Chapter 4

Jack Donovan stared at the nakedness of Janet Markell. Finally. At last. For ten years, he had dreamed of being able to see her this way, and now, finally, he had been allowed the privilege.

His eyes sparkled. "Beautiful. Marvelous."

Janet laughed. "You don't think I'm flat-chested?"

"Of course not."

"Fred does. Fred thinks my breasts are much too small. He's always been complaining. In subtle ways, but he never fails to let me know."

Donovan laughed. "Fred's a nice guy, but he's an idiot in a lot of ways."

"I'm not bosomy," Janet said.

"You're not a cow, no," Donovan told her. "But who likes milk?"

Janet gilled. Her face was tinged with red, more from excitement than from embarrassment. They were both nude, but so far they hadn't gone past the point of simply talking to each other.

Donovan came over to her. He let his hands rest on her small cool breasts. He covered them up, gripped them between thick, fleshy fingers, letting the nipples protrude. Her nipples were growing hard, he saw.

He pinched them. Hard.

"Ouch!" Janet cried. "Why do you like to hurt me, Jack? Where'd you get that sadistic streak?"

"I know you enjoy being hurt," he said, "That isn't so."

"Sure it is. You just won't admit it to yourself, Jan. You're a masochist at heart. That's why you stayed faithful to Fred so long. Why you denied all your physical impulses. Because you felt you had to hurt yourself. To punish yourself. Maybe for being sterile. You like people to hurt you, Jan. And I like to hurt So we're a good pair."

"My analyst says-"

"Nuts to your analyst," Donovan snapped. "Keep Mm out of this discussion!"

His hands tightened on her breasts. He was gripping them hard, now.

"How does that feel?" he asked. "It-hurts-"

"And you like it. You like it, don't you?"

"No, of course I don't! I-yes! Yes, I do! Harder, Jack! Squeeze me harder!"

She was suddenly afire with passion, now that she had decided to give vent to the real feelings within her. Donovan saw the excitement, the sudden frenzy in her eyes, and grinned in satisfaction as her naked body pressed and churned against his.

He released her breasts and wrapped his arms around her entire body, hugging the slim nudity of her, half-choking her. Her breasts were cool and hard-tipped against him.

It had all been so easy, Jack Donovan thought. She had been a pushover. No coaxing, no wheedling, no cajoling had been necessary. All he had to do was ask for it, and she gave. He cursed himself for not having tried it years ago. Why had he waited so long, dreaming of Janet Markell as he slept with woman after woman? Why hadn't he just barged in and taken her?

It would have been better for both of them that way. Well, there was no undoing the past. But at least, he thought, they had the present-

And the future.

"Take me!" Janet moaned. "For Christ's sake, take me, Jack!"

"What's the hurry?" he grinned.

"I want you! I want you!"

"Let's not rush," he said. "Remember, Fred's playing with his little blonde lassie now. He'll be busy till late. We've got loads of time."

She clawed at him, her hands running through the thick curling hair of his chest, then going down past the heavy flesh of his abdomen. Donovan grunted.

"Since you like to get hurt," he told her, "I'll hurt you a little."

His hand lashed out, slapped her stingingly across the breasts. Janet dropped back, looking at him in fright and confusion. Chuckling, Donovan came toward her. He nipped at her breasts again. Then, as she turned, he landed a loud, smacking blow on the tender flesh of her buttocks.

"Stop it!" she cried. "Don't!"

"You really want me to stop?"

"N-no! No, no, no!"

"Okay, then."

He grabbed her. Her slim, fragile body was like a in his bear-like grip. His fingers dug deep into her flesh, gouging her, bringing little whimpers of pain to her lips. And yet there was a look of pleasure in her body, of a strange delight-

He squeezed tighter.

Tighter.

Then he threw her roughly to the floor. She landed hard, her buttocks smacking against the carpet. She sat there, dazed by her rough handling.

Donovan threw himself on her.

He wasted no time m further preliminaries. He knew they were useless. Like most of the so-called frigid women he had known, all Janet needed was a shaking up, a breaking out of the routine. No doubt Markell had wooed her according to all the prescribed marriage manual techniques, and they hadn't worked. So why not try a little brutality? Why not a little sadism?

His heavy body bore heavily down on hers.

It was more of an attack than anything else. He took her roughly, coarsely, like a Neanderthal coupling in a windy cave. He took her bestially. He took her fiercely.

For an instant, Donovan thought it was going to fail.

He looked down at her and saw nothing but pain and fear in her eyes. But that was only the first instant, and the look in her eyes was the look of the old Janet, the tame frigid suburban Janet that he was murdering in this moment.

The next moment the shell of that Janet shattered. And Jack Donovan found that he had a wildcat beneath him.

She thrust and arched her back. Her gasping was fearful to listen to, a savage clawing for breath, the sound of a woman drowning in her own frenzied passion. He bore down hard on her, and every motion sent new currents through her, and as he outraged her flesh she went berserk.

Her nails raked the skin of his shoulders. Her legs went wide and high, releasing a decade of frustration and desire in one furious instant.

Beneath him, her body trembled. Hovered for a moment on the brink of ecstasy.

Then-

"Oh, God!" she yelled. "Oh! It's happening, Jack! I-oh-I can't talk-"

"Go on, baby!" he urged. "All the way! Ride it! Ride it, baby!"

He felt the terrific surge of ecstasy welling up from her, the savage explosion of her passion, the almost numbing intensity of her fulfillment. Her body curved high off the floor, while she whimpered and moaned, and then a long, low, utterly weird sound of ecstasy escaped her lips, and a moment later she was right at the peak, crying out nonsense syllables in some private language of love, and Jack Donovan held tight and rode along with her, astonished himself at the force and power of the emotions he had unleashed.

Fred Markell was having the time of his life.

He had never had a girl like Anita. Never. She was so smooth, so graceful, such utter perfection in every gesture. Of course, she had had plenty of on-the-job training. But he forced himself to forget about that Artfully, she made him feel that he was the first man in her life, the only man.

Her taut-fleshed young body moved in scintillating curves beneath him. He closed his eyes, pressed his face down between the round globes of her breasts-at last, a girl with breasts in bed with him-and moved his body, and she moved hers.

He began to tremble.

She sensed it. She began to do things with her muscles.

Markell had read about girls who could do tricks like that. The women of India, he had heard, ware famous for it But the closest he had ever came to India was Korea, which wasn't the same thing at all. Anita knew those tricks. She showed him.

It was fantastic. It was almost miraculous. "It was certainly dazzling Like little hands, he thought. Little hands gripping, releasing, gripping, releasing again. It astonished.

He moved closer. Her body rose to meet his assault. She had perfect rhythm, perfect timing. In everything.

He gasped. She began to gasp.

He went rigid She moved faster.

He climbed higher. She joined him.

Faster.

Higher.

Faster.

Higher.

Now the summit was In sight, and they were Both moving at a furious rate, playing out the game of passion to its finale, twisting and turning and moving in all the time-tested motions, and then Markell felt the surge hit him and in the very same moment, so convincingly that he did not see how she could possibly be faking it, she reached her fulfillment and churned and eddied beneath him until the last movement of ecstasy had passed and it was over.

Afterward, they lay together for a few minutes, his head pillowed against her breasts, the soft fullness of them filling his nostrils with their warm fragrance. He wanted her to stay there forever, but when the afterglow had died down she began to lift his head.

"No. Don't go away."

"I have to, Freddy."

"Stay a while."

"I can't. You've got to go home, Freddy."

"I can go home a little later."

"No. I can't stay," she said softly, apologetically.

He knew why. She was being too tactful to tell him so in that many words, but obviously she had another appointment, her schedule was busy, and she had to move along. He knew he couldn't object. He had no right to interfere with someone else's pleasure. He could not even ask Anita to stay with him an extra hour instead of going on to her next client, and he realized that if he did ask, she would have to refuse.

So he let her get up, and he watched the lithe motions of her body as she walked across the room toward the bathroom. The pink rounds of her bare buttocks wigwagged at him playfully, and then the door closed behind them, leaving only the image glittering on his retinas, Anita's smooth tapering back and lovely hind-side. He heard water running inside. He lay back, tired and happy.

A few minutes later, she emerged, tiptoeing out. She crossed the room again, still nude, and leaned over to kiss him, the heavy bells of her breasts swaying, going ding-dong as she bent forward. He reached up, momentarily cupped her breasts, and then she slipped from his grasp.

"Naughty. Mustn't touch."

He laughed thinly. He watched her dress. It was a pity, he thought, that such radiant beauty should be covered up by clothing. She snapped her bra, drew her panties up over the satiny globes of her buttocks, and it was like watching the sun dip below the horizon-He said, "When will I see you again?"

"You have the number, Freddy."

"But you may be booked up for weeks!"

"I never take a booking more than a week in advance," she said. "And I've usually got an hour or two open up till the day before."

"I wish I could have you all the time."

She grinned and pulled a stocking breathtakingly up her leg. "I'm expensive," she said. "Can you pay $500 a week for my upkeep?"

"I doubt it."

"Well, that's about how much I make as a freelancer. If you can match it, well, I'm yours. At least for a while."

"For a while?" he said.

"Until I get restless," she told him. She yawned voluptuously and began to draw on her other stocking. "I'm a very restless girl. But I like you, Freddy. You're a real man, if you know what I mean. And I think you do." She came over to the bed again and kissed him, and ran her hands lightly over his chest and arms. The scent of her was dizzying to him. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again," she whispered. "Again and again and again."

She finished dressing, and restored her make-up, while Markell watched, fascinated by the ethereal grace of her every gesture.

Then she turned to him. "There's one little matter to settle, of course."

"Of course. I don't know-"

She smiled. "Whatever you think it was worth. Let your conscience be your guide."

"I don't have that much money, Anita. I could never pay you the full value."

"Let's say $25, then. On account."

"Tine," he said.

Before her arrival, he had carefully put two tens and a five in a hotel envelope, and had left it on the dresser. Now he handed it to her. She took the envelope without opening it, put it in her purse, waved him a cheery goodbye, threw him one last sizzling bedroom glance, one for the road, and left.

It was five minutes after ten.

She had been with him exactly an hour.

She was a real pro, Markell thought admiringly. So much time allotted for preliminary small-talk, so much time for business itself, so much time reserved afterward for a lingering farewell.

He thought again of the beauty of her, of the savage pulsing pleasure that she had aroused in him, and a tight band of tension wrapped itself around his middle. He couldn't bear to think of her going on and on, selling herself to a multitude of men, being handled and used and soiled by a bunch of sweaty strangers.

He wanted her.

She was a treasure, he thought. She was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. Aside from the sheer beauty of her, the silky golden hair and the firm melon-like breasts and the taut-fleshed buttocks, there was this special way she had about her, this way oi making a man teel really masculine.

On those increasingly rare occasions when he had made love to his own wife recently, Janet had managed by word and deed to chop him down, to needle him, to deflate his ego. Anita did just the opposite. She knew how to build a man up.

Markell was still in a dreamy glow as he left the hotel, twenty minutes later. He surrendered his key at the desk, paid his room service charge for the liquor he had ordered, and drifted out into the cool night, feeling completely satisfied with himself and the world. He caught a cab to Grand Central, and got there just barely in time to make the 10:43.

He was home just before midnight Janet was in bed, reading.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi. You have a hard evening?"

"Not so bad. You?"

"I addressed envelopes," she said. "And then I read. A quiet evening at home."

"I'm sorry I had to desert you," he said, feeling more than usually solicitous of her, now that he had betrayed and deceived her.

"It's all right," she said, with a warmth that he found surprising. "I didn't mind being left all alone. Did your conference accomplish anything?"

"Not much. You know how these things are. I imagine there'll be all kinds of wrangling for weeks to come."

"You want to tell me the gory details, Fred?"

"They'd only bore you. I might as well not bother you with them."

"I suppose," she yawned. "Well, good night."

She reached over, turned out the light on her side of the bed. Within moments, she appeared to be sound asleep.

Markell undressed, washed up, and slipped into bed beside her, careful not to wake her. Let her sleep, he thought. And let her spend her days addressing envelopes or doing whatever else she damned pleased. He didn't mind, now. He had other ways of gaining satisfaction.

He closed his eyes. This was, he knew, going to be the soundest night's sleep he had had at any time in the past ten years.

Sleep took him. It was a few minutes past midnight.

Beddy-bye time in Suburbia.