Chapter 1
Stunned, her heart pounding in her chest, Molly Lawford plopped down into her husband's favorite chair, a time-worn but exceedingly comfortable brown leather armchair, and stared straight ahead into space.
Was it true, she wondered, her mind suddenly a jumble of a dozen different thoughts. Could it really be true? Or was it a hoax, a cruel, practical joke played on her by someone who, for reasons unknown, wanted her to experience the altogether wretched fall from the cliffs of joy to the shoals of sorrow? But how dare anyone play with her emotions like that?
Swallowing hard, Molly looked again at the registered letter she had signed for two minutes ago. Slowly, carefully, she read the letter a second time, thinking that maybe she had missed something, or misunderstood a key phrase, the first time.
Starting with her name and address, located to the left, approximately four inches down from the top and under the engraved letterhead, "Barton, Lewis, Peterson & Kramer, Attorneys-at-Law," her eyes crawled over the single sheet of paper.
"June 11, 1974
Mrs. Martin Lawford 223 Langdale Place Springvale, New York
Dear Mrs. Lawford:
It is with the deepest regret that we inform you of the death of your uncle, the late Henry Calvin Clayton. Mr. Clayton's death, on April 30, 1974, saddened us considerably. As you may know, we had the pleasure of serving as legal counsel for your late uncle for almost twenty-five years. Our previous attempts to notify you of your uncle's passing have obviously been unsatisfactory, as we have received no response to these earlier efforts. We had hoped to have you present for the reading of your uncle's will, held, as per his wishes, as soon as possible after his death, and on June 5, 1974. Said will, which you may inspect at your convenience, specifies that you are to receive the sum of seventy-five thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars ($75,250). A check in that amount has been enclosed. May we once again express our sorrow at your uncle's passing. If we can be of any further service to you, do not hesitate to contact us. Very truly yours, Kenneth T. Kramer, Atty."
No, she had not been mistaken, thought Molly, letting the hand folding the letter fall into her lap. It was all here in black and white, as plain as the nose on her face. Good old Uncle Henry, whom she had not seen in over twenty years, had upped and died and left her over seventy-five thousand dollars. Seventy-five thousand dollars!
Molly looked again at the check which she had held tightly in her left hand while re-reading the letter, and shook her head in amazement. She had crawled out of bed this morning a suburban housewife of modest means, a woman accustomed to living on a budget, and now, suddenly, magically, she was one very rich lady. Well, maybe not rich rich. But seventy-five thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars was nothing to scoff at. It was more money than she had ever dreamed of having.
Molly let her left hand drop into her lap, where it joined her right, and sat almost perfectly still in the comfortable armchair, savoring the wondrous realization that, come tomorrow morning, she'd be able to deposit in the bank what was for her a small fortune.
Her only regret, and it was, she admitted shamefacedly, a small one, was that she had given her generous uncle so little thought in all these years. Not once in twenty years had she attempted to discover his whereabouts. Truth was, she had all but forgotten about the man who, until a month and a half ago, was her only living relative.
But time has a way of eroding memory, Molly told herself, trying to ease her guilt. And so much had happened to her in the twenty years since last she saw her uncle, college, marriage to Martin, the children, the horrible death three years ago of her mother, father, and sister in an automobile accident, the move from Illinois to New York where her husband was transferred. Could she really be blamed for having had her thoughts on the present instead of on the past?
Now, of course, her mind was awash with thoughts of Uncle Henry. She had but to close her eyes, and she could see him again, laughing with her, teasing her, telling her the wildest, most improbable tales, his blue eyes twinkling merrily and his scarecrow thin body dancing this way and that as he charmed her to pieces with his tall tales.
And then, soon after her fifteenth birthday, he disappeared. Left for parts unknown, as her father has put it. Nobody in the family worried too much, as Uncle Henry who liked to refer to himself as a "gentleman wanderer," was always coming and going, leaving unexpectedly one day and then, just as unexpectedly, showing up a month, a year, and sometimes several years later, eager to relate his adventures to all those willing to listen. Only this time, he didn't come back.
And now he was dead, thought Molly. It was a shame that the letters informing her of his death had never reached her. She would have liked to attend his funeral and pay her last respects to the man who had added so much fun to her life when she was growing up.
True, he had never bothered to look her up, so in a way, he was just as much to blame as she was for their having lost contact. In death, however, Uncle Henry had remembered her. And how!
As Molly studied the check she had received, a secret smile crept over her smooth, unblemished face. Now, at long last, she would be able to make her move. Months had she spent agonizing over a decision, weighing the pros and cons of it all, her mind in constant turmoil as she wrestled with her conscience. To leave her husband and children or not to leave them; that had been the question.
And the decision to go, to say goodbye to those she held dear, and start life anew, had been without a doubt the most terribly difficult decision she had ever had to make. And even now, although her mind was made up, and nothing could change it, she experienced twinges of self-doubt, moments when she wondered if maybe the whole idea behind Women's Lib, all this business about how important it was for a female to find fulfillment, and happiness, by establishing her identity as a person, didn't need further thought. And perhaps more to the point, could she, Molly Lawford, a thirty-five-year-old wife and mother, hack it out there in the Big Bad World?
"Well, you should be able to now," said Molly, thinking aloud as she tapped the check thoughtfully against her chin. Even in this age of inflation, seventy-five thousand dollars went a long way.
She wouldn't have to worry about finding a job-at least not for awhile. She could travel and explore at her leisure all those exciting, exotic places she had read about. She could, for the first time in her life, start to experience things. Really experience them.
And for that, thought Molly, smiling inwardly, she had Uncle Henry to thank. Unknowingly, he had come through for her in her hour of need, providing her with the wherewithall to make a fresh start in life. She'd love to know how he managed to accumulate that kind of money.
Not that it mattered much if Uncle Henry had begged, borrowed, or stolen his treasure. The important thing was that he had remembered her in his will. All she had to do now was pick a time for her exit. No, "exit" wasn't really the correct word. All she had to do, was pick a time for her escape.
"-And so I told Burns if he didn't like the idea, it was no skin off my back," Martin Lawford was saying. "I mean, what the hell. If he can think of a better way to re-structure our salesmen's territories, well, more power to him." He paused, and carefully draped his brown slacks over the back of a straight chair next to his dresser. Then, turning to face the double bed he shared with his wife, he said, "Hon, are you listening? I said-"
"Yes, I heard you, Martin," Molly broke in. She smiled. "I heard every word you said, darling."
Martin, who had stripped down to his white underwear, and beige socks, placed his hands on his hips and smiled at his wife of fifteen years. "I don't know whether to believe that or not, Mrs. Lawford. I mean, you've been acting kind of peculiar all evening."
"Peculiar?"
"Well, maybe preoccupied is a better word. In any event, you haven't really been with it."
"I haven't?"
"You hardly said a word at dinner, sweetheart," Martin reminded his spouse. "You're not coming down with anything, are you?"
"Not that I know of," smiled Molly. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. Now, please stop worrying and finish undressing, will you? I'm just fine."
A lewd smile washed over Martin's face. "Aha, so maybe that's it."
"What's what, Martin?"
"Could it be that my favorite girl is suffering from a case of the hots? Maybe she's been moping around the house all day with a pussy that just wouldn't stop itching."
"Oh, Martin, really!"
"Well, beautiful, have no fear. I'll be there in a minute to put out your fire."
So saying, Martin turned his back to the bed, and resumed his undressing. He peeled off his undershirt, and then, without delay, shucked his boxer shorts. Then he was plunking down on the straight chair, remaining seated only as long as it took him to remove his socks. When he was on his feet again, he winked at his wife, told her he'd hurry back, and then started out of the bedroom, carrying his underwear and socks.
Molly, who was propped up in bed, a pillow sandwiched between her back and the headboard, watched her husband leave. Must it always be the same, she wondered. Couldn't there be just once, just once, a break in the routine? Must he always brush his teeth and douse himself with cologne before joining her in bed? She could count on the fingers of one hand the times when, propelled by a good old-fashioned lust, Martin had jumped into bed to fuck the daylights out of her. In fact, he hadn't fucked her, really and truly fucked her, since their honeymoon.
The routine. The maddening, mind-muddling routine. That, of course, was what she was rebelling against, Molly thought. At least it was a part of it. Without her even being aware of it, her life had become as regimented as any solider's, as stale and as unexciting as a hermit's.
Like a pool left unattended for too long, she had started to stagnate. She was just existing, staggering under the weight of so many monotonous chores performed day in and day out with little appreciation. The boredom, the dreary sameness of it all was choking the life out of her and making her old before her time.
There had to be something more to life than doing dishes, cleaning house, preparing three meals a day, caring for children and making sure your husband has clean socks to wear.
Of course, it wasn't all Martin's fault, Molly reminded herself. In many ways he was a good man, and he certainly did his best to please. He was kind, considerate, generous to a fault and, thanks to his executive position at Bennington and Marlowe Sales, Inc., a good provider. Then, too, Martin was a proud and loving father.
And if her husband lacked the kind of vigorous sex appeal that made females cream in their panties, well, not every man could look like a matinee idol. In any event, Martin was certainly not unattractive. He stood a shade under six feet and weighed in at about one hundred and seventy-five, which was just five pounds more than he weighed when they married. Not bad for a man who would be thirty-nine in a couple of months.
His face, while not breathtakingly beautiful, was pleasant to behold, and that warm, friendly smile of his could not help but trigger kind thoughts in the one to whom it was directed. His eyes were brown, as was his hair, which, in keep with his somewhat straight-laced nature, he kept neatly trimmed and always nicely-too nicely-combed.
Yes, she would miss him, thought Molly. But Martin, for all his good qualities, was as exciting physically and as stimulating mentally as yesterday's warmed-over dinner.
And she would miss Gary and Jeffrey, too. The boys, sleeping now in their rooms down the hall, would surely resent her walking out on them. They would be hurt, angry, and quite understandably puzzled by her departure. Hopefully, the would one day understand why she did what she did.
But enough of this, thought Molly, chiding herself. She had been over all this before. She had made her decision, and it was irrevocable. There was no sense in going over it again-none whatsoever. She could not, would not change her mind now.
It was high time that she started thinking of herself, and her physical and intellectual needs. She had to make the break now, before it was too late. The problems her leaving would create for Martin and the boys, could not be compared to the monstrous despair she knew would engulf her, and possibly destroy her, if she remained in this vacuum of an environment. Dammit, what was keeping Martin anyway?
Martin arrived, as it were, on cure, his breath fresh and his smile lewd. Naked, he padded to the bed.
"What were you doing in there, taking a bath?" asked Molly.
Martin chuckled. "I was right, wasn't I sweetheart? You do have the hots for me tonight. Come on now, tell the truth."
Molly smiled up at her husband. Did she want to get laid tonight or not? If she had to ask herself the question, then obviously, she wasn't as hungry for a humping as Martin thought. On the other hand, it was only fair that she service her husband if he were in the mood. After all, he deserved a few good performances from here before she left his bed and board.
"Well, honey? Are you in the mood for cock or not?"
"Shh, not so loud, Martin. The boys can-"
"The boys are fast asleep," Martin broke in.
"I looked in on them when I went to the bathroom."
"Well, close the door, anyway."
Obediently, Martin turned away from the bed and padded to the bedroom door, which he closed quietly. In not time at all, he was back at the bed, smiling down at his beautiful spouse.
"Now, Mrs. Lawford, I'll give you one last chance to answer my question. Are you in the mood for cock or not?"
"And what happens if I don't answer, Mr. Lawford?" asked Molly, smiling sexily.
"Then I'll just have to take matters into my own hands."
"Oh?"
"Uh huh. I'll rip off that pretty blue gown of yours, and whatever else you're wearing underneath and rape the living daylights out of you."
Oh, Martin, if only you would, thought Molly, a spasm of excitement rippling up her spine. How beautiful it would be to be raped, stripped naked, and then taken forcefully, even brutally, the way her fantasy stud always did it to her.
But it would do no good to tease, to provoke such a deliciously violent act, because her loving husband, always a gentleman, would be shocked beyond words.
He was only talking tough, pretending to be Super-Stud, a man among men who would brook no nonsense from his woman. He wouldn't rape her if she got down on her hands and knees and begged for it.
"Did you hear me, Mrs. Lawford?" asked Martin, enjoying his tough guy role.
Molly nodded. Then, humoring her husband, "I think it would be in my best interests to answer your question. Yes, I am in the mood for cock, Martin. Your cock."
"I knew it all the time, sweetheart. Come on, get your things off and let's get busy."
Molly put her fingers to work undoing the large white buttons that ran down the front of her satiny blue dressing gown. Before very long, she was sitting up, slipping the gown off her creamy-smooth shoulders, then, lifting her hips off the bed, she worked the garment out from under her. Then she went to work on her cream-colored brassiere.
Soon, her full, firm breasts were spilling out of the confining cups, juggling as if rejoicing' in their freedom. Handing the bra to her husband, Molly turned onto her right side, and with one hand took the pillow resting up against the headboard and arranged it flat on the bed. Then she was turning onto her back and stretching out on the bed, her hips arching now, as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and started to bare her loins.
Quietly, almost reverently, Martin watched his wife remove the one remaining piece of clothing. He never failed to derive great pleasure from watching his wife undress. She was every bit as beautiful now, at age thirty-five, as she had been when they first met. Maybe even more so, because the passing years had added character to her face, and imbued it with a certain sophistication.
And fifteen years of marriage had not dulled his appreciation of her body. He could have composed a sonnet praising his wife's loveliness, the beauty of her perfectly rounded breasts, the delightful sway of her well-crafted bottom when she walked, the smooth, graceful lines of her sleek legs.
Who could fail to appreciate such a wonderful example of female pulchritude. It was no surprise that she drew stares of envy from women and whistles of approval from men wherever she went. With her lustrous black hair, which she liked to wear shoulder length and her sparkling brown eyes, and of course, her curvy body, Molly was a match for just about any beauty queen presently parading her stuff.
"Hey, wake up," said Molly, smiling as she handed her mate her underpants. "You're dreaming again, Martin."
"Just admiring the merchandise," Martin explained with a grin as he took the briefs from his now naked wife. "No harm in that, is there?"
"None that I know of. But isn't it more fun to handle the merchandise?"
"Always, sweetheart."
"So what are you waiting for, Mr. Lawford."
Tossing aside the gown, brassiere and matching briefs, Martin climbed onto the bed, and snuggled close to his desirable, black-haired wife. Within seconds he was mouthing her succulent breasts, his hungry mouth moving from one to the other. Like a huge and famished rodent, he feasted, munching on those spongy tits as if he might not get another opportunity in the near future.
"My but we're eager tonight," said Molly with a smile, placing one hand, her left, on the back of her husband's head.
"I just adore those melons of yours," explained Martin.
"Don't forget the nipples, Martin. Use your tongue on my nipples."
Although he was by no means an outstanding lover, Martin did not need instructions on how best to bathe a lady's tits. Now, as Molly exerted pressure on the back of his head, urging him on, he zeroed in on the inviting nipple perched atop her left breast. With his flicking tongue, he teased the nipple, poked it playfully, and then he was licking the crumb-like nubbin of rosy flesh, laving it lustily.
"Yes, that's the way, Martin," said Molly, desire beginning to build within her.
In due time, Martin pursed his lips and drew the saliva-coated nipple into his mouth. He proceeded to pull on that tasty tidbit, sucking it hungrily into his oral cavity, like an infant too long denied his mother's nourishing milk.
And while he tended to his wife's left tit, he kneaded her right, his hand squeezing, constantly squeezing that mouth-watering mound of flesh.
Less than a minute later, Martin turned his attention to the breast he had been massaging. Cupping the underside of the boob with his left hand, and lifting it up, he commenced a lascivious tonguing of the nipple. Then again, he was pursing his lips, this time to suck Molly's right nipple into his mouth.
His right hand was on his wife's left boob, the one he's just treated to a thrilling bath.
"Yes, that's so nice," breathed the raven-tressed beauty. "It feels so good, Martin."
"Oouuhhmm" moaned the slobbering Martin., "It feels so good."
Molly, enjoying the feel of her husband's mouth on her right breast and the feel of his squeezing hand on the other, allowed the sexy ministrations to continue for another minute. And then, she was ready for something else, something even more thrilling than a good tonguing of her boobs. She pried Martin's head up off her eye-catching chest.
"Go down on me now, Martin," the black-haired delight said, holding her husband's head between her hands so that he couldn't look away from her. "Please Martin, I need you to do that tonight."
"But Molly, you know I don't-"
"Please Martin," pleaded Molly, her voice louder than before. "It's been almost a month since you went down on me."
"It hasn't been that long," Martin tried to argue.
"It has. Dammit, I should know Martin. Now please do it for me."
Martin said nothing for a few long seconds. Then, in a soft, almost inaudible voice, "All right, if it will make you happy."
"You know it will."
Yes, and you know how much I dislike eating you, thought Martin, as Molly relinquished her hold on his head, and with obvious reluctance, he started working his way downward, toward the juncture of her creamy-smooth thighs. Was his distaste for cunnilingus so difficult to understand?
"All right, now give me a good going-over down there," saild Molly, when her husband was crouched between her spread legs, and staring down at her secreting snatch. "I want to feel your tongue deep inside me."
Martin swallowed hard, and then, fighting back nausea, bent to his obscene task. Forcing his tongue out of his mouth, he started to lick his wife's oozing slit. Then, tasting her secretions, which many other males would have found pleasant, he pulled his mouth away. He waited a moment, hoping against hope that Molly would suddenly change her mind about being eaten. When it became obvious that she had no intention of changing her mind, he forced his face back down to her brown-haired twat and resumed the task he found so repugnant.
"Come on, Martin, lick me, dammit. Get that tongue moving."
Quickening the pace, Martin worked his tongue up and down and all around his wife's aroused womanhood. The female scent of her, which even he had to admit was not unappealing, started him thinking about his first experience with cunnilingus.
It was twenty-one years ago to be exact, but he didn't think he'd ever forget Wanda, fat, ugly, nymphomaniacal Wanda, a pig masquerading as a girl. The boys in his fraternity who were supposedly his friends, had talked him into visiting Wanda, the town prostitute, for the purpose of testing his sexual ability.
And what a disaster it was, Martin remembered, continuing to tongue Molly's glistening snatch. When it came his turn to mount Wanda, the boys ordered him to perform cunnilingus on her first. Thus it was that he found himself crouched between the ugly whore's fat, fleshy legs, trying not to throw up while he licked her horribly smelly cunt.
Even now, years later, he could remember the awful stench emanating from that hairy, yawning twat, the dizzying struggle he had had to wage with himself in order to keep his mouth on that stinking swamp of a cunt.
The experience made a lasting impression on him. It had resulted in what would surely be a lifelong dislike of cunnilingus. Try as he might, and he treid hard, he could not shake the sick feeling at the pit of his stomach, every time Molly requested the act.
"You're not hitting my clit, Martin," Molly complained.
Obediently, Martin slid his tongue upward, to the apex of his wife's slimy slit, and there found, inflamed and all a-quiver, one blood-gorged clitoris, which he proceeded to punch at wildly with his tongue.
Molly moaned with pleasure and out of frustration. It was all right, she thought, certainly better than nothing at all. But how wonderful it would be to have down there a man who knew what he was doing.
That was one of the first things she was going to find when she was free and out on her own-a man who could thrill a woman to pieces not only with his cock but also with his tongue. There had to be a fellow out there willing to gobble her like crazy. Maybe even stick his tongue up her bottom.
Less than a minute later, feeling faint and unable to continue, Martin pulled his face from his wife's excited pussy. "I'm sorry, Molly. I just can't do it anymore."
"It's all right. Forget it," said the still stunning mother of two. She looked at her husband's prick. She was disappointed and not surprised to discover that it was still soft. Fortunately, she knew how to remedy the condition.
"Maybe in time I'll be able to do it properly," said Martin, still apologizing for his inability to perform cunnilingus without feeling ill.
"I said forget about it, Martin," Molly broke in. "All that concerns me right now is your cock. Lie down and let me work on it for awhile."
Martin did as directed, crawling up the bed and then turning over onto his back as Molly, in a hurry to stiffen his root, maneuvered down the bed to assume a kneeling position between her husband's legs.
Was this the cock of a lusting male, Molly asked herself, a sardonic smile coming quickly to her face, as she took hold of her husband's flaccid member and started fondling it. Not very long ago, in what was almost a laughable attempt to suggest manliness, Martin had threatened to strip and then rape her. Hell, he couldn't rape a blessed thing with this sorry excuse for a prick.
Bending over until she was in a low crouch, Molly set about putting her mate's tool in good working order. Into her mouth went that limp organ, all three inches of it, and then she was sucking hard. Her head bobbed and weaved as she worked quickly and with determination to add another three inches to the noodle of flesh.
Molly's naughtiness was not for naught. In less time than it usually took she succeeded in stiffening her husband's manhood. Slowly but surely the organ swelled in her mouth, becoming longer-and thicker until it was a columnar length of flesh measuring a respectable" six inches.
But still Molly sucked, her cunt now an aching void yearning to be stuffed. As eager as she was to get laid, however, she stubbornly refused to take Martin's tool out of her mouth. For a little while longer, she wanted to enjoy the feel of it pulsating in her oral cavity.
The slightly salty taste of her husband's cock was pleasing as well, and now she wondered, as she had on other occasions, if all pricks tasted the same. It made her sad to realize that she had sucked only two cocks in her life: her husband's and, many, many years ago, before her marriage, the one wielded by Billy Donovan, her first real boyfriend.
And where was Billy now? Screwing every female he could get his hands on no doubt. Using girls and then discarding them. That was Billy's style. At least it was his style seventeen years ago, when she knew him.
And yet, she had given serious thought to marrying him, Molly remembered. But what if she had succeeded in dragging him, kicking and screaming to the altar? Would she be any happier today? Had she married Billy, and not Martin, would the idea of leaving him to fully realize her potential as a woman ever have crossed her mind?
Who knows? And what difference did it really make? There was no sense wondering about what might have been. When all was said and done, the fact remained that in thirty-five years of living, she had opened wide for only two pricks. She certainly had a lot of catching up to do.
"Oh, Molly, that's so good," crooned Martin, breaking into his wife's thoughts. "Your mouth is wonderful."