Chapter 1

Sally Hole sighed as she passed the feather duster across the gilt frame of the lithograph hanging above the mantle in the living-room. A real Picasso, she told herself, and a marvelous work of art. She still remembered how thrilled she'd been when Mike presented it to her on their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Even now, the mere fact of owning a signed work of art, and a masterpiece at that, thrilled her again.

Still, she sighed. There was so much work involved in keeping up a house like this, filled as it was with the luxuries which were almost necessities to Sally and her friends in Woodland Hills. White wall-to-wall carpeting was wonderful, but it had to be vacuumed everyday. Prints and paintings had to be dusted, furniture polished. And someone had to cook dinner, and wash the dishes later-or a least stack them in the dishwasher-and then put them away. And that someone was herself.

Not that she resented doing that, or anything else she did for Mike. Who else, she asked herself, had such a wonderful husband, one who'd given his wife so much?

She put down the duster and curled up on one of the twin modern sofas flanking the fireplace. Leaning back, she stared out the window at the blue water sparkling in the white-tiled swimming pool, at the sun-bathed patio alongside it, sheltered by broad-leafed trees. She had a wonderful husband, she thought, and a wonderful home, too.

And two wonderful children. They were grown, now, with Vern-Mike, Jr.-off at college, writing home, at least to ask for money, regularly. But neither she nor Mike begrudged him that. Mike, Sally thought, indulged the children almost as much as he indulged her.

Her mind wandered to Jean, married now, and with a home of her own out in Michigan. It was Jean, not Vern, who was the apple of her father's eye. Sally remembered the little tot trailing along behind Mike, Teddy bear clutched in her arms, remembering the way Mike swooped her up, perched her on his shoulders, trotted around the yard while Jean squealed "Play horsie! Play horsie!"

She remembered a few less pleasant moments, too, like the time the three had been having dinner in a posh restaurant. Suddenly Jean stood up on her chair, pointing at Mike's plate, screaming, stamping her foot, demanding something. But what? No one could make out what the child was saying, and Sally had turned the color of the boiled lobster on her plate, as she ordered Jean to be quiet. She'd had an almost uncontrollable urge to smack the child-and to hell with Dr. Spock, she had thought-but Mike had kept his cool, had calmed the infant and cajoled her into a semblance of coherence. "What is it you want, darling?" he asked.

And Jean, with a tiny smile of triumph, pointed at the parsley garnishing his thick, juicy steak to squeak, "Fwowers!" Sally was mortified, but Mike roared with laughter, as he always did at Jean's lisped words, and had picked her up and dandled her on his knee, giving her the "fwowers" she asked for.

He always gave her what she asked for, Sally thought, pushing aside her cleaning tools and going into the kitchen for a cooling gin and tonic. She brought the frosty glass back to the living room and curled up on the coral colored couch to drink it, while her thoughts wandered to their daughter Jean, once more. Not the spoiled child, this time, but the grown woman, the wife, the mother-to-be. She thought of Tony, Jean's husband, too. What was he like? Oh, he was a wonderful boy, that was certain. Bright and industrious and filled with ambition. He'd won top honors at school, found himself the kind of job most men dream of as soon as he'd graduated. But was he, Sally wondered, well ... considerate?

Some men weren't, Sally knew. Not Mike of course. Mike was the most considerate of men. But some men weren't and Sally thought of her mother so may years earlier, talking to her about marriage. "Some men are considerate," she had explained. "But other men ... other men are just ... " her voice trailed off, as she searched for the word she wanted. She never found it, but then, she didn't need to. Sally knew exactly what she meant, from all she'd heard through the thin walls that separated her room from that of her parents.

Even now, Sally remembered her father coming home, half-drunk at best, more often blindly staggering, to burst into the bedroom where her mother lay in their huge double bed, always going through the same routine. She could almost hear her mother's imploring whimpers, "Oh, no, Elon. Not tonight. Please no! Not tonight!"

"What the Hell you being so high and mighty about?" her father had always sneered, his voice cold and harsh. "Been giving out my pussy to everyone else, huh? And now you're plumb tuckered out!" There was a moment's silence then her father's lewd, wheezing laugh. " Fuckered out! That's more like it. Plumb fuckered out!" The silence following seemed to have been filled with both Sally's terror and that of her mother, and then the quaking child had heard the sound of tearing cloth as her father would rip her mother's nightgown from her fear-stricken body, heard her muffled groan of shock and horror, then the heavy breathing of the man as he threw himself upon the woman. In her mind's eye she could picture him grasping the snowy mound of her breasts in his rough, calloused hands, twisting and squeezing them, pinching the sensitive bud of her nipple until Fran, Sally's mother, would scream out aloud in pain.

"Please, Elon. Please!" But her father, always dismissing her pleas with a harsh, obscene laugh, would cruelly spread her thighs, forcing his huge, blood-filled penis between them, and then finding the fleshy, tender lips of her opening vagina, drub into her like a well-oiled piston thrusting back and forth into a bit of mute machinery.

Her mother had not been mute, though-not completely-and as her father would continue his vile debasement of her, his cock ramming deep into her quivering cuntal flesh, tearing at the soft, moist walls of her private passage, plundering them beyond endurance, she would let out a piercing, blood-chilling groan. Sally, always cowering in her narrow bed next door, would pull the covers over her head with trembling hands, and finally giving in to the scalding tears that welled in her eyes, would sob herself to sleep in utter despair.

Now, sitting in her luxurious living room, the memory of those times sent a cold shudder crawling up Sally's spine. She shook her head, thanking God that Jean had been spared such abject humiliation, just as she had been. She felt an overwhelming rush of tenderness for Mike, and then it dawned on her that the hour was late, and that Mike would be home any minute. With a sigh, Sally roused herself to finish her dusting to swoop across the room with her vacuum cleaner. Then she went into the kitchen and got things out for dinner: the steak and asparagus from the freezer, the potatoes from the bin, the salad greens from the crisper in the refrigerator. She hurriedly made a dressing-"a miser with the vinegar," she reminded herself, "a spendthrift with the oil"-before she set the table on the patio. Then she hurried inside to mix Martinis; she was just stirring them when the door opened and Mike came in.

He kissed Sally gently on the forehead, cupping her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to him. "Had a good day?" he asked.

She wrinkled her pert, perfect little nose. "Busy," she said.

Mike gave her a worried look. "I know, Sally," he said, "And I don't like it."

Sally let out a lilting, musical laugh. "Darling," she said. "It will only be for another day or so. Kirst's coming on Thursday." She shook her finger at him, playfully. "Remember?"

"Sure do," Mike said. "And I'm damned glad of it. You know, honey, I hate to see you working like this."

"It's nothing, Mike. Really. Nothing!" Sally said.

Mike began to peel off his jacket, wiping his face as he did so. "Sure was hot in town," he said.

"Hot here, too," Sally told him. "That's why I thought we'd eat outside."

"Great, Sally. Anything I can do to help?" Mike offered.

"You could take the drinks out," Sally suggested.

"Sure!" Mike took the tray and carried it to the terrace, while Sally followed with the plate of hors d'oevres she had prepared earlier. "Certainly hope this au pair thing works out, Sally," he said, pouring the drinks into the chilled glasses.

Sally laughed again. "Why shouldn't it, Mike?" she asked, steeling herself on a chaise lounge.

Mike shrugged. "I don't know. I just heard that a lot of people had trouble, getting girls to come and work for them the way we did. Answering an ad in the paper and that sort of thing."

"But Kirst had marvelous references," Sally pointed out.

"Well "And we checked them all," Sally added.

"I know, I know," Mike said. "But Pete Legger-you know Pete, Sally, he's the one I've told you is always asking about you-he told me about a friend of his who brought one of these au pair girls over and before you knew it, she was stealing everything in sight."

"Oh, Mike!" Sally exclaimed. "No!"

"Yes! And she was dirty, too.

"But I'm sure Kirst's not like that," Sally protested. "Her letters to us seemed so intelligent. And she seemed so charming, too."

Mike nodded in agreement. "That's true," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Still, you never know."

Sally sighed. Of course Kirst would be all right. She was a bright, well brought-up young woman who was moving into the Hole home to help out. Not a cleaning woman, the kind who was strong as an ox, and almost as stupid, who had crossed Sally's path occasionally, and whom Sally now avoided like the plague. Not at all.

And Kirst wasn't to be a maid, either, running and fetching and waiting on Sally, and doing the household chores, too. No! Kirst was an au pair who would be treated like one of the family and who, in turn, would help Sally with light housework, just as Jean had done when she lived at home. And, of course, she would provide companionship for the Holes, too, although she would certainly be encouraged to mingle with people her own age. But Sally could be a friend to Kirst, just as she'd been to her own daughter, shopping with her occasionally, taking in a matinee from time to time, lolling beside the pool with her on a hot afternoon. She took a deep breath, suddenly realizing how muchhow very much-she missed her own children. She was glad that Mike had insisted on asking Kirst to come to Oregon to live with them.

It was he who came across the ad in the classified columns of The Standard Post one evening and called out, "Hey, Sally, see this? It says 'Young Danish girl seeks position as au pair in pleasant atmosphere. Willing and capable. Prefers Oregon.' Think we should give it a try?"

"Why not?" Sally answered. But later, after Mike sent the letter off to Denmark, Sally had been dubious about the matter. "If it doesn't work out," she said, "There's nothing we can do. The girl is coming for a year, and we've got to keep her for the full time. It's a contract, after all."

Mike had stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It's going to be all right, Sally," he assured her. He gave her the same broad, disarming smile he gave to clients who hesitated, pens poised above the dotted line of an insurance policy which would guarantee them that "$400 a month-every month-for life" or would "provide your children with an education, no matter what happens to you" It was that smile, along with his spirit of camaraderie, which had made Mike Hole's insurance business such a success, had brought him a small fortune, and provided the luxuries which Sally so enjoyed.

Then, just like the hundreds of clients who cheerfully signed the insurance policies in front of them and handed over their hard-earned cash for the privilege, Sally was convinced by Mike's words. "You're right," she said, flashing him a radiant smile, adding "as usual." She squeezed his arm. "It will be okay."

Now, though, sitting beside the cool, inviting pool, she knew that Mike was worried, wasn't the responsibility for bringing Kirst to their home really his? "Come on," she said cheerfully. "How about another drink?"

"Sure!" Mike said. He carefully filled Sally's glass, and then his own. "You know, honey," he said gallantly, "you mix the meanest Martini in this whole valley!"

"Thank you, sir!" Sally answered, with a coquettish curtsey. She lifted her glass to Mike's. "To Kirst!" she toasted.

"To Kirst!"

They finished their drinks in silence, and sat for a moment staring into the pool, watching the miniature waves lazily lapping against the tiled sides. Then Sally stretched and pulled herself to her feet. "How about dinner?"

"Great. I'm starved."

"Shall we broil the steaks out here on the patio?"

"Sure."

"Okay. You stoke the charcoal, will you, Mike?" Sally asked. She went into the kitchen and loaded a large tray with the steaks, the salad, a bowl of fruit she'd filled for dessert. She set it down on the table near the grill, waiting for the fire to burn down to red embers, for Mike to toss the meat on the sizzling rack. She lit a cigarette, and as she turned to flick away an ash, she caught sight of herself, reflected in the pool.

She was as lovely now, she saw, as she'd been when she was married, nearly twenty years. She still had the figure that made men turn and stare-and often whistle-then, with the tiny waist that Mike could span with his two hands, the long, slim legs, the full, rounded breasts, the marvelously curved buttocks that swayed enchantingly as she walked. Her hair was as gold and glistening as it had been then, her eyes as blue. And her skin had kept its youthful bloom, glowing like the proverbial peaches and cream. There was no doubt about it; Sally was a strikingly beautiful woman.

And Mike, she thought, casting a sidewise glance at him, Mike was certainly a handsome man. He was tall and well-built, and thank Heavens, Sally thought, he'd kept his hair. It was beginning to turn gray, but that only made him more distinguished looking, and in Sally's eyes more attractive. His head was fine, even noble, and Sally found herself admiring, for perhaps the thousandth time, the strong, firm line of his chin, which was softened by the twinkle in his dark eyes. Yes, Mike was a handsome man.

And yet, as so often happened, Sally felt she had nothing to say to him. Tonight, again, the two finished their meal in silence, cleared away the dishes in equal silence. And when it grew dark around the pool, they went inside and her husband switched on the television set.

Without a word, they watched the mindless exploits of a couple of clowns, prancing about the small screen, hitting one another with rubber bladders that sent showers of water streaming into one another's faces. Mike laughed, along with the studio audience, but Sally's mind was miles away. There was something wrong with her life, she thought, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was. She had a beautiful home, wonderful children, a kind and loving husband-everything a woman could ask for. But there was something missing, and she didn't know what it was.

Still pondering the matter, she stifled a yawn and stood up. "I think I'll go to bed, darling," she said. She bent down to kiss his forehead. "Coming along?"

"I think I'll wait till the program's over," Mike said. He kept his eyes on the television screen as Sally crossed the room, avoiding the sight of the two rounded orbs of her generous, undulating buttocks, her marvelous trim thighs, her full, firm, magnificent breasts. But even the thought of them made his penis jerk, begin to swell and stiffen. Oh, God! he thought. He wanted her so much! He'd always wanted her, and no one else. And he knew that Sally had never wanted another man. But then, did she want any man, including himself, he wondered.

Oh, they made love often enough. He had her in the sack practically whenever he wanted; they screwed, God knows, they-Mike's mounting lust, the ache in his loins, the dull, relentless throbbing of his now blood-swollen prick made him crude and vulgar-they fucked, God damn it, they fucked.

Mike shook his head. No, that wasn't quite right, he thought. He fucked Sally. And Sally put on a good show for him, squirming and bucking and thrashing beneath him, letting out little mewls and murmurs of pleasure as she lay back, legs splayed open obscenely, to expose the full, flat plane of her thrusting crotch, acting for all the world as if she enjoyed it.

But God damn it, she was acting. Always acting.

Mike sighed, and poured himself a Scotch, stiff and straight. Then he switched off the television set and sat in the dark, sipping the drink.

It had always been like this, he thought. Not that he blamed Sally for it. He knew the hell her life had been before, with that drunken father, that doormat of a mother. He knew his wife was-what was that word psychiatrists used? "projecting?"-that Sally was projecting, every time he took her. Instead of the two of them, Mr. and Mrs. Mike Hole, making love and getting a whale of a kick out of their sex life, it seemed to Sally to be her old man brutally raping her old lady. Christ, there were times when Mike was so fed up with it, he'd wanted to do just that himself, ran his cock right up her belly, boring and pounding and slamming into her tight, resistant little passage until he almost split her open, while, half out of her mind with the excruciatingly painful pleasure, she screamed and scratched and ... Oh, Christ! How could he even think such rotten things! Sally was a wonderful woman and he loved her.

But God! If she'd only do something like letting him watch her undress! That was all he asked! To see Sally as she let that little linen outfit she wore fall to the floor, tumble around her feet, watch as she bent to pick it up, turning the full, rounded spheres of her buttocks towards him so that he saw the thin white strip of her nylon tighten between her thighs, then slip provocatively into the furrows between the cheeks of her lovely ass. Watch as she eased the wisp of cloth down over her voluptuous thighs, her slim, long legs, turning now to give him a glimpse of the luxurious curls of golden pussy hair at the base of her belly: watch as she removed the lacy brassiere she wore, releasing those magnificent breasts, so full, with their ruby-like nipples hardening in excitement, watch-Oh, Christ!

Mike glanced at his watch. Sally would be undressed and lying in bed now, waiting for him, in a discreet little nightgown that hid the marvelous contours of her luscious form. With a loud, sullen oath, Mike hurled his glass into the fireplace, listening with pleasure as it smashed. Then he went up to the bedroom.

Sally closed her eyes as Mike entered the room. Now, she knew, he would be pulling off his tie, dropping it on the floor, struggling out of his pants, his shirts, his shorts. Then, as he finished undressing and reached the bed, stretching out his hand to her thin nightgown, lifting her gently to slip it from her shoulders, she shuddered involuntarily. Why did she always think of her father at a time like this? Mike was different, gentle-Mike loved her. Yet, trying her best, she still could not help herself, and she shuddered again as her husband bent to caress her nude body, then to fasten his hot, hungry mouth on her own.

He eased himself to the bed beside her, stretching the full length of his body alongside hers. His mouth was on her own again, and then his tongue shot out, and Sally opened her lips to receive it as it sank deep within, leaving her gasping for breath.

She flinched a little as his hands moved down to her heavy, swollen breasts and began to knead them, then roamed over her soft white belly, her hips, to explore and caress the smooth white sensitive skin between her thighs. Oh, God, she thought, she loved Mike, she really did. Yet even his most tender ministrations somehow always sent little waves of terror-and yes, of revulsion, too-coursing through her. This is Mike, she told herself. MIKE! My husband, not my father. Yet in her twisted, traumatized mind, the two became inextricably mixed.

He cupped the round, firm globes of her naked buttocks now, and Sally began to rock gently beneath him, grinding her nether cheeks deep into the mattress as she did so. That pleased men, she knew, from one of those sex manuals he had brought home once, leaving it lying unobtrusively around thee house. And yet it gave her none of that ecstasy that same book promised her. Nor did she feel the thrills, the excitement other women felt as he trailed his hands over the soft curve of her body, down along the line of shimmering golden fuzz that ended in the softly growing strands of silky pubic hair over her vaginal mound. I mustn't let him know I don't like it, she thought in a moment of panic, and so she began to mewl and purr, as if with pleasure, when his hands moved up again over the gentle swell of her belly to her ripe trembling breasts. He took the snowy mounds in his two hands, cupping them, as her mother's scream of "Elon! Oh, for God's sake, Elon! Don't!" welled up in her throat, to be choked back, swallowed, as it always was. Oh, God! Why was she like this? Why? WHY?

Now she lay still beneath him, as he rubbed the stiff, bud-like tips of her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, feeling a slight quiver of pain as he coaxed them into hard, pulsing little stones that pressed against his palms.

Oh, no, she thought, as his mouth closed over one upright, button-like nipple, as his tongue laved it voluptuously, as he began to suck on it with a delicacy that any other woman, as Sally knew, would find tantalizing and passion-inspiring. But the fear that he might cruelly, viciously bite into her sensitive flesh-as her father had bitten into her mother's-made her go almost rigid with fear. With a supreme effort of will, she forced herself to relax, to hide her feelings from her husband, to act as if she found the same soaring joy in his sexual overtures as he derived from them. He must never know the truth, she told herself, never!

And so, as Mike's hand crawled down her belly again, as it slid to the blondely silken strands at the base of it, Sally began to moan, with little cries that might have been of passion coming from her throat. She increased the moans as he reached at last the warm, moist slit of her cuntal lips, then lay back, awaiting the moment when his finger would work its way into the wet, smoothly throbbing passage, vowing to herself not to whimper with the pain she was sure it would bring.

Even so, she jerked back involuntarily at the feel of her husband's rigid cock pressed hard against her open thighs, at the sudden, sharp pang as one of his fingers worked its way slowly up into her narrow cuntal channel. She was supposed to writhe and squirm her vagina around his probing middle finger, she remembered from that sex book-it had been in CHAPTER VII, and Sally could almost see the words on that page before her half-closed eyes-and if that was what she was supposed to do, she would do it, while Mike increased the rhythm of his finger-fucking up into her open cunt, withdrawing his digit at last to search out and caress the small pink nub of her little clitoris, doing his best to stroke it into hardness with quick, swirling motions.

There were other things she was supposed to do, she remembered. She should take his penis in her hand, curling her fingers around it until he groaned with pleasure. Or tickle her nails over its smooth, rubbery head, along the underside of the stiff shaft, tease her fingertip up into the tiny parted hole. Or cradle and caress his silk-smooth, sperm-laden balls in the softness of her palms.

But oh, dear God! How could she, she asked herself as his fingers plunged deep into her moist pink pussy again, impaling her, moving slowly, rhythmically, while Sally moaned to hide her true feelings, to persuade her husband that she was sharing this ultimate joy with him.

There was a soft wet sucking sound, as he withdrew his fingers from her tight little cunt, and then, with his thumb and forefinger spreading the lips wide between her thighs, he drew it open and eased his jutting, rock-hard penis to the smooth pink edges of it. He parted the silken curling pubic hair, then slowly, with the huge, pulsating tip of his shaft, pressed aside the petal-like lips of her cunt, worming it slowly and gently into the warm moist channel.

As his surging cock burrowed in up to the final depths of her widely stretching pussy, Sally shifted so that her buttocks were upturned, the full plane of her nakedly impaled loins exposed to his driving cock. She began to moan wildly, as he fucked in and out with long, quick strokes, his penis sinking in to the hilt, his semen-swollen balls slapping rhythmically against the nudely grinding cheeks of her ass. He gasped "Oh God! Oh, my God!" and Sally knew that already the white hot juice was churning inside the smooth swollen sacs, that his pumping balls would spurt it forth soon, and so she began to gasp wildly into his ear, "Aaaaaagh! AAAAAAAGH! I'm cumming, darling ... I'M CUMMING!" as the hot, sticky sperm was forced in convulsive spasms up the full length of his rigidly pulsing cock to shoot wildly from the jerking tip into the forbidden recesses of her soft, quivering belly.

When at last Mike withdrew his limp, deflated penis from her cum-flooded vagina and rolled, exhausted, to Sally's side, she took his hand and held it to her lips. "That was sooooo good!" she whispered huskily.

But Mike knew that the image of her father had been in her mind and that she had only felt disgust for his efforts to fuck her and make her feel it. That idea made him feel disgusted, too.