Chapter 2

Turning into Sheila's street, Dean shifted his red Porsche down to second and cruised slowly, looking for the number she had given him. He found it, pulled over to the curb, parked, and got out. The address was on the door of a modern apartment house. He stepped through glass doors onto the marble floor of the entrance hall and looked around. On one wall was a row of buttons with names beside them. He found Sheila's and buzzed, then pushed through the inner door as someone upstairs buzzed in return, opening the latch. Across the hall was a self-service elevator. Dean went in and pushed FOUR, the top floor.

When the elevator slid open, he found himself face to face with a gorgeous brunette who was standing in an open doorway across the hall. She eyed him appraisingly, and spoke in a throaty voice.

"You must be Dean. I've heard about you. Come on in. Sheila's putting the finishing touches on your dinner."

Dean smiled and brushed past her through the doorway, catching a whiff of musky perfume. "I'm Marty," she informed him. "Make yourself at home."

He threw his jacket on the nearest chair and took a good look at the brunette. She was tall, almost as tall as Sheila. She wore a brown leather minidress which showed most of her shapely, long legs. It was tied at the waist, emphasizing the thrust of her ample breasts, and it was sleeveless. Her slender arms, like her legs, were bare. Her shiny, dark hair was parted in the middle and fell gently past her shoulders.

"Hey, mister you're staring!" she joked, in a voice that told him she didn't mind a bit. "Yeah, guess so," he answered. "Which way to the kitchen?"

She pointed the room out to him and he went in. Sheila was standing over the stove, stirring a deliciously smelling concoction. She was wearing a maroon velour blouse with a deep V-neck, which showed a tantalizing amount of her breasts over a tight pair of Levi's. Dean felt a surge of excitement in his crotch, as he watched her ass move while she stirred. He came up behind her and cupped her breasts in his hands, feeling the nipples, unbound by a brassiere, stiffen against his palms. She ground her lush buttocks against his hard prick for a moment, then turned in his arms and kissed him, darting her tongue hotly inside his mouth. Then she drew away with a mischievous grin and continued stirring. Dean stepped back and lit a cigarette.

"What's cooking?"

"Beef stroganoff. And you'd better like it."

"Stroganoff? That's imagine cooking for a college girl, isn't it?"

"It would be, except that this stuff's frozen. All you have to do is heat it up!"

Dean laughed so hard that he almost choked on his cigarette smoke. "Wow! Frozen beef stroganoff! Now even gourmets can eat plastic food!"

Sheila turned and scowled at him. "Now exactly what is that supposed to mean?"

Dean doused his cigarette under the tap at the sink and threw the soggy butt into a wastebasket. "You know, it's just how everything's getting to be plastic, ready-made. It's just kind of funny."

"Well, it may be kind of funny to you, but it's dinner to me, and a good one in my opinion, even if it is frozen."

"Don't get all heated up over it. I'm sorry if I insulted you. And it really does smell great. When do we eat?"

"Just a couple minutes. Why don't you put on some music? There's a stereo and plenty of records in the living room."

Dean found the records in a low cabinet under the record changer. He knelt down on the floor and began to look through them, when suddenly he heard quiet footsteps behind him. Then he felt two knees pressed firmly against his shoulder blades and smelled the leather odor of Marty's minidress; the hem was just brushing the back of his head, ruffling his hair. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Marty, who was looking down at him intently.

"Not very shy, are you?" he teased good-naturedly.

"No, not very," she replied steadily. Her green eyes were narrow with desire. "I suppose you're Sheila's catch. I mean you're hung up on each other?"

Dean turned back to the records. "I wouldn't say that. I mean we just met. Is that a fair answer?" He picked a record from the shelf and set it beside him on the floor.

"That's fair . . . " replied Marty in a voice that wavered with expectation, "but is that all?"

"No," said Dean, softly, "that's not all." He swiveled quickly on his knees to face her and in one smooth motion raised the hem of Marty's dress with both hands as he ran his tongue deliberately up the inside of her thigh, starting at the knee. He caressed her smooth flanks and worked his tongue in and out of the soft cleft which was quickly becoming wet with excitement. He wasn't surprised at her not wearing underpants. She didn't resist, but pulled his head closer, tugging at his hair. There was the smell of leather and the hot reek of her sex whirling in his head, and Dean licked her furiously and stroked her smooth ass with insistent palms. She writhed against him, moaning softly.

Just then, Sheila's voice rang out from the kitchen. "Time to eat, Dean. C'mon, put on a record and come sit down!" Dean pulled away from Marty, grabbed a record and stood up. She was breathing heavily, and her eyes were closed. He smoothed her dress with his hand. "What are you doing tonight, Marty? I mean later."

"I work nights at a topless place on Broadway." She kept her eyes closed and leaned against him weakly.

"What time do you get off?"

"One o'clock."

"Meet me then. One-thirty." He gave her his address on Brady Street. She looked at him with heavily lidded eyes.

"Yeah," she said. "One-thirty. Your place."

Dean drained the last drop of wine from his glass and set it on the table. "Great stuff, Sheila. A fine dinner."

"So you take back those nasty remarks about plastic food?"

"Yeah, I guess so. How about a cigarette?"

She took one from the offered pack and he lit hers, then his with a battered windproof lighter he had dug out of his pocket. They settled back, smoking, into a slightly uncomfortable silence. It was the first time they'd been face to face with time to talk. Finally Sheila spoke.

"The music you put on during dinner. Coltrane. I didn't really expect it."

Dean dragged on his cigarette, exhaling smoke with his reply. "Yeah, Coltrane. Fantastic music, especially when you consider that album is about ten years old." He tapped his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray and looked up at her. "What do you mean, you didn't expect it? Don't you think us pump jockeys know anything about jazz?"

"Sure," she replied, "no reason why you shouldn't. But that's not what I meant. You're not just a gas station attendant, I'm sure of that. Do you go to school?"

Dean sat back in his chair, smiling. "No, I don't go to school. Keep guessing."

"Well, I don't think you're a writer. I mean, you don't talk like one, and your hands look like you use them on something heavier than a pen or a typewriter when you're not pumping gas." She mused a moment. "I've got it!" she exclaimed, "You're an artist, right?"

Dean smiled at the cleverness of her deduction. "Right. An artist. But I don't paint, at least not anymore."

"What do you do, then?"

"Sculpture. With metal and junk. A couple of years ago this friend of mine told me that painting was dead. I thought about it for awhile and decided he was right. All those quaint, desperate brushstrokes corralled in a frame and hung up to rot in museums."

"Did your friend paint, then, too?"

"We both did. He's a cartoonist now."

Sheila laughed. "You're kidding. Really? A cartoonist?"

"Really," Dean replied. "A very artistic cartoonist!"

Sheila stubbed out her cigarette and pushed herself away from the table. "Let's go into the living room," she said. "There's lots more records where that one came from." Without waiting for an answer, she left the kitchen. Dean got up and followed her, watching the sway of her buttocks in the skintight jeans.

There was no sign of Marty in the other room. Apparently she had already left for work. Sheila took the Coltrane record off the changer and put on several others which she had selected from the cabinet. Music from the two big speakers filled the room, which was growing dark in the late summer twilight. She turned to Dean.

"Like it?"

"What?"

"The music, of course." She came toward him, drawing the velour shirt slowly over her head and dropping it to the floor. Dean reached out for her, drew her to him, and bent his head to the whiteness of one of her breasts. He gave the stiff nipple a flick with his tongue and straightened up, looking into her eyes. "Fine," he answered, "just fine." She undid her Levi's and slipped them off her long legs.

"Dean . . . "

"What?"

"Aren't you a bit overdressed for this occasion?"

"Yeah, I suppose so. What can we do about it?"

"Just this, darling-just this." She unbuttoned his shirt and drew it off him slowly, letting his shoulders feel the caress of the cloth. Dean kicked off his shoes while she undid his belt, then opened the button and zipper. Impatient, he pulled his pants and shorts off and removed his socks, throwing everything in a pile with her clothes.

They stood apart and looked at each other's bodies. Sheila looked even prettier than she had earlier in the day, and she was trembling with desire. She reached out and took Dean's hard cock in her hand, squeezing it convulsively. "Put it in me now," she begged, "fuck me."

Even as she spoke, she turned away from him and bent forward, her hands resting on the back of the couch. Her legs were well apart, and her ass stuck out invitingly. Dean stepped up behind her and rubbed the head of his prick along the lips of her cunt, teasing her. Sheila moaned with pleasure at this stimulation and thrust herself suddenly backward, taking him in up to the hilt. They were both motionless for a moment; then she began to make circular motions, slow and firm motions which brought his throbbing organ into contact with every nook and cranny of her slippery trap. Dean bent forward and weighed her pendant breasts in his hands, caressing the creamy flesh and squeezing the eager nipples. Reaching lower with one hand, he ran his fingers through her luxurious, springy pubic hair, then rubbed the erect clitoris, giving it the delicious attention it was missing because of their position. Sheila pressed her forehead against the back of the couch and moaned her pleasure, rotating her ass slowly against him, first in one direction, then the other. She reached back between her legs with one hand and played with Dean's balls, tickling and stroking the sensitive skin with delicate fingertips.

The last sunlight of the day had disappeared from the windows, and the room was dark except for the red glow of the pilot light on the stereo amplifier. Frantic jazz music filled the room, surrounding the lovers with ecstatic, garbled saxophone phrases and insistent, loud drum figures. The tension and tempo of the music mounted, urging them on. Dean held Sheila lightly by the hips as he moved in and out of her. They ground faster against each other and Dean bent forward, taking the tender flesh of her shoulder between his teeth, biting gently, then harder as the magic animal orgasm took hold of them both. Suddenly Sheila held perfectly still, quivering and gasping, while she squeezed Dean's cock with uncontrollable contractions. He drove in and out, deluging her insides with hot semen at every thrust. Then it was over, and they collapsed together on the floor by the couch.

"Wow," breathed Dean, putting his arm around her shoulder, "that was really fine!"

Sheila stroked the inside of his thigh fondly. "Yes," she replied, "it was just as good as I thought it would be after our, well, informal introduction this afternoon."

Dean laughed. "Yeah, I guess that was kind of informal, after all! Say, does that fireplace of yours work or is it just for decoration?"

Sheila ran her fingernails up his thigh in a quick motion that made him catch his breath. "No more for decoration than I am, baby," was her answer.

"Where's the wood, then?" he asked, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as she continued to awaken nerve endings with her touch.

"Outside," she told him, "piled on the little balcony. And you can use some newspaper for tinder. It always works pretty well for me."

In a few minutes they had a roaring fire going against the chill of the late summer evening. Sheila had made instant coffee, and they sat naked on a rug in front of the fire, drinking it and smoking cigarettes. Dean set his cup on the floor and lay down with his head in Sheila's lap. She stared at the fire and ran her fingers through Dean's straight, brown hair. "Your hair's awfully nice," she told him. "So shaggy and masculine. I wish when men went into barber shops they didn't come out looking like a clipped hedge. Barbers just aren't the least bit artistic. . . . " She mused a moment, then continued. "Speaking of artists . . . " here she hesitated unsurely, "I was wondering why you work at the gas station if sculpting is so important to you. Couldn't you earn a living just from your art?"

"With the right breaks, sure," replied Dean with a trace of bitterness, "but you need connections, and galleries to show your work in. Those connections are hard to find."

"Well, in that case, Mr. Ryder, I think I have a connection for you!"

Dean looked at her with disbelief. "Really?" he asked, "who?"

"Marty. Her ex-husband owns a gallery downtown, on Sutter, and she's still on good terms with him. I'm pretty sure if you talked to her about it, something good might happen for you."

Dean was pleased with this turn of events. After, all, he had already introduced himself to Marty pretty effectively. To Sheila, he just said, "Thanks for the tip. I'll bring up the subject next time I see her."

They were silent for a moment, listening to the crackle of the flames. Then Dean turned his head slowly in her lap and nibbled playfully at her soft inner thighs. Sheila lay back on the rug and let her legs fall apart, while he teased the tender area with his mouth. Then he glued his lips to her still wet cunt and began licking and sucking with such intensity, that she squirmed around beside him and took his reawakened manhood in her mouth. Dean dipped his tongue into the hot, open recesses of her sex, then brought it up along the crack until he found her clitoris. He sucked it firmly and rhythmically, while he worked his now throbbing cock in and out of her luscious mouth. They undulated against each other in the flickering light. After several moments of this intense stimulation, Sheila began to come. She arched her back, thrusting her cunt against his mouth demandingly while her own mouth was busily bringing him to his own climax. Her hands grabbed his clenched buttocks to bring him closer. He shot streams of hot, white love-juice down her throat, and she swallowed the emission greedily. Finally, they fell apart and lay panting on the rug. The fire was burning low, but neither of them made a move to renew it.