Chapter 1
Bill Wilson had dreamed of an orgy involving three delicious girls, and he woke up with an almost painful erection. He snuggled closer to Amy and rested his hand on the long, high curve of her hip. She was soft and warm and she smelled like freshly baked bread.
She lay with her back toward him. He propped himself on his elbow and looked down at her. The early morning sunlight, the only sunlight they ever got in the bedroom, struck gold glints in the light brown hair shielding most of her face.
He had lost the bottoms of his pajamas in last night's restless sleep. That usually happened. He knew he would never grow accustomed to wearing pajamas, but Amy wanted him to wear them. Her long flannel nightgown was hitched up around her hips. Inching closer, he was able to press his bare prick against the taut, silken skin of her inner thigh.
He knew where this was going to lead. He knew from bitter experience that it was hopeless to try to make love to Amy in the morning. But maybe this was the one morning in a thousand when she would turn toward him, soft and submissive and willing, even eager to fuck.
He squirmed a little higher. She slept with one leg straight, the other flexed, in the shape of a "4." He was able to ease his pulsing prick into her crotch. Soft curls and even softer flesh tickled the head. He took his cock in his hand and nudged it upward, pushing it against the point of entry.
"Oh, Bill!" she snapped in her rusty morning voice, jerking violently away from him and sitting up on the edge of the bed in one motion.
"Shit," he muttered as his fists twisted into hard knots.
"God, what a way to wake up!" she croaked, finding a cigarette on the night-table and lighting it with brisk, angry motions.
"There are better ways than that to get oral gratification," he observed.
"Oh, shut up! Instead of getting married, you should have just hired yourself a visiting whore."
He was startled. She sometimes showed irritation when she refused him, but she'd never before made such a bitter remark. He was too hurt and puzzled to be angry.
"I'm sorry, Amy. I love you. I want to show it, that's all."
"You could show it a lot better by letting me get some sleep once in a while," she grumbled, getting up and stalking to the window with tightly folded arms.
He sighed and slumped back on his pillow. He remembered his dream: the blonde one was just going to blow him when he woke up. It was still vivid in his mind. He tried hard not to think about it. He turned and looked at Amy. Her shoulder blades protruded like rudimentary wings as she hugged herself and stared down at the back garden of the first-floor apartment. She always stood as if trying to minimize her breasts, as if their size embarrassed her. She was a strange girl. Her breasts were beautiful. She....
He winced and squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered what he'd done last night. It made him feel guilty and unclean in the light of day, and he wished he could crawl inside himself and disappear.
He'd had a hard day yesterday, and he'd stopped off for a few drinks before coming home. Then he'd had a couple more drinks at home before dinner. And a few more after dinner. Amy, pleading a headache, had retired early, rejecting his suggestion that they make love.
Feeling sorry for himself, he sat up drinking for an hour longer. Gradually he talked himself into the idea that he should go and take what he wanted. He was a normal, healthy young man. He had needs. Amy had no right to refuse him so often; she had no right to put so many finicky lit tie restrictions and qualifications on their screwing! He ought to go into the bedroom arid fuck the stuffing out of her, whether she liked it or not! He had succeeded in convincing himself.
He snapped on the bedside lamp. She appeared to be asleep. "Amy," he said, "I want to fuck you-and we are going to fuck."
She didn't stir. He removed his clothes and hung them neatly over a chair, pleased at this evidence of his sobriety. He sat on the bed a little more heavily than he'd planned and shook her shoulder.
"Wake up, honey. Fucking time. This time we're going to leave the light on, too. I want to see what I'm getting into!"
He laughed hard at his own joke, but she lay like a dead woman. Apparently she'd taken one of her damned pills, the last line of defense against his amorous advances. They knocked her out cold. Cold. It was ridiculous. She wasn't frigid. That might have been easier to understand. She liked sex well enough, once it was well started, but she did everything she could to keep it from getting started. Psychologists say that people are unable to remember pain, but Amy seemed incapable of remembering pleasure.
He stared down at her, and her beauty was like an ache in his gut. She had a heart-shaped face with a cute little dimple in her chin. Her lashes were long and silky, darker than her light brown hair. A fine dusting of freckles seemed to enhance the perfection of her rosy-white complexion. She was twenty-two, fourteen years younger than he was, and he loved her so much it hurt.
He couldn't remember making any conscious decision to do it, but his hands had lifted the edge of the covers and he was pulling them down. Her nightgown reached all the way to her ankles. He hated that chaste, pink nightgown. She wore it when they made love. Sometimes he could convince her to roll it up beyond her breasts so that he could fondle them and kiss them, but most often she would pull it up only to her waist. And always in the dark. Married for more than a year, he had never seen his own wife naked. He began pulling the nightgown up from her legs.
"We shall see, Amy. At long last, we shall see."
He stopped. He had rolled and tugged the pink nightgown up to her thighs. What on earth was he doing? She was helpless, drugged. He was committing a despicable act that blended rape and necrophilia. If she woke up, she would denounce him for the slimy pervert he was. He might lose forever, what little he had of her.
He rejected those ideas. She knew what he wanted, what he needed, and she'd denied what was his by right. She had no one but herself to blame for her helpless condition. He knew that these were specious arguments, but the act had by now gained an irresistible momentum of its own. Most of his thinking was being done for him by his stiff, throbbing prick.
He looked down at the lithe, straight length of her legs. He'd seen this much of her before. Inconsistently, she had no qualms about wearing the skimpiest of string-bikinis when they went to a beach. But seeing those delicious legs now, in this setting, made them far lovelier than they'd ever seemed before. He tugged the gown hastily higher, revealing the wedge of fine brown fleece at the bottom of her flat belly.
Gently, he pushed her legs apart. He might have been playing with a rubber doll or a wax mannikn. He felt a sudden wave of desolation. This was sick. He should stop. But he didn't.
The lips of her cunt, peeking through the fine hairs, were plump and pink and clearly defined. He lowered his head and slipped his tongue in among the soft curls until it pressed the pliant flesh. He'd never done this to her before, and-oh, God, how he'd wanted to!
He licked up and down, slipping steadily deeper into warm, moist saltiness. Why didn't she want him to do this? He couldn't understand it. He'd never made love to a girl who didn't like it. The first time he'd tried to eat her had been on their wedding night, when he'd found to his delighted surprise that she really was a virgin. She'd reacted to the idea with-well, with fear and loathing. He'd been forced to give up. And ever since then, he'd been forced to retreat by a baffling defense of sharp elbows and knees whenever he'd tried it.
Maybe it was his imagination, but he believed that her formerly deep, even breathing had quickened and shallowed. He raised his head. It seemed to him that an even rosier glow than usual suffused her cheeks. Was it possible to excite a woman while she lay in a drugged sleep? Or was she faking her drugged sleep? He rejected both ideas. He was imagining things.
He pushed and tugged at her nightgown until it was rolled under her armpits. He knew how big and firm her breasts were, but he hadn't known what pretty pink nipples she had. He leaned forward and kissed one of them while he guided his cock to the threshold of her cunt, and he could no longer doubt that her nipples were erect with lust.
Maybe she was having a sexy dream, produced by his fondling of her body. Maybe that accounted for the physiological reactions. Her cunt was wet, and it wasn't just wet with his own saliva: his prick was sliding into it like a knife into warm butter. He felt an irrational twinge of jealousy as he wondered who was involved in her sexy dream.
Her lips were finely chiseled. The lower one was very full, suggesting petulance, even in repose. He kissed her. Her lips we're warm, but he detected no response at all. He slid his cock deeper into her moist, passive cunt. Her seductive lips seemed as if they'd been designed for blowing, he could just picture them enfolding his prick, but of course that was another thing that Amy would never do.
He slid his hands under the full, firm cheeks of her ass, twisting his hips, getting every last inch of his cock inside her before he withdrew and thrust home again. Her cunt was now just as moist and warm as it could be, but still she didn't respond at all. She lay totally limp as he escalated the tempo of his strokes, driving even deeper and harder and faster.
He wanted this to last much longer, he wanted to fuck her all night long, but he felt a shimmering tingle beginning to build up in his balls. It seemed that he almost always came too soon with Amy. She excited him more than any other woman had ever done, and she made him nervous with her nervousness; and part of it was due, he was sure, to the infrequency of their sex. But he had hoped that he would have contained himself a little better this time. Already the tingling in his balls had spread, his prick felt as if a million tiny needles were pushing at it from the inside, and he gasped aloud as hot splurges of semen began shooting from his cock to spatter in the depths of her pussy.
As he recalled those events of last night, he felt nothing but shame. Instead of exciting him, the memories had succeeded in withering the erection that his dream about the orgy had produced. He gazed at Amy's back as she stood and smoked by the window. He wondered if she knew. Of course she didn't.
"That was a pretty rotten thing to say, about how I should have hired a whore," he said.
"I know it," she said tonelessly, adding, after a pause: "I'm sorry."
"Maybe we ought-"
He was interrupted by the sudden, insistent buzzing of the alarm clock. He cursed under his breath as he staggered from bed to turn it off. He couldn't remember why he'd set it for eight o'clock.
"Do I have time to take a shower, Bill?"
"I'll be damned if I know. I can't remember why I set this damned thing. I have the feeling it was important."
She laughed. Her talent for organizing herself was almost inhuman. He had no such talent. She found his sloppiness and absent-mindedness endearing.
"You have to get out the car and go over to New Jersey. It's supposed to be the biggest opportunity of your career, remember?"
"Of course, yes. How in hell could I have forgotten that?"
She laughed again. "Can I shower first?"
"Yes, sure, go ahead."
He knew why he'd forgotten: he was preoccupied with his marital problems. But he didn't want to mention that, especially now that she seemed to have forgotten her earlier anger. Before the alarm clock had interrupted him, he'd been about to suggest that they seek some kind of professional help. Now, thinking it over, he decided that he ought to shop around by himself for such help before trying to get Amy to accept it. Whoever tried to change Amy's attitudes would need considerable tact and intelligence. If he brought her to some quack or charlatan the first time, she might not be willing to try a second counselor.
Bill thought about today's schedule. He was a freelance photographer, specializing in industrial work. Today he was supposed to take some pictures of a refinery for an oil company's annual report. It was the sort of job that would almost invariably be handled by the company's own public relations staff, but a recent shakeup had decimated that staff, and the job had been farmed out to Bill. He had done work for big companies before, but never for a multi-billion dollar international corporation. If he made them happy, his reputation would be immeasurably enhanced.
Nevertheless, the job shouldn't take long. Despite the disorganization of his private life, he was a meticulous workman. He had been over every inch of the refinery, and he had made a hundred preliminary studies with a Nikon that would serve as a basis for his large-format work. If he could cut short the inevitable lunch with boozing executives, he could be finished by three o'clock, leaving him time to check out one or two marriage counselors in the city.
The shower began crashing in the background as he leafed through the Yellow Pages.