Chapter 1
Joyce had few illusions about her husband. She'd been married to Paul long enough to know that he lost all conscience whenever he had one of his prominent erections. So even though she was shocked when she found him in the basement with a tender teen-ager, it didn't quite kill her. After all, it wasn't as bad as it could've been, was it? It could've been his own teen-age daughter-!
Burrowing futilely in her purse, Joyce sighed. Her key must be in there. Sighing again, she gave up and snapped the purse shut. Her shoes whispered over the soft grass as she headed around the side of the house in the hope that the back door was unlocked. The way the long blades tried to tangle her feet reminded her she'd have to get Jason out with the lawn mower soon. Her mood improved when she reflected that if she stressed the muscle-building qualities of pushing the unpowered mower, Jason would be out instantly, and in seconds sweat would be pouring down his slim, tan torso.
An unexpected sound caught Joyce's attention, making her stop abruptly. There wasn't supposed to be anyone home. The voice she heard seemed to come from the ground, near the house. For a frightening second, Joyce's skin crawled with fear. Then a deeper, familiar voice rumbled up from the bushes by the house and she relaxed. She wondered why Paul wasn't playing tennis as he said he was going to.
The higher-pitched sound of the second voice prodded Joyce's curiosity. It seemed vaguely familiar. Pushing through the shrubbery, she sought the source.
Screening branches whipped back into place behind her as she pushed close to the wall of the house. At her feet was a small window. Curious, Joyce knelt down in the cramped space between the shrubs and the foundation, then bent over to look through the window.
"You were fantastic, Mister Kirkland," a girl's voice squealed enthusiastically.
"Please, call me Paul, like I told you," Joyce's husband urged. "We did very well. You aren't any slouch yourself."
"You were fantastic," the girl, Patty Conklin, repeated. "That last volley with Judy and Daddy was stupendous."
Joyce felt relief, and mild puzzlement. Evidently there'd been a mixed doubles match. But usually Judy and her father played on the same team, against the Conklins. And where were Judy and Patty's father now?
"Care for a beer?" Paul asked the slender blonde.
"Gee, no thanks, Mister ... uh, Paul," Patty replied. "I'm not allowed to drink. My parents think I'm too young."
Joyce was silently agreeing, when Paul assured the girl, "You're never too young. Besides, you're not that young. You're fifteen."
"Almost," Patty corrected, as she took the beer from him. "But if my parents knew I was having a beer, they'd skin me alive."
From where she was, Joyce could see most of the basement playroom. Paul and Patty were sitting on the low couch opposite the window. Paul's tennis shirt had dark sweat stains, and his curly black hair, flecked with a few silver strands, was stringy with perspiration.
Patty Conklin, however, looked young, clean and fresh in her short, stylish tennis dress. Her long blonde hair was in a ponytail. Her skin was a golden tan.
Joyce was about to stand up and back out of the bushes when Patty suddenly moved her hand. The beer can went flying out of her grasp. Perversely, the can upended in the girl's lap, and amber liquid and white foam poured over her dress. Patty lurched up with a wail of despair, the can clattering to the floor as she brushed frantically at the beer staining her dress.
"Oh, no," Patty wailed. "Look what I've done."
Joyce felt a strange surge of satisfaction at the girl's plight, as if it served her right.
"If my folks smell beer on me, I'll really be in the soup," Patty moaned miserably. She lifted the hem of her dress and flapped it, trying to dry it. The motion exposed demure white tennis briefs, along with the rest of her slim, graceful, golden thighs.
Joyce didn't miss the way Paul's eyes flickered up and down the length of Patty's legs. "Is your dress washable?" Paul asked.
"Of course it is. But I can't wash it here."
"Why not? We've got a washing machine and a dryer. In an hour you'll be as good as new."
"Well, maybe," Patty temporized. "But what would I wear while it's washing?"
Joyce's blood turned to ice water. She suddenly had the horrible suspicion that there wasn't anything particularly new about this scene. There was a tone to the conversation that somehow suggested it wasn't the first time her husband and the sleek blonde teen-ager had been alone together. Joyce's heart labored to pump icy slush through her veins.
Paul's grin was wicked. "Why wear anything? Joyce won't be home for hours. Jason's got a ball game, and you know Judy won't be home."
"Why Mister Kirkland, what are you suggesting?" Patty teased.
"Turn around and I'll show you," Paul answered, standing up.
Demurely, casually, seductively, Patty turned her back on the tall, dark man and lifted her ponytail out of his way. "The hook, too," she suggested, her voice suddenly low and exciting.
Joyce dug her fingers into the soft soil as she knelt at the basement window, her cheek pressing into the dirt. She felt as if she were choking. She couldn't have gotten up and escaped; the strength had drained from her muscles so quickly.
Paul's hands looked very big and very powerful as he released the hook on the back of Patty's dress. He lowered the zipper quickly and efficiently, and Joyce shivered as if she could feel the vibration of every tooth of the fastener. The back of the tennis dress spread open in a symmetrical vee, exposing Patty's graceful back down to the swell of her hips. The golden skin was uninterrupted by a bra, unmarred by any tan lines or blemishes. Paul pushed the dress down over Patty's shoulders.
"Thank you," she said softly, turning and letting the dress fall down her arms. An easy motion and the dress lay in a heap around her feet.
As she faced Paul, Patty made no show of false modesty, made no attempt to conceal the perfect mounds of her breasts and their sharp pink caps. Instead, she reached for Paul's shirt and hauled it up. "As long as we're washing my clothes, let's wash yours, too," she suggested.
As Joyce watched, the slim, graceful girl peeled Paul's sweaty shirt up over his head and off. Patty's bikini panties looked very white against her evenly tanned skin. The only thing marring her tan was a faint paleness from a bikini top, on her breasts.
Paul's eyes raked over the girl's body admiringly.
When Patty reached for Paul's shorts, Joyce choked down a sob. When the girl shoved both his shorts and his underpants down in a tangle, baring his huge penis, Joyce wanted to bury her head in the dirt like an ostrich so she wouldn't have to watch. But her body betrayed her, not letting her even turn her head.
Patty ignored Paul's towering erection, kneeling to remove his shoes and socks and the tangle of his tennis shorts and underwear.
"Where's the washing machine?" Patty asked, gathering up the clothes.
When the girl disappeared into the laundry room, Joyce wanted to say something to her husband, to let him know she was there, what she'd seen, but she couldn't. All she could do was lie crumpled under the bushes, watching, tears streaking her cheeks. She heard the washing machine start, and tried again to tear herself away from the window. But before she could gather her strength, Patty came back into the room.
The girl was as nude as Paul, evidently having added her panties to the wash. "Now," Patty began impishly, "just how are we going to pass the time while our clothes are washing?" She struck a thoughtful theatrical pose that displayed her slender young body to perfection.
"I think we can think of something interesting," Paul answered, a catch in his voice. He advanced on the teen-ager and gathered her up. He carried her over to the couch and laid her down on it with surprising gentleness. Patty looked up at him and licked her lips. She let her thighs fall open to display her youthful pussy and its demure covering of reddish hair.
"Any time you're ready, C.B.," she observed, quoting the punch line from an old joke.
Paul sat on the edge of the couch, eyeing Patty hungrily. His cock was a towering pole in his lap. "Let's not rush things."
"No way!" Patty agreed fervently, wrapping her fingers around his penis. "No way!"
"Right on," Paul chuckled, his voice hoarse with excitement.
Joyce winced at Paul's attempt at hip jargon. He was old enough to be Patty's father. In fact, Judy was a year older than Patty.
"Oh, yeah," Patty moaned passionately, her back arching as Paul stroked her nude torso from her neck to her waist, brushing his powerful hand over her breasts. Patty's nipples were hard pink peaks capping the firm mounds of her breasts. Her eyes closed, Patty rolled her head from side to side. She maintained her firm hold on Paul's prick.
Joyce could see the muscles in Patty's forearm flex as she squeezed Paul's cock. A drop of fluid oozed into view at its tip and slid hesitantly into the valley between Patty's fingers and the hot, hard rod. Joyce felt dirt packing itself painfully under her nails as she dug her fingers into the ground.
Paul played with Patty's tits, plucking and twisting at her nipples. Patty's chest heaved as her breathing quickened. Paul slid his hand down Patty's stomach, toward her crotch, and her hips jerked and rolled as she dug her heels into the couch.
Paul's body blocked Joyce's view of what he was doing. The expression on Patty's face and the way her muscles were jerking didn't leave much doubt as to what was going on. Joyce could sense the way Patty's hips surged upward as Paul's finger sank into her cunt.
And deep inside her own body, Joyce felt her own desires flickering to life. She knew what Paul's finger felt like in her own hot cunt, knew exactly how it felt, and her excitement increased.
"Oh, wow," Patty moaned ecstatically, her head tossing from side to side as Paul tormented her. "Oh, God, give it to me," she pleaded.
"You want it?" Paul asked softly.
"Oh, man, you know I do," Patty wailed. "Give it to me."
"You want me to sock it to you?"
"God, yes," Patty groaned. "Sock it to me. Oh, God, sock it to me."
"Here comes the judge," Paul growled at last. He withdrew his hand from Patty's pussy. Joyce could see the girl's juices glistening on his fingers.
Paul lowered his powerful, mature body on top of Patty's young one, pressing her brutally into the couch. She spread her slender thighs wide to let him settle between her legs. She reached down and guided his cock into her cunt, as his strong hips thrust forward and upward, driving his shaft into her willing pussy.
Dragging her hand free of the dirt, Joyce crammed her knuckles into her mouth to stifle her sobs. She couldn't tear her eyes off the sight of her husband delivering his hot shaft to a girl less than half his age. His strong body seemed to dwarf Patty's. Her face was turned toward the window, her eyes closed, her mouth twisted with passion as she joyously accepted his thrusts. She clutched at Paul's strong back as she urged him on, her hips answering his thrusts.
Joyce felt her own lust searing through her like some abnormal fire. She knew exactly what it felt like to have that cock rammed into her cunt. That was her husband down there! The same cock that was pistoning in and out of-sweet, young, virginal?-Patty Conklin had drilled deep into Joyce's own pussy countless times.
Joyce felt as if she were being shredded by some wild, schizophrenic set of emotions. There was instinctive, boiling lust, mingled with an insane hatred and jealousy, and unbelievable misery. The maddening conflict kept her huddled helplessly under the shrubbery, staring at the orgiastic scene below.
Paul's hips pounded faster and faster, harder and harder. Patty began to moan and whimper. The groaning protests of the couch were mingled ludicrously with the sound of the washing machine spinning the clothes dry in the neighboring room. The pounding pulse of the machine was echoed by the quickening power of Paul's drives.
"I'm coming ... coming ... coming-comingcomingcoming!" Patty wailed faster and faster until her voice rose to a wordless shriek.
Paul slammed his hips against Patty's. His entire body shook as he poured his load of cum into her. He held on for long, exciting seconds.
From the laundry room there was the loud clack of electrical relays opening, and the pulsing whine of the spin cycle slowing and fading. Patty's and Paul's muscles relaxed and they dropped down from the peak of their pleasure. Joyce stifled her own whimpers of passion and misery. She felt the tension draining from her muscles.
"Stud," Patty muttered, stroking Paul's back.
"Right on," Paul replied softly.
"Laundry's done," Patty observed.
"Oh, hell."
"It's still got to go through the dryer."
"Ahh. I'll get it."
"You save your strength," Patty argued, pushing him back down on the couch. "You're going to need it, old man."
"I'm not old," Paul flared, stung.
"It's just an expression," Patty assured him quickly from the doorway, turning to look at him. "I didn't mean it."
"Just because my wife is slowing down doesn't mean I am," Paul insisted, loudly enough for Patty to hear him in the laundry room. Joyce saw red.
"Hey, okay," Patty agreed quickly as she came back into the room, still nude.
"Come here and I'll prove it," Paul growled.
Patty settled onto his lap, wrapping her arms around him. "You don't have to prove a thing to me," she assured him.
Paul didn't answer, but turned and pushed the young girl on her back and stared down at her. She kicked her feet wildly around him, giving him an uninhibited view of her juicy cunt as she spread her thighs wide and straddled him.
Paul's cock was hard and ready again as he turned and came down on her. This time Joyce could see everything as his organ powered into Patty's pussy, stretching her youthful channel wide with its bulk. Joyce fought to gather her scattered strength as she watched Paul's shaft sink out of sight into Patty's cunt. Pushing away from the basement window, Joyce used the wall to steady herself. She felt terribly old and sad as she struggled to stand up. She could still see her husband's cock drilling into the pink tissues of Patty's pussy as she pushed out through the scratching branches of the shrubbery.
Somehow, she found her way to her car. The keys that had eluded her before and led to her staggering discovery dangled in the ignition.
Sometime later-minutes? hours?-she found herself in a bar, a half-empty glass on the table in front of her. She was in a dark comer at the back. "What did you say?" she asked numbly, staring up bleary-eyed at the man towering over her.
"I asked if you'd mind some company?" the man repeated patiently.
Joyce shrugged. The man sat down and crooked a finger at the bartender. "Are you all right?" the man asked, obviously a bit concerned.
"I'm old," Joyce muttered, not really looking at . him.
"Huh?"
"I'm old," Joyce repeated. "Can't you see? I'm old and used up and worthless."
"Would you care for a refill, Miss?" the bartender asked, setting a glass in front of the man sitting next to Joyce.
"Miss?" Joyce echoed, her voice threatening to crack into hysteria. "It's Missus," she announced, her voice slurring. She waved her ring finger wildly. The bartender faded away.
"You could fool me," the man said quickly, capturing her hand. "Doesn't look like Missus to me."
Joyce suddenly looked at her hand, and a dim memory of ripping her ring off and stuffing it in her purse trickled through her mind. "Well, it's true," she insisted. "Isn't it?"
"Of course," the young man next to her agreed. His expression was one of calculation. "I'll bet you can prove that you aren't old."
"Prove it?" Joyce mumbled, confused. "Sure."
Joyce really looked at the man for the first time. Alcohol made it impossible for her to read his expression. But she could appreciate his rugged, young good looks. "Prove it how?"
The man smirked. "Oh, I think you could figure out a way. You're not old and used up. I'm sure of that. Of course, if you really are, then you'll just I sit here like a lump."
"I'm not old," Joyce flared, goaded by his insolence.
"Oh?"
Joyce grabbed her drink and tossed the rest of it , down. She slammed the glass back down the table hard enough for the noise to make the few afternoon drinkers turn and look her way. She didn't know what to do. Silence stretched.
"I guess I was wrong," the man sighed. "I guess you are all used up."
Joyce pushed the table away and swayed to her feet. She felt like a scene out of a bad movie. "Your place or mine?" she asked, too bewildered r to realize she couldn't take him home with her.
Joyce didn't see the young man's superior, smug smile as he stood up. "Mine's close."
Joyce let herself be guided to a small apartment and heard the door close behind her. She tried to get her mind organized, but the shock and alcohol combined to reduce her desires to two elemental goals. Her lust was still percolating through her, and the drive to prove her husband wrong was urging her on. She turned on the young man, reaching for the buttons of her blouse. "Still think I'm old and washed up?"
"That remains to be seen."
It seemed to take Joyce forever to get out of her clothes. Finally she was shoving her panties down and off, then standing boldly nude in front of the total stranger. "Still think so?"
The look in the man's eyes as he studied her was almost answer enough. He licked his lips. There was a bulge in his pants. Joyce advanced on him, her hips swaying. She reached for his shirt and began to strip him. Then she had him naked and was urging him toward the bed. She was aflame with desire, and with revenge, as she guided the man and felt his cock slide smoothly into her hot pussy. Closing her eyes, she let her lust blot out everything else, until she was coming and coming and coming.
She woke up to find the man standing over her, fastening his belt. "Well?" she asked.
The man didn't say anything, but reached in his hip pocket and pulled out his wallet. "We never did settle on a price."
Joyce shot up out of the bed as if she'd been goosed. "What?"
"This should cover it," the man went on, handing her a pair of folded bills.
Joyce stared blankly at the two twenties. "But...."
"More?" the man asked.
Joyce dropped the money as if it had burned her fingers. "No," she snapped, wiping her hand on her bare stomach.
"Huh?"
Fumbling in her haste, Joyce began to dress. "Let's just say it was on the house."
"I don't get it!"
Joyce stuffed her stockings in her purse to save time. "Still think I'm old and washed up?" she demanded.
The man shook his head. "Hey, baby, anything but. But I don't get it."
Joyce looked at him, suddenly very aware of where she was, what she'd done, and what had happened that had led up to it. "I'm thirty-four, married, and the mother of two teen-agers, and you got everything you expected."
Turning her back on him, she walked out of the apartment and down the stairs. She realized as her heels clacked loudly on the treads that she didn't even know his name. The thought brought semi-hysterical laughter bubbling up.
The noise of the street sobered her abruptly and she checked the time on a clock on the bank across the street. Quickly she turned in the direction of her car. She had a son, and a daughter, and a husband to tend to. For the time being at least.