Chapter 1

It wasn't that she had never laid another man, Jill thought, self-consciously turning her back as she unbuttoned her blouse. She had made love to two other men besides her husband; well-one boy and one man, and neither of the affairs had turned out to be much.

Jill slid out of the blouse and hung it on the back of the chair, her skin gone chilly and goosebumpy. Her husband had been the only real lover for her, the only man to truly arouse her passions and satisfy them.

Now she was only moments away from cheating on him, just seconds from giving the private places of her body to a stranger that she didn't love, and could never love.

Oh, lord, she thought, shivering and lifting one slow leg after the other from her jeans, don't let me make a botch of it; I have to put on a good act, have to make him desire me enough to do me favors in return. But she was so scared, so damned scared.

He said from behind her, "You have beautiful legs, Jill. They're long and sleek, and tanned from the sun. You must stay out in hotpants a lot."

She stood helplessly, her hands dangling, unable to reach up for the bra hook, for the elastic band of her panties. He wasn't a bad-looking man, she told herself, and she'd been more than a year without sex, ever since Steve shipped out to Vietnam. She ought to be stimulated, even eager for it.

"Let me," he said, and she was glad, in a weak way, that he was unhooking her bra.

His skin brushed hers with an electric shock, and she realized with a start that he was already stripped, that his naked, ready penis was touching her back. Then Jill flinched again, because he had dropped her bra and his warm hands were sliding around her rib cage to cup both her breasts. Her breath rasped in her throat, and a knot grew in her tummy; if only she wasn't so afraid.

His fingers mashed into her mounds, then caught her suddenly erectile nipples and rolled them. His breath was tickly in her ear: "Gorgeous tits, Jill-full and high, and these hard nipples ..." His penis jabbed into her back, and he made slow, grinding motions with it, rubbing its rigid length back and forth across the curves of her buttocks.

Jill closed her eyes and lifted her hands to his wrists. Gently, she drew them down to her waist, and placed them on the top of her panties. Forgive me, Steve, she prayed, but I'm doing this for you, to save something that means more to you than anything else.

The man slipped his thumbs into her panties and pulled them down, down, baring her rump to him, removing the final barrier between them, between Jill Devlin and the betrayal of her husband. Quickly, she kicked away her panties and gasped as he bent down his penis and let it lift between her legs. It nestled tightly against her pubic hair, the length of its hot roundness passing from the crack of her buttocks to beyond her groin and the tuft of honey-blonde hair.

Looking down, Jill saw the head of it standing out from her mound, all shiny and purpley and with a droplet of clear fluid glistening from the little mouth at its very tip.

She had never even kissed Boyce Pittman, and yet she was standing here with the cheeks of her ass pressed into his pubic mound, and staring wide-eyed down at the head of his penis. As she looked, his right hand came over her hip and across her belly, sliding slow and easy, to dip its fingers into her hair, to feel lightly, almost apologetically, for the hood that masked her clitoris.

His left hand felt for her left breast and found it waiting tremulously for his touch. "Jill," he breathed into her neck, into her ear, "oh, Jill baby-I never thought I'd get this chance, the chance to screw you good. You're so sweet and hot and beautiful-oh, baby, oh, baby ..."

Boyce's left hand squeezed down on her tit until there was pain, and the fingers of his right hand probed for her labia, slid up and down the lips of her quivering cunt, turning them wet and expectant. Jill was glad for that, too; she'd thought it might hurt, if she didn't love him, when he started to put it in her.

He was pushing her forward, moving her inexorably toward the bed-her own bed, the one she'd shared with her husband. Jill tried to turn in his arms, to face him, to at least kiss the man before allowing him full use of her body, but Boyce held her facing front. She had a ghastly premonition, knew a thrill of cold shock as she thought that he might be a pervert, that doing it straight wouldn't be enough for him. Oh Lord, she thought, oh, Lord! She'd never, never done it any other way, not even with her husband.

Numbly, she let herself be pushed onto the bed, only her hands outstretched to hold her bridged, with her feet still on the floor.

"Look at that," Boyce groaned. "Oh, what an ass, and the way your tits hang down-oh, Jill, oh, baby, I'm going to screw you until you faint!"

He pushed her down some more, and Jill turned her face to put her cheek against the bedspread. Her breasts flattened themselves to the stitched silk also, and she closed her eyes again, going tense with the anticipation of something awful about to happen. She felt the probing as he held one hand on her hip and used the other to guide the spongy head of his penis into her-into her- Her pussy! Not anywhere else, but just coming in the back way, the head of his thing parting the lips of her mound, pushing itself steadily into Jill's vagina. Relieved, she sighed aloud, and her pussy gave an unconscious little wiggle of welcome to the stiff meat entering it.

Both Boyce's hands were on her hips now, moving down and spreading her cheeks wider so he could more easily feed his staff up into her slowly stretching vagina. It was an average penis, she thought-not any bigger than her husband's, and not smaller, but different by its unfamiliarity and the method in which it was being used.

Jill's hands caught at the bedspread when he gave a lunge that buried his rod to the hilt inside her pussy. Grunting softly, Boyce pulled back until she could feel the distended lips of her inner labia around the head of his penis; then he slipped it deep again, slid it home with a long, twisting stroke that she felt from her mound to the entrance of her womb.

"Umm!" she moaned involuntarily, and Boyce responded by quickening his strokes, but thrusting his thing solidly into her box, faster and faster, until she and the bed shook from the force of his drives.

She was doing it. She was laying another man, and worse than the mere fact of sexual betrayal was another thought: she was beginning to enjoy it! Oh, no! she thought; Oh, no-this just can't be possible! Jill Devlin was no loose woman, no abandoned bitch with a streak of nymphomania, but a woman in love with her husband. Yet-oh, Lord-she was starting to feel the sensations, the slippery, frothy feelings of hot, good strokes. Her clit was swelling, throbbing sensuously with each thrust of his cock.

"Oh, your cock!" she said into the crumpled bedspread, and the swinging of her hiked ass became pronounced, real in the gyrations she made so she might feel the entire meaty prong that was running itself in and out of her clenching pussy. "Give it to me, lover! Oh, feed it to me deep and strong-oh, yes, lover-yes, Boyce darling! Stick it to me-oh-oh ..."

Panting, he drove it into her vagina and jerked it back for another plunge. His hands trembled on the cheeks of her uptilted ass, and she could sense the coming explosion that was building within the testicles that slapped against her upper thighs with wet noises. So Jill hurried feverishly to match his approaching climax, grinding and humping, digging her fingernails into the bed for better leverage. She shook it to him, pulled and rotated upon the meaty rod that was blurring in and out of her frantic cunt.

"Uhh!" he groaned. "Uhh-oh, baby-I'm coming, coming!"

Writhing, she came a heartbeat behind the stuff she felt spitting into her sheath. Her clit vibrated madly and Jill bit into the bed, clawed into it as her ass kept humping, humping on that fantastic feeling. His semen spurted into her, splashed against her womb as the head of his prick flexed, let go, and flexed again. The length of it was hard, powerful, and Boyce had it crammed to the balls inside her vagina, using his hands on her hips to try and shove his tool even deeper.

"Beautiful," he kept saying softly, "oh, beautiful, beautiful!"

She began to feel a strain, to ache slightly here and there, so Jill let her tummy drop forward, and his penis made a plop as it slipped out of her and drew a sticky trail between the cheeks of her ass. Still breathing raggedly, still not quite able to believe that she had responded, in such a bitchy way, Jill knew a flush of embarrassment. Drawing the crinkled spread around her exposed body, she rolled away from that edge of the bed and sat up, vainly trying to cover her breasts.

"Don't hide them," Boyce said. "They're too pretty to hide. I want to do a lot of things to your tits, Jill-kiss them and lick them, and maybe bite them a little. I want to-to put it between them and squeeze them together on my shaft, and feel your tits around it, feel them up against my balls."

Her face was warm, sweaty. Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, Jill said, "I-let's have a drink, Boyce. I mean, this is all so new to me, doing-something like this. I'm not used to being so-so casual about things."

"Sure," he said, "let's have a few shots, first. I'm not used to it, either. My wife is-so frigid I haven't touched her in months, and with my position in town, I can't just go up to any woman and say-"

"Straight, Boyce, just a little ice?" She had the spread around her like a toga, a sarong, something that wrapped and hid her body but not the new marks etched into her being with virulent acids.

She brought him Scotch on the rocks, a big drink. Hers was bigger, but she cut it down some before turning back to the bed. Boyce lay there nakedly unconcerned, looking down at his nude body from time to time as if surprised that he could relax that way before a woman. His penis wasn't relaxed; it still throbbed erect, and Jill bit her lip. She didn't want to go through another session with him just now. She was in too much turmoil, too disturbed emotionally.

But, yet-hastily, she averted her eyes from the erection. "Here's to-something. Us, maybe."

"To us." He sat up and grinned at her. Boyce Pittman had to be pushing forty, yet he looked boyish and unwrinkled. He drank half his Scotch and said, "I knew you'd be-adaptable, Jill. There's no reason for us to be enemies, just because my bank holds the notes on your place. So when you called me today, I thought-well, I'm very happy I came. Yes, very happy."

No commitment, she thought; no promise yet about holding off those overdue notes on the ranch, at least until her husband got back from Vietnam. Steve might have some ideas about holding off foreclosure; but all she could do about it was just what she was doing. Drinking down her Scotch, Jill Devlin let the converted bedspread slip from one shoulder. A camera, she thought; maybe if she had somebody to take pictures of this respected family-man-banker-pillar-of-society while she turned him on. It might be possible to blackmail him into holding off, so she had to think about arranging that, later. Now was for keeping him close and interested.

Softly, she said, "I'm glad, too, Royce. It's been so long, and you're so-so virile." Leaning, she took his empty glass and felt his eyes on her bared breast. "Another drink and then we'll kind of get to know each other better. There are so many things a man and a woman ought to know about each other."

"Yes," he said, "of course. I-my wife never knew how I felt about doing it. About sex and how much fun it can be. I mean, she thinks screwing is animal and dirty, and somehow, she makes me feel like that, too. Damn it, she makes me sneak around like-oh, look, Jill; I don't mean you. You were something totally different and unexpected, but I'll admit I was hoping for some opportunity to know you, to-well, to discover if you're as voluptuous as you look. And you are; oh, yes, you are."

She sat on the side of the bed, one breast bared like some primitive tribeswoman, gulping Scotch and hoping that she could carry this all the way through, that somehow she could make this man hold off just a little longer. If her husband came home to find nothing left of the ranch, the place where he'd been born, she didn't know what would happen. Steve Devlin wasn't a gentle man.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I've been lonely out here, trying to keep things going."

Boyce put a hand on her leg, and she looked into the remains of her drink. Except for this thing about exposing himself, this bottled-up sex that seemed to bother him, Boyce Pittman was really a bit prissy and smug, and she already knew enough about him not to be fooled by that little-boy exterior. He was a cold and merciless man of ambition, they said in town; a driver who got things done, and done his way.

A hungry man, they whispered, one who maneuvered and manipulated, and came out on top of the money pile, richer and stronger than ever. But no matter how much he took, how much property he fed on, they said he never got enough.

And Boyce Pittman held just a shade over twenty thousand dollars worth of overdue notes on the Rafter D. He could clamp down on the place any time he wanted. But she was trying to hold off that time, and although Jill knew that her body wasn't worth twenty thousand dollars to any connoisseur, she was trading it for a few days, a few weeks.

She felt his lips brush the nipple of her naked breast, and turned to press the mound to him. "Go on, Boyce-do whatever you want; do anything you want.

Hold him, she thought; hold off the axe.

He nursed her nipple as if he was a baby, kneading the softness of her breast with his fingers, licking and sucking, pulling in the nipple, making softly moaning noises. She saw his penis, stiff and still damp from the blending of their juices, and she stroked his hair, whispered little endearments to him.

The whisky was working inside Jill; she wasn't used to much of it, and the stuff warmed her, made this scene acceptable. It had to be done, she thought, forcing her mind away from her husband, from the look that would be on Steve's face if he happened to walk in just now and catch her naked in another man's arms.

Steve would never understand, so she would never tell him. She'd give herself up to Boyce, be whatever he wanted her to be, and Steve didn't have to know.

"H-here," Boyce husked around her wet nipple. "Here, do it to me like this-play with me; play with me."

Obediently, she took hold of his penis; it was warm and smooth in her hand, a big, swollen head, the rigid staff below, the thick base set in heavily curled pubic hair. She saw flecks of gray in the red-brown hair, and fondled his cock slowly, bringing her fingers up and down on it, squeezing the head, then letting go to stroke the length once more.

"Yes, yes," he hissed into her tit. "Oh, yes, mama. Sweet-sweet ..." and still talking, he pulled her body over on top of his own, his legs spread wide. "Put it in, mama-put it in deep!"

The head prodded at her labia, and she accepted it easily, smoothly, because those lips were already wet, giving the lie to her reticence. But she wasn't, she protested silently, inanely to herself; she was not one of those terrible women who only had to be touched by a man to give in. Yet here she was, mounting Boyce's cock with anticipation of another orgasm. It was for the Rafter D, she insisted; it had to be, because she would never, never have done this with the banker if circumstances hadn't forced her.

"That's nice," he panted, both hands on her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her buttocks. "Oh, that's nice and hot inside, all slick and tight. Lovely pussy, Jill-an enchanted pussy."

She rode his cock; she rocked back and forth on its upright stiffness, feeling the rub against her clitoris, the deeply gratifying roundness that filled her vagina. Maybe it was all wrong, and possibly she should not allow herself to enjoy screwing anyone but Steve, but Jill couldn't help herself. It seemed that once a prick was in her, she had to do it justice.

Blissfully, she ground her ass and worked her pubic mound. It was good and she was good. She closed her eyes and screwed on.