Chapter 3

Becky Kohn joined her husband's campaign party in Eureka, in the northern timber and fishing country. Mac had called her in Sacramento from Los Angeles the day after he and the secretary had used the property of the Holiday Inn, that is, the desk, "in a manner for which it was not intended," as the maid complained. The gruff, forceful manager had talked to the young, sheltered Virginian wife for over two hours. Ten minutes later, she called Derek, insisted in her most withering upper class drawl that he be called out of the meeting he was in, and asked if she could join him. He agreed in such a warm, enthusiastic, but somehow formal way, that she had the feeling she was listening to a campaign promise.

Linda met her at the airport. Derek was rehearsing a speech he was to deliver in half an hour. His sweet, beautiful wife would meet him there on the platform.

"Mac said Derek missed me," she said to Linda as they drove into town.

"I'm sure he does," the secretary agreed, trying to sound more convinced than she was.

"I wonder why he never phones me then."

"Well," Linda mentally cursed Mac for making her have to answer all the questions he had placed in Becky's mind. "A campaign is very strenuous, as I'm sure you know. A candidate for high office is almost never alone, you see, and I'm sure it wouldn't be much fun for either of you if he called with the room full of dirty old men smoking cigars and adding up poll figures."

"No, I suppose not," Becky considered. "But it would be better than never calling at all."

"I think you'll understand better when you've been with us a few days," the redhead said cheerfully. "And see what the schedule is like."

"When was the last time you were alone with Derek?"

Uh-oh, she'd have to be careful with that one. "Well, let me see," she swerved into the passing lane barely in time to miss a lumber truck, which gave her a moment to think. "I really don't know. When we're together, we're usually so busy that we don't notice if anyone else is there or not."

The fairgrounds were full of people milling around when they drove in and parked in the reserved section. Before they got out of the car, Linda turned to the young wife and said earnestly, "If you need help with anything, be sure to call me. I hope we'll become good friends."

"Thank you," Becky answered shyly. She had a feeling she might need a friend.

Derek was already on the wooden platform, surrounded by men in dark suits and young women in gaily-colored dresses carrying clipboards and sheaves of paper, coffee in styrofoam cups, or, as in one case, a pair of glasses for someone. The candidate himself was the center of attention, and Becky would have had to push through three or four layers of people to get to him, or else call out, neither of which she was prepared to do.

But Linda was an old hand at the business. She took the pretty wife's graceful, manicured hand, and broke a trail through the crowd, trailing Becky behind her. They came up behind Derek, who was engaged in intense conversation with three dark-suited men at once. Linda, without the slightest formality, grabbed hold of his shoulder and turned him around facing them. His eyes lit first on his former girlfriend, now secretary, and beamed a welcome that was not lost on the other woman.

"Here's who you've been waiting to see," she said with a warning scowl.

"Becky!" he cried out, but before he could even start toward her, she heard the click of shutters and the whir of movie cameras. He stepped to her and embraced her warmly, then, with his lips next to her ear whispered. "A big, slobbery kiss for the photographers, dearest. They'll lap it up."

She let him kiss her just as he wanted. She didn't resist, in order not to spoil the show. But she didn't help either, because it was his show. She wasn't too keen on making their marital relations a performance for the whole world.

She had been to the proper finishing schools, and knew how to smile and be gracious on cue, no matter how she felt. And that's what she did. Derek held her hand, and she stood right next to him while gradually everyone but half a dozen men and two or three women were cleared from the platform.

She sat next to him, still holding hands, during the preliminary speeches and his introduction. She smiled her best smile at the photographers, and nodded politely to the others on the stage. She thought they must be local officials, or perhaps candidates for local office.

When his turn came to speak, Derek gave her hand a last pat, and leaned over to kiss her. Again the cameras clicked and whirred. She appeared to be listening intently to every word he said. That was something else they had taught at finishing school. But she was also paying attention to the crowd, and especially the press section, where the reporters were scribbling on their pads, or checking their tape recorders. And the cameras' clicking sounded like crickets, like the crickets back home in Virginia, they were so frequent. They seemed to be liking whatever it was her husband was saying.

Then in the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a man taking pictures of her instead of the candidate for Senate. What's more, he was crouched down at the edge of the stage, looking for all the world as though he were trying to get a picture up her skirt. She blushed suddenly and hastily adjusted her skirt, which ended just above her knees, so that as little as possible of her shapely, cream-colored thighs was visible.

She didn't want to look over there, refusing to draw attention to the incident. But finally, her curiosity got the better of her, and she looked down to see that vulgar, slimy reporter who had insulted her at their home in Sacramento. Simmons, he'd said his name was, from ... she couldn't remember ... The Peeper"! The Voyeur! No, The Viewer, that was it. As she stared in disgust and disbelief, the vile man snapped a picture, then lifted his ugly face from behind his camera and smiled grotesquely at her, and even waved.

The attractive woman's clear blue eyes were riveted on the horrible, little man who had threatened to rape her, when all of a sudden she realized that everyone was looking at her. Even Derek was turned around at the podium and smiling broadly at her. She glanced around in terror, not knowing what she was supposed to do. She should have been listening to Derek's speech!

Behind the podium, out of the view of the audience, and without altering his smile, he motioned for her to stand up. She realized that he must simply have introduced her. She stood up and smiled at everyone while they clapped politely and several men whistled lewdly at her tall, slender curves and the light brown silkiness of her hair.

She tried to listen to Derek after that, but she didn't understand much of it. She wasn't dumb, or uneducated, but she just wasn't very informed about the political issues, especially here in California. He was talking about provisional subsidies to essential industries, and protecting investments and guaranteeing job security and dams and Russian trailers, it sounded like, and all tied in to the numbers of various bills in Congress. But at least she knew when to stand up and applaud.

"You did a good job, honey," he said when he came back to his seat, and gave her another exhibitional kiss and took her hand again when he sat down.

She knew she hadn't done a good job, and wished he'd tell her what to do instead of lying to her. Well, maybe it was just to encourage her while they were in public, and later, when they were alone, they could really talk. But they weren't alone for a long time.

When it was over, he said quietly, "Linda will take you to the hotel. I'll be back as soon as I can get away. Love you darling." And then, after another husbandly kiss on her smooth, lovely cheek, he was gone.

Immediately she was surrounded by reporters, some of them women. She smiled at them uncertainly, but they pressed against her, closing in on all sides of her light, vulnerable body. Someone ran into her breast with his shoulder, pushing the soft fullness against her chest for a moment. She flinched back, and jammed her tender contoured ass into the corner of a reporter's tape recorder hung waist-high from the shoulder.

"Why hasn't a sexy thing like you been with the campaign all along?" One reporter asked, and suddenly there was a swarm of blunt-ended microphones waving and bobbing in front of her mouth, like big, erect penises trying to push in between her lips the minute she opened them to answer.

Becky was a little taken aback at how the question was put, but she tried to answer. "I don't care much for public appearances, but I support Derek with..."

Another question cut her off. It was a woman reporter, who asked, "How is Derek in bed?"

"Why, that's none of your business," she answered, astonished that anyone would ask such a thing.

"Not so good, huh?" Some said, and all the reporters laughed and scribbled in their notebooks.

"No," she objected. "He's fine, but what does that have to do with him being a Senator?"

"Fine how?" Another question shot at her. "Is he big? Does he last a long time?"

People were still pushing against her, buffeting her with pokes and shoves. All of a sudden, she felt something moving up her leg. She gasped and tried to reach down, but there were too many people around her, so she just stamped and kicked until it went away. She looked around for Linda, but couldn't see her anywhere. She wanted to get out of this, quick!

"Are you the one he made a porno film with in

Washington."

"Certainly not!" she exclaimed. "Do you know the woman?"

"To my knowledge," she said in her upper-class drawl, trying to sound very calm. "Derek has never been involved in anything like that."

"Didn't tell you, huh?"

Someone was lifting up the edge of her skirt. She twisted and squirmed, but whatever it was, was still there, now rubbing against the back of her thigh, probing higher and higher toward her buttocks. She lunged forward, and felt hands feeling and squeezing her breasts, and hands rubbing all over her stomach and shoulders, and along her back, working down and patting the tight globes of her backside under her dress.

"Take off your clothes, so we can get some pictures," someone shouted.

She was off-balance now, and had to lean against the lewd probing, feeling hands to keep from falling. There were also hands all over her legs, so she couldn't move them under her. All the time the microphones were bobbing obscenely in front of her face, as though just waiting for the chance to penetrate her mouth. She wondered if she was going to be raped right here in front of all these people.

An image came to her of herself standing in a circle of people, reporters and photographers, with movie camera and television cameras going. And she would be taking off her clothes while they all looked and took pictures, until she was completely naked, right there in the fairgrounds, her tiny bare feet on the rough dirt and the sharp stickers.

Then she would spread her legs apart, and part her tuft of light, honey-brown pubic hair to expose her pink, private lips, and turn slowly to give everyone a good look. Then she would have to choose a man from the circle to come and have sex with her, so they could watch. And all the men were calling her, obscenely, promising to do the most wicked things to her while she was lying on the dirt and writhing on the sharp pebbled and getting stuck with thorns.

In all the noise and confusion, and being tossed around with people feeling her soft, delicious body, she nearly passed out. Then, in her delirium-induced vision, she saw Simmons, that filthy little creature, calling to her, motioning for her to pick him, and waving a big, flesh-colored microphone between his legs. It dipped and strained toward her, and the mouth on the end opened and closed, gaping like a blind worm searching for food.

Then her head cleared a little, and she saw that it was a person's mouth, talking to her from a few inches away, and the microphones still stuck out at her and people were running their hands up and down her long, cream-colored legs, all the way up to her soft, warm crotch, and all over her breasts, and she thought that someone had unzipped her dress and was running his hand over her bare back, pressing her spine and kneading the long muscles that stretched from her rump to the base of her nick, with rough, strong fingers.

And Simmons was there, right in front of her, grinning his vile grin. All she could see was his face. She didn't know what he was doing with his hands.

But for all the horror of her vision, it was also strangely stimulating, and she could feel herself half wanting to give in to it, to let these people look at her. She wanted to be all bare out in the sunshine, and she wanted everyone to see her cunt, and the brown nipples of her large, high, voluptuous breasts. She wanted everyone to see her jerk and quiver in orgasm, to see her abandon her delicate, pampered, satin-skinned body to the mindless ravages of naked, uncontrolled lust.

The sun was blinding her, and it was hot. She could feel the sweat popping out all over her skin, and the sticky moisture make her underclothes cling and rub, or maybe it was all those hands, still groping and chaffing her. She wanted to get out of her clothes.

Out of all that came another question. "How often does one of Derek's old girlfriends come join the two of you in bed?"

And she heard her own voice answer. "He doesn't see them anymore, any of them." Then she was drowned with laughter, through which she heard one voice say "There's at least one he sees every day. And who knows about the night?"

"Who?" the disturbed, young wife asked weakly, but nobody heard.

Then Linda's face appeared in front of her, saying forcefully "No more questions now. No more questions. You've found out all you're going to today."

Becky slowly came back to reality, and felt the efficient secretary push and lead her out of the crowd of milling reporters to the parking lot and into the car.

"They were terrible to me," she said to Linda as they drove to the hotel. She felt a little better now, with the wind blowing through the open window onto her face and neck. But under her clothes, she still felt hot and sticky, especially in her crotch, where her nylon panties were clinging to the chaste, sensitive flesh. She wondered how she could have gotten so wet down there.

"Everything is public," Linda was explaining. "You'll see that we lead completely public lives. Anything is fair game for the press."

"Am I supposed to answer them?"

"You're supposed to answer, but you don't have to tell them anything you don't want to. You'll learn how to do that."

The dismayed politician's wife looked over and examined the secretary's attractive, shapely body, her large, high breasts, and the curve of her ass on the seat, and her legs, with the skirt now slid most of the way up her thigh, with the muscles rippling and playing under the smooth white skin as she maneuvered her feet on the pedals. Quickly she looked away, and then asked tentatively. "Did you know Derek before we were married?"

"You asked for it, kid," the promiscuous redhead thought, and then out loud she said "Oh yes, I was his favorite lover for awhile. None of us could be his favorite for very long. There were too many."

"I know about all his girlfriends," Becky said. "I know he was very attractive to women. But how did you and he..." she suddenly decided to change her question. "How did you two meet?"

"I was at a beach one night when he came along and asked if I was wearing a bathing suit top under my shirt. When I said no, he slid his hand under and starting massaging my breasts. At first I was pissed-off-I mean, he was just a stranger off the beach and I was with some other people-but it felt so good..."

Becky was horrified. "Stop it!" she said sharply. "Don't talk about such things."

"Why not?"

The confused wife of the well-known lover had to think about that. The worst part of it was that she wanted to hear, wanted Linda to tell her all the details, how he kissed her, and caressed her breasts, and, and all the rest. "Well," she stammered. "It isn't proper."

Linda shrugged. Becky sneaked a look again at the confident, sexually-liberated woman next to her in the car. She looked at her breasts again, and saw their plumpness shift, rising and falling, as she turned the steering wheel, and bounce tightly and firmly when she reached down to jerk the gear shift level. She wondered what they looked like without the dress and bra, if they looked anything like her own. She imagined Derek reaching under Linda's shirt to fondle them, pressing his hand down into the fleshy cushions, cradling them in his palm, and rubbing his fingers up over the nipples until they rose into hard pebbles that he could catch and knead between his lips and teeth.

Suddenly, she felt her own nipples pressing into her bra, and realized that her breasts and face were flush with blood. Enough of that! she resolved.

But her eyes traced the curve of Linda's back down to where her skirt was pulled tightly against her ass. She wondered if her own ass looked like that, and thought she could feel eyes sliding down her back and boring into the private curves and crevasses of her ass. She shivered a tiny bit at the thrill of it, as though someone had run a feather down her bare back and was now tickling the tender skin between the globes of her ass. She stirred in her seat, and contracted her buttocks together a couple of times.

Becky's searching eyes could see the bottom edge of Linda's panties under the bunched up dress, running around the smooth column of her upper thigh, so high it was hardly her thigh anymore. But the space down between her legs was hidden in shadow-it gets dark quickly once the sun sets on the ocean-so the curious young wife had to imagine the slight bulge, and perhaps a bit of pubic hair escaping from under the band of elastic. She wondered what color her pubic hair was. She'd have to ask Derek next time she had the chance.

Ask Derek! She could never ask Derek such a thing! What was she thinking of? She firmly turned her eyes out the window, and tried to pay attention to the cars going by in the falling dusk. She tried to ignore an itching in her crotch, but when it wouldn't go away, she pulled her legs together and discovered she had gotten all swelled up, like a balloon partially filled, and pressing her thighs against the wet, warm fullness only made it worse, sending waves of tingling sensation radiating out through her thighs and hips and belly.

Linda noticed her naive companion's discomfort, and sympathized. Thinking about Derek had made her soft and juicy too. She could feel the moisture beading up inside her activated cunt and running down and out across the swelling, hot lips to be absorbed in her panties. But she knew exactly what it was, and what to do about it. If her companion had been a man, she would have pulled the car over immediately. She wasn't much into lesbianism, and even if she had been, she would never have suggested it to a prim, southern aristocrat like Becky. There was only one solution.

She calculated the distance to the hotel, which was a ways outside of town on the freeway, up among the giant redwoods that this area was noted for. Just time, she decided. They would be in fourth gear for a while, so with her right hand, she lifted the wad of skirt around her hips even higher, already feeling an increase in the wetness at her crotch, just from the anticipation.

She rubbed her palm along the smooth surface of her inner thighs, relishing the pangs of delight rushing up to her cunt, and the shivers of electric excitement gathering like water in a dripping faucet at the back of her neck, then suddenly shooting down her spine and piercing the crevice between the cheeks of her ass, then slowly seeping around her crotch to join the growing throb in her cunt. But she didn't have much time for preliminaries, she reminded herself.

She slipped her finger up and under the elastic waistband of her panties and pantihose, the long, pointed fingernails scraping a red mark on the soft skin of her belly. At once she thrust two fingers down through the tangle of pubic hair, feeling the moistness already there, to the mound of her sensual womanhood, and then down farther to the slick, hot lips guarding the entrance to her vagina.

Then she started her caresses, rapidly working her trembling fingers down between the swollen lengths of her labia, sending waves of pure sensuality down into the churning depths of her cunt. Carefully, she probed with her thumbnail until she made contact with the rising nub of her clitoris, then massaged it back and forth with the sharp edge, scraping it gently like a bow on a violin string, so that it vibrated with pleasure, with almost unendurable pleasure, while her fingers were delving ever deeper into the molten slit beneath. She began rocking her whole pelvis in time to her strokes, feeling the warm glow spread down her thighs to her knees and up into her belly like a mound of coals coming to life under the knowing breath of the fire-tender.

Next to her in the seat, Becky was first aware that something was going on when she smelt an odd, but somehow familiar smell, which for some reason reminded her of something wicked, something forbidden, and something very tempting. It came when she had almost been able to put the whole business of sex out of her mind at last. But now it all came back, and the itch in her crotch started all over, growing with more strength than last time, and she could feel a yearning she didn't know was lust pass through her body like a lonely mating call echoing through the hills. She thought there must be something wrong with her, and couldn't wait to see Derek.

Linda was sliding her fingers in and out of her boiling, seething cunt more quickly now, feeling the lubrication of thick syrup cling to her protruding fingers and flow down to soak her panties and dress. She knew it would soak all the way into the car seat by the time she was through. Bolts of sharp quivering delight radiated from the pulsing, burning tissue, and made their way up to her breasts, where blood rushing into the voluptuous globes made them swell and push against the constricting bra.

Her breath was coming faster now, as the clamoring in her convulsing cunt grew more intense, surging through her soft, aroused body. She kept her eyes on the road, and one hand on the steering wheel, and managed to make her trembling leg hold still enough to keep a steady pressure on the gas pedal.

The low rhythmic sounds of panting echoed through the car. The prim, honey-haired, Virginian politely ignored it at first, not even daring to think about what it might be. It was Linda's business, and she knew how to take care of herself. But as it grew louder and more rapid, and Becky could hear the intensity behind the lusty secretary's gasps and sighs, she thought she might be sick or something. If the possibility of her masturbating, right there in the car, on a public road, with someone else, and virtually a perfect stranger too, in the car, if that occurred to her at all, she dismissed it as unthinkable. Still she hesitated to look over at her world-wise companion, though she couldn't have said just why. Maybe she was too concerned with fighting down the rising sensations in her own genitals, the comforting warmth that kept trying to make her relax the tense vaginal muscles, the pressure against her underwear that called out for more pressure, the tingling, swirling pleasure that moved around, playing j ust under the twitching skin of her tight thighs and resisting hips and belly, and even down into the forbidden crack between the billows of her ass, seeming to tweak and irritate her rectum.

But at last she looked over, and was shocked too much even to avert her eyes. The beautiful, sensuous secretary had her dress pushed up over her hips and tucked into the seat belt, and her hand down under her panties! Becky couldn't take her wide eyes off the fascinating, grotesque sight of her hand moving up and down under her panties, quick, hard strokes just barely visible in the deep shadow at her crotch. And she was panting obscenely in time to the lewd thrust of her fingers into her obviously delighted cunt.

Becky looked up to see Linda's back arched, her shoulders pressed against the back of the seat, and her chin down so she could see out the front of the car. Her face was flushed with burning lust, and her eyes were glazed under the heavy, jittering eyelids, and her mouth hung open, only her tongue moved, and the amazed wife watched it curl and roll sensuously inside the open mouth, run the tip across her teeth and the roof of her mouth, and reach out to massage the swollen, tight, shiny lips with its writhing and twisting.

The tall, well-bred, young wife didn't know what to do. She had never, in her sheltered life, been in a situation like this before. She knew she should be disgusted with the obscene display, but somehow, the warm glow in her throbbing cunt, and the thrills of excitement running up and down her tense back wouldn't let her feel that way. For a few minutes, all she could so was watch in fascinated amazement.

Finally she decided that she had to do something. She started to go ahead and ask the question she had turned around to ask, "Do you need any help?" But at the last moment, realized what it would mean in that situation. Just for the tiniest instant, she wondered what the gasping, passion-charged redhead would say.

But then she saw Linda's eyes fluttering and jerking, and the arm that was holding the steering wheel shake uncontrollably, the cords of muscles tightening and loosening under the white skin in lust-induced spasms. Suddenly she was afraid they would crash, that the young hedonist would pass out from her own sensations and drive them off the road into the thick, massive redwoods, or into an oncoming car.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Linda had nearly forgotten the other woman was in the car with her. When she heard Becky's question, she thought she was asking about her orgasm. "Yes, I'm doing fine, thanks," she gasped, and flashed a brief, ragged smile at the pretty woman concerned about her masturbation.

And she was doing fine. Her muscles all felt like water, though they were clasping and unclasping in convulsions of delight all over the rocking, sweating body. She just barely managed to keep her driving arm steady on the wheel, and keep her right foot from jerking off the gas pedal from the wild contractions of her thigh. She got a certain pleasure knowing that the innocent, young wife of her best lover was sitting just a few inches away and watching her masturbate. Maybe Becky would let her watch her someday in return.

Linda was an old hand, especially for a woman so young, and she could sense a climax coming a long time before it actually came. Ordinarily, she could watch it come, feel it growing bigger and more encompassing, with leisure. She could even slow it down, speed it up, make it diminish, and just hold it at a certain point, relishing her power to make it come whenever she wanted to. But now she was in a hurry, and so there was no dallying.

The searing, thick fluids were flowing freely out of the mouth of her vagina now, dripping down her crack to trickle over her anus and then on down to be absorbed in the silky cloth of her panties. The full, red labia were pulsing with the fiery lust her fingers had stoked up, slippery with moisture and giving out raging explosions of pleasure every time her jabbing hand touched their stretched, shiny surfaces. Her hard, sensitive clitoris was so aroused that it felt like glowing metal, and it seemed to be trying to grow bigger than its turgid shape would allow, so that it felt as though it were going to split apart, and a new, bigger hard point erupt from inside, like a katydid bursting its old, dry skin.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Becky's wide eyes and open mouth as she looked from her surging, rocking hips with her hand plunging into the white-hot cunt, to her face with the sweat running down the cheeks, though it wasn't a hot night, and the open mouth sucking in air and blowing it out in increasingly louder shivering, high-pitched moans. It excited her even more, and suddenly she knew she was going to come, in front of this gasping, beautiful, upper-class wife of a soon-to-be Senator. Her moans turned into rapid whimpers as the flow of juices in her churning, molten cunt increased, and her fingers flew in and out of the hidden, secret orifice, down into the depths of her private pocket, as though she could ignite her orgasm as an Indian starts a fire, with just friction and pressure. The boiling, passion-produced nectar poured out over her hand now with loud slurping sounds as her fingers delved into the juicy pocket to milk the smooth vagina walls of their hot liquor, and stroke them into even more intense fires of convulsive rapture.

Then suddenly, like gasoline flaring up all around her, she was engulfed by her climax. A low gurgle started in her throat and quickly rose to a piercing cry that wavered in the highest register her ecstatic, stretched vocal cords could produce. She could feel her body buck and quiver, and the skin all over her body spurt out passion-stirred sweat. Her arm stiffened on the steering wheel, and her foot jerked uncontrollably with a violent spasm of lust, so that she pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The car seemed full of car lights on high beam, flashing at her from every angle. And out there somewhere, beyond the circle of her ecstatic explosion, she could hear a woman scream in terror.

Linda's sight came back before Becky's scream was all the way out, and with a calm deftness, she turned the steering wheel and swerved into the other lane in plenty of time, missing the lumber truck by at least two car lengths, and then swerved back into her own lane in time to let the passing truck whiz by them without having to slow down. She knew what she was doing, and had it timed perfectly.

The young wife, however, was totally unprepared for such things, and burst into uncontrollable tears, partly from the fear of the crash, and partly from her frustration at seeing someone relieve their sexual tensions so easily, so naturally, while hers were still corked up inside her, fighting to get out. She had been feeling the warmth building up in her vagina, and the blood rushing to her breasts and buttocks, and making her face and ears flush and hot while she was watching the self-induced pleasure of her husband's lusty secretary. But she didn't have the control over her body that the young Californian did, and so when Linda reached the height of passion and exploded with orgasm, all Becky could do was scream. Then her fright beat her natural lust back down again, as so many times before, and she was left more frustrated than ever, and crying until the hot tears rolled down her long, smooth cheeks and dripped off her chin.

She didn't say anything to Linda for the rest of the drive, nor even look at her. But it wasn't very long. Soon after the redhead had let the elastic of her panties snap back to her satiated lower belly, the lights of the hotel came into view.

"It wasn't a man," Linda mused to herself, "but it will hold me until I can get one." And she thought she knew where she could get one.

"Get yourself cleaned up, doll," she said to the whimpering honey-haired woman beside her. "We're about to go public again."

Becky groaned in despair. She had been looking forward to sneaking from the car to her room and crawling in bed to wait for her strong, comforting husband to come to her. But it wasn't to be.

It was fully dark by the time they pulled up to the door of the hotel, and when they walked into the blazing lobby, Becky was blinded. Her eyes, which were still aching from her crying, now ached from the light as well. Instantly they were surrounded by reporters.

"When was the last time you slept with your husband?" One yelled at her, making her ears ring.

"Do you have lovers while he's away?"

"Have you been crying, dear?" asked a woman reporter kindly. Becky looked up at her gratefully and smiled, nodding bashfully. The woman put a comforting hand on Becky's shoulder and asked in the same voice "Did she try to rape you in the car? Is that it?"

The young, tortured wife stared at her in outrage. "What a horrid thing to ask."

"Are you two dykes?" someone behind her shouted.

Becky looked around, once again bewildered by the crush of people and the din of shouts and questions being thrown at her.

But this time the experienced, seductive secretary took over at once. "Mrs. Kohn and I have a warm and close relationship, and we are committed to seeing Congressman Kohn elected to the Senate. As for homosexuality," she smiled flirtatiously at some of the male reporters, as though to hint that they knew better. "I refer you to the Congressman's position paper, available at his headquarters on Main Street."

As soon as she stopped talking, the questions flooded in again, but Linda was used to such situations. "Mrs. Kohn is exhausted from the emotional reunion she and her husband, the Congressman, had today, and will not be able to answer any more questions tonight."

The competent redhead ushered the helpless wife through the crowd, fending off reporters with sharp words and an occasional shove in the chest, to the grand staircase with two guards stationed at the bottom to make sure that only guests went up to the rooms. All the way up the stairs and along the balcony, the two sexy women were followed with bellowed questions, and then lewd, suggestive whistles and cat-calls.

At last in her room, Becky burst once more into tears while Linda impatiently tried to tell her what she had to know. "Next to you on this side is my room. If you need any help, just knock, and if I'm there, I'll see what I can do. On the other side is a sort of dormitory for some of the college boys working with us. If they start making too much noise, just tell them to shut up." the shy wife looked doubtful. "All right," Linda said tiredly. "Wake me up and I'll tell them to shut up if you don't want to." She showed her how to call room service, the manager, and so on, and then prepared to leave.

"When will Derek be here?" Becky asked tearfully.

The secretary shrugged. "As soon as his meetings are through. It depends. Some of these country folk are hard to convince, and he's got to keep at them until they come over."

"Do you..." the tormented wife faltered. "Do you and Derek still...?

The redhead gathered her belongings briskly, and just before she opened the door she gave a slight wriggle to her shapely hips and smiled the same smile she had turned on the reporters. "The Congressman and I continue to enjoy a warm and close relationship in the context of his being happily married to a loving and f athf ul wife." And with that, she was gone.

Becky felt completely humiliated, and worn out with emotion and distress. Slowly she took off her clothes, the fine, smooth texture of her dress sliding down the long, pure curves of her shapely leg. And then her nylons, peeling off, so that she was in nothing but her panties and bra. She stood in front of the full-length mirror and looked at herself. Did she look like such a wanton woman that everyone kept making obscene remarks to her?

She brushed her long, light-brown hair until it was as smooth as silk, and flowed down over her shoulders in gracious, appealing curves. There was nothing wrong with her long legs, finely hewed, pleasingly proportioned, and the color of rich cream. She reached down and stroked one thigh gently, to feel its smooth skin and the firm, tight muscles underneath. But immediately that feeling returned to her deep vaginal recesses, that feeling that had almost burst out of her once today. She stopped.

More business-like, she ran her palms down her ribs from her bra to her panties, to make sure she had no flab on her, to make sure she was pleasing to touch on the satin expanse of her flat belly, and the turn of her sides where they rounded deliciously into the sensual, rippling cords of her back. But once again, she could feel herself starting that whole process of wretched lust rising up out of her secret depths to betray her to indecency and disgusting thoughts.

So without touching herself, she unhooked her bra and slipped it over her slender, naked shoulders, exposing her large, high breasts, sumptuously riding firm and proud with their brown nipples contrasting with the rich whiteness of the rounded, full globes, which quivered slightly with every move she made. Even as she watched, she saw them swell a little, and the lovely, inviting skin stretch over their expansion. She saw the brown halos pucker and push the nipples up to standing nibs. She couldn't even look at herself without arousing her body to its loathsome desire. Quickly she stripped off her panties, and tried to suppress the thrill that shot up her spine as her hands whisked down the length of her legs, and the sudden impact of cool air on her crotch, which was still somewhat damp from the car episode. She refused to look at the soft brown tuft of hair covering her vaginal lips, that nearly transparent cloud under which the opening of her desire was kept shut away except for formal occasions, like a "proper child" who was to come and perform when called, but was never to bother the adults with any needs of their own.

She took a cold shower, standing in the freezing rain of water until her body felt hard and calloused as the bark of a tree. She was nearly numb, though underneath, her muscles ached from the cold. She hoped that would quiet the unclean desires that had wracked her body, so she could keep herself pure and unpolluted for her husband. Even her nipples, erected and hardened to pebble-like firmness were almost without feeling, so she could rub the towel over her sensuous curves, even pressing the soft billows of her breast, and rubbing the dangerous place between her spread legs, with no more than a slight, faraway itch of desire, which she had no trouble ignoring.

She put on her short, transparent night gown for when Derek arrived-quickly, she had to think of something else!-and slipped between the cold, smooth sheets and tried to get to sleep before her pleading, sensual body reawakened to its pulsating, unfulfilled desire. But it didn't work. As exhausted as she felt, the tension in her longing muscles would not let her relax. Every time she moved against the smooth sheets, twinges of lust would spring up like sparkles under her soft, smooth, delicious skin, and when she tried to lay still, her restless thighs and shoulders would start to burn and throb, itching until she couldn't stand it anymore. And she couldn't keep her eager, round, firm buttocks from clenching, and catching a fold of the sheet between the haunches and mauling it like a cow chewing cud, until the insides of her ass cheeks, the crack and her tiny, secret anus, were raw and afire with the chafing.

Her full, firm breasts ached, and the chocolate nipples reached out for contact no matter how she turned. Deep between her legs, in the fleshy chamber of her cunt, the skin itched, and cried out to be touched, like skin beneath a cast too long, deprived of its essential contact with other, living, warm and caressing skin. Instead of the numb oblivion she had hoped for, bed was a torture chamber for her delicate, ravaged and neglected body.

She heard a door opening, and immediately sat up in bed. "Derek, at last!" she cried. But it wasn't Derek, and it wasn't her door. It was the door of the room next to hers, and soon she heard the hubbub of young male voices, laughing with that peculiar edge of wildness when someone has worked beyond exhaustion, and entered another period, in which nothing is very serious, and the only reason to be awake and alive is to have fun.

"Set it up here!" She heard a voice call, then another one say "Here's the plug." She tried not to listen, but there was an air vent between the rooms, just covered by a wide grill-this hotel had once been a lumber baron's mansion, and it was rumored that he liked to check up on his young female guests and relatives, and had these see-through grills in many of the rooms. "Who's got some tacks to put the sheet up?" the sound drifted to the lonely, restless young wife.

She really should complain, she thought. The noise would be a good excuse to herself for why she couldn't sleep. Before long she heard the unmistakable whir of a small movie projector. Her curiosity roused, she turned over and saw the flicker of light coming from the vent, close to the floor. Maybe they were viewing campaign television spots, she reasoned, and since she had to learn more about the issues and positions anyway, it would be something to do while she was waiting for Derek to sit by the vent and listen to them.

The projector started making funny noises as she lifted the sheets from her hot, itching body and set her tiny, tender feet on the cool floor, trying not to make any noise.

"Start it over," an eager male voice called from the other room. "And thread it right this time."

She tiptoed to the vent, then squatted down to listen. Her tight little ass was bent double and sticking out from under the short, silky night gown. The air felt good curling invitingly under her crotch, touching the moist slit tucked away under the light brown tuft of her pubic hair. Her ample breasts were pressed against her doubled knees, the soft accommodating flesh oozing out around like two, giant, scrumptious doughnuts, the nipples jammed against her shapely knee, separated by the thin film of her night gown.

When the projector started again, she cocked her head to listen, but could hear nothing beyond the whir of the machine. Then all the avid young college men sighed a long "Ahhhh" of approval all at once. Becky looked down to where the light was playing on her bare feet, almost as though it were trying to tickle them.

She bent down and looked through, her head just a couple of inches above the soft carpet. The first thing she saw was a nude woman shining with a silvery brilliance like the full moon reflected on a quiet lake. The peeping, aristocratic wife gasped before she realized that she was seeing the movie.

What a beautiful woman she was! She had apparently just undressed, leaving on a pair of black hose, held up by a shiny garter made out of black leather, which snaked up her thigh-s, across her swerving, voluptuous hips, and around her thin, flexible waist. Maybe it was the film, or maybe it was Becky's eyes not being used to the light, but the woman seemed still to be shining, gleaming with whiteness. Her smooth, undulating skin was paler than any she had ever seen, in sharp, exciting contrast to the opaque black of the leather bands surrounding her hips. Her hair was long, and platinum blonde, that silvery, shimmering hue that no dye can match, the tiny whip-like ends brushed against her full, round ass, sometimes getting caught between the cheeks as she danced lasciviously on the screen.

From the darkened room, the crouching, silent sexually-starved woman heard the moans and sighs of the watching young, virile workers, enjoying themselves after a long day of campaigning. On the screen, the woman turned and stooped seductively, flirting with her whole body in a way that Becky had no idea bodies could be used. She ran her hands up her firm, flat stomach to her huge, pendulous breasts, cupping them in her palms as she danced, offering their ripe fullness to the audience, then working her fingers up through the firm, luscious tissue to the naked, wanton nipples, their deep pink clearly visible on the pale white globes of her breasts.

"The cameraman must be her husband," Becky thought. The very idea of a naked woman acting that way in front of anyone else, whether it was a stranger or someone who knew her, was abhorrent, yet at the same time strangely tempting to the naive Virginian. She could feel her own breasts getting warm, and her nipples pressing against the delicate bone of her knee. She was too absorbed in the sexy performance to notice.

In the shadows of the room, she could make out dark forms of men, sitting or lying propped up on cots, all their attention focused on the screen. Sometimes a form would shift in the darkness to change positions, perhaps to relieve the growing pressure of their genitals as they responded hotly to the undulating, enthralling woman motioning, spreading her legs to part the platinum hair between them and display with shocking relish the pink slit, glistening in the movie lights, as though inviting them up onto the screen with her.

Then there was someone on the screen with her. The camera had backed up to reveal that she was not dancing in an empty room with just her husband cameraman, but in a circle of leering, lecherous, drooling men leaning toward her on the edge of their chairs, their eyes following her every move.

The shocked young wife felt a shivering, electric thrill race down her spine to her protruding behind, and then another and another, until it felt as though her whole back, and the spread cheeks of her involuntarily clamping and unclamping ass, were dancing with flame, which spread into the crevice between the billowing globes, and around to lodge in the soft folds of her cunt. At once, all the heightened sensation she had fought against so hard for so long sprang into her loins, erupting with a violence born of long, cruel suppression into a churning activity that convulsed the lips of her vagina, and starting pumping them up with coursing blood. By the time the prim wife realized the significance of her quick breaths, and the rhythmic rolling of her yearning, tightening breasts on her knees, it was too late for her to stop the rising tide. Thankfully, it was also too late for her to care anymore about stopping it.

The movie was provocative enough, now that the dancing, naked woman was making her way around the circle, thrusting her hips, weaving her belly and spine into voluptuous curves, molding her quicksilver breasts, kneading them like pale, glistening dough, and running her long, pointed fingernails over the stiff, hard pips of her nipples, just out of reach of the grasping, slobbering, lust-crazed men who, she could see now, were chained to their chairs with large, dull-gray links around their waists. But to see this through a room full of panting, grunting studs was beyond any sensation she had ever imagined.

Becky began massaging the outsides of her thighs, doubled up against her front. She ran a teasing finger around her ballooning breasts wherever they were exposed, and tried to dig down under her knees to reach the hard, rough nipples, at the same time, pressing even tighter with her knees to keep her invading fingers out. Then down her side one of her hands crept, as through stalking across the shallow ridges her curving ribs made in the smooth, cream-colored slope of her skin as it descended to the swell of her hip. Without stopping, she slid her now trembling hand down under, to brush lightly the stretched, convulsing tightness of her posterior, then still farther until, without ceremony, she plunged her fingers through the damp, velvety fineness of her pubic hair and into the quick of her throbbing, slippery cunt.

She let out a moan as her long fingers slid into the waiting, hungry closeness of her warm, hungry pussy, with a slight slurping sound, as though her cunt had been voraciously salivating for hours in anticipation of a meal after a long fast. A low moan escaped her open, limp lips as her hand pressed farther up into her burning crotch, gliding against the slippery vagina walls, stimulating them to greater sensation wherever the merciful probing fingers touched.

The massive, provocative blonde on the screen was letting the chained men touch her now, their evil, clutching hands waving toward her as she passed, coming just close enough so that their fingers could barely brush her thigh, perhaps, or she would bend over and tease a wretched man with her breast, keeping it tantalizingly beyond where he could pinch or squeeze, and he had to stretch until it looked as though his arm would pull out of the squirming, tearing socket, just to be able to run one finger over that lovely, maddeningly close, pink nipple set like a pastel nub of coral at the top of the huge, quivering globe of her breast.

What would that be like, Becky wondered, watching the wanton woman go from man to man, offering herself in tiny bits to the flailing, bucking, kicking, helpless men, to show herself to whoever she wanted, spreading her legs with indecent carelessness, and opening up her red, swollen lips to show them the churning, furnace of her throbbing cunt? Her hoarse panting got louder as her long fingers plunged repeatedly into her scalding, clamoring pocket of released lust, the sundering hand now soaking with the hot, sticky juice flowing down out of her molten intimacy.

But she couldn't get deep enough this way. She plucked her hand out of its liquid paradise and lay down with her side against the furry carpet, her legs bent at the hip, and her back curled so that she could continue to watch the movie, unseen by the roomful of aroused, horny, men. One had caressed and fondled her breasts, while the other quickly returned to her raging, pulsing, blood-swollen cunt. Her whole body gyrated with the accelerating strokes of her eager fingers into her private, sucking depths, and shudders raced up and down her spine, and out her long naked legs to the cute feet, where they curled the toes with a pleasure she had long been seeking, and now finally was going to find.

She suddenly thought of that roomful of vigorous, stimulated young men, their cocks swollen and aching in their pants, wetting the fabric with sweat and pre-climax seeping of hot, thick, white sperm. Their legs must be jerking uncontrollably, just as the legs of the chained men in the movie, jittered and lunged in mindless lust toward the ravishing, savage, naked woman in their midst.

She was letting them feel her now, as Becky would like to let those young studs feel her, squeezing and pressing her breasts until the firm, abundant flesh stretched its pale, shining skin so tight it looked as though it would tear. "They'd love it," she thought, feeling the waves of whirling pleasure spin out of her fiery cunt as her fingers burrowed deeper and deeper with every strong, ecstatic thrust, forcing the living walls of tissue to part before the pointed, sharp nails. "I could just open the door and walk in, all naked and wanton, already hot with lust. I could just stand in front of them all and let them look at me, even let them feel me, let them insert their fingers into my searing, gushing cunt, and press their fingers into my breasts." She could feel her climax starting to coalesce deep in her belly, starting to gather forces for the explosion she knew would shake her to her bones.

The blonde, with her huge, firm breasts quivering and bobbing on her white chest, and swaying and lurching in the most obscene and inviting gyrations of her naked, black-strapped hips, had pulled a key out from under the leather strap around her waist, and was now outside the circle of savagely aroused men. Where a moment before they were striving for all their life to rise and jump into the center of the circle, now they squirmed and twisted to turn around and grab any luscious part of the lust-kindling woman as she came up behind each one and tried the key.

Nobody knew which lock it fit! the writhing, flushed young wife realized. She is going to let one of them loose on herself, and she doesn't know which one it is, and neither do they! She felt her passion flare and roar inside her cunt, coming ever closer to that temperature when she would burst from the strain and her whole universe would be engulfed in the blinding flare of unbound ecstasy.

They were so close, those horny, lonely boys; the closest one was less than a yard away, a deep shadow in the darkness. They were panting now too, and probably thought that her panting was from inside the room, as though she were already there among them, naked and willing, thrusting her burning, juice-spewing cunt at them, spreading the aching cheeks of her ass, to let them see, let them run their fingers over the tight, dark pucker. They wouldn't care. She wouldn't care. Derek-the twinge of conscience evaporated in the inferno of her passion, like a drop of water in a blast furnace-if he cared, he'd have come to her by now, even if he walked in and saw her like this, shiny with sweat and the nectar of her flowing cunt, her creamy skin flushed pink with lust, and her delicate, aristocratic fingers thrust obscenely between the scalding, red, swollen lips of her throbbing, wanton, finally liberated cunt.

The woman on the screen was bent over now, back in the middle of the circle, her legs spread wide and her hands resting on a short stool. The released man had shed his wrinkled, sopping clothes, and was fucking her from behind while all the others watched, still chained to their chairs. His long, thick cock was visible as it drove into the soft, clammy wetness of her cunt, and back out again, covered with slimy fluid that made the veined, purple shaft glisten and shine. His legs jittered as he thrust his strokes into her molten passage, which seemed to be sucking it, for the crimson folds clung to his hammering penis as though to keep it buried in its living, boiling sheath. Every savage lunge he made, the lust-filled big blonde jerked back against him, making her pendulous breasts vibrate and swing with the compelling tempo of their violent coupling. Her pure white skin was pink now with the flush of her red-hot blood, and the juice from her cunt was trickling down the inside of her thighs.

The young wife, now in the mindless throes of her long-awaited stimulation, began uttering sharp, high cries with every quick jab of her fingers into her surging, inflamed vagina. She could no longer keep her eyes focused on the movie screen, and her whole attention was now on her own mounting ecstasy, the screaming nerves at every point of her hot skin, and the convulsive heaving of her throbbing, buzzing cunt.

She thought she had put everyone else completely out of her mind, but she found out different abruptly when she heard a voice just inches from her call out in a whisper. "Who's there?"

That discovery put her over the edge. The glowing compression of her orgasm, concentrated at the deep, secret tip of her vagina, began to expand, more and more rapidly, like a star exploding and vaporizing everything in its path. Just before she lost all her senses in this fiery ball of rapture, she heard the voices.

"Hey, fella's, c'mere. There's someone in the next room. I think it's a woman, doing it to herself."

She came to herself a moment later, with the warm afterglow of her climax still in her satisfied body.

"D'ya wanna come over?" a youthful, eager, trembling voice was saying, as though right into her ear. "Yeh, come on over," several other voices echoed. "Maybe we can help you out, you know," the boy was pleading. "Or at least watch," another one called. "We've got some wine, and about half a joint of fine Columbian. You can have it all. Hello? Hello?"

The retiring wife of these boys' champion and hero lay completely still on the carpet, too terrified to move. Now that she had relieved her passion, all her social inhibitions had come swarming back like flies on a dead bird. What if they found out who it was? Without a sound, she made her way into the bed and fell down a long, dark, weightless tunnel into sweet, sweet, oblivion.