Claude's father.
Irene had an image of the man, which her memory could command forth any time she wished. She wished often. It gave her a certain pleasure to see the man in her mind's eye, and in that way guess what her son might look like if…
If he had not been saved by her for something better, something else. He would be her creation, nurtured on her pleasures. She would be both father and mother, and she would enjoy both roles. What would that hard-muscled lover of one night – David; too soft a name for him. Really – what would he have thought of their son? He would wretch in agony, seeing the distorted issue of their union. She delighted in the disgust he would feel. But of course he did not know, and he never would. Claude was her son, and the tanned and too suave advertising copywriter was merely the agent of fate. She would have given herself to almost any man that night. The child had been her idea, her idea alone. She would raise him herself. He would be her creation.
She would not remember David's face, except that she saw its reflection every time she looked at Claude. And it was more out of love for Claude than anything else that she relished the memory of that night with his father. Strange, she thought, how often he came to mind…
That evening she had stared at herself in the mirror before leaving her apartment, searching for any tell-tale clues. She had not been out with a boy since she was a senior in high school, and she feared that she somehow might give herself, and her secret, away.
But no, she told herself calmly, she looked fine, even desirable. Boys had always liked her then, and even now men made passes at her frequently, though she was usually careful to avoid situations in which they could. Her hair looked good this way, the honeyed flax pouring over her shoulders. The black crepe dress fit her well; she had lost twelve pounds in two months, and now she was satisfied that she had a perfect body, though she wished her breasts weren't quite so impressive. She congratulated herself on the crowning touch – the absence of a brassiere – and wondered why someone who resented men so much could take such pleasure in arousing them. Sadism, maybe, she told herself, recalling a bit of Freud from night school; but she had never knowingly inflicted pain on any woman – or any man, for that matter.
The dress was short – two inches above the knee. Her thighs were firm now, and when she walked, only her breasts would move. Her ass was too small for a woman's really, but she liked the way she looked in jeans.
The bar was in the San Fernando Valley, a well-known singles' hangout. It was a Friday, and the narrow aisles that led from the counter to the tables were filled with flesh, male and female. The men seemed to be posing; elbows on the surface of the bar and drinks in hand, their other arms dangling at their sides, cigarettes between forefinger and index. A surprising number of the men appeared to be successful.
She was self-conscious, and so she especially noticed the eyes that stirred to focus on her when she entered. A slim middle-aged man, gray-flannel suit and Brooks Brothers shirt, retreated on his heels when his out thrust hand with burning cigarette almost brushed against her. Irene plunged through the mass of humanity and felt the heat of the bodies. She lost the scent of her perfume in the odor of sweating men and women.
There was an empty stool at the bar. She sat down, and less than a minute passed before she felt the pressure of a hand on the roundness of her shoulder. "Hello," started a young man, sandy-haired and thin, with an angular face and imperfect teeth. "Can I buy you a drink?"
She pressed her lips together, and the slightest hint of a tongue tip pushed through the folds and wet the middle of the upper lip. "Yes," she smiled, "bourbon and water." She spoke softly, and he asked her to repeat her request. He summoned a bartender and shouted the order; the attendant disappeared for a moment, then returned with a glass. The sandy-haired young man extended his American Express card, and a bill was written up, which he signed.
"Much more convenient," he explained to Irene as he replaced the credit card in his wallet, then put the wallet inside the inner pocket of his plaid sport jacket. Irene sipped on the bourbon and water. "Good?" he asked, his brows knitting, "Strong."
"Good," he smiled, resuming his Scotch and soda. "My name's Jack. What's yours?"
"Irene," she replied, turning on a soft smile she did not feel. She wondered what he did. Was he intelligent? Probably not. It did not matter, not really. He was good-looking, with strong features and a lean body. His chin was like Cary Grant's, smoothly clefted. His hairline had not receded, and he was at the age when it would already have started. If the child did turn out to be a boy, she told herself, there was no reason he should be cursed with early baldness. His hands were bony, a blue network of vein inside the thin pink of the surface skin. She liked his eyes; in some lights they were blue, sometimes the movement of his head made them seem green. Finally she asked him which they were.
"Blue," he said and offered her a cigarette. She shook her head; she did not smoke, and people who did annoyed her, but she said nothing. He lit the end of the cigarette and inhaled. She studied his face. He was wearing light pants. They were tight. He had no hips to speak of. He would do, she told herself, and again the tongue slid through the lips to wet them.
She relaxed him and let him make his pitch. She knew that it was a prelude on his part to what he was really interested in, but some perversity forced her to be passive, almost resisting his exercise of charm. She was making him work for his fuck, she thought. He bought her another bourbon and water and had the bartender bring him another Scotch, straight this time.
"What's your sign?"
The question surprised her; it seemed abrupt and obligatory, something said to create conversation and not asked out of genuine curiosity. "Gemini. You?"
"Virgo."
"Oh." She did not know what to say.
"I didn't think you were a Gemini. I would have guessed Cancer."
"Either you're not a very good judge of character, or else it doesn't mean anything." She was not a great believer in astrology. He laughed and stand at the minor opposite the counter; finding her mildly sullen face reflected back at him.
He turned his head quickly. "Listen, would you rather I left you alone? It's really all right, it you would."
She felt a glimmer of compassion for him, though she had already classified him an idiot. She already felt the effects of the two drinks, for she hardly ever indulged in alcohol. There was no use really in continuing the ruse, and besides, she was impatient with it. Jack whatever-his-name-was would do as well as any other man.
"No, I'm sorry," she said, and now her voice was soft, just loud enough for him to hear as he strained. "I guess I am being a bitch. Why don't you take me home? Maybe if we can talk, I'll calm down." Only as the heavy words poured from her mouth did she realize that she was indeed tense, that she was afraid of this man she was about to use.
He forged a path for her through the tides of festive young men and women. In the parking lot he handed his ticket and a half-dollar piece to the attendant. A late-model Plymouth was driven out, and he turned to her. "Did you drive?"
"Yes," she answered. "But you can drive me back here, after." She paused and widened her eyes as she added, "I'm a bit drunk, you see." Her escort smiled, then walked around the car and held the door open for her.
"My place all right?" he asked. She nodded silently. He turned on the car radio, found a station programmed for "easy listening" music, and relaxed behind the wheel. He seemed alert and not at all drunk, not even high. She was silent until he drove up in front of a modern apartment building. There was a glass door and a terrace beyond that, around a well-lit pool. He wrapped his arm around Irene and led her up the stairs.
He slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door in with his palm. She stepped beyond the threshold while he switched on the lamp beside the grape velveteen couch.
"Sit down," he said as he gestured. "Would you like something to drink?"
She shook her head, and the slight motion threatened her with a headache. He went to the stereo and withdrew several records from their jackets, placing them one on top of the other on the spindle. She realized that it was a studio, and that somehow this couch converted to a bed. But this would be adequate. The music began, soft jazz, uncomplicated.
A dining area adjoined the living room-bedroom, and the kitchen was next to that. He disappeared into it and she heard the refrigerator opening. When he returned there was a glass in his hand, Scotch and soda again.
"You're sure you don't want anything?" he asked her again, the smile firmly imbedded. His teeth were perfect, and she wondered if they were capped.
She asked him and he shook his head, "Doesn't matter anyway," she went on, stretching her arms over the back of the sectional, Jack put the drink on the coffee table next to the couch. He sat down beside her and faced her.
"You're very beautiful, Irene."
For some reason the compliment irritated her. "No, no I'm not."
He smiled. "All right," he said, "you're not. But I'd like to kiss you anyway." The last syllable had barely left his mouth when he brought his lips to hers. The tongue shot out through his pink-brown lips, slipped in through her compliant, widening mouth. His tongue slid lightly against her own; he pressed harder against it, and she felt herself lose her breath. He was strong. His lips were turning, straining against hers as their tongues collided wetly. The pressure of his teeth hurt her, made her wince in pain, but it was all she could do to answer the violent thrusts of his large tongue inside her. Fearing she would gag, she inhaled deeply through her nose.
She moved nervously against the cushions of the couch as he rubbed his chest against her. She felt the movement of air inside his lungs, as he began to breathe heavily. Her nipple went rigid, and she was surprised at this revelation of her own excitement.
He drew his chest back and inserted his hand in the space, pressing the palm against her yielding breast. He plied the hidden nipple between thumb and forefinger, as though he were sifting it. The tit grew pebble-hard under his insistent touch; he felt the rapid stiffening. His mouth plunged into her own, and their tongues exchanged moist stroke and counter stroke. His seemed to wrap around and envelop her own. Her hand gripped the flesh of his bicep as though a vise. With his left hand he pulled her toward him; with the right he ran the zipper of the dress down her back. He brought his hand around, under the dress, and rubbed the knuckles against her bare left aureole. Catlike, Irene arched her chest underneath his searching hand. She shut her eyes tight, and any thoughts she might have had were obscured by the swelling dizziness that flowed through her brain. It was irrelevant now whether this was man or woman; the touch was warm, and her body could not help but respond. She clamped her legs tightly together; she could not decide whether the feeling of wetness in her crotch came from the warm rush of blood in her stomach or the actual moistening of her pussy walls.
His left hand cupped behind her neck and supported her as he pressed her to the couch. His mouth again invaded hers, and his lips were wet with saliva.
As she reclined, the skirt of her dress crept up; now it just barely covered the crotch of her white lace bikini panties. His fingers were tensed and stiff as he pressed the flat of the forefinger against the clitoral ridge. He rolled the pin of the fingers against the dampening furrows. He felt the thin oil even through the fabric of the undergarment. His index finger bent at the joints and made its way under the crotch of the panties. It gained an immediate berth inside the cunt itself. He jammed the length of the finger inside her; the folds inside seemed to tighten around it. He wiggled the end of the finger and tested the elasticity of the chamber. He pulled back, then drove it forward again until her cunt covered the spike to its base.
He withdrew it and then extricated it from underneath the bikini. Both hands reached for her side; the fingers jutted under the elastic waistband. She lifted her hips as he moved down her body, pulling the panties to her knees. When his head was even with the intersection of her legs, he moved down to the vertex of the angle.
His tongue was icily cool against the heat of her matted bush. When he lashed his tongue against her clitoris, an involuntary shiver coursed through the girl's pelvis, and more of her pubic hair filled the entrance to his mouth. One of the pale brown hairs caught between two of his teeth, and he tore it from her flesh as he moved his head.
"A muff-diver, are you?" she asked contemptuously, though enjoying the skillful and intricate movements of his tongue. To him she tasted salty, of hormonal secretions and sweat. His tongue pushed in between the sides and wagged back and forth. The soft meat of her cunt was wet now. His forefinger pressed against her clit, teasing the skin around it. His left hand grabbed her right buttock, straining to keep her still while the tension raced through her veins.
"Eat it, eat it," she told him, her soft voice turning to a grating rasp, "eat me, eat me!" He accelerated the manipulations of his tongue and lips and released the flesh of her ass as she squirmed beneath his mouth.
He raised his head and looked down at her cunt. Blood filled his throbbing penis, which surged out from beneath his zipper. He was kneeling on the couch with his feet just off the edge. He pulled the panties below her knees, and then Irene kicked them off.
He placed his body above her own and took her hand and led it to his cock. She held it tentatively for a moment after he had released his own hand, but then drew her hand away from it and settled it limply on the small of his back.
Awkwardly he pulled his zipper down. His cock had already worked its way out through the flaps of the cotton briefs he wore. Now it was thick and hard against her belly and crotch, flattened between their bodies. She felt his muscle and also the slight flab of his belly.
He stuck his index finger in her cunt. He pushed it in, drew it back, then re-inserted, finally adding the forefinger. He lay on his side, so that she now had no weight above her. The movements of her groin, in time to the rhythm, of the fingers' pulsing manipulations, were steady and even, quickening only when he did. But he heard in the deepening breaths she took, saw in the way she dug the edges of her upper teeth into her lower lip that she was hot and was growing more so with each inward thrust. She turned her head from side to side, as though she were being whipped while bound. Each time his fingers filled the vacuum between her legs, the whole complex of her facial muscles tightened or flexed. He leaned over her and grabbed the flesh of her neck between his teeth. The tongue was soothing as it licked the sweating skin, but the teeth were merciless, biting as his lips sucked. He drew back and saw the whiteness where his mouth had been.
His thumb kneaded the clitoral button while his fingers rammed through her hole. Her mouth opened wide to accommodate the rush of air her throat demanded. Her breasts shifted lazily with the impatient movement of her whole body. She felt the involuntary spasms of dilation and contraction of her cunt, the first warnings of approaching orgasm. The walls retreated from the axis of his two fingers; then they closed in again and smothered the injected fingers.
He released the metal clasp at the top of his trouser zipper, then stood up and hastily untied his shoes. He kicked them off rather noisily and lifted one leg and then the other to remove the legs of the pants. He quickly pulled down the jockey shorts. The enraged cock shot forth at an angle from his belly.
Irene spread her legs as far apart as she could, her right leg extending over the side of the couch so that the ball of her foot dug into the thick pile of carpeting. One of the man's knees settled, into the space of couch cushion between her separated thighs and the other knee rubbed against the edge of the couch. His palms dug into the cushion at either side of he shoulders. He was in a beginning push-up position. He flexed his body and rammed the solid staff against her pussy lips, expecting immediate entry but disappointed just as immediately.
Daintily, as though she did not like to touch him, it occurred to Jack, Irene grabbed his cock and led it to her cunt. The entrance was slippery with fluid and he slipped in easily.
She wrapped her legs around him, crossing them at her ankles and resting the heels on the backs of his calves. He attacked; in response, she drove her body upward to meet him. She tried to hold him tightly inside of her; the friction achieved indicated her success.
She began to kick her heels into the couch. He beat his cock through her with quickening strokes. She felt the slight twitching of his cock as lubricant emerged from the slit on the head. Her own buttocks rocked with each new assault. Instinctively she grabbed for the scrotal bag, twisting it.
That seemed to drive him home. He struck again and again, his chest folding in to meet hers as his penis sliced her. Her hand went to her clitoris, and she felt his stomach move in and press against the back of her hand as she flicked the narrow ridge.
All at once she felt the wild surging of his cock as he thrust into her hard. One spurt and then another of the hot white fluid shot from the slit at the bulbous head of his cock.
She felt as though all the breath had been squeezed from her lungs; it was as though she were suspended. The final battering came in quick, frantic movements. Just as she thought she had lost it, the orgasm came upon her heavily. She writhed as she came and his own strokes slowed. His body moved in slow motion; suddenly it was over. She gasped for breath, and her mouth and throat were unbearably dry.
He stayed inside her, still stiff, for a few moments, then moved back and out of her slowly, gingerly, and turned over on his back, right leg dangling from the edge of the couch.
He took her hand in his own and again led it to his deflating prick. He pressed her fist tightly around it, and the reduction was halted. When he released, she once more lifted her hand and placed it on her belly, just below the navel. Semen dripped from her cunt in pearl white strands.
He turned to her, his hand seeking her cunt. Three fingers obtained immediate entrance. He began a steady and rhythmic plugging with the straightened fingers, and she responded to each stroke with a counterthrust of her own. At fist the manipulations were mechanical and obligatory, but as the moments went on she became absorbed in the progress of the act. His left hand played with her breasts, kneading and remolding the flesh while the red-brown tits grew stiff under the pressure. His thumb soothed the outer folds of her cunt, and she was slick again with her own juices as well as from his expenditure in her.
Suddenly she began to jerk spasmodically. He mounted her quickly and gracefully and rammed his cock against the outer crease of raw pink skin. Her body surged forward and he thrust into her. She began to cum just before he started to, so that she was limp in his arms as he climaxed, squirting the heavy water up toward her stomach, now heaving with frantic breaths.
He cradled her in his arms. Cum seeped from between her legs onto the couch. He had pulled out of her immediately this time. His cock was now weak and small, suspended from his crotch like an unfilled balloon. He held her too tightly; he was obviously, she thought, trying to convey an impression of warmth the gallant thing to do in most cases, but it irritated her.
Still, she reasoned, who was using whom? This Jack was just a man she picked up at her most fertile time, the father of her child. Was the child conceived tonight? She hoped so. She didn't want to do this again, to go through this again. To be with a man – that was too degrading.
She had closed her eyes. She heard sounds of stirring, then felt the cushions of the couch move with his weight. She opened her eyes to see him kneeling by the couch; his head leaning forward, perpendicular to her body. His head blocked her crotch from view, and in a moment she felt the cool lapping of his tongue over her mound. He was sucking on the thin filament, his tongue tip teasing the clitoral range. His thumbs dug into the hollows of her inner thighs and pushed the soft meat inward toward the bone, the fingernails scratching at the skin ever so slightly.
He tasted the semen he had sprayed inside her, her cunt wet and thick with the fluid. His lips pressed into her clit, pressured by his front teeth. He dug hard at her, and friction was increased by the thick pubic net. At first she lay there passive, but after a while she turned her hips from side to side, as if nervous.
She brought one knee up closer toward her stomach and then bent the leg. That leg kicked out, and now she bent her other leg. She rubbed the soles of both feet into the couch, as if she were bicycling.
Now she began to participate in earnest. She pressed both hands over his sandy-haired head and pulled him toward her. His head bobbed up and down, wildly. Her own body pulsed in violent reaction. Her right leg curled around his neck, and both legs were unsteady, threatening to shoot out into the air. Her nails dug into his neck and sent him almost biting into her cunt. With that she let herself go and came in a half-dozen slow and draining bumps and rinds.
He had assumed she would stay the night, but she asked him afterwards to take her home. He seemed surprised, and she apologized. Poor bastard, she said to herself, doesn't know he's the one who's been had.
He walked her upstairs to her apartment, but she did not invite him in. He kissed her good-night, and she felt his rod enlarge as he pressed against her. She did not want to do it again. Twice was enough. He asked her for her phone number. She hedged and hawed. "Well, if you don't want to…" he began, expecting her to jump in to fill the void.
"I just don't think it would work out," she said, extending her hand. He did not seem overly disappointed, but in the next week he came by twice. One time she was there, the other time he left a note. Finally she managed to discourage him, however, and she was left alone.
Six weeks later she found out for sure that she was pregnant.