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From: godot@pacbell.net (Godot)
Subject: Story: The Straying Wife (04/26)
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Pacific Grove is a quiet area of families and retired couples of
modest means. It is a religious town and it is one of the few islands
of abstinence, a dry town and proud of the fact. Consequently, Pacific
Grovians have to drive outside of the city limits to package stores
and is literally ringed with liquor stores. At night, the people drink
at home, quietly, behind drawn shades.

Most of the people who live in Carmel and Pebble Beach regard Pacific
Grove as a quiet place and seldom go there.

At the entrance to the peninsula sits Monterey with its harbor and
fishing fleets and Cannery Row of John Steinbeck fame. Cannery Row is
nothing more than a tourist place now with only one cannery operating
and the rest of the canneries and warehouses housing craft shops and
clothing stores.

Hippies, with a record store, a health food shop and a leather craft
shop, have made a foothold on one end of Cannery Row.

Hippies are seen in Monterey and Pacific Grove and Carmel. They are a
problem because Carmel lies between San Francisco and Big Sur. It is
an attractive stop-over point for hitch-hikers and a problem to the
city fathers.

There are no hippies in Pebble Beach. It is more a community than a
town. Here, in breath-taking loveliness, behind walls and gates that
are guarded, live the very rich. Here is the famous Del Monte Lodge
where only the wealthy and famous can afford to stay. Here is the
world-famous seaside links of Pebble Beach, scene of the glamorous
Bing Crosby Clambake once a year. Here are movie stars and society
matrons, all with an elegance and fresh clean good looks that go with
the peninsula. Here, on any day, one is apt to see a blonde with that
scrubbed, spanking-clean, mint-mouthed smile and dazzling white
turtleneck sweater and slacks striding through the Beach Club or to
Club Nineteen or seen walking down the fairway, following some
golfers.

Here, at Pebble Beach, behind guarded gates, the beautiful, talented,
and rich people gather to play and party, and some of them stay to
live.

Pebble Beach has its own security force which guards the gates,
charging admission to tourists who look respectable and patrolling the
roads that cut through the forests and parallel golf courses. They
patrol past the gates with gravel roads that twist and lead up to
grand homes. Most of the elegant houses are hidden from sight by
shrubbery and fences, for residents of Pebble Beach pay well for
beauty and privacy.

There are famous admirals, generals, movie stars, and business men
living there. By and large, far and away, you couldn't find a group
with more character. There were a few; those that had inherited their
money and couldn't handle it. There were those that came from old
money, had a good family name yet suffered the inevitable consequences
of too much in-breeding that bordered on the incestuous. Such a person
was Web Hardman. His home at Pebble Beach was one of the best. Hidden
from the road, it commanded a sweeping view of the Pacific, had a
private beach and was ringed on the land side by a high cyclone fence
that spawned barbed wire at the top. The gate was opened
electronically, but only after a visitor had obeyed an amplified voice
command and stepped up to a pillar where a television camera scanned
them.

Such precautions were not out of the ordinary in Pebble Beach, for it
was expected that people valued their privacy and the security patrol
was there to reinforce it.

Web Hardman seldom went out and played a very respectable and passive
part in the peninsula's social life. No one, outside of a trusted few,
ever suspected what went on in his house. Lights late at night,
parties and music, were far from uncommon at Pebble Beach, and the
security patrol's principle problem at night was seeing that tipsy
drivers got safely home. Whenever Web's name was mentioned in the
Peninsula's paper, The Monterey Herald, he was described as, "One of
the coast's most eligible bachelors." Web did his best to keep his
name and picture out of the paper.

Carmel is a tourist and retirement center. It also has a population of
young people, many of whom work in its stores and shops. They are
usually young, intelligent, ambitious, and attractive. They are the
type of people concerned with where they live, concerned about
beautiful surroundings. They are usually ambitious people, eager to
get ahead, drawing some sort of identity from waiting on or
associating with the rich.

Unlike Pacific Grove, Carmel is far from dry and it harbors some of
the best bars on the peninsula. The Red Lion, a facsimile of an
English pub; Su Vecimo with its Mexican motif; La Playa with its
casual elegance and thick adobe walls; El Matador with its austere,
regal, bullfight atmosphere. On any weekend, the mentioned bars---and
more---swing late, crowded with attractive couples. One such couple
sat in a comer of El Matador, drinking Irish coffees and gazing
soulfully into each other's eyes. They had that sad, tender, troubled
look that soulful lovers sometimes wear. The man, rugged, tall, and
good looking, was obviously containing his anger and disappointment.
He will be leaving the next day for the jungles and rain forests of
South America where he will engineer a camp and build a bridge. His
wife looked at him bravely, holding back her tears. She must, for they
both know that others in the bar are looking at them, the males
especially. Men always look at her. She had!

a wild mane of naturally red hair it frames her face in an untamed
flame-licking way. Her skin was that creamy white that so often goes
with red hair and her eyes are a vivid blue and set wide apart. Her
mouth is large, almost but not quite too large and her wet, glistening
lips are full-formed. Her profile was pure and clean and made one
think of the poets in Ireland and the misty isles and a natural kind
of majesty and royalty. If her face and hair weren't enough, there was
her body. God must have been in a wild and ecstatic mood when he
created her. Most women would give a fortune to have her body. Tall,
with sensually flaring hips and long elegant thighs, she possessed a
slim waist that rose to two perfectly round breasts that bulged
excitingly beneath the soft sweater she was wearing. She leaned
forward and put her elbows on the table as she looked wistfully at her
husband, and every man could see that she wasn't wearing a brassiere
by the molten, rubbery way her breasts !  moved.  Those breasts, those
two firmly jutting mounds of flesh with their nipples straining and
pointing through the wool, were real! They were almost-not quite -
too big for her slim build.

She had two black moles - beauty marks--on her face: one on her
cheek and one on the side of her chin. She wore only a little makeup
and she didn't even need that. Her eyelashes were unusually long, and
her generously fun lips seemed always to be wet, to have a sheen to
them. Her smoky, startlingly blue eyes had a hot provocative look to
them. That look was always getting her in trouble because men misread
her intentions.

This attractive redhead, this girl who reminded men of Racquel Welch,
was Kim Stewart! She sat staring at her husband, Hank Stewart,
engineer, husband, a scion to a Pebble Beach fortune. He was cut off
from that because he eloped with Kim. Kim had worked as a waitress in
a local restaurant, The Butcher Shop, when she had met Hank. He had
swept her off her feet, rushing her beyond her belief. Within two
weeks of meeting, they were married and Kim was walking about a
quarter of an inch off the ground when their world came crashing down.

First it had been his family. They didn't approve. They were proud and
powerful people. They were lofty and the family tree went back to New
England and the Mayflower. She was coldly ignored, and Hank was told
in formal and frosty terms that he was being cut off from any funds.
This, in itself, wasn't too much of a blow. Hank had money of his own
and a profession: engineering. He opened a small office in Monterey,
and they rented a one-bedroom cottage in Carmel near the beach. They
were happy with chilly night walks on the beach and hurrying home to a
bright fire and hot toddies. They would sit by the fire, listening to
the waves crashing on the beach and feeling the warm glow of the fire.
Hank reassured Kim that in time, his parents would come around.
"They'll see what kind of a person you really are."

Although she didn't say so, Kim was determined to show them by example
what kind of a person she was. They would see that they were wrong,
that she was an asset to their family even if her parents were poor
and she had to work for a living. They would see Hank happy, and they
would realize they were wrong. Kim vowed to lead a life that would be
beyond reproach.

And that vow led to and helped sharpen their real problem. Despite her
looks, Kim was not sensual. In fact, she was exactly the opposite. She
felt her body was too well-endowed, that it was too shapely and
provocative and as a result, she went to great lengths to hide it.
And, the more she tried to hide it the more she called attention to
it. Even her walk got her into trouble because it was a liquid thing
that made the bottoms of her buttocks twitch in a way that made men
grit their teeth. Kim was aware of her walk and when she tried to slow
it down, repress it, keep it subdued, she only succeeded in making it
slow and slinky. It was the same walk used by a stripper who stalks
across the stage and removes the last tantalizing shred of clothing
and stands magnificently naked except for a trivial G-string, sheer
black stockings, and high heels. Kim walked with that breath-taking
expectation of something lewd happening.



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