Chapter 1
Abbey closed her eyes and forced herself to accept the fact. It had been short and sweet. Well, maybe not sweet, but certainly short. Her husband hadn't even bothered to kiss her during the previous few moments of the all-toofamiliar ritual of sex satisfaction. Satisfaction for him, that is. Certainly hot for Abby.
It hadn't always been this way. Her husband had once been so thoroughly the romantic, so complete in his lovemaking ... so devoted to her needs. But that had all diminished lately, and Abby didn't know how much more of this kind of neglect she could take. She was now, and had always been, a passionate woman. She turned over on her pillow and looked at him as he slept. There even seemed to be a certain sneer of a smile on his handsome face. A sneer that made her stomach grind, forgetting its frustrated tightness. What was there to do? She wondered helplessly. What could she do?
It was time for a change, that much was certain. True, he had performed well enough tonight in basic terms, shooting his load deep up inside her until now it was oozing warmly out in the tangles of her pubic hairs and dribbling slowly down the insides of her thighs. The only problem was that the old spark just wasn't there.
He'd been so enthusiastic in the early days of their marriage, and now the only-person he cared about was himself. He went through the motions all right-the gasping, the heavy breathing as he pounded mercilessly into her loins, but his mind, his imagination seemed to be somewhere else. What was she supposed to do when he treated her like this? She'd tried everything to make him desire her, but nothing seemed to work-not the new nightgowns she'd purchased, not even the new positions they had both tried.
What in the world had gone wrong? In the first days of their marriage six years ago, every thing had gone along like a dream. They were poor then-she, working as a secretary in New York, Mike writing his poetry and struggling to sell it to editors who would rather look the other way. But in spite of their frustrations, their life together had been a happy one. He was buoyant and confident, even when what he'd written was rejected. He hadn't minded washing dishes and cooking dinner, either. They had each shared their burdens and fully enjoyed each other. It was only when success came for Mike that things started to go wrong.
Shortly after the publication of his first volume of poetry, he'd been offered a job by Willowmount college, a position as a creative writing instructor. The money was not fantastic by any means, but it was enough to live on comfortably, and besides, the college had offered them free housing as a kind of fringe benefit. Abby looked forward to their new life with joyous enthusiasm. They would be free of financial burdens; their struggle would be easier. No longer would she be forced to work as a secretary. She could be at home with Mike, and they would have the company of intellectual and creative people, something they had both always desired.
At first Mike thrived in the new environment. He enjoyed his classes. The students may not have been the brightest in the world, but they were highly motivated and wanted to learn, and some of the poetry they produced under his guidance was highly exceptional. As for their social life, it was full and rich. Abby had the freedom to stay at home and read books and even take a few courses toward a Master's degree, which she hadn't yet completed. On weekends there would be cocktail parties at the homes of other professors, and there were good films to see, athletic activities, even arts and crafts. It was an ideal life, away from the pressures and hassles of the ordinary world. In fact, it was too good a life, and perhaps that was the problem. There was no struggle in it. Yes, Abby reflected now as she saw Mike dozing. They had been happiest when they were struggling. They were in a rut now, and something had to be done.
Mike had grown fatter recently, and he seemed to have less energy. The way he kissed her goodbye in the mornings was perfunctory, almost as though he were leaving for some nine-to-five advertising job in New York City. When he returned home from classes he would begin drinking almost immediately. She was no prude about drinking, but Mike's had seemed to pass the social stage. It seemed as though he were frustrated and running away from some thing-not that it affected his teaching. He showed up for every class and gave his all until even the head of the English Department, Pete Grover, was praising his efforts. He was respected, no doubt about that. The problem was that his professional colleagues had failed to notice the inward changes that were taking place inside him.
No, he hadn't changed outwardly at all, Abby admitted to herself. The only change was in his relationship with her. They had settled down and become middle-class, and now in recent months he had been taking her for granted. God, she detested that ... she could stand anything but being taken for granted. And what troubled her even more was that her reaction was one of a typical housewife ... she had become bitchy and abrasive, complaining about small, trivial things instead of saying what was really on her mind. She realized she was married to a poet but couldn't keep herself from complaining about the mess that he made in the bathroom, the way he left his fingernail clippings on the bedsheets. She was becoming petty, a thing she hated, and it was all his fault.
He was ignoring her, and she was retaliating with the only means at her disposal. For a time she had wondered whether he'd found another woman, and in fact, that would have been an easy explanation for his behavior, an explanation she could accept ... but no, not even in her wildest imagination could that explanation be valid. It was simply that Mike had become too contented with his position at the university. The lack of struggle had taken the fight out of him ... he had become just as bourgeois as anyone else in spite of the badge he wore as poet-in-residence. But what was she going to do? It didn't seem fair that the excitement had been taken out of their lives even before they had reached the age of thirty.
Looking over at him, she saw his mouth half-open, his chest heaving as he snored. He was dead to the world, fast asleep at nine o'clock in the evening, even though he had no classes until twelve the following morning. This wasn't the man she'd married at all. The man she'd married was a hot-blooded young poet determined to conquer and leave his mark on the literary world, a man full of passion and desire, unlike normal men who were content to go to their jobs and return to the dull glow of a television set in a warm living room. The man she'd married had never failed to satisfy her sexually ... that is, until recently. And now Abby felt that he had ignored her with his body as well as his mind.
Sighing once again, the trim blonde pivoted off the bed and threw her short, diaphanous peignoir over her shoulders. There was no use waking Mike, she knew. It would be practically impossible, and if he did get up, he wouldn't be able to satisfy her.
At the same time, she knew she couldn't sleep ... not at this hour, not after Mike had aroused her to a peak of 'stimulation without fully following through. Matters were in her own hands now....Perhaps if she went downstairs and had a drink, she could calm her nerves. Softly she crept over the thickly padded carpeting of the bedroom, down the stairs into the living room, where she went to the bar and poured two shots of whiskey in a glass over ice. She took a sip, bracing herself as the burning liquid trickled down her throat, and then she moved to the living-room couch. . Damn him, she thought. What right did he have to ignore her, to treat her as though she were old, fat and ugly, as though screwing her were a duty rather than a pleasure. She certainly wasn't old, and she knew she wasn't ugly at all. Stretching her legs out, she looked down at them. They were long and willowy, her skin was still smooth as satin, and she had kept herself in shape with gym classes at the college. Her long lithe legs tapered up to the sensual curves of her hips and the flat plane of her belly, which was visible just under the lower part of her translucent bed garment. Her eyes fixed on her own body, feasting on it, almost as though it belonged to someone else. No, she hadn't grown worse with age, she'd improved, if anything ... Why in the world had Mike suddenly become bored with her? He'd always been so romantic, romantic even to the point of silliness. When they'd been going together, he'd written poems about her body, poems that embarrassed her until she had come to know him better.
"Stop reading those silly poems and kiss me, Mike," she remembered saying.
"What do you mean 'silly'?" he protested, "That's the way I feel. You're incredible."
If only he would act like that now. She would take the foolish romantic he had been any day over the dull sedate college teacher he had become. But what could she do? She certainly couldn't hit him over the head with a sledgehammer. No, the only alternative now was to satisfy herself, something she hadn't done since her teenage years.
Though she tried to control the urge, she couldn't help looking down at the golden "vee" of pubic hair at the tender inner junction of her thighs. Automatically, instinctively, her hand went down to caress the outsides of her legs, bringing a tingling excitement that spread through her entire body. Feeling her pussy lips twitch involuntarily, she knew the temptation was now too strong to resist. If only Mike had taken longer, if only he had refrained from simply shoving his cock inside her and coming at a moment's notice, she wouldn't be reduced to this. But he had left her hanging, and now there was only one thing left to do. Slowly her legs slithered apart and she felt her hand moving up between her thighs, her middle finger rigid and extended.
Closing her eyes, she could remember the first time Mike had taken her. They had done it in her apartment on the third date. For a couple of hours the two of them had been simply sitting side by side listening to stereo music, not even touching, and then he turned to her.
"Listen, Abby," he said. "I think we should both go to bed."
She remembered laughing. After all the romantic poems he'd written to her, it seemed such a simple direct request that she could hardly refuse. Indeed she'd been taken offguard, but nevertheless had managed to rise to the occasion.
"I think you're right," she said. "After all, why should we play games?"
She remembered leading him to the bedroom and the gentle way he'd stripped her clothes off, his fingers tenderly drawing down her zipper, slipping the straps of her dress down over her shoulders until, in a matter of moments, they were both naked together on the bed. As she recalled the scene of their first encounter, ripples of pleasure chilled her spine. Why couldn't things be like that now? Why did they have to change?
Her middle finger was almost all the way up to the glistening "vee" between her legs now, and she held it poised, trembling at the narrow entrance of her slit. Oh God, she wondered, why am I forced to do this? And yet there was no controlling herself. In her mind she could see Mike's cock the way it had been the first time he fucked her.
She could see it rigid and bulging between his legs, the massive mushroom-like head bloated with blood as a tiny drop of milk-white pre-cum oozed out of the narrow slit. She could remember the way she trembled as she lay on the bed waiting for him to mount her, to plunge his massive rod of flesh deep into her warmly waiting vagina. And remembering all this, her last resistance gave way. Her hand came to rest on the bulging mound of her vagina, her fingers nestling on the tangle of blonde pubic hairs.
With a life of its own, her outstretched middle finger grazed the tiny bud of her clitoris, bringing it to instant alert. God, it felt so good ... she hadn't done this in such a long time.
It was almost hopeless to try stopping. After all, her husband hadn't satisfied her in months. She had to do something.
The soft jolt of her finger against her aroused clitoris had sent a wild tremor of pleasure through her body, but she knew there would be no enjoyment in doing things too fast. Slowly she glided her hands up over her belly beneath her flimsy nightgown until they cupped her full firm breasts, her thumbs rubbing against the nipples so that they tapered out into tiny dart-like points. They stiffened with pleasure, increasing the sense of desire inside her already moist loins. God, how she wished she could suck her nipples herself ... Mike hadn't done that for so long. Slowly, as her tongue circled her moist red lips, she began kneading her breasts rhythmically, her buttocks grinding against the sofa pillows in a slow sensuous movement.
How long had it been since Mike had raved over the suppleness of her body, how long since he had kissed her all over and fondled her before driving his cock up inside her pussy? It seemed like an eternity. God, he'd driven her wild when he curled his tongue lovingly around her stiff nipples in the early days of their marriage. She could even feel his hands running over the softness of her belly and thighs now, but it had been so long ago that it was just a dream to her now.
Quickly her mind faded from the distant memory to a more recent one. They had gone to a faculty cocktail party at the home of Pete Grover, the English Department chairman, about a month ago, a party which had started out in an ordinary enough way. Small groups of people standing around chatting about literature and criticism, discussing the latest faculty gossip. In short, a typically harmless party until Grover had accosted her in the hallway.
"I've been meaning to speak to you a long time, Abby," he said, placing his arms on her shoulders and drawing her toward him. She was half-drunk at the time and hardly realized what he was up to.
"Tell me," he said, "you must get tired of that brilliant husband of yours once in a while."
"Pete, what in the world do you have on your mind."
Suddenly without warning, he pressed his lips against hers and slipped his arms down around her waist until his hands were pressing hotly into her buttocks. She struggled to break away, but he only shoved his loins more tightly against hers, sending hot sensations of unwanted desire traveling through her body. For a long moment, she could not bring herself to break away from him, and it wasn't just a question of overpowering physical strength on his part. She had realized at that moment that she wanted another man to make love to her, to desire her as passionately as Mike once had.
Fortunately, she had managed to regain her composure soon enough for the sake of propriety.
"Professor," she said jokingly. "What would your wife think if she came out here?"
"Don't worry, my dear," he leered. "This is a liberal arts college after all. We must practice the liberal arts as well as teach them."
They both laughed, and she effected a quick escape to the bathroom upstairs, but the memory of that moment burned in her mind and returned to her at the present moment as her hands squeezed the soft stiff-nippled flesh of her breasts. God, could it be that she was a whore, a nymphomaniac? Had she been expecting too much of her own husband? And yet she couldn't help recalling the days when he had performed so passionately and so well. No, she was sure he could satisfy her once she reawakened his old instincts, and yet now at this moment she was alone, alone and desperate for the physical satisfaction that Mike had denied her.
As one hand continued massaging her breast, the other slipped down and resumed rubbing her curl-covered pubic mound, as though she could bring back the excitement of the early days of her marriage. God, what was she coming to? What if Mike's neglect drove her into the beds of other men, where would it all end? What if Pete Grover happened to bump into her on campus and suggest they go for a drink somewhere? Would she be able to refuse? He was an older man, but still trim and attractive, and the incident .in the hallway at his house had left a lingering impression on her ... she'd been so excited by his suggestive touch.
Abby leaned her head back against the couch and closed her eyes, letting her fingers continue their intimate caressing of her pulsating little clitoral bud and feeling the rising heat of desire in her body fuse and merge with the filmy material of her gown. Mingled images of her own husband and of Pete Grover ran crazily through her mind with a strength and intensity that made them almost real. She could see the two of them together taking her clothes off in her own living room, Pete wildly caressing her breasts as Mike sank to his knees and planted hot passionate kisses against her vagina, slithering his tongue snake-like up into her moistly palpitating cuntal slit.
The power of the fantasy was so strong that a savage rush of desire sped through her body from the depths of her stomach to the extremities of her limbs. With a slight groan she slid her middle finger up in between her moistened labia, feeling an electrical sensation race the length of her spine. God, how she wished she could turn her fingers into a bulging male cock that would thrust rhythmically up into her belly, twitch and pulsate inside her until she gasped and screamed in ecstasy. If only her husband cared about her the way he once had and could perform as in the past! But no, she was driven to this ... trying to satisfy herself with her own fingers. This isn't good enough, she decided suddenly. There's got to be something else....
Possessed by a mad impulse, Abby hurried to the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator door and rummaged in the vegetable bin until she found a long, thick carrot. Oh God, I must be going crazy, she thought to herself. I've never done anything like this before. But it was too late to stop, for her whole body was alive with mad desire, and demanded fulfillment.
Despite a nagging guilt for having been reduced to such a state, she returned to the living room, slumped on the couch, and spread her legs slightly apart, the carrot trembling slightly in her hand as she poised it between her open thighs. Oh Jesus, it feels just like a cock, a huge bulging man's cock, she whispered to herself as she threw her head back and closed her eyes tightly shut. Slowly she guided the phallic vegetable upward until she felt the point tickling her vaginal slit. God, it felt so good, so beautiful, it was making her tremble all over.
Timidly at first she began to pump the carrot in and out of her seething cuntal flesh, her fingers stroking her creamy inner thighs at the same time.
As she shoved it up another quarter of an inch it began to feel even more like a real cock, fulfilling the desperate craving of her starved womanhood. At the same time the titillating forbiddenness of her shameless self-fucking sent chills of lurid delight swirling through her overwrought body. Oh God, this is incredible, she thought as the thick object slid all the way inside her up to its bulging knobby end. She must have had eight inches of it inside her, more than she had ever taken before.
Her lips baring back over her teeth, she began to groan and twist around on the sofa pillows.
"Oh Mike, Pete, fuck me, both of you fuck me, please!" she groaned as she began to accelerate the pumping rhythm, her buttocks grinding and her legs spasming even wider apart.
"Harder, harder," she gasped. Her mind was reeling away on a sea of fantasy. She could feel Pete Grover's hands running wildly over her breasts and buttocks, she could feel her husband's tongue swirling around her nipples. Why couldn't it be like this in real life? Why couldn't she be satisfied every night the way she was satisfying herself now?
Her legs began jerking and twitching more spasmodically now as the cock-like object rammed up into her belly, propelled and controlled by her own hands.
With every driving thrust she felt the tiny twitches of pleasure rapidly building to an orgasm that would shatter every fiber of her nerves. She churned wildly, thrashing against the sofa, her blonde hair whipping from shoulder to shoulder as she grunted and gasped in savage abandon.
"Uhhhhh-oh-OHHH!" she moaned as her breasts heaved and jiggled.
She was cumming now ... it was building to a frenzied climax. She thrust the carrot as deep inside her wide-stretched pussy as it could go, and then for a long second her body stiffened to perfect rigidity. There was a trembling, twitching sensation inside her loins, and suddenly the dam burst. She groaned, her legs twitched, and the long-stored fire within her belly began spewing out through the gateway of her, hotly palpitating cuntal lips.
It came in quick spurts, poured down the insides of her churning thighs, running in rivulets down over the bulge of her buttocks until suddenly she was free and took a deep gasping breath. Jesus, she was satisfied now, she thought, really satisfied. But this couldn't go on any longer. She couldn't continue turning inward like this, seeking satisfaction with her own hands. If her marriage were going to be saved she would have to do something to reawaken her husband's desire, to rejuvenate him in one way or another.
Returning to reality, Abby stared down at her widespread legs, her eyes fixing on the sticky trickling moisture clinging to her thighs, then shifting to the "cock-like vegetable that lay on the floor by her feet. What in the world had she done? It seemed as though her husband's neglect had driven her into a mad childish fantasy, and even though she prided herself on being mature and liberal, a sense of guilt began to plague her. She was too old to be doing things like this. Besides, she was married ... she had to help her husband, not retreat from him into these wild autoerotic fantasies.
Quickly she picked up the carrot, threw it in a kitchen trash basket and returned to the living room where she finished her drink. For a moment the thought ran through her mind of trying to wake Mike just to see if she could arouse him, but as she made her way up the stairs to the bedroom she quickly squelched it. There was no use; he would be snoring soundly and would only growl at her if disturbed.
Oh Lord, she thought, there has to be some way to restore his energy and imagination ... Perhaps a trip somewhere. As she pondered, an idea quickly came to her. Of course, why didn't I think of it before? Mike has no classes on Monday, and we could take a long weekend to go up to the cabin in Maine.
Perfect, she thought as she entered the bedroom and slipped quietly into bed next to him, making every effort not to disturb his contented slumber. She recalled the time six years ago when they'd honeymooned alone on Lobster Island, luxuriating in the stillness and the scenery which had served as such an effective source of creative inspiration. Every morning, Mike had risen at the crack of dawn and begun working on his poems, putting them in shape for the book that he would eventually sell to a large and distinguished publishing house.
Never in her life could she recall a happier time for either her husband or herself. True, since then they'd gone up to the island during the summers, but only to see her parents, and then it had been more like a family circus than a quiet retreat-barbecues, parties, constant conversation, boating trips. It wasn't the same at all, and perhaps that was the reason that Mike had resisted going up there recently.
This time it would be different, she assured herself. Her parents were home in New York, the cottage was free, there would be no one to disturb them. For her it would be a second honeymoon, although she wouldn't present it that way to Mike. No, she would say simply that they needed a change of scenery to give him inspiration. After all, by his own admission he had hardly written anything worthwhile in the last two years, and she was positive she could convince him that a trip to Maine would be not only beneficial but necessary. Yes, it would be perfect. Lobster Island would bring them both back to an even keel.