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'r instance, 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 the streets of the city, shoulders slumped forward, almost oblivious to everything around me. Davie Miller, 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. "Haveyou 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, I 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.
CHAPTER. TEN
We sat in the living room-well, Marge sat, I sprawled-looking everywhere but at each other. The silence was almost deafening. It was as if death was with us, or at least in the next room.
Finally Marge broke the silence. "I don't know what to do. I mean ... Well, I'm beginning to give up, to ... to quit trying. Perhaps I was wrong to even think ... Maybe I should just pack up and go home. But if I go and..."
I looked up, saw the tears filling her eyes. She was, I could tell, battling between honesty, guilt, and a myriad of other emotions. One was a fear-hope thing; the fear that something had happened to Cindy, but the hope that if it had we might yet get back together again. She couldn't put it into words (maybe she wasn't fully realizing it herself), but I knew that it was there.
"I hope you're not blaming yourself," I finally answered, "because it isn't your fault. It's just ... well, the way different people act."
Closing her eyes, shaking her head, she said faintly, "I know now how Cindy felt when she realized that you ... that you had been doing it as her brother went to his death."
I winced. After all, I had been in on it.
"Maybe she was trying to tell me something then," she went on. "Maybe she was telling me that if we..."
"Stop it!" I bellowed. "For Christ's sake, Marge, can it!"
She looked up, startled. She swallowed and looked down again.
Anger seethed through me. Anger at Cindy. God-damn, she had no right pulling a fool thing like this! It seethed and boiled, like hot lava in the bowels of a volcano working itself up to the point where it could spew out, erupt. A thought went wildly through my mind; Nothing's happened to her! She's just doing this to keep Marge and I from screwing! She knows we want to, we need to...! It's a stinkin', filthy, woman's trick!
Anger and ... at least for the moment, hatred.
I pushed myself to my feet and started to undress. Took off my sports shirt, slid my tee-shirt over my head, leaned down to take off first one shoe and sock and then the other. Marge looked up.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm undressing. Once I'm undressed I'm going into the bedroom and flop down on the bed. I'm going to sit there, lie there, thinking about how much I'd like to screw, and I'm going to get a hard-on. Either you'll come in ... or I'll finish what you caught me at this morning!"
I slid out of my pants, throwing them aside, and stood naked in front of her. I studied the shape of her tits through her blouse, looked down at the mound pressing out at the crotch of her slacks. My cock started rising a little at a time, tentatively, but finally it was up toward my stomach in full tumescence. "You used to like to play with this thing, suck on it. You used to want me to get it up inside you and leave it there."
"Oh, Davie," she cried out, "what are you doing?"
"I want to fuck you. Are you going to let me or not?"
"But ... but what about ... Cindy!"
I shook my head. "She fooled us, baby, that's all. She doesn't want us fuckin', so she tried to scare us out of it."
"You mean...? "
"Games. A jealous woman's games."
I went into the bedroom-not the guest room, but the room, the bed where Cindy and I had done years of whole-hearted screwing. I was on my back with one hand behind my head and the other grasping my cock-not beating it, just holding it. I waited, and then I saw her in the doorway. She came in slowly, as if she were frightened, and started to move to sit on the edge of the bed. I held out a hand, stopping her.
"No mish-mosh," I said. "Either undress and crawl on with me or forget it!"
I was being brusque, but I had to be. I didn't dare let down an iota; I didn't dare think that I might be wrong.
Marge undressed slowly and it was like in the good old days. She took her blouse off, then loosened her bra straps; I could see them fall forward slightly, then the bra slid off and I could see them in all their glory. Perky, kissable tits, the little nipples just waiting to be sucked on, the valley between waiting to have my face buried in it! She took off her shoes and socks and slid her slacks down, revealing the skimpy silk panties that were almost transparent. I could see her nice hips, her rounded buttocks, then she turned slightly and I could see the dark hair and full mound. She slid them off, letting them fall to the floor, and I opened my arms to her. She came into them and our bodies were pressed together full-length, her tits crushed against my chest and my whang against her love-box.
"Oh, Davie," she sighed, and we had drawn a drape between us and the rest of the world.
We kissed hungrily, almost as if we were trying to make up for all of the years when our lips had not been able to meet. I sent my tongue into her mouth and she eagerly received it, twisting her own around it. Still kissing, I pushed her body gently away from me, feeling first her tits and then sliding down to gently massage her lovely cunt. I felt her hand slide down over my cock, the fingers wrap slowly around it.
"Oh, Davie," she breathed into my mouth again, and her desire, her willingness to open up for me was fully expressed in those simple words.
I pushed on her shoulder and moved so that I could get at her tits. I mouthed them hungrily, nibbling a little, circling the nipples with my tongue and then suckling; after I'd treated each of them, I buried my face between them and slowly sent a finger up into her cunt. It felt the warmth, the moistness, and she undulated her hips as she groaned with pleasure and desire. Moving more, I kissed my way down her stomach, turning around at the same time. As I started lapping her sweet pussy I felt her grasp my tool at the base, slosh her tongue around the head, tickle it with the tip of her tongue, then tighten her lips and slide them down over it. She worked her head up and down as
I lapped a few more times and then sent my tongue into her until my nose was crushed against her pubic hair. I sloshed it around, teasing that deep, inner lining, causing her to writhe, then I slowly but methodically began to give her a good tongue-fucking. She continued working on my rod, spreading her legs wider for me, and it was all I could do to finally pull away from her.
I turned around again and took her into my arms, pulling her over on top of me. I reached down to pull my cock up between us, then slid my hands up her warm, smooth sides so that I could finger her tits as our mouths met again. She moved her hips up and down, compressing my meat between us, and I knew that I couldn't take much of that, either. I grasped her buttocks for a few moments, kneading the flesh, then held onto them as I rolled us both over. On top, my legs between hers, I began prodding with my meat; it reached the entry and I slowly inched it in, hearing her groan into my mouth again as it went deeper and deeper. It was finally buried to the balls; I left it there a few moments, enjoying the feeling of her tight pussy around it, then I started slowly fucking her. It was lovely, lovely, and she finally groaned out, "Oh, fuck me, Davie! Fuck me!"
The years fell away. We were kids again, back on my bed and with Dad at work. This was our world, a world that no one else could enter because we wouldn't let them.
"I love you, Marge," I whispered into her ear. "God, how I love you!" I fucked her royally to prove it, giving her my full nine inches and, in a final jerking and quivering, my love-juices to prove it. She spewed out her own juices, almost going wild, and I was hit in the face with the reminder that she had not had an orgasm in some eight years. I laughed as I kept spurting; I laughed because I was doing to her, for her, what that sonofabitch Rod MacIvers had been unable to do. And because she was giving to me what she had withheld from him. This was love-fucking at its best!
She grabbed my firm buttocks and pulled me tight against her, making sure that I wouldn't try to pull out. She wrapped her legs around mine.
"Oh, Davie, that was so wonderful, so great! Will you leave it in there until it gets hard again?"
"Sure, but let's roll over so I don't squash you." This time I held onto her buttocks and rolled us over, sliding my arms up so I could hold her in them. Her cheek was against mine, her tits against my chest, her legs between mine-and Junior, taking a nap, resting comfortably in her warmth. I closed my eyes and in my mind stepped back through the years again-there had been no Rod MacIvers, no hundreds of now faceless sex partners, no Karl or Cindy. There was just Marge and me, our bodies merged, love-fucking as proof that we would be together until death do us part.
How long we were there I don't know (perhaps we even dozed), but I suddenly felt her cunt muscles contracting. She was wordlessly bringing me up to hardness again, and I willingly let her. It was a good feeling, my meat stretching out and swelling as it moved to fill more fully that warm, moist channel. Finally, when it was fully hard again, she pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked down into my face. "Davie, remember that year you were sick? Remember how we used to worry that too much fucking might be too much of a strain on you? "
I smiled. "I remember."
"Remember what we used to do so you wouldn't strain yourself?"
"I remember what you used to do."
"Now?" she asked. I nodded, letting my body relax, and she raised her hips slowly, slowly unsheathing my hard prong. Sort of jack-knifing her body, she brushed her lips across my chest and down my belly as she moved to get between my legs. Taking my balls gently in one hand, she wrapped the other around the base of my cock and lowered her mouth to it. She slowly, gently, lovingly sucked me to a fantastically thrilling climax, swallowing every drop of the love-juices that I spilled out for her.
She moved back up and I took her into my arms. We rested gently now, her lying on her side but touching me full length; her tits were on my chest, her muff against my leg, and a hand rested over my limp cock. I stared up at the ceiling, and I thought, "I do still love her. I've never quit loving her. So where do we go from here?"
A soundless voice asked, what about Cindy?
Marge murmured, "I don't know if this was a good idea, after all. Oh, Davie, I thought we could do it just once, but ... " She pressed harder against me, squeezed my prick. "I do love you, Davie, with all my heart. I love you body and soul."
"I love you, too," I answered softly.
A soundless voice asked, what about Cindy?
I squeezed her shoulder. "Let's take a shower together, the way we used to, then get up and have a drink."
"Anything you say, master!" she answered half-laughingly.
We took the shower together, and it was the way we used to. I soaped her body, every inch of it, fondling her tits lovingly as I lathered them; I went to my knees and thoroughly cleansed her pussy, inside and out, giving it far more attention than necessary. I washed her back, her buttocks. When it was her turn she lathered my chest and belly, went to her knees and gently washed my balls, my cock-spending more time than was really necessary! She washed my back and buttocks. We rinsed off and then stepped out onto the tile floor, taking turns drying each other and giving special attention to the right spots. Before it was over I was half-hard again, but once we had put robes on I walked determinedly past the bed and back into the living room.
We were back to where we had been earlier, waiting. Waiting and wondering. There was only one difference; our love for each other, physical and psychological, had not been reawakened but reaffirmed. The doubt of the future had not only to do with Cindy and her physical condition, but with what we had yet to put into words.
As time dragged by doubt grew, gnawing at my belly. It was probably even worse because I couldn't put it into words, but I had to ask myself if my anger had been justifiable (if, for that matter, it had even been real) or if I had just used it, built it up, as a rationalization that would let me get in the sack with Marge. Fear grew again; Jesus, what if emotionalism, instability were hereditary? What if Cindy was lying dead somewhere out there in the city?
Then, assuring myself that she wouldn't do anything foolish, anger would grow again. Damn her, if she was only playing games...
The memory of the lone red flower at the cemetery haunted me. She had been there-she had gone to all the trouble (Jesus, she would have had to have walked miles, unless someone had given her a ride) to go out to Karl's grave. What had she asked him? What answers had she tried to find there? Or had she told him that, finally she understood what he had done, why he had done it?
Every once in awhile Marge would ask, "Are you sure we shouldn't check the hospitals, or maybe call the police?"
"No," I would answer, "we'll wait a little longer."
But how long was a little longer?
Marge fixed us a snack in early afternoon. We sipped a few drinks (just how many I don't know) and evening seemed to suddenly be upon us. Marge said again, "Maybe we should call someone."
I shook my head. "She has identification. If anything had happened, someone would have called." I wanted to believe it.
I told myself, she's just playing games. This is her way of trying to keep us from screwing, or from enjoying it if we did! In retrospect she had. The pleasures of the morning were next to forgotten with the worries of evening. I started getting angry again, and I told myself that if she weren't back by the time we decided to go to bed I was going to sleep with Marge. She could come home and find us naked in bed together!
Marge was showing the strain. Her face was drawn and every once in awhile she'd get up and pace the room. "I shouldn't have come! If anything has happened to her, I'll never forgive myself," she exclaimed.
"Will you knock it off?" I'd say, not kindly. "Hell, who should know better than us the games that life-or fate, if you'd rather call it that-plays?"
It sounded good. I tried to believe it myself.
Trying to break the tension, I said, "Hey, I was with a fella the other day, and you know what he told me? He took a slick chick to a hotel and for a solid weekend, from Friday night until Sunday evening, he didn't take his dong out of her once. Screwed her, left it there until it got hard again, screwed her again. Even left it in while they were eating!"
She gave me a weak, almost sickening smile. "How about you and me doing that some time."
"Davie, please!"
"God-damn it," I spat, "people shouldn't get so damned emotional! Fuck and be happy, fuck and let fuck. Fuck!"
Hell, at that point I didn't know what I felt.
Shortly after eight there was a knock on the door.
We looked at each other for a long moment, then I pushed myself slowly to my feet and crossed the room. A uniformed policeman stood there, framed in the doorway.
"David Miller?"
"Yes."
No fear, nothing. A complete absence of feeling.
"Is your wife Cynthia Miller?"
Cynthia Miller? No, my wife was Cindy. Cindy Miller. But then I heard the minister's words, "Do you, Cynthia, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband..."
"Yes," I managed. I felt Marge move up behind me. I waited fearfully for his words.
He bobbed his head. "I don't know of any easy way to tell you this, Mr. Miller, but ... your wife is dead."
"Dead," I repeated woodenly.
He bobbed his head again. "No one seems to know for sure how it happened. The driver just said that all of a sudden her wheelchair shot out from between two cars. He tried to stop, but it was too late."
"Her wheelchair," I repeated stupidly.
And then I remembered someone saying, in some long distant past, ... the human mind is a tricky mechanism. A very sensitive mechanism. Moreover, the line between sanity and insanity is very fine. Very fine, indeed.
I heard the policeman say, "I'm sorry, Mr. Miller, but we'd like to have you come down and make positive identification."
I looked at him. They wanted me to make a positive identification. A wheelchair and a positive identification. There was hope. Besides that, my wife's name wasn't really Cynthia, it was Cindy. I laughed.
"There's no need for that. It couldn't possibly be my wife."
I felt Marge's hand on my arm. "I'll go with you, Davie."
"But there's no reason to go..."
"Please, Davie."
Sitting in the back seat of the police car as we moved through traffic, I reached out and took Marge's hand, grasped it firmly. Perhaps I even hurt her a little.
"She wouldn't do it that way, would she?" I asked. "Symbolic?"
Marge didn't answer.
"She didn't want us to fuck, Marge."
"Davie, please."
"She shouldn't have been jealous. There are different kinds of love. You can love-fuck for different reasons."
"Davie, the man will hear you."
I looked at the back of the officer's head. He was a fairly young man, not bad-looking. I wondered if he were married or just what kind of fucking he did. I wondered if he sometimes beat his own meat.
"Y'know," I turned back to Marge, "Karl had no business doing that. Hell, I wouldn't have taken her away from him. I wouldn't have taken it away from him. Even if we'd gotten married before that, I wouldn't have cut him off. God-damn it, Marge, why didn't he give me a chance to tell him that?"
"Davie, please, I know this is an awful strain
"I wouldn't have," I insisted, and I was suddenly crying. Tears were running down my cheeks. "Hell, I would even of jacked him off if that was what he needed!"
"I hope you know," Marge raised her voice, "I hope you know that he's under a great strain."
"Don't worry about it, lady," the officer threw over his shoulder.
We reached a big, foreboding-looking building. The officer got out and opened the door; Marge crawled out and I followed her. She slid her arm through mine, squeezing mine tightly as we followed the man into the building. We seemed to go down endless, hollow-sounding hallways before we finally reached an elevator; once in it, it seemed to hang in space, then suddenly the doors were opening. We followed him down more endless, hollow hallways, through a set of swinging doors. I vaguely remember a strange-looking wall, a dour-faced man in a white lab-coat leading us along it, stopping, reaching out, pulling a drawer-like contraption out. I looked down as he pulled a sheet back, then the floor came up and hit me in the face.
I woke up feeling as if my head had been hit by a steam-roller. I was pressed up against something warm and firm, had my arm around a warm body, but there was a strange feeling to it. I blinked my eyes, then I realized what it was. I had my arm around Peter and my cock, in an unusual state of limpness for that moment of the day, was pressed up against his ass end. I looked around; the blonde wasn't there, but the room itself was strangely confusing. I was confused. Then I laughed, relief flooding through me. I reached out and shook Peter's shoulder; he finally rolled over and was awake. "Jesus," I said, "am I glad to see you. I had the damnedest dream..."
He looked into my eyes unsmilingly. "Sorry, old buddy," he said, "but it wasn't a dream."
I frowned. "Then what am I doing here?"
"You're not 'here,' I am," he answered. And then he told me, talking softly and slowly. On the way back from the morgue, after Marge had identified Cindy because I had passed out, I had called him. He had high-tailed it over, a couple of bottles of booze in hand. He spared me the details of the evening, but the sum and substance was that I had finally passed out. Marge was sleeping now on the divan, and he and I were in the guestroom. Marge had insisted on that arrangement.
The bed that Cindy and I had loved and fucked in had been left empty.
Marge, because of her deep love, her deep feelings (and maybe from some guilt) had not taken advantage of the situation.
Peter, the only friend I had ever had, was going to see me through.
It was obvious now what had happened, and the human mind is, indeed, a sensitive mechanism. The line between sanity and insanity is, indeed, a fine one. Sure that she had lost me (not waiting to find out, maybe because she knew deep within her how deep a first love can really be-or, perhaps, a brother-sister love), Cindy had taken the single flower to the cemetery. A red rose, symbol of love. From there she had made her way back into town (how she got to and from the cemetery nobody knew), bought a wheelchair ... and the policeman had said the rest.
I wept silently, convulsively, and Peter pulled me to him. He took me into his arms and our male bodies were pressed together, but there was only human compassion there. He rubbed my back soothingly.
"Just give it time, Davie, just give it time." His strong hand went down to my buttocks, rubbed them.
But one thing was important to me.
"Do they know," I struggled, "do they know what time she died?"
"Four o'clock," Peter answered. "Give or take a few minutes."
'Thank God," I whispered.
At least she hadn't died while Marge and I were screwing.
Marge was almost beside herself. Not only were her eyes red from crying, but every once in awhile she started crying again. A quiet, painful crying. Finally I said, "Peter, tell her. Make her see that it wasn't her fault."
He took her hand, holding it very gently, and looked deep into her eyes.
"You have to know that," he said simply. "As Shakespeare said, 'There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.' It had to happen that way, Marge, and now she is at rest. It was no one's fault, just the way life is."
"If I hadn't come ... "
"If I hadn't let you come," I interrupted her. "If you want to figure it that way, I'm the one at fault. Maybe even more so because, frankly, after I talked to you I did a lot of arguing with myself. I asked what you-which meant you and me together-might do to my marriage. I still let you come."
Peter nodded. "I've never thought much about incest-at least not before Davie and I talked yesterday-but if I ever saw a love that was born in Heaven, it seems to me like it's you two."
"Oh!" Marge cried out in anguish. "How can you even talk about love!"
"Because," I answered for him, "I love you. I might not be able to fuck you for a few days, but I know that for sure now. I love you, until death do us part."
We did the things that day that had to be done. Picked out the right clothes and took them to the mortuary, and while there made all the funeral arrangements. Went to the cemetery (damn that lone red rose, and yet it was beautiful) and made the necessary arrangements there. All of that taken care of, we went back to the apartment. Peter went into the kitchen to mix drinks. It seemed like part of it; it made the whole thing more acceptable and believeable. Why else, I asked myself, would I have met Peter, found a friend, just when I did?
Back in the living room, the three of us sitting there, I looked from one to the other. These were the two people I loved, the only two people in the world who meant anything to me. I wanted it to be right; I wanted it to be something special, the kind of thing that people like us could share. I broke into a conversation they were having.
"Let's shuck," I blurted out. "No sex, but let's shuck our clothes and be just the three of us beautiful people on an island."
Marge wanted to hold back, but Peter seemed to sense my need. He got up as I did and started undressing. Finally Marge, as if she were half-dazed, pushed herself to her feet and followed suit. We sat back down again, each in the chair we had been occupying but totally naked. I lifted my glass.
'To us! To us beautiful people and life!"
I couldn't help but notice that Peter studied her naked body. After all, regardless of the circumstances what male could keep from looking at such a beautifully shaped person? He let his eyes move from her face down across her tits, down to her crotch, down over her legs and then back up. But he didn't get a hard-on.
"It's so strange," Marge finally said, as if from out of her deepest thoughts. "The other evening people took ... Cindy" [it was hard for her to say the name] "and I for twins, and now ... for your coloring ... you two could be twins."
'Two good studs, huh?" I asked, trying to lighten things up. It wasn't that I was being flippant. It was just that I sincerely believed that things happened as they must, and that life had to go on. I was sorry as hell about Cindy's death and all (maybe even later it would hit me harder), but I had to somehow take it in my stride.
That night, after we had gone to bed, I said to Peter, "I noticed you giving Marge the once over. What's the verdict?"
"Hell, man, I told you that the night I met you."
"You'd like to get at her, huh."
"No."
"No!" I gasped. "But ... how come? Man, I mean, a cocks man like you..."
"Sometimes you see something beautiful," he interrupted me softly, "and you wouldn't touch it for anything. I'm strictly a fuck-for-pleasure man, like I told you, but I'd never touch someone who ... loved and was loved."
A moment later he added, "I'll have to admit that I envy you. Screwin' is great, but it must be even greater when ... when you feel something ... deep for a person."
I rolled over and impetuously grabbed his cock. I squeezed it. "You will some day, Peter. Honest to God, I have the feeling you will!"
"Maybe so," he answered, "now that I've seen what it's like."
The following morning Cindy was laid to rest next to Karl and her father. I'll have to admit that as they lowered her casket into the ground I had the feeling that a lot of answers to unasked questions were going with her-a lot of memories seemed to be gathered painfully in my chest-but once it was over I looked up into the blue sky and said to myself, "Another chapter finished, with more yet to be lived."
Jesus, the chapters I had already lived!
We rode back to the mortuary in the limousine, then Peter drove us to the apartment. He didn't kill the engine, though, and as I stood waiting for Marge to get out I looked down at him quizzically.
"Aren't you coming up?"
"No," he answered simply. "You two need to be alone."
I nodded, silently thanking him, then took Marge's arm and led her into the building. Standing in front of the door to the apartment I turned to her. "Are you going back home?"
She looked deep into my eyes, then finally in a near-whisper she answered, "I think I've finally come home."
I nodded again. "When I open this door we're going to forget the past, okay? I mean, the last eight years and ... and Rod and ... Cindy."
"Yes, let's forget them. At least, let's try."
I opened the door then and let her go in, following her. I closed the door and turned around, opening my arms to her. She came into them and I crushed her tightly against me. I was not sorry for what had happened-it seemed as if it all had had to happen-but I was more than willing to try to forget it all. There was only one thing that was important. Kissing her on an earlobe, I whispered huskily, "Once you promised that we would be together until death do us part. Promise me now that you'll never let anything get in the way again!"
"Oh, I promise!" she cried out against me, "I promise."
"Then why don't we start it out right? Why don't you get those god-damned clothes off!"
She laughed. "If you'll let go of me, lover, I will!"
Still not releasing her, I said, "Want to know why I want you to get them off?"
She giggled. "I think I know why, but tell me, anyway!"
I rubbed my cheek against hers. "Because I want to love-fuck you, baby! I want to love-fuck you like you've never been love-fucked before!"