!"
"Jesus, girl, I'm gonna explode just looking at all that," but he stared drunkenly down at her. "You want it up your ass or your pussy?"
"WHATEVER!" she replied. "You make the choice, Tiger Man. Use that thundering cock of yours and put it where it will be happiest. If you want me to bleed for you, I will bleed ... if you want to piss on my ass first and then fuck me, I will comply. I am like clay. I will come when you say "come" and suck when you say "suck", and, if you like, I will eat your radiant shit, my darling ...!"
"Oh Nicole, bite your tongue or I'll shoot just listening to you." He crawled down on his knees behind her, a little giddy with all the freedom she'd given him, wondering which hole to puncture, which sensation to choose out of the whole spectrum of jollies she was offering him? He chose her cunt, but decided to do it from the rear, because it was always more painful like that. And to think, he didn't have to go easy on her either, wasn't obligated to make slow precoital love with his cock. Instead, he could shove it and stuff it straight up, that's what the baby wanted, and that's what he'd been missing, the joy-power of the punisher, employing the brutal tactics Bonnie had accused him of, though without reason, using his prick like a whip of chastisement. Sure, that's what men were for, and tonight, for the first time in his life, he'd heard that from a woman. Out of the mouths of babes the truth at last!
Bart crouched directly behind her, took his stiff plump bludgeon in his hand and heavily maneuvered it towards the crack of ass and thighs, gripping her buttocks and hoisting her up even higher for the injection, creamy hot cheeks all flaring and spread before him. He reached down and found her bushy wet crotch with his fingers, spreading the jellied lips crudely apart. Then he jabbed the thick knob of his cock at her long-lipped opening and with one all-consuming leap sank it all up her cunt ... ShaZOOM! ... How it tore and rent its way up those girlie guts of her!
He felt her body go tense and convulsive with the sudden stinging shock of it, which only spurred him on to a more resounding victory, so he began to slice it in and out of her, determined to give this masochistic sweetheart the most tail bending fuck of her life. She wanted him to clobber her with it, and Bart couldn't remember when he'd been given such complete permission to use a woman's body without any regard to the agony he was inflicting. And damn his ass if it wasn't the best fun he'd had in years. It felt so new and necessary, creating urges of lacerating savagery he'd never dreamed existed. And man, the torture was even headier than it might have been because she was so damned tight, the gummy hot walls of her vagina complaining and squishing as they gave way for each relentless thrust of his cock. Bart let his cheek rest against her back and cupped the fat baubles of her tits as he plunged it wildly in and out of her, old King Bart dominating and asserting his conquering maleness with every bang.
Nicole started to thrash her ass back at him now as if she wanted to bite that huge slotting tube of flesh with her cunt muscles, but Bart kept her splayed and poised just the way she'd asked for it-dog fashion, which was just what most women deserved ... Should have sniffed this gamey piece's ass with my nose first, he thought, like some funky Airedale in heat, and then climbed on top of her ... Bart growling in a frenzy now as he fucked and rammed it, squeezing her tits, loving the anguished serenade of her groans, adoring the surging thrill of superiority and power, forgetting all his hurts in the subjugated, splayed out flesh of another ... close to shooting it now, but remembering the camera focused on them and deciding to debase this beauty even further when he came.
Just when his cock was burning on the very edge of peril, he yanked it out, flipped her over on her back, her legs flailing, body still hungering for it, then he lunged upwards and sent his cunt-gleaming cock throbbing between her lips, lancing it straight down her throat, and half sitting on her lovely face as he sighed and quivered and shot his load of sperm into her mouth. Christ, look at her guzzle it down, and so damned fast too, even though he'd taken her by surprise. Damn, this was sexual obedience in action, the sweet kid, what a lovely disposition she had! Finally, after she'd expertly drained him, Bart pulled his dripping cock out of her mouth slowly, so he could watch the entrancing exit it made as it slid out of that erotic receptacle, red flaring lips of a Black-Indian French-Mex girl sliding loosely off his cockflesh ... Oooh baby how you love your manmeat! ... Aw nurse that big mother, honey, nurse it! ... Then he turned a bit in profile so the camera could catch the full silhouette.
When they watched a quick replay of their beauty-and-the-beast ballet, they grew enthralled all over again, squatting fleshily on the floor together, members wet hot and dangling. Bart watched his fucking image on the small screen, thinking: hey, that's me fucking a half-breed teenager from the rear ...! staring raptly at the thickness of his own cock as he plunged and tormented, noting how firm and lithe his body still was, old warhorse hangin' in there, givin' 'em hell, ready to shaft it up their pussies from now till doomsday. With a quick snarl, he leaned down and began to suck her breasts, rabidly biting her nipples until she groaned and gasped from the welcome pain.
"Yes, like that, my scavenger, milk blood from them, darling ... make your beautiful mouth go red with the blood of me ...!"
Bart joyfully discovered some latent vampire thirsts as he tasted the sticky flow, the nipples remaining rigid as they bled against his lips, Bart reveling in the novelty of this night, feeling her clutching hand on his stiff cock, her fingers swirling over its velvety head. She moved away, and with her sticky fingers she rubbed his seminal traces down against her asshole, squeezing the juiced-up glans of his prick again and applying even more lubrication there. Bart hoped he knew what she was up to. And when she suddenly sat down hard in his lap he knew, groaning aloud from the quick rush of ecstasy as she latched him deep inside the hot furnace of her asshole, swiveling and screwing him up and in ... And then, with one suicidal downward leap, she swallowed his cock right up her bowels and let out a long shrill scream, "ooooh, run me through and stomp it into me! ..." For Bart, it was the tightest, most perfect fuck of his life, his cock so snug up there it almost hurt to move it, though he knew she was getting most of the pain because he was suddenly positive this was the first time she'd ever been sodomized.
Bart giddily eyed those tears of torture streaming down her cheeks, answering trickles of blood beginning to stain his pubic hairs. Bart, crazed and incensed again with the sight of fresh lady's blood, bent her backwards and fucked her ass ferociously, ummmm loosening it, letting the blood become a warm gushy lubricant, flinging her legs over her head and continuing his rectal pounding in that position ... owning the little jazzbug, watching the terrible ecstasy on her gorgeous face, her eyes still glaring at the videotape replay of their earlier exhibition, her ass throbbing and ravaged. And, at long last, the orgasm she'd been hoarding now started to well up in her vagina as he hammered wildly up her asshole. "Oh God, I'm coming!" she warned him. "Look, you can watch me from one hole as you fuck up another ... oh you growling hunk of man, make me bleed and watch me come! ... now ... ohhhh ...!"
With her legs up over her shoulders, Bart was able to view this shattering panorama, forcing his cock up her blood wet ass and ogling the creamy bubbles of her orgasm overflowing the red lipped slit of her cunt ... Ummm what a double feature delight, two holes for the sperm of one ... holes on parade! Then he howled with the wonder of it all and shot his second load of the night. "Oh Nicole ... Nicole," he sighed, collapsing down on top of her, "you were built for pleasure, sweet baby ... built for it ...!"
"For your pleasure, Bart Sheridan, for the joy of mankind in your image ... yes, you, my master. I knew it was you from the moment I saw your big sorrowful mouth and sad eyes and knew what that frigid ignoramus of a wife had done to you. Kill her, Bart, and then whip me with your love, for she tried to strip you of your manhood. And now here I am, darling, to give it all back to you."
"In spades," he said in gratitude; and thought, to hell with Bonnie, that crazy militant psycho ... let her ruin her life and turn lez for all he cared. He'd found his surcease right here on the floor of his career. Bart sucked the eager upturned mouth that still tasted of his sperm, basking in the urgent youth and need of this girl ... only eighteen, dear God how he'd won!
The videotape replay was over with now, but the machine still clicked as if yearning for an encore ...
CHAPTER 10
During her first two months of fame the legend of Bonnie Sheridan grew to monumental proportions. With her measurements and facial adornments far superior to those of other lady drumbeaters, the kind of adulation she aroused was considerably more emotional than it was intellectual. Theodora told her it was a new manifestation of Sexual Politics: "If people like your face, your smile and the way your tits hang, they'll respond to you even if they don't know what you're talking about. For proof of that, look at the marionettes we're voting into office these days. And do you want to know why? Because our ballot boxes are below the belt and always have been."
"That's right, Bonnie girl," Leonard Belkamp confirmed this theory. "In the sanguine seventh decade of this century we find almost everybody voting a straight Hot Nuts ticket, from grandmothers on down."
As usual, Bonnie felt they were pulling her leg, although she was never too sure when they weren't. However, she now felt she was getting closer and closer to finding her true identity. To help her in the search, and to pile up the clues, she avidly read all the newspaper accounts of her own activities, as if in this way she could determine from the reactions of others exactly who it was she was about to become. It was a little like playing hide-and-go-seek with herself, perhaps, but so very diverting and adventurous. She was convinced that she had at last become a fully open woman, and for this she owed a large debt of gratitude to the ambidextrous Jay Lassiter. She was seeing the boy three and four times a week, and learning something new-often frightening-at each educational love-in.
Monica, on the other hand, told her that Jay, Theodora and Leonard represented an unholy triumvirate in the way they were manipulating her every move. However, such disapproval did nothing to jeopardize the open hearted affair Monica was having with Leonard Belkamp-with Theodora's blessings, of course, as long as she could watch when these two coupled ("I feel so much less of a cuckold that way!"). Nevertheless, Monica warned Bonnie that the Female! entourage were using her to their own advantage, capitalizing on the cause c�l�bre involving Bart and his television show.
"Revolt is one thing, baby, but these kids have given you an in-depth retread from the skin out. After all, Theodora's still the Queen Bee, you know. You're just part of the honey."
In rebuttal to this, Bonnie told her of the fabulous fees she was being paid for her lecture appearances, all up and down the California coast. "Why, if this keeps up, I'll be financially independent for the first time in my life. I won't have to rely on Bart for an allowance. I've never known this kind of power, Monica ... never been rich on my own before. I like the feeling. It gives me new vision, new scope ... and new hope!
"Pity, when what you really need is new speech writers," Monica quipped. But then, seeing how happy the girl thought she was, she decided to reserve all further judgment.
* * *
It was at one of their morning conferences in early November that Theodora and Jay finally persuaded Bonnie to rent her own apartment in town. "Just to have your own base, dear," said Theodora. "Somewhere to relax after the rigor of your tours. I know for a fact that speaking to all those girl scouts at Disneyland last week took a lot out of you."
"Don't worry," said Jay, "I put it right back in."
"Beast!" Bonnie laughed. "Can't you drop sex even for a moment?"
"No, but I can let it hang for a while."
"Anyway, Bonnie," Theodora cut stoically through all this sloth, "the point is you must learn to operate as an independent, and to do that you really need your own apartment in the city, a place where you can see your friends without being spied on by The Enemy."
"And where you can officially drop the roles of wife and mother and play nice with yourself," added Jay, slipping a proprietary arm about her waist and lazily cupping her breasts.
With a giggle Bonnie pushed him away, giving him an apologetic smile though, to soften the rejection, wondering if he or Theodora could tell how disturbed she always was by his shaggy blond sensuality. Monica had once aptly described the boy as a 'perpetual turn-on' ... adding that if Jay couldn't relate to people on a sexual level, even in very unsexy circumstances, his mood became dangerously paranoid. Perhaps, thought Bonnie, that was because so many people, male and female, forgot what they were talking about whenever Jay entered a room. If she had her own place in San Francisco she'd be able to see him oftener. She thought of that now, seeing a blistering montage of multiple Jays in action, Jay in the tumbling nude and so proficient.
Instead of a few chance weekly romps at his Grant Avenue pad, where the scene was always too heavy with human traffic, she could schedule him daily in the afternoons with her own apartment, her itinerary permitting. Bonnie didn't know if what she felt for this boy was love, since her only frame of reference was Bart's stolid maturity; she knew quite conclusively, however, that she did feel for him. Indeed, feeling said it all, for there was very little thought involved when they were together. He was an obsessively tactile person, and for her this became a mute contagion-to touch him, touch his silky sun-warmed body while his fingers, lips and tongue caressed her flesh, to wallow in the headless torpor of skin-on-skin, his mouth a supple poem as it dabbed against her vagina, his cock the ruthless worrier as it taught.
Of course he was irritating too, with his desperately chic tricks of faddism and role playing, such as insisting on having three or four others on hand whenever they made love, either to watch or join in. This was how he tested his performances, he told her: he kept an audience around to check out his capacities, like the champion prizefighter who is used to having a crowd around whenever he goes a few rounds with his sparring partner. "If I can't see my swingin' ass in the eyes of horny spectators, how'll I ever know I've really fucked?"
He also made her do all the chasing, which Bonnie thought was cute-for a while. Then it became a little nerve-wracking, having to remember that it was she who must take all initiatives. He never phoned her, sent her flowers, or held her coat or opened doors for her. She also had to compete for his favors with women who were not only more aggressive than she, but far better able to afford him. These women gave him money, he boasted. But so far Bonnie had only given him herself. And presents. Expensive ones. Each costing more than the other. One night during a cunt-sucking marathon that went on for hours, Jay reached under the sheet for a wad of papers and waved them in her face. And though she was just about to come, Jay told her this was the collection of pawn tickets he'd accumulated since they'd met. Then he fluttered them all over her breasts and drank her down, chuckling happily while he licked.
"It's not as if you'll be moving away from home," Theodora was saying now, jolting Bonnie out of her reverie. "You'll of course sleep there every night. Barring some occasional emergencies of the flesh, naturally. And too, there'll be the weekends, when you can still play patty cake with the kiddies."
"I don't know, Theodora," said Bonnie, feeling terrible guilt pangs at the mention of her sons. "I think the boys should see me more often than on weekends. After all, I don't want them becoming victims of a broken home, since technically speaking mine isn't really broken, just newly divided and ... well, Spartan, I suppose."
Theodora gave her a shrug of distaste. "Well, Bonnie, far be it from me to talk you out of it if you want to go home and coddle those kids every day, want them to grow up weak-kneed and dependent. No one's denying you the right to be like the rest of the Moms in this country who, due to a lack of personal responsibility, find they must eat their young to survive. Go ahead and EAT, my dear, and bon app�tit!"
"Oh now wait, Theodora," Bonnie laughed uneasily, "you needn't make a speech to prove this point. I fully want my kids to be prepared for the same freedom of choice I should have begun to think about at their age."
"Then that settles it," said Jay, "you'll take your own apartment and let those kids run and skip and play Masturbation Bingo with the rest of the peninsula fruits in your neighborhood," laughing wildly at his own gift for social comment.
"Pig!" Bonnie chided him, then glanced at Theodora. "All right, I guess it does seem like a practical move to have my own place, a kind of headquarters."
"I've got the head if you've got the quarters," said Jay.
"Will you shut up, you narcissistic PRICK?" Theodora leveled him to silence with a single eruption.
"Of course, Bart and I have a joint account, you know," said Bonnie, "and I don't have nearly enough money of my own tucked away yet, so I'll have to find some way to juggle my finances so he won't know what I'm doing."
Theodora's mouth fell open and her face went pale. "You still have a joint account with your husband? YOU? My God, if that gets around, we're sunk. I mean really, Bonnie, how addlepated can one broad be?"
"Hey honey," said Jay, "don't tell me you've been depositing all this lecture bread you've been earning under Mr. and Mrs. Bart Sheridan?"
"No, of course not. I've kept that separate, with my savings. Bart and I only share a checking account."
"And where do you keep your savings, dear," asked Theodora, "in a piggy bank?"
"No, they're ... hidden away in my vanity drawer, with all the household money I've managed to put by."
"In your vanity drawer?" laughing riotously, Jay grabbed her to him for a quick, but engulfing, kiss. "Where, baby, right next to your hanky-poos and your Dear Diary and your baby shoes and maybe a packet of old valentines? Oh Bonnie, you are having one helluva time remotivating yourself, aren't you?"
Then he winced with pain as Theodora seized his arm and gave him a shove that sent him staggering half way across the room. "We're talking business, leech, so fuck off!"
Bonnie glanced quickly at her lover, for she so adored to look at his face when he was being sullen and broody, wanting him again, forgetting the time, the scene, the issues ...
"BONNIE!" Theodora's roar broke all nerve barriers.
"Hmmm?" Bonnie went quickly alert.
"I suggest you take the money you've saved from your lecture appearances and open your own account in San Francisco. Then go to this address," she handed her a card, "and mention my name. The woman who manages the place is one of us. You understand?"
Bonnie nodded. "Yes, she's a brother."
Theodora arched a brow at this, then passed it over. "They'll have an immediate vacancy for you. But dear, one last word of advice: please close out that joint checking account with your husband. Don't you know there are spies everywhere ... slobbering fat chauvinists waiting to pounce on our every imperfection?"
Bonnie guilelessly said no, she didn't know that.
* * *
The apartment was on Russian Hill. Quite lovely and clean. $425.00 a month, furnished. A steal for a one-bedroom, Bonnie knew that much. However, it was only after she'd signed the lease that she discovered the manager was a lesbian as well as a liberationist. Golly, she certainly doesn't look it, thought Bonnie. So gentle and patrician, and such a soft womanly mouth. But after Bonnie wrote her signature and paid the first and last month's rent, the woman-"Call me Sandra"-took her in her arms arms and gave her a long fervent kiss on the mouth. It wasn't until she released her that Bonnie thought: I should have resisted. And yet, Sandra was so solicitous and soft sell, she couldn't help responding to the woman's warmth. "Just wanted you to know you're among friends here, Bonnie. We're all fighting the good fight together." Bonnie gave her a polite smile, but felt she'd have to make it quite clear that anything more elaborate in the way of sexual confrontation was off base.
"Would you mind if I had a padlock put on my front door?" Bonnie asked, hoping this was a subtle enough hint.
"If you like, hon, but it's really not necessary. You see, I rent to no one but women in this building, so you couldn't be safer anywhere."
"Nevertheless ..." Bonnie began and then stopped, thwarted by the sunshine of Sandra's smile, returning it and, in truth, feeling rather sheltered here, even a little Y.W.C.A.-ish. And, actually, Bonnie only had that one kiss to go on, and who knows, she thought, Sandra may turn out to be as normal as the next one, though she doubted it as she saw how the woman's eyes glazed over while staring at the outline of her breasts. Still, the kiss had happened with such natural grace that it was nearly an hour later before Bonnie could summon up the word 'perversion.' And what was most curious, Sandra didn't look nearly as obvious or butch as Theodora Wilder who, ironically, was a ravenous nymphomaniac. Good heavens, life as a liberated female could certainly get awfully complicated when a girl didn't know on whom to pin which label. Anyone seeing those two women together would swear it was Theodora who hoarded most of the male hormones.
Theodora, the lady-brute who swore like an old seadog, took her sex neat like a man, even if it was predominantly men she took whenever she wanted to satiate her most basic needs. For Bonnie, these behavioral contradictions only added up to more confusion. Will the real fags, studs, pushovers, or bulldykes please stand up, for mercy's sake? These days even the masks look alike.
* * *
Bonnie and Monica saw each other for lunch quite often during this period, and the two women had drawn quite close. One afternoon a few days before Thanksgiving they elected to meet at the ultra-smart La Burgoyne where the atmosphere was almost sumptuous enough to make one forget the stratospheric prices. After they'd eaten and were having liqueurs, Monica admitted how upset she was by Bart's increasingly hostile attitude towards her. "He bangs down the receiver every time I phone him. Why doesn't he just come right out and publicly disown me?"
"Now Monica ..."
"I mean, it's not fair for him to blame me for all this. After all, you did make some pretty important decisions on your own, Bonnie. And what's more, I did try to talk you out of it." Then she paused, giving Bonnie a probing stare. "I did, didn't I?"
"In your own way, I guess you did. But don't you see, Bart's using you as a scapegoat. He can't get mad at me these days, so he's taking it out on you."
Monica sighed. "Well, maybe that's part of it, but not all. And besides, Bonnie, I know what you're really thinking, that theoretically speaking I'm against Women's Lib, while sexually speaking I've been having a ball with most of its male devotees. So all right, sue me, darling, but I ask you, could anything be more liberating than all this wholesale promiscuity after the years I've devoted to nothing but my career? I've kept myself far too chained up. Between husbands, anyway, and it wasn't healthy. So believe me, Bonnie, I'd join the Klan if I thought it would keep getting me more than my share."
Bonnie sipped her drink thoughtfully for a moment, comparing Monica's reactions to sensual freedom with her own. "It seems to me you and I have been concentrating on one specific playmate more than any other."
"You mean Leonard."
Bonnie nodded. "For you. And Jay for me. I only hope you're not getting as swept away as I am, Monica. For me it's become like hypnosis. And strangely, all of it seems to tie in. New life, new sex, new ideals, new orgasms. It's very frightening, and maybe that's why I can't stop, can't let the momentum falter. And yet, I know this is crazy, but I haven't really changed towards Bart. It's just that he doesn't have any part in all this. The two worlds are utterly removed from one another, which of course doesn't mean that each of them don't exist, because they do."
"Yes, I feel some of that with Lennie, afraid to let him and my realities ever get anywhere near one another. He's quite a landmark for me, you know. He's like the grand finale of everything I've ever had done to my body. You know, the way they reprise all the big numbers at the end of a musical. That's what he does for me-sums up everything that ever happened to me in one man; and then, of course, he takes his bow."
"Jay seems awfully young and unformed to me sometimes, especially when I compare him to Bart," said Bonnie. "And yet, I'll tell you something, Monica, I've been thinking of boys even younger than Jay lately. Watching them on the streets, you know, the raunchy, rabble-rousing kids who ask for change and demonstrate and never wash, but look so vulnerable and soft-centered under all that hair and panic. How I'd love to take them by the hand and teach them all I've been learning these past few months."
"Oh honey, if you really want to corrupt today's kids you'll have to get them awfully early in life, like seven or eight, maybe. The teen-agers you're talking about have been there and back again, many times."
"Yes, but only with other kids, Monica, their peers. Not with a mature experienced woman who's still too young to be bridging any generation gaps, but old enough to give them a little seasoning."
Monica gave her an oddly pensive look. "You know something, Bonnie, I rather miss the trusting little girl in you. Where the hell did she go so fast?"
Bonnie laughed, enormously flattered by this comment. "It was major surgery, Monica, but I think I've finally cut her off for good." She glanced down at her watch. "Oops, I'm late. I'm speaking at the Veterans Auditorium tonight, and Theodora insists I rehearse at her place most of the afternoon."
"Oh? And what'll the message be this time?"
"Let's see now if I can remember," said Bonnie, closing her eyes, "I do most of it by rote, you know. Oh yes. I'll be telling my oppressed sisters how to exorcise the feudal warlords in their homes, minimize the paternal power structure, and, not incidentally, donate funds for the first free abortion clinic in the country."
"Drop-In Abortions?" asked Monica. "Something like that. Doesn't it sound progressive?"
"Sounds like it'll be a real boost to the Novocain industry," laughed Monica, "to say nothing of your friendly neighborhood blood bank."
But Bonnie ignored this and recited some more of her catechism. "Our aim, eschatologically speaking, is to topple the patriarchal system in which men by birthright control all of society's levers of power-in government, industry, education, science and the arts."
Monica listened to this, then grew reflective. "Baby, if you can spout off like that and believe it, it looks like Theodora and Jay are really putting the double hex on you."
"Now what does that mean, you skeptic?"
"Jay bends your libido while Theodora bends your brain. It's a package deal. Put 'em all together and you're a windup warrior."
Bonnie lowered her eyes, feeling a fleeting chill with these words. But then, gaily, "That's not very funny, darling." Looking at her watch again she got up from the table. "And what you forget-and probably Bart too-is that I've chosen my freedom and wasn't pushed into it. Not by you or anybody else."
"Honey, if you can make yourself believe that, more power to us both!" Monica held up her glass and drank a parting toast to her.
"Oh you!" Bonnie laughed. "It's ridiculous trying to convert you now when I'm running so late. See you later!"
Bonnie swished out of La Burgoyne, her walk still incongruously fluttery and girlish for such a flaming militant.
CHAPTER 11
Bonnie heard more than the usual amount of heckling in her audience that night. However, Theodora and Lennie, who were always on hand to lend her support before a speech, reminded her it was Thanksgiving week and there was a preponderance of mischievous Silent Majority types on vacation with nothing more constructive to do than subvert the causes of freedom. Bonnie had also been unnerved by a phone call from Jay, who was scheduled to meet her at the auditorium right after her lecture. He said he had an exotic surprise for her and felt it would work better if she drove over to his pad that night. Bonnie had long ago given up her feminine prerogative to be escorted and shielded wherever she went, so she didn't even try to protest. Then, during the course of her lecture, she felt the new strengths surging back again, plus the added fillip of knowing how attractive she looked on stage, so that by the time all the applause and the "Right On's" had died down she felt valiant and unafraid once more.
There was no question and answer session on the agenda that night-much too big a house-so Bonnie remained chatting with Theodora and Lennie for about a half hour after the audience trailed out. When they offered to give her a lift to Jay's apartment, she reminded them her Volkswagen was parked in the lot behind the auditorium. After checking her hair and makeup. Bonnie walked out of the huge rotunda, then around the block to the parking lot. She had just gotten her key in the lock of her car door when she heard the footsteps behind her. She froze for an instant, feeling the terror rise up in her throat, then fumbled frantically with the key, hoping to throw open the door of her car, jump swiftly inside, and press the lock in place.
"Hey, baby!" she heard a rough male voice. In her anxiety she dropped the key, then turned around. And saw them. Four burly barrel-chested guys in their early thirties. They wore trim crew cuts and had huge calloused hands. A familiar term raced through Bonnie's mind. Hard hats. The self-righteous apes who hated in the name of patriotism, waving their conformist virility about like a flag.
"We're hot to be liberated, Butchie-Bonnie," said the square-jawed spokesman, a blond Scandinavian type by the name of Clyde.
"Yeah, how 'bout settin' us free tonight, sweetheart?" said one of Clyde's swarthier cohorts. Salvatore. Husky curly-haired greaser whose own words had already given him a thick bone of a hard-on.
"If you do, we promise to be extra good to our wives when we get home tonight." The third. Hot eyed lushed-up Mick by the name of Joe, six and a half feet of seething blarney.
"Sure, we'll give the little woman equal rights," said the fourth. Eric, pure German-American stock, looming Hunky in denims so tight they looked ready to burst with the raging meat inside. "Speakin' for myself, I got over seven inches of equality just achin' to bust loose."
"Hell, I got eight," said their blond spokesman. "Six and a half," said Joe, "but baby, it's so fat it'll feel like ten!"
"Seven and a half for me," said Salvatore, all of them calling the prick-roll while Bonnie wavered there before them. "Hey, between us we got almost thirty inches of Freedom Meat to give to the cause. So lady, we sure hope you're authorized to receive donations, because we're gonna tear you apart with 'em!"
Bonnie let out a little cry and lurched backward, knocking herself against her car, gazing frantically about the empty lot.
"We're all alone here," muttered Clyde, "and if you let out one more sound, we'll beat you bloody."
"Which would be a real shame," said Joe, "on account'a I don't never like to fuck nothin' unconscious."
"You see that station wagon behind your car?" said Clyde.
Trembling, Bonnie turned, saw it, nodded, her muscles tightening with fear and revulsion. They would kill her-she was certain of it-wanted no one to identify them later. After all, they had good jobs and families, had so much at stake. Oh dear God, had all her yearning for independence brought her to this?
"Hey, grab her, Clyde," said Joe, "she looks like she's gonna faint!"
Bonnie's knees had buckled a little, so they all moved in and put their hands on her. "Come on, let's get her in the back of the wagon, quick!"
They dragged her towards their car. Crude meaty hands on her buttocks, one clamped over her mouth. "We're gonna take you out to Golden Gate Park for an hour or so," promised Eric.
"On a picnic," said Salvatore.
"Yeah, a pussy picnic," said Joe. "Jesus, feel the ass on her ... like a couple'a taffy apples!"
Bonnie managed to pull the hand away from her mouth. "Please listen to me," she said, gasping for breath, "I'll give you money, whatever you ask ... and I swear, I won't mention this to a soul. Just don't hurt me!"
"Shit, we don't want money," said Clyde. "Between us we make enough take-home pay to rent us a dozen better lookin' hookers than you. All we wanna do is fuck a liberated pussy and see if it feels any different than the old-fashioned kind."
They shoved her in the back of the station wagon, where they'd already spread out an old mattress to welcome her. Clyde and Eric got in the front seat, Clyde starting the motor at once. Joe and Salvatore stayed in the back with their captive, forcing her to lie low against the beat-up mattress as they got underway. Joe kept a hand over her mouth, while Salvatore wasted no time in exploring the rest of her, licking his hot Latin lips as he unbuttoned the jacket of her suit, hungrily pulling her breasts free and loose, playing with them, squeezing and pinching and moaning with the treasures he'd uncovered. "Holy Christ, look at the boobies she's been covering up! Man, on the stage tonight she looked almost flat chested."
"Maybe she checked them in the lobby," said Joe.
"Hell, you don't wanna hide such ammunition, baby," said Salvatore, "this here's eatin' stuff!" Bonnie winced as she felt his hot slobbering mouth gobbling at her nipples. A minute later she saw Joe swoop down on her and join his buddy, two burning marauding mouths on her breasts now, feeding on her, draining. Joe reached down and unzipped her pants, jabbing his big hand roughly against her bare thigh, ripping her panty-hose, and then, when he touched the furry mound of her cunt, he let out a savage howl and stuffed half the breast he was sucking deep into his mouth. And slid it moistly out again, to announce: "Eureka, you guys, I've found it! She's got a cunt, after all. And the way she was talkin' tonight, I was sure we'd find a cock and balls down here."
He probed further, fingers spreading the hot dry lips of her vagina. "Jesus, what a funnel! Oh man, is she ever deep down here." He sank three fingers in and dabbed at her clitoris. Bonnie tightened up, but not before Joe felt the evidence he was seeking. "Shit, she's startin' to juice up already. Wow, am I ever gonna go skinny-dippin' tonight," four fingers in her now, scrounging, ransacking. Bonnie moaned and thrashed about on the mattress, but they held her down, two ravaging mouths on her tits, men sucking up her flesh like starved jungle creatures, while Joe brutally finger-fucked her and made her wetter against her will ...
Bonnie tried to summon up a picture of these beasts as they must have looked sitting in the audience tonight, planning this degradation for her while she'd felt so confident and sure of herself on that stage. Enemies in the night who had even paid to see her, so they could ambush her later and rip away all they could not understand. Joe-fingers thick and slotting, moving in and out of her ... faster!
Eric had turned around in the front seat and was closely scrutinizing the action, while Clyde kept checking in his rear-view mirror, unzipping himself and pulling out his hot pink slab of a cock and playing with himself as he listened to the suck sounds ... hot nipples in his buddies' mouths and stubby workmen's fingers up her pussy, Clyde thinkin' how they'd stretch her later so there'd be enough to go around.
He turned into the park at Fulton Street near Sixth. Everything was black and foggy. Deserted. Perfect shroud of a scene for a gang bang. Clyde drove two blocks into the park, then pulled up along a heavily wooded path and parked.
"All right, get the rest of her clothes off," he ordered, "playtime is over, this is when we go for broke. First pull that mattress out and spread it on the ground. If we're all gonna give it to her at once, we'll need some leg room. Joe, you tie her hands behind her with your belt. But don't tie her feet, man, 'cause those wings're for spreading, and I mean high and wide ...!"
Bonnie felt the cool night air against her skin as they stripped her naked and then tied her wrists behind her back. They pressed her down flat against the mattress. Then all four of them crawled out of their jeans, under which they wore nothing but their weapons of the night. Keeping their shirts on, they knelt very close to her, two on either side, waving their cocks in her face. None of them had pulled a gun on her, or a knife, their one and only threat being what they now held in their hands. Bonnie gazed at this surrounding view in horror, four thick rearing cocks ready to rampage and desecrate. "Okay now, here's how we work it," said Clyde, "so we all get the full benefit. Two of us at a time will climb on her while the other two watch. Then we'll switch positions and alternate, and keep that up till we run dry ... how about that, sound wild?"
"Oh man, let me get on her first, please!" begged Salvatore, playing with his huge cock as he ogled Bonnie's big tits and belly and cunt, tonguing his lusting lips at the sight of that ready-to-eat gash ...!
"Okay, Sal," said Clyde, "you and Pre hung the biggest, so maybe we can pave her for Joe and Eric."
"That suits me," said Eric, lovingly playing with himself, "I get hotter when I watch first."
"Come on, Sal, let's turn her over," said Clyde, "get her propped up on her knees so you can slip it to her from the rear. I'll stay up on this end and push her pretty face in my naked lap so's I can do what I've been dyin' to ever since I first saw that fuckable mouth of hers shootin' off tonight."
"Jeez, you guys gonna fuck her in the mouth and the cunt at the same time?" said Joe, jagging his prick, salivating. "Aw, this I gotta see!"
Clyde and Sal hurled Bonnie over on her belly, then up on her knees, her fat bunchy breasts flopping around as they manipulated her naked body like a couple of stockyard attendants, after which Salvatore crouched hungrily behind her splayed out buttocks. Clyde, now squatting before her on the mattress, pushed her face down between his hairy thighs. Bonnie gasped as she saw and smelled his truly massive equipment, a long bloated axe-handle of a phallus and two mammoth balls cradled beneath. He furrowed his ass deeper into the mattress and seized the back of her neck, flexing the spongy knob of his prick as he maneuvered her mouth towards it.
"Here, Soldier Lady, this big lollypop'll take your mind off what's gonna happen to your cunt when Sal starts gallopin' away at it. Aw, he's a real Latino-brute, baby, and you are gonna feel what he gives you! But meanwhile, you're gonna taste this!" Bonnie gaped senselessly at the thick wedge of a penis that throbbed under her nose, dimly realizing this was the first enforced sex of her life, fearing she was about to retch and maybe suffer even more bestial reprisals because of it, wondering how they would go about butchering her later, where they would bury her body, or parts of it ... thinking of Bart, that dear old-fashioned Protector, how she needed him, and hated him too for not understanding her all these years, driving her to this! This thing trying to force itself between her lips ...
Big muscle-bound Clyde pressed her soft warm mouth against the burning tip of his chunky prick, now trickling with excitement. Before Bonnie could twist her head away she tasted something tart and spicy, not like the semen flavor of the orgasms she'd swallowed, but a thinner fluid, and saltier. Then she winced with pain as Clyde yanked her head back in place. "Come on, damn ya, let me see what those gorgeous lips look like when they're wrapped around my cock! Ummmm let me see you suck that big hunk, baby, or so help me, we'll cut off your tits and your hair and then strangle you. Slowly!"
"Oh please no, wait ... not like this, listen to me ...!" But Clyde held her nose and her mouth fell open. Then he stared down crazily at her as he watched the bulbous head of his drizzling cock slide moistly between the girl's lips. "Aw God, that's beautiful!" he groaned, Eric and Joe pushing their faces in close, beating their meat as they studied the spectacle ... Clyde issuing out those hot orders: "Oooh yeah, keep movin' that tongue around on it while I ooze it in deeper ... Oh man, it's like stickin' it into an oven! Aw learn, you dikey bitch, learn ...!" Bonnie felt as if some horrifying animal had been stuffed down her throat as Clyde held her head and started sawing his prick in and out of the full tremulous mouth of his captive.
Meanwhile, Bonnie was also being straddled from behind as Sal locked the flaring head of his wang inward at the opening of her cunt, knowing that Clyde's hefty cock in her mouth was all the gag needed to keep her groans of agony from being heard when he fucked her the way he preferred, fast and endlessly. So he stretched her thighs and buttocks crudely apart and crammed every swollen inch of his cock upwards and in ..."Aw Christ, what a hot swampy hole!" he sighed. "And she's got a whole pot of soup cookin' in there already! ... Man, I'm drownin' ... ummm sloppin' it all up in there ...!" He socked it to her furiously now, sludging it in and out of her like a pounding bulldozer, Bonnie's hoarse gasps muffled by the cock so cruelly stuffed inside her mouth, her lips flushed and widely stretched around the fleshy knob, her whole body writhing from the brutal stabbing blows Sal was hammering up her belly. Clyde let out an exultant roar as he watched the beautiful force-feeding his cock was giving this busty beauty ... ripe big-knockered blonde gal's juicy mouth chock full of his bulging meat ... Snarling hunk-jawed Clyde starting to shudder and grunt ..."Aw man, I'm gonna blow it! This hot red-mouthed bitch's gonna get a big long drink right down her kisser ... unnn, come on, get it now ... guzzle up that syrup, honey, take what you deserve and liberate that fuckin' jism right outa my balls ... GULP IT!" Bonnie, half-conscious from Sal's sadistic invasion from behind, now gagged and choked as she tasted Clyde's hot rivulets of sperm shooting against the roof of her mouth, dank musky flavors of a feisty construction worker burning her palate and flooding down her throat ... Clyde howling like a banshee as he shot his heavy load into her mouth and wiggled his bouncing ass, wanting her to swallow his whole crotch when he came. Then Sal let out a roar of his own as he exploded his thick creamy jism up her cunt, splattering and streaming deep into her belly, clutching her ass and thighs and stretching her wider for it, slamming it crazily into her, raping this militant lesbo speech-making cunt ..."Aw, shit, I gave her a gallon of the stuff, a fuckin' gallon!"
Clyde, determined not to let her spit out the souvenir he'd shot into her, lurched down and planted a brutal succulent kiss on Bonnie's lips, then held her like that until she was forced to swallow every milky drop he'd squirted between her lips. "Ooh drink me, you fuckable mouth, you goddamned traitor ... love it or leave it and EAT it ...!"
Unable to wait any longer, Joe pulled Sal off and out of her, then knelt behind the spread-out girl and fucked her ravished wet cunt like a hyena in heat, shoving his stiff wang right up where his buddy's had just drained itself, banging her madly, riding and rocking and reaching under to play with her wobbly plump tits. Then Joe let out a wail like he was about to cry and shot it; Eric, who had been patiently holding his eager cock, pulled him off immediately.
But Eric wanted to see her face when he fucked her, so he threw her over on her back, flipped her lovely long legs over his shoulders and gave it to her the way he'd been brought up back home in Cedar Rapids, rolled her into a flexible submissive ball of female fuck-toy and hooked it mercilessly into her like that, the others getting hot all over again as they watched, bending over her like a pride of feasting lions supping on a gazelle, sucking her tits and stuffing their balls into her mouth or poking thick stubby thumbs up her ass while Eric sliced in and out of her ... Aw man, what a shiny wet beauty she was now! ...
They dragged her and the mattress inside the station wagon, then turned on the heater, had a few smokes and rested awhile. Then they all went around again, each taking turns fucking her mouth and pussy, keeping her quiet and pacified in front while they split her tail from the rear. When Joe suggested shoving it up her ass, Clyde really blasted him. "What're you, a fuckin' queer or something? Sodomy's un-American, ya goddamned freak, so you're not gonna learn it here. What we done here tonight was a ritual of patriotism."
"You bet!" roared Salvatore.
"So don't none of ya try to louse it up with nothin' abnormal," Clyde concluded.
Numb, aching and light-headed, Bonnie lay there wondering if they were all going to stand up and sing the Star-Spangled Banner before they executed her. However, she soon realized that when they were through with her, they were really through. There were no more threats of violence. They were almost respectful, though far from apologetic. They untied her wrists and let her get dressed. Then they put her out of the car. Just before they drove off, Clyde grinned, leaned forward for one last sucking kiss of her rape-blown lips, and said: "Go ahead now, call the cops and tell 'em you been gang laid. That's the best way to find out whose side they're on! ..." Then they drove off, laughing, gutty, fulfilled.
Bonnie's whole body was a mass of throbbing pain, and she felt so weak she wanted to collapse there in the blackness of the park. But she vaguely remembered that Fulton Street was only two blocks away and usually quite heavy with traffic. Half-staggering and delirious, she somehow made it to the street. After about five minutes she flagged down a cab.
"Hey, lady, what happened to you?" the driver gaped at her.
Realizing how wild and messy she must look, Bonnie tried to think of something safe to tell him. "I ... I got ..."
"Mugged?" he asked.
"Right," she nodded her head in relief.
"And I'll bet the freaks stole your car too, huh?"
"Oh yes, yes," she muttered gratefully, but sensing that he too was one of the enemies so it was best to let him fabricate whatever he expected to hear. "Mugged and robbed," she went on. "Nobody's safe in the streets any more ... There're terrorists and radicals everywhere."
"Tell me!" he commiserated, thinking she was somebody's wife and mother. "Now where to, Ma'am? Mission Emergency Hospital?"
"Oh no, please!" That would entail a police report, she knew, and, whatever happened, there must be no attending publicity to the horror of this night. It could only backfire in the worst possible way. "Just drive me home, to my husband. He's ... he's a doctor, and he'll know what's best to do." She gave him Jay's address in North Beach. Luckily, her attackers had not robbed her-and what right-wing-thinking honest Americans would stoop that low-so she had enough money to pay the driver.
She made it into Jay's apartment house and managed to push the right button in the elevator. Then, when he greeted her at the door, she fell into his arms.
"Bonnie baby, what is it? You look like you've been through a meat grinder!"
"Oh Jay, I know this will sound ridiculous to you, but I've been raped. Four vicious hard hats ganged up on me tonight after the lecture ... and forced me into their car ..."
Jay chuckled softly, and she could tell at once that he was high on something. "Sure they forced you, baby," he said, leading her into his apartment. "You devil, now come on and tell me how you managed to latch onto four of 'em ... Give me the details, sweetie, blow by blow ... You know how I love that! ..."
"But Jay, I swear, I'm not lying. I was gang raped, and my whole body's on fire."
"I'm hip, Bonnie ... internal injuries of the juiciest variety, and baby if you think I ain't dyin' to survey the damages, you're outa your gourd!"
Then Bonnie saw he had company, and dimly remembered he'd promised her a surprise tonight. She smelled something, an unmistakable odor, dank and pungent. More pot, she wondered? "You need to relax and talk, Bonnie," said Jay, "get it all out of your system. And we've got just the kinda Acapulco Gold that'll do the trick. You ever been stoned on Mexican weed?"
"No, I guess not," she muttered weakly. And then, surprising herself, she added, "Oh but I want to now, Jay. After what's happened, I'm so on edge I want to scream ... So I do need something."
In the living room she saw three young boys with long hair, bare feet and tight revealing jeans. Bonnie recalled what she'd told Monica earlier that day, about her new appetites for unwashed youth. And now here they were, when her members were still wet and sore from tonight's attack. Two of the boys, a pair of twins called Gary and Terry, were strikingly beautiful lads, sort of strawberry-blond curly heads with full fluffy moustaches and goatees, about seventeen or eighteen. The third stranger was equally as stunning, a black boy by the name of Mel who was unquestionably an integral part of this m�nage.
"Who're these?" Bonnie asked Jay, sinking onto the divan and accepting the joint he'd lit for her.
"They're friends, Bonnie, the surprise I told you about. Real mouthwatering trio, don't you think? I've been tellin' them all about you, how you've just found out what your ass is for and can't get enough, so now they wanna find out if you're for real."
Bonnie inhaled deeply, sucking in air, coughing, and then smiling dreamily at the company ... O see the unkempt stallions rubbing their hooves in the earth to get at her! Funny, but very soon she didn't hurt any more. Anywhere. Wanted to laugh for a very long time. And later, when they reached for her, the humor was truly on her.
CHAPTER 12
"She just got gang-fucked by a bunch of hard hats," Jay whispered.
"When, man?" Gary incredulous.
"Just before she got here. Didn't you hear her?"
"Shit, she's puttin' you on, Jay," said Terry. "Us SDS militants can't even get within groping distance of a hard hat, unless we deliberately stage a riot ..."
"And even then they usually beat the piss out of us before we can find out how they're hung," said Mel.
"But Bonnie doesn't lie," Jay told them. "She's one chick who has learned to tell it like it is."
The three boys exchanged quick excited glances. "Hey, you mean all that jazz just happened to her and she came here to bring us the leftovers?" Dark handsome Mel licking his chops ..."Oh wow, that's heavy, man, I'd sure like to get a taste of her right now."
"Aw can we, Jay?" asked Gary, who was a bit taller and gamier looking than his twin.
"Please Jay," said Terry, "it'll be just like we're relivin' everything she went through."
"Uh huh, I'm hip," Jay grinned at them. "Let her take a few more deep puffs of that joint, then well feed her some wine with a couple o' methacaps."
Bonnie heard these voices as if they were all conversing underwater-sounds hollow, full of taunting echoes, the voices of boys in the fresh flux of heat, and as she listened to them she felt very loose and languid. But exhausted too, her body festering and wracked with what had been done to it tonight. And yet, she found herself responding anew to this choral grouping of males that surrounded her, for the voices were soft and friendly-no more brutality to torment her, sounds young and tender. She gazed up at them, dimly making out the barefoot lads with beards of scraggle, just what she'd been thirsting for: little-boy meat to bandy about and instruct. Ah but later, not now, for she hurt too much now ...
"Suck in air, Bonnie ..." Jay seated close to her, unbuttoning her disheveled jacket ..."suck in deep."
"Suck," she muttered senselessly, but re-ignited by the word, gazing at Jay's full mouth, she pulled him down for a long devouring kiss.
Mel brought her a glass of wine. Jay, his lips still crushed against hers, found two speed caps in his pocket. Then, as he softly lifted his mouth from hers, he slid the pills in under her tongue and told her to swallow them with the wine. Bonnie did so, her eyes going from Jay's moist lips to the tightly trousered lads now moving in closer to her.
"Drink those pain pills down, baby," said Jay, "and soon you won't hurt anymore."
"They were bullies, Jay," she said, gulping down most of the wine. "No way to treat a lady ..."
"Oh damn, I gotta see what her cunt looks like now, gotta touch it!" Gary knelt before her and unzipped her pants, pulling them off, then yanking off what was left of her panty-hose. "Oh wow, lookee here!" He spread her naked thighs apart and greedily studied the delicious havoc her attackers had wrought. "Christ, if that's what a disaster area looks like, I want to bury my face in it!" So saying, Gary dove mouth-first at her crotch, her cunt flushed and raw and damp as he sampled its tastes and deeply inhaled.
The others scurried down and joined him. Bonnie was fascinated by the sight, feeling like a newly whelped bitch feeding her litter as the boys went on their knees before her, sniffing and licking up the tangy residue of fresh hard hat juice. Jay joined his tender recruits and the four of them embraced as they nuzzled her wounds of the night, dark Mel diving his hot pendulous lips in the crease of her vagina and making a tongue-lapping feast of her vulva. Bonnie began to gasp with a mingling of pain and excitement that was almost too tantalizing for her to bear. She kept sucking feverishly on her weed as she watched them perform on her, a bit startled when she saw Jay grab Mel's kinky head and kiss the boy passionately on the mouth. With the twins' ardent mouths glued to her cunt she couldn't hold back the fitful sighs and groans, but still kept watching Jay ... He's a homosexual, he thought numbly, and I'm in love with him. Something wrong with the picture ... pieces don't fit. Finally she muttered the word aloud, as if trying it out ..."Homo, Jay? Hmmm? Homo?"
They all laughed at this, hugging her ass as well as themselves. "Listen to that naive baby up there," chuckled Jay. "Not homosexual, sweetie, but Omnisexual. Now repeat after me: Omnisexual ..."
"Omnisexual," she mouthed the word, watching the boys' lips pumping away at her cunt again, then sucking the trapped juices from one another's tongues.
"The mouths of men who suck you kiss each other and interrelate," said Mel, as if reciting a litany.
"All of a piece," said Jay, indolently licking her nipples, "all of a oneness-sucking cunt and cock that fucks, swallowing the universality of mankind."
"And womankind ..."
"And little girl and boy-kind."
They gave her more wine and another speedcap, and soon she was naked again. She felt herself being lifted in their arms as they carried her bruised open body into the bedroom and prepared to engorge themselves on her while simultaneously dining on each other, stripping down, cocks sturdy flaring poles aimed in the amber gloom.
Did those Hunky hard hats suck your titties?" they asked; and when she nodded, they sucked where the hard hats' mouths had sponged, groaning their vicarious delight.
"What else did those tight-assed thugs make you do, Baby?" Jay asking now, Jay so beautiful and smooth-bodied as he lapped the undersides of her breasts.
"Made me suck them" she murmured, "stuffed their cocks in my mouth, big rough construction workers ..."
"Oh wow." Jay made a ravenous feast of her mouth, sucking the lips that had blown the beefy hard hats.
"Were they hung big, Bonnie?" Dusky-faced Mel lusting for an answer ...
She nodded. "Monstrous. All thick and big-veined and fat." Bonnie feeling higher now, the blood fevers raging on speed and wine, Bonnie tripping out on this delirium of succulence and boyhood ... Bonnie at a party and never wanting it to end ...
"Christ, I knew those fuckin' primates'd be hung like boa constrictors," said Jay. "Ever see the baskets on 'em when they're marchin' for Mother Agnew? Big sexy old-fashioned male-on-the-hoof-and-mouth-disease and I wanna catch it and eat it ...!"
"Man, I'd like to have a dozen of 'em chained up right now so's we could whip 'em and watch 'em fuck gorgeous Bonnie," said Gary.
"Wanna fuck a hard hat hole," chanted Terry, "wanna eat what's left of those crew cut motherin' apes ... horny bulgin' dinosaurs still roamin' the fuckin' earth ...!"
One boy sucking her ape-fucked cunt now, rolling her over so another could lick her asshole. Gary twisted around so his hefty prick loomed in her face as he tongued her belly and navel, Bonnie reaching forward in order to suck her first teen-aged cock, but then gaping in fascination as Jay beat her to it, leaning across her breasts, taking the boy's stalwart member in his mouth and sucking on it avidly. Jay kept his eyes on hers as he sucked Gary's cock, growing hotter for the boy when he saw that Bonnie couldn't take her eyes off his prick-gulping lips in action, knowing this was another first for her and wildly empathizing with the moment.
My goodness, how revolting, thought Bonnie; but her body belied this sentiment for this devastating male-on-male display brought on her first orgasm of the night. Earlier, she'd been much too terrified to let herself come, certain her attackers had meant to murder her later (if only she'd known they hadn't!) ... but now she was flowing and gasping and shrieking with the pent-up burning ecstasy, watching her dearly beloved cock-sucking Jay ..."Oh suck the pretty lad, Jay ... suck him and make him come when I do, oh now ... now! ... let me see it happen ...!" She shoved Gary's ass so that all of his cock went lunging between Jay's eager lips, Jay sucking faster now, moaning and panting as Bonnie heard Gary's cries and saw the milky sperm jets streaming from Jay's pumping lips as he swallowed the boy's load, Bonnie lightly fingering his throat as she felt the fluid pumped deep into her lover's belly ... Bonnie shuddering as she felt the last stinging traces of her own orgasm ...
After that, confusion. They all fucked her repeatedly, then sodomized and sucked each other, Bonnie watching, losing count of who was performing in hetero style one moment, who had turned man-hungry the next. She felt Mel plunge thickly inside of her and suddenly shrieked with pain, but they gave her another pot stick to puff on and she began to giggle while he rode her, Jay shocking her anew by mounting the boy who was mounting her, Jay roaring as he shot his load up Mel's tight asshole while Mel exploded his cock up her belly ... "Still love me, Bonnie?" panted Jay, "even though I'm fuckin' the ass of the guy who's fuckin' you ..."
Bonnie, enraptured by the idea of a man fucking and getting fucked at the same time, sighed out her approval, "Oh yes, Jay, I want you even more now ... want you all, because the barriers will truly be down after tonight. I'll never judge anyone again, never categorize, never ostracize ..." and then couldn't speak as she tasted Terry's warm turgid hippie cock plunging between her lips, while Gary began to fuck her wet cunt as soon as Mel slid drippily out of it.
Kaleidoscope. Riotous hungers invented on the spot and then as quickly fulfilled, producing a blackout for her mind while her body duly recorded. Bringing composure. When she awoke, only Jay was there. Jay, the omnilover, the omnisexual. "Man, I love what you saw me do tonight, Bonnie," he said, "love you even more for it, 'cause I swallow the races, you know, and any free-type chick I'm hung up on has to dig that or it's no blow. And baby, your head is really together and like you surprised the shit outa me, because you dug it, honey, and man, like with your background too, you dug the scene and you're still here. Aw, I could fuck you to death for that, pretty girl."
"Fuck, Jay ... yes, fuck ..." she murmured; and then felt him inside of her again, slow fat thrusts, in and out, perpetual cock-searing motion, more man-stuff to fill the gnawing gaps of her, so needful, so right. "Oh damn, Bonnie, you've grown so tall and proud, you're like the mother of us all, givin' us the milk of everything that slams up this hot cunt of yours, sharing the world with us ..." Jay was coming now, thinking of those bangin' hard hat slobs that had dug his ditch earlier ... gettin' it all together and lettin' it cream his guts out ... aw fuck the big thick silent ones for tryin' to rape the earth ...! And later, after he'd mopped it, Jay thought of the trippy new kind of future he could have with the new kind of female Bonnie had become for him ... a hot horizon of men and boys and girls and cunt and cock and mamas and mostly Bonnie, off the assembly line and ready for mass consumption ...
The rest of that night Bonnie felt the rivers and the motion, belly full of it.
* * *
When she awoke again it was four a.m. Her body ached from the assaults of mouths and cocks that had been heaped upon it this night. And ached with something else too: old longings. The fevers she'd been weaned on. She thought of Bart. Not with guilt or self-recrimination. Bart was at home alone in his bed, quietly suffering and frustrated, unable to strike out against her because of his career. She suddenly wanted to give him, mute and unasking, all that was left of her to give, sum total of the night's pleasure.
She nudged Jay awake and insisted he drive her home to San Mateo, explaining that her boys were on vacation this week and she'd promised herself to be there each morning when they awoke. When Jay protested that he was too hung over and fucked out to move, she said there'd be an extra fifty dollars for him if he drove her to the auditorium parking lot and then drove her home in her own car.
"Yeah? Then how do I get back to the city?"
"Hitchhike, my love. Isn't that how some of your most fruitful contacts Eire made?"
He laughed, then eyed her closely, realizing she had half sobered up, but yet in a way was still high and way up tempo. "Bonnie, you're getting so hip it hurts."
"Sweet," she murmured, and kissed his mouth, thinking of the fat hippie cock that had come in it earlier, and then suddenly seeing Bart's cock, fully aroused and lordly, wondering what Jay would do with it, conjuring up the vision of Jay in bed with her husband ... thinking of Bart like that: my husband's cock in the mouth of his rival, my husband, at home and brooding, and accessible ...
I have the best of two worlds, she kept repeating to herself during the long drive home, I have relinquished none of the old to embrace the new. I am in power. I am not sorry to be free.
It was nearly five a.m. when she slipped quietly into the house, but still quite dark. She went upstairs to her bedroom, thinking of the armed truce her marriage had become without either of them outwardly declaring such a state. She showered, then took two Valiums to ease her Methamphetamine withdrawal and also lessen the coital demons still stabbing at her loins. She slipped on a loose short nightie, then strode barefoot into the guest room. Bart lay heavily asleep, lightly snoring, sprawled out on his back. Quietly, Bonnie took off the nightie and crept in beside him. She slid her hand between his thighs and captured what she knew would be there, nocturnal erection, hard pulsating husband-cock, hers for the guiding-but only if she let him do it his way.
Moving quickly, she threw the blankets to the floor, then nudged his body sideways so that his cock dabbed against her belly; and then murmured the old words in his ear, the conjugal signals ... Bart stirring, though not quite awake, Bonnie using his suggestibility, directing him subliminally ..."Bart, if you want me, I'm here. I'm yours for the taking. So helpless, so ready."
"Yeah, sweetheart," he muttered, rolling casually over on top of her as they'd so often rehearsed it, "oooh yeah, let Daddy show you who's boss." And had it slicing fully up her cunt before he realized it was his own wife he was fucking and not the enthralling Nicole Sanchez, the black-Indian French-Mex gal with whom he'd been dallying so gymnastically for many weeks now. But not caring that it was Bonnie-turned-enemy he was inside of, and certainly not about to pull out of her, for Bart caught the whiff of her desire in his nostrils and sensed that somebody had put her in heat tonight just the way Nicole so often kept his pilot light burning for it long after he'd left her apartment. So Bonnie's in season, he thought, and had to have more and more of it, which was why she'd come begging to him in the night, seeking what he was still equipped to give her, not speaking, the sucked out cunt, just lying there, so damned open and wet. So Bart gave to her and took from her and it was good.
They came together. Rare. In their ten years together, maybe three, possibly four times that had happened? But he said nothing to commemorate the event, so as not to smash the idyll. She crept out of bed and back into her nightie. Then left the guest room for her own. Sealing their new silent marriage, welding the split freedoms in their home. What a night for man and beast, she thought, and all of it sans diaphragm too. But being reckless en masse only added up to safety in numbers, did it not? She would think about that tomorrow, or, hopefully, not at all.
Poor Bart, Bonnie sighed into her pillow just before she drifted off, how he'd needed that contact after all the humiliation she'd brought him. It was the least she could do, lick the loser's wounds like the fair-minded, life-giving Diana she was. Poor old King, toppling off his throne and up her belly ... Here, King! Turn in your scepter, you're through! ... The Valium made her chuckle giddily and soon she sank down and out of it ... Such a funny old life when the tables were turned ...
CHAPTER 13
The Sheridan's somehow managed to get through the holidays without jeopardizing the structural unity of the family. Bonnie's brief relapse in her husband's bed turned out to be a farewell tour, however, for it was not repeated; and luckily, both she and Bart were far too distracted elsewhere to miss it. At least consciously. Bart was still headily involved with the demanding and enigmatic Nicole, while Bonnie's infatuation with Jay Lassiter became even more multi-faceted as time went on.
Bart's show was going like blazes again, now that he'd cancelled all further mention of Bonnie and their domestic crisis. And yet, where their fireside relationship was concerned, there were still no changes, or solutions, although in the back of Bart's mind something very like a solution was beginning to form, if a bit nebulously. At any rate, they were polite and respectful in front of the children, as well as maintaining a most convincing facade before guests and relatives. Few of their mutual old friends questioned Bonnie's new activities, since they assumed from Bart's refusal to take any action that he sanctioned her radical behavior. Some of them, including Ralph and Muriel Spicer, wondered if Bart knew the kind of men Bonnie's name had been linked with. But upon further consideration, they concluded that none of it could have been news to him, and that his super-tolerant airtime image must have spilled over into his personal life. Bart, on the other hand, was very careful not to let his affair with Nicole Sanchez receive any publicity. Not that he was ashamed of it, or didn't feel entitled to the same kind of fun and freedom Bonnie was enjoying. No, it was simply a matter of privacy. Right now Nicole represented the one niche in his life that he didn't have to share with the public, and Bart had reached the point where something had to be his, had to belong to him alone. And in secret, if need be. Everything else was on show, both his marriage and his career, each of them exposed and laid bare. A man had to have one last corner he could go to that was his very own, a sanctuary impervious to the vagaries of his fans or agents or members of the press. Nicole was that for Bart, his place away ...
Bart's parents came over from San Leandro for Christmas dinner; and to save the day and prevent open hostilities between herself and her brother, Monica told them she felt a case of infectious hepatitis coming on and decided she'd better isolate herself during the holidays lest she infect her loved ones.
The year 1971 was more than three weeks old before Bonnie and Monica managed to get together for lunch again. This time at the more in time Blue Fox. Monica had phoned her, saying something madly desperate had happened which she was dying to get off her chest. But Bonnie, thinking this would add up to nothing but another of Monica's gossip-fests, blurted out a quick request of her own that afternoon. She asked Monica to accompany her on a lecture tour down in Los Angeles.
"And its environs," Bonnie added. "Namely, Whittier."
"Whittier?" Monica's eyes widened. "My God, right in the womb of the Emperor himself! You are getting brave, my dear."
"Not nearly as brave as I look," Bonnie laughed. "That's why I'd like to have you there for moral support."
"Now wait a minute, doll, I've got some news for you that I can't hold in any longer. And when you hear it, I'm afraid you'll have to find yourself a new duenna."
Bonnie, picking idly at her dessert at that point, gave her a puzzled stare. "Don't tell me you really did have hepatitis. No, you couldn't possibly and look so well so soon. In fact, I've never seen you look so blooming, Monica."
"That's a hint, you ninny!" Monica laughed. Then she took a deep breath before going on. "Bonnie, it's happened to me again, and I know you'll call me a turncoat and a square and a traitor-you should have heard some of the things Theodora called me on the phone a few days ago!-but we just couldn't help ourselves."
"Which 'we'?" Bonnie wanted to know. "There've been so many lately, for both of us."
"Yes, darling, but in every group we've sampled there's been one big superstar who far outshone all the others. Remember? Jay for you and Lennie for me?"
"But why should that upset Theodora? She's so permissive."
"Not about divorce, she isn't."
"Whose divorce?"
Monica gave her a triumphant grin. "Brace yourself, girl-Lennie's going to divorce Theodora and marry me. Oh, I know that sounds like Ultrahigh Frequency Camp, but it's for real, Bonnie, and it's going to happen, yea verily!"
"Well for goodness sake, Monica, I guess when I stop being flabbergasted I'll be happy for you."
"You know I've had this thing about him right from the start, and later I found out he did too, about me, I mean. But we were both so terrified of being unhip that we just kept it buried, deep in the engine room of our souls, as it were. In the long run, wouldn't you know it, I had to be the one to speak up. So one night I took that bull by the horns and did it, stoned out of my mind, of course, but I told him I loved him and wanted him for myself, as a husband, and that I was way over thirty and had formed the marrying habit too early in life ever to be satisfied with just 'swinging' or 'making out.' Well honey, did I hit that big gorilla where he lived! He'd been on the same wavelength for months, sick to death of Thundering Theodora and her crowd, hungry for some permanence and peace and old-fashioned devotion."
"Did you two go to Theodora with this?"
"Oh my dear, did we ever! As a result, I've now got her under a peace bond."
"Not really!"
"Right. That old warthog threatened to kill me, not only in person, but by telegram, on the phone, and I think she'd even use Indian runners and carrier pigeons, if she could find any. By the way, I've had to change my number, so remind me to give you the new one later. I'm scared to death of her, you know. She's such a big mother! One tap from her and I'd have a face full of bleeding pores and dental floss. Of course, it's so madly funny that she doesn't in the least object to our having an affair, as long as we don't cut her out of it, which is what we're both dying to do. She claims I'm viciously and diabolically sabotaging a whole way of life, that such an alliance represents the most devastating sociological retreat it has ever been her misfortune to witness, that Lennie and I are the most miserable backsliders, reverting to the Stone Age, and throwing the most awful wrench into the goals and aspirations of Women's Lib. She was even corny enough to say there were ways to handle people like us, so I'm expecting a visit from Women's Lib Mafia any day now. Then, of course, she called me a Bircher and a soul-sick Right-Winger and a Fascist Sow and I don't know what else. Luckily, I know enough about law to have her strapped up in a rubber room if she ever tries to make good any of her threats."
Bonnie, though she was still dumbfounded, couldn't help laughing as she thought of these two women crossing swords. "I guess she feels that after she was willing to share her husband with you for fun and games, this is the thanks she gets; now you want him for keeps. Well, good for you, Monica, I think it serves her right. That woman has stretched militant feminism too far. Of course, I've needed her strong support to get what I've wanted these past months. But now I'm looking forward to the day when I can manage strictly on my own." Then Bonnie remembered what Monica had said about her needing a new duenna. "Of course, I'll miss being able to confide in you, now that you and I will be in opposing camps."
"That's why I was so anxious to give you this news, Bonnie. It'll mean I won't be able to chaperone you as often as I'd like to because, frankly, you still haven't convinced me you're as delighted with your new life as you try to believe. I rather wanted to be around if everything went to smash all of a sudden, because dammit, Bonnie, you do need someone, whether you know it or not. You're that kind of a woman, even though nobody would believe it to look at you these days ... and don't give me that vivacious metallic smile you've learned so beautifully, because I invented it. It means nothing. Outside you may be all shiny shellac, but inside you're still gooey soft girl-stuff, and when you find that out, somebody'd better be there to pick up the pieces. Now where was I ...?"
"What you're really saying is that you can't accompany me to the Whittier lecture tomorrow, which is a pity because Theodora can't make it either, as she'll be speaking in Oakland."
"Oh?" Monica went very alert, as if trying to figure out some way she could rearrange her schedule. "But no, dear, what am I thinking of? ... It's still out. Lennie and I are off to Vegas in the morning, want to give that old dragon time to cool off before we start any proceedings. So you're on your own, Warrior Girl, just you against the world. What's this new lecture about?"
Bonnie sighed. "Oh, mostly pro-abortion, now that the pill is having such side effects, and also anti-marriage. You know the spiel, men and women as free-loving roommates with equal choices to split if things turn sour."
"Uh, huh, now I know I don't want to be there," said Monica, "because I don't think any relationship between two human beings should be that easy to end. All right, so I know I'm over the hill and probably very square, but this'll be my fourth marriage, so I'm not exactly a novice on the subject." At this point Monica's brows arched surprise. "Bonnie, who the hell are you staring it?"
Bonnie's attention had been caught by the entrance of a very striking looking gentleman across the room. "Monica, I know that man, but for the life of me I can't seem to place him."
Monica turned for a brief stare, her eyes lighting up at once. "But of course, you silly, he's a very famous author these days. In fact, his picture was in the Chronicle this morning and I hear he'll be autographing books at Brentano's tomorrow. He's the one who wrote How To Succeed In Bed Without Really Moving. It's a sort of Women's Lib backlash thing, telling wives all over America how they can put martyrdom to work for them, that there's a kind of erotic nobility in just lying there prone and passive while their husbands do it to them. Theodora wants him wiped out, of course, but I hear it's so filthy they've even banned it in Copenhagen."
"Tucumcari!" Bonnie blurted out excitedly.
"Well, I'm not surprised they'd ban it there," said Monica.
"But wait a minute, I think I remember his name. Yes, it's Hector Scott."
"Oh-of course!" Bonnie looked delighted. "Monica, you may not believe this, but that man is my English teacher from back home."
"Kokomo?"
"Tucumcari, fool!"
Pivoting discreetly, Monica reappraised the Grecian profile and the platinum-white pompadour. "And you dropped out of school? Your genes were tardy, weren't they, dear?"
But Bonnie looked entranced as she remembered the crush she'd had so long ago on this man. He had lightened his hair color, which was why she hadn't been able to place him. His hair used to be a kind of sandy beige, like Bart's, but he'd probably been advised to have it frosted so he'd show up better in publicity pictures. Or quite possibly he'd gone grey, for he must be in his mid-forties by now, she thought, though even more handsome and impressive than ever. And to think, she had chosen Bart as a substitute for this paragon of gallantry and sophistication. Bonnie wondered what her life would have been like if she had married the original, Hector himself. Of course, at her tender age he'd taken very little notice of her, except to encourage her and to give her confidence as a budding poetess. "All those tender years ago," she sighed aloud, Monica watching her curiously. "How I'd love to go back there and start all over again. And who knows, Monica, maybe even with him!"
"Well, don't just sit there, Bonnie. You're such an aggressive broad these days, how come you're not over at his table rekindling old flames?"
"Oh Monica, dare I? What if he doesn't remember me?"
"Look, darling, that man is gorgeous, brilliant and has a filthy mind. With credits like that you expect him to remember you too?"
Laughing, Bonnie rose from the table. "You're sure you won't mind?"
"Don't be silly, I'll even pay the check. I'm leaving soon anyway, have to meet Lennie in half an hour."
"All right, dear, then wish me luck," said Bonnie. "And good luck to you and Lennie too!" Whereupon, with a stoic thrust of chin and shoulders, Bonnie made her way towards Hector Scott's table, praying that he'd welcome a little tramp down memory lane.
Cradled in nostalgia, Bonnie planted herself at his table and gave him one of her liberated smiles-forthright and sparkling rather than melting and limpid. Scott looked a lot like Cary Grant circa World War II, though without the ultraviolet dimples, his gin and vermouth eyes exuding a kind of barnacled sensuality that seemed fixed.
He took Bonnie's arrival in stride. "Ah, you want me to autograph your flyleaf, don't you? Well, quickly, quickly-where's your sizzling copy?"
Glancing cagily about them, Bonnie leaned forward and whispered, "I had you in English!"
"I beg your psychotic pardon?"
"English Lit!"
His smile was queasy. "You're either trying to tell me you're a British subject or you're under the influence."
Bonnie chuckled, stubbornly convinced that he really know her but was just being coy. "Oh now surely you remember Tucumcari High in 1960? You once wrote a little note on one of my compositions saying I needed only a little less sterility and I'd be off to the races."
He stared at her. "Great Caesar's Mother, I do know you!" he exclaimed, leaning closer to her. "Aren't you the little hausfrau who's been staging this wild rebellion all up and down the Coast?" Bonnie's face fell as she wondered if he only remembered her from now and not before. "You see, I've been in England for the past few months," he went on, "plugging my book over there, so it's just this past week that I've been filled in on your adventures. You seem to be all the rage in San Francisco, very inflammatory, of course. And by the way, I read your article in Female!, which serves perfectly as a counter-debate to my book, and naturally that kind of catalyst is just what we want; although it wasn't until yesterday that I caught up with the piece, which was when I saw your picture and was able to recognize you, finally. However, you'll forgive me if I can't remember your name." Then, abruptly, he gave her one of the most delayed double takes she'd ever seen. "Did you mention Tucumcari High?"
She smiled happily. "Yes, of course I did. I've been wondering when you'd get back to that. I was one of your students, Mr. Scott, and the name is Bonnie Sheridan, although it was Jardine then."
"My God, talk about coincidences," he laughed. "Ever since I read your article, easily the most hilarious bit of sex satire it's ever been my luck to peruse, I have been dying to meet you. And now, lo and behold, it seems I already have. But in another life, as it were."
"Then you do remember me?" she said. "I knew I hadn't changed that much."
"Yes, yes, of course," he said impatiently, continuing to nod and stare at her, Bonnie wishing she could be sure which "her" he was relating to: Bonnie then or Bonnie now? "You were one of my old girls."
"Only mid-twentyish at the moment," she said, realizing she was shattering her current image by acting so cuddly and flirty with a man; but with him she couldn't help herself, for suddenly she was all ing�nue again and only sixteen. "You don't know what it means to be remembered by you, Mr. Scott, especially now that you've become so famous."
"Nonsense," he laughed, "I'm a corporate fraud, though it does lessen the threat of Medicare."
Bonnie kept gazing at him like an idolatrous fool, while Hector stared quite differently at her, his manner thoughtful, speculative ..."But good God, Tucumcari!" he said, shuddering in reminiscence. "Just thinking of it's a bit like peeking under a wet tomb on Halloween. And yet, how grand that you were able to break out, dear Bonnie, and that you're now enjoying such a splendid renaissance. I'd have thought you'd be doomed to the tumbleweeds like all the others. Tell me how you managed your escape. Didn't hit the rails, did you?"
"No, I'm afraid I took the marital plunge before I was even old enough to go steady. Not that I'm not still married, mind you, but, of course, you know all about that if you've been following my career."
"Yes, I have, and it's fascinating!" he said, obviously preferring to discuss her current fame rather than go into her past obscurity. "You've certainly set Henrik Ibsen back on his ass, haven't you?"
"Henrik ... pardon?"
"A Doll's House!" he clarified. "You're like a jet age Nora in supersonic revolt. It's delicious! Where can we go to talk about it?"
"Us? Now ...?" she stammered.
"Who else and when else? After all, you and I are the hottest socio-sex symbols in the country right now." Suddenly he began to laugh uncontrollably. "I just love the way you've been instructing the little woman to take the bull by the horns in bed, while I've been telling her to just lay there and suffer!" His laugh was so resounding and theatrical, all heads turned and stared at him. Lowering his voice to a stage whisper, he leaned across the table towards her. "Tell me, my delectable little avant courier, have you actually acted out all your own advice?"
"Well of course I have," she said, perplexed by this question. "I may have become a lot of things lately-some of them even unsavory-but I'm definitely not a fraud. It was all quite simple, really. Without knowing it my husband was trying to bury me, and I wanted to come up from under so he could see me as I am and, hopefully, love me more."
"Has it worked out like that?"
Bonnie gazed down at the silverware. "It's too soon to know. A great deal of time is required for these transitions to take effect."
"And, of course, there's his ego to consider," he said.
"Yes," she murmured, thinking this was going all wrong; she wanted to talk about yesterday-today was already too much with her! "But, at least we're still together," she added lamely. "There's been no talk of divorce."
He chuckled again, though more gently this time. "But that's what makes this so delightful: I understand his hands are tied in that department, that he'd lose everything if he became your adversary at this point of the game. That's really priceless, Bonnie, do you know that? And to think, you started out in Tucumcari, and in my English class. I certainly hope it was something I said back there. Tell me it was, so I can feel I've played a part in all this wonderful nonsense, if only indirectly."
Bonnie wasn't too sure she liked this sort of admiration. It made her feel as if she'd been playing Delilah to Bart's Samson, coming on like an evil designing female instead of the clean free spirit she'd had in mind.
"Have you had lunch?" he asked.
"Yes, I've just finished."
"Then do come over to my suite and let's chat. I'm at the Hilton, and I've got the rest of the day free. How about you?"
"Well, I'm giving a lecture in Whittier ... but, of course, that's not until tomorrow night."
"Whittier?" he laughed appreciatively. "Then that settles it, the condemned deserves a hearty ball! Besides, tomorrow's a hundred years from now, Bonnie, and think of all the coals we can rake over before then." He reached over and took her hand, his stare suddenly very personal and intense. "That's if my favorite pupil isn't afraid of me ...?"
"I was," she admitted.
"Ahh, but now you've become so emancipated you could walk into a den of lions without flinching-am I right?"
She smiled at him, but thought how phony the expression "my favorite pupil" had sounded in her ears, wondering if it were really nostalgia he wanted from her, or something else, which wouldn't be so bad, actually, as long as he remembered the girl she used to be. "Let's just say that the fear has gone, Mr. Scott, but the memories linger on."
"Nicely put," he said, and, as if paying further homage to this sentiment, he snakily caressed her thigh under the table. Bonnie trembled, a little surprised that her responses to him were not as exclusively esoteric as she'd thought ... He would have been my first, she thought, if I'd had him all those years ago when I wanted him so desperately. And if it happens now, will he be like my first all over again?
He gave her an intimate sort of smile that seemed to say, "I'm planning undreamed of joys for you, my girl!", letting his hand rest warmly on her knee. Bonnie gazed wistfully at his mouth, full and mobile; like Bart's, she thought, still the old paternal claims. But yet, she was suspicious of him and wanted to establish some basis of truth before she went to his hotel. She decided to subject him to a test, which wouldn't be easy because at the moment he was ogling her sequined turtle necked bodice like a gourmand at his last supper.
"Do you remember that tone poem we collaborated on?" she asked him, lying in her teeth. "You were so pleased with my progress you let me stay after school."
"Sounds like me," he laughed merrily.
"And you kissed me," she went on, warming to her plot.
He said nothing for an instant, kept smiling at her, staring. Then he fell into her trap. "Of course I kissed you, my pretty. And I remember where too."
"I'll just bet you don't!" Bonnie going coy again.
"Softly on the throat," he said, his voice going husky and romantic, "right there." Gently, he touched her Adam's apple.
Wondering how many nymphets he'd kissed on the throat that semester, Bonnie was now certain this man did not remember her from Tucumcari.
"My dear, you had the loveliest iambic pentameter in class," he said, warming to his plot.
She tested him further. "And we used to take little strolls after school, do you remember?"
"Do I ever?" he winked at her, obviously enjoying himself tremendously. "Why, we tiptoed through the cactus ..."
"And did I tell you it was the first time that I'd ever ..."
"Stop!" he raised a deterring hand. "You didn't have to tell me that, Bonnie. I was never a clod, you know."
"Mid-semester madness," she went on, trying hard to suppress a giggle, "that's what we called it, didn't we, Mr. Scott?"
"My dear, recess never had it so good," he said, "and do call me Hector."
"All right, Hector, the jig is up!" she burst out laughing, squeezing his hand on her knee. "Nothing I've just said ever really happened, which means that you don't know me from Adam. In fact, we rarely spoke to one another in class. All I did was dream of you."
"... The whole day through ..." he sang a little finish to her recitation, utterly undisturbed at being exposed for such a liar, finally laughing along with her. "I'll tell you something, Bonnie, I had such full classes that semester, and there were so many wanton little moppets, all needful of experimental springs. Weren't you really one of them? Pity." He grinned disarmingly and slid his fingers higher up her thigh. "Seems we've a lot of lost time to make up for, and Bonnie, I promise that after today I'll never find you anything but unforgettable. Of course, you'll have to concentrate and pay attention. But now, are you ready to come with me?" He rose up to his full six-feet-one of solid matinee idol.
Bonnie stared up at him and felt a sinking sensation at the pit of her stomach. Even with all his lies and affectations, it should have been him from the start, she thought. Instead of a poet, I chose a disc jockey! Oh where did I go wrong? "But you ... you haven't eaten," she said.
Don't be silly," he threw some bills on the table, "I can always find a little something to nibble on once I get you home. Now come on, Rebel Girl, take my hand."
Bonnie did as he asked. Gladly. She knew she was being remiss as a Women's Lib mouthpiece, but she let him take all the initiative, let him lead her like a lamb, feeling instantly relieved and rescued and taken-care-of, as of old.
CHAPTER 14
"My dear, you have blossomed into womanhood most fruitfully," said Hector, the two of them now ensconced in his opulent suite at the Hilton. For the past half hour they'd been sharing Brandy Alexanders and conversation that had grown more intimate with every sip although as yet, and much to Bonnie's chagrin, Hector hadn't laid a finger on her. She decided that not since her last visit to the ladies' lounge at New York's Radio City had she seen anything as ornate as Hector's living room, mainly because he travelled with his own love seats. Seven in all, she counted. All Edwardian, and all booby-trapped with long-playing Percy Faith. For the first few minutes wherever she sat down it was either Fly Me To The Moon or Ebb Tide, so finally they both settled for a neutral, and noiseless, hotel divan.
After her third Alexander and an effusion of high-flown chatter, Bonnie's newer instincts got the better of her and she kissed her old flame right in the middle of a heated recitative on the horrors of thrusting sexual civil rights on women who don't want them. His lips were parted in mid-invective when she suddenly yanked his head down and covered his mouth with her own. Moaning with delight, he slipped his arms about her waist and deepened the kiss, welcoming her hot slick tongue as it dabbed between his lips. Then they both broke the embrace, and laughed. "I think you've just won an argument, Bonnie."
"Oh? You mean by being more bold and brazen than you expected?"
"Yes. I have a feeling it's unnatural for you to assert yourself like that, but you did it anyway, acting out a kind of existentialist decision on your own, forcing yourself by sheer will to become a completely different sort of woman than you were meant to be. And who knows, maybe that's how all really important social changes are brought about, by this show of force at the start; until at last we've formed the habit and are able to regard such synthetic aggressions as the norm."
She giggled irrelevantly, feeling very light-headed from the unaccustomed brandy. "Now Hector, all I really wanted was to kiss you. As a matter of fact, I've been wanting that for years, and I suddenly got tired of watching your lips move in conversation that wasn't getting me any closer to my goal-so I stopped them, and made a statement of my own."
He drew her close to him and smiled down at her, his eyes probing and speculative again. "It was a very new experience for me, having a woman take the first step. But you see, that's why we've been sitting here for half an hour without my touching you. It wasn't easy to keep my hands off you, but I had to find out if you would really practice what you've been preaching. And so I waited, Bonnie. But not in vain." Laughing, he reached down and crushed his mouth against hers; and this time it was his kiss, expertly controlled and designed by him alone, his arms tightening about her, his lips so warm and sensuous that Bonnie went weak and breathless in his embrace. Slowly, he ended the kiss, the tip of his tongue dabbing gently at her underlip before he moved away. Bonnie reached up for more of the same, but he pushed her away. "I've been a conscientious seducer of women for many years, my pet, so it's a bit late in life for me to turn tail and become the seducee. Still, it was rather fun to see if you'd have the courage of your infamous convictions. But now that we've gotten all that out of our system, dear heart, we'll play the game my way."
Bonnie felt herself tingling with anticipation. "And exactly what is your way, Hector? Torture, perhaps? Whips and leather and chains? Or maybe you want to pour cream of mushroom soup all over my body, or tickle me to death with ostrich feathers."
"Nothing so elaborate, Bonnie," he laughed, "but if that was a rundown of some of your recent experiences, I'd love to hear more about it. Talk and then action, and then talk again, you follow me?"
"Not exactly," she said, and then went very alert as Hector began unfastening his tie and shirt. She sensed he didn't want her to refer to what he was doing-launching a slow strip, watching her eyes on his hands, but not asking her to strip.
"Tell me, how long has it been now since you first turned predatory?" he asked.
"Three or four months."
"And during that time you've been having intimate relations with men you'd never seen before, with strangers?"
"Yes. Quite often." She felt a clutch of excitement as she watched him disrobe, his movements so full of grace and �lan. He was naked to the waist now, a truly breathtaking looking specimen, chest burly and hard, pectorals firm, a man who cared for himself. Like Bart, she thought. No, mustn't compare. Hector was of a different species, a man who could be aggressive without forfeiting his innate sense of gallantry, without swaggering or beating his chest to prove his biological status. She found him as beautiful and mellow and smooth-skinned as she'd always known he would be.
"Tell me what you did to these strange men, Bonnie. Did you experiment on them?"
"Yes, I ... I tried everything," she said, although she was not too thrilled with the idea of explicitly itemizing her behavior for him, and hoped he'd get the picture without a detailed confession.
"Did you put your lips on them?" His shoes and socks were off now. He stood up, and Bonnie had to stifle a gasp as she saw the astounding bulge of his erection that was so plainly visible under his trousers. She vaguely wondered if he had something else in there, some sort of prosthetic. Some men did that, she'd heard, out of pride. His fingers began loosening his belt as he watched her eyes.
"Yes, I did," she finally managed to reply, her throat tight and parched as she saw his trousers slide to the floor, then stared at the overcrowded protrusion in his briefs.
"You put your lips on them where, Bonnie?" He ran his fingers along the enormous elongation of his cock. "Here?" Not pulling it out, though, merely tapping it gently while he stared at her feasting eyes.
"Yes, there."
"Ahh, now that's what I wanted to hear! A girl like you, Bonnie, with your beautiful fresh face fairly dripping with innocence and rosebuds, you have sucked the cocks of strangers in the night." With a dramatic flourish he swept his briefs off and tossed them across the room, then stood nude and pulsating before her. It was the most fantastically huge cock Bonnie had ever laid eyes on, had to be at least ten inches long, she thought, and maybe another three or four inches around. And so lovely the way it planked out between his thighs like an angry dagger as his king-sized testicles nestled so sturdily beneath. Bonnie licked her lips, wondering how she'd ever be able to act nonchalant after seeing that! Hector sank onto the divan again, but, to her surprise, he remained quite a distance from her, half lounging backwards in the seat, legs flung apart, his tremendous bludgeon in stout, flaming readiness as he sipped from his drink.
"Did you become an obsessive cocksucker, Bonnie? It's important for me to know this."
She nodded, her eyes between his legs: cock at attention and so commanding! But wondered why he was sitting like that, so tempting, but far away. Why wasn't he touching her? And why didn't it seem to matter to him that she was still fully dressed? Bonnie decided that perhaps, after all, torture was his thing.
"Sucking was new for you, wasn't it, Bonnie?"
"Yes."
"And when you found out how much you loved it, you couldn't get enough cocks to put in your mouth, could you? Couldn't help yourself, and it became like a drug for you ... you wanted more and more ..."
She nodded. "Yes, yes ... and I kept thinking about it too, the taste of it, the throbbing fullness in my mouth ..."
"And with a mouth like yours, so very red and full, you must have driven these men wild. Tell me how they reacted when you sucked them, relive their sensations for me, Bonnie, as well as yours! ..."
"They loved it."
"Loved what?"
"My ... my mouth on their cocks. I ..." she swallowed, "I sucked them."
"And felt pacified and content when you did it, eh, Bonnie? And like all women you felt happier when being used that way, as warm and secure as a baby ..." his Herculean instrument flexing as he spoke, Hector sensing she was unable to look away from it and making it jerk and pulsate for her, his reflexes trained for moments like these.
"Yes, I do feel like a baby when I suck a man, but a woman too, Hector, especially when I hear them sighing and groaning as I increase the pressure with my tongue and my teeth ..." She saw him start to pant with these words, thinking she'd at last reached him with some of her own brand of torture ... Her eyes feverishly intent on his cock, gaping at the flaring magnificence and breadth of it, feeling she'd tear off her clothes and leap at him if he didn't reach for her in another second. But, remembering what he'd said about being a prime seducer all his life, she was afraid to make a move until he gave the signal. But oh, how she wanted this dear fond memory that had merged into a flesh and blood man at last, the moist yearnings beginning to taunt and tease her vagina ...
"These men groaned aloud when you sucked them, did they? Ahh, then you must be an expert at it by now, must have made a specialty of these oral delights. Oh Bonnie, if only I could tell you how happy I am to hear this, for it will blend in beautifully with my plans," giant cockhead lightly waving in the air with every word, "for you see, you and I are going to collaborate.'
"Yes, Hector, oh yes!" misunderstanding his meaning, wanting to crawl between his legs and taste that phenomenal sheath of flesh.
"Think how fabulous it could be, Bonnie, with our two names on the same book. I told you we were hot, didn't I? And we are, you know, hot as they come."
"What book?" she asked, her attention still compulsively cockbound.
"Why, it'll be another phony 'how to' book, baby, what else? They're all the rage now, and the recipe is so simple: all you do is write a book for the sexually deprived and tell them everything they want to hear, that all their witch-hunting superstitions about sex are really true, from A to Z. Don't try to enlighten them or separate them from their beloved prejudices. Now in my book, How To Succeed In Bed Without Really Moving, I've given a new booster shot to the cause of female martyrdom by convincing women that their only hope for true joy in this world lies in the pleasure of self-sacrifice. 'Lie down on that bed of hot coals and don't move, ladies!' I tell them. 'Let him nail you to the cross of his beastly desires in bed and you'll be able to dominate him in all the other rooms of the house. Keep him guilty and paranoid and you'll win! ..."
Bonnie listened to this outburst, stunned by the incongruity of it, wondering how he could maintain such a rampant erection while spouting out all that propaganda, which, she suspected, should really offend her, except that it didn't. It wasn't his words she responded to, only his mouth and naked sinews and crotch, rubbing her thighs together as the sounds he emitted rolled heedlessly over her.
"I got this idea as soon as I realized who you were today," he went on, "and when you told me how cock-hungry you've become, I knew we were both depraved enough to put our wits together most profitably. Now listen closely, my pretty: Together, you and I will write a book called Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Fellatio But Were Too Shy To Ask Your Mother. How does that grab you?"
"It grabs me," she muttered numbly, eyes still hungering low.
"Why, it'll sell millions! Or, if you're too busy to do the actual writing, I'll be satisfied with just your name, then ghost the whole project myself, but gladly split the profits with you. What do you say to that, Hot Lips?"
"Yes," she sighed, moving slowly towards him, "it all sounds very campy and very in ... but now you've got to stop talking and let me do what I want to you ... let me fill my mouth with you until I lose all sense of time or thought ..."
"Talk to me!" he roared, getting up from the divan and edging away from her grasp. He stood bold and straight before her, finishing what was left of his brandy and flinging the glass to the floor. "How I love to hear you begging to demean yourself on my flesh, pleading to stick that luscious face of yours between my legs. Where my crotch is girl, where my balls hang, and where the man in me lives and throbs and cracks his whip! In your mouth, my lovely, is that where you want this?" He waved it at her. "Say it! ..."
"Yes, yes, I've grown to love it so! And I want yours more than all the others, because this is the longest time I've ever spent just looking at one before I did it. I keep seeing it like that, so nobly out of my reach, and knowing in another instant I'll feel it prodding against my tongue."
"Which do you love most about it, the taste of the meat or the taste of the sperm?"
"Yes, oh yes ... yes ...!" Bonnie reached for him again, but Hector began to dance and swirl around the divan sustaining a superb erection and bobbing it towards her face, running his fingers through her lustrous blonde hair as she leapt forward to taste him, but moving back again, laughing joyously at the emergency of desire he caught in her eyes. He moved a little nearer to her and stood quite still, breathing heavily, peering down at her flushed and lovely face ... I can do it to him now, she thought, licking her lips; then sprang forward and clutched him about the buttocks as she shoved the bulging shaft of his cock deep into her mouth. She began to moan with the taste of thickness and heat, working her tongue around on the gigantic glans, gobbling him right down to the hilt ...
"Oh no ... wait, wait!" he let out a growling sigh. "My God, girl, your mouth is like a furnace, but wait! ..." He yanked it rudely from between her lips after she'd only sucked him fully up and down once.
Bonnie felt a rising fury and frustration as she saw him sprawl back down on the couch again. "What is it you want from me, Hector? Please tell me."
"Stand over there and take your clothes off, slowly," he instructed her, his voice going cold and stern as he pointed across the room. She eyed him questioningly before making a move. "I want you on display, my dear, off and away as if you were performing on a proscenium stage and I were your one-man audience."
Bonnie walked across the room and turned to face him, still longing for him in that position, his nude ape-body looking so vital and full-blown. She took off her short bolero jacket and then the sweater underneath, letting them both drop to the floor.
"You're wearing a bra!" he exclaimed, applauding. "Oh, I'm so glad, Bonnie. I was sure you freedom-loving bitches had given them up."
"Well, I have, really, but now and then I lapse back." She unhooked her bra and wiggled so he could see her breasts in their full fat splendor.
"Oh bravo, baby, bravo!" he shouted. Face like a little girl and knockers like an Earth Mother. Love it!"
"My husband says things like that," she murmured. "You're very like him, Hector, does that bother you?"
"Not at all, darling, because later you'll find I'm not like him in the least. No way, sweetie!"
No, she thought, you're probably even more of a commanding bulldozer than Bart, taking charge and manipulating my body like a toy. Oh God, do I want that again, she wondered. Not from Bart any more, perhaps, but certainly from him, this delicious mountain of a man with the body of a vulgarian and the soul of an esthete. That's where Bart failed. His mind and body were equally as pompous and unfeeling.
"Toss me that bra," he ordered her, "quickly. No, don't come over here, throw it." She did so, as he rose to catch it. He sank back down on the divan with the garment, inhaling it and kissing it and finally slinging it around his cock like a jockstrap, then wriggling irrepressibly on the divan as he rubbed the bra all over his body and even licked it, watching Bonnie as she slipped out of her skirt, then slowly unraveled her panties. Hector stared more fervently at the panties than he did at her freshly revealed cunt which looked so fuzzy-pink and pouting between her outspread thighs. "Throw it all to me now, Bonnie, skirt, jacket, sweater, and those precious panties ... I could eat 'em alive, sweetest delicacies ever wrought by man and the silkworm. Quick, let me have them!"
She did as he asked, then watched in awe as he reveled madly on the couch with her garments. He seemed caught up in a paroxysm of passion, almost as if he-or someone!-were inside those bits of fabric he kissed and sucked and straddled between his legs ..."Oooh, how I love the scent and feel of this stuff! Tell me, Bonnie, did you ever have a man put it into you with your panties on?"
"No," she said with a little gasp, then moved towards him.
"Stand still!" he stopped her cold, his voice suddenly ferocious. "These words are only the libretto for this opera, words like: how'd you like it if I jabbed my cock under the elastic rim of your panties and fucked you like that, with this sweet smelling garment still wrapped around your girlish ass?"
"Oh my goodness, yes ... yes!" she cried, going wetter now, realizing how important such words could be, for they lent new drama to some of the oldest thrills in the world ... telling herself that for the first time in her life she was with a supreme master of the erotic experience, a man in the most tender and primary sense of the word ...
"Or would you like me to give it to you standing against a wall, hmmm? ... ever been fucked against a wall, Bonnie? In that position it has to go up the very same second it goes in, can't go anywhere but UP your cock-torn belly, my pet, how about that?"
"It's never happened to me and I want it, Hector, want it now," her words tumbling all over themselves. "Oh, but please don't torment me anymore, it's cruel of you to make me beg for it and humble myself, just to prove your male superiority. Right now I confess that if all men were like you, I wouldn't mind being subjugated and abused."
"There you go, my lovely, at last you've uttered the Declaration of Dependence I've been longing to hear from your mouth. And that's our cue for the sky to fall in on us-now!" He stood up, his cock jutting out before him like a flaming log. She started towards him, but he raised a kingly hand and she stopped. "You stand there like that for a moment, darling, while I go in and slip into something more comfortable."
He inhaled her bra once more, then let it drop to the floor, staring hungrily at her breasts and cunt as he passed her and went into the bedroom. Bonnie felt she knew what he was up to now, sensed that he'd come out in another pair of briefs, or maybe even a loin cloth, just to feel the excitement of her hands stripping him down this time. She stood there, wet and burning for him, recalling the booming timbre of his voice, his bellowing commands, so obviously the atavistic bull of a man taking charge. She thought of the book they might be working on together, what great nonsense and riches they would share while he taught her with his body all any woman needed to know about joy and submissiveness, for Bonnie was now firmly convinced she was incomplete without the aura that only some superior male being could bring to her life. The first phase of her new found liberty would now pass-no more lectures or rabble rousing, no more being exploited by Theodora and her rabid mob. Now would come the quiet time of education, with Hector the Lion-Hearted at her side, the two of them enlightening the world together, like a more sensual incarnation of the Browning's: How do I love thee? Ummm, let me COUNT the ways! First on the list, of course, there's fellatio! Oooh Hector, hurry, please ... I'm so ready for you, so open ...!
But Hector kept her waiting so long, Bonnie had to move around the room to keep from getting a chill. She glanced at his clothes where he'd dropped them on the floor, and, remembering how excitedly he'd embraced her panties, she bent and retrieved his briefs, then pressed them to her face and inhaled. Golly, what a musky aroma! It banked her fires all over again as she thought of the throbbing adornments that had filled this garment only a few moments ago. Then she heard the bedroom door open. Embarrassed, she dropped his briefs and whirled about to greet him. And, to her horror, saw a total stranger preening on the threshold ... for surely that couldn't be Hector? ...
"Here I am, baby," the voice was familiar, "the most spectacular sight you'll ever see this side of Sunset Boulevard!"
Bonnie gasped at the apparition looming in the doorway, slowly realizing it must be Hector in disguise, Hector gowned exquisitely in an 1890's style ball gown, with bulging falsies and a platinum bouffant fall that perfectly matched the shade of his own frosted pompadour. Was that why he'd bleached his hair, she wondered crazily, for THIS? And would you look at the heavy makeup on his face ... his handsome manly features distorted and inflamed by Max Factor, the mouth she'd longed to kiss now painted a lurid red, the eyes now shadowed by lavender and garish eye-liner and mascara. And the voice! Where had she heard that voice, those slurring nasal insinuations? Good God, it's Mae West ... a grotesque, larger-than-life-size replica. He even moved like her, hips swaying, eyes rolling ..."Ooohumm honey, just watch me peel your grape!" he chanted. Then he lifted his flowing drags and galloped towards her. Horrified, Bonnie saw there was nothing under the skirt but cock, thick and savage and unmistakably cunt-aimed. No panties or corsets or lingerie, which was a boo-boo, she thought, if he really wanted to emulate old Mae ... Bonnie girding herself for attack, certain this would be the first time Mae West had ever been kicked in the balls.
She backed away from him as he neared her, but it infuriated her to have to shake her own whipped-up passions on such short notice, for he'd gotten her in such a frenzy that Bonnie still wanted what he'd been before, still longed for that fabulous manly cock that was so achingly in evidence beneath the flaring tulle skirt. For an instant she went motionless and stared at the tempting fat treat beneath his gown, and it was then that he seized her in his arms, billowing the skirt upwards over her shoulders as he tried to force her down on the floor. Up close his face was a gross nightmare, sensual male mouth now smeared with lipstick, Bonnie reeling with nausea because she knew this monstrosity should have sabotaged all her desire, except that it didn't, because she still wanted what he'd planted in her mind earlier, still visualized the foundation of her desire despite this outer plumage. And yet, it was so revolting to realize the poor man wasn't even a homo. What was the word? Transvestite! Some of the most rugged men got their kicks dressing up in women's clothes, for in this way they drew even closer to the flesh they adored, by wearing what they wore, smelling like they smelled. But oh dear God, not Hector! Not the author of all her girlish dreams and delights ...
Before she'd even begun to fight he had her pressed flat and helpless on the floor, his skirt flaring up over her head, blocking her vision. "This is how I fuck all my women," he panted-still in Mae's voice-"I fuck 'em with skirts on so I can give 'em a piece of themselves when they come ...and oooh it's so goddamned female to fuck a cunt like this, a regular girl-sandwich, baby, female on female with my perfumed cock slamming up their naked pussies."
And suddenly, with one quick downward thrust, his enormous member tore halfway up her cunt before she even had time to scream. But when she opened her mouth to cry out, he gagged her with his skirt and shoved the rest of his bulbous instrument fully up her belly. Ten inches, Bonnie thought numbly, beginning to roll with the punches, knowing it would have killed her if she hadn't been so wet and ready and primed for it. He fucked her soundly there on the floor as she inhaled the lady scents of him and felt as though she were being impaled by some giant Queen Bee, spreading its voluminous wings and dissecting her with its mammoth stinger. Bonnie bit her lips so as not to feel the first surging pain of the attack, then closed her eyes and concentrated on Hector as he'd looked earlier ... letting herself gasp and moan with the ecstasy she could not refute, telling herself it was only because of the sheer bigness of his cock, no other reason ... rolling and writhing beneath him as he trounced his huge prick thickly in and out of her, lancing and distorting her cunt with brutal lip-spreading plunges. It was the deepest most excruciating penetration of her life, so how could she pretend to hate it? When at last he let out a howl and flooded his hoarded juices up her belly, his climax was so powerful that Bonnie felt the sticky excesses of his creams splash against his skirt, and when this happened she let out an anguished squeal and began to cringe in the holocaust of her own shuddering orgasm, detesting herself even in the wondrous throes of it, loving the feeling but hating the act: raped by a drag queen she'd once adored, oh the knight in shining ball gown ... this mutation ...!
When he was done with the after-sighs, Hector slid his turgid bludgeon slowly out of her, then lifted up and away, wiping his drippy cock with the tulle of his costume. "Now, honey, do I still remind you of your husband?" he chuckled gaily. "Did he ever fuck you in drag, huh, sweetie? Maybe if he had, you wouldn't have been so hot to run away from home."
But she couldn't look at him. She grabbed her clothes and ran into the bathroom, tears of disgust streaking her face, not only self-disgust, but a morbid revulsion for what this man had become. She dressed as fast as she could, not bothering to fix her hair. It was five minutes before she emerged from the bathroom. And there he was, her gallant paramour, still in full drag, but enthroned sedately on one of his musical love seats, which chanted out the strains of Fly Me To The Moon while Hector worked busily on a bit of embroidery he held in his lap.
"This is one of my special pillow slips," he said, holding the material up for her-voice still Mae's-"I send them to all my special friends, all over the world. Want me to mail you one?"
She stared dazedly at his nimble fingers for a moment. "Uh ... no thank you, Hector. I have to rush. I'll ... phone you."
"All right, hon. Don't forget about our book. It'll be a smash."
"Oh yes, the book." Good God, did he really think she'd see him again, after this? "Well, perhaps you'd better start without me, Hector. And ... uh, preferably under your own name. I have so many commitments right now, and after all, you've built up quite a following with How To Succeed In Bed and so forth ..."
"All right, you sexy little chicken-shit, I'll mail you a copy!" still intently embroidering.
"Yes, you do that." To her dismay, she felt the tears filling her eyes again ... She was so sorry for him, and herself, and all her golden scuttled illusions about this prince of poetry. "Goodbye, dear Hector ..." thinking of the many love sonnets he'd inspired her to write back in Tucumcari, all those moons ago! "Thanks for the afternoon. It was so ... so interesting."
" 'Bye, hon. Loved your bra!"
Bonnie dashed out the door and headed blindly for the elevators, feeling another seizure of nausea, but stronger this time, a vertigo, a creeping malaise. In the elevator there was only one word on her mind and she kept saying it to herself, and it wasn't Hector or fellatio. It was Bart ... Oh Bart, where did you go ...?
About sixty seconds later, while racing through the lobby of the Hilton, Bonnie fainted. When she came to, approximately eight minutes later, she was in the office of the hotel's resident doctor, lying on a couch, a group of concerned hotel employees peering down at her.
"Well, hello there, are you feeling better now?" asked someone she cloudily assumed to be the doctor.
Bonnie nodded, dazed and confused as she tried to remember when she'd ever fainted in public before.
"Then let me offer you my congratulations," said the doctor.
"For what?"
"Well, it seems very likely that you're pregnant, my dear. More than two months along, I'd say ..." smiling brightly, all of them smiling brightly.
Oh no, no, wait a minute now ... stop the presses, Bonnie thought in a panic ... all I'm having is a very late period, due to nerves ... it's happened that way before ...
Then she thought of something else: Two months! That night in November! All those hard hat cocks and hippie cocks and Jay! And Bart too, he was the last in a long line of ...
"Look, Doctor, I think she's fainted again! ..."
CHAPTER 15
On that same damp January afternoon Bart Sheridan was facing a double crisis of his own. Like Bonnie's, it too was half emotional and half medical. But there all similarities ended.
Despite his frantic affair with Nicole Sanchez, Bart had begun to brood about Bonnie more and more during recent weeks. He hated to admit to himself exactly when his old and exigent needs for her had been reintroduced into his realm of thought and possibility. It was that night in November, when she had come to his bed like a sleepwalker. How beautifully vulnerable and compliant she'd been for him, as if nothing had happened to cause their rift. Upon awakening the next morning it had all seemed like a dream to him. But Bart knew that it had happened, and he'd carried it softly within him ever since. He was certain that instinctively Bonnie still thought of herself as his property, was still hungry to be taken by him; and that feverish pivotal night was all the conclusive evidence Bart needed. She wasn't built for the kind of militant stoicism she'd fought so hard to attain. Yet, she couldn't bring him this admission, at least not in words. So she had sent her body to give him the message. True, her behavior became cool and distant again right afterwards, but Bart held that message very dear.
And so this morning, after giving it a great deal of thought, he'd hit upon an idea which he felt sure would serve as an ideal compromise for them both. He'd even discussed it with Ralph and Muriel Spicer, both of whom were very enthusiastic about it. He would offer to share his show with Bonnie. It was as simple as that. It would be the first husband and wife talk show on the air, and would prove to her how much respect he had for her, both as an individual and a sparkling wit. It would be like a TV spinoff of the old Tex and Jinx radio broadcasts in New York. They could even pretend they were conducting the whole deal over Sunday brunch. Sure, why not have a mock-up of their dining room? Then have guests drop by, casually. Bonnie would interview the men and he would pump the ladies. But the old "flaming liberal" motif for the show would be out, because he was sick to death of it. Instead, they'd go middle of the road and thus become more honestly reflective of their own status at home. No more name-calling incitements to riot, but thoughtful listening and observing together. Of course, Bonnie would need careful coaching and preparation before she was ready, but Bart had a feeling she would take to this idea.
However, something else had been bothering Bart lately, and that afternoon, before he could reach Bonnie with the news about their show, that "something else" had come to a head. During the past few weeks, whenever he looked at his cock, which was every time he pissed or showered, he'd noticed a small sore. The sore grew and hung on, despite irritating applications of Medi-Quik and Camphophenique. Telling himself it was nothing more than the result of overuse-Nicole wanted him to fuck her ferociously or not at all-Bart nevertheless decided to play it safe. So he went to his kindly old Doctor Cornfield for a blood test. And today, right after his joyous conference with the Spicer's about his new concept for the show, Dr. Cornfield phoned him and gave him the jolt.
"Bart, old friend, your test was positive."
"Oh no! What does that mean, gonorrhea?"
"You should be so lucky."
"Shit! What a lousy time to get the syph."
"So ... we'd better schedule you for a series of shots. But first, shouldn't you alert the countryside?"
Bart sighed. "It's not quite as many as that, Doc. You're thinking of my old image, which has leveled off considerably by now."
"Okay, I'm sure you know who to tell it to, Bart. Just don't waste any time, all right?"
"All right." And hung up. And sat there in a slump. On one hand, the hope of a new life, and on the other, his ornery peter lousing up the works.
He knew it had to be Nicole. Combustible little bitch, probably just as sexually ubiquitous as most eighteen-year olds these days. And yet, he couldn't be bitter about the kid, because she'd certainly filled a gap for him these past months. If nothing else, the sheer fatigue from the performances she'd demanded of him had kept Bart too pooped to grieve over his wavering marital status. And at times, she'd been very tender. And so willing too, so ready to lay down her life for his orgasms.
In a way, he was glad this had happened before he'd had the opportunity to tell Bonnie about his new idea for the show. Now that he knew for sure, he decided to get thoroughly sugar-cured and wormed out before he approached her. A ten day love affair with penicillin, and then he'd spring it on her-their own show! Christ, what an idiot he'd been not to think of that before. Hadn't she said from the beginning that all she'd wanted was a share in his life? Of course, if he had suggested this idea right after her article had been released it would have seemed that she'd forced him to make this decision. But this way it was still his idea, his big benevolent plan on how to involve her in his life without letting her take over completely. And as photogenic as she was, not to mention all her recent speech-making experience, she'd be a natural. And yet, he had to be ready for the possibility that she might say no, might be too involved with someone else, or maybe a whole platoon of someone else's. He'd heard all those free love rumors the swingers had been spreading about her, appearing to ignore them on the surface, while inwardly they burned and worried him. But no, Bart clung stubbornly to his hunch that Bonnie didn't want any kind of a permanent or irrevocable split in their life, and that for her to flatly reject his offer would make some ultimate legal estrangement seem inevitable. So he was positive that she'd at least give it a try.
When he went in for his first antibiotic shot, Dr. Cornfield reminded Bart to tell Bonnie at once. But what the Doctor didn't know was the Bart and his wife hadn't had sex for more than two months, so Bonnie was in no danger. Bart didn't mention this to the Doctor, however; just looked up the period of incubation for syphilis and convinced himself there was no need to give Bonnie this shoddy news, particularly since it would all be over with soon, just in time for him to bring her a happy scoop instead of a sordid one.
He had a date with Nicole that night, and even though he now planned to break off with her for good, Bart felt he owed her this one last gesture, had to tell her she was carrying something else around with her besides the most cooperative piece of ass in San Francisco. After all, she might easily infect a whole mob of sado-maso freaks if he didn't give her this gentle word of warning. Poor baby, she'd probably feel so thankful she'd want to blow him right out of his mind as a gesture of gratitude. But they'd have to cool it in that department for a couple of weeks. At least that's what he'd tell her anyway, just to soften his final desertion. No flat brutal good-byes-that would be mean. In the same situation, he knew a lot of other guys would simply drop her without a word. But Bart couldn't be that callous. A young girl like that-the least he could do was render her this one last protective favor before he cut out.
Nicole had a rather sleazy little apartment in the Castro Market area that she'd refused to give up, even though Bart had offered to set her up in something grander and more convenient. "My darling," she'd protested, "as your slave, it is more fitting that I suffer here in squalor, that I grovel pitifully in my ghetto dungeon, living only for the hours of pleasure I can give you." However, she displayed no resentment to the three crisp one hundred dollar bills Bart slipped into her bra each week. Nor did she try to seek employment elsewhere after her temporary assignment at his studio came to a halt. Bart concluded that for Nicole, cash was a much stronger motivating force than status.
His voluptuous little vixen greeted him with her customary warm embrace that night, retaining her respectful silence while she mixed him a drink, always awaiting his choices and decisions. When Bart multiplied her attentions by fifty or sixty, he felt he now knew exactly how the sultan of a harem must feel. Whatever he and Nicole did or said together, it was up to Bart to set the tempo and thus give her a pattern to follow. "I am nothing until you move and give me life," was one of her favorite declarations of self castigation. "Man is king," was another of her slogans of surrender, and Bart didn't need a brick wall to fall on him to know she bitterly detested anything to do with Women's Lib.
She once told him that the only clear destiny she could see for her fellow females was that of militant masochism. "The more a woman is willing to give up, the stronger her man will become," she maintained. "And that is what the world needs so badly now, men who are stronger, not made weaker by the crippling demands of these sexless lady puppets who scream for equality. That is why this country is without any real male leadership for the first time in its history. Without any solid paternal strength in the White House, whom are we to follow? The sexes are blending at a frightening rate, and for all we know, Richard Nixon may really be Mamie Eisenhower without the bangs! Soon, men will be having babies, and women will be skin-grafting penises and balls between their legs. It is to VOMIT over ...!" But sometimes Bart ended up wondering if maybe Nicole wasn't protesting a little too much?
She brought him his Scotch, then mixed herself a highball and sat near him on her battered sofa, obediently still, although Bart could feel her vibrations, her expectancy. He took a quick sip of his drink, then pulled her into his arms for an embrace, loving the way her pushy boobs felt against his chest. "Oh wow, you smell so good, baby!" Youth was the name of this scent, Bart had often thought. She smelled just the way she tasted whenever he licked her, like eighteen going on gorgeous. And from where he was inhaling-vintage generation gap-this tremulous hot structure called Nicole wasn't going to be easy for him to part with.
With a quivering sigh, Nicole offered him her lips. Bart stiffened for a minute, wondering if they'd be doubly infecting each other with a kiss. Then decided the damage had already been done, and it was hardly their tongues he could pin the rap on. So he kissed her and sucked the liquor flavors from her mouth, putting his glass down on a nearby table and fondling her huge meaty breasts, digging his nails into their swelling tips. What a delightful way to prolong what he had to tell her. But after a moment or two he discovered that this kind of procrastination had given him a raging hard-on.
Gently, he pushed her from him. "Wait a minute, Nicole. Before we get too wound up here, there's something I have to tell you."
"All right, my master, talk to me, if that is what you want. I love your voice, it's so rich and booming, just the sound any woman would expect from such a beautiful mouth," her fingertips gliding over his lips as she spoke, "such a sexy throaty man's voice. Talk to me and I will touch you as I listen."
Her fingers on his lips made his cock twitch in his briefs, so he took her hand in his and kissed the palm, sighing, thinking: Christ, she was so damned agreeable, one of the most titillating luxury items he'd ever owned, and here he was about to give her up. And, since she got her jollies on manly wrath and cruelty, she'd probably trip out on his desertion too.
Regretfully, he placed her hand back in her lap, but she said, "Talk!" again, after which she spied the telltale mound in his trousers and let her hand rest softly on it. "It will be fun to feel your pulse like this while I listen to your voice, brain-controlled love messages, from your throat to your lips down to here."
Jesus, maybe they could work out some kind of a dry fuck, he thought longingly, at least something before he had to give her his very unsexy news. All he had to do was glance at her slim long fingers squeezing his enclosed cock to know he'd need some variety of sensual release before he cut out of here tonight. Something germ-free, of course. But what?
"I don't think you wish to talk at all," she said, rubbing her palm over his throbbing prick, "you are only finding a new way to tease and punish me, and I love you more for it."
Suddenly inspired, Bart said, "Hey, why don't we try something different tonight, Nicole?" Even the thought of it got him to panting, his stomach churning. "Now I ... I want you to sit right where you are, honey. But topless. And I'll be ... uh, bottomless."
She had been smiling expectantly, but now the smile left her face and she gave him a questioning glance. "You are sure? I mean, you only want us to sit here like that?"
"Do as I say, goddamnit!" he roared at her, knowing how much she loved hearing these bombastic demands; although for Bart it was sometimes a dreary chore having to come on like a caveman every time he wanted to turn her on.
Quickly, she rose and unzipped the light fluffy mini she was wearing. It crumpled to the floor and she stood there for a moment in her slung-out bra and black lace panties. Bart stared at her, gulping a little as he rose and slid out of his trousers and briefs, his eyes greedily appraising that lithe smooth body of hers with such a top-heavy jumbo supply of tits for a kid her age. The bra fell away and her breasts bounced happily free at the same instant Bart's aching cock sprang loose from its moorings.
"Okay, now get over here on my right and well sit down again," he ordered her. She did as he asked. They sank back down on the sofa, very close, topless wobbly girl and bottomless fat-hung male. "Now here's what's gonna happen," he said hoarsely. "You're gonna jag me off while I play with your tits."
She looked at him oddly. "Do you want this, Bart, or are you only trying to make things easier for me tonight? Because if you are, I needn't remind you there's no reason for you to spare me the savage violence of your needs and passions. I can take any treatment you care to dish out, that is what I am here for, so you don't have to ..."
"But I WANT this, you gabby bitch, so shut up and start givin' me a hand job before I grab those knockers of yours and tear 'em out by the roots!" At once he saw the flush of ecstasy on her face. But Christ, was he ever getting fed up having to come on like Mussolini every time he wanted to light her fire. "You've never jagged me off before, and this way I can see your hands on my cock, then look at those big juicy tits at the same time." It all sounded pretty adolescent to him as he listened to his own words, but right now anything else would be suicidal.
He watched as Nicole first tongued her fingers until they were wet and slippery. Then she took his huge stiff cock in her hand and began jagging it, gently at first. Bart let out a quick groan as he felt the delicate moistured rhythms of her hand. He reached for her heavy fat melons and played idyllically with them, staring down at her cock-filled hand, then back to her roseate nipples. Nicole grew breathless and excited as she watched his face ... tender beam of lust in his eyes, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his tongue gliding back and forth over his parted lips. Nicole licked the palm of her hand to make it even wetter, and Bart gasped aloud as he felt the damp clammy pressure of her educated fingers massaging fully up and down the whole bloated flexing throb of his prick, Bart suddenly glad his venereal outbreak was at the underside of the base of his cock and thus not visible to her.
Oh, but man, it was starting to feel too beautiful, and they'd made no Kleenex preparations, although he knew she'd let him blast off on her rug if that's what he wanted. He slumped lower in the seat, flinging his legs wider apart, jerking his ass up and down in time to her caresses ... watching the head of his cock seem to blow up like a balloon, all shiny lavender-pink and So damned close ... ooh Jesus, she had him right on the crest of the flood and it felt so glorious he dove down and shoved one of her breasts in his mouth and began to suck on it avidly. With a squeal, Nicole pressed his face in deeper and fed him more of her flesh. Then she jagged him faster, not letting up, her fingers working frantically on him, and to Bart it felt as if a whole nest of swarming wasps had gathered at the head of his cock where the honey was and were stinging there, burning, Bart sucking wildly on the hot rigidities of her nipples while Nicole matched his panting groans with her own, squeezing his thick wet cock in her hand and staring at it as if it were some deity of rapture, the girl hungering to see the flows and creams of her idol ... swirling the semen dripping over the flaring ridge of it to make it even moister, then jagging, wielding, coaxing ... faster, slipperier ...
"Aw Nicole ... baby, wait ... it's gonna do it!" his mouth half full of her tits as he mumbled in ecstasy ..."gonna shoot it ... oooh damn! now, honey ... now ...!" He reared violently upwards, longing to see himself explode in her hand ... ooh see the pretty ladyfingers on his bruiser bully-cock all dipped in his hot oozin' sperm ... Bart heaving a long sigh now as he let it foam up and spurt in the air ... Aw man, look at him shoot it ... gobs of the stuff, geysers ...!
"I want to drink it!" Nicole warbled crazily, and just as he'd begun to relax and let it all pop out, she lowered her head and was about to plunge his fat spraying glans between her lips when Bart, all hungup in mid-orgasm, suddenly realized that sperm-swallowing had to be a great big No-No tonight. So he let out a savage howl and shoved her brutally to the floor. Then he stood above her and couldn't help shooting the rest of his load all over her face as she cringed in the storm beneath him.
"Oh wow," he gasped, sinking back down on the sofa, "Jesus, that felt so goddamned messy and naughty and gorgeous, like who gives a fuck as long as I come! Right, baby?" He gazed down at her. Nicole was wiping her eyes with her fallen bra. Man, one good knock in the chops and she's weeping for joy, he thought. But was wrong. He saw now that it was sperm she was wiping from her eyes in lieu of tears. So what the hell, he'd hit the wrong target, which only added up to even more delicious degradation for her, so he figured she should be plenty content at the moment. But Nicole seemed strangely quiet for a girl who was supposedly lost in the heady depths of euphoria.
"I wasn't ready for that, Bart," she said quietly, and it was the closest thing to reproach he'd ever heard in her voice. "It burned my eyes. I could have been blinded."
"Then learn how to duck next time, ya silly bitch!" he growled, still applying the Mussolini tones, but not having the desired effect this time he saw at once, thinking this was one helluva time for her to stop wanting to play Slave and Master. However, by the time he'd wiped his cock dry with his handkerchief and had slipped on his briefs and trousers, he saw that her mood had once again become pleasant and docile.
"Do you want me to dress, or remain like this?" she asked.
"Stay as sweet as you are," he said, happily eyeing her breasts as they swayed enticingly with her every movement. She took their glasses and went into the tiny kitchenette to mix them another round of drinks, Bart watching her lovely dangles as they bobbed up and down.
When she returned, Bart waited until they'd each had a goodly gulp of Scotch, then took a deep breath and plowed right in. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, the topic for tonight is personal hygiene and how to maintain it. Ha ha!" He emitted one of his TV charisma-chuckles, which only seemed to confuse her.
"Pardon?"
The poor kid, he sure hated to spoil her day by doing her a favor, since he knew from past experience that any show of warmth or tenderness seemed to bring her down. But this was for her own good and there was no other way; and once again he reminded himself he owed her this parting kindness as a tribute to all the balls they'd shared. "Listen, Nicole, the other day my doctor gave me a blood test, and I found out the worst, know what I mean?"
She stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment; and then, the quick fear in her eyes. "Oh no, Bart. Not leukemia!"
Shit this wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. "Well no, honey, you're on the wrong track completely. Actually, what the test really showed ... I mean, when you boil it all down, no, 'boil' is an unfortunate word. Hell, the only word for it is syphilis, Nicole, so it looks like you and I've got a little temporary trouble here."
"OH?" The expression in her eyes was no longer one of fear. In fact, though he might be mistaken, Bart could almost swear there was a little fury blazing there on that usually sweet and subjugated face.
"And naturally," he continued, "I felt it was my duty to let you know about it, honey, and sorta warn you. Hell, I know I'm not the only bull in your pen, baby, so we wouldn't want you to go around spreading any epidemics. Actually, what you'd better do is cease firing for a couple o' weeks while you find yourself a doctor and get your shots."
"You fucking sonofabitch!" she shouted at him. She shot to her feet and leered down at him, her knockers waving crazily in his face. "Are you saying it was I who gave you this filthy disease?" Not waiting for his answer, Nicole swung her arm around in an arc and struck him a vicious blow on the jaw. With her fist.
"Hey!" Bart howled with pain, rearing back and going a little washed-out for a moment, certainly not ready for this! Then he yelled again as she socked him another stinging blow, this one right in the middle of his forehead. A bunch of bright little lunatic bulbs went off inside his head, and he dimly wondered what was coming off here, what the fuck kind of dedicated masochist cunt was this, suddenly giving up her whole "Treat Me Like Dirt" philosophy of life and beating bumps on her master's head! Why the hell wasn't she lying down there on the rug with her paws waving in the air and her dominated tail wagging just like the whipped female cur she'd pretended to be, licking his hand or his feet or his ass in everlasting gratitude?
Just when his head began to clear, Bart saw that she had raced to the other side of the room and was fumbling inside a desk drawer. Then she dashed swiftly back to him holding something in her hand. What the hell, a letter opener? Silly time for mail call. Jesus no, it's a stiletto! Oh man, suddenly she's a cross between Lupe Velez and Anna May Wong, and here all this time he'd thought she was Helen Twelvetrees with a little mixed blood.
He got to his feet and carefully backed away from her.
"You will apologize for that insult or I will cut your heart out!" she yelled. "If you have tainted blood, you did not get it from me. And to prove it, I will spill it all out for you, here and now ... take back that insult!"
"What insult, for Christ's sake?" Bart still edging backwards.
She spewed out a whole string of epithets in some foreign tongue, but he couldn't figure out which of her pop art minorities was getting the biggest play, Mexican, Indian or Afro-French. "Just because I am the spawn of several races, you take it for granted it must be MY blood that is contaminated, nobody else's! Well, it's a he, you bastard! ... My blood is pure and clean. Look to your wife if you think you have been infected. That saintly-faced bitch has been screwing around with every hippie freak in town, and it's just too fucking noble of you to pretend you don't know it!"
"Now wait just a minute here ..."
"She infected you, that bright Miss Doris Day wife of yours with the freedom bug up her ass! ..."
"You're out of your skull, baby, I haven't touched Bonnie in over two and a half months. And for your information, you are the one and only hunk of gash I have banged during that period of time, so you make up your mind who infected whom, you fuckin' phony pushover with that clammy act of yours ... "Please dominate me, O Master, make me bleed for you!' ... Christ, you've probably been Queen of the Clap Carriers for years ...!"
"LIAR!" she screamed, and threw the knife. It whizzed past his ear and landed point first in the door.
Bart turned around and looked at it, then back at her. "Jesus, they oughta strap you up and plug you into the WALL. If nothing else, you've gotta be a disgrace to The League of Christian Masochists all over the world. You're not supposed to HIT, ya dummy ... you're supposed to lie down and get stomped on!"
"Don't you ever touch my body again, you lousy cretin!" she screamed, advancing on him again. Thinking she was after the knife, Bart quickly pulled it out of the door, slipped it inside his belt-wincing when it spliced a pubic hair-then made for the door. "Go get your shots, Cutie, you're a MENACE!"
"I am clean, you goddamned fascist power-monger! ...clean and pure for the untarnished hands of men who know what a woman's body is for. I wanted devotion and you offered me CRUD! Ahh, but in vain, my dear CREEP, because I have not been touched by your venom. I am invincible, the love and hands of men the world over have made me a shrine of cleanliness. Pain has kept me whole." She was hysterical now, the tears welling down her cheeks, mascara streaking and smudged as she clutched her naked breasts and sank to the floor, Bart glad he had the knife, because he wasn't in any mood for a Hara-kiri shtick. "How dare you tell me to go get my shots when all I need is love and poetry and the power of the Supreme Domination." She began beating herself now, dissolving into a spastic passion of self-flagellation, socking and smiting and pinching her breasts. Bart gaped at her in awe as he saw the sticky puddle of dampness appear on the rug beneath her crotch. Jesus, he thought, look what she did for herself while she was pretending to be so insulted. Man, she's coming all over the joint, and look at her face! ... crazed, agonized, at peace, and, for all he knew, maybe even nurturing the syph in her gut ... beauty wallowing in the puke of her nights and lapping it up.
Bart turned away from her and rushed out of the apartment, slamming the door. Who needs it? he thought as he leapt down the crummy stairs two at a time. Man, go do a girl a favor ...!
He was at Dr. Cornfield's office bright and early the next morning, and with the first sting of the shot, he thought: Bonnie, I'm cleaning myself out for you ... getting the old Drano purge just for you, you crazy cunt waver, so I hope you're ready for me this time. Because if you're not honey, all that's left for me is The Monastery, plain and simple. Monks and cells and robes and saltpeter, baby, the whole bit ...!
CHAPTER 16
While Bart Sheridan was getting his second shot for VD, his wife was lying prostrate in her secret apartment, trying to recover from the double shock she'd received the day before. She'd needed two Seconals to get to sleep last night. But upon awakening, she came face to face with the same hoary realities and took a Librium. Then phoned Theodora Wilder and said she'd have to cancel her appearance in Whittier that evening.
"I'm ill, Theodora, I couldn't possibly withstand the plane trip."
"I don't believe you," snarled Theodora. "You sound stoned."
"That's not true. I'm ... I'm under heavy sedation." Golly, she'd heard that line so often, and this was the first chance she'd had to use it.
"Monica Vinson put you up to this, that reactionary cunt! Oh, that goddamned turncoat. The next time you see her you tell her I'm gonna kill her!"
"I think she knows."
"She poisoned Leonard's mind against me, you know, tried to undo all the damage I've ... uh, I mean, tried to damage everything I've done for him ... she sabotaged his identity ...!"
"They love each other," Bonnie said limply and simply.
There was a long seething pause and Bonnie wondered why Theodora had no ready retort to this. "What about Whittier, you simpering little phony? Are you trying to get off the hook, Bonnie baby, after all the energy and money we've squandered to promote you? And don't you care anything about furthering the cause of Free Abortion in this country?"
At the mention of abortion Bonnie's traumatic hysteria hit her full blast once more, and with a muffled wail she slammed down the receiver. Nor did she bother to answer when it rang again.
She thought of all the ghastly mistakes she'd made these past months in the name of freedom. Thought about yesterday, the horror of seeing Hector Scott as a practicing transvestite, and then fainting in his hotel lobby like some kind of spastic case, only to have the house doctor tell her she was pregnant. More than two months along, he'd said. Oh why did he have to say that? Had she asked him? Wasn't his diagnosis shattering enough, did he have to throw the calendar in her face? She had conceived in late November, a few days before Thanksgiving. On that night of nights, when she'd had carnal knowledge of no less than nine (count 'em!) individually hung males. Four hard hats, four hippies, and then, as if to compound all those felonies with his blessing, her own husband.
It had been one thing to advocate changing the abortion laws for others, but where Bonnie was concerned, she reverted straight back to all those golden rules she'd sopped up in Sunday School back in Tucumcari. Thou shalt not this and thou shalt not that, and what an old-fashioned burden her conscience still was, for it seemed that her own personal values hadn't budged an inch despite her fierce emancipation. She wanted to go home and have this baby, the one healthy event she could salvage from all the chaos she had fostered. She kept seeing the bitter shambles of Hector Scott, remembering all the years she'd idealized him while thinking of Bart as a poor second choice, letting herself be absolutely mesmerized by that old fraud right up to the last revealing moment and even then not being able to resist his purely structural temptations. How could she have been such a fool to see so much in him that had never been there? An old lecherous rou� in drag, that's all he'd ever been, so incensed with the mystique of the female form that he had to become them while he had them.
She could not deny that Jay and his cohorts had been exciting. Hedonistic sensualists without compunctions, and so pretty to the touch! But she'd never been able to reconcile herself to the condition Jay called "omnisexuality." It still spelled homo to Bonnie, no matter how artfully adroit he was in bed in all her favored hetero positions. "I swing with who's ever comely, baby," he'd insist, "chicks and studs and blacks and whites, I got no preferences." But Jay had too many solicitous "buddies" hanging around him for Bonnie to fully believe this.
Yet, the past four months had taught her a great deal. And golly, how could any woman know what she didn't want until she'd tasted it? She had at last encountered a way of life other than the one she'd been used to, and this gave her the chance to compare life styles by evaluating her own from a fresh perspective. She'd never had that before. Never had any alternatives. But now that she'd experimented and explored, she had more than one frame of reference from which to choose. She had scrounged around to see what else was available, and having thoroughly sampled all possibilities, she now wanted a partial return to everything she'd had in the beginning. But only partial. Since she wasn't the same person any more-less naive, hopefully, and more worldly-she didn't want a perfect duplication of what her life had been before. She now realized that many of her grievances had been shrill over-reactions, for Bart hadn't been nearly so forceful or overbearing as she'd tried to believe. Her own fears and regressions had been far more to blame than any of his faults. She'd been afraid of becoming anything other than a love bug wife and mommy, terrified that she'd never be able to compete with the sleek lady-cats with whom Bart came in contact in his career. But she wasn't afraid of that any more, for she now had presence and personality. Instead of the typical homebody baby-doll she'd been for so many years, she could also boast a lot of soign�e style and charm.
She wanted her home again and she wanted Bart. But she no longer wanted the old Bonnie. No, with that simpering idiot she was utterly disenchanted.
She spent that whole day in long drugged hours of self-debate and painful conjecture, refusing to call Monica, not wanting to rely on her too expert advice as a crutch. She decided she'd have to take a gamble. She would give up her apartment in town and move back home on a permanent basis. Then, when the time was right, she'd tell Bart about the baby. She felt certain he hadn't forgotten about that night in November, and thanked God she needn't be afraid to have him count the days or weeks or hours. Not in his most fiendish dreams would he ever suppose she'd been had by eight other men earlier that same night. It was a little like Russian Roulette, to go ahead and have her baby, then pray it looked enough like her for Bart not to suspect it mightn't be his. And after all, it very well could have been Bart's seed that had fertilized the right egg or ovum or cell or whatever it was. And if not, a baby hippie or a baby hard hat would still smell as sweet in her arms in their house and sanctuary and cradle, particularly if they'd been firmly reconciled for many long months before the time of birth.
Still floaty from the Librium, Bonnie decided to get a good night's sleep before she took any action. But early the next morning, refusing to answer her persistently ringing phone, she packed, handed the keys to Sandra the housemother-bypassing the onslaught of an open mouthed good-bye kiss from that lusting lady-then drove home to San Mateo.
As for Bart, he was naturally overjoyed to see Bonnie back on the scene again, although it was several days before he fully realized what was happening, for Bonnie had decided not to announce her intentions in so many words but simply to let it happen. Bart was having script conferences with Ralph and Muriel Spicer every day that week, all of them increasingly excited about their plans for the new show.
Towards the end of the week he told them that Bonnie was finally remembering where she lived. What he said was, "Incidentally, my old lady's been seen hanging around the house quite a lot these days. And when she speaks, it is no longer with forked tongue-how 'bout that?"
"Then now's the time to tell her you want her on the show, Bart," said Ralph. "What're you waiting for?"
"You know we'll need her reaction to all this before we start working up an actual format," Muriel reminded him.
"All right, but ... I'll wait a little longer," he said, much to their exasperation. "I've eaten enough crow on the air already, so I don't want this to seem like I'm ordering another dose of it."
They'd have to be content with that explanation, thought Bart. He couldn't very well come out and tell them he had to wait till he had all his V.D. shots before trying for a full reconciliation with his wife. There were still several more needle sessions on his agenda before he'd feel free and clear. Not that he wasn't anxious to tell Bonnie the news about the show, and also how much he still loved her and wanted her and how happy he was to see her back home again. But hell, what if she flew right back into his arms, bed and crotch while he was still infected?
No, man, he'd have to treat her very cool until he was sure that little old Nicole-bug was saniflushed out of his system for good. Not even a hello kiss, and very sparing on the handshakes too. An attitude that depressed the hell out of Bonnie, it must be noted. There she was home again, and in such plentiful physical abundance. What more of a hint did he need, she wondered. And why was he being so bland and distant? She was so eager to tell him about the baby-which might even be his, if the fates were kind!-and to tell him she wasn't cut out to be militant or actively liberated every waking hour. She wanted to rush into his arms and say, "Darling, here I am and I love you, so why are you treating me like I had THE PLAGUE?"
It grew infuriating for her. And ironic too, since she'd now given up her den of iniquity in the city and had to play at home or not at all. She'd had quite enough of roaming and playing the huntress, and, as a result was up to here with child, whoever it belonged to, so she wanted to kick the past and launch a new future. But damn Bart anyway, what the devil did he want? What subterranean double life had he been charting out all this time which he was so loathe to part with? If he didn't want her in his house, why didn't he come right out and say so? She would be glad to cooperate and give him his freedom, if there were someone else he wanted to marry. She'd even let him file for divorce without contesting it-taking him for every cent, of course, for the good of the children. After all, what was he when she married him? A womanizer! An archaic word maybe, but the most accurate way to describe the state of Bart's libido ten years ago. By the time they'd met he'd already been a monumental sex glutton for fifteen years, and she was merely the very last notch he'd carved out on his nooky belt. Had he reverted to type at his age simply because she'd chosen to sally forth for a few months? Golly, was it her fault her education had been so sadly neglected that she'd needed this extensive brush up course? If Bart only knew that he could be the one to benefit most from all her ripe experiences. There was so very much she'd learned that she was itching to show him.
On Thursday of the following week, Dr. Cornfield said, "Bart, yesterday was your last shot, which was also why we gave you another blood test. Right now it looks like you're in the clear, although you'd better check back for another test in a month or so. Anyway, you're free now, so you can go home and screw with impunity."
"WHEE!" howled Bart, and hugged the good GP elatedly. "And impunity spelled backwards comes out BONNIE!" When he left, Bart heard the doctor's romantic basso profundo as he hummed a sentimental snatch from Fiddler On The Roof called Traditional.
As soon as he got in the house that afternoon, Bart asked Anna if Mrs. Sheridan happened to be on the premises.
"Yes, she is, sir. She's up in her room."
"Anna, from now on her room will be called The Master Bedroom, and don't you forget it!" He raced through the entrance hall towards the stairs, almost knocking his eldest son to the floor.
"Hey Dad, what's up?"
Bart beamed down at the lad, then ruffled his Bonnie-blond hair. "Listen, boy, I've got a hot press release for you. Can you keep a secret?"
"No," Jeff said, grinning.
"Then I'll tell you. Your mother and I are going to co-host my TV show."
"No shit!" the boy exclaimed. "Ooops, sorry about that, Dad, you caught me off guard. Aw, but man, that's heavy! Mom on TV. I mean, she's so pretty, what took you so long to think of it?"
"Stupidity!" laughed Bart. "That's my only sane excuse." Then he bounded up the stairs and down the corridor to his ex-bedroom. Then stood still for a second to get his breath. He knocked once. No answer, although he thought he could hear the water running in the adjoining bathroom. He tried the door. Finding it unlocked, he walked in, "Bonnie, are you here?" he called out. Then he paused, startled by some really awful noises coming from the bathroom, like somebody choking or gagging. Christ, what gives here, he wondered, hurrying towards the bathroom. At that instant, after flushing the toilet and mopping her mouth with Kleenex, Bonnie bolted out of the bathroom and let out a frantic scream as she collided with her husband.
She gave him a wild glare and tried to catch her breath, her face white from her recent indisposition. She looked every bit as nauseous as she felt, which was quite understandable, since she'd just thrown up.
"Holy Cow, Bonnie, did you just throw up?"
She nodded, her expression meek, skin pale. "Oh Bart, I didn't know you were home, so I ... I ..."
"So you threw up?" He managed a chuckle and tried not to look so worried, although this sure took the wind out of his sails. "What is this, Bonnie, are you sick?"
She heaved a long quavering sigh. Now was her golden moment to tell him, she thought. After all, this was the first time since he'd begun sleeping in the guest room that he'd ever come back to this room, and she had to take that as a hopeful sign. And when would be a better time to tell your husband you were pregnant if not right after he'd caught you having morning sickness in the afternoon?
"Bart, remember how it was with Tad and Jeff? How I'd throw up in the afternoons instead of the mornings and you said I did everything ass-backwards?"
He stared at her. Still too full of his own news to let the dawning come. But then it did. "Jesus Christ, are you telling me what I think you're telling me?"
She nodded sadly. "But there's so much more to tell you, Bart, and I think I'd better get it all out fast."
"Wait a minute now, Bonnie. First answer me one question: Is this why you've come home again? Because of your condition, I mean ..."
"No, Bart, it's not the reason. I'd already made my decision. In fact, I was on my way home anyway when I just happened to find out, in passing, so to speak, that I was pregnant. But Bart, I was coming anyway, really I was! I've made new plans. Things have happened to me ...!"
"I'm hip," he gazed down at the source of her action, though it was still quite flat.
"No, no, Bart, that's another thing which you've got to get straight, and the doctor who examined me will back me up on this. I conceived in late November." She waited for the significance of this date to sink in.
It did. And, for Bart, it sank a lot deeper than she knew. It had been so long since they'd had sex, it was the only way he could be positive he hadn't given her the syph. "Oh Bonnie," he said, now fully absorbing her message and taking her into his arms, "that wild night just before Thanksgiving when we both pretended we were fucking in our sleep ... is that when it happened?"
She nodded, swallowing a bit of rueful wry as she added to herself: and happened and happened and happened! "Damn, that's so beautiful, honey!" he tilted her chin and softly kissed her mouth. "It couldn't have come at a sweeter time, Bonnie, because I've got news for you too. Come over here to the bed and sit down, but don't rush, honey, take it easy."
"Oh golly, you don't have to coddle me yet, Bart, I feel fine now. And honestly, I'm so glad you caught me vomiting. It brought everything out into the open." She let him lead her to the bed, thinking how long it had been since they'd last sampled its springs.
Then Bart told her his news about the show, and Bonnie almost had hysterics she was so happy, laughing and weeping and gasping between kisses. "Darling, it's as if I'd always known there was something I wanted," she said, "but I just couldn't put my finger on it. Something for myself, Bart, that was also yours. Oh but God, what am I talking about? I've never been on TV ... I'm terrified! Do you really have that kind of faith in me?"
"I guess I always did, Bonnie," he said, cuddling her close, reprising her warmths and scents. "Just needed a little shock therapy to make me see it. Right now the strongest thing you've got going for you is this face of yours. You're very telegenic, you know. We'll take it from there; and then, after a few cold tryouts, a few weeks of experience, I think you'll swing right into harness with me."
"And don't forget, I've been reading a lot lately too, Bart, that'll come in handy. I'm not nearly as moronic as I was when you married me."
He laughed, softly fondling her breasts as he held her. "Baby, what you are is a delightfully scatterbrained female who is much brighter underneath than she seems on the surface, and that's precisely the image we want for you. Kind of a hip version of Burns and Allen making like two Johnny Carson's, one in drag, of course."
"Me, I hope," she giggled, thinking of Hoary Hector. "Oh but wait a minute, did you say Burns and Allen? Wasn't she an idiot?"
He nodded. "On screen, yes. But nobody really believed that for a minute, and what her hidden intelligence added to her surface idiocy was warmth, which you, my love, have got by the carloads."
Guilt-ridden again, Bonnie felt new tears filling her eyes. "Oh golly, I'll make it up to you, Bart! For being so nice, I mean, just in case things don't turn out the way you want," (if it isn't your baby, darling, except that it has to be!).
"But no more of this flaming liberal nonsense," he said. "From now on we're playing it safe, something for everybody and offending nobody."
"You'll do no such thing, Bart Sheridan! You've worked damned hard to build up that reputation, and I won't let any concessions you're willing to make to me spoil what you've accomplished. We're going to be just as hard-hitting and uncompromising as ever. If there's one thing I've learned these past months it's how to tolerate all the racial and emotional minorities that abound on this earth." Without realizing it, Bonnie had slipped into her recently acquired speech-making patois, much to Bart's delight. "Tolerance will remain the very backbone of our show, Bart, and don't you ever turn your back on that truism. I mean, if, as you say, what I've got to offer is some charming kind of lunacy, that's how I'll question our guests-seemingly light and frothy, but zinging in with the real rapier thrusts when they least expect it."
"Baby, you are a pro!" he laughed, hugging her to him again. "I knew we could count on you."
"I want to work right up to the last minute too, Bart," she said, reveling in the cushiony warmth of his lips dabbing gaily at hers, "ummm with kisses like these I won't care how fat I look. Maybe I'll have the baby right on camera. Has that ever been done?"
"Not on an entertainment show," he laughed, their lips merging in a flurry of quick soft kisses, "but it sounds bloody enough to get a great rating."
"That's it, Bart, we've got to try new things together, give our audience some kind of surprise every week. Golly, there's so much I want to try with you, now that I'm home again."
"With your diploma," he added, patting her tummy. He slipped his hands about her hips, refamiliarizing himself with the palpitating feel of her, sliding his fingers up under her dress, under the rim of her panties, his heart beginning to pound as he realized how desperately he longed to touch the source of their newfound pleasure, the dear hot fireside cunt of his wife back home where he could get at it. Bonnie caught the look on his face and knew what he wanted. She lifted up and unzipped her dress, then let him pull it off her. She lay flat on the bed while Bart slowly removed her panties. He moved his face between her thighs and stared closely, lingeringly at her cunt ... beautiful blonde tuft of curls veiling that blushing pink cleft beneath ..."Has Mommy been naughty down here?" he murmured, his lips parting as they slowly neared her crotch, stalking, hungering ...
"Well, I have experimented a little, Bart ... but whatever I've learned, I've brought home to you ... ooooh! Bart, that's so lovely ... yes, yes, that's what I've missed, your mouth down there ...!"
Not bothering to undress, Bart had swooped in and begun to suck her tempting mons veneris with a feverish abandon, gasping as he felt the new flaring fullness of her vulva, tastes riper and spicier; at the moment he couldn't care less who had planted these fresh flavors up her snatch because it was he who would reap all benefits from now on. Hell, he was just as hungup on sucking his own wife as he'd ever been, and it seemed so long since he'd last been able to do this when she was pregnant, which had always been a special kick for him ... Bart's mouth was full of her now, tongue lapping slowly up and down that hot dimpled slit, ummm hot mama-vestibule melting like a bunch of squashed grapes against his lips, Bonnie's baby-hole ready to squirt right down his throat! He clutched her ass in his hands and began fucking his tongue in and out against her clitoris ...
"Oh God, honey, I love it!" she squealed, hungrily watching this action. "Is this what I get for running away from home? ... A great ... big lickin'? If it is, you'd better bolt all the doors." She thrashed madly about the bed as he made a nibbling guzzling feast of her crotch. But then, abruptly, she tried to press her thighs together and slide out of his reach ..."No, Bart, wait, please ... we're forgetting something, aren't we? In fact, we're really forgetting everything! Equal rights, darling! I've fought so hard for them, I deserve my reward ... so get out of your pants, hurry ...!"
Glumly, Bart pulled away, licking his lips with a brooding relish, but also cringing a little when he remembered what she wanted: the undisputed right to suck his cock with alacrity whenever she chose. Damn her, Bart still viewed this act as having very little to do with his desire to suck her but he knew he'd have to interrupt that luscious repast and give Bonnie her way.
Bonnie took off her bra and lay completely naked as she watched him undress. The dear beauty, she thought, he's afraid he'll have to stop sucking me now in order to give me what I want. But do I have a surprise for him! When she saw that he was naked, she stared lovingly at his cock which looked so radiantly hard and erect, and said, "Now Bart, I want you to put your face between my legs and your legs up over my face. Do you get the picture?"
He nodded, swallowed. "Sixty-nine," he said. "And Christ, you know something, Bonnie? ... after all my years of screwing, this'll be the first time I've ever done it that way. I've always either sucked or been sucked-separately."
"That's because you've had a one-track mind, darling," she giggled. "Now hurry, I want to find out how it feels to have both your cock and your tongue inside of me at the same time ... And don't you see what's happening to us, Bart, at last we've reached a compromise! We're settling all our differences without a marriage counselor, and it seems so fantastic that this might have always been our answer! ..." Then Bonnie stopped talking as she saw his hairy big-balled crotch dipping down towards her face. She quickly wet her lips and parted them just in time to let the smooth fleshy knob of his cock crush in against her tongue, and then winced as Bart crudely flipped her thighs apart and glued his mouth to her cunt once more, his lips a raging hot frenzy as he sucked her deeper than ever, the two of them now moaning crazily with the novelty of their dual assaults.
Bonnie's full moist lips gradually took in more and more of that pulsating sheath of flesh, her fingers probing his tight clam-gripping asshole, Bart writhing and jerking so that his cock plunged fully down her throat, Bonnie groaning from the thick-bulging salt taste of this man in her mouth, wet round pulses of life blooming between her lips. Her hands fondled his huge balls that swayed against her forehead while she sucked him ... Bart's lips now buring and redolent from the taste of her as he wondered how they had suffered through ten years of marriage without this double scoop of ecstasy, feeling the searing lashes of her tongue and realizing to his great joy that he was no longer inhibited by the thought of Bonnie with his cock in her mouth. Oh no, man, because this way he was sucking too hard to be disgusted ... and who knows, maybe a woman could be a respectable wife, mother and cocksucker without losing either grace or face.
Determined to test this discovery further, Bart raised up and twirled her over on her side, Bonnie continuing to suck his cock like it was going out of style. Then Bart gazed downward so he could watch his meat sliding in and out of her mouth in profile ... and whaddaya know, he'd won! ... it wasn't ugly or depraved anymore and he could watch her do it and love it it ... and look at her down there, those red round lips of hers so happily plumped out with his cock ... Aw such a sweet way to get into her, because it was Bonnie doing it to him, his Bonnie! He dove his head between her thighs and newly engorged himself on her cunt, sensing that if they were lucky something truly glorious might happen. Oh please God, let us come like this together and I promise I'll even start going back to church on Sundays for the first time since I was ten! We should have tried this on our honeymoon, but we didn't, so Lord give us this day the one big double swallow we've been missing all our lives ...
With a gasp, Bart felt Bonnie's cunt begin to throb erratically against his lips and wondered if maybe this was going to be the fastest answered prayer in history. He cupped her ass in his hands and sucked her more frantically, tasting the buttery traces of her oncoming orgasm as he lunged his cock swiftly in and out of her pumping mouth, whipping his crescendos higher and higher, his balls aching for a blast-off as Bonnie dug her finger up his asshole again and sucked him faster, her tongue and teeth working their frenetic wet concert of joy and heat. She began to writhe and shudder as she felt herself coming ... ooooh yes, let it splatter and cream that beautiful nurturing mouth of her husband who'd at last been able to watch her suck his cock without fear ... Bonnie spraying and storming between his lips, then suddenly squealing with ecstasy as she tasted his hot gushing flood of sperm that shot in endless thick juice-jets down her throat ... Ummm husband-rain sprinkling down deep into her belly where it belonged ... The happy couple gasping, clutching, draining, their mouths two moist pledges of joint reunion, beautiful married lovers sipping their wedded bliss, their hips flaring soft and shining ... Swallows and hearts rejoicing on the floats of home ...
CHAPTER 17
Their new show was called The Fountain Of Truth, and it starred the one and only Bart and Bonnie Sheridan. It was a huge success almost overnight. Their ratings soared, and within a very few months the show was syndicated in thirty-five additional cities, much to the added delight of Ralph and Muriel Spicer. While the whole package retained its candid approach to topical themes, there was less contrived anger and incitement. Instead, their dually controlled interviews became savage parodies on techniques employed by other talk shows. Raging bigots, who felt they were being paid enormous respect during the actual tapings, never suspected what fools they'd been permitted to make of themselves until they viewed the show at home. Instead of using the in-depth TV eye for attack, Bonnie and Bart charmed their adversaries into letting down all their defenses during an interview. The personal revelations that resulted proved to be deadly accurate as character essays. Without employing any overt intimidation, Bart and Bonnie felt that the real enemies of their country-radical conservatives-were voluntarily exposing themselves to the public.
They gave the downtrodden as much coverage as they did the affluent and the pompous, speaking to unwed mothers, black and white junkies, anti-Negro blacks, anti-Semitic Jews; holding town meeting discussions with oppressed Mexican nationals, baiting lawmakers who still viewed all manner of sexual deviation as a crime against society. They even gave several Women's Lib groups their say on the air, including one contingent flanked by the redoubtable Theodora Wilder herself, who grudgingly told Bonnie, "At least you haven't forgotten where your head is, you dizzy broad!"
Everyone was overjoyed for their success, including Monica, who, after a long legal hassle, had finally hooked her lovable leaping Leonard. They were married early that summer, although Monica said she still received various death threats in the mail-anonymous now-the language faintly reminiscent of The Black Hand of decades past.
By mid-July Bonnie had become pretty rotund and unwieldy, so they felt it would be best if she left the show for the necessary few weeks to have her baby. Mrs. Sheridan's "interesting" condition had been just as publicized as the unorthodox style of their show. Consequently the press maintained a daily hot line, via Bart's publicists, to keep posted as to when and where she would give birth.
It happened on August 3, 1971, San Francisco's most tolerant Year of the Lord, thanks to the Sheridans' Fountain Of Truth. Although nobody had called for a press conference, when Bonnie was rushed to a Peninsula hospital at six that morning some of the city's most sanguine members of the Fourth Estate sped madly down Bayshore Freeway to be first on the scene.
Bonnie's labor was comparatively easy, although a male nurse had skipped an ingrown hair when shaving her and it still tickled down there. Or perhaps it was the laughing gas effect of the anesthetic that was making her so giddy. Or the fact that she'd just been told she had a daughter, in rather grim tones, she thought, considering the occasion. Bonnie was glad it was a girl, for in that way it stood a better chance of looking like her, just in case it wasn't Bart's. She wondered why they'd had to whisk her endearing issue off to another room so swiftly, then answered her own question-to wipe the blood and grime off her face so she'd look her Sunday best for the press ... Ooh glow little spermworm, glimmer ...
Jubilant, Bart rushed into her room from the corridor where he'd been pacing with friends, fans and reporters. "Oh sweetheart, I just heard! At last we've got a girl. We sure must have done something right. Where is she?"
"Out taking a shower," Bonnie giggled beatifically. "I guess it must have gotten pretty sweaty for her, up there in the same cubby-hole for nine months."
Laughing, Bart bent over her for a kiss. "You sound half drunk, Bonnie, but you look beautiful. Tell me, have you seen her yet?"
"Nope," she said, pulling him down for a longer sexier kiss. "That means we'll both get our first look at her together, Bart, won't that be peachy?"
"Right," he said, trying to squirm out of her cloying embrace so he wouldn't get an erection in the maternity ward, of all places. "It'll also be good show business, Bonnie. Now don't move, and I'll show you what I mean." He went out of the room and beckoned to one of the news photographers, as well as two of the reporters, all of whom had been waiting to record this event. There was quite a group in attendance when a nurse brought the infant into the room a few moments later; and while everyone was quiet and orderly, the nurse gave them each a look of doubt and uncertainty.
"It's all right, Miss, you can bring the baby in," Bart urged her. "She's among friends."
The nurse gave them all a crisp "what the hell" smile and strode over to Bonnie's bedside. Everybody crowded in, Bart on one side of the bed, the nurse on the other. Then, still wearing her frozen smile, the woman slowly undraped her package. Everyone peered in close, their mouths ready to form the customary ooohs and ahhhs. But, during this first face-to-face confrontation, one of the reporters in the room was heard to exclaim a softly devout: "Oy vay ...!"
Bonnie and Bart looked at their daughter. Bonnie and Bart looked at each other. Then back to the babe who resembled neither of them because she was black.
When Bart gave the nurse a squint, a flashbulb popped and that squint was recorded for posterity. As if reading his mind, the nurse said, "There's been no mistake, Mr. Sheridan. We're very vigilant about such things."
Resenting her smug attitude, Bart stared steadily at Bonnie, his eyes seeming to ask: Isn't there a little something you forgot to tell me, Pushover? While hers silently replied: It was such a long hard brutal night and they drugged me and I tripped out, so naturally the colors blended. But yes, I seem to remember now-one of them was black ... a very Harry Belafonte boy by the name of Mel ...
"Mr. Sheridan," panted one of the thunderstruck reporters, "uh ... can we get a statement from you now?"
"Oh man, is this fantastic!" babbled another. "The whole world's watching! I mean, what a way for a superstar to prove he's not a racist!"
"And that it should happen to them, the beautiful free loving couple. After all, we know how permissive they are; isn't this gilding the lily? ..."
"Mr. Sheridan, we're waiting. Can we quote you?"
Bart turned and faced them all. "When I have something to say, yes, you can quote me!" And realized at once he'd better soften his tone. Okay, Bart old boy, he psychically goosed himself, let's start thinking on our feet here. Quick decision, man! TV-trained and honed, man, with all your systems going! You and the little woman have spread tolerance all over the land, so what do you have to say about this black baby she just popped out of that little surprise-tub of hers? Oh dear God, if only it had been blue! ...
Then all at once it hit him, and a surging fresh wave of power swept over him such as he'd never known before. He faced his note-scribbling inquisitors squarely, straightening his shoulders, clutching Bonnie's hot little hand in his-and then he made everything well again. "My grandfather was an octoroon!"
"Oh Bart!" Bonnie dug her nails into his palm.
There was a stunned and gaping silence. And then everyone spoke at once. "Can we quote you, Mr. Sheridan, or is that off the record?"
"Of course you can quote me, and why not? I've never hidden the fact. It's just that nobody's ever asked me before. It never came up."
"Well, it's up now," said one of the reporters, jotting furiously. "Oh wow, what a story! ... like the spirit of Martin Luther King overcoming all over the place."
Bonnie squeezed Bart's hand in hers, determined to show the world that she stood behind her husband one hundred percent, tears filling her eyes as she spoke ..."And what's more, he was a lovely old darky too," she told them, "Bart's grandfather, I mean. Came from a long and royal line of slaves, all of them freed, in the original, of course, by Lincoln himself ... And I can remember his final words as that dear old NIGRA breathed his last: 'Thanks, Abe,' he said, then slipped quietly back to his ancestors in Africa."
To his horror, Bart saw that the reporters were copying all this down. "That's quite enough, my blossom!" he nearly fractured Bonnie's knuckles in a hand squeeze. "You really mustn't talk after what you've been through," and after what's been through you, you flaky bitch! ...
"Jesus, can't you just see those headlines?" said one of the photogs. "Famous Upper-Class White Couple Give Birth To A Black Baby Without Batting A Genetic Lash! Man, this is wilder than finding Amelia Earhart!"
Shit, what the hell else can I do, Bart wondered desperately; my hands are tied again, just as they were after she wrote My Life With Genghis Khan. I had to accept it and grin and bear it then, for fear of being called a stuffed shirt, narrow-minded klutz and losing my show, and I've got to do the very same thing now. Christ, all this tolerance we've been shoving up everybody's social consciousness has now become like an albatross tied around my balls. But that's not the worst of it. Oh no, brother, the worst of it is I know I'm really going to enjoy this whole neurotic charade, because it'll be so goddamned Radical Chic for a white TV performer to accept a black baby in his uptight Caucasian palace in San Mateo. And dig that, hate mongers: no genocide in San Mateo as of right now. Oh yeah, I'll love it, because it'll make me popular and glorified and I may even run for office on the miscegenation ticket ...
One of the reporters was tugging at his lapels. "Can we contact your parents in San Leandro, or perhaps your sister, Monica Vinson, for corroboration of this fact?"
Oh Jesus, thought Bart, and there was a tense pause here. "Uh ... no, gentlemen, because ... well, ha ha! ... they'd only lie about it, you see. I mean, we all know the kind of fears that govern most people these days, my own family not excluded, I regret to say." Bye bye again, Monica, he thought, and for good this time!
"But you had the courage to tell the truth!" This was a joint statement now made by many in the room, all of whom quite plainly admired this fierce fire eater called Bart Sheridan.
"Right, gentlemen, that's the name of the game," Bart chuckled miserably. The Fountain of Truth." He gazed down at the area of Bonnie's sheet-veiled vagina, then back to the swaddling culprit who'd been covering in that ditch so long, waiting to nail him right where he lived.
"Move in close now, Mr. Sheridan, we want an intimate family shot. Too bad your sons aren't here."
"They're away at camp," said Bart.
"Integrated?" someone inquired.
Bart merely smiled at the bastard, though he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to stamp his feet and burst into tears.
As he bent over his weepy eyed, drug ridden wife, the nurse placed the baby in Bonnie's arms. "Everybody smile!" Bart and Bonnie smiled, clutching each other ferociously as the black star of this scene outrageously upstaged them with a piercing gurgling shriek.
Drained and weak, Bart remained sitting at Bonnie's bedside after everyone left, the nurse having taken the baby somewhere for further incubation. When they were alone, Bonnie threw her arms about his neck and pulled him down for an irrepressibly embrace. "Oh darling, I'm so proud of you! What courage it must have taken to confess such a secret in front of all those reporters, something you've even managed to keep from me, your own wife. It's fantastic that you've never mentioned your background to me all these years, when darling you should have known I wouldnt've cared, or tried to judge you. Imagine, hiding such a deliciously super-hip secret, when anyone can see she has your features, fashioned in much darker strokes, of course, but she's yours, you brave sweet darling, it's so very obvious," Bonnie fiercely kissing his mouth now to keep him quiet, giving the performance of her life and giddily adoring every second of it.
Laughing hysterically, Bart drew her roughly to him. "Oooh you baby-faced innocent bitch with those sweet lying eyes and tongue, you keep it up, doll, and as soon as that big red hole of yours heals, I'm gonna give it something else to grow on, and maybe one every year after that, the two of them teary eyed and laughing madly now, fingers full of tugging, punishing, pinching worship.
"We'll name her after your grandfather," Bonnie murmured against the nibbling softness of his lips, for she was determined to go on playing her new role to the death.
"The hell we will!" he roared, reaching down her hospital white cleavage and squeezing a milk-bloated breast. "Well call her "Black Bonnie" or nothing!"
"Oh? ... And do I get to milk her right on the show?"
"I'll make you milk me on the show if you try another stunt like this."
"Oh but sir, you confuse me," she batted her lashes at him. "After all, it was you who gave the story to the press. My reputation is still clean and virtuous. I had your baby, darling. You've even admitted it, in front of witnesses too. Not that I don't love you for it, and want more of course, in various shades, hues and persuasions."
Bart glared down at her, his eyes bitter and loving and full of the hunger for vengeance, sensual and otherwise. "There's still one way I have of punishing you for all your sins, Bonnie, one last weapon I can use on you, and I think you remember what it is."
"Ummm yes!" she sighed with great expectations, "I remember it, I remember it! ..."
