He eyed his niece and then touched her. Almost freezing her passions.
Now it took a psychiatrist to thaw her. And a hungry husband to keep her body from freezing again.
PREFACE
One of the most traumatic experiences in a person's sexual life is the act of incest.
In his gripping tale, THE MOTHER HOLE, author Don Nord examines, through the careful use of fictional drama, the lives of four main characters caught in the web of incest.
Some of Mr. Nord's actors are guiltless, affluent persons who engage in what has been denounced since the beginning of civilized time as man's most threatening action-breeding within one's family.
In THE MOTHER HOLE we see carved before us the virile frames of a sister and brother who, since youngsters, have acted as sexually free with each other as if they were truly husband and wife.
Yet, the sister and brother-the roots of the incest-do not live in a world free of guilt and shame. The sister's daughter, Martha, grows up in a world filled with the peeping eyes of morality, and when her uncle touches her in her youth, her shame confuses her and she begins to sink into a frustrating pool of passion for her sexually exciting uncle.
Martha's lack of awareness, concerning her mother's sexual habits with her uncle, only agitates the guilt and shame, which thrusts Martha further into a troubled world of sexual sorrow.
As if born and raised in the tragedy of incest that Sophocles brought so poignantly to the public's attention in his famous play about Oedipus, Martha becomes a tragic hero, flagellating herself with the whip of guilt and anguish.
But Martha's world is of another genre than was Sophocles'. She is a member of a restless, revolutionary culture in a swirling era of exchanging, elastic moralities that is beginning to bend and flex and stretch away from the hypocritical lines of right and .wrong which are so often morally mislabeled by the Old Guard.
Caught between the two, she sinks deeper and deeper into the quagmire of guilt which she has fortified in her mind. She has honored neither world, and there seems little hope for her until she meets and marries Greg Fox.
Greg innocently becomes ensnarled in the paranoid web, knowing little about his wife's past and nothing about her mother's. He only knows his voluptuous bride is very beautiful, very desirable, and very frigid. He, like Ulysses, begins his own sexual Odyssey, looking for the truth in the rapture of other women's beds.
Singularly, Greg and Martha stumble through their own tragic traumas, trying desperately to cling to the thin threads of honest love that dangle precariously between them.
There is a resolution for both of them, as there is always a meeting place for two parallel lines, if those lines are stretched far enough.
Author Don Nord identifies that meeting place as THE MOTHER HOLE, from which all life good and evil-is conceived and born. It is to this end that THE MOTHER HOLE aims its message; the message that we are not responsible for the actions and guilts of others; but only for that which we truly and honestly manifest in our own minds.
And often, if we would only study what we call sexual shame, we would find it a conveniently woven basket with a false bottom that can be easily removed, to set us free from our mental prisons.
-The Publishers
When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?
-Oliver Goldsmith, She Stoops to Conquer
Don't think you are going to conceal thoughts by concealing evidence that they ever existed. Don't be afraid ... to read every book. ... People who hold unpopular ideas are still part of America, and even if they have ideas that are contrary to our own, they have a right to have them, a right to record them, and a right to have them in places where they are accessible to others. This must be unquestioned, or it is not America.
-Dwight D. Eisenhower Dartmouth College June 14, 1953
CHAPTER ONE
Greg Fox gazed out at the sea through the hotel room window and listened to the waves breaking on the rocks below. Behind him was the double bed, stripped for action.
Greg should have felt guilty, or ashamed or nervous. Instead, he felt a quiver of anticipation for he was about to have an affair with a barroom pickup while his frigid wife of only three months sat waiting in their luxurious home only three blocks away.
Mockingly, he raised the glass of bourbon and bitterly toasted his bride.
"To your icy cunt," he whispered and gulped the smooth liquor.
The glass at his lips, he felt the woman's fingers in a light caress on the back of his neck. His penis stiffened.
"The name is Dorothy," she breathed in his ear, "in case you've forgotten."
He turned slowly and pulled her close, rubbing the feminine texture of the thigh-high, pale pink mini-dress that clung to her voluptuous curves. His hungry lips nibbled at her ear. "I thought you went to slip into something more comfortable?"
"I'm more comfortable in the nude, darling," she answered. "Tow undress me."
Her emerald-green eyes were opened wide and sparkled in the afternoon sun. Her lips, fresh with a pearly-colored lipstick, were parted in a seductive smile. His hand shaking, Greg carefully drained the bourbon, set the glass on an end table, and took her in his arms. His fumbling fingers groped at the zipper tab on her dress.
He brushed a kiss along her cheek; then closed his lips over hers. His hands abandoned the zipper, and slid down to cup her buttocks and press her pelvis against his aching groin. Her firm muscles tensed at the touch of his clutching fingers. He felt a responsive bulge as his cock stretched, shoving against the confinement of his trousers. Their tongues met in stabs of flame. He pulled away. "Easy does it, baby." If he didn't slow down, he'd come in his trousers.
Her voice was thick. "I'm ready. Ready."
"Let's not rush it."
Her muscles relaxed. She laughed nervously. "We don't have to rush that." She flicked a hand at his crotch, and her fingers squeezed his bulging cock.
"How about another bourbon?" Greg asked.
She surveyed him for a moment, a speculative left brow arched. "You're sure you're not changing your mind?"
"I'm sure. I just like it slow and easy."
She patted his cheek. "Take it any way your li'l ole heart desires, but take it when you can get it." She picked up his empty glass and turned back to the bottle of bourbon.
Greg flopped into a lounge chair facing the ocean. The Pacific was blue-gray in the high-noon sun. He and Martha should be watching this together, doing this together, in that newly built honeymoon house that he hated to set foot into.
But after her cold rejection on their wedding night, he had found what he needed. By accident. Normally he traveled the freeway, but this day, on the way to nine holes of golf to pound out the frustration welling in his balls, he had dropped into the Valencia Lounge for a quick hamburger and a beer. He had just settled on a stool at the end of the bar, when a woman's voice called from the leather booth behind him.
"You're late."
He didn't think she was talking to him, but he was the only one at the bar. He turned. She smiled at him. He deliberately assayed her sexual charms. She was a redhead, with short-cropped hair combed forward into bangs to expose tiny, mouth-sized ears. The dress was cut low at the neck and high at the hem, baring enough of the breasts above and thighs to make him shiver at the thought of what lay in between. The well-formed legs tapered to slim ankles and her small feet were encased in green suede pumps that swung provocatively.
Their eyes met, and she nodded. He picked up his glass, slid off the stool, and stepped to the booth. "Sure you're not waiting for someone?"
The red bangs shook. "You?"
"No, indeed."
She crushed out the cigarette that she was holding, and Greg studied the sparkling square-cut two-carat diamond surrounded by smaller stones that dazzled on her left ring finger. Married, he thought. And loose.
"Join me."
He slid into the booth next to her. "My lucky day," he said.
"Luck is a two-way street." She held out a hand, the one without the diamond. "I'm Dorothy Wagner."
"Greg Fox."
"Married?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She took a billfold from the matching green suede purse on the seat next to her, and showed him her driver's license. Then her fingers wriggled a summons to him. He reached for his own wallet. "Mine won't prove I'm married."
"No, but it'll prove you're local and responsible. Identifiable, I guess, is the word. I can't afford complications."
"Are there many like us?"
"The woods are full of them."
They both laughed, but Greg's laugh had a bitter edge. He didn't tell her he was a newlywed. Newlyweds shouldn't be in these woods. He couldn't tell her he had just given up a swinging bachelor's life to marry a girl whose coldness resulted in a sexual relationship as active as two bears in hibernation.
He said, "I suppose you're married to an older man. He isn't what he used to be, so-"
She looked him straight in the eye. "My man's forty-five. He's in the prime of life. He has a prick like a rifle barrel and balls like grenades."
Greg rocked back in his seat. It took him a moment to reply. "Then why are you here? I mean, then what do you want with me?"
The corners of her mouth turned down. "This is the third time I've tried this. But it's the first time I've been able to go through with it. You looked nice, decent, reliable. I decided to take the plunge."
"Thank you. You make my cup runneth over. But you didn't answer my question." He had recovered from her verbal burst and wanted to be sure she wasn't just playing a conversational game with him.
"Would you believe, he's bored with me! He'll fuck any skirt from six to sixty, but my pussy doesn't interest him."
Greg's stomach churned, and his head swam. He couldn't grasp the idea that this delectable creature in front of him could sexually bore anyone. He felt it was all a fantasy. In less than a minute, she had told him all her problems and was about to spread her legs. Any woman who talked as freely as she did must be ready.
"There ought to be a place, a club," she was saying, "where two, well-bred overeducated people can let their hair down and enjoy each other."
"I guess there are," Greg said. "Newspapers and magazines carry all kinds of ads."
"But I can't do it with just anybody, can I?" Dorothy Wagner pleaded. "There are so many complications! So many-"
Tears started from her eyes and her head bowed. Greg put a hand on her shoulder. The skin of her soft, well-rounded shoulder prickled under his fingers. She could be one of those females who got their kicks from talking about it, not doing it. And the complications she had mentioned held true for him, too. The problem with Martha could be just a temporary thing: it could be something that would resolve itself any night, and he couldn't take a chance getting involved. Dorothy Wagner's free hand was on his thigh, moving up his leg, searching for his prick. He felt it growing under her probing fingers. Her head remained bowed, but she was looking down, admiring the bulge of his hardening penis.
A phrase came back to him from boyhood: a stiff prick has no conscience.
"Okay, I'm here," he soothed. "I'm a likeable, responsible guy. We're two people with personal problems we can solve with each other, all right?" Her hand rubbed back and forth on his cock, and he spread his legs under the booth table so she could freely wrap her fingers around it and massage it. His own hand had fallen from her shoulders and was patting and squeezing the curve of her ass. When it moved up, under the hem of her dress and touched bare, hot flesh, his prick jerked spasmodically in Dorothy's hand. "Let's finish our beers, okay?"
"All right." She sat up, smiling. Her white teeth glistened as she ran a darting tongue over her moist Ups. "Tell me about you."
So he told her-not about Martha-about the company he owned that designed and manufactured toys and games for children. He suddenly realized he was talking as animatedly to her about his career as he had to Martha before she had built the icy wall between them. He explained to Dorothy his plans for increased sales through wider distribution in national chain stores.
"In fact, that's where I'm off to this afternoon. To Chicago, to close a deal that will give us a firm distribution pattern for the next five years."
"Shit!" Then her hand flew to her mouth to cover the word, too late.
It was Greg's turn to smile. "How come you can say words like fuck and pussy and prick, but you're afraid I'll be shocked by shit?"
She smiled back at him. "It's the one word that makes me pee in my pants. I have to feel a prick and a fuck to get excited. But the word shit makes me come, just by saying it." The smile left her face. "There, I said it again. Can you leave with me or do you have a fucking plane to catch?" Her voice was bitter and Greg guessed she was flaunting the four-letter words to give her courage.
Greg studied his watch. "My plane leaves at six. I need an hour to get ready. We can be together until four."
He didn't know at just what point he had committed himself, but he had no intention of turning back. It was Martha's fault anyway, he thought.
"Then let's get out of here," Dorothy said.
Once more hesitation struck him. Had her husband really deserted her sexually, or did she have him climbing walls with insatiable demands? It didn't matter. She was right. There ought to be a club for women like her, for guys like her husband, a place for people like him with wives like Martha. Martha! Fuck Martha!
"Right. Let's go," he said, wiping away the hesitation in his mind and only thinking of her body.
She brought him to the hotel, so close to where he lived, but so far from what he really wanted.
"Here's your bourbon." Dorothy was slipping the glass into his right hand, and settling herself in his lap. She wrapped his left hand around her and placed his fingers on the mound between her thighs.
"Aren't you drinking?"
"I don't need anything to stir me up." She rubbed noses with him.
"I'm drinking, to slow me down," Greg said. As he sipped, his free hand found the zipper again at the top of her dress. He nuzzled the scented earlobe she held against his lips, and tongued the inside of her ear. She shivered, snuggling her breasts against his chest.
"That gives me goose bumps. Do it again."
"Shit," Greg said.
"Ooohhh!" She thrust herself backward, and the dress zipped down to her hips. The glass of bourbon went spilling across the carpet. Her mouth leaped to his lips, and her tongue swished through the cavern behind his teeth, her saliva dripping into his throat while her mouth tried to suck it back.
Greg tugged the dress away from her soft, tan shoulders. She leaned back on his knees, arms outstretched so his face could delve into the voluptuous flesh of her breasts. His hands tore at the back of the bra, stripping it away to let her white, pink-tipped tits spill into his trembling hands. His tongue roamed wildly over her stiff, rosy-ringed nipples. Dorothy's hands cupped her breast up to his salivating mouth. His lips sucked greedily on the nipple. His hands slid beneath her dress, stroking the vibrant thighs. Her legs spread as his fingers kneaded the soft skin, higher and higher, to the nylon panties that encased the sweet, crisp triangle of pubic hair. She lifted her ass to help him ease the panties past her hips and thighs. She settled back, rotating her ass against the hard cock that Greg thrust against her.
His fingers toyed with her dewy slit, and her body responded with irregular lurches that hammered against his penis. Waves of woman-scent rose to meld with the aroma of breast flesh and perfume that filled his nostrils.
"Right now?" he said. "Now, this very instant?" He raised her off his lap, holding her upright on quivering legs. Her dress fell to the floor, baring her navel. It was puckered in the curve of her creamy belly that flowed to the V of reddish-gold hair.
Dropping to his knees, Greg clutched the twin orbs of her buttocks, and pulled the crinkly mat to his lips. Dorothy pressed the back of his head to keep his nibbling lips tight against the hardened nubbin. Her body trembled. Again she moaned, "Hurry, hurry!"
As a tribute to his passionless wife blocks away, Greg let his tongue lick into Dorothy's pleasure pit, tasting the pussy-acid that sent shivers of delight from his tongue to his hardening prick.
Then he stood up, held Dorothy close, and kissed her passionately, grinding his teeth against hers as the image of Martha vanished completely from his mind.
He lifted the panting mass of writhing moaning flesh, and stretched her out on the bed. Methodically, he removed her garter belt and sheer stockings while she continued to squirm, pant, sigh, and moan.
While undressing, he gazed hungrily at her sensual nakedness. She was waiting for him to drive his prick into her body. He shivered as her narrowed eyes scanned the length of his rigid cock, which stood thick and threatening, its pink, mushroom cap primed to explode.
Dorothy's tongue licked flecks of spittle from her lips, as she reached out to stroke his belly, to touch his black, pubic brush, to cup the scrotal sac that was laden with his semen.
"Give me that," she whispered hoarsely.
Greg dropped beside her.
Humming a paean of rising passion, their mouths opened to each other, tongues darting, touching.
He felt her hand grasp his penis. The coronal ridge of his cock pushed against the soaked jungle foliage between her buttocks.
"I want it. Put it in, put it in."
"Easy, pet, easy." He rolled her on her back and smiled down at her. He knew, if he mounted her now, the first contact would trigger an eruption of semen built up over the three months of denial, that was Martha's wedding gift to him. Besides, the racy scent of an aroused woman whetted his taste. Kissing the tip of her nose, he said, "Daddy eats first. Then he has the dessert."
Hands to his face, she kissed his eyes, cheeks, chin with a tenderness alien to the wild glitter in her eyes.
"Oh, Greg, darling! Would you, would you . ... all the way?" His fingers brushed lightly over her lips. "I will."
He nibbled at her earlobe, plunging his tongue in her ear as she writhed, moaning, "Suck ... Suck ... Suck."
His lips nuzzled down the side of her neck and into the hollow beneath her chin. With a stiffened tongue he made light brush strokes on her breasts, sinking his face in the perfumed cleft, and breathed on warm tingling flesh. She cupped both breasts as he moved his tongue wetly across her rib cage. Pausing like a cautious skier at the brink of a snow-white slope, he plunged down the soft whiteness to her navel. Hovering there, tonguing it lightly, he felt tremors shiver across the smooth, fleshy planes of her belly. With gentle flesh nips, his mouth slid down to the crinkly mat and paused, his nostrils flaring with the intoxicating scent of the hot woman. As he settled between her legs, her body arched to expose her strawberry-red cunt lips. His mouth to the dew, he saw through the hairy thicket above the white expanse of her belly, and the slope of flesh ascending to her peaking breasts. Her head lolled, her eyes wide, nostrils spread, mouth distorted.
"Hmmmmmmmmm..................hmmmmmmm.
"she moaned, her fingers pulling at his hair.
He slid his hands under her buttocks, tonguing the inside of one thigh down to the knee, then back up to kiss the hairy wetness. Hands clasped over her belly, he parted the labia with the bridge of his nose and pressed against the tiny hard-on of her clitoris, while he lapped the sticky honey with a long-denied tongue. She moaned and moved wildly. As his stiff tongue worked inside, he tried to keep her joy bud in contact with his nose, but it kept slipping off like a bean off a mound of gelatin Hmmm.. Her body tensed momentarily
... hmmm ... his hands sensed the muscular spasms build ... OH! A WWW ... as she swung her buttocks like a hammock strung out in a strong wind....AWWWWWWWWW . ... nails dug into his scalp . ... AWWWWWWW ... the turbulence raged inside her....AWWWWWWW ... the frantic clutch of frenzied muscles, the wetness flowing faster, faster, faster ... he couldn't catch it. , .OH!
....OH!.-, .down, down, down ... the wracking violence slowed. . AHHH! ... subsided. . Ahhh!
... in one last vise-like clamp of her thighs around his head, she screamed.
Quiet.
Peace.
Kissing the lips, he laid her down and moved up to rest beside her, mouthing the deflating nipple. She lay with her eyes closed, breathing deeply.
He was no sooner stretched flat then she rolled over on her hands and knees above him.
"In here. In here." Her voice was heavy and husky in his ear as she arched above him.
"I want it in here." She was holding his hand to the moist, sticky hair between her legs.
He lifted his head to kiss the sweet curve of the throat that pulsated above him. The recognition of his need stood out in his proudly risen prick. It was thick and tree-hard, angling up like a new branch seeking sunlight in a dark forest. Greg opened his mouth and sucked on a soft nipple as her pendulous breasts swung down to his face. His unguided cock sought its own passage through the tangled brush that tickled the delicate tissues of his glans.
Dorothy's fingers combed a clearing, spreading the opening wide.
"Oh! Wider, oh! Wider, Ahhh!"
She sank down on him, the pink, bulging head of his cock disappeared, swallowed, drowned in the encircling, gripping, tightening, hot, wet, pussy-flesh. The coronal ridge of his cock throbbed in response to her cuntal grasp of welcome. Now, the exhaled duet of rapture began as probing head thrusted into viscous depths.
With his hand under her buttocks forcing her snugly to him, he held her writhing body impaled on the length of his shaft while his tongue explored the inside of her lips. As her hips rose in withdrawal, he felt the clamp of levator muscles milk his penis, allowing its retreat, tightening like fingers at the prick-head, then relaxing with the inward thrust. In unison, they built from a slow rhythmic In, hold! Out, hold! In, hold! Out, hold!. ... to a faster n' faster in out in out in out. "OH! DARLING! OH! OH! DARLING!"
And from the tingling in his toes, calves, thighs, back, buttocks the flow of nerve currents culminated in the perineum puckering of his anal sphincter. Pausing on the top stroke, he held her immobile while the charge rose to uncontrollable peak. Her nails dug into his flesh.
"NOW!"
"NOW!" they cried as he plunged, discharging rivers of semen into her warm wet depths. "AHHHHHHHH...............OHHH.......AHHHH Ohh! Ooo! Ah!"
He lay, weary, emptied, beside her, nibbling at breasts, nipples, lips, eyelids while she breathed deeply in relaxed recovery. As she stirred, he glanced at his watch.
"What time is it, darling?"
"A quarter to four. I have to get going."
"Greg!" she murmured, cradling her head on his chest, "am I going to see you again?"
"You'd better believe it."
"My husband is out of town frequently. May I call you at your office when I can make it again?"
"Certainly."
"Greg!"
"Yes?"
"I know your wife is very lovely, but be sure you save some of him for me." She patted his penis.
"You can count on it, sweet," he whispered, hugging her close. "You count on that."
"Greg?"
"Yes," he said, shrugging his tired arms into his shirt.
"Don't forget to leave your number."
He laughed and pulled out a business card. "You're expensive," he said, nestling the card in her V and kissing her bare tit.
CHAPTER TWO
He left the white, clapboard hotel, and slowly drove his Jaguar to the beach house. Martha was curled up in a lounge chair on the patio, reading Pinto Horse magazine. Horse pictures abounded in the house, and whenever she read anything, it was about horses.
"Hi," she greeted him, using the magazine to shield the late sun from her eyes. "Have a good time?"
"Beautiful. Got rid of all my inhibitions."
"What did you do?"
He looked back at her, but her eyes had returned to the magazine. He didn't bother answering, and she didn't seem to miss the answer.
He popped open a can of beer in the kitchen and came back to the patio. "I don't have much time so-"
"Oh, Dr. Clark called," she said, without raising her eyes from the magazine. "You won't have to pick her up. She'll be at the boarding gate."
"Good. That gives me time to shower. I'm all packed."
"You had a shower before you left."
"I worked up a sweat banging balls."
"What?" She put down the magazine.
"I knocked off at the office. Went to play some golf."
"Good," she said, crossing her legs.
Greg's eyes took in the curve of her thighs, the contour of her buttocks in her tight shorts, the swell of her breasts, which were pushed forward by her arms as she held the magazine in front of her face.
"Would you say you were bored, Martha?"
"Bored? Now what brings this on suddenly?" Her eyes scanning the picture of a Pinto stallion.
He said, "There's a beautiful sky." He turned to the sea, gazed at white sails dotting the blue waters of the ocean.
"Yes."
"Surfers out today."
"Yes."
"I would say, Martha, that what you need is a good fuck," Greg mumbled.
"Yes."
"Shit, Martha. Shit."
"Yes?"
Greg laughed out loud. Martha looked up from the magazine. "What did you say?"
"Nothing. I was just testing our communications." He sighed. "What am I going to tell your mother?"
"Tell her what?"
"Tell her why her daughter won't come home for a visit, that's what. I'm going there, you know. Today. Now. On the five o'clock plane."
"Please, Greg." Martha's lips closed in a thin line.
"Damn it, they expect you. And what am I supposed to tell them?"
"I don't like flying. You know that."
"Martha, that's stupid. That's not why you're not going, and they'll know that!"
She was back in her magazine. Son of a bitch, he couldn't get through to her. He pulled the magazine from her hands and threw it out toward the sand. It didn't sail far enough, and landed fluttering in an hibiscus bush. "Why the hell can't I ever talk to you? You owe me that at least!"
She sighed, but her knuckles were white against the arms of the lounge chair.
"I asked for time," she said. "I need time here by the sea."
"You've had three months by this fucking sea!"
"Please, Greg, I asked you not to talk like that."
"Do I shock you? Did marriage shock you? What the hell's the answer?"
"Greg, please! People have problems, that's all."
"My God, what problems do you have?" He waved his arm around at the beach and the sea and the expensive homes dotting the coastline. "Your belly is full. You have a bed to sleep in. You have a roof over your head."
"So do you," she snapped back. "What's your problem?"
"I want to get laid once in awhile, that's my problem. I want to feel I have a wife in my house. That I'm starting a family. That I'm a member of a community."
"We're all members of a community," she said listlessly. "We just don't all live in the community where we belong."
Greg changed his tactics. "Look, come back with me. Maybe we can sit down with your mother and father and try to straighten out whatever the hell's wrong between us."
"Don't!" she flared.
"Don't, what?"
"Don't you dare mention it to my mother. Or my father. It's our problem. My problem really, I guess." She had one begging, pleading hand in the air, and Greg relented, but couldn't resist the final words that were on the tip of his tongue. "Damned right, it's your problem. I'm up to here with it!"
He showered in five minutes, double-checked the contents of his travel case and suitcase, confirmed that he had his and Dr. Clark's airline tickets, his keys and billfold. He tossed the .bags in the back of the Jag.
He came back to the patio. "Ready?" he called.
They walked back to the car together, and he let her get behind the wheel so all she would have to do is drop him off at the gate and they wouldn't hold up traffic.
This was it. She acted as his chauffeur, his housekeeper, his cook. And fucking without her heart and soul in it didn't make a wife either. And that half-hearted fuck was only once ... on the night that was supposed to be the most glorious night in a virgin's life.
The wedding ceremony had been over. They had set out alone, with the rattling tin cans behind the car and the rice falling from their clothes. They had a bridal suite waiting on the top of New York City, and they had their own private dinner in the dining room downstairs. The orchestra. The smiling and knowing waiters. The cocktails. The champagne. The steak. More champagne. Dessert.
"The dessert I'll take upstairs," Greg said, and squeezed her hand.
At the door of their room, he carried her over the threshold. He set her down, kicked the door closed, and drew her into his arms. It was just the way it was supposed to be. It was happening just the way he had read that it was supposed to happen in marriage. No more chasing for stolen lays, hanging around bars, grabbing it from fearful secretaries during their lunch hour or before their boyfriends picked them up at the end of the day. He had entered the legitimate world, and it was wonderful to be there.
"Darling," he whispered, and felt her tremble. "It's going to be all right. Honest." He opened his mouth to her tight lips, used his tongue to push its way between her locked teeth. He sucked at her wet tongue.
"I love you, love you, Martha." His lips were at her ear, nibbling at the edges, stabbing into the orifice.
Her body was still rigid in his arms, so he reluctantly released her and tried to put to rest the maidenly fears she was exhibiting.
"Come on, let's look at the view we have." He led her to the window, holding her around the waist, and patting her hip with his free hand. "Darling, relax. I'll be very gentle," he murmured in her ear.
Halfway to the window, she stopped. "Oh, God." She moved away from him. "This is a terrible mistake."
He stared at her, uncomprehending, unbelieving; shocked as much by her shrinking from him as by her words. All he had ever heard about coy brides, virginal brides kaleidoscoped through his mind: "Take it slow. Take it easy, " the textbooks said, "but take it. "
"Let's get undressed, darling. Let's try."
He turned an armchair to face the window, lit a cigarette, and sat down. Following the progress of her disrobing by the click of opened suitcases, the swish of footsteps across the room, the opening of closet doors, and the metallic clink of wire hangers, he kept his gaze on the activities in the patio below. At the sound of a door closing and water running, he rose, stubbed out his cigarette, and began emptying his suitcases. Trying to squash his angry disappointment at being denied the thrill of undressing her, he cautioned himself to be slow and gentle with her. This had become an ordeal of dread, he thought, instead of a joust of joy. As the bathroom door opened, he looked up to see her standing in the doorway, the light outlining her figure through the filmy gown she wore.
"I forgot my dressing gown," she said, snapping off the light switch as she noted his hungry glance.
"You're a married woman now, my dear," he said drily. "The rules of modesty are slightly different." He switched off the floor lamp, and undressed in the dark. Fumbling for his toilet articles atop the dresser, he went into the bathroom. After rinsing his face and brushing his teeth, he turned off the light, and slid into bed beside her. For a moment he lay with his arm under her shoulders, feeling her tense beside him.
"Relax, sweet," he murmured, throwing the covers back. "Remember me? I'm your husband." His lips found the soft flesh of her breast, then the nipple as he nosed aside the strap of her gown. The nipple was hard and upthrust as he sucked at it gently. His hand reached up to pull the chain of the bed lamp and she covered her eyes with her right arm.
"Turn it off, please."
"Nonsense," he muttered. "I want to see what's in the package."
"Please!"
He put out the light. His cock was hard as flint at her thigh. She backed off to avoid contact, but his hand found her bare buttocks beneath the short gown, and he pulled her to him. His crinkly pubic hair was in contact with the tender skin of her hip as he kissed her, his tongue stiffly probing its way past her compressed lips.
"Relax, darling," he whispered over and over. "I love you, love you. Oh! my darling!" His mouth was in the perfumed cleft of her breasts, his hand caressing the soft inner flesh of her thighs, She sobbed. Raising his lips to her face, he tasted the salty moisture of tears.
"Darling, what's wrong?"
"Put it in," she whispered, between sniffles.
"Heh! What's the rush? We've got all night. As a matter-of-fact, we've got three whole weeks," he added.
"Do it now. Now, before I change my mind."
"Christ!" he muttered, leaning on an elbow and looking down at her tear-stained face.
"If you don't do it now, I will change my mind."
Flustered by an attitude he had never before encountered, he shrugged, spread her legs and knelt between them. Bracing himself with his left hand on the sheet, he lowered his hips, and his fingers, guiding the head of his cock, found the parting of the lips. The area was as dry as devil grass in July. Soaking his fingers in his own saliva, he moistened the swollen ridge, forcing it into the juiceless hole. He felt like a window trimmer forcing his tender-skinned swollen prick into a dry muslin mannequin.
"This will hurt the first time," he warned, poised before the plunge.
"Get it over with," she replied.
He had intended to ease it into her, holding it against the hymen while she pressured the rupture, but he sank the shaft to the hilt. A moment passed before he realized there had been no obstruction to its free passage. What an idiot I've been, he thought, some Tom has been in this pussy. He let it soak, throbbing in the depths of her, trying to stir up some response, harking back to his thoughts about lesbianism, wondering if some bull-dyke had broken her maidenhead with a dildo. He worked in her now with only one end in mind, to stir up the latent passions he had been sure were within her. But she lay impassive and unresponsive. Finally, she arched her back slightly and, with a quiet wiggle and a soft regretful sigh, she came. He waited for an unbelieving moment, then asked sarcastically, "Was that it?"
"That's it. Hurry. Finish up."
He felt like a fool, pounding into her, trying to bring himself to climax, and worse when he felt the lid blow off, grabbing little handfuls of hair to hold her head while he groaned and pressed passionate lips against teeth clamped to keep out his flicking tongue. He pulled out before the last few drops of semen ejected, and rolled off her.
Rising immediately, she rushed into the bathroom. As he heard the water running, he reached up to turn on the bed lamp, looking at the rumpled bed, the jism on the sheet, and his mucous-covered cock. "Shit!" he said aloud. "Shit!" He rose, lit a cigarette, and strolled over to the window. What the hell was the matter with this girl? What kind of a goddamned kook had he snagged onto? He was still facing the window when the light was snapped off. With the creak of bed springs, he turned and went into the bathroom. Closing the door and switching on the light, he soaked a hand towel and washed himself thoroughly. He sat on the toilet seat for ten or fifteen minutes, condemning his stupidity in being trapped in this mess.
When he did return to bed, he found her asleep, snoring lightly. He lay quietly beside her, half wakeful, half dozing, for an hour or more. He came awake suddenly, his mind triggered into awareness by a dream edging into his consciousness, and he found his hand holding a cock swollen and alive. Martha lay on her right side, her back to him, snoring loudly. Pulling the sheet down, he could dimly see the gown was above her hips, baring her shapely cheeks. He put his hand lightly on her buttocks, slipped his fingers into the crack, delicately probing the tight rectum. Her leg moved away from him, opening the area to easier exploration as his fingers moved over the perineum to the cuntal lips. Her buttocks moved back against his fingers as they slid into the opening. Encouraged, thinking this a conscious invitation while feigning sleep, he placed his cock in the crack, and, by raising himself slightly, slid the head of it in. Her asscheeks pushed back as he thrust further into her, and for a moment, he felt her come alive with response. He put the palm of his hand to her belly, pulling her into him. Stirring, half turned toward him, she grabbed his hand, tugging it from her belly as she pulled her buttocks away from him.
"Damn you!" She sat up and pulled the sheet over her. "What are you, an animal? Go to sleep." She lay on the edge of the bed with her back to him and tucked the sheet under her backside.
"Fuck you!" he muttered, rose, went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and, leaving the door open, performed an ancient rite he hadn't practiced since he was sixteen.
They had reservations for two weeks. They stayed for two days. On arrival at the new home he had bought for her in La Jolla, he had tried having intercourse with her again, with the same results. She had moved out of the master bedroom suite the next morning. Two further attempts at sexual relations with her had ended as fiascos. He hadn't touched her in the last three months.
As Martha turned the Jaguar into the horseshoe drive of the airport, Greg tried once more.
"Your Uncle Charlie will be there, too. I'm sure you want to see him. Didn't you stay at his ranch when you were a little girl?"
She busied herself with parking and lining up the Jag parallel to the passenger curb. "I was sixteen. But it doesn't matter."
"Well, too bad he was in Europe and couldn't make the wedding. Maybe he'll have the wedding present he promised. Your mother says he's quite a guy. I'm looking forward to meeting him."
Martha said, "It's just gate time. You'll have to hurry."
"Don't bother getting out," Greg said dryly. He opened the door, stepped out, and reached back for his bags. "Goodbye." He stepped back on the curb and slammed the door.
A porter reached for the bags. "What flight, sir?" He showed the tickets. "Gate five, sir."
"Greg!"
He turned back to the car.
"Nothing. Sorry."
She nosed the car out; then it was gone, tires squealing.
CHAPTER THREE
The lunge of the car and the squeal of tires frightened her into acuity. She braked the car to the legal limit of fifteen miles through the loading zones, and stopped at the first yellow line for crossing pedestrians. Taking Kleenex tissue from her purse, she glanced into the rear view mirror, wiping tears from her cheeks, and saw Greg still standing on the walk, looking after her and shaking his head. God! What am I doing to him, she thought. He was right, it was her problem. It had been her problem before she'd ever met him. She'd been a fool to think the repetition of ancient marital vows would wash away the festering guilt she had borne these seven years; a guilt she could never bare to anyone. Was she a child when she had last seen Uncle Charlie? No, a grown woman.
On looking up, she was shocked to find the car stopped at the red light of Barnett and Midway Drive. Her subconscious mind and reflexes had brought her safely this far. She gripped the wheel to keep her mind on the task at hand, and reached home without incident.
Although she had no appetite, she made herself busy in the kitchen, scrambling eggs, making toast and coffee. Even though she dreaded Greg's presence in the house, always fearful of his occasional attempts at affection, she was more uneasy when alone. Not that she feared trespassers on the premises; an alarm system would automatically summon help within minutes. Far more frightening was the prospect of mental intrusion of images from the past to rouse shameful passions beyond her control.
What would her parents think when Greg showed up tomorrow without her? She had planned to go with him, but had decided against it when she received Mother's letter the other day with the news that Uncle Charles would be a house guest. Uncle Charles! Charles! Unbidden, the name fell from open lips, and the mind, savoring the honeyed taste of it, filled with the bright image of an Arizona summer sky, and the memorable scent of clover fields and piney woods, the sound of creaking saddle leather and the soft clop of horses' hooves in heavy grass. Beyond control now, came the flood of remembered details of that unforgettable summer.
At 16, she was already an expert horsewoman, having won blue ribbons in both show and jump classes. Her father's brother, Charles, had spent most of the month of May as a guest at her parents' Lake Forest home, while he looked over prize bulls in the area, seeking breeding stock for his ranch in Arizona. At a dinner party at the Club in celebration of her victory in the horse show over the holiday weekend the last of May, Charles had suggested she spend the summer at his ranch. She was thrilled at the prospect of spending a summer with horses, an idea much closer to her heart than a three months' tour of Europe with her parents. Charles assured her parents that she would be adequately chaperoned by his foreman's wife, and that she would have companionship with the foreman's daughter, who at fifteen was also an excellent rider. Martha insisted her preference for spending the summer in Arizona so vehemently that she overcame her parents' mild objections, and two weeks later, Martha stepped off a plane at the Phoenix airport into 110 degree noonday heat.
Uncle Charles was waiting for her at the gate, and bending over, he swooped her into his arms and kissed her. He had never kissed her on the lips before, and she thrilled to his manly strength and tobacco-scented breath. Striding along beside him with his arm round her shoulders and his tall slender figure appearing even taller in the high-crowned Stetson, she felt very mature. At the baggage counter, he handed her luggage checks to a porter and guided her outside to a beige Cadillac.
"Might as well wait in here out of the heat," he said, opening the door and settling her in the front seat. He started the motor and turned on the air conditioner.
"Thank God for that," she said. "Is it always this hot?"
"Here in Phoenix it is. Up at our place it's very pleasant."
"How far is it?"
"Two hours. You're going to love these next three months, Marty."
"I'm sure I'll never forget them."
As they drove north on Black Canyon Road, he pointed out the various species of cacti, and other desert flora and fauna.
"But I thought the desert was nothing but sand."
"No." He chuckled. "This is the desert."
"Gee! I have a lot to learn," she said, her glance sweeping the sandy reaches to distant blue-misted mountains.
"Learning is all part of life, Marty." He lapsed into silence while she chattered about the ever-changing scene. After an hour, the desert gave way to grassland stretching off in all directions. "Uncle Charles, look. No more desert."
"We're in higher country now. Much more rainfall. This is excellent grazing land, but it gets even better up where we are."
"Uncle Charles," she said, turning toward him, "what's that girl's name?"
"What girl?"
"You know, the foreman's daughter. The one you said I could ride with every day."
"Oh, her." He pushed the Stetson back on his head, wet his lips. "Yes. You mean Susie. Well, she's not there any more."
"Aw!" Her lips pouted in girlish disappointment.
"I'm sorry, Marty. When I got back from Chicago two weeks ago, I had to fire him. He'd been drunk all the time I was gone." Without looking at her, he patted her knee. "Don't worry, little girl, that means you can spend all your time with me. There's so much to do, so many places to go, riding, swimming."
"Do you have a swimming pool, Uncle Charles?"
"Better than that, there's a natural pool about a half mile from the house, in a wooded glen."
"Boy! That sounds wonderful."
"We turn west at the next crossroad. We'll be there in ten minutes."
Five miles down a gravel road, he turned into a lane, drove about a quarter mile and pulled into a circular drive before a large two-story frame house, freshly painted white, with a front porch and balcony that stretched across its width. An old Mexican shuffled down the steps, and opened the car door.
"Manuelo and his wife came with the place," Charles said, as he escorted Martha up the steps and into the entrance hall. "I'll show you to your room, Marty. You'll want to freshen up, change into something more comfortable. Manuelo will fetch your bags."
They climbed the mahogany staircase that curved to the second floor, his firm hand on her arm restraining her eager pace. At the top of the stairs, a broad, carpeted hallway ran the width of the house, with white doors opening into rooms on either side. Martha paused, glancing down the corridor.
"Goodness! What a big place."
"That's my room," he said, nodding toward the double doorway before them. He turned her to the right. "And I thought you'd be most comfortable in here." He opened a door down the hall and stepped aside to permit her entry.
"Oh! Beautiful!" .
The room was very large, furnished in antique mahogany, with a tester bed covered by a white satin counterpane to match the canopy. Hand hooked oval rugs were spread over the waxed oak floor. Charles crossed the room and opened a glass-paned door.
"Come, take a look at the view." He led her onto the balcony. They stood at the rail, taking in the sweep of grasslands rolling to dense pine woods a mile away.
"Oh, I'm so thrilled, Uncle Charles."
"Let's start being grown up now, Marty," he said, his arm going round her waist, and his hand under the swell of her breast. "Drop the 'uncle' bit. Call me Charles."
"Yes," she said uncertainly, feeling his hand slip away as she turned to look up at him. "Yes ... Charles."
"That's better." He brushed his lips lightly on her forehead. "Now, just make yourself at home, take a snooze, or browse around, as you please. I have some things to look after. Dinner's at six. No formality, just a clean face and scrubbed hands."
Her suitcases were spread open on luggage racks, and she put her clothes away. She opened the door to the bathroom and was astonished to find an open door on the other side, leading into the adjoining bedroom. Strange, she thought, a house this large with only one bathroom on the second floor. Locking the door, she undressed and showered. She was tired but was in no mood to sleep. Donning levis, sneakers, and a sweat shirt, she went out into the hall, stared curiously at the closed doors along the corridor, and decided to glance into them. Knocking lightly at each one before opening, she was surprised to find each room completely furnished, spotlessly clean, and each with its own bath.
"My God!" she whispered, trembling at the remembrance of his kiss and warm embrace at the airport, and the touch of his hand on her breast. Oh, God, how can I handle this! But what did she want to handle? What did she want to have happen?
Panicked, she hurried back to her room. Should she pack? Demand to be driven back to the airport this afternoon? He'd ask why. She'd have to tell him why.
Adjoining bedrooms and common bath? There was nothing wrong with that. He was her uncle. He was family. Besides, this was probably the finest guest room in the house. He gave her that. Probably planned to occupy another room himself during her stay. She was acting like a frightened child. Let's start acting grown-up, he'd said. Yet that had two meanings, didn't it? She turned the questions over in her mind as she remembered the touch of his hand on her breast. Was that because he really thought of her as a child, or did he know what a girl feels when she's sixteen?
She was unbearably confused. Confused at her interpretations of his behavior and confused at his actions, which to her seemed so obvious. Or was it only obvious because she thought of it that way?
Confusion again.
She would do nothing until he made an undeniable pass at her. The thought of what such a pass would entail sent tingling electric sensations up and down her legs. Her vagina tingled at the thought of him. My God, she must be going out of her mind. This was Uncle Charlie-her mother's own brother.
What in the world had started her thinking this way? It was just that everything here, including her Uncle Charlie, was so ... so sexy. And she knew she was. She had to admit it. And she was afraid that Uncle Charlie had recognized it ... maybe when he saw the way she looked at horses. She liked horses, liked to feel that living, vibrating flesh and muscle between her thighs ... liked to feel the bounce of the saddle between her legs ... liked McClellen saddles especially, where the horse's backbone came right up into her snatch, where she could rub against it ... rub ... rub....
She stood before the mirror and wiped the tears that had rushed to her eyes. She slipped off her sneakers, shrugged down the levis, turned the bedspread down, and dropped heavily onto the mattress. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was. She hardly had the strength to slip her hand between the elastic of her panties and the silky down of her pubes.
As her fingers stroked through the fuzzy mat, her left hand moved up under her small bra to cup her right breast; the thumb massaging sensitive circles around the hardening nipple.
Drawing on the memory of male genitalia she had seen pictured in textbooks, she closed her eyes to conjure up an image of Uncle Charlie's penis. God! What would I do if he came in now? Spread my legs like this ... let him put it in like this ... let him move it around, like this ... let him go up and down in me like this ... let him push in and out in me like this? Martha's middle finger wetted itself in her vaginal opening.
My cunt! she thought.
And the cock in me is Uncle Charlie's cock ... Uncle Charlie's cock! oooh! good! good! Uncle Charlie! Uncle Charlie! Oh, fuck me, Uncle Charlie! Give me your cock, Uncle Charlie! I want your big cock, Uncle Charlie!
Her legs fanned the air as she tore off the cotton panties that restricted her hand's movement. Her breathing was deep and wild, and she sucked air in open-mouthed gasps as the ridge of her palm slid over the clitoral area....faster, faster as the currents gathered....faster, hand ... faster, cock....faster, Uncle Charlie....faster, faster ... OOOOOOOO....body arching up ... "OOOOOOOO ... chest heaving ahhhhhh ... AHHHHHHH....Oh! OH! OHHHHHHAAAHHHHH!"
Then she lay utterly relaxed, body bared to the desert air, nostrils flaring to catch the acidulous scent of her own juices.
Sleep folded around her like a blanket. A steady knocking at the door wakened her in the dusty twilight.
"Yes?"
"Dinner in five minutes, Marty."
"Thank you, Uncle Charles."
"Charles, if you please." A loud laugh sounded over fading footfalls.
"Yes, Charles," she murmured. She rinsed her hands and face quickly, ran a comb through her boyish-cut hair, then slipped the panties back on and rolled up the levis. In the living room, she was pleased to see Uncle Charles was dressed in the same levis, khaki shirt, and high-heeled boots he had worn to the airport. It was so ... so horsy looking.
Dinner was served by a freshly scrubbed Manuelo in high-necked white jacket. The roast beef and the spicily sauced vegetable salad were delicious. She was being treated like a grownup woman on a grownup date. Martha studied Uncle Charles. She had never noticed the extremely close resemblance he bore to her mother, the same deep gray eyes, thin face, and strong chin, curly black hair. Charles was three years younger than her father; that would make him thirty-five. How handsome he was, she thought.
"What are you thinking of, Marty?"
"How handsome you are," she replied, speaking the thought in her mind, then lowering her head in embarrassment. "Oh my, I didn't mean...."
"I hope you did. I can't remember when a lovely young lady said that to me." He rose. "Shall we sit out on the porch for a while?"
"Fine."
They sat for an hour, listening to the chirp of crickets, the occasional hoot of an owl, and their own intermittent chatter. Martha yawned.
"You better get to bed, Marty. Breakfast at seven every morning, and I've planned a big day for you tomorrow."
"Good night, Uncle Charles."
"Charles, please. Growing up is hard to get used to, I guess. Good night, Marty."
She used the bathroom first, hurrying through the usual routine. She checked the outer panel of the door into her bedroom, but there was no lock on that side. She undressed, put on a new pair of pajamas, opened one of the two windows, and climbed into bed. Lying quietly, wide awake, attentive to every sound, she strained to hear the creak of the stairs under his feet, waiting to learn whether he would sleep in the next room. She was almost asleep, however, when the noise of a toilet being flushed brought her sharply awake. Light seeping under the bathroom door gave notice he was using that room. As she lay quaking with the frightful possibilities imagination summoned up, the light went out, the lock on the door clicked, followed by the sound of the opposite door closing. For half an hour or more, she lay rigid, clutching the bedclothes under her chin, her eyes staring at the door. Then the odor of cigarette smoke drifted into the room through the open window. Stepping out of bed, she put on her terry cloth robe, and crossed the room. Easing the door open, she peeked around the frame. Uncle Charles was seated in a canvas lounge chair outside his room, smoking and looking up at the moon.
"Oh, it's you," she said. "I thought I smelled smoke."
"Thought you were asleep, Marty. Come on out for a minute. It's a lovely night." He rose as she stepped out. "Let me get another chair."
"No," she said, "I'll only stay a minute." A quick glance told her he wore only a pair of pajama shorts. She noted the muscular arms and chest, the lean flat belly with the streak of black hair below the navel.
"That's all right. You see more at the beach," his niece said, and bit her tongue, not just for repeating her stupid thought, but for admitting she recognized what she saw.
What she had seen was a quick glimpse of his hairy crotch in the open fly of his pajamas. She fought off a wild urge to plunge her hand into it.
"Uncle Charles, do you like living alone, like this, up here?"
His laugh echoed across the dark space of the night. His slender fingers reached out to grasp on close on her small hand.
There! He's doing it! He's reaching out for me!
She pulled her hand back involuntarily, and he let it go. He used it to take the cigarette from the corner of his mouth and douse it out in a stand at his knee.
Why doesn't he start something? Even the high school boys she necked with knew how to get on with it. They just didn't know where to go. She was sure Uncle Charlie knew where to go.
She was eager to feel his hands on her. She loosened the belt of her robe, moved closer, allowed her left hand to drop over the arm of his chair; felt shivers of delight as her fingers touched his naked flesh; felt the involuntary shudder of his belly muscles under her fingers. He looked so much like her mother. She'd feel so comfortable in his arms.
Damn it! Why doesn't he do something! She raised her left knee so the robe fell away, baring her leg to the hip. She deliberately, now, let her fingers trail across his belly to the navel, down into the hair reaching up from below.
"Uncle Charles ... Charles."
"Yes, Marty?"
"Do you like me?"
He drew a deep breath, chest expanded, and exhaled slowly.
"Ah! yes."
Her fingers made circles down along the hairline. As her hand pressed into the mat of wiry hair, she felt a warm flush throughout her body, and a tingling in her hardened nipples. Her heavy breathing was loud and timed to his. Gingerly, her fingertips touched his cock, ran along the length of it, pushing aside the binding cloth. Oh! she thought, as they closed around it, how big it is! I could never take that in me. His hand closed over hers.
"Marty!"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"Yes."
He stood up and his pajamas fell away from him. He held out his hand to help her up. Her robe opened as their bodies came together, and she felt his cock between her legs, hot, throbbing. His lips closed over hers as he crushed her to him, and her mouth opened to his stiff probing tongue.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Marty?" he asked, holding her away from him.
"Yes," she replied, nestling her head on his chest.
He lifted her into his arms with ease, and carried her into her bedroom, depositing her beside the bed. As he turned back the covers, he asked, "Your first time?" She nodded. He stripped the robe from her shoulders, and lifted her onto bed. He went into the bathroom, and returned with a bath towel which he folded and spread under her buttocks. Lying with arms spread as he lay down beside her, she felt his lips nibbling at her breast, nuzzling in the valley between them. Her body arched up to meet his stiff tongue descending in wet brush strokes across her belly, and her hands on the back of his head pressed his face closer. His mouth was in her pubic hair, teeth biting gently, pulling strands up, his tongue working into the parting of the lips, the tip of it circling her most sensitive spot. Every nerve in her body was alive, currents of delight flowing all through her. Against her breast, she felt the throbbing head of his cock, and the fingers of her right hand encircled it. Lifting it from her breast, she scooted her head down, bringing it to her lips. She kissed it lightly, the taut skin satin smooth as she ran her tongue round the ridge. Opening her mouth, she closed her lips round it, felt it throb, thrilled and frightened at the size of it. Her loins were on fire now, cunt alive to his active tongue. "Ohhhh!" she moaned...."OHHH! Charles." Gripping his cock tightly against her cheek, and arching her body up, she froze for a moment. "OHHHH! Charles, I'm coming, I'm coming," and she felt his tongue taut against her clitoris as her hips began thrashing wildly. "AWWWWW ... AWWWWWWWWWW CHARLES, CHARLES ... OHHHHHH ... OOOOOOOOOO ... OOOOOOOOOOOO....OHHH Ohhh ... Ahhh ... Charles ... Ah!"
Feeling his warm face on her breast, she opened her eyes. "Oh! Charles," she murmured, fingers caressing his neck, "Oh! Charles." His cock, hard and stiff, thrust against her thigh. She turned to him, taking hold of it to guide it between her legs. "You didn't come," she whispered.
"Not yet." She could feel the throaty chuckle as he nuzzled her breast, and rolled her over on her back. "My little girl is growing up awfully fast." His lips closed over her open mouth, lips wet with the salty colloidal film of her own passionate juices. Between her legs, she felt the throbbing bulge of his cock thrusting in the moist, tender, hairy skin. Spreading her legs, she took hold of it, guiding it into position.
"Oh, Charles, it's so big!"
"No problem, baby, it'll fit. Relax now." He inched forward, parting the labia with the tip of it, then holding it poised. "You know this will hurt some the first time."
"Uh!" she groaned, releasing her hand hold.
"Easy, now, relax."
"Oh!" She felt the swollen head of it enter, and tightened her inner muscle round it, holding it out.
"There," he said, pushing gently, and stopped as she moaned. "Now," he whispered as he tongued into her ear, "I'll hold while you break it."
Her hand clutched his buttock, pulling him to her as she raised against him. "Oooh!" she moaned as the painful pressure mounted. He started backing off, but she held him. "No, don't take it out." Sweat on her forehead dripped into her eyes. Arching her back and raising her legs in the air, she felt his cock thrust against the barrier. Pushing, pressing, she dropped her legs over his buttocks. "Now! Push!"
"Oh, God!" she cried, "Oh, oh!" The pain was intense as the bulging cock broke through the membrane and thrust into her. He lay motionless, kissing the tears from her eyes.
"Darling, I'm sorry, but it had to be. I'm sorry, sorry."
"I'm glad that's over. Don't be sorry, Charles. I wanted you to do it." Her fingers pinched the flesh of his back, from his shoulders down to his buttocks and back up, thrilling to his supple musculature, as she tingled to the fullness of his hard cock filling her completely, so long, so thick, the swollen end of it pushing against her uterus, throbbing with a rhythmic beat. Raising her legs again over his buttocks, she arched up against him.
"Feel better, sweet?"
"Hm! It's still sore." She felt his hips rise, as the hard shaft drew back, and gasped as it passed through the tender area.
"All right?" he asked, pausing.
"Yes. It hurts, but it feels good, too." As the ridge of it poised inside the mouth of her cunt, muscles inside of her she didn't know she had clutched it in tight embrace.
"Oh! That's good," he whispered, swelling the head of it in response.
As he thrust into her again, her muscles relaxed, permitting the full length of it to plumb her depths. Unmindful of the soreness now, she worked with him in timed slow rhythm, opening to his inward thrust, clamping round on withdrawal. "Marvelous!" the word whispered by him? By her? no matter, as the pace of stroke increased. Again she felt the deepening pools of pleasure throughout the flesh of her body, the flow of delight through nerves, tissues, peaking in the clitoral area. As they paused for a moment to delay the climax, she thought how odd! This hard flesh within is flesh of my mother's flesh, flesh of my own flesh, partly like an extension of myself thrust deep within me. "OH! Charles! NOW! NOW! NOW!" as flesh melded in one flesh in thrashing binding paroxysms of shuddering shattering delight. ...
* * *
That was when she was sixteen.
Now Martha stirred fitfully, opened her eyes to present reality, propped in bed in her home in La Jolla. She glanced at the clock: 10:15 Pacific Coast time, 12:15 in Chicago. Greg had already reached the Palmer House, was probably already in bed laying Dr. Clark. She hoped so, he deserved all he could get. And Charles? What was Charles doing? Having a nightcap with Mom and Dad? Charles! Sliding her hand up under her nightie, her fingers touched hairy outer lips. WET! Oh, Charles, Charles, Charles!
CHAPTER FOUR
The hands of the clock over the registration desk at the Palmer House stood at 12:15. Greg checked his watch as the desk clerk reached for keys in the rack behind him. Scribbling numbers in the upper corner of each registration card, the clerk tapped the bell. A porter stepped up to the desk.
"Mr. Fox in room 1800, Dr. Elizabeth Clark, room 1802," he said, handing the keys to the porter.
"Elizabeth, care to join me in a nightcap?"
"Very much," she replied.
This was his first trip with her on a sales demonstration. Tom Gallo, the sales manager he had fired for one bender too many, used to make these trips with her before. Greg wished he knew just how the boss should handle a child psychologist.
"Let's try the bar downstairs," he said.
Standing inside the door of the crowded room waiting for table assignment, Greg noticed the envious stares of male patrons, and he tucked her hand under his arm. Elizabeth was a woman no one could ignore, he thought, with her slender figure clad in a fitted navy suit and sheer blouse with small ruffles at the neck. A waiter led them to a table against the wall, next to the lobby window, and took their order for bourbon and water.
Greg leaned back to study her closely, aware for the first time of her allure as a woman. She had come to him two years ago, highly recommended, with a fresh doctorate in child psychology. He had hired her, with some misgivings, to head up product research and development. He had been delighted with her originality and brilliant performance that had spurred a sharply increased sales volume. But due to his firm resolve never to get involved with company executives, he had until now considered her solely as his most valuable co-worker.
The waiter brought their drinks.
"Here's to success tomorrow, Elizabeth."
"To success." She sipped at her drink. "We'll do it, Greg." She leaned across the table and patted the back of his hand. "Remember, I'm a trained child psychologist, and men are children."
"Is that why you patted my hand-like a little baby on the fanny?"
Elizabeth tossed back her black mane of shoulder-length hair and laughed. "I'm on your side. You have nothing to fear."
"Don't tell me you're the one who drove Tom Gallo to drink."
"Hardly. My charms held little for him."
"Queer?"
"Oh, no. Just that he had a Victorian conscience. A man can't be out in today's world with yesterday's rules. The guilt will drive him to drink or kill him."
"Tell me more, Doctor."
"That is mankind's problem today. Not what we do, but the guilt that shackles us for doing it. We either have to stop doing it or stop feeling guilty. It should be obvious even to a snail that we can't stop doing it."
Greg broke Elizabeth's discourse by starting to rise from his chair. He had caught a glimpse of Robin, Martha's mother, at the door. The man with her wasn't Martha's father, yet, he looked vaguely familiar. He started to raise his hand to attract her attention, but checked the impulse as Elizabeth's philosophy rang in his ears and he saw Robin's escort reach for the door with one hand while with the other hand he patted her derriere affectionately.
The wide grin on her face as she looked up at the man, and the girlish nudge of her elbow in his ribs settled Greg's doubt. He sank back in his chair. She's going to get herself fucked, he thought, and the man she's with is not her husband.
"Someone you know?" Elizabeth asked.
"I was mistaken." He watched the couple turn toward the elevator, the man dangling a room key from his hand.
On the way up to their rooms, Greg chatted aimlessly, thinking of Martha's mother in one of these rooms, already in the middle of some kind of sex game. Why hadn't her daughter inherited this yen for fucking?
"You're a great guy, basically," Elizabeth was saying. "I hate to see you get hung up like Tom Gallo."
"I know how to hold my liquor," Greg answered.
"You're worse off."
"I don't get you."
"This isn't a clinical analysis, of course," Elizabeth said as they reached their adjoining rooms, "but from a professional observation, I'd say that you're trying to live in two worlds at the same time. The time is rapidly approaching for you to declare your allegiance to one of those worlds.! Don't make the mistake of picking the wrong one."
"Morally?"
"Oh, Greg, you don't understand me at all. I'm not in the business of morals. I'm in the business of contemporary life. I'm saying, don't look for what appealed to you as a child. Look to what appeals to you as a man."
Greg's mind flashed back to the redhead delectably stretched out on the bed in the gray clapboard motel room. "I think adult things appeal to me," he grinned.
"I'm right next door for clinical confirmation," Elizabeth retorted, and entered her room. She left the door open. Greg pulled it shut behind her, and turned to his own.
He showered, and huddled under the bedclothes, his mind filled with thoughts of Martha and what she alluded to as her problem. Mixed with this were images of Martha's mother fornicating somewhere in this hotel. He tossed restlessly, and tried to keep his mind off the hard-on that was building between his legs.
Somewhere in his sleep he thought he heard a tapping on the connecting door that separated his room from Elizabeth's. But it couldn't be. Hadn't she said he had nothing to fear? He had nothing to fear? Shit. She was the one who was supposed to have something to fear. Was that what she meant in her analysis? Shit, just woman talk. Woman talk, hell. She held a doctor of philosophy degree in child psychology! He sat bolt upright, listening intently. The tapping was repeated.
The room was in total darkness. There was no outline of walls, ceiling, or any furniture. Her room must be the same. No line of light appeared under the door. The tapping was repeated. He got out of bed and followed the sound.
"Elizabeth?" he whispered.
"Greg?"
The connecting door clicked open, and each extended groping arms in front of them. Greg's two hands fastened simultaneously on Elizabeth's tits. Each filled a hand. Each was like electricity to his fingers. He let them slide forward, like milking a cow, to grasp firm nipples between thumbs and forefingers. He rubbed them. They extended like tongues from the warm flesh around them. He burrowed his head in them, inserted both in his mouth at the same time, and licked them ferociously.
Elizabeth's hand probed at his chest, slid down his belly to his cock. She wrapped her fingers around his semi-hard penis and playfully tugged at it. Her other hand came around at its base, and began stroking the tensing balls. Between the two stimuli, the cock doubled its length and grew hard as concrete.
They said nothing. Their breathing was loud in the dark room, but their voices were mute. There were no wheezes, grunts, groans, moans, or squeals. By a Braille system, they directed each other into position. As far as they knew, they were still in the doorway, when Greg turned Elizabeth about. He knew her back was to him by the full roundness of her ass as it pressed up against his belly. Both of her arms were behind her, still gripping his cock, tugging at it. He pushed her shoulders gently, and she let go and bent forward.
He let his hands slide down her back as she lowered herself. Finding her still too high, he nudged her back again, and she bent over until her hands were holding her ankles. Her cunt opened right at his prick head.
Holding his prick with his right hand and resting his left hand on Elizabeth's hip, he guided his cock into the mucous hole. It was hot and spongy, and absorbed all of his prick as he let it slide in to the hilt.
He let it soak, without moving a muscle. Elizabeth remained still. Then Greg pulled it back, all the way out. Again he inserted it slowly; pushed it forward until his hips danced against Elizabeth's strained thighs. Again he drew it out, a little faster this time so the pressure wouldn't make him come on the withdrawal. He waited, let it stand in the air, till the pulse in its base slowed and control came back to his balls.
He took his right hand carefully off his cock so that the manipulation of his fingers wouldn't stir the skin and blast the cum all over the back of Elizabeth's ass. He heard her gasp tightly. It was the nearest she came to uttering a sound. He placed his right hand on her right hip so now both hands had her locked in position. The prick needed no guidance to her throbbing cunt. He leaned forward and let his cock find its own way in. It struggled forward, half inserted, as he stayed back from her. Then as he shuffled a half-step forward, the cock moved ahead of him. It dragged him all the way to her cervix, and continued in a static staccato at the end, where it could move no farther forward, only lurch' up and down and side to side as it tried to rid itself of the overpowering force that was thrusting it from behind.
In her bent-over position, blood had poured to Elizabeth's head, and she felt every muscle in her legs strained to bursting. Her whole body waited on the alert for the surge of the penis as it tantalizingly moved in and out. In the silence, it made a slurp, slurp, squish, squoosh sound, and she felt a scream build up in her throat and rush to her head. Her nails were digging into the bones of her ankles, and she knew the convulsive shudder of an orgasm. Again. Again. Each time Greg inserted his penis ... each time he withdrew it ... she had orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, like a chain reaction, like nuclear fission or constant combustibility ... and yet she knew the best was yet to come.
Greg panted. Pushed. Held. Released. Reacted. Inserted. Thrust. Stopped. Lifted. Shoved. Bent. Jabbed. Held. Started. Stopped. Withdrew. Waited. Started. Jiggled. Jammed. Jumped. Felt it. Held it. Wanted it. Denied it. Worked it. Soothed it. Moved it in. Moved it out. Humped it. Pumped it. Shit, let it go. Now, now, now. Slower. No faster. Faster. Faster. FASTER. In, out. In, out. In, In, IN. Come. COME. COMMMMMMMME!!!
The blast threw Elizabeth forward and Greg followed. She threw her hands forward to break her fall, and Greg wrapped his arms around her hips, like a lineman bringing a halfback to the turf. She sprawled full-length on the floor, arms and legs extended, and as Greg landed on top, the force of his fall drove his prick forward inches beyond what it had ever been extended before. "EEEEOOOOOOWWWWWHHHH! "
It was Elizabeth's one shriek of the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
The administrative offices of National Chain Stores Corporation were located 35 miles northwest of Chicago. The building, a one-story structure of gray limestone, spread across a knoll in the center of rolling meadows bordering a forest preserve.
"Five minutes to ten," Greg remarked as he parked in the visitors' lot. "I hope the samples arrived."
"Stop worrying, boss," Elizabeth chided him. "Wait'll you see me perform. I'm quite good at it." She radiated her competence, Greg thought, although her gray mini-dress and the matching band in her hair gave her the appearance of a young coed.
Within minutes of the announcement of their arrival, they were ushered into an executive office in the west comer of the building. Three men were seated at a conference table, the top of which was covered with toys. The men rose, and one of them, a thickset man with graying hair, stepped forward with extended hand.
"Mr. Fox, I'm George Cable."
"A pleasure, Mr. Cable. This is my associate. Dr. Clark, the head of our research department."
"Well, Doctor," Cable said, his black eyes narrowing as his glance swept over her, "delighted, yes!" Gesturing toward the two men, he added, "May I introduce my associates? Bob Johnson, divisional merchandise manager."
A short blond man with rimless glasses nodded to Elizabeth, offered his hand to Greg.
"And this is Oscar Phillips, buyer of the toy department."
A tall, dark-skinned Negro smiled, shook hands with Greg.
"What field is your degree in, Doctor?"
"Child Psychology," Elizabeth replied.
"A very interesting field," Phillips commented. "I minored in Child Guidance."
"Fine." Elizabeth impulsively offered her hand, smiling warmly. "I'm glad to meet a colleague." Noting Phillips' pleased response, Greg was sure Elizabeth had won a friend at court.
"Oscar opened your samples this morning," Cable said. "Shall we start?" He seated himself behind his desk, motioning the other two men to chairs on the side of the table opposite Greg and Elizabeth.
"Gentlemen," Greg began, but directing his attention to Cable, "We are grateful indeed for this opportunity to present the product line of Growth Toys, Inc., the leader in the manufacture and sale of educational toys and games. And to explain the principles behind our planning and merchandising, I shall call on one of the foremost experts in the field of modern child psychology, our own Dr. Clark." Greg nodded to Elizabeth and sat down.
As Elizabeth launched into her presentation, Greg watched the reactions of each man closely. Her opening statement that the learning environment of the first eight years of a child's life determined both his rate of mental development, and his adult level of intellectual capacity, brought the expected response from each. When she followed this with statistics proving that half of all mental growth and development has been achieved before the age of five, and that the next 30% is gained between the ages of five and eight, Greg knew she had hooked their interest.
After the presentation, Cable walked around his desk to place a hairy hand on Elizabeth's arm. "A splendid performance, Doctor. Let's sit down and visit for a few minutes."
Greg maneuvered himself between the two as Cable escorted Elizabeth to his office. "We have another presentation to make this afternoon, Mr. Cable, and I must get out to Lake Forest to see my in-laws-"
"George. Call me George," Cable said to Greg, but not taking his eyes off Elizabeth. "And you mean the Harts, Wally and Robin. Good friends of mine. They made this appointment for you as I recall."
"Yes, sir-uh-George, that's right. And I haven't seen them for three months so-"
They were at Cable's office, and he stood back to usher in Elizabeth. He entered after her, before Greg, "Wally's out of town this week, didn't you know? Let me have my secretary get Robin on the phone, if she's home."
He seated Elizabeth and came around his desk to talk into the intercom. "Perhaps we can all have lunch together and discuss your catalogs and price lists."
The phone rang. Cable answered, and handed the receiver to Greg. "It's Robin." His eyes refocused on Elizabeth's legs. She had them crossed, dangling one over the other, and as Cable's hypnotized gaze came up, Elizabeth smiled and uncrossed them so that Cable could see up her skirt to where her two thighs joined. Then she spread them further so he could see how they joined.
While Greg talked to his mother-in-law, he divided his attention between the sound of her voice and the sight of Cable tonguing wet lips as he stared at Elizabeth's legs. Over the desk top, Greg could see her legs crossed, and an expanse of white thighs. A real cocksman, thought Greg, as he cradled the receiver.
"Sorry, George, we won't be able to have lunch. I'm due at the Hart's early this afternoon."
Cable swivelled round, his heavy jowls sagging in disappointment.
"Wait," he said, his thick lower lip pursed as he paused in thought. "Greg, no use in your driving all the way downtown. You can get to Lake Forest direct from here. Elizabeth can have lunch with me and I'll drive her back."
"No," Greg replied after a moment's hesitation, "I have to pick up a gift Martha gave me for her mother. And we have that other presentation to make." In a side glance at Elizabeth, he caught her in the act of extending the tip of her tongue at him.
"I'm very disappointed," Cable said, rising. "Maybe you could come out to the house for dinner tonight. Eleanor loves to meet new and exciting people."
"Sorry, not this trip, George. Our schedule's just too tight." As Cable escorted them to the door, Greg added, "If you and your wife ever get out to the Coast, Martha and I would love to have you spend a weekend with us."
"Better mean that," Cable said with a chuckle. "Company policy requires inspection of plant facilities of new suppliers. If we adopt your program, I'll arrange to handle this myself."
"We'll look forward to that. Many thanks." Driving east of Touhy, Greg glanced at Elizabeth, staring ahead silently, a pout on her lips.
"That was a magnificent performance, Elizabeth."
"Thanks," she replied dully.
"What's wrong?"
She turned to glare at him. "I have no calls to make this afternoon."
"No." Greg laughed. "Cable's a first class cocksman. I didn't want...."
"Damn it! You're not my guardian."
"Elizabeth, this deal's too important to screw it up with sex before it gets winging."
She lapsed into resentful silence, lasting until the car pulled up at the Palmer House.
'Take it easy this afternoon," Greg said.
CHAPTER SIX
"I'm glad you all waited for me," Elizabeth said. "Just give me a minute to unpack my favorite toy and game."
She had taken a cab from the Palmer House right back to National Chain Stores Corporation, where Cable, Phillips, and Johnson waited around the same conference table.
Cable wetted his heavy lips with a thick tongue. "We remembered your references in your presentation, Doctor, and we thought Mr. Fox was a member of the team."
"He's a non-playing coach," Elizabeth answered.
Phillips asked, "I trust there's no color discrimination in the playing?"
"That just lends spice to group participation," Elizabeth smiled, and in one motion she shucked her dress for the comfort of step-ins and bra. "Will someone help me unzip?"
Phillips' black hands were quickly outlined on her white back. His fingers deftly uncoupled the hook of the bra, and Elizabeth moved her arms out like a swimmer taking two short strokes backward. Then she turned around, handing the bra to Phillips. He immediately put it to his nose and sank into the leather executive chair that rocked behind his trembling knees.
Cable and Johnson ogled the pneumatic swell of Elizabeth's breasts. Cable tentatively put out his hairy fingers and pressed against the resilient flesh. "Can we help in the demonstration?"
"Why don't you take off my panties? They're so binding."
Cable dropped to his knees. The thick, stubby fingers shook as he rolled the nylon garment past Elizabeth's round hips, down her thighs, until it was just a band shielding less than half of her pubic area.
Then Johnson was behind her, rolling the material down to her knees, his nose prodding between the cushions of her derriere, his tongue pressing between the cheeks.
Cable, down before her on all fours, licked her pubic area like a happy puppy dog.
The high heel of one shoe flipped away the panty; then Elizabeth stood tall, hands on hips, legs spread, as she surveyed her audience.
"All right there, Phillips," she reprimanded like a schoolteacher. "This is a social game. Don't go off playing by yourself in the comer."
Phillips clutched the bra in one tight, black fist, and came up to straddle Cable. He put his face in the scent-filled valley of Elizabeth's breasts.
"Now, all together," Elizabeth said. "Tongues out ... lick once ... tongues back."
They obeyed, but shook their heads in frustration at the delay.
"This game is remarkable for the development of discipline," Elizabeth explained. "It will stay with you for the rest of your lives."
"Develops character," Cable panted.
"Good for the sinus," Johnson muttered.
Phillips sank his chocolate lips over the pink spread surrounding one nipple. Elizabeth slapped him. He didn't stop. She slapped him again.
Phillips brought his head back to proper waiting position. Her hand print still showed white against the dark pigment of his skin.
"With children, we must exert two disciplines," Elizabeth admonished, "Internal-which you must master, and external-whereby you are mastered." She slapped Phillips again. Harder. And again. He whimpered. "Now kiss nice."
His head came forward gratefully, and he nuzzled the tit, his face pushed into the golden flesh to his eyebrows. The two men at her feet barked like dogs.
"That's enough now," Elizabeth said. "That's enough." She had to rap Phillips' fuzzy head to get him back in position. "You see, with children," she said to all, "you must extend a reward after punishment so that they learn to prefer one above the other. The beauty of this game-which is Greg Fox's loss leader for the week-is that punishment is as desirable as the reward."
She leaned forward and kissed Phillips on his thick lips. When he started to kiss back, she slapped him again. But playfully. Then she was all business again.
"I would like you all to take off your clothes. Fold and pile them very neatly in the corner. Then come back here and resume your positions."
While they busied themselves like good little boys, Elizabeth dug a high-sheen lipstick tube from her purse, held a compact mirror to her mouth, and carefully glazed her lips. She then ran her tongue over them to set the cosmetic. The tingle from the meeting membranes sparked a shiver of anticipation from deep in her belly. She kept rubbing her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
Johnson was the first back in position, but he stumbled in his eagerness to get his nose placed properly in the crack of Elizabeth's ass. She stepped back and let one spike-like heel dig into the back of his hand.
He stifled a yelp, and whined. Elizabeth lifted her foot and kicked him smartly under the chin with the back of her heel. He quieted.
Cable docilely nestled between her legs, his face longingly looking up at her vagina, his tongue distended to a stiffened point.
Phillips straddled Cable again, and held his face, like a pointer's, between Elizabeth's arching breasts.
"Now," she began again, "tongues out ... lick once ... tongues back."
They performed as bidden; then held themselves suspended.
"Very good! Tongues out ... lick once ... tongues back....Tongues out ... lick once ... tongues back . ... Tongues out-lick once-tongues back. ... Tongues out-lick once-tongues back-tongues-out-lick-once-tongues-back...."
She whirled, leaned over Johnson and brought a stinging slap to his humping bare ass. Then she wheeled around, caught Cable out of position as his body descended forward in pursuit of her moving cunt, and sent one foot flying forward so that the point of her shoe caught him at the end of his dangling balls. He screamed, and Elizabeth followed with a slap to the mouth. Twice. He lowered his head and groaned.
"All of you did very well, and I should repeat the demonstration to prove it was no accident, but I'm sure you appreciate that we're running late." While talking, she absently patted Cable's head below her, rubbed the back of Phillips' neck in front of her, and moved her ass against Johnson's nose behind her. "So we'll move right into free-time, which is part of every well-structured game." The ass moved faster. Her hand behind Phillips' head thrust him forward. The palm on Cable's skull ground his face into her pussy. "For exactly sixty seconds you can play with the toy to your heart's content!"
Johnson's hands flew up to grip her buttocks and spread the flesh so that his whole face, from forehead to chin, tried to enter the small, brown asshole that belonged to Elizabeth. His thrust was aided by Cable's lunge forward as his tongue flashed out to bury itself in the coarse, smelly bush whose urine sting unfurled his cock and rammed it forward like a piston. Phillips abandoned the bra he had been gripping, and he grasped both tits at their sides and pushed them tightly against his cheeks while his mouth slobbered against the delicious meat.
Elizabeth rocked back and forth, as from an internal shock wave, as wild tongues lashed her electric skin, probed the crevices of her body, and sucked madly at the juices of her organs.
Sixty seconds flashed by unnoticed. An entanglement of arms and legs and tongues and pricks and one wayward cunt slithered across the floor. One corner of the conference room halted their forward movement, and the spaghetti of their contortions straightened out to find Elizabeth in the center, her pussy being eaten by Johnson who had maneuvered his way from anus to vagina without abandoning a lick.
Elizabeth's teeth had Phillips by the tip of his blue-black prick, and her mouth worked pneumatically and spasmodically against the rock-hard bone that set her mouth on fire.
Cable, in turn, had his lips wrapped around Johnson's cock, while his own hairy asshole was engulfed in Phillips' wide, slobbering mouth.
With everyone's mouth full, they all erupted in silent orgasms together, without any verbal signal or direction. In one cosmic come, the corner of the room seemed to swell, heave, and burst ... and as jism dripped from lips and thighs, Elizabeth shouted, "You see what happens when you don't enforce discipline!"
It didn't matter, because the order for toys would be the greatest she had received yet from any company.
CHAPTER SEVEN
An hour after he left Elizabeth, Greg was in Lake Forest, turning off Lake Road into the Hart estate. From the entrance gate, he could see the two-story residence of tan stucco, standing on a high point centered in acres of woodland. Pulling into the circular driveway, he parked beyond the broad steps, got out of the car to stand for a moment admiring the architecture.
"Gregory!" Mrs. Hart stood in the doorway, hands extended, smiling a welcome.
"Hi! Robin," Greg said, bounding up the steps, and sweeping her lightly into his arms. He brushed a kiss across her cheek. "So nice to see you."
"Where's Martha?"
"She was all packed, ready to leave. Then decided at the last minute not to come. She's had a cold for the last ten days she can't shake." Greg hoped he sounded convincing.
"Oh, I'm so disappointed," Robin said, taking his arm. "My brother Charles is here. He'll be so unhappy to learn Martha's not with you. He hasn't seen her once in the last seven years." As she talked, she led Greg through the broad hallway, opening a door into a glassed-in porch with a view of the blue reaches of Lake Michigan.
"Charles," Robin called, "He's here."
From a leather lounge chair at the far end of the porch, a tall slender man rose, then advanced to meet them.
"Well, Mr. Fox," he said as he extended his hand, "We meet at last."
"Uncle Charles," Greg replied, grasping the other's hand. The last time Greg had seen this man's right hand that was now pressing his so firmly was last night at the door of the Palmer House bar, when it lay affectionately on Robin's ass.
"I'm sorry to have missed the wedding," he was saying. "But it's not too late for me to welcome you into the family, Greg."
"Thanks very much," Greg replied. Jee-sus! he thought, no wonder Martha wouldn't come when she learned Uncle Charles was in town; she'd probably known of this incestuous mess, and couldn't face them together.
"Care for a drink?"
"Please, bourbon and water," Greg answered.
While Charles poured drinks at a portable bar, Robin and Greg seated themselves in lounge chairs. As they exchanged small talk, Greg studied her, fascinated by the allure of her shapely legs and slim hips.
"Wallace won't be back until the middle of next week," Robin said.
Charles brought them drinks, then sat in a chair next to her.
"Sorry to miss him. I'll be here only a day or two."
"A belated toast to the newlyweds," Charles said. "How's our gamine adapting herself to marriage?"
"Fine."
"Where are you staying, Greg?" Robin asked, raising the glass to her lips.
"At the Palmer House."
"Oh!" Robin gasped, spilling her drink.
Greg was amused by the furtive glances between them, and added maliciously, "We checked in around midnight." As Robin dabbed a paper napkin at the brown stains on her yellow dress, Charles rose.
"You had someone with you then?"
Greg thought Charles was making conversation, in order to cover Robin's confusion. "Yes, Dr. Clark is with me."
"I'm sorry I have to leave," Charles said. "I told you I have some business to attend to, Robin." Turning to Greg, he asked, "Shall I see you again?"
"Not this trip, I'm afraid."
"If you and Marty can find the time, I'd like to have you spend a week or two at the ranch soon."
"If we ever can," Greg replied, shaking hands. "I'll see you out, Charles." Robin excused herself, and the two of them left.
In the few minutes of her absence, Greg wondered how long their illicit lovemaking had lasted, and whether Martha's knowledge of it had caused her sex hang-up. When Robin returned, they chatted for half an hour, with Greg aware of a nervous thrill sustained throughout her gay prattle.
Greg drove slowly back to town, his mind pondering Martha's problem. He could understand now her refusal to talk with a psychiatrist. How does a woman find the courage to confess, even in the strictest confidence, that she knows her mother has been fucking her younger brother for years?
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was for years. It had started when they were in high school. It was easy for Charles to talk to Robin about their classmates. It was convenient to ask her who put out and who did not.
In those days there were just two kinds of girls, good girls, who did not, and bad girls, who did. Nobody's sister was supposed to be a bad girl. Yet all the fellows were fucking somebody's sister.
Charles was enraged when he learned Robin was supposed to be easy to get into. He accused her of it in a whispered argument one night in the bedroom hallway after everyone else had gone to bed.
"Ralph Meeker tells me you fuck."
"Ralph Meeker is a liar."
"I know Ralph Meeker-he's my best friend. Every girl he's fucked, I've fucked too!"
"That's a terrible thing to say. I'm going to tell Mommy and Daddy that you do it."
"I can do it-I'm a boy."
"So what? If you're a boy, you're doing it to some girl."
"I'm not doing it to you, am I!"
"I bet you'd like too, though."
"My own sister?"
She shrugged in the half dark. "The boys say I'm best. I hold them back from coming. I come with them. They call the other girls seconds. That's what you're getting-seconds. "
"But you're my sister!" His voice shook, but it was less emphatic, more questioning.
Robin's hand stole out to him. She picked the darker shadow showing through the gap of his pajama fly, entered, and lucked-out by finding Charles' prick finger-stiff from their conversation.
"See? Your penis is just as hard with me as with anybody."
He choked, gasped, and his whole body turned as rigid as his little prick.
Robin's girlish voice had turned husky, like a woman's-like the older woman's in a movie where she's saying to Ramon Navarro or Rudolph Valentino, "Yes, yes, I'm yours-take me!"
She said, "With another girl you have to worry about getting Daddy's car, or getting her alone, or getting her to say yes, and all that kind of time-wasting nonsense."
"But you're my sister!" It was his only theme, his only argument, his only defense.
"We're right here. We're here every night. We're mostly alone. We care about each other and we're not going to do anything to hurt each other, like strangers might."
Her right hand was pumping his prick. She used the left one to guide Charles' trembling fingers to her tiny twat.
"Here, feel. It's so soft and smooth. But when it gets wet like this it wants to be fucked. I can't help it. If you don't do it, I'll have to do it to myself."
"Jesus! Oh, Je-ms," Charles was hissing. He had leaned over, had both hands on Robin's cunt.
"Don't you do it to yourself sometimes, Charles? Isn't it better to do it the right way and not spill your seed upon the ground?"
Her legs were spread like a girl playing jacks, and she guided Charles toward her by tugging on the prick, while at the same time she rubbed it up and down and forward and back so that it would be ready for her by the time she got him on top of her.
"Fuck me, Charles. Fuck me!"
"Don't use words like that," Charles rasped. "I can't believe you use words like that!"
"Just get on top of me. Just put it in me, Charles, little brother, little, baby brother. Come on, Charles, fuck your sister. Here, let me help you."
She held his thin shaft with thumb and forefinger and placed it at the edge of her vagina. Then she used her other hand to peel back the pink lips so that the glans was covered by the hot moisture of her love pocket.
"Here, brother, here's the place."
"Oh, sweet sister!"
"Aren't you glad I'm your sister? Aren't you glad we can do this every day, every night ... do this for the rest of our lives ... do this, together, whether anybody else wants us or not ... do it all "Oh, my," Charles said. "Oh, my!"
His ass vibrated and his knees jerked a couple of times. He came as soon as the top of his prick hit his sister's warm cunt and felt her juices squeeze around his skin. His come was just a shiver, and most of his prick was still outside Robin's vagina, the time ... do it ... do it ... do it ... fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.....................forever, forever, you and me ... my brother, my brother!"
"Oh, damn!" he said. "Oh. goddam!"
"That's all right, little brother," she soothed him. 'That's all right. We have all night, little brother. We have all of our lives to do it right."
He was still on top of her, and his lips were mouthing her budding breasts. Robin still had her arms about him, rubbing his back. Her legs were entwined around his calves, and her toes were rubbing up and down on his ankles, on his heels, on his instep. She let one hand come down between them, push down to where his wet prick lay, soft and inert against her, and in her, and on her pubic hair.
"I'll get you hard again. See, I'm getting you hard again right now. Did you know boys can come more than once if girls do it right? See how much better this is than doing it for five minutes in a parked car? We can take our time, Charles. We'll learn how to do it right, together. It's like being married. It's in the family. "
"It's incest," Charles said, "my God, it's incest!"
"It's in the family, Charles. It's in the family. Daddy does it to Mommy, and they're in the family. Is it incest when Daddy fucks Mommy? It's only a word, little brother, only a word. Come on, get hard. Here, let me suck it hard."
She scooted around and was between his legs. "Come on, cock. Come on, cock. Let me kiss you."
"Oh, God, Robin, not that! Oh, God, Robin!"
She had it up to her mouth, kissing it like a little bird.
"Until you get hard, kiss me, back, Charles. Until you get hard. Only until you get hard, all right?"
He didn't want to. But he hadn't wanted to fuck her either. But he had. He had! He had fucked his own sister. And now she was sucking his cock. She was a cocksucker. His sister! And now he was going to suck her cunt. He was, he was. It was in his mouth. It smelled funny. It smelled good. It tasted funny. It tasted good. Good. It made his prick start getting hard. He could feel it growing. Bigger than it ever was before. Her mouth was hot. Her tongue was like a snake. She knew how to keep her teeth from biting his prick. Her fingers were playing with his balls, rolling them, fondling them, hugging them....they were up to her cheeks, on her throat, in her hair, her eyes, her mouth ... in her mouth ... both balls and the prick. Her tongue worked on them all, separately and together. His prick was like a flagpole. His prick was big and hard and stiff and long and hot and wet.
He was on his back. Her legs were on either side of his face. She was on top of him. Her ass was on his nose. His tongue was as far as he could push it up her cunt. It worked in and out, up and back. He felt the roots being tom from his throat. Her ass blocked his nostrils-he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe! He brought up both hands, lifted her, gasped ... couldn't stay away from her cunt....went back, both hands now pulling her cunt apart so he could get his whole face in, get the tongue in so it would reach all the way up to her belly button ... work its way out from the inside ... in, in ... farther and farther....he pushed her thighs tighter against his ears ... let his fingers work hard on the round curves of her ass....feel it, feel it!
He rolled over so that he was on top of her. Now his nose pointed down into her cunt. Now he could smell it, all of it, all of her. It made his prick bigger and harder and wider. It couldn't get any bigger. It got bigger. It felt like he was coming, only he wasn't coming. God, he could come like this for years, and yet never come. For the first time, he could keep coming, without coming.
He heard her voice from far away. "Now, now!"
They slithered around. She was up on hands and knees. He mounted her from behind. They could see the hallway stretching away before them, the window at their back casting moonlight shadows toward the door of their parents' room.
"Fuck Mother! Fuck Mother!"
"Fuck Daddy! Fuck Daddy!"
His prick slipped right up her vagina. He wrapped his arms around his sister's belly, laid his head down on her back, and began humping. 'Round and 'Round it went. 'Round and 'Round. The front of his thighs up tight against the back of his sister's thighs. 'Round and 'Round, it went. 'Round and 'Round.
It was so far inside her she could feel it at the base of her throat. She pushed back against Charles so her ass rubbed against his belly, against the coarse, pubic hairs that trailed up from his crotch to his belly button. Reared her ass against him so the crack spread wider and wider and harder and harder. She was coming from all over. Her fingers were coming. Her toes were coming. Every pore. Every follicle of hair was dripping wet. Come, come, come, come. Girls could come all night. Girls could come forever. Girls could come whenever they wanted as long as they had a brother who knew how to fuck and she could teach him how to fuck and she had taught him how to fuck and he was fucking her and fucking her and sucking her and sucking her and fucking her....Now it was in, now it was out ... now it was sideways ... now it was up ... now it was down ... now it was in. Fuck, Fuck....
The door at the end of the room opened. A light went on. It shot out into the hall, like an escape from imprisonment, to catch them, pin them down, hold them in that position, until their mother's screams tore at their eardrums, until the horror of their father's voice split them apart to run to their rooms, to want to jump out the window, to want to kill themselves so they'd never have to face those faces.
Only it was their mother who jumped out the window. And it was their father who dropped dead on the spot.
CHAPTER NINE
Stopping at the newsstand in the hotel lobby to pick up the evening paper, Greg met Elizabeth who was paying for an armful of magazines and two paperbacks.
"Hi!" she greeted him cheerily. "I slept all afternoon, probably won't sleep a wink tonight."
"Hello, Elizabeth. Going to your room?"
"Yes."
"Just a minute. I'll get my key from the desk, and be right with you."
After a minute's wait at the crowded desk, the clerk handed Greg his key and a telephone message. Scanning the penciled note, he bumped into a man approaching the desk.
"Well, we meet again."
"Charles!" Greg said, noting the deep flush spread under the dark tanned face. "You staying here?"
"Was. I'm checking out. Business."
Elizabeth touched Greg's arm. "Ready?"
"Oh, Elizabeth, excuse me. Dr. Clark, may I present Mr. Earle."
"How do you do?"
"Dr. Clark." Charles murmured, offering his hand, then taking hold of her elbow.
"Dr. Clark is head of our research department," Greg explained, noting Charles' firm hold on her arm.
"Won't you two join me in a drink?"
Greg saw Elizabeth's eyes flick a query.
"I'm sorry, Charles. We're late now for an appointment." He waved the message slip.
"Maybe I'll be lucky to spend a little time with you in the future, then. Delighted, Doctor. Goodbye, Greg."
On the way to the elevator, Elizabeth took his arm. "Whew!" she whistled. "Is he super-charged."
"I wouldn't know," Greg responded dryly.
"Isn't he the man we saw in the bar last night with that sexy older blonde?"
"Yes." Greg smiled, wondering if Martha's mother would appreciate the description.
"God! Those gray eyes of his gave me a going over. I felt like he'd even stripped off my girdle." When Greg made no answer, she asked, "Who is he?"
"Owns a ranch somewhere. I met him only once."
In the corridor upstairs, Elizabeth asked about the appointment he had mentioned. Greg handed her the message: "If plans changed and free tonight, wife and I anxious to see you both. Call before six. George Cable."
"How about having a drink in my room?"
"Give me five minutes," Elizabeth said.
Alone in his room, Greg poured his favorite bourbon, and settled down with the Daily News. He had skimmed through the sport pages, when he realized ten minutes had gone by.
He rapped on the connecting. "Am I supposed to be joining you, or are you joining me?"
She opened the door. "I have tender feeling for this spot right here." She played with the belt of the single robe covering her nakedness.
"What spot?" Greg said innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"A dream I had last night. I was keeping a rendezvous with a man, right here, not falling into a bed by accident."
"Listen, I'm a married man now. I can't deliberately arrange things."
"But you're not above a bit of pussy here and there."
"I can't turn my back on it, no," he admitted. But he knew he could if he were getting it from Martha at home as he was supposed to be.
"Well, the hell with it," she said. "Where's that bourbon? At least I don't play games. I get it where I can get it, when I can get it, as often as I can get it." She danced her way to the bar and poured her own drink.
"You mean after that session this morning you're hot to trot already?"
She looked back at him over her shoulder. "Would you believe-" Then she shook her head and laughed. "No, you wouldn't believe. Never in a million years." She raised her glass. "Here, a toast to your Victorian conscience."
"Elizabeth, you wouldn't understand." Damned if he would tell her about Martha. But at the same time, he was tired of her putting him down. He downed the drink and shucked his clothes almost at the same time. He looked down at the stiff prick jutting out from between his legs, and looked up at Elizabeth. "Anytime, anywhere, anyplace?"
"Try me." She undid the belt of the robe, and let the garment slide down her body to the floor.
"How would you like it?"
"I'd like it if I had to undress you first."
She obediently picked up the robe, donned it, and tied the belt at the waist. "If you can wait, I'll go back and dress." She started for her room, but as she passed Greg, he slid his hand inside the gown.
The breast he reached was firm, the nipple a stiff nubbin under his circling thumb. He undid the robe and flung it back to reveal the alluring stretch of nakedness that was his to do with as he wished. He cupped the breast to his lips and gorged his mouth with the tender flesh. He sank into the lounge chair and pulled her into his lap. For the second time, the robe fell to the floor.
He trailed fingertips across her navel, causing colonic spasms of her belly muscles. As his fingers worked through the dry hair of her delta, she inched her buttocks forward, spreading her legs to give easy access to his probing fingers. He felt her wet tongue circle round the edges of his ear, then plunge stiffly in as his middle finger found her joy bud.
"Oooh! Baby likes that!" she murmured, her ass squirming against his throbbing cock. "More, oh, more!"
With three fingers cached in her oozing gully, his thumb massaged her mini-prick in rhythm timed to the slow suckling of her breast.
"Ooooh, Greg! You lovely bastard, you," she whispered, biting the lobe of his ear.
"Hmmm, hmm!" he mumbled through a mouthful of tit, fingers working faster to match the increased tempo of her wriggling. Her buttocks were rolling and pitching now like a rowboat in a choppy sea.
"Oooooh! Damn you," she cried. "Kiss me. Kiss me." As their lips met, her tongue darted into his mouth, and her body rose stiffly against his buried fingers, hung for a moment as though impaled, then tossed in wild convulsive jerks. Though he felt her teeth sharp on his inner lip, Greg's firm grip gentled her over lessening peaks until her moaning ceased. With a soft sigh, she dropped her head on his shoulder. Nostrils flaring at the cuntal scent, he trailed fingers up her belly, and across breasts and nipples, leaving a trail of her fragrant juices.
She lay relaxed in his lap for several minutes while Greg nibbled at her breasts, then she breathed into his ear. "That was good, good, good. Kiss me."
Placing his wet fingers to his lips, he slid them away as their mouths joined. "Tastes delicious. Shame to waste that."
"Ha!" She giggled. "The fountain flows all night. Besides, every which way, remember?"
"Yes," he said, his cock thumping lively affirmation against her ass.
"Oh, oh! Something's calling down there." Sliding off his lap, she dropped to her knees before him, shrugged her robe from her shoulders. "Time for unveiling," she said, throwing both sides of his robe away. "Oooh! look at him!" His prick jutted tall from black hairy growth, a thick throbbing club of haughty muscle. Sliding her hands up his thighs, she leaned forward to kiss the glans and tongue the drops of clear liquid from the meat. "Hmm! I love that cock!" she whispered, holding it with firm fingers and nibbling at the coronal ridge, then tonguing down the underside to his scrotum.
Her long black hair prickled his skin as she nuzzled up and down the inside of his thighs, then up and across his belly to set nerve ends aquiver. Scooting down in the chair to make the area more accessible, Greg marvelled at her loving expertise. Closing her lips round the crown, her tongue and throat muscles tightened in a deep sucking motion that sent nervous quivers clear to his rectum. Greg lifted his legs over her shoulders, dropping his feet under her belly, the toes of his right foot working in her pubic hair. Fascinated, he watched more of his cock disappear, heard her gag once, then saw her adjust the angle of her head as the entire length of it vanished. He could feel her nose at his belly, her lips in his pubic hair, and the bulbous head of his cock throb deep in her throat. Unbelievable! he thought, she's swallowed all of it!
"Oooh!" he murmured, "what a sensation!" He could feel her tongue and lips working as she drew her head back, the thick shaft reappearing. "I saw it, but I still don't believe it. How do you do it?" he asked, fingers massaging her scalp.
"He's a big one." She stretched the foreskin, watching the crown pulse, then looked up at him with a grin. "You like?"
"Love it! Do it again. Maybe I'll believe it this time."
Her lips opened to kiss and enclose the swollen head, her tongue encircling the underside of the ridge, round and round, stirring riffles of nervous delight coursing through his shaft and testicles. She gobbled it by inches now in noisy suckling, gagging, then took the full length. Greg closed his eyes, raised his nates as he felt her hand cup his scrotal sac, and a fingertip move along his prostate to his rectum. Every nerve in his body tingled, his skin flushed with currents of delight flowing down his chest, belly, back, buttocks, and up his calves, thighs, all centering in his perineum, filling a reservoir of pulsing joy. As his body stiffened, her hand tightened on his scrotum and her fingertip slipped past his sphincter.
"Take it, baby, take it!' he whispered hoarsely, his fingers in her hair. He felt the nod of her head, the sharpness of her teeth on the tender skin of his coronal ridge, the strong suction of her mouth, his own sphincter clutch her finger, as the first surge of his semen jolted past his prostate, exploding in a flow of tingling delight, followed by another and another and another while her lips clamped tight around his flailing club and another lessening in intensity and another, her suction building as the pulsing flow ebbed. Tension eased, he kept hands to her head as she vacuumed the last drop from his softened cock, nosing into the crinkly hair. Easing the flaccid stub onto his scrotum, she nuzzled about his pubes, nibbled up his belly onto his chest and to his lips while she settled in his lap.
"Ah!" he whispered, as her tongue probed into his mouth, daubing his lips and tongue-tip with the salt of his semen. "Baby, this looks like a long night." Brushing a kiss across her eyelids, he added, "Let's order up a couple of steaks and a salad."
"And a big pot of coffee. I'll freshen up."
Greg had shaved and showered by the time the waiter wheeled a cart into the room. Signing the chit with a generous tip, he dismissed the waiter, then called Elizabeth. Although the steak and salad were delicious, they both hurried through the meal. With each bite, Elizabeth leaned forward, the loose folds of her robe baring her breasts in a tease that matched the provocation in her smile.
"Had enough?" Greg asked. Elizabeth nodded. "Let's get rid of this then."
"Save the coffee for later," she suggested.
Removing the coffee pot and cups from the cart, he wheeled it to the door and set it out in the hall. Elizabeth had already turned the covers back on the bed, dropped her gown, and was stretched out, arms extended, when he returned.
"Come fuck me, lover," she said, smiling up at him with moistened lips.
Dropping his robe, Greg lay beside her, his lips nibbling her breasts and nipples, fingers trailing over her belly, through pubic hair and into the crevice between swollen lips already sopping wet.
"I'm ready now," she whispered, taking his stiff prick in her right hand, and pulling him over her with her left arm. As he knelt between her knees, she rubbed the crown of his cock in the moist slit, but as he pushed for entry, her hand held him off. "No, no. Not there. I want it up the ass."
"What?"
"I love it up the ass." Raising her legs in the air, she guided the head of his cock to her rectum. "Honey, it's awful big, so take it easy."
"Right," Greg murmured, "let me have it." Holding the thick shaft, knowing the swollen glans was half as large again, he doubted her sphincter would take it. "Relax, baby, relax," he cautioned her, feeling her rectum spread against the tip.
"Maybe it's too big," she said nervously.
"I'll wet it good," he replied, intrigued by the thought of anal intercourse, a routine he'd never tried. Soaking the corona in her cuntal moisture, he brought it close again. "Let go, honey, relax," he urged, feeling the hole open, "easy, relax." He felt the sphincter open as she groaned, then tighten as the head entered.
"Oh! Oh!" she gasped.
"Okay?" he asked, holding position. "Shall I take it out?"
"No, hell no." She giggled. "We made it! Hold still for a minute. Let me get used to it." She crossed her legs over his buttocks. He could feel her rectal muscle tighten, release, tighten around the head of his cock, bringing him close to orgasm.
"Hey! Hold it!" .
"Can't take it, eh?" She laughed, pulling his lips to hers. "Oooh! It's big! Feels so good!"
Urged into motion by the spur of ankles on his buttocks, Greg pushed into her until his testicles rested on warm skin, and his pubes ground into her soaked lips. As her legs clamped to hold him still, her sphincter tightened round the base of his cock, and the enlarged head of it deep within her throbbed in response. Thrilled with the novel delight, Greg now followed her muscular leads, withdrawing as her sphincter relaxed, holding at the top for a momentary massage, then stroking to the bottom, holding, throbbing deep down there, back, hold. Ah! Ah! murmuring together, while the charges built in every nerve, every tissue, currents flowing, concentrating, perineal areas afire. Ah! my darling, my sweet, faster faster faster Ah! Ah! Ah! tongue to tongue nipples stiff to nipples stiff legs locked round buttocks cunt glued to pubic mound and penile shaft countersunk spewing bolts of liquid delight into abyssal depths Ah! Ah! my sweet sweet! Ah! Their convulsive spasms finally stilled, they lay locked close, his flaccid cock slipping from the clutch of her sphincter to plop out to rest.
Greg could later recall neither the sequence of routes used, nor the exact number of orgasmic peaks they had achieved. They had showered together two, three, or was it four, times, and during' one of these, after soaping his limp prick into slippery hardness, she had leaped into his arms, twining her legs about his hips, and he had fucked her standing up, his hands in precarious support of her slick bucking buttocks. He could ever after sense on recall the smell, the salty sweet taste of her copious juices, the toughness of her hardened joy bud against his nose and tongue, the clutch of vaginal muscles on his thrusting cock. And never would he forget, on waking at six after two hours of restless sleep, the soft warmth of her mouth on his reawakened prick, and the smell of her cunt in his nose. Ah! he thought, as his lips burrowed into her moist slit, poor Tom Gallo! If I ever live through this, I'll take up drinking too.
CHAPTER TEN
The NO SMOKING-FASTEN SEAT BELT signs flashed on. Off in the distance, Greg could see the downtown section of San Diego, the purple hump of Point Loma, and beyond, the great reaches of the blue Pacific. He took a last puff of his cigarette, then stubbed it into the ashtray. Elizabeth pressured her arm against his.
"Greg, I want you to know I enjoyed every minute of this trip. Hope we can do it again soon."
"Not too soon. Christ! I'll need a month to recuperate." Over the muffled thump of lowered landing gear, he heard her quiet chuckle. Noting her bright eyes and gay smile, Greg thought she looked as fresh and eager as a playful pup. How in hell do these women do it, he wondered. He felt, and looked he was sure, like a frazzled tomcat after a busy night. On reflection, he was glad he hadn't called Martha to meet him at the airport as usual. He had called his secretary instead.
They stepped off the plane in the brilliant sunshine of early afternoon, Elizabeth tugging his hand to the swell of her breast as he helped her down the ramp.
"I have a phone call to make, Beth," He said, as they walked to the exit gate. "If this man can see me this afternoon, I wish you'd take my bag with you, and have the cabbie drop it off at my house."
"Be glad to."
Inside the terminal, Greg stopped at the first phone booth, asked Elizabeth to wait. After a quick call, they proceeded to the baggage claim counter. "I'm staying downtown," he said. "I'll put you in a cab, if you don't mind."
"Not at all, Greg. Thanks for everything. I've never had such a delightful time."
"It was that," he replied, "and, exhausting." Laughing, he took her arm, nudging her breast as they followed the porter and his baggage cart through the door. He stopped short, dropping Elizabeth's arm.
"Christ!" he muttered. Martha stood at the curb beside the beige Cadillac, her hand on the open door.
"Taxi?" she called cheerily. Her lips broke in an impish smile that matched the knowing look in her eyes, as she regarded first one and then the other. "Have a good trip?"
"Fine," Greg answered, brushing an indifferent kiss across her lips. "I didn't expect...."
"Thought I'd surprise you. When you didn't call last night, I figured you were very busy." She glanced briefly at Elizabeth. "So I called your secretary this morning...."
"Elizabeth, I'm sorry. Martha, you never met Dr. Clark."
"How do you do, Mrs. Fox?"
"My!" Martha exclaimed, her glance appraising Elizabeth's shapely figure, "you're so young, so charming."
"Thank you, Mrs. Fox."
Beneath the polite purring, Greg could sense the click of unsheathed claws. Directing the porter to the rear of the car, he unlocked the trunk, saw to the storing of the luggage and the closing of the lid.
"Martha, I have an important business appointment downtown. Would you mind driving Elizabeth home?" In a side glance, he saw Elizabeth's face flush.
"Oh, fine!" Martha said, with a sly smile. "We'll have a chance for some girl talk."
Helping Elizabeth into the car and closing the door, he grinned in answer to her silent mouthing, "You bastard." He chuckled as the car pulled away. Elizabeth would find the next half hour a nasty ordeal even for one with a swinger's modem conscience.
Fifteen minutes later, a cab deposited him at the entrance to the medical center on Sixth Avenue opposite Balboa Park. A tall slender man with gray hair and a craggy, lined face stepped up as Greg paid the driver.
"Hello, Bill." Greg clasped the bony hand warmly. "Sorry to impose on you like this, but I need help."
"My next appointment is at two-thirty, Greg. I always take a coffee break around this time." In a sweeping glance, his gray eyes took in the cloudless sky, and the sweep of greenery of Balboa Park. He inhaled deeply. "Let's skip the coffee and spend fifteen minutes in the fresh air."
Crossing Sixth Avenue, they strolled in silence over soft turf to find a vacant bench warmed by the bright sun. Bill Farnham had been Greg's favorite golf partner for the past five years, and he cherished the quiet hours he spent every week in the company of this thoughtful man. Farnham leaned against the bench, his left arm outstretched along the back, his eyes closed in repose, while Greg sat stiffly, swinging his foot in small circles.
"Doctor." Greg paused. Strange, he thought, I use his title only when I discuss Martha's problem.
Farnham's eyes remained closed.
"Martha?" Farnham's voice was a soft baritone.
"Yes. I think I know the cause of her sex difficulties." Greg paused, but Farnham was silent.
"Doctor, I'm sure there's incest in her family."
Farnham uncrossed his legs, sat up, then turned his head slowly. In the depths of his gray eyes, and the lines of sorrow in his lean face, Greg could read no shock, only compassion. "Martha and who?"
"No, no, not Martha. Her mother and her uncle, her mother's younger brother." Greg watched the impassive face as he sketched the details of facts as he had seen them unfold in Chicago, then added Martha's refusal to return home on learning of her uncle's presence. "Could Martha know of this?
Could this be the root of her trouble?"
"If she knows of it, yes, of course." For the first time, his passive reaction to Greg's discourse was replaced by an excitement. "She must see a psychiatrist or an analyst, or really anyone to whom she can make a full disclosure."
"I've never told her about you, Doctor. And she clams up every time I mention a psychiatrist. She won't see anyone about it."
Greg went on to tell the psychiatrist about his concern for Martha and his desire to help her even though they had never really made it as man and wife.
Dr. Farnham sighed. "I understand why you wanted to marry her, Greg. It's a boy's dream especially an American boy's dream, if he comes from a poor family and a sub social environment to want to grow up to be financially successful, marry a rich man's daughter, have a house in the suburbs, have children, send them to the better schools, and bury himself in his work so that he seems important." He stopped and stared out at the park, and then groped for his pipe, which took time to find, pack with tobacco and light. Lighting a pipe takes lots of matches and a lot of time. It gave Greg time to cool down from the hot flush that swept his body when Dr. Farnham began to dissect him.
When he thought Greg was in control of himself again, Dr. Farnham went on:
"Have you asked yourself why Martha married you?" He smiled immediately, and said quickly, "No, I don't have the answer-not without having analyzed Martha-but from what you have told me of her and with what you seem to have discovered about her-I can identify a syndrome.
I can speculate upon a motive."
He broke off to say, "Shit!" and scratched his balls. "Would you believe a psychiatrist has to get fucked once in awhile too? I have to think about everybody else's pussy and cock, but I don't have any wife at home to give it to me ever. Just two kids who are eating me out of house and home." He found more matches for his pipe.-"Now where was I?"
Greg said, "You were telling me why Martha married me. Is it significant that I refused to ask myself that question before? I was always speculating on why the hell I had married her. " Again Dr. Farnham hedged. "I'm only building a model. I don't know that it's true. But scientifically I, personally, have never come across a frigid woman. As far as I'm concerned, there is no such person as a frigid woman. If she's a woman, that is. If she isn't a biological cripple. Now psychological cripples, that's something else again."
Greg said evenly, "I know she wasn't a virgin when I married her. I mean, I thought she was, but that first night I found out she wasn't."
Dr. Farnham nodded. "And a frigid woman-if there were such a person-would not stimulate a man to a sexual act. Martha stimulated you. She stimulated someone else, evidently. And she's stimulated me, from the few times I've seen her, even though I've never met her. Does that shock you, Greg?"
It seemed suddenly, to Greg, that the whole world was out to shock him. Dorothy, the redhead, had blown the pants right off him. Elizabeth had suddenly appeared as a wanton woman who wanted to suck the whole world into her belly. And Martha, of course, had shocked him in reverse.
"It seems," Greg said, "that everybody knows why I do what I do better than I do."
"They don't really," Dr. Farnham soothed. "When a nonprofessional analyzes you, he's really analyzing himself. He's justifying his own behavior. He's rationalizing his own motives. You see, I have to believe that, otherwise there would be no need in this world for professional psychiatrists."
They both laughed, and it eased the tension for Greg. He was aware that his prick had crawled up into his belly, and for the first time in months he was not only not horny, but the answer he was seeking was not motivated by a desire to get his nuts off, whether he really needed it or not.
Dr. Farnham said, "Martha could be in a sexual shock, because of what she may have heard or witnessed between her mother and her uncle. Being a physically healthy and well educated girl, she would try to overcome it. That would explain her ups and downs-why sometimes she could come on like gangbusters, which would stimulate you and make you want to go to bed with her, and other times be an icicle-a whole icebox-and turn you off.
"Your reference to incest is a good observation, if true. It would mean, at least, that Martha isn't schizophrenic-which would be my diagnosis, otherwise, with the little information I have to go on."
Greg said, ruefully, "Thank you, Doctor, for keeping it in layman terms and avoiding those confusing scientific labels. But you haven't told me why Martha married me."
"Simple. Who was the true victim of the incest? Her father, right? With her mother, she was disillusioned and shocked, in a trauma. She would want to spare her father so she couldn't tell him. And why not? Because her father was-and is-a typical middle-class man. He gets up in the morning, goes to work; comes home at night, eats, and goes to bed. If he gets laid once a week, or once a month, or even once a year, he's happy, because he really can't fuck more than that anyway. Does that surprise you? Well, don't be surprised. Once you can get all the fucking you want, you may find your bed partner wants too much from you. You have things to do and a living to make. Your prick gets hard only when you're loaded with anxiety, and if you work off your anxiety in your work, you work off your prick, too. So you're content when a woman doesn't make too many demands on you. It was comfortable for your father-in-law to get Robin off his back. To Martha he was a victim to whom she couldn't show her love, because there would be something incestuous about that now. So she picked a substitute-you. An ordinary man. A plodding man. A man interested in his business and in his home and in his community-just like her father."
Greg couldn't contain himself any longer. It was the first time he had ever felt angry with Dr. Farnham. Why, the quack didn't have any answers for anything!
"Listen," he exploded. "If that was true, I wouldn't have any problem, would I? I wouldn't be running all over the country trying to get fucked!"
"Aha!" Dr. Farnham countered. "You're finally angry with me. I'm finally getting close to the truth, after all the years."
"It isn't the truth! You're telling me the same things you admit the nonprofessionals know nothing about."
"I didn't say the nonprofessionals know nothing about them. In that sense, we're all professionals, because we're all human beings. I say that the nonprofessionals have their own axe to grind. They're talking to you, because they need help, not because they know how to help you. You must understand that difference before we proceed."
"Proceed to where? You just told me I'm a dull, middle-class breadwinner. Should I tell you about the redheaded married woman I picked up. About my child guidance psychologist whom I spent three days shacked up with?"
Dr. Farnham held up a cautionary hand. "No, don't tell me, because it only supports my thesis, not your argument."
"Now I really don't understand!"
"When you participate in such things, you do it in retaliation, for spite. Martha won't give it to you so you go out and get it. That doesn't make you a free man. It doesn't classify you as a swinger. It shows you're tied to a middle-class, Victorian mode of behavior, in which you're sneaking and cheating to get your jollies. And you're saying that if you had the right woman, you wouldn't have to do that."
Greg interjected, "I'm saying I fuck and I suck, black and white, and don't have any inhibitions so I'm not a middle-class Victorian!"
"And I say you do that not because you understand their values and your own needs, but because they violate the values you really think you believe in? Now the people you do it with, I bet they are doing it not to shock anybody or to get even with anybody or because of a frustration that life isn't what they were told it was. They're doing it because it's the thing for them to do. They're healthy, but you're sick!"
''Dr. Farnham, you're out of your fucking mind!"
Dr. Farnham laughed. He laughed long and loud and nearly choked from inhaling a pipe full of smoke when he thought he was exhaling. "Oh, Greg, Greg. We say the truth shall make ye free, but the truth can really kill us, can't it?"
"I can take the truth, but this-this is wild."
"Just think how wild it would be for Martha, if I were to see her and take her on as a patient. Do you see now why she wouldn't come to see me, or see any psychiatrist? We're afraid of the truth that's the truth."
Greg was breathing heavily and trying to get his wits about him. So this is what they mean about people falling in love with or getting to hate their psychiatrists. Anyone who scratches at a festering sore is bound to get a reaction from the person who has the sore. He had to remember that Dr. Farnham was his doctor and his friend, had been his friend for years.
He said, "Where does that leave me with Martha?"
"It leaves you both with the same problem. She's no different than you. She feels guilty about her mother and her uncle and her father. She won't accept the fact that life was never meant to be a sterile hospital room, with sheets and pillowcases all white and clean, nice and tidy, all folded away in their proper bins." u
"Then what I've been doing would really kill her, wouldn't it?"
"On the contrary. What you're doing is exactly what she knows you're doing. It's what she expects you to do. It's what any middle-class man would do, so she lets you do it. You keep doing it on the side, it frees her to draw further and further within herself and go on believing that people are going to behave in the precise pattern that matches her education and experience."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"My dear boy, I suggest nothing. I can only say that you and Martha must openly live as your guts want you to live. You must not believe that you're doing something dirty and bad. And you must prove your love for each other and not for yourselves, by letting each of you do that which you have to do."
Greg stopped Dr. Farnham. "I don't understand at all the last part of what you said."
Dr. Farnham sighed. "I'm saying that if you love somebody, you want to make them happy in their way, not your way. If Martha should like to suck the prick of a turtle, you should bring her home turtles, not bundle her off to a psychiatrist. And if you like strange pussy in a motel room, she should recruit the pussy for you and even pay for the room. In fact," Dr. Farnham said, "I see more love from Martha for you than I see from you for her, because she lets you compensate for what she can't give you. I can't say as much for you."
Greg said, "If I keep getting put down like this, I'll be afraid to cross the street by myself."
"Better you should .cross the street and be concerned with traffic, than step off the curb like an idiot, and get killed."
"I've got an idea," Greg said.
"You've had all the ideas you can hold for one day. Besides, your hour is up."
"The idea I have," Greg went on, ignoring Dr. Farnham for the first time, "is that-we, Martha and I-should throw a party and invite you, and let you observe her and me first hand, and maybe you can straighten us out."
Dr. Farnham laughed again. "Nobody ever got straightened out at a party."
"Wouldn't you come?"
"To a party? Of course, I like parties. But I wouldn't come as a psychiatrist. I'd come as a dinner guest. I'm tired of the canned soup and scrambled eggs that my ten-year-old daughter makes for me on nights I work late."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When he arrived home, he found Martha still in her gay mood.
"Would you like a drink, Greg?"
"Fine. I'll join you."
He took his inevitable shower, and wondered what Dr. Farnham would say about his interminable showers. That he was trying to wash off the Dorothys and Elizabeths he smuggled into his life? How come he took more showers on the days he didn't have a Dorothy and Elizabeth? Hell, you didn't have to be a psychiatrist to figure that one out. It gave him a chance to rub his cock, hold it, fondle it, play with it. It was his cock. When it was all said and done it was the only thing he had, the only thing he could be sure of in this fucked-up world.
Martha had two cold martinis ready, but she took hers out on the patio and curled up with her western horse book. Go ahead, he thought. Read about those big-pricked stallions. You got one right here and you don't know how to handle him.
He sat in the kitchen and sipped the martini, but it wasn't his drink. You would think that Martha would know it wasn't his drink. Maybe Dr. Farnham was right. She was relieved and feeling better now that she knew, for sure, that he had been taken care of by Elizabeth. She could substitute a sex drink, like a martini, for her own sex, and curl up, conscience-free, with her western. Fuck her.
He splashed the martini in the sink, and poured a straight bourbon over ice. He wandered out to the patio. "Aren't you interested in what your mother had to say? How she looks? What she's doing?"
Martha put down the book. "How is my mother?"
"Fine."
"What did she have to say?"
"The usual."
"What's she doing?"
"I really didn't have time to find out. I went to Chicago to sell toys, remember?"
"Sell many?"
"I think so. The people are coming here next weekend to go through the plant."
"Why do they have to go through the plant?"
"To see if we have the resources and the capability to produce the volume of toys they will need if they sign a contract with us."
"So now you're in the big league."
"Money, money, money."
"I've always had money. It doesn't thrill me so much."
"Have you always had this?"
She held the book up to shield her eyes from the sun, while she looked across to where he was sitting in the lounge chair.
He had his cock in his palm, rolling it back and forth with his fingers. "We call this a cock, a prick, a penis, a dong, a birdie-anything you want to call it."
"You're disgusting." She brought the book back down to her eyes.
"Dr. Clark doesn't think I'm disgusting."
"I toast her." Martha raised the martini glass to her lips and sipped.
"The point is, I married you, not her." The prick was rock-hard in his hand now. He put down the bourbon glass, and gripped the cock with both fists. "Where do you want it? In the ass, in the cunt, or in the mouth?"
"You're going to rape me?"
"If that's the only way I can fuck you, yes."
"Well, you can't do it out here." She put down the book and stood up. He hadn't noticed before how she was dressed. She was immaculate in a white sharkskin sheath. Her legs flowed bare and tanned from the high hem to white, kidskin shoes that made the skin of his ass tingle.
"You mean you're going to let me?"
"Let you is the word. I don't want you, but I'll let you. You're all alike."
"You mean it's okay if I do it with the Elizabeths and Dorothys, but you're above such dirty things!"
"Who's Dorothy?"
"You don't give a shit who Dorothy is! Besides, I've got a stiff prick in my hand for you, not Dorothy." v
"Pig!" she spat and marched into the kitchen.
He bounded after her, caught her in the passageway between the kitchen and bathroom, flung out one hand to catch the back of the dress at the neck, and pulled. The dress came away in his hand. She crossed one arm over her breasts pushing out from behind the bra, unconsciously lifted one knee to hide the shadow of her pubes behind the white, nylon panties, and cupped shaking fingers over her vagina.
"For Christ's sake!" Greg yelled. "You're a goddammed schoolgirl on a freshman date!"
She cowered against the wall, hung her head, and waited.
He slammed through the patio, and seconds later, Martha heard the Jaguar whine into gear and fade down the road. She looked down to where her hand was clutching her cunt, the other working on the breast it covered.
She was back in the bed where she was waiting for Uncle Charlie. She lifted her lower hand to slip it between the fabric of the step-ins and the furry mat of her vagina. She pushed the fingers of her upper hand past the cloth of the bra, and worked feverishly on the nipple.
She had been waiting for him like this, again, when he had come to visit her mother and father the following year. But her father was away on a business trip, and her mother was asleep in her room. Robin had gone to bed early, claiming a headache, and it was an ideal situation for her Uncle Charlie to climb into her bed and fuck her again as he had on the ranch in Arizona.
She heard his footsteps coming up the hall toward her room, and her middle finger worked wetly on the slit between her legs. Uncle Charlie, come on Uncle Charlie. Slip your cock into here, right into here, all the way like you did before. Come on, Uncle Charlie, I'm waiting ... I've been waiting so long ... so long ... for it to happen again ... Pictures of horses flashed through her mind, and Uncle Charlie in his crowned Stetson and boots and levis....Suck me, Uncle Charlie suck me, fuck me....
The steps went past her door, continued down the hall to her mother's door. There was a faint knock. She heard her mother's voice answer....her mother's voice, wide awake, vibrant, sexy-her mother had a sexy voice....The house was still. She heard everything as if she were in that next room with her mother....
She heard the kisses of lips meeting lips. She imagined Uncle Charlie's mouth running over her mother's eyes, cheeks, nipples, breasts, belly, down into the fuzzy mat of her delta, burrowing into the moist slit of her cunt. She heard her mother's voice: "Eat it later, later! Fuck me now. Fuck me fast!"
In one jump Martha was out of the bed, stealing down the hall, slowly turning the knob of her mother's door, sliding in to mix with the shadows, and creep into a corner, and watch, and listen.
She watched her Uncle Charlie slide over her mother, saw her buttocks rise and her legs prop themselves on his back. "Hurry! I want it, I need it!" her mother moaned.
Uncle Charlie took hold of his rutting shaft, soaked the swollen head of it in the sopping wetness of her mother's crack, felt her mother's internal muscles clutch, the coronal ridge as the cock entered. "Darling, Charles," she murmured, "Darling, darling, Charles." Her legs clamped him to her in a frenzied, shuddering embrace.
"Oh, Charles," she whimpered, "kiss me. Kiss your little sister, please, Charles!" Her pubes crushed against his as she bucked upward, ground in convulsive circles, her heels digging like spurs into his back. Like spurs, like spurs, like riding a horse!
Over the sound of her wild moaning and Uncle Charlie's grunts, Martha could hear the sucking of her mother's cuntal lips working on Uncle Charlie's thrusting cock. His scrotum slapped wet and warm in the juices flowing down around her mother's twitching rectum. After one last shudder, she lay still.
"Hey," Uncle Charlie said, "that was quick."
"I was ready, baby brother. But my cunt won't let you take it out. It won't, it won't. Don't ever take it out. Keep it there forever."
Martha found her hand jammed between her legs. Her fingers were wet and sticky. She had come with her mother. She had come with her Uncle Charlie. Her side ached and her back ached and her legs were cramped. She waited until she heard their uniform deep breathing of sleep, and crawled, slowly, carefully, back to the door and down the hall, and into her own bed.
The next morning, Uncle Charlie was gone. He hadn't even waited to say goodbye to her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Greg picked up Elizabeth at the office. "This is no day for work," he said. "It's a day for play. When that order comes through, God knows when we'll get a chance to ball again."
She giggled. "I thought you'd be in the sack with Martha. After all, you haven't seen her for days."
"There's someone else I haven't seen for days."
"Not me."
"No, a redhead from Rancho Bernardo way. I thought we could have a threesome."
"Oh, no wonder Martha's out of the picture. She wouldn't dig that."
"Hardly."
"I got the picture she doesn't quite dig a twosome either."
"Why don't you stop being a child psychologist, and start thinking about having fun?"
"Ho ho," Elizabeth riposted, "the student learns quickly!"
He grinned back at her, and said, "Look, I told this woman-Dorothy Wagner-that I had a couple to meet for cocktails, and wanted her to go with me. Now when we get there, I'll make some kind of excuse about the other guy not showing up."
"You're becoming a regular little devil." She watched his expertness in moving the Jaguar from lane to lane in freeway traffic. "And you're learning how to play games. Life is suddenly looking up. But do you think you can handle two of us?"
He looked at her sideways. "My question is, can you handle two of us?"
"Touch'," Elizabeth answered, and huddled the rest of the way in silence until they reached the white clapboard hotel.
"Look, I'll go in first. Tell her the other guy's going to call me here. Three of us can't fit into this sardine can anyway."
Dorothy opened the door the instant Greg knocked. She was smartly and stylishly dressed in a short, navy-blue dress with a round, right neck piped in white. She wasn't dressed for an orgy.
But her green eyes flashed with a brilliance to match the diamonds in a brooch above her left breast and the diamond that still clung to the middle finger of her left hand.
Greg let the door swing shut behind him, and immediately took her in his arms. She snuggled down in his embrace, and said, "Ooh! I missed you. Really missed you!"
"Seems like a year," Greg agreed and rained kisses across her eyes and cheeks.
"Oh, Greg, I wanted you for myself right here."
"Hey, I think that's just what's going to ' happen," he said gleefully. "Bill-uh-Watson, the other man has been delayed. I gave him the number to call here. I think maybe if we play it right, they can go out by themselves, and we can stay!"
"Oh, someone is with you now?"
"Yes, Dr. Clark, Elizabeth Clark, head of my research department. May I ask her in?"
"Of course. But, oh, Greg, it's going to be so hard to keep my hands off you!"
"It's going to be hard, all right," Greg said. "I'm glad you didn't say difficult."
They laughed together, and then he went back to the car to get Elizabeth.
Dorothy brought out a large tray with bottles of scotch and bourbon, glasses, and a bowl of ice. "If you'll excuse me," she said, "my girdle is killing me." While she was gone, Greg poured bourbon over ice into two glasses."
"Isn't your friend drinking?" Elizabeth asked. "She claims she doesn't have to."
Dorothy called to Greg from the bathroom. He stuck his head inside the door. She was changing out of her dress and donning a robe. "I expect to get fucked," she told him.
"You know how businessmen are," Greg apologized. "I'm sure Bill wouldn't keep us waiting deliberately."
"I could care less about your friend, Bill. I didn't come up from Rancho Bernardo to spend the evening in a cocktail lounge. I want to get laid and parlayed. Fucked and sucked, to you."
"It'll be my pleasure," Greg said, and backed out the door. He came back to Elizabeth with a broad wink. "Drink up, baby. It looks like Bill's deserted us."
Elizabeth raised her glass. "Here's to Bill."
When Dorothy came out wearing a floor-length robe of pink quilted nylon and pink slippers, Elizabeth said, "Hey, I feel discriminated against. You look so free and easy in that and here I am bundled up in six ounces of mini-skirt and a half ounce of stockings." She laughed.
"Well," Dorothy said, "I know Greg. "If you know Bill well enough, I have another robe for you."
"I know Bill so well I don't need a robe," Elizabeth countered. "But let me try one on anyway while it's still chilly in here."
Greg and Dorothy raised eyebrows. "Do you want to change in here or in the bathroom?" Dorothy asked.
"I want what you want," Elizabeth said. "If the bathroom was good enough for you, it's good enough for me."
Greg was on his second drink, when they both came out again. Elizabeth was in a velvet robe of dark green, with green slippers.
"Come on, girls, get to drinking. This is party time." He put a hand on the buttocks of each and pulled them to his side. Neither had a thing on under the robes and he felt their flesh sing under his hand.
"There's a terrycloth robe in there," Dorothy said. "Why don't you try it on so you'll be swinging free like us?"
He gulped down the drink, went into the bathroom, and stripped. The white terrycloth came only to his knees and the shoulders were so narrow, he had to let it hang open in the front. His cock hung down between his legs with nothing to stop its inevitable rise to the position it was destined to attain.
He peeked around the bathroom door.
Dorothy sat on the couch, her head thrown back and her eyes closed. The robe was sipped down, baring a breast at which Elizabeth was nuzzling like a hungry babe. She was urged on by Dorothy's left hand that was stroking the long, black hair that cascaded over Elizabeth's face.
Captivated by the scene, he remained silent as Elizabeth's hand worked the zipper all the way down and tossed the ends of the robe aside. Dorothy slid forward on the sofa, thrusting her hips upward and lifting her legs over Elizabeth's shoulders. Then she carefully placed both of her hands on Elizabeth's head.
Her belly moved up against Elizabeth's mouth, working in circles on the pale, white skin, lower and lower with each tongued ring. Now Elizabeth's hands were under Dorothy's buttocks, lifting, shifting the belly to meet her foraging mouth. At last, the darting red tip of her tongue reached the hairy mound, found the parting of the lips, entered Between the folds, pressed the button to trigger a convulsive jerk.
Greg was holding the hard cock jutting out from r between the folds of his robe, and inwardly screaming to join the party. Elizabeth's right hand went to her own zipper, jerking it down to her knees, then shrugged it off her shoulders, baring her torso. Dorothy had by now scooted down so that only her head and shoulders rested on the sofa cushion, her body supported by Elizabeth's back and shoulders. The color contrasts were esthetically stimulating, Greg thought, the raven-black hair flowing over the white skin of thighs, the pale face working in the mat of red hair, and the red hair of Dorothy's head tossing on the green velvet of the sofa. From the arching of her back and the swinging of her hips, Greg knew that Dorothy was near a climax.
"Ooh! I love it. More. There," she cried, pulling Elizabeth's head closer, her face into her cunt. "Oh! Beth, I'm coming. Here. Here." Her buttocks were working wildly, belly straining, in a rhythm timed to guttural cries. All motion slowed to one final spasm, then stopped. For a minute, Elizabeth's face remained buried nose deep in cunt, throat muscles straining to suckle and swallow the last drops. Waiting till her face rose from the hairy crevice, and her lips nibbled up belly and breasts to Dorothy's mouth, Greg stepped into the room. The two women sat up on the sofa, as Greg stood before them. He slipped out of his robe and tossed
"it on the floor. His thick cock angled up in stiff salute to the womanly beauty before it.
"Hmm!" Elizabeth hummed, leaning forward to kiss the throbbing crown. "Ooh! I want that."
"Ooh! and I want to eat this," Dorothy said, as she leaned down into Elizabeth's lap, kissing the black hairy mound.
Greg laughed. "I thought you wanted to get fucked."
"I do. I do." She looked up with shining eyes. "I want everything tonight."
"Do you girls want time out for a drink?"
"No, no," they cried in unison.
Greg stretched out on a rug, pulled two others close by. "Let's daisy up here."
Elizabeth lay down with her head on Greg's belly. Dorothy, shedding her robe, knelt beside Elizabeth. "Move over," she said, "let me in here." Like a well-drilled team, they shifted to their right sides as though on signal. As Greg nosed through the red hair and into the mucous slit of Dorothy's cunt, inhaling the sweet woman-scent, he felt the gentle nibbling of Elizabeth's lips on his scrotum, the stiff wetness of her tongue working up the underside of his cock, lapping dew from the meatus. The loud sucking sound of Dorothy's mouth in Elizabeth's cunt was intermittently broken by her cries of joy, Greg reached over her hip to grasp the buttock, trying to steady her wriggling ass so that his lips could maintain cuntal contact. He felt certain that Dorothy, like himself, had difficulty adjusting to the technique. But Elizabeth was performing like a veteran, he thought, as he felt her lips nibbling up his cock and closing over the swollen glans. Could she take the entire length in this position?
They seemed to be settling into rhythm now, as his cock settled half an inch deeper into the warm depths of Elizabeth's mouth, timed to the loud suction of his and Dorothy's concerted suckling. He felt Elizabeth gag once, adjust her head, gag again, then, he felt the warmth of her mouth and throat around the entire shaft, and the soft breath from her nostrils in his pubic hair. This was like no other experience he'd ever had, even unlike 69, which he'd known many times. Sucking the fragrant juices of one woman whose flow was triggered by the cuntal moisture of another, maintaining a rhythmic working among all three, and all the while, your cock, the whole thick length of it alive and throbbing to buccal warmth and lips expert in the nibbling art. Pools of warmth and trickling currents were gathering and flowing throughout his body, and he could sense this in the others, as their movements quickened.
Suddenly, as one, they froze, thighs clamping round heads. Then there was a frenzied burst into convulsive action, sobs of joy muffled in mouths stuffed with oozing cunts and spurting cock, as one, once, twice and again but diminishing again yet again gone, gone all lapsing into restful quiet, mouths drained the last sweet outpouring drops. Legs and arms and heads and pubes disentangled slowly, regretfully. They sat up, smiling, lips wet with colloidal film distilled in their joint passion. "Ooh! I loved that," Dorothy said breathily.
"I need a drink. Elizabeth, do the honors."
The women had one, Greg two, while they lounged and chatted for half an hour. Dorothy lay on the couch, placing her head on Greg's belly, nuzzling up and down lazily.
"Hey!" she whispered, "he's coming to life."
"Want to use the bed?" Elizabeth asked.
"Who gets to fuck him first?"
"You do," Elizabeth replied. "I want to get fucked up the ass."
"If it's all right with you, Beth, I'd just as soon fuck right here on the rug," Dorothy said.
"I'd better get a bath towel then." She brought a beach towel from the linen closet, and laid it out on a rug. "Okay, you two, get at it. Better be good, because I'll be watching every minute."
Greg wasted no time on preliminaries. Dorothy lay on her back, arms extended to enfold him, knees up and outspread, exposing the dewy redness of swollen cuntal lips. Moistening the bulging head of his cock in the juicy slit, he let it find its way, unguided into the grasping welcome of her cunt. She raised her legs, then dropped them over his buttocks, her heels urging his forward thrust. A side glance at Elizabeth seated on the sofa, a drink in her left hand, and pussy lips in her right, brought a deep joyous chuckle. Goaded by the presence of a voyeur, Greg gave the finest performance of his life, thrusting deeply rhythmically holding throbbing withdrawing holding throbbing in the tight clutch bringing them to ever increasing peaks to hold and gather charges for the next ascent until they reached the summit together to plunge in unbearable successive ecstasies into the quiet of motionless bliss.
"What a performance!" Elizabeth said, her eyes bright. "I hope you saved something for me."
An hour passed before Greg's cock began to . come alive under the persistent urging of Elizabeth's active lips and tongue.
"Whee!" she cried in triumph, kissing the throbbing crown. "Come on, baby, I can't wait another minute." She dropped to the floor, rolled over on her back on the towel, spreading her legs and rubbing her palms over the inside of her thighs. Kneeling between her legs, Greg soaked the head of his cock in the wetness of her cunt.
"Where do you want it?" he asked her, teasing.
"In the ass. Where else. Hurry. I want it."
Dorothy slid to the floor, crawled over to lie beside them. "I want to see this. I never had it up the ass."
As Elizabeth raised her legs straight up, Greg eased his wet prick up to her rectum, felt the sphincter relax as he pushed against it, then open to engorge the coronal ridge. Dorothy had scrambled round in back of him and he could feel her hot breath on his thigh, as Elizabeth's legs crossed over the small of his back. Burying the shaft of his cock to the hilt, he felt the warmth of Elizabeth's flesh against the front of his scrotal sac, and the wet caress of Dorothy's lips on the underside. As he worked slowly in and out, holding at the top and bottom of each stroke to thrill to the clasp of Elizabeth's taut muscle, he sensed the pressure of Dorothy's nose against his prostate. Despite his effort at control, the combination of Elizabeth's internal musculature working on his prick, and the passionate laving of his balls and prostate by Dorothy's lips and tongue, proved too much. "Ooh!" he cried, crushing his lips to Elizabeth's mouth, and sinking his cock into her depths. He felt the jolting charge of his semen through his pumping prostate, the frantic clutching of Elizabeth's sphincter, milking him of his juices, the spate of her own cuntal flow into his pubic hair, and the wild stabbing of Dorothy's tongue in his sensitive perineum. Elizabeth's legs still held him locked when the surging charges ceased, sphincter clasping his shrinking cock to drain the last drop. Dorothy's head withdrew as his prick plopped out, and all three of them lay exhausted on the floor.
"Whew!" Dorothy exclaimed breathlessly. "That was the wildest!"
"I want to shower," Greg said.
"So do I," Elizabeth added.
"Come on, you two. Get in together. I'll soap you. I've never in my life had so much fun."
Afterwards, the three of them lay in bed. Greg, lying between them, dropped off to sleep. Awakened once by the violent shaking of the bed, he found the women thrashing and groaning, heads buried between each other's thighs. Later, he was wakened again by the gentle suckling of his aroused cock. As his hands touched her head, Dorothy whispered, "Greg, do you mind? I've never sucked you off."
"No," he answered sleepily. "Hell, no."
"I'm not very good at it."
Feeling her tongue probing round the coronal ridge, and the wet warmth of her mouth, he chuckled. "You don't need any lessons. That's good." He lay relaxed as she gorged herself, trying without success to stuff the whole length of it down her throat. As he felt the charges gather, and the delightful bolts of semen course through his prostate and out the throbbing length of his cock, she sucked greedily, gobbling all of it. When she drained the last drop, she kissed his genitals lovingly, slid up to lie beside him. "Next time," she whispered, "I want you to fuck me up the ass."
"Yes," he replied. "Yes, next time." He fell asleep, as limp and lifeless as the cock Dorothy held in her hand.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Martha was neither her gay self nor her old depressed self. She had a resigned attitude, as if she were the mother of a spoiled little boy she could neither abandon nor love. Yet by doing the household and family things she was supposed to do each day, she was showing her love so that nobody could question her role as a mother-in this case, as a wife.
"George Cable and his wife will be arriving Friday," Greg said. "I have to meet him at the airport, and since he's bringing his wife, it will be necessary for you to be there too."
It was like gathering the laundry and putting an order together for the milkman. Martha just wanted to know what time she had to be ready.
Friday afternoon, Greg and Martha were at Lindbergh Field, watching passengers on the three o'clock flight from Chicago deplane.
"There he is," Greg said, pointing to the stocky man holding the arm of a tall brunette as they started down the steps.
"She's very attractive," Martha commented, as she watched the slender figure clothed in white and navy checked suit, bolero jacket, and red cummerbund. "My! She's beautiful."
"George!" Greg called as they filed through the gate. "Hi! Martha, this is George Cable."
"Say, I'm delighted." He took her hand in both his great paws. "I play golf with your dad two or three times a month. Eleanor, Greg and Martha Fox."
"Martha. Greg. I'm very happy to be here." Extending her hand to Greg, her piercing black eyes level with his, she added, "George told me how competent and charming you and your Doctor Clark were. Sorry we didn't get together in Chicago."
"I very much regret that," Greg replied. She had the high cheek bones, and the cold elegance of a high fashion model, but the warmth in her throaty voice and the clasp of her hand belied any frigidity.
"I hope you've planned to spend at least a week with us." Martha said cordially, as the women strode off toward the baggage counter.
"That's very kind of you, Martha, but George has a meeting in Los Angeles Monday morning."
In the car, the women sat in the back seat, the men in front, and, as Greg drove, he glanced occasionally in the rear view mirror. What a contrast, he thought, with Martha's cap of blond hair, and Eleanor's shiny black curls, fringed forward at the temples. With one ear cocked to George's light chatter, he strained to hear the women's conversation which sounded warm and friendly. Martha was saying, "You remind me so much of a girl who roomed with me at Vassar for two years." George's deep voice cut into Greg's attention.
"We were all deeply impressed with your program, Greg. We'll do a very substantial volume for you, I'm sure."
"Would you like to stop by the plant this afternoon?"
"I don't think so. Maybe a quick gallop through in the morning." He paused, looking at Greg meaningfully. "Unless I won't have any other chance to see Dr. Clark again."
Greg laughed. "Count on that. I'm having a dinner party at home tomorrow night. She'll be there."
"Fine. Damn! I think she's one of the most fascinating women I've ever met. Eleanor is dying to meet her."
Greg glanced up in the rear view mirror. Eleanor seemed to be fascinated with his wife too.
They lazed away the late afternoon, lounging on the patio, drinking, chatting of mutual friends, the matchless climate of San Diego, business, and women's fashions. Greg was delighted with the rapport and warm camaraderie already established with these charming guests. He had never seen Martha so warm and outgoing.
By six o'clock, they had dressed for dinner, the women in simple evening gowns, the men in slacks and colorful jackets. They were all feeling their drinks, and Greg, mindful of the rigid enforcement of the law on drunk driving, suggested taking a cab.
Greg had phoned Mr. A's at noon, reserving a table for four at the window. In the elevator on the way to the top floor, Greg expressed the hope that the food would be as good as he had predicted. The Cables were charmed by the sweeping view of the downtown section of the city, the Navy ships in the bay, and the vast reaches of the Pacific stretching away to an horizon of low hanging clouds, pink and gold in the setting sun.
"What a magnificent view," Eleanor said, "What does it remind you of, George?"
"That rotating restaurant in Honolulu. Yes, it sure does." He raised his martini glass. "A toast to a lasting and most interesting friendship, folks." Greg ordered two more martinis, the women passing. Greg was relieved. He had never seen Martha with more than two drinks, and already she was a bit giggly. The food was excellent, and they finished with coffee and brandy.
As they entered a cab downstairs, Eleanor said with a laugh, "I'll be glad to get home, kick off my shoes, and relax."
"It's been a long day. I thought you'd want to get to bed early," Greg replied.
"Well, yes and no, Greg. We'll see."
When they arrived home, Greg suggested they sit on the patio. "Scotch, bourbon, wine?" Greg asked. The vote was unanimous for bourbon. Greg returned from the kitchen in a few minutes with a bottle of bourbon, a bowl of ice, glasses and a bottle of sparkling water. "Why don't you help yourselves?" He was surprised to see Martha pour herself a tall drink over one ice cube. She'll pass out in the next five minutes, he thought.
They were sipping at their third drink, when George suggested it was a balmy night, just right for a dip in the pool. All agreed. Greg asked if they needed swimming suits, dressing gowns, but George assured him they were all set. By the time Greg had rounded up a supply of towels, undressed, and donned his trunks and dressing robe, the others were at poolside, finishing their drinks. Eleanor was seated in a straight-backed chair next to the lounge on which Martha reclined, her terry cloth robe open, displaying a scanty bikini of flowered print. Eleanor wore a long quilted robe of off-white satin, and George a light flannel robe striped in brown and beige.
"Another drink before the plunge?" Greg suggested. When Martha started to rise, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Take it easy, dear." Her eyes were a bit glazed. She nodded, then settled back.
Eleanor, a fresh drink in hand, seated herself next to Martha. "Your suit is cute." She put a finger under the loin strap, pulling it away from the skin. "You do sunbathe in the nude."
"I enjoy it," Martha answered. "No one can see in here."
"Good," Eleanor said, rising. "Anyone for swimming?"
"Be right with you," George replied. He walked to the deep end of the pool, stepped on the diving board. "Hurry up, Eleanor." Setting her glass on the table, she took long graceful strides to the edge of the pool, unzipped her gown. "Ready." George threw his robe from his shoulders at the same instant Eleanor stepped out of hers. Both naked, they stood poised for a moment, then dove in. Martha gasped, rising to a sitting position. Greg had caught only a glimpse of Eleanor's figure, his gaze captured by the sight of George's enormous cock. They met in the center of the pool, swam to the shallow end, then swam back to the edge next to Greg and Martha.
"Come in," George called out, "water's fine."
As they clung to the side, Greg saw their nude bodies clearly in the greenish cast of the underwater lights. Eleanor's long slender torso was a pale white unmarked by suntan, her small breasts bobbing in the small riffles. George's shoulders were covered by hairy growth, his nipples pink islands in a sea of hair.
"Martha, take it off and join the fun," Eleanor coaxed. Martha sat motionless, tonguing her lips.
"Come on, Martha, be a sport," Greg urged, slipping off his trunks, and diving in. Swimming about, he kept an eye on the others. Eleanor climbed the ladder, and sat on the chair beside Martha. Unable to hear them, he swam back.
"Come on, honey," Eleanor said softly, her hand searching for the catch at the side of the loin cloth. "Come on, let's see your naked beauty."
The catch came free, and Eleanor pulled the cloth away, exposing the tufted mound of pale blond hair. "Ooh! lovely. Let's free these captives." Sliding her hand behind Martha's back, she untied the straps, then lifted the strip of cloth. "Why do you ever cover these lovelies up?" she said, as she helped Martha to her feet.
Greg glanced quickly toward George. But his impassive appraisal of Martha's girlish figure convinced him that Eleanor's aggressive attention toward another woman was not unusual, and certainly not resented.
He was getting an inkling of Dr. Farnham's pragmatism. And then something struck him: he had been analyzing George's reaction to his wife's behavior, and yet Greg, himself, was accepting Martha's acquiescence without any feeling of anger, envy, jealous, or hate!
Was the pleasure he was feeling in seeing Martha come alive greater than his concern with his own loss of possession? Had he traveled that far? Was he really on his way to being a free man?
He watched Martha swaying on the pool edge, supported by Eleanor's encircling arm; then they both belly flopped into the water.
Greg pulled himself out of the pool and toweled himself carefully. He tried to analyze his feelings, to see if he would feel this way if it were George and Martha together in the pool rather than Eleanor and Martha. Was he willing to sacrifice Martha to a woman, because it didn't hurt his ego? And would he have resented George, if it cast reflections on his own capability as a man? If he followed Dr. Farnham's dictum, it wouldn't matter. It would be Martha's welfare he would be concerned with, not his own.
The two women were back out, lying together on a wide, double lounge. Martha's eyes were closed, one hand stroking Eleanor's head, the other cupping a breast up to her mouth. Then Eleanor's voice drifted across to Greg.
"Come on, darling. Eleanor will put baby to bed. You'll freeze out here." Martha rose unsteadily to her feet, staggered, but Eleanor's arm caught her. They made their way slowly to the opened door into Martha's bedroom. Greg watched the lights flash on; then Eleanor at the window drawing the drapes. George hadn't turned around.
If it had been George in there with Martha, wouldn't he be running to her like a wild man, defending his honor, defending his home, defending his way of life? What honor? What home? What way of life?
What he felt instead was a stirring in his loins. If Eleanor could break through the wall, perhaps he could too. Perhaps the problem could be resolved.
That's what he was after: the resolution of the problem. Maybe he was coming of age. Maybe he was joining the twentieth century.
* * *
Lying in bed looking up, Martha could see the tall, slender brunette, with black eyes wide-set in chalky white skin. She was stroking her head, holding her in a comforting embrace. She relished the warmth of the body and the soothing words that were pouring over her like syrup.
Then the figure was standing in front of her full-length mirror, stroking her hands over the flesh of her buttocks and belly, cupping her breasts with both hands and lifting them, tugging them, patting them.
She smiled as she caught Martha's gaze fastened on her. She turned and came to Martha, gently touched the swell of one breast; then she went into the adjoining bathroom, washed her face, brushed her teeth, annointed her body with creams and unguents, and came out again, turning off all the lights as she moved. The bed creaked as she sat down alongside Martha.
"There, now," she whispered, trailing fingers lightly over Martha's face. "No nightmares." Her thumbs pressed softly on Martha's eyelids, massaged up and out. Fingers worked round and round on her temples, under her ears, down the tendons of the neck into the shoulders, back up to the hairline of the scalp.
"Hmmm, that feels good, feels good," Martha sighed.
Eleanor bent over and kissed each eyelid. Then she said, "Turn over. On your tummy." Eleanor knelt over her, knees on either side of Martha's buttocks, the palms of her hands working on the shoulder muscles, thumbs on the spine. As her hands moved to the lower back, she rested her own buttocks on Martha's thighs.
"Mmmm!" Martha purred again, sensing the teasing prickle of Eleanor's pubic hair on her nude flesh. She felt Eleanor's hands beside her breasts, her moist lips brushing, nibbling down her spine.
"You like?"
"Love it," Martha whispered into the pillow, her body aflame from head to toe. "More."
She felt the stiff tongue now boldly making wet circles along her spine; then moving down her hip bone. She turned on her back, raising her buttocks to bring her mound in contact with the searching tongue and lips. She gasped. Eleanor's mouth found the lips of her cunt, which passionately welcomed the intruding tongue. Eleanor slid up to kiss her mouth. "Darling, oh, darling! I love you, Martha. I love you." Back down again, mouth gorging breast flesh, Eleanor's moaning grew as her lips nibbled their way to the hairy mound.
"Hurry! Hurry!" Martha urged, feeling the bursting moment almost there. Clasping her hands behind Eleanor's head, she pulled her face into her cunt. Her body poised motionless for a moment; then the paroxysms of delight throbbed throughout every nerve and muscle, exploded in a spate of juices that Eleanor lapped up into her greedy mouth.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Greg opened his eyes. Jesus! he thought, must be an earthquake. The walls of his bedroom swayed one way, the furniture lurched the other way. Putting his hands over his eyes, his thumbs pressed the throbbing pulse in his temples. Oh! what a night! Opening one eye to peek through spread fingers, he willed an end to the swaying of walls and furniture, then removed his hands from his face. He lay atop the bedspread, in the terry robe he had worn last night. Gurgles in his stomach and the sour taste rising in his mouth spurred him to his feet, and he staggered to the bathroom in time to disgorge the stream of green bile into the toilet. Ten minutes soaping and soaking in a hot shower, followed by a minute of shivering under a pelting stream of cold water, restored his physical zest. Vigorous brushing of his teeth and gargling a mouth wash cleansed the last remnants of bilious taste away. Dressed in gray slacks and pale yellow turtleneck sweater, he went into the kitchen to find Martha wrapped in a flowered housecoat, making coffee.
"Good morning," she said in a flat voice, regarding him in a brief questioning glance.
"Morning, dear." He sat in the booth of the breakfast nook. "You look rested."
Taking a copper fry pan from the rack, she asked, "Bacon and eggs?"
"God, no! I took on a load last night. Coffee, maybe a large glass of orange juice."
Filling an eight ounce glass slowly, her brow furrowed in hard, or in painful thought, she placed the glass on the table before him. He lifted the drink, looked up into her face as she remained standing beside him. Tears showed at the comer of her eyes.
"Oh, Greg, I'm so ashamed." She placed a hand provisionally on his shoulder, and he sensed the tremor. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I was drunk."
"Don't apologize, Martha." He put a hand over hers, his voice soft with compassion. "I'm the one to apologize. You said you didn't want to marry me. You said it again and again, but every man thinks he's Prince Charming, right? He expects her to say no. He thinks she doesn't really mean it. He thinks she's waiting for flowers and champagne and storybook romance, and when he does that, he expects she'll marry him, right? And you did, because you didn't want to hurt me. I wonder how many people get married for no other reason than that?"
Martha smiled back at him. "You mean, because they just can't get out of it?"
"Yeah, something like that."
This was the first time there had been any communication between them ... the first time they had ever talked to each other as two human beings with individual likes and dislikes and ideas that they could talk about without fear that the other would attack and destroy them if they disclosed who they really were.
"Good morning!" It was George Cable booming a greeting as he entered the kitchen. "God! We must have killed two quarts of booze last night, Greg. If you think that kind of goings-on is going to get my business, you're right!"
"Bacon and eggs all right, George?" Martha asked.
"Fine." He threw an arm around her shoulder and kissed her cheek; then he seated himself at the table. "Eleanor asks to be excused. She always sleeps till noon on Saturday."
After breakfast, the men left to survey the plant, and Martha returned to her room. She looked with distaste at the wrinkled and sweat-stained sheets, twisted from the violent contortions of lesbian activities; the pillow case stained with the overflow of her own cuntal juices, too much for even the practiced tongue and lips of Eleanor to capture ... What had happened to her? What in the world had happened to her, and where was she going?
Eleanor had helped, like a doctor or a nurse, but she didn't want Eleanor. Eleanor had just been there, given her tender, loving care; when she needed someone who just didn't come and pounce on her and tear apart. If Greg only knew that! If Greg could only understand!
Yet he had tried to understand what had happened last night. He had not only tried to, he did, he did! Now how could she tell him of the pitiful inadequacy of a woman's tongue or slender fingers, to fill the deep cavity of her longing and desperate desires?
She needed a man's loving lips on her breasts, the thickness and throbbing length of a hard, swollen cock buried into the depths of her, the raging flood of his semen pouring over the sensitive tissues of her womb, the muscular feel of his chest crushing her breasts, his prick jamming her cunt. Oh, God! Uncle Charlie, you son of a bitch, you spoiled it all for me. You, fucking my mother and fucking me and leaving me nowhere to go!
Eleanor's voice came from behind her. "Hey, what's for breakfast? Can I help?"
She said nothing about last night. She made no attempt to recapitulate last night. Martha was so grateful she wanted to cry. She smiled back at Eleanor. "Everything's ready. Help yourself. I'll be out in a minute!"
The question that remained was, how could she get Uncle Charlie out of her system, and how could she let Greg back in?
She wanted Greg, but the one big fear yet remained: would she shriek Uncle Charlie's name in the throes of an orgasm, as she always felt she must whenever she thought of sex? And yet last night "By the way," Eleanor called from the kitchen, "who's Uncle Charlie?"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Greg called Dr. Farnham to invite him to the dinner party for the Cables that Saturday evening, he apologized for the short notice.
"It's the best excuse I have for having you over. I've told Martha we want as many of my business associates as I can get together and she's letting me make the informal calls."
"You're fortunate that I'm hungry," Dr. Farnham said, "but I don't think you'll ever make it as a social director."
"Just so you come," Greg said. "And by the way, although the Cables are nonconformists, I'm going to have two more here that you may be interested in. They're females and they're single. One is a nonconformist by design, and the other by circumstance, like me. You may find an answer to your own personal problem."
Dr. Farnham barked out his usual laugh. "That's not a personal problem. That's a universal one. In my business it isn't too acute, just a matter of convenience. I admit, though, tonight might be convenient."
He arrived early enough to be introduced to Martha, who was playing the role of a charming hostess. "An interesting neurosis," Dr. Farnham remarked to Greg. "Are you sure this whole thing isn't a figment of your imagination?"
"If I had an imagination like that, I'd be seeing a psychiatrist," Greg quipped. "Come on, I want you to meet the rest of the gang."
The gang consisted of the Cables-Eleanor, a brunette houri in violet bell-bottomed slacks, skimpy halter, and bare midriff; George in a white, sharkskin jacket, patent-leather pumps, black stockings with Paris garters, and tight-knit swimming trunks in place of trousers. Dr. Farnham didn't bat an eye.
Dorothy Wagner and Elizabeth Clark exposed as much of their physical charms as their mini-skirted evening dresses would allow. Martha accepted them with as few questions as Greg had voiced about Eleanor the evening before. None. Greg was convinced that Dr. Farnham had a prescription worth following. It would take both intelligence and courage. He didn't know if either Martha or he had enough of either.
George, of course, was at Elizabeth's elbow the minute she walked in the door. It took him ten seconds longer to diagnose Dorothy, and he was now playing the role of host to both of them, pouring martinis from a silver pitcher and offering to drink it out of their bras.
While Greg broiled two-inch New York cut steaks in the patio, and Martha busied herself in the kitchen tossing a garlic oil salad and dishing up baked potatoes, petits pois a la francaise, Dr. Farnham admitted he was delving into Greg's case further than he had planned.
"It isn't the professional approach," Dr. Farnham admitted, "but I checked on Martha's background a little more than you did when you married her."
"How?"
"I called her mother." He sipped from his martini glass and smacked his lips. "Do you know this is the sexiest drink you can drink?" He took another swallow. "Didn't you ever talk to her mother before you married the girl?"
"Sure, I asked her if it was okay if I married her. What the hell, I didn't need her credentials. She needed mine."
Dr. Farnham watched the grill. "Make mine well-done," he said. "It's the test of a good chef."
"I knew you were a kook doctor before I ever went to you," Greg groaned. "You're going to make me louse up a good steak."
Dr. Farnham seemed to forget about the steak. "Do you know that Martha's grandmother died a suicide and her grandfather of a heart attack the same night?"
"She mentioned a family tragedy, but I never-"
"No one knows whether Robin Hart's mother jumped out of their bedroom window first, giving her father a heart attack, or whether it was his attack that caused her to jump out the window."
"No note, or anything like that?"
"None. And it seems both Robin and her brother, Charles, were home at the time, but neither could give a comprehensible story for weeks after that. It didn't matter, of course. They inherited everything, and lived happily ever after."
"Hell," Greg said, "what's that got to do with Martha? How old was her mother then-eighteen, nineteen?"
"Let's say fourteen. But it supports the incestuous behavior between Robin and Charles that I would say has been going on since then, if it didn't begin before."
"Interesting, if you were Robin Hart's doctor."
"Or Charles's," Dr. Farnham said, wandering off with his martini.
Somewhere during the evening the food was eaten and done with. The drinking never stopped. They had all gone swimming in the nude, with the lights on, and with the lights off. Now they were off, and no one was to be seen. But no one had left.
Elizabeth was lying bare-assed on the grass, near the grill, where she said it was warmer. George was on top of her, fucking her in the old-fashioned, methodical way, getting even for the exhibition Elizabeth had subjected him to in Chicago. He buried his cock in her and ground her buttocks against the wet earth. "Now, baby, let's see if you can learn some techniques I'm going to teach you," he panted.
He was moving faster and faster, and Elizabeth locked him in with her legs over his buttocks, heeling him into her closer and closer, holding him with clutching hands as one after another convulsive spasm rocked her ass, rocked her cunt, held his cock, still stiff, probing into her. "Get her!" she said through clenched teeth. "Get her!" Eleanor heard her. So did Dorothy. They both came over, Eleanor to squat over Elizabeth's face so her cunt mushed down into her mouth so Elizabeth's streaking tongue could lash up into the poontang and suck on it with loud, slurping licks.
Dorothy crept down behind George's asshole, spread his firm, flat muscled cheeks and licked at his hanging hemorrhoids, pushed past them into his anal opening and salved his membranes with the hot saliva from her lascivious mouth.
From out of the shadows, Greg moved forward on his belly, came up behind Dorothy, and from in back of her and on top of her jabbed his pole into her cunt, while his arms slid around her belly, up her ribs, to grab onto the heaving tits, the feel of which made his prick get harder and longer and hotter and stiffer and wider and bigger and thicker, gorged with the blood of his whole body, gorged with the come of his balls, gorged with heaven and earth that he attempted to move by thrusting his ass as hard as he could, as long as he could, and on the waves of the martinis he had swallowed, as long as he could would be forever.
Dr. Farnham found Martha in her bedroom, looking out at the patio, seeing nothing, but hearing what he heard; hearing the grunts, groans, moans, squeals, gasps, sighs, keens, oofs! oohs! ahhhs!
Her back was to him, and he put his arms around her from behind. He felt her tighten, start to turn.
"Gee, there!" he said. "Haw!" he ordered. "Whoa!" She bucked her ass back at him. Her tits were like fire in his palms, and her bare buttocks up against his elderly cock gave it new life, rejuvenated it, made it move, lift, stretch out. "Down," he said. "Down, girl. Down!"
She dropped to all fours, her head rocking between her arms rigid against the floor.
"Now let me on, let me on you there, whoa!" His hands came around to her bare thighs, rubbed them, simultaneously up and down on each thigh; then alternately, up on one, down on the other. He let them run around the thighs, to wipe up on her delta; first one hand, then the other. "Giddap," he said. "Giddap, up!"
She kept her hands down on the floor, but came up on her feet behind so her rump angled up in the air. Dr. Farnham flopped to the floor between the legs, tipped his head back so his lips met her pussy. He kissed it, softly, tenderly; like kissing her on the face, the throat, the breast. He pushed his lips into the vagina; then opened his mouth; then sucked back in a long inhale. "AAhhh!" she said. VAAhhh!"
He brought his mouth down, licking his lips, feeling his cock jutting out as if he were nineteen again. He reached up to her thighs, pulled her down so her cunt rested on his head. He began moving his head back and forth so that the scalp and hair tugged against her clitoral muscles. "Ride," he said. "Ride."
She lifted her hands from the floor, planted her feet wide, her knees wide, pressed down on his head, felt the bridge of his nose pushing up between her thighs, rode the crown of his scalp like a saddle, began posting in a rocking motion that sent spasms of ecstasy from the balls of her feet up to the pit of her belly.
"Now me," he said. "Now me."
He slid from under, lowered himself to elbows and knees, rocked back and forth like a horse at bay.
Martha mounted him. From somewhere she had grabbed the belt of a terry cloth robe. She inserted it in his jaws, pulled back on it between his teeth. He reared, pawed the air with his hands like hooves, dropped to all fours, and bucked, pitched, yawed. Martha hung on, yelling, "Whoa! Whoa! Damn you, whoa!"
She clasped the back of his neck with her left hand, reached down with her right, shipped his prick under his belly with a, "Quiet, damn you, quiet! Still! Still! Whoa!"
He circled, pawed the floor, reared up again. She slid back to the hump of his buttocks, whipped around the terry cloth reins and snapped him on the head of the cock. "Down! Down!" Her knees jammed in against his ribs, forced him back to the floor. She leaned forward and patted the mane of his neck. "Steady," she whispered. "Steady."
He stood stock still, his hide quivering, the muscles in his thighs spasmodic against the feel of her smooth calves, his stomach muscles pulled in against the thrust of her heels. She rested on his back, let both hands come around to his cock. He started to back, and she jerked on the terry cloth bit in his teeth. "Good boy," she said, "good boy." He stood still again, his prick pointing up toward his hanging chin, straining to reach it, straining to come all the way to his own mouth.
"Easy, boy," Martha said. "Easy does it." She slid off his back, patted his ass, and crawled under him. "Put it in easy, boy. Put it in slow and easy." She reached down between her legs, got hold of his cock and rubbed it tenderly on her moss-smooth muff. "Easy, there, boy," she said.
He whinnied, "What's my name?" Whinny "What's my name?"
She couldn't think of his name. Whoa, there! Dr. Something, what was his name. Easy, there; easy, there, boy. She had the head in, moved it up and back the length of her cunt, just inside the lips, just under the surface. Whinny. Whinny. Whinny. What's my name? What's my name?
Easy, there, Uncle Charlie. Hold it, Uncle Charlie, right there. Fuck Uncle Charlie. I'm Farnham, Bill Farnham. Do you like my prick? Fuck it. Yes, Uncle Farnham, yes, Uncle Farnham. Bill Farnham. Bill Farnham. Dr. Farnham. Fuck my prick. Run your cunt up and down my prick. Put it in, Uncle Doctor. Put it all the way, Uncle Doctor. Bill Farnham. Bill Farnham. Dr. Farnham. Oh, give it to me, Doctor. Ooh! Doctor, fuck me, Doctor. Fuck me fuck me. Balls thumping against my cunt, never stop. Keep coming. Come on come on. Doctor doctor. Fuck fuck. What's my name? What's your name? What's in a name? Keep fucking. Keep prick in and out. Oh, Greg, sonofabitch. Oh, Greg, give it to me. Oh, Greg, like you said, put it in my cunt, put it in my mouth. Oh, Greg, where's your big prick? Shove it, shove it. Why don't I take it always, every night, all the time, forever, forever! Fuck me, baby. Fuck me, it's been such a long, long time.
Doctor Farnham was saying it, "Fuck me, baby, it's been such a long, long time!" His aged prick was young again. His balls were young again. His ass was fire again. He could do anything again. He could start all over again. He would never stop again. He would only start again. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck. Goddamn, I'm coming. Yes, I'm coming. Haven't come for so long. What's it like to come? This is what it's like to come. Oh, baby, come with me. "Oh, Martha! MARTHA!"
He came in a shattering lurch, Martha with him, and they shuddered together, clasped tightly together, and waited together, while the last drops of semen dribbled from his prick, and the last muscle of her cunt relaxed its spasm, to allow her to lift her legs, drop her arms, let him climb out and stand above her.
He said, "With all my experience, I don't know what to say now, except that I love you."
"I love you too, Doctor."
She rolled to her side, looked out toward the dark of the patio. "Do you think they heard us?" Dr. Farnham said, "Do you think they care?"
She rolled back. "That was a good treatment, Doctor."
"I wasn't here as a Doctor. Besides, the pleasure was all mine."
"Don't you believe it."
He squatted beside her. "Who's Uncle Charlie?" She sighed. "My uncle, of course. My mother's brother."
"You fucked him lately?"
She shook her head. "Years ago. Years and years ago."
"Then why the hell are you remembering it now?"
"I don't remember it. I just remember him."
"He raped you?"
"No. I seduced him, I think."
"Good. Maybe you should do more seducing. You're great at it."
"Greg will kill me for this."
"Why?"
"Why? I'm his wife."
"What do you think he's doing out here?" He nodded his head toward the open door.
"He's out there, because he had nothing in here."
"I think he had a lot in here. I ought to know. I just had some of it."
"Aren't you afraid he'll kill you?"
"People don't kill people so easily. Besides, I didn't take anything away from him, did I?"
"No, I guess not. Unless-"
"Unless, what?"
"Unless what he could have had from now on."
"From now on he's still got it, if he wants it."
"He'll probably divorce me."
"Maybe. But then he could have divorced you anyway."
"Should have, probably."
"Yes. More cause then than now."
"Not in his mind."
"You don't know what's going on in his mind. If you did, you wouldn't have been behaving as you did."
"Oh, for God's sake!" Martha said. "What is this? Am I on a couch or something."
"Yes, you are." Although he couldn't see her face, he could see the defiant set of her shoulders. "Don't look at me like that. Look at yourself. You feel better now, don't you? More at ease. More at peace with yourself."
"No, I feel miserable."
"You want another fuck? Will that make you feel better?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Well, it's nice to know you're willing to try. That's some progress. But I can't give it to you."
"Why not?"
"With what? This quarter-inch of pecker I've got left?"
"It felt big."
"They all feel big when they feel good."
"How do you know? You're not a woman."
"Technically, I know. The length doesn't mean anything. Nothing at all." He tapped her knee with caution. "But don't tell Greg that. Don't tell any man that. That's all they've got going for them." Martha giggled, and Dr. Farnham chuckled with her. "You know, I do feel better. Now, if I can only keep Greg from finding out this ever happened."
"There you go again!" Doctor Farnham said, and slapped his forehead in a gesture of frustration. "You're only building up another psychosis. You'll be afraid to fuck him, because you might say Bill Farnham instead of Greg!"
"I think I'd say, 'Dr. Farnham'."
"I think you'd say, 'Greg', that's what I think you'd say. Or baby or darling or sweetheart. It makes no difference, because nobody's listening anyway."
"You know, I've never met a doctor like you."
"I'm a psychiatrist."
"Or a psychiatrist like you either."
"How many psychiatrists have you ever met?"
"Including you? One."
From somewhere on the dressing table, Martha dug up a pack of cigarettes, and by feeling around in one of the drawers, found a match.
She lit two cigarettes with the match. Her eyes squinted against the glare, and she wondered what it looked like from outside.
"I wonder what's happening out there," she said.
"The same thing that happened inside here. Only they have more ways to go."
"You're a psychiatrist. You should know more ways."
"There are more people out there. I'm quantitatively outnumbered."
"Why don't we join them?"
"You may. Me, I've got to go back to my two kids and let the babysitter go home."
Martha giggled again. "How come everything is so easy, all of a sudden? How come nothing bothers me right now-even knowing that Greg and I are probably finished, I feel I can cope with it."
"Because you and Greg aren't finished. You're just starting. You know, like you told the horse. 'Easy, boy, easy.' "
"But you don't know Greg."
"I know Greg better than you know Greg. I know Greg better than Greg knows himself. He has to grow up, and he's growing up fast. Then he can make any kind of decision he wants, and it will be a valid one."
"What does that mean-a valid decision?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. That's a schoolteacher term." He laughed. "No, that isn't exactly true. It means he'll make the best decision he possibly can from the information that's available to him."
"And his problem with me was he didn't have enough information about me?"
"Something like that. If people don't talk together, and tell each other the truth, they can't solve anything."
Martha gazed into the darkness outside. "Maybe we'll have to do something like this every night to keep us going."
"Like this," Doc Farnham said, "but not necessarily this! He looked around at nothing at all. "Where the hell will I put out this cigarette?"
"Here." She took the cigarette from him, joined it with her own, aimed for where she knew the bathroom was, and flicked both cigarettes toward the bathtub. They arched, dropped, and were followed by a hiss.
Dr. Farnham said, "Where was I?"
"You were telling me that we didn't necessarily have to do this."
"Well, not all together, in a group like this. If you like it, of course, that's all right."
"Whatever turns you on," Martha said.
"A good phrase. But I mean by that, whatever you need to keep communication free and easy between you. So the two of you can sit and talk like this, whenever you get through doing what each of you has to do individually."
Martha suddenly stood up. "Why don't we go outside and see who's in the middle."
Dr. Farnham sighed, and struggled up. "It makes no difference who's in the middle. What makes a difference is who stays here and who goes home. Me, I'm going home. Give my regards to everybody."
Martha said, "Your clothes. Do you have any idea where you left your clothes?"
"I folded them and put them in my car before I went to the pool. I've been to these parties before."
He didn't say goodbye. And he didn't say thank you. And he didn't say he loved her. He was suddenly gone, and she wasn't sure he had ever been there.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
(THE HONEYMOON)
He came awake with a big, black cloud over his head and stars all around it. He moved his head and saw the black cloud was only the barbeque. He didn't remember how he had gotten under it, or when. The concrete was ice cold against his ass, and his balls were freezing.
He got out from under on hands and knees and made his way to the patio door. He snapped on the yellow fluorescent light. The patio was a mess, but no one else was in it. He peered out to the lawn and the bushes. Forget it. If they were in the bushes, let them stay. He doused the light, and felt his way into the master bedroom, through it, to the bathroom.
He took a long shower, brushed his teeth, rubbed himself down briskly. He put on pajama bottoms, started out for his bed, remembered he had to take a piss, and turned back to the john.
Oh, man, that felt good. Almost as good as having some. He pissed for a long time, shook the drops off the end, reached for a Kleenex and dried the tip of the cock. Kidneys not too good anymore. Now it dribbled off the end when he finished instead of squirting out in an arching stream as it used to. Got to lay off the booze. Got to lay off the broads. Got to stay home and take care of the business.
He meandered back to the bedroom, felt his way to the edge of the bed. Shit, someone in it. George? George and Eleanor had a room. Let's see, though, George was going to take Elizabeth home. Eleanor was going to squire Dorothy back to her motel, right? That would leave only him and Martha here, and Martha, of course, would be in her virginal chambers across the hall. Man, if she put up with what she put up with tonight, shit, he could put up with a little more of her. Where the hell had she disappeared to? One minute they were all in the pool-her too, turned out to be a pretty good sport, considering-and then next, man then next everybody was fucking everybody.
What he should have done was knocked off the booze earlier; that's what he should have done. It was those martinis. This couldn't happen on bourbon. Oh, hell, who was he kidding. It wasn't what you drank, it was how much. But look at the Cables. Hardly drink at all, just enough to make them sociable, they say. And, man, are they a far-out couple! And look at Dorothy. She doesn't drink at all. Fucks like a mink and sucks like-like a what? Shit, there must be something you suck like. Well, she sucks like a sucker, that's what! She must have that old man of hers climbing walls! Jesus, how the hell does he ever get any work done?
He flopped down on the bed, nudging over the body that was lying there. "Come on, baby. Move the old ass over."
A hand stole under the covers, crossed over his thigh, found its way into the gaping hole of his pajama bottoms, took hold of his cock. He reached down to feel the hand. If that was George, the son of a bitch. He sat bolt upright. Dr. Farnham! What the hell had happened to him?
"What's the matter?" Martha said. "What's wrong?" She sat up quickly alongside him.
"Jesus! I thought you were Bill Farnham!"
"Hardly."
He did a classic double-take, the kind you see in movies. "Martha. Jesus H. Christ!"
She said quickly, "Do you know where we are?"
"I know where I am. I'm on the beach at La Jolla. But where the hell are you!"
"I'm in a hotel on the top of New York city. We just got married and you just brought me in and I'm just going to get fucked."
Greg reached for the bedside lamp, but Martha caught his wrist. "Listen, we have a lot of fucking to catch up on, haven't we?"
He grinned. "Not on Sunday nights anymore. I have to be at the office early on Monday."
"It's Saturday night, you stupe. Tomorrow's Sunday."
"Oh, well in that case-"
He dropped to the pillow, pulling Martha down with him. He opened his lips over hers, his tongue probing stiffly into her mouth, to duel hers, to see who could reach the farthest, who could taste the most. Then his lips went over her eyes, her cheeks; down to her breasts, nipples, belly, down into the pubic hairs protecting her cunt, into the hot moistness of her cunt.
Martha said, "Eat it later. Fuck it now." She laughed. She laughed long and loud, and Greg didn't know what she was laughing at, but he didn't care.
He slid up over her, felt her legs wrap around him tight, lace themselves on his back, squeeze him into her buttocks. "Hurry! Hurry! I need it. I want it! Fuck me, little brother!"
He pushed in his prick as far as it would go; then shoved it farther.
Man, what a great way to spend Saturday night at home!
