Chapter 9
THE QUESTION OF HELL DID NOT OCCUR TO PAUL Stone that day. By twelve o'clock, nothing else did, either; nothing that would have ordinarily occupied his mind: work, and all relating to it.
He thought exclusively of Joan Cushing.
He kept seeing her as a continual figure; deep, understanding, sympathetic eyes, sadly profound smile capable of becoming a thoroughly bemused smile....
Then he got over illusions of sympatico, and just concentrated on the body. It was a young body. Strictly speaking, her body was not as ripe or developed as Peggy's, but that was the thing that attracted him most. It was a young, young body that exuded the illusion of perennial youth.
That was what interested Paul Stone.
And not in what could be called a paternal way, either.
Warm currents of sensuous feeling coursed through him for the first time in many years. He felt young when he thought of ravishing that body. It amazed him that the mere imagining of Joan could excite him more than the living, breathing fact of Peggy's body.
It was a fact with many implications, though he did not care to explore them. It was hardly worth that; what was worthwhile, was that Joan's body and knowledge of same became a fact.
And he had the wedge.
A very sharp wedge that could open big holes.
Joan Cushing was a very ambitious woman, ambitious for her husband; and inhibitions aside, she would be a comparatively easy nut to crack with that wedge, if handled and wielded properly.
He had handled such wedges before.
A long time ago, but he remembered. You didn't forget old skills, however long they were out of use, he thought.
As the day wore on, it became more and more an obsessive thing. Tt boiled down to a heart-quickening, body-warming desire for that young body full of the illusion of innocence; a ripe, unplucked virginal vessel of pleasure. Paul Stone considered the issue, then gave in to the truth as he saw it: he needed sex with a woman like Joan, married or not. He needed it, wanted, had to have it. Period. It was a completely non-academic consideration. It would be so simple, that it would be akin to taking candy from a placid baby, he decided. Oh, there would be token resistance, pretensions of fidelity and guilt, but in the end, that wedge would crack her wide open. He would try not to use it too severely-just a little thrust and stab at a time, until she was wholly accessible. Subtle, subtle Paul.
When Lee awakened in the morning, that curtain of hostility still lay thick between him and his wife. He could feel it, taste it. Looking at the clock, he saw that it was a little after nine; lying in bed with her was a form of masochism, he decided. Getting up and about was infinitely preferable.
He showered and dressed, then walked quietly out of the house, taking his manuscript with him. He did not want to face Joan this morning; he was not up to recriminating glances, accusing words; he had lost his stomach for such encounters. So he drove to the Toddle House, a modernistic, formica-laden greasy spoon that amazingly enough served the best cup of coffee in town, and breakfasts that one could be reasonably certain of holding down. No doubt he would run into someone there-a student, a colleague-somebody who wouldn't be hostile, someone who he wouldn't have to be on his guard with.
Nine thirty-five.
Two and a half hours to kill. He was angry; if it weren't for that damned sullen woman at home, he could have stayed and accomplished something, instead of running away like the proverbial thief in the night. Now he had to sit around and waste precious time, When the counterman stood in front of him, he ordered coffee right away and two eggs over light, bacon, juice, toast. The counterman repeated the order to the cook in incomprehensible terms-he was a young man with a wise-guy countenance.
"Two flipped chicks with," he shouted, and Lee saw his eggs being cracked into a frying pan, the bacon thrown on the hissing-hot grill. Meanwhile, a cun of coffee was slammed down in front of him. He picked up the steaming cup and sipped greedily, letting the hot strong liquid warm his guts, snap his senses into focus. Slowly, he came out of his pre-caffeine daze, became wary of what was around him. Spinning around idly on the stool, he looked around, and his eyes settled on Brenda Wood, who was sitting alone in a booth.
"Bring my eggs and stuff to that booth, will you?" he told the counterman, and pointed to the booth where Brenda sat.
"Sure." It was a leer, rather than a straightforward reply. Lee walked over to the booth. Brenda didn't see him at first, as she was busy looking at the titles in the juke box on the wall.
"Morning," he said quietly.
She turned. Her eyes lit up with gladness, gladness to see him. His heart leaped up and beat more rapidly. What a wonderful feeling, he thought, to have someone glad to see you.
"Hi, Dr. Cushing, how are you?" she said. "Sit down."
"I already took the liberty. Is Bill here with you?"
"No. He called, and I decided to spend the day working on the paper, so I'll see him tonight instead."
"Work, on Saturday? You are an incredible specimen, Brenda."
"Hardly that," she laughed. "There's nothing incredible about working on something that interests you, is there?"
"No, of course there isn't." Breakfast came, was plopped rudely in front of him. "How about something to eat?" he asked her, while the counterman hovered over them impatiently.
"No. Just some more coffee, please," she said. The guy hustled away, shouting like a mess sergeant. "So, what brings you here?" she asked.
"Just killing time until an appointment," he said.
"Oh."
Lee ate his eggs before they got cold, then started in on his bacon. "Say, how about some bacon?" he asked, "it's real good."
"No thanks."
"Come on." He put some on a saucer and shoved it over in front of her.
"Thank you. I hate to steal food out of your mouth."
"You're not stealing anything from anybody," he insisted. "Surely friends can share a little thing like food, can't they?"
The remark surprised them both.
It brought something into the open, something that lay buried, only vaguely acknowledged. They looked steadily, unhurriedly at one another.
"I guess so, Doctor." Her voice had a slight catch in it
"Lee, under these circumstances," he said. "We have a pretty fine relationship, Brenda. I'm proud of it, really. It means a lot to me."
She didn't say anything.
"Sorry if I embarrassed you," he said.
"No, no," she said, and laid her hand on top of his beseechingly. "I'm glad you said it, Lee. T ... never would have had the courage to say it myself." Their eyes locked, said a million things that needed more saying.
Brenda's hand remained where it was.
Lee became highly conscious of it. It was more than a hand, more than a woman's hand. It was a warm, wonderful living presence, one that became very necessary for him to hold onto.
"You look upset about something, Lee. What's the matter?"
It poured out of him like a dam that had been dynamited. He told her about the wife who didn't understand him. the conflict between playing Stone's game, the University's game and just being himself. By the time he finished, he realized that he had articulated his dilemma for the first time. Things were more clear-cut, more definable. It was beginning to make sense to him.
"It's so good to have someone to unload on," he said. "I'm sorry you had to take that burden."
"I'm glad you told me," she answered. "That's what ... friends are for."
It was the classic approach, so much so, that Lee wasn't even aware of the fact that he was using it. The wife who didn't understnad, the world who closed in unremittingly-all classic, time-worn stuff, as effective as ever when the people involved want a belief, however tenuous, to cling to.
Her eyes were clouded with sympathy, with transmuted sadness for him that worked itself inside her young bosom.
"When you get that novel finished, you'll be on your own, Lee. You'll be able to be you."
"I hope so. It's funny how you can get into something with a head full of dreams, and get disillusioned so quickly. It's a good thing I didn't go into business with my father, like he wanted."
"You wouldn't make much of a businessman. You're too gentle, too full of understanding."
"Thanks for that much, Brenda."
In the silence that followed, he became conscious of Brenda Wood as a woman: a woman with a body. He noticed how her breasts pushed youthfully against her sweater; by the look of softness, of pliancy, he saw that she wore no brassiere. She could get away with it, he decided. It was a shame to hide such beautiful anatomy with artificial devices like brassieres. The skin on her neck and face was soft, close-grained. No flaws anywhere, that he could see. The hair was brushed to a high sheen; her lips were young, smiling, yet full of womanly understanding and sensuality. Highly expressive lips, he thought.
The rest of her was hidden by the table, but he could imagine. He had seen her closely before, had watched her walking the corridors in the English building, and knew how that young butt pushed against the tight skirts and slacks, how the hips swelled and tapered into strong, straight thighs. It required no more than minimum imagination to know what was beneath those clothes that society demanded be worn. It all came back to him.
He swallowed, thinking of Joan, probably still lying in bed. He was learning something about himself that didn't particularly delight him: last night, he had harbored forbidden little thoughts concerning himself and Peggy Stone. Now, he was indulging in the same sort of game with Brenda Wood as the other half of the board. He had never thought in such terms before. Now, he seemed suddenly surrounded by temptation, temptation that was almost too good, too overwhelming to pass up.
There were differences, of course. Peggy Stone was a potential stepping-stone, a middleman between her husband and that promotion. Brenda was different. He thought perhaps that he might be in love with her, which brought up the question of emotional maturity in his mind. Married men were not to fall in love with other women. If worse came to worse, you could commit adultery, as long as you did it discreetly. As long as you didn't get caught-contemporary morality hard at work, he thought. Just don't pet caught. And make sure that you can live with yourself. But falling in love was out of the question. It would not be tolerated, because it implied that you had made a wrong choice the first time around. It implied failure of a sort, and to fail in twentieth century America is anathema. It is a psychic form of dying.
"What are you thinking about?" Brenda asked. Her voice interrupted his thoughts, cut into them abruptly.
"Just things," he smiled. "It might sound vague, or evasive, but that's about it."
"It is evasive, Lee. Are you thinking about us?"
"Yes. I suppose I am, and I have no right."
Someone fed the juke-box, and raucous, guitar-twanging music flooded the room. It was annoying, a shouting voice that seemed to say NO, YOU CAN'T HAVE ANY PRIVACY, NOT EVEN THIS! They ignored it, merely raised their voices above the music.
"Maybe not, but we're both thinking about the same thing."
"What about Bill?" Lee heard himself ask.
"Right now, he doesn't seem important," she shrugged. "It's as though I made a mistake right from the beginning. Maybe that's hard to understand or believe."
"God, no it isn't," he choked.
"Lee, can we go somewhere? Somewhere where we can be alone?" Desperation in her voice, now. Desperation born of wanting.
"Do you realize what it can mean?" he asked.
"Yes. Pain, lots and lots of pain. I don't care, Lee."
"Okay, Brenda." When he stood up, he was dizzy; everything was unreal, as though in another world, in another dimension. This wasn't happening to him, was it? This only happened in movies, on TV, in books and romance comics. This couldn't possibly be real, could it?
It was.
He paid the check, and they walked outside, to his car. They got into the car, with him holding the door for her to enter. He shut it, walked over to the other side and climbed in behind the wheel. Drove off.
" Toward the motel area several miles out of town. It was real, all right. Lee kept his eyes fixedly on the road, afraid to look over at Brenda, who sat almost against the door. Already, guilt was enveloping them like a gaseous shroud, he thought. They hadn't even gone beyond intention, and already it was beginning to close in on them.
"It'll be right, Lee. You'll see." Her voice was soft, caught in her throat. She moved next to him, took one hand off the wheel and put it around her shoulder.
"You'll see," she said again.
It was the last motel on the strip, and it was moderately priced. He signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Cummings from downstate, so that when he entered his license plate number on the form, it wouldn't look fishy. He paid the man in advance, then walked back outside to the car.
"Okay," he said, and climbed in. He parked in front of their room, which was in back. It was a large motel; there were probably a hundred units or more-the kind of place where questions were never asked, strictly a volume operation.
The inside didn't matter to either of them.
There was a bed.
Nothing else was important.
Brenda, too, thought that this was somehow distant from her. It was like looking at someone else, perhaps on television. The reality had not yet penetrated.
"Nice room," she said shakily.
"Brenda, we can leave right now," Lee said. "If either of us have qualms, it's no good. You know that."
"I don't have any, Lee."
It was a final pronouncement that said, Let's finish what we've started. Brenda turned, looked at the wall. It was paneled she noticed wit a common-looking sort of plywood that gave it an anonymity like all other motels. There was nothing that proclaimed the thing they were about to do, nothing that shouted with threats to point them out to the world.
It was private.
When he kissed her, she trembled, and he knew that it was partly from uncertainty, from delayed shock. She was not promiscuous. He had an idea of what she had at stake.
"Brenda, I wouldn't hurt you for the world. Believe that."
"I do, Lee, I do," she said, and returned the kiss, throwing her arms around him, clinging against his body with her body, and then it was all right. It felt right, the way their lips and bodies clung tenaciously, warmly together, seeking one another out.
Lee ran his fingers gently through the luxuriant hair, caressed her while his lips ground insistently against hers. She sighed, held him tightly. He became conscious of her breasts poking into his chest, and wanted to remove the tweed sport jacket that he wore. It was a heavy, cumbersome, highly annoying inconvenience.
"I feel better," she said. She kissed him again, with more passion, and he let his tongue flick gently against her lower, pouting lip. Her jaw went slack with desire, with open-mouthed wanting, and their tongues collided and mingled with one another's hot breath. Their sighs harmonized with gathering intensity.
"Much, much better," she breathed, and clung to him like a live weight, pulling him down, down, until they glided in embrace toward the bed. She fell back against the mattress, pulling him down on top of her. The tight, short skirt hiked up her legs and gathered around full hips-the sweet white meat of thighs lay exposed. His hand caressed them, rubbed them, and he knew, by her breathing, by her crescendoed whimpers, that there was no turning back. They had already gone beyond that point, in a matter of minutes. Their wanting was insatiable.
Her thighs parted, letting his hand wander upward; her pants were moist and hot with her desire; his fingers moved up, stroked the soft smooth belly-flesh, which quivered and jumped with instant, heated response.
"Oooooh," she whimpered, "I need you so badly, Lee, darling!" Her body rocked gently to and fro, in that ageless movement known to all female flesh.
Brenda cursed herself for having worn a pullover sweater. It was a damned annoyance. It meant breaking the embrace, sitting up, and pulling it off, all of which she did with alarming speed, but still, it acted as an unlooked-for contrivance, and interruption that was not needed.
In an instant, it was off.
Her breasts were bare, lush, waiting.
Breathlessly, he fondled them, hefted the globes in his hands, and felt their feathery weight, their young fullness, the burgeoning red nipples swelling against his palms. He bent down and kissed them. The nipples grew like little raspberries in his mouth, and she whimpered, moaned, and thrashed her body hotly back and forth against his lips to encourage the caress, to heighten the pleasure of it. Her hands clung to the back of his neck possessively, pulled his head forward, while her body shot forward to meet it.
A head-on collision.
A miraculous contact.
Her mouth was completely slack now, tongue lolling inside as though it had nothing to cling to, as though it were a free, unencumbered agent.
"Ahhhh," she panted, thrusting her body back and forth. Her hand sought him, found him, clung to him with sweet possession. Lee felt the burn of desire flash through him, felt his groin tighten, cramp painfully-then a continuous wave of building, intensified pleasure as she caressed him, delighted in his maleness and its response.
He lay down beside her, his body moving against hers with agonized wanting. Her bare thighs and breasts suggested heat, intimated the ultimate beauty of complete nudity. His hands pulled at her panties, forced them down over swollen, lush hips and full sumptuous thighs. Then they were off.
Her core seethed with heat.
White-hot, ready heat that screamed and begged for a man to fill it, fulfill it, gratifying it. His hand caressed stroked, probed, carrier her to the heights of lust. Her thighs shot apart, encouraged continuation, while her hands worked feverishly at his clothing, tearing it away from his body. It was a flurry of disorganized motion-his stroking, her pulling of clothes, his kicking off of shoes without bothering to untie them. Then they settled into slow, langurous movements, sighing, panting, whimpering.
Their bodies making contact was like an electric shock. Their minds exploded with the lushness of it, transmitting the information to their senses, which reveled and rejoiced. His large hands covered a good portion of her breasts while his hips and flat, hard stomach maintained their contact with her. Their lips joined, and it was a perfect symphony of bodies preparing for the grand finale of pleasure.
He bit her lower lip.
She gasped, bit his.
His hand dug tightly into abundantly pliant buttocks' flesh, while her hand stroked him, clung to him desperately. Now he could smell the muskiness of passion and desire that emanated from her thighs, from every pore of her body. It was the unmistakable smell of sex, mingling with cologne or perfume, he didn't know which. Nor did he give a damn. It was a moot point.
"Now," she insisted, "now, Lee darling!" Her hands coaxed, tried to roll him into position on top of her.
"Don't make it so quick," he pleaded. "Make it a lasting thing, Brenda, a thing that we'll always remember."
She knew what he meant.
Of course, she thought; why should she finish them all at once, and make the whole thing just another quick roll in the hay? It would be more than that, considering their emotional involvement, but it could be so much better, so much more memorable, if she used a little imagination, a little daring....
If she let herself go, as she had done with Bill. What the hell, she told herself, it wasn't as though she were adverse to borderline tactics. Hardly!
Whatever they did, it would not be sordid.
Brenda quivered with this new knowledge; the certainty of utter, uninhibited freedom between them. A laissez faire of sex; hell, it was a brand-new cultural concept that should shock the sociologists. It was beautiful, highly workable.
"Lee, can we-?"
"Anything, anything at all," he said in a voice he could not recognize as his own. His hands held her tightly, stroked her thighs and belly.
She quivered.
"Would you kiss me?" She showed him what she meant. More than anything, she wanted to feel a man's lips there, delivering the forbidden kiss that is said to have originated in the temples of Lesbos, long, long ago. Only this wasn't Lesbos, it was straight all the way, between man and woman.
Lee saw no discernible reason for hesitation.
He pushed her back against the mattress, pulled her by the legs so that her knees and calves hung over the edge of the bed. He looked at her, in that position. He saw smoky, clouded eyes, disarrayed hair, wet, limp lips-a face depicting pure lust. He saw a trembling, eager body with heaving breasts that rose and fell, nipples burgeoning. He saw lush hips working up and down with piston-like precision.
He saw a woman waiting.
Never keep a lady waiting. Her flesh was soft and warm against his face, and the shaking of her body, the spur-like grip of her nails in the back of his head urged him on, drove him. She responded with equal verve and enthusiasm, as she was the recipient of this grand stroke-she screamed. It was a scream of incredulous delight, punctuated with Yes ... ooooh! Yes! He closed his eyes, let himself become lost in the dark world of woman's hungry, yearning flesh.
She pulled him up, practically forced him on top of her body, held him with her strong thighs, and their bodies meshed in final embrace.
It was insanely delightful.
Body against body, they became one body, one movement, a movement in precise counterpoint. His hands held her buttocks while her hands pressed tightly into the small of his back; they were as close as two people can be.
Brenda fainted. Perhaps it was only for seconds; the eyes fluttered, closed, opened again, while her body continued its dynamo motion.
Then, they exploded.
It was a peak, a culmination of pleasure that poets have been trying to describe for thousands of years, without success. It was a climax that can only be felt, then forgotten, until the next one. It is a fleeting, precious moment in human experience.
Exhaustion.
Silence.
Twelve o'clock, according to his watch, and time to be at John Hanley's house. Yet he hated to run like that. It would destroy the illusion of tenderness, of quiet contentment that should ideally follow an experience of such intensity.
"You have an appointment," she said.
"Yes, I'm afraid I do," he replied.
"Must you hurry?" she asked.
"Yes. I'm supposed to be there now," he replied, and looked at her beseechingly. "I hate to leave. It's so quiet here, so peaceful."
"That's the trouble when you leave the world," she said. "It's always hell getting back into it again."
They got dressed, and entered that world. To most people, it was a world consisting of trees and buildings and peoples and automobiles, somehow related, somehow belonging. To Lee Cushing, it was a world of hardship. It was a world that demanded he have after-hours sex with another woman outside of its eves rind ears. It was a world that demanded loyalty to his wife, compromise in his beliefs and values.
Yet, it was a world that he couldn't deny. He had to fit into it, somehow. Still, there was the dream that he could fit in on his own terms. There was still that illusion, and now, as he drove Brenda to her dormitory, he tried to cling to it fiercely.