Chapter 4

I saw Ruth every Wednesday evening. She was twenty-eight, blonde, curvaceous and ... comfortable!

She lived on the fifth floor of a high-class block of residential flats. I strolled around the block first to make sure the coast was clear. Ruth's husband visited his factory in the Provinces every Wednesday. He stayed overnight. If there was any change in his plans, Ruth placed a book on the windowsill hi front of the curtains. Tonight, as on most Wednesdays, there was no book in the window. So I rode up in the elevator and rang her doorbell.

She was expecting me, freshly bathed and perfumed and smelling of honey-dew and roses. She'd placed glasses and a bottle of Scotch on the bedside table, and a bowl of ice-cubes. She sat me down on the bed and stripped off her negligee. All she wore under it was a wispy, transparent slip. It concealed none of her nudity, but tantalizingly draped her nakedness.

Ruth was older than me but very sweet and ... comfortable. Her motherly tenderness permeated our love-making. A man needs variety in his fucking. A switch of cunt is important to him. A woman's character shows in the way she fucks. A cold and callous bitch, even if she's as hot as a stove, betrays her selfishness even when she's gasping and writhing in the throes of climax. Her fingernails claw into your buttocks, showing she doesn't care a damn about you so long as she gets what she wants. The clinging-vine type of girl, who's all surrender, submissive and dependent, shows it down between her legs. Her pussy clings submissively, whining for love and affection, even while you're pumping spunk like a maniac and stuffing her full of it.

Ruth was motherly, a tender, affectionate, comfortable fuck. She was understanding and self-sacrificing. If I couldn't have raised a stand I could have told her without fear of ridicule or contempt. Then she would have soothed, comforted and tried to make me better.

I was good for Ruth too. I gave her what she needed. She'd told me her husband was a cold fish. He fucked every night regularly, the moment they got into bed. He simply rammed it into her. He tossed himself off inside her pussy in thirty seconds, pulled out, turned over on his side and went to sleep. It was like driving a nail into a block of wood with a few hard bangs. Then he was finished. Often she was as dry as a bone when he climbed into bed, with her love-lips stuck together. It didn't make any difference. He never fondled her with his fingers. He simply flattened her with his weight, forced her thighs apart with his knees, angled his cock between her legs, and thrust. He never brought her within shouting distance of an orgasm.

But she'd grown used to him hammering home a nail every night. She was resigned to it. She waited until he was snoring, which was within a few minutes of screwing. Then she juiced-up her pussy with the spunk he'd shot into her, and gave herself a leisurely toss-off. She made do that way. But she lived for our Wednesdays. It provided her sex life. I too enjoyed our Wednesdays. I was content with her undemanding, unselfish, motherly attitude.

I was especially anxious about tonight. I wanted my troubles listened to with a sympathetic air. I wanted to be consoled. So, while she kneeled and removed my shoes, I told her about the jam I'd got into with Lillian and Janet.

Ruth liked to undress me. She did it patiently, like a mother getting her lad ready for bed. She tucked my socks into my shoes and placed them neatly on one side. She unraveled my tie and smoothed it flat before she hung it over a chair back. She simply undressed me. There was nothing sexy about it. Even my big, fat prick, standing up like a red truncheon, she handled quite sexlessly as she eased the waistband of my jockey-shorts down over it, and out from under my buttocks. By the time I was naked she'd heard my sad story.

"What am I going to do?" I wailed.

She punched up a pillow and pressed my head back comfortably. She sat on the side of the bed and looked at me with big, soulful eyes. "You have got yourself into a jam, Mike."

"I don't know what to do."

"It won't make any difference to us," she comforted me. "I'll always want you to call around. Even if you're married to a dozen women!"

"I know, Ruth, but that's not the problem. I can't upset my family and cause a big scene. But I can't afford to lose my job either. It's the only work I know, Worse. I don't even want to be married!"

"You'll have to marry sometime, Mike," she soothed, teasing her fingers across my nipples. "You can't .be fancy-free all your life."

"I might marry one girl," I said. "But I can't marry two." I looked at her pleadingly. "What shall I do, Ruth?"

She smiled tenderly, but her face was cloudy. "I can't advise, Mike. It's difficult. If only money was involved, you could marry Janet, and take over the business. But I know how awful it can be if you're estranged from your family."

"I'm trapped," I groaned.

"Can't you get the two girls together and explain the position? Let them decide between themselves what's to be done."

I shuddered. "They'll both hate me. They'll crucify me. I'll be out of a job and my folks won't want to know me."

"But you'll be free," she pointed out. That was tome. I decided to give her suggestion some thought. But later. Right now the soft stroking of her fingers was having its inevitable effect My big, fat prick was heating up adrenalin and pumping it into my blood.

Ruth held the hem of her slip with crossed hands, pulled it up over her head and stripped it off. She had big, soft, fleshy tits that hung weightily. They swung heavily as she kneeled on the bed, hovering over me. "You're a lovely boy, Mike!" she whispered. Her mouth came down, lips brushing my forehead and cheeks and browsing down to my mouth. It was a very affectionate kiss, and deeply moving. Her big tits were fleshy cushions lying heavily upon my chest. When she stopped kissing, she Lifted up until her breasts were dangling, the big nipples whispering across my chest as she swung her tits from side to side. They were a motherly symbol; big, milky and softly enveloping. She used them to caress me, lowering herself until I could feel the full weight of each breast resting upon my chest Then she slowly trailed them down to my belly, and swirled them around. She trailed them up to my chest again, draped them over my shoulders and then teased my lips with the dangling nipples. She held one breast with two hands, squeezed it tight, and fed as much as she could of it into my mouth. I sucked happily for a time, and then she fed me the other tit.

She massaged me with her tits. She trailed them over my ribs, my thighs and my groin. She smothered my head between them, dangling one each side and raising up and down slowly until I could feel their heavy softness with every screaming nerve cell.

Finally, she got around to my prick. Her ample, fleshy tits played with my prick as dexterously as Janet's magic fingers. My cock strained taut, chortled, thrilled and throbbed. She snarled up my knob and balls in her cleavage, making a hot, snug package tightly wrapped up in clinging mammary flesh, My prick's drooling heightened the sensations, turning her flesh slippery so my prick and balls slithered around in their hot wrapping. Then, while she kneeled and clamped her glistening breasts around my prick, massaging it, she angled her ass around to face me.

She wanted what she couldn't get from her husband. A finger-fuck. It was no chore. She was very blonde, and hairless. She shaved every few days. I rested my fingers on her thigh and ran them up her hairless cunt. It was hot and juicy without even being touched. I opened up the outer love-lips and probed. She had a deep crevice. It was like thrusting my fingers into a purse of hot Vaseline. I fumbled around, locating myself by sense of touch. I identified the slippery walls of her vagina vestibule, the crinkly love-lips, the hard pea of her clit-bud and the dimpled entrance to her vagina.

She loved being fingered. Even while I was merely getting the feel of her she mewed with pleasure, wrapped her flabby tits around my prick and massaged it furiously. She loved being fingered so much I made a fuss of her. I toned up her love-lips first, running my fingers around the slippery, crinkled edges until she was quivery, and then pinching and tugging them between fingers and thumbs. She bad a couple of little orgasms while I was doing it and then my fingers probed deeper, running around the walls of her vagina vestibule, frictioning briskly until they ran with love-juice, and simultaneously applying subtle pressures in different places. I worked deeper into her crevice, circling my finger around her vagina dimple and then squeezing three fingers up through it. Once my fingers had penetrated the ring of muscle at the entrance to her vagina, I separated them and wriggled them around. She had a big, loose vagina. Having her husband's big, fleshy nail driven into her every night had brutally stretched her pussy instead of pleasurably exercising it. The entrance muscles had lost their elasticity so I tried to tune up their sensitivity with gentle finger-stretching. Her pussy responded gratefully, flooding with drool and contracting convulsively. But a weekly exercising session can't repair the mishandling of years. She'd always have a slack cunt But I didn't have to worry because she had her own special screwing method.

When she was ripe for orgasm. I withdrew my fingers from her vagina and stroked upwards to the clit-bud. It was hard and quivering, enveloped in soft membrane and so slippery it kept escaping my fingers. Finally I got a grip on it, held it tight and used the ball of-my forefinger to stroke back and forward across its crown.

After the touching-up I'd given her, this pressed the trigger. For seconds every nerve in her body tensed rigidly, with loaded explosive tension. Then she detonated. But it was an internal explosion! All the wonderful things that happened to her, were cooped up inside her. The only outward symptom was the way her thighs clamped together, crushing my hand up inside her crotch and squeezing it powerfully while she suffocated my prick with her big, fleshy tits. Her loins throbbed and she uttered low shuddering gasps that punctuated her climatic spasms.

It was a lovely orgasm so satisfying she had to rest after it. Her face was still flushed pink and her damp hair stuck to her cheeks when she set out the glasses and poured some whisky. Then she sat on the bed and stroked my belly while we sipped our drinks and she got her second wind.

When she set down her empty glass I knew she was ready. I finished my drink quickly. She straddled me, kneeling astride my head and crouching low to lick my knob. I licked her too. But this was only warming up. I'd cooled off while drinking whisky, and she needed a little arousal after her big orgasm. So we sucked each other only a short time before she scrambled around, stacked pillows under my bottom and positioned herself strategically. She squatted astride me, facing me, and lowered herself. She opened herself up with one hand, and steered my knob with the other. It was a swift, hot, slippery glide up inside her. It was a big pussy. It opened up greedily and gulped in my cock without any fuss. Her thrill came from stretching her love-lips apart and then plastering them over my pelvis. She ground down hard, still stretching her love-lips apart so she could get good pressure on her clit-bud. When she was squarely seated in the saddle she leaned forward and took her weight on her hands with her fleshy tits dangling, and their big nipples brushing my chest. My prick was right up inside her, stewing in pussy-juice. Her vagina clung limply to my shaft. It couldn't grip tightly. But it didn't matter because Ruth's way of screwing didn't involve movement. She didn't employ friction to make me spurt. She used a slow, subtle stimulation that was a long, blissful voyage among the stars.

I played with her nipples and got her panting. Her hips writhed and her love-lips slithered around on my pubic hairs. She didn't rise up and down my prick. Instead, she circled around, grinding her clit-bud against my pelvis. While doing it she had a little orgasm. Her hot vagina raged around my prick and copiously secreted hot drool over it. My cock simmered contentedly, cooking slowly. She pushed herself up straight, and ground down powerfully. Her face was flushed and dreamily serene, and gurgling, squishy sounds bubbled in the union of our crotches. Then she leaned forward again and fed her tits into my hands. I played with them and twiddled the nipples until she had another little orgasm. It thrilled through her quietly, boosted the temperature of her vagina and cooked my prick more quickly.

All this would have driven a sex-starved man crazy. But I wasn't sex-starved, and this slow, simmering build-up was bliss. She kept having little orgasms. Her love-juice bubbled and boiled around my prick, boosting it relentlessly to sizzling point. She must have had half-a-dozen orgasms before I was steamed up enough to boil over.

I was panting and ready to go. She knew it. She was wound up high by her little climaxes and avid for a big orgasm. All she needed was the trigger of my spurting spunk.

"I'm coming!" I panted.

She leaned right back, holding her nipples and pulling on them hard. Her eyes were closed and her face was drawn. The way she leaned back placed special subtle pressures upon our pleasure spots. She gasped in unison with me as seed bubbled, surged and spurted furiously, and my loins thrust upwards savagely.

She was waiting for that thrust. She met it head-on, her pussy driving down hard over my cock. She sprawled forward, her arms around my neck and her big tits squashed between us as we pistoned.

The ecstasy of orgasm is usually so overwhelming that it creates superhuman physical response. Scientists who have studied orgasms, report that adrenalin races through the blood, the heart beats twice as fast, and all erotic areas become acutely sensitive. Those enjoying climax sometimes appear to be unconscious.

I was wafted away into sublime bliss. I may well have been semiconscious, because I only vaguely became aware that something was wrong. Ruth was gasping, sobbing and grasping me as 'though she'd fall off the edge of the world if she let go. Her hot breath blew on my ear and filled it with wetness. Yet I had a strange, vague feeling that something was amiss.

That we weren't alone! That there was trouble!

I fluttered open my eyes. My senses hadn't betrayed me. A dark man with a wispy moustache was smiling at me over Ruth's shoulder. I knew he couldn't really be there so I concentrated upon him with my sluggish senses. He didn't go away. I was seeing him. And there was other movement too.

Ruth felt my tension. She swiveled her head around. For a time she was frozen. Then she said bitterly. "Roger. You bastard!"

"Please, Ruth! Don't be crude," he reprimanded in a pained voice.

Another figure edged Roger to one side and something clicked.

"Get out of here!" screamed Ruth.

Another click. The man grinned happily. His camera clicked again.

Ruth tore away from me. Her breasts were stuck to my chest and they peeled away with a liquid, sucking sound.

Wispy-Moustache swam back into my vision. Forgive my intrusion, Mr. Davis." His voice was satin-smooth. "I'll wait in the lounge for you to Join us."

Ruth scrambled off me, I propped myself up on my elbows. Three men were filing out of the bedroom. Wispy-Moustache was last. He turned: "We're taking your clothes, Mr. Davis. We'll return them in the lounge."

"Bastard!" screamed Ruth. A pillow hit the door as it closed behind him.

I was thinking more clearly now. "Your husband?"

"Creeping in like that!" She was crying with chagrin. "And bringing two men to watch!"

I swung my legs around off the bed. "Is it a trap?" I asked anxiously.

She tore open a wardrobe and pulled on a long concealing dressing gown. "I could kill him!" she said furiously. "Cameras tool"

I stood up. I was worried. We'd been caught in the act. The only bright spot was that Roger didn't act like a jealousy-crazed man who'd cut my balls off.

"Come along," snapped Ruth. She seethed with anger. "I've something to tell him. I don't interfere with his fun. And he's not going to meddle in my affairs!"

"I can't go in there like this."

She gave me one of Roger's dressing gowns and stormed through to the lounge. I followed sheepishly. The three men were lounging in armchairs. A tray of drinks was on the table and they held glasses. Roger politely rose to his feet smiling; the gracious host! "What can I offer you, Mr. Davis?"

"How dare you!" stormed Ruth. Her eyes blazed and her cheeks flamed. She lashed him with words. But he simply stood there, smiling and waiting for her to run out of breath.

"All right, Ruth," he managed to interject soothingly. "I've listened patiently. Now let's sit down calmly and talk it over," He looked at me. "Whisky, Mr. Davis?"

I nodded numbly.

Ruth snorted and threw herself down in a chair.

Roger poured drinks for me and Ruth. Then he settled down in a chair and carefully crossed one leg over the other. "I hope I don't need to go into details," he said quietly. "The facts are clear. These gentlemen are my Legal Adviser, and my Confidential Agent. They are my corroborative witnesses. And, of course, we have photographs."

"You've been mast efficient!" sneered Ruth. "It's typical of the way you do everything!"

"I like things neat and tidy, my dear."

"You want a divorce?" she demanded.

He smiled gently. "Obviously."

"You sneaky bastard!" she scorned. "You couldn't sit down and talk it over quietly with me, could you!"

"Would you have given me a divorce?"

"Of course."

"But on your terms. That wouldn't have been at all satisfactory. I have no intention of being stripped of everything simply to get rid of you."

"You mean, money-grabbing bastard!"

"I'll treat you fairly," he said mildly. "You'll be provided for. But I must protect myself against your extortionate demands."

"Why do you need a divorce? I've given you a home and everything else you need."

"I've decided a complete environmental change is essential to me."

"It's that red-headed bitch whose hairs I keep finding on your jacket!"

He smiled complacently. "Naturally, that's an accusation I deny!"

"She's twisted you around her little finger. Now she insists you divorce me, and marry her!"

He smiled smugly. "That is also something I will deny."

Ruth gestured her disgust. "All right, Roger, Do your worst!"

"Now we're making progress," said Roger amiably. "Let's now discuss future procedure so we all know where we stand. I propose to pack a suitcase and leave here together with these gentlemen. That prevents any risk of you claiming I have condoned your adultery. I suggest you will be wise not to contest my application for divorce on grounds of your adultery. I will make adequate provision for you. But without any written agreement. You must accept my word you will receive a monthly check. I will also permit you to keep on the apartment, and retain the furniture. You have financial resources of your own so there's no reason why you should experience any economic difficulties, unless you are extremely foolish. Does that make everything clear?"

"You cold-blooded skunk!"

Roger smiled and nodded as though he'd been complimented. "It's civilized to arrange everything efficiently." He looked at me. "I regret you have to be involved in this unpleasantness, Mr. Davis. But you must have known some risk was involved."

I glowered. I sipped my whisky. I said nothing.

"Mr. Gray, my Legal Adviser, suggests unpleasant publicity can be avoided if you will sign a simple statement," he told me. "Would you care to take over, Mr. Gray?"

Mr. Gray was a seedy little man with a bowler hat jammed down over his ears. He opened a large briefcase, pulled out a folder, adjusted steel-rimmed glasses on his thin, sharp nose and began to read.

It was a long statement, full of whereofs, whereas and heretofores. It was supposed to be a full confession written by me. I must have been watched from the day I met Ruth. They had every detail, my name, address, where I worked, and every date I'd called around to fuck Ruth. It even mentioned the book in the window, to warn me away if her husband was at home. It even recorded how I'd once come over the front of her skirt before she'd had time to take it off. She'd had to send it to the laundry and I suppose they'd fixed to have all her laundry analyzed. The only thing it didn't describe was our methods of fucking.

Mr. Gray handed me the folder and passed me a pen. "If you'll just sign here please, Mr. Davis."

I stared incredulously. "I'm not going to sign this!"

His eyebrows arched high in shocked surprise. All the cog-wheels were meshing neatly, and now I was trying to throw the machinery out of gear. "I strongly advise that you should, Mr. Davis," he warned sternly.

"It's a confession of adultery" I objected. "I'd be crazy to sign it!"

Roger smiled secretly. "You'd better explain, Mr. Gray," he said.

Mr. Gray cleared his throat. "A straightforward confession signed by both parties will facilitate court proceedings enormously. Do I -need to point out how painfully public it will be to prove all this disagreeable evidence in open court, using eyewitnesses. And then, of course, there are the photographs. They will be conclusive evidence to any judge. But they are unlikely to make him feel well-disposed towards the Correspondent."

Mr. Gray painted a clear picture. Sign the confession or a crowded court would hear every detail of the intimacy between me and Ruth. The picture rang warning bells for Ruth. "Sign it, Mike," she said disgustedly. "Roger wouldn't be here without first having every loophole blocked up."

"How well you know me, darling," Roger murmured.

I signed the confession. A paragraph below my name said that Ruth admitted every detail of my confession was correct. Mr. Gray passed the document to her. She signed it angrily and Roger smiled smugly.

"Then that's that!" said Roger. He rose to his feet. "I'll pack a few things now, and send somebody around later for the rest of my clothes." He looked at me and was slyly spiteful. "I don't think they'll fit Mr. Davis."

"Get out," flared Ruth. "Let me see the back of Mr. Gray adjusted his glasses and blinked at me through them. "You'll be notified when to appear in court, Mr. Davis."

I stared at him. "Me. In court? Why?"

"You're the Correspondent,"

There was a queasiness in my belly. "You mean I've got to stand up in court and tell all about this?"

"I'm afraid so, young man," said Mr. Gray sternly. "You can't expect to get away scot-free. Naturally, I must protect my client from unpleasant publicity. So inevitably, you must be the object of my mud-slinging."

I thought of Lillian and Janet. I was pledged to marry them both and now I'd be headlined in the newspapers as a Correspondent.

"I'll go easy on you, Mr. Davis," comforted Roger. "I won't press for heavy compensation."

"Compensation?" I gulped.

"A guilty Correspondent must compensate the aggrieved husband," said Mr. Gray.

"Don't worry. I won't put the screws on too hard," said Roger.

"How ... much?" I whispered.

"What do you think, Mr. Gray?" asked Roger.

"If it's your wish, we'll make it very low. We'll make it the very minimum it's wise to ask. A mere symbol. Say ... ten thousand dollars."

I couldn't breathe. Ten thousand dollars! A fortune. I couldn't raise half that. "Impossible," I choked.

"Don't worry," comforted Mr. Gray. "We know you haven't the money. But legal problems find their own level, like dirty water. You won't be able to pay. So a writ will be issued. You'll be made bankrupt. Don't worry about a thing. It will all be done for you."

I was gasping. "You'll make me bankrupt?"

"Pure routine. Anyway, you might be lucky," consoled Mr. Gray. "That item in your confession about a warning on the window-sill might tickle an editor's fancy. A four-page spread in a Sunday newspaper, where you confess all your other methods to deceive aggrieved husbands, might earn you enough to pay the compensation."

Roger went into the bedroom to pack. The photographer pointed to a pile of clothing. "That's yours," he told me. I dressed in a daze.

Roger came out from the bedroom swinging a suitcase. He was bright and jaunty. "Shall We go, gentlemen?" He snickered. "Leave the lovebirds together."

Ruth turned her back on me. She told Roger in a strained voice. "Take him with you. Take him with you!"

I wasn't hurt. I knew exactly how she felt. I felt the same. Right then I never wanted to screw again in all my life.

We went down in the elevator. Roger stood in front of me. He smiled mockingly. "How's your prick?"

My prick! My big, fat prick! Once again it had got me into an almighty jam.

"Fuck my prick!" I said. "Fuck all pricks!"

"Interesting," he said whimsically. "So you're a pervert too? Do you think we might add that to his confession, Mr. Gray?"

"Balls!" I told him. The elevator gates slid open and I strode away.