Chapter 1

The closing credits of the last soap opera of the afternoon were flickering across the screen of the color TV when Connie James pushed up from her armchair and turned the set off. After the "Sands of Time," there was nothing on but game shows and Connie couldn't stand game shows. She really couldn't stand the soaps, either, but there was nothing else for her to do after lunch these days.

The pretty young redhead sighed. She didn't want to read. She didn't want to work on her crocheting or needlework. She didn't want to stick around in the damned house any more, but she had no choice. As her husband, Bill, said whenever she began to complain about her plight, the addition of the deck and guest room onto their home was all her idea, so she was expected to take care of things. With the TV off, she could hear the drone of the saws, the staccato hammering noises the construction men were making downstairs. It had been her idea, all right, but she never dreamed that a deck and a guest room would make her a veritable prisoner in her own home!

The reason she was a prisoner was because Bill refused to allow her to go out while the construction workers were in the house, fearing that they might make off with some of his little treasures. Bill collected antique firearms and edged weapons. That the collection was insured to the hilt didn't phase her husband. To him, many of the objects were irreplaceable.

If Bill hadn't been so cold to her lately, maybe Connie would have been able to handle the enforced solitude. Whenever Bill was around any more, which wasn't often, he really wasn't there. He was off in some private world of his own, thinking about his business or his collection, or God knows what. What hurt the most was that he hadn't so much as touched her for two months.

Connie didn't miss the bitter irony of her situation. In the early days of her marriage, she had actually prayed for such a thing. That was when she was new to

Bill, new to sex. She'd been a virgin up until the first night of their honeymoon and for years after that, she dreaded his hand creeping across the bed at night, dreaded the hot, hard pulsing of his erect penis against her bottom, the huge, thick instrument that only caused her pain.

In recent months, however, a change had come over her. The awful pain was no longer so distracting; she began to actually take pleasure from their lovemaking for the first time. She couldn't explain it, herself. It was either a function of the eventual stretching of her vagina by his big cock, or it was a function of her age, of the ripening of her womanly needs as she approached.

Either way, it was both painful and puzzling that just as she started to respond to him, to move with him, instead of just laying under him like a warm corpse, Bill totally turned off to her. It brought to light a fear of hers that she had only been dimly aware of, that if she became active in their fucking, writhing, moaning, and the like, it would only repulse him. What she was afraid of showing was her "real" self.

Connie wasn't hungry, but she decided to go downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. That way, she could check up on the workmen without being too obvious. As she walked down the stairs, the din of the machinery became louder. The whine of the table saw was earsplitting. It was always a shock to her when she rounded the corner of the downstairs hallway and looked into her living room, or what was left of it.

Because the rear deck was to run the full length of the house, because she wanted sliding glass doors leading to it from both the living room and the kitchen, huge portions of the back wall had been ripped out. It looked like someone had gone at it with a bulldozer, leaving jagged, splintered ends of the lathing sticking out of the shattered plaster. All of the furniture was covered, of course, and the rug was protected from the debris by sheet plastic, but every time she looked in on the ruin, she got a little catch in her throat. There was another reason for that catch, too.

"How-dy, ma'am!" shouted a man wearing white carpenter's bib-front overalls and no shirt. He had a powerful physique and a sexy, tawny suntan. His curly blonde hair was flecked with bits of plaster and wood chips, as was the darker, brownish hair on his chest and arms.

He was the other reason for Connie James' catch. His name was Luke Gruber. Along with his two brothers, Tom and Rod, he owned and operated the Gruber Brothers Construction company, which had been contracted to do the room addition and the deck. To Connie's way of thinking, Luke Gruber was almost too good looking to be a man. With those pale blue eyes, that classic profile, that sensuous, slightly sneering mouth of his, he looked more like some ancient Roman god. Connie did not like to think about Luke, thinking about him made her feel strange, kind of weak in the knees. It was a feeling that she'd never had around husband Bill.

"Hello," she said, softly, her words totally drowned out by the whine of the machinery.

Luke turned away from her and shouted at the man behind the table saw, waving his arms for the machine to be shut down. The man at the saw was Luke's brother, Tom. Tom was much bigger than Luke, a hulking brute of a man. His features were much heavier, coarser than Luke's and his hair was frizzy and receding at the temples. He, too, was wearing white carpenter's overalls, but he had a skin-tight, muscle T-shirt on under them. He scowled at Luke, but dutifully shut off the saw.

"Sorry, Mrs. James," Luke said, turning back to her. "I couldn't hear a word you were saying."

When he smiled at her like that, Connie's insides went to jelly. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words come out. She felt her face starting to blush and she knew that Tom was staring at her and she didn't want to blush in front of him, to show him what Luke could do to her with just a look.

"I want to know how much longer you're going to be at it today," she said, channeling her anger at herself into anger at the workmen. "I've got a bad headache and the noise is making it worse."

Tom and Luke exchanged looks. Connie felt like a fool, a total idiot. He always made her feel like that, always made her do something stupid, made her say something she obviously didn't mean, made her appear spoiled, whining and bitchy.

"Gee, Mrs. James, we've got ourselves a full day's work ahead of us," Luke said. "If you want us to finish on schedule, we've got to keep at it. Maybe you could take an aspirin and go out or something?"

A short, wiry man in carpenter's whites and a striped T-shirt stuck his head through the hole in the wall. "Hey, what's the hold up?" he asked. "Did the frigging saw break down again?" The short man was the last of the Gruber brothers, Rod. He was also the oldest. He wore a baseball style cap to cover his baldness. Across the crown of the cap was an embroidered patch bearing the trademark of Harley Davidson motorcycles. Rod was thin to the point of gauntness and he lacked the strong, jutting chin that his brothers had.

Luke winced at the profanity and made a gesture with his head to indicate to Rod that the lady of the house was present. Rod looked at her, his eyes traveling casually down from her face, down over the firm, jutting mounds of her breasts under the tight-fitting, lavender tube top, down over the band of smooth bare skin that separated the bottom of the tube top from the top of her loose fitting, purple satin gym shorts.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said, looking hungrily at her long, slim legs.

It amazed Connie how lucky Luke had been. Not only had he gotten all the good looks in the Gruber family, but he'd gotten all the class, too. Rod was weak, creepy, and the way he was eating up her legs made her skin crawl. Tom was creepy, too, but in a different way. Where she could visualize Rod blackmailing a woman into submitting to him, weaseling his way between her legs, Tom was the kind of man who would use his brute strength to force a girl to give in, the kind who would enjoy a nice, violent rape.

"I don't know what else to say, Mrs. James," Luke told her, apologetically. "We can't work without using the saw. It just isn't possible."

Suddenly, Connie couldn't take their staring at her any more. "Never mind. Do what you have to," she snapped. She turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen, fuming at herself for caring what the workmen thought of her, what Luke thought of her.

As she reached out to turn on the water faucet, to run water into her teapot, she heard a burst of raucous male laughter from the living room. The saw hadn't started up, yet. There was nothing to hide the brash noise. She couldn't exactly make out the words they were using, but there was something in the tone of their merriment that cut her to the core, that told her she was the subject of their joke. Infuriated, she slammed down the teapot and started back to the living room door. As she drew closer to the room with the laughing men in it, her resolve to do something, to stop them, faltered. She tiptoed the last ten feet to the door and leaned her back against the wall. She could hear, then, hear it all far too well.

"Man, what I'd give for a piece of that tight little ass!" Rod said, smacking his lips lewdly.

"I bet she'd go wild, too," said Tom. "What do you think, Luke?"

"Yeah, she looks like the type," Luke said.

Connie's face flushed with embarrassment and shame. It wasn't true! It wasn't fair! She wanted to round the corner, to yell at them to stop talking about her like that, to tell them that they were wrong about her, about her "type," but she remained there, pinned to the wall by her own, nagging self doubts, by the fear that they were right.

"It's take the right kind of man to bring her around, though," Luke added with authority.

"like you, I suppose?" Rod said, a nasty edge to his voice.

"You said it, brother, not me," Luke answered.

Connie's head reeled. The handsome carpenter knew he had power over her, knew what she had up to this point tried to keep from herself . . . that she did want him, that she did want to have sex with him, that she wanted to moan and writhe and scratch under him like a cat in heat, like she had never done for Bill. Her heart pounded so hard against her chest that it frightened her.

"Suppose you did, Luke," Tom said eagerly. "Suppose you brought her around. Would you share the wealth?"

Luke laughed.

"Come on, man," Rod said. "Answer him. If you got the little lady going, would you let him and me fuck her after you were done?"

Connie pressed herself even harder against the wall, her eyes shut tight, her head shaking back and forth, back and forth. "No, no, no, no," she moaned softly, prayerfully.

"Hey! What are brothers for?" Luke answered.

The coarse, braying laughter that followed his response was painful for Connie to hear, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation and indignation she felt at learning that her fantasy dreamboat had no more real class than his creepy brothers, that if she gave herself to him, as she had been almost considering, he would use her like a toy, a bit of fluff, then pass her off to his brutal, animalish brothers.

Then the table saw started up again, cutting off the sounds of the men in the living room with its piercing whine. Connie pushed away from the wall and bolted up the stairs, her tea long forgotten. She ran into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her, locking it, then throwing herself down on her bed.

For two months, her fantasy of Luke as the ideal lover had been all that kept her going. It was all she had to look forward to. She refused to let it go, to admit that she'd been wrong about him, about the kind of man he was. She told herself, through her tears, that what he'd said he hadn't really meant, that it was the kind of thing that men said to each other when they were trying to make an impression, to build up their own egos. If she and Luke were really alone, really intimate, she told herself that everything would be different, that he wouldn't even think about giving her away, that he'd want to keep her all to himself. She knew that she could be that good for him, that if she really let loose, released the seething passion within her, she could drive him crazy; she could be the perfect lover. She wanted to let loose, too, wanted it so badly that it was a gnawing hunger in her belly, a sweetish taste in her mouth.

Connie groaned softly. She could feel the tingling itch of her own unrequited lust begin to taunt her, burning between her slender thighs, sweeping up over the summit of her pubic mound, licking at her soft tummy. She told herself that she wasn't going to do it today, that she wasn't going to let herself, that she had to fight the degrading urge, but even as she thought that, even as the resolution formed in her mind, the burning sensation blossomed, sending waves of pleasure rushing over her belly and down her thighs. She groaned again and rolled to her back.

Her hand went automatically to the front of her stylish satin shorts, fingers dripping in under the elastic waistband, in under the waistband of her bikini panties. Her fingers slipped down over the silky skin of her tummy, stopping when they touched the soft, curly hairs atop her mound.

There was a fever raging in the pretty redhead's skull and her breathing was hoarse and ragged. It wouldn't hurt, it couldn't hurt, she told herself, to do it just a little. Just a little. Just to make the pressure go away.

For an instant, she felt a sudden upsurge of revulsion at what she was about to do, but she stifled it. She had already given in, her decision was made. She quickly pushed the shorts and panties down over her flaring hips and wriggled out of them, tugging them down over her long, smooth legs and kicking them off her feet. Then she took hold of the top of her tube top and jerked it down to her waist, spilling out her firm, up-thrusting white breasts.

"Oh, Luke," she murmured, her fingertip teasing round and round the quarter-sized, soft pink ring that capped her right breast. In her mind, it was not a finger that was making the delicious tingles of ecstasy explode over that soft bud, that was making it pucker and stiffen into a long, crinkly stub; it was Luke Gruber's mouth, his lips and tongue working passionately over her nipple, loving it tenderly.

She began to pinch at the hardened nub of flesh, her mind full of fantasy. She was pretending that it was Luke plucking at her nipple, nipping it gently with his teeth.

"Ooooh," she cooed, throwing her head back, her eyelids fluttering shut as the waves of pleasure intensified, as the bonfire between her legs raged.

She sucked in air between her clenched teeth as the fingers of her left hand began to lightly search the coppery fleece of her pubic vee for the moist, deepening slit of her pussy. Again, it was not fingers she imagined, not fingers tracing the soft, puckering outline of her vaginal lips, brushing over the silky hairs; it was Luke's mouth, lips, tongue. She imagined that the handsome man was kissing her right on the pussy! That his smooth cheeks, the soft curly hair of his head, were brushing the insides of her widely splayed thighs! That she could feel his hot breath gusting over her lewdly displayed cunt and buttocks!

"Yes, Luke, darling!" she moaned. "Yes!! "

The teasing pressure over the swelling petals of her pussy was driving her wild, fanning the flames of the inferno between her legs. She could feel the lips of her vagina start to part under her fingertips and there was moisture, deliciously thick, hot, viscous moisture.

"Harder, Luke! Harder!" she gasped to the phantom lover she imagined was slathering his mouth over her cunt. Her hand was jammed down between her thighs, feverishly rubbing, palm down, over the hummock of her pussy, hotly insinuating her own fingers into the deepening slit, the blazing cleft. And as she did, her legs scissored open and closed, wrapping tightly about her fondling hand.

In her salacious sex fantasy, Luke Gruber was the ultimate lover. He was licking and sucking at the wetly parted petals of her cunt, pushing the tip of his tongue into that creamy pink crevice, teasing round and round the faintly fluttering mouth of her pussy. He was doing things to her that Bill had never dreamed of doing, making her feel things that she hadn't dared to believe possible. His hands were sliding all over her buttocks and thighs, caressing them, kneading them as he feasted noisily on her open vagina. Even the sloppy, sucking sounds he was making excited her. And she found herself starting to move, to not only thrash her legs, but to twist her hips up against his handsome face, to make her trembling pussy rub all over it.

"More! More!! " she squealed. In her mind, she peered down over her heaving tummy, down between her legs, and watched him eat her cunt. Her juice was smeared all over his face and her ass-cheeks were bucking in his hands, mashing the pinkly gleaming lips against his mouth and tongue.

Her dream lover obeyed. He pushed the tip of his tongue deeper, forcing it through the quivering aperture, into the marvelously slick and sticky passage.

Connie stiffened as she felt herself penetrated, then she went berserk. Her legs were straight up in the air over her head, her bare feet waving frantically, as both her hands worked feverishly between her nakedly splayed thighs. She had the pinkish moist folds of her cuntal flesh parted with the fingers of one hand, while she greedily plunged the middle finger of the other one in and out of her vagina.

Her pussy made nasty, farting noises about the plunging finger, sucking at it, convulsing around it, as it sawed over the nerve-filled bud of her clitoris. Connie didn't care about the obscene suck and slurp sounds. Her guilt was gone. All that mattered was her finish, her climax.

"Unnnf! Unnnf!" she grunted, her face twisted up into a little fuck pout as she was swept away. In her mind, Luke's tongue was darting a mile a minute, delving deep into her tight pussy, and his open, gaping mouth was smacking hard against her wet mound as he bobbed his head maniacally.

Then it happened. She captured the oily marble of her clitoris between the slippery pads of her thumb and forefingers and rolled it about, fast-pumping it as the top of her head was blown away, as the bottom of the world dropped out from under her.

"Uhhhh!! ! " she wailed. Joy exploded between her legs and she fell backwards, head over heels into darkness. Though she whimpered and sobbed like a little lost child, she was not aware of it. There was only the devastating pleasure bursting like skyrockets between her ears. Though her pussy spasmed violently under her masturbating fingers, the whole length of that wet channel rippling with sensation, she was not aware of it. There was only the blackness, the sense of falling at a terrible speed, and the ecstasy.

Gradually, the feeling of pleasure began to fade, the mind-boggling peaks flattening out, giving over to a deliciously smooth sensation of fulfillment. Connie's hips stopped bucking up from the bed and she lay still, except for the heaving of her chest as she fought to catch her breath. Lazing in the aftermath of her orgasm, the pretty redhead slipped off into a light, contented sleep.

She only dozed for about five minutes. When she awoke, she did so with a start. Her hands were still down between her thighs, her fingers all gooey from the flow of her lubricant. Indeed, the slippery stuff had trickled down from the mouth of her pussy, down into her tight asscrack.

"God!" she groaned, jerking her hands away, feeling the awful, nasty wetness between her fingers. Instantly, as always, waves of guilt poured down on her, smothering her. She was so weak! So pathetic!

Sobbing, hating herself for what she'd done, Connie rolled to her stomach on the bed. She buried her face in the coverlet and had a good long cry. She couldn't go on like this, she knew, go on torturing herself, debasing herself in such a shameful way to get satisfaction. It wasn't fair that Bill didn't want her any more! It wasn't fair that now that she needed him so desperately her was ignoring her, driving her to fantasies of making love with other men, driving her to masturbation! Unless she did something, did something drastic, heaven only knew what she'd resort to! She sat up on the bed, grabbing a kleenex from the box on the nightstand and mopping at her tear-reddened eyes. She was going to have to confront Bill, to make him understand, to make him make love to her.

Connie shivered, though the room was quite warm. A chill rippled up her spine as she realized that this might, indeed, be her last chance to save her marriage.

"Hurry home, Bill," she said, aloud. "Please, hurry home!"