It was noon and, except for the continuous soft purr of the refrigerator and an occasional drip from the bathroom faucet, the house was quiet.
Arlene was alone. Her son and daughter would be at Washington High School until midafternoon. At six her husband would arrive home from work. These next precious hours she had to herself.
Her hips began to undulate in anticipation of what would now begin. Her trembling fingers crawled across the taut flatness of her naked stomach. Beneath her the king-size mattress responded to her shifting weight.
Masturbation. Her own dirty little secret. Every time got wilder than the last, more wicked, more elaborate, more exhausting. At times she felt disgusted with herself. She was too old to waste half her afternoons engaged in lonely self-indulgence. It wasn't normal for a thirty-three-year-old housewife to have such overpowering sexual urges. Or was it? What about Madge down the block and Karen across the street. It was no secret that they were having extramarital affairs. And what about Barbara next door? Judging by the clothes she wore, you'd think she was a hustler. And once at a party she had emerged from a bedroom so mussed and disheveled that Arlene and everyone else watching knew what had happened. The mere thought of adultery made Arlene cringe. It was something she could never do. Never. Even though her afternoons were often spent in bed, her fingers playing havoc with her throbbing clitoris while she imagined various men pumping their hot sperm into her thirsty vagina, the concept of having a real penis stuffed up inside her seemed repulsive. The only cock she had ever had between her legs was her husband Hal's, the man she loved. And she was determined that his would always be the only one.
It wasn't Hal, though, who filled her mind at the moment. It was Ralph, a friend of her son's, a muscularly overdeveloped sixteen-year-old. It had been he who had bagged her groceries yesterday, and when he had helped her take the bags to her car their thighs had accidentally brushed against each other. The fleeting contact had meant nothing to Ralph, but Arlene had been dismayed to find upon arriving home with the groceries that her panties were soaked clear through. Though she had struggled to keep her arousal from surfacing, she had finally been forced to excuse herself from the dinner table and had gone into the bathroom where she had quieted her lust with ten minutes of vigorous masturbation.
Now she spread her legs wider and writhed, her bare body beginning to perspire slightly as her fingers neared her vagina. Scattered untidily on the pillow, her blonde hair reflected the thin stream of sunshine that leaked between the shutters.
In her fantasy, Ralph had come over for some undefined reason. She was alone in the house, but she had invited him in anyway. Almost immediately, she had smothered him with a wet, passionate kiss and whispered, "Fuck me!" in his ear. They had rushed into the bedroom, stripped naked and now lay side by side on the bed.
Arlene's mouth opened and she expelled a hot gasp as her finger touched lightly against the wet flesh along her clitoris. Her tongue lashed out and made several circles, dampening her lips. She closed her eyes, and whispered sexily, "Oh, Ralph!"
She worked the middle finger of her right hand into the juicy puffed-out lips of her pussy. Using the digit as a tiny phallus, she made rhythmic in and out strokes. Her left hand wandered up across her tightly drawn stomach to touch the undersides of her ample breasts. She pushed one breast up as far as she could, bowing her head down to it. Catching the hardened nipple between thumb and forefinger, she aimed the bud toward her face. Then, sticking her tongue out as far as she could, she managed to make contact with the tit. She felt a sexual tingle grow within her as she spread her saliva around the throbbing nipple.
Her thighs began to tremble, tightening and untightening as her steadily probing finger drove her to still higher states of arousal. She straightened her legs and spread them farther apart, curling her toes and feeling the silky bedspread tease her calves into sensual awareness.
Her finger… Ralph's finger… became more savage as it seesawed in and out of the now flooded vaginal passage. A very low, throaty moan came from deep within her, repeating itself every few seconds, growing louder and more intense as she worked herself into a fever of sexual abandon.
She pretended it was young Ralph sucking her breast and pinching her nipple into glorious hardness. She opened her hazy eyes and gazed at herself, watching her belly heave, watching her thighs quiver and perspire as her finger was swallowed again and again by her grasping cunt. It gave her lewd fascination to see the finger gobbled up by the hidden cave within the forest of coarse blonde hair. She imagined that Ralph was hovering above her, his brown eyes peering down at her wanton nudity, his cock hard and swollen and throbbing.
The normal Arlene – the shy, inhibited, proper housewife – was nowhere present. Afterward she would loathe herself for indulging in this juvenile hour of self-abuse. But right now she felt marvelously sexual, wonderfully whorish. Not too long from now she would be jerking all over the bed climaxing, and later she would hate herself, and tomorrow she would do it again because she couldn't help it.
"God!" she whispered. "God, it's so good!"
She stroked her cunt rapidly with her sex-lubricated finger. Each time she drove it in, her palm slapped against the upper part of her vagina, stimulating her swollen clitoris.
She knew it was time now, time to do those perverse things which excited her so much but made her feel so dirty afterward. She released her grip from the breast she'd been feeding into her mouth, allowing the tit to whip back into its natural position. Rolling onto her side while still finger-fucking her vagina, she reached out and opened the drawer of the nightstand. She probed to the backmost part of the drawer, shoving aside the various paperback books and cosmetics. Her fingers found the silk scarf. Wrapped inside were a phallic-shaped battery-powered massager and a candle two inches wide and ten inches long. After a short hesitation, she opted for the candle, leaving the massager hidden in the scarf where sometime soon – perhaps tomorrow – she would remove it and use it against her wet and pouting cunt lips and around the sensitive edges of her quivering clitoris.
While she extricated the candle from its hiding place, her finger played frantically within the sloppy wet recess of her vagina.
A lecherous smirk formed on her face as she gazed at the thick candle with lust-blurred eyes. She brought the candle slowly toward her mouth, her tongue lashing out, unable to make contact with the wax phallus because she deliberately held it just out of reach.
Between her legs, her hand was making energetic plunges into the sucking well of her vagina. Her legs were spaced so widely that the pressure on the inner portions of her muscular thighs was almost unbearable. But still she kept them painfully stretched because the exertion reflected the intensity of her lust.
She continued to fix her gaze on the flesh-colored candle. She envisioned that it was Ralph's penis, and the very nearness of it to her wide-spread lips sent her teetering on the edge of sexual insanity.
She began to breathe forcefully, heaving her belly outward while inhaling, squeezing in so tightly upon exhaling that her ribs showed vividly.
Too hot to delay any longer, she brought the candle down to her anxious lips. She pushed the instrument against her mouth. It was so thick that she had to stretch her lips to accommodate it, and once the waxy shaft entered her mouth she couldn't keep from scraping her teeth against it. She lavished great amounts of saliva on it and twirled her tongue around the semi-blunt end where the wick hung-out. Her jaws were forced open, straining the muscles around her ears. But she licked and sucked feverishly, gulping down the flood of saliva in an effort to keep from choking. The swampy folds of her cunt were likewise flooded, and she relished the delicious feel of her juices gushing out to dribble along her fingers, to saturate the hair around and below her pussy, to stream across her constricting buttocks and blemish the spread beneath her.
Feeling the walls of her vagina clutching madly at her lone finger, she knew that she could bring herself to orgasm without much more effort. She withdrew the candle from her mouth, giving it several circular sweeps with her agile tongue as it exited.
She removed her hand from between her legs, leaving her cunt to suck angrily at the sudden nothingness. But she didn't leave herself empty for long. Immediately she was on her knees facing the head of the bed. She waved one hand in the air rodeo-style for balance while clutching the massive candle in the other. She locked her ankles together as she positioned the candle with its base on the bed between her thighs and its wick end pointed straight up at her hotly aroused vagina.
Slowly she lowered herself. The end of the candle, wet with saliva, brushed against her vulva. She rose up again on her haunches, came down then until the wick tickled her clitoris, rose up, down, up. More moisture gathered at the entrance to her already saturated cunt. But wet as she was, she knew that it would be a delicate process getting the instrument inside her vagina. She had had the candle inside her dozens of times, and each required tender determination because her pussy had to stretch so much to accommodate the intruding wax object. But it was worth it, every time had been worth it. Every time had resulted in one or more heaving, draining climaxes, leaving her too weak to move.
She circled with her hips, the wick teasing her inflamed cunt lips. Lower. She felt the pressure of the wax surface against her flushed outer vagina. She sat down until the stress was too much to endure, then retreated slightly.
She kept the candle in place with her left hand, her arm bent behind her back, her wrist up under her buttocks. Her right hand came to rest just above her vagina, and with two fingers she tried to spread the opening enough to admit the candle.
As she squirmed against the wax vertex, the fingers of her right hand pressed her erect clitoris and caused her to groan hotly.
"Oh, Ralph!" she murmured, gazing passionately at the spot where Ralph's head would be had he actually been there. "Oh, Ralph, we shouldn't!"
She pretended that the youth was arching his hips toward her, that he was determined to sink his cock into her depths no matter how much discomfort it caused her.
In response to his imaginary lunges, Arlene lowered herself suddenly, feeling a storm of pain as the candle pressed her pussy lips inward, feeling a searing agony as her hot flesh was stretched and folded and several of her pubic hairs were violently uprooted.
She surrendered to the pain and backed off. Then she lowered herself with greater determination. The pain was less severe, and the entrance seemed to be more receptive, but still she had to retreat.
With a sudden mad frenzy of activity, she made sweeping circles with her hips, her firm breasts bouncing as she gyrated. While circling, she pressed downward. The end of the candle seemed to angle into her squirming cunt, and she was surprised at the absence of pain.
"Oh, oh!" she groaned from deep within her. "Oh, my God, it's in me!"
She then emitted a series of harsh, breathy gasps as she became accustomed to the feel of the foreign object inside her lewdly stretched cunt.
"Oh, Ralph, this is so wrong! I shouldn't let you… but, but… oh, God, let's fuck each other!" She whispered so lowly that she could scarcely hear her own words. She was madly excited by her hot utterances. She had never said those dirty words to anyone, not even to her husband in the heat of passion. But she said them freely during these afternoon sessions. She said them even though she felt ashamed afterward.
She lowered herself until her buttocks rested on her locked ankles. The candle eased its way deep within her vagina. She deliberately squeezed her vaginal muscles, imprisoning the staff in her moist well. She began to slowly ride up and down on the intruding shaft, gripping the candle tightly with her left hand as she did so.
Mewling outbursts of passion streamed from her parted lips. She rubbed briskly on her hard clitoris with her right hand, feeling the shivers of ecstasy pulse throughout her body. Trickling rivulets of perspiration made their way across her forehead, stinging her eyes and running along the edges of her dainty nose to her lips. Sweat flowed from between her breasts, from her buttocks and forearms, from her tense and straining back. She felt as though she were in a steam bath, even though the room temperature was comfortable.
Her toes clenched so tightly that she felt pain along the top part of her feet. Her heels dug into her buttocks as she sat down upon her crossed ankles, one heel splitting her ass and keeping the cheeks lewdly open. The lower part of the arm which held the candle was imprisoned between her left thigh and calf. The candle filled all of her vagina, spreading the inner walls as far as she thought possible. Her juices gathered more than ever within her throbbing cunt, oiling the wax surface so that it slid easily as she ground her pelvis downward.
Orgasm was a certainty. She could feel it approaching, her whole body quivering, her mind dead to everything but erotic sensations and lewd images, her clitoris tender and swollen.
"Ralph, Ralph, Ralph!" she chanted.
She churned, increasing her tempo.
Then she came, howling dementedly as she did.
Faster and faster she rocked on the candle and flicked at her clitoris with her finger until a second and third spasm rocked her. A fourth and fifth in rapid succession. More, one spasm every second, each seeming more powerful than the last.
"Oh, fuck it, Ralph! Fuck it really hard!" she screamed.
Sweat bathed her entire body now. Her eyes, glazed, fixed heatedly on the imaginary boy lover. She threw herself forward, her hands abandoning their previous positions and stretching far above her head as she lay stiffly on her stomach. Her fingernails dug brutally into a pillow, her tits throbbed against the bedspread. She kept her legs widely spaced as she ground her cunt into the sweat-soaked bedspread, the candle remaining lodged inside her quaking channel. She drew her ass tightly inward, forming dimples on the outer sides of the cheeks.
"Oouu, ohh! There, there!" she cried.
Then the contractions of her vagina began slowly to diminish in intensity, and a minute later she was gasping in the stunned aftermath, satiated and unmoving, whimpering softly.
Tears filled her eyes, and five minutes later she was sobbing.
She felt empty, alone, ashamed, disgusted. Fifteen minutes ago she had masturbated to orgasm, but that wasn't what troubled her most. A simple, swift fingering of her vagina to bring on the physical release her body craved – that wouldn't have been so terrible. But she hadn't been satisfied with so simple an act. She had conjured up in her mind the fantasy that her son's friend was fucking her, fucking her better than her husband ever had. And that seemed dirty and perverse, even though in actuality she would never let the boy, Ralph, so much as touch her. If he ever made even the mildest of advances toward her she would slap his impudent face and banish him forever from her son's company. Of course, it wasn't a likely occurrence since Ralph was the politest of Bill's friends and had never indicated any sexual interest in either Arlene or her daughter.
Arlene showered.
Afterward she felt cleansed and absolved of wrongdoing. She was somehow able to drive all thoughts of her recent transgression from her mind. It had to be that way, because if she continued to dwell on the disquieting matter of her daily self-abuse, she would be unable to function normally. She had to go on living. She was Arlene French, Hal's wife – Mrs. Harold W. French – and she had a designated role in life. Faithful spouse. Respectable housewife. Dedicated mother. After dressing modestly in slacks and blouse and pinning her blonde hair behind her neck, she began her housework. She washed the dishes, vacuumed the carpet, planned the dinner for that night.
It was just before her son and daughter arrived home from high school that Arlene found the brown legal-size envelope. It had been tucked between two seldom read volumes on the top shelf of the bookcase. If she hadn't accidentally jarred one of the books loose while dusting, the envelope would not have been exposed. Now she examined it with trembling fingers. Even before she opened the unsealed flap, she knew what was inside. Money. And she knew it was stolen. Money stolen from her husband's office. It wasn't the first such envelope she had happened upon. There had been two others, one containing two-hundred dollars in twenties, another holding two fifty-dollar bills. Now she stared at this third envelope, fearful of what its contents might be, remembering how strange Hal's voice had sounded when he tried to relate matter-of-factly that money was missing from the office. Even then, Arlene had suspected. A dark, terrible hunch was followed two days later by the first envelope – the first evidence? She wanted to ask him why, but she couldn't. She could no more speak to her staunchly proper husband about his crime than she could tell him about her masturbation. She nervously squeezed the envelope open and counted five-hundred dollars worth of tens and twenties. She returned the cash to its secret place, arranging the books so that the bulging envelope could not be noticed.
Ten minutes later, Arlene was still shaking. She was in the kitchen staring out the window as she sat at the table. She gazed out into the yard, but she saw nothing, not even Barbara, the wife next door, who was uprooting tiny spring weeds from her still brownish lawn while her ass jutted up in the air, her skirt rising high to reveal her diaphanous panties. At any other time Arlene would have felt irritation at the sight of the tasteless young neighbor, but now she thought only of herself and her situation. She felt guilt – guilt because day after day her lust was driving her to longer and longer episodes of self-indulgence, guilt because the man she loved, the righteous, self-assured, moral man she had married, had for some unknown reason stolen money from his employer. Her hands trembled and she had to grip the edges of the table to still them.
The front door opened and slammed shut. Judy came prancing happily into the kitchen followed by her brother Bill.
Judy's first words were, "What's wrong, Mom? You look nervous."
Fifteen-year-old Bill (who had never been as perceptive as his sixteen-year-old sister) seemed unaware of his mother's emotional state. He uttered a short "Hi," and went to the refrigerator to pour a glass of lemonade.
"Nothing," Arlene said in response to her daughter's question. "Nothing's wrong, Judy. How was your day?" She forced herself to smile and to look directly at the girl.
Her eyes passed from daughter to son and back to daughter. The sight of her children was just what she needed to calm her feeling of depression. She had a beautiful daughter with long blonde hair the same shade as her own. A daughter who was intelligent and out-going and eager to explore the life that lay ahead, the way Arlene had been seventeen years ago. Arlene's eyes lingered momentarily on the hem of her daughter's skirt. She frowned, thinking that the skirt exposed too much, that it was far too sexy, but she decided to say nothing. She had been quarreling with her children too often, she reasoned. Watching her son gulp down the glass of lemonade, she felt pride in his physique. He was budding into a strong, impressive man, and even though she disliked the way he dressed and the length of his hair, she was momentarily proud of his good looks. No matter what else might happen to threaten her marriage, she still had her children to believe in.
Arlene avoided Hal's eyes all through dinner. She found it impossible to accept the fact that despite his tireless sermonizing about honesty winning out in the long run, he was himself a thief. What if Bill or Judy found out? It seemed to Arlene that his was the ultimate of hypocrisy. If only she knew what had caused him to steal the money. But she would never know unless she asked him… and she could never do that.
At midnight, with Bill and Judy sleeping in their respective rooms, Hal had got up suddenly from the sofa beside Arlene. He had virtually marched to the TV set and flicked off the Tonight Show.
"I want to go to bed!" he announced in his deep, even voice, a voice in harmony with his husky, virile build.
"All right, darling. You go ahead. I'll be there in a little while," she said.
He stood glaring down at her, weaving slightly because he'd been drinking vodka all evening, and she detected a savagery in his eyes totally unlike him.
"I want you to come with me, Arlene. I want us to make love like normal married people! Or are you going to put me off again?"
She didn't think she'd been putting him off. In fact, she felt he was the one who had been neglecting her. Several nights she'd been desperate for a good fuck, and he'd been too tired to oblige her. It was true that she wasn't in the mood for it at the moment, but she could tell by his fierce expression that argument would do no good.
In the bedroom they stood at opposite sides of the room and stripped. He came over to her then, and yanked her against him. Without even kissing her, he shoved her away from him so that she landed on the bed. He was upon her instantly, staring into her fearful eyes as he forced her legs apart and drove the head of his large erection against the unprepared fringes of her vagina.
"No!" she whispered.
But he pushed harder. She was hardly aroused at all, and the forceful jabbing of Hal's throbbing cock burned against her vulva. He pulled her thighs more widely apart, gripping the fleshy back portions as he shoved himself at her.
"Hal, no, not yet!" she whimpered, but already the head of his organ was inside the pained lips of her cunt. Tears filled her eyes; under the savage assault she felt defenseless; she tried not to sob, but she couldn't help it. Hal had never treated her this way.
"Open up, bitch! Fuck up at me!" he shouted.
"Shh! Please don't shout, they'll hear us!" she wept. "Please stop, it hurts!"
He paid no attention to her. He shoved his erection all the way in. Arlene clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. The almost-dry walls of her vagina rebelled against the rude intrusion, sending waves of agony to her confused brain.
She knew that he was drunk, and she knew why he was acting so cruelly. The stolen money, the terrible psychological strain. He was tormented and somehow this savage act… this virtual rape… was medicine for his inner wounds.
Even after the pain subsided, she felt little pleasure. But she spread her legs wide and lunged beneath him, bucking and churning like a mad whore. He was her husband and she loved him and this was what he needed. Three minutes after penetration he spewed his full load of searing sperm into her cunt. She was just beginning to feel the wild sexual urges start within her, but it was too late to reach an orgasm.
After another two minutes of gasping recuperation, he rolled over and immediately slept. Arlene remained awake for another hour trying not to cry, trying to understand.