Chapter 9
When Ellen woke up, she was alone, naked, and very much in need of male company. It had been two days since she rode to the base with Randy Siegel, sitting on the back of his motorcycle and holding onto him for dear life. He had dropped her in front of the building which contained the lieutenant's office, promising that he would see her later that afternoon back at the cottage.
Her interview with Lieutenant Bailey was brief and to the point. The Lieutenant was a good-looking, mellow-voiced man of about thirty-five who took pride in the rakish cut of his custom-made uniform. He held a degree in sociology and served as guidance counselor and personal advisor to the boys in Teddy's group.
Emotional problems, he explained, were not at all uncommon in recruits of Teddy's age, most of them away from home for the first time. The Navy tried to be as understanding as possible, choosing to treat them as slow adjusters rather than as disciplinary problems. But Teddy had gone far beyond the bounds of temporary maladjustment.
Last night, he had been interrupted by two sentries while trying to break into an ordnance storeroom. When they asked him to identify himself, he attacked them with a crowbar, injuring one of the men seriously enough to require hospitalization. Then he managed to gain entry, stealing a small explosive device and running off into the night.
The navy, explained the lieutenant, preferred to handle its own problems, without involving the local authorities. But unless Teddy showed up within twenty-four hours to return the grenade, there would be no alternative but to notify the San Diego Police. And once that happened, the matter would be out of the navy's hands.
"Mrs. Dale," he said, looking her directly in the eye as he spoke, "I'm sorry to hear about your marital difficulties and I hope that they resolve themselves favorably. If there's anything I can do to help, I'll be happy to try. Perhaps you love your husband, and perhaps you don't. But I want you to understand that you won't be doing him any favor if you help him to hide from the navy. You must make him call me, the minute you see him. Is that clear?"
Ellen nodded gravely, not bothering to explain her reasons for believing that she would not be seeing her husband again for a while. It didn't matter. There was no reason for the navy to know.
When the interview was over, she accepted his offer of a ride and waited patiently while he telephoned to make the arrangements. When she left his office, a blue car with the letters USN, stenciled on its doors was waiting at the curb. Its driver, a callow lad who looked too young to have a license, leaned across the front seat to open I the door for her.
They rode in silence, Ellen speaking only when necessary to give him directions. When they pulled up in front of the cottage, Ellen thanked him and got out of the car. After she watched him drive off, she went inside. She spent the rest of the day straightening the cottage and fixing her hair. She wanted to look good for Randy when he arrived later.
But when he called her, just a little after four o'clock, she knew that he wouldn't be coming to see her anymore. He stammered and stuttered for a while, beating around the bush and talking vaguely about "getting into trouble with the navy", but she knew that he was only making excuses. Cutting him short, she asked, "Is this it, Randy? Is it all over between us?"
"I wouldn't say that," he answered, a casual tone in his voice. "I just think we ought to cool it for a while. But I'll call you in a couple of days. I promise." Ellen hung up without saying good-bye.
That bastard, she thought. He's only been using me. like Teddy did. Only more skillfully. As she thought about it, however, she realized that she was being unfair. What the hell! Hadn't she been using him, too? She resolved to find herself another lover as soon as possible. Or maybe two. Or three.
But without a car, she found herself tied to the cottage. And for the last two days, she had done nothing but lie in bed. Whenever she felt the need for sexual release, she satisfied it with her own fingers. She masturbated for hours, playing with herself until her juices flowed and her passions were laid to rest. Her fingers were learning to find their way through the maze of folds and convolutions which' wrinkled the walls of her inner cunt. And the tiny red knob at the tip of her little clitoris had become her favorite plaything.
She reached for it now, tangling her fingers in the downy yellow hair which framed her pussy, and rubbing gently across its puckering prominence. She could feel her cunt lips flowering open under the ministrations of her exploring fingers. Spreading them even further with the fingers of her left hand, she dipped into her drooling slit with the tip of her right index finger, Her pussy was a well of moisture, and she bathed her finger in it before withdrawing it slowly and raising it to her lips. Sticking out her tongue, she touched the slime-coated digit tentatively with its pointy tip. It tasted salty and a little bit sweet, reminding her of the taste of Randy's cock when it was turgid and covered with gism.
Returning her finger to her cunt, she stiffened it and thrust it straight inside, wielding it like a miniature cock. With her left hand, she began to stroke her breasts idly. Her nipples hardened to partial erection as soon as her palm began sliding across their puckering surfaces. Halfheartedly, she cupped her hand over her tits, squeezing and kneading them while her stiffened finger fucked in and out of her twat.
Her body tingled with excitement, but it didn't feel half as good as when Randy had touched her. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to imagine that the hands which stroked her body, petting her tits and probing her pussy, were his. She tried to imagine the feel of his cock, hard and throbbing as her fingers wrapped around it. The erotic recollection stimulated the nerve endings which huddled together in the tiny little bud of her clit, bringing it to throbbing erection.
She began to pluck at it with her thumb, moaning softly as a wave of mounting pleasure followed her self-stimulation. Her index and middle finger were inside her cuntal orifice now, scissoring apart and together while her thumb rolled the sensitive little marble around in its hot bed of oil. With her left hand, she stroked her body, leaving her breasts occasionally to rub at the hairy mound of her pubis just above the trembling bud of her super-stimulated clit.
She felt her excitement building, gathering energy like a mushrooming cloud of nuclear fallout and carrying her to the crest of a rolling, curling wave. But something was lacking in her impending climax. All the elements were there--the heat, the torrential flow of fluid, the contracting paroxysms of delight which rippled through her belly and across her womb. But they didn't seem to be assembled in the right order.
Her responses were automatic and her pleasure mechanical. She felt like a starving person who was eating at last. But the meal consisted of three Metrecal wafers and a glass of Tang. Although it filled the belly and nourished the body, it failed to relieve the hunger which gnawed at her guts.
She continued to diddle herself with her hands, adding a third finger to the scissoring pair which pistoned in and out of her cunt. The lips of her elastically stretching orifice were drawn tightly around them, as they used to stretch around Randy Siegel's cock. But the pleasure was not the same. With her free hand, she spread the tight flanges of her shining clitoral hood, exposing the tiny nubbin completely.
Holding the sensitive pleasure button between the thumb and forefingers of her left hand, she pinched and rolled it, turning it back and forth like the stem of a watch. Her juices flowed copiously, wetting her masturbating hand and smearing her legs with fragrant honey. Each time her thumb rolled across the quivering head of her erect little clit, a sigh of arousal tore from her lips.
"Oooooooooohhhhh," she keened. But something about the sound was hollow and empty. It was almost as though she was trying to convince herself that self-stimulation was as pleasing and as satisfying as union with another person. But her body couldn't be fooled.
Even as the first shuddering ripple of orgasmic release began passing across her, she was conscious of her disappointment. Her fingers continued working at her cunt, churning her juices to froth and rolling the shiny softness of her membranes until her entire body hummed. But her climax only relieved her tension, failing to elevate her consciousness.
As her pussy contracted orgiastically, beating like a tentacled sea anemone, she had a sudden fleeting vision of a bathtub filled with dirty water. When the plug was pulled, the water rushed out with a gurgling gush, relieving the strain on the tub walls. But when it was gone, a scummy ring remained, requiring that the tub be filled again immediately.
"Mmmmm! Mmmmm! Mmmmm!" she moaned, the rhythm of her vocalizations matching the rhythm of her orgasm. With each contracting spasm of her pussy she sighed again, hoping that the next wave of glory would be the big one. But instead of building, with a rising action that leads slowly to a high and craggy peak, her orgasm remained level-a series of pleasant ripples which ruffled the calm of her idleness but took her nowhere.
Acting of their own volition, her fingers began to stimulate her vulva the moment the disappointing climax had ended. It was as though her body sought instinctively to rekindle the fires of its own desire, in hopes of achieving the holocaustal fury to which her association with Siegel had accustomed it. If she had but one wish, it would be for his cock, animated and alive, to be with her this moment. She had been fucking herself for two days now, and each time she tried, she realized again the futility of living alone.
Tearing her hands from her loins in frustrated anguish, she rose unsteadily from the bed. She swayed on her feet, a feeling of dizziness passing quickly over her. She had been in bed for too long. It was time to get up. To get out. It was time to stop wallowing in the bog of self-pity which was evolving from her loneliness.
Padding naked to the bathroom, she decided to shower in hopes that the needle points of rushing water would help her to shake the lethargy which had overcome her. Inside the bathroom she closed the door, glancing quickly at her reflection in the mirror. Much had happened in the past week. But she couldn't tell by looking. Except for the tired circles which rimmed her eyes, she looked exactly as she had a week ago.
Then, on closer examination, she noticed another difference. Her cunt: Its lips were bright crimson red, contrasting sharply with the silvery blonde hair which surrounded them. They were pouting obscenely, as though grinning into the mirror. Ellen wondered whether they would remain that way always, now that the tender fruit of her pussy had been plucked and plundered, eaten and disgorged. She rubbed quickly with the flat of her hand, almost surrendering to a tempting urge to begin titillating once more.
By a cold-minded act of will, she tore her hands from her cunt and turned away from the mirror. Reaching for the soap and a clean washcloth, she stepped into the shower stall, turning the knobs to produce a steaming spray which cascaded over her body until she reddened like a boiled lobster.
She lathered the washcloth and rubbed herself all over with it, trying to scrub away the tingling desire which continued to nag at her body. But it was a self-defeating project. For each time she swabbed her breasts with the lathered cloth, her nipples hardened demandingly, crying out for stimulation. And each time she stroked her pouting pussy with its soapy, luxuriant softness, her juices began to flow once more.
Throwing the washcloth into a corner of the stall in anger and frustration, she twisted the faucet handles viciously, changing the shower temperature from steaming hot to shuddering cold. Everyone knew what a cold shower could do for a hopelessly horny woman alone. But for Ellen, it simply didn't work. Instead, as she hugged her body with her thin arms in an attempt to warm herself against the penetrating cold of the shower spray, she found herself responding erotically again, craving the touch of her own fingers for want of a more effective instrument.
Turning off the water, she stepped from the shower and began toweling herself vigorously, trying to ignore the lascivious fingers of desire which were running up and down her spine and parting the lips of her snatch. Oh, damn! she thought. Where will it end?
Then, suddenly, she thought of Marilyn and the afternoon they had spent making love together a week ago. Although it had been a kind of turning point in her life, she had almost forgotten it. It would probably have occupied a more prominent position in her, thoughts if it hadn't been for Randy. She had begun her affair with him almost immediately after leaving Marilyn.
But maybe they could do it again. Maybe Marilyn would be willing to lie with her once more, offering her lush, ripe body for Ellen's amusement and using her lips and fingers for Ellen's satisfaction.
Her hair still damp, Ellen tossed the towel over a corner of the open bathroom door and rushed into her clothes. She put on a skirt and blouse, with nothing underneath. If Marilyn was home alone and willing, she wanted to have as little barrier between them as possible. So, just moments after stepping from the shower, she rushed out of her cottage and hurried down the road to Marilyn's cabin.