Archive Note: Efforts have been made to remove any errors in the following text caused by the process of creating this E-book. In the interests of authenticity, the remaining misspellings, whether the result of the author's mistakes or typesetting errors, were left as found in the original pocketbook.
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Roche was getting something to remember for a lifetime.
Anne's body entwined itself with his wife's. Her lips met Doris; her nakedness touched ecstatically against Doris'. Then their bodies pivoted, as they had so often before, face to body, and they gave each other mutual pleasure that sent them rocketing to orgasm.
And then they were in each other's arms again, and passion took hold of them. Up, up, and away they went, into the empyrean realms of ecstasy, and they sank back together in mutual close release.
And then Anne became aware that someone else was joining them.
Roche.
He had quietly undressed during their performance, and now he crossed the room, naked and turgid, and clambered to the bed.
Allan Roche was really letting his hair down. He sat there before the marriage counsellor and he bared his very soul. Not that this was his method of therapy, because sexually he was a very potent and virile man, and was getting as much of libidinic love as he desired. He had it made. Wealthy and happy with his love life, he had no sexual problem.
Except to perversion.
The counsellor was only interested in a very fascinating story of a successful sex drive and he was all ears.
Roche told him how much he desired women. Lovely sexy ones.
"What about men?" the doctor asked. "Do you, or have you ever desired to make love with males?"
"Yes, now and then. Although I mostly go for females, I've tried males."
"Tell me, if you like."
"Why not? I'm not ashamed of my pursuit of pleasure, whenever and wherever I can find it. And, I've never had to look too hard either."
"Go on. How about when you were young?"
"Well, the first time, I was about twelve or thirteen years old, I was chummy with a boy my own age who had a sister a year older than we were. This kid had a real sex drive. He told me he would feel-up his sister and try out variations with her. While he would tell me about it, he would open my trousers and draw out my sexhood and toy with me, and insist that I do it to him."
"Interesting."
"That's not all. He insisted that we get together with his sister, who was just as lewd as he was, and all three would undress and experiment with each other, all together. We did, and she would toy with us and get us all excited. My friend introduced me to my first complete masturbatory experience."
"And were there others?"
"Not with boys until I was in college. My roommate introduced me to really wild games. When we had no date, or else we'd double date, and if we had no luck with the women, we'd go back to our room, undress, and we'd shower together to 'cool off. Although we didn't cool off very much. We'd relieve each other of our built-up desires, manually, and each time, he'd want to go further.
"Finally, he would come over to my bed and he bent over me. We both slept nude. He put his lips to me and he brought me to my culmination. He wanted me to do it for him, and I tried it once but I never liked it. I had to give him his pleasure with manual manipulation as he was giving me my own pleasure the way we both enjoyed."
"Did you ever vary the act?"
"Yes. We would use each other like the animals in the fields. At least in this way we'd both use each others bodies. I didn't object to this, although I never grew to like it much. Just kicks."
Dr. Finley locked at this example of a suave, handsome, virile man of means and good fortune.
"You don't find yourself embarrassed to tell me all this?"
"Why should I? I'm not really a homo or a pervert. These were just boyhood experiences which many lads go through. I told you, I really prefer women. Even my friend and his sister. I preferred to have her, rather than his sex-play. However, I rather enjoyed having her while he watched. We all enjoyed that."
Roche talked on. As far as he was concerned, he was not perverted in spite of all these twisted sexual experiences. He was just a red blooded male with a hot sex drive, just like any other male!
Finley listened with a smile. This was very interesting to him, and not just clinically. He also had a strong sexual drive.
"Don't forget, doctor. You know what I want. Can you arrange it. I must have her. She's the only one I've never bedded. Will you do it?"
"Leave it to me," the doctor replied. "I'll arrange it to everyone's complete satisfaction. Her's and her husband's."
He jotted down a few sentences in his notebook and looked up at Roche. They both smiled happily.
CHAPTER ONE
Laura Gregory was going to commit a sin. The sexual sin of adultery, for the first time.
She stood nervously in the plush hotel lobby, afraid to get into an elevator and ride up to that room and have her sin-toyst. She was in her middle twenties, with shapely legs and a pair of breasts that would make any man stop and stare. Her body was lush and shapely. She had been married for three years, and, though it wasn't much of a match, she had been faithful to her husband. And she had been a virgin before she got married. So she hadn't ever done anything shameful yet.
Up till now.
Up there in room 1214 a male was waiting for her. A virile, potent man. All she had to do was go up there and take her clothes off and let him take her. As simple as that. It was all arranged in advance. The marital counselor, Dr. Finley had set the whole thing up.
"It's for your own good," he told her. "What you need is some physical release."
She paced uneasily around the lobby. It seemed to her that people were looking at her. The bellhops, especially. What did they think? That she was loitering, that she was a hustler trying to make a picuk? An unescorted women always got strange stares from the help in a midtown hotel or restaurant or cocktail lounge. They were always afraid that the police would show up and find a hustler hanging around, and make trouble.
Well? she asked herself. Isn't that what you are? A hustler? No, I guess. Not yet. Not until you've actually done this. You're still just an amateur.
The clock on the wall told her that it was a quarter after one. So she was ten minutes late. Actually, she had been right on time, even a little early, but she had spent the last twelve minutes pacing around the lobby, afraid to go up. Well, it was washionably feminine to be late, she thought, and it was fitting that she be fashionably feminine in something.
But she couldn't stall much longer. She had to get home, get herself pulled together before her husband got home. If she was going to do this at all, she would have to do it, or else leave.
What was it her husband was always saying?
"Either fish or cut bait," he liked to say. That was it. Sometimes he said it a little less printably. Well, she was at that point now. Fish or cut bait.
Fish, she told herself. Fish!
She walked toward the nearest elevator. The operator was a woman, a girl, rather, a pretty one about Laura's own age, wearing a wedding band. Had the elevator operator ever been unfaithful to her husband, she wondered? Or was she the only one?
"That's the customary way of life in our society today," the marriage counselor had assured her. "The mature adult realizes that he can't afford to deprive himself of the enrichment and vitality of occasional departures from the monogamous norm, you see."
Meaning: everybody plays around, so why shouldn't you?
"Floor please?" the operator asked. She told her.
The elevator shot upward. Soon, all too soon, it was coming to a halt, sliding neatly into its slot in the elevator shaft. The door rolled back, and she got out, walking mechanically.
Laura knocked at the door. Held her breath. Hoped against hope that he hadn't kept the date.
"Coming," a masculine voice called.
An instant later the door opened and Allan Roche was standing there, smiling at her. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early thirties, with a hawk-like nose that somehow failed to spoil his appearance. He affected a little clipped mustache, and wore nothing but the best suits.
He had gone to college with Laura's husband. They were still friendly today. The main difference between them was that Allan Roche made over $40,000 a year, and Laura's husband was lucky to scrape through on $8,500. It was quitea difference, she considered. The difference between spending your summer vacations at Asbury Park or Bermuda. The difference between gritting your teeth at February's snowstorms and lolling around on the beach on a tropical isle. The difference between casually having dinner a couple of times a month at the most expensive restaurants in town, and saving up all year to have a steak at a steak house.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Come in, won't you? Make yourself comfortable, Laura. It's a cozy little room, isn't it? I'll have some drinks sent up. What would you like?"
"You know what I like."
"Yes, of course. On the rocks." He picked up the telephone. "Room Service," he said.
While he ordered, she slipped out of her suit jacket and draped it over an armchair. She wandered restlessly around the room. It was a cozy room, all right-smallish, but not cramped. The furnishing were nice. There was a desk, and a dresser, and some chairs, and-
A double bed. Useful and suggestive.
She walked to the window and looked out at the busy scene far below. There was a knot of tension in her loins. In a little while, she knew, she would be stark naked in front of this man whom she had known for years, who had been the best man at their wedding, and he would touch the ripe thrusts of her naked breasts that only her husband Mike had touched, and he would kiss her, and then his nakedness would come up against hers and he would take her sexually. He came to her. "You look nervous."
"I am."
"Don't be."
"I'm new at this sort of thing."
"This will help both of us, Laura."
"Yes, of course. Dr. Finley explained."
"And this will help Mike, too. Even if he doesn't know it, this will help him."
"I hope so."
He smiled at her. "You don't know how long I've waited for this day, Laura."
She tried to smile back. She didn't know what you were supposed to answer to that-when your husband's best friend admits he's been waiting a long time to make you-but there was a knock at the door, and she was relieved of having to say anything except, "That must be the drinks."
He took care of the bellhop. Instead of simply ordering drinks, he had a whole bottle sent up, and a buket of ice. She knew enough about the way hotels worked to know that it was very expensive that way, that they usually doubled the liquor store cost of a bottle, and you had to tip on top of that. But she realized that her own thrifty ways were unknown to this man. What did it matter to him if a bottle cost him five dollars, or ten, or fifty? It was only money, after all. Plenty more where that came from.
He opened the bottle, poured two stiff slugs, dropped some ice cubes in, handed her one.
"To happiness with our mates," he said with a grin.
"Yes. Let's drink to that."
The liquor slid easily down, heating her stomach, with is smoky warmth. She had never been a real drink in moderation. She was a sipper. But she didn't sip now. She gulped, hoping that the liquor would burn away the chill of fear and shame and guilt in her.
They finished their drinks. Then he moved toward her, and slipped his arms around her, and then his lips were against hers.
It was also a delightful experience. He knew how to kiss. He held her against him, and there was no hesitation as his mouth covered hers.
It was a long kiss. It made her middle tingle.
While he kissed her, he kept one arm around her shoulders. The other one played with her body.
Down to the full rounded swells of her buttocks, taut and luscious beneath the tight seat of her skirt. His hand rubbed over one cheek and then the other. That made a sudden pulsing excitement throb through her, to be touched like that by a man who wasn't her husband. The hand moved slowly, surely, pressing at the soft mound.
Then the hand slid gently around to her hip, up her side, and came to rest cupped over the heavy mound of a breast. He gripped it, his fingers digging in. She wore thin bras, and she could feel the pressure of him against her nipple, and she went dizzy as he body began to excite.
When he broke off the kiss they were panting in anticipation.
He never stopped smiling as he undressed her.
The road to adultery, for Laura, had begun in the office of Dr. Hubert Finley, in a luxurious apartment house on Park Avenue.
Dr. Finley was a marital guidance counselor. He was supposed to be one of the best in his field, no mere sob-sister, but an expert who had had psychoanalytical training in Europe, and whose books on marital adjustment were popular.
Allan Roche's wife Doris had told Laura about him. One night when the Roches and the Gregorys were together socially, and the men had gone into some other part of the house to talk about a business deal Allan was involved in. (Mike had no money for investments. But he took a vicarious interest in Allan's success) Laura had had a few drinks too many, and she began telling Doris that her marriage was not all that she thought it ought to be.
Doris was very sympathetic. She listened intently to the tale of woe.
Then she said, "I know someone who can help you."
"You mean it?"
"A very fine guidance counselor. His name is Hubert Finley, and-"
"I read one of his books."
"Allan and I have both been to see him," Doris said. She smiled and added, "Our marriage isn't perfect either, you understand. But Dr. Finley has helped us both. He's marvelous. I'm sure he can set the two of you straight."
"But he must be terribly expensive," Laura said, reddening. "You know we aren't exactly millionaires. We can't afford twenty or thirty dollars ah hour for a marriage counselor."
"I understand. But Dr. Finley doesn't have a fixed fee. He's quite well off, so he can afford to have a sliding scale of fees, depending on the means of the people he treats. He wouldn't rob you. And I know he'd be of great benefit to you."
Later that night, the Gregorys talked it over. That they had a marital problem was no secret to either of them. Laura was frigid, and they both were unhappy about it. But all they had done so far was to read books on marital adjustments-including one by Dr. Finley.
But she was still frigid.
"All right," Mike said. "We'll go see this guy, I don't think we can afford him, but It's worth a try."
Laura phoned for an appointment, and before very long they were in the counselor's office. The famous Professor turned out to be a powerfully-built, dynamic-looking man in his forties, with gleaming, eyes and dark, thick hair through which he frequently ran a massive hand. He seemed to know all about them after only a few minutes of conversation. Yes, of course, a frigidity problem. Well, that was easy enough to take care of. All in the mind. No such thing as physical frigidity. Any woman alive is capable of sexual satisfaction.
"I'd like to see each of you once a week for a while," he said. "Separate consultations. Mr. Gregory if you can come at noon, and Mrs. Gregory, mid-week at two-thirty."
"About the matter of a fee," Mike said hesitantly.
"My usual fee is twenty-five dollars an hour."
"Which is about half my weekly take-home pay if we each have a consultation a week," he said.
Finley waved his hand grandly. "One moment, please. My usual fee is that. But I'm more interested in helping people than in sending them to the poorhouse. We can make adjustments. Do you think you could manage $20 a week for the two consultations?"
"That's very reasonable."
"My privilege."
"I don't like to get charity, Doctor."
The counselor smiled. "You need help. I can give you that help, I feel certain. If you insist on making it a matter of pride, you can pay me anything you like. I'd prefer to help you and let you have something left to eat on. Don't take it as an insult. I've quoted a fee. I won't lose money on you, never fear. Shall I put you down for an appointment for next week?"
Mike gave in, when he saw that he was being irrational about "charity."
If he was going to get professional help at all, he was going to have to accept a reduced rate, and that was that.
On Monday, Gregory had his first appointment. Laura was full of curiosity about it, but when he came home Mike simply said, "He asked me to keep everything confidential. He's going to ask you to do the same thing. He says the treatment won't be any good unless we remain completely independent. If we discuss our therapies with each other, it'll all be wasted."
Laura was a little miffed at that, but she accepted it with good grace. If Mike didn't tell her about his sessions with Finley, she wouldn't have to tell him about hers. Which meant she could be much less inhibited about revealing the inner secrets of her life.
She was nervous when she went to Finley's office on her appointment. But his smooth, experienced manner soon had her at her ease. He began the hour in a conversational way, and after she was relaxed he began to ask her intimate questions about her love life.
She had always been rather shy about discussing such things. But she found her inhibitions magically dropping away when she talked to him.
"You've been married about three years, I understand, Mrs. Gregory."
"Yes."
"No children?"
"NO."
"Intentionally?"
She nodded. "We thought, we'd wait until-until Mike had a little more financial success in the world. He wants to go into business for himself, but he hasn't been able to get the capital together. If we had children now, that would make it completely impossible for him to save anything. So we've decided to wait a few more years. We'd rather have a family grow up in comfortable circunstances."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-five."
"And your husband?"
"He's thirty-two."
"Don't you think he's waiting too long for fatherhood, Mrs. Gregory? At this rate, he won't have children till he's thirty-five or so. That's rather late in life."
"Yes."
"Do you sometimes resent that?"
"A little."
"You want children, don't you? Right now?"
She shrugged and squirmed. "Well-"
"You do, don't you?"
"I suppose I do," she admitted.
He made a quick note on a scratchpad. Then he said, "Your physical relationship-it isn't very satisfactory?"
"No."
"How?"
"I-don't feel anything when we make love. I just don't get excited or anything."
"Has that always been true with you and your husband?"
"No," she said. "I enjoyed that at the beginning-I think. But then I lost interest."
"Did you have premarital relations with him?"
"No. My wedding night was my first time."
"With him or with anyone?"
"With anyone."
He grinned. "That's quite rare nowadays, you know? Do you mind if I call you Laura? You were a virgin till the age of twenty-plus, is that it?"
"Yes."
"No sexual intimacies?"
"Well, not all the way."
"Want to tell me about them, Laura?"
"Well if you want to know about girlhood games. When I grew into adolescence some girl friends would join me and we'd undress or take off out panties or bare our breasts. Depends on how much time and privacy we had. We would look at and play with each other, sometimes to mutual culmination. Same with boys. Sometimes we'd undress and feel each others bodies. There were times when I saw the boy's physical release. But I never let them go all the way. And then I met Mike, and it was love right away, and he didn't touch me till our first night." He made another note.
He went on taking notes for a couple of weeks, and each week Mike parted with twenty dollars. Laura had no idea what Finley was telling Mike, but it seemed to be perking up his spirits no end. She herself wasn't experiencing any special change in her way of life. She didn't see how simply sitting and talking to a stranger about her sex life could possibly help her in any way.
Then, after the fourth session, Finley dropped his bombshell.
"I think what would help you the most would be a good lovely extramarital affair," he told her. "You're joking!"
"Not at all. You've got a bad case of inhibition, mainly. You're all bottled up. You've got to get out of it. You've lost confidence in your own physical abilities. If you were to have sex with a really experienced lover, and he were to awaken you, show you that you were perfectly normal, as capable of enjoying that as anybody else, that would get you back on the right track."
"But-that isn't moral-"
He thought that was right. Finley came on strong with a line of patter that got more convincing, with each repetition. "Call this therapy," he said. "What you need is a little excitement in your life." And when she argued that sexual infidelity was wrong, he gave her the bit about how that's the customary way of life in our society today. The mature adult realizes that he can't afford to deprive himself of the enrichment and vitality of occasional departures from the monogamous norm." A little friendly chit-chat of that sort and her resistance was down. Finley, sitting in a blue haze of pipe smoke and speaking slowly in his deep, authoritative, commanding voice, had her convinced.
The one thing that would cure her was a little outside jabbing.
Sure. For her husband's sake, she had to be unfaithful to him. To save their marriage.
"But I'm no good at this sort of thing," she said. "T can't just pick up a man on the street and put out for him!"
"Leave this to me," Finley said. "It happens that I've got a male patient who's also in need of a little extramarital therapy. The two of you can help one another while helping yourselves. I'll arrange a rendezvous for both of you."
"Is he-a good enough lover to help me? I mean, if he's got a problem?"
"He's an excellent lover," the counselor said. "His problem is simple boredom. He needs variety." Now he let her in on a second angle of the operation. "He's a wealthy man. He'll give you monetary gifts. Don't discourage him. But don't keep them, either, no matter how great the temptation. If you kept them, that would be professionalism, and I don't want to make a professional out of you. I'd like you to turn those monetary gifts over to me. That'll keep your conscience clear, and will also help to remunerate me for the loss I take by counseling you at a tenth of my usual rate. Do you agree that it's wise to do this that way?"
"Well-yes-I suppose."
She didn't know whether this was all on the level. To have on affair-to let Finley be a matchmaker for her-to accept money from one of his other patients, and then turn it over to him-was all that right, she wondered?
It didn't matter, she told herself, so long as that saved their marriage. "Are we agreed?" Finley asked her. "Yes. Whatever you say, I'll do."
It was then that he dropped his final bombshell. The male patient of his who would undertake to over come her sexual lack was Allan Roche, the handsome, virile, masculinely exciting good friend of Mike's.
CHAPTER TWO
Allan Roche was only too eager to make sexual love with his friend's physically desirable wife.
For your years, ever since he had met the girl who was to become Mike Gregory wife's, Roche had dreamed of sex relations with her. It was the only thing Mike possessed that Allan envied.
He would not trade places with any man alive. At thirty-three he was at the peak of his life, in perfect health, tall and good looking. He had a beautiful, loving passionate wife, a wonderful apartment on Central Park West, a six-figure bank account, a bulging portifolio of good investments. He spent his winters in the Caribean and his summers on the continent. He was popular, successful, and happy. He was making big without knocking himself out, and there was every reason to think he would go on to make even bigger money in the years to come.
The one thing he did not have was his friend's wife.
And now-thanks to the miraculous marital counselor Dr. Finley-he was going to take Laura sexually.
He had never even dared to make a pass at her. He had desired her wildly, of course. Her lovely features, above all her magnificent breasts and body fascinated him. But she was so unwordly, so child-like, that he hadn't had the heart to try anything with her. She was the only thing Mike had in the world, and Roche felt it wasn't right for him, rich and successful to reach out for the poor man's sole possession.
Roche had plenty of other females to keep him satisfied, when he wasn't putting it to his own wife.
He was also afraid that Laura would refuse him. She didn't seem like the unfaithful type. From what Mike had told him, she had been a virgin when he married her, absolutely pure, and that kind of girl didn't usually slip into infidelity a few years after marriage, unless there was some good reason.
Like unhappy sex relations.
Well, the marriage of Mike and Laura Gregory was unhappy, so Doris said. He didn't know why. But he was determined to do his bit to help Dr. Finley cure the problem.
He thought of how he had stared at Laura only a couple of months ago, in the summer, when they had all gone to a mountain resort together. Mike and Laura had won the holiday as a prize in a contest, and the Roches had joined them, paying their own way at the expensive place. And he had watched Laura in a bathing suit, a tight one-piece suit that molded the contours of her lush body, and he had begun to tremble as he contemplated the heavy globes of her breasts, so plainly outlined by the fabric.
Now he unbuttoned her blouse those same breasts.
And then he unhooked her bra, and at last he had the privilege of seeing those untouchable, unattainable lovelies in actuality.
They were as magnificent as he had expected.
He let out a little gasp. "You're so beautiful," he whispered. "I can't begin to tell you how beautiful you are, Laura."
She smiled shyly. She was half crocked. He knew, but even so, she must be going through great embarrassment. A virgin at ther marriage, never unfaithful before, maybe he was only the second man in her life to get into her.
Those boobs were beautiful!
Allan Roche was experienced. He had taken his first woman when he was not quite fifteen, and for the rest of the years he had energetically devoted himself to the hobby of sexual dalliances with as many of the world's women and men also as he could get. But never in all his extensive experience had he come upon a pair of breasts like those of Laura Gregory.
They were high and firm and round, and big. Very big. But somehow not gross or coarse or cow-like.
They didn't dangle or jingle. She had such magnificant body that her breasts-stood out and away from her body even after her bra was removed.
They were milky white, the skin almost transparent so he could see the delicate tracery of pale blue veins beneath. The one place where they were not white was where they were a coral red-her nipples, perfect in thir large rosy aureoles.
Those nipples now were standing up tensely and fiercely. Frigid she may be, he thought, but she certainly wasn't lacking in desire.
He put his hands to her breasts.
The skin was like fine silk. Her breasts were smooth to the touch, and sleek, and the nipples were warm and hard. She sighed with pleaasure as he cupped them and contracted his fingers, digging lightly inward.
"You like that?" he asked.
"Yes," she murmured. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling.
He grasped her breasts more firmly, rotated them, pushed them together. His thumbs covered her nipples and toyed with them. She began to gasp and pant with mounting passion as with expert skill he stirred the desires of her.
Then he bent forward-she was tallish, but he was at least, a head taller-and put his lips to one of her breasts. He kissed delicately as he pressed his face against her, enjoying the resilience of the passion-globes as he embraced her. His hands stole over her body again, caressed her buttocks through the tweedy fabric of her skirt, then sought for and found the zipper.
Her skirt dropped off.
She stepped out of it and kicked it aside without breaking their embrace. Still kissing her breasts, he deftly drew down the half-slip she was wearing. Only panties hed her from him now. His hands fanned out over the gloves of her buttocks.
He put his fingers under the waistband of the tight sheer panties and began to draw them down.
Down over her wide, exciting hips, down over her pale legs, down and off.
Except for her stockings and the garter belt around her waist, she was naked.
He released her and stepped back to look at her exposure.
"You're marvelous," he told her. "If you only knew how long I've dreamed of this moment!"
She blushed down to her breasts. But she did not seem ashamed to display her body. He examined her. The image of her in the light bathing suit came to mind, but now the bathing suit was gone, and there she was in all her sumptuous nakedness, breasts rising and falling rapidly.
He looked at the steeply rising breasts with their lovely nipples, and the gently curved waist, the breadth of her hips, the spectacular flawlessness of her knees and calves and ankles. She smiled at him, saucily now, and turned to give him a profile view, and he saw her perfect posture, the jut of her tip-tilted breasts, the slope of her dimpled buttocks. He moved to the side, saw her pale tapering back, the rich voluptuous mounds of her buttocks.
Desire inflamed his body. He felt passion pounding at him, painfully, agonizingly, and his male physicality pressed through his pants with erotic urgency.
"I'd like another drink," she said.
He grinned at her. He was all in favor of getting her loosened up before they began.
While he poured the drinks, she took her stockings and garter-belt off. She seemed to be making a gallant effort to be casual about her naked exposure. She hoisted one leg up and began to roll her stocking down. He watched her. It was a delightful sight-the tautness of her buttocks as she bent forward, the sway of her big breasts.
She straightened up. She was completely naked now. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the most desirable woman of his life.
He handed her a drink. "Here," he said. "Drink hearty, Laura."
She winked. "The same to you."
They drank.
Then he began to undress.
He sensed her faint indrawn catch of breath as he began. It was as though she had been able to blank out the fact of her own nudity, to pretend to herself that she really had some kind of invisible clothing on. But now that he was undressing too, and would soon be as naked as she was, there was no avoiding the awareness that she and he both had come here for the purpose of making love.
He undressed quickly. He had a good body, and he liked to show it off. He was lean and tanned and muscular. He had the hard, agile body of a healthy young man, and he intended to stay that way well into his eighties if he could manage it.
He dropped the last of his clothing and downed his drink with a gulp naked.
He went toward her.
Her body gracefully flowed into his arms. He embraced her, pressing her nakedness to his, and as their bodies glued themselves together he could feel the tenseness of her. She was stiff.
"Relax," he whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to make you happy."
"I'm relaxed."
"You don't feel relaxed to me."
"I am."
She laughed tensely, and he kissed her. He caressed her breasts and buttocks, relishing the sweet softness of her, the perfection of her.
Then he led her toward the bed.
She let out a nervous little giggle as they approached it. It was an oodly girlish giggle, and he had to stop to remind himself that this was a married woman, who had made love at least three hundred times or so in her life, if not more. It was hard not to think of her as a virgin about to be initiated.
He stripped away the covers, and they lay down on the cool sheets. He took her in his arms.
"You're the most beautiful girl in the world," he whispered, stroking her belly.
He kissed and caressed her everywhere, breasts and buttocks and legs, waist and hips, every part of her body, until she was flushed and panting and excited and ready for him.
He wanted desperately to enter her. But he forced himself to wait.
He used the skills he had accumulated over half a lifetime of lovemaking to arouse her. Fingertips delicately traced circles around her swelling nipples and down the sides of her hips. His hands moved, but he held back, tantalizing her, making her yearn for him.
He felt her tremble with desires.
This was going to be a success, he thought. The therapy would work. He was in for a memorable experience, and so was she. This was going to be well worth the expense.
That expense, he thought, was hardly trifling. There was the cost of the sessions with Finley, for one thing. He had to count those in, since he would never have suceeded in getting her without the doctor as an intermediary. Then there was the cost of the hotel room itself and a bottle of liquor. And then there was the twenty-five dollars in the sealed envelope in the breasts pocket of his jacket, that he would give to her afterward to give to Finley.
He knew how the doctor worked. He took on charity cases, people like Mike and Laura at low fees. Then he paired them off with richer clients who bestowed "gifts" on their partners in sexuality. And the gifts, in turn, got back to Finley. What the couselor was doing, in effect, was selling his poor clients to his rich ones.
They had a name for that. Not a nice one.
Well, it was all right with him. Let cagey old Finley make his pile any way he liked. There was no doubt that he helped his patients. People came to Hubert Finley with a variety of marital problems which all boiled down to the same thing-that they weren't getting enough sex. Finley saw to it that they got all the love they wanted, of the most satisfying kind. You couldn't deny that he fulfilled a definite need.
Laura was panting, now. He looked at her and smiled. She was flushed, excited. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slack and distorted. He was willing to bet she never looked this way for her husband who was too downtrodden, too defeatist to make love to a woman properly. He didn't have that inner confidence in himself which a man must have if he is going to set a. shy woman aroused.
Roche had that confidence.
And Laura, he knew was aroused.
She was tugging at him, his swollen shaft, drawing him close to her.
"Please," she whispered. "I'm ready-now-now-"
"Wait."
"No. Now!"
He grinned, and kissed her, and moved toward her. His shaft opened her, and knew that she was right, that the moment had arrived. His fiery organ felt her wet warmth.
His hands stroked her, tenderly caressing her for a moment.
She was a very ready indeed. As he slid into her he could see her tremble and start to churn her middle. She locked her arms around his shoulders, and they began to work at the age-old patterns of passion, both pistoning.
She was no virgin. She was shy, but she knew what love was all about. Mike Gregory had taught her that much, even if he hadn't been able to give her the satisfaction her lovely body demanded.
Now Allan gave her that pleasure.
His body worked and he could sense her shiver in mounting ecstasy as he did. He slipped his arms around her, cupping her firm cool rounds of her buttocks. She let out a soft, low cry of delight.
"Yes," she whimpered. "Oh, yes, yes, yes!"
He smiled. He had never know a frigid woman yet, had never met one he couldn't satisfy through skill and art and sheer persistence. It was apparent now that Laura was going to be no exception.
For four years, he had dreamed of this moment, had pictured it in this mind, had wondered what it would be like to lay Mike Gregory's wife. Would her breasts, which looked so splendid in a bathing suit, droop and dangle when bare. Would she be a cold fish? Would she be hard to take? Not so.
Everything was magnificent. She was a superb female animal, and all she needed was a little confidence. Mike hadn't been able to supply that confidence, which was why his wife was now gyrating and in lust with somebody else.
He pounded faster.
Faster, faster, controlling himself with that fine-grained control that had driven so many beautiful women to frenzies of lust. Higher and higher they mounted, soaring upward toward the peaks of passion.
Then that happened.
She let out a choking, gasping sound. Her eyes fluttered open, and for the moment they remained that way. He stared into them and saw that she looked dazed and lost, off in a world of her own.
Then she closed her eyes again.
And she went blasting upward into the orbit of ecstasy, non-stop.
That was fantastic. He was prepared for certain awkwardnesses the first time he made love to a woman; you couldn't always expect things to go perfectly until you had had a little practice. This was like dancing in that respect. You needed to get used to yuor partner's rhythm, so to speak. But everything was perfect here, and more than perfect.
Feeling buoyant and very pleased with himself, he cut loose with his own completion. In great generous moves he sent her into the upper regions of exstatic fulfillment, and at the same time felt the surging, thundering jolt of his own culmination possess him as his juices spasmed into her.
Then that was over, and nothing remained but the hammer-beat of satiation inside the chest, and the warm awareness of an accomplishment.
He held her tight. These moments, he knew were the most important of all to a woman-the moments just after the magic. The moments when everything could turn sour if the woman got the idea that she had somehow been used and now was being discarded. He continued to stroke and caress her, nibbling the nape of her neck, lightly kissing each ruby-tipped breasts, trailing over her cheek. He rolled free of her and they lay side by side, in silence.
Her eyes were still closed. But she was smiling, and it was a smile that no woman could smile after making love unless she had been completely satisfied.
Her eyes opened. Those wide, trusting, girlish eyes that seemed so virginal. They seemed virginal to him now, even after he had had her.
"That happened," she whispered. "That really and truly happened, Allan!"
"Yes. I'm so happy for you, Laura."
"You don't know how pleased I am! To find out that I'm really a woman after all-that I can enjoy myself-"
"You should have never doubted that."
She curled up against him. "That was wonderful," she whispered. "I'll never forget that as long as I live. But-but-how did you do that?"
He resisted the temptation to say, "It was easy!" He simply reached out and cupped her firm full breasts, held them lightly, savored the weight and the smoothness of them for a moment. He said, "I wanted you to be happy, that was all. Just to be happy."
"I am," she said. "Happier than I've ever been in my life." Suddenly her eyes brimmed with tears, and she pressed herself to Allan. "Bless Dr. Finley!" she cried. "He did this for me. He knew what would happen. I'm so relieved."
CHAPTER THREE
Doris Roche sat in Dr. Finley's lavishly paneled office, squirming, crossing and recrossing her shapely legs. He just looked at her. He had an annoying habit of clamming up when he wanted to, letting you have the choice of sitting here in silence or running off at the mouth in a monologue that would tell him what he really wanted to know.
She tried to stare him down. It was no use, she knew. He could sit there the full fifty minutes, and then collect his fee with a straight face, even if neither of them said a word. She had tried it before. She couldn't keep quiet more than three or four minutes.
There was always tension between her and Finley. Their sessions were games of cat and mouse. Something was on her mind, and she said she wanted him to guess it before she had to tell him about it. But three weeks had gone by since the thought had came to the fore of her mind, and he still hadn't given any clue, that he knew what she was interested in. No doubt he did know, because the big louse knew everything. But she wanted him to say it first.
He smoked his pipe and said nothing.
She edgily stubbed out her cigarette and reached for another one. She was a shapely woman of thirty-three. Her face and her figure were both exquisite. Allan Roche would not have dreamed of marrying anything less than an absolutely beautiful woman. He had picked her out after searching for many years, and he had subjected her to extensive premarital tests before he finally popped the question. She hadn't minded those tests. She had been testing him, too, at the same time.
Finally she could stand the silence no longer. She knew that she had to break it, or it would break her.
"All right," she said, "Since you can't guess, I'll tell you. I'm bored with sex."
He nodded slowly. "Of course you are. That's why you came here in the first place. You and your husband were both jaded with each other. You wanted some new excitement in your lives. Well, haven't you had it?"
"I guess so."
"I'd say so," he said. He glanced at the notebook to his left. You've been a patient of mine for six months. In that time I've introduced you to six different patients, including several who were really unusual lovemakers, from the reports I receive."
"I won't deny that. That Walt Lange, for instance. I feel sorry for you that you aren't a woman, so you can't know what it's like to be had by him."
He smiled. "It's kind of you to pity me. But being male had its rewards too."
"Oh?" she said. "Tell me, doctor. You never talk about your own sex life. What's your wife like? Are you happy with her? I think it would be funny if you had love troubles also."
"You're trying to get off the subject, Doris. I'm not your patient. You're my patient. If my sex life happened to be relevant to your case, I'd gladly discuss it with you in detail. But it isn't, and so I don't."
She put out a second cigarette. "All right," she said. "So you've fixed me up with some tremendous guys, and I've had myself some fun. But I'm still bored. I've still got that jaded feeling. You know, my own husband is a hell of a lover himself. I didn't really need to pay you so much to find me other guys just as good."
"What do you want?"
"You tell me."
"It's easier all around if you tell me."
"I'm not sure what I want. I've had a lot of men. Hundreds, I guess. Well, not really. But at least thirty or forty different ones, and none of them any slouches in the loving department. And now love has lost its kick for me. I'm thirty-three and I feel like I'm sixty, when I go to bed with a man. help me. Or do you have to battle with me all the time?"
He eyed her for a moment, puffing busily. His bushy eyebrows rose. Then without a word, he wheeled his swivel chair around and opened a metal file cabinet behind his desk. She waited, frowning, while he rummaged through it, still saying nothing.
"Here it is," he said finally, and wheeled around to face her. He tossed something on the desk in front of her and said, "Take a look at that, Doris. Tell me what you think of it."
It was a photograph-a five-by-eight, in vivid color.
It showed a woman, pretty and naked.
She looked to be about her own age, maybe a year or two older at most. She had dark hair, close-cropped in a pixyish gamin cut. She looked small, though the full-blown abundance of her naked breasts belied the delicacy of her body. She was standing on the deck of a small cabin cruiser, in bright sunlight, and she was smiling buoyantly into the camera.
Looking at her-at that unashamed nudity, at those large dark-nippled breasts-Doris felt a sudden stab of fierce desire. For a long moment, she could do nothing but stare at the photo, which was unretouched and crystalc'.ear, showing every aspect of the dark-haired woman's nakedness in perfect detail, even to bushy womanhood.
Doris looked up. "She's-a very attractive woman, isn't she?"
"Yes. Do you find the photo interesting?"
"Very."
"Tell me what you feel when you look at her?"
She stared levelly at him. "Desire. Sexual desire. There. The big secret's out."
He smiled. "That was never any secret, Doris. I knew what you wanted all along."
"Then why didn't you give that to me?"
"You weren't ready. And I wasn't ready to let you move so fast."
"You mean, I was still too innocent to be a Lesbian? That I needed half a dozen affairs with your male patients first?" she laughed. "Don't kid me. You and I both know that I'm no angel and haven't been for a long time. Save that kind of talk for Laura Gregory. I'll tell you why you kept me back from another women all these months. It's because you had men that you wanted to have a chance to go to bed with me."
"That's cruel, Doris. You make it sound as though I'm running some kind of unsavory outfit here."
"Well?"
If it amuses you to fight with me, go ahead," he said. "It's all part of your therapy. Call me any names you like. I don't mind. That's what you pay for."
She srugged. "Who's the nudie?"
"A patient of mine."
"You always have naked photos of your patients lying around your files? How come you haven't asked for one of me?"
"Oh, I don't make a regular habit of it. It just happened that this girl was out at a summer place, and when she stripped down to go swimming off my bost I was so pleased with the way she looked that I asked her to let me take a photo of her."
"I thought you didn't see your patients socially."
"I saw this one."
"You sleep with her? Was that part of her therapy?"
"Let's discuss yours," he sidestepped. "This is what she looks like She happens to be a married woman, quite well to do, whose problem is similar to yours.
She's grown bored with regular love. She wants to experiment with Lesbianiam now. I think the two of you ought to get together."
"I think so too."
"I'll tell you what. I'll phone her and set up a meeting for the two of you. Call me tomorrow and I'll let you have the details. Have you ever been to bed with another woman before?"
"Just when I was a kid. With other little girls."
"Really? Someone of your wide experience?"
Doris flushed. "In my teens," she said. "I also did a little fooling around. Not since then. That was a long time ago."
"You'll enjoy meeting this girl," Finley said. "She'll get you unbored with love fast enough."
"What her name?"
"Anne Black."
"Set up the appointment for as soon as you can. I can't wait."
"Will do," he said. He stood up and stretched. "Well, the hour's up, isn't it? I'll see you same time next week, then. And you can tell me all about the fun you'll have with Anne."
She nodded. She opened her pursse and took out some money. She laid it on his desk, and he put his big hand over it and engulfed it. He liked to get paid in cash. She wondered how much of his no doubt enermous income ever got reported to the Internal Revenue Service.
"Give Anne my best," she said, taking another quick look at the photo on the marriage counselor's desk.
He saw her to the door, and then returned to his office. His working day was just about over. One last detail, and then he was through.
Another day, another dollar, he thought. Quite a few dollars, in fact. He saw one client every hour, giving them fifty minutes of his time, with a ten minute break between patients. He didn't take a lunch hour, just nibbled a sandwich during one of his midday breaks. His day began at nine and ended at five, so in the usual day he could see eight of the sexually suffering. They paid his fees ranging anywhere from five to thirty dollars a session, with the average being well above twenty. And there were extras, besides. In a normal week he cleared nine hundred to a thousand dollars, a lot of it escaping taxation because he received it in cash and quietly forgot about it. Then, too, there were the royalties from his books. He had written three books on sexual harmony so far, and each one had been a best-seller when first published, and a steady seller thereafter. He could count on anywhere from twenty thousand dollars a year up for his books. And the magazine articles, at a thousand bucks or so a throw-
He did quite well. Even when you deducted the $500 monthly rent on his office, and his various other overhead expenses, you had a fair amount of cash left over. Not a bad income at all for sitting back, listening to people tell you about their sexual troubles, and then making a few telephone calls.
He reached for the phone now.
He dialed Anne Black's number. As he dialed, he looked at the photo. She was a pretty girl, no doubt about it. He had very much enjoyed his boffing of her. He didn't lay with his female patients as a part of their therapy, but every now and then one of them caught his eye and he found himself unable to resist trying her. Anne, for instance.
And Laura Gregory.
There was an interesting one, he thought. He wondered if her boobs were as good as they looked when she was dressed. Two nice meaty ones there. A pity to let Allan Roche have all the goodies, he thought.
The phone rang three times.
Anne Black answered.
"Anne? Hubert Finley. "Hello, there. I was just thinking about you."
"I'm flattered."
"I was thinking it was about time you got some action for me," she said.
He chuckled. "You don't put that in a very dignified way. But it happens that that's exactly why I've called."
"Really?"
"Really, my love. I've got a long-stemmed lovely who's tired of men."
"Experienced?"
"With men. Not with women, she says. Except for some young girls a long time ago."
"How long ago?"
"Fifteen years, I guess. She's about thirty or so."
"Good looking?"
"Choice," Finley said. "Her name is Doris Roche, and the men I've matched her with all rave about her. Now it's your turn to try her."
"You're a fool. Will I have to pay her?"
"That won't be necessary," the marriage counselor said. "Her husband's as loaded with dough as-as well as yours is. If things work out, you might send me a bottle of cognac, though. You know I have a fondness for cognac."
"I haven't forgotten. When do I meet her?"
"Day after tomorrow too soon?"
"Not at all! When and where?"
He picked out a hotel, told her to book room in it for the middle of the afternoon, two days hence. As he talked, he doodled on his scratchpad. She would send him, he knew, not just a bottle of cognac, but a case. She wouldn't stint herself. A case of cognac was worth a hundred bucks. And he did like the stuff. Well chalf up another hundred, tax free for the cost of a phone-call.
He blew a kiss, hung up. Her nude form grinned up at him in glosy color from his desk. He eyed the rounded breasts, the luscious hips, and locked the photo away. It was just five o'clock. Whistling a merry tune, the doc locked up his office and stepped out into the mild fall afternoon.
His apartment was four blocks from his office. He spent his days shuttling from one high-priced apartment house to another, He didn't mind. It was a pleasant neighborhood, full of pretty girls walking poodles. In the course of time, many of those pretty girls would make use of his professional services, and he would profit and even perhaps enjoy the merchandise, besides.
He walked with the springy step of the self-made man as he headed home. He was forty-five years old, and was finally making the kind of money he appreciated. It hadn't always been that easy. Once, back when he had planned to be a dedicated man of medicine, he had to weigh every penny.
He had put himself through college and years of medical school, working nights to support himself. Haggard and exhausted, he had almost died in the process, and he owed $3000 when he graduated. Then came interning, military service, his residency in psychoanalysis-years and years and years of unremunera-tive work. He hadn't started to earn a living wage until he was well into his thirties.
All that was behind him now.
He didn't practice psychiatry any more. At least, not basically. What he mainly did was help people with marital problems. At the outset, he had been fairly kosher, but then he discovered that the best way to help people with love problems was to fix them up with bed partners. Everybody was happy that way. It was the simplist of all therapies.
It was, he suspected, very much like running a date bureau. But he didn't let that trouble him. He was a man of expensive tastes, and even a regular psychoanalyst, unless he is very famous, could not make the sort of money he was making his way. Besides, he could soothe his conscience with the awareness that he was satisfying his patients.
He reached his apartment and let himself in.
"That you, Hubert?" his wife called.
"No, it's Napoleon. You see a horse go through here, maybe?"
Paula Finley appeared from an inner roon. She was slim and fragile-looking and very beautiful. And very young. She was only twenty-six, which seemed enormously young to him, when he considered that he had been twenty and already getting made with consistency when she was born.
She was his second wife. The first had been less-tolerant of his appetite for lust, and had left him ten years ago, when he was still a struggling nobody. The trouble with her, he thought, was that she had been just a grasping little middle-class dope who wanted a mink coat and vacations in Florida and absolute fidelity from her husband, and couldn't see that a man building his career needed special toleration.
So she was married now to a successful executive who shared her own middle-class ideals. They lived in one of the better suburbs, and he saw them now and then at the opera or at the theater. His ex-wife was always swathed in mink, no matter how warm the weather, and her taste in jewelry ran to the flashy. He wondered how he could ever have married her in the first place.
Five years back, when he was just getting established as a marriage counselor and just beginning to hit the big time and had met Paula at a party in the village. He had taken her home that night and slept with her, and two days later he had asked to marry him and a month later they had officially wed.
There had been plenty of reasons why he married her. Not the least of them was that she was beautiful, passionate, intelligent, and young. She was also liberal-minded and tolerant of his broad-minded approach toward marriage. He had told her quite frankly at the outset that she couldn't expect him to be faithful to her.
"Do you expect me to be faithful to you, then?" she asked. "Or does that work in both directions?"
"I'm not that much of a hypocrite," he said. "I wouldn't bedrudge you any freedom I claimed for myself."
With that understanding reached early in the game, there were no barriers to getting married and living happily ever after. Besides, he needed a wife. A marriage counselor who is himself a divorced man is something of an absurdity. He needed photos that he could put on his desk, as silent reminders to his patients that he practiced what he preached. Photos of a wife, photos of children. He couldn't go on living the uncertain, up-and-down life of a bachelor now that he was an established professional man. So he had leaped at the chance to marry her, and had never regretted it.
In the five years of their marriage, there had been no serious quarrels between them. The marriage counselor's own marriage was a happy one. He had been unfaithful to her on a number of occasions, sometimes quite openly, and she hadn't minded at all, even when he went so far as to bring one of his patients who was also his mistress of the moment out to their summer place, take nude pictures of her on their boat, and have sex with her with his wife in the next cabin. Paula tolerated all that, because such occasions were few and far between. He was a reasonably faithful husband. He didn't make a pig of himself just because he knew he could get away with it.
He was well aware that his wife had been unfaithful to him, too. Because she was naturally a tactful woman, she never went out of her way to advertise the fact to him. But now and then she had dinner with her old friends, and when she came home past midnight, still flushed and excited from her evening's activities, it wasn't hard to guess that she had been sexually taken.
He didn't mind. He was satisfied.
She had stabilized his existence. She had made a family man out of him. She had given him two children, ages three and one and a half. They were good kids and Paula was a good mother-with the help of a maid, of course. She had her intellectual interests to tend to, and it isnt considered proper to bring two babies into an art gallery or a museum.
He slipped his arms around her now, and kissed her tenderly. She was so slender, that he often thought he could break her in half with a hug. He didn't try it.
He released her. She said, "How was life in the neurosis factory today?"
"As usual."
"You must get tired of it. All those self-pitying slobs sitting there day after day."
"They pay me to listen to them. I never sneer at them. How are the kids?"
"Sleepy as hell. They chased each other around the park all day. They're having their nap."
"How about a Martini for me?"
"Coming right up."
He kicked off his shoes and settled into a comfortable chair. His young, lovely wife brought him an ice-cold cocktail.
It was, he thought, a damned good life.
He had money, he had a loving family, he had sex, he even had the comporting illusion that he was serving a useful function in the world. What more could a man ask out of life?
His wife was an excellent cook, and she prepared a line dinner for them. After dinner he played with the children, who had awakened, and then he spent an hour working on his new book, and then he and Paula played a new symphony record she had bought, and read for a while, and then it was bedtime.
Lovingly, gently, the doc held his wife's nudity. His hands cupped the tender apples of her breasts, and slid over the cool sleekness of her. She was easily aroused. Within moments, she was panting and ready for him.
He took her.
Her slender body engulfed his, as passion took hold of her. Upward they soared, toward the release of sensual bliss. He heard her sigh of ecstasy, the tiny sound that told him she was right at the summit of voluptuous sensation.
His arms tightened around her and he also climaxed and she writhed to his fulfillment. Then she curled against him, soft and earm. He kissed her cheek, kissed each warm rosy wipple.
"I love you," She whispered.
Finley kissed his wife again, closed his eyes and smiled in contentment.
His own marriage was a success. Too bad, he thought, that he couldn't let his patients know how happily married he was and let them set that he had the right formula.
CHAPTER FOUR
Anne Black liked to be completely naked as often as possible. She enjoyed the uninhibited freedom of the naked body. She undressed at every opportunity available. Around the house-an imposing mansion on the Island-she went nude as often as not. What was unusual now was that she was nude in a hotel room in Manhattan while waiting for a visit from a women she had never met.
She didn't usually meet strangers naked. But this was an exception.
She had arrived at the hotel a little early. She always was early for such things; it was her nature. She had registered for the room under her own name, because she felt she had nothing to hide from anybody. She had gone upstairs, taken clothes off, given herself a good shower to get rid of the grime and sweat she had accumulated while driving down here. She wanted to be nice and fresh for the woman.
Then, without bothering to get back into her clothing she sat down wit ha magazine to wait for Doris Roche.
She leafed quickly through the issue. Her mind wasn't on it. She had bought the magazine more or less at random, in the hotel lobby. She didn't know why. She tossed the magazine aside, got up, paced around the room.
Doris Roche was a little late, now. Anne lit a cigarette. She walked to the mirror and looked at herself. She liked what she saw. She saw a woman who was in her thirties but didn't look it, a slim, dark-haired girl with nice breasts. She had always been proud of her breasts. Even though she was slender and pixy-like, she had always had good breasts. They had sprouted when she was only twelve, and they had grown large.
She put her hands over them playfully and squeezed. She grinned at herself. She could remember summer camp, when she was twelve. She had gone to the same camp ever since she was very young, and there had always been the same girls in the bunkhouse, half a dozen of them, the Inseparables. Summer after summer they had been together. This particular summer was the first since they had started reaching puberty. She remembered that first night of the season, after dinner, when they all undressed for bed, and there was that shy moment of mutual inspection when every girl stared at every other girls nakedness waiting to see what she had sprouted over the winter. And Anne, not shy at all, had bared her breasts and listened to the other girls gasp. Her breasts were as big as the counselor's, and the counselor was eighteen! They were fine ripe globes of firm young flesh. Of course, they hurt all the time because they had grown so fast, but she didn't mind that. She was a woman.
She let the other girls play with her naked breasts as they lay awake in their beds at night. She played with their breasts, too, the little nubs that were just starting to grow. She discovered that she enjoyed playing with girls and being felt by them.
That was a taste that had never left her.
She spun around, critically, examining her profile in the mirror. The soft belly, the saucy buttocks, the tip-tilted bosoms. She winked at herself. She was aging. Without any effort on her part, without any dieting, without any dye-job to keep her hair glossy black, she had somehow permanently ceased to grow old about the age of twenty-four. She had aged about eight hours in the last eight years.
She was in fine shape. Life agreed with her. Getting jazzed frequently, that was the ticket. Get some from men, get some from women, get some wherever you can-
Where the hell was this Doris Roche, she wondered? Had she chickened out? She would give Finley hell if the woman failed to show.
Irritated now, she looked around the room for something else to read. There was a magazine on top of the television set. It was, she discovered, a "service" magazine, evidently slanted toward the young married couple with too many kinds of worries and not enough dough. There were articles telling you how to save money financing your new car, how to prepare your income tax, how to put a new roof on your house. She looked at the magazine with curiosity, as though she had found a foreign magazine in her room. She had never financed anything in her life; when she bought, she paid cash. Her husband never worried about the income tax and the roof on the house. As far back as she could remember, she had always had enough money. Her father had been a big-deal executive. He was dead now, but her husband had inherited his job, and his large salary. She didn't need to economize.
She tossed the magazine aside.
There was a knock at the door.
"Who is it?"
"Doris Roche."
"Coming."
She padded across the room. At the very last moment, she wondered if she was overdoing this by greeting her guest naked. She decided not to worry about it. If Doris Roche was that easily shocked, this whole business was going to be a flop anyway.
Anne opened the door. She stood there wearing nothing but a smile.
"Hi," she said.
"All stripped for action?" Doris asked. "Good. I like a go-getter."
She stepped into the room.
The two women confronted each other appraisingly.
Anne saw a tall, elegantly dressed woman of about her own age. She was impressed. Doris had aristocratic poise, and her fine features, which Anne appreciated. It was hard to tell about her figure, because, she was wearing loose clothing, but her legs, at least, were shapely.
Anne knew that she herself was being examined critically-every exposed inch of her, since she was entirely naked. She didn't mind. She knew she could stand the inspection. She saw Doris, intelligent, alert eyes flicker over her full, high breasts, her lush buttocks, her womanhood.
"You look just like your picture," Doris said finally.
"What picture?"
"The one Dr. Finley took of you on his boat."
"He showed you that?"
"It's a lovely picture. I wouldn't mind having a print of it to keep."
"I'll get you one,"
Doris smiled. "Do you ever wear clothes?"
"Not when I can help it. Did I shock you, answering the door in the nude?"
"I don't shock easily."
"Good. Neither do I." Anne settled down in the armchair next to the television set and casually crossed her legs. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable, Doris?"
"Thanks. I will."
She began to undress. She moved with a kind of relaxed ease that Anne did not fail to notice. There was nothing hesitant, nothing falsely modest about her as she took off her clothing. Obviously she believed in getting to the-point, and Anne approved of that.
Doris said, unbuttoning her blouse, "Have you been a patient of Dr. Finley long?"
"A couple of years."
"You seem to be quite friendly with him. Posing nude, and all."
"I spent a weekend at his summer place," Anne said. "It was very pleasant. He's got a nice little place on the sound. Charming. We went out on his boat, Hubert and Paula and I."
"Paula?"
"His wife. A very sweet girl. Much younger than he is. They're terrifically in love."
"I don't know anything about his private life," Doris said. "I've been with him since the spring, but he's never told me anything." She unhooked her bra. As her full, exciting, coral-tipped breasts tumbled into the open, Anne caught her breath in delight, and excitement surged over her. "Tell me about him," Doris said. "His private life."
"She's his second wife. The first divorced him a long time ago, and he doesn't talk about her. Paula's in her twenties. They have two adorable children. They're a very close family."
"And she didn't mind your posing in the nude for him on his boat?"
"That's a measure of how close they are," Anne said. "I guess I shouldn't brag about it, but Hubert and I had sexual relations this summer. His wife knew about us. She didn't object."
"He practices what he preaches, then. He thinks every true marriage should be strong enough to tolerate regular and open adultery."
Anne nodded. "Yes. That's about it."
Doris was almost naked now. Only panties and stockings hid her supple body from view. Anne tried to remain cool and casual in the armchair, but it was impossible. Doris was so damned shapely, Anne thought. Those long, flawless legs, the heavy melons of her breasts, the graceful carriage of her body-oh, yes, Hubert had sent her a good one this time!
Doris removed her last garments. She turned, displaying the pale rounds of her enticing buttocks to Anne, and tidily put her clothes on the back of a chair.
She said, "Are we in any hurry, or can we talk for a while first?"
"No hurry," Anne said. "If you'd like to chat, I don't mind."
"Cigarette?"
"Thanks."
They lit up. Doris took an elegant puff and said, "I have to tell you that I'm new at this sort of thing. I did some fooling around when younger, but not since then."
"So Hubert told me. That's all right. I can show you what there is to do, if you can't already guess."
Doris smiled. "I think I can guess. I'm not exactly innocent."
"I suppose you aren't. Not if you're a patient of Hubert Finley.".
Doris nodded. "Up till now, there've just been men. I've had lots of males. But they began to bore me after a while. All the heaving and grunting and the ejaculations. I wanted some variety."
"The same with me," Anne said. "Oh, I had some Lesbian fun all along, but not much. Every couple of years, you know. Then the kick started going out of being with me. So I began fooling around with girls again. I do both now. My husband would hit the roof if he found out. He knows I'm unfaithful, but he thinks only with men."
"Is your husband a patient of Dr. Finley's also?"
"He's not interested at all. He gets all the sex he wants on his own, and he figures Hubert has nothing to offer him that he needs."
"My husband's a patient," Doris said. "It isn't because he need sex either. It's because Hubert sets him up with such interesting women."
"He's a regular benefactor of people, isn't he?"
"I think so," Doris said. "He makes adultery so easy. You don't even have to hint any more. You just ask him, and he sets you up with a girl he's been hot after for years. His best friend's wife. Allan-that's my husband, Allan Roche-was too much of a gentleman to make a pass at this girl, so he was quietly horn about her for years and years. Then I talked her into seeing Hubert-she had a frigidity problem or something-and he sent her to have sex with Allan and Allan's been happy ever since. Yes. A benefactor of makind. You could call Hubert."
Anne smiled. A gleam of desire came into her eyes. She stubbed out her cigarette.
She couldn't wait any longer. Everything seemed so perfect for lovemaking. This beautiful, sophisticated, amoral girl Doris was ready and eager to learn the ways of Lesbian love, and Anne was willing to teach.
Anne looked toward the bed. "OK?" she asked. "OK," Doris whispered.
She came across the room, took by the hand, drew her out of the chair. The two women came close to one another, Anne trembled with passion. She looked up; Doris was taller, Anne smiled. The tips of her breasts were growing rigid in excitement.
They kissed, their nakedness melted together.
Anne raised herself on tiptoe, and her lips met Doris' and her breast pressed those of the other woman. The kiss was hestiant at first, as though they were both sizing up the situation, but then a sudden flood of lust overwhelmed them both, and they went into a tight embrace, breasts crushing against breasts, belly against naked belly, womanhood to womanhood.
Anne felt a maddening moistness of anticipation in her body.
In her career as a Lesbian, she had sex liason with a fair number of woman, over the past ten or so years. But none of them had ever excited her the way Doris did. Those other girls had been beatniks, bohemians, almost like tramps. They would go with any girl who cared to pick them up. You had no feeling of accomplishment, of uniqueness, in sleeping with an unkempt, loose-living village girl who went from woman to woman.
This was different.
Doris was a woman of her own social class. That in itself was exciting. She was a married woman, she had a rich husband, she went to society balls and charity teas and all the rest. She was a real person in Anee's eyes, not just a drifting lez. She was wealthy and poised and cultured, and she had had affairs with many of males.
All those facts made Doris far more desireable to Anne than any usual pickup in a gay bar could ever be to her.
Anne's throat was dry with lust as she lay down on the bed with Doris, who seemed well aware of what to do to give pleasure. Her hands went to the ripe mounds of Anne's full taut breasts, cupping them, imprisoning the nipples. Long slim fingers tightened at Anne's lust-flesh. She gasped, hissed between closed teeth, reached out for Doris' bosoms.
You have such beautiful bresasts," she whispered. She grasped them. The skim was soft, velvety. Doris smiled. She stirred on the bed, moving as passion began to rise for her. Anne squeezed her lightly and started to rock in a sesually satisfying motion.
Easily, gently, delicately, the two women brought each other toward a fever pitch of excitement as they pressed together tribadically.
Doris sighed. "Oh-yes, that's good-!"
Anne smiled. Skilfullly, with all the considerable know how at her command, she gave pleasure to the other woman. She burrowed against the warmth of her, and felt Doris tremble and pant as the excitement grew for her. "Let me," Doris whipered.
She pivoted on the bed, eagerly, hastily, and her hot lips lowered on Anne's arching body.
Now it was Anne's turn to gasp in delight.
If this were Doris' first time, Anne thought, she was a quick learner. She knew exactly what to do and how. She was almost an expert on her first try. Anne quivered with pleasure as she felt Doris' hands pressing a ther buttocks, Doris' lips offering the homage of passion to her as her legs opened widely for her loving.
"Wait," Anne murmured. "We can both-"
"Yes. I understand."
Doris assumbed the position. Bodies interwitened in an arrangement that was face to body, the two women re-enected a rite of mutual perverted ecstasy. For a long moment there was no sound in the room but that of hoarse panting, as the two naked women pulled pleasure from each other.
Soon they were both inflamed with near-ecstasy.
"Wait!" Anne gasped.
They shifted positions again. And now Anne, as though she were a man, cradled the inviting softness of Doris' lush body. She lay with her breasts pressing against Doris'. Doris welcomed her female lover, and Anne found the way to give them both pleasure at the moment.
Body moved against body, tribadically.
Churned and throbbed.
Passions blazed higher. Still Anne heaped more fuel on the flame. The bed creaked protestingly beneath them. Anne closed her eyes, bit down hard on her lower lip.
This, she thought, was the greatest.
Body against body, breasts against breasts. Warm breath mingling.
The frenzy was on them now. Neither of them held anything back. That was a headlong sprint toward climatic ecstasy, and Anne wanting to see how well her pupil was doing, forced her own eyes open. Doris' face was a mask of lust. Her lips were distorted, her cheek puffy, her eyes only slits. Anne, could not stare any longer. Her own passions were to insistent.
Now the peak approached.
For Anne, for Doris at one and the same instant, there came the transcendent blaze of fulfillment, of culmination, of ecstasy-
And then satiation.
They held tight to each other for long moments after that was over. Their sweating, panting, bodies still rocked with the sheer animal force of what they had been through. For Anne, that had been the most delicious moment of her entire Lesbian career. There was nothing to match this, not even the first time.
They separated.
For a while they lay side by side, Then said;
"I never dreamed this was like that!"
"What were you expecting?"
"I don't know. Something demure and lady-like. A pleasant little wiggle of amusement. I never dreamed that could be such a thrill."
"That isn't always so good. We were just lucky."
"I've known all my life that I was lucky."
"We're both lucky. But what we did-that won't be luck the next time."
"When will the next time be?"
"Whenever you like."
"How about, say, fifteen minutes from now?"
"I wouldn't mind that at all."
"Let's have a cigarette first."
"Here. Take one of mine this time."
Anne reached crosswise across Doris' prone body to her handbag on the night stand next to the bed. Her dangling breasts rubbed across Doris'. She took out two cigarettes, put them both in her mouth, lit them and puffed on them, handed one to Doris.
Doris grinned. "You did that just the way a man would, do you know that?"
"I didn't notice. It just seemed the simplest way to light them."
"It was a masculine way. But that's the only masculine thing about you, Anne." Her hand stroked the rounds of Anne's breasts, and belly. "I'm glad Hubert set this up."
"So am I."
"He's a darling isn't he?"
"He ought to get a medal."
Doris giggled. "Let's give him one, then."
"Yes. Let's."
They laughed over that for a while. Doris rose, stretched, walked to the window. Anne, sprawled out cozily on the bed, watched the voluptuous girl's sinuous grace, eyeing her covetously, studying the action in her back and buttocks. Yes, she thought, she ought to be very grateful to Hubert. The marriage counselor had dumped quite a prize in her lap.
She put out the cigarette. Doris turned.
Anne said, "Do you like the opera?"
"Very much. Allan and I go often."
"My husband and I have a box. Alternate Tuesday nights. You and Allan must really join us some evening. We can all have dinner together before the opera. Make a real night of it."
"I'd love that," Doris said. "We ought to see each other socially. Now that we know we get along so well."
They both laughed. Then Doris threw herself down on the bed once again. A moment later, they were locked in each others arms, beginning once again to act out the ceremony of illicit ecstasy, and Anne smiled dreamilly as her hands slid over Doris Roche's antimacxs, and her fingers inserted within the hidden part of Doris, as she sought and fondled her love partner.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mike was sorry to see his whiskey bottle become empty, because it was not cheap. It had set him back close to six bucks for the fifth, and he would be sorry to see the end of it, because then he'd have to buy a new one. Which would cost money. Why were all the things in life that meant anything so expensive?
With a hand that shook a little, he poured about two ounces into a squat little glass. He dropped an ice cube in. He did not even consider adding vermouth. He disliked vermouth. It interfered with the taste of the stuff.
He contemplated the drink for a long moment. He was in a miserable mood, and somehow he doubted that the booze would help him any, because he couldn't afford to drink enough gin to cure what ailed him. When you made a little better than seventy-five hundred a year, and the government took its bite out of that, and the rent on a stinking little three-room apartment was $130 a month, and your wife needed new clothing, and you had to pay $20 a week to a marriage counselor, and even a motion picture costs a buck-eighty now, and a haircut a bundle, you had to stop and count your pennies when it came the luxuries like liquor.
He sipped the drink, a little at a time, making it last. From the bathroom, there came the sound of running water. Laura was taking a bath. In the early days of their marriage, he had loved to stick his head in and look at her in the tub, because she was so beautiful, and she was his, and he loved her.
Well, she was still beautiful. Still his, so far as he knew. And he still loved her. But he didn't pull any playful stunts with her any more. He felt too depressed about everything for that.
His marriage was folding.
So was his career.
His whole damned life was going.
He was thirty-three years old, and he was a nobody, and he would always be a nobody. He had started off with big ambitions, but he had only been kidding himself all along. He thought he knew something about production sales. He had the idea that he could make a lot of money showing people how to prepare things in a way that would make other people want to buy them. He wanted to go into business for himself as a consultant.
But here he was, still working for someone else, holding down a trivial job in a trivial company, and getting paid accordingly. He couldn't just walk out and rent an office and set up a business. He needed capital-twenty, thirty thousand dollars at the very least, fifty or a hundred grand to do things right. Where would he get it? Nowhere. Nobody would lend him that kind of money just on the strength of a dream. He was trying to save it up, nickel by nickel, bit by bit. Whatever he could spare out of his meager salary and aut of the tiny bit Laura earned went into the bank. Ten dollars here, twenty dollars there.
It didn't add up to much.
After five or six years, he had managed to accumulate the princely sum of two thousand dollars. Then growing impatient, he tried to triple his money overnight in the stock market. He had taken a flier in a fast stock. He bought 50 shares of it at 40 and it went up to 60. So he sold out for a thousand dollars profit and invested it in something else. His original stock kept on going, right up to 100, 120, 140. The new stock he had bought went down. It wiped out his original profit and left him back where he had started, with two thousand. He bought another stock and it went down too. When he finally got out of the market, a sadder and a wiser man, he had managed to lose five hundred dollars, more than a whole year's savings.
He wasn't ever going to build up enough capital to go into business for himself. He knew that and he was resigned to it. Success just had never been for him.
What hurt more than his financial failure was this problem he and his wife had.
His marriage had been the one bright spot in his life. He had met a beautiful and sweet girl, and she had agreed to be his wife, and everyone envied him, even Allan Roche, who had everything that he had never been able to have. Roche drooled over Laura. What did it matter that he had a sexy wife himself, that he was making money hand over fist, and had half a dozen mistresses? Allan Roche was envious of him for having Laura, and Mike was grateful for that.
But things hadn't worked out too well with Laura.
She was sweet she was loving and she was cooperative. And she was beautiful. But she didn't enjoy sex.
At first, he had told himself, it was simply because she had been a virgin when she married him that she didn't respond. "She's shy," he told himself. "She's still got inhibitions. But she'll get over them. It takes time for a woman to develop."
Only things got worse instead of better. In the beginning, she was eager and curious for love. She, too, believed that it was only a matter of time before she began to experience all the thrills love was supposed to provide. Her early enthusiasm managed to take the place of genuine fulfillment.
But then, as month dragged into weary month and lovemaking became more of a chore for her, he found the whole situation steadily more distasteful. He hated to make love to her now. Every time he touched her, it was a defeat for him-a direct slur on his virility.
A man can absorb only so many defeats before he stars to think of himself as a born loser.
He firmly and thoroughly believed, by now, that he was exactly that.
This counselor business had been a last resort. If he couldn't pull the marriage together somehow, his whole life would be meaningless. And so, even though he could ill afford even the fee Finley asked-why, it was nothing but charity!"-he and Laura had agreed to become patients.
He was startled by Finley's unorthodox methods. After the third week, the doc had told him, "You're suffering from a series of repeated blows to your self-confiedence. You've made love to your wife hundreds of times and nothing has happened, so you're convinced you're a failure as a lover."
"That's right."
"What you need is a good jolt of self-confidence. The best thing in the world for you would be an affair with a passionate woman who'll restore your faith in your own sexual abilities. What do you think?"
Mike was taken aback. "You mean-be unfaithful to my wife?"
"I mean exactly that. Haven't you ever cheated her?"
"No, Not once."
"Why? Never felt the desire to?"
"Well," Mike said, "I wouldn't put it that way. There are plenty of good-looking women I've felt desire for."
"Then why haven't you lain with them?"
"That wouldn't be fair to my wife."
"Really?" the marriage counselor asked: "Are you so worried about breaking your wedding vows? Or do so remain faithful to your wife simply because you don't have the courage to make a pass at another woman? Are you so beaten down by life that you've lost all spark of masculinity?"
It was a shot right to the vitals. Many times, Gregory, had indeed considered having an outside affair. He had lain awake at night after an unsuccessful session with Laura, dreaming of engulfing some women who would respond with passionate abandon; filling him with the pride in his own virile manhood and to leave his hot reaction in her willing body.
But he had never dared.
He was afraid to try and find out. He was afraid that if he made love to someone else, he would fail to satisfy her, and that he would learn that the fault in his marriage was not his wife's frigidity but his own incompetence. It was a long time since his premarital escapades. He didn't have the courage to try with some other woman any more.
He mulled those things over. And then Finley said, "Suppose I fixed you up with some woman who also needs some extramarital loving. Another patient of mine. You wouldn't have to do any work seducing her. There wouldn't be any doubts. She'd be glad to put out for you. Well? Would you go along with that, or not?"
"I'm not sure. My wife-"
"Stop worrying about her. Can't you understand, you'd be doing this for your wife's sake? The trouble with your marriage is that you've lost confidence in yourself, and you can't bring Laura alive in bed. All right. For her sake, you've got to regain your confidence. And I say the best way you can do that is through an affair. Are you willing?"
Gregory was startled by that approached, but he went along with it. Finley seemed insistent on fixing him up with someone.
So that was done. Gregory had a meeting with another of Finley's patients. She was a wealthy, beautiful passionate woman. Despite his misgivings, he made love to her eagerly and enthusiastically, and everything went off fine. If he could only be that good with Laura, he would ask no more.
But things remained just as unsatisfactory as ever with her.
Gregory was exhilarated by his affair. But he couldn't kindle that spark of passion in his own marriage. Nor did Laura's sessions with Finley seem to do much good. Exactly what Finley was telling her, Mike had no idea. He wasn't supposed to ask. For all he knew, Finley was sending his wife off to put out for some other male. But he preferred not to think about that. He didn't want to know. All he wanted was his wife, eager and vibrant in his arms, and he was willing to endure anything for that.
Okay. It was great to put it to this rich dame Finley had fixed him up with. But that wasn't solving his problem. He could slip from one adultery to another, until his mariage finally fell apart, and still Laura would remain frigid.
Everything was hopeless. He was going to be a nobody all his life, and now he was on the verge of losing his wife, the one good thing that had ever happened to him, because after three years plus of marriage she was still frigid in his arms. Sooner or later, she would find out that Finley was encouraging him to have sex relations with other women. Laura wouldn't like that. She wouldn't understand what Finley was trying to do. She would say, "I'm not good enough. I don't satisfy you, so you go to other women." And she would leave him.
He belted down the rest of the drink, and wondered if he was ever going to get out of this miserable trap. It didn't look that way.
Suddenly, Laura appeared in the living room doorway. She had just come from her bath, and she looked marvelous, radiant. For a moment, looking at her, he was able to forget all the long nights of failure and misery. She was beautiful, and he desired her. Her breasts were like ivory globes, tipped with small bright-colored nipples, and her hair, combed out, glistened like spun gold in the light, and her freshly scrubbed skin gleamed.
She glanced at the bottle. "Having yourself a little nightcap?" she asked.
He shrugged guiltily. "Just a nip."
"It'll be gone soon."
"So I'll get some more," he said. He eyed her, and her nakedness tied him up. Those luscious breasts those swelling nips, those superb legs-!
If only she weren't frigid, he thought!
She smiled at him. "It's past ten o'clock. I'm going to go to bed, Mike."
"I'll be along soon."
"I'll wait up for you," she said.
There was a hopeful note in her voice. He couldn't mistake the meaning of the tone. He had heard it many times before.
What she was saying was, come to bed and put it in me, Mike. Maybe this time it'll work out all right.
Sure. Maybe this time his savings bank would call up the tell him that his was the lucky number, he was the Depositor of the Year and they were giving him $100,000 free of taxes. Maybe he'd walk down the street and a philanthropist would rush up to him and beg to be allowed to finance his business. Maybe he'd feel his wife's body and she'd begin to tremble with genuine passion.
But he couldn't bet on it.
Why should that be so impossible? He had made love to other women and they had trembled and quivered, they had held him tight, they had gasped and panted in the ultimate fulfillment of passion. He wasn't incompetent. He wasn't impotent. He was as good in bed as the next guy. And yet, somehow, whenever he embraced her something went Pfft.
Maybe this would be the night, he thought. You never could tell. Just a couple of days ago, he had slept with a girl named Elinor Lange, and Elinor had responded just fine. If only his wife would react the way Elinor had.
Gregory said, "I'll take a quick shower. I'll be with you in fifteen minutes."
Laura smiled. "Don't be too long."
She turned and went into the bedroom. He stared after her, at the lush nudity of her, the two full gloves of her buttocks. Desire rose on him.
So frigid-.
He went into the bathroom. It was still steamy from Laura's bath, and he liked the close, humid atmosphere. He undressed quickly. He felt tense and tired. The liquor churning around unpleasantly inside him. It had been a long day, people yapping at him all day in the office, the telephone ringing until it began to sound in his mind, and now he was home and it was late at night and he was about to have sex with Laura. His ego was due to get it usual shot of cold water.
Unless this was the time the miracle happened, of course. But he didn't get his hopes up too high.
He stepped under the shower and let the water run. A shower usually perked him up, made him feel ready to go out and lick the world. But he couldn't get into a world-licking mood tonight. Always there lay ahead of him the grim knowledge that he was going to get into bed and love Laura and try to arouse her, and embrace her, and enter her, and-
And nothing would happen. It would be the same old story.
No, he thought, as he scrubbed himself. You're doing what Finley said you shouldn't do. You're admitting defeat in advance. Take a positive, confident approach. Tell yourself that you're going to make love to Laura like no woman's ever been loved before.
Easily said. Not so easily done.
He got out of the shower, and his feeling of apprehension and gloom grew as he dried himself off. He glanced at his nakedness in the bathroom mirror. Nothing to be proud of there, he thought. He was putting on weight, thickening around the middle, around the rear. No time for exercise. Allan Roche, who was making the money faster than he could carry it to the bank, could afford to pay out a few grand a year for a membership in an athletic club, steam bath, tennis and all the rest. He didn't have time for such things.
He had to face up to it. He was getting old at thirty-three. His shoulders were turning rounded. His stomach was sagging. His muscles were losing their tone. It was all happening very quickly. You could see, just by looking at his naked body that he was a downtrodden, defeated man who was falling further and further behind in the hectic struggle that was life with each passing year.
He straightened up.
Pull in that stomach! Square those shoulders!
Toweled dry, teeth brushed, hair combed, he went into the bedroom.
Laura was waiting for him in bed. She was sitting up, reading a magazine and her body was covered only as far as her legs. Glorious full breasts glimmered at him like beacons of desire. She flashed a pearly smile at him. He tingled all over. She was so beautiful, he thought, so blonde, so clean, so desireable. She was the kind of girl you saw on advertising posters, or in the color gatefolds of girlie magazines. Except that one thing was wrong. She looked desirable, but she was as frigid as a frightened eighteen-year-old when you got it put into her.
He looked a ther. "Lights out?" he said.
"Yes."
She put her magazine down on the night stand. He flipped the switch and padded across the room to join her on the bed. He pulled the covers over both of them.
He reached for her body.
She was warm and soft against him. He knew that she wanted to take him tonight, and that she was prepared, so there was no need to ask any questions. With throbbing loins, he slid his hands over the globes of her breasts, cupped them. The nipples were still soft.
His high hopes sank. Wasn't she ready? Didn't she feel any desire?
He pinched a nipple, gently, and felt it grow firm. Without releasing his grip, he slip his other hand to her silken-smooth buttocks and caressed them. His lips found hers.
Her body was against his. She was straining, yearning after him. His pulse raced. Maybe this would be the big night, after all.
After making love three or four times a week for more than three years maybe tonight would finally be the night that got his gun off.
He didn't rush things. He caressed here and stroked there and lightly nibbled over there. He kissed and cupped and toyed with her. He moved gently. There was something faintly desperate about his motions; he was trying everything, hoping to punch the magic button that would bring her to life.
She was trying. He sensed that. She was touching his maleness, stroking, cupping, seeking, and moving, getting into the rhythm of the thing, trying to make herself feel passion.
That was the whole trouble. She tried to hard, and so did he. They forced. There was always an atmosphere of tension about their lovemaking.
There was tension tonight. And he sensed that this was going to be a night just like all the-others, that he and she would try but that no magic buttons would be pushed, no fires kindled in her. Why didn't she respond?
Grimly, he kept on, kissing her, stroking her. He put lips to her breasts, touched her now rigid nipples. She began to breathe faster. Was she on her way? His hand stole over her body. He felt the warmth of her. She was aroused. Yes. She could be aroused. But she could never get past that initial point. She always seemed stuck at the first lap.
"I love you," she whispered. "I want you to be happy, darling."
"So do I," He told her.
But he didn't want to talk now. Talking was just a way of hiding embarrassment. He wanted her to blaze up. He had been in bed with her for fifteen minutes, now. It hadn't taken that long to arouse Elinor Lange. She had been ready to crawl up the walls after about five minutes. Here, fifteen minutes, a whole damned quarter of an hour, had gone by, and though Helen was a little bit excited she was not very excited, and he had the definite impression that he could keep on going through preliminaries with her for the next eight hours without getting her off the mark.
He controlled his impatience.
He continued to kiss and caress her. His own body throbbed with need. The nearness of her, the voluptuousness of her, maddened him. She was moving now, picking up the rhythm. But she wasn't fooling him. He knew that passion didn't yet grip her. Only when that gets to be an involuntary motion does it mean anything, he knew.
This wasn't working, he realized glumly. They had made something simply mechanical out of this. They were trying too hard. He remembered now, when he was a kid, he had played ball, and he had discovered that when you try to hit home runs deliberately, you usually strike out. You get nowhere if you try too hard. You had to go up to the plate nice and loose, just aiming to meet the ball with the bat. You took a cut, and sometimes the ball went a mile and sometimes it didn't. But when you went up there and gripped the bat tight and dug in and gritted your teeth and swung for the fences, you choked in the clutch.
This was like that now. If they could only take a free and easy approach, they might get somewhere. But their attitude was too grim, to determined. As well it might be, after so much failure.
He tried to build toward a crescendo. He wondered if he should take her. Maybe if he waited another ten minutes, another fifteen, another, twenty, continued the preliminaries-
She was feeling and grasping him, now. She wanted him.
Was she getting somewhere? Or did she just want to get this over with and go to sleep, he wondered? "I love you," she whispered. He went into her.
At that moment he closed his eyes, metally crossed his fingers. He hoped that she would react with wild gyrations the instant he took her-that she would go zooming off to the summit of passion.
Fat chance.
He began to work, and he sensed her working with him, and knew that she wanted this as bad as he did. He tried and tried again, waiting for the quiver, the motions of passion. They didn't arrive. He moved, on and on.
Nothing happened.
With grim determination, he worked again and again, telling himself that he was going to get her to climax if he had to spend all night. Sooner or later she'd relax, wouldn't she? Five hundred times, a thousand, as many as it took. He'd stay with her. Eventually the ice would melt. He had known some women who hit the packpot after thirty seconds. Others were slower. That took them two, three minutes, sometimes, five or ten. But she was impossible.
He stayed with her, he pumped her, falling to the rhythm, and she matched him, and he waited and waited, and waited some more.
His own culmination approached. He was only human, after all. He fought that back. He gritted his teeth, tensed his muscles, tried to control his release.
She knew he was about to come. She whispered, "Go ahead, darling."
"No. Not yet."
"Enjoy yourself."
"I'm waiting for you," he said.
"I'm not going to manage," she whispered. "Maybe next time we'll be lucky."
"No. Now!"
"don't be silly, dear. We've tried. You're only making yourself miserable. Go ahead."
"I can wait-a little longer-"
"But I'm uncomfortable. You're starting to hurt-from all the trying-"
"Oh," he said in a small voice.
That was that, then. There wasn't a chance in the world that they'd get anywhere tonight.
He couldn't hold back any more. What was the sense of that? He let out his breath in a long gust, and in a few quick throbbins gushes reached his fulfillment. He didn't enjoy the release much. That was only satiation, after the long strenouous effort, and gave him little joy. That was strictly a quick release.
Almost as soon as he had ended, he rolled free of her and turned away.
"Don't let that worry you, dear," she murmured. "There's always next time."
"Sure," he said.
"Remember, I love you."
He felt too bitter to even answer. He .closed his eyes. It wan't fair, he thought. He had worked her over. And for what? To get nowhere. Any normal woman would have climaxed a dozen times. He had exhausted himself and nothing had been accomplished.
In a couple of days, he'd be seeing Elinor Lange. At least he'd get mutual culmination with Elinor.
But now, he lay awake, sour and tense. It wasn't fair at all, he told himself. Why couldn't his wife give in? Why couldn't she just relax and enjoy herself? Why did she have to make love such a complicated deal?
Why did everything in his life have to go wrong, he wondered bleakly?
It seemed to him that he heard her crying quietly on her side of the bed. He didn't look around. He wasn't in th emood for an emotional scene. They weren't compatible, and that was that, and maybe the smart things was for them to separate now. While they were still young enough to start over with different . mates. But he didn't want that. In spite of their sexual difficulties, he loved and cherished her for herself.
CHAPTER SIX
Elinor Lange examined her body critically. She leaned her shoulders back to jut out her huge breasts. She pinched up a roll of fat around her middle and scowled. Then she went to the big bathroom to the scales, and stepped on them.
"A hundred and forty-two?" she said. "How awful! I'm a cow!"
For most of her thirty-four years, she had been waging a war against that roll of flab. She was a short girl, only five feet three, and she had always been plump. It was hard for her not to be plump, since everyone had always let her indulge herself in any way she liked. Her father had forever been slipping her things to eat. "I know you shouldn't have this," he would say, ' but I want my little girl to be happy."
His little girl wasn't so little. She had weighed close to a hundred seventy pounds when she was thirteen. She had big jiggly breasts, and a bigger jiggly behind, and a great round belly. Then she had dieted down, because she was entering adolescence and wanted to be popular with the boys. By diet of starving herself, she had taken off most of the excess and had actually been slim for the first time in her life.
She stayed slim all during her teens. And she was very, very popular.
She would have been just as popular even if she had been fat, because her father was worth a fortune, and was the sort of father who would set a son-in-law up in business very handsomely. The boys came around in droves. She started sleeping with them when she was fifteen, because she liked sexual intercourse, and when she was twenty and a senior at college she met Walt Lange, and fell in love with him, and soon after that she was married and didn't have to worry about her weight any more.
Since then, she had gotten plumper. It wavered; she would gain ten pounds, go through hell to lose most of it, then gain eight, lose six, gain five, lose four, gain ten, lose seven ... up and up and up. Now she was at a hundred forty-two. It was the heaviest she had been since her teens. She eyed the plump nakedness in the mirror. Big breasts, yes. Good breasts, round and soft and nice. But too much buttocks. And, oh, that round heavy belly.
Even so she knew she was still desirable, Walt had never stopped relishing her plump womanhood. He made love to her constantly, and he was a superb lover, virile and manly and strong.
And then there was that Mike Gregory man, the one Dr. Finley had sent to her.
Mike brought out the maternal instinct in her. He was so unhappy, so lonely, so beat. He needed consoling and a big soft set of maternal bosoms to bury his face in. She was glad to offer him her matronly body. He had been visiting her once a week for thres weeks now, and she looked forward to each of his visits more eagerly than the last. It was novelty for her to get to know a discouraged, poor, unhappy man. She only moved among successful men like her husband Walt, or like Allan Roche, or like Dr. Finley himself. Suave confident, moneyed men who had everything they wanted out of life.
It was much more interesting to know a man who was bitter and disappointed and miserable. He was so different. He supplied the spice of life for her. She felt a little inferior, in the company of all those clear-eyed, agressive executives and lawyers and bankers who were her husband's friends. She knew that they looked upon her as a plump, amiable, empty-headed woman of no talents or accomplishments. It was refreshing to have someone she could look down on.
She yawned, stretched, paddled her pudgy waist with her palms, and smiled. She put her hands over her huge breasts. The small fingers could hardly contain the lush abundance of her bobbing bosoms. She took a deep breath and tried to touch her toes. It was work. Her stomach kept getting in the way, and her plump breasts dangled downward, jiggling and bouncing.
Panting and puffing, she straightened up. Plenty of exercise, that was the ticket. Cut down on calories, too.
The doorbell rang.
Surprised, she looked at the time. It was later than she thought. Her lover was here already. She grabbed up her robe and threw it around her, and just barely managed to have it over her charms by the time she reached the front door of the apartment.
"Darling," she said.
"Hello, Elinor."
Mike Gregory stepped inside. Something was troubling him, she could see, the moment she looked at him. His face was knotted with worry. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were new liness under them. She took his jacket from him.
"Darling," she said. "I've been waiting for days!"
"It's only three days since I was last here."
"It seems like weeks,' she said. "Can I get you a drink, darling?"
"I need one."
She knew what he liked; gin on the rocks, with a bit of lemon peel. She fixed for him, while he slumped down wearily in the living room armchair. He didn't look like a man who came to visit his mistress. He looked like a tired, hard-working husband coming come to his wife after a brutal day at the office.
She broght the drinks over. "Is there something wrong, Mike?"
"Just tired."
"You look worn out."
"I am."
"So worn out you even forgot to kiss me when you came in," she said, pouting.
He looked up, guilty-faced. "I did? I'm sorry. I'm so damned preoccupied-"
"About your wife?"
He nodded. "Yes," he said. "She's tearing me to pieces, Elinor. The night before last we-"
"Kiss me first," she said. "Then have your drink. Then you can tell me all about that."
He rose and put his arms around her lush body. She sensed the fatigue of the man as he held her and touched his lips to hers. The poor man was bone-tired, she knew. You could see his discouragement, just in the set of his shoulders and the droop of his eyelids. As they kissed, she moved her body against him with voluptuous abandon, letting him get the full benefit of her opulent breasts through the thin fabric of her gown, and that seemed to wake him up a little. He was flushed and breathing harder when they finally broke apart.
He sat down again, picked up his drink. "I made love to Laura the other night. She was the same as always. Nothing, Elinor."
"Maybe there's something wrong with her. Physically, I mean. Maybe her nerves don't work right."
"I doubt it."
"Then she's doing that deliberately. She's just to hurt you, darling. She shows her aggressions by withholding her affection from you."
"But she hurts herself that way, too." he pointed out. "She's depriving herself of enjoyment."
"Haven't you heard of masochists? Maybe she enjoys hurting herself."
"You know that isn't so."
"Maybe I'm not a good enough lover."
Elinor laughed. "Doesn't it mean anything to you that I say you are?"
He shrugged. "Well, even, so, why doesn't my wife respond to my loving? Maybe-"
He was off. Elinor listened to him deliver one of his long, rambling, self-pitying monologues. Dr. Finley had already explained Gregory's psychology to Elinor, so she knew what to expect. Mike, the marriage counselor had said, was a chronic self-accuser. He had failed to make the most of his opportunities in life, and had developed an inferiority complex which now trapped him. He was afraid to attempt anything big because he was convinced that he would fail. He was so positive that he was to blame for his wife's frigidity that unless he changed his way of thinking radically, he was never going to salvage his marriage.
She listened. It gave her pleasure to hear a member of the so-called superior sex, whining.
She wanted to help him, Finley asked her to try. "See if you can build him up a little," he said. "It'll be amusing for you, Elinor."
For the last year and a half, Finley had been sending studs to Elinor. It was more to cure her boredom than anything else. She didn't have any particular love problem. Her love life was in good shape. Walt was an excellent lover, though of course he had mistresses to boff now and then. It was a while ago that she had discovered that Walt had hired Dr. Finley to find girl friends for him among his patients. So she, too, had started to see the marriage counselor. Walt didn't a thing about it. He'd probably hit the ceiling if he ever found out his plump little wife was being unfaithful to him. That amused her.
So she listened to Mike moan about his inferiority for a while, and then she walked over to him and said, "I think you're making a big mistake, Mike. You're underrating yourself. You're one of the finest pieces, I've ever had."
"You're just saying that to cheer me up."
"No, It's true. In fact, I've been waiting ever since you got here for you to stop talking and start laying me. I'm getting impatient."
He smiled. "I don't blame you," he said. "I'm sorry, running off at the mouth like this. That's what I always do. Talk about my own stupid problems, when there's a beautiful woman waiting to be loved."
She shrugged off her robe. She stood naked in front of him, her big breasts rising and falling in gathering excitement, her nipples starting to stiffen. She sucked in her belly and tried to look slim and inviting. From the expression on his face she knew he was aroused.
He began to undress. Elinor waited as he took off his shirt and undershirt, dropped his trousers.
"Wait," she said. "Take the belt out of the pants."
He looked at her.
"Pull it out. I want you to use it."
"Use it-on you?" he said, still puzzled. A light began to dawn. "You mean-as a whip?"
"Exactly."
"But-"
"Do as I say!" she snapped. A whim had taken hold of her. "I want you to beat me. That'll be therapy for you."
"I don't understand how."
"You can pretend I'm your wife. Get even with me for giving you a bad time in bed. Belt me hard. Spank me good. Work yourself off."
"That's kind of perverted, isn't it?"
"The woman wants to be whipped," she said. "What's the matter with, you? Are you so spineless that you're afraid to let yourself be the boss? Show some backbone, for once in your life. Pretend I'm your wife and spank me the way I deserve."
He finished undressing. Elinor, nude and expectant, waited for him. Already, she was looking forward to the punishment that was to be administered. Little ripples of sensual excitement spread through her. She wet in anticipation.
It was a long time since anyone had last done anything like that to her.
She hadn't forgotten the last occasion. It was still sharp in her mind as though it had happened yesterday.
That had happened when she was in her teens. Before she had even met Walt. She was going out with a boy named Gleen then, a tall, college boy, and for some reason she had mischievously decided to play the role of a tease with him. Although she had been laid before, it amused her to pretend, when she was with him, that she was a coy innocent virgin who was willing to neck and pet, but not to go all the way.
For the first few dates, he went along with that. He wasn't sure whether she was faking or not. So on one date he got under her bra, to her big titties, and on the next he worked his hand under her panties, but he didn't try to get in her.
Then on the fifth date, he tried to make her. And she came on with the act; "Oh, no, I couldn't do anything like that with a boy!"
He was disappointed, but because he had a gentlemanly up-bringing he didn't attempt to force the issue. Somewhere between that date and the next, though, he ran into a former boy friend of hers who was no gentleman at all. Former boy friend ungallantly told Gleen that Elinor was z piece. Gleen was understandably put out by that.
On their next date, they began to neck and pet as usual. Matters-got progressively more torrid. Her blouse was open and he had been running barehanded over the sweet, rosy-tipped melons of her big breasts, and he had maneuvered one of his hands underneath her panties, and he was well on his way to taking the panties off when she got the urge to play the tease again.
"You mean you want to stay a virgin, is that it?"
"Yes."
"Then how about you and So-and-so?"
She was aghast. She tried to bluff her way through. "Did he tell you any lies about me?"
"He said he got into you. And he said five or six other guys did also. So what's the matter with me? How come you give me this?"
"It isn't an act," she said. But she was never a good liar, and in the middle of protesting her innocence she broke down and began to giggle, and then to laugh. She had to admit it had all been nothing but a deliberate gag, that she had simply been teasing him.
Somehow he didn't think that was very funny. She had sent him home from date after date with an ache of sexual repression, and that was not his idea of humor. So he got even with her.
"You teasing little witch," he muttered. "I'm going to give you a lesson you won't forget."
She thought he was going to lay her. She relaxed as he took her panties off. The joke had gone for enough, she thought, and she was willing now to let him have her at last as his reward for having been such a good sport.
He wasn't good sport now.
He reached for her and tip-ended her, flipping her across his knee with her big set of bare buttocks turned upward. They were in her house, alone on the sofa.
She cried, "What-are you going to-"
Down came his hand across the pink, plump, jiggling fullness of her buttocks. She had never been spanked in her life, certainly not that way, but he made up for all the lost time. His broad, flat hand smacked her tender flesh with stunning impact again and again. Whack! Whack!
And a strange thing happened.
The spanking turned into pleasure.
At first, she felt only the humiliation and discomfort of having her bare bottom paddled. That hurt. But after the first half dozen spanks, she felt sudden warmth, and a tension in her, and she stopped kicking and squalling and fighting and started to pay attention to the sensations she was feeling.
It was terrific.
It was like a river of warmth flowing over her. The redder her buttocks got, the more excited she grew. There was a pounding in her loins, fierce and insistent, a craving for love more urgent than any she had ever known. Gleen, too, was getting excited. She knew that because she could feel the masculine excitement of him straining through his pants against her belly. Again and again he belabored her buttocks, until they throbbed.
Then he let go of her. She rolled off him, landed bottom-first on the carpeted floor, and lay there with her dress pushed up.
"Gleen!" she cried.
It was an urgent demand for fulfillment. She saw him, flushed and excited, standing above her, and then he reacted. Her belabored body was immediately ready for insertion, and he moved his swollenness to her with the fury of a boy long denied fulfillment, and as he entered her she went sweeping away to an ecstasy she had never known before.
She had never dated him again. Nor had any man ever spanked her, after that first spanking experience. But she had never forgotten the strange joy of receiving the love pain. She had always hoped that someone would do that again, but no one ever had, and she had been afraid to ask her husband, for fear her husband would consider it a perverted desire.
She felt free, though, to order Mike around. He had no gumption, no will to resist. He was putty in her hands. So he would be the one to do the whipping, to renew the sensual experience of so many years ago.
Who knew? Maybe that would help give him some of the inner toughness he needed. Maybe if he found that he enjoyed being a domineering, agressive male, he would begin to change inwardly and throw off his defeatists attitude.
In that case, she thought, the spanking would do both of them some good. She wanted sincerely to help him. She wanted to be of some use to somebody.
"Go on," she said, when they were both naked and he stood near her, the belt in his right hand. "Let me have one!!"
The role of tyrant did not come easily to him, it seemed. He was too fundamentally weak, too submissive, to be able to take such an aggresive part with a clear conscience. She turned and bent forward, saucily thrusting her full buttocks toward him, and he lifted the belt and gave her a half-hearted, almost un-noticeable little slap.
"Not like that,' she said. "Hard!"
"I don't want to hurt you."
She turned and looked at him. There was scorn in her expression and she had to work to keep it out of tone of voice. She didn't want to tear him down in the process of building him up.
She said. 'But I want you to hurt me, silly! That's the whole idea."
"That's hard for me."
"Try. Use your imagination. I'm your wife, see, and we've just made love, and you worked as hard as you knew how, trying to make me enjoy that, but I stubbornly refused to have a good time. You're sore as hell. You want to rough me up a little to get it off your chest. Go ahead. Spank me."
He brought the belt across the bare trembling flesh of her buttocks a third time. She hardly felt it.
"What's the matter with you?" she demanded. "You look like you're strong. Why don't you give me a really solid beating?"
"Maybe we'd better forget the whole idea."
"No!"
"I don't like this. I don't want to hurt you. Suppose I cut your skin with the belt and your husband saw it? What would he say if-"
"To hell with him. Will you do it?"
"I'd rather not."
She sighed. Maybe the right tactic was to get him angry. She had been too sweet, too understanding with him, letting him whine on and on about his troubles. Maybe what he needed was not a soft shoulder to cry on, but someone to light a fire underneath him.
"Well, if you're not going to whip me, I'm going to whip you. You make me sick sometimes!"
She snatched the belt out of his hands. She brought its tail snicking across his side, and he leaped.
"Hey!" he yelled. "What-!"
She laughed and swung again. The belt slashed across the meaty part of his legs and made a satisfying smacking sound. He jumped back. He spun around, and she brought the belt across his naked buttocks, and then, as he pivoted to try to escape her, she lashed his belly.
And, she discovered, it was almost as interesting to whip someone as to get whipped.
She brought the belt down on his body, everywhere. She could see him starting to get angry.
She raised the belt overhead, planning to bring it down again, but he came rushing forward, up against her, so that the soft heavy globes of her breasts were crushed into his bare chest. He reached for the belt-holding arm and caugh it. His hand tightened around her wrist. He was strong, she thought, when he wanted to be.
They struggled in silence for the belt, body against naked body, her jiggly softness pressing into him. He hauled her arm down, and started to take the belt away from her.
She put all her strength into hanging on to her end of the belt.
"Damn you, let go!"
It was the first display of anger she had ever seen out of him. His eyes were wild and shiny, and his body was reddened in twenty or thirty places from the impact of the belt. He ripped the belt out of her hand.
"You crazy dame."
He lifted the belt and brought it down across her thigh. She screamed in mingled delight and pain. She had never expected that to hurt this much. Her thighs were burning. And he swung again. He looked wild.
The belt caught her along the side. "Damn you!" he cried incoherently. "Damn all women! Stinking whores, that's what!" Slam!
Right across the quivering buttocks. She felt the inner flame of lust. Yes, she thought. Yes! This was what she wanted! He was magnificent, now. He was an avenging sexual superior, punishing her for her sins!
It coiled around the jogging globes of her plump breasts. She howled. He showed no mercy. She cowered away from him, and he brought the belt down across the wide part of her back, and then aimed it at the backs of her legs, and the tip of the belt curled around her legs, sending heat through her.
She reeled around the room, and he followed her. Sweat rolled down his naked body. He was aroused. She could tell that plainly, enough. She had never in her life seen a man so worked up.
Suddenly, as he pursued her around the room, she tripped. She tumbled backward, landing heavily on the floor, buttocks jolting against the carpet. She sat there for a stunned moment. He stood above her, the belt in his hand, as ages ago a boy named Glenn had stood above her in much the same sort of situation.
Then he tossed the belt aside.
She opened for him.
He threw himself on her in a burning passion.
"Yes," she cried. "Oh, yes, darling, yes, take me, take me right now!"
With sudden brutal swiftness he took her with his eager lusts. Their intimacies met-and then, in the heat the belt had kindled, they gave themselves fully to the sexual love, and locked in a fervent embrace of inflamed nakedness, and their first climax came quick, due to their perverted arousal, though it was an extensive one.
So were the following ones.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Allan Roche was smoothly and deftly dressing for the full dress affair, just as he did everything. With inborn assurance. Doris was putting her sliver earrings on, and adding that last dab of perfume between the ripe, upthrusting hills of her breasts. They were to have dinner with Anne and Harry Black, and then to attend a performance at the opera.
He glanced across the room at the regal figure of his wife.
"You look as lovely as usual," he said.
"Thanks you. Why the compliment?"
"I felt in a complimentary mood. You look beautiful, Doris. I see you've taken special effort to look lovely this evening, haven't you?"
"Well, why not?" she said. "It's something of an occasion, isn't it?"
"It certainly is." He chuckled. "It's quite unique, in fact. I've heard of a man going out on a dinner date with the man who's betraying him. But it can't happen often that he goes out on a dinner date with the woman who's doing that!"
"That's such an old-fashioned concept, darling."
"Deceiving, then? No," he said. "I can't use that, don't you see? It isn't deceit when the deceived husband knows about his wife's sexual dalliance."
"I hadn't thought of it that way. All right, then. Betraying. Are my earrings nice, darling?"
"They're beautiful. I'm sure your lover will adore them. What's she like, anyway?"
"Anne? You mean you don't know?"
He shook his head. "How could I possibly know anything about her?"
"She's a patient of Finley's. I thought that by this time he had set you up with all of his pretty female patients."
"Not this one," he replied. "He's got-I don't know-dozens of patients. I haven't even scratched the surface of the list yet. You say Anne's husband isn't a patient?"
"He's unfaithful to her, she says. But he does that on his own, without Finley's help."
"Does he know she's unfaithful?"
"She doesn't think so."
"Neither with men nor with women?"
"He doesn't know anything about what she does," she said. "So of course let's not have any sly hinting tonight, yes, dear?"
"You know me better than that. Mum's the word. All ready?"
"Just about."
"Let's go, then. It's almost six."
He offered her his arm, and they left the apartment. The elevator operator smiled subserviently to them as they rode downstairs. Roche was conscious that he and his wife made an impressive effect when they were fully dressed for a night on the town-or at any other time. The tall, handsome young Roches, wealthy and healthy, and passsionately ardent.
Outside the doorman said, "Taxi, Mr. Roche?"
"Yes, please, Victor."
The doorman scuttled out into the darkness of the late fall night to whistle up a cab on busy Avenue. Roche and Doris waited just within the door.
A cab pulled up. They got in. The doorman smiled and bowed as he closed the door.
Roche gave the driver the address of an expensive restaurant.
The taxi zoomed off. Roche relaxed. He was in a good mood. He had seen Laura for the third time, this afternoon. The beautiful young dish had been more passionate than ever, throwing herself at him in sexual abandon. That had been a delightful job. Even now the memory blazed. Her loveliness nude, sprawled across the bed in all her pink-and-gold glory, her full delectable breasts rising and falling in excitement, her beautiful firm body glowing with vitality, poised, eager for loving.
Poor old Mike, he thought. To have a prize like that for a wife, and not to be able to make her happy sexually. He couldn't understand how Laura could possible be frigid with anybody. She was so alive, so passionate with him. She couldn't understand her failure with her husband either. She had discussed the situation with Roche that afternoon. "We both get so tense and nervous," she had said. "We both want everything to work out, and we want that so much that we choke up. And that's no good. When I'm with you I feel relaxed and cheerful and everything, but when my husband touches me-I just freeze up."
Poor Mike. He had always been a sad sack.
So he had spent that afternoon deliciously enjoying the soft, youthful nakedness of Laura Gregory. And now, tonight he would enjoy a fine meal a tone of the best of restaurants in town, and then a lovely, sparkling opera-and, to boot, he would be in the company of the woman who had become his wife's lover, and her husband.
It should be an interesting evening.
He had been a little startled, at first, when his wife had announced her experience in Lesbianiasm to him. He knew that she was a woman eager for unusual sex, and that she was plagued by the same thing that had been bothering him, a feeling of jadedness, of having patients of Finley's. Finley had waved his magic wand and put Laura in his arms, which was exactly what he needed. And, it seemed, he had given Doris what she needed too; a petite, amoral brunette by the name of Anne Black.
Roche was curious about this lesbian woman.
It gave him an interesting feeling of vicarious pleasure to think of his wife naked in the arms of another woman. The two of them, rubbing their naked breasts together, kissing each other, twisting around in close embrace, loving each other up-that fascinated him. Ever since Doris had told him about Anne, he had been erotically imagining what that was like, both of them together. His mind teemed with the imagery of two naked woman drawing love from each other, but because he had no idea what Anne looked like, he could only see a blur for one, part of the feminine couple in perverted action.
"How was Laura this afternoon?"
"Marvelous. What a gem that girl is."
"She isn't inhibited or uneasy?"
"Not in the least. If she's got any guilt feelings about us, she keeps them to herself."
Doris smiled. "We'll have to have them over to the house next week. They're due for a visit. That'll sort of be the same sort of deal as tonight, won't it? An evening with my lover, then an evening with yours."
"I'm glad we're honest with each other," he said. "I hate all this backscuttling concealment between a man and a wife 'who can't level with each other."
"Dc you think Laura has told her husband about her affair with you?"
"I doubt it. They aren't that sort of people. He wouldn't known how to take that."
"But he's a patient of Finley's too. Finley must be setting him up with somebody too."
"No doubt. But that doesn't mean Mike suspects that his sweet, pure, virginal little wife is also getting laid on the outside." He laughed. "No, I'm sure Mike doesn't know a thing. And I'd just as soon keep things that way. He can be awfully unsophisticated about things like that."
"I guess you're right," she said, playfully squeezing her husband's silk-suited thigh.
The cab deposited them in front of the restaurant, with its velvet draperies in the window, its long awninged canopy, its look of posh nineteenth century graciousness. They went in, and the maitre d' smiled at them. He recognized them, of course. The Roches dined here often.
"Good evening, M'sieu, Madame Roche. A table for four, is it not?"
"That's right," Roche said. "Our friends aren't here yet, I take it?"
"I have not seen them. Would you like to wait for them at the bar?"
"Yes."
It wasn't long before the Blacks arrived. Roche and Doris was nearly finished with their martinis, when the other couple entered.
"There they are," Doris said.
He turned. He saw a short, distinctly attractive woman who looked no more than thirty, accompanied by a balding but not middle-aged man of stocky build and soft, tanned features. Anne fascinated him at once. She had lovely slenderness, but yet her coat was open to show the ripe, thrusting mounds of succulent, well-developed breasts as displayed by her low-cut dress. Now he could supply the missing image for his picture, and he vividly saw his wife embracing Anne, clasping her hot nudity to her own.
"Doris, darling!"
The two women embraced in front of the beaming maitr d'. Roche left the bar stool and walked over to the husband. He put out his hand.
"Allen Roche."
"Glad to know you. Harry Black's the name." Roche was impressed with his first contact with the man. He knew a strong-willed decisive man when he saw one. From the way Black spoke, the way his eyes locked levelly with his, the way he shook hands, Roche knew that the exterior softness of the man, the pampered look, hid and understructure of tempered steel. He was about forty-five at the most. He had lost most of his hair, apparently very early in life, but it didn't make him look old.
They went to their table. The Blacks had drinks, and the Roches sociably joined them, though it was their second round so far. They ordered soon after. Black knew his way around a foreign menu, Roche observed. He ordered for himself and Anne without having to ask the waiter for translations.
Roche ordered next. He knew in advance what his wife wanted, because they usually had the same dinner here.
The food was good, and the conversation smooth. Roche felt a certain tension in the presence of a man who made even more money than he did, but he comforted himself by observing that he was a self-made man, while Harry Black have reached his present eminence mainly by marrying the boss's daughter. Roche didn't mean to take anything away from the man; a man needed more than just the right wife in order to get to the top of a big corporation, and he needed plenty on the ball to stay there once he got there. But the fact still remained that Black had had a mighty assist from his father-in-law, while Allan had done it all himself.
Despite edge of tension between them, he found that he liked and respected the other man. And he was utterly fascinated by Black's wife.
She was a captivating female. He was immediately and thoroughly attracted to her in a sexual way. Lesbian she might be, but that only aided to her appeal. And Doris had assured him that Anne also had male lovers. She was ambisextrous.
He began to be uncomfortable with desire and tension. He wanted her. Now that he had attained his mostly dearly sought for previous wish-Laura Gregory-he was looking for new females to sex.
The lez might be a worthy ambition for him.
That would be a novelty, he thought. Husband and wife, both sexing a lover? The same woman putting out for him and for his wife? That was unusual. That had unconventionality about it that he liked. Of course, he had to move cautiously. He didn't want to stir up any trouble with Black, or with his own wife. For ail he knew, Doris might feel possessive about the woman, might not want to share her. This would have to be handled with delicacy.
He casually glanced across the table at Anne. She was exciting was as opposite from Laura, as the sun was from the moon. Laura was big and blonde and girlish. Anne was petite and sophisticated. Yet, each in her own way, both women drew him lustfully.
He had to know her carnally.
He glanced at her body, the two jutting mounds of bosom rising excitingly.
She smiled at him.
Could she read his mind. Or was she just being friendly?
He was keyed up and edgy as the dinner drew to its close. Because the opera began early, an eight o'clock curtain, they had no time to linger over cognac and coffee. They finished up briskly, and he signaled for the check.
It came in a hurry. There was no question of stopping to compute who had eaten what. He turned the check face up on the table, letting Black see that it came to fifty-eight dollars for the four of them.
On the way out of the restaurant, Anne accidentally rubbed up against him. She moved against his arm in such a way that his elbow dug briefly into the resilient globe of her right boob.
"Taxi!" the doorman yelled.
A cab pulled up, one of the smaller stock cars that had become universal in the city. Black said, "You get in back, Allan. I'll ride up front."
Roche helped Anne into the cab. Then he got in and Doris on the other side of him. The back seat was cramped, and it was delightful to have Anne's thigh pressing against him on the one side, Doris' on the other. His loins pulsated with desire. Anne was so compact, so efficiently designed. He yearned to see Anne naked, to touch her, to lay her.
They got there about ten minutes before curtain time. Entering on the busy side of the old building, they stepped from the drab grayness of the street to the old-world extravagance of the chandeliered staircase, and went up one flight to the Grand Tier. The Blacks had a box about halfway down the right-hand side of the horseshoe. A uniformed usher opened the box door for them, and they entered.
The Roches went to the opera often, but the always sat in the orchestra. Only once before had they occupied a box, also as someone's guest. There were six chairs in the box arranged in two rows of three, and room for more chairs in back if needed. Another couple had already arrived; Black explained that he shared the box with his corporation's treasurer, and that they took turns inviting guests to the performance. He made the introductions all around.
"We take turns with the front seats of the box," he explained. "It's not so easy to see from the back row. We'll shift off after every act."
Roche had seen the present number half a dozen times before, though of course it was impossible for one to grow tied of it. He took his seat in the back row, behind Doris and beside Black. Almost at once, the house lights dimmed, and a sprinkling of applause betokened the arrival of the conductor in the orchestra pit. Moments later, the familiar strains of the overture sounded.
The curtain went up to show a plump, full-breasted woman singing with a strapping, handsome young co-star. She was wearing an extremely low-cut dress, and, as she leaned forward, it was possible for Roche to see the enticing globes of her huge breasts, because they sat so far on the side of the theater. But there was more interesting game closer at hand. He gazed downward on a diagonal over Anne's shoulder and into the deep scoop of her dress. He saw round, luscious-looking boobs there, revealed almost down to the nipple by her extreme decolletage and strapless bra. It was an exciting view. Big breasts and shapely ones.
On stage, the music rollicked on and on.
In his mind, dreams of sexuality churned round and round.
The opera ended well after eleven. Tomorrow was a working day, and the general consensus of opinion was that it was time to head home. The Blacks had a long drive out to the Island, anyway; they had parked their car near the opera house and taken a cab over to the restaurant, so they could make a quick getaway after the performance.
"Let's all get together some other time," Black said. "Come up to our place soon."
"Great idea," Roche said. "Let Anne and Doris organize something for the first free weekend, okay?"
It was agreed. The Roches saw them to their car, then hailed a cab and headed across town to their apartment on Central Park West.
When they got home, Doris said, "I don't need to ask what you thought of her. You were excited."
"Was I that obvious?"
"You couldn't take your eyes off her," she laughed, a brittle, tinkling sound. "You were just like a love-smitten horny boy. Haven't you ever seen a woman's boobs before?"
"Not hers."
"You kept staring down her cleavage."
"She's very nicely built."
"Yes," Doris said. "I can testify to that. She's got a stunning figure. That dress didn't do justice to it. You've got to see her completely naked; so you can get the contrasts between that petite body and those amazing breasts."
"I'd like to," he said. "It would be a pleasure."
"I thought Laura Gregory was your current mistress, Allan."
"She is. But am I limited?"
"Anne's mine. You stick to Laura."
"Don't worry, I have no plans to cut you out of the picture. I'm allowed to admire her, though. She really is beautiful. I congratulate you on your choice of a lover, my sweet."
"What did you think of her husband?"
"I like him," Roche said. "He's competent. Knows wha the's up to. He didn't just ride into that job on papa-in-law's coat-tails."
She nodded. "I got the same impression. But of course he isn't aware enough to know that his wife runs around with other women."
"Few men would guess a thing like that. I certainly didn't. You had me completely fooled."
"And she's got him completely fooled. But she's probably the only one who ever has."
"She could fool anyone," he said, as he turned away to get undressed.
He was throbbing inwardly with lust. Even though he had satisfied himself royally only that afternoon in the silken-smooth arms of Laura, Anne had set the erotic juices flowing in him again. His mind teemed with visions of her breasts, her naked body, her legs and buttocks, her bright smile and gleaming dark eyes.
He wanted Anne. But she wasn't here to be taken.
His wife would have to do.
It was a funny thing. He hardly ever slept with his own wife any more. It wasn't that she was unattractive-she still struck him as one of the most gorgeous women he had ever known-but they had been married long enough so that no matter which way they had sex, no matter what different position they attempeted, that was bound to be something they had done a dozen or a hundred times before. Gradually, they had stopped sleeping together. Each of them had so many outside interests that they had no need to turn to one another for sexual excitement.
But now, he sizzled with lust.
And she happened to be there.
He looked at her. She was nearly undressed, now. She had taken off everything but her stocking and high heels and garter-belt, and she was parading around the bedroom naked, hanging up her things. She was a luscious piece, he had to admit, even if she was only his own wife. The flesh-colored strap of the garter-belt cut across the top of her buttocks in an intriguing way, digging into the soft flesh just where it began to swell outward to its voluptuous rondure. And then there was the tempting seven or eight inches of bare white leg before the stockings began.
It was strange, he thought, how an almost-naked woman could be even more exciting than a totally nude one. The stockings and garter-belt hid nothing; her breasts and buttocks were completely uncovered. Yet they enhanced the already powerful sexual magnetism of her.
She removed everything.
She got onto the bed naked.
He moved against her, cupped her breasts, put his lips against hers. She seemed a little surprised.
"Are you in the mood?" she asked.
"Very much so."
There was a moment of silence while she went exploring his sexuality.
"Mmm," she said. "I see you really are."
She gripped him and began to manipulate.
He stroked her stiffening nipples, her silky buttocks. "How long has it been since we've done it?"
She shrugged. "It must be a couple of weeks. What's the occasion?"
"Just want it."
"But you had Laura today. Twice a day, darling? Somebody been giving you injections?"
"A man ought to be able to manage twice a day at my age," he said. "Especially when such beautiful and stimulating women are involved."
In the darkness, she laughed cynically. "Who do you think you're fooling, Allan?"
"I don't get you."
"It isn't me you want. It's Anne. But she isn't around, so my body will do as a substitute."
"Well-"
"Admit it.'"
"All right. You're a mind reader."
"No I'm not. I've lived with you long enough to be able to figure out the obvious," she said. "You've hardly been screwing me at all, lately, because of all your other pieces. Okay, So you had a date this afternoon, and by all logic you should be even less interested in me than ever. Only it so happens that you spent the evening in the company of a lovely an dat at the moment unobtainable new woman, and she got you excited all over again. You then proceed to satisfy yourself with the neared available female, who hapens to be me. Am I right?"
"I'm afraid so."
She laughed. "As long as you're honest. I won't hold it against you," she said. "You hold it against me instead."
Roche reached for her again. His hands began to roam her lovely, long-limbed body. Then he hesitated. "Doris-"
"Mmm?"
"Can I ask a favor?"
"You can ask."
"This is something rathep special. But it's important to me, and so I'm taking the liberty of asking even if it's an unusual thing to request."
"Stop stalling, Allan. What is it?"
He felt sweat bursting out all over him. What he wanted from her struck him as shameful, even dirty and perverted. Yet he could not suppress the wish. It had plagued him all evening, and now it was outing.
He said awkwardly, hesitantly. "The next time you and Anne-make love, could I-would it be possible-I mean, if i twouldn't seem to weird-"
There was silence for a moment. Then she said, "Are you trying to say that you'd like to watch?"
"Yes."
"A Peeping Tom?"
"Yes."
She chuckled. "Well, all right. If that'll make you happy. I'll talk to Anne. I suppose she wouldn't mind. She likes the unusual. We'll put on a little show for you. How's that? Is that what you desire?"
It was what he wanted, very much so. He smiled, and reached for her, and drew her close. His heart over-flowed with love and desire, and he bit down tenderly against her shoulder, and felt the hard, warm hills of her hot naked breasts, drilling at him, and then, joyfully, delightedly, he slid into her.
The thought of his being able to watch his wife and her lesbian woman friend in sexual embrace excited him so intensely that they were both amazed at the tremendous quality of his release. He was stimulated by depraved thoughts.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Laura sat in Finley's office, her lovely silken clad legs opened slightly which hiked her skirt up above her knee.
"This isn't working," she said dismally. "Are you sure?"
She stared at him again. "Things are just the same as ever with me and Mike. He has relations with me, and I don't respond."
"You know now that you're capable of responding, though."
"Oh, yes, yes, certainly!" For a moment, a look of ecstasy crossed her face, and she brightened as though a cloud had lifted. "There's no doubt about that any more," she said, thinking of the joys she had experienced in the arms of Roche, the throbbing pounding, exultant moments of hot wet ecstasy as he invaded and pushed her body with summits of pleasure.
"You mean you've been successful with Roche?"
"Yes. Every time."
"So you've accomplished something. You've demonstrated that you aren't frigid."
"Except with my husband."
"Except with your husband. That isn't an unusual situation, you know. Sometimes the marital situation sets up mysterious strains and stresses that affect the body."
She nodded. "All right. So there's some mysterious force that keeps me from enjoying love with my husband. What can we do about that?"
He tapped his pencil against his teeth. "Maybe that isn't mysterious at all. Maybe your husband is simply an incompetent lover. There's a technique to love-making, you know, and if he isn't doing that properly-"
"No," she said. "Before, when I had never did it with anybody but Mike, I thought maybe that was the trouble. But now that I have Allen to compare him with, I don't think so. Mike does the same things to me that Allan does. When Allan does them, they arouse me. When Mike does, they don't. And so far as the anatomy goes, Mike's got everything that Allen does. He's quite well built sexually."
"Let me put that another way," Finley said. "Maybe it isn't Mike's technique, but-well, his attitude."
"I don't understand."
"Your husband's very mild-mannered. Soft spoken, kind of shy, a kind of a milk toast, you might say. Maybe when he makes love to you he's too gentle. Maybe he ought to take charge a little more-rough you up, pay less attention to comfort. Force, that might break this frigidity pattern."
"Maybe."
He leaned back. "It happens that as part of your husband's therapy with me, I've sent him to one of my female patients who has certain problems of her own. You don't know her, just in case you think it might be Doris Roche. It's somebody else entirely. She's a rather stupid woman married to a very intelligent man, and she feels neglected and bored and unimportant. So I've matched her with Mike, hoping that they'll boost each other's egos a little. She tells me that he was too timid and self-effacing, but now she's got him a little more aggressive. She says he even beat her one day. Do you mean to say that none of this has entered his lovemaking with you?"
"No," Laura said. "He's as gentle with me as ever. There are time when I wish he'd be roughier, more masculine. You know. But how can I tell him? I don't want to seem to be criticizing him as a lover. He's had so man disappointments in his life as it is, I only want to boost, not knock."
"What do you think it does to him when he keeps sleeping with you and getting nowhere? Does that excite him?"
Laura shrugged. "I can't help that."
"Well, leave this to me," he said. "I think we're getting at the heart of the real trouble between the two of you. He needs someone to light a fire under him. But that's got to be done subtly, or else, the cure will be worse than the aliment. Do you follow?"
"Yes."
She felt troubled and worried by all this. So her husband has an affair going too-well, she had suspected that, and it wasn't very surprising. But she couldn't resist a twinge of jealousy, for all that she was carrying on with Allen.
This would all be worthwile if it held their marriage together, anyway, she thought.
She crossed and uncrossed her legs restlessly. "Well," she said, "we've still got more than half an hour to go. What shall we talk about now?"
He frowned. He got heavily to his feet-he was such a big bear of a man, she thought, really powerful-looking and stocky-and began to pace around the large office. Laura remained seated, but turned to follow him as he walked.
After a moment he said, "Come here."
"What is it, Dr. Finley?"
"Come over here."
Puzzled, she walked across the room. "Closer," he said.
She stood in front of him. Though she was a robust girl, he towered over her. He looked down at her, and a muscle worked in his jaw. She felt as though something very strange were about to happen. His face looked dark and troubled.
There was a long moment of silence.
Then the marriage counselor said, "How would you like to be able to keep the money Allan Roche gives you?"
"To keep it?" she repeated inanely. "Exactly."
"But we agreed-that I was supposed to give it to you to-to compensate you for the low rate you were charging, on account of my husband's job-"
"I know all that," he said. "He gives you twenty or thirty dollars every time he stays with you. You could keep that money and use it for household expenses, or a gift for Mike, or anything. It would take some of the financial strain off him, wouldn't it?"
"Of course. But-"
"You're a very beautiful girl, Laura. I suppose a lot of men have told you that. I don't see any reason why I shouldn't join the list.?"
Her eyes flickered wide with surprise. Suddenly she understood, or thought she did.
"You mean-"
"I mean that I'm very much attracted to you, Laura. On a strictly personal basis. Now do you see how you could get to keep the money Allan gives you?"
"By-letting you-have me-"
"Yes."
"But-you're a doctor-"
"Doctors are physical, too."
"That wouldn't be right." That wouldn't be decent!"
He smiled solemnly. "You sleep with Allan Roche at my instructions, don't you? If one adultery is beneficial, why not another? You've already turned off the path of chastity, Laura. It's foolish to draw the line now. What you do with Allan helps you, but that isn't really moral, is it? So now, if I want you too, and you stand to benefit in a considerable way, I think you'd be making a mistake to use absolete Victorian thinking, Laura."
Her lips tremb'ed. "You're saying I ought to have sex indiscriminently?"
"Not with anybody at all. But perhaps I can help you, just as Allan does. I know a little about love too, after all. And I want you so very badly. You won't refuse me, will you, Laura? I interested you. I know I do. It's obvious from a dozen things you've said that you want to sleep with me, only you don't know how to arrange that. Well, I'm offering you the opportunity. Right now, Laura."
"Right-now? Here?"
"Precisely," he said.
He reached for her.
She had no power to resist. The marriage counselor's big hands descended inexorably to her body and drew her toward him like a flimsy doll gathered up by a giant. His arms went around her, and he kissed her with passionate intensity, his mouth descending to hers hungrily, avidly.
She trembled. She pulled her head away from his. "No," she murmured. "We shouldn't."
She fel this heavy hand on her full breasts, squeezing, cupping, caressing the lush mounds.
Then he began to force her backward, toward the long, shiny leather cough that ran along one wall of his office under the row of framed diplomas.
It was utterly impossible for her to resist. She had no will to defend herself. As soon as his hands had touched her breasts, she had felt savage, inflaming lusts, and now there was no turning back form her path. He wanted her, and she was going to let him boff her.
He pushed her down to the couch.
She closed her eyes. She felt his fingers opening her blouse, and then he lifted the upper half of her body, reaching beneath her to unhook the snap of her bra. The cups slid away, leaving the pale, tender hillocks of her large breasts exposed.
"Beautiful," he muttered in a thick, passionate charged voice. "They're marvelous...."
He bent forward. His lips touched one of her breasts tips. She shivered a little. The sensation stirred her to the depths of her being. She moistened and tensed her thigh with desire.
The counselor continued to pay homage to her bare breasts while at the same time his hands bunched her skirt above the hips. Her stockinged legs and thighs were exposed. She could feel his hand moving up them, over the nylons, then onto the soft, bare area of skin between the top of her stockings and the beginning of her panties. He rubbed his finger tips along her crotch, noticing the moist spot there.
His wandering fingers were underneath the panties and within her.
In another moment, Laura was beginning to pant. Eyes tightly c'osed skin flushed with lust, she arched her back and reached underneath herself to pull her panties down. She got them off part of the way, and he swept them the rest of the way down her legs and off. He parted. Her legs wide, exposing her spasming womanhood.
The leather of the couch was cold against the bare skin of her soft full buttocks.
She could feel his hand, deep arousing her. While all the time his other hand continued to excite her breasts. She didn't dare open her eyes. She wanted to believe that this was all a dream, that it was not actually happening to a conscious consenting Laura Gregory. For this was shameless, she knew. This was as bad a thing as she could possibly do. It was far wronger than anything she had done with Allan, she believed sincerely. For a professional conunselor-to have sex to one of his own patients, in his office-
Yet he was.
She" heard the sound of his trousers sliding downward. She kept her eyes closed, for she did not want to see his nakedness.
He was nearing her, approaching her. She could sense the hot fullness of his lust. Laura caught her breath. And then, an instant later, he was in her.
The couch gave beneath their weight. It creaked and protested. She sank deep to the leather cushions. He was cradling her and his lust driven body pumped again and again into the hot tunnel of her.
He was so strong, so irresistible. His arms were like bands of steel. His body was powerful, and there was no resisting the steamroller rush of his desires.
"Oh, my!" she cried in a soft whimper. "Oh-you're so big-"
Of the three men who had her in her young life, the marriage counselor by far was the best. He stirred her to the depths of her core, taking her so completely that there was pain and yet at the same time pleasure. Every nerve in her body throbbed with the gathering impact of her ecstasy, now. Any moment-
Now.
Her body arched upward, engulfing his surging organ.
She clutched at the burly middle of the man who was invading her. He was sending showers of thrills down her loins, and the world seemed to crumble and dissolve into a sparkling, abyss of ecstasy.
She clung to him. Her fingers gripping his naked buttocks.
She cried out in delight.
Then the release came, the ultimate ecstasy, the moment of total fulfillment. For him and for her, at the same instant. Hers was incredible, a complete fusion of body and soul, dizzying, dazzling, almost like dying. She came close to losing consciousnes at the supreme moment. But through all she was aware of the thundering of his own fulfillment, the potent thunder, the voluminous gush of hot spasms.
That was over.
She felt dazed and stunned. Finley removed from her, and got to his feet. Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at his now limp naked middle. She lay on the couch, with her blouse open and her bra askew, pushed off to one side to bare the twin ivory hills of her breasts, and her blonde hair streaming wildly in every direction, and her skirt crumbled up underneath the small of her back, and her naked mid-section still exposed, and her panties lying somewhere in the middle of the floor.
He smiled at her. The counselor put on his trousers, tucked his shirttails in.
"Do you hate me?" he asked.
She shook her head limply. "N-no."
"That was almost like rape."
"It wasn't. I took my own panties off, remember? It isn't rape when a girl does that."
He chuckled. "I guess not." He walked over to the couch, crouched down next to her, put one big hand on the soft warm flesh of her thigh. She felt no shame. Not now. What could she hide now that he had taken her? She made no move to cover her body from him or to close her legs. He said softly, "You were terrific, Laura. I mean that. I won't ever forget how that was with us just now."
"Neither will I," she said hoarsely. "That was wrong, what we did, but-but wonderful."
"I know."
"I told you I wasn't frigid," she said with a smile. "Except-except with my husband."
"We'll lick that too," he said with a smile, and stood up. Now that the interlude of lust was over, he seemed to be slipping back into his character as a professionl. He grinned at her. "The hour's just about over," he said. "Will I see you next week?"
"Of course," she said faintly.
She swung her legs down, from the couch and tried to stand up. But she was still limp from the wild act of lust, and she swayed, nearly fell. He supported her easily. He held her against him. Her skirt was still bunched around her middle, and he put his hand, on her bare buttocks, gave them a playful slap.
"I look like a mess," she said.
"Use the bathroom in there. Fix yourself up. The other door will take you right out through the waiting room without having to come back in here."
She nodded. She took her panties, which he had picked up and handed her, and pushed her skirt down and stepped back into her shoes. She wobbled toward the bathroom door.
As she opened it, she looked back at him. "I am...."
As she opened it, she looked back at him. "I haven't given you the money for today's session," she said.
"Don't worry about it. I told you, that can be taken care of another way. Good-bye, Laura. I'll see you next week. And it won't be necessary for you to bring money then either, if you prefer."
She understood.
He was telling her, You won't ever have to pay me again. Not in cash. Just let me lay you once a week and we'll live happily.
That was prostitution, she told herself, as she went into the bathroom. She was selling herself to Finley in return for a little encouraging advice and gome loving.
That was wrong.
But that was so pleasant.
She was entitled to a little pleasure, she told herself, as she started to straighten herself up. She grinned at her disheleded image in the mirror. What a mess! Hair a mess, clothes a mes, lipstick smeared-everything out of kilter. But there was that warm, satisfied feeling, that throb of contentment that told her she had just received a woman's highest fulfillment. She had felt that particular contentment only a few times in her life-just the times when she had made love to Allan Roche, and now this once with Hubert Finley. All the hundreds of times she had embraced her husband, she had never felt that. Not once.
With her husband she felt nothing but the dull ache of frustration, the pain of being roused to a pitch of high expectation and then left there unsatisfied.
Besides, she told herself, Dr. Finley might help them keep their marriage together. That in itself could justify any number of immoral acts, couldn't it?
She tidied herself up, put her panties back on, arranged her bra, buttoned her blouse.
She went out the other of the bathroom. Emerging into a corridor, she glanced to her left and was able to see Finley's waiting room. The next patient had arrived already. She was a plump but attractive woman in her early thirties, wearing expensive clothing. She smiled at Laura as she saw her. Laura smiiled nervously back.
The door to Finley's office opened. As Laura left, she heard the marriage counselor say in his booming, confident baritone, "You can come in now, Eiinor."
And endless stream of patients, Laura thought. How many of them did Finley lay with? Had he slipped it into plump Elinor from time to time when the urge struck him? Did he take all his female patients onto that couch? Or maybe even the male patients also. Finley was a satyr and he'd take his sexual pleasure from any source probable-male or female.
CHAPTER NINE
Anne was telling her husband that she was going out to do some shopping and she'd return around dinner time.
He agreed. It was a quiet Saturday morning in the expensive suburb where they lived. She frequently went into the city on Saturdays. Her husband didn't seem to mind. He usually brought work home from the office on Saturdays anyway, and then too, he liked to watch the pro football games on television. She hated sports, hated the flat drone of the announcer's voice, hated the silly gable of it-"Gendrezicke takes the ball on the sixteen-yard line-he's in the clear, breaking through the twenty, the twenty-three-forced out of bounds on the twenty three-first down and ten to go!" It was just as well for both of them that she got out of the house during the football season.
"I'm taking the Mercedes," she said, as she moved toward the door. "Okay?"
"Why not?" Black said. "Just remember, we're having Walter Lange and Elinor dinner tonight, and if you get back much past six it's going to goof things up."
"I'll be back."
She left the house and went around to the garage. The little foreign car stood next to the big metallic-blue Rolls. She never drove the Rolls. She felt lost in the plush interior, felt that she was rinding in a padded cell and not an automobile. The car was a lot better. At least you could feel the road, in the seat. You got some thrill out of driving. It was small, delicate, finely-made car, and Anne Black was a finely-made woman. Anne and her car went together well. Both had classic bodies.
The car thrummed into life. She headed down the road, took the turn at the corner, and five minutes later was on the highway heading toward the city.
Excitement mounted in her as she left the suburbs further and further behind with every revolution of the engine. She was heading at sixty miles an hour toward the most exciting adventure of her life, and she had looked forward to it all the livelong week.
Imagine, she thought. Having Doris sexually while her husband watched them making love.
The idea appealed to her in a hundred different ways. To be an exhibitionist had always been one of her little pleasures. She loved to show herself off of the beach or at a dinner party, loved to display every permissible square inch of her body. Well, today she'd be able to display some square inches not generally thought permissible.
Then, too, she'd be having Doris again. That was always exciting.
And she'd be doing it in front of Allan Roche.
She had been immediately attracted to Allan Roche at their first meeting. He was just the sort of husband a sleek, elegant girl like Doris ought to have, Anne thought-a poise, suave, wealthy man-of-the-world. They were a magnificently matched couple. She envied the girl. Not that she had anything her own husband, really. Harry was sympathetic, affectionate, and all the rest. In his own way, he was a man-of-the-world, too, and certainly enjoyed the better things of life. Yet he was a businessman first, and a connosseur very much second. With Harry, you had the feeling, that if he never tasted cognac or champagne again in his life, he'd never miss them, so long as he could keep on making his staccato telephone calls and business trips and financial deals.
These was something simple about Harry, she had to admit. He was conventional-the tough businessman type-whereas Allan Roche was a man of many facets, of great charm. It was impossible to think that Harry would tolerate the knowledge that his wife was a lesbian, for instance. Yet Allan not only tolerated that practice in his wife, he actively encouraged it, and had invited himself along to watch her doing it!
There was all the difference in the world between Allan's easy-going sophisticated tolerance and Harry's more cautious, conservative outlook on the world, she thought. Even though Allan and Harry had liked each other at their first meeting, there was all the difference in the world between them.
Allan was unusual. Harry wasn't. There were lots of men like her husband.
It depressed her to think that she would have to come from a fascinating, exotic afternoon embracing with Doris Roche, and have to play hostess to Walt and Elinor Lange. Walt would drink a lot and talk about investments. He'd tell everybody about the great glamour stocks on the Exchange that went from this to that after he bought x number of shares. Walt was always doing that. And Elinor would talk about the fall fashions and perhaps a course in art appreciation she might be taking at the moment.
She yawned. Walt and Elinor were bores. Even though Walt was horny in bed. And Elinor was an attractive enough woman too, though she was a little too plump. A lot too plump, in fact. Anne had thought in an abstract way, of sexually embracing with Elinor Lange. She knew that Elinor was also a patient of Finley's, and he could arrange it.
Hubert was the binder that held them all together. The Roches and Anne Black and the Langes. The counsellor could set up a deal in bed for Anne with Elinor Lange. But yet somehow she had never asked him to. She didn't really feel the urge to sleep with plump, jiggly-boobed Elinor Lange.
Especially not now.
Not when she had Doris to diddle with. The car sang along. She left the highway and continued along its successor, the parkway extension, until the road came to an end at the bridge, and gave way in its turn to the drive. Cutting her speed to a more respectable fifty on this congested, angling highway, she headed down along the river road to the 73rd Street exit, got off, headed westward toward Fifth.
A little after one o'clock, she was slipping the car into a barely adequate parking space around the corner from the co-op where the Roches lived. She walked back, entered the house, got a smile from the doorman, and went upstairs.
She had never been here before. Her other meetings with her lady lover had been in hotel rooms. But there was no need for subterfuge now. Who was there to hide from? Doris' husband? He was going to be right there watching them in their lesbian love.
She began to get very aroused.
She was attracted to Allan, physically and emotionally. Anne was by no means exclusively lesbian in her sex affairs. She was capable of responding to an attractive man as to a beautiful woman.
She wanted Allan physically.
And it was perfectly obvious from the way he had stared down the front of her dress that night at the opera that he desired her too.
It could be a very interesting afternoon, she thought.
She rang the doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately. Doris Roche stood there. She was stark naked.
It was an utterly flabbergasting sight, seeing her in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of high-heeled shoes. There she stood, full around breasts heaving, feel slightly apart, auburn hair combed out, face smiling.
Then Anne began to laugh. She realized that Doris had deliberately repeated the surprise of her exciting greeting that first time in the hotel room. That time it was Anne who had been naked when Doris showed up.
"Turnabout is fair play," she said, laughing also.
"You win the cigar," Anne said. She stepped into the apartment and Doris closed the door. Anne looked her friend's exposed nakedness over from head to toe, savoring for the thousandth time the supple curve of her buttocks, the lavish fullness of her gently swaying breasts. "You look marvelous," Anne murmured. "As always. With or without clothes."
"Those are lovely slacks," Doris said.
Anne's breath was beginning to come faster now at the sight of Doris' exposure. "I thought Allan was going to be here."
"He is," Doris said. "He's inside. Come on and meet him. Allan! Anne's here!"
They started toward the living room. Allan appeared, wearing informal clothes but looking as impeccable as ever. He seemed amused and pleased at his wife's naked body in the presence of another woman.
"Anne," he said. "I'm so glad you come."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I didn't know. This is all so unusual-"
"We're unusual people," she said. She shrugged out of her jacket. "This is a beautiful apartment," she said. "I love your view. Right out over the park. It must be like a Currier and Ives print when the park is full of snow in the winter."
"It's very nice," she agreed. He looked tense, Anne thought. Well, who could blame him? She felt a little tense herself about the show she was going to stage today for his benefit. Call it stage fright. But she was poised enough to keep it mostly hidden. He said, "How about a drink, girls? Even if it is only one in the afternoon. Any takers?"
"I'd like a nice cool one," Doris said.
"That sounds fine," said Anne.
Roche brought the drinks quickly, Anne smiled her thanks. Doris took hers and walked to the window, looking out over the park. She was a stunning sight, Anne thought, her throat tightening in desire. The high heels added to her already unusual height, making her look stately and majestic in her nakedness. And the mere fact of that nakedness, in the presence of her fully dressed husband, gave the situation a curiously novel appeal. She eyed her friend's naked buttocks with mounting eagerness.
Somehow her drink slid down her throat in a couple of minutes, without her even noticing it.
"Anohter?" Roche asked.
"Well-"
"Go ahead," he urged. "You won't have to drive for hours and hours, yet. There'll be plenty of time for you to sobber up, Anne."
She laughed. "Well, OK."
They had another round of drinks apiece. Anne began to get flushed and warm. It occurred to her that Doris, sitting there in the nude, might feel a little awkward that way all by herself. Anne decided to undress, also. She put her nearly finished second drink down on the table and said. "You look so comfortable that way, Doris. I think I'll do the same."
"That's a fine idea," Doris said.
She said it calmly, as though Anne had proposed slipping her shoes off instead of removing every stitch of her clothing. As for Roche, he remained calm too, pleasant smile never altering. But Anne did not fail to notice the sudden bunching of muscles along the line of his jaw as she made her announcement. She was pretty sure that bunching of muscles corresponded to a sudden interior stab of excitement, a leap in his bodily desire, as he contemplated the imminence of beholding her naked body.
She stood up. "Clothes are nice," she said. "But they can be such a nuisances sometimes. At home I almost never wear them. My husband says I belong in a nudist camp."
"Have you ever been to one?" Doris asked her. "Afraid not."
"Allan and I have been talking about visiting one for years, now. Maybe you and Harry would like to come along with us next summer. There's one at-"
Anne laughed. "It's about as likely as getting him to go to the moon. My husband's a pretty conventional guy. He wouldn't go for the nudist bit. And somehow I don't think he'd like it if I went with the two of you, either."
She had dressed warmly, because it was a fairly chilly day on the borderline between autumn and winter. Now she pulled her bulky red sweater up over her head and put it aside, pausing to smooth out her ruffled short black hair. Her heart pounded as she stood there in bra and slacks. She had undressed many times before many people, but never before in her life had she taken her clothes off before a man and his wife at the same time.
Having undressed in the room already made it a little easier for her.
She wondered: the bra next, or the slacks?
She decided on the slacks. Chicken to show yourself, she wondered? Or just trying to prolong the excitement a little longer? She wasn't sure herself.
She unzipped her woolen slacks and pulled them down over the ripeness of her hips. Underneath, all she was wearing was a pair of filmy panties.
She saw the muscles bunch along Roche's jaw again. He was trying to maintain his pose of calm detachment, but it was hard for him to hide the turmoil within him.
She reached for her bra.
A snap and a twist and the straps dropped away. The cups fell from her breasts, exposing them, she sent the bra sailing away to join her sweater and slacks. She filled her lungs with air, and her breasts swelled outward. Roche's eyes gleamed with eagerness. She smiled. She was proud of her breasts. A girl of her small-boned physique, she knew, was lucky to have a fine well-rounded pair like that.
She rolled the panties down and stepped out of them.
Now she was naked.
"There," she said. "It's so much more comfortable this way, I think."
It was a strange, unsettling experience, to be naked before a husband and wife at once. Anne had not expected to feel so why about exposing herself. By way of demonstrating to them that she was more casual about it all than she really felt, she deliberately strolled across the room to refill her own glass. She could feel Roche's eyes on the white mounds of her buttocks, as she stood at the bar. Then, just as casually, she strolled back to her chair, facing Doris', and gave Roche a good front view of her as she sat down. She parted her thights slowly to let him glimpse her dark mound of womanhood.
They chatted for a while. It was something of a strained conversation, with everyone trying to pretend it was a perfectly normal little gathering. But they were all skilled in the social graces, and they carried it off pretty well. There was no talk about love, no double entendres, nothing that might lead a blind man in the room to think there was anything in the least unusual about the gathering.
It was Doris who finally punctured the artificiality that they had come to use as a cloak.
She stood up, "The bedroom's down the hall," she said. "Would you like to come see it?"
"Yes," Anne said.
They went. All three of them. It was a large bedroom, also with a view of the park. The bed was king size, wide enough for three or even four people without real crowding, and Anne wondered briefly whether the Roche's went in for this sort of activity often.
Allan standing between the two naked beauties just as not long before he had been sitting between the same two, fully clothed, in a taxicab, looked from his wife to Anne, and back again. He said, "I don't know how you're planning to do this. If you'd like me to go out of the room while you're establishing the mood-"
"That shouldn't be necessary," Anne said. "That is, unless you feel that-"
"No. He can stay." Doris smiled. "I don't think I'll find him distracting."
"All right then," he said. "I'll sit right here and I won't say a word. Just pretend I'm not here. Anne-before we start-I just want to say, Anne, that I'm tremendously grateful to you for giving me this opportunity-"
"The pleasure is mine."
That was true enough, she thought, as she walked to the bed. He settled into an armchair at the far side of the room, out of the way, where the women would not be aware of his presence.
Anne lay down.
Doris lay beside her.
There was one awkward moment of hesitation right at the beginning. Anne was face to face with the fact that she was supposed to do something she had never before in her life had done, to make love, and lesbian love at that, in front of a third person. No doubt Doris was suddenly having second thoughts, too, to judge by her momentary freeze.
But the mood passed.
All inhibitions fled from Anne's mind. All that mattered was that she was here, in bed with Doris and the two of them were naked, and they had all afternoon to enjoy one another. And the presence of a highly attractive man in the room as a witness to their illicit lovemaking only added an erotic thrill to the mixture.
Anne reached out. Her hands found the ripe mounds of Doris' breasts. The nipples were like hard cherries sprouting from the fleshy abundance of them. Doris made a soft noise, and moved closer to Anne.
Doris was warm against her. Anne gripped her breasts, passion taking hold of her, and put her lips to Doris'. Their mouths met. Doris was sweet. Anne felt Doris' hands stealing all over her body, stroking her, Anne slipped one hand around Doris to the flawless globes of her buttocks.
Body sighed against naked body as ecstasy possessed them both.
They had played the game often in the short few weeks since the marriage counselor had brought about their first meeting, and they knew one another intimately, knew what gave pleasure and what did not, how to touch off a series of delighted sighs and gasps, how to move onward along the road of ecstasy.
They petted each other with fingertips and palms, with lips and mouths, with their breaths, with the grazzing tips of their breasts. It was a ritual courtship, a dance o feroticism, and Anne moved skillfully, enjoying the response form her partner in lesbianism, Doris, now every bit as knowing as her instructress.
That was, Anne knew, a fine performance.
Roche was getting something to remember for a lifetime.
Anne's body entwined itself with his wife's. Her lips met Doris'; her nakedness touched ecstatically against Doris'. Then their bodies pivoted, as they so often before, and, face to body, they gave each other natural pleasures that sent them rocketing to orgasm.
And then they were in each other's arms again, and passion took hold of them. Up, up, and away they went, into the empyrean realms of ecstasy, and they sank back together in mutual close release.
And then Anne became aware that someone else was joining them.
Roche.
He had quietly undressed during their performance and now he crossed the room, naked and turgid, and clambered to the bed. She smiled at him. He was strongly built, with a muscular, hairy body that seemed to radiate virility. His sexuality was jutting outward in stiff readiness.
He said, "That was wonderful to watch-but I couldn't stay all the way over there by myself-"
His arms went out, embracing Anne and his wife. Anne let herself be drawn up against his powers. Her breasts crushed against the side of his body. It was delirously exciting to be embraced by him only minutes after she had had his wife.
Doris said, "You've got to have both of us, Allan. It wouldn't be fair just to have one."
"Naturally. Both," he said.
Anne smiled. "Who's first?"
"You're the guest," he said. "Simple politeness would give you the first turn. Isn't that right, Doris?"
"I suppose so," she said. She grinned, but looked a little miffed. "I'll watch."
He reached for Anne. She moved to him willingly, savoring the rugged strength of him. He kissed her, a hard, savage kiss, the bristles of his short clipped mustache jabbing her lips almost painfully. His hands gripped her breasts.
And as he enthusiastically explored the hills and valleys of her body, she gasped and shivered in renewed expectation of delight. Her legs parted wide in invitation.
He seemed just as eager to have her as she was. He covered her with kisses and caresses while she panted in delight. As he touched her intimately, Anne reached out and encountered the taut gloves of Doris' breasts and grasped them, so that all three were interwined in a luscious tangle.
Anne yearned for consummation, for the sensation that would be so different from any kind she could experience in lesbian love. She wanted him to get his hot release where his wife had loved her.
"Take me," she whispered to him.
He smiled at her. His body was taut, and he clasped her to him. Anne bit down, to the firm flesh of his shoulder and closed her eyes and readied herself, and he plunged into her.
That was heavenly. Doris was nearby in all her female abundance, and Anne felt pleasure coursing toward her from many sources at once. Her entire body trembled. Every nerve strung tight as a bow-string, twanged with pleasure.
Roche held her tightly, his hands digging at her lust buttocks. He worked again and again within her. She eddied higher, toward the spiraling dizziness of absolute ecstasy, and her whole body responded.
That was the most wonderful moment of her life, as she lay there between Doris and Allan, taking sexual pleasure from both of them simultaneously, and she gave way when Allan gushed his release.
But then wonder and delight gave way quickly and unexpectedly to shock and horror.
The door of the room flew open.
Suddenly the room was full of men. Dazed, stunned, Anne stared at them. Her husband, and three strange men.
Men with cameras.
"I'll be damned," Harry Black said. "Not just the husband. The wife too. The little bum is loving both of them? All right. Get a shot of that. Get plenty of shots. You ever see anything like that in your lives, I ask you?"
The flashbulbs blazed.
Black was fascinated at the depraved tangle of naked bodies still twitching in the throes of spasming action.
CHAPTER TEN
Mike was spanking Elinor again with his belt, to her and his strange pleasure. She gasped with hot excitement as he brought his belt enthusiastically across her ample buttocks. It was on a Saturday afternoon. Gregory and Elinor had already orgasmed once, but once no longer satisfied them in their passionate lusts, and he was using the belt to rouse himself to new peaks of erotic readiness.
She loved that. She lay there wriggling and panting as he whipped her buttocks.
Her flesh quivered and jolted with every stroke of the belt. His passions rose, as sweat rolled down his body. He had come to discover that he enjoyed beating her full blown body every bit as much as she enjoyed being beaten. The belt was their man point of contact. It served to arouse, both of them. They were close to the moment, now, when he could throw the belt aside and slide his stark excitement within her ready warmth.
She rolled over. She grasped for him, pulled him to her.
Their bodies joined.
For the second time that afternoon, Mike and Elinor ascended the highest summits of sexual ecstasy. If only is were possible to experience this with his wife, he thought! But that situation was just as frozen as ever. No matter how gentle he was with her, how loving, how patient, she failed to respond. What a difference from this plump piece!
Up they went, to the height and paused there a moment as his passion flooded into her, and then he pushed free of her and that was over.
She lay shamelessly naked, grinning at him. He cupped the round swells of her big breasts. "That was good," she said. "That sure was. I wish-" He stopped. "You wish what?"
"Nothing."
"Tell me," she said.
He bit his lip. "I was going to say, I wish that was this good with my wife."
"Still no go, huh?"
"No."
"That's a damned shame. When I saw Hubert the other day, he wanted to know how we were getting along. I said everything was fine, and he was happy about it. But he kind of hoped you and Laura would be improving by now."
"We aren't."
There was a moment of silence. Then she said, "Have you thought of spanking her?"
"Huh?"
"The way you do me. Get out your belt and haul off, let her have one. Smack her behind for a while."
He laughed harshly. "Don't be silly. I wouldn't think of it."
"Why not? That seems to do the trick for me."
He shook his head. "Elinor, my wife just isn't like you. She's shy, sensitive, kind of unworldly. You've got to remember that she was a virgin just a few years ago. I couldn't to around hitting her. She doesn't even know what a perversion is. She'd think I wanted to kill her. Uh-uh. That wouldn't solve the problem."
Her laugh was short and contemptuous.
He looked at her in surprise. "What's so funny about what I said?"
"Men never know their wives at all".
"Are you trying to tell me that Laura's not the way I just said she was? How would you know? You've never even met her, you know."
She nodded. "That's true. But I know some people who know her. It happens that I asked some questions and got some answers. And I know some things about your shy, sensitive, unworldly little wife that you don't know."
He felt a sudden chill. Maybe, he thought, it was smarter to let sleeping dogs lie. But Elinor had provoked his curiosity. He had to know what she was hinging at.
"Tell me," he said.
"I wouldn't break a confidence. I just want to have you understand that maybe your wife's a little more worldly than you think she is, and that you don't have to be afraid she'll run away and hide if you try anything off-beat with her."
"What do you know about my wife?" he asked.
"Things. But they're none of your business."
"If they concern my wife, they are my business," Gregory snapped. "Tell me."
"No."
"Come on!"
"Let go of me," she said. "You're hurting me, Mike. Let go."
He had grabbed the fleshy part of her arm, and his fingers continued to dig in. "I thought you enjoyed getting hurt," he said.
"Not now. Not that way. Please-"
"Tell me!"
"I beg you, Mike. Don't force me to!"
He shook her violently. "Damn it, you started this and you're going to finish it! Tell me what you know about Laura. Tell me or I'll knock your teeth out! I'll smash your face in, Elinor!" he roared, brandishing a fist at her. His heart poounded violently. He could hardly remember when he had been this worked up about anything in his life.
Fear showed on the plump woman's face, now. She tried to push him away. Her naked, jiggling breasts, leaped and jounced like jelly as he shook her. "All right," she gasped. "Let go. I'll tell."
"You'd better," he muttered.
"Remember, you forced me. Don't blame if you hear something you don't enjoy hearing."
"Go ahead," he said grimly, glaring at the softly rounded, naked form next to him on the bed. "Talk, and don't hold anything back."
"Okay," she said. She took a deep breath. "First thing: Dr. Finley gave your wife the same prescription she gave you. He told her to go out and have an extra marital affair with somebody. He arranged that for her. That was to prove to herself that she wasn't frigid, that she could enjoy love even if she couldn't enjoy herself with you."
He nodded. He had assumed this. He had not wanted to think it-to think that his innocent, tender wife was actually sleeping with another man-but, from what he knew of Finley's methods, it did not exactly come as a shock to hear that it was so.
"Go on," he said. "So she's got a lover. Do you happen to know who the lover is?"
"Yes."
"So?"
"You don't really want to know," she said. "Just be satisfied that you know she's got one."
"Who is he?"
She hesitated. "A friend of yours. His name is Allan Roche."
"No!" he howled. The words had hit him like ice-cicles slicing through his vitals. He rose from the bed and went to the window, reeling and staggering like a madman. He turned his back on Elinor.
Not Roche!
Not the smug, mustachioed slicker who had haunted his whole life, Roche, his college classmate, the boy most likely to succeed, the boy who had made good. Roche with his Central Park West apartment, his bulging bank account, his silk suits, his vacations in the choice spots of the world-no, not him!
The one thing in the world that Allan Roche did not have-and wanted-was Laura Gregory. And now, so this cow said, Roche had screwed her.
He turned. He looked at Elinor, for a long moment. Her buttery nakedness filled him only with loathing and contempt now. He said, "How do you know? How could you possibly know?"
"Allan told me himself. It happens that we see them socially fairly often, Walt and I. Did you know that? A lot of Finley's patients know each other. We're a nice close-knit little circle. I see a lot of the Roches. And Walt and I also know Harry and Anne Black. They're Finley's patients too. I understand Anne Black is having a lesbian affair with Doris Roche. But anyway, I mentioned to Allan that I was sleeping with you, and he said that was cozy, because he was putting in into your wife."
"No."
"There's more," she added. "You may as well hear it all, now that you've gotten some of it."
"What .more can there be?" he asked in a voice like a creaking door.
Elinor went on, "Dr. Finley discusses your case with me quite often. Your case and Laura's, of course, because the two are related. He told me quite frankly that your wife has been very passionate with Roche. So some mysterious block is keeping you from making her happy. And he also said that he laid Laura, also."
"Who?"
"The counsellor himself. He lays a lot of the women patients. He and Anne Black had a big affair last summer, and Hubert and I-"
He gasped. "Are you sitting there telling me that Dr. Finley had sex with my wife?"
"That's right. At least, that's what he told me, and I don't see any reason to doubt it. Since he's slept with so many of the other patients, it's very likely that: Mike, where are you going?" He began to dress.
"To see the counsellor," he said grimly.
What was left of Mike Gregory world had collapsed. The last flicker of hope had been extinguished.
Elinor had been right. He should never have forced the truth out of her. There are some things that a person is better off not knowing.
If only he had not pushed Elinor, perhaps his wife would have learned to react with orgasm with him. The cure would have taken place behind is back. What could he care about the methods of treatment, so long as they worked?
But now everything was hopeless.
He didn't think Elinor was lying. Elinor was too open, too undervious for that. She would have nothing to gain from making up such stories.
Laura-
Sleeping with Allan Roche-And with Dr. Finley-
He could almost reconcile himself to the idea that Allan had loved her. After all, he couldn't impose a double standard. Finley had prescribed adultery for him, and had assigned him Elinor with whom Gregory had had many a hot job. It was only fair that he allow his wife to have the same privilege of unfaithfulness.
It stung his pride, thought, to think that of all people chosen for Laura's adulteries, it had to be Allan Roche. Gone was the one shared of distinction that he had in Roche's eyes. His friend had long desired Laura, and now he had known her carnally. Gregory wondered if perhaps Roche had set the whole thing up deliberately. Getting Doris to tell Laura about Finley, so that he could send Laura to put out for Allan. Roche was capable of that. Done in cahoots wjth his wife, of course. Doris had no morals at all. Elinor had said that Doris was turning into a lesbian, sleeping with some other client of Finley's named Anne something. And that Gregory could readily believe that woman was capable of any perversion.
He could come to terms with all that. It hurt him bitterly, rocked him to the core-but he could endure the knowledge that Allan Roche had laid his wife.
What he couldn't forgive was the fact that the counsellor had had her too.
That was too much.
That was the dirtiest thing in the world, a slimy breach of professional ethics of there ever was one.
And, according to Elinor, Finley made a habit of seducing his women patients. He had laid Elinor himself, and this Anne woman, and no doubt Doris Roche.
And Laura also.
It was staggering to think of that. Now Gregory saw the marriage counselor exposed for what he was; a thoroughly immoral pervert, who exploited the weaknesses and sexual problems of his patients for his own financial and physical enjoyment. What did he do? He talked, and he took a few notes, and then he set up assignations. He brought couples together for immoral reasons. Most of his patients consisted of wealthy men and women, and no doubt they tipped him well for his services in enabling them to commit adultery. He live high off the profits of his enterprise.
And no wonder he had been willing to take the Gregory's on for charity. He didn't need the money-but he had seen at once that Laura's lovely innocent body would be an asset to his business. He could pass her around among his patients, and collect kickbacks for her, while also shipping him out to make love to bored female patients.
Besides, Finley had wanted Laura himself.
Gregory knew what he had to do now. He had to have this out with Finley. It was foolish to act on nothing more than the information Elinor had given him. After all, there was the remote possibility that Elinor had made it all up. He had to speak to Finley, find out what really was going on, and then take steps to put a stop to it at least so far as he was concerned.
He headed over to Finley's office, which was not far from Elinor Lange's apartment. It was Saturday, and Gregory did not really expect to find Finley in the office, but that was the closest place and the first one to try.
The office was closed.
Next stop: Finley's home.
The counselor's home address was not listed in the telephone book, but he had given it to Gregory in the early days of his therapy, when things looked so hopeless.
"Call me any time you need me," Finley had said. "Even on the weekend, if you have to."
The place was only a few blocks from the office. He walked hurriedly over to it. His whole body was on fire with anger and disgust. He had always been a quiet man, never given to violence or strong emotions. But Elinor had unleashed the punishing side of him, and there was no penning it up again now.
He reached the apartment house where Finley lived. It was an imposing, expensive-looking building. That figured. Nothing but the best for Finley. Six hundred dollars a month rent-what did that matter to him?
He went in. The doorman stared at him, and he said, "I'm visiting the Finleys."
"Apartment 6E," the doormain replied automatically.
Gregory nodded and went in. He rode upstairs. As he approached the door, his heart began to thunder, and for the first time since he had gone boiling out of Elinor Lange's place, he felt uneasy about having come here. Finley was so slick, so glib. Suppose he gave Gregory a line of quick patter that left him neither coming or going? He couldn't trust the guy. He couldn't trust anyone.
But this thing had to be hashed out, face to face, right here and now. It couldn't wait till Monday or any other day. It was impossible for Gregory to see his wife again until he knew the truth. He had to know.
He rang the bell.
The door opened, and a shapely attractive girl looked at him. She seemed no older than Laura-middle twenties, at best. She was wearing a light robe that did not conceal the beauty of her lush body, but she was hardly expecting visitors now; her hands were wet from washing, and he heard the sound of a baby's voice somewhere in the apartment.
She said, "Yes?"
"My name's Mike Gregory. I'm a patient of Dr. Finley's."
She flashed a mechanical, perfunctory smile. "Yes, I'm his wife. The doctor's not here, just now. He stepped out to run a few errands."
"That's all right," he said tightly. "I don't mind waiting for him."
He stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. A trace of confusion crossed the face of the lovely, lightly-clad girl in front of him.
She said. "You don't seem to understand, Mr.-Gregory, is it? This is Saturday. The doctor doesn't see patients on Saturdays unless it's an emergency. And-"
"This is an emergency," he said. "That's why I'm here. He gave me his home address. He said if I needed him, I should get in touch, even on a weekend. So here I am. I'll wait for him. You're his wife aren't you?"
"That's right."
"You don't mind if I wait, Mrs. Finley. Do you?"
She shrugged. "Well, I'm awfully busy with the children. But if it's an emergency, as you say, I don't see how I can turn you away. If you'd like to sit here in the foyer, I'm sure Dr. Finley will be back, in fifteen minutes, half an hour-"
"Thanks."
She smiled, again the perfunctory showing of teeth to a patient, and turned, started to go into the depths of the apartment to finish whatever domestic chores she had been interrupted while doing. He stared at her body.
He watched the play of her buttocks inside her robe. He could see them moving as she walked. She was naked under that robe, he realized. Naked and very desireable.
Perhaps she had just taken a shower, and now was giving the children a bath. Her hair looked damp. She was probably fresh and clean, and sweet, and delectable-
Something snapped inside Mike.
Hubert Finley had plowed his wife. He did not doubt that now. And now here was Hubert Finley's wife. Just as young as Laura, just as beautiful, just as clean and sweet.
He was going to jab Finley's wife, Gregory thought.
Right here and now.
He was going to assault her.
All his life, he had been the doormat over which other men strode. Quiet, obliging, hard-working, unassertive, Mike Gregory had watched others go on to' the best jobs, the best women, the best everything. While he stayed down at the bottom of the heap. The only good thing that had ever happened to him in his life was finding Laura for his wife, and even that had turned sour on him quickly.
Why? Why had he always been a loser?
He wasn't stupid. He wasn't ugly. He wasn't a physical weakling. He wasn't a coward.
He was just-submissive.
He had been storing it all up in him for a whole lifetime, and now he was fed up.
"Wait," he said, as Mr. Finley left the room.
She paused and looked at him over her shoulder. She was his second wife, Gregory knew. No doubt Finley had gotten rid of some old bag a few years ago to share his fun with this delicious morsel.
"Excuse me?" she said.
"I said wait. I'd like to talk to you."
She frowned and tried to hide it. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gregory, but the children-"
"Let them wait," he said. "Do you know that your husband has sex with his clients?"
A fUcker of something very much like an amused smile crossed the lovely face. "You don't say so, Mr. Gregory."
"I do say so."
She hrugged. "That seems un-likely. But in any event, my husband's personal life-"
"This isn't his personal life. It's his professional life. It's unethical of him to seduce patients."
"Please, Mr. Gregory. Discuss that with him when he gets home. I-"
"You know about that, don't you? You know he cheats you right and left? You know he's nothing but a cheater, Mrs. Finley. That's what your husband is, Mrs. Counselor Finley."
He was shouting, now. She looked alarmed, and once again started to leave the room, but he crossed it in a few quick bounds and caught her by the arm.
He drew her toward him.
"Please," she said. "Let go. You're hurting-"
He tugged at her. With a sweep of his arm he brushed the front of her robe open. Her breasts were bared-full, luscious breasts, and extremely well formed. Color blazed in her cheeks. She struggled with him, but he pulled the robe down over one arm.
It ripped. He yanked it away from her.
She was completely naked. And beautiful. Although he had climaxed with Elinor Lange twice only a short while before, his body raged with savage new desire at the sight of her.
Her face was frightened.
"Mommy," a child called.
Roughly, he hurled Finley's wife to the floor. She landed heavily, and lay for a moment as if stunned.
He dropped down to her. He felt her come back to consciousness and begin to struggle. But he was not to be denied. He caught both her wrist in one of his hands. With the other hand he squeezed the tender globes of her breasts. She whimpered and cried.
Her nakedness maddened him. Slowly, inexorably he opened his pants and exposed himself.
"Don't!" she cried. "Please!"
He laughed hollowly as he plunged his swollen engine of sex into her exposed womanhood, and took his pleasure with her not stopping until his sexual control erupted and he inundated her core with his spasmodic, throbbing release.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Anne Black feeling as bitter as the weather outside, and the weather was awful, rainy, foggy. It was a dismal gray December day. It was the most miserable kind of day she had ever seen.
The street below was miserable too. It was Broadway in the Seventies, a drab street of old buildings and dreary super-markets. She didn't know anything about Manhattan's West Side except that it was a place to stay away from, a seedy, run-down neighborhood that had last been nice many years ago. When she went into the city, she stayed on the posh-side, where everything was shiny and luxurious.
But now she was on the West Side, living in a cheap hotel and counting her pennies. She would have preferred the better, but her money was short.
Her husband had thrown her out.
That had never happened to any woman she knew. Women sowehow didn't get tossed out by their rich husbands. When a divorce happened, it was always the husband who went to live in some dingy hotel room, and paid through the nose for it.
Not this time. Her husband was on top.
It had been a nightmarish business, his breaking into the Roche's place with his photographers and his private detectives. After all, it might have been just a purely social visit Anne had been paying, and Harry would have found himself in an awkward position then.
But luck had been with him. He had caught her dead to rights, being laid by Allan Roche with his nake wife being sexed on the bed too. That was what made things so very damning-the photos of the three of them. That made them look like they were having a real orgy, of the wildest kind. There wasn't a judge in the world no matter how liberal and tolerant, who would fail to grant a divorce to Harry on the strength of those erotic photos.
Her husband was being very sticky about it. The whole detective-hiring business had been sticky. Anne had known her husband was a square, but she hadn't realized exactly how much.
He had suspected her of having an affair with Allan Roche. Somehow, something in her expression and Roche's on the night they had been together had given him that idea. And so he had hired a detective to tail her.
Of course, he couldn't have been wronger. She had been having affair for a long time, with a great many men and women too, but never with Allan. She hadn't even known the man until that night at the opera. Hadn't even met him. His wife, yes. But not Roche.
So, ironically, her husband had trapped her the one time she was innocent. His detectives had trailer her going into the. Roche's apartment, and had blown the whistle. Harry had come hustling down to be in on the kill, and they had entered the apartment with all the skill of expert housebreakers, and sure enough, Anne had been under Allan at the guy's climatic peak, yet.
Not to mention Doris Roche.
That, Anne knew, was what had blown any possibility of a reconciliation sky-high. Adultery, perhaps, Harry might let himself tolerate if she had wheedled him a little, but perversion-orgies-lesbianism-.
No. He had gone immediately for divorce.
He had cut off every penny of her funds. She had inherited money in her own right, of course, from her father. But she had never known anything about the management of money. "You take care of it," she had told her husband. He understood the financial world. And there was never any question of a divorce, of course. She had never dreamed that Harry would want to leave her for any reason.
So, although she had not realized it, her husband had first transferred all her inheritance into joint ownership, and then, quietly, had put it all into his name. jShe hadn't even noticed or cared. She remembered singing papers now and then, but she barely listened to the explanations he gave. It was only now that she discovered that from time to time he had sold their jointly-owned stocks and reinvested the money in securities registered in his name.
All she had left now were some bank accounts he hadn't bothered to touch. She was worth some thousand, or approximately as much as she had formerly spent on clothes in any given season. And she was out on her ear. Before long she'd be a divorcee.
The hellish part of it was that Harry himself had been unfaithful dozens of times. She knew that. He had tried to keep his infidelities secret, but there was no covering up so many of them. Every time he took a business trip somewhere without her, there had been call g'rls, "secretaries," pretty companions of one sort of another. He was anything but free from sin.
But he was perfectly in a position to cast the first stone, because she had no proof.
She couldn't go into court and say, in the face of his pictures of her having a mulisexual orgy. "'That's all right. I know you had mistresses!"
The court would laugh at her. She needed good hard proof if she intended to file a countersuit, and she had no proof at all. Nor could she dig any up now. Assuming that she had funds with which to hire private detectives and high-powered lawyers, she could be pretty sure that between now and the time the divorce decree became final, he was going to live a life of pure and lofty chastity. He certainly wasn't going to give her any opportunity to ruin his case against her.
The worst aspect of the whole deal was that he was going to have the case tried right here in New York. No Reno quickie for him, no six-weeker, no sirree! He couldn't spare the time to sit around out in Nevada and wait out his residence time. Why bother, when he could get a New York divorce that would be much more emphatic?
In New York, of course, practically the only way you could get a divorce was to have iron-clad proof of infidelity. Well, he had that.
Worse. In Nevada, a divorce is a private thing between you, your judge, and your lawyers. You tell the judge, "It was mental cruelty, Your Honor," and the gavel bangs down. Not in New York. The records wouldn't be sealed. Harry intended to make a scandal out of it. He would splash the double orgy element of the case out into the open.
The tabloid press would have a high old time with that.
They wouldn't be able to print the full story, of course. They would have sidestep it by saying, "Mrs. Black was accused of having committed perverted acts with persons of both sexes," or something like that. But the real story would get out and do harm where it counted. She wasn't worried about the circle, of her own friends, them moneyed people, the comfortable, sophisticated people who would find out about her lesbianism for the first time.
She would be finished.
Even though she was still young, still attractive, she would never find a second husband. Not while she was fainted with perversion this way. No well-to-do and eligible man in the country would touch her, not now. Among the rich, there are always certain social occasions-the dinner parties, the society teas, the whole routine-where someone who has been dragged through the muck of the tabloids is totally unacceptable.
"You're finished, Ann Black.
No husband. No money. No possibilities.
Oh, she could marry some bookkeeper or some earnest young junior executive, someone who would be captivated by her glamour and even by her wickedness. But she would never again move in the circle of her friends. She would have to step downward, into the grubby world of split-levels and television comedies and babies and money troubles, all the dull petty mid-die-class things that she despised and had never been part of. She didn't want to sit home at night watching television, she who had had a box at the opera. She didn't want to start eating hamburger after a lifetime of filet mignon. She dind't want to count pennies and buy cheap copies of the gowns she once had owned.
She walked to the window and looked out at the pelting rain, at the ugly gray street.
Then she turned away. She felt as forlorn as he had ever felt in her life.
But she knew exactly what she was going to do.
She had lived thirty-three years, and she had had a pretty good time of it, all things considered, right up to but not including the final moment. She was still young and beautiful.
This was a good time to call it quits.
Why stick around?
Why grow old, why wait until her face was a mass of wrinkles and her breasts two dropping bags of flesh?
Why fight her way through a world that had suddenly turned hostile? Why face scandal and shame and whispers? Better to slide out of the picture now and leave a pretty corpse, she thought. She had had her fun. She had known handsome men and lovely women, she had tasted the pleasures of wealth and love, she had traveled. Now she was about to lose all she held most dear, so what did life matter? The more she thought about it, the more sensible it seemed to make her exit right at this moment, before the long slow decline began. The alternative was a life in cheap hotels, a sleazy dim existence of poverty and memories.
She took off all her clothing.
Might as well give the cops and eyeful when they come for the cadaver, she thought.
She looked at herself in the mirror. It was yellowing and cracked, but never mind. She still liked what she saw, the high, big breasts, the flat waist, the lush legs. Plenty of men and plenty of women had enjoyed that body. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembered the feel of Boris' hot breasts against her own, remembered the pounding excitement as Allan Roche's hot hard maleness possessed her and sent her sky-rocketing off to ecstasy.
It was good-bye to all that, now.
She went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. She took out a razor blade, looked at it, contemplated her thin wrists with their transparent skin and the fine tracery of blue veins just beneath. It would be so easy, she thought. Just one slice here, one slice there, and then lie down and wait for all the blood to ebb out of her.
She shuddered. It would be messy and slimy, lying there in a pool of her own blood. She hated mess. And it would be painful, cutting herself like that. Her wrists would sting in agony. It might be hours before she died, hours of remorse and misery and pain. She didn't like that idea. Worse, she might not die at all. They sometimes didn't make it, when they cut their wrists. The blood clotted, or something. She didn't want to have to hack at herself again and again every fifteen minutes to get all the blood out of herself.
There was an easier, a cleaner way.
A way that would send her to her grave unmutilated. She wanted her beauty intact when they found her. She wanted to look like a nude wax statue of herself, as sumptuous as she had been in life.
The pills, she thought.
She took the sleeping tablets out of the cabinet and opened the little plastic bottle. Little shiny green pills looked up at her. She poured them out onto the palm of her hand and counted them.
A "normal" dose, guaranteed to give someone a restful night's sleep, was two pills. But when he had prescribed them to her, the doctor had pointed out her slight physique and had warned her never to take more than a single pill in a night. Anything more than that would be an overdose.
If two pills added up to an overdose, she thought, what would seventeen pills be?
She filled a glass with water, and was about to take the first one when the phone rang. The last on earth, she thought. Wonder who it can be?
It was Elaine Rogerson a wealthy widow, and a very powerful one in the business world.
"Darling," Elaine said. "I've finally got a hold of you. I heard what your loathsome husband did, and I want you to know I'm going to make it hot for him."
She was the one to do it too. Anne had known Elaine slightly in their social circle and she knew the middle aged heavy bodied woman had a great deal of financial power. Even Anne's husband stood in awe of her.
The meat of the conversation was that Elaine found out through Harry about his wife's lesbian activities. But this had the opposite effect upon her than he expected.
It so happened that Elaine had lesbian tendencies which she had kept secret, even from her husband.
So, thanks to Elaine, Harry got his divorce but it was not a public one. He had to make a financial settlement, a good sized one, to Anne.
In payment, Anne became Elaine's lover, and she was only too happy to submit to the generous woman, who actually kept her from taking her life and giving her a new start on hers.
So, she was a grateful and passionate lover to her plump bodied woman-friend and they did get a lot of pleasure from each other.
Physical and otherwise.
Dr. Finley was in a cheerful mood, as usual.
He had just been for a good brisk walk, over to an art gallery on Madison Avenue that was having a display of pre-Columbian art. Pre-Columbian art was currently of great interest to the marriage counselor. He had bought a fine clay head of the Aztec type, and some interesting little Mayan jade servings, and some rather startling stirrup-jars of the Monchica culture of Peru, with vivid and highly graphic exotic scenes modeled on the sides. Now, today, he had seen an elaborate Nayarit clay sculpture group that would go well in his cabinet of little treasures. It was expensive-$600-but worth every penny of it, he thought. And he was no longer in a position where he needed to worry about pennies, anyway. If something caught his fancy and the price wasn't altogether preposterous, why, he would buy it, and not stop to consider.
He enjoyed buying things. And, since he had bought something particularly fine today, he was in a particularly fine mood as he rode upstairs toward his apartment.
As he slipped his key in the lock, he heard the sound of a child crying within. Poor Paula was having her hands full with those kids, he thought. This one-it was the older one, he thought-was really yapping, though. What had happened? Had she gotten soap in his eyes while giving him his bath?
He opened the door.
He wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him. Two people lying right in the living room. A woman's bare legs were visible and a partially dressed man who was using her.
He stood there utterly frozen for a long time. The woman, he knew, could only be his wife. And the man, he guessed was Mike Gregory.
Meek Mike Gregory a rapist? That was so improbable a thought that he stood there for a moment contemplating them instead of rushing to his wife's aid.
That was a fascinating sight, after all.
His wife was struggling, but to no avail. Gregory was finishing her with energetically and enthusiastically. She was pounding at his back with her fists. It did no good. The child was screaming. Finley caught sight of his wife's buttocks as she tried to twist away from the rapist.
He watched. Watched the pounding, whatched the wincing jolts of Paula's lovely form as the rapist quivered over her again and again.
Then-the moment of extasis had lasted only about three seconds-the marriage counselor finally reacted.
"Gregory!" he barked.
He rushed forward. The man who was finished with his wife rolled over, got to his feet, quickly covered himself. It was Gegory, all right. His face was flushed and stippled with beads of sweat. His eyes were burning like two coals in the sockets of his skull.
Paula lay half-dazed on the floor. She was completely naked.
Finley, said, "What the hell is this, Gregory? What do you think you're doing?"
Mike laughed-a short, sharp, angry laugh. "Laying your wife," he said. "What's the matter doctor? You had mine, didn't you? Turnabout is fair play."
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't kid me, doctor. I know all about it. Not only did you put my wife Laura off with Roche, but you took her yourself. You going to deny that?"
"This is outrageous, Gregory. To come into my home, to attack my wife-"
"What about my wife?"
Finley started to say something, the soft answer that turneth away wrath. He had faced angry patients, or the wives or husbands of angry patients, before. Words had never failed him. He had always been able to come up with a line of patter. A hundred other sources rolled into one.
But he had never had to do that in his own home. Not while confronted with a man who had just raped his wife, the mother of his children.
While he fumbled for a slick, convincing answer that would calm Gregory down, Gregory blew his stack.
"I'm gonna kill you!" he yelled.
"Paula, call the police!" Finley said. But she was in too much of a dazed shock to do anything but roll herself up in a little ball and whimper.
And then Gregory charged.
Finley was taller than Mike Gregory, and at least sixty pounds heavier. He was also very much brawnier, burlier, and more muscular.
But he was twelve years older, and he hadn't been in actual physical combat with anybody in a good thirty years, and the last time he had had any real exercise other than in bed was when he was in the service, close to fifteen years before.
Besides, Gregory had the advantage of being half berserk, while Finley was still calm.
He came slamming furiously into him. Finley's heavy figure lurched backward with the impact of it. He started to push Gregory away from him, but a fist appeared from nowhere and slammed into his mouth.
The marriage counselor felt teeth,, loosen. The warm, salty taste of blood abruptly came to him. As though puzzled by the fact that he had been injured, he stepped back and made no attempt to shield himself. Gregory smashed a fist into the pit of his stomach. Finley doubled up.
"Don't!" Paula was screaming as though from a million miles away. "Please don't hurt him!"
Gregory locked his hands together and brought them down in a rabbit punch. Finley felt as though he had been decapitated. His eyes seemed to bulge from his head. He lurched forward and dropped to his knees and stayed there, swaying uncertainly. He gagged and nearly heaved.
Gregory kicked him in the ribs. Growling like a wounded bear, the marriage counselor tried to brush his attackes away. Savage pain stabbed at his side. He clutched at Gregory's ankle, but he broke free.
"I'll fix you," he muttered. "Cheat! Liar! Who the hell do you think you are, meddling with other people's lives like that!"
"Paula-" Finley gasped. "Get help-"
"You move toward the phone and I'll kick your face in," he told her.
The naked terrified girl froze where she was. She put her hands across her big breasts, as though they could possibly be of some use now to hide her nakedness after she had been raped, while her husband got mauled.
"Go on, Paula," Finley murmured.
But she didn't move. Gregory moved in again. He bent, grabbed Finley's shoulder, shoved him over on his back. Finley tried to cover himself, but when he moved his ribs seemed to grind against each other.
Gregory hit him. Three times.
Once in the pit of the stomach.
Once in the middle of his chest.
And once a little lower.
It was the last of the three that did it. Finley howled and rolled on the floor. He had never known such agony in his life. His whole body had turned to a mass of screaming nerve endings. It was like being roasted alive. He clutched at himself, kickedout at the air in his anguish.
Gregory stood somewhere above him, laughing was unable to see him or anything else.
He heard Gregory say, "That'll take care of you, Doctor. Go on. Call the police now. Press charges against me. I raped your wife and beat you up. That's enough to get me put away for twenty years, isn't it? Well, try it. I'd love it if you did. I'd expose the whole stinking story, Counsellor. How you prescribe adultery to cure your patients. How you lay women who come to you for treatment. How you turn people into Lesbians and who knows what else. Oh, sure. I'd love to tell the world all about you. And I will, too, if you ever try to make any trouble for me."
"Go away," Finley groaned.
"That's exactly what I plan to do."
The marriage counselor heard the sound of a slamming door. He struggled to focus his eyes. He hurt in sixty places all at once.
"Paula?" he said.
"I'm here, Hubert."
"Is he gone?"
"Yes. Are you badly hurt, Hubert?"
"I-yes. Yes." He groaned and spat out the remnants of a tooth. Blood dripped down his chin. He tried to sit up, but the effort was too much. "I'm a mess," he said. "He really clobbered me."
He looked at his wife. So sweet, so pale, so lovely. So naked. Terror glimmered in her eyes. He had never seen Paula look frightened before.
It was an effort to speak, but he ground out the words anyway. "Did he-did he hurt you?"
"He raped me."
"I know. But did he-damage you?"
"I'll be all right," she said. "There's a soreness. That'll go away. He was very rough in me." She began to whimper. "Hubert, he did that right in front of the boy. He just stripped me and took me. Why? Why? I'm still shaking, Hubert. He was like a wildman. I can still feel him-squeezing my breasts-inside me-nothing stopping him-"
"I did it with his wife," Finley said hollowly. "He found out. I guess he didn't like the idea." He gagged, winced as the broken fragment of bruised ribs ground together again. He tried to smile through his split lips, but it was too painful. He said. "It's very funny. The trouble with him-the thing I was trying to cure him of-was that he was too meek. Too much of a gentleman. And now I turned him into a raving nut. He ought to be grateful to me. Instead of-instead of-" he shook his head.
"What if he brings in the police, Hubert? If he can prove what you've been up to-?"
"I haven't done anything against the law," he said. "I've introduced certain people to other people. And now and then I've had affairs with my patients. But that's not illegal. Just unethical. They might put me out of business." He looked up at his wife's violated nudity. "I might have to change my name. But that's not important now, Paula. Get a doctor."
"A doctor will want to know what happened?"
"I'm sure I can make up some story about being mugged or something. Don't worry about it. What an experience?"
CHAPTER TWELVE
Allan Roche had had quite a few drinks, but even though they were good Martinis, they weren't having much effect upon him. He was bored and unhappy. It was his fourth martini of the afternoon, or was it his fifth? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered much, any more.
Outside the rain hammered down. It was a bleak, gray Saturday afternoon. Only a few short weeks ago, it had been clean and crisp and autumonal outside, and now it was cold and miserable and lousy. The rain might turn to snow at any moment, and the snow would give the park across the street a fine Currier-and-Ives look, but who cared?
A lot more had changed in the past few weeks than just the weather.
It was those detectives barging in here, he thought. And the damned flashbulbs going off. He had seen one of the photos. Black had been kind enough to send one to him. As a souvenir. It was the kind of stag photo you could buy in certain stores along the strip, only worse, if anything. He and Doris and Anne, all embracing each other, snug as three bugs in a rug, with Allan inside the guy's wife.
And now he and Doris were both co-respondents in a divorce suit. How about that? Had there ever been anything like that? Claiming that your wife had committed adultery with both Mr. Allan Roche and Mrs. Allan Roche-and being able to prove it?
The situation was awful.
Black, that hardnosed louse, insisted on divorcing his wife. He couldn't be bought off, because he had enough money anyway. He couldn't be talked into letting Anne divorce him, quietly, in some other state. He couldn't even be coaxed into getting a quick decree out of town himself. No, he wanted to make a big splash, to spread the news all over town.
Roche was sore as hell about that. He didn't need to have it known that he took part in multisexual orgies, or that his wife did. A person had a certain social position to maintain, and it didn't help to be the butt of scandal.
Doris was taking it badly, too. She was brooding and despondent much of the time. Neither of them had been anywhere socially since that had happened. They had stayed home, wandering like ghosts around the big apartment, not seeing anyone except their lawyer. Even seeing him was an embarrassment. They had had to admit the truth, because there was the evidence.
"Sure," Roche had said. "We did a little fooling around, the three of us."
He didn't like being publicly denounced as a practitioner of perverted lust. But nothing could get him and Doris off the hook. The lawyer had tried. He had negotiated with Black's lawyer until he was blue in the face. No use. "My client insists on a public exposure of the facts," the lawyer insisted piously, and that was that.
He had thought of trying one other angle; getting Finley to help out. But the counselor had been unable to work anything out for him. The trouble, Finley explained, was that Black had never been a patient of his. "I've got no leverage," he said. "If this was just among us pals, I could cool him down. But he's an outsider. He doesn't see things the way you or I or Walt Lange might. He's likely to turn around and jump on me, too. After all, I'm the one who introduced Anne to your wife. And if he digs deep enough, he'll find out I've had Anne myself. Sorry, Allan. It's absolutely out of the question. This one battle you'll have to fight for yourself."
"Great."
Up the creek, he thought. He scowled at the carpet and gulped his drink. This was the first serious mess of his entire life. Everything up till now had been a straight and uninterrupted progression toward pure fun. Even when he was temporarily hindered from having something he wanted-like Laura Gregory-he discovered that sooner or later he got his way anyhow.
Well, he had sex relation with Laura, finally.
And now-by the way of payment, perhaps-he had this stinking business on his hands.
His wife appeared. She was wearing a thin robe that showed all the voluptuous outlines of her figure, and as she passed between him and the light, she might just as well have been naked. He hardly looked at her. In his present mood, he had no interest in the opulent abundance of her breasts, in the talented gyrations of her hips, in the sensual splendor of her buttocks and legs. His lovemaking with her during these past few weeks had been on a curious on-again-off-again basis. From time to time he would take her urgently and repeatedly, as though taking a drug. And then, his nerves calmed and his appetite sated for the time being, he would not go near her for days on end.
She said, "Any martinis left in that pitcher?"
"Some."
"Pour me one."
"Pour one yourself," he said morosely.
She shook her head. "Allan, you've got to stop sulking. This isn't the end of the world!"
"Me sulking? What about you? You've been the original Lady Gloom herself since this happened."
"Well. Then we've both got to snap out of it."
"Sure."
"I mean it. We've got to start going out again. Seeing people. Going to shows, to restaurants."
His scowl grew darker. "Black is going to make us laughing stocks. He's going to expose the whole thing and everyone who counts will know about it. How am I supposed to go out if-"
The telephone rang.
Once, twice, three times..
The receiver was on a table half a foot from his arm. He ignored it. The phone rang a fourth time.
"Aren't you going to answer it?"
"Why bother? It'll only be more troubles."
"If you're not going to answer it, I will," she said. "I can't just let it ring!"
"Oh, all right," he said. He picked up the phone on the seventh ring, half hoping whoever it was had already hung up, "Hello?" he said.
"Allan? Elinor Lange."
He made a face into the receiver. He hadn't wanted to pick up the phone in the first place and he certainly hadn't wanted to talk to a mental nympho like Elinor Lange, at a time like this. But he couldn't very well hang up now. Whatever else he might be, he was well-bred man, and well-bred men do not slam receivers down when they are not in the mood for holding conversations.
So he said, as brightly as he could, "Yes, Elinor. How nice you called."
"Listen, this is no time for chitchat," she said, and there was a tense note in her voice that he had never heard in it before. "Mike Gregory was just here. You know that Hubert Finley's been sending him to me."
"Yes, yes, of course. You told me that about him a couple of weeks ago, remember?"
"Well, listen," she said. "We talked and he forced some things out of me that I didn't want to tell him. I couldn't help it. He was in an ugly mood and he started twisting my arm."
"What did you tell him, Elinor?"
"Everything. About you and Laura. "Oh, no!"
"And I told him that Finley had done it with her too. You knew that; didn't you?"
"As a matter-of-fact, I didn't," he said. "All right, so he knows. What's happening now?"
"I don't know. He stormed out of here looking like a cave man. He said he was going to see Finley, but the office is closed today. I don't know where he'll go. Maybe to your place to have it out with you, if he can't find Finley. I had to warn you, Allen."
"Have you called his wife?"
"No," Elinor said. "That didn't occur to me. I don't even know her."
"Well, maybe you should have thought of it. Suppose he goes straight home and murders her? She's got to be ready for him."
"Will you call her, then? You're the one she ought to hear this from."
"All right."
"And-listen, Allan, I'm sorry this all happened. I didn't want it to. Believe me, I didn't."
"All right," he said. "I'm not blaming you. Get off the line and let me call Laura?"
He hung up. His wife looked at him in bewilderment.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"Plenty. That was Elinor Lange. It seems she just spilled the beans to Mike about me having Laura, and also about Finley and Laura. And Mike flew off the handle. He's off on a rampage, Elinor says he told her he was going to find Finley, but maybe he'll head straight home instead and try to harm Laura."
"Are you going to go over there and protect her?"
"I've had one jealous husband to deal with already this month," he said. "If Mike goes home and finds me with Laura, anything's likely happen. But I'll call her and warn her what's up. She can clear out and stay with her family, or something, till we can get him calmed down. If he can't find her, I guess he'll come here next, and we'll have to handle him somehow."
"I'm afraid, Allan. You know how it is with these quiet men. When they blow up, they can be like dynamite going off. Maybe we'd better clear out too, before he can find us."
"Don't be a fool."
He picked up the phone and began to dial Laura's number. Tension tied his stomach in knots. It was hard to imagine Mike Gregory in a fury, but even the mildest of men might snap eventually, and finding out that his wife had been had by his best friend and his marriage counselor might very well be the thing to do it.
The phone rang. Twice, three times. "Hello?" Laura said. "This is Allan."
"Darling! I was just thinking about you! I-"
"Never mind the darling business now," he said tightly. "We're all in trouble."
"What do you mean?"
"Your hubby is with Elinor Lange this afternoon. Or was with her. And she spilled the beans. About you and me, and about you and Finley."
"No!"
"I'm afraid she did. She says Mike went barreling out of her place with murder in his eye, supposedly to go over to see the counsellor. Well, I don't know if he can find Finley or not on a Saturday, but he'll either come here next, or go home and beat the hell out of you."
"What should I do?"
"My advice is for you to pack up and go home to your family for the weekend, or something. Anyway, get out of the apartment. If he shows up at your place and you aren't there, most likely he'll come over here next, and I can try to claim him down. When he's rational again you can come home and try to patch things together."
"Do you think he'd hurt me?"
"I don't know what he'd do. My advice to you is not to stick around and find out, Laura. Get yourself out of the way. And do it fast."
"I guess that's best."
"I know it is," he said. "And-look-when you get settled, wherever you go-call me up, let me know where you are. That way I'll be able to keep in touch with you as this thing develops."
"Yes."
She hung up. He put down the telephone. "She's going to run for the hills," he said to his wife. He scuffed at the carpet in annoyance. "Why couldn't Elinor have kept her damned mouth shut?"
"Why couldn't we have avoided getting mixed up in all these things?" she asked. "That's a better question."
"Yeah," Roche said. "But I don't have a better answer. I hope Laura gets out of there before Mike catches her. Anything can happen."
There was just nothing more to do for the time being, so he just reached for his drink. That, at least, made a lot of sense.
When Laura hung up the phone, it seemed that the bottom dropped out of her very existence. The phone call had awakened her to what she had been up to all these weeks. That had been so easy, so simple. Sex with Allan, with Finley and nobody ever the wiser. All the fun in the world, in the name of getting cured of frigidity.
But it had been folly to think she could go on forever. And now, it seemed things were about to blow up in her face.
She had to get away before her husband came home.
Where?
Allan had spoken about "going home." But she didn't think he meant that literally, and, in any case, she didn't think it made sense. Her parents lived in Pennsylvania, and she didn't see them often, because they were disappointed that she had married anyone as undynamic and unsuccessful as Mike. If she went home to them now, no matter what story she invented for them, they would know that something had gone wrong with her marriage. She didn't want them saying, "I told you so" at her.
It was better to go to a hotel somewhere in town, where she could lose herself for the weekend. She would register under some false name, and give Allan her number, so that he could tell her when it was safe to come out of hiding. Yes. That would do.
Heart racing, she scurried around the apartment to collect her things. She found her little overnight bag, and started packing it. Toothbrush, underwear, stockings, a robe-never mind pajamas-an extra pair of shoes.
She came to her wallet and looked in it. She only had eleven dollars in cash. What if the hotel wanted to be paid in cash? What if they wouldn't take her check? Well, she could always call Allan and have him come and give her some money. She'd have to manage somehow.
Undies-garter-belt-what else would she need? She threw things in helter-skelter, and was so busy at it that she didn't even hear her husband come in.
"Why are you packing, Laura?" Mike asked her in a flat, dead-sounding voice.
She whirled. She thought she would collapse. A sudden jolt of adrenalin seared through her body.
"Mike-'
"Why are you packing?" he asked her again.
He was a frightening sight. His clothes was dusty and disarrayed, there was a bruise on his face, and his hair was rumpled. His expression was a terrifyfing one. She had never seen him look that way before. His eyes were gleaming, his mouth set in a grim line.
"I-I-Mike, don't look at me like that!"
"You little promiscuous tramp!" he snapped. "What are you doing, packing for a vacation? Is your boy friend taking you down to the islands for a holiday? Or are you going away with the other one to a convention of quacks?"
"Please Mike. I-that was all for our own good."
"What was?"
"You know."
"I don't know a damned thing. You tell me."
"Mike, please."
"Shy and lady-like, aren't you? Look at those blushes! Look at the stinking tramp blush!" He stepped forward, until he was only a few feet from her. She began to shiver. She had not been out of the house all day, and she was still wearing pajamas and a robe. She had expected just to spend a quiet rainy Saturday at home. And now-
"What do you want from me, Mike?"
"The truth!"
"About what?"
"Sexual," he said. "I want to know how many men you've bedded with, Laura."
She could not look at him in his wrath. "You know I love you, Mike. I've always loved you and nobody but you. That's the truth, Mike. Nobody but you."
"I don't care who you love or don't love. I want to know who you've been sleeping with."
"I was a virgin on our wedding night, Mike."
"So I like to think. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you were fooling me even back then."
"Mike-I swear-"
"You swear what? Swear that I'm the only man you've ever put out for in your life?"
"Please, Mike-"
"Go on," he said. "Swear it. I'd like to see that. You lousy little cheater!"
"This isn't fair, Mike. You've got no right to yell at me like this!"
"How many men have you slept with?" he roared. "Tell me, Laura! Tell me or you'll be sorry."
"With you-"
"I know that," he said. "Who else?"
"Don't force me, Mike. Can't we just let this all drop? We can wipe the slate clean. We've both cheated, after all. And we-"
"Never mind that. I want the names!"
She stared at him in horror. Muscles were working in his face and neck. His hands were clenching and unclenching. There was murder in his eye, she thought.
"The names!" he barked.
Laura trembled. "A-allan Roche. But it wasn't because I wanted to. Dr. Finley talked me into it. He arranged the whole thing. Mike. That was to help me overcome my f-fridgidity, that's all I-"
"All, right," he said. "You've opened your legs for Allan. Don't bother explaining. Who else has there been?"
"Who else?"
"Mike, I-" she looked down, and dropped her voice to a barely audible whisper. "Dr. Finley," she said.
"So that's true, then."
"Yes."
"How could you have done such a filthy thing, Laura?"
"I-couldn't resist him. That was like a trance. He put his arms around me, and he started to kiss me, and then he was pushing me toward his couch-"
"Spare me the details," he said curtly. "Allan and Finley. Who else?"
"No one."
"Really?"
"I swear it, Mike. This I would really swear to. Allan and Dr. Finley, yes. But there has been no one else. You've got to believe that."
"Just the two of them," he said slowly. "That's all." He shook his head. "Laura, how could you have done that? How could you possibly-"
"It was the treatment," she said. "Dr. Finley said I had to prove to myself that I could enjoy love. If not with you, then with someone else. So he arranged it. I know that wasn't right, Mike. But it helped me. Anyway, what about you? Didn't you do the same thing? I know you did."
"That doesn't matter."
"Of course it does! The counsellor sent you to some woman too. I even saw her once. Kind of plump, and older than me. If you could be unfaithful, why couldn't I?"
"That's different," he shouted at her. "That's why! Men can have more freedom! A woman doesn't have the right to tramp around. It was enough I was doing that. For our sake. You didn't have to."
"You aren't being fair, Mike."
"Shut your mouth, you tramp!" he blazed. "All this time pretending to be sweet and decent, and putting out behind my back like that! You disgust me! Get your clothes off, Laura!"
She looked at him in amazement. "Why? What are you going to do?"
"Don't ask any question," he snapped. "Just get your clothes off and do it now."
She stared in disbelief. He seemed completely out of his head. If only someone would hear him shouting, and call the police. Or if Allan would come and rescue her. Or even Dr. Finley.
"Well?" he said. "Get them off."
"No."
"Don't no me! Get them off or I'll pull them off!"
He reached out, caught at her robe, started to tug it free. She tried to defend herself. "No," she said. "You're ripping it-"
"Take it off, then!"
"All right. All right."
With trembling fingers she slipped out of her robe. All she wore were her silk lounging pajamas, the expensive outfit that he spent too much money to buy for her on her last birthday.
"The pajamas too."
"But-"
"Do it!"
Her hands went to the buttons of the pajama top. She opened the top button, and then the second, so that the white, rosy-tipped globes of her breasts peeped through. She opened the third button. The pajama top hung open, now. She shrugged it off and stood before him, naked to the waist, her big breasts bobbing gently.
There was a strange gleam in his eyes.
"The bottom half, now."
Obediently, the terrified girl opened the snap and let the pajama bottoms slide down her legs to the floor. She was completely naked.
He began to draw his belt from his trousers.
Her eyes widened, "Mike, what on earth-"
"Shut up," he said. "You're going to get what you deserve."
"You must be crazy! Are you going to-"
"Yes," he said, and swung the belt.
It caught her across the waist, and made a loud snapping sound. She gasped in pain. Her skin was on fire. He laughed and belted her again, this time higher, right across the softness of her waist.
"Mike!"
She turned to flee. But there was nowhere to hide in the little apartment. As she swung away from him, he lashed her one across the buttocks. She felt tears of pain surge to her eyes. She had never been beaten like this before, not by anyone. He swung again, catching her on the backs of her legs, and a moment later the belt cut its way across her side and then her buttocks again.
She slipped and fell to the floor, quivering with pain and fear. He stood above her, wielding the belt and shouting insults at her, punctuating each word with a swipe of the belt.
"Tramp! Pig!"
"Mike-"she. sobbed.
She curled up into a ball trying to hide from the fury of him, but no matter what she did there was always some part of her body exposed. He showed no mercy. Breasts, buttocks, and legs, shoulders-the belt descended remorselessly again and again.
It was strange. The pain was awful, of course. But yet there was something else, within the pain-
Pleasure?
A kind of warmth, an eagerness, a joy in being hurt?
She had never seen her husband behave that way. He was wild, he was berserk, but yet for all of it he was acting the part of dominating man. He was not being reasonable with her. He was not politely sitting down for a discussion of the situation. He was beating hell out of her, and she felt herself responding strangely, with an inner warmth, a wierd kind of enjoyment of the torment.
And then he heard the sound of his clothes opening. The belt fell to the floor. She looked up, saw his se-xualy looking more masculine than ever before-hard, scarlet, rearing, furious.
He fell beside her.
There was no tenderness now, no petting and caressing, no whispered love words. He employed none of the preliminaries of love that she was so accustomed to from him. None of his gentle coaxing stimulations, which he offered in the hope that perhaps this once he would get her to respond to his insertions.
This was not love. This was direct, savage, fierce lust.
Maddened and inflamed by the whipping he had administered, he was taking his pleasure from her now. She thought at first that he was going to strangle her, but she realized that what he had in mind was sexual assault.
Then he took her, turgid, rock-like, bullish.
She cried out. She had never been taken that way, neither by Mike nor by either of the two men who had known her body after him. The sudden raging fury of his spear-like lust took her by surprise. She felt him surging at her, and the pressure rocked her to the essence of her being.
He was working fast, sublimely unconcerned with her discomfort. His own sexual lust was all that mattered. How many hundreds of times had he been the soul of consideration, gently and delicately and tenderly and lovingly leading her along to the finish that she never reached?
Not this time.
This was nothing but pure assault.
He worked again and again, in physical rage. And then. mysteriously, she felt the sensation begin. She had felt that before-with Allan, with Hubert Finley.
But never with her husband.
She felt that now. A strange joy illuminated her in the midst of her pain and fright. She was responding to him at last. Not to his tenderness, but to the raw elemental masculinity that he was displaying for the first time in their marriage.
Her whole body trembled. She began to gasp and move, her lower body pumped with his.
He noticed. He hesitated for just a moment, breaking the rhythm as though astonished by what was happening, and then he returned to the offensive, even more aggressively than before.
"Yes!" she gasped. "Oh, darling, yes, yes!"
That was happening.
With an intensity that was completely new in her life, passion was claiming her, thundering from the depths of her like the unchained power of a hot wave. She let that overwhelm her. She let her whole body tremble and shake in the storm of passion as she came.
She soared upward, higher and higher, into realms of ecstasy that she had not dared even to imagine. There was still a tight knot of tension in her, a fear that she would not manage all the way, that she would somehow fall back before the ultimate goal was attained. But then the knot loosened and slipped away, and there was nothing left to held her back.
The moment came in a hot bubble of joy.
She was aware at the supreme moment of her husband's burning gush of culmination as well. Pleasure took them both, hurled them to the far reaches of the universe.
And then that was over.
Stunned and dazed, they drifted with him still within her back to the realities of the here and now.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
They lay on the floor, a few feet apart from one another. She still throbbed with the after glow of her ecstasy, and with the incredible realization that she and Mike had finally succeeded.
She looked at him in silence.
He looked at her.
Slowly he began to smile. Then he said, "So that happened. That really happened, Laura!"
"I can't believe it."
"Neither can I."
"But that happened," he said. "I didn't imagine it. I know that happened."
"Yes."
He shook his head slowly. "It took a whipping and a fight and who knows what else. But we did!"
"I'm so happy, dear. Even if you did scare the life out of me when you came in."
"I was out of my mind, Laura. Everything was just going round and round in me. I've been like a lunatic since I found out that you-you and Allan-you and Finley-"
"Don't talk about them."
"But Finley's treatment worked," he said. "He's a filthy quack, just a pimp and nothing more than that, but yet it worked. He sent me to Elinor and she taught me how to spank and beat a woman. And he sent you to Allan and he showed you that you were able to enjoy sex with. And then we came together-"
"Does this mean you'll have to beat me every time we make love, darling?"
He laughed. "I doubt it. Now that we've broken the ice the first time, we shouldn't have any trouble. But maybe, now and then, for a little variety-"
"You hurt," she said.
"I was trying to. I wasn't just playing a game. I was out to punish you."
"That wasn't fair. I didn't do anything worse than the things you did."
"I know," he said. "But I've had this unrealistic way of looking at you. Putting you up on a pedestal as something divine, untouchably chaste. And then, when I found out you were just like the other women I've known, something in me went and I ran wild."
She smiled. "I want to be like all those other women, darling. They're good in bed, and I'm not. Or wasn't. Maybe now-"
"Yes. I know everything will be all right."
"And we'll never see Dr. Finley again," she said.
He laughed. "I don't think we'd be welcomed by him any more anyway. Not after this afternoon."
"Why? What did you do?"
"I went to his home. He was out, but his wife was there. I-I evened the score between him and me."
"Mike!"
"I took her," he said. "That was a dirty thing to do. She was just an innocent bystander in this whole mess. But I couldn't help myself. I had to get even with him for polluting you. And then he came home. I beat him up. I really bounced him around."
"But he's so big!"
"He's a lousy fighter, though."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mike. Raping-fighting-whipping people!"
He shrugged. "I was entitled to let loose with some violence, Laura. After all these years. But I'm back under control, now. I won't go smashing anyone again. Except-I feel different, Laura. More in command of myself. Now that I've felt you respond to me-I feel like I could go out and lick the world."
"I want you to darling!"
"And as for Allan Roche-we'll stay away from him, all right, Laura Him and his tramp of a wife. They were never our kind of people. I used to call him my friends because I hoped some of his luck would rub off on me. It never did. He can get along without me from now on."
"I'll buy that," Laura said.
She sat and began to smooth herself where the belt had slapped at her.
"Did I hurt you badly?" he asked.
"You scared me, more than anything else. And I feel pretty sore, here and there."
"Where?"
"Here, for instance. And here. And here."
"Wait," he said. "Let me kiss every place. And massage them for you."
He stroked her waist and buttocks. A moment later, she was in his arms, and pressed against him, and all the fears and torments dropped off permanently.
"First thing," he said. "I want to get rid of a lot of excess things we won't be needing any more." He went to the book shelf and took all the sex and marriage manuals from there and dumped them in the garbage can.
Then he took off his clothes, with his wife happily watching this. When he was naked, she lay back for him and opened her legs wide for him and he sank into her. She rose and engulfed him completely and reached between them and grasped that part of his masculinity that wasn't in her. He pounded away and even though he was not brutal, he had a new dominance and forcefulness, which he never knew before.
She was aware of it and it built her sexual desire, and soon they were once again thrilling to the pleasure of an intense mutual culmination.
After that, they couldn't get enough of each other. It was as if they were reborn physically, which in a way they were. They devoured each other in wild passion. They had to enjoy each other's bodies completely, with hands, kisses, and with physicalities, bringing each other to completion in all the ways of love.
This was the beginning of success for Mike in love, and in his career.
