Chapter 4

A crackling fire splattered orange tongues of warm light over the rustically chic interior of Paul and Zelda Comstocks's three bedroom cabin inconspicuously snuggled in the lush meadows skirting the Grand Teton Mountains, south of the national park boundaries. In sunlight one could see mottled splashes of Indian Paintbrushes, Buttercups, Blue Bonnets and other ground-hugging wild flowers spread across the smooth green canvas like a Monet painting. Tonight, from their living room window the dark night skies made invisible the craggy granite peaks, save for the white snow caps jutting up to kiss the white quarter moon. The view, day or night, was a picture postcard too perfect for reality.

Zelda sat on the over-stuffed sofa sipping warm cognac from a crystal snifter, her black transparent peignoir hanging like shaded mist over her fine, lithe body that belied her thirty-eight years. Her burgundy painted toes played with the bear skin rug strewn sacrificially on the bare wood floor, now and then poking her toes into the dead gaping mouth to run her toe nails over the needle teeth in a teasing, contemptuous manner. Beside her sat Paul, her husband, a marvelously maintained man for his forty-two years, comfortably casual in a raisin brocade smoking jacket that accentuated his frosted temples. He, too, sipped at cognac and blew puffs of rich smelling cigar smoke into the flame-warmed air.

The living room oozed of comfort and citified affluence, despite the bucolic decorative touches: raw A-frame ceiling beams, hand-hewn furniture winking imperfectly with knot holes, the trophy moose head hanging above the stone fireplace. These smatterings of earthiness fell short of convincing one that its inhabitants had ever hiked a trail or fished a stream or ridden a horse. Its opulent existence, so incongruous with the primeval setting, seemed to challenge nature, daring her to interfere with the profligate easy lifestyle carried on behind its locked doors. Now, in the chill of the night the Comstock's pure bred Palomino horse bayed at the moon as if calling to his negligent master whom he had seen once-the day of his purchase.

The Comstocks took interest in nothing around their summer home except their perverse social inclinations. Jack, a broken up rodeo rider crippled with rheumatism, looked after the horse and lived in a converted section of the barn. Two maids who, like mindful children, were seldom seen and seldom heard, were kept on call to cook the meals and clean the house. They lived in the guest house out back. The Comstocks loathed interruptions, though their weekend escapades with selected guests were a hot subject between the maids.

Paul eyed his wife's luscious curves, feeling his pants bulge tightly as she bent over to rest her succulent lips on his and his hand snaked up underneath her flimsy gown, pushing the hemline abruptly up her thighs.

"Oh, you beast.. . you lovable beast!" She jumped forward trying to ensnare more of his playful fingers coursing their way along the silken sensitive insides of her thighs. "I should think you'd had enough with our insatiable house guest, darling."

"Sonia has a delicious ass, my dear, but nothing compared to your sweet buns." He grinned lopsidedly around his cigar and continued his rummaging between her naked thighs. "And what about Guy? Did you find his penis as hard and hot as your husband's or have I spoiled you?"

"Yes, baby you've spoiled me," purred Zelda, spreading her legs to let her husband have full play down in the fuzzy nest of her vagina. A bored expression tightened her aristocratic features, despite the fact that her husband's two longest fingers were ramming furiously into her seeping pussy still oozing with another man's cum. "They are terribly boring, don't you think? Her greedy groveling free-loading ambitions make me sick to my stomach, and that simpering husband of hers is a crashing bore. Really, Paul, couldn't you have found better company for the weekend? I'm not sure I can cope with another tedious evening of group sex with those social climbers."

As she stopped talking, the room fell silent save for the fire's crackle and the wet sluicing sound of her husband's boring fingers goring into her wide stretched cunt. Her eyelids fluttered sensuously as she gave into the lewd ministrations and a slow almost perceptible smile crossed her rouged lips. She closed her eyes and moaned softly.

"Darling, you're doing it to me again, you devil!" Zelda gritted her teeth as she felt the old feeling drifting through the tips of her sizzling nerves. Fortunately she had a husband who understood her perfidious delight in sex and in their unique relationship they hid nothing from each other. Yes, by common consent they had their little affairs but had never let them get beyond the physical stage. They shared everything, including sex partners.

"Ohhhhhh," she moaned again as Paul's hand was running the full silken length of her vaginal crevice, sending chills of sensation rippling across her skin. "Do you wanna be eaten alive?" she teased, her dark sparkling eyes dancing.

"Eaten, yes, baby, but not alive," he joked, twitching his finger again into the slightly squirming slit.

"What . . . we need for our parties," she gasped, her cheeks flushing from the erotic sensation down between her legs, ". . . is some fresh blood. Something . . . ahhh, God . . . to . . . to add spice . . . like . . . oh Jesus, Baby . . . like a virgin."

Zelda reached her hand down and touched the swollen bulge in her husband's pants, knowing there would be a long night ahead of her for the two of them while their house guests slept in a separate bedroom.