Chapter 2
Brenda Wood was beautiful-not voluptuous, nor attractive-just beautiful. Brenda was all things to all people. Vassar, Kansas, Manhattan, Paris-the girl would fit anywhere. Ait nineteen, she could easily pass for twenty-five, and when she became twenty-five, she would be able to palm herself off for nineteen with equal ease. All this was made possible by the rare combination of a girl's face and woman's passion-packed body. That Brenda Wood was the epitome of sexuality for every male who saw her as a foregone conclusion; she was that, and more-white, high-thrust breasts pushing against her sweater; tapered waist accentuating the soft, yet sudden curve of hips and buttocks ; thighs, solid and of generous length surging against the tight skirt. In essence, everybody wanted to boff Brenda Wood, everybody being the male population, and quite possibly certain females with good taste. It was too damned bad. For most males and females, a hopeless dream. She wasn't to be had under any circumstances by anyone, except for one: a handsome ex-marine-tough, smart, everything a woman could want in the gender.
His name was Bill Holloway, and he sat next to Brenda Wood at this moment, waiting for Dr. Cushing to arrive.
"He's a minute late," Bill said, looking at his wrist watch. Bill was not Rock Hudson-handsome, but more Richard Boone or Richard Burton-handsome, complete with craggy, rugged face. He was deceptively lean-six feet, a sparse hundred eighty pounds, every bit of it muscle and bone and guts.
Bill was a man's man.
He was also Brenda's man.
She looked at him lovingly, touched his hard thigh and said, "I think I hear him clattering down the hall now," and sure enough, it was Dr. Cushing, swinging his brief case against his long, solid legs. He was built very much like Bill, but his face was more on the pretty side.
"Good morning," he announced, opening his briefcase and spilling the contents on the desk, "I have your papers ready. Pick them up at the end of class."
He cleared his throat, looked at the class.
"Well, looks like we're all here. I'm improving, I guess. Two whole weeks, and I haven't bored you enough to drive you away." There was a polite, then sincere wave of laughter as Lee lit a cigarette.
Brenda Wood was excited about this class, more so than she'd been about any of her other literature courses. Cushing struck her as a rare phenomonen among teachers: dedicated to teaching, enthusiastic to share, rather than impose his subject. And he was good-looking; not a significant consideration, but mildly helpful, she thought.
"Has anybody not finished reading The Hamlet?" he asked. There were no hands; it didn't matter, it was on the agenda for discussion.
They talked animatedly, discussing the novel's plot, the stylistic twists and turns peculiar to Faulkner, and Lee found himself listening more than talking, a sure sign that enthusiasm was at a high level. He was doing his job the way he wanted to.
Miss Wood was especially sharp, he thought. Her hand went up more often, and what came out of her mouth was her own, well thought out and damned original thinking. Oh, he could shoot her down on a few counts, like other profs, but why should he? He'd give them some of his views and try them on for size. That was the fun part: creating a heated debate, which left not only him, but his students exhilarated.
The time passed quickly, too quickly as always, and they all started to leave. He smiled at Miss Wood and Mr. Holloway as they walked past his desk.
Brenda and Bill walked slowly to the car, a beatup TR-3 that needed a valve job desperately. Bill was silent, cigarette hanging out of his thin lips.
"That's going to be the greatest course," Brenda said.
"Uh-huh." Bill was not one for academic fervor. He was thinking abut the story he'd damned well better get cleaned up by Friday if he wanted to get a check in time; the editor had been hounding him for two weeks to get it completed.
"You sound like you care," Brenda quipped.
"Oh, I do," he said, "it's just that story. I've got to get it in the mail Friday morning or I don't eat. And it'll be getting on the wrong list with an editor, which I don't want."
Brenda squeezed his hand. He put his arm around her, pulled her close. Her breasts nudged his chest.
"Don't worry, Bill, you'll get it done," she said. "How'd you do on your paper?"
"Aced it."
"Me, too."
Stupid damned patter about grades, he thought bitterly. Writing academic jazz that no editor would touch, but right in the pedantic line with the profs. They dug it, they threw out the big A's for the stuff. So play the game, Bill, but don't get carried away, because these cats don't pay your salary, and they don't teach you a blessed thing about hack writing.
Bill had been scribbling pulp and slick fiction for a couple of years, with some success. He was good for four figures a year, in spite of his full load at the university; yet it was frustrating, because of the impossibility of being able to concentrate on any serious writing. Damned school made sure of that. The faculty members who knew him clucked their tongues admonishingly: Oh, you really shouldn't write such simple stuff, Bill, it degrades your talent. Why don't you try to come on like Bellow or Styron? You can do it, old man, we don't work you that hard. (Feeble smile)
Go to hell, stuffed shirts. I don't care how I make my money!
"Where're we going?" Brenda asked.
He grinned lewdly, squeezed her hand: "Where do you think, Miss Fly?"
"Again, Mr. Spider?"
"Again. That's what happens when you get engaged to a satyr."
"William Holloway, it's evil lechers like you who make young virgins such a remarkably rare item."
"Yes, it's the Bill Holloways of the world who so mercilessly annihilated Miss Grundy," he intoned with mock grief. Their voices were raised above the valve-clattering roar of the Triumph's engine.
Brenda felt good now, knowing that they were going to Bill's apartment; the place held a storehouse of fond memories for her, memories of them.
It was where Bill had pierced Miss Grundy to the quick, via the tender, aching virgin knot of one Brenda Wood, almost a year ago. She had succumbed to him because she loved him, and that, compounded with natural, healthy female horniness, made for an irresistible combination of events. A month later, Bill had put an engagement ring on her finger, and in June, when they graduated, they were to be married almost immediately after taking off their graduation gowns.
In a word, things were working wonderfully well for Holloway and Wood, soon to be shortened to Holloways.
Bill parked in the garage beneath the building, in the space reserved for him. The apartment had been a good find: Two bedrooms, kitchen, full dining room and living room, central air conditioning and full utilities for a hundred twenty-five a month, a sum easily swung with the money he was making. He was hardly the struggling student, living from hand to mouth. At twenty-four, he was making as "'"ch money as people who worked at their jobs full time.
"Here we are," he said.
"Yes, how about that?" she quipped. "Someday, I'd like to know how many other women you've had."
"Countless victims," he said. "Scattered from New York to Suji Bay and back from Tokyo to Frisco. Strewn, used bodies-horrible!"
"Ok, Attila, let's go upstairs." She grabbed his hand with a natural, easy air of possessiveness, and led him to the elevator. He lived on the second floor, and they usually walked it, but at this time of day the elevator would be empty and faster.
Inside, Brenda felt a quiver of excitement. The fact that it was all predictible did not detract from the anticipation: they were going to make love, and that, to her, was the most exciting thing in the world. They kissed in a leisurely manner, in no hurry; no deadlines, no fear of interruption-not the back-seat business for them, as for most of the girls she knew on campus. It was a marvelous prelude to how things would be when they were married.
Their kiss became less easy.
It became heated, urgent.
Their lips clung honey-like, and Bill felt the telltale jaw-slackening of her face, her lips loosening, moistening with increased passion, her body relaxing against his. His hands moved down to her buttocks and pressed her into him. A slight gasping sound escaped her red lips. He felt the gentle pressure of her teeth on his working up and down his body. Brenda heated up fast.
"Nice to be alone," she breathed.
"Ummm." His hands pressed, kneaded, delighted in the feel of her buttocks-soft, yet firm, wide and high-young, perfect buttocks that squirmed and pressed the rest of her femaleness into his body, exerting hot pressure against his male response.
"I must be oversexed," Brenda sighed. She wriggled delightedly against him, reveled in the electric sensation of his maleness pressed against her. Soon-she shuddered at the thought.
"Could be. We're not all perfect, Brenda dear." They both laughed, and pressed harder together, while he walked forward, she slowly backward, clinging to him, toward the big, firm sofa. He eased her onto the cushions, and with her arms around his neck, she pulled him down against her yearning body. It was a gentle, but dynamic collision.
Her breathing quickened, her heart pumped wildly as his fingers worked the buttons of her blouse open, revealing white tender flesh. She gasped hollowly when she felt the sudden release of her brassiere-an exhilarating sense of freedom, then his hands around her breasts-always an exciting prelude to the grande finale. His hands there, kneading, squeezing, thrilled her almost more than anything else, except for his lips. She anticipated each sweet caress in advance and worked herself into a rage of desire.
They were delicious breasts.
In a cannibal society, they would be fought over.
The flesh was tender and milky-white, a few freckles, sun-marks that never quite disappeared. Then, the nipples-hard and responsive, pink as coral pebbles. He touched them with his palm while he cupped the perfect globes apart from the deep, shadowy cleavage that separated them, and listened to her moanings grow louder and more intense.
"Ooooooh-!"
He broke it off with a kiss; her lips were completely relaxed, not with indifference, but with hopeless desire. They clung like honey as his fingers stroked quickly over the raspberry tips of her nipples, making them swell into bullet-like hardness. Brenda felt the old hot, dry feeling inside her; the cramping of muscles wherever his hands touched, the big bubble getting bigger, more insistent. The gentle biting along the smooth column of her neck made her shiver, as did the fingers all over her body, stroking, probing.
"I love you, baby," his voice came into her ear, accompanied by hot, insistent breath. It too, made her shiver. It was the way he said those words that excited her; they were invariably accompanied by a host of hot breath and caresses and kisses.
She felt herself being eased into a prone position. He was strong, usually surprisingly gentle, but sometimes violent. His sense of her needs was uncanny, she thought. He was savage only when she wanted it, and she never had to tell him. Her Bill knew how to please a woman! They taught you things like that in the Marines.
She stretched her lithe body out on the sofa. His hands pulled her shoes off, then her socks. A shiver went through her when his fingers ran up her leg, her thigh, settled for a moment against the hot, moist fabric of her panties-then walked up her belly, making it quiver, and moved below the waistband and settled against bare, trembling flesh.
"Bill!" It was a whimpering, pleading sound; yet jammed with demand. The fingers rolled the panties down over her waist, then pulled them over her wide, full hips and down her sumptuous thighs. Once past her knees, they came off with ease. Brenda kicked them off her ankles onto the floor.
Surprisingly, he didn't take off the skirt.
He pushed it up around her waist.
The bra was open, pushed up on her chest, the blouse spread wide to reveal the perfect pair of breasts, the skirt up around the slim, nipped-in waist to show bare hips, thighs and the thatch that hid woman's passion and mystery.
It was a pose that made her feel deliciously cheap.
For Bill, it was a pose that aroused him more than one of utter nudity. There was that element of raw lust, of primary sexuality, one that he knew excited Brenda. It was one of the things they saved for rare occasions, like an old Napoleon brandy. You didn't drink it down promiscuously.
His hands stroked her thighs in a delightful series of countermovements, up and down until one hand settled between her thighs, pressed them gently apart. They were warm, moist and musky: ready. He let one hand slide downward to feel the round hump of smooth buttocks; they were beginning to quiver with reflexive motion. For good measure, he bent his face down and tasted each swollen, pink nipple, and felt in every fiber of his consciousness that she was ready for him.
Very ready.
So ready that she ached.
Bill, let's do it now!" she whimpered, and her hands tugged and worked at his clothing with rapt impatience, tearing, making seams crooked, getting substantially nowhere.
He smiled gently, and undressed himself. It was faster-she, was too far gone with desire to be effective or efficient. In moments, he had undressed himself, and was standing over her, looking down on her beauty, her want, her readiness.
"God you're beautiful," he whispered; his voice came out sounding like a phlegmatic croak.
She stared up at him with large, smoky eyes.
There was nothing wanting in his physique. With clothes gone, she could see the familiar perfection.
Lean, plate-like muscularity, spare of hair on his chest, and a maleness that had once petrified her, had made her think of anatomical impossibilities that she now knew to be not only possible, but inevitable.
With surprising gentleness, he settled on top of her waiting body. She felt the increasing weight of him, the hands gently prying apart her thighs. She responded with breathless eagerness, throwing her legs around the small of his back, drawing him down, down, down, until they meshed with sweet impact. With a silky, rustling sound, their bellies scraped together, and his hands lifted her buttocks off the soft cushions of the couch, and they were doing it. Her mind shrieked, yes, yes, doing it, doing what she was meant to do, with him, and it was good, it was perfect.
She tried to move herself slowly.
That way, it was more excrutiating.
More unbearably delightful and pleasant.
But it was useless to try anything like controlled movement, when every chord in their bodies screamed for quick release of passion. Her hips revolved beneath his with a counter-pointed motion-brought instant, like response, and they drove at one another, whispering, then panting words of encouragement until they feU nothing except for the distinct feeling of being lifted off the ground, the feeling of flight, of indescribable pleasure-pangs, a long period of being airborne, before settling back into the cushions.
Then the words of tenderness, and the shared cigarette. Her day was blissfully complete.
Lee had made an appointment with Dr. Stone for two in the afternoon, wondering what in hell Stone would want to know about him that he didn't already know. He had his records. Had milked everything out of him when they'd had the initial interview that had led to his being hired in the first place. What else was there, he wondered. Almost immediately after his 445 class, he had made an appointment with Stone's secretary, and now it was after one. He had just enough time for a bite of lunch at the faculty club.
When he got there, he saw John Hanley sitting alone, drinking a cup of coffee. Hanley spotted him, his eyes lit up with welcome recognition.
"Hey, Lee boy, come on over here!" John was from Chrisfield, in the Eastern Shore region of Maryland, and spoke with that peculiar brand of Southern dialect.
"Hi, John, how's it going?" He sat down at the table, and when the waiter came over, he said, "Egg salad sandwich and coffee."
"Fine. The outlander's making progress. He has two friends. You and Ainsley."
"Real progress," Lee grunted. These creeps resent you because of your ability. They're a petty bunch."
"I know, I know," John said impatiently, "I remember when Wilson was a writer-in-residence at my alma mater. Same old jazz, Lee."
"It's too bad. How long is your contract?"
"Two miserable years, but I can use the dough, frankly. The royalties on Long-Gone Charlie aren't what I thought they'd be, you know."
"By the way, I read it finally. A helluva fine job, John."
"Thank you. Hope you went to your favorite bookstore and paid money for the book. It'll help yours truly."
"I did."
"How's your book coming? I had an idea, want to hear it?"
"Sure." Lee leaned forward, almost put his elbow into the coffee that the waiter put quite unexpectedly in front of him.
'When you finish it, let me read it. I'll give you suggestions on rewriting and so forth, and if it stands up for me, I'll send it to my publisher. He'll have to consider it if I send it."
"That's kind of sticking your neck out, isn't it?" Lee asked.
"I said, if it stands up; if you sustain the quality that I've seen so far; it has to hang together, Lee."
"I sure as hell appreciate it, John."
"Skip it. I'd like to see a nice fella like you get out of the academic grind. If you go my route, you might not have a lot of friends, but at least you'll get away from the phonies. You know."
"Yeah. Speaking of that, I have an appointment with Stone at two."
"That associate professor thing?" John fired up his pipe, blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. "What for?"
"To get ahead. Why else?"
Hanley shrugged his shoulders, blew another cloud of aromatic smoke out of his pipe-a big, unadorned corn-cob, forty-nine cents in your favorite drug store.
"Just keep at that book, boy. Otherwise, you'll be writing you-know-what."
Lee nodded.
"Yeah, I know. I have to run now, John. I'll bring the manuscript around when I get it done." John waved, and took a sip of coffee. He didn't look up when Lee turned back to look at him.
Stone pondered over the momentous issue of Lee Cushing. Like a ledger, he mentally wrote in red and black figures concerning the young instructor: he was young-red column. Had his doctorate in American literature-black column. Was reportedly working on a novel-questionable, depending on outcome. Had not written any critical articles for scholarly publication in over eight months-decidedly red.
He was still manipulating figures when the door resounded with a knock.
"Come in."
Lee walked in, shook hands with Stone, who waved him into a chair without ceremony.
"How are you, Lee? Courses going all right?"
"Fine, sir. I have a promising crop of students this semester."
"Glad to hear that. You know, sometimes I miss the teaching game. I get an occasional itch to be confronted by those eager faces."
Lee thought he noted sarcasm in the sonorous voice. Stone was a good-looking guy, young and distinguished in appearance; but hell, he acted old. He had ivy growing in his pores.
"Well, now, suppose we talk about this associate professorship I've opened?"
"Wonderful," Lee grinned. It was an attempt to hide his discomfort. Stone did not come off as a long-lost buddy, he was devoid of warmth.
"First of all, Lee, there are two strikes against you, one you have absolutely no control over, the second you can control. If you did something about the latter, I'd be willing to overlook the former."
Get it out, damn it, Lee thought, spit it out!
"You're young. Middle twenties-only had your doctorate for a year. You have, as I said before, no way of controlling this factor.
"But this other, Lee, this business of producing published criticism; it's expected in any English department; it's of mutual benefit to everyone concerned. It increases the stature of the individual scholar and the department with which he is associated. Why have you been lax in this end of things?"
"I've been awfully busy with my novel, Dr. Stone. I thought that it too would be of mutual benefit. I feel that it's going to be a good book. Mr. Hanley agrees, too."
Stone cleared his throat.
"Hanley has read your manuscript, and thinks well of it?"
"He's read what I've done. Just a few minutes ago, he offered to read it in its entirety, and submit it to his publisher. I'd say he's a much better judge than anyone out of the creative end, wouldn't you?" Uncomfortable silence.
Wrong damned thing to say, Lee boy. Critics are gods, they know everything about literature. You just ranked out one of the gods, man.
"Yes, well-by all means continue with that project, Cushing." Change in name; back to stiff formality. Wrong move, Lee, wrong move altogether.
"Doctor, I want to be an asset to this department while I further my own career. I hope you believe that. But I also want to further it in the best way possible, and I think it lies in writing novels, rather than critical essays. I think ultimately, it'll be more valuable."
"I have others to see, Dr. Cushing. Then, I need time to think. You see, I have to be sure in my selection, because that man is going to take over some of my duties so that I can go away next year with a clear, uncluttered mind. I plan to finish a long-nurtured project of mine."
For the first time, Lee was able to discern a trace of warmth and humanity in Stone's eyes. It startled him.
"Well, thanks for seeing me, Dr. Stone."
"Thank you. I'll be in touch. Think about what I said, Lee."
"Yes, sir, I will."
It was over.
Just like that, over.
He walked quickly to the parking lot, got inside the car and started it. Angrily, he pulled out of the space, leaving twin strips of rubber, and went through the stop sign without bothering to stop or even slow down.
By the time he pulled into his driveway, he had worked himself into a cold rage. He hoped that Joan was out; he didn't want her to see him like this; besides, when he told her about the interview, she would give the old, "I told you so, you don't play it their way" routine. Well, damn it, he didn't want to play it Stone's way. He didn't want to turn into a walking dictionary of empty, passionless theories, when it was guts and warmth and feeling that mattered in literature. And what better way to get inside it than creating it yourself, provided he had the talent? He felt that he did. Hanley evidently felt the same way. And, as he'd suggested to Stone, a man like Hanley was an infinitely better judge of ability than any critic who never wrote a piece of fiction. It was probably like Hanley had once told him: critics were for the most part frustrated authors.
Joan was home.
He heard her rustling busily in the kitchen when he came inside, and hurled his brief case onto a chair.
Usually, he tossed it. It bounced against the cushion and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
"Lee, is that you?" Joan called from the kitchen.
"Yes, it is!" he yelled back, and loosened his tie as he walked in to see her.
She wore a pair of second-skin paisley slacks that showed her clean, curved limbs to perfection. Inside the fabric sheath, her buttocks strained and moved easily, naturally-like the unhurried, languid movements of a dancer. Joan was infinitely provocative, even when she diced carrots and peeled potatoes, as she was doing now.
"Hi, darling." She put down the paring knife and turned to be kissed. "Home early, aren't you?"
They kissed. Her lips clung like top-grade honey.
"Yes. Are you almost through in here?" Lee asked, his voice tight.
"Through right now," she said. "Let's have a drink in the living room." Her eyes were bright with suggestion.
"I don't know if I want one," Lee told her. Joan laughed and said she didn't need one, that it was just a waste of perfectly good liquor.
"Then come on, girl, get out of this KP ward." Lee felt better already. When you had a woman like Joan to come home to and look at, you couldn't help feeling elated. She was euphoria wrapped in slacks and blouse.
He made small talk, avoiding the subject of his interview with Stone. Instead, he told her of his conversation with John Hanley.
"He's a helluva nice guy, you know? I wish we were friendlier with them."
"His wife's nice, too," Joan said, "and I also feel we've tried to show our friendliness toward them by inviting them here a couple of times. Friendship's a two-way street, Lee."
Lee nodded his agreement.
"I know. John's pretty busy with his book now, and I guess there isn't much energy left over for charm at the end of a day. It's something you have to understand about writers."
"What else happened today?" Joan asked.
Lee didn't want to tell her, not now, not before he made love to her. He had been thinking, quite consciously, all day of just that: coming home and making love to his wife.
Having sex.
Call a spade a spade, Lee; don't hide in semantics like the rest of them. Definition was a moot point. The fact remained that he wanted to take his wife to bed in the worst way.
He put his arm around her, felt his heart pound when she snuggled close against him, sweet warmth mingling with his.
"Better than a drink," he murmured, pulling her closer.
"Ummmmm," she agreed.
His hand rested almost idly on her breast, felt its soft rising curve like so much preserved cream that no brassiere could squash or contain. At the moment, he felt like a teen-ager about to entice his date into the back seat of a car; an exciting feeling. It was akin to the pioneer spirit, and it never ceased to amaze him that he could experience it with his own wife.
Joan liked the unexpected.
The expected move would have been to kiss her on the lips, to hold her a bit closer, whisper sweetnesses in her ear, and what-have-you.
He didn't do it.
Not then.
He started at the opposite end, instead, by releasing the catch at the top of her slacks and pulling the zipper down so that his hand could make contact with panties made warm by her flesh. It occurred to him that he could strip her and have her, without caresses, without customary buildup. Foreplay, when you came right down to it, was like putting one foot in front of the other when you walked. You did it without really thinking, without savoring the component parts that constituted the whole.
The slacks were annoyingly tight-fitting, and it took effort to work them over the full buttocks and hips; more, it was work all the way down the long, sumptuous legs.
Joan felt herself respond to the sudden, unexpected turn of events. Her heartbeat reverberated in her throat, a tight, hot feeling gripped her. She realized, at that moment, how badly she wanted sex. Hell, she always wanted sex, constantly, around the clock. It amazed her that she needed no soft, sweet buildup in preparation for the final onslaught. She was like a man: just take off your drawers and do it. She thought excitedly, My God, I must be a nymphomaniac.
If it weren't for her husband's appetite, one that at least matched her own, she might conceivably entice the iceman, milkman, salesmen, dog-catcher, and any other male who knocked on her door. The thought of latent promiscuity elated her, made her respond more savagely to her husband's caresses.
Lee's hand tore the panties from her flesh.
The ripping noise sent a shiver of excitement coursing through her. She wanted her flesh pinched and scraped, wanted to be thrown on the floor without ceremony or consideration. She wanted to be had.
Had, used, enjoyed.
Strictly the passive bit.
"Love me very hard, Lee," she heard herself say. It sounded like a hoarse, throaty croak. She let herself relax against the cushions and closed her eyes. His hands on her felt good, they felt fine on her hips and breasts and thighs and soft, yielding hump of belly-it always melted and softened when she made love; otherwise, it was firm and flat.
Lee stared down at his wife through slitted, smoky eyes.
Her pupils were dilated with passion. She had that telltale dazed expression, complete with slack mouth, moist, pouted lips and flared nostrils through which hot air was expelled. A wave of savage elation went through him when he touched the smooth, swollen curve of hips; it was flesh that longed to be pinched, hurt, teased into animal pleasure.
He pinched.
Softly at first, then harder, until she squealed and whimpered with savage joy, moving erotically up at him with short, jerky thrusts. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed now, lips trembling. Her hand reached out for him, found him. At the touch, he stiffened with pleasure, felt his muscles curl into knots. He was well beyond restraint. It was time to have her. God, she was ready, really ready, why wait? He began to loosen his clothing.
"No," she gasped, "take me with your clothes on!" Slowly, through desire-clouded brain, seeped the true nature of her need.
His hand grabbed the collar of her blouse.
Pulled.
Buttons flew machine-gun-fashion away from her, and he ripped the perfectly serviceable blouse off her body, his sense of wantonness increasing with her gasping, encouraging sounds. He quickly unsnapped the bra and pushed it up toward her collarbone, and watched her tremble to the sound of his own zipper opening.
He took her quickly.
Joan felt rough material of man's clothing against her, man merely exposed, rather than undressed. Oh, it was delicious! So marvelously primal and ele mental, devoid of civilized trappings!
His hands savagely kneaded her bare buttocks, pulled her abruptly against his straining body, now meshing with hers, moving piston-like without regard for her needs or desires, and it was how she wanted it now, like that, yes like that, hard, brutal, no words unless they were vile and suggestive or instructive-
Her heart skipped a beat when he stopped.
No, Lee, please don't stop now, she thought desperately, and even while she felt her heart sinking with disappointment, it jumped in her throat as she felt herself being rudely, unceremoniously turned over onto her stomach.
His hands were all over her.
Bending her legs, her arms, making her crouch with buttocks raised toward the ceiling, head down against the cushions so that the blood rushed into it and made her face turn beet-red with pleasure and exertion.
When he took her again, Joan screamed. It was a scream of utter joy and savage glee. "Use me, oh, yes! Use me!" she panted, feeling deliciously like a bitch dog at the hands of a randy St. Bernard. His hands reached under her, cupped her breasts, his body strained. There was the heart-stopping sensation of her buttocks working his abdomen, the feeling of her own passion on her thighs. She panted and cursed and worked with him, her face red, lips hanging open with animal lust.
Hard, inconsiderate hands grabbed her fleshy thighs and pushed them tightly together. She almost lost her balance. She closed them tightly and became dizzy with sensation. It was good like that: she felt him working, straining, gorging, and she knew it was unbearably good for him....
And it was over.
She slumped to the couch, totally exhausted. Wonderfully used.
Her husband was a bull, a stallion, a wonderful lover who knew how to treat a woman like a woman and not some powdered statuette that you were afraid to touch for fear of breaking.
"Are you OK?" he asked her.
Through closed, contented eyes, she smiled. He was considerate, worried about her, loved her. She knew she had the logically impossible joy of being able to have her cake and eat it.
Her cake was the best husband any woman could ask for.
There was just one sore area in their relationship, and she chose at this moment not to irritate it. Perhaps he'd write tonight. She hoped fervently that he, of his own initiative, would sit down to write.