Chapter 7
Marge paused for a moment as she stepped out of the plane, not unlike a celebrity giving her fans the opportunity to get a full, first view of her. She was dressed as she had been the last time I saw her, simply but smartly, with an expensive stole hanging casually from one arm. Six years had passed for her, too, but they had been good to her. She was older but still extremely attractive, her well-proportioned and shapely body catching the attention of every male around her. I felt a tight knot in my belly. But I was struck again with how similar she was to Cindy, physically; only as she drew closer did slight differences emerge.
As she came down the steps and then across the paved area toward me I felt the demanding need to turn and run, I didn't have time to give the feeling concrete form, but it was there. Beautiful as she was (and she was beautiful; my heart was pounding hard against my chest), the sight of her giving me a sort of tingling feeling in the crotch, soundless voices inside my head still cried out, "Run, Davie, run!"
Her eyes brightened as she saw me. Her full, cherry-red lips broke into a smile and she extended a smooth hand. "Davie!" she said.
Just the one word, my name, but it seemed to hold an entire volume. I couldn't answer for a moment.
Finally, half-muffled, I got out, "Hello, Marge."
We must have looked foolish. All around us people were kissing each other enthusiastically, crying out with pleasure, but we stood there with almost expressionless faces as I held her hand; with just that contact I had the strange feeling that our bodies had merged again. Time fell away, then it came back: in something like seconds I went back to those early days and then came back up to this moment in which we were standing.
"How could you do it?" I asked painfully, the words escaping from me without my actually knowing I had formed them.
Marge closed her eyes for a moment. Her firm tits, their shape well-defined by the tight-fitting dress (still pear-shaped and perky, firm and nice), rose and fell slowly. Her lips parted slightly. Finally she opened her eyes.
"Later, Davie, okay?"
"Okay." I pulled my hand away, determining that I wouldn't touch her again. "Let's get your suitcase and hit the road."
"How is Cindy?" she asked as we moved into the building and to the revolving contraption with luggage spewing onto it as if little men hiding in the floor were shoving them up and out.
"Fine," I answered, and for a moment I had the strange urge to add, "We had us a royal fuck before I left to come meet you!"
"Aren't you going to ask about Rod."
"No."
Not losing a step, she seemed to tense for a moment, but if she had lost her composure she regained it immediately. Walking a step of two behind her, I thought to myself, "All that we know about each other for the last eight years is that she's fucked Rod and I've fucked Cindy!" I was sorry she had come.
It wasn't hard to pick out her suitcase: expensive looking with a large gold MM on it. I swung it off and nodded toward the door. Following her, I formed the words, "One day I love you..." For the moment I left the sentence unfinished. Outside the building I took the lead, heading toward where I had parked my old car.
"I thought it might be less awkward if I made reservations at the Parkview Hotel," Marge said as I slid behind the wheel.
"You can cancel them," I answered. "Cindy's already fixed up the guest room for you."
I felt her hand on my arm and looked up into her face. Our eyes met and held for a long moment. Her lips trembled slightly. When she lowered her eyes it was like looking at Cindy; her lashes threw little shadows on her hair skin. "I ... I'd rather go to the hotel, Davie."
"Why?" I steeled myself; I didn't want to feel anything. But I found myself leaning forward slightly as she spoke in a voice so soft, so weak I could hardly hear it.
"I couldn't stand lying there in one room knowing that you were ... in the next room with ... someone else."
I closed my eyes for a moment, realizing that I had a full hard-on. Almost irrationally, I thought, If I take her to a hotel room I'll fuck her, and I don't want to fuck her. Finally I said, "Stalemate! But I can't let you hurt Cindy, and it would hurt her if you went to a hotel." Almost angrily, I added, "You set this up. You're the one who called and wanted to come for a visit."
Another long moment passed, then she sighed. "All right," she half-whispered.
As I drove out of the lot and nosed into traffic, Marge looked out through her own window and said, "I guess that now is as good a time as any to tell you what happened, Davie."
Showing no emotion, either physically' or in her voice, she told me what had happened. Rod Mac-Ivers had asked her time after time for a date, but she had always refused him. A couple of times he had trapped her in secluded spots on campus and made passes at her, getting angry enough that on more than one occasion he had flopped his meat out of his fly and told her that she was eventually going to take it. Being the son of a wealthy man and a big man on campus, Rod MacIvers was used to getting what he wanted! Apparently refusing him only made him more determined.
Determined and having the money for it, Rod had hired a private detective. That morning on campus when they had "gone at it hot and heavy," he had tried to talk Marge into going to a resort hotel with him for the weekend. When she continued to refuse he finally pulled out some pictures. There were a couple of Marge and I going at it with me on top of her, a couple of her sucking me off.
"So you see," she concluded, "I had no choice. I either went with him or he would have exposed us. I couldn't tell you, Davie. I was afraid of what you might do if you knew."
"But ... But, why'd you marry him?" I blurted out, feeling the pain again, remembering the agony of that day after she had gone. "Why didn't you just let him fuck you and forget it?"
'"I let him. We went to a motel and I laid there and let him. It only infuriated him more." There was a touch of pain in her own voice as she recalled it. "He pumped himself off in me. He straddled me and pumped himself off again, shooting all over me. He ... he was almost wild, and finally said that ... by God ... he'd never let you and I get together again. Either I married him or ... "
She shook her head, swallowing. Then she added, in a near-whisper, "I've never quit loving you, Davie. Rod knows that; he owns me physically, he doesn't quit trying, but he knows that I'll never love him. I let him fuck me, I go down on him when he wants, but he knows that it's only physical. I think ... I think he'd give me the divorce I want if I could ever feel anything toward him. He simply has to get what he wants or he won't give up."
"Jesus!" I spit out. "What a marriage!"
A moment later a cold thought gripped me. What does this do to my marriage? I asked myself, gasping as the thought formed. For the second time in a matter of minutes I was sorry that she had come, because I knew that I still loved her. I wanted to say, "Maybe you should go to that hotel, after all." I wanted to fuck her again to love her, to possess her.
She put her hand on my leg, the fingers curving over it; the tips feeling hard meat below, she moved them further. It didn't seem to surprise her that I had a hard-on. "Oh, God!" she whispered.
"Oh, Davie!" she gasped.
She squeezed my cock, looking out the window again. "Davie, what happened to you? What did you do when you left home?"
She rubbed her hand up and down on my cock. "I took a bus, came down here," I answered. "I moved into a dumpy hotel, got a job washing dishes, and started fucking up a storm. Somebody different every night, sometimes three or four a night. Man, woman and child, anybody who'd fuck, any way, I'd fuck! you name it, I did it. Gang-bangs, buggery, blow-jobs in elevators and rest-rooms..." I shook my head, letting the words trail off.
"How ... how did you meet Cindy?"
I stared hard at the traffic ahead of us. Stopping for a red light, I glanced at the street corner. I saw him sitting there in his wheelchair, handsome and smiling. I remembered taking him up to my room that morning, buggering him while I beat his meat. "I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind," I answered, my voice muffled.
She squeezed my cock again, but she didn't argue.
Wanting to escape it all at least for a few moments, I asked, "How's Dad getting along?"
Marge let out a short gasp. "That's right, you don't know. When you wrote ... that's why he wasn't with Rod and I at the church that day, Davie. He ... I guess it was too much, losing us both. He killed himself not long after you left."
I felt like I'd been slugged in the belly. "Shit!"
I wondered if she was remembering, as I was, those nights when he drunkenly mistook Marge for his dead wife and our mother. I remembered the time at the beach ... that moment in the shower when we had come so close to ... I shook my head.
"Jesus!" My mind was mixed up.
We rode along in silence for several blocks, then Marge asked. "Have you ever told Cindy ... about us?"
I shook my head. "No, but she figured it out for herself. I didn't know it until last night, but she had."
"Doesn't she ... Won't it be awkward for her, having me there if she knows."
"Not if we don't ... "
Another couple of blocks of silence, then she squeezed my prick again. "I want to, Davie," she finally answered honestly. "That's why I came. To see if it were possible."
"Shit!" I said again, but much milder. I felt all of the strength go out of me, the fight. If she had asked me to stop and screw her right there in traffic I would have done it. Even now I wanted to reach out and pull her to me, to kiss her smooth throat and fondle those lovely tits. To reach down and rub her legs, slide my hands up under her skirt and find that lovely mound that had given me so much pleasure for so many years.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come."
"It might have been better," I agreed.
But she was here and we had started down a path, perhaps not as either might have planned it; yet there was nothing we could do but continue on, waiting to see what would happen along the way.
I could touch her now. My hand on her shoulder, I guided her from behind as we walked across the sidewalk and entered the building. I was hoping that by the time we reached the apartment I'd have gone soft again; if not, I'd just have to keep on trying to keep it hidden. We went up in the elevator, down the hall, and I drew us to a stop in front of our door and knocked. Frowning, I knocked again. When there was still no answer I dug out my key and let us in. There was a note propped up on the coffee-table where I couldn't possibly miss it. Davie: I thought you two might want a little time alone together. Back later. Welcome, Marge.
Shaking my head, I led the way into the guest room and set her suitcase down. I turned and waited, looking deep into her eyes again.
Suddenly pale, unsmiling, Marge said, "Want to stick around while I get into something more comfortable?"
My cock pressed harder against the material of my pants.
"I'd better not," I finally answered, turned and left the room. Looking at the note again, I mumbled, "Damn you, Cindy!"
Knowing it was the only way I could get leveled off, I went into the bathroom and beat myself off. Meat in hand, I remembered how I used to hide in Marge's closet and do it as I watched her undress. I envisioned her undressing in the other room now, her luscious body coming into view. Legs stretched out, I finally gasped and felt the spurting that would eventually let me relax.
Marge had always been a skirt and blouse girl. Of course, in those days we were just ordinary people; on my dad's salary we couldn't have afforded imagine clothes if we had wanted them. When I went back out to the living room I found Mrs. Rodney MacIvers sitting in a chair. Lounging would be a better word; she sat comfortably with one leg pulled up under her. She was wearing a smartly tailored suit, chartreuse with magenta and blue trim; tiny diamonds sparkled at each ear. She was elegance personified, a far cry from the simple girl of our childhood. Only her face, though slightly older and more mature, resembled in any way that girl of the past. Her face and still-shapely body.
I went into the kitchen and mixed us drinks.
"Thank you," she smiled faintly, accepting the drink. "Tell me, Davie, what do you do? For a living, I mean."
"I'm a window decorator. Head of the department, I might add."
A smile slithered across her face. "I thought only queers were window-decorators!"
"Hardly," I answered, returning the smile. And then, as I might have done in our earlier years, I added, "Of course, there have been a few gone through the department." To give it emphasis (or implication), I reached down and rubbed my crotch momentarily.
She chuckled softly. "You still have your lusty sex appetite, is that it?"
"That's it. But tell me, what do you do?"
A sort of sadness crossed her face. "Oh, we entertain a lot, and travel. Rod has to make a pretense of working in his father's business, but it by no means ties him down. We run with a ... well, I" guess you'd call them a fun-loving crowd. We'll be having cocktails, for instance, and someone will say, 'Let's go to Paris for breakfast,' so out to the airport we go and it's breakfast in Paris."
"Sounds rather exciting."
She shrugged her shoulders. "It would be with the right person." She lowered her eyes, the lashes casting their shadows on her cheeks again. When she raised them there were unshed tears glistening in them.
"Keep your palaces," she said, "just give me a simple shanty with someone I love!"
I didn't like the way the conversation was going. I silently begged-or ordered-Cindy to get her ass back!
"You and Cindy don't have children."
"No. And you?"
"No, I've made certain of that! He can screw his heart out, but he's never going to make a baby in me! How come you haven't?"
I looked her straight in the eye. "For a reason that probably helped us a helluva lot. I'm sterile."
"Oh." A moment later, "Maybe ... maybe we did it too much that time you were sick. Maybe you started too often, too young."
"I'm not worried about it," I answered bluntly. "As a matter-of-fact, it's probably for the better."
It was a strange feeling. In some ways she was almost like a stranger-a very sophisticated stranger-but in others it was almost as if time had not really elapsed. I could, if I wanted, reach out for her; with just a couple of the right moves I could have her stripping in a moment. At the same time, we seemed to be teetering on a brink. I didn't want to admit to what was on either side of that brink, but it was obvious that the wrong (or right) word or move might throw us into it. I wished to hell that Cindy would get back.
I realized then that Marge had said something. "Sorry," I said, "I didn't hear you."
Another smile slithered across her full lips, disappearing. "I asked ... I asked if you loved
Cindy." She looked solemnly at me.
I stared at her. Did I dare tell her that I had had to ask myself that same question many time during the night just past? Did I dare admit that now, having finally faced her again, I still wasn't sure? I hedged.
"There are different kinds of love," I answered softly, looking down.
"Is she ... Is she satisfying?"
Our eyes met again, held. "Very."
She nodded. "Well ... at least you have that."
I mixed us another drink and we stumbled along through more, treading-water conversation. She hinted at things, I sparred and pulled away. She opened the aoor to reminiscing and I closed it. How long it could have gone on I don't know, but there was finally a rattling of the key in the lock and Cindy came in. She stepped in, surveyed the situation quickly (looked into my eyes to ask, silently, Have you fucked her?) and then smiled. "Hello, Marge."
"Hello, Cindy."
They measured each other; I watched it, knowing it was happening. I tried, too. I looked at the elegant, poised young woman who had been my first love, then at the simpler-dressed and more wholesome-looking woman who was my wife. It was almost like seeing twins who just happened to have ended up on different socio-economic levels; at the same time, I knew the pleasures that each of those bodies could give. And I knew that I had been right. There are different kinds of love.
I had enjoyed fucking them both. I had to honestly admit in that moment that I still wanted to fuck them both, maybe even at the same time.
Prick stiffening again, I imagined them lying side by side on a bed, naked, with me between them fondling both those sets of lovely tits. I imagined kissing first one and then the other as I played with their tight, pleasure-giving twats. Not determining which was which, I imagined screwing one while I buried my face in the other's crotch.
Cindy snapped me out of it. "Don't I get a drink, hon?"
Christ, I couldn't get up. I smiled up at her. "Thought maybe, now that you're back, you'd take over as hostess!" I drained my glass and handed it to her.
She looked into my eyes, down to my crotch, then took the glass and went into the kitchen.
"Rod was right," Marge said almost as if she were talking to herself. "Cindy does look a lot like me. Built the same..." She looked into my eyes and hers asked, "Was he right, Davie? Is that why you married her?"
I chose not to answer. At the same time, I couldn't get clear off the kick I'd started on. Looking across at Marge without totally focusing my eyes, I remembered how she and I had called our house our Garden of Eden and run around naked in it. Those had been good days, days of freedom-all kinds of freedom! We could enjoy each other's nakedness; if we wanted, we could reach out and touch, the other would respond. How nice it would be now, I thought, if the three of us could do it. My prick stretched out still longer, hardening more, and I had to cross my legs. God, yes, I knew the answer now: I wanted them both. I loved them both, each in a different way, and I wanted to love-fuck them!
"You asked me," I blurted out, "now let me ask you. Is Rod satisfying to you?"
She snorted. "I told you! He's hung ... oh, yes, Davie, he's hung quite as you are, but..." She shook her head, a look of near-loathing on her face. "I let him fuck me when he wants to, I go down on him when he wants me to, but I hate it!"
"You hate it, or you refuse to like it?"
"Does it make a difference?"
"Well ... Well, it seems to me that as long as you have to go through with it you could at least enjoy it physically! I mean, after all, you always liked cock..."
"Your cock, Davie," she interrupted me, voice almost a whisper again. And then, as if she had read my mind, "There's a big difference between fucking someone you love and doing it with someone you detest!" She looked down at her hands for a few moments. "You may not believe it," she said softly, "but I haven't had a real orgasm in eight years. Not since the last time with you."
"Jesus!" Eight years without an orgasm! That was inconceivable to me. I couldn't go eight hours without one!
She almost unconsciously reached down and rubbed her own pussy, stretching her legs out a little as she did so. Her lovely tits rose and fell.
She whispered, "I need you, Davie. I need you to give me a real good fuck!"
There it was, out in the open. Put into words. I swallowed, reaching down and rubbing my cock.
"Sometimes when he's doing it I try to pretend it's you doing it. Sometimes, sucking on his, I close my eyes and remember ... But it's never you. Pretending doesn't work." She looked up, her eyes pleading. "Cindy wouldn't have to know, Davie. Just once and then I could go back..."
"I don't know," I answered, because I really didn't. Oh, I wanted to, all right, but ... I knew then, too, that it had been a good thing that we hadn't gotten to this point earlier; had Cindy not been there I would have been on my knees by now kissing her legs, working my way up. We'd have undressed and gone into the bedroom. I'd have poured it to her like in the old days. Jesus, I thought, I'm going to have to go into the bathroom again!
Cindy came back from the kitchen. She handed me my drink and crossed over to sit on the divan with her own. If she were aware that anything had been going on she didn't give any indication. "I love your outfit, Marge!"
"Thank you."
"I'd like to get one like it, but Davie doesn't care for suits." I frowned; what the hell was she talking about? We'd never even discussed suits! Unless, of course, she was speaking for me, knowing that one of my favorite pastimes would be negated by such an outfit. After all, skirts are made for groping!
They continued with small talk and I sat there ... not really comparing, but listening and looking from one to the other, remembering the past with each. I had said until death do us part with each; with Marge in our own, informal ceremony and with Cindy in front of the minister. If Rod MacIvers had not happened along-if he had not used his filthy blackmail-the first might have held up and the second would never have happened. I looked at Marge and wondered, and remembered that she had not had a real orgasm in eight years, that she had begged me to screw her. Just once and then I could go back ... I sneaked my hand down and rubbed my still hard shaft ...
... remembering back to what she had said on the way in from the airport. Jesus, could I screw Cindy tonight knowing that Marge was lying in the next room aching for it?
. . .remembering a few times during those hectic, screw-heavy two years when I had been with two women at the same time. Fun and games and everyone satisfied! Wondering what they would say if I suggested it, and feeling pretty sure of what it would be. Marge might go for it (that would be better than nothing), but Cindy would flip. Cindy was even jealous of my hand if she caught me playing with myself a little, she certainly wouldn't agree to sharing me with another woman!
... for some stupid reason remembering the dildo that Cindy had bought as a girl, buggering Karl with it as she jerked him off (before I arrived on the scene). Wondering if she still had it, if one of them could use it. But which one?
I wanted to fuck Marge. The more I looked at her and thought about it, the more I wanted to do it. For the past, for her own need-fulfillment, and because ... because I wanted to!
All things considered, I had been fairly faithful to Cindy during the six years of our marriage. After all (I had told myself many times), I had just come off a binge of seeking out, of demanding variety; I had learned the pleasures of variety during my fuck-'em-and-leave-'em period. You don't just toss a thing like that aside, you don't change old needs and habits that easily. But I had tried, and Cindy with her enthusiasm for sex and her willingness to use any and all positions had helped. Only on rare occasions had I either sought out or accepted attentions from others (screwing an attractive salesgirl on a couch in the backroom of the display department; letting a young fairy go down on me, as I had confessed to Marge earlier; something like that). I hadn't thought about it in those cases, but this time I was thinking about it. This time I felt the need and I would deliberately be unfaithful. Or would I?
There was still the love thing. I could feel that. If I screwed Marge it would be love-fucking, but if I did it, could the different kind of love-fucking that Cindy and I had hold up? Marge had as much as told me that she still loved me; if we consummated that love again could we pull apart. Could she, as she had begged, do it once and then go back to Rod MacIvers? Could I do it to her and let her go?
I shook my head, realizing that I had drifted away. The only consolation was that my hard-on had wilted somewhat. I blinked my eyes and frowned, looking from one to the other, and listened. I frowned again as I heard Cindy, serious of face, toying with her hands in her lap, saying, " ... he still had human needs. When he asked me to fill them I did. He'd learned a technique, you see, in the hospital. A queer orderly had shown him the way!"
Marge was listening with interest even as she tried to keep her face expressionless. She was watching Cindy's face, her lips.
"I guess you wonder how I could replace a male," Cindy went on. "Well, it was simple. I bought a rubber cock and I ... I entered him from the rear while I masturbated him. Later..."
For some maddening, irrational reason I wanted to cry out, No, don't tell her! Don't tell her that you and Karl had brother-sister love, too. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I listened, too, as fascinated as Marge, as if I were hearing it for the first time.
" ... he was still human, as I said, with human needs. He needed to see a female body, to touch it. To use it." She looked up and I was surprised to see tears glistening in her eyes. I could only wonder if it were from reminiscing or from fear; had she seen something between Marge and me that disturbed her? Had my desire shown? It was discomforting, to say the least. But she went on almost doggedly. "I'd do that to him-for him-then I'd undress and he would study my body, feel it, then ... then go down on me. We were ... we were very close."
Marge glanced up at me. How did you fit in? her eyes asked. How did you enter the picture, Davie? It surprised me; I might more have expected her to ask something like, That's at least a little like it was with us, isn't it, Davie? or Is that what attracted you: that she had had sex with her own brother?
Turning back to Cindy, she asked quietly, "What happened to him, Cindy? If you don't mind my asking."
Cindy turned her eyes to me; a tear loosened itself from each eye and ran down her cheek. I decided that things had gone wrong; however the conversation had started, it wasn't supposed to have taken this direction. Not knowing how it had started, I couldn't look at her as she was and not step in.
"I think it would be a lot better if we changed the subject! As a matter-of-fact, why don't you two girls go start getting ready, because I'm going to take you out to dinner."
I pushed myself up and they followed suit, but as they headed for the bedrooms I headed for the kitchen and a stiff drink! Jeezus, things were too mixed up! Emotion was running too strong ...
... but, leaning against the drain board with glass in hand, I found myself thinking of Karl again. I remembered him happy and handsome on the street corner and, when the time arrived, my taking him to my room because I felt his need for sex and was willing to experiment with an out-of-the-way kind. I could almost feel his hard cock in my hand as I sent my own hard shaft up his brownie; I could remember the mutual orgasm. I remembered his happiness after the three of us got together ... and I remembered that fateful night when Cindy had come weeping to my room ... for us to fuck as he was crushed under the wheels of the truck. "Christ!" I spat, "why had she brought it up? Aren't things fucked up enough without bringing that up?"
... because maybe it had been our fault. Maybe Karl had sensed that I was (inadvertently) taking her away from him. Maybe his love had been deep-maybe what had started out as mere sexual relief had ended up deep brother-sister love.
... and maybe Cindy was sensing the depth of that kind of love. Maybe she was afraid.
Maybe I wouldn't fuck either of them! I looked up and the ceiling disappeared. There were blue skies with soft, billowy clouds that looked like fluffed up cotton. "I promised I'd dedicate a fucking session to you now and then, Karl," I whispered. "Well, maybe tonight I'll dedicate a no-fucking session to you!"
Even though Karl and Marge had never met, it seemed in that moment as if our four lives were confusingly intermingled.
Cindy appeared in the doorway. She was wearing only a house-coat, loosely tied. I could see the edges of her pear-shaped, firm tits, and got a glimpse of the darkhair over her full mound. She studied me for a long moment, then asked in a trembling voice, "Aren't you going to come get ready?"
She meant, of course, that she wanted it to be as it usually was. She wanted us to share the bathroom naked, to maybe even do a little fooling around. She wanted reassurance. I knew that, but I couldn't give it to her; I couldn't block out the vision of Marge in the other room.
"You go ahead," I answered. "I'm going to have another drink, then I'll get ready."
Her lips parted slightly, her eyes clouded over. Finally she swallowed, then turned and moved away. I felt like a heel, but I couldn't help it. It was like standing in the middle of a bridge and not knowing which to go.