Chapter 4
It was the last Friday in June, and Jack Caspar, Pete Dudley, Matt Tilden and Dave Wormsley were occupying the four last bar stools, waiting for the 6:15 to be announced over the loudspeaker out in the huge station lobby.
This time it wasn't a gripe session or a chance meeting because all four had been held over on their jobs. As a matter-of-fact, the four suburbanite husbands had met in this very bar and grill five or six times since their first accidental conclave, and now they were here to discuss ways and means of broadening the pleasure horizons of their respective marriages.
But this time, Jack Caspar was holding forth and the other three men were listening with envy as well as hopeful conjecture.
"You mean to say that you guys haven't taken my suggestion and picked a quarrel with your wives, turned them over your lap and whacked hell out of their cute bottoms?" he was asking, as he signaled to the bartender to bring another round of extra dry martinis.
Matt Tilden looked sheepish as he fiddled with his nearly empty glass. "Sure, I've thought about it, Jack," he made a defensive gesture. "But Dottie only just came back from her mother's place out in Winnetka last week, and she's just barely tolerating me around the house. She makes me feel as if I'm on trial."
"That's your own damn fault, guy," Jack Caspar chuckled. "What you ought to have done, the minute she stepped inside the door, was to take hold of her and pull her over to the nearest chair, fling her over your lap, haul up her clothes and pull her panties down and lambaste her bare butt. Then you tell her that from now on things are going to be different, that you wear the pants in the family. Just let her try another stunt like going home to Mother again and it'll be worse the next time! I'll lay you twenty to one she'd have just about melted in your arms after you'd finished tanning her heinie, and you'd have had the hottest fucking since your wedding night. Take it from an expert."
Sure, it's easy for you to say. But your wife is different from mine," Dave Wormsley almost belligerently declared.
"You guys make me sick," Jack Caspar shook his head, an amused grin on his face. "The way I figure it, if your marriage is on the rocks, you might as well know it once and for all and have done with it. But if you could save it by showing the little woman that there's still plenty of life in your prick and that you're not going to take any more nonsense from her, you might just be surprised. I found that out with Marge. Hell, since I gave her that licking the night I got home late-you remember the first time we started chewing the fat about the trouble we were having at home-she's been practically eating out of my hand. The minute I come home, she has me sit down in my favorite chair, brings me a drink, takes off my shoes and asks me what time I'd like supper. Sometimes she even comes out wearing one of those slinky negligees. Hell, she even went down to Marshall Field's and bought herself a snazzy black nylon thing you can practically see pussy through."
"Some guys were born just lucky," Dave Wormsley groaned, taking his fresh drink from the bartender with a grateful nod and downing half of it in a thirsty gulp. "But I'll bet you any amount that even a great lover can come over to my place, crawl into bed with Junie and fuck hell out of her, and she'd probably just he there chewing gum and looking at the ceiling and wondering when the hell the guy would finish so she could get her beauty sleep. And the damn shame about it is when she wears one of those black nylon nighties or even a cheap white slip, a guy gets an aching hard-on just looking at her and thinking what a hot lay she's going to be. Talk about appearances being deceiving!"
"You gotta think positive, that's the only way to get along. Hell, all of us are sort of salesmen one way or another. Me, I talk people with dough into spending it for newspaper and magazine and radio and TV ads with our agency. Pete, you sell hi-fi, and Matt, you're in the mortgage business. Dave, you don't exactly sell insurance but you make sure your company's clients don't sell you down the river with fake claims. Now we all have to be pretty good to hold our jobs, so why the hell can't we sell our wives a bill of goods?" Jack Caspar wanted to know as he leaned forward and scrutinized the glum faces of his three friends and neighbors.
"Sure, that's fine for you, you've got it made already," Pete Dudley argued as he lit a cigarette. "But Ellie and I have been married two years, and she sure doesn't go for this suburbia bit, not when I have to travel so damn much. Looks like I'll be doing it for a while yet, though maybe the big boss will give me the Chicago territory some day. But if I tried paddling Ellie's rear-end, she'd just get huffy and tell me that if I'd stay home seven days a week the way other hubbies do, maybe she could get used to living out here and then putting out a little extra in bed at night. Why, hell, last week she practically came out and said I was getting to be like a stranger, and that's why things were sort of off-base with us."
"That's just what I'm trying to get across to all you lunk heads," Jack Caspar grinned. "Half your trouble, Pete, is that you like a little extra pussy on the side, but you don't want Ellie to know about it. Then you blame her for being an iceberg in bed when you are around. What that wife of yours needs is regular boffing, and so does yours, Matt, and yours, too, Dave. But suppose all of us got together, broke the ice, and showed our wives that they could have all the prick they wanted to keep them happy, and it would all be still sort of in the family. That way, all you chasers would get the variety you wanted, but you wouldn't get into trouble. like you, Pete, fucking out-of-town buyers so you can sell more of your hi-fi stuff to them. Now suppose one of those gals gets real stuck on you and wants you to marry her, or picks a fight with you because maybe the last screwing you gave her didn't make her cream and she thinks you're letting down on her. So she writes a letter to your boss or maybe calls or even tips your wife off what a louse you are."
"Cut it out, Jack!" Pete Dudley flushed uncomfortably. He was remembering his last encounter with hot-pussied Amy Trowbridge, and she had left fingernail scratches on his back when he'd made her cream. She had a husband who was a helluva lot huskier than he was, and if Amy ever turned on him, he'd have problems there as well as at home. "But you can't expect all of us to go home right now and tell our wives that we want to have a swap club."
"Of course not, dummy. It's gotta be their own idea."
"Now how in hell are you going to get a gal like my Junie to come out and say she'll sleep with all three of you guys when she doesn't even haul my ashes the way she ought to with that terrific shape of hers?" Dave Wormsley irritatedly demanded.
"Use your head, Dave," Jack Caspar chuckled. "It's all a question of getting the broads in the proper mood. Hell, before all of you got married, just like me, we wined and dined the babes and got them worked up so they felt nice and warm and glowing and ready to open their legs for cock, didn't we? It's no different when you're married. Except maybe it's harder...."
"It sure is," Dave Wormsley complained, "and the harder my cock gets, the less Junie could care."
"Skip the wisecracks till we get this all worked out so you guys can be happy," Jack Caspar pointedly averred. "Now suppose all of us came over and had a nice little get-together party. Maybe I'd show some stag movies-I just happen to have a couple of them that even Marge hasn't seen. But now, seeing how she's changed around after that paddy whacking I gave her a couple of weeks back, she'd really sizzle once she took a gander at them. Only I'd like to spread the wealth, see?
You're all nice guys, and you've been getting a rough time in bed. I figured out the answer for me, and I think it will work for all of you."
"I'll bet Junie would walk out if you showed a stag movie," Dave Wormsley pessimistically complained.
"Not if she's had a few drinks and maybe sees everybody else necking and fooling around. And anyway, I've been saving the best for the last. My niece Ella is coming to stay with us for a couple of weeks starting next Monday. And that baby is such a swinger I've got notions about her myself. Living under the same roof with Marge and me would be sort of difficult to manage, but now that Marge has seen the light, I'll just bet that if all of us work this thing out proper, Ella can take care of not only me but also all of you sore-balled cocksmiths."
Matt Tilden's ears pricked up, "Hey, that sounds terrific! Tell us about this niece of yours, Jack."
"She's my older sister May's girl, and she lives in Cleveland, Shaker Heights. Now there's a suburb where they really swing, take it from me! May and her hubby Ben gave me a call the other night and said that Ella had just broken up with a guy because he was too much of a square to suit her. She said she wanted a change of scenery, and he asked if I'd mind taking her in. He and his wife are going to take a second honeymoon in Europe, and she'd sort of cramp his style. So I said yes'. '
"But what's she like?" Matt Tilden persisted eagerly, glancing up at the electric clock to make sure they wouldn't miss the 6:15.
"Let's see now, she's twenty-two ... yeah, that's about right. She's got long black hair, sort of like a hippie, only I'm here to tell you that she's no hippie, she's got class and style. I haven't seen her since she was twelve, and even then she was wearing the shortest skirts and the highest-heeled pumps her folks would let her put on. And what a shape she's got!"
"Wow!" Dave Wormsley breathed.
"There, you see? All three of you guys have tail light in your eyes right off. Now why don't we all get together, maybe the Friday after Ella comes, and have a little shindig, plenty of food and drinks, and then we'll show the stags, and just let things develop from there?" Jack Caspar eagerly proposed.
"I'm all for it," Pete Dudley grinned.
"Me, too," Matt Tilden chimed in, and Dave Wormsley lifted his glass in assent.
"Okay, it's a date. I'll have Marge call all your wives and invite them over. That way, it'll look to be on the up and up," Jack Caspar heartily declared. "Hey now, we better get out to the train or we'll be late and have some more explaining to do. Wait a minute, I was forgetting, I've got Marge buffaloed now. These days, when I walk in late, she doesn't dare open her yap. She knows shell go over my knee for a fan-tailing if she so much as looks cross-eyed at me."
"You lucky bastard," Matt Tilden sighed. "What I wouldn't give to have my wife kowtow to me like that."
"Well," Jack Caspar chuckled as he got down from the bar stool and headed out towards the lobby, "like I just said, it's all in setting the mood. Don't you ever read Kinsey or any of the sex books out these days? A guy can go off in forty-five seconds, from what I hear, but it takes a broad about fifteen minutes before she creams. Now you've just got to work her up so you can time your come with hers, and from that time on, you've got it made, brother!"