Chapter 3
Naked sunlight streamed through the bedroom windows and brought him to a slow head-throbbing consciousness. Without looking at his watch, he knew he was late for work. He cursed, threw back the covers, and padded slowly to the bathroom. Edie was asleep on the living room divan and, with a fresh return of last night's anger, he thought the hell with her!
Twenty minutes later he had showered, shaved, and dressed. He took additional time to glance in on little Karen. She too was asleep. He bent over her crib, kissed her lightly, then tip-tced back up the hallway.
In the living room and before he left the apartment, Bill paused and let his dark brooding eyes fall on the still figure of his wife. She lay on her stomach, head turned toward the back of the divan. Her thin housecoat was pulled up. Bill's eyes narrowed. His glance swept the creamy roundness of her naked buttocks. Familiar stirrings in his loins urged him to touch her; he didn't move.
Momentarily, his mind drifted back to childhood. He'd once come upon his older sister this way, stumbled into her bedroom while she was still asleep. He'd been too speechless to act; he'd simply stood there quietly enraptured with her wanton display of nudity. It was the first and last time that he ever saw her that way, but so that he could remember the wonderful minutes of that experience, he had later stolen a pair of his sister's panties. He took the panties to bed with him, they became a symbol of his erotic longings, and when the house was empty really empty he would frequently undress and put his sister's panties on. The heavenly feeling that then surged in his body was indescribable.
He felt that same surging of excitement now. A Peeping Tom. He inched his way closer. His fingers twitched. And then she stirred and the feeling died.
He stepped backward. He felt his mouth sag. He knew the reason for his sudden disappointment. For one wild daydreaming minute, that had been his sister on the divan not Edie.
Now, and with the acceptance of reality, he felt the return of jealousy. Bitterly, he remembered a stranger who had stepped out of the darkness last night to slug him. Fresh anger boiled inside him. His fists tightened and he stormed angrily out of the apartment.
He took the elevator to the street and stood confused and angry in a deserted lobby. He couldn't think clearly; Edie's cheating was like the death of someone dear: There was this coma-like interim of disbelief, then the slow passing of shock, and suddenly he was face-to-face with it with grief, the ugly knowledge that it was over.
He had been conned most expertly, he thought. The angelic, faithful, ever-loving wife that was the role she played. But for how long had she been slipping lasciviously into bed with her secret lover? A year? Two? And those innocent afternoon shopping trips of hers yes, how stupid he had been not to recognize the signs. The gullible husband.
Angry with himself, he shoved through the revolving door and met the blistering August sun. His insides churned. He thought of those anxious days before their wedding. And a conventional wedding? Yes, of course. And afterwards, a conventional honeymoon, and a conventional Columbus Circle apartment, and conventional furniture and conventional friends. Couldn't be unconventional. Edie didn't like it. She'd spurn wild parties and flatly deny wearing the exotic and often revealing clothes he bought her. Her body belonged to him that was the cock-and-bull story she had fed him so she couldn't possibly wear anything low-cut in front of his friends. And we must be conventional. Yes, yes, yes.
So it had been that way, he thought. He had submerged his own identity to please her. Might have been fun to watch Edie parade around in a revealing dress at one of their office parties, see the guys eyeing her over and getting hot, but not Edie. Edie was too pure for such nonsense. But, he reflected miserably, not too pure to get in bed and screw the hell out of her new-found boyfriend. Yes, that was all right.
He swallowed his pride and bitterness, and stormed toward the subway. He didn't feel like driving; he didn't feel like anything. And old man Sinclair the cruddy bastard he'd be fuming because he was late for work, and the hell with him, too.
Later, in a Times Square eatery, Bill toyed un-interestedly with a platter of scrambled eggs. He didn't care whether he went to work or not. When he left the restaurant, he browsed the windows of two book stores, saw titles that didn't register and prices that had no meaning. He needed a drink, a bracer, and he entered the first cafe he reached.
The cool darkness was refreshing. He sat down, nodded to the bartender, and ordered a double bourbon. While the drink was being readied, he surveyed himself in a vending machine mirror. His dark almond-shaped eyes might have been pleased by the youthful, handsome exuberance that had been there on other days, but this morning his eyes were shadowed and troubled. Neither a contrived smile, nor the athletic brawn of his young face masked the growing bitterness he felt. When the bourbon was delivered, he gulped it down and ordered another.
The drink hit him like a bomb. Unaccustomed to stiff, early-in-the-morning eye-openers, his usually business-like Princeton composure was rapidly shattered. A numbing warmth spread through his innards, he downed the second bourbon, and then recklessly ordered another.
He gave no thought to the clock; instead, he envisioned his half-naked wife asleep on the living room divan. How nice it would have been, he thought, to have removed his belt and lashed the hell out of that soft, cute behind of hers. She'd scream, plead for mercy, and his answer would come as another stinging lash of the leather belt. He'd bring that sexy hind end of hers to a lobster red, make her describe the naughty things she'd done behind his back, and force her to crawl at his feet.
He had several more drinks, stopped before he became completely stoned, and his closing thought was: I'll get even with her if it's the last thing I do.
Ten minutes later, a taxi brought him to the lawn-fronted offices of the Sinclair Metal Stamping Company. He dropped a five-dollar bill in the cabbie's lap, moved unsteadily up to the curving walk. If that sonofabitchin' Sinclair said one single word...
Bill pushed forward into the air-conditioned, oak-paneled reception office. His eyes fell on the company's newly-hired receptionist, Claire Nelson. Young stuff according to her employment application just 19 and if one believed in rumors, Claire was supposed to be a hot and easy lay. Bill had shot her some speculative glances when he heard the rumors and if big tits were any criterion for measuring a girl's sexual desires, the rumors were most certainly true. Today, and more than ever before, he was deeply interested.
When he approached her desk, she regarded him lightly with her moist green eyes. Her young sensuous mouth formed a pout. She examined her watch.
"The hell with time," Bill said too loudly. He drew closer to the half-moon oaken desk. "That's the trouble with everyone. Always worried about time." He stared boldly at the thrust of her blouse.
She patted her red hair in a gesture of uncertainty. Familiarity between the office help and the higher-ups and Bill was at least that was frowned upon within the firm. She didn't know how to answer him, and she had apparently smelled the bourbon, Bill thought, because her green eyes had grown suddenly wary.
"And don't look at me like I just raped the farmer's daughter. I had a few drinks and...." His gaze fastened on her breasts, big ones that caused a four-dollar blouse to brim with riches. "...Claire, you're an eyeful. You know that?"
The compliment drew a flustered smile from the wet redness of her mouth. A high schoolish "thank you, Mr. Trumball" came out, and he was glad that he had flattered her. She'd be easy, he thought. He had never played around before, but this one was young and innocent and gullible; maybe this would be a good way to get even with Edie.
He sat on her desk and office decorum went out the window. She was too young and unsophisticated to realize that he was on the make, gushing over because an executive was suddenly paying her tributes; moreover, staring fondly at her breasts.
None of this was any effort for Bill. The drinks had really socked him; his wayward aggressiveness came easy. And did she have large nipples? he wondered. Or were they pink and soft and maidenly small? He decided to find out at the earliest opportunity. His wait was a short one.
Claire reached forward to straighten a stack of correspondence, and her loose-fitting, white cotton blouse fell away from her chest. Bill found himself staring approvingly down to the dark valley between her breasts. Was she purposely exhibiting herself, for chrissakes? Suddenly, the young girl straightened up. Bill struggled to recapture the vision he had just seen: Hot young breasts bared to his eyes. Then, to mask his feelings, he asked Claire if old man Sinclair had been pitching a bitch because he was late.
"Mr. Sinclair isn't here. He phoned in. Said he wouldn't be in until sometime this afternoon. I can reach him if you want."
"Don't bother." Bill suddenly wished he'd had a few more bourbons. While the cat's away, the mice will ... He scooted closer to Claire, affording himself a more advantageous view of the opening in her blouse. Claire looked good damn good and the reception office was cut off from the rest of the building, and those breasts of hers...
"Claire," he said suddenly, "I think I'm gonna tell that old bastard Mr. Sinclair, that is that I need a private secretary." He leaned over, close enough now that he could smell the cologne that lay nestled in the auburn silkiness of her hair. "Furthermore," he went on, casually dropping his hand to her thigh, "I'm going to ask for you." It was the bourbon talking; he was only baiting her, but the young high school graduate ate it up.
Her face lit with excitement. "Golly, Mr. Trumball." She squeezed her hands together. "Could you really arrange that?"
"Honey, I can arrange anything." He gave her thigh a meaningful squeeze. Nice, too. Ample, but not plump. Just right. His eyes again licked the warmth of her breasts. "Can you take shorthand and type?"
She said that she could.
He fed her more bait. "Naturally, you'd have to sit on my lap now and then." He grinned warmly and watched the reaction in her face.
She wanted to appear worldly for him, teacher's helper goofing off with the instructor. With childish exuberance, she said, "But natch. Private secretaries always sit on their bosses' laps. It's more fun that way."
His hand became more familiar on her muscled thigh. He felt the strap of her garter belt biting into her flesh. "We'd have to have lunch together."
"Of course."
"And an occasional drink in the evening."
"Why not?"
"At your apartment?"
"Where else?" she replied. Her legs spread slightly under the growing boldness of his hand. Her mouth was wet and red. Bill felt like kissing her but held back.
"What if it storms real bad while I'm at your apartment?"
She shrugged. "Guess you'd have to spend the night there," she said matter-of-factly.
Bill felt a volcanic tremble between his legs. The damn kid was going along with everything he suggested. She was so green, so unseeing of the gag, that she'd probably lay him right here in the office anything to get a better job. And wasn't that the way of all women? If the price was right, the meat was neat. Con 'em and you could lay 'em; play it honest and you were kicked in the face.
"Do you really think Mr. Sinclair would transfer me to your office?" she asked, making her game better known.
"There's a good chance," he answered, "if...." He let her know that he was looking down the open vee of her blouse. "...if I say the right things to the old whale."
"Would you?" she asked, following him with her wide eyes when he stood up and walked slowly behind her.
"I kind of think I will," he said, giving each word a slow, rhythmic enunciation. Then his fingers found the warmth of her shoulders and he commenced a gentle massage.
"Oooooo, does that ever feel good."
"A lot of things feel good, Claire." He leaned over the top of her head and gazed upon the quivering white hemispheres of her breasts. He saw that she wore a lacy half-bra, one of those French ditties that allowed the pink of her nipples to show. His blood warmed. He increased the tempo of the massage. His hands glided forward, swept over the hot bareness of her shoulders, then down.
She pressed her moist palms to the backs of his hands and stopped him. "Naughty boy."
"I was only practicing for your new job," he explained, knowing that that would make her stop and think. He let his remark sink in. Now his hands went forward, then down. This time she didn't stop him; he went all the way. His hands found the hot tautness of her nipples. She giggled, he rubbed her nipples more insistently. A real dumb yak-yak of a kid, he thought, but he felt no guilt. He pushed her blouse down the gleaming white of her arms. He cupped her generous melons in his hands and squeezed.
She seized his wrists and made him withdraw his hands. She pulled her blouse back up. "Somebody might come in," she warned.
"What about my office? I'm not going out for lunch," he hinted, and flashing her a boyish grin, he added, "Maybe I could familiarize you with some of your new duties that is, if you're interested."
She spun the swivel chair around affording him a glimpse of her dark nylon-clad legs. Her black skirt was less than a knee tickler, permitting him a view of her gartered stocking tops. She knew he was looking but she made no effort to lower her skirt. She said, "I could send out for some sandwiches."
His gaze was still riveted on the hint of flesh above her stockings. His palms were moist. "Sounds like a winner," he said and, licking his lips, he knew that what he wanted to eat did not come between slices of bread.
When Bill entered the main office, no one paid any attention to his tardiness. Cal Nobel, the company's chief materials man, was pouring over the latest steel quotes when Bill passed by. The shop manager, lanky Skip Jacobson, was on the long-distance wire discussing a blueprint deviation with one of the company's more troublesome customers; and the office girls there were seven in all were busy typing, mimeographing or filing.
Bill closed his frosted-glass private office door, sank heavily into a swivel chair behind his desk, and closed his eyes to the mountain of work before him. Blueprints and letters of inquiry were stacked a foot high in his wicker basket. Telegrams to his right told of order increases and awaited processing. In addition, there were several inter-office memos denoting calls to his office while he was out. He took one tired glance at this wall of work and thought the hell with it.
He leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled on his desk, hands clasped behind his head. Was Edie up yet? he wondered. The hell with her too, he thought abruptly. More fun to think of that young high school chick out in the corridor. She looked like a hot lay, and she was willing to trade her virtue if she had any for a five-buck raise.
Suddenly, and for no particular reason, he wondered what it would feel like to put on a pair of leather underpantys and stand in front of her. Crazy! And he'd bought a pair of them once for Edie, a leather bikini-styled pair of panties that girdled her white flesh and made him hotter than a bull in heat. She'd never worn them again, and Bill wished that he had them here at the office. Claire would wear them; she'd do anything to get her ass in that secretary's chair. And it would be fun to do the unusual. He'd caged himself to Edie's conservative ways for too long and for what?
His mind went back to Claire. He closed his eyes and visualized the bold thrust of her breasts. She probably didn't need a bra; the high school variety never did, and he wondered how many boys had crawled between her moist, hot thighs. The speculation drove him crazy. He envisioned a young boy clasping Claire's bare behind, pinching her, sucking her breasts, ramming himself in and out of her body like some uncontrolled stallion. The more he thought about it, the more eager he became. By noon he was in a state of erotic madness.
There was a slight rap at the office door, Bill said, "Come in," and she stood in the open doorway, more blissfully young than he had at first realized. She closed the office door and dropped the bag of sandwiches and coffee on his desk. "As you ordered, sir."
He contemplated that aura of innocence that she emanated. Did he dare go all the way with her? Suddenly he remembered Edie's affected innocence. "C'mere, Claire."
She unpacked the paper sack. "In a minute." She removed the last container of steaming coffee. "Now what can I do for you?" she asked, coming closer.
"Over here," he said, motioning to a blueprint that he'd spread open.
"Is it safe?" she asked.
"Hell, no!" He grinned. "But if you want the job...."
She was quickly beside him; the blueprint was only a hoax, something to add substance to the job he had proposed to her.
Noting that the blueprint was for one of the metal products that they manufactured, he explained in slow, careful detail the operational steps leading through to the finished part. She nodded with each pause in his explanation, acknowledged the blueprint as though it were a thing understood and he knew it wasn't and when his left hand stole slowly under the back of her dress, caressed and squeezed the hotness of her thigh, she made no withdrawal; nor did she proffer him with a jaundiced eye that asked; What do you think you're doing? She knew perfectly well what he was doing; he was feeling her up and getting them both hot.
He continued with his industrial discourse, keeping his voice tonelessly business-like, giving her the same operational spiel that he had expounded for hundreds of prospective customers.
Naturally, it was all mud to her, but she nodded agreeably to everything he said. He described the shearing of material, the blanking and piercing processes, and lent fine detail to the narrow tolerances that were maintained during the forming operations. All the while, he let his hand glide further and further up the warmth and smoothness of her leg.
When he began kneading the titillating flesh of her thighs, she grew unsettled. He sensed the change in her breathing. She was probably debating whether to stop him. She wanted the job so badly she could taste it, but...
His hand reached the moist seat of her panty girdle. He felt the involuntary muscle contractions of her body. He rubbed the area more vigorously. She frowned. Then moaned. She was hot. He pulled her down on his lap. He slid her skirt up over her stocking tops. His hand found the seat of her emotions, the physical triangle that caused marriage triangles. He teased her with renewed vigor. "Do you find the stamping business intriguing?" he asked. His other hand was at her breasts.
"It ... it's fas-fascinating." She moaned loudly. Voice control was shot. She was sinking fast. He tore her blouse open. The French bra wouldn't hold a marble safely; getting her hot breasts to spill out of their lacy container was no task. And then he drove his wet tongue into her ear, breathed gently, and she was done.
"Mr. Trumbullll...."
"Are you ready for lunch," he whispered.
"I ... I'm ... please don't."
He worked his fingers into the crotch of her panty girdle. "Don't you want to hear more about the stamping business?"
"Mr. Trumball...."
"Yes?"
"I ... I never did anything like ... like this."
"Do you want me to stop?"
She pushed her pelvis against his finger. "Stop? Noooooo. Don't stop. Do it for me." She grabbed frantically at his trouser front. "Nowwwww!"
And Bill obliged.