Chapter 3
She lay in the bath and listened to the rustle of paper as Tom looked through papers as he waited for her to finish her bath. Even that routine was dull and so exact as to be maddening to her. She would have her bath and then the drill was for her to yell out to him, 'I'm running yours now, darling.' To which the inevitable reply was, 'Let me know when it's up to the top.'
If he could only know the times she would have liked him in the bath with her! She sighed. He'd probably have grumbled that there wasn't room.
She heaved herself up and down in the water by putting her hands just behind her hips and levering herself upward so that her dark-haired cunt rose above the level of the swirling, soapy water.
She watched her pussy as the water sparkled and played with it. She could feel the warm tickle of it as it gushed in and out of her vagina, gently parting the firm lips of it with its insistent pressure.
She looked down at her tits. They gleamed brilliantly with the water on them. Her nipples, full and lush like twin raspberries, stood poised on the silky creaminess of the firm globes beneath them looking like ripe fruit that had been delicately tossed on to two orbs of smooth cream.
She lowered her cunt beneath the water. The water seemed to still and assuage the wanting ache of it a little. She ran her hands up over her hips to her waist where, thumbs behind, fingers before, she gripped the trimness of its deep curve. She spread her hand flat over her belly just above her navel and slowly ran them hard up to beneath her tits. As her hands met them she opened her fingers and slid them up and cupped them fiercely. She held them together and looked down at the deep, suggestive cleft formed by the crushing of them together.
Her nipples were hard and cold and pointed, digging into her hands as she clutched the firm mounds of her tits. She slowly moved her hands so that her palms massaged her erect nipples. A glow seemed to spread from her tits down her belly, between her thighs to her ass. A steady, delicious pulsing began deep in the tight pinkness of her nest.
She looked towards the door. She hadn't a full view of the bedroom but she heard the sound of her husband's feet as he moved. She had left him in his dressing gown sitting on the edge of the bed examining some papers. She listened for a moment. He was quiet. A paper rustled. Slowly she slipped her hand down her belly and between her thighs which had now sagged open, relaxed by the insistent pulsing of her cunt.
Carefully spreading her hand, she dipped her middle finger deep into the soft eagerness of her quim. She shuddered and let her head fall back and raised her knees. Deeper and deeper into her aching gush slid her finger, the tip of it flicking her clitoris now erect like a pink helmet in a sea of pulsing, quivering flesh.
She was beginning to build towards an orgasm when she heard a step in the bedroom. She quickly withdrew her hand from between her writhing thighs and grabbed at the soap. Even in the speed of the moment the wry thought struck her as to why should she stop playing with herself just because her husband was about to appear on the scene.
The answer was quick and vivid. It would have been almost the same as being caught playing with oneself by one's mother.
The water still swirled suggestively from her recent exercise when Tom appeared in the bathroom doorway. He leaned on the door and looked at her. As always, he looked slightly embarrassed, almost as if he was looking at someone else's wife in the bath.
"Nice?" he asked.
Her biting irritation at being disturbed at her masturbation wasn't being eased by the nagging, reaching ache between her quaking thighs.
"It's wet and warm," she replied.
"You look nice in the bath," he ventured.
She looked at him.
"Nice and what! Nice and clean?"
"No! I mean, yes, you do look that. But I mean, well, very attractive."
She looked at him reflectively. Could anything ever change him? There he was, the very template of the attorney reserved, polite unshakeable in his belief that the law men were the last expression of the designs of conventionalism.
Sex, to him, was definitely nice, that was to say, pleasant. But there again, it was so nice that it really must be nasty. After all, wasn't it true that anything that destroyed the poised format and relentless dignity of a man, was well, rather not quite the thing?
"Thank you, Tom," she said, reflectively, at last. "That's quite the sexiest thing you've said to me in ages."
"Now you're being sarcastic. I'm sort of trying to say that I do understand your point of view."
"And what is my point of view?"
"Look here, Barbi, let's face it. You are a bit sexier than me, so why can't we strike a compromise?"
She sat up in the bath, her lips curled in a sarcastic sneer.
"What do you mean? No sex on Wednesdays, too?"
"Look here, I've never seen you make any effort to do anything," he said hotly.
"Such as?"
"Anything."
"like feeling around to see if you've got anything I can use?" she asked.
He was saying something but she didn't hear it. Was it her talking to the man in her life like this? What had gotten into her to make her into an outrageous bitch in a few short hours?
A taunting obscenity sprang to her mind as a willful explanation. Perhaps it was what hadn't got into her!
The haunting thought of Gerry in the loneliness of his dark tent flooded her mind and it was with a physical effort that she brought back her attention to what her husband was saying.
"We've had fights before, but nothing like this. Is it because I'm going away? If it is, I really do think you might have told me before. It's a bit late in the day for me to cancel this job."
She merely heard herself saying, "Of course you must go. Take no notice of me. It's just a mood. It'll pass."
She hardly realized that she had made this reassurance and she fell to wondering why she had made it. The conclusion was inescapable and having accepted it she never varied from her course or modified her designs.
She was glad he was going. Something was going to happen between her and the boy probably lying sleeping in his tent by the water.
Now she knew it, and she knew it just as well that if it wasn't him, it would be someone else. Tom wasn't enough for her, never had been. Would any one man be enough? That remains to be seen. She felt her resolve harden to the background of Tom's rather insipid voice, speaking in the measured, precise sentences that were so impressing in a law court where passion and life were slowed to the pace of reason and order.
She would do it. She would abandon herself to sensation while she was still capable of responding to it. Not for her the regrets that sometimes seem to flood away the tranquility that should be the right of old age.
She wanted her kicks while she was still young enough to enjoy them. Even if they had to be found with a boy!
The thought must have sobered her for she was again aware of Tom rather plainly saying, "I don't think you're listening to a word I'm saying."
No point now in trying to outrage his code to startle him into the kind of activity that she so desperately needed.
So she arose in the bath and said, "I'm sorry, Tom. I know I'm being nasty. Throw me the towel."
He tossed her the towel and as she bent to dry her hips she saw his eyes were upon her triangle of hair where it was alive with the sparkle of the diamonds of water.
Why not? Why not, she thought. If I'm abandoning myself to sensation why should I deny Tom a part in it. Her lips parted. After all, he could fuck!
The thought excited her and as she dried her ass she made sure she parted the hair-bound lips so that he could see the soft, desirable pinkness that lay waiting for the ravage of thrusting sex.
He moved from his position at the door as if he would touch her. Not knowing why, she moved anticipating and avoiding his touch. She pulled the chain of the bath plug.
"There," she said, inconsequently.
"You could have left the water," he said, softly. "I don't mind bathing after you."
"Thank you," she said, avoiding his eyes and busying herself with her drying.
He put his left hand around her waist. Her flesh was cooling now and his hand felt warm and unwanted.
"Darling," he said.
She looked at him. His face was pale, always a sign of incipient passion. The last of the water gurgled away and she reset the hot tap and stepped out of the bath.
"Oh, do let me dry, Tom," she said. "It's kind of chilly out of the water.
He took her in his arms and she folded her hands with the towel in them across her tits and leaned back from him and regarded him gravely.
"I wish I'd have undressed," he smiled, sheepishly, twitching aside his dressing gown to display his black suit pants.
"I suppose you do," she agreed.
Hell, would that have stopped many men? The television serviceman who had taken possession of her body had "told her that to fuck, standing was known as a great sport.
"Of course," he said, "we could do it standing up."
She stared at him and burst out laughing.
"What's the matter?" he demanded.
"Nothing," she gurgled. "It's just that idea from you-"
"I learned it in the Army."
She looked at him prettily, head aside.
"Did you learn how to do it in the Army?" she asked.
"Are you trying to lure me into a confession of past sins?" he smiled.
"No, into a demonstration of military practices," she countered.
She felt his hand slide down between their bellies. The back of his hand nudged her protruding mount. He fumbled with his zipper.
"Aren't you going to take your pants off?" she asked.
"You asked for it Army-style!" he grinned.
For a moment she loved him. She clasped her arms tightly about him.
"What a bitch I've been tonight," she replied, more to herself than to him.
He was hard. Very hard. She felt the rigidity of it, the base of it bearing almost painfully against the top parting of the lips of her cunt. Had she ever herself been fucked standing! Goodness, was it going to come to Tom teaching her something?
He moved slightly away from her and her eyes looked down between their bellies, hers flat and naked with the pubic hair a fierce blazon of blackness against the silky, slightly pale creaminess of her skin, his hard and hairy one where his fly was open.
His cock was out, jutting arched and dark against his pants. Not exceptional in the matter of length it was thick and strong and filled her satisfactorily when its own was willing to donate it to her service.
Her eyes gleamed as she regarded the knob, dark red almost to purple and swollen with the rage of growing passion.
A blue vein along the side of it pulsed and his foreskin was back and baring the smooth deliciousness of his masculinity.
As she put her hand down toward it she had a sudden strange feeling that she shouldn't, that it was a waste of time, that he would be disappointing, that she wouldn't have a climax, that it would be better to go to bed and dream of the dark tent down by Tall Pines and wake up in the morning with sticky thighs and hot fantasies swirling in her horny stem.
But her fingers closed around his throbbing stem. She felt his hips arch towards her and his hands slipped around behind her to her ass cheeks. She knew more or less what would happen now.
Maybe it wasn't much, but it was certainly better than nothing. The question was, would it cure her of wanting the boy?