Chapter 9
There were five of them at dinner. They were all sprawled around the low table in one corner of the living room. With Georgie's pillows thrown everywhere and candles for illumination, the place had lost its virginal look.
The wine may have helped that, too. Oliver's vision, having had quite a lot of wine, was rather blurred around the edges. The others, except for Harry, had had enough to relax them. Harry sat calmly leaning back against the wall, pillows piled around him. He still toyed with the first glass of wine he had been poured.
But he was smiling. Every now and then his eyes slid over to Georgie and he let them travel the length of her body, which was reclining lazily. Georgie had a pale green dress on, a sort of Grecian robe falling straight from her shoulders.
Her magnificent pouting breasts jutted out, giving the dress form. It clung barely to her hips. The dress fell from one side of her body as she deliberately displayed her form.
For Georgie knew he was watching. Knew he wanted her. At a crook of her finger or an inclination of her head they would both rise; by the time they reached the bedroom his cock would be stiff against his jeans, and he would be hot for her, panting.
It would not take much to arouse her either. Even now, if he caught her in a glance off-guard, she felt dribbles of moisture between her carefully crossed legs and the lips of her cunt itched for him. The wine had forced her guard down and an occasional flash of memory would sneak in. Memory of this afternoon was devastating. Her body ached to have his cock embedded in her again.
Oliver's attention was divided. He was fascinated by Carol, who wore only a loose, nearly transparent dark shift which barely reached her thighs. Her tits were plainly visible, the nipples brushing the cloth, and her triangle of hair vaguely visible. A glimpse of it teased him, and he would drop his hand into his lap. The excuse would be to get his napkin, wipe his fingers, but his fingers served as a warning to his cock.
There was every reason why the long shaft should be tired and disinterested but the thing still began to poke its head up.
The Platinum Bitch didn't help by wearing the same dress she had worn this afternoon. Each time he watched her, memory of the afternoon flooded him.
Gradually he had learned her name-Yvonne-and he tried to use it. He was afraid to slip and call her "Bitch." The others did not seem to know that they had ... he wanted to say slept together, but rejected the bland phrase. They had fucked. Balled. Fornicated. Or, since she was married, committed adultery.
But was she really married in the sense that he had always understood the term? No. She loved her husband but they stayed together also because of money, tax benefits and a kind of friendship.
He didn't really understand, but at this point in the evening it didn't matter much. He'd had much too much wine.
The Platinum Bitch, Yvonne, had had a great deal to drink, too, by his count. He had been so busy watching her that keeping count of her drinks and of what she ate seemed natural. But she seemed as composed, as self-possessed, as Harry. Except for an occasional bout of giggles she was, on the surface, no different drunk than sober.
Harry had said something dry and very funny; all five were laughing heartily, involved in their amusement. None of them saw the tall, slender man in a dark suit come in, through the door, propped open for air.
When she looked up, suddenly, ready to top Harry's joke, Georgie saw him. Her face went white. Even in the soft light it was evident. Harry went stiff, and his eyes followed the line of her vision.
The newcomer's hair was dark, cut close to his head on the sides, balding on top. His features were softened by fat, but he was trim enough elsewhere. He walked near the table then stopped uncertainly, swaying.
Everyone watched him. No one said a word. The others didn't see Georgie slowly get to her feet and close the space between them. Carefully she put out her hand; he took it in both of his, grasping, shaking it a little.
"Paul," she said. "How nice of you to just drop by. Have you eaten?" Say the right thing, she told herself. Be polite. Re correct. He is your husband. He pays the bills. If you see him unexpectedly, it shouldn't . ...
But the sight of him made her suddenly stone cold sober. Why now? They saw each other once a week in his office or in the living room of the house that had once been hers too.
He had never come here before. She had lived here for years, and he had never been to the place. What could have brought him here now? If they had had children she would have been fearful of them. But what could have gone wrong? What?
A nagging fear sprung up in her; she took a long breath, as if that would help, and tried to smile.
Turning to the table, she said, "People, this is my husband, Paul." Then, going around the table, "This is Yvonne, Carol's mother, and Oliver, of course you know Carol, and Harry." Did her voice quaver? She was so afraid of betraying Harry ... Paul might be here on a mission of jealousy. After all these years?
Yvonne, blessed with an inborn sense of danger, rose.
"Paul," she said. "Do come and sit by me." Walking near him she extended her arm. Automatically he took it. She brought him around the table and guided him down.
"Let me get you a glass and some silver. That's really marvelous stew. Or have you eaten?"
She seemed to have awakened the social rituals in him, because he blinked, looking at her for the first time. She was bending solicitously over him, and incidentally giving him a generous view of her tits. It was the only generous portion of her body.
"Yes, Yvonne was it?-I think I could eat something, if it's not any trouble."
"Of course not," she murmured, and moved into the kitchen.
"Georgie, how are you, dear?"
"Quite fine, thank you. How have you been?"
She was continuing to talk, but her mind had left the situation. Perhaps I've lost my mind, she thought. Perhaps I'm better off not knowing what I'm doing. You look fine, you bastard, why are you here? she wanted to scream at him but kept her voice carefully modulated. Leaning gracefully to him, she lead the conversation into common topics.
What am I doing sitting down? she thought suddenly. How did I get here? But her mouth kept working, until enough string was unraveled so the cat would play with the yarn.
All of the kittens would, as a matter-of-fact. She could relax. React automatically. Trust Carol, and Yvonne. They wouldn't let it go bad. They would cover the wrong thing said.
The old whore Yvonne might even get him into a corner by herself, and work on making him forget why he was here. Ply him with wine, seduce him. The thought was almost funny. She wanted to laugh. But almost screamed.
WHY WAS HE HERE?
She leaned back trying to relax. She shut her eyes but the fear rose from every side. She opened her eyes and watched the other five. It was as if she were watching a play.
WHY WAS HE HERE?
Paul sat on a huge pillow separated somehow from the rest, leaned against the wall, with his long legs bent before him. He was acutely uncomfortable. At odd moments he looked about him, taking in the room, the furnishings, the statements on the posters, the half-open closet.
Everyone had come in after dinner and tossed the pillows back onto her bed. Georgie was stretched on them now, flat on her back. She had one hand, palm up, on her forehead.
They had been silent for almost five minutes now. Georgie was determined to let him make all the moves. She didn't know why he was here and she was afraid to throw him clues to her fear.
He would Use them later, she knew. He was inevitably sadistic when it came to arguments. Years ago she may have accidentally damned his favorite tie. Should a chance open, he would toss that into the conversation. Or talk about one of the series of sexual fiascos that had led to their separation. Paul had a very destructive way of talking about sex. He could pull her apart in secondsthen enjoy studying the remains.
He spoke abruptly in a low voice. She could barely hear him. There was some kind of financial disaster at the office. The whole shebang stood to lose a million dollar contract. It was his fault, yet you couldn't fire the owner-only humiliate him.
Someone, he said, was out to embarrass him. To beat his pale, pudgy ass pink, streaked with flecks of blood, Georgie fantasized.
Of course, they were her images. He couldn't speak imaginatively at all. Throughout the years they had lived together, Paul had never compared her to his mother. Neither favorably nor disagreeably. It was a simple matter. He couldn't imagine any possible connections between the purebred
Boston lady transplanted to the garish Southwest with this redheaded, part Mexican, part Irish hellion. Even if the redhead is as carefully trained as his mother and they both had the same snobbish standards in society.
They liked each other. Paul couldn't figure out why. There was every logical reason for them to be incompatible. To fight incessantly over the smallest details.
However, they rather adored each other. It was almost like complimenting the woman who has the rare good taste to know everything about who made your dresses and of course, have the same couturier yourself.
His mother had been to this house before, on routine visits. She treated their separation quite matter-of-factly. Why shouldn't they live apart if it suits them? She and her current husband discussed the matter one evening. He was amazed that she rather liked the way the place was put together.
Secretly she wondered why Paul hadn't fought to get her back. Exercised, taken mistresses to practice with, dressed a little less conservatively, and worked a little more during office hours and less after them.
But there was big money trouble at the office. He was worried sick. He was tired. He had been fighting this battle alone for ten years, no, more like fifteen, and he was revolted by the thought of continuing the battle alone.
Suddenly Georgie knew what was coming. It was like being hit in the stomach. No, of course not a divorce. He had no desire to go looking for another woman. A male companion might be arranged, but he preferred to keep his sexual life apart. He was too lazy to track down and to train a suitable wife.
"I wonder, Georgianna, if you would consider, I mean think about it first, but maybe you would..."
"No."
"But you haven't even heard the question, Georgianna," he whined childishly. "I know what you're going to ask Paul."
"But ... "
"I won't come live with you again. Not even with separate bedrooms. Not for four times the cash every week that I have now. Not if I can have all the lovers I want. Not if you will not touch me, nor even kiss me, and keep your little boys as discreet as ever. Twice as discreet. No."
"Georgie. ... " He was nonplussed. Logical, well-thought-out Paul-speechless. Though not witty, he'd always had an answer. Until now. Head rested in his hands, his shoulders caved in. He was silent.
A streak of pity flooded her and, as quickly, disappeared. She didn't know why, but she knew that he had been driven to come here, to ask her.
"Let's not talk about it Paul. We really have nothing to talk about. Unless you're interested in a divorce."
His head came up. "No! I won't divorce you. And
I won't let you divorce me."
"I sure could find a way if I wanted to."
"Why would you want to? There'd be less money."
But I'd be free of you, she thought. I wouldn't have to make those forays into your world and come out exhausted. I might have to work, but I wouldn't have to pay for my money in blood. You're polite enough, Paul dear, but you still get your fucking blood.
He was getting up. When he floated into her vision, she brought her hand down from her forehead and studied him. Half-smiling, he looked down at her. His eyes traveled the length of her body then back to her face.
An alarm bell sounded in her. She froze. Oh no!
God, no!
Before she knew what he was doing he grabbed the long gown by the neck and ripped it from her body in one strong yank.
The effort brought her up from the bed a little, and the gown from her. Her sudden nakedness disarmed her. Fear sped into her blood and clouded her vision, her reason. She was aware that he had roughly twitched her legs apart, but she couldn't move.
For a moment he seemed to study the cunt before him. The lips were tight together with their own moisture, the insides of her thighs pure silk in the dimmed light. With one finger he spread the lips and studied their pale color. Suddenly he jammed three fingers into her cunt.
In fear she tightened her cunt on his fingers. As it did he made a sound of pleasure, or of sudden de--. sire. His thumb closed on her clit, pushing at the small mound, working it roughly. She pulled back because of the irritation but his hand followed.
Unexpectedly, she creamed. Against her will, desire welled in her. A moan escaped her throat, a moan of protest. No. Oh, no. But automatically, her hips ground up a little in response to his probing fingers.
At each disclosure of her mounting passion, Paul felt the heavy stick in his pants throb. His urge for her had been mostly dispassionate anger, but now he found himself pounding with the desire to fuck her.
Every time they had fucked before, long before they had separated, he would fuck her until she cried out for him to stop. His control was such that he could have gone on for as long as it took her to be satisfied. But over the years, pride in fucking her to exhaustion faded.
He got exhausted first, or became too selfish to think of any interest other than his own. Even now, at the office, he could only think of his plight at the loss of a huge account.
It had been so many years since he had fucked her. Anticipation made him harder. This would be his first woman in months. Men were easier to come by, and he felt safer with men. Now he disregarded his need for safety. Now . ...
Now he would fuck her again, as long as he could, until she screamed at him to stop, then whispered her request. Now ...
He worked the fourth finger into her cunt. Another moan. She creamed so heavily it seemed to flood his hand. His thumb worked mercilessly at her clit, provoking an unwitting response.
His prick was hot, huge, heavy in his pants. God! he hadn't wanted a woman this badly in years. There had been only one woman after Georgie left him who had meant anything-only one woman who had inspired any kind of desire.
Perhaps Georgie would always enflame him this way, if he relaxed his control. His fingers working in her cunt were working juices out of her, were working his cock to the point of explosion.
He wanted to fuck her though, to feel his load of sperm rise in the seemingly limitless reaches of her cunt. He wanted to unite with her as fully as possible, to give her the gift of his union. He wanted that blessed relief that comes after ejaculation.
Quickly he pulled his hand away from her body. She started, looking up at him in surprise. A little dazed, she watched him pull his jacket off, his shirt after it, an undershirt. Shoes, socks. Her breathing was jagged, the rising and fall of her tits enticing. Quickly he stripped his pants, his shorts.
Naked, he thought. He never dreamed he would ever again be naked with this woman, about to fuck her. When they had separated he had resigned himself to never again joining her, that their bodies would never unite to form the crazy double-backed animal of lust.
Was it lust, or love? he wondered, mounting her. What was it that motivated him? As his cock pushed the lips of her cunt wide, he questioned himself. Plunging into the depths of her body....
For Georgie there was no wonder. The vague, compelling desire she had known was gone as he climbed to perch over her body. When his prick forced into her vulva she felt herself begin to go cold. Deep inside, in the pit of her being she felt the coldness begin.
It would grow as they fucked, as this smooth in-and-out motion he made speeded and pushed more urgently. As his need grew, hers would diminish. How had she ever let this happen. Again. She swore it would never happen again, each time, but here, years later ... again.
With each shove into her cunt, her loathing grew. With each withdrawal of his cock from her body came an urge to push him away. If she could endure long enough he would spasm and jerk and shoot up his jism into her and pull away, heaving himself far from her body. Then it would be over; this time she would resolve to never let it happen again.
As his pace increased she decided that the end must come. She would divorce him. Not one of his arguments would hold, not next to this. She could not bear this hot stick between her legs, this gasping, sweaty body pressed on hers. His silly moans and cries annoyed her; the automatic response of her cunt with fluid to lubricate his prick's passage repulsed her.
She was not touching him with her hands or her mouth, and she did not move in answer to his jerking pelvis. The sudden thought of her hands once exploring his ass, thrilling to the clenching of his muscles as he fucked her ... she was going to be sick even at the thought.
Now he murmured her name, his hands came up into her hair and his mouth sought her. He was getting clammy, cold to her touch. It must be my own body, Georgie thought. He's in the heat of his passion. This softened, thickened body is in the throes of passion. Passion. She wanted to laugh.
Then she wanted to cry. Her husband. He was her husband. No. No, never again. After all the soft touches of young men with their strong, lean hands, as she rested in the arms of a firm, sweet, hot body-this? No. No. Never again.
Would he finish? Would he ever finish? Was he going to pound at her body until she died? Until she screamed? Until she pushed him away? What was he waiting for?
Paul was waiting for her response to build, for her passion to culminate, to explode. He thought her overcome by desire, lost in the sudden love-making of her husband-her husband of many years, of much of her young life. How different it must be, thought Paul, to be fucking a grown man, a mature adult man, with control, with concern for her fulfillment.
Ah, he loved her more than ever. How he loved her! He could fuck her now forever. Forever. It would be good like this always for them. Always, until they were too old for fucking, they would just hump, hump, hump in bed until satiated. When they were dried, tired, relaxed from love-making, they would hold each other, laugh of many things. The aggravations of his days at the office would fade as he held her.
Right now the problems of the day were nothing. Nothing in the world was as important as pleasing this woman. This red-haired beauty who lay beneath him was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. It was a a privilege to know her, to hold her, to FUCK her,-no, to make love to her. He moved his body with more care, pushing his prick into her more carefully. Ah, he thought, how good it is to fuck you, lover, how good.
Some of this thought he murmured into her ear. If she understood, she made no sign. She must be deep in her own thoughts, buried within the avalanche of feelings reborn by their reunion.
She was breathing heavily, deeply, excitedly. Her hands closed around his head as his mouth worked at nibbling portions of her face. She carefully pushed back his head. She was watching him, looking carefully at his face. Carefully she began to speak.
"Why don't you come, Paul? Please come. Now. Please?"
The breath left him, as though he had been punched in the stomach. What? What was this cold, even voice?
"But, Georgie," he said. "I want to wait for you." A laugh, too high-pitched. He cursed the laugh silently. His voice took on a keen note of anxiety. "Georgie, you haven't come yet. You haven't climaxed. Have you?" Had he been so lost in his own world, he thought?
"Georgie, have you come yet?"
"No." So cold, calm. "I'm not going to come. I never came with you before. Not at the end. I'm not going to come now."
What was she saying? His head began to fill with fear. This was blurring his mind. His thoughts began to ramble, to disconnect. It wasn't making sense.
He was stopped, his prick half out of her cunt, his body sprawled over hers, awkwardly, on the bed. A moment ago he had been dizzy with the thought of his love for her. Now he was mentally thrown by the mere coldness of her words.
The meaning of her words was only slowly seeping into his mind.
"Will you come, please, or get off me? You're heavy, Paul. You're hurting my chest."
Again that hard punch to the stomach. My God. Oh, my God. Suddenly his prick wilted, faded to a small, cooling, sticky bag of potential. All gone. His body felt ugly, dirty, damp, evil.
Away from her, get away from her. Clothes, get them on. Get out. Get away. Away from this cold, ice-hearted bitch. This red-headed evil-mouthed bitch. This, this wife of his. Wife. He snorted.
"You'll probably want the firm lawyer," she was saying. "I'll get another one. There are lots of them on Wilshire Boulevard. Good ones, I hear. It shouldn't be too expensive, or take too long. You won't contest, will you?"
"Contest?" he asked, half afraid to have her confirm his suspicion.
"The divorce. I plan to go Monday morning to see about a divorce. Didn't I tell you last week?"
Last week?
"Well?" A little puzzlement clouded her voice.
"Is something wrong."
"Are you going to contest the divorce?" If they were divorced, this would never happen again. It couldn't. "No."
"You won't contest it."
"NO!"
"But you had arguments against it, last time. You..."
"I won't contest the divorce, Georgianna." Pause. "I'm sure after all this time you know you're sure." A deep breath. "And we're certainly not children anymore. This isn't a spur of the moment decision made by children."
"Shall I see. you in your office on Wednesday, to discuss the money? As usual?"
He nodded. "Of course," Then again, to himself, "Of course."