Chapter 3

Marge had held back for a year after graduating from high school. Once I had graduated, we started junior college together. With his usual lack of interest, Dad went along with it, the only qualification being that Marge would continue to maintain the house and I would get a part-time job to help put myself through. It wasn't the money, he said, but merely the fact that it would be good training. Although it took time I would rather have put to better use, I went along with it; at the same time, I got a weekend job so that it couldn't interfere with weekday and/or night activities. (That worked out alright because, as before, Dad was at home weekends, anyway, limiting our activities!)

One evening while he was out Marge and I sat at the dining room table with our books open in front of us. It was a stormy night, the rain pelting against the windows, but it was warm and comfortable inside. After we had studied for awhile Marge closed her books and looked across at me; when I looked up she smiled, then she said, "Davie, just for fun let's write a description of each other. Let's tell each other how we look to one another."

I laughed, but when she quietly persisted I gave in and went along with it.

Remembering that incident, I set my drink aside and tip-toed into the bedroom. Not wanting to awaken Cindy, I found a flashlight and moved into the closet where I had stored an old foot-locker. Opening it, I dug through the collection of many years until I found what I wanted: the two yellowed pieces of paper.

Back in the living room, a lamp turned on, I spread the papers on my knees. Looking at the faded ink, I could visualize that night again; I could almost hear the rain pounding against the windows. Then I read:

"David is nineteen years old. He has a beautiful body, he is a physically beautiful person. Six feet two inches, he has broad shoulders and a strong chest. There's just the slightest smattering of darkish hair there, just enough to tease, then a flat, strong stomach. His hips are narrow, and below them ... From the back one sees two firm buttocks, beautifully shaped and slightly convex. If his legs are spread, one sees a suggestion of dark hair and then that sac that hangs so heavily with his almond-shaped testicles. From the front one sees, below that flat stomach, a thatch of dark hair. Growing out of it, hanging limply over his testicles, is a long, thick love-stick ... and then, if one can lower her eyes, there are strong legs, extremely shapely for a men. But if one does not lower her eyes, she might see that love-stick begin to grow, and oh, how it grows! Rising slowly but steadily, when it reaches full majesty it is at least nine inches long and big enough around that one's fingers can't quite touch while trying to grasp it.

"But that is the physical David. Of far greater importance is the soul, the personality-whatever you want to call it-that lives within that physical being. As beautiful as his body is, that inner-being is even more beautiful. He is kind and gentle, loving, faithful and true. When his body is against yours, when that majestic love-tool has entered you, it is a meeting of both body and soul. David is many things, but he is one important thing. He is my life, my love."

I laid the paper on the table beside my chair and looked off into the distance. "She meant it," I whispered. "She honest to God meant it."

But I didn't want to think beyond that just jet. Instead, I picked up the second sheet of paper and looked at my own stronger handwriting, weakened only by the passing years that had drained strength from the ink itself. I wasn't sure that I had to read it; I thought that I could remember. But just to be sure, I read:

"Marge is a dark-haired goddess put on this earth as a special gift to me. She has the most beautiful body a man could ask for. Dark-haired, sweet-faced (oh, how I love to kiss those eyelids, put my own mouth over those full lips!). Her body is perfectly shaped, shoulders broad without being too broad, narrow-waisted and then a perfect flaring of the hips, legs that would put any Beauty Queen to shame. That's the over-all picture. Getting down to details, she has the most perfect breasts a man could ask for, a pair of pear-shaped lovelies that are firm and good enough to eat, with medium-sized nipples that come to life under your tongue. Her skin is smooth and soft, you can kiss your way down to where the forest of soft, fleecy hair covers ... with other girls it would probably be a cunt, twat, pussy, or something of that nature, but on her it can only be described as a haven, a palace of pleasure. It is beautifully mounded, thus being two long mountains of soft, warm flesh; there is a perfect valley, and in the middle of .that valley the Gates to Heaven. When the doors open, when a man slides his prick into her, he knows that he is, indeed, entering the gates of Heaven.

"If I were a sculptor looking for a model for the perfect woman, I would quit looking the moment I saw her and take up chisel and mallet. The only trouble is, with her beauty I could not keep' my mind on my work, and I'm sure that my own flesh would get in the way. That, perhaps, is the best description of her; she is the most lovable, the most fuckable woman in the world!"

I put that sheet on top of the other and leaned my head back against the chair, closing my eyes. I visualized the scene again, that wintery evening; we had finished writing and then traded sheets. When we had each read what the other had written there had been no need for words; as if drawn by gigantic magnets, we had gotten to our feet and gone into my bedroom. Naked, lying on the bed together, our hands had explored each other's body as if for the first time; our mouths had met and then had to seek other body parts. At one point we had ended up end for end, my face in her crotch, my tongue exploring her as he held my balls in one hand and moved her mouth up and down my cock. Finally nearing climax, as if we had been given cues we pulled our mouths away; a moment later I was lying over her, resting on my arms so that I could feel her tits under my chest without crushing them. As my mouth found hers again she pushed my cock into position, her lips opening as much as they could to receive the swollen head. I started giving it to her inch by inch, and she started rising with each thrust to receive it and more, and finally she had it all. "Oh, fuck me, Davie, fuck me!"

I fucked her, not knowing that it would be for the last time.

I heard Cindy moving around and it was easy to visualize what she was doing. She had obviously reached out in her sleep; not finding me there, she had slowly come awake. Now I could hear her swinging her legs over the side of the bed and coming toward the door to the living room. She stood in the doorway in all her naked beauty, and she was beautiful despite sleepiness and rumpled hair. It was almost as if Marge had slid from the sheet of paper lying on the table beside me, into the bedroom and now back to the doorway.

"Hey, man," she smiled, "what're you doin'? "

Not wanting her to know what I had been doing, I went along with the game she had obviously decided to play: a repeat of what we had done frequently in the past. "Well, y'see, I was lying in bed next to a naked woman, and she was so damned desirable that I had to do one of two things. I either had to take advantage of her, fucking her while she was asleep, or come in here and beat myself off!"

"Lordie!" she faked a gasp of near-terror, "I hope that you haven't done it."

"Does it look like I have?"

"No," she admitted, letting a smile creep to the corners of her mouth, "I wouldn't say that it does, unless total rigor mortis has set in!"

Half-laughing, she walked across the room, hips swaying and breasts bouncing perkily. She put a knee on either side of me on the chair, then slowly lowered herself; my hard-on hit her between the legs so she reached down and grasped it, holding it straight. She lowered her cunt to it, moving her hips in little circles, and the head slowly disappeared through the dark hair and into the mouth of her cave.

Releasing it, she leaned her head back and let out a sigh of satisfaction as she lowered herself still more, swallowing my hard inches into her body. I reached up and took a breast in each hand, squeezed them, tweaked the nipples to rigid hardness. Leaning forward, I opened my mouth and placed it over one, flicked my tongue out so that it could play with the hardened nipple; I teased it a bit, then withdrew my tongue and started suckling.

"Hmmmm," she murmured, at the same time riding slowly up and down my cock. I moved my mouth to the other breast and repeated the procedure, then I buried my face between them. Eyes closed, feeling only a little guilty about it, I imagined that it was Marge with my cock encased, Marge's breasts I was nuzzling, Marge's buttocks that I reached out to grasp.

"Love this, honey," Cindy finally said, "but I honestly like positions where I can get the whole works!"

I chuckled softly, then said, "How about being a good girl and suck on my lollipop a little!"

Laughing, she pulled free, sliding down to the floor between my legs. Her tits hot against my legs, she grabbed my turgid cock and pulled it toward her; wrapping her lips around it, she sent her tongue sliding around the head, then her head started bobbing up and down. She really did a masterful job, taking it almost to the root at times, choking a little because of it's size. She'd let it go free then and run her tongue up and down the shaft, tickling the head before starting back down. She lifted my sac and took a ball into her mouth, laved it with her tongue and then released it to take the other. I leaned back and let myself enjoy it, satisfied for the moment to let my mind go almost blank as I enjoyed the purely physical sensations, including the feel of her warm tits against my legs. I stuck a foot between her legs, eased it up, and worked my big toe up and down her cleavage; I could feel her response, not only in the cunt but in the way she went back up on my cock and set to work on it. Finally I had to grasp her head, stopping her.

Another couple of strokes and I would have creamed.

She pulled her mouth away and then leaned down, pressing my cock between her cheek and my belly. "You feel like putting this big engine where your toe is?" she asked half-timidly.

"You want it there?"

She laughed softly. "That's a silly question! Sweetie, I keep telling you, if you could stay hard twenty-four hours a day I'd love to have you fucking me twenty-four hours a day!"

It was my turn to laugh and rumple her hair even more. "You're a sexy bitch," I said playfully, "but if you want cock, just sprawl out on the floor there, honey-child!"

She pushed herself back, gracefully lowered her back to the floor and spread her legs. Looking down at her, I could see her firm young tits like two ripe pears, the nipples standing at attention. Her legs spread, her tight cunt-lips were opened ever-so-slightly. I pushed myself to my knees and then went up between her legs; for a few moments I lapped at her cunt, sent my tongue darting in and out, then I kissed my way up her stomach, from tit to tit and then to her mouth. She wrapped her legs over my back, reached down between us to get in position, and I plunged it into her, giving her the full nine inches in one fell swoop.

"Oh, sweet Jesus!" she gasped, but it was from full pleasure. She was already self-lubricated enough that my "big engine" was slipping and sliding up and down her channel like a piston in a well-greased sleeve, just enough pressure on it to give full friction. My balls banged against her anus with each thrust, and we went our merry way to our second climax of the evening.

When it was over, when we were lying there arm in arm with my gone-limp meat still buried in her, she suddenly surprised me by asking in a slightly quivering voice, "Dave, do you really love me, or am I just a damn good fuck?"

"Now, what the hell kind of a question is that?"

"I think it's a sensible one. I mean ... Well, let me put it this way. If I didn't like sex as much as I do, if we didn't do it as often and as many different ways as we do, would you still stay married to me?"

"That's downright insulting, you know that?" I pushed myself up onto my elbows and looked down into her face. "That is downright insulting, Madame Hotpants?"

But after we were in bed again and she had gone to sleep I stayed awake looking up into the darkness. I couldn't help but wonder if she had sensed something, because she certainly had never come up with a question like that before. Not once in six years of marriage. I frowned. Was this women's intuition at work? Was it premonition?

For the first time since getting her telephone call I felt something less than elation at the prospects of seeing Marge again after the six years that had elapsed. It didn't last, but it was there, a seed of doubt.

After writing our descriptions of each other after, in essence, giving life to those descriptives through a very thorough and satisfying sexual expression-Marge gathered up her clothes and went to her own room. I stayed there in the darkness of my own room, fully contented as I generally was, and drifted off to sleep. The only thing that could have made life more perfect than it was, was something that we were working toward, that day when we could live by ourselves and so let our love (physical and emotional) be a twenty-four-hour-a day thing.

The next morning we left for school together as usual, holding hands mentally because we couldn't do it physically. Once on campus we hesitated a few moments looking deep into each other's eyes, then she smiled ever-so faintly and turned away. I watched her go and there was the growing emptiness as there always was, but knowing that we would meet again when classes had ended made it possible for me to turn on my heel and set out on my own course. She had once said that she felt like only half a yo-yo when we weren't physically attached; I felt that way when we weren't together. I'm not sure; in retrospect I have to wonder if incestual love is deeper, stronger than a normal, heterosexual love.

Perhaps it is, being grounded on so many other things (in this case, on the fact: that she had taken the place of my mother during our childhood, been my first love and then sexual object, so completely filled all my needs). I only know that no other woman (nor man, knowing about that as I did now) interested me in the least; many had tried to make in-roads, but they had finally reached the decision that I was a loner and so left me alone. I double-dated (we double-dated) only often enough to keep anyone from growing suspicious of our own relationship, but each time we were careful not to get into a difficult position.

I made it through the morning classes and then headed for the cafeteria. We always met there and had lunch together, then separated again for afternoon classes. Sometimes kids from one of our classes or another would join us, but as often as not we were left to ourselves, and that was always fine by me. I could whisper to her, half-jokingly, that I felt a hard-on coming on and didn't know if I could make it through the afternoon; I'd suggest cutting classes and she would get a pained look and tell me that I was awful for tempting her that way! Looking back on it, I'm sure that we must have been like a young married couple, and that was the way that we wanted it. But this noontime I stood outside the cafeteria and the minutes moved slowly past, and I couldn't believe that it was happening. I thought up every reason in the world for her being late, but none of them made sense. Finally a girl walked up to me, a girl from the same pre-lunch class as Marge, and handed me a note. I opened it with something like fear gnawing at my entrails.

"Dear Davie," I read, "I don't know what to say, so I won't say anything. Just don't worry about me because I'll be alright, and I'll get in touch with you and Dad as soon as I can. Remember that I'll always feel as I feel. Love, Marge."

I raised my eyes slowly and saw the girl still standing there, a sort of quizzical look on her face. "Where ... Do you know where she went?" I finally managed.

The girl cracked a half-smile and shrugged her shoulders. "I only know she and Rod MacIvers went at it pretty hot and heavy before class, then they kept sending notes back and forth during class, and when class was over they left together."

I don't know what I did. I don't remember anything until I was back home, sprawled on my bed and staring up at the ceiling, feeling like the whole world had come to an end. A picture of Rod MacIvers formed on my mind, like a picture appearing as a television set warmed up. Everyone on campus knew him; he was not only a star on the football team, but he came from one of the richest families in town. He drove a imagine convertible (a new one every year), dressed like a fashion-plate, and had a self-confidence, a self-assurance that couldn't be dented. He was tall, at least six foot, with one hell of a physique; I had seen him in the gym a couple of times, and no one, man or woman, could help but look at him. He wasn't all brawn like many football players; instead he had a god-like build, broad shoulders, tapered waist, strong legs, and a hunk of meat that could easily run me competition. He was also extremely handsome in a blonde, out-doorsy way, with a smile that could melt butter.

But it just didn't make sense! Why, I asked myself, would Marge and Rod "go at it hot and heavy" and then leave together? What had her note really meant?

There were no answers, there were just several hours of agony, then the doorbell rang, shattering the silence and my thoughts. I pushed myself up and went through the house, opened the door and found a Western Union boy standing there. Once I'd opened the envelope I stared at the words; I read and re-read them, and finally they registered. Daddy and Davie: Rod and I were married this afternoon. See you soon. Love, Marge.

I felt the whole world crumble in on me. It was as if a giant had hit me in my mental solar plexus; I doubled over, reeled, banged from wall to wall as I fought my way back to my room. Foolish as it may sound, tears were streaming down my cheeks. It couldn't have been any worse-as a matter-of-fact, it might have been more acceptable-if the telegram had said that Marge had been killed!