He caught a cab at the corner of Lexington Avenue and sat back, glancing at his wristwatch. It was a little after nine and he wondered if Ronnie would still be asleep when he arrived at her apartment. He hoped so, picturing her naked on the familiar bed, imagining her sleepy response to his intimate caresses. He knew she enjoyed his stopping off at her place before going on to the office each day. It had become a ritual with them and a most wonderful one, even though it occasionally resulted in his arriving at work a bit late.
Mathew stirred and smiled, feeling his body reacting to the thought of past pleasures. He felt strong and it surprised him, recalling his evening with Ronnie and his later performance with Cynthia. The marked increase of sexual activity of late had seemingly invested him with startling vigor and virility and energy. He'd have thought it would have had the opposite effect, depletion rather than magnification. In any case, it pleased him.
"This is fine," he said, handing over the money and opening the rear door of the cab. "Keep the change."
Ronnie lived in a remodeled brownstone in the upper Fifties on the East Side. He climbed the stairs to the top floor, remembering the afternoon he had helped her move her belongings into the old but comfortable house. She'd been living in the Village with a girlfriend and they had both agreed that their affair needed a greater measure of privacy. They went apartment hunting together and Mathew paid the landlord the first six months' rent in cash-despite Ronnie's proud arguments. The day they moved her things into the cheerful and warm apartment, they celebrated by making love on the bare floor.
Mathew used his key and entered the living room. He saw that the blinds were raised, allowing the sunlight to flood the interior of the apartment. He caught the scent of coffee brewing in the small kitchen and he suddenly remembered her having mentioned something about having a modeling assignment that day. "Anybody home?" he called, dropping his coat to a chair and smiling.
Ronnie popped into view, her black curls a disheveled and pretty mass, her dark eyes sparkling with cheerful good spirits. "You're late," she smiled, blowing him a kiss. She was wearing a silk kimono, haphazardly belted, and the sunlight made the bare flesh of her legs and belly and breasts gleam enticingly.
The sight of her pleased him, as always, and he went into the tiny kitchen to slip an arm around her waist and kiss the nape of her neck. She laughed softly and leaned back into him, her buttocks firm and round beneath the silk. "Good morning," he murmured, flattening his hand on her warm stomach, holding her against him.
"It is. now," she smiled.
Mathew suddenly thought of Cynthia, asleep in her room. He drew back, sobered. "I'll get the juice," he offered uneasily, going to the refrigerator.
Ronnie looked at him. "What's wrong?"
He carried the plastic decanter to the drop-leaf table and concentrated on filling the two glasses already set out beside the coffee mugs. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
Ronnie shrugged one shoulder, obviously unconvinced, and lifted the pot of steaming coffee to the table. "All right, be mysterious. See if I care."
He sat down at the table. "You're up early."
"I'm working today. I told you last night, remember?"
"What kind of work?"
Ronnie brought him a spoon. "It's another lingerie job. Did you ever hear of Perry Products? They're supposed to be a very big house. Well, anyhow, they're having a big show today to introduce their, new line."
Mathew listened to her chatter on about the trials and tribulations of being a model at such a show. He was enjoying the sound of her voice almost as much as the sight of her partially concealed nudity. It never ceased to amaze him how she could be so totally unaffected and uninhibited by the lack of clothing and how she was often surprised to find that her indifference was capable of embarrassing and arousing him. He found himself looking at her large and beautifully rounded breasts. They swayed weightily with each gesture of her hands and he watched in childish fascination, remembering the feel of them and the taste of them and the delight of them.
Ronnie laughed throatily. "I wish you'd stop staring at me that way. It's very disconcerting."
"Come here," he smiled, pulling at her hand and guiding her around the table to his lap. He kissed the freely offered lips and filled his hand with her breast, his thumb gently and lovingly massaging the blunted tip. Ronnie breathed into his mouth and caressed his lips with her tongue, her fingertips toying with his ear. "You like to be touched, don't you?" he murmured, feeling the nipple begin to harden.
"I love it," Ronnie answered softly, leaning back into him.
Mathew thought of Cynthia again, recalling how she had asked him to touch her the previous night and how she had placed his hand on her firm breasts. Without willing it, his hand fell away from Ronnie's abundant flesh and he frowned, troubled by the guilt that he could not seem to overcome.
Ronnie looked at him alertly. "There is something wrong, isn't there?"
He let out his breath. "Yes."
She sat up on his lap, her blunt nipples still swollen. "It's your wife. She knows about me."
He nodded. "Yes."
The curly-headed model was silent a moment as she considered the situation. Finally, she rose and went to sit opposite him, her vivacious prettiness marred by an expression of regret and resignment. "Well, I guess it had to happen sooner or later. We haven't been too careful lately when we went out." She narrowed her dark eyes. "What did she say?"
Mathew sipped his juice, determined to appear unruffled. "She asked me if it was true and I said yes. She was very upset but-well, it could have been worse.".
Ronnie stirred her coffee slowly. "I suppose she gave you some sort of an ultimatum."
Mathew frowned. "No. Cynthia's too intelligent for that sort of thing. We simply discussed the situation."
Ronnie smiled amusedly. "How sophisticated can you get?"
"Don't joke about it," he said sharply.
Ronnie shrugged. "All right, no jokes. Tell me what you two discussed so calmly. I think I have a right to know."
Mathew shifted on the chair. "I told her that I loved you and that I couldn't give you up. I asked her to try and understand it."
"And?"
He could feel himself squirming under the girl's cool gaze. "We didn't come to any definite understanding." He knew his words were weak and that she was still waiting for something of importance to be said. He cleared his throat and looked at her. "At least it's all out in the open. She knows that this isn't just an overnight thing."
Ronnie smiled again. "I'm glad to hear it."
"You know it's true."
"I'm beginning to wonder."
"Nothing has to change."
Ronnie frowned in mild confusion. "You'll have to spell that statement out to me, I'm afraid."
He wet his lips, uncertain of himself and of what he was trying to say. "I pointed out to Cynthia that ... that we could go on ... if ... well, if she'd accept my need for you."
The dark eyes became cynical and tinged again with amusement. "And she accepted' the idea of such an arrangement?"
"I don't know, really," Mathew sighed, slumping dejectedly in the chair and leaning on the table. "I just don't know."
"You still love her, don't you?"
He felt himself flushing under the veiled accusation in the soft words. "I've made her very unhappy and I feel obligated to-"
"Come off it," Ronnie snapped sharply. "It's more than pity. You would have left her a long time ago if it wasn't." She sighed and shook her head. "You know something. I almost feel sorry for her. I really think I do. She apparently wants you so much she's afraid to make you choose between us. I want you, too, so I can appreciate what she must be going through right now."
Mathew felt his anger rising. "All right, it's true. I do love her. I'm vain and selfish and weak enough to want the love of two women. Does that satisfy you?"
Ronnie smiled serenely. "Poor Mathew ... so respectable, so dignified, so honorable, so confused. You can't live without Cynthia and you refuse to Jive without Ronnie." She chuckled softly. "Drink your coffee before it gets cold and stop looking as though the weight of the world is resting on your shoulders, it will all work out one way or the other, you'll see. This sort of thing always does."
He gazed at her, grateful and yet resentful of her breeziness. She was vibrant and glowing and young and wise. The mere sight of her was enough to charge him with a renewed love of life. He put his hand over hers and squeezed it with his fingers. "I need you more than anything else in the world."
She nodded slowly. "I know you do."
"Do you? Do you really?"
"Yes."
Mathew felt somewhat reassured as he released her hand after a final squeeze. He watched Ronnie finish her coffee and rise to her feet. She belted the kimono around her rich body and moved to the door of the small kitchen, one hand fluffing her black curls. He smiled at her. "I'll clean off the table."
She nodded. "All right. I'll get dressed and we'll leave together."
Mathew busied himself with the cups and saucers as he listened to her moving around the bedroom. She was humming but the longer he listened to the sound, the more forced it seemed. He supposed that Ronnie was more concerned with the situation than she had allowed herself to appear. He decided it was a sign that she loved him every bit as much as Cynthia and the thought pleased him.
Pleased, and amazed him.
Mathew drew a deep breath, refusing to analyze the fact further, and wandered into the front room. He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of a chair and wondered what Cynthia was doing. He tried to imagine her activities during the long day ahead and he pictured her walking from room to room in sort of a trance, worrying about their dilemma and perhaps crying from time to time.
How long had she known about Ronnie and how had she found out?
One of their mutual friends, no doubt.
Someone had seen him with Ronnie and reported the fact to Cynthia.
Well, no matter. As Ronnie had said, it had to happen sooner or later.
A blur of movement caught his eye and he turned his head to look through the opened door to where Ronnie was dressing in the small bedroom. She was fastening her stockings to the garter straps and the frilly underwear made her provocative body look especially wicked and voluptuous. He could not imagine existing without her. She meant too many things to him. The difference in their ages held little if any importance due to her ability to be all women in one, the gay and almost childish hoyden, the flippant and teasing mistress, the mature and passionate mate.
She was a wonderful creature and she loved him. Mathew had never been more sure of it. And he knew that her love was without illusion or condition or reservation. She'd known about Cynthia from the start and had never asked any more of him than he was willing to give, taking him as a man and as a lover with a poise and honesty that belied her youth. Yet he also knew that everything would gradually change now that they were faced with the threat of Cynthia's attachment to him. Ronnie would be forced to make demands of him, if only to reassure herself that she was not losing him.
Mathew put out his cigarette, struggling to find the answer. It was not the first time he had examined his feelings for his wife and his mistress. He only knew that he wanted to possess them both. It was a concrete need in him even though he was unable to fully analyze it to his own satisfaction. The idea of sacrificing one for the other was unthinkable and impossible. He loved Ronnie. He loved Cynthia. He wanted to keep them both. He needed their different kinds of love.
What then was the answer?
It eluded him.
Mathew forced all such sober introspections from his mind and focused his attention on the dark-haired girl in the adjoining room. The high-heels added to the sinful appeal of her costume and as he watched her walk to the closet, he allowed his gaze to center on the movements of her rounded buttocks beneath the black lace panties. Desire rippled through him and he felt himself pushing up from the chair and moving to the opened door.
Ronnie turned, holding a garment of greenish hue. She saw him standing there and one eyebrow arched in feminine awareness. "I don't like the look in your eye, mister," she teased huskily.
He smiled. "You shouldn't let me see you that way."
She glanced down at herself, at the creamy breasts which all but overflowed the frilly brassiere. "Is there something wrong?"
He shook his head, moving into the room. "Not a thing." He came to stand before her and took the woolen dress from her hands. The scent of her perfume was suddenly strong and the allure of the black underwear and sheer stockings overpowering. "You're beautiful," he murmured, putting his hands on her flaring hips.
Ronnie let him draw her lower torso forward, the teasing smile remaining on her pretty face. "I hope you're not going to complicate matters. I haven't much time, remember? Neither do you."
"I'll always have time for you," he smiled, browsing his lips in the black curls. "And for this."
She laughed huskily as his hands squeezed her buttocks. "You should have told me sooner, you dog. Now I'll have to get undressed again."
"That won't be necessary." He laughed nervously, delighting his senses with the scent, and feel and taste of her arched throat. The lace panties felt warmly exciting under his hands and the elevated thrust of her ripe breasts had his body already tingling with awareness.
Ronnie pushed his lips away and tilted her head to one side, eyeing him knowingly. "Does that mean what I think it means?"
He felt himself blushing. "Would you mind terribly?"
She showed her dimples in an impish smile. "Have I ever? Besides, it would save time, wouldn't it?" She laughed playfully and kissed him squarely on the mouth, her fingertips toying with the nape of his neck. She moved back and took his hand and led him to the bed. "All right, you lecher, you talked me into it Just don't expect me to wait around until you recuperate. You'll have to lock up the store by yourself" after I'm gone."
Mathew felt suddenly weak and yet he was throbbing with need of her. It awed him how she could move into an intimacy with such carefree and playful ease. There was never a moment of awkwardness with her. Everything progressed smoothly and naturally and without embarrassment or self-consciousness.
"Lift up."
He obeyed and felt her hands stripping him of his trousers. He noted the stray curl that had fallen across her forehead. Each time she leaned forward, her rich breasts seemed to be about to spill from their lacy confinement. The sunlight played on the sheer stockings and he experienced a strange thrill when he reached out one hand to run his palm over them. She slowly stripped off her clothing.
He squirmed impatiently. "Don't tease me."
She laughed softly. "All right, I won't tease you."
Mathew lifted his hands to her bare breasts and fondled the juicy fullness of them. "Ronnie ... " he whispered tightly, arching.
She laughed again. "My, you are in a state this morning, aren't you?" The fingertips fluttered, testing, admiringly.
"I thought you were in a hurry?" he groaned, writhing on the bed, his hands filled with her warm flesh.
Ronnie stopped smiling and nodded. "All right, lover. Ready or not, here I come."
Mathew's arms were ready to receive her. He pulled Ronnie close until his face was buried in her breasts. He rubbed his face in them, pressing them against his cheeks and licking at the sensitive flesh in the cleft. He pinched her nipples while his tongue ran up and down the valley, then worked its way over the firm roundness.
Ronnie sucked in her breath sharply as his tongue stroked over her. She loved the patches of wetness left by a man's rasping tongue licking her tit. She could feel the nerve endings around her breasts tingling as his tongue moved slowly around and around its firmness, each circle bringing his mouth nearer to the throbbing hard nipple.
When Mathew caught her nipple with his tongue and pulled it between his lips she let out a shriek of joyous surprise, pressing against the back of his head, feeding her tit deeper into his mouth.
"Yes! Yes, Mathew," she whimpered. "Suck on it! Oh, darling, suck! Use that tongue on me until I go right up the wall."
Mathew's mouth twisted and writhed, turning first one way and then the other, seeking out every inch with his hot darting tongue. Her hand pressed harder against his head, her chest straining as though she longed to stuff every bit of her flesh into his mouth.
"The nipple! Suck on the nipple!" Ronnie twisted and writhed on the bed.
She jumped when Mathew's hands came down in her lap. His fingers pinched her inner thighs, working their way toward the hot center of her cunt. His thumb pressed into the lightly damp flesh until he felt the outline of her cunt. He began to toy with it, drawing his fingers up and down the slit, pressing ever so gently into it, pushing past the outer lips of her hole, exciting the sensitive flesh.
Ronnie's cunt was completely opened. Mathew seized it again, combing his fingers through her wiry bush. He stuck his middle finger through the jungle of hair and up into the juicy slit moaning with pleasure as he felt Ronnie's cunt muscles closing on his finger. His lips went back to her tits. He sucked furiously while his fingers continued playing with her hole.
It was thrilling when Ronnie's body responded. He could sense the depths of her excitement. She felt as though every sensory nerve in her body was being lapped by fire. As Mathew's finger drilled in and out of her hole, she flung her hand between his legs and seized the firm prick that stretched from the root of his belly. Her fingers ran through the patch of black hair surrounding it. She gripped Mathew's giant cock at its base and began to play with it.
At her touch Mathew's cock swelled even harder. Her cunt began to twitch as Ronnie imagined the sensation she would know when that rod penetrated her.
"Give it to me!" Ronnie suddenly screamed. "Oh, Mathew, give it to me. Baby, I need it!"
"I'll give it to you, darling," Mathew whispered. "Don't worry about it." He gave her pussy one last tweak.
"Yes! Yes!" Ronnie whimpered.
She reached for his prick once more and pulled it to her lips. They spread far apart to embrace the huge head. It filled her mouth, ramming deep into her throat. Its size forced her tongue to the bottom of her mouth. Ronnie used her lips to suck Mathew's cock. Her head bobbed faster and faster, her fingers toyed with his heavy balls. She was delirious with excitement.
Her lips slid off the swollen cock. She bent her head, planting two quick kisses on his balls.
She spread herself flat, fingering her pussy to increase the flow of juices to prepare for his entrance.
"Give it to me," she whimpered, tossing her hips and showing him the juicy pink meat of her inner cunt. "Ram it into me, Mathew! Oh, baby, stick that big cock of yours into me right now!"
Ronnie squealed with pleasure when she felt Mathew's fat cock rubbing inside her cunt. It was slippery wet and penetrated with ease. Her cunt lips spread as Mathew's passion consumed her; his cock entered with ease. She felt a touch of pain and for a brief second she pushed up on his chest to hold him back.
The agony turned quickly to ecstasy as she drew him back, screaming, "Oh God! God!" She tossed her head from side to side, feeling him pushing inside her, feeding more of that giant prick into her tight hole. It hurt ... it always did ... but the pain was part of her excitement.
She spread her legs wider in order to allow her cunt to take him more easily. She felt Mathew's cock ramming into her. A blinding pain flashed across her eyes.
"Good?" he grunted. "Is it good, baby?"
"Oh, yes!" Ronnie screamed. She flung her arms around his neck, squeezed him tightly and put her mouth on his. She kissed him long and deep as she began to move with him inside her, pulling the giant cock slightly out and then shoving it back home even harder, driving it still deeper as her cunt began to open for him.
With each stroke Ronnie could feel his cock moving in her, the thick head swelling and pulsing against the walls of her vagina. She felt the suction when he pulled out. Her hole was quivering, her swollen clitoris tingling as the big cock rubbed against it, setting off spark after spark of excitement.
He covered her mouth with his, kissed her hard and drilled his tongue halfway down her throat, then pulled away and rose up so he could put his lips on her tits. Her teeth bit into them, gently at first, then harder, until Ronnie was screaming with passion.
"I'm coming!" she whimpered. "I can't hold it back, darling! I'm going to let go!"
Ronnie felt her toes curling up, her legs stiffening as each thrust of Mathew's hard cock brought her closer to orgasm. She could feel it inside her like a bubbling volcano. Harder and harder she pumped, and he clung to her frantically, wanting to come and yet wanting to delay it.
Suddenly holding back was impossible. Mathew's cock was just too exciting. With a shriek of joy, her fingernails dug into his shoulder and her cunt began to explode. She felt the bursting inside her.
Ronnie felt the surge of Mathew's come.
"Oh, Mathew! It's wonderful!"
Mathew groaned. His own excitement was complete.
Mathew tensed, clarity returning for one flashing instant. He croaked her name and his hands implored her roughly. The explosion followed swiftly and it was violent and shattering. He felt himself trembling as he descended from the heights and he heard her soothing whispers as she withdrew from him. He drifted into a timeless inertia and floated weightlessly.
"Honey?"
He stirred, lifting his lashes, unable to determine how long he had been asleep. Ronnie was standing at the foot of the bed, her body fully clothed in the green wool sheath, her hair neatly brushed, her lips freshly painted. He stretched luxuriously and found that she'd covered his body with the kimono. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
She smiled at him. "I just didn't want you to be late for work."
He nodded and wet his lips. "Are you leaving now?"
She came around to the side of the bed. "Uh-huh. Well, how do I look?" She twirled, showing him her full figure.
Older, he thought. The heels and sheath and makeup masked her natural youthfulness. She was not tall enough to be a truly successful model and her body was much too ripe for the demands of a fashion photographer. He knew she was aware of it and that it had determined her career as a clothing model in the many garment showrooms. Still, she was vibrantly attractive ... "No comment?"
He smiled. "You look wonderful."
She relaxed her pose. "I hope so. The agency is sending over a dozen girls and this outfit will only use six of us."
"They'll pick you."
Ronnie flashed him a smile and picked up her pocketbook. "I have to run. Don't go back to sleep now."
"I won't."
"And don't forget to lock the door."
He pushed himself up on an elbow. "What time will you be free?"
The black-haired girl paused in the doorway of the bedroom. "I'm not sure. You can't be on jobs like this." She hesitated, sobering a bit. "Are you sure you'll want to see me tonight?"
"Very sure," Mathew replied crisply.
Ronnie looked at him. "Don't you think you'd better go home tonight? She'll want to talk to you, won't she?"
Mathew frowned guiltily. "I wish you'd let me decide what's best." The young girl shrugged. "As you wish."
"I'll call around sue."
"All right."
"Ronnie."
"Yes?"
He stared across the room at her. "Don't be impatient with me."
She smiled softly. "I won't. Bye."
Mathew watched her disappear from view. The door closed and he heard her heels on the stairs. He sighed and sat up and reached for his trousers, knowing it was time for him to enter the world of corporate law where there was no conflict but only orderly routine and prescribed action. However drab, it seemed a haven to him all at once, an escape from his personal confusion.
TWO
Ronnie Franklin stood before the full-length mirror in the small cubicle of the dressing room. She ran a brush through her black curls, waiting for the seamstress to make a last-minute alteration in the wraparound negligee she was scheduled to put on display. Someone had opened a window across the loft and the flow of air was cool on her perspiring flesh. She set down the brush and twisted at the waist to see if her stocking seams were straight. They were of dark mesh, matching the bra-and-panty set selected to complement the vaporish negligee. The bra was too tight and the brief panties at least one size too small but Ronnie knew there was no sense in complaining. No one had time to listen to minor complaints, much less attend to unnecessary details.
Besides, she thought, gazing at herself in the mirror, the tiny panties and precarious brassiere did add a flavor of voluptuousness to her figure. Maybe the designer knew what he was doing when he handed her the undies; maybe they were supposed to be a size small. It had been a long and grueling day, filled with constant activity and unrelenting pressure. Perry Products had spared nothing in their preparations to introduce their newest line of lingerie to the metropolitan buyers. The dressing room reflected the frantic confusion of the fast-paced showing in the outer salon, with models and designers and matrons snapping and complaining and cursing one another as they hurried in and out of the various outfits. It was a steady din and Ronnie could feel the beginnings of a headache as she turned to face the stoop-bodied seamstress who carried the filmy negligee.
"All right, sweetie, it's ready now."
Ronnie slipped into the garment with the help of the hatchet-faced woman. The satin sash was carefully tied and positioned, the folds arranged with meticulous detail so as to flatter the prominence of her breasts and well-rounded hips. Beneath the layers of gauzy material, the panties and bra seemed to wink wickedly at the viewer and the dark stocking added to the allure.
Ronnie moved to the wings of the outer stage, walking carefully on the stilted heels and patting at her hair. She stood there, preparing herself, waiting for her number to be called. From her vantage point, she could see that a different mood was taking hold in the large showroom. Most of the new line had already been presented and the potent cocktails being served to the buyers were beginning to take effect. The men in the audience seemed to be concentrating more on the models than the corselettes, pajamas, nightgowns, and undies.
A tall, leggy blonde glided off the stage, the harem outfit clinging to her supple figure. She groaned tiredly as she passed Ronnie. "God, I'm pooped. I've got aches in places where I didn't even know I had places."
Ronnie heard her number called and she moved quickly out on the stage. The glib master-of-cere-monies recited the specifications of the wrap-around negligee for the benefit of the onlookers as Ronnie moved around the circular platform in a controlled walk, pausing every third step to preen and posture. She kept her smile fixed and her eyes focused above the heads of the seated buyers as they studied her partially-veiled body. Finally, after what seemed to her a long time, she was allowed to complete her tour of the stage and move into the wings where a sinuous brunette waited to put a seductive set of lounging pajamas on display.
"The natives are getting restless, huh?" the girl cracked.
Ronnie smiled tiredly. "They've been well-oiled."
"It happens every time," the brunette sighed, moving out on exhibit when her number was called.
Ronnie tapped one of the effeminate designers on the shoulder as he bustled toward the dressing room. "How much longer do you think we'll be working?"
The young man flung both hands in the air. "God knows ... if it lasts much longer, I'll have a nervous breakdown. I'm absolutely frazzled as it is."
Ronnie smiled and let him flutter away, knowing that he was loving every minute of the confusion despite his dramatic protests.
She moved through the noisy dressing room to her little partition, shedding the negligee and heels with the help of one of the matrons hired to assist the models. She sat down on the stool and lit a cigarette, massaging the nape of her neck, feeling the weariness of the long day. Two girls across the room began to argue and Ronnie listened detachedly to the viciousness of their cat-talk. One wore a flowered robe but the other was starkly naked except for her heels. Ronnie admired the fine lines of the girl's body, finding the sharply pointed breasts particularly worthy of note, and congratulated herself once again for having been chosen as one of the half-dozen girls for the assignment.
One of the company salesmen yelled a poorly-timed warning and marched into the room with a tray of glasses and bottles. He was welcomed with mingled cries of surprise and resentment and delight. One or two girls ducked behind the curtains of their cubicles, others just reached unhurriedly for their robes. Ronnie rose from the stool and drew the curtain across the front of her partition, relieved that the show had finally come to an end.
She stripped herself of the filmy undies and ran a towel over her body. She heard other men drifting into the room and there was a great deal of laughter and merriment. She put on her own underwear and stockings quickly, not trusting the protection offered by the slack curtain. She was fastening the garters when someone knocked on the thin wall of the cubicle and ruffled the curtain. She grabbed it and held it in front of her body as she scowled at a short, red-faced man. "What is it?" she asked testily, seeing that he was already a bit tipsy.
He grinned, perusing the draped curtain that she held molded to her body. "I'm Aaron. I'm with the company. We're going to have ourselves a little party later at the Belvedere Hotel and we'd like you to-"
"Sorry."
He frowned. "Let me finish, huh?" He wet his lips, moving a step closer to the curtain and dropping his voice. "One of my own buyers asked me to talk to you. He-likes you. It might be worth your while to come along, if you know what I mean."
Ronnie smiled at the small man. "You tell your client that I've made other arrangements for the evening. Some other time, perhaps."
The red-faced man sighed. "Okay, what's it take?"
"More than your client could afford."
"Try him. Name it."
Ronnie shook her head. "Not interested. I've been to those parties."
The small man looked at her for a moment and then shrugged. "Okay, okay, you're not interested. You don't need an extra hundred bucks. You got all the money in the world and you just model for kicks. I'll tell my buyer to find somebody else."
Ronnie smiled at his tactics and nodded. "You do that, honey."
He scowled and walked away into the crowd that had begun to assemble in the dressing room. Ronnie dropped the curtain and resumed dressing, wondering how many of the six models would accept the invitation to the private party. Not too many could afford not to go. A hundred dollars was a hundred dollars.
Ronnie recalled a few of the parties she'd attended in the past. There was one in particular, a party that had followed a show of bathing suits. She had needed the money and she had had one too many drinks at the showroom celebration and she had agreed to go along with two other models and a vague number of salesmen and buyers. The drinks had come fast and furious once the party settled in the hotel suite rented for the occasion. Everything became blurred for her, but she remembered servicing the needs of one faceless buyer while another girl performed a few feet away in the other twin bed. What made it so memorable was that the lights were on in the room and the two men carried on a conversation.
It had been a long night and when she returned home to her Village apartment the next morning, she was one hundred and fifty dollars richer. It took care of a few essentials.
Ronnie could remember that era of her life well. It had been a struggle making ends meet as she tried to earn a living as a model. There was always an extra fifty or a hundred dollars to be made and she took advantage of the opportunity when circumstances demanded it. There were easy fifties and hard fifties, quick hundreds and grueling hundreds, fun parties and weird parties. A girl grew up fast in the garment district, especially when she was a model and on her own.
But all that was in the past...
All that was before Mathew Demeter entered her life...
Ronnie smoothed the slip over her hips and frowned at her reflection in the mirror. She had tried not to think of him during the long day, to use the show as an escape from the unexpected developments of their relationship. Cynthia Demeter's reaction to the news of her husband's affair was not at all what Ronnie had anticipated. When she had cajoled Mathew into taking her to the better clubs, she had counted on being seen by one of his acquaintances. She had gambled on the gossip being passed along to Mathew's wife, forcing a showdown. But from what Mathew had intimated that morning, Cynthia had not exploded in typical female fashion.
They had discussed it.
Ronnie scowled, recalling Mathew's pompous and stilted words. It all boiled down to one fact. Cynthia Demeter wasn't about to give up her husband. The prospect of engaging the woman in open battle depressed Ronnie, but she knew she had no choice. Cynthia would fight to keep Mathew and Ronnie knew she would have to fight to take him away. She had to protect her investment. It was that simple.
All the days and nights of being with him, of being faithful to him, of winning his love and trust and respect, of building him to a state where she was as important to him as his wife, of making him believe that he was as important to her as life itself-this was a considerable investment and she couldn't forsake it the first time she met a challenge. She had to fight and fight hard.
Mathew Demeter represented too much to her.
"Miss Franklin?"
Ronnie spun around, emerging from her thoughts. She held her green sheath in front of her as she pulled aside the curtain. A man stood just outside the cubicle, tall and lean and darkly handsome. He had an air of authority about him and she noticed that many people of the crowded assemblage were glancing his way. "Yes?"
"I'm Perry Eshmont."
"Oh."
He held out a sealed envelope. "Please accept this with my sincere thanks. You might call it a bonus for a job well done."
Ronnie took the envelope. "You're very kind, Mr. Eshmont."
He hesitated a moment, his eyes probing. "I hope we'll have you with us again."
"I'd like that very much."
"Have you been modeling very long?"
Ronnie was aware of his reluctance to move away and flattered by it. "I started out to be ah actress but I didn't get very far. Modeling requires much less talent."
He smiled and it made him appear younger. "I wouldn't say so."
Ronnie lifted the dress. "Would you mind?"
"Please do," he replied, moving just inside the cubicle.
Ronnie tugged the sheath over her head and breasts and smoothed it into place, her mind appraising Perry Eshmont's interest in her. She smiled at him as he moved forward to attend to the rear zipper and tiny clasp at the nape of her neck. "Thank you."
"My pleasure," he offered smoothly, looking again into her eyes. "If I'm not being too forward, are you planning anything for this evening, Miss Franklin?"
Ronnie tilted her head slyly. "Are you speaking on behalf of one of your clients, Mr. Eshmont?"
He smiled. "No, I'm not. This is a personal request. I'd like very much to take you to dinner if you're free."
Ronnie broadened her smile. "Free?"
He laughed appreciatively. "Available, then."
Ronnie turned her back to him and picked up the brush, drawing it deliberately through her hair. Mathew had said he'd call her apartment around six. He'd want to see her. It occurred to her that it might be a good piece of strategy to accept Eshmont's invitation and let Mathew stew. Jealousy was always a potent weapon in any fight and Mathew had shown he was particularly sensitive to her relationships with other men, both past and present. Then too. Perry Eshmont wasn't just some run-of-the-mill buyer out for a good time. Perry Products was a big company, very big. "Well, Miss Franklin?"
She looked back at him over her shoulder. "I should warn you," she smiled. "Someone has already stolen my heart."
The youngish manufacturer smiled, his eyes roaming over the rich curves of the sheath. "Then I'll simply have to settle for what's left, won't I?"
Ronnie laughed softly, deciding that Perry Eshmont had been around. "I'll have to make a call."
"I understand perfectly. I'll be outside when you know one way or the other."
Ronnie watched him walk away into the crowd before turning back to complete her toiletry and place the welcomed bonus into her large pocketbook. She went out into the mob and worked her way through the raucous merry-makers to the corridor where there a telephone. As she was dialing, an inebriated buyer strolled over and ran his hand over her buttocks. Ronnie jumped and pushed him away with an angry scowl. "Get lost."
The buyer shrugged and moved away.
A clipped and precise voice came through the receiver. "Mr. Demeter's office. May I help you?"
"Mr. Demeter, please."
"He's in conference at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?"
Ronnie hesitated. "Will you tell him that ... no, never mind, I'll call back." She hung up and walked slowly back to the large dressing room. Only a few of the people were still there, the party having moved back out to the showroom. The stocky, red-faced man and a plump gentleman had the sinuous brunette in a corner and she seemed to be agreeing to their joint proposal.
Ronnie found Perry Eshmont standing amid a cluster of people near one wall of the showroom. He saw her approaching and moved to meet her, taking her arm. "Well?"
"I'm afraid I'll have to delay my answer a while longer."
"Oh."
"He was in conference."
Eshmont smiled. "He sounds important."
"He is."
"Agency man?"
"Corporate lawyer."
"I see."
She was pleased that the young manufacturer was impressed. "I seem to be meeting a lot of important men lately," she quipped, looking up at him.
Eshmont shrugged slightly. "I'm just a figurehead, actually. I inherited the business from my father. He named it after me when I was a boy. He's really the one who's responsible for its success. I just keep things going in the right direction." He looked off to one side. "Care for a drink?"
"All right."
He took her arm and guided her to a far corner where they could enjoy a cocktail without worrying about having it spilled over them by an errant elbow. The drink was frosty and potent and she found that she was relaxed in his company. He was no older than thirty-five but he had a mature magnetism she admired in a man. He talked of the show and the new line, asking her opinion of the various numbers, flattering her answers with sober attentiveness.
"Have you been invited to the party at the Belvedere Hotel?" he asked lightly, changing the subject.
"Uh-huh."
"Do you plan to attend?" Ronnie smiled. "No. I've been to those parties." Eshmont frowned slightly. "Not too many, I hope."
Ronnie tasted her cocktail. "A few. I was just getting started and didn't know better."
Eshmont and nodded and gazed at her. "It's Ronnie, isn't it?"
"Yes. For Veronica."
He gestured at her hand. "I don't see a wedding ring so I assume it's Miss Veronica Franklin."
"That's right."
He smiled. "I've always thought that lawyers were a cold-blooded lot and now I'm convinced of it. What's wrong with him?"
Ronnie smiled boldly up at him. "He has a wife."
Eshmont blinked, taken back by her honesty. "Oh."
Ronnie giggled and handed him her glass. "Now you can go get us another drink. It'll give you time to think that remark over."
Eshmont grinned and nodded, moving away.
Ronnie watched him go to the bar, amused by his reaction, liking him for being slightly shocked. He was nice, she thought. And rich. He probably had a pretty wife and two or three children, but he was still an attractive prospect. A year ago, she would have turned handsprings to win his favor but that was a year ago ... before Mathew. Before she decided to put all her eggs in one basket rather than go along playing the field. Yes, he was nice...
The high-breasted blonde, the one who had argued so vehemently and nakedly in the dressing room, started to dance while holding a glass in one hand and a cigarette-holder in the other. Two salesmen lifted her up to the stage and a group formed to clap their hands for tempo. The model kicked off her shoes and commenced to dance in earnest, the tightness of her dress restricting her movements and clearly reflecting every curve of her supple body.
Eshmont returned to her side with the fresh drinks and looked over at the performance. "I think it's time you made that call."
Ronnie smiled. "I think you're right." They walked together to the corridor and the telephone. Ronnie handed him her glass. "I hope you won't be too disappointed if it doesn't work out. I did warn you."
"I'll be crushed, but I'll try not to show it."
Ronnie hesitated. "Does the invitation still hold if it begin and ends with just dinner?"
Eshmont grinned. "You have my word on it."
Ronnie laughed. "Just teasing."
He chuckled. "That's what I thought."
He moved a discreet distance away as she dialed the number. As she waited for the connection to be made, she glanced over at him and smiled when she saw him hold up two fingers, crossed. She decided at that instant to have dinner with him. Mathew was suddenly a risk and she had to think of the future.
"This is Miss Franklin," she announced quickly, in response to the secretary's voice. "Is Mr. Demeter free now?"
"One moment, please."
"Hello, Ronnie."
"Hello, Matt."
"Where are you."
"At the show."
"When will you be able to leave?"
Ronnie hesitated briefly. "I've been invited to dinner. It's a business thing."
Mathew's voice dropped. "Ronnie, I want to see you tonight."
"Have you called home?"
"No, not yet."
Ronnie pursed her lips, knowing that she was taking a chance. "I think you ought to go home to her tonight, Matt. Talk to her again. I think it's the best thing for all of us. Nothing will be settled until we all know where we stand."
"Ronnie, listen to me-"
She steeled herself against the plea in his voice and interrupted him. "I've got to go now, Matt."
She hung up without waiting for an answer and turned, wondering if she had injected the right note of sincerity into her words. Perry Eshmont stood watching her and she smiled over at him. He came forward, reading the smile correctly. Ronnie took the glass from him and lifted it to her lips, looking up at him over the rim. "I have another warning for you, Mr. Eshmont," she smiled.
"Fire away."
"I eat like a truck-driver." He laughed and took her arm. "Shall we?" Ronnie smiled. "Why not?" They walked to the elevators. Ronnie slipped her arm into his and allowed her breast to nuzzle him. The young manufacturer looked down at her with a smile and his eyes carried the same question they had when he first approached her with his invitation to dinner. Ronnie looked up at him and let her own gaze answer it.
Eshmont chuckled. "You had me guessing there for a while."
"I don't like to be taken for granted," she stated simply, effectively, aware that they had come to an understanding.
THREE
Mathew stared angrily at the telephone on his massive desk. The sudden termination of Ronnie's call left him annoyed and frustrated and jealous. Of all the days to behave like a pouting child, he thought irritably. And her concern for Cynthia, her unselfish advice that he go home and soothe his wife's feelings-what was she trying to prove to him? Why wouldn't she let him decide on his own course of action?
The intercom sounded and he flipped the switch testily. "Yes?"
You have another call, Mr. Demeter."
"Who is it?"
"Your wife."
Mathew scowled impatiently. "Not now," he snapped curtly, cutting the connection, not caring what Miss Waring thought of his behavior or reason for it. He could not speak to Cynthia while still uncertain of what he could and should say to her. She would only confuse him more than he was at present. She had a talent for confusing him.
He swung around in the high-backed swivel-chair and stared out the window of his office, his mind returning to thoughts of his young mistress. He pictured Ronnie seated across a table from a strange man, dining and drinking, laughing and talking, her dark eyes sparkling and her red lips glistening in the romantic candlelight. A tightness formed in his throat as his imagination continued to torture him with the vision.
He could follow the rise and fall of her wondrous breasts beneath the green wool of her sheath. The man with her would be watching them, too, and imagining how they would look devoid of any covering. To assuage his curiosity, he would probably ask her to dance, wanting to feel the weight of them against his chest. Ronnie would smile and rise and melt in his arms in that way she had when she was dancing, with her lower body around his neck. The man would hold her close and enjoy the softness of her body and the scents of her black hair. He'd make some small joke and Ronnie would tilt back her head to look at him and laugh...
Mathew drew a deep breath, trying to dispel the imagery. He swung back around, knowing he had to occupy his mind. He reached for the Dictaphone and a folder of legal contracts and commenced reciting opinions and suggestions in a flat voice, his brain not totally attuned to what he was doing. He worked steadily for almost thirty minutes, pushing himself, until his desk was cleared of all pending business. Then, feeling somewhat calmer, he leaned back in the chair and let it swing around under his weight until he was again staring out at the darkening city.
He decided it was less painful to think of Cynthia than of Ronnie. More to his advantage, as well, since he knew that sooner or later he would have to speak to her again. Cynthia, his wife, with her unfathomable emotions and patrician beauty, no less an enigma at thirty-three than she had been at twenty-two. Eleven years, he thought. Nearly ten in marriage ... and still, a stranger of sorts. He had long since despaired of ever fully understanding her and her reaction to his infidelity only served to prove the fact.
He recalled their meeting at the Cape and how he was intrigued by her odd aloofness. A well-mannered, well-bred, well-educated product of New England society, she had fascinated him with her innocent and shy timidity. After a long period of resistance, she finally seemed willing to accept his romantic overtures and the following weeks of the summer were spent in overcoming the strange tension that seemed to be a part of her whenever they were together.
It was not until the following spring, after months of sporadic dating, that he made any noticeable progress with her. One evening, after a night of champagne and dancing, she consented to accompany him to his bachelor apartment. Although she went to the brink of intimacy with him on that occasion, she managed to put him off and confine their lovemaking to mutual petting. The next date, however, culminated their courtship. Offering up her virginal body in fearful and awkward naivety, Cynthia manifested her love for him. He was touched by her silent surrender and he took her tenderly, kissing her face as she wept in mingled pain and pleasure. It had not mattered to him that she was ignorant and awkward and totally different than the other girls he had known.
No, it had not mattered at all ... then.
He found his pleasure in the slender and virginal body, the chaste and unexploited lips, the lovely and pure beauty of her face. He found his satisfaction in the knowledge that he was her first man, her only man, and in the strange docility that covered her like a veil when she was naked in his arms.
It was not until later in their affair that he began to become impatient with her. Time and again, he tried to provoke her to more passionate partnership, her reticence in sex taking on the shape of a definite challenge. It disturbed him that she could remain so composed, that she could be content merely to give and not take, that she seemed happiest when he had reached fulfillment and lay tiredly in her warm embrace. It was enough for her, she'd tell him in a shy whisper. It was all she needed, all she wanted.
It was inevitable that he would marry her. Cynthia Cordell was not the type of girl a man kept as a mistress; either he asked her to marry him or he dropped her. The curious allure of her odd devotion to him nullified any thoughts of dropping her. Without his having realized it, his importance to her had become a tangible need, balancing the scale, compensating for the mediocrity of the sensual pleasure she afforded. Then too, it was a fashionable union, one approved by all.
When he proposed, Cynthia hesitated, surprising him. Finally, looking pale and nervous, she had accepted. Mathew hadn't known at the time the cause of her hesitation and it was not until they were on their honeymoon that he put the question to her. Cynthia stated simply that she wasn't sure whether it was fair to him for her to accept his proposal, in light of her lack of passion.
The years went by with a constancy that all but obliterated any awareness of their passing. Cynthia gradually matured, taking on a gloss of womanly polish, losing her maidenly shyness and timidity. She accepted the fate that she had a need for physical love and her approach to their intimacies took on a rather clinical flavor. Through experimentation, she found that she was incapable of achieving any semblance of satisfaction unless she performed in the role of the aggressor rather than the supine and passive partner. Mathew was happy to make this concession, finding it a marked improvement over her previous inertia. After a while, no other manner of making love was acceptable to her and the pattern for the years of marital intimacy was established.
Still, she was a good wife, helpful and gracious and understanding and utterly devoted to him. Her indifference to all other men astounded and flattered him and he basked in the obvious envy of his acquaintances. In this day and age, a wife like Cynthia was a rarity and he was quick to appreciate it.
Despite his appreciation, however, the lack of variety and the fixed routine of his role in his marital bed, drove him to other women. These occasional flings seldom had any meaning and seldom lasted more than a few indulgences. Guilt had much to do with it. Time continued to pass and he began to feel old beyond his years. Then, when his spirits were at their ebb, he happened to meet a dark-eyed, black-haired young model named Ronnie Franklin and his blood began to flow again.
Ronnie...
He remembered the sight of her that morning in the cheerful bedroom, the black underwear, the sheer stockings. He remembered her teasing caresses and bold words and erotic kisses and the hot ecstasy she had evoked in him. Ronnie...
Mathew trembled uncontrollably, feeling a stirring in his body. He rose and went to his private lavatory to douse his face with cold water. A small despair welled in him as he studied himself in the mirror over the basin. While the gray hairs added to his stature, they also served to remind him of the difference between his age and that of his mistress. He fought the thought, telling himself that he was a young and well-preserved forty. His stomach was flat, his shoulders strong, his skin healthy in tone. Few men could match his handsomeness and even fewer, his virility ...
Somewhat soothed by the vain thoughts, he returned to his desk and fingered the telephone. He knew he should call home and yet he was sick at the thought of having to make excuses and apologies and explanations. Cynthia would expect him to come directly home after being out the previous night and she would be angry when he refused. She had every right, he admitted grudgingly, guiltily. Nothing could erase the fact that she was his wife, not even his love for Ronnie. She was justified in stating that he was being unfair, even cruel, in his treatment of her.
What was the answer?
He couldn't leave Ronnie.
He couldn't leave Cynthia.
And yet the time to choose between them was rapidly approaching.
The buzz of the intercom broke his troubled thoughts.
"What is it, Miss Waring?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Demeter, but your wife insists on speaking with you."
Mathew nodded resignedly. "All right, put her on." He cut the intercom and lifted the telephone. "Cynthia?"
Cynthia sounded vaguely annoyed. "Mathew? I've been trying to reach you all day."
"I'm sorry, Cynthia. I've been terribly busy."
"Are you going to be late tonight?"
He hesitated, drawing a breath, bracing himself. "I don't think I'll be home for dinner, if that's what you mean. In fact, I might be quite late."
"Mathew, don't, please."
He winced. "I need time to think, Cynthia. I need to be alone."
"Alone?"
Mathew frowned, regretting his choice of words which allowed her the opening for the barb. "Let's not argue over the telephone," he offered weakly. "If you're asleep when I-"
Cynthia cut him short. "How can I sleep? How can I stay home in this apartment and know that you're off somewhere with another woman? Mathew, I want you to come home from work. We have to talk this thing out once and for all. You owe me that much consideration."
He waited until the words trailed off into the silence, knowing he was totally in the wrong. "I'll be home as soon as I come to some sort of a decision, Cynthia. Try to understand."
"I have tried. Matt. Believe me, I have tried."
She sounded tired and worried and he felt a stab of pity for her. "I have to hang up now, Cynthia," he mumbled, the guilt with him again, the guilt he could, never seem to shake.
There was a click on the other end of the wire.
Mathew replaced the receiver to its cradle and, without allowing himself to think of the conversation, rose to clear the top of his desk. He left his briefcase in the office and walked outside to where Miss Waring sat typing. He started to speak and then simply nodded at her as he walked on to the outer corridor and the elevators.
A nearby steak-house offered a welcome haven and he entered it, moving to a rear table and ordering the specialty of the house together with a dry martini. Across the low-ceilinged room, the bar was becoming crowded with office-workers. There was a sprinkling of females among the well-dressed men and for the most part, they were young and attractive.
Mathew looked at them, at their silken legs and tight skirts and pointed breasts and painted lips. He wondered if Ronnie was seated at some bar somewhere in the city and if men were staring at her the way he was staring at the strange girls. A business thing, she had said, explaining the dinner date. He remembered that she did not drink too well and that liquor had a loosening effect on her behavior. He hoped the man she was with would not sense and exploit the weakness. He also hoped the man was not overly attractive and worldly and affluent. Ronnie was not above being impressed by success in a pretty package.
An auburn-haired female at the bar glanced pointedly over to his table and her eyes held boldly for a long moment. There was a trace of a smile on her lips and it was both inviting and suggestive. Mathew noted the fullness of her plumped buttocks atop the padded bar-stool as well as the heaviness of her partially-hidden breasts under the jacket of her tailored suit. She looked experienced and knowing but there was little genuine feeling in her mercenary gaze as she studied and evaluated him.
He looked away, reminded of another time and another place and another girl. It disturbed him to recall the occasion when boredom and depression had driven him to the prostitute on Central Park West. It had cost him seventy-five dollars, including the tip, for the hour and a half of venting his frustrations. It was his first and only brush with that sort of thing and even now, after so long a time lapse, he was ashamed that he had allowed himself to be persuaded by the knowing call-girl. She'd had the same cold and calculating glint in her eyes as she drew his problems from him with her shrewd technique. She had the same plump meatiness as the girl at the bar when she removed her wrapper and crawled across his lap, offering up her body for punishment.
Mathew dismissed the memory with determined effort and sipped his martini. He forced himself to avoid looking in the direction of the bar and the curvaceous redhead. He focused his mind on his present situation.
The waiter came with the steak.
Mathew began to eat.
Mathew Demeter entered the towering apartment building with a curt nod to the portly doorman whose name he could never quite seem to remember. It was Mike or Mac or something of that order, he speculated indifferently, riding the sound-proofed elevator up to the tenth floor. He unbuttoned his raincoat and gnawed at his lower hp, his mind dismissing the trivia and turning to thoughts of more immediate importance.
Emerging into the thickly-carpeted corridor, he hesitated a moment before inserting the key into the lock of the familiar door. Then, after drawing a deep breath of preparation, he turned the lock and entered the luxuriously furnished suite of rooms. There was the muted sound of soft music drifting from the interior of the apartment, and with it, the scent of elusive perfume and aromatic cigarette smoke.
"Mathew? Is that you?" Her voice was slightly strained.
"Yes, darling," he answered, removing the raincoat and draping it over his briefcase on an antique chair in the gilded foyer.
Mathew frowned and squared his shoulders, pausing to check his appearance in the ornate mirror attached to the wall. He had hoped she'd be asleep and he felt a strange guilt mingled with his disappointment. He studied his reflection quickly, wondering whether the tension showed. Finally, he turned and went to face his wife, praying that there wouldn't be a scene.
Cynthia was dramatically posed on the long couch before the artificial fireplace. She was wearing one of her favorite outfits, a set of severely stylish lounging pajamas, this one of very dark silk. A novel was opened on her lap and a tipped cigarette burned in the tray amid the stubs of a dozen others. She looked up, her pale and beautiful face expressionless, as he crossed the room to kiss her forehead lightly. "You look tired," she stated softly, as he straightened up.
He shrugged. "It was a long day."
"Shall I fix you a drink while you change?"
"All right." He noted her attempt to remain calm.
Mathew went into his bedroom, shedding his suit-jacket and tie and donning the soft-textured smoking-jacket. He brushed his hair and found his slippers and went back out to the front room. Cynthia had a tall drink waiting for him when he rejoined her and he accepted it with a murmur of thanks, uncontrollably avoiding her cool eyes.
What was there to say, he wondered wearily, settling down in the deep-cushioned chair opposite the couch. He knew he would be expected to chat with her and that he was obligated to stay up a while after having left her alone all evening. There was a look of expectancy on her lovely face that made him feel all the more guilty and depressed and he struggled to find some means of opening the conversation.
Cynthia came to his rescue by asking him the details of his day at the office and he answered quickly, without thought, using the same words he had used a thousand times before on similar occasions. He yearned for the privacy of his bedroom, the cool comfort of clean sheets and soft pillows, the sheltering darkness, the sweet satisfaction of secret and personal thoughts.
"Where did you have dinner?" she asked making an attempt at small talk. "Any place interesting?"
"Not particularly. I forget the name of it."
"What did you-"
"A steak," he answered impatiently.
Cynthia frowned slightly and lowered her eyes to her drink, her lips pursing. "Mathew, this is all wrong!" she said softly.
He tensed, his fingers tightening their hold on the chilled glass. "Wrong?" Here we go again, he thought.
Cynthia sipped her drink, her pale eyes troubled. "I think it's time we had that talk," she stated flatly, without looking at him.
Mathew felt a flicker of panic. He found that he was unable to remain seated another moment so he rose and walked to the draped doors that led out to their small terrace. He moved the heavy curtain aside and looked out at the lights of the United Nations Building and the mysterious glitter of the dark river just beyond it.
"Did you hear me, Matt?"
He bit on his lower Up, knowing it was the end of the line and that he could no longer delude himself that she did not know the truth. "I heard you."
Cynthia trembled inwardly, struggling against the coldness that filled her. She saw the stiffness of his shoulders and the tension of his posture and knew that he was bracing himself for what was to come. She prayed that he wouldn't hate her for what she was about to say, but she knew that she had no choice. She had to know for sure. She had to know the extent of the threat to her marriage, her security, her life. They couldn't go on destroying one another with pretense and silence and polite withdrawals and cowardly considerations. They had to talk about it, face up to the truth of it, before it was too late.
She moistened her lips and cleared her throat. "Mathew?"
"Yes?"
She put aside the drink and clasped her hands together on her lap. "Let's be honest with one another."
He nodded without turning around. "All right, Cynthia."
Mathew returned to the couch and sat down beside her, his hand hesitant in its caress of her blonde hair. "What can I say, Cynthia?"
She let herself lean into him and his arm went around her body, holding her in a gentle and affectionate manner. She sensed his guilt but also his helplessness. "Do you love her?"
There was silence.
She looked at him. "Do you?"
Mathew noted the lovely fragility of the beautiful face, the delicacy of the red lips, the luster of the pale blue eyes. He imagined he saw tears forming in their depths and he was touched by them, knowing he was responsible for them, knowing his wife loved him and did not deserve the hurt he was inflicting upon her. Still, he knew that she deserved the truth from him. He nodded heavily and sighed. "Yes, I think I do."
He felt Cynthia tremble within his arm. She seemed to sag and she placed her head against his chest. "What happens now?" she asked tonelessly. "I don't know."
She looked up and her face was anxious and drawn and worried. "Suppose I ask you to give her up?"
He winced at the thought. "Don't, Cynthia. Don't ask it of me."
She looked at him thoughtfully, probingly. "Are you leaving me?"
"No, of course not."
"I don't understand."
He thought he detected a relief mingled with the curiosity of her question. "We'll go on together. I couldn't leave you."
She drew apart from him, her finely-boned face suddenly cold and accusing. "Are you expecting me to give you my blessing? Is that it?"
Mathew squirmed uncomfortably. "I'm not asking for your blessing," he replied unevenly. "Merely, your understanding. I told you that yesterday."
Cynthia laughed softly. "Could you understand, if the tables were turned? If I was seeing another man?"
He sighed tiredly. "I don't suppose so."
"I know you wouldn't. You'd leave me."
"Perhaps."
"But it's all right for you to see another woman."
He sagged defeatedly and ran his hand over his face. "I can't blame you for being hurt and bitter, Cynthia. It's wrong and I know it. I can't defend it. But it did happen and I'm only trying to ... to make you understand."
Cynthia's voice was cuttingly incisive. "Has she asked you to marry her?"
"No."
"Why not? Doesn't she love you?" Mathew wet his lips, shaken by her query. "She knows I would never consider leaving you."
"Why?"
"Because you're my wife and I love you."
Cynthia laughed hollowly. "That's very amusing, Matt. You love me and you love her. You love the both of us. You want to keep the both of us."
He looked at her, trying to let her see his dilemma.
"Yes."
Cynthia lifted her drink and tasted it. He could see that she was terribly disturbed and that she was taking the time to control her emotions. She lighted another cigarette and blew out the smoke in a rich cloud. "She's young, isn't she? Young and pretty and all the rest."
"It's more than that, Cynthia. Much more."
"What does she do for you?"
Mathew struggled for the right words. "She makes me feel alive. She makes me ... happy."
"And I don't."
"It's not the same thing."
Cynthia emptied her glass and leaned back, closing her eyes as she puffed slowly on the cigarette. He thought that she had never looked quite so beautiful and, despite the present circumstances, he yearned to hold her in his arms. She exhaled and opened her eyes again. "You're not being fair, Matt. You tell me all this and ask me to accept it. You want me to make it easy for you. It's cruel of you, very cruel of you."
Mathew felt drained. "I don't mean to be," he answered weakly, wishing she hadn't brought it up on this night when his nerves were already strained by the hard day's work and Ronnie's desertion. "Believe me, Cynthia, I only want to do what is best for us both. I know I have no right to ask you to stay with me and yet I know it ... it wouldn't work out if we were to ... to separate. It doesn't make sense and I can't explain it but it's the way I feel."
"You plan to go on seeing her."
"Yes."
Cynthia put out her cigarette and fell back across his lap, a choked sob quaking her body. "It's the end for us. I know it."
A vast compassion engulfed Mathew and he moved quickly to soothe her, stroking her trembling shoulders, seeking to lessen the intensity of her weeping. He gathered her in his arms and kissed her face, tasting the saltiness of her sudden tears. She seemed to become somewhat calmer as he continued to move his lips around her pale face. "I do love you, Cynthia," he whispered, meaning it, knowing it was true. "I do love you."
She lay passive in his arms, one arm dangling from the couch, eyes more closed than open. "Show me, Matt," she murmured, almost sleepily, looking up at him. "Touch me."
Mathew felt a quiver of desire for her and it startled him. There was a strange newness to Cynthia's attitude that attracted him. She seemed so helpless, so utterly feminine, so entirely submissive. He found himself moving his hand over the silken pajamas that caressed her slender thighs and her answering sigh fanned the unexpected heat in his body.
"Do you touch her this way?" Cynthia whispered, arms circling his neck. He scowled, his mood penetrated. "Cynthia, don't."
"I can't help it," she monotoned, pulling his head down so that their mouths could meet. "I'm so afraid of losing you."
The kiss was hot and feverish and desperate and he felt his desire leap with a new intensity. "Cynthia, darling.
She squirmed heatedly and gripped his wrist, bringing his hand to her sharp-peaked breasts. She forced him to hold her as she worked her tongue into his mouth with a wantonness that was totally new to her. It awed him that such a transition had taken place in her and that the love for another woman had triggered it. It bewildered him that she could love him so completely, so desperately. He felt her nails biting into the nape of his neck and he felt as though he was holding a stranger instead of his wife. A vague exhilaration gripped him and he returned the kisses with an ardor that had nothing to do with love.
"Matt, please," she gasped, pushing her breasts against his palms, sliding her moist lips across his face. "I need you."
He gulped, unable to accept the fact of her words. She'd never said them in all the years of their marriage. It was usually the other way around, with him beseeching her. He wondered if the transition would be complete, if she would be different with him in their lovemaking. He nodded slowly and she slid away from him, her hands tugging at the dark lounging pajamas. He fumbled with his own attire, aroused, yet still confused.
"Hurry, Matt."
He looked at her, his vision blurred. She was kneeling on the cushions of the couch, superbly naked, legs drawn up under her, the tinted nipples pointing, her lovely face flushed and her blue eyes bright with impatience. A stranger. An exciting stranger. Even her body seemed unfamiliar to him. He went to her and they kissed again in the open-mouthed manner she'd always avoided as much as possible. The feel of her warm flesh against his chest brought him to complete desire and he sought to push her backwards to the cushions.
She hesitated, resisting the pressure, a look of consternation crossing her flushed face. "Matt-"
He pulled back, aware of her resistance and its cause. The illusion she had created suddenly began to lose substance. She would not surrender her identity, he thought fleetingly, despairingly. She was still Cynthia, unable to be the complete female, even in their most intimate moments. He felt his desire begin to wane and he shuddered, pulling her naked body back to him.
"Please, Matt," she whispered, kissing his cheek.
"All right," he muttered, surrendering to the weight of her pliant body, allowing himself to fall backwards to the deep cushions of the couch.
Cynthia caught the telltale variance of his hoarse breathing and felt the sudden acceleration of his movement and knew it was time to shame herself by simulating the passion she'd never really felt.
Unseen tears stung at her eyes as she tried to make him think he was giving her pleasure and that she was nearing fulfillment together with him. She urged him on with a burst of awkward ardor, hating herself, hating what was happening.
With his lips, pulling softly at her nipples, Matt kneaded her other breast. She sighed and gave herself to the wonderful feeling that was creeping over her. One of her soft hands caressed the flesh of his body. There was something about the texture of his skin that pleased her enormously. Her other hand flung outwards and came into contact with something new he had added to their love nest. A couch pillow. She smiled at his thoughtfulness.
She was stroking his awakening penis with deft little touches of her fingers and thumb. She had a way of moving her thumb around in little circles on the end of his crown that made him think of the soft kiss of a butterfly. His fingers tantalized her, answering the tugging pull of her fingers on his cock with a moistly erotic motion of his fingers on her clit.
He mounted her slowly, just inserting the very end of his cock. He stirred her slightly in exotic little circles. She panted, feeling like an abandoned creature made for his explicit use with her hips thrust forward to meet his throbbing tool. Suddenly, he thrust all the way in, and because of the position of her hips, it seemed longer, bigger. She felt stuffed with cock all the way to her belly button. As soon as he hit bottom, he remained where he was, tight and hard, pressing against her belly. Then he slowly took his hands and spread her legs a little, and at the same time pressed them backwards. Her ass was high in the air. Her knees were bent at both sides of her head.
Matt labored to sustain his excitement, but it was difficult. He used his imagination to inflame his senses, thinking of Ronnie as a last resort. Cynthia's feverish movements had become a form of competition with a girl she had never met and that, at the same time, he was using that same girl to generate sufficient stimulation to carry out the farce.
He began penetrating her deeply, completely, thoroughly. In the position she was in, she was forced to remain passive, something new for her. He kept her legs firmly pinned to the sides of her head and she was unable to so much as wriggle her ass a little.
He stopped. "Now!" he breathed.
She lay quietly with her mouth open, aware only of the need of her body for more. "Not yet," she said. Her voice was strained and anxious.
Again he drove into her deeply. He kept up the rhythm for a few more seconds and she felt the rushing of her juices, the vibrating sting of her nipples and the gobbling sucking of her sex and gasped. He stopped again.
There she was. Gone from her body. The roaring in her ears like a thousand winds consumed her and tossed her about in a foggy sea of faces that she didn't know, places she had never been. All she wanted was out of the tight grip of the bright place where the light was so dazzling that it hurt her eyes. She cried out and found herself back inside the body and feeling all there was to feel. "Oh, fuck me hard!" she cried. And he did.
Cynthia held him in her arms, suffering the weight of him along with the pangs of her conscience, suppressing her sigh of relief and gratitude that at last, their lovemaking was over.
For Mathew the act had been awkward and agonizing and frantic. He welcomed the end with a prolonged sigh of relief. .
Cynthia collapsed and embraced him. "Oh, Matt," she panted, clutching him tightly, touching her lips to his averted face. "Oh, Matt, I need you so."
She cursed herself for having failed to carry through her act to completion. She had succeeded in arousing him with her ardent kisses and brazen whispers, but when the moment finally came to be the kind of woman he wanted, she had failed again. Damn it, what was so terrible about letting him make love to her that way? Why couldn't she make herself do it? All it took was a few minutes of steeling herself and blotting out her mind and letting him have his way. Just a few minutes and it might have made all the difference in the world to him.
And to her.
Cynthia rolled over on her stomach and hugged the pillow. She looked across at the slotted blinds of the window and the moonlight that filtered through them. The passionate outburst hadn't changed anything. The fact that he was capable of making love to her would not detract from his need for Ronnie Franklin. He'd go on seeing her. He'd go on tasting the kind of passion and fulfillment that she'd always been incapable of providing him.
He'd wandered in the past but it had never been like this.
This was different, she could sense it.
Ronnie Franklin was a threat.
Cynthia nibbled on her hp, knowing it had been foolish of her to try and be something she was not. It was hopeless to think that she could ever compete with a girl of Ronnie Franklin's probable type. And yet, what could she do but compete? She couldn't lose Matt. She couldn't face up to a life without him, without the security he afforded her, without the stabilizing influence of their marriage.
She'd be left vulnerable and helpless without him.
No, she couldn't let it happen.
She had to compete. She had to fight.
But how?
How?
FIVE
Cynthia Demeter lay in the semi-darkness of the modernistic apartment, the folds of her high-collared housecoat tucked snugly around her slender body. She was staring blankly at the artificial fireplace set in the wall opposite the couch, one arm raised and inert above her blonde hair on the pillows. Absorbed in her troubled thoughts, she did not hear Sarah emerge from the kitchen until the dark-skinned domestic broke the heavy silence of the room with her syrupy voice.
"I'll be leaving now, ma'am."
Cynthia blinked and turned her head. "What? Oh, all right, Sarah."
The housemaid hesitated, frowning. "Is there anything I can get you, Mrs. Demeter?"
"No, thank you."
"Aren't you feeling well, ma'am?"
Cynthia moistened her parched lips. "I'm fine, Sarah. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am. Good night, ma'am."
"Good night, Sarah."
A moment later, the front door clicked shut and the apartment took on the tomb-like stillness. Cynthia returned to her thoughts, thoughts that came in the form of endless questions. How had they met? How long had it been going on? How did he behave with her? What was she like? Was she very young? Was that her basic appeal to him? Was she uncommonly pretty?
A bit plump, Vera had said, describing the girl who she had seen with Mathew that night in the cafe. Cynthia conjured an image of Ronnie Franklin, using Vera's catty phrases as a basis. Black hair, thick curls, full lips, dark eyes, large breasts. And young. Cynthia wished Vera had been more specific as to the girl's type, her overall type. Was she cheap? A cheap schemer, after his money?
Cynthia trembled as her mind conceived a scene. Mathew, tall and handsome and dignified, leading a dark-haired young girl into a hotel room, tipping the leering bellboy, closing and locking the door. The girl giggled as he took her in his arms. She left the light on as she undressed, parading her nakedness proudly before moving to the bed. Then, Mathew was naked, too, and excited. The scene blurred as Cynthia shivered convulsively, her mind focusing on the bed and the wanton movements of the big-breasted young girl.
He couldn't love her. She was cheap and common. A tramp. It was lust, not love. It was a desperate attempt to regain some measure of his youth, nothing more. He was infatuated with her freshness, her youthfulness, her promiscuousness. This was her magic, her hold on him, her appeal. And he was too intoxicated to realize it.
Cynthia could understand it.
She knew the helplessness of such a feeling too well.
Intoxication. Infatuation. Insanity, of a sort.
Cynthia rose from the couch, disturbed, and wandered aimlessly through the empty apartment. She turned on a lamp and touched various articles of furniture, her mind darting away and then back to the unwanted thoughts. How could she ever hope to compete with a girl of Ronnie Franklin's probable type? She probably knew he was married right from the start.
Cynthia heard herself laugh tonelessly as she sat down on the stool of her dressing table. She was a fine one to talk of convention and propriety. She was a fine one to cast stones at Mathew. After living a he for ten years, she hardly had the right to play the accusing and martyred wife.
Still, she could not lose Mathew. Without him, she was lost. She had to fight for him, and in fighting for him, fight for herself. It didn't matter that she had never been able to give him the kind of love other wives gave to their husbands. Needing was as strong a motive for marriage as loving. And she needed Mathew.
Yet it was this lack of love that had driven him to this girl with the big breasts and dark eyes. Cynthia admitted it. She had to change if she was to keep him, to win him back, to keep him as a stabilizing influence for herself. She couldn't weep and gnash her teeth and wring her hands and appeal to his compassion and conscience. It was not in her. It would be easier for her to give him his freedom, condone the affair without a show of bitterness. But in doing this, she would be treading on dangerous ground, allowing him the opportunity to taste all that she had not been able to give him as a wife. She could lose him altogether.
She lit a cigarette, her nerves jangling. So much was running through her mind. It was no longer concerned-with Ronnie Franklin but of an incident years ago.
It was her junior year at school, the summer before she met Matt. There was going to be a weekend party at Margo's beach-house. She hadn't wanted to go, knowing that there would be boys, that there would be drinking, but everyone chided and argued and nagged at her until she finally consented.
It was at the beach-house that she met Bobbi ... Bobbie ... Ronnie ... odd ...
Bobbie was the only stranger in the group. Doug Hastings' date. A beautiful girl, with a sweet smile and loose lemon-colored hair. She drank too much that first night as they all sat around the fireplace and sang songs. Doug kept her glass filled and Cynthia had wanted to warn her. Later, when Cynthia was in bed in one of the upstairs rooms, she heard Doug's voice filter through the wall and she realized that he had Bobbie with him.
She lay there in the darkness, rigid, eyes wide open, hearing the muffled whispers and the creaking bedsprings and the horrible grunts of lust. She pictured what they were doing and imagined the pain that the beautiful Bobbie was enduring and felt a kinship spring up toward the strange girl who was too drunk to know what she was doing. She felt a need to take Bobbie in her arms and comfort her and soothe her and tell her that she was no less sweet and beautiful for having allowed a boy to soil her loveliness.
It was dawn and quiet in the next room by the time she fell off to sleep. The next morning she awoke feeling exhausted and drained. Bobbie came into her room, her bathing suit in her hand, her eyes a bit reddened, her smile a bit forced. Cynthia felt a return of all the emotions she'd experienced the previous night and they made it difficult for her to act as though she was unaware of all that had happened.
"Everybody's down on the beach," Bobbie stated. "We seem to be the only two sleepyheads in the group. Do you feel up to joining them?"
"Sure."
"Mind if I change here?"
"No, not at all," Cynthia replied, guessing that Bobbie had bed, that Doug was still asleep in the next room.
Yes, that had been the start of it, Cynthia thought. That long ago morning in a strange room, with a confused and disillusioned and vulnerable girl named Bobbie. The memory of the unexpected incident was vivid up to a point and then, strangely blurred. It flowed through her brain in sharp detail ...
The sight of Bobbie removing her blouse and brassiere, the pertness of her young breasts that were blotched with tiny marks, marks caused by lust and made by teeth. Then, too quickly, the sight of Bobbie stepping out of her shorts and panties, the gleam of the taut buttocks so neatly formed. Something happened at that moment, something triggered all the nameless and elusive yearnings that had been with her ever since she was sixteen.
She had no way of stopping herself as she moved to the young girl, her legs weak and trembling, her throat dry and parched, her eyes blurred and bright. "Did Doug do this to you?" she croaked hoarsely, lifting her hand to touch the delectable breasts of the naked girl who stood, holding her bathing suit.
Bobbie nodded slowly, a flush coming to her cheeks. "Yes."
"I heard you last night. I heard everything."
Bobbie bit at her lower hp and began to cry softly. "I didn't want to do it."
Cynthia felt her own eyes misting and her fingertips caressed the pretty breasts with loving tenderness. She felt a dizziness envelop her as Bobbie made no move to avoid the fondling and her hands lifted the sweet breasts to meet her descending lips.
Bobbie stopped crying and shivered.
Cynthia felt herself being consumed with a pervading heat as she tasted each delicate nipple. "I love you," she whispered, the words coming of themselves. "Let me love you."
A second later Bobbie was in her arms and their naked bodies were pressing tightly against one another. She kissed the lovely lips, the thrill of their meshing breasts making her blood race wildly. Bobbie continued to shiver all the while they kissed, all the while she stroked the silkiness of the curved buttocks, all the while she swayed under the force of the new excitement.
"Oh, please ... " she cried, embracing the girl feverishly.
Bobbie shuddered and the lemon-colored hair swung down to veil her face as they moved as one to the unmade bed. Cynthia covered the uptilted breasts with kisses as her hands sought to remedy the hurt inflicted on the lovely body the previous night. Then, with a moan, Bobbie's arms went around her and everything became clouded. Soft hands guided and she obeyed, feeding her new hunger, driven by the released monster that had lain dormant within her for so long. A vast happiness mingled with the turbulent passion as the sweet-bodied girl groaned and arched in desperate seeking.
"I love you," Cynthia kept gasping, caught up in the delirium. "I love you. I love-"
Time changed everything. Time and experience. The affair with Bobbie had changed with time that first year ... the episode with the worldly-wise Norma who introduced her to the world of the jaded lesbian ... the fear of becoming one of them that drove her into marriage ... the pain of abstinence during the three years that followed her flight from the life that beckoned to her ... the dangerous escapade with the salesgirl-she met while shopping one afternoon ... the nervousness of seeing her regularly behind Mathew's back ... the occasional trips to the gay bar in the Village after the affair ended ... the fear of being seen and recognized by someone who knew Mathew ... the increasing hunger, more and more insatiable ... the strain of hiding it from her husband, of keeping him from suspecting the true cause of her sexual coldness ... the periods of loneliness and desperation when there was no one to turn to for a release.
Cynthia frowned and undid her housecoat, drawing it apart, gazing at herself in the tri-sectional mirror. Perhaps, together with her sophisticated and indulgent attitude toward his affair with the girl, she could become the type of woman he apparently needed and wanted. She could change her perfume and wear exotic lingerie and do the things she had never been capable of doing for him. She could tease and excite and seduce until he no longer needed to go to another.
She smiled wryly, knowing she was deluding herself. Mathew would find her ludicrous and perhaps pathetic in her attempts to be something other than herself. He would see through the pretense and pity her. No, it wasn't possible. It would only make matters worse.
Cynthia rose from the stool, covering her bare breasts, her eyes seeking out the electric clock atop the antique bureau. If only he'd come home, she thought frantically. The quietude of the apartment grated and pressured and filled her with a familiar restlessness. No, she thought, resisting the thought that popped into her mind, it wouldn't help matters. She had to reject the temptation. It would only serve to temporarily relieve her anxieties and depression. It wouldn't solve anything.
Still, the thought persisted, and she shivered.
The weakness that had always been a part of her took hold and she found herself moving helplessly toward the bed. She sat down on the edge and her hand trembled as it moved to the telephone extension. She closed her eyes, fighting herself, knowing that she shouldn't surrender to the lure of momentary forgetfulness. It's only been a week, she told herself. She shouldn't need it again so soon.
She shuddered. No, she couldn't give in-not this way. The memory of the week before was grotesque. Cynthia buried her head in her hands, hoping to blot it out. She couldn't.
Cynthia sat on the edge of an upholstered chair, unable to relax, unable to rid herself of the nagging awareness of why she had come and why she had been given the privilege. The furnished apartment was undersized and overly decorated. It consisted of a kitchenette, bath and combination living room and bedroom. The carpeting was threadbare in spots and the long table set before the studio couch was scarred with cigarette burns and glass rings. A heavy odor of spaghetti sauce filled the muggy rooms, making the stillness almost a thing of substance.
At that moment, despite the heat of the cheap whiskey she had consumed, Cynthia felt cold and devoid of any degree of desire for the dark-haired girl whom she suspected of intimacies with all sorts of unsavory men. Something inherently fastidious iii her nature insisted on speculating on the danger of contracting a social disease even though she knew the possibility was highly improbable.
Perhaps that was one of the attractions of Angela D'Amico, Cynthia thought fleetingly.
Angela D'Amico.
Cynthia studied the girl as she moved lazily around the room, clearing away the last of her dinner dishes, her tight-hipped body swaying with confident and provocative self-awareness. Angela was barely twenty-one and under all the makeup, she had a little-girl face, immature and slightly sullen. She was pretty in a hard, theatrical way but there were lines of discontent that tugged at the corners of her small mouth. The dark hair was piled dramatically atop her head and heavily lacquered, the result of her being employed in a beauty salon.
"You better take it easy with that stuff."
Cynthia blinked her lashes and realized she had filled her glass again. "I'm all right."
The slender girl shrugged and walked to the studio couch, pulling off the long cushion and placing it over the arms of a nearby chair. The couch opened up and out, converting into a rather small but comfortable bed, the sheet and coverlet already fixed in place. Angela turned down the blanket and fluffed the pillow. "I don't like to rush you but like I said, I got a date at nine."
Cynthia moistened her parched lips, her head throbbing. "I understand."
"This guy I'm seeing tonight, he sells used cars out in Brooklyn. He's a friend of my cousin. I told you about my cousin, didn't I? The one who has the plate in his head from the war?"
"Yes," Cynthia replied hoarsely. "Yes, you told me about him."
"He was decorated."
"I know."
The slim-bodied girl walked over to where Cynthia was sitting and turned her back. "Give me a hand, huh?"
Cynthia emptied her glass and winced at the burn of it. She took a breath and reached up to the zipper of the white nylon uniform. She pulled it down to the small of the curving back. The single elastic band of the brassiere was starkly white against the contrast of the dark-toned flesh. A cheap perfume scent mixed with natural body odors and Cynthia felt some of the coldness ebbing within her.
She watched the young girl push the uniform down over her narrow hips and step daintily out of its circle. Angela folded it carefully and draped it over the couch cushion resting on the chair near the bed. The sight of her, dressed in spiked heels and rose-hued panties and white brassiere, made Cynthia tremble and she knew that her need that night was greater than it had been in some time.
Angela kicked off the shoes and glanced at her. "Why don't you get undressed?"
Cynthia rose unsteadily, suddenly feeling the drinks, unable to take her eyes from the fine-toned thighs and hard-muscled calves. She lifted the loose sweater up over her head and dropped it to the upholstered chair.
Angela removed her brassiere, showing her small and pointed breasts, and then the panties, completing her nakedness. She walked unconcerned to the chair and stroked the bulky sweater admiringly. Cynthia had to restrain herself from reaching out and caressing the tightly-rounded buttocks so very close to her.
"Boy, I bet this cost a bundle, huh?"
Cynthia glanced at the sweater as she unzipped the side of her tapered slacks. "I don't remember."
Angela dropped the sweater with a meaningful sigh. Cynthia knew that she'd be expected to buy one just like it and give it to the girl as a present in the near-future. It was a little game they played and played often. The dark girl padded nakedly to the bed, the overhead light casting shadows on her lustrous nudity. It was a hungry and humorless body yet nonetheless exciting in its tight perfection. Cynthia stared at it until Angela slipped down to the sheets with an audible sigh, her hands plumping the single pillow under her head.
The young girl gazed at her. "What are you staring at?"
Cynthia wet her lips and reached for the bottle.
Angela sighed impatiently. "What's with all this drinking anyhow? You never needed it before."
Cynthia ignored the comment and gulped at the raw whiskey, her mind numbing, her body shivering. She put down the glass and stripped herself awkwardly out of her sandals and slacks and panties. Naked, aware of herself, she refilled the glass and carried it with her to the bed where Angela awaited her with an annoyed frown. Cynthia sat down, and swallowed another biting portion. She looked up at the bright light and then at the high-breasted girl on the bed.
Angela shifted impatiently. "You know I like to leave it on."
Cynthia nodded dully. "Yes, I know." She emptied the glass with a shudder, felt the room tilt, and fell back on the bed, her arms and mouth seeking out her companion.
Angela averter her lips. "Don't."
Cynthia blinked, confused. "What?"
The girl cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I don't want you to kiss me no more on the mouth. I mean, well, how am I supposed to know what kind of girls you've been seeing besides me?"
There was something outrageously funny in the cruelty of the statement. Cynthia rolled over and laughed aloud at the irony in it. She reached for the glass and drank deeply, coughing and laughing. Cynthia Demeter, lady of quality, suspect ... Angela D'Amico, gutter-girl, cautious ... funny ...
"Look, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," the girl murmured, moving close so that their bodies touched. "Don't be sore." She put her mouth next to Cynthia's ear. "Besides, there's better places for you to kiss."
Cynthia let the empty glass fall to the floor with a thud. She felt the stiff nipple scraping her arm and the warm breath teasing her ear. The cheap perfume was suddenly strong and she knew she was on the verge of being very drunk. Mathew wouldn't approve of her being drunk, she thought inanely, turning back to the naked girl at her side. He doesn't approve of women drinking at all. Unlady-like, he always states.
Angela was smiling. "Here, honey. Kiss me here."
Cynthia obeyed mechanically, fastening her lips to the hard tip of the thrusting breast. Fingers moved encouragingly in her hair as she alternated her kisses. A heat began to spread within her, making itself known despite the numbness of the liquor. She trembled, knowing she was powerless to stop now that she had begun.
"Hey, easy," the girl muttered.
Cynthia fell away, breathing raggedly. She lifted herself up on one elbow and focused her eyes on the harshly-pretty face of the dark-haired girl. "Kiss me," she grated, without knowing why the need had come. "I want you to kiss me tonight."
"Look, I told you that-"
"It's very important that you kiss me."
The artificial lashes fluttered and the tongue-tip moistened the red lips. "Geez, what's got into you tonight?"
Cynthia trembled. "Are you going to kiss me or not?"
Angela frowned uncertainly. "Okay, okay, you don't have to make such a big deal out of it."
"On the mouth."
"You are sore, aren't you? I mean, about what I said."
"Don't talk. Just kiss me."
"Okay, okay ...
The warm lips yielded reluctantly under the pressure of the kiss. Cynthia moved her tongue over them until they parted. The breath that flowed between them tasted of the sauce. Cynthia siphoned it greedily, searching for some sign of affection.
After a few moments, Angela stirred restlessly in a show of impatience and Cynthia abandoned her hopeless quest.
She fell away, depressed, defeated.
"Now what's the matter?"
Cynthia knew she could never explain. She knew and yet she could not keep herself from trying to express her need. "I came to you tonight because I've been ... very upset lately. I came to you for comfort. Can't you give just a little? Does it always have to be so one-sided?"
The young girl scowled resentfully. "Hey, look, you knew the score with me that first afternoon in the shop. I never pretended to be gay. I mean, I don't mind being with you this way but I'm not about to go that route no matter how much money you give me."
Cynthia tried to blot out the shaming words. "Can't you even pretend that you want me?"
Angela D'Amico blew out her breath and sat up in the middle of the bed, her slender body glowing darkly and enticingly. "You want to call the whole thing off? I mean, it don't make no difference to me either way. I don't need the dough that bad." She looked down at Cynthia accusingly. "Geez, here I let you come over and take a chance on being late for my date and you start all this jazz. Boy, talk about gratitude ... "
Cynthia felt herself weakening. "I'm sorry. It's just that I need you so."
The dark eyes softened slightly and the red lips grew more petulant. "Well, you sure as hell ain't acting like you want me, what with all this jabbering and everything." The girl slid back down to the bed and teased Cynthia's hair with her fingertips. "I ain't got much time, sweetie," she murmured seductively, smiling and stretching her naked body suggestively on the white sheets.
Cynthia moved to her. She no longer cared if the relationship was one-sided or not. She had come to the girl for a release of tension, not for love. She had no right to demand anything more of the girl than the use of her body.
Angela began to move sinuously under the moist kisses and probing caresses. A series of utterly false moans drifted up from her parted lips as she obeyed Cynthia's hands and assumed the positions that made their lovemaking less awkward. At a certain point, after glancing over at the clock, Angela smiled and sought to speed the end by sliding her hands to Cynthia's breasts. "Is that what you wanted, sweetie?" she murmured, squeezing and tugging in knowing fashion.
Cynthia emerged momentarily from her haze and knew why the girl was being so cooperative. It was almost eight-thirty and she had a date at nine. "Yes," she breathed heatedly. "Yes, that's what I want. Touch me. Hold me. Kiss me."
Angela simulated another moan of passion and darted a quick kiss or two at Cynthia's breasts. "Oh, sweetie, this is crazy ... crazy ... but I'm so hot ... so hot ... oh, sweetie, love me ... love me good ... let me see you love me ... all the way ... make me happy ... make me happy ... all the way, sweetie ... all the way ... now ... now ... now ... "
Heated and sordid phrases fanned the fires and whipped Cynthia into a frenzy of sensual abandon. She labored wantonly, not caring how she sounded or how she looked, not caring that the light was on or that the girl was pretending or that each kiss could be measured in dollars and cents. She could feel herself coihng and tightening toward the breaking point as the tension mounted.
Angela pushed her away with a low moan, the first genuine one that had come from her since the beginning of their lovemaking. Cynthia sagged weakly to one side of the bed, her body twitching, her blood racing, her temples throbbing. She waited for the heaviness to descend and when it did, she welcomed it with a low sigh of desperate relief.
The bedsprings of the studio couch creaked. Angela was on her feet, her nakedness covered by a fine sheen of perspiration. "I've got to take a shower and dress, sweetie. You mind if I start while you get ready to go? I really ain't got much time."
Cynthia rolled over and uncontrollably covered her own pale nudity with the pillow. "You go ahead."
Angela hesitated, showing her suspicion. "You can leave it on the table, okay?" Cynthia lowered her eyes. "Yes."
"Don't forget."
"I won't."
The dark-skinned and narrow-hipped girl frowned and then apparently resigned herself to the necessity for trust. "Just leave it on the table," she repeated, turning and walking toward the bathroom.
Cynthia remained on the bed, hugging the pillow, trying to draw warmth from it. She wondered how an experience so violently important to her could be so clinically casual to Angela and girls like Angela. It escaped her how they could dramatize any form of intimacy with a man completely out of proportion while at the same time, perhaps during the same evening, indulge in a similar act with another female without allowing it to have any lasting effect. Was lesbian love that shallow really? That childish in essence? The possibility chilled her, mocked her, shamed her.
She turned her attention to the sound of the shower and recalled her first meeting with the gum-chewing girl in the Madison Avenue salon. The adjusting of a stocking had offered her the opportunity to compliment Angela's slender legs in a tone that was intended to convey her interest. The dark-haired girl had reacted instantly, her mercenary interest jumping to the surface. They'd met for cocktails after Angela left work that evening and Cynthia had forced herself to listen to the amateurish tale-of-woe that established the basis for their relationship. Still later, in this same bed, Angela had whispered the limit of her willingness as well as the amount she needed to justify her receptivity.
Cynthia remembered it all and in remembering, felt "he need for another drink. She pushed the pillow away and sat up, reaching for the discarded glass. She rose and was surprised that she had trouble standing without tottering a bit. The bottle of whiskey was nearly half-empty and the sight of it depressed her. She wanted to be drunk. She wanted to block all thoughts of Angela and what Angela represented and Matt and all Matt suddenly represented.
Cynthia filled the glass and drank from it, her eyes closed. The dizziness increased and she was pleased. She opened her eyes and fumbled with her raincoat, finding her wallet and prying it open. She extracted the twenty-five dollars and placed the bills carefully on the table. Twenty-five dollars. A dollar per minute, perhaps. A reasonable rate for passion and self-disgust.
She heard the shower stop.
"Sweetie? You still there?"
"Yes."
"You didn't forget, did you?"
Cynthia smiled grimly and emptied the glass. "No, I didn't forget." She chuckled and looked over at the door.
"Sweetie." There was a moment of silence. "You'll gimme a call real soon, won't you?"
Cynthia carried the bottle and the glass back to the bed. She sat down and repeated the filling process, noticing that she had to concentrate a bit more on accomplishing it. She thought of the empty apartment that awaited her and the loneliness of it. She wondered if Matt would call there and discover that she'd gone out. Would it make any difference to him or would he simply be relieved?
Angela appeared in the opened doorway of the bathroom, her dark hair hidden in a shower-cap, her lean body glistening with lingering dampness. "Hey, I thought you was leaving?"
Cynthia pushed the pillow behind her back and stretched out her legs, no longer concerned with her nakedness. She smiled and lifted the glass. "I decided to stay a while. Just a while, I promise you. Pretend I'm not here."
Angela started to protest but then stopped and merely shook her head in obvious annoyance. She walked to the bureau and began to dress, her movements hurried. "You want to stay a while, that's okay with me, but I got a date. Just be sure the door's locked when you leave, huh?" She hesitated, hooking her brassiere. "You ain't planning to spend the night, are you?"
Cynthia licked her lips and laughed. "Would that interfere with your plans?"
"Don't be smart."
Cynthia shook her head. "No, I'm not planning to spend the night. I'll be gone before you return."
Angela gazed at her with a worried expression and then sighed and resumed dressing.
Cynthia shook her head. It was a bad dream. She'd never really been with Angela. It couldn't be true. She sighed. It was all too true. It had happened-not once but many times. There were so many other women in the world, Lois, for example. Why had she never called Lois when her body cried out for satisfaction? But this was no more the time to think of Lois than it had been to allow Angela to intrude on her thoughts.
Mathew came first. She couldn't let him slip out of her life after so long a struggle. She couldn't let this younger girl rob her of the only reahty she knew, her marriage.
Cynthia had to fight Ronnie Franklin.
Cynthia rose and began to dress. She selected a pair of tapered slacks and a bulky knit sweater and soft-textured sandals. She tied her blonde hair back from her face and applied only the barest amount of lipstick. The outfit made her look younger than thirty-two ... much, much younger.
As young as Ronnie Franklin?
Cynthia paused, looking at herself in the mirror. What was .the girl really like? Did she possess a true intelligence or simply a native cunning? What did she do lor a living? Was Mathew giving her money? Did she ever ask him questions about his wife? Was she content to be his mistress or did she intend their affair to lead to something more tangible? What was she like?
"I must see her," Cynthia murmured aloud. "I must know her."
Without examining the motive, she went to the telephone and dialed information. The operator answered. Cynthia had trouble forming the words. "I'd like the telephone number of a Miss Ronnie Franklin. I'm sure it's a Manhattan address."
"Ronnie Franklin?"
Cynthia hesitated. "It might be Veronica. I'm not certain."
"One moment, please."
Cynthia reached for the cigarettes and lighted one. Veronica. She had always like the name. There was a girl at school named Veronica. School. That had been the start of it. The operator returned, reciting a number. Cynthia repeated it slowly. She thanked the operator and replaced the receiver, feeling vaguely excited. Two questions had been answered. The real name and the telephone number.
If it was listed in the directory, there would be an address. Another question resolved. All she had to do to further acquaint herself with the enemy was to reach out and dial that number. She would hear the girl's voice. She'd be able to tell a great deal from the sound of it, the timbre of it, the diction of it. No ... not yet ... it's too soon ... too soon ...
Magically her mood brightened as Cynthia made herself remember Lois-so different from Angela, no threat like Ronnie. Lois was a woman with whom she could identify, a wise, intelligent human being.
Cynthia wondered why she had shut Lois out of her life. Did she really have to? Not really, now that she was giving it some thought.
Almost from the day they were married Matt had been enjoying his affairs, little ones, mostly. She'd blamed herself for his infidelities and lived in terror that her occasional furtive encounters with women like Angela would be discovered. Worse, she felt guilt and remorse.
It was ridiculous. The only guilt and remorse she was entitled to suffer had to do with her poor taste, her folly in getting involved with slobs like Angela. She didn't have to.
There were other women in the world-attractive women like Lois. Sex was not a degrading experience but exciting, fresh and clean.
It had been different with Lois. She was a tall, handsome woman, independently wealthy who led a busy life handling her affairs which consisted largely of managing her family's estate. She moved in the upper strata of society and figured prominently in charity drives and other events that concerned the more prosperous women of New York society.
That the good ladies accomplished anything worthwhile was' questioned by Lois who raised hackles whenever she showed up for a meeting. To her friends she confided, "They're creepy, but I hang around with them to keep up my contacts."
Actually Lois was far more interested in political action, working among the minorities and battling the establishment. Her laugh was warm and hearty. "I get a kick out of playing my own game inside and outside," she often chuckled. "It confuses everybody, and I guess that's part of my nature."
Cynthia had met Lois when she became involved in a neighborhood project to clean up the streets. At first she stood in awe of this take-charge person who seemed to know exactly what to do and always turned out to be right. But Lois, she discovered, was quite different from her appearance. There was nothing of the ogre in the vastly accomplished woman who turned out to be as warm and friendly as an old shoe. She had just made a settlement on her third husband. In ways, she was vulnerable and lonely.
What might have become an affair ended abruptly when Cynthia married Mathew. At first she feared seeing Lois, but when they happened to meet accidentally it was as though no barrier had been erected between them. Cynthia had the impression that Lois accepted her marriage as both inevitable and wise. She barely mentioned it beyond wanting to know if Cynthia was happy.
Cynthia hoped her eyes did not betray the truth when she answered, "Of course, Lois. Matt's a wonderful man. How could any woman not love him?"
Lois only smiled.
They made love that afternoon, but not again although they often met for lunch and the theatre. Lois had charmed Mathew when she was invited to dinner, but that was to be expected. Lois charmed everyone.
Whenever they parted, Lois made the same little speech. "If you ever need me, honey, I'm there."
Today, Cynthia needed Lois-and badly. She'd needed her many times before, but she feared Lois' feelings about her. Or was it the other way around? Was she really terrified of her own affection for Lois?
Angrily, Cynthia put the thought out of her mind. There wasn't time for contemplation or judgments. Things were bound to happen the way they were supposed to-one after the other. Projecting the future seldom accomplished any good.
She dialed Lois' telephone number, praying that she would be at home. It was an unlikely hour to expect a busy woman to be sitting around the house, but miraculously that was how it turned out.
Was Lois free? Of course she was, and if she had to cancel something she would. Lois quickly sensed that something had gone wrong in her friend's well-ordered married life.
"Come on over, sweetie. I'll love seeing you. You don't need me to tell you that, do you?"
"No, Lois," she said, already feeling better. "I'll be along shortly."
"Buzz the bell twice, so I'll know it's you."
Lois had long ago moved out of her Park Avenue apartment for a brownstone in Greenwich Village.
Cynthia raced downstairs and into a cab.
SIX
"I knew I loved Mathew," Cynthia was saying, "and I guess I hoped things would change. That's why I married him. It wasn't as though I grabbed the first fellow that came along."
The dark-eyed woman touched Cynthia's face. "I'm glad he didn't change you ... "
"Really?"
"Really."
Cynthia turned her attention to Lois' magnificent breasts.
"Have you had many women?"
"Thousands."
"Don't joke. Have you?"
"What do you think?"
Cynthia thought about Lois' incredible artistry. "I guess you have. Was there anyone special."
"No."
"What about your husbands? Did you love them."
"Not really."
"Did you enjoy being with them?" Lois smiled. "At times. Do you enjoy your husband?"
Cynthia felt her cheeks coloring. "No. I love him very much, but I can't enjoy being with him that way."
"He's good looking."
Cynthia smiled. "Very."
"And still young."
"Yes."
"And good to you."
"Yes."
Lois scowled. "I hate him."
Cynthia laughed. "You do not."
Lois showed that she had been only teasing and leaned over to kiss Cynthia on the mouth. "Mind if I give you some advice? If you do love him and want to stay with him, you'd better learn some way to make it easier to be with him. Why don't you try making love to him? It's a whole lot easier, believe me.
Cynthia looked at the older woman in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Lois smiled wickedly. "Turn everything around. You do all the work and let him he back and relax."
"If you don't mind, I'd like to change the subject."
Lois shrugged and placed Cynthia's hand back to her breasts. "Is this more to your liking?"
Cynthia smiled. "Yes."
"Play with me for a while."
Cynthia sat up, crossing her legs beneath her. Lois stretched out and closed her eyes, her magnificent body totally relaxed and inviting. Cynthia kneaded the twin mounds gently, teasing the nipples until they gradually hardened and rose. She watched them peak and she bent to take them between her lips in tiny kisses, her tongue caressing and tasting. They seemed vastly sweet and she didn't think she could ever tire of them. A tremor went through her as she felt Lois move her hips in a show of mounting pleasure. "I love your body," Cynthia murmured, trailing her hands down to the wide hips.
"I'm too heavy."
"No, you're not."
"What do you like best about it?"
Cynthia kissed the breasts. "This ... and this ... and ... " She shifted to kiss Lois again. "And this."
Lois stirred sensuously. "Mmmmm, that was nice."
Cynthia took a deep breath, her own nipples alive, her own body throbbing. She crawled atop the naked woman and pressed herself down on her, seeking and finding her mouth. The arms went around her in a tight embrace and the strong hips moved in a slow rhythm. Cynthia could feel her blood racing and her heart pounding as she responded to the tempo. Lois' tongue was a wild and hot serpent, inflaming and taunting her. The hands that glided down her back and commenced playing an illicit game on her buttocks added to her excitement.
"What do you want?" Lois breathed huskily.
"You."
"How? How do you want me?"
Cynthia shuddered, her hips quickening. "like this," she gasped.
Cynthia leaned over her, fastening her rouged lips to the hard tip of Lois' throbbing breast. Cynthia's fingers moved encouragingly in the closely cropped hair as Lois alternated her kisses from nipple to nipple. Cynthia began to move sinuously under the moist tongue and the nibbling lips. A series of moans drifted from her parted lips. Cynthia smiled and sought to speed the end by sliding her hands to the woman's buxom breasts. "Is this how you want it, honey?" she murmured as her hands caressed the cool silk, squeezing and pinching the breasts beneath in a knowing fashion.
"Yes," Lois breathed heatedly. "Yes, that's what I want. Hurt me. Please, hurt me. Harder, yes. Harder. Make me kiss you. Make me."
Cynthia gripped her fingers in Lois' hair and twisted her head back until she groaned with pleasure. She forced the face between her taut, young thighs and whispered:
"Oh, sweetie, this is crazy ... crazy ... but I'm so hot ... so hot ... oh, sweetie, love me ... love me up ... let me see how you love me ... all the way ... you make me so happy ... make me happy ... make me happy ... make me happy ... all the way, sweetie ... all the way ... now ... now ... now ... "
Cynthia felt as though her skin were on fire, her breasts tingled with the feel of Lois' feathery-soft, stroking fingers. It felt so good when Lois touched her-when she whispered so promisingly in her ear ...
Lois was kneeling on the floor in front of Cynthia and the girl pressed her legs tightly together in sudden embarrassment. Her superb thighs rippled with modesty-glossy and full of promise. Lois lifted Cynthia's legs one at a time, gently, opening her thighs until Cynthia's hot, steaming pussy smiled up at her. Then she pressed herself forward until her face buried in the soft skin of Cynthia's stomach. Cynthia felt her flesh hang like a wet and ambiguous core, a clinging seam, voracious between her yielding thighs. Cynthia jumped as she felt the flick of a moist tongue on her hip, and wiggled with eagerness she could not control as the older woman's hands slipped inside her buttocks and softly, fingered her anus.
She heard Lois moan, then felt the flick of a tongue once more on her belly. The moist fire crept upward to her belly button, then to her ribs, and finally, as the woman bent over her, she felt the damp touch on her breast and cried out in surprised delight. She bent her head and watched as Lois' tongue licked across the smooth surface of her breast-stirring the tan little bud at the end into rigid, pounding life. Then, with her eyes clenched tightly shut, she felt the nipple slide past the woman's heavy lipstick and enter her mouth-where it was met with a flood of moist pleasure. She heard Lois gurgling deep in her throat as her tongue flicked madly over the nipple and then down onto the cherry red circle around it and further on to the white mound of soft flesh. She seemed to want to pull all of it inside her mouth, seemed unable to get enough. Slowly, so slowly that it was almost painful to Cynthia, Lois began to draw off the breast-her tongue gradually flicking its way closer and closer to the nipple once more as her lips closed over it and then with a wet little smack released it altogether.
Cynthia's blood was pounding in her veins, her legs were rocking back and forth, in and out, with desire. She knew what she wanted now-what had to happen before she went berserk. She put her hands on top of the tightly cropped head and pushed her down-down-Lois' lips were like warm fur as she hotly kissed Cynthia's belly, then the tongue slid the length of her hips and stopped. Cynthia watched expectantly as the women positioned herself again on her knees in front of her. She seized the girl's upper thigh roughly and urged her legs wider apart. As Cynthia responded, she heard Lois moan with anticipation-then watched as the woman's head drew closer-her tongue already flicking outside her mouth in eager readiness.
Cynthia screamed at the first contact, her fingers digging into the pinned hair and rocking Lois' head so violently back and forth that for a moment the delicious contact was lost. Cynthia moaned and released her grip, waiting for the consuming pleasure in return. Her heart pounded heavily as the rouged, tight little bud-like mouth pressed closer and closer, Lois' head tilting and burrowing further into the flesh so that the touch of her rigid tongue was deeper with each soft lapping. Cynthia felt as though her whole insides were on fire-raging out of control-spreading her legs so wide that she almost split herself in two.
Her body suddenly attained a terrible awareness. When she touched her thigh, the soft flesh quivered and prickled. She watched her bare belly rise and fall with each gentle lapping of the woman's tongue, and felt a vast expansion, like an ocean horizon, swelling within her. When her lover's nostrils buried themselves within her mound, the tickling breath almost caused Cynthia a spasm, or rather a sensation as deliriously brittle as a spasm, while the final convulsive tremor lay deeply buried, blindly waiting. Cynthia sighed and urged herself by gently stroking her belly and thighs with her fingertips, feeling her buttocks heave and thrill with the almost unbearable pleasure of anticipation.
Soon a prickling sensation mounted in the extremities of her limbs, rising gradually and deliriously like falling rain through every fleshy drain until the very air seemed to have weight and lay like steel bands of paralysis at her thighs and armpits. Her body trembled with helplessness, her mind drifting further and further away into total darkness.
She hung ecstatically, impotently, between two worlds, as though a warm sword had been thrust to its hilt in her moist crevice. Her eyelids closed tightly and she lacked the strength to open them as a hoarse sob of lust tore from her throat. She lost consciousness for a moment and became a gushing and pulsating furrow, dark and warm as soft loam awaiting a sudden summer shower.
"Oh, suck it off," Cynthia groaned, her head lolling from side to side on the damp pillow. "Bite it!"
Lois brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them for a moment, then thrust them into Cynthia's boiling cunt, greasing the maw with her spittle. She lowered her head, guiding her thirsting tongue into the dripping slit, nuzzling her nose deeply past the sopping lips, her fingernails pinching cruelly into Cynthia's bottom. Her belly lurched upward, her heel digging into the sheets. She felt a delicious shift at her vital center as Lois' tongue slid softly like a tadpole into her vagina and every silky hair on her pussy tingled.
Her vital juices rose up in her belly like the waters of a raging river, until she thought it would never end. She felt the marvelous soft texture of the woman's face rubbing her thighs, the fibrous strength of the close-cropped hair, and always, everywhere, the voluptuous putty-soft quality of her tongue. She became a vessel which threatened to burst at any moment.
When finally the walls of her vagina did shudder and burst, the waters of love poured forth with that strange mingling of pleasure and pain like the giving of birth. For what seemed an eternity, she felt an ecstatic shifting of sands within her womb, like wind blowing over an endless desert, a vast boiling cauldron of shooting stars, and with a frantic lurch of her hips leaped to their final ecstasy. Her mind was eclipsed, suffocated within the warmth of her womb, and then her limbs felt as though they floated underwater towards sunlight.
She lay panting, her arms flung wide, her breasts heaving, her body trembling. "Oh, Lois ... " she breathed weakly.
The raven-haired woman moved over her, her face flushed and wildly beautiful. The violent end only seemed to have ignited her to greater passion. She began to kiss Cynthia hungrily and her body assumed the position of a dominant male. "Don't stop," Lois muttered, working her hips furiously.
Cynthia groaned and curled her legs, accepting the woman. She clung to Lois passionately as they moved in unison. It began to build again and she cried out with joy, her hips jerking under the grip of the warm hands that guided her. "Faster ... faster ... faster ... " she moaned.
Lois pulled her face between her heavy breasts and she opened her lips hungrily, accepting them. The tempo quickened and the bed bounced beneath them. The moment of fulfillment came for Cynthia with almost painful force, but Lois had to continue on for another few moments before she rocked and groaned and collapsed.
They remained in their entwining embrace as their bodies cooled and their pulses slowed. Cynthia felt exhausted and a heavy drowsiness was stealing over her. "I want to go to sleep, but I'm afraid I'll never wake up," she whispered tiredly.
"I'll set the alarm," Lois replied, equally weary.
"You won't let me stay too long?"
"No."
Cynthia sighed happily. "All right."
Lois extracted herself and reached out for a small electric clock on the table. She set the alarm and then moved back to where Cynthia was awaiting her. "I set it for five."
"All right."
They snuggled close to one another, getting comfortable. Cynthia closed her eyes and kissed the smooth cheek. "Lois?"
"Yes?"
"It was wonderful."
"I know."
"What am I going to do now? Now that I've found you, I mean?"
Lois smiled lazily. "I don't have to be a problem."
"I told you that I love Matt. I really do."
"What has that got to do with it?"
Cynthia frowned, disturbed. "Well, I just can't ... "
Lois looked at Cynthia curiously. "Look, you can go right on loving him and being his wife. I don't expect you to leave him for me. We can see each other as often as we want without anyone being the wiser. It might even be best this way, in fact. It might even make everything easier for you at home."
Cynthia thought about it. There was some truth in what Lois was saying. It would be easier. There wouldn't be the nagging need, the aching frustration. She wouldn't have to be lonely. She would always have Lois to look forward to whenever she wanted to take her mind off what she had to do with Mathew. It would be easier to pretend with him if she could substitute Lois for him in her mind.
"You don't think he'd ever find out, do you?" Cynthia asked, hating the thought of ever hurting Mathew.
Lois plumped the pillow beneath her head. "Not if you're careful. Hell, I can tell you the names of a dozen respectably married lesbians who have been carrying on affairs behind their husbands' backs for years without the poor guys ever being the wiser. I know one who's been having a thing with her husband's kid sister ever since the girl moved in to live with them, believe it or not."
Cynthia shook her head in amazement. "I thought I was the only one who ever married and tried to make a go of it. I never realized other women might have the same problem."
The big-bodied brunette yawned and patted Cynthia's cheek. "We all like to think we're unique, but it doesn't quite work out that way, honey. We belong to a big club, maybe the biggest. Now close those pretty eyes of yours and go to sleep."
Cynthia nodded and closed her eyes. The drowsiness returned and she felt herself going limp.
She didn't want to lose Mathew.
SEVEN
Ronnie's date with Perry had been quite proper. He took her out to one of the finest restaurants in town and blew a wad on her. After dinner they went to a quiet cocktail bar and had several drinks and got to know each other better.
All evening long Ronnie had waited for Perry Eshmont to make a pass at her-she waited eagerly. But it never came. He behaved like a gentleman, too much like a gentleman.
She snuggled close to him in the taxi as he escorted her home. The man beside her with his sophistication, self-assurance and youthfully handsome ruggedness made her exhilarated. His attraction for the moment overshadowed any thought of Mathew.
Ronnie was stunned when he opened the door of the cab for her but made no attempt to accompany her inside. Instead he told the cab driver to wait; he walked her to the door of her building. There for a brief moment, he took her in his arms and planted a light kiss on her lips. He said he would give her a call soon, then returned to the cab and disappeared into the night.
She entered her apartment shaken. The evening had not turned out as she had planned. Instead of coming home with Perry she came home alone. She didn't know what had gone wrong.
An hour later, after she had taken off her evening clothes and removed her makeup, while she was getting ready for bed, the phone rang. It was Perry.
"I've been a fool," he said.
"What do you mean, Perry?" she asked, knowing full well what he meant.
"Here I am alone when I should be wrapped in those lovely arms of yours, kissing your sweet lips."
"You had your chance," Ronnie told him in a light reprimanding tone.
"I know ... I know ... I was just unsure about you and your lawyer. I didn't want to butt in. But, Ronnie, I haven't been able to think of anything but you since I left. Can I see you tomorrow?" His voice had the sound of urgent pleading.
"I want to see you too, Perry. I have a modeling job in the afternoon though ... and I have to meet Mathew in the evening. I don't think it will be possible tomorrow," she told him with real regret.
"How about after work. I'll meet you at five in the lobby of the Webster Hotel. Please come."
She hesitated for a moment and then agreed. She hung up the phone, feeling satisfied and eager.
Ronnie's smooth skin with its pale cast made her look like an imperial beauty, the lovely extreme of the soft red of her nipples contrasting dramatically with her big oval eyes. Her teeth were the most perfect he'd ever seen and her lips, full and painted red, were like soft tender clamps. He put his own lips on hers and the twin clamps acted like the cables you put on a battery to charge it. That's what they did to him, charged him. The proof was between his legs and began to stick up.
His hand brought out the other breast and then he undid the cinch which held the robe she had changed into closed. He didn't open it to look at her naked body, he slid his hand inside the robe and wound it around her waist and spread his strong fingers over her back. Ronnie sighed deeply and brought her hands up his bare arms and held his firm shoulders. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, pulling her breasts up slightly. Her tongue came out of hiding and slowly moistened first her lower and then her upper hp. The flawlessness of her form drew his face to hers and he planted his mouth on hers. His other hand went inside her robe and came to a standstill on her upper back. His big hands pulled her body to his. Then his tongue entered her mouth, passing through the ruby gates, past the white fence of her teeth and over the drawbridge of her tongue. Her open throat beckoned his tongue. But he didn't put it all the way into her, rather he moved it around her mouth and seemed to be counting her teeth.
His lower hand slipped down to her ass and he cradled her ass-cheek in his fingers. Then his hand moved in a circular motion around the smooth surface of it. She let out a moan of contentment as his slowly moving hand completed circle after circle on her bare bottom.
His hand came out from behind her back and up to her armpit. Then it took hold of her soft green robe and pulled the material off her alabaster shoulder. It moved in back of her head and exposed the other shoulder. His other hand came up off her buttocks and pulled her body forward so she was sitting upright. The robe fell from her back and piled up around her wide hips. He took both breasts in his hands and weighed them. He bounced them slightly.
Again she let her head fall backwards.
Perry bent forward and placed his lips, first on one red point and then on the other. Then he returned to the first one and closed his lips ever-so-gently around the areola. By swallowing he sucked on it. He did it so subtly she didn't realize he was doing it at first. As his mouth was cementing itself to her nipple he felt it harden. It seemed to be growing in the hothouse of his mouth. Cunningly he released the blossoming bud and took his ministrations to its twin.
Her hands went to his hair and she softly followed the soft strands from the crown of his head to then-ends. Then she traced the hairline on his forehead. Both her breasts were on fire. His fingertips were skipping down her rib cage and pulling the material of her dressing gown away from the soft flesh of her hips and thighs. The hair on her pudenda showed. He ignored it and followed her legs, bringing them into view as he pushed the clothing to the side. She had never been undressed so slowly in her life. She wished now she'd put more things on so he could perform this beautiful service longer still. His touch was like a really professional doctor's except there was sex in each cell of his body and the culminating effect was transporting her. She hadn't been smoking but the way her skin was reacting she felt high.
His hands were sliding down her calves and he dropped to his knees between her legs. His trim waist disappeared from view and all she could see was the top of his head and his strong shoulders, the muscles rippling as he moved his arms. Patiently he put his hands on her knees and spread them apart. Then his hands went behind her hips and he pulled her body to the edge of the bed. When her midsection was almost sliding off the edge onto the floor he raised one hand with slow deliberateness and brought it to her throat. He put it flat on her throat with the fingers pointing to her chin and gradually pressed her neck backwards. She let him push it all the way back till it rested on the rear of the couch.
His hand returned to her fleshy white hip and he clutched her hips in his hands as his face went to her vulva. His tongue appeared and began patrolling in the hairs on her cunt. It seemed to be searching on all sides of each hair. She rolled her head back and forth because he was making her feel so good. Then his tongue sank into the trench in her crotch. He turned his head to the side so his tongue could get deeper into her. Ronnie couldn't help breathing faster. His jaw rubbed against the inside of her leg as he worked his tongue up and down the slash. The labias hung like the dewlap of a bull, one on either side of his lips as his head went sideways.
She was breathing shorter shallower breaths now. An extension rod in his tongue was released and it went deeper into her cunt. Each movement, no matter how slight, found a new erogenous zone. And as his tongue came up inside her cunt it found her most erogenous zone of all. He knew he'd hit it and her quick yelp of ecstasy was only added proof. He took his tongue off the clitoris and then reapplied it. Again and again he repeated the action. Ronnie-realized his fingers were tightening on her ass but did nothing to prevent him from doing whatever came into his head.
His face pressed harder against her cunt. His tongue speeded up its slow motion. Now his tongue darted in and out of her cunt, making deeper thrusts and wider circles. When his tongue was extended into her soft folds as deeply as it would go he opened his mouth to spread her labias even further. Her fingertips could feel the strain in his throat as he strove to implant his tongue even further. She was making noises as she breathed. She brought one hand off him and began caressing her own breast. Her finger rolled around the nipple, imitating the things his tongue was doing inside her ivory flesh.
Now he was able to hold her clit between his lips and he pursed them together, sucking at the tiny bud as he did so. The pleasurable stimulation made her cry out. One of his hands took a grip on her breast. She found she was flexing her ass-hole. This brought twitches to her cunt and he sucked in it all the more. She was practically on the verge of tears she felt so good. Perry brought both hands to her thighs and then under her knees. His strong arms raised her knees up in the air and he got her cunt spread wider. His lower face was lost inside her labias. His nose was out of sight in her hair and then in her flesh. He nodded his head up and down. The bridge of his nose rubbed her clit, his tongue fucked her.
Ronnie whimpered in sheer pleasure. Perry began a rotary motion with his face and soon was making wide circles in her cunt with his nose and mouth and when he got to the bottom, his chin.
"Oh, God, sweetheart, it's too good."
He opened his mouth in her cunt and sucked inches of flesh into his lips.
"Ahhhhhh!"
His hands dropped to her knees and as her legs came down he removed his face from her pudenda. He rose to his feet in front of her and undid his belt.
She watched his hands move. They were veiny, the kind she liked. A bulge in his trousers told her his cock was hard. It would have to be. His pants slid to the floor and he put them over a chair. He wore two-color shorts and she could see his flat stomach under the waistband. The underwear slid over one leg and then the other. What was hanging before her was a penis nicely proportioned to his body. It was circumcised and straight. The head was larger than the shaft. The slit in it was more like a valley than anything else. His balls were quite large and hung low. He was not too hairy and a single trail of hair went from the pubic area to his navel. His legs were muscular.
He lay the two-toned undershorts on top of his pants and planted one foot on the seat of the bed. The other followed and he was standing on the bed naked, straddling her. She looked up at his genitals hanging above her sultry eyes. He said nothing, only looked at her face with a kind expression. He took a deep breath and his chest heaved. She arched her neck so her mouth could reach his cock and she took the head of it into her lips. She sucked by raising her chin to bring more of his meat into her mouth. She breathed through her nose and sucked.
His hands wound in her hair and guided her head. She picked up the rhythm and clasped his calves. He braced himself by putting one hand against the wall for balance and kept the other in her hair. Her head bobbed, her hair rumpled, clinging to his thighs and abdomen. Her lips could tell the veins on his cock from the non-veined area as she slipped her mouth back and forth on the hard penis. She liked the feel of his dark pubic hair. Ronnie clutched his balls in one hand, holding them like her fingers were a bird cage, the balls swung freely inside. Almost imperceptibly, he began moving his hips. Then he picked up speed and pushed his cock to the back of her throat. She let go of his leg and put two fingers in her cunt, working the soft folds so her body could feel the same pleasures his was extracting from hers.
His hard pink cock crossed and recrossed her lips as his butt moved back and sprang forward and his fists clung to her bobbing head. His long balls flapped up and smacked against her chin each time he drove his organ home in her mouth. With effort she was able to make an audible groan each time the full force of manhood pressed against the back of her throat. The sound excited him and he increased the power of his thrusts.
She pulled her moistened fingers out of the warm inner area between her flawless legs and slowly raised first one knee and then the other onto the bed. On all fours she attempted to cooperate with the oral fucking she was receiving. Each time her head advanced to meet his oncoming cock her backbone disappeared from his view in a gorge in her back. It reappeared as she pulled her head of tousled hair backwards to breathe and re-encounter the throbbing prick.
Back and forth her mouth raced. His apprehension was evaporated and he was able to relax and enjoy the warmth of her mouth ministering to his sex organ. Their bodies cooperated in the pleasure strokes. Now it was his breath that was coming short. And fast. She realized his moment of truth was coming and she hoped she was adding to its good feeling. He knew he would be shooting in a moment. He relaxed his torso and with one, then two, and then a third movement his cock was spitting jet after jet of cum. Eagerly her flamingo-like neck swallowed the gobs of warm cum. Her fingers couldn't help going to his legs and she clutched him as she did all men who pleased her.
Ronnie finished drying her naked body with the fluffy hotel towel. She wrapped the towel around her ample curves and opened the bathroom door, feeling the cool air from the air conditioner flow against her damp skin. She padded across the large bedroom of the hotel suite, smiling at the clean-limbed and naked man who lounged contentedly on the bed. "Light me one," she said, gesturing at the package of cigarettes that lay on the sheet at his side.
Perry Eshmont nodded and complied, lighting another cigarette and holding it out to her. "Here you go."
Ronnie shook out her sheath and smoothed the sheer stockings before turning back to the bed. She took the cigarette and puffed on it. "Tastes good."
Eshmont smiled, his eyes moving appreciatively over her bare legs. "It always does at moments like this." He watched her pick up the fragile panties. "Must you leave?"
Ronnie let the cigarette dangle from her lips as she wiggled into the panties, one eye closed against the curling smoke. "He'll be waiting," she murmured, smoothing the panties over her flaring hips.
"Is he really that important to you?"
Ronnie smiled. "A bird in the hand ... "
Eshmont smiled. "Yes, I know, but is he really important?"
She shrugged, taking up her pantyhose. "He could be. I hope to marry him one of these days."
The youngish manufacturer propped a pillow behind his back and shifted into a sitting position, apparently unconcerned by his nakedness. "Do you think you can get him away from his wife?"
"It's possible."
"But not probable."
"This sort of thing never is."
"How soon do you think you'll know?"
She smiled again, carrying her pantyhose to the bed and sitting down on its edge. "Very soon, I'm afraid. The fur is already beginning to fly. She knows about us."
"You sound worried."
Ronnie drew the stocking slowly up her leg. "I've invested a lot of time and effort in him. I wouldn't want it to go down the drain. Besides, I'm not getting any younger."
Eshmont laughed and stroked her bare back. "Yes, your age is beginning to show."
Ronnie joined him in the laughter and offered no protest as his hand slid around to cup her freely-firm breast. She liked him, she decided. She liked him even more now that they'd been together and that was unusual for her. It had been good, very good, for her as well as for him. She felt his hand pressuring her and she inched across the bed to lean back against his chest, her hand trailing admiringly over his flat stomach. "You have a nice body," she murmured, gazing down at him, her head lolling on his shoulder. "A real man's body."
Eshmont kissed her shoulder. "Thank you. I like yours, too."
"So I noticed," Ronnie smiled, remembering his ardor when he commenced making love to her.
Eshmont relaxed again. "Will he want you when you return home?"
"Probably."
"Will you-"
"Probably."
"Just like that."
"Why not?"
"Is it that easy to go from one man to another?"
Ronnie laughed throatily. "You'd be surprised how easy." She turned her head to look at him. "Jealous?"
He nodded soberly. "Very."
"I'm flattered."
"Tell me something," he asked, maintaining his seriousness. "Why did you come here? It doesn't seem to mesh with ah you've told me about your future plans."
"I liked you."
"It had to be more than that." Ronnie pinched his belly playfully. "I knew you'd be generous and I needed the money."
"The truth."
She shrugged and eased out of his loose embrace, sitting with her back straight. "I guess I wanted some insurance in case things didn't work out as I've planned. I decided you were worth cultivating. Does that disillusion you?"
"Not a bit."
"Does the idea interest you?" Eshmont gazed at her and smiled. "Couldn't you tell?"
She knew he was referring to the unusual completeness of their sexual experience. "Yes, I suppose so," she replied. "I think we'd hit it off just fine if the opportunity ever presented itself."
"Let's explore the possibility a bit further," Eshmont suggested, smiling, his hand idly fondling her rich breasts. "What are your terms?"
Ronnie laughed. "What do you have to offer?"
"No more than any other man."
"You're married, aren't you?"
He answered quickly. "Yes."
Ronnie shrugged. "That limits matters considerably. There's only so much a married man can do for a girl. He can pay her bills and see that she hasn't any worries and be with her as often as possible. That about covers it."
"It sounds simple enough."
"Still interested?"
"Yes."
Ronnie pushed to the edge of the bed and reached down for her high-heels. "If things don't work out for me, do you want me to call you?"
"Yes, I do. In fact, I'd like to see you again even if they do work out as you've planned."
Ronnie looked back at him over her shoulder. "Don't tell me you're the type of man who runs around with married women?" She laughed and stood up in the heels, lifting her brassiere and dropping her heavy breasts carefully into the soft-lined cups. "I never would have thought it of you."
Perry Eshmont was watching her fasten the clasp of the brassiere, his handsome face preoccupied. "You're quite a girl, Ronnie."
She went for her slip and saw him staring at her. "What are you thinking?"
"What makes Ronnie run?"
She laughed lightly. "It's really quite simple. I came to New York in search of fame and fortune and found out I didn't have what it takes to make the grade. I had to start scrambling and now I m tired of it. I want to carve myself a piece of security, a slice of comfort. That's all there is to it."
"You've never been in love?"
"Never. Oh, I thought I was a couple of times but that was when I didn't know the facts of life." She worked the slip down over her body and palmed it into place. "I'm not even sure what it would be like to be in love. Maybe I love Matt, who knows? He's good to me and he's very considerate and I don't mind being with him. Maybe that's love, I don't know." She frowned, a bit embarrassed. "Hey, let's get off this dreary subject, huh?"
Eshmont studied her thoughtfully. "Do you think you can turn your back on the kind of freedom you've enjoyed up until now? You said yourself that it was one reason why you came here today. The change of pace, you called it."
Ronnie hesitated, knowing that he had made an incision. It was something that she'd thought about since making plans to snare Mathew Demeter in marriage. "I don't know," she admitted honestly. "I'll simply have to wait and see."
"Maybe you'd be better off if you didn't get him?"
"Maybe."
Ronnie put on the sheath and went to the bed so that he could draw the rear zipper closed. When the sheath was snugly positioned, she ran the comb through her hair and applied the lipstick to her mouth. She looked at herself in the mirror and decided there were no telltale signs of her interlude with Perry Eshmont. She picked up her pocketbook and walked back to the bed.
Eshmont seemed glum. "Must you go? I rented this suite for the night. Why not stay here with me and-"
She leaned down to kiss him lightly on the lips. "I'd like to stay but I can't."
"It isn't nine o'clock," he argued. "Surely you can-"
"No."
He sighed. "All right."
"I'll call you when things work out one way or the other."
He nodded and swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching out for his suit-jacket. "Don't forget," he murmured absently, rummaging in the inner pocket of the coat. He took out a wallet and went through the billfold. "I want you to take this."
Ronnie looked at the crisp bills he extended to her. She knew instinctively that they weren't intended as any sort of insult or slight but rather, as a show of generosity and understanding. Perry Eshmont was keeping their relationship on the same basis with which it had started and he was doing so out of consideration for her peace of mind. If no money were transacted, she would feel cheap ... forced to accept the fact that she had simply gone with him to the hotel for the sake of a little sexual variety. This way, in case they never met again, she could soothe her conscience and minimize his importance by telling herself that the money was her prime reason.
She accepted the pair of fifties without comment and walked to the door of the bedroom. "It was fun," she smiled, looking back at him. "I enjoyed it."
"So did I, Ronnie," he answered softly. "I hope it won't be the last time." She shrugged. "You never know." She allowed her face to form her impish expression and she winked one eye. "Love that body of yours, mister." He grinned.
She turned and walked through the sitting room to the front door of the suite. Emerging into the lush corridor, she walked to the elevators and it wasn't until she was about to press the button that she realized she was still holding the money in her hand. She laughed at herself and looked up and down the corridor. Nothing like being a bit obvious, she thought amusedly, tucking the money into her pocketbook.
As she walked out into the noise of the midtown street, she checked her wristwatch and saw that it was just eight-thirty. The time and the watch reminded her of Mathew and she smiled. It had been a present from him, a token of his feelings, he'd called it.
"Ronnie!"
She stopped, one hand on the handle of the cab door. She saw the vivacious and rather overdressed redhead hurrying toward her and she smiled. "Hello, Peg."
The redhead shook her head in amazement. "This is too much. I was going to call you tomorrow." The girl looked back at the hotel entrance fleetingly and then showed a set of dimples in a knowing smile. "Just leaving?"
Ronnie laughed softly. "Uh-huh."
"I'm just arriving."
"Two ships that pass in the night."
Peg giggled. "Funny, isn't it? I mean, you walking out of this place and me walking in." She shrugged, as though suddenly disinterested with her own thought. "Listen, you remember Jack
Manduke? The fellow who owned that club over on Lexington Avenue?"
Ronnie nodded. "Vaguely."
Peg moistened her full lips eagerly. "Well, he's opening a new place down in Florida and he's fining up some girls for it. Showgirls, I mean. It's really going to be big time." She lowered her voice meaningfully. "He's in with the right people, if you know what I mean."
"He'd have to be to open up down there," Ronnie replied, a bit impatiently. "It sounds good, Peg, but-"
The redhead moved closer. "Honey, it's a sweet set-up, believe me. He's asked me to pick out the right kind of girls for him. He wants the kind who can mix with important people beside looking good up on the stage. Four or five months of that kind of action and you can relax for the rest of the year." She nodded toward the hotel and smiled. "I'm going up to see him now. All I have to do is say the word and you'll be in on it." She laughed huskily. "He-likes me."
Ronnie smiled. "Thanks, Peg, but I've got other plans. It was nice of you to think of me, though."
Peg seemed disappointed. "Look, think it over, huh? You don't have to decide until next month anyhow. You got my number, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Okay, you think it over and give me a ring."
"All right. Peg."
The bouncy redhead blew out her breath. "Well, I've got to run. Jack doesn't like it when I'm late." She hesitated and tilted her head meaningfully toward the hotel. "Anyone I know?"
Ronnie laughed. "No, I'm afraid not."
Peg laughed and pecked at her cheek. "You call, huh."
"Sure."
The well-rounded girl hurried off to the hotel and Ronnie slid into the back seat of the cab. She gave the driver her address and sat back, thinking of Peg and of her proposition. A winter in Florida wouldn't be hard to take, especially with the fringe benefits involved. She didn't blame the ex-model for being excited about it.
A year ago she would have broken her back to land such a job. The lure of show-business was still strong in her and the promise of easy money held no less an attraction. Manduke was a real operator and with the backing of the racketeers, he would most-likely have a plush club. Ronnie sighed and lit a cigarette, forcing her mind away from the tempting proposition and back to her present dilemma.
She thought of Perry Eshmont's penetrating remark regarding her plan to break up Mathew's marriage. Would she be better off if she failed? He had a point, damn him. The loss of freedom was something to really think about, something to consider against the material rewards involved in trapping the successful lawyer. Why did he have to make her think?
Well, it was her own fault for opening her big mouth, for telling him that there was a Mathew and that he had a wife and that she planned to split them and claim him for herself. If she had kept quiet about it, there wouldn't have been any need for such serious talk. There would have been just ... just the good part.
Jeezus, he was good in bed.
Mrs. Perry Eshmont, whoever she was, was one lucky woman.
Ronnie couldn't help wondering what she was like and whether they were happy together. Then she laughed, cynically amused with herself. She hadn't finished breaking up one marriage and she was already thinking of another. It felt good to laugh about it, too. The elusive and ever-growing feeling that it wasn't a matter of life-and-death was a relief.
If she succeeded in taking Mathew away from his wife, fine. If she failed, well, all at once it didn't seem so terrible a fate. The evening with Perry Eshmont had somehow changed her attitude about the whole thing. She didn't feel as desperate as she had. She didn't feel as anxious to put an end to the fun-loving and precarious life she'd been Jiving up until Mathew Demeter had entered her world.
If she lost Mathew, there would still be people like Perry and Jack Manduke around to pick up the pieces. The thought made her feel more confident, more assured of herself, more recklessly inclined to force the issue with Mathew, come what may.
Yes, she'd make him choose.
She'd make him decide and then ... and then, she'd decide.
The taxi slowed and she looked up at the light in her apartment window. He was waiting for her. Drawing a deep breath, reminding herself that she had to jump back into the character he anticipated, she paid the driver and climbed out to the sidewalk. As she entered the building she thought of her glib words when telling Perry Eshmont how easy it was for her to go from one man to another in the same night. Somehow, they rang false to her ears as she recalled them. It had been easy in the past but now ... this night ...
Ronnie scowled as she pulled her key from the bag.
Damn, he'd been good in bed!
EIGHT
Mathew grudgingly allowed Ronnie's playful mood to erase the irritation of his long and lonely wait in the small apartment. "Just who was that strange man who took you out to dinner yesterday?" he asked accusingly.
Ronnie laughed huskily and squirmed provocatively on his lap. "He isn't every strange man. He's Perry Eshmont and he's quite handsome and charming and his interest in me is purely professional." She teased the tip of his ear with her tongue. "Now, what else would you like to know?"
Mathew moved his head. "Stop that."
"You're jealous."
"Yes."
"Good, I'm glad," she smiled, ruffling his hair in the way she knew annoyed him. "I'm glad it bothers you so much. Why don't you make an honest woman out of me so I won't have to parade around in next to nothing for a living?"
Mathew frowned. "You know it isn't necessary for you to work as a-"
Ronnie interrupted him. "As a model? Mistress or model, it's the same thing. Well, practically."
Mathew felt a twinge of uneasiness at the trend of conversation. It wasn't like Ronnie to express even the mildest form of dissatisfaction with her career or their relationship. "I don't understand what you mean," he stated uncomfortably, the phrase "honest woman" reverberating in his head.
The black-haired girl shrugged, her face averted from him. "I don't know what I mean either. I guess it's just ... well, a feeling of insecurity or something." She turned on his lap, her arms around his neck, her face unusually serious. "Did you speak to her? Did you get anything settled?"
Mathew frowned. "Yes, I talked to her on the phone."
"On the phone? Are you afraid to face her?"
"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, nerves edgy all at once. "I simply want to allow her time to digest the situation thoroughly."
Ronnie watched his face closely. "Do you think it will help?"
He sighed, telling himself that it was only natural she should be preoccupied with thoughts of Cynthia. "I don't know. I suppose it's foolish to think it could ever work out."
"You're right," Ronnie said quickly. "The time will come when you'll have to choose between us. I think it might have come already."
Mathew shifted beneath her weight, disturbed by the flatness of her voice and the finality of her words. "Let's not talk about it now."
Ronnie hesitated and then smiled slowly. "I don't think it bothers you as much as you pretend."
"What do you mean?"
She kissed the tip of his nose. "I think you love every minute of it. You have two women fighting for you."
He was forced to smile. "Are you fighting for me?"
She twisted in his lap, responding to the question in a burst of affection, forcing his lips apart with her tongue. The hotness of her mouth brought an awakening of his senses and Mathew tightened his embrace, bending her backwards on the couch. Hands worked on his back as he tugged the kimono free of her bare shoulders, exposing the pale fullness of her unhampered breasts. They carried the fragrance of a common soap, unlike the brand she always used, and he imagined that she had showered after modeling for so long. He tasted the nipples appreciatively until they rose firm and erect between his lips.
"More," she whispered throatily, pushing at him, writhing until the kimono was completely parted from her nakedness.
Mathew felt strong and gorged with desire as he looked down on her pretty face and lidded eyes and red lips. She seemed to be offering herself up to him and the pose was wickedly brazen. One beautifully curved leg rose at the knee and swayed rhythmically as he stripped himself of his clothing. She lifted both arms above her head and the movement added to her wantonness.
Mathew experienced a stab of unexpected hostility as he gazed down at her. He could not help but be aware of how artful and knowing she could be on these occasions. Sluttish, exaggerating her nakedness with the erotic adroitness of a prostitute. Yet, it excited him. It even excited him to imagine where she had gained her knowledge.
"How many men have you seen this way?" he asked hoarsely.
The slow smile taunted and inflamed him. "Hundreds."
"I almost believe you."
She smiled mischievously. "I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me."
Mathew regretted the impulsive question, disliking the vague disquiet it invoked in him. "I'll never be sure of you," he muttered.
"That's good."
"Not necessarily."
Ronnie gazed at him thoughtfully. "You're sure of Cynthia, aren't you?"
It wasn't exactly a question, more a statement of fact. "Of course."
"What does being sure of someone mean?"
He thought about it and shrugged. "Peace of mind, for one thing."
The young girl smiled slowly, dark eyes gleaming. "You know what I think? I think your jealousy adds spice to the game."
Mathew scowled up at her resentfully. "I assure you that there is very little pleasure in imagining you in the arms of another man. Very little, indeed."
"You are serious, aren't you?" Ronnie asked, one eyebrow raised.
He felt embarrassed. "I'm only human. I have a normal capacity for jealousy." The words sounded inadequate and stodgy and he squirmed with discomfort. "Well, I'm not the only man you've known," he added, childishly, poutingly, sheepishly.
Ronnie's pretty face grew cold. "But you're the only man Cynthia has known, is that it?"
"We're talking about you, not Cynthia."
Ronnie seemed truly angry. "You'd like me to be like her, wouldn't you? You'd like it better if the two of us were totally dependent upon you." She paused a moment. "Well, I'm not like Cynthia. You can just stop looking for her brand of purity in me. It isn't there. I started when I was seven."
"I don't doubt it," he muttered, running his hands over her gleaming thighs and satiny hips. She laughed and tugged at his ears and he leaned forward to run his parted lips across the dimple of her belly. A thought occurred to him, an unwanted and inexplicable thought. No man, other than himself, had ever seen Cynthia unclothed. He was sure of it.
Ronnie stirred sensuously, impatiently. "Kiss me. I want you to kiss me tonight."
Mathew forced all thought from his mind and feasted upon the sweet-smelling flesh. She responded lazily at first, her breathing soft and steady, her body slow in its movements. Then, as he quickened his kisses, her hands clawed at his shoulders and her moan echoed in-the quiet apartment.
It was a natural and free-flowing union, a giving and taking, without formula or restraint. She was young and strong and passionately responsive. She made only tiny sounds, small exhalations as though her breath were being driven from her surging body. Mathew marveled at the completeness and surrendered to the overpowering rush of excitement which she provoked in him.
Time passed and he became aware of her sitting on the edge of the couch beside him, the kimono wrapped around her wondrous body. "It was good, wasn't it?" she asked softly, stroking his forehead.
Mathew stirred lazily. "Yes, very good.. "
"It always is for us, isn't it?"
He hesitated, sensing that she was reminding him of the fact, and wondering why she felt the need for it. "Always," he replied, gazing up at her.
Ronnie softened suddenly and caressed him. "I love having you."
"Just me?"
Mathew sat up, shaken. "This is childish. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
The girl turned away, her hand moving through her glossy curls. "It's not your fault, Matt," she intoned softly. "I guess I'm getting sort of jumpy lately. This situation-well, this business with Cynthia has me all mixed up." She turned back to gaze at him, her dark eyes misty. "I'm afraid I'm going to lose you."
Mathew felt the lump rising in his throat. He was about to put his arms around her when the telephone rang, shattering the silence. "Who could that be?" he asked, jealousy returning to him all at once.
Ronnie frowned and worked her way down to the foot of the couch to pick up the receiver. She pushed the curls away from her face as she placed the receiver to her ear. "Hello?"
Mathew saw Ronnie stiffen with surprise. A look of astonishment crossed her face. "Who is it?" he whispered.
"Yes, that's right," she said dully, into the phone. "This is Ronnie Franklin." She covered the receiver with a cupped hand and looked at him with a faintly startled expression. "It's her," she whispered tightly. "It's Cynthia."
Mathew jerked up into a sitting position, a hot resentment mingling with a cold panic. "Give it to me," he snapped, taking the telephone from Ronnie's hand. "Cynthia?"
"Hello, Matt."
The words sounded strangely slurred. "Cynthia, what is it? What ever possessed you to-" He stopped, seeking to control himself, painfully aware of Ronnie's watchful expression. "Are you at home?" he asked, thinking that he could call her back at a more opportune moment.
There was a low laugh and it startled him. The voice returned, hollow and yet thick. "No, Matt. I'm not at home. Does that surprise you?"
He realized then that she had been drinking. "Cynthia, I can't talk to you now."
"Why not, Matt? Why can't you talk to me now? Am I interrupting something?"
He winced'and glanced uncomfortably at Ronnie who still sat a bit apart from him, her arms folded loosely beneath the bulge of her unhampered breasts. "I'll be home shortly, Cynthia," he said abruptly, feeling only the need to escape the awkwardness of the situation. "I'll see you there."
"Are you really coming home, Matt?"
"Yes."
"For good or just for tonight?"
He closed his eyes tiredly and then looked again at Ronnie, trying to let her see his helplessness. She rose and walked toward the bedroom and he was grateful to her. "Have you been drinking?" he muttered tightly, ashamedly, into the receiver.
Again the soft and unusually throaty laugh. "Yes, Matt, I've been drinking. I'm sorry but I've been drinking. Are you angry with me because I've been drinking?"
Mathew was able to estimate the extent of her inebriation by the run-on delivery of her words and it disturbed him. He couldn't remember Cynthia ever being that far gone and he felt guilty, knowing he was the cause of it. "Please leave wherever you are and meet me at home," he stated finally. "Either that or tell me where you are and I'll come get you."
"I'm not at all sure where I am, Matt. Do you want me to open the door of the booth and ask?"
He exhaled his frustration. "Are you in a bar?"
"Yes, a bar. A bar with blue lights."
"Do you think you can find a cab and reach home safely?"
"Matt?"
"Yes?"
There was a momentary silence. "Am I still your wife."
"Cynthia, please."
"Is she there with you? Is she listening."
"No."
"Then tell me, Matt. Am I still your wife or is it over for us? I have to know. I have to know whether I'm still your wife."
Mathew knew he had to humor her. He glanced over at the door to the bedroom and kept his voice modulated. "Of course, Cynthia. You should know better than to ask such a question. I told you that nothing had to change, didn't I? Now, please, find a cab and meet me at the apartment."
He hung up and ran his fingers through his hair, drawing a deep breath. He rose, finding his trousers and slipping into them. The flooring creaked beneath his weight as he walked to the opened door of the bedroom. Ronnie was standing before the bureau, brushing her hair slowly. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "It was unforgivable of her to call here."
"What did she say?" Ronnie muttered, without turning to look at him.
"She simply wanted me to come home. She ... she'd been drinking."
Ronnie's back stiffened for a split second. She set down the brush and walked to the table beside the bed. Mathew watched her deliberate actions as she lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the window. Ronnie looked back at him and he saw that her eyes were darker and more serious than he had ever seen them before and he experienced a feeling of impending disaster. She moistened her lips before speaking. "I didn't think she was the type of woman to do this sort of thing. I imagined her as having too much pride."
"I don't know what prompted her to do it."
"Maybe neither of us know her as well as we think."
Mathew could see that the young girl was upset. He felt guilty and responsible for Cynthia's unusually rash action. "It won't happen again," he avowed helplessly. "Try not to be angry with me."
Ronnie merely stared at him. "You'd better get dressed. She'll be waiting for you."
"Ronnie, please-"
She turned away. "Go home and talk to your wife, Matt. Find out what she plans to do." She paused, the cigarette close to her. mouth. "Come back when you have something to tell me."
She sounded like a stranger and Mathew gazed across the room at her in confusion. The words carried the tone of an ultimatum and yet he could not believe it of her. He shrugged aside the thought, wanting only to alleviate the situation a bit. "It doesn't mean anything. My leaving here like this, I mean. You must believe that, Ronnie."
She remained still, smoking, her back to him.
"I'll stay if you wish."
"No."
"I can't leave until you say you understand."
Ronnie turned and walked to the bed. "You're going to have to decide which of us you want, Matt. You can't put it off any longer." She crushed the cigarette and tilted her head toward him, the dark curls obscuring one eye. "Maybe Cynthia has already made the decision for you, I don't know. It's best that you go home and find out. It's best for all three of us." She sighed and seemed tired suddenly, her body heavy as she sat down on the edge of the bed. "Please, Matt, go home to her. There's no sense in our talking about it now."
Mathew saw that it was useless to soothe her. He turned and left the bedroom to dress. A moment later, he heard the bedsprings sag beneath the weight of her body and the click of the switch that cast the room in darkness. He finished dressing and looked over at the darkened doorway and knew there was nothing for him to do at that point but leave. He opened the front door of the apartment and tried to keep his voice at the right level. "I'll call you tomorrow."
There was no answer.
He went out and locked the door and went down to the street, feeling whipped and tired and depressed. The unexpected telephone call had done much more than merely shatter the intimacy he'd been enjoying, more than just reminded him of his responsibility to his wife. It had somehow served to bring all of Ronnie's previously-suppressed misgivings and unhappiness to the surface. The ultimatum not to return until he had something to tell her had attested to the extent of her emotional state. It wasn't like her, not like her at all.
What was happening?
Ronnie talking and acting that way ... Cynthia drinking and telephoning the apartment as she had ... everything was tottering, it seemed ... everything was becoming disjointed, out of kilter ... disturbing ... very disturbing.
Mathew raised his hand in the air and flagged down a cruising cab. "Taxi!"
NINE
Another totally unexpected telephone call from Perry Eshmont jerked Ronnie from a deep sleep at exactly ten-thirty the next morning. The youthful manufacturer apologized for breaking his word and explained that he'd again spent the night thinking about her and her lawyer. While Ronnie was knuckling sleep from her eyes and yawning, he went on to ask her to meet him later that day so they could talk. Ronnie started to protest but he was insistent and she finally consented, a part of her responding to the memory of their intimacy, memories brought back by the sound of his voice. She hung up and lay back, wide awake, and stretched luxuriously, glad that she was going to see him again.
Mathew arrived after eleven and seemed surprised to find her awake and emerging from her shower. He was sober and preoccupied and she guessed that he had had his talk with Cynthia. She allowed him to kiss her cheek as she crossed the room to lay out her dress for the date with Eshmont. Mathew frowned as he watched. "Are you working again today?"
Ronnie worked the soggy towel over her black curls a final time and tossed it aside. She belted the robe more securely and sat at the dressing-table, picking up the hairbrush. The springly curls came alive under each stroke, the pull causing her head to jerk rhythmically. "No, I'm not working today," she answered deliberately, pleased with Matt's jealousy. "I have a luncheon date."
She saw him wet his lips. He moved to sit in the corner of the bedroom, leaning his elbows on his knees. "That Eshmont fellow again?" he asked, his eyes focused glumly on the floor.
She controlled the impulse to smile. "No, someone else. A nightclub owner who wants me to go to Florida and work in his newest club."
Matt's head jerked up. "Florida?"
Ronnie nodded slowly, enjoying herself and the usefulness of the he.
He let out his breath, frowning. "I suppose this is my punishment for leaving you the way I did last night."
She looked at him through the mirror. "Don't be childish, Matt." She rose and walked out of the bedroom to the small kitchen, knowing he would have no choice but to follow. She turned the light off under the coffee and filled two cups. She was setting them on the table when he entered and lowered himself heavily to the chair. "I don't have any juice," she stated offhandedly, without looking at him.
"You're not considering ... I mean, this nightclub business ... "
Ronnie sat down opposite him and lifted her cup. "There's no harm in discussing it with him, is there? Besides, I have to be practical. My future seems to hold a measure of uncertainty at the moment."
She saw him wince.
A moment passed before Mathew stopped circling the spoon in the black coffee. He hunched over his cup, his big hands clasped, his face reflecting his uneasiness. "I spoke to Cynthia," he muttered tightly, cryptically.
Ronnie felt herself tensing a bit but she succeeded in masking it by lighting a cigarette. "And."
"She'd been drinking last night ... "
"Yes, you told me."
"She wasn't in any condition to talk when ... when she arrived home. I waited until this morning."
Ronnie shifted impatiently. "Get to the point, Matt."
Mathew drew a deep breath, his shoulders hunching forward even more. "I don't know quite how to tell you this. It came as a complete surprise to me and I'm still not sure I-"
"Good God, Matt, what did she say?"
He flinched, looking up. "She's willing to accept the fact of our affair."
Ronnie stared at him in bewilderment. "What the hell does that mean?"
Mathew frowned at her choice of words. "Ronnie, please ... "
"Well, explain it to me."
He let out his breath deliberately and kneaded the bridge of his nose. "She thought it would be easier for ail concerned if ... if we came to an understanding. She's willing to make some sort of an arrangement wherein we ... " He stopped, struggling, his eyes evasive and guilty.
Ronnie could feel her stomach contracting. "An arrangement?"
"She won't interfere with us but she wants things to be on a different basis. Without hostility or friction."
Ronnie stared at him, a mild disgust rippling through her. "Cynthia suggested that?" she asked dazedly. "Yes."
"And you approved?"
Mathew sighed wearily. "I know it would be impossible."
"Would it? Would it really?" she asked, her voice unsteady, a bitter resentment gorging her. "I sup pose the next step would be for us all to live together. What does she think I am? What do you think I am? Some kind of a lovely toy she's given you for Christmas?"
He rubbed his hand across his face. "I told you that I thought the whole idea preposterous. I'm not sure she even knew what she was suggesting."
"Oh, she knew ah right," Ronnie countered sharply, stunned that any woman could be so sure of her husband to have made such a proposal. "She knew exactly what she was doing. Did she lay out the ground-rules of this arrangement? What days do I have? Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, or every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday? I assumed Sunday will remain a day of rest, of course."
"Ronnie!"
She pushed away from the table and hurried out of the room, her blood boiling and her nerves jangled. A grim resentment mixed with her anger and frustration as she yanked off her robe and flung it forcibly into the corner of the room. Cynthia Demeter's tactics spelled out the doom of her plans regarding marriage to the wealthy lawyer and although she wasn't quite certain whether she was better off having lost the contest, the victory of the woman rankled Ronnie.
Matt came into the sun-drenched bedroom and stood gazing at her nakedness from just inside the doorway. Ronnie flaunted herself at him with cool indifference as she began to dress. He took a long time to speak. "You have every right to be offended," he said sadly.
Ronnie drew the stockings up her legs and fastened them. "Thanks loads."
He came to stand behind her, his arms moving around her waist, his hands forming gentle cups for her fullness. He kissed the side of her neck and eased her uncooperative body back against his own. "Don't be angry," he murmured.
Ronnie remained stiff and unyielding. "This is ah I mean to you."
He turned her to face him. "That's not true. I love you."
"Not enough."
He frowned. "No less than I've always loved you."
Ronnie lowered her lashes, aware that she had provoked his suspicions. She knew it was time. One way or the other, it was time. She placed her head on his chest so that her face was hidden from his eyes. "It's no use, Matt," she said softly.
He held her tightly. She could feel his breath through her thick hair as he spoke. "Don't say that, Ronnie. Don't think it."
The cloth of his suit was scratchy against her nipples and his hands were warm through the nylon of the panties. "Up until now I didn't feel ... well, cheap. I didn't think I was hurting anyone by loving you. Now, it's changed. I don't know how or why but it's different." She look up at him, keeping her gaze soft and confused. "She has no intention of sharing you, Matt. It's just a trick. She knows she's stronger than either of us and that she'll win out in the end. She wouldn't have given her blessing if she wasn't certain you'd tire of me and return to her."
Mathew's handsome face was intense and troubled. "You don't know her, Ronnie. She's not the sort of woman who ... who could think that way. She's simply afraid of losing me altogether. I know that sounds egotistical but it's true."
Ronnie pushed away from him, turning, aware that he was telling the truth but knowing she couldn't let him know she believed him. "I'm sorry, Matt," she whispered weakly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry but I can't believe it. I know that you love her and that you belong to her and that nothing I could ever do could make you give her up. And I know that I couldn't go on ... knowing that this was all I could expect from you."
He stared at her, pale and upset. "What are you saying?"
She looked up and met his gaze, aware of her breasts and her pose, knowing it would contribute to the ultimatum. "I want to marry you, Matt. There, I' ve said it. I'm in love with you and I want to marry you. I can't go on being just ... just an outlet for you ... especially now that Cynthia knows. I can't, Matt."
He seemed paralyzed. She watched his eyes become glazed and his tongue move slowly over his lips. Recovery was gradual and visible. He let out his breath and blinked. "You're asking me to divorce Cynthia and marry you?"
Ronnie lifted her brassiere and put her arms through the loops. "I know you can't but I had to say it." She fastened the clasp and rose to her feet, reaching for the tailored skirt. "I guess there's no sense in talking more, Matt."
"Ronnie ... "
She turned to him and smiled wanly. "Please, Matt, don't. I understand." He started forward but she held up her hand to restrain him, wishing she could make a tear come to her eye. "No, please ... I ... I couldn't stand it."
"I can't let this happen," he croaked hoarsely, desperately.
Ronnie nailed him with her eyes. "You have no choice, Matt. I know it and Cynthia knows it. You can't have us both."
He hesitated and then sagged, covering his eyes with his hand and turning away. "I need time to think."
Ronnie watched him closely. "There's nothing to think about, is there? She's your wife and she needs you. And you must love her or there wouldn't have been a problem in the first place. Please, Matt, let's not talk about it any more. I 'm sorry I can't be what you want me to be. I don't know why-but I just can't. Not now. Not ever again." She waited a moment for dramatic effect. "It's not-fair of you to ask it of me."
Mathew looked back at her with an expression of helpless guilt and she knew she had pierced him. He was torn between wanting her and loving her, caught between his integrity and his need, trapped between his statements of deep love and the sordidness of Cynthia's proposal. There was nothing he could say and Ronnie knew it.
"Please go, Matt. Please go before I cry."-
He nodded slowly, despairingly. "All right."
She watched him walk to the door. "Matt?"
He turned. "Yes?"
"Thank you."
He frowned.
She smiled. "I'll never forget a minute of what we've had together."
He seemed on the verge of tears. "Ronnie ... oh, God ... "
She shook her head. "No, don't."
There was a heavy silence and she held her pose, half-turned from him, the skirt hanging limply, forlornly, from her hand. She heard him draw in his breath and she tensed inwardly, sensing that the all-important moment had come. This was it. A tingle of wild anticipation coursed through her, making it difficult for her to maintain the attitude of the broken-hearted innocent.
"Let me think things over," he stated firmly, his voice suddenly loud in the room. "I'll call you tonight after I've had a chance to ... to organize my thoughts. You'll give me that much, won't you?"
Ronnie turned her head slowly, cursing the tears that continued to escape her. "Whatever you say, Matt."
He wet his lips. "Thank you," he murmured, his gaze traveling over her partially and provocatively costumed body. Ronnie saw the expression on his face and subtly drew in her stomach, accentuating the thrust of her breasts, moving the skirt to one side so as not to obstruct the lines of her nylon-clad legs. She let her pose and the back-drop of the familiar bed contribute to the memories that passed through his mind at that moment. She let her body remind him of all that hung in the balance. All the nights, all the mornings, all the pleasures, all the delights.
Mathew nodded a second time, emerging from his troubled reverie with a grave expression. "I'll call," he stated again, apparently having lost track of things for the moment. He turned then and left the room.
Ronnie let out her breath in an audible sigh as the front door closed behind him. "Whew!" She plopped down on the bed in a sitting position and lit a cigarette, holding the smoke in her lungs for a long time before releasing it in a cloud.
Well, it was done.
She had sounded the wedding bells. It was up to Matt whether or not he wanted to answer them. There was nothing more she could do at this point, nothing at all, but wait for the verdict. She felt that she had handled it all quite well. A bit overly-theatrical, perhaps, but effectively, judging from the expression on his face when he'd departed. She felt a tug of compassion for him, realizing what a morning he must have had ... first, Cynthia, with her shrewd and shocking proposal, then herself, hitting him between the eyes with her marriage demand.
The vague sense of guilt was doubled by the fact that she wasn't even sure she wanted to marry Mathew Demeter even if he did consent to divorce his wife. She'd acted mechanically, automatically, her words and gestures stemming from the months of awaiting that dramatic moment. Well, it was done and there was no undoing it.
Ronnie smoked, sitting hunched forward, her arms resting on her legs. She thought of Cynthia Demeter and wondered what the woman was like to have taken such a wild gamble. Was she really that desperate or was she far wiser and worldly than Matt suspected? Imagine, a woman of her background and type, condoning an affair between her husband and a young model. Ronnie couldn't help but feel a kind of admiration for the woman regardless of what her motive might have been.
Rousing herself, she looked at the clock and decided she'd still have time to stop by the beauty salon prior to her date with Perry Eshmont. The appointment somehow seemed more important than it had when he had forced the issue over the telephone. Matt was more-likely to stay married than not and poor little Ronnie would be left on her own again. That is, unless Perry Eshmont wanted to pick up the pieces ...
It was a pleasant thought and Ronnie smiled as she rose to dress.
The telephone rang for the second time that morning as she was adjusting her blouse within the waistband of her skirt. She picked it up and slid it under her dark curls. "Hello?"
"Miss Veronica Franklin?"
Ronnie went cold. "Hello, Mrs. Demeter."
"May I talk to you a moment?"
Ronnie hesitated. "Well ... I was just going out ... "
"Please."
Ronnie sat down, frowning. "Ah right."
"I was wondering if we could meet somewhere and talk."
"It wouldn't change anything, Mrs. Demeter," Ronnie replied crisply, intimidated by the suggestion. "Besides, from what your husband just told me, there's been a great deal of talk already."
There was a pause. "You saw him?"
"Yes."
"Is he there now."
".No."
Again, the short silence. Ronnie waited tensely, a vague excitement filling her. She couldn't explain it but it was there. It forced her to sit and wait.
Cynthia Demeter's cultured voice returned, sounding a bit tired. "We can't talk over the telephone. Could you come by our ... my place this afternoon? I assure you Mathew will never know we've met. I'm not asking this of you with any devious plan in mind. I simply feel that it might help matters if ... well, if we talk."
Ronnie could not deny that there was a definite attractiveness in the prospect of coming face-to-face with Cynthia Demeter. It had a little to do with feminine curiosity and a little to do with meeting a challenge. "I have a date for this afternoon," she stated calmly.
"We can make it at your convenience."
Ronnie managed to control her curiosity by reminding herself of the fact that regardless of Cynthia's promise, Mathew would almost certainly find out about their meeting sooner or later. It seemed a foolish risk at this stage of the game and she knew she had to refuse the invitation. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Demeter," she said crisply, "but I don't think there would be any point to our meeting. Now if you'll excuse me, I must-"
"Wait!"
Ronnie froze, the phone an inch from her ear. "Yes?"
There was a brief silence. "Will you answer this one question?"
Ronnie braced herself. "Go ahead."
"You said you talked to Mathew. Did he tell you of our ... of our conversation this morning?"
"Yes, he did."
There was pain in the woman's voice. "And?"
Ronnie smiled grimly, phrasing the words in her mind before stating them. "I have no intention of remaining your husband's mistress, with or without your blessing, Mrs. Demeter." She paused a moment for effect. "I intend to be nothing less than his wife."
There was a muted gasp on the other end of the connection, a sound' of breath sharply drawn, a sound that conveyed shock and dismay and utter defeat.
Ronnie gently lowered the telephone receiver to the cradle.
TEN
Mathew put aside the signed agreement and moved around his desk to where Floyd Paulson was lifting his ponderous bulk from the leather chair. "That should do it," Mathew offered smoothly. "I'm sure you'll find your tax problem much less worrisome this coming year if we adhere to the plan I've outlined for your company."
The balding, vending-machine distributor shook his head in a show of wonderment and dismay. "When I think of all the years I've been paying through the nose, I could kick myself around the block. Well, it's my own fault for not having the brains to come to an expert for advice sooner." He held out a meaty hand. "I wish I knew how to thank you, Demeter."
"We're glad to have you as a client, Mr. Paulson."
"I mean you personally," the fat man argued. "Isn't there anything I can do to show my gratitude?"
"It's really not necessary," Mathew smiled, impatient for the man to leave."
Paulson frowned as Mathew ushered him to the door of his office. He stopped suddenly and gave Mathew an appraising look. "I might be a little out of line with this but I'm a man who-likes to show his gratitude one way or another. How does this sound to you, Demeter? Why don't you let me arrange for a night on the town for the two of us? I'll call up a couple of choice numbers and-"
Mathew grinned. "That's very nice of you but I don't think-"
Paulson scowled. "Hear me out, will you? This has nothing to do with ethics. We're two friends out for a little fun, that's all. I've got some top numbers in my little black book. The girls I know won't take off their gloves for less than a hundred bucks. And you'll be my guest." The heavy-set distributor opened the door. "We'll meet at the lounge in my hotel around nine, okay? I'll have the girls meet us there. If you don't like what you see, you don't have to stay. That fair enough?"
Mathew sighed resignedly. "Really, Mr. Paulson, I don't believe it would be proper for me to accept."
Paulson grunted his impatient indifference and waddled out the door.
Mathew watched him disappear out of the outer office and shook his head. He turned to where Miss Waring sat at her desk, typing. "Would you come inside a moment, Miss Waring?"
"Yes, sir."
Mathew handed her the papers of the Paulson deal and instructed her as to their disposition. He sat down and drew a deep breath and looked up at her. "Were there any messages for me?"
Miss Waring shook her head slightly. "No, sir."
"Has my wife called?"
The secretary looked suspiciously surprised. "No, sir."
He averted his eyes, aware that Miss Waring had a good idea of his double life. She'd met Cynthia on several occasions. Ronnie had called the office dozens of times and once, he had been forced to have Miss Waring arrange for flowers to be sent to her.
He could only guess as to her reaction to his duplicity since she seldom overstepped her bounds by showing or expressing any sort of a personal opinion.
"Thank you. That will be ah for now."
She turned and walked across the large office. Handsome woman, he thought idly, allowing himself the liberty of considering her departing figure. Intelligent, attractive, well-groomed. Good taste in her clothes, too. Suits, mostly, but not so severe as to detract from her femininity. He had long admired the neatness of her legs and the delicacy of her trim ankles. Good hips, always compactly girdled. Modest but interesting breasts, at least as far as he'd been able to determine. She'd been married once but it hadn't lasted. She had a young boy in school or was it a girl? He reflected on what kind of a personal life she enjoyed, imagining that she must have her share of suitors.
He speculated as to her capacity for passion, wondering if she'd be as efficient and meticulous in sex as she was in her duties as a legal secretary. He found it difficult to imagine her caught up in the throes of sensual abandon and yet he knew from experience that some women were quite capable of masking their true nature under a calm and cool and composed exterior. Cynthia, for example, seldom exposed the extent of her consuming love for him when they were in the company of others, maintaining a graceful serenity that led one and ah to admire her inherent good breeding.
He thought again of Miss Waring's legs and was reminded of another divorcee he'd met at Cliff Reynolds' party over a year before. Evelyn some-thing-or-other. Small bodied and attractive, with a trim figure and a generous mouth. She was with one of those horrible magazines, the type that catered to the American housewife, and she seemed quite proud of the fact. She made a point of sympathizing with Cynthia's indisposition and said, several times too often, how anxious she'd been to meet his wife. Mathew spent the remainder of the party keeping her glass filled and before too long, she was letting him know she was his for the taking, wife or no wife.
She lived in a studio apartment that overflowed with abstract figurines and paintings and mobiles. Mathew took her on the couch without allowing her time to remove her shoes or dress. She was very drunk and very responsive, beating at him with her trim body and muttering hot words of lust. He saw her once again, a week or so later, and it was much the same thing except that they made it to her bed. She was relatively sober and he found her ecstatic monologue somewhat crude and distracting due to her precise diction.
The divorcee pestered him with telephone calls for nearly a month before finally taking the hint and going off in pursuit of a new means of escape from her loneliness. Miss Waring would not be that persistent, he decided, crediting her with a greater degree of pride and intelligence. Still, women were strange creatures and one never knew how they would react if given sufficient cause for possessiveness. He had seen many a veneer of sophistication melt under the influence of emotion, particularly when that emotion bordered on love and passion. It was one of the disadvantages involved in playing the field. A man could become unpleasantly involved.
Floyd Paulson's attitude was much less complicated, Mathew decided with a smile. A bit commercial but beautifully simple. He wondered if he had not been hasty in rejecting the man's invitation. Perhaps it was just what he needed to clear the air and replenish his energies and better equip him to deal with the perplexities that were threatening to devour him.
Mathew could picture the type of female he'd have on tap that evening. Glossy, sleek, young, flattering, worldly. And later, alone with him, quite seductive and imaginative in whetting his appetite. She'd state her willingness to please him in whatever way he desired and if he showed any reticence, she'd outline and tabulate some erotic pastimes with which she'd had experience. It would be exciting while it lasted and she'd be thorough and later, she'd walk him to the door and kiss his cheek and tell him how much she enjoyed it and ask him not to forget her name and telephone number.
Simple. Uncomplicated.
Mathew frowned with self-annoyance and turned in his chair to gaze at the telephone. He knew that he was deliberately dwelling on Miss Waring and Floyd Paulson and the other trivia in an attempt to avoid that which was pressing down on him. He thought of Ronnie, who made ah the other women he had ever known seem pale by comparison and of how she had put an end to his indiscriminate and unrewarding promiscuity. What a fool he'd been that morning! How else could she have reacted except with indignation and anger? He must have been mad to think that a girl with her pride would have consented to go on seeing him while Cynthia knew and approved of their affair.
She wanted to marry him.
It was a numbing and yet perfectly logical development.
She loved him and she wanted to marry him.
He lifted the receiver of the telephone and dialed her number, knowing it was pointless, that he had nothing to say, that he wasn't capable of coming to any decision of himself. Still, thinking of her as he had last seen her, standing in the bedroom in her underwear, so young and vital and glowing and unhappy ... he had to hear the sound of her voice.
He listened to the steady ringing for a full minute before replacing the receiver on the cradle. She was meeting some nightclub owner, he remembered. A job in Florida. He decided it was merely a tactic on her part, a means of striking back at him, a show of her independence. Yet, if she wanted to marry him, how could she be so independent? No, there was no real threat in the Florida venture ... not if he decided to leave Cynthia and marry her.
Leave Cynthia ...
Mathew knew it wasn't possible.
Suddenly he resented being forced into the uncomfortable position by Ronnie and Cynthia both. He had to admit to himself that it was his own fault but still, the situation was becoming grotesque with each passing hour. Cynthia, incredible in her new candor, telling him that morning that she'd be willing to stay on with him as long as he didn't flaunt the affair in her face. Ronnie, unexpectedly romantic and vulnerable, admitting her secret need for him and her desire to be his wife. It was all too much for him to cope with ... much too much ...
He gnawed on his lower hp, wondering how long he had before he'd be forced to make the ail-important decision. How long would Ronnie wait?
How long could Cynthia maintain this incongruous attitude? Maybe if he stalled matters a while, it would resolve itself? He didn't hold much hope along that line but it was comforting to think that the decision might be made for him.
Aware that he was being weak, Mathew flushed and pushed himself up from his chair. He had to stop thinking about it. He had to take his mind off it. No amount of thought could resolve such a tangled web ... no amount of clinical analysis could dissect and evaluate his need for Cynthia and his feelings for Ronnie. They were two altogether different things and could not be equated on any scale.
Why couldn't they see it?
There was a tapping on the door and it opened slowly, discreetly. Miss Waring leaned inside and he saw that she was wearing her coat. "I'm going to lunch now, Mr. Demeter."
Mathew stared at her a moment, again caught up in the need to escape from his depressing problem. "Eh, I wonder if you'd care to ... that is, I wonder if ... " He stopped, scowling, impatient with himself. "Have you made any plans for lunch, Miss Waring?"
She looked startled. "Why, no, sir."
He spoke quickly. "Would you mind if I joined you? I don't feel much like eating alone today."
The stylishly-dressed secretary fluttered her blonde lashes, obviously still a bit taken back by his unexpected request. "No, I wouldn't mind at all, Mr. Demeter."
Mathew walked around his desk, his smile a bit uncertain. "You're sure? I wouldn't want to impose on you."
A rather shy smile brightened her face. "It wouldn't be an imposition, Mr. Demeter. I'd enjoy having lunch with you."
He let out his breath, feeling sure of himself again. "Fine. Just let me have a moment to freshen up and I'll join you."
She nodded and disappeared from sight.
Mathew hurried into the private lavatory. As he washed and combed his hair, he realized that he was looking forward to the luncheon. She had seemed genuinely pleased, he decided. Perhaps she held some feeling for him beneath that prim exterior of hers? No, that wouldn't do. She was much too valuable as a secretary for him to endanger their present relationship. He'd simply have lunch with her, talk with her, use her to occupy his mind. Nothing more.
He had enough problems.
When he went to rejoin her, Mathew noticed that she had freshened her lipstick and brushed her hair since leaving his office. The signs bolstered his ego and brought back the feeling of buoyancy. He took her arm with a smile and led her through the outer office. "Is there any place in particular, you'd like to go?"
"Oh, no, not really."
They walked to the elevators. "I know a small cocktail lounge that serves a very good martini," Mathew smiled, pressing the button.
Miss Waring batted her lashes. "It sounds interesting."
Mathew ushered her into the crowded elevator and took his place at her side. He caught the scent of her perfume and approved of it. It was not nearly as thickly aromatic as Ronnie's and not quite as elusive as Cynthia's. He noticed that his secretary's cheeks still held a flush and that her fingers were working nervously on her bag. She appeared so vastly more feminine than she had ever had in the past that he felt a tug of compassion for her. This was obviously a great adventure for her, one that she'd obviously nurtured in her secret thoughts for some time. It made him feel a bit responsible and he decided he would move slowly with her during the luncheon. There was always time later on in the day ... after office hours, perhaps, to further explore the extent of her availability and interest in him.
As they walked through the lobby to the street, he smiled apologetically and shook his head. "I'm sure you'll never forgive me for this but can I ask you an unforgivable question?"
She seemed a bit fearful. "Of course."
"Your name is Carolyn, isn't it?"
She smiled, relieved. "That's right."
Mathew chuckled. "I wasn't sure."
She looked up at him, eyes sparkling. "I suppose it's not difficult to understand. We don't have much opportunity to use first names in the office, do we?"
Mathew held her arm a bit tighter. "Exactly."
She moistened her lips self-consciously, flushing again under his steady gaze. "Please feel free to ... to call me Carolyn, if you like.
Mathew let the back of his hand graze the swell of her admirable breast. "You're very kind, Carolyn. Very kind."
ELEVEN
The bar had blue lights. She decided she had a weakness for bars with blue lights. They seemed cozier, smaller, more intimate. They seemed better able to shut out the rest of the world. There was no hint within the room of the fact that it was still daylight beyond the shuttered windows, that people were coming and going on the outer street with the customary hustle and bustle of afternoon diligence.
Cynthia Demeter smiled at her rambling thoughts and faced up to the fact that she was getting very drunk. It seemed especially illicit in that it was not yet three o'clock in the afternoon. She put the glass to her lips and tasted the strong drink, determined to keep up the pace, to maintain her rebellion versus convention of all sorts, to sustain her escape from the despair of reality.
"Hey, you'd better take it easy."
Cynthia lowered the glass and looked at the young girl seated on the next stool. "I'm all right."
"You won't be if you keep drinking like that."
Cynthia became aware of another female seated a few stools away. She was an attractive woman, well-dressed, about thirty. The lights from the bar made her dark hair seem darker and her painted mouth appear almost black. She was watching Cynthia with open interest, her eyes avidly attentive, as if she was afraid to miss a single detail of what was being said. Cynthia looked back at the young girl with a faint smile. "It's sweet of you to worry about me. I'm not used to such attention."
The girl's blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You putting me on?"
"Putting you on?"
"Being sarcastic."
Cynthia shook her head wearily. "No, not at all."
The young girl watched her take another drink before speaking in an impatient tone. "Look, I don't want to sit around a bar ah afternoon. Why don't we go up to my place and then, afterwards you can come back here and drink all you want?"
Cynthia noticed that the attractive onlooker had heard the words and that they had brought a gleam to her interested eyes. Cynthia emptied her glass slowly and set it down on the bar. "I'd like another drink first," she stated flatly. The young girl sighed exasperatedly and pushed off the stool as the bartender approached. Cynthia watched her walk to the rear of the room as her glass was refilled.
She was very young. And very wise. There was something of Angela D'Amico in this girl named Nona. They didn't resemble one another physically but they were the same under the skin. Tough. Shrewd. Cold. Nona was small and blonde and moderately pretty, with none of the overall harshness that was such an integral part of Angela's attractiveness. No, she was smaller and softer and ...
Cynthia checked her thoughts, not wanting them, knowing that she was using them to persuade herself from reality. However soft, however young, however appealing, Nona was a tramp. She'd spotted Cynthia for an easy mark the moment she had entered the bar. There had been dollar signs in her blue eyes as she appraised Cynthia's clothes, the ring on her finger, the thickness of her wallet. No, it was not time to romanticize, to color the truth, to mask the facts. It was time to face up to them. All of them.
A deep swallow reminded her that she was drunk. The first drink had been to ease the pain of her hangover; there had been two or three more after her talk with Mathew, drinks which had failed to lessen the sting of shame that had accompanied her pathetic proposal to him. Then there had been a few more to bolster her courage in order for her to dial Ronnie Franklin's number. What started as a casual request had become a desperate plea for mercy. Still more drinks to evaporate the numbness that had come with the girl's flat statement of her intention to marry Mathew.
After that, things became blurred. She knew that she had to get out of the house, she had to run away from her despair. She'd migrated thoughtlessly to this gay bar where her kind of woman came in search of forbidden love. It was quiet and soothing and she'd found Nona seated there, waiting, expecting, estimating ...
"Excuse me."
Cynthia emerged from her fog and looked at the stylishly-attired brunette seated three stools away. "Yes?"
The woman smiled nervously. "May I buy you and your friend a drink?"
Cynthia looked at her empty glass. "Why not?"
The woman gestured quickly to the bartender who serviced the glasses without comment. The woman gestured at Nona's glass. "She's very charming. Your friend, I mean."
"Yes, she is." The woman hesitated, appearing unsure of herself. "Have you ... have you known her long?" Cynthia smiled. "No. We just met."
"Oh?"
It was ah too obvious, too familiar. Cynthia was able to look at the attractive woman and see herself a hfetime ago. The tightness at the corners of the mouth, the elusive despair flirting at the depths of her dark eyes, the overly-tense and tightly-wound rigidity of her body as she sat on the stool. Cynthia let out her breath softly, feeling a tug of compassion. "You're new to ah this, aren't you?" she asked quietly, sympathetically.
The woman dropped her lashes and flushed, her fingers . tightening on the long-stemmed glass. "Yes ... " She forced her gaze back up to Cynthia and moistened her full lips. "I didn't mean to intrude. It's just that you seemed ... well, I noticed your ring and ... I'm married, too, you see ... "
No more, Cynthia thought abruptly. She should take the ring off and stop fooling people. She was no longer married. Mathew was gone. Ronnie wanted him and would have him. She no longer had a marriage. She was alone and vulnerable and unprotected and ... and too exhausted to fight the inevitable any longer.
"What I'm trying to say," the woman continued, her tone a bit tight and desperate, "is that it seemed we might have something in common."
Cynthia nodded tiredly. "Yes, I suppose that's true." She let the words hang in the air before turning her head to dissect the woman's features with a steady gaze. Very attractive, she decided. Lovely mouth, soft eyes, clear skin. The tailored suit failed to totally veil the well-rounded lines of a womanly body. Cynthia steadied the glass she held in her hand as she forced a cynical tone to her voice. "Just what do you have on your mind?"
The woman flinched. "I'm not sure, really."
"I understand."
The eyes brightened. "Do you."
"Yes."
They looked at one another for a moment and Cynthia knew that she liked this woman. The eyes seemed capable of tears, the mouth capable of truth, the body capable of genuine responsiveness. She wondered what the woman had in her life and what had driven her to a strange bar in so fumbling and amateurish a quest. She wondered if she knew what she was doing and whether she was willing to pay the price for what she was about to find.
Nona returned to the bar, her skirt flouncing around her bare legs, her blouse molding the saucy breasts. She made a point of ignoring the stool as she joined Cynthia and her youthful eyes manifested her impatience. "What's it going to be?" she asked curtly.
Cynthia smiled and gestured at the dark-haired woman who had watched them. "My friend would like to join us."
Nona looked back over her shoulder and the woman blushed. The young girl was scowling when she turned back to face Cynthia and her words came out in a hiss. "What is this anyhow? Some kind of a joke?"
Cynthia shrugged, no longer caring about the girl. "I didn't think you'd mind."
The blue eyes flashed indignantly. "Oh, you didn't? Well, you have your nerve. Just what do you think I am anyhow?" She glared in challenging fashion, but when Cynthia failed to respond, she sniffed and muttered something unintelligible. She pushed away from the bar and tossed the dark-haired woman a final look of utter disgust and contempt before hurrying toward the front door.
Cynthia watched her disappear into the street and suspected that the exit was not totally a spur-of-the-moment thing. She had been already annoyed with Cynthia's reticence to leave and she had spent what seemed like an inordinate amount of time in the rear of the bar. There were telephone books back there adjacent to the powder room. Most-likely, little Nona had called another of her hangouts to determine the extent of action there.
The woman came to stand at Cynthia's elbow. She was visibly pale and upset. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble. Perhaps if I went after her and explained ... "
Cynthia waved her hand. "Let her go."
"Are you sure?"
Cynthia looked into the dark eyes letting her gaze underline her words with meaning. "Are you?"
The well-dressed woman blushed again. "I think so."
Cynthia felt herself warming. It had been said, ah of it. It was out in the open. This confused and desirable female wanted to be with her. And Cynthia knew that it was not a search for adventure but, instead, a need that had lain dormant a long time. She had gone through the torment of it, the knowing and yet not knowing, herself ... a long time ago.
"What's your name?"
The full lips parted in a warm and yet shy smile. "Helen."
"I'm Cynthia."
"Hello, Cynthia."
The liquor was adding to another kind of warmth that was already suffusing her body and Cynthia knew that it would be good with Helen. It would be better than it had for a long, long time. She'd be nervous and uncertain and awkward and so it would be good. There would be a purity to it, a tenderness to it, a sweetness to it, that was never and could never be present with an Angela or a Nona. This troubled woman was in need of love, in need pf guidance, in need of understanding, and she would respond with an honesty born of wonderment and relief and gratitude. And so it would be good ... very good.
"What are you thinking?"
Cynthia looked up from her drink and smiled. "I was thinking of you." She paused a moment, all at once wishing she was not so drunk, yet aware that it was giving her courage. "Have you been married long, Helen?"
The lashes dropped slightly. "Four years." She looked up. "You?"
"Longer. Much longer." Cynthia felt the stab of pain, a sudden sense of loss, the return of fear and despair. She lifted her drink and gulped at it greedily.
"How do you keep ... I mean, does your husband ... suspect?"
Cynthia smiled. It was a perfectly natural question for Helen to ask. A perfectly logical one. The woman was faced with the same problem that had once confronted her and she was anxiously seeking advice and help. "No," Cynthia answered quietly. "He doesn't suspect."
Helen frowned down at her glass. "It is possible then. To keep him from knowing, I mean."
"Painfully possible."
The woman sighed sadly. "Yes, I'm already beginning to understand what you mean. It's been so ... so difficult ... for me."
Cynthia straightened up with a reckless smile. "Well, are you ready?"
Helen's eyes went wide. "Ready?"
Cynthia laughed. "Considering what we both have in mind, we can hardly stay here in the bar."
The woman blushed and reached for her pocketbook. "All right."
"I don't suppose we can go to your place?"
Helen looked up fearfully. "Oh, no ... no ... "
Cynthia calmed her with a smile. "It's all right, I understand. We'll go to my apartment. We can be alone there. One thing ... "
"Yes?"
"I want to stop at the liquor store for a bottle."
"Oh?"
Cynthia picked up the bills from the bar and left a sizeable tip. "I'm not an alcoholic, really. As a matter-of-fact, I've had more to drink in the past two days than I've had in the past year." She turned and gazed at the attractive stranger who would soon be more, much more, than a stranger. "I'm celebrating my new freedom, you see. I found out this morning that my husband is leaving me for another woman." She smiled and held out her hand. "Now, shall we go?"
"You're beautiful."
"Am I really?"
"Every inch of you."
Cynthia began to stroke her thighs lightly, making it impossible for her to be still. She writhed as the fingertips touched her where no others ever had. She thought her brain was about to explode as the teasing continued. "Oh, Cynthia ... "
Cynthia moved higher above her and one hand caressed the sensitive tips of her naked breasts. They jumped in response and when Cynthia bent down to kiss them, Helen' moaned aloud, her arms curling high above her head. The gentle plucking of the soft lips sent spirals of sensation coursing through her body and she arched with need. "Oh, yes, yes."
The hands guided and tested and teased. The lips tasted and tortured and brought her nerves to the breaking point. She could not control her moaning or writhing as she reached for the older girl. "Let me kiss you," she whispered hotly.
Cynthia cupped a hand beneath a conical breast and offered it to Cynthia. "Is this what you want?"
Cynthia stared at the dark-ringed nipple and shuddered with excitement. "Yes ... oh, yes."
Cynthia leaned down and Helen fastened her lips to flesh, her body twitching as she gave way to her long-denied cravings. "Now this one," Cynthia gasped, shifting her position. Helen obeyed hungrily, her passion raging, her instinct guiding her. The bed groaned in protest as their combined weight shifted time and again.
Cynthia's thighs opened slightly, and Helen felt her fingers moving uncontrollably downward until they came to the swollen, hotly throbbing mound.
"Let's do it, Helen ... let's really, really do it ... over and over ... I'll show you the black heat ... ummm ... the hot sweetness ... the way to burn till you want to go insane with it ... want it to suck your whole body higher and higher ... I'll show you the way to explode into a million pieces ... "
The woman's fingers were a burning thrill down Helen's back. She shook uncontrollably, her thighs pulsating with an intense heat she had never known before.
Helen closed her eyes, feeling weak. A long, powerful hand moved down her stomach to part her thighs, and Helen's ripe, hot body stiffened with the piercing sensation as strong fingers grasped her own pubic mound. She moaned loudly, and her legs fell completely open, yielding totally to the wet fingers, and she felt her juices flow down into the working hand.
"Unhhmmmmmm," Cynthia murmured, "have you ever had it like this, my sweet Helen? Have you ever tasted the ripeness of another woman's body ... sucked the sweet juices from their hot, yielding well ... take this ... yes ... take ... take ... "
Helen opened her eyes and watched the huge, dark nipple lower itself heavily toward her lips, and her mouth opened slightly, her tongue moistening her lips, her lips readying themselves for the soft, pliant, perfect skin that tipped the magnificent breast. And then she felt the bulging softness enter her waiting, open mouth, and she caressed it with her wet tongue. The skin bloomed, and swelled into a huge, pliant flower, and she sucked it tenderly until it became completely rigid. Her hand moved slowly upward and grasped the soft skin that hung like a gigantic gourd, and it swelled to complete hardness, tremendously huge. She took the other breast, and Cynthia moaned deeply above her, her body completely overshadowing Helen's, the hips moving around, the thighs spreading wide, until her knees were at Helen's head.
Cynthia lowered her moist lips to Helen's stomach, and her fingers worked in her now-flowering slit, and the woman kissed and licked, lower and lower, until the sensation became almost too much for Helen to bear.
She stared transfixed at the wet, swollen mound of curly hair, and her head tilted back, arms reaching upward to slide along Cynthia's flanks, pulling lightly downward. Helen watched the bulging, swollen flesh move down, down, as her waiting, open mouth tingled with anticipation.
And then the wet blackness was almost there, and the sweet heaviness of scent engulfed her senses, filling her body with a wild passion that overwhelmed her reeling mind. She saw the erect, throbbing clitoris, a huge swollen finger, reaching downward like a ripe, red plum, and her mouth closed over its juicy thickness to suck tightly its sweetest treasures.
Cynthia groaned and Helen's lower hp moved inward to take the hot, flowing juices.
The slim woman screamed with pleasure and grasped Helen's buttocks with her large hands. Helen gasped, unable to breathe, as she felt the mouth close around her entire vagina, and the thick heavy tongue push its way deeply into her hot, burning folds of skin.
"Unhhh, Cynthia!" she screamed, as the tongue journeyed into her again and again, and her legs sprawled wildly open as she arched her smoldering triangle upward and grasped the woman's tongue with her vagina.
Screaming with ecstasy, she jerked the huge, violet-colored opening of the convulsing girl down against her face, biting and piercing again and again deeply into Cynthia's hot, flowing crevice.
They exploded into a fury of violent movement, and Helen's body writhed wildly with the sensation, as she felt the heavy mound grasp her face, the wildly moving buttocks of the powerful Cynthia pounding against her mouth and working her lips harder and harder.
Suddenly, she screamed, gasping loudly, as the tumultuous explosion of her orgasm coursed through her body.
Her scream was answered by Cynthia's own, and Helen dimly felt through the surging of her own desperate passion the flooding torrent of Cynthia's own climax gushing into her sucking mouth.
Then she lay floating in the misty vacuum of the afterglow of passion, drifting for a long time, it seemed, with the deep sensations of sensuousness.
She was unaware that the woman had left her, but felt her return, and opened her eyes a little.
Cynthia stood over her, her thighs wet with the sweet juices of their passion, and Helen saw her securing a dildo tightly to her waist. The woman dropped to her knees beside Helen and picked up a bottle, emptying some of its contents into her hand.
"You're the end ... Helen ... just the end ... I want more and more ... and more of you. I want ah you have to give me ... and I will give you everything ... everything!"
Helen looked up into the wildly impassioned eyes, and again felt the burning between her thighs. She moaned, and her voice seemed far away. "Yessss ... yesssss ... drive me so deeply ... I don't ever want to return ... do it to me again ... and again!"
The slender hands turned over and thickly oiled the stiff, smooth phallus, and Helen saw it for the first time ... very, very long ... thick ... with a tremendous head. And she was dimly aware that she would not forget this experience for a long time.
The woman slowly turned the bottle over Helen's own body, and the oil flowed over her breasts. She smoothed it and rubbed it everywhere, and then Helen watched as the oil was spread over Cynthia's own skin.
Then came the time. Cynthia moved over her, slowly lowering her wide hips toward Helen's waiting, throbbing mound, the lips swollen outward, like a giant flower, flowing with the nectar of a sweet sensation.
The bulbous head moved downward slowly, finally reaching her at the first folds of the soft opening, and Cynthia's skillful fingers parted the mound further.
Helen closed her eyes, a deep, long moan escaping her lips. Cynthia covered the woman's lips with her own, her hot tongue finding and searching, her strong arms finding Helen's rigid, waiting buttocks, her own buttocks tensing, testing the angle.
And then, slowly, she moved her hips forward, and the giant penis began its long, slippery journey into the depths of Helen's flowing well.
Helen groaned loudly, feeling the huge thickness spread her opening, moving deeper and deeper, and suddenly the pain of it became almost unbearable, and she screamed.
Cynthia lunged, penetrating almost totally, driving the folds open, and Helen's body, quivered with a rip of pain she had never before experienced.
The heavy, slick body of the woman on top of her crushed her downward, and the hips withdrew, poising for just an instant.
Helen watched the buttocks snap downward once again, and again she screamed, but the bursting, expanding pressure yielded to an overwhelming pleasure that mixed with the terrible pain, and she felt her own thighs circling the thick muscular legs of the other woman. Again, Cynthia withdrew, this time snapping into Helen entirely, and Helen's stomach filled with the tremendous penis-stretching, expanding, the pleasant feeling completely overwhelming her entire consciousness.
And the gigantic shaft drove into her hard, stiff, like a steel rod, and the room filled with Helen's scream of ultimate passion. She fell spinning into the deep pit of total blackness, feeling only the ocean of white hotness swelling higher and higher, rising to drown her, unable to breathe ... spinning ... the shaft working harder and harder, plunging deeper and deeper, the fire of her tortured vaginal lips burning hotter than ever before.
Then her mind seemed to explode with the ecstasy of it, her body raging convulsively upward to meet the driving rod until the pounding thrusts were too quick to distinguish ... and Helen toppled on the brink of an insane passion, her entire being consumed to finally shatter into a million pieces of bright, searing light.
"OHH. Godyessgodyessyessyess ... Fuck me!! ! "
TWELVE
She lay inert, breathing hard, limbs heavy with satisfaction. The tempo of her heartbeats gradually slowed and she drew a deep breath, stretching her nakedness to its full length as the steadying exhalation gradually escaped her parted lips. She opened her eyes and focused them on the smartly furnished bedroom of the now-familiar suite. She smiled at the fact of her unexpected return to it and rolled over lazily to look at the profile of the naked man at her side.
"Do you get a special rate from this hotel?"
Perry Eshmont laughed softly and reached out for the package of cigarettes and his lighter. "Why not? I'm turning out to be their best customer."
Ronnie sighed and scratched her scalp. "Another thing ... we never got to eat that lunch you promised me. No damn will-power, that's what's wrong with me."
Eshmont leaned over to place the cigarette between her lips, his gaze warm and admiring. "There's nothing wrong with you. Not a thing."
Ronnie smiled back as he lowered his head to kiss her bare and still-moist breast. She cupped her hand at the nape of his neck in a show of affection and chuckled amusedly as he playfully nipped the sensitive tip with his teeth. "Cannibal."
Eshmont pushed away with a grin. "I admit it."
Ronnie tugged the crumpled pillow from underneath her body and fluffed it before propping it under her head. She took a deep drag and contented herself with attempting to blow smoke rings up to the ceiling. Eshmont watched and laughed at her failure. He slid an arm beneath her shoulders so that her head moved and rested on his arm. Ronnie snuggled close, enjoying the feel of him..
"Time for talk."
She looked up at him. "Again?"
"Again."
"I've already told you everything that happened."
He nodded, his eyes serious. "I know. Now I want you to tell me what you're going to do about it."
She shrugged, disliking the intrusion of the problem with Matt and his wife on her tranquil state. "I don't know ... "
"I guess you know what I want you to do."
Ronnie smiled up at him. "I think I could guess."
He held her more closely. "Don't worry him, Ronnie. It wouldn't work out. It isn't what you need."
She frowned slightly. "Do I hear a better offer?"
He gazed at her steadily. "A much better one. Be my girl. We're good together, we belong together. I'll see that you're happy for as long as it lasts."
Ronnie inhaled slowly. "As long as it lasts ... that's been the story of my life." She smiled wryly, knowing she had no right to expect more from him. "Free and easy, huh?"
He nodded soberly. "Yes, but it works both ways. No promises, no guarantees, no strings. You'd want it that way as much as I."
Ronnie looked away from him, down to their mutual nakedness. They did go well together, in many ways. Very well. And he was right about the freedom of such an affair ... it would be a relief. No maintaining a pose, no pretending to be something other than what she was, no substituting love as the motive for all they did and all they shared and all they said. Free and easy, with no strings attached ... simply making the most of what they could find in one another until the glow wore off.
"Don't wait for him to make the decision," Eshmont stated troubledly, his handsomeness slightly marred by his frown.
"Why not?"
"He won't do it. From what you told me about him, he seems more the type to let things happen rather than make them happen. It's not unusual. This way he can always place the blame for an unpleasant situation on someone else. And most-likely, he's probably not even aware that he does it." Perry looked up and smiled sheepishly. "End of speech."
Ronnie digested the words, the validity of them. Mathew was that sort of man. It was true.
Eshmont stroked her black curls absently. "It could never work with him, Ronnie. Never."
Ronnie gazed at her cigarette thoughtfully a moment and then crushed it in the tray. "Mind if I use the telephone?" she asked quietly and yet meaningfully.
Eshmont looked at her and seemed to sense what was on her mind. He sat up and slipped into his shorts before rising from the bed. He stood tall and lean and youthful and intensely masculine and she smiled reassuringly, wanting to erase the worried look from his face. He seemed to relax a bit. "I'll wait inside. Keep in mind what I said about us belonging together. It's true, you know."
Ronnie watched him walk out of the bedroom and into the outer sitting room of the hotel suite. She heard ice-cubes clink against glass as' she dialed Mathew's office number. She waited, crossing her legs, brushing an ash from her gleaming and pendulous breast.
The usually dipped and precise voice of Mathew's secretary came over the wire blurred and uneven. "Mr. Demeter's office. May I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Demeter, please."
"May I ask who's calling?"
Ronnie frowned at the sudden hostility in the tone. "Ronnie Franklin."
There was only silence then, followed a second later by an abrupt clicking sound. Ronnie waited impatiently, wondering if Matt was aware that his secretary occasionally sneaked a cocktail or two on her lunch-hour. The fuzzy tone of her voice was ah too familiar.
Mathew sounded a bit uneasy. "Ronnie ... I didn't expect you to be calling me today ... as a matter-of-fact, I was planning to leave the office a bit early. I, eh, have an appointment with a new client ... a Mr. Paulson ... "
Ronnie frowned at the unexpected rush of information and then dismissed it. "I wanted to know if you'd come to any decision," she stated flatly.
There was a split-second of silence, then the uneasy voice again. "Well, it hasn't ... I mean, I've hardly had time to ... " The voice trailed off.
"I have to know now, Matt. I have to know, one way or the other."
"Really, Ronnie, aren't you being a bit unreasonable?"
She closed her eyes. "Answer me, Matt. Are you going to divorce Cynthia and marry me or not?"
Mathew cleared his throat. "I don't think this is something that should be discussed over the phone. I'd much prefer to wait until-"
Ronnie sagged, recognizing the weakness in his stalling tactics, the answer that was contained in it. She felt a strange sense of relief spread through her. "Thanks, Matt," she murmured softly.
"Thanks?"
"For answering my question."
"Ronnie, listen to me before you do anything foolish. There's no reason why we can't go on just the way we-"
She cut him short. "Goodbye, Matt. It was fun. Give my best to Cynthia."
"Ronnie!"
She hung up the phone.
She lit a second cigarette and puffed on it slowly, sitting in the hunched position on the side of the bed, thinking of the call and the affair it had ended so abruptly. She suspected that despite his weak attempt, Mathew Demeter was also experiencing a vague relief. Life was not so complicated for him now that it was over and he only had one woman to deal with. He'd enjoy the parole from his recent strain and worry. And as for herself ...
Ronnie examined her feelings a bit more incisively. She wasted a lot of time and effort in the project which she had so curtly terminated a moment ago. Still, they hadn't been such bad months. She had lived well, free of financial strain, with a sufficient quota of pleasure. Mathew hadn't been a poor lover. There had been many occasions when he'd caused her to forget that there was an ulterior motive to her being with him. In a way, she'd miss him ... for a little while, at least ... but that was about ah there was to it, actually. She'd miss anyone she had been that close to for that length of time. It was only natural. And Perry was right.
A hfetime of Mathew Demeter and his guilt complex regarding the wife he had deserted would never have worked out.
"Can I come back now?"
She turned her head and saw Perry Eshmont standing in the doorway of the bedroom, a cigarette in one hand, a glass in the other. She could tell by his expression, by the glow in his eyes, that he had heard her end of the conversation. She smiled and stretched back out on the bed. "Permission granted."
He joined her on the bed, sitting with one leg drawn up, half-facing her. "Want a sip?" She nodded and lifted her lips to the chilled glass. He waited until she moved away before putting the glass on the side table. "Did I hear what I thought I heard?" he asked, his face averted from her eyes.
Ronnie folded her arms beneath her head. "You heard."
""It's over?"
"Over."
He stared at her. "How do you feel?"
"Relieved."
"No regrets?"
"It's too soon to tell."
Eshmont touched her cheek with his fingertips. "You won't be sorry, I promise you."
"I won't?"
He moved down and pressed his mouth on her lips and she curled one arm around his neck. He kissed her deeply and lovingly, his body pushing down on her breasts. Ronnie met his tongue with her own and toyed with his hair as they maintained the slow and sensuous contact. She thought of what it was going to be like with him. He cared for her, that much was obvious. And he wasn't the type of guy to make any phony promises or complain about being unhappily married or any of the usual drivel. It-would be good while it lasted and if nothing came of it, well, neither of them would be hurt.
Anyhow, she had a month to find out.
Peg had said that Jack Manduke's nightclub in Florida wasn't due to open for another month.
Eshmont's mouth had slid away from her own and had traveled down her throat to her breasts. She pushed herself up to him and adroitly opened his shorts, shoving them over his lean flanks. He made a soft sound in his throat and kissed her nipple with renewed fervor and she smiled.
"Am I your girl?"
His words were muffled. "You know it."
"Your mistress?"
"Yes."
The warmth that filled her mounted sharply as his lips darted over her nakedness. Ronnie sighed contentedly and wallowed in the pleasure for a few moments before tugging at him with her hands. He obeyed and she paused to gaze admiringly at his body. Then, moving sensuously, she smiled.
"Since it's all settled, don't you think I'd better start earning my keep?"
Perry Eshmont grinned, reaching out to ruffle her black curls with his hand. "I think it's only proper and fitting."
Ronnie laughed huskily and said, "Brace yourself."
She worked slowly, surely, sensuously, wanting him to feel the complete proof of her artistry, wanting him to know that it was his now that they had made the bargain, wanting him to know exactly what he had bought and what she would give him ... as long as he so desired. The strained and muted groans of pleasure attested to the fact that she was getting her message across and she paused to brush her dark hair away from her face and at the same time, smile.
Perry Eshmont jerked as she teased him with her fingertips and his lashes fluttered dazedly. "Don't stop ... " he whispered hoarsely.
Ronnie arched one eyebrow teasingly. "I just wanted to make sure you liked what I was doing. You do, don't you?"
He grimaced. "You know I do, damn you."
She laughed and decided to start finding out about what the future might hold in store for her. "Am I better than your wife? Or doesn't she make love to you this way?"
The young manufacturer blinked in surprised. "That isn't funny."
Ronnie played on his body artfully, her smile playful and yet cruelly mischievous. "Tell me the truth. Am I better?"
He hesitated.
She lowered her moist and warm lips to him and felt him writhe as the sensation registered. "Tell me," she muttered muffedly, coaxing him with her kisses. "Tell me."
He groaned the words she wanted to hear.
Ronnie didn't acknowledge them, knowing it was enough, knowing that any more probing would be too much, knowing that further admissions, further information, further aspects of his marriage, would be easier now that the mention of his wife was no longer sacred.
He grabbed her in his arms and kissed her forcefully. She got a tingle in her neck. Her mouth was on his in an instant and their tongues were wagging.
He dropped to her crotch. Perry's tongue was forceful. It entered her vagina as a gangster with a machine gun would enter a bank-all menace. Impulsively, it shot around the flesh and pointed to the spots it liked. It lapped up all within its path. The dark blue vein under his tongue swelled with energy as it darted in and out and around. Her clit was gigantic and he could cling to it with his pursed mouth. He moved his lips to excite her. His hands followed the contours of her flesh up and down her torso. Her tits were rounded and soft. He took delight in holding the nipples between his fingers and felt them hardening as he held them. His mouth extracted itself from the hairs on her pudenda and suckled on her breasts. She moaned excitedly.
Eagerly, she pulled him to her. It only made him arch his hips higher and throw them forward more determinedly. The girl arched her own hips to intercept his. His strength and determination coupled with her delight at the pressure, forced her back on the bed and their bodies collided again and again in this acrobatic exchange. She thrilled to the force of his fucking. Greedily, she clung to his body. With clenched teeth she shoved her cunt at him. He could feel her moving her muscles around his cock. It swelled with the pressure. With a tight clutch of her broad hips he rolled over on his back and brought her body on top of his. She got her legs into a kneeling position, and without slipping off his cock let her torso rest on his hips as she sat on his erect and reddened penis. Then with a noisy clamp of his hands on her buttocks he guided her hips into a circular rotation. Each time she swung them around in a full circle, she completed it with a little snap and ground around again. The buds of her nipples pointed in opposite directions. He clasped one hand on one tit and squeezed it gently. The nipple protruded between his coiled thumb and index finger Then he began licking the underside of the tit. He gave it long licks. Her hips churned on his ramrod-hard organ and now she added lifts and squats to her pleasure.
He leaned back and watched her tits bounce and flap to and fro as the horny girl tore up his cock. While he stared at her, she raised herself up off his cock and it flapped against his stomach. She squatted over his genitals. She looked down at them to arrange the docking of her body on his. One hand brought his straight cock into position. Then she lowered herself onto it.
And she rode it. A lock of hair had fallen in her face and she swung her head around and back to let it flop back into place. She made determined circles with her pelvis on his organ. The dark pink of her nipples delighted him as they moved on the edge of their lighter pink clouds. A tiny blue medal, too light to bounce, swayed on its thin gold chain whenever her head came forward. Her skin was very pale and totally soft.
Ronnie's hips were ideal for sex and she knew how to move them. He was beginning to sense the energy she was putting out by the aroma of her body. Her smell was sweet and faintly perfumed. He wanted to fuck her so hard he would change her smell to one of body sweat. He threw his body into her. She groaned with pleasure. A short sharp "Hmmm!"' emanated from her. She grabbed hold of his biceps but couldn't get her hand around them. Her hands settled for grasping his shoulders and this brought her body forward and allowed him to raise his hips off the ground as he inserted his erect penis in her pink labias. A drop of lubrication fell from her cunt. He put his hands on her hips and pulled the labias apart like the studs do in those peep show movies. She moaned with excitement. She liked it.
In a burst of energy, he surprised her by dumping her over on her side. This time his cock slid out of her cunt. His hands guided her hips up in the air as he brought her to a kneeling position on her hands and knees. Thus positioned, he got to his feet and planted one firm foot on either side of her hips.
Placing one hand on her hip as if it were a paper weight, he held her still while he aimed his cock at her cunt from the rear. Slowly he lowered his hips and the head of his cock with a drop of clear liquid oozing out of the tip found her fleshy envelope of heat and he entered the tunnel of her cunt.
His cock was in her. His thrusts matched the sounds as he swung his hips fore and aft easily fucking her without using too much energy. But the model was not sparing any energy as she backed up to feel even more of his thrust. She'd backed on to it at the ultimate penetration and clamped herself closed on the veiny organ then tried to pull away dragging the cock with her. His powerful hips resisted and he stood fast. His temperature shot up. His face grew red. His legs ached with the tightness growing in them from the muscle-tensing he was doing.
It was time for him to come and he grabbed her hips in two fists and yanked her body backwards onto his cock. He held her on it and thrust forward with his determined hips. "Ohhh!" He did it again. "Ohhhh!" Then again. "OHHHH!" He was loading quicker and sharper. Bam! Bam! Bam! His hips smacked against her buttocks. Wham! He threw another fuck into her.
Quickly, without stopping, he drove rapid thrust after rapid thrust, leapfrogging into her crowded body. Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, STROKE! Explosion! His cum burst out of the head of his cock and shot like spray inside her steaming flesh. He imbedded his cock in her and made tiny quick back and forth movements as he rubbed his cock against the flesh deep inside her cunt. As the cum continued to escape from his cock, he held his body firmly against hers. She squirmed and flexed. The flow eased and she could feel the swelling draining out of his penis.
THIRTEEN
Carolyn Waring was still not over the effects of the four potent cocktails she had consumed so fearfully at lunch. Mathew stood to one side as she fumbled with the key to the door of her apartment and giggled at her difficulty. He suspected that there was an element of maidenly nervousness mingled with her inebriation and the thought only added to his discomfort. He was already regretting having taken her to lunch, plying her with cocktails and inflaming her romantic head with his misunderstood-gentleman routine. And even more, he was regretting having closed up the office so early in the day and returning here with her to her apartment.
The lock turned and she pushed the door open with a sigh. "There ... I knew that was the right key."
Mathew entered the neat and orderly room with an attitude of only mildly-veiled resignation. As he had expected, the apartment reflected Miss Waring's personality completely in that it was precisely functional and almost sterile in its decor. The crowning touch was a huge vat that seemed to contain three or four dozen tropical fish.
"Please make yourself comfortable," she chirped tremulously, obviously flustered by having a man in her apartment. "I'll fix you a drink. Will bourbon be ah right? I'm afraid it's ah I have."
"That will be fine, thank you."
She beamed at him, her eyes conveying her happiness, and then hurried out to the kitchenette. Mathew sat down on the sofa and drew a deep breath. Whatever interest he had felt for the woman earlier that day was no longer present within him. He was much too preoccupied with his personal problems to play the role he had so artfully created at lunch, and yet, he knew that he was obligated to do so. It was depressing to say the least.
"Here you are," Carolyn smiled, hurrying back to him, a glass in each hand. "I hope it's all right."
"I'm sure it is," Mathew smiled politely, taking the glass and lifting it to his lips. She remained standing in front of him, her eyes never straying from his face as she sipped her drink. They were frantically transmitting a volley of messages to him, messages that seemed to call for some sort of an answer. Mathew lowered his drink which tasted more like water than bourbon, and cleared his throat. "Why don't you just go right ahead and make yourself comfortable?"
The flush crept up from her throat and the eyes brightened in an instant. "You sure you won't mind? I mean, if I leave you here all alone? I promise not to be long."
"I'll be fine."
The lashes fluttered excitedly. "I would feel better in something ... something less confining."
Mathew smiled in the fashion he knew was demanded by the moment and lifted his glass again. Carolyn Waring turned and hurried across the room toward a door, her steps uncertain on her heels. It amazed him that someone would be able to retain the effects of a few drinks for so long a time. She disappeared into what had to be her bedroom after throwing him another warm and excited smile over one shoulder. Mathew let out his breath and relaxed a bit.
The cause of his preoccupation surged to the forefront of his thoughts. Ronnie's afternoon telephone call had most certainly been the dampening influence on his feelings toward Miss Waring. Weh, it was over. Probably for the best, at that. It was a situation which could have only worsened. She hadn't left him any choice actually. He couldn't consider leaving Cynthia no matter how much he cared for Ronnie. She wasn't the type of woman who could survive without him, without their marriage. He had a certain responsibility, a certain obligation, which Ronnie couldn't seem to comprehend. She was too young, too headstrong, too emotional, too immature.
Still, he'd miss her.
If only she could have been content with what they had instead of aspiring to the impossible. Foolish girl. It was ironic that she came to realize how much she loved him only when faced with the prospect of possibly losing him to his wife. The same thing had happened with Cynthia except that Cynthia's love had always been there.
She was a fine woman in every respect ... intelligent, attractive, welleducated, well-groomed. And she apparently loved him more than he had ever imagined, considering her willingness to sacrifice her pride in allowing him to continue his affair with Ronnie.
A woman with that sort of compassion and understanding and love doesn't enter into a man's life often. He could be proud of having her as his wife. How many times had he been smugly satisfied with the appearance and image she made when he introduced her to his more discerning friends? It was almost impossible to project Ronnie into that role. She was much too young, much too vivacious, much too ... well, obvious. It was cruel, but true. Her background did show through and her obvious experience with men had a way of creeping into her conversation every so often. No, she could never be the sort of wife a man of his stature required; a man of his age could never be sure of her, never be certain that she would not become interested in other, younger, men.
No, it couldn't have worked out.
Ronnie Franklin was the sort a man kept as a mistress, period.
And she had her own impatience to blame for the end of their affair.
Mathew emerged from his thoughts as the bedroom door opened and a new version of Carolyn Waring came into sight. She was wearing soft slippers and an ankle-length robe of quilted satin. The lips glistened with fresh lipstick and her hair had been let out so that it fell to her shoulders in lustrous waves. She seemed shorter to him, shorter and younger and more feminine ... and strangely enough, less attractive than the stylishly-packaged secretary whose legs and hips he had long admired.
He groaned inwardly at the glint in her eyes as she shyly advanced to the window to draw the shades. She was setting the stage and it was apparent to him that she hadn't had much practice in it. When she came to sit on the couch beside him and lift her glass, her cheeks were highly flushed and her hand was trembling and he felt a tug of pity for her.
"Shall we toast to something?" she asked happily.
Mathew clinked his glass with hers. "To you." She glowed. "To us."
He nodded dully and wished there was some way he could make a graceful departure. He yearned to be home. He was anxious to see Cynthia's face when he told her that he had ended the affair with Ronnie.
"Mathew?"
"Yes?"
"I'm so happy you're here." He forced a smile.
She wet her lips. "You wouldn't believe it but you're the first man I've entertained here in my apartment." She paused and then quickly supplemented the statement. "Of course, I've dated ... but I've never invited any of my gentlemen friends inside after they've brought me home."
"That's very wise of you, Carolyn."
She smiled and sighed. "I love to hear you say my name."
"It's a pretty name."
She stirred slightly, showing a sign of impatience. "Can I get you another drink?"
"No. I think I've had my quota for the day."
She nodded quickly, apparently afraid he might get the wrong idea. "Oh, yes," she blurted, "I think we've both had more than enough. My, you have no idea how those cocktails affected me. I could hardly do any work when we went back to the office. I never have more than two drinks on any occasion."
Mathew felt as though he would jump out of his skin in another moment. There was a limit to his capacity to endure any more of her inconsequential chatter. He decided it might be less painful if he turned the subject to a more intimate area. He leaned back and let his gaze focus on her expectant face. "I want you to know that I'm very grateful to you for listening to all my problems this afternoon. I don't usually confide in people so freely, but I was sure that you'd understand."
Carolyn Waring inched closer to him, her face intent and gravely serious. "Oh, I understand perfectly, Mathew. I've known for some time that you were ... well, unhappy. I think it's wonderful how you hide it from the world."
Mathew shuddered slightly. "A man does what he must," he muttered weakly, draining his glass with a measure of desperation.
She was sitting very close and he could smell her perfume. She was gazing at him with a soulful adoration that he couldn't help but relate to a cocker spaniel he had once owned as a boy. She touched his hand gently, sympathetically. "It isn't that I've probed into your business but ... well, a person would have had to be blind not to ... to realize the situation." She sighed and her fingers closed in a tiny squeeze. "I'm flattered that you confided in me, Mathew. You have no idea how flattered I am."
Mathew cursed himself for having gone overboard in their luncheon discussion of his nameless yearnings, his duty to his dependent wife, his unforgivable attempts to find affection in the arms of younger women. It had more than served its purpose, but it most definitely had cost him the services of a very efficient secretary.
"I suppose everyone needs affection," he offered finally.
Carolyn leaned against his arm, still maintaining her hold on his arm. "Oh, how true, Mathew. How very true."
Mathew occupied himself momentarily on how he was going to inform Miss Waring that her services were no longer required at the office. Certainly, her continuing on there was out of the question. The over-familiarity of their afternoon had destroyed her value to him in that regard. It was a shame, really, but then, there were countless Carolyn Warings in the world.
He felt a movement and realized that the woman was practically leaning across his lap, her face upturned beseechingly. He slid an arm around her reluctantly and she sighed. He knew he was expected to kiss her, but he couldn't bring himself to commence what he knew would be a terrible ordeal.
The soft lashes fluttered as she gazed up at him, her body now fully sprawled across him and supported by his arm. "Let me give you the affection you need, Mathew," she whispered, tremulously. "Let me provide the warmth and understanding you haven't found with others."
Mathew surrendered to the inevitable. "You're very sweet," he murmured, letting his lips brush her forehead.
Carolyn squirmed in his arms, pressing her breasts against him as her mouth rose in search of his. "Oh, my darling ... my wonderful darling ... kiss me ... kiss me ... "
The mouth was slack and wet and warm beneath . his lips. He held the contact, trying to ignore the convulsive writhing of her body as she sought to manifest her love and desire. He heard a muted groan and frowned, finding it a bit too soon for such dramatics.
She fell away with a gasp, going limp in his arms, her head lolling, her eyes closed, her lips parted. "Oh, Mathew, I love you so terribly much. I can't control myself. I can't fight it any longer."
Mathew watched the performance with some interest and wondered if there was some kernel of truth in her theatrical posturing and outdated admissions. He decided that she was being herself and it depressed him. "I'm not being fair to you, Carolyn," he offered, hoping against hope for a way out. "I have no right to-"
She jerked back against him, her feverish lips drowning out his words, her arms twisting tightly around his body. After a moment of concentrated assault, she slid her mouth to one side and panted the ultimate statement of love. "I don't care if it's wrong, my darling. I don't care what people would say or think about me. I only know that I love you and that you need me. That's all that matters to me at this moment, Mathew." She shivered excitedly, her face deeply flushed at this point, her hair slightly mussed. "Take me, darling. Take me and use me. I'm yours, all yours ... all that is mine to give you ... all that you need so terribly ... take it ... take what you need ... "
Mathew found himself becoming curious about what there was there for him to take. The ecstatic speech had been embellished with another of her swooning postures so that she lay across him in open abandon. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the soft quilt of the robe and one bare knee had managed to part the folds of it. He placed his hand on the top button and felt her go tense with anticipation even though her eyes remained closed.
"Oh, Mathew ... " she whimpered, rolling her head from side to side on his leg as his fingers opened the robe down the front. "Oh, my darling ... "
Mathew parted the robe and gazed at her nakedness with clinical interest. There were several reddish blotches on her pale skin from her brassiere and panties but otherwise her flesh seemed admirably clear and smooth. The breasts were much smaller than he had expected them to be and they rose firmly from her body, without much hint of softness. The nipples were small and girlish and nubbed. As he gazed at them, they began to react to their exposure, rising ever so slightly to form little crests.
The lower part of her body provided no surprises to him. The waist was rather thick, the hips solidly fleshed, the thighs heavy but well-curved. He noted idly that her belly-button protruded instead of receding and it intrigued him temporarily. Then her belly undulated along with her hips and he remembered that she was awaiting some sort of comment from him.
"You have a wonderful body, Carolyn," he stated dutifully, letting his fingertips trace the line of her hip and flow up to her firm breast.
She sighed rapturously and lost some of the tension that had held her during his long perusal. The thighs rolled to a more comfortable position and her belly grew rounded as she let out her breath. "It's yours, my darling," she whispered dreamily. "All that I have, all that I am, all that you see ... yours."
Mathew realized that she was using the words to add to her own excitement. "I don't deserve you," he replied, a bit amused.
She opened her eyes, blushing slightly, one hand creeping to minimize her nakedness. "That's not true. You deserve everything in life. Everything.
You've denied yourself for so long. I know because I've done the same. I've waited for someone worthy, someone I could respect and love, someone ... someone like you." She finished and licked at her lips, her desperate hunger showing in her eyes. "Don't think of me, Mathew. Don't let it keep you from taking what you need."
Mathew braced himself, knowing he could no longer deny her, and pulled her into his arms for what he hoped would be a fittingly passionate kiss. She clung to him as he worked the robe completely free of her body and she moaned happily as he eased her full-length down on the cushions. He kissed her throat and breasts methodically as he caressed her body, which he found dewy with cool perspiration. Then he got up and removed his clothing.
At first he was not certain that he would be able to perform to satisfaction and it was a disquieting thought. Then, reminding himself that he would never see her again, he decided that a fruitless attempt would not be too embarrassing. It wasn't until he turned back to her however, that his desires were triggered and all such doubts dispelled.
There could be no more uncertainty as to the extent of Carolyn Waring's hungry passion. The delay involved in his undressing had obviously proven too much for her to endure. She lay in wanton and rather lewd fashion, eyes closed and mouth open, oblivious to everything except the movements of her own hands on her undulating body.
Fascinated, Mathew remained a spectator for as long as it took for his senses to reach a full awakening. He went to her and as soon as their naked bodies made contact, Mathew was a bit overwhelmed by her ferocity, her harsh and awkward use of him, but he managed to maintain some semblance of male superiority. The agonized groans distracted him a bit and when she began to embellish their intimacy with further ramblings about her love and his need, he almost lost ah interest in the proceedings.
It ended before he had quite prepared himself and Mathew tasted some resentment mingling with the relief. He extricated himself from her arms as quickly as possible and she remained inert, half-on and half-off the side of the couch. He dressed quickly, anxious to get away, annoyed that he could have ever found this love-starved and sex-hungry creature at all worth his interest.
He was on his feet when Carolyn Waring recovered. She blinked her eyes dazedly and reached down for the robe to cover herself. "Are you leaving?" she asked dully.
"I'm afraid I must."
She sat up and slipped into the robe, her hair tangled around her flushed face. "Can't you stay a little while and ... and talk to me ... "
Mathew shook his head firmly. "No, not tonight. Please understand."
She hurried after him to the front door, catching his arm, molding herself against him. "Don't feel guilty, my darling. It could never be wrong for us. I'm sure of it now. Tell me you won't feel guilty. I couldn't bear it if I thought I was adding to your un-happiness in any way."
Mathew mumbled some reassuring words while edging the door open and himself through it. He waved back to the face that peeked a bit worriedly around the edge of the door as he began to descend the single flight of steps to the ground floor. Carolyn Waring puckered her lips and blew him a kiss. The sound of it floated after him as he fled from her.
Once in the cool air of the street, Mathew drew a deep breath and began to walk. He would call her first thing in the morning and tell her that he had decided to close the office for the day. Then, later, he would dispatch a curt but firm telegram informing her that due to recent developments, it would be impossible for her to continue in her present capacity with the firm. Yes, that would be the simplest and easiest way to handle it. He'd probably be bothered by a few telephone calls for a while, but she'd come to accept the situation before too long.
He looked at his watch, feeling better for having mentally disposed of Carolyn Waring. It was a little after six. He decided not to call Cynthia at home. She no doubt would not be expecting him to come home until very late in the night since he hadn't telephoned her from the office. He'd surprise her. She'd like that ... his coming home unexpectedly at such an early hour ... then, inviting her out to dinner ... and then, at the right moment, telling her that she need no longer worry about losing him.
Yes, it was all for the best. He was sure of it. He'd miss Ronnie but his first duty was to his wife, to see that she was happy and secure in her love for him. It was so much less complicated this way, so much less of a strain.
"TAXI!"
FOURTEEN
Cynthia had been sobered by her intimacy with the beautifully-passionate brunette named Helen Hans-berry. The woman's initiation into the world of lesbian love had been one of total responsiveness and Cynthia felt humbled by having had the privilege of awakening her deep-rooted instincts. This was no thrill-seeker, no explorer into the unknown for the mere sake of added experience. This was a woman, a real and genuine and warm woman ... the type of woman Cynthia could love.
She gazed down at the wonderfully-rounded and richly-fleshed body and recalled its incredible capacity for pleasure. "How do you feel?" she whispered softly, smiling, touching Helen's dark hair with her fingertips.
Helen opened her eyes. "Wonderful ... happy ... grateful.
"Grateful?"
Helen caught her hand and kissed the palm. "For making love beautiful for me."
Cynthia felt herself aching with new love. "It couldn't be any other way ... for you." She leaned down and kissed the soft lips gently, her hand cupping the generous and full breast. "Besides, it was beautiful for me, too."
Helen Hansberry turned her head to one side.
Cynthia sat up. "What is it?"
The full-bodied woman shrugged slightly. "It's just that ... that I feel guilty."
"Because of what happened?"
"Oh, no," Helen replied quickly, turning around. "Oh, no, never. I meant because so much love was ... was all for me ... I feel guilty and selfish." She bit on her hp and blushed.
Cynthia wanted to hug her. "I don't mind. Really. I don't feel cheated. All that matters is that you let me love you. It's much more than I've had in such a long time."
"It isn't fair."
Cynthia framed the lovely face in her hands. "That's sweet of you to say, Helen. Very sweet." She smiled tenderly. "It's all too new to you now but in time you'll understand. I don't expect you to give more of yourself than ... well, than you want to give ... really want to give."
Helen's dark eyes were glowing. "But that's just it," she murmured softly. "I do want to give you more. I want to very much."
Cynthia trembled uncontrollably at the muted words and felt her head spinning under the spell of them. The prospect of a mutual love with someone like Helen was almost unbearable to consider, especially after all the Angelas and Nonas and one-sided relationships she'd had to content herself with for so long.
"Are you sure?" she asked weakly, unable to control her trembling.
Helen smiled and reached up both arms to draw Cynthia down to the bed beside her. "Very sure," she whispered, kissing Cynthia on the mouth and pressing her naked body very close. "Oh, very sure."
Cynthia's heart pounded wildly as the warm lips moved slowly and lovingly down to her breasts. She became conscious first of the sweet breath and then, the even sweeter lips, against her breasts. A wave of exquisite pleasure made her moan softly and arch her body in delight. A darting sensation, caused by a teasing tongue, brought her a sudden and uncontrollable restlessness. She writhed passionately as the tongue and lips and hands commenced their journey and in the back of her mind, she was aware that Helen was performing on instinct rather than on experience. It made it all the more beautiful and wonderful and thrilling and she could feel her heels digging into the soft mattress.
"Show me ... "
The words drifted through the fog and Cynthia sobbed with joyous love and affection, her hands moving to guide the eager kisses. She caught her breath, held it, then let out with a soft cry.
Wave after wave of pleasure passed over her until she was weak from the repeated assaults of it. Then, with incredible suddenness, all reality was blotted out for what seemed an eternity. Followed, long after, by an unbelievable peace and tranquility.
She found the strength to open her eyes and look into the smiling face that shared her pillow. They came together, kissing, hugging, murmuring their love. It seemed incredible and ironic to Cynthia that she should have lost Mathew and found Helen in one and the same day.
Moments later, they lay relaxed and Helen stared up at the ceding, her full breasts trembling weightily with her rhythmic breathing. "I don't know how I'll be able to stay with him now. I mean, now that I've found out about myself ... about you."
Cynthia knew she was referring to her husband. "Do you love him?"
"In a way. I suppose it's more a need than a love."
The words struck a responsive chord and Cynthia nodded. "Yes, I know what you mean. It was that way with me, too."
Helen stared at her curiously. "You told me that your husband didn't suspect ... this."
Cynthia shook her head. "No, he doesn't suspect. He simply met a younger and more attractive woman." She saw Helen's eyes turn sympathetic and she smiled. "It's ah right, really. I'll survive."
Helen embraced her. "I want to see you as often as I can."
Cynthia kissed a bare and warm shoulder. "I'm counting on it."
The sound of the front door slamming brought them both apart with a jerk and a look of sheer panic crossed Helen's face. Cynthia sat up, staring fearfully at the closed door of her bedroom, attuning her ears to any sound of movement in the apartment. Helen gripped her arm tightly. "Who is it?" she whispered, eyes wide.
Cynthia heard Mathew's voice call her name. "My husband," she whispered in reply, pushing away from Helen's naked body.
"Oh, my God ... "
"Be quiet."
Helen covered herself with a sheet and lay trembling, her eyes riveted to the bedroom door. "What will he do?"
Cynthia stood up and donned her housecoat and slippers as she heard Mathew call out a second time. "I'll be right out, Matt," she answered loudly, combing her hair back with her fingers. She turned to look at Helen. "Get dressed as quickly and as quietly as you can. Don't make a sound. Stay here until I come for you."
Helen Hansberry nodded fearfully, biting on her lower hp.-
Cynthia saw the extent of her fright and smiled soothingly. "It's all right." She saw Helen relax just a bit. She turned and went to the door, glancing at herself in the mirror en route to see that she looked presentable. She braced herself and opened the door just wide enough to slip through.
Mathew was standing at the window and he turned as he heard her close the door behind her. Cynthia noted that he looked a bit pale and drawn and disheveled. She stopped behind the rear of the couch and looked at him, trying her best to appear calm and composed. "I wasn't expecting you home tonight."
He nodded vaguely and then took a closer look at her. "Did I wake you?"
Cynthia tensed. "No, not really. I was just resting."
He cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height and Cynthia anticipated an announcement, an official announcement of his intention to divorce her and marry Ronnie Franklin. Mathew seemed to be having trouble getting started and she felt a tug of impatience, the sort a doomed man might have at an execution delay.
"First of ah," he began stiffly, using his lawyer's tone, "I want to apologize for ah the worry and grief I've cause you these past months. I can't expect you to completely forgive or forget it, only that ... well, that you permit me to try and atone for my behavior."
Cynthia, preoccupied with thoughts of the naked woman in the next room and her certainty of what was about to be said, had trouble absorbing the meaning of his words. "I'm not sure I understand, Matt."
He fidgeted uncomfortably. "I didn't plan to tell you until later, a more opportune time, but ... well, the simple fact of the matter is that I've ended this business with ... with that girl."
Cynthia stared at him unbelievingly. It was hard for her to readjust to it, to face the repossession of what she had resigned herself to having lost. For a second, she thought he was playing a cruel trick on her. Then, unaccountably, she believed it and she experienced a flood of giddiness. She gripped the back of the couch to keep herself steady.
Mathew wet his lips. "It's important that you know it was my decision."
Cynthia thought back to the conversation with Ronnie Franklin on the telephone. She thought back and realized at once the ultimatum the girl must have presented to Mathew. And she felt, in considering how firm the girl had sounded as to her intentions, that Mathew had decided against a divorce rather than against continuing that affair.
Mathew moved toward her hesitantly. "Can you ever forgive me, Cynthia?"
She nodded slowly. "Yes ... "
"I could never think of leaving you."
It was strange but she believed it all at once. He needed her as much as she needed him.
He came around the couch and took her in his arms and did not seem to notice that she turned her face just enough so that he had to place his kiss on her cheek. "I've been something of a fool, haven't
I?" he murmured softly.
Cynthia detected the scent of perfume on his shoulder. It was not the same scent she had caught in the past when he'd been with Ronnie Franklin. She smiled, her face hidden from him. "I suppose we're both at a dangerous age, Matt."
He stepped back, smiling broadly. "Listen, why don't we dress up and go out for dinner? Do the town, more or less. Do you feel up to it?"
Cynthia thought of Helen. "That sounds like a wonderful idea."
"Good."
She forced a smile. "Why don't you use the shower first?"
He nodded, grinning, relief obvious in his face. "Ah right." He started for his room and paused at the door to look back at her. "I'm going to make this a night to remember."
She smiled patiently and nodded.
He went into his room, the door swinging shut after him.
Cynthia hurried to her bedroom and slipped inside. She found Helen fully dressed and huddled nervously against the wall. It was hard for her to keep from laughing at the situation, but she knew that the frightened woman would hardly appreciate any outburst. She took Helen's hand and drew her to the door. "It's ah right," she whispered, feeling Helen hesitate."
"Are you sure?"
The moment Cynthia heard Mathew enter the bath that connected their bedrooms, she ushered Helen out of the room and across the large apartment to the foyer. At the door, she stopped and let out her breath and smiled. "We can relax now."
Helen looked back into the apartment with misgivings. The sound of the shower in operation was distinct and comforting and the stunning brunette finally seemed to lose some of her tension. "I never want to go through that again," she sighed weakly.
Cynthia laughed softly. "We'll have to be more careful in the future."
Helen looked at her questioningly. "Is there going to be a future for us, Cynthia?"
"You heard."
"Yes."
Cynthia squeezed Helen's hand. "It doesn't change anything. It only makes it that much better. I probably would have become terribly possessive and dependent upon you if ... well, if I was alone." She moved forward to kiss the woman on the mouth. "You have my number ... call me tomorrow."
Helen smiled happily and nodded. "Tomorrow."
Cynthia gazed into the loving eyes for a moment before rousing herself and unlocking the door. She eased it open carefully and let Helen move out into the carpeted corridor. "Goodbye, my darling."
"Until tomorrow."
"Yes."
Cynthia closed the door and leaned back against it closing her eyes and sighing deeply. They'd met in a bar, a bar with blue lights. A woman who knew too much, another woman who hadn't known at all.
It was strange and beautiful that love could arise from such a merger, such a meeting, and yet she knew that it was love, a lasting one, one which was destined to endure and enrich regardless of the fact that each of them were married women. It was even possible that they would manage to bring their husbands together, become personal and social friends, and thereby facilitate their being together often.
Oh, yes, Cynthia thought happily, very often.
Mathew's booming baritone emerged from the shower to jolt her from the idyllic reverie. She walked back to her room, smiling, reminding herself to make the bed or at least repair some of the damage before he caught a glimpse of it. She also thought it might be wise to check to see if, in her haste, Helen might have left something behind. It wouldn't have surprised Cynthia a bit if the wonderful creature had neglected to slip back into her panties. Cynthia laughed, recalling how frightened Helen had been.
As she fussed with the sheets of the bed, Cynthia listened to Matt's singing. He sounded happy. She wondered if it had to do with their reunion as man and wife or with the girl he had found, the girl with the different brand of perfume. Was she another Ronnie Franklin, perhaps? It didn't matter, really. Cynthia knew that she no longer had to fear having her marriage, her security, threatened by any of Mathew's young conquests. He needed her, or at least, their marriage ... and it was possible that they shared the same reason for that need ... perhaps, like her, Mathew needed a haven, a stabilizer, a place and person to which he could retreat after giving vent to his secret desires. At any rate, she decided, everything was going to be all right. Nothing had changed. Except one detail. She remembered Lois' advice, "Let them he back and enjoy it. You do all the work."
Cynthia walked into the bathroom just as Matt was drying himself. He started to say something. She put her fingers to his lips.
She sank to her knees and gently lifted his cock with the tips of her fingers. Leaning forward the necessary few inches, she planted a soft, dry little kiss against the tender flesh at the cock's under-base where it joined the scrotum. She nibbled the sensitive flesh there for a moment; then she pushed her tongue out, draping it fully over her lower hp, and slowly dragged it up the entire length of the long cock's underside.
With great care and patience she repeated the motion, this time finishing by swiping the wet tip of her tongue around the expanding pink mushroom head of his gorgeous prick.
Matt's knees shuddered at this last touch, and Cynthia dove back under and between his spread legs. Still holding his penis upright-though it needed very little support by this time-Cynthia opened her mouth wide and enclosed the dangling, wrinkled sac of his scrotum with her hot, wet lips. Matt groaned. Cynthia's fingers began rubbing up and down the thick, pulsing body of his member while she sucked carefully but deeply on the pouch in her mouth, occasionally poking playfully at one ball or the other with her swirling tongue. And all the while, her fingers moved steadily up and down the length of him, rubbing the pliable outer flesh of his cock against the tensing muscle beneath.
Now she released his balls from her mouth and moved her head still further under and between his thighs. While her fingers continued to pump away at his cock, Cynthia's tongue darted in and out now with rapid-fire speed, licking and swiping at the narrow space between the back of his scrotum and his rectum. She continued to move back still further, flicking her hot tongue like a pink flame all around and about his anus.
Matt's whole body shuddered. His breathing became mixed with quiet moans of ecstasy.
Cynthia's fingers tightened about his prick and pumped faster and harder ... up and down ...
Her mouth moved quickly all over the area from his bahs to his ass-hole, covering it with fleeting kisses and licks and slurps. Then, pushing her face between his buttocks, she nuzzled affectionately at his anus, finally pursing her lips around it and drilling the tip of her tongue into the delicate rosebud of flesh itself. And there she remained for long moments; her hand squeezing and pumping with increased fervor on the flaring hugeness of his prick; her mouth pursed and sucking hungrily on the grommet of his anus, while her tongue bored gently inside. With her free hand she began jiggling his balls, carefully squeezing and pinching and teasing them.
She felt him grow tense. His prick trembled almost imperceptively, and his scrotum drew tighter. Cynthia pulled her head out from under him and urged him to sit back further. Then her target was singular. His cock. And she smothered it with love.
"Yes," he rasped.
She lifted her face to him and exaggerated her breathlessness for effect. "Oh, Matt, you're so wonderful. I can't help myself with you. Oh, Matt, I'm on fire."
He groaned excitedly and quivered with impatience. "Now!"
At first she nuzzled and kissed the puffed pink bulb atop his spear while working up a mouthful of saliva. Then slowly she slid her open mouth down the full length of it, covering it with a thick, slippery film. Her mouth withdrew and she began nibbling gently on the velvety head and slipping the edge of her tongue into the thin groove at the cock's tip, while her dainty hands-both of them now-worked deliberately up and down the length of his massive prick, slowly jerking him off.
Matt's legs slid helplessly out in front of him and on either side of Cynthia's crouched form. He sat on the edge of the tub. His eyes were closed and his breathing short. Then he groaned deeply and his jaw dropped open. His body grew tense. His hips pushed up. With the sensitive nerve endings in her tits, Cynthia felt his cock beginning to throb faster. He was ready. He was going to come. There was nothing that could stop him. He was moaning and twisting and thrusting his pelvis forward.
Suddenly Cynthia pulled back, then parted her lips and plunged forward, swallowing the entire length of his rock-hard penis ... deeper ... deeper-her tongue swirling wildly, her breath sucking deeply-deeper ... until the tip pressed hard against the back of her throat Bad her nose was buried in his matted pubic hair. And there, immobile, she remained. Her tongue drove and dipped and stroked his giant, captive cock; her mouth sucked and slurped and gobbled as though trying to swallow it whole. And now her hand returned to his balls, fiddling, squeezing, twisting ...
Matt gasped once more. His body snapped forward. Arched. His face grimaced. And a searing blaze in his loins suddenly shot up the length of his rigid pipe, bursting hotly through the tiny aperture at its tip and gushing the boiling, creamy juice into Cynthia's mouth.
She gasped and gagged in delirious joy, gulping and swallowing every drop.
Matt sagged as if ah strength had been drained from him. He twitched convulsively once and then let out his breath. "Whew.
Cynthia looked up at him. Her eyes sparkled, "Thanks, darling. That was wonderful. Just what I needed-a little yum-yum before dinner."
