Chapter 9
We took a shower together but there was no fooling around. Hell, we were both too fucked out to even think about it. We washed each other's back, but it was purely a friendly gesture. We dried and went back to the living room, Peter continuing on into the kitchen to mix fresh drinks. "I ought to go home," I said without conviction, accepting the drink when he had returned with them.
I looked across at him. Strange though our meeting had been, brief our association, I felt completely at ease with him. At the same time I realized that I had never had a male friend. Well, for that matter, I had never really had a friend. Just Marge as a lover during childhood and adolescence and Cindy as a wife since then. He had been the first person I had ever told the truth to-unless Marge had provided details, even Cindy had no idea of how deep our relationship had been during those early years. She might have guessed, but she didn't know the facts. Maybe it would have been better if she had known; maybe she could understand things better now.
Peter smiled across at me, rubbing his limp cock (it seemed like a favorite gesture of his, the way other people rub their noses or pull on an ear lobe). "It's up to you," he said. "At least now you probably don't have to worry about who to lay. Jesus, if you're like me it'll take hours to get any starch back in this poor, worn-out damned thing!"
I chuckled, and it was good to be able to. I decided that maybe that was why I liked him; he could take things seriously, understanding, and then turn right around and be flippant. A good mixture of seriousness and lightness.
"What d'ya think?" he asked. "If you had to be on a desert island with one or the other, which would it have been?"
I gave it only a moment's thought. "The blonde gives a damned fine blow-job, but I like tight pussy. The brunette."
"Ditto! I like a tight pussy grasping my dong when I'm screwing. But then, again, like you said, that blonde does have a damned well-educated mouth."
I had the feeling that he was making talk, keeping it light to make it easier for me. I appreciated it, but at the same time I reminded myself that I couldn't stall forever.
"Y'know," he said, "one weekend I took a real sharp little number on a trip. We checked into a hotel Friday night; not ten minutes after the door closed behind us I was screwin' her, and I didn't take my cock out until we had to get up and get ready to leave Sunday evening. I'd fuck the hell out of her and go soft, leave it there until it got hard again and we'd go at it again. When we got hungry we called room service, but I'd still leave it in and just pull a sheet over us."
"Sounds like a world's record!"
He laughed. "If it is, I think I'll try to break my own record one of these times!"
For some reason (maybe because even while we talked I was thinking about my own problem) I asked, "What's the strangest sex experience you've ever had?"
He gave it several moments thought, pursing his lips. "I dunno," he finally answered. "I guess you'd have to define the word 'strange'. "
"Well. . . "
"F'rinstance, not too long ago I ran into a woman who had a sort of hang up. The long and short of it was, she wanted to blow me while her German shepherd fucked her, real doggie-fashion. Maybe someone else would think that was strange, but to me it was just her way of getting the most kicks she could. She gave a helluva good blow-job, I dropped my cookies down her throat, so I had nothing to complain about.
"Another time ... a rich old guy paid me to spend a weekend with him. He never once touched me, but he just about lost his teeth every time I'd beat myself off. I mean, that was what he wanted. Maybe that was strange. He showed me movies of guys and gals fucking, urging me to 'go ahead and do whatever I wanted'-which meant, of course, to beat myself off.
"Once a gal ... a really well-built one, I might add, stacked like a brick shithouse, wouldn't take off her panties. I could do anything else I wanted ... hell, I fucked her between the tits, rammed it down her throat, beat myself off while I sat on her tits ... Maybe that was strange..."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe I'm the wrong person to ask a question like that, because I happen to think that everyone should do their own thing, as long as it doesn't hurt someone else."
"And that's why it didn't shock you that I had ... fucked my own sister ... had an ... an affair with her."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Prob'ly." He smiled. "The way I've always been, as long as I can remember, I can only say that if I'd had a sister like yours I'd have probably tried to get into her pants, too. Or I'd of been like you, hiding in the closet and beating myself off while I watched her undress. I guess there's only one real difference . ... "
"What's that?" I asked when he didn't finish the sentence.
"I've never loved anyone. I'm strictly a fuck-for-pleasure man."
I looked long and hard at him. It was hard to believe; he was handsome, well-built, and he'd been nothing but friendly. "Never?" I asked. "You've never loved anybody?"
"Nope. I grew up in an orphanage, y'know. In there ... well, when the bigger guys couldn't get at the girls ... I guess I was about nine or ten when the first one got me. Held his hand over my mouth and screwed me in the ass. When I got bigger I was doing the same thing. I'd get at one of the girls when I could, when I couldn't I'd get at one of the little kids. Once in awhile we'd get a cock-sucker in the place, we'd all use him. Just fuckin', or gettin' blown, to get your rocks off. Or gettin' fucked so another guy could get his off." He shrugged his shoulders. "That's the way it was, and that's the way it's always been."
I nodded my head, and at the same time it seemed as if a door had been closed. In his honesty he had, unknowingly, closed it. I suddenly realized that he couldn't really help me; being a fuck-for-the-fucking man, he couldn't help me wrestle with the fucking-for-love versus the other! All he could do was help me escape, but there was no real, lasting escape. I drained off my drink and got to my feet.
"Got to go," I said. "Got to go face whatever has to be faced."
He didn't argue. He just said, "If things go rough, you know you can always come back here."
Twilight had filtered into the city-or, more properly, daylight was seeping out of it. The sky was darkening and lights were coming on all over, lack-luster but nonetheless on. Peter had offered to drive me home but I had refused the offer; I wanted more time, time alone. I walked through vie streets of the city, shoulders slumped forward, inmost oblivious to everything around me. Davie Miiler, happy-go-lucky man of confidence, had been replaced by Davie Miller, man in confusion. The mighty cocksman didn't know what the hell to do with his damned cock!
Marge begged in a near-whisper, "Fuck me, Davie. Fuck me just once and then I can go back."
Cindy whispered, her voice a little stronger, "No, Davie, no! You're mine, I don't want you going back to her."
I thrust my weapon into Marge, felt the jizm spurting out as our bodies merged. "Oh, Davie," she gasped. "Oh, God, that felt good. Davie, promise we'll stay together until death do us part, just as if we were really married."
Cindy stood beside me, dressed in a simple white dress even though she wasn't virgin. I had taken care of that; I knew the feel of having my cock buried in her. The stern-faced but mild-voiced minister said, "Do you David Miller, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife until death do you part?"
Karl on the street, his crushed wheelchair not far away. He was dead, but he looked up at me and said, "You took her away from me, Davie. I'd learned to love her, but you took her away from me."
Rod MacIvers laughed. "I fixed you, you little sister-fucker! I cut off your supply, didn't I? Took that so-called 'love' and twisted it like rotten metal."
"No," I said weakly, not realizing that I was speaking aloud, "No, you didn't, Rod. For awhile, at the time, yes, but now that I know..."
Now that I know, what?
There are different kinds of love. "There's the love I feel for Marge, and the love I feel for Cindy..."
... but you can't love-fuck two women.
Peter said quietly, "I've never loved anyone. I'm strictly a fuck-for-pleasure man!"
There was a screech of brakes and the blasting of a horn. I felt the metal against my leg, barely brushing me, and realized that I had stepped out into traffic. "Sorry," I mumbled to the cursing driver, stepping back onto the curb.
Watch it, Miller, or you're going to get yourself killed.
Maybe that wouldn't be a bad idea!
But to never live, to never fuck again...!
Poor Karl.
"Jesus, what am I going to do?"
They looked up as I entered. Marge was sitting in a chair, a leg drawn up under her. She was wearing a pair of tight trousers, but over them a loose, smock-like shirt. She had drawn her dark hair back into a pony-tail that was tied with a gay ribbon. She looked young and beautiful. Cindy, wearing a pair of jeans and an old sports shirt, was sitting across from her; she was attractive in her own way, casual-looking. Neither, it was obvious, was trying to impress the other; they had dressed as they would have under any circumstances.
I looked from one to the other without acknowledging the questioning in their eyes. It was enough for the moment that they were sitting there with almost placid expressions on their faces, albeit I thought that I saw at least a momentary "Oh, God, I'm glad to see you," filter across Marge's eyes. Closing the door, I merely nodded, then started across the room.
Although I had showered not long before at Peter's apartment, I stripped down and went into the bathroom. I shaved, brushed my teeth again, then took another hot shower (my legs ached a little from the long walk). Finished, I dressed in slacks and a sports shirt and went back out.
"I'm famished," I said. "Have you gals eaten?"
I thought I heard them both sigh, as if they had been expecting an ordeal and were relieved that it wasn't coming. Cindy leaped to her feet. "We've eaten, but I'll fix you something," she said, heading for the kitchen.
I wanted to stop her. I wasn't ready to be alone with one or the other of them. I didn't dare. But, I told myself, I could get into some kind of middle ground. "I'll fix us all drinks," I said, and followed her into the kitchen. Taking time, making a lot of noise, I got the ice out and mixed the drinks; I put one on the drain board where Cindy could reach it and carried another in to Marge. "Thank you," she whispered as she accepted it, but I refused to look into her eyes.
In my own mind I asked for her, "Where have you been?"
I silently answered, "I went out and tried to screw myself blind! Would you believe a wild session last night, and then a really wild one today? Would you believe that I fucked two delicious broads and then got blown by one as I chewed out her nice little snatch?"
It didn't help any!
I was much too conscious of her, and equally conscious of the muted sounds coming from the kitchen. I was right back where I had started, standing between two thoroughly desirable women, each of whom I loved in a different way. All fucked out (I honestly don't think either one of them could have given me a hard-on at that moment), I still felt a strong yearning in both directions. I wanted to take Marge into my arms and kiss her, tell her I loved her; I wanted to feel her body again, to refamiliarize myself with it. I wanted to reach back and grab for what had been, for that beautiful love that we had felt for each other. At the same time I wanted to run out into the kitchen and grab Cindy, squeeze her to me and tell her how much I loved her. Maybe play one of our silly games. "Madam, it may not be proper for me to say so, but from this distance I can see that you have the nicest butt in the kingdom. I can only imagine the beauty of the little butt what rests between your thighs!"
I hated myself in that moment for having screwed the two numbers during the afternoon, thoroughly satisfying (from a physical standpoint) as those screwings had been. I guess I even felt a little guilty.
Cindy brought in a tray with a delicious smelling dinner on it. She set it on the table in front of my favorite chair, then moved back to where she had been sitting when I arrived. I sat down and started to eat; it was hard swallowing but I forced myself to.
The silence was disturbing. Finally, a forkful of food poised in mid-air, I asked without looking at either of them, "What did you girls do all day?"
"We waited for you," Cindy answered, and it was obvious that the words had slipped out without any real thought.
Marge laughed softly and briefly. "We didn't just sit here. We talked up a storm, as only two women can do."
"Yes," Cindy entered into it nervously, "Marge told me about some of the places they've been to. Imagine flying to Paris for breakfast! And they; were in Hawaii once when the volcano over there erupted, and one time in Mexico City..." She was talking too quickly, a sure indication of a completely nervous state of mind. I really felt sorry for her; it told me that she was frightened. Worse yet, it reminded me of the night she had come to my hotel room and tearfully told me that she couldn't go on the way we had been going. The night we had screwed as Karl wheeled to his death. I didn't hear the rest of her high-pitched monologue; I closed my ears to it, the meaning behind it bothersome, although the words were perfectly harmless.
I finished eating and pushed the tray away. Cindy leaped up and carried it to the kitchen. She came back and I got up, taking the glasses and heading for the kitchen to mix fresh drinks. It was almost like a game of musical chairs with only Marge, seemingly in complete control of herself, sitting immovably. It seemed as if she felt as if she had the situation well in hand. Or maybe, I told myself, she had just had to learn how to exert self-control; God only knew that eight years of living with a man she really didn't like, of accepting his sexual aggressions, of putting up a front for his wealthy friends and family would teach a person to keep a noncommittal facade.
It seemed to define weakness and strength-a person who could handle a situation and one who couldn't. Marge was the strong one, of course, Cindy the weak. I told myself: if nothing happens between Marge and me, she'll go back and keep living as she has been. Maybe not totally happy, but not totally unhappy; at least she had comfort, travel, good clothes, all those things that Rod MacIvers' money could buy her. But if something did happen between us, it could destroy Cindy. Cindy was mature in many ways, but in others she was still almost totally unsophisticated. She was totally dependent on me and had been since her late teens.
There was only one trouble. I felt no strong emotion for either weakness or strength. Especially not in this situation! I had to write that off as a factor in the final decision!
Ridiculous as it was, with the three of us only too aware of what was hanging fire we simply sat there and made small talk. No one mentioned the night (and most of the day) just passed; both
Marge and Cindy seemed determined to avoid any mention of the past (of each of their past, with me). I felt helpless against, it., partially because I was half-exhausted; I grunted responses, offered monosyllabic ones, occasionally a short sentence, and tried to let my mind go as blank as possible. Tomorrow, I told myself, after I've rested up I'll tackle it!
The evening finally petered out, another moment of reckoning reached. We got up and stood there a little awkwardly; not wanting to hurt, either, but thinking that it would hurt Cindy the least, I said, "I'm beat! I'm going to sleep on the sofa tonight."
Cindy froze for a moment, tears sprung to her eyes, but she didn't say anything.
Marge's face was totally expressionless.
"Shit!" I spat silently, because it was the shits. I loved them both and they both believed in love-fucking, in fucking for love. They both wanted me naked in bed with them, and I wanted to be naked in bed with both. For another horrible moment I groped with the thought: why couldn't the three of us go to bed together? Why couldn't I lie between them, an arm around each of them, the three of us together?
I answered myself again. Because neither of them would go for the idea!
"Let's get some sleep," I said, and headed for the linen closet and the extra blankets.
I woke up slowly, stretching, yawning ... and, finally, remembering. I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling. I had kicked the blankets off, so here I was lying naked with a beautiful woman in each of the two nearby rooms. Who would ever have believed that Davie Miller, cocksman from way back, would sleep by himself when there were two beautiful women nearby! But who would ever believe that Davie Miller, or anyone, for that matter, would have gotten into a position like this!
I turned my head slowly, the way you do when someone stares at you. Marge, sitting across the room, smiled faintly. She was wearing only a loose-fitting robe, slightly open at the throat so that a small portion of her still firm, pear-shaped tits showed. Her smooth throat didn't have a wrinkle in it; even without makeup her face was still youthful-looking. For a moment I felt the years fall away; for a moment we were back home and I was waking up from one of the naps I had had to take during my illness. I was tempted to smile as I would have then and reach out for her; in my mind's eye she rose slowly to her feet, let her robe drop off and came naked toward me.
Instead I said, "Hi! What time is it?"
She smiled again. "You've grown into a man, Davie, but you're still the beautiful creature you always were. All male, all beauty!"
The smile faded. She looked away for a few moments, then turned back. "I feel so cheated! Those eight years ... when you were changing from boy to man ... those should have been my years, too, Davie!"
I felt my cock starting to rise of its own volition and reached to cover it with my hand.
"No," she cried out softly, "don't hide it. Let me watch it, Davie; let me see it full-grown."
I was afraid of what it might lead to, but I couldn't deny her. Pulling my hand away, I closed my eyes as it continued to stretch out, swelling in the process and slowly rising. When it was standing at full growth, leaning slightly toward my belly, I opened my eyes again. Marge had slid a hand down between her legs; her housecoat had opened a little more and I could see the dark pubic hair coming out from under her fingers. I swallowed, remembering the number of times I had used, the satisfaction I had gotten from the love-hole she was now gently massaging.
Jesus, I thought, if Cindy comes out now...! I listened, but there were no sounds from the bedroom.
"What are we going to do, Davie?" Marge begged softly but desperately. "I need you, Davie, I need you so much. And you want me, too, don't you? Don't you, Davie?"
"God!" I spat. "You're tearing me apart."
"We should have gone to the hotel. You could have fucked me there and Cindy would never have known!"
I shook my head. "Don't you see, Marge? Don't you see that it's more than just a fuck, a roll in the hay? It's ... it's whether I..." The words didn't want to come, but I had to get them out. Getting them out quickly, I said, "It's whether I could fuck you, feeling as I do, and still go back to my wife, or whether..."
She moved with cat-like grace, crossing the room before I even realized that she had gotten to her feet. She went to her knees and buried her face against my hard cock. She rubbed her cheek into it, her lips.
"Christ, Marge!"
"Oh, Davie!" she cried softly, and I felt tears on my belly. All of the strength she had showed the night before was gone; she was a woman in desperate need now. Whether it was simply the need of a fuck, to satisfy unanswered questions, or for love itself I didn't know, but I felt her need again. At the same time I felt something akin to fear.
Straining my ears for sound, I grasped her shoulder and tried to push her away.
"Marge, if Cindy comes out ... "
"Let her!" she cried out, surprising me. "I need you, Davie, and I don't give a damn who knows it!"
I was caught again. I wanted her; God, how I wanted her! I wanted to reach down, slipping her loosened housecoat off her as I pulled her naked body up over me. I wanted to kiss those full, cherry-red lips, those luscious tits, as I pressed my hard cock against her pliant pussy before eventually rolling her over and mounting her. At the same time, I still felt the strong pull toward Cindy; in a maze of uncertainty, I didn't want to lose what I had there.
"Oh, God...! " I groaned.
Marge crawled up over me, the housecoat not slipping off but opening. I felt her tits scrape up across my belly and land on my chest, hardened nipples pressing into my skin, and as her mouth came over mine I felt that proud mound press hard against my meat.
"Oh, Davie..." she pressed against me, giving a slight fuck-motion, "Oh, Davie, fuck me! Please fuck me!"
"Jesus, Marge...! "
Still moving impetuously, as if driven, she raised her tits as she kissed her way down my throat. Just the nipples scraping against me now as the two pear-shaped boobs hung down, she brushed her lips across my chest. Moving down between my legs, her lips ran over my stomach, touched the tip of my cock, ran down its full length and back up. She took my balls into one hand as she grasped the base with the other, then her lips slid over the big head. She moved her head up and down hungrily.
"Christ, Marge, stop! If Cindy comes out ... "
She raised up onto her knees, shoulders straight, tits standing proudly, a strange look on her face-an almost glazed look in her eyes. Still hanging onto my cock as she straddled me, she ran the head up and down her beautiful crevice, pressing it in as deep as she could get it. The soft flesh, the hair sent shivers of pleasure through me. I wanted to reach out for those perky tits, fondle them, pull her down to me again. I wanted to, but I didn't dare.
"Marge," I half-whispered, the words torn agonizingly from my throat, "give me a little time, will you? Let me work things out with Cindy."
She closed her eyes for a moment, lips slightly agape, then lowered herself slowly. My prick-head caught and bent a little; she wriggled a little and it straightened, caught in the warmth of her tight pussy. She lowered herself still more, taking inch by inch, sliding up and down on it. Jesus!
"Marge, for God's sakes!"
Using super-human strength (psychological, that is! Christ, I wanted to fuck her!), I grabbed her by the hips and shoved her off, pulling free of her and practically leaping to my feet. It threw her off balance and she fell over onto the divan, her full, luscious body exposed. Hard-cocked, I looked down at her and shook my head.
"Jesus, Jesus!" But I couldn't. Not with Cindy in the next room, not with the chance that she might come out and find us. "Marge, dammit, give me time to work it out, will you?"
She looked confused, maybe hurt. "Don't you want me?"
"Of course I want you! Christ, I want you till it hurts, but ... but I can't hurt Cindy at the same time. Just let me work it out." And I was already trying to; maybe I could tell her to set it up so that it looked like she was going home, but she could go to a hotel instead. I'd wait a day or two and then, once Cindy and I had gotten back into our usual routine, I'd take a day off from work and meet her there. We could have a full day of fucking, of loving ...
I went into the bathroom. I couldn't help myself, I had to have relief. Relief and the ability to function without desire gnawing in my guts, aching in my balls. Sitting on the John, legs stretched out, l closed my eyes and slowly started to beat myself off. No love, no love-fucking, just plain old meat-beating for one simple purpose-to climax.
The door opened and, cock in hand, I looked up at Marge. Her face had paled.
"Cindy isn't here," she half-whispered. "She ... what?"
"I went into her room. She isn't there. The bed hasn't been slept in."
"Oh, God..." I groaned, and I could feel myself going soft in my own hand. A vision of Karl crossed my mind, a person dying because he couldn't live without love. A terrible coldness went through my entire body. I saw a set of dominos, all falling because the first one had fallen, only they weren't dominos. They were naked people, and the first was a hard-pricked Karl, the second was Cindy. I groaned again.
For some reason I thought of a poem, remembered from a long-gone past:
Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight;
Make me a child again just for tonight.
Oh, if that could be. If Marge and I could only be the youngsters we were then, naked and happy and able to enjoy each other's pleasures. If Rod MacIvers had never come on the scene to shatter that, to blackmail her into marriage and send me running so that I would eventually meet Karl, then Cindy, then arrive at this point!
"Please, dear God," I found myself whispering with closed eyes, "please don't let anything happen to her."
"What are we going to do, Davie?" Marge asked, and there was fear in her voice. All her strength had been washed away.
"I don't know," I answered. "But when we find her, or when she comes back, I have to honestly be able to tell her that we didn't do anything."
Marge nodded her head. She understood.
I'd gone completely limp, so it was no problem-to walk into the bedroom and dress. But as I dressed I groped, and there were no answers; I didn't have the vaguest idea of where to begin looking. Cindy and I had been so mutually satisfying that we hadn't needed or wanted anyone else; we knew a few people, but none that you would really call friends. In the six years of our marriage we had never had company-at least not since moving into our own apartment. It had been our Garden of Eden, just as Marge and I had shared such a place. We had wanted our freedom, to be able to move about in mutually satisfying nakedness, to play one of our sex games when and where we wanted it. I couldn't think of a soul in the world whom she would go to, and that made it even worse. I realized in that moment how (without me) all alone in the world Cindy was.
Back in the living room, I found Marge fully dressed in a smart suit. She had tied a colorful bandana around her head. She had also applied a little make-up, but it didn't fully cover the paleness, the concern.
"Davie, I'm not sure, but ... Well, I think it might be wise to start at the cemetery."
I knew then that she and Cindy had talked the day before, that they had compared more notes than they had admitted to during the evening just passed.
Although we would need it, I silently hoped as we went down in the elevator that the car would be gone. It wasn't. Cindy had simply walked off into the night, leaving everything behind. Another chill went through me. I opened the door for Marge out of habit, closed it and walked around to slide under the wheel. As I backed out of the stall Marge half-whispered, more to herself than to me, "I should never have come."
I didn't know whether to agree with her or not.
We drove through the city. The most convenient route took us past Peter's apartment, but I tried not to think about what had happened there the day before. I tried not to even glance at it! It was too much like ... well, like Cindy and I screwing as Karl had gone to his death. A frightening reminder, an omen.
Once on the outskirts I accelerated, going faster than necessary but feeling the need to. We finally reached the cemetery; I braked the car, turned in, and drove slowly along the narrow lanes. It had been some time since I had been there, but I finally identified a tree not too far from Karl's grave. Looking across the wide expanse of lawn, I saw the redness of a single flower but no one was around.