Copyright© 2016 by Rich Bottom
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Manhattan in the age of jazz.
In the year 1928, for some reason unknown to anyone, the weather turned warm again in the middle of September. The temperature in Manhattan rose to 95 degrees Fahrenheit.
On Fourteenth Street, Mrs. Elizabeth Uliano, her three daughters Helen Uliano, Mrs. Tessie Balletti and Mrs. Marie Giordano, and her granddaughter Elsie Frontali were all arrested and fined for scuttling through a department store like a pack of rats, stealing whatever they could lay their hands on.
Mr. William V. Dwyer, known as the King of Bootleggers, was elected treasurer of the New York Hockey Club exactly one week after his release from federal prison.
Governor Al Smith, the Democratic candidate for President, was in Omaha talking one more time about the wonders of rahhdio.
A drugstore clerk on Maple Street in Omaha heard the afternoon speech on the store radio and wondered what rahhdio was.
In Manhattan nobody wondered about anything. It was much too hot.
On East Sixty-fourth Street a woman pushed a button to summon one of her maids. The woman's name was Claire Belfield, Mrs. George Belfield on the salmon-colored stationery that she often used.
When the maid came into the room, Claire said: "Have a pot of tea ready when Mrs. Plunkett arrives."
The maid nodded. "Yes ma'am."
Then Claire turned her attention back to the magazine in her lap and the maid left the room.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon and the heat was truly awful. Claire looked at the open windows and she wondered if the window screens had any holes in them. She hated flies. She also hated Alice Plunkett.
Oh, I do hate that woman, Claire thought.
She'd known Alice Plunkett since she'd been a girl and she'd hated her all that time.
Claire was thirty-two. She had bobbed hair and she used enough rouge to give her cheeks a pink flush. When she wore a sheath dress she looked younger than her age and more like a boy than a woman. The flat profile was still in fashion and Claire often wore one of those brassieres specially seamed to flatten the bust.
Alice Plunkett's father had owned the bank where Claire's father had worked as a clerk. The Plunketts had always had more money than the Wheelers. Now Alice Plunkett and her husband had moved from Boston to New York and she was visiting her old friend Claire for the second time.
And she's late, Claire thought. What an annoyance it was to have people arrive late when you didn't like them in the first place. Claire leaned her head against the back of the chair and she wondered how she might discourage Alice Plunkett from visiting her again. No you won't, Claire thought. Alice Plunkett might decide to get even somehow. The Plunkett family was too well known to start anything with Alice.
Then the doorbell rang. Claire remained seated. She wanted one of the maids to get the door. Then Alice would come in and ask about Claire and the maid would say yes Mrs. Belfield is in the living room. But Claire decided that was too extreme and she finally rose and walked out into the vestibule.
"Alice darling," Claire said.
"Dippidy doo dah," Alice said. "It's much too hot, isn't it? I thought I was finished with summer and now it's here again."
Alice was a thin blonde and she always appeared nervous about something, always upset about one thing or another. Claire had tea served in the living room and Alice's current trouble quickly came to the surface.
"He's having an affair with a girl in his office," Alice said.
"My husband of course. Don't you think Harold's the type?"
"I've only met him once," Claire said.
Alice fidgeted in her chair. "I suppose he gets from her what he doesn't get from me."
Claire said nothing. She had no idea what to say, so she just watched Alice fidget in her chair.
And then Alice went on to describe how she was always cold in her husband's arms. "Never a moment of pleasure from it," Alice said. "I guess he's found a little slut who likes it. That's what they want, isn't it? They want the woman to like it as much as they do."
"I don't know," Claire said.
"How is it with you and George?"
Claire turned her eyes away. "I don't like to talk about these things."
A moaning sound came out of Alice's throat and she started crying. "Oh damn it, I'm so unhappy."
Claire was embarrassed by the outburst of emotion. She tried to comfort Alice, but she had no advice to give her except to say that Alice ought to do her best to hold her marriage together. "Maybe he'll come to his senses," Claire said. In the back of Claire's mind was the old hatred for Alice and the Plunketts. Maybe it's God's justice, Claire thought as she looked at Alice's troubled face.
But an hour later when Alice left, Claire considered her own marriage and she decided that maybe she wasn't that much better off than Alice was.
"Where's the nurse?" Claire said to one of the maids.
"She's with the children, ma'am."
"Tell her to take the children to the park. I'll have a nap in my bedroom."
Claire went to the bedroom she shared with her husband, peeled her dress off and lay down on her bed in her satin slip. They had separate beds, two matched beds she'd picked out herself at Finley's. George's bed was near the windows and her own bed was near the adjoining dressing room. Between her bed and the door to the dressing room was a vanity table made of blonde lacquered wood. The top of the table supported a small tilting mirror and in front of the mirror was an array of lotion jars and perfume bottles.
Through the open bedroom windows, the noise of the traffic on Park Avenue could be heard.
After a few minutes on the bed, Claire decided even the slip was too much to bear and she pulled that off over her head and lay down again. Now she felt much better. She wore nothing but silk step-ins and stockings and the heat in the room was more bearable. She thought of rolling the stockings off, but she'd only need to put them on again later and she decided it was too much trouble.
In any case she liked the feel of the silk stockings on her legs, even when it was hot like this. The fine silk made her feel sensuous, and in her private moments that was a feeling she always enjoyed. The feeling was even stronger now because of Alice Plunkett's talk about her problems.
Alice's talk had started a train of troubling thoughts and memories and erotic imaginings in Claire's mind. The question returned: Was she better off than Alice? Claire analyzed the jumble of thoughts in her head and decided that whatever passion existed between herself and her husband was too small to be recognized.
It's a bore, Claire thought. It's a bore and I don't love him that way.
No, she didn't love him that way. And if she had to be accurate about it, she'd say no she didn't love him that way or this way or any way at all.
She hadn't married George for love, she'd married him because he had rich relatives in Boston and New York and because it looked like he'd be rich himself some day, and because she wanted a man who could provide a comfortable and secure life for any children she might have with him.
What had happened was that she was now admitting to herself something that had always been there in the back of her mind. And all because of Alice Plunkett whom she'd hated for years and years.
It's awful, Claire thought as she lay there in the heat on her bed. She had a husband and two children and a comfortable home and a secure life and now Alice Plunkett had succeeded in upsetting her.
Don't think about it, Claire told herself. Don't think about it if you want to be happy. She closed her eyes and she touched her breasts. She tried to imagine her husband kissing her breasts like he sometimes did. She imagined his face and his eyes and finally his mouth on her nipples. Then abruptly his face became a blur and vanished and in its place was the face of John Barrymore.
Dear God, Claire thought. A groan escaped her lips as she imagined she felt John Barrymore's cleft chin rubbing against her breasts. Between her breasts. Over her nipples. Between her breasts again. She slid her right hand down over her belly and then between her legs. Yes do it. She pressed the silk of her step-ins against the lips of her sex. Her cunt. Merely thinking of the word always made her quiver. Her fanny, her husband called it. Yes do it, she thought. With her eyes closed, she groaned again as she began rubbing herself through her step-ins. It was an old habit and she'd long ago abandoned all hope of giving it up. Do it do it do it. She kept her eyes closed. She would have to change the step-ins later because the crotch was now drenched with her juices. She thought of removing them, but she liked the feel of the satin against sex. Her clitoris felt so stiff. She stopped rubbing herself a moment and she sniffed at her fingers. You're a minx, she thought. Then she slipped her hand down to her belly again, and this time under the waist of her step-ins to get her fingers directly between her thighs. The lips were swollen and the wetness was everywhere, her pubic hair sticky. After painting her clitoris with her juices, she started vigorously rubbing herself again. She imagined her fingers were John Barrymore's fingers. She imagined one of his thick fingers slowly pushing inside her opening.
In a few moments she groaned and rubbed her cunt in frenzy as a great shudder passed through her body.
The heat wave in September lasted a week and then it was gone. Before long September was finished and the month of October arrived. Al Smith was still telling the people of the country about the marvels of rahhdio, but at least the fall season was here and the people who enjoyed fall seasons were relieved.
One rainy day Claire Belfield found herself at an afternoon cocktail party in the Desmond house in Gramercy Park. Charles Desmond was a Wall Street attorney who sometimes handled a case for George Belfield's company. George sold marine insurance and these days he was very successful at it. Claire knew nothing about marine insurance or how it was sold or what George actually did to sell it. George always assured her that marine insurance was terribly complicated. He'd been working for the same company ever since their marriage two weeks after the Armistice in 1918. The company was owned by one of George's uncles and George's future seemed guaranteed.
George was now in Baltimore on a business trip. An invitation to the Desmond party had arrived the day before he left and he'd urged Claire to go there alone. "Desmond is an important man," George said. "And anyway it's a party and you like parties."
Did she like parties? Yes, she did like parties, even if she knew hardly any of the people in the Desmond house. She stood alone for a moment near one of the tall rubber plants that seemed half dead with thirst because no one had bothered to water it. Some of the other people in the room glanced at her. She knew some of them and there were others she didn't know. They stood scattered in groups of two or three and nearly everyone had a glass of something in one hand.
Claire had a glass of ginger ale in her right hand, but there was no alcohol in it. She'd already had enough alcohol and she didn't need any more.
The rain seemed to be falling again on the windows. It was still a gray day outside, the rain falling on the streets of Manhattan.
Better here than outside, Claire thought. But she wouldn't be outside anyway, she'd be at home.
Then Nancy Desmond came in through a doorway, and when she saw Claire she walked over to her.
"Darling, you look bemused," Nancy said.
"You look bemused, darling."
"I do? I don't feel bemused."
Nancy laughed, a gay laugh that revealed her sparkling teeth. "Well then have some more Scotch, won't you? Or there's champagne if you like. I much prefer Scotch in the afternoon, but there's plenty of champagne somewhere. Charlie's very clever at finding good champagne."
Claire lifted her glass of ginger ale. "I'll finish this first."
"Is that Scotch?"
"No, it's ginger ale."
Claire allowed herself to be led away by Nancy to a group of men and women she knew only vaguely. Claire decided it was better to stand in a group than to stand alone. At least when you were in a group the other people had no reason to stare at you.
She listened to the others talking and she smiled when she thought it was necessary to smile. She told herself the party wasn't much of anything, just a great deal of drinking and laughing about nothing worth laughing at. You're feeling blue, she thought. The fact was that for the past three weeks, ever since Alice Plunkett's visit, Claire had been feeling miserable. Maybe she did need a real drink. But she decided against it, decided she'd leave soon. She listened to the idle chatter as she looked around the room at the other guests. A man standing with two other men caught her eye and stared at her. He wasn't anyone she knew and she quickly looked away.
Then a moment later she looked at him again and she found him pleasant to look at. He was now busy talking to the other men and he was unaware of her attention. Yes, he was pleasant to look at. He had dark hair and he was handsomely dressed and he looked forceful. She found herself wondering what his wife was like, then she laughed at herself and she decided it was time to find her coat and say goodby to Nancy Desmond.
"Why don't you stay?" Nancy said when Claire appeared before her wearing her coat.
Claire smiled and shook her head. "I promised the children I'd be home by five." She thanked Nancy again and she left the room.
She's a bitch, Claire thought. She hated Nancy Desmond because of the way Nancy put on airs about the money the Desmonds had. Charlie Desmond was much more successful than George. They had all kinds of money and it seemed like they had a party in their house all year round. They were too disgusting about this old townhouse in Gramercy Park, always talking about who lived next door and who lived over there and how nice it was to have a private park in the middle of Manhattan. You don't have to like them, Claire thought. It's all right to accept an invitation to the Desmonds without liking them.
It was still raining outside. As Claire came out of the house on the edge of Gramercy Park, she frowned at the rain that was falling and wondered if she'd have trouble getting a taxi. A man with an umbrella was standing at the edge of the curb, and when he turned to look at her she recognized the dark-haired man she'd seen at the party.
The man smiled at her. "Enjoy the party?"
"Oh yes," Claire said.
He smiled again. "I'm Frank Tucker," he said.
"And I'm Claire Belfield."
"I could drive you home. I'm waiting for my car."
"Oh, I don't think that's necessary," Claire said.
But then his car arrived, an enormous black Lincoln limousine with a uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel. This time, when Frank Tucker again asked if he could drive her home, Claire said yes. "All right, why not?"
"My pleasure," Frank Tucker said with a laugh.
The chauffeur came out to open the rear door and Claire climbed inside. Frank Tucker climbed in after her and the chauffeur shut the door and returned to the driver's seat. In a few moments the big car was heading uptown in the rain on Park Avenue.
In the rear of the large Lincoln, Claire sat in the right corner and Frank Tucker sat in the left corner. He talked about himself without hesitation. He appeared to know the Desmonds as a friend and he seemed to have made a great deal of money on Wall Street. He said he was now divorced from an actress wife who had returned to California. "She never liked the East," Frank Tucker said. "It was just one of those things."
Claire thought Frank Tucker was impressive. She guessed he'd come out of a humble background to triumph by force and cunning over men with better connections. She thought how odd it was to be sitting there alone with him. He seemed so different from her husband. He had such large hands, strong hands. And his face looked strong too. He seemed to have so much confidence in himself. His manners were good and Claire decided he was thoroughly appealing. You're acting silly, she thought. But she wasn't acting at all. She was doing nothing but listening to Frank Tucker and she liked every moment of it. She thought of Alice Plunkett and Alice Plunkett's husband and then about George and what she'd realized about her own marriage.
When at last they arrived at the building where the Belfields lived, Claire said: "You've been very kind, Mr. Tucker. Thank you so much."
"My pleasure," Frank Tucker said. They smiled at each other one more time before she climbed out of the Lincoln to be escorted by the doorman to the building entrance. When she turned to look at the car again, it was already moving toward the traffic on Park Avenue.
"Are my children home?" Claire said to the doorman.
The big Irishman nodded. "Yes ma'am, they came back with Mrs. Molloy an hour ago."
Claire thanked him and then she walked down the hall to the elevator. She felt reimmersed in the ordinary problems of living now. She pushed Frank Tucker out of her mind as she rode the elevator up to the tenth floor. This evening she'd have the children on her hands a few hours, and then after that she'd fall asleep reading in bed. Dear God, it's horrible, she thought. It's so bloody horrible.
At ten o'clock the next morning, Frank Tucker telephoned and invited her to have lunch with him.
"Yes," Claire said. "Yes, I think I'd like that very much."
She met him in the restaurant he'd suggested to her, a place called Banion's on West Forty-sixth Street. As soon as she walked inside, she was relieved it wasn't the sort of place her husband might frequent. Even if George was in Baltimore, or more exactly on his way home by now, she felt secure knowing he'd never make an appearance here. Not in this place. These people were different than the crowd in Wall Street, the attorneys and stockbrokers that George called his friends. The people here were of a different class, more sweaty and more noisy than the people she and her husband knew. Claire told herself Frank Tucker had chosen this place in order to be discreet. Well, you ought to be pleased, she thought. He'd reserved a table in a corner, and as soon as she had her coat off and sat down she felt comfortably anonymous.
She was close to him now. They sat side by side on the same velvet-covered bench and she could smell his cologne.
"You look beautiful," Frank Tucker said.
"Thank you," Claire said, and then she blushed as he continued looking at her.
She wore a felt cloche hat and a mauve blouse with long tight sleeves. The blouse had a low neckline and Frank Tucker's eyes lingered a long time on her throat. Then he pulled his eyes away and he began talking about the menu.
She was now happy she'd chosen a blouse with a low neckline. She found the way he looked at her exciting. It was almost as if his eyes made her clothes transparent.
She thought he did have a lovely manner about him. He wasn't like the others in the restaurant. He was certainly better dressed. And she doubted anyone at the other tables had a limousine and a chauffeur waiting outside. She hadn't seen the car, but she assumed it was there somewhere.
As he ordered their lunch, she had a momentary fear she'd meet someone she knew, some casual acquaintance who just happened to frequent midtown restaurants.
"The best beef in the world is from Argentina," Frank Tucker said to her.
Claire smiled. "I didn't know that."
"I was in South America last year."
"Oh really? How marvelous."
"Do you get to travel much? I mean you and Mr. Belfield."
"I'm afraid not. George talks about going to Europe again and of course I'm dying to go. I'm hoping he'll find the time next summer."
"I understand you're husband is in the insurance business."
"Ships," Frank Tucker said.
"I don't know much about it."
They both laughed. His eyes were on her throat again and it made her quiver inside. She wore a necklace of small white pearls, but she knew it wasn't the necklace he was looking at. She felt daring. It's the first time, she thought. In the ten years of her marriage, this was the first time she had dined alone like this with a man who wasn't her husband. She wondered what Frank Tucker expected of her. What does he expect? A sudden bolt of fear passed through her as she thought how dangerous it would be if George walked in through the front door of the restaurant. Don't be silly, she thought, it's not possible. And in any case she'd wanted this. She'd been so delighted when Frank Tucker had telephoned her.
During the main course he continued talking about his travels. Then she suddenly felt something on her left knee. Frank Tucker sat on her left side and she was shocked when she realized he had his right hand on her leg.
Her first impulse was to push his hand away, but instead she did nothing. She was too surprised. Then she told herself she had no reason to be surprised. He was a forceful man, a divorced man, and she was certainly no starry-eyed virgin.
She did nothing about his hand on her knee. She continued eating and listening to him talk. She decided she liked the feel of his fingers on her kneecap. Occasionally he removed his hand in order to do something with it on the table, and each time his hand returned she was happy to have it back on her leg.
How easy it is, she thought. She'd never realized how easy it was to deceive her husband.
When Frank Tucker's hand moved away from her knee to stroke her thigh, she was prepared for it. She expected it. She wanted it. Oh yes, she did want it.
The waiter walked by, but he glanced at them only briefly. The long white tablecloth prevented anyone from seeing what was going on under the table. Claire looked at the crowd, at the people making noise, at the people laughing at other tables. No one seemed aware they existed.
Frank Tucker's hand was insistent. He rubbed her thigh through the silk of her dress, his fingers gripping her flesh, then relaxing, then gripping her again. She felt a wave of excitement wash over her, and for a moment she thought she would cry out. Her face felt flushed.
"Put your hand in my lap," Frank Tucker said.
"Put your hand in my lap."
She hesitated, aware that this was the Rubicon. Then she did what he wanted. She dropped her left hand under the table and she slid it toward his belly. He found her left hand with his right hand and he brought her hand directly over the hard protuberance between his thighs.
"Oh God," Claire said.
"That's what you do to me," he said. Leaving her hand in his lap, he returned his own hand to her thigh.
"It's too dangerous," Claire said.
"Don't worry, no one can see anything."
She could no longer help herself. She clutched his penis through his trousers. Then she relaxed her fingers and she explored it. The size of it seemed huge. She could even feel the shape of the head. His glans. What a cock he had. The fact was she'd never touched her husband this way, never touched him like this through his clothes and certainly not in a public place. Frank Tucker's organ seemed so incredibly stiff. And hot. She could feel the heat of it through the cloth. The daring of it, the wild daring of it to do it like this in a restaurant made her dizzy.
Finally she pulled her hand away and she said: "We'd better stop this."
Frank chuckled. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we could go somewhere after we leave here."
Claire shook her head. "My husband might be returning home today."
Frank looked disappointed. "I understand. What about a drink? I know a classy speakeasy just a few blocks away."
"I'd love to, but I really can't," Claire said with a smile.
He shrugged and gave up.
On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, she was surprised to see him hail a taxi.
"Where's your lovely car?" she said.
"It's in the repair shop. You'll be all right in a cab, won't you?"
"Oh yes." She smiled at him. "It's less conspicuous, isn't it?"
"If you like."
"I'll telephone you."
"In the afternoon around two."
When she arrived home in the taxi, she learned from the doorman that her husband had returned.
"Had a boring time on the train," George said. It seemed he'd met a fellow who passed two hours telling him how the Republicans were ruining the country and how important it was to get the Democrat Al Smith elected president.
"They're both damn fools," George said.
"Who is, darling?"
"The fellow on the train and Al Smith. We'll have Hoover for president and that's that."
After dinner the children were sent off to bed and George sat with Claire in the living room while he read his newspaper. Claire turned the pages of a magazine, but all she could think about was Frank Tucker and the exciting time she'd had. Remembering how she'd fondled Frank Tucker under the table made her heart pound. George would never believe it, she thought. He'd never believe her capable of it.
Later, when it was past ten o'clock and the two of them were in bed, Claire was surprised that George seemed so wide awake. She thought that after the long train ride from Baltimore he ought to be tired. But he didn't seem tired at all, and she suspected he intended to start something once the lights were out.
She was right, of course. As soon as the two lamps were switched off, he started fiddling with her nightgown. He fondled her in the dark, one of his hands squeezing her breasts as he pressed his body against hers.
"What are you doing?" she said.
"You know what I'm doing."
"Don't squeeze them so hard."
Then he pushed the covers down. She could barely see him in the dark as he rose up to get out of his pajamas. After that he walked over to the bureau to find the box of Trojans in one of the top drawers. In the darkness, she could see the gleam of his pale body, his back and buttocks. She pulled her nightgown up to her waist and waited for him. She raised her knees and opened her thighs. She wanted to touch her sex to find out if she was wet enough, but she already knew she was. That was one thing that always happened no matter what.
She thought of Frank Tucker again and what they had done in the restaurant. She remembered the feel of his hard penis through the cloth of his trousers. His cock. She asked herself if it was so awful thinking of another man at a time like this. George was over there getting ready for her and she was thinking of Frank Tucker. But she couldn't help it. She couldn't stop thinking about Frank Tucker. You're an awful woman to be thinking of Frank Tucker now. She imagined it was Frank Tucker who would come to her in a moment and get between her thighs and fuck her. He'd come between her thighs and then a moment later she'd feel him pushing inside her. He'd hold her legs up and push inside her and she'd be supremely excited by it. She always liked it.
When George climbed onto the bed again, he moved directly to the space between her legs and mounted her. She closed her eyes as he pushed inside. No, it wasn't Frank Tucker, but it felt good anyway. This part of it always felt good. She bit her lips as the pole of thick flesh slid into her body. She raised her knees a bit more as his penis pushed all the way inside her. He began thrusting. His face was down beside hers and she felt his breath against her right ear. She could hear him panting. The bed shook with his movements. Then the panting became stronger and soon he was grunting and groaning as he came inside her, inside the condom. He waited a moment, his weight pressing down on her, and then he finally rolled off. She turned away to get off the bed on her side, and she walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
She turned on the bathroom faucet, hiked her nightgown up to her waist, and planted one foot on the closed seat of the commode. Using the flat of her hand, she started rubbing herself hard. It didn't take long. At the end she ground the heel of her palm into her clitoris and groaned.
Later, when she came out of the bathroom, she found George asleep. She lay down on the bed in the dark and she stared at the blackness above her head.
Somewhere in the street a siren wailed. It was loud for a second or two, and then whatever it was turned a corner and the sound diminished.
My life is nothing, she thought. It's nothing and it's horrible.
Two days later Claire met Nancy Desmond by accident in a shop on Fifth Avenue. After they left the shop, they went to a tearoom on Fifty-seventh Street. They chatted awhile, and then Nancy smiled at Claire and said: "I've been meaning to ask you if Frank Tucker behaved himself when he drove you home after the party."
Claire was taken aback. She felt the pounding of her heart and she wondered if it showed in her face. She had no idea that Nancy knew that Frank Tucker had driven her home. "The rain was awful," Claire said. "He was very kind to take me home."
"Does that mean he behaved himself?"
"He was a perfect gentleman."
Nancy laughed. "He can be an oaf sometimes. He's also a great liar. Did he tell you all about his travels?"
"He talked about South America."
Nancy laughed again. "He's never been there, you know. He's never been anywhere except France, and that was during the war and I suppose it doesn't count. He just lies and lies about everything."
Claire turned her eyes away. "We didn't talk much about anything."
"He's a fraud," Nancy said. "Charlie calls him a poseur. He's lost most of his money and he never had that much anyway. He pretends to have money, but there really isn't any. All that bluff with a hired car and a chauffeur. My husband knows everything about him, everything there is to know about Mr. Frank Tucker."
"I thought he was a friend of yours, of yours and Charles, I mean."
"He's not a friend, darling, he's an amusement. Charlie and Frank did business together once, and Charlie says he feels sorry for him. I don't mind it as long as he doesn't get too drunk when he visits us. Is George back from Cleveland yet?"
"He was in Baltimore."
"Oh yes, Baltimore. Silly of me."
"Yes, he's back," Claire said.
She was happy when she and Nancy said goodby on the sidewalk outside the tearoom. Claire watched Nancy climb into a taxi and she thought: God how I hate that woman. Did Nancy know anything about her and Frank Tucker? No, she couldn't. If Nancy had known anything she would have said more than she had. Nancy wouldn't miss an opportunity to cut her to pieces just for the fun of it.
Claire waited for Frank Tucker to call her. Another two days passed, and then finally the telephone call came at exactly two o'clock in the afternoon. She agreed to meet him at Banion's again the next day. This time they had an ordinary table with chairs and there was no chance to fondle each other under the tablecloth. Just before the dessert arrived, Frank casually mentioned that he'd reserved a room in a small hotel around the corner. "We could relax and have a few drinks," he said.
Claire looked at him before she responded. His face was flushed and she guessed he'd been drinking before he arrived at the restaurant. "Yes, why not?" she said.
Once they were inside the hotel room, Frank had the bellhop bring up ginger ale and cracked ice. After the bellhop left, Frank poured the ginger ale and then some rye over the ice in two glasses. He mixed the drinks and then he handed one of the glasses to Claire. "Here's to us," he said as he raised his glass.
For the first time she noticed he was leering at her. His face was flushed again, the skin of his forehead pink and covered with a film of perspiration. Why does he have to be so horribly common? she thought. He was coarse, wasn't he? She'd thought he was more polished, but he wasn't. She trembled with regret as she sipped the drink. She'd already had some of Frank's liquor in the taxi, and now she was feeling it. It occurred to her she could easily get drunk and pretend to be sick. She could pass out on the bed and maybe he'd call the hotel doctor and she'd be saved.
Frank put his drink down, and then he made her do the same. He took her into his arms and he kissed her. When he pushed his tongue between her lips, she finally gave way and she opened her mouth. As he kissed her, he slid his hands down to squeeze her buttocks through the her clothes. The feel of his big hands on her ass made her quiver.
He pulled his mouth away from hers. "Let's undress," he said.
"I'll undress you."
She felt the heat in her face as he began working at the buttons and hooks of her dress.
"Does it go down or up?" he asked.
"Down," she said.
He pushed the dress down and she held onto his shoulders as she stepped out of it. The pink slip had to come off over her head, and for a moment she was blinded by it as it covered her face. Then at last it was off and she stood there in her flesh-colored brassiere and step-ins and stockings.
"I'll do it now," she said.
She sat down on the edge of the bed to roll the stockings off first. Then she peeled away the brassiere and step-ins and she tossed them onto the chair near the nightstand. She trembled as she looked at him. No man except her husband had ever seen her completely naked like this.
"Jesus, you're beautiful," Frank said.
"Thank you. And now it's your turn."
She lay down on the bed on her side and watched him as he hurried to get out of his clothes. He was a big man, big in the chest and shoulders and much hairier than she expected. He had curls of black hair all over his chest and belly and thighs. His penis was erect and it looked like a huge club sticking out of a patch of dark hair, the shaft extending straight out and the dark tip glistening with wetness. His balls looked huge, the skin of the scrotum tight and unwrinkled, and as she gazed at his body she squeezed her thighs together hard as she imagined that magnificent cock pushing into her.
He walked over to the edge of the bed with his penis bobbing from side to side. "Take it in your mouth," he said.
She looked at it. It certainly looked succulent, the head fat and dark with blood, but the idea repelled her. She looked up at his face. "I've never done that. Do I have to?"
He seemed amused as he gripped his cock with his hand. "No, you don't have to. You can do it some other time."
"You need to use something."
He showed her the condom in his free hand. "Safety first," he said with a chuckle.
She watched him roll the condom over his swollen penis. She thought he was like a hairy bull, all that black hair and the huge cock and the bloated balls. The balls excited her as much as the cock. She thought of asking him to kiss her again, but she decided not to.
And then he came onto the bed and she opened her thighs to receive him. He fumbled a moment, but he soon had the knob of his penis wedged inside her sex. He groaned as he pushed forward, and then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he began thrusting. He was much bigger than George and she found it exciting. She could feel his balls slapping against her ass each time he made a thrust at her. But before long the bed was creaking too much and it bothered her. She guessed in a better hotel the bed wouldn't creak like this. She remembered what Nancy had said about Frank losing all his money. He's awful, Claire thought. She was angry that he hadn't taken her to a better hotel. Was he trying to be discreet again? Then finally he started making noises in his throat and she knew it would end soon. She held onto his arms as he finished. He lifted the front part of his body and she was able to watch his face at the end, the twisting of his flushed face as he spent himself. As usual, she was at a high pitch of excitement but without an orgasm.
In she small bathroom, she did what she usually did and she climaxed that way. The fucking on the bed had excited her and it happened quickly. She thought of his big balls as she rubbed herself hard.
Afterward, as they dressed, she asked him if it was true that he had no money.
He turned to look at her. "What do you mean?"
"Someone told me you don't have anything and you tell lies."
Frank scowled. "Who told you that?"
"That's not important. I just want to know if it's true. Were you really in South America last year?"
"You're a bitch."
"There's no need to talk like that."
"You're a bitch, aren't you? You're just a silly litte bitch."
He finished dressing in a hurry, and then he walked out and slammed the door.
She stood there a moment near the bed. Then she turned and she looked at the almost empty bottle of rye on the dresser. She walked over to the dresser, filled a glass with some of the melting ice and the last of the rye that came out of the bottle he'd brought.
"I'll go to the Plaza," she said aloud as she raised the glass. She would go to the Plaza and have one of their Mexican salads.