Chapter 4

What Sheila Dugan liked best about Park Avenue was the cleanliness, the clean sidewalks, the clean awnings, the clean doormen standing in their clean uniforms at the entrance to each clean building. The dirt of Manhattan seemed never to penetrate Park Avenue, at least not Park Avenue north of 42nd Street and south of 100th Street.

It was almost eight o'clock in the evening and she was on her way to an appointment in the Seventies. The cab driver was doing his best to get a look at her legs through the rear view mirror, but she didn't give a damn about cab drivers, at least not this one, because he was old enough to be her father. And anyway cab drivers weren't rich, were they? There weren't any cab drivers living on Park Avenue, not down here there weren't. When he pulled up in front of the address she'd given him, a doorman in a maroon uniform and white gloves came briskly out of the entrance to open the door for her. She paid the driver and tipped him a quarter. "Have one on me," she said.

The sweaty looking driver turned his head to look at her. "Thank you, miss."

She wondered what part of Ireland he came from. Oh hell, she thought.

Inside the building, she announced herself to the man at the desk. "Miss Dugan calling on the Caldwells."

He rang up, spoke her name on the phone, and then after a moment he put the phone down and he nodded at her. "Twelve-C, miss. Elevator's down the hall."

She felt his eyes on her as she left the desk, but she doubted if he guessed anything. Nora always said she could pass for a Park Avenue girl any day in the week. "You've got the carriage, dearie. You don't ever want to lose that, do you?"

No, she didn't ever want to lose it. She rode up the elevator to the twelfth floor, then stepped down the hall to apartment 12-C. The door opened immediately after she knocked, a tall thin man nodding at her.

"Mr. Caldwell?" she said. "I'm Sheila."

He nodded again. "Please come in."

The rug was so deep, she had to walk carefully because of her thin heels. He led her down a long hallway lined on both sides with old paintings, and finally they entered a large living room in the center of which stood a tall blonde woman wearing a blue silk dress.

"This is my wife, Diana," Mr. Caldwell said. "And this is Sheila."

Sheila smiled, but all the woman did was stare at her. Then finally Diana Caldwell held her hand out and Sheila took it.

"So nice to meet you," Diana said.

The Caldwells were both past forty, maybe even close to fifty. Sheila thought Diana Caldwell looked beautiful, as cold as an iceberg, but distinctly beautiful. She was tall and slender, and the way she wore her hair tied up in a chignon gave her a regal look. Like a duchess, Sheila thought. If she could look like that in twenty years, she'd be happy.

"Call me Stewart," Mr. Caldwell said to Sheila with a friendly smile. "We don't want to be formal, do we?"

No we don't, Sheila thought. We certainly don't want to be formal.

Stewart poured some champagne from an open bottle and he handed the glass to Sheila. Diana already had a glass, and after Stewart retrieved his glass, he lifted it and offered a toast: "To an enjoyable evening."

Sheila wondered if he'd toast the King next. But he wasn't British, was he? He looked British, but he was definitely an American.

They chatted about the weather, about the new musicals on Broadway, about a new speako the Caldwells had visited. Diana seemed on edge, as if she had no idea what to say next. Sheila did her best to keep talking, keep the atmosphere relaxed. She hadn't realized they'd be so uneasy about everything, but here it was.

They sat down finally, and Sheila felt more confident. She teased them with her legs, keeping the hem of her dress back far enough to show her silk-clad knees. The stockings were sheer, the best that money could buy, and her legs were good enough to always draw the eyes of people.

Diana's blue silk dress was long enough to almost completely cover her calves even when she was sitting. She looked at Sheila's legs with the same interest as her husband. Go on look, Sheila thought. She was now wondering what would happen, how things would develop. Would it be her and Stewart, with Diana just watching them, or would Diana want more than that? Sheila told herself she wouldn't mind; she wouldn't mind Diana at all. She was a lovely woman, wasn't she? Old enough to be her mother, but still smashing.

"Well, what should we do?" Sheila said finally.

Stewart looked at his wife.

Diana smiled at Sheila. "Whatever you like, I suppose."

"Is it all right if I undress?"

"Yes, please."

Sheila put the champagne glass down on the table beside her chair and she rose to her feet. She walked a few steps away from the chair, toward the far side of the room, and there she began removing her clothes without looking at them. She'd learned the best way was to make this part a bit impersonal, let them look at her from some distance as if she were part of the floor show at a speako. The short silk dress she wore came off easily, and she took her time gathering it up and draping it over the back of an armchair near the bookshelves.

She was twenty-four and she had a good figure, plump breasts that refused to be flattened by the current fashion, a round bottom and long shapely legs that now looked lovely in the sheer stockings she wore. When the slip came off the Caldwells had a surprise: she wore nothing under it except a black French waist- cincher with a lace half-bra built into the top. That and the stockings. Her bottom and belly were completely bare, the tuft of auburn hair on her mound exposed in all its glory.

Now she looked at them for the first time, smiling at them as she ran her fingertips lightly around her exposed nipples. "Would you like everything off, or is it all right if I remain like this?"

Stewart coughed. "Just as you are, I think."

It was Diana's reaction that interested Sheila. The blonde woman seemed immobilized in her chair, her face expressionless, her eyes fixed on Sheila.

She's done it with girls, Sheila thought. Her intuition told her that Diana Caldwell had bedded women in her life. Mrs. Caldwell might look cool and puritanical, but she'd known a hot time or two with members of her own sex.

Her fingers at her nipples again, Sheila smiled at them. "Doesn't anyone want to join me?"

Diana remained motionless, but Stewart made a sound in his throat and he rose up. Sheila immediately approached him to encourage him, leaning forward just enough to graze his body with her own as she helped him slip out of his smoking jacket. She had her back turned to Diana, and Sheila knew the blonde woman was getting an eyeful of her ass at this close distance. She wiggled her hips just a bit, not enough to be silly, but enough to tease Diana if she was indeed looking.

Sheila thought Stewart would want to leave some of his clothes on, but to her amusement he stripped everything off until he was naked. He had a long thin cock, not completely hard yet, but so pale and smooth it was lovely to look at. The sac that held his balls hung low under his organ, the wrinkled skin only a shade darker than the skin of his thighs.

She took hold of him, her left hand cradling his testicles, her right hand gently stroking the length of his member. "You're getting a stiff one," she said with a giggle.

She turned to the side so Diana could watch her fondle Stewart's noodle. It wasn't long before Sheila's fingers brought his penis to a complete erection.

Sheila crouched down then, balancing herself with one hand on Stewart's thigh as she brought the tip of his penis to her mouth. She took the glans between her lips, closed her eyes and began sucking it. Was Mrs. Caldwell watching her? Holding the knob in her mouth, Sheila turned her head slightly and glanced at the blonde woman. Yes, Mrs. Caldwell was watching her, all right. Diana's face was flushed, her eyes riveted on the junction of Sheila's mouth and her husband's penis.