Roger awoke slowly Saturday morning, as if he were gaining awareness by degrees. His temples throbbed agonizingly, and there was a chalky, almost lacquered taste in his mouth. He groaned slightly, raising one hand to shield his tightly closed eyes against the bright, grayish light of dawn which burned against the lids. He rolled onto his side, facing away from the window, and his hand reached out instinctively to search for the warm, pliant body of his wife. It touched only cool, empty sheet.
His eyes fluttered open then, and a nauseous feeling centered in his stomach. Diane? he thought dimly. Diane, where…?
Suddenly, last night came rushing back to him with crystal clarity. He groaned miserably, rolling onto his back again. The sheet slid away from his naked body to expose the satiated limpness of his cock. He lay there, reliving the scene with Marcus Cord in the Pig and Whistle, his subsequent beer-and-lust provoked handling of his genitals during the drive home, his insane bursting into the kitchen with his cock gripped in his hand, his wanton, perverse lust rape of his wife on the kitchen floor…
Oh Christ, I completely lost my head! he thought with personal loathing. I must have gone berserk to have… have done those things last night! I must be sick… Nobody acts that way, not even when he's denied the love and the gratification he has every right to expect in his marriage. He doesn't turn into a ravaging savage, a primitive Neanderthal. He doesn't force his wife to suck his cock in a pile of broken dishes and scattered silverware, and then go down on her like some demented beast, and then rape her body like a two bit whore…
Roger groaned again and sat up in bed. Fire raged in his temples, and caused red-tinged agony to explode in back of his eyes. How many times had he fucked her, lying there on the kitchen floor? How many times had he ripped into her sweat-slick body, flooding that soft, tight cunt of hers with a reservoir of hot, sticky cum? He couldn't remember, didn't want to remember… But it was all there, vivid, in his mind. And there, too, was the recollection of the feeling of helpless guilt and shame which had finally engulfed him, and the whiningly soft apologies he had begun to whisper into her ears as he gently moved above her. Forgive me, darling, forgive me! he had cried to her, endeavoring to elicit the faintest response of absolution from her. But it had been useless; she had only lain unmoving beneath him, her eyes squeezed shut in horror and degradation, mewling with pain and fear until he had pulled out of her. And when he had lifted her tenderly in his arms and carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed, she had only remained as rigid as a block of beautifully crafted marble. Spent, still a little drunk, he had fallen asleep then with his arm protectively cast across her smooth, sperm-sticky stomach…
Roger swung his feet off the bed and crossed to the closet and put on his heavy terrycloth bathrobe. He wouldn't blame her if she left him now, if she divorced him, even if she brought criminal charges against him. He deserved it.
He went to the bedroom door and opened it. The apartment was silent. Had she already gone? Had she fled the house sometime during the night, gone home to her parents in Menlo-Atherton? Oh God, God…
He went along the hallway and pushed open the bathroom door. The nausea was strong in his stomach now, and not all of it was due to his hangover. He knew he was going to be sick. He leaned over the toilet, and his stomach convulsed; it all came boiling out of him in a rush, but when he was finished, and had rinsed out his mouth, he only felt worse than he had before.
He left the bathroom and opened the door to the kitchen. Diane was there. She sat at the table, staring blankly into a cup of coffee, her blonde hair tousled and her beautiful body encased in a thick chenille robe. She didn't look up as he entered. He stood just inside the door, his eyes moving in surprise over the kitchen expanse. It was spotless! She had cleaned up the broken dishes, the silverware, had waxed the linoleum until it shone brightly and there were no signs remaining of the carnal insanity of the previous night.
Roger's heart went out to her, sitting there so small, so fragile, so defenseless. "Diane…" he began, but her name stuck in his throat. He tried again. "Diane, darling…"
She lifted her head to look at him then, and he felt a cold, viscid chill move along his spine and settle between his shoulder blades. Her eyes were filled with sheer and undiluted contempt, with utter revulsion. "Well," she said in a voice which fairly dripped acid, "Good morning, Roger. I trust you slept well after last night's marvelous evening. I know you had such a lovely time, such a heavenly experience."
"Oh, God, Diane," Roger moaned. "Please, darling, don't make it any worse than it is. You can't know how bad I feel…"
"How bad you feel?" Diane threw back her head and laughed without any trace of humor. "You? And what about me? How do you suppose I feel, Roger? How do you suppose any woman feels after being raped by her own husband, after being forced to perform foul, disgusting acts of perversion, after being a… a receptacle for pure loveless lust?"
"Diane, I… I don't know what to say except that I… I'm…"
"Sorry? Well, that's just fine, isn't it? You're sorry, and that makes everything all right again. Last night just didn't happen…"
The pain in Roger's head was intense now. He felt anger replace some of the remorse and shame within him at her condescending tone. Who the Goddamn hell did she think she was acting so righteous? It was her fault that the whole thing had happened, wasn't it? If she had been a wife, a lover, instead of a cold fish then there would have been no necessity for desperate methods. "Listen," he said in a controlled voice, "just what the hell…"
The telephone rang.
Roger started convulsively at the sudden sound, his eyes turning toward the instrument on the wall near the drainboard. It rang again. Diane brought her gaze back to her coffee and sat motionless, staring into the flowered china cup once more, not caring whether or not the ringing phone was answered.
Roger moved finally, walking around the table to where the phone was situated and lifting the receiver from its hook. He said in a hoarse voice, "Hello?"
"Rog?" a deep, masculine voice asked. "This is Marc Cord."
"Oh… hi, Marc."
"How are you feeling this morning?"
"Well, I…" Roger began, and then said, "Just fine, Marc, just fine."
"Good, good." Cord's voice took on a conspiratorial quality. "Me, too, if you know what I mean. You remember Millie?"
"Millie?"
"The waitress at the Pig and Whistle," Cord said. "Man oh man, is she something else! She gave me a head job with a vibrator under her chin."
Roger winced. He was unable to answer.
"Listen, the reason I called, why don't you and Diane come on over around noon instead of tonight? We'll make a day out of it. Cindy makes a hell of a rum cocktail."
Roger looked toward the still, rigid figure of his wife. "Marc, I don't think…"
"Bring your swimming suits," Cord interrupted jovially. "It's going to be a hot day over here, and we'll just lie around the pool."
"Marc…"
"See you around noon," Cord said, and rang off.
Roger stood there holding the dead phone. Damn Cord! He never gave you a chance to say anything, to agree or disagree. He just commanded, and you were supposed to jump… Well, what the hell? Roger thought suddenly. That was how the man had gotten where he was today, wasn't it? That was how he was able to score so easily and so proficiently with the women, wasn't it? Involuntarily, Roger found himself thinking about Cord's words concerning Millie, the Pig and Whistle waitress. He wondered what it would be like to have a woman's soft mouth engulfing his cock, while pressing an electric vibrating massager beneath her chin. Christ, that would be something, all right! He felt his prick leap with a renewed burst of desire beneath his robe…
No, no, he just couldn't think about sexual things this morning, not after what he had done, what he had become, last night! With a small cry, he whirled, putting such thoughts out of his mind. He looked at his wife, still sitting quietly and staring into her cup.
"Diane," he said, "Honey, we… we've been invited over to Marc Cord's for the day. He wants us there around noon…"
Diane's head jerked up and she glared at him. "I don't care whose house we've been invited to!" she flared. "I'm not going anywhere with you today! I don't want to be seen with you!"
"Honey, please, you don't understand…"
"I'm not going, Roger, and that's all there is to it!"
Roger felt a small tinge of panic. He had to keep that date with Cord today, there was no graceful way he could beg off. And he couldn't go alone. How would that look? No, Diane had to go with him. Cord was the type of man you had to stay on the right side of, the type of man you didn't want angry at you; he was ruthless, and he wouldn't hesitate to ruin somebody who displeased him, who didn't fit in with his plans for advancement.
This General Office Manager's position was what Roger had been hoping for, the big break, the major stepping stone toward full and complete monetary and business security. He couldn't afford to let his wife, or one crazy drunken night, destroy what he had worked and saved and planned so long to achieve.
He sat down at the table next to Diane. "Look, Diane," he said as calmly, as rationally, as he could – even though he was emotionally wrought up inside, "Please listen to me for a moment. Before I… came home last night, Marc Cord and I had a long talk. He offered me one of the top managerial positions in his section of the company. It's maybe double my present salary – double! Do you realize what this means, honey? No more duplex living, no more scrimping and saving. We can buy that split-level down the peninsula we've always talked about, we can get you a new wardrobe, a car. We can live in solid comfort."
Diane said nothing, but she was looking at him now.
Roger took this as a positive sign. He went on quickly, "I've got the job, Diane, without reservations. But Marc is a funny sort, and if we don't show up at his place today he's liable to take it as a personal slight. That's the way he is. And he's just as liable to retract his offer, to give that position to someone else. Do you see now? We have to go. I… I regret what happened last night more than you can possibly believe, and I'm going to do everything I can to make it up to you. So please, honey, please don't let one terrible mistake spoil everything we've always wanted, everything we've built together. Don't let it spoil our marriage. Please, Diane."
There were tears forming in the corners of her eyes now, and he knew his pleading words had had a definite affect on her. She moistened her pale, unmade lips with the tip of her tongue. Then, almost spasmodically, she nodded.
Roger felt a certain elation. "You'll go?" he asked.
"Yes," she whispered softly, averting her eyes again. "God knows why, but I'll go."
He stood and went to her and tentatively put his arm about her shoulders. She shrank away. "Don't touch me, Roger!" she said. "Please don't touch me! I'll go with you today, because you're my husband and because I'm not cruel enough to try to hurt you like you've hurt me, but don't expect me to be warm and responsive to you. Not now, not for a long time, maybe… maybe not ever again!"
She stood abruptly and pushed through the door, leaving Roger alone in the kitchen. He stood by the table, hearing her words in his brain. Don't expect me to be warm and responsive to you. Not now, not for a long time, maybe… maybe not ever again! He felt a resurgence of the anger he had known just before Cord's telephone call, and he clenched his fists tightly together.
When were you ever warm and responsive to me, you damned iceberg! he thought viciously. Again! That was the key words again! Christ, could she really believe she'd ever been a passionate, normal woman? Could she really put all of the blame for last night squarely on his shoulders?
He repressed the desire to rush in after her and put voice to these thoughts. There was the upcoming day with Marc and Cindy Cord to consider. In the interests of preserving as much harmony as possible, he had best leave well enough alone for now. It wouldn't do for Cord to sense any kind of rift between the two of them. Knowing that bastard, Roger thought, why, it wouldn't be surprising if… if he tried to move in on Diane!
That thought struck Roger as being rather funny, and he smiled. Wouldn't he be in for a surprise if he did? Wouldn't he, indeed? She'd slap him silly, that's what she'd do. Oh sure, there was that undeniable attraction she had exhibited for Cord's magnetic maleness on that single occasion of their meeting, but knowing Diane as he did, she would never allow – hell, would never even consider – any extramarital fun-and-games. Not with that ice-cold body and mind of hers.
Roger took four aspirin and an Alka-Seltzer for his hangover, and then went in to take a hot shower before dressing to leave for Marcus Cord's.
The Cord home was near the crest of a sloping, eucalyptus-bordered drive in Peacock Gap – one of Marin County's most affluent communities – just outside of San Rafael. It was constructed of heavy redwood, with a lot of glass and a field-stone facade; long and low and sprawling, it lay nestled back from the road some hundred yards, behind a tastefully landscaped yard that included bottlebrush and Joshua trees. The heady, redolent scent of the Burmese honeysuckle which grew abundantly over an arbored porch filled the warm, balmy afternoon air.
Diane sat with her body pressed tightly against the door on the passenger side of the Plymouth as Roger made the turn into the curving macadam drive. She hadn't spoken since they'd left San Francisco, had simply sat with her hands folded carefully in the lap of her flowery summer dress, staring out through the windshield and not looking at her husband at all. Her mind kept reverting back to the events of last night, to the unspeakable, cankerous indignities she had suffered at the hands of this man whom she had vowed to love and to honor and to cherish until death did them part. Why? she asked herself silently, for perhaps the thousandth time since it had happened. What had turned sweet, kind, gentle Roger Slater, the boy she had fallen in love with, into a savage creature of the primordial jungles? Was it, as he had screamed into her pain-deafened ears in that carnal kitchen, all her fault? No, no, how could he blame her? How could it be her fault? How could he expect her to throw off the shackles of her parentally instilled apprehensions at marital sex practically overnight? Learning to accept, to enjoy, to believe in, physical love took time; and it took patience, trust, love and gentle understanding. God knew, she wanted to be the kind of wife Roger expected her to be. She really did. At least she had until last night. Now… well, now she wasn't sure, she just wasn't sure. She didn't know what she wanted now at all. She was so confused, so mixed up, so hurt by his violent attack – the final, most outrageous attack in a long series which traced back to her wedding night, and even beyond that to Lookout Drive – that she was still unable to project her thoughts toward any rational conclusion…
Roger brought the car to a stop behind Cord's dark green Jaguar XKE, which was parked before the open doors of a large, separated two-car garage. No sooner had he shut off the engine than Marcus Cord walked around the rear of the house on a crushed shell path. He wore a pair of tight yellow swimming trunks, and his bronzed, hard-muscled body glistened with a recent application of sun oil. His salt-and-pepper hair was damp from swimming, and he carried a tall frosted glass in one hand. Looking at him, Diane felt a small, reflexive shudder of fascination move briefly along her spine. Lord, but he was a handsome, appealing man! She had thought so when she'd first met him that night in front of Roger's office building. He had a certain… allure which captivated her, which made her somehow want to blush girlishly and avert her eyes. She watched him approach the car, moving easily, with almost feline fluidity, the strong muscles rippling along his thighs and chest, the hard, bas relief outline of his manhood straining at the thin material of his swim trunks…
Diane did avert her eyes then. Self-deprecatingly, she thought: Oh, God, how can I think about Marcus Cord that way, think about his maleness, his attractiveness? How after last night can I ever harbor any physical thoughts about any man?
Cord reached the car just as Roger stepped out. The two men shook hands, and Diane heard Cord say, "Good to see you, Rog boy. How was the traffic coming over?"
"Not bad," Roger answered.
"Hey," Cord said, looking in through the wind-shield at where Diane sat primly on the front seat, "You're not going to leave that beautiful wife of yours sitting in there all by her lonesome, are you?"
"Oh… no, of course not." Roger came quickly around the car and opened the passenger door. He offered his hand. Diane had a fleeting urge to refuse the proffered assistance, but then she took it and allowed Roger to help her out of the car.
Standing on the macadam, she smoothed the thin cotton material of her dress along her waist and thighs and smiled politely at Cord. Roger said, "You remember my wife, don't you, Marc? Diane?"
"Indeed I do!" Cord was beaming, and Diane felt faintly uncomfortable under his steady, open scrutiny. "How are you, Diane?"
"Just fine, thank you."
"Good, good!" Cord enthused. "Come on around to the pool, kids. I want you to meet my better half." He winked. "Or so she says, anyway."
Diane walked beside Roger, following Cord along the crushed shell path and around to a large, redwood-fenced patio. The path ended in a long, narrow grotto, floored with more of the crushed shells and fronting a green-tiled, L-shaped swimming pool with clear, still water. Three tall eucalyptus tree grew beyond it, just inside that section of fencing.
The grotto contained several brightly colored lounge chairs and chaise longues and two white-metal tables with barber-striped beach umbrellas shading them from center poles. At one of the tables sat a tall, willowy woman with short jet black hair, wearing a brilliant cobalt blue bandanna bikini. A frosted glass identical to Cord's was clasped in one slim hand. She was as bronzed as her husband, with a smooth taut stomach and fine high breasts barely concealed in the narrow strip of her suit top; no whiteness showed at all on the plentiful amount of bare bosom which was exposed. The bottom section outlined the tight, slightly protruding pubic mound, revealed her full rich thighs, and then tucked into the crevice between her globular buttocks, leaving the brown curve of her hips almost completely nude.
That's a rather scandalous outfit, Diane thought critically, a little prudishly. It was certainly much more daring than her own relatively skimpy two-piece paisley swimsuit, which was in the large straw handbag she carried. Why, it shows… well, almost everything she has; it doesn't leave much of anything to the imagination. Of course, this is her house and her pool and she can dress however she chooses – but it hardly seems the most conventional attire for receiving guests she's never previously met.
The woman stood as they approached, smiling in a bold, easy way. Cord went to her and put his arm about her waist, letting his fingers splay familiarly on the satiny surface of her almost naked hip. "Roger and Diane Slater," he said convivially, "This is my wife, Cindy. The wildest little woman north of the Golden Gate Bridge." He winked at her. "HELL, and south, east and west of it, too!"
Cindy moved her body closer to his approvingly, rubbing her bare flesh against him like a purring cat. Then she stepped forward and took Diane's hand, coolly, briefly. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Slater," she said in a throaty tenor.
"It's a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Cord."
Cindy pivoted her body to Roger and took his hand. "Well, well, so you're Roger Slater," she purred. "Marc's told me so much about you."
Roger grinned. "All of it good, I hope."
"Very good," Cindy said. Her cool gray eyes appraised him in an almost predatory way, and Diane saw that his eyes seemed to be caressing her jutting breasts. They were still touching hands. Roger finally released the clasp, but as if with a great reluctance.
"Well, Rog?" Cord asked. "Can I pick them, or can I pick them?"
"You can certainly pick them!" Roger agreed ardently.
Diane felt uncomfortable. What was the matter with Roger? she thought. He was acting like a school boy, looking at Cindy's exposed bosom like that and holding onto her hand so long. Not that she was any better! "Marc's told me so much about you!" and standing there showing off her body like a common tramp…
She realized Marc Cord was speaking to her, and her eyes flicked up to meet his. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cord," she said. "What did you say?"
"Marc," he answered. "None of this 'Mr. Cord' stuff. Marc and Cindy, Roger and Diane. Okay?"
"Okay."
"What I asked was, did you kids bring your suits? It's a great day for swimming."
"And for drinking rum cocktails," Cindy added, still looking at Roger.
"Sure," Cord said. "And for drinking rum cocktails."
"Well, yes, yes, we did," Diane told him. "Bring our suits, I mean."
"Fine! I'll show you where to change. Cindy'll have a couple of tall ones made for you when you come back. Won't you, honey?"
"Certainly."
Cord, taking Cindy's hand, led Roger and Diane across the width of the patio to where a redwood door was set into a covered sun porch, flanked on both sides by long, bamboo-shaded windows. There was a compact bar at one end of the porch inside, and a large blue-and-gold tweed couch, and several comfortable-appearing chairs. Cindy went immediately to the bar and began to blend rum and Bacardi mix into a tall pitcher. Cord indicated an archway leading into the interior of the house proper, to where a closed door was situated. "Dressing room's in there, kids."
Roger nodded. "Thanks, Marc." And then to Diane, "Come on, honey."
She followed him into the dressing room. When he had shut the door, she took his swimsuit, rolled in a towel, from her purse and handed it to him. Then, she went primly into the partitioned cubicle at one end to change. She saw him scowl darkly as she did – he obviously didn't approve of her modesty – but she certainly wasn't about to strip naked in front of him after last night; especially not when he, too, would be nude. She simply couldn't bare to look at that impossibly huge member of his again, even in a state of flaccidity.
She undressed, folding her summer dress and underthings carefully, and slipped into the paisley two-piece. It fit her snugly, accentuating the firm, generous hills and valleys of her alabaster body. Looking down at her planed stomach and her tapering thighs and calves, she felt a painful vulnerability – as if she were somehow like the almost assuredly wanton Mrs. Cindy Cord. But she forced that consideration from her mind, and stepped out of the cubicle. Even if she wasn't having a good time, she had to pretend that she was enjoying herself; and she couldn't do that if she was constantly worrying about her partially undraped body.
Roger looked at her with critical approbation but said nothing. She allowed him to take her arm, and they went out to the sun porch again. Cord and his wife were sitting side by side on the tweed couch; two frosted tumblers filled with chipped ice sat next to the now-full pitcher on a woven rattan table in front of them.
Cord stood up and favored Diane with a profligate smile as his eyes traveled the width and breadth of her creamy body. He emitted a long, low, appreciative whistle. "Well, now, aren't you something, Diane!"
She blushed under his frank examination. "T-thank you," she said in a faltering tone, lowering her eyes.
"You've got a beautiful, desirable woman there, Rog," Cord said. "You're a lucky man."
"Yes, a lucky man," Roger answered, but there was an undeniable note of bitterness in his voice that was painfully apparent to Diane.
"Let's have a drink," Cindy said, rising from the couch. She poured the two tumblers full of the pale, golden rum concoction.
"Good idea," Cord agreed earnestly. He picked up the full glasses and handed one to Roger and one to Diane. "Drink hearty, kids. There's plenty more where these came from."
Diane tasted hers responsively. The liquid was tart, without much alcohol taste at all, and really very refreshing; she didn't care for liquor much, and she was glad she wouldn't have to pretend to like the drinks, that she could compliment her host and hostess on them genuinely. She noticed that Roger had taken a long swallow from his glass, and was licking his lips. "Very good!" he said enthusiastically, beaming at Cindy.
"Thank you sir," she replied, dimpling prettily.
Cord suggested then that they all go out near the pool. Cindy carried the pitcher of rum cocktails, and they took up residence at one of the white metal tables. The men began to talk business, discussing things like Roger's proposed new duties and advancement possibilities, and the women were soon completely ignored. Diane felt ill at ease, and at first Cindy made little effort to alter her discomfort; Diane noticed that Mrs. Cord's eyes periodically flashed to Roger, as if she were fascinated by him somehow.
Having nothing better to do, Diane finished her drink. Cord interrupted his conversation with Roger to pour her glass full and wink at her. Dutifully, in an effort to salvage something of the afternoon for herself, Diane promptly drank that second drink down immediately – only to have Cord refill the glass once more. The rum began to take its toll, and she experienced at first a general physical loosening of her body; the tenseness left her, and she felt completely relaxed. Then some of her mental cautiousness began to disappear, and, surprisingly, she found herself beginning a conversation with Cindy, telling her how much she liked the house and surroundings. A rapport seemed to build between the two women, and soon they were discussing the latest fashions and what it would be like to take a round-the-world cruise.
Diane finished her third drink, and Cord quickly refilled her glass. She giggled, looking at Roger as she thanked Marc for his graciousness. Her husband's face was slightly flushed, and he was grinning crookedly. She realized that he, too, had had quite a few of the rum drinks. But she didn't care, not at all; she was beginning to enjoy herself now. She felt giddy and light headed, almost carefree. She was glad they'd come. Cindy wasn't half as bad as she had first thought, and Marc Cord was a very nice, very handsome, very urbane man whom she found herself liking more and more.
Roger wiped a hand across his perspiring forehead. "Whew," he said, "is it getting hotter, or is it just me?"
Cord grinned. "A little of both. Why don't you go for a swim, Rog?"
"Good idea. I think I will." He looked at Diane. "Want to come in with me?"
She shook her head, nuzzling her full glass. "Not just now," she answered. She really didn't care that much for the water, and besides, she was too relaxed – almost euphoric – sitting where she was.
"Why don't you join Rog, honey?" Cord suggested to Cindy. "You look a little warm yourself."
"Hot would be a better word," Cindy said with an inference that escaped Roger, and certainly eluded Diane. She stood up, running her hands provocatively down her smooth, bronzed sides. "Shall we, Roger?"
"After you, fair lady," Roger said gallantly, slurring the words a little.
Cindy trotted over to the edge of the pool and made a shallow, graceful dive into the long end of the L. She surfaced, tossing her wet black hair like a silky, curvaceous jungle cat. "Come on!" she urged Roger, who had padded up to the pool edge and was testing the temperature with one foot. "The water's fine!" She splashed a handful up at him, laughing; he pulled back, grinned lopsidedly, and then surged forward in an awkward, inelegant belly flop. Cindy howled convulsively and splashed him again as he broke surface, spitting water.
She swam expertly over to him and he could feel her body almost touching him as she treaded water. Goddamn, she was a fine, choice piece! I'll bet she's not cold and frigid in bed, he thought. I'll bet she's one hell of a fuck, all right. Cord wouldn't have a cold fish for a wife, not him; he'd have a hot, cock-sucking, wild-fucking woman, that's what he'd have and by God, that's almost surely what he's got!
Roger felt a tingling sensation at the base of his cock as desire coursed through him feverishly. He wanted to reach out to Cindy, to grab her, to… Oh Christ, calm down, will you, Slater? That's your new boss's wife you're thinking about like that! Ease off. Yeah, and ease off on the booze, too. The last thing you need now is a repeat performance of last night; that would really foul things up beautifully, wouldn't it?
Cindy said, "Come on, Roger, I'll race you around to the shallow end."
"Okay," he answered automatically. Well, there was no harm in that, was there?
"Let's go!"
They set off. Cindy was a good swimmer and won the race easily. She was waiting for him, hands on her hips, as he reached her. Delighted, girlish laughter bubbled from her lips as he struggled through the water, pummeling it almost to a froth with awkward slapping strokes. He gained his feet, only to have Cindy put both of her slim hands on top of his head and duck him under. He reached out involuntarily as he was thrust beneath the surface to grab hold of her slim, firm waist and pull her off her feet. She gasped, flailing out for a moment, and then she too slid beneath.
The water at this shorter section of the L was only some four feet deep, and the formation of the pool hid their bodies partially from view of the grotto. As they thrashed about beneath the water, Roger felt Cindy's hand come in electric contact with his thigh, brushing along it only inches from his crotch. It seemed to linger there for a moment, and then move away. The surge of desire shot through him again, and he had to repress an urge to grasp the firm swelling mounds of her tits and ass as they cavorted. Her touch on his thigh had been an accident, of course… or had it?
They bobbed up, in water a little deeper so that their heads were almost the only parts of their anatomies visible as they stood on the pool bottom. Cindy was nearly as tall as he, and her eyes were on a level with his. She stood very close to him, her breasts almost touching his chest, her lips parted moistly with the tip of her pink, wet tongue showing.
"Are you having a good time, Roger?" she half whispered.
"Yes," he answered. His voice sounded strangely hoarse. "Yes, I'm having a fine time, Cindy."
"I'm glad. I want you to enjoy yourself."
The inside of Roger's mouth was dry. He wished she wouldn't stand so close to him, so close that he could smell the woman odor of her. Jesus, he had half a hard-on already at the touch of her hand…
"Let's play some more!" Cindy said suddenly, grabbing him and pushing him off balance. Again, they both ducked under. Roger twisted his body, feeling her surge against him, and then… and then her fingers brushed over the front of his suit, tracing the outline of his cock. They lingered there, massaging gently, gently, caressing with an almost maddening slowness that sent wild, burning ripples of passion flooding through his belly and brought his prick leaping into instant erection…
Roger's mouth opened in a reflexive gasp, and pool water poured into his throat, gagging him. He coughed spasmodically, fighting his way to the surface, spitting and hacking. Cindy came up with him, standing very close to him now, the hot firebrands of her near-naked breasts touching his chest. "Did you like that, honey?" she breathed.
"L-like what?" he managed confusedly.
"Oh come on now," Cindy purred. "You know what I mean."
"No, n-no, I…"
"This," she said, and suddenly her hand was on his hardening penis again, stroking it lightly beneath the water. She chuckled huskily. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Roger honey. Pretending you didn't know what I meant when I just made that lovely cock of yours as hard as granite. You really do have a big one, too. I was hoping you would."
Roger's brain reeled. He couldn't believe this was happening! Cord's wife… playing with his prick… saying words which could only mean one thing, that she wanted him to fuck her… Jesus, her fingers on him were like broiling hot irons, inflaming his loins until lust consumed his very being…
His eyes flew guiltily toward the grotto, where Diane and Cord were still sitting at the white metal table. They weren't looking this way now, but if Marc should see what was going on… There was no telling what he would do! Surely, he would never give him, Roger, that promotion; he might even become violent…
Cindy's nimble, burning fingers continued to caress his rigid shaft, sliding down to oscillate back and forth across his swelling balls as she ground her soft tits against his chest. Her lips were parted, and she kept running her wet, hot tongue back and forth across them; her breath was fervid and sweet and ragged in his face, her eyes lidded with her own sensual appetites.
Roger knew he should pull back away from her, end this impossible scene before it reached the point of no return – but the salacious pleasure of her expert ministrations rendered him frozen, incapable of motion. What's the matter with her? he thought wildly. She must be crazy! Some kind of nymphomaniac! Playing with a man's cock less than a hundred feet from her husband, a man she's only just met…
"I'm going to take it out now," Cindy panted into his face. "I want to hold your big thing in my hand, honey."
"Jesus Christ, Cindy…" he wheezed.
"It's all right, honey, don't worry."
"What about Marc? What about my wife…?"
"They can't see us from where they are," Cindy moaned. "Just relax, honey, relax and enjoy it."
Dexterously, her fingers slid upward to pull back the waistband of his trunks, back and down until his blood-raged member burst out and into the warm palm of her hand. She held it claspingly for a moment, making little animal sounds of abandoned joy deep in her throat, and then she began to stroke it gently, pushing the foreskin back, running her fingernails along the base of his cock, along the bloated sac of his balls. Roger felt the exquisite thrill of her manipulations bursting through his body, and suddenly he didn't care any more; he didn't care if Cord saw them, or if Diane saw them, or if the whole Goddamned world saw them. The only thing that mattered was Cindy, luscious, beautiful, desirable Cindy with her hand playing with his genitals under the water…
"Slide your trunks down all the way, honey," Cindy breathed. "Hurry!"
He obeyed mindlessly, pulling them down as fast as he could. She cupped his balls in her hand now, rubbing them back and forth, squeezing them very gently, making the cum build hot and explosive in his scrotum. He looked down at her hand through the wavy translucence of the water, watching her, reveling in the searing sensations of lewd enchantment. Suddenly, he saw her tug at the bottom of her own suit, pushing it down to expose the dark black silky triangle of her pubic mound, down over her bronzed thighs. And then she was moving forward, guiding him toward the edge of pool with her hand on his cock, turning so that her back was pressed against the tile lip.
"Do you want to fuck me, Roger, honey?" she whispered against his ear. "Do you want to put your cock in my cunt?"
"Yes!" he moaned. "Yes, yes!"
"All right, baby, all right."
She leaned back against the tile, bracing her body against it, bringing her legs up through the water and spreading them to encircle his waist. Then she steered his cock to her until he felt the swollen head touch the pubic hair and soft butter-like lips of her cunt. She moved the head up and down along her pink slit, undulating her hips in the water in a circular motion as she locked her legs tighter about him.
"Do you want me to put it in now?" she teased.
"Yes, Goddamn it, put it in, put it in!"
As if in obeyance, she thrust herself forward, skewering herself on his gigantic rod, burying it almost to the hilt in the warm, lubricious folds of her pussy. He gasped, and she gasped simultaneously, her hips still rotating, her hands coming up to grip him under the arms.
"Jesus Christ!" he said. "Oh Jesus Christ, Cindy!"
"Fuck me!" she hissed against his ear. "Roger honey, fuck me, fuck me!"
He dropped his hands to the quivering, oscillating moons of her buttocks, his fingers digging into the hot flesh. He began to fuck into her with long, hard lunges that received a momentum from the very depths of his toes. He felt an absolute power take hold of him in that moment, and he kneaded her ass with sadistic delectation. Harder and harder he drove his burgeoning shaft into her cunt, feeling her skewered on him in total subjection. He could feel the soft fleshy ridges deep inside her giving way before the relentless onslaught of his rampaging masculinity.
"Ooooooohhhhhhhhhhh!" she moaned against his ear, breathing liquid fire into the orifice. "Aaaaaa gggggghhhhhh, that's it, honey, that's ittttttttt!"
He strained his cock forward with all the strength of his hips and thighs, reveling in the forbidden act of which he was a part, deriving further sensations of lasciviousness from the knowledge of the nearness of his wife and his future boss. Oh God, oh Jesus, she was great, Cindy was beautiful, she was the best fuck he had ever had…!
She was moaning softly, incoherently now, her smooth velvety legs enveloping his waist in a death grip, her hips churning the water around them. The satiny folds of her vagina held him, squeezing tightly around his rigid column, milking it already of its first tentative dribblings of seminal lubrication. He knew she could feel every inch, every muscle and curve of his prick as she screwed her buttocks up tight against his pelvis. The bloated sac of his sperm-laden balls was pressed hard into the wet, wide-stretched crevice below her vaginal lips, and the soft, hair-covered skin danced maddeningly against the sensitive outer rings of her tiny, working anus. Shivers of wanton delight made her fuck him even harder, even more wildly.
There was nothing else in the world, the universe, for Roger at that very moment. He didn't see Marc and Diane stand in unison at the white metal table in the grotto, he didn't see her waver unsteadily, he didn't see Cord take her arm with a sly backward glance lead her toward the sun porch. Even if he had seen that, he wouldn't have cared. The only thing that existed for Roger Slater then was the boiling, surging flood of hot cum which was only seconds away from eruption in his ballooned testicles.
"Ooooooohhhhhhhh yessssssss, fuck it hard, baby, fuck it hard, fuck it hard, give it to meeeeeee!" Cindy wailed into his ear, her hips like a separate entity now, an entity gone mad as she twisted and contorted, opening her legs around his waist, squeezing them closed, endeavoring to ingest even more of his pistoning shaft into her belly.
Suddenly, she cried out, "Ohhhhh, God, baby, I'm… almost there, I'm… yes, yessssss, yessssssssss, aaaaaagggggggghhhhhh!"
Her body heaved toward his as the first delicious throes of her orgasm rocketed through her, spurring him on, locking him in. In that moment, he felt his own cum boil over, explode along the passage within his cock and burst from the widened opening in the glans like a volcanic eruption, flooding her inner cunt walls, the very core of her rapidly undulating belly, with surge after surge of the fiery white semen. She was mewling with total surrender, total lust-satiation, urging him incoherently never to stop filling her cunt with his wonderful hot seeds…
Finally he collapsed forward against her, pushing her back against the tiled edge of the pool. His prick began to deflate then, and slid out of her, trailing long sinuous strands of his cum like thin white sea kelp from her cunt. She stroked his face, smothering it with hot moist kisses. "Oh Christ, Roger, baby!" she breathed. "It was great, wasn't it? I just knew it would be!"
"Yes… yes, it was," Roger muttered. Half dazed by the tumultuous fucking he had just given, and in turn received, his eyes strayed dimly toward the grotto. For the first time, he saw that it was empty. "Diane…?" he began. "Where did she and Marc…?"
Cindy reached down to stroke his now flaccid prick gently. "Don't worry about them, honey. They're inside the house, where they can't see us."
Numbly, Roger nodded. It didn't occur to him in the aftermath of his satiated flesh to inquire why his wife and Marc Cord had gone into the house. Even now, the only thing that seemed to matter was this wild, wanton woman he had just screwed.
Cindy said, "Come on, honey, let's get out of the pool and go lie in the sun."
"What for?" he asked.
She laughed softly. "Because I think I can get you another hard-on, that's why. You'd like to fuck again, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," he answered. "God, yes!"
"If you're a good boy," Cindy giggled, rubbing his deflated penis lightly with the tips of her fingers, "I might even suck you off. Would you like me to suck your big cock, Roger?"
He felt his limp prick give a convulsive leap at the sound of her words, come half-erect again in her hand. She kissed him passionately. "See?" she said. "I told you I could make it hard again."
He heard himself say the words he was then thinking, "Oh Christ, Cindy, I want to lick your cunt. I want to lick your cunt while you suck my cock!"
Her hand tightened on him. "Then let's go!" she said, and, still holding onto his genitals, she led him to the tile steps at the shallow end of the pool.