Chapter 1
They haul people up before judges for what you're doing, Stu Post told himself. And sometimes the judges give them nice, long prison terms.
Oh, he managed to scare himself all right. He squatted behind the screen of shrubbery, teeth chattering with fear; but the fear wasn't strong enough to turn his head away from the window. His eyes clung to the embracing couple, straining not to miss any nuance of movement that took place on the couch of the dimly lit living room.
The taste of self-disgust was strong in his mouth. He knew even before he started the half turn to leave that he would stay to watch the man kneeling before the couch as he undid the last button of the woman's blouse.
After the blouse came off, Post looked while the strange man removed the black brassiere, and cupping one hand around each breast, he buried his face in the deep cleft between.
The woman closed her eyes and, putting her hands on the man's close cropped hair, pushed his head into her breasts more deeply.
Spontaneously Post's eyes closed and a deep groan moved in his throat. He could only guess how the man in the window felt, but he knew his own manhood was throbbing violently. It had been such a long time, dammit. Such a long damned time that any release, even the dirty act of watching, helped.
When he opened his eyes again he saw the man had removed the rest of her clothes and was ardently kissing her bare stomach. That stomach deserved caresses. It was white as moonlight and as small and round as the full moon at night. Her legs had been hidden by the strange man's body but one of them came into view as they raised to receive his body. It was a long supple leg. Post could see the muscles work as it gripped her lover's body. He could see her back arch up to greet the man's downward thrusts. He watched her lips grimace with pleasure and wished he were the man filling her with pleasure.
Her naked body performing the exercise of love sent ripples of sharp sensation through his own body. So much so that he had to grab the bag of groceries and leave the spot in a hurry before he shamed himself completely.
Post stood for a moment on the pavement panting and wiping the sweat from his face, then turned, he thought bitterly as he inserted the key into his lock. This was her fault; she was all tease and no satisfaction.
Marriage, hah! June wore an identical copy of the simple gold band around the third finger of his left hand, scaled down, of course, for her small, slender finger. Post marveled at the way she could take the ring for granted, not even notice it was there half the time.
It disturbed Post, too, that June could, on this, the night of their first party, suddenly appear in a tight black shantung cress that stretched tightly across her buttocks and made no secret of her tiny waist and ample, pointed bosom.
Glancing down at his loins to make sure the last traces of excitement had vanished, he pushed open the kitchen door and saw Lyle Windover caressing June at the very point where the dress was the tightest, just at the hips.
"Grocery boy," Post said in heavy irony, swinging the large brown bag onto the drainboard.
"Hi, old sport," Windover said, in no great hurry to remove his hand from June. "I was just showing your wife where my wife is putting on a little flab. You're a lucky man. I don't think June will ever be flabby there."
"Thanks for the reassurance," Post said. "I thought you were going to have clam dip ready," he said to June.
"My fault," Windover said. "We were gabbing. I was telling June some of the better places to shop here."
Post moved to the refrigerator, angrily tugging at a tray of ice cubes.
"Why, Stu," June said in a low voice, "I honestly believe you're jealous."
He turned to look at her, wishing he could find some way to ignore the effect the dress had on him. June was not a tall woman, she was perhaps five one. Her face was a thin oval with high cheek bones. She wore black shell-framed glasses that came to an upsweep at the corners. The frames had just enough rhinestones to take the glasses out of the studious looking class and leave them distinguished without being gaudy. She had slender arms. The low scoop of her neckline revealed a delicate quality of bone structure that was carried to even more attractive extremes in her slim ankles.
Her bust was, in proportion to her body, large and firm, her hips flowed smoothly from a narrow waist and if there was any deviation from June's smallness and statuesque quality, it was in her lips. But even they, although they were somewhat large, appeared proper.
"Well, what the hell," Post said, pulling out the cubes, "he was standing right there, patting your fanny."
June had an impish smile. "He was not patting, he was rubbing. But you are very convincing in your sarcasm, Stu. I'm sure Lyle is convinced he'll have to be more careful in the future."
"Damn right he will," Post said. He began mixing the fresh batch of cocktails, angered by June's matter-of-factness and clinical acceptance of Lyle Windover. His proportions of gin reflected this disturbance and watching June, Post had the sudden flash of insight that he was not only jealous of Lyle Windover, he was jealous of June's first husband.
In the living room the FM radio was bringing in an all-night jazz program from a station in Long Beach. One or two couples, notably the Thompsons and the Rapports, were dancing up toward the picture window.
Lyle Windover was in the process of telling some joke to a group consisting of Joe Prantis and his wife Ethel, and Mike and Lou Regan.
Post blessed his exceptional memory in being able to keep them straight. But he could not, for the life of him, place more than three or four of them in their homes about the tract. He knew where Don Oakland lived with his wife, Pat-that was simple enough-next door neighbors. And on the other side were the Harts, Joan and Humphrey.
Post set the cocktail shaker on the buffet table and had an immediate customer, Francesca Abblebaum. She was a tall woman with exotically long black hair and an uncompromisingly erect spine. Small golden earrings dangles from her pierced lobes. She wore a flowery sun dress with a tight bodice that pushed her breasts into large, tight mounds and emphasized the cleavage between them. She wore a variety of soft-soled shoes that reminded Post of ballerina's slippers, including an intricate winding of ribbon that cross-hatched well above her ankles, calling immediate attention to her well formed muscular legs.
"We really haven't had the chance to become acquainted," she said, extending her glass. "But I'm told you have an interest in music-classical music."
"Why yes, yes I do," Post said.
Francesca Abblebaum's eyes brightened. "Wonderful. We must compare notes on our tastes sometime. I'm so glad to have someone here who appreciates things. It's fine to discover that, particularly living out here. I mean, you men get to go to the city every day. My biggest treat is a visit to the shopping center."
Lyle Windover descended upon them, refilling his glass with scotch and pausing long enough to tell a joke. Post pretended to listen politely, although it was a joke he classified immediately as thinly veiled sadism and a love of violence. And out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Windover's pudgy hand slide, as if in accident, across Francesca Abblebaum's bare shoulder. She moved perceptibly away from Windover and closer to Post.
It was fairly obvious, Post thought, that Wind-over considered himself the Romeo of Coolaire Heights and that he would literally put his hands on everything that looked good to him.
The punch line of the joke was not very funny. Windover, in an attempt to get better results, started in on another. "There was this guy who married a woman who couldn't get enough loving, see, and one night...."
The punch line to this one would have been revealing to a psychiatrist, Post thought. But it was not funny. Both he and Francesca laughed politely and Windover, spurred on by his success, grew bold enough to pat Francesca.
Post saw a look of pure hatred flash in Francesca's eyes, then die out under a deft covering of composure. "Will you dance with me?" she asked Post. He knew she was asking to be rescued from Windover. "Of course," he said.
They did not dance closely, yet Post felt an intimate impact from Francesca Abblebaum. Her hand squeezed his tightly; his other hand rested on her bare back with a feeling of pleasure.
"That man," Francesca said with disdain, "always pinching and patting and making suggestive remarks. He'd be the last man in the world I'd have an affair with."
Post's clinical interest prompted the next question, "Would you have an affair?"
She regarded him shrewdly. "We don't know each other that well yet, Stu, if we're simply talking supposition. And after seeing your wife, I can't imagine you'd be disillusioned with her yet. How long have you been married?"
"One year," Stu said quickly.
"If you were asking out of anything more than curiosity, I was raised in Europe and I accept sophistication, but not on such short notice." Although there was a gentle rebuke implied in her words, her voice was kind and gentle and the pressure on her hand was even stronger.
Post watched with more than passing interest as June appeared In the room, her dark hair done in a neat sweep that was pinned to the side of her head with a small, white flower.
The tantalizing waggle of her hips and her calmness, were getting to Post. He'd never seen her this way and he found himself wishing they didn't have those twin beds; it would make what he had in mind a lot easier.
He surprised himself thinking this way about June. He'd known her a year and a half and this was the first time he found himself with the irritating itching compulsion of desire for her.
"Strictly from a woman's point of view, Stu," Francesca said, "you have an extremely attractive wife. Not only that, she is quite charming."
Post mumbled something polite. Charming was not the word for it, at least not from a man's point of view. That black dress! He swallowed and forced himself to look away from June.
"You must have had an interesting courtship," Francesca said.
Post nodded. "The minute I saw her, I knew we were for each other." This was a damn lie and the words were beginning to assume an ironic ring for him. It was the same story he'd given to Pat Oakland when he'd met her at the supermarket shopping center, and it had been no problem then. June had not unwittingly brought things to a head in Post's mind by wearing that black dress or anything like it. It had been all slacks and sweat shirts and a minimal amount of makeup as June had begun instructing the movers about placing the furniture.
She'd placed things in the same, methodical way Stu had come to associate with her; including the lists she had on a clipboard, with notes on which drawer was for his sox, where the emergency fuse was, and which closet was for dirty laundry.
Stu looked toward June again. She was leaning over the coffee table, replenishing the clam dip. The outline of her hips seemed to be taunting him as the shiny shantung stretched tightly over the extended roundness of her buttocks. Her legs, seen from the rear that way, were perfect.
The perfect young host and hostess, Stu and June Post, giving their first party in their new, split-level home in Coolaire Heights.
It was all a goddamned lie. But watching June, seeing the attractive strut of her body as she moved across the room, Post wished it were true, he wished he really were married to June and that there was something he could do about it when all the guests went home.
He thought bitterly of lying there in the bedroom, only three feet from her in that silly, goddamned twin bed and he tightened perceptibly.
"What's the matter?" Francesca Abblebaum asked, "Don't you feel well?"
"It's nothing," Post told her. I guess I did too much sampling while I making up those martinis."
Her eyes found his, searchingly. "There's something that's deeply troubling you, isn't there, Stu?"
"Why should there be?" he said.
Her hand squeezed his again. "It's all right, you don't have to worry about telling me things. I'll wait until we're better friends. I'm sure that won't be long at all."