Chapter 11
Cynthia Lockhart was in the process of having her apartment redecorated.
It certainly didn't need redecorating, for this had been done to it just a year ago-but that wasn't the point. The point was, you got bored with a place, no matter how great it looked. The same color walls, rugs, the same furniture-it got to you eventually if you lived there long enough, and especially if you lived there alone. The cure for this, if you have the money, is to have the place completely re-done, from floors to ceilings; furnishings, everything.
And Cynthia certainly had the money. Wherever she had lived for the past fifteen years, if she stayed there long enough she had it done over on an average of once a year. It generally ended up looking much the same, but to Cynthia it was the little differences that counted. In everything.
For instance, she had noticed a subtle difference in Marc Ferris lately, for the past couples of days. Differences in people, changes, the subtle ones, were interesting to her, and this one in Marc would have been too-if she weren't fairly certain of the cause behind the change.
Exactly certain, in fact She was never wrong in his case.
It was the usual cause.
"You're not paying attention to me, darling," she said. They were seated together on the Victorian styled couch of her private study, the antechamber to her glassed-in bedroom. It was evening; they were drinking cocktails.
"What did you say?" Marc said, coming back to the present.
"I was telling you about the color scheme I'm thinking about for this room."
"Oh. Yes; it's fine; fine!"
"Your mind must be somewhere else tonight."
"I was just thinking about business matters."
"Really? Anything good turn up lately?"
"Well...."
"A new girl, perhaps?"
"As a matter-of-fact, yes. She came in the day before yesterdav, a very stunning brunette."
"Ah."
"From Boise. Ran a check on her and she looked okay. Right background and everything."
"I thought the school was full to capacity, Marc."
"Well, I didn't want to let this one go. There's always room for one more, if she's a looker."
"This new girl-what's her name?"
"Alston. Patricia Alston."
"Hmm. And how was she?"
"What do you mean by that, Cynthia?" Marc said innocently, feeling uneasy. His mind had been on the girl all evening, as a matter-of-fact, but he hadn't thought that had shown in his actions.
"You made love to her didn't you?"
"Listen, Cynthia; it was just-"
"Just one of those things. Another ripe young thing from the corn belt and you couldn't keep your hands off her!"
"Come on, honey-"
"You're a greedy man, Marc. I bet when you were a child you couldn't walk past a fruit stand without swiping the biggest ripest apple."
"Now, baby-"
"Take me to bed, Marc."
"But I thought you wanted to see that new show."
"I want you to take me to bed, Marc." She was wearing a long white lame gown, open-throated, and when she turned on the couch and leaned toward him, most of her ample bosom was bared.
"Don't you want to take me to bed, Marc?"
He looked at her big breasts with unconcealed interest. They never failed to interest and excite him, with their huge red nipples and matronly heft.
He hadn't made love to her in over a week. First there had been a rush of business matters, and then they simply hadn't seen each other for several days.
He was seeing a lot of her at the moment. She had also crossed her legs, baring a lot of white shapeliness.
"Of course, darling," he breathed, and as if by a prearranged signal they both rose.
He followed her into the fantasy of a bedroom, her many-mirrored menagerie. She undid the robe and shrugged, and it fell to the floor. "Hurry, Marc!"
He hurried. He undressed as fast as he could, for now the sight of her tall stately body with its huge pendulous breasts, lovely round buttocks and smooth-muscled legs had him thoroughly excited. Especially the breasts. There was something about them....
She waited for him, her eyes fastened on his image in the mirrors. A strange feeling came over her, a feeling that was partially libidinal excitement and partially something else. Concern, maybe. He was a man who was bound to ruin himself over a woman some day. If there were no one around to stop him, to bring him back to his senses. She was incapable of loving any man in the usual sense of the word, but the emotion she felt toward him at least approached love.
In a sense, it was love.
When he moved to her she reached out and grasped him, clutching him to her big bosom, the snowy red-tipped comfort of her spreading breasts. She let him take them to his lips, one at a time, experiencing passion, but more from the excitement she was causing in him than from his skillful maneuverings.
The truth was, he didn't do that much for her. He could bring her to a finish and few men could do that, but it was something else that made her want him around something that at times she could almost define.
Times like this.
She touched and stroked and caressed him repeatedly, and when he became eager with passion and was ready to take her, she held him off.
"What is it?" he gasped.
"What's the matter?"
"That Alston girl. I want her here, Marc"
"Cynthia, baby; I don't know-"
"Here, Marc, so I can watch. Arrange that!" "God, all right, if you say so; only let me-"
She let him. She relaxed and felt the excitement of his passion. She folded her arms around him, crushing him to her big breasts as he began to work with increasing excitement.
He would do that, she knew. He would bring the girl here, and things would happen again, like before, and then he would be safe. Then he would need her again.
He would need her always, the poor fool-the way some men need a mother!
She sighed, feeling her own passion rise in response to his.