Chapter 6
The last day of the year was ripe with womanly misery.
While Mona Bradley suffered the twin ravishment of two middle-aged sex hounds pawing over her body like so much trapped meat, Blanche Harrington mopped her sniffling nose in the off-limits territory of Hugh Murphy's business office. Slumped dejectedly in his rich-smelling leather chair, her fingers fumbled with the controls of his video machine wired to his private office and the lingerie fitting rooms for private when the mood hit.
"Damn," she hissed as the picture flickered twice, turning to snow, and then blackened in finality. "The tubes out! I was right... that bastard is fucking other women in there! Right under my nose. Her eyes narrowed to watery slits. Jealousy and deep hurt fired her body with red-hot hatred. Once rejected was rule number one in the game called life, but to be twice deceived was heartbreaking. Tears tickled down her rouged cheeks and nervously, she brushed back a lock of curly brown hair that had straggled across her forehead.
I knew Hugh used that office to scandalize women... I've been in there myself more than a few times. But had Nick no more pride than to follow his boss puppy-dog-like in after him, eating the crumbs from his master's table?
Up until the moment the tube knocked out, Blanche watched as her husband stripped down the lusciously tanned woman accused of fraud and sucked on her breast. To suspect is one thing, but to see is quite another and an unexpected flicker of hatred bolted through her body. Though Blanche had sworn off Nick as a no-good woman monger who'd fuck a snake if he could find a place to put it in, he was still her husband. Could it be that her affair with Hugh Murphy was merely a decoy for her real emotions? Had it been too painful in the past to confront Nick's philandering... and that presented an excuse for her to even the score?
Blanche gave the machine an angry slap, hard enough to rattle the tubes... to no avail. All that remained of the taped sex orgy next door was the tiny voice of Mona Bradley screeching: "Ohhh, that hurts!"
One ear to the crackling speaker, Blanche visualized her lover's enormously thick penis slamming deep into that unseen woman's nakedly exposed vagina and she knew how that felt. Sometimes it still hurts me when he shoves his cock in!
Hugh was speaking: "Believe me... you'll be glad I took the time for this! Now get up on your knees with your tanned little ass in the air. I'm gonna fuck you doggie-style!"
Rustling, indistinct sounds came over the speaker, then, two or three moments later, the woman cried out: "NO! You're too big!"
Oh, he didn't have it in her yet!
Silence. Blanche's face flushed. God! He's such a dominating bastard. There was a tiny spark of sympathy for the poor woman in there... and unwanted, she felt her own loins begin to glow with an unexpected arousal and her inner cuntal lips moistened slickly. She resented her response. Damn! I'm getting hot... listening to my lover fuck a strange woman while my husband sits by!
"Reach back up and put that baby in!" Hugh commanded.
Crack!
He hit her, the sonofabitch. Mona Bradley screamed, and Blanche had no difficulty imagining how he had thrust his hotly throbbing cock deep up into Mona's cringing cunt.
"Come on, put that damn cock in your cunt, bitch... Relax, honey, it's gonna happen now, so relax and enjoy it. That's what it's made for." Hugh's voice was more gentle now. I don't think I've really ever gotten used to it! Blanche could almost feel it herself.
From the speaker came Mona's passionate moan: "Oh Gawd! It doesn't hurt now... so fuck me! Oh, God, Hugh, fuck me!" Blanche thought about how often she had begged her employer just as abjectly.
Mona Bradley: "Wh-what?"
"Suck my cock, bitch." Blanche sat up erect at the unmistakable sound of her husband's voice. So the bastard doesn't want sloppy seconds, huh...? He's going to shove it in her mouth. Nick always was selfish.
"B-but... suck it?" Mona was questioning.
"This is known as a double-fucking. Don't play ignorant with us." Nick's trying to sound like a big shot now... just to impress Hugh.
Another crack. He hit her, the bloody bastard!
"Open your mouth, Mrs. Bradley." Following a moments silence: "Take it easy and use your tongue."
She's got him in her mouth now!
Blanche sat with one ear glued to the speaker, right up to the moment when Hugh Murphy revealed his secret plan. "That was something else, hon. You're going to enjoy working as my private secretary when Nick here gets transferred to Fairbanks and takes his wife with him."
Blanche turned hot, then cold with anger. The prick's gonna fire me! she stormed, and hire that little blonde hussy. And Nick never said a word about it! Damn both of them!
Flicking off the machine, Blanche stomped out of the office grabbing her coat and purse before she realized she couldn't get home. Damn this stupid snowstorm... stuck in this dumb department store with two men who treat me like dirt... work like a slave for them, and what do I get? Blanche Harrington harbored no doubts as how to even the final score. Since that day Nick began working here, her life had turned into a pinball game, knocking around balls and winning points. Damned ridiculous...
The pressure of Blanche's angry stomping feet caused one of her skinny spike heels to wedge in the escalator step's groove on her way down to the third a men's floor, now a men's smoker blue with cigarette and cigar smoke. Humiliated and frustrated, she slipped her tiny foot of the trapped shoe and bent down to wiggle it free, the lines of her tight wool kick-pleated skirt hugging her buttocks like wet jersey. Fourteen sets of eyes turned from the television screen in a chorus of howled wolf whistles and laughter, making Blanche hiss with disgust. She arched her back, hands on her flaring hips and blasted them for their inconsideration. "What's the matter with you men, anyway? Isn't one of you gentleman enough to help a lady in need?"
Dan looked boorishly up from his card hand, cigarette dangling from his lips. "That woman's always bitchin' about something," he muttered across the card table and slapped an eight of spades on Orin's king of hearts, trumping it. "She's Murphy's private secretary. Gorgeous piece of ass, but don't try to touch it... she's all mouth, just a bunch of steam."
Blanche's professional credentials didn't interest Orin, her physical ones did: in particular, the svelte outline of Blanche Harrington's D cup breasts and waspish waist, pulled Scarlet O'Hara tight by a slim gold belt. Orin had never messed around on his wife, though more than one desperate female had offered her services in exchange for pounding out a dented bumper still hot from collision. This woman was twice as pretty as any of them, and needed help just as badly. Conceding the game to Dan, Orin hustled toward the escalator, now powerless for safety's sake, his pulse quickening as his heart pumped gushing blasts of hot blood to his rising penis. Orin felt hot and cold at the same time as his blue eyes closed in on the outline of two beige nubs poking out from under the sheer silk blouse Blanche wore. Something about her alabaster, flawless skin with impossibly firm bosoms reminded Orin of the manikins down on the first floor freezing in their see-through negligees, and he shivered.
"My name's Orin... pleased to help you, ma'am." He might have been speaking to a customer at the filling station, so polite was he. With little effort, he wiggled the spike heel free, then held her hand-too soft to have ever touched dish suds-while she balanced her way back into the Italian spike heel shoe. His kind gentility impressed Blanche, but she was too ridden with male contempt to soften.
"Nice to know there's one decent man in this damned world," she snorted and stomped off down the first floor lingerie department where she correctly predicted Sondra Murphy to be pawing through racks of negligees and peignoirs. Everybody knew Murphy's wife spent a good deal of time in bed... and not alone. Her penchant bordering on fixation for see-trough nightgowns and underwear was unheralded in Joseph's Department Store and the list of these items that passed Blanche's desk every week was
cause for scandal.
Sondra wasn't alone in her love for the sheer things in life, for right beside her stood a pot bellied lady whom Blanche readily recognized as the food monger who'd scarfed up all two dozen crab legs that first night of the whiteout when the Green Leaf Tea Room
foolishly opened its door. Blanche remembered that smorgasbord well... its partakers crassly gobbling down food and guzzling wine like starving Vikings fresh in from the sea... for Hugh Murphy was none too pleased when his secretary came solicitously back up to his office with a cold chicken leg and a slice of salami for his dinner.
Sondra was one hundred percent female and proud of it. A curvaceous redhead with hair flaming half way down her supple spine and shamrock green eyes, she flipping through a rack of recently arrived French camisoles and tap pants, both sewn from 'nude pink' silk and trimmed in antique eggshell lace. Holding one up to her bosomy chest and sacheting in salacious twirls before the triptych mirror, Sondra's smile faded when she caught sight of Blanche's reflection in the mirror.
Oh, Lord! Had Blanche seen her hidden away down in the basement lawn furniture department huddled up on a lawn swing sharing a bottle of Italian Chianti from the Vino Gardens and a box of assorted cheeses and smoked seafood from the gourmet shop with her male friend? She rationalized away her fears. We've got to stick together in emergencies, don't we? Dear Jesus, Hugh would kill me if he found out I'd been messing around with one of his salesmen. But one thing leads to another in emergencies and nature always has its way... as the snow storm had proven.
"H-Hello, Blanche," Sondra said to the mirror. "Isn't this camisole just adorable? I've got to have it!" She swung around to face the worry-wrinkled distress etched on her husband's secretary's gorgeous face and immediately, with selfish relief, Sondra knew Blanche's concern was a private one.
With vehement reprisal, Blanche ignored none of the gory details, neither about herself and Hugh, nor the parade of 'other women', and Blanche soon learned Sondra was aware of her husband's philandering. For a reticent moment their relationship was an
uneasy one-wronged wife and the other woman, but as they talked further, heading down to the gourmet shop to pick up a bottle of wine and glasses, they moved into a friendly camaraderie and shared intimate bits of information.
Two glasses of wine apiece later, all guards down, they realized that not one of the four deserved the monogamous nuptials award and they decided it was time for a showdown-time to knock down the wall of double standards. Neither waged invectives toward the blonde haired, coconut-tanned lovely who'd screamed her lust over the video machine... though a flicker of jealousy over her lush body did spark Sondra's eyes a shade greener.
Finally, the two women, drawn together in mutual misery, their bellies warmed by a third glass of wine and their talk of sex leading them on to it, both shared in a second floor fitting room, found themselves talking ever more intimately as they planned what they would do as soon as they found the right place.
"We'll have to put on a good lesbian act..." Blanche said, finding it difficult to control her breathing. "You know what we'll have to do!"
Sondra was remembering how it had been dancing in the Las Vegas club where Hugh Murphy discovered her-breasts first. "Yes, I know all about that!" One of her polished fingers stole out to Blanche's heaving breast to knead and caress.
Cringing away, Blanche gasped. "Oh, God! Not now, Sondra! Not here!" Then she moaned as the gently caressing hand moved to the other breast.
In the next instant, the two moaning women were together in the sealed off confines of the fitting room, their wetly open mouths seeking and finding lips to kiss, their tongues entwining probingly and their hands searching feverishly the lushly ripened mounds and curves of each other to caress and fondle. Soon they were on the plushly carpeted floor, Blanche a little apprehensive, yet, but willing to learn, as the flames of passion scorched out of proportion. Naked on the floor now, their hotly hungering mouths and faces buried in the warmly perfumed flesh up between each other's outspread thighs, they tasted the joys of woman-love, tender and sweet.
"That was a practice run," suggested Sondra, lighting a cigarette afterward and lounging back, slim and willowy in her strawberry tressed loveliness.
"Yes," agreed Blanche. "But I don't know how I missed out on this... all of these years!" Her sigh was languid, satisfied, and she gazed lovingly at the other naked woman with smoky, full-lidded eyes.
Now was time for the real thing, and that takes more than curiosity.
Mona's grief was boundless... and to add insult to injury, her tan was fading. "Damn!" she sputtered, hysterically. "Double damn!" How could so many things go amiss in so few hours; she'd lived twenty some years with no trauma, and in as long as it took the skies to bury the earth, her miseries were burying her.
The creeps... taking advantage of me like that! I won't feel guilty at all for stealing a sunlamp. She stomped off to the basement housewares, taking the steps instead of the escalator, and picked out the most expensive sunlamp there-one with an automatic timer-and stripping herself naked in the housewares storeroom, laid under the burning rays for five minutes.
One side baked, she flipped over, appreciating the ray's hot fingers soothing her weary flesh like the touch of a man's massaging hands caressing her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Behind her closed eyes flickered remaining scenes of today's debauchery. Mona whimpered in hurt and self disgust.
Dear lovable Orin... forgive me, but I can't face you yet. Mona Bradley lay there amongst the cartons of electric fry pans, toasters and blenders, feeling like a caged animal, like one of those little glass ones so admired by the character she portrayed in her high school play, The Glass Menagerie.