Chapter 2

Diane Wilson preferred to stay in New York, where her parents had had a swanky apartment on Riverside Drive, though they had left her also a summer house in Connecticut, a bungalow in Beverly Hills in the richer residential section of Los Angeles, and a hunting lodge near Mitchell, South Dakota. But with the advent of summer, Diane was finding New York much too oppressive, and she was already planning how to spend what appeared to be another boring summer. Perhaps, she reflected, Biarritz or Nice or even a sojourn in the Bahamas might be rewarding.

This evening, however, she was going out on a date with Paul Jasmer, a thirty-year-old advertising executive in one of New York's largest advertising agencies and from an old and most distinguished New York family. She had known Paul Jasmer about five months, and found him sophisticated, debonair, always well groomed, and full entertaining ideas on how to keep her amused. He had discovered many delightful little restaurants for her, some quaint antique shops and little-known museums. What was more, he hadn't offended her by making a pass at her, not once. In a way, this both pleased and annoyed her; it annoyed her because she had begun to wonder whether he found her beauty tempting.

This evening Diane had chosen a summery peach-colored faille frock and silver-tome pumps, and she carried her dainty purse, made in the same glistening material as her footgear. They were going to the Four Seasons, one of the city's greatest restaurants. Then, Paul Jasmer had told her, they might go for a drive along the scenic Hudson. At least it would be cool there, and of course the restaurant had air conditioning.

The lovely, haughty brunette inspected herself a last time in front of the oval mirror in the hallway, then went out of the apartment, locked the door carefully behind her, took the self-service elevator down to the lobby where the uniformed doorman greeted her with an effusive, "Good evening, Miss Wilson. A bit warm these days, I'm afraid. Shall I call you a cab, Miss?"

"No, thanks, Fred," the heiress disdainfully drawled. "A gentleman is calling for me very shortly. Ah, here he is now, I think-yes, it's Mr. Jasmer."

The doorman saluted, opened the door of Paul Jasmer's Cadillac Coupe de Ville, and wished them both a pleasant evening. He had no way of knowing, nor did Diane, for that matter, that the fateful events of this evening would precipitate the change of destiny which was brewing in the insolent brunette's horoscope ...

Paul Jasmer parked the Cadillac near a little cove about twenty miles outside of Manhattan, from which point could be seen a bend in the historic old Hudson River. Far beyond, the distant lights of houses gleamed in the soft darkness of the summer night. Diane Wilson looked at him questioningly. He had been a brilliant conversationalist this evening, made her laugh a good deal, and asked her what her plans were for the summer. He had intimated that he planned a trip to Switzerland in the next few weeks, and had wondered whether she would care to meet him there and ski. Of course she didn't ski, and she saw at once it was a very transparent ruse whereby he would have a chance to get her alone and perhaps make a pass at her. Well, she wasn't having any of that, thank you very much.

"You know, Diane," he said as he offered a pack of cigarettes, lighted hers for her and then his own, "I really wish you would reconsider coming to Switzerland with me."

"But, Paul, I've already told you I don't ski."

"There are other things to do in Switzerland, Diane."

"I have a pretty good idea. But I was thinking more of the French Riviera."

"That is too commonplace these days, I'm afraid. You'd find too many tourists there in July or August and you wouldn't like it."

"I'm capable of making my own decisions as to my vacations, Paul. Now shall we go on with the drive?"

"In a few minutes. Tell me, Diane, have you ever been in love?"

She started, looked at him with her large gray-green eyes, and then uttered a nervous little laugh; "I don't really see what this has to do with anything, Paul."

"On the contrary, my dear. It has to do with everything. You see, I find myself drawn to you. You're a devastatingly beautiful girl, you're quite rich, and you're an exceptional catch for the right young man. Now I can tell you at once before you say anything that I am reasonably well off myself, my parents have left me a good deal of money, so I'm not exactly a fortune-hunter."

"I really don't understand why you're telling me all this, Paul," she said petulantly.

"Do I have to draw you a diagram, Diane? I've got a yen for you. I think we two could hit it off if you'd give it half a chance," he said huskily. His arm was round her waist now, and his mouth was inches from hers.

"Please don't!"

"What's a kiss between friends and maybe lovers?"

"I don't want you to, Paul! Now behave!" she said angrily, her cheeks coloring hotly as she twisted out of his embrace.

"What makes you tick, anyway, Diane? You like to be out with an eligible man, that's obvious. You like to be shown off in the finest restaurants. You're a good conversationalist, you've got brains and beauty. As well as money, which doesn't matter a damn to me. But I don't know of your showing the least bit of affection for anybody."

"Don't you think that's rather my business, Paul? Now please drive me home. I've had enough of this."

"I just hope," he said grimly as he reached for a cigarette and lit it from the dashboard lighter, staring at her all the while, "that someday you get your comeuppance. Someday you're going to want someone very badly, only he's not going to return the favor. You're just a teaser, Diane, if the truth must be known. An expensive and very gifted teaser-"

She had slapped him, then, and he clenched his teeth, fighting back the impulse to strike her back. His cigarette had been knocked out of his mouth, and he leaned down to pick it up and to take a puff of it before crushing it out on the dashboard ashtray. "Thanks. I guess I had that coming. I'll drive you home. And I won't bother calling you again."

"No, don't. It would be a waste of time."

"Yes it would. I think I could get more affection and sincerity out of a call girl, if you want to know the truth," he said curtly as he started up the car and headed back along the freeway ...

She was showering now, standing in her blue-mosaic-tiled bathroom with the full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door. She emerged from the shower, daintily reached for a towel so that her closely spaced round titties jiggled in a most fascinating way. The narrow dark-coral aureolae traced amorous circles round pert little nipples. She toweled herself quickly, staring at herself in the mirror all the while. The smooth flat belly with the shallow, wide navel-nook was a premonitory of piquantly sensual appeal. Just below it, the fronds of her dark brown cunt-hair started, thickening as they framed the delicate pink lips of the outer labia. Her thighs were elegantly graceful, sleek and even athletic, rising from high-set, sensitively muscled calves. Her pale white skin was flawless, except for an adorable little birthmark, shaped like a crescent and not so large as a fingernail, at the upper-most part of her left thigh where it joined the base of her jouncy, upstandingly rounded bottom-cheeks. Between these was a broadening crease, the existence of which made the mobility and undulatory rhythm of her gluteal muscles all the more devastatingly prick-rousing to the opposite sex whenever she walked by them.

Diane Wilson smiled at herself in the mirror, and moved closer to it. She pursed her small mouth, arched her thin eyebrows so that the large gray-green eyes with their occasionally glinting golden flecks seemed to become even more imperious and commanding. Then the towel fell from her fingers as, cupping one of her titties with her left hand, she descended her right forefinger from her waist down to the navel, toying with that dainty niche a moment, before moving towards the pouting lips of her cunthole.

And then Diane Wilson began to frig herself as a school girl might have done, standing straddle-legged, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, the thin wings of her aquiline nose twitching and shrinking as her passions mounted.

She was imagining that she had Paul Jasmer kneeling at her feet in chains, naked, his prick tied with silken cords and dragged up behind him to press along the perineum, torturing him at every movement. He lusted for her, and she stood there haughtily in impeccable and untouchable nakedness, complete mistress of him, laughing gaily at his discomfiture and suffering.

This was the way Diane Wilson pictured herself, as a destroyer of men, as a beautiful and truly belle dame sans merci.

And then the spasm seized her, and she groaned aloud, and she pressed her forefinger against her stiffening clitoris and began to frig herself frantically so that the announcement of her orgasmic release would be hastened to shattering tides of pussy-creaming.

So tremendous was the crisis that now took hold of her that she sank down on her knees, bowed her head, and both her hands cupped and clutched her titties as she squirmed about on her bare knees on the blue-tiled floor, panting and shuddering, her body damp with passion-sweat of a narcissist, and as Paul Jasmer had said, there was really no one else in the world for whom she felt the slightest affection, save herself.

Three Fates who spin and weave and measure and then finally cut the cloth of human life were gazing down at her from Mt. Olympus, and they plucked forth the warp of her life and altered it when they saw what joy she took in her own body and how selfishly she denied its usage by one who might have adored her and brought her a new understanding of sharing.