Chapter 6: Conspirator

Andy worried about Marilyn all day Thursday. Luckily, he was on inventory and didn’t have to deal with customers. Thursday night, he figured out one possible solution. They wanted walls and a bed; they couldn’t get them at her house or his. People rented these all the time, sometimes on a one-day basis. He’d been in his kid mode, still, but he had lots of money in the bank. He’d try hotels. What were the rules?

That was the problem. What were the rules? He was fairly sure that if he and Marilyn showed up at a hotel in Wichita at 10 p.m. and showed a credit card, they’d be given a room without any problem. If they showed up at a hotel in Evanston at 10 a.m. and wanted to pay cash? He wasn’t a very convincing liar, and he hadn’t much experience with hotels at any level. Since the divorce, Dad had taken one trip with him -- and none alone. They’d stayed for two nights at a hotel in Champaign, and he vaguely remembered something about reservations. Should he make a reservation?

Would a motel be better? He would be driving, after all. Did they require reservations? Well, he’d driven by motels, and they’d had signs out front saying ‘vacancy.’ Should they look for that sign? Somehow, that didn’t sound like adequate planning, and he didn’t think it would sound like adequate planning to Marilyn, either.

Friday, Marilyn was certain that they could use her room once more. That would be the end of it, though. And, when he thought about it, they had the school year to consider. Even if they could find a new field, it wouldn’t be very useful in January -- not even in a wet September.

The next week he was on late, which would cause problems on dates, but provided him mornings to do research. He looked in the phone directory for motels and drove to one Monday morning. This might be the one they’d use, more vital, though, was learning the rules. He gave the guy on the desk -- bored in the midmorning -- an elaborate story of expecting guests later in the year and having a very small apartment. He implied that he was a married man. What would it cost to put the guests up in the motel? What were the rules?

“Well, checkout time is noon.” He must have looked puzzled. “That means that if you check in at 12:30 one afternoon and check out at 11:30 the next morning, you pay for one night. If you check in at 11:30 in the morning and check out at 12:30 that afternoon, you pay for two nights.”

“Hardly seems fair.”

“Well, those are standard rules. I’ll admit I’ve had a guy doze in his car in the parking lot for an hour ‘til he could check in. He’d driven too long.” After a bit more discussion, the guy seemed to have seen right through him. “Look, kid. If you really have guests coming, a married couple, we’d be glad to put them up. If you’re looking for a room for a few hours of loving, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m not the owner, and he doesn’t want the hot-sheet trade. Evanston is probably the wrong place. Too many of the local pols are looking for the PTA vote. There’s the ‘keeping a disorderly house’ law.”

“What’s that?”

“Totally unfair. What you do is your business, right? You don’t want me nosing in, and neither does any other customer. Guy sells you booze isn’t responsible if you drive drunk, and neither is the guy who sells you gas. But if a customer rents a room and uses it for sex with someone other than his wife, something he won’t be prosecuted for, I can be prosecuted for renting that room, and so can the owner.

“Look, far as I know, Chicago has the same rules, but Chicago has different cops and different pols. You want a room with no questions asked, cross Howard. Doesn’t even violate the Mann act.” The last statement left Andy totally confused. But the guy gave him the name of a motel in Chicago which “lives on the hot-sheet trade.”

Tuesday morning, Andy called that motel. Their checkout time was noon, as well. Wednesday night, he got back, ate remains of dinner out of the ‘fridge, and crashed. He hadn’t had much sleep the night before, and Thursday was a big day.

After breakfast, he showered, shaved with a blade, and dressed in an outfit totally freshly washed. He not only brushed his teeth, he used some of Dad’s mouthwash. Even so, he was ready too early. He dithered at home, left too early, and walked around her block before he rang her bell.

Marilyn came to the door, let him in, and immediately locked it. The way she was dressed, she should have locked the door. She was wearing a see-through blouse with no bra. He worried for a second whether anyone had seen anything from across the street, even though he knew from experience that one could barely tell that someone was in the doorway from the sidewalk, let alone what they were wearing. He kissed her, then turned her around to hold the breasts her blouse offered him. He kissed her neck.

Upstairs, they undressed each other to their watches. Maybe they should know the time. She untied his shoes and took them off. He wasn’t sure he wanted her doing that, but she did. Underwear came off with the rest. Stripped, she stripped the bed as well. Then she walked up to him, those lovely breasts coming slowly within reach.

“Put me to bed,” she said. What an erotic thought! He picked her up to kiss her thoroughly, and then set her on the bed. She moved over, inviting his presence, but the sight was too much to abandon, even for the touch.

“You are so beautiful.” But he hadn’t come here to look. He lay down beside her, and they kissed. His hand was free to rove -- and rove it did -- across her sexy torso from shoulder to mound. He stroked up again to hold a breast. That kiss could have gone on forever, for all of him, but his lungs disagreed.

“Darling,” he said when he broke the kiss. When they started again, his hand roved again, this time farther. The hair on her mound was delightful, and the hair further on even softer. He ended gently holding her soft vulva. Considering why they’d come here, he certainly didn’t expect her to object, but she gave more than silent permission. She held his hand down with her own.

“Yeah!” Her voice was encouraging, and totally erotic.

“Oh, Marilyn.” He loved her so. He wanted her so, to bury himself in her depths, but -- before that -- to have her writhe in his sight. He got a finger between her labia to stroke that smoothness. He wanted to taste it, too, but he shouldn’t hurry. She’d taken all those risks to get them time. He started a slow path of kisses down her torso.

When he reached her mound, he was in quite the wrong position. He stopped everything to get between her legs. He kissed the thigh on each side but then headed directly for her smoothness. The taste was incredibly erotic, and her response to his tongue on her clitoris even more erotic.

He eased two fingers into her and tried to tickle the bump on the top of her vagina. First, he wriggled his fingers against the bump, then, holding his fingers still, he licked her clitoris; then, he wriggled the fingers again. He smiled as her thighs stiffened against his cheek. He could already tell that this was going to be beautiful.

She stiffened even more and raised herself into his mouth and around his fingers. Then, delightfully, she clamped around his fingers. Her legs were moving around. The clamping happened not just once but, as he sucked on her clitoris, again and again. When that stopped and her legs relaxed, he stopped licking and tickling, but he kept his fingers where they could feel any aftershocks. He lifted his head.

“Oh, Marilyn.” It was inadequate to express how he felt, but any other words would have been inadequate, too. She was so sexy, so responsive, so beautiful.

And, after a while, so encouraging when her fingers played with his hair. He reached up to hold her breast. It fit in his palm and fingers while he teased her nipple with his thumb. He kissed her thighs, only slowly approaching the sweetness where they met.

“So sweet,” he said. He only partly meant her thighs, partly her vulva. Every part of her was sweet, but Marilyn as a whole was sweeter still. And when he parted her labia to taste there, it was even more arousing. He tickled the bump on the top of her vagina again, in between licks over her labia and clitoris. She started to stiffen again, and her legs went down on the bed on either side of him. But this time, he wanted to participate, this time he wanted to feel her contractions with more sensitive nerves than his fingers could provide. And Marilyn must have agreed.

“Andy.” She pulled him up her body by his hair. He kissed her torso on the way up but didn’t pause to give it the appreciation it deserved.

“Oh, Marilyn,” he said when his tip could just feel her labia. He pressed inward, feeling her spread around him. Her labia gripped his head, then it was slipping down her warm, soft, smooth, moist tunnel. Her tighter opening slid down his shaft until she held all he had to offer. “Love.” He kissed her, getting her forehead when they were like this. Her arms circled his chest and her legs rose to hug his hips -- all clasping him in imitation of how she was clasping him inside. He stayed appreciating this welcome for one more second until he had to move.

“Love,” she said, and he could believe it was her love as well as his.

Slowly, he stroked out; slowly he stroked in. He felt her smoothness glide around his head, her slightly-tighter opening stroke along his shaft. And it was all Marilyn. There was nothing in between. As he succumbed to his body’s demand to speed up, he gripped her shoulders and pulled her down against his surges driving upward.

And she responded to his thrusts. Her body undulated on the bed; her mound pressed upwards when he was coming down, and her hips ground into the mattress as he withdrew. She matched every stroke as he sped up. But he couldn’t hold himself back any longer.

“I can’t.” And he thrust deep into her, pulling her down into that thrust. He pumped himself into her. “Darling,” he cried as the life, the love, poured out of his cock into her. He was one spasming muscle as that poured out. She was clasping around him and saying his name.

Then he went totally limp. He held his right arm taut for one more second, and then that collapsed, too. Her last squeeze pushed him out. He lay there looking at her and loving her, but incapable of doing anything about it. “I love you,” he finally managed.

Marilyn got her energy back before he did, and, when she did, it was to get up. She had a towel she held between her legs on the way to the door and, presumably, the bathroom. He heard the toilet, twice, and the sink. When she came back, she started to put on her robe.

“Must you cover such beauty?” he asked.

“Really, I’m going to feed you.”

“I have what I want right here.”

“Yeah, but we can come back.” Well, a second hours-late lunch might alert her mom, after all. He had greater preferences, but if the choice was between watching Marilyn cook and having her cook without his watching, he’d choose watching. When he got downstairs dressed, she had already started to cook.

“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“I like to watch you cook.” Even when covered with robe and apron, the small, neat motions of her small neat body were sexy. She didn’t waste a motion. Before he could have had one ready for the fry pan, she had four cooked and a second set already cooking. Then she cut the first four into dainty triangles and set the platter in front of him. She already had plates and glasses out. She poured root beer for both of them.