BARBARA: his wife, with her inflaming body, her taunting lips, and her maddening frigidity. A woman who used sex as a social ladder, and at the same time thought of it as vulgar, foul, filthy. What would happen the night Grey decided to take her by force?
JEANNE: authority on Egyptology, her warped desires took on strange and unusual forms. When she made love it was a sick thing, all claws and screams and writhing. At first Grey found her fascinating, but the night he came to her bed and found the incense burning, and the aura of the Egyptian courtesan about her, he knew that she had gone insane....
SANDRA: his student, virginal and sweet, and so eager to have him he could not keep his burning body from hers. Would this clean, healthy love destroy them both?
Archive Note: The truly phenomenal number of common words that are misspelled in the following text are exactly as found in the original pocketbook.
CHAPTER ONE
In the semi-darkened office adjoining the art studio Grey Cleveland sat at his desk, dispiritedly rolling a pencil between his fingers. A strange restlessness possessed him tonight, and he sought to identify it He felt oddly dissatisfied, unfulfilled. It seemed a mantle of disquiet had fallen on his soul, numbing all will, all reason to live. What was wrong? his mind asked angrily.
The windows of his second-story office were thrown up and a warm breeze lightly riffled the papers on his desk. Spring had arrived with a vengeance this past week, and looking down oh the already greening campus of Jefferson College, Cleveland saw varied groups of students promenading on the walks, each group intent upon its own particular errand.
Blame it on the weather, he thought, fixing his gaze on the trio of long-limbed coeds who passed below. He appraised their figures at length, seemingly drawing strength from the animal energy the young females exhibited. They all wore white shorts and sneakers. In their hands they carried tennis impedimenta. His eyes lingered on their legs, long, lithe, already showing evidence of early tan. A sudden wrench made itself known in the pit of his stomach;
Could it be? But no--Barbara, his wife, had only been gone three days. Surely he couldn't be sex-hungry already. But then again-What was the sudden hunger the girls aroused in him? They were lovely, seemingly virginal and innocent. Then one could never tell about Jefferson girls. Perhaps they could teach him more about sex than he'd ever dreamed. There was high-powered talk about Jefferson coeds in the faculty-men's lounge. And pretty graphic talk at that.
Cleveland watched he girls until they faded from view.
It was almost six o'clock. The shadows were lengthening on the campus, the opaque last light of day blazing on the windows of Newcomb Hall. Another hour and a half at the outside and it would be dark. Then the coolness of the May evenings would close in again.
Suddenly he threw down his pencil. These damn lesson outlines for summer school, he cursed. It was sheer agony to see them through. The curse of education. Paper work and more paper work. Now if he were administrator-
Should he force himself to finish the segment of the outline he'd already started, or should he call it quits and make for home? The loneliness filled him again. What was there at home? Only empty rooms and silence.
Not that there was any sublime, overriding happiness to be found at home ordinarily. It was only that in the three years of his marriage, Barbara, her presence, her orderly efficiency, had become habit with him. Tonight he couldn't bear the thought of returning to the deserted, echoing house, bumbling around the kitchen to improvise a botched-up, unpalatable meal.
He would work through until seven or so, then drive into town for dinner. Maybe take in a show stop at a bar for a few solitary drinks. With fresh resolve he retrieved his pencil, and drew a sheaf of forms toward him.
But the determination swiftly faded and Cleveland found himself again scanning the walk below. Spring fever, he conceded, that must be it. Or else I'm all worn out.
Suddenly his heart lurched in his chest, as he saw Sandra Cummings approaching from the direction of the library, a stack of books under one arm. He was amazed almost to find himself hungrily staring, his eyes cruising her body, coming to rest on her straining blouse. If only there were such a thing as x-ray vision, that he might glimpse the lovely bouncing globes of flesh beneath the white material. They must be gorgeous to see-
Sandra-he thought, prolonging the pleasurable reverie. Now there was a girl to drive a man stark raving mad.
Already a senior, Sandra Cummings had reached full physical maturity, and her full, lush body was the bane of every instructor at Jefferson. If Sandra was in their class, it was a foregone conclusion that no learning would be accomplished by the males present. Instead they gave their undivided attention to Sandra. It was mass hypnotism almost, the male instructors falling helplessly under her spell at times, also.
And yet, no one male, no matter how suave his approach, how materially endowed, could lay claim to Sandra. She dated rarely, and when she did, there was something lacking in all the men she had thus far encountered. But someday-her cold, expressionless eyes said. It was that someday that the campus wolves, from frosh to seniors, dreamed of, fought each other for. They wanted to be there when it happened.
But it did them little good. Sandra was unapproachable, an entity to herself. Real odd merchandise, Professor Cleveland mused, lapsing into the vernacular of some of his students.
Sandra was a member of his survey course in Oriental art. She was an intelligent, business-like student, aloof to her classmates, creative to the utmost degree. Her art work was truly something to behold. And yet she regarded her efforts as mere play, hobby almost. She had hidden depths the world would never see, her mocking gaze seemed to say And yet she had never used this weapon with her instructor. To Cleveland she was always gracious, witty and outgoing.
Grey found his pulse rate climbing as he watched Sandra's graceful, oat-like movements. For a brief instant he thought she glanced up in the direction of his classroom, but then he must have been mistaken. He watched her until she passed beyond the Science Hall, his eyes savoring the movement of Sandra's prominent, firm, sassily working buttocks beneath her tight-fitting skirt. Regretfully he turned away.
Professor Cleveland was surprised to find himself releasing a ponderous sigh. Again he got rid of the pencil; only this time, in unaccountable frustration and bitterness, he hurled it across the room.
What in hell-? he thought, dismayed. What's going on here, anyway? I'm hornier than a cowhand just off winter range. I'm acting like a schoolboy on the first day of spring. Leching after one of my students! Great Caesar's Ghost!
Now all thought of work was irretrievably abandoned. In this unsettled state of mind anything he would do would be so much garbage anyway As the gloom of evening gradually cobwebbed the room, he continued sitting hunched over his desk, his face buried in his hands, the weariness, the compulsive longing searing his conscience. Longing? For what?
What is is, Grey? he commanded. What is it you want? What more could you want? Here you are at thirty-three, a full professor in one of the midwest's leading colleges, married to a lovely woman of your own social strata, a woman of impeccable taste, a woman who shares your interests and background in every possible way. You have the respect of the entire school, students and faculty alike. What more is there?
Yes, Grey agreed grimly, the thoughts galling him. A well-ordered life, respect, security, the love of a faithful wife. Or so it must seem in the eyes of everyone else. What more was there indeed?
Deliberately (for Cleveland was normally a very deliberate man), he took stock of his assets. For the first time in years Cleveland put his mind to the task of appraising what his life had become in the years since he'd left the army, since he'd decided his career would be that of teaching. The blind leading the blind, he thought wryly.
True, his life was well-ordered, almost to the point of automation. His rising and retirement was punctual, his classes were routine and precise, his entertainments cultural and widely spaced to allow time for scholarly meditation. Like a sheep he'd fallen into the dreary round of faculty open houses and college teas, he'd become enmeshed in petty politics. It seemed he almost looked forward to the sedate party he and Barbara threw annually on the anniversary of his coming to Jefferson. Dull, dull-
With no small amount of chagrin Grey realized that his life had become so well ordered in the past two years that he had been well nigh left out of it altogether. Either the college or Barbara had pushed him through his sleepwalker's paces. Not only were his movements controlled by dull monotony, but it now appeared that his very thinking had been dictated also.
Was it true? he gasped. Had he truly surrendered his independence, his questing, creative mind, merely to fit a prescribed mold, to retain his false security and respect? God, no-
And his marriage. If for once he'd level with himself, he'd have to admit that it had become in the past two years, a terrible sham. Shortly after the first year, the feeling he'd taken for love had abruptly departed, and he'd found himself awash in a sea of confusion and' disillusionment It had been then, when he discovered that Barbara only permitted him the use of her holy body as a purely wifely duty, that he had thrown himself so doggedly into his work. He had used his career as a drug to help him forget.
It was during this time that he had written the two critical books' on the status of art in America, the two books that had taken America by storm, the books that had made him full professor, that had put him in line for administrative promotion, that had involved him in numberless lecture tours to every important midwestern university.
In that period he'd driven himself unmercifully substituting the adulation he received for the womanly love and passion he so desperately needed. But tonight, he admitted bitterly, his streak was ended, he had crapped out There was no important work to bury himself in now. He had to face the music. He had to admit that he was a miserably unhappy man.
During that first year of their marriage Barbara had been all the child, all the wife, all the mistress that any man could desire. He had been happy he had felt that life had nothing better to offer. The two weeks they spent honeymooning in a solitary north-woods cabin on the shores of a brooding lake had been paradise. After her initial reticence, Barbara had come to him like a charging, wild thing, seemingly savoring the sex act to its fullest, urging their ecstasy to dizzying heights.
She'd been proud and preening over the fact that she had come to her marriage bed a virgin. She had screamed in vengeful, proclaiming agony, when he had pierced the sealed portal of her body. It was something she was never to let him forget.
But it was all an act, nothing but an act, Grey thought, his anger flooding over him, growing into hate, hate he'd never admitted before tonight. When Barbara had discovered that no baby was forthcoming, that her body was an empty vessel, incapable of producing life, she had turned against her husband. It was then that the extent of her warped immaturity was unmistakably revealed.
She had lost face, she could never rear perfect, prissy babies like herself. Instead of accepting the fault as a trick of nature, she had taken out her frustration on Grey. It was his fault, not hers, and she would make him pay. Only when he was brutal, and forced her to the sex act, or when he had accomplished some success that gave her status in the face of the other faculty wives did she voluntarily choose to reward him with the treasure of her body. These nights she left her bedroom door ajar as a subtle signal.
But Grey could never slake his passion with Barbara. Making love to her was like cohabiting with a corpse. Now he recalled an incident he'd heard about during the Itailan invasion. His buddy, Harry Shipley had encountered an Italian signorina who'd been willing to trade her body for a few candy bars. "You won't believe this, Grey," Harry had said in amazed disgust, (but that bitch just lay there with her knees up, completely disinterested, eating them damn candy bars, all the while I was pounding away at it. Never saw anything like it before...."
Neither had Grey. At least not until Barbara had begun to work her consummate revenge on him. Those nights she condescended to tolerate him, she lay limp and lifeless beneath him, her arms beneath her head, her eyes wide open, staring blankly into space. Invariably she ruined it midway, leaving Grey in an unfulfilled frenzy. "Grey, darling," she might say, as she sensed he was reaching a fever pitch, aren't you almost finished? I have an early appointment at the hairdresser's tomorrow." Or she might say, "Grey, you forgot to shave. Or: 'We really should start thinking about redoing the living room soon. It's becoming so dingy."
After a number of such failures Grey had avoided, almost entirely, the sexual part of their marriage. It was only when the need became overpowering that he allowed himself a renewal of degradation at Barbara's hands.
To all outward appearances their marriage was ideal. When they were in public Barbara put on a splendid performance, exhibiting versatile female duplicity as the proud, attentive, proper housewife. At times she caused pangs of nausea in his stomach as she pretended love she didn't really feel, sometimes even kissing him in front of guests. Until tonight Grey had purposely forced himself to be blind to these glaring hypocrisies. Tonight he was blind no longer.
As an example he recalled the interlude three nights ago, just before Barbara had left for a month's visit with her mother in the east. Barbara had invited him into her bed. Their union had seemed different that night; Barbara had appeared to need him as badly as he did her. Breaking tradition, she had wrapped her knees around his, had pulled his head down on her small, firm, unsullied breasts.
But the outcome had been the same. Abruptly her sighs had ended and she'd fallen into passive lethargy. "It's no good, darling," she'd muttered. "I just can't bring it off. And I did so want to service you properly tonight. As insurance. If I'm to be gone a month, you'll probably get hot rocks for some one nf these young twitches on campus. It wouldn't be hard to do, I suppose. I've seen the way some of them eat you with their eyes. Not that I'd mind really if you did have a thing with them. It's just that I'd hate the thought of the scandal, you know," she said, her tone brittle, superficial. "You can see that, can't you, dear?"
Instantly he'd been drained of any last twinge of passion. As he'd tried to withdraw, Barbara had clenched her knees down hard, had pulled him against her belly again. "No, darling," she said humorously, "don't stop. Finish what you started. I insist." Then she had moved her hands over his back, his thighs, to the base of his stomach, attempting to rearouse him. Eventually she was successful. "There, that's a good boy," she'd cooed, as he came to her again.
Afterwards he'd lain beside her, his mind seething with self-loathing, in angry turmoil, as he thought of what he'd allowed her to do to him again. She had treated him like a base animal, humoring his foul needs.
The tragic part, he conceded, was that Barbara understood him perfectly. She knew he was a cautious person by nature, she was 100% correct when she assumed he would engage in no extra-curricualr activities during her absence. Barbara knew well enough that he would do nothing to jeopardize his reputation at Jefferson, or his chances of achieving prominent advancement in the school's echelon. Face it, Cleveland, he'd cursed, you're not a man at all. You're a gutless wonder. Half a man.
When he'd been assured that Barbara had dozed off, he carefully rose and started for his own room. Somehow he felt unclean even occupying the same bed with her. But as with all things, Barbara's sleep was only feigned. When he reached the door, he heard her voice cut the darkness. "Goodnight, dear," she said in a mockingly solicitous way.
Sham and more sham. That's what his life had amounted to these past years. Pretending he was a happy, well-integrated person, confident with his professional successes, perfectly compatible with his beautiful and frigid wife, pretending that a deep, abiding love existed between them.
Even the role of bon vwant he affected with his students was a sham. Professor Cleveland was known all over campus as one-hell-of-a-regular-fellow. There wasn't a frat or sorority house in the whole college where the opinion wasn't unanimous. It was common knowledge that he was a bit of a roue, that he was hip on jazz as well as the classics. Many were the nights he entertained different groups of students at his home, blaring forth Brubeck or Brahms on his custom-built stereo rig, as individual climate dictated.
He could converse as freely on James Joyce, Henry Miller, or My Life and Loves and Lady Chatterly as he could on Shakespeare or Ben Johnson. His enthusiasms in art embraced the Van Eyck miniatures, Reuben's commissioned animals and birds, even the dribblings of Jackson Pollack. A stimulating evening was guaranteed whenever a soiree was held at the Cleveland residence. And wasn't that wife of his a dish to look at?
Cleveland subscribed to and passed around copies of PLAYBOY, ROGUE and ESQUIRE whenever a particular story or article picqued his fancy, averring that one must read both, the brashness of the former counterbalancing the sedate stuffiness of the latter. He tooled a white Thunderbird with appropriate verve and recklessness, he dressed in youthful, inventive fashion, rejecting the dark uniform of the other male instructors. Best of all, he was not averse to passing an occasional double entendre during his lectures, causing the men to roar in boisterous approval, the females to giggle in naughty excitement.
Yes, to all apparent purposes, Professor Cleveland was the wonder boy of the Jefferson faculty.
But even here, Grey thought, glancing dazedly around the now quickly darkening office, he was living a lie. For if the truth were known to these admiring students, they would discover he was only a shell, a man who only blustered savior faire. If any of the hot-eyed coeds who lusted after him were to corner him, he would have to admit his innate fear of complication.
That was the answer then. Cleveland felt a stabbing pain in his head, as he admitted his inadequacy, as he admitted why the reign of disquiet had now overcome him. He was bored; literally dying, inch by inch, of boredom. For a man who needed love so desperately there was no love; there could be none. The frustration of this realization would eventually kill him. This paragon of masculinity, who acted and talked such a superior line of love and life, had never really had either. If there were only a woman in whom he could submerge himself, involve his life with, receive birth from. But there was none.
God! The irony of it! Now finally Grey Cleveland hit upon the touchstone of his frustration and unhappiness. He had yet to start living.
At that moment a second memory of his army-days in Europe was recalled. Strange that he should remember after all this time. Hilde-He hadn't thought of her in years.
For an instant there flashed across Grey's mind the vision of the rubble of a bombed out German city. Again it was April, 1947. Again he was in the darkened hutch of Hilde's apartment, again he saw the pagan light glistening in her eyes, felt the fever of her hot flesh against his, heard her passionate sobs, as she threw herself against him in spasmodic, throbbing frenzy. Then her clenching, clawing fingers, her guttural pleading, "Varten, liebchen! Bitte! Varteno" Wait for me, darling, wait! Then he relieved her lustful screams, long and savage.
A convulsive shudder passed over him, and he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. God, please-To have a woman like that again, to know an all consuming love once more-
It was then that he was startled from his self-pitying reverie by the sound of a click at the door. Instantly he jerked alert, looking in that direction. The door slowly opened, and a dark figure, indistinguishable in the gloom, approached his desk.
Grey fought to focus his blurred vision. There. Now he could see.
Coming toward him was Miss Jeanne Portier, history and French. Even in the darkness he could perceive the strange smile that played about the corners of her mouth.
CHAPTER TWO
Jeanne Portier was a small, raven-tressed creature of perhaps thirty-three. She might have been older, but if she was, then her feminine camoflage was a superb job. Stylish streaks of grey ran through her close-cropped hair, streaks which were no doubt accented at her beauty salon as they gave her face distinctive fascination. To say Miss Portier was not beautiful would be uncharitable, for there are many types of beauty. Suffice it to say she was extremely interesting, if no ravishing beauty. A strange inner excitement lay in wait behind her eyes. This, combined with her elegant, trim figure, was her most eloquent charm, a charm that was envied by many another female instructor at Jefferson, and indeed, many a coed. Her breasts were compact, firm, beautifully symmetrical, her tiny, perky buttocks almost a perfect counterfoil. Miss Portier's legs, though thin, were exciting, her feet tiny, with a high arch. Tonight her legs seemed even more alluring in the devastating, pointed-toe pumps she wore, pumps which had been handmade for her in Paris. The total effect of her appearance was that of a petite Dresden doll. She was the kind of woman a man could carry into a bedroom with ease. And indeed many had. Or so rumors went.
Miss Portier had never married, nor had she ever been engaged. She was an "unplucked bud," as the expression goes. That she was no longer a virgin was attested to by one Brad Allender, who had supposedly, one night, while receiving French tutoring from her, found her Gallic fascination overpowering. Having made certain unmistakable advances and getting no static, he had moved in on the diminutive instructress. Proceeding to her apartment he'd been given a lesson in love he would never forget, for rather than he possessing her, she had virtually raped him. According to Allender she'd been no virgin, even then.
But stories like these flourish in every educational institution. Students like to concoct fantasies involving their teachers. A wish-fulfillment sort of thing.
Cleveland recalled an incident popular during his own high-school days, in which rumor one of the English teachers had purportedly been made drunk by-four juniors who then proceeded to take turns with her, the act being consummated on a billiard table in one of the lads' basement recreation rooms. The picture inflamed the imagination: the green felt and the woman's voluptuously working pink flesh.
Frank Borzak, economics instructor at Jefferson, told of encountering Miss Portier in Chicago one weekend, finding her so drunk she could hardly stand. Her escort, his eyes ablaze with libertine light, had been leading her upstars from the hotel bar. Other rumors sought to explain her secret exoduses from Jefferson at semester break, and again during the summer, by spreading hush-hush stories of indiscriminate sexual orgies among an especially uninhibited New York circle. These stories Grey Cleveland always chose to discount. At least until he'd gathered first hand proof.
Why Miss Portier had never married was a constant source of conjecture among the faculty. She was an attractive woman in her own unique way And considering the body she flaunted-It spelled sex cat. and no mistake.
Jeanne's relations with Professor Cleveland had always been circumspect and openly friendly. They had been on a first name basis right from the start. Scuttlebutt had it that she'd banked her fires in wait for him, but if this was true, she'd never made open indication of such subjugated ardor It was with these thoughts in mind that Grey, mild astonishment in his eyes, rose to greet her.
"Grey?" she said uncertainly, trying to adjust her eyes to the room "Are you here?"
"Yes," he said softly. "What is it, Jeanne?"
"Nothing. I could see that your windows were open from my wing, and I thought you'd gone off without closing them. What's the matter with you? Are you ill?"
"I'll? Why do you say that?"
"Don't you know what time it is? After seven. Time to pull stakes. Or...." Her mouth formed into a mischievous moue. "Are you thinking of making a career out of this?"
"Thinking, Jeanne. Deep, dark thoughts," Grey chuckled. "Lost track of the time...."
"Deep thoughts, huh? May I be inquisitive?"
"You may. But that doesn't mean I'll tell you...."
"Nasty." She came closer, leaning over his desk, the scent of her heavy perfume filling Grey's nostrils. There was a sharp click, and his desk lamp came on. "There, that's better. Now I can see you...."
What Miss Portier saw was a sandy-haired man, lean and lank, his brow cut with permanent frown lines, his eyes cool blue and meditative, his mouth a thin, firm line, his teeth even and white. Standing, Cleveland was a slight man as real he-men go, perhaps five-ten in his stocking feet. But the penetrating light in his eyes, his rangy wiriness, the wide band of white hair at the right temple, gave hm a more commanding air, made him unreasonably attractive to her.
Within her breast Jeanne Portier felt a thunderous pulse stir, as it always did whenever she was anywhere near Cleveland. The rumor was true: and she would be the first to admit it if openly confronted with the accusation. She was desperately in love with Cleveland; she had loved him almost from the moment of their first meeting. It had been the bitterest blow of her life when his engagement to Barbara Villirs had been announced.
For months afterward she had lived in a vacuum, a vacuum empty of everything but her scourging grief. She had always dreamed that someday she would be able to do something to make Grey notice her romantically. But she had been too late. In time the pain had dulled, and it was then that she'd taken the weekend trips to Chicago, it was then she'd surrendered her treasured virginity to a man whose name she couldn't even recall, in a drunken hotel-room debauch that had lasted for three nights. It was Grey, innocent and unknowing, who had caused her to do these things-to satisfy carnal compulsions she'd dreamed of sharing only with him, sleeping with any itinerant salesman who'd buy her enough liquor to prime her for the orgy.
And now, looking at him, seeing the haggard lined, defeated expression on his face, she forgot the resentment, the bitterness; she threw aside the ego-protecting shell of hate she'd built up toward Grey-She still loved him-she always would. If only she could go to him now, hold him, protect him from whatever it was that had hurt him. If she could absorb that hurt into her body. What effect would another scar have on her already emotion-ravaged heart?
But she did nothing, she made no motion, her face reflected no trace of pity. Reflex and cold womanly intuition forestalled her, held her compassion in check. Her smile remained frozen, her tone stayed flippant.
"Good Lord, Grey. What've you been doing with yourself? You look like a month's worth of lost weekends. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Jeanne. Nothing I can tell you about. I've merely been sitting here in the dark weighing the pros and cons of my life. And I don't like the looks of my credit sheet...." He sighed heavily.
"Oh? Come now, it can't be that bad...."
"Perhaps it can't, but I'm afraid it is ... You'll never know...."
"But I'd like to. Maybe that's what you need. Someone to tell your troubles to...." She laughed. "Hey! That would make a catchy song title...."
'It's been done." He rose from his desk and stretched. "I suppose you're right. I'd best call it a day. Not getting anything done, anyway. Unless you'd call crying in your beer an accomplishment...."
Don't Grey-Jeanne Portier thought, her mind in panic. Don't use that bantering tone with me, don't stand so close. Take me seriously for once. Open your eyes. I'm here. I'm a human being too. I'm in love with you. See me. Touch my breasts. Kiss them! She found her arms aching to reach out to him, to encircle his waist. She was dizzy with the desire to huddle against him, to lay her head on his chest.
But again there was no sign. Only the rigid stiffness and the false smile. Laugh, clown, laugh-
"My, but aren't we taking ourselves seriously tonight. Isn't there anvthing I can do to cheer you up?"
"Not that I know of...."
Before she realized it the words tumbled out.
It seemed she was a bystander listening to her own tremendous blunder: "Maybe a drink would help? Would you like to come up to my place? I mix a mean martini...."
There was an embarrassed pause, and while she stood waiting for Grey's refusal, she knew that her cheeks had suddenly become a flaming red.
"What I mean is ... well ... I understand Barbara's gone ... and...." Then anger at her clumsy ineptitude flooded her. "I'm getting this all balled up. What I mean to say is ... Would you like a good martini?"
"Sure, Jeanne," Grey smiled in an abstracted way, "I'd love it. But there are certain complications...."
Might as well go for the $64,000, Miss Portier thought grimly. I've fox passed this situation up royally already. Her tone changed, matching Cleveland's nuance for nuance. "You mean the college gossip? Dismiss the thought. I live at the Torrance Arms. Across the street is a restaurant, a supermarket and a bar. If you parked on the street nobody would dream you were in the apartment of a sultry temptress, squiming martinis to your heart's content. I might even be able to whip up a creditable little meal. Even on such short notice...."
Cleveland found his head reeling at the proposal. If there was anything he needed tonight, it wasn't solitude. It would seem nice to get politely stewed, to have some witty, sympathetic conversation with a charming woman. Thought of Jeanne Portier's rumored reputation nagged him momentarily. But of course, he admitted swifty, the prospect of a cheap, quick conquest was the farthest thing from his mind. And as far as wagging tongues were concerned, Jeanne's solution did seem logical.
"You paint a very tempting picture, Jeanne. And I'll be damned if I don't take you up on it. That is if you're really serious."
"Of course I am. Would I say it if I didn't mean it?"
"The Torrance Arms?"
"Right. Apartment 3-C. I'll start right now. Have to make a stop at a delicatessen...."
"Fine. But don't go putting yourself out...."
"No trouble. All comes under the heading of Good Samaritan ... See you."
A sudden sense of well-being flooded Cleveland. The prospect of an enjoyable interlude loomed before him. There would be drinks, laughs, good food. And perhaps-But he swiftly dismissed the thought. Even if the stories were true, and Jeanne did invite sex play, he would see to it that the situation didn't get out of hand. It was out of such little things that major scandals grew.
Still, he was surprised at the shooting thrill that darted through his veins as he watched Jeanne leave, as his eyes roved her lovely legs, caressed the firm bounce of her subtly shadowed buttocks.
CHAPTER THREE
Cleveland lived only three blocks from the college campus. Driving to his house, he washed shaved, and changed into a soft sport shirt. When he passed inspection, he threw on a nubby-weave jacket and set out for the Torrance Arms. On the way he stopped at a liquor store and purchased a quart of scotch. If the evening was at all prolonged, they would want to come off the martinis.
No pedestrian traffic stirred as he reached Jeanne's apartment building. Checking carefully to be sure he wouldn't be observed, he crossed the street, entered the vestibule, and pushed the button designated by the Portier name-card. Immediately an answering buzz sounded, and he pushed open the door Moments later he stood nervously before apartment 3-C. Then he sounded three discreet raps.
"Come in," he heard her say as he opened the door. "I'm changing. Make yourself comfortable Or better still, find some music you like."
He chose some quiet Percy Faith show music and put the record on Jeanne's hi-fi set. Immediately the apartment was bathed in soft, luxurious sound. Feeling completely at peace with himself, Grey sank into the soft cushions of the davenport, throwing his head back in careless abandon. As he sat resting, feeling a langour creep through his limbs, he surveyed the room.
It was tastefully decorated in every detail. Less feminine than he'd expect (Barbara would have hated it), but in a way more forthright and honest. There was little of the outrageous frou-frou most women seemed to love so. Most of the furnishings were contemporary, with an austere scattering of Danish modern here and there. Pole lamps, with only several bulbs in use, were the predominant lighting.
"Mmmm ... nice...." Jeanne murmured as she emerged from her bedroom, indicating the music. "Your tastes are much like mine. Leave the heavy stuff for later." She advanced into the dining room, where she slid back a panel in the wall to reveal a small, well-stocked bar.
"You don't have to drink martinis, you know. It was only a suggestion."
"A martini would be fine. I'm a fan," Grey answered.
She noticed the scotch on the dining room table. "Thank you, Grey. How thoughtful...." Then she commenced to mix the drinks.
Jeanne had flitted through the living room so swiftly that Grey hadn't had the opportunity to observe her change of costume. Now he examined her closely. She had discarded the pale beige suit for a black satin, with a thin, draped skirt. Her stockings were a smoky tone, while her shoes were a luminous red, matching the large, circular earrings she wore She had also rearranged her hair and a provocative curl graced the center of her forehead. All in all, she was quite breathtaking.
"Olive or onion?" she called.
"Olive."
"Score two for our side," she smiled, bringing the drinks on a small silver tray. Both martinis contained olives.
"How lovely you look, Jeanne," he said, sipping his drink lightly, balancing the glass as she arranged herself on the davenport beside him, pulling one leg beneath her, the red point of one small foot peeping from beneath the black of her gown. She certainly knows how to arrange herself for effect, Grey mused
"Thank you, Grey," she said, raising her glass. "Well, here's to better Franco-American relations...."
"To you," Grey chuckled, and took another sip of his drink. "Wonderful. You do mix a mean martini...."
"Too something...?"
"Too just right...."
"Glad you like it."
They lapsed into nervous silence, each waiting for the liquor to take hold, so the conversation might regain a flippant tone. Grey hunched lower in the cushions, sighing heavily.
For the next ten minutes they talked about music, petty school politics, and spring, skirting all personal talk. "I'm dry," Jeanne said finally. "Would you do the honors? The shaker's right there." Leaning forward, Grey emptied the shaker, evening out both gasses. "I'll make more if we feel the need," she smiled, her eyes darkly luminous in the dim light.
Seemingly all at once Grey felt the martinis cut in and he felt sickeningly light-headed. Marvelous what a good martini can do for a person, he thought. Then he recalled that he'd worked straight through since breakfast. The gin and vermouth had landed on an extremely empty stomach. Watch it, he cautioned.
It seemed that Jeanne was suddenly sitting closer to him on the couch now, but he couldn't be sure. He was aware that his speech was slightly slurred, and that they were both laughing more freely now. Also, he found himself looking directly into Jeanne's eyes more often, letting his eyes drift down to her bare shoulders, and further-to the prominently shadowed cleft of her breasts. They were gorgeous, he thought-small and perfect.
Jeanne was entirely aware of the witchcraft she was working on Grey. She had moved closer purposely; to give him opportunity to take in the effect of her exciting perfume, the aura of her warmth, the taunt of her inflaming breasts. Sure, the martinis were helping, and already she was seeing things through a rosy, fluttering glare, but she had other things going for her too. Jeanne was definitely still in charge of the situation.
It was as she'd driven from the college to her apartment that she'd decided to go for broke. After all, if she couldn't have Grey in marriage, what harm was there in taking him for her lover? And especially since such a tailor-made situation had presented itself. She was sure that once he'd sampled her brand of love making, he couldn't resist coming back for seconds-eternal seconds-which she'd be only too willing-delirious actually-to give.
Give it a little time, she thought. He's falling right into line.
The record ended at the exact same moment their second martini did. Rising, Jeanne went to the bar and mixed another mixer of martinis. "You're in no hurry to eat, are you?"
"No...." Grey chuckled. "Right now I don't care if I ever eat...."
Setting the tray on the cocktail table, she went to the record player, and put on a fresh record. This time it was soft, rhythmic dance music. Advancing to the davenport she held out her hands to Grey "May I have the honor?"
"Yes ... of course...." Grey answered, rising eagerly. "I may be rusty, but I'd sure love to try...." Gently he took her into his arms, and they danced slowly, haltingly. They moved stiffly, giggling at their mistakes. But gradually their movements became smoother, more relaxed.
Jeanne leaned against him at once, laying her forehead against his hard chin. Suddenly Grey felt long suppressed desires surging through his body, sending tremors along his legs. Hot pangs of desire filled him, and suddenly he caught himself pulling Jeanne painfully to him, savoring the burning sensation of her hard, round breasts pushing into his chest.
"Grey," she teased, her voice blurred with happy, rushing pleasure, "be careful ... Don't bruise the merchandise...." But in her heart, the words came differently, surging, impatient. Closer, darling, hold me closer.' Crush me with your strong body-And she dropped her face to his chest, her arms closing tightly on his back.
Holding the fragile woman in his arms, he was consumed with an intense longing to press her even closer. The hunger grew, became an undeniable command. Cleveland's arms tightened about Jeanne even more fiercely. One hand slid up to caress the side of her face, to pull it closer to his lean chest.
All at once his breath came in ragged, tortured gasps, his heart was pounding erratically, like voodoo drums gone berserk. Small tremors fled down his back, warning messengers of a more cataclysmic storm to come. Self-control be damned, he thought angrily. Consequences, integrity, reputation be damned. He wanted only one thing in life at that moment. Jeanne. If he had to rape her on the living room carpet he would have her-
Jeanne's head stirred beneath his palm. When he looked down he saw she was staring up at him, her smile frightened. And yet-there was a glimmer of triumph buried in the glance. Love me, lay me!
When he stopped dancing, and lowered his lips to hers, he found her body trembling violently against his, he felt her stretching her tiny, beautiful legs to meet his kiss, he felt her breasts scorching him. Then her eyes closed, and their mouths came crashing together.
Their kiss was frenzied, brutal. They pushed their mouths savagely into each other's, grinding their lips together in feverish compulsion. And beyond the limits of this raging awareness-it seemed he felt her breasts purposely working against him, rolling and pushing-he felt her fingers kneading the flesh of his back.
"Good God!" he gasped when they finally broke. "Jeanne, I'm sorry...." Dismay, fear was written on his features. What had come over him? How had he gone so far astray? "I didn't mean ... What must you think...?"
"Don't talk, Grey. Don't think," she whispered hoarsely, offering her lips for another kiss. "It's all right. For now, just kiss me ... kiss me...."
For long moments they stood with mouths pressed together. When they separated Jeanne pulled her head down spasmodically against his chest, her arms circling his waist in trembling fervor. "Hold me, darling. Hold me...." Then almost instinctively, as by unknown signal, they both began dancing again, clinging to each other in frantic need, their bodies pasted together.
Cleveland's pulse roared, hammering against his skull until he felt it must explode, for as they danced, he felt Jeanne pull him even closer, felt her push her stomach against his. At first he thought it was an accident, but when he sensed the delicious sensation again, two, three quick strokes, he could not be mistaken. In a typhoon of passion, he answered her in kind.
They continued dancing in this fashion, Jeanne's hands coursing up and down his back, pulling, clawing at him. Now she pulled his head down, kissing him. He felt her stiff, driving tongue dart against his lips, searching for entry. Immediately he opened his mouth, and their tongues met, doing a symbolic, erotic dance of their own.
Lord, Cleveland groaned inwardly, I can't stand much more of this. Something's got to give. I can't wait-
"Jeanne, darling," he choked. "I need you. I want you!"
"I want you too, Grey ... Like I've never wanted anything before...." she chanted in a dull, trance-like tone.
"Come with me," he whispered, leaning to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom.
"No...." She pulled quickly away. "Not yet...."Going to the cocktail table she picked up their martinis. "Drink up," she ordered. Taking her martini, she drained it without stop, then waited while Grey followed her example. "I want it to be perfect ... with no regrets ... no inhibitions...."
Now she emptied out the shaker once more, squeezing out another half-glass apiece. "Cheers...." she giggled drunkenly, and downed it without a wince.
"Cheers...." he said numbly, forcing down the fiery liquid.
"Now. lover...." she moaned huskily.
Once more Cleveland leaned to lift her. As she came up he was astonished at her weight. She couldn't weigh an ounce over a hundred pounds. It was like holding a doll in his arms. Twining her arms around his neck Jeanne kissed him, pushing her pepper-hot tongue into his mouth again. Discovering her martini glass still in her hand, she threw it against the fireplace with a splintering crash.
A burning kiss again. She curled her legs high and Grey's pulse skyrocketed as he felt the flesh of her hot thighs above her stockings. She wriggled wickedly closer.
True, Grey thought exultantly-she was the kind of girl a man longed to carry into the bedroom A doll, a clawing, passionate doll.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gently HE LAID JEANNE ON THE BED. then fell beside her. his hands moving frantically along the silken material of her gown, lingering on her smooth, rounded buttocks, glorying in the sensuousness of silk sliding on silk. Her body trembling, Jeanne abandoned herself to his caress, putting her arms languidly above her head on the pillows, as signal that she was ready to permit him anything he desired.
For long moments they clung together, mouths locked in a passionate kiss their bodies straining and sliding against each other. The effects of the quick martinis hit him like a bomb, and Cleveland felt himself surrenduring to a pagan, choking frenzy the like of which he'd never known, even with Hilde. His arms and legs twitched in uncontrollable urgency, his head began spinning wildly.
Jeanne smiled in wanton satisfaction as he slid his hands along her legs, as he caressed the soft flesh of her thighs. He heard her suck in her breath swiftly, her body starting, when his fingers passed her stocking tops, began stroking her belly. Momentarily Grey cursed the girdle that bound her so tightly, that denied him the softness of her most intimate self. But then, he thought drunkenly, he could afford to wait.
He wanted to see her legs, he wanted madly to pull her skirt up, to stroke the nyloned surface of these twin highways to sexual delight. He had an overpowering desire to kiss her legs, to run his lips along them, to feel Jeanne tingle with pleasure. But when he tried rising, Jeanne pulled him roughly down on her again. "Later, baby," she murmured. "Later."
Cleveland contented himself by continuing to caress the shimmering length of her legs, kneading, playfully pinching. Tn the meantime Jeanne had moved her body down on the bed, so that her breasts were closer to Grey's head. Hungrily he kissed the pure, creamy flesh of her bosom where it overflowed from the top of her dress, letting his tongue dart into the deep cleft between the ivory mounds. Jeanne loosed a quick sigh.
Then he was cupping her perfectly formed breasts in his hands, kissing them through the material of her clothing, of her brassiere. Almost instantly he felt her nipples go hard beneath the nylon, standing up beneath his stirring fingers like hard buttons. He felt her throw a nyloned leg over his, felt it close down hard in savage pressure. Now, he thought.
But as he tried pressing his fingers beneath her brassiere he was balked. When he sought to slide his fingers under her body to undo the bra snaps, Jeanne rolled away. "No, darling...." she protested. "Be satisfied a moment longer ... She kissed him fiercely, her tongue sliding inflaming along the edge of his teeth. "My way...." she murmured.
Your way? he thought in dull amazement. What did she mean? Still he controlled his impatience, ceasing in his attempts to remove her clothing, being satisfied to kiss her covered breasts, to stroke her girdle-clad belly and buttocks.
Suddenly the sexual frenzy she had thus far held in fine check rampaged, and Cleveland sensed she was ready for the next development in their little orgy. Her body came alive beneath his touch, surging, quivering, blatantly crowding at his. Her hands roved his body, lingering on his legs, purposely forcing him against her. Abruptly she released an eerie, gasping sigh, and leaped from the bed.
"Darling? What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong?" she said through clenched teeth. "Nothing's wrong." Light from the living room reflected into the dark bedroom, and he quailed at the demented, glazed expression he saw in her wide eyes. Her voice took on the even, dead tone of moments ago; she spoke as if hypnotized by thought of what she would do next. "Stand up, darling!" she commanded. "Stand up."
Dazedly Cleveland rose from the bed, and went to her, his brain reeling. She kissed him hurriedly, then standing, herself fully clothed, she began to undress him. Before Grey could stop her. she'd attacked his shirt buttons with fluttery. nervous motions. "No, Jeanne," he protested thickly, "I can take care of it." He tried pulling her hands away.
He felt her body stiffen beneath his grasp. "No, Grey," she said angrily. "I want to. I want it this way."
Sensing that he'd best not anger her too far, he submitted to the thorough and ceremonious undressing, skitters of incredulity racing down his spine. First she removed his coat, then his shirt, and finally his undershirt, pausing momentarily to kiss his shoulders before she went on with her puzzling ministrations. Then going to her knees, she removed his shoes, his socks, guiding his ankles as he stepped from his shoes.
Her fingers came up and he felt her undoing his belt buckle. Through the darkness he heard the sharp, unmistakable rasp as she opened the fastener. Then the trousers fell with a whisper. Again she braced his ankles. Swiftly, almost tearing the garment, she pulled down his shorts.
He stood in the shadowed room, completely nude, prickles of cold and dismay surfacing his skin. Then he shuddered as he found Jeanne's arms around his legs, as he felt her press her face to his legs, as her hands slid on his bare back
"Darling...." she intoned rocking, kissing his legs. Then she rose woodenly. "On the bed. please, dear...."
"Good Lord, Jeanne," he muttered. "What is this?"
"Don't talk, Grey. Please ... Let me enjoy myself in my own strange way. Do as I say."
Docilely he fell back onto the bed. Still making no move to remove her clothing, she advanced on him, crouching on her knees at his side. "No matter what, Grey...." she murmured, her voice seemingly coming from a great distance, "I love you...."
"Love me...?"
"Yes. It's true." She kissed him yearningly, a trace of sadness to her voice. "But there's time for that later. For now...."
She slid away from him slightly, and devouring his nakedness with her eyes, began to stroke and kiss every part of his body. "No ... Jeanne," he started, "you don't have to do this...."
"I don't have to do anything," she replied lightly, her fingers moving on his stomach. She kissed his chest, his arms, his shoulders, pausing shortly to bury her head in his stomach. He felt her fingers dig convulsively into his inner thigh. Again her lips became busy.
Cleveland lay stiffly, trembling in wonder at what was happening, the fury of his unleashed sex pounding at his brain. "Please, baby," he whispered. "Soon...."
"Soon," she cooed in a sleepy tone, continuing to kiss his body, her hands becoming more active, her caresses turning painful and cruel.
Then in a sudden rush she jumped from the bed, and went quickly to the window to check the blinds. No one but Grey must see the next part of her sexual pantomine. In the living room she locked the door, extinguished the remaining lights. Returning to the bedroom she flicked on one small bedside lamp. Instantly the room was bathed in a pink glow.
For a time she stood looking down at Grey, savoring the thin, muscuar beauty of the man she loved. A wave of embarrassment engulfed him. "You wanted to see me, didn't you, darling?" she smiled.
"You know it, Jeanne," he gulped, propping himself on one elbow.
"Well," she laughed drunkenly, "watch it, honey. Cause this is your life!"
Deliberately arching her body so her profile was an exaggeration of sex, she began a slow, undulating dance, her legs shimmering beautifully in the dull light, her pointed-toed pumps shining, catching glints of brillance. Gracefully her fingers moved to the front of her dress where she carefully undid each button, making each opening a work of art.
With a saucy, flaunting motion she tore the dress from her body, and threw it to the floor. God, Grey gasped to himself, the lingerie that woman wears! The slip was jet black, of rich exquisite silk, with wide bands of fine lace at the bodice and hem. A long, revealing slit traversed each side of the slip, and Grey saw the white of her thigh above her stockings.
Most amazing-starting at the hem was a triangular panel of the same lace, completely transparent, running all the way to the slip's waist line, exposing Jeanne's legs, her compact, subtly shadowed tummy, in deliberately inflaming profile.
"You like?" she teased, pirouetting slowly, letting the slip flare about her legs. Moments later she was finished with that segment of her performance and the slip was lingeringly pulled over her head and discarded. The dance continued, only now in black lace brassiere, black girdle, her legs flashing in the charcoal stockings and red pumps. The motion pulled her breasts away, and through the transparent net he saw the purple flowers of her breasts, the nipples round and relaxed. Now the bra was daintly removed and joined the other garments. The nipples came up like ripe raspberries.
Taking her breasts in her hands she cupped them, purposely pointing each nipple directly at him, her fingers manipulating them in full flower. Slowly she began to revolve her hips, stimulating a burlesque bump and grind, her eyes showing she plainly enjoyed the effect her dance was having on him. Her smile was frenzied, openly wanton-and impatient.
Delicately she stepped out of her shoes. Then moving closer to where Cleveland was hungrily watching her from the bed, she balanced and undid her stockings, peeling them slowly from her legs, then playfully draping them over his stomach.
The girdle was next, and now she stood dressed only in black nylon panties, of sheerest quality, through which he could see the voluptuous profile of her buttocks. At that moment she was shaken by a storm of passion, and in anrgy, desperate gesture she tore the panties away, leaving her skin welt-streaked as evidence of her extreme haste.
Cleveland's heart stopped entirely. Jeanne had the most beautifully proportioned body of any woman he'd ever seen. The flanks were small, the legs flaring to a graceful, fragile curve, the breasts and buttocks faultlessly formed, firm-yet bursting with a willing inner life of their own. There wasn't an ounce of fat on her anywhere. Perfect, perfect, he thought.
The sex urge arose anew in his loins. Damn, damn! He couldn't wait much longer.
Holding her breasts as before, Jeanne now arched her body in a suggestive pose, licking her lips at the same time, her eyes rolling wildly in her head. Cleveland could see the silken texture of her belly profiled against the lamp.
"Jeanne, you teasing sex cat," he called. "I can't hold out much longer. Come here...."
The room was instantly plunged into darkness, and he felt the bed lurch as Jeanne threw herself upon him. In a single frenetic motion she straddled his stomach, leaning forward to kiss him. The hard tips of her breasts brushed across his chest. The sensation inflamed her further, and Jeanne moved upward so her breasts were adjacent to his mouth.
"Kiss them...." she hissed. "Love them ... touch them ... hurt them...."
Immediately he took the gorgeous globes in his hands, each breast soft and velvety, each breast filling his hand perfectly. Impatiently his fingertips stroked the nipples, bringing each to tense, wrinkled attention. A fanatic fury possessed Jeanne and she took her breasts from his fingers, bringing them herself, as love offerings, to his lips.
His lips closed on them hungrily, and his tongue darted busily between them. "Darling," Jeanne moaned. "Darling ... it's beautiful, more ... more ... kiss them, harder...."
And then there was no time for further sex play. The act must be consummated-now. Grey found her sliding her body downward, groaning in her throat. Deftly, naturally, the small, firm body enveloped him, and laying atop him, Jeanne began the wild rhythms of love, whimpering softly at the delicious pain.
Suddenly her body shot upward in a stabbing surge, and Cleveland felt the excruciating pain of her nails as they raked his back. In that same moment she jammed her legs tightly around his, and rolled onto her back, pulling him with her.
"Baby!" she screamed. "Now ... now...."
She closed herself on him ferociously, pumping with her legs and thighs, screaming continuously. "God, Jeanne," he gasped in pain, "save some for next time...."
Goddamn you ... don't talk. Don't talk. Again ... I"
Once more the nails ripped his back. She sunk her small teeth into his chest, and bore down hard. m that moment, in a fiery explosion Professor Grey Cleveland discovered a long lost truth, he rediscovered the most essential meaning of life. In that moment of pleasurable agony he was reborn.
CHAPTER FIVE
FOR LONG MOMENTS AFTERWARDS they lay motionless, saying nothing, their breath coming in rough gasps, their bodies trembling involuntarily from their frantic exertions. Finally Cleveland moved to slide off Jeanne. Her arms tightened around his neck.
"Don't. Grey, darling...." she whispered "Wait for a minute ... This is the best part almost ... waiting for the fever? to die down . "
A fleeting shiver of incredulity fled down Cleveland's back. How could such a thing be? A woman who wasn't eager to be rid of her burden, who wasn't anxious to withdraw into her selfish, insular shell of imagined self-sacrifice, to brood upon the brutalization done her? That there could be a woman who actually enjoyed sex, who would openly admit it to her partner. He thought bitterly of Barbara, his supposed wife. It had been so long-
"Disappointed, Grey?" Jeanne said. "Did I come too easy? Was I too much of a pushover?"
"Of course not, darling. You were superb, everything about you ... the open, generous way you allowed me...."
"Led you...." she corrected lightly.
"Allowed me. After all you can't lead anyone to something he doesn't want. Something basically repugent...."
"And I'm not repugent?"
"Hardly. You're beautiful, exciting beyond all imagining. The most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me...."
She buried her lips in his throat, fighting for his lips. "Grey," she murmured into his ear, "if only I could believe that. I've wanted you for my own for so long, I've wanted you to notice me. want me, make love to me ... And perhaps, in the process ... you ... might even come to love me a little in return...."
A faint tremor of apprehension made itself known at the base of Cleveland's skull, piercing the comforting self-fulfilled glow presently possessing him. Love? Wasn't she rushing things a little? Couldn't she let him enjoy his short-lived moment of male conquest for just a little more? He sensed affection and gratitude, surely. But how did love enter into this anyway?
They had been both overwhelmed by a mutual sex need: that was the long and short of it. Why must their devastating affair become complicated? Why couldn't they let it ride as it was and enjoy themselves as free agents, who recognized a good thing when they stumbled on it?
But he didn't betray his thoughts, he wanted to keep Jeanne too badly for that. Instead he kissed her hungrily, bringing his mouth passionately against hers, rolling his lips until her mouth opened, until their tongues met. "I will love you," he murmured hoarsely when they separated. "I do love you...."
"Please, baby," she said. "You don't have to say it. I know it's not true. You love your wife, you always will. I've seen you together. It's unmistakable.""
"You can't believe that!" He rolled away from Jeanne, falling on his back. The irony of it all! Then he laughed softly to himself, the small snorts in his throat growing louder, coming faster, until he was laughing uproariously, the gales painful and bitter in his chest.
"Grey, darling!" Jeanne said, concern in her voice. "What is it? What's wrong? What did I say?"
"Good God, sweetheart, it's too good, too damn good. That you should believe such a thing." He controlled his laughter gradually. "I love my wife...."
"Well, isn't it so?"
"Jeanne, you poor lamb, you've been taken in with all the rest. That you couldn't have seen ... You mean you didn't know . .?"
"No, what is there to know?"
"Barbara, my dear long suffering wife hates me with all her heart. And I reciprocate entirely. We loathe each other with a passion. It's been a loveless marriage almost from the start."
Jeanne's voice was surprise laden, rising now upon a note of wistful, yearning hope. "You mean ... you really ... you don't love Barbara? That there still might be a chance for us?"
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Jeanne. You don't know Barbara. She'll never let me go. Not for anything or anyone."
"But if she doesn't love you? What is there to hold her?"
"Only the self-preening importance of being the wife of Professor Grey Cleveland, who might someday be president of Jefferson College. And if not for that, then for the basic security and respectability her husband affords her. Believe me, love isn't involved."
"But I can't understand it. How could she help but love you?" Her voice became choked, and she fought for control. "Such a waste. I'd have loved you so devotedly, I'd have done anything to have you love me...." Now Jeanne broke into sobs. "Oh, Grey! How could she...?"
Cleveland was genuinely moved by Jeanne's compassion, and went to her, taking her into his arms roughly, kissing her small forehead. He felt the wetness of her tears on his chest. "Please, sweet," he comforted, "don't. I'm ... it's not worth a single tear from you...."
"But when I think of how it might have been ... Grey, why couldn't you see how much I loved you?"
"I was blind, I guess. I once found a fatal fascination in Barbara. How it could have even been. I'll never know. But for a time it was so...."
"I'm such a fool!" Jeanne sniffed, "blubbering like this, and telling you everything. A woman should never...." Silently she rose from the bed, went to her bureau. In the darkness Grey heard her blowing her nose. When she returned, the tears were wiped from her face.
"I used to pray you'd see me ... I mean really see me, see the love burning in my eyes for you. I lived for the time each day when I'd see you, when you'd speak to me. But you were oblivious to my feeble charms...."
"Please, Jeanne, don't talk like that ... ,n
"But it's true. Had you shown me the slightest romantic attention I'd have given you anything, actually surrender myself, marriage or no marriage...." Her tone became regretful, bitter. "Instead, I...."
"Please, Jeanne, stop this now...."
"No, I want to finish. I want you to know what a tragic waste it was. Instead of giving myself to you ... I got drunk, terribly drunk ... It's hard to remember ... I shacked up in a Chicago hotel for three nights with a car salesman ... a greasy, foul smelling man whose name, whose face, I can't even recall. He divested me of the sacred maidenhead of fable and song...."
"Darling, you don't know what you're saying...."
"Oh, don't I? If you could have only seen me the day I heard about your engagement to Barbara. I didn't care if I lived or died. I'd lost you, that was all that mattered. I prayed for nerve to kill myself.
Then I went off the deep end . .
Cleveland couldn't help but feel a thrill of ego and self-esteem press along his body. To think someone loved him that much. He wouldn't be human to react otherwise, he rationalized. God, but he'd make it up to Jeanne now.
They came together in a fresh surge of passion, Jeanne burying delicate lips in his, urging her firm, petite breasts against his bare chest, clenching him tightly to her with thin, fragile arms. "It's all right. Grey. Everything's all right now. You're here now, and we can share each other this way, and the rest of the world be damned...."
"Even if you never learn to love me, it'll be all right. I'm used to taking leavings. Come to me when you need me, let me help you, comfort you, relieve you when things gang up on you. I'll ask for nothing else, that's a promise. Anything you want from me ... ask ... and it's yours...."
"Leavings you'll never get," Grey said emotionally, "what little sexual desire existing between Barbara and I has all but burned out. She barely tolerates me. You'll become my second ... my only real wife...." He crushed her body roughly against his own. "God, Jeanne, I love you ... I do ... I do...."
But from somewhere beneath the surface of his subconscious came the knowledge that he was unsure, reluctant. He was not yet ready to love Jeanne unreservedly. He needed time to be sure.
For long moments they clung together, their breath coming shallow in their throats, hearts pounding in the excitement of their self-revelation. "Grey. darling ... My precious love...." Jeanne murmured. "I adore you ... I worship you...."
"I love you, Jeanne, my tiny baby...." Grey choked. "More than I've ever loved any other woman ..
"Tell me again."
"I love you, I love you...."
The damnable pangs of conscience again.
They lay huddled together, not speaking, feeling the warmth and tenderness rebuilding in their bodies. Finally from the darkness, Jeanne spoke, her voice wavery:
"Grey?"
"Yes?"
"Tell me about Barbara."
"What do you mean, tell you about Barbara? What is there to tell. She's a selfish, grasping bitch, an egocentric bloodsucker who's been draining my masculinity, turning me into a watered down version of a man. Under her subtle care I've become nothing more than a lap dog...."
"No, that's not what I mean. How does she treat you in bed? How does she act when you make love to her? When you insist she submit to you...?"
"Well," he said, faintly embarrassed by Jeanne's strange curiosity, "it's certainly nothing like the storm we just had. Where you were charging and passionate, Barbara is almost a dead thing. She hates the sex act, she thinks it's something dirty, instead of a beautiful bond between two people who love each other...."
"But why...?"
"It's a rather long story...." And Cleveland told her about Barbara's disappointment with her barren body, of how she changed when she'd learned she could never bear children, of how she'd taken out her resentment on Grey.
"But that isn't right, darling. Surely it wasn't your fault. Couldn't she see that? Why she might have even adopted some chidrlen...."
Grey snorted. "Fat chance." Bitter sarcasm edged his words. "After all, some brat of unknown origins ... that she might rear some lower class child in her home...."
"Oh, no, Grey! She couldn't have been that bad...."
"She was, believe me. And is, and will be when she returns...."
"And she withheld herself from you for that reason?"
"Mostly. And those times she did consent to my male foulness, she might as well not have bothered. It was like cohabiting with a corpse . ."
Now Grey detailed the episode that had occurred the night before Barbara had gone East, not sparing Jeanne any of the particulars of his frustration and humiliation. As he warmed to his subject, he told of other instances, times when she had actually flaunted herself, taunting him in his extreme need, then denying him at the last moment: or worse still, making him suddenly impotent with a caustic comment when he'd entered her body. Finally, Jeanne could stand no more, and interrupted him in mid-sentence.
"Oh, Lord, no, Grey ... How could any woman be so foul? Don't tell me any more." Again Grey felt a fresh flow of tears on his chest, again he felt the thrilling warmth of her love and sympathy. "The filthy bitch, the inhuman bitch," she raged.
"When I think of the nights I've spent here, tossing and turning, hungering for you, thinking, dreaming the wildest sort of dreams ... And all the time you were being treated like that...." She burst into convulsive sobs. "Oh, darling! What a waste!" And she came to him, eagerly seeking his mouth, her face wet and slippery against his.
"Mmmm," she purred, as they broke. "But now, by God, I'll make it all up to you, I swear. I'll repay you a hundred times over for all the hurt she gave you...." A sudden spasm shot through her, making her body rigid.
"Darling! Let me start now. Come to me now." All at once her hands became busy again, stroking his chest, his face, his stomach. "Baby," she sighed delightedly, finding him ready. Now she urged him up with her hands, deftly sliding her body beneath his.
With a practiced motion she drew him down, clenching her legs about him. A surge of surprised rapture renewed itself within Cleveland as she welcomed him into her body, as he sensed her liquid warmth. Her legs stiffened, her hips and buttocks suddenly twitched, and then the wild, undeniable rhythm commenced anew.
"Grey, precious...." she chanted, her hands pressing his back, her lips sliding on his throat. "Take it out on me ... all your repressions ... all the hurt she gave you...."
Abruptly the fevers of passion overwhelmed Jeanne, and she said no more concentrating all her efforts on the beautiful work at hand. Her cries became animalistic, coming from deep in her throat. Then her body stopped suddenly, the trip-hammer cadence lost for a moment. Her nails dug viciously into Grey's back, and she ground her stomach into his. "Again, lover...." she urged ecstatically. Rapidly the rhythm was regained, Jeanne's exertions resumed with fresh vigor.
"God damn you!" Grey gasped, spitting the words into the pillow, as he was delivered anew, the pain almost as blinding this time as the first. Their release was simultaneous, and with a short, shrill gasp Jeanne nipped his chest with her pointed teeth, soothing the wound instantly with a swift swipe of her tongue. "Lover...." she sighed.
Grey was suddenly brought awake from his spent slumber by the tantalizing aroma of coffee and bacon. What the hell? he thought, fighting to clear his sleep drugged mind. Was it morning already? In panic he felt the bed beside him for Jeanne. She was gone. Then he gradually regained his senses, and when he heard the clatter of dishes in the apartment's kitchenette, he knew where he was. But even before he summoned determination to rise, Jeanne had reentered the bedroom and was leaning over him, kissing him.
"Grey, baby," she whispered. "Wake up. I've fixed us something to eat ... Are you hungry?"
"Lord, you know it. I'm famished. I could eat the box the groceries came in." Impulsively, playfully he reached up and pulled the overbalanced Jeanne down upon him, feeling the silk of her robe slide against his bare skin.
"Darling," she. smiled. "Aren't you satisfied yet? No, stop that ... you'll tear my negligee." And yet she allowed him to run his fingers beneath the sheer material, to stroke her back and buttocks. When he tired of this, she chided, "Eat, baby. Remember? I've got some scrambled eggs and bacon. Sound good? Come on now, get up. You've got to get back your strength...."
"You vixen...." Cleveland growled in mock ferocity, then sprang from the bed, in happy pursuit of the shrieking woman. When he caught her he stood in the middle of the living room, stark naked, pressing her tiny body to his, bending to kiss her long and yearningly.
"Grey," she whispered, her eyes glowing softly, "I love you so much." She sighed. "But if we don't eat soon everything will be scorched...."
She moved suddenly to the davenport, where she picked up a burgundy colored robe, made of heavy satin. "Here, put this on...." she smiled. "And cover that unbearable nakedness of yours...."
Gratefully Cleveland accepted the robe and shrugged into it. "Good fit," he said, "just like it was made for me...." He paused. "Why, Jeanne, how ... how?" He looked down puzzledly at the flowing, monogrammed G that decorated the pocket. "You mean...?"
"I bought that for you years ago, darling," she said softly, "when I still had the emotions of an ingenue, when I still believed there was a chance that someday you'd love me." When Grey looked at her he saw tears glistening in her eyes. "And now, at long last...."
His heart melting, Grey moved to embrace her.
"No you don't," Jeanne smiled, purposely dispeling the mood, pulling away. "This food'll be ruined."
She moved to the tastefully set table. "Here, honey. Sit here, where I can see you." She grazed his forehead with her lips. "My, but you're a handsome chunk of man."
She served generous portions of scrambled eggs, done to a perfect turn, refilling his coffee cup three times before the meal was finished. When Grey saw the richly buttered slices of toast, the crisply fried bacon, his stomach did a quick flip. God, but he was hungry I It seemed it would take days to fill the yawning pit that was his stomach. Eagerly he fell to, unable to remember when food had tasted so good.
As his appetite was gradually sated, he had time to concentrate on Jeanne again, to ponder the circumstances that had brought him here, that had allowed him to share her bed, and now-a midnight meal with both of them dressed in nothing but flimsy robes.
Indeed, there was no nightgown beneath Jeanne's negligee. Straining against the sheer, gossamer material he could plainly see her miniature, compact breasts, the pink tips taut and wrinkled, two mischievous eyes seemingly taunting him, daring him, doubting his virility. The blemish-free area of ivory flesh aroused him anew, making the last mouthfuls of food all but tasteless.
Jeanne had combed and rearranged her hair.
Her face was freshly scrubbed and made up, her eyes dark, matchng the crimson pout of her lips. Again he was enthralled by her petite loveliness, he was overcome with an insatiable longing. In her toilette she had reapplied the heavy, penetrating perfume, the scent that had tempted him from the first.
Now his glance carried upwards to her eyes. He found Jeanne smiling at his topographical survey, its nuance indicating amused pleasure. And still-there was hardness in the smile, a faint flush of triumph, of domineering power, seemingly saying, "Men are such children, so easy to control, like puppets almost...."
But as suddenly as the disquieting look had come, it disappeared. In its place was left a solemn, peaceful expression, an anticipation of pleasures and happiness to come.
It was this look that caused Grey to go to Jeanne, to kneel at her side and take her in his arms, to bury his head against her breast, to gently kiss her breasts, manipulate her nipples through the material of her gown with his lips. Docilely, her body trembling again, Jeanne allowed his ministrations, her arms clenching and unclenching about his neck, her lips fluttering in his hair.
Then Cleveland carefully undid the tie at Jeanne's waist, deliberately and painstakingly opening the gown to expose her entire body, the smooth curve of her waist and loins, the subtle undulation of her bosom and belly. As he leaned to kiss the delicate mounds, as his lips slid to her belly, he sensed a sharp thrill of pleasure spear him. She was fresh, her skin glowing. While he'd slept she had bathed, to come to him in new cleanness! With her hands she pressed his head close to her fragrant body, her fingers twining his hair.
Suddenly the shudders intensified, and concern shone in Jeanne's eyes. "Darling, don't...." She wriggled herself completely from her negligee, letting it fall on the back of her chair. "We'd best go back to bed. You'll catch a chill...." She rose, started for the bedroom.
Grey intercepted her, taking her in his arms, lifting her tiny body high, encompassing it in his arms like a tiny, compct ball. Effortlessly he carried her through the livingroom, to the bedroom.
"Grey, you darling brute," she sighed, clinging desperately to his neck, "don't squeeze so hard. There'll be nothing left of me if you're not careful."
"I can't help it, honey. I just want to hold you so close. You're just like a tiny doll." He chuckled hoarsely. "A real living doll...."
Then in a frenzy of animal passion he threw her on the bed, crawling over her body immediately. Their passion was a frenzied, brutal thing this time, with Jeanne clawing and biting, screaming and gasping intermittently, bringing her body up to meet Grey's savage, jarring thrusts with vindictive retaliation. The red-orange blur grew hotter, as again and again Jeanne cried out in her supreme release, shimmering, golden patina, which quickly grew brighter and brighter.
Until-
Blindly, groping through a dazzling snowstorm of glitterng, golden snowflakes, he fought to gain that last victorious moment.
Then suddenly the golden flecks were gone. And he was paralyzed by the darkness-the stillness.
From far away he heard the sound of soft sobs, the pleading of an alien voice. Someone was shaking the bed. Jeanne.
"I never dreamed," the voice throbbed, "I never dreamed it could be so wonderful ... Amourex, man amourex...."
At last they both slept.
CHAPTER SIX
Barbara was gone the whole month of May, and at the end of that time she wrote an acid letter, extending her absence still another week. "I hope, darling," the missile taunted, "that you are behaving yourself, and being a good boy. I think of you constantly, and worry to think of you in the clutches of those maneating campus cuties ... Even her letters, Cleveland thought, couldn't help but reflect the smug confidence, the contempt for him. that Barbara felt.
"I hope you aren't missing me too much," the letter closed.
Grey snorted, methodically tearing the paper to shreds. If only she knew how her castrated, trained little boy was behaving himself--how he was missing her-
The two weeks following his introductory-free-home-trial with Jeanne were an erotic daydream realized, frenzied and hectic beyond description. Grey's ego was salved and flattered as never before, and he became confident, aggressive, almost bullying in his demands. If Jeanne rebelled against this masculine conceit, she did not let on Actually her sexuality was the greater, and it seemed her hunger for him, for his hard, lithe body would never be slaked.
Cleveland had once considered himself proficient m the ways of love, but after his nightly cohabitation with Jeanne, he realized he was a mere schoolboy, a novice in the byways of love, that Jeanne was a teacher without peer. There were movements, exotic endearments, hesitations (moments of teasing withholding that heightened the painful, sweeping passion immeasurably), all the Tike of which he'd never dreamed existed. These and more, she executed expertly and uninhibitedly with him.
Teacher, teacher, he mused one night after they'd finished a particularly strenuous event. What she'd taught him of love-of the true face of womankind.
Every evening during those two weeks he spent at Jeanne's apartment, sometimes leaving around midnight for a face-saving appearance at his own home, but mostly he bedded down with Jeanne, making her apartment his second home-his only real home. In time much of his clothing was discreetly moved there, so he might go directly to the college from her bedroom.
If tongues should wag, if his was a dangerous maneuver, he rationalized, then danger be damned. Such was his turn of mood. He was only beginning to live-who was to stop hint? Only one thing mattered: Jeanne. And their beautiful, life-stopping love affair.
They avoided each other scrupulously at the college, but as soon as the school day was over, they came together in Jeanne's living room (or bedroom as ardor dictated) hungrily devouring each other with their lips, with their hands. If Grey finished his educational chores before Jeanne, he might come to her apartment in mid-afternoon (Jeanne having provided him with his own pass key by now), there to wait, to be ready for her, martinis in hand.
The interlude was a delightful thing, filled with the sense of exotic escape all men dream of, yet few attain. Long afternoons and evenings were passed in passion invoking drinking, desultory, provocative conversation-all invariably leading to the frenetic love making they both longed for.
It was during one of these rambling conversations that Grey uncovered a hitherto unexpected facet to Jeanne's personality. True, she was an instructor in the history department, so the revelation should not have been surprising, but it was hard to conceive of a woman as vitally modern, a liberated woman so to speak, being interested in something as musty as Egyptology.
But it was so, and even though she was somewhat reticent on the subject, several times he got her started, and it was fantastic the things she knew about the antique time of the pharoahs and the pyramids. She spoke compellingly of the religious rites, the construction of their temples, even of their mores, their intimate, personal lives, their approach to love and to sex.
"Honestly, Grey," she laughed self-consciously once when she'd talked steadily for an hour, "why don't you turn me off when I get started like this? I get to be a damned bore on the subject."
"But of course not, Jeanne. You're absolutely fascinating when you discuss Egypt. Seems you transport me to another time and place...."
Otherwise they danced in Jeanne's living room, their bodies clinging together, moving inflamingly, putting off, prolonging the beautiful agony, the desire that burned in their veins. They teased and taunted, seeing who could hold out the longest-laughing when the other capitulated, then delivering themseleves to their partner with a pagan fury.
Several times, restless from their forced imprisonment, they drove to Kentland some sixty miles distant, there frequenting smoky clubs and bars where their anonymity would be respected. Here they danced, talked, drank and ate, caressing each other in gloomy booths, always building up to the evening's inevitable climax, fighting the inner fires that flared higher and higher.
On one such night, as they were seated at a small table in a crowded nightspot, watching the sleazy floorshow, Jeanne had abruptly clawed her nails into his inner thigh. "What the hell!" he'd gasped.
"Baby," Jeanne had sighed thickly, "let's go home. I can't wait any longer. I need you something awful."
Cleveland could tell from the dull cast to her eyes that she'd had a little too much to drink. It was strange, too, because usually she could match him drink for drink, with no bad effects.
"Honey," she slurred. "Let's go home and play doctor. I don't feel so good. I need an examination . .
Jeanne," he pretended to scold. "Is that any way for a pedagogue to talk? Where are your professional ethics?"
"Pedagogue, hell," she giggled. "Teachers are human, even if nobody believes it. They need some of that old stuff just like everybody else. C'mon, we'll play doctor. You can undress me ... give me some of that medicine I like...."
A sudden, aching twist had rolled his stomach then, and answering a like urge within him, he had hurried Jeanne from the club.
But they weren't destined to reach their love nest that nght. Twenty miles out of Kentland, Jeanne's lust became utterly uncontrollable. As Cleveland drove, she kissed and caressed him, letting him fondle her freely, indeed guiding his free hand herself. In a weird fit of passion she began undressing him in the car. "Good God, Jeanne," he gritted, trying to keep control of the car, "are you going to to rape me?"
"Eggz-actJy," she giggled drunkenly. "I just can't wait any longer. I've got to have you right now...."
"Now? What do you mean?"
"You big baby. Do I have to draw pictures?
Find a side road somewhere."
Tremors fled along Cleveland's arms and legs, and involuntarily he found himself turning off the main highway. Ten minutes later they were off the road, out of sight in a tractor lane leading into a fallow field. The motor had barely stopped, the lights died, before Jeanne hopped from the Thunderbird, teetering dangerously on her high, spiked heels. Immediately she began to strip. "Hurry, cherie," she urged, lapsing into the French she used whenever it promised to be an extra special event. "Bring the blanket."
His clothes flapping loosely about him, Grey brought the comforter, spread it on the ground. Before he could straighten, a nude body charged him from behind, threw him onto the ground, began frantically undressing him, all but tearing his clothes from him.
Then a diminutive, fiery body covered his, enveloped him. Anxiously she urged him to the act. chanting hypnotically all the while, "Cherie, je te adore. Ouvre moi, ouvre moil"
And there, in the soft spring night, on the grass-cushioned ground, beneath a canopy of cold, disinterested stars, they'd indulged in a timeless game which Jeanne had wickedly labeled "Doctor", Jeanne's ecstatic screams echoing in the darkness.
The effects of his release from Barbara's bondage were evident, even in Grey Cleveland's classroom teaching. New confidence, emanating from his conquest of Jeanne, seemed to stream from every pore, and his students admitted openly that there was a new magnetism afire in their instructor: he exuded charm, poise-and to the females, unmistakable virility. It was as if, overnight, he'd been recast in a new mold.
There were times when Grey felt he would drop on the spot; Jeanne's demands being so incessant. Fortunately he possessed remarkable recuperative powers, and after a week's time he was able to take all in stride-curricular and extra-curricular.
He was quick to smile and jest with his students, especially the females in his art classes, his quips often skirting the extreme edges of off-color humor. The coeds were quick on the uptake, and wondered at the change in Professor Cleveland.
Among those who pondered at length on her instructor's abrupt transformation was Sandra Cuminings, the gorgeously proportioned senior whom Cleveland had letched after that late afternoon just before his rebirth. Where once he'd been deferential to her, almost as if in awe of her unsullied beauty, he was now flip, at times maddeningly indifferent.
And Sandra was not used to this sort of inattention, even from a mature man. Her teacher's new attitude disturbed her, almost as much as the un-explainable rush that grew in her chest whenever he leaned over her to criticize and advise during class. It was painful, unsatisfied sensation, as though she were missing something, a great loss she was unable to explain. And even when she was away from Cleveland the strange emptiness persisted, giving her no rest.
Could it be? she thought. But no, how could it? After all, he was married-a mature man-and she was only twenty-one. Silly, she chided herself. You're acting like an empty-headed farm girl.
But still she couldn't quiet the pangs of sullen anger she felt when he treated her so lightly, when he was barely polite to her during classtime. It was humiliating to have a man, any man, impervious to her charms. She purposely set out to do something about his indifference. Perhaps in inflaming, then humiliating-him, she could lose the eternal breathlessness she'd felt of late.
Cleveland's passing over of Sandra was not deliberate. It was merely that in his infatuation with the new found life he enjoyed with the uninhibited Jeanne, there was no room in his thoughts for anything else. If he was offhand with her, he was the same with all his students.
Had he known it was having an adverse effect upon her, he would have been overjoyed, for to him Sandra was still a beautiful, desirable hunk of female flesh. That his indifference could move her! It was merely that he believed his chances of involvement with the exalted Sandra were beyond the realm of remotest possibility. The thought of intimacy with her had never entered his mind. His brain was far too busy, with thoughts of a saucy bird in the hand.
It was Friday evening of the second week, as he silently let himself into Jeanne's darkened apartment, that he experienced a session of hair-raising sex he would never forget. It was nine o'clock; he'd promised Jeanne the depart mental meeting at Jefferson College would be over by eight. Damn that long-winded President Bronson all to hell anyway-
Where was she? he thought. Don't tell me she's gone out. Not when I need her so badly-Then he heard a stirring in the bedroom. "Jeanne?"
"In here, cherie," she called. "But don't come in yet. I'm not ready. Take a drink while you're waiting...."
Grey had gone to the bathroom to freshen up. Afterwards he'd gone into the living room to look up a drink. He downed two shots of brandy neat, and was just pouring another when Jeanne called: "Grey, darling, I'm ready. Come in now...." Rapidly he swallowed the third brandy.
Confidently, his tiredness soothed by the quick effect of brandy on an empty stomach, he turned the door knob.
Then, as he entered the room, saw the weirdly flickering tapers, caught the pungence of the thick aroma in his nostrils, saw the ghostly apparition lying on the bed, his heart died instantly. He was frozen to the knob, his blood seemingly turning to water all at once. Good God-What was this?
Jeanne was lying on the bed, her body propped against some heavily brocaded pillows, the pose wanton and seductive. She was barely discernable through the strange haze of smoke that filled the room. The scent, heavy and musky, was overpowering-its purpose unmistakably aphrodisiac. It seemed to Grey his eyes darted everywhere at once, trying to pierce the murky gloom, his brain awash in a tidal wave of confusion. How could he explain the frightening scene before him? Had he, by mistake, wandered into a madhouse?
The bed, upon which Jeanne lay completely naked, was swathed in a coverlet of pure white, glistening silk, while beneath her body was a pad of sheerest gold lame. On each side of the bed. and at the foot, on small, fragile stands, stood tiny, saffron colored bowls, the flame in each guttering hungrily at the thick, almost opaque glass, shedding the barest minimum of light. In the farthest corner of the room, simmering slowly on a specially covered table, its spread decorated with what appeared to be cabalistic symbols, stood an oddly shaped, candle heated vessel from which roiled a thick cloud of smoke. The pungent odor-
Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the shadowed, haze-dimmed room, and he regarded Jeanne with an incredulous, frightening gaze. Still she did not speak, but remained motionless, a nameless taut on her lips, enjoying his consternation Good Lord, his mind raged. Jeanne, what have you. done to your self?
Through the thick, sulphurous clouds of smoke, bathed in an eerie orange glow, he studied Jeanne his heart haltingly reviving commencing an irregular rhythm. He was shaken by the shudders which raced along his spine.
Then suddenly he understood. Jeanne's passion for Egyptology.
Still dismayed, his eyes fled down her small, divinely formed figure, taking in the cunningly placed, blue eye-shadow, the stark darkened eyebrows, the garish lip coloring, the intense whiteness of her skin. On her head, hiding the natural beauty of her real hair, was a black wig. the strands long, stiffly lacquered into precise plaits, one draped on each side of her breasts. The false bangs, clinging closely to her forehead, added an antique charm.
Rapidly he catalougued the wide, gold collar that circled Jeanne's fine, proud neck, the gold thong sandals gracing her feet, the symbolic gold, jewel-embossed lash she held in her hand. He knew. It was a costume from the hidden, secret annals of time-the costume of a courtesan of the courts of bygone Egypt.
Her body was the most fantastic of all. Artfully, painstakingly she had painted it, plucked it and shaved it. Then he remembered an art book which had detailed the artifice of these ancient harlots. Again his heart froze. God, she hadn't shaved her head too?
Frantically he searched her face with his eyes, relieved when he saw a stray strand of brown peeping from beneath the wig on one side. Thank God. She hadn't carried her caricature to its ultimate extreme.
The nipple of each of Jeanne's perfect breasts was painted a brilliant crimson, the scalloped design seemingly enlarging each nipple. A border of white flesh, and then the blue again. Emanating from the tip of each nipple was a sunburst of turquiose coloring, its points streaming upwards, downwards, outwards, two of the main points converging, traveling along her belly, joining in a single dart which dipped between her legs in an unmistakable, erotic invitation. Two thin lines traced the top of her legs, extending from the hips to feet.
And beyond this weird, surrealistic desecration of her beautiful body was a peculiar whiteness, giving the reclining figure an almost radiance. Jeanne had thickly powdered her entire body before commencing to paint the inflaming designs.
"In the name of heaven." Grey choked at last, a primitive pulse overcoming his wonder, a tearing, clawing buzzard working at his entrails, "Jeanne, what is all this?"
"Something special, lover," she said softly, slowly sliding her legs apart, the directional lines drawn on her body compelling, commanding his eyes to follow. "Do you think you'll enjoy it Egyptian style?"
Jeanne's voice was hushed, its tone giving Cleveland an uncanny feeling, a sense of remoteness almost, as if he were not actually participating in the frightening, unnatural love sacrifice. It was almost as if he had actually fled the twentieth century as if he was actually enjoying the ministrations of an Egyptian whore in the time of the pharoahs.
Still he did not answer Jeanne Looking down on her, his body still rigid, unmoving, he felt an unmistakable surge of desire constrict his stomach, travel into his legs. Suddenly he was trembling, almost gasping for breath, as a spasm of lust the like of which he'd never known, gripped him.
"Darling," Jeanne intoned hollowly. "You didn't answer me. Are you all right?"
"Yes...." he murmured. "I'm just sort of confused, I guess...."
"You needn't be, Grey. Undress and come to me. I'll straighten you out in a hurry. I'll show you what love was meant to be...."
In the drifting skeins ol smoke Grey rapidly threw off his clothing Then, his body pebbled with goose flesh, he advanced to the bed. The smell of the strange perfume became maddeningly insistent, and it was all he could do to keep from throwing himself upon this apparition from the past, there to brutally violate her. But he restrained himself, knowing that Jeanne expected their love play to be prolonged, ecstatic on this extra special night.
She rose when he reached the bed, silently indicated that he should lie on the golden pad, already indented and warmed by her own body. Obediently Grey arranged himself, feeling self-consciousness at the last, his body quivering. He covered himself with his hands.
"You know, darling," Jeanne murmured, her hands cool and smooth as she lightly stroked his chest, "Egyptian courtesans believed that the object of life was to give pleasure to men. They were trained by priests in specially ordained temples of love. To them the submission of their bodies was something sacred. There was no limit to the means they used to excite their men, to the ways they brought the sex affair to a glorious climax....
"So please, Grey, my love ... for tonight, don't be shocked at anything I do. Pretend we've been transported into the past. Enjoy me, enjoy yourself. Don't protest. Only submit. As I'll submit to you...."
Then, with a dreamy, hypnotic light in her eyes, Jeanne leaned over Grey, her lips busy on his face, his neck, his chest. Gently but firmly she removed his hands, and patiently placed them at his sides. Then her hand closed on him, warm and urgent.
Slowly she rose upon him, her wildly painted breasts dancing in the sepia gloom. She held each shadowed, symmetrical mound separately, leaning over his head, her fingers manipulating the dark rosettes to hardness, her hands offering them alternately to his lips. 'Don't be afraid of the coloring, baby. It's special. Won't come off. Take them...."
And there, amidst the weaving heavy pungence, bathed in an erotic sweat that threatened to grow, ferment and expand into a fiery explosion, Grey submitted to undreamed of excesses of love, kissing and enveloping the rosebuds, his mouth moving from one to another, then finally taking them together, as Jeanne compressed her breasts with her hands, and brought both nipples to his lips at once.
It seemed the explosion would occur at any moment, but still he managed to contain himself, knowing that Jeanne would be furious if his climax preceded hers, knowing that this innovation was only one of a long series he would joyfully endure before they-
Now his heart was stilled anew, and Jeanne, trembling violently, her eyes rolling in insane frenzy, began to whimper in her throat. Gently she removed her breasts, again placing Grey's hands firmly at his sides, her touch commanding him not to move.
Good God! he thought, as he felt his insides grow tense, as the agonized yearning tore at his loins, could he hold out?
Tenderly, deliberately, Jeanne moved down on his body, kissing his neck, his shoulders, lingering on the hard extrusions of his chest, kissing his arms, his Abdomen, her head constantly bobbing lower, her hands caressing, stroking him frantically.
For a brief moment his body made a single convulsive shiver of protest.
"Submit...." she chanted, barely lifting her lips.
A thunderstorm of passion held Grey in a death-like grip. Then awe possessed him. Finally he relaxed, permitted the wild demonstration-this Egyptian courtesan's willing and eager sacrifice to holy love.
Gradually, unmistakably Grey Cleveland felt the inhibiting bonds of civilized passion being taken from him. And for the remainder of the hour that Jeanne worked him over, he was actually lifted from present day, and delivered to a fathomless, distant land where love, where gratification of the flesh was everything.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THUS Grey and Jeanne went into the third and fourth weeks of their marathon love affair. There were no more letters from Barbara, so Grey concluded that there had been no change in her plans; he could continue his aphrodisiac holiday unhindered by the slightest consideration of her existence.
The school year was doggedly drawing to a close, with all concerned, instructors and students alike, going through the motions, all anxiously awaiting semester's end, when they'd see the last of books, tests, and boring instructors-or students, depending upon which side of the desk you occupied.
To Cleveland it was double torture, for besides the fact that he had to keep up his scholastic duties, here were two other drains on his energy, one mental, the other-and most consuming-physical. First he was haunted by the thought that his interlude with Jeanne was almost at an end. When Barbara returned, it would be all but impossible to go to her. Second, and contradictorily, was the eternal weariness. There were time when he thought that if Barbara didn't return soon, there'd be nothing for her to return to.
For instead of becoming placid and offhand about their sexual relations, Jeanne, also haunted by Barbara's impending return, drove herself-and Grey-mercilessly. Rarely of late was she satisfied with one bout nightly; he must take her two, three times before dawn rubbed its haggard eyes once more. When he tried to beg off, making excuses that he couldn't bring it off again, she laughed and taunted him, using every means at her disposal to revive him, to prepare him for the tigress attack to come.
Afterwards she'd purr into his ear, kiss him, twine her legs languorously across his sweat streaked body, and say, "See, baby? I told you, you could do it. It's all a matter of concentration...."
"Yeah?" he murmured tiredly barely able to form the words. "Whose?"
"Who cares? The important thing is that it happened. I almost think I enjoy it most when I work you up to it. Something creative about it. Almost like I did that night I dolled up like an Egyptian whore...." A shudder coursed through her body "Just remembering makes me all twitchy."
"Don't remember then...."
And she cuddled persuasively against him. drawing her legs down tightly on him, squeezing the breath from him. "After awhile, huh? Please. Grey You can rest now ... but in an hour or so?"
"Good God. Jeanne, do you think I'm superhuman? This last just made three . ."
She wasn't to be dissuaded. "You'll try, won't you, lover?" she cooed. "We'll both try Rest now, sweetheart."
She was murmuring something about how some women used alcohol, sleeping pills, even dope for relief, about how he was her addiction-he gave her utmost relief and satisfaction. She must have him before she could sleep And if by some chance-he awoke during the night-Well?
It was about then that Cleveland fell into a profound, drained sleep.
But these considerations, this fear of losing Jeanne, troubled him only at first. As time progressed, a more savagely disconcerting doubt grew in his brain. This unsettling conclusion Grey pondered often, either when he was with Jeanne, or when he sat in the silence of his office during free periods, a conclusion centering upon the significance, the real meaning of their relationship.
Ever since the insanity of their Egyptian night, dogged by feelings of shame, recrimination, remorse, he had openly admitted to himself that any feeling approximating love he'd ever felt for Jeanne, was now gone. He kissed her. whispered endearments to her, continually avowed his love, but underneath he was revulsed by his hypocrisy.
There was no sensation of love involved. He continued this parody for one reason alone: he wanted to retain the illusion of excitement, of forbidden pleasures, he needed Jeanne, this liaison, to relieve the boredom of his daily life. She was living proof of his manliness; without her he would once more turn eunuch.
But most of all he wanted Jeanne's tempestuous body, her wild, daring, inventive brand of love making, passion that occasionally transported him to heights of dizzying delight such as he'd never known before, would never know again. He realized there was something sublimely perverted about Jeanne-that though she professed love, it was really her love of evil, self-debasing love she wanted. She was enraptured with the love act itself. It was this mysterious unexpected quality of evil that drew him on.
Thus Cleveland found himself beset with a tangled web of doubts, all undermining his mental and physical well-beng to a dangerous degree. And as the days passed and Barbara's resurgence into his life drew closer, he became more and more restless and disturbed. He could keep his mind on his work only by employing the most agonized concentration.
Little by little there evolved in his brain a general feeling of self-disgust and betrayal, as though he'd sold his soul to the devil for extension of temporal and venial pleasures. Somehow he sensed degradaton, he felt that now even Jeanne looked on him with contempt-that she'd emerged the victor in the eternal battle of the sexes, that she used him now merely as a stud animal, a creature who could assuage her, relieve and purge her when the venery in her blood began to boil.
Actually, Cleveland concluded, he was as necessary to Jeanne as an antibiotic might be to a sick person. He recalled her game of "doctor" and wondered if her subconscious hadn't dictated the name. And afterwards, when one became dissatisfied with his doctor, wasn't it an easy matter to scout up another?
There was no element of decency or humanity to their cohabitation any more, despite the outpouring of endearments they squandered on each other. Their sex affair had become something akin to black arts. Grey, his masculinity, his sexuality, the bone and marrow of his body, were being sacrificed on the altar of Jeanne's insatiable sex greed. He had become an offering, so much meat on the block-and Jeanne the avenging priestess.
Small wonder they held so little self-esteem for each other-that they clung so desperately to the only one thing left them-their wild, incoherent love-making.
As these nagging doubts and suspicions became gradually more fullblown, Grey found himself experiencing slight, nameless pangs of dread whenever the time approached for their routine of bedroom gymnastics. And as day followed day he discovered his aversion to sex with Jeanne being comingled with the very act of even going to her, seeing her, talking with her.
He did and he didn't. He wanted Jeanne and he didn't want her. Christ, Buster, he thought, you are gigantically screwed up.
How I envy the dumb, unlettered slobs, he groaned inwardly one afternoon, as he attempted mustering courage enough to leave the college for Jeanne's apartment, who can take their sex straight and enjoy it for what it is, a wracking, back-breaking piece, an act that cleans you out like a laxative, an act enjoyed with no compunction, no thought of soul, morality or love involved. Why all these doubts, these ifs and ands?
It was with an emotion vaguely related to self-redemption, salvation almost, that Cleveland found himself gradually becoming engrossed in his college duties once more, that he found himself emerging from Jeanne's evil spell, able to look with wonder on the very life processes he'd once thought dull. There were times when he almost wished Barbara would cut her stay short, that she would return unexpectedly, to force him from this quandary, back to the routine sanity of his ritualized existence once again. But the thought was fleeting, leaving him with cold, constricting dread in the pit of his stomach. The present agonized confusion was far more appealing than that emasculated bondage.
It was during this period of reawakening and rediscovery that Cleveland's attention was once more brought to the voluptuous and tempting charms of Sandra Cummings. He often caught himself watching her guardedly during his classes, otherwise spending too much time at her work table, bending too closely to her, breathing deeply of her flowery, fresh cologne. And watching when the period was over, and Miss Cummings was gone, leaving him in a stew of wishful fantasy and frustration, he allowed himself to drift into the wildest sort of reveries.
He was not ashamed of these daydreams now, nor did he berate himself for indulging in them. The way his life was messed up now, it certainly did no harm to think of what it might be like if he had his life to live over, if he could once again know the love of a normal, warm and sincere woman. And especially a young, lovely animal like Sandra, a child almost. He could teach her the ways of love, he could form her into the ideal woman, the as yet, undiscovered woman of his fretful dreams.
And so he continued to watch her, to secretly admire and appraise her lovely face, the thin, sensuous line of her hips and legs, the fine, hand-clenching curve of her ripe, proud breasts. Wouldn't he love painting her in the nude? After all, he conceded wryly, dreams were supposed to be therapeutic, weren't they?
But if he was secretly afire for Sandra, if he was disillusioned with the way his arrangement with Jeanne had turned out, if he was confused with conflicting inner desires, he never let on to Jeanne. If anything, he overplayed the role of mad lover, no matter what the cost in physical strain and mental abhorrence, much to Jeanne's apparent satisfaction. All in all, he continued to acquit himself admirably in the bedroom department.
"Baby," Jeanne signed after a particularly strenuous and drawn out performance, "I do love you. It seems it just gets better and better. I thought I'd die...." And she moved closer. "That felt like another. You game?"
The change in Professor Cleveland's demeanor didat go unnoticed by his star pupil. His new attitude toward her was welcomed wholeheartedly. In the past few days Sandra Cummings, hard as she tried, had been unable to erase the image of her instructor's thin, handsome face from her mind. And though she balked at the word love, she was still forced to admit that if it wasn't love, then at least it was a damned good infatuation. There was only one way to kill that infatuation: She must expose herself openly to Cleveland, invite a pass. For if there was anything to kill her appetite for any commodity, whether it be food, music, male company or what, it was overindulgence in that item.
Still she cursed herself at the breathless feeling that persisted, intensified whenever she passed the portals of the art studio. Unconsciously she found herself taking more time with her toilette on the days she had art class, being more judicious in her choice of clothing, seeking the most inflaming blouse, the lowest cut frock, the tightest sweater. True, she kept within bounds of good taste, but the results, nevertheless, were very disturbing to the male population of Jefferson College.
Especially to Professor Cleveland. None of Sandra's artifice was lost on him, and though he didn't dare believe she was affecting it for him, he still had his daydreams. Yet he held himself in check, and on those days when Sandra was most enticing, he adopted an aloof pose, skimping on the individual attention he gave her.
When he did come to her table, however, he allowed his eyes to pore hungrily over her bare shoulders, to slide down the subtly shadowed contour of her bosom. Once, as she leaned for a paint brush, her cotton dress fell away breathtakingly, and he caught a gimpse of one entire breast, the pink nipple convoluted in tense, beautiful folds, the nib itself hard and erect. It was all he could do to force his eyes from the lovely rosette.
Sandra, who had purposely executed the revealing maneuver, delayed in getting the brush, giving Cleveland ample time to study her beautiful bosom. When she did retrieve it, she turned to her instructor, conferring a shy, girlish smile, proferring the brush to him. Seeing his flushed, embarrassed expression, she knew her ruse had worked, and for a brief instant her smile changed, became taunting, victorious.
Despite this. Sandra never intended to become a cheap, conniving tart. Inherently she was a decent girl, albeit dangerously naive, with a good sense of values, a set of moral rules she adhered to strictly Admittedly she was spoiled (Sandra herself would be the first to agree) and someday some man would slap that streak out of her, but none had even come close as yet. No man had meant that much to her thus far.
Sandra was a woman who enjoyed herself, enjoyed flaunting her beauty, seeing the effect it would have on any foolish oaf who presumed upon her femininity. This in itself was a major vice. Pride. Sandra also recognized this defect, and swore that someday she'd overcome it. But for now. no. She was having too much fun. And the way her charms were bedeviling Professor Cleveland. What a ball it would be to string him along! It was just too good to pass up.
And besides, she conceded guiltily over the surging pain that seemingly compressed her heart, wouldn't it be fun to make him really care? Beyond that: Didn't she want desperately herself, to have him care?
She sensed an unnatural yearning inside her, a sudden fever that caused her breasts to ache, the tips to puker to hard, tingling buds. Dear God, she questioned, what's happening to me?
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a matter of fate, merest chance, that threw Cleveland and Sandra together that Thursday evening of the fourth week. A lecture, prosaic as it may sound, was the start of it all.
It was a lecture given at Bascomb Hall, a lecture entitled: "Non-Objective Art: Bane or Boon?", a lecture sponsored by the Jefferson College art department, thus obliging Cleveland's attendance, a lecture which Jeanne who'd been somewhat bitchy the past three days, chose to pass up, a lecture that definitely interested Sandra, and finally-a lecture that all in all, was the damndest bore anyone had ever been forced to sit through.
Such were the thoughts passing through Grey Cleveland's mind as he emerged from the hall into the warm, fragrant, May night. So engossed was he in condemnation of the lecturer that he inadvertently stepped on the heels of the person ahead of him. Blindly, instinctively he said, "Oh, I beg your pardon. Terribly sorry...."
His heart suddenly revved to an up tempo as he looked up to see Sandra Cummings regarding him amusedly, her eyes warm with strange promise, unknown even to her. The anger at the damage to her nylons was instantly dissipated, replaced instead with a compelling rush in her chest.
"Why, Professor Cleveland," she smiled. "How nice to see you again. It's been all of five hours, hasn't it?"
Grey went along with the patter. "Why, yes, it has. All of that."
Sandra drew off to one side of the wide, portico lined stairway, out of the flow of traffic, placing her back to the wall, her eyes, the vision of her beauty, compelling Cleveland to follow her. Catching a brief, full length view of her, he sucked in his breath raggedly. Great Judas, but she was lovely! He ached all over, just looking at her.
Holding her program demurely, Sandra allowed her light coat to fall open, to reveal the pure white, crepe dress she wore, the skirt hanging in loose, full folds, enhancing her hips, complimenting the slim, exciting legs which swept down to white kid pumps, the toes thin and sharp, the heels exaggeratedly high At the neck the dress fell away in a draped decolletage, the shimmering folds accenting her youthful, vibrant bust, drawing attention to the low, daring downsweep, to the shadowed outcropping of her delicious bon bons.
All this Cleveland took in with a glance, the appraisal causing him to tremble slightly to feel a familiar twist within him. Discreetly he retained a distance between them, lighting a cigarette with fumbling fingers. "Smoke?" he asked dumbly, offering the pack.
"No, thank you," she smiled primly.
"Ah ... your escort? Don't tell me a pretty thing like you came alone?"
"Afraid so. Professor," she teased. "I'm just an orphan of the storm tonight...."
"That's a shame." He quickly changed to a different subject. "And what was your reaction to the lecture?"
"The dullest. Our esteemed speaker had nothing new to add to the topic. Pretty much of a nothing, don't you think?"
"Agreed," Grey said, pleased that Sandra's opinion concurred with his own. "I've never sat through a more boring session."
For five minutes they pursued the topic of the lecture diligently, making small talk, each of them desperately seeking some ploy to trap the interest of the other, neither of them quite sure of what was bubbling inside of them. At last the steps of the auditorium were all but deserted, and inside, the custodian began to douse the lights.
"Looks like it's over," Sandra said regretfully, her breathing difficult, hoping that somehow-
"Yes, I expect it's time to head for home. Do you have your car?"
"No," Sandra replied, her heart leaping high in expectation. "I thought it was such a lovely night I walked."
"Perhaps I could give you a lift?"
"Why that would be very nice. I live at Delta."
"This way, Miss Cummings. My car's in the parking lot."
As they walked across the asphalted surface, Cleveland took Sandra's arm, exulting in her warmth. The sound of her tapping heels excited him. "Gorgeous night, isn't it?" Sandra sighed. "Just look at that moon."
They both stopped, and in the moonlight each saw the strained, stricken look on the other's face. Sandra felt a chill race down her spine. What is this? she thought bewilderedly. But they said nothing, averting their eyes, staring into the brightly illuminated heavens.
It's too beautiful to have to end so soon, Grey panicked, the thought of returning to the predatory-embrace of Jeanne tonight was suddenly unbearable. Make your move. Something. Anything-But do it soon.
Hesitantly, his heart drumming in his ears, Grey started, "It's such a nice night ... Ah ... it ... seems a shame to go right home. Perhaps you'd like to ride around a bit ... Please, don't misunderstand ... ah ... I...."
Much too eagerly Sandra replied, "I think that's a delightful idea, Professor Cleveland. I'd love it."
With a throaty roar the sports car shot from the lot, turned onto the street. Relieved. Cleveland saw there were no pedestrians about to see their departure; even in the darkness his T-Bird was unmistakable. And with the top down-"Well. Miss Cummings," he said after several blocks, "what's your pleasure? Shall we stay in town, or would you like some country air?" He was shocked, amazed that the words had poured out.
"It's too pretty to stay in town." Sandra said, feigning sauciness, "take me to the country, James."
Still Sandra did not feel any of the insouciance she affected. Her mind was a turmoil of conflicting emotions. Her calculating nature said that this was the chance she'd wanted so long-an opportunity to work the dear professor up. let him get all kinds of ideas, then have the beautiful thrill, the feeling of power, when she turned him off short. But somehow it seemed too ugly a thing to do. That to cure herself of a silly infatuation, she would have to humiliate, to hurt someone as nice as Professor Cleveland. All at once her minor victory didn't seem important any more.
Then why are you going along with this? her mind boiled. Why don't you call it off, tell him to drive you home?
A dull, paralyzing heaviness clouded her brain, clutched her heart. She was seized by a numbing, unexplainable pain. She knew then what it was, why she couldn't command Cleveland to return her to town.
She was positive. There was only one answer. She couldn't turn back now. Perhaps tomorrow, and all the tomorrows to come it would be different. But tonight-she knew she wanted Cleveland with an undeniable urgency. She must have him. He must be her first, her teacher. And tonight-
So they drove through the balmy night, saying little, the hard, cold light of the moon illumining their faces, the verdant fields and woodlots flowing past them on either side, the warm, clean breeze brushing their faces. Glancing at Sandra he saw her white gown, the ivory tone of her throat and chest, reflecting back the moonlight, and his throat choked up at her beauty. She had pulled her legs up on the seat beside her, and his gaze fingered on the iridescent sheen of her legs where the light caressed her gorgeous legs. It was all he could do to keep from reaching out, stroking them.
Nervously Sandra hummed a snatch of "Where or When," and the sum total impact of her beauty, her child-like innocence, smashed against Cleveland's brain. She was too lovely, too beautiful. After all he wasn't a super being; he was a mere man with the elemental urges. What harm would be done? Someone certainly must have had her before. Why shouldn't he?
Twice he started to reach for the tiny, unsuspecting hand on the seat beside him, and both times he drew back. Luckily Sandra missed the move. But the third time he lost control, and their fingers touched, he wound his hand about hers. There was a slight, instinctive motion of withdrawal, but then Sandra relaxed, let her hand fie passively in his.
They drove for a minute more, both looking straight ahead, neither speaking. I'm dreaming, Grey thought wildly. This can't be-that she'd actually allow me-His mind a blur, he slowed the car. turned up a deserted sideroad. Sandra sat submissively, her hand warm in his. Then he jerked his hand away, twisted the wheel to the right, brought the automobile to a jarring stop on the road's wide shoulder.
"Sandra...." he gasped helplessly, taking her in his arms, pulling her violently to him. She came limply, willingly toward him, pulling her legs down to the floor as she did so. In that instant just before he kissed her, he noticed her eyes, wide, moonlight gazed, the expression dazed, puzzled, as if she didn't really comprehend what was happening.
In feverish, hysterical passion they clung to each other, their lips alive, trembling, sliding, tremendous shudders gripping them both. Sandra's lips were warm, smooth, eager. It seemed they remained in that frozen embrace for hours, their bodies straining to move closer, their mouths gasping, grinding, devouring each other.
Grey found his eyes moist with tears, an involuntary release, expression of his profound disbelief, the rapture which thrilled him. It seemed he would die of the beautiful happiness. "Sandra. Sandra...." he murmured incoherently when they broke, when she clutched his face to hers. "I ... I ... don't know what to say ... I just can't explain...."
"Don't say anything," she sighed. 'Don't talk. It was supposed to happen. I know it was...." She drew his mouth to hers again. feeling her heart burn as an aboriginal spear of desire pierced her. She sensed a boundless desire to bury herself in him, to sacrifice herself for him, to deliver herself to him. Was this love, she thought confusedly, or only the dazzling outburst of sexual desire? It must be love, it must be, she commanded. The excitement seemed to consume her, and her whole body felt liquid.
Love or not, she vowed as a second sublime spasm ballooned within her, it doesn't matter. I must have him.
The pressure was insane, and she abruptly, savagely tore her lips away. "Grey, darling," she chanted. "I don't know what I'm doing or saying. I feel so strange. I ... I think I'm in love with you ... Do you hear? I love you...."
"Sandra," Grey said, his intensity matching hers, appalled at the rapidity with which things were moving, "I love you...." A pure, searing flame seemed to transfigure him at that instant, as he realized that it was so, that this lovely, clean, innocent child had become the all important meaning of life to him, that he did truly love her-that he always would. Somehow, he thought agonizedly, he would break free of Barbara's tyranny-he would make this woman, part child, part wanton-his wife.
Again she clung to him desperately, her face slippery with tears. "Please, please, please...." she sobbed. "I can't wait ... I can't wait...."
And with that she tore away from him viciously, as though afraid she'd change her mind, keeping her head down, sobbing helplessly in her need. Cleveland's heart froze, for there before his very eyes, Sandra began undressing. Half rising in the car, she struggled from her coat, throwing it in the back. Angrily she reached behind her, tore at the zipper, her dress loosening at the shoulders as she did so.
"No. Sandra, darling," he pleaded. "You mustn't...."
"Mustn't I?" she said, looking up with a dark smile. "You don't know how I must." With that she straightened and roughly pulled the gown's top down about her waist, revealing an intricate, lace emblazoned slip that shimmered dully in the night. Next she worked her arms from the slip and it flowered about her waist, joining the gown.
Her sheer, white brassiere shone with a spectral glow, banking rays of moonlight in all directions, seemingly radiating a luminence of its own. Grey couldn't believe what was happening, nor could he tear his eyes from the vision of Sandra's proud, round breasts, straining the white nylon so it seemed they were cast of solid marble, the points arrow sharp, their fabulous circumference afire in the watery light.
But Sandra only gave him a moment to enjoy her breasts thusly. Impatiently she thrust her arms behind her, undid the snap, and threw the bra off. Instantly the nipples erupted into crinkled hardness, bathed by the night air. A new spasm overtook Sandra now, and she drew deep, sobbing breaths, the motion causing the ivory mounds to dance crazily.
"Grey, darling," she said, her voice throbbing, as she drew him to her, "They seem like they're on fire. Do something. Help me." She forced his head to her, moaning in her throat. "Do something, baby, Love me, kiss them. Take away this terrible feeling.
Possessed by ungovernable passion a lust that would carbonize his soul, Cleveland surrendered himself to Sandra's fantastic loveplay, despite the niggling objections now growing within his subconscious. Somehow it was not right; he should fight to save Sandra from her overriding desire, and in so doing save them both for something which would be finer, more lasting. From somewhere came the devastating, chilling thought that if he did Sandra's bidding now, if he took her, it would mean the finish of everything.
Still he was helplessly enthralled by her fiery insistence, and allowed his head to be pulled to her bosom, where his lips hungrily enveloped the trembling nipples, soothing them, gradually feeling them soften and spread luxuriantly. Above him he heard Sandra's pleasurable sighs, he felt her arms tighten on his head, he sensed new tremors beginning in her legs.
"Darling," she called hollowly, "never stop. It's exquisite ... don't stop." She moved her fingers frantically in his hair.
Gradually her increased sexual appetite demanded more from him, and Cleveland knew that in a few moments he would have to breach that secret portal: she would be satisfied with nothing less. But why the reluctance? Why wasn't he achieving the scalding passion she was?
Slowly, almost unnoticeably Sandra slid her body down on the seat, until she was almost full length, her body moving insinuatingly beneath his, her hands holding each breast, offering it to his restless lips. In sliding her skirt had raised, exposing her stockingled legs, almost to her panties. Seeing the opulent curve of her calf, the suggestive wickedness of her needle heeled slippers, as she posed one leg flat, the other with the knee high, Cleveland sensed a sickening, control draining blow to the pit of his stomach. Doubts or not, he must have her!
Lingeringly he rose from Sandra's bosom, wondering at the way the nipples grew tense when the cold air touched them again, noting the way they glistened. For a moment he remained on his knees, surveying the beautiful, compliant woman lying before him. Then gently, slowly, he slid his hands along her belly, finding the tangled hem of her skirt, and carefully pulling it up, arranging it at her hips, so the entire length of her body, from waist to pointed toes, was visible.
Sandra emitted an involuntary moan of pleasure as he arranged her thus, making no motion of protest She lay in docile surrender, her stomach rising and falling in swift rhythm. Grey watched for a moment until her buttocks writhed slightly on the seat. Then he moved to her again, agonized anticipation making his stomach a steel hard knot.
Deftly he stroked the sheer length of her less. going from her breasts to the bare expanse of thigh above her stockings, kissing her delicately, brief, tantalizing pecks, arousing Sandra to an incredible degree. She whimpered as his lips slid along her legs, grazing the nylon, coming to rest on the warm flesh of her thigh.
"Grey, Grey, now ... now ... darling, or I'll go out of my mind...."
She was quick to raise her hips as he pulled the white, nylon panties off her.
Now Cleveland began to remove his clothes.
Sandra, watching him, became apprehensive, her face revealing a fleeting shadow of fear. The sudden rigidity of her body, the expression was a dead giveaway. Grey hesitated.
"Darling?" Sandra's voice seemed to come from a great distance.
"Yes, baby...."
"Will it hurt terribly? I ... I've always read...."
Cleveland started as though he'd been lapped, all desire suddenly draining from his body. Now he understood the reluctance. He couldn't do this thing. Not now. Perhaps sometime in the hopeless eons before him, if he should find a way to claim her as his wife. But now? No. This was something he must save, keep sacred at all cost.
"Wha ... what did you say?"
"I asked if it will be painful." She tried to keep her tone flip. "You mean I fooled you? You didn't know I was a virgin?"
"No," he replied woodenly. "I had no way of being positive...."
"It doesn't matter, does it? If it doesn't to me, I mean? I want you to have it. I wouldn't want any other man to have it." She looked up, her eyes wide with pleading. "Oh, Grey, I love you so. Please, take it. Take me. As an offering of my love."
Dully, Grey fastened his clothing. Then he groped on the floor for her panties, taking them, when he found them, and put them across Sandra's legs.
"No," he said softly and firmly.
"No? What do you mean, Grey?"
"I mean I won't do it. Now hurry and get dressed, so I can take you back."
"Grey, darling, what did I do? Did I say something wrong? You can't mean it, baby, you just can't. I need you, don't you understand that? I'll go out of my mind if you don't take me. Don't you love me? Grey, answer me!"
"Yes, Sandra, I love you. Too much. That's why I have to refuse you. I simply can't do it. A woman's virginity is sacred to me. I want to marry you, someday, somehow. Then and then only will I take it from you...."
"Grey," she cried, her voice incredulous, frightened, as she realized he was serious, "have you gone out of your mind? Don't you know what I'm doing? I'm offering myself, free, gratis, no strings attached. If you left me tomorrow I'd still offer it. Grey! Please!"
"I'm sorry. Someday you'll understand...."
Her voice became clogged with longing. "Grey, my love. Please ... I'm begging you. Pleading with you. When will you ever have a woman beg you to love her? How do you know I won't find someone on the street tonight and give it to him. Why shouldn't you have it? I swear I will if you won't help me. I need you. don't you see that? I swear, I'll find a stranger and...."
"If you must," Grey concluded gently, "then you must. But it's not on my conscience. If you can't wait until the right time...."
A grimace contorted Sandra's face. "You actually mean it, don't you?" she wailed in impotent rage. Clawing into his legs with her nails she tried to pull him to her, trying to arouse him anew. "You can't leave me all heated up like this. You can't, you can't. God, and I thought you loved me...."
Gently pulling her hands loose, Grey said, "I do, my darling, I do. Believe that." He offered her brassiere to Sandra, trying to fit it over her arms.
Ducking, she snatched the garment from his hands, cruelly slapped him across the face with it. "Take your filthy hands off me. Don't you ever dare touch me, even talk to me again!" She sobbed anew. "You craven, miserable excuse for a man. To think I'd ever be humiliated like this."
Diplomatically Grey moved from her, let her cry her pain out. Perhaps someday, he thought bitterly, he could make her understand, make himself understand. She didn't know that by violating her he would automatically put her in the same category as Barbara and Jeanne, that their love would become animalistic, meaningless. And he wanted with all the fervor of his soul that their love be pure, significant, that it transfigure his shabby life.
Doggedly, lapsing into silence, Sandra worked at redressing herself, pulling her bra on, sliding the slip up, even openly pulling her panties on in full view of Grey. Finally she struggled from the car, and standing beside the road, pulled her gown straight, raising her skirt to straighten her seams. When she reentered the car, save for a red, streaked face, she had done a creditable job; no one would ever suspect she'd just suffered a grave debasement, that the pangs of unrequited passion still burned within her rebelliously virginal body.
"What time is it?" she asked sullenly, drawing against the door.
"Eleven-thirty or so."
She sniffed. "To think I was going to break curfew for you. I'd have done anything for you." She shook her head. "Of all the stupid, naive fools." Suddenly she looked up, fixed him with a hateful glare. "All right, you gutless wonder. Don't just sit. Drive!"
Soundlessly Cleveland started the engine, then spun the wheel viciously, heading back toward Jefferson. When he hit the highway, he put the accelerator down hard, pushing the Thunderbird at a hundred all the way to the city limits.
"Sandra," he said, as they stopped a block from her sorority house, "couldn't I at least talk to you again, try to explain?"
"Save your breath," she snarled. Then she threw back her shoulders, slammed the door hard, and flounced proudly down the walk toward the dormitory. Once he saw her falter, stop, push her face into her hands.
Angrily, bitterly, cursing the complicated fates that rule life, he tore from the curb, tires screaming, heading toward Jeanne's apartment. Already his mind was busy forming an alibi to explain his late arrival.
Jeanne was certainly no substitute for the clean, unsullied Sandra, but for now she would be the instrument by which he would relieve his bottled up frustration. What a brutal going over she was going to get!
CHAPTER NINE
All through the next day, Friday, Professor Grey Cleveland moved in a somnambulistic trance. The episode of the previous night was lived and relived countless times during the day, as he fought to understand what it was that had compelled him to refuse Sandra's supreme gift. Moreover the ponderings were doubly haunted, for he knew that afternoon he would have to face Sandra again, he would have to endure her scathing, cold expression. Oriental Art, Survey la, M., Thur., F., 2:00-3:30 P.M. How would he bring it off?
Time and time again that afternoon be cursed himself for a fool, telling himself that in rejecting Sandra he was seeking a chimera, looking for an unrealistic dream, an ideal not to be found on this earth. For love was sex, or at least a good part of it. By abstaining from intimate relations with Sandra, was he proving his love? Hardly. And now, in trying to prove that sincere devotion, hadn't he lost Sandra anyway? What good had his noble intentions done?
But their roadside amours had seemed cheap, fly-by-night. The time and place had not been right as far as he was concerned. A lovely woman like Sandra deserved so much more. She was like a brilliant, white diamond, needing an elaborate, showy setting to bring out the utmost in her fiery quality. Surely an automobile's front seat was not such a showcase.
Perhaps it was this sense of unappropriateness, more than qualms over her sacred virginity, that had withheld him from consummation of the act. And. seeing no possible way he could accouter her with such a sensuous, luxurious setting (save the marriage that had seemed so reasonable in last night's moonlight and so ridiculously impossible in today's bright glare), he had held off. He realized that if they once started their love affair in tawdry surroundings, their love would remain thus always, snatched moments in parked cars, in motels, in secluded woodside spots. In time these guilty, fleeting moments would cheapen, eventually destroy their love.
But then, Grey thought tiredly. a sick, dispirited coldness in his stomach, hadn't he irreparably scotched that love last night, the very first time it was revealed? He had gained nothing, and lost everything.
The hours before he would again see Sandra dragged with unbearable slowness. It was impossible to concentrate on his work, he could not stand to think of Jeanne or Barbara, and when lunch time came he could not force a bite down. As the appointed hour drew nearer the nervous tension mounted in his stomach, until he became feverish, his stomach unsettled.
Watching his students file into the classroom, his heart sank. Sandra hadn't appeared. He was a fool to expect her to show anyway. Not so soon after her embarrassment-It was as he moved to close the studio door that he saw her sprinting down the hall. Immediately his spirits soared.
She was smiling, a mischievous, gamin grin on her features. "Hold the phone, Professor Cleveland," she called. "I'll break the four minute mile yet...." As she rushed past him, her warmth, her scent immediately exciting him anew, she murmured, "Sorry I'm late...."
Such was her attitude all the rest of the class session. Bold, gay, saucy-hardly herself at all. Even her classmates marveled at the change. It was all an act, Cleveland concluded, a defense mechanism whereby she attempted proving that last night's fiasco hadn't really touched her.
She smiled and flirted with her eyes, as though nothing had ever occurred between them, genuinely interested in the silk screen print she was making calling for his help often.
But as class terminated, and the others filed out leaving Sandra still cleaning up her material at he; worktable, Cleveland knew that there would now be an opportunity in which he might attempt amends. When the last student had drifted from the room, he moved toward her.
"Sandra...." he blurted. "I want you to know...."
"Please, Professor Cleveland," she said softly, her mouth twisted in a strange smile, a mixture of regret, shame, fresh understanding, "I do understand now. I'm sorry I embarrassed you so ... I'll never know what came over me. I've never acted like that before, I assure you. Must have been the moonlight."
"Don't blame yourself. After all, I made the overtures...."
"Yes," she said acidly, "and I authored the third and fourth movements. It was all my fault."
After a slight pause, she continued, "I just warn you to know I'm grateful. I say that sincerely Thank you, Grey, for saving me from myself. This time anyway...."
"And," she sent him a sad smile, "had it happened. I wouldn't have been sorry. There'd have been no regrets...."
Abruptly her eyes glazed over with tears, and jumping to her feet, half stumbling over chairs in the aisle, she ran from the room.
His lovemaking with Jeanne that night was perfunctory, mechanical, and he gained little pleasure from it. But because of his indifference the session was prolonged, and Jeanne benefited, all in all. As they lay beside each other afterwards, partial satisfaction rendered, Jeanne's body still throbbing, Cleveland thought of the day to follow. Saturday.
A cold pall settled over him. How could he stand a whole day and evening with Jeanne tomorrow, as she usually expected? His lethargy, over a long period of time, wouldn't go unnoticed. Then there would be questions, prying innuendo, open recrimination. And just now, he thought, this kind of haggling would be the last thing on earth he could endure. What he really needed was an indefnite period of solitude, time to puzzle out the contradictory attitudes at war in his mind.
"Jeanne?" he said, his voice loud in the darkness, "would you mind terribly if I went home tomorrow, instead of spending the day here?"
"But, darling, why? I've been looking forward to the weekend so much. I realize I've been a damned witch the last few days. I'd planned on making it up to you."
Lord, Grey groaned inwardly, that's all T need. I'm on the ragged end of nowhere now. A weekend of frantic lovemaking would push me over the brink sure. "Well, it's just that so much work at the house has been set aside. The lawn, some of the spring chores ... window washing, screens ... And if Barbara comes home and finds nothing done...."
Jeanne was obviously satisfied with the alibi. "But you will come tomorrow night? We'll have Sunday, won't we?"
"Yes," he said grudgingly. "That's for sure."
Now her voice turned syrupy, calculating. "Baby," she cooed, "seeing as I won't see you all day tomorrow, don't you suppose we could...."
Grey felt his maleness withdraw, almost recoil.
How much more of this could he stand? "Yes, of course, honey. Wake me later...."
"You know it, lover man...."
But there were no screens put on, no windows washed that day; nor had Grey intended to perform any such duties from the start. He'd wanted the day to himself, firmly intending to spend it in deep meditation, a day in which to reorient himself, plot a course. And of course, most of his thoughts centered on the new, unsettling nymp who had disrupted an already royally fouled up life: Sandra.
The better part of the morning he spent in his den, reading snatches of the books and magazines that had piled up on him, chain smoking all the time, stopping often to stare moodily into space, visions of Sandra, of the moonlight playing on her legs, the urgency with which she'd pleaded with him, clouding his mind.
Fool, tool, foot, he cursed.
The house was empty, the cloudy, gloomy day making it seem even darker, more lonely. Still Cleveland enjoyed the echoing silence, savored the Ion" afternoon before him. For an hour he puttered in the kitchen, preparing a lunch of sorts, washing it down with quantities of strong, black coffee. Again he retired to his study, where he slept lor an hour.
When he awoke the silence of the house had become unnerving But he didn't choose to forsake it. Perhaps a drink of something. Damn, he cursed, remembering. There wasn't a thing but beer in the house. All other potables had been removed to Jeanne's diggings. He'd best restock before Barbara's homecoming He lurched from his chair. No time like the present. There was a bar on Ninth Avenue where they handled package goods. He might even have Johnny mix him a few martinis to take the edge off the nervousness he felt. Shrugging into a sports jacket, he left the house.
Cleveland had two martinis at Johnny's, remaining there for over an hour. Had he not been slightly bemused with drink, had he not been preoccupied with thoughts of Sandra, plus anticipation of a good stiff slug of scotch, he might have noticed that there was something undefinably different about the house upon his return. Suddenly it did not seem quite so empty.
As more concrete evidence: The lunch dishes, which he'd left standing in the sink, were now washed and neatly replaced in the cupboard. But Grey merely breezed through the kitchen, looking neither right or left, anxious to put the bottles in the liquor Gabinet. When he entered his den, a half tumbler of scotch in hand, he also failed to notice that the butt clogged ashtray was emptied, the table had been dusted of stray ash and dust.
After sipping at his drink several times, and after smoking two cigarettes, the aura of difference gradually made itself known. He couldn't recall washing the ashtray. He could've sworn it was full this morning. Abruptly the hair on the back of his neck rose on end. What the hell was going on here?
And finally, the clincher, the irrefutable proof that he was no longer sitting in an empty house. Sitting stock still in his chair, fingers clenched on his glass, Grey heard the soft, unmistakable sound of footsteps upstairs!
Barbara-was his first panicked, sickening thought. She's returned home unannounced, perhaps in an effort to catch me off guard. A stunning heaviness settled over him mind. Too soon, too soo-
Heavily he rose and started from the room, taking a deep swallow of scotch as he did so. "Barbara?" he called loudly at the foot of the stairs. "Is that you, Barbara?" He heard her closet doors slam, but that was all. She did not answer his call.
Probably sulking, he thought, heading upward. Sore because I wasn't here. Oh well-Reaching the second floor he glanced along the hall Sure enough. Barbara. Her bedroom door was open. But a spear of fear persisted. What was she up to? It suddenly became ominously silent in the house. Why didn't she answer?
Then he reached the door, slowly pushed it open, puzzlement fining him at the fact that the room was half dark, that the drapes had been pulled shut. Sense of crushing shock descended upon him as his eyes became accustomed to the light, and he distinguished the figure sitting on the bed. Stunned, his pulse racing, his head reeling in disbelief he spoke:
"Sandra! My God, what are you doing here?"
"Delivery service, darling ... I'm here to give you something you refused the other night . ."
"What are you talking about? You don't mean . ."
"That's exactly what I mean," she said levelly her demeanor calm and poised. For a moment neither of them spoke. Grey gasping in surprise, numbing disbelief.
In that interval his eyes appraised the beautiful woman perched on his wife's bed. She was wearing a light blue negligee over a matching nightgown, both garments, flowing and loose, lending subtle enchantment to her body. The material was incredibly light and diaphanous, and even in the dim light he could make out the gorgeous outline of her body, the lush curves of her hips and breasts, the long litheness of her silky legs.
Through the transparent, sheer nylon he saw the nipples of her breasts, dark splashes in the gloom, staring at him like curious, expectant eyes. Instantly he felt a familiar warmth, sensed pain as his passion was aroused by the exotic vision before him.
The gown-it seemed familiar somehow-Then a tremor of shock froze him.
The negligee and nightgown were Barbara's-it was an ensemble he'd given her on their honeymoon, raiment she'd worn in those fleeting and fragile moments when she had been a real woman! She hadn't worn the garments for years. And now-Sandra-offering that same long lost female treasure-that same passion-that same urgent, proud virginity-
Could any vengeance be more fitting? To shatter that sealed portal, to ravish this maiden-in the bed, in the same garments once worn by the woman who now denied him love?
"You didn't think, did you. baby, that I'd give up so easily? I love you, don't you understand? The other night may have been merely sex desire, I can't say. But I've had time to think now. I'm sure of myself now. I'm positive it's love. I've loved you for weeks, and never even knew it. Silly, isn't it?"
Now he realized it would be all right, nothing they did would be wrong. If she loved him-as he loved her-if it wasn't merely a carnal appetite-
"Do you realize what you're doing, what you're saying? The implications of your coming here?"
"Of course I do, Grey. Otherwise I wouldn't be here. I want you, whether you belong to another woman or not. Any way I can get you. This time I won't be refused. Remember the phrase, 'No fury like a woman scorned'?"
"But, how did you get in here? How did you know I'd be alone? Where did you find that-those garments?"
"A door, a gossip and a drawer, to paraphrase Thoma" Wolfe...."
"What are you talking about?"
"You asked me how I got in here. Simple. A door. And I learned you were alone from all the gossips at the college. Everyone knows your wife is away, and that you're alone for a month. And this lovely nightie...." Briefly she caressed her knees, " ... I found in your wife's dresser."
"Did anyone see you come in here?"
"I doubt it. I didn't dally outside. I sneaked through the bushes in the garden, and busted right in. It was only a break that you were out. Gave me time to get ready. Anyway, I'd have waited all night for you to return. Think you're going to like it in these lovely things? Someone certainly has good taste."
"I bought the set for my wife. She wore it on our honeymoon."
A look of concern crossed her face. "Maybe you'd rather I wouldn't wear them...."
Grey smiled, enjoying his secret. "I insist, baby. You couldn't have choesn anything more appropriate."
She extended her arms to him. "Please, don't stand there like that. Come here. You look so silly holding that glass-with all your clothes on. And wipe off that dazed expression. Things like this happen every day!"
"I'll bet," he grinned, moving toward the bed.
"Kiss me, Grey," she murmured, her eyes sultry. "Show me you're glad I came...."
Putting his glass down, he sat beside Sandra, gently pressing her back on the spread, leaning over her to crush his lips on hers. Her body quivered slightly and she pulled him closer, writhing her breasts against him. With unmistakable deliberateness she parted her lips, let her tongue sally forth in search of his own. The pointed red dart probed his lips, insistently gained entry to his moutth. A flame licked along Grey's body as their tongues met, worked erotically, dodging, sliding, attempting to cling together.
"Sweet," Sandra groaned when they broke away, "oh, Grey, lover, it's almost unbearable. I'm glad now that we waited. This is going to be so much better."
She licked her lips, a questioning look in her eyes. "Something tastes good. What is it?"
Grey chuckled. "Scotch. Second hand."
"Talk about poor hosts. How about a drink for the lady? Maybe it would subjugate some of her nasty inhibitions."
"Wait," he answered. "I'll run downstairs, get the bottle. What do you want with it?"
"What are you taking?"
"Straight."
"
"Give me the same."
"Sure you can handle it?"
"And what if I can't? It'll be that much more woman for you."
When Grey returned, bearing the bottle and an extra glass, he hesitated in his own bedroom before going to Sandra. There he removed his clothing, having decided to come to her in his bathrobe. The martinis, plus the added scotch booster shot already consumed had made him woozy. He felt no embarrassment at his exposure.
Sandra smiled self-consciously at him, realizing that his costume was proof there was no turning back now. She would lose her maidenhead before she was another hour older. A sharp twinge of fear gripped her. Yet she did not let her apprehension show.
"Get a load of that crazy bartender," she giggled "Darling, hurry and come to me. I love you so terribly."
He kissed her, then poured three fingers of scotch into her glass, replenishing his own drink. When he looked up, Sandra was regarding him with a worshipful smile, yet timid somehow.
"Drink up, you lovely mink...."
"Tell me you love me, Grey...."
"I love you, Sandra. I love you with all the depth of my soul. I'll never love anyone but you. You're the' one perfect woman I've desired all my life."
She drew him down, brushing his lips delicately with her own, her breath coming in swift gasps, warm and sweet. "My precious," she sighed. "I promise to be your woman, yours alone!"
She raised her glass to him. "To us, darling."
"To us...." Together they drained their glasses. Then Grey took them, replaced them on the night stand.
"Lord," she gasped, "that stuff scorched me all the way down."
"You'll feel cozy and secure. Is that your first drink?"
"No. But it's my first in a man's bedroom, it's my first before-" she attempted a weak smile, "-before my lover uses my body ... before I surrender my virginity. Scotch and sex. What an emotional atom bomb that'll make."
"Are you sure you want me to?"
She pulled him to her. "Of course, I'm sure, baby. I'm wild with wanting you. If you'd deny me now, I'd die. I know I would. Please...." She dug her nails into his back.
He pulled himself carefully from her, then went around the bed. Pulling the covers down, he slid Sandra gently over onto the sheets.
"Mmmm," she purred, "nylon. Your wife really lives it up, doesn't she?"
He sat on the edge of the bed, next to her, somehow reluctant to commence their love play. She should understand about that night beside the road. "Sandra," he started, "I think you should know what happened the other night, why I acted as I did."
"Yes, Grey," she sighed. "I do. But not right now. I've got the wildest, most wonderful feeling growing within me. I can't wait. Please, honey, it feels like I'm going to explode inside. Tell me later. Come take me."
Grey stood and slipped off the robe. Then he turned to Sandra, exhibiting his lean, hard muscled body, savoring the delighted look as her eyes roved him from head to toe.
Suddenly she moved from the bed, throwing her arms around his neck, drawing his body against her, driving herself against him, enjoying the pressure of him against her. "I love you-I need you," she gasped.
Then she tore away from him. She pulled the negligee and nightgown from her body, standing before him totally nude, her voluptuous, hard-tipped breasts rising and falling in heaving rhythm. Now she clung to Grey, walking him backwards, step by step, until they overbalanced and fell into bed. She squealed in delight.
Grey lay over her for long moments, taking in the beauty of her body, not touching her at all, merely feeding on her pebbled, tempestuous breasts with his eyes, appraising her slim, flaring hips, her creamy thighs and legs Her hands rose to caress him then, and he could resist her no longer.
"Please, Grey" she urged. "Please...."
His lips caressed her nipples, his teeth closing on them, nipping them tenderly. He became aware that Sandra now thrashed beneath him, her hands, her fingers clawing at him.
"Make it happen, Grey. I can't wait. Come inside me. Teai me open. Make it hurt, make this intolerable burning go away!"
With a finesse learned from long, elaborate sessions with Jeanne, he caressed her. When it appeared she had reached the ultimate pitch, he lowered himself to her.
He was gentle, and deliberate, still it was painful, and Sandra screamed in suprised agony. "Don't, Grey. You're hurting me! Oh, it's horrible. Stop, please stop!"
But wisely, knowing that afterwards the pain would be forgotten, he did not pause.
Her moans were pleasurable now, ecstatic, and she clung wildly to him.
"Darling, darling," she moaned. "I love you, I love you. I love what you're doing to me ... Never stop! Never, nevernevernevernever! Oh...!"
A consuming flood flowed into his heart. "Sandra," he chocked with a fervent sob, "I love you too...."
CHAPTER TEN
"Grey, my darling!" Sandra murmured when they had regained their strength, when their breathing came evenly again, "I'll never regret this moment as long as I live. It was the most glorious, shattering sensation I've ever experienced." Her voice became wistful. "I'm so grateful it was you . .
"I am too," Grey sighed. "Did I hurt you too badly?"
"No, baby. I'll live. It was pretty awful at first, but then all the pain went away, and only the lovely wildness was left. Baby?"
"Yes, Sandra?"
"Again?"
He grinned. "There will be a brief pause for station identification...."
"Oh." Her tone was embarrassed. "Be patient with me, dear. I'm sorry to be such an ingenue. I never was much good at science ... biology and such...."
"You'll do, I can assure you."
"You'll teach me?"
"That will be the most pleasant chore of my life."
Sleepily, childishly she cuddled against his shoulder, pulling the covers beneath her chin, her tousled head reminding Grey of children's bedroom prints he'd seen. She was such a child-What a joy it would be to care for her, to instruct her in the ways of love. Yet he felt awe of her. For her years and inexperience, she was more woman now than most men would care to handle. What would it be as she matured, became more proficient in bedroom lore?
"Grey, what time is it?"
"Four-thirty or so."
She gave him a kittenish smile. "Let's sleep for a little ... so you can get your strength back ... Then we'll do it again. By that time we'll want dinner. I'll make a nice meal for you. Won't that be nice?"
"Marvelous."
"I can stay all night, can't I? And tomorrow? We'll have a whole weekend just set aside for love, for getting to know each other. I've signed out at the dorm. They think I'm visiting my aunt. I've got until ten-thirty Sunday night...."
Disastrously, Grey thought of Jeanne at that moment, of her weekend plans for them. If he didn't show up at her apartment, what' then?
To hell with her.
"That's a wonderful idea," he answered finally.
"Here," Sandra cooed, arranging her body so her buttocks were pressed against his stomach. She drew his legs behind hers, then took his free hand and put it on her left breast.
Aglow with happiness, newfound love, Grey soon dropped into profound, dreamless sleep.
It seemed he had just dozed off when he felt Sandra hovering over him, felt her lips kissing his cheek, his ear, her breath warm against his skin. Through his befuddled daze he became aware of her hands, stroking his chest.
"Sandra?" he asked sleepily.
"Oh, you're awake...."
"Small wonder," he smiled.
"Grey," she sighed, sealing his lips with a noisy, playful kiss, "how I adore you. I'm so happy...."
"Me too, angel."
"Are you all right now?" she asked hesitantly. "Is your battery recharged?"
"As of this minute, you little vixen," he chuckled, turning her over with a quick motion. She squealed and giggled in gay lightness.
"Sandra," he groaned, "you're so beautiful. I'll love you forever ... You make me ache inside just to look at you...."
"Really, honey? I hope I'll always affect you that way...." Her body stiffened in a single spasm, and she clung to him fiercly. "Don't talk, Grey!
Just love me."
Again he bent to the delightful work at hand, kissing one velvet nipple while he stroked the other with his fingers. "Dear God," he heard Sandra chant, "it seems even better than the first time. Grey, will it always be this wonderful?"
"Depends. Love is what you make it, how much of yourself you're prepared to give."
"Darling, I'll give you everything. I promise. I'll never hold anything back. Every single time will be magnificent!"
Her body began to tremble, and compulsively her hands, as though having a will of their own. drew him onto her. Without prompting she brought her knees up, guided him to her.
"Darling," she gasped through clenched teeth. "I-'s better, it's better! The fear's gone now. Faster, lover, faster!"
Finally the subterreanean fires burst into pressure driven flame, rampaged-Grey sensed a deliverance, which though not as agonizing at the one before, was still as spiritually fulfilling. He had achieved pleasure for himself; better still he had granted Sandra repeated pleasure beyond description.
Minutes later Sandra spoke, her voice husky. "Grey? Where's the little girl's room?"
"Right at the end of the hall."
Shortly she returned. "Shall I dress for dinner," she grinned impishly, "or will this negligee do?"
"Put on your clothes, madame. I'm aching to undress you, later...."
"You are the naughtiest. How do you know I'll jump in bed with you again?"
He slapped her resoundingly on her pert bottom. "I know you will," he laughed.
"Ow! You devil!" She chased him from the bedroom.
While Sandra was occupied with dressing, Grey put on his clothes, then descended the stairs. After checking to see that every drape in the house was securely closed to prying eyes, he went to the kitchen, flipped on the lights.
When Sandra entered the room. Grey's heart pounded. No matter, what, clothed or nude, she was something special. The body beneath the garment seemed to cry for disrobing. She wore a tight pink sweater, a sweater giving her an innocent, fresh scrubbed look, a sweater that hugged her prominent pointed breasts insistently. Her skirt was white linen her shoes were the same pair worn Thursday night, and again Cleveland felt the same rise in body temperature as he had that night on seeing her voluptuous, sheer legs.
She kissed him immediately, clinging to him. "Mmmm, you feel different with clothes on...."
"You too, witchlet."
Sandra took her time preparing the meal, humming as she worked, warding off constant interruptions as Grey caught her, fondling and kissing her as if he couldn't get enough of her fragrant beauty. She prepared ham steaks, a crisp salad, baked potatoes. There was frozen apple pie with ice cream for dessert. While she worked Grey mixed them a pitcher of martinis. They were in a euphoric state by the time the meal was ready.
During dinner their conversation turned serious, as Grey explained what had happened to him the other night, why he hadn't been able to finish what they'd started. He discussed at length the feelings he had about virginity, about the setting and atmosphere that should surround the breeching of that sacred seal. This, of course, led to talk of marriage, and he haltingly admitted to Sandra what a sham his marriage to Barbara had become, feeling elation at the sincere concern on Sandra's face as he talked.
"Oh, that horrible woman," she said. "How could she hurt someone as wonderful as you? I hate her already, and I've never seen her. To use her body in such a perverted way...."
"So you see, darling, it's going to take time, an endless amount of patience on your part, before things can be straightened out, until we can skip this crummy town, go somewhere and start our lives all over. Somehow I'll make Barbara divorce me."
"I can't possibly see why any woman would choose to hold a man she didn't love-who didn't love her. Unless for pure, cruel spite...."
"Greed for position, baby. That's what drives her."
For a minute of so they ate in silence. Finally, a worried look on her face, Sandra said, "Is that all, Grey? Have you told me about all the complications in your life?"
He felt a momentary panic. "Why, yes. I think so. What are you getting at?"
Almost apologetically, Sandra said, "What about Miss Portier?"
A long, embarrassed pause followed. Grey was stricken, amazed that she knew. But how? Frantically his mind sought words to justify the relationship. "So you know about Miss Portier? You've known all along...."
"Please, Grey, don't be angry. I'm not condemning you, I just want to know if it's true. Lord knows I'd do the same thing if I were a man. With a wife like Barbara a mistress is almost mandatory...."
"How did you find out?"
"Well, it's not a big thing. But there have been rumors at the college. A couple of girls at the house started an elimination contest, and Miss Portier was their likely choice. It's pretty well known she's wanted you for years."
Grey's voice was leaden. "It was simple as that."
"Grey," Sandra's features were pale as she came to him, placed her cheek on his, "don't look like it's the end of the world. I only wanted to know the truth, know where I stand in your involved love life...."
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. It's just I thought you'd think it was cheap, ugly, that you wouldn't want me."
"Darling," she kissed away his protests, "I'll want you forever, no matter what you do. Tell me about it."
Calmly, dispassionately, Grey told Sandra about Jeanne, starting from the very first day, detailing their living arrangements, their entertainments, even revealing Jeanne's insatiable sex hunger. Finally he admitted the lack of love between them, telling that he'd become a stud to Jeanne, a medicinal treatment to be taken nightly before sleeping.
"And so you see," he finished, "the othet night when I discovered you were a virgin, I just couldn't degrade you in my mind. You would have become just another Jeanne to me."
"And I'm not now?" Sandra murmured.
He crushed her hungrily into his lap, held her with trembling arms. "Darling, never think that! Our relationship will never degenerate to that. Someday...." His voice choked, " ... somehow, I'll make you my wife. I swear...."
"Oh, darling, I love you, married or not. I'll even become your second mistress if I have to."
"Never," he gasped, burying his lips in the softness of her throat. They clung together, passionately kissing, their hearts swelling with emotion, happy in their new abandon, the selflessness of their love. It was then the telephone rang.
Sandra started. "What's that?"
"It must be Jeanne. We won't answer it."
"It could be your wife."
"To hell with her, too."
The phone rang seven times in all, then subsided into sullen, jarring silence.
"That was a lovely meal," Grey said stiffly, trying to mend the awkward silence. "Best I've had in months. The company makes a difference. Here, I'll help you with the dishes...."
Once the kitchen was tidied they went into the den, he sinking into the soft cushions of the leather covered davenport, she roaming the room, examining the marvelous library! I know where I'd be if I was Mrs. Cleveland. I'd be in here reading every spare minute."
"What would you like to drink?"
"Why not some of that scotch we had this afternoon?" She smiled mischievously. "That's a real pepper-upper."
As he brought the drinks Grey said, "We've spent a hell of a lot of time on me, so far. How about you, darling?" He settled on the davenport, took Sandra into his arms. She cuddled down blissfully. "Didn't you have any life to speak of before now?"
"No, sweet," she purred, sipping her drink. "My life just began."
"Come on now. Give. Tell me about your childhood, your first crush-earthshaking things like that."
Sandra's life, as she'd admitted, was largely prosaic, uneventful, but still Grey enjoyed her hesitant recital for it enabled him to know her better She was born upstate, had lived in a dreary small town all her life, had been an independent, brooding child, causing much concern to the aunt who had brought her up after the death of her parents in an auto crash when she was three.
"I'm almost an orphan," Sandra said airily, "I can't remember my mother or father, only Aunt Florence. And she's glad to get me off her hands I expect. I love her, don't misunderstand, but if I married you tonight, and sent her a wire tomorrow, she wouldn't regret missing the ceremony. She'd just be overjoyed to think someone had finally tamed me."
Sandra's voice lapsed into a thin, cranky waver. "Always sulkng around, reading them fool books. I declare, Sandy, you'll never get a man if you keep deviling and baiting those young fellers of yours the way you do." She giggled. "That's the way it went, week in. week out. But she was a dear in her strange way. I sincerely believe she was relieved when I got that scholarship, and shipped myself off to college."
Wistfully she concluded, "You're the only person in the whole world who really cares about me."
Grey brought her close, pulling her face into his shoulder, burying his lips in her hair. He growled, "That's my specialty, taking care of you." His hands touched her breasts. "All kinds of ways."
She relaxed in his arms, contentedly, making no effort to restrain him. "Watch out there. Professor. You'll be starting a chain reaction you can't stop."
"You frighten me something awful. Drink up and we'll go look for an uninhabited island."
"Mmmm," she gulped. "The way you talk." She handed him her empty glass. "Oh, baby ... I feel so good. Lover man ... do your darndest."
Seeing the sultry look in her eyes, the blonde strand of hair fallen askew over one eye, he knew he wouldn't delay much longer. He lifted her from the couch, steadied her body in his arms, then carried her from the den. As they left Sandra extended one leg, kicked the light switch with a pointed toe.
Their lovemaking that night was prolonged, ritualistic, both of them enjoying the sense of leisure as they held the sex drive at bay. Slowly, inflamingly Grey undessed her, pausing at length to kiss her nyloned bound legs, breasts, caressing the silky-smoothness with his hands until Sandra became a twitching, maddened animal. "Take them off, sweetheart. Do me to a fare-thee-well. Daddy! I ache for you!"
In his own good time Grey complied, evading the pleasurable climax, letting the lava within them become molten, bubbling.
"Baby. baby: baby...." she moaned, drawing him to her.
Then her liquid warmth enveloped him, sent pleasurable pain darting. He drove himself to her. hearing Sandra scream with mixed pain and delight Instantly her body closed on him, bringing firm, frantic pressure to bear. She emitted three triumphant screams of release before Grey felt the thunderbolt shock convulse him.
As they gradually returned to the lackluster plane of reality, they heard seemingly from a great distance, the shrill angry ring of the telephone downstairs. How long it had been ringing they would never know, for through their lovemaking they had heard only the roar of their passion.
"Jeanne?" Sandra murmured.
"I suppose. Forget it. She can go to hell for all of me."
"Yes, dear," she teased, snuggling close to him kissing him lightly. "Go to sleep. You need your rest."
They giggled together for a long time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Grey Cleveland slept a deep, exhausted sleep, almost as though he'd been drugged. When he awoke he was surprised to find himself alone in the bed. Sandra was gone. He glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. "What the hell?" he growled softly.
He was relieved to see that Sandra's clothes, her frilly underthings were still scattered about the room. So if she had fled the house she'd gone naked. "Sandra!" he called.
"Yes?" The voice was faint, muffled. "In the bathroom."
He rose, stretched lazily, then called down the hall, "Need some help?"
"Sure thing," her voice came above the sound of running water. "Come scrub my back."
He started down the hall, not even bothering to throw on his robe.
The bathroom was steamy, fragrant with a scent which he recognized as Barbara's bubble bath. Draped over a chair was the exciting blue negligee Sandra had borrowed from his wife. Sandra was sitting in a thick cloud of bubbles up to her waist, and as Grey entered she screamed in mock surprise, dabbing puffs of foam upon her breasts.
"Grey Cleveland! The idea! Invading the sanctity of a lady's bath. And without any clothes!"
"Saves time, not to mention wear and tear on clothes." He stood silently for long moments, his eyes roving her body, coming to rest on the pink flowers of her breasts, the shiny surface of her knees where they protruded above the suds.
She blushed. "Well, Grey!"
He fell to his knees beside the tub, concealing himself. To divert her attention he dropped his head to her breasts, running his lips along their smooth, wet surface.
Sandra laughed at him when he raised. "Oh, darling, you look so funny. White suds all over your mouth like whiskers." Tenderly she wiped the soap off, and guided his lips to hers.
"Scrub my back?"
"I'd love to. Anything else?"
"Just the back will be fine, thank you."
"Killjoy." He applied suds to the sponge she was using, and laved the shiny, unblemished surface of her back, from the end of her spine to the nape of her neck.
"Baby," she sighed, "you're so gentle. You make me quiver all over." She offered her lips. As he leaned to her he noted that her breasts were pebbled, the nipples rigid with desire. He attempted a speculative swipe at them with the sponge. Sandra held the sponge stationary while she completed the kiss. Then she leaned back against the tub, smiling strangely. "Go ahead. Do me. I guess this all comes under the heading of taking care of me, doesn't it?"
"Honey, and how...."
For the next few minutes she lay limp, letting herself be pummeled by his gentle fingers, letting him slide her about, so he could wash every inch of her.
"Don't, you devil. That's torture. It tickles so."
"It tickles me too. You'd never guess where."
She brushed off the remark. "More hot, please."
Obediently he turned the faucet handle, heating her bath. As he paused to admire her again, he extended a finger, lightly traced the sprawling letters, I LOVE YOU, on her back. Interpreting the message, Sandra pulled him down, kissed him.
Then his finger moved to the expanse of flesh above her breasts. Here it traced, I LOVE YOU, TOO, and then he drew arrows pointing to each wrinkled rosebud. "Grey, you silly," she smiled. YOU TOO, he wrote on her belly. And again the arrow. "Grey! You awful thing!"
Playfully she grabbed his ears, drew him closer to her. "C'mon. Your turn. Come on in and I'll scrub you."
Momentary embarrassment clutched him. "There isn't room." he protested.
"I'll make room." She pulled harder on his ears. "C'mon, or I'll pull you in on your head."
He had no choice, and after much scrambling and splashing to arrange themselves, they both sat across-legged, facing each other in the tub, clouds of bubble bath to their waists. Sandra found the sponge, made suds, and methodically began to scrub him, a happy, contented smile playing about her lips, humming throughout the bath. "There," she said. "All done. Mama's little boy wants a kiss?"
"More than that," Grey chuckled, running his hands along her sides. Then his hands cupped her breasts, sliding on the firm, glassy smoothness of her flesh.
"Watch out, Buster," she threatened, "unless you don't want any breakfast...."
"I want you for breakfast," he choked, feeling the warmth in him spread upward, drop by torrid drop. With a single motion he slid her around, until she was leaning against his chest. Sliding his hands beneath her arms, he took a breast in each hand, gently caressed her nipples.
"Grey...." she sighed. "Don't ever stop loving me. I couldn't bear it...."
Trembling Grey rinsed her off, made her stand waiting until he was rinsed. Then he took a large, fluffy towel and luxuriously dried the pink and gold body, kneeling at the last to get her legs and feet. "You smell so good," he murmured. "Good enough to eat." Delicately he nipped her leg.
"Darling....". she sighed. "Don't...."
The urgency clawed at him and Grey toweled himself rapidly. "You little witch," he said softly, as he picked her up in his arms. "You beautiful, tempting little witch...."
Then he pushed open the door, and walked down the hall, holding Sandra's nude body gingerly, almost as if it were too hot to hold.
They didn't finish with lunch until almost two. The day was cloudy, like the day before, and afterwards they sat together in the living room, Sandra relaxing against him, neither of them saying anything, both feeling a lethargy of sated fulfillment, bone weary exhaustion. "I feel like a nap," Grey said. "How about you?"
"No, baby," she answered, her voice despairing. "We have so little time left together. It'd be a shame to waste it sleeping. Think again."
"Cards? Television?"
"No. Try some more."
Suddenly an inspiration struck Cleveland. It was something he had always wanted to do with Barbara, but never, not even during their honeymoon days, had she ever consented. And in class-for an instructor to indulge along with the students-it was just not done. Sandra would be even more perfect than Barbara ever could have been.
"I've got it," he said eagerly. "Only you'll have to promise you'll agree before I even tell you...."
"It isn't naughty, is it?"
"Not at all."
"All right, baby. Yes." Curiosity shone in her eyes. "Y'ou know I'd do anything for you. What is it?"
"Darling, I'd like to paint you in the nude."
For a minute she was taken back and didn't answer. "You mean it? Me? You actually think I'd be a worthwhile subject?"
"Can't think of any better. How about it? You game?"
She smiled self-consciously. Then she nodded. "Of course, Grey. If that's what you want. I'm willing. Beats napping the afternoon away."
Cleveland found himself tremendously excited at the prospect. This way he would have more than memories of Sandra, of this weekned, in the days ahead, the days before they'd be together always "Wait here, I'll get my materials. Sandra, you're an angel."
"A fallen one." she laughed.
Going into his den he found charcoal and pastels a sheaf of twelve by eighteen sketching paper. Then he ran upstairs, took a pale blue nylon sheet from the linen closet.
"Sorry I don't have a screen," he said, spreading the sheet in pronounced, graceful folds on the davenport. "Maybe you'd like to go upstairs...."
"So?" she wriggled playfully. "I should be shy all of a sudden?" She moved to an armchair, began to undress before Grey. But he didn't even notice, he was so engrossed in his preparations. He carried his easel out, placed it before the davenport. As an afterthought he ran up to the guest bedroom, Drought down several silk pillows.
By the time he was ready, Sandra was nude, sitting stiffly on the sheet, her toes pointing to the floor. She smiled. "Almost ready, Picasso? How do you want me to pose?"
"We'll try quite a few different poses, until I get the feel of your proportions."
"You certainly should have that by now."
"Now, Sandra...." he chided. "Try sitting up with your arms clenched around your knees, your head slightly tilted and...." He noticed something that made him stop in mid-sentence. "I wonder if I could ask one more thing?"
"Of course, darling. What is it?"
"I wonder if you'd mind wearing your pumps? I know is isn't the classic pose, but it's something I've always wanted to do. And you just don't go asking the models at art school to go back and put on a pair of sexy shoes...."
Shooting him a quizzical look, Sandra slipped on the shoes he handed her. "If that's what you want...."
"It's a quirk with me. Indulge an old man, honey, huh?"
"Of course, darling. You needn't apologize to me."
"All right, let's try that pose I suggested before."
Warming to the novelty, Sandra sat on the davenport, brought her knees up, locked them with her arms, and stared wistfully towards Grey. "How's this?"
"Wonderful. Hold it for about two minutes, will you? Then we'll shift."
Sketching rapidly, Cleveland did several quick charcoal studies of Sandra, posing her standing, kneeling, reclining, until he felt the tension ease out of his fingers, and his touch regained its deft sureness. Finally he chose a reclining pose to finish in pastels.
Advancing to Sandra, he arranged her body. Propping her back with a pillow, so she was half reclined, her breasts prominently displayed, the nipples dark against the light blue nylon, he stepped back to survey the effect. Pleased, he moved her right leg, bringing the knee up, to get the full silhouette of her calf, of the white, thin-heeled shoe. Her left leg he let hang halfway from the couch, the foot carelessly turned, touching the floor.
"Now your hands," he said.
"Better put a drink in this one," Sandra smiled. "This girl's getting awful dry. Modeling is hard, hard work, or wouldn't you know?"
"No, darling, I wouldn't. What's your preference?"
"Martini would be nice . .
Swiftly, impatient at the interruption, Grey mixed a shaker of martinis. Taking two glasses, he returned to the living room. "Here we are."
She sipped delicately at the drink. "That's better. Mind if I hold the glass?"
"Not at all. It would make a good touch."
Positioning Sandra's arms so they would bring her breasts to their fullest, he stepped back and rapidly began to sketch. All in all, counting stops to refill Sandra's glass, he worked forty-five minutes on the study, taking special pains to catch the brooding quality of her face, the lovely skin tone of her body. Finally, as he neared the finish of the portrait, the tension of creation diminished, and he realized the uniqueness of his situation.
Always when he'd sketched nudes at art school that was all there was to it. Once the sketch was well underway the model was dismissed, and that was it. Now the amusing thought occurred to him that this model wouldn't be dismissed, this model was his, to do with as he liked.
"Relax, darling. That's it for the day." He was surprised to discover the whole afternoon had fled, and now it was almost five.
"Oh, good, Grey." Sandra rose and stretched lazily. "Lord, but it feels good to move again." She advanced upon the easel. "Let's see how you did."
Looking upon the subtly colored study, she was momentarily awed. "Grey, it's marvelous! You've got a magnificent touch for portraiture. Why it's me all over-but I'm sure not that beautiful...."
"No artist could do justice to you," he said gallantly, kissing her bare shoulder, drawing her close to him.
"Grey, you say the nicest things. Do you mean it?"
"You know I do."
"I love you...." She turned and clung to him, shuddering beneath his touch as his hands roamed her back, stroked her. The desire, long stored during the afternoon, now made itself known in him.
Deliberately he moved her to the couch, his senses afire, feeling he couldn't wait another minute. "Let's use that sheet for what it was primarily intended," he whispered.
"Anything you say, Rembrandt," Sandra sighed.
All too soon it was ten o'clock, time for Sandra to return to her dorm. After the afternoon's loveplay they'd consumed a few more drinks, then had a simple dinner. The evening had been spent in desultory, regretful conversation, almost as if they were parting forever. They spent a half hour going over the house, removing all traces of Sandra's presence, leaving no clues to arouse Barbara's suspicions, Grey hiding the lovely figure sketches in his room, Sandra even helping to remove and replace the bedsheets. wrapping them, cautioning Grey to have them laundered first thing in the morning.
As they worked, she said, "Before we pull these sheets off, honey, do you think...?"
"If you want. Sandra."
"You said something about some people trying to wear it out?"
"I did, didn't I?"
"Let's skip it this time. It'll be something to look forward to."
Downstairs they clung passionately together, kissing, nourishing each other with their emotion "It's been the most beautiful weekend of my life," Sandra murmured. "If I never saw you again, I'd remember it forever."
"We'll have the rest of our lives to relive it. As soon as Barbara returns, I'll start working on her."
"I'll love you anyway. Honest. See you tomorrow. And Wednesday?" Her voice became hushed, full of promise.
"Yes. Sure you'll be all right? I hate to think of your walking back to the house alone. Maybe I should drive you."
"Don't be silly. If anyone saw us...." She raised her lips. "Bye sweetheart. It's been heavenly."
Then the door closed behind her, and he heard her heels tapping down the walk, toward the dark garden. Sighing, he turned from the door, rigid with despair.
Suddenly the emptiness of the house, of his real life, closed in on him again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BUT IF GREY THOUGHT THAT RIDDING HIMSELF of Jeanne Portier, of entanglements that were now intolerable to him, was going to be an easy matter, he had another deep think coming. Jeanne was a scheming, vicious woman, capable of almost any perfidy. She was not about to relinquish him to anyone, certainly not to any pipsqueak of an adolescent girl.
She had not been entirely taken in by Grey's frequent and fervent declarations of love for her. They soothed her vanity, to be sure, and they helped crowd her doubts into the back of her mind. They made their love events all the more pleasurable. But afterwards, when there was time for solitary evaluation, she conceded that a subtle change was making itself known in Grey's attitude. After all, when people were as fanatically intimate-how could they keep secrets from each other?
Actually Jeanne did not know about Sandra. She sensed that Grey was moving through a transitional period, that the first glow of their adventuresome romance had worn off. New distractions were necessary now, innovations to erase the homing instinct in him. After all, Barbara was his wife, difficult and grasping though she might be. He was used to her, to the even routine and security of their lives He might, even now, be entertaining ideas of returning to that servile domesticity, of cutting Jeanne out of his life altogether.
The mere thought chilled her to the very marrow of her bones, for though she was now positive that she didn't love Grey any longer, she still needed him, if only to slake her persistent, maddening passions.
The fact that he had refused to answer his phone when she'd called twice on Saturday, countless times throughout Sunday, seemed to bear out her theorizing. It was his first move in ending their relationship. First a gradual withdrawal, a few days between each rendezvous, then a week, then a month-Then pfft! That's all, baby. I love you, but I'm already in my pajamas, and it's too rainy to come out tonight-
By God, no-she seethed. It wasn't going to be like that with her. She'd watch Grey like a hawk from now on. Any sign of letting down and she'd make her move.
So it was that she broke her own self-imposed rule that she never speak to Grey at the college, and Monday, at mid-morning, when she knew he had a free period, she went to his office.
He was convincing enough, and huddled in his strong arms, with his lips grazing her forehead comfortingly, she almost believed him. "But, Grey," she murmured pettishly when he'd explained about not answering his phone, "you might have called me. If only you'd have known how miserable I was, alone in our apartment, in our bed...."
"That wouldn't have done at all, can't you see? The minute I'd have heard your voice," he lied fervently, "I'd have come to you. When you're anywhere near, I just can't think. I needed time, plenty of it, to think, to figure out where my life, our life, is headed. Barbara comes home this weekend, you know. I had to figure out something for our future I had to make plans so we can continue seeing each other even while she's thinking the dog collar's on good and snug."
You liar, she thought, you unmitigated liar! And yet she had her doubts-If only his words were true, if only she were sure he loved her, that she still had the power to dominate him body and soul.
"Nevertheless," she pouted, "you were a naughty boy. I'll forgive you this time, but don't you ever let it happen again. You scared me something awful. Ckerie, if I should ever lose you...."
Grey kissed her, dramatically overdoing it.
Savoring the kiss, Jeanne was nonetheless wary. "I'll see you tonight?" She deliberately drove her body against his. "We'll play doctor, non?"
A wave of disgust enveloped him. "Yes," he replied, forcing a smile.
When Sandra entered his classroom late that afternoon, Grey felt a compulsive rush swell his chest.
Careful, you fool! he warned himself. Do you want the whole damned class to see? Sandra returned his yearning look with a fleeting, meaningful smile, then busied herself with her project, not daring to look at him too often.
For God's Sake, keep your distance, he thought. You'll be a dead giveaway if you don't. Still he couldn't and more often than necessary he moved to Sandra's side, playing the role of dedicated instructor to the hilt. What a sham! For all the time he leaned over Sandra, he yearned to turn up that head, to ravish those lips, to tangle his fingers in her golden hair. To think that only yesterday, this lovely girl-this wanton woman-had passionatetly shared his bed.
If these diddling nincompoops could know, he mused. How amazed they'd be! He wanted desperately to proclaim his love. "Excuse me, please, class," he envisioned himself saying. "I would like to announce that Miss Cummings and I spent the weekend in bed together, au natural, sharing the most soul shattering rapture in each other's arms. And that we love each other, and will someday be married." Brother!
But he dared not speak privately with Sandra, for she was flanked on both sides by sharp-eyed coeds, gossipy girls who wouldn't miss a thing. Finally, and too soon the period was over. Sandra lingered a last moment, eying Grey, then the girlfriend who waited outside the studio door for her. At the last possible moment she chanced a passing word. "Wednesday...." she whispered, then hurried out.
Wednesday would never come, Grey thought, his heart paining him. Tonight there was Jeanne. And probably Tuesday night also. And having been on short rations for the weekend, she would be in an insatiable, retaliatory mood, eager to make up for lost pleasures. Stomach clenching loathing and dread filling him, he locked the door of his studio and started down the hall. Maybe he should stop for a few conscience-dulling drinks before going to Jeanne's apartment.
It was as he had predicted. Wednesday did take its own damned sweet time in arriving. And Jeanne had been a charging, furious maneater on Monday and Tuesday, leaving him gasping with weariness, a hollow shell of a man both nights. But with customary inevitability Wednesday did come, finding him entertaining serious doubts about his virility, about how he would acquit himself with Sandra that afternoon.
During the last period on Wednesdays he taught a rudimentary art class, consisting mostly of freshmen, eager, callow students, who listened and worked concentratedly. These periods he usually allowed upperclass students to take tables at the rear, to work silently at finishing their projects. This Wednesday he'd granted that permission to only one student: Sandra.
She entered at four, when the period was almost over, instantly bringing the studio to radiant life. Grey could hardly keep his eyes off her. Judas, but she was lovely! He felt the pressure commence in his brain, the familiar pulse simmer in his veins. Damn! he cursed. Would this stupid class session ever end?
Finally the period closed, the last simpering student had left. Only Sandra remained, and she was employed in replacing her materials in her locker. Locking the studio door, Grey said teasingly, "You may come into my office when you are finished there, Miss Cummings."
"Yes, Professor Cleveland," she said in mock servility.
In his office Grey extinguished the desk lamp, throwing the small cubicle into shadow. He checked the office door which opened onto the hall. It was firmly locked. He turned as Sandra entered.
Then they were in each other's arms, embracing in a death-like trance, their lips, hot and questing, sealed together. Involuntarily Grey's hands commenced to stroke her back, sliding the silk of her blouse upon her nylon underthings. His fingers cupped the firm roundness of her buttocks, rubbed electrically, silk against silk.
Immediately the tremors fled along Sandra's legs. Still clinging, they drew their mouths away, Grey finding Sandra's eyes glazed with tears. "Darling," she quavered, "It's seemed like a million years since you last kissed me. I've missed you desperately."
"I nearly died," Grey choked. "It seemed Wednesday would never come. I hated to put it off, but we do have to be careful. I missed you too, baby. I love you."
Again they clung together, their arms throbbing with effort to draw the other closer. Their lips parted in liquid fever, and Sandra, consumed with desire, sent her tongue in search of his. "Darling," she moaned, her voice hollow, "Can't we...?"
"You mean, here?"
"Why not? Who knows when we'll get a chance again?"
"It won't be as nice. There's only this beat up old couch. I nap here in the office once in awhile."
"Anything. I need you so!" Immediately she began unbuttoning her blouse. "Hurry, darling," she urged. "Get undressed...."
"Later," he said, "I love watching you disrobe."
"Silly," she laughed, then zipped down her plaid skirt. Next the slip came off, and she posed before him, arching her back, her breasts twin peaks of dazzling promise. "Is nice?" she mimicked.
"'Sallright," he laughed in comic relief. Still he made no move toward her, only stood admiring the flaming, red, shimmering brassiere and panties, from beneath which snaked a black garter belt, holding her stockings taut. Her feet clad in pink kid flats, she was a vision of taunting beauty.
"God, Sandra, why do you do this to me? You all but drive me insane in that getup."
"Woman's purpose in life." she grinned. "Finish me. baby?"
With trembling fingers he began to undo the bra snaps. The panties and stockings followed in whispering, impatient urgency.
"Ooh. That leather's cold," she protested.
"Not for long."
Suddenly they stopped, shocked, their hearts frozen in impotent anger and fear. Someone was in the hall, knocking on the office door I They waited the intruder out, bodies trembling and aching in frenzied anguish, saying nothing, hardly daring to breath. Three more knocks and the visitor gave up.
Afterwards they sat in the nearing darkness, whispering endearments to each other, caressing, kissing. Slowly they set about dressing, regretful that their moment of escape had been so short.
"I'm sorry, darling," Grey said, "but Jeanne's expecting me at six. There'll be all hell to pay if she gets suspicious. She'd stop at nothing to avenge herself. Bear with me a little longer, Sandra."
"I understand. Don't explain." There was a momentary pause. "Could we meet here again Friday? If I leave, then sneak back? Nobody will suspect...."
"Yes, baby. If that's what you want."
With a quick, yearning kiss, a murmur of appreciation, she was gone.
Cleveland took his time in the deserted men's room, washing, removing Sandra's lipstick. Finally, assured all incriminating traces of their rendezvous was gone, he left for Jeanne's apartment.
The apartment was in heavy gloom when he arrived, all lamps extinguished. "Jeanne?" he called, feigning airiness.
"In here, dear," she called from the bedroom.
Grey felt a cold hand of fear and dread grasp his heart, paralyze him. Lord, she couldn't. Not before dinner. He wasn't up to it. He'd simply have to refuse her.
It was as he'd anticipated when he entered the room. Jeanne was lying on the bed, clad in only a filmy nightgown.
"Hi," he said, kissing her lightly. "What's this? Preview of coming "attractions?"
Her eyes were cold, calculating, a stiff, cunning smile on her lips. "No, darling. I just thought you might like an appetizer before dinner." She pulled his head down to her. He only touched her briefly with his lips, then sat on the bed.
"Honestly," he attempted a laugh, "is that all you ever think of?"
"Mostly. Especially when I have a masterful, virile lover like you." Her smirk was taunting. "Come on, sweet. Shuck out of those clothes, and give me a service call."
He fought to conceal the dismay he felt. "How about a raincheck? Later? After we eat? I'm famished."
Her voice took on a vengeful, cutting edge. "You'll do it now ... or I'll claw you out at the roots."
"Come off it. You can't force a man to...."
"Oh, can't I? Maybe I can. What's the matter? Did that Cummings girl drain you dry? Why don't you admit you aren't man enough to take me right now?"
Cleveland staggered upright, an expression of incredulity on his face.
"Yes, I know about your precious Sandra," she said, her voice strident in victory. "It was I who knocked at your door this afternoon, it was I who pussy-footed back to listen to the whole sickening little performance!"
He choked at his sudden anger. "You didn't. You ... couldn't. No one could stoop so low!"
"Low? Isn't this a case of the pot calling the kettle black?" Her voice rose, verging on the hysterical.
Abruptly she broke into sobs. "How could you do this to me, Grey? After the self-sacrifices I showed you, after the ultimate intimacy we shared? I saved you from yourself, from your wife. I gave you a second chance to live. And now you've gained such new confidence you can whore around with an adolescent. She was with you this weekend, wasn't she? Answer, you bastard! Wasn't she?"
"Yes, she was! I'm in love with her."
"I'm in love with her," Jeanne mimicked viciously. "And now what do you expect me to do? Cry and wail, beg you to keep me, tell you I love you?"
"Jeanne, please...."
"Well, I'm not. I don't love you. I realize now I never have. It was infatuation that never developed. But I know what I do love. I love your body, I love the loving, the burning pleasure you give me. And, by God, I don't intend to give that up!"
"Keep your fancy schoolgirl! Take care of her dainty, prissy little needs. And take care of your wife too. It wouldn't do me any good to try to stop you. But don't forget. I want mine too, and I want it regular. From now on, when I whistle you'll jump. Do you hear? Jump, just like a stallion!"
"Jeanne," he shouted. "Stop it. "You're out of your mind."
"And listen. I won't come pleading and begging for any either. I've got nothing to lose at this crummy, one-horse college anyway. Most people have my number. But if you value your precious reputation, the sanctity of that cadaverous marriage of yours, you'd better toe the mark. If you don't this college is going to be rocked by one of the most devastating scandals in history. Your name will be mud from coast to coast. You'll never teach again.
"And if you think I'm kidding, just try me. When I call, you better come, understand?"
Grey walked to the door.
"Come back here, Grey," Jeanne commanded "I want that first payment right now. Or are you going to call my bluff?"
Woodenly, his face a grimace of self-loathing, Grey turned back into the bedroom. Trance-like, staring into space, he began to undress.
"Not ready, huh?" Jeanne chuckled. "Well take care of that all right. Come here, Mr. Ash Man."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Barbara returned home that Saturday after-noon, shortly after two o'clock. She arrived in a cab, unheralded, and Grey's first view of her was as she imperiously ordered the cabby about, cautioning him to be careful with her luggage. Primly, cloaked in her own self-importance, her back ramrod-stiff, she advanced up the walk, her eyes darting about the yard, disapproval darkening them. Forcing a smile, Grey stepped out on the porch to greet her.
"Welcome home," he said, planting a superficial kiss on her forehead.
"Grey." she protested. "Not in front of the taxi driver...."
She sniffed, entering the living room, seeing the disarray of newspapers on the floor, wiping her fingers in the dust film covering the TV. "And not one minute too soon from the looks of things. That yard's a disgrace. What have you been doing? Tom-catting every minute I was gone? This living room. Did you ever dust it?"
"Yes, I did," he replied, a mocking smile on his lips. "But it only got dusty again." He made no attempt to shield the sarcasm in his voice. "Without you around, things just generally went to hell."
"I guess so. Pay the cab driver, please."
When he reentered the house, Barbara's luggage in tow, she was standing in the living room surveying the untidy ruin. "I'm afraid to look at the kitchen."
"No worry there. I ate out mostly."
"Well, that's some consolation...."
"Have a nice visit? How's your mother?"
"Spare me the small talk. Grey. You Know you don't care about my visit or my mother. She could be stuffed into a space capsule for all of you."
"Touchy; aren't we? Well. I'D take your stuff upstairs and leave you to your private grouch."
Dropping the suitcases onto Barbara s bed. Grey felt a pang of despair to remember the happiness the piece of furniture had provided in its mistress's absence. It seemed ages since he'd seen Sandra Yet tt was only last night, in his office after class. Shrugging, he started down.
He couldn't help but admire his wife, despite her grumpy disposition. She certainly looked well.
Her body had always been a source of pride to her, and frigid though its core might be, Grey was still forced to admire its smooth, trim exterior, the subtle sheath of her hips, the firm, high uplift of her breasts. What a wasted body it was!
"I think the least you could do would be to mow the lawn, while I try to restore some sort of order in here. Did the Shaws call while I was away? And the Martines?"
Here we go again. Grey thought sullenly. The interminable whirl of boredom, the brusque commands. In a bantering tone he said, "Yes, madam, I'll mow the lawn. If the Shaws and the Martines called, I am unaware of it. I may have been out."
"Did you ever stay home?"
"Every night, practically. Just as soon as I'd been slopped at the Cosmopolitan Restaurant."
"I'll just bet."
"Well, anyway," Grey sulked, "Welcome home."
Barbara didn't answer, but went upstairs to change. Grey followed her slim, lovely legs up each step with his eyes, wondering at the mixed emotions at war in his heart.
The routine, once reestablished, nearly proved his undoing. After the sleepness nightmare of the past five weeks, the boredom of regular meals, bedtime and rising hours seemed positively petrifying. It made him feel ten years older. This was the sort of thing that makes old women out of most college instructors, he concluded.
He thought of Sandra incessantly, entertaining wishful reveries, remembering where she had sat in his den. in the living room, becoming almost maudlin over the bathtub. At times his pleasant reminiscences were brutally destroyed by the hateful vision of Jeanne.
With burning, shameful self-disgust he recalled the ugly, degrading relations they'd shared last Wednesday night, the bestial performance he'd been forced to participate in. He felt dirty inside to remember the sneer Jeanne had given him when he'd finished, and she'd sprawled on the bed, her body quaking with sadistic pleasure. "Now get the hell out of here, you bastard," she'd ordered. "You be back here Sunday night, understand? Choose your own time, but be here. I'll need you again by then...."
"But Barbara will be home then. I can't just up and leave."
"That's your worry. You be here or poor Barbara will have a nice juicy scandal on her hands. We'll make some sort of schedule then, so you can plan around it. Of course there may be emergncy calls, when I get too itchy to wait for our date night But we can hash that out on Sunday."
He shrunk a little more inside every time the haunting words returned. How could a woman be that depraved? And worse yet, what kind of a gutless animal would submit to her debased demands? A corroding loathing possessed him continually now.
Grey got the shock of his life the night of his wife's homecoming. After dinner, they engaged in a dreary bout of TV watching, Grey wishing he might retreat to his den to read. But after all, it was Barbara's first night home. There were appearances to be made. They drank a few highballs together, Barbara becoming somewhat intoxicated.
About ten-thirty she rose and mysteriously went upstairs. "Grey?" she called from the landing, after about ten minutes. "Come here, please?"
Puzzled, Grey rose and went to the stairway. What bug did she have now? Topping the stairs he heard her call again. "In here. Grey. In my bedroom ... As he pushed the door open, he was suddenly transfixed, a chill shudder rippling his entire body.
Lying on the bed. her body vaguely denned by the single, dim bed lamp that burned, he saw his wife. She was stretched full length, propped on one elbow, her figure thinly veiled by a sheer black nightgown. The charcoal gauze gave her breasts, her hips, her slinky legs a smoky sheen, making her at once unbearably desirable. Her nipples seemed almost purple beneath the gown.
"Well, silly," she laughed. "Don't just stand there. Come on in."
"What's going on?" he stammered. "A fashion show or something?"
"A transformation, darling. I'd like to have you come to bed with me, do the things men and women do in bed ... Is that so unusual?"
Warily he replied. "Well, to tell the truth...."
"Forget that. I'm sorry I've been so awful to you, dearest. I've had a lot of time to think things over. I've found I haven't been fair to you. Give me another chance, please, darling?"
"Is this a trick, Barbara? What is it you want?"
"Don't be suspicious, Grey. If you'll come to bed, I'll show you what I want...."
"No, Barbara," he said sullenly, his ardor cooling as he remembered the humiliation he'd suffered at her hands their last night together. "It won't work. You'll only spoil it again."
"Grey!" her voice became angry. "Don't be a petulant child." Her tone turned acid. "After all, after five weeks of continence, you'd think a man would welcome a tussle in bed with his wife. Like my new nightie? Got it in New York."
"It's lovely." A long dormant yearning grew inside him. "If only I could believe you."
"You'll never know if you don't try me. I'll make it just like it was on our honeymoon...." She licked her lips wickedly. "Now turn out the light and get undressed."
A sudden flame of desire licked at his brain. If Barbara was sincere, he thought, it would be like having an entirely different woman. Besides if he continued in his refusal, wouldn't she be convinced he'd been soothing his thirst at another woman's fountain? What man could resist an invitation like this? Abruptly he extinguished the light, then began tearing his clothes off.
When he found Barbara, her lips came to meet his, her body seemingly alive with desire, new vibrancy and warmth. "Love me, darling," she chanted, "like you used to."
Hesitantly, still suspecting a trick. Grey slid her nightgown up, began to stroke her legs, her breasts. Barbara's body quaked passionately beneath his touch, shivers of anticipation racing down its luxurious length. When his lips touched her nipples, she trembled. "Darling," she sighed, "love me...."
When it seemed she had reached fever pitch, Grey did. "Darling," she moaned, "I'm on fire. It's like something entirely new to me ... God, what have I been missing?"
Together, in frenetic cadence, they began the torrid movements of love. Grey, still unbelieving his wife's rebirth, felt his passion rise slowly, almost as if he were outside his body, observing. How could Barbara have changed so? An earthquake of reawakening must have erupted in her during her absence.
Gradually, almost timidly, as if fearing another degrading rebuff, his desire gathered. For a moment he imagined this was Sandra twining tortuously beneath him, and the thought inflamed him, causing him to become brutal, to increase the intensity of his motions.
"Please, darling," she groaned. "Not so rough Be gentle...." Then Grey sensed she was about to reach the peak for her body trembled uncontrollably against him, her nails raked his back cruelly, she sobbed raspingly in her throat. During that instant, he thought again of Sandra. It was a mistake, for his imagination went amok, and her name, the vision of her love-suffused face, crowded his brain. He thought he was loving Sandra, that it was her churning beneath him.
Then with a savage glutteral outcry, he was delivered.
Dazedly he realized what had happened, amazement crowding him as he heard Barbara scream, "No, Grey, not yet!" Now she sobbed helplessly. "No, no, no...." She drove up viciously, in frenzied frustration. But it was too late.
"You beast," Barbara shrieked, digging her nails vengefully into his back. "You filthy animal. One minute more, only one minute more...." She was wild, out of her head in fury. "It was horrible, filthy...." Then as if to vindicate her part in the act: "I hated it, I hated the filthy thing. That a woman should allow a man to rut around in her body ... Never again, never again! Take your clothes, you scavenger, and get out! Get out, you depraved beast!"
Dumbly, awed by the monumental hysteria possessing his wife, Grey rose, retrieved his clothes, and left her bedroom. As he started downstairs he could hear the television, which they'd forgotten to turn off, still blaring. It seemed crushingly ironic that at that moment a studio audience should burst into a loud storm of cackling laughter.
They hardly spoke to each other all day Sunday, their only exchange having to do with Grey's preference for dinner. The day passed with interminable slowness. As evening came on, and he remembered his appointment with Jeanne, cold despair gripped him. But even that, he thought bitterly, would be better than the stony, nameless silence that pervaded this house.
Again they sat before the TV, a room apart. As nine o'clock approached, Grey felt the restlessness expand within him. He must make his move soon. Finally he broke silence.
"Barbara, would you mind if I went out for a little drive? I'm rather restless tonight. A ride might relax me." His heart in his mouth, he added. "Perhaps you'd like to ride along...?"
"A ride with you?" she snapped. "You must be out of your mind. Go ahead. Drive. Drive all night if you want. Just don't bother me when you come in."
"Well," Jeanne smirked broadly when he entered her apartment, "I see you made it. What excuse did you have to dream up?"
"No excuse," Grey blurted, sorry the second the words tumbled out, "we had a little tiff yesterday. She was glad to get rid of me."
Jeanne laughed. "That's rich. So mama's still gelding her spineless husband...." She began to unbutton her gown. "Come into the bedroom, and we'll see what we can do to make little Grey feel more like a man again. You'd better be good tonight. I've been sitting here all day aching for you...."
Methodically, fighting to be as distant from the sense of subjugaton he felt as possible, Grey worked at the knot of his tie. Coward, coward, his mind taunted.
"Hurry up, lover," Jeanne called. "Or do I have to help you undress too?"
Afterwards they lay motionless beside each other, Jeanne humming tunelessly to herself, Grey still smarting and sullen with a sense of shame. "You were very adequate tonight, darling," she smiled, "considering you were performing under duress. I'm well satisfied with our little arrangement. You wouldn't care to stay over? Try again?"
"Talk sense."
"Just an idle thought." She raised herself and looked down at Grey's haggard face. 'Just to be nice to you. lover, I won't ask you to come in tomorrow. Why don't you suggest the days which would be best for you? Days you can logically cover for? Aren't I being considerate?"
"It gets me right here," Grey growled.
"Bitter, bitter."
When Grey left it was almost eleven. Their arrangement had been carefully discussed. He'd have to buy an appointment calendar, he thought sarcastically. Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. The weekends, thanks to Jeanne's magnamimous generosity, were his to squander as he pleased.
"You can waste those days on that debutante ol yours," Jeanne had laughed. "Sure's hell looks like Barbara isn't going to be giving you any."
As Grey drove home he felt gnawing, bone crunching weariness overcome him. If only he could just lie down and die on the spot. What would happen if he just closed his eyes, put the Thunderbird to ninety, and forgot to steer? It was a tempting thought, a consideration to be held in reserve for when things became utterly intolerable.
Intolerable? he groaned. Just how could his life become any more intolerable, he marveled, any more messed up? His nightmare existence, as it now stood, was absolutely pointless. His puny efforts to extricate himself from this soupy quagmire were comparable to flyspecks on the face of eternty. Sheer folly, he conceded. A neat suicide would be the best answer.
He shook his head to clear his vision. If only there was no Sandra, if only he didn't love her so.
There must be a way to break from this tangled web, a way that would not bring discredit and shame to Sandra. He couldn't bear to have her exposed to public ridicule and scorn. Yes. Sandra. If it weren't for her he would tell the whole world to take a flying leap at the moon.
Momentarily he knew solace. Tomorrow he would see Sandra again, he would caress and kiss her once more. Her love would revitalize him, give him courage, make him do what must be done.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next three weeks of Cleveland's life were hell on earth. If he thought he'd lived a nightmare of conflicts and cross purposes when there was only Sandra and Jeanne to contend with, it was as nothing compared to the juggling he had to do with Barbara once more at home.
What with Barbara planning his every waking moment, pushing him into their familiar, abhorrent social swim; with Jeanne extorting his physical presence, driving him to endless sex, literally draining his blood, then gnawing his lifeless bones; with his love for Sandra compelling him, giving him no peace until he had seen and touched her-the fleeting, stolen moments absolute reward for the misery he suffered, he became a gaunt, hollow shell of himself. His wife, Jeanne, Sandra, his college colleagues commented on his condition. But none of them, save for Sandra, really cared. Theirs were only conversational ploys.
He could not endure it much longer, he conceded to himself one weary, bitterly frustrating afternoon, as he drove home from a particularly destructive interlude at Jeanne's apartment. This double, triple life he was leading threatened to split him, to crush what remaining reason and sanity he possessed. It was only a matter of time.
At times like this he had hallucinations, wild fantasies in which he imagined how uncomplicated, how idyllic his life would become if only there was no Barbara, if he had never married. II there was no Barbara-With a clear conscience he envisioned her involved in a fatal accident. But she was the most careful person on the face of the earth. Accidents could be made to happen, his mind continued in logical sequence. And full blown, several different murder plans came to him, almost as if they'd been lying in wait in his brain all along. Yes, he would muse excitedly, letting the plans run full circle. Murder. That was the answer. Murder Barbara. Then he would be free, Jeanne would have no hold on him. Murder Barbara. Murder, murder, murder-
But with any small modicum of rest his mind would regain equilibrium, and he would realize that no matter how desperate he became he could not carry out any murder plan, cleverly conceived though it might be. The power to snuff out a human life was just not in him.
And above and beyond these emotional problems, each a disaster area in its own right, there was the very daily business of earning a living. The work at Jefferson College went on, for now summer school had begun, and he was involved in a full program for the next eight weeks. How he ever accomplished anything, how he ever met his classes, how he ever managed to feign competence of any sort, Cleveland never knew. He moved through his school hours in a sleep-walker's trance, blindly, step by step.
"What kept you tonight?" Barbara greeted him when he arrived home the afternoon of his hectic interview with Jeanne. "What's the excuse this time?"
"President Bronson had me in conference again. You know how long-winded he is ... Just couldn't break away."
"Seems you spend an awful lot of time with him lately."
"Don't you see what it means. Barbara?" he alibied, picking an ace card. " Bronson s getting old. He'll be retiring soon. Maybe this summer. He's grooming someone for the job."
Immediately Barbara's suspicions were allayed. Her face brightened, a scheming, proud twist forming her lips. "Do you really think so? Oh, Grey ... I'd be so proud of you...."
Like hell, he thought. You'd be proud to be Madame President. How you could shaft your lady friends with that! "Anything in the mail?"
"Only one thing worth mentioning. And I've already accepted, so it'll do you no good to complain.
The social committee wants us to chaperone at the July Welcoming Ball. Isn't that nice?"
"Just ducky," Grey grumbled. "It's delightful news. That's all I need right now. What's for dinner? God, but I'm tired...."
And so the days, heavy footed, leaden, brightened only when he managed to steal a moment with Sandra, passed and June was only a memory, July a glittering promise. Promise of what? Grey thought bitterly. Only more humiliation, more unhappiness. Humiliation reminded him of last night, when Barbara had finally felt duty bound to give herself to her brutal husband again. Reluctantly he'd gone to her bed, but only as a sop to her suspicions. She hadn't even tried as she did the night of her homecoming, and the session was aborted, ugly.
It was on a Saturday morning, as Barbara searched through Grey's closets for the single pair of Bermuda shorts he kept constantly hidden, hoping to coerce him into wearing them to a post-July 4th picnic that afternoon, that she found the charcoal and pastel sketches Grey had made of Sandra.
Aghast, shaken to the roots of her puritan philosophy, she collasped onto the bed, sat there studying the pictures raptly. So. Her humorous, lightly taken suspicions were valid after all! He had used his vacation from her in promiscuous pusuits. The slut, she thought, recognizing Sandra Cummings, the brazen little slut! Lying there absolutely naked, wearing only white pumps. Undoubtedly the little tramp's one concession to modesty, Barbara sniffed.
So, she thought, enraged, her head beginning to ache, as it always did when she was confronted with a crisis, this is what her beloved husband had been up to. No wonder he'd been acting so strangely of late, why he looked so haggard. A determined, ugly snarl convulsed her lips. We'll see about this. There are ways to handle philandering husbands!
Breathing deeply, fighting for composure, she took the drawings and descended the stairs. I must try to be objective about his, she commanded, no screaming and crying like a Market Street fishmonger. Nevertheless, she went through the house, closing every window, just in case. No need for the neighbors to hear them wrangling.
Next she stepped out on the porch, calling to Grey, who was, at the moment, dutifully mowing the lawn. "Grey? Will you come in here a moment, please?"
Warily, seeing the strained expression on her face, Grey walked past her, into the house. "There's something we should talk about." She led him directly to the den.
Instantly, seeing the sketches spread over the couch, Cleveland recoiled in shock. This is the kicker, he thought. Here we go. How in hell did she find the studies? He'd hidden them in the most impossible place. He braced his shoulders, almost sighing in relief. At last the secret was out. Now they'd clear the air.
"Well. Grey," Barbara said, sharpness edging her voice. "What do you have to say about this portable peep show? And don't lie to me, because I know this girl. I've seen her on campus. Cummings isn't it? Sandra Cummings?"
"That's right," Grey said quietly, his mind spinning, thinking of logical sounding alibis. She'd posed on a professional basis, a fellow art teacher had loaned him the sketches-But his mind rebelled. He was tired of lying, once and for all he wanted to tell the truth.
"I'm waiting," Barbara prompted him imperiously.
"She-Sandra-was here a few weeks back." His resolve stiffened. "In fact, we spent the whole weekend together here." His voice grew louder, proud. "She slept with me. She showed me what it was like to possess a real, flesh and blood woman once more."
A vivid flush colored Barbara's cheeks. "I'll just bet she did, the cheap little tart."
"Watch your tongue, Barbara!" he threatened, his eyes darkening.
"Oh my, but aren't we protective? How did it happen? Did you seduce her or was it the other way around? Just what is your relationship?"
His voice grew ragged with resolution. "Hard as you may find it to believe, I'm in love with her."
"In love? My God, Grey, you have no conception of what the word means. Some cheap little baggage spreads her legs for you, and right away it's love. This is priceless...."
Her brittle laughter died in her throat as she saw Grey's hands ball into fists, as his face became livid. "Stop it, Barbara," he gritted, "or I may do something we'd both be sorry for."
"Come off it, Grey. You can't intimidate me."
"I've said nothing of intimidation. I'll simply slap that simpering smile off your face!"
Barbara sensed panic. "You taunt me with your infidelity, you turn my house, my own bedroom into a bordello, and now you threaten to beat me!" Her voice rose. "Goddam you, Grey, go ahead! I'm not afraid of you! "
"Stop being dramatic, you frigid witch. Stop right now. So you know about Sandra? That's not important...."
"Not important?"
"No, the important thing is what are you going to do about it?"
"I suppose you want to marry her? That's the next thing you'll tell me. You want me to step out of the way so you can satisfy your carnal lusts with this fresh little blossom? Is that it? Or is it just sport with her? She doesn't want a permanent thing with a broken down college professor?"
"If you only knew, you selfish, grasping bitch If you only knew. Why Sandra has given me more real love in these past few weeks than you've shown me in the last three years."
"And what is your definition of love? A lot of bedroom? A lot of primitive pawing and rutting.-Is that what you mean by love?"
"There is a spiritual and physical side to love," Grey countered, "neither of which you've ever given me."
"You craven, inhuman beast! How dare you speak to me like this? I don't have to take it. I'll ... I'll...."
"You'll what? Leave me?" His pulse roared exultantly in his ears. "You'll divorce me?"
"Yes. That's what I firmly intend to do." Grey smiled. "Good; that's what I've wanted all along. And just to give you extra ammunition when you get before that judge, let me tell you about Jeanne."
"Jeanne...."
"Miss Jeanne Portier."
"Not that painted, conniving spinster? She'd sleep with anybody. Don't tell me you-"
"You should know, darling," Grey taunted. "It's for the enoblement of your long suffering character. You see, Sandra was only a 'Johnny-come-lately' I shacked up with the infamous Miss Portier for a month before Sandra entered my life. In fact we still get together now and then. Especially when my wife turns on her magnificent frigid charm."
"You filth," Barbara grated, rigid, impotent before her anger, petrified by this last bombshell. "You loathsome animal!"
Gradually she regained her composure, and though breathing heavily, she kept her voice level. "And tell me, lover man, how do you intend to marry both of these street crawlers? There are laws you know...."
"I only want to marry Sandra. And she wants to marry me."
"Oh, she wants to marry you, does she?" Barbara's tone became vitriolic. "Well, I think I have something to say about that. The thing that neither of those tramps seem to realize is that legally I'm still your wife. You can't get rid of me without grounds for divorce on my part. And I'm not just about to give you those grounds, either."
It seemed a sharp dagger plunged into Grey's back, then was deliberately twisted. "Wha ... what do you mean?"
Now her eyes literally glittered with malevolent vindictiveness. her smile superior, condescending. 'What I mean, Mr. Sex Expert, is that you've just hung yourself. I mean that even with all this damning evidence you've given me, I'm not going to file for divorce. I'm going to go on being your wife, understand? I'll live out the sham. And you'll live it out with me."
"You're out of your mind ... deranged," he gasped.
"Am I? If I can't own you completely, then no other woman can. Certainly not a peurile infant like your Sandra...."
"But why?" he choked, almost incoherently. "You don't love me. This has been the most loveless marriage in history, almost from the start. What will you gain by not divorcing me?"
"Gain?" she snorted. "Why, I'll gain everything. I'll keep you from running off with your virgin. I'll keep you under control as a good wife should...."
"You're mad. I've always suspected it."
"Perhaps I am. I've got a good thing here, darling. Don't you realize that? How many women are married to as promising a specimen as you? Someday ... perhaps even sooner than we expect ... you'll be president of Jefferson. And I'll be your wife, even if in name only. I'll share that success, that prestige, that power. And most important ... I'll have security. That can mean a lot to a woman when she loses her good looks...."
Grey turned his face away, not wanting to look at the crazed grimace on Barbara's features. This was incredible, ghastly-Though he'd suspected as much all the years of his marriage-still it was a cruel, inhuman blow to have her openly declare the material foundation upon which their marriage was constructed. A dollar and cents matter. Talk about your straw houses!
First it was Jeanne, telling him she wanted him only for his body-for the mere fact he was anatomically different from her-that their relationship was based on sex and sex alone. And now his wife-openly admitting she wanted him only for the security and prestige he could afford her. Again love did not enter into the picture.
There was only one, Sandra, who actually wanted him for what he was, who loved him.
Barbara was still raving, but he'd been so immersed in stunned, involved thought that he'd missed most of her tirade. " ... So go to your prize whores, root around with them Tike the pig you are, that all men are. They'll only relieve me of a degrading, repulsive chore. Actually I should be thankful to them.
"But remember this, the next time you're all wrapped up with your pretty little packages. I'll be there, haunting you and your slut, watching, laughing, because when all is said and done, it's I who really own you."
She paused to take a breath. "However, dearest, I'd appreciate it if you'd exercise a little discretion with your blue ribbon tarts. Take them out of town to do your dirty work. A scandal would hurt you as much as me. You'd be all washed up here at Jefferson."
Maybe there was still a slim chance, Grey thought wildly. "And if I don't choose to be discreet?"
Her triumphant smile did not nicker in the least. "Go ahead, play the fool. Do it on the auditorium stage during a pep rally if you like. I still won't let you go. I'll go down with you, I'll fall as low as you do. And I'll be there beside you, the longest day you live, to taunt you, to remind you of your stupidity. That'll be my ultimate revenge ... So go ahead! Be a fool!"
Woodenly, as if his insides had been scooped out of him, leaving him hollow, devoid of feeling, Grey turned away, started from the room. Momentarily he looked back at Barbara, burning hate glistening in his eyes.
She returned the glare with an enraging smirk "You understand now, don't you, darling? No matter what, I still win."
As he left the house he could hear the sound of her acid, triumphant laughter still ringing in his ears.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was during his free period on Monday morning, as they huddled together in the sanctuary of Cleveland's office, Sandra's body tense in his arms, her eyes wide with frightened concern, that Grey unraveled the whole sordid tale of Barbara's showdown to her.
"I just can't understand that woman," he said hopelessly. "And I've lived with her all these years."
"It takes more than a few years to understand a woman," Sandra chided lightly. "Takes a lifetime. Some men never do."
"What are we going to do? We can't go on like this. I'm half out of my mind the way it is. I can't stand much more of this skulking around. It's degrading, not fair to you."
"I don't mind, darling. Honestly."
"But I do. If our love has to become something cheap and unsavory, if it can't grow naturally, become a pure and holy thing...."
"Grey, stop. It doesn't matter So long as I can be with you."
Grey kissed her, a solemn, reverent kiss, his love for Sandra piercing and sweet. If there were only some way to snap his chains-to make Sandra his true wife.
"If we can't go on like this," Sandra argued, "then let's do something about it. Anything, no matter how rash, is preferable to just taking whatever dirt Barbara chooses to dish out.
"Just what is it, Grey, that keeps you from making the break? Does your reputation at Jefferson mean that much to you? Are you afraid to take a chance, afraid you aren't fitted for anything but teaching? Why do you continue to let Barbara dominate you, debase you?"
"Legally she has us tied in knots," Grey said. "We could run away together, that's true. Perhaps take different names, get married and start a new life. Somehow Barbara would find us out, take revenge in some way." He shook his head angrily. "No, we've got to make a clean break. And the only way is to get her to divorce me."
"But if she won't, even with the grounds we've given her, what then?"
"I don't know, God, I don't know."
"Well I know what to do," Sandra said, her eyes narrowing, her mouth drawing to a thin line. "Let's call her bluff. She says she doesn't care what you do, even if you embarrass her in the eyes of the whole town. I don't believe it. Once you lost your position here, she'd desert you, like a rat leaving a sinking ship. Don't you understand the kind of woman Barbara is? If she only wants material security and position, do you think she'll hang on when you've lost all that? She won't. She's only trying to frighten you with her foolish threats."
"And what do you propose we do to call her bluff?"
"We could stop sneaking around, for one thing. We could be open and above the board about our love."
"What do you mean?"
"Instead of hiding in this office, let's go out on campus holding hands, let's spend a few nights together at Jefferson's best hotel, let's give people a chance to talk. See how your wife changes her tune then...."
"Lord, no, Sandra. That's the last thing I'd want to do. Can't you see I want to shield you from any possible scandal? If my name gets dragged in the mud, that's all right, but you? No, I can't do it. I don't want you the butt of malicious gossip the rest of your life."
"To hell with my precious reputation!" Sandra cried, openly anrgy with him for the first time. "I don't care about my good name. I only know I want to spend the rest of my life loving you. I want to be your wife. And if I have to have this small-bore city call me a whore to get what I want, then that's small enough price to pay."
"That isn't possible...."
"It is possible! Grey, I think you're becoming yellow. That bitch has had you under her thumb so long that you're turning spineless!"
"Sandra, please...."
"Then do something about this mess, instead of just wallowing in it. If you don't, I will. I'll start a whispering campaign that'll set Jefferson College on its ear." She suddenly smiled triumphanty. "Better still, I'll start with Barbara. I'll pick a fight with her on the main drag. That should get in the papers!" She rose, straightened her dress, pulled back her shoulders determinedly.
"You wouldn't!"
"Oh, but I will. Unless you suddenly acquire backbone enough to come up with something better. Or is it true? Barbara has sucked the last ounce of courage from you?"
At that moment the bell in the studio, in the halls, rang loudly, signaling the end of the class period. Almost at once there was a rush of hurrying feet in the hall. With a strange, purposeful smile, Grey went to the door and opened it. They saw hordes of students milling through the hall, they saw the questioning smirks some of them conferred on professor and student.
"So you think I'm gutless, do you, dear?" he said.
And there, standing in the open doorway, for anyone to stop and stare (and many did) Professor Grey Cleveland took the lucious, full-bodied blonde in his arms and passionately kissed her. When he released her, he challenged the gaping students with his eyes, until they retreated, whispering excitedly.
"And now, darling," Grey laughed, feeling a strange powerful rush in his chest, "go back to your dorm, and pack some of your sexiest duds. I'll pick you up at four. Destination? The Foster Hotel."
"Darling ... do you really mean it?"
He gave her a smarting slap in her firm buttocks. "Yes, I mean it. Now get! We may not call Barbara's bluff, but well sure have fun."
When he came downstairs at three-thirty that afternoon, suitcase in hand, Barbara's face stiffened, her eyebrows darted up. "What is it, Grey? Where are you going?"
He answered in a cool, detached voice. "I'm taking you up on your offer. I've cancelled my classes for tomorrow and Wednesday. If you need me, I'll be at the Foster Hotel." Calmly he added: "With Sandra."
Barbara's face went white, her lips parted slightly, registering disbelief. After a moment she spoke. "It's happened then? You've finally gone out of your head? The gossip will be all over Jefferson within twenty-four hours. You'll be all washed up here. Bronson will demand your resignation...."
"Oh, we'll be discreet," Cleveland mocked. "Scout's honor. After all, aren't you the gal who vowed to stick with me through thick and thin? Honey," he confided, "let's face it. Your husband's a derelict; an out and out ruin . ... You've put your money on a dying horse."
When he left, Barbara was standing in the center of the parlor, her body slumped forward awkwardly, her eyes dead, an expression of utter confusion on her face. "Grey!" she called weakly. "Comeback!"
He pretended not to hear.
After the cramped, secretive closeness of Grey's college office, it was sheer luxury to put Sandra on a soft, white bed, and for the first hour of their tenancy they refrained from lovemakng, luxuriating in the airy, bright spaciousness of the bed, of the room. Fondling and caressing each other lazily, getting undressed in slow, arousing stages, they withheld themselves from the ultimate act, enjoying the sensual delight of each other, savoring the riot in their blood.
But finally the cauldron bubbled over, and amidst a storm of ecstatic sighs and whimpers, over the alarmed protests of Sandra, Grey tore her panties and brassiere off, the sound of shredding cloth triggering an urge in both of them simultaneously. This time they veritably clawed release from each other.
About seven o'clock they arose, showered and dressed, then went down to the hotel's dining room for dinner. Grey proudly escorted her into the dining room, holding her chair for her, airily nodding to several acquaintances at a distant table. Embarrassedly the couples nodded back. For these individuals the room suddenly became stifling. Sandra carried off the situation with perfect aplomb, exhibiting a charm and wit that surprised and delighted Grey.
Several times during dinner both Sandra and Grey smiled at his friends, noting the obvious haste with which they finished their meal, the guarded whispers they exchanged. This would certainly get the ball rolling, he exulted.
Following dinner they returned to their room for a moment, for Grey had an important phone call to place. It was to Jeanne.
"Well, Grey," she purred, "this is a surprise. Aren't you a bit premature? You aren't due for a visit here until tomorrow night. Don't tell me you can't wait...."
"Hardly. I just thought I'd call to let you know I won't be coming tomorrow night. Or any other night from now on...."
"Oh, the little boy has worked up a fistful of courage? Well, lover man, suit yourself. But you know the terms of our arrangement. If I get stinted, then all hell breaks loose. Looks like FU have to call Barbara."
"Save your breath. I told her the other night. She knows all about you and Sandra. Strangely enough she encouraged me to maintain the relationship. Said it took a nasty load off her shoulders."
"Grey, have you been drinking?"
"No, I'm afraid not. But I'm going to. Sandra and I are having a little celebration tonight."
"What about your precious job? Suppose I put a bug in Bronson's ear? Where will you be then?"
"I might ask you the same question. Where will you be? Out on your rear along with me. You'll have to turn pro."
Cleveland heard the gradual change in Jeanne's voice, as it went from smug assurance, to doubt, and finally impotent rage. "You don't think I'll keep my threat, do you? Well, I will, do you hear? I will!"
Grey grinned, holding the receiver up for Sandra to hear. "Go ahead, sweetheart. You'll be doing me a big favor. At a time like this I need all the help I can get. Do you have Bronson's number or should I look it up for you?"
There was no answer.
"One more thing, doll. I want you to know it's been swell. I'm grateful for all you taught me. Thanks for showing me the ropes." Calmly he hung up, both of them hearing a snarling, enraged scream at the last moment.
He turned to Sandra, smiling warmly. "And now, my lascivious little wench, what do you say we go on the town tonight? Sort of a public relations jaunt?"
"I'm with you, dad," she said, bursting into giggles.
But when the axe hadn't fallen by Wednesday noon, when Grey hadn't been summoned to Bronson's lair for a first class dressing down, Cleveland and Sandra proceeded to put the second and infallible phase of Operation Divorce into motion.
So it was, in accordance with step one of this maneuver, that Grey made a surprise appearance at home late that same afternoon. He found Barbara in the kitchen, listlessly munching on a wilted salad and a slice of toast.
"What are you doing here?" she said, recovering enough to become outraged. "Have you no shame? What happened? Did you get sick of a steady diet of love?"
"Hardly, Barbara. Why are you so angry? After all, I only did as you advised. There's been no scandal, has there? Have you heard the slightest shred of gossip? I was terribly careful on that score."
"Well, of all the gold-plated gall!" Gradually she regained her old confidence, and a crafty smile twisted her lips. "Why did you come back?"
"Life must go on," he twitted. "Duty calls. Isn't this the night of the July Ball? After all, if we're going to chaperone, we'd best be getting ready. Calls for a tux, doesn't it?"
Barbara marveled at her husband's behavior. What was he up to? Or was he telling the truth? Had his rendezvous with the Cummings girl really gone unnoticed? And now, temporarily sated, had he returned, to willingly play the role of dutiful husband? "There's a trick here somewhere. Grey," she accused. "I can smell it."
"Trick? My dear, you're becoming a suspicious drag. I am merely living up to my end of our little agreement."
Foolishly, grasping at straws. Barbara relaxed, and chose to take his word at face value. She'd win out yet, she thought, as she went upstairs to bathe.
The July Welcoming Ball was the social event of the summer, and anybody who was anybody would be there, students and faculty alike. It was with this knowledge firmly in mind that Grey smilingly escorted Barbara into the crowded, gaily decorated gymnasium that night. The gathering clan, he mused. What a treat they had in store for them tonight.
The ball was in full swing as they entered. Barbara felt a sudden shiver of excitement. The music, the low key lighting, the young people, sway-and whirling in their pretty clothes-it all seemed new, romantic somehow. Everything was so beautiful. And more important, everything was going to be all right now. She could relax and enjoy herself.
Only Grey could read the implied meaning into some of the smiles certain knowledgable students and colleagues sent his way. The lucky dog-the smirks said-with a wife like that-and then dessert to boot-
Suddenly Barbara sensed a pronounced change in the mood, she heard a distinct murmur. Suddenly she was not so sure that things would be all right. For there, advancing toward them from the opposite end of the dance floor, alone, came Sandra. Barbara sucked in her breath sharply.
The bitch, the cheap little bitch, she thought, seemingly curling up inside. How could she compete with a brazen mink like that?
Dancers parted to let Sandra pass, every male eye following her, caressing the rolling, tightly round buttocks, devouring her breasts as they brimmed over the top of her gown. That dress! It's absolutely indecent!
Even Grey stood amazed as the wanton vision approached, his eyes concentrating on the daring decolletage of Sandra's formal, the way her breasts all but exploded from their confinement. My cup runneth over-he thought, smiling at his pun.
The gown was pure white, of clinging, wispy chiffon, and hugged Sandra's provocative, bold curves like second skin. To watch the colored lights play magnetically on the shimmering, undulating planes of her body was maddening torture. The gown's skirt was a modified sheath, short, revealing Sandra's breathtaking legs, legs filmed in pink nylons, stockings which matched the delicate pink puffs of lace that ballooned at the skirt's hem. A plain pink ribbon encircled her lovely throat, a white camelia graced her hair, while on her feet were silver flecked, pink pumps, the toes and heels dagger sharp.
Briefly stated: She was a vision of wanton, pagan beauty, a contradictory mixture of sex and innocent virtue. As she floated across the floor she struck each male heart with a disturbing, unfulfilled confusion.
Barbara's heart too, beat wildly, but for another reason. No, she gasped, she couldn't, she wouldn't dare. Suddenly she felt weak, lightheaded. But she would. And deliberately, proudly, a slight smile on her lips, as though she were a maiden climbing the steps of the Pyramid of the Sun, anticipating sacrifice, she came directly toward Mr. and Mrs. Grey Cleveland.
"Darling," she murmured softly, taking Grey's hand, looking right through Barbara, "I've been waiting for you. Dance with me?"
"Delighted," Grey smiled, assuming the debonair pose they'd planned in the hotel room. Sending Barbara a mocking smile, he took Sandra in his arms, and they glided out onto the floor, Sandra immediately pouring her body into Grey's, dragging him close, snuggling her face against his, her lips slightly parted, her eyes closed in rapture.
A gasp escaped the viewers of the exotic scene, and immediately the gymnasium came alive in a rushing floodtide of buzzed whispers. Barbara slumped into the nearest chair and stared into space, her face a stunned mask.
Once on the floor, Grey and Sandra danced slowly, deliberately, their movements sensuous, almost as if satisfying their emotional appetites through contact of their clothed bodies. Once they stopped in mid-floor, and lips trembling, kissed each other in full view of everyone.
The next half hour was one that would be remembered by the faculty and students of Jefferson College for time immemorial. A strained, embarrassed tension overcame-the entire assemblage, everyone fighting to overlook the pantomine taking place, the erotic movements Grey and Sandra affected, their clinging, sinuous dancing an unmistakable prelude to love.
"I hate this," Grey whispered to Sandra as they executed a close bodied turn, feeling her knee press him. "If we were alone ... This should be a private thing...."
"I know how you feel, darling. But we must, if we're ever going to escape that woman's tyranny." And she clung to him even more savagely.
Grey was aware that President Bronson was skirting the edges of the dance floor, trying to catch Grey's eye, still not daring to openly accost Grey and his exotic dancing partner. Bronson's eyes wide with panic, the veins in his forehead prominent. He was plainly furious with them for their blatant exhibition. Grey pretended not to see him.
At intermission Grey and Sandra quickly moved to the exit, stepped into the sultry July night, dissolving, almost immediately into the fathomless darkness.
When they returned, Sandra's hair was slightly askew, and she worked to straighten the top of her dress. A pink smudge darkened one corner of Grey's mouth, while a significant, blurred smear of pink was visible on the ivory swell of Sandra's left breast. As they resumed dancing, they were met at every turn with wistful, knowing, male smirks.
Their eyes darted to Barbara's chair. It was empty. Grey smiled in tired triump. At that moment he was viciously grabbed from behind. Bronson was taking the bull by the horns. "Cleveland," he rasped. "Get out of here this instant! I demand it! You're making an ass of yourself."
"But we're dancing, can't you see that? Please don't interrupt."
"Cleveland! Do you know what you're doing? This burlesque of yours will make a laughing stock of Jefferson."
"Oh? Is that so?" Grey never missed a stride. "By the way? Where is my wife?"
"As if you care. For your information Mrs. Cleveland was taken home. This vulgar display of yours caused her to faint." His voice rose to a shrill pitch and gradually the room quieted, all the dancers stopped to tune in the heated discussion.
"You, miss," Bronson sputtered, fixing Sandra with a ferocious glance, "are expelled from Jefferson as of this minute. And you, Cleveland, are done here too. Come to my office in the morning. You'll never teach again. Never!" He was shouting at the top of his lungs. "Now get out of here, both of you.
Get out!"
A surge of relief darted through Grey's body. It was over. At last. A chuckle escaped his lips. Bronson looked so ridiculous, storming at a man who couldn't care less. Another chuckle. Finally Grey was laughing uproariously, as if at a huge joke. In a moment Sandra joined him.
As the stunned crowd stood silent and unmoving, their eyes wide at the incredible side show just witnessed, Grey and Sandra, hand in hand, ran happily from the gymnasium.
Their echoing laughter hung heavily on the air for a long time after their departure.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The powers of the intelligensia of the haute monde, so to speak, though rarely exhibited, are unmistakable and relentless, especially when faced with a crisis of the type precipitated by one of its own cadre, in this case a teacher at Jefferson College, one Professor Grey Cleveland to be exact.
When the exact, sacred propriety of this elite group, when the status quo is threatened, the wheels of legality, which ordinarily move with inexorable slowness, can be readily goosed into surprising alacrity. So it was that The Jefferson Courier, two days later, carried this brief, but pointed news item:
"COLLEGE PROFESSOR DIVORCED: In circuit court this morning, Judge Greer B. Brinkley granted a divorce to Mrs. Grey J. Cleveland, the former Miss Barbara Villiers. Professor Cleveland, who is an instructor at Jefferson College here in Jefferson, was not on hand to contest the suit. Returned to the former Mrs. Cleveland was her maiden name. An undisclosed property settlement was also determined. Grounds for the divorce were given as desertion and infidelity."
Though this news article was printed in the Friday afternoon edition of the COURIER, there was still another article, hastily squelched, that had been set up for the Thursday issue. But powers that be defending the good name of Jefferson College, knowing that if the national news media ever got hold of the item, it would result in a permanent black eye for the school, had urged the COURIER'S editor to kill the item, and print the milder coverage instead. These same powers had influenced the police department to lay off, had railroaded the divorce proceeding through, Judge Brinkley being a Jefferson alumnus himself.
Had the article seen the light of day, Thursday evening's perusal of the COURIER would have been a vastly more interesting session:
"COLLEGE PROFESSOR'S LOVE TRYSTS BARED, the banner line read. "OPEN FLAUNTING OF COMMUNITY MORES INDICTED BY COLLEGE PRESIDENT: Through a widely witnessed fracas taking place at the Annual Welcoming Bali, held at Jefferson College on Wednesday night, it was revealed to our reporters today that an instructor at the college and one of his students have been involved in a lovenest triangle of some duration.
The principals were Professor Grey Cleveland, director of the art department at the college, and Miss Sandra Cummings, 21-years-of-age. At the Welcoming Ball Miss Cummings appeared in a revealing and provocative formal gown. Both she and Professor Cleveland danced together in a suggestive manner, Professor Cleveland ignoring his wife's presence entirely. During intermission they were missed, and when they returned it was obvious they had engaged in romantic dalliance.
At this time Dr. G. F. Bronson, President of Jefferson College, intervened and ordered the couple to leave the gymnasium, where the ball was being held. "It was a disgusting and lascivious display," President Bronson declared upon being interviewed this morning, "an open jaunting of community mores. That man (Professor Cleveland) ought to be horsewhipped for the heartache and embarrasment he's caused his wife."
Professor Cleveland, upon being interviewed in his room at the Foster Hotel, which room he is openly sharing with the afore mentioned Miss Cummings, asserted that he had sought a divorce from Mrs. Cleveland before being driven to force her hand with the exhibition at the July Ball last night. "Ours was a loveless marriage, but despite this Mrs. Cleveland sought to perpetuate it, and refused to grant a divorce no matter what I did. After last night, perhaps she will see fit to release me."
Professor Cleveland wishes to marry the attractive, blonde Miss Cummings, and will go to any lengths to win his freedom, he stated. He openly admitted contempt for the stuffy mores of President Bronson and of Jefferson itself. "When people are forced by convention and legality to live lives of frustrated unhappiness, then it's time some of those rigid restrictions were violated. That's why Sandra (Miss Cummings) and I did what we did. We will take any consequences of our action. Ours was an act of love, a demonstration, a proof of that love. We stand by our decision."
Our reporter was unable to reach Mrs. Cleveland, but was informed through her intermediary that she definitely intends to sue for divorce."
As expected. Barbara's demands for settlement at the divorce hearing, were vindictive and retaliatory to the utmost degree. She demanded everything, citing her extreme humiliation and loss of prestige in the eyes of the community. It was only when Grey's lawyer relayed Grey's threat to fight the suit, to reveal the entire unsavoriness of their marriage, to possibly cavort with Sandra in public again, that she surrendered a thousand dollars in cash from their bank account, that she permitted Grey to keep the Thunderbird. Everything else was awarded to her.
Cleveland was not bitter about the settlement. It was about what he'd expected. And surely it was a small enough price to pay for his freedom, for the new hold on life the divorce provided him.
He collected his personal articles, his clothing, late that Friday afternoon, calling Barbara in advance so she could absent herself from the house while he was there. He definitely did not want to see her again. The immensity of his material loss hit him squarely only when he entered his study, and surveyed his library. Angrily he helped himself to certain treasured volumes which he knew Barbara would certainly never miss.
As he left the house he breathed freely, sensing deep relief. He braced his shoulders in new, exhilarating determination, savoring his fresh masculinity, the deepseated knowledge of freedom. This was the new life he'd hungered for so long. It seemed fitting that he and Sandra should start anew, both of them practically penniless, their only possessions a source of mobility, their clothing, a few golden words of philosophy and poetry. Now they were entirely dependent upon their own inner resources. Together they would sink or swim. With a surging thrill of pride, Grey determined they would make out.
Finally he closed the door, turned his back on the hateful house forever.
He and Sandra lay awake for long hours that night, talking glowingly of the exciting, unknown future, making plans for the broken down craft studio they were going to revitalize and make a success of in San Francisco. This risky venture would be the focal point of their new life.
"Just think, baby," she whispered. "You and I against the world. We'll make it work, won't we? I just know we will...."
"I do too, sweetheart. With you beside me, how can I fail?"
"We're going to be real partners, aren't we? You aren't going to grow protective and stuffy like most men? You'll let me work beside you, just as hard, just as long as you do?"
"I promise. Anyway until our babies are born."
A soft shudder went through Sandra. "Oh, darling, it will be so wonderful. I wonder, will they look like you? I hope they do. Grey?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I love you too, princess."
"Mmmm. I love you, love you. love you. I can't say it enough...."
"Better sleep now, baby. We're up at dawn tomorrow, remember?"
"Um...." she sighed sleepily. "And mighty Lochinvar came out of the east...." she rambled.
"The west," he corrected.
"Oh?" she giggled. "You are all mixed up aren't youP"
Tenderly, reverently he kissed her, tucking the covers about her smooth, creamy shoulders.
At last they were ready. They'd breakfasted, the T-Bird was packed. At five A.M.. as the sun began its slow, fiery climb into the sky, they were in the auto, drawing away from the hotel. Moments later they hit the outskirts of Jefferson. There were no words, either of elation or regret. This was a time for solitary thought, for consideration of the past-and the future.
"We will be good for each other, won't we?" Sandra asked timorously when finally she spoke, almost afraid of breaking the silence.
"It's a brand new world being born out there," Grey indicated the western horizon. "It's our oyster All depends on how we open it." Firmly he pressed her hand. "I know we'll make out all right. We can't help but."
Warmed by his words. Sandra leaned on his shoulder, sensing a thrill of peace and security in his confidence and strength. Now the last trace of Jefferson fell behind them, and only the open road stretched before them.
Now the sun was higher, and the day, the shimmering vista before them, gradually grew brighter.
